“You can’t—” the captain started to say, following him into the room.
Kyle effortlessly punched him in the gut. “Yes I can, and I just did. We are NOT playing around tonight, people. Consider yourselves, as of now, on a war footing. Get off your asses and do what I say and we will work on the details later.”
“I’m the comms officer. War?” sputtered the captain, who had fallen onto a chair and was trying to catch a breath. He felt that an anvil had been dropped on him.
Swanson helped him to his feet. “Now you’re getting the hang of this. Crank up your stuff.”
From behind them came the soft voice of Colonel Markey: “Do as he says.”
Estonia was seven hours ahead of Washington, so while it was 2:30 on Tuesday morning in Tallinn, it was still Monday evening in Virginia. Marty Atkins was about to adjourn a group situational briefing when an aide rushed in with a note. The time stamp was 1935, or 7:35 p.m., Eastern Daylight Time. He read it, broke into a smile and clapped his hand on the conference table. “Calico is out!” he shouted. “She’s free and safe. I’ve got a call waiting from Estonia. You folks stick here until I get back with the details. Somebody pass the word over to Dean Thomas at the White House.”
Sleep would not come to President Vladimir Pushkin. He had done everything he could and, as much as he hated it, he was at the point at which he had to trust his subordinates to carry out his orders. He was not strong on trust.
Pushkin tried not to disturb his wife when he climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom, and she only turned over and changed the tone of her breathing momentarily, then resumed a normal rhythm. The Russian leader found his slippers and his robe and after doing his business at the toilet, went to a full-length window that opened onto a patio, and pushed it wide.
He had spent other nights like this, when his nerves jangled with excitement, but he had never lost courage. One by one, his targets and opponents had fallen, because he stayed firm in his belief that he could restore Russia to its rightful place as a global superpower. Keep pushing the West, ever so gently, but always pushing. The United States, badly bloodied in the Middle East, had lost its taste for foreign wars. Europe still remembered two world wars, the Cold War and innumerable conflicts between themselves of the past hundred years or so, and hid behind the shadow of NATO. Their combined power seemed formidable on paper, but that unity was about to be severely tested. Would France abandon her flighty lifestyle to send soldiers to die for Estonia? Would the selfish Italians lay it all on the line for Latvia? Would little Portugal really commit the lives of its troops for Lithuania?
The official declaration sounded good; twenty-eight nations guaranteeing mutual defense. But would Iceland really join the fight, and if it did, who cared? The country had less than four hundred troops, including reserves. Albania? Slovenia?
Pushkin’s conclusion had been that NATO had become a paper tiger. In Ukraine and Georgia and Chechnya, they had done little more than chant protests. Never back down, he reminded himself.
The tabletop digital clock flashed its scarlet numbers as he climbed back into bed and pulled up the coverlet and snuggled against his wife. Three o’clock in the morning, the same as in Estonia. Six hours. Time would tell.
The president and his first lady had been hosting a formal state dinner at the White House for the prime minister of Japan, starting with a receiving line at eight o’clock. He was in a great mood after receiving the news that still another problem had been resolved: the CIA agent in Estonia had been rescued and was safe at home. She and her husband would be flying to Washington tomorrow, and he looked forward to their private meeting. She had done a wonderful job over there for eight years.
The grip-and-grin receiving line gave way to cocktails for a hundred VIP guests, and since it was so warm outside, the dinner was held on the South Lawn beneath a trellis of little lights. His national security adviser, Dean Thomas, also wearing a tuxedo, came up, trying not to look worried. He whispered in the president’s ear that an emergency meeting was being called in the Situation Room. President Thompson glanced at him and saw the seriousness in his friend’s eyes. “Start it without me. I will be there right after the speech,” he said.
The president carried on with smooth, practiced normality, for there were members of the media present and the nearby press room guaranteed that anything he said out of the ordinary would be instantly turned into a news story. Jumping up and running to the basement was out of the question. He and the Japanese PM toasted with sake and both gave brief statements about the importance of the Pacific Rim while never mentioning the trade imbalance. While the dinner had been a marvelous concoction, the words were very standard fare. Then he told the guests to enjoy the musical portion of the program, and apologized for having to tend to a few things. He would rejoin them later, he promised.
As soon as he was in the Situation Room, he knew that he would not be listening to the concert at all. Instead, he was listening to Kyle Swanson, in Estonia, talk about a possible war with Russia that could commence in only six hours. The Pentagon generals recommended getting ready for anything, and President Thompson agreed. He ordered DefCon Four.
The orders flashed to the isolated bomber bases at Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, to the Marine Corps at Twentynine Palms in California, to every naval battle group afloat, and to Army units based in Korea. Everybody wearing a United States military uniform was to be put on alert and every light in the Pentagon would soon be on.
The United States military establishment snapped to Defense Condition Four at the order of President Christopher Thompson. Normally, things operated at DefCon Two in most theaters, which was just a bit above normal readiness conditions. The unending threat of terrorism had done that. This was much more serious. DefCon Four meant that all American armed forces throughout the world were to be ready to deploy and begin combat within six hours. The only step higher, DefCon Five, meant that nukes were flying. The nations of NATO were warned to prepare to repel an invasion. He placed a personal call to the president of the Republic of Estonia. America, he promised, would stand with them.
General Frederick Ravensdale was asleep, alone, in his quarters when he was awakened by his aide. He automatically reached out to touch Arial Printas, only to find empty space and realize where he was. “Yes, I’m awake. What is it?” He was grumpy. Middle of the bloody night!
“Sah!” A full colonel was beside his bed and someone else was turning on lights. “The U.S. has gone to DefCon Four and all NATO commanders are needed for an emergency meeting at oh-five-hundred hours. That is in thirty minutes, sir.”
“What is this ruckus, Colonel?” Ravensdale rubbed his eyes against the sudden brightness.
“I don’t know, sir. Our chums the Russians seem to be up to something over there in Estonia. A video conference is being set up and you are needed at our headquarters.”
Ravensdale’s gut churned. Narva, he thought. They are going for Narva.
“Your car will be waiting as soon as you are ready, sir. Staff is being gathered.” The colonel started to leave, but had one more thing. “Bit of good news, sir. That American spy who was captured has been freed. Stroke of luck there, eh? We will have hot tea and biscuits waiting at the office, sir.”
The general looked up blankly. “Very well,” he said, and the visitors left the room so he could dress. He went to the bathroom and almost puked before getting himself under control. The change of command to CJTF 10 had not yet occurred, so he still had a hand in shaping the NATO response. He knew what Arial would advise.