“I can stop this,” Kyle Swanson declared with his usual absolute certainty. He was on the screen with Marty Atkins. Jan Hollings was absent, having been taken to her upstairs bedroom. As feisty as she might be, Calico had been through an emotional ordeal and desperately needed rest. A doctor gave her a sedative and she was sound asleep. Colonel Markey had stayed with her until she was down for the count then came downstairs for the video conference.
Kyle saw him enter the room and turned from the screen momentarily to inform him about the jump to DefCon Four. That meant the colonel would have to report to his office immediately to handle the cyberwarfare front. His team probably was already on the way. The doctor said Jan would be asleep for about eight hours solid, so he could leave her with the nurse.
“How?” Atkins asked Swanson. “What can you do that the rest of us can’t?”
“I can go back to Narva by helicopter with a squad of Estonian troopers for protection, and take a ground-laser designator up into that big castle that overlooks the river. Then give me an F-18 with some Paveway smart bombs overhead and I will paint that bridge for them. Blow it to hell and back. Piece of cake, Marty.”
“No,” Atkins answered firmly. “You’ve been constantly on the go. Get some rest.”
“I can sleep when I’m dead, Marty. I’m the best person available for this job and I’m almost next door to the place. I can do it.”
“Kyle, you are at least two hours away, using a helicopter or not. Things are moving too fast for you to pull another Lone Ranger mission. So. No. Anyway, we are discussing something else for you to do later today.”
“Damn it!” He looked ferocious.
Tom Markey broke into the conversation. “Kyle sometimes forgets that he is smack in the middle of Europe’s Silicon Valley, Marty. Electrons move faster than men around here. I have an idea.”
The mayor was found a little after six o’clock on Tuesday morning, still tied to his chair. The relief guard had arrived, found no Volvo outside and no guard. He rang and knocked and called out, but all of that went unanswered. He walked around back and peered in. Nothing but a mudroom with a door closed. Going back the other way, he spied a lumpy black plastic raincoat between two trees, and a foot sticking out beneath it. The cop drew his gun, ran to the front and kicked in the door. Konstantin Pran and his wife were safe, but locked down. And another policeman, quite dead, was drenched in blood.
Mayor Pran was livid with rage, but the single officer was in no position to do anything else alone. He radioed for help and police cars flooded into the neighborhood. Despite his loud demonstrations, complaints, demands and threats, the new mayor had some serious issues that needed to be explained. Two dead guards and an escaped American spy required a thorough investigation. The mayor protested that he had to get to his office immediately, and could reveal what happened later.
The chief of police refused to let him leave the house until Pran went over everything in detail, including why the alleged raider in the black mask had not killed him. Another question was the clay necklace and dud detonator worn by his wife. The chief thought the mayor might be in on this so-called escape, so he called across the river to ask Colonel General Levchenko for instructions.
Almost midnight. It was time for the presidents to talk. Both knew their words would be studied by future generations, particularly if things went bad. Special phones carried the conversation so it would be heard by hand-wringing aides in the Situation Room and in the Kremlin in Moscow. Once the courteous pleasantries were observed, they got directly to business.
“It is my duty as president of the United States to make it plain, President Pushkin, that we will stand beside our NATO ally, Estonia, should hostilities begin there.” Thompson had removed his tuxedo jacket but still wore the starched shirt, unable to break away from the crisis even long enough to go up to the executive quarters and change clothes.
“And I, President Thompson, emphasize that we have no designs on Estonia.”
“Sir, your country has gathered a very large military presence at the border, particularly at the Narva bridge. That is an aggressive posture and one that we must take most seriously.”
“President Thompson, the troops you mention are merely preparing for the second phase of a war game named Operation Hermitage. Your people observed the first part only a few days ago. It is designed to repel any attack on St. Petersburg. Meanwhile, the United States has elevated its readiness status to DefCon Four? We find that quite troubling.”
“That was our reaction to the entire situation that has developed during the past week, President Pushkin. NATO has no intention of harming St. Petersburg, or any other place in Russia. You know that. Please forgive me, but it is a ridiculous scenario.”
“As is your assertion that Russia plans to storm into the Baltic States.”
Chris Thompson looked around the room. Nobody believed the Russian president, but the conversation was in danger of falling into a he-said, he-said exchange. It was better to remain subtle. While Pushkin was waffling words, the clock was ticking and history was watching.
“We both desire the continuing peace between our nations, Mr. President,” said Thompson. “Nothing must jeopardize it.”
“On that we are in absolute agreement, Mr. President,” replied Pushkin. “I can pledge that Russia will not be the first to fire in any Estonian border skirmish that develops because of your DefCon Four. I ask for your restraint. Good day, sir.”
Vladimir Pushkin was still relaxed, although he had not expected the DefCon-Four development. However, he had gambled with fate many times, and usually won. There was still time left, so he decided to let the dice roll a while longer.
In Washington, Thompson said “Good-bye” and the U.S. Army Signal Corps operator terminated the call. The president stuffed his hands in his pockets and let his eyes go around the room, then said, “Pushkin is blowing smoke and leaving himself a lot of wiggle room. My opinion is that they’re going to do it. Let me hear some final alternatives and go over that SSGN thing, the submarine-launched cruise missile, again.”
A marine lieutenant-general in one of the chairs that were not placed in the top echelon of importance raised his hand, as if wanting the attention of the teacher in school. Brad Middleton, the deputy national-security adviser, had been listening closely to the Russian, as had everyone else. Instead of parsing the real meanings, he had noticed something odd.
President Thompson looked at him, nodded. “What is it, General Middleton?”
“Nothing about what he said, sir, but something he did not say.” Middleton once had been the head of a secret and elite group of special operators known as Task Force Trident, whose triggerman had been Kyle Swanson. Although Swanson was now a CIA operative, Middleton stayed in close touch with him as a back-channel contact. “Pushkin made no mention of the CIA agent who has been rescued. She was likely going to be a bargaining chip to be swapped at the Narva bridge, probably for Colonel Strakov. Having her was an important part of their overall plan, a vital piece of propaganda, and now she’s not there anymore.”
“Go on,” said Thompson. He had not mentioned the agent called Calico either.
“This whole thing has been running like a finely tuned engine, sir. But with her safely back in our hands, they have lost important leverage, she has spilled the beans on their intention, and Russia is suddenly off balance. They had claimed she was meddling in the election over there, so it would have been very easy for Pushkin to throw her in your face as the reason for them being on high alert. He may still be planning to do that.”