Swain didn’t answer. Holland settled back in his seat and drummed his fingers on the arm rest.
His pistol in his right hand, Rake pushed the door. It gave way. He eased it open, signaled Joan to run across, and ushered her in. They both flattened themselves against the wall. Straight ahead was a dirty cream-colored wall with two windows that looked out to the sea. He heard the hum of a generator, but the only light came from the moon outside. To the left strips of heavy transparent plastic hung down across the entrance that Henry said led to the control center. Rake couldn’t see inside. He sensed no movement there. To the right, a door was ajar to another room. Joan waited for Henry. Rake stepped across and pushed open the door. It was a formal reception room, with a set of sofa and chairs and a conference table. Against the far wall steel containers stood on cold hotplates. Next to them were urns for coffee and hot water. Rake ran some over his finger. It was tepid. Light came from a connecting shower room. Inside, damp towels hung on rails, and warm water dripped from the shower head.
Rake came out, leaving the door open. Now Henry was with Joan. Rake pointed to the control room, and Henry pushed through the plastic strips. The clattering noise they made against each other broke the quiet. There were four rows of computer terminals, six to each row. The screens were dark, as were larger ones on the walls, and the overhead fluorescent lights were off. There was a smell of smoke and sweat. The room was cold, with no heating.
Henry moved further towards the door that led to the field hospital. Beyond it a single lamp shone through more plastic strips. Rake signaled for him to stop. They were too exposed. No gambler would have taken odds on them making it this far. Henry and Joan stood silent and still, each with their own thoughts. Who knew they were here, even where exactly they were? This was not a base with just one lone helicopter engineer. So, who was left?
Henry led them to the hospital. Light came from a single fluorescent strip over a bed in the far corner with an incubator next to it. Joan walked fast towards it. Henry stayed back, watching. Unlike the other room, the heating was on. Rake spotted a body on a bed opposite. The way the legs were splinted and bandaged, he guessed this was the soldier Ondola had shot from the snowmobile. But he had died here in the field hospital from a single gunshot to his temple. The round had gone through the brain and was embedded in a splintered wooden strut in the next bed. Vitruk’s work.
Akna lay on her back, her eyes open and expressionless; the bag for the drip in her arm was streaked with saline stains and empty. The baby, her tiny head wrapped in a blood-stained bandage, twitched her arm in an uncovered incubator. Joan reached inside and rested her hand on Iyaroak’s forehead. On the floor, lay Carrie’s medical bag, bandages, syringes, and medicines scattered, as if it had been ripped from her hands and flung down. Outside, a helicopter engine started.
Stephanie listened to Prusak, phone in hand, through an earpiece. He told her about the CIA satellite imagery of a Topol-M leaving the Toksong launch site on a truck. ‘At the end of his inaugural speech, Holland will announce that he has launched military action against North Korea and Russia.’
‘Unless we neutralize Vitruk,’ said Stephanie.
‘That’s the thing,’ replied Prusak. ‘Holland wants to mark his presidency by teaching Russia a lesson it will never forget. The moment he has sworn the oath of office, the strikes will begin. The first missiles will hit targets around 12.12. Holland’s inaugural speech lasts fourteen minutes and twenty seconds, allowing him to end it with the announcement.’
‘We can’t let him, Matt.’ Stephanie’s tone was determined and angry. On the television, she saw Swain just feet from Holland, who was the only prominent figure at the inauguration without an overcoat or a scarf. The President-elect stood upright, head high, no spectacles, no evidence of human vulnerability, ready to take the oath of office. Dignitaries quietly shuffled. Wind blew hair over everyone’s eyes. A microphone stand needed to be steadied. Coughing reflected the cold. Overall, there was silence and expectation. Shadows and light speckled in different ways as clouds passed overhead. The white dome of the Capitol towered above them all.
They had time, but not much. In a few minutes, the Vice-President would be sworn in, after which there would be prayers, the marine band, readings, songs, and poetry that would last until noon. During that thirty minutes, Swain remained President of the United States. The second Holland was sworn in, Swain would be powerless. The new President would be the commander-in-chief. War was his to wage.
The Vice-President stood opposite the Chief Justice and placed his left hand on a tattered brown leather-bound Bible. The television anchor told viewers how this Bible had been passed down from the Vice-President’s great-grandmother who had carried it with her on the sea journey from Ireland to the United States. President-elect Holland would be taking his oath on the gilt-edged velvet burgundy Bible owned by Abraham Lincoln.
Harry, hunched in the corner, kept talking, phone to his ear, hand gesticulating with frustration. Stephanie ran through her few options. Once Vitruk was neutralized, Britain and other European governments could force Holland to pull back. Until then, he would have legitimate grounds. She began another text message to Grizlov: ‘You have to—’
He called before she had finished.
‘We’re holding back, Sergey. You have to—’
‘Steph, you’re not hearing me,’ replied Grizlov, his voice raised and angry. ‘Vitruk thinks he can win. I cannot stop him. Understand. Only you guys can.’
We can’t, thought Stephanie. Not without going to war. ‘Where is he?’
‘On the base. But it has a bunker. If you strike, he can still operate and we will have to strike back.’
‘He’s your monster. Sergey. You need to deal with him.’
That she couldn’t tell him more. She had given warning enough. Stephanie found herself trembling again. How could this be? Russia wasn’t a horror extremist group. It had institutions, lines of command. ‘Give me something, Sergey,’ she urged. ‘Help us. Don’t just tell us what you can’t do.’
‘He’s been authorized.’ Grizlov’s tone was low, controlled, bursting with fury. ‘We have a system called Kavkaz. Your guys will know how it works.’
‘What do you mean, he’s been authorized?’
Grizlov said nothing.
‘Sergey, for God’s sake—’
‘Enough, Steph. Enough.’ Grizlov was gone.
She felt dismal and afraid. ‘Kavkaz,’ she told Harry. ‘Vitruk has been authorized for Kavkaz. What the hell is that?’
‘It’s their nuclear code suitcase,’ said Harry. ‘Except it’s now all electronic. He can work from a phone.’
Prusak’s voice came down the line. ‘We’ve tried the North Koreans. They deny anything at Toksong. The Chinese are silent.’
‘Dmitri Alverov? The launch team in Toksong?’
‘NSA has his number. Not getting through. Hold a moment… There’s something happening on the base. We have a track on Ozenna.’
The Vice-President stepped back and the US Marine Band struck the first chords of ‘America the Beautiful.’
‘We have fourteen minutes, Steph,’ said Prusak.
THIRTY-NINE
Rake’s phone lit with Stephanie Lucas’ number. He hesitated. But it was inauguration time, which could bring in a strike on the base in just over twenty minutes. He answered.