“Very good,” Gryzlov said. “Now, how much damage did your war machines inflict?”
Kurakin smiled more broadly. “More than my planners’ most optimistic hopes. For once, the American media is not exaggerating. Colonel Baryshev’s robots destroyed every single military aircraft on the ground at Barksdale.”
“All of them?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Kurakin said proudly. “Including Air Force One.”
Gryzlov felt a huge, answering smile of his own spread across his face. With one blow, he’d further ravaged the already weakened American strategic bomber force and wiped out an entire squadron of its most advanced stealth fighters. Best of all, there was no indication that Barbeau or her advisers had any idea that Russia was responsible for this attack.
To his surprise, the American president hadn’t even raised the alert status of her forces beyond DEFCON Three. In fact, there were no signs of any unusual activity by ground, air, or naval units deployed outside the continental United States. It was a very different story at military bases on U.S. soil. Satellite imagery and signals intercepts all showed that they were on high alert, with fighters and early-warning aircraft aloft on patrol. Their combat squadrons and other air units were being dispersed to alternate fields. Army units had been deployed to nearby military bases and high-value government buildings, and reserve and National Guard units had been activated.
The picture those facts painted was clear. The Americans did not know they had been attacked by a foreign power. They were taking purely defensive measures, not preparing to conduct a retaliatory strike against an identified aggressor. Which meant that Gryzlov’s plan, in all its cunning permutations, was unfolding just as he had intended.
“Do you have any idea of how many casualties you caused?” Gryzlov asked.
“No precise numbers,” Kurakin said. He shrugged. “I don’t think even the Americans have an exact count yet. But they were substantial. My best guess would be that we killed or badly wounded several hundred of the enemy, including many of their best pilots.”
“Molodets! Well done,” Gryzlov told Kurakin, openly delighted. For years, the Americans and their hirelings had battered Russia and its allies, often without paying any significant price. Exacting a measure of revenge for those years of pain and humiliation was incredibly satisfying. Knowing that this was only the beginning was even better. “I’d have you convey my personal congratulations directly to RKU’s troops and pilots, Vladimir.” He grinned. “Except, of course, that might imply I have some knowledge of your criminal and wholly unauthorized actions.”
“I can’t imagine what you’re referring to, Mr. President,” Kurakin agreed with an answering smile of his own. “After all, I was never here.”
Gryzlov nodded approvingly. “Of course not.” His eyes hardened. “So, when do you plan to strike your next target?”
“My forces can be ready to strike again within twenty-four hours,” Kurakin promised.
The Russian president held up a hand. “Not so fast,” he said with a sly smile. “Pospeshish’—lyudéy nasmeshish’,” he continued, quoting an old proverb. “‘If you hurry, you’ll just make others laugh.’ Give the Americans a little time to work themselves into a frenzy, eh? Let them sit and wonder and fret about what’s going on while they exhaust their pilots and policemen with fruitless searches and patrols. Then, once they begin to relax, that will be the time to hit them hard again.”
Twenty-One
“While the White House will not confirm it, informed sources close to the president tell CNN that she is currently aboard one of the nation’s airborne command centers — and that she is directly coordinating the federal government’s response to this vicious terrorist attack against the United States. Her likely opponent in the fall, Governor Farrell, remains huddled in his mansion, meeting with political advisers—”
With a snort, John Dalton Farrell turned off the television in his book-lined office. He turned to the group of men and women gathered around the antique oak ranch table set in the middle of the modest-sized room. “Well, there you have it, folks.” He gave them a lopsided grin. “Apparently, we’re the ones cowering in a corner, while Stacy Anne Barbeau heroically leads the fight… from inside a heavily guarded airplane flying around at forty thousand feet.”
“Jesus,” one of them murmured. “Those bastards in the media aren’t even pretending to be unbiased anymore. That so-called news report might as well be a full-on Barbeau campaign commercial.”
Farrell shrugged. “No one ever said this would be easy, did they?” Seeing their glum faces, he deliberately struck a dramatic pose. “Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell no!”
His senior campaign staffers groaned. Sure, their boss’s love for occasionally quoting old movies like Animal House was endearing. But they couldn’t help worrying that a hostile press would hear about him joking like this and use what he said, out of context, to paint him as an uneducated moron.
Farrell relented. “Okay, so the press hates my guts and worships the ground Stacy Anne treads on. Well, we knew that going in. Nothing’s changed, except that now we need to figure out exactly what I’m going to say about this terrorist attack on Barksdale Air Force Base and, it sure looks like, against the president herself.”
They nodded. The boilerplate condemnation the campaign had released earlier was good enough as far it went, but they needed something more concrete. Except for his criticisms of Barbeau’s weakness toward the Russians and the crony defense contracts she doled out to big contributors, most of the governor’s focus had been on domestic policy. Today’s horrific assault on a major American military installation was guaranteed to shift public attention to national security and defense policy — which was, traditionally, a boon for any Oval Office incumbent.
“You think they were really trying to kill her?” Sara Patel asked skeptically. The University of Chicago — educated daughter of Indian immigrants, she was Farrell’s top aide for trade policy.
“You saw the videos,” he said. “There were one heck of a lot of bullets and missiles flying around out there at Barksdale. If whoever hit us there wasn’t really trying to kill President Barbeau, they sure as shit made it look that way.”
Slowly, she nodded.
“Well, crap, Governor, if these terrorists were actually gunning for her, it’s too bad they missed,” Michael Dowell said with a cynical laugh. Dowell, short and wiry with the build and aggressive attitude of a welterweight boxer, was an acknowledged expert on banking regulation and small-business formation. “It would have saved us a few hundred million in projected campaign spending.”
He fell abruptly silent when Farrell turned an icy glare on him. “Stacy Anne Barbeau is still our president and this nation’s commander in chief, Mike,” the powerfully built Texan said coldly. “You may not like it. Hell, I don’t like it. Which is why I plan to beat her like a dirty rug come November. But in the meantime, everyone in this room will show the proper respect due her office. Is that understood?”
Dowell stared at the table for a moment and then quietly agreed. “Yes, Governor.”
“Good,” Farrell growled. He looked around the crowded room. “And we will make damn sure we don’t fall into the trap of siding, even rhetorically, with the assholes who’ve just killed and wounded so many of America’s brave soldiers and airmen. Is that clear enough for y’all?”