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To Brett—your journey through life has been incredibly difficult, but you’ve managed to do so with a smile on your face. You bring joy to those around you and an appreciation for everything we would otherwise take for granted.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks are due to those who helped me write and publish this novel:

First and foremost, to my editor, Keith Kahla, for his exceptional insight and recommendations to make Blackmail better. To others at St. Martin’s Press—Justin Velella and Martin Quinn—who assisted in many ways as Blackmail progressed toward publication. And finally, thanks again to Sally Richardson and George Witte for making this book possible.

While writing each book, I’ve relied on subject matter experts to ensure I get the details correct. While I can handle the submarine part, other areas require assistance. For Blackmail, I needed help of an altogether different type than information on weapon system employment, tactics, and operational protocols, and so I thank LynDee Walker, Kris Herndon, Sara Walsh, and Ramsey Hootman for their insight and assistance. Additionally, to those who have helped my writing career get off to a great start—there are too many to thank individually here, but I really appreciate your help getting the word out. You’ve done a fantastic job.

To Captain William (Bill) Kennington USN Retired, former commanding officer of USS Sand Lance (SSN 660), who passed away last year, and to the thousands of others who have gone before us in the armed services, protecting our country. You deserve a debt of gratitude. My heart and thoughts will always be with you.

I hope you enjoy Blackmail!

MAIN CHARACTERS

COMPLETE CAST OF CHARACTERS IS PROVIDED IN ADDENDUM

UNITED STATES ADMINISTRATION

KEVIN HARDISON, chief of staff

BOB MCVEIGH, secretary of defense

DAWN CABRAL, secretary of state

CHRISTINE O’CONNOR, national security advisor

BILL DUBOSE (Colonel), senior military aide

USS MICHIGAN (OHIO CLASS GUIDED MISSILE SUBMARINE)

MURRAY WILSON (Captain), Commanding Officer

JAKE HARRISON (Lieutenant), SEAL Platoon Officer-in-Charge

USS HARRY S. TRUMAN (NIMITZ CLASS AIRCRAFT CARRIER)

DAVID RANDLE (Captain), Commanding Officer

BILL HOUSTON / call sign Samurai (Lieutenant Commander), F/A-18E pilot

RUSSIAN ADMINISTRATION / MILITARY

YURI KALININ, president

BORIS CHERNOV, defense minister

ANDREI LAVROV, foreign minister

SEMYON GOREV, director of the Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR)

SERGEI ANDROPOV (General), chief of the general staff

OLEG LIPOVSKY (Admiral), Commander-in-Chief, Navy

OTHER CHARACTERS

ALEXANDER LUKASHENKO, president of Belarus

XIANG CHENGLEI, president of China

DEEPAK MADAN, president of India

1

WESTERN PACIFIC

USS THEODORE ROOSEVELT

Night was falling over the Western Pacific as USS Theodore Roosevelt surged through dark green waters, headed into a brisk wind. Seated in the Captain’s chair on the Bridge of his Nimitz class aircraft carrier, Captain Rich Tilghman observed two F/A-18E Super Hornets locked into the bow catapults, their engines glowing reddish orange in the twilight. In a few seconds, both aircraft would head out to relieve fighters in Roosevelt’s combat air patrol, as the carrier strike group cruised several hundred miles off the coast of China, just beyond range of China’s DF-21 missile, nicknamed carrier-killer. A few months ago, that’s exactly what the Chinese missiles had done.

The war between China and the United States was short, but devastating. There had been no declaration of war by either country or a formal cease-fire; the combat had halted once the outcome became clear. Although America prevailed, the cost was high. Four heavily damaged aircraft carriers were in shipyards being repaired, while a fifth rested on the bottom of the Pacific Ocean, leaving USS Ronald Reagan as the sole operational Pacific Fleet carrier. Submarine losses had been heavy, with the opposing sides virtually wiping each other out, and U.S. surface ship losses had been high as well.

What remained of the U.S. Pacific Fleet had been augmented with Atlantic Fleet units shifted to the Pacific, joining USS Ronald Reagan. Not far to the south, the Reagan strike group was also on deployment, with the United States keeping two carrier strike groups off China’s coast at all times.

Captain Tilghman’s attention returned to the two Super Hornets as the bow catapults fired. The aircraft streaked across the Flight Deck, then rocketed upward, their paths marked by the white-hot glow of their afterburners against the darkening sky. Not long thereafter, the first of the returning aircraft landed, announced by the squeal of tires hitting the deck and the hydraulic hum of arresting wire motors as the Super Hornet’s tailhook snagged number three wire. The F/A-18 was soon headed to the nearest elevator for a trip to the Hangar Deck, while a second aircraft landed.

Tilghman pushed himself to his feet and left the Bridge for a short tour of his ship before calling it a night. So far this deployment, it had been all quiet on the western front.

K-456 VILYUCHINSK

Captain First Rank Dmitri Pavlov stood at the back of the Central Command Post aboard his Antey class guided missile submarine, called Oscar II by NATO, surveying his men at their watch stations as they shadowed an American carrier strike group to the west. The crew’s orders and reports were calm and professional, reflecting the proficiency a crew gains after several months at sea. Vilyuchinsk’s Watch Officer, Captain Lieutenant Dolinski, monitored the submarine’s depth, steady at seventy meters, occasionally checking the status of their communications, verifying they were copying the broadcast on the floating wire antenna trailing several hundred meters behind the submarine.

The Communications Post was downloading the latest round of naval messages, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary until the speakers near Pavlov energized.

“Command Post, Communications. Have received a Commanding Officer Only message.”

Pavlov acknowledged and entered the Communications Post, stopping by the two printers.

“Ready.”

The radioman hit the print button and a message slid from the left printer. Pavlov read the directive, then read it again.

He took the message to the Central Command Post, addressing one of the two Messengers. “Request the First Officer’s presence in the Command Post.”

The senior seaman acknowledged and departed in search of the submarine’s second-in-command, and a moment later Captain Second Rank Mikhail Evanoff arrived. Pavlov motioned Evanoff to join him by the navigation table, also requesting the Watch Officer’s presence. When the two men approached, Pavlov slid the message across the table.

“Read.”

Pavlov waited while the two men read the directive, then, like him, read it again. Confused and then concerned expressions worked across their faces, and the two men exchanged glances before Pavlov’s First Officer spoke.

“This cannot be correct,” he said. “We have been directed to fire upon the American strike group, targeting their aircraft carrier. Surely there has been a mistake. An errant message from a training scenario, perhaps.”

Pavlov’s Watch Officer studied the message as the First Officer spoke, searching for formatting irregularities. But the message was properly formatted, with the required weapon release authorization. Dolinski looked up.

“We should request verification. We aren’t at war with the United States, but this might start one. We must be certain this directive is properly authorized.”

Pavlov answered, “It’s authentic. And expected. I met with Fleet Admiral Lipovsky before our deployment. He informed me that we might receive this message.”

“Why would we be directed to fire upon the Americans?” his First Officer asked.

“He did not elaborate,” Pavlov answered. After a slight pause, he said, “Do you have any additional questions or reservations?”

When neither man replied, Pavlov ordered his crew to full readiness.

“Man Combat Stations. Proceed to periscope depth.”

USS THEODORE ROOSEVELT

Three levels below the Flight Deck, in the aircraft carrier’s Combat Direction Center, Captain Dolores Gonzalez settled into her watch routine as the CDC Operations Officer. She examined the Video Wall, a collection of two eight-by-ten-foot displays mounted beside each other, with a half-dozen smaller monitors on each side. After failing to note anything unusual, she shifted her thoughts to the combat air patrol to the west. They were keeping eight Super Hornets airborne at all times, along with an E-2C Hawkeye at twenty-five thousand feet, its radar searching the skies for hostile aircraft and missiles. Two of the F/A-18 fighters were approaching bingo fuel and would return to the carrier shortly. Her eyes shifted to the Flight Deck display; two more Super Hornets were moving toward the bow catapults and would be on their way out to relieve the returning fighters in a few minutes.

That was the daily routine, with days turning into weeks, then months. Across the Combat Direction Center from Gonzalez, the strike controllers were idle, as was the Tactical Action Officer who supervised them, with no inbound targets to engage and no outbound strike sorties.

The bow catapults fired, launching the Super Hornets, and it wouldn’t be long before the two fighters approaching bingo fuel returned. Gonzalez settled in for what would be a long but hopefully boring night on watch.

K-456 VILYUCHINSK

Vilyuchinsk tilted upward, rising toward periscope depth. The submarine’s Watch Officer kept his face pressed to the attack periscope, the aft of the submarine’s two scopes. Despite the crowded Central Command Post, now at full manning, it was quiet while the submarine rose from the deep.

Dolinski announced, “Periscope clear,” and started turning the scope swiftly, completing several sweeps in search of nearby contacts. Vilyuchinsk settled out at periscope depth and Dolinski declared, “No close contacts!”

Conversation resumed now that there was no threat of collision or detection by surface contacts, and Dolinski completed a more detailed scan of the ocean and sky, searching for distant ships or aircraft. “Hold no contacts.”

Pavlov ordered, “Raise primary communication antenna.”

One of Vilyuchinsk’s antennas, able to communicate with satellites, slid upward. Although Pavlov knew the American carrier strike group was to the west, he needed a detailed tactical picture to ensure he was targeting the correct ship. Vilyuchinsk was beyond visual range and couldn’t use its radar either, as that would give away the submarine’s presence. Instead, Pavlov would rely on the tactical summary from the broadcast, containing all warships and merchants at sea and updated every five minutes.

The Communication Party leader’s voice came across the speakers. “Command Post, Communications. In sync with the broadcast.”

A moment later, the two fire control displays updated with the current tactical picture, and Pavlov and his First Officer, along with Vilyuchinsk’s Missile Officer, gathered behind the men at their consoles. As Pavlov studied the display, he realized the tactical situation couldn’t have been better. The American carrier strike group was arranged with every surface ship escort except one positioned between the aircraft carrier and China, leaving only one destroyer on the back side between Vilyuchinsk and its target. It was a loose formation, which meant there would be little chance their missiles would lock on to the incorrect target. The only question was—how many of Vilyuchinsk’s missiles would make it past the destroyer and the aircraft carrier’s defense systems.

Pavlov announced, “Set contact eight-five-one as the target of interest. Prepare to fire, full missile salvo.”

The Missile Officer acknowledged and prepared to launch all twenty-four of Vilyuchinsk’s P-700 Granit surface attack missiles, each one armed with a warhead weighing almost one ton.

“All missiles are energized,” reported a watchstander seated at one of the fire control consoles. A moment later, he said, “All missiles have accepted target coordinates.”

Captain Lieutenant Dolinski initiated the next step. “Open all missile hatches.”

The hatches lining the submarine’s port and starboard sides retracted.

“All missile hatches are open,” the Missile Officer reported. “Ready to fire, full missile salvo.”

Pavlov surveyed the tactical situation and the readiness of his submarine one final time, then gave the order.

“Fire.”

USS THEODORE ROOSEVELT

Inside Roosevelt’s Combat Direction Center, a wave of yellow symbols appeared on Captain Gonzalez’s display. Surprisingly, they were to the east of the carrier strike group instead of the west. A few seconds later, each yellow icon switched to a red symbol with a sharp point, representing hostile surface-to-surface missiles. Gonzalez picked up the handset and punched the Bridge button on the communications panel.

“Bridge, CDC. Have twenty-four inbound bogies from the east, classified surface attack missiles. Request permission to set General Quarters.”

“Set General Quarters.”

Gonzalez gave the order, and the gong-gong-gong of the ship’s General Alarm reverberated in CDC, followed by the announcement, General Quarters, General Quarters. All hands man your Battle Stations. Move up and forward on the starboard side, down and aft on port.

As the announcement faded, Gonzalez focused on shooting down the incoming missiles. Roosevelt’s defense would fall primarily on the shoulders of USS Stockdale, an Arleigh Burke class guided missile destroyer, outfitted with the Aegis Warfare System and SM-2 Standard missiles. However, air defense of the carrier strike group rested with the Air Warfare Commander, stationed aboard the Ticonderoga class cruiser, USS Port Royal. His voice came across the speakers in CDC.

“All units, this is Alpha Whiskey. Shift Aegis Warfare Systems to auto. You are Weapons Free.”

Gonzalez watched as the computer aboard USS Stockdale began “hooking” contacts, assigning them to missiles in the ship’s vertical launchers. A few seconds later, missiles streaked skyward from the destroyer. On her display, a stream of blue icons headed out toward the red ones. The incoming missiles had been fired at close range; there would be insufficient time to launch a second round if Stockdale’s SM-2 missiles didn’t destroy the inbound bogies. Gonzalez watched the display as first one, then another SM-2 intercepted their targets.

But not all. Six missiles continued inbound, targeting Roosevelt. It was time for the self-defense phase. Gonzalez turned to her Tactical Action Officer.

“Shift SSDS to auto.”

The TAO acknowledged, then shifted Roosevelt’s SSDS—Ship Self Defense System—to automatic.

He called out, “Missiles inbound. All hands brace for shock!”

Gonzalez reached up and grabbed on to an I-beam, watching as the SSDS targeted the inbound bogies. Sea Sparrow and Rolling Airframe missiles were launched in succession, taking out three inbound missiles, and the CIWS engaged next, taking out another.

Two missiles made it through and Gonzalez felt the deck shudder as the missiles detonated. On the aircraft carrier’s damage control status board, red symbols illuminated the Hangar Deck and the carrier’s Island superstructure, where the Bridge was located. Roosevelt’s deck trembled again, more violently, and a loud explosion rumbled through CDC. On the damage control status board, red symbols radiated outward from the middle hangar bay. Some of the ordnance staged in the bay had detonated.

Assessing the damage, Gonzalez surveyed the Video Wall. The destruction was more severe than expected. The Island superstructure was a mangled mess of twisted metal, while orange flames leapt skyward from a massive hole in the Flight Deck, the edges peeled upward from the explosion in the hangar bay below. Gonzalez studied the red symbols on the status board, her eyes shifting uneasily toward amidships, where the nearest ammunition magazine was located. If the fires reached the magazine, it’d be all over.

Damage reports flooded into CDC, and it wasn’t long before Gonzalez realized Roosevelt was incapable of continuing flight operations.

Turning to her Tactical Action Officer, Gonzalez ordered, “Bingo all airborne aircraft to Reagan.”

The two missiles had inflicted significant damage, but Roosevelt had survived. As damage control parties fought the fires, focused on preventing them from spreading toward the ship’s ammunition magazines, Gonzalez’s thoughts shifted to whatever had launched the missiles. There were no air or surface contacts to the east, which meant the missiles were submarine launched.

It was time to deal with that.

K-456 VILYUCHINSK

Minutes earlier, Captain First Rank Dmitri Pavlov had ordered the missile hatches shut and his submarine down from periscope depth. The Americans would identify the launch point and it wouldn’t be long before Vilyuchinsk had company, and not the friendly kind. However, when the Americans arrived at the launch datum, Pavlov intended to be long gone. Once clear of the area and their safety assured, he would return to periscope depth and download the latest tactical information, plus satellite photographs for a visual assessment of their mission.

In the meantime, he would order his submarine deeper and faster. “Watch Officer. Increase depth to two hundred meters. Ahead full. Set Ultra-Quiet mode.”

Captain Lieutenant Dolinski acknowledged and gave the requisite orders. Vilyuchinsk tilted downward, increasing speed. It was time to decide on a course. With American strike groups to the west and south, that left east or north. Heading farther east offered the possibility that any pursuing American submarine would reach the edge of its operating area. The area could be adjusted, of course, but that would take time and a trip to periscope depth to send the request and receive the authorization.

To the east it was.

“Watch Officer. Come to course zero-nine-zero.”

Dolinski acknowledged and relayed the order to the Steersman.

As his submarine turned east and settled out at two hundred meters, Pavlov reviewed what his crew had done. A plan had been put in motion, and he hoped it wouldn’t be long before he understood its goal and the part Vilyuchinsk would play in the future. Assuming, of course, Vilyuchinsk slipped away from the Americans.

Pavlov listened as the Watch Officer ordered, “Hydroacoustic, Command Post. Report all contacts.”

USS THEODORE ROOSEVELT

Captain Dolores Gonzalez monitored the damage reports streaming into Damage Control Central. The fires amidships, initially spreading out from the Hangar Deck, had been contained, but casualties in the Island superstructure were high, with the ship’s Captain wounded. To what extent Dolores didn’t know, until Captain Rich Tilghman arrived in CDC, his arm in a sling and his face covered in soot. Dolores saw the rage on his face, even though it was covered in grime and tinted blue from the CDC displays. Tilghman’s first order had been to hunt down whatever had launched the missiles.

Gonzalez had vectored two Super Hornets to the east for a visual, just in case there was a surface contact they weren’t detecting for some reason, but the report was negative. The TAO was conferring with the SUBOPAUTH—the Submarine Operating Authority—aboard Roosevelt. There were two fast attack submarines assigned to the Roosevelt strike group, USS California to the west and USS Mississippi to the east. The missile launch datum placed the location of the enemy submarine inside Mississippi’s assigned waterspace, which meant the carrier strike group was Weapons Tight; they could not attack a submerged contact in that operating area for fear of sinking their own submarine. Hunting down the enemy submarine would instead be Mississippi’s responsibility.

The TAO announced, “Request a bell-ringer for Mississippi. I have a flash outgoing message.”

2

USS MISSISSIPPI

Twenty miles from the Roosevelt strike group, USS Mississippi was already headed east at ahead full. Moments earlier, they had detected missile launch transients bearing zero-eight-two, and were proceeding to investigate. The submarine’s Commanding Officer, Commander Brad Waller, was seated in the Captain’s chair in front of the navigation table, assessing the tactical situation while his crew manned Battle Stations. The launch transient was faint, which meant it was distant, but exactly how far was unknown. The only datum they had was the bearing. They needed more information, which meant they would proceed to periscope depth when Battle Stations were manned.

The submarine’s Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant George Skeens, sat at the tactical workstation near the front of the Control Room, shifting his attention between the left monitor, selected to the narrowband sonar display, and the right screen, showing the geographic display. The Navy’s Common Operational Picture reported the positions of the Roosevelt strike group to the west, although their locations were several hours old. There were no contacts to the east, in the direction of the launch transient. But there was definitely something there. Perhaps a contact would appear when their Common Operational Picture was updated during their next trip to periscope depth.

Seated in front of Lieutenant Skeens, the Co-Pilot reported, “Officer of the Deck, Battle Stations are manned.”

Skeens acknowledged and passed the report to Commander Waller, who announced, “This is the Captain. I have the Conn. Lieutenant Skeens retains the Deck,” which meant Waller would manage the tactical situation and control the submarine’s movements, while Lieutenant Skeens would monitor the navigation picture and handle routine ship evolutions.

“Pilot. Ahead two-thirds,” Waller ordered. “Make your depth two hundred feet. All stations, make preparations to proceed to periscope depth.”

Mississippi tilted upward, leveling off at two hundred feet while the sonar technicians scoured the surrounding water for surfaced and submerged contacts. Skeens was cycling through the various sonar displays on the left screen of his workstation when the Sonar Supervisor, standing only a few feet away behind the Broadband Operator, spoke into his headset.

“Conn, Sonar. Receiving a bell-ringer.”

Waller acknowledged the report. The small explosive charges dropped into the water nearby directed Mississippi to establish communications with the Roosevelt carrier strike group. Since they were already preparing for a trip to periscope depth, there was nothing else to do.

After giving the sonar technicians a few minutes to complete their search, Waller ordered, “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”

“Conn, Sonar,” the Sonar Supervisor replied. “Hold no contacts.”

“Pilot, come to course one-eight-zero.” Waller ordered a turn in case there were contacts hidden in the submarine’s baffles behind them.

The Pilot tapped the ordered course on the Ship Control Station display, and Mississippi’s computer adjusted the rudder to the optimal angle, turning the submarine to starboard. After steadying on the new course and waiting a few minutes for the towed array to stabilize, Waller ordered, “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”

The Sonar Supervisor again reported no contacts, which wasn’t surprising this far off China’s coast and far from the shipping lanes. However, it also meant they hadn’t closed the gap on their adversary.

Waller ordered, “Co-Pilot, raise Number Two Photonics Mast. Pilot, ahead one-third. Make your depth six-two feet.”

Mississippi tilted upward, beginning its ascent.

The fast attack submarine leveled off with the top of its sail four feet below the ocean surface, and the receiver mounted atop the photonics mast downloaded the latest round of naval messages and tactical updates. Waller watched the geographic display on the Officer of the Deck’s workstation update with the current positions of the Roosevelt strike group, accompanied by a white, scalloped symbol ten miles east of Mississippi. The launch datum.

As Waller studied the geographic display, the Quartermaster reported a GPS navigation fix had been received, then Radio followed.

“Conn, Radio. In receipt of a flash message.”

Waller replied, “Radio, Conn. Bring the message to Control.”

A radioman arrived a moment later, message clipboard in hand. Waller read the directive. A missile salvo had been fired at USS Roosevelt, with two missiles making it through, damaging the aircraft carrier and terminating flight operations. Mississippi had been directed to track down and sink whatever launched the missiles. They were Weapons Free.

Waller handed the clipboard back to the radioman, then ordered, “Pilot, make your depth four hundred feet, increase speed to ahead full.” Turning to the Quartermaster, he said, “Report bearing to launch datum.”

“Bearing zero-nine-three,” the Quartermaster announced.

“Pilot, come to course zero-nine-three.”

The Pilot entered the new course, and Mississippi turned back to the east, surging toward the launch datum.

*   *   *

Thirty minutes later, with Mississippi closing on the point, Commander Waller ordered Mississippi to slow to ahead two-thirds, reducing the flow of turbulent water across the bow, flank, and towed array hydrophones, extending the range of the submarine’s acoustic sensors. It had been an hour since they detected the launch transient, and whatever created it surely hadn’t loitered in the area. Assuming a transit speed of twenty knots, the evading submarine would be twenty nautical miles away by now, beyond the range of Mississippi’s sensors, assuming it was a quiet fourth-generation submarine.

Waller waited for the report nonetheless, which the Sonar Supervisor delivered moments later. “Conn, Sonar. Hold no contacts.”

It was a guessing game now, attempting to determine which direction the target had headed. Mississippi was near the eastern edge of its operating area and would have to request additional water if Waller decided to head east. The Reagan strike group was to the south, which meant it was unlikely the target had headed that way. The north seemed most probable, skirting around the top of the Roosevelt strike group, headed home to China.

Assuming, of course, the submarine was Chinese. Waller was sure the Office of Naval Intelligence was already working on it, evaluating the flight parameters of the missiles, as well as having Roosevelt’s crew scavenge the carrier for missile pieces. Hopefully, enough would be gleaned to determine the perpetrator, which would lead to the next question. Why?

Someone else would answer that question. Waller had been tasked with sinking their adversary. But he had to find it first.

“Pilot, come to course north. Ahead full.”

Mississippi swung to port, increasing speed.

3

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Christine O’Connor, the president’s national security advisor, leaned back into the leather upholstery of the black Lincoln Town Car as it pulled away from the Pentagon’s mall entrance, returning her to the White House after her weekly visit to the Pentagon. Seated beside her was Secretary of Defense Bob McVeigh, carrying an orange Top Secret folder in the locked courier pouch on his lap. Christine could tell his mind was churning, reviewing the information the Office of Naval Intelligence had gleaned from the attack on USS Roosevelt, as well as the implications.

It was only a day ago when SecDef McVeigh called the president, informing him of the missile attack. Inside the folder in his courier pouch was the information collected over the last twenty-four hours, which he’d shared with Christine this afternoon. The evidence left little doubt in her mind as to who was responsible. Just when she’d reached the verge of pushing the Russians from her thoughts, they’d been thrust to the forefront again.

As the Town Car traveled across the Arlington Memorial Bridge into Washington, D.C., sliding past bumper-to-bumper traffic headed out of the District, not even the clear blue sky and warm spring weather could pull her thoughts from the wintry landscape atop the polar ice cap. Despite her best efforts, the memories were constantly there, crowding her thoughts during the day and haunting her dreams at night. Each time she looked at her hands, she couldn’t escape the memory of what she’d done to Captain Steve Brackman, the president’s former senior military aide. Former, as in deceased.

Christine felt emotion gathering in her chest, so she peered out the sedan window. She studied the pedestrians traversing the sidewalks, the construction along Constitution Avenue, the federal building facades. Anything to distract her. She brushed a lock of hair away from her face, and ice-cold fingers touched her skin. The events above and below the polar ice had left a chill in her body that wouldn’t thaw. It was only a matter of time, she told herself, before the memories faded, the pain eased. Until then, stay busy, stay focused.

Upon her return from Ice Station Nautilus, she’d thrown herself into her work, spending sixteen-hour days in the West Wing, seven days a week, stopping only to eat, sleep, and work out at the Pentagon gym. Thankfully, her acquaintances at the gym didn’t bring it up. Didn’t ask why she had killed her good friend. As she returned to the White House, she was grateful McVeigh was accompanying her and would sit in the Oval Office chair Brackman would normally have occupied while discussing military issues with the president. The empty chair during her meetings with the president the last few weeks had been a painful reminder of what she had done.

The only silver lining in the ordeal was the reaction of the president’s chief of staff, Kevin Hardison, her White House nemesis. Their relationship had become poisoned by opposing viewpoints and personal animosity, but upon her return to the White House, he’d refrained from his usual aggressive behavior. How long this reprieve would last she didn’t know, but was thankful nonetheless.

The Town Car stopped under the West Wing’s north portico and Christine and McVeigh stepped from the sedan, passing between two marines in dress blues guarding the formal entrance to the West Wing. After a short walk down the seventy-foot-long hallway, they reached the open door to the Oval Office. Hardison was already seated in one of the three chairs facing the president’s desk, and after the president waved them inside, Christine and McVeigh settled into the empty chairs.

Christine waited for McVeigh to begin. Although she was involved on the periphery, the attack on U.S. military forces was in the SecDef’s domain. He wasted no time getting started.

“I wish I had better news, Mr. President. Roosevelt will be out of commission for several months. She suffered extensive damage to her Flight Deck and Island superstructure. The Navy estimates she’ll be in the shipyard for five to six months.” McVeigh waited before continuing, letting the president absorb the loss of yet another aircraft carrier. “That leaves us with four operational carriers, which means we’re going to have to drop to two carrier strike groups on deployment. The Navy is assessing whether to pull a strike group from Fifth Fleet in the Persian Gulf, or drop our presence off China to one strike group.”

The president asked, “How long before one of the carriers damaged in the war with China returns to service?”

“Another year at the earliest,” McVeigh answered. “As extensive as Roosevelt’s damage is, she’ll be the first back in service.”

“Is there any way we can speed up the repairs?”

McVeigh shook his head. “Every yard is already in twenty-four-seven shiftwork, and we’ll be delaying the repairs of other carriers, refocusing our efforts on Roosevelt as soon as she arrives at Pearl Harbor.”

The president nodded. “Have you determined who attacked Roosevelt?”

“We have,” McVeigh answered as he unlocked the courier pouch and retrieved the orange Top Secret folder. “There are several critical pieces of information. The first is that Roosevelt was attacked by a twenty-four-missile barrage.” He pulled a printout from one of the Aegis Warfare System displays, showing twenty-four inbound missiles, placing it on the president’s desk.

“The second piece of information,” McVeigh said as he placed another printout on the desk, “is that the missiles were launched from a submarine. As you can see,” he said, pointing to the second printout, “there were no surface or air contacts in the launch area.”

McVeigh pulled a report from the folder, laying it beside the printouts. “Next is ONI’s analysis of the missile flight trajectory—speed, altitude, and evasive maneuvers prior to impact—which identifies the missiles as SS-N-19 Shipwreck missiles. SS-N-19s are Russian-made P-700 Granit missiles, and only Russia has this weapon in its inventory.

“Finally,” McVeigh said, “the only submarine capable of firing a twenty-four-missile salvo of Shipwreck missiles is an Oscar II. There is no doubt, Mr. President. Roosevelt was attacked by a Russian guided missile submarine.”

The president leaned back in his chair, a surprised expression on his face. Until this moment, the obvious perpetrator was China.

The president asked, “Do we have any intel that explains why Russia would attack us?”

“No, Mr. President. We have no answers at this point.”

The president asked no further questions as he assessed the complicated situation: the reason for Russia’s aggression, how to broach it with the Russians, what to release to the American public, and last, but most important, the United States’ response.

Finally, the president spoke. “This doesn’t make any sense. Russian fingerprints are all over this attack. They can’t deny it.”

“They can always deny it,” Hardison replied. “And I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“What do you recommend?” the president asked, surveying the three members of his staff and cabinet.

Christine answered, “You could call President Kalinin directly. But rather than confront him, I recommend you just lay out the facts and let him explain. As you pointed out, the evidence seems irrefutable. See what he has to say, and you can take it from there.”

The president turned to Hardison, who agreed, then McVeigh, who said, “I think that’s a good start. Hopefully, there’s a reasonable explanation for what happened. The last thing we need right now is a conflict with Russia, right on the heels of our war with China.”

After a moment of reflection, the president nodded his agreement. Looking at the documents on his desk, he said to McVeigh, “Make copies I can give to the Russians, redacting whatever is appropriate.”

To Hardison, he said, “Get the Russian ambassador over here. Today.”

4

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Dusk was settling over the city skyline as Ambassador Andrei Tupolev emerged from the rear entrance of the Russian embassy, slipping into the back seat of his limousine, its door held open by his driver. The door closed with a thud and a moment later, his car pulled into traffic on Wisconsin Avenue for the short drive to the White House. The driver said nothing during the transit and Tupolev’s thoughts turned to his pending meeting with the U.S. president, reviewing the information hastily provided by the Kremlin.

Ambassador Mushroom. That should be his official title tonight. Like a mushroom, he was being kept in the dark and fed manure. Which, in turn, he would feed to the Americans. Tupolev had been a diplomat for forty years and knew when he was being lied to. He had a suspicion as to what was really going on, and if he was correct, the American president’s reaction would determine Russia’s next step.

The American capital glided past him during the transit, and his car ground to a halt in front of black steel bars blocking the entrance to the White House. After the gate guards checked the ambassador’s identification and completed a security sweep of his vehicle, checking for explosives inside and underneath his car, the gate slid aside and Tupolev’s sedan pulled forward, coasting to a halt beneath the curved overhang of the West Wing portico.

One of the two marines stationed by the entrance saluted as Tupolev stepped from the car, and the ambassador nodded his appreciation as he made his way up the marble steps toward the White House. Standing at the entrance was Kevin Hardison, the president’s chief of staff, who greeted Tupolev, then led the way down the blue-carpeted hallway. Instead of heading into the Oval Office, Hardison turned left into a conference room. It took Tupolev a moment to realize what room they had entered and the irony therein. The Roosevelt Room.

Hardison guided Tupolev to the center of five chairs on one side of the table, then departed, returning a moment later with another man and two women, followed by the president. Tupolev stood as the president entered the room.

The obligatory greetings were exchanged, and Tupolev noticed the forced smiles on the American faces.

“Be seated, Ambassador,” the president said. He took a chair opposite him, instead of at the head of the table as expected. As he pulled his chair in, Tupolev noticed the portrait of Theodore Roosevelt on the far wall, literally framing the American president. The selection of the Roosevelt Room and the president’s place at the table didn’t go unnoticed. The Americans were making a subtle statement of their displeasure.

Tupolev settled into his chair as the other four Americans did the same, flanking the president. On the president’s left sat SecDef McVeigh and Secretary of State Dawn Cabral, while to his right was the president’s chief of staff and national security advisor. Tupolev’s eyes settled on Christine O’Connor, meeting her tonight for the first time. The rumors were true. Although she was half Russian and half Irish, her Russian genetics dominated; she could pass for a beautiful Russian woman anywhere in his country. Tupolev wondered if she had any idea whom she resembled. Under different circumstances, he would have taken a moment to enlighten her. Instead, Tupolev returned his attention to the American president, who placed a folder on the table.

“I hope you don’t mind if I get directly to the point.”

“Not at all, Mr. President. I don’t want to take up any more of your time than necessary.”

“I’m sure you’re aware by now,” the president said, “of what occurred off the coast of China yesterday.”

“Yes, I am aware.”

When Tupolev offered no other information, the president slid the folder across the table. “I’d like you to explain this.”

Tupolev opened the folder and examined the documents. After reviewing the evidence of Russia’s transgression, he closed the folder and looked up.

“On behalf of President Kalinin, I offer a sincere apology for this accident. President Kalinin learned a few hours ago that one of our guided missile submarines accidentally launched a missile salvo at your aircraft carrier.”

Tupolev slid the folder back to the president.

“You expect us to believe,” the president replied, “that one of your submarines accidentally launched not one, but twenty-four missiles at our carrier?” The anger in the president’s voice was palpable.

“Yes, Mr. President, because that is exactly what happened. The submarine crew was engaged in a training evolution, simulating a missile launch against a high-value target—your aircraft carrier in this case—and there was a malfunction in the fire control system. The launch command should not have been sent. Clearly, something went horribly wrong and I assure you we’ll investigate thoroughly and put additional safeguards in place to ensure this does not happen again.

“In the meantime, President Kalinin has agreed to pay reparations to any crew member injured in the accident and the families of those killed, and we will also cover the cost of the aircraft carrier’s repair. The details will need to be worked out, but Russia takes full responsibility for what happened and we offer our sincerest apology. President Kalinin would normally have called you by now, but he is aware of our meeting and is working to determine how this happened. I’m sure he’ll call in the morning, offering an apology of his own.”

Tupolev maintained a sincere expression when he finished, contrasting with the surprised looks from the Americans. No doubt, they had expected him to deny Russia’s involvement. Admitting culpability was a bold but savvy move.

“I have little else to offer tonight,” Tupolev said, “but I will brief you or your designated representative whenever we learn more.”

Tupolev leaned back slightly, waiting for a response. The president’s jaw muscles flexed as he digested Russia’s confession, most likely attempting to decide whether he was being lied to. Tupolev was telling the truth, of course. Someone in Moscow was doing the lying.

Finally, the president replied, “I appreciate your candid response, accepting responsibility for what happened. I hope you determine what went wrong quickly, so it doesn’t happen again. Please keep Secretary of State Cabral advised of what you learn.”

The president stood, extending his hand. “Thank you for joining us tonight.”

Tupolev shook the president’s hand as he stood, surveying the other four Americans. Not a smile in the room. “Thank you for your understanding,” Tupolev said. “We will work aggressively to ensure this tragedy is not repeated.”

The president nodded toward Hardison, who escorted the Russian ambassador to the West Wing exit. Tupolev descended the steps toward his awaiting car without a farewell from the American chief of staff.

He climbed into his sedan and the door closed with a solid thud again. After his driver slid into the front seat, he looked in the rearview mirror. “The embassy, Ambassador?”

Tupolev nodded and the car eased from the West Wing portico, reversing course toward the White House gate. Tupolev let out a deep breath. That had gone much better than expected.

5

WASHINGTON, D.C.

“He’s lying,” Hardison said as he joined the president and the other three members of his staff and cabinet, still seated in the Roosevelt Room.

“We’ve already come to that conclusion,” the president replied. “The question is—why did they attack us?”

“Maybe a more specific question should be asked,” Christine said, then amplified. “Why did they attack Roosevelt?”

“Good point,” the president said. “This wasn’t a random attack against one of our ships. They wanted to take out one of our carriers.”

“Maybe not,” McVeigh joined in. “Even a couple of Shipwreck missiles wouldn’t normally knock an aircraft carrier out of commission. They got lucky, detonating ordnance staged on the Hangar Deck and hitting the aircraft carrier’s Island superstructure.”

Turning to his secretary of state, the president asked, “What’s going on in Russia that might explain their attack?”

Dawn Cabral replied, “Internally, Russia’s economy is on the brink of recession due to the world oil glut. Oil and natural gas exports provide fifty percent of the Russian government’s revenue, and the low prices are hitting them hard. The ruble has dropped to twenty-five percent of its value from only two years ago, causing disaffection within the Russian population. President Kalinin’s popularity is plummeting ahead of next year’s election, which is causing consternation within his administration. You never know what straws desperate politicians will grab at to shore up their popularity.

“Regarding external events, Russia is still upset over the addition of the Baltic countries to NATO and has taken a hardline stance against the addition of Finland. Within the Russian administration, the most commonly used phrase translates to ‘Over my dead body.’ Elsewhere, you’ve got Russia’s annexation of Crimea and their support of separatist factions in eastern Ukraine. Then there’s Russia’s involvement in Syria, with their level of commitment vacillating every few weeks.”

Dawn finished up with, “Finally, there’s the issue of Ice Station Nautilus. There are three Russian submarines on the bottom of the Barents Sea. Although Russia’s official demeanor since the incident has been conciliatory, the attack on Roosevelt could be payback.”

The president contemplated the potential reasons for Russia’s aggression, then said, “We’re not going to solve this tonight. Start working the problem. What we know is that this was Russia’s opening move. We need to figure out what their endgame is, so we can respond appropriately. Without knowing where this is headed, we’d be flailing about in the dark.”

Turning to McVeigh, he said, “Coordinate with the intelligence agencies and see what they can glean from human sources and electronic means. What kind of ability do we have regarding access to Russian classified information?”

McVeigh replied, “Most of their military and political communication protocols are secure, although we can break some of their encryptions. I’ll get with Cyber Command and see what we can hack into.”

The president nodded his agreement, then shifted his gaze to Christine as she spoke.

“One more thing, Mr. President. I’m scheduled to head to Moscow on Monday for the next round of negotiations for the follow-on to New START.”

The president leaned back in his chair, assessing the situation before replying. “Let’s go with business as usual. Give them the impression we accepted their explanation at face value. At this point, there’s no reason to derail our negotiations with Russia over a mere … accident.”

Turning his attention to the entire group, the president said, “Put a full-court press on this. Russia’s up to something, and we need to figure out what that is.”

6

WASHINGTON, D.C. • MOSCOW

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Seated at his desk in the Russian embassy, Ambassador Tupolev loosened his tie as he relaxed in his leather chair, watching the minutes on the clock tick upward. It was almost 11 p.m. in Washington, D.C., which meant it was approaching 6 a.m. in Moscow. That he’d been directed to report the result of his meeting with the American president tonight, rather than in the morning when it was a more reasonable time in Moscow, was telling.

When it was only a minute before 11 p.m., Tupolev retrieved a security card from his desk drawer and slid it into the slot in the secure phone on his desk. After he entered his access code, the display on the phone reported the expected message.

Secure.

Tupolev punched the numbers into the phone. When the clock struck 11 p.m., there was a click on the other end, and a man’s digitized voice emanated from the speaker.

MOSCOW

Russian Defense Minister Boris Chernov spoke into the telephone, selected to speakerphone so the other seven individuals in the conference room could overhear the conversation. Seated at the head of the table this morning was Russian President Yuri Kalinin, and to his right sat Semyon Gorev, director of the Foreign Intelligence Service—the successor to the First Chief Directorate of the KGB—referred to as the SVR due to its Russian spelling, Sluzhba Vneshney Razvedki.

Defense Minister Chernov was next in line, followed by Russia’s foreign minister, Andrei Lavrov. On the other side of the table sat four military officers: Kalinin’s senior military advisor—Chief of the General Staff Sergei Andropov, and the commanders of the Russian Ground Forces, Aerospace Forces, and Navy.

“Good evening, Ambassador Tupolev,” Chernov said. “I’m here with President Kalinin.” Chernov glanced at the other six men, who would not speak during the teleconference. “How did your meeting with the Americans go?”

“They were upset, understandably, but accepted our apology.” Tupolev provided the details, with Chernov exchanging glances with the other men around the table as they digested the American response. Tupolev ended with, “The American president has requested we keep them abreast of our investigation of the mishap, providing them with updates as we learn more.”

“Of course,” Chernov replied. “An investigation is already under way, and we will forward to you what we learn. We will contact you again soon.”

Chernov looked to President Kalinin, who leaned toward the phone. “Ambassador Tupolev. Thank you for your service today.”

“It was not a problem, Mr. President.”

Chernov terminated the call, his thoughts turning to this morning’s meeting. The plan they would hopefully put in motion was his, carefully crafted over the last three years. Following America’s war with China, a window of opportunity had opened where its success was virtually assured. However, the decision to proceed would be made by President Kalinin, who still had reservations. Chernov had assembled the three military chiefs and his chief of the general staff, along with the head of the SVR, in the conference room this morning with the hope of persuading the Russian president.

Yuri Kalinin was approaching the end of his third year in office, having succeeded Vladimir Putin as president of the Russian Federation. Although Kalinin had a similar background as Putin, with time spent in the KGB during the waning years of the Cold War, he was far less disposed to using military force to achieve Russia’s objectives. Had Putin still been in office, Chernov lamented, he would not have had to go through such extraordinary measures to convince the Russian president of the wisdom of his plan.

As all eyes turned to him, Chernov launched into his prepared oratory. “Our attack on the American aircraft carrier provided the proof we needed. We bloodied America’s nose and they do nothing. They have no stomach for another conflict following their war with China. What remains of their Navy is stretched too thin, and their Marine Corps is still replacing its losses. The Americans will avoid another war at any cost, even if they have to bury their heads in the sand, accepting our preposterous explanation for the attack on their aircraft carrier.”

There were nods of agreement from the military staff, but no sign from Kalinin. Chernov continued, directing his words at the Russian president. “Our plan will succeed. You’ve reviewed the military forces at NATO’s disposal compared to ours. NATO has never been weaker, while Russia has not been stronger since the dissolution of the Soviet Union. NATO is a paper tiger without the United States, and with America restrained, NATO will have neither the will nor ability to respond.

“Now is the time,” Chernov said with conviction. “The American Navy is down to four aircraft carriers and less than fifty percent of their surface warships and submarines. The window on this opportunity will close in a year when their Navy begins exiting the repair yards, quickly returning to near full strength.”

Kalinin turned to his chief of the general staff. “What is your assessment?”

General Andropov replied, “From a military standpoint, we will succeed. NATO has insufficient forces to mount an adequate response. However, I can attest only to the military aspect of NATO’s capability. There are other ways the West can respond.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Kalinin said. “The economic sanctions imposed could exacerbate the situation we are in, overriding the gains made by the military.”

Chernov replied quickly, “With the additional insurance we added to the plan, there will be no economic sanctions. The West will have no choice but to acquiesce to our demands.”

“Perhaps,” Kalinin said. “Predicting how the United States will respond is not as simple as you make it out to be.”

Chernov said, “It’s the right decision for Russia. It’s the right decision for you.” He didn’t need to elaborate. He’d had many discussions with Kalinin, attempting to influence his decision by capitalizing on Russia’s flagging economy and the growing unrest among the population. Unless something changed, Kalinin would be defeated soundly during the presidential election next year. Russia—and Kalinin—required a bold stroke to rectify their deteriorating situations.

“And the justification?” Kalinin asked.

“The Russian people don’t need ironclad justification,” Chernov answered. “They long for the days when Russia was a superpower, and resent the second-tier status our once great country has been relegated to since the fall of the Soviet Union. As long as there are no negative consequences to the people, they will support your use of force. Any reasonable justification will suffice.”

President Kalinin surveyed the men around the table before replying. “Each of you plays an important role in this plan. I will not approve unless you agree it is in Russia’s best interest to proceed and that in your assessment, we will succeed.”

Kalinin’s eyes fell first on Admiral Oleg Lipovsky, Commander-in-Chief of the Russian Navy and the most junior military officer at the table. His forces had the most difficult assignment, and Chernov knew he was the least enamored with the plan.

After hesitating a moment, Lipovsky replied, “It is in Russia’s best interest, and the Navy will not fail.”

One by one, the three generals beside Lipovsky concurred with the plan and its success, leaving only the head of the SVR. Semyon Gorev smiled and placed his hand on Kalinin’s shoulder.

“I’ll do whatever you ask, Yuri.”

“That isn’t my question,” Kalinin replied. “Will you succeed?”

Gorev pulled back slightly, as if offended by the question. “Of course the SVR will succeed. Our part is relatively easy.”

Silence descended on the conference room as Kalinin moved toward his decision. Finally, he announced, “I approve the operation, but only the preparations.” Turning to Chernov, he said, “Proceed with the plan and brief me when you are ready to execute.”

Chernov replied, “We will commence preparations today.”

7

VLADIVOSTOK • SEVEROMORSK

VLADIVOSTOK, RUSSIA

Vladivostok, with jagged snow-capped mountains rising in the background, is the largest Russian port on the Pacific Ocean. Off-limits to foreigners for thirty-five years during the Soviet era, the city is often envisioned by Westerners as an ice-coated military outpost in the Russian Far East. The reality is contrary, with harbor cranes rising skyward along the shores, titanic merchant vessels anchored in the emerald-blue water, and sleek white yachts rocking gently at their moorings. Vladivostok, which translates to “Ruler of the East,” is also home to the Russian Pacific Fleet.

This morning, with the green knolls to the west shrouded in a light morning mist seeping down toward the coast, Admiral Pavel Klokov, commander of the Pacific Fleet, was seated at the head of a conference table on the second floor of Pacific Command headquarters, flanked by members of his staff as they delivered the morning briefing. The only noteworthy news, Klokov thought, was that the Truman carrier strike group was departing the Sea of Oman and headed east, ostensibly to replace the Roosevelt strike group, which was headed to the Pearl Harbor Naval Shipyard for repairs.

On the matter of repairs, K-295 Samara, the newest Akula II in the Pacific Fleet, had just completed its sea trials after a midlife overhaul and modernization. Samara, along with seventeen other guided missile and attack submarines in the Russian Pacific Fleet, was fully operational. Although the United States had shifted the bulk of its Atlantic Fleet submarines to the Pacific after the devastating losses during its war with China, there were only fifteen operational American submarines in the Pacific. Russian submarines outnumbered the Americans’.

Klokov’s morning briefing was interrupted by his Operations Officer, entering the conference room with a message clipboard. Klokov read the message. The Pacific Fleet warships were being sortied to sea. However, the destination coordinates were unusual. What would the Pacific Fleet’s task be, so far from home?

SEVEROMORSK, RUSSIA

It was still dark along the shore of the Murmansk Fjord when Admiral Leonid Shimko entered the headquarters of Russia’s Northern Fleet. Awakened by a phone call from the duty officer an hour ago, Shimko was informed that a rare Priority One message had been received. A car had been dispatched to his residence, and during the short drive to his headquarters, Admiral Shimko mentally reviewed the status of Russia’s most formidable fleet. Scattered among a half-dozen bases on the Kola Peninsula were twenty-five submarines, numerous surface ship combatants, and Russia’s only aircraft carrier.

The aircraft carrier Admiral Flota Sovetskovo Soyuza Kuznetsov, commonly referred to as Admiral Kuznetsov, was the flagship of the Russian Navy. Although described as an aircraft carrier by the West, the Russian classification of heavy aircraft–carrying missile cruiser was wordier but more accurate. Carrying Su-33 and MiG-29K air-superiority fighters and Ka-27 helicopters for anti-submarine warfare, Kuznetsov was also capable of offensive operations on its own, carrying a dozen P-700 Granit Shipwreck missiles, 192 surface-to-air missiles, and sixty RBU-12000 rockets with various payloads for anti-submarine warfare.

When Admiral Shimko arrived at his office, the lights were already on and coffee was brewing in the Admiral’s mess. Not long after he took his seat, a steaming cup was delivered to his desk, along with the message he’d come in early to read. He read the directive as he sipped his coffee, then put the cup down. Every Northern Fleet warship was being sortied to sea. Although the destination wasn’t surprising, the application of so much force was.

Shimko lifted the message up, reading another Priority One message, this one directed to the Pacific Fleet, copy to Admiral Shimko. Russia’s two most powerful fleets were setting sail.

8

KURSK, RUSSIA

Major General Vitaly Vasiliev, head of the 448th Missile Brigade of the 20th Guards Army, relaxed in the back of his sedan as it sped toward his headquarters. Peering through the side window, he spotted the early morning sun rising above the twenty-four-meter-tall Kursk Triumphal Arch. Not far from the monument, atop a pedestal stood the resemblance of Marshal Georgy Zhukov, the co-mastermind of the Stalingrad counteroffensive in 1942, which surrounded Germany’s 6th Army and signaled the end of the Wehrmacht’s expansion across Russia. As the triumphal arch and Marshal Zhukov’s statue faded in the distance, Vasiliev’s thoughts turned to a battle much closer, and perhaps even more influential.

In the spring of 1943, after the surrender of the German 6th Army in Stalingrad, the Wehrmacht counterattacked, delivering a crushing defeat to Soviet forces, retaking Kharkov and Belgorod. A bulge of Russian forces around Kursk remained, and with Hitler bent on revenge for Stalingrad, Operation Citadel was launched with the goal of encircling the opposing Soviet forces. The Battle of the Kursk Salient ensued, and with German Panzer formations breaking through the Soviet defenses, the Soviets directed the 5th Guards Tank Army to stop the II SS-Panzer Corps at Prokhorovka.

The Battle of Prokhorovka on July 12, 1943, was the largest tank battle in history, involving over one thousand tanks. The armored battle was considered a tactical success for Germany due to the high number of Soviet tanks destroyed, but a strategic victory for the Soviet Union because it prevented a German breakthrough. As Operation Citadel ground to a close, the initiative on the Eastern Front swung permanently over to the Red Army.

The glorious days of the Soviet Red Army, Vasiliev thought, crushing the German aggressors. Although the Red Army had been devastated by the breakup of the Soviet Union, the Ground Forces of the Russian Federation had slowly regained strength in both men and equipment, finally able to flex its muscles again. Part of that power resided in Vasiliev’s missile brigade, fielding the Iskander ballistic missile, capable of delivering conventional or nuclear warheads out to five hundred kilometers.

Vasiliev’s sedan pulled to a halt in front of his headquarters building, and it wasn’t long before he was at his desk reading the morning radio messages. His Intelligence Colonel hovered nearby; there was an important message on the boards, on top, as expected. What wasn’t expected, however, was the directive. His unit was being deployed.

Curiously, although the readiness of all units in the Western Military District was being increased one notch, only two other units had received orders: the 53rd Anti-Aircraft Rocket Brigade with the potent S-400 air defense system, and the 2nd Guards Motor Rifle Division. Vasiliev raised an eyebrow. The 2nd Guards was the only division-strength motor rifle unit in the Army, with all other motor rifle divisions being downsized to the brigade level. Comprising a motor rifle brigade and tank brigade, the 2nd Guards Motor Rifle Division was one of the most formidable units in the Russian Federation Army. Vasiliev read further, identifying the destination of all three units—Kaliningrad Oblast.

Most in the West were unaware of Kaliningrad Oblast, a region of Russia separated from the rest of the country. Home to Russia’s Baltic Fleet, Kaliningrad Oblast is surrounded by Lithuania to the north and Poland to the south. Ground transit to and from the oblast is controlled by Lithuania and Poland, with visa-free travel to the rest of Russia possible only by air or sea. As Vasiliev prepared to mobilize his missile battalion, he knew Lithuania and Poland might attempt to prevent the transfer of so much firepower into Kaliningrad Oblast.

It was infuriating, being forced to obtain the permission of foreign governments for travel between two autonomous regions of Russia. It was Russia’s sovereign right to station whatever troops and military equipment it desired in Kaliningrad Oblast without the approval of another country. But years earlier, when Russia announced its intentions to send advanced surface attack and air defense systems to the oblast, the Baltic States and NATO had objected. Now, Russia had a much stronger military and could press the issue.

Vasiliev smiled. NATO will not be pleased.

9

MINSK, BELARUS

Defense Minister Boris Chernov gripped the leather satchel in his lap as his limousine wound through the Belarusian capital, moving along sweeping boulevards flanked by imposing Soviet bloc–style buildings, a reminder of the city’s rebirth following World War II. During Minsk’s liberation from Nazi occupiers, eighty percent of the city was razed to the ground, then rebuilt in the 1950s to Joseph Stalin’s liking. Chernov’s sedan passed the House of Government, a monumental example of Stalin-era architecture, comprising symmetrical boxy buildings of varying heights, with the wings of the complex wrapping around an expansive front courtyard. A twenty-three-foot-tall statue of Vladimir Lenin, a tribute to the country’s past and indicative of its current alliances, rose in the center of the courtyard, greeting those entering the National Assembly of Belarus.

The Republic of Belarus, situated to the west of Russia, beneath the Baltic countries and above Ukraine, was Russia’s most steadfast ally. Since the establishment of the country in 1991 following the dissolution of the Soviet Union, there had been only one president, Alexander Lukashenko, and his five-term presidency along with accusations of voter fraud resulted in some Western journalists labeling Belarus as “Europe’s last dictatorship.” Lukashenko’s firm grip on power would be a key factor in fulfilling his end of Belarus’s pact with Russia.

Chernov’s car pulled to a halt in front of the Residence of the President, where Chernov was greeted by his Belarusian counterpart, who led the way to President Lukashenko’s office. The Belarusian minister of defense glanced at the satchel in Chernov’s hand before retreating, leaving the two men alone.

Chernov settled into a chair beside Lukashenko’s desk. After the standard greetings and diplomatic exchange, he broached the sensitive reason for their meeting.

“Have you made a decision yet?” Chernov asked.

“You request much,” Lukashenko said, “and my support will place me in a precarious position during the next general election. If this does not turn out well…”

Chernov listened as Lukashenko highlighted the risks to himself and his country; it was clear he was preparing to request more from Russia than had been offered. At the end of his soliloquy, Lukashenko made his demand.

“Your offer of a twenty percent reduction in natural gas and oil prices is insufficient. A fifty percent reduction is required, for a term of twenty years.”

Chernov replied, “Your current prices are the cheapest in Europe, only forty percent of what other countries pay. You already receive a steep discount, which should be factored in.”

“Let us be clear,” Lukashenko said. “Your low prices benefit Russia, keeping Belarus on the teat of the sow, dependent on your … generosity.”

Chernov hadn’t expected Lukashenko to address their delicate relationship so directly. Although Belarus was a staunch Russian ally, its loyalty was due in part to its energy dependence on Russia, receiving all of its oil and natural gas from its eastern neighbor, and the Russian monopoly of Gazprom controlled the entire natural gas infrastructure of Belarus. Beneath the offer of reduced prices lay Russia’s threat. There would be consequences should Lukashenko refuse Russia’s request.

Chernov conceded Lukashenko’s point. “Russia benefits from your dependence on our natural resources, but Belarus benefits more. Your economy thrives due to the low prices, and your country will benefit even more as we reduce the costs further. We are willing to offer an additional twenty-five percent discount, guaranteed for five years.”

“That is insufficient. I cannot commit for less than a forty percent reduction for fifteen years.”

“Thirty percent, ten years.”

Lukashenko studied the Russian defense minister for a moment, then said, “Make it thirty-five percent for ten years, and we have a deal.”

“Agreed,” Chernov said, pulling a folder from his satchel, withdrawing a thick document. He flipped to the last page and signed it, then slid the agreement to Lukashenko.

The Belarusian president skimmed the document, searching for the terms of the agreement. Looking up, he said, “This agreement is already filled out with the terms—a thirty-five percent reduction for ten years.”

Chernov smiled. “We knew you would drive a hard bargain.”

“I’ll have to review this agreement in more detail before signing.”

“That’s understandable,” Chernov said. “However, we’d like a commitment within forty-eight hours.”

“That won’t be a problem.”

10

ZAPORIZHIA, UKRAINE

From across the crowded street, Randy Guimond watched a dark gray sedan grind to a halt along Lenin Avenue, stopping in front of Korchma, a quaint restaurant specializing in traditional Ukrainian food. From the sedan stepped a middle-aged man, who, after a quick glance in both directions, entered the small restaurant. The man had a lot to learn about surveillance, Guimond thought, although his own knowledge of the profession would have been a surprise to his co-workers at Metinvest, an international Ukrainian mining and steel holding company; Guimond’s public identity and employment with Metinvest was a front. His real employer was the SVR, better known as the successor to the KGB.

Guimond waited a moment, then returned the carved wooden jewelry box he’d been examining to a disappointed shopkeeper and headed across the street. Upon entering the restaurant, he paused briefly, taking everything in: staff dressed in authentic Ukrainian clothing, four couples to the right, a family of six to the left. The interior of the restaurant was decorated with trinkets and heirlooms reminiscent of a rural Ukrainian village, but what interested Guimond most was a small room in the back, closed off from the rest of the restaurant. He nodded to the hostess as he made his way to the door, knocked, then entered.

Although the windowless room could seat twenty guests, only Alex Rudenko was present, sitting at a table with a menu in his hands. Guimond took a seat opposite him as a waiter entered, then departed after both men placed their order. When the door shut, Guimond turned to business.

“We’ve been given authorization to proceed,” he said.

Rudenko, a Ukrainian of Russian descent, shot an uneasy look toward the door, then focused on Guimond. “I cannot agree without assurance.”

“You won’t be killed,” Guimond replied, failing to divulge the most important detail. “However, the others on the podium…” He trailed off before continuing, “There will be several deaths. This we cannot avoid. I suggest you carefully consider who will accompany you.”

Rudenko nodded. “I have already decided.”

“Good, then,” Guimond said, pushing forward even though Rudenko hadn’t formally agreed. He was part of the conspiracy now. “We need the event scheduled quickly. Well publicized; a major announcement forthcoming, perhaps.”

“Yes, yes,” Rudenko replied. “I have a plan. Covered by all the media outlets.” Rudenko fell silent as the door opened and the waiter entered, depositing their drinks before exiting.

“The second event?” Guimond inquired.

“Not yet planned,” Rudenko said, “but it won’t be a problem. It’ll be a large gathering, well attended by the media again.”

“Excellent,” Guimond said.

Rudenko asked, “How do I inform you once the events are scheduled?”

“It won’t be necessary. We’ll be following your activity. It would be best if there was no further contact between us.” Guimond withdrew his wallet, tossing one hundred hryvnia onto the table as he stood. “This should cover my meal.”

Rudenko grabbed Guimond’s wrist. “My reward? Has the Kremlin agreed?”

“Yes, Alex. The Kremlin has agreed to your request.”

A smile creased Rudenko’s face as he released his acquaintance’s wrist.

Guimond returned a warm smile as he slid his wallet into his pocket. The required events had been arranged. Whether Rudenko fully understood what would transpire wasn’t his concern.

11

WASHINGTON, D.C.

In her West Wing corner office, National Security Advisor Christine O’Connor scanned the documents on her desk, paying no attention to the rain droplets splattering against her triple-paned, bombproof windows. It had been an unusually harsh winter, but the snow had finally melted, giving way to a wet spring. The heavy rain and overcast skies darkened her mood this morning, but she did her best to remain focused on her task—preparing for her trip to Russia.

She was headed to Moscow for the next round of negotiations for the follow-on to New START, the treaty governing the two countries’ nuclear weapons. Russia made several concessions following the events at Ice Station Nautilus, but everything to this point was verbal. Christine was intent on ensuring the agreements became codified in the new treaty. Her eyes shifted between the printed document on her desk—the most recent draft of the new agreement—and handwritten comments in her notepad, recording the issues resolved since their last meeting.

There was a knock on her open door, and Christine looked up to find the president’s chief of staff, Kevin Hardison, in the doorway. “The president wants to see us.”

Grabbing her notepad, she joined Hardison for the short journey to the Oval Office, finding SecDef McVeigh seated on one of the two couches. As the president pushed back from his desk to join them, Hardison said, “SecState will be here soon.”

“Be seated,” the president said, and Hardison settled onto the couch beside McVeigh while Christine took a seat opposite them.

*   *   *

The president approached the three members of his staff and cabinet, taking a chair at one end of the two sofas. As they waited for SecState Dawn Cabral’s arrival, the president noted Christine’s position opposing the two men, and his thoughts turned to her unique situation, the only member of the opposite political party on his staff.

Three years ago, on a recommendation from Kevin Hardison, he had interviewed Christine for his national security advisor. She had the requisite background, serving as a congressional staffer specializing in weapons procurement, followed by a stint as assistant secretary of defense for special operations and low-intensity conflict, along with several years as the director of nuclear defense policy. During her interview, he’d been surprised: Christine pulled no punches, explaining how his proposed policies would be disastrous for the United States. After being surrounded by staffers eager to please and agree with the president-elect, he found Christine’s candor a breath of fresh air. He hadn’t made the phone call until the next morning, but he’d made his decision before the interview was over.

Hardison no doubt regretted his recommendation; Christine was far more forceful now than when they worked together twenty years ago, when she was an impressionable young staffer. Now, Christine was quick to engage Hardison and the president whenever she disagreed with their proposals, which was exactly the way the president liked it. Although he didn’t always agree with Christine, her opinions and recommendations often distilled clarity into cloudy, contentious issues.

However, since her return from Ice Station Nautilus, she’d been uncharacteristically withdrawn, saying what needed to be said and nothing more, working long hours into the evening and on weekends. It wasn’t hard to realize what she was doing. She was staying busy to keep her mind off of what she’d done. Even Hardison had backed off, toning down his interactions with Christine. He’d become aware of the role she played in Captain Brackman’s death, and it was easy to discern the guilt she felt, deserved or not.

SecState Cabral’s knock on the Oval Office door pulled the president’s thoughts back to the pending meeting, and as Dawn settled onto the couch beside Christine, the president turned to McVeigh. “Go ahead, Bob.”

McVeigh replied, “We’ve detected some disconcerting Russian military activity over the last twenty-four hours. Their two largest fleets, the Northern and Pacific Fleets, have sortied to sea, taking every combatant including their aircraft carrier Kuznetsov. Russia’s Baltic and Black Sea Fleets haven’t deployed, but their level of readiness has been increased, as has that of Russia’s ground and air forces.

“In addition to the deployment of Russia’s two largest fleets, there have been several troop movements. Most are probably related to Russia’s upcoming Victory Day celebration in Moscow, commemorating the end of World War Two in Europe. The parade through Red Square typically features ten to twenty thousand troops and the latest Russian military hardware. However, three Russian units are heading northwest, toward Kaliningrad Oblast. Russia has previously threatened to move more troops and advanced missile systems into the oblast, and appears to be following through. A mechanized infantry division is en route, along with two missile brigades.”

After McVeigh fell silent, the president said, “Let’s talk about the Russian fleet deployments first. What are they up to?”

“Our best guess,” McVeigh replied, “is that their Northern Fleet is headed into the Mediterranean to provide additional firepower off the coast of Syria, although it’s curious as to why they would use their Navy instead of additional land-based missile batteries. As to where their Pacific Fleet is headed, we don’t have a clue yet. All we know right now is that they’re headed south, skirting around the Reagan strike group. We’ll learn more over the next few days.”

“Let’s think out of the box,” the president said. “Syria is one option. What else could Russia be up to?”

“Ukraine could be a focal point,” Christine answered, “although the Northern Fleet would have to transit into the Black Sea. They’d be in an excellent position, on Ukraine’s southern border. Russia could be coordinating its ground and naval forces, bringing as much firepower as possible to bear on the Donbass region of Ukraine.”

“How are things going in Donbass?” the president asked SecState Cabral, referring to the civil war between the Ukrainian government and separatist forces in the Donetsk and Luhansk Oblasts, collectively referred to as the Donbass region.

Dawn answered, “The conflict is currently at a stalemate, with separatist forces controlling most of Donbass. Although an official cease-fire is in effect, sporadic fighting continues along the line of engagement, and tensions remain high. Additionally, a separatist movement has gained momentum in Moldova, on Ukraine’s western border, with ethnic Russians requesting support from the Russian Federation. With unrest in Ukraine’s eastern provinces and now to the west, things are getting dicey for Ukraine.”

The president nodded. “What else could Russia’s Northern Fleet be up to?”

After no additional ideas were offered, the president said, “What about the Pacific?”

Christine answered, “Most of the conflict in the Pacific concerns ownership of natural resources, but I’m not aware of any claims Russia would try to enforce with their Pacific Fleet, unless they intend to join the fray in the South China Sea. But I don’t see that happening.”

Both SecDef and SecState agreed, and after no further ideas were presented regarding the purpose of Russia’s Pacific Fleet deployment, the president said to McVeigh, “Keep working the problem and let me know what you come up with. What about Russia’s ground unit movements?”

McVeigh answered, “It looks like they’re deploying the Second Guards Motor Rifle Division and two missile brigades into the Kaliningrad Oblast. One of the missile brigades is an offensive weapon system, employing the Iskander short-range ballistic missile, which can carry nuclear or conventional warheads. The second missile brigade employs the S-400 Triumf air defense system, which is Russia’s most advanced version, able to engage targets out to two hundred and forty miles. They’re deploying twenty-four battalions, which translates to over one thousand missiles. And that’s just what’s being added. Kaliningrad Oblast already has a significant air defense capability.

“By adding a Guards mechanized infantry division and the two missile brigades, Russia is turning Kaliningrad into a fortress from which they can neutralize NATO airpower in northeastern Europe, undermining a central pillar of NATO war planning. Additionally, their 448th Missile Brigade gives them a significant surface attack capability. The Baltic States are concerned, to put it mildly. It’s possible Lithuania and Poland will refuse to allow the additional Russian troops across their border into Kaliningrad Oblast, and if so, Russia will be incensed. We’re not sure how they’d respond.”

The president contemplated the information laid before him, then said, “As far as the Russian Navy goes, let’s keep an eye on both fleets, with forces close enough to engage quickly if necessary. What are our options?”

McVeigh answered, “Most of the Atlantic Fleet has been transferred to the Pacific, but we have five submarines we can send across the Atlantic to shadow Russia’s Northern Fleet. We also have a guided missile submarine near the Persian Gulf that we can send into the Mediterranean via the Suez Canal, where she can await the Northern Fleet’s arrival. As for Russia’s Pacific Fleet, we can have the Reagan strike group shadow it as it heads south, or assign that task to the Truman strike group, which is in transit from the Indian Ocean to replace Roosevelt off China’s coast.”

The president replied, “Let’s leave the Reagan strike group where it is. I don’t want to go from two strike groups off China’s coast to zero. Have the Truman strike group rendezvous with the Russian Pacific Fleet as soon as possible, but keep them at a reasonable distance. Between Russia and China, tension in the Western Pacific is high, and I don’t want any interactions that could escalate out of control.

“Regarding the Russian ground force redeployments,” the president said, “keep me informed as the situation develops.”

As the meeting drew to a close, the president said to Christine, “You’re heading to Russia on Monday, right?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

After a moment of reflection, the president said, “Proceed with the trip.”

12

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Christine returned to her office and had resumed reviewing the draft nuclear arms treaty for only a few minutes when there was a knock on her door. She looked up to see a Marine Corps Colonel standing in her doorway along with Sheree Hinton, one of Hardison’s interns.

“Miss O’Connor,” she said, “I’d like you to meet Colonel Bill DuBose, the president’s new senior military aide.”

At the mention of Captain Brackman’s replacement, Christine’s stomach tightened. She rose from her desk and strode across the office, forcing a smile onto her face as she extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Colonel.”

The Colonel’s handshake was firm, matching his muscular physique. “If you’ll excuse me,” Sheree said, “I have to run an errand for the chief of staff. I’ll let you two get acquainted and be back in a minute.”

That was the last thing Christine wanted to hear. At the sight of the president’s new senior military aide, the memory of what she’d done to Brackman resurfaced; she was aboard the sunken submarine again, the cold metal handwheel in her hands, turning it shut, sealing Brackman in the flooded compartment. Through the portal in the door, she watched Brackman drown, sucking in a lungful of cold seawater with his last breath, staring at her until his eyes glazed over and he drifted into the darkness.

The memory of what she’d done had slowly faded over the last few weeks, but the arrival of Brackman’s replacement ripped the wound open anew.

“I’m looking forward to working with you, Miss O’Connor,” he said.

“I, as well,” Christine replied, before retreating to her desk. As she slipped into her chair, she said, “I apologize for being abrupt, but I’m pressed for time. I leave for Moscow on Monday and have a lot to review.”

She looked down at the documents and picked up a yellow highlighter, trying to focus and push Brackman from her thoughts. The Colonel remained in her doorway, waiting for Sheree to return and continue his introductions to the White House staff.

“How did you end up on the president’s staff,” DuBose asked, “being from the other party, I mean?”

“I interviewed for the job,” Christine answered without looking up.

“Will I have routine meetings with you and the president, or only when required?”

“When required,” Christine said quickly, attempting to conceal her irritation; could he not decipher she wasn’t in a talkative mood?

“Sheree told me that you and Captain Brackman worked closely together. I hope we can do the same.”

Christine replied without thinking, “I won’t make that mistake with you.” She clamped her mouth shut, but it was too late.

There was a long silence before Colonel DuBose said, “Is there something about me or marines that you don’t like?”

“My father was a marine,” Christine replied, her eyes still glued to the document in front of her.

There was an awkward pause before DuBose asked, “Was he a good father?”

“He was never a father.”

Another long silence, then DuBose said, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

It seemed DuBose finally got the message, because he asked no further questions before Sheree returned. As she prepared to continue with his West Wing introductions, Colonel DuBose said, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss O’Connor.”

Christine knew she should say something gracious, but all she could manage was, “Please close my door.”

The door closed with a solid click. Christine put the highlighter down and pushed back from her desk. Visions of her trip to Ice Station Nautilus—Brackman drifting off into the murky water, of the Russian’s hand around her throat as she jammed an ice pick through his, of her tumbling through the darkness into the icy water—swirled through her mind. She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there, trying to stuff those thoughts back where they belonged, when there was another knock on her door. She pulled up to her desk and retrieved the highlighter, then acknowledged the knock.

The door opened to reveal Kevin Hardison.

“Do you have a minute?” he asked.

“Not really,” Christine replied. “I’m preparing for my trip to Moscow.” She dropped her eyes to the document on her desk.

Hardison closed the door and settled into a chair in front of Christine’s desk. “Sheree introduced the president’s new senior military aide, and the Colonel and I had a nice chat. The typical introductory stuff, until he asked if you were always this … cold.”

“It is a bit chilly in my office,” Christine said without looking up. “Perhaps you could take care of that.”

Hardison replied, “I lied and told him you were normally quite nice, but that you had a lot on your mind and were pressed for time.”

Christine highlighted a section of the draft treaty that needed to be modified, and when she didn’t respond, Hardison asked, “Do you remember when we first met, twenty years ago on Congressman Johnson’s staff?”

Christine replied, “You mean, when you weren’t an ass?”

Hardison glared at her for a moment, then continued. “I admired you then. Smart, driven, easy to get along with. With the experience you’ve gained over the last twenty years, I thought you’d make a great national security advisor. The president interviewed you based on my recommendation, which you’ve never thanked me for, by the way.”

“Thank you, Kevin.” Christine’s highlighter kept moving, her eyes shifting between her notes and the draft treaty.

“But that’s beside the point,” Hardison said.

“What is your point?” Christine asked, her eyes still downward. “It’s hard to talk to you and concentrate on what I’m doing.”

Hardison reached over and grabbed the highlighter from Christine’s hand. She looked up, an exasperated expression on her face. “What do you want?”

“What I want,” Hardison answered, “is for you to stop blaming yourself for Brackman’s death.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Christine replied, reaching for the highlighter.

He pulled it back out of her reach. “You’re going to make time for it, because this conversation is overdue.” Christine leveled an icy stare at him as he continued, “It was Brackman’s decision, not yours.” His words seemed to have no effect, so he added, “Yes, I know. You spun the handwheel, sealing him inside the flooded compartment. But you had no choice.”

“Everyone has a choice.” Christine’s voice quavered as she spoke; her facade was beginning to crumble.

“Not in this case,” Hardison said. “You need to accept that. You are not responsible for Brackman’s death.”

Christine pushed back from her desk and folded her arms tightly across her chest, attempting to maintain control of her emotions, forcing her breathing to remain steady.

“I want you to take some time off,” Hardison said.

“I don’t work for you,” Christine replied.

“It’s Friday morning. Take the rest of today off.”

“I have too much to do.” Christine pulled her chair back to her desk, reaching for the highlighter in Hardison’s hand again.

He kept it beyond her reach. “I don’t want to see you here over the weekend either. I’m going to leave an order for the marines at the entrance to not let you in.”

“They don’t work for you, either.”

“They don’t, but they work for the president, and I’m sure he’ll give the order if I ask. I’m not the only one who’s noticed your demeanor since you returned from Ice Station Nautilus.”

Hardison added, “Do something to take your mind off of things. Have a few drinks with a friend. You do have one, right? Someone who can tolerate your presence?”

Christine reached for the highlighter again, this time keeping her arm extended. “Give me the highlighter.”

Hardison brought the highlighter almost to within reach. “Only if you take the rest of today and the weekend off.”

Christine dropped her hand. “Keep the damn highlighter.” She opened her desk drawer, rummaging through its contents for another one.

Hardison slammed his hand on her desk. “Christine!”

She paused, then slowly closed the drawer and folded her arms across her chest again, staring at the documents on her desk. Hardison was right. She needed time away. From all of it.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll take the rest of today and the weekend off.”

Hardison placed the highlighter on her desk. “I’m not leaving your office until you do.”

Christine closed her notepad and slid the draft treaty back into its folder, placing both in her leather briefcase along with the highlighter and several other documents she’d need on her trip. After grabbing her briefcase and umbrella, she left without a word.

13

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

In the Pentagon gym locker room, Christine dried her hair with a white towel, then tossed it onto a nearby bench. After leaving the White House, she had mulled over what to do the rest of the dreary, rainy day and decided to start with a good, hard workout. It was still morning and she had plenty of pent-up energy, so hitting the gym was a perfect way to start her weekend.

Upon leaving the Pentagon, Christine headed toward her town house in Clarendon. During her journey, the rain slowed to a drizzle, then ended. After a moment of indecision, she stopped at a grocery store and selected two flower bouquets. After placing them on the passenger seat of her car, she opened the glove compartment and retrieved two yellow envelopes, one new and one worn. She pulled the documents from the new envelope, which included a car pass, placing it on the dashboard.

Christine grasped the steering wheel and steeled herself for the encounter. She didn’t know how long she sat in the parking lot, but her hands began to hurt and she noticed they had turned white from gripping the steering wheel so hard. She relaxed her hands, letting the blood flow back into them for a moment, then shifted the car into drive. A few minutes later, she was heading down Memorial Avenue, then turned left onto Eisenhower Drive, where a sentry examined the pass on her dashboard and waved her into Arlington National Cemetery.

Established on the grounds of Arlington House, a mansion owned by Robert E. Lee’s wife, Mary Anna, and seized by the federal government during the Civil War, Arlington National Cemetery spans 624 acres, containing almost three hundred thousand headstones. As Christine headed down Eisenhower Drive, up the gently sloping hill to her right was the Tomb of the Unknowns, commonly referred to as the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. She’d stopped by there many times as she left the cemetery, watching the Tomb Guards, soldiers from the 3rd Infantry Regiment, The Old Guard. She had memorized the words inscribed on the western panel of the tomb:

HERE RESTS IN

HONORED GLORY

AN AMERICAN

SOLDIER

KNOWN BUT TO GOD

The graves she would visit today weren’t unknown, and after entering the cemetery, her car coasted to a halt. She didn’t need to read the headstone number on the document on her passenger seat; the grave was easy to identify. The dirt was freshly turned. After taking a deep breath, she selected one of the flower bouquets and stepped from the car, looking up into the gray, overcast sky. It had stopped raining, but it looked as though the clouds could open up again at any moment. After a short traverse across wet grass, Christine reached Captain Steve Brackman’s grave.

She stood at the foot of his grave, reliving the last few minutes of Brackman’s life. As the ocean poured into the submarine, they couldn’t shut the watertight door, their feet slipping on the wet, sloping deck as water surged through the opening. They’d had a short but heated argument. Brackman was convinced there were only two options: either he died or they both died. As he pulled himself into the adjacent compartment, where he could put his back and legs into the effort to shut the door, she could have refused to help, sentencing them both to death. Instead, she pushed the watertight door closed, then spun the handwheel, sealing him on the wrong side.

Brackman had sacrificed himself for her, and unfortunately, there was no way for Christine to repay the debt. She knelt and placed the flowers against his headstone, then stood and thanked him. She said a short prayer for Brackman and the family he left behind, then returned to her car. After one final glance at Brackman’s grave, she put the car in drive and pulled slowly away.

After a right turn onto Patton Drive, Christine pulled to a halt in front of section 70. With the other flower bouquet in hand, she headed across the thick grass, stopping in front of headstone 1851. There were two names on the marker: Daniel O’Connor on the front and Tatyana O’Connor on the back. Christine placed the flowers atop the gravesite, and although the grass was wet and she was wearing a business suit, she sat in front of the headstone.

Daniel O’Connor died when he was only twenty-two, having never seen his daughter. Serving as a marine during the Vietnam War, he was killed during the waning days of the conflict, and Tatyana gave birth a few weeks later. As Christine told Colonel DuBose, Daniel O’Connor had never been a father.

Christine was raised by her mother, a first-generation Russian immigrant who arrived in the United States as a teenager. Tatyana never remarried, dying from cancer when Christine was in her early twenties. In accordance with policy at Arlington National Cemetery, she was buried atop Daniel in the same grave, her name inscribed on the back of the headstone.

As she sat on the wet grass, Christine wondered if her parents would have been proud of her. Professionally, yes. But she’d made a mess of her personal life. She was in her forties now, divorced with no kids, and her ex-husband had ended up dead on her kitchen floor while the man she truly loved had married another.

Jake Harrison had proposed twice, the first time during their senior year in high school. However, she was headed to Penn State on a gymnastics scholarship and had no time for marriage, much less motherhood. Although she accepted the night he proposed, she returned the ring the next morning. Jake proposed again when she graduated from college, but she’d been swept into a life of Washington politics and wasn’t ready to settle down. She’d be ready in a few years, she’d told Jake. Apparently, eleven was too many, and by the time she was ready, he’d proposed to another woman.

Christine’s thoughts returned to her mom and dad. She said good-bye to her parents, then pushed herself to her feet and returned to her car. After sliding into the front seat, she pulled her cell phone from her purse. Hardison had recommended she get together with a friend this weekend, and Christine decided a girls’ night out was exactly what she needed. She tapped in a number and her best friend, Joan, answered.

“Hey, girl,” Joan said. “Long time no hear. Where are you?”

Christine looked around the cemetery. “Arlington.”

Christine spent a few minutes catching up with Joan, who had been on Penn State’s gymnastics team with Christine and a political science major as well, also ending up in Washington, D.C. Unlike Christine, however, Joan was married with three teenagers, and their different social circles and busy schedules made it difficult to get together.

“I was wondering if you’re available this weekend,” Christine said. “I’d love to go out for dinner and drinks.”

“Oh, this is a bad weekend,” Joan said, “I have plans with John tonight, Jonathon has a soccer tournament on Saturday, and Anna has a play recital on Sunday. What about next week?”

“I’m headed to Russia on Monday, and I’m not sure when I’ll be back. Depends on how things go.”

There must have been something in Christine’s voice, because Joan picked up on it. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Christine said. “I could use some company, though.”

After a short pause, Joan said, “How about tonight? Say … seven o’clock.”

“I don’t want you to break your date with John.”

“Don’t worry,” Joan said. “He owes me. Make a reservation wherever you’d like. I’ll pick you up.”

“Sounds great,” Christine said. “See you tonight.”

As Christine returned her cell phone to her purse, her thoughts turned to Jake Harrison again, and she decided to give him a call. She had no idea if he was on deployment or not, but figured it was worth a try. She found his number and hit call.

To Christine’s surprise, a woman answered. “Hello. This is Laura.”

Christine was taken aback for a moment, then remembered Laura was Jake’s wife. “Hi, Laura, this is Christine O’Connor. I’m calling for Jake. I must have the wrong number.”

Laura answered, a coolness in her voice. “You’ve got the right number. Jake forwards his calls home when he’s on deployment, in case one of his buddies tries to contact him.” Laura’s emphasis on the male term didn’t go unnoticed.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Christine said. “Please say hi to Jake when he returns.”

“No problem,” Laura replied, although Christine was certain there was. Without another word, Laura hung up.

As Christine slid the phone into her purse, she wondered where Jake Harrison was.

14

USS MICHIGAN

On the Conn of the Ohio class guided missile submarine, Lieutenant Jayne Stucker surveyed the watchstanders on duty in the Control Room, pausing to examine the navigation parameters:

Course: 040

Speed: 10 knots

Depth: 180 feet

Her eyes shifted to the red digital clock. It was 9:40 p.m., and with the Captain’s night orders directing a trip to periscope depth at 10:00 p.m., it was time to begin preparations.

“Quartermaster, rig Control for gray.”

The bright Control Room lights were extinguished, leaving only a few low-level lights. Lieutenant Stucker reached up, activating the microphone on the Conn.

“All stations, Conn. Make preparations to proceed to periscope depth.”

Sonar, Radio, and the Quartermaster acknowledged, and the Electronic Surveillance Measures watch was manned. While Stucker waited for Sonar to complete a detailed search of the surrounding water, she examined the electronic chart on the navigation table. Michigan was approaching the Strait of Hormuz outbound, repositioning from the Persian Gulf into the Gulf of Oman, now that the latter had been vacated by the Truman carrier strike group.

There were few places more hazardous for ships than the Strait of Hormuz. The opening to the Persian Gulf is only thirty-five miles wide at its narrowest point, and the shipping lanes in the center are even narrower—only two miles wide—separated by a two-mile buffer zone. Thankfully, Michigan was to the southeast, outside the busy traffic lanes, but there were still many ships transiting through the strait in the shallower water where Michigan lurked.

After waiting several minutes, giving Sonar time to adjust their equipment lineup and complete a detailed search, Stucker announced, “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”

Sonar acknowledged and reported several contacts. But the ship’s spherical array sonar, mounted in the bow, was blind in the aft sector, or baffles, blocked by the submarine’s metal structure. With Michigan’s towed array stowed due to the shallow water, Stucker had no idea if there were contacts closing on Michigan from behind. She had to turn the ship to find out.

“Helm, left full rudder, steady course two-nine-zero. Sonar, Conn. Commencing baffle clear to port.” Stucker followed up, “Rig Control for black.”

Sonar acknowledged as the lights in Control were extinguished, leaving only the faint multicolor indications on the submarine’s control panels and the red digital navigation repeaters glowing in the darkness. Stucker adjusted the sonar display on the Conn, reducing its brightness to the minimum. Michigan steadied up, headed west, but couldn’t remain on that course for long, as they were headed toward the shipping lanes. After waiting a few minutes for Sonar to complete its search of the previously hidden area, Stucker examined the traces on her sonar display, then called out, “Sonar, Conn. Report all contacts.”

“Conn, Sonar. Hold twelve contacts, all are far-range except for Sierra three-two, bearing two-six-zero, classified merchant, and Sierra three-three, bearing two-four-zero, also classified merchant. Both contacts are outside ten thousand yards.”

Stucker acknowledged Sonar, then ordered, “Helm, right full rudder, steady course zero-four-zero,” returning Michigan to base course for the trip to periscope depth.

Reaching up, she pulled the microphone from its holder and punched the button for the Captain’s stateroom. “Captain, Officer of the Deck.”

Murray Wilson answered, “Captain.”

Stucker delivered the required report, to which Wilson replied, “I’ll be right there.”

Captain Murray Wilson entered the Control Room and joined Lieutenant Stucker on the Conn, settling into the Captain’s chair on the starboard side. After reviewing the sonar display and the submarine’s parameters, Wilson said, “Proceed to periscope depth.”

Stucker acknowledged the Captain’s order, then reached up in the darkness and twisted the port periscope locking ring. The barrel slid silently up through the submarine’s sail, and Stucker folded the periscope handles down as the scope emerged from its well, then placed her right eye against the eyepiece.

“Helm, ahead one-third. Dive, make your depth eight-zero feet. All stations, Conn. Proceeding to periscope depth.”

The Helm rang up ahead one-third on the Engine Order Telegraph as the Dive directed his planesmen, “Ten up. Full rise, fairwater planes.”

As Michigan rose toward the surface, silence descended on Control, aside from the occasional depth reports from the Diving Officer.

“Passing one hundred feet.”

The Dive reported the submarine’s depth change in ten-foot increments until the periscope broke the ocean’s surface. Stucker began circling, completing a revolution every eight seconds, scanning the darkness for nearby ships. She spotted two distant white lights to the west, correlating with Sierra three-two and three-three.

“No close contacts!”

Conversation in Control resumed, now that Michigan was safely at periscope depth, and after a quick aerial search detected no air contacts, Stucker slowed her rotation, periodically shifting the scope to high power for long-range scans.

The Quartermaster announced, “Conn, Nav. GPS fix obtained.”

A moment later, Radio followed up. “Conn, Radio. Download complete.”

Stucker announced, “All stations, Conn. Going deep. Helm, ahead two-thirds. Dive, make your depth one-eight-zero feet.”

The Helm and Dive acknowledged and Michigan tilted downward. The periscope optics slid beneath the ocean waves, and Stucker lowered the scope back into its well.

“Rig Control for gray,” she announced, and the low-level lights flicked on.

A few minutes later, as Lieutenant Stucker ordered the Control Room rigged for white, a radioman entered with a message clipboard in hand. Captain Wilson flipped through the messages: all routine traffic except for one. Michigan wouldn’t stop after entering the Gulf of Oman. Their journey had become longer and perhaps more hazardous—they would enter the Mediterranean Sea, passing through the Suez Canal.

*   *   *

Wilson stepped from the Conn and entered Michigan’s Battle Management Center, located behind the Control Room, where his crew did Tomahawk mission planning and managed SEAL operations. Michigan had been converted into a guided missile submarine, carrying Tomahawk cruise missiles in twenty-two of its twenty-four missile tubes, with the remaining two tubes providing access to two Dry Deck Shelters attached to the submarine’s missile deck. Within one shelter rested a SEAL Delivery Vehicle—a mini-sub able to transport Navy SEALs miles underwater for clandestine operations, while the other shelter contained two Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats.

Aboard Michigan tonight were two platoons of Navy SEALs, ready should their services be required, along with sixty tons of munitions stored in two of Michigan’s missile tubes: small arms, grenade launchers, limpet mines … anything a SEAL team might need.

Inside the Battle Management Center, Commander John McNeil, in charge of the SEAL unit aboard Michigan, was meeting with his two platoon Officers-in-Charge, Lieutenants Jake Harrison and Lorie Allen, reviewing the potential operations they might be tasked with now that they were repositioning into the Gulf of Oman. Lieutenant Allen was in his twenties, while Harrison was much older; the prior enlisted SEAL had reached the rank of chief before receiving his commission as an officer. If there was ever a poster child for the prototypical SEAL, Harrison was it: tall, lean, and muscular, with a chiseled jawline and deep blue eyes.

“Change in plans,” Wilson announced, handing the message board to McNeil. The senior SEAL read the message, handing it to Harrison as he asked, “Do you know what’s up?”

“Not yet. This is just the waterspace message. We should receive an operational order soon, but right now all we know is—we’re headed into the Med.”

15

MOSCOW

Seated at his desk in his office, Yuri Kalinin listened intently as his chief of the general staff, General Sergei Andropov, delivered the daily update on Russia’s progress. So far, things were proceeding well, but all that had been authorized were the preparations. Despite his outward confidence and decisiveness, Kalinin hadn’t committed. The time was rapidly approaching, however, when a final decision would be required, and if he approved, Russia would step onto a precipice from which it could not retreat. In the meantime, he monitored the progress.

“Everything required to achieve the primary objectives has been arranged,” Andropov said. “The initial military units are en route, agreements have been made in Ukraine, and President Lukashenko has agreed to his part. Our oil and natural gas price discounts to Belarus had to be significantly increased, but came in as projected.

“We are now focused on the insurance aspects you requested be added to the plan. Defense Minister Chernov has already met with Iran and is meeting with India and China this weekend. Of the three countries, the commitment from Iran is the most crucial and they have agreed. China and India’s participation isn’t essential, but would place the United States in an untenable position, eliminating their ability to intervene.”

Kalinin nodded his understanding. “Keep me apprised of our progress.”

16

BEIJING, CHINA

Defense Minister Boris Chernov peered out the side window of his sedan, its armored frame riding low to the ground, as it wound through the center of Beijing. Joining Chernov in the back of the car was the Russian ambassador to China, Danil Sokolov, who would translate during this morning’s meeting with Xiang Chenglei, China’s president and general secretary of the Party. The sedan came to a halt in front of the Great Hall of the People, where President Xiang’s executive assistant greeted the two Russians as they stepped from their car. Sokolov translated as the men spoke.

“Welcome to Beijing, Minister Chernov. I am Xie Hai, the president’s executive assistant.”

Chernov shook Xie’s hand. “Thank you for arranging this meeting.”

Xie smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

Xie escorted the two Russians up the steps toward the building entrance, framed by massive gray marble colonnades. As Chernov entered the Great Hall of the People, his thoughts turned to Belarus. The request Chernov would make today would be similar, but the dynamics were different. Although Russia’s share of oil and natural gas imports to China was rising, it was still a small fraction due to China’s insistence, wisely so, on multiple sources. Still, the deal could be sweetened other ways.

Whether China was willing to enter another conflict so soon was unknown. Russia and China’s relationship over the last several centuries had been contentious, but there was much common ground, particularly when it came to the United States. Chernov was a firm believer in the proverb The enemy of my enemy is my friend. The Soviet Union had employed the construct during World War II, working with the West despite their inherent distrust. Now, Russia would strive for an allegiance with the East.

*   *   *

The meeting didn’t take long. As Chernov and his translator exited the Great Hall of the People and slid into their waiting sedan, Chernov reflected on his discussions with the Chinese president and the head of the People’s Liberation Army. Neither man asked many questions, and when they did, Chernov had difficulty gauging their level of interest. The Chinese language was complex, with many nuances lost in translation. Still, the proposal had been made, and President Xiang was mulling the offer over.

As Chernov’s sedan headed toward the airport, he pulled a folder from his leather briefcase and reviewed the document inside, preparing for his next meeting.

17

NEW DELHI, INDIA

Under a clear blue sky with the heat shimmering along the brick path before them, Chernov walked beside Indian President Deepak Madan as they strolled through the gardens behind Rashtrapati Bhavan, the presidential mansion atop Raisina Hill. Among the verdant trees and colorful flowers in Mughal Gardens, two channels of water ran north to south and another two east to west, dividing the garden into a large central court surrounded by a smaller grid of squares on the periphery. The air was still today and the water tranquil, its surface reflecting the imposing presidential residence, a four-story, 340-room mansion located within the sprawling 320-acre estate.

As the two men walked among lush vegetation, the sun beating down on them, Chernov was convinced Madan had left the air-conditioned spaces of his presidential palace not for privacy reasons, but to subject the Russian defense minister to the intense Indian heat. Perspiration dotted Chernov’s forehead and he resisted the urge to loosen his tie; it was only mid-spring, but the heat was suffocating, the temperature already cresting toward one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Additionally, they had left their interpreters behind, with Madan insisting they continue their conversation in English, as if to point out the ubiquity of America’s influence.

Thankfully, Madan led the way to a shaded gazebo, where the temperature dropped considerably. After he took his seat at a marble picnic table, Chernov sat opposite him, preparing to deliver his pitch, which he’d rehearsed in his mind many times during the flight to New Delhi. Chernov had already explained the basic plan. The challenge was convincing President Madan that an alliance with Russia was in India’s best interest.

“America is in decline,” Chernov began, “while Russia is rising, reestablishing itself as a superpower. In the twenty-first century, you can align with the United States, Russia, or China. The American sphere of influence is shrinking each year, and it won’t be long before the United States becomes inconsequential in the Western Pacific. That leaves China or Russia, and your interests are much better served by an alliance with Russia.”

“This is not debatable,” Madan agreed. “However, I noticed that you met with China’s president yesterday. As you point out, China is our primary economic and military competitor, and I am curious as to what was requested of them, and what was promised.”

Chernov took a few minutes to lay out China’s role—most of the details, that is—finishing with, “China hasn’t committed yet, which makes India’s role more critical, and also more lucrative. Your participation will be greatly rewarded.”

“You ask much,” Madan replied. “Although I concur with your assessment—America is in decline—the United States is still a formidable economic and military force, with much influence around the world.”

Chernov pressed the issue. “The United States has become weak, both politically and militarily. They lost half of their Fleet in the war with China, and they have no stomach for additional conflict. We attacked one of their aircraft carriers—a blatant assault—knocking it out of commission and killing scores of Americans, and they did nothing. With the proper alliances, America will again look the other way and do nothing. And if they do not”—Chernov paused for effect—“we will make them pay dearly. All that remains is India’s commitment.”

Madan answered, “What you propose is within my authority as president. However, I will not commit unilaterally. This must be discussed among my National Security Council.”

“I understand,” Chernov said. “There are many issues to be considered.”

“When do you need an answer?” Madan asked.

“May ninth.”

Madan raised an eyebrow. “Victory Day?”

Chernov smiled. “There is no better day.”

18

MOSCOW

Christine O’Connor peered out the window of the C-32 executive transport, the military version of Boeing’s 757 and designated Air Force One when the president was aboard, or Air Force Two when the vice president was being flown. As the aircraft descended, it broke through the heavy gray clouds, revealing a sprawling metropolis—the capital of the Russian Federation and home to twelve million. In the distance, she spotted the Kremlin, where the next round of negotiations for the successor to New START would occur.

Today, Christine would meet with the Russians for the second time. The first round hadn’t gone well, with Russia refusing to allow inspections of their new Bulava missile or the Borei class submarines that carried them. However, following the Russian assault on Ice Station Nautilus and the American president’s threat to go public with what Russia had done, President Kalinin acquiesced, agreeing to allow inspections of their new missiles and submarines. However, the concession was only verbal up to this point, and Christine was bent on ensuring the agreement became documented in the next draft of the treaty.

The C-32 touched down at Moscow’s Vnukovo Airport, and after descending the staircase onto the tarmac, Christine was met by her Russian counterpart, National Security Advisor Sergei Ivanov. This was her first time meeting Ivanov, who’d been out of town during her last visit. Although Christine was handling the negotiations from the American side, Russia had defaulted to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, which negotiated New START. As they shook hands, Ivanov gave her an odd look, reacting the same way many within the Russian administration did upon meeting her for the first time.

Standing beside Ivanov was Mark Johnson, Christine’s interpreter for the negotiations, supplied by the American embassy in Moscow. Christine and Johnson joined Ivanov in the back of his limousine, which sped from the airport toward the Kremlin. Along the way, Ivanov described the Russian landmarks they passed, and it wasn’t long before Red Square appeared through the car windows.

Preparations were under way for Russia’s Victory Day celebration, commemorating the surrender of Nazi Germany to the Soviet Union at the end of World War II, referred to within Russia as the Great Patriotic War. Huge banners draped the facades of buildings along the perimeter of Red Square, and the roar of jet engines pulled Christine’s eyes skyward as a dozen jets streaked overhead; a squadron of Sukhoi Su-35s, Ivanov explained, practicing for the Victory Day parade, which would include a flyover by 150 military aircraft.

The limousine passed within the five-hundred-year-old Kremlin walls, pulling to a halt in front of the triangular-shaped Kremlin Senate, the Russian version of the White House, with its distinctive green dome. Ivanov escorted Christine to the third floor of the building, entering a twenty-by-sixty-foot conference room containing a polished ebony table capable of seating thirty persons. As before, on one side of the table sat Maksim Posniak, director of security and disarmament in Russia’s Ministry of Foreign Affairs, along with his interpreter, although neither side had needed one for the initial discussions. Posniak’s accent was thick but his English understandable.

Waiting in the conference room along with Posniak was Russia’s minister of defense, Boris Chernov. The three men at the table rose as Christine and Ivanov entered the room.

“Welcome back to Moscow, Christine,” Chernov said. “It’s good to see you again.”

Christine noticed Chernov’s use of her first name, instead of addressing her as Miss O’Connor as was customary. “It’s good to see you again, too, Boris.”

Chernov smiled. “You should find Russia’s recent concessions incorporated into the new document Maksim has for you, but if not, please don’t hesitate to contact me. As for the details, I leave that for you two to work out.”

He checked his watch. “I cannot stay, but before I leave, I must inquire. Will you be attending the ball tomorrow night?” Chernov’s eyes wandered as he spoke, examining her body; he seemed unaware she could follow his eyes.

“Yes,” Christine answered. “I received the itinerary for my visit and packed the necessary attire. If I may ask, what is the occasion?”

“It’s a Victory Day gala.”

“I thought Victory Day was on the ninth.”

“We have managed to turn the entire month into a celebration,” Chernov replied. “Several foreign leaders have already arrived, and we plan to keep them entertained.” He added, “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll stop by to see how things are going tomorrow, and of course, I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

Chernov and Ivanov departed the conference room, leaving Christine with Posniak and the two interpreters.

Christine turned to Posniak as she eased into her chair. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

19

ARISH, EGYPT

The Sinai Peninsula in the northeast corner of Egypt, with the Mediterranean Sea to the north and Red Sea to the south, serves as a land bridge between Africa and Asia. Given Egypt’s arid climate and vast desert terrain, it’s counterintuitive that almost half of the peninsula’s northern coastline is a swampy lagoon: three hundred square miles of brackish water and marshland separated from the Mediterranean Sea by a narrow limestone ridge.

As a result, Arish is the only major city along the Sinai coast. Serving as an outpost during the Egyptian dynasties and fortified during the Roman and Ptolemaic eras, Arish is a city with a great deal of history and very little to show for it: a litter-strewn beach giving way to a sprawling city of low-rise cement-block buildings. Even so, Arish is one of the country’s better holiday destinations—less than two hundred miles from Cairo—and as close as many will come to the clear blue waters and pristine sands of the Menorca coast or French Riviera.

Not far from the palm-fringed coastline, Anton Belikov worked quickly in the dark, attempting to gain access to a small building. The temperature south of Arish had dropped significantly after sunset, and for that, Belikov was thankful. Although the temperatures in the Arctic, where Belikov and his team had worked less than forty-eight hours ago, were frigid, he preferred the colder climate. That was expected, however, since Belikov was from Norilsk, Russia, located above the Arctic Circle and encased in snow up to nine months each year.

The door unlocked and Belikov pushed it slowly open. There was no one inside, only automated equipment. Belikov activated the pale blue light strapped to his forehead, providing just enough illumination for him to tend to his task. Moving swiftly toward the massive machinery, Belikov slid a black duffel bag from his shoulder, laying it carefully on the ground. As he worked in the faint blue glow inside the building, the other members of his platoon were working at various points farther inland.

It didn’t take long and everything was soon in place, with one last item remaining. It had been disconcerting at each previous location—with the equipment controlled remotely—and this time it was no different as he entered the required sequence of numbers. The panel activated, confirming proper operation. Belikov wrote down the GPS coordinates and, after collecting his empty duffel bag, headed to the exit. After securing the light on his forehead, he stepped into the cool night.

20

USS MICHIGAN

Captain Murray Wilson climbed the metal ladder through the Bridge trunk, pulling himself through the hatch into the darkness at the top of the submarine’s sail. Stepping into the Bridge Cockpit, faintly illuminated by a full moon hovering in a cloudless sky, he stood between the Officer of the Deck and the Lookout, the latter with binoculars to his eyes, scouring the barely discernible horizon for contacts. Wilson breathed in the fresh air, and after verifying there were no contacts nearby, he shifted his gaze to the navigation repeater, examining the submarine’s position. Hours earlier, Michigan had reached the northern end of the Red Sea, surfacing before entering the shallow Gulf of Suez. Behind Wilson and atop the submarine’s sail, the American flag fluttered in the brisk wind as Michigan headed northwest at ahead standard, and it wouldn’t be long before they began their journey through the Suez Canal.

The 120-mile-long Suez Canal, enabling travel from the Pacific into the Mediterranean Sea without transiting around Africa, would cut Michigan’s transit from weeks to mere days, but the transit wasn’t without risk. Less than a year ago, during America’s war with China, mercenaries sank three oil tankers with shoulder-fired missiles, temporarily blocking the canal, forcing America’s Atlantic Fleet to take the long route around Africa into the Pacific. During the Arab-Israeli Six-Day War in 1967, both ends of the canal were blocked by scuttled ships, trapping fifteen merchants in the canal for eight years.

With the risk of direct and indirect attack weighing on Wilson’s thoughts, he focused on the pending transit. The canal was a single-lane waterway with passing locations in the Ballah Bypass and the Great Bitter Lake. As a result, ships transited the canal in convoys, with a northbound convoy departing from Suez at 4 a.m., synchronized with a southbound convoy from Port Said. Michigan would be the first ship in the northern convoy this morning. Wilson checked the time on the navigation repeater. It was 3 a.m.: time to station the Maneuvering Watch. He gave the order, and the Officer of the Deck passed the word over the shipwide 1-MC announcing circuit.

*   *   *

An hour later, Michigan approached the southern entrance to the Suez Canal, passing several dozen merchants at anchor awaiting their designated transit time. Loitering near the entrance was Michigan’s security detail, two patrol boats armed with .50-caliber machine guns. The real danger was ashore, however, and the patrol crafts’ machine guns would be of little use against shoulder-fired rockets or missiles.

A shoulder-fired rocket would likely hit the submarine’s sail, and it wouldn’t take much to put the submarine out of commission. Destroy the submarine’s periscopes and antennas, and Michigan would be on the way home for repairs. Not to mention the loss of life; most, if not all, of the personnel atop the sail would be killed.

Assuming Michigan’s transit through the Suez Canal was uneventful, things could get interesting once the guided missile submarine entered the Mediterranean Sea. According to the last intelligence update, the Russian Northern Fleet had also entered the Mediterranean, steaming east. The best estimate was that the Northern Fleet was headed to Latakia, Syria. Satellite reconnaissance had detected the buildup of replenishment stores along the wharves at the Syrian seaport. If things went as planned, Michigan would intercept the Russian fleet not far from Latakia.

As they approached the entrance to the Suez Canal, Wilson requested a handheld radio, which the Officer of the Deck passed to him. After selecting the proper channel, he brought it to his mouth.

“Canal Operations, this is inbound United States warship. Request permission to enter the canal at time zero-four-hundred.”

After a short squawk, the radio emitted the expected response. “United States warship, this is Canal Operations. You have permission to enter the canal at time zero-four-hundred.”

Wilson checked the navigation repeater. His Officer of the Deck, plus his Navigator stationed in the Control Room below, had done a superb job, timing Michigan’s approach perfectly. The submarine’s security detail took their positions, one boat in front and one behind the submarine, with each machine gun manned and ready. Rather than stand during the 120-mile journey, Wilson pulled himself to a sitting position atop the sail, with his feet dangling in the Bridge Cockpit, settling in for the tense fifteen-hour transit.

21

FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

In a windowless cinder-block building off Taylor Avenue, Tim Johns leaned back in his chair at his computer workstation, waiting for the algorithm to begin sending data. Johns, a Cryptologic Technician Networks Petty Officer Second Class, was assigned to the U.S. Cyber Warfare Command, which was responsible for centralized control of all military cyberspace operations. Comprising 133 teams with varying assignments, Cyber Warfare Command employed over six thousand cyber warriors.

Johns was a member of a combat mission team, a cyber unit loosely modeled after special operation forces. During offensive operations, Johns’s unit would plant cyber bombs in target networks, but the current assignment was less ambitious, simply hacking into encrypted Russian diplomatic and military networks. After identifying another vulnerable node, he had planted a new spider, an algorithm capable of decrypting all messages transiting the router, searching for keywords.

The new spider started sending data, scrolling down his screen, which would be reviewed by the intelligence analysts. So far, the spiders had detected thousands of hits using the supplied keywords, but most were meaningless sentences and phrases. His eyes shifted to the top of the display as a new keyword appeared: Блок TM85.1051. As it moved down the screen, he read the sentence, translating it into English in his mind: Unit TM85.1051 reports the order was executed flawlessly. Not particularly interesting, Johns thought. But at least it was something new for the analysts to chew on.

22

WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was midafternoon in the Oval Office, with SecDef McVeigh seated between Kevin Hardison and Colonel DuBose, across from the president’s desk. There had been a breakthrough in the investigation into Russia’s attack on USS Roosevelt, and a blue folder resting on McVeigh’s lap contained the critical snippet of information, along with the Pentagon’s assessment.

“What have you got?” the president asked.

McVeigh answered, “Cyber Command has been scouring Russian military and diplomatic message traffic—emails and official messages. We have the ability to decrypt the lowest level of Russian classified messages—those corresponding to our Confidential level—and we detected an important keyword in a weekly summary provided from the Russian Navy to its minister of defense.”

McVeigh opened the folder on his lap and read the pertinent sentence: “Unit TM85.1051 reports the order was executed flawlessly.” He looked up and added, “The unit designation TM85.1051 cross-references to an Oscar II submarine in the Russian Pacific Fleet, K-456 Vilyuchinsk.” McVeigh refreshed everyone’s memory about the significance of the Russian unit. “Vilyuchinsk was the submarine that launched twenty-four missiles at Roosevelt.”

The president replied, “You’re saying the attack on Roosevelt was intentional?”

“Yes, Mr. President. The date in the report coincides with the Russian attack. This is what we’ve suspected all along, and this evidence is enough to convince everyone in the Pentagon that the attack was deliberate.”

“I have to agree,” the president said, “which puts us in a difficult situation. We have to either ignore the attack despite what we know, or respond. Your thoughts, gentlemen?” The president turned first to his chief of staff.

“There has to be payback,” Hardison answered. “A quid pro quo.”

The president turned to Colonel DuBose, giving his new senior military aide the opportunity to weigh in on the first significant issue during his White House assignment.

DuBose replied, “A response is required, but we need to ensure it doesn’t spiral out of control, either in a tit for tat that ratchets up, or a response that escalates into a broader conflict.”

When the president turned his attention to McVeigh, the SecDef said, “I agree with Kevin and Colonel DuBose. A response is required, although I’m not sure we can prevent an increasing tit for tat. That decision will rest with Kalinin. However, as Colonel DuBose recommends, our response should be narrow, minimizing the possibility this blows up into a wider conflict.”

“What do you recommend?” the president asked.

“One option,” McVeigh offered, “is to damage a major Russian warship. The Russian Northern Fleet has entered the Mediterranean Sea, and most of their surface combatants have docked in the Syrian port of Latakia, loading food and fuel. Their aircraft carrier, Admiral Kuznetsov, remains at sea with Russia’s other nuclear-powered combatants. This gives us a number of targets and options.

“Admiral Kuznetsov is the most appropriate choice as quid pro quo for Roosevelt. However, it also has the highest potential for escalating, depending on how we engage and the response from her escorts. A better target, perhaps, is Marshal Ustinov, a Slava class cruiser docked in Latakia. She’s the most formidable Russian warship in port, and the third most powerful in Russia’s Northern Fleet after Admiral Kuznetsov and the battle cruiser Pyotr Velikiy, both of which are nuclear powered and remain at sea.”

“How would we execute the attack?”

“You could order an air attack, hitting Marshal Ustinov with enough missiles to send her back to Russia for repairs. However, she’s tied up along the waterfront with several merchants nearby, and there’s the possibility of collateral damage if any missiles lock on to the wrong target. We could go with a torpedo. Michigan will enter the Mediterranean Sea soon, only a short distance from Latakia, but you’ve got the same problem: their torpedo could lock on to the wrong target with so many ships nearby.

“Another alternative,” McVeigh said, “is the SEAL detachment aboard Michigan. They’re trained to sink enemy combatants in port, which is the scenario we’re looking at, plus they can ensure we get the right target.”

“Is that too aggressive,” Hardison asked, “sinking one of their ships in return for damaging one of ours?”

McVeigh replied, “Marshal Ustinov won’t be a permanent loss. Sunk alongside the pier, the Russians will raise her, like we did for most of the ships sunk during Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor and the ships we lost in the Taiwan Strait last year. But we can put her out of commission for six months to a year, which is a reasonable response for what was done to Roosevelt.”

“Assuming we sink the Russian cruiser,” the president said, “what do we tell Russia when they imply our involvement?”

McVeigh suggested, “You could tell President Kalinin the same thing the Russian ambassador told you. That SEALs from Michigan were on a training mission, and accidentally attached real ordnance to the bottom of their cruiser.” McVeigh smiled.

After a moment of deliberation, the president replied, “Send the order to Michigan. Sink Marshal Ustinov.”

23

MOSCOW

It was 8 p.m. when the sedan carrying Christine O’Connor and her interpreter, Mark Johnson, pulled to a halt not far from the Kremlin Senate, stopping behind a procession of cars depositing their guests for the evening’s event. As the men and women, dressed in tuxedos and formal evening gowns, stepped from their cars onto a red carpet, they were welcomed by Kremlin officials who escorted them into the green-domed building. For this evening’s gala, Christine had selected a blue dress that hugged her curves. Her hair was up, pulled back to reveal the sleek lines of her neck, accenting her high cheekbones and slate-blue eyes. Diamond earrings, matching pendant, and blue Valentino heels completed the look.

Christine and Johnson’s car inched forward, eventually reaching the red carpet. Stepping from the sedan, they were greeted by Russian Foreign Minister Andrei Lavrov. After passing through the security screening, Christine and her interpreter were escorted by a young man to the building’s third floor, entering an expansive ballroom with crystal chandeliers illuminating a glossy parquet floor. The room was faced with white marble, with one wall decorated by a painting depicting Moscow, and the other wall, St. Petersburg, symbolizing the centuries-long rivalry between the historic and “northern” capitals of Russia.

Christine and Johnson mingled as waiters carried silver platters of drinks and hors d’oeuvres throughout the crowd, and Christine selected a glass of champagne as a tray passed by. Several Russian dignitaries introduced themselves, with most needing the help of her interpreter. But others kept their distance, shooting quick looks her way. Christine was used to turning heads when she entered a room, but these glances were more furtive, not the typical wide-eyed, admiring stares. She observed the scene more closely, seeing heads bent in whispered conversations as she passed by, and felt sure they were talking about her.

Spotting the American ambassador to Russia not far away, Christine decided to inquire about the strange looks. As she moved toward her, Defense Minister Boris Chernov appeared, stopping Christine halfway to the ambassador.

“Good evening, Miss O’Connor,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Christine offered a smile as Chernov’s gaze swept her from head to toe.

They talked briefly, then Chernov excused himself to mingle with other diplomats. Christine scanned the crowd for the American ambassador again, spotting her in line to greet Russian President Yuri Kalinin, who was talking with the new Chinese chairman of the Central Military Commission—the head of China’s armed forces—and a female companion. Given what occurred during Christine’s last visit to China, when she’d been detained during China’s war with the United States, she decided it’d be best to wait until the two Chinese moved on before joining the ambassador.

Assisted by her interpreter, Christine chatted with several Russian dignitaries while she kept an eye on President Kalinin. After the Chinese bade farewell, Christine excused herself and headed in the president’s direction. However, she didn’t get far before a voice stopped her.

“Miss O’Connor.”

Christine turned as Semyon Gorev, head of Russia’s counterpart to the CIA, approached.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” he said as he shook her hand. “I have heard much about you.”

Christine had heard much about Semyon Gorev as well; the authoritarian director of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service had earned a reputation for ruthlessness and a thirst for revenge during his time as a field agent.

“Only good things, I hope,” Christine said, keeping her tone deliberately light.

“But of course,” Gorev replied.

He offered a friendly smile, but Christine registered tension behind his expression. She wondered if he’d read her file. She’d killed two Russians at Ice Station Nautilus, but considering Russia lost almost one hundred men in the conflict, her role had been small.

Their discussion remained cordial, however, and Christine glanced occasionally in Kalinin’s direction, watching the American ambassador work her way up the line. Confident and poised, President Kalinin greeted his guests with ease. During one of her glances, she noticed Kalinin looking her way and their eyes locked for a few seconds. When Christine returned her attention to Gorev, there was a scowl on the director’s face, replaced quickly with a forced smile.

When the American ambassador was next in line, Christine prepared to disengage from Gorev and join the ambassador. But then the ballroom lights dimmed momentarily. The ballroom floor cleared as guests moved to the perimeter, and a Russian dance company took the floor. Christine deposited her empty champagne glass on a tray as a waiter passed by, then turned back to Gorev. But the Russian was gone.

The evening’s entertainment began with an exhibition by the dance company, performing two Russian folk dances. Christine recognized the first as a khorovod, a circular dance where the participants hold hands and sing, with additional dancers in the middle of the circle. The khorovod was followed by a plyaska, a dance that told a story, like a play. This particular plyaska told the tale of two men’s quest for a woman’s love and her struggle making a choice.

After the two folk dances, the floor opened up for the guests, with the first dance being a waltz. Christine declined the request of a young Russian, choosing to observe first, quickly determining the waltz was ballroom style as opposed to Viennese, with an international left-right-left step, rather than the American right-left-right. During the dance, her gaze occasionally drifted to President Kalinin, who was deep in conversation with SVR Director Gorev. But while Gorev’s eyes were fixed on the president, Kalinin’s were pointed straight across the ballroom—at her—and she could feel the intensity of his stare from forty feet away.

She’d been on the business end of that kind of look a few times in her life—always from a man who wanted her either in the ground or in his bed. Christine cast another glance in Kalinin’s direction. He was still staring at her, and she wasn’t sure which scenario Kalinin was contemplating. Was Gorev, with his reputation for revenge, discussing her role at Ice Station Nautilus? Christine shivered involuntarily, then refocused on the waltz.

*   *   *

From across the crowded ballroom, Yuri Kalinin watched the American woman intently. Gorev followed his eyes to the attractive woman.

Gorev said, “Please tell me you are not seriously considering this.”

“She could be Natasha’s twin,” Kalinin replied.

“Her likeness is remarkable,” Gorev agreed, “but you cannot have a relationship with her.”

“Why not?”

Gorev replied with an exasperated edge to his words, having to explain the obvious. “She’s American.”

“She’s half Russian,” Kalinin countered.

“She cannot be trusted,” Gorev said with a tone of finality.

“I appreciate your concern,” Kalinin said, “but I don’t think dinner with her would jeopardize national security.”

Gorev turned to the Russian president, placing his hand gently on his shoulder. “I know how close you and Natasha were, and how difficult those last few months were. Forget about this American. I will find you a suitable Russian woman.”

A smile broke across Kalinin’s face. “A bride selected by the SVR? I think my secrets would be safer if I married the American.”

Gorev grinned. “You are a wise man, Yuri. Still, the president of Russia cannot have a relationship with America’s national security advisor. Do not let her likeness to Natasha influence you.”

Kalinin replied, “I’ve already given the matter much thought.”

*   *   *

The first waltz wound to a close, and confident she could perform the international version, Christine prepared to accept the next request. She wasn’t prepared, however, when the invitation came from Defense Minister Chernov.

She accepted, and standing in front of him, Christine embraced Chernov in the semi-closed position, keeping her body a safe distance from his. The music started and Christine focused on following the left-right-left sequence. After a minute with no mishaps, she settled into the rhythm of the dance, her motions becoming more fluid, and she noted that Chernov was an excellent dancer.

When the waltz ended, Christine released her embrace as she commented on Chernov’s ability. “You also are a superb dancer,” Chernov replied. “If you don’t mind, I would love the next dance as well.”

Christine was about to reply when a man tapped Chernov on the shoulder. The defense minister turned aside, revealing Russia’s president.

“May I have the next dance?” he asked.

Christine glanced at Chernov, who stepped back with disappointment on his face.

She turned to President Kalinin, fixing a smile in place that she hoped covered her nerves, and accepted. The Russian president caught the attention of the bandleader, requesting another waltz. Christine embraced Kalinin, choosing the semi-closed position again, resting her fingers lightly on Kalinin’s right shoulder as their lead hands joined. The music began, and having worked out the kinks in her dance with Chernov, Christine fell immediately into rhythm.

To her surprise, Kalinin was an even better dancer than Chernov. He was also much better looking, with a trim, muscular physique, and only a few years older than her. As they glided through the turns, changes, and whisks, he kept the same intense gaze he’d had earlier trained on her. However, Yuri Kalinin didn’t seem the type to waltz with an enemy. If he was attracted to her … well. That opened up a number of interesting possibilities.

During the dance, the sensation she was being watched grew stronger. Letting her eyes slide away from Kalinin’s, she scanned the room; the stares from Russians in attendance were even more obvious than before. That was to be expected, as she was dancing with their president, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something more.

When the dance ended, with her fingers still on his shoulder and their lead hands joined, Christine said, “President Kalinin, I have to ask. Why do I get such strange looks from everyone?”

Kalinin offered her a piercing gaze, then released her.

“Come with me.”

Christine followed Kalinin from the ballroom, spotting Semyon Gorev along the perimeter, monitoring their departure. They passed two Presidential Security Service agents, the Russian version of America’s Secret Service, before walking silently down a long hallway. After a left turn, Kalinin unlocked and opened a mahogany-stained door, flicking the lights on as they entered what Christine surmised was his office. Stopping in the foyer, Kalinin pointed to a picture on the wall.

“My wife, Natasha,” he said.

Christine might as well have been looking into a mirror. She knew her Russian genetics dominated her looks, but was surprised at how closely she resembled Natasha. The facial structure and even her hair and eye color were the same. It was then that Christine recalled Kalinin was a widower, his wife succumbing to cancer soon after he was elected president.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” she said.

Kalinin nodded, the pain of his wife’s death evident on his face. His normally impassive mask slipped further, and Christine watched indecision play across his face as his eyes shifted from Natasha’s picture to her. It became clear that Kalinin was contemplating the controversial prospect of a relationship with America’s national security advisor.

On one hand, it wasn’t that far-fetched. Christine knew she’d make one hell of a politician’s wife if the idea ever appealed to her: beautiful, intelligent, and comfortable dealing with powerful men. The main obstacle in a relationship with Kalinin, however, was obvious. She lacked the loyalty he required. Not only to him, but to Russia.

Just as Christine decided a relationship with Kalinin was far too complicated and doomed to fail, the president of Russia asked her out.

“On future trips to Moscow,” Kalinin said, “if you’d like to spend time together, maybe for dinner, let me know. This is a busy month, but once Victory Day preparations are over and a few other issues are resolved, I will have more time. On your next trip, perhaps?”

The I’m not sure that’s a good idea stuck in Christine’s throat. Instead, she replied, “Perhaps.” She wondered if he heard the reservation in her voice, but if he did, he gave no sign.

“Wonderful,” Kalinin said. Checking his watch, he added, “We should return to the party before any unseemly rumors begin.”

While Christine contemplated whether Kalinin was concerned about her reputation or his, there was a knock on the open door. Semyon Gorev and Boris Chernov were in the doorway.

“See,” Kalinin said. “They are already getting suspicious.”

Gorev cast a glance at Christine before saying, “Boris has a matter he needs to discuss with you in private. It won’t take long. I’ll escort Miss O’Connor back to the ballroom.”

“Please do,” Kalinin said. Turning to Christine, he said, “It was a pleasure dancing with you, and I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay in Moscow.”

*   *   *

The door closed, and as Gorev escorted Christine down the hallway, he asked, “What did you and President Kalinin discuss?”

Christine’s first thought was to tell Gorev it was none of his business. She bit her tongue instead, then answered, “Yuri explained why I’ve been getting such strange looks. He showed me a picture of Natasha.”

Gorev replied, “On a first-name basis with President Kalinin after one dance? You move quickly.”

Christine stopped, irritated by the accusation. “For your information, I have no romantic interest in President Kalinin.”

“I overheard the end of your conversation. You said you’d consider his proposal to spend time together. That doesn’t sound like a lack of interest.”

Christine’s anger smoldered as she met Gorev’s accusatory stare. “I don’t need to explain myself to you.” She started moving down the hallway again.

Gorev planted his hand against the wall, barring her path. She stopped abruptly, almost running into his arm. He said, “I don’t know what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, but let me make one thing clear. You are not interested in President Kalinin.”

Christine bit down on her anger. “I didn’t realize that as director of the SVR, your duties included matchmaker.”

“I have many responsibilities, Miss O’Connor. I do the…” Gorev paused, his eyes narrowing as he searched for better words. “I do what is best for Russia and for Yuri. He doesn’t always appreciate what I do, but I assure you, my actions are in his and our country’s best interest.

“As far as your best interest goes,” Gorev said, “I suggest you maintain your relationship with Yuri completely professional. Your likeness to Natasha is a distraction, one he does not need.”

Christine said, “I’ll take your recommendation under consideration.”

“It is not a request.”

There was something about Gorev that reminded Christine of Kevin Hardison: a domineering man who tried to force his will on others. But like Hardison, Gorev had no authority over her. As she stood in the hallway in front of the two-hundred-pound man barring her path, she could have walked around him; the hallway was wide enough. However, she would not be intimidated, not even by the head of the SVR.

She placed a hand on Gorev’s shoulder. “You’re in incredible shape,” she said as she felt the muscles beneath his suit jacket. “You must work out.” Gorev stared at her as she continued. “I was a gymnast for seventeen years. A national champion on the beam.”

“And your point?” Gorev asked.

“My point,” Christine said as she ran her hand slowly down his arm, “is that elite gymnasts require three essential elements. Most people think flexibility is key, and it is, but strength is just as important. There are some moves many gymnasts can’t do because they aren’t strong enough. The third element is alignment,” Christine said as she stopped with her hand resting on Gorev’s wrist.

“If you begin a move even a degree or two out of alignment, it can spell disaster, especially when performing on a four-inch-wide beam. Alignment is also key for strength. If your muscles aren’t properly aligned, you won’t have the strength to power yourself through some of the moves.”

Christine clamped her hand around Gorev’s wrist.

“For example, if I were to rotate your hand ninety degrees”—she twisted firmly, rotating Gorev’s hand inward—“a small woman like myself could overpower a strong man.”

A grin creased Gorev’s face. “Care to try?”

“If I succeed,” Christine asked, “will you keep your nose out of my business?”

“If you succeed,” Gorev replied, “you’ll have the satisfaction of winning this little game of yours. Nothing more.”

“Fair enough,” Christine said.

She pushed down on Gorev’s wrist and he resisted. She pushed even harder, and his hand inched down the wall. He strained against her, halting the downward movement.

Gorev’s grin widened. “Is that all you’ve got?”

Christine pushed down suddenly with all her strength and Gorev reacted, countering her move with an upward thrust. Christine released his wrist and Gorev’s arm swung upward. Twisting to the side, she slipped past him before he could recover and bar her path again.

She turned around, facing him. “I was wrong. You’re too strong for me.”

The muscles in Gorev’s jaw flexed as Christine walked backward down the hallway, still facing him. Gorev replied, “We shall play another game soon, yes?”

“Perhaps,” Christine said in a much chillier tone than she’d used with Kalinin. “In the meantime”—she blew Gorev a kiss—“give my love to Yuri.”

Gorev gritted his teeth.

Christine turned and headed down the hallway, passing the two Security Service agents as she entered the ballroom. Gorev followed closely behind, then monitored her from the ballroom’s perimeter as she mingled among the crowd. It wasn’t long before President Kalinin returned from his meeting with Chernov. Undeterred by Gorev’s surveillance, Christine approached Kalinin as the band prepared to play another waltz.

“Care to dance?” she asked.

“It would be my pleasure,” he replied, then escorted her onto the dance floor.

With Gorev glaring in her direction, Christine embraced Kalinin in a closed instead of semi-closed position, pulling him close so he could feel the curves of her body during the changes and turns. The music began, and during a spin turn, she caught fury on Gorev’s face.

Christine smiled and pulled Kalinin even closer.

24

USS MICHIGAN

Lieutenant Chris Shroyer kept his eye pressed to the periscope as Israel’s coast slid by to starboard, searching for surface ships on the horizon or for approaching air contacts. Shroyer, as well as Murray Wilson, who was seated in the Captain’s chair on the Conn, listened intently to the speaker connected to the sensor atop the periscope as it emitted a constant buzz of activity, the beeps and chirps reporting a plethora of radar transmissions. Fortunately, none had threat parameters; all were navigation radars from merchant ships transiting the Eastern Mediterranean Sea.

Yesterday afternoon, Michigan completed an uneventful journey through the Suez Canal and headed toward the northeast corner of the Mediterranean, submerging as soon as the water was deep enough. Before submerging, the last intelligence message they’d received reported that several Russian surface combatants and diesel submarines had pulled into Latakia, Syria, to replenish food and fuel, while the battle cruiser Pyotr Velikiy and the Northern Fleet’s nuclear-powered submarines remained at sea with their aircraft carrier, Admiral Kuznetsov. The Russian carrier and battle cruiser were to the west of Michigan’s assigned waterspace, although there was no telling where the Russian submarines were.

A satellite navigation position for Michigan’s inertial navigators had already been received, and the radioman’s report indicated their objectives at periscope depth had been achieved.

“Conn, Radio. Download complete.”

Lieutenant Shroyer acknowledged and after the requisite orders, Michigan tilted downward. As the submarine leveled off at two hundred feet, a radioman delivered the message board to the submarine’s Captain. Wilson flipped through the messages, reading the latest intel report on the Russian Northern Fleet, followed by a new operational order for Michigan. As he read through the OPORD, he noted the unusual nature of the mission, as well as the target: Marshal Ustinov, the newest cruiser in the Russian Northern Fleet.

Wilson called the Messenger. “Have Commander McNeil and the XO report to Control.”

The Messenger departed and a moment later, Michigan’s Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Dave Beasley, arrived. Wilson handed Beasley the message board, with the OPORD on top. After he read the message, Beasley looked up. “Marshal Ustinov? In port?”

Wilson nodded and was about to expound when Commander John McNeil, head of the SEAL detachment aboard, arrived. Beasley handed him the message, which McNeil quickly read.

“When can you be in position?” McNeil asked. “We’ll need to be in range of our SDV.”

Wilson evaluated the time required to transit within range of the SEALs’ mini-sub. “We’ll arrive shortly after midnight. When will you be ready to brief?”

McNeil replied, “It’s a pretty standard mission. Give me two hours to have the plan tweaked for this scenario and personnel selected for the mission.”

“Let’s brief at zero-nine-hundred,” Wilson said, “in the Battle Management Center.”

Turning to his XO, he directed, “Have one of the officers prepare a pro report on Marshal Ustinov.”

25

USS MICHIGAN

Two hours later, Wilson entered Michigan’s Battle Management Center, located aft of the Control Room. The former Navigation Center had been transformed during Michigan’s conversion from ballistic to guided missile submarine, and was now crammed with twenty-five consoles, each with two color displays, one atop the other. Thirteen consoles were on the port side of the ship, running fore to aft with an aisle between them, while the other twelve consoles were on the starboard side, arranged in four rows facing aft. Mounted on the aft bulkhead were two sixty-inch plasma screens, with a third sixty-inch display on the forward bulkhead.

Six Michigan crew members and five SEALs were already present, occupying consoles on the starboard side: Michigan’s Executive Officer, four department heads, and Lieutenant Jayne Stucker, along with Commander McNeil and four other SEALs. At the front of the Battle Management Center, Lieutenant Jake Harrison stood beside one of the sixty-inch plasma displays hanging on the bulkhead. Wilson settled into the lone vacant console, beside McNeil, and the senior SEAL nodded in Harrison’s direction.

Lieutenant Harrison kicked off the mission brief, beginning with a summary of the information provided in Michigan’s message.

“As you’re aware, Michigan has been tasked with sinking the Russian cruiser Marshal Ustinov, which is docked in Latakia. The Navigator will brief the submarine’s transit to within range of our SDV, Lieutenant Stucker will brief us on the target, and I’ll add the pertinent mission details.”

First up was the submarine’s Navigator, Lieutenant Charlie Eaton, with Lieutenant Stucker controlling the bulkhead display from her console. A nautical chart of the Eastern Mediterranean appeared, zooming in on Latakia. Lieutenant Eaton’s brief was short and uneventful: Latakia jutted slightly into the Mediterranean Sea, with no geographic issues posing a problem during the submarine’s transit to within launch range of the SDV. Eaton shifted to a satellite image of Latakia, showing the arrangement of the piers and wharves at the seaport, as well as the location of Marshal Ustinov.

Next up was Lieutenant Jayne Stucker, who had been assigned the pro report on Marshal Ustinov. A schematic of the Russian ship appeared on the bulkhead display beside her.

“The target is Marshal Ustinov, a Slava class cruiser. Three have been completed, with one assigned to each Russian fleet except the Baltic. She’s heavily armed, carrying sixteen surface-to-surface and one hundred four surface-to-air missiles, along with six close-in weapon systems like our Navy’s Phalanx Gatling gun. The cruiser also has significant anti-submarine warfare capabilities, with one hundred ninety-two depth charges, an anti-submarine helicopter, and ten torpedo tubes capable of launching Type 53 torpedoes.

“Marshal Ustinov should be easy to distinguish underwater. She’s six hundred eleven feet long at the waterline, with a twin shaft/single rudder design, and the bulbous sonar dome on the bow will easily distinguish it as a combatant as opposed to a merchant ship. Additionally, she’ll have her hull number painted on the side.

“Any questions, sir?” Stucker aimed her question at Captain Wilson and Commander McNeil. None were forthcoming, and Stucker took her seat while Lieutenant Harrison continued the brief.

“Michigan is configured differently for this deployment, carrying only one SDV. However, one SDV is sufficient for this mission. Once within launch range, Petty Officer Maydwell and I will transport a limpet mine in the back seat of the SDV, then attach it to the hull of Marshal Ustinov behind the sonar array. The explosion should damage the sonar dome and flood the forward compartments.”

After a few questions and a short discussion, the mission brief concluded.

McNeil asked, “When will Michigan be in position?”

Wilson turned to the Nav, who replied, “We’ll be in launch range by zero-two-hundred.”

26

MEDITERRANEAN SEA

Lieutenant Jake Harrison, outfitted in a dive suit and accompanied by Petty Officer First Class Rob Maydwell, stepped through the circular hatch in the side of Missile Tube One. Maydwell shut the hatch with a faint clank and spun the handle, engaging the hatch lugs, sealing the two men inside the seven-foot-diameter missile tube. Harrison climbed a steel ladder up two levels as Maydwell followed, entering the Dry Deck Shelter, bathed in diffuse red light.

The Dry Deck Shelter was a conglomeration of three separate chambers: a spherical hyperbaric chamber at the forward end to treat injured divers, a spherical transfer trunk in the middle, which Harrison and Maydwell had entered, and a long cylindrical hangar section containing the SEAL Delivery Vehicle, a black mini-sub resembling a fat torpedo—twenty-two feet long by six feet in diameter. The hangar was divided into two sections by a Plexiglas shield dropping halfway down from the top of the hangar, with the SDV on one side and controls for operating the hangar on the other side.

Harrison stepped into the hangar, which was manned by five Navy divers: one on the forward side of the Plexiglas shield to operate the controls, and the other four divers in scuba gear on the other side. Maydwell sealed the hatch behind him, then the two SEALs ducked under the Plexiglas shield, stopping at the forward end of the SDV, which was loaded nose first into the Dry Deck Shelter. The SDV had two seating areas, one in front of the other, each capable of carrying two persons, with the back seat containing a limpet mine.

Lieutenant Harrison helped Maydwell into a rebreather, a closed-circuit breathing apparatus that produced no bubbles, reducing the probability their presence in the Syrian port would be detected, and Maydwell returned the favor. After donning their fins, the two men climbed into the front seat of the SDV. Harrison manipulated the controls and a contour of the Syrian coast appeared on the navigation display. They were ten miles from shore.

Harrison put his face mask on, as did Maydwell, then rendered the okay hand signal to the diver on the other side of the Plexiglas shield. Water surged into the hangar, gushing up from vents beneath them. The DDS was soon flooded except for a pocket of air on the other side of the Plexiglas shield, where the Navy diver operated the Dry Deck Shelter. There was a faint rumbling as the circular hatch at the end of the shelter opened, and two divers on each side of the SDV glided toward the chamber opening with a kick of their fins.

The divers pulled rails out onto the submarine’s missile deck, and the SDV was extracted from the hangar. Harrison manipulated the controls and the SDV’s propeller started spinning. The submersible rose slowly, then moved forward, passing above the Dry Deck Shelter and along the starboard side of Michigan’s sail, cruising over the submarine’s bow into the dark water ahead.

*   *   *

An hour later, Harrison eased back on the throttles and the mini-sub slowed. In the distance, faint white lights appeared, wavering on the water’s surface. As the SDV continued onward, the ghostly images of barnacle-encrusted ship hulls drifted toward them.

Harrison angled the SDV to the right, reaching the end of the wharves at Latakia, then turned left and traveled slowly past each ship, searching for the target of interest. Marshal Ustinov should be the thirteenth ship along the wharf. Per Stucker’s pro report, Harrison kept an eye out for a ship with a twin shaft/single rudder design and a sonar dome on the bow.

The thirteenth ship fit the description as expected, but Harrison required one additional piece of information. He adjusted the SDV controls and the mini-sub descended toward the seafloor, coming to rest on the sandy bottom. After pulling himself from the SDV, he surged upward, heading toward the ship’s bow. Upon reaching the surface, he read the hull number painted on the side of the ship.

Marshal Ustinov.

Harrison descended to the SDV, where he helped Petty Officer Maydwell lift the limpet mine from the back seat. The explosive device was designed with buoyancy chambers so it was only slightly negatively buoyant, but they had selected the largest limpet mine for this mission, which was awkward to carry alone. The two men swam toward the bow of Marshal Ustinov, slowing as they approached the cruiser’s sonar dome. The SEALs placed the mine gently against the hull, where its magnetic base attached suddenly with a faint clank.

Maydwell set the fuse timer for two hours, allowing enough time for the two SEALs to return to Michigan. Harrison checked his watch, then activated the timer, and the two men returned to their mini-sub on the seafloor. A minute later, the SDV was headed away from the Syrian seaport. Behind them, the shadowy hull of Marshal Ustinov faded into the murky water.

*   *   *

An hour later, as Harrison headed toward the rendezvous coordinates, Michigan materialized from the darkness. Harrison slowed the SDV and adjusted its course to approach from astern, coasting toward the two Dry Deck Shelters. The SDV slowed to a hover behind the starboard chamber, sinking until it came to rest with a gentle bump on the rails extended onto the missile deck. Two divers appeared on each side of the submersible, latching it to the rails as Harrison and Maydwell pulled themselves from the vehicle. A minute later, with the SDV retracted inside the Dry Deck Shelter, the chamber door shut with a gentle thud.

It wasn’t long before the water was drained into one of Michigan’s variable ballast tanks and the two SEALs exited the Dry Deck Shelter, descending into Missile Tube One. After stripping their gear and warming up under the hot showers inside the tube, they dressed and headed to the submarine’s Battle Management Center, where Harrison debriefed Commander McNeil. Everything had gone according to plan.

Lieutenant Harrison stepped into the Control Room, which was rigged for black. The submarine was at periscope depth at night, with Control illuminated only by the faint indications on the Ballast and Ship Control Panels. Lieutenant Chris Shroyer was the Officer of the Deck again, circling on the periscope, his face pressed to the eyepiece. On the Perivis display, Harrison watched as the scope turned; there was nothing but darkness except for a few tiny white lights in the distance moving from right to left as the periscope rotated.

Harrison had reported the time the limpet mine fuse had been activated, which was relayed to Captain Wilson, who had decided to remain at periscope depth. As the time approached, he heard the Captain’s voice, and Harrison spotted Wilson’s faint outline in the Captain’s chair.

“Officer of the Deck, expose nine feet of scope.”

Lieutenant Shroyer acknowledged and gave the requisite order, and the Diving Officer of the Watch made the necessary adjustments. Michigan rose slowly upward, pushing the top of its sail to within a few feet of the water’s surface.

Harrison sensed an individual in Control moving toward him, and it took only a few seconds to realize the five-foot-five-inch-tall officer stopping beside him was Lieutenant Jayne Stucker, observing in the Control Room, as was Harrison. He leaned in her direction.

“Why nine feet of scope?” he asked quietly.

Stucker replied softly, “The earth is round, you know.” A smile flashed across her face in the semidarkness as she poked fun at the stereotypical Special Forces image: all brawn and no brain. Harrison returned the smile. Although the young Lieutenant was barely half Christine O’Connor’s age, there was something about Stucker that reminded him of his former fiancée.

As he wondered what Christine was up to, Stucker elaborated. “Due to the curvature of the earth, how far you can see is determined by your height of eye. Captain Wilson ordered Michigan as close to the surface as possible, raising the scope optics. Depending on what type of fireworks your limpet mine produces, we might see something.”

“Got it,” Harrison said. His eyes shifted to the red digital clock in the Control Room. Five more minutes.

The minutes passed slowly, and as the clock approached the designated time, Lieutenant Shroyer paused his circular rotations and steadied the periscope on the bearing to Latakia. Harrison’s eyes shifted back to the Perivis display.

The time counted down, reaching the two-hour point, but there was no visible indication the mine had detonated. Harrison sensed the tension in the Control Room as the Captain and his crew tried to assess whether their mission was a success.

A report over the speakers broke the silence in Control. “Conn, Sonar. Detect explosion on the spherical array, bearing zero-nine-five. Correlates to Latakia.”

Harrison felt the tension dissipate. The limpet mine had probably just blown a hole in the bottom of the ship and hadn’t detonated any munitions aboard. They’d have to wait until morning, when satellite reconnaissance was received, combined with local HUMINT—human intelligence—to fully assess mission success.

Captain Wilson ordered his Officer of the Deck, “Come down to two hundred feet, course two-zero-zero, speed standard.”

It was time to vacate the area.

27

MOSCOW

Defense Minister Boris Chernov eased into a chair in the small conference room in the Kremlin Senate, wondering if the unexpected news he’d deliver would help or hurt his attempt to persuade President Kalinin. Gathered around the conference table this morning were the same men who had been present during the initial briefing. Kalinin was seated at the head of the table, and to his right sat SVR Director Gorev, Chernov, and Foreign Minister Lavrov. On the other side of the table were four military officers: Chief of the General Staff General Sergei Andropov and the commanders of the Russian Ground Forces, Aerospace Forces, and Navy.

Chernov delivered the awaited update. “All essential elements have been arranged, Mr. President. The preliminary ground units are en route to Kaliningrad Oblast, an agreement has been forged with President Lukashenko in Belarus, and arrangements have been made in Ukraine. We are confident we’ll achieve the primary objectives.”

“And the insurance?” Kalinin asked.

Chernov answered, “Iran has agreed to their part, which is the one essential agreement we required. India hasn’t replied, although we expect a response by Victory Day. China also has not yet committed, and we don’t have a timeline on their decision. We feel good about India, but less certain about China.”

Kalinin replied, “I will not proceed based on good feelings.”

“India and China aren’t required,” Chernov reminded Kalinin. “If either one commits, however, our position will be ironclad. America will be paralyzed.”

“And if neither commits”—Kalinin’s eyes swept the military officers at the conference table—“can we keep the United States from interfering?”

General Andropov answered, “Without India and China, we cannot prevent the United States from intervening. However, if they do, we will defeat them.”

Kalinin shifted his gaze to Admiral Lipovsky, Commander-in-Chief of the Russian Navy, who would shoulder the burden of their insurance plan. “Admiral?”

Lipovsky replied, “The Northern and Pacific Fleets are underway and will reach their objectives at the prescribed time. However…” Lipovsky glanced at Defense Minister Chernov. “An issue has arisen.”

Kalinin turned to Chernov, who provided the details. “A few hours ago, there was an explosion aboard Marshal Ustinov. Her forward compartments are flooded, sonar is out of commission, and there is significant damage to her tactical systems.”

“What was the cause of the explosion?”

“We don’t know yet. The explosion didn’t originate from ordnance aboard the cruiser, so we are unsure what detonated. It’s possible a mine was attached to the ship’s hull, but there are very few entities with that ability, and even fewer with the inclination.”

“What’s the impact?” Kalinin directed his question at Admiral Lipovsky.

“It’s a significant blow,” Lipovsky answered, “but not fatal. Marshal Ustinov is the third most potent combatant in the Northern Fleet, and will be out of action for several months. However, her loss can be compensated for with additional land-based missile batteries.”

Kalinin turned to Colonel General Viktor Glukov, Commander-in-Chief of the Russian Ground Forces.

“We have the assets,” he said.

There was a knock on the conference room door, and the conversation paused as Kalinin responded, “Enter.”

The door opened, revealing Kalinin’s executive assistant. “I apologize for interrupting, Mr. President, but I thought you’d want to take this call.”

“Who is it?”

“The American president.”

Kalinin raised an eyebrow as he said, “Put him on speaker.”

The assistant tapped the necessary buttons on the conference room phone, then said, “Mr. President, can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” was the response.

The assistant left the conference room, and as the door shut, Kalinin said, “This is President Kalinin.”

After the requisite pleasantries were exchanged, the American president broached the reason for the call. “I have bad news to share with you, Yuri. It turns out we’ve had a mishap similar to your submarine that accidentally attacked Roosevelt. We were executing a training mission with one of our SEAL teams in the Mediterranean, and they accidentally attached real ordnance, instead of a dummy mine, to the hull of Marshal Ustinov. You have my sincerest apology for this mishap, and we’re launching an investigation immediately. Once we determine the root cause, we’ll put additional safeguards in place to ensure this doesn’t happen again.”

There was silence in the conference room as all eyes turned to Kalinin, waiting for his response. Chernov noted the heat rising in Kalinin’s face as he processed what the United States had done. Finally, Kalinin spoke, his words failing to match the anger on his face.

“Thank you for the call. It is unfortunate, but these things happen. I hope both countries get to the root cause of each incident to ensure future mishaps do not occur.”

“I agree wholeheartedly, Yuri. We’ll keep you apprised of what we learn.”

After the call ended, Kalinin turned toward Chernov. “It turns out the Americans aren’t as spineless as you predicted.”

Chernov shifted uncomfortably in his seat before replying, “I admit their response is unexpected, but my overall assessment is unchanged. Attaching a mine to a ship is one thing. Committing their entire military to a conflict is another. Once everything has been arranged, they will not engage.”

There was silence again as Kalinin evaluated whether to proceed with the plan. Chernov sensed Kalinin wasn’t convinced their plan was ultimately in their country’s best interest, and the Russian president’s next words confirmed his assessment.

“Initiate the SVR operation in Ukraine and mobilize all required military units. However, do not proceed further until I approve.”

28

USS MICHIGAN

Lieutenant Jayne Stucker turned slowly on the periscope as the guided missile submarine cruised just beneath the surface of the Mediterranean Sea. It was late afternoon and her watch as Officer of the Deck was drawing to a close. Stucker couldn’t have been more thankful, after going round and round on the periscope for almost six hours straight, aside from an occasional break by a fire control technician.

After departing the vicinity of Latakia the previous night, Michigan had taken station in the Eastern Mediterranean in the gap between Syria and Cyprus, awaiting further orders. Those orders arrived this morning, and Michigan had crept closer to Latakia, where they would await the departure of the Russian warships, then shadow them as they rejoined the Russian combatants at sea.

When Stucker shifted to a high-power scan of the quadrant in Latakia’s direction, a new object appeared on the horizon—the distinctive superstructure of a modern warship: gray steel bedecked with a plethora of navigation and tactical radar antennas. The entire ship wasn’t yet visible, as it was still hull-down, the hull of the ship blocked from view due to the curvature of the earth, but there was no doubt as to the contact type.

Stucker called out to the microphone in the overhead as she circled on the periscope. “Sonar, Conn. Hold a new contact, designated Victor five-seven, classified warship, outbound from Latakia on a bearing of zero-four-five. Report any contact on that bearing.”

“Conn, Sonar. Aye, wait,” was the response from the Sonar Supervisor. Not long thereafter, he reported, “Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact, designated Sierra three-two, bearing zero-four-five, classified warship with twin four-bladed screws.”

“Conn, Sonar. Aye,” Stucker replied. “All stations, Conn. Correlate Victor five-seven and Sierra three-two as Master one. Track Master one.”

With her eye still to the periscope, Stucker pressed the button on the communication panel for the Captain’s stateroom and retrieved the microphone, then informed Michigan’s Commanding Officer of the new contact. Wilson entered the Control Room a moment later, his arrival announced by the Quartermaster: “Captain in Control.”

Wilson stepped onto the Conn. “Let me take a look.”

Stucker swiveled the periscope to a bearing of zero-four-five, then stepped back as Wilson placed his face against the eyepiece. After examining Master one, he handed the periscope back to Stucker, who continued her circular sweeps.

“Take an observation of Master one,” Wilson ordered.

Stucker repeated back the order, then hesitated. Determining a contact’s bearing was easy, but range was another matter. To determine the range, she needed to know the contact’s masthead height. To determine that, she needed to classify the contact. Submarine officers memorized surface ship silhouettes—their superstructure design, antenna placement, and weapon launcher arrangement—but it was sometimes difficult to distinguish between the various classes. Sonar would often help, classifying surface ships based on their screw configuration, but the Russian ubiquitous twin four-bladed screws on this contact provided little insight. Wilson had most likely classified the Russian warship during his brief look, but Stucker wasn’t sure.

Her hesitation conveyed her uncertainty, and Wilson gave her a clue. “If I told you Master one carries eight Sunburn missiles and two Shtil missile systems, what ship class would you be looking at?”

Stucker stopped on the contact during her next revolution, shifted to high power, and activated the doubler. Based on the ship configuration and armed with Wilson’s critical data, she now knew what she was looking at.

“It’s a Sovremenny class destroyer.”

“Correct,” Wilson replied.

Stucker called out, “Prepare for observation, Master one, Number Two scope. Use a masthead height of one-two-zero feet.”

The Fire Control Technician of the Watch (FTOW), seated at one of the combat control consoles, reconfigured his displays, then replied, “Ready.”

Stucker tweaked the periscope to the left, centering the crosshairs on the target, then pressed the red button on the periscope handle, sending the bearing to combat control. “Bearing, mark.”

“Bearing zero-four-five,” the FTOW called out as an image of the contact appeared on his console. Using the dual trackballs, he outlined the length and height of the contact, then reported, “Range, one-two-thousand yards.”

Stucker called out, “Angle on the bow, starboard thirty.”

The FTOW called out, “Matches,” indicating Stucker’s estimate of the contact’s course matched what fire control had calculated. They now knew its range and course, and with another observation in a few minutes, they’d nail down the contact’s speed.

Wilson settled into the Captain’s chair on the Conn, and as Stucker waited a few minutes for another observation of Master one, another gray superstructure appeared on the horizon, and a moment later a third. As Wilson monitored the situation on the Perivis display, it didn’t take long to conclude what was occurring. The Russian warships were sortieing from Latakia. However, they were headed in an unexpected direction.

Captain Wilson had positioned USS Michigan west of Latakia, planning to fall in behind the departing Russian warships as they headed northwest, around Cyprus, rejoining the rest of the Russian Northern Fleet as it headed toward the Black Sea. Instead, they were headed southwest.

Turning to Stucker, Wilson ordered, “Station the Fire Control Tracking Party. Rig ship for Ultra-Quiet.”

Stucker relayed the orders to the Chief of the Watch, and the announcements went over the shipwide 1-MC announcing system. Personnel streamed into the Control Room, and several minutes later, every console was manned and a new Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Charlie Eaton—the ship’s Navigator and the Battle Stations Torpedo Officer of the Deck—was on the Conn.

“I am ready to relieve you,” Eaton announced.

As the two officers completed their relief, Stucker’s thoughts went to the Russian warships headed southwest. Where the heck are they going?

29

ZAPORIZHIA, UKRAINE

From across the crowded cobblestone plaza, Randy Guimond peered through the open window of the darkened fifth-story apartment, studying the temporary four-foot-tall wooden platform, its sides draped in white-, blue-, and red-striped bunting that matched the colors of the Russian Federation flag. Although the crowd had thickened in anticipation of tonight’s speeches, the platform, with a podium placed near the front, remained empty. Guimond checked his watch; another five minutes before Alex Rudenko and his associates took the stage.

It was only a few days ago when Guimond met with Rudenko in the private room at the back of the Ukrainian-cuisine restaurant Korchma. Rudenko was a leading member of Ukraine’s Opposition Bloc, an amalgamation of six political parties opposing Ukraine’s attempt to join NATO, preferring a pro-Russian, or at least neutral, stance. Their position had strong support here in the Zaporizhia Oblast, where twenty-five percent of the residents were ethnic Russians and seventy percent of the population spoke Russian.

During Ukraine’s recent Euromaidan revolution, President Viktor Yanukovych’s Russian-leaning administration had been replaced with a pro-Western government. Public sentiment had been sharply divided, with the Donbass—the oblasts of Donetsk and Luhansk—declaring their independence from Ukraine. A full-fledged civil war erupted between the separatists and the Ukrainian government, with the Donbass separatists supported discreetly by Russian troops and equipment.

Many in Zaporizhia also favored independence from Ukraine or outright assimilation into Russia, but the oblast remained part of Ukraine. With Donbass to the north and Crimea, already annexed by Russia, to the south, Zaporizhia would be the next domino to fall. All it needed was a nudge. As Rudenko and his associates climbed onto the stage, Guimond raised his rifle to his shoulder and placed his eye to the scope.

Guimond had chosen the apartment carefully, five stories up to provide a clear view of the participants on the platform, along with a short trek down a nearby stairwell to a car behind the building. Also carefully selected was the Ukrainian-made Zbroyar Z-008 Tactical Pro sniper rifle in his hands, outfitted with a scope and five-round box magazine. Five rounds weren’t many, but would be sufficient for tonight’s festivities. Guimond was wearing gloves, so his fingerprints wouldn’t be added to those of the Ukrainian national who had unwittingly sold the rifle to an SVR agent.

Rudenko moved forward to the podium, flanked by two men on one side and a man and woman on the other. The five men and women joined hands and raised them in unity, drawing cheers from the crowd. After releasing hands, Rudenko greeted the gathering throng, his voice booming from speakers beside the podium. Guimond listened as Rudenko’s speech progressed through the expected tenets, keeping the scope’s crosshairs centered on Rudenko’s head.

As Rudenko reached the climax of his speech, advocating for Zaporizhia’s succession from Ukraine, Guimond adjusted his aim, down and to the right, stopping on Rudenko’s left shoulder. He had told Rudenko he wouldn’t be killed, but failed to mention he’d be shot.

Guimond pulled the trigger, moving to his next target as Rudenko lurched backward. Two quick squeezes and the men to the right dropped onto the podium. Guimond swung left, where the third man and the woman were scrambling toward the podium steps. Another squeeze and a round hit the woman in the side of her head, sending her tumbling down the steps. The final man dove off the side of the podium onto the cobblestone plaza, but not before Guimond put a bullet into his thigh.

As the crowd scattered in every direction, Guimond examined the carnage through his scope: three dead and two wounded politicians. No one would be suspicious of Rudenko. Guimond pushed away from the window and headed toward the door, leaving the rifle and its fingerprints behind.

30

ZAPORIZHIA, UKRAINE

Randy Guimond pulled the curtain back from the window of his room in Hotel Intourist, not far from the apartment he had occupied the previous day. His eyes scanned the crowd gathering in Central Square, site of the murder of three pro-Russian politicians last night. As expected, the crowd was largely ethnic Russian, demanding the government hunt down the assassin and protect the Russian minority from pro-Western radicals. The platform erected for last night’s event still stood at one end of the square, its wood floor stained with the blood of the fallen.

A half-dozen men and women had taken possession of the stage, taking turns with the microphone, preaching to the growing crowd, while off to the sides of the square, all the major news organizations were covering the event, their cameras rolling. Antigovernment demonstrations and murder, Guimond mused, made for excellent television ratings.

Guimond leaned forward, obtaining a better view of the square and the regional administration building across Sobornyi Avenue from the square. A few years earlier, Central Square had been the site of Euromaidan protests, leading to the occupation of the government building by four thousand pro-Western demonstrators. However, the shoe was on the other foot this time, with the protesters being predominately pro-Russian. Last night’s attack on Russian sympathizers in Zaporizhia hadn’t been the first, but this time the pro-Western sympathizers had gone too far. The pending arrest of the radical tied to the rifle’s fingerprints would only add fuel to the fire. For now, however, Guimond added fuel of his own.

Guimond watched several dozen men work their way through the crowd. They were titushky, mercenary agents who supported the Ukrainian police during President Yanukovych’s administration, who were now in desperate need of a paycheck, one Guimond had arranged. However, their goal for this outing had been reversed: rather than intimidate and disperse demonstrators opposing the government, their task today was to reinforce and agitate the crowd.

In response to the growing mass of people in Central Square, city officials were taking measures to ensure the regional administration building wasn’t overrun again. Zaporizhia’s police force, its members wearing riot gear and holding clear full-body shields, assembled in front of the government building, forming two solid lines. With the help of the titushky, however, this only served to agitate the crowd, drawing their attention to the government building, providing a focus for their frustration.

Off to the side, the crowd parted as a man, his left arm in a sling, worked his way to the platform. Guimond cracked open the window as Alex Rudenko, one of the two survivors of last night’s savage attack, stepped onto the stage. Taking the microphone in his good hand, he addressed the crowd, and not long into his speech, he pointed out how the occupation of the administration building during Euromaidan had helped pro-Western demonstrators force the government of Zaporizhia to side with western Ukraine instead of its neighboring oblasts to the north. They should seize the building and not leave until Zaporizhia declared its independence. The crowd began moving toward the building, spilling across Sobornyi Avenue.

An additional squad of Ukrainian police, similarly dressed in riot gear, joined the formation, reinforcing the two lines against the burgeoning crowd of protesters already pushing against the wall of police. What the men and women below didn’t know, however, was that the new squad of police were also titushky, hired for a much different purpose from that of those in the crowd.

Rudenko’s voice boomed across the square, working the crowd into a frenzy, and the mass of demonstrators surged against the long blue line, attempting to break through to the government building.

A shot rang out and a protester in front of the police fell to the ground. The crowd simultaneously broke in two directions, some fleeing from the police while others charged the line. Additional shots were fired and another dozen protesters collapsed onto the ground. There was pandemonium in the street as the spectators scattered, with Ukrainian police continuing to gun down the protesters. All captured on camera.

Guimond released the curtain, letting it drift across the window.

31

MOSCOW

It was 5 p.m. when Christine O’Connor’s limousine pulled up to the century-old Hotel National, only a stone’s throw away from the Kremlin, with her hotel room offering a stunning view of the five palaces and four cathedrals enclosed within the Kremlin walls. After a hard day’s work negotiating the finer details of the follow-on treaty to New START, Christine stepped from the limo, bidding farewell to her translator. As she entered the hotel lobby, she noticed crowds gathered around the television monitors. She stopped and watched a video of protesters being gunned down in a city square, followed by interviews of injured and bloodied victims. Christine stopped by the hotel concierge, asking him what was going on.

The concierge explained what had occurred in the Zaporizhia Oblast of Ukraine, situated just below the Donbass. Tensions in the oblast had run high since Euromaidan, with the population split between pro-Western and pro-Russian sympathizers, and public demonstrations had sometimes turned violent. However, nothing like this had occurred before—government forces gunning down pro-Russian protesters.

Christine thanked the concierge and was about to head to her hotel room when Russian President Yuri Kalinin appeared on the TV screens. He was giving a press conference, camera bulbs flashing, as he stood behind a podium emblazoned with the Russian Federation seal. Christine leaned toward the concierge, asking him to translate as Kalinin spoke.

President Kalinin was furious, the concierge explained, due to yet another case of ethnic Russians being persecuted by the new Ukrainian government. Russia had a responsibility, Kalinin proclaimed, to ensure the safety of all Russians, even those beyond its borders, and he would evaluate options on how to respond to Ukraine’s aggression. When a reporter asked if the options included the use of military force, Kalinin stated all options were on the table, and he’d already given the order to mobilize military units in western Russia.

Kalinin stepped away from the podium, and the TV shifted to talking heads in news studios, speculating on what Russia’s response might be.

Christine thanked the concierge for the translation, her mind churning as she headed toward her room. Kalinin was rattling his saber, but whether he intended to use it, she couldn’t predict, nor could she predict NATO’s and the United States’ response. Ukraine wasn’t a member of NATO, and as such, the United States had no obligation to respond if Russia invaded. However, all of Western Europe, as well as the United States, would have to decide whether to come to Ukraine’s assistance.

With the prospect of Russia going to war with Ukraine, her thoughts shifted to her last trip to China, when she’d been detained in the Great Hall of the People at the start of China’s war with the United States. After the unpleasant experience, the last thing she wanted was to get stuck in Russia during a conflict that might draw in the United States.

Christine decided she would end the second round of nuclear weapons negotiations, coming up with an excuse to cut her trip short, then continue discussions once things settled down. She pulled her phone from her purse and dialed the U.S. embassy in Moscow, informing them of her change in plans. She’d be departing Russia as soon as transport was arranged.

32

KAMENNYI LOG, BELARUS

Major General Vitaly Vasiliev, head of the 448th Missile Brigade, peered through the passenger-side window of his green GAZ Tigr all-terrain infantry vehicle at the passing Belarusian countryside. Behind him, stretched out on highway E28, was a convoy of Iskander missile batteries headed toward Russia’s Kaliningrad Oblast on the Baltic Sea. As Vasiliev’s missile brigade headed toward Lithuania, through which they would transit to reach Kaliningrad, he reviewed the capabilities of his unit, wondering if it would soon be called into service.

The hypersonic Iskander missile, traveling at Mach 6 speed, could target weapon batteries, command posts, and communication nodes, and was accurate enough to engage individual tanks using a variety of targeting methods: satellite, aircraft, or even by scanning a photograph with GPS coordinates of the target. If the target moved, Iskander could be retargeted during flight. The Iskander was a lethal missile indeed, Vasiliev thought, with the ability to target frontline units as well as reinforcements traveling along the region’s highways.

Vasiliev was jarred from his thoughts as his vehicle ground to a halt. Stretching out before him on the road to the border checkpoint were the units of the 53rd Anti-Aircraft Rocket Brigade with its potent S-400 air defense system, and in front of them, on the road curving toward the west, were the rear elements of the 2nd Guards Motor Rifle Division, all stopped.

It wasn’t long before Vasiliev’s adjutant arrived, his Tigr pulling up alongside Vasiliev on the shoulder of the road. He stepped from the vehicle, saluting as he approached.

“I have bad news, General,” he said. “Lithuania is refusing to let Russian military units transit through their country.”

Vasiliev asked, “How much of a delay will there be?”

“No timeline has been provided. Only—No transit allowed.”

“What about Poland?” Vasiliev asked. They could retrace their steps a few kilometers, then head southwest into Poland, then north into Kaliningrad Oblast.

“Second Guards has already inquired. Poland is also refusing to allow transit.”

Vasiliev nodded. Lithuania and Poland, acting in concert, were preventing the transfer of additional Russian forces into Kaliningrad. It was infuriating, although not completely unexpected. Vasiliev’s eyes shifted to the 2nd Guards Motor Rifle Division ahead of them. It could easily force passage for the three Russian units through the border crossing, reaching Kaliningrad before Lithuanian forces could respond. Whether the mechanized division would soon be given orders to that effect, Vasiliev didn’t know.

He tried to contain his anger. Russia was again subject to the decisions of others when it came to simple transit between two regions of its country. During the days of the Soviet Red Army, Lithuania and Poland wouldn’t have dared prevent transit. After the dissolution of the Soviet Union and the weakening of Russia’s military, the two countries had become emboldened. With Russia’s military on the resurgence, it was finally time, Vasiliev thought, to adjust Lithuania’s and Poland’s thought processes. In the meantime, however, he would await new orders.

33

WASHINGTON, D.C.

In the basement of the West Wing, the president of the United States entered the Situation Room and took his seat at the head of the rectangular table, his eyes sweeping over the four individuals already seated: Hardison and Colonel DuBose to his right, and SecDef McVeigh and SecState Cabral to his left. On the far wall, the video screen was energized, displaying a map of Europe.

The president turned to McVeigh. “What’s the status?”

“Things are heating up,” McVeigh answered. After describing President Kalinin’s remarks, McVeigh followed up with an update on Russian military activities. He nodded toward the video display on the far wall, where Russia was divided into four colored regions.

“All units in three out of four Russian military districts have been ordered to full readiness. The Western and Southern Districts, which border Ukraine, along with the Central District, are mobilizing. However, no units have begun moving, except for a motorized rifle division and two missile brigades headed toward Russia’s Kaliningrad Oblast. They’ve stopped at the Lithuanian border, with both Lithuania and Poland refusing to allow additional Russian military units into Kaliningrad Oblast. Russian air assets haven’t been redeployed, although it wouldn’t take long to move them.

“On the naval front, the Black Sea Fleet, which has been dormant up to now, is getting under way, and Russia’s Northern Fleet has begun moving again, with its ships departing Syria and rejoining the units at sea. However, the surprising news is that the Northern Fleet is headed to the Suez Canal, and not toward the Black Sea and Ukraine as expected.”

The president raised an eyebrow. “Into the Pacific?”

“Yes, Mr. President. The Northern Fleet has requested priority passage through the canal when its ships arrive.”

“So they’re rendezvousing with their Pacific Fleet?”

“We believe so. Based on the transit speeds of both fleets, we expect them to join forces somewhere in the Indian Ocean.”

“How do we plan to respond?”

“Regarding Ukraine,” McVeigh answered, “the situation is muddy. Ukraine isn’t a NATO member, and if Russia invades, we’ll have a dilemma on our hands. NATO and the United States have no formal obligation to intervene on Ukraine’s behalf, but it will be difficult to do nothing and let Russia invade a sovereign nation. All NATO units are being mobilized, although obtaining authorization to respond will be contentious; you’re talking about a war between Russia and over twenty Western European nations. The conflict could expand across the continent.

“Regarding our Navy’s response, Pacific Command plans to pull the Reagan strike group from China’s coast and route them south at maximum speed to join the Truman strike group. With the Northern Fleet submarines joining those of Russia’s Pacific, we’ll need to strengthen our anti-submarine warfare screen, with both strike groups working together as a task force. Additionally, the two carrier strike groups on the West Coast are preparing to deploy, and will join the Truman and Reagan strike groups as soon as possible.

“The five fast attack submarines entering the Mediterranean have been given orders to follow the Northern Fleet into the Pacific, leaving Michigan as the sole submarine in the Med. Due to her arsenal of Tomahawk land attack missiles, she’ll be routed into the Black Sea to assist if Russia invades Ukraine. However, we have one mission for her first.”

McVeigh pointed the remote control at the video screen, and the image of Europe was replaced with a map of Egypt.

“Once we noted the Northern Fleet’s transit toward the Suez Canal, we reviewed all Russian activity along the route and we detected a Russian Spetsnaz unit deploying inside Egypt a few days ago, some of them near the Suez Canal.”

McVeigh pressed the remote again, and a dozen locations appeared throughout Egypt where the Russian Special Forces unit had been detected.

“We have no idea what they were up to; there’s nothing of significance at these locations, mostly just vast stretches of sand. However, before we send five fast attacks through the canal, we’re going to check things out. Michigan will send a SEAL team ashore to examine the nearest location, not far from the coast.”

The president reflected for a moment, then ordered, “Keep the Reagan and Truman strike groups a safe distance from the Russian fleet. Things haven’t blown up yet, and I don’t want incidental contact to spark a conflict. Regarding Ukraine, mobilize all Army, Marine Corps, and Air Force assets.”

“Yes, sir,” McVeigh replied.

“Hopefully, this is just a false alarm,” the president said. “Russia rattling its sword to obtain concessions from Ukraine.”

As the president examined the four individuals around the table again, he was met with uncertainty in their eyes.

34

MOSCOW

VICTORY DAY

As the sun climbed into a cloudless sky, President Yuri Kalinin sat in the front row of a grandstand in Red Square, looking on in silence as troops in crisp formations, interspersed with Russia’s most advanced military hardware, passed by. Flanking Kalinin were the leaders of thirty countries, joining Russia’s celebration of the Soviet Union’s victory over Germany in World War II. Behind Kalinin and occupying a prominent place in the grandstand were the surviving Red Army officers who had defeated the Wehrmacht.

Seventy-five years ago, the Soviet Union had bled for the West, and it was Russia, and not the United States, that had defeated Germany. In June 1944, as the Allies invaded Normandy, the German Army defended its Western Front with sixty-six divisions. At the same time, Germany deployed 150 divisions along the Eastern Front, opposing the Red Army’s advance. Had Germany been able to transfer another 150 divisions to Normandy, or even a third of those, the Wehrmacht would have annihilated the Allied invaders.

Even with Germany opposing the Red Army with three-fourths of its military, it was the Soviet Union that pushed Germany back to its capital, taking Berlin and Hitler’s bunker, where the dictator committed suicide in the final hours of the conflict. The Soviet Union had bled for the West, its contribution to defeating Nazi Germany minimized by American historians.

The West’s memory, in addition to being inaccurate, was short; they no longer held commemorations of their role during World War II. In the West, World War II was a distant memory, the sacrifices of its people nothing more now than a footnote in history books. In contrast, Russia held annual Victory Day parades and remembrance marches, keeping the memory of its sacrifices alive.

Russia would not forget.

*   *   *

As the last light of day faded on the horizon, Yuri Kalinin stood on a third-floor balcony of the Kremlin Senate, his hands on the cold granite railing. As his eyes moved over the city, they came to rest on Red Square, where the crowds were dwindling after the day’s activities. It was there that he’d begun and ended the day’s celebrations, beginning with the Victory Day parade and ending with the March of the Immortal Regiment, where Kalinin led the annual citizens’ remembrance march through the city, leading a procession of over one million relatives and descendants of those who lost their lives in the Great Patriotic War.

The painful memories of the conflict weighed heavily on the Russian psyche, something the West seemed incapable of understanding. The United States, for example, extolled its Greatest Generation—those who fought in World War II—along with their enormous sacrifice: over four hundred thousand dead. A sacrifice that paled in comparison with the Soviet Union’s: seven million military personnel killed, along with twenty million civilians as the German Army exterminated ethnic groups during their occupation and razed entire cities to the ground as they retreated.

Twenty-seven million.

And these were the casualties from just the last invasion by a Western European power. First the Poles in the seventeenth century, followed by Napoleon’s army in the nineteenth century, with both armies sacking Moscow. The French Army had occupied the Kremlin Senate; Napoleon had stood on this very same balcony and watched Moscow burn.

Never again.

Russia would never again endure the genocide of its people or the destruction of its cities. Following World War II, the Soviet Union established a buffer zone of Eastern European governments friendly to the Soviet Union. The next time the West invaded Russia, there would be advance warning as troops moved through the Eastern European countries on Russia’s border, and next time, the war would be fought on another country’s soil. Unfortunately, the buffer zones to the west had eroded since the fall of the Soviet Union. The Baltic States had joined NATO, and now Ukraine, Russia’s longtime ally, was turning to the West. It was time Russia rectified the situation, re-forming a buffer zone of friendly provinces to the west, even if that meant employing its military.

Kalinin looked to the side as Boris Chernov joined him on the balcony. Chernov stood beside him in silence for a moment before speaking.

“All preparations are complete,” he said. “You must decide, Yuri.”

Kalinin’s eyes swept across Russia’s capital again before coming to rest on Red Square, where the March of the Immortal Regiment ended.

Twenty-seven million dead.

Never again.

Kalinin turned to Chernov. “You may proceed.”

35

WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was almost 10 p.m. when the president called it a day and ascended to the second floor of the White House, entering the presidential bedroom suite. The first lady was already in bed, with a book in her hands and her back propped up with three pillows. As she looked up to greet her husband, the phone on the nightstand rang, accompanied by the vibration of the cell phone in the president’s suit jacket. Pulling the phone from its pocket, he examined the caller: SecDef McVeigh.

“Yes, Bob. What is it?”

“Russia has invaded Ukraine and Lithuania. Troops started pouring across the borders a few minutes ago.”

The president absorbed the information and its implications, then replied, “Meet me in the Situation Room with the Joint Chiefs as soon as possible.”

“How about midnight?” McVeigh asked.

“See you then.”

As the president slid his cell phone back into his suit jacket, he met the concerned eyes of the first lady, who had placed her book on her lap. “What is it?” she asked.

*   *   *

As the clock struck midnight, the president entered the Situation Room in the basement of the West Wing, taking his seat at the head of the rectangular table. Members of his staff and cabinet were seated to his right and the Joint Chiefs to his left, with the Situation Room walls lined with additional military and civilian personnel. SecDef McVeigh, seated on the president’s right, began the brief.

“We’re still analyzing the data, Mr. President, bringing more satellites into play and querying local sources on the ground, but here’s what we know. At four thirty a.m. local time, a Russian mechanized infantry division invaded Lithuania, and six mechanized infantry brigades invaded Ukraine. Another twenty-four brigades from Russia’s Western, Southern, and Central Military Districts are racing toward Lithuania and Ukraine—six toward Lithuania and eighteen toward Ukraine.

“I’ll discuss Lithuania first, because Russia’s objective seems clearer. Satellite recon shows the Second Guards Motor Rifle Division taking defensive positions on the Polish border and along a parallel line fifty miles to the north.”

“They’re establishing a corridor into Kaliningrad Oblast?” the president asked. “What for?”

“Our best guess is that the Russians plan to permanently annex this region of Lithuania, removing the thorn in their side—having to request permission from a NATO country anytime they want to move military personnel or equipment between Kaliningrad Oblast and the rest of Russia. They’ll still have to go through Belarus, but Belarus is a staunch Russian ally.

“Ukraine, on the other hand, is murkier. Russia is launching a broad assault across the entire length of Ukraine’s eastern border. Whether the Russians intend to annex a portion of Ukraine or control the entire country is unclear. Once all twenty-four brigades reach Ukraine and Russia begins its push farther into the country, we’ll get a better idea of their intentions.

“Which gets me to an important and perhaps critical flaw in Russia’s plan. The invasion was sudden, without the usual buildup at the border before an invasion, which helps and hurts us. It hurts us because Russia got a head start on Ukraine and NATO. However, by not massing troops at the border ahead of time, their invasion is piecemeal, with only six brigades currently inside Ukraine. The lead units have seized the key transportation hubs just across the border and appear to be waiting for the remaining Russian units before beginning a coordinated push westward. This gives Ukraine a fighting chance; not to defeat Russia, but to hold out long enough for NATO to intercede should it choose to do so.

“This brings me to the crux of the issue,” McVeigh said. “Lithuania and Ukraine cannot repel Russia without NATO assistance. Lithuania has only a few thousand combat troops, barely more than a brigade, compared to eight Russian brigades they’ll be facing. Ukraine is in a much better position with twenty-two brigades, but their training and equipment is significantly inferior to Russia’s. Still, there’s hope they can hold off Russia long enough for NATO to provide assistance.”

“What do we have at our disposal?” the president asked.

McVeigh answered, “For immediate response, there’s NATO’s Very High Readiness Joint Task Force, deployable within twenty-four hours. However, it’s a single brigade of only five thousand troops. It’s a component of the NATO Response Force, with another thirty-five thousand troops, deployable in five to seven days. But even if NATO agrees to assist Ukraine, forty thousand troops won’t be enough. They’ll buy time, but forcing Russia from Ukraine will require the mobilization of additional NATO troops; it could take weeks or even months before the troops and equipment arrive in Ukraine.”

The president replied, “Let’s cross each bridge when we get there. The priority right now is to obtain NATO authorization to assist Lithuania and Ukraine. If NATO doesn’t agree to assist Ukraine, we’ll build a coalition of our own.”

“I take it your mind is already made up?” McVeigh asked. “We’re going to help Ukraine, with or without NATO?”

“Damn right,” the president replied. “There’s no way we can stand by and do nothing. We took the Neville Chamberlain approach when Russia annexed Crimea, choosing appeasement rather than war, and it emboldened Russia. We have to draw the line somewhere, and this is it.”

Turning to Dawn, the president asked his secretary of state, “How soon can we expect a NATO decision?”

Dawn replied, “An emergency meeting of the North Atlantic Council will occur within the hour, but there is zero chance the council representatives will have authorization to commit NATO to a full-blown war with Russia. That’s going to take a meeting with the heads of state from all twenty-eight nations. The best we can hope for is that the council will order the mobilization of all NATO assets today, and the heads of state will meet tomorrow. I’ll keep you informed as I learn more, but you should plan to travel to Brussels later today.”

The president nodded his understanding, then wrapped up the meeting. “We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us, on both the diplomatic and military fronts. We’ll sort out the details of our military response once the political landscape becomes clear.”

36

CASTEAU, BELGIUM

Five levels underground in a hardened bunker, General Andy Wheeler stood at the back of the NATO command center, examining the video screens mounted on the front wall. Located just north of Mons, SHAPE—Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe—was the headquarters of NATO’s Allied Command Operations. As the commander of NATO’s military force, General Wheeler was referred to as SACEUR, Supreme Allied Commander Europe.

The lighting in the command center was dim so personnel could more readily study the video screens, each displaying a different section of Europe. The maps were annotated with symbols of varying colors and designs, each representing a NATO, Ukrainian, or Russian combat unit—armor, mechanized infantry, artillery, and air defense, to name a few.

As the first day of Russia’s invasions of Lithuania and Ukraine drew to a close, the fighting thus far had been sporadic. Lithuania was quiet, with the country’s government wisely deciding it was futile to send its four thousand combat-ready troops against forty thousand Russians who had taken position along the fifty-mile-wide corridor on the country’s southern border.

In Ukraine, fighting had been limited to Ukrainian units engaging the lead Russian brigades, which seemed content with consolidating their early gains into the country while they awaited additional Russian units. As night fell across the continent, Russia thus far had amassed fourteen brigades inside Ukraine, controlling the key transportation hubs along the eastern border. Another ten units were still en route, bringing Russian forces invading Ukraine to twenty-four brigades: five tank and nineteen mechanized infantry units. Ukrainian units were likewise rushing to the front, with all twenty-two brigades already across the Dnieper River and into the eastern third of Ukraine. The war thus far had been mostly a race to the start line.

By daybreak, the battle lines would be clearly formed and Wheeler was certain Russia’s main offensive would begin. Whether Ukraine would withstand the assault long enough for NATO or a U.S.-led coalition to assist was unknown. A meeting of the North Atlantic Council, with all heads of state attending, had been scheduled for 8 a.m. the next morning, with most of the NATO heads of state already in Brussels and the last few on the way. If NATO was going to assist Ukraine, they needed to commit in the morning.

Wheeler examined a video screen at the front of the command center, displaying a map of Eastern Europe, studying the red symbols representing Russian combat units amassing in Lithuania and eastern Ukraine. He found it odd that Russia’s two premier forces were missing from the map. Russia had several brigades of Spetsnaz scattered throughout their military and intelligence organizations, along with numerous airborne units, the most well-trained and -equipped units in the Russian military aside from Spetsnaz. Airborne and Spetsnaz had been the first to be employed in recent Russian conflicts, including the wars in Chechnya and Georgia, but they were absent thus far from the current conflict.

Where the hell were they?

37

NOVAJA HUTA, BELARUS

As day transitioned to night, an orange-purple glow on the horizon greeted Belarusian Army Colonel Edward Aymar as he stood in the hatch of his T-72 main battle tank, idling at the edge of the forest only a kilometer from the Ukrainian border. He pulled the binoculars to his eyes and surveyed the countryside, the dense trees giving way in the dusk to rolling meadows blanketed by a layer of light evening fog. In the still air, his company of tanks produced a low rumble in the otherwise quiet forest.

Behind him, in the trees east of highway E95, were the other tanks and infantry fighting vehicles of the 120th Guards Mechanized Brigade, and behind them, also hidden in the dense forest, were another three brigades. To the southwest, the 6th Guards Mechanized Brigade would lead four brigades into Ukraine near Pustynky, while the 11th Guards Mechanized Brigade would lead another four brigades south from Rayffayzen.

Thirty hours ago, Aymar received orders from the Belarusian Northwestern Operational Command, sending his unit south toward the Ukrainian border. It didn’t take much to discern the purpose of his deployment, nor was he surprised they had repositioned during the night under the cover of darkness, pulling off the highway into the forest just north of the Ukrainian border before daybreak. He was surprised, however, when the Belarusian units were augmented with six Russian Spetsnaz brigades, transiting into Belarus before their journey south. Russia wanted a quick and decisive victory.

As Colonel Aymar prepared to begin his unit’s assault into Ukraine, he knew his men wouldn’t get much sleep over the next few days. The encouragement he offered them at times like this echoed in his mind.

You’ll sleep when you’re dead.

As the last light of day faded to darkness, Aymar called down to his tank driver, ordering the 120th Guards Mechanized Brigade into motion. His tank pulled forward, followed by the others, emerging from the trees. Their objectives were far, making speed essential.

38

KIEV, UKRAINE

In the tail of the Ilyushin IL-76 jet aircraft, Sergeant First Class Roman Savvin sat in his webbed seat along the transport bulkhead, the last soldier in the 125-man detachment. Wearing full combat gear and two parachutes—a main on his back and a reserve strapped to his stomach—he waited patiently, taking comfort in the familiar vibration from the aircraft’s four turbofan engines. Tonight, Savvin’s aircraft was one of over one hundred IL-76s and a slew of other transports carrying Russia’s VDV—Vozdushno-Desantnye Voyska—airborne troops and their equipment.

They had initially headed west over Belarus, with some aircraft carrying only troops, while others carried a small cadre of soldiers and the airborne units’ armored vehicles. Unlike its Western airborne counterparts, which were essentially light infantry, the VDV was a fully mechanized infantry fighting force with significant firepower. Each unit was outfitted with a plethora of air-dropped armored vehicles: Typhoon armored personnel carriers, BMD infantry fighting vehicles, and self-propelled mortars, howitzers, anti-tank guns, and air defense missile systems. Compared to Western airborne troops, the Russian VDV was a heavily armed force.

The IL-76 banked to the left, beginning its journey south behind the Ukrainian front line. As the aircraft steadied on its new course, the Russian airborne motto echoed in Savvin’s mind:

Nobody but us.

For the objective assigned to his unit tonight, the motto was apropos. A few minutes after turning south, Savvin felt the aircraft descending, and he knew it wouldn’t be much longer. The light at the front of the aircraft fuselage still glowed red, and as he waited for it to turn yellow, his thoughts drifted to his joint training with American airborne troops several years earlier.

After the Cold War ended and during the brief period Russia and America embraced each other as friends, Savvin had trained for a short time with his American counterparts at Fort Benning, Georgia. He had memorized the American airborne cadences during their training, and although there were many variations of the C-130 cadence, one in particular tumbled through his mind as he prepared for tonight’s jump:

Stand up, hook up, shuffle to the door.

Jump right out and count to four.

If my main don’t open wide,

I’ve got a reserve by my side.

If that one should fail me too,

Look out below, ’cause I’m coming through.…

He remembered stopping by a training session at Fort Benning, where the instructor was explaining the aircraft exit procedure, which included the requirement to count to four—one thousand, two thousand … By the time you reached four, you should feel a tug on your harness as your main parachute deployed.

A trainee raised his hand. “What do you do if you reach four and don’t feel a tug?”

The instructor replied with a scowl on his face, “Count to six, stupid.”

The trainee raised his hand again, timidly, and asked, “What do you do if you reach six and don’t feel a tug?”

He had apparently asked a sensible question this time, because the instructor answered, “Look up and check your main, ’cause you got a problem.”

The Jump light at the front of the aircraft fuselage shifted from red to yellow. Savvin and the other men in his unit stood, hooked their parachute static lines to a cable in the overhead running the length of the fuselage, then turned aft, watching the aircrew open the cabin door. Less than a minute later, the light turned green and all 125 paratroopers moved toward the open door in unison, exiting at one-second intervals.

Upon reaching the end of the fuselage, Savvin turned toward the opening and, in one fluid motion, placed a hand on each side of the opening and launched himself from the aircraft. In a reflex action practiced hundreds of times, he tucked his chin against his chest, pressed his elbows against his sides, and snapped his legs together, bending at the waist into a pike position just before his body was buffeted by the aircraft’s slipstream. As Savvin tumbled through the darkness, he began his count.

One thousand, two thousand …

39

AIR FORCE ONE

Air Force One cruised thirty-six thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean, headed east toward Brussels, escorted by a pair of F-22 Raptors periodically refueled in flight. Secretary of State Dawn Cabral and National Security Advisor Christine O’Connor entered the president’s office on the main deck of the aircraft and took their seats in a brown leather sofa opposite the president’s desk. Two days ago, Christine had watched events unfold on the televisions in her hotel, only a few hundred yards from the Kremlin. Her decision to depart Moscow early had proven wise, given Russia’s invasion of Lithuania and Ukraine not long thereafter.

Thus far, however, the Russians had made no attempts to detain American diplomats. On the contrary, it was business as usual in Moscow, with Russia downplaying its dual invasions, labeling its incursion into Ukraine a temporary security measure to ensure the safety of ethnic Russians until the time, determined by President Kalinin, the Ukrainian government instituted adequate safeguards. Lithuania was also billed as a limited military deployment protecting the rights of Russia and its citizens, responding to the hostility of NATO countries—Poland and Lithuania—abusing their power by preventing the transit of Russian citizens and military units between Russia proper and Kaliningrad Oblast.

The president had invited Dawn and Christine to his office on Air Force One to discuss Russia’s transgressions and the pending NATO meeting in Brussels, and he directed his first question to Dawn. “Help me understand Kalinin’s thought process. What does he want that’s worth risking war with NATO and international sanctions that could cripple Russia’s economy?”

“In my assessment,” Dawn began, “if Russia were a person, he or she would be diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder. They’ve been invaded by Western European countries three times, and Nazi Germany’s occupation was horrific, resulting in the death of twenty-seven million men and women and the destruction of hundreds of cities. In simple terms, Russians are paranoid, justly or not, and their paranoia increases each time one of their former allies joins NATO. They simply don’t trust the West, and many Russians believe it’s only a matter of time before NATO finds a reason to invade.

“Ukraine’s turn toward the West was pivotal in Russia’s approach to this issue. Not only did they feel betrayed by one of their closest allies, but most of Russia’s Black Sea Fleet is homeported in Crimea. The annexation of Crimea was essential to ensure they retained access to their main Black Sea port, and their support of separatists in Donbass is an attempt to reestablish a buffer zone between Russia and the West, should Ukraine eventually become a NATO member.”

The president digested Dawn’s assessment, then turned the conversation to the impending NATO meeting. “Russia invaded Ukraine previously, annexing Crimea, and no one came to Ukraine’s assistance. How do we shape a different outcome this time?”

Dawn replied, “Russia’s annexation of Crimea was a unique situation. Its population is two-thirds ethnic Russian and the province was part of Russia for two hundred years before it was gifted to Ukraine by Nikita Khrushchev in 1954. From a Russian perspective, they simply took back what was rightfully theirs. Additionally, although Ukraine protested, they ceded the region without conflict. There was no war for NATO or the United States to intervene in.

“This time, however, there’s no historical justification for Russia’s invasion of Ukraine or Lithuania. The Russians will argue they were provoked and had no alternative, but we all know the excuses are a sham. The obvious reason is that Kalinin wants to reestablish buffer states between Russia and Western Europe. Additionally, this time Russia invaded a NATO country and the Alliance will have to respond.”

Turning to Christine, the president asked, “Do you have anything to add?”

Christine answered, “I concur with Dawn’s assessment of Kalinin’s motives. However, I’d like to expound on NATO’s obligation. Lithuania isn’t as cut-and-dried as it appears. Article Five of the North Atlantic Treaty states that an armed attack on one or more members shall be considered an attack on all, and that all members will assist, taking actions deemed necessary. However, the treaty doesn’t spell out what assist means, nor the actions deemed necessary. The wording keeps NATO’s options open, with the possible responses ranging from nuclear war to a stern protest sent via postcard. Even though Lithuania has been invaded, there is no obligation to engage Russia militarily.

“We’ll also have to deal with NATO’s unique decision-making process. On its surface, NATO’s principle of requiring consensus on each resolution might seem a hindrance, in that one nation can torpedo a proposal. However, consensus doesn’t mean unanimous approval. All twenty-eight countries don’t have to vote yes in order for a resolution to be adopted. Instead, as long as no country votes no, consensus is achieved. Additionally, each country doesn’t have to vote; they can abstain if they want. The ability to abstain from a vote, called the silence procedure, allows governments to tacitly approve a NATO resolution without officially doing so, thereby not putting their vote on the record, which could be used against them by political opponents back home.

“Another issue to consider is that even if NATO authorizes the use of military force, member states aren’t bound to provide assets. So you really have two diplomatic battles to win, Mr. President. You have to convince the other twenty-seven members to either vote yes or abstain, then you’ll need to persuade as many members as possible to contribute forces.”

The president nodded his understanding, then turned back to Dawn. “How do you think this is going to shake out?”

Dawn answered, “If NATO authorizes the use of military force and Russia doesn’t back down, we’re talking about a full-scale continental war. Even if a country abstains from the vote and initially refuses to provide forces, if NATO begins to lose, they’ll be drawn into the conflict. It’s not likely NATO would lose given our combined forces, but the potential is one many countries fear. And if Russia gains the upper hand, they might not stop at Lithuania and Ukraine. Armed conflict with Russia is a can of worms many NATO members won’t want to open.”

“I understand their concern,” the president said. As he prepared to ask another question, there was a knock on his door. After the president acknowledged, McVeigh entered with a somber look on his face, taking a seat on the leather sofa beside the two women.

“I have bad news, Mr. President. Belarus has invaded Ukraine, launching an assault against the Ukrainian Army’s north flank, while Russia has begun a major assault from the south. Additionally, Russia’s airborne troops are being deployed along the Dnieper River, which runs north–south through the entire country, seizing the bridges. The initial invasion was bait, drawing Ukrainian forces toward its eastern border. It won’t be long before the entire Ukrainian Army is surrounded.

“The outcome in Ukraine was never in doubt. Without outside assistance, Russia will prevail. We were hoping Ukraine could hold out long enough for NATO or the United States to assist. That’s not going to happen. This war will be over in the next few days, and expelling Russia from Ukraine just became significantly harder. Instead of assisting Ukraine in a fluid battle, Russian units will be dug in along the Dnieper River.”

After absorbing the news, the president replied, “This at least provides clarity to the way forward, eliminating the urgency in committing NATO’s rapid response forces. Driving Russia from Lithuania and Ukraine is going to take a concerted, well-planned effort. It won’t be easy, but at least we’ll have time to build consensus and deploy the required forces to Europe.

“However, it’s imperative we not go it alone. We need a NATO resolution authorizing the use of military force against Russia, and we need as many NATO members as possible to contribute forces.” The president finished with, “We have our work cut out for us. Engage your counterparts in Brussels and do what you can to influence the outcome.”

The members of his staff and cabinet departed his office, and as the door closed, the president’s thoughts went to the conversations earlier that day, when he’d contacted most of NATO’s leadership. The prime minister of the United Kingdom was on board, as were the leaders of the Baltic States and Poland. Most of the remaining leaders were noncommittal, except for France, Italy, and Germany, who were leaning against military action. As the last few hours of the flight to Belgium drew to a close, the president knew he’d have a difficult task come morning.

40

USS MICHIGAN

In Michigan’s Battle Management Center, Lieutenant Harrison stood beside a plasma screen displaying a map of Egypt, briefing Michigan’s next mission. Seated in the Battle Management Center were Captain Wilson, his Executive Officer, and four department heads, plus Commander McNeil and the three other SEALs assigned to the mission.

Following Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, Michigan had received new orders, routing the submarine into the Black Sea. However, before heading north, Michigan had to complete another mission; Harrison and three other SEALs would be sent ashore into Egypt. The Navigator had already briefed Michigan’s approach to Arish, located on the coast of the Sinai Peninsula, which presented no challenges, and it was Harrison’s turn to brief. A single fire team of four SEALs would be sent ashore.

“Once Michigan is in position off Egypt’s coast, the fire team will debark using one of the two RHIBs in the port Dry Deck Shelter,” Harrison said, referring to the Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats SEALs sometimes used for missions ashore. “Accompanying me will be Maydwell, Mendelson, and Brown.”

Harrison nodded and one of the SEALs advanced the slide on the display, which shifted to a satellite view of Arish. There was nothing noteworthy in the vicinity as far as Harrison could tell, no government or military facilities, just a single building.

“Our mission is to recon the area. Find out why Russia was interested enough to send Special Forces personnel to this building, and what, if anything, they did while they were there. Any questions?”

There were none, and Harrison wrapped up the briefing.

*   *   *

An hour later, with Michigan at periscope depth off the coast of the Sinai Peninsula, Lieutenant Harrison led his fire team into Missile Tube Two and into the port Dry Deck Shelter. Stowed in the shelter were two RHIBs, one of which would be used for tonight’s mission. Unlike SDV operations, there were no Navy divers in the shelter to assist aside from the diver on the other side of the Plexiglas shield, operating the hangar controls.

The four SEALs donned scuba gear and the shelter was flooded down, then the hangar door moved slowly open to the latched position. Harrison and the other SEALs hauled one of the RHIBs from the shelter onto the submarine’s missile deck and connected a tether line from the RHIB to one of the SDV rails, then activated the first compressed air cartridge.

As the RHIB expanded, Rob Maydwell and Richard Mendelson swam aft along the missile deck and opened the hatch to a locker in the submarine’s superstructure. The two SEALs retrieved an outboard motor and attached it to the RHIB, then actuated the second air cartridge. The RHIB fully inflated, rising toward the water’s surface. Maydwell and Mendelson followed the RHIB upward, and a few moments later, Mendelson returned, rendering the okay hand signal. Harrison informed the Navy diver inside the Dry Deck Shelter that the RHIB was operational and they were proceeding on their mission, then disconnected the tether line from the shelter and headed toward the surface with Mendelson and Brown.

Harrison and the other two SEALs hauled themselves and the tether line into the RHIB, joining Maydwell. The outboard engine was running, but barely audible as expected. Maydwell shifted the outboard into gear, and as their position updated on his handheld GPS display, he pointed the RHIB toward their insertion point on the Egyptian coast.

41

ARISH, EGYPT

As they approached the coast, Maydwell eased back on the throttle, reducing the engine noise to a low purr, inaudible above the waves breaking upon the shore. The SEALs had shed their scuba gear, and their diver face masks had been replaced with night-vision goggles and headsets. Under the faint moonlight filtering down between scattered clouds, Maydwell spotted their destination and angled the RHIB toward a rock outcropping, shifting the engine to neutral.

The RHIB coasted to a halt as it reached the rocks. Mendelson slid into the water, tether in hand. After securing the RHIB, he returned to retrieve his Heckler & Koch MP7 submachine gun, and Harrison led the team ashore onto the rock-strewn beach.

*   *   *

An hour later, they approached the specified latitude and longitude coordinates on the outskirts of Arish, spotting a windowless, single-story building. As they closed on their destination, Harrison noted a three-foot-diameter pipe exiting the building, turning down into the sand a few feet later. They stopped beside the building; there was no indication anyone was inside—the only audible activity was the steady hum of machinery. Moving along the perimeter, Harrison identified an entrance on the south side, along with another three-foot-diameter pipe exiting the building.

Harrison stood beside the door while their breacher—a demolitions expert—Petty Officer Maydwell, examined the door. Inside his backpack was the material required to gain entrance: C-4 explosives, initiators, and detonators, but he examined the lock first. It was nothing fancy, just a normal door lock. Maydwell pulled a set of universal keys from his backpack, and on the third try, the door unlocked.

The other three SEALs raised their MP7s to the firing position, and Maydwell shoved the door open. Harrison surged inside, stepping to the left as Mendelson followed, moving to the right to make room for Brown, who entered next, stopping in the middle of the three SEALs.

Harrison scanned the room. The two sections of pipe passed through opposite walls and were connected to machinery inside, which occupied almost the entire interior of the building. The wall to the left was lined with control consoles, with indicators of various colors glowing in the darkness. Maydwell entered and the four SEALs spread out, searching the facility for personnel. After scouring the building and finding no one, the four men gathered in front of the control panels.

Harrison directed his men, “Figure out what this equipment does and why Russian Spetsnaz would be sent here.”

The three other SEALs fanned out again as Harrison studied the panels against the wall. The nomenclature on the controls was Arabic, which Harrison couldn’t translate, but there were numerous pressure gauges on each panel, which indicated the machinery were pumps. Given the pipeline passing through the building, Harrison concluded the facility was a pumping station for either oil or natural gas. Harrison retrieved a camera from his backpack and took photographs of each panel and the machinery behind him. As he returned the camera to his backpack, he heard Mendelson’s voice in his headset.

“I found something. North side of the building.”

Harrison joined Mendelson and the two other SEALs, who were standing near the pipe entering the building, where it connected to the first piece of equipment. Mendelson pointed to a crevice in the machinery, where something had been placed. Harrison and the other SEALs lifted their night-vision goggles to get a better look as Mendelson activated a flashlight, examining a small one-foot-by-one-foot object. It was an explosive charge, with enough C-4 to blow the building sky-high. The detonator, however, was of an unusual design, one Harrison hadn’t seen before: no wires to cut, just an electronic module pressed into the C-4.

Maydwell moved forward and examined it, then stepped back.

“Russian design,” he said. “Their newest and most sophisticated. There’s no way to remove or disarm it.” As Harrison gave him an inquisitive look—there was always a way to disarm a detonator—Maydwell expounded. “It has built-in motion sensors, so if you try to remove it, it goes off. It’s detonated via a satellite signal, and if you jam it for too long, it goes off. This charge is coming off only one way—in a million pieces, along with the rest of this building.”

Harrison took photographs of the explosive charge and its detonator, and as he returned his camera to his backpack, he reflected on the intel provided for this mission: Russian Spetsnaz had been dispatched to various points throughout Egypt. If their missions had been the same as this one, the entire Egyptian oil and natural gas pipeline infrastructure had been wired with explosives.

42

BRUSSELS, BELGIUM

Seven hours after departing Joint Base Andrews, with the early morning sun hidden behind overcast skies, Air Force One landed at Zaventem Airport, a few miles northeast of Brussels. The president was met on the tarmac by the U.S. ambassadors to Belgium and NATO, along with senior NATO staff and Belgian government representatives. After the requisite greetings, the president slipped into the back of the presidential car, nicknamed Cadillac One. A hybrid Cadillac built upon a truck frame and extensively modified with armored plating and bulletproof windows, Cadillac One had been transported to Brussels during the night with the rest of the president’s motorcade and backup vehicles.

Christine, Dawn, and McVeigh were escorted to their sedan, several cars behind the president’s, and the motorcade headed into Brussels. After penetrating the northeast perimeter of the city and turning down Boulevard Leopold III, the presidential motorcade arrived at a mammoth new complex, in front of which stood a twenty-three-foot-tall oxidized steel star, symbol of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization.

The entourage was led to a lobby outside the Alliance’s main conference room, where the leaders of NATO’s other twenty-seven countries were already gathered. Another round of introductions ensued, accompanied with a maddening amount of protocol dictating who greeted whom first and what order followed.

The clock struck the appointed hour and the conference room doors opened. The twenty-eight NATO leaders took their seats at a large round table with twenty-nine chairs: one for the leader of each NATO country, with the final chair for the secretary-general. The president inserted a wireless earpiece into his ear, listening to the English translator as the secretary-general, Johan Van der Bie, a well-respected diplomat from the Netherlands, gave a short introductory speech. An update on Russia’s dual invasions followed, with the information displayed on a dozen video screens mounted along the circumference of the conference room.

It was quiet in Lithuania, with Russia’s 2nd Guards Motor Rifle Division and six additional motor rifle brigades, totaling forty thousand combat troops, digging in along the corridor they had occupied. The Russians seemed content with the sliver of Lithuania, while their goal in Ukraine was more ambitious. Ukraine’s Army of twenty-two ground combat units were engaged to the east by twenty-four Russian brigades, and early last night, Russia had launched two offensives on the Ukrainian Army’s flanks. Ten Russian brigades had broken through from the south, while twelve more brigades—six Belarusian mechanized infantry and six Russian Spetsnaz units—had penetrated Ukraine’s northern flank. Within the hour, Russian and Belarusian units would complete the encirclement of the Ukrainian Army.

Additionally, four Russian airborne divisions and another five independent brigades—forty-five thousand paratroopers—had been dropped along the Dnieper River. Russia had gained control of every bridge across the river, separating the eastern one-third of the country from the rest. The Ukrainian Army was cut off with no means of resupply and would surrender before NATO rapid response forces could assist.

Not that NATO could make a difference, with only forty thousand rapid responders opposed by 265,000 Russian and Belarusian troops. Russia would achieve a quick and decisive victory, occupying the eastern one-third of Ukraine. Whether Russia would stop at the Dnieper River or continue its assault into the rest of Ukraine was unclear.

Following the secretary-general’s update, there was a somber silence in the conference room until he recognized Lithuania’s president, ceding the floor to her. Dalia Grybauskaitė, the country’s first female president, shook off the bad news concerning Ukraine and began her prepared speech. Dalia’s plea for NATO intervention was passionate, ending with a reminder of NATO’s obligation under Article 5 of the North Atlantic Treaty. At the conclusion of her speech, she announced Lithuania had submitted a resolution authorizing the use of Alliance military force to expel Russia from Lithuania.

Following Dalia’s speech, the American president requested to speak. The secretary-general turned the floor over to the president, who pulled the microphone in front of him closer.

“Thank you, Mr. Secretary-General. Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll keep my remarks short. Russia’s invasion of Lithuania and Ukraine is only the beginning. Russia is using the blueprint created from their annexation of Crimea, expanding it to encompass eastern Ukraine. Annex part of a country, sow civil unrest within the adjacent provinces, then invade those countries to protect ethnic Russians. If NATO doesn’t take a stand, the three Baltic States will be next, and Poland will follow. Russia won’t stop until it has re-created a buffer zone of puppet states on its western border. War with Russia is inevitable. We can act now, or when the situation is more dire.”

The president glanced around the conference table before continuing. “The United States proposes a resolution authorizing military intervention to remove Russian forces from Ukraine.”

After the president finished his speech, French President François Loubet was the first to be recognized by the secretary-general. “Assisting Ukraine is out of the question,” Loubet said. “Ukraine is not a NATO member, and it is not our responsibility to come to its aid.”

“Then whose responsibility is it?” the American president asked. “As Russia occupies Ukraine, are we supposed to turn a blind eye because Ukraine isn’t a member of our club?”

“It’s the responsibility of the international community, not NATO’s. Each country must evaluate the situation and decide. But that should be done outside the framework of NATO.”

“Is not NATO a subset of the international community?”

“Yes, but intervening on Ukraine’s behalf isn’t our responsibility.”

The president said, “You stated it was the responsibility of the international community to decide, and also agreed NATO is a member of that community. I think we are in agreement. As a member of the international community, NATO can intercede on Ukraine’s behalf. The decision to be made is—will we?”

Loubet replied, “If we engage Russia militarily, the outcome is unclear. We aren’t talking about Kosovo or Iraq. We’re talking about Russia, with well-trained troops and sophisticated air defense systems in quantities that will neutralize NATO air superiority. Assaulting fortified Russian positions in Lithuania and Ukraine without air superiority will result in drastic casualties, if not outright defeat. We should avoid war and implement economic sanctions instead, crippling Russia until it vacates the occupied territories.”

Lithuania’s president interjected, “We imposed sanctions after Russia annexed Crimea. What has that achieved? Nothing. Which is exactly what new sanctions will accomplish.”

Dalia’s features hardened. “We wouldn’t have joined NATO, infuriating Moscow and placing a target on our back, were it not for NATO’s assurance that you would come to our assistance if required.”

The German chancellor, Emma Schmidt, joined the conversation. Ignoring Dalia’s remarks, she directed her question to the other country leaders. “Is NATO willing to go to war over an eighty-kilometer-wide strip of land?”

If the president of Lithuania was upset, the president of Latvia was apoplectic. “You are content to look the other way because you aren’t next on the menu. Once Russia’s war in Ukraine is over and they take note of NATO’s weakness—our unwillingness to intervene in a blatant invasion of a NATO country—they’ll be emboldened and take the rest of the Baltic States. Poland will be next, completing their effort to eliminate NATO from their flank and reestablish buffer states between Russia and Western Europe.”

Chancellor Schmidt responded, “Ceding a few square kilometers is vastly different than the occupation of an entire country. The borders of my country have been redrawn dozens of times, often under threat of occupation. How is the situation in Lithuania different?”

Lithuania’s president replied, “Your borders have been redrawn primarily because of your own failed aggression.”

The German chancellor’s face turned red, and as the council debate threatened to degenerate, the American president interjected, “Let’s get back to the issues. Russia has invaded Lithuania and Ukraine. The question we must answer is—Are we going to look the other way or assist?”

The Italian prime minister joined the discussion. “Russian troop deployment in Lithuania already equals NATO’s rapid response force. We’ll have to mobilize additional forces for this effort, both across the continent and from North America. This will take time, during which Russia will consolidate its position in Ukraine and redeploy additional troops to Lithuania. Considering the number of Russian troops we’ll be facing and Russia’s formidable air defense and land attack missile systems, the cost will be extremely high. We must ask ourselves, is war with Russia, which could escalate into the use of tactical nuclear weapons, worth a few square kilometers of sparsely populated countryside?”

The British prime minister interjected, “We are discussing a policy of appeasement, which will fail just as it did before World War Two. Have we not learned from our mistakes? In the words of George Santayana, ‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’” He pulled a sheet of paper from his suit pocket, which he unfolded on the table. “Let me read to you the words of Winston Churchill:

When the situation was manageable it was neglected, and now that it is thoroughly out of hand we apply too late the remedies which then might have effected a cure.… Unwillingness to act when action would be simple and effective, lack of clear thinking, confusion of counsel until the emergency comes, until self-preservation strikes its jarring gong—these are the features which constitute the endless repetition of history.”

Looking up, the prime minister said, “I agree with the American president. War with Russia is inevitable. We can either act now, when we can control the time and location of the conflict, or wait and let Russia dictate those terms.”

Upon the conclusion of the prime minister’s comments, the discussions around the conference room table degraded into individual debates. After a few moments, an aide approached the secretary-general, whispering in his ear. When the aide finished speaking, Johan Van der Bie pounded his gavel on the strike plate.

The conversations faded and Van der Bie announced, “President Kalinin wishes to address our Alliance. If no one objects, I’ll put him on-screen.”

After no objections were voiced, the secretary-general nodded to his aide.

The displays lining the circumference of the conference room energized and President Kalinin appeared, sitting behind his desk with the Russian Federation flag displayed behind him. The president of the United States listened to the English translation from his earpiece as Kalinin began.

“Thank you for the opportunity to address your Alliance. I understand your apprehension over recent actions by my government, and I want to assuage your concerns. I will address Lithuania first, then Ukraine.

“Our desire in Lithuania is modest: a small strip of land only eighty kilometers wide, which will be incorporated into Kaliningrad Oblast. I regret using force to obtain this land, but Russia will no longer tolerate the constraints of foreign governments, preventing the transit of Russian citizens and military units between two regions of my country. Our annexation of this land is non-negotiable. However, I realize we cannot take this land without suitable compensation. We will begin formal discussions with Lithuania and craft a proposal acceptable to both countries.

“Ukraine might appear to be a more serious issue, but I assure you it is not. Once the safety of ethnic Russians can be ensured by local governments, all Russian troops will be withdrawn. The only contentious issue, perhaps, is that while the overbearing hand of the Ukrainian government is removed from eastern Ukraine, each oblast will be given the opportunity to choose its future. Referendums will be held, allowing each oblast to choose to remain part of Ukraine, become independent, or join Russia. My country will abide by the results, and you have my assurance that all Russian troops will then be withdrawn.

“I want to express, in the clearest terms, that Russia does not desire war with NATO. However, if you are entertaining the thought of intervening, I offer you this to consider. If attacked, Russia will terminate the delivery of all oil and natural gas to NATO members. Additionally, over the last week, Russian Spetsnaz units have attached explosives to every major oil and natural gas pipeline supplying Western Europe and the United States. Finally, as I speak, the Russian Northern and Pacific Fleets are taking station at the entrance to the Persian Gulf. If any NATO country attacks Russia or imposes economic sanctions, I will give the order to destroy these critical pipelines and sink all oil and natural gas tankers supplying Western Europe or the United States. Eighty percent of Western Europe’s natural resources will be cut off, and your economies will crumble.

“These are only precautionary measures, however. I wish no harm to your countries. I simply request you not interfere with the security actions I have taken in Lithuania and Ukraine.” The Russian president finished with, “Thank you for your time.”

Silence gripped the room as Kalinin’s image faded from the displays. After a long, tense moment, the meeting descended into chaos as country leaders discussed Kalinin’s remarks, with some of the conversations becoming heated.

The secretary-general gaveled the meeting to order, pounding the wooden strike plate repeatedly until silence returned. “I can see we won’t be ready to vote today,” he said. “Considering the new information President Kalinin provided, additional evaluation will be required. A time frame for consensus will be established for the proposals authorizing military force to liberate Lithuania and Ukraine from Russian forces. I am invoking the silence procedure. Any country that objects to either proposal must do so in writing by the stipulated date.”

With another thud of his gavel, Secretary-General Van der Bie adjourned the meeting.

As the president of the United States pushed back from the table, there were two things he was convinced of. The first was that under the given circumstances, NATO would not come to the assistance of Lithuania or Ukraine. The second was that the United States needed to modify the given circumstances, removing Russia’s energy choke hold on the West.

Striding into the lobby, he was joined by McVeigh, Dawn, and Christine. He turned to his subordinates. “Determine exactly what Russia has done, and devise a plan to destroy Kalinin’s choke hold.”

43

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Less than a day after departing Brussels, Christine was seated at the Situation Room conference table between Hardison and Colonel DuBose, with McVeigh and Dawn opposite them. The president, sitting at the head of the table, listened as McVeigh delivered an update.

“Russia’s Northern and Pacific Fleets are stationed in the Gulf of Oman, where they can block the entrance to the Persian Gulf if desired. However, two Russian fleets aren’t as formidable as it sounds, at least when it comes to surface combatants. Russia has only nineteen in the gulf: one aircraft carrier, three cruisers, thirteen destroyers, and two corvettes. Not exactly quake-in-your-boots forces, considering we should be able to muster four carrier strike groups comprising four aircraft carriers and forty cruisers and destroyers in opposition. We have two problems, however.

“The first is that Russia has apparently struck a deal with the Iranians, allowing the deployment of Russian military units inside their country. Over a hundred Russian missile batteries are being positioned along the north shore of the Gulf of Oman, which will eliminate our surface combatant advantage and threaten our aircraft once launched. Additionally, several Russian tactical fighter squadrons, totaling over four hundred aircraft, have been deployed to Iranian air bases. With the additional missile batteries and fighter aircraft, they’ve leveled the playing field against four carrier strike groups.

“An even bigger problem is the subsurface picture. After our war with China, we have only twenty-four operational fast attack submarines, with twenty in the Pacific. Russia, on the other hand, has combined the submarines from its four fleets and has forty-eight attack and guided missile submarines in the Gulf of Oman. We’re significantly outnumbered, which places our carriers at risk when they engage the Russian surface combatants.

“At the end of the day, to ensure free passage of oil and natural gas tankers in the Persian Gulf area, we’ll have to eliminate all Russian surface combatants and submarines in the gulf, along with the missile batteries and air squadrons in Iran. We’re working on the details and when we’re further along, we’ll provide a formal operations brief.”

“Thanks, Bob,” the president said. “Anything else?”

McVeigh answered, “Dawn has some worrisome news.”

Turning to SecState Cabral, the president asked, “What have you got?”

Dawn answered, “It’s obvious that Russia made arrangements with Belarus and Iran, and we wondered who else might be involved. We reviewed the itineraries of high-level Russian officials and identified meetings between Russia’s minister of defense and the presidents of Belarus and Iran. Additionally, the defense minister met with the Indian prime minister and the president of China in the following two days.”

The president’s eyes narrowed as he turned back to McVeigh.

“This is bad news,” McVeigh said. “India and China have the most powerful navies in the Pacific besides ours and Russia’s. India has two carrier strike groups, with a new carrier undergoing sea trials, and although we wiped out China’s submarines, their surface Navy is still intact. If Russia builds a coalition of the three largest navies besides our own, we won’t be able to engage at our current strength. It’ll be two years before all five aircraft carriers in the shipyards return to service, along with the cruisers and destroyers under repair.”

The president asked, “What if only one country joins Russia?”

“If either country joins Russia, the outcome would tip in Russia’s favor.”

“We know China’s no friend,” the president said. “Where do we stand with India?”

Dawn answered, “India plays on both sides of the fence. Historically, they’ve had strong ties with Russia, although they’ve been warming up to the United States lately, increasing their procurements of our military hardware. For example, India bought ten Kilo class submarines and is leasing an Akula II nuclear attack submarine from Russia, but procures anti-submarine hardware—the P-8A aircraft and the torpedoes they drop—from us. They seem unwilling to commit to a relationship with the West or with Russia, keeping their options open.”

The president said, “Arrange meetings with India and China. If possible, find out what deal Russia offered them and if there’s anything we can do to influence their decision. Don’t bother with Iran. They’ve already committed, and we can’t trust a damn thing they say anyway.”

Dawn replied, “Meeting with the Indians shouldn’t be a problem. However, China is still giving us the silent treatment on all diplomatic overtures. They haven’t responded to a single request to meet at any level since the war ended.”

“Keep trying,” the president said, then turned to Christine and Hardison, who had been working on Kalinin’s natural resource threat. “How bad is this oil and natural gas pipeline issue?”

Christine answered, “It doesn’t look good, sir. We’ve verified Kalinin’s claim. Michigan’s SEALs discovered explosives attached to a natural gas pipeline pumping station, which if detonated, would take out the Arish-Aqaba section of the Arab Gas Pipeline. Additionally, Russia provided several coordinates so we could verify Kalinin’s claim. Our Special Forces have checked, and in each case, explosives are wired to oil and natural gas pipelines or pumping stations.”

“Can we remove or disarm the explosives?”

“No, Mr. President. The detonator attached to each explosive charge has motion sensors to detect if it’s being removed. Each detonator is activated remotely via satellite signal, and it cannot be jammed. If the detonator loses the satellite signal for too long, it’ll activate.”

“How long are we talking about?” the president asked.

“Probably about a minute.”

“What’s the impact if Russia destroys these pipelines?”

Kevin Hardison, who had pulled the requisite data, replied, “Every major oil and natural gas pipeline in the Middle East and Western Europe has been wired with explosives. Russia has also wired our Trans-Alaska Pipeline System, mostly on principle rather than for impact, since taking out the Alaskan oil pipeline would cut off only fifteen percent of our oil supply. It’d put a dent in our flow of natural resources, but it wouldn’t be catastrophic.

“Western Europe, on the other hand, is in a different situation. Overall, Europe gets thirty-three percent of its oil and almost forty percent of its natural gas from Russia, and many countries are critically dependent. Four countries receive one hundred percent of their natural gas from Russia: Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia, and Finland; Bulgaria and Hungary receive eighty to ninety percent; and Austria, Poland, Turkey, the Czech Republic, and Greece are sixty percent dependent. Germany receives forty percent, and Italy—thirty percent. And that’s just what Russia can turn off.

“If Russia destroys the oil and natural gas pipelines and blockades the Persian Gulf, Western Europe will receive almost no oil or natural gas. Kalinin didn’t deliver an empty threat; the Western European economies would crumble, and do so much faster than we could harm Russia with economic sanctions.”

The president absorbed the somber information, then asked, “What if we prevent a Persian Gulf blockade, but Kalinin destroys the pipelines?”

Hardison answered, “We can’t withstand either one.”

“Got it,” the president said. “McVeigh is working the Persian Gulf issue. What are our options regarding the pipelines?”

“We have none at the moment,” Hardison answered. “There’s no way to override these detonators.”

“Every explosive device has a built-in safety,” the president replied. “There must be a way to deactivate these detonators. Any ideas?” he asked, canvassing the four men and women at the table.

“Ask the designer,” Christine replied.

“What?” Hardison said. “Just knock on his door and ask him for the master override code?”

“Something like that.” Christine smiled.

“That…,” the president said, “isn’t a bad idea.” To McVeigh he said, “Find out who designed these detonators, and arrange a—conversation.”

44

MOSCOW

In the Operations Center three levels beneath the Moscow Senate, five rows of military personnel, seated at their consoles, snapped to attention as Russia’s president entered. Minister of Defense Chernov and Foreign Minister Lavrov followed Kalinin into a conference room in the back, where General Andropov and his aides rose to their feet and waited as Kalinin took his seat at the head of the table. After everyone settled into their chairs, one of Andropov’s aides manipulated a remote control, and the opaque panoramic window on the wall opposite President Kalinin turned transparent, enabling a clear view of the Operations Center displays.

General Andropov began the brief. “All military objectives have been achieved, Mr. President. The corridor connecting Kaliningrad Oblast to Belarus has been secured, and all units are preparing defensive positions. In Ukraine, the operation could not have been more successful. Our airborne units hold all bridges across the Dnieper River, cutting off eastern Ukraine from NATO reinforcements. All Ukrainian ground combat units are encircled, and we have halted offensive operations for the time being, negotiating a surrender of all Ukrainian units.

“Regarding the Navy’s objective, the Northern and Pacific Fleets, along with all attack submarines from the Baltic and Black Sea Fleets, have taken station in the Gulf of Oman, ready to implement a blockade of the Persian Gulf if directed. As far as NATO’s response goes, an American carrier strike group has moved into the Indian Ocean, shadowing the arrival of our Pacific Fleet, and a second strike group is being sent to the gulf, pulled from China’s coast. The remaining two operational American carriers have departed the West Coast of the United States. Aside from America’s carrier strike groups, NATO appears paralyzed. Although all NATO military units in Europe and North America are mobilizing, none have been deployed.”

“Thank you, General,” Kalinin said. Turning to Foreign Minister Lavrov, he asked, “Where do we stand politically?”

“As expected, Lithuania submitted a proposal authorizing the use of NATO military force to expel Russian troops from Lithuania. Additionally, the United States submitted a proposal to assist Ukraine. A vote on both proposals was postponed after your videoconference with NATO, as the member countries digest the economic disaster they’ll endure if they respond either militarily or with sanctions.”

“The United States has four carrier strike groups under way,” Kalinin said. “What if they challenge our Persian Gulf blockade? Where do we stand with India and China?”

“Neither country has formally responded,” Lavrov replied. “It appears both countries are keeping their options open, and won’t accept or decline unless the situation forces them to.”

“I understand,” Kalinin said. He asked Defense Minister Chernov, “How do things look regarding the oil and natural gas pipelines?”

“The United States checked the locations we provided them, so we are certain they understand we aren’t bluffing. We have been monitoring via satellite, and there has been no further activity at those or any of the other locations we’ve attached explosives.”

Chernov finished with, “Everything is proceeding according to plan.”

45

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Two days after their last meeting in the Situation Room, the president was joined again by Christine, Hardison, and Colonel DuBose, along with McVeigh and Dawn. This time they were accompanied by CIA Director Jessica Cherry, whose services had been called upon to locate the engineer who had designed the Russian detonators. During the previous forty-eight hours, the news from Europe and the Western Pacific had been universally bad, and McVeigh was bringing the president up to speed.

The Ukrainian units in eastern Ukraine, which essentially amounted to Ukraine’s entire ground forces, had surrendered. Regarding Russia’s potential blockade, the Pentagon was developing an engagement plan for the Russian Navy in the Gulf of Oman, but the two-to-one submarine disadvantage was proving to be a difficult nut to crack. At the conclusion of McVeigh’s brief, the president turned to Dawn, who delivered her update.

“On the diplomatic front, we’ve engaged India and China, requesting a meeting with each country’s foreign minister. India has agreed, and I have a meeting in New Delhi tomorrow, but China continues to give us the silent treatment. Russia has also been busy in the diplomatic arena, inviting Lithuanian representatives to Moscow to negotiate new territorial boundaries. However, President Grybauskaitė is giving Kalinin the Heisman for the time being.”

The president smiled at Dawn’s use of the football metaphor—comparing Grybauskaitė’s response to the Heisman football trophy pose—a stiff arm to the face.

Dawn continued, “Russia also invited Ukraine to Moscow to discuss their security operation. Moscow is doing its best to portray their dual invasions as just another day at the office; no big deal. They’re incredibly brash—they’ve even proposed a continental security summit with all NATO countries, no doubt to solidify their gains in Lithuania and Ukraine, and permanently put to bed the prospect of military or economic responses.”

The president replied, “This could work in our favor. Keep the lines of communication with Moscow open. Give the indication that we’re open to a diplomatic solution, that we’ve concluded our hands are tied. Also, delay the NATO vote on the Lithuania and Ukraine resolutions. We need time to eliminate Russia’s stranglehold on Europe’s natural resources. Speaking of that, where do we stand with the pipeline sabotage?”

CIA Director Jessica Cherry answered, “We’ve identified the detonator designer. He’s Anton Fedorov, one of Russia’s top explosive engineers, working at a facility in Velikiy Novgorod, west of Moscow. He lives in a villa on the outskirts of town, where he’s picked up each morning and driven to the facility, then returned home each night. We’ve collected limited intel thus far, but we were able to review the last thirty days of satellite images. He appears to be a homebody; he hasn’t ventured outside his villa in the last month. Not that it matters, because that’s where we’re going to visit him.

“Regarding that visit, we’re preparing a joint CIA-military operation, utilizing a Delta Force unit specializing in hostage rescue. The operation isn’t particularly challenging, aside from transporting the Delta Force unit inside Russia. Fortunately, Velikiy Novgorod isn’t far from the Latvian border, which will enable a quick insertion and extraction. We’ve also arranged a suitable location for Fedorov’s interrogation. With your permission, Mr. President, we’ll proceed with the operation.”

“You may proceed.”

The meeting was about to wrap up when an aide to SecState Cabral entered the Situation Room, delivering her a handwritten message. After reading it, she looked up sharply.

“Mr. President. I have an update on our outreach to China. They’ve agreed to a meeting, but there are two unusual terms. The first is that the meeting will be with the president of China and not his foreign minister.”

There was a favorable response from everyone around the Situation Room table. There was no smile from Dawn, however, which was explained when she conveyed China’s additional condition. “The second stipulation is that the meeting will occur only if Christine O’Connor is the American representative.”

There was silence in the room as all eyes turned to Christine, whose face paled at the news.

“Absolutely not,” Hardison said. “The last time Christine was in China, she held a gun to President Xiang’s head, forcing him to guarantee her safe passage from China. That was a onetime deal, not a permanent travel visa.”

“China is critical,” McVeigh replied. “They have the second-largest surface navy. If they join forces with Russia, it’s over for us. We can’t defeat both at our current strength.”

“What if we pull India to our side?” Dawn asked. “Could that offset China?”

“I’ll go,” Christine said.

The discussions continued in the Situation Room, with Christine’s response unheard.

“I’ll go.”

Conversation ceased as all eyes shifted to Christine again.

The president replied, “I’m not sure that’s a wise decision. As Hardison pointed out, President Xiang promised you one safe trip out of the country, not two.”

“We need to engage China. If this is the only way they’ll meet with us, I’m willing to go.”

Dawn turned to her. “It’s obvious why they requested you. It’s too risky.”

“It’s my decision,” Christine replied. Turning to the president to request his approval, she said, “It should be my decision.”

The president leaned back in his chair, contemplating Christine’s assertion. After what happened in China, Christine had been skittish when things deteriorated in Moscow. Now, she was willing to walk into the lion’s den. A private discussion with her would be necessary, but for now, he needed to address her assertion. He replied, “You’re correct. It’s your decision.”

He turned to Hardison. “Replace Christine’s Diplomatic Security Service protection with Secret Service for this trip. We’ll lose control once Christine enters the Great Hall of the People, but I at least want my best people with her.”

To Dawn, the president said, “Set up the meeting with President Xiang.”

46

NEW DELHI, INDIA

Secretary of State Dawn Cabral’s sedan pulled to a halt in front of Rashtrapati Bhavan, India’s presidential mansion and the largest residence for a head of state in the world. Stepping from the cool sedan into the blistering Indian heat, already surpassing one hundred degrees Fahrenheit, she paused to examine the grandeur of the four-story palace, constructed at the beginning of the twentieth century for the British viceroy of India. From a distance, the 180-foot-tall copper dome in the center of the palace, inspired by the Pantheon of Rome, seemed to float above the haze of the New Delhi summer heat.

Dawn was greeted by an Indian external affairs aide, who escorted her up the broad, alabaster steps into Durbar Hall. In the center of the hall, surrounded by columns of yellow marble supporting the dome’s perimeter, India’s minister of external affairs, Rahul Gupta, was conversing with several men and women, wisely awaiting Dawn’s arrival within the cool confines of the residential palace. Gupta moved across the marble floor to greet his American counterpart, then escorted her to a conference room in the northeast corner of the hall.

The doors to the conference room closed, sealing Dawn and Gupta inside for the private meeting she’d requested. No interpreters would be required; Gupta was fluent in English.

“Please be seated,” Gupta said, motioning to a chair at the corner of the twenty-person conference room table. Dawn placed a thin leather satchel on the table as she took her seat, and Gupta slid into a chair at the head of the table. Gupta waited for Dawn to begin.

“Thank you for your time, Minister. I suppose you’ve deduced the reason for this meeting?”

“We have an idea or two,” Gupta replied, failing to elaborate.

“We know your president met with Russia’s defense minister and that Russia asked you to join forces with them in the Indian Ocean.” The last part was a lie—she didn’t know what had been discussed, but she was confident her assertion was correct. She continued, “I offer you a counterproposal. Join forces with the United States and help us defeat the Russian Navy.”

Gupta remained silent.

“We can provide attractive incentives: price discounts on American military hardware, and we’ll relax the restrictions on our most sensitive equipment. You’ll benefit greatly from our alliance; your military will become more formidable.”

“Only if we choose the winning side, and there is something left of our Navy.”

Dawn tucked away Gupta’s response; he admitted Russia had made a similar proposal. Dawn pulled a document from her briefcase and slid it across the table. “These are the benefits you will receive in return for your assistance.”

Gupta flipped through the document, skimming its contents. He looked up and said, “We will consider your proposal.”

“There’s a right and wrong side of this conflict,” Dawn added. “Russia invaded two sovereign countries and is threatening to impede international maritime traffic.”

“History is littered with the bodies of the righteous.”

“Join us,” Dawn replied, “and we will defeat the Russian Navy.”

“I will bring your request to President Madan. Of course, he’ll need to discuss this with his National Security Council.”

“Do you have a rough time frame?”

“I cannot say. That will be up to President Madan.”

“I understand,” Dawn said. “Thank you for your consideration.”

*   *   *

Not long after the American secretary of state departed, Indian Minister of Defense Ankur Kumar joined Gupta in the conference room. “What did she want?” he asked.

After Gupta explained, Kumar asked, “What did you tell her?”

“I was noncommittal, as directed by President Madan.”

“If America engages the Russian Navy, our hand will be forced. A side must be chosen.”

“Not necessarily,” Gupta replied. “We can remain neutral.”

“We can remain neutral and alienate both Russia and the United States, not to mention leaving their incentives on the table. Or we can choose a side and gain a strong ally.”

“We must choose wisely,” Gupta said.

Kumar nodded his agreement.

47

BEIJING, CHINA

It was almost dark by the time the C-32 descended toward Beijing Nanyuan Airport. Like Secretary Cabral, Christine carried a thin leather briefcase containing the details of America’s proposal. As the C-32 banked to the left, providing a view of Beijing stretching into the distance, she wondered how Dawn had fared in India. Dawn’s task was somewhat easier, though, as there was no threat to her life.

Before Christine departed Washington, D.C., the president had pulled her into the Oval Office for a private conversation, questioning her reasoning for agreeing to China’s request. It had taken her a moment to open up, but she had explained how she’d been running away from what she’d done in Beijing and Ice Station Nautilus. Sooner or later, she would have to face her demons, and now was as good a time as any. Her answer seemed to satisfy the president, and she would soon face President Xiang.

The C-32 touched down and after coasting to a halt, Christine and the four Secret Service agents detailed to her exited the aircraft. On the tarmac, members of the Secret Service advance party were waiting, along with Katrina Wetzel, America’s ambassador to China.

As Christine descended the staircase, she spotted Ambassador Wetzel standing near a black sedan. Two additional black sedans served as bookends to the three-car motorcade that would take her to the Great Hall of the People. There, her security would become seriously diminished; her Secret Service escort would have to leave their weapons behind at the security checkpoint before entering the Politburo section of the Great Hall.

Ambassador Wetzel greeted Christine as she stepped onto the tarmac. “Welcome to China, Miss O’Connor.” Before Christine could reply, Wetzel added, “There’s been a change of plans. You’re not going to the Great Hall of the People.” She nodded toward a helicopter not far away, in front of which stood three men in black suits, who Christine figured were Cadre Department bodyguards—the Chinese equivalent of the Secret Service.

“Where is the meeting?”

“They won’t say.”

Ambassador Wetzel led Christine and the four Secret Service agents toward the helicopter. When they reached the Cadre Department bodyguards, one stepped forward.

“Only Miss O’Connor,” he said.

“I’m supposed to accompany her,” Wetzel said, “and serve as her interpreter.”

“That won’t be necessary,” the bodyguard replied. “President Xiang’s English will be sufficient.”

Wetzel glanced at Christine, who nodded. Xiang’s accent had been thick during their previous meetings, but his English was understandable.

Christine was wanded with a handheld metal detector and her leather briefcase searched. Satisfied that she carried no weapons, the lead bodyguard gestured toward the helicopter. Christine slid into the back of the four-passenger aircraft, where she was joined by the three Cadre Department bodyguards.

After a command from the lead bodyguard to the pilot, the helicopter lifted from the tarmac, tilting forward as it accelerated upward. As they headed north, the multicolor illumination from the city below faded to a few sporadic yellow lights, then disappeared altogether, leaving only a full moon in a cloudless sky and the pinpricks of distant stars. Christine tightened her grip on her leather briefcase as the helicopter continued on in the darkness.

A change in the beat of the helicopter’s rotors announced the end of their journey was approaching. The helicopter descended, coming to rest in the countryside with a soft landing. As Christine stepped onto damp grass, the sound of waves crashing ashore greeted her ears. The three bodyguards exited the helicopter with Christine, and the lead man pointed toward a narrow trail, faintly illuminated by the full moon, winding up a steep mountain slope.

After determining the three men had nothing to say, she began the trek up the winding trail. At the end of a six-hundred-foot climb, Christine emerged onto a grassy plateau containing another helicopter and a circular stone building flanked by a curving thicket of magnolia trees. In front of the building, a Cadre Department bodyguard stood on each side of a dark entrance. Upon reaching the building, she climbed a half-dozen cracked stone steps, stopping in front of the two men. Neither man spoke, but one pointed to the opening. After taking a deep breath, she passed between the two men.

Christine entered a temple illuminated by flickering torches, bathing a stone goddess in dancing hues of amber and burnt orange. Sitting upon a throne with a tablet in one hand and a staff in the other, the goddess was accompanied by two dragon guardians coiled at her feet, one on each side. Kneeling on the granite floor in front of the statues was President Xiang, his back to Christine and his hands clasped in front of him.

Xiang made no indication he heard Christine enter, and she hovered near the entrance before spotting a stone bench along one side of the temple. She sat quietly on the cold granite, waiting while Xiang finished his prayer.

After a few minutes, Xiang placed his hands on the floor, and Christine could see he was having difficulty standing. Xiang glanced at her and extended his hand, and Christine moved forward, offering hers in return. Xiang leaned heavily on Christine as the seventy-year-old president pulled himself to his feet, straightening to his full six-foot height, his gaze settling on her. She waited for him to speak first, but he remained silent as the flickering torches cast shifting shadows of stone dragons on the wall behind him.

Xiang finally spoke. “I am surprised you came.”

“Why did you request me?”

Xiang studied her a moment before replying. “I wanted to know how important this was to America. What they were willing to risk. What you were willing to risk.”

Christine refrained from asking the question that had hovered at the forefront of her mind since China’s request. Would she be allowed to leave after the meeting?

Xiang motioned to the stone bench. “Sit with me.”

Christine settled onto the bench again, her back against the cold stone wall, with the president of China beside her, his hands on his knees.

“What is this place?” Christine asked.

“It is the temple of my forefathers,” Xiang replied. “Mazu”—he gestured toward the stone goddess—“is the patron saint of fishermen and sailors. I was raised in the small fishing village at the base of this plateau, and I came here often with my mother when I was a child. I knelt beside her each time, praying for the safe return of my father. My mother, on the other hand, prayed for much more. She prayed for revenge.”

“Revenge for what?”

“My mother was a Japanese comfort woman during the Sino-Japanese War. I assume you are aware of the horror my mother endured?”

Christine nodded, recalling the Japanese Imperial Army had created comfort houses throughout its occupied territories during World War II, forcing young women to satiate the sexual desires of up to thirty men a day.

“Did your mother get her revenge?”

“She did not,” Xiang replied. “But my mother’s blood flows strongly in my veins.” He cast a stern glance at Christine.

Christine suppressed a rising wave of fear. “Is that why you chose to meet me here? To obtain revenge in the temple of your forefathers?”

“Yes and no,” Xiang answered. “This place brings clarity of thought. I come here whenever I face a difficult decision.”

Christine didn’t ask what that decision entailed and Xiang did not elaborate. Instead, he shifted the conversation to the reason for Christine’s trip. “What does the United States want?”

After Christine explained, Xiang said, “The shoe is on the other foot. Russia is doing to you what you did to my country—placing a stranglehold on vital natural resources. For that reason alone, I should side with Russia.”

“We can make amends,” Christine offered. Pulling the document from her briefcase, she said, “These are the concessions we’ll make if you join us in our battle against Russia.”

Xiang waved the document away. “Assisting the United States is out of the question. With the memory of our war so fresh, there would be stiff resistance within the Politburo. However, with the proper incentives, China could remain neutral.”

Xiang laid out his demands.

With the proper price and guaranteed supply of natural resources, along with the elimination of all economic sanctions against his country, China would remain neutral.

Christine replied, “The United States can drop only the sanctions we imposed unilaterally. However, we can intervene on your behalf concerning the international sanctions.”

“That will be sufficient,” Xiang said. “I will convey the desired concessions formally to the American embassy. There will be no need for you to relay my request.”

Xiang’s comment about her services no longer being needed did not go unnoticed.

After a long pause, Xiang said, “Which brings us to the second topic of our meeting tonight.” The flickering torches in the distance seemed to dim.

“You murdered the chairman of the Central Military Commission. You put a bullet into the head of a defenseless man who knelt at your feet.”

“He deserved it,” Christine said. “He was responsible for Prime Minister Bai’s death.”

“It was not your duty to dispense justice.”

Christine evaluated Xiang’s words. He was correct. Besides, that wasn’t the real reason she killed him. “I’m impulsive,” she said, making her best attempt at an apology. “I needed to convince you I was serious. That I would kill you if necessary.”

“You succeeded,” Xiang said.

He said nothing more, and there was a strained silence between them. Christine’s thoughts went to Xiang’s order to imprison her in the bowels of the Great Hall of the People during her last visit to China. Finally, she asked, “What are you going to do with me?”

“Until tonight,” Xiang replied, “I had not decided.”

There was another long silence, his dark eyes probing hers. Finally, he said, “The question I had to answer was—should I be as ruthless as you.”

Xiang pushed himself to his feet. Looking down at her, he said, “The helicopter at the base of the plateau will take you back to the airport.”

48

VELIKIY NOVGOROD, RUSSIA

The faint beat of a helicopter’s four-bladed rotor dissipated in the darkness as an MH-60M Black Hawk skimmed fast and low over the thick forest canopy. Although it could carry nine combat-equipped troops, there were only four men aboard the helicopter piloted by a Night Stalker, a member of the U.S. Army’s 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, a special operations force providing helicopter support. Unseen but not far behind, a second Black Hawk, also transporting four men, followed an identical flight path east.

In the lead helicopter, Army Captain Joe Martin checked his equipment one last time. Like the three men beside him and the four in the other Black Hawk, Martin was a member of the 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta, commonly referred to as Delta Force, an elite U.S. Army unit trained for hostage rescue, counterterrorism, and missions against high-value targets.

With no security forces to deal with, this mission was as straightforward as they came. Break in, kidnap the scientist, and the Delta Force unit and Russian egghead would be on their way in only a few minutes. Although this mission posed little danger, they weren’t taking the operation lightly. The area surrounding the villa on the outskirts of Velikiy Novgorod had been extensively surveyed via satellite, and an eight-man team had been assigned. In case they encountered mechanical difficulties, two Black Hawks were being used, with one helicopter capable of transporting the full contingent of Delta Force personnel and the Russian to safety.

The only item of concern was the cameras mounted atop the security fence surrounding the villa. However, with no one inside the villa besides the Russian scientist, analysts had concluded they were part of a home security system, which at best would be monitored remotely. With the nearest civilization fifteen minutes away, Martin and the rest of his Delta Force team would be long gone before anyone arrived.

The Night Stalker’s voice came across Martin’s headset, announcing they were approaching their destination. Martin and the other three men pulled their night-vision goggles over their eyes and retrieved their weapons. The Night Hawk airframe shuddered as the pilot pulled back on the cyclic and adjusted the collective, and the helicopter dropped toward the trees and into a clearing with startling speed. The wheels bounced once, then the Black Hawk settled into the grass. The second Night Hawk touched down nearby and Martin led his team from the clearing into the woods, stopping to examine the GPS display on his wrist.

They were two hundred yards west of the single-story villa. Martin moved forward, stopping at the edge of the trees. After increasing the magnification of his night-vision goggles, he examined the villa. It was surrounded by a security fence, with an automatic car gate and a manual pedestrian gate. The villa was dark, and at 2 a.m. local, the Russian scientist would likely be asleep in bed. The internal arrangement of the villa was unknown, but it wouldn’t take long for Martin’s team to complete its search.

Martin examined the security cameras, mounted at intervals atop the fence. It was difficult to tell which direction they were pointed, but they appeared fixed, rather than sweeping back and forth. Martin signaled to his two four-man teams; one team would enter the villa and extract the Russian scientist, while the other took positions outside along the villa’s perimeter, should unexpected guests arrive or the occupant attempt to escape.

Martin gave the signal and the two teams sprinted across the open expanse, with Martin’s team heading toward the pedestrian gate while the other team fanned out along the villa’s perimeter. Upon reaching the gate, the operator beside him, Patrick Terrill, pulled out a set of universal keys, and fifteen seconds later, the four men passed through the open gate and moved up the sidewalk. When they reached the front door, Martin spotted a security panel beside it. After a close examination, he determined it was wireless rather than hardwired.

Child’s play.

Terrill pulled a jammer from his backpack and selected the appropriate frequencies. Not only would they jam the signal between the sensors and the control panel, but they would jam the system’s anti-jam feature—a signal sent to the monitoring station if it detected it was being jammed.

Terrill activated the jammer and used a universal key to unlock the door. He pushed the door open and the four operators surged into the dark foyer. There was no one present, and Martin closed the door softly behind him. As the door closed, Martin’s sixth sense kicked in. Something was wrong. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but his gut instincts had never misled him. With a sense of urgency, Martin led his team through the villa, weapons raised.

They entered the living room—unoccupied.

Dining room—unoccupied and immaculate.

Family room—empty and neat.

Kitchen and breakfast nook—several plates and glasses in the sink.

Martin spotted a narrow hallway leading farther back into the villa. He led his team into the corridor, stopping by the first door. He turned the handle slowly and pushed the door open. A study with a built-in computer desk and bookcase. No one present. Martin moved to the next room and opened the door. A queen bed—empty and made up. That left the room at the end of the hallway.

Martin stopped at the door, placing his hand on the doorknob. With this being the last room in the villa, there was no more need for stealth. Martin turned the knob slowly, then burst into the bedroom, followed by the rest of his team.

There was a man asleep in bed. He jolted to a sitting position, and a quick look at his face told Martin he was their target. The man’s mouth dropped open after seeing four men with weapons pointed at him, then he clamped his mouth shut. Two operators moved forward and the Russian’s hands were quickly bound and a black hood shoved over his head. Martin led his team, with the Russian in the middle, to the villa’s exit. Upon reaching the front door, he twisted the doorknob, but it didn’t rotate.

He tried again, but it wouldn’t move. He searched for a security panel nearby, but there was none to be found. Upon examining the doorknob more closely, he understood the reason for his nagging feeling when he’d entered the villa: there was no keyhole or lock mechanism, just a plain, inoperable doorknob. They were locked inside. Peering out the nearest window, Martin examined the cameras atop the security gate. They were pointed inward.

Martin yanked the hood off the scientist. “What the hell is this?” he asked in Russian.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” he replied with a grin.

Martin shoved the hood back onto the Russian’s head and forced him to the ground while the other three operators took up defensive positions in the foyer. There was no indication of anyone else in the villa or nearby, however. After evaluating whether to blow the door or bust out through a window, Martin spoke to the second team outside, explaining the situation. A few seconds later, one of the team members moved swiftly up the sidewalk. Upon reaching the front door, he twisted the knob and the door opened.

Martin led the way from the villa, recalling the other team as they approached the tree line. It wasn’t much longer before Martin’s men and the Russian were aboard their Black Hawk, which lifted off swiftly at a tilt, barely clearing the treetops as it raced west toward the Russian border. Not far behind, the second Black Hawk followed. As Martin removed his gloves, he glanced at the Russian, lying on his side, still bound and wearing the black hood.

Why was he a prisoner in his own home?

49

JASLYK, UZBEKISTAN

Jaslyk Prison, a penal colony in northwest Uzbekistan, is notorious for having the harshest prison conditions in the country. While it is well-known as “the concentration camp of death,” little is known concerning who is incarcerated and how the prisoners are treated; but this hasn’t deterred Western journalists from circulating reports of beatings, sexual assault, and torture. Some experts even claimed that several prisoners who died at Jaslyk were boiled alive. These allegations, of course, were all true.

CIA interrogator John Kaufmann sat at a scarred wooden table inside a small concrete-block room. With only a cot, a table, and one chair, the musty-smelling cell was the most hospitable room in the facility. As he skimmed through a folder, he stopped when he reached the most recent entry, containing new information discovered after their guest, for lack of a better term, had been extracted from his villa west of Moscow. After reviewing Anton Fedorov’s dossier, Kaufmann closed the folder and tapped his index finger on the table as he sorted through the data. He couldn’t connect the dots. Something critical was missing.

Kaufmann took the folder with him as he left the room, along with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. After traversing a dingy, concrete corridor illuminated by bare bulbs hanging from the ceiling, he reached a guarded cell door. A burly, uniformed man unlocked and opened the door as Kaufmann approached, closing it after he entered the cell.

Seated on one of two metal chairs in the otherwise bare room was Anton Fedorov, naked except for boxer shorts, his hands tied behind his back and to his chair. Kaufmann settled into a chair across from Fedorov, who seemed none the worse for wear aside from a few bruises on his face. Kaufmann commenced the interrogation, speaking in Russian.

“I see you’ve met your Uzbekistani caretakers.”

Fedorov replied, “Let’s dispense with the pleasantries. What do you want?”

Kaufmann offered the Russian a cigarette.

Fedorov shook his head. “You intend to kill me slowly, with lung cancer?”

Kaufmann slid the cigarette pack into his shirt pocket, then pulled a photograph of a detonator from the folder, showing it to Fedorov. “Do you recognize this?”

“Of course,” Fedorov replied. “I designed it.”

“We have an issue,” Kaufmann said, “that requires your assistance. Your detonators have been attached to explosives, and we need to remove or disarm them. A simple problem, yes?”

“Not exactly.” Fedorov grinned, a wide, toothy smile.

Under normal circumstances, the Russian would have started bleeding profusely from his mouth and nose right now, courtesy of Kaufmann’s fist. However, Fedorov wasn’t your average terrorist, and Kaufmann had already decided to take a more civil approach.

Kaufmann asked, “Can you elaborate?”

“They are the most sophisticated detonators ever designed,” Fedorov said. “They cannot be removed or jammed. They are truly tamper-proof.”

“It turns out,” Kaufmann said, “that our experts agree. You have done a masterful job.” Kaufmann waited a moment while Fedorov basked in the praise. “However, they also believe these detonators can be disarmed by sending an override code. All you have to do is give me the code, and after we verify it works, you will be released.”

“If I give you the code,” Fedorov said, “I’m a dead man.”

Kaufmann filed away the first important detail from his interrogation—there was indeed a master override code.

“I don’t know about that,” Kaufmann said. “But I do know that if you don’t give me the code, you’re a dead man.” He paused, waiting for his words to sink in. “However, if you give us the code, we’ll release you and guarantee your safety.”

“You cannot protect me,” Fedorov replied with disdain on his face. “The Russian government does not look kindly on traitors. They will find me.”

Kaufmann evaluated Fedorov’s claim; whether it was true or not was immaterial. That he believed he would be killed was what mattered. Kaufmann shifted gears.

“Why were you a prisoner in your own villa?”

Fedorov didn’t answer.

Kaufmann decided to become more aggressive. Perhaps there was something the Russian would be willing to trade his life for. He pulled a second picture from his folder.

“Do you recognize this woman?”

Fedorov examined the photograph for a split second before rage flashed in his eyes. He surged toward Kaufmann, lifting his chair, bound to his hands behind his body, off the floor. Kaufmann lifted his right foot and planted a boot in Fedorov’s chest as the Russian tried to reach him. The muscles in Fedorov’s neck strained and his face turned red as he struggled against his bonds, but he uttered no words.

Unstable, Kaufmann noted. The picture was becoming clearer.

Fedorov’s rage subsided and he dropped his chair onto the ground, then slumped into it. Kaufmann left his boot on Fedorov’s chest but said nothing, waiting for the dam to break. Finally, Fedorov began talking.

“She meant everything to me. My only child. The bastard murdered her.” Fedorov surged forward in his chair as rage overtook him again, but it subsided more quickly this time. When the anger faded, Fedorov’s head sagged onto his chest, and he started weeping.

Definitely unstable, Kaufmann thought, noting the irony. An unstable engineer working with explosives. He dropped his foot to the ground and waited for Fedorov to regain his composure. When the tears ended, the Russian sat up in his chair.

Kaufmann pulled a third photograph from the folder, showing it to Fedorov. “Is this the man responsible?”

Fedorov spit on the picture.

I’ll take that as a yes.

Kaufmann was making progress, but a key piece of the puzzle was missing.

“There’s something I don’t understand. Your daughter is discovered strangled and her body dumped in a back alley, you think her boyfriend is responsible, and you end up a prisoner in a villa on the outskirts of Velikiy Novgorod. What am I missing?”

“I tried to kill him,” Fedorov replied.

Suddenly, the missing puzzle piece was in Kaufmann’s hand. But it still didn’t fit.

“There’s no evidence you tried to kill him. No arrest, not even a news article about the incident. An attempt on this man’s life would have been splattered across every newspaper in the country. But it was swept under the rug?”

Fedorov nodded. “He’s a powerful man, and the government didn’t want the issue to go public. So they gave me a pass and put me under surveillance so I couldn’t get near him again. But that didn’t stop me.”

“How’s that?”

“I hired the Russian mafia. They had him in their sights. One more second…,” Fedorov said, his voice trailing off. “After that attempt, they transferred me to the research facility at Velikiy Novgorod, where I was given a plush villa prison cell with no outside communication. I can’t get near him, nor hire anyone to do the job.”

Kaufmann mulled the new information over. Under normal circumstances, Fedorov would be in a wooden box six feet underground after two assassination attempts, but he happened to be a brilliant engineer developing stuff the Russian government really wanted. So they kept him alive and put him to work at a remote location, transporting him between the research facility and his villa prison each day.

“I know he’s responsible,” Fedorov said. “My daughter and I were close, and she confided in me before her death. Their relationship was deteriorating and she knew too much.”

“I see,” Kaufmann said. Now that the picture was clear, he realized an arrangement might be possible. He returned the photograph to the folder and tossed it onto the floor.

“Let’s assume you’re correct, and if you give me the override code, you’re a dead man. Let’s also assume you’re dead if you don’t give me the code. You’re in a pickle, as we say in baseball.” Fedorov gave him a blank stare. “I offer you a deal,” Kaufmann said. “Give me the code and we’ll take care of this matter for you.”

“You’ll kill him?”

Kaufmann nodded.

“I want him dead before I give you the code.”

Kaufmann hesitated. He knew time was critical. However, it was clear Fedorov wasn’t going to budge on his demand. “Agreed,” he said.

“I want proof,” Fedorov said. “I want to see his dead carcass.”

“We’ll provide a picture of his body.”

The Russian’s eyes bored into Kaufmann for a moment, then he said, “I have a better idea. I want to watch him die. And before he takes his last breath, I want him to see my face and know who is responsible.”

“You cannot leave this facility before you give us the code. You cannot be there to watch him die.”

“A video link will be sufficient,” Fedorov replied, “between two cell phones. After I watch him die, I’ll give you the code.”

“We’ll make the necessary arrangements,” Kaufmann said.

Fedorov leaned back in his chair, a look of satisfaction on his face.

Kaufmann was about to leave when a thought struck him. “Anton,” he said, “can we get our hands on some of your detonators?”

“Of course,” Fedorov replied. “What do you have in mind?”

50

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Seated at her desk in her West Wing corner office, Christine rested her fingers on her computer keyboard as she stared at her display, replaying President Xiang’s words in her mind for the thousandth time.

Should I be as ruthless as you?

His question at the end of their meeting had stung. She wasn’t ruthless by any stretch of the imagination, yet Xiang implied she was more ruthless than him. How was that possible? By ordering the invasion of Taiwan, Xiang was responsible for the death of over one hundred thousand men and women. Yet by killing one defenseless man, she was more ruthless? She wondered if something had been lost in translation.

There was a knock on Christine’s door, and after she acknowledged, Colonel DuBose entered. “Good afternoon, Miss O’Connor. Just a reminder, the briefing begins in five minutes.”

“Thanks, Colonel.” She’d lost track of time. Grabbing a notepad from her desk, she joined the marine, then headed down one level into the Situation Room, where they joined Hardison, McVeigh, Dawn, and CIA Director Jessica Cherry.

It wasn’t long before the president arrived, taking his seat at the head of the table. He wasted no time, turning to Dawn. “Bring me up to speed on the diplomatic front.”

“I’ll start with Lithuania and Ukraine. NATO leadership is still debating the use of military force and it looks like several countries are preparing to submit a no vote to the secretary-general. Russia is taking advantage of the indecision within NATO, continuing to push for a continental security summit, and a few NATO countries are considering Kalinin’s offer. The Alliance is unstable, and could capitulate to Kalinin’s demands at any moment.

“In the Pacific, there’s been no word from India, but thanks to Christine, President Xiang has agreed to remain neutral, and our embassy in Beijing has received the list of concessions he’s requesting. We’re negotiating a few things, but when the dust settles, we’ll have a deal.”

The president replied, “Do you think we can trust China?”

There was silence in the Situation Room as the president’s eyes canvased the men and women at the table. His question was rhetorical. No one knew the answer.

Turning to McVeigh, the president asked, “Where do we stand militarily?”

McVeigh answered, “The Eisenhower and Bush strike groups are on their way across the Pacific. However, positioning four strike groups in the Indian Ocean will telegraph our intention and we’ll lose the element of surprise. To cover our tracks, we’ll jam Russian and Indian satellites, and those of any other country that might be inclined to pass intel to Russia.”

“Won’t jamming the satellites alert Russia that we’re up to something?”

“Jamming isn’t the best term,” McVeigh replied. “We have the ability to upload modified satellite images, like a closed-circuit camera being fed prerecorded tape. It’ll look like the two carrier strike groups leaving the West Coast are headed to China, to replace the two we’ve sent into the Indian Ocean.”

“Got it,” the president said.

“Although we’re moving naval assets into position,” McVeigh said, “we’re having difficulty with Air Force units. Every country in the region except Afghanistan is refusing to let us base military assets in their territory, fearing Russia will blow their pipelines in retaliation. That means we can’t get tactical missile batteries close enough to the Gulf of Oman, and Afghanistan is too far away for significant tactical air support. The best we can do is provide air support using long-range strategic assets, which will play a role at the beginning of the conflict but quickly lose relevance once the battle begins. Given those constraints, however, we’ve developed a plan.

“It’ll be a phased approach,” McVeigh said, “taking out the Russian air bases in Iran before attacking Russia’s surface combatants. We’ll then concentrate on the mobile land-based missile batteries once they engage and give away their positions, hoping they don’t do too much damage before we take them out. Once we begin the offensive above the water, we expect Russia will attack with their submarines, and their two-to-one advantage poses a significant challenge. The plan is to hold off the Russian submarine assault long enough to eliminate Russia’s surface combatants and missile batteries, which will allow the carrier strike groups to focus their efforts on the subsurface battle or vacate the area if things get out of hand.”

“What about NATO naval assistance?” the president asked.

McVeigh answered, “As Dawn explained, NATO countries are currently paralyzed, refusing to commit military assets to the conflict. It’s not much of a loss, though. Compared to our Navy, other NATO maritime assets are marginal.”

“Thanks, Bob,” the president said. “Where do we stand on the pipeline sabotage? We can’t move forward in the Persian Gulf unless we’ve disarmed the explosives.”

McVeigh turned to CIA Director Jessica Cherry.

“I have mostly good news,” Cherry said. “We’ve extracted the Russian who designed the detonators, and there is indeed a code that will disarm them. He’s agreed to give us the code, but on one condition.”

Cherry went on to explain what happened to the Russian’s daughter and the deal they had made. “Unfortunately, this is going to be a difficult operation for two reasons. The first is the target itself.” She paused, as if to heighten the tension, then explained. “The man who supposedly murdered our friend’s daughter is Russian Defense Minister Boris Chernov.”

Christine sucked in a sharp breath. Chernov had wandering eyes, but she had never suspected anything sinister. “You’re sure?” she asked.

“We’re not,” Cherry replied. “But our Russian friend believes it and that’s what matters. We kill Chernov and we get the code. However, there’s another complication. We need to establish a video link between the killer and our Russian friend just before Chernov is axed, so our friend can watch him die and Chernov can see his face before he takes his last breath. That means we can’t kill him from afar, with a sniper, for example, by wiring his car with explosives, or by destroying his house with a missile. It has to be an up-close-and-personal affair.

“This wouldn’t be difficult if the target was an ordinary citizen, but we’re talking about a high-ranking government official, who happens to be well guarded due to two attempts on his life, courtesy of our Russian scientist.” Cherry let everyone absorb the challenges they were facing, then continued, “We’re working on a plan, leveraging Chernov’s reputation as a ladies’ man, hoping to get him alone with the right beautiful woman. We’ve already selected the agent.” Cherry opened a folder in front of her and passed out several copies of a portfolio.

“Elena Krayev,” she said. “An ethnic Russian working at the U.S. embassy in Moscow as a translator. She’s also a highly trained field agent, who runs errands for us on occasion.”

Christine received a copy of Elena’s portfolio and turned to the first page, containing a head shot and full-body picture. She was stunningly beautiful.

“The last element of the plan we’re working on is how they meet. It needs to be innocuous, in a way that doesn’t raise Chernov’s suspicion, nor that of his security detail. We’re thinking about some sort of official government reception in the evening, because he rarely leaves without a beautiful woman on his arm. Unfortunately, Russia’s invasion of Lithuania and war with Ukraine have put a damper on these types of activities. I understand time is critical, but we’re currently at a loss on this aspect of the plan.”

Christine suggested, “Kalinin’s continental security summit. Would that work?”

Cherry pondered Christine’s suggestion, then replied, “Yes, that would work. Elena can be assigned as a translator for the American representatives.” Cherry looked to the president, who turned to Dawn.

“Agree to the summit,” he ordered, “and get it scheduled ASAP. Try to get as many NATO countries as possible to attend, but time is critical, so give them a twenty-four-hour deadline to decide, then move forward with whoever has agreed. While you’re at it, let the Alliance leaders know we don’t intend to capitulate to Kalinin’s demands; we’re working on something. But don’t mention Elena. We can’t afford to let our plan leak out.”

Turning to Christine, he said, “You’re familiar with the players and have experience negotiating with the Russians. Accompany Dawn to Moscow for the meeting, and you can introduce Elena to Chernov.”

After Dawn and Christine acknowledged the president’s order, McVeigh said, “Mr. President, it’s going to take time to get our naval assets into position. With your permission, we’ll begin uploading fake images into the appropriate satellites.”

The president gave his concurrence, and after reflecting for a moment on the day’s briefing, he said to McVeigh, “I want … a plan B.”

“Plan B?” McVeigh said.

The president spent the next few minutes explaining his idea while McVeigh took notes. When the president finished, he asked, “Can we do this?”

“Yes, Mr. President, it’s doable. We’ll have to begin mobilizing assets and redeploying others, but I don’t foresee any obstacles.”

“Good,” the president said. “Get started.”

51

USS HARRY S. TRUMAN

In the southern Arabian Sea, just west of the Maldives, USS Harry S. Truman headed into the wind as an F/A-18E Super Hornet moved forward on the Flight Deck, locking into the starboard bow catapult. Seated in his chair on the Bridge, Captain David Randle watched as the jet blast deflector behind the fighter tilted up, shielding the F/A-18F behind from the aircraft’s twin-engine exhaust. A moment later, the Super Hornet raced forward, angling up and to the right after clearing the bow, headed out to relieve one of the fighters in Truman’s combat air patrol.

The next Super Hornet also launched successfully, completing this launch cycle. In another thirty minutes, the returning fighters would land aboard Truman. In the meantime, Randle’s eyes scanned the video screens mounted below the Bridge windows. The Reagan strike group was a hundred miles to the west, with both strike groups staying a safe distance from the Russian Northern and Pacific Fleets camped out at the mouth of the Persian Gulf. However, if events unfolded as expected, it wouldn’t be long before Truman headed northwest, with Reagan and two new strike groups alongside. The Eisenhower and Bush strike groups were fresh out of maintenance periods, as were their air wings, but that wasn’t the case for Truman.

USS Harry S. Truman had been at sea for eight months, and the grind was beginning to wear on personnel and equipment. Aircraft carriers had tremendous repair departments, well stocked with spares and well-trained technicians, and Truman was no exception. However, the higher than normal flight tempo had taken its toll and the failures requiring depot-level repair were mounting. With combat looming on the horizon, Randle had been pushing hard to ensure every aircraft aboard was fully operational.

The ship’s Communicator approached, handing Randle the message board. He read the OPORD, then reflected on his new operational orders. The basic battle plan had been laid out, although the start time was TBD. There was still time to prepare, and his repair department needed to fix all inoperable aircraft, while Randle crossed his fingers and hoped no more broke in the meantime.

*   *   *

Five miles east of Truman, Lieutenant Commander Bill Houston aimed his single-seat Super Hornet toward the moving gray postage stamp in the Indian Ocean. It’d been a long five hours on combat air patrol and he was approaching bingo fuel. He was glad to be heading back to the floating bird farm, his home on the water for the last eight months. Real home, with his wife and three kids, would have to wait. Houston’s eyes went to a small, worn photo of his family wedged against the rim of his instrumentation panel. He had his arm around Nell, with the kids in front, his hand on John’s shoulder while Nell pulled Kate and Jackson close.

As he returned his eyes to his instrumentation, he caught the reflection of a Japanese Imperial Navy ensign—the Rising Sun flag—in the canopy. Bill Houston, half Japanese and half English Channel mix, had been awarded the call sign Samurai by his fellow pilots in flight school. The top of every pilot’s helmet had to be covered in reflective paint or tape in case they ejected into the ocean and required retrieval, and with a call sign of Samurai, Houston had decorated his helmet with the red sun near the front, and red and white stripes radiating over the top.

As Houston closed on Truman, he heard Approach in his headset. “Bravo-one-five, Air Ops. Mode one landing.”

Houston acknowledged and turned control of his aircraft over to Truman’s SPN-46 automatic carrier landing system, which would adjust engine speed and flaps to land the fighter at a designated point on the Flight Deck. He wasn’t a fan of delegating control of his aircraft to a computer, but orders were orders and Houston prepared for the hands-off landing.

Not long after enabling the automated landing, Houston heard Bitching Betty in his headset—the female voice of the F/A-18 audio warning system, with its distinctive southern drawl—proclaiming a warning he’d heard only in the simulator.

“Engine right! Engine right!”

Houston’s Super Hornet slowed and yawed to the right, and a glance at his instrumentation revealed a flameout in his starboard engine. He went to afterburner on the port engine and half flaps, straightening his flight trajectory.

Into his headset, he said, “Approach, bravo-one-five is single-engine at four miles.”

Approach acknowledged, and while they passed word to the Flight Deck to prepare for an emergency landing, Houston noticed the engine fuel display ticking rapidly toward empty. He’d developed a fuel leak, which explained the reason for the starboard engine flameout.

Houston disengaged the automated carrier landing system, taking manual control. After evaluating whether to ditch the aircraft into the ocean or risk a landing with one engine and a fuel leak, he decided.

“Approach, bravo-one-five. I’m bringing it in.”

*   *   *

Captain Randle stood on the port side of the Bridge, looking aft. The damaged Super Hornet appeared in the distance, a small gray speck growing slowly larger, wobbling as it was buffeted by strong winds. Randle’s attention shifted from the jet to the Landing Signals Officer, standing on the Flight Deck. The LSO held a radio handset in one hand, advising the pilot on engine power and glide path. In his other hand, he held the pickle switch controlling the Optical Landing System, containing red wave-off and green cut lights, which directed the pilot to either abort the landing or make adjustments during his approach.

The Super Hornet angled down toward the deck, its tailhook extended. The pilot’s control of his aircraft was impaired with the engine flameout, and if he landed late and his tailhook missed the arresting cables, he would have to bolter, pushing his remaining engine to full throttle to regain sufficient speed before he ran out of carrier deck. A bolter was always an exciting event, and with only one engine, a hazardous one.

Randle watched the green cut lights flash periodically during the jet’s descent, sending last-second guidance to the pilot. He followed the Super Hornet in, its wings wobbling one last time before the wheels hit the Flight Deck. The jet’s tailhook snagged the number two arresting wire and the aircraft screeched to a halt. Randle let out a deep breath, relieved the pilot had landed safely. However, that was one more jet down, adding to the repair department’s workload.

52

USS MICHIGAN

With his submarine at periscope depth, Wilson sat in the Captain’s chair in the darkness listening intently to the Conn speaker, which was broadcasting intercepts from the submarine’s Electronic Support Measures sensor. This evening’s trip to periscope depth had been uneventful, with the only required tasks being a radio broadcast download and a position fix for the inertial navigators. After the tense forays to the surface during the past week, in proximity to Russian combatants, tonight’s trip to periscope depth had been leisurely and stress free.

The bleeps and buzzes emanating from the ESM speaker were a foreign language to the untrained, but Wilson’s experienced ear told him there were no surface combatants nearby. Confirming his assessment, the ESM Watch called out, “Conn, ESM. Hold no threat radars.”

The Officer of the Deck acknowledged the report, and as Lieutenant Jayne Stucker rotated slowly on the periscope beside him, Wilson reflected on how the U.S. Submarine Force had changed in his almost forty years of service.

Wilson was a mustang—a prior-enlisted officer, having joined the Navy fresh out of high school. After ten years as a nuclear electronics technician, he received his commission as an officer and worked his way up the ranks, eventually becoming Captain of the nuclear-powered fast attack submarine USS Buffalo. Following command, he was assigned as the senior instructor for newly assigned submarine commanding officers, overseeing their training during tense at-sea tactical engagements as they completed final preparations for command.

When his instructor tour ended, Wilson accepted command of Michigan instead of a submarine squadron, choosing to end his career at sea instead of behind a desk. With commands of fast attack and guided missile submarines under his belt, along with several years training future commanding officers, Murray Wilson was the most experienced submarine commanding officer in the Fleet.

Michigan tilted downward as Lieutenant Stucker ordered the submarine back to the safety of deep water, and the low-level lights flicked on. Wilson read Michigan’s latest OPORD, containing the details concerning his next mission. With transit through the Suez Canal on the surface deemed too risky under current conditions and Michigan’s Tomahawk missiles no longer needed in Ukraine at the moment, Navy leadership had identified an alternate use for the guided missile submarine. Michigan’s tactical systems were being called into service.

Although Michigan was built as a ballistic missile submarine, it was a far different ship today from when it was launched three decades ago. With the implementation of the Strategic Offensive Reductions Treaty, the Navy reconfigured the four oldest Ohio class submarines as special warfare platforms. In addition to carrying Dry Deck Shelters with SEAL mini-subs inside, Michigan had been reconfigured with seven-pack Tomahawk launchers in twenty-two of the submarine’s twenty-four missile tubes.

During the conversion from SSBN to SSGN, Michigan and her three sister ships received a slew of tactical system upgrades. The combat control consoles were now the most modern in the submarine fleet, as were Michigan’s new sonar, electronic surveillance, and radio suites. The torpedoes aboard Wilson’s submarine were also the newest in the U.S. Navy’s arsenal; Michigan was fully loaded with MK 48 Mod 7 torpedoes, the most advanced heavyweight torpedo in the world.

Wilson approached the Quartermaster, seated at the navigation table. “Hand me the waterspace advisories.”

Petty Officer Pat Leenstra handed the folder to Wilson, who perused the messages, which detailed the routes of all fast attack submarines transiting across the Atlantic Ocean, so the ballistic missile subs on patrol could stay out of the transit lanes. There were two fast attack submarines, one from Groton and one from Norfolk, fresh out of maintenance periods, late to the party and hightailing it across the Atlantic toward the Mediterranean.

Wilson estimated they’d be a few hours behind, and Michigan would lead the way.

53

MOSCOW

Darkness had enveloped the Russian capital by the time three black sedans pulled up to Hotel National, not far from the Kremlin. Christine O’Connor and Dawn Cabral, weary from the long flight from Washington, D.C., stepped from the center car while Diplomatic Security Service agents emerged from the other two vehicles. Christine was looking forward to a good night’s sleep; the Russian morning would come soon enough, followed by the first day of the continental security summit. Without much prodding, Russia had arranged a reception the first evening, where the summit participants could socialize while discussing less contentious topics. It was there that their translator, Elena Krayev, would attempt to snare Boris Chernov.

While the bellhops collected their luggage, Christine and Dawn entered the hotel lobby, where they were met by Barry Graham, an aide to the U.S. ambassador to the Russian Federation. After introductions, he handed the two women their door cards, informing them their rooms were on the tenth floor. As Christine and Dawn prepared to call it a night, Graham informed them that their translator for the summit was on her way over and would arrive shortly.

It wasn’t long before Elena Krayev entered the hotel lobby, wearing a form-fitting skirt and tailored blouse accentuating her figure, draping a garment bag over a shoulder while pulling a carry-on suitcase behind her. Elena was even more stunning in person than on paper. Heads turned, both male and female, following her as she walked through the lobby.

Elena spotted Christine and Dawn and headed their way. Upon reaching the Americans, she greeted them with a firm, confident handshake. She was given a hotel room on the same floor as Dawn and Christine, purportedly in case the negotiations went later than expected, so she wouldn’t have to endure the long trek to her home on the outskirts of the city. In reality, she’d been given a hotel room nearby with the hope she could entice Chernov to her place instead of his tomorrow night. In case things didn’t go as planned and she needed assistance, a CIA extraction team was only a few doors down the hall. If they went to Chernov’s place, an emergency extraction would be much more complicated.

The three women headed to the tenth floor, where they gathered in Christine’s room. Elena explained the one detail of her assignment pertinent to the other two women. One of them would introduce her to Chernov, and she would take it from there.

After Elena left, Christine prepared for bed, donning a silk nightgown before slipping under the sheets. Although she was tired from the long trip, her body told her it was only midafternoon due to the jet lag. She tossed and turned for a while, her thoughts shifting frequently to Elena’s assignment to assassinate Chernov, before she eventually drifted off to sleep.

*   *   *

The morning arrived quicker than Christine had hoped. After a shower and a cup of strong coffee, brought to her by one of the Diplomatic Security Service agents, she was ready to begin the day. Elena was waiting in the hallway, wearing a business suit and leaning against the wall, a black attaché case in one hand. Christine knocked on Dawn’s door and she answered, and they headed to the lobby.

After their car pulled to a halt in front of the Kremlin Senate, they were greeted by an aide to Foreign Minister Lavrov, who escorted them to a conference room on the third floor, one Christine knew well. The first two rounds of follow-on nuclear arms reduction talks had been held here. The thirty-seat conference table was already half-full, and Christine spotted the three seats reserved for them, with placards on the table in front of each chair.

Foreign Minister Lavrov approached Christine and her two companions. “Miss O’Connor,” he said, “it is a pleasure to see you again. I’m glad you were able to join us.”

“It’s good to see you again as well, Minister Lavrov.” Turning to Dawn and Elena, she introduced America’s secretary of state and their interpreter.

Russia’s foreign minister engaged them in conversation, containing nothing of substance, until the meeting was called to order. Before Christine headed to her seat, she searched the conference room for Defense Minister Chernov. He was nowhere to be found.

She turned to Lavrov. “Will Defense Minister Chernov attend the summit?”

“He is disposed otherwise,” Lavrov replied.

Christine’s stomach knotted. Their plan hinged on Elena meeting Chernov.

“But he plans to join us tonight at the reception.”

The tension eased from Christine’s body. Their plan was still on track.

*   *   *

The summit progressed slowly at first, then picked up speed once the participants settled on the objective for the meeting. Without full NATO participation, no agreement could be reached. However, it was decided that the summit would develop a framework for formal negotiations, and that plan suited both sides. The Russians were pleased because things were progressing toward a peaceful and favorable solution, and the United States and its NATO allies were satisfied since the plan stalled substantive discussions; the United States had no intention of negotiating away part of Lithuania or the eastern one-third of Ukraine. Although the participants were prepared to work through the weekend, it soon became clear that a suitable framework would be developed by the end of the day.

54

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Seated at his desk in the Oval Office, the president hung up the phone, then turned sideways in his chair, looking across the south lawn as the early morning sun illuminated the rose garden’s red, pink, and white flowers. Deep in thought, he smoothed his blue tie against his white shirt, failing to notice that his tie, a gift from the first lady, matched the color of the drapes and the presidential seal on the rug.

The president’s telephone discussion with CIA Director Cherry had been short and nondescript, the details of their conversation deliberately vague. The continental security summit in Moscow had wrapped up and the operation was on track. In a few hours, if everything went as planned, the detonator disarm code would be obtained and the president would give the order, placing thousands of men and women in the military in harm’s way. There would be a significant loss of life, SecDef McVeigh had explained: hundreds, if not thousands, of Americans dead. It was a decision the president did not take lightly, but one he had already made. The United States could not sit by and let Russia annex portions of two sovereign countries.

The president pressed the intercom button on his phone, directing his executive assistant to get Prime Minister Susan Gates on the line. With the assistance of the British prime minister, the stalling tactics had worked, pushing off the votes on the resolutions authorizing the use of NATO force to expel Russia from Ukraine and Lithuania.

“Mr. President.” The voice of his executive assistant emanated from the phone’s speaker. “I’ve got Prime Minister Gates on the line.”

The president picked up the phone, and after thanking Sue for her assistance within NATO, he broached the sensitive subject, informing her that the United States would go it alone, attacking Russian forces within a few hours if things went as planned. Once the order was given and the attack imminent, the United States’ permanent representative to NATO would inform the remaining NATO countries of the U.S. military response.

As the president prepared to conclude his conversation with Minister Gates, he considered revealing plan B, the second phase of the campaign. However, it was a delicate operation, its success dependent even more on secrecy. He decided to leave that part out.

The president hung up, then checked his watch. Evening was approaching in Moscow, and with it, the reception where Elena Krayev would meet Boris Chernov, and the one obstacle standing between them and the detonator disarm code would be overcome.

55

MOSCOW

It was 6 p.m. by the time the summit ended, and after a quick dinner in the hotel restaurant with Dawn and Elena, Christine returned to her room and changed into a formal dress for the evening’s reception. After touching up her makeup, she stepped from her room and knocked on Elena’s door. It was slightly ajar and Christine pushed it slowly open, calling Elena’s name. She was sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing an elegant, form-fitting Russian Federation–red evening gown with her hands folded in her lap, staring at the wall. She turned her head slowly when Christine opened the door, then stood without a word. After grabbing a small purse from her desk, she joined Christine in the hallway as Dawn emerged from her room.

They descended to the lobby and headed to the hotel entrance, where a black limousine, situated between two sedans containing Diplomatic Security Service agents, was waiting to take the three women to the Kremlin Senate. During the short drive, Elena was silent, staring out the side window at the buildings along Mokhovaya Street. As they approached the southwest corner of the Kremlin, her attention was drawn to the five-century-old Borovitskaya Tower, with its green decorative spire rising to a ruby-red five-pointed star, symbol of the Soviet Union. After passing through Borovitskaya Gate, their car pulled to a halt in front of the Kremlin Senate.

They were escorted by a Kremlin aide to a ballroom on the third floor—the same one the Victory Day gala had been held in: a white marble–clad room with exquisite crystal chandeliers, their sparkling lights illuminating a glossy but crowded parquet floor. Waiters dressed in tuxedos made their way through the crowd, carrying silver platters filled with hors d’oeuvres and glasses of wine and champagne, offering the contents to the guests.

Upon entering the ballroom, Elena transitioned from the quiet, reserved woman in the car to an outgoing, enchanting personality. Christine watched in fascination as Elena turned on the charm, gathering a small crowd around her. The intended victim of her charm—Defense Minister Chernov—was nowhere to be found, however.

The three women engaged various diplomats, with Elena translating on occasion. Christine kept an eye out for Chernov, eventually spotting him enter the ballroom, stopping to chat with a representative from France. Elena also noticed Chernov’s entrance, and the two women broke from their conversation with several Italian and Russian diplomats.

As they headed toward Chernov, Christine whispered, “Are you ready?”

Elena replied, “I’ll have him eating out of my hand in no time.”

Boris Chernov turned his attention to the two women as they approached, commenting to the French diplomat as Christine and Elena joined them, “Are there two more beautiful women here tonight?” He eyed Christine briefly before turning his attention to Elena. “And you are?”

Christine answered, “I’d like to introduce Elena Krayev, our translator for the summit.”

Elena extended her arm, her hand bent at the wrist as she greeted Chernov in Russian. Chernov’s eyes took in Elena’s body as he bent slightly forward and kissed the back of her hand.

He turned to Christine. “An ethnic Russian translator. I commend you on the upgrade.” He said something to Elena in Russian and she laughed.

Stepping closer to Chernov, Elena placed her hand on his arm as she said to Christine, “You never told me what a good sense of humor Minister Chernov has.”

As Elena turned back to Chernov, Christine glanced over his shoulder and spotted Semyon Gorev, head of Russia’s SVR, standing along the ballroom perimeter, intently watching Christine and Elena’s interaction with Russia’s defense minister.

“If you’ll excuse us,” Elena said, then she wrapped her arm around Chernov’s and pulled him away for a private conversation. When Chernov and Elena drifted off, Gorev headed in Christine’s direction. As the SVR director approached, the French diplomat excused himself.

“Welcome back to Moscow,” Gorev said. “What game are we playing tonight?”

Christine’s pulse quickened. Had Gorev deciphered their plan?

“I’d like to redeem myself,” he added.

Christine’s concern subsided when she realized Gorev was referring to their encounter during her last trip to Moscow, when he barred her path in the hallway outside Kalinin’s office and she tricked her way past him.

“No game tonight,” Christine replied. She knew she shouldn’t antagonize the head of the SVR, but couldn’t resist. “I don’t want to embarrass you again.”

Gorev smiled. A tight, malevolent smile. “Well then,” he said, “perhaps we could play a game of my choosing.” He glanced around the crowded ballroom. “When there are fewer witnesses.”

Christine had already decided she should probably avoid Gorev during this visit. Now, she was certain.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, then turned and left him standing alone on the parquet floor.

Ambassador Natasha Graham wasn’t far away, and Christine joined her, Dawn, and several Russian diplomats who had homed in on America’s ambassador and secretary of state. The conversation was quite cordial; from the moment Christine arrived at the Kremlin Senate that morning, the Russians had done everything possible to create a business-as-usual atmosphere, as if they were here to discuss a minor dustup at a border crossing.

She glanced periodically in Gorev’s direction; he engaged various dignitaries, both Russian and foreign, and every once in a while she caught him looking at her. As the evening wore on and she lost Gorev in the crowd, Christine decided she could use some time alone. She had introduced Elena to Chernov and figured her job was done. She retreated from the ballroom onto a balcony overlooking the city, stopping at the stone railing. Her eyes swept across the venerable city, surveying the historic buildings in the distance and the sparkling lights blending into the horizon.

Christine broke from her thoughts when Elena passed through the doorway onto the balcony, her cool facade replaced with a frustrated look. She stopped beside Christine.

“It’s not working,” Elena said. “The bastard doesn’t seem interested.”

Elena’s news was unexpected. With Chernov’s reputation, it hadn’t crossed her mind that he’d turn down the advances of a woman as beautiful as Elena.

“What do we do now?” Christine asked.

“I keep trying,” Elena said. “I need to be careful I don’t raise suspicions by coming on too strong, but I have no choice but to dial up the charm.” She looked down and adjusted her dress, exposing more cleavage. “Wish me luck,” she said, then headed into the ballroom before Christine could reply.

Christine contemplated returning to the ballroom as well, but wasn’t in the mood for more frivolous banter with Russian and NATO diplomats. She turned and looked out over the city again, letting her eyes fall on Red Square. The Victory Day banners that had draped the buildings had been taken down and the bleachers disassembled, leaving redbrick facades framing a gray cobblestone square. On the north end of the square, the iconic multicolored bulbous domes of Saint Basil’s Cathedral rose skyward.

Her thoughts were interrupted when a man stopped beside her, offering a glass of champagne. She turned and was surprised to see President Kalinin. She glanced toward the ballroom; through the entrance, Gorev was watching, as were two Presidential Security Service agents.

“Welcome back to Moscow,” Kalinin said.

“Thank you,” Christine said as she took the champagne glass.

She took a sip, and there was an uneasy silence between them until Kalinin said, “Considering I ordered the invasion of two countries, you must think despicable things about me.”

“Pretty much,” Christine replied.

Kalinin smiled. “You certainly do speak your mind.” After a short pause, he added, “Is there anything I can do to make amends?”

“You can withdraw your troops from Lithuania and Ukraine.”

“Is there anything reasonable I can do to make amends?”

“That’s reasonable.”

“Not from my perspective.”

“Has anyone pointed out your perspective is warped?”

“Not lately,” Kalinin replied.

Christine debated whether to continue the conversation. It was pointless; a discussion on a Kremlin balcony wasn’t going to convince Kalinin to withdraw his troops. However, Kalinin was the president of Russia, and she couldn’t abruptly terminate the conversation as she’d done with Gorev. If nothing more, continuing the dialogue gave her the opportunity to deliver a few barbs to the man who had invaded two countries. He seemed not to mind so far, remaining in a good mood. Then again, he controlled southern Lithuania and eastern Ukraine, and it looked as though NATO was on the verge of capitulating. He had good reason to maintain a cheery disposition.

She took another sip of champagne. “So what’s next? What countries do you have your sights set on?”

“None at the moment.”

“At the moment?”

“One cannot predict the future. The world is a dangerous place, and I will do what is necessary to protect my country.”

“You’re right,” Christine replied. “The world is a dangerous place. Primarily because of you.”

“Has anyone pointed out how warped your perspective is?” Kalinin asked.

“Not lately.” Christine smiled.

“Look around the world,” Kalinin said. “Terrorists streaming across borders, religious fanatics inciting genocide. These are the threats of the twenty-first century. You don’t need to worry about Russia.”

“Care to ask a few residents of Lithuania and Ukraine about that?”

“Those citizens may be disgruntled, but they won’t be killed or oppressed. They will wake up, go to work each day, and enjoy the fruits of their labor and the liberties of a democratic society. Does it really matter whether their government is Ukrainian, Russian, or independent? When you consider the true evils in the world, my actions amount to minor sins.”

Christine agreed there were significant issues facing Western societies. Whether Russia was at the top of the list, however, depended on Russia’s endgame.

She replied, “The problem is, we don’t know where you’re going to stop. How many countries you’ll gobble up before you feel safe.”

Kalinin replied, “You bring up an excellent point. Russia and the West are in conflict because we don’t trust each other, and there is no trust because we don’t understand one another. Get to know my country. Get to know me, and you will understand Russia poses no threat to the West.”

As Christine pondered Kalinin’s assertion, he said, “The offer I made during your last trip still stands. Any time you visit Moscow, it would be my pleasure if you joined me for dinner or even a weekend getaway.”

Christine couldn’t foresee a situation where she would take him up on his offer, but didn’t want to turn him down outright, so she just nodded.

When she didn’t reply, Kalinin asked, “Do you have any encouraging words to offer?”

“Not at the moment.”

Kalinin turned toward the balcony, placing his hands on the stone railing. “I see.”

Christine joined him, looking out over the city. “Now isn’t a good time for this discussion,” she said.

“I understand,” Kalinin replied. “My offer remains open.”

He turned abruptly and left.

Her eyes followed Kalinin into the ballroom, and Gorev and the two Security Service agents moved away with the president. Alone on the balcony, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had managed to piss off the two most powerful men in Russia, in less than an hour. Not the smartest moves.

She just didn’t have the patience anymore, not that she had a lot to begin with. The last few years in the administration had worn her too thin. She had signed up to be a paper pusher, with confrontations limited to those across a conference room table, not those that required a gun or a bloody ice pick. It was time to think about handing the president her resignation when the issue with Russia was resolved.

Christine was about to return to the ballroom when Boris Chernov stepped onto the balcony. Over his shoulder as he approached, Christine spotted Elena, wearing an unhappy expression. She shook her head slightly. She’d failed to snag Chernov.

“Hello again, Christine,” Chernov said as he joined her at the railing.

“Good evening, Minister Chernov.”

“Please, call me Boris.”

“Boris,” Christine said, then took a sip of her champagne.

“It looks like the summit wrapped up quicker than expected.”

“It did,” Christine agreed. “But we established a solid framework for future discussions.”

“Which I hope,” Chernov said, “will lead to a peaceful resolution of our differences.”

“There is always hope.”

“When do you head back to America?” Chernov asked, changing the subject.

“Not until Monday.”

“Do you have plans for the weekend?”

A sick feeling grew in the pit of Christine’s stomach. Chernov was making a move on her. She tried to deflect his interest onto Elena.

“I happened to notice that Elena is quite smitten with you.”

Chernov replied, “Hens don’t peck at pretty Russian faces.” When Christine gave him a curious look, he explained, “It’s a Russian idiom. An appropriate translation in English would be—beautiful Russian women are a dime a dozen. I prefer something more challenging.” Sliding closer to Christine, he said, “I want what Yuri wants. And I want it first.”

Christine resisted the urge to step back, creating ample space between them. Instead, she stayed close as she tried to figure out how to redirect his desire. America’s attack in the Persian Gulf couldn’t proceed unless the pipeline explosives were disarmed, and that wasn’t going to happen unless Chernov and Elena were alone.

“I think you would enjoy Elena’s company.”

“Not as much as I’d enjoy yours.”

“I don’t know, Boris,” Christine replied, searching for a solution. Finally, she latched on to an idea. If she agreed to his proposal, but gave him Elena’s room number instead of hers, it might work. With Elena opening the door while properly attired—scantily clad, that is—it’d be hard for Chernov to say no when she pulled him into her room.

“How about tonight. An hour from now. Hotel National, room 1051.”

Chernov shook his head. “Unfortunately, I have meetings tonight, which will run late. However, I leave for Sochi tomorrow morning. My first weekend off in months. I have a villa on the shore of the Black Sea and a yacht we could spend the day on. Much more pleasurable than dreary Moscow. I’ll have a driver pick you up at your hotel at seven a.m.”

Christine had painted herself into a corner, agreeing to a liaison with Chernov. Unfortunately, tomorrow in Sochi, with Elena in Moscow, wouldn’t work. Her mouth felt dry as she worked through the implications. Their plan to kill Chernov had failed, and now she was stuck with him for the weekend.

56

MOSCOW

Standing beside Christine O’Connor, Elena Krayev waited impatiently as the elevator rose to the tenth floor of their hotel. The doors slid open and she headed briskly down the hallway, Christine at her side. When they reached Elena’s room, she pulled Christine inside.

“We need a new plan,” Elena said after the door closed.

“Agreed,” Christine said with disappointment on her face. “You need to let your superiors know, so they can start working on it.”

Elena shook her head. “It’s unlikely we can gain access to Chernov at his villa, and once he returns to Moscow, an opportunity might not present itself soon enough.”

She pulled Christine to the bed, and both women sat on the edge.

“You, on the other hand, will be with Chernov this weekend.”

Christine stared at Elena for a moment, finally realizing what she was proposing.

“Not a chance,” Christine said. “I’m not a field agent.”

“You’ll do fine,” Elena said. “With the right equipment, you can kill Chernov quietly and no one will suspect. It will appear he died of natural causes. There is no danger to you.”

The last sentence, of course, was a lie.

“I know you can do this,” Elena said as she dumped the contents of her purse onto the bed: the usual assortment of cosmetics and feminine products, along with a cell phone.

“No,” Christine said emphatically. “I’m a White House staffer, not a trained assassin.”

“You have killed before.”

“Only because I didn’t have a choice. I have a choice this time, and I’m not doing it.”

Elena paused, reevaluating the situation. Time was critical; the United States needed to disarm the pipeline explosives and break the threat of a Persian Gulf blockade before the NATO resolutions were scuttled. The odds of planning and executing a new operation within the next few days were slim. She shifted tactics, reviewing Christine’s profile in her mind.

Prior to the mission, Elena had studied the dossier of her target as well as those working with her. A review of Christine’s portfolio had raised a few red flags: she was impulsive and vindictive, traits that could turn into a liability to those working with her. Her role in this operation was marginal, though, and Elena hadn’t been worried. However, the situation had changed dramatically, and Elena realized she could use Christine’s traits to her advantage.

“There is something you need to know,” Elena said. Christine stared at her pensively, and confident she had her full attention, Elena elaborated.

“After the incident at Ice Station Nautilus, President Kalinin fired Fleet Admiral Ivanov. After dedicating his life to serving Russia, Ivanov became disgruntled and we have established a relationship with him. We haven’t gleaned much information yet, but we do know that the incident at Ice Station Nautilus wasn’t his idea; he was following orders. The attack at the ice station, both above and below the ice, was ordered by Defense Minister Chernov.”

Elena watched her words sink in slowly. Boris Chernov had given the order to torpedo the submarine Christine and Captain Brackman were aboard. Chernov was responsible for Brackman’s death.

Christine’s features hardened, then she glanced at the items on the bed. “Show me how these work.”

Elena repressed a smile as she reached for one of the lipstick applicators. She pulled the cover off, revealing a reddish-purple lipstick. “Looks like a normal lipstick applicator.” She replaced the cover and unscrewed the base, revealing a ring inside with a sharp metal point the size of a tack and covered by a transparent plastic sheath, rising where the gemstone would normally be mounted. Elena slid the ring onto her finger, then rotated it until the metal point faced in toward her palm. She held her hand up, showing Christine the back of her hand; it looked as if she were wearing a plain silver ring. She closed her hand into a fist and then opened it again, then turned her hand over, palm up, showing Christine the sharp point.

“The tip of this ring is coated with a poison that will paralyze Chernov in thirty seconds. All you have to do is remove the plastic sheath, then puncture the skin behind his neck. Do it above the hairline, to minimize the potential the puncture wound will be discovered during the autopsy. The tip is also coated with a numbing agent, so Chernov won’t feel the puncture and suspect anything until it’s too late.”

Elena returned the ring to its compartment in the base of the lipstick applicator and screwed the bottom back on, then reached for the second applicator, pulling its cover off, revealing crimson lipstick. She unscrewed the base, revealing an identical ring. “This ring will kill Chernov, making it look like a heart attack. Again, puncture the skin behind his neck above the hairline.”

Elena said, “Remember—purple paralyze, crimson kill,” then repeated the phonetic mnemonic.

“After you paralyze him,” Elena said as she screwed the base of the lipstick applicator back on, “you’ll need to establish a video link with the Russian engineer who designed the detonators.” She reached for the cell phone and showed Christine the power button on one side and the up/down volume tabs on the other.

“Press the power button and the up volume simultaneously,” she said, “and you’ll establish a video link with our Russian friend. If you get in trouble and need assistance, press the power button and the down volume tab. Right now it alerts a team in a room just down the hallway, but we’ll move assets into place in Sochi to extract you if things go south.

“Remember, power up to upload the video link. Power down if things have gone south and you need help.”

Christine nodded her head slowly. Her determination was fading as the shock of what she had agreed to do set in. Elena placed a hand on her shoulder.

“You will do fine.”

57

SOCHI, RUSSIA

Sochi, located on the shore of the Black Sea, is part of the Caucasian Riviera, one of the few places in Russia with a subtropical climate. With the scenic Caucasus Mountains to the east and pebble-sand beaches to the west surrounding a vibrant city with a bustling nightlife, it’s not surprising that Sochi is Russia’s largest and most popular resort city.

Descending toward Sochi International Airport in a Dassault Falcon executive jet, Christine was seated beside Defense Minister Chernov. Configured to transport a dozen passengers, the jet carried only eight today. Behind Christine and Chernov were a Russian oligarch and his wife, both in their mid-sixties. Vagit Alekperov, the seventh-richest man in Russia, was president of LUKoil, one of the world’s most powerful oil companies, with reserves second only to Exxon. Alekperov and his wife spoke only broken English, and Chernov translated when required.

Rounding out the passengers was a detachment of four Russian Federal Protective Service agents, each man dressed entirely in black, wearing a sport coat over a turtleneck. Christine, on the other hand, was wearing something more colorful: a blue blouse over tan capri pants.

Having checked the Sochi weather forecast and noting temperatures approaching eighty degrees, Christine realized most of her attire—business suits and slacks—would be inappropriate for the warm weekend. After rifling through her clothes, she put together two outfits suitable for Chernov’s villa and yacht, along with two evening gowns in case they headed into the city for dinner or other festivities. Finally, her white silk nightgown would come in handy, as would the two lipstick vials and Elena’s cell phone, which she had transferred to her purse.

The conversation during the journey south was light and enjoyable, and Christine learned that Chernov had done well in the new, democratic Russia, managing to gain significant holdings in various industries. His wealth paled in comparison with that of LUKoil’s Alekperov, but Chernov had amassed enough of a fortune to afford a luxury beachside villa on the shore of the Black Sea as well as a small yacht.

The Falcon jet landed at Sochi International Airport and pulled to a halt near one of the private hangars. Chernov and his entourage descended onto the tarmac, where they were met by a black limousine and two sedans. Their luggage was transferred to the caravan and Chernov and his three guests slid into the center limousine, while Chernov’s security detail took the lead and rear sedans. With the airport less than a mile from the coast, it wasn’t long before they arrived at Chernov’s villa. A heavy black metal gate, part of a twenty-foot-high security wall around the property, opened slowly, and the three cars pulled into a circular driveway.

Chernov’s residence was a six-bedroom, single-story open-air villa with fans swirling slowly in each room. A maid, who greeted the group upon their arrival, showed Christine to her bedroom, the master suite she would be sharing with Chernov. After freshening up, Christine left the bedroom in search of Chernov and his two guests, passing a living room with adjoining bar, where she was surprised to see two of Chernov’s security detail pouring themselves a drink. Her presence didn’t go unnoticed, with one of the agents eyeing her as she passed.

She continued down a long hallway, between an indoor pool on one side and outdoor pool on the other. Hearing voices ahead, Christine stepped onto a blue flagstone patio framed by a curved granite balcony overlooking the Black Sea. Chernov and his two Russian guests were standing beside the railing, and Christine joined them.

The view from Chernov’s villa was breathtaking. Built on a rock outcropping dropping down to clear blue water thirty feet below, the villa overlooked a shoreline curving into a semicircular cove. On the right side of the shore, a pier jutted into the sea, with Chernov’s yacht tied alongside, as well as a smaller motorboat. At the base of the pier was a large boathouse.

The maid stopped by, dropping off drinks for Chernov and his two Russian guests, and Chernov asked Christine what she’d like. More for irony than anything else, Christine asked if she could have a White Russian. After a bit of translation, the maid nodded and returned a few minutes later with the requested cocktail. When they finished their drinks, Chernov asked his visitors if they’d like to head out on his yacht, an eighty-foot triple-decker. Chernov seemed to apologize to Alekperov and his wife for the modest size of his boat.

Chernov led the way from the villa, down a curving brick walkway to the pier, accompanied by two men from his security detail. After boarding the sleek white ship, the Russian defense minister took the controls in the flying bridge. The lines were taken in and Chernov’s yacht headed out into the Black Sea.

58

YASENEVO, RUSSIA

It was late afternoon when Semyon Gorev, seated at his desk in the Y-shaped headquarters of Russia’s Foreign Intelligence Service, scrolled through the daily update on his computer. At the end of the intelligence summary, he reviewed the whereabouts of high-ranking foreign and domestic diplomats. Not only did the SVR keep tabs on foreign diplomats, they also kept track of their own, maintaining a record of their acquaintances and activities. One could never have enough information on Russian politicians; the hidden details of their lives had proven useful on countless occasions.

Gorev had a special interest in Christine O’Connor, and a quick check on her status produced a surprise result. She had left her hotel this morning, picked up by one of Chernov’s Federal Protective Service agents. After reading further, he noted Christine and Chernov had departed for his villa in Sochi, accompanied by the president of LUKoil and his wife.

What was Chernov up to, gallivanting around with one of the richest men in the country? Vagit Alekperov would want something in return for his friendship. Also, what game was Christine O’Connor playing? She had turned down President Kalinin’s offer for the weekend, only to accept one from Chernov? Kalinin was the clear winner on all fronts: more powerful, better looking, with a notably better personality. Choosing Chernov didn’t add up.

As head of the SVR, Gorev received background summaries of the diplomats visiting Russia, including Christine. However, he decided to examine her entire file. He left his office and headed to the Operations Center, a dimly lit room with over one hundred men and women at their workstations, poring over data on their computer screens while supervisors studied the most pertinent information on a dozen six-foot-wide video screens mounted along the front wall. Gorev stopped at one of the supervisor workstations.

“Pull up Christine O’Connor’s file.”

The supervisor complied, and Gorev peered over his shoulder as he scrolled through the information.

“Stop,” Gorev said when he noticed an entry about a meeting between Christine and Israel’s intelligence minister, who died about the same time as their meeting.

“Pull up Barak Kogen’s file,” Gorev directed.

The requested information was displayed, and at the end of Kogen’s file, Gorev found the information he was looking for. Barak Kogen’s death was publicly reported as a heart attack, but the SVR’s official assessment was that he was poisoned. Gorev examined the date. Kogen died the same day he had lunch with Christine O’Connor.

Gorev pulled his phone from his jacket, looking up Chernov’s contact information. The Operations Center was shielded from radio transmissions, so he called Chernov on a landline.

No answer.

“Get me a number for Chernov’s security detail.”

The number was provided and one of Chernov’s agents answered, explaining the defense minister was on his yacht in the Black Sea with Alekperov and his wife, along with O’Connor and two Federal Protective Service agents.

Gorev decided to pay Chernov and O’Connor a visit. “Give me two men,” he told the Operations Center supervisor, “and air transportation to Sochi immediately.”

59

SOCHI, RUSSIA

The afternoon aboard Chernov’s yacht passed quickly as they cruised northwest along the Black Sea coast under a cloudless sky. From the flying bridge, Christine had a spectacular view of Sochi’s pebble-sand beaches, transitioning to green hills ascending toward the Caucasus Mountains to the east and wooded uplands to the north. With no chef aboard to prepare a meal suitable for his guests, Chernov docked at the Sochi Yacht Club for lunch at a French brasserie-style restaurant on the waterfront. Lunch was delicious, and after returning to the yacht, they continued northwest along the Black Sea coast. As the sun slipped toward the horizon, Chernov turned the yacht around and increased speed.

It wasn’t long before they cruised between steep cliffs framing the entrance to the cove beneath Chernov’s villa, then coasted to a halt beside the pier. It was almost dinnertime, and the aroma of rosemary and garlic greeted Christine as she entered the open-air villa. She headed to Chernov’s bedroom to change clothes, swapping her capri pants and blouse for a one-shoulder emerald-green chiffon dress.

The three Russians likewise changed attire, with Chernov and Alekperov donning sport coats over open-collar shirts, while Alekperov’s wife changed into a stylish white satin evening gown. Drinks on the patio were followed by a delectable dinner, during which the wine flowed freely. Christine paced herself, limiting her consumption to two glasses. She would normally have stopped at one considering what she was about to do, but decided a second glass would help calm her nerves.

A Russian crème over fresh fruit for dessert completed the meal, and as darkness descended on the shore of the Black Sea, the conversations ebbed. Alekperov and his wife excused themselves for an early repose, leaving Christine and Chernov alone at the table. Chernov rose, extending his hand, assisting Christine to her feet, then led the way to his bedroom suite.

After they entered the room, Chernov pulled his cell phone from his coat pocket and turned it off, then closed the door behind them. As he locked the door, Christine’s apprehension began to mount, and she began trembling. Chernov noticed and inquired, considering the temperature was in the mid-seventies. Christine played it off as the chills from too much sun on Chernov’s yacht. Backing up her claim, her exposed skin had a pink tinge.

Chernov turned off the ceiling fan, then stopped in front of Christine, rubbing the sides of her shoulders to warm her up. As he looked down at her, Christine wrapped her arms around his neck and offered a kiss, which Chernov eagerly accepted. She let the kiss linger while Chernov’s hands wandered, doing her best to simulate a passionate response. When the kiss ended, she pulled away.

“Let me change into something more appropriate.”

Chernov grinned as Christine gathered her silk nightgown and her purse, then headed into the bathroom.

60

SOCHI, RUSSIA

It was dark by the time Semyon Gorev’s Falcon executive jet landed at Sochi International Airport. During the flight, Gorev examined Christine O’Connor’s file in more detail. She wasn’t an undercover agent; there was no indication she had received field training or had ties to the CIA. It seemed Christine was one of the unluckiest women in the world, however, frequently ending up in the wrong place at the wrong time. An SVR field agent would’ve had to work hard to end up in the predicaments Christine found herself in during her stint as America’s national security advisor.

After the aircraft coasted to a halt, Gorev and two SVR agents descended onto the tarmac, where they were met by a sedan. Gorev pulled his cell phone from his jacket and dialed Chernov, but the call went directly to voice mail. He contacted Gorev’s security detail, who relayed that Chernov and O’Connor had retired for the night.

Chernov had survived lunch and dinner with Christine, and Gorev wondered if his concern was misplaced. With only suspicion and no proof, Gorev decided to allow Chernov a few moments alone with the beautiful American. A more detailed discussion with Christine would be required, which he would conduct once he arrived at the villa. With the airport only a kilometer from the coast, he would be there in a few minutes.

61

SOCHI, RUSSIA

Once inside the bathroom, Christine exchanged her evening dress for her white silk nightgown, which went down only to the top of her thighs. Sexy enough, she concluded, before turning her attention to her purse. She placed Elena’s cell phone on the counter, then withdrew the two lipstick applicators. Remembering Elena’s mnemonic—purple paralyze, crimson kill—she removed the ring from the base of the wine-colored lipstick applicator. The silver band was made of a flexible material, which fit snugly to the ring finger of her right hand. After verifying the clear plastic sheath still covered the ring’s sharp point, she closed her hand into a fist, verifying the tack didn’t interfere with the movement. Not that it mattered; she planned to keep her hand open and palm toward her until the appropriate time.

She examined herself in the mirror. Her face had turned pasty white. She was trembling again and her blood pounded in her ears. She took a few deep breaths, exhaling slowly each time, but it didn’t help; she was almost shaking. Attempting a different tactic, she turned her thoughts to Brackman—what she had been forced to do aboard the sunken submarine. She focused on the months of guilt and anguish she had endured due to Chernov’s order. The trembling slowly subsided, followed by a determination that settled low and cold in her gut. She turned and headed toward the door.

Christine emerged from the bathroom to find Chernov supine on the bed, feet crossed and his jacket and shoes removed, but fully clothed otherwise. With his head resting on a pillow, she had a problem; it would be difficult to puncture the skin behind his neck. Fortunately, Chernov stood as she approached.

“You look ravishing,” he said when she stopped in front of him.

Christine wrapped her arms around his neck again, resting her forearms on his shoulders, leaving her hands free while she offered him another kiss. Chernov accepted, and as his hands slipped beneath her nightgown and explored her bare skin, Christine removed the plastic sheath from the ring.

She let the kiss linger, and when she sensed Chernov pulling away, she plunged the sharp point into the back of his neck, just above the hairline as instructed. There was no reaction from Chernov; the numbing agent performed as advertised.

Chernov reached down to the bottom of Christine’s nightgown, pulling it upward. As Christine raised her arms above her head so he could slip it off, Chernov stopped halfway up. His face went slack and his muscles flaccid, and he collapsed onto the bed. His eyes darted around the room and his mouth moved slowly, as if trying to talk, but he appeared paralyzed otherwise.

Christine headed to the bathroom, replacing the plastic sheath on her ring, then exchanged it for the other one. She grabbed Elena’s cell phone and simultaneously pressed the power and up volume button. The phone energized, displaying a man’s face.

“What is the status?” he asked.

“Chernov is paralyzed,” Christine replied.

“Excellent. Point the cell phone at him.”

Christine returned to the bedroom, standing near the bed as she aimed the cell phone at Chernov. The video went to a split-screen mode, showing Chernov and whoever was on the other end. Another man appeared on-screen—an unshaven man whose eyes burned with a mix of hatred and glee.

The man spoke in Russian, and when Christine heard the defense minister’s name, Chernov’s eyes shot toward the cell phone. The man continued, the pitch and tempo of his words increasing, slowly approaching madman status; his face turned red and spittle flew from his mouth as he screamed at Chernov. Abruptly, his rage subsided and he smiled.

The first man she’d seen on the cell phone appeared again. “Kill Chernov now,” he said.

Christine placed the cell phone on the bed and removed the plastic sheath from her ring. Unceremoniously, she grabbed Chernov’s hair and lifted his head up. As she slipped her hand behind his neck and prepared to pierce his skin, there was a knock on the bedroom door and a query in Russian.

Christine hesitated. Chernov’s death would look like a heart attack, but she needed time for the poison to take effect before she called for assistance. She had already paralyzed him, however, so there was no turning back. Another round of knocks emanated from the door, forcefully this time, accompanied by a second query in Russian with a more urgent tone.

Without further delay, Christine plunged the ring into the back of Chernov’s neck, then picked up the cell phone, aiming it at his face. As the knocking on the door was replaced with a heavy pounding, Christine called out, “Just a minute.”

The pounding subsided, and Christine watched as Chernov’s breathing ceased. His skin turned a bluish tint and his eyes roamed around the room aimlessly until they stopped moving altogether, leaving Chernov staring at the ceiling with lifeless orbs.

The pounding on the door resumed and Christine answered, saying she’d be there in a minute. As she turned off the cell phone, the wooden door frame splintered and the door flew open. Two men with their pistols drawn surged into the room, their weapons pointed at Christine as Semyon Gorev stepped between them.

Christine hurried toward Gorev. “Something’s wrong with Boris. I think he’s had a heart attack.”

Gorev glanced at Chernov, then a cold, hard look settled on his face as he turned toward Christine. He knocked the cell phone from her hand, sending it flying across the room. His eyes went to Christine’s other hand, and after spotting the sharp tack protruding from her ring, he punched her in the face, knocking Christine backward, dropping her to one knee.

As blood trickled from her nose, she spotted a gap between the three men and the bedroom doorway, and she bolted toward the opening. Before she reached the doorway, one of the agents intercepted her and smashed the butt of his pistol into her head. By the time Christine’s body thudded onto the floor, her world had gone black.

62

VALDEZ, ALASKA

Staff Sergeant Stu Nelson studied the display on his control console as he pushed forward on his joystick, directing the small dual-track robot toward its destination two hundred feet away—the terminus of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline System. Minutes earlier, the Commanding Officer of Nelson’s explosive ordnance disposal unit had received the word: the disarm code had been transmitted.

The small robot closed the distance, stopping a foot away from the explosives attached to the pipeline. The initial indication was favorable. The detonator pressed into the claylike C-4 had gone dead; the red blinking light had been extinguished. Placing both hands into the control mitts, Nelson activated the robot’s claws, reaching forward with one arm. After opening the claw, he slid it over one edge of the detonator, digging the claw’s bottom finger gently into the C-4 explosive beneath. He slowly closed the claw until a firm grip on the detonator was obtained. Shifting to the other arm, Nelson repeated the process, ending with both claws clamped on to the detonator.

Nelson glanced at the unit’s Commanding Officer, Captain John Brown.

“Remove the detonator,” Brown said.

Nelson slowly pulled the robot’s claws back, gradually extracting the detonator from the explosive. His eyes focused on the detonator panel, looking for a reaction. It remained dark. Once the detonating probe cleared the claylike C-4, Nelson put the robot in reverse, quickly opening the distance from the explosive.

Once the robot was safely away, Nelson let out a deep breath. It could not have gone smoother.

Captain Brown spoke into his handheld radio, sending orders to five other units of his explosive ordnance disposal company, which were deployed at other points along the pipeline where explosives had been discovered.

63

ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA

Forty feet underground in the Pentagon basement, the president strode down the hallway, bracketed by SecDef McVeigh and Colonel DuBose. Upon reaching the end of the corridor, McVeigh swiped his badge and punched in his pass code, and the door opened to the Current Action Center of the National Military Command Center. The CAC dropped down in increments, with workstations lining each tier, descending to a fifteen-by-thirty-foot electronic display on the far wall. Unlike the adjacent Operations Center, which focused only on nuclear weapons, the CAC handled all aspects of the country’s defensive and offensive operations around the world.

McVeigh led the way to a conference room along the top tier, where the president stopped to examine the monitor on the far wall, displaying a map of the Indian Ocean. Blinking green circles in the Arabian Sea marked the planned starting positions of the four carrier strike groups, while blue circles tracked their present locations. Two strike groups were loitering in their starting positions, with two more rapidly approaching from the southeast, not far away.

The president entered the conference room and took his seat at the head of the table. Joining him on one side were the Joint Chiefs of Staff—the heads of the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marine Corps, and National Guard, along with the chairman and vice chairman. On the other side of the table sat Vice President Bob Tomkins and members of the president’s staff and cabinet—McVeigh, Dawn, Hardison, and Colonel DuBose. On the far end of the table was CIA Director Jessica Cherry.

McVeigh kicked off the brief, with each applicable service chief outlining his service’s role in the operation. The Chief of Naval Operations, Admiral Brian Rettman, whose forces were by far the largest component of the operation, spoke at length, outlining the possible Russian responses and America’s plan to counter each one.

The Admiral finished with, “It appears our fake upload into Russian and Indian satellites is working. There’s no indication Russia has detected the two additional carrier strike groups entering the Indian Ocean. All available submarines in the Pacific are on station, and will coalesce around the four carrier strike groups when the operation begins.”

When the brief concluded, the president asked McVeigh, “Where do we stand on disarming and removing the pipeline explosives?”

“The override code worked as advertised. We’ve successfully removed a half-dozen detonators from explosives attached to the Alaskan oil pipeline. We’ve also informed our NATO allies that they can remove the explosives from the pipelines and pumping stations in their territory, and will inform all other affected countries once military action against Russia commences; we don’t want word that we’ve disarmed the detonators to leak out to Russia until after we engage.

“However,” McVeigh added, “we have more details on the operation to assassinate Minister Chernov, which I wasn’t aware of until Director Cherry provided more information.”

When the president looked in Cherry’s direction, she said, “The plan to kill Chernov had to be modified. Chernov worked late after the summit reception, leaving no time for a liaison with Elena Krayev. Then he traveled to his villa in Sochi for the weekend, and unfortunately, he didn’t take Elena with him.”

“Then how was he killed?”

“He took Christine.”

The president raised an eyebrow.

“She did an admirable job,” Cherry said, “establishing the video link before she killed Chernov. However, there’s a complication. Someone was attempting to enter Chernov’s bedroom as Christine killed him, and we don’t know if she was able to pass his death off as a heart attack or she was discovered.”

“What’s the plan?”

“She hasn’t requested assistance, but we don’t know if that’s because she doesn’t need help or doesn’t have access to Elena’s phone. If we bust in with an extraction team, the Russians will figure out what we’ve done, plus there’s the possibility Christine will be killed in the process. We’ll monitor the situation via satellite and communication intercepts from Chernov’s villa. Until we know whether Christine is in danger, I recommend we sit tight.”

After a moment of reflection, the president nodded his concurrence.

Silence settled over the conference room until McVeigh said, “Mr. President, all preparations are complete and we are ready to proceed.”

The president didn’t hesitate. “Engage Russia with all assigned units.”

64

USS HARRY S. TRUMAN

“This could be a problem.”

“Could be,” Randle agreed.

Captain David Randle stood beside his Operations Officer in the aircraft carrier’s Combat Direction Center, reviewing nearby friendly, hostile, and currently neutral forces. His eyes, along with those of his Operations Officer, Captain Brent Sites, were focused on the Video Wall displays. On one of the large screens, Sites had pulled up the Common Operational Picture, which displayed blue, red, and yellow icons of various designs, each symbol representing the location of a surface, air, or subsurface combatant.

The Truman strike group was loitering in the Indian Ocean, just south of the Arabian Sea. The Ronald Reagan strike group was twenty miles to the west, and the Bush and Eisenhower strike groups were closing fast from the southeast. Once assembled, the American task force would comprise four aircraft carriers, forty cruisers and destroyers, and twenty fast attack submarines—a formidable armada.

In contrast, the Russian Navy in the Arabian Sea fielded only one aircraft carrier and eighteen cruisers, destroyers, and corvettes. Although the Russian combatants were fewer in number, they were more heavily armed than their American counterparts. The aircraft carrier Kuznetsov was a good example. In addition to carrying up to thirty-two fixed wing aircraft and twenty-four helicopters, she was outfitted with a dozen Shipwreck surface attack and 192 Gauntlet anti-air missiles. The other surface ships were similarly outfitted; the Russians loaded weapon systems on their combatants like ornaments on a Christmas tree.

Although there were no hostile symbols ashore, Randle knew there were over a hundred surface-to-air missile batteries hidden on the Iranian coast, ready to engage. The Russians had also deployed four hundred tactical aircraft to Iranian bases, keeping one-fourth aloft at all times. After observing what China did to American air bases at the outbreak of their war, they were keeping a significant portion of their aircraft airborne, rotating them in six-hour shifts.

Even though the Russian Navy was augmented with missile batteries ashore and aircraft at Iranian bases, Randle was reasonably confident the United States would prevail in the air and surface engagement. Russia’s real threat lurked beneath the water: thirty-seven attack and eleven guided missile submarines, with the latter carrying deadly surface attack missiles.

Captain Randle’s assessment of the surrounding forces was interrupted by a flashing message on Captain Sites’s console. Sites pulled up the message. A new OPORD. The four aircraft carriers were being combined into a single task force and had been directed to destroy all Russian units in the Indian Ocean theater of operations—all air, surface, and submerged combatants. More detailed orders would be forthcoming.

Randle picked up the 1-MC microphone and directed all department heads to meet him in the Wardroom. Before he left CDC, he examined the neutral forces in the area, which was the original source of his concern; it would be problematic if they joined the battle on the wrong side. India had two operational aircraft carriers and sixteen surface combatants, with the two carriers normally deployed on opposite sides of the country. However, both carrier strike groups were now operating off India’s west coast, not far from Truman and Reagan. Compounding the matter, India’s first indigenous aircraft carrier, undergoing sea trials, had joined them.

Randle repeated his Operations Officer’s assessment. “This could be a problem.”

65

USS MICHIGAN

Captain Murray Wilson turned slowly on the periscope in the darkness, monitoring the surface traffic. Michigan was in the Aegean Sea at the mouth of the Dardanelles, preparing for its journey through the Turkish Straits. It would be a long, tense transit, with the thirty-eight-mile-long Dardanelles narrowing to just over a thousand yards in some spots. Once into the Sea of Marmara, Michigan would complete its journey by transiting the Bosphorus, a seventeen-mile-long channel only half as wide as the Dardanelles.

When Wilson received his new orders a few days earlier, he hadn’t been surprised. The Turkish Straits, connecting the Black Sea to the Mediterranean, have been of strategic importance for millennia, dating back to the Trojan War, fought near the Aegean entrance. During the twenty-first century, it served as a crucial international waterway for countries bordering the Black Sea.

Michigan’s trip wouldn’t be easy. Russian submarines transiting the straits did so on the surface, but that was a luxury Michigan couldn’t afford. At the northern end of the Bosphorus, four Russian frigates patrolled. That meant Michigan would transit submerged. However, even at periscope depth, there were several spots along the way that were too shallow, and Michigan would have to alter course into the southbound channel while passing Kadıköy İnciburnu and Aşiyan Point.

Compounding the potential for discovery were the one-thousand-plus east–west crossings each day, transporting 1.5 million inhabitants across the Bosphorus on intercity ferries and shuttle boats. The nighttime transit up the straits would minimize the risk of discovery, but not eliminate it.

Wilson turned slowly on the periscope, looking for a merchant that would suit his needs. With so many waterborne contacts nearby, Sonar was overwhelmed sorting things out, and Wilson’s eyeball was a better sensor at times like this. Finally, he spotted the desired contact: a two-hundred-thousand-ton Suezmax class tanker. Michigan would travel closely behind, its periscope hopefully obscured by the ship’s wake.

“Helm, right twenty degrees rudder, ahead two-thirds.”

Michigan turned slowly to the right, falling in behind the northbound tanker.

66

USS HARRY S. TRUMAN

Captain David Randle stood on the Bridge, one level beneath Primary Flight Control in the aircraft carrier’s Island superstructure, as Truman surged northwest into the darkness. Fifty feet below, the first four F/A-18 Super Hornets, their engine exhausts glowing red, eased toward their catapults. Along the sides of the carrier, additional Super Hornets were being raised to the Flight Deck from the hangar bays. As the twenty aircraft in Truman’s first cycle prepared for launch, Randle knew the Reagan, Bush, and Eisenhower air wings were doing the same.

*   *   *

Lieutenant Commander Bill Houston pulled back on the throttles, slowing his Super Hornet as it approached the starboard bow catapult. In the darkness, he followed the Shooter’s directions, his yellow flashlights guiding Houston’s jet forward. The Shooter raised his right arm, then dropped it suddenly. Houston responded by dropping the fighter’s launch bar, which rolled into the CAT One shuttle hook as the aircraft lurched to a halt. The Shooter raised both hands in the air and Houston matched his motion, raising both hands to within view inside the cockpit, giving the Shooter assurance that Houston’s hands were off all controls. The Shooter pointed his flashlight to a red-shirted Ordie—an Aviation Ordnanceman—who stepped beneath the Super Hornet, arming each missile.

A signal from the Shooter told Houston his weapons were armed and it was time to go to full power. He pushed the throttles forward until they hit the détente, spooling his twin General Electric turbofan engines up to full Military Power. He then exercised the aircraft’s control surfaces, moving the control stick to all four corners as he alternately pressed both rudder pedals. Black-and-white-shirted Troubleshooters verified the Super Hornet’s control surfaces were functioning properly and there were no oil or fuel leaks.

Satisfied his aircraft was functioning properly, Houston returned the thumbs-up and the Shooter lifted his arm skyward, then back down to a horizontal position, directing Houston to kick in the afterburners. Houston’s Super Hornet was heavy tonight, with ordnance attached to every pylon; tonight’s takeoff required extra thrust. Houston pushed the throttles past the détente to engage the afterburners, then turned toward the Shooter and saluted, the glow from his cockpit instruments illuminating his hand as it went to his helmet.

The Shooter returned the salute, then bent down and touched the Flight Deck, giving the signal to the operator in the Catapult Control Station. Houston pushed his head firmly against the headrest of his seat and took his hands off the controls, and a second later CAT One fired with the usual spine-jarring jolt. Houston felt his stomach lifting into his chest as the Super Hornet dropped when it left the carrier’s deck, then he took control of his aircraft, accelerating upward. His seat pressed into him as he ascended to twelve thousand feet, where he settled into a holding pattern while Truman finished launching its first cycle.

67

FURY 21

High above southeastern Turkey, Air Force Major Mike Peck checked the map on the multifunction display of his B-1B Lancer long-range bomber, call sign Fury 21. Seated beside him in the four-person cockpit was his co-pilot, while behind them sat the DSO and OSO—Defensive Systems Operator and Offensive Systems Operator. Also behind Peck was a second B-1B from the U.S. Air Force’s 9th Bomb Squadron, headed to the same target. Sixteen other Lancers had similar assignments, with their flight paths and speed coordinated such that all eighteen Lancers commenced their attacks simultaneously.

As his B-1B bomber approached the Iranian border, Peck adjusted his wings to full sweep, pulling them back to a fifteen-degree angle, then dropped in altitude and increased speed to just under Mach 1. As the ground rushed up to meet his aircraft, he engaged the ground-hugging, terrain-following mode of his AN/APQ-64 radar, and the B-1B leveled off, skimming across the landscape just above treetop height in an effort to avoid detection by Iranian radars and Russian anti-aircraft missile batteries.

Peck adjusted his flight path, running parallel to the Zagros Mountains as they cut southeast across Iran, hugging the valleys of the multi-ridge mountain range. After an hour-long transit, the mountain peaks tapered off and Peck turned south, cutting between the Folded Zagros Mountains, not far from his target. As the second Lancer pulled alongside, Peck’s OSO began final preparations to drop their payload of twenty-four GBU-31s: two-thousand-pound bombs, each outfitted with a JDAM—Joint Direct Attack Munition—a bolt-on guidance package with aerodynamic control surfaces and GPS capability, converting free-falling gravity bombs into precision-guided munitions.

The voice of Peck’s OSO came across the speaker in his flight helmet. “One minute to release point.”

Peck lifted a switch on his panel, opening the triple bomb bay doors. After a green light illuminated on his panel, he activated the microphone in his flight helmet. “OSO, you have permission to release.”

The OSO acknowledged the order, and when the Lancer reached the release point, he dropped their ordnance. On Peck’s left, the second B-1B did the same.

Peck banked to the right for a return trip home as twenty-four tons of ordnance streaked toward their targets.

68

BANDAR ABBAS, IRAN

Under the bright air base lights, Russian Air Force Major Vadim Aleyev guided his tactical fighter toward the left strip of the two-runway base. The Iranian Air Force had been kind enough to open its runways and facilities to Russian aircraft, and Bandar Abbas Air Base, occupying a strategic location on Iran’s southern coast near the Strait of Hormuz, was now home to several squadrons of Russian tactical fighters.

Bandar Abbas’s hot desert climate, with summer temperatures peaking near 120 degrees Fahrenheit, wasn’t much different from Aleyev’s last assignment. Having spent several months in Syria flying over one hundred missions in support of President Bashar al-Assad’s regime, Aleyev was one of Russia’s most experienced combat pilots. He now was preparing to relieve one of the fighters aloft in Russia’s combat air patrol over their ships in the Gulf of Oman, ready to defend them if necessary.

Aleyev applied the brakes, coasting to a halt beside another Sukhoi Su-35S waiting on the adjacent runway, while ahead, another fighter completed final preparations for takeoff. Although Aleyev’s Su-35S was one of Russia’s most advanced multi-role fighters, designed to engage air, land, and sea targets, Aleyev’s aircraft was armed with ten R-77-1 active-radar homing missiles tonight. Like the jet beside him and the one in front, they were configured for air-to-air combat, should the American carrier strike groups in the Arabian Sea attack.

The engines of the Su-35S in front of Aleyev flared, and the aircraft accelerated down the runway. As the jet beside Aleyev pulled forward, next in line for takeoff in the alternating sequence, a bright flash at the end of Aleyev’s runway caught his attention. The Su-35S taking off disintegrated in an orange fireball, and chunks of runway and aircraft rained down on the air base.

The Su-35S beside Aleyev began streaking down its runway and Aleyev followed suit, engaging both afterburners as another explosion rocked the base. As his fighter accelerated to takeoff speed, a crater opened up just ahead of the fighter on the adjacent runway and the jet disappeared into the roiling orange-and-black cloud, with only bits and pieces of the aircraft emerging on the other side.

Another explosion bathed Aleyev’s cockpit in an orange hue, leaving a crater in his runway only fifty meters ahead. He was below takeoff speed but had no choice; he pulled back on his stick when he reached the crater. His wheels cleared the far edge with only a foot to spare, and Aleyev climbed into the night sky as additional bombs hit the air base, the explosions illuminating the landscape below in a pulsating orange glow.

As he rose into the darkness, Aleyev checked his instrumentation. Only eighteen aircraft from his cycle, launching from various bases across Iran, had made it airborne. There were another hundred above the Sea of Oman, and although they’d be running low on fuel, there were several tankers aloft. Aleyev turned southeast with a grim determination. With the assistance of the missile batteries on the Iranian coast, they would teach the Americans a lesson they would not soon forget.

69

ARABIAN SEA

Lieutenant Commander Bill Houston cruised at twelve thousand feet, headed northwest toward the Gulf of Oman, where the Russian surface combatants awaited. Houston and the other seventeen Super Hornets in Truman’s first cycle were divided into nine two-fighter packages, with each package assigned a different target. At this point in their approach, the eighteen fighters were strung out side by side at half-mile intervals, with an EA-18G Growler on each side of the formation, jamming incoming missiles and aircraft radars.

Three more waves of aircraft were headed northwest, one from each of the other carriers, forming a diamond formation with Truman’s cycle in the lead. The Russian surface combatants were arranged in a single task force resembling a two-carrier strike group, with the aircraft carrier Kuznetsov and the battle cruiser Pyotr Velikiy in the center.

Although the four waves of American fighters had been tasked with sinking the Russian surface ships, they would have to deal with the Russian combat air patrol first. The Super Hornets in his cycle were carrying a mixed load: air-to-surface missiles for the ships and air-to-air missiles for the tactical fighters. The Russian ships, aircraft, and missile batteries ashore would fire a bevy of missiles against the incoming American fighters, and defending against them would be challenging. Houston would have to rely on chaff, infrared decoys, and his organic jammers, as well as the more powerful electronic countermeasures aboard the accompanying Growlers.

Houston’s Radar Warning Receiver activated, its audible warning pulling his attention to the display. E-2C Hawkeye early warning aircraft, operating high above and to the rear, were relaying their contacts to the inbound fighters. Missiles had appeared over the Iranian coast, headed Houston’s way on an intercept course. Each missile was represented by a red 6, which indicated they were long-range 40N6 surface-to-air missiles fired by Russian mobile missile batteries. The 40N6 was designed to kill high-value targets, able to defeat EA-18G jamming.

There were four waves of outbound missiles, each wave headed toward a cycle of American fighters. In response to the incoming threat, the pilots from all four carriers did as they had been instructed to do. They banked hard left and dropped to the deck, skimming just above the ocean surface as they streaked away from the missiles.

In layman parlance, Houston and his fellow pilots turned and ran.

70

AIEA, HAWAII

In the fall of 1941, Takeo Yoshikawa stood in the grassy knolls of Aiea Heights overlooking Pearl Harbor and took notes. Assigned to the Japanese consulate in Honolulu, Yoshikawa left the consulate around 10 a.m. each day, returning to his office after lunch to review the product of his reconnaissance. In mid-November, he answered ninety-seven questions from Japan’s Foreign Ministry, including:

On what day of the week would the most ships be in Pearl Harbor on normal occasions?

Answer: Sunday.

In the early morning hours of Sunday, December 7, 1941, his efforts culminated in a succinct message sent to Vice Admiral Chūichi Nagumo, which he read in the darkened Bridge of the Japanese heavy aircraft carrier Akagi:

Vessels moored in harbor: 9 battleships, 3 class B cruisers, 3 seaplane tenders, 17 destroyers.

*   *   *

In the foothills of Aiea, not far from where Yoshikawa stood while surveying Pearl Harbor, is Camp H. M. Smith, home to the United States Pacific Command. Within Camp Smith, accessing satellite surveillance is the Cruise Missile Support Activity, Pacific, providing precision targeting, route planning, and strike management for Tomahawk cruise missile missions. Today, in the early morning hours, the men and women at their workstations were busy reviewing the product of their reconnaissance.

Red icons had populated their displays, and each mission planner, assigned a small section of Iran’s southern coast, was busy transmitting GPS coordinates. Thirty minutes earlier, three guided missile submarines, each loaded with a full complement of 154 Tomahawk missiles, had launched a fraction of their ordnance. However, the eighty missiles had been launched without destination coordinates. The missiles were circling just above the surface of the Arabian Sea, not far from the Iranian coast, waiting.

The Tomahawk missiles fired by the three guided missile submarines were Block IV Tactical Tomahawks, or TacToms, which could loiter after launch, doing doughnuts in the air while awaiting targeting information. Although Tomahawk missiles were extremely accurate, it took hours for launch orders to be generated, transmitted, and loaded aboard older variants prior to firing. During that time, enemy units could reposition, resulting in the Tomahawk destroying a vacant building or deserted patch of dirt. The TacTom missile overcame this deficit, already launched and loitering nearby while it waited for its final GPS coordinate, reducing the time between target identification and ordnance-on-target from hours to mere minutes.

The Tomahawk mission planners were busy sending coordinates of the Russian missile batteries that had fired on the incoming waves of F/A-18 fighters, which had been used as bait. They worked quickly, hoping each TacTom reached its target before the missile battery repositioned. For those that moved or hadn’t opened fire yet, the mission planners had several hundred more TacToms at their disposal.

71

MOSCOW

President Yuri Kalinin, accompanied by General Sergei Andropov, his chief of the general staff and senior military advisor, traveled briskly down the corridor, entering the Operations Center in the Kremlin basement. There was an eerie silence within, as the men and women monitored the red and blue symbols on their screens, with blue ones appearing at a steady rate while red ones disappeared.

The Operations Officer on duty greeted President Kalinin, then briefed him on America’s assault on Russian forces. The runways and hangars of every Iranian base housing Russian tactical aircraft had been destroyed, and they’d lost two-thirds of their mobile missile batteries on the Iranian coast.

He concluded with, “The United States prepared well for this attack and their intentions are clear. They aim to destroy our ability to blockade the Persian Gulf.” He added, “The main battle is about to begin. The American air wings will engage our surface ships, and Admiral Shimko has ordered our submarines to sink the American carriers.”

Kalinin could barely contain his fury, both at the United States and at his senior military aide. General Andropov had assured him there would be no war between Russia and the United States. Their blackmail plan, placing a stranglehold on Western Europe’s natural resources, would restrain them. His thoughts shifted to his discussion with Christine O’Connor on the Kremlin Senate balcony, where he’d explained that Americans didn’t understand Russians. Now, it was painfully clear that Russians didn’t understand Americans either. They were cutting the throats of their allies; Kalinin would destroy their oil and natural gas pipelines and their economies would sputter, throwing their countries into chaos.

Perhaps the Americans didn’t believe him and were calling his bluff. He turned to his chief of the general staff.

“Destroy several pipelines and pumping stations, including America’s Alaskan oil pipeline. That should get their attention.”

72

GULF OF OMAN

Twenty minutes earlier, as a wave of Russian missiles surged from the Iranian coast, Houston and the other F/A-18 pilots had turned tail and run, increasing speed as they dropped close to the ocean waves. The tactic worked well. They had outrun the first barrage of missiles while the TacToms destroyed two-thirds of the Russian missile launchers. Another wave of Tactical Tomahawks was inbound, with mission planners in Hawaii assigning their targets as more Russian missile batteries revealed their locations.

With the majority of the shore-based missile batteries destroyed, Houston and the other pilots turned back toward the Russian surface ships. However, over one hundred Russian aircraft lay ahead, forming a protective ring just beyond the range of the F/A-18s’ anti-ship missiles. This time, however, Houston and his fellow pilots weren’t going to run.

Truman’s first cycle of aircraft slowed and the other three cycles pulled alongside, forming a two-level front of seventy-two F/A-18s interspersed with eight electronic jamming Growlers. The Super Hornets needed to get close enough to the Russian surface combatants to launch their AGM-84 Harpoon anti-ship missiles. With only nineteen surface combatants to destroy, Houston’s fighter was loaded with a single Harpoon, with the other ten hardpoints carrying anti-air missiles. Making it through the Russian fighters was the challenge.

When the Russian aircraft were within range of his radar-homing AMRAAM anti-air missiles, Houston and the other F/A-18 pilots fired a two-missile volley, knowing the Russian pilots were doing the same, like two armies of archers shooting guided arrows at each other. Houston watched his missiles close on the Russian jets while his Radar Warning Receiver alerted, displaying incoming air-to-air missiles. He fired a second volley, keeping two AMRAAMs and four Sidewinder infrared-seeking missiles in reserve.

The Russians also fired a second volley, and as the first wave of missiles closed on the F/A-18 formation, Houston focused on avoiding them. He was fortunate, flying beside one of the EA-18G Growlers. As the missiles approached, his Radar Warning Receiver indicated the missiles had failed to lock on to his aircraft. The Growler’s electronic jamming worked well. Just in case, Houston broke left as other Super Hornets took evasive action. As the first wave of missiles passed by, pinpricks of light illuminated the darkness. After checking his radar display, Houston determined they’d lost six aircraft.

The next wave of missiles approached quickly, and Houston’s Radar Warning Receiver told him the missiles had radar-seeking heads and that at least one had locked on to his aircraft. Right before the missile arrived, Houston dispensed a burst of chaff, then broke right. His jet veered out of the way as the missile headed toward the chaff, attracted by the cloud of aluminum-coated glass fibers.

After verifying the missile continued straight ahead instead of turning back toward his aircraft, Houston examined his display again. Another five aircraft lost. Still, there were sixty-one Super Hornets remaining, and a quick scan told Houston their AMRAAM missiles had performed well, destroying twenty-two Russian fighters. The odds were starting to even, but Houston and his fellow pilots were still outnumbered.

The two formations of aircraft closed on each other, and had it been daylight, they’d have been within visual range. Houston had several targets to choose from, and after identifying a gap he’d try to slip through, he targeted the two nearest fighters with his remaining AMRAAM missiles. Houston kicked in his afterburners, increasing speed.

73

USS HARRY S. TRUMAN

Inside the aircraft carrier’s Combat Direction Center, the blue glow from the consoles illuminated Captain Brent Sites’s face as he studied the displays on the Video Wall. The left monitor was zoomed out to a bird’s-eye view of the Indian Ocean, displaying the Russian forces in the Gulf of Oman and American units in the Arabian Sea. Minutes earlier, blue inverted U’s had appeared beside the aircraft carriers as they launched their air wings, and the first cycle of eighty aircraft had sped northwest toward the Russian battle group.

As the first cycle approached the Russian combat air patrol, Sites listened to the calm, monotone reports from the strike controllers as the casualties mounted.

“Loss of alpha-two-one.”

“Loss of charlie-four-two.”

The opposing waves of aircraft finally met and the display became a jumbled mosaic of shifting red and blue icons, the concentration of both colors growing gradually thinner.

The blue icons broke through the red barrier and continued toward the Russian surface combatants while the red icons regrouped, preparing for the assault of another blue wave; the second cycle of American aircraft was approaching. As the first wave closed on the Russian surface ships, surface-to-air missiles streaked from the combatants, with the missiles reaching the F/A-18s before their Harpoons were within range. The blood drained from Sites’s face as two dozen blue icons disappeared from his display.

The surviving F/A-18s launched their Harpoons, then turned away, racing back to their carriers. Thankfully, the Russian tactical fighters were about to engage the next incoming wave of F/A-18s, and given that the outbound aircraft had expended most, if not all, of their weapons, they focused on the approaching, fully armed aircraft.

The second wave of eighty FA-18s and EA-18G Growlers penetrated the Russian combat air patrol with noticeably fewer losses, but they still paid their dues when the Russian surface combatants engaged. The longer-range Russian missiles inflicted heavy casualties, but several dozen Harpoons streaked toward the Russian battle group.

Captain Sites brought up satellite reconnaissance on the right screen of the Video Wall, displaying an infrared picture of the nighttime scene. Bright flares erupted as the second wave of Harpoons hit their mark, and when the flashes faded, Sites counted thirteen Russian combatants on fire. He couldn’t tell if they were out of commission, but they had at least been damaged, hopefully impairing their ability to defend themselves against the next wave of aircraft. The American battle plan was pretty much a wash-rinse-repeat process, with each cycle of aircraft attacking the Russian surface ships, returning to their carriers to refuel and rearm, then attacking again.

As Sites studied the satellite image, the picture deteriorated into a haze of gray-and-black static. Sites selected another satellite feed and got the same result. The Russians were jamming the American reconnaissance satellites.

The first wave of fighters returned to their carriers and Captain Sites tallied the losses: thirty-three of the eighty aircraft had been shot down. The losses were heavy, but they could trade a few aircraft for each surface combatant sunk. Plus, the American losses would decrease with each successive attack, since the Russian combat air patrol, comprising mostly land-based fighters, now had nowhere to rearm due to the destruction of all nearby Iranian air bases. Kuznetsov was the only facility in the area that could refuel and rearm aircraft, which made her a priority for destruction.

Although thirteen Russian surface combatants had been hit, Kuznetsov and Pyotr Velikiy remained untouched. It was only a matter of time, however, before all of the Russian surface combatants were reduced to burning hulks.

Assuming, of course, the Russian submarines were kept at arm’s length. Sites studied the display, searching for the forty-eight Russian attack and guided missile submarines. There were no red U-shaped icons, representing hostile submarines, on the display.

So far, so good.

74

USS HARTFORD

Commander Dave Thames, standing on the Conn between the two lowered periscopes, surveyed his men in the Control Room. They were at Battle Stations and every console was manned, with supervisors standing behind them. Free to roam the Control Room was Thames’s Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Joe White, in charge of the Fire Control Tracking Party. The waterspace around Hartford had been quiet thus far, with Sonar reporting no submerged contacts.

USS Hartford, a Los Angeles class submarine, was in the middle of its ten-mile-wide by twenty-mile-long operating area, patrolling slowly side to side, giving Hartford’s towed array a clear view of the northern end of its operating area. With only twenty submarines to protect the four-carrier task force and ample ocean for the Russian submarines to do an end-around, the U.S. fast attacks were arranged in a single line of defense wrapping around both flanks of the task force formation, with Hartford assigned to one of the northern sectors. The battle had started an hour ago, and as Thames wondered how long it would take the Russian submarines to begin their assault, his thoughts were interrupted by a report from Sonar.

“Conn, Sonar. Hold a new contact on the towed array, designated Sierra five-seven, ambiguous bearings three-five-five and two-seven-five, classified submerged. Analyzing.”

Hartford’s towed array detected contacts at longer ranges than the submarine’s other acoustic sensors. However, the array couldn’t determine which side the sound arrived from, resulting in two potential bearings to the contact. With the American task force to the south and other U.S. submarines prohibited from entering Hartford’s waterspace, it was obvious which side of the array the submerged contact was on and that it was hostile.

The Sonar Supervisor’s next report confirmed Thames’s assessment. “Conn, Sonar. Sierra five-seven is classified Akula II.”

“Attention in Control,” Thames announced. “Designate Sierra five-seven as Master one. Track Master one.”

Thames turned his attention to the four men seated at the submarine’s combat control consoles. Three men were dedicated to determining the contact’s solution—its course, speed, and range—and a fourth man sat at the Weapon Control Console, which would send the desired search presets to the MK 48 Mod 7 torpedoes in the submarine’s four torpedo tubes. The weapons were powered up and in communication with combat control, and each torpedo tube was flooded with its muzzle door open.

After maintaining an eastern course for several minutes, watching the contact’s bearing drift aft, Thames reversed course.

“Helm, right full rudder, steady course two-seven-zero.”

Hartford steadied on its new course and as Thames evaluated Master one’s new bearing drift, Sonar reported another contact.

“Conn, Sonar. Gained a new submerged contact on the towed array, designated Sierra five-eight, ambiguous bearings zero-two-zero and one-six-zero. Analyzing.”

A second Russian submarine had entered the top right corner of Hartford’s operating area. As Thames turned his attention to the new contact, Sonar followed up. “Conn, Sonar. Gained a new submerged contact on the towed array, designated Sierra five-nine, ambiguous bearings three-two-zero and two-two-zero. Analyzing.”

It looked as though the Russians were attempting to penetrate the American submarine screen at even intervals, resulting in three inbound Russian submarines in Hartford’s operating area.

Thames announced, “Designate Sierra five-eight as Master two and Sierra five-nine as Master three. The contact of interest is Master one.” Master one was likely the closest of the three.

Lieutenant Commander White acknowledged and directed each of the three men developing contact solutions to track a different submarine, with Hartford’s most experienced fire control technician assigned to Master one.

White followed up, “Ambiguity has been resolved. All three contacts are to the north.”

The XO’s announcement didn’t surprise Thames, but his next report did.

“Master one is operating at high speed. Best estimate—twenty knots.”

Although twenty knots was less than two-thirds of an Akula II’s maximum speed, it was excessive for submarine-versus-submarine engagements, where high speed amplified a submarine’s radiated noise and dulled its acoustic sensors. However, with the Russian submarine approaching so rapidly, Thames would have to act soon, without a refined firing solution.

Thames figured Master one was functioning as a bird dog, flushing Hartford from its hiding spot. Once Thames fired a torpedo, all three Russian submarines would know where Hartford was and would counterfire. The scenario would degenerate into a free-for-all, with all four submarines maneuvering aggressively, launching decoys and jammers and more torpedoes. On the wrong end of a three-to-one scenario, Hartford would not likely survive. Thames’s only hope was to determine a solution for each Russian submarine and attack all three at once. Sonar’s next announcement threw a wrench into that plan.

“Conn, Sonar. Gained Master one on the spherical array.”

The spherical array had a shorter detection range than the towed array, so the detection told Thames that Master one was getting dangerously close; the Russian crew would detect Hartford at any moment.

Thames stopped by his XO. “I need a firing solution on all three contacts, now.”

He was pushing his Executive Officer for target solutions, but they didn’t need to be exact. They needed to place each torpedo close enough to detect the Russian submarine once the sonar in the torpedo’s nose activated. It would take over from there and adjust course to intercept the submarine.

Lieutenant Commander White studied the solutions on the consoles, then after a moment of hesitation replied, “I have firing solutions, Master one, two, and three.”

Thames announced, “Firing Point Procedures, Master one, two, and three. Normal submerged presets. Assign tube One to Master one, tube Two to Master two, and tube Three to Master three. Tube One will be first fired, then tube Two. Tube Four will be backup in case we have a cold shot.”

Although submarine weapon systems were very reliable, they weren’t perfect, and on occasion, a torpedo failed to launch. If the crew pulled the trigger and the torpedo didn’t eject, it was deemed a cold shot, and the crew would quickly attempt to identify whether it was a tube problem, combat control issue, or bad torpedo.

The first report during Firing Point Procedures came from the XO, reporting the best solution for each contact had been selected and sent to Weapon Control.

“Solutions ready!”

Hartford’s Weapons Officer, stationed as the Weapon Control Coordinator, announced, “Weapons ready!” reporting that all three torpedoes had accepted their weapon presets.

“Ship ready!” the Navigator announced, informing Thames that the submarine’s torpedo countermeasures—their decoys and jammers—were ready to deploy.

“Shoot on generated bearings,” Thames ordered.

The first four-thousand-pound weapon was ejected from its torpedo tube, accelerating from rest to thirty knots in less than a second. In rapid succession, tubes Two and Three were also fired. Inside Sonar, the sonar technicians monitored the status of their outgoing units, referring to each torpedo by the tube that launched it.

“Tube One is in the water, running normally.”

“Fuel crossover achieved.”

“Turning to preset gyro course.”

“Shifting to medium speed.”

Hartford’s first-fired torpedo turned to the ordered course and began its search for Master one as Hartford’s second and third torpedoes raced toward the other two submarines.

Thames ordered, “Helm, left full rudder, steady course two-zero-zero. Ahead full.”

In preparation for counterfire from the three Russian submarines, Thames maneuvered Hartford to an optimal torpedo evasion course, although optimal didn’t mean good in this case. With Russian submarines about to counterfire from three different directions, there was no good course to turn to.

Master one responded immediately, firing a two-torpedo salvo before turning away.

Sonar’s report, “Torpedo in the water, bearing three-five-zero!” was followed shortly by, “Second torpedo in the water, bearing three-five-two!”

Thames ordered, “Helm, ahead flank. Launch countermeasures.”

The fast attack submarine increased speed to maximum, and the Officer of the Deck launched a torpedo decoy.

Hartford’s first-fired torpedo locked on to Master one a moment later, its status reported via a thin copper wire trailing behind it, attached to the submarine’s torpedo tube.

“Detect, tube One!” the Weapon Control Coordinator announced.

A few seconds later, after the torpedo verified the contact met the parameters of a submarine and not a decoy, it sent a follow-up message.

“Acquired!”

The torpedo calculated the evading target’s course, speed, and range, then increased speed and adjusted its trajectory to intercept the Russian submarine.

“Tube One increasing speed to high-one.”

Whether the evading Russian submarine would eject a torpedo decoy or jammer, or both, Thames didn’t know, but it likely didn’t matter. The MK 48 Mod 7 torpedoes carried by Hartford were the most advanced heavyweight torpedoes in the world, able to discriminate between submarines and decoys, and loaded with sophisticated algorithms to deal with jammers.

The next report sealed Master one’s fate.

“Tube One is homing. Increasing speed to high-two.”

All this happened quickly, within thirty seconds, and Thames turned his attention to the two incoming Russian torpedoes while Hartford’s other two sped outward, searching for the other Russian submarines. After assessing the bearing drift of the two-torpedo salvo, he determined the Russian crew had fired on a line-of-bearing solution: the spot where Hartford was when it fired, as opposed to an intercept solution based on Hartford’s course and speed. That was the good news. Bad news followed.

“Torpedo in the water, bearing zero-three-zero!” The submarine to the northeast had fired.

Another report from Sonar followed. “Torpedo in the water, bearing three-zero-zero!” The third submarine followed suit.

Thames evaluated the situation. The two-torpedo salvo was drawing behind Hartford as desired. Unfortunately, the third Russian torpedo was drawing up Hartford’s port side, while they were on a collision course with the fourth torpedo. Remaining on course wasn’t an option, and maneuvering to the left would turn Hartford toward the torpedo on her port side. Thames reluctantly concluded his only option was a dangerous one.

“Helm, right ten degrees rudder, steady course three-five-five.” There were no torpedoes in that direction, but unfortunately, there were three Russian submarines.

The sound of an explosion rumbled through the Control Room, and the Weapons Officer announced, “Loss of wire continuity, tube One.”

Make that two Russian submarines.

Sonar reported, “Breaking up noises, bearing three-five-zero.” Master one was going to the bottom, its compartments and internal tanks imploding.

As Hartford headed north, Thames adjusted course, aiming for the one spot he knew there was no Russian submarine. “Helm, steady course three-five-zero.”

There were two more Russian submarines out there, and Thames didn’t know if his two outbound weapons would find their targets. Time to reload.

“Weapon Control, reload tube One.” Tube Four was already loaded, and although tubes Two and Three were empty, the outgoing torpedoes were still attached to the tubes via their guidance wires, which would come in handy if Thames needed to insert a steer or send other instructions to the torpedoes.

Hartford was at ahead flank, which wasn’t a great idea now that they were headed toward the two other Russian submarines. Sonar had lost contact on both due to the flow noise across the submarine’s sensors and Hartford was putting a lot of noise into the water, making the submarine easy to track. If the other Russian submarines were at slow speed, Hartford would be burning into their sonar screens. Hartford needed to melt back into the ocean.

Thames ordered, “Helm, ahead two-thirds.”

The Helm transmitted the new bell to the Throttleman in the Engine Room, who slowed Hartford to ten knots as a second explosion reverberated through the water.

“Loss of wire continuity, tube Two.”

Hartford’s second torpedo had found its target.

Thames turned his attention to the Russian torpedoes again; the first three had drawn down Hartford’s starboard side and were now outbound, no longer a threat unless a steer was sent to a torpedo. The bearings to the fourth torpedo, however, weren’t changing. It was heading in from the west on an intercept course. It’d been steered.

As Thames determined a new evasion course, Sonar announced, “Gained broadband contact on the spherical array, bearing three-four-zero.”

Before Thames responded, Sonar reported, “Launch transients, bearing three-four-one!”

The third Russian submarine had also turned toward the first explosion and had slowed earlier, gaining Hartford on its sensors. A detection on Hartford’s spherical array broadband told Thames the Russian submarine was close, as would be its incoming torpedo.

“Torpedo in the water, bearing three-four-two!”

“Torpedo evasion!” Thames announced.

Responding to the code word phrase, the Helm ordered ahead flank and the submarine’s Officer of the Deck launched a torpedo countermeasure.

“Helm, hard right rudder, steady course one-three-five.”

With two torpedoes headed Hartford’s way, one directly ahead and one on the submarine’s port side, Thames’s only hope was to turn southeast and run away from both torpedoes, hoping neither passed close enough to acquire.

Thames’s turn away came too late.

“Conn, Sonar. Torpedo bearing two-seven-zero is range-gating.”

The Russian torpedo to the west had acquired Hartford and was homing. If that weren’t bad news enough, as Hartford swung to the southeast and picked up speed, Sonar reported, “Torpedo bearing three-three-five is range-gating.”

The second torpedo had also acquired Hartford.

As Thames ordered another round of torpedo decoys and jammers into the water, he knew this wasn’t going to turn out well.

75

ARABIAN SEA

The MH-60R Seahawk helicopter slowed to a hover and lowered its dipping sonar into the ocean again. Minutes earlier, the Sensor Operator in the cabin had detected two explosions in Alpha-eight, one of the submarine operating areas to the north, and Lieutenant Leo Falardeau, seated beside his Tactical Mission Officer, had repositioned his helicopter to the center of Bravo-eight. Unlike the Alpha operating areas, which were patrolled by submarines, the Bravo areas were monitored by MH-60R anti-submarine warfare helicopters. The MH-60Rs were the newest and most capable ASW helicopters in the American arsenal, equipped with an advanced sensor suite and three lightweight torpedoes. In Falardeau’s case, three new MK 54s.

Lieutenant Falardeau was joined by another MH-60R, also patrolling Bravo-eight, dropping its dipping sonar into the ocean. As the sensor descended through the water, it approached the thermocline, a layer of water where the temperature changed rapidly and reacted with sound, like light reflecting off a window. Depending on the frequency and angle of the sound wave, some tonals couldn’t make it through, bending back toward the bottom or up toward the surface. Ideally, the sensor would be placed on whatever side of the thermocline the enemy submarine was operating in. Falardeau’s Sensor Operator let his dipping sonar pass through the thermocline, while the MH-60R beside them kept its sensor above.

Falardeau’s dipping sonar was brought back on-line, and not long thereafter, the Sensor Operator reported a third explosion in the direction of Alpha-eight. Whether it was an American or Russian submarine being hit, he didn’t know. However, with only one American submarine in the area and three explosions, he knew at least two Russian subs had gone to the bottom.

The MH-60R hovered sixty feet above the water as Falardeau’s Sensor Operator searched Bravo-eight. As long as there were no detections in the Bravo areas, life was good. The American submarines were constrained to the Alpha areas and wouldn’t venture into the Bravos, since the MH-60Rs were Weapons Free. Anything detected in the Bravo areas would be attacked.

The voice of Falardeau’s Sensor Operator crackled in his headset. “Gained a new contact, designated Sierra one, bearing three-three-five.”

They held only a bearing and no range, and as Falardeau hoped it was just a strong tonal from the American submarine in Alpha-eight, his Sensor Operator reported, “Sierra one is classified Akula II.”

This was bad news, at least for the crew of the American submarine in Alpha-eight. The third explosion had sent it to the bottom, and now a Russian submarine had leaked into Bravo-eight. Where there was one, there would undoubtedly be more, but first things first.

The Sensor Operator retrieved the dipping sonar, and Falardeau repositioned his MH-60R so they could calculate the Russian submarine’s position, course, and speed. It wasn’t long before the sonar dipped beneath the thermocline again and the Sensor Operator reported, “I have a firing solution.”

Falardeau ordered his Tactical Mission Officer to engage Sierra one. The TMO selected the proper presets on his panel: depth, search pattern, and other attributes, although almost any would do. All they had to do was place the lightweight torpedo reasonably close to the Russian submarine and the MK 54 would do the rest.

After retrieving the dipping sonar again, Falardeau repositioned his MH-60R just ahead of the Russian submarine, while his TMO sent presets to the middle MK 54 strapped beneath the helicopter. Satisfied that the torpedo was properly preset and they were close enough to the target, the TMO released the lightweight torpedo. As it fell toward the ocean, the torpedo’s small parachute deployed, which slowed the weapon slightly and adjusted its angle as it fell, so that it slipped nose first into the water, where it disappeared from sight.

Unlike heavyweight torpedoes, lightweight torpedoes had no guidance wire attached, so the initial presets would have to do. The Sensor Operator monitored the engine tonals and the active transmissions from the sonar in the MK 54’s nose. The engine lit off and the torpedo went active immediately, beginning its search. They had dropped the MK 54 almost directly on top of the Russian submarine, so it wasn’t a surprise when the Sensor Operator reported the torpedo was homing less than twenty seconds after it hit the water. Engine speed increased, while the interval between pings decreased. With only a few hundred feet to travel, the torpedo exploded shortly thereafter.

Falardeau waited for the Sensor Operator to report breakup noises, verifying the submarine was headed to the bottom, although that likely wasn’t the case. Most Russian submarines, unlike American ones, were double-hulled, with the outer hull several meters from the inner pressure hull. Lightweight torpedoes had a difficult time punching through both hulls, and while one hit would likely result in a mission kill, one could never be certain.

The other MH-60R dropped a MK 54 into the water while Falardeau’s Tactical Mission Officer readied another one from their helicopter. Both torpedoes slipped into the water and two more explosions followed. After the third explosion, Falardeau’s Sensor Operator reported breakup noises. They’d punctured the pressure hull in at least two compartments, and the submarine was descending past Crush Depth.

76

USS HARRY S. TRUMAN

Captain Brent Sites viewed the icons on the Video Wall with concern. The air and surface battles continued, with each wave of American fighters inflicting and receiving damage. The Russian air defense systems were robust, and although every Russian surface combatant had been damaged by now, almost half were still operational, including Kuznetsov and Pyotr Velikiy.

In the process, however, the American carrier air wings had been reduced to half strength. This wasn’t without consolation, as the Russian combat air patrol was almost nonexistent now, either having been shot down or vacating the area after running out of weapons. The few Russian fighters protecting their surface combatants were from Kuznetsov, and there were fewer than two dozen of those remaining.

While the Russian surface ships and aircraft had taken a pounding, not a single American surface ship had been damaged. Above the ocean’s surface, the Americans were taking the fight to the Russians, and doing a good job of it. However, red submarine icons were starting to appear in the Bravo tier; they’d breached the Alpha ASW barrier in seven areas. So far, the MH-60Rs were performing admirably, and no Russian submarine had approached close enough to attack the American task force. Things were proceeding about as well as could be expected.

77

ARABIAN SEA

Major Vadim Aleyev kept his Sukhoi Su-35S close to the water, just above the ocean waves. Accompanying him in the darkness were seventeen other tactical fighters of various designs, each outfitted with air-to-air missiles. The eighteen aircraft were all that remained of the three hundred fighters at Iranian air bases, making it aloft as the runways and hangars were destroyed. Although originally assigned to relieve aircraft in Russia’s combat air patrol, they had a new mission. As the Russian fighters streaked toward their targets, Aleyev looked forward to revenge.

They could have gone after the American aircraft carriers. But the Americans had a solid screen of destroyers and cruisers designed to shoot down incoming aircraft, plus the task force had retained thirty F/A-18s for combat air patrol above their carriers. Few, if any, of Aleyev’s fighters would make it close enough to attack the carriers. Besides, Aleyev and the other Russian fighters were armed with air-to-air missiles, with no opportunity to change them out for air-to-surface ones. However, for their assigned targets, air-to-air missiles would suffice.

Aleyev looked down as the targets appeared on his radar display. The Americans realized the real threat to their task force lurked beneath the ocean surface, and had established a three-layer Anti-Submarine Warfare defense: submarines, ASW helicopters, and surface combatants. To inflict major damage, Russian guided missile submarines had to penetrate only the first two layers. Aleyev and his fellow fighters couldn’t do much regarding the American submarines, but they could address the next tier.

As Aleyev’s Su-35S closed on the targets, his early warning receiver alarmed. He’d been spotted by American radars. Aleyev was beyond the range of the American surface ship air defense missiles, but a quick check of his display told him the combat air patrol above the carrier task force was racing toward him and the other inbound Russian aircraft. It wouldn’t be long before the American fighters were within range, launching their missiles. However, the missiles would arrive too late.

Aleyev targeted the first twelve MH-60Rs, assigning one missile to each helicopter. Although the MH-60Rs had advanced self-defense systems, they were sitting ducks compared to tactical fixed-wing aircraft. They wouldn’t fool many of Aleyev’s missiles. Aleyev fired a volley, releasing all twelve missiles, then banked to the right and headed toward shore, staying close to the ocean in an attempt to evade the incoming American fighters. If he made it back to the coast, he wouldn’t be able to refuel and rearm, but at least he could land and fight another day.

As his fighter streaked toward the Iranian shoreline, Aleyev watched the MH-60Rs disappear from his radar.

78

ARABIAN SEA

USS HARRY S. TRUMAN

Captain Sites watched in dismay as the blue icons representing the MH-60Rs vanished from his display. The attack was sudden, with the approaching Russian jets lost in the sea clutter as they kept close to the ocean waves. As the Russian fighters turned outbound, chased by eighteen F/A-18s, Sites listened to the speaker as the ASW Commander dealt with the carnage. Almost every airborne MH-60R had been shot down, with only a half-dozen lucky survivors having successfully jammed the incoming missiles. The only other MH-60Rs available were those refueling or rearming aboard the aircraft carriers and destroyers; not enough to cover each sector in the Bravo tier.

K-456 VILYUCHINSK

With his crew at Combat Stations, Captain First Rank Dmitri Pavlov stood in the Central Command Post of his guided missile submarine, surveying his men at their watch stations. Their orders and reports remained calm and professional, although they’d been unable to suppress the surge of pride and excitement when they sent the American fast attack submarine opposing them to the bottom less than thirty minutes ago.

As Pavlov’s submarine crept into the next tier of America’s ASW barrier, they’d been detected again, this time by ASW aircraft. Hydroacoustic reported rotary wing contacts headed their way—the helicopter rotor wash on the ocean surface was detectable as they approached. But then, suddenly, the contacts disappeared, accompanied by nearby splashes. Pavlov smiled. Vilyuchinsk was safe, at least for the time being.

Vilyuchinsk was at one hundred meters, proceeding at ten knots toward the third tier of the American task force’s ASW screen. Unlike Russian attack submarines, Vilyuchinsk didn’t need to penetrate the screen; his weapons had a far greater range than torpedoes. However, he’d need to get close enough to the American surface combatants to eliminate their ability to react, which would place his submarine dangerously close. Additionally, he wouldn’t have the advantage of surprise he’d had several weeks ago, when he’d attacked the Roosevelt carrier strike group and damaged its aircraft carrier.

Pavlov had returned to port following the successful mission, for which ship and individual awards would be forthcoming. In the meantime, Vilyuchinsk had reloaded all twenty-four silos with replacement P-700 Granit missiles and was back at sea, ready to add to its recent glory. After checking the two fire control consoles, displaying the positions of the American ships they were approaching, Pavlov decided they were close enough.

He announced, “All stations, Command Post. Proceeding to periscope depth.”

Vilyuchinsk tilted upward, rising toward the ocean’s surface as Pavlov kept his face pressed to the attack periscope. Despite the crowded Central Command Post, it was quiet as the submarine rose from the deep toward periscope depth. Pavlov couldn’t keep the periscope raised for long; Vilyuchinsk was close to the American destroyers and cruisers, and their periscope detection radars would identify a scope if it remained up for too long.

Pavlov announced, “Periscope clear,” as Vilyuchinsk settled out at periscope depth at a speed of five knots to minimize the wake created by their periscope. After several sweeps to verify there were no combatants close enough to pose an immediate threat, Pavlov searched the horizon for his targets, pressing the red button on the periscope handle twice, sending the bearings to fire control.

Pavlov lowered the scope, announcing, “No close contacts.”

Close was a relative term, as the American surface combatants were a few thousand meters to the southeast. In the distance, Pavlov had detected two gray specks on the horizon. Two of the American aircraft carriers. The other two carriers were farther back, undetectable visually at this range. However, two targets would suffice.

Pavlov checked the bearing to the two aircraft carriers, then announced, “Prepare to fire, full missile salvo, twelve missiles to each contact. Set arming range at ten thousand meters.” Pavlov needed to ensure the Granit missiles enabled after they passed over the American cruisers and destroyers, not before.

The Missile Officer acknowledged and prepared to launch Vilyuchinsk’s surface attack missiles, each one armed with a warhead weighing almost one ton. It wouldn’t take many hits to seriously damage the American aircraft carriers.

“All missiles are energized,” reported a watchstander seated at one of the fire control consoles. A moment later, he added, “All missiles have accepted target bearing.”

“Open all missile hatches,” Pavlov ordered.

The hatches lining the submarine’s port and starboard sides retracted.

The Missile Officer reported, “All missile hatches are open. Ready to fire, full missile salvo.”

Pavlov surveyed the tactical situation and the readiness of his submarine one final time, then gave the order.

“Fire.”

USS HARRY S. TRUMAN

Red icons appeared on Captain Sites’s display, almost on top of the task force’s cruiser and destroyer screen. As the red icons moved swiftly toward the center of the American task force, he realized there was insufficient time for the cruisers and destroyers to target and launch their SM-2 missiles and destroy the inbound weapons before they reached Truman. As the icons moved across the screen, they split into two groups, twelve missiles targeting Reagan and twelve heading toward Truman. Sites turned to his Tactical Action Officer.

“Shift SSDS to auto.”

The TAO acknowledged, then shifted Truman’s SSDS—Ship Self Defense System—to automatic. The SSDS would assign contacts to their Sea Sparrow and Rolling Airframe missiles, then target any leakers with their CIWS Gatling guns. It was out of Sites’s hands. All he could do was watch.

The TAO called out, “Inbound missiles. Brace for impact!”

Sites reached up and grabbed on to an I-beam, watching as the SSDS automatically targeted the inbound missiles. It all happened in a matter of seconds. Sea Sparrow and Rolling Airframe missiles were launched in succession, taking out six of the inbound missiles, and the CIWS system engaged next, taking out three more.

Three missiles made it through and Sites felt the ship shudder when the missiles hit. On the damage control status board, red symbols on the carrier’s port side marked each missile impact and damage radius. Thankfully, the Hangar Deck hadn’t been penetrated, nor was the carrier’s Island superstructure damaged. Fires raged in three compartments, but Truman had survived the missile onslaught relatively unscathed.

Reagan, however, didn’t fare as well. One of the screens on the Video Wall switched to a real-time feed from one of the F/A-18 tankers refueling the task force’s combat air patrol. In the darkness, flames leapt skyward from USS Ronald Reagan, illuminating the water’s surface an orange hue.

It wasn’t long before the TAO announced, “Reagan has terminated flight ops.”

Sites wasn’t surprised. Reagan’s crew would have their hands full for a while, battling to get the fires under control. In the meantime, things would get busier aboard Truman and the other two carriers, with Reagan’s aircraft aloft looking for a new home.

Sites returned his attention to the Common Operational Picture on his display, fusing all sensor data. More red U-shaped icons, representing Russian submarines, had appeared in the Bravo ASW tier. If they were guided missile submarines, the remaining MH-60Rs would arrive too late to prevent them from launching. The situation was deteriorating rapidly.

The ASW Commander reached the same conclusion, and Sites listened to his orders over the speaker as he called in the cavalry.

79

PELICAN ZERO-EIGHT

The P-8A Poseidon aircraft, call sign Pelican zero-eight, cruised at twenty thousand feet, high above and well behind the American task force. Normally, anti-submarine warfare platforms wouldn’t be so far from the action, but the VP-45 Pelican submarine-hunter aircraft was a modified Boeing 737-800ERX, the replacement for the venerable P-3C Orion. Cruising at a high altitude and distance from the enemy helped keep the new P-8As out of harm’s way. Plus, with the new weapons they carried, they didn’t need to descend to less than a thousand feet and be right on top of the target to drop their torpedo.

Seated in Pelican zero-eight’s cabin with four other operators at their consoles, Lieutenant Commander John Martin, the crew’s Tactical Coordinator, or TACCO, monitored the status of the five weapons in the aircraft’s bomb bay. In each bomb stow was a HAAWC—High Altitude ASW Weapon Capability—a MK 54 torpedo with a wing kit. Once the torpedo was ejected, the HAAWC’s wings would pop out and guide the torpedo, changing its descent angle and course as required, aiming for a GPS coordinate in the ocean.

Although the P-8A didn’t have cabin windows, Martin knew that in the distance there were seven squadrons of the Navy’s new Poseidon aircraft, each aircraft loaded with five HAAWCs. As Martin wondered whether their weapons would be called into service, launch orders were received by Martin’s Communicator, seated beside him.

The aim point coordinates were transferred to Martin’s console, and he spoke into his headset, informing the pilots and other operators of the pending launch.

“All stations, TACCO. Set Battle Condition One. Coordinates have been received for all five torpedoes.”

Each member of the crew, from the pilots to the Sensor Operators, pulled out their weapon release checklists, methodically accomplishing each step. As a P-3C TACCO, Martin would have calculated the Release Points—the locations where the aircraft would drop its free-falling torpedo ordnance. However, that was no longer necessary, since HAAWCs could fly to their destination, as long as they had enough glide path.

After verifying that was the case for all five weapons, Martin reported, “All weapons are in the launch basket. We are Weapons Red and Free.”

As Martin reviewed the weapon impact coordinates, he was surprised they were releasing all five HAAWCs at once with their aim points almost on top of each other. There couldn’t possibly be that many submarines so close together, nor would you want to waste five torpedoes on a single target. Martin looked over at his Communicator’s screen, spotting orders going to twenty of the P-8As aloft. Each had been ordered to drop their entire contingent of weapons. One hundred HAAWCs, all at once. Martin finally realized what they’d been ordered to do.

It was a torpedo version of carpet-bombing, saturating the operating areas with MK 54s.

“Flight, TACCO. Give me bomb bay open, Master Arm On.”

The aircraft shuddered as the bomb bay doors swung open. Martin selected Bay One first, holding his hand over the Storage Release button.

An amber light illuminated on Martin’s console.

“Flight, TACCO. I have a Kill Ready light. Standing by for weapon release.”

“TACCO, Flight. You are authorized to release.”

Martin pressed the Storage Release button for Bays One through Five.

Bombs away.

80

K-456 VILYUCHINSK

Captain First Rank Dmitri Pavlov stopped behind his men seated at the fire control consoles, examining the solutions for the American surface ships ahead. Having launched his twenty-four missiles against two American aircraft carriers, Pavlov had gone deep and ordered his submarine toward the American destroyers and cruisers. If he made it past them, he could bring his six torpedo tubes and twenty-eight torpedoes to bear on the wounded aircraft carriers.

As Pavlov’s submarine approached the American surface combatants, the first indication Vilyuchinsk was in trouble was the report from Hydroacoustic.

“Command Post, Hydroacoustic. Splash detected on bow array, bearing zero-five-zero.”

Before Pavlov could respond, Hydroacoustic reported three more.

“Additional splashes, bearing one-four-zero, two-two-zero, and three-one-zero.”

With four splashes surrounding his submarine, Pavlov realized they’d been boxed in by whatever entered the water. He had a suspicion as to what they were, and Hydroacoustic’s next report confirmed it.

“Torpedo in the water, bearing zero-five-zero!”

Pavlov’s eyes went to the nearest fire control screen as the bearing to each splash appeared. They truly were boxed in; there was nowhere to turn.

“Ahead flank!” Pavlov announced. “Launch torpedo countermeasures.”

Vilyuchinsk’s Watch Officer launched a torpedo decoy, then a moment later a jammer to ensure the torpedoes behind them saw only the decoy and not Vilyuchinsk speeding away. However, there was no good option for the torpedoes in front of them. Vilyuchinsk would loom large and enticing on their sonar returns.

Pavlov decided to turn ninety degrees to starboard. “Steersman, right full rudder, steady course two-seven-zero.” Turning to his Watch Officer, he ordered, “Launch decoy.”

Vilyuchinsk steadied on course, and with the decoy behind him, Pavlov ordered another jammer into the water. Maybe, with the jammer partially obscuring Vilyuchinsk as it sped away, one of the torpedoes would suck up on the decoy.

The torpedo off Vilyuchinsk’s port bow wasn’t fooled, however. It had a clear view of the submarine speeding to the west and altered course to intercept. Additionally, the torpedo off his port stern sniffed out the decoy and went around, locking on to Vilyuchinsk as the submarine attempted to slip away. Likewise, the two torpedoes off Vilyuchinsk’s starboard side correctly identified the small object in the water pretending to be a submarine as a decoy, and went around. One torpedo veered to the east and the other to the west, and the latter torpedo detected the Russian guided missile submarine.

With three torpedoes closing fast, one from each side and one from behind, there was nowhere for Pavlov to turn. Vilyuchinsk was at maximum speed and it was obvious more decoys would be ineffective, nor could his submarine outrun the speedy torpedoes. That left one option.

Ride it out.

The three torpedoes chasing him were lightweight torpedoes, armed with one-sixth the explosive carried by a heavyweight. Vilyuchinsk was a double-hulled submarine, with the outer hull 3.5 meters away from the critical pressure hull in most areas, to handle situations like this.

As the first torpedo homed on Vilyuchinsk, approaching from off its port bow, Pavlov braced for the explosion. It came seconds later, jolting the submarine, but not as severely as he expected. The men in the Central Command Post waited tensely for the report of flooding. But no report came. Pavlov breathed a sigh of relief. They’d weathered the first attack.

There was no doubt the torpedo had torn a gaping hole in the outer hull, with twisted and mangled edges, but that was a small price to pay. Pavlov turned his attention to the next torpedo, this one approaching from starboard. The second jolt felt much like the first, and after a few tense seconds awaiting an emergency report that never came, Pavlov focused on the last torpedo. Vilyuchinsk had decreased speed by two knots; the jagged holes in the submarine’s outer hull were slowing it down. But that didn’t matter. Two knots weren’t going to make a difference.

As the third torpedo approached, Pavlov realized the scenario was different. The first two torpedoes had hit Vilyuchinsk broadside, where the submarine had a full 3.5-meter separation between hulls. However, the third torpedo was approaching from astern, where the outer hull tapered in toward the pressure hull.

“Steersman, hard right rudder!”

Vilyuchinsk’s bow swung toward the torpedo, but it was too late. The third MK 54 detonated as it sensed the magnetic field from the guided missile submarine, and this time, the jolt was followed by an emergency report.

“Flooding in Compartment Nine!”

A hole had been blown in Vilyuchinsk’s pressure hull, and as water surged into the submarine, the lights flickered, indicating the electrical power grid had been shifted to the battery. They’d lost their electrical turbine generators, which meant propulsion would go next. As Pavlov’s Watch Officer tried frantically to ascertain the status of the Engine Room, Vilyuchinsk slowed, and the stern tilted downward.

Pavlov turned to his Compensation Officer, who had lined up the drain pump to the Engine Room and was now blowing the submarine’s variable ballast overboard, increasing Vilyuchinsk’s buoyancy in an effort to offset the water rushing into the submarine.

“Keep us level!” Pavlov ordered. If the submarine upended, all would be lost.

The Compensation Officer opened the valves to Forward Ballast, flooding water back in. But the tank was only so big, and water was surging into the Engine Room faster than the drain pump pushed it back out. Vilyuchinsk’s stern continued sinking, and the submarine’s angle steadily increased to thirty, then forty degrees. At the same time, Vilyuchinsk was getting heavier. They sank through three hundred meters, then four hundred.

Pavlov was again caught in a scenario with no good answer. Continue downward and the submarine would implode. Emergency Blow to the surface, and the Americans would sink them. Still, going up was a better prospect than down, and Pavlov gave the order.

“Emergency Blow all main ballast tanks!”

The Compensation Officer pulled the emergency levers, porting high-pressure air to the tanks.

Water surged from the grates beneath the hull as it was displaced by air, but Pavlov had waited too long. Vilyuchinsk was tilted up at forty-five degrees and the air in the ballast tanks surged toward the front of each tank, making the bow of the submarine more buoyant than the stern. Vilyuchinsk tilted upward more rapidly, and once a bubble formed in the top of each ballast tank, the excess air spilled out the grates, leaving too much water inside.

Pavlov and the men in the Central Command Post hung on to consoles and railings as the submarine tilted ninety degrees upward, and Pavlov knew they would not recover.

Slowly, stern first, Vilyuchinsk sank into the ocean depths.

81

MOSCOW

Foreign Minister Lavrov and the chief of the general staff, General Andropov, strode down the long Kremlin hallway toward the president’s office. After a knock on the president’s door and an acknowledgment from within, Andropov entered an office filled with the president’s staff, all with notepads in their hands. It wasn’t even 7 a.m., but it wasn’t often that two of the world’s major military powers went to war.

Kalinin ordered the room cleared, and Minister Lavrov and General Andropov eased into their chairs opposite the president. Andropov tried to assess the president’s mood. Following the discovery of America’s attack on their forces in the Arabian Sea and Iran, Kalinin had been furious. He was a seasoned and normally unemotional politician, but he’d been rattled by America’s attack, and Andropov could not predict how he’d respond to the new information.

“I have unsettling news, Mr. President. The Americans have disarmed the pipeline detonators. We activated over a dozen, and none blew. When we tried to discuss the problem with the detonator’s designer, we learned he was abducted from his villa a few days ago. The Federal Security Service,” Andropov said, referring to the domestic half of the former KGB, “was aware of this matter, but didn’t think it necessary to elevate it to our attention until now.”

Kalinin replied, “He gave the Americans the master code?”

“It appears so.”

“Is there a way to override it?”

“Not that we’re aware of.”

Kalinin folded his hands across his waist and leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. The Americans had broken one-half of Russia’s stranglehold on Western European energy and were trying to break the other.

“How is the battle going?”

“The outcome is still in doubt,” Andropov answered. “There won’t be much left of our surface combatants, but our submarines are having success. We’ve broken into the second tier of their anti-submarine screen and have damaged two of their aircraft carriers, knocking one out of commission. We’ve suffered a few submarine losses, but as best we can tell, we still have at least thirty-five submarines pressing the attack, while the American attack submarines have been reduced to around a dozen. We are going around the few that remain now; they cannot plug the holes.”

Kalinin didn’t respond, and Andropov sensed he was considering ending the battle.

“We cannot stop now,” Andropov said. “With most of our surface combatants heavily damaged or sunk, compared to only two American aircraft carriers damaged, we will emerge in far worse shape. However, our submarines are making progress and it’s still likely that we’ll sink the four American carriers or force them to withdraw.”

Kalinin turned to his foreign minister. “If we are victorious and blockade the Persian Gulf, will that be enough to force the United States and NATO to capitulate in Ukraine and Lithuania?”

“It’s possible. But I agree with General Andropov. It’s the only path forward. If we withdraw, we lose all leverage.”

“Speaking of leverage,” Kalinin said, “where do we stand with India and China?”

Lavrov replied, “We just received China’s answer, and we’ve been in discussions with India.” Lavrov explained China’s position, and after Kalinin provided his thoughts, Lavrov went on to say, “My opinion is the Indians are watching the battle unfold, waiting to commit to the side that pulls ahead.”

Kalinin’s irritation bled through his words. “Sweeten the deal; whatever they ask for. We’ll sort out what we’ll really concede later. But tell the Indians they have one hour to join us. After that, our offer is void.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

As the meeting wound to a close, Kalinin asked, “Where is Minister Chernov? He should have returned from Sochi by now.”

Andropov replied, “I was about to inform you.” He paused, uncertain how to deliver the news. Finally, he said, “Chernov won’t be returning.”

“Why not?”

Andropov relayed the details of Chernov’s death. When he finished, Kalinin stared at him for a long moment.

“Where is O’Connor?” he asked.

“Gorev has her in custody at Chernov’s villa, awaiting your instructions.”

Another long stare, then Kalinin nodded.

82

NEW DELHI, INDIA

On the ground floor of Rashtrapati Bhavan, Indian President Deepak Madan stood at the fifteen-foot-tall arched window in his study, looking out over Mughal Gardens. With water canals, sandstone fountains, and over seventy seasonal flowers, including 159 varieties of roses, the gardens are considered by many to be the soul of the presidential palace. Madan remembered the first time he set eyes on the beautiful grounds. He had hoped the future of his country would be as bright and vibrant as the flowers in Mughal Gardens.

In the last few days, however, a darkness had settled over Rashtrapati Bhavan and Mughal Gardens. The Russians, and now the Americans, were pressuring India to intervene in their conflict. A decision had to be made, and soon. Time was running out, like the proverbial sand in an hourglass, each grain representing the incentives offered by each country. He had discussed the matter with his National Security Council, and their advice was conflicting. Now, with the battle in the Indian Ocean reaching a climax, Madan knew he would be forced to decide.

There was a knock on the door and his ministers of defense and external affairs, along with his national security advisor, entered. Madan motioned the men into upholstered chairs resting atop a handwoven Kashmir carpet. When he joined them, his minister of external affairs, Rahul Gupta, brought Madan up-to-date.

“Russia has offered additional incentives and also given us an ultimatum. We have until eight a.m. to accept.”

“And the Americans?”

“They are awaiting our answer without further discourse.”

Madan spent the next few minutes discussing the new Russian incentives, along with the choice to be made: become a Russian ally in this war, aid the Americans, or remain neutral. Of course, China’s response in the matter weighed heavily on his thoughts.

After considering the options carefully, Madan made his decision.

83

USS HARRY S. TRUMAN

“Brace for impact!”

Captain David Randle gripped his chair tightly as he peered through the Bridge windows toward the incoming missiles. The Russian P-700 Granits were called Shipwreck missiles for good reason. A single missile could wreck an entire destroyer or cruiser, and if it hit Truman’s Island superstructure, where Randle was located, there would be nothing left.

Through the open side windows of the Bridge, Randle heard his ship’s defensive systems engage. Sea Sparrow and Rolling Airframe missiles streaked from their launchers, leaving trails of white smoke. A moment later, the three Phalanx CIWS Gatling guns engaged.

Four more missiles hit Truman, the ship shuddering with each blast, and four more spires of black smoke rose skyward from the carrier’s port side, joining seven others.

This attack on Truman brought the total to five. Five Russian guided missile submarines had approached close enough to launch their missiles at the task force’s carriers. Three of the four aircraft carriers had been hit, with only USS Eisenhower spared thus far. Bush was down hard, with fires raging inside the hangar bays. Reagan, on the other hand, despite taking additional missile impacts, was inching closer to resuming flight ops.

That left two operable carriers, but two were sufficient for the remaining seventy Super Hornets. The task force had lost almost two-thirds of its fighter complement, but they had accomplished their mission. The Russian combat air patrol had been annihilated, and every Russian surface combatant had been sunk or heavily damaged. Only Pyotr Velikiy and Kuznetsov were putting up a fight now, and Kuznetsov could no longer support flight operations. The Russian surface Navy was in its death throes. Unfortunately, the Russian Submarine Force was not.

Randle examined the horizon; the hazy gray dawn had given way to a spectacular day—a cloudless blue sky with moderate winds, blowing the columns of black smoke rising from three American carriers northward. On the Flight Deck below, two Super Hornets glided toward the bow catapults, preparing for another assault on the two remaining Russian surface combatants. Now that the Russian combat air patrol was nonexistent, the F/A-18 weapon mix had been changed, trading their air-to-air missiles for more anti-surface weapons. It wouldn’t be long before every Russian surface ship had a new, permanent berth on the bottom of the ocean.

“Bridge, CDC.”

Randle answered, “Captain.”

“Captain, OPSO. We’re detecting activity from the Indian carriers.”

Randle acknowledged the report, then switched one of the quad screens below the Bridge windows to the COP—Common Operational Picture. The three Indian aircraft carriers to the east, including their newest one allegedly on sea trials, had begun launching. Randle watched the yellow neutral icons accumulate on the screen as the Indian air wings assembled above the carriers. India was preparing to join the battle, and given there had been no official coordination between the American task force and Indian Navy, the scenario did not bode well.

He shifted his radio to Strike, listening as the strike controllers in CDC vectored the combat air patrol to the east and launched all ready aircraft. On the Flight Deck, Aviation Ordnancemen hustled to the two F/A-18s on the bow catapults, swapping out their surface attack missiles with anti-air. It didn’t take long, and the two F/A-18s streaked forward as the bow catapults fired. Randle watched the two fighters turn east to join the rest of the CAP.

As the three Indian fighter wings headed toward the American task force, Randle did the math. Seventy-two inbound tactical fighters opposed by thirty-two Super Hornets. The American aircraft were superior, but quality overcame only so much quantity. Additionally, although there were several cruisers and destroyers on the back side of the formation, the task force was lightly defended in that area compared to the front and flanks.

Randle listened as the strike controllers recalled all aircraft headed toward the Russian surface combatants, ordering them back to Truman and Eisenhower to swap out their air-to-surface weapons with air-to-air. That would take time, unfortunately, during which the task force’s CAP of thirty-two fighters would have to suffice.

*   *   *

The battle unfolded quickly. The Indian aircraft closed within range of the task force’s protective screen of cruisers and destroyers, and the bulk of the seventy-two inbound aircraft launched their missiles: over two hundred inbound bogies.

The Aegis Warfare Systems aboard the American ships performed admirably, but two dozen missiles made it through, striking the six destroyers and cruisers in that sector. Randle watched in dismay as three of the ships dropped off the grid, including the heavily armed cruiser Vicksburg. A review of the visual feed from that sector revealed black smoke billowing up from all six ships.

The Indian aircraft launched a second volley of missiles, this time bypassing the damaged ships, their missiles headed toward Eisenhower. Twenty made it through. Luckily, the aircraft air-to-surface missiles were much smaller than Russian Shipwrecks, and Eisenhower survived. Unfortunately, the damage was severe enough to halt flight operations.

Black smoke was now spiraling up from all four American carriers, with only Truman operable at the moment.

84

ARABIAN SEA

On USS Truman’s Flight Deck, Lieutenant Commander Bill Houston, call sign Samurai, waited in the cockpit of his F/A-18E Super Hornet. He’d lost count of how many times he’d returned to the carrier for rearming and refueling. To save time, Truman’s crew was hot pumping, refueling his jet with the engines still running, one at a time. Houston kept the port engine running while they refueled starboard, then they’d reverse the procedure for port. Meanwhile, Ordies were attaching more ordnance to his fighter, all air-to-air missiles this time, as he’d be heading out to engage the Indian air wings.

Wisps of smoke occasionally drifted across the Flight Deck, partially obscuring his vision. Although most of the black smoke was pouring from the aircraft carrier’s port side, blowing away from the ship as it rose skyward, some leaked from the elevators on starboard as the crew battled the fires raging inside the ship. He had to give credit to Truman’s crew, keeping the aircraft carrier operational despite the extensive damage.

Truman’s crew completed refueling and rearming Houston’s aircraft, and the yellow-shirted Shooter guided him toward CAT One, the starboard bow catapult. Houston pulled up beside his new wingman, Lieutenant Dave Hernandez, call sign TexMex, who had just dropped his launch bar into CAT Two. It was an ill omen for the Mexican from Texas. Houston had lost two wingmen already, one during the night and another one this morning. Perhaps the third time would be the charm.

Houston dropped his launch bar into CAT One’s shuttle hook, and the Flight Deck crew verified his aircraft was ready for launch. The Shooter then lifted his arm skyward, then back down to a horizontal position, directing Houston to kick in the afterburners. Houston pushed the throttles past the détente, then turned toward the Shooter and saluted. The Shooter returned the salute, then bent down and touched the deck, but not before Houston caught the reflection of the Rising Sun off the canopy of his aircraft.

Thus far, Houston hadn’t needed the reflective tape affixed to his helmet, having made it back to Truman after each mission rather than splashing into the ocean. He hoped it wasn’t a premonition, catching the reflection just before takeoff. He didn’t have much time to dwell on the matter, however. The operator in the Catapult Control Station took his cue from the Shooter and the starboard catapult fired; six hundred pounds of steam sent Houston’s aircraft streaking toward Truman’s bow. As Houston climbed to ten thousand feet, TexMex pulled up alongside and both jets headed east.

*   *   *

It wasn’t long before Houston and Hernandez reached the task force perimeter, joining what remained of the combat air patrol. The original thirty-two F/A-18s had engaged over twice that number of Indian fighters, and Samurai and TexMex brought the total number of F/A-18s aloft to twenty. Houston checked his AN/APG-79 radar display, noting four more aircraft on their way out, including a pair from Reagan. The heavily damaged carrier was back in business. That was good news, as there were another thirty-five Super Hornets returning from the assault on the Russian surface ships, and the Flight Deck crews could refuel and rearm them only so quickly.

Samurai and TexMex joined the northern end of the combat air patrol, which was strung out on a north-to-south line facing the three Indian strike groups. It was quiet for the time being, as the Indian aircraft returned to their carriers to refuel and rearm. The reprieve was welcomed, as the additional Super Hornets trickled in from Truman and Reagan. However, the reprieve drew to a close when the three Indian air wings assembled above their carriers, then headed west.

As the Indian aircraft approached, Houston counted them up. Forty-seven aircraft. They’d lost twenty-five on their last assault, compared to fourteen F/A-18s lost. The odds were still two to one, though, with the combat air patrol now up to twenty-four Super Hornets. The three Indian air wings combined again, and it took only a few minutes to close the distance.

Samurai and the other F/A-18s fired two volleys of AMRAAM missiles as the two air wings approached each other, then evaded a barrage of incoming missiles. Moments later, the thirty-eight remaining Indian aircraft slammed into the twenty remaining American fighters, and the sky was filled with a dizzying array of aircraft and missiles as pilots dispensed chaff and targeted enemy fighters while weaving past exploding aircraft and streaking missiles.

This time, however, the Indian fighters didn’t continue in toward the American task force. They had learned their lesson the last time, taking a beating from the American combat air patrol despite their numerical superiority. For this assault, every Indian fighter was fully armed with air-to-air missiles and they remained engaged with the F/A-18s. Their objective became clear: they were going to wipe out the American CAP.

The sky began to thin and the hectic melee degenerated into individual dogfights. Houston did well, shooting down two Indian fighters, and as the second one splashed into the ocean, his wingman’s voice broke across his headset.

“Samurai, tally two bandits on your six!”

Houston glanced at his APG-79 radar display, locating the two Indian fighters settling in behind him. “I see ’em,” he replied.

TexMex said, “I can’t help. I’m tied up with two of my own.”

Samurai spotted his wingman headed south with two bandits in trail, then banked hard right to bring his Super Hornet around toward the two Indian aircraft behind him. He flicked a switch on his flight stick during the turn, selecting another AMRAAM. As his F/A-18 came around, he identified the two bandits as MiG-29Ks and targeted the closest one.

He fired the AMRAAM and its internal radar took over, locking on to the MiG-29. The Indian fighter dispensed chaff and banked hard left, but the AMRAAM detected the aircraft speeding away from the chaff and adjusted course. As the missile sped toward the evading aircraft, Samurai turned his attention to the second MiG-29. It had launched one of its missiles, which Bitching Betty dutifully notified him of—“Missile inbound!”—and Samurai’s Radar Warning Receiver identified as a radar-homing Vympel R-77.

There was an explosion to Samurai’s left. His AMRAAM had found its target, with the missile and MiG-29 morphing into a cloud of fire and shrapnel. There was no time to celebrate, as the R-77 was closing fast. Houston dispensed a burst of chaff, then banked right and inverted, turning his F/A-18 upside down. Pulling back on his flight stick, he streaked down toward the water, away from his chaff. The R-77 continued toward the reflective cloud of aluminum-coated fibers, passing through it. After verifying the missile lost track of his aircraft, Houston pulled back on his flight stick, leveling off at eight thousand feet, headed back toward the incoming MiG-29 as Bitching Betty alerted again.

“Missile inbound!”

The MiG-29 pilot had fired a second R-77 during Houston’s maneuver, and the missile was already dangerously close. Houston selected another AMRAAM and fired at the Indian jet, then dispensed a second round of chaff and banked hard right again. The R-77 stayed locked on to Houston’s F/A-18, veering toward his aircraft as it ignored the chaff. Houston dispensed another round and banked hard left, looking through his canopy to see if the chaff worked.

This time, the chaff deployment was a success; the missile stayed locked on to the reflective aluminum fibers. He was about to return his attention to the MiG-29 when Bitching Betty alerted a third time. Houston’s APG-79 identified this missile as an infrared homing R-73. The MiG-29 had worked its way behind Houston, and after watching two radar-homing missiles fail, the pilot had shifted to a heat-seeker.

Samurai dispensed a round of infrared decoys, then banked hard right, but the missile stayed locked on, swiftly closing the last few hundred yards. Houston tried another burst of infrared decoys and a hard bank to the left, but the missile remained locked on to the larger heat signature of the F/A-18’s twin engines.

Houston banked hard left again just as the missile reached his aircraft, and a bright flash was accompanied by the sound of shrapnel tearing through his aircraft. Samurai’s F/A-18 began trailing orange flames and black smoke from its starboard engine as Bitching Betty informed him of the obvious.

“Engine right! Engine right!”

Another engine gone, Samurai thought. This time, however, he wouldn’t make it back to the carrier. In addition to an engine on fire, Houston’s flaps were damaged and he had difficulty maintaining a straight course. His F/A-18 was shuddering and losing altitude rapidly, despite pushing his left engine to maximum power.

Being half Japanese and with his aircraft going down, Houston entertained the thought, if only for a few seconds, of a kamikaze attack. However, there were no enemy surface ships nearby and better judgment prevailed anyway. He reached between his knees and pulled the ejection handle beneath his seat. The canopy’s explosive bolts blew, sending the top of his cockpit spiraling away, and Houston was blasted into the air along with his seat.

After his parachute opened and he began drifting toward the ocean, Houston realized that the reflective tape on his helmet was going to come in handy.

85

USS HARRY S. TRUMAN

“Loss of bravo-two-one.”

The strike controller’s report aboard Truman was professional and monotone, his voice failing to match Captain Sites’s mounting concern. Standing in the aircraft carrier’s Combat Direction Center, Sites monitored the task force’s engagement with the Indian Navy with rising trepidation, paying little attention to the thin layer of smoke hanging in the overhead. Even though the aircraft carrier’s compartments had been sealed when setting General Quarters, smoke seeped inside CDC as Truman’s crew battled the fires. Air samples were being taken to ensure breathing protection was not required.

A second strike controller reported the loss of another F/A-18, and Sites assessed the tactical situation. Bush and Eisenhower were still down, but Reagan was back on-line. However, her ability to sustain flight operations was tenuous, easily knocked out again if the carrier was hit by another round of Shipwreck missiles. Russian guided missile submarines were continuing to penetrate close enough to launch their surface attack missiles, but the task force was making each submarine pay dearly, vectoring a round of HAAWCs into the surrounding water. Russian attack submarines were probing the third ASW tier, but the destroyers and cruisers, along with the few MH-60Rs that remained, seemed to have kept the Russians at bay.

To the east, the task force’s combat air patrol was losing aircraft faster than replacements arrived. As the Indian aircraft whittled away at what remained of the task force’s combat air patrol, Sites spotted another wave of thirty aircraft inbound from the Indian carriers. He studied the red icons; the numbers didn’t add up.

The task force’s F/A-18s had splashed over thirty of India’s seventy aircraft, yet the Common Operational Picture still showed seventy aloft. Sites finally realized what the Indians were doing. Although the American task force was beyond range of India’s land-based tactical fighters, naval aircraft could land on the three Indian carriers and refuel. The Indians were ferrying additional aircraft aboard their carriers, replacing their losses, something the American aircraft carriers couldn’t do in their current location. As American airpower attrited and Indian forces were replenished, the battle would tilt rapidly in favor of India.

It was time to vacate the area. The task force’s first objective had been accomplished, destroying the Russian surface Navy. The carriers could retreat and conduct repairs, then reengage with additional ASW assets to deal with the Russian submarines. Sites examined the Common Operational Picture on his display, searching for an exit route. Russian submarines were pressing the task force’s northern and western sectors, with the Indian Navy to the east. That left the south, although there was no guarantee the Indian Navy’s submarines weren’t closing in from that direction. However, there were several American submarines on the back side of the task force, guarding against a Russian or Indian end-around.

As Sites’s eyes shifted to the narrow escape route to the south, yellow surface ship icons appeared on his display. Confusion worked across his face, and when the icons turned red, beads of cold sweat formed on his brow. A new enemy strike group had arrived, cutting off the retreat path for the American task force. As he wondered what ships they were, his Common Operational Picture tagged the contact in the center of the enemy formation as CNS Liaoning, the formidable Chinese aircraft carrier and sister ship of Kuznetsov, sold to China after the fall of the Soviet Union.

Son of a bitch!

Sites slammed his fist onto his console. He’d been told the Chinese had agreed to remain neutral. Now, with the outcome of the battle tilting away from the United States, China’s entry into the conflict was the nail in the coffin.

Red icons appeared beside the Russian-built carrier as its fighters launched. Ten, twenty, thirty … Liaoning’s crew was proficient, rapidly launching its air wing. When there were thirty aircraft aloft, they began their journey, moving swiftly north toward the American task force.

Sites’s shoulders sagged as he monitored the Chinese air wing’s journey. As the aircraft approached the task force’s air defense perimeter, provided by the cruisers and destroyers to the south, the Chinese fighters shifted their flight path, vectoring to the northeast. It looked as if the Chinese fighters were going to join the Indian aircraft and wipe out the remaining American combat air patrol, then penetrate the task force in the weakened sector to the east, where Indian aircraft had heavily damaged or knocked six of the surface combatants off-line.

Sites’s eyes went to the blue icons representing the damaged surface combatants. The Ticonderoga cruiser Vicksburg was still down, and another destroyer had dropped off the air warfare grid. That left two damaged destroyers in the area. They’d be overwhelmed.

As the Chinese aircraft continued toward what remained of the task force’s combat air patrol, four more F/A-18s—two from Truman and two from Reagan, were racing out to support.

Too little, too late.

When the thirty Chinese fighters closed to within missile range of the American and Indian melee, their icons switched from red to yellow. As Sites studied his display in confusion, their color changed to blue, as did the icons representing the Chinese ships to the south. The unit designation of the aircraft carrier also updated, and a wave of relief swept over Sites.

The aircraft carrier to the south wasn’t Liaoning.

It was USS Roosevelt!

86

USS THEODORE ROOSEVELT

Captain Dolores Gonzalez monitored the Common Operational Picture on her console in CDC, wondering what her counterparts on the other four American carriers had endured. Bush and Eisenhower had been damaged severely enough to terminate flight operations, and it looked as if Truman and Reagan were limping along. The sky above the American task force was mostly clear, aside from the air battle to the east and several dozen Super Hornets circling above Truman and Reagan—about three squadrons—waiting to refuel and rearm.

Gonzalez knew the pilots aloft were exhausted by now, while Roosevelt’s were fresh, chomping at the bit since they’d left Pearl Harbor under the cover of darkness. Several weeks ago, with the aircraft carrier’s Island superstructure reduced to twisted and molten metal by a Russian Shipwreck missile, Roosevelt had arrived at Pearl Harbor for repairs. The initial damage assessment estimated it would take six months to return the carrier to service, but Captain Debra Driza, commander of the Pearl Harbor Naval Shipyard, had challenged her workforce, invoking USS Yorktown as inspiration.

USS Yorktown (CV-5), operating in the Pacific in May 1942, had participated in the Battle of the Coral Sea as the Allies tried to thwart Japan’s expansion across the Pacific. During the hectic battle, as dusk settled over the Pacific, six Japanese pilots incredibly mistook Yorktown for one of their own carriers and attempted to land, their mistake pointed out by Yorktown’s anti-aircraft gunners. Other Japanese pilots properly identified Yorktown, and the carrier was hit with a bomb that penetrated the Flight Deck and exploded belowdecks, causing extensive damage that experts estimated would take three months to repair.

When Allied intelligence decoded a Japanese message a few days later, learning of a major operation aimed at gaining a foothold at the northwestern tip of the Hawaiian Island chain, Admiral Chester Nimitz gathered his comparatively meager naval forces, rushing them toward Midway Island. With four Japanese heavy aircraft carriers approaching and having only Task Force 16—USS Enterprise and USS Hornet—at his disposal, Nimitz directed Yorktown be made ready to sail alongside Task Force 16. Pearl Harbor Naval Shipyard workers labored around the clock, and three days later, Yorktown set sail with her sister carriers.

Captain Driza’s challenge had been met, and USS Roosevelt set sail a day behind Eisenhower and Bush as they passed Hawaii, westbound for the Indian Ocean. Roosevelt’s Island superstructure was still a molten mass of steel and her hangar bays scorched black from the fires that had raged inside. But her flight systems—catapults, arresting wires, and elevators—were operational. Shipyard tiger teams had remained aboard Roosevelt, continuing repairs as the carrier sailed across the Pacific, with the ship navigated from Secondary Control, located beneath the Flight Deck, instead of the mangled Bridge.

Roosevelt, along with several destroyer escorts exiting the repair yards, had traveled across the Pacific under darkened ship and complete EMCON—Emissions Controls; no radar or communication emissions—staying beyond visual range of other ships during the transit. Additionally, as they approached the American task force and their Indian opponents, Roosevelt and her destroyer escorts had activated their electronic countermeasure suites, emitting the radar signature of Chinese ships while the outbound aircraft kept their Identification-Friend-or-Foe transponders secured.

Gonzalez turned her attention to Flight Deck operations as Roosevelt began launching another thirty aircraft from her bow and waist catapults. Navy leadership knew the carrier would arrive late to the battle and replacement aircraft would be sorely needed, so Roosevelt had been outfitted with six Super Hornet squadrons instead of the standard four, plus two squadrons of MH-60Rs. The first wave of thirty F/A-18s would engage the Indian fighters tangling with the task force’s CAP, while the following wave of F/A-18s would attack the second wave of incoming Indian fighters.

Whatever survived those two battles would join forces with the three F/A-18 squadrons above Truman and Reagan, then deliver a warm welcome to the three Indian aircraft carriers.

87

PENTAGON

The president took a sip of lukewarm coffee, keeping his eyes fixed on the thirty-foot-diameter screen at the far end of the Current Action Center as red and blue symbols moved slowly across the display. The tension and silence of the first few hours had been replaced by the murmur of quiet conversations, loosened ties, and unbuttoned shirt collars as the men and women around the table monitored the battle’s progress.

A few hours earlier, USS Roosevelt’s air wing, with the assistance of the task force’s combat air patrol, had shot down all Indian aircraft aloft. After refueling and rearming her F/A-18s, Roosevelt had joined forces with the remaining task force aircraft, finishing off Pyotr Velikiy and Kuznetsov. Turning their attention back to the Indian Navy, a one-hundred-plus aircraft assault was en route toward the Indian aircraft carriers, which were retreating rapidly toward shore with their destroyer and frigate escorts. A single strike likely wouldn’t sink the three carriers, but it would bloody their noses.

Now that the outcome of the battle was clear, the president turned to his advisors.

“What’s the next step in the Indian Ocean?” he asked McVeigh.

“We’ll pull the task force back temporarily while we continue repairs on all four carriers. Hopefully we can get Eisenhower and Bush back up without a shipyard visit. We’ve got shipyard tiger teams waiting in Diego Garcia, plus four replacement air wings, stripped from the aircraft carriers in the repair yards, on their way. Once all five carriers are operational and their air wings are at full strength again, we’ll engage the remaining Russian submarines.”

“What’s the status of the two submarine forces?” the president asked.

McVeigh deferred to Admiral Brian Rettman, the Chief of Naval Operations, who answered, “It’s difficult to say this early, as submarines don’t communicate during battle. By doctrine, they stay at optimal search depth and speed until the conflict is over or have previous orders directing them to report in at a specific time.” Admiral Rettman glanced at the clock. “In another two hours, whoever survived will report in, as long as there are no hostile contacts in their operating area.

“As far as the Russian submarines go, it’s also difficult to say. We know how many lightweight and heavyweight torpedoes exploded, but we don’t know which submarines were sunk—ours or theirs—or how many of the lightweight torpedoes were expended on the same target. There haven’t been any subsurface missile attacks against our carriers in the last few hours, so it looks like we’ve sunk all eleven guided missile submarines, either before or after they launched.

“Russian attack submarines continue to probe our ASW defenses, so it looks like there’s a fair number of those left. We have insufficient numbers of MH-60 Romeo helicopters to cover the Bravo sectors, but they’re being augmented by P-8As monitoring via sonobuoy fields they’ve dropped. However, they’re running low on sonobuoys.”

When Admiral Rettman finished, McVeigh followed up. “As I mentioned, we’ll pull the task force back and refit with additional ASW assets and supplies, then engage the remaining Russian attack submarines. Depending on how plan B goes.”

“Are we ready?” the president asked.

“Yes, Mr. President. All we’re waiting for is your authorization.”

The president replied, “Proceed with the next phase.”

88

USS MICHIGAN

Lieutenant Chris Shroyer turned slowly on the periscope as USS Michigan loitered in the Sea of Marmara, watching tankers and other merchant ships pass by in the distance. He was nearing the end of his watch, and after almost six hours going round and round, he had his left arm draped over the periscope handle like a seasoned World War II captain. He knew it was unprofessional, but the submarine’s Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Dave Beasley, on watch in the Control Room with him, said nothing. He had more important things to worry about.

Beasley was stationed as the Command Duty Officer. While lurking in the Sea of Marmara, either the Executive Officer or Wilson would be in the Control Room, alternating in six-hour shifts. Earlier this morning, Michigan emerged into the Sea of Marmara after following a Suezmax tanker up the Dardanelles, and Captain Wilson and his crew waited patiently for orders. Via the radio receiver at the top of the periscope, Michigan was in continuous communication.

“Conn, Radio. In receipt of a new OPORD.”

Lieutenant Shroyer acknowledged, then pulled the microphone from its holder and pressed the button for the Captain’s stateroom.

“Captain, Officer of the Deck. In receipt of new operational orders.”

Wilson acknowledged and entered the Control Room as a watchstander emerged from the Radio Room, message board in hand.

The submarine’s Captain read the new OPORD, then handed it to his Executive Officer. Lieutenant Shroyer, still going round and round with his face pressed against the periscope, waited for one of the two senior officers to enlighten him. Wilson did the honor, informing Shroyer they’d been ordered into the Black Sea. The last two fast attack submarines in the Atlantic Fleet weren’t far behind, but Michigan would lead the way.

The journey up the Bosphorus was seventeen nautical miles long, which would take less than two hours, plus another tanker to follow. As with the trip up the Dardanelles, Michigan would transit submerged, close behind the largest tanker they could find, and this time, they’d do it without the periscope raised, since it’d be visible in the daylight.

It didn’t take long for a suitable tanker to enter the Marmara Sea, headed north. Wilson took a look, then after verifying they held the contact on Sonar, lowered the periscope.

Wilson announced, “I have the Conn, Lieutenant Shroyer retains the Deck. Helm, ahead two-thirds, right twenty degrees rudder.” As Michigan increased speed and swung around behind the tanker, Wilson ordered, “Steady as she goes.”

*   *   *

As Michigan headed up the Bosphorus, the tension in the Control Room rose as the remaining miles counted down. Wilson and his crew were unsure what awaited them, relying on the latest intel report for the basic order of battle. If the report was correct, there were no Russian submarines remaining in the Black Sea. Five Kilo class attack submarines, along with a Slava class cruiser and Kashin class destroyer, had transited the Turkish Straits into the Mediterranean, where they joined the Northern Fleet as it headed toward the Suez Canal and into the Pacific. What remained in the Black Sea were four anti-submarine warfare frigates, patrolling near the northern end of the Bosphorus.

Wilson guided Michigan up the narrow channel while leaving the submarine’s Deck in Lieutenant Shroyer’s capable hands. The junior officer monitored the two inertial navigators, watching the two white dots on the electronic navigation chart creep up the Bosphorus, and when Michigan was one nautical mile from the channel’s exit into the Black Sea, he informed the Captain as instructed.

Michigan’s Commanding Officer announced, “Raising Number One scope,” then twisted the orange periscope locking ring above his head, raising the attack periscope.

Wilson did a quick 360-degree sweep, returning to a forward view, sweeping back and forth as Michigan entered the Black Sea. As Shroyer wondered if there were Russian combatants in the area, Wilson’s next order clarified the situation.

“Man Battle Stations Torpedo.”

89

SIBERIA, RUSSIA

Delta Force operator Joe Martin, wearing a ram-air parachute system strapped to his body, sat quietly in the cargo hold of the MC-130H Combat Talon II, awaiting the end of his journey. After taking off from Dolon Air Base in Semey, Kazakhstan, and heading north, Martin and the other operators in his Delta Force unit were flying at thirty thousand feet, having entered Russian airspace moments earlier. Although the aircraft was outfitted with terrain-following radar that enabled operations as low as 250 feet, it wouldn’t be needed today. The MC-130H Combat Talon, flying at the same altitude and flight path as commercial airliners traveling between Kazakhstan and Russia, would blend into the traffic.

Under normal circumstances, deploying against heavily defended installations, Martin and his team would have been dropped under the cover of darkness. This wasn’t the case today, as it was approaching noon in the Siberian province. Martin wasn’t worried, however. The facility would be lightly defended, if at all. Plus, the small size of the metal objects they carried meant they wouldn’t be detected by radar during the jump, and the speed of their descent would give their opponents little time to respond even if they were.

As Martin’s unit headed north, he knew that two dozen Delta Force and Navy SEAL units were aloft, heading toward their targets. Martin surveyed the other fifty-one men in the aircraft’s cargo hold. Each was outfitted with a helmet, goggles, and oxygen mask, which wasn’t surprising given their plan for a HALO—High Altitude Low Opening—insertion. Martin was breathing oxygen supplied by the Combat Talon to help clear the nitrogen from his bloodstream, and would shift to his own oxygen supply shortly before the jump.

Although Martin would breathe oxygen during his descent, there was always the risk of hypoxia, which could result in unconsciousness. As a safeguard, his parachute would deploy automatically at a designated altitude—four thousand feet in this case—and his team would assemble in the air and land together in the designated drop zone. Martin was also dressed warmly, with a layer of polypropylene knit undergarments, to guard against frostbite, since temperatures during HALO jumps could dip to minus fifty degrees Fahrenheit.

Additionally, today’s jump would be a heavy one. Martin’s rucksack weighed over one hundred pounds, filled with weapons, food, water, first-aid kit, and a special selection of armaments required for this mission. With a parachute system weighing forty pounds, his rucksack, plus ammunition and body armor, Martin would exit the aircraft today weighing almost four hundred pounds.

A burst of static from Martin’s radio was followed by an order, and the fifty-two men in the cargo hold stood. Martin switched over to his own oxygen supply and disconnected from the aircraft’s, and when the jump light switched from red to yellow, he checked his equipment one last time. The ramp at the rear of the MC-130H slowly lowered, and frigid air filled the cargo hold. Hand signals followed, and Martin led the way toward the back of the aircraft. When the jump light switched to green, he stepped off the ramp and plummeted toward earth.

During the free fall, Martin’s team maneuvered to stay together, forming several tactical groups. Martin monitored his HALO altimeter during the descent, and his parachute opened as programmed at four thousand feet. As he approached the ground, Martin disconnected and dropped his rucksack, suspended by a lanyard, keeping the heavy bag away from his body in preparation for landing. As the landing zone rose up to greet him, Martin pulled on his parachute risers and angled toward his target.

90

USS MICHIGAN

“Bearing, mark!”

Captain Wilson pressed the red button on the periscope handle, sending the bearing to combat control, then flipped the handles up as he stepped back. “Angle on the bow, port twenty.”

The Periscope Assistant reached up and rotated the locking ring, lowering the scope into its well. The entire periscope observation, from the time the scope broke the water’s surface until it slipped beneath, took ten seconds.

Shortly after exiting the Bosphorus, Wilson had spotted four Russian frigates patrolling the entrance to the Black Sea. With each combatant armed with periscope detection radars, Wilson couldn’t afford to leave the periscope up longer than a few seconds.

Wilson examined the nearest combat control console, which displayed a picture of the contact when he pressed the pickle—the red button. Using the two trackballs on his console, the fire control technician drew a box around the frigate, framing the waterline and top of the ship’s superstructure, along with its stern and bow. Wilson had identified the frigate as a Burevestnik M, referred to as Krivak II by NATO forces.

“Matches,” the petty officer reported. Wilson’s angle on the bow matched the contact’s calculated course, which put the frigate headed toward them, offset twenty degrees to port.

Wilson paused to assess the tactical situation. The nearest contact, Master one, was approaching at ten knots and would get dangerously close. Michigan couldn’t move out of the way, with the submarine’s speed limited to five knots to prevent a white wake behind the periscope while it was raised. However, Wilson didn’t need to move out of the way. Michigan was Weapons Free.

Taking out the incoming frigate wouldn’t be a problem. Steady on course and speed, he could have hit it with a straight-running World War II torpedo. The problem was, a torpedo exploding beneath its hull would inform the other three frigates of Michigan’s presence, and instead of patrolling the Black Sea in semi-boredom, the crews would go to General Quarters. As long as the frigates didn’t realize Michigan was nearby, the advantage weighed heavily in Wilson’s favor, an advantage he didn’t want to give up.

“Attention in Control,” he announced. “I intend to engage all four frigates simultaneously. I’ll do a round of observations on the other three contacts, then proceed to Firing Point Procedures. Carry on.”

Taking his position behind the attack periscope again, he ordered, “Prepare for observations, Master two, three, and four.”

Lieutenant Commander Beasley assigned each of the three operators on the combat control consoles to a different contact, and each man called out, “Ready.”

“Raise Number One scope,” Wilson ordered.

The Periscope Assistant twisted the periscope locking ring above them, porting hydraulic fluid beneath the scope barrel, and the periscope slid silently upward.

Wilson snapped the handles down and pressed his face against the eyepiece as the periscope rose from its well. After lining up on Master two, he pressed the pickle and announced, “Master two. Bearing, mark,” then shifted to Master three.

The next two observations were completed quickly, and Wilson flipped the handles up as the Periscope Assistant lowered the scope. The round of observations took thirty seconds. Not optimal with a frigate so close, but he needed the data.

The watchstanders manning the combat control consoles used the picture of each contact to calculate its course and range. Wilson called out the target angles from memory and each man reported, “Matches.”

Beasley hovered behind the three men on the combat control consoles, examining the three solutions. After verifying they were in agreement with the periscope observations, he tapped each man on the shoulder.

“Promote to master solution.”

The three men complied and Beasley announced, “I have a firing solution.”

Wilson called out, “Firing Point Procedures, Master one through four, tubes One through Four, normal surface presets, all weapons.”

Michigan’s crew went through their weapon release checklists and the required reports soon followed.

“Solutions ready,” Beasley announced.

“Weapons ready,” the Weapons Officer reported.

“Ship ready.” The Navigator completed the required reports.

Wilson examined the geographic display, updated with the four target solutions. Two of the frigates were ahead of Michigan—one near and one distant, with the other two frigates behind—also one close and one distant. Per protocol, Wilson would shoot the farthest target first, then time the release of his following weapons so all four torpedoes reached their targets simultaneously.

By cycling through the torpedo solutions on the Weapon Control Console, the submarine’s Weapons Officer, Lieutenant Mike Lawson, could have calculated the precise interval between shots. But that would take time, during which the nearest frigate would get dangerously close or a ship could maneuver, invalidating its target solution. Wilson would have to guestimate instead.

Wilson announced, “Tube four, first fired. Match Sonar bearings and shoot.”

The latest bearing to Master four was sent to Weapon Control, and Wilson heard the characteristic whir of the torpedo ejection pump as it pressurized and ported a slug of water behind the torpedo, ejecting it from its tube.

Sonar monitored the outgoing weapon, verifying it transitioned from solid to liquid fuel and turned onto an intercept course with Master four. The sonar technicians had their hands full monitoring their outgoing torpedo, because three more followed, with Wilson adjusting the interval between each shot as required.

After the Weapons Officer fired the last torpedo, Wilson moved behind the Weapon Control Console, monitoring the four outgoing weapons, speeding out on intercept courses with the four frigates. He’d done a decent job with the firing interval; it looked like the four torpedoes would go active at about the same time. The variable, however, was how good the target solutions were. A course, speed, or range error, even by a little on the distant frigates, could mean the difference between a hit and a miss.

As the four torpedoes approached their sonar enable points, Wilson returned to the Conn, stopping behind the attack periscope again.

“Prepare for observation.”

The Periscope Assistant reached up, waiting for the Captain’s order.

“Raise Number One scope.”

The attack periscope broke the surface of the water as the Weapons Officer announced, “Tube One, enabled.”

Reports for the other three torpedoes followed, reporting they had turned the sonars in their noses on, and Wilson watched for a reaction from the frigates.

Three of the four frigates seemed oblivious to the rapidly closing danger, but one maneuvered sharply away about thirty seconds after the torpedoes went active.

“Detect, tube One!” Lieutenant Lawson announced, followed shortly by, “Acquired, tube One!”

The torpedo from tube Three also detected and acquired, with both torpedoes increasing speed and adjusting course to intercept their targets. The Weapons Officer followed up, “Homing, tubes One and Three.”

The torpedo from tube One closed the remaining distance, and as it passed under the frigate’s keel, seven hundred pounds of explosive detonated. The shock wave from the expanding bubble ripped through the frigate’s keel, and the upward water jet produced when the bubble collapsed tore through additional compartments, severing the ship in half.

The other two frigates reacted instantly, altering course and increasing speed, but not before a second torpedo detonated, producing a similar result. The halves of two Krivak II frigates bobbed in the water, drifting slowly apart as they filled with water.

Wilson focused on the two surviving ships, trying to calculate steers for the torpedoes chasing them. However, both frigates changed course at random intervals and in unpredictable directions. Wilson gave it a shot.

“Insert steers, tube Two, left one-eighty. Tube Four, right one-twenty.”

Lieutenant Lawson acknowledged and passed the order to the fire control technician manning the console, who entered the steers. The torpedoes accepted the new commands and veered onto the new gyro courses, while Wilson ordered his submarine reloaded.

“Reload Tubes One and Three, and make ready in all respects.”

Down in the Torpedo Room, the Torpedo Reload Party cut the flex hoses, letting the guidance wires snake out of both tubes, then shut the muzzle doors, drained the tubes, and opened the breech doors for reloading. Meanwhile, the two torpedoes chasing the evading frigates ran to fuel exhaustion and shut down. The two frigates immediately turned toward Michigan. The submarine’s four torpedoes, traveling close to the surface at high speed, had left a green trail in the water, easily followed back toward its source.

Wilson called to his Weapons Officer, “How long until tubes One and Three are ready?”

Lawson queried the Torpedo Room on his sound-powered phone headset, then reported, “Five minutes.”

Peering through the periscope at the frigates racing toward Michigan, Wilson realized he didn’t have five minutes. He stepped back and ordered the periscope lowered.

“Helm, ahead full, hard left rudder. Dive, make your depth six hundred feet.”

Michigan’s main engines came alive and the submarine picked up speed as it turned away from the incoming frigates and angled toward the bottom of the Black Sea. The frigates’ sonar systems went active, sending powerful pings echoing through Michigan’s hull, and the rhythmic churn from their screws grew louder as the frigates approached.

The first frigate passed overhead as Michigan leveled off at six hundred feet, and the Sonar Supervisor’s report came across the speaker. “Receiving multiple splashes on spherical array broadband. Bearings unknown.”

Wilson knew why Sonar couldn’t determine the bearings—the splashes were directly overhead. “Brace for shock!” he ordered as he grabbed on to the nearest railing.

Wilson had identified both frigates as Admiral Grigorovich class, each outfitted with an RBU-600 rocket launcher capable of firing salvos of up to twelve depth charges, automatically reloading from a magazine carrying ninety-six projectiles. Thankfully, Russian depth charges had only fifty pounds of explosives, give or take a few pounds depending on the projectile type. However, even fifty pounds, detonated close enough to the hull, could breach it. Seconds later, Michigan jolted as the first depth charge exploded.

The equipment consoles shook as a deafening roar swept through the Control Room. Before Wilson could request a damage report from the Chief of the Watch, several more charges detonated, shaking the submarine each time. The explosions continued, growing more severe. After the twelfth detonation, it grew silent. But not for long as the second frigate sped overhead.

Sonar reported, “Receiving splashes on broadband,” and Wilson gripped the Conn handrail firmly again.

This round of explosions was more violent, knocking unsecured items to the deck. Wilson requested a damage report, and the status of each compartment flowed in to the Chief of the Watch, who relayed the results from all spaces.

No damage.

However, the last pass of depth charges was too close for comfort, and as approaching twin screws and sonar pings announced the return of the first frigate, Wilson turned to the Quartermaster.

“Take a sounding.”

The Quartermaster complied, activating the submarine’s fathometer for one cycle. “Sixty fathoms beneath the keel.”

Wilson acknowledged, then ordered the submarine deeper. “Dive, make your depth eight hundred feet.”

The Dive complied, ordering a ten-degree down bubble and full dive on the fairwater planes, and Michigan tilted downward. As Michigan leveled off at eight hundred feet, the first frigate launched another salvo of depth charges, and their explosions were notably fainter than the first pass, with only minor tremors felt through the hull.

As the first frigate headed away and the second approached, announced by the increasing power of its sonar pulses, Wilson wondered if the frigate held Michigan on its active sonar, determining its depth. Splashes followed and Wilson’s crew waited with upturned faces, as if they could see the depth charges sinking toward them.

The next round of depth charges began to detonate. Lighting fixtures shattered and Wilson struggled to maintain his feet as he held on to the Conn railing. Water started spraying from the port periscope barrel seal in the overhead and Wilson looked up to examine it, shielding his face from the spray. In the midst of the last few explosions, the submarine’s flooding alarm sounded, followed by a report over the 4-MC emergency circuit.

“Flooding in the Engine Room!”

91

OMSK, RUSSIA

Omsk Oil Refinery is the largest in Russia and one of the biggest in the world, processing over twenty million tons of crude oil each year. On duty today in the refinery’s main control station, filled with a dozen operators at their consoles, Bogdan Melikov sat at the supervisor’s station on an elevated tier at the back of the control room, preparing to eat lunch. Although there was a cafeteria in the refinery, Melikov preferred homemade food prepared by his wife, even if it was a sandwich.

Russians weren’t big on sandwiches; ask for a sandwich in Russia and you’d likely get a confused look and asked what kind of soup you wanted instead. However, Melikov was fond of Doktorskaya bologna, the love child of bologna and sausage, and his wife had prepared his favorite sandwich this morning: a few cuts of Doktorskaya between rye bread, a layer of garlic spread, and a slice of salo, which could be described as either raw pig fat or meat-free bacon, depending upon one’s point of view.

Melikov opened his mouth wide and took a big bite, wiping a dab of garlic spread from the corner of his mouth with a napkin. From his peripheral vision, he thought he saw movement on one of the security monitors, displaying feeds from the cameras atop the perimeter fence. He stared at it for a moment as he chewed, and after convincing himself it was just an animal passing by in the wilderness, he focused again on his lunch.

He opened a can of mint-flavored kvass and took a swig. As he took another bite of his sandwich, security alarms went off in the control room. As he tried to ascertain the reason for the warning, searching the security monitors for a clue, the door to the control room blew open and a dozen armed men surged inside, weapons raised and pointed toward the control room personnel.

The men halted after taking positions offering a clear view of the control room staff, and one of the armed men stepped forward, lowering his weapon.

He spoke in Russian. “Who is in charge here?”

The dozen men and women at the consoles turned and pointed toward the man seated at the supervisor’s station. Melikov still had a partially chewed bite of sandwich in his mouth. He swallowed hard.

92

USS MICHIGAN

As the Black Sea flooded into the submarine’s Engine Room, Michigan’s stern tilted downward. During flooding, Wilson’s crew was trained to automatically increase the submarine’s speed. The hull served as a hydrofoil, like an airplane wing, with the amount of lift determined by the submarine’s speed and angle. The faster the submarine traveled and the higher the angle, the more flooding it could endure without sinking into the ocean depths. However, there were two frigates patrolling above Michigan, trying to pinpoint her location. Increasing speed would put additional propulsion-related noise into the water, making it easier for the frigates to accomplish their mission. Wilson decided to remain at slow speed instead, unless the flooding was severe.

The Engine Room watchstanders responded as trained, with the Throttleman opening the ahead throttles and relaying his actions to Control. The Engine Order Telegraph shifted to ahead standard, whereupon Wilson overrode the automatic response.

“Helm, ahead two-thirds.”

The Helm relayed the order back to the Engine Room, and the initial surge from Michigan’s main engines faded, with the submarine settling back out at ten knots. As the stern tilted downward, Wilson waited tensely while the Chief of the Watch lined up the drain pump to the Engine Room bilges, cross-connecting the trim pump as well. When the twin eight-foot-tall pumps kicked in, Michigan’s angle stabilized, then the stern slowly rose, returning the submarine to an even keel. The flooding wasn’t catastrophic; the trim and drain pumps were keeping up.

Wilson turned his attention to the leak from the port periscope barrel seal, spraying into Control. Michigan wasn’t in peril, however. The leak was minimal, more of an annoying shower. Two Auxiliary machinist mates stepped onto the Conn to address the seawater spraying from the overhead. They adjusted the packing around the port periscope, tightening the gland until the leak slowed to a trickle, then stopped. With the gland clamped tightly against the barrel, the port periscope was inoperable, but Wilson still had the starboard scope if needed.

A moment later, an update was received from the Engine Room.

“Conn, Maneuvering. The flooding is stopped.”

Wilson picked up the 2-JV handset, conferring with the Engineering Officer of the Watch, in charge of the watchstanders in the Engine Room. The flooding was from the port Auxiliary Seawater system and had been stopped by shutting the hull isolation valves. Watchstanders were in the process of isolating the damaged section and cross-connecting the port and starboard sides of Auxiliary Seawater, with both sides supplied from the starboard intake.

Wilson’s relief was short-lived, as one of the frigates approached for another pass and Sonar reported more splashes. As the depth charges drifted downward, he decided to maneuver; it looked like the two frigates had a pretty good bead on Michigan’s course and depth. He glanced at the combat control consoles: the operators were working on solutions for the two frigates using sonar bearings, and preliminary estimates indicated they were on east–west runs.

“Helm, hard right rudder, steady course zero-one-zero.”

Michigan wasn’t far from the bottom and Wilson couldn’t go much deeper, so he turned north, where the Black Sea floor sloped quickly down to the Euxine abyssal plain, reaching a depth of seven thousand feet.

The next round of depth charges detonated, jarring Michigan. But the effects weren’t as severe as the last round and no new reports of flooding were received. Wilson turned his attention to his weapons load; they should have reloaded tubes One and Three by now.

Tubes Two and Four could also be reloaded now that their torpedoes had run to fuel exhaustion and their guidance wires were no longer needed, but Wilson decided to wait. It was risky enough to have two torpedo tube breech doors open for loading while being depth charged. Opening all four was asking for trouble. If one of the muzzle door seals failed, it’d be all over; there’d be no way to shut the breech door and Michigan would go to the bottom.

Lieutenant Lawson announced, “Tubes One and Three are ready in all respects.”

Wilson examined the frigate solutions on the combat control system consoles. It was clear the two ships held Michigan on their sonar systems; they had maneuvered to a north–south pattern, following Michigan into deeper water. It was only a matter of time, Wilson figured, before they got lucky; it would take only one depth charge close enough to the hull to breach it. The new solutions for the two frigates were shaky, but he didn’t need refined solutions. Put the MK 48 torpedoes near the two contacts, and they’d take it from there.

“Firing Point Procedures,” Wilson announced, “Master two and four, tubes One and Three, respectively. Use normal surface presets, both weapons.”

The required reports followed, and Wilson studied the solutions to both targets on the geographic display. Not wanting to endure another depth charging, he decided to shoot the closest frigate first.

“Tube One, first fired. Shoot on generated bearings.”

When Lawson received a Ready report from the torpedo, he ordered the tube fired. Sonar monitored the torpedo, verifying it performed properly and didn’t shut down prematurely.

Sonar followed up with, “Tube One is merging onto the track for Master two.”

The first torpedo was closing on the nearest frigate. However, firing torpedoes was a loud event due to using pressurized water to eject the torpedo, with that noise serving as a beacon for the two frigates.

“Helm, ahead flank. Right full rudder, steady course one-eight-zero.”

Michigan turned south, and with the second frigate behind the submarine, Wilson ordered an over-the-shoulder shot.

“Shoot tube Three.”

Lieutenant Lawson complied and Michigan’s second torpedo was ejected.

Both frigates began evasive maneuvering, but the closest ship wasn’t far from Wilson’s first torpedo. The weapon went active, identifying its target immediately.

“Detect, tube One!

“Acquired!

“Homing!”

The first torpedo increased speed and adjusted its trajectory to intercept the frigate, altering course each time the frigate maneuvered. Sonar reported jammers and decoys being ejected into the water, but the torpedo closed the remaining distance.

A loud rumble echoed through the Control Room after the first torpedo exploded.

Wilson turned his attention to the last frigate, examining the geographic plot. It had maneuvered early enough, and the torpedo failed to detect it as it passed by and continued outbound. However, it wasn’t far away from the frigate and a quick steer might do the trick.

Wilson ordered, “Insert steer, tube Three, left one-hundred.”

The Weapons Officer complied, and Wilson watched the display as the torpedo veered sharply left toward the red surface ship symbol. It wasn’t long before Lieutenant Lawson made the report Wilson hoped for.

“Detect, tube Three!”

In quick succession, the torpedo reported it had acquired a valid contact, calculated the evading frigate’s course and speed, and increased speed to close on its prey. A minute later, with the frigate maneuvering wildly and its crew ejecting numerous countermeasures into the water, a second explosion rumbled through Michigan’s Control Room.

It grew quiet in Control as Wilson examined the new target solutions. Based on sonar bearings, both ships were dead in the water, and their machinery noises were growing fainter. Wilson decided to take a look.

“Helm, ahead one-third. Dive, make your depth two hundred feet. All stations, make preparations to proceed to periscope depth.”

The Dive, Quartermaster, Radio, and Sonar acknowledged, and it wasn’t long before Michigan was at two hundred feet, then at periscope depth a few minutes later. Wilson spun on the scope as it broke the water’s surface.

“No close contacts!”

Wilson steadied on the bearing to Master two, watching the two halves of the frigate fill with water, then upend and slip beneath the surface of the Black Sea. Master four soon followed. There were survivors in the water, floating on the surface in orange life vests. However, Wilson couldn’t stop to pick them up. He had follow-on orders, plus there was plenty of debris in the water to cling to and they weren’t far from shore.

Wilson announced, “All stations, Conn. Heading deep.”

He swung the periscope to a forward-facing position, then lowered it into its well.

“Helm, ahead standard. Left full rudder, steady course zero-five-zero. Dive, make your depth four hundred feet.”

Michigan increased speed as it angled downward and turned to the northeast.

93

OMSK, RUSSIA

Captain Martin placed his rucksack on the ground and, after sorting through its contents, retrieved the desired items. One was a material he was familiar with, having employed C-4 explosive many times. The other was an item he hadn’t seen before, although it was easily identified as a detonator. A bit exotic, he thought, with an integrated design leaving no wires between the electronics and detonator. Also missing was a remote initiator, and after pondering its absence, he realized the detonator was activated via a remote cellular or satellite signal.

With the items laid out before him, Martin focused next on where they’d be used. The Omsk Oil Refinery was a massive installation: a maze of metal facilities, pipelines, and storage tanks. While researching his target, Martin learned that the Omsk Oil Refinery, in addition to being Russia’s biggest, was one of its best, winning Industrial Product gold prizes for its Euro-98 Super Petrol and Euro Diesel for cold weather conditions.

Not for much longer.

The men in his unit carried twelve sets of detonators and C-4, and Martin selected several key locations: the catalytic cracking gasoline and diesel fuel hydrotreatment units, the AT-9 distillation unit, and the nine biggest storage tanks. He gathered his men around before they set out on their tasks, reminding them of the warning they’d been given. Once it’s been activated, do not move the detonator.

94

MOSCOW

In the Operations Center conference room, deep in the bowels of the Kremlin, the air was cold and the tension thick. President Yuri Kalinin sat at the head of the table, flanked by his military and civilian advisors, absorbing the somber information. When General Andropov completed his update, Kalinin cast his eyes across the large video screen on the far wall, assessing the carnage.

Every one of Russia’s surface combatants in the Pacific had been destroyed, most floating aimlessly on the surface—blackened hulks or red torches with spires of smoke rising into the sky—while others had gone to the ocean bottom after internal explosions ripped their hulls apart. In return, all four of America’s aircraft carriers had been damaged, but none fatally, and only a few of the American cruisers or destroyers were disabled. Additionally, the United States had attacked what remained of Russia’s Black Sea Fleet, sinking the four frigates patrolling the mouth of the Bosphorus. America’s goal in the Black Sea wasn’t clear, but Kalinin had an inkling.

One of General Andropov’s aides, with a flustered look on his face, entered the conference room and delivered a folder to the General. It contained a single-page message, which Andropov reviewed, then slid to Kalinin without a word. As Kalinin read it, the heat rose in his face. He was about to ask Andropov what Russia’s response should be, when the aide cleared his voice.

“Excuse me, Mr. President. I have an additional message.”

Kalinin shifted his attention to the Army Colonel, who said, “The American president has requested a videoconference with you.”

“When?” Kalinin asked.

“Now,” the Colonel answered. “We can proceed if you desire.”

Kalinin surveyed the men and women at the table, implicitly asking for their input. None came, with several of his advisors avoiding his gaze, their eyes staring at the table.

“Put the American president on-screen,” Kalinin directed.

A moment later, the American president appeared on the display, with the video feed showing a situation not much different from Kalinin’s: the president seated at a conference table, flanked by his advisors.

“Good morning, President Kalinin.”

Kalinin checked the clock on the wall, annotated with Washington, D.C., which read 4 a.m.

“Good morning to you as well.”

“I’ll cut to the chase,” the American president said. “I’ve considered the ultimatum you gave NATO and the United States. Although you have a few valid concerns regarding your borders, I’ve come to the conclusion that a Russian occupation of Lithuania and Ukraine isn’t a good idea, so you’ll have to leave. I also realize that isn’t going to happen if I just say please, so I’ve been searching for a way to convey my request in a more convincing manner.”

Kalinin didn’t miss the flippancy in the president’s words. He had the upper hand and was using it.

The American president continued, “Your attempt to blackmail the United States and NATO was both brilliant and inspirational, and it gave me an idea.”

The right half of the screen morphed into a nine-grid, three-by-three display, showing video feeds from oil refineries and natural gas facilities, with the American president’s image remaining on the left half of the screen.

“American forces have taken control of Russia’s twenty-four largest oil and natural gas facilities,” the president said, “wiring them with explosives.”

The nine videos zoomed in, focusing on explosives attached to equipment, each with a sophisticated detonator pressed into the explosive material.

“Do these look familiar?”

The American president reached for a small electronic tablet and tapped in a ten-digit code. The detonators on-screen activated, and the videos zoomed back out.

“All of the explosives attached to your facilities have been armed, and I probably don’t need to inform you, but if anyone tries to remove or jam them, they’ll detonate. Also, in case you get any clever ideas, the master disarm code has been changed.”

The American president added, “I’ve also moved several submarines into the Black Sea, which I’m sure you’ve noticed by the absence of a few Russian frigates. In two hours, unless ordered otherwise, they will commence sinking all merchant ships departing Russian ports on the Black Sea. At that time, you can also say good-bye to your twenty-four largest oil and natural gas facilities.”

Kalinin realized the implications; the Black Sea terminals loaded the vast majority of oil and natural gas destined for Asian and African markets, not to mention being the largest grain ports in the country. By destroying the twenty-four facilities and cutting off the flow through the Black Sea, America would cripple Russia’s economy.

The American president interrupted Kalinin’s thoughts. “Of course, none of this will occur if you withdraw your troops from Lithuania and Ukraine. You have two hours for us to detect your troops returning to Russia.”

The American president let his demand sink in, then asked, “Any questions, Yuri?”

Although a few choice words came to mind, Kalinin had no questions. The American president’s ultimatum, as well as Russia’s response, was clear.

Kalinin replied, “We will begin withdrawing troops immediately.”

“Excellent,” the American president said. “As a show of goodwill, I’ll disable the detonators at your oil refinery in Omsk, the largest and most modern in Russia, I believe.”

The president tapped in a ten-digit code and pressed enter.

One of the nine video feeds blanked out in a blinding white flash, fading to reveal a dozen orange fireballs rising skyward from a mass of twisted metal engulfed in flames.

“Sorry, Yuri,” the American president said. “I’m all thumbs.”

The screen went black.

95

SOCHI, RUSSIA

Christine’s eyes opened slowly, then fluttered back shut as her blurry vision was greeted by a throbbing headache. She opened her eyes again and lifted her head slowly, and her vision cleared. She was lying on her stomach on a wooden floor in a dimly lit room, with the only source of light being shafts of sunlight streaming through slots near the top of the room. There was a brackish smell in the air and the sound of waves lapping against pilings.

She was in the boathouse, inside a storage room.

Confirming her assessment, there were several piles of crates cluttering the room, along with a few old life preservers and vests.

Christine tried to push herself to her feet, then realized her hands were cuffed behind her back. She rolled onto her side and then to a sitting position. She was still in her nightgown and barefoot. Looking around, she examined her new accommodations more closely. She was in a twenty-by-twenty-foot room with no windows and a single door. The only openings to the outside were several six-inch-wide slots at the top of the wall to her left. Above, a few pipes ran the width of the room a few feet above her head.

She rocked forward onto her feet, and on the slim chance the door was unlocked, she pushed the lever down with one foot, then hooked her toes behind it and pulled. No luck. She heard a man’s voice on the other side of the door, speaking in Russian. At first, she thought he was talking to her, but then there was a squelch of a handheld radio, and she realized the man was a guard posted outside, most likely informing Gorev she had regained consciousness.

The door unlocked and opened, and one of Chernov’s Security Service agents, pistol drawn, appeared in the doorway. Christine froze where she was. The man studied her for a moment, then closed and locked the door again. After evaluating her predicament, she realized her options were limited. As in none. At least while her hands were cuffed behind her back.

However, she could fix that. Christine had been an elite gymnast in high school and college and was still both flexible and strong. She lay on her back, and supporting herself with her shoulders and feet, arched her back, curving it until her hands slipped past her hips. After pulling her legs through, she was on her feet again with her hands in front. They were still handcuffed, but at least she could use them now.

She examined the slots along the top of the wall again, and wondered if she could create a larger opening; the boathouse was made of wood. She searched through the crates, hoping to find something she could pry the planks apart with. After finding nothing useful, she decided to try with her bare hands. She stacked three crates against the wall, climbed up, and pulled on a board between two slots. As she pulled with all her strength, her hands slipped off and she lost her balance, the pile of crates tilting to the side as she fell. She twisted instinctively while in the air and landed on her feet. Being a former gymnast had its advantages.

The crates came crashing to the ground behind her, and the door opened a moment later. A single incandescent bulb hanging from the ceiling turned on, illuminating the room in weak yellow light. This time, Semyon Gorev and two SVR agents entered, along with Chernov’s Security Service agent.

Gorev eyed Christine’s hands, in front of her instead of behind her, and the crates against the wall. He spoke in Russian and Chernov’s agent stepped forward, unlocking one side of her handcuffs. As Christine wondered if Gorev was going to release her, the agent raised her right arm and locked the handcuff to a pipe above her head. After pulling a second pair of handcuffs from his jacket, he connected Christine’s left hand to the same pipe.

Gorev smiled as he unwrapped a peppermint candy and popped it into his mouth.

“A breath mint?” Christine asked. “Are you hoping for a kiss?”

“Not exactly,” he replied as he pulled a pistol from inside his jacket. He left it down by his side.

A cold shiver ran down her spine, and she forced her eyes back up toward Gorev’s face, searching for a clue to his intentions.

“You did an admirable job on Chernov,” he said. “I’d like to tell you that you failed and he survived somehow, but unfortunately that is not the case. Unfortunately for you, there are ramifications.”

He stepped closer. “What do you think is fair compensation for the life of Russia’s defense minister?”

When Christine didn’t answer, he said, “Putting a bullet into your head would be too easy and, frankly, boring. Instead, since you are so fond of games, we are going to play one now. It’s called—Seemon says.”

Christine replied, “It’s pronounced Simon says, you moron.”

Gorev stared at her with cold eyes, then cracked the mint between his teeth. “I know that, Christine. My first name is Semyon, but most Americans have trouble pronouncing it correctly, so I make it easy for them. Seemon. So the game we will play is called Seemon says. Understand?”

Christine nodded slowly.

Gorev pointed his pistol at her, pressing the barrel against her stomach. She felt the cool metal through the thin fabric of her nightgown, and a chill raked her flesh.

He slid the barrel slowly up Christine’s stomach, then between her breasts. The pistol continued upward, the barrel caressing her neck, then Gorev tilted the gun up and pressed the barrel hard under her chin.

“It’s a pity I have to kill such a beautiful woman.”

His words filled her with a crippling wave of terror. But instead of pulling the trigger, Gorev smiled again, then rode the barrel over her chin, leveling the pistol when the barrel rested against Christine’s lips.

“Seemon says, Open your mouth.”

Christine clenched her jaw and turned her head away.

Gorev spoke in Russian, and Chernov’s agent grabbed her head and forced it back toward Gorev until the barrel rested against her lips again.

“If you play the game,” Gorev said, “the end will be painless. If not, I promise you the most excruciating pain you have ever experienced.”

Christine kept her teeth clenched together, trying to keep the fear from showing in her eyes.

Gorev clamped a hand around her neck. “Open your mouth.”

When Christine refused again, Gorev nodded to the two SVR agents. One pinched Christine’s nose shut while the other tried to pry her mouth open. Christine kept her jaw clenched, but it wasn’t long before she felt light-headed, and when she could hold her breath no longer, she gasped for air. When her mouth opened, Gorev jammed the pistol barrel into her mouth.

He let the barrel rest in her mouth a moment, and Christine tasted the ferrous tang of metal. Her pulse started racing, and her breathing turned rapid and shallow.

Gorev said, “As I reviewed your file again, I tried to find someone important to you. I would have let you live long enough to see them die. But you have no husband, no children, no siblings, no parents. Your lack of loved ones takes most of the fun out of things. But not all.”

He leaned close, whispering in her ear, “Seemon says, Time to die.”

Christine’s eyes shot to Gorev’s index finger as he slowly squeezed the trigger, and she watched in horrified fascination as the color of his finger gradually changed from pink to white. A low moan began to build in her throat and her legs started to give way. With one last tremendous effort, she pushed the terror down and steadied herself.

The end of Gorev’s finger turned white.

She closed her eyes as tightly as she could.

The pistol hammer fell.

Christine didn’t hear the shot. Only a metal click.

The pistol didn’t fire.

She heard Gorev laugh as he pulled the barrel from her mouth.

Christine opened her eyes as Gorev said, “It looks like I forgot to put the bullets in.”

It took a moment for the terror to subside, to collect her thoughts.

“You sick bastard.”

Gorev smacked her across the face with the back of his hand, and Christine felt a sting as metal sliced into her cheek.

“Now look at what you’ve done,” Gorev said as he wiped the blood away from an ornate gold ring that sparkled under the incandescent light. He lifted the hem of Christine’s nightgown and dabbed away the blood on her cheek. “It’s only a small cut. Do you think we should get stiches?” Gorev smiled.

Christine’s eyes narrowed, doing her best to convey hatred.

Gorev grabbed her throat with one hand again, squeezing hard. “You’re lucky Yuri has taken a fancy to your pretty face, or you would be fish food at the bottom of the Black Sea by now. Instead, you get to entertain me until I discuss the issue with him. He’s busy at the moment, but once I explain what you’ve done, he will leave it to me to dispose of you.”

He released her throat and slid his pistol into the harness under his jacket. “Until then,” he said, “you can hang out here.” His eyes went to Christine’s handcuffs, her body hanging from the pipe. He laughed at his own joke, then left the room, as did the two SVR agents. The last man, Chernov’s security agent, turned off the light, then closed and locked the door.

As the door shut, Christine’s legs gave way. The handcuffs cut into her wrists from the weight, but the pain didn’t register. The tears came first, then the sobs. The emotions that had built up over the last few years—the terror as her ex-husband drove a knife into her neck, the panic as her car plunged into the lagoon off the coast of China, and the guilt as she watched Brackman take his last breath and drift off into the murky water—were amplified by what Gorev had done, and she could no longer keep it all in. Hanging from the handcuffs in the semidarkness, she let it all out.

96

SOCHI, RUSSIA

Christine wasn’t sure how much time passed, but her tears had dried and she was on her feet again, her hands on the pipe so the handcuffs no longer cut into her wrists. Her mind and body were numb, her muscles so drained that she barely had enough strength to hang on to the pipe. As the bright shafts of sunlight streaming through the boathouse openings faded, replaced with dirty-gray light filtering into her cell, her mind began to clear and her strength returned.

Night was setting in, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before Gorev discussed her fate with Kalinin. Her thoughts returned to escape. She didn’t have a plan yet, but it would start with freeing herself from the pipe. She examined the ends, which passed through flanges bolted to each wall. Hoping the pipe was just connected to the walls rather than running through them, Christine wondered if she could break one of the flanges free.

She gripped the piping and put her full weight on it, then yanked down as hard as she could. The piping didn’t move. She tried several times more, hoping she could loosen one end, but the flanges didn’t give. Undeterred, she slid her handcuffs sideways on the pipe, reaching one end to get a closer look at the flange. It was securely bolted to the wall. She slid her handcuffs along the pipe in the other direction, and an examination of that flange produced the same result. There was nothing she could do.

Her handcuffs sliding on the pipe produced a commotion, and she heard the door unlock. It opened to reveal one of Chernov’s Security Service agents—the one who had handcuffed her to the piping run. He turned the light on and examined Christine, then barked something in Russian to her and closed the door with a thud, locking it again. As the door closed, the single light hanging from the ceiling swayed slightly, and Christine got an idea. There was a metal shroud above the bulb, casting a dark shadow across the top of the storage room.

She was handcuffed to the piping only eight feet from the door and just to the left. She looked up, disappointed to see a clearance of only three feet between the pipe and ceiling. Had there been a seven-foot clearance, she could have used the pipe like an uneven bar, swinging down at full extension. Still, with some creativity, the pipe would suffice.

Christine gripped the pipe with both hands, then pulled herself up with enough force to continue through to a waist pull-up. She finished with her arms straight down toward the pipe and her hips resting against it. Her head was only a few inches from the ceiling, her upper body in the shadows. Leaning forward, she bent her knees slowly, pulling her legs into the darkness, and placed her feet onto the pipe. It wasn’t the most graceful position, but she had to improvise. Now that she was ready for the next move, she took a deep breath and yelled for the security agent. There was no response and she screamed again, as loud as she could.

The door unlocked and the security agent peered inside.

Startled by Christine’s disappearance, he stepped into the room to inspect more closely, pulling his pistol from its holster. As he moved toward where she’d been handcuffed to the pipe, Christine straightened her legs, pushing her hips up high, then released her feet from the bar, thrusting down as she pivoted toward the agent. Her feet connected solidly with his chest, slamming him back into the wall.

Christine had hoped to knock the guard out when his head hit the wall, and if he fell forward within range of her feet, her plan would’ve worked. But the guard was only stunned, dropping his pistol as he rebounded and staggered forward. Christine also rebounded after the impact, and she swung toward him again, this time clamping her thighs around his neck and scissoring her legs behind his head. She twisted sideways in the air, shifting her grip around his neck ninety degrees so she could cut off his airway. She pulled him toward her, hoping he’d trip in the process, giving her the opportunity to snap his neck, but he maintained his balance.

She squeezed her thighs tightly together, straining from the exertion as he clawed at her legs, trying to pry them apart. His face turned red and his eyes began to bulge. He dropped to his knees, his attempts to free himself becoming weaker. His lips turned purple and his body went slack, his arms dangling by his side.

Christine kept her legs clamped around his neck for another minute to make sure, then released him, letting him fall onto his face. After turning him over with her feet, she slipped a foot inside one of his jacket pockets, but found nothing. Inside the other pocket, however, she felt a metal key attached to a ring. Pinching the key between her toes, she pulled it slowly from his pocket. After firmly gripping the pipe, she piked at the waist into a V, bringing her feet up until the key was in her right hand.

She dropped to her feet and pulled her hands together, then unlocked the handcuffs. After retrieving the agent’s pistol from the floor, she stopped by the door, then peered outside. There was no one in sight, so she crept along the wall until she reached the corner, where she had a view of the cove. The pier to her right ran out to Chernov’s motorboat and yacht, both deserted, and the brick walkway to her left wound up to the villa. It was still dusk, but it wouldn’t be much longer before it was dark. After debating whether to stay put until it was dark instead of exposing herself in the fading light, she decided to get moving.

Christine hurried down the pier, slipping into the motorboat. Crouching down, she examined the boat’s ignition system. Like Chernov’s yacht, it was a push-button start, but needed a key. She searched the motorboat but came up empty. Peering over the edge of the boat, she examined the shoreline, wondering if she could make it out on foot. But the cove terminated on both ends in jagged rocks transitioning to steep cliffs. The only way out was up toward the villa, but there was a twenty-foot-tall security wall between the villa and the road, which also merged into steep cliffs on each side. Chernov’s villa had been built in a secure location indeed. As Christine dwelled on her predicament, she remembered Elena’s cell phone was programmed to request assistance from an extraction team nearby, which was exactly what she needed. Gorev had knocked it from her hand in Chernov’s bedroom.

She examined the rugged terrain rising toward the villa for a concealed path, but it looked like the only trail up was the winding brick walkway. Thankfully, the path was sheltered by lush vegetation on both sides, which would obscure her approach. She slipped from the motorboat onto the pier again, quickly reaching the winding path.

*   *   *

By the time she reached the end of the walkway, darkness had fallen, and Christine stopped at the edge of the vegetation only a few feet from the open-air villa. She heard the faint sound of voices and concluded it was either the television or two agents, but in either case, the sound was coming from the living room or farther away. She emerged from the path and stopped beside the villa wall, and after convincing herself there were no Russians nearby, she slipped into a hallway leading to the bedrooms.

She reached Chernov’s bedroom and stopped at the door. It was slightly ajar, with Gorev’s men having damaged the frame when they broke into the room. She pushed the door slowly open and slipped into the darkness. She gently closed the door, then turned on a bedside light. The bed was neatly made up, with no sign of Chernov.

Christine searched the room, including the closet, bathroom, and under the bed, failing to locate Elena’s cell phone. Her heart sank at the failed discovery, but then she realized all of her belongings were missing: her clothes, purse, even her carry-on suitcase. She hoped Gorev’s men had deposited everything into her luggage, and if she could find her suitcase, she would locate Elena’s phone. She turned off the light and slipped back into the hallway.

She stopped outside each bedroom, and after verifying there was no light leaking from under the doors, slipped inside each room. There was no suitcase to be found, nor the belongings of Alekperov and his wife, who had apparently departed the villa. With no suitcase in the bedrooms, that left the formal living areas, and Christine moved forward, stopping at the edge of the kitchen. The lights were on and she heard water running and the clinking of pans. She pulled her pistol up, holding it with both hands, then peered around the corner. Chernov’s maid was at the sink, her back to Christine.

Christine stepped quietly past the kitchen, pausing to peer into the lit dining room, where there were a few dirty dishes, but no suitcase. Next up was the living room, and as she approached, the sound of men’s voices grew louder. She stopped at the entrance, pistol ready again, peering around the corner with one eye.

There were four men inside, one seated on a couch with his back to Christine, facing a wide-screen television on the far wall. At the adjoining bar were the two SVR agents and one of Chernov’s Security Service agents, each seated on a bar stool with a glass of clear liquid in one hand. The TV was on, but the four men were talking. She spotted her suitcase, on the floor beside the couch, open with one of her dresses hanging over the side, then she pulled back around the corner.

It was feasible. The couch was close to the living room entrance, and if she dropped onto the ground, she could enter unseen by the men at the bar, their view blocked by the back of the couch. Likewise, the men couldn’t see her suitcase, also blocked by the couch. She knelt into a crouch and peered around the corner again. She was still too high; the faces of the three men at the bar were still visible above the back of the couch. Christine lay prone, and after verifying she could no longer see the three men, she crawled slowly into the living room.

She reached the back of the couch, then made her way slowly toward the end. She looked up; the man had his arms spread out along the top of the couch, gesturing with his hands on occasion before returning them to their resting place. Christine pulled the suitcase across the carpet toward her, back around the corner of the couch, then lifted the lid carefully and searched inside. After sifting through her clothes, she spotted her purse, its contents dumped into the bottom of her suitcase. Beside the purse was Elena’s phone. She reached in and retrieved it.

Gorev had knocked the phone from her hand and she wondered if it was still functional. There was no sign of damage, however. Placing her pistol on the carpet, she simultaneously pressed the power and down volume buttons. The cell phone vibrated and Christine froze, then shot her gaze upward. The man still had his arms on the back of the couch and the four men continued their discussion. She retrieved her pistol, and with the gun in one hand and cell phone in the other, prepared to slip from the living room.

She started crawling away when the man’s arm dropped over the back of the couch, his hand coming to rest an inch from her head. Her eyes went to the ornate gold ring on his hand; the man on the couch was Gorev. The vision of him shoving his pistol into her mouth flashed in her mind, and emotions flooded her body.

Without considering the ramifications, she dropped the phone and sprang to her feet, grabbing a fistful of Gorev’s hair, yanking his head back so he could see her face. She pressed the pistol barrel against his forehead. Christine looked at the other three men, their hands inserted inside their jackets, who had frozen when she’d placed the pistol against Gorev’s head.

She had no idea if they understood English, but said, “Pull your guns out slowly and toss them onto the floor.”

When none of the men followed her direction, she pressed the pistol hard into Gorev’s forehead. “Tell your men to toss their guns unless you want your head to look like a Cheerio. You do have Cheerios in Russia, don’t you?”

Gorev spoke to the three men in Russian, and they tossed their pistols onto the floor.

Then he looked up at her. “Hello, Christine.”

“Hello, Simon.” She deliberately mispronounced his name.

“Put the gun down,” he said, “and no harm will come to you.”

She almost laughed. When President Xiang offered his word in the Great Hall of the People, she believed him. Gorev, on the other hand, would kill her the instant he got the chance.

As if reading her mind, he said, “You have my word.”

“I have a better idea,” Christine said. “We’re going to play a game tonight. It’s called Christine says. Are you ready?”

Gorev didn’t respond, but his eyes narrowed.

Christine smiled, then moved the pistol slowly down his forehead, between his eyes, and down the bridge of his nose. When she reached his mouth, she rested the barrel on his lips.

“Christine says, Open your mouth.”

When Gorev didn’t comply, she mashed the barrel against his lips. “Open your mouth or I’ll blow a hole through your teeth.”

Gorev slowly opened his mouth, and Christine slid the barrel inside.

“Simon, are you ready to die?”

Gorev didn’t answer, not that he could talk with a pistol barrel in his mouth. Christine said, “It’s a rhetorical question. No need to answer.”

She pulled the gun out slightly, so he could see her finger wrapped around the trigger. She squeezed the trigger slowly, so he could watch the color of her index finger change from pink to white as she increased the pressure.

“You probably thought it was cute,” Christine said, “terrorizing me with your game. How does it feel?”

Her thoughts returned to what he’d done to her in the boathouse, and a dark mood settled over her. Gorev was a cruel, sadistic creature who enjoyed torturing others.

“We’re going to play a new game,” she said. “Want to know what it’s called?”

She crouched down beside him, her eyes on the three agents as she whispered, “It’s called Seemon dies.”

Christine stood and pulled the trigger.

Gorev’s head recoiled as a hole was blown in the back of his skull, splattering the top of the couch with a red puff, followed by a rivulet of blood.

She pulled the pistol from Gorev’s mouth. “It looks like I forgot to take the bullets out.”

Christine pointed her pistol toward the three men. “I don’t have a beef with you,” she said as their eyes shifted between her gun and the former director of the SVR. She collected the three pistols on the floor, slipping her fingers through the trigger guards, then backed toward the living room entrance, her pistol still aimed at the three men.

“Stay exactly where you are for one hour, and no one will get hurt.” She had no idea if the men understood her or if the extraction team would arrive within that time, but figured an hour would be enough.

After backing out of the living room, she sprinted down the hallway. She hadn’t given much thought to her escape plan, which amounted to vacating the villa and heading toward the water. Maybe she could lose them in the dense vegetation along the brick walkway until assistance arrived.

Unfortunately, the three men either didn’t understand her or chose not to follow her directions. There was a commotion behind her—men shouting and running feet. As she turned the corner, a bullet buried itself into the wall behind her, and Christine realized she wasn’t going to make it to the brick path. After passing the indoor and outdoor pools on either side of her, she got an idea as she emerged onto the patio.

Maintaining a full sprint, she headed toward the balcony overlooking the Black Sea, dropping her pistols on the way. When she reached the railing, she leapt up, planted a foot on the edge of the stone balustrade, and launched herself into the air, plummeting down toward the dark water. She plunged into the Black Sea, arching her back to arrest her descent in case the water was shallow. As the brackish water stung her cheek and wrists, she kicked her legs and pulled with her arms, swimming underwater away from the villa.

Bullets zinged into the water around her, and Christine redoubled her efforts, trying to put as much distance between her and the shoreline as possible before coming up for air. Her lungs started burning and she angled upward, broaching the surface when she couldn’t hold her breath any longer. She heard shouts from the villa balcony and a fresh barrage of bullets, some hitting so close she felt the water churning from their entry. To her left, the two SVR agents were sprinting down the pier toward Chernov’s motorboat.

Taking a deep breath, she slipped beneath the water and continued away from the coast, hoping they’d lose her in the darkness as she swam farther away from the villa’s lights. When she came up for air again, the two Russians were in the motorboat, headed toward her. Bullets pierced the water from the men in the boat and on the patio, and she ducked under the water again and changed direction, angling toward the left.

As the oxygen in her body depleted, a white light crisscrossed the water’s surface above her, sometimes passing directly overhead. When she could hold her breath no longer, she rose to the surface for air, and before she slipped back under, the light blinded her as it swept by, then quickly returned, illuminating her face. The boat turned in her direction, with the Russian at the bow bringing his weapon to bear on her.

She took a deep breath and was about to submerge again when heavy-caliber bullets riddled the side of the motorboat and tore into the agent on the bow and then the driver, knocking both men into the water. A second later, a red flame streaked above Christine, headed toward Chernov’s villa, and the patio exploded in an orange fireball.

The light and rumble from the explosion faded, and an eerie silence fell on the water; no one was shooting at her. As Christine treaded water, she heard the faint sound of approaching outboard engines.

A voice reached out to her in the darkness. “Grab my hand.”

Christine recognized the man’s voice; he was never far from her thoughts.

A green glow stick activated, illuminating two Rigid Hull Inflatable Boats a few feet away, each carrying four men in combat gear wearing night-vision goggles. The man at the bow of the lead boat had his hand extended. She grabbed his hand, and Navy SEAL Jake Harrison hauled Christine into the boat.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

Christine shook her head as the two boats turned and headed out to sea.

Even though it was fairly warm out, there was a brisk breeze on the water, and Christine was wearing only a thin, soaked nightgown. Whether from the temperature or because of what she’d just done, a chill came over her, and she started shivering. Harrison pulled her close to warm her, and Christine instinctively wrapped her arms around his waist, squeezing tightly as she buried her face into his chest.

“What happened?” he asked.

But Christine could only shake her head again.

97

BLACK SEA

The full moon’s reflection wavered on the water as the two RHIBs headed farther out to sea, the glowing embers of Chernov’s villa fading behind them as the shoreline retreated into the distance. Aside from the low rumble of the outboard engine on each boat, the journey was quiet; neither Christine nor the eight SEALs spoke. She kept her arms wrapped around Harrison, not caring where they were headed or how long it took to get there.

The SEALs idled the RHIB engines, then angled the two boats toward each other. They drifted together with a gentle bump, and a SEAL at the front of each RHIB fastened a line to both bows. Two green glow sticks were activated, one hung from each bow. The engines were revved a few seconds, and the boats coasted apart until they pulled the line between them taut. The engines were secured, and the two RHIBs floated on the dark water, bobbing in the waves.

As Christine wondered what they were waiting for, the SEAL at the front of her RHIB said, “Incoming at two hundred yards.”

Christine looked ahead but saw nothing in the darkness. Then again, she wasn’t wearing night-vision goggles like the SEALs. As she peered ahead, a submarine periscope materialized out of the darkness, approaching swiftly. The periscope snagged the line between the two RHIBs, and the boats were yanked around and pulled toward each other as the periscope towed them toward shore, then began a slow U-turn, hauling the RHIBs farther out to sea.

After reversing course, they picked up speed and waves occasionally broke over the bow of Christine’s RHIB. When the Black Sea coast was no longer discernible under the full moon, the periscope slowed, then stopped.

Harrison released his arm from around Christine. “We have scuba gear for you,” he said.

He helped Christine into her gear while the SEALs in both RHIBs donned theirs. As she finished wriggling into her equipment, the SEALs detached the engines and began deflating both boats. After verifying her face mask had sealed and her regulator was working, she and Harrison slipped into the water. With a firm grasp on Christine’s arm, he pulled her downward.

It wasn’t long before several green glow sticks appeared in the distance and the shadowy shape of a submarine formed in the murky water, along with two Dry Deck Shelters attached to the submarine’s missile deck. The nine-foot-diameter door of the port Dry Deck Shelter was open, with two Navy divers waiting nearby. Harrison guided her inside, and a few minutes later, the two deflated RHIBs were hauled into the shelter, joined by the Navy divers and SEALs.

The hatch was shut, and after the water was drained from the shelter, Christine followed Harrison’s example and removed her scuba gear. Harrison and Christine were the first to exit the hangar, dropping down through dual hatches into Missile Tube Two, then out through a hatch in the side of the tube, where a familiar face greeted her.

Commander Joe Aleo, the physician assigned to Michigan’s SEAL detachment, escorted her to Medical, where he conducted a preliminary assessment—pulse, blood pressure, and flashlight in her eyes. A concerned look formed on his face as she sat there listlessly, providing succinct answers to his questions and nothing more. At the end of his exam, his eyes went to her cheek.

“You’ve got a nasty cut, but I don’t think it’ll need stitches.” After cleaning and disinfecting the wound, he carefully affixed Steri-Strips to her cheek, sealing the cut shut. “That should do it,” he said. “If you end up with a scar, it’ll be faint.”

After cleaning the cuts on her wrists where the handcuffs had sliced through her skin, he applied an antibacterial salve and wrapped both wrists in white gauze.

*   *   *

Lieutenant Harrison stood outside Medical, waiting for Doc to complete his examination. After a reasonable wait, he knocked on the door, and after Aleo acknowledged, he stepped into his office. He eyed Christine carefully; she sat on the bed staring straight ahead, her eyes unreadable, her body unnaturally still. When she failed to respond to his entry, Harrison looked at Aleo.

“She’s fine,” Aleo said, answering Harrison’s unasked question, “aside from a few cuts.”

Physically, perhaps. Harrison wasn’t a doctor, but he’d seen the symptoms before: acute stress reaction—Christine was in psychological shock. Aleo met Harrison’s eyes and he nodded slightly, confirming Harrison’s assessment. His eyes went to her bandaged wrists, realizing she’d been in handcuffs, and he wondered what the Russians had done to her.

Aleo turned back to Christine, touching her shoulder to get her attention. “The SUPPO will be here shortly with a change of clothes.”

Christine didn’t reply, but she looked down at her thin, soaked nightgown; it clung to her body and was practically see-through now that it was wet. On cue, Michigan’s Supply Officer, Lieutenant Commander Kelly Haas, entered Medical with a stack of clothes in her hand.

“I borrowed some of Lieutenant Stucker’s underwear,” Kelly said. “Pretty close to your size. Maybe we should stock some of yours for future deployments.” Kelly smiled.

Christine accepted the clothing without a response, holding it as she sat on Doc’s bed.

“Well, then,” Doc said. “We’ll let you change in private.”

Doc ushered Harrison and the SUPPO from Medical, and as he closed the door, Christine was still sitting on the edge of the bed staring straight ahead, the stack of clothes in her hands.

98

WASHINGTON, D.C.

After descending to the ground floor of the executive residence and heading down the west colonnade, the president entered the Oval Office in the West Wing. Waiting outside his office and following him inside were McVeigh, Hardison, and DuBose, who settled into the three chairs opposite the president’s desk. The president leaned back in his chair as McVeigh delivered an update.

“Russia’s withdrawal from Lithuania and Ukraine is complete. They’ve also provided the locations where they attached explosives to oil and natural gas pipelines, and we’ve removed them. Regarding the Arabian Sea battle, every Russian surface combatant was either sunk or heavily damaged, while only six of our cruisers and destroyers were damaged. The more significant news is that we lost another eight submarines. Not bad considering we were outnumbered two to one, but the loss is significant considering our present force structure.

“We’re taking a look at the water depth to determine whether the intact compartments would have imploded before they grounded, to see if we can raise the submarines like we did in the Taiwan Strait, but it doesn’t look good. Fortunately, the submarines damaged in our war with China should begin exiting the repair yards in a few months.

“On a different topic,” McVeigh said, “Christine is safely aboard Michigan. Her SEALs pulled her from the Black Sea after she killed Chernov.”

“Thanks, Bob,” the president said. “What’s the plan forward?”

“Three carriers are heading to Hawaii and Washington State for repair. Of the two carrier strike groups remaining, we’re leaving one in the Arabian Sea and routing one back toward China. Regarding the Russian facilities we’ve wired with explosives, we’ll remove them whenever you give the word.”

“Keep the explosives attached for now,” the president said, “while we work the diplomatic front. I want to get a resolution through the Alliance, guaranteeing NATO will come to the aid of Ukraine or any other country Russia chooses to invade next.”

The president surveyed the three men before him, then his features hardened as he said, “We have one last item to address. Give me a few options.”

“Yes, Mr. President,” McVeigh replied. “We’re already working on it.”

99

USS MICHIGAN

In the Wardroom of the guided missile submarine, Lieutenant Harrison stood behind his chair, as did the other nine officers and the one civilian present, waiting for Captain Wilson to enter and take his seat for dinner. On the Captain’s end of the table stood Christine O’Connor, and across from her was Commander John McNeil, flanked by the submarine’s Executive Officer. Due to being seated by seniority, with the higher-ranking officers toward the Captain’s end of the table, Harrison was closer to the far end with the other junior officers.

Since he pulled her from the water the previous night, Christine had been withdrawn, barely speaking. The SUPPO had berthed Christine in the Executive Officer’s stateroom, giving her the lower bunk while the XO moved to the top. With Michigan patrolling the Black Sea, the crew was focused and busy, but the SEALs had little to do at the moment and Harrison had found several reasons to cruise by the XO’s stateroom. The door remained shut until just before lunch, when Christine emerged, wearing the blue coverall worn by the submarine’s crew. He happened to be passing by as she stepped from her stateroom, and although she greeted him, there was no smile and her voice was monotone.

Captain Wilson entered the Wardroom and took his seat, and Christine and the officers settled into theirs. With Harrison at the opposite end, it was difficult to participate in conversations with the senior officers, but he glanced frequently in Christine’s direction. She picked at her food, nodding and smiling politely on occasion, participating in the conversation only when engaged, her responses succinct. On more than one occasion, he caught her staring at her plate, her thoughts elsewhere until a mention of her name broke her reverie.

When the main course was finished, the culinary specialist serving dinner brought out the desserts, but Christine excused herself. Harrison stared at her empty chair for a moment, then obtained the Captain’s permission to depart.

*   *   *

Guessing that Christine had returned to her stateroom, Harrison stopped by the XO’s door and knocked. There was no answer, so he knocked harder. The door opened partway, revealing Christine inside the dimly lit stateroom, the only illumination coming from a small light above the XO’s desk. Harrison didn’t say anything, and after Christine searched his eyes, she opened the door fully, then retreated to her bed, where she sat on the edge, facing him.

“Request permission to close the door,” he said.

Christine nodded and Harrison closed the door, then grabbed the chair by the XO’s desk and sat across from her. There remained an unnatural stillness to her body as she sat there, her hands folded in her lap, staring at him.

“What happened?”

Christine didn’t reply, and although there was no visible reaction on her face, her breathing quickened. Harrison reached toward her cheek and gently touched the sutures covering the cut. Christine leaned into his hand, and Harrison held her face before she pulled away suddenly, with an awareness in her eyes that she had lacked before.

“What happened?” Harrison repeated, this time glancing at the white gauze bandages on her wrists.

There was still no reply, but this time Christine stood. As he wondered why, she sat in his lap, her legs straddling his waist. She wrapped her arms around his chest, squeezing tight, and pressed the side of her face against his. It wasn’t long before he felt wetness against his cheek; then she whispered in his ear, told him what she’d done.

Harrison wasn’t surprised. He’d dated her for eight years and witnessed it many times—her tendency to turn vicious in the heat of the moment, remorseful for her actions the next morning. She’d gone too far in Beijing, and again on the shore of the Black Sea.

After Christine revealed what she’d done, emotion racked her body. He did his best to comfort her, caressing her back until the tears eased, then stopped. She remained in his lap, arms tight around him, and her breathing gradually slowed. Her muscles relaxed and a calm settled over her.

She pulled back, resting her forearms on his shoulders.

“How’s home?” she asked softly.

It took a moment for Harrison to respond. In Christine’s condition, she was emotionally vulnerable, and he knew the answer she was hoping for. After a moment of indecision, he replied truthfully.

“It’s good,” he said.

Christine nodded slowly, unable to conceal the disappointment in her eyes, then pushed herself to her feet.

“I appreciate you stopping by.”

Harrison also stood, and there was a long silence until she spoke again.

“I’ll be fine,” she said, then forced a smile.

“If you need anything,” Harrison said, “I’ll be there for you.”

“I know.”

After another long moment, Harrison bade farewell and stepped from the stateroom, closing the door behind him.

100

WASHINGTON, D.C. • USS MICHIGAN

WASHINGTON, D.C.

A light rain was falling from a gray, overcast sky as Naveen Chandra’s black limousine veered off Dupont Circle onto Connecticut Avenue for the short trip to the White House. As the American capital slid by rain-streaked windows, Chandra fidgeted with the brown leather satchel on his lap, pausing to straighten his tie unconsciously. It wasn’t often that the American president met directly with a country’s ambassador. The reason was obvious, although the outcome was unpredictable. The president had made a decision concerning India’s involvement in the Arabian Sea last week, and as Chandra’s thoughts churned through the various outcomes, a deepening uneasiness grew in his stomach. American-Indian relations were about to take a turn for the worse.

Relations between the two countries had come a long way since the Clinton administration tried to isolate India after its nuclear tests in 1998. Sanctions were eventually lifted, and the United States, searching for allies in the Pacific against the growing Chinese military, had adopted a policy of accommodation toward India. However, despite strengthening ties between the two countries over the last decade, the Indian government had sided with Russia during last week’s conflict in the Arabian Sea. President Madan’s administration had concluded Russia was reemerging as a global power, their influence in the region growing while America’s waned. However, Madan’s decision had proved shortsighted.

After turning onto West Executive Avenue, Chandra’s limousine stopped in front of black steel bars guarding the White House grounds. Following a search of the vehicle for explosives, the gate opened and the sedan pulled forward, coasting to a stop under the West Wing portico. Waiting to greet him was a young woman barely out of college, flanked by two marines in dress blues.

Chandra stepped from the sedan and one of the marines saluted as the young woman stepped forward, introducing herself as they shook hands. She was Sheree Hinton, a White House intern. Instead of being greeted by the president’s powerful chief of staff, as was customary, India’s ambassador had been greeted by the lowest White House staffer on the food chain. It was an ill omen. The young woman led him into the Roosevelt Room, where she instructed him to wait until the president was ready, then departed.

USS MICHIGAN

“No close contacts!”

Lieutenant Jane Stucker made the call as the eighteen-thousand-ton submarine leveled off at periscope depth. After verifying there were no contacts close enough to pose a collision threat, Stucker slowed her revolutions on the periscope, and Christine watched from the corner of the Control Room as the junior officer conducted a low-power scan of the horizon, searching for distant ships or military aircraft.

Stucker completed the search and reported to Captain Wilson, standing nearby on the Conn. “Sir, I have completed a low-power surface and air search. Hold no contacts.”

Wilson acknowledged and took the scope, and as he conducted a detailed search of his own, Christine’s thoughts turned to her pending departure. After Russia’s capitulation and withdrawal from Lithuania and Ukraine, Michigan had begun her journey home to Bangor, Washington, for an overdue maintenance period, passing through the Suez Canal into the Pacific Ocean again. Christine’s time aboard the guided missile submarine was drawing to a close; they’d soon be passing near Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean, where she’d be transferred ashore.

In the week since Michigan departed the Black Sea, Christine had slowly begun to feel like herself again, emerging from her shell as the memories of what she’d done, and had been done to her, on the shore of the Black Sea faded. Harrison stopped by frequently to check on her, and while she found his attention comforting, their interactions left an ache in her heart each time. She began to slowly reconcile her feelings for him; despite his obvious concern for her, he would never be more than a close friend. She’d blown both chances, declining his offer to marry her after high school and college.

Wilson stepped back, turning the scope over to Lieutenant Stucker as an announcement came from the Conn speakers. “Conn, ESM. Hold no threat radars.”

Stucker acknowledged ESM’s report as Wilson stepped toward the communications panel on the Conn, pulling the 1-MC microphone to his mouth.

“Man Battle Stations Missile.”

The Chief of the Watch, stationed at the Ballast Control Panel on the port side of Control, activated the General Alarm, and the loud gong-gong-gong reverberated throughout the ship. As the alarm faded, he picked up his 1-MC microphone, repeating the Captain’s order.

Crew members streamed into Control, taking their seats at dormant consoles, bringing them to life as they donned their sound-powered phone headsets. When Lieutenant Eaton arrived, Wilson stepped off the Conn, leaving the safety of the ship in the Navigator’s and Lieutenant Stucker’s capable hands. Christine followed Wilson down the ladder to Operations Compartment Second Level and into Missile Control Center.

Like the Navigation Center behind the Control Room, Missile Control Center was also transformed during the submarine’s conversion to SSGN. The refrigerator-sized computers were replaced with servers one-tenth their size, and a Tube Status Control Display was now mounted on the starboard bulkhead. The ballistic missile Launch Console on the aft bulkhead had been replaced with four consoles: the two workstations on the right were Mission Planning Consoles, the third was the Launch Control Console, and the fourth workstation displayed a map of Michigan’s operating area, which contained a small green hatched section.

Wilson stopped behind the Launch Control Console beside Lieutenant Mike Lawson, the submarine’s Weapons Officer, with both men looking over the shoulders of a second class petty officer manning the workstation. Glancing at the fourth console, Wilson verified Michigan was within the green hatched area—the submarine’s launch basket, where Michigan’s Tomahawk missiles were within target range.

Lieutenant Lawson reported to the Captain, “Five minutes to window. Request permission to launch salvo One.”

Wilson replied, “Permission granted. Launch salvo One.”

Following Wilson’s order, there was no flurry of activity. Lawson simply turned back toward the Launch Control Console, his eyes focused on the time as it counted down the remaining five minutes. At ten seconds before the scheduled launch, the launch button on the Launch Control Console display, which had been grayed out until this point, turned a vivid green.

The Launch Operator announced, “In the window, salvo One.”

Lieutenant Lawson replied, “Very well, Launch Operator. Continue.”

When the digital clock on the Launch Operator’s screen reached 00:00:00, the Launch Operator clicked the green button, and Michigan’s automatic Tomahawk Attack Weapon System took control.

“Opening tube Ten,” the Launch Supervisor reported as the green indicating light for tube Ten turned yellow. Shortly thereafter, the indicating light turned red. “Hatch, tube Ten, open and locked.”

A few seconds later, the Launch Operator reported, “Missile One, tube Ten, away.”

The first of Michigan’s Tomahawks was ejected from the submarine, with the missile’s engines igniting once it was above the ocean surface. In rapid succession, another missile followed every five seconds, with the Tomahawk Attack Weapon System automatically opening and closing the missile tube hatches as required. Michigan’s Tomahawks streaked east.

WASHINGTON, D.C.

Sheree Hinton returned to the Roosevelt Room, stopping by the door. “The president is ready to see you.”

Ambassador Chandra rose without a word and followed Hinton into the hallway. But instead of entering the Oval Office, Hinton led the way to the basement of the West Wing. As they approached the Situation Room, an Indian idiom came to mind.

There is something black in the lentil soup.

The Americans were up to something.

Chandra entered the Situation Room, joining the American president, his chief of staff, SecDef McVeigh, and SecState Cabral, who were seated at the table. The Americans did not rise from their seats when he entered. Instead, Kevin Hardison pulled a chair back partway. Chandra took his seat while Hinton departed, closing the door behind her, sealing him inside the Situation Room with the four Americans.

The president said, “Thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule to join us, Ambassador.”

There was a hint of sarcasm in the president’s voice, for what reason Chandra was uncertain.

“For the last fifteen years,” the president said, “the United States and India have worked diligently to improve relations between our countries, and we’ve made much progress. However, your recent actions have cast doubt upon our relationship.”

Chandra had no viable response.

The president continued, “Your actions last week were tantamount to a declaration of war.” There was a hard edge to his words, and his voice dropped a notch. “And now I must decide the proper response to your aggression and the future of our relationship.”

Under different circumstances, Chandra would have avoided the president’s incriminating gaze. A long silence ensued as Chandra chose his words carefully. As he began to respond, the president held up a placating hand.

“The United States values its relationship with India, and it would be a shame to discard so many years of progress. As China’s influence in the Pacific grows, I cannot overstate the value of our friendship. What happened in the Arabian Sea was unfortunate. But accidents happen. I’m willing to consider the possibility that our ships and aircraft accidentally got in the way of missiles intended for the Russians.”

Chandra was caught off guard. He couldn’t possibly have heard the president correctly. Could India be this fortunate, the United States so desperate for allies in the Pacific? With Russia and China growing their military and economies at a faster pace than the United States, the writing on the wall was clear. But Chandra was surprised the Americans were willing to look the other way.

“I agree,” Chandra replied. “Accidents do happen on occasion, and we will work to ensure they do not occur in the future.”

“Excellent,” the president said. “I’m glad we’re in agreement.” He offered a tight smile, then said, “I’d like to discuss this situation with President Madan. We’ve arranged a conference call.”

Hardison punched the number into a conference phone on the table. The call was answered after the first ring.

“This is President Madan.”

The American president conveyed his thoughts on the recent incident to Madan, following the outline of his discussion with Ambassador Chandra.

There was a long silence on the line before Madan replied, “I agree. We have forged a vital relationship over the last few years, and we will work to repair the damage done.”

“As will we,” the president said. “I look forward to setting aside what occurred, and is about to occur, so we can strengthen our relationship.”

“About to occur?” President Madan asked.

The president checked the clock on the Situation Room wall. “You have five minutes to vacate the presidential palace. Anyone remaining inside will not live to see another day. Do I make myself clear?”

There was no response from President Madan. Instead, the line went dead.

Hardison grabbed a remote from the table and activated the video screen on the far wall. A satellite image of India’s presidential palace appeared—the 340-room Rashtrapati Bhavan in New Delhi—and it wasn’t long before men and women began streaming from the exits, dispersing into the 320-acre complex.

As the last few stragglers hurried down the front steps, the entire east facade of the building disintegrated as several dozen explosions rippled across the front of the palace, the black-tinged fireballs roiling upward.

Turning to Ambassador Chandra, the president said, “It looks like your presidential palace accidentally got in the way of a few Tomahawk missiles. As we learned all too well last week, accidents happen. Please convey my sincere apologies to President Madan.”

EPILOGUE

MOSCOW

As sunlight streamed into his Kremlin office through tall Palladian windows behind him, President Kalinin sat at his desk, deep in thought. With two key positions temporarily vacant—Russia’s minister of defense and director of the SVR—Kalinin had convened today’s meeting in his office instead of the conference room. Seated across from him were General Andropov, Fleet Admiral Lipovsky, and Foreign Minister Lavrov. The three men waited while Kalinin sorted through the magnitude of their naval defeat.

Russia’s Northern and Pacific Fleets had been ravaged, with every surface combatant sunk or heavily damaged. The submarine force had fared much better, still fielding over thirty attack submarines. The significant numerical advantage beneath the waves, with most of America’s submarines still undergoing repair, weighed heavily on Kalinin’s deliberation.

“What is the status of our Alexander class?” he asked.

“We have one operational submarine so far,” General Andropov replied. “However, it was withheld from battle pending resolution of defects in its new capability. We are pushing the cutting edge of technology,” Andropov offered as an excuse, “but we will test a solution next month. Additionally, two more Alexander class are nearing completion. With six Alexander class leading our submarine force, the American submarine fleet would be overwhelmed.”

Kalinin replied, “As we experienced in the Arabian Sea, the Americans have more anti-submarine forces at their disposal besides submarines. Their surface combatants and aircraft are formidable assets.”

General Andropov replied. “We still have the Zolotov option.”

“That’s a very dangerous plan,” Minister Lavrov said. “A path from which we cannot turn back. We cannot predict how America would respond.”

“There will be no response from the United States,” Andropov replied. “That’s the purpose of the Zolotov option: to eliminate their ability.”

President Kalinin weighed his options in silence, moving slowly toward a decision. The United States had publicly humiliated both Kalinin and Russia. A response was required.

“You may proceed,” Kalinin said. “Order both submarine shipyards to twenty-four-hour shiftwork to complete the next two Alexander class as soon as possible. Regarding the Zolotov option, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

General Andropov acknowledged Kalinin’s order. “It is a wise decision, Mr. President. We will make America pay for what they’ve done.”

* * * THE END * * *

COMPLETE CAST OF CHARACTERS

AMERICAN CHARACTERS

UNITED STATES ADMINISTRATION

KEVIN HARDISON, chief of staff

BOB MCVEIGH, secretary of defense

DAWN CABRAL, secretary of state

CHRISTINE O’CONNOR, national security advisor

BILL DUBOSE (Colonel), senior military aide

SHEREE HINTON, White House intern

MILITARY COMMANDERS

ANDY WHEELER (General), Supreme Allied Commander, Europe

BRIAN RETTMAN (Admiral), Chief of Naval Operations

USS HARTFORD (LOS ANGELES CLASS FAST ATTACK SUBMARINE)

DAVE THAMES (Commander), Commanding Officer

JOE WHITE (Lieutenant Commander), Executive Officer

USS MICHIGAN (OHIO CLASS GUIDED MISSILE SUBMARINE)—CREW

MURRAY WILSON (Captain), Commanding Officer

DAVE BEASLEY (Lieutenant Commander), Executive Officer

KELLY HAAS (Lieutenant Commander), Supply Officer

CHARLIE EATON (Lieutenant), Navigator

MIKE LAWSON (Lieutenant), Weapons Officer

JAYNE STUCKER (Lieutenant), Junior Officer

CHRIS SHROYER (Lieutenant), Junior Officer

PAT LEENSTRA (Electronics Technician Second Class), Quartermaster

USS MICHIGAN—SEAL DETACHMENT

JOHN MCNEIL (Commander), SEAL Team Commander

JAKE HARRISON (Lieutenant), SEAL Platoon Officer-in-Charge

ROB MAYDWELL (Special Warfare Operator First Class), breacher

WAYNE BROWN (Special Warfare Operator Second Class), communicator

RICHARD MENDELSON (Special Warfare Operator Second Class), sniper

JOE ALEO (Commander), Medical Officer

USS MISSISSIPPI (VIRGINIA CLASS FAST ATTACK SUBMARINE)

BRAD WALLER (Commander), Commanding Officer

GEORGE SKEENS (Lieutenant), Junior Officer

USS HARRY S. TRUMAN (NIMITZ CLASS AIRCRAFT CARRIER)

DAVID RANDLE (Captain), Commanding Officer

BRENT SITES (Captain), Combat Direction Center (CDC) Operations Officer

BILL HOUSTON / call sign Samurai (Lieutenant Commander), F/A-18E pilot

DAVE HERNANDEZ / call sign TexMex (Lieutenant), F/A-18E pilot

USS THEODORE ROOSEVELT (NIMITZ CLASS AIRCRAFT CARRIER)

RICH TILGHMAN (Captain), Commanding Officer

DOLORES GONZALEZ (Captain), Combat Direction Center (CDC) Operations Officer

OTHER MILITARY CHARACTERS

JOE MARTIN (Captain), Delta Force team leader

PATRICK TERRILL (Staff Sergeant), Delta Force team member

MIKE PECK (Major), B-1B pilot

LEO FALARDEAU (Lieutenant), MH-60R pilot

JOHN MARTIN (Lieutenant Commander), P-8A Tactical Coordinator

TIM JOHNS (Cryptologic Technician Networks Second Class), U.S. Cyber Warfare Command

STU NELSON (Staff Sergeant), Army Explosive Ordnance Disposal technician

JOHN BROWN (Captain), Army Explosive Ordnance Disposal company commander

OTHER CIVILIAN CHARACTERS

JESSICA CHERRY, director of the Central Intelligence Agency

JOHN KAUFMANN, Central Intelligence Agency interrogator

KATRINA WETZEL, U.S. ambassador to the People’s Republic of China

NATASHA GRAHAM, U.S. ambassador to the Russian Federation

BARRY GRAHAM, aide to the U.S. ambassador to the Russian Federation

MARK JOHNSON, Russian translator (American embassy)

ELENA KRAYEV, Russian translator (CIA agent)

RUSSIAN CHARACTERS

RUSSIAN FEDERATION ADMINISTRATION

YURI KALININ, president

BORIS CHERNOV, defense minister

ANDREI LAVROV, foreign minister

SERGEI IVANOV, national security advisor

MAKSIM POSNIAK, director of security and disarmament, Ministry of Foreign Affairs

SEMYON GOREV, director of the Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR)

ANDREI TUPOLEV, ambassador to the United States

DANIL SOKOLOV, ambassador to the People’s Republic of China

MILITARY COMMANDERS

SERGEI ANDROPOV (General), chief of the general staff

ALEXEI VOLODIN (Colonel General), Commander-in-Chief, Aerospace Forces

VIKTOR GLUKOV (Colonel General), Commander-in-Chief, Ground Forces

OLEG LIPOVSKY (Admiral), Commander-in-Chief, Navy

LEONID SHIMKO (Admiral), Commander, Northern Fleet

PAVEL KLOKOV (Admiral), Commander, Pacific Fleet

VITALY VASILIEV (Major General), Commanding Officer, 448th Missile Brigade

K-456 VILYUCHINSK (OSCAR II CLASS GUIDED MISSILE SUBMARINE)

DMITRI PAVLOV (Captain First Rank), Commanding Officer

MIKHAIL EVANOFF (Captain Second Rank), First Officer

LUDVIG DOLINSKI (Captain Lieutenant), Central Command Post Watch Officer

OTHER RUSSIAN CHARACTERS

VADIM ALEYEV (Major), Sukhoi Su-35S pilot

ANTON BELIKOV (Captain Lieutenant), Spetsnaz platoon leader

ROMAN SAVVIN (Sergeant First Class), VDV paratrooper

ANTON FEDOROV, detonator designer

VAGIT ALEKPEROV, president of LUKoil Oil Company

BOGDAN MELIKOV, supervisor at Omsk Oil Refinery

OTHER CHARACTERS

BELARUSIAN

ALEXANDER LUKASHENKO, president

EDWARD AYMAR (Colonel), Commander, 11th Guards Mechanized Brigade

CHINESE

XIANG CHENGLEI, president of China and general secretary of the Party

XIE HAI, president’s executive assistant

INDIAN

DEEPAK MADAN, president

ANKUR KUMAR, minister of defense

RAHUL GUPTA, minister of external affairs

NAVEEN CHANDRA, ambassador to the United States

NATO

JOHAN VAN DER BIE, secretary-general

SUSAN GATES, United Kingdom prime minister

FRANÇOIS LOUBET, French president

EMMA SCHMIDT, German chancellor

DALIA GRYBAUSKAITĖ, Lithuanian president

UKRAINE

ALEX RUDENKO, Opposition Bloc politician

RANDY GUIMOND, Russian SVR agent

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I hope you enjoyed reading Blackmail as much as I enjoyed writing it.

This was the most enjoyable book for me to write thus far. My first book—The Trident Deception—was tortuous, as I was still learning how to write, and it went through many revisions before reaching the final version. (Over two hundred pages ended up on the cutting room floor, and the ending is quite different than the one my publisher bought. It’s a long story, but the short version is that in the original novel, everyone died at the end—Wilson and Christine included. However, my publisher wanted a sequel, and that’s hard to do if everyone dies. So I resurrected Christine and Wilson. If the scenes in The Trident Deception where it appears they die come across as convincing, that’s because they originally died in those scenes.)

Each book continues to be a learning experience as I get feedback from readers, gaining a better understanding of what works and doesn’t from a thriller reader’s perspective. Due to how early my publisher requires my manuscripts (Empire Rising was turned in before The Trident Deception was published), Ice Station Nautilus was the first book where I had a chance to incorporate reader comments, and Blackmail incorporates additional feedback. I hope you like how it turned out.

I enjoyed writing the Russian paratrooper chapter in Blackmail, drawing on my personal experience. I’m a submariner who also happens to be a qualified paratrooper—I earned my wings at Fort Benning, Georgia. I was planning to go Marine Corps at the time, but for several reasons ended up going submarines. I wore my jump wings on my uniform for a few years, garnering quite a few odd looks and questions. A paratrooper aboard a submarine is obviously an odd lash-up.

Also, the usual disclaimer—some of the tactics described in Blackmail are generic and not accurate. For example, torpedo employment and evasion tactics are classified and cannot be accurately represented in this novel. The dialogue also isn’t one hundred percent accurate. If it were, much of it would be unintelligible to the average reader. To help the story move along without getting bogged down in acronyms, technical details, and other military jargon, I simplified the dialogue and description of operations and weapon systems.

For all of the above, I apologize. I did my best to keep everything as close to real life as possible while developing a suspenseful (and unclassified), page-turning novel. Hopefully it all worked out, and you enjoyed reading Blackmail.

ALSO BY RICK CAMPBELL

The Trident Deception

Empire Rising

Ice Station Nautilus

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

RICK CAMPBELL is a retired navy commander who spent more than twenty years on multiple submarine tours. On his last tour, he was one of the two men whose permission was required to launch the submarine’s nuclear warhead–tipped missiles. Campbell is the author of The Trident Deception, Empire Rising, and Ice Station Nautilus. He lives with his family in the greater Washington, D.C., area. You can sign up for email updates here.

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CONTENTS

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Main Characters

Map

1. Western Pacific

2. USS Mississippi

3. Washington, D.C.

4. Washington, D.C.

5. Washington, D.C.

6. Washington, D.C. • Moscow

7. Vladivostok • Severomorsk

8. Kursk, Russia

9. Minsk, Belarus

10. Zaporizhia, Ukraine

11. Washington, D.C.

12. Washington, D.C.

13. Arlington, Virginia

14. USS Michigan

15. Moscow

16. Beijing, China

17. New Delhi, India

18. Moscow

19. Arish, Egypt

20. USS Michigan

21. Fort Meade, Maryland

22. Washington, D.C.

23. Moscow

24. USS Michigan

25. USS Michigan

26. Mediterranean Sea

27. Moscow

28. USS Michigan

29. Zaporizhia, Ukraine

30. Zaporizhia, Ukraine

31. Moscow

32. Kamennyi Log, Belarus

33. Washington, D.C.

34. Moscow

35. Washington, D.C.

36. Casteau, Belgium

37. Novaja Huta, Belarus

38. Kiev, Ukraine

39. Air Force One

40. USS Michigan

41. Arish, Egypt

42. Brussels, Belgium

43. Washington, D.C.

44. Moscow

45. Washington, D.C.

46. New Delhi, India

47. Beijing, China

48. Velikiy Novgorod, Russia

49. Jaslyk, Uzbekistan

50. Washington, D.C.

51. USS Harry S. Truman

52. USS Michigan

53. Moscow

54. Washington, D.C.

55. Moscow

56. Moscow

57. Sochi, Russia

58. Yasenevo, Russia

59. Sochi, Russia

60. Sochi, Russia

61. Sochi, Russia

62. Valdez, Alaska

63. Arlington, Virginia

64. USS Harry S. Truman

65. USS Michigan

66. USS Harry S. Truman

67. Fury 21

68. Bandar Abbas, Iran

69. Arabian Sea

70. Aiea, Hawaii

71. Moscow

72. Gulf of Oman

73. USS Harry S. Truman

74. USS Hartford

75. Arabian Sea

76. USS Harry S. Truman

77. Arabian Sea

78. Arabian Sea

79. Pelican Zero-Eight

80. K-456 Vilyuchinsk

81. Moscow

82. New Delhi, India

83. USS Harry S. Truman

84. Arabian Sea

85. USS Harry S. Truman

86. USS Theodore Roosevelt

87. Pentagon

88. USS Michigan

89. Siberia, Russia

90. USS Michigan

91. Omsk, Russia

92. USS Michigan

93. Omsk, Russia

94. Moscow

95. Sochi, Russia

96. Sochi, Russia

97. Black Sea

98. Washington, D.C.

99. USS Michigan

100. Washington, D.C. • USS Michigan

Epilogue. Moscow

Complete Cast of Characters

Author’s Note

Also by Rick Campbell

About the Author

Copyright

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

BLACKMAIL. Copyright © 2017 by Rick Campbell. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010.

www.stmartins.com

Maps by Rhys Davies

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Names: Campbell, Rick (Navy Commander), author.

Title: Blackmail / Rick Campbell.

Description: First edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2017.

Identifiers: LCCN 2017013455 | ISBN 978-1-250-07216-0 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-4668-8356-7 (e-book)

Subjects: LCSH: United States—Foreign relations—Russia—Fiction. | Russia—Foreign relations—United States—Fiction. | Special operations (Military science)—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Technological. | GSAFD: Suspense fiction. | War stories.

Classification: LCC PS3603.A48223 B58 2017 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017013455

eISBN 9781466883567

Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at MacmillanSpecialMarkets@macmillan.com.

First Edition: June 2017

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Notice

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Main Characters

Map

1. Western Pacific

2. USS Mississippi

3. Washington, D.C.

4. Washington, D.C.

5. Washington, D.C.

6. Washington, D.C. • Moscow

7. Vladivostok • Severomorsk

8. Kursk, Russia

9. Minsk, Belarus

10. Zaporizhia, Ukraine

11. Washington, D.C.

12. Washington, D.C.

13. Arlington, Virginia

14. USS Michigan

15. Moscow

16. Beijing, China

17. New Delhi, India

18. Moscow

19. Arish, Egypt

20. USS Michigan

21. Fort Meade, Maryland

22. Washington, D.C.

23. Moscow

24. USS Michigan

25. USS Michigan

26. Mediterranean Sea

27. Moscow

28. USS Michigan

29. Zaporizhia, Ukraine

30. Zaporizhia, Ukraine

31. Moscow

32. Kamennyi Log, Belarus

33. Washington, D.C.

34. Moscow

35. Washington, D.C.

36. Casteau, Belgium

37. Novaja Huta, Belarus

38. Kiev, Ukraine

39. Air Force One

40. USS Michigan

41. Arish, Egypt

42. Brussels, Belgium

43. Washington, D.C.

44. Moscow

45. Washington, D.C.

46. New Delhi, India

47. Beijing, China

48. Velikiy Novgorod, Russia

49. Jaslyk, Uzbekistan

50. Washington, D.C.

51. USS Harry S. Truman

52. USS Michigan

53. Moscow

54. Washington, D.C.

55. Moscow

56. Moscow

57. Sochi, Russia

58. Yasenevo, Russia

59. Sochi, Russia

60. Sochi, Russia

61. Sochi, Russia

62. Valdez, Alaska

63. Arlington, Virginia

64. USS Harry S. Truman

65. USS Michigan

66. USS Harry S. Truman

67. Fury 21

68. Bandar Abbas, Iran

69. Arabian Sea

70. Aiea, Hawaii

71. Moscow

72. Gulf of Oman

73. USS Harry S. Truman

74. USS Hartford

75. Arabian Sea

76. USS Harry S. Truman

77. Arabian Sea

78. Arabian Sea

79. Pelican Zero-Eight

80. K-456 Vilyuchinsk

81. Moscow

82. New Delhi, India

83. USS Harry S. Truman

84. Arabian Sea

85. USS Harry S. Truman

86. USS Theodore Roosevelt

87. Pentagon

88. USS Michigan

89. Siberia, Russia

90. USS Michigan

91. Omsk, Russia

92. USS Michigan

93. Omsk, Russia

94. Moscow

95. Sochi, Russia

96. Sochi, Russia

97. Black Sea

98. Washington, D.C.

99. USS Michigan

100. Washington, D.C. • USS Michigan

Epilogue. Moscow

Complete Cast of Characters

Author’s Note

Also by Rick Campbell

About the Author

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Copyright