‘Then how does it work in your White House?’
‘We think beyond guns. We don’t start wars. We balance the books. We keep our citizens richer and safer.’
‘And weaken American power on every continent.’
Swain sucked in his cheek, a habit Stephanie knew from long ago; it meant the President was controlling his anger. ‘The Iranians thought they taught us a lesson in 1979 by taking our embassy. That took forty years to sort out. We thought we taught Saddam Hussein a lesson in 2003. We’re still mopping that shit pit up today. How do you plan to teach Russia a lesson, Bob? If we take out their base on Big Diomede, what are they going to do? Strike Tin City? Nome? Elmendorf-Richardson, right next to the civilian Lowes Mall parking lot in Anchorage? Then what do we do?’
‘Or Ukraine,’ said Slater. ‘Or the Baltic states. Or break the Syrian alliance.’
Stephanie hoped that would quieten Holland. She was wrong.
‘Two days from now, I’ll be making the decisions. And there’ll be no Russian guns on American soil. You have my word on that.’
‘Something’s going on in the State Duma,’ said Prusak, turning to a screen showing dark-suited men in Moscow’s parliament. A Russian commentary explained that the Duma was in emergency session. The camera moved across the hall to the figure of the suave and impeccably dressed Duma chairman, Sergey Grizlov, speaking from the center of the long bench desk at the front of the chamber, flanked by fellow parliamentarians.
Stephanie kept her expression neutral. In a way, she was proud of her former lover and still thought of him as a friend. They were no longer close, but whenever she flipped him an email, Grizlov responded. He was funny, entertaining, cynical, and the smartest political operator in Moscow.
The Oval Office fell quiet. The feed came from Russian television, and Swain moved close to Stephanie, who interpreted. ‘They’re debating the 1990 Maritime Boundary Agreement.’ She glanced at Slater to make sure he understood. ‘That’s the border between Russia and America.’
‘They don’t debate. This is a rubber stamp,’ said Holland.
No one responded.
‘Sergey Grizlov, that’s the speaker, is saying the Duma has never ratified the border agreement,’ said Stephanie. ‘It was pushed through in 1990 when the Russian people were weak. This has impacted badly on the people in the Far East and the country’s economy. The United States took fifteen thousand square kilometers of sea that belongs to Russia. With the melting of ice in the Arctic region, many governments are interested in the new energy supplies and shipping routes which have cut the passage from Asia to Europe by four thousand miles or more. Therefore, the correct border now needs to be ratified by the Duma.’
Grizlov moved to the left of the chamber, stopping underneath a large wall screen in the corner. A map showed the mainland of Alaska and Russia’s Far East with oil and gas reserves shaded in and colored lines tracking new shipping routes created by the melting ice. A simultaneous English translation now came with the video feed.
‘The Arctic region has become the focus of attention for many friendly governments,’ said Grizlov. ‘By refusing to sign the United Nations’ Convention on the Law of the Sea, the United States has broken from the international community, making multilateral negotiations impossible. Russian patience has finally run out.’
A video appeared, grainy, jumpy. The hazy green of a night-vision lens showed paramedics running with a stretcher toward a helicopter on Little Diomede. ‘In the past few hours, Russian soldiers have saved the life of an Eskimo woman on this island of Little Diomede, or Krusenstern Island as we call it here.’
The thin beam of Grizlov’s pencil torch settled on Little Diomede. A video came up of a man, arms outstretched with a flashlight, on the island’s shoreline as if beckoning down an approaching helicopter. Grizlov said, ‘These islanders have been abandoned by their own government. They are desperate and pleading with us for help. We have now saved the life of the woman, or should I say girl – she is only fifteen years old – and her baby daughter. Both are well and resting.’
The picture changed to the inside of a clinic with a roof of military green. The young mother lay in a hospital bed next to an incubator. The Duma broke out into applause.
‘The conditions we are finding among the community of Krusenstern are truly dreadful,’ said Grizlov. The image moved to a large hall with bright lighting and dozens of people separated into groups. There were basketball hoops at both ends, the markings of a court and wall bars on one side.
‘In the school gymnasium, we have carried out basic medical tests and found that most villagers are anemic and their immune systems are vulnerable. The children are malnourished. This is a live feed. What you see is happening now. The abuse and neglect of the people of Krusenstern by the United States government is unacceptable under international law.’
Most villagers wore T-shirts or light clothing with thick outdoor clothes piled beside them. The younger ones wore headphones. Some played games on tablets. Military medics moved between them, crouching down, talking. They took temperatures and checked throats and eyes. A blonde woman worked with the medics, but she was not in military green. She wore jeans and a red denim shirt. There was something familiar about her that Stephanie couldn’t place.
‘How many times did I say that we needed to match Russia gun for gun in the Arctic?’ Holland challenged Swain. ‘And what did you do? You reduced troops and cut resources.’
Swain’s face turned to stone. ‘If you speak again, Mr President-elect, I will have you removed.’
‘Like Hell you will.’
A faded document, creased and brown with age, appeared on the Moscow screen. The writing was in Russian Cyrillic and at the center was a map.
‘This is the original 1867 treaty, when the United States bought Alaska from Russia for $7.2 million,’ said Grizlov. ‘It was a time when the Motherland was weak. But look at this—’ He zoomed in on the map. ‘The 1867 border follows a line that goes to the east of Krusenstern Island. It was agreed to keep these two islands as one community, part of Russia, because those living on them were from one family. Our two governments had no right to divide them. You cannot buy people and make them your citizens, forcing them away from their relatives. The concept is barbaric. There was no objection from the Americans. Indeed, many thought the purchase of Alaska was such a waste of money that they called it Seward’s Folly after Secretary of State William Seward, who signed the agreement.’
‘There is no original treaty,’ said Stephanie. ‘It’s been lost. This has to be a fake.’
The Oval Office was filling up, more uniforms, big figures from the military and intelligence services.
Grizlov split the screen to show the present border running between the two islands. ‘The false border was imposed by the United States in 1926 and agreed by the Central Executive Committee of the Soviet Union at a time when the USSR was focusing on internal matters. Even then it was agreed that trade and people would be permitted so that the native people of the Bering Strait would not be divided.’ He turned to face the chamber, his expression hard and angry. ‘But let me repeat, this exploitative border has never been ratified by either a Soviet or a Russian parliament. Today, in this parliamentary chamber, we are going to correct the historical wrongs. We will reunite the people of Krusenstern and Ratmonova islands. We will ratify the rightful border between the United States and Russia.’
A single screen showed the two islands belonging to Moscow, with a dark patch stretching twelve miles eastward indicating sovereign territory that placed Russia just thirteen miles from the American mainland. The Duma deputies rose to their feet, applauding, shaking hands, embracing. Grizlov repeatedly ran his red pencil beam up and down the new boundary line.
‘Mr President, Lagutov is on the line from the Kremlin,’ said Prusak.
‘Don’t take it,’ said Holland.
As the Duma’s applause subsided, the screen returned to the school gymnasium on Li
ttle Diomede.
A message reminder lit Stephanie’s phone. She opened it, read it once, then again. She rested for balance against the edge of Swain’s desk. She looked back at the screen. Of course! How dumb of her not to connect! The blonde woman, now talking to a tall Russian colonel, was Carrie Walker whom she had met in Kabul, seven, maybe eight years, ago.
They spent an evening hunkered down in the British Embassy with more than one bottle of red wine, while Carrie berated the world for the bloodbaths in the Muslim world. Stephanie liked her. You couldn’t be human and work in such conditions without a strong reaction. As they said goodbye, Carrie apologized for making Stephanie her punchbag. ‘Next time you need to lash out at someone, it’ll be my turn.’ Next time, Carrie had looked Stephanie up when she was at a conference in Moscow. Stephanie was British Ambassador, combating an angry husband, and she needed a drinking buddy to talk to. Much to the alarm of her bodyguards, the two of them hit the town, cocktails, dinner, nightcap, and then another. But why was Carrie on Little Diomede? A rebel heart, yes, but with the Russians? Surely not.
Swain was poised to take the call from Lagutov. Stephanie showed him and Prusak the message, Carrie + 80 held school L. Dio, explaining that Carrie was the blonde doctor in the video.
‘We have a phone track on it.’ Prusak read raw data streamed in from the National Security Agency. ‘A T-Mobile SIM card registered to Dr Carrie Walker, contract taken out at the Court Street store in Brooklyn. That phone is running through a Wi-Fi hotspot set up by—’ He went quiet, digesting the information. ‘A private cellphone registered to a unit with the Russian 83rd Airborne Brigade. No individual name.’
‘So, did Carrie send it?’ asked Stephanie, amazed yet again at the speed with which American intelligence technology worked.
‘Unlikely,’ said Prusak. ‘These are live pictures of her in the school gymnasium. The hotspot is two hundred yards south and at a higher elevation. So, we may have someone out free on the island.’
‘Find them,’ instructed Swain.
Prusak tilted his head towards the President. ‘Lagutov’s calling.’
‘I warn you,’ said Holland. ‘You will not negotiate.’ His eyes swept around others in the room, many of whose careers would depend on how the new President viewed their loyalty.
Swain picked up. Prusak switched it to speaker. Swain said nothing. He let the silence grow. Then the Russian President said, ‘I’m sorry it’s come to this, Mr President, but it’s out of my hands. The Duma has ratified the new border. We have no problem with the civilian population. But we cannot tolerate a military presence. If you do not begin withdrawing your aircraft, I will instruct my forces to defend Russian sovereign territory.’
TWELVE
Little Diomede, Alaska, USA
The roar of the F-22s faded to a distant growl. They would be back. Two lines of helicopters faced each other like airborne gladiators marking ground to see which would move first. The Russian ones glowed like Christmas trees. The Americans remained darkened, no lights at all.
Rake had to get Timo to safety. Surrender might save Timo’s life, but not Carrie’s and those of the hostages in the school. He drew Timo firmly towards him, shielding him from the Russians with his body. Timo clung to his jacket as Rake made two simultaneous judgments. Timo’s outburst would have exposed his identity to the Russians. Golov would cut his losses and turn Rake in before his own cover was blown. The Russians would be under orders to avoid casualties, which gave Rake an advantage. But trained soldiers do not allow themselves to be shot. Either Rake faced them down or he surrendered and, if he did that, there were plenty of reasons why he would not survive. Golov would need Rake dead to protect himself. He and the others would not forgive Rake’s killing their comrade. Surrender would make him a dead man walking.
Golov looked at Rake, eyes squinted against the weather. For a few minutes, Rake had been his ticket to New York, but no more. They both knew it. Once again, they were kill-or-be-killed enemies. Golov was quick, fast, and good, except Rake had emptied his weapon of ammunition, which gave him an advantage, probably for five seconds. Maybe seven. The soldier behind Golov was just a kid, red-faced and feeling the cold.
Rake shot the young soldier in the neck, a single round, just above the flak jacket. The bullet caught the carotid artery and a jet of blood sprayed onto the snow as the man crumpled.
Golov, in a sideways leap, went for the soldier’s automatic rifle as it fell. He skillfully picked it up, familiar with the mechanism and moving fast, but as he lifted the rifle the heel of his boot slid under the snow.
Rake hurled himself forward and drew his knife. As they hit the iron-hard surface, he drove it into the side of Golov’s neck, withdrew it, and plunged it back into his right eye, twisting the blade. A moment of quiet was broken by a soft cry from Timo and a crackle on the radio, a Russian voice asking about the gunshot. Rake grabbed the radio. ‘Turned out to be a kid,’ he said in Russian. ‘Sending him down now.’
Rake pushed himself to his feet. Soaking blood from the two bodies created a blanket of speckled maroon and red in the snow. He dragged them into the old army post. He went through their pockets. Neither carried ID. He took the radio, ammunition, and the phone. Timo squatted, staring at the snow, shaking. Rake knelt with him and held his face between his hands. ‘Look at me, Timo.’ The boy raised his head.
‘It’s OK,’ said Rake. ‘You’re safe.’
‘I’m not scared. I’ll soon be old enough to kill men too.’ Timo looked down again, his hands tightly clasped.
Rake pressed a flashlight in his hand. ‘I want you walk down towards the school. Put your hands high above your head and shine the flashlight into your face.’
Timo nodded.
‘Soldiers will meet you. They’ll take you to the school and they’ll ask you what happened. Tell them you saw nothing. You heard a gunshot. That you’re frightened.’
Timo nodded again.
‘Good man.’ Rake lifted him to his feet.
‘Uncle Rake, look.’ Timo twisted around to face the Russian island where a firefight between Russian and American helicopters had broken out. A Black Hawk dissolved into an airborne furnace. The fuselage lit up, lurched clumsily, and dropped fast towards the ice. Its rotor blades trailed red and yellow flames. An F-22 roared overhead, a missile speeding out from its starboard wing pod. A Russian helicopter evaporated into a white inferno.
‘Go.’ Rake pushed Timo gently out onto the path. The boy turned on the flashlight, raised his arms above his head, and walked surefootedly down towards two Russian soldiers who stepped into his path.
Carrie’s phone vibrated and lit up with an incoming call from the number that Rake had messaged.
THIRTEEN
The White House, Washington, DC
Like a museum exhibit, Stephanie’s phone lay on the Oval Office desk, its signal wirelessly fed into her earpiece and through speakers so everyone could hear. She was making a call to the phone that sent her the message.
‘This is Stephanie Lucas. I am a friend of Dr Carrie Walker,’ she said.
Swain sat behind the desk, with Prusak at one end. Holland leant against the wall by the window. Stephanie was at the front of the desk, her gaze switching between three contrasting screens of the burning helicopter wreckage, the Russian parliament, and a calm scene in the school on Little Diomede where Carrie worked with Russian paramedics. Slater stood silent next to Stephanie, arms folded.
Key principals spread around the room. By now the Secretaries of State and Treasury were there together with the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Directors of Homeland Security and the CIA, and specialists on Russia.
‘I am …’ The voice from the island was drowned out by a howl of weather. When the wind subsided, Stephanie asked, ‘Who are you and where are you?’
‘Captain Rake Ozenna, 207th Infantry Group of the Alaska Army National Guard. I am on the island of Little Diomede, which has been occupied by Russian forces. Dr
Walker suggested I call. I need to ask now who you are and how secure is this line.’
She glanced at Prusak who said, ‘Both ends.’
‘It’s secure, Captain. I am the British Ambassador to Washington. I am in the White House. You can speak freely. What is happening there?’
‘We just arrived—’ The rest of the words were lost in the wind. When the line cleared, Prusak signaled for Mike Pacolli, as Defense Secretary, to take over. ‘Captain Ozenna, are you in a position to see if there are any survivors from the Black Hawk?’
‘I can see the aircraft, but no sign of life, sir.’
‘What is the situation on the island?’
‘Counting the flights in, I estimate seventy to eighty Russian troops. They have positions on rooftops and up the hill. The villagers are in the school. Any military action targeting the school would result in high casualties of American civilians. I escaped just before the two helicopters went down.’
‘Could ground troops make it across the ice from Wales?’
‘They would need Eskimo guides. The ice is patchy. A man went through today. The Russians have set up a watch post on the top of the island.’
‘Hold, Captain.’
‘We take out their observation post,’ suggested Pacolli to Swain.
‘That would escalate,’ said Swain.
‘They wouldn’t retaliate against the hostages. This isn’t the Middle East.’
‘Are you a hundred percent certain?’
Pacolli paused, then said, ‘No, sir. I am not.’
‘Ozenna needs to keep low. We’ll get back to him,’ said Swain.
‘Stay within signal, Captain,’ said Pacolli. ‘You will have your orders in a few minutes.’
‘Do I have to spell this out?’ said Holland as the call ended. ‘We get enemy forces off American territory. Now!’
Man on Ice Page 7
