by Leslie Wolfe
Anyone who was a dissident, who said anything or did anything that contradicted the communist dogma, could happen to have a nervous breakdown. Sluggish schizophrenia was a popular diagnosis at that time. Any such diagnosis required admission for treatment in a special psychiatric ward, bitterly yet unofficially known as psikhushka, a Russian term for what would freely translate as the loony cage. These psychiatric wards were nothing more than psychiatric detention centers, where unwanted dissidents were chemically brainwashed into long-term, quiet obedience, and forgotten there until they drew their last breaths.
Of course, any dissident could have a public nervous breakdown if the right drugs were administered, with or without their knowledge. Abramovich learned a lot about drugs, manipulation with drugs, and information extraction under the influence of drugs. Thus, he became an even more successful, feared, and unstoppable career KGB officer.
He gave punitive psychiatry almost two years of his life. Then he moved on to Foreign Intelligence, where his newly acquired pharmacology knowledge enabled him to get above average results in the extraction of information from both willing and unwilling participants. Seven successful years later, he left Foreign Intelligence, having yet again a choice of careers in front of him. He chose the Second Chief Directorate, dedicating himself to learning the ropes of internal political control. He was thirty-five and a major general, the youngest ever to hold that rank, multiple decorations adorning the uniform he wore with immense pride.
The path opened for Abramovich’s political ascension. He was a general during Gorbachev’s tenure at the Kremlin, and watched in horror how that reckless traitor was dismantling the USSR and selling the parts. Right when he was so close to holding supreme power in his country, the USSR was disappearing right in front of his powerless eyes.
There was no way he could fight Gorbachev and stop his damned glasnost. He tried and failed on multiple occasions. Gorbachev was fiercely pro-West; he strongly believed in all that transparency and reform bullshit that was going to ruin Russia and bring it to its knees. They were all at the mercy of Western puppeteers who had made fools out of Gorbachev and all his followers.
When the KGB dismantled, he was forty years old and more decided than ever to take the Kremlin one day and restore his country’s lost greatness. It took some effort. He had to adapt to a changing political landscape, new entrants in the game, and new political structures emerging all around him. People feared the same things, whether in communism or democracy, and he knew how to master those fears.
The Kremlin was his now and had been for a few years. He was almost midway through his third term as president, proving again that he could achieve the impossible. He had started his path to reconstruct Russia’s fallen greatness. The urgency of his vision kept him up at night, counting the years he had left before he’d win the supreme game of his career.
Few people embraced or even understood his vision, and his tolerance for them was wearing thin. He hadn’t grown any more patient with the passing of years; he often felt he was running a desperate race against time, the world, against everyone.
Abramovich slowed his pacing enough to grab a quick shot of vodka from the readily available bottle of Stolichnaya waiting on ice near his new coffee table. Grabbing ice cubes with his fingers he let them drop in a glass, and covered them with the clear liquid. He took a large gulp, letting out air in a satisfied, audible expression of satisfaction, typical for Russian career drinkers. Then he went to his desk and pressed a button.
“Da, gospodin prezident?”
“Get Dolinski in here.”
Minutes later, after a quick knock on the door, his prime minister entered.
“Dolinski, tell me you have a defense minister.”
Dolinski kept his head lowered, eyes fixated on the floor.
“Gospodin prezident, I have a couple of names you might want to consider.”
“Like whom?”
“General Sokol would be a good fit. He’s old guard, a hardliner, combative.”
“He’s a hundred years old, for fuck’s sake, Dolinski, what the hell? I need someone who’s going to live long enough to make things happen. Someone who can still think of war, want a war, start a war.”
“Then General Chaplinski would be great. He’s only sixty years old, very determined, a great leader.”
“Do you think Chaplinski shares my vision? In his heart? Or just does it lip service? Is he a communist or United Russia?”
United Russia had become the leading political party after the fall of communism. It was non-ideological in nature, a party uniting all the politically disoriented survivors of almost a century of communism. But as a member and former leader of United Russia, Abramovich knew that anyone could function under the colors of United Russia and have their own hidden agendas.
“He’s United Russia. Did you want a communist for defense minister? How would the world see that?”
“Fuck the world, Dolinski, I don’t care about what they see and don’t see. This is about making Russia great again, not about impressing the fucking West. The West can go to hell, and if I can help make that happen, I will. Stop trying to kiss the West ass, Dolinski. Do you still have the balls to do your job? Or has it castrated you already, left you impotent?”
Abramovich’s voice had reached thunderous levels, his anger taking over. He gulped the remaining vodka and slammed the empty glass on his desk.
“N–no, sir,” an intimidated Dolinski managed to utter.
“I’m surrounded by impotents.” Abramovich continued to pontificate from the bottom of his lungs. “No one has the guts to help me get back what’s ours, what has always been ours. Where are the great men of Russia? Where are the fearless leaders of tomorrow, our brave generals? Doesn’t anyone have what it takes to get me results? To think and plan great things? Who’s been handling defense since Dimitrov retired, and what have they accomplished?”
“Umm...I worked with Generals Chaplinski and Sokol to keep things in motion until we name a new defense minister.”
“Is that what you think this country needs? Keeping things in motion?”
“We continued to execute the plan set by Minister Dimitrov before he retired. The readiness for engagement, the incursions outside the national territories, even Division Seven.”
“How’s our readiness?” Abramovich’s tone dropped to almost normal levels.
“It’s going according to plan. We’ve restored to 100 percent readiness all our missile sites, nuclear submarines, and military jets. We’ve conducted exercises and assessed the readiness levels of our ground forces. We’ve taken an updated inventory of our arsenals and started research and production on every item we still need. We estimate that by midsummer we will have all our arsenals replenished as per the former minister’s plan.”
Abramovich started pacing again, slowly, pensively.
“Get me more,” he said after a few seconds. “Get me more than what the plan called for. Revise the plan and bring it to me for review. I know START limits our arsenal counts, but I want to have bigger nukes, new planes, more powerful nuclear submarines. Double the fleet of Borei submarines, get rid of all the junk. And authorize more funds for nuclear research. Put all of that in your plan.”
“Umm... how about funding? We’re running out of funding for defense. With the sanctions, it’s been hard.”
“Fuck the sanctions. Take from somewhere else. Social security, education, health, I don’t care. Raise some taxes. Just make it happen.”
“Yes, gospodin prezident.”
Abramovich dismissed Dolinski with a wave of his hand, and Dolinski disappeared, closing the door quietly behind him.
Dolinski might be able to pull it off, but he still needed a good defense minister. No, he needed a great one.
...5
...Thursday, February 25, 8:12AM EST (UTC-5:00 hours)
...The White House
...Washington, DC
The day held several firsts for Henri. H
er first time at the White House. Her first time going anywhere with Director Seiden. Her first time in the same room with the president. She hoped she’d rise to the occasion and make Seiden proud.
“We should get started shortly,” Seiden said, “we’re his first agenda item. That always helps.”
She nodded, not sure what to say. Seiden read right through her self-imposed calm.
“You’ll do fine. Just remember what we discussed. Keep it short and clear, no speculation. Short phrases, minimum words, keep it simple. And it’s OK to say that you’ll have an answer in a few days if you’re not sure about something.”
“Uh-huh, yes, sir,” she confirmed.
“This is a briefing, not a brainstorming session. Only confirmed facts and finalized analyses, got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can take your seats in the conference room now,” a staffer said, and showed them the way. “Would you like anything to drink? Coffee, tea, water?”
“Thank you, we’re good,” Seiden replied for both of them.
An assistant took a seat at the remote part of the table, getting ready to take notes.
President Krassner entered, followed closely by two of his advisors.
Brief introductions identified General Foster, the president’s military advisor, a tall, proud man in uniform, with his chest covered in decorations, and Norbert Purvis, the national security advisor, who looked more like a businessman than a politician.
“Good morning, everyone,” Krassner said, “let’s hear it.”
Going straight to the point, Doug Krassner was exactly how Henri thought he’d be, after seeing him on television on numerous occasions. Krassner had the reputation to be a smart, open-minded, and gutsy leader, willing to go a little differently about things and break some molds if that meant progress.
“Mr. President,” Seiden greeted him with deference, “thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”
“What’s on your mind, director?”
“This, sir,” Seiden said, pushing slightly forward Henri’s report, bound nicely in report covers bearing the CIA insignia in gold emboss.
“I flipped through some pages,” Krassner said, “makes for a very interesting read. So...we’ve entered Cold War two dot zero, huh? Great way to start my presidency.” Krassner smiled, an open smile not in the least bitter.
“Two dot zero, sir?” Seiden asked.
“My technology advisor said the new Cold War will involve technology way more than we’d anticipated. He came up with Cold War 2.0 instead of Cold War II, and it stuck.”
Everyone chuckled lightly.
Krassner cleared his throat quietly. “OK, let’s get started. What do you think this means?” He pointed at the report.
“War, sir,” Seiden replied. “Maybe not now, not this year, but definitely going toward war. Crimea might have been the trigger for a chain of events leading to global conflagration.”
“Can Russia go to war with the entire Western world? NATO is a powerful alliance.”
“My analyst suggested that we shouldn’t think of Russia in the traditional way, as planning to go to war directly and amassing thousands of tanks and troops in a direct, open invasion. Marino and her team think this war will be different, based on the profile they’ve built for President Abramovich and his actions to date.”
Krassner turned slightly to face Henri.
“What do you think these military actions are about?”
“Sir, I think these incursions are testing our response times, our response procedures, and our response strength. Overall, they’re testing our response, or wearing out our vigilance while testing our response.”
Seiden looked away briefly to hide his irritation. The incursions analysis was not completely finalized. Yet she was venturing a non-substantiated hypothesis, the exact opposite of what they had discussed on their way in. Well aware of that, Henri swallowed hard and mentally prepared to walk on thin ice. Whatever the risk for her career, Krassner needed to know the facts ASAP. It was an acceptable risk, if she were to be proven wrong. Much better than taking the risk of informing Krassner a few days too late.
“What for?” Krassner asked.
“Nothing good, that’s for sure,” she blurted. Without turning her head, she caught Seiden flashing an angry glance toward her.
“That’s an understatement,” Krassner commented. “Can you venture some guesses?”
“Umm...sure. I think they could be testing our response to figure out where and how to conduct a first strike. That’s one theory. Another theory is that they could be conducting these territorial displays of aggression to distract us, while they’re looking to launch ballistic missiles. The missiles scenario is covered in my report. In addition, a third scenario is that they could be doing these close-call incursions in the hope that someone on our side gets nervous and engages by accident. Although, in all fairness, I don’t see them caring too much about who started it, or who’s to blame. Abramovich is beyond that. He just wants vengeance for the Crimea sanctions and the public humiliation they brought him.”
“If you were to choose one scenario, which one do you think is the most plausible?”
She hesitated a little before answering, wondering, as many other people had wondered lately, how sure she was. Very.
“I’d have to say scenario two, sir. I’d have to go with the nuclear-strike scenario.”
Silence fell thick, lingering for a few seconds that seemed like hours. Krassner opened the report and briefly browsed through it, making a quick note on one of the pages.
Then he looked up at Henri again.
“What do you think of my technology advisor’s opinion, with respect to the new cold war? Do you think he has a point?”
She hesitated, not sure whether the question was directed at her or at Seiden.
“Can you venture a guess which technologies would be more interesting to acquire or develop to consolidate our offensive and defensive positions?”
Krassner was looking straight at her, and so was Seiden, who nodded discreetly.
“Mr. President, I don’t have this analysis completed. I can look into this issue and prepare a report in a matter of days.”
“You’re an analyst, right? Then analyze, speculate with us. Let’s hear what you think.”
Krassner wasn’t going to give her any room to maneuver out of the situation. She might as well use the opportunity to tell him what she thought. Henri took a deep breath before speaking, reminding herself to slow her machine-gun verbalization to an easier-to-follow delivery rhythm.
“Mr. President, I think technology should be a much higher focus for the US military. Should have been would be the right way to put it. We need to allow innovation to penetrate our weapons systems, aircraft, communications, everything technology.
“The backbone of our Air Force is based on thirty-to forty-year-old concepts. The fifth-generation jets are coming into service way too slow. So slowly, they’re already somewhat out-of-date by the time they become operational. We fly the same planes as we did thirty years ago. Maybe they’re not thirty years old, but their concepts are. Yet most of us can’t stomach having a car older than eight years.”
“Enough,” Seiden whispered into her ear, barely audible. She clammed up promptly.
“Not at all, let her continue,” Krassner said.
She cleared her throat, suddenly constricted by seeing how stiff the president’s military advisor seemed. His pursed lips, flanked by two deep ridges formed around his mouth by an expression of offended consternation, were conveying a clear message. Drilling, unforgiving eyes focused on hers with an intensity she hadn’t encountered too often. She decided to lay off the fighter jets for a while.
“We put satellites into orbit at roughly five to seven times the cost that other countries spend to do the same thing. Private entrepreneurs can figure out how to build rockets and move cargo into space cheaper and faster than NASA.”
She paused for a
few seconds, waiting to see if they wanted her to continue. Krassner made an inviting gesture with his hand.
“Did you know that European countries are significantly more advanced in their search for clean energy? They are decades ahead of us. The list can continue, but the bottom line is that our traditional resistance to change has cost us dearly in terms of progress. The weapons we build are clunky, obsolete and carry huge price tags. They’re not efficient; they don’t make use of modern technologies, light materials, process innovation (like three-dimensional printing), or materials innovation, such as carbon fiber molding. The Chinese have already 3D-printed an apartment building and are manufacturing light jets made from carbon fiber: light, maneuverable, and fuel-efficient. Yet we build the same clunky rust buckets designed in the fifties, so I would say yes, your advisor was definitely right. Technology will definitely play a role in future war strategy, from more perspectives than just cyber warfare. By the way, I think we’re actually doing fairly well in cyber warfare. At least, courtesy of the NSA, we seem to be better prepared in that area.”
“Please continue,” Krassner said. “What would you do?”
“Well, we did make some progress in the past decades, not much, but we’ve made some. Unmanned flight, stealth technologies, computing power, all these new technologies gave us immense strategic advantages. We just need to continue on this path. For each area, we should drive innovation before we spend trillions more ineffectively on antiquated technology. I’d also focus on revamping NORAD and our antimissile defense; it might come in handy sooner than we’d like. We also need to observe more, to find out what’s out there, to, well,” she chuckled slightly, thinking of paraphrasing a known movie title, “to spy hard. For many years, we’ve been focused on GWOT and forgot all our other enemies. Global war on terror must continue, but we need to redeploy in other areas.” Seeing Seiden’s consternated look, she added quickly, “In my humble opinion.”
