The Coward's Way of War

by Nuttall, Christopher

  Moscow, Russia

  Day 11

  Unknown to most of the world’s population, the Kremlin extended far down below the surface of Moscow, spreading out like a giant iceberg, with most of its mass concealed below the water. The building itself, a popular tourist destination for western tourists, was merely the entryway to a network of underground offices, bunkers and record storage sites that preserved secrets that dated all the way back to the Tsars. Stalin and his successors had extended the network, linking it into the Moscow Underground and turning it into their base of operations during the Second World War and the Cold War. The brief period of democracy in Russia hadn't impeded the expansion of the network in any way, even the upsurges of violence as ordinary Russians finally fought back against the oppressors hadn't touched the underground bases. It had been preserved for Yeltsin and Putin, his successor.

  General Igor Ivanovich Zaitsev waited impatiently as the elevator descended down towards the underground network. The summons to the Kremlin could not be denied, even by the most powerful military officer in Russia, yet the President’s message hadn't conveyed even the slightest hint of what the meeting was about. The incessant bouts of terrorist activity along the southern borders, the growing fear of a Chinese incursion to the east, even the breakout of a rare and deadly form of smallpox within the borders of the United States couldn't have accounted for the meeting. Nothing short of nuclear war or something almost as dangerous could have forced the President to call him so early in the morning. His old friend knew that Zaitsev liked his sleep.

  The guards – Special Forces-trained soldiers, assigned to the Kremlin for a year before they were returned to their units and sent to serve in the south – patted him down carefully, removing his service pistol and the knife he concealed in his boot. Zaitsev would have had some sharp things to say if they hadn't, for the Russian President stood among the top ten terrorist targets in the world. It wasn't as if he was short of enemies within Russia either, not with a growing demographic and financial crisis on his hands. Zaitsev could name a dozen wealthy Russian businessmen, all loudly proclaiming their loyalty to the Kremlin and the man who ruled Russia, who would not have shed a single tear if the President had been assassinated. And then there were the lone crazies, the lone wolves as the Americans called them, who would not fear to die so long as they took their targets with them to the next world. Zaitsev had fought in Afghanistan as a young man, back before the USSR had collapsed onto the ash heap of history, and had rapidly learned to hate fanatics of all stripes. They just could not be trusted. The Americans hadn't learned that until a decade later.

  “The President will see you now,” one of the guards said finally. “I will escort you to the meeting room.”

  Zaitsev frowned inwardly, but allowed no sign of his inner feelings to show on his face as the guard led him along corridors he certainly knew better than the young pup! The guard was just doing his duty, so he pushed his annoyance aside as the younger man tapped on an unmarked door, listened for a response and then pushed the door open, revealing a luxuriously-appointed conference room. The guard waved Zaitsev inside, allowing him to see that the President was not alone. His Foreign Minister and one of the two FSB Directors were already seated within the chamber.

  “Igor Ivanovich,” President Aleksandr Sergeyevich Nekrasov said. He was a tall man, with snowy white hair and a wry smile that had charmed more than a few western observers, who really should have known better. No one reached such a high level within Russia, even the post-USSR Russian Federation, without grit, determination and a certain level of ruthlessness. “Please, take a seat. We have much to discuss.”

  Zaitsev took one of the comfortable chairs, wondering at the President’s dark expression. He had known Nekrasov since their joint military service, before Nekrasov had transferred into the civilian – insofar as such a term had meaning in Russia – government and started to rise up through the ranks. The presence of the FSB Director was worrying, for the true secret to ruling Russia lay in balancing the government, the military and the secret services. No Russian leader would be trusted with absolute power, not since Stalin had bent the entire nation to his will. If all three components of government were represented at the table...it meant trouble, at the very least.

  “You will have been following the crisis in America over the last few days,” Nekrasov said, by way of preamble. A trusted steward poured glasses of vodka for them as he spoke, but Zaitsev chose not to touch his glass. Drinking was Russia’s blight, yet he had learned the importance of keeping a clear head many years ago. “What you will not know, for I have kept it under very tight security, is that the Americans have made progress on discovering where the disease came from in the first place.”

  Zaitsev frowned. He had been following the crisis, if only to reassure himself that the Americans were unlikely to start lashing around madly. The United States, once Russia’s equal, had become so powerful that its mere presence warped the face of the world. If America were to be humbled, Russia wouldn't be too displeased, even if the Americans had their uses. The prospect of a Chinese superpower caused more than a few sleepless nights in Moscow; indeed, the Soviet Union had – quite seriously – proposed a joint US-USSR strike on China’s nuclear facilities. The Americans had rejected the proposal. There were times when, watching China’s bid to dominate the surrounding waters and reclaim their breakaway province, Zaitsev wondered if the Americans regretted their choice.

  “I have received a note from the Americans,” Nekrasov continued. “Stripped of the diplomatic language, what little there was of it, the Americans are accusing us of having created the...smallpox strain currently burning its way through America. They are not happy.”

  “There is no proof of that,” Stepan Viktorovich Dyakov said. The FSB Director of Internal Security set his jaw firmly against the possibility. “The Americans are making up lies.”

  “The Americans have attached a set of their proofs along with their message,” Nekrasov said, tightly. Zaitsev knew that he had little time for the FSB, who considered lying to be an art form. “They believe that the strain came from one of our laboratories and – somehow – reached the United States. They are, as I said, not happy.”

  Zaitsev followed his logic. “How unhappy are they?”

  “The message is very simple,” Nekrasov said. “It boils down to one simple statement; give us what we want or we beat the hell out of you and take it anyway.”

  He smiled, humourlessly, at their expressions. “The Americans are demanding nothing less than a full and frank accounting of our entire biological warfare program,” he said. “They want full access to all of our files, personnel and storage chambers. They want the right to question our people – to ask them anything they want to ask – and even to operate their FBI investigative teams on our soil. Their President has also included a copy of the orders she intends to give to their personnel. If there is the slightest hint of procrastination or delay, they are to withdraw and she will go before their Congress and seek a declaration of war.”

  “She’s bluffing,” Dyakov said, tightly. “The Americans would not dare to go to war with us.”

  Zaitsev said nothing, but he was thinking hard. The FSB had overall responsibility for supervising – and concealing – the biological warfare program. It would have been easy for a senior FSB officer to take a sample of a particularly dangerous virus and transport it to America, perhaps convinced that the Americans would not know who to blame. He found it hard to believe that even the most arrogant FSB officer would be so insanely stupid, yet it was a profession full of arrogant fools. The thought was terrifying, for it was one of his nightmares; a group of hardliners provoking a war against the Americans, and then taking over the government if his friend proved unable to cope.

  “The American position on biological attacks against their troops and civilians has been established for a long time,” the Foreign Minister said, softly. “If biological weapons are used, the Americans will
retaliate with nuclear weapons. They made that threat years ago.”

  “We are not some tiny country populated by camel-fucking morons,” Dyakov hissed. “We have our own nuclear weapons. Let the Americans try to take what we have by force. The size of our country will work in our favour, as it always has, and we will prevail!”

  Nekrasov smiled, rather sardonically. “General,” he said, “give us your professional military opinion. Can we prevail against the United States?”

  Zaitsev took a moment to consider his words. “I do not believe so,” he said. “The Americans currently have a relatively small deployment in Europe, but that could be reinforced rather quickly, with or without the Europeans adding their forces to the Americans. We would need to launch a pre-emptive attack to make it impossible for the Americans to reinforce, which would definitely bring the Europeans in against us and commit us to all-out war. We have numbers; the Americans have superior technology, enough to tip the balance. If the war remains conventional, the Americans may still win.”

  He shook his head. “The Americans may, however, use nuclear weapons,” he added. “They have fewer missiles than we do, but their warheads and targeting systems are better than ours. They also have their ABM network up and running, which would minimise the amount of damage we could inflict upon them, ah...the number of operational rockets and warheads is not as high as you may believe. We could turn Europe and parts of America into a radioactive slagheap; they could utterly destroy us several times over. I do not believe that we should fight such a war if it can be avoided.”

  There was a long pause. “I never thought I would hear a Russian General suggesting surrender,” Dyakov sneered, finally. “If we give in to the Americans on this point, they will have us permanently over a barrel. They will be looking into each and every one of our secret weapons programs, making us look weak in front of the world, learning things that we need to keep a secret if we are to have any hope of preventing the Chinese from overwhelming us in the next two decades.”

  “As opposed,” Zaitsev asked, “to the Americans overwhelming us now?”

  “The Americans would not dare to fight,” Dyakov said, again. “They fear destruction; they fear losing even a single life!”

  “They have already lost over three thousand lives, if the reports are to be believed,” the Foreign Minister said, quietly. “This is no mere bombing, but an attack that could bring them to their knees.”

  “All the more reason for them to refrain from warring with us,” Dyakov insisted.

  “General, you have spent time in America,” Nekrasov said. “Do you believe that the Americans will fight?”

  Zaitsev frowned, considering his answer carefully. “The Americans are a strange people,” he said, finally. “They can, as a group, be very generous and trusting, perhaps too generous and trusting. America is the most charitable nation on Earth; indeed, most of that charity comes directly from their people, rather than their governments. Their population, outside the lowest of the underclass, has no real concept of just how harsh and cold the world can be. Their attention span is that of a gnat; they pay no attention to real threats until the threats make their presence unmistakably clear, then they reach out and try to swat the threat before going back to sleep.

  “They believe in tolerance and extending rights, even to their enemies. When they were faced with Islamic terrorists, they launched no mass purge of Muslims, even those with known links to terrorist groups. They worked themselves into a state of hysteria over the suspicion that their last President was a secret Muslim, or if they should allow the construction of a mosque in New York City near where the Twin Towers fell, all things that we would find absurd. If they had a Stalin ruling them, they would have no Islamic problem – and no Muslims at all. None of them have any real experience with dictatorships.

  “And yet, it is always a mistake to judge a nation by the loudest voices,” he added. “There is a vast silent majority of Americans that rarely stirs to make its feelings known. When Japan attacked Pearl Harbour, that vast silent majority of Americans awoke; when terrorists brought down the Twin Towers, that vast silent majority roared with anger and sent America's armies halfway around the planet to extract revenge. That silent majority defied the liberal left to keep fighting in Iraq, something that brought the Americans victory.”

  He leaned forward, willing them to believe. “The President – their President – will take what proof they have, no matter how thin it is, to their Congress and that vast silent majority will awaken, demanding Russian blood. The President will not have any difficulty getting a declaration of war. She will, instead, find it harder to exercise restraint. There are already American voices demanding the destruction of Iran, or China, or Saudi Arabia, or whatever enemy nation they’re blaming for the biological attack. The moment they realise that the government has proof that we were either behind the attack or that we supplied the weapon, the President’s hand will be forced and they will go to war. The most powerful, sophisticated and destructive war machine in the history of the planet will be pointed right at us.

  “There will be war. And we will lose.

  “They won’t seek to occupy our territory, as Hitler or Napoleon sought to do so long ago. They won’t try to rebuild us in their image, as they did to the Japanese and even to the Germans. They will seek our total destruction, because that is what that vast silent majority will demand – and receive. We will lose the war and, with it, we will lose everything. It will be the end of Russia. It will be the end of our people. It will be the end of the world. Whatever few Russians are left alive after the Americans crush us will die of Henderson’s Disease.”

  There was a long chilling silence. “I will speak to the American President,” Nekrasov said, finally. “We will agree to give her what she wants, on two conditions.” He held up a hand before any of them could speak. “The first is that they will only have access to the biological warfare research program and its scientists. We will not be sharing the rest of our defence establishment with them. The second is that they have to keep our...cooperation a secret. We do not want word to leak out about this to anyone.”

  Zaitsev knew what he meant. The hardliners, who would be completely opposed to any deal with the Americans – let alone such a humiliating set of concessions – would be horrified and furious once they found out the truth. Worse, the outside world would be shocked when they realised just how badly Russia had broken the treaties governing biological warfare research and development. The treaties had been broken almost before the ink had finished drying on the paper. Hundreds of vitally important trade deals could be at stake.

  “I expect each of you to make this happen, without fuss or bloodshed,” Nekrasov finished. “Igor Ivanovich, stay a few minutes with me.”

  The others stood up, recognising the dismissal, and left the two old friends alone. “Stepan Viktorovich is not happy,” Zaitsev observed, once the door was shut. “Do you think I should arrange his assassination?”

  Nekrasov didn't smile. “I want you to take the lead on this,” he said. “You will have complete authority and access to the entire program; feel free to arrest and detain anyone who feels that you shouldn't have such access. Make sure that you take trustworthy guards with you; in fact, take special security detachments and secure all of the research sites. We do not want someone trying to hide anything from the Americans.”

  His voice tightened. “There was another piece of news that came in just after the American ultimatum,” he added. “A man collapsed in a steam bath last night. When he was finally examined by the doctors, they found red marks on his skin. Henderson’s Disease has returned to Mother Russia.”

  Zaitsev swore. The average Russian citizen had far less freedom of movement than his or her American counterpart, but there was still a great deal of contact between Russia's different cities and population centres. And the public health system was alarmingly bad. The disease could take root in the population very quickly. Once the population
realised the truth, even the traditional Russian methods of fear and repression wouldn't prevent a panic. They had failed at Chernobyl and they would fail here.

  “And now you see,” Nekrasov said, softly. “Whoever is behind this has harmed Russia badly, even if the Americans do not wage war on us. I want them found before something even worse than smallpox escapes from the biological research centres.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  If you look at FOX NEWS, you will see that it has a strong right-wing bias. If you look at CNN, you will see that it has a strong left-wing bias. The average person can guess which way a channel will jump depending on the issue of the day. If the mainstream media is permanently regarded as untrustworthy, where will people get their news? The bloggers may never replace print media, but they are regarded as more trustworthy than the MSM. Why? Because, when a blogger is concerned, even his bias is a honestly declared bias.

  - Mija Cat

  New York, USA

  Day 11

  “Welcome back,” Officer Jones said, as Sergeant Al Hattlestad walked up to the police line. “It hasn't been quite the same without you.”

  Al scowled at him. The doctors had finally conceded that he was immune to Henderson’s Disease – they’d named it after the first known victim, which struck him as rather tasteless – and released him back to the NYPD, not without shaving him and putting him through a series of unpleasant medical procedures to ensure that he wasn't carrying the disease, even though he was immune. He’d protested the procedures until someone had pointed out that Tom Pearson, the rookie officer, was infected with smallpox and not expected to survive the week. The rookie had died merely by following Al into an apartment block.