The Seventh Angel

by Jeff Edwards

  HUMINT was the military acronym for Human Intelligence: information gathered and reported by people, rather than surveillance hardware.

  “Understood,” the president said impatiently. “We can’t see anything; we don’t know anything, and we’re reduced to reading tea leaves and staring at the entrails of goats. I’ve got that. But somebody woke up half the government for a reason. I’d like to know what the damned tea leaves say.”

  Commander Giamatti’s cheeks reddened. “Yes, sir.” She swallowed before continuing. “Mr. President, we have indications that the Russian military is ramping up to an advanced state of combat readiness. Intelligence sources in Moscow and Vladivostok confirm that Russian nuclear forces have been ordered to an increased alert status. Analysis of Russian Command and Control message traffic is consistent with a rapid escalation of nuclear and conventional readiness. We haven’t seen this level of activity since the worst days of the Cold War. Almost half of the Russian Pacific Fleet is putting out to sea.”

  “Why half?” the president asked.

  The commander paused. “Pardon me, sir?”

  “Why half?” the president asked again. “If the Russians are gearing up as heavily as we think they are, why are they only putting half of their Pacific Fleet to sea?”

  Brenthoven looked up from his notebook. “That’s probably the best they can manage, Mr. President. The Russian Federal Navy is in bad shape. I’ll be surprised if they actually manage to get half their units to sea in any sort of realistic fighting condition.”

  The president waved a hand. “Continue.”

  “Initial indications from Petropavlovsk suggest that the fighting there is military in nature, rather than insurgent,” Commander Giamatti said. “A rough assessment of the scale indicates major combat operations. There’s some fighting scattered through the city itself, but most of the activity appears to be concentrated in the vicinity of Rybachiy naval station.”

  President Chandler pursed his lips. “I haven’t memorized the name of every Russian military base, but we’re sitting in the bunker, the Russians are peeing their pants, and the National Military Command Center wants to initiate Continuity-of-Government protocols. So I’m assuming that this Rybachiy naval station is home to part of the Russian nuclear arsenal.”

  “Yes, sir,” the commander said. She thumbed her remote again, and a pop-up window appeared on the screen to the left of the Kamchatka peninsula. Inside the new window was a grainy black and white photo of a naval base. Three submarines were moored to battered concrete piers.

  The president realized that he’d seen this exact same slide just a couple of days earlier, during the briefing about that Russian courier who claimed to be the middleman in some back-channel deal between the Chinese military and … the president frowned … the Governor of Kamchatka.

  “Rybachiy naval station, at Petropavlovsk, is the home port for the Russian Pacific Fleet’s ballistic missile submarines,” Commander Giamatti said. “According to the most recent threat assessments, at least three Delta III class nuclear ballistic missile submarines are based at Rybachiy. Each Delta III submarine carries sixteen Russian R-29R missiles …”

  “Also known by the NATO designation of SS-N-18 Stingray,” the president said. “And each missile is armed with three nuclear warheads, for a total of 48 nuclear warheads per submarine.”

  The commander nodded. “You’re up on your Russian missile subs, Mr. President.”

  “Not really,” the president said. “But I got some of this during an intelligence brief a couple of days ago.” He frowned. “Tell me, Commander, is the Chinese military involved in this somehow?”

  The naval officer looked puzzled. “Mr. President, how did you …”

  “The intelligence brief I mentioned. I’m just playing connect-the-dots.”

  “We do have uncorroborated reports from Petropavlovsk, suggesting that Chinese soldiers—or military personnel who appear to be Asian—are present in large numbers, and appear to be heavily engaged in the fighting.”

  “Is this the HUMINT you spoke of?”

  “Part of it, sir,” the commander said. “But the source is unofficial and unconfirmed. A twenty-two year-old American college student on an ecotourism vacation to Kamchatka. Her name is Janeane Whitaker. She claims she’s been hiding in an attic above a café since the militia, the local police, began rounding up all visitors and foreigners about twelve hours ago.”

  Brenthoven paused in his note-taking and looked up at the commander. “Why did it take us twelve hours to find out about this?”

  “Ms. Whitaker’s mobile phone is apparently not compatible with the cellular networks in Russia. Her only means of communication is a palmtop computer or a PDA; we’re not sure which. She tapped into the café’s wireless internet signal and began firing off emails. She’s an ordinary citizen, without any particular connections in the military or government, so she didn’t have any fast-track method of communicating with anyone in positions of authority. She ended up sending emails to the ‘Contact Us’ links on every government website she could think of. The White House, the State Department, the Department of Homeland Security, the FBI, and the Pentagon.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a very efficient process,” the president said.

  “It’s not, Mr. President,” the national security advisor said. “Every agency in the government receives thousands of crackpot emails every day. I know who shot JFK; my neighbor is running a secret al-Qaeda training camp in his basement, and brain-sucking aliens have taken over the local television studio. Don’t get me wrong, sir. There are some useful suggestions buried in all of that junk, and occasionally even some bona fide intelligence tips, but it’s not easy to separate the wheat from the chaff. An uncorroborated email from a foreign internet café about secret police activity in Kamchatka? Frankly, it’s a miracle that anybody followed up on it at all.”

  “They didn’t at first,” Commander Giamatti said. “Until the Russian military went into overdrive.”

  “Do we still have contact with this woman? Janeane Whitaker?” the president asked.

  “Uh … No sir. She reached her daily spending limit.”

  “Her what?”

  “Her daily spending limit,” the commander said. “The wireless internet provider charges by the minute, and apparently Ms. Whitaker’s credit card has a low daily spending limit. They cut her off and we lost contact.”

  The president stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t believe this. We have a multi-billion-dollar intelligence apparatus and the one person in the entire world who can tell us what’s going on has maxed out her credit card?” He turned to his national security advisor. “Can’t we do something about this? Every agency in the government has at least a few thousand dollars of discretionary funds. Can’t someone get on the phone to the bank and deposit some money into this woman’s account?”

  Brenthoven sighed. “The State Department has people working on that right now, sir. Ms. Whitaker’s bank is based out of California, and it doesn’t offer twenty-four hour customer service. State is on the phone to California, waking people up. It’s after midnight out there.”

  The president looked down at the table and shook his head. “If we weren’t sitting on the brink of a nuclear emergency, this might actually be funny. Can we just forget about Kamchatka, and launch some missiles at the damned bank?”

  The door opened, and an Air Force lieutenant colonel walked in, carrying a white folder bordered with red diagonal stripes. He moved quickly to the national security advisor, whispered into his ear and handed him the red and white folder.

  Brenthoven opened the folder and scanned the document inside as the Air Force officer quietly made his report. After a few seconds, Brenthoven looked up. “Mr. President, we have updated satellite imagery of Petropavlovsk. One of the Delta III nuclear missile submarines has gotten underway, and is currently unlocated. As far as we can determine, it’s carrying a full loadout of nuclear ballistic missiles.”


  “Jesus Christ,” the president said.

  The Air Force Officer faced the president and came to attention. “Sir, I’m Lieutenant Colonel Briggs, the Situation Room Watch Officer. I’ve just been on the phone to the Joint Chiefs. The National Military Command Center is still waiting for permission to initiate Continuity-of-Government protocols, and CINCNORAD is recommending DEFCON 2.” The lieutenant colonel paused and took a breath. “Mr. President, the Joint Chiefs concur with CINCNORAD’s recommendation. They are also recommending DEFCON 2, sir.”

  President Chandler felt his stomach tighten. DEFCON 2, or Defensive Readiness Condition 2, was the highest level nuclear alert for American military forces. The United States hadn’t been to DEFCON 2 since the Cuban Missile Crisis, when the world had come within days—perhaps hours—of World War III. The only higher readiness level was DEFCON 1, full preparation to launch nuclear war.

  He frowned. “No. From what we can see, the Russians are already jumpy as hell over this. If we hike up our own nuclear alert levels, we’re only going to make them more nervous than they already are. And the spookier they get, the more likely they are to do something stupid. We don’t have enough information to justify that sort of risk.”

  He looked at his national security advisor. “The Russians have definitely got themselves a problem, but I don’t see any reason to believe that it involves us. For all we know, that submarine put out to sea to safeguard its missiles, to keep them out of the wrong hands. No one has shown me any evidence that the intentions of that sub are hostile to the U.S.”

  “Mr. President,” the Air Force officer said, “with all due respect, anything that affects the stability of the Russian nuclear arsenal involves us. That submarine has enough firepower to incinerate every major city in the western United States.”

  The president shook his head. “We’re over reacting. We can’t let things move this fast.”

  “I understand your caution, sir,” the lieutenant colonel said. “And I understand that I’m just a light colonel and you’re the Commander-in-Chief. But I’ve been doing this all my life, sir. If this escalates into a nuclear engagement, it’s all going to happen fast. Nuclear warfare follows a completely different timeline than conventional war, Mr. President. Our reaction window won’t be measured in weeks, or even hours. We’ll have minutes. And if we get caught with our pants down, we won’t have any time at all.”

  The president nodded gravely. “I understand, Colonel. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  He turned to his national security advisor. “This is what that courier was talking about. We were briefed about him a couple of days ago, remember? The Russian bagman who staggered into our embassy in Manila, bleeding to death from five or six bullet wounds. Gregorovitch? Is that his name?”

  Brenthoven laid the folder on the table. “Grigoriev, sir. Oleg Yurievich Grigoriev.”

  The president nodded. “That’s the guy. He was claiming to have information about a deal between the governor of Kamchatka and the Chinese Politburo. Something about trading Russian nuclear missile technology for Chinese military intervention.”

  The president looked at the screen. The black and white photo of the Russian submarine base stood out next to the map of Kamchatka. “I didn’t put much stock in Mr. Grigoriev’s claims at the time, but it looks like he might have the inside track on this. Let’s see if we can find out what that gentleman has to tell us.”

  “We’ve been trying, sir,” Brenthoven said. “We’ve got agents by Mr. Grigoriev’s bedside around the clock, but he’s in pretty bad shape. His doctors don’t know when he’ll be stable enough to talk to us.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t take too long,” the president said. “We may not have a lot of time.”

  CHAPTER 16

  WHITE HOUSE

  ROOSEVELT ROOM

  WASHINGTON, DC

  WEDNESDAY; 27 FEBRUARY

  9:37 AM EST

  National Security Advisor Gregory Brenthoven opened a door, and ushered the tall Russian man into the Roosevelt Room. A pair of tucked-leather Kittinger armchairs had been drawn up near the fireplace at the center of the curved east wall. The chairs created a small and informal meeting area, away from the long conference table.

  Brenthoven nodded toward the chair on the right. “Please, Mr. Ambassador, make yourself comfortable.”

  “Thank you,” Ambassador Aleksandr Vladimirovich Kolesnik said. His English was only slightly accented. He sat in the offered chair, and ran a long-fingered hand through his thick white hair.

  Brenthoven took the other chair. Before he could begin with the traditional diplomatic pleasantries, the Russian Ambassador cut directly to the point of the meeting.

  “My government thanks you for your generous offer,” Kolesnik said. “But we do not require military assistance at the present time.”

  The national security advisor watched the man for several seconds without speaking. In appearance, Kolesnik was as far removed from the stereotypical Russian bear as it was possible to be. He was thin and fastidious, with deep-set eyes and a triangular face that made his bushy white eyebrows look as though they belonged to someone else.

  Brenthoven thought about allowing the pause in conversation to stretch a few seconds longer. In matters of diplomatic exchange, Ambassador Kolesnik was not comfortable with silence, a trait that could sometimes be taken advantage of. But now was not the time for gamesmanship. The Russians were already climbing the walls; there was nothing to be gained by intentionally putting their senior diplomat on the defensive. Better to get to the hard part quickly, and hope that open discussion could somehow allow them to work past more than a half-century of mutual distrust.

  Brenthoven raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Ambassador, at the very least you have what appears to be a military coup on your hands,” he said. “Your own news services are openly describing it as a civil war.”

  “It is not civil war,” Kolesnik said. “It is a minor local struggle. Nothing more. An insignificant uprising.”

  Brenthoven fished his small leather notebook from the pocket of his jacket, and held it without opening it. “The entire Russian military has been moved to a state of high alert, including your strategic nuclear missile forces. You’ve mobilized nearly every available naval vessel in your Pacific Fleet. There are foreign combat troops on your soil. From the perspective of the U.S. government, that doesn’t sound insignificant.”

  “It does not involve the United States.” Kolesnik said. “We appreciate your concern, but this is an internal matter.”

  “My government does not agree,” Brenthoven said. “We have reason to believe that the insurgents have managed to deploy one of the ballistic missile submarines that was stationed in Kamchatka, along with its arsenal of 48 nuclear warheads. Mr. Ambassador, that’s more destructive force than the entire human race has unleashed in the history of this planet.”

  The ambassador nodded gravely. “It is the K-506, the Zelenograd.”

  Brenthoven jotted the name and hull number of the submarine in his notebook. “Has the sub been located yet? Have your naval units detected her?”

  “Him.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You asked if our naval units have detected her. But Zelenograd, submarine ‘K-506,’ is a he, not a she.”

  The national security advisor smiled weakly. “I’ve never been much of a Sailor, sir. It was my understanding that seagoing vessels are always presumed to be female.”

  The Russian Ambassador returned the thin smile with an equally weak smile of his own. “American ships, yes. Russian ships, no. Russian vessels are always male. The tradition goes back at least to Pyotr Alekseyevich Romanov: Peter the Great. Perhaps farther.”

  Brenthoven rubbed his chin. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

  “There is much that America does not know about Russia,” the ambassador said. “And there is much that Russia does not know about America. Even with the Cold War behind us, our countries do not understand each other.�
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  He shook his head. “We thought we understood you as adversaries, but we were deluding ourselves. Now we attempt to understand you as allies, and we are still … what is the word? Baffled? We are still baffled by you.”

  Brenthoven nodded. “Both of our governments have mastered the art of misunderstanding,” he said. “But Mr. Ambassador, this is one case in which we can not afford misunderstanding.”

  “You are quite correct,” the Russian Ambassador said.

  “I’m glad we’re in agreement,” Brenthoven said. “Are you in a position to discuss the level of U.S. involvement? Or is that a matter better arranged by our respective presidents?”

  Ambassador Kolesnik held up a finger. “Again we misunderstand each other. I agreed that our countries must make every effort to avoid miscommunication during this crisis. I did not agree to American involvement in my country’s internal affairs. My instructions from my government are quite specific. This matter will be handled by the Russian military, under the command of the Russian government.”

  “Mr. Ambassador, the nuclear missiles aboard that submarine have more than enough range to reach the United States. With all due respect, sir, that’s exactly what they were designed to do. Unless you have some method of guaranteeing that they will not be launched against American cities, I don’t see how we can sit back and treat this situation as an internal Russian issue.”