by Dale Brown
After flying in to Boltino to the president’s private airport nearby, visitors were driven to the residence by limousine and escorted through a sweeping grand foyer to the great room and dining room, dominated by three large fireplaces and adorned with sumptuous leather and oak furniture, works of art from all over the world, framed photos of world leaders, and mementos from his many celebrity friends, topped off with a spectacular panoramic view of Pirogovskoje Reservoir outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. Special guests would be invited up the double marble curved staircases to the bedroom suites on the second floor, or down to the large Roman-style baths, indoor pool, thirty-seat high-definition movie theater, and game room on the ground floor. But all that was still only a fraction of the square footage of the place.
A guest being dazzled by the grand view outside the great room would miss the dark, narrow cupola on the right side of the foyer, almost resembling a doorless closet, which had small and unimpressive paintings hanging on the curved walls illuminated by rather dim LED spotlights. But if one stepped into the cupola, he would be instantly but surreptitiously electronically searched by X-ray to locate weapons or listening devices. His facial features would be scanned and the data run through an electronic identification system that was able to detect and filter out disguises or impostors. Once positively identified, the hidden door inside the cupola would be opened from within, and you would be admitted to the main part of the dacha.
Zevitin’s office was as large as the great- and dining rooms combined, large enough for a group of generals or ministers to confer with each other on one side and not be heard by a similarly sized meeting of the president’s advisers on the other—unheard except for the audio and video recording devices planted everywhere on the grounds, as well as out on the streets, neighborhoods, and roads of the surrounding countryside. Eight persons could expansively dine on Zevitin’s walnut and ivory-inlaid desk with elbow room to spare. Video feeds and television reports from hundreds of different sources were fed to a dozen high-definition monitors located in the office, but none were visible unless the president wanted to view them.
The president’s bedroom upstairs was the one made up for show: the bedroom adjoining the office suite was the one Zevitin used most of the time; it was also the one Alexandra preferred, the one that she thought best reflected the man himself—still grand, but warmer and perhaps plusher than the rest of the mansion. She liked to think he made it so just for her, but that would be foolish arrogance on her part, and she often reminded herself not to indulge in any of that around this man.
They had slipped beneath the silk sheets and down comforter of his bed after dinner and movies and just held each other, sipping tiny glasses of brandy and talking in low intimate voices about everything but the three things both mostly cared about: government, politics, and finances. Phone calls, official or otherwise, were expressly forbidden; Alexandra couldn’t remember ever being interrupted by an aide or a phone call, as if Zevitin could somehow make the rest of the world instantly comatose while they were together. They touched each other occasionally, exploring each other’s silent desires, and mutually deciding without a word that tonight was for companionship and rest, not passion. They had known each other a long time, and she never considered that she might not be fulfilling his needs or desires, or he was disregarding hers. They embraced, kissed, and said good night, and there was no hint of tension or displeasure. All was as it should be…
…so it was doubly surprising for Alexandra to be awakened by something she had never heard before in that room: a beeping telephone. The alien sound made her sit bolt upright after the second or third beep; she soon noticed that Leonid was already on his feet, the bedside light on, the receiver to his lips.
“Go ahead,” he said, then listened, glancing over to her. His eyes were not angry, quizzical, confused, or fearful, as she was certain hers were. He obviously knew exactly who was calling and what he was going to say; like a playwright watching a rehearsal of his latest work, he was patiently waiting for something he already knew would be said.
“What is it?” she mouthed.
To her surprise, Zevitin reached down to the phone, touched a button, and hung up the receiver, activating the speakerphone. “Repeat that last, General,” he said, catching and arresting her gaze with his.
General Andrei Darzov’s voice, crackling and occasionally fading with interference as if talking across a vast distance, could still clearly be heard: “Yes, sir. KIK Command and Measurement Command sites have detected an American spaceplane launch over the Pacific Ocean. It crossed over central Canada and was inserted safely into low-Earth orbit while over the Arctic ice pack of Canada. If it stays on its current trajectory, its target area is definitely eastern Iran.”
“When?”
“They could be starting their re-entry burn in ten minutes, sir,” Darzov replied. “It possibly has enough fuel to fly to the same target area after re-entering the atmosphere after a complete orbit, but it is doubtful without a midair refueling over Iraq or Turkey.”
“Do you think they discovered it?” Hedrov didn’t know what “it” was, but she assumed, because Zevitin had allowed her to listen in on the conversation, that she would find out soon enough.
“I think we should assume they have, sir,” Darzov said, “although if they positively identified the system, I am sure McLanahan would not hesitate to attack it. They may have just detected activity there and are inserting more intelligence-gathering assets to verify.”
“Well, I’m surprised they took this long,” Zevitin remarked. “They have spacecraft flying over Iran almost every hour.”
“And those are just the ones we can positively detect and track,” Darzov said. “They could have many more that we can’t identify, especially unmanned aircraft.”
“When will it be within striking range for us, General?”
Hedrov’s mouth opened, but at a warning glare from Zevitin, she said nothing. What in hell were they thinking of…?
“By the time the spaceplane crosses the base’s horizon, sir, they’ll be less than five minutes from landing.”
“Damn, the speed of that thing is mind-boggling,” Zevitin muttered. “It’s almost impossible to move fast enough against it.” He thought quickly; then: “But if the spaceplane stays in orbit instead of re-entering, it will be in perfect position. We have one good shot only.”
“Exactly, sir,” Darzov said.
“I assume your men are preparing for an assault, General?” Zevitin asked seriously. “Because if the spaceplane successfully lands and deploys its Tin Man ground forces—which we must assume they will have on board—”
“Yes, sir, we must.”
“—we will have no time to pack up and get out of Dodge.”
“If I understand you correctly, sir—yes, we would undoubtedly lose the system to them,” Darzov acknowledged, not knowing what or where “Dodge” was but not bothering to reveal his own ignorance. “The game will be over.”
“I see,” Zevitin said. “But if it does not re-enter and stays in orbit, how long will you have to engage it?”
“We should acquire it with optronic observation sensors and laser rangefinders as soon as it crosses the horizon, at a range of about eighteen hundred kilometers or about four minutes away,” Darzov replied. “However, we need radar for precise tracking, and that is limited to a maximum range of five hundred kilometers. So we will have a maximum of two minutes at its current orbital altitude.”
“Two minutes! Is that enough time?”
“Barely,” Darzov said. “We will have radar tracking, but we still need to hit the target with an air data laser that will help compute focusing corrections to the main laser’s optics. That should take no longer than sixty seconds, assuming the radar stays locked on and the proper computations are made. That will give us a maximum of sixty seconds’ exposure time.”
“Will it be enough to disable it?”
“It should, at least partially, ba
sed on our previous engagements,” Darzov replied. “However, the optimum time to attack is when the target is directly overhead. As the target moves toward the horizon the atmosphere grows thicker and more complex, and the laser’s optics cannot compensate quickly enough. So—”
“The window is very, very small,” Zevitin said. “I understand, General. Well, we must do everything we can to be sure the spaceplane stays in that second orbit.”
There was a noticeable pause; then: “If I can help in any way, sir, please do not hesitate to call on me,” Darzov said, obviously completely unsure as to what he could do.
“I’ll keep you posted, General,” Zevitin said. “But for now, you are cleared to engage. Repeat, you are cleared to engage. Written authorization will be sent to your headquarters via secure e-mail. Advise if anything changes. Good luck.”
“Luck favors the bold, sir. We cannot lose if we take the fight to the enemy. Out.”
As soon as Zevitin hung up the phone, Hedrov asked, “What was that all about, Leonid? What is going on? Was it about Fanar?”
“We are about to create a crisis in space, Alexandra,” Zevitin responded. He turned to her, then ran the fingers of both hands through his hair as if wiping his thoughts completely clear so he could start afresh. “The Americans think they have unfettered access to space—we are going to throw some roadblocks up in their faces and see what they do. If I know Joseph Gardner, as I think I do, I think he will stomp on the brakes of McLanahan’s vaunted space force, and stomp on them hard. He would destroy one of his own just to keep someone else from having a victory he couldn’t claim for himself.”
Alexandra rose from the bed, kneeling before him. “Are you so sure of this man, Leonid?”
“I’m positive I’ve got this guy pegged.”
“And what of his generals?” she asked softly. “What of McLanahan?”
Zevitin nodded, silently admitting his own uncertainty about that very factor. “The American attack dog is on his leash, and he is apparently hurt…for now,” he said. “I don’t know how long I can count on that leash holding. We’ve got to prompt Gardner to put McLanahan out of commission…or be prepared to do it ourselves.” He picked up the phone. “Get me American president Gardner on the ‘hot line’ immediately.”
“It is a dangerous game you are playing, no?” Hedrov asked.
“Sure, Alexandra,” Zevitin said, running the fingers of his left hand through her hair as he waited. He felt her hands slip from his chest to below his waist, soon tugging at his underwear and then ministering to him with her hands and mouth, and although he heard the beeps and clicks of the satellite communications system quickly putting the “hot line” call through to Washington, he didn’t stop her. “But the stakes are that high. Russia can’t allow the Americans to claim the high ground. We need to stop them, and this is our best chance right now.”
Alexandra’s efforts soon increased both in gentleness and urgency, and Zevitin hoped that Gardner was preoccupied enough to allow him a few more minutes with her. Knowing the American President as he did, he knew he very well might be similarly distracted.
ABOARD AIR FORCE ONE, OVER THE SOUTHEAST UNITED STATES
THAT SAME TIME
Relaxing in his newly reupholstered seat at his desk in the executive office suite aboard Air Force One, on his way to his “southern White House” oceanside compound outside St. Petersburg, Florida, President Gardner was studying the very ample bosom and shapely fanny of the female Air Force staff sergeant who had just brought a pot of coffee and some wheat crackers into the office. He knew she knew he was checking her out, because every now and then she would cast a glance over to him and a tiny smile would appear. He had a newspaper on his lap but was angled over just enough to surreptitiously watch her. Yep, he thought, she was taking her sweet time setting out his stuff. Damn, what an ass…
Just as he was going to make his move and invite her to bring those tits and ass over to his big desk, the phone beeped. He was tempted to push the DO NOT DISTURB button, cursing himself that he hadn’t done so after he finished his last meeting with the staff and settled in, but something told him that he should take this call. He reluctantly picked up the receiver. “Yes?”
“President Zevitin of the Russian Federation calling for you on the ‘hot line,’ sir,” the communications officer responded. “He says it’s urgent.”
He held the MUTE button on the receiver, groaned aloud, then gave the stewardess a wink. “Come back in ten minutes with fresh stuff, okay, Staff Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied enthusiastically. She stood to attention, thrusting her chest out to him, before glancing at him mischievously, slowly turning on a heel, and departing.
He knew he had her pegged, he thought happily as he released the button. “Give me a minute, Signals,” he said, reaching for a cigarette.
“Yes, sir.”
Shit, Gardner cursed to himself, what in hell does Zevitin want now? He pressed the buzzer button to summon his chief of staff Walter Kordus. He was going to have to review the policy he’d established of immediately taking calls from Zevitin, he thought—he was starting to speak with him almost on a daily basis. Ninety seconds and a half a cigarette later: “Put him through, Signals,” he ordered, stubbing out the cigarette.
“Yes, Mr. President.” A moment later: “President Zevitin is on the line, secure, sir.”
“Thank you, Signals. Leonid, this is Joe Gardner. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Joe,” Zevitin replied in a not-so-pleasant tone. “But I’m concerned, man, real concerned. I thought we had a deal.”
Gardner reminded himself to stay on guard while talking to this guy—he sounded so much like an American that he could be talking to someone from the California congressional delegation or some Indiana labor union leader. “What are you talking about, Leonid?” The chief of staff entered the President’s office, picked up the dead extension so he could listen in, and turned on his computer to start taking notes and issuing orders if necessary.
“I thought we agreed that we would be notified whenever you’d fly manned spaceplane missions, especially into Iran,” Zevitin said. “This is really worrisome, Joe. I’m working hard to try to defuse the situation in the Middle East and keep the hard-liners in my government in check, but your activities with the Black Stallions only serve to—”
“Hold on, Leonid, hold on,” Gardner interrupted. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. What Black Stallion missions?”
“C’mon, Joe—do you think we can’t see it? Do you think it’s invisible? We picked it up as soon as it crossed the horizon over the Greenland Sea.”
“One of the spaceplanes is flying over Greenland?”
“It’s over southwestern China now, Joe, according to our space surveillance and tracking units,” Zevitin said. “C’mon, Joe, I know you can’t talk about ongoing classified military missions, but it’s not hard to guess what they’re going to do, even if it is the Black Stallion spaceplane we’re talking about. Orbital mechanics are as predictable as sunrise and sunset.”
“Leonid, I—”
“I know you can’t confirm or deny anything—you don’t have to, because we know what’s going to happen,” Zevitin went on. “It is obvious that in the next orbit, in about ninety minutes, it will be directly over Iran. We expect it to begin deorbit maneuvers in about forty-five minutes, which will put it directly over the Caspian Sea when its atmospheric engines and flight controls will become active. You’re obviously flying a mission into Iran, Joe. I thought we had an agreement: hands off Iran while we pursue a diplomatic solution to the military coup and the murder of the elected Iranian officials.”
“Hold on, Leonid. Stand by a sec.” Gardner hit the MUTE button. “Get Conrad in here,” he ordered, but Kordus had already hit the button to page the National Security Adviser. Gardner released the MUTE button. “Leonid, you’re right, I can’t talk about any ongoing operations. You just have to—”
�
��Joe, I’m not calling to discuss anything. I’m pointing out to you that we can clearly see one of your spaceplanes in orbit right now, and we had no idea you were going to launch one. After all we’ve discussed over the past several weeks, I can’t believe you’d do this to me. When they find out about this, my Cabinet and the Duma will think I’ve been duped, and they’ll demand I take action, or else I’ll lose all the support for our cooperative efforts and rapprochement I’ve taken months to cultivate. You cut the rug out from under me, Joe.”
“Leonid, I’m in the middle of an important meeting, and I need to finish up what I’m doing first,” the President lied, impatiently rising to his feet and resisting the urge to yell outside his door for Carlyle and Kordus to tell him what in hell was going on. “I assure you, we don’t have any actions under way against Russia anywhere, in any fashion—”
“‘Against Russia?’ That sounds like an alarming equivocation, Joe. What does that mean? Are you launching an operation against someone else?”
“Let me clear my desk and finish this briefing, Leonid, and I’ll fill you in. I’ll—”
“I thought we agreed, Joe: essential flights only until we had a treaty governing military travel in space,” Zevitin pressed. “As far as we can tell, the spaceplane isn’t going to dock with the space station, so this is not a logistical mission. I know things are bad in Iran and Iraq, but bad enough to stir up widespread fear by launching a Black Stallion? I think not. This is a complete disaster, Joe. I’m going to get butchered by the Duma and the generals—”
“Don’t panic, Leonid. There’s a rational and completely benign explanation. I’ll call you back as soon as I can and—”
“Joe, you had better be straight with me, or else I won’t be able to rein in the opposition leaders and some of the more powerful generals—they’ll all be clamoring for an explanation and a strong response in kind,” Zevitin said. “If I can’t give them a plausible answer, they’ll start searching for one themselves. You know I’m holding on by a shoestring out here. I need your cooperation or everything we’ve worked for will unravel.”
