Whittaker ran his hand through his thinning grey hair and waited for the last of the 100 members to take their seats.
‘The Senate will come to order, and I invite Father O’Reilly to offer the prayer.’
‘Let us pray,’ the balding, rotund and much-loved chaplain to the Senate began. ‘Oh God, we are gathered here to today to exercise something that we will, no matter what the difficulties, always cherish, and that is the will of the people – a democracy that is the envy of the rest of the world. May you grant each senator here today, the knowledge, wisdom and understanding to reach a just decision on the future leadership of this country. May the Holy Spirit lead us in the direction you would desire, and may this great country continue to reflect your greater honour and glory, Amen.’
The Senate once again descended into a heated babble of discussion and the Speaker banged his gavel.
‘The Senate will come to order!’ The babble subsided, but not completely and Whittaker banged his gavel again.
‘There is no more grave decision that Congress is required to make, bar committing the country to war,’ Whittaker continued, ‘than removing a sitting, democratically elected president from office on the grounds of incapacity – in this case alleged mental illness, under Section 4 of the 25th Amendment to the Constitution, but that is what we are required to consider today.’
‘Shame! Shame!’ The unusually disorderly calls from more than one Republican senator echoed off the chamber walls.
Whittaker banged his gavel again. ‘It is not going to help these most serious of deliberations if senators continually interrupt.’ Whittaker paused to emphasise his displeasure. ‘I am more than well aware that the vote you are being asked to take today is most unusual. While other sections of the 25th Amendment have been invoked on six different occasions, Section Four has only ever been considered twice, and both involved President Reagan. In 1981, when there was an attempt on President Reagan’s life, it might have been invoked, but Vice-President George H. W. Bush was on a plane, and by the time he returned to Washington, President Reagan was out of surgery.’
Whittaker paused and looked around the chamber. The Senators were now quiet and listening intently. Most, he knew, would have studied the 25th Amendment assiduously, but some would only have had a passing knowledge.
‘The second time Section Four was considered, not unlike the current case for President Travers, revolved around concerns over President Reagan’s mental state. Indeed, high-level aides were so concerned over Reagan’s perceived laziness and inattention that a memo was drafted to invoke the very section we’re considering today. Ultimately, after closely observing the president’s behaviour, Reagan’s Chief of Staff decided not to act, but things are a little different now.’
‘How?’ muttered the Republican senator for the largely Mormon state of Utah.
‘How, indeed!’ agreed the Republican senator of the equally conservative state of South Dakota.
Whittaker waited for quiet. ‘Things are different,’ he said, ‘because although President Reagan may have been depressed over the Iran–Contra scandal, the world was not on the brink of a nuclear catastrophe. In the wake of the devastation in New York, and further away in Sydney, Australia, President Travers has made it abundantly clear that he may employ nuclear weapons. Not since the Cuban missile crisis when President Kennedy faced off against Kruschev have we seen the doomsday clock move to one minute to midnight. I would urge you, therefore, to think very carefully about whether or not President Travers is fit to serve as the President of the United States.’
The Senate broke into uproar and it took Whittaker some time to restore order. These, even for the vastly experienced Whittaker, were uncharted waters. It would take 67 of the senators to remove the President.
‘Mr Acting President!’ Vice-President McCarthy looked up as his Chief of Staff burst into the room. Out of respect for the appointment rather than the occupant, McCarthy had not moved into the Oval Office but had remained in his own office on the opposite side of the West Wing. The tension between the two locations could be cut with the proverbial knife, but until such time as Congress confirmed him as president and he was sworn in, McCarthy had decreed he would exercise power from where he was.
‘Travers has ordered the National Security Council to convene immediately in the Situation Room.’
‘He has no authority to do that,’ McCarthy said calmly. ‘Sadly, I think this is just one more instance of him being delusional and unfit. The House has already voted to dismiss him and now we’re waiting on the Senate.’
McCarthy’s Chief of Staff nodded. ‘You know that, Mr Vice-President. I know that. But the Secretary of State, the Secretary of Defense, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the rest of the Council are all confused and they’re on their way down here now.’
McCarthy shook his head and followed his Chief of Staff down to the Situation Room. Seconds later, a furious Bedford Travers stormed out of the Oval Office and down the stairs. The Secretary of the Treasury and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs half rose out of their chairs as Travers entered the room but the rest remained defiantly seated.
‘To say you will all go down in history alongside the Bolsheviks and the Nazis as backstabbing treacherous power thieves is putting it mildly!’ Travers thundered, glaring at McCarthy. ‘You can rest assured that none of you will have a job when this crisis is over, but while New York smoulders in a heap of strontium-90, and you sit here twiddling your thumbs, Bedford Travers is taking action!’ the president said, belligerently jabbing this thumb into his own chest.
‘Mr President,’ McCarthy began, ‘the House has already voted to stay your authority, and the Senate is now considering their vote. Until that vote is taken, you have no authority to take any action at all.’
‘I have every authority!’ Travers thundered. ‘Having submitted myself to no less than three psychiatric examinations, I wrote to Congress advising them, that quite the contrary to your gutter-dwelling opinions, I am perfectly sane.’ Travers glared around the room, daring anyone else to speak.
‘Furthermore, I am ordering the Pankisi Gorge to be immediately struck with low-yield B61-guided nuclear bombs. I will address the American people to that effect, speaking from the Oval Office.’
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, like the other members of the Security Council, sat in stunned amazement.
The intense cold front whistling in from Siberia emanated from above Lake Baikal, the world’s largest and deepest freshwater lake, where temperatures hovered around minus 40 degrees. Rabinovich pulled her fur-lined jacket closer and headed for the briefing room as the blizzard enveloped the Russian Air Force Base at Mozdok, 120 kilometres to the north-west of Grozny, the Chechen capital. The single gold star on the epaulette of the newly promoted Rabinovich signified she had been elevated to the rank of Major General. President Petrov had personally handed Rabinovich her insignia before giving her new orders.
The 16 hand-picked Spetsnaz special forces soldiers, all of them veterans of the wars in Chechnya, Georgia and Ukraine, stood as General Rabinovich entered the room. If any of them were surprised at being assigned to a dangerous operation commanded by a female general, none showed it. Some, including the team leader in Rabinovich’s helo, Nikolai Bogrov, had been with her on the St Petersburg mission, and Rabinovich’s growing reputation as a tough, courageous commander was beginning to match her standing as a nuclear physicist.
‘Be seated,’ she ordered and she flicked up the latest satellite imagery of the castle and the targets. ‘We are after these two men,’ said Rabinovich. ‘Our intelligence services have tracked General Dragunov and the American physicist, Doctor Bartók, to this ruined castle, an ISIS stronghold in the Pankisi Gorge above the village of Jokolo. As you can see, the target is not without its challenges.’ She used her laser pointer to highlight the sheer stone sides of the Pankisi Castle nestled amongst the soaring Georgian mountains. Rabinovich and O’Connor shared similar views on their r
espective missions, but unlike O’Connor, without any knowledge of the secret entrance at the base of the southern wall, Rabinovich had chosen a different line of attack.
‘We have two options,’ she continued. ‘We can land some distance away, approach through the pine trees and attempt to gain entry at night. But the snow is thick on the ground and there’s no guarantee we could avoid the ISIS sentries once we start to scale the walls. So I’ve chosen a second option. As you can see from the satellite images, much of the castle is still intact. The main entrance on the high side is heavily guarded, but there is an internal courtyard on the western side,’ said Rabinovich. A six-tonne Russian Resurs-P2 surveillance satellite had been momentarily diverted from surveillance over Syria and the high-resolution cameras were so powerful that even from an altitude of 500 kilometres above the earth, the cobblestoned pavement was very clear. ‘We’ll be travelling in two Mi-35M attack helicopters, call signs Sablya One and Sablya Two.’ The attack helicopters, designated by NATO as Hind-E, had long been one of the mainstays of the Russian rotary wing inventory. The two VK-2500 engines, each developing 2200 horsepower, were specifically designed to operate at high altitudes. The turret below the pilots held twin-barrelled 23-millimetre cannon, while the stub wings supported air-to-ground missiles. Rabinovich was going in armed to the teeth. ‘Sablya Two,’ said General Rabinovich, looking at the crew, ‘you are to provide supporting fire onto the castle as we assault. Once we’re in the courtyard, Sablya One will provide suppressive fire for the second wave.’ The pilots and Rabinovich’s burly second-in-command, Major Sokolov, nodded in acknowledgement.
Rabinovich turned back to the wall map. ‘From our base here, we’ll be tracking south-east until we reach the Russian–Georgian border on the northern edge of the Tusheti National Park.’ Rabinovich flicked up a series of images of snow-covered massifs that soared more than 15 000 feet above the deep gorges and rivers that were home to leopards, bears, lynx, wolves and the golden eagle. ‘From there we head due south until we reach the castle. I’m planning to attack just before dawn, when they’ll least expect it.’ It was a tactic that had been in use for centuries – attack at first light when the enemy’s defenses and body rhythms were likely to be at their lowest ebb. ‘Flying time is one hour fifteen, so we leave at 0500. Once we’ve gained the castle, we’ll have to play it as it comes, but intelligence indicates there may be up to 30 ISIS operatives so we’ll be relying on surprise and superior firepower. Once we’ve dealt with ISIS, our focus will be on recovering General Dragunov and Doctor Bartók. If possible, President Petrov wants them out alive, but the most important item is Bartók’s thumb drive. Any questions?’
Rabinovich’s highly trained Spetsnaz team exchanged glances. When it came to sizing up near-impossible missions, the Russian special forces and SEAL Team Six had a lot in common.
‘Apart from the terrain and ISIS, are the Chechen rebels still a threat?’ asked Sokolov. The question was not without pertinence. The Chechen rebels had been fighting for Chechen independence since the early ’90s and to date, over 150 000 civilians and Russian soldiers had died in horrific attacks like the seizure of a school in Beslan where more than 300 hostages were killed, half of them children. The media had largely moved on, but a hard core of Chechen rebels were still active.
‘The area is remote, and the rebels are still mounting operations from there,’ Rabinovich replied, ‘so we keep a sharp lookout with our night-vision goggles. We leave nothing to chance.’
Achamaz Khasanov led his small team of Chechen rebels higher into the mountains near Georgia’s southern border with Russia. The war with the hated Russians might have been going on for over 20 years, but the swarthy Khasanov, whose entire family were amongst the casualties, had vowed he would never surrender, and the forbidding and remote Pankisi Gorge provided a safe haven from whence hit-and-run terrorist attacks could be launched.
‘Tomorrow, we will cross the border and prepare to launch another attack on Grozny,’ Khasanov began, pulling up a map of the Chechen capital. ‘The target is this large market on the southern outskirts of the city. We will place a total of three backpacks in the busiest parts of the market – here, here and here,’ said Khasanov, indicating the rear of stalls that sold everything from besoms – brooms made from twigs – to breads and vegetable salads, to leather goods. When it came to a hatred of the Russians, Khasanov’s rebels were every bit as fanatical as he, and they listened intently as their leader outlined how to best avoid the Russian soldiers patrolling the market. ‘President Petrov,’ said Khasanov, spitting on the ground with contempt, ‘is due to give his annual address in the Kremlin the day after tomorrow and the attack is timed to cause him maximum embarrassment. In the meantime, we’ll get some sleep. Basayev,’ he said, turning to his number two, ‘you take first watch.’ Even here, high in the soaring mountains above the Pankisi Gorge, Khasanov was on high alert.
The instruments cast an eerie green light as Rabinovich scanned them from her position in the cockpit door. They were touching on 140 knots as they sped south toward the mountainous Georgian border. Once they crossed the border, Rabinovich knew that the distance to Jokolo and the Alazani River was 40 kilometres. She calculated they were now less than 15 minutes from the target and she glanced back into the cabin. The eight superbly trained Spetsnaz special forces soldiers were all sitting quietly, their faces hidden behind black balaclavas that were worn beneath their camouflaged helmets for protection against the cold. Most were equipped with AK-74s – updated versions of the ubiquitous AK-47s used by their predecessors. Some preferred the AKS-74U shortbarrelled carbine and one carried the heavier Pecheneg machine gun. On the port side of the aircraft, despite showing no navigation lights, Rabinovich could still make out Sokolov’s aircraft flying in close formation and silhouetted against the cold night sky.
Basayev shook Khasanov, and the squad commander was instantly alert.
‘What is it?’
‘Choppers . . . at least two,’ said Basayev. The sound was faint, but it carried a long way in the crisp, clear night air. Khasanov considered his options. Like many of the Chechen rebel groups, Khasanov had acquired an IGLA – the needle – a powerful shoulder-fired ground-to air missile. In 2002, Chechen rebels brought down a Russian Mi-26 helicopter in a minefield, killing 127 Russian soldiers. That attack had resulted in the greatest number of casualties in the history of helicopter aviation.
Khasanov, his mind racing, moved forward with Basayev to where another rebel, the tall, lanky Maskhadov, was already preparing the missile for a launch.
‘Do we bring one down?’ urged Basayev, his voice seething with malice.
Khasanov held his hand up for silence. The blat, blat, blat was louder now, but bringing down a Russian helicopter, assuming they were Russian, would undoubtedly result in a savage retaliation and it might put the operation in the Grozny markets at risk. On the other hand, an opportunity like this presented itself only rarely.
‘We fire,’ said Khasanov, wishing he had more than one missile, ‘then we take cover in that cave over there. The Russians will have infrared and night vision.’
Basayev loaded the long, thin missile into Maskhadov’s launcher and started the portable power supply. The target acquisition unit hummed into life and Maskhadov heaved the launcher onto his shoulder. He focused through the night sight and tracked the approaching targets.
‘There are two,’ he muttered determinedly. ‘I’m targeting the one on the right.’ The missile’s seeker system had locked on to the infrared signature of Sokolov’s aircraft. Maskhadov squeezed the trigger on the gripstock assembly and the missile left the tube in an explosion of fire and smoke. Designed to avoid flares and jamming countermeasures, the onboard computer algorithms automatically calculated the lead and elevation changes and the missile powered unerringly toward its target, travelling at over 2000 kilometres an hour.
‘Incoming!’ Sokolov’s pilots immediately released flares and chaff as they attempted to jam the
approaching missile.
Rabinovich winced as Sokolov’s attack helicopter exploded in a ball of fire alongside them. Flaming debris arced surreally toward the snow-covered mountains below. She braced herself as her pilot banked sharply and dived toward the missile launch location. The attack helicopter shuddered as the gunner fired a salvo of 80-millimetre air-to-ground rockets and a sustained burst of heavy 23-millimetre cannon.
‘Save your ammunition,’ she ordered over the internal communications. ‘The castle is more important.’
‘But we have to search for survivors,’ her pilot, Senior Lieutenant Abramovich, protested, banking back toward the flaming wreckage of the downed chopper.
‘Nyet! No! We continue with the mission,’ barked Rabinovich, a steeliness in her tone.
‘I am the captain of this aircraft!’ Abramovich shot back.
‘And I am the commander of this mission!’ Rabinovich drew her pistol and pointed it close to Abramovich’s face. ‘This mission has been ordered by President Petrov. So what’s it going to be? The president takes a dim view of those who disobey his orders, and you will find a life sentence at Krasnoyarsk more than a little uncomfortable,’ said Rabinovich, waving her pistol menacingly.
Temperatures in the notorious Siberian prison sank below zero during the long, cold winters, and more than one inmate had failed to come out alive. White-faced, Abramovich resumed course for Jokolo.
Rabinovich reached for her handset and spoke rapidly, her encrypted message acted on immediately by the Kremlin’s command centre in Moscow. She knew she would have to assault the castle with her remaining special forces troops, but in the half-light of the dawn on an icy apron at the Mozdok Air Base, ground crew were already working frantically to get a backup attack helicopter airborne.
The Russian Affair Page 35
