by Jeff Edwards
Jenny had rewarded the campaign manager with a mischievous little smile. “When he played the role of Jethro Bodine, Max Baer Jr. was six feet-four inches of strapping young stud. And—from what I’ve heard—the man is hung like a plow horse. So I guess I’ll tell the reporters that it’s an utterly natural comparison to make.”
She’d turned up the wattage on her wicked little smile. “Let’s see them run that on the front page of the papers.”
Frank nearly grinned at the memory. He knew perfectly well that Jenny would have made good on her threat if the Jethro question had ever come up at a press conference. She would have pointed her blue eyes directly into the camera lenses, and happily informed the assembled reporters and a few million television viewers that her husband was hung like a plow horse.
It wasn’t true, of course. But after sixteen years of marriage and two children, Jenny still seemed to be under the happy delusion that it was true. Sometimes she still called him Jethro in private moments, unless she had a couple of vodka martinis in her, in which case she might substitute the words plow horse.
Frank covered his mouth and faked a cough to hide the dopey smile that threatened to seize control of his face. He used the half second of respite to compose himself. He wasn’t twenty-five years old any more, or even forty-five. It was time to act his age and get his mind back on the job. It was time to be the President of the United States.
He covered the last few steps to his chair at the head of the long mahogany table, and turned to face the four members of his national security short staff. Per the dictates of protocol, everyone had come to their feet as their president had entered the room. He sat down, and motioned for the others to take their seats.
At the left side of the table sat White House Chief of Staff Veronica Doyle, and National Security Advisor Gregory Brenthoven. To the right sat the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Army General Horace Gilmore, and the newly-appointed Secretary of Homeland Security, Becka Solomon—brought in after a third heart attack had forced her predecessor to retire from public service.
Most of the chairs at the long table were vacant. The small gathering formed the core group of regular attendees of the President’s Daily Security Brief: the so-called ‘short’ staff.
For a full-fledged meeting of the National Security Council, the vice president would have also been present, along with the secretaries of State, Defense, and Treasury. In that case, the Director of Central Intelligence would have probably conducted the briefing himself, in his role as statutory intelligence advisor to the NSC. But this was a routine daily briefing, and the point man was a solemn-faced young analyst from CIA’s Directorate of Intelligence.
The president flipped open the blue-jacketed briefing folder and looked up at the analyst. The man was in his mid-twenties, probably not long out of college. Were they really getting younger? More than likely not, but it certainly seemed that way.
The analyst nodded, “Good evening, Mr. President.” He pointed a small remote toward the oversized flat screen plasma television at the far end of the table. The screen flared to life, showing the Presidential Seal against a blue background. The analyst pressed a button and the famous emblem vanished, replaced by a passport-style photo of a stocky middle aged man with heavy Slavic cheekbones and graying whiskers.
The analyst nodded toward the screen. “At approximately three AM local time on Friday the twenty-second of February, this man—a Russian citizen named Oleg Yurievich Grigoriev—approached the front gate of the U.S. Embassy in the Republic of the Philippines and asked for asylum. The Marine guards called for the embassy’s emergency medical team, because it was obvious that Grigoriev had been shot several times.”
“That’s not standard procedure, Mr. President,” the national security advisor said. “Grigoriev is not a U.S. citizen or a member of the embassy staff. By the book, the guards should have contacted Manila emergency services and let the locals handle things. But the man was in shock, and losing blood fast. The guards figured he would bleed to death before the locals could get a medical team to the scene.”
Veronica Doyle jotted a note on the cover page of her briefing folder. “We should give State a heads-up on this,” she said. “We’re going to take some heat from the government of the Philippines for not following diplomatic procedure. They may want you to make a formal apology, Mr. President.”
“I don’t mind taking a punch in the nose over this,” The president said. “Human life outweighs political protocol. Period. End of sentence. If the Republic of the Philippines wants to make a ruckus over this, we’ll turn it back on them. I’ll do a press conference, and publicly ask President Layumas if she thinks our embassy guards should stand around and watch gunshot victims bleed to death in order to satisfy the niceties of diplomatic procedure.”
“I … uh … I don’t think there’s going to be a diplomatic issue, Mr. President,” the analyst said. “I don’t believe the locals even know that Mr. Grigoriev is in our custody. And the Operations Directorate doesn’t think we should tell them, sir.”
“Hold it,” The president said. “This hasn’t been reported to the Philippine locals?”
The analyst swallowed visibly. “Uh … no, Mr. President.”
Becka Solomon, the Secretary of Homeland Security, closed her briefing folder with a thump. “Why the hell not?”
“I’d like to take a crack at that question,” Brenthoven said. He pulled a small leather-bound notebook from the pocket of his jacket, flipped it open, and read for a few seconds. His eyes were still on the notebook when he resumed speaking. “The CIA has been interested in Mr. Grigoriev for several years, now. He was a soldier in the Red Army before the collapse of the Soviet Union, and a tank commander with the Soviet Iron Saber Brigade during the last eighteen months of the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. His highest rank was Stárshiy Serdzhánt, or Senior Sergeant—roughly equivalent to Sergeant First Class in the U.S. Army. You’ll find a short dossier on the man in your briefing packages.”
Everyone except for the DI analyst and Brenthoven stopped to thumb through the blue folders on the table in front of them.
The national security advisor continued. “Mr. President, the CIA has fairly conclusive evidence that Grigoriev is a covert international operative.”
Doyle’s eyebrows narrowed. “You mean a spy?”
“More of a bag man,” Brenthoven said. “A courier, who hand carries sensitive documents and information back and forth between his sponsor nation and foreign countries they want to communicate with.”
“Isn’t that kind of thing usually handled by diplomats?” the president asked. “Wasn’t that the whole point of the 1961 Vienna Convention on Diplomatic Relations? Governments send sensitive documents by diplomatic courier, because it’s illegal to detain a diplomatic pouch, or search its contents.”
“You’re quite correct, Mr. President,” the analyst said. “But there are cases in which a particular government might not want even its diplomatic corps to know what it’s up to. Circumstances that call for a higher-than-normal level of secrecy, or circumstances where a country’s leaders want to maintain maximum deniability.”
The secretary of homeland security looked at the analyst. “So that’s this man’s job? To bypass the Russian government’s legitimate diplomatic channels of communication?”
The analyst nodded. “Yes, Madam Secretary. That’s Langley’s assessment. Except we don’t think Grigoriev is working for the Russian government.”
General Gilmore stared over the tops of his black-framed glasses at the analyst. “If it’s not his own government, then who does our Russian friend work for?”
The general’s voice was quiet and even-toned. Like his round pleasantly-featured face, his voice seemed out of place in a professional warrior. He looked and sounded more like a librarian than a fighting man. But, appearances aside, he was a combat Soldier, from his boot laces to his regulation Army hair cut. The rack of ribbons above the left pocket of his
uniform jacket included the Bronze Star medal, with the affixed “V” insignia for valor under enemy fire.
The analyst shifted his gaze to the general. “The … uh … The Operations Directorate thinks that Mr. Grigoriev works for Sergiei Mikhailovich Zhukov, the governor of the Kamchatka kray, on the Kamchatka peninsula in southeastern Russia.” The analyst paused for a second to let this strange pronouncement sink in. Then he continued. “Analysis of Grigoriev’s travel and spending patterns over the past year suggests strongly that he has been acting as the go-between for confidential negotiations between Governor Zhukov and certain elements of the government and military of the People’s Republic of China.”
The last word caught the president’s attention. “China? What does the Chinese government want with the governor of an obscure Russian province?”
“We don’t know for certain,” Brenthoven said. “We have very little hard evidence, but what we do have is frankly scaring the hell out of us, Mr. President.”
The president nodded. “Alright, Greg. Enough pussyfooting around. You’ve set us up for the bad news. Now, go ahead and deliver the knockout punch.”
Brenthoven closed his notebook and looked directly into the president’s eyes. “Sir, due to the extent of his injuries, Mr. Grigoriev has only been conscious for short periods of time since he came into our custody. It may be several days before we can interview him properly. However, during his brief periods of lucidity, he’s managed to let us know that he wants to negotiate a trade. He’ll tell us what he knows in exchange for political asylum.”
The president cocked an eyebrow. “If he crawled into our embassy with a bunch of bullet holes in him, there’s a good chance that this man qualifies for asylum whether he knows anything useful or not. What do we think he can tell us?”
“We’re not sure yet, sir,” the analyst said. “But he’s already revealed one piece of information that we didn’t have before.”
“And what would that be?” the general asked.
The analyst took a breath. “Most of the top positions in the government of Kamchatka are held by former officials of the Soviet communist regime. Sergiei Zhukov is no exception. In the eighties, he was a mid-level apparatchik in the communist party. That’s pretty much common knowledge in the intelligence community. But we didn’t know that Zhukov used to be senior security officer for KB-11.”
Veronica Doyle frowned. “KB-11 … Where do I know that from?”
“KB-11 was the old Soviet designation for Design Bureau Number 11,” General Gilmore said quietly. “It was the main laboratory at a Soviet military research city called Arzamas-16. After the collapse of the USSR, the facility was renamed the Russian Federal Nuclear Center. Back in the bad old days, that’s where the Cold War got started. Design Bureau Number 11 designed and assembled the nuclear weapons for the Soviet military arsenals. That’s where the Russians first built the atomic bomb.”
The president looked at the analyst. “You’ve followed up on this?”
The analyst nodded. “Yes, sir. We don’t have much to go on yet, but the few pieces we know about all appear to confirm Grigoriev’s story. The Ops Directorate has verified that Sergiei Zhukov was the senior security officer at Design Bureau Number 11.”
“You still haven’t told us how this all connects to China,” The president said.
Brenthoven looked at the president. “Sir, Mr. Grigoriev claims to have been the middle man for a deal between Zhukov and the Chinese Politburo. Russian nuclear technology in exchange for some kind of Chinese military intervention.”
Doyle brushed a speck of lint from the lapel of her gray silk business suit. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “China already has the bomb. They don’t need to get it from Russia, and certainly not from a Podunk province like Kamchatka.”
“It’s not that simple,” the national security advisor said. “China does have the bomb. But not the kind of bomb they want. Their nuclear weapons are all single warhead configurations; each missile carries one nuclear warhead. But they’ve been trying since the eighties to develop MIRV technology, or multiple independently-targeted reentry vehicles. One missile can carry multiple nuclear warheads, and strike several different targets at the same time. The People’s Republic of China has poured a lot of time and money into MIRV research, but they haven’t been able to make it work. Remember the big stink at the Los Alamos National Laboratory in the late nineties? One of our scientists was caught trying to pass nuclear secrets to China. That’s what the Chinese were after. MIRVs.”
General Gilmore smiled ruefully. “In the minds of a lot of the minor nuclear powers, MIRV technology has become the admission ticket to the grown up table. The United States has MIRVs. Russia, Great Britain, and France have them. But Israel doesn’t. India, Pakistan, and North Korea don’t. And neither does China.”
“Okay, the Russians have this MIRV technology, and the Chinese want it,” Doyle said. “Does it necessarily follow that the governor of Kamchatka can deliver it to them?”
“We don’t know yet, ma’am,” the analyst said. “But it’s possible. He did work in close proximity to the technology at Arzamas-16. And he’s got a fairly significant slice of the Russian Navy’s nuclear arsenal right in his own back yard.”
The analyst clicked his remote, and the photo of Oleg Grigoriev was replaced by a map of the Russian Federation. Near the right edge of the map, the Kamchatka peninsula dangled from the southeastern edge of Siberia. The shape of Kamchatka was vaguely like that of Florida, narrow at the northern edge where it connected to the mainland, bulging broadly in the middle, and then tapering to a dagger point at the southern end.
The analyst pressed another button and his remote became a laser pointer. He directed the beam toward the video screen. The red dot of the laser pointer flitted across the map of Kamchatka, and came to rest on a black dot labeled Petropavlosk-Kamchatkskiy.
“This is Petropavlosk, the capital city of Kamchatka.” Another click of the remote brought up a pop-up window to the left of the Kamchatka peninsula. The new window contained a grainy black and white photo of a naval base. A trio of submarines were visible, each moored to a battered concrete pier. “Petropavlosk also happens to be the home port for the Russian Pacific Fleet’s nuclear missile submarines. Based on the latest threat assessments, there are three Delta III class nuclear ballistic missile submarines based in Kamchatka. Each of the Delta III submarines carries sixteen Russian R-29R ballistic missiles, better known to NATO countries as the SS-N-18 Stingray. And each of these missiles is armed with three nuclear weapons, in a MIRV configuration. That works out to 48 nuclear warheads per submarine.”
He paused for a second to let his words sink in; then he looked at the White House chief of staff. “To answer your question more clearly, ma’am, we think there’s a very good chance that Sergiei Zhukov can deliver MIRV technology to China, if that is indeed his intention.”
Veronica Doyle frowned. “Those submarines aren’t under Zhukov’s control, are they? I mean, the Russian military isn’t going to hand command authority for strategic nuclear weapons over to a local politician, right?”
“No,” said Brenthoven. “Ultimate control of those subs rests in Moscow, with the Russian Ministry of Defense. Local command authority flows through the senior naval officer in Petropavlosk, who takes his orders from Moscow. Provided the Russian command structure remains intact, Zhukov shouldn’t be able to touch those submarines.”
“Do we have any reason to expect a disruption of the Russian command structure?” the president asked.
Brenthoven rubbed his chin. “We don’t have any specific intelligence about an external threat, Mr. President, if that’s what you mean. But the Russian Navy is having a rough time right now. They’re drastically under-funded. Their sailors are underpaid to begin with, sir. And it’s not at all unusual for them to go months without being paid.”
“This has been going on for a while, sir,” General Gilmore said. “It’s a problem in
all branches of the Russian military, but it’s especially bad in their Navy. The crime rate among their officers is spiraling out of control, and it’s even worse among their enlisted sailors. Extortion, theft, robbery, you name it. Sailors are stealing parts and supplies from their own ships and submarines, and selling them to feed their families.”
The president looked at his national security advisor. “So the deteriorating state of the Russian military could make it vulnerable to destabilization?”
Brenthoven nodded. “That’s a possibility, sir.”
“It’s a very real possibility,” General Gilmore said. “Not so much in places like Moscow, or Vladivostok. The Russians pour a lot more effort and resources into maintaining their military units stationed in high-visibility areas. But some of the obscure bases in Siberia, the Urals, and Kamchatka get little or nothing these days. When people get hungry enough, and desperate enough, the system starts to break down.”
“This is the twenty-first century,” said the White House chief of staff. “Russia may not be the great Soviet Empire any more, but it’s still a major industrial nation. Conditions can’t possibly be as bad as all that.”
“Yes they can,” the secretary of homeland security said quietly. “Look at how quickly and utterly our own infrastructures broke down when Hurricane Katrina wiped out New Orleans. Evacuation systems failed; communications failed; emergency relief efforts were overwhelmed; police officers deserted their posts. Hell, in some parishes, the police were looting and shooting right alongside the nut jobs and the criminals.”
She shook her head. “We tell ourselves that we’re beyond such things, but we’re not. The fabric of civilization is much thinner and more fragile than we’d like to believe. And, if the system can break down in the most powerful and prosperous nation on the planet, it can certainly happen to the Russians.”
