by Dave Edlund
“Relax, Paul. Of course I didn’t agree with Pushkin’s statement, I’m simply telling you his position, and by extension the position of the Russian Federation. We all know who holds the keys to power.”
The President continued, “Concerning the limited conflict in and around Minsk, President Pushkin strongly denies any direct offensive involvement from his government. He steadfastly maintains that Russian troops and weapons have not been committed to the fight.”
“Those were Russian fighters we shot down, and a column of Russian tanks we destroyed inside Belarus traveling directly for the Minsk airport.” This observation came from General Hendrickson.
“No doubt, General.” President Taylor’s gaze moved around the table again.
“For the time being, President Pushkin has agreed to keep Russian aircraft out of Belarusian airspace.”
“I think we bloodied their nose pretty good,” said Secretary of Defense Hale, a smirk on his face.
The President allowed the moment of levity, and almost laughed himself. “Yes, I think we did.”
“Sir,” Bryan interrupted. “You don’t really believe him, do you?”
Taylor’s countenance became serious once again. “Do you take me for a fool, Paul? No, we will keep our guard up.”
“Of course, sir,” replied Paul Bryan.
The President dropped his pen on the table and leaned back in the high-back, plush leather chair, eyes focused on his Secretary of State. “Close to 3,000 civilians died in Tbilisi from hemorrhagic smallpox. Although Pushkin denies any involvement, the circumstantial evidence is convincing. I shudder to think how many innocent men, women, and children might have died a horrible death in Minsk had we not been successful. So tell me, Paul, what would you have me do?”
It was a rare moment when Paul Bryan did not have a thoughtful response. So he wisely opted to remain silent. Unable to hold the President’s gaze, he lowered his eyes to his tablet.
President Taylor leaned forward and placed both hands on the table. His lips were pursed, and his tired eyes reflected the strain of the past 24 hours. Several of the cabinet members squirmed in their chairs under the penetrating stare of their boss. But not the Joint Chiefs. They were accustomed to facing difficult scenarios and having to make decisions when all of the choices—every last one—was less than optimal. Decisions that would cost lives just as surely as they saved lives.
“Each and every one of you is sitting at this table because you are smart and ambitious. Let’s face it; you don’t take this job for the pay or the flexible hours.”
That brought a round of short-lived laughter. President Taylor was a remarkable politician, and a natural leader. Having passed the halfway point of his first term, he was still polling very strong—to be expected from members of his own party, but also showing good numbers from the Republican opposition. Political pundits had all but conceded the Democratic nomination to Taylor, and he was widely believed to be a shoe-in for a second term.
Joshua Taylor had defied the odds. Born and raised in California to blue-collar parents, he was a successful tech entrepreneur and sold his first company for close to half a billion dollars before age 30. Ready to take on a new challenge, Taylor stepped into the political arena, first winning a Congressional election, then moving into the Senate. He quickly earned a reputation for his hard work and middle-of-the-road sensibility. Although extremists on both sides of the aisle took every opportunity to malign Taylor’s character, his supporters spoke louder, and the American electorate, craving common-sense politicians who put the interest of the country above their own personal ambitions, created a tsunami of support that landed Taylor in the White House with an easy victory.
“Does anyone really think this is about the truth?” Taylor held his position and waited in silence until it was obviously uncomfortable.
“Make no mistake. My opponent—our opponent—is a masterful politician.” Again he paused.
“If you haven’t already figured it out, we have been played. It’s time we got smarter, and fast.”
Paul Bryan had quickly regained his composure. He lived for the challenge, and the United States had never had a more talented, brilliant, and capable Secretary of State. “With the physical and circumstantial evidence, I can win over support from our European allies. Japan, too. China will be a problem, but, then again, when are they not.”
President Taylor smiled. “If I remember correctly, you handled the Chinese Ambassador pretty well in that Alaskan incident involving the Russian submarine. Perhaps the same approach would work again?”
“Yes, sir. It might. I can play off the fears China has of Russian expansionism. The connection to Kazakhstan is important. I can spin this to Russia coveting Kazakhstan and, by extension, the rest of Asia. It shouldn’t be hard to tickle China’s paranoia.”
“Thank you, Paul. Please see to it.”
Paul nodded acknowledgement.
“Now, this weaponized smallpox must be eliminated. It presents a very real danger to humanity. Such weapons are not easily controlled, and it is unconscionable to imagine risking further releases of this vile disease.”
The President focused on Secretary Hale, his expression one of supreme confidence. In contrast, Paul Bryan’s countenance was dour. His face was long, eyelids drooping. Taylor considered this for a moment—his warrior was confident and his statesman was concerned, even worried. The yin and yang; complimentary and yet opposing forces, as it should be.
“I am led to believe we know where these aerosol dispersion machines have been assembled. Is that correct?”
Secretary of Defense Howard Hale was waiting for this moment. “Yes, sir. There is no doubt.”
Epilogue
Sary-Shagan, Kazakhstan
ULAN BAYZHANOV WAS BUSY pinning wires into a connector. He was working alone, as was frequently the case. He often wondered why the research facility was so large. With few scientists and staff, it didn’t make sense to Ulan. Even considering the special laboratories, like the biology lab where he thought they grew certain cultures—maybe to test experimental antibiotics—or the medical research lab where he was told they could perform DNA sequencing for tests on animals, the facility was so large that he seldom had to share his electrical assembly and test lab with any other technicians.
It was lonely at times, but Ulan didn’t mind the solitude so much. He had a good job, one that was interesting and paid well. Well enough, in fact, that he would be able to support a family when that time came, as he knew it would.
He had met a young woman a few months earlier. She cleaned many of the rooms including the electrical lab Ulan worked in. He would see her every day, late in the afternoon. After a while, Ulan introduced himself. At first, she was too shy to engage in conversation, but he was persistent, and eventually they became friends.
The squeaky wheels on the mop bucket drew Ulan’s attention. He finished with the final pin in the connector and looked up. She was pushing and pulling the mop, cleaning the concrete floor even though it didn’t look dirty at all, just as she did yesterday and would do again tomorrow.
Ulan smiled. “Hello, Aida,” he said.
She smiled back, her brown eyes shimmering.
Ulan set down the wire harness on his workbench and walked to Aida. “Seeing you is always the best part of my day,” he said, drawing a blush.
Aida worked at night, and Ulan worked the day, leaving precious little time for the two to visit outside of the research facility.
“I’ve been thinking,” Ulan continued.
Aida looked up at him, her face radiant and expectant. She, too, had been smitten with Ulan, but she could never be so forward as to say that to him.
“My supervisor said I can have Saturday off, so I don’t have to work that day. Of course, I won’t get paid either, but I have saved some money.”
Her heart was beating faster and her thin lips turned up into a smile. “Yes, and what does this have to do with me?”
Ulan reached out and gently wrapped his hand around hers, still holding the mop handle.
“I would like to meet your father.”
She looked at him, her eyes wide.
“Yes,” he said more forcefully, “I would like to speak with your father. I have some serious business to discuss with him.”
“Oh. And what business would you, Ulan, have with my father?” She played along, enjoying the game as much as Ulan did.
“Well, I intend to ask for your hand in marriage.”
She forced her face into a frown. “Perhaps I do not wish to wed? Perhaps I do not wish to be married to you?”
Ulan released her hand and blushed, stung by the unexpected rebuff. “I have a good job and I make enough money for us. You would not have to work.”
“Oh, I am only joking Ulan.”
“So there is no other man?”
She smiled warmly. “No, my silly Ulan. There is no one else.”
He looked deeply into her eyes and smiled. He felt a joy and happiness he had never experienced. Suddenly, all the hardships of his youth seemed distant memories, trivial footnotes to his history.
In all his life, Ulan had never felt this way about another person. Of course he loved his parents, but that was expected. It was a sense of duty and devotion that he took seriously, but he did not choose his mother and father. No, that was the result of fate; of events he had no influence over.
Aida was different. He had chosen her, and she him. Was this love? It must be, for all Ulan thought about when he was not preoccupied with his work was Aida. He wanted to raise a family with her, to grow old by her side.
“I am so happy Aida. Soon I will meet your father. And I will ask for your hand, and he will say yes.”
Aida beamed with joy and Ulan didn’t want to look away from her. Even when the room was suddenly lit by a thousand suns, he couldn’t avert his eyes from hers.
Ulan and Aida shared only one more heartbeat together before their bodies were incinerated, leaving only their ashes to mingle in the savagely swirling torrents of air.
s
Following a nerve-wracking two weeks, global tensions had finally reduced to a normal level. For three days following the nuclear attack on the Russian research facilities at Sary-Shagan, the United States, Europe, and Russia were on high alert, each side expecting an attack from the other at any moment. Pundits predicted a retaliatory nuclear attack from Vladimir Pushkin’s government, but thanks to behind the scenes diplomacy and an unyielding U.S. military presence in Eastern Europe, Pushkin never authorized the strike.
Apparently, the explanation that the attack did not occur on Russian soil had proven sufficient to quell right-wing rhetoric, exactly as President Taylor expected. To carry out such a provocative attack on Russian soil would have been inexcusable, and a retaliation in like kind would have been inevitable. But once it was clear that the dispersion machines were assembled in Kazakhstan, and given the possibility that more components, probably even more smallpox virus agent, were still inventoried there, President Taylor authorized the strike.
With the American military already mobilized in Europe, the attack was swift, coming only eighteen hours following the Cabinet debate and President Taylor’s decision. A single B-1 Lancer commanded by Major Lorraine Doyle, escorted by no less than eight Raptor fighters, left Germany and flew south, banking east over the Mediterranean. From there, the flight crossed Turkey and overflew Armenia and Azerbaijan.
Over the Caspian Sea, the specially modified Bone fired a single AGM-129A advanced cruise missile armed with a 150 kiloton nuclear warhead. The terrain-hugging stealth cruise missile flew a preprogramed flight path at 500 miles per hour to its target, just outside the city of Sary-Shagan.
Detonation of the nuclear warhead occurred at optimum altitude above ground. The extraordinarily high temperatures of the nuclear blast incinerated everything within a five-mile radius. Satellite imagery following the attack revealed total destruction of everything above ground at the targeted research site.
Since there was no way to keep an aboveground nuclear explosion secret, the Taylor administration authorized a special, top secret warhead—one specifically designed to emulate a typical 100 kiloton Russian weapon.
President Pushkin’s objections were predictable. But with the body of evidence detailing the construction of the virus aerosol machines, plus the direct involvement of General Gorev on the roof of the KGB building, Secretary Bryan was winning support from other nations and undermining Pushkin’s popular support.
Presidents Taylor and Pushkin agreed to withdraw military forces from Belarus, and talks between the Russian Federation and the United States regarding the independence of Belarus and the Baltic States were scheduled. President Taylor had made clear his desire that the national borders of Europe—all of Europe—be respected as currently known, and not subject to change by either diplomatic or military measures.
When the national news media picked up the nuclear explosion over Kazakhstan, Peter knew exactly what had transpired, although the cover story that it was a Russian nuclear weapon accidentally detonated by an unknown terrorist group was selling well to the general public.
Peter was still in Germany, at Ramstein Air Base where he had received a smallpox vaccination within hours of exposure in Minsk. He was being held for observation and debriefing when the news broke.
“What did I do?” he asked his friend, Commander Jim Nicolaou. The two men were sitting on a bench and although there was some foot traffic, no one stopped to loiter within earshot.
“Exactly what you were asked to do, what you were expected to do. We gathered evidence regarding the origin of the smallpox aerosol machines.”
Peter stared incredulously at his friend.
“What did you expect?” Jim didn’t try to hide his exasperation.
“Not this! We nuked that facility. My God, what if we were wrong? What if I was wrong?”
“You weren’t wrong. Let it go.”
“Let it go? I’m responsible for a nuclear bomb being dropped on Sary-Shagan! You know how many atomic bombs have been used in war?” It wasn’t a question and Peter didn’t wait for Jim to respond. “Three! Two used against Japan and now this bombing of a small town in Kazakhstan.”
Jim waited patiently until Peter finished. When he did, Jim’s words were firm.
“You flatter yourself. You didn’t authorize the nuclear attack on that research site. That order could come from only one man: President Taylor.”
“Yeah. Based on my recommendation.”
“Really? As I recall, you analyzed various components from the first aerosol machine. Together, we communicated that data to Colonel Pierson and the President. At what point did you suggest a nuclear cruise missile be launched on the site?”
Peter stared back in silence.
“The evidence you gathered from the electron microscope was only part of the puzzle. There was also the explosive composition and anti-clumping agent.” Peter knew this chemical evidence came from the Air Force labs here at Ramstein Air Base. “Plus, we had the written orders you lifted from General Gorev’s desk, indicating a direct connection to Russian Special Forces. And don’t forget the papers and other information taken from prisoners. It was all pieced together and, when taken in total, President Taylor made his decision.”
“Had I known what was at stake, I would have insisted on more data.”
“You know that’s not true! Science is about unbiased interpretation of data collected from reproducible experimentation. That’s exactly what you did; what Lacey and her team did. To suggest you would shade your data if you knew that it might lead to decisions you don’t agree with is to betray your belief in, your commitment to, the scientific process. The data and evidence do the speaking—you don’t have to.”
“And look what happened,” Peter said.
“What happened? I’ll tell you what happened. A factory responsible for making biological weapons of terror, aimed specific
ally at civilian populations, for the goal of deceiving world opinion to support Russian expansionist aggression, was destroyed. Not only was the site destroyed, but the method of destruction ensured complete incineration of any virus stockpiles, rather than running the risk that those stockpiles would be dispersed and cause further outbreaks.”
Peter sighed deeply. “You make it sound logical.”
Jim shrugged. “It is logical. That site had to be removed in order to eliminate the risk. Conventional weapons would have knocked down the buildings, and in the process the smallpox virus, and anything else they might have had, would have been scattered to the winds. That was unacceptable.”
“And a nuclear bomb was?”
“The lesser of two evils. The location is very remote. The research site was several miles away from the main city—to enhance security, you know. And the prevailing winds blow from Sary-Shagan to the research compound, so risk of fallout on the small civilian population is minimal.”
“You make it sound easy, even sensible.”
Jim shook his head. “I never said it was easy. Ever wonder why our Presidents go into office looking young and vital, and within a handful of years, their hair is gray, and they usually suffer heart and other health troubles? I can tell you what you already know: It’s not easy making the decision to take another’s life.”
Peter looked at Jim with a neutral expression.
“But as you also know,” Jim continued, “sometimes it is necessary.”
Peter decided to change the subject. “How is the population of Minsk being treated? Do they even know of the smallpox exposure?”
“Thanks to your fast thinking and creative ingenuity, it appears very little virus actually made it away from the fire you set above the machine. The Army has been collecting samples from many locations around the KGB building, but only a few, three or four I think, have tested positive. However, as a general precaution, a smallpox vaccination program was initiated. A thousand cases of vaccine have started to arrive and the Belarusian government is administering the program with assistance from Army and Air Force doctors and nurses. It should be completed within a couple days, and if any cases of smallpox are reported, the local hospitals are prepared to quarantine the patients and aggressively treat the infection.”
