The 14th Colony: A Novel (2 page)

“You’re correct. We are spending billions. The Soviets will have no choice but to match us, spending that much and more. The difference is we can sustain that spending and they can’t. When the United States spends money on government projects, those funds make their way back into our economy through wages paid and profits made. When the Soviets spend, it’s just a drain on their treasury. There’s no free market. The money simply goes out and doesn’t return. Wages are controlled, profits are regulated, so they have to constantly generate new money just to pay their bills. We recycle ours. They can’t match us dollar for ruble, year after year. It’s impossible. They’ll implode.”

He could see that the pope was intrigued.

“Communism has never attained the legitimacy of public support. Its rule depends solely on force, supplied by terror. Time has worked against them, as does the world, which has changed. Communism is just a modern form of serfdom, with no advantages that I can see over capitalism. Do you realize, Holiness, that less than one family in seven owns a car in the USSR? If a person wants to buy a car, there’s a ten-year wait for delivery. You tell me, how can a system like that be deemed stable or solid?”

John Paul smiled. “The regime stands on a cracked foundation. It always has, from the beginning.”

“I want you to know that I am not a warmonger. The American people are not bent on conquest. We want a lasting peace.”

And he meant that. Inside his coat pocket he carried a plastic-coated card with codes that could be used to launch a nuclear arsenal. Just outside sat a military aide toting a black leather satchel that could make that happen. All totaled the United States owned 23,464 nuclear warheads. The Soviet Union stockpiled 32,049. He called them the tools of Armageddon. Just a handful of those could destroy all human civilization.

His goal was that they never be used.

“I believe you,” the pope said. “Your envoy made a good case for you on that point. She is a bright woman. You chose her well.”

He hadn’t chosen her at all. Al Haig had made that selection from among his attachés at the State Department. John Paul was right, though. She was young, smart, and intuitive—and he’d come to rely on her judgment when it came to the Vatican.

“So long as we are being frank,” he said, “let me say that you sell yourself short. You are also engaging in a bit of deception. That priest you scolded on the runway in Nicaragua, in such a show of anger. You told him to quit his government post, but he defied you. And he still defies you. I suspect that man is now an excellent source of Vatican information on what the Sandinistas are doing. And who would suspect him, after such a public admonition.”

John Paul said nothing, but he could see that his conclusion was correct. The Sandinistas were nothing but Soviet puppets. His people were already working on ways to rid Central America of them, as apparently was John Paul.

“We must have a farsighted policy,” the pope said. “One that stretches across the globe and favors justice, freedom, love, and truth. Peace must always be our goal.”

“Without a doubt. I have a theory.” And he now thought it would be okay to share it. “To me, the USSR is essentially a Christian nation. Russians were Christians long before they were communists. If we stay this course, I think we can tip the balance where the Soviet people will revert to Christianity, allowing those long-held ideals to eclipse communism.”

He wondered if the pope thought he was pandering. Based on his special envoy’s visits he’d been provided with a detailed personality assessment. John Paul valued order and security, preferring to deal in known entities. He lived by reason and thought, in clear no-nonsense terms. He was repelled by ambiguity, impulsiveness, and extremism, always thinking everything through before deciding. But he particularly despised being told what someone thought he wanted to hear.

“You believe this?” the pope said. “In your heart? Your mind? Your soul?”

“I must say, Holiness, that I am not a man who attends church regularly. I don’t even consider myself overtly religious. But I am spiritual. I believe in God. And I draw strength from those deeply held beliefs.”

He truly meant that.

“You and I share a common bond,” he said.

John Paul clearly realized the connection. Last year, within two months, both of them had been shot. All three bullets were fired from close range, barely missing their aortas, which would have meant certain death. His lodged in a lung, while John Paul’s two rounds passed right through, yet incredibly spared the vital organs.

“God saved us both,” he said, “so that we can do what we are about to do. How else can it be explained?”

He’d long thought that every person possessed a divine purpose. A plan for the world outside of human control. He knew that this pope also believed in the power of symbolic acts and the role of providence.

“I agree with you, Mr. President,” the pope said in a near whisper. “We must do this. Together.”

“In my case, the shooter was simply insane. But in yours, I would say you owe the Soviets.”

The CIA had learned of a connection between John Paul’s would-be assassin and Bulgaria, one that led straight to Moscow. The White House had provided that information to the Vatican. True, conclusive proof was lacking, but the idea had been to end Solidarity by ending its spiritual and moral leader. Of course, the Soviets could never afford to be directly implicated in a plot to kill the leader of a billion Catholics.

But they were involved.

“If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men,”
John Paul said. “Revenge would be a bit un-Christian, would it not?”

He decided to keep to the Bible and Romans.
“Never take your own revenge, but leave room for the wrath of God
.
”

“But if your enemy is hungry, feed him, and if he is thirsty, give him a drink. For in so doing you will heap burning coals on his head.”

That they would.

This priest had witnessed Nazi atrocities. Karol Wojtyla was there when Poland suffered that unimaginable horror, working with the resistance. After the war he’d then done what he could to thwart the Soviets as they prolonged Poland’s suffering. By all accounts John Paul was a heroic figure, an extraordinary man, learned and courageous.

People drew strength from him.

And he was in the right place at the right time with the right thoughts.

“The moment I fell in St. Peter’s Square,” the pope said. “I had a vivid presentiment that I would be saved, and this certainty never left me. The Virgin Mary herself stepped in that day and allowed me to survive. That I believe, with all my heart. And may God forgive me, but I do owe the Soviets. Not only for what they may have done to me, but for what they have done to so many millions for so long. I forgave my would-be assassin. I went to his cell, knelt and prayed with him, and he wept for his sin. Now it is time for those who sent him to know their sin, too.”

He saw resolve in John Paul’s strong eyes, which seemed ready for the fight. He was, too. At seventy-one he’d never felt better. His whole countenance had revivified after the assassination attempt, as if he’d truly been born again. He’d read what the pundits were saying. Expectations for his presidency seemed low. In past decades, the sheer weight of the job had annihilated many good men. Kennedy died. Vietnam drove Johnson from office. Nixon had been forced to resign. Ford lasted only two years, and Carter was sent home after one term. Critics called Ronald Reagan a reckless cowboy, an old actor, a man who relied on others to tell him what to do.

But they were wrong.

He was a former Democrat who’d long ago switched parties, which meant he did not fit into any clear political mold. Many feared and distrusted him. Others held him in contempt. But he was the fortieth president of the United States, intent on remaining in office seven more years, and he planned to use that time for one purpose.

To end the evil empire.

That was exactly what the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics represented. But he could not do it alone. Nor would he have to. He now had an ally. One with two thousand years of experience dealing with despots.

“I’ll keep the pressure on from my end,” he said. “Both political and economic. And you from yours with spiritual encouragement. Another trip to Poland would be good, but not quite yet. In a year or so.”

John Paul had already visited his homeland once, in 1979. Three million people came to mass in Warsaw’s Victory Square. As a candidate for the White House he’d watched that spectacle on television, while the man in white descended from the papal plane and kissed the ground. He remembered vividly what the pope told his countrymen over and over.

Be not afraid.

And he realized then what the religious leader of a billion people could accomplish, particularly one who held the hearts and minds of millions of Poles. He was one of them. They would listen to what he had to say. But the pope could never be obvious. Instead, the message from Rome must always be one of truth, love, and peace. There is a God and it is everyone’s inalienable right to freely worship Him. Moscow would ignore that at first, but eventually it would respond with threats and violence and the startling contrast between the two messages would speak volumes. And while that happened America would encourage reform in the Eastern Bloc, finance free-market reforms, and isolate the Soviet Union both economically and technologically, slowly but surely leading them into bankruptcy. They would play to the paranoia and fear communism loved to exploit in others, but could not handle on its own.

A perfect two-front war.

He checked the clock.

They’d been talking about fifty minutes.

Each seemed to clearly understand both the task and their individual responsibilities. Time for the final move. He stood and extended a hand across the table.

The pope likewise rose to his feet.

He said, “May we both successfully carry out our responsibilities to mankind.”

The pope nodded and they again shook hands.

“Together,” he said. “We will eliminate the USSR.”

PRESENT DAY

CHAPTER ONE

L
AKE
B
AIKAL
, S
IBERIA

F
RIDAY
, J
ANUARY
18

3:00
P.M.

Bitter experience had taught Cotton Malone that the middle of nowhere usually signaled trouble.

And today was no exception.

He banked the plane 180 degrees for another peek downward before he landed. The pale orb of a brassy sun hung low to the west. Lake Baikal lay sheathed in winter ice thick enough to drive across. He’d already spotted transport trucks, buses, and passenger cars speeding in all directions atop milky-white fracture lines, their wheel marks defining temporary highways. Other cars sat parked around fishing holes. He recalled from history that in the early 20th century rail lines had been laid across the ice to move supplies east during the Russo-Japanese War.

The lake’s statistics seemed otherworldly. Formed from an ancient rift valley thirty million years old, it reigned as the world’s oldest reservoir and contained one-fifth of the planet’s freshwater. Three hundred rivers fed into it but only one drained out. Nearly four hundred miles long and up to fifty miles wide, its deepest point lay five thousand feet down. Twelve hundred miles of shoreline stretched in every direction and thirty islands dotted its crystalline surface. On maps it was a crescent-shaped arc in southern Siberia, 2,000 miles west from the Pacific and 3,200 miles east of Moscow, part of Russia’s great empty quarter near the Mongolian border. A World Heritage Site. Which likewise gave him pause, as those usually meant trouble, too.

Winter had claimed a tight hold on both water and land. The temperature hovered right at zero, snow lay everywhere, but thankfully none was currently falling. He worked the controls and leveled off at 700 feet. Warm air blasted his feet from the cabin heater. The plane had been supplied by the Russian air force from a small airport outside Irkutsk. Why there was so much Russian–American cooperation he did not know, but Stephanie Nelle had told him to take advantage of it. Usually visas were required for entry into Russia. He’d used fake ones many times in his day as a Magellan Billet agent. Customs could also be a problem. But this time there was no paperwork, nor had any officials impeded his arrival. Instead, he’d flown into the country on a Russian Sukhoi/HAL fighter, a new version with two seats, to an air base north of Irkutsk where twenty-five Tupolev Tu-22M medium-range bombers lined the tarmac. An Ilyushin II-78 tanker had provided refueling along the way. A helicopter had been waiting at the air base, which ferried him south to where the plane waited.

The An-2 came with a single engine, two pairs of wings, an enclosed cockpit, and a rear cabin large enough to hold twelve passengers. Its thin aluminum fuselage constantly shook from a four-blade propeller that bit a choppy path through the frigid air. He knew little about this World War II Soviet workhorse, which flew slow and steady with barely any zip to its controls, this one equipped with skis that had allowed him to take off from a snowy field.

He completed the turn and readjusted his course northeast, skirting heavily timbered ground. Large boulders, like the teeth of an animal, protruded in ragged lines down ridges. Along a distant slope sunlight glinted on phalanxes of high-voltage power lines. Beyond the lakeshore, the terrain varied from flat empty earth, punctuated by small wooden houses clustered together, to forests of birch, fir, and larch, finally to snow-topped mountains. He even spotted some old artillery batteries situated along the crest of a rocky ridge. He’d come to examine a cluster of buildings that hugged close to the eastern shore, just north of where the Selenga River ended its long trek from Mongolia. The river’s mouth, choked with sand, formed an impressive delta of channels, islands, and reed beds, all frozen together in an angular disorder.

“What do you see?” Stephanie Nelle asked him through his headset.