The Seventh Angel (16 page)

President Chandler felt his stomach tighten. DEFCON 2, or
Def
ensive Readiness
Con
dition 2, was the highest level nuclear alert for American military forces. The United States hadn’t been to DEFCON 2 since the Cuban Missile Crisis, when the world had come within
days
—perhaps
hours
—of World War III. The only higher readiness level was DEFCON 1, full preparation to launch nuclear war.

He frowned. “No. From what we can see, the Russians are already jumpy as hell over this. If we hike up our own nuclear alert levels, we’re only going to make them more nervous than they already are. And the spookier they get, the more likely they are to do something stupid. We don’t have enough information to justify that sort of risk.”

He looked at his national security advisor. “The Russians have definitely got themselves a problem, but I don’t see any reason to believe that it involves us. For all we know, that submarine put out to sea to safeguard its missiles, to keep them out of the wrong hands. No one has shown me any evidence that the intentions of that sub are hostile to the U.S.”

“
Mr. President,” the Air Force officer said, “with all due respect, anything that affects the stability of the Russian nuclear arsenal involves us. That submarine has enough firepower to incinerate every major city in the western United States.”

The president shook his head. “We’re over reacting. We can’t let things move this fast.”

“
I understand your caution, sir,” the lieutenant colonel said. “And I understand that I’m just a light colonel and you’re the Commander-in-Chief. But I’ve been doing this all my
life
, sir. If this escalates into a nuclear engagement, it’s
all
going to happen fast. Nuclear warfare follows a completely different timeline than conventional war, Mr. President. Our reaction window won’t be measured in weeks, or even hours. We’ll have minutes. And if we get caught with our pants down, we won’t have any time at
all
.”

The president nodded gravely. “I understand, Colonel. I’ll keep that in mind.”

He turned to his national security advisor. “This is what that courier was talking about. We were briefed about him a couple of days ago, remember? The Russian bagman who staggered into our embassy in Manila, bleeding to death from five or six bullet wounds. Gregorovitch? Is that his name?”

Brenthoven laid the folder on the table. “Grigoriev, sir. Oleg Yurievich Grigoriev.”

The president nodded. “That’s the guy. He was claiming to have information about a deal between the governor of Kamchatka and the Chinese Politburo. Something about trading Russian nuclear missile technology for Chinese military intervention.”

The president looked at the screen. The black and white photo of the Russian submarine base stood out next to the map of Kamchatka. “I didn’t put much stock in Mr. Grigoriev’s claims at the time, but it looks like he might have the inside track on this. Let’s see if we can find out what that gentleman has to tell us.”

“
We’ve been trying, sir,” Brenthoven said. “We’ve got agents by Mr. Grigoriev’s bedside around the clock, but he’s in pretty bad shape. His doctors don’t know when he’ll be stable enough to talk to us.”

“
Let’s hope it doesn’t take too long,” the president said. “We may not have a lot of time.”

WHITE HOUSE

ROOSEVELT ROOM

WASHINGTON, DC

WEDNESDAY; 27 FEBRUARY

9:37 AM EST

National Security Advisor Gregory Brenthoven opened a door, and ushered the tall Russian man into the Roosevelt Room. A pair of tucked-leather Kittinger armchairs had been drawn up near the fireplace at the center of the curved east wall. The chairs created a small and informal meeting area, away from the long conference table.

Brenthoven nodded toward the chair on the right. “Please, Mr. Ambassador, make yourself comfortable.”

“
Thank you,” Ambassador Aleksandr Vladimirovich Kolesnik said. His English was only slightly accented. He sat in the offered chair, and ran a long-fingered hand through his thick white hair.

Brenthoven took the other chair. Before he could begin with the traditional diplomatic pleasantries, the Russian Ambassador cut directly to the point of the meeting.

“
My government thanks you for your generous offer,” Kolesnik said. “But we do not require military assistance at the present time.”

The national security advisor watched the man for several seconds without speaking. In appearance, Kolesnik was as far removed from the stereotypical Russian bear as it was possible to be. He was thin and fastidious, with deep-set eyes and a triangular face that made his bushy white eyebrows look as though they belonged to someone else.

Brenthoven thought about allowing the pause in conversation to stretch a few seconds longer. In matters of diplomatic exchange, Ambassador Kolesnik was not comfortable with silence, a trait that could sometimes be taken advantage of. But now was not the time for gamesmanship. The Russians were already climbing the walls; there was nothing to be gained by intentionally putting their senior diplomat on the defensive. Better to get to the hard part quickly, and hope that open discussion could somehow allow them to work past more than a half-century of mutual distrust.

Brenthoven raised his eyebrows. “Mr. Ambassador, at the very
least
you have what appears to be a military coup on your hands,” he said. “Your own news services are openly describing it as a
civil war
.”

“
It is not civil war,” Kolesnik said. “It is a minor local struggle. Nothing more. An insignificant uprising.”

Brenthoven fished his small leather notebook from the pocket of his jacket, and held it without opening it. “The entire Russian military has been moved to a state of high alert,
including
your strategic nuclear missile forces. You’ve mobilized nearly every available naval vessel in your Pacific Fleet. There are foreign combat troops on your soil. From the perspective of the U.S. government, that doesn’t sound insignificant.”

“
It does not involve the United States.” Kolesnik said. “We appreciate your concern, but this is an internal matter.”

“
My government does not agree,” Brenthoven said. “We have reason to believe that the insurgents have managed to deploy one of the ballistic missile submarines that was stationed in Kamchatka, along with its arsenal of 48 nuclear warheads. Mr. Ambassador, that’s more destructive force than the entire human race has unleashed in the history of this planet.”

The ambassador nodded gravely. “It is the K-506, the
Zelenograd
.”

Brenthoven jotted the name and hull number of the submarine in his notebook. “Has the sub been located yet? Have your naval units detected her?”

“
Him
.”

“
I’m sorry?”

“
You asked if our naval units have detected
her
. But
Zelenograd
, submarine ‘K-506,’ is a
he
, not a
she
.”

The national security advisor smiled weakly. “I’ve never been much of a Sailor, sir. It was my understanding that seagoing vessels are
always
presumed to be female.”

The Russian Ambassador returned the thin smile with an equally weak smile of his own. “American ships, yes. Russian ships,
no
. Russian vessels are
always
male. The tradition goes back at least to
Pyotr Alekseyevich Romanov
: Peter the Great. Perhaps farther.”

Brenthoven rubbed his chin. “I wasn’t aware of that.”

“
There is much that America does not know about Russia,” the ambassador said. “And there is much that Russia does not know about America. Even with the Cold War behind us, our countries do not understand each other.”

He shook his head. “We thought we understood you as adversaries, but we were deluding ourselves. Now we attempt to understand you as allies, and we are still … what is the word?
Baffled
? We are still
baffled
by you.”

Brenthoven nodded. “Both of our governments have mastered the art of misunderstanding,” he said. “But Mr. Ambassador, this is one case in which we can
not
afford misunderstanding.”

“
You are quite correct,” the Russian Ambassador said.

“
I’m glad we’re in agreement,” Brenthoven said. “Are you in a position to discuss the level of U.S. involvement? Or is that a matter better arranged by our respective presidents?”

Ambassador Kolesnik held up a finger. “Again we misunderstand each other. I agreed that our countries must make every effort to avoid miscommunication during this crisis. I did not agree to American involvement in my country’s internal affairs. My instructions from my government are quite specific. This matter will be handled by the Russian military, under the command of the Russian government.”

“
Mr. Ambassador, the nuclear missiles aboard that submarine have more than enough range to reach the United States. With all due respect, sir, that’s exactly what they were
designed
to do. Unless you have some method of guaranteeing that they will not be launched against American cities, I don’t see
how
we can sit back and treat this situation as an internal Russian issue.”

“
You can treat it as an internal issue because that’s exactly what it
is
: an internal issue,” the ambassador said. “As to a guarantee that your country will not be targeted, I think we can make such a promise.”

The answer took Brenthoven by surprise. “Pardon me, sir … Are you saying that there is some sort of foolproof technical safeguard that prevents the missiles from being fired?”

The ambassador brushed a speck of lint from the left sleeve of his suit jacket. “As with your own missile submarines, there are certain mechanical and electronic safeguards in place, but their effectiveness depends upon the loyalty of the crew. If the crew of K-506 is disloyal, as their actions so far seem to indicate, we cannot rely on those safeguards. With the cooperation of the First Officer, the Missile Officer, and most—or
all
—of the crew, the captain of that submarine can launch those missiles whenever he wishes.”

Brenthoven frowned. “What you’re saying is …”

“
I’m saying we must assume that K-506
can
launch its missiles.”

“
Mr. Ambassador, now I’m
really
confused,” Brenthoven said. “How does this guarantee that the United States will not be targeted by that submarine’s missiles?”

“
K-506 is running southwest, toward the southern tip of the Kamchatka peninsula,” the ambassador said. “Senior naval officers in our Ministry of Defense are confident that the submarine will attempt to pass through the Kuril island chain and into the Sea of Okhotsk, where it will hide under the Siberian ice pack.”

“
And how does this help us?”

The ambassador held up his right hand and tugged at the cuff of his shirt sleeve with the fingers of his left hand. “Because we have, as you say, an ace up our sleeve.” He dropped his hands into his lap. “The attack submarine
Kuzbass
is patrolling the Kuril island chain. At this very moment, orders are going out from our Pacific Fleet headquarters.
Kuzbass
will intercept and destroy K-506 at the entrance to the Sea of Okhotsk.”

Brenthoven rubbed the back of his neck. “Mr. Ambassador, that sounds like a good strategy to me, but what if K-506 manages to slip past your attack submarine? We have a renegade nuclear missile submarine on our hands, with enough firepower to jumpstart Armageddon. Do you have a backup plan, in case
Kuzbass
doesn’t get the job done?”

“
Of course,” the ambassador said. “If K-506 makes it into the Sea of Okhotsk, which our Ministry of Defense assures me will not happen, our naval units will trap him under the ice pack. They will keep K-506 safely contained under the ice until our attack submarines can hunt him down and sink him.”

“
What if the submarine breaks through the ice layer and surfaces? American submarines break through the ice pack all the time. If K-506 surfaces through the ice, how will you stop it from launching its missiles?”

The ambassador shook his head. “K-506 is a Project 667 BDR class submarine. We call this type of submarine the
Kal’mar
class. Your NATO designation is
Delta III
. This class of submarine was not constructed with the hull reinforcements required to punch through ice.” He shrugged. “If they
try
, the ice slices into their hull and they sink like your
Titanic
. The crew drowns, or freezes to death in minutes. They do
not
launch missiles.”

The
Titanic
had been a British ship, not American, but this didn’t seem to be a good time to point that out. Brenthoven sighed. “I hope you are right, Mr. Ambassador. But I don’t believe my president will share your confidence. Unless I’m very much mistaken, he is going to insist on U.S. military involvement.”

“
My instructions from my government are quite specific,” the ambassador said again. “This is an internal Russian matter; and it will be handled by the Russian military, without help or interference from outside forces.”