initiate Continuity-of-Government protocols. So I’m assuming that this Rybachiy naval station is home to part of the Russian nuclear arsenal.”
“Yes, sir,” the commander said. She thumbed her remote again, and a pop-up window appeared on the screen to the left of the Kamchatka peninsula. Inside the new window was a grainy black and white photo of a naval base. Three submarines were moored to battered concrete piers.
The president realized that he’d seen this exact same slide just a couple of days earlier, during the briefing about that Russian courier who claimed to be the middleman in some back-channel deal between the Chinese military and … the president frowned … the Governor of Kamchatka.
“Rybachiy naval station, at Petropavlovsk, is the home port for the Russian Pacific Fleet’s ballistic missile submarines,” Commander Giamatti said. “According to the most recent threat assessments, at least three Delta III class nuclear ballistic missile submarines are based at Rybachiy. Each Delta III submarine carries sixteen Russian R-29R missiles …”
“Also known by the NATO designation of SS-N-18 Stingray,” the president said. “And each missile is armed with three nuclear warheads, for a total of 48 nuclear warheads per submarine.”
The commander nodded. “You’re up on your Russian missile subs, Mr. President.”
“Not really,” the president said. “But I got some of this during an intelligence brief a couple of days ago.” He frowned. “Tell me, Commander, is the Chinese military involved in this somehow?”
The naval officer looked puzzled. “Mr. President, how did you …”
“The intelligence brief I mentioned. I’m just playing connect-the-dots.”
“We
“Is this the HUMINT you spoke of?”
“Part of it, sir,” the commander said. “But the source is unofficial and unconfirmed. A twenty-two year-old American college student on an ecotourism vacation to Kamchatka. Her name is Janeane Whitaker. She claims she’s been hiding in an attic above a cafe since the militia, the local police, began rounding up all visitors and foreigners about twelve hours ago.”
Brenthoven paused in his note-taking and looked up at the commander. “Why did it take us twelve hours to find out about this?”
“Ms. Whitaker’s mobile phone is apparently not compatible with the cellular networks in Russia. Her only means of communication is a palmtop computer or a PDA; we’re not sure which. She tapped into the cafe’s wireless internet signal and began firing off emails. She’s an ordinary citizen, without any particular connections in the military or government, so she didn’t have any fast-track method of communicating with anyone in positions of authority. She ended up sending emails to the ‘Contact Us’ links on every government website she could think of. The White House, the State Department, the Department of Homeland Security, the FBI, and the Pentagon.”
“That doesn’t sound like a very efficient process,” the president said.
“It’s not, Mr. President,” the national security advisor said. “Every agency in the government receives thousands of crackpot emails every day. I know who shot JFK; my neighbor is running a secret al-Qaeda training camp in his basement, and brain-sucking aliens have taken over the local television studio. Don’t get me wrong, sir. There are some useful suggestions buried in all of that junk, and occasionally even some bona fide intelligence tips, but it’s not easy to separate the wheat from the chaff. An uncorroborated email from a foreign internet cafe about secret police activity in Kamchatka? Frankly, it’s a miracle that anybody followed up on it at all.”
“They didn’t at first,” Commander Giamatti said. “Until the Russian military went into overdrive.”
“Do we still have contact with this woman? Janeane Whitaker?” the president asked.
“Uh … No sir. She reached her daily spending limit.”
“Her
“Her daily spending limit,” the commander said. “The wireless internet provider charges by the minute, and apparently Ms. Whitaker’s credit card has a low daily spending limit. They cut her off and we lost contact.”
The president stared up at the ceiling. “I don’t believe this. We have a multi-billion-dollar intelligence apparatus and the one person in the entire world who can tell us what’s going on has maxed out her credit card?” He turned to his national security advisor. “Can’t we do something about this? Every agency in the government has at least a few thousand dollars of discretionary funds. Can’t someone get on the phone to the bank and deposit some money into this woman’s account?”
Brenthoven sighed. “The State Department has people working on that right now, sir. Ms. Whitaker’s bank is based out of California, and it doesn’t offer twenty-four hour customer service. State is on the phone to California, waking people up. It’s after midnight out there.”
The president looked down at the table and shook his head. “If we weren’t sitting on the brink of a nuclear emergency, this might actually be funny. Can we just forget about Kamchatka, and launch some missiles at the damned bank?”
The door opened, and an Air Force lieutenant colonel walked in, carrying a white folder bordered with red diagonal stripes. He moved quickly to the national security advisor, whispered into his ear and handed him the red and white folder.
Brenthoven opened the folder and scanned the document inside as the Air Force officer quietly made his report. After a few seconds, Brenthoven looked up. “Mr. President, we have updated satellite imagery of Petropavlovsk. One of the Delta III nuclear missile submarines has gotten underway, and is currently unlocated. As far as we can determine, it’s carrying a full loadout of nuclear ballistic missiles.”
“Jesus Christ,” the president said.
The Air Force Officer faced the president and came to attention. “Sir, I’m Lieutenant Colonel Briggs, the Situation Room Watch Officer. I’ve just been on the phone to the Joint Chiefs. The National Military Command Center is still waiting for permission to initiate Continuity-of-Government protocols, and CINCNORAD is recommending DEFCON 2.” The lieutenant colonel paused and took a breath. “Mr. President, the Joint Chiefs concur with CINCNORAD’s recommendation. They are also recommending DEFCON 2, sir.”
President Chandler felt his stomach tighten. DEFCON 2, or Defensive Readiness Condition 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
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
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.”
