The Seventh Angel

He had a reputation for being as fierce in protecting those who were loyal to him as he was in punishing those who were disloyal. He dealt harshly with underlings who didn’t meet his expectations, but he did not attack his close supporters and confidants.

When he spoke again, his voice was more measured. “Forgive me,” he said. “Your news took me by surprise. I hope you can understand my alarm.” He laid the napkin down again with movements of almost supernatural delicacy. “The ice pack conceals and protects our submarine, but it also prevents us from firing. We must maintain the ability to launch attacks at-will. If the K-506 cannot launch, we lose both our leverage, and our deterrence against retaliation.”

He pushed the bowl away from himself. His appetite was gone. “How many of our launch positions have been compromised?”

Ustanov opened and closed his mouth several times, like a fish suddenly snatched from the water.

Zhukov’s stomach tightened. Judging from his assistant’s demeanor, the situation was even more dire than he had initially feared. “Come,” he said. “This knowledge will not improve with waiting. Tell me, Maxim Ivanovitch, how many of our zashishennaja pozicija have been compromised? How many of our precious launch positions have the Americans destroyed?”

Ustanov’s reply came out as a hoarse whisper. “Three, Comrade President.”

Sergiei Zhukov felt the blood pounding in his temples. “Three?”

“Yes, Comrade President.”

“Three? You are certain?”

Ustanov nodded. “Yes, Comrade President. When I received word that enemy forces had been spotted near one of the launch positions, I ordered our technicians to conduct remote circuit tests of all launch positions. The equipment at three of the positions failed to respond. Only the southeast launch position passed the remote test.”

Zhukov fought to keep his voice even. “Are we certain that the explosives at the southeast launch position are functional?”

Ustanov nodded rapidly, apparently grateful to be delivering at least one piece of good news. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I believe the American Marines had completed the destruction of three positions, and were awaiting transportation to the fourth, when our attack helicopter discovered them.”

He paused for several seconds, as though unsure whether or not to continue.

Zhukov gave a short beckoning wave with two fingers.

Ustanov followed the signal, and pressed on. “I suggest a change of strategy, Comrade President. We have been operating from the assumption that air cover over the launch positions would draw the attention of our enemies to locations that we wish to keep secret. For much the same reason, we have minimized our remote testing of the launch positions. Frequent use of the satellite communications link may invite unwanted attention to both our methods and the locations of our launch positions.”

He raised his hands and dropped them. “Despite our plans, secrecy and concealment have obviously not protected our zashishennaja pozicija. In view of this, I suggest we abandon secrecy, and deploy direct protection over the remaining launch position. With your permission, I will order continuous coverage of the southeast position by attack helicopters, supplemented by frequent over-flights by MiG fighters.”

Zhukov nodded. “A wise recommendation, Maxim Ivanovitch. Give the order. Also, send out demolitions teams to prepare six or seven new launch positions, as well as eight or ten decoy positions.”

He brought the fingertips of both hands together. “The Americans have evidently seen past that particular deception. We should give them plenty of new possibilities to keep their minds occupied.”

Zhukov was thinking rapidly. How had the Americans found out? Could it be satellites? The United States had impressive spy satellite capabilities, to be certain, but the launch positions had been prepared nearly two weeks ago — long before the U.S. intelligence community had found a reason to point their expensive surveillance assets in the direction of a backwater province like Kamchatka. He was confident that the Americans had neither noticed, nor cared about a few old helicopters hopping around on a bit of worthless and deserted ice pack to the south of Siberia.

Could one of Zhukov’s own people have talked? That didn’t seem likely. With the exception of three senior officers aboard the submerged submarine, only a dozen people had ever learned the coordinates of the launch positions. Of that dozen, more than half had been eliminated to avoid just this sort of security breach.

The demolitions personnel who had rigged the explosives were now dead. So were their helicopter pilots, and the old courier, Grigoriev.

So, how had the Americans ferreted out the locations of the launch positions? Could they be using some new and hyper-sensitive technology? Zhukov didn’t know.

He decided to treat this unsolved mystery as a not-too-gentle reminder that the Americans could still surprise him. And that thought raised the next question. How could he turn this around? How could he regain the element of surprise?

It was time to do something that America was not expecting. Something that no one would expect. He needed to punish the Americans for sending their filthy Marines to invade the sovereign territory of his new Russia. And he needed to teach the entire world that Sergiei Mikhailovich Zhukov was prepared to wield power at a level completely beyond their experience. He was not afraid to step boldly into the land of nightmares, where the other so-called leaders of the world feared to tread.

He regarded his assistant, still standing quietly, no doubt waiting to be dismissed. “Maxim Ivanovitch, refresh my memory. The K-506 is currently following a slow counterclockwise circle, is he not?”

“Yes, Comrade President,” Ustanov said.

“When will he pass within communications range of the southeastern launch position?”

Ustanov glanced at his watch. “Approximately 11:50 PM our time, sir. Or 10:50 PM his time, as the submarine is operating one time zone west of us.”

“Excellent,” Zhukov said. He made eye contact with his assistant, and held it. “When the submarine reaches communications range, order the Kapi'tan to carry out Strike Option 7.”

Ustanov stared. “Comrade President, Strike Option 7 calls for nuclear missile attacks against …”

“I know what the order entails,” Zhukov said. “The Americans still wish to play games with us. It’s time to teach them, my old friend. This is not a game. And we make all the rules.”

CHAPTER 53

USS TOWERS (DDG-103)

WESTERN PACIFIC OCEAN

THURSDAY; 07 MARCH

1609 hours (4:09 PM)

TIME ZONE +11 ‘LIMA’

“The update should be coming through the link any time now,” Captain Bowie said. He pointed to one of the giant Aegis display screens in Combat Information Center.

Ann Roark and Sheldon Miggs stood among a group of officers and enlisted personnel, waiting for the captain to outline the latest tactical developments.

Ann suppressed a yawn. She was exhausted all the time, now. She didn’t sleep well on ships to begin with, and for the past few days, her dreams had been invaded by the faces of dead Russian sailors. Of course, the sailors on that submarine weren’t actually dead yet, but Ann and the other people gathered in this room were trying pretty damned hard to change that.

She wondered for the thousandth time how she had gotten caught up in a situation where she was actively plotting to kill other human beings. How had her ethical view of the world shifted so dramatically?

It hadn’t, she reminded herself. She didn’t pretend that killing the crew of the Russian submarine was an acceptable course of action. Her personal decision to carry out the plan was a hideous thing, that burned and fumed like acid at the edges of her conscience. Killing those men was an act of evil. But it