the tabloids and celebrity blogs spoke of it, and those were all but dismissed by most Russians — certainly no one in the Kremlin would ever wag their tongues about such things and about such powerful people in anything louder than a quiet thought. Hedrov was married and was the mother of two grown children, and they long ago learned that their lives, as well as the life of their wife and mother, belonged to the state now, not to themselves.
The president’s dacha was the closest to security and privacy than anything else they could ever expect in the Russian Federation. Unlike the president’s official residence in the Senate Building at the Kremlin, which was rather unassuming and utilitarian, Zevitin’s dacha outside Moscow was modern and stylish, fit for any international business executive. Like the man itself, the place revolved around work and business, but it was hard to discern that at first glance.
After flying in to Boltino to the president’s private airport nearby, visitors were driven to the residence by limousine and escorted through a sweeping grand foyer to the great room and dining room, dominated by three large fireplaces and adorned with sumptuous leather and oak furniture, works of art from all over the world, framed photos of world leaders, and mementos from his many celebrity friends, topped off with a spectacular panoramic view of Pirogovskoje Reservoir outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. Special guests would be invited up the double marble curved staircases to the bedroom suites on the second floor, or down to the large Roman-style baths, indoor pool, thirty-seat high-definition movie theater, and game room on the ground floor. But all that was still only a fraction of the square footage of the place.
A guest being dazzled by the grand view outside the great room would miss the dark, narrow cupola on the right side of the foyer, almost resembling a doorless closet, which had small and unimpressive paintings hanging on the curved walls illuminated by rather dim LED spotlights. But if one stepped into the cupola, he would be instantly but surreptitiously electronically searched by X-ray to locate weapons or listening devices. His facial features would be scanned and the data run through an electronic identification system that was able to detect and filter out disguises or impostors. Once positively identified, the hidden door inside the cupola would be opened from within, and you would be admitted to the main part of the dacha.
Zevitin’s office was as large as the great- and dining rooms combined, large enough for a group of generals or ministers to confer with each other on one side and not be heard by a similarly sized meeting of the president’s advisers on the other — unheard except for the audio and video recording devices planted everywhere on the grounds, as well as out on the streets, neighborhoods, and roads of the surrounding countryside. Eight persons could expansively dine on Zevitin’s walnut and ivory-inlaid desk with elbow room to spare. Video feeds and television reports from hundreds of different sources were fed to a dozen high-definition monitors located in the office, but none were visible unless the president wanted to view them.
The president’s bedroom upstairs was the one made up for show: the bedroom adjoining the office suite was the one Zevitin used most of the time; it was also the one Alexandra preferred, the one that she thought best reflected the man himself — still grand, but warmer and perhaps plusher than the rest of the mansion. She liked to think he made it so just for her, but that would be foolish arrogance on her part, and she often reminded herself not to indulge in any of that around this man.
They had slipped beneath the silk sheets and down comforter of his bed after dinner and movies and just held each other, sipping tiny glasses of brandy and talking in low intimate voices about everything but the three things both mostly cared about: government, politics, and finances. Phone calls, official or otherwise, were expressly forbidden; Alexandra couldn’t remember ever being interrupted by an aide or a phone call, as if Zevitin could somehow make the rest of the world instantly comatose while they were together. They touched each other occasionally, exploring each other’s silent desires, and mutually deciding without a word that tonight was for companionship and rest, not passion. They had known each other a long time, and she never considered that she might not be fulfilling his needs or desires, or he was disregarding hers. They embraced, kissed, and said good night, and there was no hint of tension or displeasure. All was as it should be…
…so it was doubly surprising for Alexandra to be awakened by something she had never heard before in that room: a beeping telephone. The alien sound made her sit bolt upright after the second or third beep; she soon noticed that Leonid was already on his feet, the bedside light on, the receiver to his lips.
“Go ahead,” he said, then listened, glancing over to her. His eyes were not angry, quizzical, confused, or fearful, as she was certain hers were. He obviously knew exactly who was calling and what he was going to say; like a playwright watching a rehearsal of his latest work, he was patiently waiting for something he already knew would be said.
“What is it?” she mouthed.
To her surprise, Zevitin reached down to the phone, touched a button, and hung up the receiver, activating the speakerphone. “Repeat that last, General,” he said, catching and arresting her gaze with his.
General Andrei Darzov’s voice, crackling and occasionally fading with interference as if talking across a vast distance, could still clearly be heard: “Yes, sir. KIK Command and Measurement Command sites have detected an American spaceplane launch over the Pacific Ocean. It crossed over central Canada and was inserted safely into low-Earth orbit while over the Arctic ice pack of Canada. If it stays on its current trajectory, its target area is definitely eastern Iran.”
“When?”
“They could be starting their re-entry burn in ten minutes, sir,” Darzov replied. “It possibly has enough fuel to fly to the same target area after re-entering the atmosphere after a complete orbit, but it is doubtful without a midair refueling over Iraq or Turkey.”
“Do you think they discovered it?” Hedrov didn’t know what “it” was, but she assumed, because Zevitin had allowed her to listen in on the conversation, that she would find out soon enough.
“I think we should assume they have, sir,” Darzov said, “although if they positively identified the system, I am sure McLanahan would not hesitate to attack it. They may have just detected activity there and are inserting more intelligence-gathering assets to verify.”
“Well, I’m surprised they took
“And those are just the ones we can positively detect and track,” Darzov said. “They could have many more that we can’t identify, especially unmanned aircraft.”
“When will it be within striking range for us, General?”
Hedrov’s mouth opened, but at a warning glare from Zevitin, she said nothing. What in hell were they thinking of…?
“By the time the spaceplane crosses the base’s horizon, sir, they’ll be less than five minutes from landing.”
“Damn, the speed of that thing is mind-boggling,” Zevitin muttered. “It’s almost impossible to move fast enough against it.” He thought quickly; then: “But if the spaceplane stays in orbit instead of re-entering, it will be in perfect position. We have one good shot only.”
“Exactly, sir,” Darzov said.
“I assume your men are preparing for an assault, General?” Zevitin asked seriously. “Because if the spaceplane successfully lands and deploys its Tin Man ground forces — which we
“Yes, sir, we must.”
“—we will have no time to pack up and get out of Dodge.”
“If I understand you correctly, sir — yes, we would undoubtedly lose the system to them,” Darzov acknowledged, not knowing what or where “Dodge” was but not bothering to reveal his own ignorance. “The game will be over.”
“I see,” Zevitin said. “But if it does not re-enter and stays in orbit, how long will you have to engage it?”
“We should acquire it with optronic observation sensors and laser rangefinders as soon as it crosses the horizon, at a range of about eighteen hundred kilometers or about four minutes away,” Darzov replied. “However, we need radar for precise tracking, and that is limited to a maximum range of five hundred kilometers. So we will have a maximum of two minutes at its current orbital altitude.”
“Two minutes! Is that enough time?”
“Barely,” Darzov said. “We will have radar tracking, but we still need to hit the target with an air data laser that will help compute focusing corrections to the main laser’s optics. That should take no longer than sixty seconds, assuming the radar stays locked on and the proper computations are made. That will give us a maximum
