Phoenix Rising

CHAPTER SIX

Moscow, Russia

When the Soviet Union collapsed, the emerging nation of Russia inherited a military designed to fight an all-out global war. At the end of the Cold War the Russian military was left with an air force that could no longer afford to fly its airplanes, a naval fleet that sat rusting in harbors, and an army in shambles. With no more clear-cut enemies in central Europe or on the Chinese border, the military-technical considerations that played a dominant role in Soviet force development and deployment throughout the Cold War period became obsolete. An army that was once one of the two biggest super powers in the world struggled in its brief, but bloody war with Chechnya.

Colonel Andre Yassilov, the commanding officer of a missile battalion on an army base near Moscow, was a victim of the chain of events in Russia. Yassilov’s grandfather had been a hero of the Soviet Union who was personally decorated by Josef Stalin for bravery against the Germans during the Great Patriotic War. Colonel Yassilov’s father was killed in Afghanistan and given a hero’s funeral. Colonel Yassilov, who had served with honor and distinction in the war in Chechnya, had been a member of the army for twenty-six years.

But now things had changed. There was no pay for the military. Worse, there was very little food. The desertion rate of Yassilov’s soldiers was higher than fifty percent and Yassilov couldn’t blame them. At one time being an officer in the Russian armed forces meant having a position that not only commanded great respect, but also paid very well. Now, however, Yassilov, whose missile battery was equipped with SS-25 nuclear warheads, was forced to wait tables. The irony of it was extremely bitter. He had more firepower under his command than the total amount of explosives used in all of World War I and World War II combined—but he was waiting tables, groveling before diners for their measly tips.

Yassilov had swallowed his pride to work at the Gostiny Dvor restaurant, which was situated deep within a decorated garden on Volkova Street. The restaurant had a large dining hall that could seat eighty persons, a VIP hall, and a summer terrace. The interior of the restaurant was vintage Russian with timbered walls, massive dark-brown furniture, decorative windows with shutters, and handmade carpets. In the yard in front of the restaurant there was a fountain and a small waterfall. It was a favorite dining place for tourists, and had especially been so for Americans before recent events had almost completely stopped American travel.

It was here that Yassilov was first approached. One year earlier Yassilov would have never even considered discussing business with someone who made an offer to buy nuclear warheads. Had he been approached even three months ago he would have reported the contact to the proper authorities. But his personal situation had so deteriorated, and the amount of money the man offered was so large that it staggered the senses. It was sufficient money for Yassilov to return his own family to the economic level they had once enjoyed, and there would even be enough leftover to buy food and supplies for his men.

What Yassilov was being asked to do was a terrible violation of the oath he once swore, but, he reasoned, that oath should go both ways. If he owed allegiance to his country, then didn’t his country owe allegiance to him?

The SS-25 missiles under his command had been destined for destruction under terms of the SALT treaty, which meant it would be fairly easy for Yassilov to comply with the request.

Yassilov dismantled the weapons as ordered, but he adjusted the inventory so that all were accounted for, though in fact he held back ten of the warheads. He sold the three warheads for a total of one million five hundred thousand Rubles. That was a small outlay for the man who bought the warheads. He had a buyer in Germany who would pay ten million euros for them.

The buyer in Germany contacted a Venezuelan arms dealer who agreed to pay one hundred million euros for the ten warheads. The Venezuelan paid the money without haggling because he had a customer in Yazikistan who would pay him five billion Venezuelan bolivars. The weapons never left Russia until the final deal was completed; then they were transported quickly and easily from Russia to Yazikistan in containers marked MEDICAL RADIOLOGY.

Tuesday, April 17

Hello, America.

Last month Mr. Ohmshidi made world headlines, incurring the wrath of most Americans and the incredulity of all the Western nations by returning the Muslim terrorist Yamaninan to Yazikistan. Even though he was still suffering from the burns of an unsuccessful attempt to detonate the PETN—not suffering enough, if you ask me—Yamaninan was placed in the backseat of President Rafeek Syed’s personal open-top car and given a hero’s parade through the streets of Kabrahn.

The open hand of peace Ohmshidi said he was extending to Yazikistan was met, not by an open hand, nor even by a fist, but by a swinging scimitar. As many as one million Yazikistanis lined the streets of Kabrahn, cheering loudly for their hero, and shouting such things as “Death to America!” “America the Satan!” and “Ohmshidi will go to hell!”

American interests all over the world are being attacked now. United Technomics in Paris was firebombed. In addition, every American news service in Europe has been attacked. Our embassies are under siege, and we have no means of protecting them, or American businesses overseas.

This is only the beginning.

That night Karin came to Jake’s house, bringing dinner with her, and because she was expected, she let herself into the house. “Jake?” she called.

“I’m in the kitchen,” Jake replied. “I saw you drive up, so I’m getting the root beers.”

“Are you ready to see the Reds beat the Cardinals ?”

“Ha!” Jake replied returning to the living room carrying the two soft drinks. “In your dreams. The Cardinals have the Reds’ number, and always have.”

“What time does the game start?”

“At seven,” Jake said, putting the drinks on the coffee table. “I’ve got it on the right channel. The clicker is on the lamp table right beside you. Just turn it on.”

This is Carl Wilson with World Cable News. We are waiting for an address from the President of the United States. In the eighty-eight days since President Ohmshidi took office, he has given seventy-three televised speeches. He will be speaking from the Oval Office shortly, and we are told that the address will be only three minutes long.

“Damn, has that man ever seen a television camera that he wasn’t in love with?” Jake asked. “What did you get?”

“Hot wings and potato logs. I was in the grocery store and walked by the deli. It smelled good, so that’s what I got. Hope you approve.”

“Oh, yeah, it looks and smells great. Now, if we could just get this idiot to stop going on TV every day.”

“Supposedly he is only going to talk for three minutes. We may as well hear what he has to say,” Karin said.

“Why? Whatever he says, it is just going to make matters worse.”

We at World Cable News, along with all other television networks, have been given a transcript of the president’s speech, but were told that we cannot say anything about it prior to his address. I can tell you this, however. It will be, to say the least, a stunning announcement. Afterward, we will discuss the address with our distinguished panel of news analysts.

“That’s what we need,” Jake said. “Another stunning announcement.” Jake picked up a hot wing, separated it, and began eating.

The picture on the screen showed the president sitting behind his desk in the oval office. Behind him were two flags, the flag of the United States and a white flag, bearing what had been his campaign logo but had since replaced the flag bearing the presidential seal as the image of the Ohmshidi administration. It was a green circle enclosing wavy blue lines that represented clean water, over which was imposed a stylized green plant.

“I know you aren’t supposed to hate,” Jake said, “but every time I look at that man, I come as close to hating as you can get.”

“Remember,” Karin said, “that’s our commander in chief you are talking about.”

“How can I forget?” Jake asked with a growl.

“Shhh,” Karin said. “He’s about to speak.”

“Whoop-de-doo,” Jake replied.

Ladies and gentleman, the President of the United States, an off-camera voice said.

My fellow Americans. For too many years now, we have been dependent upon fossil fuels to meet our energy needs. This dependency has been the cause of nearly every problem we have faced, beginning in the late twentieth, and continuing into this, the twenty-first century. It has poisoned our environment, caused cancer and countless other health problems. It has destroyed our ozone layer, leading us toward irreversible global warming. It has created severe economic problems, and it has been the cause of international hatred and war.

For the last fifty years, there have been discussions of moving to a green economy with alternative, clean, and renewable energy as our nation’s engine. And while other presidents before me have announced that as their goal, they have all failed.

I will not fail because I am taking a bold, and admittedly very difficult, step. It is, however, a step that I must take. I am, today, ordering an immediate cessation to all drilling and refining of domestic fossil fuels. In addition, we, as a nation, will no longer import fuels. We will have only that fuel currently extracted, refined, and in our inventory. When that is gone there will be no more. My analysts tell me that with strict rationing of the kind used during World War Two, our fuel supply should last about six months.

Now, while this may seem like a draconian step to many of you, it is, I believe, a way of spurring our scientists and engineers into committing to a twenty-four-hour-per-day, seven-days-per-week effort to find a sustainable alternative energy program. Will it be hydrogen? Will it be cold fusion? Will it be some scientific breakthrough that we have not yet imagined?

We of course have no idea as yet what this new source will be, but our future is exciting because I have absolute faith in our scientists to find a solution. Until then, all Americans will have to tighten their belts as we embark upon this great adventure together.

Thank you, and good night.

“He can’t be serious!” Jake shouted. “He has lost his mind! He has finally lost his mind!”

“You have won me over, Jake,” Karin said in a quiet, hesitant voice. “I think he has lost his mind.”

“Do you know how much jet fuel we use in just one week at Fort Rucker?” Jake asked.

“I know it is a lot.”

“We use three hundred thousand gallons per week. That is, we were using that when we were operational. Now if just we were using that much, how much fuel do you think our whole country uses? Everything, and I mean everything, is going to come crashing to a halt.”

“How long do you think before that happens?” Karin asked.

“The last time you filled up, what did you pay for gasoline?” Jake asked.

“I don’t know, around three twenty-five I think. Or something like that.”

“You mark my words, tomorrow gasoline will be ten dollars a gallon, and that’s only the beginning.”

“I don’t mind telling you, Jake; I’m getting a little frightened, now.”

“Only idiots aren’t frightened now,” Jake said.

Thursday, May 17

In the weeks following the president’s announcement that he was halting all acquisition of fossil fuel, either by domestic drilling, or importation, the price of gasoline began to increase, jumping at the rate of at least two dollars per day. The cost of fuel was beginning to be a problem for Jake and he was making a good salary. He couldn’t help but wonder how others were dealing with it.

It was ten miles from Ozark to Fort Rucker and Jake drove it every day. This was Friday morning and, as he did every Friday morning, he stopped his two-year-old Volvo at the Busy Bee Quick Stop service station to fill his tank. Though this was normally a “fast in, fast out” stop, this morning he saw several cars waiting at each fuel island. This had become routine in the last few weeks, and Jake was prepared for it. He was in no particular hurry and he sat listening to Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” on the satellite radio as he waited.

“You son of a bitch! You pulled in front of me!” someone yelled to the driver of a car in the next line over. The shout was followed by the incessant honking of a horn that did not cease until a couple of policemen arrived.

“That asshole pulled in front of me!” the driver yelled to the police.

“Both of you,” the police ordered, “out of line.”

Grumbling, both the aggrieved, and the aggrieving driver were ordered to leave.

“Find somewhere else to get your gas,” the policeman said. “And don’t both of you go to the same station!”

Jake watched the two cars drive away. There was a time when he might have been amused by the little drama, but he had been seeing television reports of similar incidents all over the country. People were afraid, and the more frightened they got, the more uneasy the situation was becoming.

After a wait of about fifteen minutes, Jake pulled up to the pump and saw the price of gasoline, then gasped. It was thirty-six dollars per gallon.

“What?” he shouted. Thinking it might be a mistake, he checked some of the other fuel pumps.

“It’s no mistake, sir,” said a sergeant on the next island over, when he saw Jake checking the prices. “I stopped here yesterday and it was thirty-four dollars a gallon. I thought that was too much, but if we aren’t going to get any new oil, this is just going to get worse. I should have bought gas yesterday.”

“You had better fill your tank, Sergeant,” Jake said. “At this rate, it could be fifty dollars a gallon or more by this time next week.”

It cost Jake four hundred and thirty-two dollars to fill his tank. He was still frustrated when he reached his office. There were now more soldiers at Fort Rucker than there had been at any time since the Vietnam War, but because all training operations had stopped, except for normal housekeeping duties there was not one soldier who was gainfully employed. Jake knew that it could not last like this.

When Jake reached his office, Sergeant Major Matthews was waiting for him.

“Good morning, sir,” Clay said.

“Sergeant Major. How are you coming on your requisitions?”

“I’ve added something to the list. I hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all. If you can think of something else we might need, by all means, acquire it if you can.”

“I already have,” Clay said. “I have twenty barrels of Mogas.”

“You have twenty drums of gasoline?” Jake asked in surprise.

“No, sir, barrels, not drums. Drums hold only fifty gallons, a barrel holds fifty-five gallons. I figured it might be good to have.”

“You figured correctly,” Jake said.

“I know gas is expensive now, but I don’t think we should use this until we have to,” Clay suggested.

“I agree,” Jake said. “We need to put it somewhere safe.”

“I thought I would hide it in a hangar out at Hanchey Field.”

“No, too many people out there. We need a more remote place than that.”

“How about one of the stagefields?”

“Yes, excellent idea,” Jake said. “And I know where to go with it. TAC-X. It’s thirteen miles away, has four buildings, and is totally abandoned.”

“All right, I’ll get a truck from the motor pool.”

“No,” Jake said. “You would have to get a trip ticket for TAC-X and since it is no longer being used, that might arouse some suspicion. I think you would be better off renting a truck.”

Jake wrote a check for two thousand dollars and handed it to him. “I hope this covers your expenses,” he said. “But I would cash it immediately. And use it up as quickly as you can. The way the value of the dollar is plummeting, it may be worth only half as much this afternoon.”

“I hear you,” Clay said. “By the way, Captain Gooding is the POL Officer. If you would happen to get a telephone call from him, maybe you could cover my ass with a bit of a runaround.

“I’ll do it,” Jake said.

“Thanks.”

“I’ll leave it in your capable hands, Sergeant Major.”

“I’d better go find a truck.”