Arctic Wind

Prologue

The view was breathtaking. The large picture window overlooked the heart of the old city, and the lights highlighted each of the old structures creating a tapestry of color against a starry night sky. The cigar and cigarette smoke inside the room only partially dulled the overall sparkling vista as the eight men inside sat back in their rich leather seats to both admire the view and to discuss the weighty matters that only very high ranking executives and political leaders addressed. The curling smoke was only diminished when one of the men took a sip from the crystal glasses each held.

The men in the room savored both the drinks and the moment. Each had worked very hard to be included into this august group, although none of them had what many would consider a spotless career. In fact, several would be what many would be considered a felon by any standard. None the less, here they were, controlling a huge sector of power of their country, and ready to expand their empire at any cost.

One of the men turned his seat to face the others. He continued the discussion they had been having. “We have clearly outgrown the capacity of our nation to meet our needs. True, we have now gained over ninety five percent of the market at home and are each secure in our business or our political influence, but I hope you will agree this leaves a hollow feeling. We must expand beyond our borders where there are more raw materials, more industry and in particular, more customers. So far, we have been successful in bringing in our smaller neighbors, but now we must look beyond this. Our goal must be to expand from coast to coast. Only in this way can we solidify our influence and control,” the man said.

“This is true. It also means bringing in much needed technical expertise which we do not currently have. This will allow our operations to become much more efficient. This, in turn, will save us enormous amounts of money in the long run,” said another man in the room. He was dressed in a tailored suit and wearing his signature red carnation in his lapel.

“Don’t forget the added materials. My people need much more of the raw minerals available elsewhere. It is too expensive to import these. Having the mining operations, smelting and refining centers under our control will benefit all of us,” said another man, dressed in a suit which could best be described as “off the shelf.”

There was a chuckle from across the room. “I am fortunate that we do not need so much of the raw materials, but more of the customers themselves. My facilities are at only half what my people say is our full capacity, yet, we have saturated our markets.” He sat forward in his seat. “But to be able to eliminate the competition would mean more people purchasing from us. Can you imagine what that might bring?” he asked sitting back in his seat.

“I believe we are all in agreement,” said the first man. “The question is, when do we proceed,” he said looking at each of the men.

“It will be extremely expensive. It always is,” said one.

“Yes, but I believe we must make this short term sacrifice in order to reap the benefits in the long term. I, for one, am ready to make this happen,” said the man with the carnation.

“It has worked so far with little real effort or expense,” said another man.

“True, but that was with our former allies. There is only one real one left. Do you feel they will come our way?” asked the carnation man again.

“I feel they will as long as we move as we have in the past. With just the right pressure, they will come around. After all, they know what we are capable of,” said the first man.

The men sat in silence for a moment. The decision would be a weighty one. Each would have to make sacrifices in one way or another.

“What of our people,” asked one man sitting to one side. He had been silent up to now.

The first man snickered. “What of them? You know what our people are like. As long as they are well paid, they shut up and do as they are told. If not, we have ways of dealing with the problems which do not jeopardize what we are doing. We have made each of their lives much better through our efforts. They can buy things, go on vacations, and live their lives as they see fit because of us. Ultimately, they will live an even better life. If they cannot see that, then they cannot reap the benefits. It is plain and simple. We are the driving force behind our nation and we make these kinds of decisions. Ultimately, it is up to us to take care of them in a manner we plan and execute. In the end, we all prosper,” he said.

The men around him were nodding their heads. He knew he had won the argument even before the meeting had begun. This simply confirmed it.

‘Then we must move as soon as we can. The quicker we do this, the better off we are,” said the man in the simple suit. The man nodded again. “We leave it to you Alexi Andreovich,” he said.

Alexi Borodin nodded and looked back out the window at the beautiful onion domed spires gleaming below him. Unbeknown to the others in the room, the effort had already begun.

The proceedings had taken three weeks, but the jury’s verdict had been unanimous. The Austin, Texas, courtroom was filled with onlookers, but the ones standing out from the rest were the fourteen mayors, a master sergeant, and an admiral, who had attended every day of the trial including the testimony they had each presented. They all sat quietly, yet despite the verdict, the tension inside the courtroom remained high. The jury was now recommending a sentence.

Everyone had been crammed into the wooden bench seats trying to get a look at the man who, just two years earlier, had tried to take down the government of the United States. He sat on the left side of the courtroom with his trial lawyer. A Venezuelan lawyer had been requested, but firmly denied by the judge, who sat behind his bench just to the left of center in the front of the courtroom. Instead, a special legal team had been assigned to defend the accused. That way, there would be no doubt that the accused would get a fair trial. The guilty verdict hadn’t gotten any response from former Venezuelan President Parente, who sat smugly in his seat. Despite his protestations that he should wear his military uniform, he was wearing a simple orange jumpsuit. He acted as if he didn’t care what might happen to him.

The evidence had been damning. There was testimony of what had happened at the dinner, what had happened to each hostage in their makeshift cell in the mountain compound, photographs of Parente personally stabbing his victim, Mayor Jim Mitchell, and further testimony from the Special Forces team members who had rescued Mayor Patricia Hammond from being Parente’s second murder victim. Parente was even forced to show his mangled hands to prove he had been the man lifting the obsidian knife in preparation of stabbing the mayor in the chest. Even Sergeant Miller had taken the stand to tell how he shot the knife out of Parente’s hands with his rifle. When asked why he didn’t simply kill the man with the knife, Miller had shrugged and said, “We were told to bring back the people responsible, if possible. I made it possible.”

From the front of the courtroom, the bailiff stood. “All rise,” he said as the door to the jury room opened and the jury made its way back into the courtroom, sitting in their box to the right of the people in the room.

“Please be seated,” the bailiff said. After everyone was seated, the judge turned to the jury.

“Have you reached a sentencing recommendation,” he asked.

The jury foreman stood. “We have, Your Honor.” He handed a single sheet of paper to the bailiff, who then took it to the judge.

The room was quiet as the judge looked over the paper. There was a slight nod as he refolded the paper and reached out to hand it back to the bailiff.

Two muffled shots rang out and a woman screamed at the back of the courtroom. Both the bailiff and the only other deputy fell to the floor as two men jumped into the center aisle and bounded toward the front of the courtroom. The leading man suddenly tripped and fell to the floor as a leg was thrust out from the crowded bench. He hit the floor with a thud, his gun clattering away toward the front of the room.

The second man saw what happened and began to turn toward the opposite rows when he, too, suddenly felt his legs shift from under him. He held onto his gun, which went off, leaving a hole in the courtroom wall. Rapidly he felt arms grab him in a vice — like grip. Master Sergeant Dale Ricks began wrestling with the man, keeping the gun hand pointed safely away from the others in the room. The man was strong, but Ricks was a very well trained soldier and he was not about to be bested by some extremist. The man tried swinging his arm down and with all the strength he had, squeezed off a round that entered Ricks’ right shoe. With a grin on his face, the man was somewhat surprised when Ricks placed both hands on his arm, slammed it into the side of a bench and then calmly broke his forearm. With a scream, the man crumpled to the ground, holding onto his now misshapen arm. Ricks then calmly shoved the man’s head into the side of the wooden bench, knocking him senseless.

At the same time, the other assailant, stunned by his fall, suddenly found someone sitting on his back. Mayor Patricia Crowell-Hammond had her knees on either side of the man, sitting firmly half way up his back. The man began flailing his arms trying to get loose and kicking wildly with his feet. “Better calm down. You don’t want me to get angry,” she said as she reached over the man’s head, placed her index and middle fingers firmly up his nostrils and began to pull. Now the man’s hands began trying to grab her wrists, but she pulled her fingers tighter and jerked his head back almost to the small of his back.

“Roger!” shouted Patricia as she saw Parente grab the ball point pen used by his legal counsel, and stab him in the chest with it. Parente turned quickly to help his allies, and became entangled in the extra chairs at the defense table. An arm closed around his neck from behind and Admiral Roger Hammond began to squeeze. “You know, you really don’t want to give me an excuse to break your neck,” Hammond said quietly into Parente’s ear. The harder he fought, the tighter Hammond squeezed until Ricks walked up in front of Parente.

“I warned you I would be around,” he said with a death-like stare. Then he punched Parente solidly in the stomach, knocking the wind from the man and dropping him like a stone.

“He has a knife!” someone shouted. Both Ricks and Hammond turned to see the assailant on the floor swing his arm around. There was a ceramic knife in his clinched hand. Before he could move his arm into position, Patricia Hammond gave a mighty heave. Her fingernails pierced the man’s skin and she peeled his nose back like a banana. There was a scream in the room. This time, it was the assailant. The knife clattered to the floor and he grasped at his now bleeding face.

“Better get some paper towels. He’s going to make a mess,” she said, glancing down at her bloody hand and then wiping it on the man’s shirt. She leaned over to the man, sobbing under her. “I warned you,” she said. Then looking around, she exclaimed, “Will somebody get some help in here? He’s very uncomfortable.”

It had only take about thirty seconds in all, but three men lay on the floor with two men and a woman standing over them. When the deputies came crashing into the room they weren’t sure what had happened, but the judge banged his gavel and very quickly gave the orders on whom to seize. Ricks raised his hand.

“Your Honor, these guys couldn’t have been working alone. I bet there is someone lese waiting outside with a car. You want to get them too?” he asked with a sly grin.

The judge’s face spread into a wide smile. “I most certainly do.”

“Well, I think I can get this young man to tell us their plans,” Patricia said as she reached into her purse and took out a pencil. She also removed one of her shoes. “I always wondered if it was like the cartoons and something could go all the way through,” she said leaning down toward the man. He immediately began telling them everything they wanted to know.

Five minutes later the outside door to the judge’s entrance sprang open and three men ran outside. Two were dressed as the assailants. In between was Parente, his orange jumpsuit draped in a towel. He was having a hard time keeping up, since his hands and feet were manacled. A yellow painted taxi suddenly sprang down the side of the street and screeched to a halt in front of the men. The door was flung open and the three men jumped inside. As soon as the men were in, the driver slammed his foot down on the accelerator heading toward the main road.

Suddenly the road was blocked by nearly a dozen patrol cars. The driver spun the wheel slinging the car around so he could exit down the other side, but he was blocked in. This became even more evident when he felt the barrel of a pistol pressed against the back of his neck.

“I think you need to stop now,” said an unfamiliar voice behind him. Glancing in the rearview mirror, the driver saw two unfamiliar men, with Parente between them looking angry and disgusted. One of the men spoke again. “Just pull to the side. You are now in the custody of the Texas Rangers. Partner, you just screwed up big time,” he said with a grin.

Fifteen minutes later, Parente was led back into the courtroom. Everyone was still there, but his legal counsel had been changed. Then the judge entered the chamber and everyone took their seats.

“We will resume to sentencing phase of this proceeding. Fortunately, the jury had already presented me with its findings and they cannot be changed. In this case, the jury has asked for the death penalty. Therefore, I must ask two questions of the jury before handing down the sentence. Those answers have already been given to me, but I must ask the foreman to provide the answers orally. The first question is whether there exists a probability the defendant would commit criminal acts of violence that would constitute a "continuing threat to society". Did you find this to be so?”

The foreman, standing at his seat, nodded, “Yes, Your Honor.”

“The second question is whether, taking into consideration the circumstances of the offense, the defendant's character and background, and the personal moral culpability of the defendant, there exists sufficient mitigating circumstances to warrant a sentence of life imprisonment rather than a death sentence?”

The foreman shook his head, “No, Your Honor.”

The judge looked at the other jurors. “So say you all?”

They all nodded.

The judge nodded solemnly. “Very well. I thank the jury. It has been a very difficult and tedious trial, and your perseverance is appreciated.” He then turned to face the accused. Parente’s new lawyer had Parente to stand.

“Mr. Parente, you have been found guilty of capital murder, conspiracy to commit murder, kidnapping and attempted murder of thirteen others. Upon the deliberation of a jury, and their recommendation, I hereby sentence you to death by lethal injection. You are to be turned over to the Texas Department of Criminal Justice. Your case will be automatically appealed to the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals where it will be reviewed. I am ordering that you be placed in solitary confinement until such time as prosecutors can try you for the acts of terrorism you and your co-conspirators performed in this very courtroom. You will also be made available to the United States Department of Justice for any trials which their prosecutors may wish to bring, however, I am ordering that you never be transported, for any reason from the Great State of Texas. Any further trials and proceedings must take place within this state. Is there any other business for this court?” he asked.

“You bastard. You think you can kill me? You are all beneath me. I will not tolerate…” Parente began to snarl. He was stopped by the sound of a fist slamming into a hand behind him. He turned to see Ricks standing there. His eyes were like fire and it appeared as if he would rip Parente’s head off with one quick jerk.

“Does the court require assistance?” Ricks asked with a voice that Parente thought sounded like death. Three deputies grabbed Parente and slammed him down in his seat.

The judge gave a slight smile. “Thank you for your offer, Master Sergeant. Bailiff, if he utters another word in this building, you are to gag him.”

“I ask everyone to remain after the court adjourns, including the jury. If there is nothing further, this court is adjourned.”

Parente was snatched up by the three deputies and dragged out of the courtroom. Once the door was closed, the judge stepped down from his bench. “Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for what you have been through today. We take every precaution, yet, somehow, these two managed to sneak two plastic guns into this courtroom. I am sure our procedures will be changed,” the judge said quietly. Turning to the jury, he continued, “I especially want to thank the jury. This has to be one of the most heinous crimes I have seen on the bench. You were forced to sit through it all, listening to things that might be otherwise unbelievable. Yet, I believe you rendered the only verdict possible. You then had to make the very difficult decision on punishment. It is not easy or pleasant, what you did, but you did it, and the people of this state applaud you.”

He then turned to Roger, Dale and Patricia. “As for the three of you, I cannot find the words to express how much we all are indebted to you for your courageous actions in this court. Were it not for you, there might have been many more deaths. It is no wonder to me that two of you are recipients of our nation’s highest award. And as for you, Mayor Hammond, I hope you are always on my side,” he said with a grin. Applause echoed through the courtroom and into the marbled halls outside the door causing several to wonder why the sanctity of the court was being so disturbed.

There was a tenseness in the air as the men sitting around the great table took their turns to speak. The room itself was very ornate. The walls were painted in rich colors and actual gold gilt highlighted the carved features. Someone had mentioned to the delegates that the table itself was over three hundred years old. Indeed, the deep rich colors of the wood seemed to glow beneath the men’s hands. No one in the room had even noticed the colors and decoration. They were there to discuss something so serious that the fate of the world seemed to drip from the ornate walls. The men sat uneasily in their chairs. Some perched with their elbows on the table, leaning forward as if to stress the interest they had in the proceedings, while others sat back in their seats with hands in their laps, trying to remain calm.

The NATO leaders had been meeting for three days and had already covered the easy subjects, but this final one was the real reason they had met. The Polish President spoke to the men in halting English, but everyone could tell he was afraid.

“You all know we are next,” he said. “We have seen this before in the 1930s. Hitler annexed Austria, the Sudetenland, and Czechoslovakia simply because he claimed the people there spoke German. Now the Russians are doing the same. First was the Crimea, then all of Ukraine. Next came the smaller states like Rumania, Estonia, Moldavia, and Latvia. Belarus is now nothing more than a puppet state. We know Russian troops move freely within its borders. We now hear of daily uprisings in Lithuania and Slovakia. It is the same procedure each time. There is rising unrest by people who say their heritage is Russian. People start to be killed and then Mother Russia rushes in to protect the people of Russian descent. It will not be long before my country will be surrounded on three sides by Russian troops. It will be just like the cold war, except that this one will be very hot indeed — especially for Poland. I need to know what NATO will do to help protect us,” he exclaimed. He had been standing at his chair and now glared at the other members of the chamber.

“Mister President,” said the French President, “we have all seen what has happened over the past few years. Yet, we also realize that each of these nations has been run by relatively weak governments and had poor economies. Although it saddens us that some of our former NATO allies have left us, they did this of their own accord. We can’t stop someone from leaving NATO simply because we don’t want them to.”

The Polish President glared at the man. “I believe there was much more than simply changing sides here. If you recall, Latvia and Estonia asked for help, but all we did was debate it till it was too late. Only the United States provided some assistance but even that was not enough. You are correct that we cannot dictate what our member nations will do, but when we know something is about to happen, do you not believe it would be prudent to take steps to support our allies?” he asked pleadingly.

“I feel you are overestimating the things going on in these countries. We have spoken with our Russian emissaries and they assure us that they have no intention of going into any country, but are simply compelled to help people of their Russian heritage,” said the French President. He sat smugly in his chair leaving the impression that he thought little Poland and her fears. This did nothing but anger the Polish President even more.

“And this doesn’t sound vaguely familiar?” he nearly screamed. “I feel the opposite. We should all be concerned. Within a few months, I expect the Russian Army at my back door. I am also here to tell you Poland will not simply give in. We had enough of Russian domination. We were the first to declare ourselves free and we do not intend to give up that freedom. So again, I ask, what will NATO do?”

It was the German Chancellor who stood slowly. His eyes focused on the Polish President. “Gentlemen, I agree with the President. Russia is making her early moves. My military tells me this every day. We all know history and what has happened in the past, and I can assure our neighbor to the east, Germany will be with you, side by side, whatever happens. We cannot let history repeat itself,” he said slowly. “My nation is already secretly building up its reserves so that we may respond to this threat. Perhaps a portion of our past may be forgotten as we work together.”

“As members of this organization, we are pledged to come to the aid of the others when called upon,” said the British Prime Minster Nicholson. “Britain will be there when called for, but we must consider that even with all our forces it may not be enough,” he said.

“Our forces won’t be enough to make much of a difference,” said the Italian President. He shrugged his shoulders, “But we will abide by the NATO Charter and send what we can,” he said. Some of the men in the room looked at each other. They knew “what we can” would be next to nothing. Slowly, they all began to turn to the United States Representative.

President Steven O’Bannon looked around at the men in the room. Once again, he knew they were all counting on the United States to bail them out of any situation. He was tired of it. More than that, he knew his people were tired of it. He let out a small breath and sat forward. “Gentlemen, ever since the end of World War Two, the United States has been called upon to be the policeman of the world. If you look back, we have provided the most people, the most equipment, the most sweat and the most toil of any nation. We have never shied away from standing up to tyranny. But the American people have become weary of these conflicts. Since I have come to office, we have fought one war and been a part of three other conflicts, not counting our rescue effort in South America. My people are starting to ask when the rest of the world will be ready to step up. So as far as the United States is concerned, we will respond, but not before every other nation in NATO steps forward with substantial resources and forces. Don’t count on the United States to shoulder the brunt of a conflict which Europe is unwilling to challenge. You must be ready to take on this one, on your own, if possible,” he said sadly.

“That is irresponsible,” the French president almost shouted. “You are the superpower of this world. It is up to you to protect other NATO nations!”

O’Bannon’s face turned to an angry scowl. “Irresponsible? Do not place that name upon us. Since the end of the world war, we have done everything we could to maintain our forces and be good allies while we watched each of you reduce your military to bare minimums. As a result, our economy took the hits while yours prospered. We were called upon to send forces all over this globe, while at home, many of you demanded we remove our bases, equipment, and troops. Well, now someone is practically knocking down your doors and here you come looking for us to send help. We have fewer than 50,000 troops in Europe now. Our tanks and planes are back home. Now you want us to bear the burden of sending it all back. You can’t have it both ways, gentlemen. This time, you must pick up the sword. You must make the plans and get ready. Yes, our forces will be there with you, but I will not send anything back over here till you have done your part. We will either do this together, or we don’t do it at all!” he demanded.

The men around the table looked shattered. They had nearly all relied on the United States to take care of their business for the last 80 years. The thought that the United States might not be there chilled them to their core. Prime Minister Nicholson stood at his seat.

“My friends, I do not doubt that our ally, the United States will be with us if this goes as we expect. However, President O’Bannon is correct in what he says. Our combined armies would have a very difficult time, at best, dealing with Russian invasion of Europe. We have all reduced our forces to appalling levels simply because it was expedient. Great Britain came to this conclusion late last year when this all began. Since that time, we too have quietly been increasing our forces and building back up. We know this will take time, but hope that there will be enough time to become much more prepared. I recommend each nation begin this process, so that if and when the day does come, we will be able to stand together and take up our responsibilities to each other, whatever happens.” He sat back down and nodded to O’Bannon, who smiled back.

“It would ruin us,” said the Belgian Prime Minister. “The cost would be staggering.”

“Think how much it would cost if you became a part of Russia,” demanded the Polish President.

“It will be difficult,” said the Spanish Prime Minister, “but I believe it must be done. If we all share the burden, it will be much easier in the long run.”

“France has enough men and equipment. Any more would have a detrimental effect, especially since we do not believe the situation is that serious,” the French President said. He shrugged his shoulders. “However, if it does happen, France will take its place at the front.”

“What is the next step?” asked the President of Denmark.

“Our military leaders are probably already debating these steps. As long as everyone in this room is ready to do their part, we need to listen to what they come up with and then see what each of us needs to do,” said President O’Bannon. “Until then, we go back to our countries and prepare for something we can only pray never happens.”

Admiral Richard Stiles stepped out of his quarters in the Washington Navy Yard and began his daily run. As Vice Chief of Naval Operations, his duties seemed to be endless. Not only did he have responsibilities in Washington, but he was also the Commander, Naval Forces Europe, Commander, Naval Forces Africa, and Commander, Allied Joint Forces Command in Naples. In the last year, he had made trips to Europe almost weekly. As a result, his body clock seemed to always be in a mess. The only time he could take his mind off his work was when he ran.

Stiles had always been a heath nut. He had instilled fitness of mind and body in each command, often leading his people through a daily regimen. He was what they called ‘lean and mean,’ and loved it. Unfortunately, this lifestyle had taken its toll on his family. His wife had left him years ago and his two children almost never visited, simply because he was never available to visit. But the larger holidays would bring at least a few days when his family could be together. If he could arrange the time, he was planning a two week vacation where maybe they could get together for a bit.

Things in his office were a mess. The Middle East still presented headaches; the pirates were coming back along the East African Coast, Russia had been up to no good in Europe and Typhoons in the Pacific had been particularly bad this year. Luckily, the Pacific and the Middle East were not something he had to spend much time on. His latest challenge was to figure out what Russia might do and how we could counter their efforts. Stiles had a reputation of being able to get to the bottom of a problem and come up with a pretty good plan on getting it fixed. He had established a planning group just yesterday and would spend a good month or more working things out.

Usually his runs allowed him to take his mind off his problems, but for the last few days that hadn’t been the case. The headaches were more frequent and his diet of black coffee throughout the day wasn’t helping. He had noticed that he was becoming testier with his subordinates, but if he was under stress, so should they be.

He rounded the corner and began his trek along the waterfront. He noticed some new items added to the Navy History Center Museum. The most interesting was the top of a smokestack that had once been a part of USS Iowa. Struck by a cruise missile, it had sent the stack flying off the ship, only to land on the flight deck of the aircraft carrier USS Ronald Reagan. The President had personally ordered it returned home and placed on the Navy Yard grounds. Stiles couldn’t imagine a ship being hit with such force and still surviving.

The old warehouses in the Yard had all been converted into offices. Dim lights could be seen through the tinted windows as people worked late into the evening. He felt a slight pain in his right temple and placed his hand up to rub the spot. Suddenly his legs seemed to lose control and he fell with a thud on the pavement. His last thought, before losing consciousness, was that the headache had seemed to go away.

Sgt. Fred Jackson of the Navy Yard police spotted something lying on the sidewalk and pulled his car over and stopped. He flipped on the lights to warn others and slowly got out of the car. Immediately recognizing Admiral Stiles, he reached down and felt for a pulse. It was rapid and weak, but there. He immediately called in the emergency. The fire department showed up first. The paramedics saw the abrasions on his face and arms and feared he had been assaulted. They began providing emergency care and called the situation in to the hospital. When they checked his reactions, there were none. His eyes were dilated and non-responsive. An ambulance arrived five minutes later, but by then it was too late. Admiral Stiles had died from a massive stroke.

Admiral Perry Johnson was roused from his sleep by one of the communications team. The man handed him the message and turned on the light above his head. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, Johnson read the message and let out a sigh. “Is the President awake?” he asked sadly.

“He just closed his door. I doubt he has gotten to bed yet,” the young woman said.

“Thanks,” said Johnson as he got up and headed for the front of the plane.

President O’Bannon had just removed his tie and shoes when there was a knock at the door. The Secret Service agent stuck his head in. “The CNO asked to see you, sir.”

O’Bannon nodded and motioned for him to let the CNO in. Johnson stepped into the small cabin.

“What’s up Perry?” the President asked.

Johnson handed over the message. “I just got it. Richard had just gotten things started on our assessment when this happened,” he said sadly.

The President let out a sigh. “I was counting on him to not only see where we are, but start coordinating the NATO efforts. Who have we got that can step into his shoes really fast?” He motioned for the CNO to sit down. The president took a seat on one of the beds.

“I really don’t have any four stars who could do the job Richard could. With the cutbacks, we have been doubling up on a lot of duties,” the CNO said.

O’Bannon nodded, “I know. We’re letting a lot of things be worked out at lower levels. But I need someone who thinks outside the box. This person needs to think through these kinds of problems and then have the respect in NATO that will get the job done without it looking like we’re stepping on toes. Most of the admirals in Washington really aren’t up to that level,” he said. “I just had to lay it on the line with our NATO leaders. If I get someone too pushy, they will turn away, but if I get someone too soft, the others won’t do their part.”

The lines on the edges of the CNO’s eyes began to lift. “Of course, if you wanted someone with a reputation to get things done, I know one guy. As a matter of fact, he’s been known to figure a few things out on his own,” he said with a grin.

At first, the President’s face had a questioning look. Suddenly, it changed to understanding and his grin began to match the one on Admiral Johnson’s face. “He’s been out of our sight way too long. What‘s he doing now?”

“Finishing his job at SURFPAC. I was going to send him to be Sixth Fleet, but I think he could handle this,” Johnson said. “You’ll need to give him his fourth star.”

“After what he did in Venezuela, he deserves it. Call him up and tell him he needs to come back home.”

The CNO stood. The smile on his face told the President he had made the right decision. He had rarely seen a smile that big on the Chief of Naval Operations.

The long trip away from home had worn “Little Steve” out. The two year old had drifted off just an hour into the flight home and had remained asleep while his father put him in his bed. Steven James Hammond had been born just three months after his mother had been rescued from being kidnapped by the President of Venezuela — the same man they had just seen sentenced to death in a Texas court. He was more than healthy. By one, he was pulling himself up and taking his first steps. He began talking at eighteen months. Both Patricia and Roger Hammond had their hands full keeping his inquisitive mind and fingers out of things. Baby proofing was more than a chore. Steven had already figured out how to get around most child locks. While Patricia found herself getting grey hair, Roger had come to admire how his little boy was thinking. Reading had been a nightly thing since the boy was one, but now Little Steve was reading along with his parents and had stepped up to higher level books. Roger was determined that his son would have only the best in his education.

After kissing his son good night, he closed the door and walked to his bedroom. Patricia had already donned her nightgown and had crawled into bed. “Never mind unpacking,” she said. “Tomorrow is Saturday. We can do it then, if we don’t sleep till Sunday,” she said tiredly.

Roger kicked off his shoes and got undressed. A quick brush of his teeth and he crawled into bed beside his wife. He leaned over to give her a good night kiss, but she was already dead asleep. He turned off the light and lay back on his pillow. Yesterday had seen the closing of another chapter of his life. Parente would now face the ultimate price for kidnapping his wife. He still was unsure what long term psychological effects might come through with Patricia. The first day after her rescue she had been in a daze. She rarely spoke and seemed to cling to Roger as if her life depended on it. From what Dale Ricks had told him, she was lucky he had arrived when he did. He had told Roger that Parente was about to plunge a knife through her chest when that sharpshooter had fired. Even he had thought he would be too late to save her. But then something happened. When the crew of Iowa had appeared at that club, she had slowly come out of her haze. They had reached out to her, and slowly, she had reached out to them. In a one hour period, she had returned from the dead. Doc Dickerson said he had never seen anything like it before.

They had returned home aboard the Iowa. With each passing day she had grown stronger. Pretty soon, she could be found in different areas of the ship, laughing with “her guys” and listening to all the things each man had been doing, both aboard ship and in their personal lives. She even found out several men had gotten jobs and moved to San Pedro, not only to be near their ship, but close to her and their captain. Such news tickled her to no end.

But there was something more. She had grown more confident and more assertive. Somewhere along the way, Patricia had found an inner strength that took her far beyond anything she had done in the past. He had seen that in the courtroom when she tripped one of the assailants. The image of her sitting on his back with her fingers in his nose was one he would never forget. In all, it had made him love her even more.

His thoughts were interrupted by the phone ringing on the night stand. He picked up the receiver. “Hammond.”

“Roger, this is Perry. I heard you played hero again yesterday.”

“I can’t seem to get away from trouble,” Hammond chuckled.

“Patricia and Little Steve okay?”

“Of course,” Hammond said while glancing at his bedside clock. “Now, if I got my times right, you should be halfway across the Atlantic right now.”

There was a chuckle at the other end of the line. “I am.”

“Okay, it must be serious if you are making this call. What do you need me for?”

Roger, Richard Styles just passed away from a stroke. I know you were expecting to go to Sixth Fleet, but the President and I need you here with us. You’ll receive orders tomorrow to be here by Monday. You’re being assigned as the Vice Chief of Naval Operations.”

Hammond sat up in his bed. “It must be serious if you need me there by Monday.”

“Yea, Roger, it is. Steve and I need you badly. I can’t go over it all over the phone, so pack your bags and head this way. I’ll arrange for a place in senior officer housing in the Navy Yard. If you could be in my office by six a.m., we’ll do the briefs and I’ll fill you in. You onboard?” the CNO asked.

“Yes, sir. I’ll try and get a flight tomorrow.”

“No, make it Sunday. Give you time to say goodbye to your family. If you get in early enough, come by the residence and we’ll have a beer. Sorry about the short notice.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get as early a flight as I can.”

“Good. And by the way, you need to find an extra star. I’ll see you Sunday.”

“Good night, Perry. See you then,” Hammond said as he hung up the phone.

Patricia was now leaning on her elbow in the bed. “I take it that was Perry Johnson. Is there a problem?” she asked.

Roger looked back at her. “Must be. I have to report to Washington Monday morning. Seems I won’t be going so far away after all,” he said. “I am to be the Vice Chief of Naval Operations in Washington.”

Patricia nodded. “There goes my trips to the Mediterranean,” she said as she rolled over in the bed.

The compartment was no more than four feet wide, seven feet long and five feet tall. Inside was one aircraft style seat bolted to the wooden floor, a small cooler with food for the journey and a portable chemical toilet. A small ten watt light provided the only illumination. It was powered by two auto batteries mounted in one corner. Anton Bugayev had been sealed into the compartment twelve hours before and the compartment placed into a shipping container. The container was one of several hundred on a train heading into Poland as a part of a trade package.

Already Bugayev was dead tired. The train was constantly lurching back and forth and what little fresh air he got from the ventilation system was woefully inadequate. At first, he had tried to sleep, but between the movement and the noise of all the additional crates within the container, sleep was impossible.

Bugayev tried to stretch. He couldn’t stand up fully in the compartment, so he dropped the leg support on the aircraft seat. This allowed him to extend to his fully five feet and eleven inch length. The stretch didn’t satisfy him much. Surely, this part of his mission would be over soon.

Beginning on his eighteenth birthday, Bugayev had been spirited away from his family and sent to several special schools. His intelligence and ability to influence his friends had been noticed early in school and had come to the attention of Vladimir Putin, the head of the Foreign Intelligence Service, or SVR. Now he was almost thirty, could speak five languages fluently, and had the documents he could use to freely move around any country in Europe as one of its citizens. He had been assigned to Directorate “S,” which was responsible for preparing and planting "illegal agents" abroad, conducting terror operations and sabotage in foreign countries, "biological espionage," recruitment of foreign citizens on the Russian territory and a few other duties. In just the last four years, he had been part of three strategic operations, most recently in Latvia. In each case, he had been able to achieve the SVR’s objectives which ultimately allowed his country to make political and military moves into these countries with little loss of Russian lives. He was proud of his work, although he already knew he would never be recognized for it.

After another hour, the train slowed. Sitting quietly, Bugayev listened to try to see what was going on. There were a couple brief shouts, then the train began moving again. If it was the border, he would have just one more hour in this wood lined hell hole. At least he hoped his fellow agents would be able to get him out.

Just a little over an hour later, as expected, the train came to a halt. Within a few minutes, he heard the cranes coming down the line, lifting the containers from their cars and placing them on the back of trucks. Very quickly, he heard the sound of men hooking up the cables and felt the container lift off its car and be swung through the air. After another jolt as the container was positioned on a set of wheels, he heard a big truck diesel come to life as the truck, with its container, began moving down the road.

Although the train ride had been rough, the truck ride was agony. It seemed every rut, pothole and bump was hit along the way. Mercifully, after a thirty minute ride, he could hear a change in the sounds around him. In this case, it sounded as if they had entered a large building. The truck stopped and the engine was shut down. In a minute, Bugayev hear the door open on the end of the container. Men began taking out all the rest of the boxes and crates inside. A few minutes more and there was a knock on the side of Bugayev’s wooden crate. The latches were pulled back inside and the crate wall lowered from the top to lay flat in the container. Bugayev blinked as the lights from several flashlights were pointed at him.

“Come, quickly. Your scooter is just outside that door. You have all your papers and instructions?” a man asked in Polish.

“Yes,” he replied.

“Then off with you, and good luck,” said the man.

Bugayev didn’t even stop to shake his hand. He quickly grabbed his satchel and walked to the door on the side of the building. Looking back, Bugayev saw the men close the crate and stack it near several others along the far wall. Obviously they planned on using it again.

Exiting the building, as promised, Bugayev found the scooter propped against the wall. He placed his satchel on the back holder and then mounted his new steed. Turning the key, it started right up. He then twisted the throttle and sped around the building and down the darkened road.