Chains of Command

EPILOGUE

Daren Mace lightly touched her arm: “Rebecca? Wake up.”

“Huh? What … Jesus!” She was sitting in the cockpit of her RF-111G Vampire bomber, her gloves and helmet on and the canopy closed — but somehow she had fallen asleep, and the airspeed had been allowed to drift almost to zero. It was still dark outside, but she could tell that they were right on the deck, lower than treetop level — the altimeter tape was reading only five hundred feet! She grabbed for the throttles, jamming them forward to military power—

“Easy, Rebecca,” Mace said, grabbing for her hands. “We’re on the ground. In Vilnius, Lithuania — remember? The crew chiefs are here to load us up.” Slightly embarrassed, Rebecca and Daren climbed out of the cockpit, where they had been sitting guard all night ready to launch again, and let the maintenance control team from Incirlik in to do their job.

The Vampires had been refueled as soon as they touched down at Vilnius International Airport, and a maintenance control team that had been sent the day of the attack had fixed the radar and patched the fuel leaks in Furness’ aircraft. Now, two hours after landing, a C-17 Globemaster III transport delivered external fuel tanks, Sidewinder missiles, starter cartridges, four AGM-88C HARM missiles, and two CBU-89 “Gator” mine dispersal weapons for each Vampire — a typical defense-suppression load — along with security guards, command post personnel, and a new strike routing, this time targeting armor divisions that might roll across the Russian frontier toward Lithuania. The weapons and fuel tanks were quickly uploaded onto both aircraft, and Thunder One and Thunder Two went on cockpit alert.

“So it wasn’t a nightmare,” Furness said. “It wasn’t a dream.”

“Nope, we really did it,” Mace replied. They were both wrapped in leather and fur coats borrowed from the Lithuanian Self-Defense Forces, wearing helmets so they could monitor the radios. Both crewmen were wearing survival vests under their coats, complete with 45-caliber automatics — they could be going to war at any time, and they had to be thinking tactical warfare now. A warm-air hose from the external power cart hooked up to the Vampire kept them warm inside the cockpit despite below-freezing temperatures outside. “Pavlo did it.”

“Where is he?”

“He never came in,” Mace said. “I heard him talking on the radio in Russian while we were getting away — I don’t speak Russian, but it sounded like an electronic suicide note to me.”

“Damn him,” Furness muttered. “He didn’t have to do that. He was a hero — he had no reason to kill himself.”

“Hard to tell what a guy thinks about after launching a nuclear weapon,” Mace said. “But he was doing it to defend his home and his people. That changes things a lot. I’m going to miss him.”

Their cockpit alert duty did not last long. Eight hours and two power carts later, Lieutenant General Tyler Layton arrived at the aircraft shelters with several Lithuanian officers and senior NATO commanders. Rebecca and Daren got out of the aircraft when Layton waved them down.

“General Palcikas, I’d like to present Major Rebecca Furness and Lieutenant Colonel Daren Mace,” Layton said. “Rebecca, Daren, General Dominikas Palcikas, Minister of Defense of the Lithuanian Republic.”

“A great pleasure,” Palcikas said, nearly crushing even Mace’s strong grip with a huge bearlike hand, then tenderly kissing Rebecca’s hand with a slight bow. Everyone had heard of Dominikas Palcikas, even Furness. He was one of the biggest heroes to come out of the post-Soviet Union states. He was a fifty-five-year-old combat veteran who had trained and risen up through the ranks of the old Soviet Army. But upon the independence of Lithuania in mid-1991, Palcikas became General and Commander in Chief of the Lithuanian Forces of Self-Defense. He named his initial cadre of officers and enlisted volunteers the Iron Wolf Brigade, invoking not only the spirit of the Grand Dukes of Lithuania, but the unit of the same name that had been led by his father in World War II, a unit that once saved Lithuania. Then, in 1992, when an ambitious general from neighboring Byelorussia made a play to take over Lithuania, it was Palcikas (with a little help from the U.S. Marines) who crushed the uprising and kept Lithuania independent once again, earning Palcikas not only worldwide fame but a place in history as well.

“We bring good news,” announced Palcikas. “The war is over. Russia has laid down its weapons and is withdrawing from Ukrayina even now.”

“That’s wonderful!” Furness said, giving everyone there, including Palcikas, a big hug. The big Lithuanian minister didn’t seem to mind one bit.

“The Congress of People’s Deputies of Russia has appointed Valentin Sen’kov as acting president, pending new elections,” Layton said. “He ordered the military withdrawal from Ukrayina, and so far it appears that the Russian Army is responding.”

“How badly was Moscow hit?” Daren Mace asked.

“Bad,” Palcikas responded, “but not as badly as the Russians did to Ukrayina and Turkey. Much damage to southern Moscow and cities of Podolsk, Zhukovsky, and Ramenskoye. Perhaps twenty thousand dead at Domodedovo, another twenty thousand other places. Russia very lucky the Ukrayinans good bombers. Direct hit on Domodedovo Airport, little destruction elsewhere.”

“We’re tracking the fallout, and we could see another twenty to fifty thousand casualties from that in time — perhaps some in China and even North America,” Layton added. “Radiation could get into the food chain in Asia. It’s bad, but like General Palcikas said, it could have been worse, especially if the Russians had retaliated with an all-out attack. I think the world just got a wake-up call, my friends. I just hope we hear the alarm and take action, and don’t just hit the snooze button.

“Anyway, you two are off alert. You can turn your classified documents over to the communications detail, and you can run your decocking and stand-down checklists. Once maintenance signs for the plane and the weapons, you two are on your own for a few days. General Palcikas has kindly offered the hospitality of the capital city and his staff.”

“Lithuania is cold and blustery place in winter,” Dominikas Palcikas said, “but we have many fine ways of keeping our guests warm. You are most welcome. But first show me your beautiful aircraft here. I understand Turkey wants to buy Vampire bombers, and perhaps Lithuania will buy some too. Would you like to come to Lithuania to teach my crews how to fly these beautiful planes?”

“It might just happen,” General Layton said. “Negotiations are underway, and the Pentagon will most likely deactivate the Vampire wing at Plattsburgh. Vilnius even looks like Plattsburgh, in an Old World way. You two will certainly be at the top of the list for the initial training cadre — an experienced instructor pilot, a maintenance wizard, and an experienced weapons officer. Think about it, you two.”

“Lithuania would be honored to have you,” Palcikas added. “You come. We have lots of fun.” He looked at the two flyers, noticing how they were looking at each other, then winked at Tyler Layton. “I see the thought of you two being together in foreign land is very disturbing. I welcome you to Lithuania.” Layton took Palcikas over to the RF-111G and began explaining its features.

Mace turned to Rebecca and smiled warmly, saying, “Hey, all I got left at Plattsburgh waiting for me is some busted taps at a biker bar in downtown Plattsburgh. You have a business to run, a bunch of new planes, maybe a future.”

Rebecca thought about her options — for about two seconds. “You know, I think I’ll tell Ed Caldwell to take his Cessna Caravans and stick them up his oversexed ass. Pardon my language. I want to fly the F-111s, period. If I can’t fly them in New York, I’ll fly them in Vilnius, or Ankara. As long … as long as you’re there with me.”

“Deal, lady,” Daren Mace replied, taking both her hands in his. “It’s a deal.”

Rebecca gave him a tight hug, pulled back a bit, then met his lips with her own.

“Zah vashe zdarov’yeh. Congratulations, Valentin … er, I should say, Mr. President,” the First Lady said on the satellite telephone call to St. Petersburg. An emergency Russian government had been transferred there until a full assessment of the destruction and fallout from Domodedovo could be completed. “We’re very happy for you.”

“Thank you very much, Mrs. President,” Valentin Sen’kov, the acting president of the Russian Federation, replied. “I am not sure if congratulations are in order, considering the circumstances, but I thank you for your kind thoughts.”

“All America is very concerned about the devastation at Domodedovo and throughout Russia,” the President said. His feet were propped up on the Kennedy desk, the phone resting on one ear, while he chewed on a chicken leg with his free hand. He had ordered out this evening, over the protests of the First Lady who was on a nearby extension, and a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken rested on his desk, along with a huge Coke and a basket of biscuits. He loved the Colonel’s original recipe. “Our blessings are with you. And on behalf of the NATO alliance, I want to thank you for agreeing to pull your forces out of the Ukraine and your warships in the Black Sea away from Turkey. A major disaster has been averted, thanks to you.”

“I hope what has transpired over the past few days only serves to bring our people closer together in this hour of need,” Sen’kov said.

“We share your hopes, Valentin,” the President said, wiping his mouth. He saw his chief of staff giving him a signal and pointing at his watch, reminding him that the next news conference was about to start. “We have to go, Valentin. If there’s anything you require, you know how to reach us.”

“Our blessings go with you,” the First Lady said. “It’s good to have a close friend and a strong, true advocate of democracy in the Kremlin.”

“Yes … ah, but there is still one small matter,” Sen’kov said quickly. “I understand you are giving another news conference in a short time. I think this would be a good opportunity to propose a reparation plan for the relief of the Russian people. I think—”

“What did you say?” the President interrupted, almost choking on one of the Colonel’s legs. “Did you say a reparation plan?”

“Yes, Mr. President,” Sen’kov said evenly. “We have not come up with any firm estimates on the damage caused by the AGM-131 weapon launched on Domodedovo, but I think a fair, conservative estimate might be in the order of one hundred billion dollars.”

“What in the hell are you talking about, Sen’kov?” the President retorted, spitting out the chicken. “Why should the United States or anyone pay reparations to Russia for the attack? First of all, it was a conflict between the Ukraine and Russia—”

“Come, come … we both know that it was not a Ukrainian AS-16 missile, as the pilot who launched the missile claimed during his radio message, but an American AGM-131 missile that destroyed Domodedovo,” Sen’kov said. “I think the world would be horrified to learn that you—”

“The United States did not launch the damn thing, the Ukrainians did!” thundered the President, his feet now off the desk. He looked at his wife, horrified, as if to say, Now see what you’ve gotten me into!

“Be that as it may, Mr. President,” Sen’kov said smugly, “the American involvement in the attack can be easily verified, and I think this confirmed story may prove, shall we say, damaging to your reelection hopes.”

“But it was you who suggested that we attack Domodedovo,” the First Lady snapped. “You told us he was in the bunker.” Her eyes were as big as saucers; her blonde hair was all but standing on end.

“How in the world would I have access to information like that, dear lady?” Sen’kov said. “I am just a simple congressman. I have no apparatus, no contacts, to get that kind of information. That is top secret information, shared by only a few close to the President, and certainly not with a member of the opposition party.

“Now, may I suggest we split the reparation payments into ten parts, ten billion dollars per year for ten years. Of course, during your news conference, you may call it humanitarian relief for the poor people of Russia. I have no objection to that. And we must discuss the procedures for plea-bargaining the lawsuits brought against my government by people affected by the fallout … that could go on for another five years.”

“This is blackmail!” the First Lady shouted, pacing with her extension in front of the French doors leading to the Rose Garden.

“You pull this shit on us, Sen’kov, and we’ll claim the same damages to Russia for its attacks on our NATO allies,” said the President, suddenly feeling an ulcer attack underway.

“But Mr. President — it is only fair,” Sen’kov said. “Of course, Russia did not use full-yield thermonuclear weapons, like the United States provided for the Ukraine, and it was Vitaly Velichko’s government, not mine, who ordered those horrible attacks on the Ukraine and Turkey. However, I am fully prepared to compensate the victims. My government would gladly negotiate reparations for the pain and suffering for the victims in the Ukraine and Turkey, and compensation for the property damage — minimal in our case, since the warheads launched against your allies hardly did any damage at all compared to the one missile you launched against us—provided the United States and NATO pay the same for victims in Russia.”

“Valentin … Mr. President,” the First Lady purred, “why are you doing this? Why are you turning on us like this? Your nation started a war against our NATO allies. Velichko would have started World War Three.”

“Dear lady, Mr. President, please understand,” Sen’kov explained. “Velichko was a mad dog, but he spoke for many in my country — like myself — that are disturbed by the disintegration of the Russian state. The Communists like Velichko bankrupted our country, it’s true, but his ideals are held by many here, including many powerful members of the armed forces. Just because the Cold War is over, the Soviet Union is no more, and the world is changing, does not mean that other countries can take what they want from my country, and we should do nothing about it. Russia should be powerful once again.

“I am not turning against you, my friends, I am appealing to you. You destroyed hundreds of square miles of Russian soil, killed hundreds of thousands of citizens, and poisoned perhaps half our nation. I did not tell you to do these things. I am asking for a promise to repay Russia for the destruction you caused. If you are unwilling to live with the fact that you made it possible for your ally Ukrayina to attack us with nuclear weapons, you should help rebuild what you destroyed.”

The President was on his feet, the phone cord almost pulling the bucket of Colonel Sanders’ chicken onto the floor. He’d pushed back his chair and was now pacing behind his desk. His face was red, puffed up, his eyes burning. “No, you listen to me, Sen’kov, my friend. You’re no better than the asshole we just got rid of. This is nothing but blackmail by someone who’s now in a position to do it. If we hadn’t intervened with NATO, and Velichko had stayed in power, I guarantee you that he woulda had you shoveling shit in Siberia. But you came to us. You sat in this very office and sold him out and now you’re proposing something just as duplicitous. Well, you know what?” the President gritted angrily, “you can go to hell.”

“The military commanders of my country would be very disappointed to hear you say that, Mr. President,” Sen’kov said. “You understand that my hold on the military is tenuous. I must constantly assure them that I will act to keep Russia strong. They will not be pleased to hear the great President of the United States has turned away from them after precipitating such a terrible attack.”

The youthful President was thunderstruck. Was Sen’kov actually threatening to re-ignite the conflict if America didn’t pay up? It certainly seemed that way. The burning ulcer in his stomach came back like a shotgun blast, matching the burning anger in his head. His knees felt weak and he dropped back into his chair as if pushed back into it. “You … you sonofabitch,” he said, drawing in deep breaths as if he were swimming against a riptide he had just encountered in a seemingly calm, tranquil sea, “don’t you dare threaten me.”

But the First Lady, listening in to the conversation at her extension, raised a hand to her husband, urging him — then, with a stern glare, ordering him — to calm himself. “All right, Valentin,” the First Lady said. “You have a deal. I personally guarantee you that I will head a commission to gather one hundred billion dollars for the ‘humanitarian relief of Domodedovo, and we will establish a commission to compensate any victims of the fallout. You have my word.”

“You are as caring and as intelligent as you are beautiful, dear lady,” Valentin Sen’kov said. “And I will guarantee that details of the Ukrainian nuclear missile attack on my country will never become public. You have my word. The best to you and yours. Good-bye.”

And the line was broken.

The President held his head in his hands, breathing heavily. “What did you just do?” he demanded, staring across the Oval Office at the First Lady, who was adjusting her skirt before his press conference. “I can’t believe you did that. We fight for our lives, lose all those crewmembers and allies, even risk a fucking third world war to get Russia to stop fighting — and now you’ve just guaranteed that we have to pay one hundred billion dollars to keep it all quiet?”

The First Lady rolled her eyes. “Oh, stop whining. Pull yourself together and start getting ready for your news conference. I’m going next door to my office to freshen up.”

“Wait a minute,” the President said. “You just gave him a hundred billion dollars. Where are we going to get that? Congress won’t go for it — they wouldn’t give Yeltsin shit after I begged them to. The American people won’t go for it, they want it for the cities, for health care, AIDS, whatever … and our allies sure as hell won’t pitch in.”

“I said … I’ll take care of it,” the First Lady said firmly. “After all, look what that attack averted — World War Three. Don’t you see? It doesn’t matter who launched the weapon, it was our attack, our plan, and it just saved the asses of governments all over the world. We’ll get the money from them, even if we have to break their fucking arms to do it.”

“But, honey, this is blackmail. Sen’kov blackmailed us, now we’re going to blackmail our allies?”

The First Lady shrugged. “It’s a small price to pay to have a Russian president in one’s back pocket,” she said, patting her hair. “That attack killed a lot of Russian military commanders and right-wing neo-Communists, and we can certainly prove it was Sen’kov who gave us the information. Valentin Sen’kov belongs to me — I mean, us—now. Besides, it’s only money, dear. Now come with me and I’ll spruce you up before the press conference. As to what you should say, I think the best course would be …”

As she talked on, the President and First Lady headed toward the door leading to the other West Wing offices. A Secret Service agent, who’d been in their presence the entire time, opened the door for them to exit. The President was about to go out first, then he noticed the look from his wife. He stepped back. “After you,” he said tightly.

“Always.” She smiled, marching forward.