Man on Ice: Russia vs the USA - in Alaska

FORTY

‘The base is clear. Admiral Vitruk is dead.’ Stephanie heard Ozenna’s clipped, exact words. Harry was listening, along with dozens of others between the embassy and the NSA technicians at Fort Meade. Ozenna left no room for doubt. No sub-clauses. The man who would trigger the missile was dead. Phones rang, screens flashed. In short bursts of words, Ozenna described how Vitruk had a smart phone that sent his arterial pulse in a digital signal to the launch site. ‘It’s over,’ said Stephanie, struggling to envisage it all.

A voice of authority came across the line. ‘Ambassador, Congressman Lucas. Thank you. We’ll take it from here.’

Harry’s eyes flared with anger. ‘They’ve cut us out.’

‘Meaning—?’

‘It’s far from over. Holland’s still going ahead.’

Stephanie’s stomach clutched. ‘How can he—’

She stopped mid-question. Grizlov was on the line, taut, rushed, grateful, flamboyant. ‘It’s over, Steph. I love you. Thank you. Thank you.’

What to say? Harry’s creased and worried face told her all she needed to know. She looked to him for guidance. Before she replied to Grizlov, another voice came across the call, ignoring Harry and Stephanie. ‘Chairman Grizlov, this is the Pentagon. Is Toksong stood down, sir?’

‘It is stood down. Yes,’ said Grizlov.

‘We need immediate confirmation of that from Admiral Vitruk.’

Stephanie interjected. ‘This is Ambassador Lucas. Vitruk is confirmed dead.’

‘We are not reading that, ma’am.’

‘Sergey,’ said Stephanie. ‘Can you confirm?’ Nothing. The line was gone. Stephanie slammed her hand on the table. Who ended the call? Grizlov? Supposing it was a hoax? The Pentagon was right? Vitruk a decoy? Grizlov the architect?

‘Got it,’ Harry said into one of his phones. He turned to Stephanie. ‘Strike targets are Toksong, North Korea. Also Providenya, Zvyozdny. In all, six Russian Arctic bases.’

‘Can we stop Holland?’

‘I don’t know.’

On the inauguration platform, a country singer from Nashville performed a familiar old song that Stephanie couldn’t quite place. After that there would be a poem, then the oath of office. Not many minutes left.

Firmness in his voice, Harry spoke on two calls, mixing Russian with English and Chinese. Looking straight at Stephanie, he held up his right hand with his thumb and forefinger almost forming a circle as if to indicate he was close, but not there yet. His sentences were measured, precise. She had forgotten his Russian was so fluent. Then, he closed the thumb and forefinger and said in English. ‘Yes! Moscow has handed over the Fed bomber,’ he said. ‘It’s the guy we pinned.’

Stephanie’s mind was far away from the Fed bombing. Guilt stabbed through her for almost forgetting the murders there; frustration, too. Sure. Nice one, Harry. But it won’t fix the job at hand. ‘What about Holland?’ she said. ‘That’s not enough for him.’ Stephanie ran her fingers through her hair.

Harry shrugged. ‘No. But we need it.’ He continued speaking on the phone, in Chinese now, short, precise sentences. He was a military man. For Stephanie, the diplomat, part con, part persuasion, military thinking wasn’t enough. Holland needed to know that if he didn’t stop, he would lose what he valued most: his reputation. His presidency would be judged not on its first hundred days, but the first hundred seconds. How to show that? Who could challenge the Commander-in-Chief? How could any politician be so stupid? How could people elect someone so dangerous? Disbelief swirled. Stephanie smashed through her raging thoughts grasping for an idea. There were a million and more people. They stretched back from the Capitol Building through the National Mall. The inauguration was being watched on televisions around the world. She spoke to Prusak, then seconds later saw him on the screen, conferring with Swain who gave permission with a barely discernible nod.

Minutes away from taking his oath, Holland touched his lapels and straightened his jacket. He drew in his cheeks, expelling a cloud of air. His eyes flitted to the teleprompter embedded in the transparent bulletproof screen between the podium and the audience. He tilted his head forward, rounding his mouth, a smile at the edge of his lips, practicing the first lines of his speech.

Something caught his eye. His eyes locked on the audience, scanning, squinting against winter sunlight, clocking Swain, Pacolli, others from the outgoing administration and settling on an empty seat where Matt Prusak had been sitting and was now gone. Holland touched his right ear: someone was relaying information to him. He shook his head. Stephanie lip-read from him a ‘no.’ Holland looked sharply to his right. No, he will not change course. Anger swept across his face. Holland must have guessed what Prusak was planning and aimed to pre-empt. It wasn’t working. Stephanie leant against the table edge to stop the trembling in her legs.

A cable channel switched to split-screen, half on the inauguration and half on Matt Prusak, away from the stage, among the crowds in the mall, brushing his hair off his forehead, with one of the channel’s reporters who announced they were breaking into the inaugural feed because the outgoing chief of staff had an announcement.

‘President-elect Holland has ordered military action against Russia.’ Prusak’s delivery was slow and calm. ‘It is illegal, unnecessary, and dangerous. In the past few minutes, the Kremlin has officially notified President Swain that any further attack on Russia will be considered an act of war and lead to a full response from Moscow.’

‘But Russian troops have invaded—’ began the reporter.

‘Our troops have expelled them from American territory. They were a rogue force, not the Russian government,’ interrupted Prusak, brusquely. ‘A President needs Congressional approval to wage war. Holland doesn’t have it.’

While Prusak spoke, the shot moved to Holland, his face strained, then to Swain, an image of composed authority. The inauguration faltered. Holland stepped forward, beckoning the Chief Justice, who hesitated and didn’t move, eyes fixed not on Holland, but down toward Swain, seeking guidance. The shot changed again to the National Mall. A murmur rumbled through people crowded there. A scene from the Russian airbase on Big Diomede appeared on screens around them. Most was in darkness with shapes of buildings and harsh, steep hillsides. The murmur swelled to applause as what looked like a shaky smartphone camera showed flames from a destroyed helicopter, the red-star Russian insignia smeared with soot on what was left of its tail. A body lay on the ground, illuminated by a flashlight. On the overcoat lay the identity card of Admiral Alexander Vitruk, with a photograph, his signature, and the address of his Far East Military District Headquarters in Khabarovsk. The Russian flag, lit by dim moonlight, hung shredded on a pole behind. Two men unfolded the Stars and Stripes and held it like a banner between them. Rake Ozenna’s voice played over it: ‘This is Captain Ozenna. The base is clear. Admiral Vitruk is dead.’

Noise from the National Mall swelled, wolf whistles, high fives, hats thrown into the air. Holland was smart enough to join the applause, even though his eyes were narrowed with determination, no expression of shared victory.

‘He’s not finished,’ Stephanie said to Harry who didn’t seem to be taking notice, wasn’t even watching the screen. He remained hunched on the phone.

Holland took control, raising arms to quieten the crowd. He readied his hand, fingers outstretched for the oath, giving the Chief Justice little choice but to step forward with the Bible. A call came in from Downing Street, asking Stephanie for developments. The Prime Minister was about to address the House of Commons? Nothing that wasn’t on TV, she said, her hand gripping the phone in frustration. Holland lay his hand on the Lincoln Bible. ‘I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute—’

Harry was off the phone, stepping toward her.

‘What?’ she asked, impatiently.

‘Now, we wait.’ His voice was flat. No encouragement. Resigned.

Yes, that was it. Energy drained from Stephanie. They had given it their best shot. If Holland wanted war, he would make war. Harry had tried and failed. Prusak, too. Stephanie, Slater, a raft of people had given it their best shot. So, how would it unravel? America destroys six Russian Arctic bases. Where would Russia strike? Hawaii? Guam? Alaska?

She half tuned back into Holland’s oath. ‘—the Office of President of the United States, and will to the best of my ability—’

Europe would flare. Estonia. Moldova. Ukraine again. North Korea again. Syria again. It wouldn’t take long. It never did. Excitedly, Harry took her hand, gripped it hard. ‘Now, Steph. Watch this,’ he said. As Holland spoke, a strap ran across the bottom of the screen. A joint military operation had destroyed a missile base at Toksong in North Korea. The base was now neutralized and posed no further threat.

‘—preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States.’

What was going on? Four nations, China, Japan, Russia, and the US, had moved against North Korea. Together. Stephanie could barely take it in. While Holland wanted war against Moscow, her ex-husband had been fixing up for Russian and American pilots to fly side by side with Chinese and Japanese air crew riding shotgun? Or something like that. Applause from the National Mall lifted to a crescendo smothering the voice of Prusak, still on air, trying to explain. ‘Yes… unprecedented… Swain acted with friends… And I should add—’ But the crowd drowned him out completely. Add what?

Holland began speaking. ‘Thank you. Thank you. My fellow Americans, it is a humbling experience—’

She studied Holland’s face, looking for signs that he was backing down. There were none.

‘—our enemies must be punished for violating our freedom,’ he thundered.

Sweat filmed round the hollow of Stephanie’s neck. Holland’s face was impassive, his tone strident and unforgiving, like that wounded animal that keeps lashing out. Her phone buzzed with a message from Prusak, in fact a photograph of the Oval Office desk, empty apart from two envelopes, one cream and compact addressed to Holland in Swain’s handwriting, the traditional letter from the outgoing to the incoming President. The other, held down by a glass crystal paperweight, was a larger, pristine white envelope that carried an official logo of the Justice Department.

‘What?’ messaged Stephanie.

Before Prusak responded a news strap ran under Holland speaking. President Holland subpoenaed for Grand Jury investigation on alleged breach of Logan Act.

Stephanie threw her head back, laughing. So, Swain had done it! Barely a hundred seconds in and Holland’s presidency was as good as dead.

Holland accused of deliberately escalating the Diomede crisis.

Stephanie tuned out. It was over. She cut the line to Prusak, ignored a call from Downing Street, and found herself turning to Harry. She flung her arms around his shoulders and gave him a full-on-the-mouth lovers’ kiss. What the hell! They had won!