Man on Ice: Russia vs the USA - in Alaska

FIVE

‘Never trust those fucking Russians!’ shouted Holland.

‘Whoa there!’ cautioned Prusak, heading for the door.

‘I told Swain about that border and he wouldn’t listen.’

‘Let’s try and keep a lid on things, Mr President-elect.’

Stephanie was on her feet, trying to read her Prime Minister. Kevin Slater stayed poker-faced, not a trace of reaction; impossible to tell if he was a rabbit caught in headlights or playing cards close to his chest. The news coming through might be nothing or it might be that the next few hours would define Slater’s place in history.

‘I will return to my embassy, Madam Ambassador. This must be a misunderstanding,’ said Opokin, turning to address Holland directly. ‘I know the Chukotka region and the Bering Strait well. I can assure you we do not have the resources to invade the United States from there. Nor would we fucking Russians want to.’

Holland glared at him. Carrol said, ‘I’ll give you a ride, Karl. I’m heading over to the Eccles Building.’ He folded his napkin and spoke to Prusak. ‘Matt, tell the President I’ll call a crisis meeting of the Fed for the early morning, just in case. Let’s hope we have nothing to talk about.’

‘I need to be with the President.’ Holland stood up.

Prusak glanced across sharply. ‘I’ll check, sir. I’m sure he’ll brief—’

‘Not brief, Matt. In the Situation Room, sharing the decisions. This is going to spill into my term.’

‘That might not work.’

‘Have Swain decide if he wants me by his side or wants to cut me out. If you don’t ask him, I’ll ask through the news networks.’

‘Matt, a moment.’ Stephanie touched Prusak’s elbow to guide him into the corridor and out of earshot. ‘I can help with Holland.’

‘Stay out of it, Steph. This is the presidential transition. We get sensitive.’

‘You don’t want Holland blasting all over the networks about the lame duck and the President doesn’t want this crisis as his legacy.’

‘Correct.’ Prusak scrolled his phone.

‘And you could help me, too.’

‘How so?’

‘Kevin Slater’s untested as Prime Minister. There’s a risk he’ll shoot from the hip. We can temper that by getting him to the White House, the center of power. Take Slater, myself, and Holland there. Stick us in the Roosevelt Room or somewhere.’

She had Prusak’s attention. ‘Not the Oval Office. Not the Situation Room,’ he said.

‘Exactly. Slater’s presence dilutes transition protocol. He and Holland can say they are being consulted, and Kevin can help you deliver European support.’

‘I should have married you when I had the chance,’ Prusak smiled. ‘We would have made the power couple to beat all others.’

Crises were routine to Prusak. In all the time she had known him, she had never heard him raise his voice or seen a line of tension in his face. ‘You know Russia better than most, Steph. Any idea what’s going on?’

‘Has this ever happened before — a Russian medical evacuation from Little Diomede?’

‘Never, that I know of.’

‘I’ll hit the phones.’ Stephanie sifted scenarios through her mind. Was she reading too much into it? Was it a straightforward humanitarian act? If so, why did they not inform the United States? But if it were an invasion, as the hawkish networks were claiming, what was the point? Who cared about an Eskimo village on a remote Alaskan island? Strategically, it didn’t add up. What did make sense, though, was that a potential adversary, like Russia, would test America on the eve of a new presidency. That was a given, and happened around every transition. But that didn’t mean this was what Russia was doing now. How could it have gotten its timing so precise? To think it had conspired to have a fifteen-year-old girl’s waters break on the eve of the inauguration was in the realms of magical thinking.

But if not that, what?

After the tension of the Putin years, shortly after Stephanie’s move to Washington, the Russians had put a low-key, relatively unknown academic into the Kremlin. Viktor Lagutov was a quietly-spoken economist, and some had hailed his election as a return to reform and democracy. Stephanie didn’t buy it. She had kept in touch with old friends there, including her old business partner and lover, Sergey Grizlov. He hadn’t bought it either. Lagutov was a stopgap, a time to draw breath after Ukraine, Crimea, and Putin.

‘The Russian soul remains angry, unsettled, and searching for dignity,’ Grizlov had told her.

Back in 2007, Russian divers had planted a meter-high titanium national flag on the seabed beneath the North Pole. Sure, it was to lay claim to billions of dollars of oil and gas reserves, but it was also a statement of dignity and power, like an eighteenth-century land grab. There were energy reserves in the Bering Strait too, but hostilities there meant no one could get them out. So, what would be the point?

Which brought her back to Lagutov. Had he authorized it? If not, who? And was it a challenge to his presidency, American territory being used as a foil for a Russian coup? How many Russians would cheer to see their flag flying on territory that once belonged to the Empire, land lost in the ill-fated Alaska Purchase, when Russia was conned and America had paid a pittance? How many would hail the man who put it there as a hero? Putin had fudged, messing around in Ukraine but never having the real steel needed to restore Russian dignity. He complained but didn’t act. But here was a man confident enough to take on America face to face, the type of leader that Russia needed. If she were halfway on the right track, then the Little Diomede operation could not be happening without the involvement of Russia’s Far East Military District. Which is when it came to her. Of course — why was she being so slow? One name stood out like a razor.

‘A thought, Matt,’ she said. ‘They’ll be doing it anyway, but check out an Admiral Alexander Vitruk, appointed as military commander of Russia’s Far East two years ago. He made his name in the Chechen wars, and by all accounts is a very nasty piece of work. A Russian helicopter crossing into American territory would have to have his authorization.’

Prusak went ahead to the White House with his Secret Service detail. Stephanie and Slater rode with Holland who sprawled across the back seat dwarfing and ignoring Slater while looking at his phone. Stephanie sat on a jump seat across from him. She thought more about Vitruk. Would he be acting alone, or with Lagutov’s support? If so, where was the end game? Russia’s policy had been to keep this frontier with America low profile, the exact opposite to its fractious policy in Europe. Neither side wanted to face the other down across a shared border. Apart from the North Pole flag, Russia had been working cooperatively as a member of the Arctic Council, carrying out joint search and rescue, even military exercises. What, then, had been the catalyst of this operation?

Snow slid onto the darkened windows and quickly melted against the flashing beams of the convoy’s blue lights.

‘Exactly where is this place?’ asked Slater.

Stephanie pulled a map onto her phone and held it in her palm so both Slater and Holland could see.

‘The islands are here, about midway between each country’s mainland.’ She zoomed in on two green specks on a screen of blue sea. ‘Russia here,’ she said, pointing. ‘America here. The border here. Unmarked, and less than three miles between, about the distance we’re driving now to the White House.’

‘The American people have no idea we’re so damn close to them.’ Holland angrily drummed his fingers on the armrest.

‘It may be nothing more than saving the life of a mother and child,’ said Slater.

‘The networks are calling it an invasion,’ said Holland. ‘One thing you’ll learn about leadership, Prime Minister, is that if the media says something, people will believe it and you have to react to it even if it’s false.’

‘I don’t react to untruths and I’ve been leading working men and women all my life.’

Stephanie’s thoughts remained fixated on Admiral Alexander Vitruk. They needed to check his war record, his relationship with Lagutov, and with Putin.

‘If Russian troops are on American soil without our permission we need to get them out now, and we’ll be looking for Britain’s support in that,’ said Holland.

‘I would be happy to call President Lagutov to mediate a settlement.’

‘You don’t get it, do you? Swain doesn’t either. It’s not mediation that’s needed. Lagutov cannot get away with this. We can fix it the hard way or the easy way, but for sure we fix it.’ Holland sucked in his cheeks and looked out the window as they crossed H Street and slowed to go into the White House.

‘It might not be Lagutov,’ said Stephanie as the limousine drew up at the front door.

‘He’s the Russian President,’ said Holland. ‘The buck stops with him.’

Secret Service agents took them through to the windowless Roosevelt Room, which lay at the center of the West Wing of the White House. With a long rectangular conference table, it was used for meetings into which the President could drop by from the Oval Office across the corridor. Prusak was waiting for them and was about to speak when Holland said, ‘I’m uncomfortable with them being here.’ He deliberately used the third person. ‘You cannot bundle me up with some foreign leader and an ambassador. That border is under joint US-Canadian command. It does not involve Europe.’

‘Europe may be intrinsic to anything that occurs, sir,’ said Prusak. ‘Whatever is happening out there, the possibility of a mistake or miscalculation is very real.’

Holland jabbed his thumb towards Stephanie. ‘And she wouldn’t have the clearance for what’s going on.’

Prusak betrayed only a flicker of impatience in his eyes. ‘The President has asked that both Prime Minister Slater and Ambassador Lucas be here. She worked with us closely in Moscow. As you know, sir, her ex-husband is Harry Lucas, former Chair of the House Intelligence Committee, and she was given an extra level of clearance for that.’

‘I need to see the President alone,’ persisted Holland.

‘In fact, the President has asked you all to join him in the Oval Office. I know it’s unusual, but this is an unusual evening. He is about to speak to President Lagutov in the Kremlin.’