Second Strike

CHAPTER 73

^MOSCOW,

^{AUGUST 18, 6:22 P.M. MSK}

“General Maximov has confirmed all units are at full readiness,” Vasiliev said.

Yuri Mikhailov nodded, saying nothing. Vasiliev, who was adept at reading his boss’s moods, could discern nothing from his face. The eyes were hooded, masking the shrewd intellect behind them. To some he might appear inebriated, though contrary to his CIA profile, he almost never drank alcohol. The Russian president sat, quiet but formidable, his massive frame overwhelming the chair.

Mikhailov didn’t feel formidable at the moment. He was surprised to find himself nervous, a feeling rare if not absent since his days in the KGB. A man vested with his power and authority had few, if any, occasions to feel truly anxious.

But Mikhailov had a sober appreciation for the scale of the endeavor he was about to initiate, as well as the implications. He was a student of history, and though he was not a military strategist, he was keenly aware of the need for all of the moving parts of the plan to fall into place—otherwise, not just failure, but possibly even disaster would ensue.

The plan, his plan, was bold. Its major components were simple—feint, distract, hold, and attack. Nothing that military strategists hadn’t done for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. The tools were different, as well as the magnitude. But the principles remained the same.

Mikhailov read about and admired Frederick the Great, Stonewall Jackson, Patton, MacArthur, Rommel, von Rundstedt. Tactical audacity supported by meticulous planning and effectuated by lightning strikes. His plan was the equal of any of theirs, and he had the good fortune of facing a credulous opponent.

Nonetheless, should any of the moving parts falter—if there were a snag or a problem in timing—the plan could begin to unravel and his country could be imperiled in a way it hadn’t been since Hitler’s advance in 1942. The possibility would make anyone, even the formidable Mikhailov, nervous.

But the potential reward was worth the risk. The potential reward quelled the anxiety. Mikhailov would be assured of his place as one of the great men in history. He already possessed extraordinary power. Now he was on the brink of extraordinary glory.

Mikhailov examined his watch, a superfluous motion driven by nervous energy. He was aware of the time to the minute. “Everyone is to remain on standby until Stepulev notifies us. Then we will proceed in the planned sequence, at the planned intervals.”

“Yes. Anything else, sir?”

“Stepulev is in motion?”

“He is.”

“How much longer to the first strike?”

“Imminently.”

The formidable frame remained motionless. “Inform me immediately.”

“Of course,” Vasiliev replied. “Anything else?”

Mikhailov paused, his hooded eyes gazing nowhere in particular. “Vodka.”