Target Omega

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

At first, Olivia had protested that the protective detail that Dwyer had assigned to her was over-the-top, but she appreciated the feeling of security it afforded. Now that she was actually being escorted to the Old Executive Office Building to meet Brandt, there was absolutely no doubt in Olivia’s mind that Dwyer was overdoing it. She felt almost as if she were in a presidential motorcade.

Olivia was riding in the back of one of DGT’s seemingly endless supply of black SUVs. Two armed, black-uniformed DGT security guards were in front. Carl was seated to her right. And, as usual, whenever he was around Olivia, he was smiling. The vehicle in which she rode was sandwiched between identical lead and trailing SUVs, each carrying a quartet of DGT security guards armed with MP7s. As Carl had been told by Dwyer, he’d be damned if anything happened to the NSA’s aide on DGT’s watch. The only threat Olivia could discern, however, was the impenetrable traffic approaching the Beltway. It was nearly at a standstill.

Olivia was on her way to meet Brandt to assess the information provided by Garin. According to Brandt, confusion had reigned in the Situation Room a short time ago. Brandt had succeeded in buying some time before the president decided on a course of action. Olivia was unsure what good would come from the extra time. She hadn’t gotten any new information from Garin about the EMP strike and doubted she would. Garin had been clear about the message he’d received from Singer. The EMP strike was going to be on the United States. Israel hadn’t been mentioned. From Olivia’s perspective, there was little more to analyze. The president needed to understand that the nation he led was the target.

The only questions were, when would the attack occur and from where would it come? Olivia had struggled with those questions from the moment Garin had told her about the EMP. She shared Brandt’s conclusion that under ordinary circumstances the Russians wouldn’t risk doing it for fear of annihilation. The same rationale applied to every other country with nuclear capability, and those countries didn’t have agents running around America killing US special operators.

Olivia decided that without additional information she’d be wasting Brandt’s time, causing both of them to waste the president’s time. And despite her whiz-kid reputation, Olivia couldn’t shake the fear that she was out of her depth. If Garin’s information was correct, the United States was facing a titanic calamity, and Olivia was part of the team tasked to prevent it. A far cry from grading undergrad term papers at Stanford.

At least Jim had forestalled the president from taking precipitous, potentially catastrophic action. She decided to call Dan Dwyer and ask whether he could put her in touch with Garin. Maybe he had gotten some new information. Or maybe he had some ideas that Brandt and Olivia hadn’t considered. She desperately hoped he did.

Brandt sat in the Situation Room as the president and his chief of staff huddled in a far corner in advance of the president’s call to President Mikhailov. Marshall had asked Brandt to remain behind after the meeting had ended. A Russian translator, who had introduced himself as Josh Plotkin, sat opposite Brandt. Mikhailov spoke English fairly well, but Brandt had advised the president that given the stakes, even the slightest misunderstandings couldn’t be risked. Plotkin, a tall, owlish Princeton summa cum laude in his late twenties, was to keep silent, acting only as a backstop.

The call to the Russian president would be placed in five minutes, the White House Communications Agency having contacted the Kremlin within the last twenty-five minutes to alert the Russians of Marshall’s need to speak with Mikhailov on a matter of urgency, a matter that could involve military action. It was late night in Moscow and it was estimated that Mikhailov would need some time to summon whatever advisors he needed to participate in the call.

Aside from Plotkin, Marshall had chosen to have only Brandt and Cho join him, causing no small amount of distress to the secretary of state, who offered to stay to provide whatever advice and counsel the president might require. Marshall politely declined. The last thing he needed in the room was the distraction of Ted Lawrence jockeying with Brandt for influence. Plus, the president trusted Brandt’s sober reasoning. Substance, not political posturing, was what was needed at this moment.

The voice of Major Clayton Cord, detailed to the White House Communications Agency, came over the speaker in the Situation Room. “Mr. President, President Mikhailov will be on the line in sixty seconds. We’re told he will be joined by a senior aide and a translator.”

“Thank you, Major,” Marshall replied as he took his seat. Cho sat to his left and Plotkin moved to his seat at the president’s right. Brandt sat to Cho’s left.

Brandt’s calm demeanor belied a twinge of anxiety. To this point, his involvement in critical issues had always been confined to the background. The importance of this moment eclipsed anything he’d ever done before. He was seated at the table with the president of the United States, about to talk to the president of Russia. The two commanded the largest nuclear arsenals in the world, enough firepower to extinguish the lives of every human being on the planet. The thought, while producing a bit of nervousness, also sharpened his focus.

There was a click and the gravelly yet urbane voice of the Russian president materialized. “Mr. President?”

“Yes, Yuri,” replied Marshall, leaning toward the speaker. “Thank you for making yourself available on such short notice and at such a late hour. I have in the room with me my chief of staff, Iris Cho, and national security advisor, James Brandt. Joshua Plotkin is also present as translator, but I doubt we’ll need his services.”

“Good evening, Ms. Cho. It was good to meet you at the G20 summit last month. I would like to continue our discussion of insufferable Parisian sommeliers, but given the hour, I gather the purpose of the call is not to exchange pleasantries. I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting with Mr. Brandt or Mr. Plotkin, but I, of course, have read a number of Mr. Brandt’s papers. Impressive. With me are my senior aide Alexei Vasiliev and a translator. I would greatly prefer to videoconference, but, as you might imagine, at this hour, I am not quite presentable.”

“Yuri, as you’ve surmised, I would not have roused you in the middle of the night unless it pertained to a matter of some significance.”

Brandt made a downward motion with his hand, reminding Marshall to modulate his tone and not be unduly inflammatory. Marshall nodded absentmindedly.

“We have detected a large number of your submarines very near our coast. We estimate eight Akula class, four Delta IVs, and possibly a Borei. If I recall correctly, the Delta IVs are equipped with sixteen ballistic missiles with four to six MIRVed warheads.” The clinical manner in which Marshall spoke gave the statement a heightened impact.

There was a short pause at the end of the line followed by unintelligible conversation.

“John Allen,” Mikhailov said, “I do not quite understand. You stated that this was a matter of significance, but you know quite well that for the last fifty years both your country and mine have engaged in maneuvers off of our respective coastlines. It is the norm, not the exception. As tiresome as it may be, it is, in fact, expected. Therefore, I must conclude that this is not the primary thing on your mind. Am I correct?”

“You are correct, Yuri.”

There was more unintelligible conversation on the other side. Brandt realized that the Russian president’s words with his aide were being electronically scrambled. Brandt didn’t know whether any sidebars between himself and Marshall would also be automatically muted or scrambled, so he remained silent.

“John Allen, I’m reliably informed that any Russian submarines that may have been in the vicinity of the North American coastline have since moved well into the Atlantic. I’m sure you can verify this.”

“Thank you, we will look into it. But I can assure you, the number of vessels involved indicated that this was not an ordinary exercise.”

“Even if true, that would not have prompted you to call me at this hour.”

“Perhaps not,” Marshall acknowledged. “But that, coupled with another piece of troubling information, has caused some alarm.”

“And what is this other piece of information?”

Marshall hesitated, glancing at Brandt. The two had agreed that Marshall would not reveal the source of the EMP intel, just the claim that the United States would be hit.

Marshall replied, “That the United States is going to be subject to an electromagnetic pulse attack.”

More unintelligible conversation, then a calm “And when is this attack to occur?”

“We assume imminently.”

“And, Mr. President, you believe my country is somehow involved.”

The subtle shift to formal salutation was not lost on anyone in the Situation Room.

“The presence of a large number of your subs at the same time we received intel related to the EMP attack, as well as other incidents, prompted us to reach out to you.”

“And, if I may ask, who or what is the source of this intel?”

Brandt shook his head. Marshall paused. Before he could reply, Mikhailov continued. “Could it be a Mr. Garin?”

The Russian president’s question took everyone in the Situation Room by surprise except Plotkin, who had no idea who Garin was. Brandt shook his head vigorously, signaling Marshall to neither confirm nor deny, but the president decided not to be coy.

“What do you know of Mr. Garin?”

“You do not seriously think, Mr. President, that we would not know that your FBI has been engaged in a widespread manhunt for one of your most elite clandestine soldiers? You may no longer consider us a superpower, but I would wager that our human intelligence capabilities remain vastly superior to yours. No disrespect, of course.” There was a slight pause. “Did you know that he is Russian?”

“He is an American,” Marshall stated firmly.

“Yes. So he is. America. The great melting pot. I am certain he eats hot dogs and enjoys baseball. But you must admit, his behavior is very… Russian. Quite tenacious, I’m told. An exquisite killer. Implacable. Reminds me of the kind of individual who would have survived Leningrad.” Another insouciant pause. “I understand he still has relatives here.”

Marshall bristled. “What are you suggesting, Mr. President?” Marshall’s shift to a formal salutation prompted Brandt to again make downward motions with his hand, signaling a need to temper the conversation.

“Nothing at all, Mr. President. It is not the Cold War any longer. The New York Times says we are friends.”

“I don’t read The New York Times. And either way, friends don’t mass nuclear subs off one another’s coastlines.”

Mikhailov’s tone softened. “John Allen, Russia is not suicidal. If you had any doubts about this, I am sure Mr. Brandt has dispelled them for you. This electromagnetic pulse, I understand its effect. You would be forced to retaliate with atomic weapons against any nation that launched such a horrible attack. Millions would die. We know this…”

There was more garbled chatter at the other end before Mikhailov resumed speaking.

“But if you do not believe me or your national security advisor, perhaps you will believe your spy satellites and your electronic intercepts. Check the satellites tasked over our rocket-launch facilities, or as you call them, ballistic missile sites. You will detect absolutely no preparations for a rocket launch. Our silos are cold. And your National Security Agency will have detected absolutely no communications regarding a rocket launch.”

“What about the nukes on your subs?” Marshall asked. “They could reach us in minutes.”

“As I have stated, we are not suicidal. The vessels have set a course to return to Yagal’naya. You have my word that we will take no aggressive action toward the United States and we have no intention of taking such action. How many hundreds of nuclear missiles do you have aimed at Moscow at this moment? How many nuclear submarines do you have that could vaporize Saint Petersburg twenty minutes from now? That is your best proof that no EMP will come from Russia.”

“Just to be clear, Yuri, this administration’s unequivocal response doctrine is massive nuclear retaliation toward any nation that strikes the US with an EMP.”

“That has always been our understanding, John Allen.”

There was silence for several seconds. Brandt made a slicing motion across his throat, suggesting the call be terminated.

“Apologies for having disturbed you, Yuri, as well as Mr. Vasiliev and your translator. I am sure you understand my concerns. Those concerns, thankfully, have been allayed. We will talk again soon.”

“Yes. We will talk soon.”

Alexei Vasiliev regarded his boss as he sat in a high-backed chair next to the speakerphone. Yuri Mikhailov was a big man — six foot six and nearly three hundred pounds, a former discus thrower on the 1984 Soviet Olympic team. He had a broad, peasant’s face and tended to sway from side to side as he walked, suggesting mild inebriation. After a brief time with the KGB before the collapse of the Soviet Empire, he had leveraged his contacts and position to amass a modest fortune in oil and gas leases. He appeared to those who didn’t know him well to be perpetually half asleep, but his mind was fast, exacting, and shrewd.

Vasiliev knew his boss well, admired him. But on occasion, Mikhailov could be inscrutable. This was one such occasion.

“What do you make of Marshall?” Vasiliev asked in Russian.

“He is smarter than his predecessor. Tougher. Clarke believed everything his professors taught him in university. And the lessons he learned there remain impervious to reality. Marshall, however, is guided by his experience in the real world.”

“Then that is not good for Russian interests,” Vasiliev observed.

“He is tougher than Clarke, but he is still the American president. He leads a fractious people, many of whom expect and demand comfort. His charge is to provide it to them. Inconveniences are not lightly tolerated.”

“Therefore, they — and he — can be manipulated,” Vasiliev noted.

“To a point. We must not underestimate them. Many Americans, it seems more of them every day, expect comfort as an inalienable right. They think their government can and should provide a subsistence. These Americans are not our concern. It is the segment of America that expects nothing more than freedom that is our concern. The cowboys. The United States may have its problems, but it still exists. The Soviet Union does not.”

“For now,” Vasiliev reminded him. “Should we urge some of our friends in the Western media to put pressure on Marshall, criticize his unnecessarily provocative Middle East policies, his confrontational posture toward us?”

Mikhailov picked up a glass from the highly polished mahogany table next to him and sipped the clear liquid slowly. It was not vodka, but water. Contrary to his CIA profile, Mikhailov almost never drank alcohol.

“It is not the American president who is on my mind right now,” Mikhailov said. “It is our friend from the American Senate. He has not been as useful as we had hoped, despite being compensated quite handsomely. More importantly, it appears he may now be a liability.”

Mikhailov placed the glass on the table and rose from the chair. Stifling a yawn, he turned toward Vasiliev. “Garin should not know about an EMP. That is unacceptable. It is too close. Only hours now. Much too close.”

“But Marshall did not confirm that he learned it from Garin,” Vasiliev countered.

“That is confirmation itself,” Mikhailov said. “Contact Bor immediately. Tell him to find out from Mr. Day how Garin knows about the EMP, and what else he may know. If I know Bor, he is already in the process of doing so.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes,” the Russian president said as he headed toward his living quarters. “Tell Bor that our association with Mr. Day is yielding diminishing returns and to exercise his best judgment accordingly.”