The Moscow Offensive

Four

President Stacy Anne Barbeau kept her oh-so-charming, professional politician’s smile fixed firmly in place while her aides ushered the members of her cabinet out of the Oval Office. She dropped it the moment the doors closed, leaving her alone with Luke Cohen, her White House chief of staff and longtime political adviser, and Edward Rauch, her national security adviser.

Good God, she thought caustically, pretending to respect the mediocrities she’d appointed to head various Executive Branch departments was sometimes tiresome. But she’d deliberately surrounded herself with sycophantic second raters at the cabinet level. As president, she could bully lower-echelon appointees into doing her bidding. If anyone balked, she could dump them without igniting a political firestorm. She couldn’t ax a recalcitrant secretary of state or defense or treasury with the same impunity. So she’d picked men and women who were politically reliable and pliable, rather than competent.

After all, Stacy Anne Barbeau knew better than to trust anyone who might prove to be as shrewd, devious, and power-hungry as she was herself. For decades, she’d clawed her way up through the rough-and-tumble world of American politics. Washington, D.C., was full of onetime allies and rivals she’d first charmed, then outfoxed, and finally discarded.

Well, by God, now she was at the top of the heap. She was the queen bee of the American political scene. And like it was in a hive, there wasn’t room for another queen. Nor, for that matter, a king.

“And most especially not that swaggering son of a bitch John Dalton Farrell,” she muttered.

Luke Cohen nodded solemnly. He’d been sounding the alarm about the state of her reelection campaign for weeks, ever since it became clear that John D. Farrell had effectively locked up the other party’s nomination to run against her in November.

Farrell was the current governor of Texas, but that wasn’t what made him a dangerous general election opponent. As the incumbent president, Barbeau had a lot of advantages — including virtually unlimited campaign funds and all the TV-camera-friendly pomp and circumstance surrounding her as America’s commander-in-chief. Even with the nation’s economy sputtering along in low gear, no ordinary, run-of-the-mill politician should be able to shake her hold on the White House.

But as both Cohen and his boss knew, John Dalton Farrell was about as far away from a conventional politician as it was possible to get and still be a viable presidential candidate. Born into a hardscrabble farming family, the Texan had made his substantial fortune as a wildcatter in the energy industry. Time after time, he’d played hunches and beaten the big players — Exxon Mobil, Chevron, BP, and the others — to new oil and gas fields. And then he’d made them pay through the nose for the rights to develop his discoveries. Along the way, he’d also cemented a reputation as a no-nonsense, plainspoken, tough-as-nails defender of free markets and enemy of crony capitalism. Straight from the long-ago days when his sole asset was one battered, secondhand drilling rig, he’d blasted the kind of backroom special deals career politicians loved to cut with favored big businesses and unions.

And now Farrell was out there every day on TV and at big campaign rallies pounding on the president’s handouts to major corporate donors, especially in the defense and finance industries. He was also savaging her for allowing NATO to fall apart while the Russians pushed hard on Eastern and central Europe. All of those attacks were starting to bite, eating into her narrow polling edge.

Coldly, Barbeau looked across her big desk at Cohen and Rauch. “Okay, no more bullshit. I need straight talk and straight answers.”

Rauch, gray-haired, pale, and painfully thin, looked confused. “About what, Madam President?”

“About finding ways to spike Farrell’s guns before he kicks the living shit out of me in November,” Barbeau snapped.

Rauch stared back at her, suddenly looking even more uncomfortable. Before joining the administration, he’d devoted his working life at different Beltway think tanks to producing research papers on U.S. defense policy. Unfortunately, crafting careful academic analyses on subjects like strategic force modernization and base reorganization had turned out to be poor preparation for serving a president far more interested in politics than in policy. He cleared his throat. “Campaign tactics and strategy aren’t exactly my forte.”

“No kidding, Ed,” Barbeau retorted. She pointed at Cohen. “That’s Luke’s patch.” Her eyes glittered. “But you are minding my national security shop, aren’t you?”

Cautiously, he nodded. Since both the secretary of defense and the head of the CIA were amiable, unambitious nonentities, more and more of the White House’s day-to-day business with the defense and intelligence agencies flowed through his hands. Despite Rauch’s occasional misgivings about some of her decisions, Barbeau knew it was tough for him to resist access to that kind of power.

“Then figure out how I can push back against the crap Farrell’s peddling about our national security strategy,” she demanded. “Every time I turn on the damned TV, he’s out bitching somewhere about how we’re letting Gennadiy Gryzlov run wild. Or how we’re blowing billions of taxpayer dollars on bloated defense contracts for weapons systems that won’t work as advertised.”

Rauch looked down at his hands for a moment, thinking. “For one thing, the Russians aren’t running wild,” he said. He perked up a bit. “Oh, they’ve made some very limited territorial gains — in eastern Ukraine, for example. But otherwise Moscow has achieved nothing of any real strategic consequence. President Gryzlov’s offensive operations against the Poles and their allies have yielded only a continuing stalemate.”

“No thanks to us,” Cohen pointed out carefully.

Early in her term, unwilling to risk a clash with the Russians, Stacy Anne Barbeau had abandoned the Poles — refusing to send help when Gryzlov unleashed his armies and airpower against them. Then, to her surprise and chagrin, former president Kevin Martindale’s band of high-tech mercenaries managed to fight the Russian onslaught to a standstill. Feeling betrayed by the United States, the Poles and their Eastern European neighbors had broken away from NATO and formed their own defense pact, the so-called Alliance of Free Nations.

She had taken political heat for that outcome, especially from the kind of armchair generals who were always eager to send other people’s kids off to fight and die. Well, screw them, she thought. Nothing in Eastern Europe was worth a single American soldier or airman’s life.

“Yes, no thanks to us,” Rauch agreed, echoing Cohen. “But that’s precisely my point. Despite the odds, the Poles and their allies have contained the Russians so far — without any financial or military cost to us. So, in a strategic sense, the president’s policies have produced the best of all worlds for the United States.” He had the grace to look embarrassed. “And that isn’t the result I would have predicted using any kind of conventional political or military analysis.”

Barbeau eyed him coolly. She’d known her national security adviser thought she was crazy for standing aside every time Gennadiy Gryzlov got a burr up his ass about the Poles. If she hadn’t needed Rauch to ride herd for her on the labyrinthine defense and intelligence communities, she’d have shit-canned him a long time ago. That made watching the onetime academic eat crow even more enjoyable.

“Not bad, Ed,” Cohen said admiringly. His eyes were full of mischief. “We can definitely sell that. Every time Farrell mouths off about unchecked Russian aggression, we’ll point out how little all their ‘mighty tank divisions, bombers, and cyberwar geniuses’ have really achieved. He’ll come across like a whiny dick for trying to make Gryzlov look ten feet tall. And the president will end up looking pretty damned smart for showing so much restraint in the face of both Russian and Polish provocation.”

“You run with that, Luke,” Barbeau agreed. “But see if you can filter that angle out through our allies in the media. Let them make the case for us first. That way it’ll look more like unbiased analysis and less like special pleading.”

The New Yorker nodded. There was always a revolving door between the media and an administration like Barbeau’s. Political people leaving the White House found jobs as pundits, reporters, and even news anchors on the networks. And, in turn, friendly journalists rotated in to act as press secretaries or speechwriters. Incestuous the process might be, but it guaranteed the president and her staff a first crack at spinning any story in the direction they wanted.

Barbeau turned back to Rauch. She offered him a wry smile. “You may be better suited to political infighting than you imagined, Ed.”

He didn’t look quite as pleased by that as she expected.

“We’re still going to bleed every time Farrell slams our big-ticket weapons procurement programs,” Cohen warned. “The flyover country rubes he’s whipping into a frenzy are buying his crap about crooked deals with defense contractors.”

“We need those new fighters, strategic bombers, and missiles,” Barbeau said flatly. “My unlamented predecessors, like that scumbag Martindale, ran around the world picking senseless fights. And every stupid war they started ate deeper and deeper into our force structure. Those glory-grabbing morons left this country with a hollowed-out Air Force. For Christ’s sake, we’ve been limping along with a handful of aging bombers and fighter squadrons full of F-15s and F-16s that were old twenty years ago! So now it’s my job to put the pieces back together.”

Left unspoken were the obvious political benefits of pumping tens of billions of federal dollars into states whose electoral votes she was going to need in November. Not to mention the hefty contributions the big defense companies and labor unions were funneling into her reelection campaign and those of her political allies. All of which just made her strategic rearmament program a win-win-win situation as far as she was concerned.

Rauch looked pained, which meant he had something to say that she wasn’t going to like hearing. “Governor Farrell is not opposed to rebuilding our defenses, Madam President,” he pointed out. “Instead, he’s arguing that there are better, faster, and cheaper ways to do the job.”

“Oh, let me guess. Big Tex is a fan of all those pie-in-the-sky wonder weapons Sky Masters peddles,” Barbeau said with icy disdain. “All the super-duper combat drones, hypersonic missiles, and other Buck Rogers baloney they’ve been pushing at the Pentagon for years. Right?”

Rauch nodded reluctantly.

Cohen snorted. “Well, that’s a dead giveaway as to who’s pulling Farrell’s strings.”

“Martindale.” Barbeau’s lip curled in disgust. As president, Martindale had been a big believer in the cutting-edge military hardware developed by Jon Masters, the founder and chief scientist of Sky Masters. Masters himself was dead, killed years ago by domestic terrorists. But with his ex-wife, Helen Kaddiri, at the helm, the Nevada-based company kept rolling out new concepts for manned and unmanned aircraft, sensors, weapons systems, and other equipment. And despite her best efforts to stop them, Sky Masters was still selling Martindale the high-tech weapons and combat robots he needed to fight his own private, highly profitable wars.

She frowned. No wonder Martindale and his corporate allies wanted her out… and Farrell in. They were counting on the Texas oil man to shovel billions in new Pentagon contracts their way come next January. She looked at Cohen. “Well, now we know what good old John D. was really doing in Warsaw last fall.”

He nodded.

Shortly after announcing his candidacy, Farrell had jetted off on what he called a “fact-finding trip” across Europe and Asia. Pundits and bloggers on Barbeau’s side had mocked him for the obvious effort to paper over his total lack of foreign policy experience. When he added Warsaw to his itinerary, Barbeau had privately dismissed the visit as a publicity stunt designed to embarrass her. She should have known better. Besides hobnobbing with Poland’s president, Piotr Wilk, and other leaders in the Alliance of Free Nations, he must also have been making a deal with Martindale for his support.

From the dubious expression on Rauch’s pale face, she knew he didn’t buy the idea that Farrell was acting as a stalking horse for Martindale and Sky Masters. She ignored him.

Like many former academics, her national security adviser still longed for the life of the ivory tower where truth was determined by agreed-upon facts and clear evidence. Politics was a very different game — one where intuition reigned supreme and where taking an opponent’s actions and words solely at face value was never the smart play.

“If Farrell is tied in with Sky Masters through Martindale, they’ll pull out all the stops to make him look good,” Cohen said thoughtfully. “They could put on one hell of an air show with some of those experimental aircraft and drones they’re sitting on.”

Barbeau nodded slowly. After she learned that Kaddiri and her new chief engineer and CEO, Jason Richter, were shipping arms and equipment to Scion’s mercenaries, she’d ordered a full FBI-led investigation into the company. Reading those reports had been an eye-opener. Sky Masters had at least one hangar full of flyable prototypes.

Common sense told her that most of those X-planes must be duds, either unsuited for real-world military use or too expensive to mass-produce, operate, and maintain. Unfortunately, none of those considerations would matter much to the voters Farrell was wooing. They’d only see a slew of futuristic-looking aircraft and drones already winging through the air… while most of the new fifth-generation air-superiority fighters and long-range bombers her administration backed were only on drawing boards, or, at best, crawling through the Pentagon’s interminable review processes. The contrast would be damning.

Irritably, Barbeau swiveled away from her desk and glared out across the White House lawn. What could her administration do to counter a Sky Masters dog and pony show? Static models, mockups, and computer animations weren’t going to wow anyone. While F-35 Lightning IIs were finally coming off the production line in reasonable numbers, individual examples had already been seen at air shows in the States and around the world for years. The only thing different now was that the Air Force could finally field a complete active-duty squadron of the stealth multirole fighters.

Suddenly it occurred to her that she’d been coming at this from the wrong direction. She didn’t need to counter whatever Farrell, Sky Masters, and Martindale had planned. She needed to preempt it. The old axiom about the best defense being a good offense was as true in a political campaign as it was in war.

Barbeau swiveled back. “Dr. Rauch,” she said formally. “Am I right that the defense contractor for the new B-21 Raider long-range stealth bomber has promised us a flyable prototype by midyear?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Rauch said guardedly. He shrugged his narrow shoulders. “But schedules tend to slip, especially in a program as complex and expensive as the Raider.”

Her eyes went stone-cold. “Then you are going to get on the horn to those gentlemen and inform them that there will be no such slipups in this case. That bird will fly as promised. Or heads will roll… and contract penalty clauses will be invoked.”

The national security adviser winced. “With respect, Madam President, there’s no way I can make that a serious threat. Merging all the electronics, weapons and flight controls, navigation and communications systems, and passive and active defenses in a totally new airframe is a massive, incredibly intricate undertaking. There’s no way any court will uphold a judgment against a defense contractor for unforeseen delays in so difficult a project.”

“You misunderstand me, Doctor,” Barbeau snapped. “I don’t give a damn if that B-21 prototype is combat-ready… or even close to it. All I want for the moment is a really deadly-looking, brand-new bomber that can take off, fly around for a few minutes, and then land safely.”

Interested now, Cohen leaned forward. “What’s your plan?”

“The hell with Sky Masters and its piddling X-planes,” she said, with a wide, wicked grin. “We’ll put on our own goddamned show. A show that’ll totally undercut Farrell’s attacks on my defense programs. And best of all, it won’t cost the campaign one thin dime.”

Cohen raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Because I’m the commander in chief, Luke,” Barbeau said, still grinning. “So when I order a major Air Force readiness exercise featuring a whole damn bunch of our nation’s most advanced combat aircraft, that’s official business… not politics.” She chuckled. “Picture Air Force One arriving at an air base jam-packed with shiny-new F-35s. Thousands of officers and enlisted personnel are lined up at attention in full-dress uniform to salute me. And then, just as I come sashaying down the aircraft stairs with ‘Hail to the Chief’ playing, our beautiful new B-21 Raider bomber comes roaring in, orbits low over the field, and lands.”

Cohen whistled softly. “Oh hell, yeah. Those would be some seriously good visuals.” He leaned back in his chair. “So when would we stage this ‘readiness exercise’?”

“The when’s easy,” Barbeau said confidently. “This summer. After all the primaries are over and before the political conventions kick off. The press will be dying for something exciting to cover, so that’ll be the best time to knock the wind out of Farrell’s sails.”

Cohen nodded, thinking that through. “And the where?”

“Barksdale Air Force Base in Louisiana,” she told him smugly. “Bomber country. Right where I was born.”