Wall of Night

27

“Bottom line, Dick: how’s Irkutsk going to affect the election?” asked President Martin.

Flip a coin, the DCI thought. When it came to elections in Russia, projection polls could be dead-on one day and out the window the next, which had as much to do with the multitude of pollsters in Moscow’s circuslike political scene as it did with the vagaries of public opinion.

“It’s still ten days away, Mr. President,” Mason replied. “A lot can happen. Initially, however, this can only help Bulganin. He was speaking out before the Kremlin even acknowledged the incident. In fact, given Bulganin’s tone, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to ride this all the way to election day.”

“How?”

“Speeches, news conferences, public rallies, special editions of the RPP newsletter.”

“Anything from the Kremlin?”

“They’re being drowned out. From a PR perspective, they’re in the unenviable position of having to not only deal with the problem, but also refute Bulganin’s accusations. The public is swarming to his version of events — true or not.”

“I agree,” said Bousikaris. “Regardless of why, Federation soldiers gunned down over fifty unarmed citizens. There’s no making that disappear, and the current president is going to have a tough time taking the high ground away from Bulganin.”

“Have we learned anything more about this guy? He can’t be that big a mystery.”

“Bulganin is an icon, Mr. President — a representation of what Russian voters think is missing from their government,” Mason said. “That’s Nochenko’s touch; he knows what moves the people.”

“Are you trying to tell us there’s nothing to Bulganin?” Bousikaris asked. “I don’t buy that.”

“There’s something to him — probably quite a lot, in fact. The rub is, what exactly?”

It was the same question many people had asked about Hitler in the 1930s, and compared to Bulganin, Hitler was downright chatty. By the time the Wehrmacht invaded Poland, Hitler had told so many lies his neighbors didn’t know which way was up. If anything, Bulganin’s PR skills were more in line with those of Stalin: Say nothing, and when pressed for details, say less.

“In fact, it’s Bulganin’s caginess that’s making a lot of the Federation’s neighbors nervous,” Mason continued. “Every time he gains ground in the polls, the EC markets twitch.”

Martin’s intercom buzzed. Bousikaris picked it up, listened, then hung up. “Call for you, Dick.”

Mason walked to the coffee table and picked up the phone. “Mason. Yes, Sylvia … ” Mason listened for several minutes, asked a few questions, then hung up.

“What is it?” asked Martin.

“There’s been an accident in Russia. The cause is still unclear, but it sounds like the reactor in Chita vented some gas into the atmosphere.”

“Where’s Chita?”

“About nine hundred miles east of Irkutsk and three hundred miles north of the Chinese border.”

“Any word on a cause or severity?”

“No. Same with casualty figures, but we should be ready for the worst. It was a MOX reactor.”

Martin said, “Explain.”

“MOX is short for mixed-oxide,” Mason replied. “A lot of European and Asian countries are using it to dispose of old radioactive cores — called pits — from disassembled nuclear weapons. The process takes the cores, turns them into a powder, then mixes that with standard feedstock uranium.

“The stock burns efficiently, but the problem is, plutonium is just about the deadliest toxin on earth. A single grain inhaled into the lungs can cause cancer; worse still, the half-life of the stuff is twenty-four thousand years. If it gets into the high atmosphere … Well, you can imagine.”

“God almighty,” Martin said.

“First thing’s first, we need to confirm all this, then we need to find out what Moscow’s doing. We’ll want to put Energy on alert, have them prep some NEST teams,” Mason said, referring to Nuclear Emergency Search Team. “Even if Moscow doesn’t ask for help, we need to be ready to offer it — hell, force it on them, if necessary. This is not a time for piecemeal measures. It wouldn’t take much of that stuff to kill a whole lot of people.”

“Be specific, Dick.”

“That’s a question best answered by Energy. It’s going to depend on the size of the leak, the type of gas vented, weather conditions … We have very few facts right now.”

“Then get some,” Martin said. “Quick.”

The Chinese Embassy’s request for an audience reached Bousikaris’s desk just hours after Mason’s news. As the PRC had already called for a meeting of the UN Security Council, Bousikaris was unsurprised by the request, but was nonetheless wary as the ambassador was escorted into the Oval Office. Their first and only meeting with the ambassador had proven—was proving—costly.

Ever the politician, Martin walked from behind his desk to greet the ambassador. “Mr. Ambassador, a pleasure to see you again. The circumstances are unfortunate, of course, but such is life.”

“Indeed it is, Mr. President. I thought it important we talk before the Security Council meeting.”

“Certainly. Please sit down. We’re still gathering facts about the accident, so we don’t have much more information than a few hours ago.”

“Nor do we. Which brings me to the reason for my visit. As you may know, there is a significant Chinese diaspora in southern Russia, much of which is located in and around Chita. With the Federation’s blessing, our people emigrate to the Siberian republics to live and work with the native Russians there.

“Early reports indicate there are Chinese citizens employed at the reactor site in question. We think it’s safe to say they will be among the casualties.”

“We’re sorry to hear that, Mr. Ambassador,” Martin said. “We’ll keep them in our prayers.”

“Very kind. If only prayers were enough. You see, this is the fourth accident in eighteen months in which Chinese lives have been lost.”

“Mr. Ambassador we don’t yet know if any lives were lost — Chinese or otherwise.”

“Given the type of reactor, I think it likely.”

“Perhaps. You mentioned three other accidents …”

“Two mine cave-ins and an ammunition depot explosion. In all, nearly twelve hundred Chinese citizens have lost their lives on Russian soil in the last two years.”

Martin glanced at Bousikaris, who said, “We know of those incidents, but we weren’t aware any of your citizens were involved.”

“The ever-efficient Russian propaganda machine at work. You see, our citizens have become a valuable part of their workforce, accepting many jobs native Russians don’t want.”

Where’s this going? Bousikaris thought. The ambassador was clearly leading up to something, and he doubted it was a lesson in international labor issues. “Are you saying the Russian government has conspired to cover up the deaths of over a thousand Chinese citizens?” he asked.

“I am.”

“That’s a harsh accusation. I hope your government exercises discretion before making any formal charges.”

“Whether we level formal charges or not will depend entirely on the Security Council meeting. Of course, we will be demanding the Federation take steps to ensure the safety of our citizens. In Moscow’s eyes they may be immigrants, but to us they are family — regardless of where they live.”

“What kind of steps do you have in mind?” asked Martin.

“We’ll leave that to them. Too many Chinese have died because of Russian negligence, and it is high time Moscow address the issue.”

Now it’s negligence, Bousikaris thought. In a court of law, charges of death by negligence and conspiracy add up to murder. The ambassador had just taken a very dangerous leap. Bousikaris could see the trap looming before them.

“I’m sure the Federation will do everything it can to help,” President Martin said. “But, I have to ask: If, for whatever reason, their response doesn’t satisfy your concerns, what will you do?”

“We’re hopeful the Federation will be properly responsive.”

“With respect, sir, that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Mr. President, I can tell you this: The People’s Republic is committed to ensuring the welfare of its citizens. To this end, we will do whatever is necessary.”

“Are there any measures you will not consider?”

“Given the seriousness of the situation, we will consider every option.”

In failing to rule out military action, the ambassador had just put the option on the table.

“Again,” the ambassador said, “We hope this will be settled in a reasonable manner. We have no reason to think otherwise.”

Ask the question, Phil …

“I assume your counterparts in Great Britain and France have paid similar visits to those country’s respective leaders?”

“No.”

“Then why have you come to us?”

“I’ve been instructed by my premier to make clear his hope that China can count on your help should this situation escalate any further.”

There it is, Bousikaris thought. They’re coming back for a second drink at the well. Diplomatic niceties aside, this was another ultimatum.

Martin said, “Define what you mean by ‘help.’”

Ignoring protocol, the ambassador stood up, ending the meeting. “We’ll let tomorrow take care of tomorrow, Mr. President. If we need to talk again, I’ll contact Mr. Bousikaris for an appointment.”

​Three days out of Pearl Harbor, Columbia was nearing the Kent Seamount, four hundred miles northeast of Midway Island. Captain Archie Kinsock was standing beside one of the blue-lit plotting tables when Jurens walked into the control room. Kinsock waved him over.

“We lost?” Sconi said with a smile.

“Not so far.”

Jurens had gotten to know Kinsock over the last few days. Though often gruff, Kinsock knew his job and didn’t take himself too seriously, which showed in not only how smoothly the boat ran, but in the demeanor of the crew.

“Where are we, Captain?” Jurens asked.

“Make it Archie when we’re alone?”

Jurens nodded. “Call me Sconi.”

“Interesting name.”

“Born and raised in Wisconsin. We’re nearly famous — not a whole lotta black dairy farmers in Wisconsin.”

Kinsock laughed. “I can imagine. To answer your question, we’re near Midway. From here we’ll keep heading northeast until we reach the Intersection.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s the nickname for the point where the Emperor and Chinook troughs meet south of the Aleutians.” Kinsock flipped through several layers of charts until he found one showing the ocean floor. He pointed to a groove nestled inside what looked to Jurens like the spiny back of a giant lizard. “From there we head north to the Aleutian Trench.”

“The big deep.”

“Four miles and twenty thousand feet worth. Of course, we’d be long dead before we saw the bottom of that. Red paste in a can.”

“Thanks for the imagery.”

“Don’t worry about it — you’d never feel a thing.”

“Is this why you wanted to see me, Archie? A navigation lesson?”

“No. It’s our orders. I’m not trying to talk you into anything, but I’ve got a few concerns.”

“Such as?”

“Such as why I’m being told exactly where to launch my missiles.”

“What do you mean ‘exactly’?”

“Down to a GPS lock — a few meters either way.”

This was unusual, Jurens admitted. While submarine commanders were usually given a LZ, or launch zone, the precise launch point was traditionally left up to the captain. Given how close Columbia would be to the Russian coast, a tight LZ made sense, but to micromanage the launch point like that … He understood Kinsock’s worry.

“Any explanation offered?” Jurens asked.

“None.”

“What do you want to do? It’s your boat.”

Kinsock sighed. “Play it by ear. Hell, tight LZ or not, it won’t matter. From periscope to missile launch, we can be in and out in two minutes. Ain’t nobody gonna sneak up on us in that short a time.”