Wall of Night

76

“General, we’ve got new satellite images coming up,” the CAC duty officer called.

“Put them on the big screen,” Cathermeier ordered. Eight black-and-white images, each two feet square, appeared on the monitor. “What are we looking at, Commander?”

“Two pictures each of four air bases just north of the Hinggan Mountains,” she answered. “Gulian, Changying, Pangu, and Ershizhan. We’re reasonably sure these are the primary launch points for the Chinese sorties.”

“Good God, look at that,” Mason murmured.

In each photo the tarmacs were covered with lines of black dots.

Each dot a plane, Dutcher thought. “Looks bigger than the last sortie.”

“Initial estimate puts the combined total at five regiments — two hundred aircraft.”

“Composition?” asked Lahey.

“Almost identical. MiG Seventeens, Nineteens and some a mix of older Sukhois.”

“More cannon fodder,” Mason said.

Lahey asked, “Commander, any estimate of how long before they liftoff?”

She cocked her head, thinking. “Using their first sortie as a guide … four hours, give or take.”

“Makes sense,” Cathermeier said. “Dawn attack.”

“Can the Russians handle it?” Mason asked.

“They’ll try, and the Chinese will lose a lot of planes, but the PLAAF has the numbers on its side. The Russians have no other choice but to play their game. If they split their force and go after the high-orbiting J-tens and — twelves, they’ll get overwhelmed by the front wave.”

“Lose-lose,” Lahey said.

“Exactly. Now, once they can throw some MiGs into the fight that have stand-off missile capability, their chances improve. Problem is, will they come soon enough, and in enough numbers?”

“Stand-off missile capability,” Lahey repeated. “Like our Tomcats and Hornets?”

“Yes, sir.”

Lahey thought for a moment, then sighed. “Though I don’t hold out much hope, I’ve got to try to reason with Bulganin again. Together, if we can somehow blunt this next Chinese sortie …”

“Its unlikely he’ll even entertain the idea,” Dutcher said. “He’s made up his mind: We’re the enemy.”

“I have to try.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Mason agreed. “But even if he agrees, it doesn’t solve our larger problem: The Chinese aren’t going to stop. For argument’s sake, let’s say we repel this next wave … What about the one after that, and the next? The Chinese have everything riding on this; they’ve gotta have more up their sleeve than an air campaign.”

Cathermeier nodded. “It’s the old maxim: Until you take the soil you haven’t won the war.”

“Tanks and infantry,” Lahey murmured.

“Yep. And once that starts, it’s going to make these air skirmishes look like a snowball fight.”

Ivan Nochenko stared out his office window at the night-lights of Moscow and beyond. Light now swirled against the glass like moths fluttering to a light

It’s very simple … We’ll blot them off the map …

“I did this,” Nochenko muttered. He felt drugged; everything around him seemed hazy, as though time was moving erratically around him. “This is my doing.”

After Bulganin’s cruise-missile proclamation, they’d stood frozen in place, staring at him.

To Nochenko’s initial surprise, neither Fedorin or Beskrovny put up any argument, and in that moment he knew they’d turned a corner. Lost in his world of paranoid delusions, Vladimir Bulganin was about to start a nuclear war. The time for talking was over.

After giving the order and seeing there was no dissent, Bulganin had been buoyant, joking and slapping them on the back, chillingly oblivious of what he’d just done.

Once dismissed, Nochenko, Fedorin, and Beskrovny returned to Nochenko’s office. He dropped wearily into his chair and stared, slump shouldered, at his desk blotter.

“The man’s insane,” Sergei Fedorin murmured. “He’s going to kill us all.”

Beskrovny said, “The only question left is how it will happen. The Chinese will respond in kind — that much is certain — but will it be against tactical targets or population centers?”

“What does it matter? Millions are going to die. Whether it’s today or spread out over a few weeks, what does it matter?”

Beskrovny nodded. “You’re right, of course. If I refuse to carry out his plan, he’ll simply have me arrested and take direct command. Some idiot colonel in Kungara or Urasha will get the order, snap off a goddamned salute, and launch the strike.”

“Then what do we do?” Fedorin said. “We’re running out of time.”

Nochenko lifted his gaze from his desk and said, “I’ll take care of it.”

“What?” Beskrovny said. “How? He doesn’t listen to a word we say. What makes you think you’ll have any more luck if you try again?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Nochenko repeated. “I understand Vladimir. We simply haven’t been taking the right tack with him.” Seeing the doubt written on their faces, Nochenko forced a confident smile. “Gentlemen, trust me. I’ll take care of it. In the meantime, Victor, go through the motions of ordering the strike.”

“What?” Beskrovny cried.

“If he sees you’re dragging your feet, he’ll do just as you said and replace you. Make the preparations, but don’t order the release of the warheads. Victor, please, do as I ask. I’ll take care of everything.”

“How, exactly?” Fedorin said.

“That’s not your worry. I’m asking for your trust. Russia is going to need men like you in the coming days. This crisis will pass and when it does, your expertise will be instrumental in repairing the damage that’s already been done. So, I’m asking you, can I count on you?”

Beskrovny and Fedorin exchanged confused glances, then nodded.

Who is worse? Nochenko wondered, staring in the blackness. A paranoid schizophrenic with delusions of Stalin-hood, or a blind, ego-driven old fool? His is a sickness of the mind; mine a sickness of conceit. Without me, he wouldn’t be here. Without me, the world wouldn’t be teetering at the brink of a nuclear war.

Every step of the way he’d ignored Bulganin’s rantings, his vicious mood swings, his Cold-War mentality … Worse still, after the Irkutsk Massacre, when his conscience had finally risen up and refused to be silent, he’d tricked and cajoled and deceived himself back into ignorance.

I’ve done this, Nochenko thought again. This is my responsibility.

At four a.m., Bulganin recalled the three of them to his office.

Nochenko found his president pacing near the window, occasionally peeking out the curtains and muttering to himself. As usual, Pytor stood against the wall behind Bulganin’s desk, eyes scanning the room. Another two guardians stood on either side of the door, hands clasped behind their backs.

“Ivan!” Bulganin shouted. “Where are … There they are. Good, gentlemen, come in.”

Beskrovny and Fedorin walked in and stopped in front of Bulganin’s desk.

“Marshal, how go the preparations for our strike?”

“Everything is proceeding, sir. The strike will lift off from Urasha in eighty minutes.”

“Excellent!” Bulganin boomed, clasping his hands in excitement. “Little devils are going to find it difficult to carry on their little scheme once those air bases are gone, eh Marshal?”

“Yes, sir,” Beskrovny replied with a stiff nod, then a glance at Nochenko.

Bulganin’s intercom buzzed. “Mr. President, Vice President Lahey is on line three.”

Bulganin threw up his hands. “Ah! What does this rube want now? All right, send it through!” When the phone rang, Bulganin pushed the speaker button. “What now, Lahey?”

“Mr. President, I have a proposal for you. I have General Cathermeier, my chairman of the Joint Chiefs here with me. Do you have someone similar there with you?”

“My defense minister, Marshal Victor Beskrovny is standing beside me. Why, Lahey, what game are you playing now?”

“No games, Mr. President. I’m going to let General Cathermeier explain my proposal. Marshal Beskrovny will be able to advise you as to its soundness.”

“Get on with it.”

“President Bulganin, this is General Cathermeier. Our satellite intelligence shows activity at four Chinese air bases north of the Hinggan Mountains. We believe they’re preparing to launch another air attack against you.”

“Yes, yes, we’re aware of that,” Bulganin barked. “Make your point.”

“Our proposal is this: With your permission and with the support of your refueling facilities, we are prepared to dispatch from our carrier group a support force to aid you in defending against the next attack.”

“That’s nonsense,” Bulganin shot back. “We will not—”

Marshal Beskrovny interrupted: “General, this is Beskrovny here. Tell me, what kind and how many aircraft are you talking about?”

“F-14s and F/A-18s. Approximately thirty aircraft.”

“What percentage of the group’s total aircraft does this represent?”

“Over fifty percent, sir.”

“That would leave your carriers largely undefended, would it not?” Beskrovny asked.

“The group would still have the support of its surface vessels, but yes, those aircraft are critical to the group’s defense.”

“These Tomcats and Hornets would be equipped with stand-off missiles?”

“Yes, Marshal. Phoenix air-to-air missiles with a range of one hundred plus miles. We feel these aircraft could make a real difference in the coming fight.”

Beskrovny nodded thoughtfully, then said, “General, will you excuse us for a moment?”

“Of course.”

At Beskrovny’s urging, Bulganin muted the phone, then said, “Surely you’re not taken in by this, Marshal?”

“Sir, I think we should consider the proposal.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You heard the man — they would be stripping their group of almost every aircraft it has.”

“And sending them, fully armed, into our airspace. As the Chinese attack us from the south, the Americans attack us from the east. They’re asking us to agree to our own envelopment. Surely you can see that.” Bulganin glanced at Fedorin and Nochenko. “You must see that.”

Fedorin said, “Mr. President, we’re not going to win this next air encounter. We haven’t yet got the forces in place to do anything but stall the Chinese. These American fighters would tip the scale in our favor. We have to consider—”

“They have attacked us once already. I will not open the doors for a second strike.”

“Mr. President, I may have a solution that will ease your mind. May I?”

Bulganin grumbled, but nodded.

Beskrovny unmuted the phone. “General Cathermeier, would you be willing to provide us the individual IFF codes for your aircraft so we may track them more effectively?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And agree to allow them to be tracked by SAM site radars while they are crossing our airspace to the battle area?”

There was a short pause. “Yes, sir, we can do that as well.”

“Thank you. One more moment, please.” Beskrovny muted the phone again.

“That means nothing,” Bulganin said. “They agreed too quickly to your demands. They’re still playing their games — I’m sure of it.”

“And I’m sure they’re not,” Beskrovny replied. “Mr. President, for God’s sake …”

Watching the exchange, Ivan Nochenko again felt the druglike haze settle over him. His vision tunneled and sounds around him seem to fade, as though he were underwater. He watched Bulganin’s lips moving, his bulging wild eyes and flushed face, and realized for the first time what Beskrovny and Fedorin had themselves been witnessing: a ranting madman.

In that same moment Nochenko felt what he could only describe as a sad affection for Vladimir Bulganin. My golem, he thought. Had he not interfered, would Bulganin have simply lived and died a shoe factory foreman in Omsk, bothering no one but those forced to listen to his silly diatribes? I did this.My responsibility…mine and no one else’s.

Caught up in the argument, no one saw Nochenko leave. The two guardians at the door stared at him as he stepped out, but they said nothing. Mind blank, moving like an automaton, Nochenko walked down the hall to his office, opened the door and walked inside. He strode to his desk. He bent over and opened the bottom drawer.

The gun, a 9mm Makarov semiautomatic, was exactly where he’d left it the night before. He inserted the magazine, cycled the slide, and flicked off the safety. He slid the gun into his belt beside his hip, then smoothed his suit jacket and headed for the door.

“…NO!” Bulganin was saying when Nochenko stepped back into the office. “We don’t need their help, and we certainly don’t need their trickery. You may be fooled by them, Marshal, but I am not so gullible. Ivan, there you are. Where did you go off to? As I was saying, General, we’re—”

I created him …Beskrovny and Fedorin will do their duty.Now it’s time to do yours …

Nochenko strode forward, eyes fixed on Bulganin. Must get close … must be sure …

“—done arguing about this! I’ve made my decision. The attack will continue—”

Bulganin picked up the phone: “General Cathermeier, your offer is declined. If your aircraft approach our coast, they will be shot down. As for your ships—”

Bulganin glanced up, saw Nochenko striding toward him.

Do your duty …

“Ivan, what in the world is wrong with you?”

Nochenko reached into his belt, drew the Makarov, raised it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pyotr moving, reaching into his own coat, his gun coming clear and turning toward him …

“Gun! Mr. President, get down …!”

Still clutching the phone, Bulganin cocked his head. “What is this, Ivan? Why—”

“Mr. President, move!”

Too late, Nochenko thought in the final seconds.

He raised his gun and began pulling the trigger.

Inside the NMCC’s conference room, the sound of gunfire burst from the speakerphone. Lahey jumped to his feet. “What the hell is that? President Bulganin! What’s going on?”

There was a moment of silence, then three more shots. Silence again. In the background, a moan, followed by confused shouting and the sound of footsteps.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Lahey called. “Can anyone hear me?”

From a range of five feet, Nochenko had fired four rounds into the center of Vladimir Bulganin’s chest before Pyotr got off his first shot. The bullet tore into Nochenko’s side below his nipple, the second into his neck just above his collarbone. As he fell, he turned the gun on Pyotr and fired three more shots. Two missed completely, but the third found its mark, striking Pyotr in the center of the forehead.

Having dropped to the ground at the first shot, Beskrovny and Fedorin now raised their heads and looked around. Guns drawn, a dozen guardians had flooded the room. Bulganin lay on his back on the carpet, a pool of blood spreading beneath him like a pair of black wings.

From the phone, a voice: “Anyone hear me? President Bulganin … Marshal Beskrovny …”

Fedorin was the first to regain his composure. “Victor, talk to them. Take charge. Do what needs to be done. I’ll take care of this,” Fedorin said. “Hurry, Victor, time is short!”

Stepping over Nochenko’s body, Beskrovny grabbed the phone receiver. “I am here, Mr. Lahey,” Beskrovny said, panting. “There’s been an … incident here.”

“What’s happened?”

“President Bulganin and his chief bodyguard are dead. They’ve been shot.”

“By whom?”

“One of his advisors — Ivan Nochenko. He’s dead as well.”

“Are you injured, Marshal?”

“No.”

“Who’s there with you?”

“Sergei Fedorin. Is your General Cathermeier still with you, Mr. Vice President?”

“I’m here,” Cathermeier answered.

“Until things get sorted out here, it seems I’m in charge. General, does your offer still stand?”

“It does.”

“Then on behalf of my country, I accept. When we’re done here, I’ll alert my district commanders. General Chonyesky in Vladivostok will make the necessary arrangements; he’ll contact you with the necessary radio frequencies.”

“Good, Marshal. Your ships are still steaming toward our group, however. If you can divert them so our carrier can maneuver—”

“I’ll do better than that, General. I’m ordering my ships south. If the Chinese want to reach our coast, they’re going to have to fight their way through.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

Another voice came on the line: “Marshal Beskrovny, this is Dick Mason of the CIA.”

“Yes, Mr. Mason.”

“We feel that these air sorties are just the spearhead of the Chinese attack, but we’ve seen no movement from PLA ground units. Mechanized infantry, tanks … all of it is sitting still.”

“That has puzzled us as well. They must have a … what’s the phrase? A trump card?”

“Exactly right. I suggest we put our heads together and figure out exactly what that is before the Chinese play it.”