Ted Bell - Tsar

Brick Kelly said, “Sir, you’ll remember that only recently, Rostov threatened to deploy cruise missiles in the tiny Russian enclave of Kaliningrad, if we go ahead with missile defense in his backyard.”

The president said, “Tell me again where Kaliningrad is, Brick? I swear I’m bad at geography. Always have been.”

Kelly got up and spun the globe. He stopped it at Eastern Europe. “It sits right there between Poland and Lithuania. One Kremlin ploy might be to say they were sending troops in to reinforce their threatened enclave. It’s all tap-dancing and saber rattling right now, but I don’t think we can afford not to take it very, very seriously, Mr. President.”

“Jesus,” the president said, loosening his tie. “Didn’t anyone see this coming?”

“It was a sudden movement, but clearly the planning for this operation has been under way for some time,” the CIA director said. “We should have caught something, but we didn’t. We’re playing catch-up ball in Moscow, Mr. President. It’s going to take a while before we can get our field-agent network back up to where we were during the Cold War.”

“Britain’s doing the same thing, Mr. President,” Sir David Trulove said. “As you well know, we’ve recently joined forces with Langley to create something called Red Banner. A secret division to deal with the resurgent Soviet-excuse me, Dr. Freud, I meant Russian threat. Based in Bermuda and headed up by Alex Hawke, whom I’m sure you remember.”

“How is Alex bearing up, Sir David? He was quite ill for a while, I know.”

“Well and good, sir. Living the good life in Bermuda these days until I darkened his door.”

“Yanked him out of early retirement, did you?”

“I keep him busy.”

“Give him my regards, will you?”

“I’ll do that, sir. Thank you.”

At that moment, Betsey Hall entered the Oval through her private door. Her expression was grim, and she went immediately to the president, bent from the waist, and whispered something into his ear. McAtee listened intently, nodded his head, and got to his feet.

“I need to take this call,” he said. “Urgent. No need to leave, sit tight. Please excuse me for a minute.”

McAtee walked behind the historic Resolute desk. In 1850, the British HMS Resolute had gotten lodged in Arctic ice and was long abandoned before being discovered adrift by an American fishing vessel that towed her to port. Congress purchased the vessel, refitted her, and presented her to Queen Victoria as a token of peace. Resolute served in the Royal Navy for twenty-three years. After decommissioning, Queen Victoria ordered two identical desks built from her timbers, presenting one to President Rutherford B. Hayes in 1880 and placing the twin in Buckingham Palace, where it stands today.

McAtee sat at the historic desk, flanked by the two flags, and picked up the receiver on the phone that was blinking.

“This is the president,” he said.

He listened impassively, his expression giving little away to anyone in the room who glanced his way. A few minutes later, he said, “Thank you very much. You’ll be hearing from me shortly.”

He stood and crossed the room, returning to his favorite chair by the fire. He sighed deeply and leaned his head back against the cushion of the chair. No one knew quite what to say, and a lengthy silence ensued.

“That was the governor of Kansas,” McAtee said. “Along with Bill Thomas at NSA. Last night, the mayor of Salina, someone I knew personally, was murdered in bed, along with her husband and two children. There are no suspects, and Monie Bailey didn’t have an enemy in this world. It was the work of terrorists. The husband was shot dead, the other three were gassed.”

“Gassed?” Mike Reiter said as he leaned forward. “Terrorists? In Kansas? Good Lord. Will you excuse me, Mr. President? I need to make a few phone calls.” McAtee nodded, and Reiter quickly left.

“A cell phone was left on Monie’s body. There was a message on it. It came from a member of a group calling itself the Arm of God.

NSA has already traced the call. It came from another cell. The caller was in an apartment complex in a suburb west of Tehran when the call was made. We have assets on the way to that building now.”

“Unbelievable,” General Moore said.

“It gets worse,” Jack McAtee said.

“Sorry. Go ahead, Mr. President.”

“The caller, whose voice was electronically altered, said that at precisely six o’clock Tuesday morning, Central Standard Time, that’s tomorrow morning, the town of Salina, Kansas, will no longer exist. He said evacuation of the entire population should begin immediately. Then he ‘allahued Akhbar’ three times and hung up.”

The room sat in stunned silence.

“Salina, Kansas,” Moore said. “Why? It doesn’t make any sense. There’s nothing there.”

“Except churches and schools and families with little girls and boys,” McAtee said, his expression blank.

Brick Kelly stared at the still-spinning globe. He stuck out a finger and stopped it, found Salina on the map of the U.S., and said, “This is interesting. Salina is in the absolute dead center of the country. Look. Right square in the middle of the north-south axis and the east-west axis.”

“A shot to the heart?” General Moore said. “Some kind of warning shot to the heart of America?”

“Maybe,” the president mused. He’d been thinking along the same lines.

“What does NSA think, Mr. President?” Sir David asked. “Is this threat at all credible?”

McAtee nodded gravely. “Very credible. They say I should authorize immediate evacuation. This radical group, this so-called Arm of God, has a blood-soaked history. They’re a Soviet-sponsored terror network headquartered in Iran. Lately, they’ve been training foreign fighters to infiltrate Iraq and Afghanistan with ever more sophisticated IEDs. And they’re the ones currently negotiating with the Russians on the purchase of new shoulder-fired missiles to bring our Ah-64 Apache choppers down.”

“The Russians. Why do they keep coming up?” Consuelo de los Reyes said, to no one in particular.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got to call the governor,” Mc Atee said. “I’ll have to cancel the remainder of this meeting, I’m afraid. There are forty-two thousand souls in that town whose lives are at stake. I want to thank you all for coming and we’ll regroup soon, I promise. I’ll keep you abreast of this situation as it develops. Betsey will call your offices with a time to reconvene.”

The president stood, and so did everyone else. As they were filing out, he stopped Sir David and said quietly, “Could you stick around another minute or so?”

“Certainly, sir.”

When the room had cleared, McAtee said, “I want you to promise me something, David, all right?”

“Anything.”

“This man of yours. Hawke. He’s heading up that new division for you. What’s it called again?”

“Red Banner.”

“Right. I trust Alex Hawke. Completely. A couple of years ago, he single-handedly saved my life up on the inaugural platform. Not only mine but my wife’s and everybody in the damn government, most likely. We’ve got nobody like him, David, nobody who operates at his level. I want Hawke inside Russia. Tonight, if possible. If anyone can figure out what the hell these mad Russians are up to, it’s him. Quote me. Tell him I said that. And tell him there’s not a second to lose.”

“You seriously think the Russians may have something to do with this Kansas situation, Mr. President?”

“It’s possible. But I’m beginning to think the Russians have something to do with everything on the damn planet lately. Nothing those people do would surprise me at this point. They’ve pulled out of the arms treaty, they’re flying long-distance bomber sorties over Guam again, they’ve got troops massing on the NATO borders, they’re retargeting European cities with their missiles, and they’re selling advanced weapon systems to our most feared enemy, Iran. Friend or foe, David, you call it.”