Authors: Leslie Wolfe
Abramovich started pacing again, slowly, pensively.
“Get me more,” he said after a few seconds. “Get me more than what the plan called for. Revise the plan and bring it to me for review. I know START limits our arsenal counts, but I want to have bigger nukes, new planes, more powerful nuclear submarines. Double the fleet of Borei submarines, get rid of all the junk. And authorize more funds for nuclear research. Put all of that in your plan.”
“Umm . . . how about funding? We’re running out of funding for defense. With the sanctions, it’s been hard.”
“Fuck the sanctions. Take from somewhere else. Social security, education, health, I don’t care. Raise some taxes. Just make it happen.”
“Yes, gospodin prezident.”
Abramovich dismissed Dolinski with a wave of his hand, and Dolinski disappeared, closing the door quietly behind him.
Dolinski might be able to pull it off, but he still needed a good defense minister. No, he needed a great one.
The day held several firsts for Henri. Her first time at the White House. Her first time going anywhere with Director Seiden. Her first time in the same room with the president. She hoped she’d rise to the occasion and make Seiden proud.
“We should get started shortly,” Seiden said, “we’re his first agenda item. That always helps.”
She nodded, not sure what to say. Seiden read right through her self-imposed calm.
“You’ll do fine. Just remember what we discussed. Keep it short and clear, no speculation. Short phrases, minimum words, keep it simple. And it’s OK to say that you’ll have an answer in a few days if you’re not sure about something.”
“Uh-uh, yes, sir,” she confirmed.
“This is a briefing, not a brainstorming session. Only confirmed facts and finalized analyses, got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can take your seats in the conference room now,” a staffer said, and showed them the way. “Would you like anything to drink? Coffee, tea, water?”
“Thank you, we’re good,” Seiden replied for both of them.
An assistant took a seat at the remote part of the table, getting ready to take notes.
President Krassner entered, followed closely by two of his advisors.
Brief introductions identified General Foster, the president’s military advisor, a tall, proud man in uniform, with his chest covered in decorations, and Norbert Purvis, the national security advisor, who looked more like a businessman than a politician.
“Good morning, everyone,” Krassner said, “let’s hear it.”
Going straight to the point, Doug Krassner was exactly how Henri thought he’d be, after seeing him on television on numerous occasions. Krassner had the reputation to be a smart, open-minded, and gutsy leader, willing to go a little differently about things and break some molds if that meant progress.
“Mr. President,” Seiden greeted him with deference, “thank you for seeing us on such short notice.”
“What’s on your mind, director?”
“This, sir,” Seiden said, pushing slightly forward Henri’s report, bound nicely in report covers bearing the CIA insignia in gold emboss.
“I flipped through some pages,” Krassner said, “makes for a very interesting read. So . . . we’ve entered Cold War two dot zero, huh? Great way to start my presidency.” Krassner smiled, an open smile not in the least bitter.
“Two dot zero, sir?” Seiden asked.
“My technology advisor said the new Cold War will involve technology way more than we’d anticipated. He came up with Cold War 2.0 instead of Cold War II, and it stuck.”
Everyone chuckled lightly.
Krassner cleared his throat quietly. “OK, let’s get started. What do you think this means?” He pointed at the report.
“War, sir,” Seiden replied. “Maybe not now, not this year, but definitely going toward war. Crimea might have been the trigger for a chain of events leading to global conflagration.”
“Can Russia go to war with the entire Western world? NATO is a powerful alliance.”
“My analyst suggested that we shouldn’t think of Russia in the traditional way, as planning to go to war directly and amassing thousands of tanks and troops in a direct, open invasion. Marino and her team think this war will be different, based on the profile they’ve built for President Abramovich and his actions to date.”
Krassner turned slightly to face Henri.
“What do you think these military actions are about?”
“Sir, I think these incursions are testing our response times, our response procedures, and our response strength. Overall, they’re testing our response, or wearing out our vigilance while testing our response.”
Seiden looked away briefly to hide his irritation. The incursions analysis was not completely finalized. Yet she was venturing a non-substantiated hypothesis, the exact opposite of what they had discussed on their way in. Well aware of that, Henri swallowed hard and mentally prepared to walk on thin ice. Whatever the risk for her career, Krassner needed to know the facts ASAP. It was an acceptable risk, if she were to be proven wrong. Much better than taking the risk of informing Krassner a few days too late.
“What for?” Krassner asked.
“Nothing good, that’s for sure,” she blurted. Without turning her head, she caught Seiden flashing an angry glance toward her.
“That’s an understatement,” Krassner commented. “Can you venture some guesses?”
“Umm . . . sure. I think they could be testing our response to figure out where and how to conduct a first strike. That’s one theory. Another theory is that they could be conducting these territorial displays of aggression to distract us, while they’re looking to launch ballistic missiles. The missiles scenario is covered in my report. In addition, a third scenario is that they could be doing these close-call incursions in the hope that someone on our side gets nervous and engages by accident. Although, in all fairness, I don’t see them caring too much about who started it, or who’s to blame. Abramovich is beyond that. He just wants vengeance for the Crimea sanctions and the public humiliation they brought him.”
“If you were to choose one scenario, which one do you think is the most plausible?”
She hesitated a little before answering, wondering, as many other people had wondered lately, how sure she was. Very.
“I’d have to say scenario two, sir. I’d have to go with the nuclear-strike scenario.”
Silence fell thick, lingering for a few seconds that seemed like hours. Krassner opened the report and briefly browsed through it, making a quick note on one of the pages.
Then he looked up at Henri again.
“What do you think of my technology advisor’s opinion, with respect to the new cold war? Do you think he has a point?”
She hesitated, not sure whether the question was directed at her or at Seiden.
“Can you venture a guess which technologies would be more interesting to acquire or develop to consolidate our offensive and defensive positions?”
Krassner was looking straight at her, and so was Seiden, who nodded discreetly.
“Mr. President, I don’t have this analysis completed. I can look into this issue and prepare a report in a matter of days.”
“You’re an analyst, right? Then analyze, speculate with us. Let’s hear what you think.”
Krassner wasn’t going to give her any room to maneuver out of the situation. She might as well use the opportunity to tell him what she thought. Henri took a deep breath before speaking, reminding herself to slow her machine-gun verbalization to an easier-to-follow delivery rhythm.
“Mr. President, I think technology should be a much higher focus for the US military.
Should have been
would be the right way to put it. We need to allow innovation to penetrate our weapons systems, aircraft, communications, everything technology.
“The backbone of our Air Force is based on thirty- to forty-year-old concepts. The fifth-generation jets are coming into service way too slow. So slowly, they’re already somewhat out-of-date by the time they become operational. We fly the same planes as we did thirty years ago. Maybe they’re not thirty years old, but their concepts are. Yet most of us can’t stomach having a car older than eight years.”
“Enough,” Seiden whispered into her ear, barely audible. She clammed up promptly.
“Not at all, let her continue,” Krassner said.
She cleared her throat, suddenly constricted by seeing how stiff the president’s military advisor seemed. His pursed lips, flanked by two deep ridges formed around his mouth by an expression of offended consternation, were conveying a clear message. Drilling, unforgiving eyes focused on hers with an intensity she hadn’t encountered too often. She decided to lay off the fighter jets for a while.
“We put satellites into orbit at roughly five to seven times the cost that other countries spend to do the same thing. Private entrepreneurs can figure out how to build rockets and move cargo into space cheaper and faster than NASA.”
She paused for a few seconds, waiting to see if they wanted her to continue. Krassner made an inviting gesture with his hand.
“Did you know that European countries are significantly more advanced in their search for clean energy? They are decades ahead of us. The list can continue, but the bottom line is that our traditional resistance to change has cost us dearly in terms of progress. The weapons we build are clunky, obsolete and carry huge price tags. They’re not efficient; they don’t make use of modern technologies, light materials, process innovation (like three-dimensional printing), or materials innovation, such as carbon fiber molding. The Chinese have already 3D-printed an apartment building and are manufacturing light jets made from carbon fiber: light, maneuverable, and fuel-efficient. Yet we build the same clunky rust buckets designed in the fifties, so I would say yes, your advisor was definitely right. Technology will definitely play a role in future war strategy, from more perspectives than just cyber warfare. By the way, I think we’re actually doing fairly well in cyber warfare. At least, courtesy of the NSA, we seem to be better prepared in that area.”
“Please continue,” Krassner said. “What would you do?”
“Well, we did make some progress in the past decades, not much, but we’ve made some. Unmanned flight, stealth technologies, computing power, all these new technologies gave us immense strategic advantages. We just need to continue on this path. For each area, we should drive innovation before we spend trillions more ineffectively on antiquated technology. I’d also focus on revamping NORAD and our antimissile defense; it might come in handy sooner than we’d like. We also need to observe more, to find out what’s out there, to, well,” she chuckled slightly, thinking of paraphrasing a known movie title, “to spy hard. For many years, we’ve been focused on GWOT and forgot all our other enemies. Global war on terror must continue, but we need to redeploy in other areas.” Seeing Seiden’s consternated look, she added quickly, “In my humble opinion.”
Krassner smiled.
“Thank you for your candor and original thoughts; they’ll keep us busy for a while.” He turned slightly and looked toward Seiden. “Director Seiden, as soon as the intrusions analysis is complete, I want it on my desk. Let’s talk strategic response immediately; get it set up.”
Krassner walked briskly out of the conference room, followed closely by his two advisors and his assistant. Seiden and Henri left immediately after them, heading for the parking garage.
Alone with Seiden in the car, she allowed herself to take a deep breath.
“Sir, am I fired?”
“Not sure yet,” Seiden replied without a trace of humor in his voice. “This wasn’t like any other presidential briefing I have attended, that’s for sure. Put some numbers together to substantiate your theories on those Russian incursions. Write your report, do the most thorough work you’re capable of. Ideally, do that before presenting to me, to anyone, especially the president. But in this case, keep me posted as you go, tell me what you find, as soon as you find it.”
“Are you concerned I might be wrong in my theories?”
“No . . . I’m afraid you might be right.”
Vitaliy Myatlev enjoyed the crisp winter air and the fading sunshine on his home’s terrace. Bundled up in a long astrakhan fur coat and matching hat, he sat on the lounge chair smoking his cigar and drinking vodka, impervious to the frigid air.
He loved the feeling that the terrace gave him. Offering a great vantage point, he could see in all directions for miles, while enjoying privacy and peace when lounging on the imported patio furniture. It was this terrace that had tipped the scale and made him fork out almost seven-hundred-thousand dollars for the villa. The colonial-style, two-story, white mansion had six bedrooms, four baths, a sauna, and a Jacuzzi suite, and the fantastic terrace spread out over almost two-thousand square feet.
His staff took great care of the terrace. The snow was removed promptly as soon as it fell, the patio furniture cleaned and dried, and gas patio heaters imported from America had been installed in the appropriate spots. That was where Myatlev liked to sit and think about the important things in his life.
He felt comfortable there, whether night or day. He felt on top of the world, unperturbed, untouchable, superior, and that sat very well with his ambitious nature. One of the richest men alive, Myatlev was a true Russian oligarch with global interests in banking, gas, oil, and whatever else he could think of.
A former foreign intelligence KGB officer, and now a talented businessman, Myatlev knew how to seize opportunity and put it to work, and he had done that aggressively since the day Russia had started to turn from communism to capitalism. Self-made and uncompromising, he had the innate talent to spot favorable circumstances or events and to construct the fastest, most profitable, business enterprises exploiting such circumstances.
Decisive, fast, unscrupulous, and ferociously ambitious, Myatlev was never satisfied. He forged ahead in quick bursts, building enterprise after enterprise and launching initiative after initiative, amassing wealth at a stunning rate.
Yet not everything was perfect in his world. Unaccustomed to defeat, Myatlev still ground his teeth, thinking of the recent failure he had suffered. His plan had been perfect, majestic. The execution had been spot on, carefully monitored by him personally, step after carefully planned step. It should have never failed, yet it did, and the unknown reasons behind that failure kept him up at night. That ill-fated failure could still get him killed.
That’s why Myatlev appreciated a place where he could unwind, put his thoughts in order, and prepare for new challenges, new opportunities. His Kiev villa offered that perfect spot, unique among all his other properties. He was never going to sell the villa.
He signaled his bodyguard, Ivan, for some more vodka. Ivan topped his glass promptly, adding several ice cubes to it. He took a sip, inhaled the harsh alcohol vapors, and took another sip.
His cell phone came to life and caused Myatlev to frown. He took it out of his pocket and, seeing the name on the display, his frown deepened as he cussed under his breath before picking up.
“Gospodin prezident, what a pleasure!” Myatlev managed to sound sincere.
“Vitya, yes, it’s Petya; you recognized me!” Russian president Piotr Abramovich sounded glad to hear him, almost cheerful, which could prove even more dangerous than the alternative.
They exchanged pleasantries for several minutes in typical Russian fashion when old friends catch up. They recounted their recent holiday meals and guest lists, recommended new exotic foods to each other, and gossiped about mutual acquaintances. Then Abramovich switched gears abruptly and got to the point.
“Vitya, I want you to come visit with me. We need to talk.”
Abramovich sounded very determined. Myatlev felt his blood freeze in his veins.
“It will be my pleasure, Petya,” he managed, “just give me a few days to wrap things up here. I’m in the middle of something big, you know.”
“Ha ha, aren’t you always,” Abramovich laughed. “All right, but don’t make it too long. I need to see you.”
Myatlev ended the call with trembling hands. He had been a fool to think that if he moved to Ukraine he could escape Abramovich. He had failed his mission, and Abramovich was not a forgiving man. His epic defeat had caught up with him. There was nowhere on Earth where he could hide from the fallout.
He gulped the remaining vodka in his glass and decided to go inside. He needed to come up with a plan.
Holding the door open for him, Ivan asked, “Are you OK, boss? You look pale.”