“
Major, we have the Belarusian pilot responding to you.”
“What the hell are you doing? They were no threat to us!” screamed the Belarusian.
“Our systems malfunctioned, this is a terrible mistake,” pleaded Papovich. The implications of what could be started by just such a shooting had plenty of historical precedence. The war to end all wars had started with one shooting, and perhaps the war that really
would
end all wars was about to start the same way, albeit on a far more complex scale.
Papovich buried his head in his hands and watched the missile scream towards the F-16. There was nothing that could be done, they couldn’t even warn the American to jettison - none of them had any idea what the English word for “evacuate” or “jettison” was.
“Major, look!” shouted an excited Sergey pointing at his screen.
“Burn!” screamed John through his radio to his wingman.
Bill, his wingman, had a wife and newborn son he hadn’t even seen yet, just three weeks old. As ordered, Bill hit his afterburners and his jet catapulted itself into the dark skies beyond. John remained in situ, his jet would be the decoy. His jet would protect the new father. He could hear Bill screaming profanities through his headset but tuned them out. Bill had expected them both to ‘burn’. He’d never have left John to sacrifice himself, something John knew and smiled about. Bill had been the best wingman in the United States Air Force.
John’s hands moved from his controls to his ejector lever. He wasn’t quite ready to die yet. He certainly didn’t want to join Archduke Franz Ferdinand in the annals of history as the death that caused the start of a war. A movement from his right stopped him in his tracks. The Belarusian pilot was turning and burning towards him. It was too late, he didn’t have a chance, the Belarusian jet would hit him as he ejected, or certainly take out his parachute. A 20,000-foot fall to his death was not exactly how John Grey saw himself checking out. He closed his eyes and prayed for a quick and painless journey to his maker.
The explosion lit up the small screen in the command truck. Major Papovich was scared to look at the aftermath. Sergey’s excitement had raised his hopes that the missile had disengaged. It had not. Its course had remained resolute throughout. It was going to hit the target as selected.
The last words through the intercom had been those of the outraged Belarusian pilot. “For my family and my country,” he had said solemnly.
The smoke cleared and Sergey pointed to the screen. “I knew it!”
Major Papovich watched as the F-16 remained in the sky. The radar could clearly identify the F-16 from the SU-27.
“The Belarusian pilot saved us from war!”
Major Papovich thanked God for the selfless Belarusian.
“I have Colonel General Arkady Kirlov, Major,” announced his communications man standing rigidly to attention and passing the handset to Papovich. Kirlov was the commander of the Western Military District of the Russian Federation, one of the four most powerful soldiers in Russia.
From launch to strike, the time elapsed was a matter of seconds. Major Papovich had had no time to alert command to the malfunction or risk to the American aircraft. In fact, all the time had been spent trying to avert the crisis, not informing people of it.
Major Papovich launched into a quick explanation as to the malfunction and their inability to command their own weapons as the missile had quite literally launched itself.
“Please tell me the situation is now under control, Major.”
“Yes, General. One of my men has now disabled the launcher in question and we are investigating how this could have happened. I can only apologize to the Belarusians and thank their pilot’s quick actions for averting what could have been a global disaster.”
“Indeed, Major. I want a report as soon as it’s completed on my--”
“Major!!!” screamed Sergey.
Major Papovich turned round in a fury. His nerves were already at breaking point. He looked to Sergey’s screen expecting to see something disastrous. It was blank, as were all the screens in the command truck, as per Papovich’s order. All systems had been disabled until they knew what the hell had happened.
Papovich realized Sergey wasn’t looking at his screen; he was looking out the rear door. Papovich followed his gaze and dropped the handset. The muffled voice of the General came from the floor of the truck as the commander and operators of the 201
st
Battalion helplessly watched disabled launchers six and seven swivel into firing position and let loose their deadly cargo.
Moscow Sheremetyova Airport
He raised his hand and caught the waitress’ attention. He avoided eye contact, looking away slightly as she walked towards him. He pointed to his coffee mug as she neared and avoided even having to speak to her. The quiet corner of the Rembrandt Café had been a perfect choice. His gate was just a few yards away and the constant turnover of patrons ensured no one took any real interest in him.
Not that anyone ever did. He was a rather nondescript, middle-aged and slightly overweight software engineer. He wasn’t somebody that anyone ever took notice of. With his coffee en-route, he turned his attention back to the laptop screen in front of him. Waiting for the balance to change was proving frustrating. Something always took longer to happen when you were waiting for it. He had hoped the diversion of ordering his coffee would have meant the screen had changed on his return. It hadn’t. His account still read zero Baht. He hit F5 and the screen refreshed instantly. Zero. No change.
His cell rang again. He answered it by pressing the small bluetooth earpiece in his ear.
“You missed.”
“Impossible,” he replied flatly, flipping between screens.
The screen before him would look to any passerby like a computer game. To him it told him the caller was correct. Only one SU-27 was in play while two F-16s were still in play, albeit separated by some distance.
“A real life hero,” said the caller.
His fingers a blur, he activated and selected what was required. A final ‘confirm’ set in motion what he had requested.
“I think you’ll find that will resolve the problem,” he replied confidently, flicking back to his banking screen.
“Yes, I believe that will most definitely do, thank you,” replied the caller who promptly hung up.
Looking at his screen, the balance changed to twenty million as promised. He closed his laptop as his coffee was delivered to him. He took one look at the coffee, stood up and left. He had a plane to catch and a new life to begin.
Capt. John Grey could do little more than watch as the Belarusian SU-27 exploded above him. Various chunks of debris and the blast-wave rocked his F-16 but other than some minor damage, his plane seemed to respond perfectly.
The second Belarusian SU-27 did what in normal circumstances would be a much too close fly-by. A second fly-by offering a thumbs up suggested he was merely checking John was fine.
“I’m okay. The Belarusian took the missile,” John radioed to his wingman.
“Yee ha,” came the very relieved response. John’s wingman would not have coped well with the guilt of leaving John behind.
John saluted the Belarusian once again, this time with more feeling than he could possibly convey at a few hundred yards’ distance before turning once again for home.
“Get your butt up here,” chided his wingman.
“On my way,” replied John, his warning indicators once again bursting to life. John hit the burners, but with numerous high-pitched tones, it seemed he wasn’t destined to make it through the day.
“I count eight inbound missiles!” exclaimed Bill, his jubilation instantly replaced with despair. Four missiles were aimed at each of the F-16s.
“Love you man!” was the last communication from either man before their radios died.
National Security Council
The White House
Situation Room
President Jack King walked into the somber room. News of the downed F-16s had been exactly what he had feared might happen due to the heightened readiness of their forces. His previous call with the Russian President Chernov added another angle to the whole scenario. Was someone playing them, or was it one big ruse and the Russians really were going for it? One thing Jack knew for certain was that he had absolutely no idea what the hell was going on.
“Gentlemen, plans for our response?” he asked, taking his seat at the head of the table.
The chairman rose and walked silently towards the large screen at the end of the room. The lights dimmed slightly and a number of targets appeared.
“The Russian first line of defense is their missile defense system. We propose a number of surgical strikes that will obliterate their missile defense infrastructure all the way to Moscow. It will send a clear message that we have capabilities far beyond even what they can imagine.”
Jack nodded. The message would be loud and clear. America had the power to destroy Moscow, even conventionally, at a whim.
“Thoughts?” asked Jack, opening the suggestion to debate.
Twelve of the most powerful men and women in the world looked back at him. The vice president was a career politician and Jack knew he would support Jack in whatever he felt was needed. His prize was Jack’s seat and, with Jack’s support the VP was just months from winning the upcoming election. The Secretary of State looked down at her notes, avoiding any input. She was generally a talker, but when it got to the fighting, she sat back and let the experts do their thing. The Secretary of Defense Jack knew would be with the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, as would the chiefs of the Navy and the Air Force, who sat on either side of him. The director of the CIA looked as though he was about to speak, but a shake of the head from his boss, the director of National Intelligence, suggested he remain quiet. Jack turned to Rick, a shrug said it all. Jack’s NSA was second to none when it came to having his finger on the pulse. The actions of the Russians in the last twenty-four hours had been so unexpected, his NSA had quite literally lost all confidence in his abilities and information. Jack looked at Kenneth, by his side, who also shrugged his shoulders. He was a political strategist, this wasn’t his thing either.
“Anyone?” asked Jack, scanning the room again and landing on an unknown face, tucked quietly at the end of the table behind the military contingent. A man who looked like a college professor, even down to the leather pads on his corduroy jacket, sitting a little straighter in his chair.
Jack had to take a second look. Unknown faces were not something he had ever witnessed at a meeting of his National Security Council before.
“Who in the hell are you?” A nervous cough preceded the attendee’s response. “James Clark, Mr. President.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Clark,” smiled Jack sarcastically. “Now what the fuck are you doing in my security meeting?!” Jack had an inkling as to who he was and was struggling not to get up and physically throw the uninvited guest out of the room personally. Jack threw a glare of fury at Kenneth, who pushed himself as far as possible down into his seat.
“I’m from DSG, Mr. President.”
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs caught Jack’s attention and averted his rage at the non-answer. “DSG, Defense Strategy Group, Mr. President, is a group that has been analyzing scenarios--”
“And I believe the scenario before you is a catastrophic mistake,” Clark cut in.
“That will be all, Mr. Clark,” instructed the chairman furiously. Jack sat back in his chair and waved Clark to remain where he was, much to the consternation of the chairman. He remained silent for some time, considering the options and studying the screen at the end of the room where hundreds of targets flashed from the Russian border all the way to Moscow.
“I’m not a fan of this plan either, Mr. Clark. Explain your concerns,” said Jack finally.
“In short, Mr. President, global thermonuclear war.”
“And the slightly longer version?”
“Mr. President, what we have witnessed today makes no sense. Russia has pushed us to the edge of a war that they have not prepared for. In fact, they have been the least ready for war with us, in probably seventy years. Russia does not want a war with America. They know we can crush them many times over.” Clark paused as the key points were digested by the audience.
“Ripping them wide open as the chairman has suggested would be the military equivalent of running a knife from their navel to their throat. They would react as a dying man would, throw everything possible in return, in an attempt to save themselves.”
“Launch their nukes?” asked Jack.
“I believe so.”
“Well, Mr. Clark, I didn’t want you here, but here you are and quite frankly, I couldn’t agree more with everything you have just said. Thank you.”