“Are you threatening us?” the Estonian president asked, his earlier panic turning to indignation.
“If any of your English skills aren’t up to understanding what I’m saying, you should get someone to translate because you don’t want to miss this. If you screw me, one day you’ll wake up in the middle of the night to find me standing over you with a silencer pressed to your head. President Alexander won’t be told anything about it and Irene Kennedy’ll figure out how to blame it on the Russians.”
Before the Estonian could speak again, General Strazds interjected. “Based on Mitch’s history, I think we should take him at his word. If anyone here isn’t confident in his or her ability to stay silent, now would be a good time to leave.”
No one made a move for the door so Rapp continued.
“Maxim Krupin has brain cancer. At best it’s extremely serious, at worst it’s terminal.”
Another uproar prompted General Strazds to take charge of the Baltic side of the discussion. About time. With this many politicians in the room, getting them to shut the fuck up was half the battle.
“This would explain a great deal. How good is your intelligence on this, Mitch?”
“Ninety-nine percent.”
“Then I retract what I said earlier. An attack on the Baltics would be very much in Krupin’s best interest. I agree with Mitch’s recommendation that we move forward with the nuclear option.”
In fact, the Baltics had no nukes—it was just what they’d come to call their last resort strategy for dealing with a Russian invasion. They’d empty their cities and destroy critical bridges, runways, and communications. They’d dismantle their military and disperse small, self-contained guerilla units throughout the territory. The prosperous, modern country he and Coleman had driven through would cease to exist. Healthcare, schools, food distribution, and commerce would implode. In many ways, they would be sending themselves back to the nineteenth century.
The theory was that when Krupin saw this happening, he’d have no choice but to scrap his invasion plans. In order to hide his illness and shore up his power base, he needed to put on a show. He wanted to have Russia’s citizens glued to state-run media, watching images of their soldiers protecting the motherland from a Baltic threat. Instead Krupin’s army would roll across an empty landscape before finding itself mired in a grinding guerrilla war that would make Russia’s fight with the Mujahideen seem like a school yard brawl.
“We could also simply surrender,” the Estonian president offered hopefully. “Agree to become part of Russia and pull out of a NATO that is freely admitting it’s incapable of living up to its obligations. There would be no bloodshed and no destruction of our infrastructure.”
“And no freedom,” General Strazds said. “In order for us to avoid Sokolov’s firing squads, everyone in this room would have to become one of his pets.”
“Either way, the time for running your mouths is over,” Rapp said. “You can fight or you can get on your knees. Which is it going to be?”
CHAPTER 32
SOUTH OF RODOVOYE
RUSSIA
“REPEAT that, Doctor. You cut out.”
Andrei Sokolov was seated in the back of an armored truck modified to transport VIPs in and out of military bases without attracting attention. The plush leather seats and wood trim seemed overly opulent even for general staff, though he approved of the soundproof glass separating him from his assistant.
“Subject nine has died. The stimulant cocktail given to him was too strong. His heart failed.”
Sokolov gazed out onto the muddy field they were traveling across. The rain was forecasted to stop around midnight, bringing partly cloudy skies and low wind speeds that would persist for the better part of a week. The breakup of NATO’s exercises was continuing and would soon reach its zenith. Based on the latest intelligence, Western forces were approaching the moment that they would be in maximal disarray. Everything was coming together for the invasion and every variable had been quantified save one: Maxim Krupin.
Even with a modification of his treatment schedule, he would be a shadow of his former self on the day of the incursion. Of course, his weight loss could be hidden with clothing. Custom contact lenses were being fabricated to replace the tinted glasses obscuring his eyes. The expected hair loss hadn’t materialized, thank God, and his growing beard had minimized the amount of pale skin in need of makeup.
On the other hand, his voice was weak and wavered noticeably. Worse, his mind had lost its laser-like focus, now tending to wander. It was critical that he give the attack order personally and that he be physically present in Moscow to announce the invasion. In his current condition that would be impossible.
And that’s where Dr. Fedkin came it. He was working to create a cocktail of antinausea medication, stimulants, and other drugs that could temporarily reinvigorate Krupin. It was a difficult balancing act, though. The medicine had to be potent enough for him to project the strength that made him so admired and feared, but not so much so as to kill him.
“Then the obvious course would be to reduce the dosage, Doctor.”
“It’s not that simple. Small reductions in dose have significant reductions in efficacy.”
Even in the situation he’d been put in, Fedkin thought only of the well-being of his patient. Understandable, but laughably small-minded. The geopolitical currents buffeting the region were far more powerful—far greater—than any one man. Alliances were crumbling. Borders were being redrawn. The world order, in place since the fall of Nazi Germany, was struggling for breath.
“Continue refining your formula, Doctor. You have sixteen hours. Safety is a major consideration but the priority is effectiveness.”
There would be little point to Krupin surviving the stimulants if his enemies noted weakness and set upon him. His death from Fedkin’s cocktail could be explained away as an assassination and Sokolov could cast suspicion on Krupin’s inner circle in order to secure power. An outcome to be avoided, for sure, but one that Mother Russia could survive.
“I want to be perfectly clear, General. I strongly recommend against using stimulants on the president. I’ll accept no blame if they injure or kill him.”
“And I want to be perfectly clear that I’ll blame you for whatever I choose.”
Through his window, Sokolov spotted a formation of tanks bursting from the trees. A barely perceptible smile played at his lips as he watched them speed across the open plain. “Another subject will be delivered to replace the one who died, Doctor. Just make sure your stimulant mixture is ready to be administered.”
He disconnected the call and used the vehicle’s intercom to speak to the driver. “Stop here.”
“Here, sir? We’re still—”
“I said stop here.”
The truck’s tires hunted for traction when he applied the brakes, but finally they slid to a halt. Sokolov stepped out into the rain, opening an umbrella above him as he walked through the deep mud. He would have preferred to feel the rain on his face, but this inspection was quite different than the one in Ukraine. He was dressed in civilian clothes and had arrived on a commercial airliner emptied of passengers. The umbrella was perhaps an abundance of caution with the thick cloud layer, but it was impossible to keep up with the West’s technological advances.