War with Russia

“Deploy, you bastard. Deploy!” he started screaming to himself, as he began to accelerate toward the earth, still strapped helplessly into his seat. And then he was jerked upward. He heard a sharp crack above his head and the seat fell away below him. Looking up, he saw the wide silk of his parachute canopy. Now instead of noise and wind, there was instant peace.

He was alone in the sky. The Russian planes had vanished and, below him, he could see his plane tumbling, left wing missing, before it smashed into the open cornfields of Ukraine below. There was a split second, perhaps he imagined it, perhaps not, when he thought he saw the F-16 shatter on the ground, like a plastic toy dropped onto a stone floor. Then the fuel tanks ruptured and it disappeared in a massive red-and-yellow fireball.

Then came the exhilaration of survival and the joy of the descent before the ground rushed up to meet him. He landed with a thud, which knocked all the breath out of him. He must have blacked out for a moment, because the next thing he saw was the blue of the sky and, in the periphery of his vision, people running toward him from a small village nearby.

Bertinetti lay still for a moment to collect his thoughts. Then he undid his harness and rolled to his feet. He could stand and he could walk. He rolled his shoulders and everything seemed to work. That was good, because that meant he could get straight back into an F-16.

He took off his helmet, gazed around him and breathed deeply. He had cheated death. But he was pissed. Oh boy, was he pissed.

1900 hours, Friday, May 12, 2017

The Kremlin, Moscow

“NO, VLADIMIR VLADIMIROVICH, the American pilot landed in Ukraine. He was shot down inside Ukrainian airspace. As was the other American pilot, who was killed.”

Komarov stood before the President’s desk. He had been practicing judo in the President’s private gym when the call had come through. As instructed, Russian TV news was saying that a Russian aircraft had been shot down, but not before it had first destroyed two American aircraft, which had attacked it.

Komarov had quickly put on a track suit, hastened to the Kremlin’s situation center, been briefed by a senior air force general and was now briefing the President.

“Damn,” said the President. “Never mind. It is enough. We are telling the world the Americans opened fire on our pilots first and, thankfully, the wreckage of the Sukhoi fell behind our lines. That proves it was shot down over our airspace. Our friends are saying that this is not only naked aggression by America, it is also NATO attacking Russia. Russia is justified in defending herself. The only response is war. Get me Merkulov on the telephone. Now.”

“He’s on hold already, Vladimir Vladimirovich.” Komarov had thought ahead and warned the Director of the FSB—the successor to the KGB—to be on standby.

Merkulov, a career KGB operative and old colleague of the President, was too crafty a beast to be caught out by a surprise phone call. Furtive, with the expression of an animal looking warily out of its lair for predators, he was ruthless and deadly. He was ready for the President and prepared for his order when he came on the line.

“Lavrentiy Pavlovich, it is time for you to start stirring up our ethnic Russian comrades in the Baltic states. We need to get them back where they belong. Under Russia. But first, the ceasefire in Ukraine must be broken… And it must be the Ukrainians who are seen to do it.”

“With pleasure, Vladimir Vladimirovich,” said Merkulov reflectively.

0500 hours, Saturday, May 13, 2017

Washington, D.C.

COLONEL “BEAR” SMYTHSON ran with the smooth, effortless rhythm of a natural track athlete, despite being a big, broad-shouldered wrestler. Although it was still an hour before sunrise, it felt good to be out and running hard on such a lovely spring morning. There was enough dawn light to pick out the Iwo Jima Memorial with its heroic depiction of marines raising Old Glory, while on his left shoulder, as he headed back toward his married quarter in Fort Myer, the myriad crosses on the green slopes of Arlington Cemetery gleamed white.

Bear needed this time to himself. Not only was his early morning run around Arlington Cemetery the only exercise his job permitted, but it also gave him time to think, to plan his day, and to get things into perspective before the tsunami of work hit him in the office. As Executive Assistant to the US National Security Adviser, he was a busy man in a key post. Today might be a Saturday, but most Saturdays were working days. Sundays too, when needs required.