Operation “Stray Dog”. Chapter 10

Martha’s Vineyard and Vegan Turkey

14:30 EST. Around the same time (and a bit earlier). Pentagon. National Military Command Center (NMCC)

The atmosphere in “The Tank”—as the Joint Chiefs affectionately called this bunker, although in terms of oxygen levels it more closely resembled a tin can—was electrified to the limit. On the enormous screens, a red dot representing the North Korean Taepodong-X missile, or whatever those Koreans named it, was executing loop-de-loops over the Pacific Ocean that would have turned any ballistics instructor gray and made any figure skating coach proud.

“Altitude two hundred meters!” reported an operator whose thick horn-rimmed glasses had fogged up from tension. “Speed—Mach 1.5. It’s flying under the radar, using terrain features and… uh… clouds. We can’t shoot it down without hitting civilian airliners, whales, or the feelings of environmentalists!”

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, General Bradford “Bulldog” Sterling, wiped his forehead with a monogrammed silk handkerchief.

“Have you briefed the President?” he barked.

“Negative, sir!” the aide shrank into his leather chair. “He’s not picking up.”

“Is his dementia acting up again? Code Red! Nuclear threat!”

“Sir, the Press Secretary conveyed that after receiving the Nobel Peace Prize, the President asked not to be disturbed by trifles. He said: ‘I brought you peace, the rest are details.’”

“Where the hell is he?!”

“In Florida, sir. Palm Beach. He’s playing a friendly round of golf. Fifteenth hole. Currently losing, sir. If we interrupt him, he’ll veto our budget for the next five years.”

General Sterling ground his teeth so hard it could be heard in the cheap seats.

“Fine. What about the Vice President? Is he in the loop?”

Silence fell in the hall. All the generals, admirals, and analysts exchanged glances of sincere, unadulterated horror. Someone in the back row opened a can of Diet Coke with a loud, characteristic psshhh. The sound rang out like a shot to the temple of democracy.

“I see,” sighed Sterling. “Also with a club. Or a cocktail. We are alone, gentlemen. Orphans at the feast of life.”

At that moment, the operator cried out:

“Sir! Target is changing course! Sharp ninety-degree turn!.. And it’s gaining speed again!”

“Toward us?” Sterling clutched his heart (or his wallet in his inside pocket).

“No, sir! It’s moving away from Hawaii again! Course—West-North-West!”

“Where’s that?”

“Based on the trajectory… Taiwan. Then mainland China. And then… Russia. Siberia.”

A collective exhale, sounding like a giant balloon deflating, swept through the bunker. The generals’ shoulders dropped. Faces that a second ago were crimson with strain regained the normal, healthy color of people with excellent health insurance and pensions.

“China and Russia…” Sterling drawled, and the smile of a Cheshire Cat that had gorged on sour cream appeared on his face. “Well then. That changes things. That changes everything.”

“Sir, should we warn Beijing?” a young CIA analyst asked timidly. “Taiwan is in the path.”

“Why?” Sterling was genuinely surprised. “Taiwan is the Republic of China. Beijing is the People’s Republic of China. That’s two Chinese republics, son! Let the Republicans in Congress sort it out with them. That’s a party line, not a military one.”

“But, sir,” the analyst persisted. “What if it reaches Russia? Maybe give the Russians a ring? On the ‘red line’?”

Sterling waved him off like a pesky fly.

“Russia is Europe. Well, or Asia. Anyway, that’s a NATO matter. Or the EU. Let the Euro-commissioner call them. And we… we wash our hands of it.”

He had already stepped toward the door but stopped, as if remembering something important. He turned back to the room full of officers.

“But, gentlemen, keep your finger on the pulse. If this contraption turns around again… if it flies toward Miami…” his voice trembled, sounding with genuine alarm. “Or, God forbid, toward Martha’s Vineyard, where my wife has a ranch… Then we will take measures. The most decisive ones. We will wake the President. We will scramble the jets. We will burn the atmosphere if necessary.”

He walked out into the corridor, took out his personal phone, and dialed a number.

“Hello? Kevin?”

“Yes, Uncle Brad?” his nephew’s voice, full of universal sorrow, came through the receiver.

“Kevin, son, how are you doing there? How’s your science at MIT? Still dyeing your hair that… revolutionary color?”

“Uncle, I’m busy. We have… a complicated situation here. We’re trying to save the world.”

“Oh come on, what kind of situation can you have at MIT? Test tube burst? Gender-neutral bathroom closed for repairs? Listen, the reason I’m calling… Your aunt was asking, are you coming for Thanksgiving? We bought that vegan tofu turkey, just the way you like it.”

“Uncle Brad!” Kevin’s voice rose to a shriek. “Do you realize that right now…”

“Alright, alright, don’t get worked up. Love you, son. Don’t overwork yourself.”

General Sterling hung up, feeling like an excellent uncle and savior of the fatherland. He didn’t know that at this very moment, his nephew Kevin Sterling, standing next to Zeynab Mousavi, was trying to find the number of Ukrainian mercenaries in Africa because his uncle had just officially given the missile permission to fly on.

Chapter 11. Security Guarantee →
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