Operation “Stray Dog”. Chapter 6

Geopolitics with Pirozhki

12:50 EST (20:50 Moscow time). One hour after the Beijing meeting. Moscow. Frunzenskaya Embankment. National Defense Control Center (NDCC) of the Russian Federation

In the “Atrium”—as the generals lovingly called the main control room with a screen the size of a football field—it smelled of expensive Arabica, furniture polish, and the cheap deodorant of the night shift. Duty Colonel General Ivashov (call sign “Concrete,” earned for his impenetrable facial expression) sat in a leather chair, melancholically chewing a cabbage pirozhok bought at the General Staff buffet.

On the gigantic screen, which usually looped inspiring videos about hypersonic weapons and Red Square parades to boost operator morale, a lone, insolent red dot was now blinking.

“Comrade Colonel General,” Lieutenant Operator Lebedev said timidly, his eyes glued to the monitor. “Pyongyang confirms the launch.”

“Confirming what this time?” Ivashov carefully brushed crumbs off his tunic. “Another papier-mâché mock-up full of hopes for a brighter future?”

“They say, ‘Test launch of a promising meteorological probe.’”

“Probe?” Ivashov chuckled. “With a nuclear thermal signature? Are they planning to measure the weather on Mars? Or the temperature in hell?”

Ivashov pressed the button for the direct line with Pyongyang. The receiver was red, heavy, Bakelite, and still warm from previous diplomatic lies.

“Li!” he barked (on the other end sat the North Korean military attaché in Moscow, who was currently sweating enough to fill a swimming pool). “What the hell did you launch? My early warning satellites are going crazy. The sirens are howling like a tomcat in March!”

“Comrade Ivashov!” the Korean’s voice trembled like an aspen leaf in the wind. “This is a triumph of Juche science! Absolutely peaceful atom! We are… uh… testing the wind rose in the upper atmosphere!”

“Where is your ‘wind’ flying?”

“Uh… strictly East! Toward the lair of imperialism! Washington! I mean… toward the Pacific Ocean, of course. For a splashdown.”

“And why is this ‘probe’ of yours wiggling like that and flying so low?”

“Well… hasn’t gained altitude yet.”

The Korean lied with abandon. He knew the missile was assembled from blueprints stolen from the Russians (which Iranian General Alavi had smuggled out of Fordow during the evacuation). But if he admitted the missile was Russian, Ivashov would realize they stole the tech and cut off fuel oil supplies. If he said it was Korean—Ivashov would laugh himself sick. So he chose the third path: pompous nonsense.

Ivashov looked at the trajectory. The red arc was indeed stretching across the Pacific toward America. At first.

“Toward Washington, you say?” The general took another bite of his pirozhok, chewing thoughtfully. “Well… Godspeed.”

“We’re not going to shoot it down?” Lieutenant Lebedev whispered, looking at the general with horror.

“Shoot it down? Lebedev, have you lost your mind?” Ivashov winked. “If our Korean comrades want to wish the USA a good morning, who are we to interfere with the friendship of nations? Let it fly. The Americans will shoot it down over Alaska anyway. And we will express deep concern. And sell the Koreans more Chinese rice at triple the price.”

But then the red dot on the screen twitched again. It performed a pirouette worthy of Maya Plisetskaya in her prime and sharply, violating all laws of ballistics, went north, then south.

“Whoa,” said Lebedev. “Comrade General, the ‘probe’ changed its mind again. It seems to have bipolar disorder.”

“Where did it go?”

“Course south-south-west. It’s skirting Mongolia… Passed over Altai… heading toward the Caspian…”

Lebedev typed rapidly. The numbers on the screen changed.

“Calculated impact point… Iran. Tehran. Or Isfahan.”

Silence fell over the immense hall. Only the hum of servers could be heard.

Ivashov stared at the screen. His brain, trained by years of bureaucratic intrigue and geopolitical solitaire, calculated scenarios faster than the Elbrus supercomputer (which froze playing Minesweeper anyway).

A missile (clearly nuclear, judging by the off-the-charts background radiation) is flying toward Iran. Our situational ally. Should we shoot it down? The S-400 near Rostov could reach it. The S-500 near Astrakhan could reach it and still have change left over.

But then Ivashov smiled. It was a smile as terrifying as a budget deficit.

“Lieutenant,” he said softly, almost affectionately. “Tell me… If right now in Iran, at a secret nuclear facility, a nuclear warhead suddenly explodes… Who will the international community blame?”

The lieutenant blinked.

“Uh… Israel? Or the USA? Operation ‘Midnight Hammer 2.0’?”

“Exactly!” Ivashov slammed his palm on the table, making the glass of tea jump. “The Iranians will go berserk. The entire Islamic world will rear up. The Strait of Hormuz will be blocked. Oil—two hundred, no, three hundred bucks a barrel! The Americans will get bogged down in a new war for ten years. China will be in shock. And we… we will be the peacemakers. We’ll sell humanitarian aid and weapons to everyone and express our most sincere condolences.”

“So, we don’t shoot?” Lebedev clarified, his trembling hand reaching for the mouse.

“Shoot?” Ivashov yawned, covering his mouth with his hand. “Lieutenant, check the log. We have scheduled maintenance. The radar is down for service. We were changing the bulbs. We saw nothing. We were asleep. And if the Koreans call back, tell them… tell them we are proud of their success in non-traditional navigation.”

The general reached for the secure line to call his old friend Volkov in the taiga and tell him this joke, but remembered Volkov was unreachable, on a business trip, saving polar bears.

“Pity,” thought Ivashov. “Volkov would have appreciated the beauty of the game.”

He turned back to the screen, where the little red dot, guided by a vacuum cleaner chip and Russian geopolitical “wisdom,” hurtled toward the unsuspecting Persians.

“Fly, little bird,” the general whispered. “Fly. Make it beautiful for us.”

Chapter 7. Tentacles of Strategic Purpose →
← Isfahan
← Shiraz
← Fordow
← Operation “Stray Dog”