Prime Minister Platon Melnik called for quiet in the room. As Vostov’s nominal second-in-command, Melnik would step in as the Russian president until such a time as they knew Vostov’s medical condition. Melnik wasted no time in barraging the men in the room with questions.
“What’s the president’s status?” he barked.
“Sir, President Vostov is in the VIP facility of Moscow Central Clinical Hospital,” FSB Chairman, General Gennadi Sevastyan, said quickly. “He’s been shot twice. Nine millimeter rounds. One in his upper right lung, the other just below his heart. He’ll be in surgery for hours.”
“What was this thing, Sevastyan?” Melnik asked, annoyed.
“Our Science Directorate believes this is a Chinese-designed and manufactured drone.”
“Red China or White China?”
“Sir, that’s the thing. We and SVR’s Science Directorate both think it was designed by the White Chinese and fabricated by the Reds. They cooperated on this unholy thing.”
“How the hell did it penetrate Moscow airspace? And get over the Kremlin wall without being detected?”
Sevastyan took a deep breath. “Our radars are tuned for bigger and faster things, sir. Remember when that kid landed a Cessna in Red Square in the 80s? Since then we screen for slower aircraft — and lower altitude aircraft — but this is even smaller than our radars would seek. Plus, it was assembled somewhere close. We think its entire flight was only a few hundred meters.”
The door to the room swung open and an FSB aide to Sevastyan hurried into the room, to Sevastyan’s seat. She handed him a pad computer, whispered something in his ear and rushed back out of the room.
“Mr. Prime Minister,” Sevastyan said, “we have captured an individual who had in her possession a controller. It looks like it could be the one that controlled the flight of this drone.”
“Did you get her alive?”
“Yes, sir. We’re bringing her to the Lubyanka now. Her name is Jingmai Lin.”
“Is she from White China or Red?”
“She had Shanghai identification on her, making her from White China,” Sevastyan said, putting on his reading glasses and peering at the pad computer. “But she has identification to enter Zhongnanhai, the central headquarters of the Chinese Communist Party and the State Council of Red China.”
Melnik sat back in his seat for a moment. “The Reds and Whites are really cooperating? To assassinate the president of a superpower?”
“That would seem to be the case, sir,” Sevastyan said.
Melnik turned to Lana Lilya, the acerbic head of the SVR, the foreign intelligence branch of what used to be the KGB. Lilya was in her mid-forties, with straight, sleek, dirty blonde hair cut in a chin-length bob. She had a pretty oval face with piercing blue eyes, and she was unusually tall, often towering over the other ministers. She crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips, her expression a deep intimidating scowl.
“Mr. Prime Minister, we at SVR are becoming convinced the Red Chinese and White Chinese are making moves toward reunification. We have no timeline on this, but conferences are scheduled in Geneva in the upcoming weeks.”
“I’m surprised,” Melnik said. “How many millions of people died in their first civil war? How many tens of millions in their second one?”
“That was a generation ago, sir,” Lilya said. “Those wars were fought by the fathers and grandfathers of those in power now. Their senior government officials are liaising with each other. And we know their intelligence agencies have begun to collaborate. As can be seen with today’s problem.”
Melnik nodded. He looked at Kuzma Zima, the former prime minister before Melnik, who was now the foreign minister.
“Minister Zima,” Melnik said, “I want to see the ambassadors of Red China and White China in my office in three hours. And I want an emergency session convened in front of the U.N. Security Council by the end of the week.” He looked back at Lana Lilya. “Madam Lilya, I want a special meeting convened this evening to go over covert options for a counterstrike at both Beijing and Shanghai.”
“Yes, sir,” Lilya said. “We’ll be prepared.”
“Now, I want to go over where we are with the Omega submarine and the Poseidon torpedoes. Minister Konstantinov, what can you tell me?”
Defense Minister Marshal Radoslav Mikhail Konstantinov sat up straight in his chair. “Mr. Prime Minister,” he said, his voice gravelly, his hand shaking as he poured tea for himself, “The
“That was six hours ago,” Melnik said, anger in his voice. “What’s happened since then?”
