Colonel General Platonov walked through the grounds of his estate. It was late evening and dark, though the driveway’s lamps and discreetly positioned halogen lights gave him glimpses of the large garden’s brook, oak trees, ornate stone bridges, and special forces men with AEK-919K “Kashtan” submachine guns slung by their sides.
He hated having the bodyguards in his family home, but he was the highest-ranking military officer in the Russian armed forces and protection came with the job.
The man by his side was silent. That was understandable. The Russian president had a lot on his mind.
They stopped on a large rectangular area of concrete, where snow had recently been brushed away to reveal a symmetrical pattern of squares. At opposite ends of the yard were tall plastic chess pieces. On the edge of each corner of the yard, overlooking the giant chessboard, were man-sized stone statues of knights, their bodies and heads cloaked and hooded, their faces solemn, their hands clasped over the hilts of downward-facing broadswords.
Platonov looked at his house. The curtains were still open, all of the rooms illuminated. He could see the premier’s wife and his wife talking, smiling, glasses of wine in their hands. Upstairs, the young pajama-dressed children of Russia’s most powerful general were bouncing on beds with the children of Russia’s supreme leader. They were having a sleepover tonight. Their excitement was palpable.
The two men lit Montecristo cigars. Platonov could still feel the pleasant burn of his postdinner cognac in his throat. The evening had gone well. His wife was an excellent cook and a very intelligent hostess. As he looked at her now, he knew that he loved her as much as when he’d first met her. Then he’d been a muscular, blond-haired, idealistic lieutenant. Now he was a slim, ramrod-backed, gray-haired general with wisdom and a scar that ran from a blue eye down to the corner of his mouth.
A memento from Afghanistan.
A mujahideen knife.
He looked at his premier and spoke quietly. “What are your orders?”
The president blew out smoke. “You’d accept them?”
“It depends on whether they’re right.”
The president smiled. “Perhaps you forget your status.”
“Perhaps you forget whose fucking house you’re in.”
The premier laughed, then frowned. “I’m tempted to expel the American ambassador.”
“Go ahead. But you’ll make a fool of yourself.”
“I don’t need your blessing.”
“No, but you’ll need my army if it all goes wrong.”
“ My army.”
“Your army, if you like.” He kept his eyes on his children before turning to his commander in chief. “We’re not seven years old. Your army. I don’t care.”
The president was silent for a while. “Why are you angry with me?”
“Not you. I’m angry with history. Every Russian president has made his general into a psychopath.”
“I think you’ve had too much Hennessy.”
“No, I’m stone-cold sober.” Platonov looked sternly at his leader. “Don’t bait the Americans. They can slaughter us.”
“I’ve no intention of baiting them. On the contrary, they’re the ones who’re being provocative.”
“Then sort it out. Politically.”
The president blew out more smoke; it hung in the icy air. “With you in charge, there’d be no slaughter.”
“Rubbish.” Platonov looked at his wife moving across the kitchen. It marveled him that she’d not lost her effect on him. He looked at the children and felt a chill run through his body. “If you fuck up, I’ll send every Russian soldier to meet an American invasion force. They’ll all die, but that’s what we do and that’s how we fight. And I’ll just be another psychopath.”
“I don’t want a fight.”
“But you’ll have one at the drop of a hat.”
“You read me wrong.”
“I read you fine.”
The president moved closer to Platonov. “How is the nuclear training exercise progressing?”
The question lightened Platonov’s mood. “It’s going very well. But Colonel Khmelnytsky still has more work to do. In particular, we need to test the feasibility of deploying the devices from sea. The final phase of the exercise will be focused on targeting naval installations.”
“Good.” The president was keen to get back into the warmth of the house. “Should we be concerned about the three American submarines?”
Platonov laughed. “They’re just playing games. But one of our new stealth destroyers will be waiting for them in the Barents Sea. It will make them turn around.”
The premier flicked his cigar onto the chessboard. “Come on, let’s get another drink.” He stepped forward, then stopped. “I’m not going to fuck up, and I hope the Americans don’t either. I’m sure it will be fine, but-” He shivered. “My orders. If anything does happen, make sure our entire military is battle-ready.”