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“Even if it could cause an international incident?”
“It’s private business. Not ours.”
“Even with all the risks? Having that man here, having himanywherearound, is painting a target on us for any Russophobic, pissed-off nationalist who figures out who he is. An unprotected world leader? Do you haveanyidea how many terrorists, anarchists, or psychopaths would love to take advantage of this?” He turned to Lindsey. “Are you really okay with this in your home?”
“I like Sergey. And if he is who you say he is, I can’t imagine it’s been easy for him and Sasha. Mark and I support them.”
“Dan, do you want to be the one to destroy a world leader? Thrust all of Russia into turmoil? You know how bad it is there. I’m surprised you’re so put out by this. If anyone supported these two, I would have expected it would be you,” Roxanne said.
“Just so I’m clear, are we done pretending that Sergey is anyone other than the president, then?”
“If this were you, what would you want us to do? If you were in Sasha’s shoes?” Mark stood from the wicker couch he’d been sharing with Lindsey and leaned against the porch railing. “You didn’t want a public spectacle made of you. We honored that then. And we’re honoring Sasha’s request for the utmost discretion and privacy now.”
“This isdifferent,” Dan insisted. “Jerry is not the president of another country.”
“This is a NASA decision,” Roxanne said, finality in her tone. “Those of us who suspected—and it wasn’t many, I’ll have you know—decidednotto confront Sasha or his partner. We’ve added additional security around JSC and out here, and we’re keeping an eye on the media. At the first hint of something brewing, we’ll notify the two of them. We have a plan ready.” She quirked a wry grin. “This is NASA. We have plans for everything.”
“You have plans for an astronaut fucking a foreign president?”
“It’s the 2030s. This is hardly the most surprising thing we’ve seen this decade.”
“If you can’t handle it, no one is forcing you to be here, Dan,” Mark said. He squinted at his friend, trying to get a read on him. This passion, this frustration, was new. Dan was easygoing most of the time. This level of hostility wasn’t something Mark had expected. “Why don’t you head back to Houston? We’ve got it covered.”
“You don’t have it covered,” Dan shot back. “You guys are playing with an untested rocket, and it’s going to blow up in your face.”
“We made the decision to support our astronauts in their personal lives long ago. As long as they’re not doing anything illegal, we will abide by their wishes. As we did for you.” Roxanne stood. “We’re done talking. The decision on how to handle this has already been made. Keep your suspicions to yourself, or you’ll be answering to me—and I’ll pin your ass to the ground. You’ll never fly again.”
* * *
10
Russia
“General Moroshkin’s mistake,”Iakov Zeytsev said, “was thinking too small. He lacked imagination.”
Zeytsev eyed the gathered officers, the core command staff of their army they’d wrestled out of Moroshkin’s broken memory.
Pride still burned through them, united them in a blood-soaked passion. They’d believed in Moroshkin, believed in him so hard they were willing to tear their country apart, break her back and destroy the monstrosity she had become in order to save her soul. New Russia, the Russia of Sergey Puchkov, was a vile, disgusting, weak creature.
Once, Russia was feared. Respected. She shook the earth with her power, made America tremble when the bear roared. Now, Puchkov had them eating out of America’s hand, begging for more foreign aid, more loans, more bones tossed their way like they were the United States’ pet. President Puchkov had neutered Russia. He’d cut out her heart.
Zeytsev’s officers, bundled in thick coats, fur hats pulled low on their heads, grinned. They’d been the survivors after Moroshkin’s failure. They’d laid low, bided their time. Worked slowly, carefully, and steadily toward their goal.
All under President Puchkov’s nose.
“General Moroshkin was limited in his thinking. He was too earthbound. His thoughts were small. And he fought the wars of yesterday. He was from the past. He was not the man we needed for the future.”
Moroshkin and his ally, General Madigan. Both old men with visions of their grand yesteryears.
“Once, a man needed an army to bring change to the world.”
Moroshkin had thought that way. He’d built his followers from within his ranks, cultivated the unease burning through the Russian military. President Puchkov was not one of them. It was easy to pluck the strings of dissatisfaction, find fault in every increasingly liberal decision Puchkov made, every step he took closer to the West. In months, Moroshkin had nearly half the armed forces rallying to his cause.
And nearly all of those men had been killed, or now begged for death as they withered in Lubyanka Prison in Moscow.
Grand armies fell. Causes rotted from the inside. Russia had enveloped President Puchkov in accolades, had fallen at his feet and swooned at his resurrection, his insurgency, his reforms in the wake of a failed coup. Puchkov, and his policies, his dream of a Westernized Russia, were ascendent. The Russian military—an iron-forged relic of the past millennium—was put under lock and key.
Like a spider, they and their cause reemerged, crawled out from beneath the praise and the glory, the shine of New Russia on the world stage. New Russia bowed to the West. New Russia accepted equality, dared to look at the world and believe it was on even ground, that other nations were as good as it was. Russian nationalism waned as globalism soared.
