Page 32 of Ascendent
Still, Sasha had never met a regulation he hadn’t devoted his heart and soul to. He spent mornings and evenings in the Kremlin gyms, dutifully working his way through the “Preparing for Life as a NASA Astronaut!” exercise routines. Ten pushups to warm up. Twenty minutes of jump rope.
He chuckled. He’d be astonished if Sasha even broke a sweat.
Sergey pulled the binders together and headed for the sitting room. A fire was already going, pushing away the chill that always lingered in the Kremlin’s walls. He snagged a bottle of whiskey and two tumblers, slid out of his jacket and unbuttoned the neck of his shirt. He plopped onto the rug and poured two glasses of whiskey.
Thoughts of the day tumbled through his mind, crashed against one another, violent collisions like the Arctic icebergs. Things had been simpler up there. Survive, and keep his friends alive. Eliminate the bad guys.
Trying to restart a country after a civil war, after a coup, was political rocket science. Rocket science while riding a unicycle, and juggling flaming swords. He didn’t even have Jack in his corner anymore. No phone calls on the infamous red phone to cheer him up. Or nonsense texts back and forth. Jack and Ethan had ensconced themselves away from the world, choosing silence and privacy as the world stuttered and staggered forward, uncertain about where to place its trust in the wake of America’s self-immolation. Attacked from within, the American Congress under new President Elizabeth Wall was choosing to isolate, to retreat, to fold in on itself like a house of cards collapsing.
The world looked over their left and right shoulders, each country waiting for the next to make the first move.
Nervousness, hesitation. It was not the right climate for bold growth, for regeneration.
But since when had Russia ever followed the trends?
If he were Putin, he’d invade a neighboring country, stir up unrest in a bordering ethnic enclave, foment unease in NATO. He’d unite his people with fervent nationalism, beat those drums of Russian exceptionalism, burn the blood of his people. Bankroll military might with illusionary money. A dozen generals had drawn up plans for just such an operation, or multiple operations. An injection of pride, that’s what the nation needed, they said. Enough of scientists telling us what we’ve done wrong in our waters and our forests. Enough of feeling like we were the used heel to the mad American general’s plans for world domination. Enough of feeling like the sidekick on the world’s stage. It wasn’t Jack that had killed Madigan. It was, obviously, Sergey.
Russia’s history was a Mobius strip, an ever-repeating cycle of might and conquest, of hubris and overreach. If he accepted those plans, if he started poking at Finland, or playing war games with Belarus, or decided to embroil his forces in the Caucasus again, he’d see the same future play out that had befallen Putin. Global isolation. A dissatisfied public, wracked with inflation and paranoia, a heated distrust of the world. The only solution? More nationalism, more pride. More small invasions. More conflict.
He didn’t want to be a war president.
One end-of-the-world escalation, one white-knuckle cling to life, was more than enough.
I simply want to live. To cause no evil to anyone but myself,Tolstoy had said.The greatest of all warriors are Time and Patience.
He needed both now, for Russia.
And for himself.
Tolstoy also said,we are asleep until we fall in Love.
He stared at the flames, his mind sliding back to another night before the fire, another night he’d been exhausted, but lightened with hope, waiting for Sasha to walk through his door. Was he tempting fate by repeating that evening? Was he aligning time in a cruel harmony, a coda for his heart to follow, to shatter again?
No. His hand strayed to the binders from NASA, spilled beside the carpet. “History of American Spaceflight” sat beside him. American bold type, screaming American colors, a smiling female astronaut beaming from the cover, pure joy bursting from every pore of her ebony skin.Shanna Parker, the caption said. ISS Mission Specialist. Joy, confidence, power. Pure Americana.
What did the Russian space program information packets look like? Were there any pictures of glowering Russian astronauts? Or even fake astronauts, models with strapping muscles and dour faces, projecting Russian stoicism, strength, and silence?
Not likely. The last two astronauts they’d sent to the ISS had retired, and Putin had slashed the budget for manned space missions, and even joint manned space operations. Launch vehicles, payloads, spy satellites, and better ICBMs were the benefactors of Putin’s space budget. He sold launch capabilities out of Kazakhstan to any country that wanted to fling a satellite or a human being into orbit for the discounted price of eighty million dollars a lift.
Was Sergey restarting Russia’s manned space programjustfor Sasha?
The fire flickered. He pictured Sasha riding into the stars on a burst of flame, ascending into the heavens. Sasha would be smiling as he blasted off, as the Earth fell away. Would he have that look of wonder on his face Sergey had seen so rarely, so perfectly, when gravity released its hold on Sasha’s spaceship? It was worth it, everything, for that smile.
And then, Sasha would come home to him.
The door opened. Footsteps, Sasha’s light tread. For a hulking man of military muscle, he knew how to move silently, delicately. “Sashunya, in here.”
He heard Sasha pivot, head toward him. Pad across the carpet.
He squatted beside Sergey. Sasha was still in his workout clothes, running leggings and a t-shirt. Those leggings should be outlawed. Sergey’s mouth went dry at the sight, at the long lines of lean muscle stretching for infinity. “Go for a run?”
“Five kilometers.” Sasha wiped his face with the hem of his t-shirt. “Around the Kremlin, across the river and back.”
Sergey slid NASA’s fitness binder toward him, flipped the pages. “Five kilometer run, week four, day three.” He grinned. “You can run further than that.”
“I’m following their guide. They have a system.”
“You’re adorable.”
