The Apocalypse Troll

"But, Mister President, my country ca

"I remind you of the Monroe Doctrine, Mister Ambassador," Armbruster said, and Nekrasov shook his head.

"Not applicable, Sir. Argentina clearly initiated hostilities, and Great Britain is an American power in this instance." He smiled wryly. "While the Russian Federation may deplore the imperialistic tradition which makes this true, it is, nonetheless, a fact."

"Well, then," Armbruster said with a sudden, impish grin, "let's just say I got pissed off."

Nekrasov choked on his coffee. His head spun slightly as he set down his cup and mopped his lips with his napkin, unable to believe that a head of state had just said such a thing to a foreign ambassador.

"Mister President," he said carefully. "I-" He broke off for a moment. Odd. The shock of what he'd just heard seemed to have thrown him off stride. He actually found it a bit difficult to choose his words.

"You are aware, Sir," he said finally, "that lives have been lost because you became-as you say-'pissed off'?"

"Bullshit," Armbruster said, watching him closely. "People got killed because the Argentinos were stupid enough to fuck with a Navy battle group." He noted the apparently bewildering effect of his words with satisfaction.

"Mister ... Mister President-" Nekrasov broke off and rubbed his eyes, blinking rapidly. "I am afraid ... That is-" He stopped and swallowed heavily, tugging to loosen his tie. "Forgive me, Mister President," he said thickly. "I feel ... unwell. I-"

He started to rise, and then his eyes rolled up and he collapsed bonelessly.

Armbruster was on his feet in an instant, catching him and easing him back into his chair. He had beaten Stanford Loren by the breadth of a hair, and he shook his head as he looked up at the CIA director.

"Damn Russians. He's got the constitution of an ox."

President Pyotr Yakolev shook himself awake as the phone rang. He groped for it with a weary groan, hoping it was not yet another crisis.

"Yes?" he growled, then listened briefly and sat up with a jerk. "What?"

"I'm sorry, Mister President, but we don't have all the details yet." The voice on the other end of the phone was cautious. It belonged to Aleksandr Turchin, who considered Nikolai Nekrasov one of the outstanding thorns in his flesh. Unfortunately, that was because of how long Nekrasov and Yakolev had known one another, and that required the Foreign Minister to proceed with care. "The report just came in. Apparently Nikolai Stepanovich suffered a heart attack in the very office of the President."

"My God," Yakolev muttered. Then, "How bad is it?"

"I don't know, Mister President. They have flown him to their Bethesda Naval Hospital, the same place they take their own presi-"

"Yes, yes! I know that. When will we know more, Aleksandr Ivanovich?"

"I can't say, Mister President. Soon, I hope."

"I, too." Yakolev had few close personal friends, and Nikolai was one of them. He didn't want to lose him. "Is his wife with him?" he asked.

"I understand so," Turchin said.

"Deliver my personal sympathy to her," Yakolev directed.

"I will, Mister President. I'm sorry to have disturbed you, but I thought you would wish to know immediately."

"You thought correctly, Aleksandr Ivanovich. Thank you. Good night."

"Good night, Mister President."

Yakolev hung up slowly and lay back in his lonely bed. It was at moments like this he missed the supportive presence of his dead Marina. Poor Nikolai. He'd been working him too hard-he must have been. But Nikolai had always been so healthy. Like a kulak, he used to joke. Who would have thought Nikolai, of all people, would suffer a heart attack? And in the middle of a meeting at the White House?

Daniel Abernathy shook his head doggedly and glanced at Alvin Horton. The sergeant major appeared irritatingly composed, and the major was inclined to resent it until he saw the wonder hiding in Horton's eyes.

"So where do we come in, Admiral?" he asked finally.

"Where do you think, Major?" Aston replied, watching him closely.

"Well, Sir, it sounds like you've picked us to put together your strike team," Abernathy said slowly.

"Right the first time, Major. We'll discuss the details later, but basically what we have in mind is the creation of a provisional company for 'experimental' purposes." He gri

"No, Sir, I don't imagine I will," Abernathy said with an answering grin. "I was a mighty pissed Marine this morning, Sir, but I think I'm getting over it."

"Good. Then you and the sar-major and I will go sit down and talk hardware. I'm afraid 'Captain Ross' and Commander Morris have another appointment."

"Yes, Sir."

"Oh, and Major-"

"Sir?"

"Certain people will have to know some of the truth about 'Captain Ross,' but I decide who needs to know and what they need to be told. Not you, not Commander Morris, not even Admiral McLain. Me. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Sar-major?"

"Understood, Admiral."

"Good. Now, if you gentlemen will come with me?"

Nikolai Nekrasov opened his eyes slowly. He was lying on his back, he decided. In a bed. He rolled his head and took in the bright, cheerful airiness of a well-appointed private hospital room. What-?

His thoughts cleared suddenly and he sat up. The President! He'd been speaking with the President, and then-

"Hello, Nikolai."

He turned and looked into Jared Armbruster's eyes. There was amusement in them, and a touch of wariness, as well. He shook his head slowly, trying to understand. He'd collapsed, but he felt fine. So what ... ?

"I owe you an apology, Mister Ambassador," Armbruster said calmly. "I'm afraid we slipped you a Mickey." Nekrasov blinked at him. "We drugged your coffee," Armbruster explained.

Drugged his coffee? It was unheard of! And if they had, why should Armbruster admit it? The ambassador stared around the room, fighting a flicker of panic. Surely the President had not run that far mad!

"I'm sorry," Armbruster sounded genuinely contrite, "but I believe we can explain why it was necessary."

"Indeed, Mister President?" Nekrasov was pleased that he managed to sound calm. "I should be interested to hear that explanation."

"Of course." Armbruster sat beside the bed. "First, I must also apologize for the cover story we put together. Your government has been informed that you suffered a severe heart attack. That-" he added quickly "-was unfortunately necessary to explain why we rushed you to Bethesda." Nekrasov started to speak, but Armbruster raised a hand.

"Please, Mister Ambassador. Time is short. Your Embassy's security people are not at all pleased that the doctors have refused to allow them into your room because of your 'serious condition.' We'll let them in very shortly, but first I must explain some things."

"Very well," Nekrasov said, and settled back on his pillows, regarding the American suspicously.

"Thank you. Mister Ambassador, you asked me why I involved my country in the South Atlantic War. My answer was, I fear, facetious. The truth, sir, is that I needed a diversion."

"I beg your pardon?"

"In large part, Mister Ambassador, my reasons concern yourself. Oh, my original thought was to create a cover for certain military moves I must make, but then I realized it could also be used as a pretext for special diplomatic exchanges-like the information I'm about to share with you.

"I must tell you, Ambassador, that while we had you here-indeed, it was the entire reason we went to all this trouble to get you here-we ran an electroencephalogram on you." Nekrasov looked mystified, and Armbruster continued smoothly. "It was necessary to determine whether or not your brain waves contained a certain distinctive pattern. Fortunately, they do-and it is my sincere hope that President Yakolev's share it. Unhappily, the only way I have been able to think of to check his is to convince someone he knows and trusts-in short, a close personal friend-to find out for me."