Smitrov used his handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his brow. The bright television lights were unpleasantly hot, but he knew he was not as uncomfortable as the American Navy and the rest of the U.S. government would soon be. What were those fools thinking, anyway? Just when he was making some real headway in economic rapprochement with the West, just as he was solidifying his own support for his liberal policies here at home, the stupid Americans had done something asinine enough to start up the Cold War all over again.

He was still not convinced the American submarine had fired on his boats deliberately. Not even they were that idiotic. The fact was that something disastrous had occurred. According to the information Admiral Durov was providing him, it was the Americans’ fault somehow. Now it was his duty to report it, to assume the proper amount of righteous indignation over it, and then to see which would be the best way to gain political capital from it.

Smitrov leaned closer to the microphone and cleared his throat. The room fell quiet. The gathered media representatives sensed the importance of this summons to the Kremlin. No one wanted to miss a syllable.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is with great sadness that I speak with you today,” the Russian president began. “Today, I must report to you that two of our newest nuclear-powered submarines are overdue and we believe they are both lost with all hands.”

The hushed silence in the room was destroyed as everyone tried to shout his question louder than anyone else. Smitrov held up both hands in a vain attempt to quell the near riot.

“Please! Please! I will answer all your questions in good order!” he shouted over the din. Even with the help of amplification, it was as if no one was listening. They kept shouting and waving their arms. A few were bent over, talking into their cell phones.

Smitrov conceded. He stepped back from the podium, folded his arms across his chest, and waited. After a while, the gathered reporters realized that nothing was happening except their own antics. They fell silent. Smitrov again stepped up to the podium and, in his best “schoolmaster” voice, scolded the group.

“If you will be quiet, I will tell you all we know and then we will answer your questions as best we can. But we will maintain order here or we will not proceed.”

The international reporters were not accustomed to being admonished in this manner. They considered themselves the anointed ones, charged with interpreting the news into the social standards they alone determined were best. No politician could treat them this way, yet Smitrov had just done so. He had gotten away with it. The room was once again quiet.