Alexander Durov listened to each stroke as the old clock chimed the hour. It was time at last. After all his years of planning, working, and scheming, the time to strike had come. It was not the perfect scenario, the way he had envisioned it all this time. That was always the nature of war. That’s why contingency plans were drawn and factored into the equation. It was going to work just fine, now that he had shown the traitors that he had the ability to turn them into dust if they did not cooperate.

He glanced around the command center to locate his aide. He found Vasiliy Zhurkov hunched over a communications console, discussing some problem with a young officer who was seated there.

“Vasiliy, it is time,” the old admiral growled. “Please stop whatever you are fooling with and connect me with the Security Council on the secure line.”

Zhurkov rose, stood erect for a moment, and turned toward Durov, as if he dreaded facing him with the news he bore. There was a questioning, concerned look on Zhurkov’s brow.

“Admiral, we are receiving reports that only one missile hit its target in Moscow,” he reported. “The only damage report we have is a fire in the Mezhdunarodnaya Hotel. Something is seriously wrong. There should be a complete salvo…all rockets launched from the Vipr by now. And, sir, we have not been able to establish contact with Vipr to get a report.”

Durov stepped back and almost stumbled. He was shocked by the report. He reached out and braced himself against the edge of the desk, drawing strength from the solid feel of it.

This was bad news. Very bad. The attack from the Vipr was key to striking fear into the hearts of those spineless lackeys pretending to rule the Rodina. The first salvo was meant to take out the Duma, the Lubyanka Square headquarters of the FSB, and the Ministry of Defense Building. They might manage to pull themselves together without such a demoralizing show of force. The strike against Medikov was an afterthought, a nice touch, since there was a spare missile.

The old admiral gathered his thoughts for a moment. Even with this letdown, his years of meticulous planning had provided for just such a contingency. He had accounted for every eventuality. Even this seemingly impossible one. The plan would not come together as easily as he had thought and it was much riskier, but all was not lost.

He shook his head to clear the spiderwebs that had crept into his vision.

“Vasiliy, place the call to the Security Council,” he ordered, his voice strong and sure. “I will speak with them now.”

Young Zhurkov found the Security Council in their underground command center. Durov took the phone from his aide and began dictating terms.