“Yes,” Starinov said. “He might indeed appear ineffectual. And, regrettably, there are elements within the government, some of whom still harbor cold war resentments toward your country, who would be pleased to use such a failure to incite the Russian electorate and gain greater standing for themselves.”

Touché, the President thought. You scream, I scream, we all scream for ice cream.

He turned to Secretary Carlson. “Carol, how much aid can we provide, and how fast could we get it moving?”

An elegant woman of fifty-five with the inexhaustible energy and slender good looks of someone ten years younger, she pursed her lips in thought, pretending to make some hurried mental calculations. In fact, she and the President had run through this whole scenario in advance. Ballard liked, respected, and, most importantly, needed Starinov as an ally. He was prepared to do whatever it took to bolster his popularity and keep him in office. And, not to be too cynical, he liked the idea of getting food into the mouths of starving babes. Still, it was hardly beneath him to also use food as leverage—or even as a weighty club—in certain ongoing arms reduction and trade negotiations.

“We have sufficient reserves to provide at least a hundred thousand tons of wheat, oats, and barley, with a somewhat lesser quantity of cornmeal,” she said after what seemed a reasonable pause for thought. “As far as a time frame, my best guess is we could get our first shipments out within a month. Of course, that’s assuming we can persuade Congress to go along with us.”

The President nodded, shifting his attention to the Veep. “Steve, what about financial aid?”

“I’ve been recommending three hundred million dollars in loans as part of an overall package. Realistically, we might be able to secure half that amount, with strict conditions attached to its use and repayment.”

“In my opinion, it’s the distribution end of this effort that’s going to be the hardest sell,” Secretary Bowman said. “Even with the participation of U.S. troops kept to a minimum, everybody’s concerned about another Somalia-type situation.”

Which, everyone in the room knew, was a moderately delicate way of saying a situation in which American soldiers were forced to repel violent mobs of looters trying to raid cargo from trucks and grain storehouses.

Bashkir gave Bowman a sharp look. A dour man of middle age whose dark complexion and thick, flat features bore the somatotype of his Far Eastern ancestry, he was known in diplomatic circles for being as personally loyal to Starinov as he was outspokenly critical of his pro-Western policies.

“With all due respect, Mr. Secretary, my government is fully capable of dispensing the food to its own citizens once it arrives,” he said. “I see no reason for direct involvement by your military.”