1 / HOT LINE
Two years later.
The President of the United States paced back and forth, curving slightly as the wall of the oval office slipped past him with every step.
The Commander-in-Chief removed his glasses and sucked lightly on the end. The butterflies in the bottom of his stomach which he had long since overcome were beginning to stir again. Something was wrong.
It was not often he was awake at this time at night. There was not a single spot of light beyond the window, even the stars seemingly asleep. The only sign of life outside of the room was the continuous and irritating chirp of countless crickets, which had never sounded so loud.
As he paced, he stopped every few seconds to check the blood red telephone placed cautiously on the end of the desk, as if expecting it to spring to life at any moment.
Checking his watch, he grunted at the time. From what he could see by the small desk lamp across the room, it was after three o'clock in the morning. He was waiting for a very important phone call, and every second it did not come his head throbbed more and more, his sweat-filled suit that he had not changed out of in at least 48 hours becoming more and more unbearable, the shaking of hands becoming more and more violent.
Suddenly he could not cope any longer. He had to so something to take his mind off of the wait. Eyeing a newspaper placed on a shelf, he immediately paced towards it and snatched it from its dust-covered hiding place. He had already read it at least half a dozen times that day, but one more could not hurt.
At least that was what he thought. A few moments of peaceful reading passed as he lounged in his desk chair, desperately trying to relax but failing. Several pages in, however, his heart suddenly sank as he saw the headline.
It had been almost a year since the previous President had been assassinated, and the press were still going on about it. Of course, with the looming presence of the next Presidential election coinciding with his plans to launch an investigation into the assassination, they could not exactly be blamed.
As much as we hate to admit it, the man ruling our country is not the one we elected to do so. One cannot help but wonder if we had seen that fateful day coming, would the previous Presidential election have turned out the same way? Of course, in asking this, we must ask ourselves an even deeper question: Should we have seen that fateful day coming? No one can satisfy everyone, but it seems that if we want our President to do a half-decent job, we have to be prepared for someone to disapprove. The only problem is that its usually a gun-wielding psychopath that disapproves.
It may be that the lives of everyone on that planet was shaken by that day, as for that moment the entire country was plunged to darkness, a darkness which still lingers today. That being said, can we expect a similar fate from our current President? This reporter thinks it highly unlikely. Nevertheless, many, me included, believe that he will have many more a chance to show his true colors. Yes, this is an election prediction, but the current climate puts his opponents in a very tricky situation; namely, running against the policies of a slain man.
He turned the last two paragraphs of the article over in his mind. He had read it several times that day already, but not once had it sunk in like it had this time. ...A darkness that still lingers today. The phrase made his pulse quicken, but the sad thing was, that was perfectly true. Even the weather seemed to have been dismal the whole time he had been in office.
The President flicked to the next page of the newspaper, but seeing what a tough job it would be to sort through the numerous remaining criticisms he had yet to read this sitting, he gave up and dropped the paper back onto his desk. And it was only then, in the moment that his mind had finally been preoccupied, did he notice a small blinking red light.
The phone had been ringing for God knows how long.
A sudden rush of adrenaline bursting through him, he slammed his hand onto a button next to the phone, alerting the one person in the building, other than him, who was still awake. As prepared as he would ever be, he picked up the phone.
He brought his hand closer to his face.
He placed the phone to his ear.
The voice was not as he had expected.
"President Lyndon Jackson." It was not a question. The caller knew who had called. The voice was harsh and deep, a strong Russian accent making certain the identity of the caller, as if it needed confirming.
"Premier Nikita Khrushchev," President Jackson replied into the phone. "How can I help you?" He already knew the answer to that question.
Khrushchev got right to the point. "Two days ago, our officials spotted a U-2 spy plane flying over our airspace. Can I ask what it was doing there?"
The door to the oval office opened without knocking, and the Director of the Central Intelligence Agency entered, his face devoid of any expression. He and Jackson had practised the President's responses an untold number of times, and he acknowledged and suppressed the Director's concern with a small, but hardly genuine, smile.
"Mr. Chairman, I am afraid I haven't the slightest idea as to what plane you are talking about." The director nodded. "There have been many of our planes flying close to your airspace, but they are all within our agreed flight paths."
"Then would you care to explain why an aircraft, one not unlike the U-2 spy plane that photographed our the Nuclear Weapons Disposal Facility on Cuba two years ago, was at least thirty miles OFF of these agreed flight paths?"
"I'm afraid," Jackson began, breathing deeply to steady his nerves, "that I am completely unaware of any plane straying from our agreed flight paths. If one has done so, then it was either entirely accidental or was flown without my slightest authorisation."
"I wish I could believe that, but the plane in question did not just deviate from the agreed path. Have you heard of 'Groznyj Grad'?" There was silence as the President looked at a bewildered Director for an answer, but none came. "Okay, we'll try a smaller scale. What about 'OKB-754'?"
"The second one does not ring any bells, but I think I recall the name 'Groznyj Grad'." The President's pulse was quickening again.
"So your spy plane passing over them both was a mere coincidence? Regardless of what you say, I am sure you are aware that Groznyj Grad in one of our most top secret military bases, and the latter is one of our main Design Bureaus. Needless to say, this certainly arouses suspicion, don't you agree?"
"I would have to agree yes, but I maintain that whatever you spotted was something I am completely unaware of."
"'Whatever you spotted'?!" The voice of the Soviet Premier grew frighteningly loud. "Do not make me out to be stupid, Mr. President. This was merely an enquiry, and we have no need for retaliation. What concerns me more is that your plane came very close to the location of one of our most esteemed scientists, one with which I am sure you Americans are very well acquainted. He has been in and out of your country quite often in the past few years."
President Jackson knew that they did not have no need for retaliation, but no authority for retaliation. Nevertheless, he had to continue with the subject at hand. "Are you referring to Sokolov?"
"Exactly. Nikolai Stephanovich Sokolov is one of our most esteemed scientists, and quite a problem for us to keep our hands on. I must warn you now, Mr. President. Whether the aircraft that was spotted was or was not a spy plane is irrelevant. If your government is planning any kind of operation to retrieve Sokolov, do not allow it to proceed. If your country even comes close to Sokolov once more, it could spark an incident of unseen proportions. Do I make myself clear?"
The President's emotions were a mix of satisfaction and worry. The Director, who could hear every word being said, lowered his spread right hand towards the desk, signalling for him to end the call.
"Understood, Mr. Chairman."
He replaced the phone onto its holder, sighed and wiped the sweat from his brow. Suddenly, all of his lost exhaustion caught up with him, and he had to stand up to stop himself falling asleep. Turning to face the Director, he spoke before pacing out of the office without another word.
"Mr. Director. Tell Zero..." he hesitated, contemplating his next words carefully, for they could decide the fate of the world. "Tell Major Zero the mission will be a virtuous one."
The Director nodded to a now empty room. "Virtuous. Got it."