The First Blow

APRIL 2ND, 2009
BERING SEA, OFF ALASKA
3:15 AM

Lieutenant James Clancy was on duty on the destroyer USS Kershaw when a radar officer rushed in the helm. "Sir, we have something. It looks like we're approaching a large fleet of warships, potentially hostile."

Clancy dutifully reported to the bridge. He couldn't believe his eyes - it looked like a whole fleet was coming their way. He could make out what looked like - two aircraft carriers? A group of destroyers? This couldn't be good, even if it was just a false alarm.

"Go wake the Captain," he shouted to a Midshapman. He kept a wary eye on the radar screen.

Outside, there was a sea of fog, so thick the moon couldn't be seen through it. And yet the radar's image was clear as day: two air craft carriers, four destroyers and two battle ships or cruisers.

"It might just be fog patches," the tired Captain groaned sleepily.

"Maybe. Or it could be the Russian Pacific Squadron," the Lieutenant replied tersely.

This got the Captain's attention. "Relay a message to Admiral Undershaft and put the crew on alert."

WASHINGTON, DC
4:08 AM

The President was roused from bed by a phone call. "Yes?" he answered groggily, just returned from his trip to London and really not in a mood to talk to anyone.

"Mr. President, it's Director Panetta." Obama recognized the voice of his CIA director on the other end of the line.

"What's going on, Leon?" the President asked.

"I'm not entirely sure just yet, but war may have just been declared."

The words made the President's blood run cold. He knew he had to act - immediately. What had happened? What was happening? It wasn't anything that could wait. He kissed Michelle on the cheek, then threw on his pants and rushed out of the room.

SITUATION ROOM
4:30 AM

"So far, the reports are very sketchy, Mr. President," Admiral Tom Talleyrand exclaimed, "but we believe that elements of the United States Pacific Fleet under Admiral Undershaft engaged the Russian Pacific Squadron in the Bering Sea."

"What happened?" Obama asked, still groggy despite having drank two cups of coffee. He had managed to assemble his staff, the Secretary of Defense, and a few other officials, but otherwise the room was surprisingly empty for what was evidentally a crisis situation.

"We don't know, sir," the Admiral replied. "There was a heavy fog, lots of mangled communications, but it seems the two fleets bumped into each other and someone started shooting."

"Who the hell started shooting?" Obama demanded. "My God! Aren't these sailors under strictest orders not to fire unless express orders are given? In this situation? What the hell happened?"

"We really can't say, sir," a junior officer commented from down the table. "We aren't getting any clear reports out of what happened, who initiated the action, or even what happened."

The weight of this sunk in. Obama sat there, completely taken in by the fact that his country was on the brink of annihilation - and for the moment, he didn't even know how or why.

"When can we get concrete information?" Obama asked.

"As it comes in," the officer replied. "The fleet's communication seems to have been damaged during the action. All we have are snippets."

A tall black man in a dark suit entered the room, carrying a file folder. He showed it to Secretary Gates and Director Panetta, and then hurried it down the table to the President. The President's blood froze as he saw the pictures.

In the midst of a sea of fog, the photograph clearly showed a military action - planes and ships in action, some smoking, some on fire, some sinking. Through the photographs, it wasn't evident who had won - but it was clear that there had been a battle.

"My God," Obama whispered, his voice resonating the gravity of the situation. "We're at war."

NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
6:45 AM

"My God, we're at WAR!" Hugh Lewelyn exclaimed, slamming his fist onto the table. He had been beaten to the story by Reuters, CNN, and the Associated Press, but he really couldn't give a damn. He was watching on CNN, the image of smoking and shattered Russian warships sinking into the cold war, the triumphant American vessels.

"What a victory! What a glorious event!" the tycoon hooted.

"Hugh, the children are still asleep," his wife Elizabeth scolded.

Hugh ignored her - as usual - and picked up the phone, dialing frantically. "Kid!" he shouted into the phone, contacting. "Watching CNN?"

"Hugh, you're the only one who could be excited by something like this," the voice at the end replied with mock disdain.

"Nonsense, Kid. Any red-blooded, patriotic American would be proud to see the pride of the Russian Navy reduced to smouldering hulks..."

"Spare me the purple prose, Hugh. What do you want?"

"The pictures have been given to me, now we have our war," Lewelyn said ecastatically. "Now, to business. Start cranking out atrocity stories as soon as you get your laptop turned on. Our pigeon needs to take off as soon as it can!"

"People will be thinking about things bigger than the West Indies," Kid noted.

"Fair enough, Kid," Lewelyn said impatiently. "The Bering Sea today, comprehensive overview of affairs tomorrow - THEN the Russian West Indies."

"How many casualties, Hugh?" Kid asked.

"Not one American killed, and only eight injured."

"Well, that's certainly great news."

"And an entire squadron at the bottom of the sea!"

"Well, that certainly IS a statement!"

"Get to work, Kid," Lewelyn said. The incoming call light flashed. "Will call you later." He switched over to his other line. "Hello?"

"You are a scoundrel, Hugh," said the feminine voice at the other end of the line, "wholly devoid of conscience."

Hugh smiled, having heard the words before. "I have no idea what you might mean, Madame Secretary." Then he hung up. There was work to do, real work, and Queen-making would have to wait.