Arctic Storm Rising

Russia’s primary military command center occupied a massive white concrete compound of Stalinist-era buildings on the north bank of the Moskva River, roughly three kilometers from the Kremlin. Two six-story-high arches joined two wings to a central structure topped by the hammer-and-sickle coat of arms of the old Soviet Union and bas-reliefs of soldiers and flags. The imposing arches were closed off with triumphalist stained-glass windows. One bore the image of a sword-armed knight. The other depicted a modern female soldier carrying both a Kalashnikov assault rifle and a young child.

A new addition to the complex had been built in one of the older courtyards. It contained three large auditoriums equipped with wall-sized, wraparound screens and tiers of computer control stations with hardwired connections to an ultrafast supercomputer. Those were mostly for use as propaganda showcases and backdrops for political figures who wanted to impress their own people and those of other nations with images conveying high-tech Russian military prowess.

Smaller command centers and other facilities buried underground handled the real work of coordinating military action across Russia and around the globe. Now, inside a highly secure subterranean conference room, Colonel Alexei Petrov strode confidently to the podium set directly in front of a semicircular table. He looked out across his audience, comprised of the nation’s most senior military leaders and government officials, including its president, Piotr Zhdanov. They were all men. Like the old Soviet Union, the Russian Federation paid a great deal of lip service to equality of the sexes, but its higher-echelon positions were always reserved for men with the right connections.

Zhdanov himself, usually depicted by a compliant government-controlled media as physically powerful and a paragon of perfect health, had aged rapidly over the past several months. His round face was pale and pudgy, and he looked thicker around the waist. There were visible shadows under his hard, brown eyes, and even his hair had thinned and turned gray. Well, Petrov thought dispassionately, death and illness come to us all sooner or later. If Russia’s autocratic president had expected his run of good fortune to continue forever, recent events must have shown him how wrong he had been.

Now Zhdanov eagerly leaned forward in his chair. “I understand you have a special proposal to present to us this afternoon, Colonel?”

“Da, Mr. President,” Petrov said. Outwardly calm, inside he battled a storm of swirling emotions. In a very real sense, his fate now rested entirely on his ability to persuade these men, especially Zhdanov, to approve the plan he was about to present. He tapped a virtual control on the podium’s computer display. Right away, the wall screen behind him lit up to show a detailed topographic map of the Russian Federation — all the way from its disputed land border with the Ukraine to the Pacific coast around Vladivostok.

He nodded to the junior officers waiting at the back of the room. They fanned out to present Zhdanov and the others with pairs of sleek, futuristic-looking eyewear. “Gentlemen, please put on the AR smart glasses you’ve been given.”