State Of The Union

Brad Thor State Of The Union

The third book in the Scot Harvath series

For Sloane-

Welcome to the world, little one

Cunctando Regitur Mundis

Waiting, one rules the world.

Prologue

WASHINGTON, D.C.

TUESDAY EVENING, JANUARY 28TH

What I want, Chuck, is ten minutes of peace and quiet so I can think,” snapped the president to his chief of staff.

Charles Anderson had never seen his boss like this. Then again, America had never faced a situation of this magnitude before. With less than three hours until he was expected to deliver his State of the Union address, President Jack Rutledge had already made the tough decision of evacuating Congress and settling on a videotaped address from the White House. The hardest call, though, still lay before him.

“Okay, people,” voiced Anderson. “You heard the president. Let’s give him the room. Everybody out. We’ll reconvene in the Situation Room.”

Once the Oval Office had cleared out, the president leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and massaged his forehead with the heels of his hands. His oath of office called for him to preserve, protect and defend the Constitution-a body of laws, which obliged him, “to give to Congress information of the State of the Union and recommend to their consideration such measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient.” Never in a million years could he have imagined that the execution of his duties would lead to the unraveling of everything America had fought to become.

He was reminded of the first State of the Union address given by George Washington over two hundred years ago at New York ’s Federal Hall. With the country in the fledgling stages of its great democratic experiment, Washington had focused on the very concept of union itself and the challenges not only of establishing, but of maintaining it.

How in the hell had things come to this?Rutledge wondered as he opened his eyes and studied the two folders on the desk in front of him. Each contained a different version of his State of the Union address, and each had the potential to be equally devastating. The fate of millions of Americans would be decided by what he said and did in the next three hours.

Though not a particularly religious man, President Jack Rutledge closed his eyes once again and this time prayed to God for guidance.

Chapter 1

ZVENIGOROD, RUSSIA

THREE WEEKS PRIOR

Winter has come too early this year,” Sergei Stavropol complained as he threw his long overcoat onto a chair near the door. He was the last of the four men to arrive. “I think this will be one of the coldest we have seen in a long time.” Crossing over to the bar, he withdrew a decanter of brandy and filled a delicate crystal snifter. He was an enormous man with dark hair and a large nose that bore evidence of having been broken many times. At six-foot-three inches tall and two hundred seventy-five pounds, he was bigger than any of the other men in the room, but it was his dark, penetrating eyes which drew all of the attention and which had long ago earned him his nickname. Though he hated theRasputin moniker, he found that it instilled in his enemies and those who would oppose him a certain degree of fear, and therefore he had allowed it to stick. His salt and pepper-colored hair was trimmed in a military-style crew cut. His skin was severely pockmarked and his left eye drooped slightly due to a grenade that had exploded in his face as he was pushing one of his men out of danger’s way. While he was twice as brave as his assembled colleagues, he was easily less than half as refined, and as if to demonstrate that very fact, he downed his brandy in one long swallow.

The men around the table smiled at their friend’s behavior. Stavropol was as constant as the northern star. In over forty years, nothing had changed him-not money, not power, not even the knowledge that he would go down in history as one of the greatest soldiers Mother Russia had ever produced. In combat, he had saved the life of each man in the room, some more than once, but they had not gathered in this remote wooded area forty miles west of Moscow to relive the past. On the contrary, the four men seated around the worn oak table were there to shape the future.

Outside, a breath of icy wind blew across the gravel driveway of the centuries-old hunting lodge. From its stone chimney, tendrils of grey smoke could be seen only for an instant before being sucked upward into an ever-darkening sky. As the cold wind pressed itself against the formidable structure, it moaned deeply.