Page 32 of Winterveil

SUBMITTED: WASHINGTON POST ARTICLE [PUBLICLY ACCESSIBLE, NO CLEARANCE REQ.]

Opinion: WHAT MORITZ SATOW’S KIDNAPPING MEANS FOR AMERICA

April 25, 2037

This week, the kidnapping of German scientist Moritz Satow by Soviet intelligence forces was reported by US media, including our paper of record. Yet the editorial board at the New York Times stopped short of recommending a course of action for a government that has become increasingly complacent and dangerously passive.

Satow’s kidnapping represents a bold escalation on the part of the Soviets and a flagrant violation of the norms that have, thus far, prevented all-out war. As the world changes, these norms change as well, and if Russia succeeds in shifting the boundaries of acceptable action, then it is imperative for the United States to meet this challenge.

The balance of power that staves off nuclear conflict is not a static one. It evolves with time, with technology, and indeed even with sociopolitical developments that the academicians are so reticent to call “soft power.” More than what Satow’s kidnapping will mean for the war effort in practice is what it communicates symbolically: that the Soviets are willing to act boldly and in defiance of the current status quo.

While proxy wars and economic sanctions have been established as acceptable behavior from state actors within this anarchic system, the kidnapping of a civilian is not among such accepted actions—at least not a kidnapping so brazen and public. It is clear that, with this act, the Soviets seek to reshape the state of the conflict, and with it, the state of the world. The United States must respond with action of its own, or risk the erosion of its legitimacy in the eyes of both its allies and its enemies. That the German government’s response has been tepid and NATO has ordered caution makes it all the more essential for America to be the standard-bearer of the West’s counterreaction.

If America does not play a role in shaping the new world order, then it will find itself without a place within it.

Dorian Jones is a senior fellow at the Hoover Institution on War, Revolution and Peace, and the author of 39 books on international relations and nuclear deterrence and proliferation. He has served as an adviser to numerous presidents and multinational corporations, and is currently the chairman of the Council on American Defense and Emerging Technologies.

Eleven

Spring 2037

Rural Virginia

“We’re going to try something new today,” Professor Blanchard said.

There was an undercurrent of urgency to his voice that Giselle had not previously detected. During their previous session, he had provided her with another detailed photograph, and Giselle had again re-created it with colored pencils. But, just like the first time, he had hardly glanced at the drawing once she had finished it. He seemed to be focused only on his tablet and whatever information it was feeding him via the nodes on her temples.

Giselle had been prepared to do the same thing again. She was sitting at her usual desk, nodes already attached. Now she frowned. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

Professor Blanchard smiled in his gaunt way. “But you were so dismissive of our little art projects.”

“I’d still rather color than play a war simulation or fire a gun.”

The memory of Nadiya in the shooting range yesterday rose up in Giselle’s mind. The brush of her fingers against Giselle’s cheek as she stroked the hair back from her face. The warmth of Nadiya’s body against her own, the light dancing in her dark eyes. Giselle had to bite down on her lip to will the images away. The memory felt oddly sacred, and recalling it now in the classroom seemed like a betrayal.

“Let’s leave that to the soldiers and the strategists,” Professor Blanchard said. “You have much more to offer. No one else can do what you can do.”

“So you keep reminding me.”

Professor Blanchard took out his tablet and began tapping. As always, the screen was angled away, so Giselle couldn’t glimpse what he was doing. After a moment, he looked up and said, “Today I’d like to work with some of your own memories.”

“My memories?” Her skin prickled. “Why?”

“Because this is the next step,” Professor Blanchard replied. “Who doesn’t like a stroll down memory lane? Don’t you want to think about your home, your family?”

She didn’t. Or rather, she had, and it brought her nothing but pain. Valeran did not allow them any access to the outside world except through letters, which were collected weekly by a post truck. Since she’d arrived, Giselle had been trying to compose a letter in her mind; once or twice she had even begun to put it to page.

Dear Mama, I’m all right. Don’t worry about me. I’m—

But what could she say to her mother? How could she explain what was happening? That she had been enrolled in a secret military academy and was being put through cryptic training by a professor she was pretty sure met some clinical definition of insanity? Her mother waitressed at a biker bar on the interstate. None of these words were in her vocabulary.

Tell Aleeah and Aubree I love them.

Giselle wondered how her mother had explained everything to her sisters. They had been there the night Giselle was kicked out, and they had cried, more in confusion than anything else. At six and seven they were too little to understand. What were they thinking now? That she had abandoned them?

And tell Meemaw . . .

Here, Giselle’s thoughts always halted. What was she supposed to say to her grandmother, who had cast her out into the cold with nothing but a backpack and an armful of clothes? There was too much anger to articulate. It simmered in her stomach. And it frightened her, in an odd way. She didn’t like being angry; it seemed almost dangerous.