by Joe Weber
Zhilinkhov spat, thoroughly incensed.
Every person in the hangar was frozen in silence, shock registering on their faces. The usual pomp and pageantry, with the pretentious behavior, had started to evaporate when the general secretary stepped off the Ilyushin transport. The diplomatic reservoir was now bone-dry.
We haven't lied about anything. Mister Secretary, the president replied in a normal, controlled voice, exhaling cigar smoke.
Zhilinkhov, still standing in front of the table, pointed his finger at the president again. You launched your shuttle craft without warning ahead of schedule! Even your own newspeople did not know of the secret launch.
Zhilinkhov was livid, trembling slightly in a half crouch, knuckles on the table.
The president bolted from his chair, knocking ashes across the table.
It is OUR prerogative to launch OUR shuttle when WE deem it appropriate. WE don't need the permission of the Soviet government, or, for that matter, the American news media.
Zhilinkhov was beginning to perspire in the stagnant air.
I thought, when I talked with you from Moscow, the interpreter continued, that we had an agreement to discuss your space defense satellites on a foundation of mutual trust.' Oh, we did, sir, and I'm happy to discuss them n The president was abruptly cut off when the burly Russian leader slammed his fist on the table, spilling three glasses of water.
Before you launched them, Zhilinkhov bellowed. You changed the date!
We can not trust the Americans again. Ever!
The president realized Zhilinkhov's real concern was the SDI satellites.
Everything else was simply window dressing.
He decided to let Zhilinkhov talk himself out. The meeting was a fiasco anyway. The outcome would be futile. Back to square one, with immediate escalation of tensions.
Also, Zhilinkhov continued, a smile spreading across his craggy face,' 'two of your spies have been exposed in Moscow.' The president reacted with a surprised look, questioning the interpreter, then glanced at Wilkinson.
The chief of staff, anticipating some type of surprise, spoke out.
That isn't anything new. We expelled three of your KGB operatives spies. Mister Zhilinkhov less than two months ago.
The Communist leader smiled again. A shiver ran down the spines of the president and his chief advisor. They both had a premonition.
One of the spies, Zhilinkhov paused for theatrical effect, leaving the interpreter in mid-sentence, was in charge of my kitchen help.
That information did shock both Americans. The president and his closest advisor looked at each other, dismay and sadness in their eyes.
The bastard traitor could have poisoned me, Zhilinkhov hissed, pounding the table again as his aides began to assemble their papers.
Too bad he didn't, Wilkinson uttered softly to the president.
What is your response!? Zhilinkhov snapped back.
' I asked if you have the men in custody? Are they all right?
Wilkinson responded, unperturbed.
Zhilinkhov smiled again, men spoke in harsh tones. No, we don't have them yet, he spat, but we will soon. They have killed at least four of our men. They won't make it to trial. I have ordered execution on the spot. Don't forget that!
Zhilinkhov was yelling again. What do you have to say?
The president waited, puffing on his rum crook, looking upward at the hangar ceiling.
Well? Zhilinkhov leaned toward the president, frightening his own aides and interpreter.
Mister Zhilinkhov, we have nothing else to say, given the circumstances and your state of mind. I will, however, give you a piece of personal advice.
Zhilinkhov exploded. We I don't need any advice from American liars!
The Soviet general secretary stalked out of the hangar with the Russian contingent close behind. The Russian faces, to a man, reflected anguish and surprise.
What a disaster... The president paused. Grant, reestablish DEFCON-Two, then find out what the hell happened in Moscow.
Yes, sir, Wilkinson responded, then added, Mister President, I suggest you reboard Air Force One for security reasons.
Okay, Grant, the president responded, grinding his cigar to pulp, on my way.
The two men, along with a shocked Herb Kohlhammer and two aides, walked through the commotion and boarded the big Boeing. Crew members were scurrying in every direction, caught off guard by the rapid change of events.
Air Force One, shining brightly in the sun, had been refueled and restocked immediately after landing, as always, in the event of an emergency departure.
The president, quiet and contemplative, boarded the 747 and walked to his private quarters. He sat down, removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar.
The president glanced out a window and noticed a disturbance on the ramp adjacent to the Soviet transport. He reached for his phone and called the flight deck.
Colonel Boyd, sir, the aircraft commander responded immediately.
Colonel, how soon will we be ready to roll?
Bout seven minutes. Mister President.
Okay, the president said, looking out his window a second time.
What's the problem with the Soviet transport?
No problem with the aircraft, sir. The pilots were over at the club having a vodka and they couldn't locate them. They'll be pounding stakes in Siberia, if they don't get their heads lopped off.' The president half-turned as Grant Wilkinson knocked, then entered the cabin.
I can believe that. Sorry to have to turn the crew around so quickly.
That's our job, sir. No problem, Colonel Boyd replied.
Thanks. The president placed the handset down and sighed. What's the situation. Grant?
The agents, including our Kremlin mole, have eluded the Russians thus far. The chief of staff looked forlorn and tired.
How the lash-up came about is unknown at this point, sir.
Grant, the president exclaimed, we've got to get it together.
Wilkinson folded a message in his hand. The vice president has authorized a rescue attempt, sir. The one I briefed you about. The operation using three helicopters for a night pickup.' The president looked up. Yes, I remember. What are the chances for success?
Wilkinson shrugged. I can't say. Especially after what has transpired in the last two hours.
Should we call it off. Grant, under the circumstances? the president questioned, looking very concerned.
I don't believe so, sir. There is something going on we don't know about, something essential, or the operation wouldn't have unwound so quickly.
Wilkinson again looked at the message report, then back to the president. He was hesitant, then spoke calmly to the commander-in-chief.
Sir, the shuttle has a problem. However, the fir
WHAT? the president responded in disbelief.
NASA has two satellites out in fine shape. The third one is slightly damaged. Apparently jammed, somehow.
I need a drink, the president replied, rising to walk to the cabinet bar.
Wilkinson continued his brief. The mission commander believes they can repair and launch the satellite. Just take a little time.
Okay. What's the military posture? the president asked, yanking a decanter of Tennessee whiskey from the teak holders.
DEFCON-Two is being reinstated, sir. The order is being sent now. No reported incidents at the present time.
Good. I'm going to finish this, the president held up a tumbler containing three fingers of Jack Daniel's, and take a nap.
Yes, sir, Wilkinson replied, reaching for the doorknob.
I'll wake you if anything negative develops.
Thanks, Grant, the president responded as Wilkinson closed the door.
The president sat down, exhausted, disheartened. As he stared at the presidential seal on the opposite wall, he felt like an enormous failure. His eyelids sagged as he felt Air Force One begin to roll.
THE WHITE HOUSE
The Joint Chiefs, relief showing on th
eir faces, waited while the vice president conferred with Secretary of Defense Cliff Howard.
Up-to-the-minute briefing folders had been placed on the conference table.
The vice president turned in her seat and opened her folder.
Although we have downgraded to Defense Condition-Three, prudence and logic tell me our forces need to remain ready for any contingency. Do you agree, gentlemen?
Admiral Chambers spoke for the Joint Chiefs.
Unequivocally, Ms. Blaylocke. We believe it is imperative, and certainly appropriate, that our military remain poised for any threat.
We are cautiously optimistic at this juncture, but the continued instability has us worried.
The vice president looked at the secretary of defense.
Cliff? Howard replied in a clipped manner. The Soviet bomber groups have changed course toward Russian territory. They have elected to hold their positions approximately two hundred miles farther away from us.
That's the upside. On the negative side is the sudden departure of the new Soviet carrier Tbilisi. The ship is loaded with various strike aircraft and presents a tremendous threat to our northern Atlantic fleet.
Howard looked at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. What bothers me most is the continued submarine threat.
Chambers responded. That is of the utmost concern to us too. Mister Howard. Even CINCNORAD, General Matuchek, was anxious in regard to the submarines, and he has enough other variables to contend with at the moment.
The admiral removed a page from his folder before continuing.
We are going to keep our bombers on station, using aerial refueling, for the next few hours. The fighters will rotate fresh pilots during ground fueling.
Chambers cleared his throat and resumed his outline. The Navy is remaining in a high state of readiness and will be conducting around-the-clock sorties from the carriers, concentrating the ASW efforts. The Army has completed most of the troop relocation needed at this time, freeing sixty percent of our heavy airlift capability.
The Marines are in place at strategic locations, aboard ship, in the air, and at land installations, to effect amphibious landings or secure sensitive areas quickly.
General Ridenour, Air Force chief of staff, motioned to Chambers.
Milt, the admiral responded.
One point. We have elected to keep our Stealth aircraft on the ground, camouflaged and guarded, unless they absolutely have to be launched. The technology is too advanced to take the chance of having one fall into Soviet hands. Ridenour sat back, waiting for a response.
The room remained quiet.
That is our status to the moment, Ms. Blaylocke, Chambers concluded, readjusting his glasses.
Thank you. Admiral. Blaylocke used her thumb to rotate the petite diamond ring on her right hand. I wish to make a suggestion in regard to countering the Soviet intimidation.
No one spoke in the quiet room.
I propose, gentlemen, that any further Soviet attacks be met with swift and decisive consequences, strong military retaliation in whatever form it takes.
Cliff Howard seconded the order. I agree, on behalf of the president and the chief of staff.
We appreciate your endorsement, Ms. Vice President, Admiral Chambers said, noticing the nods of the service chiefs.
We will respond accordingly, I assure you.
I know you will. Admiral, Susan Blaylocke said, turning to reach her notes.
I have been informed by Ted Corbin, minutes ago, that our agents in Moscow are not in custody. They have apparently escaped, killing an unknown number of Soviets in the process. Nothing has been verified, but Corbin believes the information is accurate.
Blaylocke looked around the table, then added a comment.
I've had enough shocks today, gentlemen. This information isn't going to serve the president well in Lajes.
The Joint Chiefs were solemn.
Blaylocke again looked at Cliff Howard. I believe you have some information concerning the shuttle.
The defense secretary frowned. I don't want to be the bearer of bad news, but they are having some difficulty launching the satellites.
NASA reported a
Is the mission threatened? Chambers was stunned.
Not at the moment, Howard said wearily. Apparently, from what I gleaned from Doctor Hays, two satellites have been launched. The third one is jammed somehow. At any rate, an antenna on the satellite was twisted, or bent, and they will have to send one of the crew out to fix the problem.
Damn! What next? General Hollingsworth blurted, frustration showing in his voice. Sorry, ma'am.
No apology necessary. General. I couldn't have said it better.
Anyone else have anything?
No one responded, their faces showing disappointment.
Then we'll take a break and reconvene in twenty minutes.
Blaylocke looked around the table. Thank you, gentlemen.
The speaker-phone next to the vice president buzzed softly.
Yes, Blaylocke answered.
Ms. Vice President, the male voice said, DEFCON-Two has been reinstated.
COBRA FLIGHT Major Digennaro and his wingman, Wild Bill Parnam, had been amazed when the Soviet bomber group suddenly turned ninety degrees to the right.
The pilots, along with Hawk flight and the Leopards, had listened in relieved silence to the AWACS coordinator. The Russians were turning back and DEFCON-Three would be implemented when the order could be verified.
Cobra and Leopard flight, return to base, the controller ordered.
Cobras RTB, Digennaro replied.
He looked over at the moonlight reflecting off Parnam's canopy, then smiled.
Cobras and Leopards, go tactical four. Have a nice trip.
Tact four, switching, Digennaro responded as he rapidly added power to the F-15 Eagle. He waited for the other flight to check in, then called.Cobra is up, flight of two.
Roger, the controller answered immediately. Initial heading zero-three-zero. We'll switch you to Gator Control shortly.
Cobra One, Digennaro replied, scanning his cockpit.
Engine parameters, hydraulics, weapons systems, avionics, and navigation instruments all looked normal.
Two, Digennaro radioed, you might want to turn on your lights before someone runs over us.
Sorry, boss, Parnam replied, dipping on his formation and navigation lights.
The lead pilot flew without lights, save the small, dull formation lights, so he wouldn't blind his wingman.
Cobras, contact Gator Control.
Switching, Digennaro replied, relieved to be so close to home base.
The two pilots, emotionally drained, were slowly winding down from the gut-wrenching tension of the previous hour.
Gator, Cobra flight. Two Fox-Fifteens and we're fat on fuel.
Roger. When you rollout, follow the wagon to refueling.
Be prepared for hot-refueling and crew changes.
Understand hot-pumping and pilot changes.
Twenty-five minutes later the two sleek Mcdonnell Douglas fighters turned off the Galena runway and fell in behind the Follow Me cart.
The F-15s eased to a stop, canopies raised, in front of the fueling pits. The engines would remain running while ground crew members quickly topped off the fuel tanks and checked the armament and missiles.
Both pilots glanced over in the semi-light to see their replacements.
They couldn't see the pilots' faces but knew their stances, two experienced flight leaders, including a former Thunderbird pilot.
Digennaro was in the process of unstrapping and removing his helmet when his crew chief scrambled up the side of the cockpit.
Major, the shit has hit the fan again!
The crew chief was a grizzled veteran of sixteen years in the Air Force.
Digennaro knew he could take the sergeant's word to the bank.
Wha ... I don't understand, Digennaro replied, trying to remove his sweat-soaked gloves.
Th
e Russians turned back okay, but now they are holding in an eighty-mile-long pattern, sir. The latest skinny is we might be going back to DEF-Two, the sergeant said breathlessly.
It's the goddamnedest mess I ever seen. Major.
Thanks, Red, Digennaro replied, slapping the sergeant on the shoulder as he climbed over the side of the canopy.
Reaching the pavement, Digennaro turned toward the advancing pilots.
Both of the fighter jocks simultaneously saluted their deputy detachment commander. Digennaro smartly returned their snappy salutes and began unzipping his uncomfortable g-suit.
The major felt the tremendous burden of being the frontal West Coast fighter defense against the Soviet bomber groups.
Chapter Eleven.
THE AGENTS
The American CIA agent knew he didn't have a second to waste.
One of the Soviet guards, standing in the open door of the guard shack, not seven meters away, was clearly ringing a number on the wall phone.
The guard who had asked for the ignition key was behind him, near the back of the automobile.
Wickham didn't hesitate as he straightened his body and half-turned toward the Russian guard.
Oh, how dumb of me, comrade. The keys are here in my coat pocket, Wickham said as he squeezed the trigger of the Beretta twice.
Two small holes appeared near the bottom of the CIA agent's left coat pocket, accompanied by two explosive reports.
The shocked Soviet guard, eyes bulging, staggered sideways clutching his groin, then fell headfirst into the side of the vehicle.
His body convulsed twice, then quivered for over a minute.
During that period of time, the American had pumped two rounds into the other guard. Wickham had fired three times, striking the door casing with one round.
His aim wasn't the same with his left hand.
Dimitri stared, transfixed, as the American ran to the guard shack, retrieved the critical credentials, then opened the road gate.
The Russian soldier in the guard shack, mortally wounded, crawled to the edge of the open door as the Lada sped away.
He rolled onto his side, grasped his ballpoint pen, and scratched the tag number and description of the bureau car on the wooden floor. He then collapsed in a pool of his own blood.
