Project Daedalus

by Thomas Hoover

  Chapter Eighteen

  Friday 1:17 a.m.

  The room was cold. Just cold. That was the first thing he'd noticed when they shoved him in. It still was. For nine hours he'd been sitting on a hard, canvas-covered Soviet cot, shivering.

  The place was no larger than a small cell, with a tile floor, ice gray concrete walls, and two bare fluorescent bulbs for lighting. No heat. There was a slight vibration-it seemed to be part of the room itself-emanating from the walls and floor. He'd tracked it to a large wall duct.

  Ventilation system could use adjusting, he'd thought, fan housing's loose somewhere. They also could turn up the damned heat.

  He was wearing only what he'd had on in London, and this definitely was not London. Hokkaido was a much colder part of the planet.

  The room had the feeling of a quick, slapped-together job. But it also looked like it could withstand a medium-sized nuclear detonation. One thing was sure, though: It wasn't built with comfort in mind. The door was steel, the same dull hue as the rest. It was bolted from the outside, naturally.

  But if isolation and cold were Tanzan Mino's idea of how to break his spirit, to see how tough he was, the man was in for some disappointment.

  What the Mino Industries CEO had unwittingly accomplished by moving him here, however, was to enlighten him about the layout of the place. As he was being escorted down the crowded facility corridors by the three leather-jacketed kobun, he'd passed a projection video screen suspended over the center of a main intersection. The location seemed to be some sort of central checkpoint, and the screen displayed a schematic of the whole facility.

  He'd faked a stumble and used the recovery time to quickly scan its essential features.

  He leaned back on the cot and ran through one more time what he'd seen on the screen, trying to imprint it in his memory.

  Insight number one: the facility was organized into four main quadrants, with a layout like a large X. Some of the writing was Japanese, but mostly it was Russian Cyrillic characters. He massaged his temples and visualized it again.

  The first thing he'd focused on was something called the North Quadrant, whose Russian designation was Komendant. It looked to be the command center, with a red-colored area labeled in both Japanese and Russian. Next to that were a lot of little rooms, probably living quarters or barracks. Kanji ideograms identified those, so that section was probably where the Japanese staffers bivouacked.

  That command section, he'd realized, was where he and Eva had been. They'd been quartered in a part of Tanzan Mino's private suites, the belly of the beast.

  It got even more interesting. The other three quadrants were where the real work was going on. On the right side of the screen was East Quadrant, whose label was Komputer/ Kommunekatseon, which meant it contained the computers and communications set-up. Flight Control. And the South Quadrant, the Assamblaya, consisted of a lot of large open bays, probably where the two prototypes had been assembled. Those bays connected directly to a massive sector labeled Angar, the hangar. But the bays also had separate access to the runway, probably for delivery of prefabricated sections from somewhere else.

  The West Quadrant appeared to house test facilities; the one label he could read was Laboratoraya. Probably materials labs, next to a configuration that could have been a large wind tunnel. Made sense. That quadrant also had more small rooms with Russian labels. He'd studied the screen a second longer and . . .

  Bingo. He'd realized he was being moved into the Soviet sector, probably the barracks and laboratory area.

  This had to be the least used location in the facility now, he told himself. All the wind tunnel testing of sections and the materials research was probably wrapped up, meaning this area was history. Yesterday's news. So the CEO had shunted him to this obscure lock-up in the West Quadrant, the Soviet section. What better spot to discreetly dispose of somebody for a while?

  Time to brush up your Russian.

  Problem was-he grimaced at the realization-there wasn't a heck of a lot left to brush. He'd had a year at Yale, just enough to let him struggle along with a dictionary and squeak around some standard language requirement. That was it. He'd never given it a second thought afterward. Instead he'd gone on to his real love-ancient Greek. Then later, in CIA days, the action had been Asia. At one time he'd ended up doing some consulting for Langley's Far Eastern INTEL desk, helping coordinate American and Japanese fieldwork.

  He could swing the Japanese, but the Russian . . .

  Tanzan Mino probably knew that, yet another reason why he'd decided on this transfer. There'd be fewer people here to communicate with. Smart.

  The labyrinth of King Minos, brainchild of Daedalus, that's what he felt trapped in. But Theseus, the Greek prince who killed the monster, got some help from Minos's daughter, Ariadne. A ball of string to help him find his way out of the maze. This time around, though, where was help going to come from? Maybe the first job here was to kill the monster, then worry about what came next.

  Partly to generate a little body heat, he turned and braced himself at an angle against the door, starting some half push-ups. With his hands on the door, he also could sense some of the activity in the hallway outside. He figured it had to be after midnight by now, but there were still random comings and goings. Activity, but nothing . . .

  He felt a tremor, then heard a loud scraping and the sound of a bolt being slid aside.

  He quickly wheeled and flattened himself against the wall, looking futilely for something to use as a weapon. Aside from the cot, though, there was nothing.

  Okay, this would be hand to hand. He could use the exercise. Besides, he was mad enough.

  The gray steel door slowly began to swing inward; then a mane of white hair tentatively appeared, followed by a rugged ancient face as the visitor turned to stare at him through heavy glasses.

  "Strasvitye," the man said finally, uncertainty in his gravelly voice. "Ya Doktor Andrei Petrovich Androv."

  Friday 1:20 a.m.

  Would the idea work? Yuri still didn't know. As he walked between the vehicles, the hangar's wide banks of fluorescents glaring down on the final preflight preps for Daedalus I, he was sure of only one thing: at this point, the revised plan was the only option left. Would the American help?

  The woman, the bitch, was no fool: An insight he'd come by the hard way. But maybe the CIA guy-what had she said his name was?-Vance?

  How the hell did he get here? However it had happened, he was being kept in the West Quadrant. It had been no trick to find him.

  He was a godsend; his help would make the scenario possible. Now it merely required split-second timing.

  He glanced up at the big liquid crystal display screen on the far wall, noting it read zero minus eight hours ten minutes. He should be back in the West Quadrant now, catching some sleep-if Taro Ikeda knew he was here in the hangar, there'd be hell to pay-but time was running out.

  Tanzan Mino had listened icily to his renewed arguments against additional personnel in the cockpit, then declared that the viability of the program depended on having backups. Merely an essential precaution. End of discussion.

  Bullshit. As soon as the political games were played out, the CEO was planning to get rid of him, probably by some "accident."

  Well, screw him. And that's where the American came in. The thing to do was just appear to be proceeding with the countdown normally, keep everything innocent. Then, at the last minute . . .

  He stared up at Daedalus I one last time, watching as the maintenance crews finished the last of the preflight scramjet preps. And he shook his head in amazement that Andrei Androv and all his damned propulsion engineers could create a genuine technological miracle and still be total bumblers when it came to what in hell was really happening.

  These technical types thought they were so brilliant! But if it had taken them all this time to realize they'd been fucked by Mino Industries, then how smart could they really be? Made him wonder how the Baikonur Cosmodrome ever manag
ed to get so much as a turnip into orbit.

  Now these same geniuses had to get Daedalus II flight- ready in just a few hours, and had to do it without anyone suspecting what they were doing. Finally, they had to be ready to roll into action the instant the "accident" happened. No trial runs.

  He checked his watch and realized his father's propulsion team was already gathering at Number One, the final meeting. The question now was, could they really deliver? The American was the key.

  Friday 1:21 a.m.

  "Your name Vance?" The Russian voice, with its uncertain English, was the last thing he'd expected.

  "Who are you?"

  "For this vehicle, I am Director Propulsion System," he replied formally, and with pride, pulling at his white lab coat. "I must talk you. Please."

  Vance stepped away from the wall and looked the old man over more closely. Then it clicked. Andrei Petrovich Androv was a living legend. Ten years ago the CIA already had a tech file on him that filled three of those old-time reels of half-inch tape. These days, God knows what they had. He'd been the USSR's great space pioneer, a hero who'd gone virtually unrecognized by his own country. No Order of Lenin. Nothing. Nada. But maybe he'd preferred it that way, liked being a recluse. Nobody, least of all the CIA's Soviet specialists, could figure him.

  And now he was here in the wilds of northern Hokkaido, building a spaceplane. They'd sent over no less than the Grand Old Man to handle the propulsion. This project was top priority.

  As it deserved to be. But the immediate question was, What was the dean of Soviet rocket research doing here visiting him?

  "Sorry I can't offer you a cup of tea. No samovar." He looked out the open door one last time. Several Soviet staffers were glancing in as they walked by, obviously puzzled why the famous Doktor Androv himself had come around to talk with some unknown civilian.

  "Shto? Ya ne ponemayu. . . . I not understand."

  "Tea. Chai." He shrugged. "Just a bad joke." He reached over and shoved the door closed, then gestured toward the cot. "In the wrong language. Please. Sit."

  "Thank you." The old man settled himself. "I did not come for chai." His hands were trembling. "I want-" Abruptly he hesitated, as though searching for words, and then his mind appeared to wander. "Your name is Vance?"

  "Mike Vance."

  "And you are with American CIA?"

  What's going on, he wondered? How did these Soviets find out?

  "Uh, right." He glanced away. "That's correct."

  "Mr. Vance, my son is test pilot for the Daedalus." He continued, running his gnarled hands nervously through his long white hair. "His name is Yuri Andreevich."

  "Pozdravleneye." Vance nodded. "Congratulations. Yuri Andreevich is about to make the cover of Newsweek. You should be proud."

  "We have serious problem, Mr. Vance." He seemed not to hear. "That is why I am come. I am very worried for my son."

  Vance looked him over more closely. Yes, he did appear worried. His severe, penetrating eyes were filled with anguish.

  "Got a problem with the CEO? Guess the godfather can be a hard man to warm up to, even for his new allies."

  "Mr. Vance, I do not know you, but there is very small time." He continued with a shrug, not understanding. "So please, I will tell you many things in very few minutes."

  Vance continued to study him. "Go ahead."

  "You may not realize, but this project is to be giant leap for our space program. Many of our best engineers are here. This vehicle, a reusable near-earth space platform, would save billions of rubles over many years. It is air-breathing vehicle that would lift research payloads directly into space. But my son never believe that its real purpose. Perhaps I was idealist, because I believe. I always think he was wrong. But more and more of things I have learned about its electronics-things we had nothing to do with-make me now believe he is right. And yesterday, when certain . . . chelovek of the Soviet Air Force come, the worst . . ." He paused, his voice beginning to betray barely concealed rage. "I have work all my life for peaceful exploring of space. And now I have been betrayed. The engineers I bring with me here have been betrayed. I also believe, Mr. Vance, that the Soviet people have been betrayed. And along with them, Mikhail Sergeevich himself. This is part of a plot to . . . I don't know what secretly is plan, but I am now convinced this plane must be destroyed, before it is too late. And the world must be warned. That is why-"

  "Then why don't you warn somebody?" Vance interrupted him. "Matter of fact, there's a lot more to this setup than an airplane."

  "But why do you think I am here, talking to you? The facility now is completely sealed. I would warn Mikhail Sergeevich what is happening, but no communication is possible." He hesitated again, painfully. "They want to put my son in the airplane tomorrow with guards. He has been made prisoner, like you. He does not want to fly the vehicle for tomorrow's test, but the CEO is forcing him to do it." He looked up, his eyes bleary and bloodshot. "Mr. Vance, I think he will be killed as soon as this plane is certified hypersonic. They no longer trust him."

  "What about you? They probably won't think you're very trustworthy either if they find out you came to see me."

  "That is correct. But the time has come for risks."

  "So what do you want from me?" He stood back and looked the white-haired old man over one last time. Was he telling the truth? Were the Soviet engineers actually planning a mutiny?

  "We are going to stop it. Tomorrow morning, just before the test flight. It must be done."

  "Good luck."

  "Mr. Vance, you are with American intelligence. We are only engineers. We know nothing about the kind of things necessary to-"

  "Do you have any weapons?"

  "Nothing. The guards here are all from the corporation." He lowered his voice. "Frankly, most of them look like criminals."

  "They are." Vance laughed in spite of himself.

  "I don't understand."

  "I know you don't understand. If you did . . . but that's beside the point."

  "Then will you help us?" His wrinkled face was fixed in determination. "Do you know anything about explosives?"

  "Enough. But are you really sure that's the way you want to go?" He paused. "There's a lot that can go wrong in a big facility like this without anybody knowing what caused it."

  "All the sensitive areas are under heavy security now. They are impossible to penetrate."

  Terrific, Vance thought. "By the way, how does your son, the test pilot, figure into all this?"

  "All along he was planning to . . . I don't know. He refused to tell me. But it doesn't matter. Now that two Mino Industries guards are being put in the cockpit with him, whatever he was planning is impossible. So we have to do something here, on the ground."

  "Well, where is he?"

  "He is in the hangar now."

  "I'll need to see him."

  For one thing, Vance thought, he probably knows how to use a gun. All Soviet pilots carry an automatic and two seven-round clips for protection in case they have to ditch in the wilderness somewhere. Our first order of business is to jump some of these Mino-gumi goons who're posing as security men and get their weapons.

  "By the way, do you know where they're keeping the American woman who was brought here with me?"

  The old man's eyes grew vague. "I believe she's somewhere here in the West Quadrant. I think she was transferred here around eighteen hundred hours, and then a little later her suitcase arrive from hangar."

  "Her bag?" His pulse quickened.

  "Delivered by the facility's robot carts. The plane that brought you was being made ready for the CEO's trip back to Tokyo."

  "Where was it left?"

  "I don't know. I only-"

  "Okay, later. Right now maybe you'd better start by getting me out of here."

  "That is why I brought this." He indicated the brown paper package he was carrying. It was the first time Vance had noticed it. "I have in here an air force uniform. It belongs to my son."

  The
parcel was carefully secured with white string-a methodical precision that came from years of engineering.

  "You will pose as one of us," the old man continued. "You do not speak Russian?"

  "Maybe enough to fool the Mino-gumi, but nobody else." He was watching as Androv began unwrapping the package.

  "Then just let me do all talk," he shrugged. "If anybody wonders who you are, I will be giving you tour of the West Quadrant. You should pretend to be drunk; it would surprise no one. You will frown a lot and mumble incoherent questions to me. We will go directly to my office, where I will tell you our plan."

  Now Andrei Androv was unfolding a new, form-fitting uniform intended for Yuri Andreevich. The shoulder boards had one wide gold chevron and two small rectangles, signifying the rank of major in the Soviet air force. Also included was a tall lamb's-wool cap, the kind officers wore. Vance took the hat and turned it in his hand. He'd never actually held one before. Nice.

  Seems I just got made air force major, and I've never flown anything bigger than a Lear jet.

  He slipped off the shirt he'd been wearing in London, happy to be rid of it, and put on the first half of the uniform. Not a bad fit. The trousers also seemed tailor-made. Then he slipped on the wool topper, completing the ensemble.

  "You would make a good officer, I think." Andrei Androv stood back and looked him over with a smile. "But you have to act like one too. Remember to be insulting."

  After the hours in solitary, freezing confinement, he wasn't sure he looked like anything except a bum. But he'd have no difficulty leading Doktor Andrei Androv along in the middle of the night and bombarding him with a steady stream of slurred Russian: Shto eto? Ve chom sostoet vasha rabota?

  How did the Soviets find out he was here? he wondered. Must have been Eva. She'd got through to them somehow. Which meant she probably was still all right. That, at least, was a relief.

  After Andrei Androv clanged the steel door closed and bolted it, they headed together toward the old man's personal office, where he had smuggled drawings of the vehicle's cockpit. The hallways were lit with glaring fluorescents, bustling with technicians, and full of Soviets in uniform. Vance returned a few of the crisp salutes and strutted drunkenly along ahead.

  They wanted him to help blow up the plane! He was a little rusty with good old C-4, but he'd be happy to brush up fast. After that, it'd be a whole new ballgame.

  Friday 1:47 a.m.

  "Will he help?" Yuri Androv surveyed the eleven men in the darkened control room. The wall along the left side consisted entirely of heavy plate glass looking out on Number One. That wind tunnel, the video screens, the instrument panels, everything was dormant now. Aside from a few panel lights, the space was illuminated only by the massive eight-foot-by-twenty-foot liquid crystal screen at the far end now scrolling the launch countdown, green numbers blinking off the seconds. Except for Nikolai Vasilevich Grishkov, the Soviet chief mechanic, all those gathered were young engineers from Andrei Androv's propulsion design team. Grishkov, however, because of his familiarity with the layout of the hangar, was the man in charge.

  "I just spoke with Doktor Androv, and he believes the American will cooperate," Grishkov nodded. "He will bring him here as soon as he has been briefed."

  "I still wonder if I shouldn't just handle it myself."

  "It would be too dangerous for you, Yuri Andreevich. He knows about explosives. Besides, you have to be ready to fly the other plane, Daedalus II, right after the explosion. Nobody else can take it up."

  He laughed. "Steal it, you mean."

  "Yuri Andreevich, we have made sure it's fueled and we will get you into the cockpit. After that, we will know nothing about-"

  "One other thing," he interjected, "I want it fueled with liquid hydrogen."

  "Impossible." Grishkov's expression darkened, his bushy eyebrows lifting. "I categorically refuse."

  "I don't care. I want it."

  "Absolutely out of the question. The engines on Daedalus II haven't been certified in the scramjet mode. You can't attempt to take it hypersonic. It would be too risky." He stopped, then smiled. "Don't worry. You can still outrun any chase plane on earth with those twelve engines in ramjet mode."

  "I tell you I want to go to scramjet geometry," Yuri Andreevich insisted, his eyes determined.

  If I can't do what I planned, he told himself, nobody's going to believe me. I've got to take one of those vehicles hypersonic tomorrow morning, ready or not.

  "Impossible. There's no way we can fuel Daedalus II with liquid hydrogen. The Mino Industries ground crews would suspect something immediately. It's out of the question. I forged some orders and had it fueled with JP-7 late last night, at 2300 hours. That's the best I can do."

  Chort, Yuri thought. Well, maybe I can fake it. Push it out to Mach 5 with JP-7 and still . . .

  "And the two 'pilots' from Mino Industries," he turned back, "what about them?"

  "If the American plays his part, they will never suspect." Grishkov flashed a grin.

  "Unless somebody here screws up," he said, gazing around the room again, studying the white technician's uniforms, the innocent faces.

  "There'll be a lot of confusion. When we start pumping liquid hydrogen into Daedalus /, the site will be pandemonium," Grishkov continued. "All you have to do is get into the cockpit of the other plane."

  It would be a horrible accident, but accidents happened. They'd all heard whispered stories about the tragedy at Baikonur in October 1960, when almost a hundred men were killed because Nikita Khrushchev wanted a spectacular space shot while he was visiting the United Nations. When a giant rocket, a Mars probe, failed to achieve ignition, instead of taking the delay required to remove the fuel before checking the malfunction, the technicians were ordered to troubleshoot it immediately. Tech crews were swarming over it when it detonated.

  "Then I guess we're ready." Yuri Andreevich sighed.

  "We are." Grishkov nodded and reached for the phone beside the main console, quickly punching in four numbers. He spoke quietly for a few moments, then replaced the receiver.

  "They'll be here in five minutes. Doktor Androv has just completed his briefing on the cockpit configuration."

  "All right. I'm going now. Just get the hangar doors open, the runway cleared, and the truck-mounted starters ready. This is going to be tricky, so make sure everybody thinks we're merely taking Daedalus II onto the runway as a safety precaution after the explosion." Yuri gazed over the group of engineers one last time. Would they do it? Whatever happened, he had to get out of there and start checking the cockpit of Daedalus II before the morning's preflight crews arrived. "Good luck. By 0900 hours I want everything set."

  He gave the room a final salute, out of habit, and headed for the security doors. In moments he'd disappeared into the corridor and was gone.

  "Let me do the talking," Grishkov said, turning back to the others. "And let Doktor Androv translate. Also remember, he has no idea Yuri Andreevich is going to steal the other plane."

  The men stirred, and nodded their assent. From here on, they all were thinking, the less they had to do with this plot the better.

  Then the door opened. Standing next to Dr. Andrei Petrovich Androv was a tall man dressed as a Soviet air force major. As Grishkov looked him over, he had the fleeting impression that Yuri Andreevich had unexpectedly returned, so similar was the American poseur to Andrei Androv's own son. In height and build, the resemblance was nothing short of miraculous. This was going to be easier than he'd dared to hope. Put the American in a pressure suit, complete with flight helmet, and he could easily pass.

  "He has agreed to set the explosives," Andrei said in Russian as he gestured toward the man standing beside him in a tight-fitting uniform. "Meet 'Major Yuri Andreevich Androv.'"

  Friday 7:58 a.m.

  The room appeared to be the quarters of a high-ranking member of the Soviet staff, now returned to the USSR. It was comfortably if sparely appointed and even had a computer terminal, a small NEC. She'd
switched it on, tried to call up some files, but everything required a password. She could use it, however, as a clock. As she watched the time flashing on the corner of the screen, she tried to remember what the Soviet major had said about the schedule . . . the first hypersonic test of the Daedalus was scheduled for 0930. That was only an hour and a half away.

  She was wearing her London clothes again, but where the hell was her bag? She walked over and sat down on the side of the single bed, thinking. If she could get her hands on the suitcase, the Uzi might still be there.

  That's when she heard the sound of muted but crisp Japanese outside-the changing of the guard. The Mino-gumi kobun were keeping a strict schedule, a precision that seemed perfectly in keeping with everything else about the facility. Life here was measured out not in coffee spoons but in scrolling numbers on computers.

  The door opened and one of the new kobun showed his head. At first she thought it was merely a bed check, but he stared at her mutely for a moment, then beckoned. She rose and walked over. This new goon, black suit and all, was armed with a 9mm Walther P88 automatic in a shoulder holster. Outside, the other Mino-gumi motioned for her to come with them.

  That's when she noticed her bag, sitting just outside the door.

  There goes my chance, she sighed. They want to keep me moving, make sure I'm not in one place long enough for anybody to get suspicious. This way I'll seem to be just another guest.

  Without a word they were directing her along the hallway toward Checkpoint Central. All Tanzan Mino's kobun seemed to have free run of the facility, because the uniformed security staff didn't even bother to ask for a pass. They may have been new and alien visitors from outside this closed world, but they represented the CEO. Carte blanche.

  Now they were moving down the crowded corridor leading to the South Quadrant. The walls were still gray, but this was a new area, one she hadn't yet been in. No sign this time, however, of the Soviet major named Androv.

  Guess he wasn't kidding about an important test flight coming up. Something was definitely in the wind. The pace of activity was positively hectic. So why was she being moved, right in the middle of all this chaos? It didn't make sense.

  She looked up ahead and realized they were headed toward two massive, heavily guarded doors. What could this sector be? Once again the Japanese security guards merely bowed low and waved her Mino-gumi escorts past.

  The wide doors opened onto yet another hallway, and she was overwhelmed by a blast of sound. Motors were blaring, voices were shouting, escaping gasses were hissing. The din, the racket, engulfed her. And then she realized the reason: There was no ceiling! Even the "offices" along the side were merely high-walled cubicles that had been dropped here in the entryway of some vast space.

  It was the hangar.

  The actual entry at the end was sealed and guarded, but instead of passing through, they stopped at the last door on the right.

  Whoever had summoned her, it wasn't Tanzan Mino. His array of personal kobun weren't lined up outside. In fact, there were no guards at all.

  The leather-jacketed escorts pulled open the door, and one entered ahead of her, one behind. Inside was a large metal desk, equipped with banks of phones and rows of buttons.

  Sitting behind the desk was Vera Karanova.

  "Did you sleep well?" She glanced up, then immediately signaled for the kobun to absent themselves.

  "Did you?" Eva looked her over-the severe designer suit, black, topped off with a string of gray Mikimoto pearls. It was a striking contrast to the short-haired engineers bustling outside.

  What riveted her attention, however, was resting on the desk next to the banks of phones and switches. A Zenith.

  "We have some time this morning." Vera ignored the

  response as she brushed at her carefully groomed dark hair. "I thought we should use it productively."

  "Lots of luck, Comrade."

  "It is not in either of our interests to be at cross purposes," she continued, still speaking in Russian. It was a startling change in tone from the evening before. "You and I have much in common. We both have worked at high levels in the security apparatus of our respective countries. Consequently we both understand the importance of strategic thinking. That sets us apart." She reached out and touched the laptop computer. "Now, to begin, I would very much like for you to show me how you managed to break the encryption for the protocol. The CEO was most impressed."

  "If he wants to know, he can ask me himself." She helped herself to a metal chair.

  "He is very busy at the moment," Vera continued, "occupied elsewhere."

  This is a setup, Eva was thinking. She wanted to get me down here for some other reason.

  But it was hard to concentrate, given the din of activity filtering in from the open ceiling. Above them banks of floodlights were creating heavy shadows around the office, and out there somewhere, she realized, was the prototype.

  "Why don't you tell me what's really on your mind, Comrade? Or better yet, why you decided to throw in your lot with all these Yakuza criminals."

  Vera Karanova laughed. "You are a director with the National Security Agency. You obviously are very competent. And yet you and the rest of American intelligence seem completely blind. Oblivious to the significance of what is happening around you. In case you hadn't noticed, the Soviet military is being stripped, practically dismantled in the interest of economic restructuring."

  "High time, if you ask me."

  "That is a matter of opinion. The Cold War, whether we liked it or not, maintained a predictable structure in the world. Both East and West went out of their way to support and stabilize Third World countries in order to keep them out of each other's camp. But with the Cold War slackening, there's disintegration everywhere. Demilitarization is leading to political and economic anarchy worldwide."

  Right, Eva thought. But you left out one other interesting fact: Japan got rich while the superpowers were out there "stabilizing" everybody, squandering resources on matching sets of military toys instead of investing in their own infrastructure. They'd love to keep it going.

  "This plane," Vera went on, "can be used to serve the ultimate cause of restoring world order." She paused, then continued. "But only if it is in the hands of our air force, from today forward."

  "Purge the new thinking?"

  "The Soviet Union is on the verge of economic disaster. Perestroika has plunged our country into chaos. The time has come to admit revisionism has failed."

  "Where's good old Uncle Joe when you need him?" she smiled. "Stalin made the Gulag trains run on time."

  "Our restructuring has gone too far," Vera continued. "There are limits beyond which a society can no longer endure change."

  Eva stared at her. "I take it KGB and your military right- wingers are planning to try and stage a coup?"

  "There still are responsible people in the Soviet Union, Dr. Borodin, who believe our country is worth saving."

  My God, Eva thought, their hard-liners are planning to take control of this plane and use it to re-enflame the Cold War? Just like the race for the H-bomb, it'll rejuvenate the Soviet military.

  "This is our last chance," Vera continued as she reached down and flicked on the computer. "However, if we are to succeed, the terms of the protocol will require certain revisions."

  "Do you really think you can get away with this?"

  "That's where you come in," Vera went on. "But first perhaps I should show you something."

  She reached down and pushed a button on the desk, causing the set of blinds along the side of the office facing the hangar to slowly rise. "I'd like you to see the Daedalus." She pointed out the window. "Perhaps then you will better appreciate its significance."

  Through the glass was a massive hangar engulfed in white vapor, as cryogenic liquid hydrogen created clouds of artificial condensate, cold steam, that poured over the army of milling technicians. Above the haze, however, she could just make out two giant aircraft. Their wings started a
lmost at the cockpit, then widened outward to the plane's full length, terminating abruptly just before the high tail assembly. Positioned side by side, they looked like huge gliders, except that beneath the wings were clusters of massive engines larger than any she'd ever seen before.

  "So that's the prototype, the vehicle specified in the protocol."

  They were stunningly beautiful. Maybe all high-performance aircraft looked sexy, but these possessed a unique elegance. The child's vision of the paper airplane reincarnated as the most powerful machine man had ever created.

  "I thought you would like to witness the final preparations for our first hypersonic flight," Vera proceeded. "Thus far one of the planes, that one there on the left"- she pointed-"has been flown to Mach 4.5. Today's test will take it to the hypersonic regime, over fifteen thousand miles per hour."

  They've leapfrogged the West, Eva was suddenly realizing. It's the X-30 spaceplane America dreams of building in the next century, except it's here now.

  "From the looks of things, I'd say you're on schedule."

  Vera clicked something on the desk and a blinking number appeared at the top of a video screen. It was the countdown. Liftoff was less than an hour away.

  "Yes, so far there has been no hold. Even though today is overcast, with a low ceiling, we don't experience weather delays like the American space shuttle. In fact, this plane is virtually weather-proof, since it leaves from a runway just like a normal passenger jet."

  No wonder the test pilot Androv was swaggering, Eva thought. This must be a flyboy's wet dream.

  "One more question. Why are you showing me all this?"

  "I told you, there's something I need." She paused, and in the silence Eva listened to the increasing clamor of preparations in the hangar outside. "After the test flight this morning, the prototype is scheduled to be transferred to the Supreme Soviet. However, that cannot be allowed to happen. Consequently, there will need to be alterations in the protocol." She clicked on the laptop computer. It hummed lightly as the hard disk engaged, and then the screen began to glow. "Those revisions need to be kept out of the system computers here at the facility for now, so your copy of the text would be an ideal place to prepare a first draft."

  "You're going to pull a fast one." Eva stared at her. "You're going to tinker with the terms of the deal and turn this plane over to your air force. Very inventive."

  "That is correct. And you are going to help me, Dr. Borodin. You are going to call up your text and print a copy for me."

  Sweetie, you are a piece of work.

  "Why bother printing it again? Sorry to tell you, but I've already run off a copy. It's in my suitcase."

  "We searched your bag. There's nothing there."

  "You didn't look hard enough." Maybe this was her chance. "Send some of your thugs to fetch it."

  "Very well." She reached for a button on the desk.

  Eva turned to look out again through the white mist. Something was going on now. A motorized cart was pulling up and two men in pressure suits were getting off. Must be the pilots.

  The first to step off the cart was already waving his hands imperiously at the Japanese technicians. He had to be the Soviet pilot, Androv. Yep, it was him, swagger and all.

  Then the second pressure-suited figure stepped down. That one, she assumed, must be one of the Mino Industries recruits Androv had been complaining about. Guess he didn't get very far with his demand to be in the cockpit alone.

  The walk.

  Memories of a long-ago skin-diving trip to Cozumel flooded back. They were off the northern reefs, wearing oxygen tanks, admiring the multicolored banks of coral. Then later, as they staggered up the beach, she'd laughed at his frog-footed waddle.

  Michael!