Rockets' Red Glare

by Greg Dinallo

  “I think I know how to find out where they go.”

  Below, the captain of the Soviet Foxtrot waited until he was certain the Viking had broken contact, then changed to a northwesterly course. For the next six hours the Foxtrot headed at top speed into the waters of the Mexican Gulf.

  * * * * * *

  Churcher’s helicopter had been cruising at wide open throttle for exactly two hours and thirty-eight minutes. He was thinking about how he would approach Deschin when the ever-changing graphic on the computerized navigation monitor indicated the Viper was directly over the rendezvous spot. Churcher put the chopper into a sweeping turn, and spiraled to a landing on the gently rolling sea.

  A thousand yards due east, the Foxtrot’s periscope broke the surface and cut through the waters toward the helicopter.

  Churcher shut down the turbine and released his harness, preparing to transfer to the submarine.

  The black steel hull punched through the surface into a blazing mid-day sun. The Red Star on the conning tower glowed like an illuminated beacon.

  * * * * * *

  Chapter Eight

  A maroon-and-black hearse came through the big curve in Pembroke Street, skid chains drumming on the plowed road in a rhythmic dirge. It slowed at the bottom of a rise and turned into a drive lined with pines. The antenna flicked a low hanging bough, and snow crystals sparkled in the cold light. The hearse pulled next to a car at the far end of the drive, and crosshatched the snow until the rear door was aligned with the entrance to Sarah Winslow’s cottage.

  Two men, bundled against the cold, got out and went inside. The walls of the tiny house shook as they clambered up the stairs and entered the bedroom.

  The driver removed his visored hat. “How goes it, Doc?” he inquired a little too avidly.

  The doctor, a boyish fellow with glasses, had made the call that brought them. “It’ll be a minute,” he replied in a curt tone that dulled the man’s fervor.

  Sarah lay under the quilt in a fetal curl. The doctor was with her when she died early that morning, her hands clutching the envelope, her head filled with the smell of it—a mixture of ink and onionskin, and time. They triggered a flood of memories, enriching her last moments. Her life ended with a brilliant flash of light and rolling thunderclap—the same bolt of lightning she thought had ended it early in the spring of 1945, in Italy, during the war. The same one that gave rise to the events culminating in the letter.

  The doctor gently pulled the envelope from between Sarah’s hands, slipped it into a pocket, and went downstairs to use the phone.

  The men from the funeral home unfolded the large polypropylene bag with the broad zipper and sturdy handgrips they’d brought, and crossed to Sarah’s bed to take her.

  * * * * * *

  Melanie Winslow’s loft was a bright, cheerful place in the mornings. Light streamed through the skylights, bathing a jungle of plants and illuminating the numerous dance posters on the walls.

  She sat cross-legged on the bed, holding a cup of coffee, the sheet over her shoulders like a collapsed tent. “One-nighters,” she said coolly, “are how I make sure I don’t become dependent on someone.”

  Tim propped himself against the headboard, and nodded. “There are—devices, you know,” he said facetiously.

  Melanie chuckled. “After a couple of bad marriages, a ton of guilt, and too much therapy, they start looking pretty good,” she said, adjusting her position on the bed. “Seriously, I got my act together and decided, never again. I don’t date. I don’t get involved. I don’t see anyone more than once. It’s that simple.”

  “Must’ve been a couple of real losers—”

  “Not really. I was as responsible as they were. Selfish. Focused on my career, and my body. They wanted kids, which I thought would destroy both. Don’t get me wrong, they had their faults, but”—she paused and took a sip of the coffee—“yours truly was no angel. First time, I was nineteen and didn’t know anything. The second, I was twenty-eight and thought I knew it all. Funny,” she said poignantly, “they both hurt as much.”

  Tim didn’t reply, nor did his expression change to indicate he empathized. He was too intent on studying her face—obliquely, the way men do the next morning.

  Melanie had seen the distant uncertainty many times and knew what he was thinking. “I’ll save you the heavy math,” she said. “I’m forty-two.”

  She slipped from beneath the sheet, stepped to the floor unclothed, and did a lovely jeté en tourant across the sleeping balcony. She held the last position, articulating it, a current flowing through her in the diffused light.

  Tim swept his eyes over her elegantly arched figure, easily that of a woman ten years younger.

  “You’re very beautiful,” he said desirously.

  “An illusion,” she replied, moving back to first position. “The lighting. It’s all in the—”

  The single clipped ring of the telephone interrupted her.

  The answering machine clicked on.

  Melanie tilted her head thoughtfully, deciding, and did a little brise ferme to the phone. She turned up the volume on the answering machine, heard the end of her recorded message and the electronic beep, then monitored a man’s voice.

  “Miss Winslow? This is Doctor Sloan. I’m calling about your mother. Give me a call as—”

  Melanie snatched up the receiver. “Doc? Hi, it’s Melanie,” she said rapid-fire. “How’s she doing?”

  Melanie’s highly tuned posture slackened at the reply. “Yes, thank you,” she said softly. “I’ll come this afternoon.” She hung up slowly, and glanced to the skylight in reflection. Her eyes filled.

  “You okay?” Tim asked, seeing the change in her.

  Melanie nodded unconvincingly and slipped back under the covers next to him. She buried her face in the curve of his neck and cried softly. Her feelings were complex and difficult to sort out. She had never been this aware of her own mortality before. She burrowed in closer to him, and lay there thinking about it for a while. Then, in a small, vulnerable voice, she said, “Make love to me.”

  * * * * * *

  Chapter Nine

  President Hilliard stood with his back to the huge stone fireplace in the sitting room of the presidential cottage at Camp David, and raised his glass to Phil Keating and Gisela Pomerantz.

  “To the birth of a new era—and to those who will inherit the torch of peace.”

  “And to you, Mr. President,” Pomerantz added, holding her glass up to him.

  The trio clinked glasses, and sipped the bittersweet vermouth-cassis-and-soda that was the President’s favorite aperitif. They had gathered, at his request, prior to a luncheon for diplomats who would represent NATO countries at the upcoming disarmament talks.

  “Gisela,” Hilliard said, getting to business. “I had a lengthy and frank transatlantic powwow with Chancellor Liebler this afternoon. And I assured him that we were fully aware of your country’s special interest in the success of the talks.”

  “I’m certain he was most appreciative,” Pomerantz replied. “As the only country on the border between East and West, Germany has been, as you’ve often said, the linchpin of deployment. Naturally, she should command the same position with regard to disarmament.”

  Hilliard nodded emphatically.

  “The Chancellor and I covered that ground quite thoroughly,” he said, going on to enumerate. “We specifically discussed the suspicion long held by some NATO members that the United States had secretly developed defense initiatives designed to confine a nuclear conflict to Europe; Germany’s strategic position as the point of attack by Warsaw Pact forces in a conventional war; her need to continue selling industrial products to the Soviets and Eastern block; and, as a divided nation, Germany’s desire to maintain cordial relations with the East, thereby keeping borders open and separated families in contact.”

  “You’ve articulated our concerns very well, Mr. President,” Pomerantz replied.

  “Phil’s a good tutor,”
Hilliard said with a smile. “Now,” he resumed, “Chancellor Liebler agreed that what we’re proposing in Geneva is very responsive to those concerns, and in light of recent displays of good faith by our side and the Soviets, I asked him—” He paused to clear his throat, and sipped some of the aperitif.

  “The President’s referring to our indefinitely postponing deployment of Pershing IIs in Norway and Belgium,” Keating said, taking over. “And the Soviet’s subsequent dismantling of their SS-20s along the Polish Border in response.”

  “Yes,” Pomerantz replied, brightening. “We were quite pleased that the disarmed system was one targeted on Europe rather than one targeted on the United States.”

  “Which brings me to my point, Gisela,” Hilliard said. “In light of all this, I asked the Chancellor, ‘Why is the German government so—for lack of a better word—uptight?’ And he—”

  “If I may, Mr. President,” Pomerantz interrupted. “Why did he send me to represent Germany, and not someone who is more aligned with your position? Wasn’t that your question?”

  “Gisela,” Keating counseled, “I think it’s a mistake to take the President’s comments personally.”

  “No, no, she’s right, Phil,” Hilliard corrected. “And the Chancellor gave me a damn good answer. He said, he wanted to be certain our negotiating strength is what we claim. And if we can convince his resident hard-liner here—” He let the sentence trail off, and gestured to Pomerantz. Then he turned back to Keating with a veiled look that said—I know what you’re thinking and God help you if you say it. “And I agree with him, Phil,” the President resumed, with a bold lie. “Nothing wrong with taking a good hard look at what we’re doing before we commit.”

  Keating, who was thinking—Bullshit! I don’t need anybody to assess the strength of my position—caught the look and pretended to concur. “That’s a very prudent attitude, sir,” he said, forcing a smile.

  Hilliard nodded. He had wanted Pomerantz to feel comfortable and wholly accommodated, and was thinking he’d succeeded, when the protocol officer informed them luncheon had commenced.

  “Precisely, I am all in favor of prudence,” Pomerantz replied as they followed the protocol officer to the door. “You see, after studying the NATO Report, all nine-hundred-fifty-four pages of it, I asked Chancellor Liebler and Defense Minister Schumann a question neither could answer. And that question was—‘What ever happened to the Heron?’ ”

  “Heron?” the President echoed, looking back at Keating. “Phil, I recall we monitored the testing of that system in the mid-seventies. Right?”

  “That’s correct, sir,” Keating replied smartly. “Soviets never deployed it.”

  “As best we can determine,” Pomerantz corrected sharply, enunciating each word, and neatly tacking the phrase onto Keating’s reply. Then she turned to the President and, softening her tone, said, “That’s a quote from the NATO Report, Mr. President. I’m sure you’ll agree, it’s not the kind of wording that inspires confidence.”

  Hilliard burned Keating with a look. “Is that what it says, Phil?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  They were moving into the dining hall now.

  The President laid back to enter alone. “We’ll talk,” he barked before Keating could reply.

  Keating nodded. He leveled an apprehensive look at Pomerantz as they separated, and went about mixing with the other representatives in the dining hall.

  The President paused and, with effort, transformed his pained expression into an ebullient smile and entered to spontaneous applause.

  * * * * * *

  Chapter Ten

  The swell had rolled hundreds of miles across the Gulf before it slapped against the starboard pontoon of Churcher’s helicopter. The unoccupied craft rode the crest, settling onto the flat catenary of sea beyond.

  Two hundred feet beneath the surface, the prow of the Soviet submarine cut through the black water.

  The interior of the Foxtrot always reminded Churcher of Moscow before the snows—cold, gray, and depressing. Portfolio in hand, he was waiting in the wardroom with Gorodin and Beyalev when the door in the bulkhead swung open and Deschin’s bodyguard entered.

  Uzykin had the head of an eagle. The tip of his broad nose descended almost to the centerline of his lips. He surveyed the compartment and, satisfied all was in order, motioned Deschin inside.

  Deschin wore a dark blue suit, square shaped and buttoned over a slight bulge in his waistline, white shirt, and subdued striped tie.

  He had put on a few, thought Churcher, but the hollows below his cheeks were still there.

  Four medals—Hero of the Soviet Union, the Order of Victory, Marshall of the Soviet Union, and Order of Lenin—hung above Deschin’s breast pocket.

  He smiled at Churcher and extended a hand. “Ah Theo,” he rumbled in his heavily accented English. “You’ll forgive an old friend for keeping you waiting?”

  Churcher’s eyes twinkled, as they always did when he held the cards. He shook Deschin’s hand firmly, causing the medals to dance.

  “Please, Aleksei, no need to apologize,” he replied, pushing the left lapel of his suit jacket forward with his thumb. “See, you outrank me.”

  Deschin leaned forward, squinting to see the tiny emblem pinned in the notch. He knew that the gold and enameled insignia meant Churcher had been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for his heroic piloting of gliders during World War II. “By a margin of four to one!” he roared heartily.

  As the soviet minister settled, Churcher unzipped the portfolio, removed the painting, and placed it on the table in front of Deschin.

  In the cramped, somber compartment, the impact of the vibrant colors and powerful structure of the canvas was overwhelming—as Churcher knew it would be. For a moment, the four Russians stood blinking and stunned.

  Churcher set the portfolio aside, and gestured magnanimously to Deschin. “You have the floor, Aleksei,” he said. “I’m quite certain as minister of culture you can explain this.”

  Deschin took a long moment to think it through, deciding to force Churcher to keep the ball. “We have assembled at your request, The-odor—and at great inconvenience. The first explanation should be yours.” He paused locking his anthracite pupils onto Churcher’s and added pointedly, “My government doesn’t take kindly to being threatened.”

  “I assume you’re referring to my conversation with your people in Washington?” Churcher asked rhetorically. Then nodding compassionately, added, “I can see how it would be upsetting coming so close to the talks.”

  “I’d say your timing was particularly unnerving,” Deschin snapped. “Yes.”

  “You mean, your people aren’t going to put all their missiles on the table?” Churcher asked facetiously.

  “Nuclear disarmament isn’t my area,” Deschin bluffed. “I’m not privy to the strategy, nor will I speculate what they—”

  “Then allow me,” Churcher interrupted. “Sometime last night, you got a call from—Kaparov? Pykonen? Whoever. And he said, ‘What the fuck is going on here, Aleksei? I thought we owned this guy? If Churcher does as he’s threatening, we’ll lose our edge. The very thing that has prompted us to go to Geneva; that will allow us to trade system for system, missile for missile, warhead for warhead, and still come out ahead will be kaputnick!’ ”

  Churcher let it sink in for a few seconds.

  “How am I doing?” he asked almost mischievously.

  “Very well, I’m afraid,” Deschin replied.

  “Right,” Churcher snapped. “The bottom line is—the United States representative can’t ask to negotiate for something he doesn’t know exists.”

  He spread his arms in a magnanimous gesture.

  “So, here we are,” he concluded. “My apologies for my tactics, my friend; but had I not used that leverage, Aleksei, would you be here now?” Churcher didn’t expect an answer. He matched Deschin’s contemptuous glare with one of his own, and continued. “Now I don’t take kindly to being taken,”
he said, stabbing the painting with a forefinger. “The currency used to make your last payment and, as best I can determine, to make most of the others over the years"—he paused to emphasize the scope and premeditated nature of the deception—"is counterfeit. All brilliant works, no doubt of that. Works of genius. But, nonetheless, fakes, forgeries.”

  Deschin stared at Churcher blankly.

  “Come on, Aleksei,” Churcher prodded. “You don’t expect me to believe you didn’t know?”

  Churcher had him and knew it. Many times in his forty years of dealing at the top, his adversaries tried to put things over on him. A few had succeeded; but sooner or later, he found them out.

  Deschin pulled a cigarette from a pack.

  Uzykin stepped forward and lit it.

  Deschin inhaled deeply, his mind searching for a way to avert this disaster. Finally, he exhaled, and more than credibly, replied. “You couldn’t be more wrong, Theodor. I vouch for their authenticity myself.”

  Churcher shook his head no emphatically. “There’s no disputing that this one’s a fake,” he challenged.

  Deschin wondered how Churcher could be so positive. His face darkened at the possibility that crossed his mind. He decided to be direct because he had to know. “You didn’t go to someone?” he asked, uneasily. “You didn’t have it authenticated by a professional?”

  Churcher scowled, insulted by the suggestion. “Of course not,” he replied, his drawl thickening as it always did when he lost patience. “We’ve both known that’d never be possible. And the whole world knows your people have these paintings under lock and key, and won’t sell any of ’em. How could I take one to an expert? Where would I say I got it? You took advantage of that, Aleksei. Took advantage of me.”

  Deschin was relieved by the answer, but didn’t let it show. “Then what makes you so sure?”

  “That,” Churcher replied, placing the nail of his forefinger beneath the telltale area of crimson pigment. “Right there,” he went on. “The Dutchman would’ve never done that. He wasn’t a fusser. Never would’ve touched it up like that.”