“A ‘soft probe.’ You mean agents?”
“CIA has assets in Managua that can possibly get close enough to verify that the XF-34 is at Sebaco,” Board said.
“And if they do? Let’s say they have it at Sebaco, or in Managua. We’re sure as hell not going to go in with the Eighty-second Airborne or the Atlantic Second Fleet and start a war to retrieve a jet fighter …”
“Excuse me, sir,” Elliott said, “but it’s not just another jet fighter.”
“Hold it. Hold on one minute, General,” the President said. “I was waiting for you to say that. Let me tell you right now, General, and all of you in this room — that XF-34 is just another jet fighter in the large scheme of things. It’s not some magical war machine, no matter how advanced it is. It’s very important, damn right, but the United States won’t start a shooting war with the Soviets or anybody else over this aircraft. Sure, the sonofabitches infiltrated our base, stole that plane, killed our people. We’ll lodge protests; we’ll demand the plane back; we’ll coerce and threaten as much as possible. I’m betting they’ll deny having it. They can stall forever by denying everything we say. Even if we have pictures, they can say the photos were faked. And if we do produce irrefutable evidence, they’ll have a propaganda field day … ‘Soviet agent infiltrates top-secret American military base, steals top-secret experimental aircraft.’ The condemnation of them will be more than drowned out by the laughing aimed at us.”
Elliott hoped he never needed to look at that much of the so-called big picture. God … “We can’t let them get away with it,” he persisted.
“They have gotten away with it, General Elliott,” the President said. “For all we know they could be taking it apart right now and shipping it off to Moscow. What would you have us do? Intercept every ship, every aircraft, every submarine that leaves Nicaragua, board it and search for a component to a fighter plane? Face it, Elliott — you lost it. We lost it.”
The President glared at Elliott’s taut face, shook his head. “I’ll ask Dennis Danahall at State to lodge a stiff protest with the Soviets. We do have that tape of that agent — what’s his name? Maraklov …? admitting he was a KGB agent.”
“The KGB will say he was just a nut-case American soldier,” General Kane said, “claiming to be a Russian spy. We’ve had our share …”
“I’m still going to order Dennis to protest this incident in the strongest language. I’ll ask for the return of the aircraft and compensation to the families of the crew on that B-52 and the fighters that were shot down during the chase. I want some options we can use in case when they give us the runaround. We can threaten to cancel our participation in that joint trip to Mars in 1998 … I was never in favor of that cockeyed idea anyway. And we can—”
“We’ve already made a substantial commitment to the Mars project, Lloyd,” Richard Benson said.
“Well, State has got to think of something to back up our protest. Kick out some of their embassy staff: raid one of their consulates …”
“Sir, those are all positive steps …” Elliott began, steaming. “But—”
“Glad you think so, General.” The President motioned to his chief of staff, Cesare, who quickly rose and moved across to open the inner door to the Oval Office; to the generals in the room, opening a door was a cue to stop talking, part of their fear of being overheard outside. To the others it was word that the meeting was over. Both messages were lost on Elliott.
“Mr. President, none of these actions will help us get DreamStar hack. We could use some very low-level activities that can send a clear message that we mean business. I have some suggestions—”
“You have your orders, General. Good morning.” Cesare, a large, ex-football player, stepped casually in front of Elliott, physically shutting off the conversation.
Elliott turned and left the Oval Office. He was heading for the main hallway to the rear portico when he spotted Deborah O’Day ahead and called out to her.
She turned and waited as he walked up to her. She was a bit younger than Elliott, with long dark hair flecked with gray, bright blue eyes, and an athletic figure. Interesting about her eyes, Elliott thought — there were men and women he had worked with for years but still had no idea what color their eyes were. Now he met this woman for the first time and noticed her eyes right away.
“Mrs. O’Day …”
“Miss O’Day, General,” she said, taking his hand and returning a firm grip. “But that’s the Oval Office name. In the halls it’s Debbie.”
Elliott smiled. He hadn’t done this kind of byplay maneuvering in years. “And I’m Brad.”
They walked along the corridor until they came to an open doorway with a female Marine Corps officer behind a computer terminal and a male secretary leafing through some files inside the office. The secretaries’ desks flanked a pair of closed oaken doors.
The Marine moved quickly to her feet when O’Day entered the office, but her eyes were on Elliott. “Good morning,” she said. “Intelligence digest is on your terminal, ma’am. Coffee’s fresh. Good morning, General Elliott.”
“Thank you, Major. General Bradley Elliott, Major Marcia Preston, my operations officer. General Elliott is the director of—”
“The High-Technology Advanced Weapons Center. I’ve heard a lot about you, sir.”
“Nice to meet you, Major.”
The male secretary stood, ignored Elliott and handed O’Day a folder full of papers. “For your signature. I need them ASAP.”
“General Elliott, Matt Conkle, my secretary.” Preston hit the remote door unlock switch, and Elliott followed O’Day into her office and immediately heard the door lock behind him.
“Your secretary isn’t exactly a friendly type,” Elliott said.
“He hates the idea of being a secretary to a woman, even if she’s the National Security Adviser. He’s fine in his job, though. Marcia Preston is a rising star. Was the Marine Corps’ first female F/A-18 fighter pilot. She was good. Very good. But she got so much heat from being a female pilot that she was bounced out for allegedly trying to seduce her squadron commander. Some things never change. I discovered her filing memos in San Diego, still wearing her flight suit, and brought her to Washington. She’d rather be in the cockpit — she flies my helicopter and jet — and deserves whatever she wants. She just might be giving you a call some time.”
“I’m probably not going to be around — and maybe Dreamland won’t be there.”
“Don’t be so pessimistic,” O’Day said, pouring a cup of coffee for herself and Elliott and seating herself behind her desk. Elliott eased himself into a leather-covered armchair and rebent his right leg under the chair.
O’Day noticed. “That’s from your mysterious mission into the Soviet Union eight years ago?” Elliott nodded. “You know, I can’t find any real information on that mission in our records. It’s like it never happened.”
“It’s better that way. It also took the lives of some fine men.”
“That was the B-52 that the Russian spy shot down, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. We called it the Old Dog. We had rebuilt and upgraded it after the mission over Russia. It was the prototype of a new escort aircraft for strategic bombers. It was on its first operational flight … Did you know that two crewmen from my Old Dog mission died in that crash yesterday?”
“My God.” She sat silent for a long moment.