After the CIA operative left on the train with the unsuspecting Karpov, the former Leonid Vochik had only to wait for a message detailing the train he had to board for Moscow. He never left his hotel room and ate sparingly from his knapsack.
He had not been told how the former Dimitri Karpov had been dispatched, but assumed the “driver” had killed him on board the train. The former head of the Kremlin kitchen staff was most probably at the bottom of Lake Kubeno, northwest of Vologda.
Dimitri recalled the heavy lead weights the CIA agent had concealed in his bulky clothes. The agent had placed the weights inside his large coat, in heavily sewn pockets, prior to leaving the hotel for the train station.
Dimitri could still envision the agent wrapping the body in rags, and, heavily weighted, tossing it off the long railroad bridge over murky Lake Kubeno. There wasn’t any guardrail to contend with. The darkness of late night, and the sound of the train, would conceal the deed. The body had disappeared to the bottom of the lake, where it had decomposed fairly rapidly.
The CIA operative had given Dimitri a package when he joined him in Vologda. After the train was safely en route to Moscow, Leonid Vochik, now Dimitri Moiseyevich Karpov, had completed the transformation by changing into the clothes of his deceased predecessor and reviewing his credentials. He had also noted a lack of blood stains or signs of violence. The clothes were only rumpled. Dimitri had noted, however, that the shoes were a size too large. The CIA had not thought of everything.
Dimitri had been terrified when he first approached the Kremlin. Remembering previous visits to Red Square and recognizing the local landmarks, Dimitri felt more confident.
He presented the authentic credentials of Karpov and entered the Kremlin compound. He was, after all, a clone of his predecessor.
Dimitri knew precisely where to go from months of studying the Kremlin floor plan. There had been some rough spots, but he had adjusted rapidly to his new environment. Dimitri initially felt that his colleagues sensed something different, but they couldn’t fathom the subtle change. Routine soon erased fleeting doubts about the head of Kremlin kitchen staff. Everyone assumed Dimitri’s slight personality change was the result of worry about the declining health of his mother.
Swallowing the last ounce of vodka, Dimitri ground out his cigarette, set his alarm for six o’clock, and fell asleep almost immediately. He was exhausted from the strain on his nerves. He could not comprehend what was happening to him, or, for that matter, what would happen in the next twenty-four hours. His world had gone mad, spinning out of control in a kaleidoscope of confusion and fear.
Chapter Six
The huge presidential jet, sunlight sparkling from the highly polished silver, white, and blue surface, made a straight-in approach to Lajes do Pico, Azores. The Portuguese island shimmered in the early morning sun.
The aircraft commander, Colonel Boyd, had kept the speed fast throughout the descent, lowering the landing gear and flaps at the last possible moment, a very unusual procedure. However, a request from the president of the United States had precedence over routine, if the request didn’t breach the limits of safe operation.
The four F-14s escorting Air Force One broke off three miles from touchdown and climbed rapidly to join their tankers en route to the Eisenhower. The roar of the F-14s’ afterburners was deafening to the observers on the ground.
During the landing roll-out, Grant Wilkinson, with a quick knock, entered the president’s private study. The president, adjusting his tie in a full-length mirror, looked out the corner of his eye.
“What is it, Grant?” The president’s voice had a slight hesitancy in it.
“Sir, NORAD is now tracking three large Soviet bomber groups, each escorted by fifty or sixty fighters.” Wilkinson paused, seeing the president yank on his tie.
“Where are they located?”
“One group is—”
“What’s the status?” The president continued, wrestling with his tie.
“One group — approximately seventy to eighty bombers — is fifty miles north of Nordkapp, Finland. Appears to be comprised of a mixture of Bears and Backfires.”
“The other groups?” The president growled, finished with the burdensome tie adjustment.
“The other groups are split and appear to be converging north of Komandorskie Island.” The chief of staff sounded tired.
“Where?” The president wasn’t sure of the location.
“Komandorskie Island, sir. Approximately five hundred miles northwest of Adak, Alaska,” Wilkinson replied as he looked at his notes.
“What the hell is Zhilinkhov trying to do?” The president was exasperated, irritation showing in his voice.
“I wish I could answer that, sir.”
“I know. Sorry, Grant.” The president sat down heavily. “Go on.”
“Again, this provocation is well-orchestrated, sir.” Wilkinson trailed off, not wanting to expound, unless prompted by his boss.
“How so, Grant?”
“The other bombers — the Backfires and Blackjacks — are operating from forward bases, supported by twenty or more tankers. The planning for mass join-ups had to be in-depth and extensive. Sir, the Soviets have dispersed seven regiment-size bomber units from Alekseyevka to auxiliary airfields at Primorski Krai, Kamchatka Peninsula, and Sakhalin Island.”
Quiet surrounded the two men as the president slowly rolled a pen around in his hand.
“What’s been our response?” the president asked in a low voice.
“The Bering Sea join-up is considered the most serious problem at the present time. They aren’t far from our bases in the Aleutian Islands and Alaska.” Wilkinson sat down on the couch, exhausted.
“The bombers are staging from their Arctic airbase at Mys Schmidta, and joining a group from Petropavlovsk-Kamchatski. They are armed with AS-4 Kitchen antiship missiles and cruise missiles. NORAD reports the Alaskan Air Command on full alert, sir. We have Air Force and Navy fighter groups joining the Russian formations.”
“Excellent.” The president visibly stiffened. “How long until our boys intercept the bombers?”
“About one hour, sir.” Wilkinson consulted the scrawled notes in his hands. “The Forty-third Tactical Fighter Squadron, based at Elmendorf, has twenty-three F-15s airborne.”
“Will that be sufficient?” the president asked, noticing Air Force One was rolling to an imperceptible stop in front of the welcoming committee.
“The Forty-third is being reinforced by two West Coast squadrons, along with the interceptors from the Ranger’s carrier group.” Wilkinson looked down at his notes and continued. “They have two E-3 AWACS planes coordinating the intercept, sir.”
“Okay, Grant. Keep—”
A gentle knock interrupted the two men as an aide announced the arrival of the welcoming delegation.
“Mister President, we are prepared for you to deplane, sir.”
“Very well,” the president responded, “Mister Wilkinson and I will be along shortly.”
“Yes, sir,” the Navy officer replied, waiting patiently in the hallway.
The lights blinked momentarily, an indication that Air Force One had shifted to the auxiliary power unit. The massive turbofan engines spooled down, fan blades quietly slowing in the cool morning breeze.
“When I talk to Zhilinkhov, don’t hesitate to inform me of status changes as you receive them,” the president ordered.
“Yes, sir,” Wilkinson said as he rose from the thick leather couch and brushed off his trousers.
“In fact, Grant, the more you interrupt me for quiet updates, the more worried I suspect Zhilinkhov will become.” The president looked up, eyebrows arched, dead serious in manner.