“General Secretary Zhilinkhov, I want to make one statement. All the meetings, arms control negotiations, endless diplomatic conferences, et cetera, aren’t going to accomplish anything if we, you and I, can’t come to some agreement that we can both live with.
“Agreements, Secretary Zhilinkhov, known to the whole world. Agreements we must honor, or be judged by the entire globe as untrustworthy and reprehensible.”
The president sat back, arms folded across his chest.
“Mister President, I am in agreement with you. Totally. As the new leader of the Soviet people, I am prepared to travel a different path from my esteemed predecessors.”
The interpreter waited while Zhilinkhov completed his statement.
“I wish to cooperate with the United States to make this world a better and safer place in which to live, for all humanity.”
Zhilinkhov extended his hand to the president, catching him off guard.
“I’m very pleased, Mister Secretary. Very pleased indeed,” the president said as he extended his hand in return. The two men shook hands warmly, then opened briefs supplied by aides.
A stir of subdued voices quietly discussed the unprecedented event, sounding openly skeptical and suspicious of the agreement.
Zhilinkhov, following the pause, continued his discourse.
“We, the Russian people, Mister President, don’t want a war with the United States, or anyone, for that matter. We are a peaceful country, offering—”
“General Secretary Zhilinkhov,” the president interrupted the interpreter, “I have no doubt the Russian people don’t want a war with anyone. Our dispute is not with the people of Russia, but with its totalitarian, expansionist policies, which violate international law.”
The short honeymoon was over, resentment again invading the conversation.
Zhilinkhov, unprepared for the frontal assault by the tenacious American leader, took the offensive.
“Mister President,” the Russian interpreter hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, “I must remind you that your country has been responsible for sinking two Soviet Union vessels, a submarine and a ship of the Soviet Pacific Fleet.”
The president responded immediately, his neck becoming rigid.
“Unbridled Soviet militarism is bringing the globe closer to catastrophe. Annihilation, Mister Zhilinkhov. You are fully aware, as everyone at this table is aware, that Soviet aggression caused us to respond in kind.”
The president continued, speaking over Zhilinkhov’s attempted rebuttal.
“Secretary Zhilinkhov, your actions have brought us to the brink of war. That is why, Mister General Secretary, we are meeting here.”
The Kremlin leader became distant, not attempting to refute the American president. Zhilinkhov was visibly irritated and gulped his iced tea.
“Mister Zhilinkhov, let me assure you of one thing, a very important point for you to remember. Don’t underestimate the American resolve, our dedication to freedom. We are a civilized nation, but we mean what we say.”
The president hit a nerve and the Kremlin leader’s jaw muscles tightened. Both men stared at each other in silence.
DiGennaro looked at his altimeter and then his twenty-four-hour clock. His F-15 was climbing through flight level 470—forty-seven thousand feet — over a cold ocean at eleven o’clock at night.
The flight leader looked over his right shoulder at his wingman, Cobra Two.
Captain Parnam could see DiGennaro’s head turn in the soft, eerie glow of his cockpit lights. The fighter pilot appeared luminescent, floating in a black void of time and space, Parnam thought as he pressed his radio transmission button.
“I’m with you, Major.”
“Roger, we’ll stay high for awhile, then drop down for a drink when the rest of the team is in sight.”
DiGennaro had no intention, without backup fighters, of going in for a close look at the Russian bomber group.
“Two.” Parnam was trying to concentrate on the task at hand, but a picture of his wife and seven-month-old daughter kept creeping into his consciousness. They were home in Tallahassee, Florida, where the sun would rise in less than an hour. The fighter pilot could see them clearly in his mind.
Shelly feeding breakfast to Meredith, laughing as the baby gurgled gleefully, squashed bananas running down her chin.
“Cobra, Pinwheel Seven.”
“Go, Pinwheel.” DiGennaro’s nerves involuntarily twitched when the radio startled him.
“The rest of the players will be with us in twelve minutes.” The E–3 coordinator, relaxed and clear-voiced, knew his job well.
“Roger, Pinwheel. We’d like to gas-up before everyone hits the tankers.” DiGennaro always stacked the odds in his favor, if possible. Airborne refueling would be necessary for the fighters joining the group.
“Stand by, Cobra.”
“Rog.”
These AWACS crews are sharp, DiGennaro thought as the radio crackled to life again.
“Cobra flight, go tact two. The tanker, Nightrider Four, is waiting for you at flight level two-seven-oh, zero-eight-zero for twenty-three.”
The E–3 had told the fighters the tanker would give them fuel at 27,000 feet, almost due east at a distance of twenty-three nautical miles.
“Cobras going tact two,” DiGennaro responded as he simultaneously reduced power, switched radio channels, lowered the nose, and rolled into a left turn.
“Two up,” Parnam checked in as he followed his leader into the descent, remaining in perfect position throughout the transition.
“Rog, Bill,” DiGennaro acknowledged before he contacted the tanker.
“Nightrider Four, Cobra One, flight of two Fox-Fifteens.”
“Bring it on in, Cobras,” the friendly tanker pilot radioed.
“You’re cleared to the stabilized position. One plug first and call stabilized. We have you on radar.”
“Roger, Cobra flight five out, closing from your seven o’clock.” DiGennaro had the big tanker visually at this close range.
“Okay, check nav and form lights, Cobras.”
“Copy.” DiGennaro responded automatically, having practiced this task countless times.
“Pinwheel Seven to all tactical one and two aircraft. Be advised Pinwheel Two will be channel eight controlling the carrier-based fighters, copy?”
“Nightrider Four.”
“Nightrider Five.”
“Cobras.”
“Hawks copy.”
“Leopard flight.”
DiGennaro knew the tankers would be as critical as the AWACS aircraft to the mission. He was surprised the carrier-based fighters weren’t being supported by their own E-2C Hawkeyes.
The Russian bomber group, besides the Bears and Backfires, had a large contingent of tankers including the Tupolev Badger, the Myasishchev Bison, and the recently operational Ilyushin Midas.
The Soviet force would pose a serious threat, especially with their long-range AS-15 cruise missiles. The nuclear armed cruise missiles, traveling at 0.74 Mach, had a range of over 3,000 kilometers. They could easily target all major U.S. West Coast cities and military bases.
The large Soviet fighter escort, DiGennaro decided, would be last in priority. First fighter wave go for the bombers, second for the tankers, and high cover take the Russian fighters.
This would be a real treat at night, DiGennaro thought, his mouth dry from the pure oxygen, as he plugged into the KC–10 tanker.
The interior of the Chlebnikow Restaurant was warm and somewhat comforting to Dimitri as he sat down at a vacant table, lighted a cigarette, and ordered hot tea.
Dimitri rubbed his shaking hands together, as if to warm them, and stirred his steaming tea, glancing nervously at his watch. He paid the small Russian woman who brought him a refill and waited for his connection to arrive.