Corbin glanced at his notes as he fumbled with his attaché case, then continued. “Apparently, from preliminary reports, Wickham and Dimitri escaped on foot from the incident with the KGB. We don’t know where they are at this time. They’re probably en—”
“Wait a minute,” Blaylocke said, her hand slightly raised. “How did the incident come about? It was our understanding, at least my understanding, that everything was under control. What happened?”
Corbin took a deep breath. “I — we don’t know. Our other agent sent a brief message saying that Soviet television and newspapers, Izvestia and Moskovski Komsomolyets, are reporting fatalities, including KGB officers.”
The CIA director, eyes cast downward at his briefing sheet, continued. “The other Moscow agent suspects the KGB knew about Wickham and may have been waiting for an opportunity to seize him. They, the KGB, had never been able to link Wickham to Dimitri before the unplanned rendezvous. They made a cardinal error in deviating from standard operating procedures, perhaps because of the nature of the information.”
Silence followed that disclosure, then murmurs filled the quiet room.
Cliff Howard broke the silence. “I don’t intend to be the harbinger of doom, but this is the last thing we need with the president in Lajes.”
“Ted,” the vice president spoke quietly, “if I understand this correctly, our agents are on the run, being pursued by the whole of Moscow.”
Corbin nodded silently.
“Do we have a contingency plan to get them out of Russia without creating an international embarrassment?”
“Yes,” Corbin responded, “providing, of course, that our senior agent, Wickham, still has his satellite transmitter.”
Blaylocke looked straight into the director’s eyes, then spoke slowly. “Again, you’ll have to be more specific, Ted. Many of us are not completely aware of the CIA’s capabilities.”
Blaylocke paused, then spoke in the same deliberate manner. “Also, as a reminder, any operation, in the magnitude you refer to, will need my personal approval.”
“I am fully aware of that fact, Ms. Blaylocke.”
“Please continue,” the vice president replied.
“The original plan was to have the agents return to Leningrad, disguised as Soviet agricultural inspectors, then cross the border with—”
“Ted,” the vice president sighed, “I would think the original plan is no longer applicable. Their descriptions will be posted at every crossing. What are your plans for retrieving the agents under these conditions?”
The condescending remark almost caused the CIA director to become apoplectic. Corbin’s face blanched, then reddened again.
“Ms. Blaylocke, if the operatives are alive, if they have the transmitter, then we intend to rescue them with high-speed helicopters,” Corbin said, darting a look at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “When we know their location.”
“That’s pretty risky,” Admiral Chambers responded in a reserved manner.
“Yes, Admiral, it is. But we have sufficient reason to believe it is imperative that we extract the agents.”
“Okay, Ted, back to the helicopter rescue plan. Explain the operation to us,” Blaylocke ordered, taking notes on a legal pad.
“We have three Sikorsky S-70 Night Hawk helicopters — they’re combat rescue helos — camouflaged in Russian livery, in the hold of a cargo ship in the Baltic Sea near Stockholm. When we know the location of our agents, the helos will take off at night from the Porkkala Peninsula, refuel in Lovisa, Finland, then proceed to the pickup point. We hope, as the original helicopter rescue plan outlines, that our agents can make it by train to Novgorod, which is about a hundred thirty miles south of Leningrad. We have a prearranged site, outside of Novgorod, to land the rescue helicopter. It will be on the ground only for a few seconds, just long enough for our agents to leap aboard.”
“Then what?” Howard asked, running a hand through his unruly hair.
“Then two helicopters will fly diversionary routes while the helo containing our agents will fly at treetop level straight over the Gulf of Riga and recover on the cargo container ship.”
“From there?” Chambers asked.
“After refueling, the helicopter will fly our agents to Stockholm, where we will place them aboard an Air Force transport plane bound for Washington.”
“What about the other two helicopters?” Chambers asked, uncomfortable with the entire rescue plan.
“They will race for the Gulf of Finland, one hundred miles west of Leningrad, then proceed back to Lovisa for refueling. After they depar—”
“What is the bottom line chance for a successful helicopter rescue, as you’ve outlined?” Blaylocke asked, adjusting her glasses.
“Ms. Blaylocke, that’s like predicting what a roulette wheel will do. Half is black, half is red.”
The vice president glared at the contentious CIA boss, then spoke slowly, her voice rising ever so slightly. “When I ask you a question, Ted, I will appreciate a straightforward, forthright answer.”
Silence filled the room.
“The chances are fifty-fifty,” Corbin shot back, thoroughly miffed by the tall, slender woman.
“Thank you,” Blaylocke responded, unruffled. “I will take your information under advisement.”
The vice president shifted slightly in her chair and addressed Admiral Chambers and the other chiefs of staff.
“Admiral, what is the current military status?”
Chambers looked at the Army chief of staff, General Vandermeer.
“Warren, where do you stand with the airlift?”
“All buttoned and ready to go on immediate notice,” replied the four-star general.
“Excellent,” Chambers responded as he turned back to Blaylocke. “All services are at projected manning levels for Defense Condition-Two.”
Blaylocke turned to the secretary of defense. “Cliff, what’s the status of the shuttle?”
Howard replied in a voice that echoed weariness.
“Final stages, ma’am. The countdown has started. No reports of security problems. Actually, no significant problems at all, so far.”
“Okay,” Blaylocke looked around the conference table, “let’s take a break, gentlemen.”
The vice president faced the CIA director. “Ted, I expect an immediate response when you receive any further information.”
The intelligence agency boss didn’t respond, only nodding yes to the imposing woman.
The 4.4-million-pound space shuttle, poised for flight, was bathed in soft moonlight.
The handover/ingress personnel had already spent several hours in Columbia checking every detail in preparation for the early morning launch.
The tempo was picking up as the flight crew settled into their launch positions.
On the flight deck, Colonel Crawford, Hank Doherty, Alan Cressottie, and Doctor Tran were strapped into their seats. The astronauts were on their backs in a sitting position. Ward Culdrew was seated in the middeck cabin, apprehensive at not having any controls of his own.
The liquid oxygen and liquid hydrogen had already been pumped into the orbiter. Mission Control now acknowledged the final countdown.
“Columbia, this is Launch Control. Radio check, over.”
“Roger,” Crawford answered, switching to Mission Control and repeating the radio check.
The crew continued with the preflight checks, including abort advisory, side hatch closure, and cabin leak check.
“Control, Columbia shows cabin pressure nominal,” Crawford reported.
“Roger, nominal.”
Crawford continued with the preflight preparations, carefully monitoring the checklist.