BOOM! … BOOM! BOOM!
The windshield of the KGB car shattered in an explosion of glass particles and metal fragments.
Dimitri stared, fascinated, as the pursuing automobile swerved to the right and crashed into the back of a parked truck. The entire upper body of the Volga was torn off as it nose-dived under the huge truck, decapitating the two Russians.
“Outstanding,” Wickham yelled. “Hold on for just three minutes, okay?”
“Okay,” Dimitri responded, looking closely at the American for the first time since he had been shot.
Dimitri could see the agent had a streak of blood across the right side of his head, slightly above his ear, where a round had grazed his skull. Blood was running down the side of his head, saturating his coat collar.
What frightened Dimitri most was the gaping wound in the agent’s right shoulder. Most of the flesh, along with his coat sleeve, had been torn away on the outside.
“Dimitri, take off your belt … Make a tourniquet under my armpit and over my shoulder.” The agent groaned. “As close to my neck as possible.”
Wickham slowed to a speed consistent with traffic and made two turns, one left and one right, then blended into the flow of vehicles on Spasskaya Boulevard.
As Dimitri applied the tourniquet, the CIA agent briefed him. “We are going to steal a car, a bureaucrat’s car, and drive to an outlying train station.”
Dimitri gave the American an incredulous look as he twisted the tourniquet tighter.
“The best disguise, under the circumstances. We have our credentials,” the agent groaned again, “and I can camouflage my shoulder and head.”
Dimitri remained silent, brooding.
“You with me, Dimitri?”
“Yes. I am with you.”
“Okay, let’s move it!”
Dimitri nodded, still in shock. His mind was working slowly, mechanically.
“Reach in the glove box and reload your weapon. Put some extra rounds in your coat pocket.”
Dimitri complied as they turned a corner next to a government building by the Hotel Minsk. Wickham drove past the parking area and turned into a narrow alley.
Dimitri stared at Wickham, thinking he was insane. Every KGB and GRU officer in Moscow was after them and the American was going to steal a Soviet government vehicle.
The Russian immigrant now understood what the CIA director of clandestine operations had meant when he said Stephen Wickham was the best in the business.
Wickham, a former Marine captain and decorated combat veteran of the Grenada invasion, was regarded as a real-life hero throughout the Central Intelligence Agency.
Wickham stopped the car, ripped off his undershirt, wrapped his head, then jammed his hat over the makeshift bandage. The American then relocated the tourniquet under his topcoat and turned to the young spy.
“Dimitri, walk across the street and wait for me by the row of trees next to the corner.”
“Yessir,” Dimitri replied, glancing up and down the alley.
“I’ll pick you up in five minutes. Don’t do anything to draw attention.” Wickham looked down at his shoulder. “Understand?”
“Yes,” Dimitri said. “By the row of trees.”
“Okay, here we go.”
The two men got out of the car. Dimitri walked across the busy street while the American proceeded toward the parking area.
“Cobra, Pinwheel. You have multiple bogies at eleven o’clock, thirty-five out, blocking three-three-zero to four-one-oh.”
“Roger, Pinwheel,” DiGennaro replied, scanning his radar scope and instrument panel.
“Time, Bill. Let’s climb to forty-three-oh until we have a visual.”
“Roger, forty-three,” Parnam responded quietly, checking his radar and armament switches.
“Cobras,” the voice was cautious and tense, “looks like a couple of fighters in trail. Say ’bout five miles at four-one-oh.”
“Copy, Pinwheel,” DiGennaro replied as he leveled his fighter at 43,000 feet.
Fifteen seconds passed as the two F-15 pilots strained to see the massive Soviet bomber group.
“Two has a tally,” Parnam simultaneously informed DiGennaro and the AWACS aircraft. “Ten o’clock, low.”
“Roger. I’ve got ’em, Bill,” DiGennaro radioed. “We’ll go down this side, past the tail-end charlies, then do a one-eighty and join in trail.”
“Copy, boss. You wanna stay here, or descend?”
“We’ll go down to four-one-oh when we reverse. I’ll call the descent.”
“Roger,” Parnam replied, surveying the large Russian group in the moonlight. “Be hard to miss, firing into that gaggle.”
“Yeah,” DiGennaro answered, then added, “be like stomping on Godzilla’s foot. He’d eat you for breakfast.”
Pinwheel broke in as the two F-15s streaked past the two Soviet MiG-31 Foxhounds trailing the bomber group.
“Cobras, Hawk flight is on the tankers. Leopard flight will be aboard in four minutes.”
“Roger, Wheel. We’re comin’ around and descending to four-one-oh, in trail.”
“Copy, Cobra. The flight leader of the Hawks will be up your freq when they’re off the tanker. He’s the tactical commander.”
“Roger,” DiGennaro replied, uncomfortable with not knowing who the flight leader was. Placing the thought aside, he concentrated on lowering his nose and reducing power as the two F-15s turned to join the Russians.
“Pinwheel, the group is staggered in different layers, altitudewise, and flanked by fighters.” DiGennaro silently counted the Soviet aircraft.
“Roger. The Hawks are on the way. Be up your freq in a couple of seconds.”
“Okay, Pinwheel. Looks like the Russians continually rotate the fighters off the tankers.”
No reply.
“Cobra, Hawk One up.”
“Roger, Hawk,” DiGennaro replied, not recognizing the flat voice.
“Hawk flight is taking high cover. The Leopards are taking low,” the Hawk flight leader ordered.
“Cobra One,” DiGennaro responded.
“Cobra flight, deploy on each side of the lead bomber,” the Hawk leader ordered.
DiGennaro hesitated, thinking that was the last place he wanted to be
“Copy, Cobra?”
“Ah, roger, Hawk. We’re movin’ forward now,” DiGennaro replied, looking over at Parnam, happy his wingman hadn’t made a snide comment. He couldn’t see his face in the dark, but he knew what Parnam was thinking.
“Two, you take the right side. I’ll go left.”
“Super,” Parnam responded, irritation clearly evident in his speech.
“Hawk, Pinwheel,” the AWACS controller interjected. “The Navy troops are one hundred out. Recommend we wait until they’re on station.”
“Copy, Pinwheel.”
The radios were silent for a few seconds.
“Cobra flight, Hawk One,” the flat voice radioed.
“Hold your position for the moment.”
“Holding,” DiGennaro answered, looking over at the Russian pilots in their MiG-31s.
“Great,” DiGennaro said to himself. “Absolutely fantastic.”
The president knew he had to de-escalate the confrontation, without backing down, and rescind the DEFCON-Two condition before a major military crisis developed, a crisis that could be the decisive turning point in the survival of mankind.
The hangar was quiet. Zhilinkhov spoke in a low, controlled voice.
“The American government,” the interpreter said slowly, “has continued to build a vast array of weapons, while—”
“In response to your massive military buildup,” the president shot back.
“Is your Star Wars system not designed to control the world, to hold the Russian people and our friends under your thumb?” Zhilinkhov responded, trying to regain the offensive.
“Secretary Zhilinkhov,” the president sighed heavily, “our philosophy has never changed, never will. We believe that weapons in the hands of free people discourage war. Weapons held by free people deter attacks by aggressive enemies and keep the free world safe.”