The chief of staff, anticipating some type of surprise, spoke out. “That isn’t anything new. We expelled three of your KGB operatives — spies, Mister Zhilinkhov — less than two months ago.”
The Communist leader smiled again. A shiver ran down the spines of the president and his chief advisor. They both had a premonition.
“One of the spies,” Zhilinkhov paused for theatrical effect, leaving the interpreter in midsentence, “was in charge of my kitchen help.”
That information did shock both Americans. The president and his closest advisor looked at each other, dismay and sadness in their eyes.
“The bastard traitor could have poisoned me,” Zhilinkhov hissed, pounding the table again as his aides began to assemble their papers.
“Too bad he didn’t,” Wilkinson uttered softly to the president.
“What is your response!?” Zhilinkhov snapped back.
“I asked if you have the men in custody? Are they all right?” Wilkinson responded, unperturbed.
Zhilinkhov smiled again, then spoke in harsh tones. “No, we don’t have them — yet,” he spat, “but we will soon. They have killed at least four of our men. They won’t make it to trial. I have ordered execution on the spot. Don’t forget that!”
Zhilinkhov was yelling again. “What do you have to say?”
The president waited, puffing on his rum crook, looking upward at the hangar ceiling.
“Well?” Zhilinkhov leaned toward the president, frightening his own aides and interpreter.
“Mister Zhilinkhov, we have nothing else to say, given the circumstances and your state of mind. I will, however, give you a piece of personal advice.”
Zhilinkhov exploded. “We — I don’t need any advice from American liars!”
The Soviet general secretary stalked out of the hangar with the Russian contingent close behind. The Russian faces, to a man, reflected anguish and surprise.
“What a disaster …” The president paused. “Grant, reestablish DEFCON-Two, then find out what the hell happened in Moscow.”
“Yes, sir,” Wilkinson responded, then added, “Mister President, I suggest you reboard Air Force One for security reasons.”
“Okay, Grant,” the president responded, grinding his cigar to pulp, “on my way.”
The two men, along with a shocked Herb Kohlhammer and two aides, walked through the commotion and boarded the big Boeing. Crew members were scurrying in every direction, caught off guard by the rapid change of events.
Air Force One, shining brightly in the sun, had been refueled and restocked immediately after landing, as always, in the event of an emergency departure.
The president, quiet and contemplative, boarded the 747 and walked to his private quarters. He sat down, removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt collar.
The president glanced out a window and noticed a disturbance on the ramp adjacent to the Soviet transport. He reached for his phone and called the flight deck.
“Colonel Boyd, sir,” the aircraft commander responded immediately.
“Colonel, how soon will we be ready to roll?”
“’Bout seven minutes, Mister President.”
“Okay,” the president said, looking out his window a second time. “What’s the problem with the Soviet transport?”
“No problem with the aircraft, sir. The pilots were over at the club having a vodka and they couldn’t locate them. They’ll be pounding stakes in Siberia, if they don’t get their heads lopped off.”
The president half-turned as Grant Wilkinson knocked, then entered the cabin.
“I can believe that. Sorry to have to turn the crew around so quickly.”
“That’s our job, sir. No problem,” Colonel Boyd replied.
“Thanks.” The president placed the handset down and sighed. “What’s the situation, Grant?”
“The agents, including our Kremlin mole, have eluded the Russians thus far.” The chief of staff looked forlorn and tired. “How the lash-up came about is unknown at this point, sir.”
“Grant,” the president exclaimed, “we’ve got to get it together.”
Wilkinson folded a message in his hand. “The vice president has authorized a rescue attempt, sir. The one I briefed you about. The operation using three helicopters for a night pickup.”
The president looked up. “Yes, I remember. What are the chances for success?”
Wilkinson shrugged. “I can’t say. Especially after what has transpired in the last two hours.”
“Should we call it off, Grant, under the circumstances?” the president questioned, looking very concerned.
“I don’t believe so, sir. There is something going on we don’t know about, something essential, or the operation wouldn’t have unwound so quickly.”
Wilkinson again looked at the message report, then back to the president. He was hesitant, then spoke calmly to the commander-in-chief. “Sir, the shuttle has a problem. However, the fir—”
“WHAT?” the president responded in disbelief.
“NASA has two satellites out in fine shape. The third one is slightly damaged. Apparently jammed, somehow.”
“I need a drink,” the president replied, rising to walk to the cabinet bar.
Wilkinson continued his brief. “The mission commander believes they can repair and launch the satellite. Just take a little time.”
“Okay. What’s the military posture?” the president asked, yanking a decanter of Tennessee whiskey from the teak holders.
“DEFCON-Two is being reinstated, sir. The order is being sent now. No reported incidents at the present time.”
“Good. I’m going to finish this,” the president held up a tumbler containing three fingers of Jack Daniel’s, “and take a nap.”
“Yes, sir,” Wilkinson replied, reaching for the doorknob. “I’ll wake you if anything negative develops.”
“Thanks, Grant,” the president responded as Wilkinson closed the door.
The president sat down, exhausted, disheartened. As he stared at the presidential seal on the opposite wall, he felt like an enormous failure. His eyelids sagged as he felt Air Force One begin to roll.
The Joint Chiefs, relief showing on their faces, waited while the vice president conferred with Secretary of Defense Cliff Howard.
Up-to-the-minute briefing folders had been placed on the conference table.
The vice president turned in her seat and opened her folder. “Although we have downgraded to Defense Condition-Three, prudence and logic tell me our forces need to remain ready for any contingency. Do you agree, gentlemen?”
Admiral Chambers spoke for the Joint Chiefs.
“Unequivocally, Ms. Blaylocke. We believe it is imperative, and certainly appropriate, that our military remain poised for any threat. We are cautiously optimistic at this juncture, but the continued instability has us worried.”
The vice president looked at the secretary of defense. “Cliff?”
Howard replied in a clipped manner. “The Soviet bomber groups have changed course toward Russian territory. They have elected to hold their positions approximately two hundred miles farther away from us. That’s the upside. On the negative side is the sudden departure of the new Soviet carrier Tbilisi. The ship is loaded with various strike aircraft and presents a tremendous threat to our northern Atlantic fleet.”
Howard looked at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “What bothers me most is the continued submarine threat.”
Chambers responded. “That is of the utmost concern to us too, Mister Howard. Even CINCNORAD, General Matuchek, was anxious in regard to the submarines, and he has enough other variables to contend with at the moment.”
The admiral removed a page from his folder before continuing. “We are going to keep our bombers on station, using aerial refueling, for the next few hours. The fighters will rotate fresh pilots during ground fueling.”