Their spot was precarious, under the circumstances. The only good cover was a ragged tree line two hundred meters away. They couldn’t reach that concealment until the helicopters passed.
“Listen, Dimitri, not a word, not a single move. Don’t even blink.”
Dimitri lay sprawled in the garbage dump, paralyzed with fear. He could actually feel his heart palpitating. The adrenaline shock to his cardiovascular system was exacting its levy. Dimitri felt faint and nauseated as he lay in the garbage, staring at a rat crawling under a pile of rotting trash.
“Stay down. It’ll be okay, Dimitri,” the CIA agent soothed the terrified young man.
Both men watched the approaching Russian gunships, camouflaged in brown and sand colors. The Mi-28s sprouted 57mm rockets and a nose-mounted 30mm gun. The helicopters represented the state of the art in Soviet rotor-wing assault aircraft.
“Don’t look up, Dimitri. Don’t do anything.”
The American agent watched the nearest Mi-28 pass directly over the camouflaged Lada, then continue on.
“So far, so good. Easy,” Wickham comforted Dimitri, while he surveyed their surroundings. The only movement was his eyeballs.
The second gunship was across the road and approaching the wrecked Lada. Wickham stopped breathing as the helicopter passed the vehicle, climbed slightly, and continued down the road.
The agent could clearly see the pilot and nose gunner.
Wickham slowly let his breath out and turned toward Dimitri, studying his face. “Think you can travel in a few minutes? On foot?”
“Yes,” Dimitri said, regaining a bit of confidence.
“Dimitri, I’m going to go ahead and send the satellite message.” Wickham pointed the antenna straight up and punched in the various codes. He waited ten seconds and repeated the steps. “We will have to change our pickup point a ways, but—”
The American saw Dimitri’s face turn ashen, then reflect stark terror.
“What’s wrong?” Wickham said as he turned his head. The attack helicopter on the far side of the road had indeed spotted the Lada.
The Russian pilot had been looking across the road, at a low angle, and had spotted the stolen Soviet vehicle. The crew had completed a 270-degree turn to the left and now approached the car from across the road. They were coming to a hover ten meters over the pavement.
“Keep down!” the American ordered, yanking on Dimitri’s soiled coat sleeve.
The second gunship helicopter was returning also, its nose low as the Mi-28 raced along the roadway.
Admiral Chambers was in the process of briefing the vice president and secretary of defense. The other chiefs were gathered in the Situation Room, as was Ted Corbin.
The group had finished the soup and light sandwiches, along with the hastily prepared dessert. Everyone sipped coffee, or hot tea, and listened intently to the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
“Ms. Blaylocke, we are in a state of readiness unparalleled in the history of our military. Every ship, aircraft, and ground unit is at the ready.”
Chambers looked at the Air Force chief, General Ridenour, and received a nod before he continued.
“The Stealth aircraft are in the air, too. We are going to stay in this condition until the SDI system is fully on-line.”
Chambers turned to Cliff Howard. “Perhaps the secretary of defense will provide us an update on Columbia. Mister Secretary?”
Howard, eyes bloodshot and baggy, responded slowly to the request. “Doctor Hays told me they expect to have the problem solved inside of two hours. Actually, an hour and forty-five minutes from now.” Howard leaned back, not really focusing on Chambers.
“Ms. Blaylocke,” Chambers continued, “it is the considered opinion of the Joint Chiefs that you, or your designate from this staff, be on board the airborne command post until we downgrade to DEFCON-Three. The E-Four, as you well know, has nonjammable communications.”
Chambers spread his hands on the table, fingers outstretched. “We believe, in the event of a full-scale Soviet preemptive strike, that someone from the White House should be in the airborne command post. There simply won’t be time to transport a staff member, or yourself, ma’am, if the Soviets push the button.”
Blaylocke, hands clasped together on the table, did not respond immediately. The room remained quiet while the vice president pondered the recommendation.
“Admiral, I believe it is my duty to remain in the White House until the president is physically in this room.”
Blaylocke, poised and radiating confidence, paused a moment and continued. “It is my opinion, Admiral, that General Ridenour, being Air Force, should be the on-site commander in the command post.”
Everyone nodded in agreement, except Cliff Howard, before Chambers spoke. “Any problem with that, Milt?”
“None whatsoever, Admiral. I’ll be on board within the hour.”
Ridenour rose from his seat, reached down for his cover and attaché case, then faced the vice president. “By your leave, ma’am.”
Blaylocke rose from her seat and offered her hand. “Good luck, General.”
Ridenour had just departed the White House Situation Room when an aide rushed in and conferred with the CIA director.
The members of the staff stared curiously. The news at first brightened Corbin, then saddened the director. Corbin addressed the group.
“We have heard from the agents. Central communications received the message approximately seven minutes ago. Seems they are alive, but the rendezvous point has been changed. We’re not sure why.” Corbin coughed into his fist. “It’s only a matter of fifteen or twenty kilometers.”
Blaylocke didn’t understand. “Was there some kind of trouble after the initial problem in Moscow?”
“Apparently so,” Corbin responded, then cleared his throat. “We don’t know. The signal just arrived, so it will take some tim—”
“How will the pilots find them in the darkness so far from the prearranged rendezvous, Ted?” Blaylocke was relentless.
Corbin, showing a trace of irritation, responded in a caustic manner. “Wickham, our senior agent, has a low-powered automatic direction finder for the crews to home on. He also has a limited-distance UHF radio to communicate with the rescue pilots. The transmitter will reach, from the ground, up to twenty miles.”
“Thank you,” Blaylocke replied without emotion. “I know you will keep us updated.”
Chapter Twelve
The unscheduled extravehicular activity (EVA) had set the satellite deployment mission hours behind time.
Preparation for an EVA had to begin at least two and a half hours ahead of time. The flight deck of the shuttle, with a cabin atmosphere of 79 percent nitrogen and 21 percent oxygen, at a pressure of 14.7 psi (pounds per square inch), was the same atmosphere as on earth.
The space suits had to be pressurized with pure oxygen at 4.1 psi. The lower pressure was sufficient to sustain life; however, there was one major problem. If an astronaut went directly from the oxygen-nitrogen cabin atmosphere into the pure-oxygen, reduced-pressure environment of the space suit, nitrogen gas dissolved in the blood would bubble out.
The nitrogen gas bubbles, which would collect in the astronaut’s joints, would cause a condition known as dysbarism, or more commonly, the bends.
The bends, at the least, would be painful. The condition, as the shuttle’s crew knew, could cripple or kill the astronauts.
Doctor Tran and Alan Cressottie had breathed pure oxygen for over two hours before donning their suits. Two hours provided sufficient time to rid the body of all traceable nitrogen.
Crawford was becoming anxious about the lost time. NASA was growing more nervous by the minute.