“Yes, ma’am,” Chambers replied, spreading three briefing sheets, side by side, on the table.
“The Russian bomber groups have entered large holding patterns. There is a constant shuttle of tanker aircraft supplying the bombers. A large number of the escort fighters have returned to coastal bases. We anticipate they’ll be returning to the bombers soon.”
“What about the submarines?” Blaylocke asked, looking at her watch.
“Their big boomers, at least the ones we’ve detected, have moved into firing positions. They are well spaced to inflict the maximum damage. We’ve got every operable sub stalking them, along with the P-3s, Vikings, and our ASW helicopters.”
Chambers reached for a different briefing sheet. “Our bombers, including the Stealth aircraft, are cycling on and off station. Our missile forces, both ground- and submarine-based, are at the ready. Also,” Chambers continued, scanning the third sheet of paper, “the activated reserve and guard units are ready for immediate deployment.”
Chambers looked up at Blaylocke. “Our F–117 As, the Stealth fighters, are strategically stationed at NATO bases. We are keeping six airborne around the clock until this crisis is over. The Navy carrier groups are in excellent positions to respond to any hostility. They have over twenty squadrons of Navy and Marine Corps aircraft at coast bases standing by to supplement the air wings on board the carriers.”
An aide stepped into the room and announced the arrival of Marine One.
“Thank you, Commander,” Blaylocke replied, then addressed Chambers. “How long can we keep this up? What’s your estimate?”
Chambers frowned, then placed his papers in a neat stack.
“We can remain in this posture for a protracted period of time, no question. The primary problem, as we see it, is the inevitable encounter that will lead to further escalations, and, possibly, a nuclear showdown.”
Another aide, wearing the uniform of an Army lieutenant colonel, entered the room. He approached the vice president and handed her a message.
Blaylocke read the contents, then sighed in despair, and removed her glasses. “Gentlemen, we’ve lost another SDI satellite.”
The group sat stunned as Blaylocke turned to the defense secretary. “Cliff, your recommendation.”
“It’s time to take action,” Cliff Howard said, balling a piece of paper in his hand. “Past time. The Soviets know we don’t need SDI to win a nuclear war. It only lessens our casualty rate. Our conventional and nuclear delivery systems are much more accurate and reliable than theirs.”
“The former general secretary,” Chambers politely interrupted, “didn’t believe we needed SDI to win. That’s why he was so willing to compromise. Zhilinkhov on the other hand, well, we simply don’t know what he believes.”
“True,” Howard continued, “we don’t know. However, the Soviets are aware of our standoff strike capability, the accuracy of our weapons. Also, in my opinion, what they fear most is our Stealth bomber.”
Chambers looked at Blaylocke. “That’s true, to a degree. The Soviets know any massive strike to Russia would be evident on radar scopes very quickly. They would have time to respond in kind. What they are most concerned about is having thirty or forty B-2 bombers, loaded with nuclear weapons, undetected on radar, over the Soviet Union. They wouldn’t have any warning time.”
“My point,” Howard broke in. “I think the recent deployment of the Stealth aircraft, both the fighter/attack airplane and the bomber, has caused Zhilinkhov to react. I don’t think his primary concern is SDI. I may be wrong.”
Zhilinkhov, tired from his trip to Lajes, waited while the cardiologist closed his bag, retrieved his topcoat, and walked through the huge doors of the Kremlin residence.
The general secretary looked at the capsule of blood pressure medicine, then decided he needed a Stolichnaya on ice.
“Well, comrades, the American space defense system is no longer fully operable. Our plan will work, without question. We will pull back, then mount a massive first strike as soon as the Americans return to a normal status.” Zhilinkhov smiled, pleased with his efforts.
The Politburo members, along with Defense Minister Trofim Porfir’yev, did not appear convinced. The men remained quiet, each with a vodka in his hand.
“Well,” Zhilinkhov asked, “what is your opinion, my friends? You do not seem to share my joy.”
The senior Politburo member, Pulaev, carefully placed his glass on the end table, inhaled his cigar, ashed, then looked at Zhilinkhov. “Viktor Pavlovich, we are very concerned.”
“Concerned?” Zhilinkhov replied, a quizzical look on his puffy red face. “Concerned about what?”
“The spy, the CIA agent planted here in your quarters. How did the blundering idiots at KGB allow that to happen?” The elder politician, jaw set, was loudly grinding his teeth.
“Calm yourself, my friend, or you’ll be needing this medicine, too.”
Zhilinkhov’s attempt at humor fell on deaf ears. “There is no need to worry. Colonel General Vranesevic, the GRU commander, assures me they have the spies contained. It is only a matter of time, comrades.”
“What about the rest of your staff, Viktor Pavlovich? How many other spies have infiltrated our walls?” The Politburo chief drank the last of his vodka while he waited for the general secretary to answer.
Zhilinkhov scowled. “They have been checked, all of them, and interrogated. There are no other spies, believe me. Colonel General Vranesevic does not believe the American agent knows anything valuable. The KGB didn’t find any electronic eavesdropping equipment or transmitters anywhere on or around the—”
“Our present KGB, with respect, Viktor Pavlovich, couldn’t track a hemorrhaging elephant in a snow field.”
Zhilinkhov sat back, pulled out a fresh cigar, chewed on the end, then responded. “I have sent word to KGB headquarters. If the two American spies escape, Chervenok will be relieved of command. Does that satisfy you, my friends?”
The Politburo members looked shocked. The senior member spoke again.
“Viktor Pavlovich, what in the name of …? Chervenok is a candidate for the Politburo! He has many influential friends, many ties with leaders in the Central Committee. This is not good, Viktor Pavlovich. Not good …”
“It will pass,” Zhilinkhov replied, “as all things do eventually.”
The general secretary smiled, lighted his cigar, then added to his statement. “Please relax. The American spy, and our traitor, will be caught. No information will leak out. Chervenok will be spared, and our plan will bear fruit.”
Zhilinkhov puffed on his cigar, then rose to his feet, walking slowly to the open bar. He poured a large quantity of Stolichnaya in a glass, then turned to his friends. “Comrades, trust me.”
“Just five or six more kilometers, Dimitri. We’ll take a break in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” Dimitri replied, breathing hard, his breath condensing in the cold February air.
The late afternoon light was fading under the low overcast as the two men trudged through the deserted fields. Small snowflakes had started falling, drifting lazily through the sparse trees.
“Do you think they got your message?” Dimitri asked, shivering uncontrollably.
“Let’s not borrow trouble, huh? We’ve got enough problems,” Wickham panted.
Both agents walked another kilometer in silence, staying close to a collective farm.
The American broke the silence. “Dimitri, if we encounter anyone, let me do the talking.”
Wickham glanced at Dimitri, who nodded in return. “We had an accident and left our car. That’s how we got in this shape. We still have our credentials, so—”
The American abruptly stopped, dropping to the ground on his hands and knees. He motioned Dimitri to follow him. The two men sprinted to a tree line and dove into the underbrush, breathing heavily.