“How is the crew, Cliff? What are their chances of surviving the reentry?”
“Doctor Hays said the crew is fine at the moment. They did lose the payload specialist, as I’m sure you are aware.”
“Yes,” the president replied. “I’ve sent my condolences to Doctor Tran’s widow.”
“No one knows the odds for survival of the crew,” Howard continued. “Doctor Hays was pessimistic, actually. He indicated NASA was preparing for the worst. They are flying the families to Houston as soon as possible.”
“Susan,” the president asked, “what about the recovery effort going on in Russia? Our two fleeing CIA operatives?”
“Sir, we haven’t been informed of any changes. The only conclusive information is over an hour old. The agents sent the extraction signal and the rescue effort is under way.”
The president lighted his familiar cigar and addressed his staff.
“Lajes was a disaster, to put it succinctly. Grant and I believe Zhilinkhov is not mentally sound,” the president looked around the table, “and that scares us.”
Blaylocke was surprised. “How do you mean, sir?”
“Susan,” the president hesitated, forming his thoughts, “the general secretary vacillates from one extreme to the other, then rants and raves, followed by comic smiles and low guttural accusations. He is clearly schizophrenic, in my estimation.”
“What do you believe is his primary motive for pushing us to the brink of war?” Blaylocke asked, feeling a resurgence in her stamina.
“We’re stymied, Susan.” The president looked over to Wilkinson. “Grant, why don’t you explain your theory about Zhilinkhov.”
Wilkinson placed his pen on his desk pad.
“At first, it appeared as if Zhilinkhov wanted to pressure us into compromising the SDI program. Then, after the confrontation in Lajes, we were perplexed. Nothing computed. Nothing in the realm of logic, that is.
“When we were informed of the attack on the shuttle, along with the loss of another SDI satellite, the warning lights started glowing.”
The president spoke. “Grant believes we should plan for the worst — even a preemptive strike.”
Loud murmurs filled the room.
The president gestured to Wilkinson. “Will you run through your event sequence for us?”
“Yes, sir,” Wilkinson responded, opening his glasses. “The previous general secretary, a man of basic equanimity, died in a mysterious plane crash. Zhilinkhov, from the bowels of obscurity, was in power within hours. The Soviet economy is in complete shambles. The Russians have been deeply embarrassed, twice, by being caught violating the INF Treaty. The United States is about to jump at least a half decade ahead in spacebased missile defense technology.”
Wilkinson waited while everyone grasped his reasoning before continuing.
“Pressure. Real Soviet hard-line pressure from the ruling class. Pressure brought on by the West. The United States, more to the point.”
Wilkinson looked at Chambers. “Evidence indicates there has been a strong shift, or fragmentation, within the Politburo. The political direction of the Soviet Union has made a complete reversal during the past four weeks.”
Everyone, including Admiral Chambers, listened intently.
“My supposition,” Wilkinson continued, “is that Zhilinkhov, the majority — or all — of the Politburo, and hand-picked senior military officers, are behind this effort.”
The chief of staff looked at the president, who expressed his approval. “Go ahead, Grant.”
“The ruling hierarchy has no time left to dispatch officials to plead their case on Capitol Hill. No time for a renewed disinformation campaign. No time for exploiting pacifist sentiment among the religious sector. No time left, gentlemen.”
Wilkinson could see a few heads, including Susan Blaylocke’s, nod in approval. He looked directly at Admiral Chambers before speaking.
“The Soviet system is falling apart, and further behind, even though they have an ambitious and sophisticated space colonization and exploration program. This past holiday season was terribly bleak for the Soviets, purported to have been the worst in over seventy years. TASS and Izvestia reported stores and shelves were virtually empty, provoking an unprecedented public outcry. The Soviet press ignored senior party officials and bitterly criticized perestroika’s failure. They published hundreds of reader complaints.”
Wilkinson looked around the table. “The continuing decline of the Communist party, in my thinking, is why we have seen the drastic changes in the Kremlin. The Party has both feet in the coffin, and they are afraid — paranoid, if you will — that we are going to close the lid.”
Wilkinson paused, then added the bottom line. “We have a resurrected hard-line fanatic, under tremendous pressure to save the Communist system, holding the match closer and closer to the fuse.
“Zhilinkhov wants to see if we’ll flinch and use our extinguishers to put out the flame. If he gets it next to the fuse, as he has now, and we don’t do anything, he is home free. Sure, Russia will take some hits, but they’ll survive, and we’ll be blasted into oblivion. Zhilinkhov will become the Soviet hero of the century, and the Communist party will finally rule the globe.”
Wilkinson cleared his throat. “Zhilinkhov will blow out the match, laugh, watch us put away the extinguishers, then strike the fuse before we can react,” he concluded, sitting back, ready to field the questions.
Blaylocke spoke first. “Grant, I’m not the greatest military strategist, but if you are correct, it means we can’t downgrade from our current posture and readiness.”
“Precisely,” Wilkinson replied. “Zhilinkhov holds the match. If he backs away, he knows we’ll have to back away, eventually. Zhilinkhov knows we can’t tell the American people, and our military personnel, that we’ll have to remain in DEFCON-Two indefinitely.”
Admiral Grabow, chief of Naval Operations, quiet to this point, interrupted. “I’m not sure that is categorically true, Mister Wilkinson.”
“Zhilinkhov realizes, clearly,” Wilkinson paused, directing his words to Grabow, “that we can’t convince our citizens that he is going to blow us to kingdom come. Zhilinkhov knows that we, this administration, would be the ones to appear insane.”
Wilkinson waited a moment, giving Grabow an opportunity to speak. The admiral remained quiet, though not convinced.
The chief of staff addressed the group. “I may be off the mark. Then again, there may be more to this than any of us can imagine. I’m only planning for the worst, as I see the picture.”
The president interrupted, a look of frustration on his face. “Are those goddamn Russians here yet?”
“Yes, sir,” Herb Kohlhammer responded, rising from his chair. “They’re outside. I’ll get them.”
“I’m open for recommendations,” the president said, not pleased with his predicament. “I agree with Susan. We’re going to have to respond in a firm manner. We will retaliate militarily to any future Soviet transgressions.”
Chapter Fourteen
The gunships continued on their search path, alternately turning forty-five degrees left and right of their base course.
The two Soviet Mi-28s were almost a kilometer away before the American spoke. “Come on. Easy, don’t startle the sheep. We’ve got to get near the pickup point and dig in.”
Dimitri responded with a grunt, wiping his coat off as he got to his feet.
“Hang on and stay close,” Wickham ordered as they started across the field.
The cold was becoming sharper as the last shades of light disappeared. Light snow continued to fall in the black void of night, chilling the two agents to the marrow.
Wickham and Dimitri, after stumbling in the dark for an hour and a half, finally reached the edge of the partially frozen river. They were as close to Novgorod as they dared venture. Exhausted, the men collapsed on the bank, cold, frightened, and hungry. The American suffered excruciating pain whenever he bumped his right shoulder, but the penetrating cold had partially numbed all sensations.