“Blackie” Oaks keyed the intercom system. “Sounds like Cap’n Charbonnet got a kill.”
Steve Lincoln, sitting across from Oaks, pressed his intercom. “Two kills, gunny.”
Buchanan interrupted. “Cut the chatter. Too many distractions right now.”
“Yessir,” Oaks replied in a respectful manner.
Wilkinson watched Shcharansky tentatively accept the Moscow “directline” telephone. The deputy foreign minister was clearly nervous, eyes blinking continuously.
The Soviet ambassador, Krikor Gerasimov, normally verbal and animated, sat quietly in his chair. He hadn’t said a word since the president had issued his order.
While the White House staff and Russian officials waited for the Kremlin call to be completed, Wilkinson leaned over to the president. “Sir, do you want the carrier air groups to launch some leverage?”
“Let’s see what develops from this effort first,” the former carrier pilot quietly answered. “If your hypothesis is correct, Zhilinkhov may use this situation to break the logjam he developed.”
Wilkinson nodded his head in agreement.
The president suddenly snapped his fingers, then turned to Herb Kohlhammer. “Get the linguist, the Russian interpreter, in here.”
“Yes, sir,” Kohlhammer responded, pressing a code into his console. “She is in the waiting room.”
Shcharansky winced when a burst of Russian shot through the phone receiver. The deputy foreign minister attempted to speak several times, openly flinching at the rebukes, then loudly exclaimed that he was at the White House. At the White House with the president. A very upset American president.
Shcharansky explained the extreme situation in Russian to the Soviet general secretary, then fell silent.
The interpreter, skipping the profanity, repeated both sides of the conversation.
The deputy foreign minister was taking a severe tongue-lashing, knowing his career was over. He, too, thought the general secretary of the Communist party, psychologically, was not a well person.
“Comrade General Secretary,” Shcharansky said as forcefully as he dared, “I am making an attempt to convey the situation as it sta—”
The telephone line went dead as a chagrined and humiliated Boris Shcharansky, former Soviet deputy foreign minister and rising political star, hung up the phone. He spoke slowly, haltingly.
“The general secretary will comply … with the wishes of the United States.”
No one responded as the two Soviets, now standing, placed their coats over their arms.
The president stood up, followed by the rest of the White House staff, then spoke to the Soviet delegates.
“Thank you for your efforts, gentlemen. You may have made a significant contribution.” The president, unsmiling, stepped forward to shake hands with the Russians. “Thank you, again.”
Both Russians nodded in acknowledgement, then quietly walked out the door.
“Well,” the president exhaled, then sat down, “we’ll see what the next few hours bring.”
Wilkinson and Cliff Howard, hearing the vice president gasp, turned to see what was happening. An Army lieutenant colonel, serving as a White House aide, was conferring with Blaylocke. His face was a grim mask of pain.
The president, noticing the exchange, spoke to his vice president. “What is it, Susan?”
Blaylocke thanked the officer, then turned toward the president as the aide left the room.
“Gentlemen, you better have a seat. I have some bad news to report.”
No one said a word, including the president, as everyone sat down.
“We have lost the shuttle,” Blaylocke said, squeezing one hand with the other. “Columbia crashed into the water off southern California. They are launching search and rescue efforts at this time, but the SAR people, and NASA, don’t have much hope of finding any survivors.”
The president sat back and closed his eyes. Fifteen seconds elapsed before he opened them again, turning to the secretary of defense. “Cliff, I want the Navy to sink the three Soviet submarines off the coast of Florida.”
Kohlhammer and Howard, both shocked, tried to respond at the same time. The secretary of state deferred to Howard.
“Mister President, the general secretary is backing off. I am not sure we want to send the wrong message at this crucial time.”
“Yes,” the president said, staring into Howard’s eyes, “and Zhilinkhov knows our shuttle crashed because he ordered it attacked, along with the Tennessee, the Virginia, and our fighter planes. Order the attack.”
The snow had begun to fall more heavily as the two CIA agents struggled along the edge of the riverbank. Slipping, stumbling, and occasionally falling, the operatives slowly distanced themselves from the group of spetsnaz commandos in the inflatable raft.
Overhead, the Russian gunship helicopters continued to orbit in ever-widening circles. Their spotlights looked like dancing luminous spheres, darting at times, against the dark overcast.
Wickham, feeling sluggish, slipped and fell sideways on his limp right arm. Stifling a loud groan, the American felt Dimitri trip over his legs, then watched him fall headfirst down the muddy embankment.
The opposite side of the river was teeming with Soviet special forces troops, each carrying a powerful flashlight or spotlight.
Dimitri lay completely exposed to the light beams arcing randomly back and forth across the partially frozen river.
“Oh, God,” Wickham pleaded in frustration and weariness, “please help us.”
The CIA agent first crawled, then slid down the muddy slope of the riverbank, inadvertently kneeing Dimitri in the side. Fortunately, Dimitri was only frightened by the unexpected fall, not hurt.
As the two men struggled back up the slippery incline, Wickham was startled to hear his miniature radio receiver transmit a message.
“Sandman, do you read Scarecrow?” There was an urgency in the voice. “Do you copy, Sandman?”
“Hurry, Dimitri, they’re here!” Wickham encouraged the young agent to move up the embankment faster, so they could conceal themselves and communicate with the rescue helicopters.
“Scarecrow calling Sandman,” Higgins called, annoyance in his voice. “Come in, Sandman.”
Buchanan looked at his copilot, then spoke without using the intercom. “If they aren’t there … Shit! We may get gama-rooshed for nothing.”
“Yeah,” Higgins keyed the intercom, “they may already be dead, and we’re going—”
“We’re goin’ into a trap,” Buchanan finished the grim statement for his friend.
“Scarecrow One to Sandman!” Higgins said into the radio. “Copy, Sandman?”
Wickham pulled on Dimitri’s coat sleeve as hard as he could with his left arm. The young operative finally struggled over the lip of the riverbank and rolled under a clump of low shrub trees.
Both agents could clearly hear the excited barking of dogs in the inflatable boat. The Russians were almost across the river, slowed only by thin ice along the bank. Time was rapidly running out for the two CIA operatives. The Russians were closing fast, aided by the highly trained attack dogs.
Wickham tugged at the combination radio/homing beacon, folded out the antenna, flipped the automatic direction finder to the on position, then transmitted over the radio.
“Scarecrow, Scarecrow, this is Sandman, over!” Wickham’s voice quivered from the freezing cold and adrenaline rush through his body.
“Sandman!” the surprised voice responded immediately. “Stand by one.”
“We can’t stand by!” Wickham angrily transmitted back. “We’re surrounded by Russians!”
“Okay, Sandman,” Higgins radioed, “we’ve got a sweet beacon. Hang on. We’re seven out and rapidly closing on your position.”