“Please keep me informed,” she said, dismissing him. Parrish was beside her, looking half asleep and disheveled. “Well, since we’re all awake,” she said with mock good humor, “let’s go to work.” A secretary went to the kitchen for coffee as more of her staff reported in. The Situation Room duty officer traveling with the mobile command post entered and spoke quietly to Parrish. He handed the chief of staff a folder and left. “The storm?” Maddy asked.
“No, Ma’am. We’ll have an update on that in a few minutes. This is a report from the CIA. The Poles are launching eight F-16s to shoot down an airliner carrying Mikhail Vashin.”
“That’s their decision,” she replied. “Contact Senator Leland and tell him.” She thought for a moment. “No. Do it in the morning when it’s too late to do anything about it. Our official position is that we learned about it after the fact, gave no orders, and had no hand in it.”
Parrish looked sick. “The CIA report says two American pilots are leading the mission. General Pontowski and a George Walderman. Technically, they’re civilians and they’re acting of their own accord. But that does involve us.”
The president steepled her hands and rested her chin on her thumbs, her eyes closed. “Whatever the legalities, whatever Leland does, and no matter how this turns out, I’m not going to apologize for our allies removing an extremely dangerous enemy.” Her eyes snapped open. “Vashin refuses to play by the rules and there is no doubt in my mind he’ll do everything in his power to destroy this country. Can you imagine what he’ll do if he controls a nuclear arsenal?” She challenged them to answer.
“Well, Mizz President,” Shaw drawled, “if you pull this one off, you’ll take first prize at the county fair. If it goes bust, they’ll feed us all to the pigs.”
“Thank you, Patrick. I needed to know that.”
Patrick Shaw looked at his president, fake resignation on his face. “Talk to Maggie Thatcher. She can tell you how it works.” He laughed. “If you want, I can have Leland so busy jumpin’ through hoops he won’t give a damn what we do to the Russkies.”
“How are you going to make that happen?” Parrish asked.
“I can see the Drudge Report now. ‘Highly reliable sources confirm the revealing photo of the president’s mother was a fake and that Senator Leland ordered it passed to the British tabloids.’”
“The Drudge Report strikes again,” Parrish muttered.
“Do it,” Maddy said. “I need to get dressed. Please have an update on the storm ready when I return.” They stood until she left the room.
Her maid was waiting for her. “I laid out some clothes in case you’re going back to work.”
She dropped her robe. “Thank you, Laura.” She caught her image in the big mirror over the dresser and the dream was back, sharp and clear. An empty feeling swept over her. Then, for a brief moment, she was back in time, young again, her face fresh and unlined. She closed her eyes and savored the memory. When she looked again, a middle-aged woman stared back at her. Her eyes were heavy with worry, her face careworn. “Is that who I am now?” she asked. She closed her eyes and Matt Pontowski was back with her, his arms around her. “There will be a time for us,” she promised.
She opened her eyes and picked up the phone. “Please tell Mr. Parrish I want to return to Washington as soon as possible.”
Pontowski was moving fast when he reached his F-16 and clambered up the boarding ladder. The crew chief followed him and helped him strap in. Pontowski’s hands were a blur as he ran the before-engine-start checklist. Then he looked over at Waldo who was waiting patiently for him to finish. “I’m getting slow,” he mumbled to himself. His right forefinger hit the electrical switch and the VHF radio came alive. “Radio check,” he transmitted. The flight checked in. He waved a forefinger in a tight circle at the crew chief for start engines and brought the big Pratt & Whitney F100 kicker to life. With the engine on line, he cycled his Have Quick radio, thankful they had the jamproof frequency-hopping radio that an enemy could not monitor. He was going to be doing a lot of talking.
Again, he checked the flight in on the radio and taxied for the runway. The eight aircraft parked in a line, noses pointed into the wind, for their weapons to be armed and a final quick check before takeoff. He waited, the old tension mounting. For a moment, he was back in time on his first combat mission, holding at the end of the runway just like now. He knew what Emil and the other pilots were feeling and for one split second, wasn’t sure that he and Waldo could bring it off. A crew chief ran out from under Pontowski’s wing and held up a handful of red safety pins with red streamers. His weapons were ready for flight.
Can we do it? he wondered. He honestly didn’t know the answer. He made the decision and tapped the front of his helmet with his fist, the signal for lowering their canopies in unison. Waldo passed the signal down the line and when he looked back, Pontowski rocked his head forward and lowered his canopy. Waldo sent the signal down the line and eight canopies lowered in unison. Only the crew chiefs saw it, but it was the first step in the pilots coming together as a team.
Pontowski keyed his radio. “Takeoff single ship, twenty-second intervals.” Waldo answered by clicking his transmit button once. Six more clicks echoed in acknowledgment. Pontowski grunted in satisfaction. It was a good beginning. He called for takeoff clearance from the tower and taxied onto the runway. The others followed him, taxiing into a staggered pattern to avoid jet blast.
“Cleared for takeoff,” the tower radioed.
“Rolling,” Pontowski replied, starting the clock.
It was one o’clock in the morning when the headlights of Sanford’s truck raked the swollen Rio Hondo. He got out and checked the bridge. It was under three inches of water. He hurried back to the truck. “Zeth, you’ve lived here most your life. Do you think it’s safe to cross?”
“My dad used to drive across all the time when it was under water. I guess it’s okay.”
“Let’s try it.” He grabbed a rope out of the truck and tied one end to the front bumper and the other end to himself. “I’m gonna walk across and check it out. If I fall in or get swept away, I’d appreciate a little help on the rope.” The teenagers played out the rope as he walked across the bridge. He made it across and was coming back when, suddenly, a single shot rang out.
Sanford fell into the raging current as a volley of shots shattered the truck’s windshield. The teenagers fell to the ground and rolled under the truck. But Zeth kept crawling and pulled herself onto the floor of the front seat. Two more shots slammed into the truck, spraying glass over her. She reached up and pressed the button on the emergency locator beacon. But the set was dead, shattered by a bullet.
THIRTY-TWO
An honor guard at Vnukova Airport stood at attention in the morning sun as the motorcade drove up to the boarding steps of the waiting Tupolev TU-204. The Russian military had converted the twin-engine turbofan airliner for VIP use and it was the flagship of Transport Aviation, rivaling Air Force One in comfort and luxury. The motorcade coasted to a halt.
General Colonel Peter Prudnokov, the commander of Transport Aviation, saluted Vashin as he emerged from his limousine. “We are at your service, Mr. Vashin.” Vashin nodded, taking the salute as his rightful due. He climbed the steps.
Vashin hesitated at the door and looked over the assembled crowd below him. The sun streamed onto Vashin’s face and a sense of euphoria lifted him upward until he was flying on his own, ever closer to the sun. “This way, please,” a uniformed steward said, bringing him back to earth.