Vashin liked what he was hearing. “Perhaps, you’re right.”
She reached out and touched his arm. “Are you still having the same dream?” He nodded, not looking at her. “Only the gods live in clouds, Mikhail. I’m certain it’s a message. What else can it mean? Everything you do, all that you touch, should be big and godlike.”
The Box echoed with commands and, at exactly eleven o’clock Saturday morning, the Corps marched out of Hagerman Barracks. The ranks were a little straighter, the turns sharper, and their step more purposeful as they came onto the parade field. The Tactical Leadership Advisors watched nervously as their charges passed by and, occasionally, cast furtive glances at the waiting crowd. The grandstands were overflowing and the field lined with spectators. What had promised to be a normal Saturday morning parade attended by a few townspeople had turned into a major event.
The reason for the sudden interest was sitting on the reviewing stand with General McMasters, his wife, and the commandant, Col. Nelson Day. “Madame President,” Lenora McMasters asked, “have you ever seen a military parade before?”
“This is my first time,” Maddy replied. “Does the town always turn out like this?”
“Sometimes,” Lenora answered. “It’s probably because you are the first sitting president to ever visit Roswell.” They talked while the Corps moved onto the field.
“I think Brian has mentioned you three or four times. He calls you the Cookie Lady. How many have you baked?”
Lenora laughed. “I quit counting after the first year. It’s such a little thing, even silly, but for some reason…”
Maddy reached out and touched Lenora’s hand. “Thank you.” They fell silent as the superintendent stepped up to the microphone. He began by calling for the chaplain to give the invocation. The appropriate honors were played for the president and adjutant’s call, was sounded. “Colonel Day,” Maddy asked, “what’s happening?”
The commandant beamed with pride as he explained a standard military parade. Then it was time for the Corps to pass in review. McMasters and Day escorted her to the front of the reviewing stand to review the cadets as they passed by. The commands were sharp as Alpha Troop approached, its guidon lowered. “Eyes right” echoed over the field. As one, the cadets’ heads snapped to the right.
“They’re wonderful,” Maddy said. “You must be very proud of them.”
“We are, Madame President,” McMasters said. He gave a low laugh. “And sometimes, they’re show dogs.” Maddy looked at him, not sure how to interpret his remark. “They’re still kids, Madame President. But they know when to shine.”
“Indeed they do.” She watched as Brian’s troop marched by. She barely recognized her son and her eyes misted over.
It had been a long day and finally Maddy was alone with Brian in his room. “I can’t believe how neat and clean it is.”
“We had a big room inspection this morning.”
“Before the parade?”
“And we had an open ranks inspection before that.”
The mother in Maddy came out. “That’s asking too much.”
“Ah, Mom. I got it all locked up. Thanks to Maggot and the Trog.”
Maddy looked at her son, hearing something new. He was not the same willful, very spoiled boy she had sent to New Mexico. “Are you happy here?”
Brian shrugged. “I got some good friends.” He fell silent. Then, “I want to come back next year.”
A steady stream of small vans and cars started arriving at the old red brick warehouse shortly after dark on Sunday evening. The routine was the same for each vehicle; the driver stopped and gave the recognition signal to the guard, then the two or three passengers would get out and clear their weapons as other guards escorted them to the side of the warehouse, then another team would search the vehicle to ensure it was not booby-trapped or carried weapons. Finally, the vehicle was waved into the warehouse where it was quickly unloaded. The driver would drive through and load his passengers on the back side before rapidly driving away.
Inside the warehouse, the canvas money bags or suitcases that had been delivered were loaded into three Brink’s-style armored trucks. It was hard to tell who was more nervous, the Polish Mafia delivering the money or the Russian Mafiya receiving it. But the collection point worked well, and soon the last vehicle arrived, a dark gray Mercedes-Benz sedan. It went through the same routine and was waved inside.
The moment the car stopped, a cloud of gas erupted from the trunk, out of the grille, and from underneath. The last thing the driver did was to throw open his door to escape. That only triggered another burst of gas. Within six seconds, everyone in the warehouse, including the driver, was unconscious.
Outside, the guards heard a brief commotion as warnings were shouted. Then all was quiet. Two guards ran for the door to check. But when they opened the door, escaping gas knocked them out. Bright lights clicked on and froze the remaining guards in an illuminated tableau as a bullhorn ordered them to drop their weapons and freeze. One guard fired his AK-47 blindly into the night. A single shot dropped him before he got off four rounds.
Black-uniformed men stepped out of the shadows and secured the area before going inside where the men were starting to regain consciousness. All but one would suffer from a splitting headache and have a bitter taste in his mouth. The exception was dead from an asthmatic reaction to the gas. The commander of SPS drove up in his command Humvee and got out. He spoke briefly to his men before going inside. The prisoners were all gagged, blindfolded, and bound with plastic flex cuffs. He allowed a tight smile as the Mercedes was recharged with gas and the small convoy formed, ready to move.
The bunker at Crown Central was unusually busy for a Sunday night. Crown Central was the middle early warning and GCI radar site that formed a chain across the middle of Poland with its sister sites, Crown East and Crown West. Normally, only the radar operator was awake at eleven o’clock and his main problem was to find something to read. But tonight, the entire crew was awake and still in a state of euphoric shock mixed with childlike delight over the new radar system the Americans had finished installing the day before. They never suspected a system like the AN/TPS-59 even existed. The contrast between the U.S.-built radar with its phased-array antenna, built-in antijam circuits, and sophisticated computer system and the old Soviet Barlock radar defied comparison. A vague image of the Wright brothers’ Flyer and a modern jet fighter flitted through the back of the young radar operator’s mind.
The American technician stood over the radar operator’s shoulder as the target they had been waiting for appeared on the scope, 165 miles to the west and still over Germany. “Roll the control ball and place the cursor over the target,” he explained. “Now press down on the ball until you feel the first detent.” The computer analyzed the target and spat out a wealth of digital information, displaying the key numbers on the screen next to the target. The target was an Ilyushin-76. “Good,” the American said. “If you want the system to track the target, press the ball to the second detent.” The Pole did as he said and the system flashed. The target became a green inverted V. “Now you can leave it or tag it up as a bandit — a hostile aircraft.”
“It’s a Vnukova aircraft,” the radar operator explained. “That’s a Russian diplomatic flight. We get two or three a week. They often land at Modlin Air Base near Warsaw when they are going to Europe but never on the return flight.”
“It’s hostile,” a man standing behind the American said. He was dressed in black combat fatigues and armed with an automatic strapped on his hip. Only the small patch on his right shoulder with the lightning bolt Ss flanking the P with its fishhook tail announced he was with Special Public Services.