“Madame President,” Serick said, “I must protest. The Germans are among our best allies. We can’t treat them this way.”
“They’re on the edge here,” Turner replied. “I want them to step back and do the right thing in Poland, take the honorable course.”
“And letting the Poles assassinate Vashin for us is honorable?”
“I believe,” Turner said icily, “they are doing it for Poland.”
The images had barely faded from Mazie’s computer screen when her telephone buzzed. It was the DCI and they went secure. “Serick may have shot off his foot,” the DCI said.
“He was very angry,” Mazie conceded. “But he made a good point. The Germans are good allies.”
“But we need to get them back on the reservation in regards to Poland,” the DCI added. “So what do we do now?”
“Wait,” Mazie answered.
Brian stomped up the steps to the second-floor stoop and shook off his poncho before going inside. “Hey, Maggot,” he called, “talk about getting pissed on! Have you heard?”
“Heard what?” Matt answered.
“All classes and formations are canceled for the next couple of days. Lots of people got flooded out and General McMasters is gonna let them use NMMI as a relief center. We may have to double up with some kids from town and we’re gonna send teams to go get some stranded families. The commandant is asking for volunteers.”
Matt came outside and leaned over the railing. He studied the weather. “It’s letting up.”
“About time. You want to volunteer? I am.”
“I’m worried about the Trog. I called her ranch but can’t get through. Not even on a cell phone. I think she’s there all alone.”
Brian recalled the time they had ridden there by horseback from the Escalante family compound. It seemed like an eon ago. “Ah, she’ll be all right.”
Matt made up his mind. “The weather’s breaking. I’m gonna go check on her.”
“You still feeling guilty?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Besides, I gotta talk to her.”
“How you gonna get there?”
“Beats me.”
“Chuck Sanford is going off duty,” Brian said. “Maybe he’ll take us.” The two boys hurried down the steps to the TLA’s office and corralled the Secret Service agent.
Sanford listened and nodded. “Yeah, let’s do it. We should be able to get there before dark.” He looked at Brian. “But you gotta stay here.”
“Come on! Gimme a break.”
“Sorry,” Sanford told him, “but that’s the way it is. We don’t know what the conditions are and we can’t take the chance. Matt, you go sign out while I finish up here.”
Brian stifled an obscenity. If Sanford wouldn’t allow him to go after Zeth, there was no way the commandant would allow him to volunteer for relief work. Why couldn’t they treat him like everyone else? “See you when you get back,” he muttered. He wandered through the Sally Port and gazed at the sky. The rain had stopped and the weather was definitely improving. There were times he hated being the president’s son. “No way,” he said to himself. He ran back to his room and grabbed his poncho. He scribbled a note and left it on his desk. Then he ran for the parking lot, hoping Sanford had left his truck unlocked like everyone else in Roswell.
Sanford drove slowly up the highway toward Ruidoso, bulldozing through the mud and debris that covered the highway. The drive had taken much longer than expected and the dark evening sky indicated a new storm was moving in. He mentally cursed weathermen and tried to call his office at NMMI. The cell phone was out of contact with a relay tower. He keyed his radio with similar results. Finally, he checked the locator beacon the Secret Service had installed in the truck. It was on and transmitting. At least the Secret Service would know where he was. Out of long habit, he glanced in the rearview mirror. A dark gray sedan was following them. “I can’t believe someone else is out here,” he muttered to Matt.
“The turnoff is just ahead,” Matt said.
“Got it,” Sanford answered, turning onto the dirt road that led to the Trogger family ranch. The mud and snow tires of the four-wheel-drive sport utility truck kicked up a shower of mud and gravel. Ahead of them, the Rio Hondo had overflowed its banks and water was splashing through the deck planks of the low wooden bridge. Sanford got out and walked across, testing it. He came back. “It’ll be okay. You get out while I drive across. You can tell them where to look for the body if it gives way,” he said, half joking.
Matt got out and waited while Sanford eased the truck across the bridge. Then he ran to catch up. He jerked open the rear door to throw his poncho in. Brian was lying on the floor, grinning at him. Brian held a finger to his lips, cautioning Matt to be quiet.
THIRTY-ONE
It was dark when Sanford pulled up in front of the ranch house. A lantern flickered in one room, offering proof that Zeth was there. “Electricity must be out,” Sanford told Matt. He hit the horn and Zeth opened the front door. Matt was out of the car and up the steps. He skidded to a stop, suddenly embarrassed.
“I was worried,” he said.
“I didn’t realize you had grown,” she said, looking at him with fresh eyes.
Brian bounced out of the truck and ran up the steps.
“Oh, no,” Sanford groaned. “Where did you come from?”
“No way I was gonna miss out on everything,” Brian replied. It was a typical teenage answer: the need to be included and not left out.
Sanford grabbed his radio and cycled through the channels, trying to contact any station to establish a relay. Nothing. He tried his cell phone and again, came up dry. Finally, he gave up. “I need to tell the detachment where you are.”
“No problem,” Brian said. “I left a note on my desk and told them I was going with you.”
“They still need to know you’re okay. I got to tell you, good buddy, it would’ve been a hell of a lot better if you had stayed at NMMI.”
“I didn’t mean to cause trouble,” Brian said, now genuinely contrite.
“I know,” Sanford said, remembering when he was Brian’s age and how much he hated being odd man out. He turned to Zeth. “You heard a weather report lately?” She shook her head. He stared at the night sky. The rain was starting to fall again. “I need to find out what the weather’s doing. We gotta decide if we’re gonna stay or go.”
Geraldine was ready to leave with Vashin. Her bags were already at Vnukovo, the airport used by the Kremlin’s leaders when traveling out of Moscow. She cleared her desk and, with a few minutes to spare, checked her e-mail. There was only one message from someone who claimed to be an astrologer. That puzzled her. Few people knew her mailing address and none of them were fortunetellers. She called up the message. Nothing in her expression betrayed the shock she felt. It was from her handler.
Your horoscope says don’t fly today.
Pontowski and Waldo sat at the back of the small room and tried to act as though it were a routine briefing. Emil stood in front and kept looking their way for reassurance. But they were not flying the mission and there was little they could do. The Polish officer fingered his note cards as the seven other pilots took their seats. Then he cleared his throat one last time and started the detailed mission briefing. “Good morning,” he said. “Our mission is Target Yalta.” Waldo cycled the graphics for Emil and a small-scale chart of the route flashed on the screen.
Slowly, and with increasing confidence, Emil warmed to the briefing. The Poles had been planning and practicing for more than a week so nothing was new and the briefing was essentially a final wrap-up. When Emil got to the ingress phase and reviewed the sequence of the attack on the compound where Vashin was staying, Pontowski was certain they could bring it off. Emil carefully went over target identification even though the pilots had spent hours in target study. “The attack is scheduled for first light tomorrow morning when we can be sure the objective will be sleeping.”