“That’s right… you heard what I said!” MSB Major Teresov screamed into the radio microphone. “Fisikous has been surrounded by armed Lithuanian peasants, and some unidentified aircraft has just bombed the base … no, you asshole, this is not an exercise! I don’t care if this is an unsecure channel! I want a fucking helicopter-gunship squadron with antiair support deployed to Fisikous immediately, and I want a full Commonwealth battalion with assault gear and armor sent as well! Alert the Commonwealth Army corps commander in Riga that Fisikous is under attack. Request infantry and security support … yes, Corps headquarters directly, under General Gabovich’s authority.” He knew he was stretching the limits of his authority once again, but this was getting very serious …
“What do you think you’re doing, Teresov?” Colonel Kortyshkov interrupted. A junior NCO had led the design bureau’s security forces commander to where Teresov was talking on the portable UHF transceiver — Teresov made a mental note to have that soldier carry Kortyshkov’s cold-weather gear to Siberia when this was over. “You are not authorized to order air cover or anything from Corps headquarters, and I gave orders that no communications are allowed out of this building without my specific approval.”
“Your approval is the least of my concerns,” Teresov said dismissively. “The defense of this base and the safety of the projects here are my only concern.” He finished his conversation with the radiotelephone operator he had managed to reach, then faced Kortyshkov with a stern glare and asked, “Has General Gabovich been located yet?”
“I am not yet in contact with the south gate or with Colonel Stepanov—”
“Then you have failed again,” Teresov said. “It is imperative that General Gabovich be found and warned to stay away from the base.”
“Then I suggest you run out and find him, Comrade,” Kortyshkov said. “Or are you still debating whether or not to carry out your Zulu directive? Let me help you with both missions.” At that, Kortyshkov reached into his NCO’s holster, withdrew a Makarov PM 9-millimeter automatic pistol, and slapped it into Teresov’s hand. Pointing toward the barricaded front door and then toward the stairwell that led to the two subfloors, Kortyshkov said, “Your general is that way, your helpless victim is that way. Let’s see how well you carry out either mission.”
“I order you to carry out the Zulu directive, Colonel.”
“And I refuse,” Kortyshkov replied. “My men tell me that ‘the man down there is an American military officer. He’s not a traitorous Soviet scientist, but an American! An officer! I have seen filthy pigs kept in better condition! You—” And then Kortyshkov stopped, his eyes wide with fear and realization: “Oh God, those are the Americans outside! They’re probably here to retrieve their officer!”
“Don’t be an idiot! Have you lost all of your senses?” Teresov demanded. He couldn’t wait until Gabovich sent this insubordinating moron to Anadyr or some other hellhole base.
“You think I’m being a fool, Major? Think about it.”
And it was then that Teresov realized, with a growing sense of dread and horror, that Kortyshkov was right. It was the only possible explanation for this cockeyed series of events. The fucking Americans were raiding the Institute! And at the same time they were probably aiding and abetting that Boy Scout army, the Iron Wolf Brigade, to liberate Fisikous. Teresov cursed the heavens, wishing this day had never dawned.
“If you want to kill a defenseless military officer, damn your eyes, then do it yourself! Thanks to your treachery, Major Teresov, I have to defend this installation against an American invasion force!” Kortyshkov then turned and departed, leaving Teresov angry enough to shoot the pompous, weak-livered officer in the back and end his useless existence. But the mission had first priority.
By then, Kortyshkov’s soldiers had closed and locked the ground-floor doors and had placed tables against the windows and in the hallways to provide cover. Teresov realized he was not going to get out of the building. Gabovich had to help himself now — there was nothing more that Teresov could do for him until these Lithuanian rebels were squashed.
That left only Luger to contend with.
Grimly, Teresov tightened his grip on the Makarov and headed for the stairs that led to the subfloor detention center. The first thing Gabovich would want to ensure was that Luger was disposed of — and that was what Teresov had to do right now.
FIVE
General Wilbur Curtis’s custom Lincoln Continental staff car — nicknamed the “JokerMobile” because of its gaudy purple leather interior, inch of bulletproof Kevlar plating, and sophisticated communications equipment — skidded to a halt at the entrance of the White House East Wing. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and his aide, Air Force Colonel Andrew Wyatt, were stepping out of the big car before the wheels had even stopped rolling. Through the double doors, past the security station, left down the Lady Bird Hallway, left and up the Grant Staircase, the General and his aide hurried to the “ground floor” of the White House, in the Oval Office anteroom.
Tonight was a “constituents’ evening” photo opportunity, when carefully selected senators were “rewarded” by the President for supporting certain legislation or siding with the President’s party, by bringing constituents in for a brief reception in the White House and pictures with the President in the Oval Office. The Oval Office anteroom was filled with people, all dressed in their Sunday best, looking nervous and excited.
On strict orders of the President’s chief of staff, and to maintain all outward appearances of business as usual, Curtis had to stop and greet the senators and their guests, which he did as politely but as quickly as he could possibly manage. As soon as he could, he broke away from the crowd, hurried past the Cabinet Room, and waved at the Secret Service agents who admitted him immediately into the Oval Office. Wyatt plugged his portable Pentagon command-post transceiver into a wall outlet in a nearby office and waited.
The President was sipping coffee at his desk. His jacket was off and his light-blue silk shirt underneath was wrinkled and tired-looking, but his tie was still straight, his hair was neatly in place, and he looked as perky and energetic as ever. He glanced at his watch when Curtis entered. He and Secretary of defense Preston, along with National Security Advisor Russell, had been briefing the President every thirty minutes on the progress of the Marines’ mission in Lithuania, and Curtis hadn’t been due for another update for a long time — getting an early one could only mean trouble. The President waved at the Oval Office photographers to leave by the door to the Cabinet Room, then asked, “What have you got, Wilbur?”
“Good news and not-so-good news, sir,” Curtis replied. “The embassy staff who evacuated tonight from Vilnius are safely in Polish airspace and have rendezvoused with an Air Force KC-10 tanker for refueling. No sign of pursuit. They have received clearance across Poland for a landing in Warsaw. The embassy staff in Poland is standing by. Bad news, though — one embassy staffer’s wife had a heart attack and died on board one of the choppers. Robert Massey’s wife, Rebecca.”
“Oh, Lord, Rebecca Massey. Jesus … couldn’t anybody do anything? No doctors or medics on board?”
“It was sudden and quick,” Curtis said. “They were jammed into this helicopter like sardines — one Super Stallion broke down, as we told you earlier, so they had to double up. By the time the Marine corpsman reached her, she was gone. Nothing could be done.”