Another period of silence engulfed the room.
“The White House,” Shumenko began slowly, “has demanded a summit in Paris in ten days.”
Pavlinsky started to speak.
“No,” Shumenko said stiffly, and raised his hand. “Let me finish. The White House has requested that we send someone to escort the body of Major Viktor Kasatkin — one of our flight instructors assigned to Iran — back to Moscow.”
Curious and confused, Pavlinsky frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Major Kasatkin was flying a MiG-29 in combat and was shot down by one of the American pilots.”
Pavlinsky had a blank look on his face. “But our pilots have strict orders not to engage in combat on behalf of Iran.”
“The major elected to disobey the order,” Shumenko said in a tired voice. “You will accompany his body home.”
Stunned, Pavlinsky searched for words. “This — it is not my responsibility.”
Frowning, Shumenko glared at Pavlinsky. “You will accompany the body home,” he growled in disgust.
45
Accompanied by Hartwell Prost, Pete Adair, and three unsmiling Secret Service agents, the president rushed out of the mansion and opened his oversized golf umbrella. The steady drizzle was threatening to turn into rain as the afternoon wore on.
Dressed in a long, tan raincoat buttoned snugly around his neck, Macklin gave the drenched reporters a casual wave as the six men approached Marine One. As soon as the president and his party were onboard, the gleaming helicopter climbed away from the landing pad and turned toward Andrews Air Force Base.
With only a few minutes available to catch up on events, Prost and Adair wanted to cover as many topics as possible. Thus far the bombing missions had been a resounding success, with mixed reactions from allies and foes. Washington-based representatives of the countries being bombed were alternately howling in protest and threatening swift retaliation.
“The first lady is safely inside Raven Rock,” Prost advised as he opened his attaché case. Site-R is a major military bunker located inside Raven Rock Mountain in Pennsylvania. A presidential apartment, affectionately known as the Lucy and Desi Suite, is provided for the president and his spouse.
“Good,” Macklin said flatly as he vacantly stared at the steady stream of water flowing across the side window. This is, without a doubt, the worst day I’ve had in my life.
“Are you okay, sir?” Prost queried.
“Yes,” the president said absently as he thought about the gut-wrenching visit he had had with Sandy Hatcher an hour before he left the White House. After experiencing a shocking revelation, Macklin had summoned the director of the FBI to the Oval Office. Without taking his eyes off the rivulet of rain, the president sighed. “I’ll be fine this evening, you can count on it.”
Adair and Prost exchanged concerned looks. Macklin’s face was chalky white and he seemed listless.
With sadness in his eyes, the president turned to Adair. “What happened to the B-2 we lost?”
SecDef was fatigued and it showed in his eyes. “General Chalmers said it collided with a tanker while they were trying to refuel in severe turbulence. From what I understand, the primary tanker developed a fuel leak, so the B-2 continued on to rendezvous with another tanker northeast of the Spratly Islands.
“The bomber was on the verge of flaming out when the pilot attempted to refuel while they were flying through heavy thunderstorms. The B-2 rammed the back of the KC-10, then dropped straight out of sight.”
“What happened to the tanker?” the president asked.
“It was severely damaged,” Adair conceded, trying to hide the yawn he couldn’t suppress. “The pilot managed to land it in one piece in Manila. The boom operator sustained major injuries during the collision, but they expect him to make a full recovery.”
A frown creased Macklin’s forehead. “What about the B-2 crew?”
“We don’t know,” Adair admitted with a pained expression. “The plane went down in the South China Sea, and we haven’t heard anything about the pilots. We have every available resource looking for them.”
Lost in his thoughts, Macklin did not respond.
“We also had a B-52 shot down over Iran.”
Solemn-faced, the president stared out the window. “Any survivors?”
“There was one, sir.”
“Was?”
“They shot him to death while he was descending in his parachute.”
“Sonuvabitch,” Macklin said bitterly, then fell silent.
Prost took advantage of the pause. ‘Two of the terrorists who shot down the civilian 737 are dead, and the third one is in critical condition.”
The president made eye contact.
“Two undercover FBI agents,” Prost went on, “happened to see the missile as it started up. They were in a limo a block away and spotted a Chevy Suburban lurch onto the road and accelerate at full throttle. The agents gave chase and the terrorists fired at them. While our guys were calling for backup, the Iranians ran a red light and got creamed by a dump truck full of scrap iron.”
“How’s the truck driver?” Macklin asked with a dull expression.
“He’s fine, just a few scratches.”
“Good,” the president said, and turned to Adair. “I want to continue to pound the hell out of the primary terrorist targets and military targets you and the Joint Chiefs have selected.”
“Yes, sir.”
The president’s spirit was bouncing back. “Regardless of the cries and threats coming out of the UN and the Middle East, I’m going to stay focused on Iran, Libya, Sudan, Afghanistan, Syria, and the terrorist facilities in the Bekaa Valley until Bassam Shakhar and the rest of his loony pals call off their thugs.”
The veins in Macklin’s neck were protruding. “I want the bombing to go on every day from sundown to sunup, but at random intervals, keep ’em off balance and in shock.”
“I understand, sir,” Adair said as they approached Andrews. “As we speak, B-ls from Dyess are hitting terrorist strongholds, while B-52s from Barksdale and Minot are carpet-bombing the Bekaa Valley.”
“That’ll get their attention,” the president said as the helicopter began a smooth descent toward the air base.
Prost allowed himself a moment of pleasure. “They’re crying foul at the top of their lungs.”
“That’s what I want to hear,” Macklin said with a trace of sarcasm. “As long as we’re being terrorized, the sponsors are going to get pounded into the dirt. I will break them.”
Prost glanced at Adair, then caught the president’s eye. “That’s what you have to do with this kind of mentality. You have to treat them in the only way they understand.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” Macklin said resolutely, then changed the subject. “What can you tell me about the yacht and the nuclear bomb?”
“Nothing,” Prost said lightly. “They’re still searching.”
Macklin glanced at his wristwatch, then stared out the window and addressed Adair. “What’s happening in the Gulf?”
“The Roosevelt is conducting cyclic-ops and we haven’t had any serious threats to the battle group.”
“Good.” The president spoke slowly and clearly. “When you return to the White House, I’d like the two of you to have dinner there and wait for me to contact you.”
Taken by total surprise, both men looked at each other, then cautiously turned to the president.
“May I ask what’s on your mind?” Prost asked while Adair hesitated.
“Not yet,” the president said coldly, and continued to stare out the window. “I need time to look into a few things first, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” they said as one.