"Strasvitye," the man said finally, uncertainty in his gravelly voice. "Ya Doktor Andrei Petrovich Androv."
Would the idea work? Yuri still didn't know. As he walked between the vehicles, the hangar's wide banks of fluorescents glaring down on the final preflight preps for Daedalus I, he was sure of only one thing: at this point, the revised plan was the only option left. Would the American help?
The woman, the bitch, was no fooclass="underline" An insight he'd come by the hard way. But maybe the CIA guy — what had she said his name was? — Vance?
How the hell did he get here? However it had happened, he was being kept in the West Quadrant. It had been no trick to find him.
He was a godsend; his help would make the scenario possible. Now it merely required split-second timing.
He glanced up at the big liquid crystal display screen on the far wall, noting it read zero minus eight hours ten minutes. He should be back in the West Quadrant now, catching some sleep — if Taro Ikeda knew he was here in the hangar, there'd be hell to pay — but time was running out.
Tanzan Mino had listened icily to his renewed arguments against additional personnel in the cockpit, then declared that the viability of the program depended on having backups. Merely an essential precaution. End of discussion.
Bullshit. As soon as the political games were played out, the CEO was planning to get rid of him, probably by some "accident."
Well, screw him. And that's where the American came in. The thing to do was just appear to be proceeding with the countdown normally, keep everything innocent. Then, at the last minute…
He stared up at Daedalus I one last time, watching as the maintenance crews finished the last of the preflight scramjet preps. And he shook his head in amazement that Andrei Androv and all his damned propulsion engineers could create a genuine technological miracle and still be total bumblers when it came to what in hell was really happening.
These technical types thought they were so brilliant! But if it had taken them all this time to realize they'd been fucked by Mino Industries, then how smart could they really be? Made him wonder how the Baikonur Cosmodrome ever managed to get so much as a turnip into orbit.
Now these same geniuses had to get Daedalus II flight- ready in just a few hours, and had to do it without anyone suspecting what they were doing. Finally, they had to be ready to roll into action the instant the "accident" happened. No trial runs.
He checked his watch and realized his father's propulsion team was already gathering at Number One, the final meeting. The question now was, could they really deliver? The American was the key.
"Your name Vance?" The Russian voice, with its uncertain English, was the last thing he'd expected.
"Who are you?"
"For this vehicle, I am Director Propulsion System," he replied formally, and with pride, pulling at his white lab coat. "I must talk you. Please."
Vance stepped away from the wall and looked the old man over more closely. Then it clicked. Andrei Petrovich Androv was a living legend. Ten years ago the CIA already had a tech file on him that filled three of those old-time reels of half-inch tape. These days, God knows what they had. He'd been the USSR's great space pioneer, a hero who'd gone virtually unrecognized by his own country. No Order of Lenin. Nothing. Nada. But maybe he'd preferred it that way, liked being a recluse. Nobody, least of all the CIA's Soviet specialists, could figure him.
And now he was here in the wilds of northern Hokkaido, building a spaceplane. They'd sent over no less than the Grand Old Man to handle the propulsion. This project was top priority.
A s it deserved to be. But the immediate question was, What was the dean of Soviet rocket research doing here visiting him?
"Sorry I can't offer you a cup of tea. No samovar." He looked out the open door one last time. Several Soviet staffers were glancing in as they walked by, obviously puzzled why the famous Doktor Androv himself had come around to talk with some unknown civilian.
"Shto? Ya ne ponemayu.… I not understand."
"Tea. Chai." He shrugged. "Just a bad joke." He reached over and shoved the door closed, then gestured toward the cot. "In the wrong language. Please. Sit."
"Thank you." The old man settled himself. "I did not come for chai." His hands were trembling. "I want—" Abruptly he hesitated, as though searching for words, and then his mind appeared to wander. "Your name is Vance?"
"Mike Vance."
"And you are with American CIA?"
What's going on, he wondered? How did these Soviets find out?
"Uh, right." He glanced away. "That's correct."
"Mr. Vance, my son is test pilot for the Daedalus." He continued, running his gnarled hands nervously through his long white hair. "His name is Yuri Andreevich."
"Pozdravleneye." Vance nodded. "Congratulations. Yuri Andreevich is about to make the cover of Newsweek. You should be proud."
"We have serious problem, Mr. Vance." He seemed not to hear. "That is why I am come. I am very worried for my son."
Vance looked him over more closely. Yes, he did appear worried. His severe, penetrating eyes were filled with anguish.
"Got a problem with the CEO? Guess the godfather can be a hard man to warm up to, even for his new allies."
"Mr. Vance, I do not know you, but there is very small time." He continued with a shrug, not understanding. "So please, I will tell you many things in very few minutes."
Vance continued to study him. "Go ahead."
"You may not realize, but this project is to be giant leap for our space program. Many of our best engineers are here. This vehicle, a reusable near-earth space platform, would save billions of rubles over many years. It is air-breathing vehicle that would lift research payloads directly into space. But my son never believe that its real purpose. Perhaps I was idealist, because I believe. I always think he was wrong. But more and more of things I have learned about its electronics — things we had nothing to do with — make me now believe he is right. And yesterday, when certain… chelovek of the Soviet Air Force come, the worst…" He paused, his voice beginning to betray barely concealed rage. "I have work all my life for peaceful exploring of space. And now I have been betrayed. The engineers I bring with me here have been betrayed. I also believe, Mr. Vance, that the Soviet people have been betrayed. And along with them, Mikhail Sergeevich himself. This is part of a plot to… I don't know what secretly is plan, but I am now convinced this plane must be destroyed, before it is too late. And the world must be warned. That is why—"
"Then why don't you warn somebody?" Vance interrupted him. "Matter of fact, there's a lot more to this setup than an airplane."
"But why do you think I am here, talking to you? The facility now is completely sealed. I would warn Mikhail Sergeevich what is happening, but no communication is possible." He hesitated again, painfully. "They want to put my son in the airplane tomorrow with guards. He has been made prisoner, like you. He does not want to fly the vehicle for tomorrow's test, but the CEO is forcing him to do it." He looked up, his eyes bleary and bloodshot. "Mr. Vance, I think he will be killed as soon as this plane is certified hypersonic. They no longer trust him."
"What about you? They probably won't think you're very trustworthy either if they find out you came to see me."
"That is correct. But the time has come for risks."
"So what do you want from me?" He stood back and looked the white-haired old man over one last time. Was he telling the truth? Were the Soviet engineers actually planning a mutiny?