"Yes, sir," replied Bergstrom as he picked up the red phone.
While igniting a cigar, the Treasury Secretary looked across the table at Bergstrom and said, in a conversational tone, "Well, I suppose this is a bit of a disappointment for you, isn't it, Admiral?"
Bergstrom looked up and furrowed his brow. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Secretary?"
The President's money man kept puffing. "Well, I'm sure you military types must be disappointed you can't unload one of those nuke missiles of yours. What did you call it? A Tomahawk? I bet you've been waiting to shoot off one of those for years. I mean, that's sort of your thing, isn't it?"
Bergstrom came out of his chair like a bullet, and if an ebony table had not separated the two men, he would have ripped the Cabinet officer's face off. The admiral's own countenance turned beet red as he hissed in a gravelly voice, "You listen to me, Mr. Secretary. In Korea I got my ass shot out of the sky while tangling with MiGs in my Corsair, and I got to spend six fun-filled months in a North Korean prison camp. I've scraped the burned entrails of kids, and I mean kids, off a carrier deck after a crash. I've written more letters to widows and orphans than you've ever thought about — all the while bastards like you stayed home and made a potful of money—"
"That will be enough, Admiral!" barked the President. Bergstrom's scrambled-egg chest was still heaving, but he obeyed his commander in chief and lowered himself, inch by inch, back into his chair — like a saber sliding slowly back into its sheath.
The President scowled at his money man. "Milton, you will apologize to the admiral."
The former investment banker sat there in wide-eyed shock, twitching his walruslike mustache and puffing smoke like a locomotive.
"Now, Milton."
The Treasury Secretary cleared his throat. "Well, I, ahem, I didn't mean to give offense, Admiral. I, uh, that is to say, I apologize."
Bergstrom's face was still red. "Your apology is accepted, Mr. Secretary. And had I been asked, I would have said I agree with our guest about the use of nuclear weapons. But I recognize the military shouldn't make policy. They should be an instrument of policy. It's my job to point out options, no matter how distasteful they may be to me personally. I don't get my jollies popping nukes at the Russians."
Now it was the President's turn to clear his throat. "Your point is well taken, Admiral. Now then, if you please, just shoot the Intrepid down… with conventional weapons."
The dream was surreal, and frightening as it was bizarre. The Constellation was floating in a water-filled placenta, suspended in a black void. It floated there. Helpless. Vulnerable. Then out of the void a shooting star smashed into the placenta, causing the Constellation to erupt in a burst of white light. Lamborghini came violently awake with a cry, his breathing rapid, his face in a sweat. He felt another presence in the room.
' 'You okay, Pete?… Time for us to suit up." The voice was gentle.
"Mad Dog… is that you?"
"Yeah, Hot Rod, 'tis I. Guess I came in at a bad time." Monaghan flipped on the light in the BOQ room and tossed his friend a towel. "C'mon. Let's saddle up. I just got word Ivan is already upstairs. Time's a-wastin'."
Nothing could contain Vorontsky's ebullience. The General Secretary was wandering up and down the aisles of the Flite Centre, slapping backs and joking with the officers and engineers like an old Boston pol. Although they were still saddened by the fate of the Constellation, the men within the giant room welcomed some relief from the constant strain they'd endured for the last several days. If the General Secretary was happy, they were happy.
Popov was out of the room, grabbing some sleep, as Kostiashak leaned over Mission Commander Malyshev's shoulder. "At what time will the American shuttle land at Baikonur?" he asked softly.
With great fatigue, Malyshev checked his chronometer. "Assuming the Intrepid comes down on its first reentry window, it should touch down approximately six hours from now."
Kotiashak nodded, then inhaled a deep lungful of smoke before approaching the former hammer thrower, who was swaggering down the aisle. "General Secretary," he said, "this is a momentous capstone to an incredible adventure, is it not?"
"Absolutely, Vitali," replied a grinning Vorontsky. "I have never known such exhilaration. The American shuttle will soon be ours. The Politburo will be in the palm of my hand, and the world will see the invincibility of the Soviet Union. Indeed, the world will be mesmerized at how we outwitted the Americans with our brilliance and guile. Harrumph. So much for their impregnable space defense. We outsmarted them, did we not, my friend?"
"Most certainly, General Secretary," agreed Kostiashak, "and our triumph has caused me to think. Would it not make a spectacular picture if you were at Baikonur to greet the American when he landed?"
Vorontsky was a bit surprised by the suggestion, but after a few moments the thought took root and Kostiashak could see his superior's mind racing. "Of course, Vitali. What a vision! It would show the Politburo — no, it would show the entire world — that I am the indisputable leader of the Russian people. That it was I who captured the American spacecraft which was a threat to our country.''
"I agree, General Secretary. I have spoken with the mission commander. If you were to leave now, you could arrive in Baikonur shortly after the Intrepid lands. Think of it. A photograph of you embracing the American pilot with the spacecraft pictured behind you. It would be stupendous." The General Secretary was entranced by the thought, and Kostiashak gave him a final prod. "My helicopter is just outside. It can transport you to your Ilyushin, and in a matter of minutes you can be on your way to Baikonur."
The former hammer thrower smacked his fist into his palm. "Excellent idea, Vitali. I shall leave at once."
Kostiashak beckoned to his aide. "I will have Colonel Bori-sov escort you to your plane."
The General Secretary looked surprised. "You are not coming, Vitali?"
Kostiashak shook his head. "I think it best I remain here, General Secretary. I feel it would be imprudent for both of us to leave the Flite Centre at this particular time."
Vorontsky agreed. "Of course. You are always the wise one, Vitali. Very well, Colonel Borisov, let us be off. I will see you when I return, my friend, and we shall celebrate this triumph together." And he clapped his partner on the shoulder.
"Yes, General Secretary." Kostiashak smiled. "We will make it a glorious celebration."
Vorontsky returned the smile and strode off through the door held open by the KGB colonel. After the large man lumbered past him, Colonel Borisov turned and looked back at Kostiashak with a questioning gaze.
The grandmaster allowed himself a moment's hesitation, then gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod.
Borisov nodded in reply, and let the door swing slowly shut.
Back in his office, Rodger Whittenberg leaned back in his big leather chair and closed his eyes. He'd just about reached the end of his rope. What else could happen? A rogue spacecraft. Joseph Stalin. A Russian deep-plant agent in control of the Intrepid. An immolated Constellation. It was more than any one person could absorb. If he could just go back to the simple world of, say, flying combat, things would be so much easier.