The little KGB Chairman patted Popov on the back. "You need not be upset, General," he comforted. "Having the Intrepid intact no longer matters."
Popov looked up in disbelief. "No longer matters? What the hell do you mean, it no longer matters? Two of our men have been killed! The American astronauts have been killed! And you say it no longer matters?"
The diminutive Chairman extended his gold cigarette case with a charming smile. "The deaths were a pity, to be sure, but I assure you, the Intrepid is no longer important… Cigarette, General?"
Dumbfounded, Popov extracted one of the Pall Malls.
As he approached the Baikonur Cosmodrome, the pilot of the General Secretary's Ilyushin saw a dark plume rising in the distance. The sky was at dusk, but there was no mistaking the nature of that dark tower. It was smoke. Puzzled, the pilot set his radio to the cosmodrome's air tower frequency and keyed his microphone.
"Baikonur Tower, Baikonur Tower, this is Alpha Gold One. Do you read? Over."
"Roger, Alpha Gold One. We read you, over."
"Baikonur, I am approaching your location from the northwest, speed five-eight-three kilometers per hour, elevation two-three hundred meters. I see a tower of smoke in your direction. Please advise us of the origin of this smoke, over."
There was a pause. "Negative, Alpha Gold One. We cannot advise you. This is restricted airspace and you are not authorized for that information."
"Not authorized?" The pilot almost laughed. "Listen, you swine. This is Alpha Gold One. Do you have any idea who I have on board?"
"That does not concern me, Alpha Gold One. You are not authorized for any information on your sighting."
Bureaucrats, cursed the pilot. "Very well, Baikonur Tower. I will let you speak to my passenger personally. That will change your mind — and quickly."
The pilot turned the aircraft over to the copilot and left the cockpit. He found the General Secretary reading White TASS dispatches and presiding over still another vodka.
"Are we there yet?" The General Secretary's speech was a bit slurred. "Almost. General Secretary, could I ask you to step into the cockpit for a moment? There is something I think you should see."
The American shuttle is probably on the ground, thought the Russian leader. Too bad we missed the landing, but it would be interesting to see it from the air. "Certainly," he said, putting down his vodka.
The General Secretary never made it to the cockpit. As he rose from the divan, the kilogram of plastique explosive— which Colonel Borisov had secretly placed in the wheel well-detonated, transforming the shiny airliner into an orange hall that lit up the dusky sky.
Bergstrom's phone buzzed, and he grabbed it. After listening for a few moments, he leaned back and looked at the ceiling through the heavy cigar smoke in the room. "They got him," he said finally.' 'The second stealth bomber got him. They transmitted 'Touchdown.' That means complete success."
The NSC EXECCOM exhaled in mass relief.
"What about the space fighter? And the crew?" asked the Vice President.
Bergstrom shook his head mournfully. "Who the hell knows? Dead probably."
They were passing over Antarctica again, approaching the Indian Ocean. Lubinin looked at his wrist chronometer once more — not that it made any difference now. He examined the debris scattered around them, which was all that remained of their Soyuz. Initially, he'd been amazed and grateful they were unharmed by the spaceborne shrapnel — but now he was wondering if a quick death might not have been preferable.
Lubinin turned to his friend. Yemitov's face was red and his breathing rapid. Soon his countenance would turn purple and the breathing would cease, for his tanks were empty and he was relying only on the residual oxygen left in the suit. "My indicator… has been red… for some minutes, Vasilivich… How long… for you?"
Lubinin looked at his oxygen gauge. "Perhaps three minutes, Sergeivich.
Yemitov was struggling to form the words now, for asphyxiation was a painful death. "If…1 have to die… what better way… for a cosmonaut… than to die in space… with a friend?"
Lubinin reached out and took his comrade's gloved hand.
"Vasilivich…" Yemitov was purple now, and could barely whisper through his grimace."… I am glad I… am going first… I was always afraid of… dying alone."
Yemitov's tight grip on Lubinin's hand suddenly weakened, but the surviving cosmonaut did not let go. From a zippered pocket in the sleeve of his suit, Lubinin extracted a tiny gold ikon on a chain. It was a gift from his grandmother which he always secretly carried with him when he flew. "Fear not, my friend," he said softly to his dead companion. "We will be together again soon."
The Defense Minister drank heartily from the crystal goblet. The day had been delightfully warm, and while lying by the pool, he and the Foreign Minister had consumed two bottles of potent wine.
"Ahhhh," sighed the Foreign Minister as he drained his own goblet. "There is nothing quite like fine Moldavian wine. Is that not so, Konstantin?"
"You are absolutely correct, my dear Comrade," replied the Defense Minister. "It has been a most enjoyable afternoon, and I implore you to stay and be my guest for dinner."
"I would be delighted, Konstantin," purred the old diplomat gratefully.
"I have ordered pheasant for our meal, and I have'obtained some American films for us to watch on my videotape device after dinner."
"Excellent, Konstantin. You are a gracious host." The Foreign Minister took another sip, then chuckled. "Can you imagine how cold it must be in Moscow? We were wise to come south for the weekend."
"Most wise," agreed the military chieftain.
At that moment, the host and his guest heard a heavy-handed knock on the door, but they thought nothing of it, for it was soon followed by the echo of a servant's footsteps going to answer the summons. But then some disturbing noises were heard. Sounds of raised voices and heavy boots tramping on the marble foyer. The two ministers turned to see a KGB general and eight KGB troops, armed with Kalashnikov AK-47 submachine guns, exit the house. The troops quickly formed a phalanx at one end of the pool.
The two Politburo members, trying to look defiant in their swimming trunks, rose up. "What is the meaning of this?" roared the Defense Minister. "Who the hell are you?"
"I am of the Committee for State Security, Defense Minister," said the general evenly. "You and the Foreign Minister are hereby placed under arrest."
"Arrest?" barked the aging diplomat. "On what preposterous grounds do you think you are going to arrest us?"
The general was quick to reply. "You are charged with crimes against the state. Specifically, warmongering and placing the Motherland in jeopardy of a nuclear attack, as well as failing to defend the Rodina from an attack by American bombers."
"This is madness!" bellowed the old soldier, and he screamed, "Igor!" to summon his Cossack bodyguard.
From behind a hedge, an apelike man appeared, wearing the uniform of a sergeant in the Soviet Army and brandishing a sidearm. No one could fault the bodyguard's loyalty or bravery as he charged forward with his pistol blazing. Nor could anyone fault his marksmanship, for he was able to drop two of the KGB troops with his well-placed shots. But the frontal assault demonstrated that Igor was more than a little stupid, for the six remaining AK-47s opened up and split him apart like a ripe watermelon. He was blasted back into the pool, and his blood quickly turned the crystalline water to red.