STATES AND OUR CONDOLENCES TO THE FAMILY OF THE SLAIN CREWMAN.
CENTRAL COMMITTEE OF THE COMMUNIST PARTY OF THE SOVIET UNION — END MESSAGE-
Afiter typing in the translation, the sandy-haired Donley turned to the general staff duty officer — a Marine brigadier. In a voice that was three octaves higher than his normal tone, he asked, "Just what on earth is going down, sir?"
THE SIXTH DAY
The President looked at his reflection in the mirror and straightened his tie. "Are you sure this is the way we should handle it, Harry?" he asked laconically.
Harry Funkweiler, the garishly dressed White House press secretary (and former vice president of marketing at the chief executive's old car company), said, "Oh, absolutely, Mr. President. First of all, nobody would believe the truth about this whole disaster, and in the second place we just don't have all the facts yet. We'd look like horse butts if we let it all hang out and then the Russkies did a change-up on us. Just go out and say we had some serious problems with a shuttle mission to the SDI platform, and we had to launch a rescue shuttle over southern Florida. Unfortunately, complications arose with that launch as well, and life has been lost. Say it's all national security, and only take three questions… make that two questions."
The President didn't know what to think. But he always relied on Funkweiler's judgment. He was the best media flack in the business and could play the press like a pipe organ. He'd been instrumental in engineering the President's election landslides. Yet the President was always uneasy when throwing a "slider" to the press. He always figured it could backfire. He turned to his Secretary of State, who was the only other adviser in the room. "What do you think, Winston?"
Having studied under Henry Kissinger, the diplomat had fewer qualms about using a little sleight of hand in dealing with the press. "I agree with Harry, Mr. President, but for different reasons. I think we have to withhold the whole story until the Russian leadership has had a chance to solidify. Then we can reassess the situation."
The President sighed. "Hmmm. Well, okay. Let's get on with it. How long till I go on the air, Harry?"
Funkweiler looked at his Spiro Agnew wristwatch — a collector's item — and said. "Seven minutes, Mr. President."
The three men filed out of the Oval Office and headed for the East Room of the White House.
Seymour Woltman sat among the press corps, unshaven and giving off a foul odor. He was unable to recall when he had last shaved and showered. Although the East Room was crammed with reporters and photographers for the Presidential press conference, Woltman's stench enabled him to enjoy an empty seat on his left and right.
Woltman was exhausted, but pleased. His trip to Washington had been a success. He believed his constant hammering of everyone he knew at NASA, the Pentagon, and the White House had built enough momentum to compel this press conference. They'd been told the President would make a brief statement concerning the shuttle launch, then take a few questions.
Woltman noticed everybody was standing up. He got to his feet and saw the President marching down the red carpeted hallway toward the podium.
As the President strode down the long hallway, he passed a series of portraits that were hung along the wall. The images of Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln seemed to scowl down at him as he walked past with the prepared press release in his hand. The prepared release was less than the whole truth. Which meant it was a lie.
He mounted the podium and faced the lights and television cameras. Through these electronic windows he would be talking to a hundred million Americans—"the Boss," as he called them.
He looked down at his statement, and was silent for some moments as his thoughts returned to the images of Washington, Jefferson, and Lincoln. Lincoln's scowl had been particularly haunting, causing the President to pause. He figured his predecessors deserved better than an "inoperative" press release. "The Boss" deserved better, too. So with great ceremony the President ripped the prepared statement in two and walked around in front of the podium.
The boom operator was caught off guard by this unexpected move, and jumped to reposition the reedlike microphone above the chief executive's head. The assembled gaggle of reporters was intrigued by the deliberate paper shredding, and collectively leaned forward.
"Ladies and gentlemen," said the President tiredly, "I have an incredible story to tell you."
For the next forty-five minutes an open-mouthed press corps, as well as an entire nation, remained silent in rapt attention as their national leader explained in precise detail how an American-born Russian agent had hijacked the Intrepid, how the Soviets had destroyed the Constellation, how SAC had gone to DEFCON TWo, how a pair of stealth bombers had been sent into Russia and how one of them had blown the Intrepid apart, how there had been a palace coup within the Kremlin, and how he'd ordered SAC's bombers recalled.
At the end of his monologue he returned to the podium, took a sip of water, and said, "Are there any… questions?"
A full ten seconds of shocked silence elapsed — then the East Room exploded in pandemonium.
THREE WEEKS LATER
The Army colonel — who could have doubled for Arnold Schwarzenegger — hung up the phone and walked out of the guard booth. "Okay, sir," he told Whittenberg, "we can go across now. Just remember to stay on our side of the line."
"Right," responded the SPACECOM CinC.
The colonel nodded to the gate guard, and the barrier was raised.
Whittenberg turned to Maj. Lydia Strand and CM/Sgt. Tim Kelly. "Let's go collect our man," he said, and the three of them strode past the barrier into no-man's-land — a patch of earth in the heart of Berlin where the geography and ideology of East and West met in an uneasy truce. Behind Whittenberg, Strand, and Kelly came the colonel and an Army medical team.
Across the way, Whittenberg saw the barrier go up, allowing a lone Soviet officer to approach. The CinC thought this odd, for he knew that Russians liked to move in packs — particularly in touchy situations like this. But be that as it may, the rather short, stocky-looking Russian came forward by himself, extended his hand, and asked in a heavy accent, "General Whittenberg?"
The big black man took the Russian's hand and shook it. "That is correct, sir. And you are?"
"I am Marshal Likady Popov, Minister of Defense of the Soviet Union. I have been sent as a personal emissary of General Secretary Kostiashak to ensure that you are satisfied with the repatriation of your people."
"Popov?" asked Whittenberg quizzically. "The same Likady Popov who is Director of Soviet Spaceflite Operations?"
The stocky Russian shrugged and looked at his feet, trying to conceal his pleasure at learning he was important enough for the Americans to maintain a dossier on him. "My former position, General. I have recently taken on new responsibilities."
Whittenberg nodded. "Apparendy so… May we proceed with our transfer?"
"By all means," replied Popov, who motioned to a guard by the East Berlin barrier. A man who was wearing gray coveralls and had his arm in a sling walked forward. "First, I am presenting you with one of the crewmen from your bomber that was shot down. You will find that all of your men have been treated well and have not been interrogated."
"I am glad to hear that," replied the CinC.