As the pilot of the Ghost Two crossed the white line, the Army colonel took him under his wing.
"Next," said Popov, "your two injured aviators. One from the bomber, and one from your small spaceplane. I must admit you caught us by surprise with your space fighter. We had no idea you were working on such a device."
Whittenberg nodded. "I daresay, Marshal Popov, our surprise has been far greater than yours."
Popov did not reply at once, but instead motioned again to the guard. Two stretchers were brought forward, each carried by a pair of Russian Army medics. "You will be pleased to know they have received the finest medical care."
Whittenberg peered at the stretchers as they approached. "Would you have them brought over here first?" he asked.
"As you wish," replied Popov, who turned and uttered a command. Then he said to Whittenberg, "The injured will be followed by the fatality from your spaceplane."
Again, Whittenberg nodded, and stepped back as the first stretcher crossed the line and was passed to U.S. Army medics. He didn't recognize the face. "What's your name, son?" he asked.
"McKiniey, sir," the patient said weakly. "Captain Jack Mc-Kinley. I was the Whizzo on Ghost Two."
Whittenberg patted his shoulder.' 'You did good. We received the burst message you sent."
The Whizzo smiled. "That's good to know, sir."
"You take it easy. We'll visit more later." The CinC stepped back and the medics carried the stretcher toward an ambulance parked behind the American barrier.
The second stretcher was transferred and brought forward, and Peter Lamborghini's bandaged face looked up at the big black man, the brunette major, and the sergeant with the bullet-shaped head. A weak smile came across his face. "Sir… Lydia… Tim… sure good to see you."
Whittenberg took his hand. "Good to see you, too, Pete. Juliet and your girls are waiting for you at Rhein-Main in Frankfurt. We're flying you out to the Army hospital there."
Lamborghini had a faraway look in his eyes. "That's good," he said meekly.
Strand couldn't hold back. "That was a crazy thing Commander Monaghan did."
Lamborghini looked at her, and then at Whittenberg. "Tell me… that was a stealth bomber we saw, wasn't it?"
Whittenberg was surprised. "I guess the Russians kept you separated from the other guys after you were captured, but, yes, it was a stealth bomber. Did you see it?"
Lamborghini's response was slow and pained. "We lost the Intrepid in the clouds on the way down. Thick soup. We tried to pick it up on the ground, but couldn't find it. Saw the stealth bomber just as a MiG was lining up for a shot. We nailed the MiG… Tell me, did the bomber make it through?"
"It got through and blasted the Intrepid into spare parts," replied Whittenberg. "And I guess we have you two guys to thank for that."
Lamborghini turned his head slightly so he could watch the covered body bag being transferred into American hands. "After we nailed the MiG, we would've both been killed "by a SAM, but Mad Dog saved me… He didn't survive the impact."
Whittenberg, Strand, and Kelly all looked at each other. None of them quite understood exactly how Monaghan had saved the Kestrel from the SAM. "You rest easy, Pete," ordered the CinC.
"You guys did a great job. After you get better you can tell the President and me all about it. In the meantime we'd better get you to Rhein-Main. Lydia and Tim will go with you."
The stretcher headed toward the ambulance, with Strand and Kelly acting as escorts.
Finally, Whittenberg and Popov were alone.
"I trust you found the transfer satisfactory?" inquired the Russian.
"Yes, Marshal Popov. It looks like Colonel Lamborghini is lucky to be alive."
Popov agreed. "Most fortunate. I was told he suffered a concussion, several broken ribs, an injured hip, a broken cheekbone, and internal bleeding. Some surgery was required to reduce pressure on one of his lungs." Then the perceptive Russian observed, "It would appear the two of you are close."
Whittenberg checked to make sure Lamborghini was safely inside American territory before saying, "That's true. He's my intelligence staff officer."
Popov showed his surprise, while Whittenberg took some satisfaction in knowing the Russians would be galled to learn the SPACECOM intelligence chief had slipped through their fingers. Popov couldn't ignore the zinger. "I must say, General," he remarked, "you live up to your dossier."
Whittenberg raised an eyebrow. "Why, thank you. I think."
Popov extended his hand. "This should conclude our business, General. It has been an honor to meet you. I hope you will convey to your President that the transfer was conducted satisfactorily."
Whittenberg took the stocky man's hand. "I shall, Marshal Popov. And the President asked that his regards be passed along to the new General Secretary."
"It will be done." Popov gave a curt bow, turned and walked away.
"Marshal Popov?" called Whittenberg.
The Russian stopped and turned. "Da?"
"It was Kapuscinski, wasn't it?"
Popov was caught off guard and hesitated, but then softly said, "Da. "
Whittenberg nodded, then gave the Russian a salute. Popov brought himself to attention and returned the gesture.
THE FOLLOWING DECEMBER
The Vice President, who was now the President-elect, absently stoked the logs in the fireplace with an ornate bronze poker, sending up a small plume of swirling sparks that were reflected in his energetic eyes. However, his mind was far from the glowing embers — he was still trying to absorb what the General Secretary had just told him.
The President, the Vice President, and the General Secretary were in the oak-paneled den of the Chateau Fleur d'Eau in the wooded outskirts of Geneva. It was here, in this very room, that the first Reagan-Gorbachev summit had been held. But this meeting had a much different dynamic. Billed as the "Transition Summit," it included both the incoming and outgoing American chiefs of state, as well as the new General Secretary. And because the General Secretary spoke fluent English, the meetings could be held without those nettlesome interpreters. Although interpreters were considered trustworthy, national leaders always felt the presence of another set of eyes and ears in the room, and were inhibited from speaking with unvarnished candor. But English was not a problem for Vitali Kostiashak, and he spoke to the two Americans with absolute candor.
The Vice President, still somewhat numbed by the General Secretary's remarks, put the poker aside and turned. ' 'You mean to tell us, General Secretary, that the hijacking of our space shuttle Intrepid was nothing more than an engineered plot to topple your predecessor?"
Kostiashak exhaled a lungful of smoke. "That is correct, Mr. Vice President."
The Vice President shook his head, causing the firelight to glint off his steel-gray crew cut. "That's incredible. Unbelievable. I've always figured you Russians as a conspiratorial lot, but this Intrepid business. Well, it's hard to accept. Good God, didn't you know we were at DEFCON Two? We even considered launching a nuclear cruise missile to destroy the Intrepid."
"You must have been clean out of your mind," said the President bitterly. "To bring our two countries so close to a nuclear exchange is unthinkable. Yet you did so just to satisfy your own personal ambitions. That is contemptible, General Secretary. Contemptible and insane. You must be off your rocker."
Kostiashak exhaled again. "Gentlemen — if you will permit me to finish. I want you to know that I have shared this information with no one — absolutely no one — inside or outside the Soviet Union, except yourselves and my Defense Minister. And I trust I can rely on your discretion, for you will see that confidentiality will be in your best interest."