Lubinin looked down and shook his head. He had always felt space travelers formed a special fraternity that somehow transcended national borders. A double murder in space quickly shot down that heroic assumption, and he found the truth painful.
"How do we proceed from here?" queried Yemitov.
Popov scratched the fringe of sweat-stained gray hair on his bald head. "Chief Designer Vostov is over at Flite Centre. Get over there right away and have him explain the design of the collar mechanism. Make sure you understand everything you need to know. There is no purpose in going into orbit and not knowing how the damned thing works. Is that clear? If Vostov causes any problems, let me know immediately. I am sure you have many questions, but they will have to wait. Learn all you can about the docking collar first. Then we will talk again. I am handling launch preparations personally. That is all. You have a car and driver at your disposal. Go."
Still dumbfounded, the two men rose and left.
Popov was spent. He couldn't remember when he'd slept last. He heaved himself up and waddled to the door to speak to his aide. "Wake me in two hours, and do not disturb me unless the General Secretary or the Comrade Chairman calls… no, if they call, tell them I am out on the grounds. Only wake me if they appear in person… and then take your time about it." Popov didn't wait for an answer. He was beyond caring. Slamming the door, he collapsed on the divan and was instandy asleep.
There was a whirring sound as the Aeroflot jetliner's flaps extended to 100 percent. Yuri Shevetchenko peered out the window, watching the snow-covered farm plots grow larger and larger in his field of view. Finally they disappeared altogether, replaced by the black runway tarmac rushing past. The middle-aged man, wearing an ill-fitting suit, turned to his companion and excitedly said, "Hold on, Andrei! We are going to land!" The tires of the aircraft squealed, and all the passengers pitched forward as the pilot engaged the thrust reversers. The jetliner's speed decreased quickly, and the captain turned off onto a taxi-way cleared of snow.
"Ahhhh, Moscow. Much too long, yes, Andrei?" His younger companion smiled and nodded. Shevetchenko said, ' 'Now perhaps we can buy some decent vodka, get a real meal.'' Then he whispered like a conspirator, "And maybe find a real woman."
The nineteen-year-old Andrei blushed, but smiled again. "Da. It will be good to see Anna again. I only hope she has not forgotten me. We have been away six months, after all."
"Forget a man like you? Impossible. You are unforgettable," joked Shevetchenko. "Besides, we have three weeks in Moscow. You will probably be married by the time our leave is finished." The young man turned red and smiled again. Shevetchenko was his superior, mentor, and friend. The husky, dark-featured, fifty-two-year-old bachelor was an electrician at the Baikonur Cosmodrome, and the slender, baby-faced Andrei was his assistant. The older man treated him like the son he'd never had.
The airliner braked at the gate and the flight attendants opened the door. "We have arrived. Let us be off," commanded Shevetchenko, and the two men joined the surge for the door. Exiting the airliner, they walked a couple of hundred meters down the long concourse and entered domestic passport control, where their internal CCCP passports were stamped by a scowling clerk (all Russian passport officials scowl). After passing through passport control they collected their luggage at a carousel and went through yet another check at domestic customs control, where their luggage was inspected by an incredibly bored uniformed official. Finally they walked out of the airport and clambered onto a bus for the hour's ride into central Moscow. There was little conversation between them during the journey, for each man had his own agenda to think about. Andrei contemplated his Anna and the new pair of Levi's jeans he'd picked up for her on the black market. Yuri thought of something else.
Upon arrival at the Metro station near the Rossiya Theater, the two men exited the vehicle and prepared to part company.
"You will be sure to come to my parents' flat next Thursday?" asked Andrei. He didn't ask his friend to call him, because only one in six Muscovites had a phone in their residence.
"You can be sure of it, my friend," replied Yuri. And with that, the two men embraced. Young Andrei started walking toward his parents' apartment building, while Shevetchenko disappeared into the Metro subway station. He paid his five kopeks at the kiosk and boarded the first eastbound train. The ride took only a few minutes, and at Dzerzhinskaya Station he transferred to a different line, traveling up to Komsomolskaya Station, where he quickly exited.
The Moscow Metro system in general, and Komsomolskaya Station in particular, best demonstrated how aberrations could appear in Russia where one least expected them. While New York City's subways are best known for their grime, graffiti, and vigilantes, Komsomolskaya Station looked like a grand opera house transplanted underground. It was clean as a hound's tooth. A string of elaborate chandeliers hung from marbled archways, illuminating frescoes and intricate mosaics that depicted scenes from Russian history. It was a spellbinding scene for those who experienced it for the first time. Shevetchenko, however, was not a newcomer; and he paid little attention to the artwork as he took the escalator up to ground level.
Pulling his coat close around him to keep out the cold, he made his way north through Sokolniki Park, which was deserted except for some skaters on the park's main pond. Walking slowly through the grounds, he paused now and again to carefully check his rear. Anyone following him would be revealed in the open, snowpacked spaces. Satisfied he was alone, he exited the parte and walked over a small bridge that spanned the frozen Jauza River. The term river was perhaps a bit grandiose. In reality, the Jauza was a minor tributary stream that fed into the larger Moskva River. He walked a couple of blocks farther, then turned around to retrace his steps and recross the bridge. He stopped by the wooden sign that declared REKA JAUZA, and took some time to scan the area once again. Nothing. From his pocket he extracted a simple white thumbtack and pushed it into the bottom right-hand corner of the wooden sign. Hastily he left the area in search of a cafe and warm tea.
Nightfall was quickly approaching.
Lamborghini gently tapped the big man's shoulder.
"General?"
Whittenberg awoke, and blinked a few times to get his bearings. He looked around the conference room, then up at the colonel. "Thanks, Pete. How long was I out?"
"A little over an hour, sir."
"What time is it?"
"Zero-six-thirty-eight, sir."
Whittenberg rubbed his eyes. "You wouldn't wake me without a reason. What's the word?"
"Bad news, sir. The results of the Blackbird flyby just came in from NSA. They definitely confirm a transmission between the Intrepid and a Russian earth station."
Whittenberg brought his giant fist down on the table and spat, ' 'Dammit!''
"Yes, sir," agreed Lamborghini in a weary voice. "The Blackbird almost got its ass shot off in the process, too, but made it out okay."
That cooled off the CinC as he murmured, "Hmmm. Remind me to send a personal note to General Dooley. I owe him one for that… Is everyone here?" Bleary-eyed officers were filing back into the conference room. Uniforms were rumpled by now, and faces unshaven. "Everybody get some coffee and sit down. We've got to sort this thing out in a hurry."
Cups were filled and seats taken.
"All right, we have an unbelievable, unprecedented situation here," lamented Whittenberg. "I don't know how it happened and neither do you; but it's real, it's deadly serious, and we have to keep our wits and deal with it. Let's take it one step at a time. Intel, give us a recap of where we are."