Vorontsky smiled, then picked up the computer chip — which was smaller than a kopek — and inspected it reverently. "Incredible," he whispered. "Which one of the Motherland's factories produced this miracle? The Soviet Electronics Institute at Kharkov?"
Pirdilenko shook his head.
Having once been the GOSPLAN Minister, the General Secretary prided himself on his knowledge of Soviet production facilities. "Hmmm. Then it must have come from the Defense Manufacturing Centre at Volgograd."
Again, Pirdilenko shook his head.
Stumped, the General Secretary asked,' 'Then who made this device?"
''Texas Instruments," replied Pirdilenko.
''What?'' cried Vorontsky.
"Da," said Pirdilenko clinically. "We obtain them through a shell company in France. I prefer the semiconductors of Texas Instruments, but when they are not available we use Fujitsu. Those come through another shell company in Singapore."
As incredible as it might sound, American, European, and Japanese semiconductors could be found in Russian sonobuoys, missiles, ships, and aircraft for the simple reasons that the Soviet product often didn't measure up and many models of Western semiconductors were widely traded on secondary world markets. Even with export restrictions and the cooperation of reputable companies who manufactured the goods, Western governments were powerless to stem the flow of sensitive technology into the Soviet Union via shell companies, subterfuge, and espionage.
But while this technology transfer was frustrating for Western governments, it was a great embarrassment to the General Secretary. Upon learning the point of origin of the semiconductor in his hand, his jowls fell. Throwing the silicon chip down, he said through his teeth, "See that Comrade Pirdilenko gets everything he requires, Vitali." Then he stormed from the room.
Kostiashak decided to flout the Data Centre's "no smoking" rule and lit up another Pall Mall. He watched the door close behind the General Secretary before speaking. The KGB chieftain admired confidence and detested arrogance. Pirdilenko had confidence — therefore Kostiashak felt at ease with him. "I will see that you receive the data from the Aerospace Warning Centre, but do not contact them directly." Kostiashak pulled out a card. "If you require anything, call this number — anytime, day or night — and speak to me personally. Talk to no one about this matter except those who are subordinate to yourself, and be sure that you can rely on their discretion. Is that understood?"
"Ummmm." Pirdilenko's mind seemed to be elsewhere as he continued stroking his Vandyke beard. "Did you say your name was Kostiashak?" he asked absently.
The KGB chieftain nodded.
A few seconds elapsed before Pirdilenko's face brightened. "Of course! I remember now. It was years ago… you were a lad of, what? Thirteen? Fourteen? You defeated Berkofsky in the Moscow District semifinals with a brilliant Sicilian Defense."
"And was beaten in the finals by Leskov," added Kostiashak.
"Bah," harrumphed Pirdilenko in dismissal. "Leskov was an old man. He was relying on experience. I remember. I was there. You were the sensation of the tournament. The youngest grandmaster in years. You could have gone on to be Soviet National Champion. Perhaps even world champion. You had the gift. Why did you give it up?"
Kostiashak allowed himself a moment of reflection. "My father was a diplomat. We moved abroad, and I developed… other interests."
Pirdilenko sighed. "A pity. We must have a game sometime."
The little man exhaled his smoke slowly. "You do not understand, Comrade Pirdilenko. We are in the grandest game of all."
Peter Lamborghini felt a hum and bump as the landing gear on the T-38 Talon trainer deployed and locked. Whittenberg had the aircraft on approach to runway zero-two left at Andrews, while Lamborghini watched the Maryland 'woodlands from the backseat. The SPACECOM intelligence officer was unaccustomed to riding in the backseat of a T-38 and didn't like it. But the CinC seemed to take some comfort in being at the controls on this trip, and God knew the man could use a little comfort right now.
Lamborghini looked at the huge lumberjack shoulders framing the canopy in front of him. He'd served under Whittenberg for two years, and it had been the best assignment of his career-even if it didn't involve flying. The giant black man was simply a dream commander. Smart, tough, decisive, fair, and above all he listened to you and acted on the facts you brought him. Lam-boighini had known some generals who would've simply rejected the notion of the Intrepid communicating with the Russians and coasted along in a fool's paradise. Not Whittenberg. He acted on hard data.
And Lamborghini wasn't beguiled by Whittenberg's sometimes paternal manner. The man could change into Lord of the Jungle in a split second. Lamborghini remembered his first tour as duty officer in the Space Defense Operations Center. He was sitting in the SPADOC Crow's Nest that overlooked the spacious room when Whittenberg strolled in for a casual visit. There was a rule at SPADOC that when the duty officer picked up the phone, he expected to talk to someone on the other end of the line — at once. Whittenberg picked up the phone and punched a button for a test check with one of the BMEWS radar monitors. The operator was two stations away, conferring with a colleague. After the third buzz, Whittenberg leaned over the Crow's Nest rail and barked, "Somebody'd better get on that phone!" The entire mountain reverberated from the intonation, and every spine in SPADOC snapped ramrod straight. He handed the receiver to Lamborghini and said simply, "Never again, Colonel."
In spite of that reprimand, Lamborghini was always grateful he had landed at SPACECOM — although his career path to Cheyenne Mountain wasn't exactly planned.
Peter and his wife, Juliet — a blond, blue-eyed beauty of Norwegian extraction — got married the day after their graduation from the University of Wisconsin. Juliet had stuck by her husband through two tours in Vietnam, reared his daughters, gone through move after move, and endured more banal cocktail parties than she could count. She was also a damn smart lady who had goals of her own. When their daughters were old enough and the family was stationed at Hill Air Force Base in Utah, Juliet Lamborghini enrolled at the University of Utah School of Law. She'd kept her ambitions on the back burner long enough to get her children reared, and now she didn't intend to put her career aside any longer for anyone or anything.
At the same time Juliet obtained her law degree, Peter had been promoted to full colonel and was up for vice commander of an F-16 tactical air wing — the final stepping-stone to his own command of a fighter wing.
The four-star Commander in Chief of the Tactical Air Command (CinCTAC) interviewed Lamborghini at length for the job. Everything was going beautifully, until Peter proudly told CinCTAC that Juliet would soon begin practicing law.
The gorillalike CinCTAC said, "No."
Lamborghini asked, "How come?"
CinCTAC said, "A vice commander's wife has too many responsibilities. Tea parties. Unit picnics. Mother Superior to the junior officers' wives. Things like that. You know. Has to be done."
Lamborghini protested. "But I'm the one who'll be vice commander. Not her. Besides, she's sacrificed enough for my career as it is."
CinCTAC said, "Sorry. It's nonnegotiable. Take it or leave it."
For the only time in his life, Peter Lamborghini went into a blind rage. So much adrenaline emptied into his bloodstream that he truly couldn't recall much of his last conversation with the CinCTAC. All he could remember were fragments like "Pigheaded… Neanderthal… brainless… throwback."