After the Secretary's explanation, Yakolev looked even more befuddled. "You are saying that you have lost communication with one of your space shuttles… and it is now talking with someone inside the Soviet Union?"
"That is exactly what I am saying, Mr. Ambassador," replied the President.
"Preposterous," said Yakolev, and in dismissal he tossed the paper onto the President's desk.
The chief executive's voice became hard. "I assure you, Mr. Ambassador, it is not preposterous. This spacecraft is carrying some critical components for our Strategic Defense platform. It went off the air without explanation. We sent one of our reconnaissance aircraft deep into Soviet airspace to verify the radio transmissions between this shuttle and a Russian earth station. It was confirmed beyond question. Your people even tried to shoot down our intelligence plane. Check it out."
Yakolev shook his head slowly. "Mr. President, I am not one who puts much faith in this technical gadgetry you Americans embrace so passionately. You treat it like some sort of religion. Like your American football. I have no idea what you are talking about, but I would wager it is some type of malfunction with your equipment. As I recall, there was some speculation that our Committee for State Security was responsible for blowing up your shuttle — the Challenger, I believe it was called. Are we to be blamed for everything that goes wrong with your space adventures? I have heard the rumors concerning your so-called scientific breakthrough with your space platform, but I am highly skeptical. You have constructed this platform under the tightest security and now you claim we are trying to seduce your spacecraft. It is absurd."
The President eyeballed Yakolev for a moment, then decided to try another tack. "Mr. Ambassador, we've spent some time together, have we not?" The old man nodded. "We've had dinner several times. You've been up to Camp David. You've played with my grandchildren. Have you ever known me to tell you less than the truth?"
Yakolev returned the stare. "No, Mr. President."
The chief executive softened his tone. "Then, Yevgeny, believe me. Our shuttle went off the air, and we know that someone in your country is communicating with it. There is no question about it. The payload on this shuttle is critical to our nation's defense, and if I let it fall into Russian hands, I will be impeached on Monday and lynched on Hiesday. I cannot, I will not, let anything happen to that shuttle. Now, I implore you. Communicate the seriousness of this matter to your people and let them know that any attempt to tamper with that spacecraft will be regarded by the United States as an act of war."
Yakolev pondered the words act of war, then slowly reached out and picked up the paper he had tossed away. In a more deferential tone, he asked, "All of the particulars are on this sheet?"
The Secretary of Defense responded, "Yes, Mr. Ambassador. The launch and orbit data, and information on our reconnaissance mission."
The ambassador sighed. "Very well. I will communicate your concerns to the Foreign Minister. But I maintain this must be a technical malfunction." He looked at his watch. "It is well past midnight in Moscow. I hope you realize I will not be able to give you a response until the morning."
The President nodded. "I understand, Yevgeny. But please. Do not take this lightly."
The butterball Russian chuckled. "Did you know, Mr. President, that I was wounded four times by the Germans in the Great Patriotic War?"
The President shook his head.
"And did you know that I am missing two toes on my right foot from frostbite I suffered during the advance on Berlin?"
"No, I didn't." The President was telling the truth, and he was miffed that the CIA's dossier on Yakolev didn't have that information.
"And did you know," continued the ambassador, "that I spent much of my young manhood dodging the NKVD while trying to build a teaching career?"
"No."
The old man smiled a paternal smile. "Now that you know these things, perhaps you will understand why I do not get excited so easily."
Now it was the American's turn to chuckle. "Very well, Mr. Ambassador. But please. Communicate quickly."
Yakolev nodded. "My cable will be waiting for the Foreign Minister when he arrives in the morning."
After Yakolev had left, the President turned to his Secretary of State. "What do you think, Winston?"
The man from Foggy Bottom — who might have stepped off the cover of Gentlemen's Quarterly—helped himself to one of the Don Diego cigars from the humidor on the Oval Office desk. "Obviously, Mr. President, Yakolev is telling the truth when he says he doesn't know anything. We've all known the man for some time, and he has an inability to lie effectively. There's really nothing we can do on the diplomatic end until the Foreign Minister responds."
The President grunted. "Sam, are we sure the Intrepid is communicating with the Russians? I mean, we'll look pretty foolish if Yakolev is right."
The Secretary of Defense, a Southern aristocrat with bony features and horn-rimmed glasses, fingered his white tie and said, "Mr. President, I personally went over the telemetry data with the National Security Agency people a dozen times. The evidence looks solid. The Intrepid is talking to somebody in the Soviet Union. When the Foreign Minister gets the ambassador's cable, that will put the Russian leadership on notice that we've been alerted. Let's hope it will scare them off."
"And if it doesn't?" asked the chief executive.
"We proceed with General Whittenberg's plan as he outlined it in the NSC meeting," replied the Southerner. "Additionally, Admiral Bergstrom's staff is putting together a contingency operation in case there's a glitch with SPACECOM's efforts. We'll present it to you and the Vice President after the dinner this evening."
The President nodded. "Whittenberg knows to alert us immediately if anything changes with the Intrepid's situation?"
"Of course, sir."
The President took off his rimless glasses and rubbed his eyes. "This is the craziest damn deal I ever heard of in my life. It's a helluva thing to happen to Rodger, too. I know you had your eye on him to take over Bergstrom's job when the admiral retires next year, Sam, but that may turn out to be impossible."
The Secretary of Defense became defensive, and he took off his glasses, too — a sure sign he was getting his feathers up. "Mr. President, I think the Vice President was correct when he said this affair wasn't any one individual's fault. It would be unfair to single out General Whittenberg."
"Oh, I agree completely. It's just that if the Russians do capture or mangle the Intrepid in some way, the Vice President and I will be impeached, you and Winston will be out on the street, and whoever is the new President will bust everyone in SPACECOM down to buck private — and there's not a damn thing any of us could do about it." The chief executive checked his watch. "Okay. Let's get back to the party."
Warrant Officer Greg Hogan stepped off the loading ramp of the C-141 Starlifter to make way for a forklift rolling into the cargo bay. He made a notation on his clipboard, then turned to his cigar-chomping colonel, who was wearing the crossed-cannon-and-missile insignia of the Army's Air Defense Artillery branch on his collar.
"Now let me make sure I've got this straight,'' queried Hogan as he replaced the fatigue cap on his bald head. "I'm taking five cases of Stingers, a dozen RPV target drones, and an RPV team to Cape Canaveral?"
The colonel flicked his cigar ash. "You got it straight, Mr. Hogan." Due to some obscure military protocol, Army warrant officers were addressed by the title of "Mister."