Kostiashak pocketed the small Beretta automatic and lit up another Pall Mall. "Quite correct, General. I hope you will forgive the firearm, but I truly could not chance your disclosing anything at this point. You and the Defense Minister have known each other for many years, is that not so?"
"Since we were cadets at Frunze," replied the stocky general.
Kostiashak nodded. "Old ties die hard. Should your resolve in our enterprise waiver, do not forget your wife and children are vulnerable."
Popov turned scarlet with rage. "You… you…"
The Chairman swiftly held up a hand. "Restrain yourself, General. We are embarked upon a course, and I will not allow anything to disrupt it. Too often dreams of greatness are stopped short because the dreamers lack the will. Continue with your duties and do not impair our efforts. The rewards could be great if we succeed."
"I want nothing from you," spat Popov through his teeth.
The Chairman shrugged. "As you wish."
The general glared at his tormentor.' 'The Americans know,'' he said finally.
Kostiashak exhaled another lungful of smoke. "I have never been one to underestimate the Americans. I have lived among them. Now, continue with the launch preparations."
The Foreign Minister's private phone jingled. "Da?" he answered.
"Yes, my dear Minister," replied the military chieftain, "I have the information you requested."
The old diplomat picked up his tea cup and leaned back in his leather chair. "Ah, yes, Konstantin. Thank you for responding so swifdy. What have you learned?"
"I spoke with the duty officer at the Aerospace Warning Centre," recounted the Defense Minister, "and he confirmed that we fired upon an American Blackbird spy plane — almost downing it, I might add." The memory of a Cessna landing in Red Square was not yet erased. "However, they know nothing concerning communication with an American spacecraft."
"Very good," said the Foreign Minister.
"I then spoke with General Popov in Spaceflite Operations. He, too, knew nothing about communication with a foreign spacecraft. He did, however, suggest what was motivating the Americans."
The old diplomat put down his tea. "And that was?"
"He speculated the Americans may be experiencing difficulty with one of their spacecraft — perhaps another disaster is in the making like the one of a few years ago — and they intend to claim we are responsible for any problems that occur, for propaganda purposes. Therefore they have fabricated this story of our communicating with their spacecraft — to 'set us up,' as their saying goes."
The Foreign Minister rubbed his temples for a moment. "Of course. That must be the reason. I recall that space disaster of theirs — the Challenger it was called. An agent in their 'free' press suggested our state security people were responsible for its explosion. We quickly defused that rumor with our vigorous diplomacy. Yes, Popov may well be correct. I will communicate your findings and General Popov's thesis to Ambassador Yakolev. That should put the Americans in their place, and put this matter to rest. As I said, I did not wish to disturb the General Secretary until it was a matter of urgency… Also, I am leaving for a holiday at my dacha in Vilkovo. I did not want this to interrupt it."
Vilkovo was an exclusive resort enclave on the Black Sea for Politburo members.
"Vilkovo, you say?" The Defense Minister's interest picked up. "Perhaps I shall see you there, my friend. I am leaving myself in a few hours. It is time for a respite from this harsh Moscow winter."
The Foreign Minister smiled. "Quite true, Konstantin. I hope to see you there. And thank you for investigating this matter so promptly."
"Not at all," purred the thick voice.
After he hung up, the Foreign Minister dashed off a cable in longhand, then rang for Kulikov, his aide-de-camp.
"Yes, Comrade Minister?" asked the supplicant aide.
The old man held out the cable text. "Read this, then have it sent to Yakolev without delay. I am leaving for Vilkovo this afternoon. You are to remain here over the weekend and notify me immediately should any further cables arrive from the ambassador. You have my private number in Vilkovo?"
"Of course, Comrade Minister," replied Kulikov, trying to conceal his anger at having his own weekend plans demolished.
"Very well. See to the message." And with that, Kulikov was dismissed.
The Foreign Minister looked out his window and saw that snow was falling once again. He drummed his fingers on Catherine the Great's leather-topped desk. Perhaps he would leave early for Vilkovo.
"Oh, great! That's just great. I really needed this just now. Shit!"
Monaghan held the phone away from his ear to allow General McCormack to vent his fury. The general had just been informed that Capt. Davey Barnes had finally been located — in traction at Lancaster General Hospital, when he would remain for at least six weeks. That meant the Kestrel was without a weapons system officer.
When the roar from the phone began to subside, Monaghan decided to hazard a question. "So, uh, where do we go from here… sir?"
"You let me worry about that, Monaghan," replied McCormack testily. "You just make sure that bird gets armed and on the transport in one piece. Think you can handle that?"
"I believe so… sir."
"What's the status on the arming?" asked the general.
"The LTV people are here now. I think they've got the Sidewinders installed and have started to work on the Phoenix."
"You think? Jesus, man, don't you know?" yelled McCormack. "Did"'t I make myself clear about what's at stake here? This isn't some kind of piss-off test spin, Monaghan, do you understand that?"
"I understand somebody got his teat in a wringer and wants me to ride a rocket upstairs to pull his ass out of the fire… sir."
Monaghan's biting response caused McCormack to snap, and in military parlance, the general "went ballistic." Monaghan heard a gurgling sound through the phone. "All right, Commander, I wasn't going to tell you this, but no sense in pulling punches now. You were fixing to be drummed out of SPACECOM next week. I was already cutting the paperwork. The only reason you got on the Kestrel project in the first place was that oversexed recommendation letter Admiral Creighton gave you out of Patuxent. I don't know how much you paid him to write that epistle, Monaghan, but it must have been a nice piece of change. You're a helluva a pilot, I'll give you that. But you're the sorriest excuse for an officer I have ever seen — in any branch of the service."
"I never knew there was a problem in that regard… sir," said Monaghan innocently.
The gurgling sound returned. "Not a problem? Listen, bozo, officers in the United States Armed Forces do not, I repeat do not, drive a Hertz rental car into the main pool at Caesars Palace at three o'clock in the morning! With a Senator's daughter in the front seat!"
"The accelerator jammed, sir."
"That's not the way I heard it. You took her up on a dare. The only reason you weren't busted then was the Senator wanted the whole damn thing hushed up. But forget that. Obviously, I'm not getting through to you, Monaghan, so let me put this to you in terms even you can understand. If you play this one by the book and act like a good little soldier — excuse me, good little sailor — then when this Intrepid mess is over, whether or not you go upstairs, you get mustered out of the service nice and easy. Take your twenty-six years, retire to Pensacola, and get drunk on the beach. No sweat. You're happy. We're happy. Okay? But if you fuck this up, then so help me I'll see to it your retirement benefits are frozen for so long you'll be a dried-up geriatric prune before you see your first pension dollar. Am I getting through now, Monaghan?"