Grabbing her purse and the crowbar, she pulled down the overhead door and left.
The President of the United States looked out the French doors and gazed upon the White House Rose Garden. The small panes of glass that framed his view were extraordinarily thick for such elegant doors, but that was a necessary precaution. Each square was constructed of six sheets of glass laminated to interlayers of polyvinyl butyral. This created a see-through bulletproof shield that could withstand anything up to and including a .460 Weatherby Magnum fired at point-blank range.
The President's mood was one of befuddlement. He wasn't sure what to believe about this Intrepid business anymore. "Riming to his guest, he asked, "How much confidence do you have in this Kremlin source of yours?"
The Frenchman tapped the ashes from one of his host's Don Diego cigars. "As you can understand, my friend, I cannot tell you his precise position. We have to protect our intelligence sources, just as you must. But I can tell you that he is highly placed within the Soviet Foreign Ministry, and we have found him to be extremely accurate in the past. Indeed, we have seen staff position papers even before they have crossed the Foreign Minister's desk."
The President frowned. "And he verifies everything that Ambassador Yakolev says?"
The Frenchman nodded. "Oui. Our source confirms that the Foreign Minister personally investigated the allegations concerning Soviet communications with your space shuttle and dismissed it as American propaganda. My intelligence people tell me we, ah, even obtained a copy of the cable message the Foreign Minister sent Ambassador Yakolev… Perhaps I should not have told you that."
The American's eyebrow went up: "I must confess I am impressed. And rest assured I've already forgotten about the cable. Although it certainly validates your source. I wish my spooks could come up with something like that."
"Spooks?"
The host smiled. "American slang for 'spies.' But even with your Foreign Ministry source, I don't know how to read the situation. I told you about my Secretary of State's speculation that a leadership change may be under way in the Kremlin?"
"Oui. And I agree with you. It is most difficult to interpret. But it is even more difficult to believe the Foreign Minister and Defense Minister are not exercising genuine control over their portfolios, as they have for years."
"Yeah. That's what I told Winston. And I sure hope you're right. I wouldn't want to contemplate the alternative."
The Frenchman took a drag on the Don Diego. "What are your plans now?"
The American's gaze returned to the Rose Garden, and he took a long sigh. "There's nothing we can do, really, except get the Constellation up there as fast as possible." The President checked his watch. "Lift-off is supposed to be at four-thirty a.m. About twelve hours from now. If you're so inclined, we can watch the lift-off and part of the rendezvous from here." He motioned to the television cabinet.
Now it was the Frenchman who was impressed. "Indeed?"
Like a neighbor showing off a new lawnmower, the American said, "Yeah. My SPACECOM general has got a telescope in a high-flying jediner. He calls it Spyglass, and it's up near the polar ice cap now. That way it can catch the Intrepid for a few minutes on each orbit."
His guest nodded. "I would very much like to see this."
"Fine." The President looked at his watch again. "I guess we can make it an early dinner, then turn in early so we can get up early. Or we can make it a long night."
The Frenchman chuckled. "I have never been an early riser, my friend."
Col. Peter Nordstrum Lamborghini threw his T-38 Talon fighter into a savage double roll. He was nearing his approach to the Vandenberg runway, and the double roll was the only aerobatic maneuver he could execute in the tightly controlled southern California airspace. En route from Colorado Springs he'd taken a little time over the wide-open spaces of Utah to do a couple of loops and Immelmanns. He found it was a good way to relieve the stress of the last few days, and only wished there had been time for more fun.
Lamborghini knew the Talon probably as well as any man alive, because he'd flown it as a member of the Thunderbirds, the aerobatic demonstration team. One of the disappointments of his Air Force career was that he'd flown with the Thunder-birds before they made the transition to his beloved F-16. Despite its problems, Peter still thought the Falcon was one hummer of an aircraft.
The son of a road construction foreman, the SPACECOM intelligence officer had graduated from the University of Wisconsin in aeronautical engineering. Although proud of his Italian and Norwegian heritage, he always felt like a half-breed in the land of the transplanted Scandinavians, so he joined the Air Force to see other parts of the world. The first part of the world he saw after completing flight school was North Vietnam, from the front seat of an F-4 Phantom. He saw a lot of it while racking up two tours of duty, 318 combat missions, and a chestful of medals. He saw lots of flak, thousands of tracer rounds, and dozens of SAM missiles — real up close and personal. More times than he cared to count, he saw a mean-looking fighter plane and a dashing, brave American pilot disappear in a fireball in the time it takes to blink an eye. He had the opportunity to see an SA-2 SAM missile explode directly above the cockpit, and through the blur of a 400 mph ejection, he watched the parachute of his bombardier disappear into the triple-canopy jungle. He experienced the total blackness and utter terror of a night spent alone in the jungle, as well as the horror of finding his bombardier swinging from a tree in a parachute harness-perfectly fine, except that he was headless. He experienced the exhaustion and fear of running from Laotian widows and orphans as they came after him with sticks, rocks, and crossbows, seeking revenge for the errant American bombs that had snuffed out their husbands and fathers. Instead of seeing the world, Peter Lamborghini's face had been rubbed savagely in the slime pit called "war" — and he didn't care for it much.
By the time his second Vietnam tour ground to a halt, Lamborghini had soured on the whole sordid Indochina mess, and he came very, very close to leaving the Air Force. His wife, Juliet, had soured on it long before he had; but she knew her husband. And she loved him. She wanted to see him happy, and knew the only place he would be happy was in the cockpit. She patiently explained to Peter that there was a difference between defending your country and pursuing a foreign policy gone haywire. So at her urging he kept his uniform- And in the years that followed, she went uncomplaining, rearing their two daughters, as they hopped from one Permanent Change of Station to another. It was a royal pain in the kazoo for a spouse, but necessary if her husband was to climb the career ladder in the Tactical Air Command.
Lamborghini grew and matured. He was a gifted pilot and a natural leader. And he knew his wife was right. Flying had become a fundamental part of his life. Putting Vietnam behind him, he auditioned for, and was accepted into, the Thunder-birds. The aerobatic flying became a salve that rehabilitated his wounded spirt. It also made up for a lot of the shortcomings of Air Force life — such as low pay, frequent moves, family separations, and crazy hours.
If you ever reviewed Lamborghini's personnel file, you would find plenty of commendations, medals, and outstanding efficiency reports. But you would also find that although he completed 318 combat missions, and had even flown as wingman to the Air Force's legendary Brig. Gen. Robin "Old Man" Olds, Lamborghini could not claim the tide of "fighter ace." That is to say, he'd shot down four North Vietnamese MiGs, but was one plane shy of the five kills needed to possess the coveted "ace" designation — officially, that is. The circumstances surrounding the additional two MiGs he nailed, to this day, remained lacked in a Pentagon basement vault under an Omega classification.