There was another pause.
"Professor," Kelly said imploringly. "This stuff is hot."
The tone of his old friend's voice got the professor's attention. "Exacdy what do you mean by 'hot,' Tim?"
"I mean hotter than Belenko, Professor. Maybe a hundred times hotter. My boss says he'll get the White House to call you and verify the seriousness of the situation if need be. We need your help, Professor, and we need it now."
That knocked down the old scholar's objections. "My, well, if that's the case then I would, of course, be happy to assist you, Tim. But I really don't know how. I mean, in order to do what you ask, I would need to inspect this document you speak of, and I believe you said you are residing in Colorado."
"Hmmm," pondered Kelly. "You wouldn't happen to have a facsimile machine there, would you?"
The professor never had been one to embrace technology.' 'Is that one of those contraptions that will send a picture of a document through the phone?" There was a trace of irritation in his voice.
"Yes, sir. That's it."
"Well, I believe there's one in the department chairman's office, but everyone's left for the weekend and I don't know how to operate it."
Kelly thought fast. He wasn't about to let Brennan off the hook. "Well, Professor, tell you what. Just get on the phone by that facsimile machine and tell me what brand it is. I'll have one of our technical people explain to you how to operate it."
The old professor sighed. He was very tired and just wanted to go home. "You're sure this won't keep?"
"I'm sure, Professor. On the level."
A fatigued voice said, "Very well."
Twenty minutes later, replicas of the first fifteen pages of a notebook found in a Chicago warehouse began rolling out of a Minolta facsimile machine on the Columbia campus.
Monaghan craned his neck to look up at the Kestrel. It was poised in a sling over the Titan 34-D rocket, and the technicians in the payload assembly hangar were preparing to attach the tail end of the spaceplane to the booster. The vehicle had never been fitted to a booster before, so things were progressing slowly, as was the case with any prototype. Monaghan decided it was about time to leave and go over to the launch control bunker, where he could start reviewing the flight plan.
"So how's it going, Mad Dog?" asked a voice from behind.
Monaghan turned around, and his face immediately brightened. There stood Lamborghini in his green flight suit. "Hey! Hot Rod! Long time no see! How the hell are you doin'?" He clapped the colonel on the back and pumped his hand.
Lamborghini smiled. "Not too bad, Mad Dog. And yourself?"
Monaghan grimaced. "Could be better. There's some pretty heavy shit going down around here. I guess you know about it?" He jerked a thumb up toward the Kestrel.
Lamborghini nodded.
"Yeah. And if that wasn't enough, my backseater is in the hospital, and that lawnmower McCormick has been crawlin' all over my ass. I tell ya, that's one two-star who must have been abused by a sailor when he was a child. He has a stroke every time he sees my anchor.''
Lamboighini laughed. "Don't take it so hard," he comforted.
Monaghan sighed, "Oh, well, no sense in my pissin' on your leg. What brings you out here anyway, Hot Rod?" (There had never been any doubt what Lamborghini's call sign would be.)
"Well, actually, I'm here about your backseater."
"Oh, you got one lined up?" asked Monaghan.
"Yep."
"No shit? Who is it? Anybody I know?"
"Yeah, I think so. You're looking at him."
Monaghan was stunned. "You?"
"Me."
"How come?"
"Process of elimination," Lamborghini explained. "The Kestrel has always had super-tight security. Only one prototype crew has been trained. I was the only one familiar with the weapons systems who was flight-qualified. Either I came on board or the mission was scrubbed. Simple."
Monaghan shook his head. "Well, just between us girls, I hope that the Constellation can take care of this Intrepid crap without our lifting off. I didn't plan on goin' up in this thing for almost another year. The whole operation feels jerry-rigged to me. And after my last run-in with McCormack, retirement is looking mighty good."
Lamborghini laughed again and looked at his watch.' 'Listen, I'm starved. What do you say we run out and grab a steak, then we can shag ass over to Edwards for some simulator time. You can bring me up to speed on the systems over dinner."
"You got a deal, Hot Rod. You're the first friendly face I've seen in I don't know how long." He looked back up at the Kestrel and grinned. "Hot damn. Mad Dog and Hot Rod. That sounds like somethin', don't it? Anybody gets in our way, we'll kick his ass."
Professor George Kirtwell Brennan slammed down the magnifying glass. "Good God!" he exclaimed. "It can't be!" The elderly scholar's fatigue vanished as he leapt from his chair and bounded to one of the bulging file cabinets in his office. He rummaged through the papers until he found a certain document in a special envelope. He returned to his desk and placed the file-cabinet document alongside the facsimile copies which had been transmitted from Cheyenne Mountain. He picked up the magnifying glass and carefully examined both documents several times.
Finally, he slammed the magnifying glass down once more, this time almost breaking it. "Good God!" He gulped. "It isl"
He reached for the phone.
In the conference room, Whittenberg's commo panel buzzed and he picked up the receiver. After a few murmurs he turned to Kelly. "It's for you, Tim. Professor Brennan in New York."
"Oh, good. That was quick." Kelly motioned to the box on the table. "Why don't you put it on the speakerphone, sir? That way we can all hear it."
"Good idea," said the CinC, and he punched a button on his console.
"Tim?" asked a voice from the box.
"Yes, Professor. I'm here. We've got you on a speakerphone. Besides myself there is Rodger Whittenberg, Commanding General of the Space Command, our chief of staff, the deputy chief of staff for operations, and my boss, Major Lydia Strand.'' Kelly thought it better not to mention that an FBI agent was also in the room, and he exchanged an understanding nod with Tedesco.
"Gentlemen, and lady," greeted Brennan in a nervous voice.
"Tim, I must ask you. Where on earth did you get these documents?"
Kelly flashed a glance at Whittenberg, who shook his head.
"Well, Professor, I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say at the moment. Besides, it's a situation that would be very difficult to explain over the phone."
Brennan emitted a "harrumphf," then added, "I'm not surprised. Do you have any idea what you have here?"
"No, Professor, we don't. Only that it appeared to me it was written in the Mxedruli alphabet."
"I see. Well, my dear fellow, I've got something to tell you. I've only made a cursory examination, you understand, but I'm almost certain of my findings. You were quite right. They are written in the Georgian language. These documents appear to be an excerpt from the original handwritten text of a series of articles entitled, Anarkhizm ili Sotsializm, which, as you know, translates to Anarchism or Socialism. These articles were published serially in some Georgian political periodicals after the turn of the century, and were written by a young Georgian revolutionary named Iosif Vissarionovich Dzhugashvili."