"And I," added the Frenchman.
The President turned to his Director of Central Intelligence. "Bobby, is there any further light you can shed on this thing, other than the fact the Russians have a fake shuttle?''
The DCI was a frustrated man, and his trademark toothy grin was absent. "I can only say that the unusual thing is what hasn't happened. Radio traffic analysis from NSA indicates nothing abnormal. Military forces are at their standard level of readiness. Higher-level telephonic intercepts indicate nothing out of the ordinary. As far as I can tell, it's as if no one in Russia knew about the Intrepid. Business as usual, you might say."
The President didn't like that and started to get himself worked up again. His drill-sergeant face began twitching. "This is insane. A country that has five million men under arms and twenty-five thousand nuclear weapons, and we don't know who's really in charge? It's crazy." He rubbed his temples in disbelief.
"Try to understand, my friend," comforted the Frenchman. "We are dealing with Russia."
In the SPADOC Crow's Nest, Whittenberg slowly read the cable Lydia Strand had given him. He was still in a daze from the horrific destruction of the Constellation, and had just received a report on the murder of Ed Garvey at the Cape and the attempted sabotage of the Constellation. Now this. He reread the message from the Central Intelligence Agency one more time, then passed it to Fairchild.
"A fake shutde?" asked Whittenberg absendy.
"Yes, sir," replied Strand.
The CinC's giant black hand pulled on his chin. "This is new information. Why would the Russians have a replica? We know their shuttie works. We even have photos of it in retrofire." He kept pulling on his chin. "Maybe they wanted us to think they have more shutdes than they really have?"
Sir Isaac puffed on his pipe. "I'm afraid a theory like that doesn't dovetail with their behavior," he countered. "Whenever the Russians conducted shuttie landing tests, they always tried to time their tests so our recon satellites wouldn't be overhead. We were lucky whenever we caught one out in the open. Why have a replica when you're trying to hide the real one?"
There was silence while they all tried to make some sense of it. And nothing seemed to make sense anymore. The shock of the Constellation had numbed their minds.
"What you say may be true, sir," said Strand, "but I think you have to come back to the fundamental question. Why have a replica in the first place?''
A moment or two drifted by until Whittenbeig said,' "lb make us think something is there when it's not."
"Exactiy. And what was the location of the plastic replica?" she asked, using the Socratic method.
Sir Isaac scratched his aquiline nose. "At Baikonur," he said finally.
"Yes, sir," she continued. "So if we followed that logic pattern, that would mean they wanted us to think they had a shuttle at Baikonur when they really didn't."
Sir Isaac chewed the stem of his pipe. "But as the general said, we have a Spyglass photo of their shuttle in retrofire, and we took satellite pix of it on the ground at Baikonur minutes after it landed. We haven't seen it since."
Whittenberg had turned and was looking blankly at one of the big SPADOC screens, which still had the ground track of the Intrepid projected on it. The flight paths of the Constellation and the AS AT were no longer there. His mind drifted, until somewhere in his subconscious a door opened, causing him to quickly spin around. "But what if those pix on the Baikonur runway were of the replica shuttle?"
Sir Isaac furrowed his brow. "Well, I don't see how that would be possible. That would mean the shuttle landed somewhere else, and I don't know where that could be, or…"He gasped. "Or…"
"Or it didn't land at all," said Strand excitedly.
"Son of a bitch!" exclaimed the CinC. "Major, I want you to pull out all of the historical pix we have on the Russian shuttle. Especially those pix we got back in November after the shuttle's last flight. Sir Isaac, check the historical orbital patterns on that reentry. Maybe we missed something."
"You need not worry," came the subdued voice over the radio. "The American spacecraft has been destroyed." "Destroyed?" exclaimed Iceberg.
"That is correct, Intrepid. As I told you before, we were watching the American situation carefully."
Iceberg took a deep breath. "I am impressed, Flite Centre. That took some balls." "Say again, Intrepid. Balls?"
"Never mind. When are you launching your people?"
"In approximately fourteen hours, Intrepid. Will you be ready?"
"I was ready when I left Vandenberg, Flite Centre. Keep me informed. Intrepid, out."
Iceberg killed the mike and leaned back. So the Constellation got its ass blown out of the sky, he thought. Goddammit, that's great. Shove it to those holier-than-thou bastards. The Iceberg allowed himself a smile. He figured he was going to like Russia.
Aleksandr Kulikov, aide-de-camp to the Foreign Minister, read the cablegram intently. This was serious. Deadly serious. The Americans claimed the Soviet Union had shot down one of their space shuttles. France would rejoin NATO. A military alert. Saint Kirill, help me, Kulikov thought. The aide-de-camp knew he must notify the Foreign Minister immediately, so he picked up the phone; but before he could start dialing, the door opened — and Kulikov froze.
"Good afternoon, Comrade Kulikov," said the KGB Chairman in a warm voice. "It is a cold day, is it not?"
Kulikov sat there in shock, staring at the little man with the slicked-back hair and double-breasted suit. It was as if a viper had just slithered into his office.
Kostiashak looked around for an ashtray, but the abstemious Kulikov was a nonsmoker, so he flicked the ashes onto the Persian rug. "Correct me if I am wrong, Comrade Kulikov, but you were in the process of telephoning the Foreign Minister in Vilkovo— is that not so?"
Kulikov's head slowly nodded.
Kostiashak smiled again. "You are an intelligent man, Comrade. I could make it most attractive for you to refrain from making that telephone call."
Kulikov was stunned. "Not make the call?" he asked.
"Precisely," replied the Chairman.
"But why should I not make the call? We have a serious situation with the Americans. The Foreign Minister must be informed immediately.''
Kostiashak flicked another ash and studied his manicured fingernails. "Let us say, I am in a position to know that the situation is not what it appears to be. And it would be unwise to inform the Foreign Minister at this time."
Like ninety-nine percent of all Russians, Kulikov loathed die secret police, and his closeness to the Foreign Minister gave him some insulation firom their tentacles. "I regret I cannot comply with your request, Comrade Chairman,'' he said testily. "I must make the call."
Kostiashak pulled on his Pall Mall and slowly exhaled before saying, "Veiy well, Comrade Kulikov, but if you insist on communicating with your superior, you will force me to arrest you on charges of espionage."
Kulikov's androgynous face turned white. "Espionage?" he repeated softiy.
The KGB chieftain nodded. "Yes, my dear Comrade. You may recall — oh, approximately three years ago — visiting the apartment of a friend of yours. A French diplomat, I believe. You really should have gone to the park when you pleaded with him to make you a spy. A listening device had been installed in the gendeman's flat long before your visit. It was such an infantile mistake for you to make. And you are a Russian. Did your parents teach you nothing?"