“What about gas?”
“The place you landed is supposed to have sizable underground fuel tanks.”
“More than you will need,” Aliyev confirmed. Boyle thought that was quite a promise.
“And ordnance?” Boyle asked. “We’ve got maybe two days’ worth on the C-5s so far. Six complete loads for my Apaches, figuring three missions per day.”
“Which version of the Apache?” Aliyev asked.
“Delta, Colonel. We’ve got the Longbow radar.”
“Everything works?” the Russian asked.
“Colonel, not much sense bringing them if they don’t,” Boyle replied, with a raised eyebrow. “What about secure quarters for my people?”
“At the base where you landed, there will be secure sleeping quarters for your aviators-bombproof shelters. Your maintenance people will be housed in barracks.”
Boyle nodded. It was the same everywhere. The weenies who built things acted as if pilots were more valuable than the people who maintained the aircraft. And so they were, until the aircraft needed repairs, at which point the pilot was as useful as a cavalryman without a horse.
“Okay, General. I’ll take Tony to this Chita place and then I’m going back to see to my people’s needs. I could sure use one of Chuck Garvey’s radios.”
“He’s outside. Grab one on your way.”
“Okay, sir. Tony, let’s get moving,” he said to the chief of staff.
“Sir, as soon as we get some infantry in, I want to put security on those fueling points,” Masterman said. “Those places need protecting.”
“I can give you what you need,” Aliyev offered.
“Fine by me,” Masterman responded. “How many of those secure radios did Garvey bring?”
“Eight, I think. Two are gone already,” General Diggs warned. “Well, there’ll be more on the train. Go tell Boyle to send two choppers here for our needs.”
“Right.” Masterman ran for the door.
The ministers all had offices and, as in every other such office in the world, the cleanup crews came in, in this case about ten every night. They picked up all sorts of trash, from candy wrappers to empty cigarette packs to papers, and the latter went into special burn-bags. The janitorial staff was not particularly smart, but they had had to pass background checks and go through security briefings that were heavy on intimidation. They were not allowed to discuss their jobs with anyone, not even a spouse, and not ever to reveal what they saw in the wastebaskets. In fact, they never thought much about it-they were less interested in the thoughts or ideas of the Politburo members than they were in the weather forecasts. They’d rarely even seen the ministers whose offices they cleaned, and none of the crew had ever so much as spoken a single word to any of them; they just tried to be invisible on those rare occasions when they saw one of the godlike men who ruled their nation. Maybe a submissive bow, which was not even acknowledged by so much as a look, because they were mere furniture, menials who did peasants’ work because, as peasants, that was all they were suited for. The peasants knew what computers were, but such machines were not for the use of such men as they were, and the janitorial staff knew it.
And so when one of the computers made a noise while a cleaner was in the office, he took no note of it. Well, it seemed odd that it should whir when the screen was dark, but why it did what it did was a mystery to him, and he’d never even been so bold as to touch the thing. He didn’t even dust the keyboard as he cleaned the desktop-no, he always avoided the keys.
And so, he heard the whir begin, continue for a few seconds, then stop, and he paid no mind to it.
Mary Pat Foley opened her eyes when the sun started casting shadows on her husband’s office wall, and rubbed her eyes reluctantly. She checked her watch. Seven-twenty. She was usually up long before this-but she usually didn’t go to bed after four in the morning. Three hours of sleep would probably have to do. She stood and headed into Ed’s private washroom. It had a shower, like hers. She’d make use of her own shortly, and for the moment settled for some water splashed on her face and a reluctant look in the mirror that resulted in a grimace at what the look revealed.
The Deputy Director (Operations) of the Central Intelligence Agency shook her head, and then her entire body to get the blood moving, and then put her blouse on. Finally, she shook her husband’s shoulder.
“Out of the hutch, honey-bunny, before the foxes get you.”
“We still at war?” the DCI asked from behind closed eyes.
“Probably. I haven’t checked yet.” She paused for a stretch and slipped her feet into her shoes. “I’m going to check my e-mail.”
“Okay, I’ll call downstairs for breakfast,” Ed told her.
“Oatmeal. No eggs. Your cholesterol is too high,” Mary Pat observed.
“Yeah, baby,” he grumbled in submissive reply.
“That’s a good honey-bunny.” She kissed him and headed out.
Ed Foley made his bathroom call, then sat at his desk and lifted the phone to call the executive cooking staff. “Coffee. Toast. Three-egg omelet, ham, and hash browns.” Cholesterol or not, he had to get his body working.
You’ve got mail,” the mechanical voice said.
“Great.” The DDO breathed. She downloaded it, going through the usual procedures to save and print, but rather more slowly this morning because she was groggy and therefore mistake-prone. That sort of thing made her slow down and be extra careful, something she’d learned to do as the mother of a newborn. And so in four minutes instead of the usual two, she had a printed hard copy of the latest SORGE feed from Agent SONGBIRD. Six pages of relatively small ideographs. Then she lifted the phone and punched the speed-dial button for Dr. Sears.
“Yes?”
“This is Mrs. Foley. We got one.”
“On the way, Director.” She had some coffee before he arrived, and the taste, if not the effect of the caffeine, helped her face the day.
“In early?” she asked.
“Actually I slept in last night. We need to improve the selection on the cable TV,” he told her, hoping to lighten the day a little. One look at her eyes told him how likely that was.
“Here.” She handed the sheets across. “Coffee?”
“Yes, thank you.” His eyes didn’t leave the page as his hand reached out for the cup. “This is good stuff today.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, it’s Fang’s account of a Politburo discussion of how the war’s going … they’re trying to analyze our actions … yeah, that’s about what I’d expect …”
“Talk to me, Dr. Sears,” Mary Pat ordered.
“You’re going to want to get George Weaver in on this, too, but what he’s going to say is that they’re projecting their own political outlook onto us generally, and onto President Ryan in particular … yeah, they’re saying that we are not hitting them hard for political reasons, that they think we don’t want to piss them off too much …” Sears took a long sip of coffee. “This is really good stuff. It tells us what their political leadership is thinking, and what they’re thinking isn’t very accurate.” Sears looked up. “They misunderstand us worse than we misunderstand them, Director, even at this level. They see President Ryan’s motivation as a strictly political calculation. Zhang says that he’s laying back so that we can do business with them, after they consolidate their control over the Russian oil and goldfields.”
“What about their advance?”
“They say-that is, Marshal Luo says-that things are going according to plan, that they’re surprised at the lack of Russian opposition, and also surprised that we haven’t struck any targets within their borders.”
“That’s because we don’t have any bombs over there yet. Just found that out myself. We’re having to fly the bombs in so that we can drop them.”