TO: ELLINGTON, GENERAL USAF
INCERCLIK AIRBASE, TURKEY
PREPARE ONE SR-71 PLUS BACKUP PLANE FOR SINGLE MISSION. TARGET TWELVE MILES NORTH OF TASHKENT, SOVIET UNION. DETAILS TO FOLLOW
ARMAMENT: TWO TWELVE-MEGATON NUKES
PROJECTED STRIKE TIME: WITHIN THIRTY-FOUR HOURS FINAL ORDER WILL BE ISSUED BY STARK ALONE
In the barracks at the edge of the airfield, Joe Safcek was meeting the rest of his team. Luba Spitkovsky moved across the room to him and shook his hand energetically. She was slight, just over five feet tall and barely one hundred pounds, yet there was nothing frail about her. Safcek was struck by her deepset eyes, her pale, taut skin, and high cheekbones. Her golden hair had been cut short into a mannish bob, framing the girl’s intent face. Safcek remembered now that the Pentagon briefing officer had described her as a cold-blooded killer. He found it almost impossible to believe.
Safcek felt vaguely distrustful of her, not because of anything obvious, but just because she was a woman. He had never worked with a woman agent before and could not imagine her being anything but a weak link in the chain. But her first remark forced him to smile broadly. She said: “Colonel, in Russian, Luba means love.” The remark was outrageous in the context, and Safcek felt better about the girl.
Behind her stood Peter Kirov, who soberly confronted the colonel and extended his hand. Safcek examined him closely and saw a young man, with close-cropped hair like Safcek’s, a broad Slavic face, and a slim moustache. His eyes were very dark, close together, and piercing in their intensity. Kirov was heavily muscled, obviously in excellent physical condition. Safcek said: “Welcome aboard,” and Kirov bowed slightly and retreated from his new commanding officer.
Karl Richter observed the introductions with a benign interest, then asked: “Shall we go over the details one last time, folks?” The four members of Operation Scratch sat down with their mentor, and the briefing began. Propped on an easel was the same blown-up map Richter had taken Safcek and Gorlov over on the plane. It covered an area from Peshawar north to Tashkent and vicinity. A bull’s-eye marked the airfield, another indicated the target area. A blue line marked the route of the helicopter out of friendly territory into hostile land. Richter pointed out the terrain and added: “We’d like to drop you in during daylight to avoid going through the mountains by night, but it would only give them a better look at you once you landed, and besides we’re running short on time. You will leave here shortly before one A.M. local time — that’s about three quarters of an hour from now. The chopper will hug the floors of the valleys through the mountains and out into the flat. Russian radar positions have been ascertained, and we’ll be able to slip by them at a height of three hundred feet.”
Boris Gorlov groaned at the thought of negotiating such a formidable obstacle in darkness, but Richter curtly asked: “Do you have any other way, Boris?” He had none, and the discussion continued.
Joe Safcek was warming to the task. His nerves had steadied after leaving the States, and he had pushed thoughts of Martha and Tommy into the recesses of his mind. It was imperative to deny his other life and concentrate on the job at hand.
Safcek studied his subordinates as they sat listening intently to Karl Richter, and he felt increasingly confident. They were professionals in a rotten game, and he would not have to watch his flanks while they were along.
Richter showed a magnified picture of the target area.
“There it is. The building in the middle has to have the laser. Only a place that big could accommodate the weapon. Plus the Samos satellite has taken pictures of the roof, and it appears to be a rollback type, permitting the laser to poke through and fire.”
“What are the other buildings?”
“Most likely workers’ buildings, scientists’ dormitories, and machine shops. The place is apparently a self-contained unit, sealed off from the outside world. That partially explains our own failure to estimate their rate of progress over the past months. Few people came out or went in.”
Karl Richter wanted to add: “But Grigor Rudenko found a way to get at the secret.”
He continued with the briefing. Outside, Pakistani workers loaded supplies onto a large helicopter painted khaki and bearing a red star insignia.
Television mobile units had been drawn up around the White House since noon. The march had degenerated into a shapeless blob of dissident human beings, milling about in Lafayette Park. Tourists watched them indifferently at first, then with growing impatience as the protesters usurped their space and began badgering them with the news about President Stark’s plan to start World War III. The tourists moved away, determined not to get involved. Only the curious stayed to listen, then to join the throng as it pushed across Pennsylvania Avenue toward the mansion on the opposite side.
The District of Columbia police had set up wooden horses to keep back the crowd that would be coming from the Capitol at the end of its march. But the police were ill-equipped to handle the vociferous thousands who now pressed toward the wrought-iron fence surrounding the Presidential mansion. From a guard post at one end of the grounds, an excited sergeant phoned in to the White House Secret Service room and told the duty officer that he needed help immediately. The Secret Service man hung up and ran to a window to gauge the extent of the emergency. He saw an unruly mass of people milling about just a few feet beyond the wooden horses in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue. Two of the horses were already down. Police were clubbing back several protesters. The Secret Service man called for mounted patrols from the local city force. Then he sent word to Fort Myer for troops. As he talked, a policeman entered the room and handed him a pamphlet. He put down the phone and whistled in amazement. “Holy Christ, no wonder they’re going wild.” He ran down the hall to the Oval Room, where William Stark had just greeted Clifford Erskine.
The President had been surprised when the secretary had appeared in the outer office requesting an appointment. Erskine came in, tight-lipped and tense. He was barely courteous to the President, who asked about the demonstration over at the Pentagon.
“Mr. President, those people are sincere human beings, scared to death about losing everything we’ve built in this crazy world.”
The President noticed the edge in Erskine’s voice and replied: “I never said they weren’t, Cliff. What’s gotten into you today?”
“That phone call from Randall is what has gotten into me. I can’t believe that you are even thinking of trying Roarke’s way. And if you are, I’m here to hand over my job.”
“Now wait just a minute, Cliff.” The President was furious with his defense secretary. “Goddamnit, I won’t allow you to go on this way. Jesus, with the whole world falling down, the last thing I need is men deserting me.”
The buzzer on the intercom sounded, and a secretary announced the Secret Service man on urgent business. Stark ordered him in, and the man handed the President the pamphlet, while he explained the disorder outside. Stark’s eyes opened wide in incredulity. “Where did they get this crap?” he asked quickly.
“I don’t know, sir, but they evidently believe it and are really looking for trouble.”
The President was incensed. He jumped up from his chair and shouted: “Show them to me! Show me these people.”
Erskine followed the President and the Secret Service man to an upstairs window in the family quarters. Stark pulled back the heavy white draperies and looked down on the SOUL protesters. He beheld chaos.
The guards at the White House had one overriding duty, to protect the President of the United States at all costs. When the mob had first surged up East Executive Avenue and remassed in Lafayette Park, the police had remained in the belief that violence was not intended. When the crowd spilled out of the park and up against the wooden horses, the police became frightened and summoned help. Before horse patrols and soldiers could appear, exasperated marchers had driven the police against the wrought-iron fence and wrestled with them at the entrances to the circular driveway leading to the front door of the White House. At that moment, the chief in charge of the White House detail ordered gas fired over the heads of the crowd. Inside the grounds, masked men had knelt, aimed, and lobbed canisters out into the street.