The Espionage Game

by Susan Glinert Stevens

  “What is it that you have in mind?” he asked quietly.

  Grigori Sechenov opened his attaché case. “The plan is calledOperatsiyaIpomeya , Operation Morning Glory,” he said as he pulled out a thin folder. “There is virtually no risk and it gets us the technology. We can run it in parallel with Operation Armored Fist so Marshal Dobrovolsky won’t have even the slightest hint of its existence.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Jerry Rodell let the hot water play over his body for as long as he dared. Water was limited at Groom Lake and so had to be conserved; long hot showers were discouraged. Still, he didn’t feel particularly guilty about his ten-minute shower; he needed it. It had been one of those days.

  “First, there was the verbal assault by that man-hating bitch, Dr. Madeline Louise MacCauley, Ph.D.,” he muttered to himself bitterly while he recounted his misfortunes. “Then there was the nasty surprise called the neural net, next, whip, or whatever they call that damn thing,” he groused with a grimace.

  Jerry turned off the hot water, thankful that the water heater hadn’t failed as well. Except for that minor blessing, nothing seemed to have gone right the whole day. Even the heater in the little house trailer he’d been assigned by Groom’s housing office had died sometime during the day. When he complained, the housing officer brusquely informed him that it wouldn’t be repaired until tomorrow—something about spare parts. Instead, he gave Jerry an electric blanket and told him to make do.

  Jerry opened the door of the tiny shower stall in the minuscule bathroom and reached for a towel. A draft of cold air invaded the snug warmth of the shower stall, encouraging him to dry himself quickly and beat a hasty retreat to his bed, tucked away in a little room at the back end of the trailer. A trail of wet footprints on the rug traced his steps from the bathroom to the bedroom.

  “At least the electric blanket works,” he muttered quietly to himself as he slipped between the sheets, comfortably preheated by the electric blanket. The gentle shiver accompanying the goose bumps caused by the chilly air quickly subsided. He let his mind drift over his worries. With a yawn, he reached up and turned off the light over his bed.

  “What the hell are you going to do about that thing they want to put into you?” he asked himself, staring up into the darkness. He shook his head, admitting he had no ready answer. If he refused the operation, he’d be out of the project. That much was clear, although nobody had raised the issue—yet.

  “I wonder if my pecker would glow in the dark?” he mused, thinking about the penile prosthesis Dr. Fred Kelder described earlier. “Sure would be quite a conversation piece with the ladies.” He laughed aloud. “I’d could tell them that they’d turned me on and be able to prove it!

  “What the hell,” he uttered while he ruminated over having the implant, “it’s really no worse than a pacemaker. That’s what Fred Kelder had said, almost in so many words. Besides, it’s foolproof, or nearly so. Why not do it?”

  It was several seconds before he solemnly answered his own question. “Because it’s the only body I’ve got, and I shouldn’t mess with it—that’s why.”

  He rolled over in the bed and wrapped his arms around the second pillow. The chill on his arms soon forced him to pull the pillow under the covers and against his body. The pressure of the pillow against his groin quickly caused a stirring that became arousal.

  “Want some, don’t you, Little Guy? Well, forget it, Mary’s gone for good. And I ain’t found no substitute for her yet. All I’ve seen around here is Captain Wilma Korfman, and they say General Winslow is jealous about her.”

  Jerry paused, thinking a moment about Madeline MacCauley. “You know, she’s not half bad—if she were a woman, that is. She’d be almost pretty if she bothered even a little with her looks, and I bet there’s a really great figure under those fatigues and lab coat.”

  “I bet she has a nice firm pair of tits and a soft cuddly bottom. A perfect ten,” he murmured himself while he imagined reaching out to touch her.

  “Damn!” Jerry shook his head in disgust. “What a waste, God giving all those assets to a man-hater. There must be thousands of women out there who’d give anything to have half of what she’s got, and she wastes it.”

  His thoughts turned to Wilma Korfman, and how she made even fatigues look good on herself.

  “Ah, now,” he said wistfully, “that Wilma knows how to be a woman. I think I’m going to try for her anyhow, at least when the general is away. What Winslow doesn’t know, won’t hurt him. If he wants me to have that goddamn operation, he’s going to have to make a few sacrifices, too.”

  He mentally undressed Wilma. He began by unbuttoned her fatigue shirt, starting at the top, opening it one button at a time, but leaving the shirt closed until all the buttons were undone. Her long thin fingers rubbed the nape of his neck, encouraging him to hasten in his task. Wilma’s breath touched against his face as she inhaled deeper in anticipation of their pleasure together. Finally, the buttons were undone; he opened her shirtfront like curtains, exposing her full luscious breasts, enshrouded in a gossamer black silk brassiere. Her nipples were already erect, standing like sentinels on ivory mountains beneath black silk tents.

  Wilma’s breathing intensified as her fingers cupped behind his neck and drew him toward her bosom, burying his face between her breasts. In a moment, he had the brassiere undone, and as it fell to the floor, she twisted so that her left breast entered his mouth. He felt her nipple against his tongue, and he suckled on it greedily.

  Wilma’s breathing intensified as her fingers cupped behind his neck and drew him toward her bosom, burying his face between her breasts. In a moment, he had the brassiere undone, and as it fell to the floor, Jerry’s hands slid down to her waist and began to dig frantically at her belt and then her pants. Jerry undid her trousers. He then pushed them down with her black silk panties over her hips, letting them fall around her ankles.

  His fantasy ended. He was alone again in his trailer. Reality would have to wait for another day.

  Madeline MacCauley rested her head against the bathtub and tried to relax. Although she rarely took bubble baths, the need for one this evening had been overwhelming. It had been a very unpleasant day, made particularly odious by that deplorable man, Colonel Rodell.

  Gradually, the warm water and fragrant perfumes soaked the tensions out of her body. Madeline leaned her head against the bathtub, closed her eyes and began to hum to herself. The problems and stresses that plagued her were replaced by memories of childhood birthday parties and outings in the park with her parents. A smile grew on her face.

  All too soon, it was over; even though she prolonged the bath three times by adding more hot water. Finally, she admitted to herself that it was time to go to bed and get some sleep. That wretched Colonel Rodell was taking Cleo out tomorrow afternoon on a flight in the ATASF simulator, and only God knew what harm he might do. She would need all her strength.

  “Poor Cleo,” Madeline murmured and stood up in the tub while adjusting her shower cap, tucking in the loose ends of her long hair. After pulling the shower curtain closed and turning on the shower, she selected a fine, pulsating spray that gave her body a tingling sensation while she turned around to let the spray wash the soap suds off her body. Her bath complete, Madeline stepped out of the bathtub and admired her body in the mirror.

  “Not bad for thirty-five. Except that has to go,” Madeline noted, touching the slight bulge on her otherwise flat tummy. “Ten miles on the exercise bike tomorrow night and no more bread this week,” she decreed.

  Satisfied that she still had an attractive figure, Madeline toweled herself dry and then slipped on a terry cloth robe. Pulling off her shower cap, she allowed her reddish brown hair to fall to her shoulders and picked up a hairbrush. As she began to stroke her hair, Madeline wandered into the spacious living room of her quarters, a doublewide mobile home the size of a small house.

  Her quarters were normally reserved for visiting generals and high- ranking dig
nitaries. However, General Winslow had arranged that it be assigned to her while she worked on his project. He valued her contributions and rewarded her with whatever luxuries he could find for her in such a desolate place as Groom Lake. Madeline smiled, thinking about his kindness. At first she feared that she would have to fend off his unwanted attentions, but it soon became apparent that he regarded her as a daughter.

  “La dah, de da,” she sang aloud. She had a sudden need for music, the need to dance. Once—what now seems a thousand years ago— Madeline enjoyed dancing, going out, being with people. Now she rarely felt the need. There had been too many disappointments, too many bad memories, too much bitterness.

  Madeline twirled twice while she danced across the living room and paused to turn on the stereo. It took a minute for her to dig through a pile of compact disks, but she found the one she was looking for. At one time it had been “their song,” played at her wedding, her first wedding. She had met Brian while they both were still graduate students in computer science at Stanford. They fell in love, married, and planned to have a family while pursuing their careers together. It proved a disastrous mistake; she received a far better job offer than he did when they finished their studies. Unable to take second place to his wife, Brian left her.

  Madeline sat on the edge of the couch, brushing her hair, listening to the music. It brought back memories, some good, some bad. First, her disappointment with Brian, then with Ronny.

  Ronny was a handsome young man when she met him at Berkeley where they both had teaching positions. She was young; she was pretty; and she was sought after by lots of eligible and even some ineligible men. The men were loving, and the sex was great. Madeline enjoyed herself for almost two years, until she met Ronny at a party. He was tall, witty, handsome, and, best of all, in the business school. No chance for competition with each other in their careers, she thought. He literally swept her off her feet. They were soon sharing an apartment, although they didn’t marry for almost a year, at her insistence; the bitter lessons from her experience with Brian were still too well remembered.

  Madeline smiled as she remembered that year of living together. It was her happy time, and she was glad to have had it. Her smile faded as Madeline remembered her second mistake in love. She stopped brushing her hair and sighed aloud. She eventually agreed to marry Ronny, only to discover that he had accepted a job on Wall Street. Within a week, everything had changed. Ronny became Ronald, wearing a suit and wingtips in place of jeans and sandals. He expected her to be the loving wife, stay at home, raise the children, and play the charming hostess of his professional social life. This time she did the leaving.

  “Men!” Madeline exclaimed aloud as she continued brushing her hair. There were several sordid affairs, and too many one-night stands to remember before she gave up and lost herself in her work. That was seven years ago.

  The song ended, breaking the spell. Madeline slipped her hairbrush into her bathrobe pocket and got up to turn the stereo off; she had had enough of memories for the night.

  Quietly, Madeline entered her bedroom and paused by her dressing table. It was covered with unused cosmetics and toiletries. She glanced down at it. A sudden whim caused her sit down and pick up a lipstick. For the first time in months she wanted to be pretty, if just for herself. After the lipstick came the blush and then the eyebrow liner. Stopping to examine her work, Madeline groaned when she realized that the three lines across her forehead were deeper and the crow’s-foot at the corner of each eye was a trifle more pronounced than since the last time she’d checked.

  “Let’s face it, Maddy,” she told herself, “you’re no spring chicken. But, all in all, not bad.”

  “I’ll not wear that old nightie tonight,” she declared as the spirit caught her. “No, not tonight!” Madeline tossed her flannel granny nightgown onto the chair beside her bed.

  “Tonight, you’re a princess!” she exclaimed. Madeline rushed to her dresser, pulled open the bottom drawer, and began digging frantically through a pile of unused slips and other lingerie. She found it at the bottom of the drawer, carefully wrapped in a linen cloth. It was the silk nightgown that she had worn on her first wedding night. Madeline fingered the soft silk negligee and matching kimono-style robe. Smiling, she remembered their honeymoon in the bridal suite of the Mark Hopkins Hotel on top of San Francisco’s Nob Hill.

  “Oh, was it that long ago?” she whispered as the wonderful memories danced through her head. Tears moistened her eyes as Madeline stood up and threw the terry cloth bathrobe on top of the discarded flannel nightie. A moment later, she had donned the negligee and was gently running her hands over her body, enjoying the sensual touch of the soft silk against her skin. Her skin tingled when she slipped under the covers and turned off the light.

  At first, Madeline tried to sleep, but the need to cuddle something warm and comfortable forced her to drag one of the pillows down and grasp it to herself. She recalled memories of her wedding night, when she and Brian first made love as man and wife. It was so different that time. Madeline smiled, remembering how his hands ran ever so gently over the silk, touching her skin, until he found her breasts.

  “God, how I loved it,” she whispered, touching her body, wishing she wasn’t alone.

  “Somebody, somewhere, doesn’t know what he’s missing tonight,” she sang off key as sadness returned. “You’re alone, Maddy, because of the pain,” she reminded herself. “Every time you fall in love, he walks all over you. And the only eligible male for a hundred miles is that bastard Rodell. No wonder his wife left him. I bet the only things that jerk is interested in are flying his precious airplanes, drinking beer, eating chicken wings, and chasing pussy—and in that order!”

  Madeline shook her head. “Still he’s handsome, and intelligent,” she mused, thinking about him. “And if he weren’t such an insensitive clod, he might be bearable. What a waste!”

  She imagined him entering her bedroom, silently walking on tiptoe, with a boyish grin on his face. As he drew close to where Madeline lay waiting for him, he stopped to remove his shirt, dropping it on the floor. His chest muscles rippled while he pulled his T-shirt off. He then kicked off his shoes and removed his pants. Next, his underwear and socks fell onto the pile of clothes littering her boudoir floor. He stood beside her, leaning down to kiss her. His lips were warm and sweet, caring. Their tongues touched and flames of desire raged within her as her body ached for his touch, his caress. His hand stroked her face. Shivers of ecstasy race through her body as his fingers slipped along her skin. Her nipples grew hard in anticipation of his loving touch.

  “I want you” she murmured, imagining his lips touching her breasts, embracing them through the gossamer silk. Madeline reached out to touch him.

  At last, he entered her bed and they embraced. Her passions exploded at his touch. Madeline drew herself tight against his body and felt him against her loins. She pressed against him, longing to have him in her. His hands moved along her body, sliding softly over the silk of her nightgown, causing quivers of pleasure until they found her breasts. He leaned down to kiss her nipples. His lips were gentle, and the tip of his tongue slowly circled her left nipple through the silk, sparking shivers of pleasure as her body ached. She hungered for him.

  Slowly, gently, cautiously, he reached down and pulled her nightgown up, first to her thighs, then to her hips. At last, he pressed against her, and for the first time, Madeline felt him. She pushed against it.…

  “You bastard,” she swore as her fantasy evaporated. “You’re worse than the rest. You’d love me one night and screw me the next day by destroying poor Cleo.”

  “Men!” Madeline grumbled to herself.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Oxygen mask on?” Cleo called as she reached the next to last item on the prestart checklist.

  “Oxygen mask on.” Jerry Rodell checked the fit of his mask.

  “Oxygen flow check.”

  Colonel Jerry Rodell inhaled deeply several times as Cl
eo checked the instrumentation onMary Sue ’s oxygen system.

  “Positive oxygen flow, Colonel,” Cleo announced after double- checking every reading and finding them all normal.

  “Commence start and pretaxi checklist,” Jerry ordered. He had spent the greater part of the morning reviewing every aspect of the simulator flight he was about to make with Cleo. At his insistence, everything was going to be done by the book—his book, which was considerably more stringent than the Air Force’s.

  Mindful of the argument over the flow of oxygen he had gotten into with Cleo a few days earlier, he even added the checks on the oxygen mask to the prestartup checklist. Improper oxygen flow was now a “no- go” item. If Cleo were any less than completely satisfied with his oxygen supply, the mission would have been scrubbed immediately, even before the hangar doors were opened.

  Cleo notified the security people that they were finally ready to roll. “Hangar 18 security,” she called, “Flight Golden Eagle Three-eight is ready to roll. Please open the doors.”

  “Roger, Golden Eagle Three-eight,” the radio crackled. Jerry recognized the voice as that of Joe DiConza, the simulator’s chief operator, who also doubled as the tower operator during simulator runs inMary Sue .

  As before, the large hangar doors cracked open, and the large yellow tow vehicle rumbled in to pull them outside where they would start their engines. Everything went exactly as planned until they began taxiing to the runway. The cockpit shuddered as they hit a bump of the taxiway, and Jerry watched helplessly as his flight gloves fell off the armrest of his couch. He tried to grab them, but they just barely managed to elude him, falling into the tight space between the couch and the side of the fuselage.