The Espionage Game

by Susan Glinert Stevens

“I don’t understand.” She shook her head in confusion.

  “I’m nearing the age when I’m an ‘old fart’ and no longer permitted to fly airplanes like the one in that hangar. I’m going to take my retirement in a few years.”

  “Can’t you fly for someone else?”

  “You don’t understand, Maddy,” he pleaded; she could hear the pain in his voice. “I’m—we’re making my job obsolete. In a few years, there will be no more fighter pilots. Just Cleo and her descendants.”

  “But—I thought they needed you to tell her what to do, that she was never going to be a combat pilot.”

  “You underestimate your own child, Madeline MacCauley,” Jerry replied. “All she needs is to be trained to fly like a combat pilot. I know very well that in a few months, a year at most, she won’t need me. After that, she’ll be invincible against mere men.”

  Madeline was dumbfounded.

  “But all the money!” she protested. “I mean the special couch, the display screen, the.…”

  “Neural nexus,” he interjected, finishing her thoughts.

  “Yes,” she replied. “You’re going to do it. You’re going to have the operation, aren’t you?”

  “I might.”

  “But you’re going to be helping to make yourself obsolete.” She touched his cheek gently. “You just said that yourself.” Madeline felt him smile.

  “It’s inevitable, whatever I do,” he said. “What everybody missed while they were all trying so hard to convince me to be Cleo’s instructor was the most appealing point of all.”

  “What?”

  “A kind of immortality.”

  “Immortality?” Madeline’s voice conveyed her confusion.

  “Yes,” he responded with a short laugh.

  “I’d be her father,” he added. Then he suddenly hesitated. “They can reproduce Cleo and copy everything she knows into a new one, a clone of her, can’t they?”

  “Yes,” Madeline answered, placing a reassuring hand on his face.

  “That means that they’ll all know me—and you?”

  Madeline laughed when she finally understood. “That’s right, I’m her mother, aren’t I?”

  “We’re the parents of all the future generations of Cleos,” he said. “They’ll all remember us, throughout all of their generations, and therefore we’ll be immortal.”

  Madeline stroked his cheek. “Yes, I guess you’re right, my sweet prince. They will. All of them.”

  “Please marry me,” he begged.

  She kissed his cheek tenderly before answering. “I already told you why I can’t. I don’t want to lose you.”

  “But I want children, babies.” He paused, realizing that she might no longer be able to have them. “You can still have them, can’t you?”

  Madeline laughed and embraced him. “Yes, I can, my love, and I want them too,” she whispered. Then she coyly added, “Now.”

  “You’re not—using protection?”

  “It’s been so long since I needed it,” she laughed. “Besides, we didn’t seem to have much time for it this evening, even I if had any.”

  “But when you got up, I thought.”

  “No, I had already decided I wanted your child before I got up. The one thing I learned today is that they can take Cleo away from me anytime they want, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it. That’s why I want your child. They can’t that away from me.”

  “Our child,” he corrected.

  “Yes, our child,” she repeated happily.

  “Marry me.”

  “I can’t. I don’t want to lose you.”

  “You won’t.”

  “My first husband left me because I was doing better than he. He couldn’t take the strain on his ego.”

  He shook his head in frustration.

  “You don’t understand,” he complained. “That doesn’t bother me. I’m not after money or glory. I want you, and I want children.”

  “But what would you do?” she asked. Madeline held her man in her arms, giving him a gentle squeeze.

  “I’ve been thinking a lot about that lately,” he replied. “I certainly don’t want to sell insurance; it’s not me. The one thing that attracts me is sculpturing. I’ve pretty much decided that, once I retire, I’ll move to someplace like Santa Fe, New Mexico, live off my retirement money, and try being a sculptor.”

  “What?” Madeline uttered in disbelief. “Sculpturing? That’s the last thing I’d have guessed.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, you’re a military man, a fighter pilot.”

  “Madeline, I’m the free spirit of my family. I play by my rules, not other people’s preconceived notions. I want to be happy, to live, not just exist.”

  “But you’d want me to go with you to Santa Fe?”

  “No, no, no, Maddy! That was just a thought, before tonight, that is.”

  “What is it you’re saying?” she demanded.

  “My thought is to become a house husband, stay at home and raise the kids.”

  “What!”

  “You have a problem with being the bread winner?”

  “God, Jerry, I never thought about it,” she exclaimed. “It’s.…” Madeline lay in his arms, trying to sort out her confused thoughts. “It’s—well—not traditional,” she said.

  “It wasn’t traditional for women to work forty years ago. Things change,” he added. “Men aren’t supposed to take care of children while their wives work, but why not? I’ll be able to sculpt, and you’ll be able to build better and brighter computers. It sure beats the heck out of just having a job.”

  “You’re the strangest, most wonderful man I’ve ever met,” she murmured admiringly.

  “Now, will you marry me?” he insisted. “Just think of all the money you’ll save on child care.”

  Madeline laughed. She ran her hand over her abdomen as though it were already swollen with a child, their child.

  “Yes,” she exclaimed ecstatically. Madeline snuggled against him, holding him tightly, “I will.”

  “Jerry?” she whispered, sounding worried.

  “Yes.”

  “Please don’t hurt me,” she begged. “I hurt too easily. I’ve been hurt too much.”

  “I know,” he said, “and I promise to do my best.”

  She leaned toward him and kissed him softly on the lips.

  “What was that for?” he asked.

  “A woman should show her gratitude to her man,” she murmured seductively. She began stroking his manhood.

  “Thanks for the offer,” he said, “but I think Little Guy is all tuckered out.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “Only among intimate friends,” he chuckled.

  She continued to stroke him, without much success.

  “Too bad I haven’t had that operation already,” he mused. “Just think. All you’d have to do when you have the yen is dial in Little Guy’s number, wake him up, and you’d have him up and erect, suitable for presentation and mounting.”

  Madeline giggled at his puns. “I don’t need a computer to do what I can do for myself,” she grumbled. “Just lean back and enjoy it.”

  “Where did you ever learn that?” he exclaimed.

  “From my years in the bordello while I was still a child,” she replied.

  “What!”

  “Oh, don’t be silly,” she chided. “I’ve been married twice.”

  Accomplishing her mission, she lay beside him, playfully tugging him on top of her.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing,” he teased.

  “Trying for twins,” she answered with a kiss.

  “Good afternoon, General. So nice of you to come visit me,” Khalid Rashid Ribat sneered as Major General Feliks Borisovich Puzitsky entered Khalid’s office in the Presidential Palace. “I was afraid that I’d have to send theHaras ar-Ra’is al-Khass , my Special Presidential Guard, to find you.”

  General Puzitsky didn’t respond to the taunt. He s
tood in the doorway and glared at Khalid who was sitting behind his large and carefully polished desk. The Iraqi leader, as usual, was dressed in an immaculate white field marshal’s uniform. The general entered the office and marched regally to Khalid’s desk, carefully leaving his field cap on top of his head.

  Khalid noticed the slight, but chose to ignore it. Both men respected and detested each other. Both were intelligent and capable as well as vain and arrogant. It was the latter qualities that generated the friction between them.

  Puzitsky, still dressed in dirty fatigues, stopped in front of the desk and then removed his cap to dust his clothes. When he had finished, he replaced the cap on his head and sat unbidden in a chair. Casually, he hung one of his legs over the arm of the chair. “I’m here,” he said sourly.

  Red flushed over Khalid’s face while he watched the cloud of dust raised by Puzitsky drift slowly over the desk and toward his white uniform. “You could have at least bathed,” he snarled. His eyebrows furled like an angry dog’s.

  “Your invitation said ‘immediately,’” the Russian noted. “If you wanted me to bathe, you should have said so. What is it that is so important that I had to leave a field exercise to come visit you?”

  The Iraqi leader silently counted back from ten to help him retain his self-control. “I want to know why you have forbidden units of theJihaz Amn al-Khass, Special Security Organization, from entering the Gomazal Valley?”

  “According to our contract, which you yourself signed,” the Russian replied in a surly tone, “my troops are to have sole and absolute responsibility for the security of theNew Babylon cannon and the surrounding valley until such time as the cannon in completed, tested, made operational and turned over to the regular Iraqi army. I believe that you’ll find that provision in paragraph 134.3. It’s on about the tenth page of the contract. Access will be given to whomever you please once that cannon is operational and paid for. Not before.”

  “However, there is nothing in the contract forbidding Iraqi security forces from helping you.”

  “Nor is there anything requiring it,” Puzitsky snapped back. “It is my interpretation that I have the right to forbid access to anyone I chose, and I chose to keep your meddlesome security people out. And I will enforce that with force of arms, just like I did at the special bunkers at Kirkuk.”

  Khalid did not react. However, he did remember how quick the Russians were to shoot when two Iraqi majors tried to get into those bunkers that everyone suspected contained nuclear weapons.

  “How are you going to turn the cannon over if my men aren’t trained in operating it?” Khalid countered.

  “We have a simulator of the complete control system and loading mechanism in Dukan. They are being trained on it. Once the cannon is operational, they will receive their final training on the actual site, fire five test rounds, and that will complete that part of the contract. Once the final payment is made, all Russian mercenary troops will be withdrawn from the valley, and you can do whatever you like.”

  “If I refuse?” Khalid looked defiant.

  “I shall set off a demolition charge in the powder magazine. Very little will be left of the cannon—or the mountain for that matter.”

  Again, Khalid counted to himself to control his anger. He permitted his mind to dally with various ways of punishing the insolent Russian. His current favorite was borrowed from the American Indians. They use to stake out enemies next to an anthill. However, that must wait until after his Holy Jihad against the Zionists. Until then, he needed that Russian.

  “When might that be?” he asked quietly.

  “What?” General Puzitsky was confused by the question.

  “When do you plan to turn the cannon over to us?” Khalid’s voice was saccharine, as though there was no dispute.

  “I said last week that it would be in two months. The first test firing will be in a week,” the Russian replied. “Have the money ready.”

  “Will I be able to witness this test?”

  “Which end?”

  “I do not understand.” It was the Iraqi leader’s turn to be confused.

  “There are two ends whenever a cannon is fired,” the Russian explained. “The first end is where it is fired and the second end is where the target is located. Do you want to see the cannon fired or the target being hit?”

  “I would prefer to watch the cannon being fired,” Khalid replied.

  “I’ll send a helicopter for you,” the general said as he got up. “And some fatigues for you to wear. I don’t want you to get your pretty white uniform dirty.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Yes, yes, I know,” President Hayward interrupted. He was surprisingly alert for five in the morning. “However, they didn’t fire a laser at the satellite nor did they in any way attempt to harm it, did they?”

  “That is correct,” Jonathan Boswell, the Director of the CIA, answered. “They made no attempt to damage the satellite. This time they chose to hide whatever it is that they’re doing in that valley.”

  President Hayward hated impromptu early-morning meetings like this one. Wearily, he slumped in his chair and glanced from one of his visitors to the next, hoping to find an easy solution. Besides Jonathan Boswell, he was meeting with Lazarus Keesley, Secretary of Defense Gilbert Van Dyne, and finally, Admiral Hillman, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. They all returned the same dour expression. They had come to him to get a decision, not to give him one.

  “Let’s review what happened, again,” the president suggested, hoping to somehow find a simple answer. “This time from you, Lazarus.”

  Lazarus Keesley placed his pipe in an ashtray and cleared his throat. Even though he was exhausted from lack of sleep, he had had time to go home, clean up and change to fresh clothes.

  “It was fairly much the way Director Boswell saw it, Mr. President,” he said quietly. “Last night, some junior analyst at NPIC spotted some unusual activity near the Iraqi-Iranian border. She asked for a closer look-see, which was treated in a routine manner until one of our analysts spotted several tanks. Nothing of the kind was there just a week ago. On closer examination, we spotted an entire motorized division surrounding a valley. That’s when all the stops were pulled out.”

  He paused to pick up his pipe and play with it before laying it down again.

  “That’s when I got called in,” he noted with a wry smile, “by Director Boswell, that is. We were present in the satellite control room when the actual run was made. We even saw the smoke rockets explode in the distance as we began the swoop over that valley. By the time we were in effective range to observe the valley, it was covered with smoke.”

  “What happened next?” the president asked.

  “Well, first the satellite operator tried various spectrums, especially the infrared and ultraviolet ranges, but they were blocked too. We never saw anything in that valley, just the area surrounding it.”

  The president’s eyebrows perked up. “Whoa! Just a minute! You said that you saw the surrounding area, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lazarus replied. “I believe that is what I just said.”

  “So, the smoke didn’t obscure your view of the area surrounding the valley, did it?”

  “That’s correct,” Lazarus said.

  “What the hell did you see?”

  “Oh,” Lazarus responded sheepishly when he at last realized what the president was driving at. “We got a good close look at the troops surrounding the valley and their equipment. We even saw some of the unit markings, so we know that it’s the Russians’ 195th Guards Motorized Infantry, which until recently had been stationed in western Iraq. We also spotted elements of the 203rd Construction Battalion. Finally, we spotted an as-yet-unidentified MBRF border troop contingent guarding the only road and railroad into the valley. When we looked, they were inspecting a train loaded with large crates. We don’t know what was in those crates yet because our specialists on Russian crates aren’t available until later this morning.
”

  “A Russian division?” The president frowned. “Anentire Russian division is surrounding the valley, you say?”

  “Yes, sir,” Lazarus replied.

  “What the hell are those bastards up to now?” the president muttered to nobody in particular. “What’s going on in that damn valley that they don’t want us to see? What’s your guess, Gil?”

  “I don’t know what to believe, Mr. President,” Gilbert Van Dyne, the secretary of defense, began, “but I think that they’re putting far too much effort in keeping whatever it is a secret from us.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Don’t you think that it’s a bit of an overkill to move an entire motorized rifle division to protect whatever it is that is in that valley?” he answered.

  “They have a long perimeter to guard, don’t they?” Director Boswell commented.

  “No, sir,” Secretary of Defense Van Dyne replied, “only about twenty-five miles at most. In addition, they are only manning twenty or so roadblocks. That could be accomplished with just a couple companies of men. The majority are digging in, building fortifications, pillboxes, tank traps and the like. It looks like they’re preparing to defend the area from an invasion.”

  “From whom?” the president inquired nervously as he glanced around the room. “Are we planning an invasion that I’m not aware of?”

  “That’s a good point,” Lazarus said. “Perhaps they’re assuming that we’ll consider such a rash action once we know what they’re up to.”

  “But why?” President Hayward demanded. “Why in the name of god would we even consider attacking Russians working in Iraq? We’re at peace. Why the hell should we even dream about war with the goddamn Russians? Aren’t we at peace?”

  “Nominally, yes, Mr. President,” Lazarus answered hesitatingly.

  “What are you driving at?”

  “Suppose the Iraqis decided to take over the Persian Gulf oil fields like Saddam Hussein tried to do back in 1991. Saddam miscalculated badly on that one because the Coalition forces had a complete knowledge of just about everything he did and where everything was hidden, except for a few mobile Scud missile launchers,” Lazarus continued.