General Teuschler started to get up but stopped to glare at Jerry.
“One last thing, Colonel Rodell,” he growled with an unexpectedly icy tone. “The next time you go to Las Vegas with Madeline, bring a cellular telephone and call the police if someone is following you. I don’t care if you kill yourself with stupid heroics, but leave Madeline out of them. Have I made myself clear?”
Jerry looked sheepishly at General Teuschler. “Yes, sir,” he replied. He hurried to get up and out of the general’s office.
General Teuschler watched Jerry and Madeline leave and then turned to Dan Elliot. “What was Washington’s reaction?”
“Panic, General—pure panic.”
Lazarus Keesley followed the marine guard down the long hallway of the West Wing of the White House. They were headed to the president’s private office next to the Oval Office. The guard stopped in front of the door, knocked once and opened it. Director Boswell and Secretary of Defense Gilbert Van Dyne were already inside.
“Come in, Lazarus,” the president called. “Sorry to drag you away from your weekend.”
I bet!Lazarus thought darkly as he entered the room. Everyone waited for the guard to close the door behind him.
“Please be seated, Laz,” Director Boswell began. “There’s been serious trouble.”
“Where?”
“Nevada,” Jonathan Boswell answered. “Someone tried to kidnap the chief scientist working on the CLEO project.”
Shocked, Lazarus stared at his boss and then glanced at Secretary of Defense Van Dyne, who confirmed the statement with a single nod of his head.
“When?” Lazarus groaned.
“About three hours ago.”
“Is Dr. MacCauley safe?” Lazarus knew the names and intimate details of just about everybody even remotely connected to the CLEO project.
“Yes,” Secretary of Defense Van Dyne assured him. “Apparently she was with the test pilot for the ATASF project. I don’t have the details, but he gave the bad-guys a hellofa run for their money and ended up forcing them off the road.”
“Colonel Rodell is a fighter pilot,” Lazarus commented. “I would have expected nothing less from him, but how did the perpetrators know that she….” He paused. “I’m obviously tired,” he apologized. “That goddamn mole.”
The others nodded.
“We’re going to have to increase security on the whole ATASF project,” Lazarus noted. “Next time they might try to snatch her, or even the CLEO computer for that matter, right off the goddamn air base.”
“That’s what I thought,” President Hayward said. He stood up and handed Lazarus an envelope. “That’s why I called you in here, Lazarus. I’m placing you temporarily in charge of Groom’s security, particularly the ATASF project. I want you to do an immediate review of the security procedures there and make whatever changes you deem necessary. Here’s my executive order giving you that authority. If anyone gives you any guff, call me.”
Lazarus accepted the envelope, slowly opened it, and then read the letter. It was Executive Order number 439, signed by the president, giving Lazarus Keesley complete and instant access to anything and everything at Groom Lake. It ended by stating that he was also empowered to make whatever changes in personnel and security arrangements he saw fit, by direct order of the president.
“Your plane leaves from Andrews as soon as you get there, Lazarus,” Director Boswell said softy, almost apologetically. “I’ve already sent someone to your house to have your wife pack a bag for you.”
“A waste of effort, unfortunately,” Lazarus remarked quietly as he got up. “Bea, my wife, is up in Boston taking care of her brother. He’s had a heart attack. However, I have a bag in the trunk of my car for times like this. It should do,” he added before he turned to leave.
Chapter Thirty-one
The lizard moved in jerky, brief spurts as it darted across the desert. Ahead, lying in the underbrush, was what it thought to be a rock. Anxious to find cover for the coming night, the lizard rushed to the rock and began to poke for a way under it. Suddenly, a tan and brown grease- painted hand flashed out and grabbed the lizard, crushing it in a viselike grip.
The lizard twitched once, twice, and then went limp. Roger Fontaine laid it on the ground and carefully covered it with sand. Dressed in a camouflage or “Ghillie” suit that made him look like a brush-covered rock, he returned to studying the far hillside and the gravel road below through a powerful telescope. The flora was typical of desert hillsides — sparse underbrush lay scattered between large rocks. Near the crest of the hill was an open area. The fauna, however, was anything but typical: the bottom of the hillside had been converted into an armed camp filled with Russian soldiers. Dispersed into a band of defensive positions some three-hundred meters wide, the soldiers had dug a myriad of two- and three-man slit trenches. Most were covered by tent shelters.
Here and there, he could make out an occasional sloppily placed trip flare. Many others were obviously better hidden in the underbrush. He also realized that there were probably mine fields interspersed between the outposts, for there were several areas he noticed where none of the men patrolling the hillside entered, even when they wandered off the footpaths to relieve themselves.
Roger peered through the loosely woven camouflage scarf that covered his head and face and examined the opposite hilltop, his ultimate objective, the Gomazal Valley. It would take him most of the night to travel that distance and back. The sun was just setting. There would be a quarter moon and minimal cloud cover. However, with the aid of his night-vision binoculars, it would be as bright as day.
“Kurva! Uyobyvay!You cunt! Get the hell out of here!” Sergeant Vadim Mikhailovich Savechenoko screamed as the big pink tongue slobbered over his face again, waking him from his afternoon nap. He fought to get out of his blanket even as he tried to push the dog off him. Outside his tent, he could hear men laughing, the loudest voice belonging to Sergeant Iosif Yevseyevich Goryanov, his patrol partner.
Iosif’s smiling face appeared in the open front of the tent.
“Shura v teche!Shura’s in heat!” he shouted exuberantly. “Shewants you to hump her!”
Vadim wrapped his arms around Shura’s neck and pulled his dog down onto the ground next to him.
“So you want to make love, Shura,” he exclaimed. He hugged his dog affectionately. Shura whined happily and rolled on her back, begging to have her belly scratched. The men outside roared when they saw the German shepherd roll onto its back.
“I thought you’d do it doggie-style,” one of them shouted.
“What!” Vadim shouted. “Like a dog! With Shura! Never! She’s better than a woman. A month from now, you’ll all be jealous. You’ll all be begging for Shura’s affections. We’re going to charge you a hundred rubles each—won’t we?”
Shura barked joyfully in response and then licked her handler’s face again.
“Aren’t you two ready for your patrol?” a new voice growled outside the tent. It was unmistakablyStarshina , Master Sergeant Volynsky’s voice.
“Sechas, right away,Starshina ,” Vadim yelled while he tried to push his dog out of the two-man tent. “I was just washing my face.”
“You’re what?” Volynsky shouted dubiously.
“He was just fucking his dog,” somebody called.
“He what!”
“He wanted us to pay ten rubles each to watch,” somebody else piped in.
“Savechenoko!” the master sergeant yelled. “You’d better come out of that tent with all your fly buttons buttoned.”
“They’re just joking,Starshina ,” Vadim explained while he crawled out of his tent behind his dog. “They just sent Shura in to wash my face with her tongue. See?” He wiped his face with his hand and held it out for Volynsky to smell. The master sergeant, a large man with a bald head and thick mustache, sniffed Vadim’s hand distastefully and shook his head in disbelief.
“You’d better wash your face for real, Vadim,” he suggeste
d when he realized that his men were just having a little fun with Vadim. “You smell like a bitch in heat.”
“Shura’s been fixed!” Vadim protested.
“Listen, I don’t care if you wash your face or not,” Volynsky growled, “but don’t come complaining to me if one of the male dogs jumps on your face while you’re sleeping on guard duty tonight.”
Vadim’s face flushed with embarrassment. Even though he and Iosif often took naps while out on night patrol, Shura always warned them whenever anyone, especially the master sergeant, tried to sneak up on them. Thanks to Shura, the master sergeant has never been able to prove the allegations. It was just as well, for if they were caught, both he and Iosif would be bounced out of their highly prized jobs with thePogranichnye Voiska, or Border Troops.
“I’d better wash myself,” Vadim admitted as he delicately sniffed his hand. He didn’t want to spend the next twelve hours smelling like Shura’s bad breath.
“Vadim?”
“Da.”
“Where would you like to be transferred to after this?” Iosif asked while he scanned the area with his night-vision telescope.
“I like it here,” Vadim Savechenoko replied. “I like living outdoors, and the climate is much warmer than the Urals where I was born.”
Iosif Goryanov snorted in response. “You can say that again. However, what I meant is where would you like your permanent assignment?”
“The Finnish border,” Vadim told him. “It’s pretty country, far away from the crowds in the cities, and the air is clear and pure. How about you?”
“I want an airport,” Iosif responded with a chuckle, “perhaps the Moscow airport, Sheremetyevo.”
Vadim laughed aloud but immediately smothered it by covering his mouth with both hands. “Youat Sheremetyevo? In Moscow?” Vadim scoffed.
“I don’t see why not,” Iosif declared indignantly.
“It’s the main international airport of Moscow, Osya,” Vadim said softly, mindful of the noise he had just made. “That place is reserved for the sons of thezhopy , assholes, running Moscow, not the likes of you and me.”
“I still don’t see why I can’t get there,” Iosif insisted. “Just imagine, spending your days getting fat behind a counter stamping passports. Staying out of the cold. Going home to a wife and family—every night.”
“Bah!” Vadim retorted. “I’m going to take a nap.”
The Indian, as the CIA had codenamed Roger Fontaine, easily made it across the road and into the brush on the far side. Almost too easily. However, it obviously wasn’t a trap because of all the noise he heard on the hill above. At least two of the outposts had lanterns lit, and several arguments over inconsequential matters were in progress. It seemed more like a boy scout camp out than a military unit on guard duty.
He smiled to himself and scanned the area with his night-vision binoculars. Satisfied that there wasn’t an ambush awaiting him, he moved up the hill silently, testing each hand hold before bearing his weight against it.
“Prosnites!Wake up!” Iosif ordered as he shook Vadim. “You can sleep later. It’s time to take the patrol.”
“Zalupa!”Vadim grumbled. He pulled his blanket over his shoulder. “Let me sleep.”
“But we have to walk the perimeter of our section, Vadim.”
“Go alone, if you need the exercise.”
“I’m not going without Shura,” Iosif insisted.
“In that case, take her.”
“She won’t leave you. You know that.” Iosif said as he got up. He then grinned mischievously. “Shura!” he called sharply. “Give Vadim a kiss.”
“No!” Vadim shouted as the German shepherd leaped playfully on him. Giving Vadim a kiss was one of the few commands she would instantly obey no matter who gave it—including the sergeant major.
“Back, you beast, you,” Vadim muttered. He tried to push the dog away from his face, succeeding after the second lick.
“I warned you,” Iosif told him. He turned on a flashlight so that Vadim could find his equipment. It took Vadim just a few seconds to roll up his blanket and strap it on his field pack. Then, with the pack on his back, he picked up his rifle, an AK-47, which he preferred to the newer AK-74. Iosif, the marksman member of the team, carried a larger weapon, a Dragunov SVD sniper rifle with night-vision sights.
“Well,” Vadim muttered without trying to hide his exasperation. He picked up their walkie-talkie and then looked around. “I guess we’re ready. Come on, Shura.”
Chapter Thirty-two
Lazarus Keesley grimaced as he examined the photographs. The car had been completely burned out and all that remained of the two bodies were blackened stick-like figures.
“Any idea who they were?” Lazarus asked.
“Their papers were burnt to a crisp,” Major Schuman replied. “The Nevada State Police are working on dental records, but they don’t have much hope—the coroner said that they didn’t take very good care of their teeth when they were alive. Moreover, one of the dentists said that the few fillings they had looked Russian.”
Lazarus Keesley shook his head. “I don’t think we need to worry about the identities—let the FBI take care of that. Major, I want those bodies packed in dry ice and shipped to Washington as soon as possible. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ve seen enough.” Lazarus handed the photographs back to a military policeman.
“I want to see the CLEO computer next,” he said as he and Major Schuman started walking toward the door. “How efficient is the security around it?”
Schuman smiled. A rare occurrence, Lazarus had already noticed. “Extremely good, sir,” he commented. “I think you’ll find Captain Korfman very efficient.”
Red-faced and trembling with anger, Lazarus glowered at Captain Wilma Korfman while waving his CIA security clearances in his right hand.
“Young lady, do you know who I am?” he growled. Wilma was unimpressed.
“Mr. Keesley,” she addressed him with an infuriating calmness. “I have received notice of your visit. I have verified the clearances. What I have not done is verified who you are. Your CIA credentials are not valid at this installation. This is a United States Air Force military reservation, and you are under military regulations.”
She paused to point to the air policeman standing at parade rest behind her. “He has been authorized to use deadly force, if necessary, to enforce those regulations. Now either you do it my way and place your hand on that machine and get your fingerprints verified, or you do not get one of these.”
Wilma held up the special badge visitors were required to wear inside Hangar 18.
“You’ll regret this,” Lazarus snarled.
“Mr. Keesley,” she answered as though she were giving a lecture. “General Winslow himself submits to these procedures every time he returns to the base, because we’re not certain that the Russians didn’t kidnap him while he was away and substitute an impostor. If the president himself walked through the door, he would put his hand on that machine before he got through this office. Your hand, please.”
“I can force this issue,” Lazarus warned.
He noticed that Major Schuman had moved discreetly away from him. Captain Korfman leaned to her left and pressed a button on her desk. An instant later, six air policemen wearing distinctive orange berets charged through a door with their weapons drawn. They formed a line between Lazarus and the door to Hangar 18, facing him. They were in a humorless mood.
“You and what army?” she asked sweetly. “You see my army; I don’t see yours. Your hand, please.”
Schuman was surprised at how blasé Lazarus Keesley acted when they walked by the ATASF aircraft. It didn’t seem to interest Lazarus at all. It could have been a pile of junk for all he seemed to care. However, Lazarus’ reaction to Cleo when he first heard her speak was childlike awe.
“I heard a new voice?” Cleo asked uncertainly.
“Yes, Cleo,” Colonel Fred Kelder answered, “we
have a visitor. I would like you to meet Mr. Lazarus Keesley.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Keesley,” she said politely. “Could you step in front of the TV camera so that I can see you?”
Puzzled, Lazarus Keesley glanced around the control room.
“She means the one in the simulator room,” Fred Kelder explained. “Just step through the door and face the wall to the right.”
Without a second thought, Lazarus did as he’d been directed. The camera was mounted high on the wall and apparently under Cleo’s control, for it moved as soon as he entered the room. He could hear a gentle whirring as she zoomed-in on his face.
“Thank you, very much.” She sounded like a polite young lady.
“My pleasure, Miss,” he responded.
“Excuse me?” she begged.
“You’ll have to speak slowly when you talk to her,” Fred whispered. “At least until she gets used to your voice. It usually takes a few days.”
“I said that it was my pleasure to meet you, Miss Cleo,” Lazarus enunciated as clearly as he could.
“Thank you,” Cleo replied, then she started to hum.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked Colonel Fred Kelder.
Fred chuckled. “No, it’s just a habit she picked up from her mother. She hums to herself when she’s not too busy.”
“Mother?”
“Yes, Dr. MacCauley,” Fred explained. “Madeline spent years teaching Cleo to speak. The process was quite like raising a baby. Cleo somehow picked up the idea that Madeline is her mother, and now she’s even taken to calling Colonel Rodell her father. It was all quite a surprise, but when you think about it, it makes sense.”
“You make Cleo sound human,” Lazarus commented.
“Sometimes I wonder if she isn’t, Mr. Keesley,” Fred responded. “We’re about to take Cleo out for the weekly back-up of her memory. Care to meet her?”
The Espionage Game Page 29