The translation from Moscow took a long time, interspersed as it was with comments and questions in the background. General Tret’yak, who was listening in on another phone, was becoming more nervous—Maraklov was sure he had just lost the general as an ally. Then: “Colonel Maraklov, Comrade Vorotnikov has ordered that no further actions be taken on the aircraft until further ordered. We shall transmit orders from the Kremlin through the KGB Central Command.”
“I understand,” Maraklov said. “But understand, it will take two or three days for technicians here to saw the aircraft up into pieces, a half day to load it on a ship, at least a week for that ship to arrive in a Russian port and another one to two days for it to be transported to Ramenskoye. And when it arrives there it will be of no use to anyone—it will be nothing but piles of circuit boards and plastic. If I am allowed to proceed it will take two days or less to modify the aircraft for Lluyka tanks. Then, once fighter escort and tanker support has been arranged, it will take only ten hours to fly from here directly to Ramenskoye Research Center. When the aircraft arrives it will be in flyable condition and ready for operational inspection, with its computer memory and structural integrity functional.”
This explanation took even longer, but this time there were fewer interruptions and outbursts from Vorotnikov and whoever was with him in his office. But a few moments later the translator came back with “Colonel, Chairman Vorotnikov has some reservations about your plan, but he would like time to confer with his advisers. He orders you to continue your plans for mounting the aerial refueling tanks on the aircraft and preparing it for flight. He reminds you of the danger of remaining in Central America and orders you to do everything in your power to bring the aircraft home intact. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Maraklov said. General Tret’yak seemed happier. “Tell the chairman that he can assure the Politburo that their orders will be carried out.” But the satellite link had gone dead by then.
“Ochin prekrahsna,” Tret’yak said, slapping him on the shoulder. “It looks like the pilots have beat the ribniys once again.”
Maraklov erased the relieved expression on his face as Tret’yak led him out of the communications center. Well, he had made Tret’yak a buddy once again—at least until the next crisis blew in.
* * *
In Vladimir Kalinin’s office at KGB Headquarters in Moscow, Vorotnikov threw the phone back on its cradle. “I did not understand most of what was going on,” he said. He waved a hand, dismissing Ryzhkov, waited until his assistant had left, then reached for the bottle of fine Viennese cognac on the desk and poured himself a glass. He took a sip, then drained the glass in one loud gulp. “But the pilot, your Colonel Maraklov, appears to be in charge.”
Kalinin nodded, moving the silver tray with the cognac decanter closer to Vorotnikov. “An extraordinary man. His loyalty is firmly to the Party and to his country.”
Vorotnikov shrugged, lifted his thick body far enough up off the chair to pour himself another cognac. “Excellent cognac, Vladimir.”
“If you enjoy this, Luscev, I will see to it that you will have a bottle.” He buzzed his outer desk, and a young, blonde woman in a red low-cut dress entered the office. “Anna, would you please see to it that Comrade Vorotnikov is given a bottle of this cognac ... at his convenience?”
Anna favored the old bureaucrat with a dazzling smile, folded her hands behind her back, which served to accent her breasts, and bowed slightly. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Thank you very much, Vladimir,” Vorotnikov said. “Very kind of you. Back to business—this Maraklov, can he be trusted?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Yet he countermanded your orders that the aircraft be dismantled and shipped back to Russia.”
“He . . . what . . . ?”
Vorotnikov was too busy enjoying his cognac to notice Kalinin’s confusion. “He wants to fly the thing all the way from Nicaragua to Russia, under the very noses of the Americans. Foolish. You should get that straightened out.”
What was this Maraklov thinking? Kalinin was furious. Fly DreamStar to Russia? If he screwed up this mission now, everything he was trying to accomplish would be destroyed.
To Vorotnikov, Kalinin said, calmly as possible, “Yes, sir. Now, if you would like to review my files on the project ...?.”
“Not necessary at the moment, Kalinin.” Vorotnikov glanced at the door for a few moments, then hauled himself to his feet and straightened his tie. “I think I have heard enough to report to the General Secretary.” He held out his hand, and Kalinin grasped it. “I believe the operation is being run in a satisfactory manner and I shall so report to the General Secretary in the morning. I must leave.” Kalinin buzzed his outer office, and Anna arrived to escort the smiling Vorotnikov outside.
When the two had left, Kalinin hit the outer office buzzer again. “I want another secure voice-line set up to Sebaco immediately.” Suddenly Kalinin realized how little he really knew about Andrei Maraklov. Vorotnikov, the General Secretary’s fat spy, was easy to take care of—this Maraklov, who had spent eleven years in the United States, was a loose cannon. More than anyone else, Andrei Maraklov was now the greatest threat to his plan for ultimate power.
The White House, Washington, D.C.
That same morning
The secret, Lloyd Taylor had discovered, of staying on top of things as President of the United States was information, information and more information. Gather as much as possible from as many sources as possible, and as quickly as possible. Moreover, although he had a capable and trustworthy staff, the information should not be diluted or encapsulated by his staff. Interestingly, he found that if he got his information from the same sources that served most of the American people, he was able to stay on top of events that the people were most concerned about. He rarely found himself caught up in events in the Persian Gulf, for example, if most Americans were really concerned about the economy.
It was not a foolproof system, but it had served him well during his first three and a half years in office and, with luck, would serve him well in a second term.
Taylor’s precedessor was a fanatic about daily exercise the way Taylor was about information, and so Taylor combined the two shortly after arriving in the White House. After rising at five-thirty every morning, the President would change into shorts and sneakers and make his way into the well-equipped exercise room in the back west corner of the White House.
There, in the middle of the room, sat a walking/jogging treadmill, a self-contained physical fitness evaluation device that measured and recorded two dozen different vital signs from pulse to weight to blood pressure as he walked. That was his predecessor’s contribution. In front of the treadmill was Taylor’s—a large-screen voice-command computer monitor and terminal.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Paul Cesare, the Chief of Staff, greeted him. Cesare set a glass of orange juice and a fresh towel on a table near the treadmill. “How do you feel this morning?”
“Just fine, Paul.” The President stepped onto the treadmill. The pre-programmed machine beeped five times in warning, then automatically started. Taylor slipped his hand into a glovelike device on the handlebar that had sensors in it that would feed information to the body function monitors. As the President started walking, the computer terminal came to life.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” the terminal said in a quiet feminine voice. On the screen was a recorded view of the Potomac and the Jefferson Memorial. The screen changed to several columns of information in large letters showing the weather, date, important holidays and the day’s appointments. “The following is an encapsulation of your morning appointments:
“You have a Cabinet meeting at eight o’clock. At ten o’clock, a meeting with the Senate Foreign Relations committee. At noon, the luncheon with the International Kiwanas at the Ambassador Hotel. There are five desk flags.” Desk flags were items left on his desk that would require some study or consultation. A brief description of each flash
ed on the screen; none seemed too important. “Would you like to review them now?”
“No.”
“Would you like to review the afternoon appointments?”
“No.”
“What would you like, Mr. President?”
The treadmill had sped up to about three miles per hour as it automatically sought to raise Taylor’s heart rate to its optimum aerobic exercise rate. “Go back to bed,” he said, stepping up the pace.
The computer thought about it for a moment, then, “Please make another choice, Mr. President.”
“Thanks,” he said, and Cesare grinned. “How about wire- service headlines?”
“Please select a keyword, or select ‘All.’ ” The keywords
were phrases used to narrow down the huge selection of news items.
“ ‘White House,’ ” the President requested.
A long list of news bulletins flashed on the screen, all containing the words “White House.” The computer-synthesized voice continued: “Selected headlines as of five A.M. Eastern Standard Time: ‘White House may announce decision on Korean trade bill today.’ ‘Foreign Relations Chairman Myers travels to White House to break impasse.’ ‘Russian KGB spy disaster stymies White House advisers.’ ‘First Lady will receive veteran’s group in White House ceremony . . .’ ”
Taylor pounded a fist on the treadmill STOP button. “What the hell . . . ? Stop. Read item three.”
“Headlines Stop,” the computer acknowledged. “Review. Item three. Washington Post Wire Service, date twenty-one June, nineteen hundred and ninety-six. Washington desk, first paragraph: ‘A Russian KGB deep-cover agent may have caused the crash of an experimental B-52 bomber in the southern Nevada desert on Tuesday, an unnamed military source said today. He may also have been responsible for the downing of an F-15 fighter over Mexico and the crash of a second F-15 over southern Arizona, with loss of life as high as six. Second paragraph: Despite the attacks, the White House has apparently decided to take no action that may provoke the Soviet Union until more evidence has been received and analyzed. Third paragraph: Sources confirm—”
“Stop, dammit. Who the hell authorized that news release? I didn’t—”
“It sounds like it came from the Pentagon, sir . . .”
“The Pentagon? Get General Kane on the phone.”
Cesare hit the auto-dial button for the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “I’ll get hold of Walters, too,” Cesare said. Ted Walters was the White House Press Secretary. “He might be able to keep that story from going out on the morning news shows if we catch it in time.”
“The morning news . . . Goddamn, get on it, Paul. Of all the things to leak out . . .”
“General Kane on your speakerphone, sir,” Cesare said a few moments later. The President punched the flashing button.
“Bill, there’s an article on the Washington Post wire service that mentions our discussion yesterday about the—”
“Open line, Mr. President,” Cesare interrupted, his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone.
“—the aircraft incident. Know anything about it?”
“No, sir. I certainly authorized no release about that at all.”
“Better get over here, Bill.”
“On my way, sir.”
“Ted’s on his way too, sir. He can make some calls from his car.”
“When I catch the sonofabitch who leaked this I’ll kick his butt out of Washington, out of the country ...”
Cesare, always protective of the Boss and concerned about his blood pressure, tried to soft-pedal the news. “It sounds a little sketchy. Maybe an imaginative reporter heard about the B-52 crash and just kept on digging until he found—”
“There’s no way any reporter could start from a B-52 crash and end up with KGB deep-cover agents without help from this office. We’ve got to assume Walters can’t stop the media from picking up on this and spreading it all over the country. So what are we going to say about it?”
“The story is so far out,” Cesare said, “that if we deny the whole thing people will believe us. A Russian KGB agent shooting down a B-52 bomber over Nevada? Who’s going to believe that?”
“Eyewitnesses. They could have interviewed someone from Dreamland. They could confirm the fact that the B-52 was shot down deliberately. There could be eyewitnesses to the plane being shot down over Mexico or the crash in Arizona. There—”
The phone rang beside Cesare. “Cesare here . . . Edward Drury? ... Hold on.” Cesare put the phone on hold. “It’s Drury from CNN, Mr. President. He’s asking for White House comment about a so-called KGB spy incident . . .”
So much for keeping it out of the press, the President thought. “All right, the comment is that the story about a KGB agent is false, and the cause of the crash in Nevada is still under investigation.”
“I’d advise against it, Mr. President,” Cesare said. “How about ‘unsubtantiated,’ or ‘rumors only’? If we say the story is false, and someone digs up some hard evidence ...”
“All right, all right.” A headache was already spreading from his sinuses. “The information about a Russian agent is an unsubstantiated rumor, and the cause of the B-52 crash under investigation by the Air Force has not yet been determined. Any speculation would be detrimental and injurious to the personnel involved and the best interests of the country. Got all that?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll make sure Walters gets a copy.”
“Have Ted hold a press conference as soon as possible and get out a release. No one on the staff goes in front of the media, except Ted, until we get together on a statement, and Ted’s only statement will either be what we just said there or ‘No comment.’ Got that?”
“Yes, sir,” Cesare flipped through his notes. “Speaker Van Keller is scheduled to be on ABC this morning. He’s the only one in on our meeting yesterday who could be pinned down on it.”
“Better get that statement out to him as soon as possible,” the President said. “Have him call me or Ted so we can brief him.”
“This could be a problem, sir,” Cesare continued, scanning his notes. “The first fifteen minutes of the meeting with the Foreign Relations Committee was supposed to be a photo opportunity.”
The President shook his head in frustration. “Great. In that case we’ll keep it a photos-only session and cut it down to five minutes.”
“Senator Myers and the committee members might have some questions about the incident—”
“We’ll give them what we give the press—the crash is under investigation, we have no information on any KGB agents being involved.”
Cesare finished writing. “One more thing, sir—the Russians. That wire story said we weren’t going to do anything. Should we make a comment about that?”
“To hell with them.” The President massaged his temples, then added, “They can think what they want. If we come out with any comment directed at the Russians we’d be admitting that they had something to do with the B-52 crash—”
The phone rang again. “Cesare here ... Ted, what’s up? ... what?... any details?... all right. You’re ten minutes away? All right, I’ll pass it on.”
“What now?”
“Ted just got off the phone with the Post. They’re now saying that they have a tape of the conversation between the
B-52 and the XF-34 aircraft during their engagement. The radio conversation was on a channel called GUARD, an international emergency frequency used by planes, ships . . . They have the whole thing—including the pilot of the XF-34 saying that he’s a colonel in the KGB. He said the guy from the Post even said, ‘XF-34.’ That designation was top secret—until now.”
“Dammit all to hell, less than twenty-four hours after our meeting and the whole country, whole world, knows about it. All right, all right,” the President said. “Cancel the Cabinet meeting agenda, get the NSC and CIA and have everybody in the conference room no later than seven-thirty, briefed and ready to discuss this, but for Christ’s sake do it quie
tly—don’t make it look like we’re circling any wagons. This is a routine Cabinet meeting. Make sure we get tapes of any news broadcasts about this thing.”
“We should change the press statement,” Cesare said. “I suggest—”
“The change is easy. The word now is ‘No comment.’ That’s it, and it goes for Ed Drury and the networks and everybody. We’ve got to get a handle on this thing before it gets completely away from us . . .”
Cesare got on the phone again and while he was waiting, the President turned to him and said, “Paul, I want General Elliott at the meeting, too. Has he left Washington?”
“I believe so, sir.”
“Then we’ll set up a secure teleconference and... no, I want him here. He had some ideas about this DreamStar thing that I want to hear. Wherever he is, have him back here soonest.”
“Yes, sir.” Cesare dialed the office of the military communications liaison and issued the President’s orders, then turned back to President Taylor, who was standing near the treadmill, staring at the news item on the big screen.
“Any idea who leaked this, Paul?
“Well, that news item mentions a military source.” He paused, then asked: “Do you think it could be Elliott? Is that why you’re bringing him back to Washington?”
“A guy that’s just been stripped of his command and being forced to retire can do some very strange things, but no, not Elliott. He’s by-the-book. I want him back in Washington to hear what he has to say about this DreamStar thing. It’s been his baby.”
“Are you considering a military response?”
“Maybe I won’t have any choice. If we can’t get control of this leak, we may have to do more than just protest to the Russians—”
The phone rang. Cesare picked it up. “Military communications, sir,” Cesare said. “General Elliott had made a stopover at the Air Force Aeronautical Laboratories in Dayton. He can be here for the staff meeting.”
“That’s very good of him. I can’t wait to talk to him.”
* * *
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