"Yuri Andreevich, we have made sure it's fueled and we will get you
into the cockpit. After that, we will know nothing about--"
"One other thing," he interjected, "I want it fueled with liquid
hydrogen."
"Impossible." Grishkov's expression darkened, his bushy eyebrows
lifting. "I categorically refuse."
"I don't care. I want it."
"Absolutely out of the question. The engines on _Daedalus II _haven't
been certified in the scramjet mode. You can't attempt to take it
hypersonic. It would be too risky." He stopped, then smiled. "Don't
worry. You can still outrun any chase plane on earth with those twelve
engines in ramjet mode."
"I tell you I want to go to scramjet geometry," Yuri Andreevich
insisted, his eyes determined.
If I can't do what I planned, he told himself, nobody's going to
believe me. I've got to take one of those vehicles hypersonic tomorrow
morning, ready or not.
"Impossible. There's no way we can fuel _Daedalus II_ with liquid
hydrogen. The Mino Industries ground crews would suspect something
immediately. It's out of the question. I forged some orders and had it
fueled with JP-7 late last night, at 2300 hours. That's the best I can
do."
_Chort_, Yuri thought. Well, maybe I can fake it. Push it out to Mach 5
with JP-7 and still . . .
"And the two 'pilots' from Mino Industries," he turned back, "what
about them?"
"If the American plays his part, they will never suspect." Grishkov
flashed a grin.
"Unless somebody here screws up," he said, gazing around the room
again, studying the white technician's uniforms, the innocent faces.
"There'll be a lot of confusion. When we start pumping liquid hydrogen
into _Daedalus /, _the site will be pandemonium," Grishkov continued.
"All you have to do is get into the cockpit of the other plane."
It would be a horrible accident, but accidents happened. They'd all
heard whispered stories about the tragedy at Baikonur in October 1960,
when almost a hundred men were killed because Nikita Khrushchev wanted
a spectacular space shot while he was visiting the United Nations. When
a giant rocket, a Mars probe, failed to achieve ignition, instead of
taking the delay required to remove the fuel before checking the
malfunction, the technicians were ordered to troubleshoot it
immediately. Tech crews were swarming over it when it detonated.
"Then I guess we're ready." Yuri Andreevich sighed.
"We are." Grishkov nodded and reached for the phone beside the main
console, quickly punching in four numbers. He spoke quietly for a few
moments, then replaced the receiver.
"They'll be here in five minutes. Doktor Androv has just completed his
briefing on the cockpit configuration."
"All right. I'm going now. Just get the hangar doors open, the runway
cleared, and the truck-mounted starters ready. This is going to be
tricky, so make sure everybody thinks we're merely taking _Daedalus II_
onto the runway as a safety precaution after the explosion." Yuri gazed
over the group of engineers one last time. Would they do it? Whatever
happened, he had to get out of there and start checking the cockpit of
_Daedalus II _before the morning's preflight crews arrived. "Good luck.
By 0900 hours I want everything set."
He gave the room a final salute, out of habit, and headed for the
security doors. In moments he'd disappeared into the corridor and was
gone.
"Let me do the talking," Grishkov said, turning back to the others.
"And let Doktor Androv translate. Also remember, he has no idea Yuri
Andreevich is going to steal the other plane."
The men stirred, and nodded their assent. From here on, they all were
thinking, the less they had to do with this plot the better.
Then the door opened. Standing next to Dr. Andrei Petrovich Androv was
a tall man dressed as a Soviet air force major. As Grishkov looked him
over, he had the fleeting impression that Yuri Andreevich had
unexpectedly returned, so similar was the American poseur to Andrei
Androv's own son. In height and build, the resemblance was nothing
short of miraculous. This was going to be easier than he'd dared to
hope. Put the American in a pressure suit, complete with flight helmet,
and he could easily pass.
"He has agreed to set the explosives," Andrei said in Russian as he
gestured toward the man standing beside him in a tight-fitting uniform.
"Meet 'Major Yuri Andreevich Androv.'"
Friday 7:58 A.M.
The room appeared to be the quarters of a high-ranking member of the
Soviet staff, now returned to the USSR. It was comfortably if sparely
appointed and even had a computer terminal, a small NEC. She'd switched
it on, tried to call up some files, but everything required a password.
She could use it, however, as a clock. As she watched the time flashing
on the corner of the screen, she tried to remember what the Soviet
major had said about the schedule . . . the first hypersonic test of
the Daedalus was scheduled for 0930. That was only an hour and a half
away.
She was wearing her London clothes again, but where the hell was her
bag? She walked over and sat down on the side of the single bed,
thinking. If she could get her hands on the suitcase, the Uzi might
still be there.
That's when she heard the sound of muted but crisp Japanese outside--the
changing of the guard. The _Mino-gumi kobun _were keeping a strict
schedule, a precision that seemed perfectly in keeping with everything
else about the facility. Life here was measured out not in coffee
spoons but in scrolling numbers on computers.
The door opened and one of the new _kobun_ showed his head. At first
she thought it was merely a bed check, but he stared at her mutely for
a moment, then beckoned. She rose and walked over. This new goon, black
suit and all, was armed with a 9mm Walther P88 automatic in a shoulder
holster. Outside, the other _Mino-gumi _motioned for her to come with
them.
That's when she noticed her bag, sitting just outside the door.
There goes my chance, she sighed. They want to keep me moving, make
sure I'm not in one place long enough for anybody to get suspicious.
This way I'll seem to be just another guest.
Without a word they were directing her along the hallway toward
Checkpoint Central. All Tanzan Mino's _kobun_ seemed to have free run
of the facility, because the uniformed security staff didn't even
bother to ask for a pass. They may have been new and alien visitors
from outside this closed world, but they represented the CEO. Carte
blanche.
Now they were moving down the crowded corridor leading to the South
Quadrant. The walls were still gray, but this was a new area, one she
hadn't yet been in. No sign this time, however, of the Soviet major
named Androv.
Guess he wasn't kidding about an important test flight coming up.
Something was definitely in the wind. The pace of activity was
positively hectic. So why was she being moved, right in the middle of
all this chaos? It didn't make sense.
She looked up ahead and realized they were headed toward two massive,
heavily guarded doors. What could this sector be? Once again the
Japanese security guards merely bowed low and waved her Mino-gumi
escorts past.
The wide doors opened onto yet another hallway, and she was overwhelmed
by a blast of sound. Motors were blaring, voices were shouting,
escaping gasses were hissing. The din, the racket, engulfed her. And
then she realized the reason: There was no ceiling! Even the "offices"
along the side were merely high-walled cubicles that had been dropped
here in the entryway of some vast space.
It was the hangar.
The actual entry at the end was sealed and guarded, but instead of
passing through, they stopped at the last door on the right.
Whoever had summoned her, it wasn't Tanzan Mino. His array of personal
_kobun_ weren't lined up outside. In fact, there were no guards at all.
The leather-jacketed escorts pulled open the door, and one entered
ahead of her, one behind. Inside was a large metal desk, equipped with
banks of phones and rows of buttons.
Sitting behind the desk was Vera Karanova.
"Did you sleep well?" She glanced up, then immediately signaled for the
_kobun_ to absent themselves.
"Did you?" Eva looked her over--the severe designer suit, black, topped
off with a string of gray Mikimoto pearls. It was a striking contrast
to the short-haired engineers bustling outside.
What riveted her attention, however, was resting on the desk next to
the banks of phones and switches. A Zenith.
"We have some time this morning." Vera ignored the
response as she brushed at her carefully groomed dark hair. "I thought
we should use it productively."
"Lots of luck, Comrade."
"It is not in either of our interests to be at cross purposes," she
continued, still speaking in Russian. It was a startling change in tone
from the evening before. "You and I have much in common. We both have
worked at high levels in the security apparatus of our respective
countries. Consequently we both understand the importance of strategic
thinking. That sets us apart." She reached out and touched the laptop
computer. "Now, to begin, I would very much like for you to show me how
you managed to break the encryption for the protocol. The CEO was most
impressed."
"If he wants to know, he can ask me himself." She helped herself to a
metal chair.
"He is very busy at the moment," Vera continued, "occupied elsewhere."
This is a setup, Eva was thinking. She wanted to get me down here for
some other reason.
But it was hard to concentrate, given the din of activity filtering in
from the open ceiling. Above them banks of floodlights were creating
heavy shadows around the office, and out there somewhere, she realized,
was the prototype.
"Why don't you tell me what's really on your mind, Comrade? Or better
yet, why you decided to throw in your lot with all these Yakuza
criminals."
Vera Karanova laughed. "You are a director with the National Security
Agency. You obviously are very competent. And yet you and the rest of
American intelligence seem completely blind. Oblivious to the
significance of what is happening around you. In case you hadn't
noticed, the Soviet military is being stripped, practically dismantled
in the interest of economic restructuring."
"High time, if you ask me."
"That is a matter of opinion. The Cold War, whether we liked it or not,
maintained a predictable structure in the world. Both East and West
went out of their way to support and stabilize Third World countries in
order to keep them out of each other's camp. But with the Cold War
slackening, there's disintegration everywhere. Demilitarization is
leading to political and economic anarchy worldwide."
Right, Eva thought. But you left out one other interesting fact: Japan
got rich while the superpowers were out there "stabilizing" everybody,
squandering resources on matching sets of military toys instead of
investing in their own infrastructure. They'd love to keep it going.
"This plane," Vera went on, "can be used to serve the ultimate cause of
restoring world order." She paused, then continued. "But only if it is
in the hands of our air force, from today forward."
"Purge the new thinking?"
"The Soviet Union is on the verge of economic disaster. Perestroika has
plunged our country into chaos. The time has come to admit revisionism
has failed."
"Where's good old Uncle Joe when you need him?" she smiled. "Stalin
made the Gulag trains run on time."
"Our restructuring has gone too far," Vera continued. "There are limits
beyond which a society can no longer endure change."
Eva stared at her. "I take it KGB and your military right- wingers are
planning to try and stage a coup?"
"There still are responsible people in the Soviet Union, Dr. Borodin,
who believe our country is worth saving."
My God, Eva thought, their hard-liners are planning to take control of
this plane and use it to re-enflame the Cold War? Just like the race
for the H-bomb, it'll rejuvenate the Soviet military.
"This is our last chance," Vera continued as she reached down and
flicked on the computer. "However, if we are to succeed, the terms of
the protocol will require certain revisions."
"Do you really think you can get away with this?"
"That's where you come in," Vera went on. "But first perhaps I should
show you something."
She reached down and pushed a button on the desk, causing the set of
blinds along the side of the office facing the hangar to slowly rise.
"I'd like you to see the _Daedalus_." She pointed out the window.
"Perhaps then you will better appreciate its significance."
Through the glass was a massive hangar engulfed in white vapor, as
cryogenic liquid hydrogen created clouds of artificial condensate, cold
steam, that poured over the army of milling technicians. Above the
haze, however, she could just make out two giant aircraft. Their wings
started almost at the cockpit, then widened outward to the plane's full
length, terminating abruptly just before the high tail assembly.
Positioned side by side, they looked like huge gliders, except that
beneath the wings were clusters of massive engines larger than any
she'd ever seen before.
"So that's the prototype, the vehicle specified in the protocol."
They were stunningly beautiful. Maybe all high-performance aircraft
looked sexy, but these possessed a unique elegance. The child's vision
of the paper airplane reincarnated as the most powerful machine man had
ever created.
"I thought you would like to witness the final preparations for our
first hypersonic flight," Vera proceeded. "Thus far one of the planes,
that one there on the left"-- she pointed--"has been flown to Mach 4.5.
Today's test will take it to the hypersonic regime, over fifteen
thousand miles per hour."
They've leapfrogged the West, Eva was suddenly realizing. It's the X-30
spaceplane America dreams of building in the next century, except it's
here now.
"From the looks of things, I'd say you're on schedule."
Vera clicked something on the desk and a blinking number appeared at
the top of a video screen. It was the countdown. Liftoff was less than
an hour away.
"Yes, so far there has been no hold. Even though today is overcast,
with a low ceiling, we don't experience weather delays like the
American space shuttle. In fact, this plane is virtually weather-proof,
since it leaves from a runway just like a normal passenger jet."
No wonder the test pilot Androv was swaggering, Eva thought. This must
be a flyboy's wet dream.
"One more question. Why are you showing me all this?"
"I told you, there's something I need." She paused, and in the silence
Eva listened to the increasing clamor of preparations in the hangar
outside. "After the test flight this morning, the prototype is
scheduled to be transferred to the Supreme Soviet. However, that cannot
be allowed to happen. Consequently, there will need to be alterations
in the protocol." She clicked on the laptop computer. It hummed lightly
as the hard disk engaged, and then the screen began to glow. "Those
revisions need to be kept out of the system computers here at the
facility for now, so your copy of the text would be an ideal place to
prepare a first draft."
"You're going to pull a fast one." Eva stared at her. "You're going to
tinker with the terms of the deal and turn this plane over to your air
force. Very inventive."
"That is correct. And you are going to help me, Dr. Borodin. You are
going to call up your text and print a copy for me."
Sweetie, you are a piece of work.
"Why bother printing it again? Sorry to tell you, but I've already run
off a copy. It's in my suitcase."
"We searched your bag. There's nothing there."
"You didn't look hard enough." Maybe this was her chance. "Send some of
your thugs to fetch it."
"Very well." She reached for a button on the desk.
Eva turned to look out again through the white mist. Something was
going on now. A motorized cart was pulling up and two men in pressure
suits were getting off. Must be the pilots.
The first to step off the cart was already waving his hands imperiously
at the Japanese technicians. He had to be the Soviet pilot, Androv.
Yep, it was him, swagger and all.
Then the second pressure-suited figure stepped down. That one, she
assumed, must be one of the Mino Industries recruits Androv had been
complaining about. Guess he didn't get very far with his demand to be
in the cockpit alone.
_The walk.
_Memories of a long-ago skin-diving trip to Cozumel flooded back. They
were off the northern reefs, wearing oxygen tanks, admiring the
multicolored banks of coral. Then later, as they staggered up the
beach, she'd laughed at his frog-footed waddle.
_Michael!
_