Herbert squeezed Quirk’s shoulder. “Good work. Let me know if you pick up anything else.”
TWENTY-TWO
Monday, 9:30 P.M., St. Petersburg
“Sir,” said red-cheeked Yuri Marev, “the radio room says they’ve received a coded communication via Pacific Fleet headquarters in Vladivostok. It’s from the plane you’ve had me follow on the Hawk satellite.”
General Orlov stopped his slow pacing behind the computer bank and walked to the young man, who was seated at the far left of the bank.
“Are you certain?” Orlov asked.
“There’s no doubt, sir. It’s the Gulfstream.”
Orlov glanced at the clock on the computer screen. The plane wasn’t due to land for another half hour, and he knew that region well: if anything, at this time of year the winds would work against them and the plane would be late.
“Tell Zilash I’m coming,” Orlov said, walking quickly to the door that opened into the corridor. He entered that day’s code on the keypad beside a door across the hall, then went into the cramped, smoke-filled radio room which was located next to Glinka’s security operations center.
Arkady Zilash and his two assistants were sitting in a tiny room filled to the ceiling with radio equipment. Orlov couldn’t even open the door completely, since one of the assistants was using a unit tucked behind it. The men were all wearing headsets, and Zilash didn’t see Orlov until the General tapped him on the left earphone.
Startled, the gaunt radio chief removed his headset and stuck his cigarette in an ashtray.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Zilash said in his low, raspy voice.
As if suddenly realizing he should stand, Zilash began to rise. Orlov motioned with his fingers for him to sit back down. Without meaning to, Zilash had always managed to test the boundaries of military protocol. But he was a radio genius and, more important, a trusted aide from Orlov’s Cosmodrome days. The General wished he had more men like Zilash on his staff.
“It’s all right,” Orlov said.
“Thank you, sir.”
“What did the Gulfstream have to say?”
Zilash turned on a digital audiotape recorder. “I’ve unscrambled it and cleaned it up a bit,” he said. “The transmission had a great deal of static-the weather is terrible over the sea right now.”
The voice on the tape was faint but clear. “Vladivostok: we have lost power in our port engine. We do not know how serious the damage is, but some electrical systems are out. We expect to land a half hour late, but can go no further. Will await instructions.”
Zilash’s big, hound-dog eyes peered up through the smoke. “Any reply, sir?”
Orlov thought for a moment. “Not yet. Get me Rear Admiral Pasenko at Pacific Fleet headquarters.”
Zilash glanced at his computer clock. “It’s four in the morning there, sir-”
“I know,” Orlov said patiently. “Just do it.”
“Yes, sir,” Zilash said as he typed the name into his computer keyboard, accessed and input the scramble code, then radioed the base. When the Rear Admiral came on, Zilash handed the headset to Orlov.
“Sergei Orlov?” said Pasenko. “Cosmonaut, fighter pilot, and reclusive homebody? One of the few men I would get out of bed to talk to.”
“I’m sorry about the hour, Ilya,” Orlov said. “How have you been?”
“I’ve been well!” said Pasenko. “Where have you been hiding these past two years? I haven’t seen you since the all-service senior officers’ retreat in Odessa.”
“I’ve been well-”
“Of course,” Pasenko said. “You cosmonauts exude well-being. And Masha? How is your long-suffering wife?”
“Also well,” Orlov said. “Perhaps we can catch up later. I have a favor to ask, Ilya.”
“Anything,” said Pasenko. “The man who kept Brezhnev waiting to sign my daughter’s autograph book has my undying friendship.”
“Thanks,” Orlov said as he thought back to how irate the leader of the Soviet Union had been. But children are the future, the dreamers, and there was never any hesitation on Orlov’s part. “Ilya, there’s a crippled aircraft that will be landing at the airport in Vladivostok-”
“The Gulfstream? I see it here on the computer.”
“That’s right,” said Orlov. “I’ve got to get the cargo to Moscow. Can you give me a plane?”
“I may have spoken too soon,” Pasenko said. “Every plane I can spare is being used to transport materiel to the west.”
Orlov was caught off guard. What can be happening in the west?
“I’d be happy to piggyback your shipment in my air craft,” Pasenko continued, “space permitting, but I don’t know when that will be. Part of the rush is we’re expecting several days of severe weather from the Berring Sea. Anything still on the ground tonight is expected to remain there for at least ninety-six hours.”
“Then there isn’t even time to send a plane from Moscow,” Orlov said.
“Probably not,” Pasenko said. “What is so urgent?”
“I don’t know myself,” Orlov said. “Kremlin business.”
“I understand,” Pasenko said. “You know, rather than have your goods sit here, Sergei, I can help arrange for a train. You can run your shipment north from Vladivostok and meet it when the weather clears.”
“The Trans-Siberian Railroad,” Orlov said. “How many cars can you get me?”
“Enough to carry whatever is in your little jet,” Pasenko said. “The only thing I couldn’t give you is personnel to man it. That would have to be approved by Admiral Varchuk, and he’s in the Kremlin meeting with the new President. If it isn’t a matter of national security, he can get thorny about interruptions.”
“That’s all right,” Orlov said. “If you can get me the train, I can get a crew to run her. Will you let me know as soon as possible?”
“Stay where you are,” Pasenko said. “I’ll radio back within the half hour.”
Signing off, Orlov handed the headset to Zalish. “Radio the military base on Sakhalin Island,” he said. “Tell the operator I’d like to speak to a member of the spetsnaz detachment-I’ll stay on the line.”
“Yes, sir. Which member, General?”
“Junior Lieutenant Nikita Orlov,” he said. “My son.”
TWENTY-THREE
Monday, 1:45 P.M., Washington, D.C.
Paul Hood and Mike Rodgers were sitting behind Hood’s desk studying the psychological profiles which Liz Gordon had just sent over.
If there was any strain between the men over what had happened in the Tank, it had been put aside. Rodgers had a strong independent streak, but he was also a twenty-year man. He knew how to take orders, including the ones he didn’t like. For his part, Hood rarely overruled his deputy, and almost never in military matters. When he did, it was with the backing of most of his senior staff.
The Peggy James call had been a tough one, but the bottom line was simple. The intelligence community was small, much too small for grudges. The risk of sending a seasoned agent with Striker was acceptable, compared to the risk of alienating D16 and Commander Hubbard.
Hood was careful not to be too solicitous with Rodgers after their little showdown. The General would have resented that. But Hood made himself more open to Rodgers’s ideas, especially his enthusiasm for Liz Gordon’s psychological profiles. Op-Center’s Director put as much validity in psychoanalysis as he did in astrology and phrenology. Childhood dreams about his mother were as useful to understanding his adult mind as the gravitational pull of Saturn and bumps on the head were to predicting the future.
But Mike Rodgers believed and, if nothing else, it was useful to review the personal histories of their potential adversaries.
The concise biography of the new Russian President was on the screen, along with access to file photographs, newspaper clips, and video footage. Hood scanned through details of Shannon’s birth in Makhachkala on the Caspian Sea, his education in Moscow and rise from the Politburo to an attache in the Soviet Embassy in London and then as Deputy Ambassador in Washington.
Hood stopped scrolling when he reached Liz’s profile:
“He sees himself as a potential modem-day Peter the Great,’ ” Hood read Liz’s summary, ” ‘who favors open trade with the West and a cultural influx from the U.S. to make sure his people continue to want what we have to sell.’ ”
Rodgers said, “That makes sense. If they want American movies, they’ll have to buy Russian VCRs. If they want enough Chicago Bulls jackets or Janet Jackson T-shirts, companies will begin to open factories in Russia.”
“But Liz says here, ‘I don’t think he has the same aesthetic sense as Peter the Great.’ ”
“No,” Rodgers agreed. “The Czar was genuinely interested in Western culture. Zhanin is interested in building the economy and remaining in power. The question, which we also discussed with the President last night, is how sure are we of his devotion to this course of action as opposed to militarism.”
“He has no military background whatsoever,” Hood said, looking back over the biography.
“Right,” said Rodgers. “And historically, that kind of leader is quick to try and use force to get his way. Anyone who’s been in a combat zone knows firsthand the price you pay there. As a rule, they’re the most reluctant to use force.”