Cold War

Chapter 27

“General Mavis?” the aide said. “If I might have a word with you in private, sir?”

Mavis tore his gaze away from the video monitors and glowered at the aide, recognizing him as White House staff. He pointed down the hall. “My office,” he said.

A moment later, as the aide closed the door, Mavis demanded, “What is it?”

”They know, General,” the aide replied immediately. “The Russians know everything.”

Mavis frowned. “What do you mean, ‘everything’? Just what do they know?”

”I mean the president just received a private cable from the Russian president, telling him that they knew we’d sent in a team with orders to capture or destroy the alien ship. The Russians are pissed as hell; they’re threatening war if we don’t get our people out of there or order them to surrender.”

”War?” The general snorted. “Those bastards can barely feed their own people or keep their tanks running, and they’re going to take us on?”

”They still have most of their nuclear arsenal, sir,” the aide pointed out.

”Yeah, with an anticipated seventy percent failure-on launch rate, thanks to their manufacture and maintenance…”

”Which they allowed for in building the damn things. Even if only thirty percent get through…”

”That’s thirty percent that launch.”

”Still, sir, the throw weight…” The aide caught himself. “Why are we arguing this? With all due respect, sir, we don’t want a war with the Russians in any case.”

”And we aren’t going to get one,” Mavis retorted. “They get excited if someone says nasty words to the Serbs, or buys a Lithuanian tractor, but we haven’t had a war yet, have we?” He sat on the edge of his desk. “So what did the president say about this cable?”

”Well, sir, he was ready to tough it out until some wonk from the DOD mentioned that it was General Philips and that cop Schaefer running the show over there. You know how he feels about Philips.”

”And?”

”And he wants the mission terminated now.”

The general stared at the aide for a long moment, then said, “Shit. Any wiggle room?”

”No, sir. Direct order.”

”He knows what we’re giving up here?”

”He knows, sir. He also remembers that crater in Central America and figures the Russians aren’t going to come out of this looking any better than we are.”

”He’s putting a lot of faith in how good these things are at covering their tracks.”

”Yes, sir, he is-but not without reason, given the past record.”

Mavis eyed the aide, but the aide didn’t say anything more, didn’t explain the statement. The lack of further comment, and the aide’s blank expression, made it plain that that was the end of that topic.

Mavis sighed. “Are we in contact with Philips at present?” he asked.

”Yes, sir,” the aide said. “He’s just now got his satellite uplink in full operation in the radio room of that pumping station.”

The general nodded. “Figures. I’d hoped that maybe he’d moved on to the primary site, and we couldn’t reach him to pull the plug, but no such luck. Well, if he’s there, give him a jingle and tell him the show’s closing out of town. He knows the procedure for pickup.”

”Yes, sir. Will that be all?”

”Unless you’ve got some more bad news for me, yes, that’s it. Thank you.”

The aide turned and left, and General Mavis stared moodily at the map of the world on one wall of his office. He focused on the Yamal Peninsula, in the middle of Russia’s useless, icebound northern coast.

”Too bad,” he said to himself. “Invisibility, spaceships, energy cannons-all those toys we can’t have… and it might have been real interesting to go toe-to-toe with the Russkies and find out once and for all who’s top dog.” He sighed and stood up. “I wonder who spilled the beans?”

Rasche ran a hand over the sleek leather upholstery.

He’d gotten over his brief feelings of disloyalty about dealing with the Russians-after all, his government was up to some pretty dirty tricks here, but he was still adjusting to the reality of being here, on the other side of the world, in the Russian heartland.

He had, up until now, bought into the usual media image of post-Soviet Russia, all those newspaper stories and TV reports about the collapsed economy, the organized crime, the hard times. He had thought that the Russians were all on the verge of starvation, begging in the streets for bread and using their worthless rubles for wallpaper to keep out their infamous winters.

Maybe some of them were hurting, he thought, but judging by this limo Ambassador Komarinets was doing just fine, and Moscow in general had looked pretty solid.

They weren’t in Moscow now, though-they were pulling through the gate of some military installation in the back end of nowhere.

”I am afraid, Mr. Rasche, that from here on our transportation will not be so comfortable,” the ambassador remarked.

Rasche resisted the temptation to remark that the fourteen-hour flight on Aeroflot hadn’t exactly been luxurious, and the military transport that got them from Moscow to wherever the hell they were now had been a flying Frigidaire. The limos, in Moscow and again here, had been a welcome change.

He should have known it wouldn’t last.

”I don’t want to sound like a whiner, Ambassador,” he said, “but are we almost there?”

Komarinets smiled. “You don’t sound like a whiner, Mr. Rasche,” he said. “You just sound like an American-spoiled and impatient. At least you Americans understand long distances, not like most of the Europeans, all jammed together in their little countries.” He offered a cigarette, which Rasche refused with a gesture.

”To answer your question,” the ambassador said as he snapped his cigarette case closed and tucked it back into his coat, “yes, we are almost there. From here, though, there are no roads open at this time of year, so we must take a vehicle that can travel on snow.” He waved at the tinted car window behind him, and Rasche saw a line of ugly military-green vehicles standing beside the limo as it slowed to a stop.

They looked like a god-awful hybrid of snowmobile and semi, but Rasche supposed they’d do the job. A group of soldiers was standing, waiting, beside one of the tractor things; from their attitudes, Rasche guessed that the plump one in the middle was some sort of big shot.

A soldier opened the limo door and Rasche climbed out; the ambassador was doing the same on the other side. Komarinets spoke to the plump officer, but Rasche couldn’t make out a word; he’d never had any gift for languages, and had never tried learning Russian in the first place. He remembered a few words of high school French and some choice phrases of gutter Spanish he’d picked up on the streets of the Big Apple, but that was about the full extent of his linguistic prowess outside his native English.

He stood and shivered while the Russians talked.

After a moment’s conversation the ambassador turned to Rasche.

”This is General Ponomarenko,” he said. “This entire military district is under his command, and he personally selected the officer in charge of operations at the site, a Lieutenant Ligacheva.”

”I regret to say that that is correct,” the general added, speaking slowly and with a heavy accent. “Her performance has been a disappointment. I look forward to relieving her of her command as soon as we locate her.” He gestured at one of the snow tractors; as he did the engine started with a roar, making further conversation impractical.

”Come, we board now,” Ponomarenko shouted, holding open the tractor door.

Rasche shrugged and climbed aboard.