Night of the Hawk

TWO

Lieutenant General Bradley Elliott, commander of the U.S. Air Force’s top-secret flight-test facility known as HAWC (nicknamed Dreamland because of the highly classified high-tech equipment they developed and tested there), looked at the colonel standing before him, trying to make an assessment. Elliott poured some coffee from a pot, his memory kicking into overdrive.

Paul White, the Air Force colonel in Elliott’s office, was someone Elliott knew, or knew of rather. He was regarded as one of the most intelligent and creative engineers in the Air Force. Elliott himself had once recruited him for an assignment at HAWC, and if memory served him correctly, White had also been involved in training Patrick McLanahan and Dave Luger at Ford Air Force Base. But that was a while ago, and since then some other organization had snapped White up — which organization, Elliott did not know. His staff had tried to find out, but White’s whereabouts were harder to track, which meant classified work, as was Elliott’s. Still, Elliott’s chief of security, Captain Hal Briggs, had tried to pull whatever he could on White — only to run into a brick wall at the White House.

The big blank in White’s current life made Elliott uneasy, especially since the White House was involved, but White was on Elliott’s turf now — in a meeting White had requested.

“Sir,” White said, scanning the room with his eyes, “is there somewhere we can speak in private?”

“This is private, Colonel. If there is something I need to hear, spill it.” White glanced directly at a signed and remarqued Dru Blair lithograph of an F-117A stealth fighter hanging over Elliott’s desk — the only one of eight such framed posters in the office that had a hidden microphone and security camera behind it. It was pure luck that he’d guessed it, but Elliott followed the gaze of his eyes and tried to ignore it.

A lot of people were intimidated by HAWC’s intense security measures. The facility, located in the south-central part of Nevada, a hundred miles north of Las Vegas, was one of the most restricted in the world. Its overflight airspace was off-limits for all aircraft, from the surface to infinity. There were warnings of “Deadly Force Authorized” everywhere, which meant that security guards could shoot first, ask questions later. Armed patrols roamed the streets and hallways. Every building had its own special security setup, customized for the individuals and projects within. A request for a visit to HAWC set off a chain of security scrutiny of the kind Colonel White had been subjected to.

If he hadn’t passed, he sure as hell wouldn’t have been in Elliott’s office, which was all the more aggravating for Elliott.

“Can’t you at least turn off… the recording and video equipment?” White asked.

“I cannot and will not,” snapped Elliott. “Well, Colonel, what is it? I’m extremely busy.”

“Sir, the information I want to pass on to you is not only very unofficial, it’s strictly between you and me. What you do with it is up to you, but I’ve risked my very career coming here, not to mention the possibility of arrest.”

Elliott stared coldly at White. “Colonel, you may be enjoying this, but I’m about to put an end to it right now.”

“Then kick me out. I’ve only come halfway around the world to try and see you. I’ve tried other channels, other ways to find a solution to this.”

Elliott saw something in White’s eyes — desperation, and determination. Whatever had brought him here had been bothering him for some time. He wanted to resolve it and didn’t seem to care about the consequences one way or another. “There’s always a way to get something done without ruining your life to do it. I think I know you, Colonel. We’re a lot alike. You’re an innovator, a dreamer. If things aren’t working right, you fix them. Certainly you can fix—”

“No, General Elliott, I can’t. You can. I went through the channels I was supposed to use. By the book. Nothing’s happened. Believe me, I would’ve known.”

Elliott had been around long enough — including two tours of Vietnam, where he was the youngest squadron commander in the Air Force, several command positions in Strategic Air Command tactical units, commander of the Eighth Air Force, and his current position as director of HAWC— to know a true soldier. An honorable soldier. White had pretty much convinced him he was on the level. He could see it in White’s eyes, his body language. “Known what?” Elliott demanded.

“That something had been done about… David Luger.”

Elliott froze, trying to recover from his surprise and the reaction he’d just given White. He averted his eyes to his desktop, then back to White: “Luger, you say?… David Luger? The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Your face says something else, General.”

“You’ve got one more chance to get off this track before the locomotive wipes you out — and I promise you, it will. The subject of Lieutenant Luger is highly classified.”

“I have a clearance …”

“Colonel, I would need clearance to begin any inquiries into David Luger, and I’d probably be denied,” Elliott said. “You don’t know what you’re fooling with here, Colonel. You could have a security clearance to wipe God’s ass for all I care, but you have no need to know—”

“I think I do,” White said. He unzipped his Air Force blue lightweight jacket, then pulled a manila envelope from the inside lining.

“You sneaked a photograph inside the lining of your jacket?” Elliott asked incredulously.

“You’ll see why in a second.” White opened it and handed a photograph to Elliott. “He’s alive, General. We got that photo several months ago from an informant in Lithuania. That’s him. I know it is.”

There was no mistaking it. Elliott assumed it would be one of the typically fuzzy photos taken from long distance, or deliberately fuzzied to protect the informant’s identity or methods used to obtain the photograph — but it wasn’t. It was Dave Luger. He was going through a security checkpoint, emerging from a metal detector. The photo was taken from slightly above head level — with the photographer or informant standing halfway up a staircase in front of the security area perhaps — but it was clear and sharp, perhaps computer-enhanced.

Luger looked thin and pale, but it was definitely him — the eyes, the shape of the head, the long legs, the slight slouch, the big Texas-sized hands with long fingers. Luger was carrying a briefcase. He was wearing a simple brown overcoat, no gloves, no hat, even though the men accompanying him wore thick fur hats and leather gloves against the obvious cold outside.

“Want to kick me out now, General?” White asked, a hint of a smile on his face.

“Shut up, White,” Elliott grumbled. “Another word and I’ll personally close that mouth of yours.” Elliott sat down, running his hand through his hair, studying the picture more closely, trying to see if there was anything… anything at all… that indicated a setup. God knows he’d Seen a lot of them in the press over the years, especially the faked POW pictures coming out of Vietnam. Elliott sighed. This one looked real, which actually made things harder: It meant Luger hadn’t died… and that raised a lot of questions. Where was he? What had happened? Had he been captured and turned by the Soviets? Or, worse, had he… Elliott dismissed the thought immediately. Yes, someone would probably wonder if it was possible Luger had always been working for… someone else… but Elliott knew that was absurd. He’d spent too much time with Luger. Elliott knew Luger as well as he knew McLanahan and the rest of the crew.

No, David Luger was no traitor. At least, he hadn’t been. He was, if anything, a prisoner. Or a brainwashed collaborator. It happened to the best of them. Elliott had seen it himself, with his own men, back in ‘Nam. But if they could get him back…

White couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “We’ve got to talk about this, General Elliott.”

“Hold it. Just shut up for a second.” He paused for another moment, then pressed his interoffice intercom button and said, “Sergeant Taylor, I’ve got the ceremony taken care of. See to it I’m not interrupted except by a priority-one call.”

“Yes, sir,” came the reply.

“We call our office recording devices ‘sandwich’ instead of ‘ceremony,’” White said with a smile. “We find we can use it in more conversations.”

“This is not funny, White,” Elliott said. “I’ve never shut that tape recorder off in over six years of working behind this desk — I’m not even sure how to do it. Let’s dispense with the cute comments now. Who do you work for, White?”

“The Intelligence Support Agency,” White replied immediately.

Elliott knew they were the troubleshooters of the Director of Central Intelligence, the special team that assisted and augmented the regular field-intelligence forces of the United States. They were the ones who were called when the spooks got in trouble or when something needed doing outside normal DCI channels. “What program?”

White hesitated. It was a normal reaction to his highly classified position. But to Elliott it was a sign of insincerity, that this really was a trap. “You better not clam up on me now, White!”

“MADCAP MAGICIAN,” White replied.

“Never heard of it.”

“And I’m sure you’ve got a few things inside these hangars I’ve never heard of, General,” White said. “We’re a combined-forces military unit, mostly Air Force and Marine Corps special ops, based on the cargo ship USS Valley Mistress. We use some of the CV-22 PAVE HAMMER aircraft that were developed here. Human intelligence is our specialty.”

“You were handling this informant in Lithuania?”

“CIA was handling him, but they lost him when he rabbited. The KGB was closing in on him.”

“There is no KGB anymore.”

“Wrong, sir. There’s plenty of KGB, especially in the Baltic states. They call them the MSB, the Inter-Republican Council for Security, but they’re all KGB, Internal Troops. OMON, Black Berets — the names have changed, but the faces have not. They were too powerful to destroy; now they’re rogue elephants, guns for hire. They don’t work for Moscow anymore — they work for whoever offers them the most money. We’ve been tracking this KGB cell in Vilnius, particularly around the Fisikous Research Institute, where the KGB provides ‘specialized’ security services — bribes, threats, and executions — in order to convince local Lithuanian officials not to close down Fisikous. We run up against them all the time.”

“So you were sent in to get the informant?”

“He was a Lithuanian officer in a Byelorussian outfit representing the Commonwealth and based in Vilnius,” White explained. “The informant was an intelligence officer in a unit in Vilnius. One of his unit’s tasks, along with harassing Lithuanian citizens and helping the Byelorussians get rich while ‘guarding’ the country, was to guard the Fisikous Institute of Technology.”

“The Institute itself? He was in it? That means Luger’s in Fisikous?”

“Apparently so,” White replied. “He’s been working in the aircraft-design bureau for a while, perhaps years, under the name Doctor Ozerov. Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov.”

“I know the names of every scientist and every engineer working in every aircraft-design bureau in the Commonwealth,” Elliott said, turning in his seat to look at White, “and I’ve never heard of Ozerov.”

“Our informant indicates that he’s not a part of the normal staff” White explained, “but he’s there all right, under constant guard by the KGB contingent at Fisikous. He is very well respected, considered a bit of an oddball — very freewheeling. But he commands respect and admiration throughout the facility.”

“So maybe it’s someone that just looks like Luger.”

“Maybe.” White was silent for a moment. Then: “But your reaction was the same as mine when I saw that picture, and the others the informant brought out. It’s David Luger all right. He looks like he’s been mistreated perhaps drugged or brainwashed, but it’s him. His primary project 15 some large, weird aircraft that looks like something out of Star Trek.”

“Tuman?” Elliott gasped. “My God… Luger is working on Tuman?”

“What is it? Some new bomber?”

“It could be the world’s most sophisticated warplane,” Elliott said. “It’s a combination and enhancement of the B-1 and B-2 bombers. Stealth technology, supercruise capability at high gross weights — that means a four-hundred-thousand-pound stealth bomber traveling over the speed of sound without afterburner — self-protection technology, slow-flight and close-air-support technology, terrain-following, air-to-air capability, even fractional orbital bombardment capability — it’s the only advanced warplane in the world still being developed, after our B-2 stealth bomber program was canceled. You saw it?”

“The informant got pictures of it.”

“Jesus. Tuman really exists,” Elliott exclaimed. “It’s been rumored to be on the drawing board for five years.” Elliott began thinking out loud: “Who would’ve thought it would be at Fisikous? With Lithuania a free nation, Fisikous was the last place you’d expect a bunch of old Soviet sympathizers to keep a multibillion-dollar aircraft project—”

“Let’s try to keep on the subject, sir,” White said. “Namely, what do we do about Dave Luger?”

Elliott scooped up the photo and jammed it back into its envelope. “This had better be for real, Colonel, or you won’t be facing a courts-martial or a firing squad — I’ll deal with you myself, with my bare fucking hands. Dave Luger meant the world to me. I’d give everything, everything, to help him. But the mission is classified. Reopening the files could damage the careers of many individuals, from here all the way to the White House. I hope you realize the huge can of worms you’ve opened up here, Colonel.”

“Believe me, it hurts me as much as it does you, General. I need your help, not your retribution. Dave Luger is alive. If we leave him up to the ‘proper channels’ to deal with, he’ll be there forever. We have to get him out. You’ve got to—”

Suddenly the door behind him burst open. Three men, dressed in dark-blue jumpsuits, helmets with clear plastic face masks, and bulletproof vests dashed in, automatic weapons trained on Paul White’s forehead. “Hands up! Now!” Captain Hal Briggs, General Elliott’s chief of security at the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center, shouted.

White raised his hands. When he looked at Brad Elliott again, the three-star general had a big .45 caliber automatic pistol in his hand, aimed at White as well. “Hey, General,” White said, an amused smile on his face, “these guys are good.”

“You’re under arrest, Colonel, for revealing classified information and attempting to exchange classified information. I want him Mirandized, hooded any time he is outside a building, searched — body cavity and X-ray — booked, and held in maximum security until a full identity check has been accomplished. No phone calls, no contact with any individuals whatsoever until I authorize it. Move out.” White did not say another word as a black hood was placed over his head and he was dragged off.

“Good job, Hal,” Elliott said, sitting back down.

“Don’t thank me. Thank Sergeant Taylor. He recognized the duress code word ‘ceremony’ and called me the second you mentioned it. What was he trying to sell you?”

“An unbelievable story, Hal,” Elliott said. “An incredible story. Half of me prays it’s not true and half of me prays it is. We have some phone calls to make.”

“You gonna let me bust this guy, sir?” Briggs said enthusiastically. “It’s been a slow week and I could use the—”

“If his story doesn’t pan out, I’ll authorize a full national-security investigation and you can dismantle the guy piece by piece — with his defense counsel present, of course. But first I want to find out if what I’ve heard has any truth to it. I’ve got to ask General Curtis. He should get involved.”

“Curtis? The General Curtis? The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Curtis?”

“If what White said is true — and a lot of it seems to be irrefutable— then Curtis needs to know immediately. If this is all some big con game, then he can squash it quick and neat.”

The President of the United States, on an evening flight back to Washington, D.C., after a trip to the West Coast, had just retired for the evening into the front section of Air Force One, which was outfitted as a full luxury suite for him and the First Lady. As usual, he left his staff with another two or three hours’ work to do before the plane landed. Fortunately, Air Force One was well suited for work, with impeccable service, eighty-five phones on board, plus the assistance of no less than three operators, not to mention fax machines, word processors, and a rack of computers.

That evening flight found the White House Chief of Staff Robert “Case” Timmons, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Wilbur Curtis, and National Security Advisor George Russell, together in the staff lounge, the plush “living room” in the center of the modified Boeing 747 reserved for the President’s staff. Several soft leather chairs were arranged along the fuselage wall around a large, low coffee table, where magazines and English-language newspapers from all over the world were scattered. Aides for each Cabinet officer were nearby, taking copious notes and instructions as their superiors tossed orders to them.

In the adjacent staff/secretarial area, secretaries with Compaq laptop computers were hard at work, while several staff members shuttled between the presidential staff area and the other sections of the plane, delivering messages and retrieving memos. A steward had just brought coffee and dessert rolls from one of Air Force One’s two kitchens and had departed. The presidential staff lounge could hold twelve, but with three senior Cabinet members on-board they took the room all to themselves for the entire trip.

“The President mentioned in his speech tonight sending a verification team to inspect military bases in the Commonwealth republics to check the destruction of nuclear weapons,” Russell said to Curtis. “How soon can we get a team together?”

“I can have one ready to brief by tomorrow afternoon,” Curtis replied. He then looked at his watch and smiled sheepishly: “I mean, later on this afternoon. I’ll need State to draw up diplomatic passports, travel visas for the individual republics, arrange security, get access privileges …”

“The Commonwealth promised they’d cooperate,” George Russell said. “I’ll get a briefing from you at… what? Three?”

Curtis nodded.

“I’ll brief the Old Man at three-thirty. How does that sound, Case?” asked Russell.

“Three-thirty’s no good,” the Chief of Staff said, checking the President’s itinerary on a small electronic notebook. “I can squeeze you in at three-fifteen or it’ll have to wait till five. The President’s meeting with the Congressional leadership on the inspection at four. It’ll have to be three-fifteen.”

“Squeeze me in, then,” Russell said. “I’ll need your briefing as soon as you can get it, Wilbur.”

General Curtis nodded. “I’ll need a rep from the DCI’s office in the meeting with the inspection team,” Curtis suggested. “Any idea who that will be?”

Russell gave some names of persons in the office of the Director of Central Intelligence who were experts on the disposition of nuclear weapons in what used to be known as the Soviet Union, which was now just an amalgamation of rival states and confederations. Curtis had his aide make the calls for him from Air Force One’s communications center.

“Speaking of the DCI,” Curtis said, “there was something I wanted to ask you about, George.”

“Shoot.”

“There was a project run not too long ago that I heard about that I wanted to get an update on.”

The National Security Advisor took a sip of coffee, put a napkin on his lap, and reached for a roll. “Can you be a bit more specific?”

“Sure.” Curtis affixed Russell with a cold stare: “REDTAIL HAWK.”

Russell was reaching for a sweet roll but stopped midway. His eyes returned Curtis’s glare with one just as cold, then shifted over to Chief of Staff Timmons, who saw the sudden exchange and needed no prompting — he murmured some contrived excuse and left the room along with the aides.

After the door to Air Force One’s living room was shut, George Russell said, “All right, Wilbur, who the hell told you about that?”

“Never mind. I found out. We always find out. Now, what’s the story, George?”

“I’ll find out who leaked that to you, Wilbur. And then I’ll roast their balls on a spit.”

Curtis shook his head. These guys were all alike. Everyone in the White House was on an ego trip, trying to be the top banana, all the while keeping the Pentagon, and most especially the Joint Chiefs of Staff, out of the loop. Typical. Wilbur Curtis, fourth-generation graduate of the Citadel, four-star General of the Air Force, swore if any of his own seven children ever went into politics he’d wring their neck.

Curtis looked straight at Russell. “Roast whomever you want, but do you or do you not have information on one of my troops being held in Vilnius, Lithuania, by the KGB?”

Russell ignored the question. Instead he peered out of one of the 747’s oval windows: darkness, but far below, the tiny, twinkling lights of an American city. Finally, he turned back to General Curtis, still shaken by the lack of internal security that was often apparent in the White House.

“This is a DCI matter, Wilbur, not your concern.”

Curtis tore off the end of a cigar, hunting for a match. “That’s bullshit and you know it. Do you know who this prisoner is? He was part of a very special, select operation, a man who risked everything to prevent World War Three!”

“I know who REDTAIL HAWK is, Wilbur, but how the hell do you know who he is? What does he have to do with the Joint Chiefs?”

“Didn’t you ever read the Old Dog file?” asked Curtis, chomping on his cigar. “Anyone ever tell you about that mission?”

Russell rolled his eyes, sipping now cold coffee. “I’ve never heard of this Old Dog or whatever you’re talking about, Wilbur. What I do know is we’ve got a former Air Force officer, a B-52 crew member at that, who Probably knows more about the Single Integrated Operations Plan and nuclear warfighting than I do. Now he’s over there, in a KGB-run facility, Posing as a Soviet scientist, helping a group of hard-liners build a stealth bomber. I didn’t send him there, you didn’t send him there, so he’s not Working for us. Which means he’s working for them, spilling his guts.”

Curtis jabbed out his cigar in a nearby ashtray, frustrated by the cut-and-dry attitude of politicians like Russell. There was never enough time — or interest — by the people sitting in the ever-changing seat of power in Washington to learn about the projects and details of the past. The Old Dog mission was only a few years old and already it was long forgotten by the very ones who should remember it. The flight of the Old Dog was a mission that had driven everyone involved in the episode into virtual isolation at HAWC. Not to mention the isolation David Luger had suffered behind the walls of Fisikous. Even if Luger was helping at the Institute, Curtis knew him as well as his own sons. Curtis was sure Luger’s cooperation wasn’t of his own volition.

“Look,” Curtis said, “I’m going to pull the Old Dog file for you, and you’ll have it when we arrive in Washington. Your eyes only.” He scribbled a note to his aide, then said, “Now tell me, what’s the status of REDTAIL HAWK?”

Curtis saw the slight hesitation, the aversion of the National Security Advisor’s eyes, and a sinking feeling came over him.

“I don’t know what his status is … at this point,” Russell said.

Curtis exploded, eyes ablaze: “You didn’t order a sanction, did you?”

Russell said nothing.

“Goddammit, you’re going to have him executed? Whatever happened to extraction? Especially for one of our own?”

Russell loosened his tie, wishing he could simply leave the room. But Curtis would follow him all over the damn plane. “Wilbur, the last briefing I had on this guy said he was an Air Force officer who’d died in a plane crash in Alaska on a training mission. When we did some checking, DIA found out there was no plane crash and no mission. Now the guy turns up in a Soviet aircraft-design facility and doesn’t show any obvious signs of duress. What were we supposed to think? How did I know it was some classified operation?”

“Let me guess,” Curtis interrupted. “You just happen to have a guy very close to REDTAIL HAWK, close enough to, say, poison him.”

Russell cleared his throat. “One of our Moscow section officers has an ex-KGB contact that still throws around a lot of weight,” he explained. “This contact helped us… uh… place an agent very close to REDTAIL HAWK. It’s verified. Wilbur — your ‘friend’ is a major player in this aircraft-design center. He’s advanced the state of the art in Soviet aircraft design by at least five years.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“It’s true.”

“No doubt on his identity?”

“Our agent got fingerprints, photos, shoe size, eye color, the works. No doubt at all.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Curtis said, still shaking his head in disgust. “You’ll find Luger’s a hero, a genuine hero, when you read the Old Dog file. He’s obviously been brainwashed and forced to work for the Soviets. We’ve got to pull him out of there.”

Russell’s eyes lit up in surprise. “Pull him out? How the hell am I supposed to get this guy out of one of the most top-secret and secure places in the Soviet — I mean, in Europe?” Russell asked. “If he was in a gulag or a prison, maybe. But he’s in the European version of Dreamland or China Lake. It would take a damned battalion to get him out!”

“Leave that to me, George,” Curtis said confidently. “You give me the details and I’ll show you how we can get him out. But tell your mole to watch Luger and keep us updated constantly on his position. For God’s sake, don’t kill him.”

“Fine,” Russell said. He picked up a roll, looked at it with distaste, then put it back on the tray. “That part of the game’s not in my blood anyway.”

“What about this bomber being built in Fisikous? Is this Tuman the stealth bomber the Soviets were supposedly working on before the empire crumbled?”

“I guess,” Russell replied absently. “The staff convinced me we should keep an eye on it, although I think it’s a lot of worrying over nothing. These Soviets holed up in Fisikous don’t have the money to produce carrots, let alone an intercontinental bomber. They’ve lost all their privileges under the new system. When the facility’s turned over to the Lithuanians, they’ll be out of work.”

“What if they get the money from somewhere else?”

“Who? Russia? They don’t have the money either. Poland? Bulgaria? The IRA…

“How about Iran? Iraq? Syria? Libya…

“I’m telling you, nothing’s going to happen. The plant will be closed, the production stopped, and the Lithuanians will put the stealth bomber on display or sell it to us for hard currency. The thing isn’t going anywhere,” Russell reiterated. “We’ve been monitoring things in Fisikous and all the other design bureaus, and they’re ghost towns. We can shut Fisikous down immediately if there’s any hint that the technology will be exported outside the CIS.”

“Then Luger’ll be killed,” Curtis pointed out. “They wouldn’t want it made public that they’ve been keeping an American military officer locked up in that place all these years.”

“Or maybe Luger will go with the scientists. Voluntarily.”

“We’ll pull him out immediately then,” Curtis said. “We can’t take a chance”

Russell thought it would be easier to kill the guy than to risk lives trying to rescue him, but he didn’t say it. In his present mood, Curtis would go ballistic “All right, Wilbur. If you’re gonna extract him, then work up a plan. But this guy is going to have a lot of explaining to do!”

“You didn’t seem too interested in hearing him tell his story a little While ago, George,” Curtis said.

“I can’t stomach traitors,” Russell said. “A career military guy, turning tricks for the other side — I can’t stand it. I’d plug the guy myself if I could. But if you still want him, if he means something to you, then we’ll sit on him until you cook up a plan. All right?”

“He means something to a lot of very important, highly placed people, believe me,” Curtis said. “Some of those people owe him their lives. I think you’ll find, when you read the Old Dog file, that the world probably owes him for helping bring down the Soviet Union itself.”

Central Belarus is very flat.

One hundred kilometers south of Minsk and four hundred kilometers east of Warsaw, its thick forests, vast empty plains, and marshlands extending for hundreds of thousands of acres are not a great challenge for low-level flying. But an hour into the flight, they were still nearly a thousand meters above ground, and Dave Luger was ready to tear his hair out. The boredom was making him think about how stiff and uncomfortable the instructor pilot’s seat — a metal bolt-in seat between the two cockpit officers’—really was. He was itching to see some action.

“Pilot, this is I-One,” Luger said over the aircraft interphone. “How about taking it down now?”

There was a pause; Luger was about to repeat his question, but just then the weapons-systems officer in the copilot seat, nicknamed “Strike,” replied, “We have high terrain at twenty kilometers, pilot. Recommend zero-point-eight K meters altitude.”

Like the B-2 Black Knight bomber, this aircraft used a pilot-trained navigator in the right seat to manage the navigation, weapons, and defensive systems; an engineering officer, located in a forward-facing ejection seat behind the weapons officer, monitored essential aircraft, flight, and engine systems.

“Copy. Zero point eight. Descending.” The aircraft descended the scant two hundred meters, and the autopilot came back on. Luger fell silent, biting his lip to keep from yawning into his oxygen mask.

Normally Luger wouldn’t have been so bored flying at night on a simulated low-level bombing mission, especially since he was in the flight engineer’s station of the incredible Fisikous-170 Tuman stealth bomber. But he was bored because the Soviet-trained pilots and engineers flew the thing like a couple of old women, which he really didn’t understand. Somewhere, deep within the far reaches of his mind, something tugged at him, telling him a flight like this could be so much more exciting…

Still, even the by-the-book pilots and engineers didn’t diminish Luger’s growing love for the Fi-170. With two hundred and eight thousand kilos of composites and muscles, nearly half of that fuel, Luger usually felt like he was king of the sky in the bomber. Externally, nothing compared to the deadly war machine. It was shaped like a giant manta ray, with thin, curved wings that rolled upwards away from the center, then gently downwards toward the rounded wingtips. The four engines were buried within the oblong body, with grilles screening both the inlets and exhausts to prevent radar energy from reflecting off the compressor blades and to cut down on heat emissions. A split aileron system replaced rudders, with the ailerons deflecting up or down depending on the desired degree of roll or pitch—Tuman had no vertical surfaces whatsoever that might reflect radar energy. Tuman had three long, spindly landing gear — it was not designed for rough-field operations — and two twenty-five-meter-diameter drag chutes for stopping itself after landing.

Although Tuman had been first designed in the early 1980s, its weapon fit was not finalized until just a few years ago, with the arrival to the design- and flight-test program of Dr. Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov — it was David Luger who almost singlehandedly decided and designed the weapons fit. Tuman was designed for very long-range strike missions against the United States and China, and also designed to be self-sufficient, with a minimum of support from other aircraft. Long-range bombers were inherently vulnerable to fighter and surface-to-air missile attack, so Luger designed Tuman to protect itself and still pack a significant offensive wallop.

No one, not even David Luger himself, realized that Dr. Ozerov developed that concept from an American bomber called the EB-52 Megafortress. Just as Viktor Gabovich of the KGB hoped, Luger had dredged up vital technical memories of his years in the United States Air Force and had applied his knowledge to a Soviet design — and the aircraft he remembered the most was the Old Dog. With the help of Viktor Gabovich’s extensive brainwashing and personality-reprogramming procedures, Luger had unconsciously duplicated the Old Dog’s weapons fit on the Tuman Fi-170, and in doing so made it a much more formidable aircraft.

Although it was a stealth aircraft, Tuman had three hardpoints on each Wing for external stores, the philosophy being that all external stores would be jettisoned, and its stealth characteristics restored, long before it got within hostile radar range. On its two outboard wing hardpoints, Tuman carried two 1,500-dekaliter fuel tanks, which had already been jettisoned (on this mission, both tanks were empty and fitted with parachutes so they could be recovered and reused). On each center hardpoint, Tuman carried four long-range AS-17 rocket-powered antiradar cruise missiles, developed at Fisikous and designed to destroy coastal early- warning and fighter-intercept radars before the bomber got within the enemy radar’s effective range. The AS-17, which had a range of nearly two hundred kilometers, used inertial guidance to get close to the radar; it would then activate a seeker that would home in on the radar emissions and destroy the radar. On each inboard hardpoint, Tuman carried four AA-9 radar-guided air-to-air missiles for long-range bomber self-defense.

Tuman had two bomb bays along its centerline, each four meters wide and seven meters long, capable of carrying nine thousand kilograms of ordnance each. It would eventually be adapted to carry every air-launched weapon in the Soviet inventory — or whoever’s inventory Tuman would eventually be in, although that was not a concern of the scientists at Fisikous. For this test-bombing mission, however, it carried four huge 500-kilo gravity bombs in the aft bomb bay and two AS-l 1 laser-guided missiles in the forward bomb bay.

Internally, Tuman was something of a throwback; it served to highlight the Soviets’ deficiencies in advanced electronics. Tuman did have an electronic flight-control system and fly-by-wire technology, but it was a relatively low-tech analog system instead of a high-speed digital suite. The navigation system was a simple Doppler flight computer, operated by “Strike” sitting in the copilot’s seat, with intermittent position and velocity updates provided by the Commonwealth of Independent States’ GLOSNASS satellite navigation system or by ground-mapping radar. The low-level navigation system was a standard ground-mapping radar, set into a cavernous nose bay that destroyed the plane’s nose-on stealth characteristics, with a terrain-avoidance system spliced on top of it, similar to the G-model B-52-it simply painted a profile view of the terrain ahead. It provided no inputs whatsoever to the flight-control system, nor would it keep a pilot from flying into the hills.

Although stealth aircraft usually did not require a terrain-following system, Luger was sure this system was not developed for Tuman simply because the pilots would not trust it, and that definitely seemed to be the case now. “Listen, Comrades,” Luger said in pidgin Russian over inter-phone, “flying around at eight hundred meters with the autopilot on is crazy for any strike aircraft unless you’re in the vicinity of significant antiaircraft artillery units that can get a lucky shot off at you. Take it down and let ‘er unwind, all right?”

“Our mission is to test the weapons-delivery systems,” the pilot replied testily, “not test our enemy-avoidance techniques. Besides, what do we have to fear from antiaircraft defenses? No radar can see us; and the Americans do not have significant air-defense weapons anyway.

“You don’t train for the best-case situation, you train for the worst.”

“Are you suggesting we break the weapon-delivery parameters, Doctor Ozerov?”

“You can re-establish the weapon-release parameters immediately before delivery,” Luger replied. “All other times you should be avoiding the enemy. Don’t give him an opportunity to see you.”

“The enemy cannot see us,” the crew engineer said. “Machulishche Airport, south of Minsk, is only ninety kilometers away, and the detection-energy threshold is almost too low to be measured. That is the most powerful radar in the western Commonwealth. We do not need to descend and expose ourselves to ground hazards.”

No use arguing with these guys, Luger thought. He checked his chart and the navigation displays on the right side of the cockpit and saw they still had almost one hundred kilometers to go until they reached the first missile-launch point. At only six hundred kilometers per hour, it would take another ten minutes to reach the IP. The assigned flight corridor, surveyed to avoid major towns and industrial areas, was twenty kilometers wide, which left them a lot of room to maneuver. “Push the airspeed up to seven hundred kph,” Luger said, “and let’s try some steep turns.”

“That is not in the test-flight itinerary.”

“No, but this is the twentieth test flight, the tenth low-level flight, and the fourth with weapons aboard,” Luger snapped, not mentioning that it was also his sixth flight and by far the most boring, “and we’ve done nothing but fly straight and level. Let’s crank this baby up.”

To the three Russian crew members, Ozerov had a peculiar and annoying habit of lapsing into English when excited. Words like “crank” and “unwind,” although they knew each word’s meaning, did not make sense a lot of times. They often wondered about Ozerov’s use of jargon, but they had the good sense not to ask — Ozerov was very close to the chief of security, General Gabovich. They also had the good sense not to deviate from the set program. Still …

… Perhaps Ozerov might get himself kicked off the program if he broke the rules. That would certainly make everyone’s life more bearable.

“You are qualified to fly in the right seat, Doctor,” the pilot said, smiling behind his oxygen mask. “If you would like to take command of this aircraft, you are most welcome.” The pilot said that for the benefit of the continually running cockpit voice recorder, which was carefully reviewed after each flight. If control of the aircraft was not positively transferred, blame for a mishap could be misplaced. Surely, the pilot thought, not even the unorthodox Ozerov would want to disrupt this test flight, only minutes from the first bomb run.

“Climb up to mm safe altitude and climb out of there, Strike,” Luger said. The pile had no choice — he directed the copilot to switch seats with Ozerov In less than a minute Ozerov was strapped in.

“All right, let’s not wait until the bomb run to run the weapon checklist,” he said. Without prompting from the pilot, Ozerov accomplished every step of the “Before Weapons Release” checklist, from memory, not missing a step — although no one but the ground crew examining the recordings would know after post-mission analysis, because the pilot, engineer, and instructor could hardly keep up. Ozerov had the pilot activate his switches when prompted. Minutes later the checklist was done. Ozerov used nonsensical little rhymes and ditties, mostly in English, to run the checklists: “Bomb-cursor-man, as fast as you can; aim-cursor-auto, don’t get into trouble … Turn-time-track-tweak-tune-trackbreakers-triple … checklist complete.

“Okay, we’re ready to go. I just need to hit the BOMB button, recheck switches, and we’re done. From now on we jink and jive until we reach the weapon-release point.”

The turnpoint at the bomb run initial point came, but Ozerov did not turn. “Turnpoint five kilometers ago, Strike…”

“Too early,” Ozerov said. “The autopilot only turns at fifteen degrees bank. The turn radius is too large — we wake too many bad guys up that way. Tight turns IP inbound.” He grabbed the throttles in the middle of the center console and pushed them all the way up to military thrust. “And we go balls-to-the-wall, too — none of this ten-klicks-per-minute shit.” Ozerov waited until nearly ten kilometers past the turnpoint, then threw the huge bomber into a 40-degree bank turn to the right. As the plane went into its steep turn, its supercritical wings lost lift, and the aircraft edged downwards. But that was exactly what Ozerov had in mind. As he rolled out on the new heading, he leveled off only one hundred meters above ground.

“High terrain, one o’clock, twelve kilometers,” Ozerov reported. “Now, terrain calls mean something.” Both Soviet pilots were frantically scanning outside the cockpit windscreen, trying to spot terrain, buildings, transmission towers, tall antennae — why, Ozerov couldn’t figure, since it was pitch-black outside…

Well, not totally dark. Just then they caught a glimpse of a few trucks in a convoy rolling down a highway — the M7, the main east-west high-way running between Baranovichi, the town of Slutsk, and the city of Bobruysk. Their track crossed the M7 at a steep angle. Unconsciously, Ozerov altered course so he was flying right down the highway, heading west, and dipped the bomber to only eighty meters above the ground. The headlights of the trucks heading east were getting brighter and brighter- it seemed they were close enough to see their occupants …

“You are at eighty meters altitude, Ozerov,” the pilot warned nervously, placing his objection on the cockpit voice recorder. “And you are heading right for those trucks.”

“No, I’m at least a hundred meters north of the highway,” Ozerov said. Well, maybe not that far, but what’s a few dozen meters between friends? “Let’s give those sleepy truck drivers something to remember.” Ozerov glanced around the cockpit. The pilot’s eyes were riveted outside the cockpit again, but the copilot turned and nodded his approval at Ozerov. He was getting a real kick out of this!

Just like IR-300…

The thought came in a flash, unbidden.

Yes, this looks a lot like IR -300, a low-level training route that snaked through Oregon, northern California, and terminated near Wilder, Idaho. Part of the route was only five miles away from a major interstate highway going toward Boise, and although the highway was outside the four-mile corridor on IR training routes, some crews liked to sneak over, drop down to very low altitude, and put the fear of God into a few truckers. IR -300 was ‘an often-used training route for bomber crews out of Ford Air Force…

“Ozerov? You are drifting toward the edge of the corridor.”

Ozerov restored a little altitude and made a tight 30-degree bank turn toward the first target area. “Sorry. I was thinking … about the next bomb run.”

“Did you see that truck swerve off the road?” the copilot asked gleefully, forgetting about the cockpit voice recorder. “He’ll have to switch drivers so he can change his pants!”

“Search radar, two o’clock,” the engineer reported. “Nesvizh tracking station. No lock-on at this altitude. We should activate our beacon if he is to track us.”

“Activate it at one-twenty TG,” Ozerov said. “That is optimum tracking range. I want data on how successful they are at acquiring us.”

“Emitter activated, eleven o’clock,” the engineer called out. Fisikous engineers had placed a series of simulated enemy radar emitters at various places along their route of flight to test the crew’s ability to react to a threat and destroy it before Tuman was tracked or attacked.

The pilot put his hands on his control wheel. “I’ve got the airp—”

“No. I’ll keep it,” Ozerov said firmly. He switched his weapon system from gravity bombs to the AS-17 pylons. “Antiradar missile enabled. Make the attack call to Nesvizh and activate our beacon.” The electronic-warfare system would automatically load target-bearing information and emitter frequency into the AS-17 missile. Ozerov descended slightly, now down to fifty meters.

“We are at fifty meters, Ozerov!” the pilot protested. Ozerov’s momentary lapse had him worried, although he seemed perfectly normal. “This 15 insanity! We are less than a wingspan above the ground!”

The momentary displacement of space and time that Ozerov felt a few moments earlier was gone. He was on the bomb run now, under attack, and nothing else mattered. “Just check my switches, activate backup-data recorders, and stand by for missile launch.” Ozerov hit the BOMB button, which activated the missile-launch sequence, selected and powered up a missile, spun up the gyros, unlocked the pylon, dumped the inertial flight data, and accomplished a motor continuity test. As that was happening, he pulled back on the stick and climbed to the minimum release altitude of two hundred meters, reaching altitude just as the countdown ran to zero. “Missile launch, ready, ready … now.”

With a sudden bang! and a brilliant plume of fire, an AS-17 missile leaped from the right-side pylon and screamed off into the darkness. Ozerov immediately banked right — the AS-17 would be turning left toward the target — and descended. Simultaneously, he switched the weapon system from MISSILE to GRAVITY. “I’ve got gravity weapons selected, target called up. Check my switches. You’ve got the airplane-I’m going into the radarscope.”

The bomb run itself was a piece of cake — the target had a radar reflector on it, and each offset aimpoint was a solitary building that any idiot could find with a half-decent radar. Ozerov checked each offset- any discrepancy in the crosshairs between offsets was a sign of velocity or heading error, but the system was running very well. There were no errors to zero out. “Target acquired. Radar bomb release, crew. We are running fully synchronous, all computers fully operational, with a drift rate of less than six meters per hour at the update.”

“What it means,” the copilot said with a chuckle, “is that Tuman is flying tighter than that virgin the Captain’s been seeing.”

They were only a few seconds to release …

Ozerov’s head flew away from the radarscope so hard the back of his head hit against the ejection seat’s headrest. No one noticed his eyes-but they were wide, darting with sheer terror and confusion. “Holy shit… shit … where the hell am I?” he said in English. “Where am I …

“Ozerov, what’s wrong with you…

“Doors coming open,” the engineer reported. “Stand by for release..

It was just like the GIANT VOICE Bomb Competition bomb run, Luger thought. The Strategic Training Range Complex, somewhere over Montana-Powder River, or Havre, it all seemed like centuries ago. He and McLanahan were on the last bomb run, dropping simulated SRAM missiles and blivets — concrete shapes made to look like real bombs. Everything was perfect, perfect. The computers were running hot, the crew was relaxed— the pilot, Houser, was still his Mr. Perfection self and the copilot, “Double-M” Mark Martin, never said much, but Patrick McLanahan, the radar navigator/bombardier, Sergeant Brake, the gunner, and Mike Hawthorne, the electronic-warfare officer, were set to kill and excited as hell. They were on their way to another Fairchild Trophy, their second in a row.

It was all coming back to him …

Luger counted three seconds to himself and pressed the ACQUIRE button on the SRAM computer. Three seconds after bomb release, at their altitude and airspeed, should put them right over the target — if McLanahan had hit the target.

To Luger’s immense surprise, the green ACCEPT light illuminated on the SRAM panel.

“It took the fix,” Luger said, his voice incredulous.

“We nailed ‘em, guys, McLanahan shouted.

“Sure, sure,” Luger said McLanahan was carrying the act a little too far.

“Tone!” The high-pitched radio tone came on.

Luger flipped the AUTOMATIC LAUNCH switch down.

“Missile counting down … doors are already open … missile away. Missile two counting down… missile two away. All missiles away. Doors coming closed.

“Missile away, missile away,” Martin called to the bomb-scoring site.

“Very good, boys,” McLanahan said, finally opening his eyes.

What was all this? Luger wondered. He was in a cockpit, surrounded by men in strange helmets and flight suits. Where am I? What am I doing here?

Luger started to undo his shoulder harness and seat belt, frantically trying to get out of the copilot’s seat. “I gotta get out of here,” he muttered in English, wondering if he was in a bad dream. “Who are you guys?”

“Ozerov! Sit down!” the pilot screamed in Russian. Luger heard the words, but they sounded so loud and so foreign he winced. He ripped off his oxygen mask and helmet. As he rose, his body leaned against the control stick, and the Fisikous- 170 dipped earthward — one fifty, one hundred, fifty, twenty…

“Pull up!” the engineer shouted. “My God, pull up!”

“Get off the stick!” the pilot shouted. “We’re going to crash!”

The copilot dragged Luger down against the center console and leaned across him, grabbing for the control wheel. He and the pilot finally got the nose up as Tuman passed ten meters — barely thirty feet above ground. They heard a loud explosion and a tremendous rumble through the aircraft. The pilot had to lower the nose to prevent a stall as the bomber Careened through two thousand meters with barely enough airspeed to keep flying.

“Hydraulic leak on the left flaperon,” the engineer cried out. “Going to stand by on the number-two hydraulic system. Looks like we took some blast damage from those bombs.”

Luger had half-crawled, half-fallen over the center console and was flow in the narrow walkway behind the pilot’s station, lying on the floor beside the engineer.

The noise was deafening.

Luger put his hands to his ears and pressed, trying to drown out not just the sounds from outside, but the pain and confusion inside. What in the hell was going on?

He wanted to scream.

General Anton Osipovich Voshchanka replaced the telephone handset on its cradle, staring straight ahead at the wall in disbelief. His chief of ground forces, Colonel Oleg Pavlovich Gurlo, knocked and entered the office a few moments later. “Excuse me, sir, but I require — sir, is something wrong?”

“Orders … orders from Minsk,” Voshchanka said. “I have been relieved of command.”

“What…?”

“It’s true,” Voshchanka said in despair. “That Lithuanian ass Palcikas complained to his president, who brought the matter of our … urn, investigation of the helicopter crash to the Commonwealth Council of Ministers. The Council of Ministers ordered that I be relieved of command of Commonwealth forces in the Baltic states.”

“They cannot do that!” Colonel Gurlo gasped.

“There’s more,” Voshchanka said. “The Defense Ministry of Belarus is opening an investigation into whether we were authorized to release weapons and overfly Lithuanian airspace in chasing down that Lithuanian traitor. They are upset at the loss of the helicopter and the crew.”

“As are we!” Gurlo retorted. “They should be investigating where that other attack aircraft came from, not persecuting you for the loss!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Voshchanka said wearily. “I’m to return to Minsk to sit before a review board.” He looked at Gurlo with pained, almost destitute eyes. “Oleg, I could lose my rank! I could lose everything! A dismissal before a review board could ruin me. No one goes before a review board without suffering.”

Colonel Gurlo was thunderstruck — he was watching his commanding officer, his mentor, almost reduced to tears by the Lithuanians. “What can we do, sir? Who else but you is qualified to take command of your deployed forces? Everything will unravel.”

“That was the third part of the message,” Voshchanka said. “As part of the conference held between Lithuania and the Commonwealth, the.Commonwealth Council of Ministers is ordering all Commonwealth forces out of Lithuania and back to Belarus. A civilian liaison group will be established in Lithuania to oversee treaty verification and transitional procedures. Our forces in Kalinin are to be removed as well — until ‘other’ Commonwealth forces can replace them. You know what this means?”

“These ‘other’ Commonwealth forces — the Russians?”

“Exactly,” Voshchanka said. “A detachment from Latvia and one from St. Petersburg will arrive within two to three weeks to set up patrols in the port city and along the highways. Belarus forces will not take part except during annual exercises.”

“It’s happening.” Gurlo sighed. “Just like General Gabovich said— everything is falling apart, sir. We’re going to lose all that we—”

“Shut up,” Voshchanka said, rising from his chair to pace the room. “Just be quiet. I have to think. “The room was silent for a few moments when the telephone interrupted. “I don’t want to talk to anyone,” Voshchanka said as Gurlo picked up the receiver.

Colonel Gurlo listened for a few moments, then said to the caller, “Hold on.” Voshchanka turned to admonish Gurlo for disobeying his orders, but Gurlo said quickly, “It’s General Gabovich, calling from Vilnius on the secure line. He says he knows about your orders and he is repeating his offer to help.”

“Gabovich? How in the—?” But Voshchanka fell silent. Yes, Gabovich certainly did have his spy network intact — he knew about the orders at the same time as Voshchanka himself, perhaps even earlier. He picked up the phone: “This is General Voshchanka.”

“Dobraye Outrah, General Voshchanka. I am truly sorry to hear of the Commonwealth minister’s decision. It must have been quite a shock.”

“How in hell did you find out about that?” But it was no use asking, Voshchanka thought, so he skipped waiting for an answer. “What do you want?”

“The moment is at hand, General,” Gabovich said. “History waits for no man.”

“What are you talking about?” Voshchanka grumbled.

“The future, dear General. Your future. We are talking about whether you will meekly accept condemnation and ridicule from Moscow and from Minsk, or if you will stand up and take the lead in forming a new union and protecting the old way of government. Now is the time to decide”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“In ten days, General, there will be a major antinuclear demonstration at Denerokin” Gabovich said. “These demonstrations have become more violent and more dangerous every time. The security of the entire Fisikous Research Center is at risk. The protection of Fisikous and the security of Commonwealth personnel and property within is your responsibility.”

“No longer.”

“You must convince the Commonwealth Council of Ministers of the danger,” Gabovich said. “You think air support and troops will be needed to keep the peace. You are concerned about installations all over Lithuania being attacked by rioters. The rioters, led by Anna Kulikauskas and supported by Palcikas, of the Lithuanian Self-Defense Force, and foreign terrorists hired by imperialist plotters from Iceland, Poland, England, and the United States, are increasingly well armed and will stop at nothing.”

“No one will believe that,” Voshchanka said. “The protesters are peace freaks. They are nothing more than flower children.”

“You believe they will forcibly storm and attack Fisikous with bombs and poison gas. You have arrested several suspects in connection with the downing of your helicopter. They say that the anti-Commonwealth terrorists have sophisticated weapons such as Stinger missiles and chemical grenades.

An attack on Fisikous during an antinuclear demonstration? That would be the perfect opportunity, Voshchanka thought. “Will other installations be affected? Can this be a widespread terrorist movement?”

“Our influence outside Fisikous is minimal,” Gabovich said, “but I think other military and Commonwealth facilities can be affected.”

“The Commonwealth’s response will be swift,” Voshchanka said. “What of the … special weapons we discussed? Can those be made available to me immediately?”

“They are ready,” Gabovich said. “My principals want to see what sort of commitment you have to this endeavor, but they are ready to give you all the firepower you need to hold off the Commonwealth and the imperialists.”

Voshchanka’s head was swimming. Could this be the time? Could he trust Gabovich to come through? He tried one more test. “I will need one more thing,” Voshchanka said. “The commanders of the Russian regiments in Kalinin oblast are not under my authority — they are not happy with the new Commonwealth, but they owe me no loyalty. They can be subdued easier with money than by force. I will need money to get those commanders to lay down their arms.”

“That was not in the bargain.”

“History waits, my dear General,” Voshchanka said. “I will need at least one million American dollars for—”

“That is ridiculous,” Gabovich retorted. “You are looking to set yourself up as some rich Brazilian arms dealer.”

“One million dollars,” Voshchanka said, “or the deal is off and you can take your chances with the Commonwealth.”

There was a lengthy pause on the other end; then a frustrated Gabovich said, “I will have one million Swedish kroner delivered to you after the Denerokin demonstration. Another million kroner will be delivered to you when the country is secured. My principals will extend another two million kroner in credits for weapons over a two-year period after that point. That is my final offer.”

“Done,” Voshchanka said. “I will see you in Fisikous in ten days — or I will see you in hell.” He hung up the phone.

Gabovich was crafty — Voshchanka had considered precisely that option: grabbing all the cash he could lay his hands on and fleeing to a hacienda in Brazil — but he was also for real. Four million kroner over two years was excellent wages, even after he used half of it to pay off the Russian warlords in Kalinin and the Commonwealth’s military bureaucrats in Belarus. All he had to do was organize his forces and convince the government — by force if necessary, although it should not be needed — to keep him in power until after the upcoming demonstrations at Fisikous’s nuclear power facility.

Well, if this was entrapment by the Commonwealth, it no longer mattered — Voshchanka’s career was at an end no matter which way things went. He turned to Gurlo and asked, “How long would it take to get the senior regimental commanders in here or on a conference-call line?”

Gurlo was stunned, but he replied, “Ten minutes, I think.”

“Get them together. I want every available field commander and senior staff officer and NCO in here or on the conference call. The question of our involvement in Lithuania and in the Commonwealth must be called—right now.”

George Russell, the President’s National Security Advisor, thumbed through the small stack of brown cardboard file folders marked USAF UNIT PERSONNEL RECORD, INDIV., the standard military-personnel file jacket. The jackets had been pulled from the Department of the Air Force’s copy of military personnel records kept in its seemingly endless storage vaults at Randolph AFB. It was odd to be holding such an antiquated thing in this day and age. With computers invading every other aspect of life, especially in the high-tech, remote-controlled, kill-from-a-distance military, the Air Force still relied on these old sheaves of paper in their very low-tech prong clips to function. Russell himself was only in his late forties — typical of the younger, liberal new administration — and had been weaned on the incredible potential of the computer. Why the military had not converted over was another one of the aggravating mysteries he had to deal with.

The first place Russell had looked on each jacket was the sign-out space where the folders had been requested lately, and the list on each of the four jackets was impressive indeed — half the Pentagon had already seen these jackets, as had some of Russell’s subordinates, including the Central Intelligence Agency, the Defense Intelligence Agency, and other intelligence and service support agencies. Each of the persons represented by these folders had passed some of the most rigorous scrutiny the government could undertake. Well, the career military people had screened them — now it was time for the politicians to do it.

Russell flipped through the folders, stopping briefly at the 8-by-10 black-and-white photo in each. There were four Air Force officers. The highest-ranking one was Air Force Lieutenant General Bradley Elliott, known throughout the National Command Authority as a brilliant but sometimes rambunctious and certainly unorthodox troubleshooter.

Elliott’s file was impressive. Trained as an aircraft mechanic but rose quickly through the ranks to command positions and was offered a commission through Operation BOOTSTRAP in 1960. Elliott attended pilot training at Williams AFB, Arizona, and continued through B-52 training. He did two tours of Vietnam, where he was awarded two Distinguished Flying Crosses, three Air Medals, and two Purple Hearts. He then returned to the States and attended Air War College, had several command positions at SAC, went to the National War College, and now headed up the very classified High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center.

“What is General Elliott up to these days?” Russell asked the general officer in the office with him. “Still practicing for the big one?”

“Still commanding HAWC,” Joint Chiefs Chairman Wilbur Curtis replied. “The White House seems to prefer Brad Elliott to — how should I say this—”

“—to stay out of sight and out of mind,” Russell said. “And no wonder. Elliott’s a loose cannon. We’re not trying to start World War Three, just trying to get into one facility and get out. Quietly. We can do without him, Wilbur.”

“That might be the inclination, but Elliott’s facility in Nevada is a lot like Fisikous in Lithuania,” Curtis reminded the National Security Advisor. “If you were going to plan on breaking into such a facility, better to bring along someone who has built one. He’s also got an array of aircraft and weapons we might use. After all, Elliott was the one who validated the designs of the weapon systems now used in the MADCAP MAGICIAN program, among others.”

Russell shook his head. “If the President sees Elliott’s name on the tasking order, he’ll have a coronary.”

“We can sell the President on Elliott and his people,” Curtis said. “You want someone who knows the target, who has the weapons, and who is completely covert and completely deniable — Brad Elliott and his troops are the ones for the job. Look what they did on Old Dog.”

Russell was unimpressed, but he decided to delay his final decision for the moment.

Russell didn’t recognize the other three faces in the folders. One was a brigadier general with command pilot’s wings, named Ormack, the second one a Lieutenant Colonel McLanahan with command navigator’s wings, and the last a captain Hal Briggs, wearing senior Army Airborne wings, an Air Force security police badge with command star, and, of all things, a U.S. Army Ranger tab. Only one out of a hundred men in the armed forces was selected for the Army Ranger school, Russell knew, and only six out of every ten of those men completed the course and wore the coveted Ranger tab — it was doubly surprising to see an Air Force man wearing it, let alone an officer. The star atop the Airborne wings meant that he had retained his parachutist’s rating for at least six consecutive years. “What about this Briggs?” Russell asked. “An Air Force guy wearing Army insignia?”

“Volunteered for Ranger school after completing the Air Force combat-air-controller’s course,” Curtis continued. “Briggs could have played tight end on any pro-football team in the country — probably still could— but he’s chief of security and Brad Elliott’s aide-de-camp at HAWC. Nothing in the regs specifically prohibiting him from wearing Army insignia. On him, they fit. Believe me. He was picked not only because he knows the target, but he’s a very highly trained and skilled commando type himself.”

“He can wear Mickey Mouse ears for all I care,” Russell said irritably, “as long as he does his job.” The military was truly another world to Russell, one that he would never understand — a huge, hulking machine that didn’t come with an instruction manual or documentation. Having to interface between the civilian and military worlds was turning out to be a very unenviable part of his job. But there was one thing he was learning about the American military machine that had been built in the past fifteen years — no matter what the politicians decided should be done, the military could devise a way to do it.

“Tell me about these other guys,” Russell said distractedly as he thumbed through the other jackets. “What about McLanahan?”

“Probably the key to the whole operation,” Curtis said, lighting a Cigar. “Tough, intelligent, dedicated, and still the best bombardier in the Country He was Luger’s partner on the Old Dog mission — he brought the plane back after the other two pilots were hurt. Early forties, pretty good shape — with a little training at Camp Lejeune or Quantico, he’ll be able to keep up with the Special Ops guys, as will Briggs.”

“Any engineering or scientific training?”

“Very little, all informal,” Curtis replied, “but he’s one of the best pure-systems operators in the Air Force, and he’s got a good eye for weapons systems.” Curtis motioned to the last jacket sitting on the National Security Advisor’s desk. “General John Ormack is the man you want to go in and extract the data on the Soviet Fi-170 stealth bomber. He was the Old Dog crew copilot, but he was also the Megafortress’s chief designer. Late forties. Racquetball freak — Air Force champ two years in a row now. He’s both a Ph.D. in aeronautical engineering and a command pilot — with help, he should be able to go along with the assault team without hindering them. Out of all the Old Dog crew members, these are the best suited for this mission.”

The Old Dog crew. Russell’s mind wandered to the day he opened that classified file, several hours after getting off Air Force One with Curtis, and read the details of the B-52 mission that undoubtedly spelled the beginning of the end of the Cold War and the USSR. Russell was just a grade-school kid during the Cuban Missile Crisis, so he knew virtually nothing about “finger on the red button” tensions, but from what he read, the world had stepped right up to the brink that day. A lone B-52, nicknamed the Old Dog, had flown thousands of miles and had run an incredible gauntlet of Soviet air defenses to destroy a Soviet ground-based laser site in Siberia that had been shooting down American satellites and aircraft.

The mission was a success, and the ripples of shock, surprise, and fear that shot back and forth between Washington and Moscow could be felt all over the world, even though Old Dog was classified at the highest possible level. Although the episode was often presented as a breakdown in diplomacy, an abuse of power by the President of the United States, and a circumvention of the normal military chain of command, Old Dog set the stage for a successful U.S. military strategy and doctrine — hit hard, hit swiftly, hit stealthily, hit with the best you’ve got — for years to come.

Now Curtis wanted to bring back members of the same crew for the extraction of Luger.

“General, everyone you’ve picked on this mission was part of the other one,” Russell said, an exasperated sigh in his voice. “This really isn’t the time for a class reunion.”

“And this isn’t the time for making jokes, George.”

“I don’t make jokes,” Russell said with an even voice. “I do, however, think that you’re injecting a little personal bias in this. After all, you were heavily involved in the mission that eventually led to Luger being caught. You sure this isn’t a bit of guilt drifting into the planning?”

“You asked for recommendations with specific objectives and problems,” Curtis replied. “You wanted engineers to study the Soviet stealth bomber and be able to pick up the right documents, you wanted someone close to Luger, and you wanted them all in a hurry. Well, I got them for you. Whatever other motivations there may be, real or imagined, I have fulfilled your selection criteria. Now you can reject the candidates and I can have the J-staff come up with a new list of names, or I can instruct Special Operations Command to come up with their own team members. Now tell me what you want, George.”

Russell considered all that was said; then, with a resigned nod, said, “All right. Let’s go meet ‘em.”

Russell, Curtis, and their aides left the office, down past the President’s second-floor office, and to the elevator which took them to the second underground floor. After checking in with the Secret Service agent’s desk, they walked down a long corridor to the White House Situation Room, a large conference room with a sophisticated adjoining communications center.

The room was crowded with attendees, who all stood as Russell and Curtis entered the room and took their seats.

Among those assembled that Russell knew were the Commandant of the Marine Corps, General Vance K. Kundert, a medium-height, powerful-looking man in his mid-fifties, with the de rigueur “high and tight” haircut; Army General Mark V. Teller, the tall, silver-haired, athletic commander of the U.S. Special Operations Command, with a similar short haircut like Kundert’s; and Kenneth Mitchell, the Director of Central Intelligence, with one of his Defense Intelligence Agency deputy chiefs.

Russell recognized Elliott, McLanahan, Ormack, and Briggs from the personnel records he had just reviewed. The others assembled were officers and aides who would conduct the more detailed briefing afterward. Russell didn’t know them and probably never would, but he did know they did the lion’s share of the work.

“Let’s get started,” Russell said brusquely as he took his seat. “General Curtis, please start.”

“The following information is classified top secret, not releasable to foreign nationals, sensitive sources involved,” Curtis began immediately. “Recently, a secret noncombatant personnel-extraction mission was conducted by a joint Air Force and Marine Corps special ops unit in the Republic of Lithuania. This unit brought back information from the Fisikous Institute of Technology in Vilnius on a Soviet aircraft that, after analysis, we believe is their latest strategic bomber, an intercontinental stealth bomber.

“The Pentagon would like to propose a covert infiltration of this Fisikous Institute to gather more data on the bomber.”

Russell watched their reactions.

Kundert was unemotional — his men had already had a starring role in gathering the data; they would certainly be the prime movers in the next stage. McLanahan and Briggs, both just in from Elliott’s High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center in Nevada, leaned a bit closer, their eyes alert, their faces sporting mischievous grins, hoping they would be a part of whatever operation developed. Ormack, the deputy commander of HAWC, also had anticipation written all over him. Russell remembered the file on Ormack. Like Elliott, another wild card.

And then the National Security Advisor looked at Lieutenant General Bradley Elliott only to find Elliott staring right at him. Elliott’s look was one that could kill. Eyes burning with accusation.

Russell unconsciously swallowed, then sighed, realizing Elliott knew about Luger being at Fisikous. Shit. Of all the people he didn’t need on his back… Would Curtis have told Elliott? He dismissed the thought. Curtis wouldn’t have lasted a day as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs if he had. No, Elliott found out another way, but how?

“Excuse me, sir,” Captain Hal Briggs said, raising his hand. “Why us? Why not just send in the CIA or use HUMINT resources?”

Curtis’s eyes darted to Russell, who gave a slight nod to proceed. Chomping on his cigar, he said, “We’ve got a lot of resources planned for use, but you don’t need to know about them. Nevertheless, there is another reason we’re sending this particular team in.” Curtis took a deep drag on the cigar and placed it in a nearby ashtray. “For some time now there’s been a Western engineer at Fisikous, possibly working with the Fisikous design team. The, uh, engineer is ex-U.S. military. Ex-Air Force, in fact…

Elliott couldn’t stand it any longer.

He was on his feet, staring directly at Russell, who’d been staring at him. “You sonsofbitches! You’ve known for four months that he’s been there and you didn’t do diddly about it. Now we’re finally getting around to an extraction mission? This is criminal!”

Confusion swept over the room. Everyone began talking at once, their voices echoing off the walls of the Situation Room, hitting Elliott with a barrage of questions. Ormack had risen, trying to calm Elliott down. “Brad, go easy, now. What’s going on…?”

Curtis was banging his ashtray on the table, trying to restore order.

“Tell them, Mr. National Security Advisor,” Elliott snapped. “Tell ‘err! who’s over there.”

“Take your seat, General, or I’ll see to it that you’re out permanently!” Russell ordered. “I don’t know how you found out, but if you blabbed this it could kill your friend and ruin this whole operation. Now sit down!”

Elliott all but spat in disgust as he complied, but he did return to his chair.

Now all eyes were on Russell, who was furious with Elliott for setting him up like this. I’ll be lucky to get out of here alive, he thought wearily.

“Who’s General Elliott talking about?” Lieutenant Colonel McLanahan asked Russell with concern. “Who’s been at Fisikous for five months?”

Russell noticed that this blond-haired, blue-eyed bomber jock got right to the point — and didn’t even add a “sir” when addressing a Cabinet member. Half the time, general officers wouldn’t speak up at all at these meetings, but that certainly wasn’t this colonel’s problem. Elliott’s influence, no doubt.

Curtis cleared his throat, having decided to pull Russell’s ass out of the sling. He looked straight at McLanahan, but addressed the entire room: “Well, he’s been there longer than five months, but it’s… David Luger.”

“What?” McLanahan asked incredulously. “Luger?”

Everyone in the room leaned forward. Voices started coming at Curtis and Russell all at once.

“Are you sure?”

“Thought he’d died …”

“Must be a mistake …”

“Some kinda joke …”

“Bad intelligence …”

Russell, who had just about had enough, said, “Shut up, gentlemen, or I’ll clear this room.”

Curtis took a long drag off his cigar. “We believe Luger has undergone extensive psychological and personality alteration at the hands of the KGB, or ex-KGB. Luger goes by the name of Doctor Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov, a Russian scientist. The contact we’ve got in place says Luger has been undergoing this KGB indoctrination training at Fisikous for some time.”

“What kind of indoctrination training?” asked McLanahan. “The KGB disbanded—”

Curtis looked at him as if he should have known better. “Right. Anyway, he’s in poor physical condition, which is consistent with the use of depressive drugs and physical torture. To make matters worse, he’s been reported to have mood swings and discombobulation, which means they’ve been working overtime on his, uh, modification.”

“So what’s the deal?” McLanahan interrupted. “A prisoner exchange? are you getting him out?”

“That hasn’t been decided yet,” Curtis replied uneasily. “If we acknowledge to the Soviets that we know about Luger, it’s possible Luger and the stealth bomber will disappear.”

“Well, you can’t just leave him in there,” McLanahan said emphatically. “The guy saved our lives. This country makes trades all the time— for the biggest sleazebuckets in the world — certainly you’re going to get an American airman, a hero at that.”

“Interesting you should bring that up, Colonel,” CIA director Mitchell interjected. “Deputy Director Markwright here has been doing an extensive investigation into the Old Dog incident.”

“What kind of investigation?” General John Ormack interjected.

Markwright turned to Ormack. “The DIA had closed the investigation on Old Dog and declared Luger legally dead, according to your testimony as commander of the aircraft and the last person to see Luger alive. His reappearance has reopened that investigation and introduced a number of allegations.”

“Such as?”

“Such as why, after operating for months in total secrecy, did the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center in Nevada suddenly come under attack only days after Lieutenant Luger was assigned to it?”

“What are you talking about?” Ormack demanded. “We’d been threatening to send a strike mission for days, and there was four hundred percent more activity at Dreamland after the Soviets knocked out our satellites than before. All other military bases had virtually ceased flying activity and put their birds on alert, ready to go if the balloon went up — all bases except HAWC. If the Soviets wanted to hit a base with a terrorist attack, Dreamland was the logical place.”

“No, the logical place would have been Ellsworth, the home base for the B-1s scheduled to perform the strike against the Kavaznya laser site,” Markwright argued. “The B-52 test-bed aircraft was never considered for the mission — yet it came under direct attack by Soviet-trained terrorists.”

“Well, why wouldn’t the informant have told the Soviets to attack Ellsworth?”

“Because Luger… I mean, the informant, didn’t know that the B-1s would come out of Ellsworth,” Markwright said. “He did know that your team was developing weapons, hardware, and tactics for B-1 and other strike aircraft, and he did know that there were B-1 bombers at Dreamland that were being loaded with the data being used on the test-bed B-52—he could have assumed that the aircraft to be used on the actual strike were the B-1s already at Dreamland, not at some other operational unit. The B-1s from Dreamland departed from there, went to Ellsworth to pick up their strike crews, then staged from there — but Luger thought they were going to strike from Dreamland — so he could have ordered the attack on Dreamland.”

“That’s crazy!” Ormack raged, furious at the implications. “You’ve been reading too many Tom Clancy novels.”

McLanahan was nodding in agreement, trying to contain his anger. “We didn’t know anything about an actual strike. We were told we were doing tests.”

“Oh, come on, Colonel,” Markwright said. “It would have been easy enough to deduce that your activities were related to real-world events— the entire Kavaznya incident and the state of East-West tensions were in the news for months. HAWC’s mission is to produce mission-ready aircraft.”

“But we didn’t know that.”

“You may not have been told that, but a lot of people in the military know what goes on at Dreamland. Don’t be so naive.”

“And don’t you tell me what I think or what I know,” McLanahan shot back angrily. “Our job was to fly the modified B-52, do what we were told, and keep our mouths shut. That’s what we did.”

“I’m making hypotheses based on your own testimony, Colonel,” Markwright said, “not putting words in your mouth.” He turned to Ormack. “General, think about your testimony on Luger’s performance on the flight: the overly pessimistic fuel reports, the missed radar terrain calls, his attempts to continually force you to fly higher altitudes so you’d be detected.”

“That’s crazy!” Ormack repeated. “He did no such thing.”

“He was doing his job,” McLanahan said, running an exasperated hand through his blond hair. “Navigators are trained to err on the side of safety and prudence. Besides, Luger didn’t make the decisions, he just reported information.”

“Information that was consistently wrong, and always erring on the side of danger or turning the sortie back,” Markwright said. “Colonel McLanahan, you even testified that Luger seemed hesitant to release the weapon on the Kavaznya facility, and that he suggested that the plane be crashed into the facility.”

“We were under attack by a goddammed advanced laser, “McLanahan said. “Our equipment was faulted or destroyed. We didn’t know if the weapon we had would work.”

“Is crashing your aircraft into a target an approved method for ensuring mission success, Colonel?” Markwright asked skeptically.

No, but—”

“Then why would Luger suggest such a thing? Why would he risk your lives on an idea that had no merit?”

“Our assignment was to destroy the laser site. Period. Crashing the bomber into the site would’ve done that.”

“And then, once you survived the attack,” Markwright pressed, ignoring McLanahan’s arguments, “Luger suggests that you land at a Soviet airfield.”

“It was a crew decision,” Elliott said. “Luger guided us by radar and provided the data.”

“And when you land at Anadyr, Luger leaves the aircraft and escapes into the hands of the Soviets.”

McLanahan felt his face growing warmer. He was beginning to get pissed. Really pissed. Keeping his temper under control was something this eldest son of Irish immigrants usually didn’t have to work at. McLanahan’s strength had always been his understated ability to keep things under control. But this asshole wasn’t a part of Old Dog and didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about.

“He distracted the Soviet militiamen long enough for us to get away,” McLanahan said angrily. “He sacrificed his life to save us.”

“He didn’t sacrifice anything,” Markwright said dismissively. “He’s still alive, living under an assumed name — and working to design Soviet stealth bombers.”

“Bullshit!” McLanahan hissed. “You don’t know what happened— you weren’t there! You people never are. You shuffle papers and stay out of the line of fire, only to do postmortems with reports twisted to fit the circumstances. You said it yourself: Luger’s been drugged or brainwashed into cooperating.”

“The informant saw no evidence that Luger was being brainwashed, tortured, or drugged,” Markwright said calmly. “General Curtis’s independent analysis, based on the reports from the informant, suggest the possible use of drugs, but it could also be due to fatigue or stress due to overwork. In fact, the informant said that Ozerov enjoyed a certain notoriety, a wide circle of friends and colleagues, and many perquisites commensurate with a high Soviet official.”

“Who the hell are you going to believe?” McLanahan said. “Us, or this informant?”

Ormack pointed his finger at Markwright. “We’re telling you that David Luger sacrificed himself to save us. If he survived, it’s up to us to get him out.”

Markwright saw that he was clearly outnumbered and outshouted, so he stopped, took an exasperated breath, and looked at Central Intelligence Director Mitchell, who said, “My recommendation to Mr. Russell and the Joint Chiefs of Staff is that we attempt a covert extraction mission to get Luger and to recover as many photographs or documents of the bomber as possible.”

“What do you mean, ‘get him’?” McLanahan asked. “You mean rescue him?”

Markwright did not answer. Mitchell hesitated.

McLanahan exploded: “What the hell do you plan on doing? You’ve got to bring him back. At least then you’ll be able to answer the questions you have about his loyalties.”

“We understand, Colonel,” Russell said. “Yes, we’re going to bring Luger back. Director Mitchell will put assets in place to monitor Luger’s whereabouts and even make contact if possible. We’ll open discreet channels into the Soviet government to see if an exchange can be made, but that may be too risky. When the time’s right, we’ll assemble a personnel-extraction team and go in and exfiltrate him. If they can take him, they will. If they can’t take him safely—”

“We’ll plan it so we can get the information and Luger,” Elliott said firmly.

“You’re not in charge here, General Elliott,” Russell reminded him. Russell remembered all too well the stories of Elliott taking his high-tech toys out of the desert and flying them all over the globe. The last thing he wanted was a man like Elliott operating outside strict civilian control. Jesus… what a nightmare that would be. “General Lockhart of European Command will be in overall command, with General Teller as air-operations commander and General Kundert as ground-and-naval-operations commander. I want no free-lancing or wild-ass theatrics on this one, General Elliott. We do this by the book, we get our people out, and we get the hell out of Lithuania. Period.”

It was going to be a strange combination, Elliott thought as he nodded in assent to the National Security Advisor. General Lockhart, one of the “old guard” Army commanders and a good friend of Elliott’s, was the right man to be in charge of this mission. He was strong, no-nonsense, a classic three-dimensional strategist. Teller and Kundert working together were the wild cards. For some strange reason, Marine Corps special-operations-capable assets were never placed under the jurisdiction of the newly formed U.S. Special Operations Command. Although General Teller, as commander of all Army, Navy, and Air Force special operations forces, had worldwide authority for this kind of mission, Kundert’s Marines were usually the first to react and usually the best to send. Choosing between the two was as much a political struggle as an operational decision. The White House was uncomfortable enough with the military without having two competing forces vying for his attention.

Trouble was, the Joint Chiefs of Staff these days had become a political Organism not a true union of military commanders — even Curtis, who Was as much an old crew-dog as he was in the early years of the Air Force, had become more of a mouthpiece of the White House’s wishes than a true strategist and representative of the armed services. Curtis, who was on his second wife and seventh child, was savvy enough to have survived, unscathed, a change in administrations. He was now so respected on the Hill and at the Pentagon that the White House couldn’t deep-six him even if they wanted to. The Joint Chiefs still had considerable power and influence, but they were all basically Presidential cheerleaders. Joining the Marines and Special Operations Command on this mission clearly smacked of politics, of the President straddling the fence to keep the services happy.

Peace had turned the Joint Chiefs of Staff into uniformed politicians, and that was what Luger was being forced to bet his life on. Well, Elliott told himself, not if he could help it.

“I realize I’m not in charge,” Elliott finally said to Russell. “But I’ve got aircraft and weapons you might consider for this extraction. They’re designed for maximum stealth for the penetration, and they can be launched from—”

“Thank you, General Elliott,” General Teller interrupted, “but we can handle it from now on. All we need from you is your staff officers here. They’ll go into training with the MEU and Delta Force team members so they can keep up with the infiltration team. Colonel McLanahan’s and Captain Briggs’ job is to help escort the target out of the facility and assist General Ormack; General Ormack, you’ll examine the laboratory where the target is working and procure any important documents you may find in connection with the Fi-170 project. It’ll be quick, hard, silent, and surprising.”

Elliott fell silent. It sounded like a good basic plan: go in, find Luger, toss a few desks and safes, and get out. Several special ops teams from all branches of the service practiced this type of mission almost every day. But Elliott thought it seemed too easy — way too easy…

“You three will fly to Camp Lejeune and report to the commanding general of the Marine Corps Special Operations Training Group,” Kundert said. “We’ll give you a physical, a fitness test, then send you off to join the 26th MEU in Norway when you have completed the fitness test and demonstrated that you can keep up with my Marines. The MEU will complete your evaluation and report back to me on whether or not you are qualified to go on this mission.

Kundert looked the three men over. His eyes showed muted appreciation for Briggs, then a bit of amusement as he looked at Ormack and McLanahan. “I hope you’ve been keeping yourselves in shape, ladies,” he said, “because by this time tomorrow morning you’ll experience a Marine Corps confidence course that’ll chew you up and spit you out if you’re not ready. If you can’t cut the course by the end of the week, or can’t handle an assault rifle, you’re out. Colonel Kline will not risk the safety of his men for any out-of-shape Air Force officers. My aide’ll issue you your orders.” He turned to George Russell and General Teller. He was finished with these outsiders.

“You can go,” Russell said. “General Elliott, nice to finally meet you. We’ll keep you briefed on the progress of the mission.” Elliott shook hands cordially enough with all, then departed with the rest of his officers.

Outside the Situation Room, the four HAWC officers headed for the elevator that would take them upstairs to the West Wing’s ground level. A couple of Secret Service agents fell in step beside them as escorts.

McLanahan looked numb but elated by the revelations that he’d just heard in the meeting. “After all this time… Luger’s still alive. We’d all written him off. And now… now, it’s just amazing.”

Elliott shook his head as they stepped into the elevator and rode up. Although the Secret Service had clearances of their own, the subject was still too highly classified even for them to hear. Besides, reporters and White House staffers were flitting in and out all around the offices of the West Wing.

When they were inside the Pentagon car ordered for them and heading out the White House gates, they began to talk.

General Ormack turned to Elliott. “Who would’ve thought — Luger in Lithuania? Unbelievable. Now tell us about that little outburst you had with the NSA. Did you really know in advance that it was Luger?”

“Yeah, but I can’t tell you how,” Elliott said. “Someone knew he was there and got upset when several months had gone by and nothing had been done to pull him out. Even after going through the right channels. This person told me, then I told Curtis. The General took it from there.”

“Well, thank God he did.” Briggs grinned. “Man, I can’t wait to see Luger. Think of the party we’ll throw for that sonofabitch!”

Elliott darted him a stern glance.

“Sorry, sir… uh, naturally he’ll have to be debriefed. Then probably hospitalized until they clean him up and detox him. But after that..

“Just think of it,” McLanahan said excitedly. “We get Luger back, plus the latest info on the Soviets’ stealth bomber. All in one trip. It’s like Christmas!”

Murmurs of agreement went around, with the exception of Brad Elliott, who remained silent.

“Problem, sir?” Ormack asked.

Elliott made a “no-big-deal” gesture and stared out the window. It was almost springtime in Washington, normally one of the more beautiful seasons to be in the nation’s capital. But today the skies were heavily overcast, and a light, steady drizzle covered the lighted streets, the cars. A day that should have been spectacular was depressing and gray. Elliott Wondered if it wasn’t a portent of things to come. He turned to Ormack. “I guess I’m just not comfortable with handing over my troops without HAWC or myself in on the mission. Especially with Dave involved. It Seems we ought to be the ones who get him. We have the hardware, the skills…”

“Not for an opposed personnel-extraction, we don’t,” Briggs said. “We could train for it, but it would take us too long to get ready. The Marines and Delta Force train for contingencies like this all the time.”

“And we already developed the CV-22 for them,” Ormack added. ‘That’s a significant contribution.”

“You don’t have to soothe my ego, John,” Elliott said, a hint of impatience in his voice. “HAWC is a support group, not a combat outfit. I’m used to taking a backseat in important operations.”

“So why the silent routine?”

“No reason,” Elliott said. “I know you guys’ll kick ass with these Marines.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” McLanahan said. “Run twenty kilometers with a pack? I run twenty kilometers a week, at the most, and the heaviest thing I carry is a Walkman.”

“I told you months ago, Patrick,” Briggs teased, “that you gotta lay off the leaded Coke and run with me at lunchtime instead of taking your girl out to the O-Club all the time. Looks like I’m going to have to carry you now.”

“Carry me? In your dreams!”

Elliott half-listened to them, his mind returning to the operation. He knew the Marines’ and Army’s plan to rescue Luger was going to be well coordinated and executed with precision and speed — the most critical decisions of every special ops mission were made in the planning sessions — but he was still uncomfortable with the operation. Why? He didn’t know. But he wasn’t going to leave the success or failure to get Luger out to Special Operations alone. No, he was going to do a lot of mission planning of his own, bringing to bear every last resource under his command.

If their rescue mission somehow failed, he’d be ready with one of his own.

Ever since the Lithuanian Self-Defense Force (LSDF) was reactivated, their headquarters had been Trakai Castle, eighteen miles outside Vilnius. Located on an island on sparkling Lake Galve, Trakai was the first capital city of Lithuania, established in the early 13th century. The castle itself had been the official residence of the Grand Duke’s family from the end of the 14th century until the monarchy was dissolved by the Bolsheviks in 1918. Still a museum and monument to the medieval Lithuanian state, Trakai also served as the ceremonial hall and conference center.

Anna Kulikauskas, with her father, parked their Volvo sedan in the parking lot and then walked across the well-lit wooden bridge across Lake Galve to the castle. Two armed guards-armed not with medieval swords, but with AK-47 rifles with bayonets affixed-checked their identification and the letter of authorization, and another guard led them across the drawbridge into the ancient castle.

The castle had been beautifully restored, and served as a tourist attraction as well as a historical monument and a military headquarters. Inside the outer castle wall was a large courtyard surrounded by shops where artisans practiced silversmithing, woodworking, ironworking, and other crafts in the medieval fashion, and small stores and restaurants that catered to castle tourists. Those shops were all closed. The guard led the two civilians down a long wooden boardwalk and across another drawbridge, across a wide moat and through a two-meter-thick wall to the main ten-story castle residence.

The courtyard of the castle residence was much smaller than the main courtyard. Oil lanterns illuminated the entire area, and guards in medieval costumes stood at attention in the doorways. Wooden stairs led up to each floor, and stone stairs to the left led down to the storage areas, jails, and armory. “I wonder if this castle could stand against modern-day invaders?” Anna asked.

“This castle fared none too well in its own day,” her father replied in a whisper, as if raising his voice in that cathedral-like setting would be sacrilegious. “The castle was used only in times of peace. King Gediminas built the Tower in Vilnius as his main residence because Trakai was harder to defend in times of war.”

“I’ll bet the king didn’t have one of those,” Anna said, pointing toward the sky. Highlighted against a beautiful backdrop of stars on that chilly night was a revolving radar array. “They certainly have done some remodeling.”

“Modern problems call for modern solutions,” a voice said behind them. General Dominikas Palcikas walked over and greeted his guests. He was dressed in what appeared to be a red cassock, a simple cotton robe belted at the waist by a black sash. It was hard to see when he wore baggy fatigues, but now Anna could see how well-defined the man was — he had a broad, deep chest, a thick neck, and powerful arms. “Actually, we take the radar down at daybreak — it spoils the look of the castle for the tourists and we use it only at night, for training, or in case of national emergency”

“Expecting trouble tonight, General?” Anna asked.

“Since the incident with the Byelorussian helicopter, we’ve been on guard twenty-four hours a day,” Palcikas said. “I always expect trouble. But tonight we won’t talk of trouble. This is a night for celebration. Come this way and we’ll view the candidates.”

Palcikas led them up two flights of thick wooden stairs. As they climbed, Anna said, “You look like a priest tonight, General.”

“As a matter of fact I’m an ordained deacon in the Roman Catholic church,” Palcikas explained. “I have been for ten years, since returning from Afghanistan. I can perform all rites and administer the sacraments.”

“And must you remain celibate as well?”

Palcikas laughed. “No, I’m not a priest. My actual duties in the Church are limited to what you’ll see tonight.” He turned toward her as they reached the third floor of the castle, smiled mischievously, and said to her in a low voice, “But thank you for asking, Miss Kulikauskas.”

They emerged onto a long balcony overlooking the castle residence’s chapel, and saw what was for Anna and her father an astonishing sight. In the glare of lanterns and torches, twelve men were dressed in rough black robes, lying facedown before the altar, their arms outstretched beside them, their legs together, forming the shape of a cross with their bodies. Four guards dressed in full, polished-chrome knight’s armor and carrying long-handled axes surrounded them.

“What in God’s name is this?” Anna whispered.

Palcikas smiled and turned to Anna’s father. “Perhaps you can explain it to your daughter, Mr. Kulikauskas?”

The old man beamed with pride at the request and said, “My dear, you are watching the initiation of those twelve men into knighthood.”

“Knighthood? As in medieval times?”

“Not just medieval times, Anna,” Palcikas said. “I have continued the tradition of the training and the ritual of acceptance. Any man or woman can join my units, and any person can become an officer; but only certain qualified candidates can carry or wear the Vytis, the war banner of the Grand Dukes of Lithuania. These men have completed two years of training to be able to do so.”

“Those men have been like that for a full day and a full night,” the old man said. Palcikas nodded — the old man did indeed know his history. “They are deep in prayer, reciting the codes of knighthood, allowed only one cup of water an hour, and asking for the strength to carry out the responsibilities of a knight.” He pointed to a soldier who had just entered the chapel. “Watch this, Anna. This might amuse you.”

The newcomer, an officer in one of Palcikas’s units, dressed in full-dress uniform, genuflected at the foot of the altar, made the sign of the cross, then reported in to one of the guards surrounding the twelve candidates. The guard saluted. The officer returned it and then walked over to a small prayer bench. He knelt, prayed for a few moments, then picked up a long, black leather whip from the bench.

Anna gasped. “What—”

The officer walked to the front of the altar, genuflected once again, turned toward the twelve candidates lying before him, and said in a loud voice, “May the blessings of God and Jesus Christ be upon you. Glory to God and peace be upon our land.”

In unison, the twelve candidates chanted aloud, “Glory to God and peace be upon our land.”

The officer cried out, “Who present claims to be worthy of receiving the Cross and the Sword?”

“We do, the humble squires before you,” came the response. At that, all twelve candidates reached back and pulled down the tops of their robes, exposing their bare backs, then resumed their original position. Anna’s mouth dropped open; her father’s eyes gleamed in wonder.

The officer walked to the first candidate and said, “Squire, what is your wish?”

The candidate replied in a loud voice, “Sire, I wish the discipline so that I might prove myself worthy to receive the power.”

At that, the officer raised the whip and brought it down, hard, on the candidate’s back. The crack of the whip against bare flesh echoed loudly throughout the chapel. The officer moved to the next candidate, repeated the same words, and the whip cracked again. After every crack, all the candidates chanted loudly, “Lord, grant me the power.”

“How dare”—Anna gasped—”that’s a real whip! He beat that man!”

“It’s the ordeal, Anna,” the old man said, a surprised and pleased smile on his face. “The candidates will receive one hundred lashes from the other knights in the twenty-four hours they are lying before the altar.”

“How barbaric! How humiliating… degrading…”

“It’s the old way, Anna,” Mikhaus Kulikauskas said proudly. “A candidate who truly doesn’t want to make the sacrifice will not stand for it. It’s a test of loyalty, of commitment. King Gediminas was performing this very same ritual in Lithuania — probably in this very same chapel— over seven hundred years ago.”

“But why? Beating them like animals?”

“Because soldiers back then were tough, far tougher than men today,” the old man replied. “An eighteen-year-old squire in the fourteenth century could run for many kilometers in a full suit of iron armor — very little lightweight steel around back then. He could wield an eight-kilogram pig-iron sword in one hand all day without tiring. They were all but oblivious to cold, snow, or even pain. These men didn’t break easily. Physical torture was ineffective — but full, complete obeisance, as a dog is to his master, was effective.”

Dominikas Palcikas could see Anna wince every time the crack of the whip split the air, and he could see her eyes first round with terror, then narrow as if she were feeling the sting of the whip herself, so he took her arm and led her off the balcony. She allowed herself to be led through a modern-looking conference room and into an office a short distance away. He led her to a dark-black leather chair in front of his desk, then went to a nearby bar in a corner of the room and poured two small snifters of brandy. She took it but did not drink from it.

“That … that was one of the stupidest, most asinine, cruelest things I have ever seen in my life,” she huffed. “Grown men being beaten like animals.”

“We make it up to them afterward,” Palcikas said idly. “During the Mass, the other knights bathe the candidates and dress them in clean white robes. Before they make the Oath, they are dressed in suits of armor.”

“You really tap their shoulders with a sword and all that stuff?” Anna asked condescendingly.

“The Grand Dukes never tapped shoulders — I believe that’s a British custom,” Palcikas replied seriously. “I anoint their foreheads with oil. Then they place one hand on the Bible and another on the Lithuanian Sword of State, which is kept here at Trakai, and recite the Oath of Acceptance from memory. After Mass, the other knights treat them to a big feast in the Great Hall. As master of ceremonies, I pour them their first goblet of wine at supper.”

“The whole thing seems perverse… ridiculous, if nothing else,” Anna said. “I mean, this is the twentieth century!”

“I’ve got over a hundred men — including eighteen women, by the way — in training right now, and I’ve got over five hundred on the waiting list,” Palcikas said. “They don’t get paid extra, they don’t get a title, and they don’t get any special privileges. They wear a funny red patch on their uniform, and their coffin gets draped by a red Vytis when they’re buried. We do it because it’s a way to prove their loyalty and dedication to the country they live in and the cause they believe in.”

“Prove to whom? You? Or the government?”

“Themselves — only themselves,” Palcikas replied. “I don’t require it, and I don’t use appointment for or against anyone. But it seems we have so few things in this country that we can really believe in, and this gives citizens an opportunity to express their beliefs and desires. A belief is just a wish unless you can relate to it emotionally. The ritual gives these men a way to experience the significance of what they do on a historical, and emotional, level. Some can trace their ancestors who took the ritual; others want to be the first in their line, or to continue the tradition, since so many men’s families were exterminated by the Russians and the Nazis during the Great Patriotic War. Whatever the reason, it helps them relate to their job — protecting their homeland.”

“Some would call it a pagan ritual,” Anna pointed out. “They’ll point to Adolf Hitler’s Nazi Youth, the SS’s branding rituals, or the Ku Klux Klan’s cross-burnings.”

“Or a wedding ceremony? Or a swearing-in of a new member of Parliament? I think we all have our pagan rituals.” He paused, watching the brandy swirling in his glass, then added, “Like protesters carrying fake coffins and wearing orange bedsheets like irradiated bodies in protest marches.”

“So you’ve heard about our march at the Fisikous Research Institute coming up next week.”

“Ah, yes… the Denerokin nuclear-power plant. You could have given me a bit more warning, Miss Kulikauskas,” Palcikas said. “It takes time to set up a proper security team and to notify all the proper officials.”

“We don’t need permission or security to march in our own country,” Anna said defiantly. “We can march anytime and anywhere we choose.”

“But not inside the Denerokin gates,” Palcikas noted. “The facility is still guarded by Commonwealth troops. Legally, they still own the facility, the nuclear-power plant, everything, until 1995. They don’t have to let you inside.”

“Then we’ll stay outside the gate,” Anna said boldly, “but we’re going to stage the rally. Why do they still have that reactor operating? It doesn’t produce power for Lithuania. Are they still conducting experiments in there?”

“What they do in the Fisikous Research Institute is Commonwealth business until 1995,” Palcikas said. “The Denerokin reactor inside Fisikous is to be shut down by the end of this year. That’s in the treaty.”

“It was a bad treaty shoved down our government’s throat by the United Nations, without one U.N. official ever setting foot in Lithuania,” Kulikauskas declared irritably. “They gave permission for the Commonwealth to poison Lithuania and kill another couple thousand citizens.”

“I agree with you, Anna,” Palcikas said. “I wanted Denerokin shut down at the same time you got the Ignalina plant near Siauliai shut down. But it didn’t happen. Now I must obey the law and do as I’m told.”

“That makes you a good little soldier, then,” Kulikauskas said. “Keep your mouth shut and do as you’re ordered — while thousands of Lithuanians die from contaminated water, contaminated air, contaminated beef.”

“As a Lithuanian soldier, I can’t do more than the law allows,” Palcikas insisted. “As a lawmaker yourself, you know that.” She gave him an exasperated glare — Anna was a representative in the hundred-person Lithuanian Parliament. She knew he was right.

“But as a soldier I can tell you this, Anna: the situation is very, very dangerous right now. The Byelorussian and Commonwealth armies are all over the countryside, and I can’t contain all of them. They harass our Citizens every day; there are daily treaty violations; and their numbers are increasing, not decreasing. Fisikous itself seems to have more Byelorussian troops inside than ever, along with those ex-OMON troops still stationed there.

“Anna, I’m trying to build a case to present to the government for the United Nations that shows all the treaty violations and calls for stricter compliance or even direct U.N. supervision, but my case isn’t strong enough yet. Until then it’s better not to fan the flames by marching on Fisikous. That’s their last major facility in Lithuania, and it’s still an active installation. If they see it threatened, they may react violently.”

“We have a right to peaceful protest in this country,” Kulikauskas insisted.

“I don’t dispute that, but I also don’t see a reason to twist the tiger’s tail. What I’m asking is this: keep your protesters all on the northeast side of the facility, near the Denerokin gate — don’t try to mass along the south gates, because security there is not as strong and the troops might get anxious and do something stupid.”

“They had better not do something stupid!”

“Stupid — and deadly — things happen all the time, Anna — I’m just trying to avoid some of them. Keep the bulk of your protesters across the street in the railroad-yard parking lot — you can set up your speaker’s platform and podium there — and have no more than one hundred persons near the Denerokin gate. I will station my troops between the gate and the protesters. My troops will be no closer than fifty meters to the gate. You can block traffic on the Denerokin road, erect signs, hang anyone you want in effigy — just don’t go near the gate or the fence. If we can agree to all these provisions, I can take them to the director of plant security in Fisikous and give him a heads-up as to what will happen. As long as everyone stays involved, I think everything will be okay. Agreed?”

Anna paused for a long moment. The thought of restrictions on any peaceful protester’s movement was irritating, but safety was important and Palcikas obviously knew what he was doing.

“All right, General,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’ll present it to the rally committee, but I think you can count on their support.” He rose from his chair and took her hand in his. “It’s nice to be working with you.

“And with you,” Anna replied.

Dominikas rolled up a sleeve of his cassock and looked at his watch. “Mass starts in twenty minutes. I’ll escort you and your father to your seats, and then I’ve got to get ready.” He motioned to a standing suit of armor in a corner of the office — it was the largest suit of armor Anna had ever seen, obviously “tailored” to fit Palcikas. “It takes a long time to put on all that damned armor, you know.”

“Time to come to Jesus, Colonel.”

Colonel Paul White rose from his bed to find an armed Air Force security policeman, a security police officer, and Lieutenant General Brad Elliott standing in the doorway of White’s room. Since being arrested several days earlier, White had been staying in the small transient officers’ quarters at Dreamland — not quite under house arrest, but his movements were carefully monitored and regulated nonetheless. Not that it mattered much — there wasn’t anyplace to go within a hundred miles of that small desert base.

“I was surprised that it took you this long to come get me,” White said. “I’ve been staying dressed until late, and dress very early, for days now. Just to be sure you’re not inconvenienced when you come to take me on a tour of your facility.”

“Tour … my … facility?” Elliott muttered in disbelief. Elliott motioned for the guards to wait outside, then closed the door behind him. White stayed where he was, sitting on the edge of his bed. Elliott stepped toward White and lowered his voice: “You think you’re funny, Colonel?” Elliott said. “Do you see anyone laughing? Let me assure you, this is not a joke: You are here only because the Department of Justice and the Pentagon asked me to keep an eye on you until they can present formal charges of treason and divulging classified information.”

“So I’m out?”

“Your discharge papers will be on the DCI’s desk by seven A.M., and signed by the Secretary of the Air Force shortly thereafter. You’ll be a civilian by seven-fifteen. By eight o’clock you’ll be in front of a judge who will put you in prison without bail on conspiracy charges that will rival the Walker spy ring. Your trial will be sometime in the future. I’m here to place you under arrest, advise you of your Constitutional rights and your rights under the Uniform Code of Military Justice, and transfer you to the detention center to await transfer to Department of Justice agents.”

“Well, I was afraid of all that,” White said simply. He clapped his hands on his lap, took a deep breath, then looked back at Elliott and asked, “So, General, how did you lose your leg?”

Elliott looked at the ceiling in abject amazement. “Colonel, you don’t Seem very upset at the fact that you could be spending the rest of your life in prison.”

“When are they going in to get Luger?”

“None of your goddamned business.”

“Then it’s on,” White said with a Cheshire grin when he saw the scarcely hidden exasperation in Elliott’s face. “Great. I was afraid the CIA might have put a contract out on David or something crazy like that.” When he saw Elliott’s face grimace, he added, “Jesus — they did put a contract out on him! That means we got to him in time! Thank God…”

“I said, that’s enough. Now shut up, White,” Elliott said angrily. Elliott read White his Miranda rights and his UCMJ rights from a card; then he stepped over to White, leaning closer to him, and asked, “Tell me about MADCAP MAGICIAN.”

“I knew it!” White enthused. “We are going after Luger!”

“What …

“Let me guess,” White said energetically. “You met with the Director of Central Intelligence, maybe even with the National Security Advisor or even the President himself. They were going to bump off Luger but you talked them out of it. Now they say they’re going to rescue Luger and maybe try to grab Tuman, the Soviet stealth bomber, along the way. Except you don’t believe them. You think if the going gets tough they’ll turn tail and leave Luger to his fate — i.e., kill him. They’ll protect themselves and maintain the cover story above all else. I agree — that’s what I’d do.”

Despite his irritation, Elliott was starting to warm to this guy’s bizarre, disjointed way of thinking. He said, “White, can’t you stop talking just for a minute?”

“MADCAP MAGICIAN, General, is just what you need,” White said excitedly. “What I’ve got, General, is a ship that looks like a cargo vessel but carries two CV-22 tilt-rotor aircraft, fully equipped for low-level assault and rescue, and I can carry another big helicopter like a CH-53 Jolly Green or H-60 Blackhawk up on deck. I can cruise anywhere in the Baltic — I’m fully documented, fully manifested, and rarely boarded because of my Civil Naval Reserve Fleet designation. I’ve got Marines and ISA agents that are as tough as anyone the Soviets or the CIA have.

“What I don’t have is air support. I can get my choppers over Lithuania, but I need tankers to refuel the helicopters and air- and ground-defense support if the bad guys show up. You must have—”

“That’s enough. Keep your mouth closed from now until I see you again or you’ll regret it.” The warning in Elliott’s voice was clear; White did not doubt it for a moment. He wiped the grin off his face immediately. Elliott opened the door and admitted the security guards. “Lieutenant, Colonel White is formally under arrest. Take him to the van,” he ordered. “I’ll meet up with you later.” With a grim face, the security officer pulled White to his feet and turned him around. White automatically put his hands behind his back, and the other guard wrapped plastic handcuffs on his wrists and led him to the door and into a waiting van.

The van drove through the early-morning darkness for what seemed like hours but was only about ten minutes. Te terrain outside the darkened windows of the security police van was desolate, interrupted only occasionally by a traffic sign or stretch of strong, reinforced fencing. It reminded White of his two-hour-long drive from Nellis Air Force Base near Las Vegas to Dreamland — miles and miles of nothingness.

They finally stopped at a guard shack, and the guard went inside and had his identification checked — a rigorous check for an officer assigned to the base, White thought. A guard came by and shined a flashlight in White’s face, studied him for a moment, noted that he was handcuffed, checked the face against a photo on a clipboard, then went away. After the I.D. check and an inspection of the van by bomb dogs and mirrors, the van continued on for several long minutes through pitch-black territory. Clouds obscured the sky, so White had no sense of direction.

After a long ride on both paved and unpaved roads, the van stopped several meters away from a large, featureless building. The van door was opened and White was led outside to a steel-sheathed door. The security officer punched a combination into a CypherLock next to the door, and the other guard pulled it open when he heard the door buzz.

“We go through one at a time,” the officer told White. “Walk straight ahead to the second door. Do not stop. I’ll be watching you.” He went in. A few minutes later the door buzzed again, and the guard opened it and let White pass inside.

The room inside was dark green and the floor felt spongy, as if it were made of rubber instead of concrete. An illuminated sign and an electroluminescent line on the floor told him where to walk. As he moved through the room, the temperature suddenly jumped, and he felt flushed and uncomfortable for several brief moments. Was he getting nervous? What was going on? He always knew that HAWC would have some pretty tight security, but a rubber room inside the security facility?

The door on the other end opened just as White got there. The security officer was waiting. He led him into an adjacent office, where his identification was checked once again.

“Tell me about the pins in your foot, sir,” a security guard asked.

“The pins in my…?” White hesitated. Both security officers looked at him, waiting for a response. White noticed their impatience and quickly replied, “I stepped on an unexploded mine. Village of Bun Loc, Vietnam. Tet offensive. July, nineteen sixty-eight. The pins were put in at a hospital in Saigon.”

The guards were reading from a computer screen at the same time that White related his story — obviously a hookup to the personnel records at Defense or the National Security Agency. “How many pins?” he asked.

“Four.”

“What is your mother’s maiden name?”

The sudden shift in topics momentarily confused White, but he was accustomed to such questions — rapid changes in topic was a standard interrogation technique. A mole or impostor relying on rote memorization could not recall facts fast enough to look believable during such quick changes. “I don’t know my natural mother’s maiden name; I was adopted. My adoptive mother’s maiden name was Lewis.” Suddenly White broke into a slight grin. “Hey… was that an X-ray chamber? I’ve heard of those things! You check for implants, microdots, miniature transmitters, that kind of stuff, right?”

“Very good, colonel,” Lieutenant General Brad Elliott said, appearing from the outer hallway. “I think you passed. The Intelligence Support Agency verifies that you’re for real. Take the cuffs off.” The security officer cut off the handcuffs. Elliott led White down a darkened hallway in which small displays resembling memorials were highlighted by a single small spotlight.

“Pretty snazzy security you got here, General,” White said. “Even better than ISA. We only have—” White passed a large aircraft-control wheel that looked like it was from a B-52. He wanted to stop and read the inscription on a plaque underneath it, but Elliott kept on walking ahead, so White stepped quickly to catch up. “As I was saying, we use a broadcast interferometer to detect implants and transmitters. I suppose you—”

White passed a glassed-in display case in the hallway, and this time he stopped. A single spotlight overhead illuminated a standard Air Force- issue heavyweight Nomex flying jacket, displayed upright in the case. The olive-drab jacket was nearly completely covered with dark splotches, and the normally light-green quilted lining was stained nearly black. “Uh, General, what’s—?” White’s eyes were drawn to the glossy-black vinyl name tag on the jacket…

… the name tag, with silver navigator’s and jump wings on it, said simply: LUGER.

“Yes, that’s his,” Elliott said. He had come back to stand beside White. “The blood is mine. He passed it up to the officer that was treating my wounds, just before he left the plane. David knew he wasn’t going to need it.” Elliott motioned across the hallway. “I made this hallway a sort of shrine to the crew, and to the mission we flew.” He pointed at the control wheel. “That’s the control wheel from the Old Dog, the B-52 we flew to take out Kavaznya. We gave it to Patrick after the mission, but of course he couldn’t keep it or take it anywhere.”

“Patrick? McLanahan? He’s here? He’s all right?”

“He’s all right, but he’s not here,” Elliott said. “He’s with the Marines that have gone to try to rescue David from Lithuania. Thanks to you, we got that chance.”

White smiled. What a great time he’d had with McLanahan and Luger at Ford Air Force Base, putting them both through the loops of his B-52 Ejection and Egress Trainer. What a time those two had had. White had almost felt sorry for them, especially when they’d had to do a manual bailout. But they’d come out of the session with flying colors, even with all the tricks White had tossed at them, and McLanahan and Luger ended up being a great team.

“You know, I always figured McLanahan and Luger were together, and that they were mixed up in something like this,” White said. “I’d heard the rumors about the Kavaznya laser, that it wasn’t really a nuclear accident, that in reality the United States bombed the thing. I only half-believed it anyway, and the government wasn’t giving out details, so everyone just dropped it.”

“The National Security Advisor didn’t know about any of this until a few days ago.”

“Amazing. Well, that certainly restores my faith in our appointed government officials.” White looked at Elliott, then glanced down the hallway to the door they had not yet taken. “Can you tell me about the Old Dog? Can you tell me about the mission….?”

“Are you serious about helping me?” Elliott asked. “I need to know, right now, without any bullshit and without any nonsense.”

“First I need to know if I’m right,” White said. “Could the person in the photo really be Luger? If the mission you flew was against the Kavaznya site, how could David have gotten to Lithuania?”

“That part I don’t know,” Elliott said. “But yes, we did fly the bombing mission against Kavaznya. Patrick; David; my deputy, John Ormack; and some civilian engineers that were under contract by HAWC — Angelina Pereira and Wendy Tork.”

“Pereira? Tork? Christ, those are the biggest names in electrical engineering in the country,” White said. “Campos was another one. Pereira’s associate, I believe. He disappeared right around the same time.”

“Campos was with us. He was killed before the mission began.”

“My God…” White sighed. “Everyone thought there was this black hole that just sucked in the world’s best scientists one night. Who would’ve guessed they were all in on the Kavaznya ‘accident’?”

“The mission was a success,” Elliott explained, turning and looking at the displays on the wall one by one. “Somehow… we made it out of there alive. We started the operation with damaged wings on our bomber. We faked a crash off the coast of Seattle to hide our whereabouts. We had to threaten an Air Force colonel with death to get an aerial refueling. The Soviet defenses were a nightmare come true — wave after wave of fighters, SAM sites popping up in front of us, terrain all around us. Then we were attacked by the laser itself. I still tremble at night, thinking about the energy they unleashed on us.”

“What happened to David Luger?”

“We had no choice,” Elliott explained. “We landed at a Soviet fighter base in Siberia.”

“You what…?”

Elliott motioned to another display. “Here’s David’s bastardized flight plan and fuel calculations — we launched with no flight plans, no proper charts, not even oxygen masks and helmets. The computers weren’t working, blasted all to hell. But David was … is … the consummate navigator. Always be able to reconstruct the mission. Never trust the gadgets. Plan for the worst and hope for the best. He was hurt, real bad, but he dead-reckoned his way across eastern Russia and guided us into a Soviet fighter base. We found enough fuel to make it home. But we almost got caught.”

Elliott told the rest of the story — about the fuel truck, about holding off the militia, and their eventual escape without Luger. When he was finished, he became very quiet.

White couldn’t think of anything to say. It was the most incredible saga he had ever heard.

At last Elliott said, “Somehow he survived. They brainwashed him, took him to Lithuania, and made him work on the Soviet stealth-bomber project. Now we’re going to get him out of there.”

“You said Patrick and the Marines were going after him?”

“They’re sending in a small Marine assault force,” Elliott explained. “A Force Recon Team. Thirty-two soldiers.”

“Standard-sized Marine special ops team,” White said. “They’re good, General. Very good. They can enter, search, and exit a three-story office building in less than seven minutes. They’d have no problem searching, demolishing, and capturing a single man on this installation, I can guarantee that.”

“But against Commonwealth infantry? Against the Byelorussian Army? Against the KGB? Besides, I’m worried about the political side of this as well. Invading this facility will be politically unpopular, and I don’t think the President is willing to risk any Marines to get Luger out. They think he’s been turned. They’re ready to have him assassinated, for God’s sake. No, the White House will pull the Marines out if there’s any chance of discovery. If that happens I want to be ready with our own assault team.”

“Well, I’ve got sixty of the best Marines in the world assigned to MADCAP MAGICIAN,” White said, “plus another twenty ex-Marines in the ISA task force group that I can recall for extended duty afloat. But I can’t send my guys all the way to Vilnius without tanker support, and I won’t do it without air and ground support. That’s another reason I came to you.”

“Follow me,” Elliott said. He walked down the hallway, punched a code into yet another CypherLock security lock, and pushed the door open. White stepped inside a huge hangar, meticulously clean, with strong overhead floodlights bathing the entire space in an unearthly glow…

… and parked within that hangar was the most unusual aircraft White had ever seen. “What in God’s name is it?” White breathed.

“Meet the Old Dog,” Elliott said. “It’s what started this whole friggin’ mess — and it’s what’s going to end it.”

The aircraft was enormous, but it was unlike any B-52 White had ever seen. It was completely black, low and menacing. White saw it from the tail end first. The rear empennage was a streamlined, graceful swept-back V-tail assembly — but it was immense, with each diagonal stabilizer a full twenty feet wide and easily fifty feet long. The muzzle of a large, unusual gun protruded out the back of the tail — not a Gatling gun, but some huge steerable cannon. The wings looked like standard B-52 wings, but there was something unusual about them.

“The wings… they don’t sag,” White said after finally realizing what was different. “They look the same size as a BUFF’s wings, but they don’t curve.”

“The Old Dog has composite wings and radar-absorbent fibersteel skin,” Elliott explained. “The wings are far stronger than the original wings, but twenty percent lighter. That gives the Old Dog much greater performance.”

White noticed what was hanging under the wings, and he stepped over to the plane to examine it more closely. “Missiles? You put air-to-air missiles on a B-52 …?”

“This is not really a B-52 anymore,” Elliott said. “We call it a strategic flying battleship. It can escort other aircraft like a fighter, attack targets like a bomber, detect and destroy enemy defenses like a Wild Weasel, launch cruise missiles, conduct reconnaissances, even launch satellites into orbit. We’re modifying four B-52s a year, converting them into battleships. I’ve got six of them here at HAWC.”

“Six of them? You’re kidding.”

“That’s not the best part,” Elliott said proudly. They walked over to the open bomb bay, where Elliott had to have his ID. checked once again by a security guard. They ducked under the open bomb-bay doors and Peered inside. On a rotary drumlike launcher in the aft part of the bomb bay were several oblong objects resembling surfboards, with pointed tips and small fins on the back.

“The newest generation of ‘smart’ conventional cruise missiles,” Elliott said. “They’re called MARS missiles — Multi-target Anti-Armor Reattack System. MARS was developed after the Persian Gulf War as a force multiplier against large waves of armored vehicles. It uses a combination of high-speed computers, a stealth cruise missile, and sensor-fused weapons to autonomously detect, identify, and attack tanks and other large vehicles, or the navigator can reprogram the missile to attack several different areas.

“The cruise missile carries twenty-four cylinders in belly ejectors. The missile is programmed to cruise around in a target ‘basket’ about twenty by twenty miles, for as long as twenty minutes. Radars and infrared seekers in the cruise missile help it home in on columns of tanks or other large vehicles. When the missile flies over the vehicle, it drops the sensorfuzed weapon cylinders, which float down by parachute. Each cylinder contains six copper disks in front of an explosive charge and mates with an infrared sensor. The infrared sensors lock on to nearby vehicles as the cylinder descends, then the cylinder automatically explodes about fifty feet above the vehicle’s target. The copper disks turn into white-hot molten metal bullets that can penetrate six inches of steel or ceramic armor.

“The cruise missile is designed to loiter over a target area until all its antitank rounds are expended — it’ll even reattack any vehicles that were hit but not seriously damaged — but it’s smart enough to figure out if the vehicles it detects are ‘live’ targets or targets on fire or severely damaged. The Old Dog can carry up to twelve MARS missiles internally and twelve on the wing pylons. With only six MARS missiles, one Old Dog can attack armored vehicles over a fifteen-hundred-square-mile area — and the Old Dog can be miles away, attacking other targets.”

“Absolutely incredible,” White said, his eyes wide in wonder. “I knew there were unbelievable things going on at HAWC, but I never expected something like this!”

“I’m assembling my crews and doing the mission planning — secretly, of course,” Elliott said sotto voce. “I think it’s about time for HAWC and MADCAP MAGICIAN to join forces, don’t you? I pray we won’t be used, but I’m also not going to stand by and watch David Luger be killed in the name of political expediency.”

“I’m with you, General,” White said. “You know, I was so afraid you wouldn’t believe me that I almost gave up hope.” He paused, his smile dimming, and asked, “But if I’m being taken into custody by the Department of Justice, how are we going to do this?”

“As you pointed out yourself, Colonel,” Elliott said with an amused smile, “this is HAWC. When I want to conduct an investigation into a possible security breach, I do it — everyone else, including the Department of Justice, either stands aside or cooperates fully. I’ve already had your ship impounded in Norway under full security, the aircraft and MISCO trailers returned, and your entire operations and support crew assembled.

They are being flown back here right this minute, every last one of them. We’ll plan this mission, then we’ll execute it if the Marines fail.”

Ever since his brainwashing had been completed and his name was changed from his coded file designation, 41 dash Zulu, to Dr. Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov, David Luger’s life as a “permanent staff member in residence”—as much a laboratory animal as the rats, monkeys, and dogs at Fisikous — was pretty much the same every day. He was awakened at five-thirty A.M. and reported to the exercise room for calisthenics, fifteen minutes on a treadmill under a sunlamp — Luger rarely saw daylight except through the one window in his room — a fast checkup by a nurse or MSB medic, a shower, shave (using a nonelectric windup razor that was inspected for tampering every day), and breakfast. His performance in his exercises was carefully monitored and recorded, as was his caloric intake, energy level, even the amount of liquid and solid waste produced. His movements were monitored constantly by closed-circuit TV or by guards.

There was only one place where Luger was neither under direct guard nor monitored by cameras, and that was the dining facility in the Fisikous Research Center; since the dining hall was used all day, mostly by security guards, and since Luger usually ate alone or with his former KGB handlers, no security was thought necessary.

It was here that Mizschasis “Mike” Jonzcich decided to make his move.

Jonzcich was a member of the United States’ Central Intelligence Agency, Intelligence Support Agency, assigned to what he thought had to be the most whacked-out but unusual intelligence-support unit in the free world: MADCAP MAGICIAN, led by Air Force Colonel Paul White. First-generation Lithuanian-American by heritage but true-blue American in politics and spirit, twenty-eight-year-old Jonzcich was recruited from Boston College to work for the CIA soon after graduation. Because Jonzcich and the rest of his family still spoke Lithuanian, the “old language,” he went right to work for the Baltic desk, compiling data from Covert and volunteer sources on almost all aspects of life in occupied Lithuania.

Sometime after that, Jonzcich was approached first by the Director of Central Intelligence General Services Recruiting Branch, then by the Deputy Director for Operations of the CIA himself, asking him to join the ISA and go undercover in his family’s native land to spy on the Soviets occupying that country. Naturally Jonzcich agreed. He was sent to Lithuania and kept “inactive” by the ISA, working a variety of jobs and establishing his credentials, until four months ago when he was called and told to report to the Fisikous Research Institute for his first assignment.

That assignment was REDTAIL HAWK.

Dr. Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov — the “Hawk”—was no stranger around the plant. Although the Hawk’s face often looked grim and expressionless, he always seemed polite. He wasn’t standoffish or full of attitude toward the Lithuanian workers, like most of the Russian-born scientists. He was usually left alone, mostly because the ex-KGB officer in charge of security at Fisikous, General Viktor Gabovich, was usually accompanying him. Everyone at the facility gave Gabovich a wide berth.

Jonzcich and the Hawk had never spoken — until today, when the Hawk was carrying his tray to his table and was “accidentally” bumped by Jonzcich as the worker emerged from a doorway right in the Hawk’s path. The Hawk tripped sideways, hit a chair, and went down, his tray of food scattering in all directions.

Jonzcich was there in a flash to help him to his feet. A few soldiers nearby saw what had happened, and a few got to their feet to assist, but they saw that Ozerov was all right and that someone was there with a bucket and mop, so they returned to their breakfast.

“Are you all right, Doctor?” Jonzcich asked him in Russian.

“Goddamn it,” Ozerov said in slightly accented English — thankfully, it was not too loud, or it might have attracted even more attention. Then, without hesitation, he slipped into Russian and said, “I guess I had better watch where I am walking.”

“It’s my fault. I just washed the floor — it might have been slippery,” Jonzcich said, surprised that Ozerov could speak English so well. Jonzcich decided to test him. In English, he asked, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Ozerov replied in English. There was absolutely no change in his expression — it was as if he were thinking just as plainly in English as he was in Russian, without being able to register any surprise that he was using both languages. Ozerov continued in English: “The coffee will help.”

Jonzcich began to clean up the spilled mess. No one came near them, but he knew that the Hawk was more closely guarded than that. He had very little time. Now was his chance. “Listen to me carefully,” Jonzcich said in English. “You are Lieutenant David Luger, United States Air Force. Do you understand? David Luger, United States Air Force.”

Ozerov nearly dropped his breakfast tray again — Jonzcich almost gasped. The shock, the surprise, the recognition came immediately — and there was much more. A tiny spark ignited in the Hawk’s brain.

“What did you say? Who are you?” Luger demanded in English.

“Don’t speak to me,” Jonzcich replied sotto voce. “Your handler will be back any minute. Listen to me carefully. Your life depends on your concentrating on my words. Remember them. This will save your life.

“You have been drugged. The man you know as Kaminski has been giving you poison. This will help you. Do not cry out or we are both dead.”

At that, Jonzcich reached under the waist of his pants into a secret pocket and withdrew a tiny device that looked like a tiny piece of plastic, about the size of a .22-caliber bullet. He twisted off the round top of the device, exposing a needle about a half an inch long.

Luger’s eyes widened when he saw the needle, but before he could react, Jonzcich stuck the needle into Luger’s left forearm, jabbed it in all the way, and squeezed the bottom part of the miniature syringe.

In a flash Jonzcich put it back into his secret pocket, just as he had been.rehearsing for the past several days. The tiny bit of coagulant in the antidote kept all but a tiny spot of blood from appearing, and Luger’s shirtsleeve hid that.

“That was an antidote. It will take time to work. Remember what I am about to tell you, because it will save your life.

“You are Lieutenant David Luger, not Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov. Lieutenant David Luger. You are an American military officer born in Amarillo, Texas, not a scientist from the Soviet Union. The American government knows you’re here, and they’re coming to get you. When you hear the name Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov, you will think, ‘God bless America. Remember that. When you hear your false name, Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov, you will think, ‘God bless America.’”

The Hawk put a hand up to his left temple as if in a great deal of pain — or confusion. His eyes were curious and puzzled. “But how can you…?”

“Don’t talk to me,” Jonzcich whispered. “Tell me to clean this mess up, and go get more food. And prepare yourself. God bless America.”

Was the Hawk going to do it? Jonzcich knew this was the turning point, the most critical step in his mission. Luger had been a prisoner here for years. He was so brainwashed, so compliant, that he might tell his handler, Gabovich, all about this. Jonzcich might not have an hour left to live if Luger got scared and blabbed about him to the KGB.

But Jonzcich had seen the spark, the recognition in Luger’s eyes… Well, he had done what he had to do. Jonzcich’s assignment in Fisikous Was over.

Luger got to his feet and said in clear; strong Russian, “Please clean this mess up for me,” then walked back to the serving line.

Mission accomplished.

General Viktor Gabovich entered David Luger’ s room in the security building of the Institute. The upper floor of the building had been remodeled, transformed into a typical Soviet-style public-housing apartment floor, complete with cheap paneling, a “floor mother,” or common housekeeper and caretaker for all residents of each floor, and a social area. As far as Luger knew, he lived in a standard Soviet apartment with other residents who were scientists like himself. In reality there were no other residents. The other apartments contained listening posts, control centers for monitoring Luger and controlling his activities, plus medical facilities for his brainwashing procedures.

Gabovich found Luger sitting in a chair beside the room’s lone window, which was now closed by heavy metal shutters that allowed only small lines of light to penetrate. “Good morning, Ivan Sergeiovich,” Gabovich said pleasantly. “How do you feel today, my friend?”

“The shutters are closed,” Ozerov said. “They won’t open.”

Although Luger had a pull cord that opened and closed the shutters, those shutters were really controlled by a security officer in the command center; they were going to remain closed for the rest of the day until the demonstration at Denerokin was over. Luger would find a carefully measured amount of static and snow on his television set as well, to prevent him from getting news broadcasts about the demonstration, and his radio was “out for repairs” for two days. Almost everything in the room, from the amount of oxygen, to the sounds present, to the content of drugs in the bathroom tap water, could be controlled by Gabovich and his men. “The windows were being washed, I think, Comrade,” Gabovich said. “They were barred from the outside until they are completed.”

“I wanted to watch the demonstration.”

Gabovich fought to control his surprise. “What demonstration are you talking about, Ivan?”

“I heard several hundred protesters are going to be outside today.”

“Not that I know of, Comrade,” Gabovich said sincerely, masking his aggravation at having to begin another investigation into security leaks in the “dormitory.” His staff performed no-notice inspections every few weeks, but security always seemed to relax in spite of their precautions. “A new squad of trainees are going to be given their first orientation tour of the facility — perhaps that’s what you are referring to,” explained Gabovich.

Luger paused for a moment, confused. He wanted to believe Gabovich, since he liked and trusted him, but… his mind was cloudy.

Gabovich seized upon Luger’s hesitation: “I brought you the first printouts of the new RCS computational models. Excellent work, Ivan. We found a few bugs, mostly formatting corrections. But I think—”

“My name is not Ivan,” Luger interrupted. “Why… why do you keep calling me Ivan?” He began massaging his forehead, where a spot of pain was growing in his temple. “I’m not… I’m not Ivan Ozerov.”

“Ivan, are you not feeling well? What are you talking about? Of course that’s your name. Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov. Born in Leningrad, educated in Moscow—”

Luger was shaking his head. “That’s bullshit and you know it.” The pain in Luger’s temple increased. He squinted away the pain but it kept on coming. “I’m not David… no, Ivan. I’m not…”

Gabovich said, “You’re getting confused, Ivan. I think you’re working too hard. You really don’t seem yourself when you’re like this.”

“I don’t feel like myself,” Luger said, exasperated by the pain, his confusion. “Why do I keep thinking I’m David?”

Gabovich thought quickly. “Ah, well… you are Ivan Ozerov, but a long time ago you were working as an operative for us in another country. It was a horrible assignment. Perhaps you’re just remembering back to those awful days.”

Now Luger was really confused.

But somewhere in the back of his head he heard a small voice say: Mind-fucking. That’s what they’re doing to you, Dave, my man.

Luger opened his eyes and Gabovich could see that the pain had subsided. Good. All those years of hypnotherapy, all those long nights of conditioning and drugs and beatings, were paying off. One of the things Gabovich and his men had learned during Luger’s modification was that they could not prevent his subconscious from dredging up memories of the past. The doctors had not yet discovered a way to erase the subconscious. What they were able to do was form physiological associations with certain thoughts, so whenever those undesirable thoughts came back, they would cause severe, debilitating pain. When Luger was reminded that thinking proper thoughts ended the pain, the conscious mind was usually able to suppress the subconscious, unbidden thoughts and eliminate the pain — and Luger appeared to be doing that now.

It was not a perfect science by any means, as Gabovich had witnessed over the past few weeks. He remembered the couple of incidents in the design bureau as well as the reports he’d had on the test flight over Belarus.

Dreaming was the real test, the real torture. The pain would be at its height whenever Luger dreamed, and he would awaken several times a night screaming in agony. Luger had not had a proper night of REM sleep in almost four years, until he learned to control it. While some persons have severe REM-sleep nightmares only once or twice in their entire lives, Luger had had them every night for almost three years. It was a wonder, and certainly a tribute to Luger’s excellent, strong, highly intelligent mind, that he hadn’t at some point killed himself throughout those horrifying months.

But Luger was getting stronger, physically as well as mentally, and the hypnotherapy would soon have less and less effect. His eyes were narrow and tortured from the pain as the undesirable thoughts returned, but he was fighting it — and winning. “Ozerov… Ozerov is a Russian name,” he said. “I’m not Russian.” Suddenly, in English, he said, “I am not a Russian…”

“You are a Russian air-crew member and an aeronautical engineer who was offered a chance to work here at the Fisikous Institute,” Gabovich said. “You were in a terrible accident test-flying a new bomber, but you have recovered fully. Don’t you remember, Ivan? I am Petyr Kaminski, your doctor and your friend.”

“You’re a Russian ….”

“I am a Polish immigrant who has come to the Fisikous Institute for the same reasons as you,” Gabovich said. “We are here to help the Soviet Union become a better, more secure place.” It was important not to lose patience with the subject — any show of anger or aggression might trigger a defensive mechanism and they would have to start over with his conditioning. Patience was important, but Gabovich’s was wearing thin. “Please, Ivan Sergeiovich, snap out of it.”

God bless America…

“My… name…” The stress was beginning to tear Luger in half. Gabovich was worried — Luger was fighting the pain better and better every time. But the fight was short-lived this time.

A few moments later Luger finally looked at Gabovich with clear, round eyes. Gabovich smiled and said, “Feeling better? Good. Would you care to look at the printouts, over coffee or cocoa perhaps?”

“I heard you had an accident in the dining hall this morning.”

Ozerov looked up at Gabovich, then looked away again — and it was then that Gabovich realized that something had happened. There was a breach of security.

“It was nothing. I tripped over a chair.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Did Mr. Biletris bother you?”

Luger looked up at Gabovich. “Who?”

“Biletris. The orderly who helped you clean up.”

Luger looked a little panicked. So, Gabovich decided, he was the one. Security will have to pick up the young Lithuanian bastard before he gets away.

“No. No,” Luger insisted. “He was very helpful.”

I’ll bet he was. Gabovich cursed silently, careful not to show his annoyance. Besides, Luger could clam up in an instant if he thought his new contact was blown, and Luger still had a lot of work to do. “As you wish.” Gabovich opened the bag he carried, presenting Luger with a small container of snacks. “At least nibble on a doughnut or an apple while I let you know what your new assignment will be.”

Luger was compliant, but he did sneak a curious glance at Gabovich every now and then, which the ex-KGB officer returned with a reassuring smile. Within a few more minutes, Luger was beginning to work at his usual efficient, intelligent pace. He even began to eat the sedative — laced apples that had been laid out for him — Gabovich was careful to choose an apple with no stem on it, to distinguish them from the tainted ones.

Well, at least that little episode was over. Still, Gabovich worried. Unfortunately, Luger seemed to be at the beginning of the end of his usefulness as a designer and engineer. His periods of lucidity were becoming more frequent, and it was increasingly harder to adjust his thinking back to the Russian alias. And now there was a foreign contact in the facility, someone who had to be taken care of.

“Excuse me, Ivan. I need to use your bedroom phone. I hope it is working today. Someday they will fix this thing for good, eh, Ivan?”

God bless America…

Usually the phone was out of order — shut down by the guards secretly monitoring Luger — but Gabovich suspected it would work when he picked it up. He ordered Teresov to conduct a full search for Biletris, starting in Vilnius and encompassing all major transportation networks.

In the living room, Luger was about to take another bite of the apple when he noticed it had a peculiar smell. Something also didn’t taste quite right. He was going to ignore it, but the smell wouldn’t go away, so he went to the kitchen to toss it out. But just as he opened the door to the cupboard space under the sink where the garbage can was, his stomach churned Before he realized what was happening or before he could stop it, he vomited into the trash can. His stomach knotted, expelling its entire contents, and the sudden spasms didn’t stop until several long moments of dry heaves.

Because he was stooped down under the kitchen sink, the security Cameras in Luger’s apartment never saw him get sick.

Luger couldn’t understand what was happening — he didn’t have a fever, he didn’t feel bad, and the apple had tasted okay at first. He sniffed it again.

“Are you all right, Ivan Sergeiovich?” Gabovich asked pleasantly, back in the living room.

“Ivan who?”

God bless America… David Luger…

And then, in an instant, other thoughts flooded in.

“If we start a fire fight here …” Ormack said.

“We may not have any choice,” McLanahan replied.

Maybe we are going to fight it out, Luger thought.

The memories came unbidden. He shut his eyes, trying to block them out. What is going on? he asked as a sting of pain shot through him. Am I losing my mind? Going crazy?

Fight it out with what? Half the crew was injured, the plane was shot to hell, they were surrounded by Soviet militiamen.

“He wants us to shut down,” Luger heard Ormack say over the inter-phone. “Patrick, we’re running out of time…”

“Ivan …?

You are First Lieutenant David Luger, United States Air Force… not Ozerov.

What did Dr. Kaminski call the orderly? Biletris? Luger tried to block the pain, to remember exactly what the orderly had said. You are not Ozerov. And something about being drugged…

Luger looked at the apple he’d just tossed away, now covered with his vomit. Things were coming together, beginning to make sense. The needle. stick. The antidote. All for the apple, which Kaminski must have poisoned. Or someone must have poisoned. When the poison met up with the(antidote in his body, he threw up.

Luger got to his feet and turned toward Gabovich. “Just throwing out that apple, Doctor Kaminski,” he said in Russian. “Didn’t agree with my stomach. Let’s get back to work, shall we?”

Gabovich watched Luger closely. Except for a little weakness and a slightly distracted expression, he looked completely normal. Still. something in Gabovich’s gut told him this one was going to take even closer monitoring than before.

If Gabovich had had the time, it might have been worth it to try an entirely new reprogramming sequence on Luger. Spend another few years breaking down every last remnant of the Luger persona and implanting, a new one. Granted, nobody had ever survived two reprogramming sequences, but Luger had the strength to do it. At the very least it would be an interesting experiment. The problem was, there was no time. Luger would have to die soon, before the Fisikous-170 project was rolled out — only a few weeks away — because nobody knew Luger was here. The Commonwealth would not appreciate the Fisikous Research Institute using brainwashed Western engineers to design its military aircraft. By midspring the great Dr. Ivan Sergeiovich Ozerov would disappear just as mysteriously as he appeared.

“I am not impressed with you, sir,” Marine Gunnery Sergeant Chris Wohl shouted through a megaphone. “You have lowered my opinion of the United States Air Force considerably, sir. If you are the best of the best, sir, my country is in serious jeopardy, sir.”

Gunny Wohl was standing atop a tall log wall, watching as three men continued through “Confidence Course,” the simplest level of obstacle courses at the Marine Special Operations Training Group (SOTG) school at Camp Lejeune. SOTG is the training course for all special-operations-capable Marines. Every six months a Marine Expeditionary Unit is selected for special operations training, which lasts six full months. Only two MEUs per year receive this training, and the competition to qualify is intense. The courses at SOTG concentrate on eighteen “unconventional-warfare” missions that the unit might be given, such as amphibious raids, reinforcement operations, security operations, counterintelligence, and MOUT, or Military Operations in Urban Terrain. At the end of training, the MEU receives the Special Operations Capable (SOC) designation and deploys either in the Pacific theater or in the Mediterranean Sea region.

The Confidence Course was not designed to be physically demanding, since the Marine officers who arrived at this school were already in top condition and would find this course pathetically easy, but it was designed to challenge a Marine both psychologically and physically. It did that by emphasizing one thing: moving at height, sometimes dozens of feet above ground, with nothing more than a four-foot-deep pool of water underneath. That pool of water didn’t look like much of a safety net when you were twenty feet above it.

McLanahan, Briggs, and Ormack had just negotiated the “amphibious-landing” section of the course, designed to loosely simulate a World War Il-style beach assault. Carrying an M-16A2 rifle with sixteen blank cartridges loaded in its magazine, the three Air Force officers had already climbed down a cargo net, waded across a fifty-yard mud-bottomed pool, run across fifty yards of sand with obstacles and up a sand hill, while keeping the rifle clean. All that was just to get to the main portion of the course, called the Jungle Gym.

Gunny Wohl was not impressed at all. He was bound by tradition and discipline to call these three officers “sir,” but these men were sure not up to Marine Corps standards and he was going to let them know it. The way he looked at it, their softness challenged him and everyone in the Corps, and that was completely unacceptable.

This was the fourth time that Ormack, McLanahan, and Briggs had been on the course in the past week, but they were no better at it from their first encounter — the ropes seemed more slippery, the walls a bit higher, the mud a bit deeper. The fifth time was the qualifying test, and, it was only the second time that the students would be armed and had to protect each other during their run against instructors who were gunning for them.

The Jungle Gym had seven obstacles that tested a student’s upper-body strength and exposed any fear of heights or other fears. Vertigo or disorientation were not a problem with the two trained aviators, but upper-body strength was. Briggs could breeze through the course with ease, but even McLanahan, who was a semiserious weight lifter, found himself relying more and more on Briggs for help.

The course started with the “Dirty Name,” a seventeen-foot-high wall of three logs spaced four to six feet apart. Next was the “Run, Jump, and Swing,” where the student ran up a ramp, jumped onto a suspended rope, and swung across a mud-filled ditch. The “Inclining Wall” was the third obstacle, a sixteen-foot wall with a thick rope to climb, except the wall was tilted toward the climber, which put much more emphasis on arm strength than leg strength.

John Ormack was having the worst time of it. He got what he thought was a lot of exercise: racquetball three days a week, and the monthly Air Force fitness test, which was a two-mile run in jogging shoes, ten pull-ups, thirty sit-ups, and thirty push-ups. Ormack was slender, well-toned, and looked damned good in a uniform. But he had poor upper-body strength, limited long-range endurance, and his thin body carried no energy reserves. By the time he finished the Inclining Wall, Gunny Wohl noticed that he could barely hold on to the rope on the way down, and he dropped a good eight feet. He was not hurt, but Wohl thought he was seeing the beginning of the end of General John Ormack in this school.

McLanahan’s muscular strength was far better, but he had no aerobic endurance and just couldn’t seem to be able to catch his breath.

Hal Briggs, on the other hand, could have finished the course twice by the time they reached the fourth obstacle, the “Confidence Climb,” a thirty-foot-tall ladder made of railroad ties. McLanahan had always thought that Briggs’s impossibly thin body had no strength, but the man was like a finely tuned Italian race car — slim and racy, but loaded with power. “C’mon you guys,” Briggs huffed. “I can see the finish line. We’re almost there.”

“Fuck you,” McLanahan gasped. “We’re coming…”

“Don’t talk,” Briggs panted. Along with being out of shape, one other by-product of becoming a staff weenie, Briggs noticed, was that McLanahan didn’t take coaching very well. Even when the Marine Corps drill instructor’s mocking tone, which Briggs found comical, was making McLanahan angry — and making him take his mind off his job. “Save your breath. Concentrate on what you’re doing, Patrick. You too, John. Breathe through your nose. Breathe deep. Flush the crud out of your lungs and muscles. Your strength will come back.”

“I… don’t… think so,” Ormack gasped.

“You guys are in good shape,” Briggs lied. “This course is easy. It’s just Gunny Wohl getting you down.”

“Fuck him too…”

“I said don’t talk,” Briggs ordered. “You got one thing to think about, and that’s Dave. Think about him. He’s not going to make it out alive unless you help him.”

McLanahan and Ormack pumped their legs a little harder…

After a lot of sweat and strain, they reached the obstacle that was one of the worst ones on the course, appropriately named “The Tough One.” After climbing a fifteen-foot rope, the three officers stepped across a platform of logs spaced about three feet apart, climbed up a pyramid-shaped structure of beams that rose another twenty feet in the air, and climbed down a rope all the way to the ground. Ormack made it up to the platform, but after stepping over the logs, found he barely had enough strength to guide himself up the pyramid. Briggs was right beside him, negotiating the pyramid like a chimpanzee, ready to help. But after a few long pauses, Ormack managed to get atop the pyramid by himself.

The toughest part was getting off the pyramid and onto the rope for the climb back down. “I can’t do it, Hal,” Ormack said. “Man, my arms would give out in a second. …”

“C’mon, General, you’ve done this one before. Remember, the trick is using your feet. Wrap the rope around your leg, brace it against your foot, then press against it with your other foot.” Ormack did as he was told, but the strength wasn’t in his feet either. He slid down the rope at too high a speed and collapsed to the ground, weary but unhurt. McLanahan was also breathing heavily as he joined them a few moments later.

They struggled through the next obstacle, the “Reverse Ladder,” which Was a twelve..foot..high ladder of eight metal bars inclined toward the candidate and one that had to be climbed totally by arm power.

Finally, they made their way to the last obstacle.

It was a variation of the age-old “Slide for Life” obstacle that has been a Part of Marine Corps boot camps for over a hundred years. The student had to climb a twenty-foot-high cargo net to a platform, straddle a thick net to rope leading from the top of the platform to the ground, and then begin to descend the rope headfirst, pulling himself down the rope. A four-foot pool of water was his only safety net. One-third the way down the rope, the student had to flip over until he was hanging down under the rope, and he continued down headfirst until he was to the two-thirds point. But in this variation, the student had to stop and perform a reversal-cross the arms and re-grip the rope, let go with the legs, hang down from the rope as the body swivels around, then swing the legs back up onto the rope and shimmy headfirst back up to the platform.

During the course, John Ormack had never finished this obstacle. “I’ll go first,” Briggs said. “John, watch me. You can do this.”

“Let’s go, girls!” Wohl said. “I’m not going to wait all damned day!”

“Patrick, you gotta keep guard,” Briggs said. “Be ready in case we need you. Watch me, John. Rest up.” Briggs swung onto the first rope and shimmied out to the first crossover point. He took his time, holding on to the rope a few moments longer on each crossover until Wohl would start yelling, then worked his way through the obstacle. McLanahan did the same, allowing Ormack the most time possible to rest up.

“Okay, John,” McLanahan said as he pulled himself off the rope. “You can do it, man. Do it for Luger.”

Ormack’s adrenaline was pumping. He performed the first changeover easily, worked his way down the rope, and paused at the last changeover. He looked confident, bouncing a bit on the rope to get a good grip. He took a firm grip and let go of the rope with his legs. He did not fall this time. He swung his legs up, grasping the rope with his legs. They hooked over the rope securely, and he began working his way back up to the platform.

“Way to go, John!” McLanahan shouted. “You did it!”

Ormack gave out a victory cry himself — he had never been able to hang on long enough to get his legs back up.

They did not notice Gunnery Sergeant Wohl standing beside the safety pool — he wasn’t yelling, he wasn’t screaming, he wasn’t doing anything. Calmly, he pulled a baseball-sized object from a pocket in his BDU pants, pulled a pin, and threw the object into the pool. Seconds later the safety pool erupted into a massive geyser of water as the small training grenade exploded. Ormack yelled, flipped off the rope, and thankfully did not land headfirst as he plummeted into the muddy water.

Wohl stepped into the safety pool and helped Ormack out, and they were both out of the water by the time Briggs and McLanahan made it down the cargo net and landed beside them. Wohl was ready for a chewing — out, even a push or shove — but what he wasn’t ready for was a right cross by the usually quiet Colonel McLanahan.

The haymaker staggered Wohl, but he kept his feet, holding his chin to feel for any broken bones or loose teeth. “That’s it, Wohl,” McLanahan shouted. “You’ve crossed the line now, you motherfucking sonofabitch.”

“Ormack doesn’t belong in a Marine outfit,” Wohl said. McLanahan wasn’t coming after him again, but he was ready for a fight — his fists were raised at his sides, and he had dropped back into a wide, defensive stance. Wohl always figured there was a cauldron of emotion built up inside the powerful-looking man, but he never figured he’d actually let it out. “He failed the last obstacle. He’s out.”

“Like hell…!”

“As you were!” a voice shouted behind them.

The four men snapped to attention as Brigadier General Jeffrey Lydecker, the commanding general of the Combat Development Center, and Lieutenant General Bradley Elliott approached the group. Elliott returned their salutes, then stayed a few paces behind Lydecker.

“What happened here?” Lydecker asked. “We heard an explosion.”

“Training, sir,” Wohl replied immediately.

“Did you get permission to bring pyrotechnics out onto the course, Gunny?”

“Yes, sir,” Wohl replied. He produced a sheet of paper. Lydecker examined it, then gave it to Elliott. Elliott shook his head and looked at McLanahan — this wasn’t going to go down well for him at all. McLanahan would be lucky to hold on to his commission now. “Very well,” Lydecker said. He paused, looked at McLanahan, then looked at the left side of Wohl’s jaw. “What happened to your face, Gunny?”

“Slipped on one of the obstacles, sir.

“Bullshit, Gunny,” Elliott interjected. “Tell us the—”

“Excuse me, sir, but I’ll handle this,” Lydecker interrupted. Elliott fell silent, scowling at McLanahan. “Tell us the truth, Marine. What happened to your face?”

“I slipped on one of the obstacles, sir,” Wohl repeated. “I think it was on The Tough One.”

“We saw the whole—” Elliott began.

“If one of my Marines says he slipped, sir, then he slipped,” Lydecker said. “Report on the results of the final obstacle course, Gunny.”

“I’m sorry to say, General Ormack failed the final test,” Wohl said. “He slipped off the rope when I applied the pyrotechnics on the final obstacle. Colonel McLanahan and Captain Briggs performed to minimum standards I respectfully recommend that General Ormack be excluded from all further activities with any Marine Recon units.”

Lydecker fell silent for a moment. Then he straightened his shoulders, looked at Elliott, then to Wohl. “Unfortunately, the timetable of the Operation has been moved up. We have been directed to get these three officers ready to deploy with the 26th MEU. immediately. There won’t be any more training.”

Wohl looked panic-stricken. “Excuse me, sir, but you can’t send General Ormack… you can’t send any of these men in the field with a Recon unit as they are now. They’re a danger to themselves and anyone around them. Your mission won’t have a chance.”

“That will be all, Gunny. Have them report to my office ASAP. Send someone to pack their gear.”

“Who’s going to complete their training program? The Recon unit won’t have time to—” Wohl stammered.

“You are going to complete their training, Gunny,” General Lydecker replied. “We’re sending you TDY with the 26th MEU. While en route, you will conduct training classes on unit tactics and mission essentials. Your orders are with my clerk. You’ll depart in four hours. General Elliott will interface with you and the MEU operations staff. Close up shop and move out.” Wohl looked stunned, but recovered quickly enough to reply with a loud “Aye, aye, sir.” Lydecker shook hands with General Elliott and departed, leaving an utterly speechless gunnery sergeant with the smiling three-star Air Force general.

“Well, let’s get started, Gunnery Sergeant,” Elliott said.

“Excuse me, sir, but I am going to make this appeal to you one last time,” Wohl said. “I mean no disrespect — in fact, I have to give your men a lot of credit. They are raw, completely untrained in small-unit tactics, and very much out of shape, but they made it through by helping one another.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ve gathered enough over the past few days to understand that you’ve got another officer trapped somewhere, and these men will accompany a Marine Force Recon team to go get him.”

“You’ll know when it’s appropriate, Gunny.”

“I expect I will, sir,” Wohl replied, “now that you got the big man to make me nursemaid here. My point is, you could end up with the entire unit, myself, and all four of your officers dead if you allow these men to go on this mission — and I for one don’t like it when outsiders tell me to stick my head in a bear trap without a fighting chance. Captain Briggs has the best chance of surviving — he can probably keep up with a Recon unit, although he knows nothing about their tactics. McLanahan is strong and he’s driven to succeed, but it’ll take more than just desire to complete a mission. General Ormack has no chance. None. And small units are only as effective as the least-capable member. If you have to extract an injured or immobilized person, it’ll slow you down even more. I cannot in good I conscience commit highly trained Marines to a dangerous mission deep within hostile territory, and then saddle them with three untrained, out-of-shape flyboys.”

“You have no choice in the matter, Gunnery Sergeant.”

“Sir,” Wohl continued, ignoring Elliott’s interjection, “if you’re going someplace hot enough to send a Marine Recon unit, your boys will not keep up. They’ll be left behind and probably die.” Wohl saw Elliott’s eyes flare at that remark, and he quickly lowered his voice. “I’m not trying to be a doomsayer or give you any interservice-superiority bullshit, sir; I’m giving you my professional opinion. Your mission is doomed to failure if these men are allowed to go.” Elliott let his words sink in for a moment. Then he said, “All right, Gunny, I’ve heard you out. Now you listen to me. I’ll tell you what the objective is — since I’ve had you assigned to lead this operation, you might as well know.”

Elliott told him about Luger and the Soviet stealth bomber, the main objectives of the mission. When he was finished he said, “Now, if you knew anything about experimental aircraft, Gunny, maybe I’d consider letting you and your men go in alone. But you don’t. I’m told you’re the best aggressive personnel-extraction man in the country, so you got the job. Maybe what I heard is wrong. Say the word and you’re out.”

Wohl looked at Elliott, then stepped closer to him, just close enough to Elliott’s face to intimidate without threatening or assaulting him. He was half a head shorter than Elliott, but in his hard, chiseled face Elliott saw nothing but pure, white-hot fury simmering just beneath the surface.

“You can’t bully me, sir,” Wohl said in a low, growling voice. “You can try, but you will fail. Here at SOTG, my word is law. Wonder why Lydecker departed so fast, sir? If the General saw you talking to me like this, you’d be out of here faster than your two skinny legs could take you.”

Wohl felt a surprisingly strong hand wrap around his left wrist. Before he could pull away or resist, Elliott had clamped hold of Wohl’s wrist and had pulled his hand right onto Elliott’s right thigh. A shiver ran unbidden down Wohl’s spine as he heard the faint clunk and felt the rubbery coating over a piece of cold metal where Elliott’s right leg should have been. Wohl snapped Elliott’s grip away easily, but the message was received loud and clear: the three-star Air Force officer had an artificial leg. Wohl had seen the man wandering around the training facility now for two days, but he had never noticed it before.

“I got that fighting a war you’ll never hear or read about, Sergeant,” Elliott said “Not Vietnam, not Grenada, not Libya, not DESERT STORM. Ormack and McLanahan were with me. They saved my life, but Luger saved all of our lives. I was one of the lucky ones: I only sacrificed a leg. Luger didn’t just save me or the other members of my team — he saved all of us from a nuclear war. And I’ll tell you right now, Marine: we’re going to go in and bring him home with or without you.

“Now load up your gear, assemble your men, and be out on the flight line in four hours, or step aside and let someone else fly with us. Either way, we’ve got a job to do.”

“Yes, sir,” Wohl said. “But I’ve got a reminder for you, sir: once your men are out in the field, they belong to me and the task force commander. What we say goes. I noticed that your name is not in the chain of command in this operation, not even as an observer, technical consultant, or as an interservice adviser — you will have no authority over me, just as their rank will mean nothing to the task force members. If you want any hope of bringing your men back alive, I would advise you not to interfere with Marine Corps professionals involved in a Marine Corps operation, sir.” Wohl saluted, spun on a heel, and jogged quickly away.

Elliott was contemplating chewing on Wohl a bit more, especially after that last tirade, but there wasn’t time — and he knew Wohl was right. Elliott had arrived at Camp Lejeune completely unannounced, only to check up on his three officers. Lydecker had patiently extended the utmost courtesy and attention, just as he might any three-star visitor, but in the end Elliott’s presence was just slowing down the works. The President’s National Security Advisor, George Russell, said it best: “You’re not in charge here and your services are not required.”

I may be just in the way here at Camp Lejeune, Elliott reminded himself, but at the HAWC, my word is law. It was time he returned to Nevada and saw to his own plans for locating and rescuing David Luger.

“Vakar Ignalina!..”

“Rytoj Denerokin!..”

“Vakar Ignalina!..”

“Rytoj Denerokin!..”

The cry of “Yesterday Ignalina! Today Denerokin!” from a thousand throats echoed across the low hills and lush forests of southeastern Lithuania. The rallying cry — a reference to Ignalina, Lithuania’s Soviet-built, Chernobyl-like nuclear power plant closed the previous year by popular referendum because of its repeated leaks and safety hazards — was not one of anger or frenzied retribution, but of controlled, sincere emotion. The people of Vilnius did not want to storm Denerokin, they wanted the powers-that-be to hear their concerns. That distinction was coming through loud and clear.

An hour into the demonstration and General Dominikas Palcikas was pleased with how things were working out. He had a line of spit-and-shine soldiers of the Iron Wolf Brigade, standing proudly at parade rest, arranged a dozen meters away from the massive concrete-and-steel fence of the Denerokin Nuclear Research Facility. The flag of the Lithuanian Republic fluttering in the breeze was positioned to the right of the entrance gate to the facility. To the left was the Iron Wolf Brigade’s adopted standard, the Vytis — a knight mounted on a rearing charger, carrying an upraised sword and a shield with a double-barred cross on it.

Just as he had promised Anna, there was no overt show of force displayed by his men. Batons were under the soldiers’ coats, dogs were in the buses — nearby, but out of sight — and baseball caps with ear protectors were worn instead of riot helmets. No tear gas, no guns.

Anna, who was standing with General Palcikas, was clearly impressed, and had told him so several times.

And Palcikas was becoming increasingly impressed with Anna. Ever since the day he’d met her on her father’s farm, he had taken a liking to her. True, they saw so many things differently, but his respect, even admiration, for her was growing. As was his fondness toward her.

A huge crowd of about three thousand protesters moved in waves and surged across the street from the Denerokin gate. Near the gate, a small handful of them, no more than a hundred, were standing a few meters in front of Palcikas’ soldiers on the other side of a small barrier of yellow-and-red sawhorses. The protesters were loudly singing the hymn “Nebeuztvenski upes begimo” (Rebirth of a Nation), a song which was becoming the Lithuanian’s version of “We Shall Overcome.”

Occasionally a woman or child would come forward and present a bunch of flowers to one of the soldiers, who gracefully accepted it, went to the steel fence, and laid the flowers at the foot of one of the massive concrete buttresses supporting it. A moment ago a woman had given a soldier some flowers… and a kiss. “You said nothing about that little display, Miss Kulikauskas,” Palcikas said, trying not to smile.

“Purely spontaneous, I assure you, General,” she replied. “It wasn’t planned.”

“We don’t need spontaneity this afternoon. We need control,” Palcikas said.

“It was harmless, General.”

“First flowers, then a kiss; now some in the crowd want the woman to bring that poster to lay in front of the fence,” Palcikas retorted. “What will it be next? A bucket of sewage? A barrel of burning oil?”

“You don’t need to exaggerate, General,” Kulikauskas interrupted. She raised a walkie-talkie to her lips. “Algimantas? Anna here. Tell Liana not to bring anything else to the police line. Pass the word to all section leaders — no one else approaches the police line.” She paused, glanced at Palcikas resignedly, then added, “This is from me, not the General.”

“Thank you,” Palcikas said. “The fewer surprises for my men, the better.”

“I agree,” said Anna. “But everyone needs a kiss now and then.”

Palcikas acknowledged her with a smile, and she returned his with a dazzling one of her own and a twinkle in her eye.

They were on a reviewing stand about two hundred meters from the outer gate of Denerokin, in the parking lot belonging to the rail terminal across the street from the Fisikous facility, accompanied by about two dozen individuals including the Vice President of the Lithuanian Republic, Vladas Daumantas; the chairman of Sajudis, the chief political party in Lithuania; and several local officials. Also on the podium were a few Polish and English Secret Service agents, ready to take their position when their respective dignitaries arrived. The guest of honor was an American senator, Charles Vertunin, from the state of Illinois, a first-generation American from a Lithuanian immigrant family and a strong supporter of increased trade and relations with all the Baltic states. Surrounding the podium was a throng of several thousand, all waiting to hear the distinguished guests speak.

Palcikas turned to Kulikauskas. “So. I understand you are going to get yourself arrested this morning. Do you think it’s wise, Anna, for the event organizer to get arrested? Doesn’t that send the wrong message to your members?”

“This time it’s more of a protocol arrangement,” Anna said, “because Senator Charles Vertunin, the senator from America, is going to get arrested too.”

“What?” Palcikas gasped, whirling to face her. “The American is getting arrested as well? I wasn’t told this.”

“It was his idea,” Kulikauskas said. “Don’t worry — it’s been cleared through the State Department and the Senator’s office. You don’t have to do anything special for him.”

“Miss Kulikauskas, this is not a joke,” Palcikas said, pulling Anna away from the others a bit. “We all know this is just a protest for the TV cameras. It was your idea to stage the arrests, and I agreed because what I want more than anything right now is no surprises. I get control, and you get your publicity. Now you tell me an American senator is going to be arrested? Were you trying to see how embarrassed I could get?”

“General, you can do to him whatever you were going to do to us… or me,” Kulikauskas said.

Palcikas had left the platform to alert his squad leaders and was walking just behind the row of soldiers, heading toward the front gate, when Major Kolginov ran up to him. “Alexei, we have a small change to the program,” Palcikas said.

“I’ll say we do, Dominikas,” Kolginov said. “I just got a report from the border patrol post at Salunianiai.” Salunianiai was the largest border patrol post in Lithuania, situated on the border between Lithuania and Byelorussia. “Four attack helicopters were seen heading west.”

“What?” Palcikas exploded.

“Not only that,” Kolginov continued, “the helicopters have made contact with MSB security forces inside Fisikous. The attack choppers were on a routine training mission over Byelorussian airspace when someone from inside Fisikous reported that armed intruders were storming the facility. The helicopters copied a distress message and are responding.”

“Who made the distress call from Fisikous?”

“The report I got said it was Colonel Kortyshkov,” Kolginov replied. “He said that Gabovich was hurt in the exchange.”

“Kortyshkov must be insane!” Palcikas thundered. “He’ll start a riot out here — and we’ve got an American politician that wants to get arrested.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, I’m not. Alert the squad leaders. Tell them quickly but carefully, and I mean carefully, move the crowd out away from the fence. Across the road at least, and preferably into the railyard parking lot. I’ll get back to Kulikauskas and tell her about this. She has a pretty good radio net set up with her organizers.”

The crowds had gotten thicker and more restless as Palcikas made his way back to the platform, but by that time the speeches were over and the foreign dignitaries had made their way from the podium and down onto the road leading to Denerokin’s front gate.

Anna Kulikauskas, accompanying the American senator, noticed Palcikas scuffle with the Secret Service agents, excused herself from Vertunin, and trotted over to Palcikas. “What are you doing, General? We agreed that you were not to be here when the arrests are made.”

“I came to warn you,” Palcikas said.

“What about?”

“Someone from inside Fisikous made a distress call,” Palcikas explained.

The ambassadors and the American senator continued to greet well-wishers, walking briskly toward the Denerokin gate, waving at the OMON security guards inside the facility. They did not notice that the guards had unslung their weapons and were now holding them.

“Anna, someone inside said armed intruders were storming the facility, which is ludicrous But four attack helicopters are on their way.”

“Attack helicopters? From Lithuania?”

“No! I don’t know who they’re from — the Commonwealth, or from Byelorussia. Either way, we’ve got to clear this crowd away from the gate before—”

But it was too late.

Anna turned and looked out over the crowd as a deep, rhythmic whapwhapwhapwhap of rotor blades could be heard.

Palcikas did not have to look to tell what it was: a formation of four Mil-24P attack helicopters. Each aircraft looked like a huge, deadly bird of prey. Each had two fixed wings on the sides just aft of the engine pods, where rocket pods and fuel tanks were mounted. There were two 30-millimeter cannons on the starboard side of the nose. They were among the deadliest ground-attack helicopters in the inventory — and they wore Byelorussian flags on their fuselages.

Anna turned back toward Palcikas, horror slowly giving way to fury. “What in hell are those things doing here, Palcikas?” she cried over the growing noise of both the choppers and the crowd. “We agreed no show of force, no guns, no intimidation. Those things … my God, they’re carrying bombs!”

“I was trying to warn you,” Palcikas shouted over the din. “I knew nothing about those choppers! I only heard about it—”

“Order them out! This is a peaceful demonstration.”

“I have no control over them!” Palcikas shouted. “General Voshchanka and Colonel Kortyshkov of OMON control those helicopters.”

“I don’t care who controls them. I want you to order those helicopters to leave this area!” Kulikauskas shouted. “This is outrageous! If a riot breaks out, with all these dignitaries here, it will be your fault!” Kulikauskas made a hurried apology to Senator Vertunin, then keyed her microphone and asked all the protesters to move away from the fence and sit down.

As the thunder of the choppers intensified, Palcikas began to hear another strange sound — singing! The protesters had sat down and were beginning to sing “Rebirth of a Nation.” A few in the crowd actually began waving to the pilots and gunners who could be seen peering out the Plexiglas canopies and standing at the open doors of their attack helicopters.

“General … look!”

Palcikas followed Kolginov’s warning shout and his heart skipped a beat. Senator Charles Vertunin and a group of about fifty protesters and security agents were continuing up the road toward the Denerokin gate.

At the same time, Palcikas could see OMON troops rushing toward the gate on the other side, weapons at the ready.

“Move out! Move out!” the loudspeaker blared.

Heavily armed troops were rushing out of the security headquarters building, rifles and tear-gas launchers at the ready. They carried steel batons, and the dogs on their leashes were in full view and ready to attack.

Colonel Nikita Ivanovich Kortyshkov of the MSB was at the microphone, shouting orders to his forces from atop the glass-walled security control tower that rose above the main gate area. To the young officer who had never commanded a combat unit and had been in Lithuania only a frw months, the sight of hundreds of people outside his gates had thrown him into a state of sheer panic. Their Lithuanian chanting sounded like angry, threatening cries of death. Every time a citizen approached Palcikas’ line of soldiers, he expected the rest of the crowd to follow and storm the fence. That would be disastrous. Not that Fisikous was in any danger of being overrun, but losing control of the situation would not help Kortyshkov’s career one bit.

General Gabovich wanted Kortyshkov to be firm, to take charge, and that’s exactly what he was going to do. Making a full sweep of the perimeter and checking to see that the helicopters were moving into position, Kortyshkov got back on the radio and ordered, “I want that crowd moved away from the open area. Signal the helicopters to dust them. Out.”

It was exhilarating to watch. The huge Mil-24 attack helicopters swooped down, hovering less than ten meters above the crowd sitting in front of the main gate. The dust and gravel in the perimeter open area flew first, the tiny stones becoming shotgun-like projectiles battering the protesters. Next went their banners and posters-Kortyshkov saw a few cardboard-and-wood signs whipping around the heads of the screaming Protesters, flying through the air like magical axes before being tossed against the gate itself. The impact of those posters and signs against the gate set off the intrusion alarms, and Kortyshkov ordered the horn cut off in the security control tower.

Next to go flying were the people themselves. The blast first knocked them backwards and on top of each other; then, as they tried to rise, the rotor wash threw them off their feet and sent them hurtling into the air like scarecrows caught in a tornado. A few tried to crawl away, but as more helicopters joined in the fray, even those who tried to crawl away close to the ground were sucked into the air and sent tumbling across the gravel. Kortyshkov especially delighted in seeing Palcikas’ men being tossed around as they, too, were caught in the rotor wash — that will teach them, Kortyshkov thought, to not wear their protective riot gear. Without face guards, they were as blind and as helpless as the protesters.

Kortyshkov then reached for a walkie-talkie clipped onto his belt and Spoke just one word: “Engage.” He then put the transceiver back on his belt and watched.

Somewhere in the crowd, several Byelorussian soldiers, disguised as Lithuanian Self-Defense Force soldiers or Lithuanian policemen, withdrew American-made M-79 grenade launchers from hiding places, raised the guns toward the Denerokin security gate, and fired. One grenade was deliberately aimed at one of the hovering attack helicopters so that it would hit the rotor disk. The ten grenades launched at the MSB troops guarding Denerokin were American-made Mk-23 gas grenades, dispersing a mild blister agent. The prevailing winds and the rotors of the attack helicopters would spread the gas away from the MSB troops inside Denerokin and out over the crowd. The guards inside Denerokin put on gas masks as soon as they saw the white propellant arcs heading inbound, and all the Black Beret troops inside the compound were protected when the gas grenades hit.

“Gas!” someone cried out.

Kortyshkov picked up the command-wide radio microphone. “All units, all units, full-assault response, full-assault response. Open fire.”

Confusion and shock grabbed the crowd as shots rang out. The one gas grenade that hit the Mil-24’s rotor disk made a big, spectacular white cloud over the crowd, and blister-agent droplets rained down on the helpless crowd. Although the gas was not debilitating and dispersed rapidly, its effect was worse than tear gas as the agent was inhaled and caused instant blistering of the trachea and bronchia. The four Mil-24s climbed to a safe altitude, joined, then started an attack run on the crowd.

Palcikas had rejoined Kolginov at the security communications truck near the front gate when he heard the horrifying sound of an AK-74 assault rifle on full automatic.

Just fifty meters away, a line of dust geysers sprouted out of the asphalt and grit around the compound perimeter, finally intersecting paths with the line of distinguished visitors and protesters in front of the main gate. Their bodies exploded in chunks of bloody gore as high-velocity 7.62-millimeter shells found their targets.

“Cease fire!” Palcikas shouted, ducking for cover behind the truck, issuing orders even before realizing that it could not be his own men doing the shooting. He peered around the truck’s bumper and, to his horror, saw more and more troops inside the Fisikous compound shooting into the crowd. “Cease fire, damn you!” Palcikas shouted above the gunfire. “Those civilians are unarmed!”

A few soldiers paused, looking at Palcikas and considering whether or not to obey his orders — after all, he was a general — but they quickly remembered who their real superior officer was, and continued firing through the fence into the screaming crowd outside. Palcikas had to duck back down behind his communications truck as an errant bullet whizzed by his head.

Then Palcikas realized that his own troops were taking hits — from Kortyshkov’s troops inside the compound! Stationed between the shooters and the crowd and barely visible in the confusion and swirling dust, the OMON troopers were shooting Lithuanian troops in order to clear a fire lane for themselves. Palcikas saw one OMON trooper with his AK-74 on full automatic, sweeping his muzzle in a short arc near four Lithuanian soldiers who were lying flat on their stomachs.

Palcikas had no choice: he pulled his 9-millimeter Makarov automatic pistol from his holster and fired, aiming at a spot well above the man’s head but close enough for him to feel the rounds whizzing near him and duck for cover. The bastard dropped to the ground, tried to reload, fumbled the magazine, and chose to simply lie down on the ground and cover his ears with his hands.

The noise swirling around him finally began to subside, and Palcikas took advantage of the relief to clear his head — before realizing that the reason the noise had subsided was that the Mil-24s had moved out of position. All four of them had suddenly wheeled away and flown to the south. Against the bright April sun, it was hard to see what the big choppers were doing.

But Palcikas soon found out.

The choppers had turned, formed up in a V-attack formation, and were coming in fast over the crowd. From about five hundred meters away they suddenly let loose with a volley of 30-millimeter cannon fire from underwing gun pods and nose cannons. The attack pass chopped a one-hundred-meter-wide bloody trail of destruction and death across the mass of protesters. The lead helicopter fired several rounds from the UV-32-57 rocket pod, barely missing the distinguished-visitors’ platform, but the platform was set instantly ablaze, and VIPs and security agents were being tossed around like dolls from the force of the explosions. The chopper’s target was the crowd nearest the fence, not the platform, and the huge 30-millimeter cannons were the preferred weapons. The big shells, huge steel sausage-sized bullets weighing as much as a can of soup, killed with utter devastation.

Kortyshkov watched with fascination as the Mil-24s turned away into the sun, then wheeled and dove out of the sun on their deadly run. The devastation was incredible — from relatively long range, protesters were being hit with uncanny accuracy, being lifted off their feet by the force of the heavy 30-millimeter shells’ impact before being tossed, quite dead and most completely dismembered, onto the ground. It was the most exhilarating sight he had ever seen in his life.

But then Kortyshkov saw the Lithuanian peasant Palcikas, firing a pistol toward the compound! Unbelievable! He raced over to another Window and saw one of his OMON troopers drop to the ground. There was no doubt in his mind that he had been Palcikas’ target. Palcikas was shooting at the OMON soldiers!

Sporadic gunfire still erupted from somewhere inside the compound, and the sound of the helicopters’ rotors was so loud as they passed overhead that Palcikas wasn’t sure if the pilots had heard his orders — but a few seconds later the helicopters wheeled to the west, took spacing, and set up a protective formation among themselves as one by one they lined up for landing inside the Denerokin compound. The attack had lasted less than thirty seconds, but Palcikas could see dozens of men, women, and children lying dead on the ground outside the compound.

No, not just dead — obliterated.

Palcikas and Kolginov were numb. Both had had experience in Afghanistan, fighting guerrilla attacks across the border during the conflict, and both had seen the aftermath of a Mil-24 attack. But to have it happen right in front of your eyes — bodies shredded into hamburger not fifty meters away — it was too horrible for words.

Palcikas grabbed the radio microphone, keyed in the Commonwealth’s aviation-command channel, and screamed in Russian: “All aviation units near Fisikous, this is General Palcikas. Disengage immediately! No hostile forces outside the security compound! Unarmed civilians only! Disengage!”

Kortyshkov couldn’t believe the balls Palcikas had as he heard Palcikas on the aviation-command radio net, ordering the helicopters to break off the attack. After identifying himself as a general, and after receiving no threatening return fire, the pilots had no choice but to comply. “You bastard!” Kortyshkov cursed. “You cowardly bastard.” Pushing past a sentry, Kortyshkov picked up his AK-74 from its rack near the door and stepped out onto the catwalk surrounding the outside of the security control tower.

Palcikas had returned to cover behind his communications truck outside the front gate, so Kortyshkov didn’t have a clear shot. Leaning over the catwalk railing, he shouted to his troopers, “Sergeant! Take two squads, arrest the protest leaders and General Palcikas! On the double!” Thirty Black Berets quickly converged on the OMON master sergeant, received their orders, and moved toward the front gate in two single files.

The devastation was horrifying, and Palcikas and Kolginov could do nothing else but stand in sheer disbelief at the piles of corpses all around them — women, children, old people, and their own Lithuanian Self-Defense Force troops, cut down like wheat under a combine. Every groan, every scream of pain, every spasm from that horrible mess tore at Palcikas’ heart like a razor — and it opened something within him.

No Russians died here, Palcikas realized.

Only Lithuanians.

As it had been throughout Lithuania’s one-thousand-year history, the people were worth nothing. Despite all of Palcikas’ power and influence, he could do nothing to save them.

“Call Trakai,” he murmured to Kolginov, forcing himself to take command. “Get ambulances, buses, trucks — anything that will hold litters. Alert the hospitals … Jesus….”

Through the screams and cries of the dying he heard a woman’s voice cry out to him. He saw Anna Kulikauskas, her dress, hair, face, and hands covered with moist blood, half-walking, half-stumbling over to him. She was carrying the body of a child, a girl no more than twelve years old. The child’s neck, face, and chest were horribly swollen and purple — the child had literally drowned in her own bodily fluids as she inhaled the deadly gas. Alexei Kolginov ran over and took the limp, bloody body out of her arms — Kulikauskas didn’t have the strength to resist. “Palcikas… Palcikas, you bastard!” she cried out. “What did you do? What in God’s name did you do …?”

“Anna! Are you hurt?”

“No… I don’t think so … Jesus, Palcikas, they’re all dead! All of them—“

His eyes widened. “Not—”

“Yes, yes … the ambassadors, the American senator … they ran toward the front gate. The Black Beret soldiers were shooting at them. Then the helicopters… cut them down one by one…”

“Stay here, Anna. You’ll be safe.”

“What did you do?” she repeated, almost hysterical. “Why did you order those troops to open fire? Why did you order those helicopters to attack …?”

“I didn’t issue those orders! Those troops belong to OMON, not to Lithuania!”

“I saw the grenades when they were fired — they came from your soldiers!” Kulikauskas stumbled over to him, grabbing his coat with trembling fingers. “You’re a murderer, General. You’ve killed dozens of innocent people here today.”

Kolginov had just set the child down and had motioned for a medic to help him when he glanced up at the security control tower over the front gate to the Denerokin compound. To his horror he saw Colonel Kortyshkov himself, aiming an AK-74 at Palcikas. “General! Cover…!”

Palcikas looked at Kolginov, then followed his gaze up to the security control tower and saw the AK-74 aimed at him. He grabbed Anna, tossing her behind the communications truck, just as he heard the automatic gunfire. He fell heavily against the truck and turned in time to see a spray of bullets pepper Kolginov from stomach to head. Holes as big as a man’s fist were ripping open over Kolginov’s body, and one round to the head sprayed the entire contents of Kolginov’s skull all over.

“Kortyshkov, you bastard!” Palcikas screamed. He tried to rise, drawing his Makarov sidearm at the same time, but at that moment a dozen rifles surrounded him and his arms were pinned to the ground from behind.

“Lie, still, General,” the squad leader ordered. “You are under arrest. Struggle and my men will kill you.”

“You can’t arrest me, you ass! I’m a Lithuanian Army officer! This is my country.”

“You will do as you are ordered, General.”

“No!”

It took most of them to subdue the big Lithuanian, but finally the Makarov automatic was pried from his fingers. A man knelt on Palcikas’ neck, pressing his head into the asphalt, so the only thing Palcikas could see as his hands were secured behind his back was Kolginov’s bloody, headless body lying a few meters away. He let out a loud, animal-like cry of fury and frustration. One of the Black Beret troopers plunged the butt end of his AK-74 against the back of Palcikas’ head, throwing him into tortured darkness.

They looked very, very unimpressive, General Lieutenant Voshchanka thought. Perhaps he expected to see them glowing blue, like he saw in foreign science-fiction movies; at the very least he expected them to look like artillery shells or rocket warheads, with pointed noses, fuze-setting rings, fins, thrusters, and all that. Instead, the three objects displayed before him looked like car transmission units, with funnel-shaped fittings attached to cylindrical units with tubes and knobs attached. He wondered half-seriously if he should take them home and bolt them up under his car rather than to five-million-ruble missiles. “Those are the oddest-looking missile warheads I have ever seen,” he told General Viktor Gabovich skeptically. “They don’t look very lethal.”

“Lethal?” Gabovich looked at the old Byelorussian general with complete surprise. Could the old fart really be this naive? “General, these are not only lethal, they’re devastating. The Fisikous KR-11 warhead is the state of the art in battlefield thermonuclear warheads. It’s a totally self-contained warhead, guidance unit, and fuzing mechanism in an ultracompact package. You do not need a separate guidance and fuzing system on your missiles, only a proper interface between the warhead and flight controls.”

Like a butcher trying to sell a strange cut of meat, or a man trying to sell a Romanian car, Gabovich stepped over to one of the warheads, patted it, and explained, “The guidance unit is in the back end, which would be near the center of gravity of the missile. It is a ring-laser gyro, capable of almost instantaneous leveling and coarse true-north alignment — you can race the transporter-erector-launcher over hundreds of miles, bang it around for hours, and park the vehicle with the motor running on uneven ground, and the gyro will still align itself to true north within sixty seconds. It can withstand forty Gs and very austere conditions, and it’s powered by chemical batteries that need no service or replacement. The inertial-measurement unit needs only two minutes of no motion for full fine alignment before launch.”

He could tell Voshchanka was still unconvinced. The old fool. So he continued, “The warhead itself is in the center section. It is a ten-kiloton FFF, or fission-fusion-fission device, one of the smallest and most efficient of its kind, with a plutonium-239 implosion device surrounding a deuterium fuel cell core, all surrounded by a uranium-235 shell. The initial implosion of the plutonium creates a fission reaction which burns the deuterium fuel, creating a large fusion reaction which burns the uranium casing to produce a sustaining fission reaction to fuel the—”

Voshchanka waved a hand dismissively in front of Gabovich’s face. “I don’t understand half of what you’re saying, Gabovich,” he said irritably. “Can you put all that into terms an old tread-and-boot soldier can understand?”

“Of course, General,” Gabovich said a tad condescendingly. Voshchanka was as stupid as some of those idiotic Lithuanians Voshchanka had gunned down at Fisikous the other day. “The result is an explosion nearly as large as the ones that destroyed Hiroshima and Nagasaki, in a Package that you can practically pick up and carry with you. If you program a ground burst — the detonation on impact — the fireball would be approximately two kilometers in diameter, with absolute vaporization for all but deep, extremely hard targets. With a five-thousand-meter-altitude airburst, there would be absolute destruction of all aboveground things for a diameter of five kilometers.

“Then what about fallout?” Voshchanka grumbled.

“Fallout is not as great a problem as you might expect,” Gabovich replied matter-of-factly. “The yield of these weapons is relatively low— these are not ‘ground-digging’ weapons — so the fallout is minimal for high airburst attacks. In a ground burst, the fallout of these weapons would spread for approximately twenty to thirty kilometers, depending on winds and weather.”

“Thirty kilometers! Lithuania is only three hundred kilometers wide!”

“Well, of course any use of nuclear weapons must be judicious and carefully planned,” Gabovich said easily. “In any case the radioactivity decays ninety-nine percent after only two days, making it safe to move about with protective clothing and respirators.” He motioned to a truck parked nearby and added, “In that truck I’ve provided you with five hundred sets of full nuclear/chemical/biological protective suits and masks, all manufactured at Fisikous with raw materials from Lithuania. More is on the way, plus I’m sure you have stockpiles of older Soviet equipment. After two weeks, unprotected soldiers can move about for a limited time.”

Voshchanka still looked skeptical. With a wry smile, Gabovich said, “General, for purely practical and political reasons, the facts about nuclear war have been one of the best-kept secrets of our time simply because if more generals knew the truth, more generals would use nuclear weapons. In fact, the proper application of low-yield nuclear devices can actually spare lives.

“Everyone believed that a nuclear detonation would create untold havoc all over the globe: melt the ice caps, encircle the globe with radioactive death, create a new Ice Age, and render the earth uninhabitable for thousands of years. That may have been true for a large-scale intercontinental exchange of thousands of the original atomic and hydrogen weapons that had yields of one, ten, or even one hundred megatons. Weapon development has moved from the realm of bigger bang for the buck to smaller, cleaner, more precise weapons. Why blow up the whole battlefield when you just want to take out a few tank companies?”

Voshchanka rubbed his chin, thinking.

“Look, with proper planning, modern weapons like the KR-11 can end a large-scale conflict long before it starts. And in today’s world, governed by bleeding-heart liberals and environmentalists, nuclear retaliation following a limited nuclear release is practically unthinkable. You’ll be able to effectively hold the entire world hostage with a small amount of weapons. You know why? Because you’ll convince them that you have more weapons and that you will not hesitate to use them. Do that and no one will dare challenge you.

“You make it all sound so easy,” Voshchanka said. “It is not easy. It is an awesome challenge.” He reached out to touch one of the warheads, but could not make himself touch the shiny metal casing, as if tiny rads of radiation might be leaking from the casing.

Gabovich suppressed an amused smile. The old war-horse looked like some Neanderthal who was watching a light bulb for the first time. How in hell does this man command soldiers on the modern-day battlefield if he’s afraid to touch an inanimate object like that? Gabovich finally motioned to the technicians that the warhead shrouds be replaced and the SCARAB missiles be reassembled for transport.

“You don’t have to use them, you know,” Gabovich finally said. “But having them around does make a difference — it’s an important factor in your campaign planning.” Gabovich paused, smiled mischievously, and added, “And for the man who instrumented that armed response at Denerokin the other day, I would dare say that the employment of small-yield nuclear weapons is a decision you can make. I must say, even I did not anticipate that you would use four Mil-24 attack helicopters on that crowd. It was a stroke of genius. You will be feared throughout Europe, I can guarantee you.” Gabovich handed Voshchanka a large briefcase, moved in a bit closer so no one could overhear, and said, “You have greatly impressed my principals at Fisikous. They are prepared to back you all the way. As we agreed: one million kroner.”

Voshchanka accepted the briefcase with a satisfied smile on his face. He had done it! he said to himself. He had not only convinced those Fisikous scientists to give him nuclear weapons and hard cash, but at the same time he had effectively silenced the Commonwealth of Independent States’ Council of Ministers, engineered a series of sweeping military maneuvers throughout Belarus, Kalinin oblast, and Lithuania, and convinced his own government to back him. In just a few days he had moved from being a disgraced, unemployed general officer to military leader of one of the greatest military takeovers in modern time.

Now he had the power to hold off any large-scale response until he consolidated his gains and improved his strategic position. “Yes,” Voshchanka nodded, clearly pleased with himself, “if we were to make others believe that Lithuanian and foreign terrorists were running rampant in Lithuania, my response had to be quick and massive. I would have sent an entire aviation company if I had had it available.”

“Your response was perfect, General,” Gabovich enthused, reminding himself not to lay the compliments on too thick or Voshchanka might think he was not being sincere. “Too little force would not have called attention to the incident; too much force would have directed attention to Your real motivations. I congratulate you. You are well on your way to total victory. But let us return to these little marvels of technology, shall we?

“You must keep these missiles under tight control, guarded closely night and day, and you guard your command and control center even tighter. You will control them from your headquarters in Minsk, I assume.”

“I have an alternate command center here in Smorgon that I shall use for this campaign,” Voshchanka said, “and Smorgon is defended much better than the bases in Minsk. We shall install the command-and-control system for the missiles here.”

“There should be a remote-command center,” Gabovich suggested, “so that if your headquarters is attacked, you will not completely lose control of the weapons.”

“There is no time to set up an alternate,” Voshchanka said. “My operation to take Lithuania and Kalinin oblast starts immediately. Once Minsk is secure and the Commonwealth forces removed from there, I will set up an alternate command center.”

“Very well, then. Security is paramount,” Gabovich said. “There are a lot of missiles, a lot of warheads, but only one commander. You are now it.” He withdrew a thick silver chain with two large flat rectangular keys on it. “The usual procedure is to use two-man control, and that is how I propose to install the command and control system in your headquarters. Your president has one key, you have the other, and both must—”

“No one will have the other key,” Voshchanka said firmly. “I alone will control those weapons.”

Gabovich’s eyes were riveted on Voshchanka. “But… General, if you are captured or betrayed, you lose all control of the weapons.”

“I will not be betrayed,” Voshchanka said confidently, “and if I am captured or killed, then I don’t care what happens to the weapons, do I?” He reached for the chain but Gabovich pulled the keys away from his grasp.

“One last thing before I give you the keys to the gates of hell, General,” Gabovich said with an amused smile. “We have an agreement, a bargain. You will crush the Lithuanian and Byelorussian opposition and expel all Commonwealth forces from Lithuania and Kalinin oblast, but you will keep Fisikous, myself, and the persons I have designated free and undisturbed. And you agree to provide full security for Fisikous and its workers and guarantee access to food, creature comforts, services, and raw materials to us throughout your occupation. These three missile warheads and nine more within the next thirty days, along with technical assistance on the operation of the fifty Soviet missiles you have in hiding, are our payment for this protection. All other weapons we provide are to be purchased from us on a cash basis. Agreed?”

“I already said I would agree.”

“Swear it,” Gabovich said. “You believe in God and Jesus Christ and the saints and in heaven — swear to God and Jesus Christ that you will abide by our agreement.”

It was Voshchanka’s turn to smile. “You sound as if you don’t trust me, General Gabovich.”

“I do not.”

“That is wise,” Voshchanka said smugly. “I do not trust you either. I will test the systems you are installing in my headquarters, and after we learn how all this equipment operates, we will change its location and operation so that you cannot alter them.”

“And we will devise safeguards to be sure that it will never happen,” Gabovich said. “You will have control of the weapons to use against your enemies, but we will have control to be sure that they are not used against us. And the first Byelorussian soldier that enters Fisikous without permission will end our agreement, in which case my associates and I will turn all our attention and efforts, not to mention our weapons, against you.”

“Other men may swear to God and the saints, General, but I swear by something I truly believe in… this!” Voshchanka laughed aloud, then placed his right hand over his crotch. It was the ages-old symbol of testaicari, in which a man seals his promise by nothing less than his manhood. “We will all need a great big handful of these to make it through this war, will we not?” He laughed again and slapped the former KGB officer on the back when he saw Gabovich’s shocked expression— Gabovich wasn’t about to shake Voshchanka’s hand after that. “I swear to abide by our agreement, General Gabovich. Perhaps I cannot trust you, but as long as I understand that you are not to be trusted, I can deal with you. Our glorious offensive to reunite the empire of Belarus begins immediately.”