He tried to clear his head, looked for the two agents who had come with him.
They were gone. So was the body of Kenneth James. He went to the door, opened it, looked outside. Nothing:
And then he heard: “What a great hotel.” A female voice. “Free peep shows.” He turned and saw three college-age women clustered around the elevator. Only then did he realize he was standing in the hallway wearing only a pair of briefs.
“Prastiti … uh, sorry …”
“Don’t be, sugar,” one of them said, straining for a better look as Maraklov ducked back into his room. “It looks to me like you got nothin’ to be sorry for.”
He must get hold of himself. After all the training, the conditioning, the first word he uttered as Kenneth Francis James to the first Americans he saw was a Russian word. He could only hope they hadn’t noticed. Probably not, but it was a warning to him …
He collapsed onto the bed. On the bedspread were some pieces of gold jewelry, a large, heavy Rolex watch, a wallet, some bills in a silver money clip, the hotel key and assorted papers and receipts. The two agents had taken James’ clothing, but an open suitcase sitting on a clothes valet in a corner had plenty more.
A drink. He needed one. The room’s tiny refrigerator was empty except for an icetray with half a dozen cubes. He thought about calling for room service but didn’t want anyone inside the room until he had triple-checked it for any evidence of a struggle. The drink wouldn’t wait.
He selected a pair of slacks and a red polyester pullover shirt from the suitcase, slipped on a pair of Nikes — they fit perfectly — slipped on the Rolex and gold chains, pocketed the room key, money and wallet, brushed his hair. He studied himself in the mirror. The shirt was a bit tight across his chest, and his thighs strained some against the pants legs. He could detect the faintest evidence of plastic surgery scars. Never mind. He had to get out of this room where Ken James had died … and been reborn?
He made his way downstairs to the hotel’s Polynesian bar and seated himself in an area where he could watch all the exits and windows, just as he had been taught at the Connecticut Academy.
“Good evening, Mr. James.”
Maraklov willed himself not to show what he felt. A waitress in a tight sarong slit up each side nearly to her waist had come up behind him and put down a cocktail napkin. “Hi, there, Mr. James. Your usual?”
Maraklov nodded.
“I need to see your I.D. again. Sorry.”
Identification! Slowly he withdrew the wallet, opened it and held it up for the waitress.
“Not that one, silly.” She reached in behind the driver’s license in the front and pulled out an identical-looking laminated card. “Thank you, Mr. James. Back in a flash.”
After she left Maraklov took a close look at the hidden card. The birthdate had been cleverly changed. A fake I.D. Apparently the hotel staff knew the routine — even better than the “new” Ken James. A few moments later the waitress returned, placing a huge frosted champagne glass on the napkin.
Maraklov looked at her. “This is my usual?” Immediately he regretted the words. A giveaway …
“Not tonight, lover,” the waitress said. She nodded over toward the bar. “Champagne cocktails, compliments of those ladies over there.” He turned and saw the three women that had seen him in the hallway at the elevator. They raised their glasses toward him, smiling.
“Well, Romeo,” the waitress said. “What are you waiting for?”
Slowly, carefully, Maraklov rose to his feet. To his surprise, he found his legs and knees quite strong. Without thinking, he reached into his wallet, extracted the first bill he touched and handed it to the waitress as he picked up his cocktail. It was a twenty dollar bill.
“Thank you, Mr. James,” she said. “A real gentleman, as always.” She lowered her voice, moved toward him. “If those waihilis don’t do it all for you, Mr. James, why, you just leave a message for me at the front desks Mariana knows what you want.”
Still feeling shaky inside, he made his way toward the bar, smiling. Andrei Ivanschichin Maraklov was about to experience his first night as an American named Kenneth James. Now he was the real Ken James. The only one.
McConnell Air Force Base, Kansas
“Required SATCOM reports are as follows,” Air Force Captain Ken James said. He motioned to a hand-lettered, expertly rendered chart beside him but kept his eyes on his “audience” and did not refer to it. “As soon as possible after launch we transmit a sortie airborne report. If we launched on an execution message we transmit a strike-message confirmation report.” He pointed to a large map on another easel. That depicted the strike routing of his B-1B Excalibur bomber as it proceeded on its nuclear-attack mission.
“After each air refueling we transmit an offload report, advising SAC of our aircraft status and capability to fulfill the mission. On receipt of a valid execution message, if we weren’t launched with one, we would acknowledge that message as well as any messages that terminated our sortie. After each weapons release, if possible we transmit a strike report that gives SAC our best estimate of our success in destroying each assigned target. The message also updates SAC on our progress and advises them of any difficulties in proceeding with the mission. Of course, staying on time, on course and alert has priority over all SATCOM or HF message traffic. All strike messages can wait until we climb out of the low-level portion of the route and are on the way to our post-strike base. These messages can also be delivered to other SAC personnel heading stateside, to U.S. foreign offices, or to overseas military bases capable of secure transmissions to SAC headquarters.”
He pointed further along the route. “Other messages will include launch reports from the post-strike and each recovery base: NUDET — nuclear detonation — position reports, GLASS EYE combat damage reports, severe weather reports, continental-defense-zone entry reports and sortie recovery and regeneration reports.”
James lowered his pointer and stepped away from the charts. “SIOP communications are extremely important, and the SAC aircraft involved with the execution of our Single Integrated Operations Plan are a front-line asset in keeping the Strategic Air Command, the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the National Command Authority advised of the progress worldwide of any conflict. We feel we have the world’s most up-to-date and survivable communications networks, but of course it’s no good unless each aircrewman uses it effectively.” He looked around the empty briefing room. “That concludes my annual Mission Certification briefing, Colonel Adams. Any questions, sir?”
“Not bad, not bad — for a pilot,” came a voice from the back of the room. Kenneth frowned at the man who came in now and began to pack up the briefing charts and diagrams.
“Kiss my ass, Murphy,” Ken said. “It was a perfect briefing — even for a navigator.”
Captain Brian Murphy, James’ offensive-systems officer on his B-1 crew, had to admit it. “Yeah, it was, Ken. No doubt about it. But why are you spending so much time on that stuff? On an Emergency War Order certification, briefing is done by the radar nay or the defensive-systems operator. Not by the pilots.”
“I heard Adams likes to hit his mission-ready crews with little surprises,” Ken said. “His favorite is mixing up the usual briefing routines to make sure each guy on the crew is familiar with the other guy’s responsibilities. He likes to hit nays with pilot questions, too — how well do you know your abort-decision matrices?”