Or maybe he finally realized that it was time for him to start facing up to reality. He had flown three missions in Cheetah since she was hurt, tearing himself away — no, running away — from her agony, claiming that he was the only one who could do the job, the only one who could defeat James in DreamStar. In fact, a young F-15E back-seater in Cheetah could probably do a better job than a forty-year-old desk jockey. His responsibility was with his wife and her family — not hiding behind an oxygen mask and a radar scope.
“How is J.C. and your bird?” Elliott asked.
“Okay. Ready to go.”
“Okay. We’ve scheduled Cheetah for a photo-recon run over Puerto Cabezas — we’d like to pinpoint DreamStar’s location, but that’s unlikely. But they well might think it’s another prelude to an attack, help convince them to turn DreamStar over to us intact.
Silence.
“Patrick, about Wendy. What can I say? I wish to God she hadn’t been on that plane—”
“General, I’m sick and tired of everyone giving Wendy up for dead. And as far as I’m concerned we should stop pussyfooting around with the damned Russians. No more damn messages, no more warnings. If we think DreamStar is in Puerto Cabezas) let’s go in and get it. Right now. If we send Cheetah up to take pictures they’ll just move DreamStar somewhere else. Bring the carrier George Washington in with a naval bombardment squadron, level Puerto Cabezas, and let’s stop jacking around.”
When there was no response from the other end, he thought the connection had been broken. Then Elliott said: “Keep us advised on Wendy’s condition, Patrick. Elliott out.”
He dropped the phone back on its cradle. J.C. was looking at him carefully. “I’m leaving as soon as my plane gets here,” McLanahan told him.
The White House, Washington, D.C
“All I want to know from you, Vilizherchev,” President Taylor said as the Russian ambassador entered the Oval Office, “is where our aircraft is and when it will be returned to us.”
Sergei Vilizherchev was taken off guard but shrugged it off and continued inside the office. He was followed by Secretary of State Danahall, who had met the ambassador at the rear entrance to the White House. Secretary of Defense Stuart, Secretary of the Air Force Curtis, Secretary of the Navy John Kemp, National Security Adviser Chairperson Deborah O’Day, Speaker Van Keller and Attorney General Benson were already in the Oval Office, summoned there immediately after learning of the Russian’s hurried request for a meeting. The President’s advisers formed a semi-circle around Vilizherchev as the ambassador approached the President’s desk. Taylor ignored Vilizherchev’s offered hand: he did not stand to greet the ambassador.
The Russian smiled and made a slight bow. “Very nice to see you again, sir … “
“I asked you a question, Mr. Ambassador,” the President said. “I want that fighter. Immediately.”
“Mr. President, I am here to deliver my government’s most emphatic protest of the attack on our military installation last night,” Vilizherchev said, as if ignoring the President’s outburst. “That attack cost the lives of three pilots, four men on the ground, and millions of dollars worth of equipment and property destroyed. The attack was inexcusable—”
Taylor interrupted: “Mr. Curtis.”
Wilbur Curtis flicked on a high-resolution video monitor and began rolling a tape. “This was transmitted to us less than ten minutes ago, Mr. Ambassador,” Curtis said. The monitor showed a concrete bunker, open at both ends, inside a depressed, rain-soaked aircraft parking area. Soldiers surrounded the structure. A few could be seen pointing rifles in the air, obviously taking aim at the aircraft taking the photographs. Inside one open end of the hangar the unmistakable forward-swept wings of DreamStar could clearly be seen in the early-morning sunlight.
“You moved our aircraft to a different base, and we found it,” the President said. “If I don’t get the answer I’m looking for I pick up this phone and I order the Navy to level that base like they leveled Sebaco. In fifteen minutes this whole thing will be over — I guarantee it.”
“The attack will fail,” Vilizherchev said quickly. “Such an offensive has been anticipated. We have strengthened the coastal defenses and are ready for such an assault—”
“The crew of this recon jet reported no defenses anywhere,” Curtis said. “We have pictures of the destroyed SA-15 missile sites — want to see them, Mr. Ambassador?”
“I must also tell you, sir, that Soviet forces in the region are prepared to retaliate. If American bombers cross the border again, orders have been issued to attack Honduran airfields with Soviet supersonic bombers from Cuba. They will destroy one airfield, military or civilian, for every Nicaraguan base destroyed. The bombers are armed with supersonic cruise missiles that cannot be intercepted. If naval forces are encountered they have been ordered to attack them as well. Your new aircraft carrier George Washington is in the area, I believe — will you risk a three billion dollar vessel for one aircraft? Pride is a poor reason to go to war, sir.”
“Likewise stupidity,” the President said. “I don’t need to remind you what would happen if the Soviet Union tries to start a shooting war in the Caribbean.”
“We have two aircraft-carrier groups, three strategic air divisions and nine tactical air divisions ready to send into the area,” Stuart said. “That’s twenty capital ships and twelve hundred aircraft that can be deployed in less time than it will take you to get back to your office.”
“And all I need, mister, is one Russian cruise missile,” the President said. “Just one. It doesn’t even have to hit anything. One missile or one bomber aimed at American forces, and we end the Soviet presence in the Caribbean for good. I’ll wipe out everything with a red star on it.”
Vilizherchev stood in front of the President’s desk, virtually in shock. “You … you are talking a major war, Mr. President,” he said. “You are threatening war over this … this mere aircraft …”
“I’m threatening over your lies, your deceit. And your murdering. You stole our aircraft, murdered our soldiers, killed and destroyed and killed again all through Central America just to steal one fighter. What you’ve done is declare war on the United States. I’m going to start answering you by destroying Puerto Cabezas.” He picked up the telephone and punched two digits on the keypad.
“This is the President. Unlock file nine-six-zero-six bravo, authenticate with line charlie-charlie and execute immediately. Send reports to the Situation Room. I’ll be there in ten minutes.” He hung up the phone and pointed to Vilizherchev. “Good day, sir.”
“Will we not discuss this, Mr. President …?”
Just then two beepers went off — Vilizherchev spun around at the sound as if it had been a gunshot. Both Kemp and Curtis retrieved their tiny credit-card-sized pagers from jacket pockets and checked the message on its tiny liquid-crystal screen.
“Execution cross-checks, Mr. President,” Curtis said. “Crews are responding. I’d like to take it in the Situation Room.”
“You’re dismissed, John, Wilbur …”
“Wait, Mr. President, Secretary Curtis, Secretary Kemp, please,” Vilizherchev said. “We must discuss this …” Curtis and Kemp turned and headed for the door.
The President turned to his Secretary of State and his aide. “Dennis, Paul, escort the ambassador out of the White House. Deborah, I need you to call your staff down to the Situation Room in ten minutes to—”