“I am authorized to release the aircraft to you, Mr. President,” Vilizherchev shouted. Everyone in the room froze. The President pointed to the Secretary of the Navy.
“Get going, John. This sounds like a stall to me. Get your planes from the George Washington airborne. I want a prestrike briefing from the Navy when I get there. Wilbur, hang on for a minute.” Kemp opened his mouth, was about to say something, then decided against it and hurried out.
“I came here to organize a transfer of the aircraft back into your control, Mr. President,” Vilizherchev said, staring at the closed door of the Oval Office through which Kemp had just exited. He turned back to the President. “The General Secretary has directed that the aircraft be turned over to you immediately.”
“So what about all that garbage about retaliatory strikes, bombers and cruise missiles?” Deborah O’Day asked. “Was that a bluff?”
“The same as your bluff with the attack on Puerto Cabezas …”
“That is no bluff, Vilizherchev,” the President said. “I’ve got bombers from the George Washington lined up to attack that base, whether DreamStar is there or not. When the air attack is completed I’ve ordered a company of Marines to land, occupy that base and take control of the area. If they don’t find that aircraft, they’ll move down to Bluefields and level that base. After Bluefields they’ll move inland all the way to Managua.”
“This is not a bluff, Mr. Ambassador,” Curtis said. “Once those planes are airborne, we’re committed.”
“The President has approval from Congress, sir,” Van Keller said. The Speaker of the House of Representatives and the congressional Majority Leader was sweating. “The plan was presented early this morning to the Senate and House committee chairmen. We stand behind the President.”
“All right,” Vilizherchev said. “The bombers, the cruise missiles, the attacks against Honduras … I invented them. I had to find a way to regain at least some of my bargaining position—”
“This is not the time for diplomatic face-saving, Mr. Ambassador,” the President said. “In five minutes those planes launch.”
“I have been ordered to negotiate a way to turn the fighter back to you,” Vilizherchev said. “No conditions. The General Secretary has directed it be done immediately.”
“Is the aircraft flyable?” Curtis asked.
“Yes. It is at Puerto Cabezas, as you already know. It was flown there to avoid the attack against Sebaco.”
“What about the pilot? What about James?”
“A KGB agent; the project was run by the KGB. The General Secretary learned of the theft of the aircraft only after it landed in Nicaragua. The General Secretary never agreed to keep the aircraft in Nicaragua — he never knew of the plan to move it out of your country. The whole affair was run by Vladimir Kalinin of the KGB.”
“So why should the KGB turn the aircraft over to us now?” Deborah O’Day asked. “If they control the aircraft …”
“The aircraft is now in the hands of the Soviet army, not the KGB. Colonel Maraklov has been ordered to return to Sebaco to await transportation to Moscow via Managua. The army has orders to make the aircraft ready to be flown out of Nicaragua.”
Deborah O’Day looked at the President. “Sir, it is over …”
“Not yet,” the President said. “I’ll cancel the air strike, but I’m keeping the George Washington on station. I don’t trust these people. Not any more. Wilbur, I want you in the Situation Room for a meeting. Postpone the air strikes for now.” Curtis nodded, a faint hint of a smile on his face not detectable by anyone, and departed.
“Then I suggest sending in a security force to guard the aircraft,” Stuart said, “until we can figure out how we can get the aircraft out of there.”
“General Elliott is in the Cayman Islands in control of the air forces,” O’Day said. “He has a man that can fly DreamStar — only specially trained pilots can fly it. He can send in a security unit with the pilot and some technicians that can inspect the aircraft. He can make the decision on how to get DreamStar out.”
The President nodded to O’Day, then looked at the Russian ambassador.
Vilizherchev understood that look. “I assure you, the General Secretary is anxious to be done with this … incident.”
“Bill, get down to the Situation Room, advise Mr. Kemp to hold the Second Fleet’s air raid but tell them to stay on the alert.” Stuart nodded and departed.
“Deborah, set up a satellite call in the conference room with General Elliott. We will plan this thing together so the ambassador knows what we’ll want from his people and the Nicaraguans. I’ll meet you all there in a minute.” Van Keller, Danahall and Vilizherchev filed out of the Oval Office, led by Cesare, but Deborah O’Day stayed behind.
“What is it, Debbie?”
“Did I hear all this correctly a minute ago? Did I hear you say you had elements of the Second Fleet ready to invade Nicaragua?”
“You must have heard it correctly,” the President said with the hint of a smile. “Kemp and Curtis heard it, too.”
O’Day said, “Strike aircraft with heavy bombs on board usually have to jettison their bombs before recovering back on the carrier. But I’m confused. I didn’t know anything about an invasion plan. Did you formulate a plan with John and—” She stopped, then stared at the President. “You made that up?”
“I thought Vilizherchev might be lying to me again,” the President said, “so I raised the stakes on him. He had nothing in his hand, but he wanted to challenge me. The guy has balls. Without authorization, without anything to back himself up with, the guy stood in front of me and threatened us with war if we didn’t back off.”
“So what will you do if the Russians won’t turn DreamStar over to us? Will you invade Nicaragua after all?”
“Yes. He forced my hand, whether he knew it or not. Now we both have to live with that threat. Hell, I wish we did have congressional authorization for an invasion. Van Keller makes a good poker player, too. He played right along, just like you and Wilbur.
“If the Russians don’t turn over DreamStar, I’m prepared to destroy Puerto Cabezas, then order the Marines to occupy it. We’ll have to make a decision on whether or not to go after those other airfields and bases after that.”
Sebaco, Nicaragua
“Am I under arrest?” Andrei Maraklov said, pulling himself away from the KGB Border Guards that had escorted him into Sebaco’s command post.
General Tret’yak turned toward him, waving at the guards to leave him. “Arrest? No, Colonel, you are not under arrest. Why would you think such a thing?”
“Because some Russian and Nicaraguan army bozos dragged me out of DreamStar and threw me into a helicopter to take me back here,” Maraklov said. “What the hell is going on? I can’t allow DreamStar to be left alone and unprotected like that. And I want my flight suit back. That’s a delicate piece of equipment—”
“It’s no longer your concern, Colonel. You don’t look so well, Colonel Maraklov. Apparently Central America does not agree with you.”
Actually Maraklov did look in poor health. Most of the men under Tret’yak’s command, because of bad water, stress, and the spicy food had lost weight after coming to Nicaragua, tut Maraklov had only been here a week and he looked emaciated. The elastic belt on his flight suit was drawn in so much that the ends overlapped halfway around his waist, and his eyes looked almost ghostly in the command center’s stark overhead lighting. He also seemed to be losing hair. Could he be on drugs? No — Maraklov was guarded night and day and observed through hidden cameras while in his room. If he was doing drugs he was being very crafty indeed to escape detection.