The president and his staff, along with the Joint Chiefs, had reconvened in the Situation Room. The fatigue was felt by everyone, gnawing at their patience.
Ted Corbin had been summoned to the room and looked nervous, hands together, head down. He sensed everyone believed his subordinates had screwed the entire effort in the Kremlin.
“What is the status of the rescue effort, Ted?” Wilkinson asked gently, trying to remain steadfast to the CIA director.
“We haven’t heard anything as of yet,” Corbin answered without looking the chief of staff in the eye. “My people expect to have an update very soon. The helicopters, according to our estimate, should be on the way back. They should have departed Novgorod by now, if they didn’t meet any resistance.”
The president, looking through his update folder, addressed Wilkinson. “Grant, where do we stand?”
“Sir,” Wilkinson said, standing up and turning to the global situation display facing the president. “Our Teal Ruby satellites indicate numerous Soviet missiles and launch vehicles in the final stages of launch preparation. Same with the submarines, sir.”
Wilkinson tapped a button, then waited a second until a more graphic overview lighted the screen.
“Soviet conventional forces are making a show of standing down, but the nuclear forces are still poised for a strike in these areas.”
Wilkinson pointed to strategic centers in Russia, under the ice cap in the Arctic Ocean, and to the Atlantic Ocean near the Newfoundland Basin.
“The carrier Baku has joined the Kiev in the North Atlantic. They are in a position to strike anywhere in Europe or England. Sir, they’ve got us encircled,” Wilkinson pointed to the display, “along with our NATO allies.”
“Goddamnit,” the president said angrily. “The son-of-a-bitch is going to force us to remain in a high defense posture. Well, by God, his time is up. We’ll push back and see if Zhilinkhov wants to turn up the heat,” the president said, standing up. “Admiral Chambers, have the carrier groups launch fighterbomber sorties to stand off Soviet airspace.”
“Yes, sir,” Chambers replied, turning to Admiral Grabow.
A soft buzzer sounded, interrupting the oppressive tension spreading through the room.
“Yes,” the president responded, irritation written on his face, “what is it?”
The four ceiling speakers came to life. “Mister President, we have a Top Secret, scrambled message from Scarecrow One.”
The president, bewildered, looked at Grant Wilkinson. “Who the hell is Scarecrow One?”
Corbin looked up, surprised. “Scarecrow One is our rescue commander. He has the capability to send satellite direct anywhere in the world.” The CIA director appeared very tense, tapping his pen on the face of his watch.
“Patch him through,” the president ordered, then sat back down in his seat.
“Yes, sir,” the soft voice replied. “The feed is open, Mister President.”
Everyone waited, anxiety written on each face. Time seemed to have stopped.
“Mister President, Brad Buchanan, commander of Scarecrow One,” the pilot said clearly.
“We hear you,” the president responded calmly, “loud and clear.”
“Sir, the surviving agent we have on board has an urgent message to relay to—”
The president interrupted. “What do you mean, surviving agent?”
“The other agent died from his wounds, sir,” Buchanan explained, not knowing Wickham was still alive. “We have him on board.”
“Please continue,” the president asked, glancing at Wilkinson, then Admiral Chambers.
“The surviving agent was the Kremlin operative.” Buchanan paused. First formulating his words silently, he then spoke slowly and clearly. “Mister President, the agent states, categorically, that the Soviet general secretary is going to launch a preemptive nuclear strike — a first strike — against the United States.”
“What?” the president almost shouted. He was incredulous, staring up at the speaker as if it were human in form. “Let me speak with him.”
“I’ll put him on, sir,” Buchanan replied, not knowing what else he could say to the commander-in-chief of his country. “It will take a few seconds.”
During the ten-second pause, every person in the room, with the exception of the president, looked at each other, stares meeting blank stares.
A tentative voice came over the speaker, halting in manner. “Mister President, my name is Leonid Vochik, and I have been—”
“Yes, go on,” the president responded brusquely, reaching for a rum crook.
Dimitri inhaled deeply, then spoke. “I heard General Secretary Zhilinkhov say he is going to strike America with nuclear missiles.”
“Who did he say that to?” the president asked.
“Three of the Politburo members, and a former member,” Dimitri said, gaining confidence in himself. “The defense minister was there, too, and the chief of the general staff knows about the strike plans. No one else knows anything. Only the seven of them, sir.”
“Wait a moment,” the president ordered, then turned to Corbin, speaking in a low whisper.
“How reliable is this agent?” the president asked. “Can we believe him, really trust him?”
“Sir, he is considered extremely reliable,” Corbin said defensively. “Dimitri was handpicked and has done an excellent job. He isn’t a quick study, but he is absolutely loyal to the United States. He wouldn’t make up something like this. Dimitri has no reason, no motive, to lie, sir.”
“Okay, son,” the president continued, “when did you hear him make the comment about striking the United States?”
“Before he left for Lajes,” Dimitri answered, “to see you, Mister President.”
“That sonofabitch!” Wilkinson seethed, knowing his hypothesis about Zhilinkhov’s plans had been right. He never anticipated his thoughts would be so shockingly confirmed.
“What, precisely, did the general secretary say?” the president asked in a tense voice.
“He said that when the Soviet Union withdraws its forces, America would relax, and Russia would strike with nuclear and chemical missiles. He said it would be very soon, Mister President.” Dimitri was relieved to get it all out.
The president still had doubts. His mind was reluctant to comprehend this astonishing disclosure.
“Okay, son,” the president continued in a cordial manner. “Glad we got you out of there. You have performed well.”
“Thank you, Mister President,” Dimitri responded with pride in his voice.
The speakers fell silent as the president stood up and walked around the table.
“Go to DEFCON-One,” the chief executive said, trembling. “We’ll go with a second attack to the Soviet bombers to get Zhilinkhov’s attention.”
Zhilinkhov had been placed in bed, his speech distorted by the massive stroke he had suffered only minutes before. The news had spread rapidly through the Kremlin hierarchy but had been contained within the confines of the building. No one outside the Kremlin was to know anything.
“Comrade Doctor,” Pulaev, the elder Politburo member, asked, “what are his chances for recovery?”
“Too early to tell,” replied the portly physician. “Next twenty-four to thirty-six hours will tell us much. He needs rest, and this medication, for the time being.”
The doctor handed Pulaev a small container of capsules. “I’ll be just down the hallway, in the clinic, if the general secretary needs anything.”
The Kremlin clinic had every imaginable piece of medical and emergency equipment available, courtesy of Western generosity. A complete operating theater was staffed around the clock, seven days a week, by three doctors and four nurses.
The Politburo members and the defense minister gathered around Zhilinkhov. Dichenkovko patted Zhilinkhov’s limp hands. “Viktor Pavlovich, the doctor says you will be fine.” Zhilinkhov’s pale lips twitched in response. “You must rest for now. We will be with you.”