The closer they got to completion of the aircraft, the more celebratory was the mood. Everyone was in good spirits when they filed into the Rancher’s Cafe and Lounge and started to place orders. Barr engaged Julie Jorgenson in a discussion of educational priorities. He was insidiously leading her into the belief that every student should be able to write well before an English teacher pounded Shakespeare and Dickens into them. She had become very easy with Barr, perhaps somewhat awed by his command of the pressing issues in education. He knew about test results and national comparisons of ability.
Wyatt twisted the top off a bottle of Budweiser and carried it to the short hallway between the dining room and the semi-darkened lounge. There were two couples at tables and three single men at the bar. He lifted the receiver from the wall-mounted telephone and used his CIA-funded calling card to place his call.
There was no answer at Kramer’s number. He didn’t leave a message on the answering machine.
The machine answered at Aeroconsultants, but didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.
For the fifth time, he tried Kramer’s father in Seattle.
“Mr. Kramer, this is Andy Wyatt.”
“Good evening, Mr. Wyatt.”
George Kramer had always been very formal with Wyatt, perhaps because from the first he had resented Wyatt taking his little girl away from Seattle. Or maybe because he knew more about Wyatt’s relationship with his little girl than Wyatt thought he knew.
“Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Kramer, but I wondered if Jan had checked in with you?”
The first time he had called Seattle, Wyatt had had to use the excuse that Jan was on vacation and he needed to get in touch with her.
“Why yes, Mr. Wyatt, she sure did.”
“Great! Is she there? Or do you know where I could reach her?”
“She doesn’t want to talk to you.”
George Kramer sounded positively gleeful.
Eight
The Director of Central intelligence was not only the chief executive of the Central intelligence Agency, but also head of the other agencies in the intelligence community — Defence Intelligence, the National Security Agency, the military and cabinet-level intelligence services. He split his time between offices at Langley and in the District. It kept him busy enough that Martin Church and the other three deputy directors — Intelligence, Science and Technology, and Administration — had little day-to-day contact with him, though they all got together for monthly staff meetings.
Church reported directly to the Executive Director who reported through the Deputy Director for Central Intelligence to the DCI. That process was all right with Church because he didn’t particularly care for the director, a seemingly cold man with political in-fighting ability who could get stubborn about his own viewpoints.
The Executive Director called him in mid-afternoon. “You busy right now, Marty?”
“Nothing I can’t toss in the drawer.”
“The DCI would like to talk to you.”
“Me? Alone?”
“Go on over to his office now.”
The director’s office suite was lavish and spacious, with its own conference and dining room. His two overburdened secretaries were working feverishly at computer terminal keyboards and fielding constantly chiming telephones. He was pointed in the direction of the dining room.
He knocked on the door before opening it.
“Come on in, Martin.”
The DCI was in the kitchenette making himself a cheese sandwich. He ate half-a-dozen times a day, probably because his caloric intake couldn’t keep up with the frenetic pace he maintained.
“Do you want a sandwich?” he asked. “Or maybe a piece of apple pie?”
“No, sir. Thanks, anyway.”
He came out of the kitchenette, swigging from a can of 7UP, and plopped in one of the soft, castered chairs at the big table.
“Sit down, Martin. I’ve got about ten minutes before I leave for the District.”
Church sat across from him.
“I read the intelligence estimate you sent up this morning. The Libyan thing.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Any reservations about it? About the eight thousand figure for the warheads?”
“No,” Church said. “Embry’s playing it right down the middle of the road. They could well have a few more than we’re projecting.”
“Okay. I’m going to bring it up at the NSC meeting. Then, I’m going to spring the Icarus Project on them. What’s Wyatt’s state of preparation?”
Church managed to keep his face immobile, but his mind reeled as if he had been slugged. For the past two months, he had been proceeding with Wyatt’s mission — codenamed Icarus — under the impression that the National Security Council had already signed off on it. The DCI was capable of that deception, though. He was fond of building up his pet projects in secrecy for weeks at a time while concurrently spiking conversations with hints about the future, then springing the projects on people. It made him appear as if he was always prepared for any eventuality. His reputation as a Boy Scout hadn’t been tarnished since he took office.
“Uh, sir, it looks like about ten or twelve days,” Church said.
The director flipped open his Daytimer. “August four at the earliest?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. The President’s going to be at this meeting, and I want the image of eight thousand warheads to have some impact. I’m going to show that video that Science and Technology put together, the one about toxic effects on humans. I think I can get closure on the project immediately. If I can swing an Executive Order, we can bypass the Congressional oversight committees until the mission’s complete.”
“Is there a chance they won’t approve it?” Church asked.
“Very damned little, I think.”
“What do I tell Wyatt?”
“You don’t tell Wyatt a damned thing.”
Lieutenant Colonel Ahmed al-Qati leaned between the two helicopter pilots and squinted at the horizon. They were flying low, though high enough to avoid raising a dust cloud behind them, and the horizons were close. When he saw the miniature sandstorm erupt and the two Sukhoi-24 bombers begin their climbout, he tapped the pilot on the shoulder.
“Go now, Lieutenant,” he said over the intercom.
The nose of the helicopter dipped as it picked up forward speed.
Through the right side window of the Mi-8, al-Qati saw the sister helicopter, some fifty meters away, also increase its speed.
He turned to the rear and studied the thirty infantrymen poised in their seats. They were already dressed in their shapeless chemical warfare clothing, their packs strapped to the outside of the protective parkas.
Al-Qati signalled the lieutenant watching him, and the officer passed the signal to his men. The steel helmets came off as gas masks were donned. They pulled their balaclava headwear, constructed of flexible vinyl and extremely hot and uncomfortable, on next, then replaced their helmets. The unwieldy vinyl gloves were next, then they re-gripped their weapons.
They looked like bug-eyed monsters from some poorly produced Japanese movie, al-Qati thought.
“Two kilometres, Colonel,” the pilot said. “We’ll be entering into the cloud in a few seconds.”
“Prepare yourselves,” al-Qati said, pulling the headset from his ears and unsnapping the gas mask case at his waist.
The pilots took turns adjusting their own masks while al-Qati snugged his into place, blew through his nose to exhaust the air and seal the soft rubber against his skin. As soon as he tugged the hood over his head, his skin erupted in perspiration.
He always felt as if the mask short-changed him on air supply.