Alexandra Hedrov looked at Zevitin silently for a long moment; then: “What is this all about, Leonid? Do you just want to harass Gardner? What for? He is not worth the effort. He will more likely self-destruct without you constantly…how did you say, ‘niggled’ him. And certainly you cannot want Russia to align with and support the Iranians. As I said before, they are just as likely to turn on us after they retake their country.”
“This has absolutely nothing to do with Iran, Alexandra, and everything to do with Russia,” Zevitin said. “Russia will not be encircled and isolated any longer. Gryzlov was a megalomaniac, sure, but because of his insane ideas Russia was feared once more. But in their absolute fear, or pity, the world began to give the United States all it wanted, and that was to encircle and try to squash Russia again. I will not allow that to happen.”
“But how will deploying these anti-spacecraft weapons accomplish this?”
“You don’t understand, Alexandra — threatening war against the Americans will only serve to increase their resolve,” Zevitin explained. “Even a spineless fop like Gardner will fight if his back is forced against the wall — at the very least, he’ll turn his junkyard dog McLanahan loose on us, as much as he resents his power and determination.
“No, we must make the Americans themselves believe they are weak, that they must cooperate and negotiate with Russia to avoid war and disaster,” Zevitin went on. “Gardner’s hatred — and fear — of McLanahan is the key. To make himself look like the brave leader he can never be, I’m hoping Gardner will sacrifice his greatest general, dismantle his most advanced weapon systems, and retreat from important alliances and defensive commitments, all on the altar of international cooperation and world peace.”
“But why? To what end, Mr. President? Why risk war with the Americans like this?”
“Because I won’t stand to see Russia encircled,” Zevitin said sharply. “Just look at a damned map, Minister! Every former Warsaw Pact country is a member of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization; almost every former Soviet republic has a NATO or American base of some kind on it.”
Zevitin went to light up another cigarette, but threw them across his desk in blind anger. “We are wealthy beyond the dreams of our fathers, Alexandra, and yet we can’t spit without the Americans complaining, measuring, analyzing, or intercepting it,” he cried. “If I wake up and see that damned space station shooting across the sky—my Russian sky! — once more, I am going to scream! And if I see another youngster on the streets of Moscow watching an American TV show or listening to Western music because he or she has free Internet access courtesy of the American domination of space, I will kill someone! No more! No more! Russia will not be encircled, and we will not be smothered into submission by their space toys!
“I want Russian skies cleared of American spacecraft, and I want our airwaves cleansed of American transmissions, and I don’t care if I have to start a war in Iran, Turkmenistan, Europe, or in space to do it!”
“Stud Zero-Seven is ready to depart, sir,” Master Sergeant Lukas reported.
“Thanks, Master Sergeant,” Patrick McLanahan responded. He flipped a switch on his console: “Have a good trip home, Boomer. Let me know how the module release experiments and new re-entry procedure works.”
“Will do, sir,” Hunter Noble responded. “Feels weird not having you on board flying the jet.”
“At least you get to pilot it this time, right?”
“I had to arm-wrestle Frenchy for it, and it was close — but yes, I won,” Boomer said. He got an exasperated glance in his rear-cockpit camera from U.S. Navy Lieutenant Commander Lisette “Frenchy” Moulain, an experienced F/A-18 Hornet combat pilot and NASA space shuttle mission commander and pilot. She had recently qualified to be spacecraft commander of the XR-A9 Black Stallion spaceplane and was always looking for another chance to pilot the bird, but none of her arguments worked this time on Boomer. When Patrick flew to and from the station — which was quite often recently — he usually picked Boomer to be his backseater.
Minutes later the Black Stallion detached from the docking bay aboard Armstrong Space Station, and Boomer carefully maneuvered the craft away from the station. When they were far enough away, he maneuvered into retrorocket firing position, flying tailfirst. “Countdown checklists complete, we’re in the final automatic countdown hold,” he announced over intercom. “We’re about six hundred miles to touchdown. Ready for this one, Frenchy?”
“I’ve already reported my checklists are complete, Captain,” Moulain responded.
Boomer rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. “Frenchy, when we get back home, we need to sit down at a nice bar somewhere on the Strip, have an expensive champagne drink, and talk about your attitude — toward me, toward the service, toward life.”
“Captain, you know very well that I’m engaged, I don’t drink, and I love my work and my life,” Moulain said in that same grinding hair-pulling monotone that Boomer absolutely hated. “I might also add, if you haven’t realized it by now, that I hate that call-sign, and I don’t particularly care for you, so even if I was unattached, drank alcohol, and you were the last man on earth with the biggest cock and longest tongue this side of Vegas, I wouldn’t be seen dead in a bar or anywhere else with you.”
“Ouch, Frenchy. That’s harsh.”
“I think you’re an outstanding spacecraft commander and engineer and a competent test pilot,” she added, “but I find you a disgrace to the uniform and I often wonder why you are still at Dreamland and still a member of the United States Air Force. I think your skill as an engineer seems to overshadow the partying, hanging out at casinos, and the constant stream of women in and out of your life — mostly out—and frankly I resent that.”
“Don’t hold back, Commander. Tell me how you really feel.”
“Now when I report ‘checklist complete,’ Captain, as you fully well know, that indicates that my station is squared away, that I have examined and checked everything I can in your station and the rest of the craft and found it optimal, and that I am prepared for the next evolution.”
“Oooh. I love it when you talk Navy talk. ‘Squared away’ and ‘evolution’ sound so nautical. Kinda kinky too, coming from a woman.”
“You know, Captain, I put up with your nonsense because you’re Air Force and this is an Air Force unit, and I know Air Force officers always act casually around each other, even if there’s a great difference in rank,” Moulain pointed out. “You’re also the spacecraft commander, which puts you in charge despite the fact that I outrank you. So I’m going to ignore your sexist remarks during this mission. But it certainly doesn’t change my opinion of you as a person and as an Air Force officer — in fact, it verifies it.”
“Sorry. I didn’t catch all that. I was busy sticking pencils in my ears to keep from listening to you.”
“Can we follow the test flight plan and just do this, Captain, without all the male macho bullshit nonsense? We’re already thirty seconds past the planned commencement time.”
“All right, all right, Frenchy,” Boomer said. “I was just trying to act like we’re part of a crew and not serving on separate decks of a ship in the nineteenth-century Navy. Pardon me for trying.” He pressed a control stud on his flight control stick. “Get me out of this, Stud Seven. Begin powered descent.”