“I hope they give us separate cells,” Jake told him. “A rear admiral ought to rate a private cell.”
5
“Yeltsin said yes. Two hours ago.”
“Sure took him long enough,” Jake Grafton muttered. “If I were sitting on all those weapons I’d have got a hot seat months ago.”
General Brown consulted his watch. “Fifteen hours ago two army bases were attacked. The Russian government says the attackers stole machine guns, artillery, APCs and at least ten truckloads of ammunition.”
“Truckloads?”
“Yeah,” General Brown said. “They killed sixty soldiers at one base, fifty at another, and blew up all but the trucks and APCs they drove out.”
“Who?”
“They aren’t sure. Maybe criminal gangs, maybe Armenians again. Maybe some ex-soldiers who are starting their own private army.” General Brown stepped to the map on the wall and pointed. “Here and here.”
When he had resumed his seat, he said, “The CIA’s man went over yesterday.”
“Tenney?”
“Yes. He’ll meet you at the embassy. Ambassador Lancaster will brief you. The president wants the nukes neutralized and the Russian government strengthened. Talk to those people. Let us know what you need to do the job.”
Jake Grafton didn’t laugh. It was too ridiculous for that. How in hell had he gotten into the middle of this mess?
“And,” General Brown continued, “if you can piss on any of those outlaw or rebel gangs, that’ll be all right too.”
His stomach felt like there was a rock in it. “Yessir,” he managed.
“The air force will have a C-141 at Andrews in six hours. Be on it.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
Albert Sidney Brown came around the desk and held out his hand. “Good luck, Admiral.”
“Don’t worry, sir. I’ll take my rabbit’s foot along.”
“You’re going to need more than a rabbit’s foot,” Callie told Jake as she passed him aspirin and toilet articles to put in his bag. He had just mentioned his parting remark to General Brown. She didn’t think it was very funny. As she watched him stuff underwear around his Smith & Wesson .357 Magnum and shoulder holster, she tartly added, “You’re also going to need more than that little popgun.”
She pushed her hair back out of her eyes. “Oh, you men! Jetting off into the middle of a revolution. It’s so damn pathetic.”
“It isn’t really a revolution,” her husband replied as he folded underwear around a box of pistol ammunition and added it to the bag. “Yeltsin’s still in the driver’s seat, still in control.”
“For how long? What does anyone think you and Toad can really accomplish?”
“Oh, we’ll have some help. Too much probably. But if we can just prod the Russians into—”
“Don’t change the subject,” Callie said sharply. “You know precisely what I mean. Even with the entire United States Army over there you’d still be outnumbered ten to one. Sending you and Toad over there is some kind of insane joke.”
“Umph,” Jake grunted.
Toad Tarkington’s opinion had been more colorful but no more optimistic: “Once again our politicians are saving the world from foreign politicians stupider than they are. And we nincompoops in uniform smartly salute and grab ankles. BOHICA!” Ah yes, that lovely old acronym, BOHICA — Bend Over, Here It Comes Again.
Callie jerked a pair of trousers away from him that he was rolling up. She folded them carefully and handed them back. “Not that they’ll send the entire army,” she said. “You’ll be lucky to get two privates and a corporal. One of the privates will be the cook and the other will peel potatoes. Presumably the corporal will have a few minutes a day to help you and Toad when he isn’t busy supervising the privates.”
She sat heavily. “Oh, Jake. Why you?”
He sat down beside her and took her in his arms.
“Everything will work out. It always does.”
“No. Everything doesn’t always work out. I’m really tired of hearing that trite little phrase.”
“You know me, Callie,” Jake Grafton said. “Trust me.”
“Hey, babe. It’s me, Toad. We’re leaving today.”
“Now?” Rita asked.
Toad gripped the telephone tightly. “Plane leaves Andrews at six.”
“I’ll see if I can get the rest of the day off,” she said. “You’re at home?”
“Yeah. Packing.”
“If I don’t call in ten minutes I’m on my way home.”
“Okay.”
“I have a bad feeling about this, Toad.”
“It’ll be okay.”
“I love you.”
“I know that, babe. And I love you.”
“See you in a while.”
The C-141 headed north on the great circle route to Moscow. After it climbed above the stratus clouds covering the East Coast of the United States, it flew in a clear sky illuminated by the sun low on the horizon.
Jake Grafton came up to the flight deck and visited a moment with the pilots, then stood looking at the vastness of the sky. “It doesn’t ever get dark at this time of year at these latitudes,” the copilot told him.
“How many times have you guys flown this route?” Jake asked.
“Couple dozen times for me, sir,” the pilot, an air force major, replied. He nodded at the copilot, a first lieutenant. “This is his second trip.”
Cold. The sky looked bleak and cold, even with the sun shining. The cockpit was a tiny capsule of life adrift in an indifferent universe.
Jake shivered once, then returned to the little passenger section. There were only eight seats and Toad was asleep in one of them. In the next row the liftmaster, a senior sergeant, also snoozed. The rest of the plane was filled with military rations bound for orphanages and soup kitchens for the elderly. The admiral opened the door to the cargo compartment and stood there looking. Overhead lights illuminated the cargo compartment and the sea of boxes stacked on pallets.
The incongruity of the situation appalled him, filled him with a sadness devoid of hope that seemed to drain the energy from him. Insanity, Callie had said. Yes, that was the word. A nation with enough nuclear weapons to kill half the life on earth and doom the rest couldn’t feed its old people, its children.
Jake closed the door and sagged into a seat.
He tried to sleep but it wouldn’t come. Finally he turned so he could look out the window at the cold, infinite sky.
At Sheremetyevo Airport near Moscow, the C-141 was parked next to a Soviet military terminal across the field from the regular passenger terminal. Jake and Toad exited the plane through the rear cargo door after it had been opened. Although the plane had been airborne for twelve hours and it was 6 A.M. in Washington, it was two o’clock in the afternoon here on a pleasant summer day. Small puffy clouds floated in a blue sky. They stood on the concrete ramp beside their bags and watched a limo driving toward them. It came to a halt and a man in a U.S. naval officer’s uniform climbed out.
“Lieutenant Dalworth, sir,” said the young officer after he had saluted. He pulled open the back door of the car. As Jake and Toad climbed in he added, “You don’t have to go through customs.”
“How come?”
“I arranged it, sir. I’ve become pretty good friends with several of the customs and emigration guys.”
Jake was taken slightly aback.
“Don’t worry, sir. With diplomatic passports, the whole deal is just a formality. I’ve partied with those guys, given them some sacks of groceries and gotten drunk with them. They know I won’t screw ’em.”
Three minutes later, after Jake’s and Toad’s baggage was loaded in the trunk, Dalworth climbed in and got the car in motion. Toad Tarkington mused, “Dalworth. Dalworth… By any chance, are you Spiro Dalworth?”