Medal. He took the work of Mandelbrot at Harvard University in America and MacKenzie at Cambridge, and—”
“I will take your word for it, Major. The last time you tried to explain this witchcraft to me I merely got a headache. How is the work going?”
“We grow stronger every day. The only thing we cannot break is the new CIA system that's starting to come on line. It seems to use a new principle. We're working on it.”
President Fowler boarded the Marine VH-3 helicopter before the snow got too bad. Painted a shiny olive-drab on the bottom, with white on top, and little else in the way of markings, it was his personal bird, with the call-sign Marine-One. Elizabeth Elliot boarded just behind him, the press corps noted. Pretty soon they'd have to break the story on the two, some thought. Or maybe the President would do the job for them by marrying the bitch.
The pilot, a Marine lieutenant-colonel, brought the twin turbine engines to full power, then eased up on the collective, rising slowly and turning northwest. He was almost instantly on instruments, which he didn't like. Flying blind and on instruments didn't trouble him. Flying blind and on instruments with the President aboard did. Flying in snow was about the worst thing there was. All external visual references were gone. Staring out the windshield could turn the most seasoned airman into a disoriented and airsick feather-merchant in a matter of seconds. As a result, he spent far more time scanning his instruments. The chopper had all manner of safety features, including collision-avoidance radar, plus having the undivided attention of two senior air-traffic controllers. In some perverse ways, this was a safe way to fly. In clear air, some lunatic with a Cessna might just try to perform a mid-air with Marine-One, and maneuvering to avoid such things was a regular drill for the colonel, both in the air and in the aircraft simulator at Anacostia Naval Air Station.
“Wind's picking up faster than I 'spected,” the co-pilot, a major, observed.
“May get a little bumpy when we hit the mountains.”
“Should have left a little sooner.”
The pilot switched settings on his intercom box, linking him with the two Secret Service agents in back. “May want to make sure everybody's strapped in tight. Picking up a little chop.”
“Okay, thanks,” Pete Connor replied. He looked to see that everyone's seatbelt was securely fastened. Everyone aboard was too seasoned a flyer to be the least bit concerned, but he preferred a smooth ride as much as the next person. The President, he saw, was fully relaxed, reading over a folder that had just arrived a few minutes before they'd left. Connor settled back also. Connor and D'Agustino loved Camp David. A company of hand-picked Marine riflemen provided perimeter security. They were backed up and augmented by the best electronic surveillance systems America had ever built. Backing everyone up were the usual Secret Service agents. Nobody was scheduled to come in or out of the place this weekend, except, possibly, one CIA messenger who would drive. Everyone could relax, including the President and his lady friend, Connor thought.
“This is getting bad. Better tell the weather pukes to stick their head out the window.”
“They said eight inches.”
“I got a buck says more than a foot.”
“I never bet against you on weather,” the co-pilot reminded the colonel.
“Smart man, Scotty.”
“Supposed to clear tomorrow night.”
“I'll believe that when I see it, too.”
“Temp's supposed to drop to zero, too, maybe a touch under.”
“That I believe,” the colonel said, checking his altitude, compass, and artificial horizon. His eyes went outboard again, seeing only snowflakes being churned by the downwash of the rotor tips. “What do you call visibility?”
“Oh, in a clear spot… maybe a hundred feet… maybe one-fifty… ” The major turned to grin at the colonel. The grin stopped when he started thinking about the ice that might build up on the airframe. “What's the outside temp?” he murmured to himself.
“Minus 12 centigrade,” the colonel said, before he could look at the thermometer.
“Coming up?”
“Yeah. Let's take her down a little, ought to be colder.”
“Goddamned D.C. weather.”
Thirty minutes later, they circled over Camp David. Strobe lights told them where the landing pad was — you could see down better than in any other direction. The co-pilot looked aft to check the fairing over the landing gear. “We got a little ice now, Colonel. Let's get this beast down before something scary happens. Wind is thirty knots at three-zero-zero.”
“Starting to feel a touch heavy.” The VH-3 could pick up as much as four hundred pounds of ice per minute under the right — wrong — weather conditions. “Fuckin' weather weenies. Okay, I got the LZ in sight.”
“Two hundred feet, airspeed thirty,” the major read off the instruments. “ One fifty at twenty-five… one hundred at under twenty… looking good… fifty feet and zero ground-speed… ”
The pilot eased down on the collective. The snow on the ground started blowing up from the rotor-wash. It created a vile condition called a white-out. The visual references which had just reappeared — vanished instantly. The flight crew felt themselves to be inside a ping-pong ball. Then a gust of wind swung the helicopter around to the left, tilting it also. The pilot's eyes immediately flicked down to the artificial horizon. He saw it tilt, knowing that the danger that had appeared was as severe as it was unexpected. He moved the cyclic to level the aircraft, and dropped the collective to the floor. Better a hard landing than catching a rotor in the trees he couldn't see. The helicopter dropped like a stone — exactly three feet. Before people aboard realized that something was wrong, the helicopter was down and safe.
“And that's why they let you fly the Boss,” the major said over the intercom. “Nice one, Colonel.”
“I think I broke something.”
“I think you're right.”
The pilot keyed the intercom. “Sorry about that. We caught a gust over the pad. Everybody okay back there?”
The President was already up, leaning into the cockpit. “You were right, Colonel. We should have left sooner. My mistake,” Fowler said graciously. What the hell, he thought, he wanted this weekend.
The Camp David detachment opened the chopper's door. An enclosed HMMWV pulled up to it so that the President and his party didn't have to get too cold. The flight crew watched them pull away, then checked for damage.
“Thought so.”
“Metering pin?” The major bent down to look. “Sure enough.” The landing had just been hard enough to snap the pin that controlled the hydraulic shock-absorber on the right-side landing gear. It would have to be fixed.
“I'll go check to see if we have a spare,” the crew chief said. Ten minutes later, he was surprised to learn that they didn't. That was annoying. He placed a phone call to the helicopter base at the old Anacostia Naval Air Station to have a few driven up. Until it arrived, there was nothing that could be done. The aircraft could still be flown in an emergency, of course. A fire-team of Marine riflemen stood close guard on the helicopter, as always, while another squad walked perimeter guard in the woods around the landing pad area.
“What is it, Ben?”
“Does this place have a dorm?” Goodley asked.
Jack shook his head. “You can use the couch in Nancy's office if you want. How's your paper coming?”
“I'm going to be up all night anyway. I just thought of something.”
“What's that?”
“Going to sound a little crazy — nobody ever checked to make sure that our friend Kadishev actually met with Narmonov.”
“What do you mean?”
“Narmonov was out of town most of last week. If there was no meet, then the guy was lying to us, wasn't he?”
Jack closed his eyes and cocked his head to one side. “Not bad, Dr. Goodley, not bad.”
“We have Narmonov's itinerary. I have people checking on Kadishev's now. I'm going all the way back to last August. If we're going to do a check, it might as well be a comprehensive one. My position piece might be a little
