“Is that provocative?” Narmonov asked.
“No, it is totally defensive. Our interceptors cannot harm anyone more than a few hundred kilometers from our own borders. For the moment, I will keep all my aircraft within Soviet airspace.”
“Very well, you may proceed.”
In his underground control center, Kuropatkin merely pointed to another officer, who lifted a phone. The Soviet air-defense system had already been prepped, of course; inside a minute radio messages were being broadcast, and long-range search radars came on all over the country's periphery. Both the messages and the radar signals were immediately detected by National Security Agency assets, both on the ground and in orbit.
“Anything else I should do?” Narmonov asked his advisors.
A Foreign Ministry official spoke for all of them. “I think doing nothing is probably best. When Fowler wishes to speak with us, he will do so. He has trouble enough without our interfering.”
The American Airlines MD-8o landed at Miami International Airport and taxied over to the terminal. Qati and Ghosn rose from their first-class seats and left the aircraft. Their bags would be transferred automatically to the connecting flight, not that either one particularly cared about that, of course. Both men were nervous, but less so than one might have expected. Death was something both had accepted as an overt possibility for this mission. If they survived, so much the better. Ghosn didn't panic until he realized that there was no unusual activity at all. There should have been some, he thought. He found a bar and looked for the usual elevated television set. It was tuned to a local station. There was no game coverage. He debated asking a question, but decided not to. It was a good decision. He had only to wait a minute before he overheard another voice asking what the score was.
“It was fourteen-seven Vikings,” another voice answered. “Then the goddamned signal was lost.”
“When?”
“About ten minutes ago. Funny they don't have it back yet.”
“Earthquake, like the Series game in San Francisco?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, man,” the bartender replied. Ghosn stood and left for the walk back to the departure lounge.
“What does CIA have?” Fowler asked.
“Nothing at the moment, sir. We're collecting data, but you know everything that we — wait a minute.” Ryan took the message form that the Senior Duty Officer handed him. “Sir, I have a flash here from NSA. The Russian air-defense system just went to a higher alert level. Radars are all coming on, and there's a lot of radio chatter.”
“What does that mean?” Liz Elliot asked.
“It means that they want to increase their ability to protect themselves. PVO isn't a threat to anybody unless they're approaching or inside Soviet airspace.”
“But why would they do it?” Elliot asked again.
“Maybe they're afraid somebody will attack them.”
“God damn it, Ryan!” the President shouted.
“Mr. President, excuse me. That was not a flippant remark. It is literally true. Voyska PVO is a defense system like our NORAD. Our air-defense and warning systems are now at a higher alert status. So are theirs. It's a defensive move only. They have to know that we've had this event. When there's trouble of this sort, it's natural to activate your own defenses, just as we have done.”
“It's potentially disturbing,” General Borstein said at NORAD HQ. “Ryan, you forget we have been attacked. They have not. Now, before they've even bothered to call us, they're jacking up their alert levels. I find that a little worrisome.”
“Ryan, what about those reports that we got about missing Soviet nuclear weapons?” Fowler asked. “Could that fit into this situation?”
“What missing nukes!” CINC-SAC demanded. “Why the hell didn't I hear about that?”
“What kind of nukes?” Borstein asked a second later.
“That was an unconfirmed report from a penetration agent. There are no details,” Ryan answered, then realized he had to press on. “The sum of the information received is this: We've been told that Narmonov has political problems with his military; that they are unhappy with the way he's doing things; that in the ongoing pullback from Germany, an unspecified number of nuclear weapons — probably tactical ones — have turned up missing; that KGB is conducting an operation to determine what, if anything, is missing. Supposedly Narmonov is personally concerned that he might be the target of political blackmail, and that the blackmail could have a nuclear dimension. But, and I must emphasize the but, we have been totally unable to confirm these reports, despite repeated attempts, and we are examining the possibility that our agent is lying to us.”
“Why didn't you tell us that?” Fowler asked.
“Mr. President, we're in the process of formulating our assessment now. The work is still on-going, sir, I mean, we've been doing it over the weekend.”
“Well, it sure as hell wasn't one of ours,” General Fremont said heatedly. “And it's no goddamned terrorist bomb, it's too goddamned big for that. Now you tell us that the Russians may have a short inventory. That's more than disturbing, Ryan.”
“And it could explain the increased alert level at PVO,” Borstein added ominously.
“Are you two telling me,” the President asked, “that this could have been a Soviet device?”
“There aren't all that many nuclear powers around,” Borstein replied first. “And the yield of this device is just too damned big for amateurs.”
“Wait a minute.” Jack jumped in again. “You have to remember that the facts we have here are very thin. There is a difference between information and speculation. You have to remember that.”
“How big are Soviet tactical nuclear weapons?” Liz Elliot wanted to know.
CINC-SAC handled that one: “A lot like ours. They have little one-kiloton ones for artillery rounds, and they have warheads up to five hundred-KT left over from the SS-20s they did away with.”
“In other words, the yield of this explosion falls into the range of the Soviet warhead types that we have heard are missing?”
“Correct, Dr. Elliot,” General Fremont replied.
At Camp David, Elizabeth Elliot leaned back in her chair and turned to the President. She spoke too softly for the speaker-phone to catch her words.
“Robert, you were supposed to be at that game, along with Brent and Dennis.”
It was strange that he hadn't had that thought enter his mind yet, Fowler told himself. He, too, leaned back. “No,” he replied. “I cannot believe that the Russians would attempt such a thing.”
“What was that?” a voice on the speaker asked.
“Wait a minute,” the President said too quietly.
“Mr. President, I didn't catch what you said.”
“I said, wait a minute!” Fowler shouted. He put his hand over the speaker for a moment. “ Elizabeth, it's our job to get control of this situation and we will. Let's try to put this personal stuff aside for the moment.”
“Mr. President, I want you on Kneecap just as fast as you can get there,” CINC-SAC said. “This situation could be very serious indeed.”
“If we're going to get control, Robert, we must do it quickly.”
Fowler turned to the naval officer standing behind him. “When's the chopper due in?”
“Twenty-five minutes, sir, then thirty more to get you to Andrews for Kneecap.”
“Almost an hour…” Fowler looked at the wall clock, as people do when they know what time it is, know what time it will take to do something, and look at the clock anyway. “The radio links on the chopper aren't enough for this. Tell the chopper to take Vice President Durling to Kneecap. General Fremont?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“You have extra Kneecaps there, don't you?”
“Yes, I do, sir.”
“I'm sending the Vice President up on the primary. You send a spare down here. You can land it at Hagerstown, can't you?”
