Act of God (13 page)

"Look, you and Laine get together with me and Fred tonight at my new, bug-proof, bulletproof digs and I'll outline my proposition. After that, if you still wanna go be a cowboy you can, but I don't think you'll wanna pass up my plan."

Intrigued, Sam agreed.

That night, Caldwell got another late call. "Sam? Don't you ever call at a decent hour? Who's tried to bump you this time? What do you mean, you want to be assigned as permanent Company officer on the Bounty Hunter project? Sam, I've been holding that Paris position open for you for six weeks while you wrapped up this space business! Do you realize how many senior men want that job? All right, all right, I'll do it for you, but you've used up all your credit with me, Sam, don't come to me for any more favors. And don't ever call this late again." Caldwell slammed the receiver down. Cowboys. He'd never understand them. At least this would keep Taggart out of his office for a couple of years. He couldn't very well turn him down, though. Sam Taggart was the President's fair-haired boy right now. But why the hell would he want a dead-end position on a project dominated by whiz kids and rocket jocks?

Whatever purpose the building had last served was high-security. It looked like a modern office building but was laid out like a prison, with checkpoints and spy cameras and guards everywhere. Instruments were being installed, desks being arranged and signs put up. Coffee machines were already perking as Sam and Ugo pressed their thumbs to the screen of the late-model ID machine. The suspicious guard seemed satisfied and he waved them in. He looked less suspicious and far more interested when Laine and Fred pressed their thumbs to the screen. Fred was flamboyantly dressed in the loudly-colored pants, bolero jacket, ruffled blouse and bow tie that were all the rage in the pop-music crowd lately. Laine was stunning in a simple charcoal suit over a white turtle-neck sweater.

At the metal detector, Sam and Fred handed over their guns and stepped through.

They proceeded up one of the endless hallways which echoed with the sound of hammering and power tools. Sam was out of his Agency gray for a change, looking casual in a handsomely-cut blue blazer and open-collared shirt. Even Ugo was presentable this morning, due more to his efforts to keep Fred happy than to his new status.

When they reached Rollins' office, the workmen were just finishing the lettering on the windowless door. They were greeted by a secretary, who asked them to wait while the Assistant Secretary finished a phone conference. She brought a tray of coffee and tea and looked at Laine for a moment. "Excuse me," she said, "but weren't you on the cover of
Vogue
last month?"

"No, but thank you anyway," Laine smiled. She looked at Sam. "See?"

Ugo took a sip of the tea. "Ahh, institutional Lipton's, straight from the bag. Some things never change."

Assistant Secretary Rollins was a small, black man with the barest trace of a Virgin Islands accent. He had been a Space Shuttle crew chief but had been grounded after twenty missions because of a heart ailment. "Dr. Ciano, Mr. Taggart," he shook hands with both, "and Dr. Tammsalu and Ms. Schuster," he shook hands much more lingeringly, "I'm very glad to be meeting you all. How may I be of help?"

While Ugo gently stroked a model of the old shuttle on Rollins' desk, Sam, as previously agreed, opened proceedings. "Mr. Rollins, as you know, our current assignment requires us to maintain a close, first-hand contact with all aspects of our undertakings against Project Ivan the Terrible." Rollins nodded. In fact, he wasn't sure just what Taggart's assignment might be. "So far," Sam went on, "all officials of the Department of Space Defense have been extremely cooperative in this respect. But, there's one major obstacle and you are just the person who can remove it for us."

"How can I help?" asked Rollins, who knew a pitch when he heard one. Laine smiled radiantly at him and he smiled back.

"The problem is we're barred from going into space. We must have first-hand knowledge of our preparations in space, but we can't go until we are first space-qualified. We'd like you to put us through your training program."

Rollins stroked his chin and looked at his model of the shuttle. Frustrated zoomies, longing to get into space. Well, he could sympathize. He'd do anything to get back into space himself. He looked at Sam. "I see. All four of you?"

"Absolutely," Ugo broke in. "I hope I don't sound immodest if I point out that my scientific expertise could make the difference between success and failure for this whole mission, and Dr. Tammsalu is my Astronomical Assistant." He had thought up the title the night before and had it made official earlier that morning. God, but it was fun being powerful!

Rollins turned his gaze to Sam and Fred. "And you two will be observers?"

"Officially," Sam said, "but don't think we'll be dead weight. I'm licensed to pilot just about anything that flies, including helicopters and high-performance jet fighters. Fred is a licensed pilot as well. We're all up on our physicals. Is there anything to keep us from going up?"

"Well, we've recently instituted a one-month training program for the scientists who need to go into space to perform important but somewhat limited functions. Their duties don't include, for example, piloting intership scooters or any sort of extravehicular activities. If you pass the program's specialized physical, I can put you through that course. Would that be satisfactory?"

Having received this concession so quickly, Sam used the golden opportunity to push his luck. "Yes, that would be satisfactory," then he qualified, "for a start. But I think we'll need to become fully qualified for all space activities, including piloting the shuttle."

"Hold on a minute!" Rollins protested. "It no longer takes as much experience or as many flying hours as they used to demand, but shuttle piloting is still a top professional's job. Now the other functions like EVA activities and scooter piloting I can probably get you into. But shuttle pilot, I don't know. Look, I'll get you into the full-scale training program, but I can't promise anything further until you've all undergone massive testing."

"That'll do," Sam said, scarcely able to believe that he'd done it so easily.

"Now," Collins said, opening up his desk calendar, "when would you like to take that physical? You'll have to fly out to Vandenberg."

Sam looked at his watch. "Do we have time for lunch first?"

"You came ready, didn't you?" Rollins said, shaking his head.

"Like General Hart said," Ugo told him, " 'Time is of the essence.' "

Later, driving back to Washington, they made plans for a victory party. Rollins scheduled a physical exam at Vandenberg two days hence.

"I can't believe it!" Laine said, still laughing. "It was so easy! Yesterday we were scientists and observers. Now we are astronauts!"

"If we pass all the tests," Fred cautioned.

"No problem," Ugo assured them. "It ain't like the old days when you had to prove you were Superman with ten thousand flying hours before you could get into the program. Lots of people qualify now. It's the opportunity that's hard to come by. We had the opportunity dropped in our laps and there was no way I was gonna let it pass. How about it, Fred, think you're gonna like being an astronaut?"

She examined her blue-lacquered nails. "Sure. It's time I got out of this sneak-and-shoot business anyway, while I'm still alive. How about you, Sam?"

He draped an arm around Laine. "I guess I have lo grow up sometime. You can't be a cowboy forever. Hell, I tried once and they turned me down. Not many people get a second chance."

"Well, this is what I was born for!" Laine said. "There was no way an Estonian woman could ever get into cosmonaut training but here I am going to do it! Ugo, did you really clear all this with Colonel Chambers?"

Ciano shrugged. "Bart's a busy man. There's no need to burden him with all the petty little details."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MOSCOW SUBURBS

The dacha was little more than a cottage but it was surrounded by a tall iron fence and there was an armed guard at the gate. The brand-new black Lada pulled up to the gate just as the sun was setting. Early summer was the best time in Moscow, the guard thought. Long days, trees in full leaf and the songs of nesting birds everywhere. It was no substitute for his home village in the Ukraine, but winter duty here could be truly miserable, when it was a race to see whether the cold or the boredom would kill you first. He leaned down to the car window and a fat face turned to glare at him.

"Baratynsky to see the Deputy Premier," announced the fat face. Just that. Not "Yevgeny Baratynsky," not even "Comrade Baratynsky." Just "Baratynsky," as if he were some big-shot Western orchestra conductor or artist, which reminded the guard that he was to meet his girlfriend for an evening at the ballet as soon as he got off duty, in just a few minutes. He waved the Lada in, wondering if he would ever be able to afford his own car. Barring an unforeseen promotion from private to colonel, it wasn't very likely. He turned to more cheerful thoughts as the Lada passed through the gate and he shut it. His girl shared an apartment with only six other students, and they would all be going to a party after the ballet, leaving the apartment conveniently vacant. He wished his relief would hurry up.

Nekrasov opened the door at Baratynsky's ring. "Come in, Comrade Yevgeny," he said. He turned and went back into the parlor with Baratynsky in low. "I've given my household staff leave for the evening so we can speak frankly."

Even here, Baratynsky thought, even this man. Everyone must be careful. Baratynsky wore a heavy cableknit Arran sweater, souvenir of some visit to Britain, against the still chilly evenings, and his shoes were expensive, custom-made Italian creations. No Muscovite would mistake Baratynsky for an unimportant man. He sank his immense bulk into a sofa facing Nekrasov's chair. The Deputy Premier handed him a glass of Caucasian brandy. "I've read the abstracted report on the testing of
Pionyer I
, but I want your personal report. Was the field-testing as successful as that report would have me believe?"

"An unqualified success, I assure you," Baratynsky boomed heartily. "Our investment in the nuclear-powered ion-drive engine is finally paying off! The years of research have not been wasted. It is just as I predicted."

"Then, we'll be able to go ahead with the cometary mission as scheduled?" asked Nekrasov.

"Most definitely. The target is a periodic comet and it is on its expected course. For an optimum rendezvous with it,
Pionyer I
should boost off from Earth's vicinity in about one week."

"Excellent. I shall pass orders to Comrade Tarkovsky to proceed on schedule. A few months ago, you gave me odds for success at 50-50 Now that the field-testing has been done, are you prepared to give me better odds?"

Baratynsky took a generous gulp of the brandy and Nekrasov poured more from the decanter. "I personally oversaw the construction of the continuous-boost engine," Baratynsky said, wiping the furry back of a hand across his bushy eyebrows. "It is marvelous. I was never in any doubt of its success. The uncertainties were and still are primarily from our lack of precise knowledge of the physical conditions of particular comets. As you've seen in our projections, conditions may vary quite a bit from one comet to another. Our success will depend on whether or not this comet is indeed of the ice type as Tarkovsky has predicted." It did not escape Nekrasov that Baratynsky always took full credit for successes and certainties, while he was always generous in sharing uncertainties, variables and failures.

"It will also," Baratynsky continued, "depend on whether the cosmonaut can operate the laser-saw properly to cut off an iceberg of appropriate size for
Pionyer I
to use as reaction mass and at least two more icebergs for our experimental drops."

"And the rock missiles?"

"That could prove even more difficult. Here I agree with Tarkovsky: it is ice we want to work with. Of course, for experimental purposes, we'd like to have some rock as well, but if it comes down to a choice, the cosmonauts have their orders to bring back ice."

"And if we don't succeed the first time, we should have better luck the second time around?"

"Decidedly. Even if
Pionyer I
fails to return, the information sent back will prove invaluable. We will know a hundred times more about comets than we know now, and would have almost a 100 percent chance for success on
Pionyer II
." Baratynsky chuckled, causing his multiple chins to quiver. "Tarkovsky would prefer this first probe to be unmanned, just sending back scientific data, maybe the first two or three. But Cosmonauts are like any other soldiers. They are expendable. If they die, the glory of their cause will live forever." He took a long drink from the brandy glass. "Besides, nobody is watching. Can you imagine having a thousand ignorant journalists hanging around your neck, asking impertinent questions, the way they do in the West? Madness!" He looked at Nekrasov. "Speaking of secrecy, are you really keeping all of this secret from Premier Chekhov?"

Nekrasov stared at him coldly. "You need not concern yourself with that, Comrade Baratynsky."

"I suppose not. And those Americans?"

"They are being dealt with. There is no evidence that they have done us any harm so far, and I soon expect word that they will be beyond harming anybody."

"Well, at any rate, even should
Pionyer I
fail nobody will know and we'll have gained valuable experience.
Pionyer II
will have additional propulsion systems for separate cometary icebergs, and it will certainly be completed in time for the next optimum opportunity. That's expected in about two years."

Nekrasov studied his science adviser narrowly over the rim of his brandy glass. The man was overly ambitious in a system that did not consider ambition a virtue, not that Nekrasov cared about that. Well, Baratynsky had better be right this time; Nekrasov's neck was stretched out, right on the block. He was gambling on his KGB connections and on the vagaries of a Premier foolish enough to hope for a peaceful rapprochement with the West. With Project Peter the Great and its iceberg bomb spinoff, Nekrasov could become the first absolute Soviet dictator since Stalin.

His thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of his private telephone. Fewer than half a dozen officials in the USSR had that combination.

"Excuse me," Nekrasov said, rising. He waved toward the decanter on the table. "Help yourself." He entered his office and closed the heavy, soundproofed door. "Yes?"

"Ryabkin speaking, Comrade Deputy Premier." Nekrasov was instantly on his guard. Ryabkin spoke in dry, official tones but there was tension in the man's voice. "You wished to be informed if there was significant news on the Estonian woman and the man Taggart."

"Yes," Nekrasov said tightly.

"The Bulgarians tried last night, and they bungled it."

"How?" To an outsider Nekrasov might as well have been asking about a soccer match, but Ryabkin knew the difference.

"The opportunity seemed perfect. Taggart, Tammsalu, Ciano and another CIA operative, apparently assigned as Ciano's bodyguard, were observed leaving a party late on a rainy night with isolated rural roads to cross in order to get home. Perfect terrain and circumstances for an accident."

"And?"

"The Bulgarians had the accident instead. Three of them, in two vehicles, ended up dead in the bottom of a canyon, along with Taggart's automobile. The Americans have listed them as accidental deaths; late night, too much to drink, dangerous roads; most unfortunate, but no overt suspicion of foul play . . . of course."

"The fools!" Nekrasov barked. "They accomplished nothing and gave Taggart and Ciano a credibility they lacked before!"

"Possibly," Ryabkin soothed, "but there is so far no evidence that the Americans believe them as yet. The Americans really are invincible in their prejudice. Taggart is a man with many enemies. They may attribute this try to an old vendetta."

"How did the idiot Bulgars fail? As if being Bulgarian weren't sufficient cause."

"According to their radio contact," Ryabkin said, relieved not to be the primary target of Nekrasov's wrath, "they tried to drive Taggart off the road. They bawled to me about the American having some secret weapon, but I think he just outdrove them. Taggart is rated a first-class driver, and I am told that his personal auto, a very old Chevrolet, is still considered internationally to be one of the very best commercial vehicles ever put on the market."

"A superior man in a superior machine," Nekrasov said bitterly. "It was a mistake to send Bulgarians out on this. We must try again, and use one of our own."

"Comrade Deputy Premier," Ryabkin said, calmingly, "we tried once and that could be attributed lo a vendetta. If we try again, it will be plain to everybody that we want to silence these three people in particular. It wouldn't do."

"You're correct, Ryabkin," Nekrasov admitted.

"I have an idea," Ryabkin said. "As far as anybody knows, it is only Taggart who is the target of this vendetta. He and the Estonian woman seem to have formed a liaison in recent weeks, so it would not seem odd if she were to absorb a few bullets sent his way, since they spend so much lime together."

"Good, very good, Ryabkin. With those two out of the way, we can probably ignore Ciano, since he carries so little weight with his colleagues."

"Just what I was thinking, sir. And we have a man on the spot; Major Borodin."

"An excellent choice," Nekrasov said. Borodin was a famous triggerman from the old days. The Americans would have considered him a cowboy. He had been groomed by Nekrasov's predecessor in the KGB, who had had a weakness for giving out codenames from Russian musical history. "Put him on it. By the way, who was the fourth person in Taggart's car? Anybody we know?"

"Decidedly. It was that eccentric Amazon, Schuster. You remember her, surely."

"Indeed I do. If there is a female equivalent of Taggart, she is it. So, the two of them were in the same car, eh? No wonder the Bulgarians bought it. And she is Ciano's bodyguard?"

"Not only that; they have become intimate."

Nekrasov shook his head. He remembered Schuster well, and he had seen the surveillance pictures of Ciano. The thought of the two of them together was mind-boggling. "Ryabkin?"

"Yes, Comrade Deputy Premier?"

"Do not disappoint me this time."