Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 02 (60 page)

 
          
“And
exactly how am I supposed to manage that? Load up your F-15 fighter with bombs
and destroy that base? Send in the Marines?
Think,
General. I can’t attack a country that’s barely the size of
Arkansas
and five times poorer without a damn good
overwhelming reason.”

 
          
“This
has very little to do with
Nicaragua
, sir. It—”

 
          
Stuart,
still smarting from not being included in the plans on Cheetah’s recon mission
over Sebaco, said: “The world won’t care if we say we’re really after Russians.
All they’ll know is that we attacked
Nicaragua
. Your strong-arm tactics would get this
government into deep trouble—”

 
          
“All
right, enough,” the President said. “It’s late. General Elliott, I’ll expect
you at the staff meeting tomorrow morning at
eight
A.M.
We’ll go over the situation then and decide what next.” As Elliott
stood, tight-lipped, and headed for the door, the intercom phone on the
President’s communications panel beside his desk buzzed and he picked it up.

 
          
“Hold
it, General,” the President called out. His eyes widened with delight. “You’re
kidding . . . and he’s
here?
Right
now? You bet, Paul. Send him up.” The President scanned the faces around him in
the room. “Rewind your tape there, General. Sergei Vilizherchev just arrived.
He wants to speak with us.”

 
          
“The
Russian ambassador is here?” Benson said.

 
          
“It’s
just got to be about DreamStar,” Deborah O’Day said. “But I never expected them
to react first. I was figuring on a world-class stall job if
we
tried to see him tonight. What are
you going to do, Mr. President?”

 
          
“Listen
to what he has to say. I assume he wants to talk about a way out of this. If he
tries to deny that they have the aircraft we’ll show him this tape.” He picked
up his intercom button again. “Paul, see if Dennis Danahall is available. If he
can be here, we’ll ask Vilizherchev to wait until he arrives.”

 
          
“Yes,
sir.”

 
          
The
President put the phone down. “I hate to admit it, Wilbur,” he said to
Secretary of the Air Force Curtis, “but it looks like sending that F-15 over
Sebaco wasn’t such a bad idea. We seemed to have gotten the Soviets’ attention
without getting anyone killed.”

 
          
“The
crew of the Old Dog,” Elliott said quietly.

 
          
“I
accept the reminder,” the President said, “but this isn’t the time to be
settling a score, General. Right now, we want your airplane back. Period.”

 
          
“Sir,
I’m sorry, but I think they owe more than DreamStar,” Elliott said. “A dozen
good people are dead, plus the destruction of the B-52 and the fighters.”

 
          
“What
I
want is an end to this whole
business,” the President said. “We’ll still negotiate for reparations, but to
tell the damned truth I’ll settle for getting back what belongs to us and
having the parties move back to their corners and call this one a draw.”

 
          
Elliott
considered pressing his argument further, but there seemed no point to it now.
He had spent much of the day on the carpet with the President of the
United States
after an exhausting twenty-four hours the
day before. He had organized a daylight recon mission through a heavily
defended Soviet base with no losses, which apparently had forced the Russians
to the bargaining table. He had been at it for eighteen hours. He was beat. All
right, maybe it was time to let the big-shots do their thing.

 
          
The
phone rang again. Vilizherchev had just arrived. Surprisingly, none of the few
straggling members of the White House press corps had picked up on the early
evening visit— since Friday was now considered the first day of the three-day
weekend, few reporters hung around in the evening. Secretary of State Danahall
was enroute; they would make the ambassador wait about fifteen minutes until
Danahall arrived and could be briefed on what was going on.

 
          
Danahall,
partially briefed in his car on the way to the White House, arrived ten minutes
later—Cesare had to give him a jacket and tie from the contingency closet—the
Secretary of State, working late in his office, looked rumpled. Cesare handed
him the coat as he finished with the tie.

           
“I was wondering where my jacket had
disappeared to,” Danahall deadpanned. “. . . So Vilizherchev just called the
White House and requested a conference?”

 
          
“We
figure it has to do with DreamStar,” Richard Benson said. “General Elliott’s
group found the aircraft in
Nicaragua
. We got photos.”

 
          
“Brad
Elliott’s group, eh?” Danahall said with a shake of his head.
“That
explains why Vilizherchev is
coming out here at this time of night. What did you do, General—create a new
Lake Nicaragua
with some Star Wars neutrino bomb?”

 
          
There
wasn’t time for a reply. The President gave a nod to Cesare, who went to the
formal waiting area and asked the Soviet ambassador inside.

 
          
Sergei
Vilizherchev didn’t fit the image of the stereotypical Russian bureaucrat.
Young as career diplomats went, in his early fifties, dark haired, tall and
athletic, he wore an Italian- tailored suit, spoke with a slight, well-trained
British accent. Altogether as polite and correct as could be. A Soviet cookie-
duster, or so it seemed. It was common knowledge that this man would be the
next Soviet foreign minister, in a few years, and possibly could become General
Secretary.

 
          
Vilizherchev
strode up to the head of the conference table, where the President was seated.
Taylor
stood just as Vilizherchev approached him.
The Russian ambassador made a slight bow before extending his hand.

 
          
“Good
evening, Mr. President, very nice to see you again, sir.”

 
          
“Dobriy vyechyeer,
Mr. Vilizherchev,”
the President said in awkward Russian. If Vilizherchev was amused by the
President’s attempt, he was careful not to show it.

 
          
“Thank
you very much, Mr. President. Your Russian is excellent. You will soon be able
to dismiss all your interpreters.” The ambassador shook hands all around and
seemed quite at home in the White House conference room—until he saw General
Elliott. Then, for the first time, Vilizherchev looked genuinely surprised.

 
          
“Good
evening, Ambassador Vilizherchev,” Elliott said, extending his hand. “I am—”

 
          
Vilizherchev
took his hand as if he was accepting a delicate china cup. “General Bradley
Elliott. It is a pleasure,” he said.

           
He shook hands with Elliott,
clasping it firmly as he spoke. “It is an honor.”

 
          
“Have
we met before, Mr. Ambassador?”

 
          
“Your
name and reputation are well known in the
Soviet Union
, General. I must admit, not always in a
friendly fashion, but they are the short-sighted ones. I assure you, sir, many
hold you in very high regard in my country. We recognize military genius and
patriotism no matter what the nation or politics.”

 
          
The
man knew how to lay it on, Elliott thought. “
Spasiba
, Mr. Ambassador.” Cesare motioned to a seat, and the
ambassador sat down. Elliott remained standing.

 
          
“You
asked to see us, Mr. Ambassador,” the President asked.

 
          
“From
the group assembled here tonight, Mr. President, I think we all know what the
topic of discussion will be. I must, as I’m sure you can appreciate, strongly
protest the overflight of our military base in
Nicaragua
by your aircraft. It was, as you know, a
violation of restricted airspace and territorial boundaries, as well as a
serious violation of international aviation regulations.”

 
          
The
President glanced at his advisers, looked at Vilizherchev with an exaggerated
expression of confusion. “Ambassador, did you really come here at this hour to
tell us this?”

 
          
Vilizherchev
smiled, shook his head. Ever engaging, no matter the mission. “I would not be
so impertinent as to waste your time like that, Mr. President.” His accent was
so flawless it was hard to remember that he was a Russian. “That was the
official statement, Mr. President, and the official airspace-violation protest
will be sent through the proper government channels for processing. But I doubt
if the pilots on that mission will ever be identified. No, sir, I have come to
relay my government’s position concerning the incident with the very unusual
aircraft.”

 
          
President
Taylor waited, said nothing.

 
          
“This
is, of course, being recorded,” the ambassador said. “And I understand that
such a recording is for confidential use only, and I agree to the recording if
you, sirs, guarantee that it will not become public and if my office is
furnished an unedited copy of the transcript.”

 
          
The
President nodded. Formalities over, Vilizherchev continued:

 
          
“We
have concluded our initial investigation into this matter, including interviews
with the pilot, a reconstruction of the flight path taken by the pilot, and an
examination of the aircraft. We conclude that a formal, high-level military
investigation must be conducted to discover how the aircraft in question came
to arrive at our installation in Nicaragua, why it is there, and what, if any,
ulterior objectives the pilot may have had. We are asking your cooperation
while our investigation is underway.”

 
          
As
Elliott stared in disbelief at Vilizherchev, Secretary of State Danahall
reacted. “If I may . . . Ambassador, this sounds to me like your government is
saying that you don’t know
why
this
aircraft is on your base, that you don’t know the pilot and that you were all
unaware of any aspect of the plan to steal that aircraft and deliver it to your
country. Do I have that right?” Vilizherchev appeared genuinely surprised.
“Excuse me, Mr. Secretary, but I am to understand that you
believe
the media reports that the pilot of that aircraft is a
Soviet KGB agent? You actually believe that a Soviet agent, somehow in place
and undetected in your military for several years, actually managed to steal a
top-secret military aircraft—and that this was a plan devised by our
intelligence service? We must clear the air right now ...”

 
          
“A
good idea,” Elliott said.

 
          
Vilizherchev
ignored him. “The pilot of that aircraft is
not
a Russian, sir. We have identified him as Captain Kenneth F. James of the
United States Air Force, a test pilot in your organization, General Elliott. He
has never had any connection with the KGB or our government in any fashion or
capacity
—no association with the Soviet
Union
in
any way,
except that his
late parents traveled on occasion to the
Soviet Union
for purposes of business and pleasure. I am
aware that your press reported that Captain James radioed he was a colonel in
the KGB. That is nonsense. James is not, never has been, a KGB agent or any
other kind of agent of the
Soviet Union
.”

 
          
The
President glanced at Danahill and O’Day, and even though he returned his
clinical gaze back at Vilizherchev, the momentary hesitancy in his eyes had
been detected. This was not a possibility that anyone had seriously considered.
Was
it a KGB colonel in that jet?
Just because he
said
he was KGB
didn’t make it so, and the President, and the others, realized that they had no
real
evidence to prove the true
identity of the pilot.