Fade Out (51 page)

Bricker emerged from the flight deck. ‘I'd better go and dig our two Russians out of the officer's mess, then we'll press on to the Motherland. I won't rush. When I'm using Eyeballs Mark Two, I prefer to land in daylight.'

‘I hope they know we're coming,' said Connors.

‘Don't worry,' said Bricker. He pointed at the window. ‘It's bullet-proof glass.'

Because of the radar breakdown the Russians had suggested that it might be a good idea if Air Force One's crew had some help from a Russian navigator and a radio operator. To the White House, it seemed like an offer they couldn't refuse.

The two crewmen had flown into Frankfurt in the late afternoon aboard a Russian Air Force Tupolev Tu-26, a sharp, sleek, supersonic bomber known to NATO as the Backfire-B. In service with the Russian equivalent of SAC, the Tu-26 was Moscow's answer to the US Air Force's Rockwell B-1B. It's face was familiar but very
few people outside the Iron Curtain had seen the real thing and practically the whole base turned out to take a look at it.

The Tupolev's crew must have had the bomb bay loaded with roubles, because they aimed straight for the base PX, negotiated a fast rate of exchange, piled up three jeeps with crates of Coca-Cola, bourbon, nylons, Polaroid cameras, cartons of Marlboro cigarettes and every available copy of
Penthouse, Popular Science,
and
Practical Mechanix,
rushed back to the bomber, stowed everything aboard, shook hands all round, yelled
‘Dosvidanya!'
through the cockpit window, and headed for the runway while the Base Intelligence Officer was putting the fourth reel of film in his camera.

Connors closed his eyes as Air Force One angled up into the darkness and set about the task of persuading his biological clock that it really
was
2 A.M. and not time for a dry martini. He fell asleep as Air Force One entered the air corridor that crossed East Germany and Poland. When he woke up, he found Fraser shaking his shoulder.

‘Uh, what – oh… are we there?'

‘Nearly.' Fraser poked a finger towards the window.

Connors blinked himself awake and looked to see what Fraser was pointing at. Gleaming sharply against the violet-grey of the predawn sky, two silver Mig-25 jets with red stars on their shark-fin tails were stacked up just beyond and behind Air Force One's starboard wing. Fraser moved to the window seat in front of Connors.

The nearest of the two twin-tailed fighters had the number 074 stencilled in large black figures on the fuselage just ahead of the cockpit. His wingman's number was 069. Connors could see, quite clearly, the two pilots strapped into their ejector seats. Both of them had red and white striped crash helmets with raised green visors,
and oxygen masks covering the lower half of their faces. They could easily have been Americans. But instead of being raised on a farm in Iowa, 074 might have grown up among the grain of a
kolkhoz
outside Kiev, and 069, instead of coming from Atlanta, might be a boy from Odessa who was crazy about flying…

Fraser's aides were looking out of windows a few seats ahead of Connors. The nearest one straightened up and called back to Fraser. ‘Do you see those air-to-air missiles under the wings?'

‘Yeah,' said Fraser. ‘Hell, that first guy's so close I could pick him off with a forty-five.'

Connors waved to the nearest Mig and the Russian pilot raised a gloved hand in reply.

Fraser poked his head over the top of the seat. ‘See that? The bastard's waving at us!'

Ahead, the horizontal layer of cloud that lined the horizon was rimmed with gold. Connors sat back and closed his eyes, while Air Force One and its escort cruised serenely towards the morning.

The flat, olive-drab countryside to the west of Moscow was shrouded with low-lying mist as Bricker lined up Air Force One with the runway at Domodedovo and began a long, slow letdown. When they were about five miles out from the runway, with flaps out and undercarriage down, 074 waggled his wings, then both Migs peeled off in a climbing turn to the right.

They landed at 5:45 A.M. Friday, local time, and were guided to the far corner of the parking apron, where a four-car convoy of black Lincoln Continentals was waiting with a police motorcycle escort. The newest of the Lincolns was from the American Embassy. The others, all
1984 models, were flying small red hammer-and-sickle flags. While the steps were being wheeled into place, Connors looked out of one of the cabin windows on the port side and saw that the First Secretary from the American Embassy was among the small group waiting to meet them. Connors scanned their faces and recognized a senior member of the Soviet Praesidium, an Army general from Marshal Rudenkov's staff, and Tibor, one of the Kremlin's regular interpreters who always had a fund of scurrilous political jokes that on anyone else's lips would have guaranteed the teller a one-way ticket to Siberia.

Buzz Bricker came off the flight deck. ‘Did you see those Mig-25s? Beautiful. Two thousand plus in top gear.'

‘Were they checking up on us?' asked Connors.

‘Either that or to make sure nobody jumped us. There were two more ahead of us on the port side. They picked us up just after we crossed over the border from Poland.'

Fraser came up the aisle followed by his four aides. ‘Did you see that they were armed?' he asked Bricker. ‘And close too. I could practically count the rivets.'

Connors let Fraser go out of the door first. Fraser paused at the top of the steps and surveyed the scene. The flags on the black limousines were almost the only bright spots of colour.

‘Lincolns,' he grunted. ‘They can't build a decent car of their own.'

Connors raised his hand in greeting and they began to walk down the steps. About fifty yards away a plump, middle-aged woman in a white head scarf and a faded blue cotton work coat was sweeping the concrete apron with a wide broom.

Fraser nudged Connors. ‘See that? If they ever took over, that could be your mother out there.'

‘I know,' said Connors. ‘And the food here is terrible too.'

After the welcoming round of handshakes and introductions, Connors and Fraser exchanged a fast ‘hello and good-bye' with the American First Secretary and drove off with the Russians. Apart from Fraser's four aides, the US party included NASA director Chris Matson, head of the US half of the stalled Joint Study Group, and Dan Chaliapin, the White House Russian interpreter. Connors could have translated anything Fraser wanted to say but Fraser obviously wanted to hear what Connors had to say, in English.

The convoy of Lincolns drove into Moscow, through an almost deserted Red Square past the Kremlin, and out into the wooded countryside on the other side of town. Some of the leaves on the larch trees that lined the road were beginning to turn yellow. The convoy swung left on to a side road, paused at a checkpoint manned by soldiers from one of the crack Guards regiments, then entered a fenced and heavily-guarded estate. They drove on for another mile through dense woodland and arrived at a large, beautifully restored, white-painted
dacha
complete with verandah and wood-shingle roof. Long, slanting shafts of morning sunlight cut through the backdrop of trees and spread pools of golden fire over the carpet of tall wild grasses.

Alekseii Leonovich, First Secretary of the Communist Party and Russian Premier, came out on to the verandah with Marshal Rudenkov as Connors' party spilled out of both sides of the Lincolns. There was a second round of smiles and handshakes. Connors noticed that Rudenkov was not wearing his usual chestful of medals.

Fraser cast a woodman's eye over the view from the verandah, then turned to Connors. ‘Not bad… This is my kind of country.'

Connors smiled. ‘If you're nice to them, they might let you cut down a few trees.'

Fraser eyed him but didn't say anything.

Inside the
dacha
, breakfast had been laid on a long table covered with an ornately-embroidered linen tablecloth. Spotless silver cutlery lay gleaming on either side of blue and white plates, and down the centre of the table were crystal bowls of flowers and fruit and baskets of fresh, crusty bread.

Leonovich and Marshal Rudenkov took the centre seats facing the windows on to the verandah and invited the others to take their places at the table. Connors was placed opposite Leonovich, Fraser faced the Marshal. Six buxom waitresses with yellow headscarves and white aprons over yellow dresses poured everyone a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice.

Premier Leonovich raised his glass. Tibor stood up and translated for him. ‘Gentlemen, it's a little early for vodka – even in Russia. I will spare you the usual lengthy diplomatic expressions of goodwill. I welcome you to my home and my table as friends. Let us drink to continued peace, trust, and friendship between our two great countries. May it be an example for the rest of the world to follow.'

Connors raised his glass and drank with the rest of them. The Soviet Premier's toast was doubly ironic. If God had a sense of humour, thought Connors, he would make us all choke to death. But it was not to be; the tangy juice from the sunbaked Georgian SSR slipped safely down their lying throats.

The breakfast turned out to be a leisurely forty-five-minute affair during which the conversation touched on every conceivable topic except the one that they had flown eight thousand miles to discuss. Connors made all
the right noises, listened with half an ear, and made last-minute mental revisions in the carefully-prepared message he had come to deliver on behalf of the President.

The first meeting was confined to Premier Leonovich, Marshal Rudenkov, Connors, Fraser and the two interpreters. Leonovich led the way into a large book-lined study redolent with the scent of pine. Six round-backed chairs with deep-buttoned red leather seats and a table draped with red baize stood in the middle of the room on an Astrakhan carpet that covered most of the polished wood floor. The room was spotlessly clean but still managed to look lived in. Tibor carefully closed the waxed pine doors behind them.

‘It's a little primitive,' said Leonovich. ‘But I can't stand being cooped up in the Kremlin during the summer. My wife still prefers the Black Sea.' He pulled a lace-edged blind down over the window to take the edge off the sun.

Tibor translated for Fraser's benefit.

Leonovich gestured to Connors and Fraser to take the chairs opposite himself and Rudenkov. Chaliapin and Tibor sat between them. Fraser opened his briefcase and took out a bulky manila envelope bearing the stamp of the Defense Department, placed it on the table in front of him and sat back with folded arms.

Premier Leonovich and Marshal Rudenkov looked at the manila envelope and then at each other. Rudenkov pulled a pack of Camels out of a side pocket and offered a smoke to Fraser. Fraser shook his head. Rudenkov lit himself a cigarette and left the pack on the table. Tibor got up and brought him an ashtray.

Premier Leonovich clasped his hands together on the table and smiled at Connors. ‘Now – what is it you want to talk to us about?'

With Dan Chaliapin translating, Connors began by
recapping the efforts made by the President to promote a better understanding between the two countries, the trade agreements, and the slow but perceptible progress towards a reduction in nuclear arms. He then moved on to review the effects of the first twenty-minute fade-out, the defensive alert, and the prompt, frank exchange of information that led to the identification of the spacecraft, Connors' visit to Moscow with Wedderkind, the agreement on a continuing exchange of information, the proposal for a two-nation search operation and the setting up of a Joint Study Group to evaluate the spacecraft if it was found. It was at this point that the world had been hit by the second, three-week fade-out which, after twelve days, had made
all
radio communication impossible. The effect on both their countries, and the other developed nations, had been shattering. But far from bringing America and Russia into closer co-operation, it had set them apart. Russia had closed her frontiers, had stopped all traffic, incoming and outgoing, all movement of people including embassy staffs, and cut all postal and telecommunication links. America's press and that of the Western world had fully publicized the troubling impact of the fade-out on their countries. But no one knew what was happening in Russia or how they had been affected. This situation had, obviously, caused the American government great concern. Leonovich nodded soberly.

‘Which is why,' continued Connors, ‘I have come here to confess. In spite of the agreement banning extraterritorial troop movements, the reinforcement or transfer of naval units already at sea, and the covert penetration of each other's air space, the American Government airlifted a division of Marines to Diego Garcia – to protect our interests in the Persian Gulf.'

Rudenkov puffed calmly at his cigarette. He looked amused. ‘Do you think one was enough?'

‘It was purely a precautionary measure,' said Connors. He smiled back at Rudenkov. ‘It's also a very small island. But I am afraid that's the least of our transgressions. I have to tell you, with great regret, that the President has discovered that the Air Force has been flying continuous high-altitude photoreconnaissance missions over the Soviet Union throughout the whole three-week period of the second fade-out.'

Premier Leonovich and Marshal Rudenkov exchanged another glance.

‘Go on,' said Leonovich.

‘I authorized the overflights,' said Fraser. ‘I believed it was my duty to do so on the grounds of national security, and the President has given his retrospective approval to my actions. It wasn't just your country; we also covered China.'

‘So did we,' grunted Rudenkov.

‘That doesn't excuse our actions in relation to the Soviet Union,' said Connors. ‘We broke two of the specific fade-out agreements. I can only hope you can view this lack of faith as a temporary aberration. We were hit hard by the fade-out – and we panicked.'