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  Then Stewart remembered that Mccann was running around out there showing their new squadron commander around, and he allowed himself to relax a little. “Hold on to it for a minute, I think it’s Tom” Stewart said and he went over to his console where he punched in Mccann’s car radio frequency and picked up his phone. “Little Bird, this is Whiz Bang, you copy” he radioed. There was no answer. “Anything else on the rest of the board” he called across to the technician. The other four duty officers had looked up from their monitors. “No, Sir”

  “Little Bird, this is Whiz Bang, you copy, over” Still there was no answer, and Stewart slowly put down his handset. If Mccann had wanted to show their new CO the inside of one of the missile bays, that was well and good. They would have entered through the maintenance hatch. So why the hell had they opened the main bay doors? He picked up the Missile Ready red phone and punched in the number for the missile bunker with the open door. The instant the connection was made, an extremely loud Klaxon would sound in the bay. Loud enough to wake the dead, he thought, though just how close to the truth he was, he could not expect as yet.

  His alert crew phone buzzed, and Stewart picked it up with his left hand while still holding the Missile Ready phone with his right. “Operations OD” he answered. “Gerry, this is Jim Hunte, we’ve got a missile bay open light on our board over here. Ah, Six-P-Two”

  “We’re showing the same thing” Stewart said. Captain James Hunte was the Army’s on-duty alert crew chief on this shift. They were old friends. “Is it an alarm malfunction”

  “Doesn’t look like it. Our new CO showed up today. Tom is out showing him around. Looks like they opened the door”

  “Well, raise them and tell them to close it. That’s Army property, old top, remember”

  “I tried, Jim. No answer”

  The line was silent for just a moment. In his other ear Stewart could hear the soft buzz indicating the missile bay Klaxon was still blaring.

  “Did you try the missile bay red line”

  “I’m on it right now. It’s ringing through, but there’s been no response. “All right, Gerry, no screwing around now. Should I call Colonel Collingwood or will you send someone out there to see what the hell those guys are doing”

  Stewart was an engineer out of Cal Tech. He had taken the Air Force Officers’ Command Course, but he was not a decision maker unless it involved complex electronic circuitry. Interservice rivalry notwithstanding, this time he made a yery bad decision. “I’ll go myself” he said. “Collingwood could have one of his people there in a lot less time than it could take for you to drive out”

  “Let’s not blow the whistle just yet. It’s my CO and Tom Mccann”

  “You’re calling the shots, Gerry” Hunte said coolly. “But I don’t mind telling you that the situation is making me nervous. That’s an armed nuclear missile out there”

  “Yeah” Stewart said. “I’ll get right back to you. “Do that” Hunte said, and he hung up. Stewart put down both telephones and grabbed his uniform blouse. “I’m heading topside, be on TAC ONE” he told Lieutenant Hartley, his Fire Control Board officer. He took the elevator to the surface, signed out with security, and jumped into his station wagon, peeling rubber as he pulled away from the Missile Control bunker and headed back into the staging field. “Whiz Bang, this is OD One, any change on the board” he radioed back to the situation room. “That’s a negative”

  “Keep me advised” The afternoon was warm. Stewart drove with the windows down. He had been in Germany for thirty months, only six more to go and he’d be rotated back to the States, a move he was looking forward to, though so far this assignment had been a piece of cake. Why now, he asked himself. He did not want to get into a fight between his new CO and Army security, but he had a feeling it was coming. Shit runs downhill, he thought wryly. And at this moment it was two lieutenant colonels, a major, and another captain versus his own two bars. He was definitely at the bottom of the hill. He brightened a little with the thought that this could be nothing but a test of his own abilities. It was possible the new CO was pulling a little impromptu test simply to see what the OD would do about it. If only it turned out to be that simple, he thought. A quarter of a mile from the missile bunker he slowed down and turned onto the gravel road that led back into the woods. If he didn’t know better he would have sworn that something very heavy had recently come up the road. Something with wide tires.

  Something very big. And his heart began to thump in his chest, a tight feeling at the pit of his stomach. Coming into the bunker yard he slammed on his brakes and sat for a long moment. The missile bunker doors were open, and the bunker was empty. The Pershing II missile and its transporter were missing. It was hard to keep his thoughts straight.

  He jumped out of the car and raced across the yard and into the bunker itself. Major Mccann lay on his back, his eyes open, a small black hole in the middle of his forehead. “Oh, shit” Stewart swore.

  The transporter itself was nothing more than a flatbed truck on which the thirty-four-and-a-half-foot missile lay in its launch cradle. The tractor was a low-slung, armor-plated tenwheeler in which the driver and normal launch crew of three rode in bucket seats. It drove like a semi truck but steered almost like a tank, capable of speeds up to eighty miles per hour on the open highway, and twenty-five miles per hour over open terrain.

  Only the largest of trees or reinforced tank traps could stop it.

  Kurshin barreled down the main transport road in excess of fifty miles per hour. He had timed his departure from the missile bunker so that the last perimeter patrol had passed five minutes ago and would not be back for another five to seven minutes. He hunched forward so that he could see better through the forward Lexan-covered slits as the paved road gave way suddenly to a narrow gravel track that split abruptly left and right. The tall wire mesh fence was less than fifty yards straight ahead. Kurshin eased up on the accelerator and downshifted so that at the moment of impact he would have more reserve power. The transporter lurched over a big hump in the unpaved road and as he recovered, the sixty-two-ton rig hit the fence, cutting through it like a hot knife through soft butter. He was in a line of small trees an instant later, crashing through them almost as easily as he had the fence, and then the covering fringe of forest gave way to a long, narrow field that sloped downward toward the Stuttgart Autobahn about four miles away. Kurshin slowed the big machine even further so that he was going barely twenty miles per hour. No doubt there was a sensor on the missile bay door that would have rung an alarm in the Missile Control situation room. There were probably perimeter breach alarms as well. By now they’d know that one of their nuclear missiles was missing. The question was: What would they do about it? From what he had seen so far, security was so incredibly lax that they might not do anything for several precious minutes. Time was on his side. Twelve minutes, he figured, from the moment he’d hit the fence until he was at the autobahn. With one hand on the control column, he activated the rig’s rearward-looking television cameras. He could see the path he’d taken through the woods and down the grassy field. There were no pursuers so far. Next, he activated the skyward radar. Immediately several blips showed up on the narrow screen, but none of them seemed to be converging on his position. After a moment he decided that as incredible as it might seem no one was after him. The hill steepened, a shallow creek crossing at the bottom before the land rose sharply upward about fifty feet to the autobahn. The big tundra tires rolled easily across the bed of the creek, the heavy trailer and eight-ton payload lurching behind him, and then he was grinding up the hill, toward the cars passing along the divided highway. He spotted the gray Mercedes 220D parked on the paved shoulder about fifty yards to the south, and he immediately angled that way, downshifting again, crashing the gears, the big tires biting into the soft dirt, the machine giving a final lurch as it came up over the crest of the hill and crashed through the knee-high aluminum safety barrier at the side of the road. He crossed both lanes of traffic
and dipped partway down into the grassy median strip before he got the big machine straightened out. A dark blue Fiat was suddenly there, and he crashed into the car, the big tires climbing up and over the small car, crushing it. A Citron truck, braking hard to avoid crashing into the transporter, fishtailed, hit the median strip sideways and flipped end over end into the oncoming traffic in the opposite two lanes, bursting into flames as it disintegrated. Kurshin skidded the transporter to a halt opposite the waiting car, the brakes locking, the big tires jumping. Traffic in all four lanes was screeching to a halt, in some cases skidding out of control, sliding down into the median, crashing off the security rail, or tailending other cars. It was pandemonium. Two armed men got out of the Mercedes, one of them rushing back to the rocket on its trailer. Kurshin opened the door and jumped down onto the road.

  “You’ve actually got it” Ivan Yegorov said, his eyes bright. He’d changed his name, but he was a swarthy Georgian with deep-set dark eyes.

  “Cover our back” Kurshin snapped, and he hurried back to where Dieter Schey, a former East German rocket engineer, was setting up the plastique explosives around the rocket casing, about two feet forward of the recessed vanes. Schey worked methodically as if this were his normal duty. He strapped a broad plastic collar around the forty-inch rocket, and to this he attached the separate shaped plastique charges into which he inserted a radio-controlled trigger. He was finished within ninety seconds, and Kurshin helped him down from the trailer bed. “Now it begins” Schey said. His eyes seemed dead, totally devoid of any human expression. Kurshin nodded. “Everything is in readiness” Schey shrugged, the thinnest of smiles coming to his bloodless lips. “Ivan”

  Kurshin shouted, and the three of them hurried back to the tractor and climbed inside, Yegorov getting behind the wheel. The instant after Kurshin had closed and dogged the hatch, Yegorov slammed the tractor in gear and headed down the highway, the road banking into a long, sweeping turn, a pine forest coming up darkly on both sides of the cut through a shallow hill. Schey took the backseat, pulling out the radio controller for the explosives, and Kurshin took the righthand seat, studying the radio equipment for just a moment before switching to the Missile Control Squadron’s TAC ONE frequency. “Whiz Bang, this is Flybaby Six-P-Two, you copy” Kurshin said into the microphone.

  PARIS

  Kirk Collough Mcgarvey had known for several days that someone was coming for him. Call it a sixth sense or simply the intuition of a man who had been a long time in the field, he had begun picking up signs on Wednesday outside the Louvre at the edge of the Tuileries, when he spotted someone watching him. It had lasted only a fleeting moment. A short, nondescript man in a sport coat, his tie loose, was getting into a cab as McGarvey was coming out of the museum. The man gave a quick backward glance and then was gone. McGarvey had stepped back into the building, remaining for a few minutes just within the doorway, watching, waiting for someone else to show up. It had been a front tail, he’d been almost certain of it at the time.

  On Thursday, coming out of his apartment just off the Rue de la Fayette in the Tenth Arrondissement, he’d spotted a Mercedes sedan slowly passing, and he’d been even more certain that someone was coming. The man in the passenger seat had changed his coat and now wore no tie, but he was the same one from the Louvre. McGarvey was a tall, well-built man with a thick shock of brown hair and wide honest eyes. Although he was in his early forties, he maintained an almost athletic physique, not because of any regular workouts-though he tried to make a practice of running a few miles each morning-but more because of the luck of some genetic draw. He was a loner these days, more out of circumstance than out of choice. He had come out of Kansas State University more years ago than he wanted to remember and had joined the Central Intelligence Agency as a case officer. An operation that had gone sour for him in Santiago, Chile, during the Carter days had cost him his job. They were bad times, he remembered now walking from his apartment toward the quaint Cour des Petites tcufies. To this day he remembered the face of the general he’d been sent to assassinate. The man had been responsible for thousands of deaths in and around the capital city and the only solution was his elimination. But McGarvey’s orders had been changed in midstream without him knowing about it. He returned to Washington not a hero but a pariah. He had run to Switzerland where for five years he’d maintained a relatively quiet life operating a small bookstore in Lausanne, and living with Marta Fredricks, a woman who’d turned out to be a Swiss Federal police officer assigned to watch him. Ex-CIA officers, especially killers, made the Swiss very nervous. Across the narrow street from the Brasserie Flo, McGarvey stopped a moment to adjust his tie before he crossed and entered the restaurant’s charming courtyard. McGarvey, pour deux, s’il vous plat the told the maitre d’. The strait-laced Frenchman glanced over McGarvey’s shoulder to see if the second person in his party was coming. “Monsieur”

  “It’s a friend. He’ll be arriving shortly”

  “Very well” McGarvey followed the maitre d’ back through the courtyard to a pleasant table and ordered a bottle of red wine. He sat back and lit a cigarette while he waited, the pressure of his gun reassuring at the small of his back. They were missing on Friday, but they had been there this morning down the block from his apartment. Watching. Waiting to see if he was alone, to catalogue his moves. The same man as before was behind the wheel, but someone else had been seated in the back.

  Because of the angle from his secondfloor window he could only see the man’s waist and a part of his torso, but he knew who it was and he knew what was coming. He even had a fair guess what his old friend was coming here for. It had happened almost like this two years ago, he remembered as the steward brought his bottle of wine and opened it for him, pouring half a glass. It was a house special wine so he was not invited to taste it. “Mercy” McGarvey said politely. The steward nodded and hurried off.

  It was noon and the popular restaurant was beginning to fill up.

  McGarvey caught the maitre d’ giving him severe glances. If monsieur’s friend didn’t show up soon, McGarvey figured he would be asked to move to a smaller table. Then, in Lausanne, as now, he’d been watched for several days so that his habits and routines could be established before he was picked up. Then, as now, the moment he realized that something was about to come down he had run for his gun. It’s what had ruined Switzerland for him. “Only assassins who are still active run for their weapons” Marta had told him. Unlike Lausanne, where after five years he had become complacent, these past two years in Paris had been different.

  He’d not allowed himself to lose his edge. It was simple survival, he told himself often. Because the business that had begun in Lausanne had never been finished. Not in Washington, not in Miami, and certainly not in Mexico City. He was still out there. Waiting. Biding his time. The familiar face and figure of John Lyman Trotter, Jr., a thin briefcase in his left hand, appeared at the entrance to the courtyard, hesitated a moment, and then said something to the maitre d’, who turned. Trotter followed the man’s gaze, spotting McGarvey seated alone, and he nodded, said something else, then threaded his way between the tables. McGarvey didn’t bother to stand. He hadn’t seen his old friend in two years, but the man had the same look on his face as he had had in Switzerland-one of worry and concern. “Hello, Kirk” Trotter said. He was a tall, very thin man, all angles, with a huge misshapen nose and bottle-thick glasses. He could have been classified as truly ugly, but he’d always had a sharp mind. He had begun his career with the CIA but then had gone over to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, working his way up to an associate directorship. “I thought it was you” McGarvey said. Trotter sat down, laying the briefcase on his lap. Languidly, McGarvey reached out and poured him a glass of wine. Their waiter came, handed them menus, and left. “Don thought you might have spotted him on Wednesday.

  “Outside the Louvre” Trotter nodded. “And Thursday outside my apartment. Not very professional. II Professional enough” Trotter said, lookin
g around at the other diners. “Nice place”

  McGarvey shrugged. “I can watch the door from here” Trotter managed a slight smile. “Nothing changes, does it”

  “How about you, John, still with the Bureau” Trotter shook his head.

  “I’m back over at Langley. Assistant deputy director of operations”

  “Larry Danielle still there”

  “Seventh floor. He’s our new deputy DCI. Phil Carrara is my boss. I don’t think you knew him. He came over last year from NSA”

  “A technologist” Again Trotter managed a slight smile. National Security Agency types were very often electronic freaks. “He’s a good man” McGarvey sipped at his wine. To this point Trotter had studiously avoided any direct eye contact. McGarvey stared at him. “It’s Baranov, isn’t it, John. That’s why you’ve come” Trotter nodded grimly. “He’s on the move again”

  “it looks like it. Larry suggested you this time, though, not me. I swear to God. I told him that you’d had enough. That you wanted to be left alone”

  “But he didn’t agree”

  “No”

  “Why all the pussyfooting around again, John”

  “We didn’t know your circumstances” Trotter replied simply. At this point McGarvey could have been a changed man, could have turned into almost anything. They had to make certain that he was clean, and that the opposition hadn’t gotten a line on him. As Trotter unnecessarily explained: “Valentin Baranov has got a very large grudge against you, Kirk. Now that he is director of the KGB he has the power to do something about it. “You’re here to save my skin, is that it” McGarvey asked, feeling some of his old meanness coming back. His stomach was sour. It was the thrill of the opening moves of a hunt he’d been waiting for. “To save all of our skins. The man has got to be stopped. This time McGarvey had to smile. “What do you want this time, John? Am I to go to Moscow and assassinate the director of the KGB”