Strangers When We Meet. Merline Lovelace
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even aware of its existence.
“Think about it,” McGee urged. “You haven’t lost your touch. My guys tell me you aced both checkrides.”
“Yeah, well,” Dodge drawled in the Wyoming twang he’d never quite shed. “Flyin’ a Huey’s like makin’ love to a beautiful woman. Once you get her out of the chocks, everything else comes naturally.”
McGee grinned. “You’ve sure as hell gotten more than your share out of the chocks. And escaped their clutches afterward. You and I both know your handle doesn’t come just from dodging bulls.”
Dodge kept his smile in place and let the comment slide. He’d loved once, or thought he had. The memory could still slice into him when he let it.
“I’d better go see what the colonel wants.”
He reported in to the commander of the 90th Missile Wing fifteen moments later. Seated behind a desk roughly the size of Kansas, Colonel Yarboro returned his salute and waved him to a seat.
“You ready for the Russian team?”
“Yes, sir.”
The colonel’s eyes raked him from head to toe. Good thing Dodge had had his shaggy brown hair trimmed and boots buffed. OMEGA undercover operatives tended more toward comfort than spit and polish when in the field. Rejoining the air force, even temporarily, had called for some spiffing up.
Yarboro was only one of three people who’d been read in on the real reason for Dodge’s sudden appearance at F. E. Warren. Everyone else had been fed the cover story. The colonel wasn’t happy about having an outsider foisted on him, though. Even one with Major Sloan Hamilton’s military and civilian credentials.
“Before you make contact with Major Petrovna,” he said brusquely, “I want to make sure you understand who you’re up against.”
Yarboro lifted a typed sheet and skimmed down the page. A career missileer who’d worked his way up from launch officer to commander of the world’s most sophisticated ICBM force, he targeted the salient items with pinpoint accuracy.
“Born, Bryansk. Age 33. Widowed. One child. Attended the Gagarin Air Force Academy. Holds advanced degrees in both math and astrophysics.”
That would strike a cord with the colonel, Dodge guessed. Yarboro had earned a doctorate from MIT in astrophysics himself.
“She pulled a tour as a relatively junior officer at strike-force headquarters in Moscow, then commanded a SS-18 squadron.”
Those accomplishments didn’t exactly endear her to either Dodge or the colonel. The missile officers assigned to the 90th spent twenty-four hours at a stretch some eighty feet below the ground, locked behind eight-ton blast doors while they played a deadly game of chicken with their Russian counterparts. The cold war might have ended for the rest of the world. It hadn’t cooled more than a few degrees for the men and women charged with the nerve-twisting task of nuclear deterrence.
“Petrovna spent the past four years at various staff jobs,” Yarboro continued, “including two with the research-and-development directorate. Word is that Colonel Zacharov, head of Russian military intelligence, handpicked her to head this special team because of her expertise.”
Dodge kept silent. He knew Petrovna’s background as well as the colonel did. There was a reason Yarboro was reiterating her credentials. Probably had to do with the fact that Washington had sent Dodge in to bird-dog her instead of using one of the locals.
“When you meet Petrovna and her team at the airport this afternoon, you’ll bring her by here for a courtesy call,” Yarboro instructed. “Tom Jordan, our treaty compliance officer, will conduct the orientation briefing at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow morning. He’s lined up additional escorts to take care of the other two team members.”
“Yes, sir.”
Yarboro leaned forward, his eyes intent. “This is the first inspection under the new START treaty. I don’t need to tell you how important it is.”
The new START.
The acronym didn’t quite fit, Dodge thought cynically, since the Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty just signed by the presidents of the U.S. and the Russian Federation was the third treaty by that name. Each iteration had led to a reduction of nuclear war heads and strategic delivery systems, but the two superpowers still fielded some fifteen hundred nuclear warheads each.
“The top dogs on both sides will be watching,” Yarboro warned. “We don’t want any screwups.”
Dodge didn’t remind him that was why the president had tapped OMEGA to send someone in.
“No, sir.”
“Just get the Russians where they need to go, when they need to go. And make sure they observe the inspection protocol.” Yarboro thumped a thick binder sitting on the side of his desk. “I assume you’ve read it.”
Yeah, he’d read it. Its title was as mind-numbing as its dozens of chapters.
Protocol to the Treaty Between the United States of America and the Russian Federation on Measures for the Further Reduction and Limitation of Strategic Offensive Arms
The document covered everything from the on-site verification of active nuclear assets to the disposal of warheads taken out of service. Then there was the section labeled Escort Officer Duties, with separate tabs for housing, transportation, meals, clothing, handling of equipment and contacts with the media. The damned volume had taken most of four hours to get through.
“According to the protocol, I’m supposed to do everything but wipe the major’s nose,” Dodge commented.
“You do that, too, if necessary.”
Looked to be a fun couple of weeks, he mused, as the colonel continued.
“I want you to keep two key points in mind, Hamilton. One, Major Petrovna communicates her team’s needs through you and only through you. Two, the treaty accords these people what amounts to diplomatic status. Their quarters, work area and papers are sacrosanct. And while they’re expected to abide by the host-country laws, they enjoy a high degree of immunity.”
“Right.”
The two men’s eyes locked. They both knew the Russians were charged with the collateral mission of gathering intelligence on U.S. systems.
“Previous team members have been observed dropping pencils or pens at missile sites,” Yarboro commented. “When they bend down to retrieve the fallen article, they scoop up a soil sample for later analysis. And many pretend they can’t speak English, in hopes of overhearing chance conversations, although their biographies clearly indicate a facility with the language.”
“I know the major is fluent in English,” Dodge commented. “The others with her not so much.”
“Captain Tyschenko can get by,” Yaroboro confirmed. “Aleksei Bugarin speaks German and French, as well as some English. But be particularly careful what you say to him. He’s FSB.”
FSB—Federal Security Service—Russia’s modern-day successor to the KGB. If half of what Dodge had read about KGB tactics held even a grain of truth, they’d been one bad bunch of boys and girls. FSB was proving itself worse.
“Bugarin’s job is to keep a close eye on the other members of the team and report immediately any suspicious activity,” Yarboro stated succinctly. “Your job is to do the same.”
To Dodge’s surprise, the colonel unbent enough to give a flinty smile.
“I’m as familiar with your background, Hamilton, as I am with Major Petrovna’s. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble handling the team.”
Dodge didn’t think so, either. Right up until the jet carrying the team taxied up to the air-national-guard side of the Cheynne airport late that afternoon.
He was waiting inside the terminal