"Joe, please .

"The last we heard, you two weren't hitting it off all that well. You know what I think? I think you didn't marry my daughter. I think you're saying you're married so we can't sue the damned Air Force for the accident. The spouse of a military member can't sue the government, right?"

Betty Tork was staring at her husband.

"This is a rip-off. I was in the Marine Corps for six years, I know about this crap." Joe Tork moved closer and wrapped his 252 .

big hands around the lapel of McLanahan's flight suit. "Answer me, you lying sack of mick shit. Answer me .

Patrick held Joe's wrists gently as he could. The big ex-Manine could have taken his frustrations out on Patrick, and for a mo- ment it looked like he might actually swing on him. But at the very moment Patrick thought he might do it, Tork's big shoul- ders began to shake. His narrow, angry eyes closed, and his grip began to loosen.

"Damn it, goddamn it all to hell . . . Wendy . . . she's been so all-fired independent ever since she was a kid. I'd get letters from Betty when I was in Vietnam telling me how smart and grown up she was. When I got back she wasn't a kid any more.

I never saw her that way . . . Now she's lying there helpless as a baby and I still can't do anything for her .

Patrick, feeling the same sense of anger and helplessness, could say nothing. It was Betty who broke the silence. "Patrick, when were you married? "

"What? Oh, the day before yesterday." He looked up. "Did they bring in Wendy's things?"

"In the closet.

He went to the closet and retrieved a cardboard box, took something from the box and returned to Wendy's bedside.

:'We're not allowed to wear rings on the flight line," he said.

'Too dangerous, they say. So we started keeping each other's ring until we saw each other again." He opened his hand and I i revealed a tiny purple velvet bag, loosened a thin gold draw- i string, dropped a hammered gold band into his palm, then slipped the ring on his left ring-finger. He then got an identical bag from a flight-suit pocket and took out another hammered-gold band, this one with a gold engagement ring fused to it. He slipped it i on Wendy's finger. I I.

The three were silent for a while. The ICU nurse came by, checked and recorded the monitor readings and left. Finally, Joe said, "Patrick, I have to know what happened out there? Can't you tell us anything?"

"Joe, you know I can't."

'But I'm a vet. I wouldn't tell anyone .

:,I know, but I still can't."

Tork ran his hands through what little hair was left on his head. "All right. But tell me this, just this one thing, because 253.

I'm Wendy's father. Just promise me you're going to nail whoever's responsible for doing this to my daughter."

Patrick's eyes were'fixed on Wendy's scars and bums, he saw her muscles convulse, heard the sucking sounds as machines drew fluid from her lungs to keep her from drowning.

"Yes, Joe," he said in a low voice. "That I can promise you . . .

The Kremlin, Moscow, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics Thursday, 18 June 1996, 2103 EET (1303 EDT) Vladimir Kalinin walked briskly into the General Secretary's of- fice to find several members of the Kollegiya already assembled there, all nervously pacing the floor or circling the conference table. They began to take seats immediately-obviously they had all been waiting for KGB chief Kalinin's arrival. Boris Mischel- evka, the Foreign Minister, sat at the head of the conference table and presided over the meeting.

"The General Secretary is en route from West Germany,"

Mischelevka began. "He has directed me to begin this meeting and assemble the entire Kolle iya at ten A. tomorrow morning when he arrives. He will expect a briefing on our meeting first thing in the morning.

"This deals, of course, with the incident that took place yes- terday morning in the United States. A fighter aircraft was stolen from a top-secret research center and flown through Central America to Nicaragua after a stop in Mexico. Apart from that information we have no details. " Mischelevka turned immedi- ately to Kalinin and asked if he could explain what had hap- pened.

"I believe this should wait for the General Secretary," Kali- nin said. "I see no reason for three separate meetings "The reason is simply that the General Secretary wants it,"

Mischelevka told him. "Obviously he intends that we be able to explain to the various governments involved what is going on."

Kalinin said nothing at first. The Americans called it "damage control"-everyone get their story straight and coordinated be- fore going outside the government. With foreign journalists flooding Moscow and a press center set up in the Kremlin itself, 254 DALE BR-OWN.

"damage control" was more and more important nowadays ...

"All I can tell you is that the incident involved a Soviet heli- copter and a Soviet airbase in Nicaragua - That is all I can discuss here until I brief the General Secretary.

"We need more than that, Kalinin," Mischelevka said. "I have received a dozen demands for explanations from several countries, including, naturally, the United States. It is important that we respond-"

"You will respond when the General Secretary decides you will respond. I will not release any information until the classi- fication of that information is determined-"

"But we must brief-"

"Brief no one. Is that clear enough?"

"What's wrong with you?" Mischelevka asked. "What's go- ing on? Is this a special KGB operation in Central America?

What . . . T1 "You will please not discuss your opinions of the incident either," Kalinin snapped. "Say nothing. Glasnost does not ap- ply here." With that, Kalinin got up and walked out.

They're like sheep, Kalinin thought as he quickly exited the dark halls of the Kremlin. They have been lulled into compla- cency by the garbage that has been fed to them over the years, that openness was good, that secret information is free to all for the asking. They were going to be this government's down- fall . . .

And when it had fallen, with a little help from patriots like himself, he was going to be the leader of a return to the old, traditional ways, to the future world eminence of the Soviet Union.

Arlington, Virginia Thursday, 18 June 1996, 1905 EDT The Barrel Factory Racquet Club used to be just that-an old factory and warehouse that, in pre-Prohibition days, made casks and barrels for beer and wine. It was one of the worst eyesores in the Washington, D., area for decades until Arlington's ren- aissance in the late 1980s and early nineties, when it was re- modeled into a first-class tennis, racquetball and health club. But 255.

the area kept its old slum reputation, so the Barrel Factory was having a tough time attracting members.

But for National Security Adviser Deborah O'Day, the place was perfect for many reasons. The dues were modest, it was easy to get a racquetball court-especially during the week after seven P.-and the usual D. crowd avoided the place. She could take off the White House senior-staff facade and act like a normal human being, and as such was rarely recognized-all of which made the place ideal for an occasional surreptitious meeting.

She tossed a couple of the soft blue rubber balls out into the court and chased them, jogging up and down the court to loosen her ankles. She was pleased with how flexible and fit her body was, even at fifty-one. Exercise was never important to her until just before learning that she was being considered for the NSC position. No one much cared what you looked like as U.

ambassador, but as part of the White House staff her image had to merge much better with that of the President, and that image was relatively young, lean and mean.

She crash-dieted during her last few weeks in New York, begging off all the bon voyage patties that she could. During the confirmation hearings, she had no time for any meals anyway, so dieting was very easy then. The same was true for her first few months in Washington. Now that the dust had settled a bit, she found that her once-a-week trips to the gym were invaluable and at times virtual life-savers. She enjoyed the challenges, rel- ished the appreciative glances of the men in the club (some less than half her age), and felt good when she looked around the room during the White House staff meetin s and knew that she could probably whip half the men in that room on the tennis or squash courts.

These late-night trips also had other valuable uses-such as tonight.

She had finished stretching out and had begun hitting the ball around when she heard a tap behind her. A tall, dark-haired, pear-shaped man in an old gray sweatsuit, elbow and knee pads, brand-new Reebok tennis shoes, wearing eye protectors and car- rying an old aluminum-framed racquet, was tapping on the back Plexiglas wall of her court.

Just as he began tapping again, from seemingly out of no- where Marine Corps Major Marcia Preston moved behind him.

256 .

She was dressed in a red jogging suit, a towel wrapped around

01.

her neck and carrying an open gym bag-which, Deborah Day knew, contained a Browning PM-40B automatic machine pistol with a twenty-round clip and laser sight. The pear-shaped fellow seemed to sense someone behind him and turned to face Marcia.

If he made the wrong move, Marcia could disable him in a few seconds or kill him in less time. They exchanged glances, and Marcia Preston never got closer than a few feet from him, but there was no doubt that the man knew he had been efficiently intercepted.

But at a slight hand motion from O'Day, Marcia moved on past as if she hadn't noticed he was there. O'Day could see the man nervously swallow, then open the half-size door to the court and step inside. Major Preston went over to the drinking fountain nearby, wandered around looking in the other courts, then disappeared back into her previous unobtrusive hiding place.

"Marcia is her usual charming self, I see," the man dead- panned, watching the major's retreating figure. He was already sweating, and they hadn't played one point yet. He turned and checked out Deborah O'Day in the same way he had just ap- praised Marcia Preston. "You're looking pretty foxy yourself, kid.

"Cool it, Marty, let's play. You warmed up?"

"For this ridiculous sport, no," Marty Donatelli said. "For some inforination, yes."

"We can chat while we play. At least pretend to be trying,"

she said, gently hitting a ball off the front wall toward Donatelli.

"Besides, it'll do you some good. You could stand to lose a few inches off that middle."

He took a huge roundhouse swipe at the ball, caroming it off three walls, but he placed it right back in the center of the court O'Day chased it down easily and sent it back right to Donatelli.

"The front page goes to bed in two hours, lover. Can we make this quick?"

"I don't care about the front page, and I'm sure as hell not your lover. " O'Day hit the ball back perfectly in the left comer; it bounded off the left wall, the front wall, then promptly hit the floor and died. "Okay. You serve. We'll talk."

As Donatelli moved to the center serve line, O'Day began: 257.

"Wasn't it terrible about the B-52 crash in Nevada the other day?

Donatelli bounced the ball experimentally a few times, bounced it once more, then hit it with all his might against the front wall. She was waiting for it and returned it up the right alley into the comer. Donatelli did not have time to move from where he had served the ball. "My serve," she said, and smiled a pretty smile.

"Yeah, I heard of it," Donatelli said. "So? I don't do aircraft accidents.

"There's some scuttlebutt around," she said, and stepped to the service line, "something about it not being an accident."

The reporter was getting impatient. "It was out in the Red Flag range, right? There's hundreds of planes out there shooting missiles. The Air Force loses a plane almost every day out there. "

O'Day bounced the ball, took one glance back at Donatelli, then swung the racquet as she said, "If I only had the time I'd look into that. Some strange stories coming out of southern Ne- vada. There was even this weird report about a KGB agent steal- ing a fighter."

The blue rubber ball rebounded hard off the front wall, came straight back and hit Donatelli in the right leg. He scarcely no- ticed it. "Did you say, a Russian KGB agent?"

"That's just scuttlebutt. One serving zero. Still in serve.

"Hold on. Who says a Russian agent?"

"It's an unconfirmed rumor," O'Day said, getting ready for the serve. "Some stuff about a stolen fighter, some fighters shot down, about the stolen fighter heading for some pro-Soviet Cen- tral American country."

She served the ball. Donatelli knocked it into a comer.

"Two serving . . ."

"All this happened yesterday?"

Yep. So they say."

"How can I verify this?"

O'Day walked over to pick up the ball. "Hey, I'm not a re- porter. You don't tell me how to do my job and I don't tell you how to do yours. But like I said, if I had the time I'd call, say, a General Elliott through the Nellis AFB operator-he's in charge of some of the ranges down there. I might also contact the Mex- ican government, especially the Monterrey Air Defense Zone 258 .

headquarters about those rumors about unauthorized airspace violations and dogfights over their-"

"Jesus Christ . . . " Donatelli worked to unravel the racquet's wrist strap that had wound itself tightly around his right arm.

"I've got less than two hours to make these calls . . . Mexico- that'll take forever .

I I.

Remember the routine, Marty-unnamed government sources, maybe unnamed military sources. There's enough of a shake-up over there that a leak is bound to develop."

:'You mean someone else might get this story . . . ?

I doubt it, but you never know. I heard General Elliott got his butt chewed pretty good by the President and the senior staff today. He might be in a talkative mood."

Donatelli whipped off his eye protectors, reprising what O'Day had just told him. "Elliott . . . Nellis . . . Mexico . . . what was that . . . ? "

:'Just replay your tape recorder, and listen," Deborah said.

' My tape recorder?" Donatelli looked surprised. "Our deal was no tapes. You think I'd welsh on that deal?"

O'Day tossed the blue ball at Donatelli's chest. "In a heart- beat, Marty. Just protect your sources like your life depended on it, and we'll both be okay."

Donatelli lifted up his sweatshirt to reveal nothing but a very hairy, very sweaty chest. "I don't have a recorder. See? I've shown you mine-now you show me yours."

:'Kiss my ass."

,:With pleasure." They stood looking at each other.

You're a fox, no doubt about that. Ms. National Security Adviser. But tell me-why are you doing this? Were you - thorized by the White House to leak this? If so, why are they doing it? "

She began to bat the ball around the court. "I've got reasons.

That's enough."