Chapter 23
Ford was dozing as the airliner headed westward. Again, he dreamed of aliens.
The plan took ten minutes to draw up; there would be two parties; one would provide a diversion and attempt to draw the alien fire, the other, led by Straker, would attempt to reach the missile launcher and shoot down the UFO.
The continued whirring, humming pulsing of the alien craft had almost become part of the background such that the distant rumble had become more noticeable, yet the sky visible above the clearing remained clear of cloud.
The diversionary party, hindered by the darkness, took nearly an hour to circle the clearing. The plan was simple; the Diversionary party would attempt to distract the UFO with small arms fire, whilst one of Brezhnev's guards would try to reach the missile launcher and shoot the UFO down. Already, they had learned the need for caution; one unlucky soldier, venturing too close to the edge of the clearing, died instantly, enveloped in an incandescent glow as he fell, cremated by an energy beam from the UFO.
Having been hovering for several minutes, the UFO moved swiftly to a new position, coming to rest over the edge of the clearing, opposite the stand of trees the diversionary party were using as cover.
As one, they opened fire, their rifles making no impression of the alien craft.
An energy beam lanced out, instantly cremating an unlucky soldier.
Finally, the President saw the true nature of the threat facing the world. Brezhnev stood open-mouthed, seemingly transfixed and oblivious to the danger barely fifty yards above him. The wind, whipped up by the rapidly spinning object, snatched at his heavy coat.
Straker sprinted from cover and launched himself at the older man. An energy beam seared the air and obliterated the spot here he'd been standing
Suddenly, the craft rose further above the trees and moved toward the centre of the clearing. With an ear-splitting roar, an AA-6 missile, travelling at more than four times the speed of sound, slammed into the transparent dome and exploded. Thick smoke billowed from the craft as it continued to rise and eventually disappeared into the night.
A much louder roar accompanied the arrival of the MiG 25s that had been scrambled when the alarm had first been raised. Learning from their previous experience, the sector commanders had ordered their pilots to shoot on sight.
The aircraft pulled up and away as the pilots turned in pursuit. The roar of the Turmansky engines died away to a low rumble, then faded away altogether. Silence returned to the forest once more.
Shakily, gasping for breath, winded by the younger man's impact, Brezhnev sat up. Straker was already on his feet and offered his hand to help the older man up. The President grasped the outstretched hand. Once on his feet, he continued to grip Straker's hand whilst gazing steadily into his pale blue eyes.
Then, he smiled. "Tovarisch!" He grabbed Straker in a bear hug.
Ford awoke with a start. The cabin lights had been dimmed for landing, allowing him to see the world outside; instead of the pinpricks of a myriad stars, rain lashed the windows as the airliner flew through heavy cloud. He became aware of a pale bluish glow; electrical charge had built up at the wingtips and was discharging in the phenomenon known as St Elmo's fire. His stomach lurched as a downdraft wrenched the aircraft towards the ground. Had he not known he was in an airliner, Ford would have sworn that he was riding in a bathtub down a giant flight of stairs.
Eventually, the turbulence eased as the aircraft dropped out of the storm clouds, Ford felt the thump as the landing gear was lowered for final approach.
The ride back to the dacha was far more comfortable than the all-too-recent evacuation. The APC's driver, mindful of the importance of his passengers was taking care to avoid the worst potholes of the woodland track. At last they reached the main steps and the passengers climbed down from the vehicle, to be conducted back to the Chairman's office. It was only under the lights that Straker realized his dress uniform had suffered from the night's adventures; spattered with mud, diesel and woodland moss, his normally immaculate uniform would have been rejected by a charity shop.
Brezhnev led them to a low table, around which were arranged some easy chairs. On the table itself, plates had been set out with traditional Russian dishes including pickled garlic, gherkins, tomatoes, black bread with salo fat from the belly of a pig, and several bottles of vodka, to be served in shot glasses.
"Please, gentlemen, help yourselves" Komarov translated for the Chairman.
It was early evening in the White House. Most of the normal administrative staff had either left or were in the process of doing so. In the Oval Office, the President, Richard Millhouse Nixon, exhausted after a day of meetings with his military advisors, in an attempt to determine the intentions of the Soviet Union, had allowed himself a few moments of respite from the constant pressure of the job. A Steward had just brought coffee, placing it on a small table next to the sofa. He was just about to raise the cup to his lips when the telephone on his desk rang. What now? Sighing, he walked over to his desk and scooped up the handset.
"Mr President? Rossi, Duty Officer. We've a message coming in on the Hot Line"
"On my way."
Forgotten, the coffee grew cold.
Despite full afterburner, the Soviet pilots could only look on as the UFO, damaged as it was, drew ever further out of range. Each man wanted to follow it further, in case of a feint by their unknown foe but was painfully aware that the fuel state of his aircraft was close to 'critical'
At that moment, the Ground Controllers ordered them back to base. The Intruder was somebody else's problem now. As one, the aircraft banked and turned for home.
The airliner rolled to a stop at its designated stand and the engines shut down. Rain cascaded off the wings and showered onto the wet concrete.
Ford waited until most of the other passenger had left the aircraft before standing and removing his hand luggage from the overhead locker. He could hear the rain drumming on the outer skin of the aircraft. Pausing only to thank the crew, he stepped out of the aircraft and walked along the covered walkway into the terminal building.
This late in the evening, there were few arrivals at the airport so the Customs hall was comparatively quiet and Customs clearance was little more than a formality. Within minutes, he had left the building and was heading for the bus terminal to pick up one of the regular shuttle buses that would take him into London.
A car horn sounded. Ford looked round. A car's headlights flashed. Huddling under his coat against the downpour, Ford hurried over. The driver leaned across and unlocked the front passenger door. Pulling the door open, Ford looked inside Dennis Hooper grinned as Ford dumped his bag on the back seat and slid gratefully into the passenger seat
After the events of the Cuban Missile Crisis nearly a decade before, the US and Soviet Governments, realizing just how close they had come to the brink of nuclear war, decided that there had to be a permanent communications channel between the two Governments. Consequently, a secure teleprinter link had been established between Washington and Moscow. Communication between the two leaders would be sent in their native tongue, to be translated at the receiving end; the interpreters being language specialists from the armed forces. By the time President Nixon and his Chief-of-Staff, Alexander Haig, had arrived in the small, windowless room in the bowels of the White House, the printout already ran to two pages.
The Secretary of Defence, Melvin Laird , was already present, as were the Joint Chiefs of the armed forces.
"So? What do we have?" asked the President.
"Mr President, it appears that the Soviet Government now has evidence that so-called 'reactionary' elements were working to stir up trouble between our peoples. They now accept that the United States Government are not responsible for the recent events in Eastern Europe."
"Nice of Brezhnev to have come to his senses." muttered Haig.
The Duty Officer continued: "They suggest a staged withdrawal of all forces to Peacetime positions over the next three days starting at midnight, Moscow time."
The President looked up at the clocks on the wall. Each was set to a different time zone, indicating the time in the major cities of the world.
"That would be 4 pm Eastern Standard. " he calculated.
"Sir, This could be a ploy to catch us off our guard so they could launch a sneak attack." Said the chief of the Air Force. " Just give the word and my boys can launch a pre-emptive strike"
"No!" The President was furious. This Government's approval ratings are suffering because of Viet Nam. How do you suppose I'm going to look if I attack the Soviets? I will not go down in history as the man who started World War Three!" He turned to the Duty Officer. "Send This: "The United States Government, in a spirit of Peaceful co-existence, concurs with the suggestion of the Soviet Union. US Strategic forces will be withdrawn from their forward positions with effect from 1600 hours Eastern Standard Time."
"Yessir"
"And stand down our forces to DefCon 4."
"Sir."
The two sides had stepped back from the brink. The nuclear 'pistol' was still cocked but the finger had been removed from the trigger.
It would still be several days before the alert state would be lowered to DefCon1, Peacetime status
Straker felt distinctly light-headed; the vodka was deceptively smooth. As was traditional, as soon as each toast was drunk, the glasses were smashed into the fireplace. So far, they had toasted Straker's health, President Nixon's health, the Red Army, the Soviet Air Force, the Motherland, The United States of America, Yuri Gagarin, Neil Armstrong, the Five Year Plan, President Brezhnev and eventually Vodka itself. They had finally slumped, exhausted and more than little tipsy, into the easy chairs.
Straker became aware that there was some form of ceremony going on; an aide entered the room, bearing a small leather-covered box that he presented to Brezhnev. He saluted and left.
The President gazed solemnly at Straker. He stood and gestured for Straker to do the same. Shakily, Straker rose to his feet. Brezhnev began to speak. The effects of the vodka meant that Komarov had difficulty understanding, let alone translating the Chairman's words.
The President paused; evidently, a question had just been asked.
Komarov spoke: "The Comrade Chairman wishes to know your name."
"Edward Straker"
Another question: "Your Father's Name?"
"John." Replied Straker.
Brezhnev gazed at the younger man, and nodded slowly
"Edvard Ivanovich Straker… Da!"
There was no mistaking The Chairman's actions: with a flourish, Brezhnev opened the box and took out a small five-pointed golden star, attached to a scarlet ribbon, which he firmly pinned to Straker's breast before embracing him in a bear hug and kissing him on both cheeks. The guards snapped to attention. One of the guards began to sing the Russian National Anthem. Within moments, every Russian had joined in.
Garvey, up to this point, had been totally baffled by proceedings but he'd been to enough Diplomatic gatherings to realize what had just taken place. He stood and proffered his hand. "May I be the first to congratulate you, Colonel Straker? You have just been made a Hero of the Soviet Union!"