Strangers When We Meet Page 2

  “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 with the two other members of the escort team. Lieutenant Benjamin Tate was an earnest young officer, proud of both his shiny missileer badge and his African-American heritage. Senior Master Sergeant Lewis sported a shock of red hair, five rows of ribbons on his uniform jacket and a sleeve full of stripes. Given his years of experience, he’d been assigned to escort Aleksei Bugarin, the FSB officer. Dodge kept an eye on the passengers exiting the craft and ran through a final list of dos and don’ts.

  “Remember, we’re not
supposed to get too friendly with these guys. Don’t let them take any pictures without prior approval. Don’t exchange gifts, except small trinkets like coffee mugs or unit patches, and be sure to run any trinket the Russians offer you by the Office of Special Investigations to have it checked for bugs. And don’t make any physical contact, except to prevent serious injury.”

  “Roger that,” Sergeant Lewis acknowledged.

  “There they are,” the lieutenant murmured.

  Dodge had no difficulty identifying Major Petrovna when she appeared. The treaty required inspection personnel to wear civilian clothes while visiting a host country, but even in her badly cut navy suit, she was striking. She wore her silver-blond hair pulled back in a high twist that emphasized her sculpted cheekbones. A decidedly aristocratic nose gave her an elegant air, at odds with that lush, sensual mouth.

  When she got closer, Dodge saw that her eyes were blue, as her bio had indicated. A deep purplish-blue, almost the same color as the monkshood that blanketed the high valleys in spring—also known as wolfsbane, women’s bane, the Devil’s helmet and the blue rocket, Dodge reminded himself wryly. Highly toxic if the roots were ingested. Something he’d best remember.

  Those intense blue eyes flicked over him, taking in his height, stance and uniform in a quick, assessing glance before moving to the two men with him. As she approached, Dodge spotted the puckered skin on the left side of her neck and lower jaw. Not even that spiderweb tracery of scars could detract from the overall package.

  The look she gave him as he extended his hand was another story. It went past cool and hovered somewhere around icy.

  “Welcome to Cheyenne, Major Petrovna. I’m Dodge Hamilton.”

  She gave his hand a brisk shake, after which they took turns introducing the others. Then she got right to the point in heavily accented English.

  “My team requires transportation to their quarters. You will arrange it, then escort me to call upon Colonel Yarboro so I may present my credentials.”

  Although the clipped instructions coincided exactly with Dodge’s intentions, that imperious “will” had him lifting a brow. The lady was obviously used to being in charge.

  “Lieutenant Tate and Sergeant Lewis will help your folks with the baggage and drive them to their quarters,” he replied. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll take you directly to the wing headquarters.”

  Leading the way, he escorted his charge out of the terminal to the blue air-force sedan parked at the curb and opened the passenger-side door. Petrovna slid into her seat without so much as a nod or word of thanks.

  If the grueling flight from Moscow and nine-hour time differential had sapped the major’s energy, she didn’t allow it to show. Sitting ramrod straight in the passenger seat, she answered Dodge’s polite question about her flight in curt monosyllables, and displayed no trace of weariness during the fifteen-minute drive from the airport.

  Her blue eyes absorbed Cheyenne’s rolling landscape, then locked on the tall, white missiles standing sentry at the base’s front gate. When the gate guard had waved them through and the white-trimmed brick buildings of the old fort appeared, Dodge made another attempt to break the ice.

  “The base started life as a cavalry post. It’s part of our wild-and-woolly Western heritage.”

  “I know this,” Petrovna replied repressively. “I haf been…” She stopped, corrected herself. “I have been here before, on an inspection team under the old treaty.”

  So much for that conversational gambit. Flicking the directional signal, Dodge turned into the parking lot beside the two-story brick building that housed the headquarters of the 90th Space Wing. Once parked, he reached behind him for a fat envelope.

  “This contains your identification badge, a base directory and a paper copy of the slides that will be presented at the in-brief tomorrow.”

  He passed over the package. The major accepted it without comment.

  “You should wear the badge whenever you’re on base.”

  With a look that said she was perfectly aware of the protocol, Petrovna clipped the plastic identifier to the lapel of her navy suit jacket and didn’t wait for Dodge to come around and open her door.

  Her low-heeled black pumps beat a precise tattoo on the sidewalk as she led the way to the headquarters’ front entrance. Sturdy outer wooden doors opened into a glassed-in foyer, designed to break the force of Wyoming’s constant winds. Once inside the foyer, security forces checked their badges and handheld articles before waving them through.

  Some kind of high-powered meeting had just broken up, Dodge saw. A small crowd of civilians in expensive-looking suits and power ties were just filing past the security checkpoint. The badges dangling from their suit pockets identified them as contractors. Dodge picked up bits and pieces of conversation as the group passed.

  “The Pentagon’s still working the RFP.”

  “…won’t release the initial specs until January.”

  “We’re talking five, maybe six years for development, integration and testing.”

  The last speaker had already passed, but his voice snagged Dodge’s attention. It was low and rough. Almost rasping. As if someone had punched the man in the throat and he was still getting his wind back.

  “I don’t see it happening,” Gritty Voice was saying, “before…”

  “Ummph!”

  With a startled grunt, Dodge collided with the woman who’d stopped in her tracks just ahead of him. The force of the collision propelled Petrovna into a near free fall. He lunged forward and caught her just in time.

  Whoa! There was a real woman under those layers of permafrost. Dodge didn’t exactly cop a feel. He had a little more class than that. Besides, there was the treaty’s explicit prohibition against touching. But he certainly registered a set of long, sinuous curves under her shapeless navy suit.

  “Sorry ’bout that.” Reluctantly, he set her on her feet. “Colonel Yarboro’s office is straight ahead.”

  Instead of moving on, the Russian pivoted slowly.

  “This way, Major Petrovna.”

  She paid no attention. She stood rooted in place, staring at the backs of the departing men. Every trace of color had drained from her face. Her blue eyes were glassy with shock.

  Chapter 2

  “Major?”

  Petrovna didn’t respond. She’d gone so pale that the puckered skin on her neck and lower jaw stood out like the shadowed craters of the moon.

  “Major Petrovna? Are you okay?”

  Dazed blue eyes swung toward Dodge. “Shto?”

  “Are you all right?”

  The blonde didn’t answer. She stared blankly at him for several seconds, then pushed past. Backtracking through security, she shoved open the door to the building’s exterior and searched the crowd now climbing into various vehicles. Whatever she saw didn’t appear to satisfy her. Spinning around, she fired off a torrent of Russian.

  “Sorry,” Dodge said. “I don’t understand.”

  With an obvious effort, she fought to recall her English. “Did you see him?”

  “See who?”

  “The one who speaks… How do you say? Like a… Like a…”

  “You mean the guy who growled like a dog?”

  “Yes! The one who growls like the dog. Did you see him?”

  “I heard him, but I didn’t see him.”

  “Do you know who he is, this one?”

  Dodge didn’t have a clue, but he sure as hell intended to find out.

  “From their badges,” he said slowly, “I’d guess he was part of a group of civilian contractors.”

  He waited for her to explain. When she didn’t, he pressed her. “What’s with the growler? Have you crossed swords with him before or something?”

  “What do you say?”

  “Obviously, you recognized that guy’s voice. How do you know him?”

  “I…”

  Petrovna lifted a hand. The fingers she pressed against her scars were trembling, Dodge noted wit
h a sudden kink in his gut.

  “I once…”

  “You once what?”

  The question seemed to recall her from wherever her racing thoughts had taken her. Abruptly, she dropped her hand. Beneath the rumpled suit jacket, her shoulders stiffened.

  “I think perhaps I hear a voice like this one before. I make the mistake.” Turning, she marched down the hall. “Come, we will be late for my appointment.”

  “Hold on!”

  Dodge caught up with her in three quick steps. When she refused to slow, he said to hell with the rules and snagged her arm.

  “You looked as if you were about to pass out on me a moment ago. Why did hearing that growl almost buckle your knees?”

  “I make the mistake.”

  She glanced down pointedly at his hand. When she lifted her gaze again, she could have chipped granite with her flinty stare.

  “We waste time. Come.”

  Stiff-spined, she swept down the hall. Dodge trailed her, swallowing a few decidedly uncomplimentary remarks about Russians in general, and tight-assed Russian majors in particular.

  They were ushered into the 90th Missile Wing commander’s office a few minutes later. Although the major maintained her stiff, professional manner, she unbent a little during the courtesy call. Once, she even smiled. Just a polite curve of her lips, but even so, the transformation was startling.

  Well, damn! Good thing she didn’t do that more often, Dodge thought. Her snow-princess looks were enough to make a man start thinking of ways to initiate a spring melt. When she thawed even a few degrees, his thoughts took a sharp jump into long, hot summer nights.

  The brief thaw probably had a lot to do with the fact that she and the colonel spoke the same missileese. Within minutes, the two astrophysicists had left Dodge behind in the technical dust.

  When they were joined by the vice-commander, Dodge used the cover of polite conversation to slip into the outer office and pop a question at the colonel’s administrative assistant.