Free Rockets' Red Glare by Greg Dinallo

God help you if you say it. “And I agree with him, Phil,” the President resumed, with a bold lie. “Nothing wrong with taking a good hard look at what we’re doing before we commit.”
    Keating, who was thinking— Bullshit! I don’t need anybody to assess the strength of my position —caught the look and pretended to concur. “That’s a very prudent attitude, sir,” he said, forcing a smile.

    Hilliard nodded. He had wanted Pomerantz to feel comfortable and wholly accommodated, and was thinking he’d succeeded, when the protocol officer informed them luncheon had commenced.
    “Precisely, I am all in favor of prudence,” Pomerantz replied as they followed the protocol officer to the door. “You see, after studying the NATO Report, all nine-hundred-fifty-four pages of it, I asked Chancellor Liebler and Defense Minister Schumann a question neither could answer. And that question was—‘What ever happened to the Heron ?’ ”
    “ Heron?” the President echoed, looking back at Keating. “Phil, I recall we monitored the testing of that system in the mid-seventies. Right?”
    “That’s correct, sir,” Keating replied smartly. “Soviets never deployed it.”
    “As best we can determine,” Pomerantz corrected sharply, enunciating each word, and neatly tacking the phrase onto Keating’s reply. Then she turned to the President and, softening her tone, said, “That’s a quote from the NATO Report, Mr. President. I’m sure you’ll agree, it’s not the kind of wording that inspires confidence.”
    Hilliard burned Keating with a look. “Is that what it says, Phil?” he asked through clenched teeth.
    They were moving into the dining hall now.
    The President laid back to enter alone. “We’ll talk,” he barked before Keating could reply.
    Keating nodded. He leveled an apprehensive look at Pomerantz as they separated, and went about mixing with the other representatives in the dining hall.
    The President paused and, with effort, transformed his pained expression into an ebullient smile and entered to spontaneous applause.
    * * * * * *

Chapter Ten
    The swell had rolled hundreds of miles across the Gulf before it slapped against the starboard pontoon of Churcher’s helicopter. The unoccupied craft rode the crest, settling onto the flat catenary of sea beyond.
    Two hundred feet beneath the surface, the prow of the Soviet submarine cut through the black water.
    The interior of the Foxtrot always reminded Churcher of Moscow before the snows—cold, gray, and depressing. Portfolio in hand, he was waiting in the wardroom with Gorodin and Beyalev when the door in the bulkhead swung open and Deschin’s bodyguard entered.
    Uzykin had the head of an eagle. The tip of his broad nose descended almost to the centerline of his lips. He surveyed the compartment and, satisfied all was in order, motioned Deschin inside.
    Deschin wore a dark blue suit, square shaped and buttoned over a slight bulge in his waistline, white shirt, and subdued striped tie.
    He had put on a few, thought Churcher, but the hollows below his cheeks were still there.
    Four medals—Hero of the Soviet Union, the Order of Victory, Marshall of the Soviet Union, and Order of Lenin—hung above Deschin’s breast pocket.
    He smiled at Churcher and extended a hand. “Ah Theo,” he rumbled in his heavily accented English. “You’ll forgive an old friend for keeping you waiting?”

    Churcher’s eyes twinkled, as they always did when he held the cards. He shook Deschin’s hand firmly, causing the medals to dance.
    “Please, Aleksei, no need to apologize,” he replied, pushing the left lapel of his suit jacket forward with his thumb. “See, you outrank me.”
    Deschin leaned forward, squinting to see the tiny emblem pinned in the notch. He knew that the gold and enameled insignia meant Churcher had been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for his heroic piloting of gliders during World War II. “By a margin of four to one!” he roared