Chapter 36

HE HAD NEVER SEEN an actual missile system before, only blueprints, and he found it fascinating.

“Just a routine inspection, ordered by Colonels Enrique and Ivan,” Smith said cheerily as he climbed a staging ladder mounted to the top of the missile’s guidance and payload compartment. He found an inspection door below the red nose cone and yelled down to the engineers and technicians, “Don’t mind me, I just want to make sure the course settings are right.”

“Glad to have it checked. Here, you will need the key.” The engineer removed a chain from around his neck and tossed it up without bothering to aim. Keeping one hand on a metal rung, Smith somehow managed to snag the chain before it could fall down into the concrete flame bucket underneath the rocket nozzles. He inserted the key into the inspection access door.

The engineer shaded his eyes, looking up at Smith on the ladder. “Make sure that one’s coordinates are set for Buenos Aires!”

Smith stuck his head inside the hatch, rummaging among the gyroscopes and guidance systems. He tried to remember how the systems worked exactly, but he had paid little attention to all those classified plans he had approved for Admiral Turner. Now was his chance to do something for the United States Navy, at last.

Out of sight, he used a ballpoint pen from the pocket of his sheepskin coat to do calculations on the palm of his hand. After double-checking his math, he used the tip of the pen to push the setting dials inside the missile. Latitude, Longitude, Distance — now it would go straight to Havana. If he remembered his maps right.

He gingerly climbed back down to stand with the Colodoran engineer. The technician guards had exchanged their gun belts for tool belts and went back to work in the silos under the corporate logo of the Hungry Mouth Wheat Company — a huge cartoon mouth stuffed with spiny wheat grains.

Smith casually dropped the missile key into his shirt pocket. “The settings were just about perfect,” he said, brushing his hands together with satisfaction. “But maybe I better check the other silos. Just to be sure.”

* * *

The hand-lettered sign above the next concrete granary said Silo No. 2. Smith and the engineer went in.

“I’m glad of your help, Pedrito,” the engineer said as Smith climbed another ladder. “You make my job much easier.” Smith opened the access door, and the engineer shouted up at him, “That one’s set for Rio de Janeiro. I hope the guidance system checks out.”

Crowded into the small access hatch, Smith busily reset the dials. He finished calculations on his other palm and pushed the aiming dials. Right in the middle of Leningrad, he thought. Or had the Russians renamed that city St. Petersburg again?

In Silo No. 3, Smith tinkered with the next missile. “As you can see, we are prepared to dominate all of South America. This one is aimed at Caracas,” the engineer called, his words echoing in the confined silo.

“Not anymore,” Smith whispered as he turned the setting dials with a grim smile. “Moscow city limits.”

* * *

In the missile site office of the Hungry Mouth Wheat Company, Colonels Enrique and Ivan sat at a rickety table, playing dominoes. A bottle of vodka and two empty glasses stood at their elbows. Cuban cigars sat inside a Mercedes-Benz hubcap being used as an ashtray. Calendars displaying new models of farm machinery decorated the walls. A battery-powered phonograph played a scratchy LP of the “Volga Boatman.”

The two colonels moved their domino tiles as they talked. “As soon as the real Pedrito gets back from New York with the plans for those U.S. anti-jamming devices, we’re all set, Comrade,” Ivan said.

“That will be quite a feather in our caps, won’t it?” Enrique said, scratching his voluminous beard. “All of South America at our mercy. That’ll be a nice change of pace.”

“I hope he doesn’t foul it up,” Ivan said gloomily. “If this mission fails, my superiors could send me back to Russia. No nice cigars there.”

“How could it fail?” Enrique said. “We’re the only ones who know about the switch. No chance of a leak in counter-intelligence. We’ll have to order the real Pedrito to assassinate Smith as soon as he returns.”

“I can’t believe Smith has managed to survive for so long,” Enrique said. “Just make sure he stays put in Bellanova, where he can’t cause any damage. You issued the order, didn’t you?”

“Da,” Ivan said. “Our Pedrito is just cooling his heels in the old fortress.”

A secretary came to the office door in high heels, sheer pantyhose, and a trim business skirt she couldn’t possibly have bought anywhere in Colodor. “Sirs, Pedrito Miraflores just arrived for his inspection tour of the missile base. Um, I mean, the wheat company.”

The two colonels did a double take and gaped at her.

The secretary continued, oblivious. “He’s quite a dashing fellow. Nice red hair, sunny disposition. The workers were all cheering him when he arrived to check all the missile settings. I want to get his autograph.”

Colonel Ivan brought his fist down on the table, jiggling the empty vodka glasses and scrambling the domino tiles. “What is Bolo doing? And where’s that Yaquita? She was supposed to keep him under her thumb.”

The secretary hastily scuttled into the hall away from Ivan’s anger. “Yes, sirs, a Miss Yaquita to see you. She’s waiting right out here.”

Yaquita glided in like a lioness, carrying her battered radio-guitar case. Both colonels glared at her severely, but she nonchalantly tossed her dark hair over her shoulder. Ivan quickly swept the desktop clear of bottles, glasses and dominoes so she wouldn’t have anything to throw.

“You’ve got your nerve bringing Pedrito here!” Enrique bellowed.

“This way I can keep an eye on him,” Yaquita said innocently. “You told me to keep an eye on him.”

“And your thumb on him,” the Russian said.

“Bolo’s orders told him to come here. So we came.”

The colonels blinked, then looked at each other. “That’s not what we told Bolo to do. Whose side is he on, anyway?”

Yaquita put her hands on her hips. “Why shouldn’t I bring Pedrito here? The men need their morale boosted, and he is their hero.”

Abruptly the colonels put their heads together, whispering furiously. Finally, they nodded to each other.

Ivan took a set of plans from the desk drawer, spreading them out where Yaquita could see. “Pedrito shouldn’t be here because we have an important job for him elsewhere,” he said. The Russian colonel tapped one section of the drawing. “These are the plans of the CIA Communications Centrale in Colodor. It’s the only thing that can mess up our missile strike.”

“Pedrito has to go and blow it up,” Enrique said. “It’s in his contract.”

Yaquita was surprised. She bent over to inspect the plans, making serious noises. “Blowing up CIA installations is always fun — but this one looks like a tough nut to crack.”

“Pedrito is good at cracking tough nuts,” Ivan said, then lowered his voice, “and also good at driving people nuts.”

“Deliver him to the area, and then you will go wait for him at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Mercy in Sangredios,” Enrique commanded. “No questions — just follow orders like a good revolutionary.”

“Is it a nice cathedral to get married in?” Yaquita smiled wistfully, and both colonels nodded vigorously.

With Yaquita gone and happy, Enrique and Ivan toasted each other with a fresh glass of vodka. “I told you she had nothing but marriage on her mind,” Enrique said. “For an intelligent woman, she is so gullible for all that propaganda about what women are supposed to do with their lives. Ha!”

“Well, Smith is one man she won’t marry,” Ivan said. “Even he isn’t that foolish.”

“Unless she wants to marry a corpse.” Enrique picked up the vodka bottle, but it was empty. He opened the desk drawer to get a fresh one. “CIA Centrale is a deathtrap. He’ll never make it out alive. Not even the real Pedrito could do it.”

“Better send Felipe and Juan after him to make sure he actually attempts the mission,” Ivan said. “After all this time, we don’t want him getting smart on us.”

“No chance of that.” Enrique eased back in the desk chair. “Would you like another cigar?”

“Da. Would you like some more vodka?”