Chapter 42

IN THE OVAL OFFICE, the President threw the purple phone onto the desk with a loud jangle; then he picked up his putter and tossed it across the room. Still not satisfied, he snatched up one of the golf balls from the carpet and hurled it through the window. The glass smashed, and the ball sailed out into the rose garden, nearly striking a tabloid reporter who was trying to eavesdrop on the President’s putting practice.

The aide hurried to the window and called out apologetically, “Fore!”

The President paced about. “The CIA is going to bomb Russia and Cuba. How can they do such a thing? And who was that fool agent?” He grabbed the dark blue and silver phone from the rainbow of phones on his desk. “Air Force! I’m ordering a preemptive bombing raid on Colodor! Wipe out that missile base before they can launch. Check your own maps for the coordinates. I’ll clear the strike with the government down there — they owe us a few favors anyway. Most of those South American countries do.”

* * *

Bolo stood on the village street not far from a mud-spattered and dented old jeep. He had chosen to disguise himself as a local cable TV repairman, so no one noticed that he stood in the same place for a long time, doing nothing.

Without a glance at him, Juan jumped behind the wheel of the jeep while Felipe pushed Smith into the back. He swung into the passenger seat, still holding his gun on their redheaded prisoner. “Head back to the secret missile base,” he said to Juan. “Our friend Pedrito’s got a lot of explaining to do — and I’m sure will get to do some of it under torture.”

* * *

At the U.S. Air Force Strategic Air Command, a colonel sat at his console, trying to remember how to react in a real emergency instead of just another training drill. He covered his uncertainty by raising his voice.

“SAC 32! Scramble, scramble! Target the secret Commie missile base in Colodor. You all know where it is — and if you don’t know, make your best guess and bomb the whole countryside. Get going!”

A fleet of bombers streaked across the runway and then leaped into the air like silver dolphins. They roared into the sky, heading for South America.

* * *

In a clothes shop near the Cathedral of Our Lady of Mercy, Yaquita preened herself in front of a mirror. This was the ninth wedding dress she had tried on, but she had to find the perfect gown no matter how long it might take. Everything had to be perfect for her special day.

She smoothed the fine white lace across her breasts, turning sideways to see how well it revealed her figure. A stack of similarly gorgeous dresses lay piled across a chest and a chair in the back of the store. Yaquita had already tried them on and set them aside for a second look. The shopkeeper stood away from the door of the dressing room. He had learned the folly of trying to suggest anything to Yaquita when she was concentrating.

She nodded appreciatively. “I think this dress might indeed be the one,” she said, as she had said each time before. But she still had a few others to try on. Her redheaded young beau would be here any time now. . . .

* * *

The jeep sped along a road in a gorge through the Andes, bouncing over potholes and swerving close to the cliff’s edge. In the back, Smith groaned, green and carsick from Juan’s driving. The thug tromped down on the accelerator.

In the missile compound office at the Hungry Mouth Wheat Company, Colonel Ivan stood up to receive a heavy attaché case from a red-faced courier. He grinned, stubbing out his big cigar. “It’s finally here!”

Enrique sat back in his chair, sipping another glass of vodka. “What is it, Ivan?”

“This reimbursement just came in from Russia. For years I have been sending them receipts for my travel expenses, and finally it has arrived . . . adjusted for inflation, of course.”

He popped open the lid, stared in amazement, then turned the case so Enrique could see into it. The Cuban nearly choked on his vodka.

The case was crammed with stacks of dazzling gold pieces like poker chips. Enrique held up a gold piece and gazed fondly at it. “So, Comrade, now I see why you always picked up the tab at all of those business lunches.”

* * *

The bombers continued on course, tearing through high wisps of cloud. Inside each jet, the pilot checked his load of explosives, armed the bombs and transmitted his readiness to the rest of the squadron.

* * *

The jeep ran along Andes mountain precipices. Felipe drove now.

They had paused only briefly to let Smith be sick over the side of the vehicle, vomiting over what seemed to be a bottomless chasm. The view only made him more nauseated. Juan and Felipe had raced around the jeep, exchanging places on the treacherous mountain road like a goofy fire drill. Then they drove off again.

* * *

Enrique clinked several gold pieces back into the case, watching how the coins reflected fluorescent light from the ceiling. He scratched his voluminous beard. “I suppose we’ve seen the end of Smith by now,” he said. “Nobody ever returns alive from that CIA installation.”

The Russian colonel glanced down at his watch. “We should be hearing from Felipe and Juan any time.” He held up one of the coins. “I don’t suppose we have to give them a bonus, do we?”

“Nyet, Comrade,” said Enrique. “We will keep it — for our little farm. So we can buy the rabbits.”

Just outside the secret missile compound’s main office, the jeep screeched to a halt. A cloud of road dust swirled around the camp, making everyone cough. Felipe urged Smith out at gunpoint.

* * *

High in the sky above, the bombers passed over the equator line — a wide line painted across the Andes Mountains in blue — and prepared to attack.

“All right, boys,” the squadron leader said. “We’ve just been cleared to strike by the Colodoran government.”

“Looks like a beautiful country, sir,” said one of the other pilots. “I wonder why I’ve never heard of it.”

“Yours is not to wonder why, Captain!” the squadron leader snapped. “Open the bomb-bay doors!”

“Bombay?” one of the pilots mused. “Are we over India?”

* * *

Ivan snapped shut the gold-filled briefcase, while Enrique turned aside to scowl at a commotion in the hall. Grinning brutally, the two thugs prodded Lieutenant Tom Smith in at gunpoint.

“We found this . . . despicable iguana-lover making a radio call to the U.S.A.,” Felipe said, his chest puffed with pride. “I heard him report the location of this missile base.”

Juan said, “We think he’s a double agent. A traitor to the revolution!”

The two colonels stared at Smith. “You tattled about the missile base? You weren’t supposed to do that!” Enrique howled.

“Execute him!” Ivan said. “He has outlived his usefulness.”

Smith cocked his head, listening to a faint drone of jets growing louder every second. “I don’t think there’s time to execute me,” he said. “I hear bombers. They’re already pretty close.”