Warren Murphy: The Sky is Falling

America had one slim chance before the missiles went, probably from both sides. The opportunity to prove that the machine that destroyed the ozone shield was not an American weapon was gone. What they had to do now was show they had a greater weapon that they did not use.

To be brief and Western about it, America had to show the Russians that anytime they wanted to, they could take apart the Russian government, but had chosen not to do so.

America's word was not good enough for that. America had to do it for the benefit of the person who really ran Russia. The negotiator had indicated that there was another person behind the Russian Premier because the Premier had run out of the room and come back with a different answer. This was not a surprise because the Premier was the face. It was the spine that was hidden. The spine ran Russia.

When McDonald Pease had returned to Russia for the supposed cooperation, Smith had asked for and received permission to include a special message. It read:

"To whoever really runs your defenses: We know we cannot prove to you that we do not open up the skies with a secret weapon. So be it. But know this as a sign of our intentions not to conquer you: at any time we wish, we could take apart your Politburo and make your leaders prisoners in their own land. But we have chosen not to do so. Why? Because we really do not wish to conquer you. The weapon is just one man." And then there was a brief description of Remo so they would know where all the hell came from, and that his was really a peace move, not a search-and-destroy mission in the heart of Moscow.

Smith had told the Russians Remo was coming. He had taken away what was perhaps Remo's most valuable protection: surprise.

And Remo accepted this with a wisecracking thanks. But Remo's signal was ringing now.

"I can't take the Aeroflot," said Remo.

"Why not?"

"If you were expecting some sort of superweapon and you were willing to get thousands of your people killed just to win a war, wouldn't you shoot down the plane that brought him in?"

"We'll fly you over at high altitude," said Smith. "But the parachute won't work from that far up."

"I'll work it."

"Remo, I know you know what this means. And you know I am not sentimental. But good luck."

"You're going to get me killed and the big-deal emotional pitch is 'good luck'?" said Remo. "Don't break down in tears all at once."

The last flight allowed to land at Moscow carried the American McDonald Pease. Shortly thereafter, the airdefense command received a strange order. No flight was allowed to land, including Russia's own civilian aircraft.

Any flight that did not attempt to land was to be shot down immediately, no matter who was on board.

In the whole tragic business, Alexei Zemyatin had one bright note.

"They have finally showed us the flaw in the perfect enemy," he said, showing young General Ivanovich, KGB, the note from the American peace mission. The old field marshal knew this sharp young man whom he had been training to think had connected the major problem of war with the minor one of this single agent. That there was going to be a nuclear war within forty-eight hours he did not tell Ivanovich, who did not have to know about it at this point. The young general already had more facts than Zemyatin liked to trust any single person with. He showed Ivanovich the note brought by the special American envoy, McDonald Pease.

"So the man himself was the awesome weapon. That explains it. So America means peace," said Ivanovich.

"No, of course not. They want us to delay because they want to figure out a way to finish us off. Apparently someone over there has seen through our agreement to negotiate, and is willing to sacrifice this 'weapon.' "

"Are you sure?"

"As sure as I can be," said Zemyatin. They were in his apartment. Zemyatin had a cup of brandy and had poured one for the general. The bodyguard was asleep, snoring loudly.

"They sacrifice the lesser weapon to protect the greater."

"Unless, of course, what they say is true."

"No. They have sent that man to his death. We know he has incredible speed. He has incredible strength. But he is one man. Maybe he can dodge one bullet, but he cannot dodge a thousand. He is one man and he has shown us his flaw. We have films of him. A sergeant could figure out what to do," said Zemyatin.

Ivanovich's face had lost its smoothness. His eyes narrowed. "Yes, we will kill him, because he is one man. But what is his flaw?"

Zemyatin swirled the brandy around in the teacup. The years, the dead, the wars, had left him tired, tired beyond his years.

"His flaw is his commanders. They have sent him to us on a platter. And if they are that kind, we will eat from it. There will be much death in the coming days. It would be nice, boychik, if the world were butlers and pantries, yes?"

Then they toasted each other, draining the imported brandy and putting their cups down on the table. There was work to be done and the drinking was over.

The bodyguard was awakened by a message from the Kremlin neizatiators that the American McDonald Pease had just discovered he was a prisoner, and that they were not really negotiating. Pease was giving them an alternative.

"Shoot me or let me go. And you'd better shoot me because I'm leaving,"

"All right," said Zemyatin. "Give him what he wants." A guard and an officer entered the negotiating chambers. The guard put a bullet into the brain of AMcDonald Pease and left him in the locked room with the Americans, who suddenly lost any possible hope that the Russians were interested in peace. Pease's body was left where it was to remind the Americans not to try to escape to their embassy.

They all remembered what Pease had said on the plane coming over:

"I long for the day when it will be a crime in the world to shoot an American. When people know they are going to be punished good if they mess us over."

The Russian missile command spotted the American plane first, high above missile range. It was the familiar CIA recon plane, but this time it dropped a load-too small for a nuclear bomb, however. It appeared to be a stick, roughly six feet long, and two and a half feet wide. Five miles up, everyone at radar control realized it was a person.

"That's the one," said a staff officer. "Got to be him." The whole defense structure of the city was waiting for him. No one knew, of course, why everyone should be so anxious to kill one person, but the rewards were going to be great. It was hoped, but not demanded, that his head would be intact for identification purposes.

"Shoot when the parachute opens," came the order. KGB cars were dispatched to retrieve what was left of the corpse. As backups, local police units were also alerted to pick up the body. Both groups had orders, if the person was still alive, to finish him off carefully.

At four miles up, the order to hold fire was given. At three, then two miles, there was muttering about firing so low in the city. He might slip out.

At two hundred feet there was only a puzzled chuckle of contempt. There was no need to fire. The parachute wouldn't have time to open at the speed the man was falling. Hopefully, some skin would be left intact so that he could be identified.

The radar did not pick up a sudden jerk of the body at 120 feet. Remo had pulled the ripcord.

If he'd had time to think about it, he probably would have gotten himself killed. He never intended it to float him down like a normal chutist. That would have given him too much time up in the air being hung out for bullets.

Remo simply broke his fall with the parachute. He did that by slowing his descent to the speed of a drop off a ten-story building. He met the earth with his center in control. He met the earth moving. He knew certain places in the city where the men he wanted would be.