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But right now, all
Tracie cared about was the steaming-hot water blasting out of the shower in the
small apartment. She washed the sweat and grime of the mission off every inch
of her body, then rinsed off and started again, scrubbing until she felt
completely refreshed, regenerated and ready to begin the second half—the easy
half—of the job. She would accompany Gorbachev’s letter to the White House,
bypassing all official and diplomatic channels before hand-delivering it to its
recipient, President Ronald Reagan.

The mission would
end with an official debrief at Langley. Tracie hoped she might then be
fortunate enough to wrangle a few days off to visit her folks in suburban
Washington, but knew that was probably a pipe dream. Too many things were
happening in too many hot spots around the world for the agency to allow one of
their most valuable resources to hang out like a normal twenty-seven-year-old
single woman.

In any event, the
rest of the trip should be a cake walk. Tracie calculated the length of the
flight and the time difference between West Germany and Washington, D.C. Eight
hours in the air, more or less, and a six-hour time difference meant they would
touch down at Andrews around 2:00 a.m. local time.

The 11:00 p.m.
departure time was not exactly a typical flight schedule, but then Tracie had
long ago adjusted to the unusual hours the job entailed. After being advised of
the critical nature of the mission, the Air Force would have needed time to
prep an airplane and get a flight crew together.

Tracie stepped
directly under the shower nozzle, rinsing shampoo from her luxurious mane of
red hair, enjoying the warmth of the water, always keeping one eye on the
innocent-looking envelope propped against the wall on top of the toilet tank
just outside the shower.

Finally,
reluctantly, she twisted the faucets, sighing as the blast of water slowed to a
trickle and then disappeared entirely. She stepped from the shower, dried off
and dressed, and then quickly blow-dried her hair. With the extravagance of the
hot shower out of the way, she wandered the apartment, the time passing slowly
as she waited to leave Europe behind.

***

May 30, 1987

10:10 p.m.

Ramstein Air Base, West Germany

Tracie woke with a start and
checked her watch. She had drifted off to sleep, stretched out on a small couch
while watching a soccer match on the apartment’s black and white television,
and now worried she may have missed her flight.

Ten-ten.
Shit.
She’d have to hurry, but would probably make it. If she timed it right, she might
even manage coffee. Dinner she could take or leave, but the thought of
departing Ramstein for a long flight to the States without an invigorating jolt
of caffeine was unacceptable.

She threw her
clothing into a small canvas bag—traveling light was second nature to Tracie
Tanner after seven years of CIA service—and slid Mikhail Gorbachev’s letter
carefully into the interior breast pocket of her light jacket. Then she rushed
out of the apartment, jumped into her car, and drove onto the base.

She dumped the CIA
car outside a small commissary adjacent to the airfield, hid the keys under the
front seat, and hustled inside. She passed a pair of young airmen who made no
attempt to hide their admiration of her running figure. She ignored them. They
didn’t have coffee. Besides, she had long since gotten used to men staring at
her. Also ogling her, leering at her and propositioning her.

Tracie checked her
watch. Twenty-five minutes until her flight’s scheduled departure. She choked
down her coffee. It was scalding hot and almost undrinkably strong, just the
way she liked it. Then she grabbed her bag, checked for her precious cargo—the
letter was still there—and then double-timed to the airfield. Someone would
retrieve the car later.

Tracie had been
instructed to check in at Hangar Three, and now she slowed her pace about a
hundred feet from the door, walking onto the tarmac at precisely 10:55 p.m.
Outside the hangar, a gigantic green U.S. Air Force B-52 towered above her, the
eight-engine high-wing jet appearing almost impossibly large. It had to be
close to two hundred feet from wingtip to wingtip, and the fuselage soared high
above like some kind of fabricated metal dinosaur. The notion of the huge hunk
of metal ever getting airborne, much less staying that way and flying all the
way to the United States seemed outlandish, some kind of magic trick or optical
illusion.

Tracie had logged
endless hours aboard dozens of different aircraft, from medevac helicopters to
Boeing 747’s, during her tenure as a CIA covert ops specialist, but had never
been aboard a B-52. The sheer enormity of the aircraft was staggering. From
where she stood, it looked like every other aircraft she had ever flown aboard
could fit inside this behemoth. The wings thrusting outward from the top of the
aircraft’s fuselage seemed to go on forever, swept back and hanging down slightly,
as if the weight of the eight jet engines hanging in clusters of two was simply
more than they could bear. The fuselage itself stretched off into the distance;
to Tracie’s eye it appeared nearly as long as the wing span was wide.

She froze in
place, marveling at the engineering miracle perched atop its tiny-looking
wheels. She could feel her jaw hanging open and closed it, embarrassed. She
felt like a country bumpkin on her first visit to the big city.

Standing directly
in front of—and far below—the nose of the huge aircraft was an officer,
probably late-thirties, handsome in a grizzled, seen-it-all way. He had
obviously been awaiting her arrival, and he smiled at her reaction to the B-52.
“May I see your ID, ma’am?” he asked.

Tracie handed it
over, shaking her head in mute admiration of the aircraft.

The officer said,
“We get that a lot from people who have never been up close to a BUFF before.
It’s pretty impressive, isn’t it?”

“That’s an
understatement,” Tracie answered.

The officer handed
Tracie’s ID back and said, “I’m Major Stan Wilczynski, and I’ll be Pilot in
Command for today’s flight. I’ll introduce you to the rest of the crew
shortly.”

She returned the
Major’s smile. “I’ll bite,” she said. “What’s ‘BUFF’?”
Other than you,
she
wanted to add, wondering how long it had been since she had enjoyed any male
companionship outside of official duty status and realizing she couldn’t
remember. She kept her remark to herself, though, noting the Major’s wedding
ring.

He chuckled.
“BUFF’s our nickname for the B-52. Stands for ‘Big Ugly Fat Fuckers.’ And they
are all of that, but these babies have served with distinction for a
quarter-century, with plenty more years to come. Some say the new B-1 will make
the BUFF obsolete, but I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Tracie nodded,
noting the reverence in the pilot’s voice as he talked about the plane. “How
long have you flown the B-52, Major?”

“It’s Stan to my
friends, Miss Tanner. And I’ve been involved with these Big Ugly Fuckers almost
since my first day in the Air Force. Sometimes it feels like I’ve spent my
whole life inside one of these beasts. Can’t imagine a better way to serve my
country, to be honest.”

Tracie grinned.
The man’s enthusiasm was infectious, and went a long way toward breaking down
her caution, a trait she came by naturally and one that had served her well
over the course of her seven-year CIA career. But there was no need for it now;
it was clear she was among friends.

“Anyway,”
Wilczynki continued, “I’ve bored you long enough. I just can’t help bragging
when the subject is my baby.” He gestured affectionately toward the aircraft’s
nose. “Whaddaya say we climb aboard and get ready to leave this continent
behind?” The Major turned and indicated a metal ladder hanging from an open
hatch in the bottom of the aircraft.

“I’m not bored at
all,” Tracie answered, starting up the ladder. “I love hearing a professional
discuss his passion.”

Major Wilczynski
paused. “You know, I’ve never really thought about it in those terms before,
but you’re right, I do have a passion for these old birds.” He started up the
ladder behind Tracie and they disappeared into the B-52.

11

May 30, 1987

10:50 p.m.

Ramstein Air Base, West Germany

A maze of equipment ran the
otherwise mostly empty length of the aircraft’s interior, wires and cables
seemingly placed in random locations, performing tasks Tracie could not
imagine. The cockpit featured two seats placed side by side, each with a yoke
where the steering wheel would be in a car. Avionics clogged the area below the
windshield and the console between the two seats, gauges and dials and switches
and levers that somehow allowed the flight crew to manage the almost mystical
task of lifting the B-52 into the air and keeping it there.

She gazed into the
empty cockpit, marveling at the engineering prowess involved in the production
of such a complex aircraft. Tracie felt as though she would rattle around
inside the vast interior of the aircraft like an elderly widow inside an
otherwise deserted mansion, regardless of how many other passengers were
aboard. This BUFF made her feel tiny and insignificant.

She turned left,
away from the cockpit and toward the rear of the aircraft, and ran straight
into Major Wilczynski. His body was solid and muscled; the body of a man who
welcomed physical labor. She stumbled and he grabbed her arm, and she chuckled.
“Sorry about that,” she said, not really sorry at all, again reminded how long
it had been since she had spent any time with a man not involved in some way in
the espionage game. Any personal time.

“Not a problem,”
Wilczynski answered. “I apologize for sneaking up on you. I just wanted to take
a moment to introduce you to the rest of the team.” He nodded to a pair of
airmen who had climbed up the ladder and now stood next to them. “This isn’t my
normal flight crew—we’re mixing and matching personnel thanks to other
commitments and the unscheduled nature of the trip. Not that we mind, of course.
If there’s one thing an airman loves to do, it’s fly.

“Anyway, our
copilot for today’s mission is Major Tom Mitchell. Tom needs to get stateside
as quickly as you do, due to a family emergency, but I can tell you he’s a
solid aviator.”

A pasty-faced
officer, doughy and lumpy, stuck his hand out without a word and Tracie shook
it. Mitchell’s skin felt hot and sweaty and he seemed preoccupied to Tracie,
who in her work as a CIA field operative was accustomed to sizing up strangers
immediately. Often the success of a mission—not to mention whether or not she
would continue breathing—came down to her ability to effectively gauge who
could be trusted and who could not.

And this man set
off alarm bells. Mitchell’s eyes shifted continually, like they were following
an invisible ping pong ball bouncing back and forth across an invisible table.
He barely met her eyes before sliding his gaze restlessly over her left
shoulder. He shuffled his feet and rocked side to side like he would rather be
anyplace else in the world but here.

“It’s nice to meet
you,” Tracie said, attempting to prolong the handshake for a moment and
failing, as he withdrew his moist grip from hers almost immediately.

Major Mitchell
said nothing. He smiled reluctantly, the gesture making him look more ill than
welcoming, and then turned and walked away. He brushed past Tracie and Major
Wilczynski and disappeared into the cockpit. Wilczynski watched Mitchell go,
his eyebrows raised in mild surprise.

He shook his head
and turned his gaze back to Tracie. “And this young man,” he indicated an
officer standing next to the spot Mitchell had just left, “is Captain Nathan
Berenger. Nathan is a long-time member of my crew, having served as our
navigator for almost five years. I can guarantee that with Nathan on the job,
we won’t have to worry about getting lost on our way back to Andrews.”

Captain Berenger
offered his hand, as Mitchell had done before him. In contrast to the copilot,
however, Tracie felt a welcoming vibe emanating from the navigator that was
almost as strong as Wilczynski’s. She took his hand and a smile creased his
tanned face. “Try to ignore Tom,” he said softly. “I don’t know what’s bugging
him, but he’s been pretty preoccupied lately. Family troubles or something, I
guess. But Major Wilczynski and I will take good care of you.” He raised his
voice to a normal level. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, and if you need
anything, you let me know.”

Berenger’s grip
felt as strong and competent and Mitchell’s had weak and indecisive. Tracie
returned Berenger’s handshake—and his smile—enthusiastically. Something was off
about Major Mitchell, that was for sure, but these two crew members struck her
as competent to a T. Besides, she was standing in the middle of a U.S. air
base, aboard an Air Force jet, surrounded by a professional military flight
crew. What could possibly go wrong?

“Now, if you’ll
excuse me,” Berenger said, “I’ve got to get busy doing all the real work so
this guy,” he nodded at Major Wilczynski, “can play aviator and soak up all the
glory on today’s flight.” He smiled at Tracie and clambered down a metal
stairway to the navigator’s position below the cockpit.

“Berenger’s the
best,” Wilczynski told her. “On a typical combat mission we would feature at
least two more crew members, a bombardier and an electronic warfare officer.
Since this is a peacetime noncombat mission, it’s been determined that these
positions can remain unfilled for today. The rest of my guys are enjoying a
little R and R.”

“I’m sorry to add
to your workload and take you away from your own R and R,” Tracie said. “I
certainly didn’t need
this
much transportation.” She opened her arms,
indicating the gigantic interior of the B-52.