Strangers When We Meet

About the Author

A career Air Force officer, MERLINE LOVELACE served at bases all over the world, including tours in Taiwan, Vietnam, and at the Pentagon. When she hung up her uniform for the last time, she decided to combine her love of adventure with a flair for storytelling, basing many of her tales on her experiences in the service.

Since then, she’s produced more than eighty action-packed novels, many of which have made USA Today and Waldenbooks bestseller lists. Over eleven million copies of her works are in print in thirty countries. be sure to check her website at www.merlinelovelace.com for contests, news, and information on future releases.

Strangers

When We Meet

Merline Lovelace

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the men and women of

the Mighty Ninety, charged with the awesome

responsibility of keeping 150 Minuteman III ICBMS

on full alert 24-hours a day, 365 days a year.

Impavide!

Prologue

The annual reception for foreign ambassadors was one of Washington D.C.’s premiere White House events. A string quartet floated exquisite background melodies above conversations held in a host of different languages. White-gloved servers passed among the crowd with silver trays of canapés and sparkling crystal champagne flutes. In addition to diplomats from dozens of nations, the guest list included cabinet members, key congressional leaders and high-powered U.S. agency heads.

Tall, tawny-haired and elegant in his Armani tux, Nick Jensen stood with his wife, Mackenzie. To most of the elite in the room, Jensen was the president’s special envoy. The generally meaningless honorific had been bestowed over the years on a succession of wealthy campaign contributors. A mere handful among the glittering assembly knew Nick—code name Lightning—also served as director of OMEGA, an organization so secret that its operatives were activated only by direction of the president himself.

Mackenzie had been active in OMEGA herself until giving birth to twins a few years ago. So had the two people who crossed the room to greet her and Nick. Mac’s eyes lit up at the sight of a couple who’d been both mentors and role models for her and her husband.

“Maggie,” she said with a rueful smile, “you look too damned gorgeous to be a grandmother.”

It was true. Maggie Sinclair Ridgeway showed only a fine trace of lines at the corners of her sparkling brown eyes and a mere touch of silver in her upswept hair. Her gold lamé Versace gown clung to a figure every bit as svelte as that of her daughters. One of those daughters had presented Maggie and her husband, Adam, with ready-made grandkids when she’d adopted two orphans from Hong Kong a few years ago. Soon Gillian would give birth to a third.

The proud granddad slipped an arm around his wife’s waist. Adam Ridgeway, code name Thunder, wore his years as easily as Maggie did. His hand-tailored tux showcased a lean, athletic body, and his laser-blue eyes held the same penetrating shrewdness that had made him one of OMEGA’s most skilled and lethal operatives before he assumed duties as the agency’s director. He now headed the UN’s International Monetary Fund while Maggie served as an adjunct professor at Georgetown. The love between them still sizzled in the slow smile Adam gave his wife.

“She looks damned gorgeous, period,” he said in response to Mackenzie’s observation.

Their shared years at Omega had forged a bond between the two couples that could never be replicated by others who hadn’t experienced the chalky taste of fear or exhilarating thrill of pulling off an op against all odds. They reminisced about some of their hairier ops while sipping champagne and sampling the internationally inspired canapés served on silver trays by the White House staff.

A megarich restaurateur in his non-OMEGA life, Nick had just given his stamp of approval to a savory glazed lamb minikebob with Moroccan carrots and tahini puree when he spotted the president with his head bent close to the Russian ambassador’s. Although both wore bland smiles, their body language suggested their conversation had veered away from the usual polite chitchat at soirees such as this one.

So Nick wasn’t all that surprised when the president’s chief of staff made her leisurely way through the crowd some time later and headed in his direction. With a warm smile, the striking brunette acknowledged Maggie, Adam and Mackenzie. Her expression didn’t change when she turned to Nick, but the message she conveyed belied her relaxed pose.

“If you don’t mind staying a bit after the reception, Lightning, the boss would like to chat with you.”

She used his code name in a low murmur that only he and the other three could hear over the chatter and music. Nick nodded, and Adam facilitated the meeting by offering to drive Mac home.

Nick met with the president in his book-lined study in the family residence. John Jefferson Andrews was still lean and fit and boyishly handsome, although the responsibilities of his office had added their share of creases to his face. He’d lost his wife to cancer before he’d run for the presidency. In the view of most of the country, he’d done a damned fine job of raising his teenaged daughter in the fishbowl of the White House. But he would always be grateful to Nick and OMEGA for spoiling a fiendish plot that had played his daughter’s mental stability in an attempt to get her worried father to resign during his first year in office.

As a result, his professional relationship with Nick had ripened into a deep and abiding friendship. The ease between them showed in the way Andrews yanked loose his bow tie, let the ends dangle and popped the top button on his pleated shirt before splashing brandy into two crystal snifters.

“I need something to wash down all that sparkling cider,” he admitted with a wry smile.

As Nick knew well, the president never indulged in alcohol at social or political functions and rarely drank in private. Andrews flatly refused to risk impairing his judgment when he could be called on to make life-and-death decisions at any moment. That he would allow himself a few sips of the two-thousand-dollar-a-bottle limited-production special cuvée that had been a gift from the French president spoke volumes.

He passed Nick a snifter and held his up in silent salute. The brandy slid down the men’s throats like liquid gold. Its mellow fire still lingered on the back of Nick’s tongue when Andrews broached the reason for this meeting.

“The Russian ambassador reminded me that their team was gearing up for the first inspection under the new START treaty.”

“As if you needed a reminder,” Nick commented drily.

All of Washington knew how much political capital the president had expended to push through the new nuclear-arms-reduction pact and how eager his opponents were to see it blow up—metaphorically speaking!—in his face.

“The team will arrive at Francis E. Warren Air Force Base next month.”

The president met and held the eyes of his director of OMEGA, each slipping into their respective roles easily.

“I need you to make sure this inspection goes off without a hitch, Lightning. Put your best operatives on it.”

“They’re all equally skilled,” Nick replied without a hint of exaggeration. “But I have one who fits this op like a glove. I’ll bring him in tomorrow for prebrief. He’ll be primed and in the field when the Russian team arrives.”

“Good.” Andrews’s face was dead serious now. “Last thing I—or the country—needs is for some accident or misunderstanding to kick off a nuclear high noon.”

Chapter 1

“How would you like to get back into an air-force flight suit for a few weeks?”

Sloan Hamilton, code name Dodge, smiled wryly as he steered his rented Jeep 4x4 toward the front gate of Francis E. Warren Air Force Base, on the outskirts of Cheyenne, Wyoming. He had the windows open to the cool September air, shimmering with a crystalline clarity. Dodge’s thoughts weren’t on the purity of his native Wyoming atmosphere, however. Instead, he replayed conversation that had taken place in a windowless control center back in Washington, D.C., just four days ago.

That’s all it had taken. One casual suggestion from

Lightning and Dodge had jumped at the chance to get back in the cockpit again. Not that he didn’t have plenty of opportunity to fly in his civilian job. The other civilian job. The one that didn’t involve crashing headfirst through eighth-story windows or being inserted into a damned near impenetrable jungle in pursuit of some sleazoid drug runners. Conducting aerial surveys in his steady, sturdy Cessna wasn’t anywhere near as much fun as piloting an air-force UH-1N, though. The helo was Vietnam-era vintage, but after several generations of modifications it was still the best and most reliable chopper in the air.

As it turned out, Dodge should have asked for a little more detail before accepting this assignment. Instead of driving a Huey, he was about to undertake what looked to be one of his tamest missions for OMEGA—riding herd on a three-person Russian team that would arrive in Cheyenne tomorrow to inspect U.S. Minuteman III missiles in accordance with the new START treaty.

True, the president had just signed the treaty after more than a decade of fierce negotiations between Russia and the U.S. Also true, recent tensions between the U.S. and Russia had made this first inspection under the new protocols a matter of intense interest at the highest national security levels. Still, Dodge would have much preferred a task that involved flying his old bird to babysitting a Russian major and her two teammates.

Even a Russian major who looked like this one.

He glanced at the file on the passenger seat. Clipped to its outside was a brief bio that included a head-and-shoulders shot of Larissa Katerina Petrovna. The fact that the photo was in black and white and a little grainy in no way detracted from the major’s ice-maiden beauty. Her hair looked as pale as fine champagne. Her wide-spaced eyes stared back at Dodge from above a straight, aristocratic nose. Her mouth was full and ripe and downright sensual.

He knew from the detailed briefing he’d received at OMEGA headquarters, before departing for Cheyenne, that those eyes were electric-blue. He also knew the puckered skin on the left side of Petrovna’s neck and jaw were the result of horrific burns she’d suffered in the apartment fire that had killed her husband and almost claimed her baby girl.

Dodge felt a flicker of sympathy, quickly doused. A female didn’t make it to the rank of major in any air force, Russia’s included, by being soft or welcoming expressions of sympathy. And judging by the jobs Larissa Petrovna held on her way up the ranks, the woman was tough as nails. More to the point, she was here to do a specific task.

So was Dodge, although he had to admit, being back in Wyoming was almost as much of a plus as being back in uniform. His gaze shifted to the snow- and-pine-covered mountains on the horizon. They looked close enough to reach out and touch, but he knew how deceptive the expanse of rolling plain between here and those jagged peaks could be. He should. He’d ridden fence lines on these wind- and snow-swept plains often enough.

He’d grown up just a little over an hour north of here. He and his cousin Sam. Closer than brothers, they’d tickled trout in mountain streams and brought cattle down from the high country each fall. They’d also eaten their share of dirt after being bucked off angry bulls and mean-tempered broncs while competing in rodeos in and around Cheyenne. Sam was the one who’d hung Dodge’s nickname on him, commenting laconically that his cuz was a whole lot better at dodging bulls’ horns than staying on their backs.

Grimacing over the memory of how close one particular set of horns had come to gelding him, Dodge wheeled through Francis E. Warren’s gate one. Just inside the gate stood three gleaming white missiles, mute testimony to the base’s current mission.

A legacy of President Lincoln’s plan to establish a transcontinental railroad, the original outpost had been established in the 1870s to protect Union-Pacific workers from hostile Indians. Gradually, it had grown into the largest cavalry post in the nation. Troopers assigned to the fort had endured the bone-biting winter winds that howled across the plains, participated in the Great Sioux Indian Wars and over the years watched their role transform from cavalry to field artillery to airplanes to sleek, intercontinental ballistic missiles.

Now, the 90th Missile Wing headquartered at Warren controlled a lethal arsenal of Minuteman III missiles spread across twelve thousand square miles of Wyoming, Colorado and Nebraska. The Mighty Ninety, as it was known in air-force parlance, took its nuclear mission very, very seriously. There was zero tolerance for mistakes in judgment when you controlled the launch codes for ICBMs.

Making a left turn onto Old Glory Road, Dodge followed the traffic flow down a sloping hill to the marshy lowlands of Crow Creek, then back up to the newer part of the base. A few more turns took him to the tan-colored, corrugated-tin building that housed the 37th Helicopter Flight. He found a parking space and clamped a hand on his flight cap to anchor it during the short walk to the door.

Luckily, he’d retained his status in the reserves. When the Russians checked him out, as he knew they would, his cover was that he’d been recalled to active duty because of critical manpower shortages due to the 37th’s support of operations in Iraq and Afghanistan. To give substance to that cover, Dodge had arrived at the base two days ago and gone through refresher training on the Huey. Although his escort duties didn’t require him to fly, even the most cursory check of flight records would show that Major Sloan “Dodge” Hamilton was current in all phases of the UH-1N.

Dumping his gear in the large, open room that served as the pilots’ office, he snatched a cup of coffee and headed down the hall to check the operations center status board. With luck, he might snag another few hours in the cockpit before he went into babysitting mode.

“Hey, Major.” The duty officer manning the ops desk gave him a message instead of another flight. “The CO wants to see you.”

Nodding, Dodge retraced his steps through the corridors to the flight commander’s office. He’d known Lt. Colonel Sean McGee for years, had flown with him back when they were both gung ho lieutenants doing combat rescue. Dodge greeted his friend back with the irreverent graveyard humor that had earned McGee his nickname.

“Morning, Digger. You want to see me?”

“Not me. Colonel Yarboro.”

Dodge’s brows lifted. “The Mighty Ninety commander? Why?”

“His exec didn’t offer any specifics. Just said Yarboro wants you to report to his office.” Propping a boot on an open desk drawer, McGee tilted back in his chair. “Might have something to do with my suggestion, though.”

“The one that involves my permanent transition back from civilian status?” Dodge asked with a smile.

“That’s the one.”

“Wish I could oblige.”

McGee knew Dodge now ran his own aerial-survey company. He didn’t, however, know about his work for OMEGA. The agency was so secret that few people outside of a trusted handful were even aware of its existence.

“Think about it,” McGee urged. “You haven’t lost your touch. My guys tell me you aced both checkrides.”

“Yeah, well,” Dodge drawled in the Wyoming twang he’d never quite shed. “Flyin’ a Huey’s like makin’ love to a beautiful woman. Once you get her out of the chocks, everything else comes naturally.”

McGee grinned. “You’ve sure as hell gotten more than your share out of the chocks. And escaped their clutches afterward. You and I both know your handle doesn’t come just from dodging bulls.”

Dodge kept his smile in place and let the comment slide. He’d loved once, or thought he had. The memory could still slice into him when he let it.

“I’d better go see what the colonel wants.”

He reported in to the commander of the 90th Missile Wing fifteen moments later. Seated behind a desk roughly the size of Kansas, Colonel Yarboro returned his salute and waved him to a seat.

“You ready for the Russian team?”

“Yes, sir.”

The colonel’s eyes raked him from head to toe. Good thing Dodge had had his shaggy brown hair trimmed and boots buffed. OMEGA undercover operatives tended more toward comfort than spit and polish when in the field. Rejoining the air force, even temporarily, had called for some spiffing up.

Yarboro was only one of three people who’d been read in on the real reason for Dodge’s sudden appearance at F. E. Warren. Everyone else had been fed the cover story. The colonel wasn’t happy about having an outsider foisted on him, though. Even one with Major Sloan Hamilton’s military and civilian credentials.

“Before you make contact with Major Petrovna,” he said brusquely, “I want to make sure you understand who you’re up against.”

Yarboro lifted a typed sheet and skimmed down the page. A career missileer who’d worked his way up from launch officer to commander of the world’s most sophisticated ICBM force, he targeted the salient items with pinpoint accuracy.

“Born, Bryansk. Age 33. Widowed. One child. Attended the Gagarin Air Force Academy. Holds advanced degrees in both math and astrophysics.”

That would strike a cord with the colonel, Dodge guessed. Yarboro had earned a doctorate from MIT in astrophysics himself.

“She pulled a tour as a relatively junior officer at strike-force headquarters in Moscow, then commanded a SS-18 squadron.”

Those accomplishments didn’t exactly endear her to either Dodge or the colonel. The missile officers assigned to the 90th spent twenty-four hours at a stretch some eighty feet below the ground, locked behind eight-ton blast doors while they played a deadly game of chicken with their Russian counterparts. The cold war might have ended for the rest of the world. It hadn’t cooled more than a few degrees for the men and women charged with the nerve-twisting task of nuclear deterrence.

“Petrovna spent the past four years at various staff jobs,” Yarboro continued, “including two with the research-and-development directorate. Word is that Colonel Zacharov, head of Russian military intelligence, handpicked her to head this special team because of her expertise.”

Dodge kept silent. He knew Petrovna’s background as well as the colonel did. There was a reason Yarboro was reiterating her credentials. Probably had to do with the fact that Washington had sent Dodge in to bird-dog her instead of using one of the locals.

“When you meet Petrovna and her team at the airport this afternoon, you’ll bring her by here for a courtesy call,” Yarboro instructed. “Tom Jordan, our treaty compliance officer, will conduct the orientation briefing at oh-eight-hundred tomorrow morning. He’s lined up additional escorts to take care of the other two team members.”

“Yes, sir.”

Yarboro leaned forward, his eyes intent. “This is the first inspection under the new START treaty. I don’t need to tell you how important it is.”

The new START.

The acronym didn’t quite fit, Dodge thought cynically, since the Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty just signed by the presidents of the U.S. and the Russian Federation was the third treaty by that name. Each iteration had led to a reduction of nuclear war heads and strategic delivery systems, but the two superpowers still fielded some fifteen hundred nuclear warheads each.

“The top dogs on both sides will be watching,” Yarboro warned. “We don’t want any screwups.”

Dodge didn’t remind him that was why the president had tapped OMEGA to send someone in.

“No, sir.”

“Just get the Russians where they need to go, when they need to go. And make sure they observe the inspection protocol.” Yarboro thumped a thick binder sitting on the side of his desk. “I assume you’ve read it.”

Yeah, he’d read it. Its title was as mind-numbing as its dozens of chapters.

Protocol to the Treaty Between the United States of America and the Russian Federation on Measures for the Further Reduction and Limitation of Strategic Offensive Arms

The document covered everything from the on-site verification of active nuclear assets to the disposal of warheads taken out of service. Then there was the section labeled Escort Officer Duties, with separate tabs for housing, transportation, meals, clothing, handling of equipment and contacts with the media. The damned volume had taken most of four hours to get through.

“According to the protocol, I’m supposed to do everything but wipe the major’s nose,” Dodge commented.

“You do that, too, if necessary.”

Looked to be a fun couple of weeks, he mused, as the colonel continued.

“I want you to keep two key points in mind, Hamilton. One, Major Petrovna communicates her team’s needs through you and only through you. Two, the treaty accords these people what amounts to diplomatic status. Their quarters, work area and papers are sacrosanct. And while they’re expected to abide by the host-country laws, they enjoy a high degree of immunity.”

“Right.”

The two men’s eyes locked. They both knew the Russians were charged with the collateral mission of gathering intelligence on U.S. systems.

“Previous team members have been observed dropping pencils or pens at missile sites,” Yarboro commented. “When they bend down to retrieve the fallen article, they scoop up a soil sample for later analysis. And many pretend they can’t speak English, in hopes of overhearing chance conversations, although their biographies clearly indicate a facility with the language.”

“I know the major is fluent in English,” Dodge commented. “The others with her not so much.”

“Captain Tyschenko can get by,” Yaroboro confirmed. “Aleksei Bugarin speaks German and French, as well as some English. But be particularly careful what you say to him. He’s FSB.”

FSB—Federal Security Service—Russia’s modern-day successor to the KGB. If half of what Dodge had read about KGB tactics held even a grain of truth, they’d been one bad bunch of boys and girls. FSB was proving itself worse.

“Bugarin’s job is to keep a close eye on the other members of the team and report immediately any suspicious activity,” Yarboro stated succinctly. “Your job is to do the same.”

To Dodge’s surprise, the colonel unbent enough to give a flinty smile.

“I’m as familiar with your background, Hamilton, as I am with Major Petrovna’s. I don’t think you’ll have any trouble handling the team.”

Dodge didn’t think so, either. Right up until the jet carrying the team taxied up to the air-national-guard side of the Cheynne airport late that afternoon.

He was waiting inside the terminal with the two other members of the escort team. Lieutenant Benjamin Tate was an earnest young officer, proud of both his shiny missileer badge and his African-American heritage. Senior Master Sergeant Lewis sported a shock of red hair, five rows of ribbons on his uniform jacket and a sleeve full of stripes. Given his years of experience, he’d been assigned to escort Aleksei Bugarin, the FSB officer. Dodge kept an eye on the passengers exiting the craft and ran through a final list of dos and don’ts.

“Remember, we’re not supposed to get too friendly with these guys. Don’t let them take any pictures without prior approval. Don’t exchange gifts, except small trinkets like coffee mugs or unit patches, and be sure to run any trinket the Russians offer you by the Office of Special Investigations to have it checked for bugs. And don’t make any physical contact, except to prevent serious injury.”