The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

'Who's working this case . . . ? Lyalin? Yes.' Golovko said, almost to himself.
He next called the senior watch officer for the First Chief Directorate.
'Colonel, this is Golovko. I want a Flash-priority to Rezident Tokyo. Lyalin to
report to Moscow immediately.'
'What's the problem?'
'The problem is, we have another leak.'
'Lyalin is a very effective officer. I know the material he's sending back.'
'So do the Americans. Get that message off at once. Then, I want everything we
have from THISTLE on my desk.' Golovko hung up and looked at the major standing
in front of his desk. 'That mathematician who figured this all out – good God, I
wish we'd had him five years ago!'
'He spent ten years devising this theory on ordering chaos. If it's ever made
public, he'll win the Planck Medal. He took the work of Mandelbrot at Harvard
University in America and MacKenzie at Cambridge, and – '
'I will take your word for it, Major. The last time you tried to explain this
witchcraft to me I merely got a headache. How is the work going?'
'We grow stronger every day. The only thing we cannot break is the new CIA
system that's starting to come on line. It seems to use a new principle. We're
working on it.'
***
President Fowler boarded the Marine VH-3 helicopter before the snow got too bad.
Painted a shiny olive-drab on the bottom, with white on top, and little else in
the way of markings, it was his personal bird, with the call-sign Marine-One.
Elizabeth Elliot boarded just behind him, the press corps noted. Pretty soon
they'd have to break the story on the two, some thought. Or maybe the President
would do the job for them by marrying the bitch.
The pilot, a Marine lieutenant-colonel, brought the twin turbine engines to full
power, then eased up on the collective, rising slowly and turning northwest. He
was almost instantly on instruments, which he didn't like. Flying blind and on
instruments didn't trouble him. Flying blind and on instruments with the
President aboard did. Flying in snow was about the worst thing there was. All
external visual references were gone. Staring out the windshield could turn the
most seasoned airman into a disoriented and airsick feather-merchant in a matter
of seconds. As a result, he spent far more time scanning his instruments. The
chopper had all manner of safety features, including collision-avoidance radar,
plus having the undivided attention of two senior air-traffic controllers. In
some perverse ways, this was a safe way to fly. In clear air, some lunatic with
a Cessna might just try to perform a mid-air with Marine-One, and maneuvering to
avoid such things was a regular drill for the colonel, both in the air and in
the aircraft simulator at Anacostia Naval Air Station.
'Wind's picking up faster than I 'spected,' the co-pilot, a major, observed.
'May get a little bumpy when we hit the mountains.'
'Should have left a little sooner.'
The pilot switched settings on his intercom box, linking him with the two Secret
Service agents in back. 'May want to make sure everybody's strapped in tight.
Picking up a little chop.'
'Okay, thanks,' Pete Connor replied. He looked to see that everyone's seatbelt