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American’s face was pursed with anguish.
    â€œYes, they could.”
    â€œWill Moscow help us? There is unlimited grain in it if Moscow will help us. Or even the heavy equipment for the trans-European pipeline . . . Will your people help us?”
    The Russian turned to his window, and he fogged it with his breath. The moment belonged completely to the silver-haired Soviet diplomat, an old street-fighter from the defense of Leningrad. He knew well the taste of war and of rat meat raw. He allowed that tense moment to linger as the “VIENNA 5 KM” sign sped rearward. He turned to face the glum American at his side.
    â€œNo, my friend. It will not be that easy. I am truly sorry.”
    The American studied his moist hands resting upon his gray wool knees. The car took the ramp toward the Vienna International Airport. On the airport apron, the American’s unmarked jet sat idling its engines on the sunny concrete.
    â€œMy government has other plans.” The Russian’s words broke the silence as the brilliantly white jet grew larger in the limousine’s windshield.
    The car rocked to a stop at the jet’s razor-thin wings. The whine of the jet engines filled the car as the Russian watched his old friend of many battles without bullets button his coat.
    â€œBlue, Dimitri,” the American called over the din of the jet engines.
    â€œWhat?” the Russian squinted against the sunlight.
    â€œMarshall Kubosov’s tie this morning.”
    â€œBut which blue tie?” The Russian pressed his round face toward the American’s ear.
    â€œThe one with the gray stripes.”
    The Russian threw his head back with laughter when he slapped the American’s knee. The tall American left the car for his ready aircraft and the long ride home.

3

December 14th
    With a pie plate filled with motor oil between his legs, William McKinley Parker sat cross-legged on the sandy dune with Galveston Bay 20 yards from his left. He squinted into the brilliant sunshine from the cloudless western sky. Two hundred yards from the back porch of his home in a bedroom suburb 25 miles southeast of Houston, the Colonel balanced a heavy brass marine sextant in his large right hand. Holding the gleaming instrument’s telescopic sight to his right eye, the gray-haired airman peered at the shaded image of the high sun reflected in the plate of oil between his dirty deck shoes. With his left hand upon the base of the triangular sextant, he gently moved the index arm until the two heavily shaded mirrors brought the real sun down upon the sun’s reflection in the oil. The Colonel held his breath as he fine-tuned the sextant’s vernier screw. The real sun above and the reflected sun between his feet merged into one image in the sight.
    â€œLost, Skipper?” smiled Jacob Enright, who walked through the ankle-deep sand toward the Colonel’s bent back.
    Colonel Parker looked over his shoulder and smiled at Enright’s youthful face.
    â€œAfternoon, Jack.” The Colonel laid the sextant on its side in his lap. Immediately, he looked at the stopwatch hanging from his neck. Then, from the sextant, he read the sun’s angular altitude above the motor oil’s steady surface. On a pad of paper at his knee, with pencil the Colonel cut in half the angle read from the sextant. He circled this new figure. Beside it, he jotted down the time noted on the stopwatch.
    As Jacob Enright stood silently aside, Will Parker made a black dot upon a pad of engineering graph paper set upon the sand. Across the sheet, a series of 20 dots formed a straight line from the paper’s upper left corner down to the lower right corner. Sideways along the paper’s left margin were penciled the words “sextant altitude.” Across the bottom was written “time—gmt.”
    â€œNot lost, Number One,” the Colonel drawled as he rose to his feet on the beach. “Just keepin’