It was a 1959, red and white Sports Roadster with a manual transmission. When he toed its throttle the car kicked him back against the tan leather bucket seat like a jet fighter. It was dark, well after the evening rush hour, when Steve had left his Pentagon office. The roads had been clear, but tonight he hadn’t been in the mood to play with the ‘Vette’s fuel-injected V-8. Tonight, as the Corvette’s headlights stabbed the darkness, he was looking forward to a quiet evening in his apartment listening to jazz on the stereo, with no company except for a nice big scotch on the rocks. He and his staff had been working late every night this week, and it didn’t look like there was an end to the work in sight. Sometime last Sunday night an MR-1, a.k.a. Mayfly spy plane, had been shot down over the Soviet Union. The pilot had been taken alive by the Russians. The pilot’s name was Chet Boskins, a.k.a.
