by Paul Levine
“My men are ready, colonel. Damn, this is a cakewalk, if you’d just let us go.”
“It’s not up to me, Kyle. You know that.”
“This can’t be any harder than breaking a hostage out of Cárcel Modelo prison in Panama or getting back Napoleón Duarte’s daughter in El Salvador.”
“Be patient, Kyle. You know, the best Viet Cong snipers could sit in a tree for two weeks without moving just to get a good shot at an American officer.”
“Before my time. All I know is, my men got real hard-ons for some action.”
“Tell ‘em to keep it in their pants for now, Kyle.”
An aide emerges from the tent and hands Colonel Zwick a sheet of paper. The colonel examines Jericho’s FAX, a crude drawing of the missile with an opening in the nose cone. Scowling, the colonel says to the aide, “Get me General Corrigan.” Then he turns back to Captain Clancy. “Kyle, your men may get to unzip after all.”
The colonel turns to head back into the command tent. He takes one last puff on his pipe and disappears inside. In his wake, wisps of cherry-flavored smoke curl into the breeze and disappear into the night air.
* * *
Lying prone on the floor of the gantry, Jericho peers down at the silo floor. White steam hisses from the idling launch generators, and in the reflection of the red silo lights, billows up like blood-stained fog.
Two commandos patrol the floor of the silo. One opens the grate to the drainage sump while the other holds a flashlight and looks inside. “It’s wet down there, Jacob,” says the one with the flashlight.
“You won’t melt.”
On the gantry, Jericho opens the rucksack and pulls out the last of Sayers’ bungee cords and the telescoping fishing rod he retrieved from the barracks. He secures one end of the cord to the gantry railing and ties the other end around his waist. It’s the only way he figures he can get to the silo floor without using the gantry, which makes too much noise, or the ladder which is too slow and in plain view. He slides the fishing rod open to its full length, then roots around in the rucksack until he finds a whipperwhill skeeter fly and a long-shanked hook. Then he lets loose with a long, graceful cast toward the floor one hundred feet below.
The fly dangles near the ear of the commando named Jacob. Absentmindedly watching his buddy, who is halfway down the grate into the sump, Jacob swats at the skeeter and misses. Jericho reels in and casts again. This time the fly buzzes just off the man’s earlobe. He slaps at it and plants the razor-sharp triple barbed hook in his ear. “Yee! Ouch! Holy…”
Jericho reels in as the commando yelps and begins a crazy dance across the silo floor, pulled along by the hook that is embedded firmly in his ear. The other commando crawls out of the grate. Unable to see the thin fishing line, he stares in disbelief at his comrade. “Jacob, are you possessed?”
Two other commandos hear Jacob’s yelping and race in from the tunnel. They behold the weird sight of their comrade jitterbugging across the silo, his head cocked to one side. “Brother David says Satan’s minions can make themselves invisible,” one commando says.
“If we don’t find this infidel, Brother David will make us invisible,” the other replies.
One looks up and spots Jericho on the gantry ledge, preoccupied with his fishing. The two commandos begin climbing the metal ladder that runs up the silo wall. On the gantry, Jericho keeps reeling line in and letting it out, as if he were fighting a marlin. All the time, he is leading Jacob just where he wants him, until splash, Jacob falls into the open sump. His buddy jumps in to rescue him. Jericho watches a moment, waiting for more commandos to come to the aid of their brethren. He cannot see the two commandos ascending the ladder, and by the time he realizes they are no longer on the silo floor, it is too late. He hears a noise behind him and whirls around to see the men climbing onto the gantry from the ladder.
“What have we here?” one commando says, triumphantly, pointing an Italian Beretta —12 at Jericho’s chest.
“The infidel,” his friend answers. “Brother David will reward us.”
“Sure he will,” Jericho says. “You’ll get an extra ration of librium with your rice pudding.”
“Don’t move, heathen!”
The Uzi is on the floor of the gantry. If Jericho goes for it, he’ll be cut in two. “Brother David and I have an appointment,” he says. “You best take me to him.”
“Any tricks, and we’re to send you straight to hell.”
Sizing up the situation…
“Already been there,” Jericho says, “and all things considered, I’d rather be in Wyoming.”
Nowhere to go…
“Now, put your hands on the back of your head,” the commando says.
But down!
Jericho obeys, then flexes his knees and leaps backward off the ledge of the gantry. He plunges toward the silo floor, and above him, the startled commandos hear his cry, “Sh-i-i-i-i-i-i-t!”
But there is no splat of bone and tissue against steel.
Exchanging startled looks, the commandos cautiously approach the
edge and look down toward the silo floor. Suddenly, Jericho bounces back up, grabs an ankle of each commando and yanks them off the gantry. Now, three bodies plummet toward the floor.
Two sounds.
The simultaneous, sickening crunch of the two commandos splattered on the polished steel floor.
And the bo-ing of the bungee cord as it reaches its full length just five feet above the floor and springs Jericho back up toward the gantry a second time. Down he goes again, and bo-ing, back up again, finally coming to rest five feet above the bodies. Jericho unhooks the bungee cord and drops to the floor. He races to a closed grate at the entrance to the tunnel, opens it and climbs into the sump, just as Jacob, holding a bloody ear, and his buddy crawl out of the grate beneath the missile. As Jericho slides the grate back into place over his head, he hears the thunder of footsteps and the shouts of commandos in the tunnel. He pauses a moment to let his eyes become adjusted to the darkness, then works his way through the maze of pipes and equipment, listening to the rhythmic thumpa thumpa of the generators.
“Welcome back to hell,” Jericho says to himself.
-44-
Humans Never Win
Despite the clamor all around him – huddled conferences of military officers, F.B.I. and D.I.A. agents – Professor Lionel Morton plays a quiet game of chess on his wheelchair computer. He is as placid as a white-haired retiree on a park bench, oblivious to the commotion. He appears, in fact, just the same as he has been his entire adult life, completely indifferent to those around him. To Lionel Morton, with Pd.D.’s in both physics and aeronautical engineering, with a complete understanding of both theoretical and applied uses of nuclear energy, the world is merely his test tube. If other people have any use, it is as guinea pigs, laboratory rats. They are neither hated nor loved but are to be used for the advancement of knowledge and science.
The professor hits a key and moves a pawn, sacrificing it to the computer’s next move.
Certain people are more valuable than others, he knows. A runny-nosed child who wants to play baseball – even one’s own son – is no use whatsoever. This is so clear that Lionel Morton does not even try to understand why many so fathers waste their Saturdays at ball games, bowling alleys, or beaches. They could be productive, but instead choose to fritter away their time with wives and children. Children, for chrissakes, are of even less use than women.
Morton moves a black pawn to f-4, and the computer moves a white pawn to f-5.
Shortly after World War II, Morton read of the numerous experiments conducted on concentration camp prisoners by Nazi scientists. Young men were forced into vats of ice water while technicians timed how long it took them to die of hypothermia. The world was revolted by these and other medical experiments performed by supposedly reputable physicians. But to Lionel Morton, then a graduate student, it all made sense. The Germans wanted to know how long their own pilots could survive in the frig
id waters of the North Atlantic. No use wasting precious airplane fuel searching for airmen already dead. As for the concentration camp prisoners, well, they were dead men, sooner or later, anyway.
The problem with most people, Lionel Morton concluded long ago, was that they could not be objective. Emotion clouded judgment, so he banished it from his life. He prided himself on his ability to place rational thought above all else. Romantic love was a psychotic state to be avoided, so he never suffered a broken heart, never even cried. Sports, movies, music and TV were mindless excursions from reality, wastes of time. On vacation, he would visit the Stone Age nuclear reactors at Oak Ridge, Tennessee, or stay home and fool with mathematical formulas that would disprove cold fusion. On his desk in his university office, instead of family mementos, Lionel Morton placed gruesome photos of burn victims from Hiroshima. He neither mourned for these victims nor gloated over their pain. To him, they were simply scientific exhibits, proof of the ultimate power of man’s genius.
Lionel Morton hits a key and moves a pawn to d-4, where it stares the white pawn in the eye at d-5. He takes a moment to admire the board. With his black knight at f-3 and his two pawns facing two opposing pawns on row four, he has created an unbreakable bind on e-5 and has frozen the white pawn at e-6. The computer clicks for a moment before a mechanical voice says, “Congratulations, Professor Morton. Your successful deployment of the Sicilian defense results in a Maroczy Bind. We could continue to play, but it will result in a draw. Thank you for a most interesting game.”
Morton angrily pounds the keys on his typewriter, writing, “But I want to win.”
The computer’s voice responds almost immediately, “Humans never win.”
With Colonel Farris at his side, General Corrigan leaves a cluster of officers and approaches the wheelchair. He watches over the professor’s shoulder as the computer sets up another game. Without looking up, Morton says, “William the Conqueror was once so enraged at losing a game that he broke his chess board over his opponent’s head. Then there was the French knight, Renaud de Montauban, who succeeded in killing an opponent with a heavy wooden chess board.”
The general doesn’t respond, and Morton looks up. “Hugh, could we speak privately a moment?”
The general nods, and Colonel Farris slips off to one side. Morton hits a button and clears the chess game from his computer screen. “It’s amazing how closely chess resembles war, isn’t it Hugh?”
“It’s been said before, but personally, I prefer poker.”
Morton goes on, “Even the terminology of chess sounds like a session at National Military Command. Attacks and double attacks, blockades and decoys, strategic defenses and escapes and, of course, my favorite, the end game.”
“War’s not a game, Lionel, just because we make it sound like one.”
“Humor me a moment, Hugh, and let’s play out the analogy. The pawns are the infantry, slogging it out in the trenches, even more valuable if they breach the other’s line. The knights are the airborne, vaulting over the enemy. The bishops are powerful artillery, but clumsy in closed positions, while the rooks combine might and mobility like the armored cavalry. In both war and chess, you must out-think the enemy, always planning two steps ahead. You must box in the enemy, limit his choices until you have achieved what the Germans call zugzwang, where any move worsens his position. You want to force him to either surrender or die.”
“What’s your point, Lionel?”
“They think I’m crazy,” he says, gesturing toward the ensemble of officers, “but you know I’m not. I’m the last of the objectivists. I can separate all elements of external cognition from internal feelings.”
“Then I feel sorry for you.”
“Don’t. I meant it before when I said you should let the bird fly for purely strategic reasons.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“No one can make the hard choices anymore. In the last fifty years, we’ve become a nation of weaklings. Not since Hiroshima and Nagasaki has an American president shown any real guts. They’re too worried about the polls and the Sunday morning interview shows. We wimped out in Korea and Cuba and Vietnam and everywhere else where we’ve been seriously challenged. A couple of nuclear payloads over Hanoi, and Ho Chi Minh would have surrendered in a week.”
“Would he, or would the Russians have responded in kind against Saigon, and then would we hit the missile fields at Yedrovo, Kartala and Kostroma, and then would they hit Cheyenne Mountain? Where would it end?”
“Those are precisely the chances you have to take,” Morton says, looking off into space. “It’s ironic, Hugh. You’re a general who never believed in military solutions, and I’m a scientist who always did.”
“You put too much faith in your machines,” the general replies.
“The weak link is man, not the machine. All my creations work just the way I designed them.”
General Corrigan turns away. “That’s the damned scary truth.”
* * *
James continues to work at the computer while Brother David watches over his shoulder. “Davy, I can see your reflection in the monitor.”
“So?”
“So, it bothers me.”
“Would it be better if I gave off no reflection, like a ghost in one of those horror films.”
“It would be better if you just let me alone.”
David turns away, seemingly bored. Behind him, Susan Burns has been dozing. Slowly, her eyes open, and she stifles a yawn.
“Ah, the doctor is in,” David says. “Shall we resume our discussion?”
“You want to talk more about yourself?”
“It is a subject of which I never tire. Tell me more about my charming personality.”
“It’s true that psychopaths often have a certain beguiling charm. It’s used to manipulate others. Underneath the veneer, they are unsocialized. You, for example, are grossly selfish, callous, irresponsible, and unable to feel guilt or to learn from experience and punishment. Your frustration tolerance is low. You blame others or offer seemingly rational reasons for your anti-social behavior. You manifest aggressive-sadistic tendencies and exhibit what used to be called a ‘moral insanity.’”
“Is that all?”
“And you probably have a very small penis.”
That gets a chuckle from James, who doesn’t look up from the computer. If the remark wounded David, he doesn’t show it. “I have a new job for you, doctor.”
That causes Rachel to stir. “David…”
“I believe Dr. Burns would make an excellent deputy at the console. When Brother James has retrieved the S.L.C., the good doctor’s job will be to turn the second key.”
“Not a chance,” Susan says.
“Not even to save your own life.”
“I couldn’t live with myself.”
“You can live with me. Forever.”
Furious, Rachel stands and stomps to the rear of the capsule.
“Do you think you can convert me to your cause?” Susan asks, eyes wide in disbelief.
“Yes, and to me,” David says, confidently. “But that can wait, at least for a while.” A small smile plays on his lips. “But enough about you. Now, tell me about my father.”
“You hate him,” she says, “but you admire him, too. The contradiction, the cognitive dissonance, makes you loathe yourself.”
David barks out a laugh and moves closer to Susan, leaning over her. She doesn’t flinch. “I think you understand what makes you tick, and you know the mechanism is broken. But your revel in your own knowing insanity.”
“I’m just doing Daddy’s work, like any loving son. As it is written in John, ‘Ye are of your father the devil, and the lusts of your father ye will do.’”
“Only because you want to. You willed yourself to become your father, only more so. He built the bomb but couldn’t use it. You took the bomb and—”
“And will light the fuse to it,” he says with a grin.
* * *
Lieut
enant Colonel Charlie Griggs despises Commander Elwood (Woody) Waller.
Always has. Always will.
Friggin’ Navy Seals.
Sure, they’re tough. Hell, all the Special Ops are tough. Green Berets, Night Stalkers, Air Force Commandos, and the friggin’ SEALs with their Trident insignia that always looked like the Budweiser logo to Griggs.
He never doubted his own personal toughness. He led operations in Central America that never made the newspapers or the Congressional Record. Tougher than he looked, they said about Charlie Griggs. He didn’t have the brahma bull neck and rocky ledge jaw of the recruiting posters. With the thin mustache and pale hair going gray, with the slightly receding chin, Charlie Griggs looked like an accountant. If you noticed the size of his pole-ax wrists, though, if you watched the way he walked, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, aware of all movement around him, you might have a clue.
These days, Charlie Griggs was driving a desk at Fort Bragg. It was his bad luck to get the job baby-sitting this maniac professor for reasons of geography. At the time the 318th Missile Squadron was being overrun by a bunch of Bible-spouting crazies, Charlie Griggs was a special guest visiting Hell Week at the Naval Special Warfare Center, the SEALs training base outside San Diego. He had just walked into the “grinder,” the forlorn asphalt exercise yard, passing under the sign, “The Only Easy Day Was Yesterday,” when he was ordered to fly up the coast to Palo Alto and snag the professor. At least the surprise assignment got him away from Woody Waller’s constant bragging.
God, they were a tiresome bunch, and Griggs had seen enough push-ups in the mud and screaming drill instructors to last a lifetime. As for the macho saloon antics – pouring rum on a bar and lighting it in memory of a dead colleague – well, melodrama never played well for Griggs. These days, his specialty was hostage rescue. He was an expert in demolitions and small arms fire and could tell you just how large a charge of plastique to attach to a door to blow it without killing the hostages inside. He was equally adept at “instinctive firing” and “rapid-aim fire,” and to this day, would not mind being the first one through a blown door where the first decision is whether to shoot and whom.
