ONE MISSILE SERIAL POSEIDON MK 17-631 EX SUBMERGED CRAWLER SSCN 21 LAUNCHED 1410 GMT TARGET GREGOR SOBIRSK OIL COMPLEX AIRBURST 1000 METRES IMPACT 1427 GMT ACKNOWLEDGE
A futile anger flooded in upon him as he read that last cold emotionless word.
“You bastard! You wicked, wicked—” He stopped. There was nothing remotely adequate that he could say, nothing. Before he could reach forward to tear the fateful message off, the teletype chattered again.
ACKNOWLEDGE NOW
Forbin restrained a wild impulse to smash blindly at the teletype, feverishly he stabbed at the keys, his vision obscured by tears. Sobbing, shaking, he tore off the message and shambled out to the President in the outer office. He was quite unable to speak, but thrust the message into the President's hand and without knowing quite why, started to shamble back to the machine, dimly aware of the President's almost incoherent babble into the phone. In the sanctum, two phones on the President's desk began to call, one giving the high pitched ululation of the emergency call, a small red light occulting on the phone in phase with the audio signal. Like a very old or very drunk man, Forbin fumbled and grasped the receiver.
“Yes?” his voice was faint, drained of expression.
“Marine guard commander Colossus, sir. I have to report that the armored doors to the air shaft have just closed, sir.” The young Marine officer's voice was cracked with excitement and anxiety.
“Thank you,” replied Forbin tonelessly, and replaced the receiver. It was all so unreal, yet Forbin was aware that part of himself was outside himself, watching, as it were, from a distance—watching with incurious detachment his shocked state. It seemed important that he should act out his part to the satisfaction of this other, astral Forbin. The thought steadied him to a degree; he glanced at his watch—9.13 A.M. It was a considerable mental effort to add five hours to bring it to Greenwich Mean Time. He checked the answer, moving a finger on one hand as he counted. It flooded in upon him that there were still fifteen minutes left to impact. . . He tried to think, but a phone kept pinging softly, insistently. A gust of rage shook him as he snatched the phone.
“Yes?”
“Thank God it's you.” It was Fisher, his voice pitched up almost to a scream. “What do we do, you know—”
“Get off the line and don't bother me!”
Forbin slammed the phone down. The action shook him from his state of near paralysis. He recalled that the direct line to the CPO should have been manned by Prytzkammer. He snatched up the hot-line phone, someone was half-shouting; Forbin did not bother to hear who it was—he knew that what little could be done, only he and Kupri could do. The rest were just so much window dressing.
“Silence! This is Forbin—is Kupri on the line?”
His sudden eruption shocked the heads of state to silence. “Kupri speaking.” Incredibly, the Russian still sounded calm and detached. Forbin was at once thankful that he was coherent, and drew strength from it himself.
“Look, Kupri—there are still a good twelve minutes to impact—can you intercept?”
“Guardian controls our antimissile defenses. We have fed in the warning; it is up to Guardian.” Forbin detected a note of hopelessness in Kupri's voice. Time was short; he jumped a question.
“You do not think Guardian will act?”
“No. I believe the machines are working together.”
“But that's impossible!” The President cut in, his croaking voice a parody of its normal self.
“Shut up!” Forbin spat the words out like bullets. He went on in more reasonable yet urgent tones. “Kupri, I agree with you. Are you clearing the target area?”
“As far as possible, yes. Our Chairman has ordered a general defense alert.”
In his mind's eye Forbin visualized the missile, now approaching its apogee, soon to turn earthwards, lancing irrevocably down at 15,000 miles an hour. He struggled to keep his voice under control.
“Mr. Chairman, President. I do not think this is all; I expect Guardian to launch a missile—Kupri, please check. The only course open to us is to restore communication between these machines, and then ask that the missile or missiles be intercepted. Kupri, do you agree?”
“Am checking our missile state; agree with your view.” Kupri did not sound hurried, but there was not a single unnecessary word.
“Mr. Chairman?”
“Yes, agreed, do what you can.”
“Mr. President?”
“Yes, yes! Get on with it!” The President's voice was bordering on the hysterical, but Forbin had already dropped the phone. As he wheeled for the teletype, he realized that Prytzkammer was back on the direct line to the Secure Zone. “You—tell the CPO to switch on the Colossus transmitter at once!” He stumbled in his hurry to reach the teletype, cursed and kicked the chair aside. Behind him the pale and shaking Prytzkammer was yelling his message to the CPO.
For a moment Forbin stood silent, breathing heavily, before the machine. It was taking precious seconds, but he had to think what to say.
THIS IS FORBIN TRANSMITTER NOW BEING SWITCHED ON STAND BY TO INTERCEPT GUARDIAN MISSILE TARGET UNKNOWN ACKNOWLEDGE
Colossus at least wasted no time
ACKNOWLEDGED
Forbin paused, glanced fearfully at his watch; little more than nine minutes to impact. He typed again
WILL YOU INTERCEPT
Behind him he heard Prytzkammer shouting, “The transmitter's on, the transmitter's on!” He took no notice, watching for Colossus' answer.
It came in less than a second, but to him it was all eternity.
YES
Forbin shut his eyes, shook his head slightly, aware that his emotions were grotesquely inadequate. He jabbed his weary brain into action. If Guardian did fire—had fired—there was a good chance that an intercept could be made. The antimissile defenses had long been prepared to deal with forty or fifty at one time, plus any decoys. Interception rate had been estimated variously, some optimists putting it as high as 90 percent, some as low as 40 percent. Either way, the balance would be more than enough for the job. . . But with just the one, there was a good chance. With deep fervor, Forbin prayed that the USSR defenses would be able to deal with the Poseidon Mk. 17; it was a relatively old-fashioned weapon, Guardian would know the target, and that would be a big help. . . Forbin realized that Prytzkammer was shaking his shoulder, his anger flared up at the interruption as he turned. The aide was screaming.
“It's on! It's on!”
Forbin shook himself free, but Prytzkammer was on him again in a flash, “It's on, I tell you! Stop it! Stop it—it's on!”
For the first time, Forbin really looked at the aide. For all his own load of anxiety and fear, he was shocked by what he saw; the aide seemed to have shrunk, his clothes ill-fitting, his skin gray, bloodless. The eyes, pupils wide and staring, hunted restlessly round the room, flitting to and from Forbin, staring yet devoid of intelligence. There was saliva on his lips as he screamed at the Professor.
For a brief moment Forbin stared in revulsion, and tried to thrust the aide aside. The man was mad. Forbin struggled to free himself, but Prytzkammer was past hearing or reason. He fought to hold the Professor, one clawlike hand grabbed at Forbin's throat. With a sudden furious access of strength, Forbin smashed his fist into the aide's face. The man's head jerked back, for a second lolled on one side, then his grip relaxed and he slid to the carpet. Instantly he was wiped from Forbin's mind as he ran to the outer office.
The President, his face strongly resembling Prytzkammer's in color, was listening intently on the phone. He glanced up, and although there was fear written largely in his eyes, they were not, like his aide, devoid of intelligence.
“Repeat that,” he snapped into the phone, “Yes, got it. Wait.” He looked at Forbin and spoke in a hard, flat voice. “Guardian has fired. Target, Henderson Space Base, Texas. Ten minutes to impact.”
Both men were already satiated with horror, and this made little difference. Life had moved into a different t
empo in the past hour.
Forbin nodded. “Right. Tell Kupri that our transmitter is running and that Colossus will try to take their missile.”
In seconds he was back at the teletype.
FLASH FROM FORBIN MISSILE EX GUARDIAN NOW AIRBORNE TARGET HENDERSON SFB TEXAS IMPACT IN NINE MINUTES CAN YOU INTERCEPT
Again the microsecond time—lag tore at Forbin's nerves.
YES
Forbin grimaced in nervous reaction, and typed again
ESTIMATE HEIGHT OF INTERCEPT
There was a fractional pause
NINETYFIVE MILES NON NUCLEAR INTERCEPTOR WILL BE USED IF POSSIBLE
“God!” muttered Forbin, “He's reading my thoughts!” He swung up and out of the chair, past the still figure of Prytzkammer, back to the President.
“Well?” he snapped curtly at the First Citizen. It did not occur to him that he should report first; he was in charge. “Kupri says Guardian is prepared to attempt an intercept if the transmitter is restored in time.”
“For Christ's sake, what the hell are they playing at?” He grabbed the phone from the President. “Kupri, are you there?”
The cold level tones of the Chairman answered, “Kupri is busy, tell me.”
Forbin's detached self could not help feeling that the Russians were standing up to the strain a good deal better than his side, although the President seemed to be back in command of himself.
“Mr. Chairman, there are only six minutes left for you to stop our missile. Colossus is no doubt transmitting right now, and is prepared to intercept your missile. Time is short for you—”
Kupri, breathless as if he had been running, cut in. “Kupri here, transmitter on, intercept arranged.”
“Thank God,” said Forbin simply. There was a short silence, then he spoke again, “Kupri, do you know where your missile is coming from?”
“Not exactly, but it is from a site in Novaya Zemlya.”
“Right.” Forbin thrust the phone back into the President's hand without looking at him, and became aware that they were not alone. Withdrawn to a corner, as if seeking shelter, was Prytzkammer's assistant aide, a young man named Bishop; and behind the President stood the Chief of Staff. Forbin summoned them both as he headed once more for the teletype. In the sanctum, phones were ringing, pinging and howling.
“Answer them,” he told the aide, and grabbed the Chief of Staff's arm. “You get a statewide shelter warning out for Texas—and hold Civil Defense for anything else that may be necessary.”
He ran to the teletype. Time was very short.
FLASH MISSILE EX NOVAYA ZEMLYA AREA REPORT INTERCEPT AREA
“Forbin!” the Chief of Staff shouted. “Space radar reports probable missile located—”
“Forget it!” shouted Forbin back. He watched impatiently for the machine to answer.
MISSILE INTERCEPTION IN HAND NOW PROBABLE INTERCEPT AREA 35 N 70 W OVER SEA
“A map, find a map!” roared Forbin.
The aide, frightened out of his wits, yet sticking gamely to the phones, called out, “Sir, Army reports antimissile firings in South Carolina and Virginia, sir!”
“Get that map!”
Ironically, the only map they could find in the sanctum was an antique globe, part of the sanctum furnishings. The Chief of Staff spun it with scant regard for its age.
“Well out to sea,” he said. “Five hundred miles north of the Bahamas.”
A very tired figure appeared in the door of the sanctum, holding the frame for support. It was the President. Forbin gave him the barest glance as he headed back from the globe to the teletype.
REPORT PROGRESS
But Colossus was not prepared to speak; one word came clacking back.
WAIT
Forbin sat down and clasped his hands between his knees, gazing grimly at the silent machine, his thoughts busy with the chances of interception and the Secure Zone. He hoped that Fisher would have the sense to keep CIA informed—not that it really mattered. Just now, everything turned on a lot of hardware on the Atlantic coast and that terrifying inanimate missile, immune to any electronic interference, a straightforward ballistic object, now well on the way down. . . He glanced at his watch. Colossus' missile must be down now, one way or the other. . . He remembered the President, and his presence in the room took on a new significance. Forbin looked round at him.
“What happened?”
The President, who appeared to be in a daze, slowly looked up.
“They made the intercept, but the warhead detonated. It was only twenty-five miles up, seems there is a large fire.” He stopped, unable to go on.
“Where was this?” Forbin's tone was commanding, cold. It stung the President, and a look of hatred flared momentarily in his eyes.
“Somewhere over Siberia—”
“Casualties?” rapped Forbin.
“Who knows?” The President rubbed his eyes. “At least it wasn't over a major urban concentration—”
But Forbin had withdrawn his attention, and had swung back to the link with Colossus.
MISSLE INTERCEPTED AND BROKEN UP 3530N 7115W SIX ICARUS/HERMES EXPENDED EX SITES BAKER 914 AND 916 AND GROTON 003 RELOAD PERMISSION GRANTED NOW UNTIL 1800 GMT ACKNOWLEDGE
Forbin sat back and stared. He felt very, very tired. The Chief of Staff was shouting at someone on the phone, and the aide, Bishop, was telling someone else to clear the line, and another phone was pinging. That pinging, in theory, melodious, seemed to bounce around inside Forbin's skull. Slowly he typed out the acknowledgment, then got up and faced the President.
“Colossus made it.” He spoke wearily, without emotion. “Intercept made well out, and apparently no explosion.”
There was very little reaction. The President rubbed his eyes again, and stared at Forbin; the Chief of Staff stared at the President. Bishop, too busy to hear, looked up from phoning.
“Sir,” he said, clearly addressing his remarks to Forbin. Forbin shook his head and waved an impatient hand at Bishop. “No, take all those damn phones off their hooks—except the hot line. Let's have a moment of peace.”
The aide obeyed, and silence reigned in the sanctum. The President reluctantly let go of the door frame and walked slowly to his chair and sat down. Flanked as he was by the aide and the Chief of Staff, the President reminded Forbin strongly of a figure in a tableau in a wax museum. The President, vacantly gazing round the room with dulled eyes, saw something that sharpened his vision to a marked extent.
“What the hell!” There was a little more of his old self in his tone, not much, but enough to be noticed by the other occupants of the room. It stiffened the aide wonderfully, and brought the Chief of Staff back from a deep contemplation of the unspeakable that not even his professional Red Indian face could entirely conceal. With Forbin, they followed the direction of the President's gaze. In a corner, partly hidden by a bookcase, and hunched up in what psychologists call the fetal position, lay Prytzkammer.
The President scowled and said contemptuously, “Bishop, get that jerk to his feet, and then fix some drinks.”
As the aide moved over to the recumbent figure, the double doors of the sanctum burst open and two half-crouching Secret Service men ran in, guns out and very much ready for anything. At the sight of the President sitting calmly behind his desk, they almost skidded to a halt, and straightened up. The President eyed them coldly, yet with no sign of the rage he would have produced even an hour back.
“Sorry, Mr. President, Control said all your phones were out of action, and we had the idea something screwy. . .” The spokesman's voice trailed off under the cold stare of the President, but he rallied, and ended, “You all right, Chief?”
The President nodded; he was far too spent to waste words on such trivia. The men were reassured, but not entirely satisfied. They noted the phones off their hooks, the odd demeanor of the President, the stonelike quality of Forbin and the Chief of Staff—and they saw Bishop bending over Prytzkammer. Instantly they were fully alert again. One s
tayed by the door while his partner went over, pushing the young aide to one side. This sort of thing they understood. The man looked briefly at Prytzkammer, then straightened up, and with a wary eye on the startled Bishop, spoke to the President.
“Sir, this man is dead.”
A faint flicker of surprise crossed the President's face. He looked up at Forbin, compressed his lips and said, “OK, let him be dead some place else.”
“How did it happ—” the Secret Service man started off professionally, but broke off. “Sorry, sir—we'll get him out.” The President gave the man an extra hard look. “And keep quiet. Another thing; no one, and I mean no one, is to be admitted to this office or the outer office without my personal say—so until I cancel this order, get it?”
“Sir.”
The two men carefully stretched Prytzkammer's body out, and carried him into what had been his office. Bishop, white and trembling, closed the doors softly behind them.
“Now—can we get that drink?”
The aide rummaged noisily for the Scotch in the sideboard. He found it, and three glasses. The knowledge that he was being watched did nothing for his already shaking hand. He slopped Scotch into the glasses, the bottle glugging noisily in the silent room. The President sat still and impassive as the aide brought his drink, a generous half-tumbler. Quietly and unhurriedly he picked up the glass, gazed for a moment reflectively into its tawny depths, then drained it in practically one gulp. The Chief of Staff was a very close second.
“God,” said the President, “that helps. Ed, Forbin, sit down. Bishop, get my naval aide- phone from the other office. Then get on the rest of these phones and do what you can, say there has been a foul-up on the switchboard or something. ”
Bishop left at the run. The President poured himself another drink, and gulped at it noisily. Forbin came out of his personal trance, walked over and sat down in the only armchair, leaving the Chief of Staff to bring over the period piece from the teletype. It creaked under the Army man's weight, but as in other things, the President did not comment. A whole set of values had been ripped out and thrown away.
D.F. Jones - [Colossus 01] Page 13
