by Ben Bova
As she pulled the safety harness over her slim shoulders, her copilot, Major Kaufman, squeezed into the cockpit and settled his bulk into the right-hand seat, red-nosed and sniffling.
“That’s some cold you’ve got,” said Colonel Christopher.
“Alaska,” he said. She thought it sounded sullen. Major Kaufman did not like the fact that Karen had been jammed down his throat by headquarters, forcing him to relinquish command of the plane.
He sneezed wetly. That’s right, Colonel Christopher grumbled silently, spread your damned cold to the rest of us.
She pulled her plastic flight helmet over her short-cropped hair and plugged it into the communications console.
“You want me to take her out?” Kaufman asked. Christopher realized that the major knew she had only a half dozen hours of piloting a 747. “I’ll do it,” she said tightly. “I can fly anything that has wings on it, Obie.”
She saw his eyes flash again. He doesn’t like his nickname, she realized. But Kaufman said only, “You’re the boss.”
She said nothing. Stick to business, she told herself. He’ll just have to get used to being in the right-hand seat.
“ABL-1 ready to start engines,” she said into the pin mike that nearly brushed her lips. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Kaufman as he pulled up the takeoff checklist on the control panel’s central display and started scrolling it down the screen.
“ABL-1, you are clear to start engines,” said the flight controller’s clipped voice in her earphones.
Turning to Kaufman, she said, “Spool ‘em up.”
With a bleary nod, the major murmured, “Starting one.”
As the first of the plane’s four turbojet engines whined to life, the flight controller called, “ABL-1, message incoming for you from Andrews.”
Colonel Christopher felt puzzled. “Andrews Air Force Base?”
“Relayed from the Pentagon.”
“Better pipe it to me,” she said.
A series of clicks. Then a mechanical voice started dictating a formal military order. Computer-synthesized audio, Colonel Christopher realized. The voice droned through the date, routing, and classification level: Top Secret.
Then it said, “From: Major General Bradley B. Scheib, deputy commander, MDA. To: Lieutenant Colonel Karen R. Christopher, command pilot, ABL-1.
“A nuclear device apparently launched from North Korea has been exploded in orbit. All commercial satellites have been either knocked out completely or seriously degraded.
“You will proceed to a site to be designated over the Sea of Japan and orbit until further orders. Navigational information is being transmitted in a separate order. You will avoid violating territorial airspace of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea and/or the People’s Republic of China. You will attack and destroy any ballistic missiles launched from DPRK. Confirm receipt of this order immediately.”
Christopher looked at Major Kaufman, who sat wide-eyed and suddenly pale.
Swallowing hard, she said into her mike, “Order received and understood. Please confirm to General Scheib.”
“It’s going to take a little time, Colonel,” said the flight controller’s voice. “The commsats are overloaded with traffic.”
“Send the confirmation,” Colonel Christopher said in the hard voice of command she had learned at the Air Force Academy.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Major Kaufman seemed frozen in his seat. “Shoot down any missiles launched from North Korea? Are they crazy?”
“Get on with the engine start,” she snapped. “Maybe they are crazy, but orders are orders.”
As Kaufman punched up the second engine, Christopher unbuckled her safety harness and got to her feet. “I’d better talk to the chief nerd.”
But as she stepped through the hatch and into the area where the navigator and communications stations were, she wasn’t thinking of the chief of the laser crew or of her surly, suddenly frightened copilot, or even of the possibility that her orders meant a war was starting. She was thinking of the last time she had seen Major General Bradley B. Scheib.
“You’re out of uniform, Colonel.”
She smiled at the general. “So are you, sir.”
She was standing nude in the bathroom doorway while he lay on the thoroughly rumpled king-sized bed. The motel was a little on the seedy side, but Karen hadn’t minded that. Over the months since she’d fallen in love with Brad Scheib she’d become accustomed to being furtive. It even added a touch of spice to their relationship. Brad was married; she’d known that from the outset, but she knew how to make him happy and his preppy socialite wife didn’t.
The Air Force brass did not like it when an officer had an affair with a married officer. But there was this handsome hunk of a man, so serious, so troubled when she’d first met him. And now he was smiling and contented. At least, most of the time when they were together. But he wasn’t smiling at the moment.
She went to the bed and snuggled beside him. He wrapped his arms around her. For long moments neither of them spoke a word.
At last he half-whispered, “I’m up for the deputy director post at the MDA.”
Delighted, she asked, “That means a second star, doesn’t it?”
He nodded. Only then did she realize how grave his tone was.
“You want the job, don’t you?” “I sure do.”
“So you’ll be moving to Washington, then. It’s okay. I can get there often enough.”
“I don’t think so, Karen,” he said.
She suddenly understood where he was heading, but she didn’t want to believe it. “What do you mean?”
“There’s going to be an investigation.”
“Of you?”
He shook his head. “Of you. My wife…” His voice trailed off.
“She ratted you out?” Karen felt anger seething up inside her.
He wouldn’t look into her eyes. “No. She ratted you out.”
“What?”
“She got one of her Georgetown friends to tip off the AG that you’re having an affair with a married officer. She didn’t say with who. She’s too devious for that. She expects you to finger me once the AG investigation starts.”
Karen pulled away from him. “The Advocate General’s office is coming after me?”
“They’ll want to know who you’re sleeping with.” His voice was misery personified. “If you tell them, I can say good-bye to the MDA job and the second star.”
“But if I don’t...”
“They can’t do much to you,” he’d said. “A slap on the wrist, that’s all.”
A slap on the wrist, she thought. They bounced me out of the B-2 squadron and gave me this bus driver’s job with a bunch of tech geeks. Some slap on the wrist.
But now this bus she was driving might be heading into a shooting war. Karen almost smiled at the irony of it.
ABL-1: Flight Deck
Colonel Christopher saw that Lieutenant Sharmon and the communications officer were staring at her.
“You heard our orders?” she asked. Sharmon said, “I got the navigation data. Fed it into the flight computer.” He looked uneasy, almost scared.
“Good. We’ll need a couple of refuelings on the way. Must be a ten-, twelve-hour flight.”
Nodding, the navigator said, “Approximately ten hours, Colonel. They’re workin’ out the refueling rendezvous points at Andrews. They’ll send the fixes while we’re in flight.”
The communications officer, red-haired Captain Brick O’Banion, said grimly, “Looks like we’re flying into a war.”
Karen felt her insides clutch. “Looks that way,” she said. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm herself. “All right. Call the tech chief up here. This isn’t a test flight anymore.”
As the plane’s first engine rumbled to life Delany complained, “Christ, it’s colder inside this bucket than outside.”
Harry agreed. Cold and damp. Not good for my back, he thought as he followed Delany and
the rest of the laser team past the color-coded pipes and gleaming stainless steel tankage toward the cramped compartment that was their station during takeoffs and landings. His nose twitched with the faint iron tang of iodine. Like dried blood.
A leak? Harry asked himself, alarmed. That’s all we need; the damned stuff is corrosive enough to damage your eyes and lungs.
“Wally!” he called to Rosenberg, three bodies ahead of him. “You check the tank pressures yet?”
“Last night,” Rosenberg called over his shoulder. “Like I do every night before a mission. We all went over the whole damned system, remember?”
The night before, Harry and the rest of the team had inspected every part of the laser system, from the bulbous turret in the plane’s nose to the COIL fuel tanks in the tail. Every pipe. Every electronics console. Every gauge and switch and display screen. Routine. They’d done it the night before every flight.
“Check ‘em again,” he said.
“Now?” Rosenberg turned around to face Harry, forcing Taki Nakamura to sidle past him in the narrow passageway.
Harry thought, If I make him check the pressures now it’ll delay our takeoff by half an hour or more. The new pilot won’t like that. He can check it while we’re flying out to the test range.
“Once we’re at cruising altitude,” he said.
Rosenberg nodded, muttering, “There’s nothing wrong with the friggin’ tank pressures.”
Yeah, Harry retorted silently. There was nothing wrong with them when the damned rig blew up in the desert, either.
They got to their compartment, sat in the padded seats, and began to strap in. There were twelve seats, six facing six. They had been scavenged from a commercial airliner, but the compartment was so tight that they couldn’t recline; the seat backs were smack against the bulkheads. The safety straps were Air Force issue: not merely a lap belt but a harness that went over the shoulders as well. Diminutive Taki looked like a lost little waif in the gray webbing.
The intercom hummed briefly, then, “Mr. Hartunian, could you come up to the flight deck, please?”
Harry’s brows shot up. “What the hell for?” he wondered aloud.
“Maybe she wants to give you a flying lesson,” Delany wisecracked.
“Or maybe she’s lonely up there,” said Rosenberg, with a smirk.
She’s got a copilot, a communications officer, and a navigator up there, Harry thought. All men. And all of them a lot younger than me. She’s not lonely.
Puzzled, he unlocked his safety harness and went to the forward hatch of the compartment. As he did, he heard the whine of the second of the plane’s four turbojet engines start up and quickly turn into a roar. The plane began to vibrate noticeably.
Ducking through the hatch, Harry made his way past the plane’s minuscule galley and up the ladder that led to the flight deck. A lanky young black lieutenant was on his feet up there, tall enough that his closely cropped hair nearly brushed the overhead. Harry had never seen him before this morning. He recognized the communications officer, though: a stubby little red-haired captain seated at his board full of dials and screens, headphones clamped to his ears.
The lieutenant introduced himself. “I’m the new navigator, Lieutenant Sharmon. You must be Mr. Hartunian.”
“Harry.”
Sharmon nodded and put out his hand. “I’m Jon. Without an aitch.”
“Jon,” Harry said, grasping the lieutenant’s proffered hand. The kid’s grip was firm, his long fingers wrapped around Harry’s hand.
“I’ll tell Colonel Christopher you’re here.”
One by one the plane’s engines were growling into life. Harry stood uneasily next to the communications console while Lieutenant Sharmon ducked through the cockpit hatch. Harry caught a glimpse of the control panel, studded with instruments and sensor screens, and the windshield above it. It still looked miserably gray and foggy outside.
Maybe they’ve canceled the flight, Harry thought. But then he countered, So why’s she powering up the engines?
Lieutenant Colonel Christopher came out and forced a smile for him. She was small, petite really, but he could see that she had an adult’s body beneath her blue fatigues. Dark hair, bright, intelligent eyes. Really pretty, he realized once again. For a moment he thought she looked familiar, as if he’d seen her somewhere before. But that’s impossible, Harry thought. Our paths haven’t crossed before this. Still, he couldn’t shake the nagging thought that they had.
“Mr. Hartunian,” she said without offering to shake hands.
Harry nodded. The colonel looked as grim as death.
“We have a situation on our hands,” she said.
“A situation?” Harry asked.
“I just got a top-priority message relayed from Washington. There’s been an attack on our orbiting satellites and—”
“An attack?”
“A missile fired from North Korea detonated a nuclear device in geosynchronous orbit several hours ago. Just about every civilian satellite around the world has been knocked out of service.”
Harry gaped at her, his heart suddenly pumping wildly. “From North Korea?”
“We’ve been ordered to proceed to a position over the Sea of Japan and be prepared to shoot down any more missiles that the North Koreans launch.” Christopher spoke crisply, with no hesitation, no doubts in her tone.
“But we can’t... I mean, we’re supposed to be testing the laser. We’re not ready for a shooting war.”
Colonel Christopher said, “You techies are never ready for reality, but ready or not, Mr. Hartunian, those are our orders. Get your people on the mark. Make sure that ray gun of yours works right.”
Jefferson Hotel, Washington D.C.
It had started to rain. Looking out the window of the penthouse suite’s sitting room, the Secretary of State saw brittle dry leaves gusting across the pavement far below. The afternoon sky was clouded over, gray and gloomy. Yet she felt excited, eager.
How often had she used this suite over the past few years? she wondered idly. It fit perfectly her need for an informal meeting place, a spot where she could chat quietly in privacy with men or women who preferred to stay safely out of the glare of publicity, a place where she could develop the back-channel contacts of her own, without the State Department bureaucracy’s officious meddling. The Jefferson was perfect: downtown, close to the White House, old, elegant, and very discreet.
After leaving the White House that morning she had changed her attire for this meeting: a quietly elegant pantsuit of pearl gray over a tailored white blouse, with a small choker of pink pearls and matching earrings. She turned away from the rain-swept windows, thinking, He’ll come. He’s got to come.
The phone on the desk buzzed, and she rushed to it before it could ring twice. The face of the young security woman down in the hotel’s lobby appeared on the screen. “Mr. Quang is on his way up, Madam Secretary.”
The Secretary’s pulse quickened. “Good.”
In less than a minute the doorbell chimed. The Secretary of State crossed the thickly carpeted sitting room and admitted a portly, blank-faced Chinese. He was wearing a dark business suit, white starched shirt, pale blue necktie—and a tiny red star pin on his lapel.
He bowed slightly as she ushered him into the sitting room. The Secretary of State said, “Mr. Quang, it’s good of you to come on such short notice.”
His bland expression warmed slightly into a tentative smile. “Madam Secretary, there’s no need for formalities,” he said in perfect American English. “I understand the gravity of the situation.”
Gesturing to one of the comfortable armchairs in front of the dark, unlit fireplace, the Secretary of State said, “We’ve been unable to establish a reliable communications link with Beijing. Your ambassador seems unable to give us a clear picture of what’s going on there.”
Quang nodded as he settled into the chair. “I would think there is great turmoil in Beijing at this moment.”
“They p
refer not to talk to us?”
“They prefer” —he hesitated a heartbeat, searching for a word— “not to commit themselves.”
The Secretary of State took the armchair facing Quang’s and studied his round, almond-eyed face. How many times have we met like this? she asked herself. How many times have we cut through the red tape and talked clearly and honestly to one another? She had known Quang since she’d first visited Beijing, back when she’d been a law student with political ambitions and he a fast-rising industrial tycoon. She realized that, in truth, she owed much of her advancement to the private, authoritative back-channel link he offered to the highest levels of the Chinese government.
“Have you been able to reach the chairman?” asked the Secretary of State. “Or any of the council members?”
With a modest smile, Quang replied, “As you know, I am merely a businessman. I have no position in the government.”
“You are the chairman’s brother-in-law.”
His smile widened slightly. “A brother-in-law is usually without much influence.”
The Secretary leaned slightly toward him, her fists clenched on her lap. “You’re the best link I have to the chairman. You’ve got to help us avert a nuclear war!”
Quang’s smile faded. “I will do whatever I can, of course.”
“Did the People’s Republic of China provide nuclear weapons to North Korea?”
“Of course not.”
“Are you certain?”
Quang’s eyes shifted slightly, then refocused on the Secretary. “I can tell you this much. Three nuclear warheads were smuggled into the DPRK from Russia last month.”
“Last month! And your government didn’t inform us!”
“We confirmed the information only two days ago. The council was debating what our response should be when the Koreans set off one of the warheads in orbit.”
