by Ben Bova
“Yeah,” Harry said. “That’ll work.”
“You’ll have the laser working by then?”
“We will,” Harry said, adding silently, Or I’ll jump overboard.
Japan: Misawa Air Force Base
“But you’re supposed to be the intelligence officer!”
“That doesn’t mean they tell me diddly-squat. Sir.”
Major Hank Wilson held a flimsy sheet of a decoded message from Andrews Air Force Base, back in the States, in one big, hairy fist. He glared down at Captain William Koenig, long, lanky, and as lean as a beanpole. Koenig glared right back at his commanding officer.
Brandishing the flimsy, Major Wilson grumbled, “That tanker’s due in fifteen minutes and we don’t know why it’s here.”
“It’s out of Chongju, I know that much.”
“But why’s it landing here? Where’s it heading? We don’t have anything up there that needs an air-to-air refueling.”
“Washington moveth in mysterious ways,” Keonig murmured.
College boy, Wilson thought. Give ‘era a degree and they think they know everything. But when you need information from them they can’t produce anything but crap.
Seeing the anger growing on his superior’s face, Koenig said, “We know the tanker’s out of Chongju. We know it’s on special orders from Andrews, relayed out of the Pentagon.”
“We knew that two hours ago,” Wilson growled.
“Everything’s slowed to a crawl,” the captain said. “Our commsats are overloaded with traffic. Messages are coming through late.”
“But the message from that mother-loving tanker came through loud and clear, didn’t it?”
“Yessir. It came directly from the tanker itself, not relayed by a satellite.”
“So they have engine trouble.”
Koenig nodded. “It’s an old bird, a KC-135. Been in service for thirty-some years. I looked up the tail number.”
“So it needs to land here and get its engine fixed.”
“Or replaced.”
“So it’s going to be late for its rendezvous with whatever it’s supposed to be refueling.”
Koening spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Nothing we can do about that.”
“But there’s a plane out there someplace expecting to rendezvous with that mother-humping tanker and the fucker isn’t going to be there!”
“That’s the way it looks. Sir.”
“We have to tell that plane that its rendezvous is going to be late.”
“Yes, sir, we certainly do.”
“But we don’t know what plane we’re talking about! We don’t know where the bastard is! How can we communicate with it when we don’t know anything about it?”
“I’ve sent an urgent message back to Andrews, sir. It’s in their lap.”
Major Wilson’s heavy-jowled face looked like a thundercloud. “By the time Washington gets your message and acts on it, that mystery bird could be in the drink.”
Captain Koenig said nothing.
“So why don’t you find out what plane we’re talking about and where the fuck it is?”
“I’ve queried Andrews, sir. No response, so far.”
Wilson restrained himself from jumping over the desk and throttling the captain. It’s not his fault, he told himself. Think of your blood pressure. Remember you’ve got a physical coming up Monday morning. It’s not his fault.
But he growled, “You’re supposed to be the intelligence officer.”
The Pentagon: Situation Room
General Scheib’s minicomputer chimed with the ding-dong melody of Big Ben. It sounded like a Munchkin version of the London clock’s sonorous tones.
Scheib hurried from the newly refilled coffee cart to his chair at the conference table. One of his aides from his office in the Pentagon was on the notebook’s miniature screen, a frown of concern etching lines between his brows.
“What’s up, Lieutenant?” Scheib asked, his own face tightening worriedly.
“Can we go to scramble, sir?” Scheib nodded. “Do it.”
The computer screen broke into a hash of colored streaks until Scheib tapped the password code on his keyboard.
The lieutenant’s worried face took form again. “Message incoming from Misawa, sir. Marked urgent.”
Misawa Air Force Base, Scheib knew. In northern Japan.
“Let’s see it.”
The lean, angular face of a captain replaced Scheib’s aide. The man looked more puzzled than concerned.
“We have a KC-135 asking for landing clearance here. They say they’re on a refueling mission but have developed engine trouble. Somebody needs to tell the plane they’re supposed to be refueling that the rendezvous is going to be late, but we have no information on what plane that might be or where it is.”
Scheib sank back in his chair. The timeline hack on the bottom of the screen showed that the message had been sent nearly two hours earlier.
He closed his eyes and suppressed the urge to rip out his aide’s intestines. Two hours to replay an urgent message to me! Scheib raged inwardly. Then he remembered that the commercial commsats were out and the military satellites were overloaded with traffic. The ABL-1 mission was classified Top Secret, Need to Know. Neither the tanker crew nor the base at Misawa knew what the hell was going on.
He sensed someone standing behind his chair. Turning slightly, he saw that it was Zuri Coggins.
“Is that going to ruin the mission?” she asked.
“Could be,” said Scheib. “What can I do to help?”
“Get me real-time comm links with that tanker, with the base commander at Misawa, and with ABL-1. We’re tripping over ourselves with the damned security regs.”
She nodded. “I’ll call my office.”
General Higgins came up, looking bleary-eyed and tired of the situation.
“There goes your laser, Brad,” said Higgins. “Looks like we’ll have to depend on the Aegis ships and the missile batteries in Alaska.”
“I’m not giving up on ABL-1, sir,” Scheib said tightly.
Down at the end of the table Michael Jamil watched the tense little minidrama going on around General Scheib.
Let them play their games, Jamil said to himself. What’s important is to find out who’s behind this crisis. Why have they knocked out the satellites? What do they want?
Again and again Jamil had played out every possible scenario he could think of in his mind. He didn’t need computers; he knew the players and their tactics. But none of this made sense. Why knock out the satellites? Why keep those two additional missiles on their pads when they know that regular troops are rushing from Pyongyang to their launching site? It’s been more than ten hours since they set off the bomb in orbit; why are they waiting to launch those other two missiles?
Every scenario he ran through his mind ended in the same way: they’re going to try to kill the President. They’re going to hit San Francisco with half a megaton of hydrogen bombs, but they have to wait until the President’s there. There can’t be any other explanation for what they’re doing. Knock out the satellites to slow our communications links to a crawl, then wait for the President to show up in San Francisco and blow the city off the map. Maybe the explosions will be enough to trigger an earthquake into the bargain.
Jamil looked up at the two generals and the others clustered around Scheib’s chair. They look grim, he realized. Something must have gone wrong.
The woman from the National Security office looked up and met his gaze. She detached herself from the crowd around Scheib and walked down the length of the table toward him.
Jamil got to his feet, and before she could say a word he urged, “You’ve got to get a warning out to San Francisco. You can’t let them fire those missiles without warning the Homeland Security people.”
Coggins stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then she drew in a breath before replying, “Are you really that sure that San Francisco is the target?”
; “Yes!”
She looked away, murmuring, “The city would go apeshit if we told them they’re going to be bombed. Mass panic. God knows how many people would be killed in the rush to get away.”
“They’ll all be killed if we don’t warn them,” Jamil said. Then he added, “And the President, too.”
Coggins shook her head. “I don’t know… I just don’t know.”
“Tell your boss, at least,” Jamil said. “Let him make the decision. He’s the National Security Advisor, isn’t he? Let him earn his keep.”
She smiled thinly. “When in doubt, buck it upstairs.”
Santa Monica Airport
The flight operations director put down his phone and made a weak smile for Sylvia, who still stood unmoving before his desk.
“Okay,” he said shakily, “I’ve got a plane to take you to SFO.”
“San Francisco?” Sylvia asked. Nodding, the operations director got up from behind his desk. “It’s a private plane. A friend of mine is flying up there on business and he’s agreed to take you and your daughters.”
“That’s wonderful!”
Mopping his brow with a damp handkerchief, the operations director said, “I had to call in a lot of favors for this. I hope you tell Congresswoman McClintock about it.”
“I certainly will,” said Sylvia.
The operations director glanced at his wristwatch as he said, “You go over to the general aviation terminal. There’s a bus outside that’ll take you there. Be quick now. He said he’ll wait for you, but he wants to take off no later than 4:00 p.m.”
Sylvia grabbed the handle of her roll-on. “We’ll be there. Tell him we’re on our way! And thanks!”
The three women hurried out of the office so fast the operations director didn’t have time to pull one of his cards from his wallet and give it to Sylvia so that she could show it to Congresswoman McClintock.
Air Force One
The President looked up from the text of the speech he would give at the Cow Palace as his chief of staff came into the private compartment and sat in the big comfortable chair facing him.
Leaning toward the President, Norman Foster said, “The pilot says we’re on the approach to San Francisco.”
The President glanced at his wristwatch. “Right on schedule. Good.”
“We can still turn around,” Foster said.
The President gave him the stare that often froze lesser men. Foster gazed back at his boss without flinching.
“They’re still worried about the city being nuked?”
“Took a call direct from your National Security Advisor. The admiral thinks the prudent thing to do would be to turn back.”
“I’d look like a damned fool if nothing happens.”
“You’d be dead if they nuke the city. Me too.”
With an easy smile the President said, “I’m going through with this. I can’t afford to look like a coward. I’d never live it down.”
Foster clenched his fists on his lap. “The plane could develop engine trouble. We could divert the flight to some other airport. A military base.”
The President’s smile faded. “You really think they’re going to hit San Francisco.”
“I think they might try.”
“Might.”
“If they do—”
“Norm, you’ve sat in on those intelligence briefings as often as I have. The North Koreans don’t have a missile that can reach San Francisco.”
“Maybe not.”
“Hell, the last time they launched a missile it flopped into the middle of the Pacific. Besides, I’ve checked the reports,” the President went on. “I haven’t been sitting back here playing solitaire, Norm. I do my homework. According to the latest intelligence estimates the North Koreans do not have a missile with the range to reach San Francisco. Nor the accuracy. And especially not the reliability.”
“And you’re willing to pin your life to that?”
The President hesitated for the slightest fraction of a heartbeat, then said firmly, “Yes. I am.”
Foster looked around the compartment, gathering his thoughts. Then he said, “There’s this guy from the NIC sitting in on the special situation team we put together—”
“In the Pentagon?”
“Right.” Foster nodded. “He’s insisting that the North Koreans are aiming for San Francisco, specifically because they know you’re going to be there tonight.”
“He’s running counter to the intelligence reports.”
“He’s got the representative from your National Security Advisor worried enough that she got him to put in another call to us here, warning us.”
“One guy from the NIC?” the President asked. “What’s his background? What does he know about the missiles the North Koreans have?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know his name. But he claims that if they could deliver a nuke into orbit and knock out all the communications satellites, the same kind of missile could hit San Francisco.”
The President leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“One guy,” he muttered.
Foster nodded.
“What’s his background? Where’s he from? Could be a Republican who wants to make me look bad.”
Foster threw his hands up in the air. “For Chris-sakes! We’re talking nuclear war here!”
“We are talking,” the President said coldly, precisely, “about an unsubstantiated theory by some unknown guy from the National Intelligence Committee.”
“Look, there’s a lot at stake here. The chances of the gooks nuking San Francisco might be damned small, but the consequences if they do are huge! Enormous!”
“That’s what my science adviser says about global warming, for god’s sake.”
“Tell the pilot to divert to an Air Force base. Tell him to say we’ve got engine troubles. Tell—”
The pilot’s voice broke in from the intercom speaker set into the compartment’s overhead. “We are on final approach to San Francisco, sir. Please fasten your seat belt.”
The President glanced at the speaker grill, then back at the friend and companion who had guided him to the White House.
“Too late, Norm. We’re there.”
ABL-1: Laser Fuel Tank Section
Harry made his way aft, down the length of the big COIL, through a narrow hatch, and into the plane’s rearmost section, where the stainless steel fuel tanks full of liquefied oxygen and iodine stood man-tall and frosted with rime. Rosenberg and Reyes were right behind him. Harry could feel their resentment at his insisting that they check every square centimeter of the tankage all over again.
It took the better part of an hour, but at last Harry was satisfied that the tanks were properly filled, at their correct cryogenic temperatures, and—most important of all—not leaking.
Now the two engineers stood glumly before Harry, both of them waiting for Harry to explain what was behind his sudden insistence on this inspection.
Rosenberg and Reyes couldn’t look less alike, Harry thought. Rosenberg had a long, narrow face with teeth that looked a size too big for his jaw and a thick mop of tightly curled russet hair; his body looked soft, potbellied. But his tongue was sharp. Wally always had a quip or a wisecrack at hand. He could be cutting. Angel Reyes was built like a Venezuelan shortstop—small, agile, almost a full head shorter than Wally. Dark brown hair cut in bristling spikes, big liquid dark eyes like you see on sentimental paintings of little waifs. Angie was quiet, soft-spoken. At first glance he looked like one of those gardener’s guys who runs leaf blowers all day. But Angie had an engineering degree from Florida State University, where he had indeed played four years of varsity baseball for the Seminoles. Shortstop.
It felt chilly and cramped back here near the plane’s tail. Harry imagined that’s what a morgue would feel like: cold as death. He could see his breath forming little clouds of steam in the air despite the tanks’ heavy insulation. At least he didn’t smell any leaks.
Rosenberg caught his sniffing. “There’s no leaks,” he said, his voice resentful. “We’ve checked from end to end.”
“Good,” said Harry. But he was thinking, Should I tell them about the missing optics assembly? Should I tell them that we have a saboteur on board? Maybe one of them is the guy. Maybe they already know.
Somehow the steady growl of the 747’s engines was louder back here, Harry thought. Just like an airliner: first class is up front; the peasants sit in back.
“Okay,” he said to the two men. “I want you to keep your eyes open. We’ve… uh, we’ve got a problem.”
Reyes’s dark eyes went wider. Rosenberg looked skeptical.
“What problem?” Wally asked, almost sneering.
“Somebody tried to sabotage the ranging laser.”
“What?”
Reyes’s mouth dropped open but he said nothing.
“The forward optics assembly’s gone missing,” Harry explained. “Monk’s replacing it from the spares.”
“For crap’s sake, Harry, that doesn’t mean sabotage,” Rosenberg snapped. “What’s the matter with you? It’s not like you to go off the deep end.”
Harry studied Rosenberg’s face. Wally looks sincere enough, he thought. He’s sore at me for thinking it’s sabotage.
“Look,” he said. “Monk says he checked the ranger last night and it was all right. Now that we’re out here over the goddamned Pacific Ocean the forward optics assembly goes missing. Somebody took it out of its setting and hid it. That’s sabotage. Somebody’s trying to abort this mission. And it’s got to be one of us.”
“Jesus,” Reyes muttered.
Rosenberg, for once, had nothing to say.
Tapping a knuckle on the frosted side of the oxygen tank, Harry said softly, “It wouldn’t take much to blow this plane out of the sky. We’d all get killed nice and dead.”
“Jesus.” This time Reyes crossed himself.
