Able One

by Ben Bova

  “Incoming message,” O’Banion said, his voice sounding tense, urgent.

  “Pipe it to me.”

  A calm, reedy voice said in British-inflected English, “Unidentified aircraft, this is Air Defense Command of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. You have entered DPRK airspace. You will identify yourself and depart DPRK airspace at once. Respond immediately, please.”

  ABL-1: Battle Management Station

  Taki Nakamura looked up from her main console as Harry stepped through the hatch. “I’ve done the dry run sixteen times, Harry,” she said before he could get a word out of his mouth. “I’m pretty sure that the two of us can handle the mission.”

  He sat at the console next to hers, noting that all its screens were alight, displaying data.

  “I mean, it’s only two missiles, right?” Taki chattered on. “If it was more I’d say we needed a full crew, but for only two of ‘em we can handle it. Really, I’m sure we can.”

  Placing a hand on her arm, Harry felt her trembling slightly. “I know you can, Taki. I don’t have any doubt of it. And I’ll be right here with you.”

  Silently, he added, If there’s going to be any problems, they’ll be here, at battle management. Monk can’t do any damage to us unless he hauls out the COIL’s entire optics bench or smashes it to pieces, and he’s not going to reveal himself by doing that. If he’s the one. Wally and Angel know they’d blow up the plane if they mess with the fuel system feed. So Taki’s the one who could mess us up, and I’m going to stick right here beside her.

  She was saying, “I’ll get it done, Harry, I really will. Don’t worry about this end of it.”

  Harry smiled wanly. “Taki, I’m worried about everything. All of it.”

  She seemed to focus on him for the first time. More softly, she said, “Yeah, I guess you are. Can’t say I blame you.”

  Taking a deep breath, Harry asked, “Um, has Monk come through here in the past hour or so?”

  Taki seemed surprised at the change of subject. Her brows nettling, she replied, “I think so. Can’t say the time, exactly, but he did come through. Said he had to use the toilet.”

  Harry nodded. He had checked the lavatory again before entering Taki’s station. The lens assembly was still in the closet where he’d found it, apparently undisturbed since the last time he’d looked.

  “You still looking for the lens assembly?” Taki asked.

  “I’m looking for whoever took it.”

  “Oh. Sure.”

  Before he could think about it, Harry blurted, “Taki, was it you?”

  Her eyes went so wide he could see white all around the deep brown irises. “Me?” Her screech was an octave and a half higher than before.

  Feeling miserable, Harry said, “I had to ask, Taki. I asked the others first. It won’t go any further than the five of us. But I’ve got to know. I don’t care why, I just have to know that we’ll get through this mission okay.”

  Clearly seething, Taki hissed, “You think because my great-grandfather fought for the Emperor that I’m a fuckin’ kamikaze?”

  “No! I...” Harry could see the fury in her face. “I don’t know what to think. One of us tried to screw up the mission and I’ve got to find out who.”

  “It wasn’t me.”

  “I didn’t think it was.”

  “So why’d you ask?”

  Shaking his head, Harry answered, “I don’t know what else I can do! Christ, Taki, this is awful.”

  Her shoulders relaxed slightly, but she said, “Don’t tell me you’re just doing your job, Harry.”

  “Believe me, Taki, being a detective isn’t a job I want.”

  She almost smiled. “For what it’s worth, you’re not very good at it.”

  He almost smiled back. “I know. I know.”

  Colonel Christopher unconsciously pressed one hand against her helmet earphone as the smooth male voice repeated, “Unidentified aircraft, this is Air Defense Command of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. You have entered DPRK airspace. You will identify yourself and depart DPRK airspace at once. Respond immediately, please.”

  Kaufman, standing at the cockpit hatch, was staring at her. “Well?” he asked. He had heard the message from the speaker on O’Banion’s console.

  Christopher’s mind was racing. Clipped to the control panel in front of her was the message from Washington. Missile launch imminent. No fighter cover.

  “Well?” Kaufman said again, more demanding. “What are you going to do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Stay on course. Make no reply to them. Radio silence from here on in.”

  “They’ll shoot us down! The goddamn gooks shot down a civilian airliner a few years ago, didn’t they? They’ll send out fighters and blast us out of the sky!”

  “Go to the toilet, Obie, and get back here as fast as you can. I’m going to need you here.”

  “You’re gonna get us all killed,” Kaufman muttered.

  Trying to ignore her copilot, Christopher called to O’Banion, “Brick, radio silence. Nothing goes out unless I say so.”

  The communications officer’s voice came through her headphone, “Not even a Mayday when they shoot us down?”

  Engagement

  The Pentagon: Secretary of Defense’s Office

  The Secretary of Defense smiled and rose to his feet as she came in, but stayed behind his broad, gleaming desk.

  “Welcome to my humble abode, Madam Secretary,” he said, his deep voice grating like a rusty hinge.

  “Cut the bullcrap, Lonnie,” said the Secretary of State. “We don’t have time for it.”

  She walked across the spacious room and dropped with a sigh into one of the massive leather-upholstered armchairs in front of the desk. With a practiced eye she swept the office, taking in the heavy, dark furniture, the bookcases lined with leather-bound volumes that looked as if they’d never been opened, the wall of photographs of the man with his fellow great and powerful ones, the view from the top-floor windows of the city across the Potomac and the spire of the Washington Monument. It was still raining, but there was a hint of late afternoon sunshine breaking through the gray clouds.

  “You came alone?” asked Lionel Bakersfield. “Without your usual entourage?” The Secretary of Defense swiveled his plush high-backed chair slightly to and fro. The Secretary of State thought it betrayed a nervousness in him. Bakersfield was wearing a gray three-piece suit that had been hand-tailored for him, although its jacket hung open and his vest was unbuttoned. Even his old-fashioned rep tie had wormed loose from his collar. Sloppy, thought the Secretary of State. The man’s always been a slob, and he’ll never be anything but a slob.

  A dangerous slob, though. They had campaigned against each other through the primaries and both lost to the current President. Both of them had been senators before joining their onetime rival’s administration, and senators always thought of presidents as temporary. The President proposes; the Congress disposes: it was a motto that had warmed many a senator’s heart over many, many administrations.

  State was still in the pearl gray pant suit and tailored white blouse she had worn earlier. She felt a little grubby, but there had been no time to change.

  “Anyone see you coming here?” Defense asked.

  She knew he meant news media people. “No. I came in a closed limo. There won’t be any headlines about State visiting the Pentagon, I assure you.”

  Defense made a lopsided smile. “And, if I may ask, exactly why have you come from the comforts of Foggy Bottom to grace my office? To what do I owe this honor?”

  God! thought State. The world’s coming to an end and he still can’t get out a single sentence without all his flourishes.

  “I want to see a couple of the people on your situation team. That analyst from the NIC and General Scheib.”

  Defense’s shaggy brows rose slightly. “I’ll get them up here right away.” He pressed a button on his desktop inter
com and gave the order. Then, steepling his fingers as he looked back at State, he asked, “Why those two?”

  State was surprised by the directness of his question. Then she thought, He’s trying to shock me into telling him the truth.

  It was her turn to smile now. “I need to be brought up to the minute on this missile crisis.”

  “Aha.”

  “Phone links aren’t good enough. I need to see the players face-to-face.”

  “I understand. They’ll be here directly.”

  Five levels below the Secretary of Defense’s office, General Scheib frowned at the young tech sergeant who had handed him the message.

  “The Secretary of Defense wants to see me in his office,” Scheib announced to the team. Pointing down the table to Jamil he added, “You too.”

  Jamil looked shocked. “Me?”

  General Higgins grunted. “It doesn’t pay to cross the Secretary of State, kid. She’s probably got the big brass upstairs boiling a pot of oil for you.”

  “But we can’t go now!” Jamil said. “The North Koreans will be launching those missiles any minute!”

  “Nothing you can do about that,” Higgins said. “You just follow orders, like the rest of us.”

  Jamil got to his feet, looking uncertain, fearful. Zuri Coggins went to his side. “I’ll go with you,” she said.

  Scheib snapped, “The call was for him and me. Nobody else.”

  Eyes blazing, Coggins stood up to the general, even though she was barely the height of his chin. “I represent the National Security Advisor. If there’s going to be any boiling in oil, they’ll have to do it in front of me.”

  Scheib actually took a step back from her. Then he shrugged and muttered, “Okay. You explain it to the Secretary, then.”

  As the three of them followed the tech sergeant toward the door Higgins called after them, “We’ll try to keep the gooks from launching until after you get back.”

  No one laughed. No one even smiled.

  U.S. Route 12, Bitterroot Mountains, Idaho

  Charley had never been so cold and miserable in his whole blessed life. He hadn’t gone more than a dozen steps through the wet, fluffy snow before his shoes were soaked and his feet started to hurt like fire. Doggedly he pushed on, heading back down the road toward the gas station he’d remembered seeing.

  The wind was in his face and cutting right through his polyester shell jacket. It had a wool lining, but it felt like nothing more than tissue paper. Charley tugged on the zipper. It was already as high as it could go. He mashed his Seattle Seahawks cap as far down on his head as he could, but his ears were exposed and tingling. Turning, he could barely make out the lines of the van stuck on the roadside.

  Come on, Charley, he urged himself. Get moving. The more you move, the warmer you’ll feel. Get that old heart pumping.

  Jamming his bare hands into the jacket’s pockets he mushed on, squinting against the snowflakes rushing into his face.

  It’s only a couple miles, he told himself. I got to get there before the van runs out of gas. Got to get there before Martha and the kids freeze.

  They shouldn’t have blizzards like this in October, he raged to himself. Those science people claim we’re having global warming, for Lord’s sake. This don’t look like global warming to me!

  ABL-1: Cockpit

  “We’re going to have company!” Colonel Christopher heard the shrill alarm in Captain O’Banion’s voice.

  “What is it?” she asked, keeping her voice flat, calm. “Flash from Andrews. Pyongyang just launched a pair of fighters, vectoring straight at us.”

  “Fighters?”

  “Must be, from their speed.”

  Fighters, Christopher thought. From North Korea. Info relayed from Andrews.

  “How long ago did they send out the warning?”

  A pause. Then O’Banion replied, “Time hack says four minutes ago.”

  At least they’ve got a direct link with us now, Christopher realized, finally. Now they can watch us get shot down in real time.

  She asked O’Banion, “Estimated time to intercept?”

  Again a pause. Then, “Ten… to twelve minutes.”

  “Get Mr. Hartunian up here. On the double.”

  Harry was sitting beside Taki, helping her check out all the electronic controls for the COIL.

  It couldn’t have been Taki, he was telling himself. Unless she’s a damned good actress. But why would she do it? Why would she try to abort this flight? Why would any of them?

  He asked himself again if one of the Air Force crew might have stolen the lens assembly. And again the answer came back negative. They don’t know enough about the system to cripple it like that. Besides, if one of them had started tinkering with the laser in its housing up there, the rest of them would have seen him.

  Harry realized the gangly black lieutenant had ducked into the compartment, a puzzled frown on his face.

  “You guys need to keep the intercom open,” he said without preamble. “Our comm man has been trying to get you on the squawk line for the past five minutes. The skipper wants to see you, Mr. Hartunian. And I mean now.”

  Harry pushed himself to his feet as Taki snatched up the headphone from its hook on the console and clamped it over her spiky hair.

  Colonel Christopher was standing in the rear of the flight deck, by the mussed-up pair of cots, as Harry clambered up the ladder. The redheaded captain was peering intently at his radar screen. As Lieutenant Sharmon went back to his console, Harry went aft toward the colonel. He realized that she was quite good-looking, even in blue Air Force fatigues. Slim figure, pretty oval face, dark hair cropped short. Sexy, almost. Except that she looked as bleak as death.

  “Are you ready for action?” she asked, keeping her voice so low Harry barely heard her over the thrumming of the plane’s engines.

  He nodded. “All systems are go.”

  “We’re going to be shooting very soon. Within minutes.”

  “We’re ready.”

  She took a breath, then added, “And we’re going to be shot at, most likely.”

  “What?”

  “There’s a pair of North Korean interceptors heading toward us.”

  Harry’s mind spun into overdrive. “Look, they won’t know if we fire the COIL or not. It’s an infrared beam. You can’t see it.”

  Colonel Christopher’s brows knit slightly. “That’s something . . .” Then she asked, “Could we shoot down a plane?”

  “If you can get the COIL’s beam on it for a couple of seconds. Heat up the aluminum skin to its ignition point and then the airflow starts the aluminum burning.”

  “Is that real or some scientist’s theory?”

  “We’ve done it on the test range, with fans blowing air across the target.”

  “At what range?”

  Harry had to think back. “Half a mile. But the COIL can hit a target much farther than that. A hundred miles, maybe more.”

  “So we can defend ourselves, maybe.”

  “Only if the bad guy’s dumb enough to fly in front of us. The output turret up in the nose can only swivel thirty degrees left or right.”

  Christopher looked disappointed. “They’re not that dumb. They’ll come up behind us and pop an air-to-air missile at us.”

  “Jeez.” Harry suddenly felt an overwhelming need to urinate.

  “Our alternative is to turn around and head for Japan.”

  “And let them fire their ballistic missiles?” She nodded grimly. “Nice choice, isn’t it?”

  San Francisco: The Cow Palace

  “Wow, it’s big!” said Denise as she, her sister, and her mother followed the crowd streaming from the BART station to the Cow Palace’s main entrance. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but still their hair was wet and plastered on their scalps by the time they got into the huge auditorium.

  Once inside the vast, barnlike stadium, Sylvia told her daughters, “They’ve held national conventions in here, rodeos, basketball games,
hockey games, even Roller Derbies.”

  “Roller Derbies?” Vickie asked, curious despite her practiced teenaged boredom. “What’s that?”

  Sylvia explained as they climbed the concrete stairs and found their seats. From this high up the platform on which the President would speak looked little bigger than a postage stamp.

  “You said we were going to be in the front row,” Vickie accused.

  “We’re not that far away,” said Sylvia as they sat down.

  “They’ve set up big TV screens,” Denise said, pointing.

  “We’ll be able to see the President’s face very clearly,” Sylvia said. “Just like we’re sitting next to him, almost.”

  Vickie muttered, “Big deal.” Sylvia pretended not to hear her.

  As the limousine pulled up at the Cow Palace, the President asked his chief of staff, “What’s happening in Korea?”

  Norman Foster pulled the phone bud out of his ear. “Looks like they’re getting ready to launch those other two birds.”

  “We can see them?”

  “Satellite imagery. From the National Reconnaissance Office.”

  The Secret Service agent pulled the door open on the President’s side of the limo. The motorcade had driven directly into the Cow Palace’s underground parking area, which had been cleared for security. No cheering crowds. No band playing “Hail to the Chief.” Just a shadowy concrete expanse, chilly, damp.

  Before the President could get out of the limo the chief of his Secret Service detail, a tall, lanky man with a weatherbeaten face and a dour expression, ducked his head into the open door and said, “Mr. President, we’ve got to head back to the airport, sir.”

  “No, we don’t,” the President said, smiling pleasantly at the agent’s grimly determined face.

  “Sir, it’s my duty—”

  “I make the decisions, Ron. I’m going ahead with my speech.”