Able One

by Ben Bova

  “I... I’m glad you’re okay.”

  Again a long silence. She’s thinking of what she can say, what she should say, Scheib told himself. Helluva way for us to talk. For all I know this is the last time we’ll ever talk to each other. Helluva way for it all to end.

  At last Karen’s voice said tightly, “I’m fine, General.”

  “That’s good,” he said, feeling inane. Suddenly he couldn’t control himself any longer. He blurted, “Karen, I’m sorry it had to end this way.”

  “I am too.”

  “If things had been different. . .”

  “Brad, it’s over and done with. You made that perfectly clear.”

  Feeling utterly miserable, Scheib said, “I wish it could be different.”

  “But it’s not, General. It couldn’t have ended any other way.”

  He nodded in the darkness of his room. She’s right, he knew. It couldn’t have ended any other way.

  In the cockpit of ABL-1, Karen Christopher heard the sorrow in Brad’s voice. And she realized that he felt sorry for himself. Not for her. Not for the mess she’d made of her career. For himself.

  And she understood. He’ll never have the strength to leave his wife. His career is more important to him than I ever was. I made him happy for a while, but that’s all over now. It was doomed from the start.

  “You still there?” He sounded like a lost little boy.

  When she tried to nod, the damned helmet wobbled on her head. “I’ve got to sign off now, General. The weather’s closing in.”

  Silence for several heartbeats. Then, “Good-bye, Karen.”

  “Good-bye, General.”

  And the connection went dead.

  Karen looked over at Kaufman, who was studiously staring straight ahead. Looking out, she saw that the weather was indeed closing in.

  “Colonel?” Sharmon’s voice.

  “Go ahead, Jon.”

  “ETA to Misawa, one hour seventeen minutes.” “Better get their weather report. Looks like we’ll be in for a shaggy ride.”

  Washington, D.C.: New Jersey Avenue SE

  The Bakersfield residence was not pretentious, except for the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the lot and the armored Humvee parked in the driveway, occupied by at least three heavily armed Secret Service guards at all times.

  The Secretary of Defense was in bed, his fleshy face ashen, his corpulent body soaked with perspiration. His physician, a close friend since Lionel Bakersfield had first arrived in the capital as a newly elected senator, stood over him with a severe expression on his lean, nearly gaunt face.

  “I could’ve been Vice President, you know,” said Bakersfield as he lay propped up on a mound of pillows in the king-sized bed. “One heartbeat away from the White House.”

  The physician, rake-thin, white-haired, shook his head and replied, “Another day like this one and you’ll be one heartbeat away from your own funeral.”

  The Secretary of Defense tried to chuckle at his old friend’s dismal attitude. “You’ve always been a sourpuss.”

  “Lon, you can’t take so much stress,” the doctor warned. “I think you ought to retire.” Bakersfield snorted at the idea. “You’re killing yourself.”

  “Bullshit! I’m just a little tired. It’s been a long day.”

  “You can’t put in days like this without hurting yourself. That old ticker of yours is going to explode if you’re not more careful.”

  “Another year,” said the Secretary of Defense.

  “After next year’s elections. If the President gets reelected I can retire with dignity. If not, I’ll be asked to leave anyway.”

  The doctor shook his head again, his face a bony mask of disapproval.

  The phone on the bedside table buzzed.

  As the Secretary of Defense reached for it, his doctor snapped, “No!”

  Bakersfield hesitated, his fingers inches from the phone. “It’s probably important. Only a half dozen key people have access to this line.”

  “No more stress!” the doctor insisted. “You’ve had enough for today.”

  The Secretary of Defense made a weak grin. “Just one more. It could be important.”

  He picked up the phone’s receiver while the doctor gave a disgusted sigh and started for the bedroom door.

  The phone’s minuscule screen showed a prim-looking young woman. “Mr. Secretary,” she said, “I have the Secretary of State on the line for you.”

  “Put her on,” said Bakersfield. With his free hand he waved good-bye to the doctor, who shook his head with frustration and left the room, closing the door behind him with a bang.

  “Lonnie,” said the Secretary of State, smiling her news-conference smile. “Celebrating our victory?”

  Defense realized that the phone’s miniature camera showed little more than his sweaty face.

  “Should we celebrate?” he asked.

  “I suppose so,” State replied. “We shot down the Korean missiles. They didn’t bomb San Francisco.”

  “And the President looks like a brave young hero.”

  State’s smile faltered a bit. “I suppose he does.”

  “What do you hear from the DPRK government?” Defense asked.

  A small crease furrowing her brow, State answered, “Pyongyang says its troops have taken the site where the missiles were launched. Most of the rebel officers have been killed—or committed suicide instead of allowing themselves to be captured.”

  “So there’s nobody left to question.”

  “Probably not.”

  The meds his doctor had given him were beginning to take effect, Bakersfield realized. He felt relaxed, no pain. Almost giddy, in fact.

  “So we won’t find out why they tried to attack us,” he said, feeling nearly relieved about it.

  “Oh, I think we’ll find out, sooner or later, one way or the other,” said the Secretary of State.

  Backdoor channels, Defense thought. She puts a lot of faith in her personal contacts in China, he knew.

  To her blandly smiling face, he said, “It was good of you to call me and bring me up to date.”

  If she caught the sarcasm in his tone she gave no visible inkling of it. “Actually, Lonnie, the reason I called is about how we should react to the President’s position. He’s bound to get a big bounce out of this in the polls.”

  Bakersfield shook his head wearily. “That’s for you to worry about, my dear. I’m not interested in the White House anymore.”

  “Not interested? How…?”

  The Secretary of Defense enjoyed the play of emotions flickering across the Secretary of State’s face: surprise, satisfaction, anticipation—all replaced by a hard-eyed calculation.

  “He’s going to be reelected and neither you nor I will oppose him,” he said.

  “Yes, but four years after that...”

  “I’ll be too old for it. It’s all yours, my dear.”

  “I can count on your support, then?”

  Bakersfield thought that in politics five years is an eternity. How can you commit yourself to anything so far in the unguessable future?

  “Of course,” he said, knowing the obligation was unenforceable. “But don’t you have more immediate problems to worry about?”

  She blinked at him, her thoughts obviously two election campaigns down the road.

  “More immediate problems?”

  “I don’t think the Chinese will be happy with our shoot-down of those missiles. Do you?”

  “Self-defense,” the Secretary of State immediately replied. “We have a right to defend ourselves.”

  Defense nodded, picturing the speech she would give at the United Nations. A good platform for her, he thought.

  “I suppose you’re right,” he conceded.

  “Of course I am.” She smiled as she said it, but it was clear that she meant it with all her heart.

  Defense said, “Well, you have a lot of work ahead of you.”

  “So do you,” State countered.


  “Yes, I know. Get a good night’s sleep, my dear. Big day tomorrow.”

  And he clicked off the phone connection, carefully replaced the receiver on the console, rolled over, and swiftly fell asleep.

  Air Force One

  The President was jubilant as he spoke to his wife.

  ”They loved it,” he said, a big boyish grin splashed across his face. “I told them we shot down those missiles and they loved it!”

  The First Lady smiled back at her husband from the screen set into the bulkhead of the plane’s compartment. “Of course they loved it. You showed them that you’re strong, and at the same time you prevented a war from breaking out.”

  The President sobered. “The threat isn’t over yet.”

  “It’s not?”

  Glancing at his chief of staff, sitting out of range of the First Lady’s vision, the President said, “We’re not entirely out of the woods yet. We’ve got to find out who was behind this attack, why they did it, and what they’re after.”

  She bit her lip, as she always did when she was unsure of herself. “But you said they got the soldiers who launched the missiles.”

  “Yes, but we’ve got to determine what was behind this business. They weren’t acting on their own, you can bet on that.”

  “Oh.” Then she brightened. “But you proved to the whole world that we can shoot down any missiles that they fire at us. That’s important, isn’t it?

  Norman Foster rolled his eyes to the heavens as the President replied, “We showed we can shoot down two missiles, honey. Russia’s got more than a thousand and China’s not far behind that.”

  The First Lady said, “I thought the real problem was unstable countries like North Korea or Iran. And terrorists.”

  “That’s the first problem, true enough. But there’s a lot more to worry about, as well.”

  Still smiling, she said, “Well, you’ll handle it. You always do. I’m really proud of you, and I know everybody else in the country is, too.”

  “Even the Republicans?”

  Laughing, she replied, “Even the Republicans. Most of them, anyway.”

  They chatted for a few moments more and the President insisted that the First Lady stay in the White House instead of driving out to Andrews Air Force Base to meet his plane when it landed.

  “It’ll be nearly dawn when we touch down. You stay with the kids. I’ll sleep on the plane, don’t worry.”

  “I miss you, baby,” she said.

  “Me too. See you in a few hours, though.”

  “Oh!” The First Lady’s eyes went wide with a new thought. “Listen. You ought to invite the crew of that plane to the White House.”

  The President scratched at his chin. “Good idea. There’s civilians in the crew, you know. As well as Air Force people.”

  “Even better. Congratulate them personally.”

  “Right. Good image.” Smiling at his wife, the President said, “Smart idea, honey.”

  She beamed back at him. “Good night, Mr. President. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Good night, Mrs. First Lady. I’ll be coming to you.”

  Foster put his head down and stared at the deck.

  Once the screen went blank, the President turned to his chief of staff. “Sorry if we embarrassed you, Norm.”

  Looking up at his chief, Foster put on a smile. “Nothing to it, boss.”

  The President started to get out of his seat, but Foster put out a restraining hand.

  “It’s late,” the President said. “I need my beauty sleep. There’ll be plenty of news media at Andrews when we land.”

  “I just want to ask you to think about where we go from here.”

  “Where we go?”

  Foster rubbed at his eyes for a moment, then said, “What you were talking about with your wife. We’ve got to find out who was behind this attack and what they’re after.”

  Arching a brow at his chief of staff, the President countered, “I would think our first order of business is to get our satellites working again. If we can’t fix ‘em, we’ll have to replace them.”

  “That goes without saying.”

  “I just said it.”

  Foster was obviously not in a joking mood. “Those gook soldiers didn’t pull this stunt for the hell of it. Somebody was behind them. Somebody big.”

  “The government in Pyongyang? Are they that crazy?”

  “The situation team came up with the possibility that China’s behind it all. That’s what this analyst from the NIC has put together as a scenario—”

  “China?”

  “The NSA representative on the team agrees with him.”

  “China,” the President mused. “But why would they do it? Why would they risk a nuclear confrontation?”

  “That’s what we’ve got to find out,” Foster said.

  Suddenly breaking into a substantial yawn, the President said, “That’s what we’ve got the intelligence agencies for. And the State Department. Now, I’m sleepy. Let’s pack it in.”

  But Foster pressed. “You want to hand this problem to the Secretary of State?”

  “And the intel people.”

  “It’ll put her smack in the middle of the spotlight, you know.”

  At last the President understood his chief of staff’s reluctance. “So she gets the spotlight. Don’t sweat it, Norm. I’ve got the reelection sewed up after this. I’m the president who showed the world we can defend ourselves against missile attack! I’m the president who saved us from a nuclear war! The Republicans don’t have anybody who can come close to beating me.”

  “But you’ll be giving her a big boost, you know.”

  “What of it? She can’t challenge me next year. And four years after that she’s welcome to run for the top. That’s what she’s been after all along, right?”

  “Right.”

  “So let her have it. After I’ve finished my second term.” He yawned again. “Now I’m going to bed. G’night, Norm.”

  The two men rose to their feet. “Good night, Mr. President,” said Norman Foster.

  ABL-1: Crew Compartment

  “Christ, I’m pissing blood!” Harry heard Monk’s frightened roar as he sat strapped tightly into his seat in the narrow compartment. Taki Nakamura, facing him, looked startled.

  The plane was bouncing, jinking as they bit into the storm clouds. The thumping made Harry’s swollen nose hurt.

  “We’ll have a doctor waiting for you when we land, Monk,” Harry shouted, feeling embarrassed, almost ashamed.

  “What the hell did you do to him?” Wally Rosenberg asked.

  “Kidney punch,” Harry mumbled.

  “He break your nose?” Angel Reyes asked.

  Harry started to shake his head but winced with pain. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Your eyes are swelling up,” Nakamura said, her face etched with concern.

  “Yeah,” said Harry.

  Rosenberg chuckled softly. “You’re gonna look great for the photographers, Harry. Two black eyes.” He laughed mockingly.

  The plane lurched so badly all four of them clutched their seat arms.

  I’ll look great for the photographers, Harry thought. If we land okay. If we don’t go into the drink and drown.

  “Got Misawa’s beam,” O’Banion reported.

  Colonel Christopher answered, “Great! Pipe it to me.”

  She heard the thin, scratchy tone of the airfield’s radio location beam. We can ride in on it, Karen thought. Even if the weather’s zero-zero at the field, we can home in on the beam.

  “Getting nasty,” Kaufman said, his voice high, nervous.

  “Yeah.”

  They were in the storm now, bouncing and lurching in the turbulence of the thick black clouds. Lightning flashed every few seconds. Hold together, baby, Karen crooned silently to the plane. Just a little bit longer. Hold together and we’ll get home. Just a little bit longer.

  “What’s the ceiling at Misawa, Jon?” she asked into her lip mi
ke.

  “Checking,” Lieutenant Sharmon answered. Then, “Eight hundred and lowering. Raining hard.”

  “Obie, get Misawa traffic control and tell them to clear a runway for us.”

  “Already did that, Colonel.”

  “Good.” We’ll make it, she told herself. But we’ve only got one shot at it. With the condition this bird is in, we won’t be able to go around and try a second approach if we goof the first one. I’ve got to make it on the first approach. Got to.

  Missoula Community Hospital, Montana

  Charley Ingersoll knew it was bad news when three doctors came into his room with a clerical-collared minister accompanying them. They all looked like they were going to a funeral.

  “Martha?” Charley asked before any of them could open their mouths. “My kids?”

  “They’re fine,” said the oldest of the doctors. “Really?”

  “Really. They’re right here in this hospital, being treated for exposure. But they’ll be released later today and they’ll come to see you.”

  Charley was sitting up in bed. One of the IV drips had been removed from his arm, but the other one was still connected. Charley had tried to figure out which of his toes they’d taken off, but he couldn’t tell by wiggling and the bedclothes covered both his bandaged feet.

  Suddenly all the breath seemed to gush out of Charley, as if he’d been holding it in for a year. He felt light-headed, like he was drunk or high or something.

  “You saved their lives, Mr. Ingersoll,” said one of younger doctors. He didn’t look happy about it, though.

  “They’re okay,” Charley said, his voice shaking. “That’s the important thing.”

  “The same snowplow that found you picked up your family a little farther up the road,” said the older doctor. “You were semidelirious, but you kept telling the driver that your family was stuck in a snowbank.”

  “You saved them,” the other younger doctor said, almost in a whisper.

  “Then everything’s okay,” Charley said, hoping it was true.

  “Well,” said the older doctor, “almost everything is okay.”