Able One

by Ben Bova

  “Whattaya mean?”

  Looking very unhappy, the doctor explained, “We did some routine tests on the blood samples you gave us—”

  “Gave you?” Charley snapped. “I didn’t give you no blood samples.”

  “You were unconscious when you were brought in. We took blood samples as a matter of course. Strictly routine.”

  “So?”

  Glancing at his two younger colleagues, the doctor said, “The routine screening we did indicates that you have . . .uh, cancer.”

  “Cancer?” Charley yelped. “Me?”

  “Prostate cancer.”

  Charley sat there gaping at them.

  “It’s apparently in the early stage,” said one of the younger medics. “It’s definitely treatable.”

  Charley had heard about prostate cancer. They cut it out of you and then you can’t control your bladder or even get an erection anymore.

  The other younger doctor produced a thick sheaf of papers. “These are forms you’ll have to sign.”

  “Sign?” Charley echoed.

  “For the tests and therapy. Maybe surgery.” He put the wad of papers on the nightstand by Charley’s bed.

  The older doctor put on a phony smile. “Well, in an hour or so your wife and children will visit you.”

  Then he turned and headed for the door, trailed by the two younger docs.

  Charley stared at the minister, who reminded him a little of the pictures he had seen of Jesus: a little bit of a beard, sad, sorrowful eyes. And he remembered when he’d been freezing out in the snow that he’d asked God to save Martha and the kids even if it meant taking him.

  “Reverend,” Charley asked, feeling lost and bewildered, “why does God give with one hand and take away with the other?”

  The minister shook his head. “The Lord moves in mysterious ways, Mr. Ingersoll. But it’s all for the best, believe me. Trust in the Lord.”

  “Yeah,” Charley said. “Sure.”

  Washington, D.C.: Jefferson Hotel

  The penthouse suite was brightly lit, as if a gala party was to take place there, but the only two people in the spacious sitting room were the Secretary of State and Quang Chuli.

  The Chinese businessman appeared to be perfectly at ease as he sat in the plushly upholstered armchair watching the Secretary of State at the bar, pouring herself a glass of wine. It was close to midnight, but he seemed as fresh as ever, wearing the same dark suit he always wore. Does he have a closet full of them? the Secretary of State wondered. It can’t be the same suit.

  For her part, State had changed into comfortable peach-colored slacks and a white silk blouse that hung over her hips. She had a long-stemmed glass of California chardonnay in one hand. Quang had politely refused a drink.

  “I thought we would toast to avoiding a war,” she said as she settled herself onto the little sofa that faced her visitor.

  “I congratulate you,” said Quang equably. “You came through the crisis very well.”

  “Have we? Do you mean that the crisis is over?” Quang dipped his chin slightly. “The hard-liners in Beijing are in disgrace. You have proven that you are capable of defending against missile attack.”

  “Only two missiles,” said State. “We couldn’t stop a full-scale attack by the People’s Republic.”

  “Not yet.”

  State blinked at that, her mind rapidly deciding.

  He thinks we’re going to increase our missile defenses! He thinks we’re going to build them up so we can stop a Chinese attack. Or a Russian one.

  Carefully, she asked, “Do you mean that this was all a test? Nothing more than a test?”

  Quang sighed. “Ah, if only the world were that simple, Madam Secretary. Unfortunately, it is not.”

  State had no reply. She studied her visitor’s face, trying to fathom what was behind his bland smile, his enigmatic words. It was like trying to get hard data out of the Sphinx.

  Sensing her uncertainty, Quang said, “As I have tried to explain to you in the past, the government in Beijing is not monolithic. Far from it. It is a coalition that includes moderates, hard-liners, and even a few farsighted statesmen.”

  “Like your brother-in-law,” she murmured.

  “The chairman is indeed a farsighted statesman. But he must balance the various forces and attitudes that are present in the Central Committee.”

  Slowly, State said, “I think I’m beginning to understand.”

  Leaning forward slightly, toward her, Quang said, “Today you demonstrated that missile defense is possible. Yes, it was only two missiles, but you proved that they could be stopped. Today could mark a turning point in the global strategic picture.”

  The Secretary of State noticed the slight but definite emphasis Quang put on the word “could.”

  Trying to hide her exasperation, she asked as sweetly as she was able, “Just what do you mean?”

  “Let me be frank, then.”

  “By all means. We’re alone here. There are no recording devices.” That was a lie, but an understandable one, she thought. No one would see the transcript of this conversation but herself and her closest aides.

  Raising a stumpy index finger, Quang said, “The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea is a rogue nation, we both agree.”

  State nodded.

  “There are other such rogues in the world. Iran, for one.”

  She nodded again.

  “The world must be protected against such rogues.”

  “And against terrorists,” State added.

  “Agreed. Terrorists armed with long-range missiles could plunge the world into nuclear war.”

  “Which neither of us wants.”

  Now Quang nodded. Vigorously.

  Reaching for her chardonnay, State asked, “So what do you propose?”

  “The United States is in a position to… suggest, that is the proper word, I believe… suggest an international conference on the subject of missile defense.”

  She felt her brows knitting.

  Quang went on. “At such a conference the leading governments of the world could come to an agreement that any unauthorized rocket launch anywhere in the world will be shot down by missile defense forces.”

  “Unauthorized rocket launch?” State asked. “What do you mean?”

  “It is very simple, Madam Secretary. An international commission would be established to send inspectors to examine the payloads of all rocket launches.”

  “Like the International Atomic Energy Agency.”

  “Just so. But with this difference. Any rocket launch that has not been inspected and approved will be shot down.”

  State leaned back against the pillows of the sofa. “But that would mean… we’d have to make our missile defenses available to this international commission.”

  “Perhaps. At the very least you would have to pledge that you will act on the commission’s recommendations.”

  She put her wineglass down on the coffee table between them before replying. “I don’t know if we could ever get that through Congress.”

  “You must! Recognize that now, this very day, Beijing and Moscow and others are moving to create their own missile defense technology. The United States could lead the way by offering to share such technology—under international control.”

  State shook her head. “Congress would never go for that.”

  With a shrug, Quang said, “Then there will be a new arms race in missile defenses. Far better for the U.S.A. to take the lead on this issue, to show the world how to move away from the threat of missile attack.”

  “That’s a very tall order, Mr. Quang.”

  “It is the way to end the threat of rogue nations and terrorists using long-range missiles. It is the way to a new stability in the international political situation.”

  “Beijing would agree to this?”

  “I believe so. What is more important, my brother-in-law believes so.”

  The Secretary of State picked up her wineglass again a
nd twirled it in her fingers, her thoughts swirling with the wine. She remembered that the first Limited Nuclear Test Ban Treaty came directly out of the confrontation of the Cuban missile crisis. Maybe we can pull something good, something worthwhile, out of this.

  To Quang she said, “I’ll talk to the President about this. I’ll suggest he call your chairman.”

  “If you like, I could suggest to my brother-in-law that he call your President.”

  “That would be very good. Very good indeed.” And she thought, If I can set up a global missile defense agreement I’d be a shoo-in for the nomination five years from now.

  ABL-1: Cockpit

  “Left main gear is no-go,” said Major Kaufman. Colonel Christopher saw the red light glaring on the control board. It wasn’t the only one, but it seemed bigger, hotter than all the others.

  “Must’ve been shot up when that missile hit number two engine,” Kaufman added.

  Christopher nodded, wondering what else was damaged by that missile hit. Deep inside the swirling storm, the plane was shaking badly, shuddering like a palsied old man.

  “Jon,” she called into her mike, “how far from the field are we?”

  “Eighty-two miles, Colonel.” “Brick, get me the tower.”

  A moment’s silence, then, “Tower on freak four, ma’am.”

  “Misawa tower here. Report your—”

  “ABL-1,” she interrupted. “We’re on final. One engine out and left main gear won’t deploy.”

  Karen could hear voices chattering in the background. She remembered the old story about a pilot telling the control tower that his engine was dead and his controls weren’t responding. “What should I do?” the panicked flier asked. And the control tower calmly responded, “Repeat after me: ‘The Lord is my shepherd…’ ”

  At last, the voice from the control tower replied coolly, “Abort your final approach and orbit the field until you’ve burned off your fuel.”

  “Can’t do it!” Christopher snapped. “We’re damaged. I don’t know how long this bird’ll hold together. I’m going to dump our fuel.”

  “Negative. Environmental regulations forbid—”

  “Screw the environmental regs! We’re shot up and bouncing around up here like a kid on a trampoline. I’m dumping our fuel and coming in!”

  Colonel Christopher clicked off the connection with Misawa and turned to Kaufman. “Open ‘em up, Obie.”

  With a grim smile, Kaufman reached for the fuel tank controls. “What about the stuff for the laser? They got anything left in their tanks?”

  Harry had decided to let Monk out of the lavatory. The big engineer, his face somewhere between surly and sheepish, sat in the bucket seat next to Wally Rosenberg.

  “Strap in good,” Harry said tightly. “It’s going to be a rough landing.”

  “Like it ain’t rough already,” Delany muttered.

  It was getting even rougher, Harry thought. It was difficult to click his safety harness shut, the plane was stuttering around so badly.

  “Hartunian!” The overhead intercom speaker cracked like a rifle shot. “Blow out the fuel in your tanks. Pronto!” Colonel Christopher’s voice.

  Harry stared at the speaker grill above him. Then he turned to Wally Rosenberg. “You heard the lady,” he said, unclicking his harness. “Let’s get it done.”

  Rosenberg reluctantly got to his feet.

  “I’ll go, jefe,” said Angel Reyes, fumbling with his harness.

  “Stay here,” Harry said. “Wally and I can do it.”

  The plane lurched so badly that Harry jolted into little Taki Nakamura’s lap. Rosenberg banged against the bulkhead.

  “Oof!” said Takamura. “Watch it.”

  “Sorry,” Harry mumbled. Getting to his feet, he grabbed for Rosenberg’s arm. “C’mon, Wally. Pronto, the lady said.”

  Rubbing his shoulder, Rosenberg grumbled, “Of all the gin joints in all the towns—”

  “Never mind the wisecracks,” Harry said. “Let’s get the job done.”

  “Fuel’s all dumped, Colonel.” Hartunian’s voice sounded over the intercom.

  “Get back in your seat and strap in tight,” said Colonel Christopher. “We’re going in. It’s going to be rough.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Karen Christopher was as scared as she’d ever been in her life, but once again she felt an icy calm engulfing her. It was as if she were somewhere else, somewhere in an ethereal world, watching this slim woman who looked just like her wrestling with the controls of the massive jumbo jet.

  ABL-1 was shaking badly now. From somewhere in the plane’s innards something was banging, like a wild beast trying to get out of its cage. Hold together, baby, Karen cooed silently to the huge airplane. Just a few more minutes. I know you’re hurt, but just hang together for a little bit longer. Just a little bit—

  As they broke through the bottom of the clouds she could see the runway lights strung out straight and beautiful like a guiding arrow leading her to safety, glistening wet with rain.

  “The runway!” Kaufman shouted.

  We’re on the nose, Karen saw. Got to thank Jon for getting us through the soup and lined up exactly right. Now comes the tough part, the real test. She remembered the old adage: Flying is the second most exciting thing a person can do. Landing is the first.

  “Full flaps,” Kaufman said. “Speed on the button.”

  Nothing in the fuel tanks but fumes, she knew. If we break up on the runway we won’t burst into flames. Not a big fire, anyway. Maybe some, but not so much we won’t be able to get out. We’ll be okay if I can get her on the ground without tearing her apart.

  Gently, gently, Karen eased the big plane onto the runway, kissing the concrete with the right main gear so smoothly that for an instant she wasn’t certain the wheels had actually touched the ground. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a long line of fire trucks standing by along the edge of the runway. And two ambulances. They don’t expect to pull many of us out, she thought.

  Bring the nose down, she told herself. Kaufman was babbling something, but she paid no attention to her copilot. The plane was rolling along the runway now on its nose and right main gear. Losing speed. No thrust reversing, Karen told herself. Not enough fuel left for that.

  She pressed on the brakes and the plane slowed with a screeching, squalling shriek. And the battered left wing dipped toward the ground.

  “Hang on!”

  The wingtip caught the concrete and the outboard engine nacelle smashed into the ground in the next instant. Christopher felt herself lurch painfully against her harness straps, her head thrown forward and then snapped back against the seat back with a thump. The plane was grinding against the concrete, slewing to the left, tilted at a crazy angle. The cockpit was shaking, bouncing, slamming her sideways, back and forth with a roaring, tearing, groaning noise like a monster truck being smashed and squashed by car crushers.

  And then it stopped. The cockpit filled with gritty, dusty fumes as Christopher sat there, totally wiped out, too weak to lift her arms.

  But only for a moment. “Hartunian!” she yelled at the intercom microphone. “You okay?”

  “No broken bones… I think.”

  “You and your people go out the forward hatch with us.”

  “Yes, ma’am!” came the heartfelt reply. Kaufman was already getting out of his chair. Karen heard the wail of sirens approaching.

  Kaufman reached over and helped her to her feet. “Helluva landing, lady. Helluva landing.”

  “Thanks,” she said, feeling weak in her knees. “Now let’s get out of here before something blows up.”

  Washington, D.C.: Hamburger Palace

  “So you’ve never been married?” asked Zuri Coggins Sitting across the narrow table from her, Michael Jamil shook his head as he swallowed a mouthful of well-done hamburger, loaded with ketchup.

  “No,” he said at last, reaching for a paper napkin from the dispenser at the end of the table, where it abutted
the wall. “My parents picked out a wife for me when I was in undergrad school, but by the time I graduated she had gone off to school herself and she met a guy there and married him instead.”

  Coggins watched him dab self-consciously at his lips. The diner was almost empty this late at night; only one other couple in the booths, and one policeman sitting at the counter, munching a doughnut.

  “No serious relationships since then?” she probed.

  He smiled self-deprecatingly. “I didn’t have a serious relationship then, Zuri. You didn’t go to bed with your fiancée. Not in my neighborhood. Wasn’t done.”

  “But since…?”

  He started to look uncomfortable. But he replied, “I’ve had a few girlfriends. Nothing serious.” He hesitated, then went on. “I haven’t met anybody I could get serious about.”

  Zuri nodded understandingly. “Same here. Men seem to get scared of a woman who has an IQ higher than theirs.”

  His smile came back. “So what’s your IQ?”

  “One forty-two,” she answered immediately. “Yours?”

  “Not that high.”

  “How high?”

  The smile widened. It was a good smile, she thought. Warm. Jamil said, “One thirty-eight.”

  She leaned back on the thinly padded bench and said, “Well, that’s within the statistical margin of error. We’re practically on the same level.”

  “Yeah.”

  She felt herself smiling back at him. “Do I scare you?”

  “You? No. Why should I be scared of you?”

  “Because I’m as smart as you are.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Because I might be your boss.”

  “Huh?”

  Zuri hadn’t really thought about it until the words popped out of her mouth.

  “How’d you like to work in the National Security Advisor’s office? With me?”

  Jamil’s face clearly showed surprise. And a good deal of uncertainty.

  She continued. “I mean, the Secretary of State is pissed with you. She’s got a mean hatchet, you know. You could use a new job.”

  He said slowly, “But if there’s a change in the White House next November…”