“I am so very sorry,” Jericho says, squeezing her hands.
She looks up at him. “No more milk and cookies, Jericho.”
They are both silent a moment. Then Jericho says, “What can I do to help?”
“Don’t you understand you just did?”
He shakes his head.
“Just listening,” she says, “letting me work it out is therapeutic. And if I can, I’ll help you.”
Jericho gnaws at his lower lip. She waits, letting him summon it up. Finally, he says, “Tell me about the pain. Does it ever go away?”
“No.”
“What do you feel now?”
“Anger at the utter unfairness of it all. A searing, red-hot hatred for father, for mother, for the whole damn world.”
He lets go of her hands, giving them a final pat. “Then you’re in worse shape than I am.”
“What does that mean?” she asks.
“I only hate me,” Jack Jericho says.
-19-
The Power and the Glory
Until today, Captain Pete Pukowlski always loved giving The Tour.
In the past, he had escorted Congressmen, VIP’s from aerospace companies, and delegations of our so-called Allies from Western Europe. Hell, he even showed the place to two Russian Air Force generals after the fall of Communism, though only because he was ordered to, and even then, he carried his .45, loaded with the safety off, just in case they tried any sneaky commie tricks. He also refused to answer their questions about the inertial guidance system and the megatonnage of the Multiple Independently Targetable Reentry Vehicles — ten Avco Mk 21 RV’s to be exact — that sit atop the big cock of the Peacekeeper.
The third time General Itchykov — or whatever the hell his name was — asked about the missile’s accuracy and throw weight, Pukowlski told him, “We can drop twenty megatons right down the chimney of Boris Yeltstin’s dacha. Does that answer your question, Ivan?”
Not that Ivan was the general’s name, but Pukowlski, who was damn proud the chairman of the joint chiefs was as Polish as kielbasa, would no more call this Rusky “General” than he would paste a “Make Love, Not War” sticker on his Jeep. Anyway, old Ivan didn’t need a translator to figure it out, and he damn sure stopped asking questions.
Today, as always, Pukowlski starts The Tour in the Security Command Center, then moves across the bridge to the elevator housing, then brings them down into the launch control capsule. Owens and Riordan are on-duty in the hole, and he’s advised them to have their shoes shined and their chins shaved. “Spit-and-polish today, men. Let’s not give the bastards an excuse to go after the missiles we still have left.”
Strapped into their flight chairs, Owens and Riordan make a show of studying the gauges on the console in front of them. For once, they’re following orders, and Pukowlski is thankful. He knows it’s stultifyingly boring work. Twenty-four shifts, one missileer allowed to catnap while the other stays on duty. And he knows the whole shebang is almost over. Which makes today bittersweet. Pukowlski stands behind the two missileers, the U.N. Committee members at his side, casting suspicious glances at the old console, the drab green communications racks, the sweeping radar beams, the multi-colored lights. There is a 1960’s feel to the place, Pukowlski knows, and he considers himself a dinosaur, too. Pukowlski shows them the thumbwheels under the yellow metal flaps where the two launch codes are entered and then the slots where the keys are inserted. That’s when the questions come up, and his answers are always the same.
“Of course it’s completely fail safe,” he tells the U.N. delegation, a committee of thousand-dollar suits from England, Japan, Israel, Russia, and Germany. “First, you’ve got to enter the Enable Code. That’s like pulling the hammer back on a gun. Then you need to enter the target info, the Preparatory Launch Command, which is also coded. That’s like pointing the gun. Finally, you’ve got to turn the keys. That’s pulling the trigger. And the same commands must come from a second capsule, guarding against having a couple of lunatics under my command.”
He shoots a look at Owens and Riordan, who are both poker-faced recruiting posters. “There’s also a safety measure that’s so classified, even I don’t know it, and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” The delegation chuckles a little. “So, in short, gentlemen,” he continues, looking at the Israeli, who coincidentally is indeed quite short, “there’s no way on earth there could ever be an unauthorized launch.”
The Englishman, a gent in a grey suit, silk polka dot tie with matching pocket handkerchief, watches Billy Riordan, who stares intently at the console, not even appearing to blink. “And these lads with the keys,” the Englishman says, “who are they and how do you assure their competence?”
“The missileers are the elite, the cream of the crop,” Pukowlski says, watching Owens suppress a smile. “They have rigorous training and complete psychological testing prior to be assigned to a launch capsule. We’re constantly alert for any hint of trouble in their personal lives. Drunk driving charge, they’re out of the hole. Divorce, out of the hole. Hell, if they get a prescription for codeine from a dentist, they’re out of the hole for a week.” Pukowlski clears his throat and points to a monitor, which shows the Peacekeeper in the silo. “Now, gentlemen, if you don’t have any further questions, shall we proceed to the highlight of the tour?”
The Englishman nods, gives Billy Riordan one last look, then follows Pukowlski out the blast door. The captain escorts the delegation down the tunnel from the launch control capsule toward the silo. He makes a mental note that Owens and Riordan didn’t close the blast door behind them. A year ago, hell, six weeks ago, he would have written them up. Now? What difference does it make anyway? They pass the Sleeping Quarters/Galley on the right and the Launch Equipment Room on the left, then enter the silo, passing over the grates of the drainage sump. More spacious than the newer underground facilities, this one is the last of the old Titan silos, now converted for the Peacekeeper.
They enter the silo where the PK, a “damage limitation weapon,” in Air Force parlance, is suspended by steel cables from the walls. Heavy propulsion hoses run from generators under the silo to the base of the missile. “Here’s why we’ve got strategic stability in the world,” Pukowlski tells them.
“Strategic stability,” the English ambassador repeats in an accent laced with the House of Lords.
“The absence of overt conflict,” Pukowlski says. “What you might call ‘peace.’”
“Then why don’t you?” the Englishman asks. Pukowlski doesn’t like the snotty tone of voice, and besides, he considers the English a bunch of fairies, so he ignores the question.
They walk in a circle beneath the suspended missile, ducking under a suspended umbilical cord that hangs from near the top of the missile. He pauses to let them look up into the burners. “A four-stage power plant,” he says, “the first three fueled by solid propellant, the fourth hypergolic liquid. This baby is cold-launched from the canister by a launch eject gas generator. Whoosh!” Pukowlski makes a gliding motion with his hand, and for a moment, the crew-cut, husky forty-year-old is a kid again. “When it’s cleared the silo, the computer in the deployment module sends a signal to fire up the rockets, and the first stage ignites. Lordy, what a sight that is. And fast? This baby hits apogee at an altitude of four million feet in fifteen minutes, two thousand miles down range.”