“My clothes?” the man says, the words barely audible. Disoriented from the pain, confused by the demand. “Do you wish to join us?”
“No, I want to join the circus. Now, c’mon. Give me your clothes.”
The commando strips out of his fatigues, and Jericho tears his own wet clothing into strips that he uses to gag the man, then ties him to a tree with another of Sayers’ bungee cords. Newly dressed, with the Uzi in hand, Jericho picks up his rucksack and heads through the dry river bed toward the exhaust tube. Peering through the underbrush, he sees a commando sentry standing at the outlet pipe. So they found it. Too late to trap him inside, but just in time to keep him out. Fifty yards away, three sentries patrol the circumference of the open missile silo.
“They don’t want me around for the party,” Jericho says to himself. He sits back on his haunches and thinks.
What would Special Forces do?
Call in an air strike.
But what can I do?
Diversion.
He grabs the cellular phone and calls a number he knows by heart.
General Corrigan, his cheeks flushed, is on the phone with Colonel Zwick. “A sergeant?”
“An E-5,” Colonel Zwick says from the command tent at the base camp. “He’s the maintenance man for the launch generator.”
“What the hell can he do?”
“Nothing but get in the way,” the colonel tells him. “Special Ops is ready, sir, and awaiting your orders.”
“Thank you, Henry. You sit tight for now.” The general clicks off the phone and turns to his staff. “There’s one airman still roaming around the missile base, and naturally, it’s some swab jockey, second class.”
Professor Morton sits off to one side in his wheelchair. “Wasn’t it Clemenceau who said that war was too important to be left to the generals?”
“It was, Lionel, but do you think he wanted it left to the janitor?”
“Oh, I’m sure he can’t muck it up any worse than Special Ops.”
“Enough!” Corrigan says. He wags a finger in Professor Morton’s face. “Lionel, what the hell was that disk doing in your house?”
“I designed it,” the professor says, petulantly, turning his wheelchair away. “It’s mine.”
“Yours! ICBM Enable Codes and P.L.C.’s are yours? They’re U.S. government property. They’re classified! They’re Top Secret! What the hell’s wrong with you, Lionel?”
“I like to have my work close at hand.”
That brings a snort of disbelief from Colonel Farris, who has been observing from the circle of military brass surrounding the two men. “Did Eisenhower leave the plans for D-Day laying around the house?” he asks. “Did Westmoreland misplace maps of Cambodian air raids at the convenience store? Did Meade discuss plans for Gettysburg at the saloon?”
“There were no plans for Gettysburg, you ninny,” Morton responds. “Gettysburg was an accident of history, a mistake, like your commission.” He turns to General Corrigan. “Hugh, why do you surround yourself with these imbeciles?”
“Don’t change the subject,” the general says. “You’re a goddam security risk.”
“But you keep calling me back to upgrade your toys, don’t you?”
The general sighs. What’s done is done. “Is there any chance that lunatic son of yours can get the Secondary Launch Code?”
“It’s not on the disk.”
“We know that. Had it been, ten nuclear warheads would already have detonated over Jerusalem.”
“Can little Davy get the code?” Professor Morton muses, a wry smile on his face. “No, because he refuses to see himself for what he is.”
General Corrigan shakes his head at the enigmatic statement. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Perhaps in time, you shall know. Meanwhile, let’s consider the benefits of a first strike.”
“A what?” General Corrigan isn’t sure he heard correctly.
“The benefits to the United States of America of allowing the PK to fly its coop.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” The general is incredulous.
“Well, obviously there’d be a wealth of in-field research, material we just couldn’t duplicate in the lab. Temperature and dynamic pressure of the blast, firestorm, base surge, afterwind speeds, hard data we could gather by satellite, but only from a real detonation, not computer models. Plus medical information, statistical analysis of fatalities and casualties such as blindness, radiation poisoning, internal injuries. Psychological studies of survivors, that sort of thing. All invaluable and simply not able to be duplicated in the virtual world.”
“You’re not serious,” General Corrigan says. “You want to kill hundreds of thousands of people as a lab experiment.”
“Not for that alone. The political consequences might be even more compelling, so bear with me. For now, call it an academic inquiry. Or contingency planning, Hugh. Isn’t that what you do all the time?”
“Go on. I’m listening.”
“Let’s assume that my only child, bless his dastardly heart, acquires the S.L.C. and that you are unable to stop the launch by either technological or strategic means. What happens?”
“A holocaust. A one-hundred per cent kill ratio for a radius of twelve miles from ground zero of each warhead. Lingering death by radiation poisoning, burns and internal injuries to several hundred thousand others. Complete destruction of the holiest city in the world, home to three religions. The greatest single catastrophe in the history of the world.”
“Of course, of course,” the professor says, a bit impatiently. “But politically, what are the consequences? Surely, you have discussed this with the National Security Advisor.”
“I have, and that’s classified. Frankly, Lionel, you’re the last person I would share—”
“Oh, stow it, Hugh! I can figure it out. The State Department has already alerted the Israelis as to the silo takeover and the reconfiguration of the command data buffer. If the slick is entered into the capsule computer, the damage will be catastrophic, the psychological injury unprecedented in history.” A smile plays at the corner of Morton’s mouth. “Which raises a question. If little Israel is laid waste by ten nuclear warheads, what would Iraq, Iran and Libya do? Maybe Syria, too.”
“You tell me, Lionel.”
“They’d finish the job,” Colonel Farris breaks in. “They’d attack. It’d be their one and only chance to defeat a stronger, better organized military power. They’ve waited fifty years, and it’s like all those prayers to Allah will have been answered.”
“Right!” the professor proclaims. “Colonel, you are not the complete idiot I always took you for.”
Colonel Farris nods a thank you.
Nobody says anything for a moment. Then in a low voice, General Corrigan speaks. “It’s a possible scenario that’s been discussed.”
That brings a laugh from the professor, who hits a button, and moves his wheelchair closer to the general. “Damn right it’s been discussed. That’s what would happen, and everyone in Washington knows it. What those short-sighted, pension-loving, pencil-pushers haven’t thought about is the potential benefit of letting it all happen.”
No one asks the question, but Professor Lionel Morton answers it anyway. “The benefit, gentleman, is that with one fortuitous stroke, we will have neutralized the world’s hot spot. Between the militant Arab fundamentalists, those pesky Palestinians and the hard-line Israelis, the Middle East is the world’s powder keg. We can just let it blow.”
“Let it blow?” General Corrigan shakes his head.
“Boom! Boom!” the professor whoops. “Let the Arabs and Israelis engage in a final, all-out war. A pox on both their houses. They will expend themselves, destroy each other, and end World War III before it begins.”
The officers exchange looks and mumble to themselves. Finally, Agent Hurtgen says, “What asylum did this maniac escape from?”
“Ours,” General Corrigan replies.