Rachel jams the barrel of a rifle against Owens’ temple. “Might as well shoot me,” he says, “‘cause I don’t know shit.”
David bangs his fist against the console, then turns to James. “Can you extract it from the M.G.C.S. computer?”
“It’s not there,” James says, still working away. “All I’ve got is this.”
David swings back to the monitor. On the screen, seven cursors pulsate.
“Fill in the blanks,” James says. “It’s a seven-digit password, letters or numbers or both. You want to know the possible number of combinations?”
“No! I just want to launch the missile.”
In the STRATCOM War Room, the klaxon horn is blaring. On the Big Board, two messages appear, “SECONDARY LAUNCH CODE MATRIX.” and “ENTER PASSWORD TO ACCESS CODE.” A technician pulls off his headset and turns to General Corrigan, “They got in, sir. If they enter the password, all they have to do is re-enter the Enable Code, turn the keys, and the bird is gone.”
General Corrigan turns to Professor Morton. “What about it, Lionel? You said he couldn’t—”
“Quite creative,” Morton says with grudging admiration. “I didn’t think he’d get this far, but now who knows? The little momma’s boy may surprise us after all.”
“Percentages, Lionel. Give me some numbers.” There is the sense of urgency in the general’s voice.
“No way to tell. But remember one thing. David Morton is flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. He’s not stupid, Hugh.”
The general ponders that for a moment, agreeing with the professor. Crazy yes, stupid no. He turns to Colonel Farris. “Tell Colonel Zwick to prepare for kickoff, but not to move until he receives my direct order.”
An aide works his way through the crowd of officers and brings General Corrigan a telephone, then whispers in his ear. The general straightens his shoulders and speaks into the headset. “Yes, Mr. President.”
A pause.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
Another pause.
“Yes, I understand, Mr. President.”
General Hugh Corrigan’s jaw muscles clench with each tight nod of his head. He hangs up the phone and turns to the circle of brass. His face is gray, and he looks ten years older than just a few hours earlier. “Tel Aviv has just informed the Commander-in-Chief what its response will be to a nuclear strike.”
“Jesus, General, they’re not going to do something stupid like counter-attack us, are they?” Colonel Farris asks.
“Not us. But they’ve got something called Operation Masada in the event one of the Arab countries hits them with a nuclear weapon.”
“Masada. A fight to the finish,” Dr. Stuart Rosen says, and the military men turn toward him. “After the fall of Jerusalem to the Romans in the first century, the last of the Jewish zealots occupied a mountaintop fortress at Masada. There were only a few hundred zealots, but they were vicious fighters, and it took fifteen thousand Roman troops two years to defeat them. As the fortress fell, the remaining Jews took their own lives, rather than be enslaved by the Romans.”
“I don’t get it,” Farris says, a puzzled look on his face. “The Arabs have nothing to do with—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Professor Morton breaks in. “‘Never again,’ and all that Holocaust melodrama. I hadn’t thought of it before, Hugh, but it makes perfect sense. The Israelis must strike first just like they did in ‘67. When they waited, when they let the Arabs hit them in the Yom Kippur War, they were nearly pushed into the Red Sea. This time, if they wait, they’ll be annihilated. Maybe they will be anyway, maybe it’s as suicidal as the zealots on the mountaintop, but at least, they’ll take a good portion of their enemies with them.”
“All of them,” Corrigan says. “Their response will be nuclear. Baghdad, Tripoli, Tehran, the oil fields of Saudi Arabia and Kuwait.”
“A flamboyant acting out on a grand scale,” Dr. Rosen says, disapprovingly.
“Can’t we talk the Israelis into just taking the hit?” Farris asks. “Hell, we’ll help them rebuild.”
“Apparently, they feel their people have taken one hit this century, and that was quite enough,” General Corrigan says.
“Jesus,” the Farris mutters. “Looks like the professor’s going to get his wish.”
General Corrigan turns toward Lionel Morton, who is making a series of mathematical calculations on his wheelchair computer. “Lionel, why don’t you tell everyone what would happen if the Israelis make good on their threat.”
“Assuming they use all their warheads, and there’s no reason not to, radioactive clouds of sand and oil will reach the stratosphere,” he says, still studying his computer monitor. “Fires in the fields will be too hot — in every sense of the word — to put out. They’ll burn for fifty years to seventy-five years. The clouds will superheat the atmosphere, changing the climate. It will be warm at first, but then, the sun will be blocked for several decades. It will snow in Miami, and the polar ice cap will extend as far south as say, Virginia.”
“Nuclear winter,” Colonel Farris says, shaking his head.
“I always thought that was an overly dramatic term,” the professor says, “but you’ve got the idea.”
“Lionel,” the general says, “if there’s any chance that you still can influence your son, you’ve got an obligation to your country to try.”
The professor seems to think about it, and Dr. Rosen, the shrink, pipes up, “General, I must advise against another session of paternal brow-beating. Overt hostility will only provoke the young man. This rivalry between father and son can only exacerbate—”
“Shut up, you fleabag Freudian,” the professor snarls. He turns to the general. “Okay, Hugh. Get the son-of-a-bitch on the phone.”
-46-
Postponing the Inevitable
“I knew you’d call again, pater,” David says, when they get him on the line. He speaks into the old black, rotary telephone and smiles at Susan. Proud they’re coming to him.
“Mistakes were made, I’ll admit that,” Lionel Morton says, softly.
David smiles again and hits a button, turning on the speaker. Letting his audience enjoy his handiwork, admire his repartee. “Is that an apology, that sotto voce, passive voce, mealy-mouthed evasion?”
“Yes, goddamit! I’m sorry. I’m sorry I wasn’t the father you wanted.”
“Apology not accepted,” David says, gleefully. “And for the record, I’m not a bit sorry I wasn’t the son you wanted, assuming you wanted a son at all.”
“I did the best I could.”
David barks out a bitter laugh. “What do you think of that, Dr. Burns? Dear old Dad did the best he could.”
“It’s a shopworn cliché,” she answers. “It’s what virtually every parent in a dysfunctional family says.”
“Did you hear that, Daddy? You’re just a worn out cliché. Come on, Dr. Burns, tell us more. Daddy never had the benefit of therapy and doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
“Your father was remote and demanding. Nothing you did was ever good enough for him.”
“No, no, no. Nothing I ever did was bad enough.”
“Godammit, David,” the professor’s voice rumbles through the speaker. “What do you want? Do you want to kill me?”
“Heavens, no. I already tried that. I prefer you alive and crippled. But that isn’t politically correct, is it? Alive and ambulatorily disadvantaged, that’s my Daddy. Do you still need medication for the pain? I’ll bet the dosage has increased over the years. I’ll bet you’re so strung out most every night, you wouldn’t know if someone broke into your house and rifled through your study.”