“The swiftest rebellion in history,” said Hooper. “It has to be over and the new chain of command in place in the seconds between the asteroid entering our air space and the blast reaching our silos.”
“Which is where you come in, Wallis, you and your Signals background,” Bellarmine continued. “A transfer will come through for you in the next day or two. You will be given command of the communications room. Briefing sessions are being set up for you. You will be in charge of the personnel at the crucial moment. The decision that Communications accepts my authority will be made by you. Our counterstrike will then be enabled.”
“You’re trying to slip one over on me,” Wallis insisted. “If the President is removed you still have the Vice-President.”
Hooper banged a fist on the table. “We have here the most doggone stubborn soldier in this man’s army.” Bellarmine raised a hand to silence the Chief of the JCS.
Wallis bowed his head for some seconds. Then he said, thinking as he spoke, “I suppose if the Vice-President is out of it, and the President is legitimately removed by the Twenty-fifth, and SecDef at least is the only relevant principal officer in the circumstances, then yes”—he seemed to come to a decision—“the SecDef does become the Acting President. Gentlemen, I can’t connive in the removal of the Vice-President from the decision-making process. But if for whatever reason he is absent at the crucial moment, I can then follow your orders with a clear conscience.”
In a moment of panic, Wallis realized that with these words he had become a party to a plot to overthrow the President of the United States and launch a nuclear strike in which the dead would be counted in the hundreds of millions. “Oh Holy Christ,” he added, suddenly feeling nauseous.
Bellarmine half-smiled.
“Margaret’s fixed up for a fireworks display about now,” Hooper said, picking up his sombrero.
“I’ll want to bring some of my own people with me, people who know me,” Wallis said, cold sweat developing on his brow.
Hooper stood up. “Sure and begorrah. Just let me have their names. We shouldn’t miss it.”
Bellarmine turned into a werewolf again.
The crowd Ooh’d and Aah’d as rockets whooshed into the night sky, exploding with a Whump! into multi-coloured stars, while a dazzling waterfall of silver flame poured expensively on to the far end of the lawn. Wallis thought of the shadowy figure he had seen on the approach road, and the polite young man who had known just where to find him in the dark woods.
If I’d made for the freeway, I would probably now be wrapped in chains, and spiralling down towards the bottom of Lake Pepsi: an act of patriots, for love of country.
Soft flesh was pressing against his arm. Another starlet-in-waiting, hormones awash, dark eyes staring up into his; she said isn’t it exciting; and he slid an arm around her waist and said Yeah sister, cool, like I’m glad I slipped out of the AIDS hospice for the night.
Part Two
ITALIAN MASQUE
masque [<Fr. <It. masquerata: see MASK] 1. a masked ball. 2. a disguise, pretence. vi. 1. to take part in a masquerade. 2. to act under false pretences.
DAY FOUR
Eagle Peak, Thursday Morning
Webb wakened with a jerk around 7 a.m., having had two hours’ sleep in the past twenty-four. The memory of that morning’s unsettling discovery came to him — but something else, an inspiration, was speaking to him like a voice inside his head. The Tenerife question would have to wait.
Fearful that the thought would fade as he came to, he focused on it single-mindedly, visualizing it in an assortment of bizarre contexts. He staggered to the bathroom and shaved off a two-day stubble under a shower, his eyes closed. He then dressed quickly, by now fully awake and easily able to resist the fatal inner voice telling him to stretch out again for a couple of minutes.
He tapped on Noordhof’s door, Number Four with a desert view, and tapped again. Noordhof appeared in underpants, swimming with sleep. The soldier, Webb noticed, had the beginnings of a pot belly.
“Colonel, I need to make a call to Europe.”
Noordhof scratched under his armpit. “Telephones are death, Oliver.”
“I’ve had an idea. It’s a long shot and it’s probably dead in the water. But if it’s right it leads us straight to Nemesis.”
Noordhof was instantly awake. “Okay. We’ll use the secure cable to Albuquerque. I’ll ask our Communications hotshots to route your call via some innocuous address. Who are you calling?”
“An old friend. She’s not in the asteroid business, not even in science. Nobody would have reason to connect her with Nemesis.”
“Give me ten minutes, then join me in the common room.”
Webb put on a heavy pullover and went outside, running around the building in sheer frustration. Judy’s Firebird was tinged with frost, and the tracks of small animals crisscrossed the car park snow, concentrating around the garbage bins.
“Join me, Oliver?” Judy asked, emerging from the main door in her grey tracksuit. “Ten minutes’ aerobic.”
“Thanks, Judy, but not this morning. You’ll stay within Noordhof’s hundred-metre circle, of course.”
She smiled enigmatically. Webb followed her trim, lithe frame as she took off through the trees at a fair pace, blonde hair bouncing. In spite of their weird heart-to-heart of only a few hours ago, she was still, to him, an enigma. Either she hadn’t grasped the responsibility she was carrying, or there were nerves of steel underneath that bouncy exterior.
Noordhof, now dressed in smart casual style, was waiting for Webb at the telephone. Shafer was in an armchair, covering a sheet of paper with equations; he gave Webb a friendly wave without looking up.
“Right. This call can’t be overheard at the US end but we can’t answer for Europe. We had to give you a local address because of the transatlantic delay. If your friend asks, you’re phoning from the Ramada Inn in Tucson. We’re reserving a room there in your name as a precaution. You’re doing the Grand Canyon, the Painted Desert, whatever. Dial out as usual. Just be extremely careful what you say. I’ll be listening on the kitchen extension.”
Webb dialled, and a few seconds later a male voice answered, “Western Manuscripts,” as clearly as if it came from three feet away.
“Virginia Melbourne, please.”
“She’s at home today.”
“Thank you.” Webb dialled her Bicester home number. It rang for nearly a minute; and then a contralto, somewhat husky voice said “Virginia Melbourne.”
“Hi, Virginia.”
A transatlantic pause, and then: “Ollie! How are you? Are you calling from Oxford?”
“Actually I’m in the States. What mischief are you up to, Virginia?”
“For starters, I’m standing here naked and dripping wet.”
“I’ll try not to think about that.”
“I’d rather you did, darling. Whereabouts in the States are you?” Noordhof, looking through the open doorway from the kitchen, visibly tensed.
“Arizona, doing the tour. I thought I’d treat myself to a warm Christmas for a change but I’m beginning to twitch. You remember that manuscript I was translating? Volume Three of Phaenomenis Novae, by Father Vincenzo?”
“Remember it, darling? We scoured the Bod looking for it. Did your lost photocopy ever turn up?”
“No. What about your original?”
“No. It’s still missing. And you just can’t steal a manuscript from Western Manuscripts: our archives are a hundred per cent secure. It’s the oddest thing.”