“Hi Judy, they told me you’d volunteered for this.”
“You know how it is. Some politicians use moral blackmail as a tool of the trade.”
“What were you doing in New York?” Webb asked.
“Briefing some UN people. Have you heard the latest about Karibisha? They’ve got the probable error of perigee down to — wait for it — five hundred miles. And it’s still fifty-fifty whether it will hit.” She smiled. “I’d make a will but who’d collect?”
“So, what’s been happening at Eagle Peak?”
“I wish you’d been there when your word came through. Noordhof and Herb took off like bats out of hell and haven’t been seen since. No doubt they’ve been doing the rounds of Washington briefings. And no word from Willy. Either he’s in his beach house or else he’s quietly emigrated to Antarctica. The truth is, there was nothing much to be done there before Karibisha emerged from the blind spot. Kowalski stayed on as a caretaker.”
“And when they pick it up?”
“Mighty will be the panic. Herb and Kowalski will be getting high-precision astrometry.”
“From the 94-inch?”
“And the Hubble. They’ve been testing a direct link.”
“Did you come up with a means of deflecting Karibisha?”
“They didn’t tell you? Staggered explosions. The idea was to deploy a dozen baby nukes, strung out along Karibisha’s path like beads on a wire and each one going off in its face to slow it down; kind of like stopping an express train by gently puffing at it.”
“How baby were they?”
“A third of a megaton each. We needed four Shuttle launches, in two sets of two. One Shuttle in each pair carried an upper stage rocket in its cargo bay, the other half a dozen bombs. Mission specialists were supposed to connect the bombs to the upper stage in orbit. Six bombs weren’t going to be enough on their own which is why we needed a second dual launch. The Shuttle accident killed the scheme.”
“Of course it was carrying a Venus probe, ha ha. What was it actually carrying?”
“Unfortunately, half a dozen of my B61s, modified with neutron generators. They’re clearing up an awful lot of plutonium at Cape Canaveral. Take my advice, Oliver, don’t eat tuna for the next million years.”
Webb looked around at the empty cabin. “How close are we to war?”
“Who can say? But I’ll tell you something,” Judy leaned towards Webb. Her tone was conspiratorial. “The Teraflop has been real slow recently.”
“You mean…?”
She was almost whispering in the big empty aircraft. “They’re gearing up for something.”
Over the Florida swamplands Webb could make out tiny clusters of houses in little clearings; and then a stretch of sand was cutting across their line of motion. A few boats trailed long white wakes and then there was nothing but blue water: the Gulf of Mexico. A menu appeared. Webb ordered mignons de filet de boeuf Rosini, and Judy had poached salmon with a mousseline sauce. She studied the wine list closely and four half-bottles of champagne took them merrily across the Gulf.
In the early afternoon the engine sound changed and Webb felt his ears going funny; the Lockheed was dropping. They flew over tree-covered mountains. Broad highways apparently led nowhere into the hills. Minutes later they were weaving a path between hills covered with houses and roads. Mexico City, an unplanned sprawl stretching to the horizon; bigger than Tokyo, London, Singapore, New York City; Sacheverell’s “irrelevant puff of smoke.” Some boys were kicking a football on grass at the edge of the runway as the plane hurtled past, wings flexing. They didn’t look up.
The pilot expressed the hope that y’all enjoy your stay in Mexico and that y’all will fly with American Airlines again soon. The hostesses at the door were smiling, but Webb had the feeling that it was a bit forced. The sounds of a riot were coming from the direction of the terminal.
“You’re not staying over in Mexico?” Webb asked the cabin steward at the aircraft door.
“No way, sir. It’s fuel up and get the hell out. This is our last flight in.”
As they approached the luggage terminal the sound intensified. It was like an angry football match. Round the last corner of the corridor, and there was the main hallway and a brawling, bellowing mob. Between the mob and the international arrival lounges was a thin, ragged line of teenage soldiers.
A steady trickle of passengers, life-giving boarding cards tightly clutched, was filtering through, ducking under the arms of the soldiers. There was no question of passport or security checks. A lieutenant was in the rear of the line, pacing nervously up and down.
Webb, Judy and the orthodox Jews approached. The lieutenant turned in astonishment. He raised his hands.
“You cannot get through!” he shouted above the baying.
“We must!” Webb shouted back. “Our business is urgent.”
“But señor, you see it is impossible.”
“I’d like to speak to your superior officer.”
“So would I. He has not been seen all morning.”
“We’re here on diplomatic business. We have to get through.”
He pursed his lips, marched over to his men, issued some order and then turned back, nervously fingering the holster of his gun. “I can spare only a dozen men. You must keep together. If you stray you are lost.”
The soldiers formed up into a thin wedge; they were plainly scared. At an order they began to push into the crowd. Webb and Judy huddled together with the Jewish families, following behind the wedge.
The soldiers began to use their rifle butts in a violent, panicky fashion. Slowly they pushed away from the check-in area where the staff, faces lined with tension, seemed to be taking bundles of money or tickets at random from a sea of thrusting hands. A well-dressed businessman was punching someone repeatedly on the head. The other party was kicking at the businessman’s shins. Webb glimpsed a woman on her knees.
Midway to the main exit, an arm emerged from the crowd and grabbed at Webb’s sleeve. It was rifle-butted away. It came back, tugging. A dark-suited, pock-faced little man. “Doctor Webb?” he shouted. “Signorita Whaler? My name is Señor Rivas. Welcome to Mexico. Please can you come this way?”
They left their protective wedge, the little man muscling his way through the crowds and Webb taking up the rear. For a few panicky moments he lost his orientation, half fell and was unable to breathe, but then he forced himself to his feet and glimpsed Judy’s blonde hair some yards ahead. Over to the right he caught sight of a solid phalanx of black hats and beards, and then the crowd had swallowed them up.
The crowd density fell away at the entrance to the airport. An official with a green suit and impassive Aztec features was, by some miracle, loading their suitcases and Webb’s laptop into the boot of a car, a black Lincoln Continental with darkened windows. Rivas opened the front passenger door for Judy. Stepping into the back of the car, Webb caught a glimpse of a holstered gun under the man’s armpit. The interior of the car was cool.
There was a sudden roar from the direction of the terminal. Webb glanced back; the crowd had broken through the line. It was surging towards the departure lounges.
“Good to see you again, Oliver,” said Noordhof, paying little attention to the riot developing yards from them. His handshake was firm and businesslike. He was wearing light tan trousers and jacket. “It’s prudent to wear civilian clothes in Mexico City just now,” he said without explanation.
“Why are you here, Mark? For the same salary you could be tucked away in a deep limestone cave somewhere.”