“Okay, brief me. And Nathan, this is a good time to keep calm.”
A soldier emerged smartly from the Situation Room, carrying a wad of paper. “Mister President, we have reports of further tank and troop movements into Slovakia. They’re massing on the Czech side of the Black Forest.”
“Okay.”
Another aide approached. “Sir.”
“Well?” said Grant roughly.
“The Pentagon say the hotline is dead. They can’t get through to the Kremlin.”
“Watch your feet, sir,” a technician warned as President Grant picked his way over a mass of cables. Technicians bustled around, none of them paying much attention to the entry of the Chief. Foggy Wallis approached. The two men exchanged looks.
“This way, Mister President. Your team’s all here. Watch your head.” The President ducked his head and they went through an open door, following the route of more cables stretching across the floor like long shiny black snakes. The room was brilliantly lit with studio lights. About a dozen men, some in uniform, were seated around the big central table. They stood up as the President entered.
Grant’s place at the table had two telephones, red and black, and two books, one red and one black. He stared dully at the books, and sat down in the chair with as much enthusiasm as a man about to be electrocuted. The curtains had been pulled back from the end wall and the large screen was exposed, with speakers at either side of it. The walnut panelling had been removed from the walls to reveal banks of television screens. Desks and terminals had been crammed into the little room since he had last used it two days ago, and it now looked like a miniaturized version of a Star Trek set. About a dozen men and women, some in uniform, stared at television screens. Two men, shirt sleeves rolled up, stood in a far corner of the room, one with a video camera, the other holding a boom with a microphone, recording for whatever posterity there was going to be.
The room was cramped and stuffy. It was also claustrophobic.
“How long to impact?” Grant asked.
“Ninety-five minutes,” said Hooper. “Mister President, where have you been?”
The President sat down. He turned to Hooper. “Silo activity?”
“We wouldn’t expect to see anything until their missiles take off,” said Hooper. “We got a couple of Cobras out from Shemya to look at the Kamchatka area an hour ago. The pilots report they’ve been blinded with laser beams. We’re trying to talk them back in.”
Grant turned to Cresak. “What’s the diplomatic situation?”
“The Security Council are calling an emergency meeting in a couple of hours. Ambassador Thorp went into the Kremlin three hours ago and we haven’t heard from him since.”
“What does Kolkov have to say?”
Cresak shot Hooper a baleful look. “He’s upstairs now. He accuses us of gearing up for a first strike. He says his people are just positioning themselves for defence.”
“This from the men who gave us Nemesis,” Bellarmine said. “The creep, the hypocritical creep.”
A woman in Air Force uniform approached the President. Grant looked at her. “Falcon are downgrading the GPS’s, Mister President.”
The global positioning satellites could be used by an enemy in a precision attack on American targets. The standing plan was to downgrade them in the event of a threat. Thousands of Jumbo jets, aloft at any one time, depended on them for navigation. But around the world, the last Jumbo jets were now landing; nothing would take to the air until Karibisha had come and gone. The downgrading, however, would send an unmistakably dangerous message to the other side.
Grant nodded.
“Mister President, Silk Purse is airborne in Europe. We need the British Prime Minister’s permission to use our F-111s at the English bases. Their Minister of Defence is stalling us. Sir, we’re running out of time for a decision. We have to release the permissive action links.”
“No way.”
“Sir.” Hooper opened a handbook at a book-marked page. He was attempting a matter-of-fact, legalistic tone. “I refer you to JSOP/81-N. Our destruction is imminent, and you must now therefore proceed to State Scarlet. If our B-2s are going to beat the blast from the asteroid they have to get out over the polar cap now.”
“Past their failsafes? Sam, the decision to nuke stays with me, not with a bunch of one-star generals. We don’t even know if the asteroid will hit.”
“We do, however, know that the use of Nemesis as a weapon is an act of war. It is our right and duty to respond to that act of war. Mister President, I want some cold logic on this. Our duty is to serve the interests of the American people. If we’re hit, we’ll be too shattered to defend ourselves against any subsequent hostilities. American interests are best served by destroying future potential enemies while we can. That’s why we gave you only the Grand Slam targeting option.”
“So much for flexible response, Sam.”
“Grand Slam is the only option that preserves some sort of future for our children.”
The President turned to Wallis. “Colonel, give me a rundown on our communication links.”
“We have three independent links from the ground station at the Xochicalco epicentre. One by satellite, one by short-wave radio, one a direct cable link. The cable link we had to patch in to the Mexican commercial land lines. We’ve got some of the best communications men in the army on site. The whole thing is protected by Special Operations Command. A couple of MH6 gunships in case of any monkey business.”
“Sir,” a soldier interrupted, “the Carl Vincent has reached its co-ordinates. They’re getting Phantoms aloft now.”
Wallis said, “Apart from Xochicalco, sir, we have the Navy about a thousand kilometres off the Atlantic sea-board. The asteroid will be coming from sunward but it’s pre-dawn out there and the Naval Observatory tell us a visual sighting should be possible and the thing should pass right over their heads. There’s an Atlantic storm out there, lots of low cloud and rain. Xochicalco’s washed out but communications aren’t affected.”
“I must know on the instant if we have a hit or a miss.”
“A French Spot satellite will be over central Mexico at the critical moment. If Nemesis hits we’ll see plenty. The pictures are being relayed in from Goddard and we’ll see them as they arrive.”
“Where do I press the button?” the President asked calmly.
“The helicopter is standing by. You’ll be at Raven Rock in less than fifteen minutes. MYSTIC is activated. It just needs your word.”
“Nothing from the Kremlin?” Grant asked Wallis.
The soldier shook his head.
“Okay, let’s head for the Rock.”
The Hacienda
Webb was shaking so much he could not put his feet in his shoes. Judy had slipped back to her room to dress, and Noordhof was raising himself to his knees, groaning, holding his ear while bright pink blood oozed between his fingers. The marble ashtray lay on the floor, split in two after Judy’s powerful blow. The gun was on the bed beside Webb, within arm’s length.
Noordhof struggled up to a sitting position on the bed. He was clearly dazed and in great pain.
The net curtain billowed briefly as Judy came back, dressed in black trousers and sweater. She slid the glass door closed. She looked dispassionately at Noordhof and said “Kill him.”
The lights failed again. A sharp cry of pain, male or female, came from the pitch black. Webb cursed and flopped down on the bed, groping for the gun. There was a crash of glass at the instant he felt its cold metal barrel. Wind and rain were suddenly gusting in the room. He sprinted towards the window and collided bodily with Judy. She fell back with a gasp and then he was running over broken glass in his socks. A flash of lightning, a brilliant celestial tree momentarily implanting on his retina; a vision of Noordhof frantically trying to shake off a net curtain. Webb rushed forwards, firing into the darkness. He had never used a gun and the first round jerked his wrist painfully. In the weapon’s flashes Noordhof appeared as a series of stills, snapshots of a man weaving and turning. Then the soldier had fallen face down about fifty yards ahead, and the gun was clicking empty, and there was only rain, and wind, and blackness.