"This incredible atrocity proves the utter depravity of our elected government. I urge everyone listening to waste no time in spreading the word, personally and electronically, to everyone you know."
Horvath's first reaction was how incredibly cliche-ridden the script was. It discredited the story, and would deflect uncommitted listeners. But he believed the underlying claim, and muting the audio, called Paddy Davies in Sydney.
Foster Peixoto's phone trilled. "Yes, Ilse?"
"You have a call from Director Al-Kathad, sir."
"I'll take it." It seemed to him that an unexpected call from the director of Internal Security would not bring good news. "Peixoto," he said.
"Mr. Prime Minister, this is Nabil Al-Kathad. I have a recorded radio broadcast you should hear, broadcast ten hours ago. It was just now brought to my attention. I recommend you record it."
Peixoto touched a switch. "Very well, the recorder is on. Let's hear it."
The director began with a brief rundown on Gaea Worldwide, and the Reformed Church of the Holy Mother (Gaean). Then he played the cube, his eyes on the prime minister's long thin face, reading annoyance in it.
When it was over, Peixoto thought for a moment. "I want you here in my office in thirty minutes," he said. "You and Chief Kumoyama."
In his office, thought Al-Kathad. Unusual. "Certainly, Your Excellency."
The prime minister disconnected at once, and his fingers rapped out another number, this one at Special Projects. "Dr. Franck," he said, "I need you here in thirty minutes, to meet with the president, myself, Director Al-Kathad, and his chief of investigations." He paused. "Meanwhile, I want you to hear a radio address, broadcast by a station in Oaxaca, Mexico. Please record it."
He gave her a moment to activate record mode, then turned on the cube with the director's comments and the Gaean broadcast. He listened again himself, while watching Dr. Franck's slender brown face. When it was over, she switched off record mode and was about to speak. The prime minister cut her off. "Be in my office in twenty-five minutes," he said, and disconnected.
He could deal with this without the president, he told himself, but Chang would want to be involved. A long finger tapped a dedicated switch. They'd eaten lunch together half an hour earlier; the president would be at his desk now.
"President Chang's office."
"Good afternoon, Setsuko. This is the prime minister. I would like to speak with the president, please."
"I believe the president is indisposed for the moment. Shall I interrupt him?"
Chang, like himself, had a phone in the private bathroom off his office. But no. "I'll wait," Peixoto said.
"Thank you, sir. It shouldn't be long."
An anonymous source, Peixoto thought. If we have a traitor, we need to know who. From the comments it wasn't a highly placed source. Someone overheard something in the office, or at lunch, and made up the rest. Installed in missles for godsake!
He became aware he was grinding his teeth, a habit he'd defeated years before. Stopping, he took three long breaths: in, one two three; hold, one two; out, one two three four… Our first concern is to counter this attack, he told himself. It is not one we can ignore. Detecting the source comes second. He fidgeted impatiently, his mind moving back to the leak. The most direct approach would be to interrogate the Gaeans who obtained the story, but they are unlikely to inform. An investigation of staff would distract from the many jobs at hand, but it would also tend to increase their awareness of the risks. On the other hand, if actual treason was uncovered…
His phone warbled again, and he reached for the switch, wondering what the president would say.
When their meeting was over, Peixoto was glad the president had attended, for the strategy they'd agreed on was Chang's. They would not attack the Gaeans. They would take the issue away from them. Broadcast a prime-time special, publicizing the project as giving dying children a chance at extended life in a-call it a "life module," or something like that. Not a "bottle." While at the same time filling a vital, nonviolent defense need. The truth would outweigh Peace Front ranting.
There was no need to feel apologetic about defense; the polls confirmed that regularly. A promotional video would be made, beginning with crippled, mentally retarded children declining toward death. Afterward they'd show newly "converted" savants functioning as communicators. And painting, doing mental computing, listening to music… whatever their personal play might be. Franck, at Special Projects, would assign and oversee production responsibility, and run quality control.
Chang was confident it would work with the public. Peixoto, on the other hand, could visualize it backfiring if it wasn't done well. Franck assured them it would work beautifully, and that she knew just the producer for the job. Al-Kathad and Kumoyama hadn't volunteered their opinions; they'd been there to discuss the security problem, and how the source might be found. But Al-Kathad's face suggested skepticism. He was skeptical by nature, of course; it went with his profession.
With some misgivings, the prime minister had given the go-ahead on the project. They'd know soon enough how successful it was.
Chapter 31
Airborne!
The sweat shed had had only the body heat of the trainees, initially twelve platoons, to warm it above the frosty morning. Twelve platoons, one selected from each company in the regiment. Captain Mulvaney had chosen 2nd Platoon.
The shed was large and strange, as well as cold, with no lecture platform and no "pulpit"-the Jerrie term for lectern. But Esau had gotten used to strangeness. By now he felt at home in the army, though it was a lot different from his favorite army in Scripture: Gideon's, whose warriors had lapped water like a dog.
He smiled inwardly, imagining Gideon's Hebrew warriors sitting crowded on benches, with parachutes strapped on their backs. A strange thought, even though Sergeant Hawkins had said their airborne trainers were themselves Hebrews, from a world called Masada. A world whose people still spoke the Hebrew tongue; now that was strange.
It was also strange to have their Sikh cadre-even Captain Mulvaney!-training with them, with Masadans as instructors. The division's Sikhs had all been airborne trained, Hawkins had told them, but War House had decided they'd retake the training.
Esau's eyes focused on Hawkins a couple of benches ahead, and he wondered what his sergeant was thinking about.
Hawkins wasn't thinking; that is, he wasn't processing data. He was meditating. He'd begun by focusing on his breathing cadence, which from long experience produced a deepening calm. And a viewpoint exterior not only to events, but largely to his own personality. Nonetheless, he was aware of his surroundings. He saw a door open-the benches faced it-and a Masadan sergeant stepped in. Heard the man call for C and D Companies' platoons, and watched some eighty men get to their feet. Burdened with chute packs and hampered by harness, they sidled to the aisle and filed out. Most of the benches had already been empty; the Masadans had begun with K and L Companies' contingents, and were working their way toward A and B.