“Ryan, what about those reports that we got about missing Soviet nuclear weapons?” Fowler asked. “Could that fit into this situation?”
“What missing nukes!” CINC-SAC demanded. “Why the hell didn't I hear about that?”
“What kind of nukes?” Borstein asked a second later.
“That was an unconfirmed report from a penetration agent. There are no details,” Ryan answered, then realized he had to press on. “The sum of the information received is this: We've been told that Narmonov has political problems with his military; that they are unhappy with the way he's doing things; that in the ongoing pullback from Germany, an unspecified number of nuclear weapons — probably tactical ones — have turned up missing; that KGB is conducting an operation to determine what, if anything, is missing. Supposedly Narmonov is personally concerned that he might be the target of political blackmail, and that the blackmail could have a nuclear dimension. But, and I must emphasize the but, we have been totally unable to confirm these reports, despite repeated attempts, and we are examining the possibility that our agent is lying to us.”
“Why didn't you tell us that?” Fowler asked.
“Mr. President, we're in the process of formulating our assessment now. The work is still on-going, sir, I mean, we've been doing it over the weekend.”
“Well, it sure as hell wasn't one of ours,” General Fremont said heatedly. “And it's no goddamned terrorist bomb, it's too goddamned big for that. Now you tell us that the Russians may have a short inventory. That's more than disturbing, Ryan.”
“And it could explain the increased alert level at PVO,” Borstein added ominously.
“Are you two telling me,” the President asked, “that this could have been a Soviet device?”
“There aren't all that many nuclear powers around,” Borstein replied first. “And the yield of this device is just too damned big for amateurs.”
“Wait a minute.” Jack jumped in again. “You have to remember that the facts we have here are very thin. There is a difference between information and speculation. You have to remember that.”
“How big are Soviet tactical nuclear weapons?” Liz Elliot wanted to know.
CINC-SAC handled that one: “A lot like ours. They have little one-kiloton ones for artillery rounds, and they have warheads up to five hundred-KT left over from the SS-20s they did away with.”
“In other words, the yield of this explosion falls into the range of the Soviet warhead types that we have heard are missing?”
“Correct, Dr. Elliot,” General Fremont replied.
At Camp David, Elizabeth Elliot leaned back in her chair and turned to the President. She spoke too softly for the speaker-phone to catch her words.
“Robert, you were supposed to be at that game, along with Brent and Dennis.”
It was strange that he hadn't had that thought enter his mind yet, Fowler told himself. He, too, leaned back. “No,” he replied. “I cannot believe that the Russians would attempt such a thing.”
“What was that?” a voice on the speaker asked.
“Wait a minute,” the President said too quietly.
“Mr. President, I didn't catch what you said.”
“I said, wait a minute!” Fowler shouted. He put his hand over the speaker for a moment. “ Elizabeth, it's our job to get control of this situation and we will. Let's try to put this personal stuff aside for the moment.”
“Mr. President, I want you on Kneecap just as fast as you can get there,” CINC-SAC said. “This situation could be very serious indeed.”
“If we're going to get control, Robert, we must do it quickly.”
Fowler turned to the naval officer standing behind him. “When's the chopper due in?”
“Twenty-five minutes, sir, then thirty more to get you to Andrews for Kneecap.”
“Almost an hour…” Fowler looked at the wall clock, as people do when they know what time it is, know what time it will take to do something, and look at the clock anyway. “The radio links on the chopper aren't enough for this. Tell the chopper to take Vice President Durling to Kneecap. General Fremont?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“You have extra Kneecaps there, don't you?”
“Yes, I do, sir.”
“I'm sending the Vice President up on the primary. You send a spare down here. You can land it at Hagerstown, can't you?”
“Yes, sir, we can use the Fairchild-Republic airfield, where they used to build the A-10s.”
“Okay, do that. it'll take me an hour to get to Andrews, and I cannot afford to waste an hour. It's my job to settle this thing down, and I need that hour.”
“That, sir, is a mistake,” Fremont said in the coldest voice he had. It would take two hours to get the aircraft to central Maryland.
“That may be, but it's what I'm going to do. This is not a time for me to run away.”
Behind the President, Pete Connor and Helen D'Agustino traded a baleful look. They had no illusions on what would happen if there were a nuclear attack on the United States. Mobility was the President's best defense, and he had just thrown that away.
The radio message from Camp David went out at once. The Presidential helicopter was just crossing the Washington Beltway when it turned and went back southeast. It landed on the grounds of the U.S. Naval Observatory. Vice President Roger Durling and his entire family jumped aboard. They didn't even bother strapping in. Secret Service agents, with their Uzi sub-machineguns out, knelt inside the aircraft. All Durling knew was what the Secret Service detail had told him. Durling told himself that he had to relax, that he had to keep his head. He looked at his youngest child, a boy only four years old. To be that age again, he'd thought only the day before, to be that age again and be able to grow up in a world where the chance of a major war no longer existed. All the horrors of his youth, the Cuban Missile Crisis that had marked his freshman year in college, his service as a platoon leader in the 82nd Airborne, a year of which had been in Vietnam. War experience made Durling a most unusual liberal politician. He hadn't run from it. He'd taken his chances and remembered having two men die in his arms. Just yesterday, he'd looked at his son and thanked God that he wouldn't have to know any of that.
And now, this. His son still didn't know anything more than that they were getting a surprise helicopter ride, and he loved to fly. His wife knew more, and there were tears streaming from her eyes as she stared back at him.
The Marine VH-3 touched down within fifty yards of the aircraft. The first Secret Service agent leaped off and saw a platoon of Air Force security police marking the way to the stairs. The Vice President was practically dragged towards them, while a burly agent picked up his young son and ran the distance. Two minutes later, before people had even strapped in, the pilot of the National Emergency Airborne Command Post — Kneecap — firewalled his engines and roared down runway, Zero-One Left. He headed east for the Atlantic Ocean, where a KC-10 tanker was already orbiting to top off the Boeing's tanks.
“We have a major problem here,” Ricks said in the maneuvering room. Maine had just tried to move. At any speed over three knots, the propeller screeched like a banshee. The shaft was slightly bent, but they'd live with that for a while. “All seven blades must be damaged. If we try for anything over three we make noise. Over five and we'll lose the shaft bearings in a matter of minutes. The outboard motor can give us two or three knots, but that's noisy too. Comments?” There were none. No one aboard doubted Ricks' engineering expertise. “Options?”
“Kinda thin, aren't they?” Dutch Claggett observed.
Maine had to stay near the surface. At this alert level, she had to be ready to launch in minutes. Ordinarily they could have gone to a deeper depth, if for no other reason than to reduce the horrible motion the ship was taking right now from surface turbulence, but her reduced speed made coming up too time-consuming.