William Stark turned to Roarke and said, “General, if I understand you correctly, I have no intention of initiating a nuclear exchange. For the last thirty years the leaders of this country have gone out of their way to avoid just such a calamity. President Johnson once told me that he spent many a night worrying that the Vietnam War would end in a confrontation between the big powers and he would be forced to let the missiles out of their silos. The thought of being responsible for the deaths of several hundred million people haunted him. And may I add, it haunts me, and I cannot accept the choice you offer.”
General Roarke flushed. He kept his jaw down on his tunic while he tapped a pencil on a scratch pad in front of him.
Stark went on, “Short of going to war, what alternatives do we have? The Russians say they have us cold. What do you say, Weinroth?”
Gerald Weinroth’s ulcer was making its presence known. When he had gotten the summons to the White House, the diminutive professor had been reading in his study. Unable to sleep well for days, he had been taking pills to ease the constant cramping in his stomach. Months of overwork on his job as the President’s scientific advisor, directing military research and development, had sapped his physical and intellectual strength. He regretted deeply having left his chair at Cornell to join the Administration in the exacting role of arbiter between military and civilian teams engaged in top secret projects. Weinroth was sick of the bickering and infighting that marked the daily routine of his job. He had become a pacifier, a father confessor to slighted parties. Now he was being asked to explain the existence of the one thing his organization was supposed to thwart: a deadly peril to the country.
Weinroth adjusted his horn-rimmed bifocals. “Mr. President, if the Soviets have perfected a laser weapon, we have absolutely no way to stop it.” He paused to let the point sink in. “They have one of the world’s best men in quantum physics and optics in Andrei Parchuk. They must have solved the problem of directing the beam up into the ionosphere and then down to a targeted point with sufficient accuracy to obliterate the designated area. The laser was never the biggest obstacle for us. We worked out the theory months ago. Our dilemma has been getting the funds to change theory into reality. As you know, Congress has been extremely reluctant to funnel unlimited cash into the military. This situation goes back to the sixties when all that trouble was made over research contracts during Vietnam. Since that time we’ve been living hand to mouth. Perhaps the enemy has not had to answer to its population and gone way ahead in their research. That being the case, they could well have the weapon they claim. If so, they have the ultimate terror gun: a laser capable of total annihilation. It could, for instance, eliminate Washington.”
The remark paralyzed everyone in the room. Stark stared at a portrait of John Adams hanging over Martin Manson’s head and cursed silently.
Sam Riordan was sitting five chairs away to his left. He spoke now. “Mr. President, something we have so far overlooked should be discussed at this time.”
“Go ahead, Sam.”
“The ultimatum was signed by Krylov, not Smirnov. That must mean that he is the top dog there now and would also explain this whole nightmare. Krylov has been the leader of the opposition to Smirnov for years now. He was slapped down at the time of the Arab-Israeli Six Day War in 1967 for his part in fomenting the disaster. But he has kept his hand in and stayed around the fringes of power. He has that knack for survival. Krylov has always hated the West and preached the hard line with a vengeance. It’s entirely possible that he’s been waiting for some chance to throw Smirnov out, and the successful firing of the laser may have been just what he needed. Our reports indicate he’s a reckless gambler, foolhardy and unpredictable. A few other points about him. He has a wife who suffers from diabetes, which necessitated the amputation of her right leg two years ago; he drinks great quantities of vodka but is not a drunkard as far as we know; he does use hashish, however, which is bought for him by a contact working with suppliers in Iran; Krylov has been ‘turned on’ several times at our embassy receptions.”
Riordan handed a sheet of paper up to Stark, containing further biographical data on Krylov. Stark read it over and passed it along to Martin Manson.
Five hundred feet over the harsh terrain of the Negev Desert, a CIA agent named Michael Murphy looked down through the early-morning sunlight at what was left of the Israeli atomic center. He called to the helicopter’s pilot, “Take it down as low as you can.” The pilot shouted above the racket of the motor, “Murph, I don’t dare go much lower. The updraft from the fires might catch us.”
Murphy nodded and took notes on what he was witnessing. After ten more minutes, he tapped the pilot on the right shoulder and jerked his thumb to say, “Let’s get out of here.”
In eighteen minutes the helicopter landed on a runway at Lod Airport, south of Tel Aviv. Murphy jumped out while the dust was still whirling and ran to a small building at the edge of the main terminal. At the desk, an operator nodded to him, and Murphy went into a telephone booth and picked up the phone. He said, “Hello,” and someone said, “Just a moment, please.”
Then President Stark said, “Go ahead.”
Michael Murphy glanced at his notes as he spoke to the anxious and wakeful leader of a sleeping nation half a world away. “Mr. President, the Israeli atomic facility is completely gone. Large fires over an area of two square miles. Of seven buildings, only one wall remains upright. The entire region has been cordoned off by the military, and initial indications estimate no survivors from a work force of one thousand two hundred. Also the Defense Ministry has told me that fourteen atomic bombs warehoused in a concrete bunker were all detonated, at least the high explosives in them, and the fissionable material has burned up.” Murphy nervously waited for a reaction from Stark. There was none. He read again from his notes. “The Israeli cabinet is now meeting in the Knesset. It seems totally unaware of the source of this attack. No one can believe the Egyptians could have anything so sophisticated.” Murphy was finished with his report. Stark thanked him and told him to keep Riordan informed about the Israeli cabinet’s actions.
Stark hung up and said, “The Russians are not bluffing. The Israelis have lost their atomic bombs.”
Martin Manson covered his head with his hands. General Roarke scrawled on his work pad furiously. He kept writing the word “Shit” over and over.
Stark leaned on his elbows and continued, “We have to come up with alternatives. First of all, we can surrender in less than seventy hours — the deadline is Friday night at eleven eighteen. At this point, I cannot even contemplate that. Secondly, we can fight them with our missiles, and, as I mentioned earlier, I cannot endorse that, either. Third, we can do nothing and wait for them to make the first move against the country. But that would be gambling with the lives of our people. Perhaps Krylov might shy away from mass killings. Maybe someone there will prevail on him to lessen his demands on us. That’s a very faint hope, though.”
Martin Manson, the white-haired Secretary of State, had been following the conversation carefully. His legal mind was seeking a loophole, a straw to grasp. In thirty-seven years of practice, he had acquired a reputation for exacting attention to detail which helped him to become the foremost corporation lawyer in the nation. His reputation rested on his ability to sift available evidence and seize on a point and exploit it. “Since the Russians want us to meet with them in Geneva, why don’t we just wait until we size up their position face to face?”