Parchuk’s face had beamed as he explored the implications.
“Just imagine, Anatoly, man will be able to drive his cars on minute quantities of tritium. Homes can be fueled with it. It’s so abundant that we can revolutionize the daily life of every human being.”
Serkin had agreed, but he cautioned: “You know the dangers, too, though. Any fool can rig up a distillery in his backyard and convert water into this isotope. Sooner or later, he can have the equivalent of an atomic bomb hidden away in his cellar.”
Anatoly Serkin put the Beretta back in the drawer. He got up and walked toward his private bathroom. From the medicine cabinet he took down his shaving mirror and slipped the six-inch disk into the pocket of his smock. As Serkin left his office, he was humming the melody of Prokofiev’s Third Symphony.
In the laser center’s infirmary, it was 8:50 A.M. when Colonel Kapitsa returned to Joe Safcek. He inquired solicitously about the American’s wound. The colonel had brought Safcek a gift, a freshly cut bouquet of yellow roses, which stood in a slim white vase beside the bed. Now the Russian offered Safcek a cigarette, which he accepted gratefully, and the two smoked without further conversation. Safcek enjoyed it greatly. He had almost forgotten his pain in his desire to inhale tobacco again. Though Martha had been after him for years to give it up, he would not. In his business, life was short enough and he had no intention of denying himself a pleasure so simple. When he thought of his present position, he was glad he had not. At best, he would spend years in a Soviet labor camp. At worst, he would be killed either by a firing squad or…
Safcek wanted to ask the Russian if they had found his pistol, but he dared not show any undue interest. The Soviet officer finished his smoke and smiled at the American. Safcek stared into the weatherbeaten face and smiled back. “In your country, what do you do with agents who bungle missions?”
The Russian laughed: “We give them one last chance. We send them to America and make them sell drugs. If they fail at that, we abandon them to the FBI.”
Safcek had to laugh in spite of himself, and the Russian seemed pleased at his little joke. He scratched his ear while the laughter rumbled and died, then suddenly said: “Colonel Safcek, we have a problem. My men have scoured the fields and have not come up with your explosive material. We did find their container with that ingenious packing material but not the charges themselves. Now, would you mind going over the situation one more time with me? It’s important, as you can gather, that I find these little things as soon as possible. Our people are becoming very nervous wondering where they are.”
He offered Safcek another cigarette, and Safcek noticed for the first time the shiny gold case he carried. The colonel seemed to have expensive tastes.
Safcek blew smoke through his nostrils and wrinkled his brow. “I told you what I remembered, Colonel. Let’s see, we were near the lip of the gully. She had her rifle and knife with her. I had two pistols. Then I fell. The charges must have been somewhere between us.” Safcek sought for plausible details. “I remember,” he continued, “that she picked them out of the box while I went ahead to have a look. Colonel, they must be out there, near where she was.”
“Are you sure you had twelve charges? Of course you are. I’m sorry I asked such a silly question. We found everything else you said was out there, and your story checks out except for the explosives. Annoying, isn’t it?”
Joe Safcek was breathing heavily now, assured that the deadly pistol was somewhere within the perimeter and capable of being handled. He had to know more.
“If I’m really lucky, Colonel, one of them will go off and set a fire here that will burn down the whole complex.”
The secret police officer laughed uneasily. “I hope I can disappoint you on that score, my friend. But I do have the beautiful pistol in safe custody.”
Safcek willed his face into expressionlessness.
“As a connoisseur of firearms, I was immediately attracted to it. It’s a Colt .45, correct? I have seen one of those before. I think it is the type of weapon your police departments in th United States use as standard equipment. A very efficient tool, is it not?”
Safcek nodded diffidently. “It’s all yours, Colonel. I guess I’ll have no further use for it.”
The colonel continued: “Don’t worry about it. I take care of guns better than I do my own children. I have a special case in my office where I keep my collection. It will rest there as a memento of our friendship. When things settle down here, I intend to polish it and put it on a velvet cloth for all my aides to admire.”
The colonel abruptly got up. He left several cigarettes on the bed, waved, and went out to look again for the missing plastique.
Joe Safcek lit another smoke while he tried to figure out how he could get to the officers quarters and find the atomic bomb.
By 10:10 P.M., the entire cabinet of the United States was inside the mountain in Maryland. Dug years before to protect the leaders of the nation in case of nuclear war, the enormous cavern was now the nerve center where the President could continue functioning while fully protected from enemy weapons. In his new Situation Room, William Stark kept abreast of the latest information from Intelligence.
The Soviet fleet had been anchored fifteen miles east of Montauk since eight o’clock, and the lights of some of the vessels had been turned on as if celebrating a holiday. The fleet commander was evidently waiting for guests to arrive.
In Cuba, a report had just come in that the members of the Soviet delegation had left their hotel and driven to the airport in Havana. The plane’s pilot had received clearance from airport officials for a course taking him directly north toward Florida and the American mainland. The same informant at the airport stated that several Soviet officials were talking openly about shopping for their wives and girl friends on Fifth Avenue.
The situation map showed the disposition of every American unit in the world. It also showed those of the Soviet bloc. Nowhere on either side was any element in a Red Alert condition. Stark examined these unreal bits of data before he went into his office to weigh the decision to begin a nuclear war.
In a corner of the room, Morris Farber sat writing furiously in a stenographer’s pad. On the brief flight from Washington to the mountain headquarters, Sam Riordan had revealed details of the past days to the astounded reporter. Riordan handed Farber the original of the Soviet ultimatum and detailed the subsequent Soviet actions to discredit Stark and pave the way for the use of the laser. The rest of the passengers in the helicopter had listened thoughtfully while Farber tried to write the story precisely as he heard it. He realized as a newsman that he was being given the most momentous story in history, but at the same time he wondered whether he would ever get a chance to print it. Later in the sanctuary of the underground White House, Morris Farber continued to record the nightmare. He would watch President Stark wrestle with the decision to kill millions of human beings.
Stark could not sit still. In shirt sleeves, he wandered up and down the floor, pausing now and then to sip Scotch and soda. The drink was having no effect on him. He knew it would not. His tolerance for great quantities of liquor was already a legend in Washington, and alcohol never clouded his judgment.
Riordan and Randall sat studying the latest intelligence reports.
Martin Manson was down the hall, briefing the rest of the cabinet on the depressing chronology of events. The members were aghast at the knowledge they now possessed. Some asked openly why they had not been consulted earlier. While Manson tried to heal wounded spirits, in the President’s office, Stark suddenly asked: “Should we let Terhune in on this now?”