The captain went to his desk and, swallowing a mouthful of gin, dropped the first slide into place. ‘These pictures were taken through Periscope Number One’s geosynchronous satellite array.’
‘We worked on that rig,’ said Randstable.
‘Like any global conflict,’ said Sverre, ‘World War Three included many exciting and memorable battles.’ A blur lit the screen. Sverre twisted the projector lens, and a charred crevasse appeared. ‘The Battle of Joplin, Missouri,’ he narrated. He changed slides. A burning field, automobiles lying on their roofs like flipped turtles. ‘The Battle of Dearborn, Michigan,’ said Sverre. New slide. A prairie covered with dark scars. ‘The Battle of Dodge City, Kansas,’ the captain explained. New slide. A stand of blistered trees rising from a swamp. ‘The Battle of Winter Haven, Florida.’ New slide. An ocean of ashes. ‘The Battle of Twin Falls, Idaho.’
Now the images came in rapid fire. Racine: Amarillo. Hagerstown. Bowling Green. Chattanooga. Bangor. Within half an hour Sverre had spun through four circular trays, each holding a hundred and twenty slides.
He shut off the bulb, and the fall of Troy, New York, dissolved into nothingness. The evacuees sat in the thick darkness, drinking. Randstable made a sound like a dog having a nightmare. Brat alternated snorts with coughs. For five minutes not a word was spoken.
‘Just how reliable are these damage assessments?’ an invisible Brat said at last.
‘No doubt there are pockets of survivors,’ said Sverre, ‘and I’m fairly confident that ten or fifteen towns were overlooked.’ The lights came on. ‘But on the whole the post-exchange environment is accurately reflected here.’
‘Yeah? Well, that’s absurd,’ said Brat. ‘The MARCH Plan was chock full of escalation controls.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Randstable. ‘Oh, God. Oh, dear.’ The former whiz kid pulled a small magnetic chess set from his jacket. ‘Quick! Does anybody know a good chess problem? Give me a problem, please, somebody!’
Sverre said, ‘Put eight queens on the board in such a way that none can take another.’
‘Not enough queens,’ wheezed Randstable. ‘Doesn’t matter. I’ve solved it already.’
‘All right. Use all four bishops to—’ Sverre cut himself off, having noticed that Brat’s man-portable thermonuclear device was out of its holster and firmly fixed in the general’s right hand.
‘Captain Sverre, should you disobey my command, I shall exercise my option to fire this missile, thereby airbursting a one-kiloton warhead within ten inches of your body.’ Brat aimed the weapon at Sverre’s stomach. ‘I hereby order you to terminate Project Citrus. I further order you to feed the following strategic enemy targets into your fire-control computers.’ He removed a small key from around his neck and stuck it in the launching pad. ‘The ICBM complex at Novosibirsk, the ICBM complex at Kirensk, the Strategic Rocket Forces headquarters at Kharkov, the warhead factory at Minsk, the central command post at Gorky, the alternate—’
‘We have always been with you,’ interrupted Sverre, his smile ever-growing, his eyes hot and pulsing like those of the vulture George had seen at ground zero, ‘waiting to get in.’
‘I don’t know what school you went to, Captain,’ said Brat, ‘but at the Air Force Academy they teach that winning is better than losing.’
‘Oh, dear,’ said Randstable as he set up his chess pieces. ‘Oh, God.’
Sverre placed a bony, weathered hand on George’s shoulder. ‘I think we’ll leave the key strategic decision with Mr Paxton here. Say the word, George, and I’ll send all thirty-six of my Multiprongs, fully armed, against the enemy. A grand-scale one hundred and forty-four megaton retaliatory strike.’
‘You want me to decide?’ said George.
‘Yes,’ said Sverre.
‘Me?’
‘Correct.’
‘Why me?’
‘I’m curious to see what will happen.’
George did not think it right for the fate of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics to be in his hands.
‘I’m not really qualified for this,’ he said.
‘You’ve fought as many nuclear wars as the rest of us,’ said Sverre.
A mile-high tombstone appeared in George’s mind, Design No. 1067 in Vermont blue-gray. A million names were inscribed in the granite. DULUTH. DODGE CITY. SAN FRANCISCO. PHILADELPHIA. CHRYSLERS. CBS. XEROX CORPORATION. THE SUPER BOWL.
What had Sverre called it? A retaliatory strike? A fair and reasonable notion. They sandblasted us. We must do the same to them.
And yet…
‘Tell me if I’ve got this straight, Brat,’ said George. ‘You want to blow up Russia, correct?’
‘I want to kill the Soviets’ reserve ICBMs and prevent their being salvoed in subsequent attacks,’ Brat replied.
‘Why?’ asked George.
‘What did you say?’
‘I said, why?’
‘National defense, that’s why.’
‘Yes, yes, I can understand that,’ said George. ‘Sure. However, if we’re going to have national defense, Brat, don’t we also need, well… you know…’
‘What?’ said Brat.
‘A nation.’
‘It’s a necessary condition,’ said Randstable, whose left cerebral hemisphere was preparing to play chess with his right. ‘Please put that thing away before you get us all killed.’
‘If we don’t take out their reserves,’ Brat insisted, ‘the Soviets will use them to hunt down the survivors.’
‘Painful as it may be, I think we must conclude that MARCH is no longer the operative strategy here,’ said Randstable, staring blankly at the chessboard. ‘We’ve even gone past the SPASM, I’d say – the motive matrix is completely different now.’ He turned suddenly toward Sverre, his fingers splayed and wriggling. ‘But then why this Antarctica business?’
‘Your job for the present,’ said the captain, ‘is to work with Dr Valcourt on conquering your survivor’s guilt.’
Brat perspired and trembled, as if gripped by a high fever. ‘You want a motive, William? I’ve got a motive. Vengeance may not be a pretty word, but it’s what’s expected of us.’
‘Right!’ said Sverre. ‘We owe it to all those millions of dead people to make more millions of dead people. Be careful how you rewrite strategic doctrine, General, or you’ll come out of this war without a single medal. Mr Paxton, I need your answer.’
XEROX CORPORATION. THE SUPER BOWL. MAXWELL HOUSE COFFEE. HERSHEY BARS. THE WORLD SERIES. CHEERIOS. AUNT ISABEL. COUSIN WILLIE. NICKIE FROSTIG. JUSTINE PAXTON. HOLLY PAXTON.
Vengeance. George pictured the word in his mind. Obviously Brat felt strongly about it. Still, the strategic decision is mine, he thought – mine and mine alone. An epitaph materialized at the bottom of the mile-high tombstone. A ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-FOUR MEGATON RETALIATORY STRIKE WILL NOT BRING US BACK, it said.
That settled the matter.
‘I believe I would like to start having fresh orange juice with my breakfast,’ said George. ‘Keeps away the scurvy, I hear.’
‘Lousy decision, Paxton,’ fumed Brat. ‘Really bad.’
‘I’m sorry,’ George said softly.
The general’s forehead threw off hot droplets. ‘Ten seconds, Captain. That’s all you’ve got, and then David fires his slingshot. Nine… eight… seven…’