“We need your authority.”
In the sitting room, the President looked around him. He saw the appointments secretary, an old friend and overweight political strategist who had advanced to the White House by virtue of his friendship and his penchant for remembering the name of every county chairman in the country. He saw the night duty officer from the Situation Room, a young naval commander he knew only as Sedgwick. He saw the Emergency War Orders officer, one of a faceless corps of shadows to whom he never had spoken, never so much as nodded. He was alone.
“The Secretary of Defense is not here,” he said into the clammy phone. “The Secretary of State is not here. The head of the National Security Council is not here.”
“They will not be there, sir. We anticipated this. SIOP has accounted for it. Confusion was expected. You do not have time for your advisers and you do not need them.”
“A decision of this magnitude—”
“We do not need decisions, sir. We need your authority.”
“To nuke Moscow? To nuke Kiev and Leningrad and Vladivostok? You don’t need my decisions?”
“We’ve been through this before, sir. You don’t have to make those decisions. SIOP will make those decisions. We need your authority. In the codes. In the EWO’s briefcase.”
“SIOP will make those decisions? A goddamn computer?”
“The goddamn computer has twenty-five minutes, sir. You may have less than four. The computer’s brain registers data, evaluates alternatives several million times faster than your brain, sir. SIOP has all the options and has never lost.”
“Because it’s against the goddam law!”
“Because we decided long ago we did not want to lose. Because we realized long ago that a single man or a group of men could not react quickly enough to the options. We placed the options, determined by the best human brains of two generations, under the authority and understanding of eight Presidents, in SIOP. We placed the Russian options in RSIOP. It is all there—even, I’m certain, this rather strange attack sequence.”
“Strange?”
“We’re wasting time, sir. Your time.”
“Damn you, general, I want to know what is coming at us. If anything.”
“Sir, our readouts show a massive attack from submarines, directed almost entirely at our strategic-bomber bases. The exceptions are our Trident submarine base in Puget Sound, which is multitargeted, and the single small warhead directed at Washington. Soviet land-based silo doors are open, but only a handful of ICBM’s have been launched. Their targets are Omaha, Cheyenne, and a token number of Minuteman installations at Malmstrom in Great Falls. Frankly, it is not a strategically sound attack. If I had more time, I would be puzzled.”
The President paused, exhausted.
The EWO thrust sealed packets at him. The duty officer talked on a second telephone. The appointments secretary looked at him plaintively.
“We have to get you downstairs, Mr. President,” the secretary said. “Quickly. Or aboard the chopper.”
The President stared at him in disbelief. He heard the whump-whump-whump of the giant helicopter landing on the South Lawn.
“Rat’s ass bit of difference downstairs will make. And that chopper won’t make it past those beady red eyes that are staring at me.”
“You are not secure here, Mr. President.”
“Secure? And I’m secure downstairs? The basement hasn’t been secure since the fifties. It’s about as secure as Omaha.”
“Secure from surveillance, Mr. President. The phone line is secure. We are not certain about the room.”
The President laughed, a harsh, crackling laugh. “You mean the Preme might be listening? That’s rich. Well, fuck you, Preme.”
The duty officer interrupted, holding the second phone loosely at his side. “A message is arriving on the direct teletype from the Soviet Premier, Mr. President.”
The President’s head started to spin. “What’s it say?”
“Eyes only for you, Mr. President.”
“Well, get the fucker.”
“Two more minutes, Mr. President.”
The President placed both his palms against his forehead, running his fingers roughly through hair that suddenly felt unnaturally oily. “Did you hear that, general?” he finally said into the phone.
“Yes, sir. Nastygram on the hotline. Shrewd buggers, aren’t they?”
“What is your superbrain saying now about the Premier’s earlier message for me?”
“Three minutes, twenty seconds to impact. Trajectory still uncertain. Wobbling slightly. Forty kilotons. Ground burst likely. Ten-ninety on Andrews. Still fifty-fifty on White House.”
The President stiffened now, ignoring the trajectory and target odds, focusing on a nagging human question that SIOP never would compute. “I’ll wait,” he said.
“You’ll what?”
“I’ll wait, general.”
“Mr. President, you are playing with the fate of millions.”
“That’s how I earn my two hundred thou, general.”
“They’re mousetrapping you.”
“I’ll wait.”
Icarus paused, feeling the heat of the sun. “You will accept my resignation, Mr. President?”
“Strange time to run, general.”
“Effective in twenty-five minutes, Mr. President. I want it on the record.”
“The record. Very well.”
“Good luck, Mr. President.”
“Thank you, general. And to you.”
“You fully realize, sir, that under my authority I launched the B-52’s when I moved us to Double Take?”
“You what?! God damn you, general.”
THREE
• 0608 Zulu
After two weeks working in this crazy place, the Vietnamese counter boy just wanted out of here as fast as he could every night. At ten o’clock sharp. This was a place of dragons and malevolent spirits. It had no soul. It was a place to play war. Crazy war. When the Americans had no place to fight a war, they made a place to play war. He would never understand them and he would never like this place.
The counter boy unlocked the cash register to add the last penny the American had bounced off his counter. He hurriedly locked the register again, still unhappy that the visitor had kept him here past the ten-o’clock closing. He rubbed one last smudge off the stainless-steel counter and turned to leave.
Down the hallway in the game room, Kazakhs kicked the Space Invaders game in frustration. “Fucking machine,” he muttered. “Life’s run by fucking computers that don’t work.” He kicked the machine again, watching the game flare in rebellion after eating his last quarter. He turned to catch Halupalai grinning at him.
“You laughing at me, you over-the-hill beachboy?”
Kazakhs leveled his heaviest stare at the gunner, but his eyes gave themselves away with their twinkle. He liked Halupalai. Everybody liked Halupalai.
“Or you laughing at Moreau? Got her a good one, didn’t I, old buddy?”
“You’re hopeless, Kazakhs. Why don’t you let up on her?”
“Me?” the pilot protested. “Don’t lay that one on me, pal. This joint’s been like a damned sorority house since Moreau showed up.”
“No, you’d like that. Your problem, captain, is that our hardnosed Vassar copilot won’t let you romp through her fortress like it was a sorority house.”
“Worst mistake the Air Force ever made, letting broads into SAC.”
“That’s not what you thought when she first showed up.”
Their eyes locked. Then the twinkle returned. “That’s what broads are for, Halupalai. Typin’ or screwin’. Wasn’t much typin’ to do around here.”
“Not much of the other, either.” Halupalai paused. “As it turned out.”