Harpoon drew his hand away from the phone. “Millions.”
“Of Americans.”
“Yes.”
“And Russians.”
“Yes.”
“A relatively even exchange.” The man harrumphed and went silent, his gaze drifting around his new quarters. The drift stopped on a far blue wall where the portable Seal of the President of the United States stared down on its newest possessor. A clutch of olive branches sprouted from one set of talons on the emblem’s proud eagle. An array of arrows jutted from the other.
The man felt a great debt to that eagle and the country it represented. The only son of a dirt-poor Oklahoma farmer, he had gone into the oil fields when he was fifteen, sunk his own well when he was twenty-two, and brought in his first when he was twenty-five. A year later he had his first million dollars and found the Lord about the same time, seeing each as a reflection of the other and both as a reflection of his country’s gifts. The Oklahoma City Times called the young oilman an American classic—a man who talked hard, worked hard, prayed hard, and had all the rewards to prove it.
In his late thirties, during the continuing OPEC crisis, he merged his successful independent oil company into one of the majors, accepting a fortune and a vice-presidency. It became the unhappiest time of his life. He didn’t trust multinational oil, didn’t trust anybody who placed as much value on a Persian sand dune as he did on good American soil. He edged into politics, mostly fund-raising. He played the game hard and, some said, mean—skewering candidates who failed to see Americanism his way, pouring cash into the campaigns of those who saw the dream as he saw it.
The last recipient of his cash had been elected President. And the invitation to join the Cabinet was like a prayer answered, particularly when the President-elect told him the first order of business was energy independence to help put the squeeze on the Russians. His mind drifted back to the meeting at which the President-elect had offered him the job. The new President had talked grandly and seriously of the great social responsibility that went with the appointment, emphasizing the chance he would get to move a nation on issues that would carry his imprint far beyond his lifetime. It was a chance to give back to his country part of what his country had given him. He had accepted without hesitation, and the President had thanked him warmly.
“How’d the President get it?” the successor asked quietly, his eyes still fixed on the Seal.
“In Nighthawk One, sir,” Harpoon replied. “His chopper.”
But it soon became clear the President had wanted him for other duties, too. He had become the administration’s sonuvabitch, the man who did the balls-slicing while the President smiled, a political lightning rod who drew the bolts meant for the man in the White House. Even those well-schooled in the alley-fighting of Washington politics were surprised at how well he performed those chores. Behind the leather chair in his office on the sixth floor of the Department of the Interior hung a sign that read: “Don’t Get Mad, Get Even.”
“The chopper started for Andrews. The crew saw they couldn’t make it and tried to run.”
The successor pulled his eyes back into sharp focus on the Presidential Seal, his Seal now. Above the talons clutching both arrows and olive branches, the single rockhard eye of the eagle glinted at him in challenge. An eye for an eye. A relatively even exchange.
“We assume the chopper was crushed in the blast wave.”
The successor’s eyes swung abruptly away from the eagle, taking the glint with them. “Assume?”
Harpoon stared back at the man. He wanted to get him off this subject. He wanted to get the plane off the ground. “Sir,” he said evenly, “you don’t go looking for bodies in this kind of war. You don’t find them.” Harpoon paused very briefly. “We haven’t heard a word from any political or civil authority since we got the message to come for you.” He paused again, adding, “Four hours ago.”
The successor looked at him strangely. “Can’t all be dead.”
“No, sir. Not all. Our communications system is dead. You were out there. In a safe area. Nothing’s working.”
The successor stiffened. “That’s why I’m in here, admiral. We spent a billion dollars protectin’ these planes from nuclear effects.”
Harpoon stifled a sigh. “You looked in the window downstairs, sir,” he said. “We’ve got our gear back up to ten, maybe twenty years beyond Alexander Graham Bell. Doesn’t do us much good if there’s nobody at the other end of the phone.”
The plane swerved sharply, causing one of the Secret Service agents to stagger. His Uzi wobbled menacingly.
“Sir, those men must sit down,” Harpoon said in alarm. “If one of those weapons goes off inside this aircraft…”
The successor ignored him. “You tellin’ me the President of the United States is inside his command post and he can’t talk to his troops, can’t talk to his commanders?”
Harpoon glanced worriedly at the agents. “Right now, sir, we’re having more luck picking up a disc jockey in Walla Walla.”
“Don’t you be sarcastic with me, admiral,” the successor bristled.
“Sarcastic?” Harpoon forced himself to keep his voice calm. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m deadly serious. We’re picking up a few distress signals and some garbled messages. But communications? We’re getting primitive messages through to a handful of bombers. Through Alice.” He immediately knew he shouldn’t have slipped into the lingo yet. “That is it,” he added.
“Alice?”
“The Looking Glass plane, sir. The Strategic Air Command’s airborne command post. It’s a thousand miles north of us and our only tie to anything now.”
Harpoon thought he saw the first real flicker of fear cross the man’s face. The engines had stopped whining again. Jesus, get this plane out of here. The flicker faded.
“Harpoon they call you?”
“My code name, sir.”
“Well, Harpoon, you and Alice better get your act together fast.” The man sounded as if his television set had gone blank and the answer was to plug it in again. “If you think this President is going to let this stop at a relatively even exchange, you speared the wrong fish.”
“Let it stop?” Harpoon fought the exasperation out of his voice. “We don’t know how to stop it, sir. You have a damned tough decision to make. But it may be like the tree falling in the wilderness. If nobody hears it, did it make a sound?” He held a rockhard gaze on the man. ‘This war, sir, is completely out of control.”
Suddenly the plane turned hard left, then lurched to an abrupt stop. The man with the turquoise belt buckle moaned. The judge firmly closed his eyes. The younger of the two agents lost his footing, careened into the back of the admiral’s seat, and lost his grip on his Uzi. The small gray riot gun slithered over the admiral’s shoulder, bounced off his knee, and landed on the floor between the officer and the successor. Harpoon reached over, but the successor clamped his foot on the weapon. Pure fear finally gleamed in the man’s eyes. A small white light blinked urgently on the telephone console between them. Harpoon retreated from the weapon and lifted the phone, listening. “Crap,” he said after seconds. “The Looking Glass saw it? Then go, man, go!” He listened further, his craggy face rapidly contorting in anguish. “Oh, my God,” he breathed into the phone. After a moment he said bleakly, “Take it over the top of them.” He stared at shoes still polished to a duty-night sheen and slowly ground an errant bur into the rug. “Dammit, pilot, take it over the top of them!” Harpoon cradled the phone softly.
“Give the gun back.”
The engine rumble rose rapidly into its piercing takeoff whine, the plane edging forward, men rolling.