Act of God (20 page)

"Yeah, sure," Ugo said, knowing better. "But, tell me, weren't you a little disappointed there wasn't any trouble? You came over here all primed for a fight and they just waltzed away."

"I was never so relieved in my life," Sam protested. Then, after some consideration: "Well, maybe I was a
little
disappointed."

Ugo cackled. "Once a cowboy, always a cowboy."

Three days after the Russians' departure,
Bountyhunter
1 and 2 cast off their anchor lines and boosted away from the comet. The chase was on. Nobody else shared Ugo's sanguine confidence. They did not know the vector of acceleration of the Soviet ships. A variety of combinations was conceivable for continuously boosting ships. They had to depend on Ugo's intuitive ability to bridge the gaps in logic and radar data.

"Who's their best pilot?" Ugo asked on the fifth day out from the comet. He was glued to his instruments constantly now.

Hoerter thought for a moment. "Korsakov."

"Then that's who we're up against. The guy's brilliant! He's varying the magnitude and direction of acceleration, which makes it hard as hell to predict his course just from radar ranging. He must have a damn good computer, because that's his only hope of making it to Earth at the right time and the right terminal velocity, unless he's got reaction mass to spare for really profligate deceleration."

"They have plenty of reaction mass," Kita said. "All those icebergs, remember?"

"I don't think they want to use them," Ugo said. "I been looking at those pictures of the cradles. I think they were supposed to pick up eight icebergs for each ship, not six. They musta had to break off operations when they saw us coming in. So already they're four icebergs short. They don't want to use up any for reaction mass, because that could disappoint old Nekrasov real bad. I wouldn't want to disappoint that man."

Once they were free of the relatively dense, inner region of the cometary coma, they were able to locate the Russian ships using their diffraction-limited telescopes with computer assisted image-intensifiers.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

ABOARD
PIONYER
I

Korsakov still could scarcely believe that the Americans were pursuing him. When they had detected the approach of the American ships, it had been the shock of his life. He had ordered mining operations broken off immediately and he quickly had everybody back aboard and the ships buttoned up. None too soon, either, as mere hours after the first alarm he had gaped unbelieving at his television screen to see the sinister, spacesuited figures come creeping out of the mist. It was like a dream.

Now he was facing the toughest decision of his life. He could still get away from the American ships. His head start would make that easy. But, it would mean jettisoning his cargo of ice. That would be the end of Project Ivan the Terrible, at least the opening phase. If he did not cut the ice loose, the Americans were almost sure to catch up. They were then sure to do one of two things: They would destroy both Russian ships, or they would invoke their right to an on-site inspection and board, at gunpoint if necessary. And he was perfectly sure that the American ships were armed, heavily. Else why bother to pursue the Russian ships? For a while he futilely cursed the fact that his ships were unarmed. He had been a fighter pilot for years; and he knew that, with adequate armament, he could blow both American ships to bits.

"We could let them board," said Kaminsky, breaking into his thoughts. "After all, what is there for them to see? The ships are unarmed. Are they going to raise a fuss about some ice? We just say it's for perfectly peaceful purposes. After all, if they protest bringing back bulk cargoes such as raw ice or rock, how can they ever hope to exploit the mineral wealth of space themselves?"

Korsakov nodded. "I've been thinking of that myself. We could brazen it out, but then they'd get pictures of the inside of this ship. I don't want to be known as the captain who gave away the tightest-kept secrets of the Soviet Union to the Americans."

"When our negotiators signed the accord," Kaminsky pointed out, "they must have known what an on-site inspection would entail."

Korsakov pounded a noncritical portion of the console with his fist. "Nobody ever expected them to pull an inspection unexpectedly, in deep space! We've had no time to get ready, and we have no way to dismount and hide the sensitive equipment."

"Korsakov," Kaminsky said, pitching his voice low so the others could not hear, "I don't really know what this Ivan the Terrible business entails. None of us do. But it's something big and military. We all know old man Tarkovsky's theory about comet ice and the Tunguska blast. And we all know Nekrasov's pulling the strings here. They aren't chasing us because they want the exercise. Those Americans are armed and if we get too close to our destination I don't think they'll hesitate to shoot. Let them board. A few pictures of some gear that's outdated to them anyway and a little embarrassment—why bother? I think it's all up anyway. They're armed and we aren't."

"We have our heavy-duty lasers," Korsakov said, stubbornly. "Once they're close enough to board, the lasers will be just as effective as their long-range weapons."

Kaminsky was shaking his head. "That's the fighter pilot talking, not the cosmonaut. They have two ships. Do you really think that they'll bring both of them so close? Not a chance. One will stand off with its lasers sighted and its rockets locked on and the first hostile move on our part will end everything. If there was something to be gained from fighting, I'd say do it. But there isn't. It's just a setback, not the end. We've had plenty of those. And if it's the end for Nekrasov—" Kaminsky performed a weightless shrug, "well, we've seen a lot of them come and go too, haven't we?"

"I've sent an utmost priority directly to Nekrasov himself," Korsakov said. "I'm asking for instructions. No answer yet."

"When did you send it?"

"Three hours ago."

"No more than a half-hour delay each way at this point. What's taking him so long to answer?"

Korsakov had nothing to say.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

KREMLIN

Nekrasov was preparing to leave for dinner with Marshal of the Soviet Union Petrovich when the message from
Pionyer I
was brought to him. The telecommunications director at Tsiolkovsky Space Center had standing orders from the Deputy Premier to deliver any message from either vessel to him immediately, regardless of the time of day or night.

The news about the arrival of the Americans did not alarm him much. He already knew from orbiting surveillance reports that the Americans had sent out two ships, probably interplanetary in nature, ten days after the
Pionyers
had left parking orbit. It took little imagination to figure out where those ships were headed. In war, you could never have things all your own way, it was necessary only to have a decisive advantage. He knew that his time advantage was adequate. The Americans would need around two weeks to refill their water tanks, he had been told.

He was somewhat disappointed to find that each crew had been able to bring back only six icebergs instead of the planned eight. Still, twelve bombs were marginally enough to accomplish Plan B of Project Ivan the Terrible. It was always wise to have backup plans and a sizable built-in redundancy factor.

He glanced at his watch. There was still plenty of time to meet with Petrovich. He went to his super-secure telephone and punched the code for Baratynsky's corresponding instrument.

"Comrade Deputy Premier?" Baratynsky answered. Nobody else had that particular code. Nekrasov read out the report he had just received.

"Is there anything whatever to concern us?" Nekrasov asked. "I truly dislike unpleasant surprises."

"Nothing," Baratynsky assured him. "It sounds as if the Americans have sent out a suicide mission. Water separation alone will cost them a great deal of turnaround time. Their devices aren't up to it. Two weeks minimum, and if they take longer than that—" Nekrasov could picture Baratynsky feeding the figures into his computer: velocities, the comet's orbit, consumables, other things. A minute later he continued: "If it takes them any longer than that, then they aren't coming back at all."

"That is good to know, Baratynsky. I will see you at the extraordinary meeting of the Politburo in three days."

The dinner with Petrovich went as planned. It was really no more than a confirmation of the plans he had been laying down for years. Petrovich was a bulky man with the bearish, jovial disposition stereotypical of high Russian officers. Nekrasov did not trust stereotypes and he knew the cold-eyed Petrovich to be a scheming, ambitious climber who had reached the top of his profession and was looking for new worlds to conquer. Such men were easily manipulated by men like Nekrasov. To this end, Nekrasov had certain files in his possession on Petrovich's more questionable activities over the years. Early in his life, Nekrasov had taken to heart Stalin's maxim: "Trust is good, but control is better."

They had agreed that the time to spring their trap was at the extraordinary Politburo meeting which was being held, ostensibly, to discuss the astounding success of the latest comet mission and its impact on future Soviet policies toward the non-communist world. Nekrasov had proposed the meeting and Chekhov, a fool if ever there was one, had agreed to it.

There came a time when, after all one's planning and plotting, one had to make the decisive move. This meeting would be Nekrasov's moment. He had in his pocket the only two men besides himself who were of real consequence: the head of KGB and the Marshal of the Soviet Union. Most important, he had early on seized control of the most momentous scientific and technological breakthrough of the age. Such an opportunity fell to a man of power only once in a generation, if that often. Roosevelt had had his atomic bomb, without really knowing what he had. Nekrasov had Project Ivan the Terrible, and with it he would make the Soviet Union the only unquestioned superpower on Earth. With himself at its head. At the meeting he would announce his objectives, make a few arrests, and install himself as General Secretary of the Party, Chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet and Chairman of the Council of Ministers. Since the Revolution only Stalin and, briefly, Brezhnev, had held such power. And neither had wielded such power
outside
the Soviet Union. Petrovich he would reward with the post of Defense Minister, edging into retirement the aging Marshal who now held the post. Ryabkin would then occupy his own position, Deputy Premier, and would be allowed to name one of his own protégés as KGB chief.

It was not, after all, as if he had been doing anything for which there wasn't plenty of precedent. The coup by fait accompli was as old as the system itself. Sometimes it was accomplished peacefully, sometimes there was bloodshed, but in the end it consisted of a brutal power play which was, if at all possible, restricted to the Politburo. Then, next May Day, the observers would see a slightly different lineup of dignitaries on the reviewing stand. The Western press would speculate about what had happened, the Soviet press would take no notice. There was a time when all such power plays had been accompanied by a rash of executions. Things had calmed a bit since those days. Forced retirement was the preferred tactic now. The ousted man went to his dacha to tend his rose bushes and he was watched and he never, never had a chance to wield power again. Nekrasov saw no reason to have Chekhov shot. He was a nonentity who had come to power in a period of relatively easy relations with the West and who had been content to share power and prestige with other high Party officials. Not the kind of man needed for the hard decisions which would be made now.

The members of the Politburo took their seats around the long conference table, pitchers of water and ashtrays arranged neatly before them. There was none of the usual paper-shuffling, low conversation or other signs that this was a typical meeting. That suited Nekrasov perfectly. Events like this did not occur often, and it was just as well that everyone was in a proper frame of mind.

To Nekrasov's left sat Baratynsky. He was not, of course, a member of the Politburo, but was here by special permission as Nekrasov's scientific advisor. He had promised Baratynsky a seat on the Politburo in a newly-created office: Minister for Science and Technology. Ryabkin was in his seat as Minister for State Security and Petrovich was, as usual, sitting in for the absent Defense Minister.

"Comrades," said Chekhov, opening the session, "Deputy Premier Nekrasov has called for this meeting in his capacity as holder of the portfolio for our space program. He has announcements to make which are of the highest importance to the future and to our national security. Please give him your fullest attention." He nodded to Nekrasov.

Nekrasov stood, savoring the moment. "Comrades, it gives me great pleasure to announce that the dreams and prophecies of these men—" he gestured at the group portrait of Marx, Lenin and Engels, "—shall soon be fulfilled. Within a few days, the Soviet Union shall be the unchallenged leader in space, and therefore on Earth. For the first time since the Revolution, we shall be in a position to utterly dominate Western Europe, Japan, the U.S.A., in brief, the world. We shall be able to dictate a Pax Sovietica!"

This extraordinary statement was received with absolute silence. Not a muscle twitched in a single face. He had expected nothing else. The British Parliament would have been shouting chilly demands for resignation at this point; the American Congress would have been babbling to one another and drawing lines of alliance; members of the Israeli Knesset would have been jumping up and demanding heads. Russians understood the principle of utter silence and noncommitment. They were waiting to hear what came next. He gave it to them.

"First, Comrades, let me explain about something which the Americans have codenamed Project Ivan the Terrible." He described, in far greater detail than at the last meeting, the destructive potential of the ice bombs. He also outlined the unauthorized steps he had taken to set the stage for their use.

"Nuclear retaliation?" said one member, in a perfectly expressionless tone.

"There will be none," Nekrasov assured him, "They haven't the will to carry out such an attack, nor the courage to face the consequences. This project will cripple their potential for expansion into space so severely that we will have a clean lead in deep space for at least a decade. The centers of spacecraft production worldwide are few, and easily eliminated with the initial icebomb strikes. Once we establish dominance in deep space, with a fleet of 10
Pionyer
class spaceships fetching icebergs from suitable periodic comets we can take our time to destroy their other vital industrial and commercial capabilities over the next several years, while never permitting the reconstruction of their spacecraft industries. Selected military targets will also be included in the second phase of Project Ivan the Terrible."

He looked around the room significantly. "We will of course be dropping some icebergs in the Soviet Union and our satellite states to make the destruction appear non-selective; I have already selected such targets that will not be harmful to our Marxist cause. In Poland, for examples, the destruction of Gdansk will be salubrious. I need scarcely point out that Japan, for one, is particularly vulnerable because of her heavy concentrations of industries. If she insists on pursuing her capitalistic ways, we can finally settle our scores with them for the events of 1904 and 1905."

The Deputy Premier raised a finger and gestured like a fussy schoolmaster, "Best of all, this offensive gives the Americans what they want most of all: an excuse not to strike back with their nuclear arsenal! They will know where the strike originates from, at least their highest security people will, but they can still pass it off as a natural disaster. Ice from space. Their newspapers and television programming, with my encouragement, have been full of nothing else for months. They are expecting such a disaster; they have been hoping for one. Yes, comrades, never underestimate the power of bourgeois guilt. They have been plundering the world for so long that now they long for punishment. Since World War Two they have been obsessed with disaster. They eagerly await their state of California sliding off into the ocean, despite an absence of geological likelihood. They lust for Apocalypse, and embrace hysterical religious cults promising such things. They wallow in their postwar humiliations. Believe me, they will thank us for putting them out of their misery.

"Once they see which way the wind is blowing, Western Europe will fall to us without a fight. The Middle East likewise. We will dominate the Mediterranean and Atlantic. The Americans will make noises and do nothing. They have had it soft for too long, they are not prepared to make sacrifices. They have not had a war on their own soil for nearly a century and a half. Since World War Two, a war to them has meant sending their surplus Negroes and other minorities to die in squalid tropical nations while the rest of them take no notice and go on with life as usual. No American political party will make a move which means asking the voters to give up their automobiles and television sets. They are hopelessly weak and decadent, they are finished on the stage of history and it is time we let them know it." He looked around the table from face to face and blank masks looked back at him.

"To that end," he continued, "the ice bombs are on their way. They shall be in their proper positions within a few weeks. Their targets have been chosen and I have given orders to commence operations for affixing their booster rockets. Comrades, you have the rare privilege of being present at one of the great watersheds of history. Until now we have not succeeded in fully dominating one continent. Soon, we shall dominate this entire planet and our solar system!"

Once again the silence was deafening. This wholly extraordinary harangue was quite unlike anything that had ever been heard within the confines of the Politburo, and nobody seemed to want to make the first comment. Finally, it was Chekhov himself who spoke.

"Comrades, as you can see, Deputy Premier Nekrasov is quite mad. Overwork, no doubt." He stared at Nekrasov with glittering, ice-chip eyes. "He has certainly been undertaking labors outside the already quite demanding duties of his office. This is not the first time politico-military adventurism and neo-Stalinism have arisen among us, but it is certainly the first time that it has taken such virulent, indeed maniacal form. This man is about to plunge us into what is, despite his protestations, a nuclear holocaust which can have no winner. Let us put an end to this fantasy. I demand an immediate vote to strip Comrade Nekrasov of all official positions, including his Party membership."

Once again, there was silence. The real powers had not yet been heard from. Nekrasov looked at Marshal Petrovich and nodded. Petrovich raised a big, meaty fist and every eye followed it and saw the thick thumb and middle finger come together. The sound of his finger-snap was as loud as a pistol-shot in the closed room.

Nekrasov smiled frostily at Chekhov as uniformed men burst into the room. "Comrade Chekhov, your letter of resignation will be sufficient to—" then he noticed that the uniforms were not KGB. His brain refused to function for a moment. Was this a foreign invasion? Western commandos staging a raid on the Kremlin? Then the fog in his mind cleared and he recognized the black uniforms of the Army's new, elite special forces.

Chekhov pointed at Nekrasov. "Arrest that man for high treason!"

Stunned, speechless, Nekrasov stood looking very old as a captain's hand clapped him on the shoulder, the gesture that cuts a Russian off from all human contact, makes him an unperson. Right now, Korsakov, millions of miles out in space was closer to his fellow Russians than was Sergei Nekrasov. He was taken from the room. Chekhov looked around the table.

"I take it that the vote against former comrade Nekrasov is unanimous?" There were no dissenting votes. He turned to stare at Baratynsky, who sat with his fingers laced across his large belly, impassive but very pale. "I shall require a full report from you concerning this incident. Leave out nothing, especially your own instigation."