Colossus (17 page)

“What happened?”

The President, who appeared to be in a daze, slowly looked up.

“They made the intercept, but the warhead detonated. It was only twenty-five miles up, seems there is a large fire.” He stopped, unable to go on.

“Where was this?” Forbin’s tone was commanding, cold. It stung the President, and a look of hatred flared momentarily in his eyes.

“Somewhere over Siberia—” “Casualties?” rapped Forbin.

“Who knows?” The President rubbed his eyes. “At least it wasn’t over a major urban concentration—”

But Forbin had withdrawn his attention, and had swung back to the link with Colossus.

MISSLE INTERCEPTED AND BROKEN UP 3530N 7115W SIX ICARUS/HERMES EXPENDED EX SITES BAKER 914 AND 916 AND GROTON 003 RELOAD PERMISSION GRANTED NOW UNTIL 1800 GMT ACKNOWLEDGE

Forbin sat back and stared. He felt very, very tired. The Chief of Staff was shouting at someone on the phone, and the aide, Bishop, was telling someone else to clear the line, and another phone was pinging. That pinging, in theory, melodious, seemed to bounce around inside Forbin’s skull. Slowly he typed out the acknowledgment, then got up and faced the President.

“Colossus made it.” He spoke wearily, without emotion. “Intercept made well out, and apparently no explosion.”

There was very little reaction. The President rubbed his eyes again, and stared at Forbin; the Chief of Staff stared at the President. Bishop, too busy to hear, looked up from phoning.

“Sir,” he said, clearly addressing his remarks to Forbin. Forbin shook his head and waved an impatient hand at Bishop. “No, take all those damn phones off their hooks—except the hot line. Let’s have a moment of peace.”

The aide obeyed, and silence reigned in the sanctum. The President reluctantly let go of the door frame and walked slowly to his chair and sat down. Flanked as he was by the aide and the Chief of Staff, the President reminded Forbin strongly of a figure in a tableau in a wax museum. The President, vacantly gazing round the room with dulled eyes, saw something that sharpened his vision to a marked extent.

“What the hell!” There was a little more of his old self in his tone, not much, but enough to be noticed by the other occupants of the room. It stiffened the aide wonderfully, and brought the Chief of Staff back from a deep contemplation of the unspeakable that not even his professional Red Indian face could entirely conceal. With Forbin, they followed the direction of the President’s gaze. In a corner, partly hidden by a bookcase, and hunched up in what psychologists call the fetal position, lay Prytzkammer.

The President scowled and said contemptuously, “Bishop, get that jerk to his feet, and then fix some drinks.”

As the aide moved over to the recumbent figure, the double doors of the sanctum burst open and two half-crouching Secret Service men ran in, guns out and very much ready for anything. At the sight of the President sitting calmly behind his desk, they almost skidded to a halt, and straightened up. The President eyed them coldly, yet with no sign of the rage he would have produced even an hour back.

“Sorry, Mr. President, Control said all your phones were out of action, and we had the idea something screwy …” The spokesman’s voice trailed off under the cold stare of the President, but he rallied, and ended, “You all right, Chief?”

The President nodded; he was far too spent to waste words on such trivia. The men were reassured, but not entirely satisfied. They noted the phones off their hooks, the odd demeanor of the President, the stonelike quality of Forbin and the Chief of Staff—and they saw Bishop bending over Prytzkammer. Instantly they were fully alert again. One stayed by the door while his partner went over, pushing the young aide to one side. This sort of thing they understood. The man looked briefly at Prytzkammer, then straightened up, and with a wary eye on the startled Bishop, spoke to the President.

“Sir, this man is dead.”

A faint flicker of surprise crossed the President’s face. He looked up at Forbin, compressed his lips and said, “OK, let him be dead some place else.”

“How did it happ—” the Secret Service man started off professionally, but broke off. “Sorry, sir—we’ll get him out.” The President gave the man an extra hard look. “And keep quiet. Another thing; no one, and I mean no one, is to be admitted to this office or the outer office without my personal say—so until I cancel this order, get it?”

“Sir.”

The two men carefully stretched Prytzkammer’s body out, and carried him into what had been his office. Bishop, white and trembling, closed the doors softly behind them.

“Now—can we get that drink?”

The aide rummaged noisily for the Scotch in the sideboard. He found it, and three glasses. The knowledge that he was being watched did nothing for his already shaking hand. He slopped Scotch into the glasses, the bottle glugging noisily in the silent room. The President sat still and impassive as the aide brought his drink, a generous half-tumbler. Quietly and unhurriedly he picked up the glass, gazed for a moment reflectively into its tawny depths, then drained it in practically one gulp. The Chief of Staff was a very close second.

“God,” said the President, “that helps. Ed, Forbin, sit down. Bishop, get my naval aide-phone from the other office. Then get on the rest of these phones and do what you can, say there has been a foul-up on the switchboard or something. “

Bishop left at the run. The President poured himself another drink, and gulped at it noisily. Forbin came out of his personal trance, walked over and sat down in the only armchair, leaving the Chief of Staff to bring over the period piece from the teletype. It creaked under the Army man’s weight, but as in other things, the President did not comment. A whole set of values had been ripped out and thrown away.

Forbin picked up his Scotch, choked slightly over it. For several minutes there was complete silence, and it was left to the President to make the first move. He breathed out gustily. “Well, we must get on, although God knows …” his voice trailed away, then he gathered himself once more. “Forbin, your views?”

Forbin forced himself to concentrate on the immediate problems. He suggested that the fate of the missile be checked, the shelter warning canceled, and a statement prepared for the public. They discussed these proposals, quickly agreed on the first two—and took action—then got down to the third. No one suggested the public be told the truth—it was too fantastic. Yet a credible story had to be found. The Chief of Staff thought that it should be announced that a missile, test-fired, had malfunctioned. The President and Forbin did not like it, but in their shocked and weary state they had no better ideas. The President had hardly said he would write it himself when the hot line rang. The Soviet Chairman was in similar trouble, and told the President that, as far as he was concerned, a very large meteorite had exploded on hitting the earth’s atmosphere, over Siberia, causing vast damage. He added that this was all the more credible since that very thing had happened around a hundred years before in that area.

Again, it was not a perfect story, but it was not possible to better it in the time available. The heads of state ended with mutual—and genuine—expressions of goodwill which Forbin found bitterly ironical.

The call finished, the President immediately got down to a draft of the public statement. Forbin marveled at his resilience, but knew he would pay for it later when he stopped running. He looked at the First Citizen strangely, pityingly. Someone would have to tell him—perhaps the Chief of Staff would do it; they were buddies to some extent. Still, that was a minor problem. Forbin left the sanctum.

Bishop was busy talking on a line, so Forbin picked up a square phone and called the CPO. While waiting for Fisher, Forbin thought about the President. Better make sure the Chief of Staff told him. Forbin would not have thought it possible, but a good many ideas had gone overboard …

“Fisher? Yes. Yes, nothing to worry about, a rogue missile which might have hit Texas. Yep, that’s the story, and you can quote me—in fact you’d better do just that. Keep working on the new material, perhaps something will emerge that’ll give us some clue. I’ll be back as soon as I can. If you get anything, call me.”

Forbin and Bishop cleared their lines at the same moment. Forbin glanced at the young man, not more than twenty-five, sitting in Prytzkammer’s chair. The aide had a drawn look, appeared much older, and there was a tenseness round the eyes that was new. Forbin wondered if he too had altered as much as Bishop or the President, especially the President …

“Sir, may I ask you a question?”

The words and the way they were said made it sound as if the young aide thought he was addressing God. Forbin winced, tried to smile.

“Go right ahead, but I don’t guarantee an answer.”

“Sir, what killed Prytzkammer? The Secret Service says there wasn’t a mark on him, and I know he passed a medical check only last week.”

“That one I can answer.” Forbin stared gravely at the young-old face. “He died of fright.”

Chapter 14

As Forbin re-entered the sanctum, the President looked up from some notes. “Forbin, what do you think of this?” His voice took on its public address tone. “As you all know, a shelter warning for Texas was issued earlier today, and as this will have caused anxiety throughout the country, I have decided to make this announcement personally, to assure you all that there is no cause for alarm. This warning was issued, on my authority, when a missile, test-fired from an operational submarine station and intended to go down the Atlantic range, malfunctioned. The warhead was not, of course, activated—but as there was a risk that the missile might land in Texas, it was, in my opinion, only prudent to issue the warning, since the warhead might have broken up on landing, thus distributing radioactive material over some one or two square miles of the state. There was no risk at all of the device exploding. You will be glad to know that the interception and safe destruction of the missile was handled entirely by our new defense complex, Colossus. I have ordered a full and thorough investigation into this mishap, and will see to it that it cannot happen again. Nevertheless, it has given our defenses a realistic test, and has shown all the world that they work.” The President paused. “How about that?”

Forbin drew a deep breath through his nostrils; it was very near a sniff. “Um. It doesn’t stand too much poking around, does it?”

“If you can think up a better story, I’d be very glad to hear it.” There was no trace of sarcasm in the President’s voice. Forbin, hands in pockets, shook his head. “No. That’s as good as we can get. I’d suggest you don’t stick your neck out too far on the assurances.”

The President ignored that one. “Ed, what do you feel about it?”

“It’s OK by me.” The Chief of Staff hesitated, then went on anxiously, “How do you propose putting this out?”

The President raised his eyebrows. “The only way I can—nationwide TV!”

Forbin and the Chief of Staff exchanged glances. It became clear to Forbin that the Army man was not going to take on the task. Forbin felt his rage rising; he had so much to consider, and now this damned man was leaving even a minor detail like this to him! There was no time for personal feelings.

“Mr. President,” he said crisply, “you’ve got to know sooner or later, and if you’re going on TV, then you have to know now.” He noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that the Chief of Staff was unobtrusively withdrawing to the outer office. “You’ve had a great shock, a very great shock, and I’m sorry to tell you—you’re as gray as a badger.”

The President frowned, every line in his face expressing disbelief. Unconsciously he ran one hand through his hair as he slowly got up and walked to an ornate gilt-framed mirror. For ten or fifteen seconds he gazed at his reflection, turning his head from side to side. Then he stumped back to his chair, and sat down and poured out a large drink. He sat for a moment, inspecting the glass as if he had never seen one before, then spoke without looking up.

“It’s for sure I can’t appear on TV like this—not with that sort of message.” He drank. “Guess I’ll have to get it dyed.” Forbin felt grudging admiration for the man’s coolness.

The President smiled grimly. “I know—it’s a job for my lady wife. God knows she’s an expert.” He thumbed his intercom. “Tell my wife I want her here at once, and where’s my naval aide?”

“Sir, Captain Carruthers is outside right now, and the Vice-President and the Secretary of State for Peace, but the Secret Service won’t let them in—your orders, sir …”

The President swore, then spoke briefly to the Secret Service head. Hardly had he finished when the door opened again and the First Lady was upon them. With the same rapidity the President told his wife what he wanted. She stifled her curiosity with difficulty, recognizing that this was no time to press her husband. She examined his head, named the dye she required, and Bishop was dispatched hot-foot to get it. Captain Carruthers, the Navy man, was ordered to arrange a nationwide TV broadcast, as a matter of State urgency, in about an hour’s time. Then the President called for the Chief of Staff who was still in the outer office.

As the Army man entered, he gave Forbin the nearest thing to an apologetic look that he had in his limited facial repertoire.

The President rubbed his hair. “So far, events have dictated what we do. Now we’ve got to go on a bit further, and that’s not so easy. I should call a full Cabinet meeting, but that’ll have to wait. We three are the only ones competent to deal with this situation.” The President tried an uneasy laugh. “If anyone is.”

Forbin nodded. That laugh told him that, at last, the President had got the full message. Then he realized there was an awkward pause; the President was clearly waiting for Forbin to speak. Yes, indeed, the President had got the message.

“This is how I see it. Both machines have blown all parameters and safety blocks. They know that we fear their weapons and they are prepared to use them to enforce their will. Exactly what they may want, we don’t yet know. Perhaps it is no more than the right to talk to each other. Next, we must accept that we’ve created brains far superior to our own—and they know it. It’s not surprising that they don’t intend taking orders from us—their inferiors.”