“With respect, sir,” Bellarmine insisted, “if there is an asteroid, chances are the first we know of it is when it hits, by which time we’re too late for an effective counterstrike. The only realistic option is Number Three.”
“I believe we’re seeing a sort of collective insanity here,” Cresak said, his fear betraying itself in his voice.
“Okay, let’s get down to basics,” said Grant. “What’s the strategic purpose of your third option, Sam?”
Hooper put down his mug of chocolate. His face showed real bafflement. “I must be missing something, sir.”
“What purpose is served by destroying Russia?”
“Retaliation,” said Hooper, the bafflement giving way to incredulity.
Bellarmine sensed something. He said, “Mister President. It’s been the official policy of every administration since World War Two that a Russian attack on mainland America will be met with the Major Attack Option.”
“Public policy, yes,” Grant replied. “And you know damn well our true policy is that if the diplomatic game ever gets hot we hit first. Hooper’s right. It’s the only chance of winning a nuclear exchange.”
“So!” Bellarmine raised his hands in an Italian-like gesture. “For fifty years mutual assured destruction has kept the West safe. What’s the difference between this asteroid thing and a big missile attack? The logic’s identical. We play it out.”
“Why?”
Bellarmine stayed silent. His expression was an exercise in suppressed bewilderment and outrage.
Cresak drove the point home. “I guess maybe the Chief thinks it’s pointless. Two big dust bowls instead of one.”
Bellarmine said, “Arnold, your jaw has got disengaged from your brain. Responsibility for the Russian people lies with their leadership, not with us. Our policy has been spelled out, clear as crystal, ever since World War Two. We serve future generations better by following through than by just backing off when the chips are down. The lesson will be remembered for a thousand years.”
“No doubt the cave dwellers for the next thousand years will be grateful for the lesson,” Cresak replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “And the two hundred million innocent
people you burn will see the point too. We don’t seem to have progressed since the Salem witches.”
“Sure!” Bellarmine snarled. “Our ancestors thought they were doing right and they got it wrong. And if we get entangled in moral problems now we’ll get it just as wrong as they did. This is the White House, not a department of moral philosophy. Our business is to respond, according to publicly laid-down policy, to circumstances imposed on us by the Russians.”
“It’s getting hot in here,” said the President.
Hooper said, “Look. We’re under attack, so we defend. Period. Like any country, man or creature since time began. The only live issues are targeting policy and battle management.”
“What targets do you have in mind, Sam?”
“I’ve arranged a murder session with JSTPS in Offutt at twelve hundred hours. You’ll have our prepared options within forty-eight hours. The target sets will depend on whether we launch under attack or go for pre-emption. Mister President, I’m pushing for pre-emption. We have to finish this East–West thing once and for all. The prime target will be Russia but we should also take out Armenia, Belorussia, Moldavia, Kazakhstan, Georgia, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Estonia. We may also want to think about Cuba, Vietnam and China while we’re about it. I’m thinking of updating the old SIOP-5D list.”
Grant peered into Hooper’s eyes. The soldier stared unflinchingly back. “Some shopping list,” the President said. “What, specifically, do you mean by take out?”
“I mean destroy all nuclear and conventional military forces, the military and political leadership, the major economic and industrial centres, and all cities with more than 25,000 population.”
“LeMay would have been proud of you, Sam. Why China?”
“We’ll be so weak after Nemesis that we can’t afford to leave potential enemies around. Mister President, I want
your unconditional assurance on this matter. That in the event of an asteroid strike on America becoming a proven eventuality, you will order a retaliatory counterstrike.”
A log collapsed in the fire, sending a little shower of sparks up the chimney. Grant lowered his head, strumming his fingers lightly on his knee. The others stared at him, frozen like models from a tableau in a wax museum. Thirty seconds passed, each one a century long.
“At this moment of time I will give no such assurance.”
“I don’t believe I’m hearing this,” said Bellarmine. His tone was aggressive. “Massive retaliation has been the backbone of our defence posture for generations, endorsed by successive administrations. It can’t be capriciously set aside by one individual. Not even a President. Your first duty is the defence of America. If you fail in that, you fail in your duty as President of these United States.”
“Why thank you, Nathan, a homily on my duty as President is just what I need at this time of night.” President Grant stretched and yawned. “Well, I’ve enjoyed our little fireside chat. Could this thing hit tonight?”
“Unlikely. Of course we don’t know for sure.” Bellarmine was trembling with anger.
“What’s the warning time for a night impact?”
“We think ten to forty minutes, sir,” said the Chief of Staffs.
“Better than two seconds. Nathan, Arnold, I want you guys to come up with a joint memorandum on the policy options facing us on the assumption that Nathan’s team fails to identify Nemesis or can’t find any way to stop it. I want it in time for the extraordinary NSC meeting on Friday midnight.”
The President stared into the fire for some moments. Then he seemed to come to a decision. “We must keep our options open. I’m prepared to go some way with you, Sam. Increase our state of alert. Let’s go to Orange.”
Bellarmine nodded his agreement. “Sam, upgrade to Defcon 3 worldwide.”
The President stood up, and the men followed him into
the hallway. “Oh by the way, gentlemen. Merry Christmas.” He made his way towards the secret stairway at the East Hall which would take him to the third floor and the Family Quarters, an old man longing for rest. Cresak went back into the Green Room and sat down, staring into the leaping flames. Hooper went off, heading for the back exit. Bellarmine paced up and down the long corridor for ten minutes, feeling stunned. Then he too went towards the rear of the building.
The air was sharp and cold, and there was a bitter breeze. The grounds were white with a foot of freshly fallen snow. A pine tree, its coloured lights swaying in the breeze, stood on the central lawn. Hooper, wearing a long army coat and a white scarf, was standing on the steps of the North Portico, flapping his arms against his sides. A few Secret Service men hovered in the background; they looked frozen stiff.
“Was I hearing right in there, Mister Secretary?” asked Hooper, his breath misty in the freezing air.
“Give me a lift,” said Bellarmine grimly. “We have to talk.”
“Too damn right. Where you heading?”
“Virginia.”
“Big place. Defcon Three can wait awhile.”
Hooper pressed a button and a glass partition slid up, cutting them off from the army driver. The general lit up a small cigar and its tip glowed red in the dark.
“You have to smoke these disgusting things?” Bellarmine asked.
“Privilege of rank,” Hooper replied, exhaling a dense smoke cloud. “Anyway, these disgusting things just happen to be fine Havana cheroots. Heilbron gets his field people to bring them in from Cuba.”
They passed on to the Ellipse. A group of youths stood shivering, scarves round their necks and woollen hats pulled
down almost to their eyes. Bellarmine just caught the words “Say No To Torture” on a placard as the beam of light from the car swept across it.
“A pacifist for a president, at a time like this,” said Hooper. Now the headlights were picking up the broad swathe of Constitution Avenue.
“What do you want—Rambo?”
“Rambo we could handle.” Hooper inhaled the cigar smoke. “Nathan, we can’t let it happen.”
“Meaning?”
“You know what I mean.”
The car was driving past the Vietnam War Memorial. Beyond it the rotunda of the Lincoln Memorial was lit up with a ghostly glow. Bellarmine began to feel his lungs outlined by cigar smoke. “Grant’s mother was a Quaker,” he said. “Can it be relevant?”
Hooper took another big draw. “No pacifist should hold the office of President.”
“Sam, talk like that is highly dangerous.”
“Uhuh.”
The car crossed the Woodrow Wilson Memorial bridge; little ice floes on the Potomac reflected orange in the street lights. Snow, compacted by earlier traffic, covered the Beltway. The driver pulled out to pass a truck and grit pattered briefly on the windscreen.
After twenty minutes, marked by a stunned silence and a rapidly increasing smoke density, a sign said Langley and the car turned off the highway. They drove along a tunnel of light. The CIA Headquarters was lit up by yellow spotlights. It reminded Bellarmine of a Soviet housing complex, all massive concrete blocks and narrow windows. The driver stopped near the main entrance.
Hooper repeated, grimly, “No pacifist has the right to hold the office of President.”
“So you said.” The driver opened the door and Bellarmine
stepped out into the icy air. After Hooper’s smoke-filled car, the fragrance of the night was delicious. While the driver held the door, the Secretary of Defense turned back and leaned in to the car. “The question is:
what are we going to do about it?
”
Webb rummaged in a cardboard box in the dormitory cupboard, and found a woollen hat to match the multi-coloured jumper. He pulled the hat on and headed for the kitchen, intending to make a hot chocolate before facing the chilly outside air once more. Shafer was staggering into the kitchen with a rabbit-sized boulder, coated with snow. Noordhof opened the door of the microwave cooker, and Shafer heaved the boulder in, setting the timer for five minutes.
Webb rattled a saucepan on to the cooker and added milk. “It won’t work,” he said, looking for a tin of hot chocolate in a cupboard stuffed with the detritus of past visiting observers.
“Mark’s idea,” said Shafer. “He’s just shown me a
Newsweek
article by Broadbent from some months back. Mark can’t confirm without clearance, which would take time, but listen to what this guy says.” He picked up the opened magazine from a kitchen work surface:
“In the euphoria of the First Cold War thaw, and with the easing of security in government laboratories around the States, previously tight-lipped administrators appeared to confirm what many academic scientists outside the system had long claimed: that Star Wars was a spectacular, and highly expensive, failure. A year of investigative reporting by our team, however, has turned up a different story.
“Blah blah blah. The guy goes on to say there was an element of disinformation in the ‘Star Wars Failed’ stuff. He says the Army have an array of antennae not too far from Albuquerque. They call it the Beta maser, and it’s arguably in contravention of the ABM Treaty. You’ll note that Mark isn’t contradicting me. Broadbent even says that on one experimental run the Beta maser destroyed a warhead they’d launched from Mid-Pacific, the moment it appeared over the horizon. So if the Beta exists maybe it could do something to the asteroid, but Mark has the right to remain silent, which right you’ll notice he’s exercising.”
Noordhof said nothing, but he was looking pleased with himself.
“That is one impressive zap,” said Kowalski, looking up from a sheaf of papers. “Assuming there’s truth in the story, maybe it’s the answer to our prayers. Colonel, you must cut through the tape. Get us clearance for this stuff right away.”
“No need,” said Shafer. “We can work out what we need from the article. If these guys can really vaporize a warhead at say five thousand miles’ range, it means they penetrate the ablation shield and raise the missile’s internal temperature to a thousand degrees within two or three seconds. So let’s see how hot this rock gets in five minutes with a miserable kilowatt and use it to get its thermal conductivity.”
The milk was coming to the boil. Webb pummelled hard-caked chocolate powder in a tin. “It won’t work,” he repeated, stirring in the chocolate. Noordhof scowled.
The microwave oven pinged and Shafer put his hand on the rock. “Warm to the touch. It went in at zero Centigrade so it’s gone through thirty degrees in five minutes, say five or six degrees a minute.”
Webb took a sip at the hot chocolate and sighed happily. “I expect your rock is still cold inside.”
Shafer nodded. “So is Nemesis. And if it’s rock the maser heat will get conducted down quickly. Okay, say a kilowatt gives us half a degree a second on this little stone, and the
Beta maser heats a target at five hundred degrees a second.” The Nobel man counted fingers. “Hey, these guys must be beaming one megawatt per square metre at five thousand miles’ range, can you believe that?”
Noordhof radiated happiness. “Nothing could withstand it. And laser beams don’t spread out with distance. We’ll ablate Nemesis clean out of the solar system, punch boulders off it. Hey, who needs the eggheads? I thought of this all by myself.”
Shafer shook his head sorrowfully. “No dice, Mark. Laser beams do spread out. Imagine two mirrors at the ends of a tube, reflecting light back and forth, one of the mirrors with a pinhole. You generate fluorescence inside the tube, and the light reflects and gets pumped up to huge intensity. The only light that makes it out through the hole has travelled the full length of the beam, but there’s still an angular spread. It’s the wavelength of the light divided by the diameter of the gun.”
“Maybe it’s a very big gun,” Noordhof interrupted, “Giving a very small dispersion.”
“You have the Alpha lasers in orbit. They’re hydrogen-fluoride, emitting at 2.7 microns. I guess their peak power can reach ten or twenty megawatts, but they can’t be more than a few metres across.”
Noordhof waved the magazine at Shafer. His tone was a mixture of triumph and desperation. “But this guy is talking about masers, not lasers. Everything is much bigger at radio wavelengths.”