Noordhof stood up, his composure gone. He paced up and down the room, glaring uncertainly at Webb. Then he kicked the chair aside and marched up to the astronomer, and pointed the Colt at his head, and Webb felt himself yielding to terror. Noordhof spoke harshly over his shoulder. “You know this guy, Judy. What about it? Is he bluffing?”
She stood up and stretched, and gazed speculatively at Webb. “Who sent the fax, Oliver?”
“Willy Shafer.”
Judy’s smile broadened, while Noordhof gasped with relief before throwing back his head with laughter. “I guess you haven’t been reading the news, Oliver. Willy’s beach house finally slid over the cliff, with poor Willy inside it. Oh man, either he sent the fax two days after we killed him or you sent it to yourself after you got here, for insurance. Great try, man, you had me scared to death!” And he laughed some more, but not enough to make the gun waver. Webb felt his face going white.
Judy yawned and approached the head of the bed. “I’m truly sorry. It’s not the way I’d have wanted it. But when you consider what’s at stake there’s really nothing else we can do. Mark, I’m tired and ready for sleep. Why wait for your death squad? When the next thunderclap comes, pull the trigger. Goodbye, Ollie.”
The telephone at the side of the President’s bed in the First Lady’s Bedroom never rang before 07:30, at which time a White House operator would wish him a good morning. The Nemesis emergency necessitated an earlier call, which had been arranged for 03:15.
But it was ringing now, an hour early, at 02:15.
“Mister President.”
It was Billy Quinn, the White House Chief of Staff.
Something in his voice. Grant, drugged with sleep, struggled up to a sitting position.
“Billy? I thought we were moving to Site R at four o’clock.”
“Sir, leave the residence immediately.”
“What?”
“Please don’t argue. You may be in danger. Leave now, quickly.”
The line went dead.
Grant threw back the blankets and headed quickly through the President’s Bedroom—in fact a study with a deep red decor—to the shower room. He dressed rapidly, dispensing with jacket and tie. Back through the red room. Toby, a mongrel saved by his children from death row many years ago, watched from the foot of the bed, ears pricked up. The President looked at his sleeping wife uncertainly, then left her alone. Toby followed him into the kitchen and climbed back into his basket with a sigh, and Grant headed out across the hall.
The elevator door was open. Jim Greenfield, his personal assistant, was waiting. They went down into the corridor where they were joined by a bleary-eyed Quinn. The three men marched without conversation along the corridor towards the Oval Office, Greenfield slightly ahead of the other two. They carried on past it, Greenfield, still leading the way, crossed over to the Executive Building and down some stairs. Light was shining under a door. It opened and a Secret Service man, his face lined with tension, seized the President by the arm and pulled him in, looking out before closing the door again. Hallam, Cresak and an army officer were standing at the head of the bowling alley. Hallam came over quickly.
“Thank God,” he said emotionally.
“What the hell?” Grant asked.
“Sir, Vice-President McCulloch is dead. We got the news only ten minutes ago.”
“How?”
“A plane crash near Carthage, Missouri. He was on his way here from Tinker. Mister President, it may not have been an accident.”
Grant tried to assimilate the information. “Not an accident? Is this Zhirinovsky?”
“No sir, your own people.”
The President felt a dull pain developing in his chest.
The army officer said, “Sir, there’s a conspiracy to remove you.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Colonel Wallis. I’m in charge of the DCO Unit.”
“The new man. I’ve seen you around.”
“Mister President, General Hooper and Secretary Bellarmine see you as failing in your duty on the retaliation issue. They intend to remove you from office when the asteroid hits, unless you immediately order a counterstrike against the Russians.”
“Who else is involved in this?”
“I have no hard information on that.”
“Want to speculate?”
“It may involve all three service chiefs. There may be CIA involvement, probably going up to the Director.”
“Heilbron? Never.” Grant’s voice was grim.
Quinn said, “Chief, they’ve isolated you. With McCulloch out of the way . . .”
“I carry the final authority.”
Quinn continued: “They could have sold Wallis the wrong story as insurance in case he crossed them. I just don’t know what their real tactics are.”
The President turned again to Wallis. “When did you learn about this?”
“When they asked me to join them. A month ago.”
“You’ve been sitting on this for a month?”
“I said I’d join them.”
“You played them along?”
“No, sir. I thought they were doing the right thing.”
“But you had a last-minute change of heart.”
“Yes, sir. I think maybe I should be shot.”
Grant surprised Wallis: “Don’t worry about it, son.” He turned to his National Security Adviser, whose mouth had developed a nervous twitch. “Arnold, you got something to say?”
“Only that you can’t risk going back to your quarters.”
Grant rubbed his face with his hands. “Billy, in the last resort it may come down to firepower. Have some standing by discreetly. Arnold, get over to the Sit Room and keep your mouth shut.” Grant looked at his watch. He picked up a bowling ball and took aim at the distant pins.
Hallam said, “Sir, Nemesis arrives in five hours.”
The President sent the ball skimming along the wooden alley. “Hey, didn’t Francis Drake do this before the Spanish Armada?”
Bellarmine was pacing agitatedly up and down in the corridor just outside the Situation Room as Grant approached. His
face was white and he was unconsciously tensing his mouth. He closed his eyes with relief when the President appeared.
“Jesus Christ, sir, where have you been? We turned the Cottage inside out looking for you. Vice-President McCulloch was killed in an air crash an hour and a half ago.”
“I know. What about his replacement?”
“Caroline Craig’s on her way in from Seattle, sir. They’re briefing her in-flight, but she won’t get here in time.”
“Okay, brief me. And Nathan, this is a good time to keep calm.”
A soldier emerged smartly from the Situation Room, carrying a wad of paper. “Mister President, we have reports of further tank and troop movements into Slovakia. They’re massing on the Czech side of the Black Forest.”
“Okay.”
Another aide approached. “Sir.”
“Well?” said Grant roughly.
“The Pentagon say the hotline is dead. They can’t get through to the Kremlin.”
“Watch your feet, sir,” a technician warned as President Grant picked his way over a mass of cables. Technicians bustled around, none of them paying much attention to the entry of the Chief. Foggy Wallis approached. The two men exchanged looks.
“This way, Mister President. Your team’s all here. Watch your head.” The President ducked his head and they went through an open door, following the route of more cables stretching across the floor like long shiny black snakes. The room was brilliantly lit with studio lights. About a dozen men, some in uniform, were seated around the big central table. They stood up as the President entered.
Grant’s place at the table had two telephones, red and black, and two books, one red and one black. He stared dully at the books, and sat down in the chair with as much enthusiasm as a man about to be electrocuted. The curtains had been pulled back from the end wall and the large screen was
exposed, with speakers at either side of it. The walnut panelling had been removed from the walls to reveal banks of television screens. Desks and terminals had been crammed into the little room since he had last used it two days ago, and it now looked like a miniaturized version of a
Star Trek
set. About a dozen men and women, some in uniform, stared at television screens. Two men, shirt sleeves rolled up, stood in a far corner of the room, one with a video camera, the other holding a boom with a microphone, recording for whatever posterity there was going to be.
The room was cramped and stuffy. It was also claustrophobic.
“How long to impact?” Grant asked.
“Ninety-five minutes,” said Hooper. “Mister President, where have you been?”
The President sat down. He turned to Hooper. “Silo activity?”
“We wouldn’t expect to see anything until their missiles take off,” said Hooper. “We got a couple of Cobras out from Shemya to look at the Kamchatka area an hour ago. The pilots report they’ve been blinded with laser beams. We’re trying to talk them back in.”
Grant turned to Cresak. “What’s the diplomatic situation?”
“The Security Council are calling an emergency meeting in a couple of hours. Ambassador Thorp went into the Kremlin three hours ago and we haven’t heard from him since.”
“What does Kolkov have to say?”
Cresak shot Hooper a baleful look. “He’s upstairs now. He accuses us of gearing up for a first strike. He says his people are just positioning themselves for defence.”
“This from the men who gave us Nemesis,” Bellarmine said. “The creep, the hypocritical creep.”
A woman in Air Force uniform approached the President. Grant looked at her. “Falcon are downgrading the GPS’s, Mister President.”
The global positioning satellites could be used by an enemy in a precision attack on American targets. The standing plan was to downgrade them in the event of a threat. Thousands of Jumbo jets, aloft at any one time, depended on them for navigation. But around the world, the last Jumbo jets were now landing; nothing would take to the air until Karibisha had come and gone. The downgrading, however, would send an unmistakably dangerous message to the other side.
Grant nodded.
“Mister President, Silk Purse is airborne in Europe. We need the British Prime Minister’s permission to use our F-111s at the English bases. Their Minister of Defence is stalling us. Sir, we’re running out of time for a decision. We have to release the permissive action links.”
“No way.”
“Sir.” Hooper opened a handbook at a book-marked page. He was attempting a matter-of-fact, legalistic tone. “I refer you to JSOP/81-N. Our destruction is imminent, and you must now therefore proceed to State Scarlet. If our B-2s are going to beat the blast from the asteroid they have to get out over the polar cap now.”
“Past their failsafes? Sam, the decision to nuke stays with me, not with a bunch of one-star generals. We don’t even know if the asteroid will hit.”
“We do, however, know that the use of Nemesis as a weapon is an act of war. It is our right and duty to respond to that act of war. Mister President, I want some cold logic on this. Our duty is to serve the interests of the American people. If we’re hit, we’ll be too shattered to defend ourselves against any subsequent hostilities. American interests are best served by destroying future potential enemies while we can. That’s why we gave you only the Grand Slam targeting option.”
“So much for flexible response, Sam.”
“Grand Slam is the only option that preserves some sort of future for our children.”
The President turned to Wallis. “Colonel, give me a rundown on our communication links.”
“We have three independent links from the ground station at the Xochicalco epicentre. One by satellite, one by short-wave radio, one a direct cable link. The cable link we had to patch in to the Mexican commercial land lines. We’ve got some of the best communications men in the army on site. The whole thing is protected by Special Operations Command. A couple of MH6 gunships in case of any monkey business.”
“Sir,” a soldier interrupted, “the
Carl Vincent
has reached its co-ordinates. They’re getting Phantoms aloft now.”
Wallis said, “Apart from Xochicalco, sir, we have the Navy about a thousand kilometres off the Atlantic sea-board. The asteroid will be coming from sunward but it’s pre-dawn out there and the Naval Observatory tell us a visual sighting should be possible and the thing should pass right over their heads. There’s an Atlantic storm out there, lots of low cloud and rain. Xochicalco’s washed out but communications aren’t affected.”
“I must know on the instant if we have a hit or a miss.”
“A French Spot satellite will be over central Mexico at the critical moment. If Nemesis hits we’ll see plenty. The pictures are being relayed in from Goddard and we’ll see them as they arrive.”
“Where do I press the button?” the President asked calmly.
“The helicopter is standing by. You’ll be at Raven Rock in less than fifteen minutes. MYSTIC is activated. It just needs your word.”
“Nothing from the Kremlin?” Grant asked Wallis.
The soldier shook his head.
“Okay, let’s head for the Rock.”
Webb was shaking so much he could not put his feet in his shoes. Judy had slipped back to her room to dress, and Noordhof was raising himself to his knees, groaning, holding his ear while bright pink blood oozed between his fingers. The marble ashtray lay on the floor, split in two after Judy’s powerful blow. The gun was on the bed beside Webb, within arm’s length.
Noordhof struggled up to a sitting position on the bed. He was clearly dazed and in great pain.
The net curtain billowed briefly as Judy came back, dressed in black trousers and sweater. She slid the glass door closed. She looked dispassionately at Noordhof and said “Kill him.”
The lights failed again. A sharp cry of pain, male or female, came from the pitch black. Webb cursed and flopped down on the bed, groping for the gun. There was a crash of glass at the instant he felt its cold metal barrel. Wind and rain were suddenly gusting in the room. He sprinted towards the window and collided bodily with Judy. She fell back with a gasp and then he was running over broken glass in his socks. A flash of lightning, a brilliant celestial tree momentarily implanting on his retina; a vision of Noordhof frantically trying to shake off a net curtain. Webb rushed forwards, firing into the darkness. He had never used a gun and the first round jerked his wrist painfully. In the weapon’s flashes Noordhof appeared as a series of stills, snapshots of
a man weaving and turning. Then the soldier had fallen face down about fifty yards ahead, and the gun was clicking empty, and there was only rain, and wind, and blackness.