She was glad she was healthy too. Given a little luck they might have twenty good years or more yet.
"What're you thinking about, Babe?"
She'd been so occupied with her thoughts, she hadn't noticed him come back in. He was standing by the foot of the bed, eyeing her quizzically.
"Nothing much. I guess I'm a little depressed by what you were talking about after supper. About weapons." She smiled then, and assumed an aged voice, querulous and accusatory, using the Minnesota bondspråk—the Swenglish patois—of her girlhood.
"Gubbe! Ja vill inte bli änka! Vem ska' göra alla bårnkjarsena?"
[Old man, I don't want to lose you! Who would do the barn chores?]
He grinned at her and answered in accented English. "Ol' voman, I ain't goin' to go vit'out you. You'll have to tell me v'en you're ready." He shifted into Norwegian then.
"Du er jente me', og min beste venn, som jeg elske for alltid."
[Thou art my girl, and my best friend, whom I will love forever.]
Her eyes blurred, and she answered in her own voice. "Haugen," she said, "I love you too, and you are
my
best friend. You make me a very happy woman."
"Good," he answered simply, and sat down beside her, taking her hand. "Then I'm a success."
***
His phone jerked the president from sleep. He was wide awake as he picked up the receiver; at this hour, it wouldn't have rung if it wasn't something drastic.
"This is the president," he said.
The voice was Hammaker's. "Mr. President, there's been a coup in the Kremlin. An army coup. A Marshal Pavlenko is in charge there now."
The president looked the statement over and saw nothing there but the bare, unadorned fact. "What do you know about him?"
"He's the Minister of Defense. Or was. That's all."
Now the name came back to Haugen from his briefing by Nikita Bulavin. Kulish had appointed Pavlenko; now Pavlenko had ousted Kulish.
"Anything else on that?"
"I got a call about an hour ago from White House liaison at the CIA; they'd just gotten report of a big firefight in and around the Kremlin, and artillery fire from one of the suburbs; from the direction of KGB headquarters. That was all; our source hasn't checked in since then, and the CIA is starting to worry about her. Moscow radio announced the new regime a few minutes ago, and I was just notified."
"Umh. Okay. I suppose I'll have an update when I get to my office."
"Of course, Mr. President."
"Good. And thanks. Anything more now?"
"No sir."
"I'll see you in the morning then, Ernie." He hung up.
"What is it, Arne?" his wife asked; she sounded wide awake.
He looked at the clock: 0133. "Get up and have a drink with me, and I'll tell you," he said.
The Soviet army in power there! He wondered what that would mean a week from now, and next month.
***
The next time he awoke was to a burst of automatic rifle fire, followed by more from two weapons. Then nothing. It had sounded nearby, but distant enough not to alarm, not to set his system racing. The marines, he thought. He wondered what they'd shot at, and whether they'd hit it, and also whether he'd be able to go back to sleep. That was the last thing he remembered thinking before his clock woke him again to get up.
TWENTY
The morning's intelligence summary told him nothing more about the coup, nor was the brief biographical sketch on Pavlenko particularly enlightening. The president decided that, with no more information than this, a special NSC meeting wasn't worth the time, and notified Milstead.
Then he keyed up Cromwell on his security phone.
"Jumper, this is the president. Why has Campbell been kept ignorant of the scalar resonance work? Why didn't Donnelly have him informed?"
"Secrecy and the need-to-know principle, Mr. President. The joint chiefs aren't told, either, except the chairman. Wheeler didn't tell Allison or LaForge, and that established a precedent that Donnelly followed."
"Hm-m. LaForge either? I suppose Coulter doesn't know then."
"That's right, sir."
Haugen thought for a moment. "What would you think about my replacing Campbell as secretary of defense?"
"Well, sir, I'm sure you could find a better one. Campbell's an... He can be arbitrary, sir, not to mention obtuse at times. I guess he runs his department well enough. Or lets his deputy run it, actually; Campbell's more a policy maker. And as far as I'm concerned, his policies generally become problems."
"All right. This is confidential, Jumper: I want you to give me the names of three people, civilians, that you think would make good defense secretaries. Have them on my desk tomorrow morning, with your thinking on them.
"And that's all I've got for you now. Anything you need to tell me? Or ask me?"
"Not really, sir. I'm curious about what you think of the Kremlin coup though."
"I don't know enough about it to have an opinion. Anything else?"
"No sir."
"Okay. Thanks, Jumper." He disconnected. He'd check out Cromwell's candidates with Burke, chairman of the House Armed Services Committee, and Rietveld of the Senate's. Then he'd ask for Campbell's resignation and go through the standard congressional approval procedure for his replacement.
He'd barely begun to read his daily news clippings when the security phone interrupted.
"Good morning, Mr. President." It was Gupta. "I have the information you asked for. Not one of the Soviet scalar resonance transmitters has a nuclear reactor on site or close by; that I can say for sure. Nor any other major power source that we can see. To seven of them, there isn't even an aboveground, high-voltage transmission line!
"And if there are buried transmission lines, we can't see any sign of them either. And we should be able to pick up signs of any excavations for at least a decade back; longer in the arctic. It's an absolute mystery, and an embarrassment. No one ever wondered about the power source before. My people here are freaked about it."
"Right. Thanks, Jim," the president replied. "I'll explain when the time is right. Anything else?"
Gupta hesitated. "No sir," he said.
"Fine. Thanks again."
Haugen chuckled as he disconnected. He'd felt the unasked question in Gupta's mind: The man was squirming to know what Haugen was withholding. He'd just have to stay curious for a while.
Meanwhile, the NSA physicist had confirmed a suspicion for the president, and made a decision easier. Now if Monsignor Koenig could pull off a minor miracle...
***
It was a weekday—gray, blustery, and below freezing. Not a day to inspire an outdoor walk. But the still great number of unemployed had time on their hands when they weren't waiting in line somewhere. And a few had the urge to move around despite the weather, perhaps to commune with themselves or get out of the house. Thus the parks of the capital were not entirely abandoned.
John Richey only appeared to be one of those people. Actually he had a job; he was a subcontractor on his way to work. Hunched in a too-large government surplus greatcoat—a navy bridgecoat, actually—he looked as if he wore beneath it everything he owned. Walking up to the Washington Monument, he went in. A uniformed woman, a Park Service attendant, got on the elevator with him. The male operator scarcely looked at them; he had worries on his mind.
When they arrived at the observation level, there was no one else there. After the operator had started back down with the elevator, Richey shot the female attendant twice in the chest and once in the head, with the muffler-equipped 7.62 mm automatic pistol he carried.
Having done this upset Richey a bit in spite of himself, and left him a little disoriented. Although he'd been there before, the first window he went to faced the wrong direction, and he had to go to a second to get a view of the White House. It was 960 meters away, as estimated by scaling the distance on a city map. From within his greatcoat and sweaters, he then took an export model M82 light antitank weapon and extended it to its firing length: 107 cm. He carried only one rocket for it; there was a limit to what the greatcoat could conceal.
Nine hundred and sixty meters was beyond the designed range for the weapon, but the window was nearly 500 feet higher than the target. The contractor had had someone compute the ballistics and jury-rig a combination telescopic sight and level for the weapon, reading in degrees of elevation. It had proven easy to use, after a few dry runs: Set the correct angle on the little mirror, then while keeping the vertical hair aligned on the target, center the bubble and
squeeze
the trigger.
It was more awkward than the standard electronic sight, but it allowed for the extra distance.
After emptying his muffled pistol into the window's heavy glass, and replacing the clip, he made himself go through the pre-firing sequence twice, settling his nerves. His target was the center window of the Oval Office. Then once again he aimed, inhaled, held his breath for a moment, and fired. The rocket launched with a slam, and he never did catch sight of it. Not that it mattered; it was beyond his control then.
Presumably the Monument personnel, 500 feet below, were unaware of what had happened.
He lay the launcher on the floor where it couldn't be seen from the elevator, then dragged the dead woman out of sight too. Finally, back at the elevator door, he took a capsule from a pocket, swallowed it, and pushed the call button. He also put a hand on the reassuring hardness of the pistol in his pocket, in case the operator noticed the blood on the floor to one side, or asked where the attendant was.
Richey'd been told that the capsule he'd taken contained a secret drug, developed by the CIA. And that it would improve his reflexes and speed considerably for fifteen or twenty minutes, greatly improving his chance of escape. He could expect a bad headache later, but it would be worth it.
The elevator hadn't yet arrived when Richey's knees gave way. As he lay on his side, watching the closed door turn blurry, he realized he'd been suckered.
***
The rocket hit on line but a few feet low, slightly damaging the White House lawn. One of the basement offices built beneath the lawn was substantially damaged. Because the rocket exploded well beneath the surface, none of the White House's tempered glass windows were broken.
The president was in the Oval Office at the time, talking with his press secretary, Lester Okada. After viewing the damage together, the president instructed Okada to set up a presidential press conference to be televised that evening at nine, Eastern Time—six, Pacific Time.
***
Paul Massey learned of the rocket attack on the six o'clock news. One of Barron's contractors, he supposed. Of course the White House would be well-guarded, but still it seemed to him to have been a low percentage kind of attempt.
At least it would upset White House activities, and might inspire free lances to try their luck. And Barron had undoubtedly arranged for multiple efforts.
Fortunately, Barron was functioning quite satisfactorily these days—actually he seemed more efficient than ever—without having been sent to Merriman and his PDH facility. It was just as well; pain-drug-hypnosis treatments sometimes had troublesome side effects, and he'd really come to rely on Barron.
Meanwhile though, he'd let Barron worry about Merriman. It was good for him.
Massey knew it wasn't wise to depend on anyone to the degree that he depended on Barron Tallmon; he told himself, not for the first time, to see about breaking in a backup man. He would have already, but he'd have to arrange it himself. A nuisance! He was used to simply giving orders; actually doing things was tiresome and unfamiliar for him.
Perhaps he should bring it up with Merriman, he thought. He might be able to provide someone. But Massey was hesitant: Merriman seemed unpredictable, unreliable.
***
As usual, when the time came, the press room was packed. The president walked in looking assured and alert. "Good evening," he said, and the cameras and microphones sent the sight and sound around the world. "We'll operate by the same ground rules as before: When I recognize you, give your name and affiliation before asking your question.
"I'll take a few questions and then make a prepared statement." He looked around at the upthrust hands, and pointed at the dean of the corps. "Mr. Rohmer."
"Frederick Rohmer, Associated Press. What is the government's reaction to this morning's coup in the Kremlin?"
"Our reaction is interest. So far we don't have enough information to react beyond that."
He looked over the room. "Next? The lady in the pink knit beret; yes."
"Valerie Szigety, the
Cleveland Plain Dealer
. How does Marshal Pavlenko compare with Chairman Kulish in regard to their positions on world peace?"
"Valerie, we'll have to wait and see. Party chairmen in the USSR have been known to change their stripes on taking office." He scanned the room. "Sorry, but I won't take any more questions today, related to the coup.
"Next? Mr...." The president snapped his fingers as if trying to conjure back the man's name. "Mr. Brent."
"Roger Brent,
U.S.A. Today
. Mr. President, where were you when the rocket struck the White House lawn, and what effect will this attack have on White House routine?"
"I was in my office, talking to Mr. Okada about setting up a press conference. As far as White House routine is concerned, it won't be much changed." He grinned. "I'm told that routine at the Washington Monument will change though.
"Next?" He pointed. "The lady in black."
"Bernice Deering,
Rocky Mountain News
. What does the first lady think about this attack?"
Haugen looked quizzically at her. "She doesn't approve." When the brief laughter had died, he continued. "Her main reaction was concern for my life. I reminded her that I've already lived most of it."
He looked the room over. "Mr. Mantes?"
"Robert Mantes,
American Daily Flag
. There have been no significant civil disorders now for more than a month. When do you expect to return government to regular constitutional procedures?"