Able One (19 page)

Jamil got to his feet, and before she could say a word he urged, "You’ve got to get a warning out to San Francisco. You can’t let them fire those missiles without warning the Homeland Security people."

Coggins stared at him for a long, silent moment. Then she drew in a breath before replying, "Are you really that sure that San Francisco is the target?"

"Yes!"

She looked away, murmuring, "The city would go apeshit if we told them they’re going to be bombed. Mass panic. God knows how many people would be killed in the rush to get away."

"They’ll all be killed if we don’t warn them," Jamil said. Then he added, "And the President, too."

Coggins shook her head. "I don’t know ... I just don’t know."

"Tell your boss, at least," Jamil said. "Let him make the decision. He’s the National Security Advisor, isn’t he? Let him earn his keep."

She smiled thinly. "When in doubt, buck it upstairs."

Santa Monica Airport

The flight operations director put down his phone and made a weak smile for Sylvia, who still stood unmoving before his desk.

"Okay," he said shakily, "I’ve got a plane to take you to SFO."

"San Francisco?" Sylvia asked. Nodding, the operations director got up from behind his desk. "It’s a private plane. A friend of mine is flying up there on business and he’s agreed to take you and your daughters."

"That’s wonderful!"

Mopping his brow with a damp handkerchief, the operations director said, "I had to call in a lot of favors for this. I hope you tell Congresswoman McClintock about it."

"I certainly will," said Sylvia.

The operations director glanced at his wristwatch as he said, "You go over to the general aviation terminal. There’s a bus outside that’ll take you there. Be quick now. He said he’ll wait for you, but he wants to take off no later than 4:00 p.m."

Sylvia grabbed the handle of her roll-on. "We’ll be there. Tell him we’re on our way! And thanks!"

The three women hurried out of the office so fast the operations director didn’t have time to pull one of his cards from his wallet and give it to Sylvia so that she could show it to Congresswoman McClintock.

Air Force One

The President looked up from the text of the speech he would give at the Cow Palace as his chief of staff came into the private compartment and sat in the big comfortable chair facing him.

Leaning toward the President, Norman Foster said, "The pilot says we’re on the approach to San Francisco."

The President glanced at his wristwatch. "Right on schedule. Good."

"We can still turn around," Foster said.

The President gave him the stare that often froze lesser men. Foster gazed back at his boss without flinching.

"They’re still worried about the city being nuked?"

"Took a call direct from your National Security Advisor. The admiral thinks the prudent thing to do would be to turn back."

"I’d look like a damned fool if nothing happens."

"You’d be dead if they nuke the city. Me too."

With an easy smile the President said, "I’m going through with this. I can’t afford to look like a coward. I’d never live it down."

Foster clenched his fists on his lap. "The plane could develop engine trouble. We could divert the flight to some other airport. A military base."

The President’s smile faded. "You really think they’re going to hit San Francisco."

"I think they might try."

"Might."

"If they do--"

"Norm, you’ve sat in on those intelligence briefings as often as I have. The North Koreans don’t have a missile that can reach San Francisco."

"Maybe not."

"Hell, the last time they launched a missile it flopped into the middle of the Pacific. Besides, I’ve checked the reports," the President went on. "I haven’t been sitting back here playing solitaire, Norm. I do my homework. According to the latest intelligence estimates the North Koreans do not have a missile with the range to reach San Francisco. Nor the accuracy. And especially not the reliability."

"And you’re willing to pin your life to that?"

The President hesitated for the slightest fraction of a heartbeat, then said firmly, "Yes. I am."

Foster looked around the compartment, gathering his thoughts. Then he said, "There’s this guy from the NIC sitting in on the special situation team we put together--"

"In the Pentagon?"

"Right." Foster nodded. "He’s insisting that the North Koreans are aiming for San Francisco, specifically because they know you’re going to be there tonight."

"He’s running counter to the intelligence reports."

"He’s got the representative from your National Security Advisor worried enough that she got him to put in another call to us here, warning us."

"One guy from the NIC?" the President asked. "What’s his background? What does he know about the missiles the North Koreans have?"

"I don’t know. I don’t even know his name. But he claims that if they could deliver a nuke into orbit and knock out all the communications satellites, the same kind of missile could hit San Francisco."

The President leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin thoughtfully.

"One guy," he muttered.

Foster nodded.

"What’s his background? Where’s he from? Could be a Republican who wants to make me look bad."

Foster threw his hands up in the air. "For Chris-sakes! We’re talking nuclear war here!"

"We are talking," the President said coldly, precisely, "about an unsubstantiated theory by some unknown guy from the National Intelligence Committee."

"Look, there’s a lot at stake here. The chances of the gooks nuking San Francisco might be damned small, but the consequences if they do are huge! Enormous!"

"That’s what my science adviser says about global warming, for god’s sake."

"Tell the pilot to divert to an Air Force base. Tell him to say we’ve got engine troubles. Tell--"

The pilot’s voice broke in from the intercom speaker set into the compartment’s overhead. "We are on final approach to San Francisco, sir. Please fasten your seat belt."

The President glanced at the speaker grill, then back at the friend and companion who had guided him to the White House.

"Too late, Norm. We’re there."

ABL-1: Laser Fuel Tank Section

Harry made his way aft, down the length of the big COIL, through a narrow hatch, and into the plane’s rearmost section, where the stainless steel fuel tanks full of liquefied oxygen and iodine stood man-tall and frosted with rime. Rosenberg and Reyes were right behind him. Harry could feel their resentment at his insisting that they check every square centimeter of the tankage all over again.

It took the better part of an hour, but at last Harry was satisfied that the tanks were properly filled, at their correct cryogenic temperatures, and--most important of all--not leaking.

Now the two engineers stood glumly before Harry, both of them waiting for Harry to explain what was behind his sudden insistence on this inspection.

Rosenberg and Reyes couldn’t look less alike, Harry thought. Rosenberg had a long, narrow face with teeth that looked a size too big for his jaw and a thick mop of tightly curled russet hair; his body looked soft, potbellied. But his tongue was sharp. Wally always had a quip or a wisecrack at hand. He could be cutting. Angel Reyes was built like a Venezuelan shortstop--small, agile, almost a full head shorter than Wally. Dark brown hair cut in bristling spikes, big liquid dark eyes like you see on sentimental paintings of little waifs. Angie was quiet, soft-spoken. At first glance he looked like one of those gardener’s guys who runs leaf blowers all day. But Angie had an engineering degree from Florida State University, where he had indeed played four years of varsity baseball for the Seminoles. Shortstop.

It felt chilly and cramped back here near the plane’s tail. Harry imagined that’s what a morgue would feel like: cold as death. He could see his breath forming little clouds of steam in the air despite the tanks’ heavy insulation. At least he didn’t smell any leaks.

Rosenberg caught his sniffing. "There’s no leaks," he said, his voice resentful. "We’ve checked from end to end."

"Good," said Harry. But he was thinking, Should I tell them about the missing optics assembly? Should I tell them that we have a saboteur on board? Maybe one of them is the guy. Maybe they already know.

Somehow the steady growl of the 747’s engines was louder back here, Harry thought. Just like an airliner: first class is up front; the peasants sit in back.

"Okay," he said to the two men. "I want you to keep your eyes open. We’ve ... uh, we’ve got a problem."

Reyes’s dark eyes went wider. Rosenberg looked skeptical.

"What problem?" Wally asked, almost sneering.

"Somebody tried to sabotage the ranging laser."

"What?"

Reyes’s mouth dropped open but he said nothing.

"The forward optics assembly’s gone missing," Harry explained. "Monk’s replacing it from the spares."

"For crap’s sake, Harry, that doesn’t mean sabotage," Rosenberg snapped. "What’s the matter with you? It’s not like you to go off the deep end."

Harry studied Rosenberg’s face. Wally looks sincere enough, he thought. He’s sore at me for thinking it’s sabotage.

"Look," he said. "Monk says he checked the ranger last night and it was all right. Now that we’re out here over the goddamned Pacific Ocean the forward optics assembly goes missing. Somebody took it out of its setting and hid it. That’s sabotage. Somebody’s trying to abort this mission. And it’s got to be one of us."

"Jesus," Reyes muttered.

Rosenberg, for once, had nothing to say.

Tapping a knuckle on the frosted side of the oxygen tank, Harry said softly, "It wouldn’t take much to blow this plane out of the sky. We’d all get killed nice and dead."

"Jesus." This time Reyes crossed himself.

"Watch everything," Harry said. "And everybody."

Reyes nodded. Rosenberg said, "And who’s going to watch you,
el jefe?"

Karen Christopher heard O’Banion’s voice in her headphone, clipped and businesslike. "Message from Andrews coming through, ma’am."

"Put it through," she commanded.

"It’s printing out. No voice."

Colonel Christopher glanced over at Kaufman in the right-hand seat. He’d just come back into the cockpit after flaking out on one of the bunks built into the rear of the flight deck. Still, he looked pouchy-eyed, weary.

"How do you feel, Obie?" she asked.

"I’m okay," he said, clicking the safety harness over his shoulders.

Kaufman hesitated a heartbeat, then asked, "You know the routine for aiming at a missile?"

She nodded. "Point the nose at the rocket exhaust plume. Easy."

He nodded back at her. "Yeah. Easy. In the simulator."

Christopher heard the sarcasm in his tone. She thought about her copilot for a couple of moments, then decided to sweeten his life a little.

"Can you handle it by yourself for a few minutes?" she asked the major.

"Sure!"

Christopher smiled inwardly. That was every copilot’s answer whenever he was asked to take the controls. Sure! They want to fly, not watch the boss do the flying.

"Okay," she said, unbuckling her safety harness. "It’s all yours."

"Right," said Kaufman.

The colonel slid out of her chair, took off the heavy flight helmet and left it on the seat, then stepped through the cockpit hatch. Lieutenant Sharmon was at his station, a stack of charts on his lap and still another map on his console’s main screen.

The lieutenant looked up at Christopher. "Rendezvous in fifty-three minutes," he said.

"Fine," said Christopher. She gave Sharmon a light pat on the shoulder and turned to O’Banion, who was pulling a freshly typed sheet from the printer built into his communications rack. She could see TOP SECRET emblazoned on it in bright red capital letters.

O’Banion passed it to her without reading it.

From Brad again, she saw. Major General B. B. Scheib, Deputy Commander MDA. Skipping past the formalities, she got down to the meat of the message.

1. Refueling tanker experiencing engine troubles, diverted to Misawa AFB for repair. Refueling rendezvous now scheduled for 1100 hours ZULU.

Christopher made a swift mental calculation. We’ve crossed the date line; eleven hundred Zulu time is 9:00 a.m. here.

2.
If refueling rendezvous is further delayed, you have the option of canceling rendezvous and diverting to Misawa AFB and awaiting further orders.

She stared at the sheet of paper, noticing that it was shaking like a trembling aspen in her hand.

I’ve got to decide whether we hang out here over the ocean and wait for the tanker to find us or abort the whole mission and land at Misawa.

I’ve got to decide if we try to stop those damned missiles when they’re launched or put down safely in Japan.

Brad’s left it to me to decide. He’s dropped the hot potato in my damned lap.

Spokane, Washington: Northwest Regional Electrical Power Headquarters

Karl Dieter Olbricht hated trees. It had not always been so. As a youth, growing up on the windswept prairie of Nebraska, he had loved to climb the lone apple tree on the front lawn of his house. But once he started working for the local electric utility as a rugged, handsome blond lineman, he began to acquire a hatred for trees. Not all trees. Only those close enough to electrical power lines to bring the lines down if they were blown over in a storm.

If Olbricht could have his way, every tree within two miles on either side of a power line would be cut down, carted away, its roots dug up or dynamited.

He was standing with his back to the big electronic wall map at the regional headquarters, looking out the windows on the other side of the big command center. Snow was whipping past and the trees out on the parking lot were swaying as their branches loaded up with ice.

The wall map was blank, and had been since the satellites had gone dead. Olbricht had to rely on the already overloaded telephone lines to get some semblance of a picture about the situation over the three-state area. And phone lines were getting knocked out too. Cell phone service was spotty, at best.