Able One (22 page)

Kaufman stared at her, his baggy-eyed face a mixture of anger, fear, and disbelief.

“You’re gonna stooge around here until we run out of fuel?” he asked, his voice lower.

“Until the tanker shows up,” Christopher corrected. “And then we’re going to shoot down any goddamned missile those goddamned gooks launch.”

ABL-1: Lavatory

And there it was, tucked in behind the spare packs  of toilet paper.

Harry had searched the galley and the compartment where he and his team sat during takeoffs and landings, knowing that whoever took the lens assembly wouldn’t stash it in such an obvious place but looking in the obvious places first. He worked his way back along the COIL’s long, bulky length, sticking his nose into every corner and cranny he saw. Nothing. Rosenberg and Angel Reyes watched him with some bemusement on their faces as Harry sniffed and peeked and ducked under the tanks that held the big laser’s fuel.

He started back, intending to check out Taki’s station. Somebody could stick the lens assembly inside one of the consoles there, or even between consoles; the assembly wasn’t much bigger than the palm of his hand.

The plane seemed to be turning again; Harry felt the sway as the lumbering jet slowly banked right. Again he wondered if he should ask Colonel Christopher what was going down, but again he decided that she probably had her hands full and didn’t need anybody pestering her. She had made it painfully clear that she regarded Harry and his team as a bunch of tech geeks. Well, he mused, that’s what we are, really. Besides, I’ve got my own job to do.

He had to urinate. The lavatory was next to the galley and Harry pushed through the accordion door. On an impulse he bent down and opened the sliding door to the compartment that held the extra toilet paper and paper towels. The boxes looked jumbled, not in a neat stack. Harry pulled a couple of them out and there was the lens assembly.

Harry squatted down and stared at it, his need to urinate forgotten. In his mind he tried to re-create the scene. Whoever yanked the assembly out of the ranging laser must have done it last night, while we were going through the preflight inspection. He knew the rest of us were in the plane and he only had a couple of minutes to hide it. He could carry it down from the flight deck and right through the battle management station, even if Taki was sitting there. She’d be focused on her console with her back to whoever was passing through the area. Besides, the assembly was small enough to hold in your hand, and even if she turned around or glanced over her shoulder she probably wouldn’t have noticed it.

Or maybe not, Harry thought. Maybe it was Taki herself.

He carefully restacked the paper goods cartons and started to leave the lavatory. Then his bladder reminded him of why he’d come into the lav in the first place.

The President stood at the forward hatch of Air Force One at the top of the stairs while the band played “Hail to the Chief” and the crowd that had gathered on the tarmac roared its greeting.

It was crisp and cool in San Francisco. Woolly gray clouds were building up along the row of hills that fronted the ocean. The President could not see either the Golden Gate or the Bay Bridge from where he stood, which disappointed him. But the familiar cadence of “Hail to the Chief” always gave him a lift.

He smiled his brightest and waved both arms over his head while a phalanx of secret service agents, most of them in dark topcoats, filtered through the crowd. His team of security technicians was setting up the portable podium down at the bottom of the stairs, with the teleprompters and blast-proof screens.

Standing beside him, the President’s chief of staff rubbed a hand over his shaved pate.

“It’s always cold in ‘Frisco,” Norman Foster complained. “Mark Twain said the coldest winter he’d ever spent was one summer in San Francisco.”

The President laughed and said, “The crowd’s nice and warm, Norm.”

Foster agreed with a vigorous nod. “That they are, Mr. President. That they are.”

The two men started down the stairs toward the knot of news reporters and photographers clustered by the portable podium, Foster a respectful two steps behind his chief.

It’s supposed to start raining in an hour or so, Foster thought. We’ll be at the Cow Palace by then. But he couldn’t help thinking that conditions would get much, much warmer if those two North Korean missiles reached the city.

Across the Bay, at the Oakland office of the National Weather Service, Sam Weathers riffled through the reports that were trickling in to his desk. Reports on paper, most of them radioed or teletyped in from weather observation posts from California to Idaho.

Weathers was a compactly built black man of forty-six, his shoulders wide and his gut still tight, thanks to weekly sessions on the basketball court at his local YMCA. He wasn’t especially tall, but he was fast and had good hands. He would flash a big toothy grin whenever he worked the ball around one of those tall, gawky giraffes and scored another basket.

He wasn’t grinning now. His desk was covered with a slowly growing glacier of papers, none of them bearing good news.

Sam had never intended to be a meteorologist. With his last name being Weathers, he thought it would be ridiculous to work for the National Weather Service. Weathers from Weather. He could hear the snickering wherever he went. So he had majored in geophysics in college, then somehow gotten interested in atmospheric physics as a graduate student. By the time he had earned his Ph.D., jobs in atmospheric physics were scarce. So he took a temporary position with the Weather Service in his college town, Berkeley, hoping to transfer to NOAA’s atmospheric physics section when the job market loosened up. Twenty-two years later he was still with the Weather Service. Weathers from Weather.

With the satellites down and phone service jammed up the kazoo, Sam had turned to the service’s radio system to get reports on the storm that had swept in from the ocean. Even that was hit-and-miss: radio reception was mostly poor because of the storm, and more and more stations were going off the air because of power outages.

Sam had rounded up a couple of kids who knew how to run the computer that fed the big electronic wall map. Even so, the map had large blank spaces in it. The low-pressure center of the storm had moved inland with surprising swiftness and was dumping snow in the higher elevations across the northern Rockies. A surprise autumn storm. There’ll be a white Hallowe’en, Sam thought bitterly. And that means trouble.

The last satellite data he’d received had shown the storm’s center still out over the Pacific. Then the weather satellites had gone dead and Sam felt blinded, groping in the dark, reverting back to communications systems that hadn’t been used, really, since before he’d started in college.

“How’s it look, Weather Man?” Sam’s boss still had his sense of humor.

Sam looked up from his littered desk and gave him a sour expression. “Major storm. We’ve got warnings out but a lot of the area is getting hit with blackouts. We got real troubles, Eddie.”

The boss shrugged. “Do your best, Weather Man.”

“Sure. What else?”

“The President landed at San Francisco International okay. Got in before the rain started.” “Rain?”

“Yeah. Don’t you read your own forecasts? It’s pouring cats and dogs outside.”

The boss walked off toward his office. Sam straightened up and headed for the windows, up the hall from his desk and the wall map.

Sure enough, it was raining out there. Raining hard.

Washington, D.C.: State Department

For some reason that has delighted generations of cynics, the United States Department of State is headquartered in a part of the District of Columbia called Foggy Bottom. The Secretary of State’s spacious office was on the top floor of the handsome building. The Secretary had come directly to her office after her meeting in the Jefferson Hotel with her Chinese contact, Quang Chuli, still wearing her low-key gray pant suit and pearls. From her desk the Secretary could see across the Potomac River and its busy bridges to the glass-and-steel office towers of Virginia and the row upon row of white crosses lined up in military precision along the rolling green turf of Arlington National Cemetery.

As she sat at her broad, uncluttered desk, however, the Secretary of State was not looking out her windows. She was glaring at the image on her wall-sized display screen of a young brown-skinned upstart with a trim beard tracing his stubborn jawline.

“The Sarajevo scenario?” the Secretary repeated, in the icy, scornful tone that could send senators and White House officials scurrying for cover.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Michael Jamil.

General Higgins, whom the Oval Office had put in charge of this special situation team, was sitting beside Jamil and leaning toward the civilian so he could get his face in the picture that was on her wall screen.

“For what it’s worth, Madam Secretary,” Higgins said, in a tone that was little short of pompous, “this is Mr. Jamil’s personal assessment, not my team’s idea.”

“Thank you, General,” said the Secretary of State, putting on her sincerest smile. Shifting her eyes back to Jamil, she asked, “Is your scenario approved by the National Intelligence Council, young man?”

Jamil felt uncomfortable with General Higgins sitting beside him down at the end of the conference table and the eye of the computer camera staring at him unblinkingly. The others in the situation room were all on their feet, standing over to one side. Zuri Coggins was standing beside General Scheib, who was in front of the satellite image of the North Korean missiles, blocking Jamil’s view. But he could see the Secretary of State clearly enough, both on the computer display in front of him and on the wall screen on the other side of the room. No one stood in front of her image. He could see her brittle smile and hear the condescension in her “young man.”

“We’ve run many different scenarios at NIC,” he answered tightly. “The Sarajevo possibility is one of them.”

“But no one else at NIC has associated that scenario with the present situation,” the Secretary said, still smiling. “Only you.”

Feeling his insides clenching, Jamil replied, “I’m the only representative of the NIC present at this meeting, Madam Secretary.”

“I see,” she said.

“It’s the scenario that fits the facts best,” Jamil insisted. “A rogue attack triggers a full-scale nuclear exchange.”

“And you believe that the Chinese are behind this?”

Jamil hesitated. He knew the Secretary of State’s reputation. People didn’t get to challenge her more than once.

Carefully he answered, “I believe that the Chinese are prepared to profit from it. If we attack North Korea they will respond against us. If we allow the North Koreans to destroy an American city without retaliating, the Chinese will back North Korea’s demands. They want to eliminate our influence in Asia and this is the way for them to do it and keep their hands clean.”

The Secretary started to reply, but Jamil suddenly added, “We know they’ve placed their ballistic missile forces on alert. We should try to ascertain if their political leadership has left Beijing and gone to shelters.”

The Secretary’s eyes flared. “Do you expect me to believe that the Chinese government is ready to have a nuclear exchange with us? That they are willing to start World War III?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s exactly what I expect you to believe.”

In her office, the Secretary of State stared hard at this young intelligence analyst. He looks like an Arab, she thought. How can I trust him? He might have all sorts of security clearances, but he could be a plant, a mole who’s been working inside our intelligence apparatus for years, waiting for this chance to launch a nuclear jihad.

She took a deep breath to calm herself. Stay cool, she told herself. Every word you say is being recorded for history. You want to come across as concerned, informed, on top of this situation. You want to look presidential. He’ll run for reelection next time around, but you’re young enough to have a good chance for the nomination four years afterward, especially if you come out of this looking presidential.

She glanced at the data bar running along the bottom of her wall screen as she said carefully, “Mr ... eh, Jamil, has it occurred to you that I have sources of information that you do not?”

Jamil’s lips became a thin, hard line.

“Has it occurred to you,” the Secretary went on, “that I have unofficial sources that place me in contact with the highest levels of the government of the People’s Republic of China?” Struggling to keep her voice cool, presidential, she went on. “Has it occurred to you that my contacts assure me that China has no wish to attack the United States? Shouldn’t you rethink your scenario in the light of those facts?”

Despite the Secretary of State’s measured words, Jamil could almost feel her cold fury radiating from the conference room’s wall screen. And he felt angry, too--outraged that this woman refused to see the obvious.

“Has it occurred to you, Madam Secretary,” he retorted, “that your sources are lying to you? Or at least not telling you the entire truth? Have they told you that China will not under any circumstances launch their missiles against us? Have they offered to stop the North Koreans? Why do you think you haven’t been able to speak directly to the Chinese leadership? They’re probably in their underground city right now, waiting for the bombs to start falling! While the President’s in San Francisco preparing to give a speech!”

For a flash of an instant the Secretary of State looked flustered, but she immediately regained her icy composure. “Thank you for your frank opinion, Mr. Jamil.”

The wall screen went blank.

General Higgins pushed his chair away from Jamil and heaved himself to his feet. “You sure know how to make friends in high places, kid,” he said. Then he headed back to his place at the head of the table.

Jamil sat there alone. Why don’t they understand? he asked himself. It’s as if they don’t want to understand.

As the others took their seats around the conference table, Zuri Coggins came up to Jamil and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’d better update your resume, Michael,” she said, shaking her head. “Nobody talks to that woman like that and lives to tell the tale.”