Able One (8 page)

“Maybe she wants to give you a flying lesson,” Delany wisecracked.

“Or maybe she’s lonely up there,” said Rosenberg, with a smirk.

She’s got a copilot, a communications officer, and a navigator up there, Harry thought. All men. And all of them a lot younger than me. She’s not lonely.

Puzzled, he unlocked his safety harness and went to the forward hatch of the compartment. As he did, he heard the whine of the second of the plane’s four turbojet engines start up and quickly turn into a roar. The plane began to vibrate noticeably.

Ducking through the hatch, Harry made his way past the plane’s minuscule galley and up the ladder that led to the flight deck. A lanky young black lieutenant was on his feet up there, tall enough that his closely cropped hair nearly brushed the overhead. Harry had never seen him before this morning. He recognized the communications officer, though: a stubby little red-haired captain seated at his board full of dials and screens, headphones clamped to his ears.

The lieutenant introduced himself. “I’m the new navigator, Lieutenant Sharmon. You must be Mr. Hartunian.”

“Harry.”

Sharmon nodded and put out his hand. “I’m Jon. Without an aitch.”

“Jon,” Harry said, grasping the lieutenant’s proffered hand. The kid’s grip was firm, his long fingers wrapped around Harry’s hand.

“I’ll tell Colonel Christopher you’re here.”

One by one the plane’s engines were growling into life. Harry stood uneasily next to the communications console while Lieutenant Sharmon ducked through the cockpit hatch. Harry caught a glimpse of the control panel, studded with instruments and sensor screens, and the windshield above it. It still looked miserably gray and foggy outside.

Maybe they’ve canceled the flight, Harry thought. But then he countered, So why’s she powering up the engines?

Lieutenant Colonel Christopher came out and forced a smile for him. She was small, petite really, but he could see that she had an adult’s body beneath her blue fatigues. Dark hair, bright, intelligent eyes. Really pretty, he realized once again. For a moment he thought she looked familiar, as if he’d seen her somewhere before. But that’s impossible, Harry thought. Our paths haven’t crossed before this. Still, he couldn’t shake the nagging thought that they had.

“Mr. Hartunian,” she said without offering to shake hands.

Harry nodded. The colonel looked as grim as death.

“We have a situation on our hands,” she said.

“A situation?” Harry asked.

“I just got a top-priority message relayed from Washington. There’s been an attack on our orbiting satellites and--”

“An attack?”

“A missile fired from North Korea detonated a nuclear device in geosynchronous orbit several hours ago. Just about every civilian satellite around the world has been knocked out of service.”

Harry gaped at her, his heart suddenly pumping wildly. “From North Korea?”

“We’ve been ordered to proceed to a position over the Sea of Japan and be prepared to shoot down any more missiles that the North Koreans launch.” Christopher spoke crisply, with no hesitation, no doubts in her tone.

“But we can’t... I mean, we’re supposed to be testing the laser. We’re not ready for a shooting war.”

Colonel Christopher said, “You techies are never ready for reality, but ready or not, Mr. Hartunian, those are our orders. Get your people on the mark. Make sure that ray gun of yours works right.”

Jefferson Hotel, Washington D.C.

It had started to rain. Looking out the window of the penthouse suite’s sitting room, the Secretary of State saw brittle dry leaves gusting across the pavement far below. The afternoon sky was clouded over, gray and gloomy. Yet she felt excited, eager.

How often had she used this suite over the past few years? she wondered idly. It fit perfectly her need for an informal meeting place, a spot where she could chat quietly in privacy with men or women who preferred to stay safely out of the glare of publicity, a place where she could develop the back-channel contacts of her own, without the State Department bureaucracy’s officious meddling. The Jefferson was perfect: downtown, close to the White House, old, elegant, and very discreet.

After leaving the White House that morning she had changed her attire for this meeting: a quietly elegant pantsuit of pearl gray over a tailored white blouse, with a small choker of pink pearls and matching earrings. She turned away from the rain-swept windows, thinking, He’ll come. He’s got to come.

The phone on the desk buzzed, and she rushed to it before it could ring twice. The face of the young security woman down in the hotel’s lobby appeared on the screen. “Mr. Quang is on his way up, Madam Secretary.”

The Secretary’s pulse quickened. “Good.”

In less than a minute the doorbell chimed. The Secretary of State crossed the thickly carpeted sitting room and admitted a portly, blank-faced Chinese. He was wearing a dark business suit, white starched shirt, pale blue necktie--and a tiny red star pin on his lapel.

He bowed slightly as she ushered him into the sitting room. The Secretary of State said, “Mr. Quang, it’s good of you to come on such short notice.”

His bland expression warmed slightly into a tentative smile. “Madam Secretary, there’s no need for formalities,” he said in perfect American English. “I understand the gravity of the situation.”

Gesturing to one of the comfortable armchairs in front of the dark, unlit fireplace, the Secretary of State said, “We’ve been unable to establish a reliable communications link with Beijing. Your ambassador seems unable to give us a clear picture of what’s going on there.”

Quang nodded as he settled into the chair. “I would think there is great turmoil in Beijing at this moment.”

“They prefer not to talk to us?”

“They prefer” --he hesitated a heartbeat, searching for a word-- “not to commit themselves.”

The Secretary of State took the armchair facing Quang’s and studied his round, almond-eyed face. How many times have we met like this? she asked herself. How many times have we cut through the red tape and talked clearly and honestly to one another? She had known Quang since she’d first visited Beijing, back when she’d been a law student with political ambitions and he a fast-rising industrial tycoon. She realized that, in truth, she owed much of her advancement to the private, authoritative back-channel link he offered to the highest levels of the Chinese government.

“Have you been able to reach the chairman?” asked the Secretary of State. “Or any of the council members?”

With a modest smile, Quang replied, “As you know, I am merely a businessman. I have no position in the government.”

“You are the chairman’s brother-in-law.”

His smile widened slightly. “A brother-in-law is usually without much influence.”

The Secretary leaned slightly toward him, her fists clenched on her lap. “You’re the best link I have to the chairman. You’ve got to help us avert a nuclear war!”

Quang’s smile faded. “I will do whatever I can, of course.”

“Did the People’s Republic of China provide nuclear weapons to North Korea?”

“Of course not.”

“Are you certain?”

Quang’s eyes shifted slightly, then refocused on the Secretary. “I can tell you this much. Three nuclear warheads were smuggled into the DPRK from Russia last month.”

“Last month! And your government didn’t inform us!”

“We confirmed the information only two days ago. The council was debating what our response should be when the Koreans set off one of the warheads in orbit.”

“We’re on the brink of war, for god’s sake!”

Shaking his head ever so slightly, Quang replied, “The People’s Republic of China has no intention of starting a war with you.”

“Nor we with China, but...”

Quang raised a stubby finger. “But you wish to strike at the Koreans.”

“We’ve got to do something,” the Secretary said. “They have two more missiles. And from what you say, those missiles are armed with nuclear bombs.”

“Pyongyang has sent troops to capture the rebels.”

“Troops? They should be sending in an air strike to knock out those missiles before the terrorists launch them!”

“They are not terrorists,” Quang said flatly. “Do not fall into the trap of painting all your enemies with the same brush. That’s how you got into Iraq, remember?”

“What are they then?”

“A faction of the DPRK army, apparently.”

“What do they hope to gain by destroying the whole world’s satellites?” the Secretary asked.

Quang shrugged his round shoulders. “That we will learn once Pyongyang’s troops have captured them.”

“And in the meantime they’ve got two nuclear armed missiles that can reach Hawaii! Or maybe even San Francisco!”

“Or Beijing,” Quang said tightly. “Or Shanghai. Believe me, we are just as concerned about this as you are.”

“So why aren’t you
doing
something about it?”

“The council is considering several options. We believe the missiles are under the control of a rebel faction of the North Korean army. The government in Pyongyang, such as it is,” Quang added with a sardonic sneer, “is seeking to avoid an outright civil war. They want to take the rebels with as little violence as possible.”

“They’re going to launch those missiles,” the Secretary said, her voice flat and hard. “Unless somebody stops them, they’re going to launch both those nukes.”

“If they attack China we will obliterate them,” Quang said flatly. “They know that.”

“But if they attack the United States . .”

Shifting uneasily in the armchair, Quang said, “That would be regrettable. And an American strike on the DPRK would be even more regrettable.”

“What do you expect us to do?”

“Think before you act. An American invasion of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea is no more acceptable to China today than it was in 1950. And a strike against the DPRK would force us to retaliate ... to say nothing of the effect the fallout would have on Japan.”

“We wouldn’t have to nuke them, necessarily,” the Secretary of State said. But her tone was subdued, tentative.

Quang replied, “If you attack North Korea in any way the pressures on my government to protect our Asian neighbor would be overwhelming. It is a matter of face, as well as realpolitik.”

The Secretary studied her old friend’s unreadable expression for several moments. Then, “You’d launch a nuclear strike against us?”

Quang stared back at her for a long, silent moment. Then he murmured, “You must realize that there are factions within our council as well. We have our own hard-liners, you must understand.”

“But that’s just what the terrorists want! Don’t you see, they
want
a nuclear Armageddon!”

“As I told you, we do not believe they are terrorists. They do not seek nuclear holocaust.”

“Then what
do
they want?”

“Control of the government in Pyongyang. Reunification with South Korea--under their terms. Economic aid. Neutralization of Japan. The removal of American bases and influence in East Asia.”

The Secretary sagged back in her chair. It was her turn to be silent now, thinking that what the North Koreans wanted suited the Chinese government perfectly. A stalking horse, she said to herself. Could Beijing be behind this? If we react against North Korea, will the Chinese use it as an excuse for striking back at us?

“They want the impossible,” she said at last. “What they’re going to get is pulverized.”

“Do not overreact, I beg of you.”

“If they nuke an American city ...” The Secretary shook her head. “You saw our reaction to 9/11. And that was only a couple of buildings that were destroyed. If they wipe out Honolulu ... or San Francisco ... if they kill the President.... For god’s sake!”

Quang leaned forward in his chair. The Secretary noticed a thin bead of perspiration trickling down his left cheek.

“Madam Secretary,” he said, his tone suddenly stiffly formal, “I agreed to meet with you because I--like you--wish to avert a nuclear confrontation between our two peoples.”

The Secretary nodded warily. There was more coming, she knew.

“However,” Quang went on, “if the United States attacks the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, my government will be forced to respond.”

“So we’re supposed to sit still while they nuke a couple of our cities?”

“The rebels will be caught and dealt with. Do not attack North Korea, I beg of you. If you do, China will be forced to respond.”

“And the Russians watch us destroy each other.”

“This has always been the weakness of the retaliation policy.”

“Mutual assured destruction,” the Secretary murmured.

“A policy intended to deter nuclear attack. It has worked very well between your nation and ours.”

“And the Russians.”

“Yes,” Quang agreed. “But when fanatics gain nuclear weapons, such a policy becomes useless. Mutual suicide.”

With that, Quang got to his feet. The Secretary rose on shaky legs and walked him to the door. They exchanged meaningless words, and he left her alone in the sumptuous suite, leaning against the tightly shut door, wondering if the world was indeed coming to an end.

But then she straightened and headed for the phone. The President’s off on a macho trip to San Francisco, she told herself. The Vice President’s safely in the National Redoubt, as if saving his worthless hide means anything. I’ve got to get to the Speaker of the House and Senator Yanez. Somebody’s got to take control of this situation. Somebody’s got to start acting presidential, and it might as well be me.

Spokane, Washington: Lukkabee’s Supermarket

Phyllis Mathiessen was more annoyed than worried. Well, no, she really was worried--about the dinner she was planning for tomorrow evening. This was the third supermarket she’d driven to this morning, and none of them had pecans. She needed pecans for the pie.

Feeling nettled as she pushed her grocery cart along the fresh-produce aisle, she couldn’t for the life of her understand why a big supermarket chain like Lukkabee’s couldn’t keep pecans on the blessed shelves. Pecans! It’s not like she wanted something exotic. Just plain old pecans.