Trinity's Child (53 page)

Sedgwick looked levelly at the director. “Are you going to tell him or aren't you?” he demanded. The director shot an angry glance at the much younger man, but he said nothing. “According to the director,” Sedgwick continued bluntly, “an alternate
E-4
made it out of Omaha and picked up a presidential successor in Baton Rouge. The man is aboard the
E-4
at this time.”

“A successor?” The President's voice was dumbfounded.

“Everyone thinks you're dead, sir,” Sedgwick said. “Including the Soviet Premier, if the call was authentic. I'm inclined to believe it was.”

The President was becoming far more angry than confused. He waved both arms toward his unseen underlings, causing one of the nurses to rush to the teetering I.V. stand. “Is anybody going to bother to tell me who the hell the new President is?”

“The director believes,” Sedgwick replied, “that the Secretary of the Interior has been sworn into office and is aboard the
E-4.”

“Jesus Christ.”

No one said anything.

“Jesus H. Christ.”

Sedgwick shifted uncomfortably.

“We got Alice in one plane and the Mad Hatter in the other.”

The silence lasted only seconds, but it seemed endless to all in the room.

“Okay,” the President said. “Let me see if I've got this straight. You're telling me that everybody thinks I'm dead, that Wild Bill Hickok thinks he is President, that our submarines are about to destroy the Soviet Union, that the Soviet Union then will destroy us, that we can't talk to our own people, but somebody claiming to be the Soviet Premier just called and we told the guy to take a hike. Is that about right? Or is that the morphine talking?”

“I'm afraid that's about right,” Sedgwick said.

“Baskin?”

“Bascomb, sir,” the director replied.

“What the hell makes you think you were not talking to the Premier?”

“Most improbable, sir,” the director replied nervously. “Really, most improbable.”

“Improbable,” the President said in exasperation.

“He was too rude, sir,” the director flustered, “far too rude for a national leader attempting to negotiate with a foreign power.”

“Rude,” the President said quietly. “We're nuking the be-Jesus out of each other and you think he was rude.” Suddenly the President thundered, “You want to see a national leader get rude, you blathering nincompoop? What the hell did he say to you?”

The director started to stammer a reply and then froze.

“Oh, for God's sake,” Sedgwick said. “The Russian said the director couldn't find his ass with both hands and a hunting dog.”

One of the nurses tittered nervously. The President started to laugh, first in a low rumble, then in a slowly escalating roar, until

the pain forced him to stop. “Baskin, off that information alone, I'd bet this little rabbit hole of yours that you had the Soviet Premier on the phone.” He paused, then added very calmly, “Now get your ass, assuming you can find it, into the radio room and try to get him back.
Please.”

The President could hear the man moving briskly out of the room.

“Sedgwick?”

“Sir?”

“You think we have a chance?”

“I don't know, sir.”

“It's harder than hell to get through to submerged submarines, isn't it?”

“We often had trouble in peacetime, Mr. President.”

Sedgwick looked long and sadly at the unseeing President. “You have one other problem, sir.” The President rolled his head toward the naval aide, as if to look at him. “Your authenticator card is missing.”

The President took a long, deep breath. “Nurse,” he said, “roll me into the radio room, will you please?”

On the bridge of the
Ticonderoga,
the captain grimaced as he sucked on a cup of unusually foul coffee. He watched a young ensign stride toward him. “Sir!” The young officer snapped a salute and handed him a brief message.

“Victor?” the fatigued captain asked, his mind never straying from the Soviet submarine silently hounding them.

“No soundings, sir,” the ensign replied. “We still can't find him.”

The captain turned away, staring into the western horizon, where dark clouds gathered more rapidly now. He moved his eyes down to the flight deck, where a twin-jet S-3A Viking sub chaser caught the restraining cable, jerking to a halt after another sweeping search. Its two air-launched nuclear-tipped torpedoes still were slung beneath its wings, signaling another fruitless mission. He shook his head gloomily.

The ensign, on his first sea duty, lingered longer than he should. It also being his last sea duty, he also ventured more than he normally would dare. “Maybe Victor has forgotten us, sir,” he said tentatively. “Found bigger game.” They both knew that an American submarine, packing the nuclear firepower to take out a good part of the Soviet Union, was a far more attractive target than their floating island.

“Then we better start chasing him, dammit!” the captain snapped. “That's our job, mister.”

The young officer blushed, and wanted to remove himself quickly. But the captain, in his preoccupation, still had not read the message. “We have an unidentified aircraft, sir.” The captain turned and looked at him without expression. “Confusing,” the ensign continued. “It has the radar profile of a B-52, sir.”

The captain stared at the young officer a moment longer, then dismissed him. He examined the new message, which gave coordinates for a large bomber approaching at a distance of about seventy-five miles. He looked back down at the deck, debating between his F-14's and the newer F-18 Hornet interceptors, both of which were ready. He wagged his head at the sheer lunacy of it. He chose the F-18's.

Even unseeing, the President felt incredibly claustrophobic inside the tight confines of the radio room, his bed angled up tightly against an array of communications gear and other paraphernalia. There was little he could say to the Premier, except to ascertain the man's intentions, express his own, and reopen the lines of communication. The lines had been closed, unfortunately, far longer than the thirteen hours since the missiles flew. He clenched the phone rigidly, trying to will the pain out of his voice, while the two of them moved as quickly as possible through the necessary pleasantries, including the Premier's genuinely amazed relief that he was alive. They dealt hurriedly and bleakly with the misunderstanding over the Soviet launch at the Chinese and the disastrous American response. The Premiere did not mention the coup attempt. The President did not mention the possibility that he had been duped by Icarus. The information was irrelevant now—an irretrievable part of the past like the scores of millions dead and dying. They had no time for the past. The delays for interpretation, which the President had found to be convenient opportunities to plot his next hard-ball response during their past conversations, became almost intolerable irritations now. Both men wanted to move rapidly past the preliminaries.

“I'm afraid I don't have very reassuring news, Mr. Premier,” the President said. “I need time—perhaps more than you can grant me. But I'm asking you to give me what you can. May I assume that at last we share a common goal and want to stop this madness?”

The President felt sweat forming on his forehead while his words were translated, the hyperactive voice of the Premier responded, and then the Premier's words were translated.

“Time, Mr. President, is a luxury neither of us has,” the Premier's response began. “I will give you what I can. You can be assured we share the same goal. However, I cannot control all events here. My people will not absorb much more punishment. It is not a question of fault now, Mr. President. I will accept the fault, if necessary, and history's judgment of it. You must stop your submarines.”

“Yes, yes, I know that, Mr. Premier.” The President rubbed his aching eyes, wondering how much to tell the Soviet leader. “At the moment, I might have less control over events than you.”

The Premier paused, as if he were pondering the same dilemma about how far to go in this conversation. “You have a pretender aboard your command plane,” he said flatly.

“A pretender? I'm not sure that is the correct term, sir. He apparently believes he is President, legitimized by our Constitution.”

The President heard a low grunt at the other end. “I had been marveling at the efficiency of your political system. We always considered your system to be your greatest weakness. It is so ponderously slow at times.”

“On this occasion it may have been too efficient,” the President said. Then he added ruefully, “In more ways than one.”

“In translation, Mr. President, that sounds threatening. Do you mean it that way?”

“No, Mr. Premier, most certainly not. I merely mean that my control over events is minimal. I need time to put my house in order.”

“This pretender, this other President, he has control?”

“I'm not certain anyone has control here, sir.”

“His intentions are the same as yours?”

“I'm not certain, Mr. Premier.” The President thought a moment. “Your weapons were very thorough in their destruction of our communications system. I have not been able to talk to him.”

Again the President heard a low grunt and then an almost wistful sound in the Premier's voice. “I thought your man had been talking to me,” the translator said enigmatically. “Sir?” the President asked in confusion.

“You are aware that your bombers returned home and, in response, I returned mine?”

A great puzzlement spread across the President's face. He desperately wished he could see Sedgwick, who lay nearby in the doorway, to read his face for some indication of how to evaluate the unexpected information. “No, Mr. Premier,” he replied after a moment. “I did not know that. It is reassuring news.”

“I thought so at the time,” the Premier responded. “Unfortunately, the bombers are not the most serious problem. My intelligence officers inform me that your submarine fleet operates on a preprogrammed attack schedule.”

“That is correct.”

“How much time do we have?”

“I don't know, Mr. Premier.”

The radiophone seemed to go dead for a moment. Then the President heard a rapid, brief burst of Russian.

“This is no time to be disingenuous, Mr. President.”

“I assure you, Mr. Premier, I would tell you if I knew. You must trust me. I do not know.”

The pause was longer this time. The President could hear deep and erratic breathing at the other end.

“We are wasting time we might not have,” the Premier said. “I will trust your intentions. I have little choice. Your intentions might not be enough. You are well aware, I assume, that I will not be able to control my ICBM's if you are unable to control your submarines?”

“Too well aware, Mr. Premier.”

“Then I recommend that you proceed to, as you put it, place your house in order. Frankly, mine is in some disarray as well. We will talk again, destiny willing. God willing, if you prefer.”

“We need both destiny and God on our side today, Mr. Premier. And a good measure of luck.”

The President heard the Premier's disconsolate
da.
Then the Russian continued briefly.

“I fear I was somewhat abrupt with one of your advisers. My temper is short today. Please tender my apologies.”

The President chuckled, gaining a slight release from the tension, only to have the small laugh send excruciating pain stabbing through his legs. “Apologies are not necessary, Mr. Premier. We are finding the man a mirror.”

A babble of confused Russian emerged out of the phone, which the President now had trouble holding. After several short exchanges between the translator and the Premier, the translator asked, “A mirror?”

“Tell the Premier that despite our efficiency, we do not stock hunting dogs in these places,” the President said. He was near exhaustion. But he heard a chuckle, also small, emerge out of Cherepovets.

“God be with you, Mr. President.”

“And Destiny with you, Mr. Premier.”

The pause seemed to linger endlessly this time, as they tried to conclude the conversation.

“I am sorry, Mr. President,” the Premier said.

“I am sorry too, Mr. Premier.” The President blindly handed the phone upward, felt it taken away, and tried to force his exhausted brain to concentrate on the next step.

Sedgwick, listening from the doorway, glanced at the clock. It read 1900 Zulu.

Framed in the cockpit window, less than two miles away, the
E-4
glimmered majestically in the muted sunlight. It was a handsome craft, the cockpit dome and the presidential compartment bulging white and dramatically out of its spine not entirely unlike the proud head of the eagle it represented. Alice could just make out the lettering—“
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
”—stripped in blue across its ribs. The Stars and Stripes flew proudly on its tail, also visible. The
E-4's
pilot was maneuvering now, swinging the massive tail this way and that in a desperate attempt to outrun his pursuer. But the
Looking Glass
had him cornered. Alice shivered. He grasped Smitty's shoulder and felt the shudder run through him, too. Neither spoke.