Trinity's Child (56 page)

The Librarian blanched, then leaped out of his seat. The voice on the phone chuckled again. “Like Mark Twain, Mr. Secretary, I'm afraid the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I'm told, however, that you have done a superb job while I was incapacitated. Turning the bombers was a brilliant stroke.”

Condor stared wordlessly across the room, a perplexed look of ambivalence spreading across his face. The Librarian hovered over him, tugging at the arm holding the phone. “Who the devil is it?”

“It was a statesman's stroke, Mr. Secretary. I'm not sure I would have been so cool myself. I congratulate you and give you my eternal thanks.” The voice was soothing and calm.

“What the hell is going on?” The Librarian was pulling at him.

“Now we have to work together on the next step, my old friend. We haven't much time.”

Uncertainty crept into the successor's eyes. The colonel struggled more fiercely for the phone. “It's the President,” the successor said, trying to shoulder him away. The Librarian loosened his grip and shook his head, smiling thinly in disdain.

“We must stop those submarines, Mr. Secretary. It's going to take the two of us.”

“This is the oldest trick in the book,” the Librarian said, withdrawing a step and continuing to shake his head.

“It's the President,” Condor protested feebly.

“Ninety minutes, Mr. Secretary. I need your help. Or everything we both hold dear and holy will be gone forever. I am counting on you.”

“My fellow Americans,” the Librarian began mockingly, “I come into your living rooms tonight to discuss a matter of the gravest importance . . .” The voice was a near-perfect mimicry of the voice on the white phone. The successor paled.

“We must send out the orders for a cease-fire, Mr. Secretary. Then, together, we can begin to put what's left of our nation back together again.”

“Who are you?” the successor asked. The question carried an edge, and beneath the farmlands outside Olney, the President sagged back into his pillow. He could hear bits and pieces of the other voice contradicting him aboard the
E-4.
He knew his bluff wasn't working, the system too stringent, the man and the liturgy—his own liturgy not long ago—too compelling. For a split second the President saw himself long ago on Inauguration Day, still viewing the world in the comfortable simplicity of his election rhetoric. He saw his former self in the man on the other end of the phone. He knew what would come next.

Aboard the
E-4,
the Librarian challenged Condor confidently now. “A thousand Russians are trained to do that. Tape machines. Audio enhancers. They can make the President's voice tell you to fly this aircraft nonstop to Vnukovo Airport for surrender ceremonies. They can tell you your wife's maiden name, your favorite breakfast cereal.” He paused dramatically, changing tone and pitch. “They've got turds in their pants. They're scared silly. They're trying everything.”

“Mr. Secretary,” the phone voice said more sternly now, “I am the President of the United States and you know that very well. You are from Anadarko, Oklahoma. I attended your granddaughter's baptism not three months ago. The child's name is Rachel. She has beautiful blond ringlets.”

The successor winced. “You're a fraud,” he said painfully. His granddaughter did have beautiful blond ringlets.

“Ask him for authenticator-card confirmation,” the Librarian intoned.

The successor withdrew his card and struggled to remember the routine Alice had put him through. “In the upper-right-hand corner of your Sealed Authenticator System card,” the successor said, “read me the third, fourth, and fifth letters and/or digits.”

“My card's lost, Mr. Secretary. That shouldn't surprise you. You were on the ground. It's not the first time a President's card has been missing. President Reagan's was gone for two days when he was shot. It's a lot messier down here now than it was then.” The President drew a breath and continued bluntly. “I'm issuing you a direct command now. Land that aircraft at the nearest available field.”

“Lost,” the successor said.

“Lost,” the Librarian echoed knowingly.

“You're a no-good commie fraud,” the successor said evenly.

“You are making a monumental error, Mr. Secretary. It could mean the end of everything.”

The successor shook his head at the gall of it, even playing on his love for his granddaughter. He struggled for an appropriate parting remark that would be earthy and memorable.

“Tough titty, comrade,” he said, and hung up the phone.

The chatter between the F-18's had stopped briefly. Kazaklis and Moreau looked at each other in confused apprehension. The interceptors should be on their tail now. It had occurred to Kazaklis to send Moreau back to Halupalai's empty station to try to activate their tail cannon. It had occurred to him to try to use the hung-up SRAM, even though that was a thousand-to-one shot. He had dismissed both ideas quickly. Both were pointless. A carrier of this size had many more F-18's and perhaps sixty or seventy additional aircraft that could bring them down. He also had no stomach for shooting his own. Kazaklis gestured to Moreau to prepare for ejection. She shook her head. The radio squawked again suddenly.

“Holy heaven . . .”

“Don't look at it, buddy. . . .”

“But it—”

“Don't look at it!”

The voices warped in and out, half in awe, half in horror. Kazaklis felt a surge of curiosity and thought of banking the plane for a look. He didn't. He plodded on, neither adding throttle nor maneuvering. He stared straight into the approaching clouds, the heat-lightning flare having come and gone instantly. Moreau craned her neck far to the right and out the side window but saw nothing. The clouds seemed to be enveloping them, still miles away but curling up around them. She started to speak to Kazaklis, but the pilot shook his head.

“Red Fox Two,
I'll take the first pass. . . .”

Kazaklis reached far over, grabbed Moreau's hand, and placed it over the ejection lever, forcing her fingers around it. She withdrew her hand. He looked at her angrily.

“Break it off, Larry,” the voice of the wing man,
Red Fox Two,
crackled. But it sounded weepy through the static.

“You take the second pass, buddy. . . .”

“This isn't shit duty now. . . . It's crazy. . . .”

“Get your act together!”

“It's finished, Larry.”

Silence huzzed out of
Red Fox One.

“Let 'em go, Larry ... let somebody go, for God's sake. . . .”

The empty static roared into the cockpit of the B-52,
Red Fox One
not replying. Then the radio crackled again.

“Red Fox Two,
this is
Red Fox One.
I'm goin' in. . . .”

“Break away! Break away! Get off 'em, Larry. . . .”

“Closing . . .”

“Ple-e-ease . . . !” The anguished screech, a banshee wail, pounded through the earphones inside the B-52. Then through the radio din came a faint chug-a-chug-a, one short burst. Kazaklis tightened the muscles in his back to prepare for the impact. Moreau hunched forward slightly, then glanced in puzzlement at the pilot. The radio huzzed, then snapped again. “Eject, damn you! Larry!” The raw torment of the voice sliced through the two people in the B-52. “Get out! Hit it, Larry! Hit it!”

“I couldn't order you to do that,” the President said. “I couldn't order anyone to do it.”

“Order me, sir?” Alice asked. “I was breathing his fumes when you called. At that time, all I had for hope was a prayer to a merciful God. I must say the signs of His mercy were difficult to see.”

“There must be some other way.”

“Mr. President, I have serious doubt there is any way. With that aircraft aloft, I
know
there is no way. If those subs get conflicting orders—if TACAMO gets conflicting orders—they'll go with the orders they had. It's that simple.”

The President sighed forlornly. From his bed, he slowly moved his eyes across the ceiling in a habit that no longer served him. “What do you think, Sedgwick?”

The young naval aide, listening on a separate phone from his bed in the doorway, wagged his head gloomily. He was glad the President could not see his despair. He looked at the clock. The time was 1940 Zulu. Without the two command planes, they would lose their best—probably their only—potential relays to the TACAMO aircraft. Still, Sedgwick thought bleakly, without the general's offer, not even a miracle could occur. “I'm afraid the general's right, Mr. President,” he said. “To make anything work, however, the general will have to read me the authenticator codes. Digit by digit. Letter by letter. That's extremely dangerous. We know the Soviets can hear the
Looking Glass.
If they pick them up, they'll have almost as much control over our weapons as you do, sir.”

The President's eyes remained open, staring emptily at the ceiling. “Yesterday that would have been high treason, Sedgwick,” he said sadly. “Today it sounds like it comes out to zero plus zero.”

“It is dangerous, Mr. President,” Alice cut in.

“Yes, general, I know damned well it is. But I can't imagine anything more dangerous than what we have right now. I've asked the Premier to trust me. I suppose I'd better reciprocate. Read Sedgwick the codes. I couldn't see them to write them down.” He swallowed hard. “Let's pray I haven't lost all my vision.”

For the next several minutes Sedgwick methodically transcribed the codes, double-checking each. With the task completed, the President gave Alice his approval for a suicidal collision of America's two premier command planes.

“I don't know what to say to you, general. Except thank you.”

“Don't thank me, Mr. President. I don't feel comfortable being thanked. It's time to get on with it. We've lost some ground. It won't be as easy this time.”

“Will you call me before the . . . uh . . . ?”

“The end, Mr. President,” Alice calmly helped him. “Yes, of course.” The general paused a moment. “We did a lot of faulty people programming, sir. Condor's defending God and country too. His version.”

“Yes,” the President replied. “Yes, I know.”

A single F-18 Hornet appeared suddenly off Moreau's wingtip, the pilot pulling in tightly and peering into the cockpit of the B-52. He stared silently at them for several seconds and then the radio crackled once more.

“Good luck,
Polar Bear,”
the pilot said in a voice incredibly young and incredibly sad. Moreau felt a lump grow in her throat. She stared into the F-18, trying to probe the youthful face. But his visor was down, shielding his embarrassment, making him more apparition than man. “Why?” Moreau asked.

The interceptor's wings tipped slightly, as if the apparition were about to vanish, having passed its only message. “Why?” Moreau asked again.

The empty fish-bowl face reflected fading sunbeams at her. “We had nowhere to go,” the hollow voice responded. “Maybe you do.”

“Your carrier?”

The Navy pilot's voice suddenly choked with anguish. “Just gone,” he burbled. “There was a flash. The bow went down in one place, the stern in another . . . and it was just gone. . . .”

“Holy Mary, mother of God,” Moreau whispered, crossing herself again.

“We knew it would go.” The pilot's voice gathered strength and a certain impatience. “I gotta leave you now.” He started to break off and then he leveled out again. “You know anything about home?”

“Not much,” Moreau said. “Hawaii.”

“Yeah, we saw the flashes last night. We knew it was Pearl. Worse than that?”

“Much.”

“Yeah. You'd think they'd stop, wouldn't you?”

“Not sure they know how.”

The radios huzzed briefly without words. Then Kazaklis cut in.

“Hey, buddy, why don't you tag along?”

“Palm trees and coconuts and native girls?”

“Somethin' like that.”

“It's a pretty empty ocean.”

“Invitation stands.”

“Negative, thanks. I got a buddy in the drink back there.”

“He made it?”

“Oh, yeah. I just whumped him a little one. He got out. He's got his raft open. No fun being alone down there. I'll bet he's feeling meaner than a barracuda right now, too.”
Moreau was fighting back tears again. 

“
Polar Bear
?”

“Yeah,
Red Fox
?” 

“When the two of us come paddlin' in, you bring on the dancin' girls.” The radio crackled. “Hear?”

“You bet,
Red Fox,”
Kazaklis replied, fighting hopelessly against his faltering voice. Moreau gazed into the cockpit canopy through the blur of moistened eyes and saw the pilot snap a cocky thumbs-up at them. “Luck!” she and Kazaklis said simultaneously. But before the word was out, the gleaming fighter was gone and the B-52 plowed head-on into the murk of the storm.

As he reentered the cockpit of the
Looking Glass,
Alice's heart sank. The
E-4
had pulled almost a mile ahead of them again, Smitty having lost far more ground than the general had expected.