Trinity's Child (58 page)

By no measure—neither the pilot's percentage baseball nor the manufacturer's stress guidelines—could the B-52 survive this punishment. It groaned and shrieked in protest. It fell hundreds of feet in downdrafts, belly-flopping into new air currents that racked human and aluminum bones alike, wrenching at arms, tearing at fragile wings more comfortable in the thin reaches of the stratosphere long since abandoned. After more than half an hour, Kazaklis and Moreau had no idea how high above the ocean they flew. Each time they bellied out, certain they had struck the swells, they bulled the aching aircraft back upward, or so they hoped, through the turmoil. They spoke only when necessary, but they acted as one now.

Kazaklis looked out the window. Through the sheets of water he could not see the wingtip. He could not see beyond the feeble gray outline of the nearest engine. Kazaklis glanced back at Moreau. She stared rigidly ahead, unaware of him, her face quietly intent.

“Fire in Number Three,” she said mechanically.

Kazaklis looked back out into the murk but saw no more where one of their inboard engines was giving out.

“Shut it down,” he said calmly. She already had done it.

The Librarian grinned broadly, the very audacity of his discovery giving him great satisfaction. The radio-room crew watched him strangely, finding no humor in their predicament. But to the colonel the others were not present. He had found a way to break through to the TACAMO planes, guaranteeing beyond any doubt that the submarines would fire. He congratulated himself for his relentless and unappreciated years studying the Soviets. It now had paid off so handsomely! He would contact the Navy command planes with the Russians' own communications equipment! He chuckled aloud at the triumph, then paused for a moment, testing the wisdom of the idea. Would the Soviets catch on? Probably. Would their awareness make any difference? No. Could they stop him? Highly unlikely. His grin spread from ear to ear. He glanced at the clock. 2015.

Alice irritably ripped off the cigarette filter, concluding that John Kennedy had been all too correct: life is not fair. The Pall Malls were gone and the copilot had offered a Carlton—one of those infernally denatured weeds that threatened to give you a heart attack trying to inhale it. He dragged hard and looked out the cockpit window, furthering his irritation. The giant presidential command plane screamed through the thin air and dancing clouds ahead of them, always just beyond reach. He looked at his watch. 2016. The
Looking Glass
had lost its edge. There was no point in calling the President to tell him that.

The last amphetamine had jarred the Soviet Premier's sensibilities into a jangled alertness again. He sat in the same chair and stared into his display screens. Under the artificial stimulus of the drug, the ICBM cursors appeared to throb rather than gleam, taunting him—Yoshkar Ola field ready, comrade; Zhangiztobe field ready, comrade. Zhangiztobe.

The Premier suddenly felt uncomfortable, a presence hovering near him. He looked away from the screen into the grim face of the new commander of the Rocket Forces.

“The silo doors are open,” the Premier said. He had no question in his voice.

“Yes, they are open.” The reply was sullen.

“They will fire if necessary.”

“It is quite a simple act, Comrade Premier.”

“Yes. And closing the doors also is simple?”

The general stared probingly into the Premier's drawn face. He cocked his head, averting his gaze to the map without answering.

“Zhangiztobe,” the Premier said forlornly.

The general continued to stare into the map, unresponsive.

“General! Can we stop Zhangiztobe?”

The general turned slowly and looked at the Premier. The general was no fool. He could see the ravages of the man's fatigue. He also could see the effects of the amphetamines and the occasional vodka. “Can the Americans stop their submarines?” he asked, a slight touch of hostility in his voice.

The Premier bristled, then snapped: “Comrade general, I do not need a Viennese psychiatrist answering questions with questions.”

“The rocket-base commander is not rational, comrade. His family is dead. Killed by the Americans. He is holding. I do not believe he will continue to hold if we order him to close his doors.”

“Not even if the American submarines are stopped,” the Premier said. It was not a question and it received no answer. He looked at the clock. 2017. “How many rockets remain at Zhangiztobe?”

“About forty, comrade.”

“With multiple warheads?”

“Most of them.” “Their targets?”

“Petroleum facilities and ports.”

“But they can be retargeted? On site?”

“In minutes, Comrade Premier.”

“And to what targets?”

The general's eyes darted away from the Premier, nervously and evasively. He gazed back into the map of the missile fields over which he had taken command just hours ago at this man's behest. “The retargeting has its limitations.” Behind him, he heard a fist pound powerfully into a desk.
Chert voz'mi!
The devil take it! “I am losing my patience, comrade! Can you see the clock?”

“The warheads can be retargeted on most of the major cities in the central and northern United States,” the general said rapidly.

The Premier slumped. His tortured nervous system sent electric shocks down his arms and legs. How had he let this sit so long? “Where are our nearest bombers?” he asked.

The general wheeled on the Premier, his eyes narrow and accusatory. “Comrade Premier, you called them back to crashes into the Arctic Ocean. A handful made northern airfields. Zhangiztobe is one of our more isolated fields, more than two thousand kilometers south of the northern frontier—”

The Premier pounded his fist again and again. “Find me an answer, general!”

“You trust the Americans that much?”

“I trust nothing except this infernal system we created!”

Reflexively the general's hand edged over his button-holster sidearm. The two men stared at each other coldly, the Premier's weary face slowly breaking into a half-smile.

“You think that is the answer, comrade general?”

The general sagged in despair. “But how can we do this before the Americans have their submarines under control?”

“Will it do any good afterward? The submarines will still exist. The Americans will have thirty Zhangiztobes floating beneath the sea. With commanders as irrational, comrade, if more of their cities are destroyed.”

The general's hand dropped away from his sidearm, but he could no longer hold his eyes on the Premier. “We have several Backfire bombers stationed 150 kilometers away near Ust-Kamenogorsk.” His voice was dull and lifeless. He paused and added sadly, “They were deployed against the Chinese.” “They can destroy the command post?”

“Quite certainly.”

“That will incapacitate the entire field?”

“With reasonable assurance.”

“When?”

“They are supersonic. They could be there in minutes. With the communications . . .”—he turned and stared hard into the Premier's ravaged face—“and the psychological difficulties, it might take twenty or thirty.”

“Order them into the air, comrade.”

The general's powerful shoulders slumped, seeming to collapse under the weight of the massive array of medals and ribbons strung across his breast. “This is the price of my appointment, Comrade Premier? My first order is to destroy my own forces?”

“Your first order is to save Russia, comrade.”

The general's blue eyes had turned gray with agony. He nodded stiffly and left the room. The Premier watched the man's back for a moment, subduing the thought that his own rationality might be as questionable as that of his far-off ICBM wing commander. The devil has taken me, he thought. I have just ordered my own people killed on the remote chance—and it is most remote—that the Americans will not kill them. When such twisted logic makes sense, all hope is gone. He slumped and turned back to the screens. He moved his eyes quickly away from the missile display and escaped to the relative peace of the space-satellite screen. Ah, my stars above, he sighed, how much more pleasurable it was to play with your rockets. And there are so few of you now.

Suddenly his frazzled mind focused perfectly. He cursed the fog that had prevented him from seeing such simplicity earlier. He bolted up from his chair. Simultaneously his radio operator also stood, a look of confused concern on his face. He frantically signaled the Premier. The Premier's heart sank, his first thought being of Leningrad. He looked at the clock. 2021.

“Fire in Number Four,” Moreau said.

“Shut it down.”

“Done.”

“Rudder.”

“Got it.”

Kazaklis looked left through the horizontal slashes of water on the window. He could see the outline of Number Four, the nearest inboard engine. It appeared to have blackened fire streaks. But by now he knew they were suffering from various optical illusions. The “leans” could have them flying at a tilt to the horizon, the lack of any visual frame of reference making the appearance of level flight an uncertainty. The plane could be nosed up slightly. It could be nosed down, which was more likely. They could fly with six of their eight engines, even lose a couple more in normal weather. But not for long in this mess. “Altitude?” he asked.

“You kidding?” Moreau replied with rigid calm.

“Can we cross-reference?”

“Negative.” Moreau tugged on the wheel. “Try the EVS.”

Kazaklis switched the green screen from its normal viewing system to terrain tracking. The small yellow thermometers appeared on the right of the two screens, darting up and down. Kazaklis winced. The computer clearly was converting the storm's violence into a false surface. But unless it was lying completely, they were well below two thousand feet, the system's range. The aft section of the plane lurched ferociously in a sudden gust, jerking Kazaklis toward Moreau and Moreau into the side of the cockpit. The tear of ripping metal raged through the other aircraft noise. The B-52 sounded like an old man dying, moaning, creaking, wheezing, in the somber half-light of the last call.

“Shit,” Kazaklis said. “We're gonna lose the rudder and the stabilizer. We gotta get some altitude.”

“Thanks. Which way's up?”

“Been askin' myself that all my life.”

“Very funny.”

“Always figured it had to be the other way.”

Suddenly, out of nowhere, without a downdraft or a gust, a calamitous whomp sounded in the belly of the plane. The Buff bounced like a flat rock on water. Kazaklis swiveled his head left. The murk had thinned. Far off he saw streaks of yellow in the darkness. He also saw that the two inboard engines, numbers three and four, had broken off and fallen into the sea. And he saw the sea just below, frothy, ugly, gray, and deadly with swells of sixty or seventy feet. He knew that one of those swells had just tickled their belly, and not with a feathery touch.

Moreau looked out her window. “You're right,” she said quietly. “It's the other way.”

The two of them wrenched at the controls.

“We're not going to make it,” Kazaklis said.

“Yes we are.”

“Prepare to eject.”

“I'm not ejecting, Kazaklis.”

“I really want you to make it, Moreau.” She looked at him, and he had pleading in his eyes. They both turned to look down from their side windows. She shook her head slowly. Kazaklis nodded and went quiet. She wouldn't make it in that caldron, either. Without conscious thought, rote being his guide now, Kazaklis kept the
Polar Bears
nose pointed into the distant streaks of yellow. They seemed very far away.

The Premier stood over his radio operator, babbling almost incoherently. “Jam the swines!” he ordered, his face purple with rage. The radio operator shrank back in fear of the man's wrath. “Comrade Premier,” he said with trepidation, “we do not have the capability.” The Premier pounded a fist on his subordinate's desk. “Order a submarine attack!” The operator cowered further. “Comrade, you know we can't get through.”

The Premier's face sagged. “They can use our equipment to reach their submarines, and we can't do the same to reach ours?” he asked.

“They are communicating with an aircraft relay, Comrade Premier,” the radioman replied. “Not with submerged submarines.”

The Premier placed his hand on the man's shoulder to assure him the blame was not his, the anger born of frustration. He cursed himself again for a brain so muddled it had allowed the American pretender to discover the answer moments before he made the same discovery. Dejectedly he looked at the intercepted message. It was brief, making contact, awaiting the request for the codes he had just burned. He turned his gaze toward the clock. 2022. He must call the President immediately. Condor, the foul bird, was using his Volna satellites to contact the American submarine-control planes.

The Librarian rushed excitedly around the compartment, patting technicians' shoulders, shaking limp hands, not noticing that few of the others in the room shared his enthusiasm for this coup. He had two brief replies, one from each TACAMO plane, seeking NCA code confirmation and orders. He moved quickly to the phone.