by David Palmer
Interrupting is rude, I know. But with gun at head couldn't have held tongue just then. Obvious which direction explanation heading even at outset; mind already racing ahead, remembering someone else whom had never seen, heard of, being sick: "If Teacher's one of us, how about Daddy? You know, Dr. Foster—is he here? Has anybody heard anything from him? Could he be . . ." Voice trailed off at Gayle's expression.
"I'm sorry, Candy. No one I've talked with has seen or heard of Dr. Foster since about two hours before the attack. He was at the Pentagon. And they used surface-targeted missiles on Washington, you know."
I nodded. Hadn't really expected. Just hoped.
And still hoped, dammitall! Daddy much too smart to get caught like that, with everybody expecting attack from moment to moment. Two hours ample time to get out of range. Just matter of finding him. If alive. As well might be. As very well might be.
And is—I knew it! Would find him. Someday. Somewhere. Somehow. . . .
"I hope you do find him, Candy," Gayle said softly. "I haven't given up hope either. My fiancé was at that conference. But there hasn't been time . . . ."
Decided to change subject: Can't dwell on Daddy's possible fate without emotional complications; and Gayle's expression betrayed need for distraction as well. Besides, consumed by curiosity enough to get dozen Elephant's Children in trouble—and Gayle's apparent ability to answer unasked questions seemed good place to start digging.
"No, I'm not reading your mind," she assured me as I stared open-mouthed—again before could ask.
(Well, if she said so, all right. But dandy imitation; downright spooky.)
Gayle explained: Observation of unconscious facial, body muscle patterns a longtime hobby. Founded in, extension of, so-called "body language" beloved of popular-psychology cultists of earlier day; results more reliable, accurate. Indeed, not mind reader; muscle reader: astute observer of subtle clues.
Threw back covers, jumped from bed into shower, turned on. And as scrubbed at two days' accumulated grime, raised voice to be heard above water's drumming: "What are you all doing here? What's going on? That message we found at Harpers' mentioned something about a continuing problem, and led us to Palomar . . ."
"What message . . . ?" Gayle's voice suddenly so sharp that I jumped. Face appeared over shower-stall door, white as proverbial sheet.
No idea what triggered panic; but related search of Harpers' offices in Baltimore, discovery of computer-to-computer message fragment from Teacher notifying of AA assembly at secret hideaway, containing vague mention of Palomar.
Gayle listened intently, without interruption; then said, still almost fiercely, "Where is it now? Did you bring it with you when you left the office?"
Thought briefly as emerged from shower, plied towel. At first couldn't remember; finally recalled stuffing into pocket when left office. Probably still at Adam's parents' house, or somewhere in van, trailer. Gayle's relief almost palpable.
Fixed her then with what hoped resembled gimlet eye; suggested she brief me. Obvious from her reaction: Something scary afoot. Bad joke if somehow I knew something vital, perhaps learned by accident on travels, failed to pass on to proper person through ignorance of relevance.
Gayle eyed me appraisingly. Appeared to think it over; then nodded. "You're right," she said slowly. "But 'scary' isn't the word. 'Nightmare' is more like it:
"Those friendly, fun-loving folks who brought us the End of the World didn't expect to lose the war. They planned carefully. Over a course of many years they conducted thorough intelligence studies of America and every other military power of any consequence. By the time they struck, they were confident that they had allowed for every contingency.
"Fanatics in the truest sense of the word, they could hardly conceive of the possibility of failure. But even that minuscule chance was unacceptable; they couldn't stand the thought of someone else winning—even if they lost. So they laid in some 'insurance,' just in case."
Gayle shuddered; but recounted facts quickly, efficiently, without omission, exaggeration, as I dressed.
And if anything, "nightmare" understated proposition: Even in nightmare would have difficulty envisioning people fanatic enough to carry out murder on such a scale. And to conceive so implacable a revenge after own deaths would require thought processes far removed from anything heretofore recognized as human.
Aggressors known as Bratstvo (translating as "Brotherhood"): select cadre of ideological zealots recruited from all over behind Iron/Bamboo curtains; cabal pervading bureaucratic/military hierarchies at highest levels, using governmental resources for own purposes. Fanatics all, dedicated to proposition that ideologically pure, totalitarian communism destined to achieve unopposed sway throughout world. Scorned as ideologically lax even limited wrong-mindedness, free expression, capitalist ambitions tolerated by own governments. Regarded established methods of achieving objective—subjugation through propaganda, sabotage, terrorism, military force, etc.—as soft-headed, inefficient. Hit upon notion of cleansing planet of unbelievers in single bold stroke; starting afresh, without competition.
Would have worked, too, but for unanticipated effectiveness of Free World's intelligence agencies (enhanced, unbeknownst even U.S. leaders, by AAs' subtle contributions—in which effort Teacher prime mover!); plus unexpected targeting accuracy, sheer firepower contained in retaliatory arsenal. Bratstvo's headquarters designed, constructed, anticipated proof against even direct, near-direct hits—but not so many; became 40-mile-wide, 15-mile-deep crater; all outlying facilities vaporized as well. Cleanup, according to satellite reports, total. Many targets still glowing.
But same Free World authorities who refused to believe zealots' ultimate goal elimination of everyone not sharing beliefs, until warheads, plague, exploded across planet, also discounted AAs' evidence of contingency plan; took no steps to gather up loose ends.
Leaving fledgling hominem population with problem: Parked heretofore unnoticed in geosynchronous orbit over central Asia is Doomsday Machine, strontium-90 bomb, programmed to commence reentry upon failing to receive periodic coded signal—next of which due in 11 days; frequency, content known only to long-dead fanatics.
Big strontium-90 bomb: genuine multi-ziloton planet-wrecker, if intelligence reports correct; explosion comparable to asteroid impact. Targeted for deep waters overlying Murray Fracture Zone, 700 miles west-southwest of San Francisco. Programmed to sink to ocean floor before detonating.
Blast effects threefold: First, will puncture Earth's crust like balloon (less than three miles thick at that point), sending massive lava tsunamis radiating out across upper mantle's molten surface, cracking tectonic plates, resulting in catastrophic worldwide seismic convulsions. Accompanying seawater tsunamis, though hundreds of feet in height, of negligible significance by comparison.
Second, will hurl uncountable cubic miles of vaporized sea water, mud, rock into stratosphere, where will circulate with planetary atmospheric convection, showering strontium-90 fallout first across North American continent, eventually whole world.
Strontium 90's half-life 29 years—if bomb not stopped, Earth uninhabitable by unprotected humans for something like next two centuries!
Finally, resultant atmospheric pollution will trigger real-life Fimbulwinter, destroy what little may remain of biosphere.
"But the Bratstvo were no slouches at intelligence work either; it was even money that they knew as much about us as we did about them. We had to assume that they had traced back along our intelligence line and knew where most of us lived and worked.
"We also had to assume that they would have operatives here during the attack to try to ferret out our plans—suicides, possibly; or, perhaps more probable, they might have succeeded in concealing the fact that they had a vaccine for the lethal virus. In either case, they would have searched our homes and offices as soon as we left and couldn't have missed that message.
"We normally destroyed such communications immediately after reading them; and I
doubt if any of the Harpers would be guilty of such a basic oversight. More likely, the computer somehow retained it and burped part of it back up, due to the electromagnetic side effects of all those bombs going off at once.
"We expected terrific electromagnetic pulse effects, and had our stuff well shielded against it. But their catalytic warheads emitted in a peculiar region of the spectrum and generated hardly any normal EMP at all; that's why utilities and so forth continued to work for a while afterward. But they did generate something; and whatever it was, it had an interesting, if temporary, effect on some computers.
"But if Bratstvo agents had found that message, the destination alone would have enabled them to deduce our plans. They would have been able, during the initial confusion, to beat us to the launch centers and sabotage the shuttles, which would have ended our hopes for good."
"Well, apparently they didn't see it," I observed; "or there weren't any agents after all. Anyway, now I see why you almost jumped out of your skin when I mentioned finding it.
"Meanwhile, you said 'shuttles'? What are we doing about the bomb?" Spoke without thinking; without considering relative ages, backgrounds, educations; participation, contributions to date. But Gayle registered, accepted "we" in spirit offered; no hint of condescension.
"Once we learned what they'd done, we started laying plans of our own," she said thoughtfully, as I finished dressing, followed from room, down corridor, outside. "We pooled our money—there turned out to be quite a lot of it—and built a large, totally self-contained shelter complex in a salt mine located in a theoretically seismically-stable area in Kansas. But we needed to ride out the attack close enough to JPL and Vandenberg to protect those facilities from looting and/or vandalism, so we built a smaller shelter under Mount Palomar. It's nowhere near as geologically stable, but we weren't expecting much in the way of earthquakes unless we aren't able to stop the bomb—in which event, of course, we don't know if even the Kansas shelter will hold up."
"Why did you need to be close to JPL and Vandenberg?" I prodded.
"Patience; I'm coming to that.
"Both shelters are well concealed and very heavily shielded. We were as concerned about stray outbound radiation, which might give our positions away, as we were about incoming hard stuff from bursts and fallout. You wouldn't have found the Palomar shelter unaided.
"We also organized a plan to find and qualify surviving hominems as quickly as possible as to mental and emotional stability and useful skills. Radiation levels dropped to safe levels within a week after the attack, and H. sapiens were gone, so we went to work.
"In the course of only two or three months we found and enlisted over a thousand people. We were pleased to learn that, in practice, general-population hominems turned out to be only about 20 percent unstable. The rest are hard to tell from AAs: likable, well-adjusted, intelligent, highly motivated overachievers. Quite a few of even the minority are all right, given a challenge and intelligent supervision.
"Of course we ended up with many more than we anticipated, and we don't have room for them all in the shelters. If we can't stop the bomb, we'll face some difficult decisions or, more probably, decide who goes into the shelters with a lottery."
"I'm going to hold my breath until you get to the point," I warned.
Gayle smiled. "Your original question was, 'What are we doing about the bomb?' Happily, some 30 or so of us—the expanded us, not just the AAs—were key NASA people. I say 'happily' because our only hope of escaping two centuries of underground living—assuming we survive the earthquakes—is to launch the Nathan Hale . . ." We rounded corner and Gayle indicated monstrous assembly poised on pad with casual wave surely more appropriate for discussing weather than H. sapiens' ultimate technological achievement. ". . . rendezvous with the bomb in orbit, and deactivate it."
(Something in statement tugged fretfully at psyche, but instantly forgotten in rush of amazement over scale of plan.)
Briefly reinforced hoary, naïve-ruralite stereotypes by stopping abruptly, gawking openmouthed in unfeigned wonder at monstrous spacecraft looming overhead. Television doesn't come close to conveying scale. Bigger close-up than appears on tube. Lots.
Proximity to technological marvel stimulated imagination, triggered inspiration; conceived possible solution, far less complicated: "Gayle, if you can launch a shuttle, why not send up a big thermonuclear ICBM—oh . . ." Realized, even as spoke, couldn't be that easy, or already fait accompli.
Gayle apparently still reading mind—or whatever—nodded approvingly as reached proper conclusion. "The Bratstvo thought of that and took precautions. First, the entire vehicle in which the bomb is housed is constructed of a new lightweight, long-molecule material that seems to be sort of a metallic polymer.
"Becky Chamberlin, one of our best metallurgists—plastics are her second love—had a chance to play with a sample shortly before the attack. She says it's so strong and such a fabulous insulator that, in space, that bomb could probably ride out a multimegaton, near-direct hit without damage—depending on how well the components are packaged, of course.
"But it doesn't have to; it mounts quite capable defenses: the latest analytical radar, a sophisticated computer, and lasers capable of destroying any missile long before it gets close enough to constitute a threat. Finally, it's programmed to initiate reentry the moment it's attacked."
"How did we get the sample?"
"One of our number was a quadruple agent . . ." Gayle paused, noting blank expression; elaborated: "One of us, pretending to them to pretend to us to work for us while actually spying on them as well as a fourth party—got that?"
"This spy business sounds unprincipled, deceitful, and entirely too complicated," I replied with mock disapproval.
"Of course it is." She grinned. "That's the way things were in the old days: All professions cloaked themselves in as much mystery as possible—spies were nowhere near as bad in that respect as, say, real estate appraisers.
"Anyway, Wallace Griffin allowed himself to be recruited by the Bratstvo while he was in Russia, supposedly undergoing training with the KGB for his work in the U.S. Quite a few of the KGB were members, and they were always on the lookout for likely prospects. Wallace is good at his job: While ostensibly helping program the on-board computer, he managed to microfilm the bomb's entire schematics package—warhead, drive, guidance system, software, and all. He's the one who brought back the material sample.
"Then, only days before the attack, everything Wallace learned was confirmed when one of the Bratstvo's people tried unsuccessfully to defect and warn the world. His name is Kyril Svetlanov; he was an inner-circle figure among the fanatics. But his story wasn't believed any more than ours was; so we took him in, and he's been helping us ever since. He's our resident strontium-90 bomb expert: He was involved in its design, construction, and launching, and works harder than anyone here, with the possible exception of Teacher. But that's understandable: In his place, I wouldn't be able to live with the guilt!"
Cast sidelong glance at Gayle. Did not appear type to believe in Santa Claus. She noticed, grinned, addressed unspoken doubt: "Yes, we did find it suspicious that a highly placed member of such a fanatical organization should suffer so convenient a change of heart, turning up just when we needed the specific information on which he was a leading expert. But we investigated his story from every possible angle, even interrogating him under drug-augmented, deep hypnosis, and everything checked.
"We've assigned him to the bomb deactivation phase of the project. And since then we've tested him further: At various times we produced data which we knew was erroneous, and led him to believe that we believed it valid and were going to include it in our planning. They were reasonable errors, of the sort which might have been introduced through faulty translation from Russian or even data missing due to incomplete intelligence-gathering, but which almost certainly would have scuttled us in the end.
"Each time he caught and corrected the mistake. Once, when we
insisted that we knew what we were doing, he threw up his hands and was on the point of quitting, stating that we had doomed the project and further effort was pointless. He's passed every test with flying colors.
"I've studied him myself as closely as I know how, and I've never spotted even a suggestion that he's not sincere. And finally, he's going along on the Hale to make sure everything goes all right, which is in itself pretty convincing evidence of his sincerity and desire to atone. Even so, of course, he's never alone."
(That disquieting something nudged psyche again, but still couldn't put finger on cause.)
Gayle continued as we rounded building's corner. "You'll see him at the meeting—there he is now, and here we are," she finished, pointing out young man as we arrived at meeting site.
Populace assembling in bleachers arranged in semicircle before elevated platform outside launch control center, near huge payload preparation room; everyone present who could be spared even momentarily from duties: numbered in hundreds . . .
And at stage center was Teacher!
Undignified shriek, run-and-hug, probably disrupted proceedings, if any in progress; but didn't care, and nobody else seemed to mind—Teacher least of all. Long time before he let go. Finally held me out at arms' length; scrutinized head to foot. "I think you're in better shape now than when I last saw you in Wisconsin," he said approvingly.
Smile wreathed features, eyes sparkled; but strain, fatigue, perhaps even something which might be mistaken for desperation (in anyone besides Teacher) showed in features. And as watched, light died, lines deepened, shoulders sagged.
Voice somber as stated, "I'm astonished that you found us."
"Just lucky," I replied. "I was in the right place at the right time. I heard a sonic boom, looked up, and saw a contrail. If I hadn't run into trouble the day before, we'd have been probably 200 miles from there."
Teacher looked up thoughtfully, momentarily distracted from problems. "With the whole of the North American continent to search, you 'just happened' to see, and be close enough to take advantage of the return of, the first supplies-gathering expedition we've sent out in two months, which will be the last for quite some time to come." Regarded me quizzically. "Coincidence on that scale is difficult to credit, and we hominems are a largely unknown commodity. I wonder where a study of the mechanics of that sort of phenomenon might be commenced, and in what direction it might lead . . . ."