The General's President

by John Dalmas

  "Hi, sweetheart. How's it going in far away Grand Forks?"

  "It's cold here, daddy. Six below at noon."

  "How's Ed doing? And the kids?"

  "Ed's fine. He's still acting department chairman; Professor Becker's not recovering as quickly as expected. I just wanted to let you know that Joyce is expecting. I'm going to be a grandmother."

  She didn't sound very enthusiastic. "Huh! That's interesting. Any more talk about a wedding?"

  "Nothing definite. Well, in a way. They've definitely decided to, but they haven't set a date. Not even a month." She paused. "Joey only makes a dollar an hour. He does pick and shovel work for the P.W.A."

  "What does Ed think of all this?"

  "About Joyce's pregnancy? He doesn't know yet. Joyce just found out for sure this morning, though she's suspected for the last couple of days. Joey's supposed to have been taking that new oral male contraceptive that the FDA approved last year. Either it didn't work, or Joey forgot."

  Probably the latter, Haugen thought. Ed considered Joey Lund a world class bumbler. Likeable but a klutz. The president grinned at his daughter, strangely lightened by her report, as if it somehow lent perspective to things. "Life gets complicated around here, too, honey. Have you told your mother yet?"

  His security phone began to buzz, and a code number had formed on its screen.

  "No. I thought I'd call her next," Liisa said.

  "Good idea. Liisa, the National Security Agency is trying to get me on my security phone. I need to hang up. Thanks for the news, and for thinking of me."

  "You're welcome, daddy. 'Bye."

  "Goodbye, honey."

  He disconnected and reached for the security phone. Life does get complicated all right, he mused.

  THIRTY-SIX

  The word from Gupta had been unequivocal and negative: The American scalar resonance transmitters had not triggered the Mount Spurr eruption. They'd stood unused for weeks; for years except for bimonthly equipment tests.

  Then the president had the Washington-Moscow Direct Communications Link—the "Hot Line" office—arrange a conference between himself and Premier Pavlenko, via the video "red phones" that Wheeler and Gorbachev had had installed.

  The first thing next morning, Haugen and his guests rode the emergency elevator down to the bomb shelter beneath the White House. There, in a rather small but comfortable room, he took a seat beside a State Department interpreter. Out of sight of the video pickup sat General Cromwell, Secretary of State Valenzuela, and Gupta of NSA. And an unintroduced Colonel, Schubert/Bulavin, who'd come in with Cromwell. The president nodded at a major watching from the control room through a small glass window. The major nodded back, and no doubt signaled a sergeant.

  For a moment, the telephone screen paled diffusely, then a picture flashed into being. The face of Marshal Premier Oleg Stepanovich Pavlenko looked out at the president.

  It was 1600 hours in Moscow, with its year-round daylight saving time, and 0800 in Washington.

  "Good afternoon, Marshal Premier Pavlenko," Haugen said in Russian.

  "Good morning, Mr. President."

  Pavlenko appeared to be a man about sixty years old, mostly bald, thin-lipped, wearing thick, wire-rimmed glasses. "What is it you wished to talk about?" he asked. Haugen's interpreter, wearing headphones, translated into English scarcely a thought behind the Premier. The sound volume in Russian was subdued, too quiet to follow, to avoid confusion in listening to the English translation. Haugen didn't feel confident enough of his Russian fluency to try carrying on a sensitive exchange in the language—an exchange that could conceivably become technical. He, Valenzuela, and Schubert/Bulavin would listen to the original Russian afterward, on tape.

  The president answered now in English. "We have had a great volcanic eruption in our state of Alaska."

  The face that looked out at him wore no identifiable expression; it was simply cold. The eyes were colder. "I have heard."

  "My specialists have assured me that it was not an unassisted act of nature. They tell me it was triggered by a very large and explosive release of energy via scalar resonance."

  "Why are you telling this to me?"

  "We here in America did not trigger it. And there are only two nations with the ability to. Therefore it follows that someone in the Soviet Union is responsible. I am calling to ask why it was done. Assuming that my information and my assumptions are correct."

  The thin lips smiled slightly, but the eyes did not change. "Mr. President. We have contingency plans of every sort here. Including plans for delivering attacks of various sorts and intensities on many countries. If I were to carry out such an attack, I would not choose a location where the damage would be so meaningless."

  "Then the Soviet Union is not responsible for the eruption yesterday?"

  "No." The slight, cold-eyed smile returned, perhaps a trifle wider this time. "You have my word on it."

  "Thank you, Marshal Premier Pavlenko," the president replied, in Russian again. He deliberately kept expression from both his face and his voice. "You can imagine how reassured I am. Perhaps we shall talk again sometime under more relaxed circumstances."

  The image in front of him snapped off, and the president signaled the major that he was done. Then he looked at the men sitting away from the pickup.

  "Did you learn anything?" asked Cromwell.

  "Not much. Let's listen to the recording." He touched the playback key on the console, and after a brief delay, Pavlenko's Russian came from the set. When it was over, the president sat back. "How I read it is that Pavlenko is quite happy for us to believe he's responsible. He'd like us to worry about possible future attacks on locations where an earthquake or eruption would be a lot more serious.

  "I presume he has it in mind to do more than he has. He could have scalar warfare in mind, but it's probably something else, because of the risk that scalar war would go nuclear. Or he may be testing us, feeling his way a step at a time." Haugen looked around. "Do any of you have any comments?"

  No one spoke; heads shook.

  "All right. Then we might as well leave."

  They did. Most left the White House entirely, but Schubert/Bulavin went to the Oval Office with the president. When the president had poured coffee, they sat down.

  He gazed at the ex-Soviet spy, ex-Soviet major general, ex-Soviet deputy ambassador. "What kind of reputation did Pavlenko have in the Soviet army when you were there?" he asked. "As a person."

  "He was considered a dangerous person to work under. Fanatical, totally patriotic, and liable to punish severely for a first error. Particularly if it could be interpreted as an expression of moral corruption." Bulavin paused. "Moral corruption isn't really a good translation. He had a reputation for cruelty and for abusing women. Let's say he was harsh toward official corruption—corruption political and financial."

  "I got an impression of him, on the phone," Haugen said. "One of the reasons I like video phones so well; they make it easier to evaluate the person you're talking to. There's a concept I ran into once, in reading, that might apply here: reasoning psychotic."

  Bulavin's eyebrows lifted.

  "Reasoning psychotics apply more or less rational intelligence to carry out insane purposes," the president continued. "If they're single-minded enough, they can be very effective; effectively destructive, ordinarily. Could that describe Pavlenko?"

  The Russian answered thoughtfully. "Perhaps. I've never known Pavlenko myself. I've seen him, but never talked to him."

  The president nodded. "Do you have any idea what his motives might be in setting off a volcanic eruption in Alaska?"

  "None whatever. I must tell you, I had no idea at all that such a thing was possible, until last night, when Vice President Cromwell briefed me in preparation for this morning. In Russia I'd heard rumors of a great secret weapon, with installations in the arctic and near Riga, and in Kazakhstan. But in the GRU, it is easy to be cynical. And if it was true, then it was the kind of thing you're wi
se not to speculate about."

  "Have you known General Gurenko?"

  "Gurenko?" Bulavin sounded surprised. "Yes. Rather well, although our contacts were professional, never personal. He was in charge of the San Francisco residency when I was a young operational officer there. A very fair officer, but of course very ruthless. As I was. As the GRU goes, he was a good officer to work under."

  "What's his attitude toward Americans?"

  Bulavin reflected for a moment. "It was not something we discussed. But he wasn't a xenophobe like Pavlenko and so many others. He'd lived abroad too much for that, particularly in the States."

  Haugen nodded. "I've been assuming you're with the Defense Intelligence Agency now; that or Army Intelligence. Is that right?"

  Bulavin smiled a one-sided smile. "While General Cromwell was the CJCS, I was his intelligence aide. Since then I've had an 'open assignment' on the Joint Staff. Before he was chairman, I was briefly with the Defense Intelligence Agency, but there were two problems with that. One was the need to keep my true identity confidential; only three people there were allowed to know it. And more difficult, more basic, there was the understandable problem that the seniors there—the people who knew who I was—didn't fully trust me. So they made limited use of my particular qualifications.

  "Any intelligence organization is very sensitive to the danger of double agents, and most intelligence officers, here as well as in the Soviet Union, are very afraid of making errors. Too much is at stake."

  "Why does Jumper trust you?"

  "I'm a man with an exceptional memory. Not an eidetic memory, but exceptional. So when I defected, I was able to provide an extreme amount of detailed and valuable information on the Soviet military and government. I've been called the most valuable defector ever. And so far as I know, in no case has any of my information proved false."

  Again the one-sided smile. "Beyond that, it seems to me that the general is a man who tends to trust his intuitions."

  That fits, Haugen said to himself. That sure as hell fits.

  "Are you up to date on Gurenko?" Haugen asked. "Is he still commanding officer of the GRU?"

  "He was as recently as January fourth. If there'd been any change, I would probably have heard."

  Haugen studied the Russian thoughtfully; Bulavin sat quite relaxed through it, studying him in return. Then the president made a decision.

  "Colonel Schubert, what's your given name these days? Not Nikita I suppose."

  The Russian laughed silently. "Kurt. Even on the Joint Staff, I pass as German-American. In this identity, my family is Baltische Deutsch, from Narva. That explains my occasionally odd English and non-standard German."

  The president was surprised to see a twinkle in Bulavin's eyes. "Did I say something that amused you?" Haugen asked.

  The Russian shook his head. "No. It was the discussion of my new identity. Working for General Cromwell was a marvelous hiding place for me. In the Soviet Union, no one would imagine a defector being made an aide to the chief of the general staff."

  Haugen nodded. "I suppose not. Not many Americans would imagine that, either. I'll tell you what: I'm going to call Jumper and have him arrange to borrow you. For me, although we won't tell the Joint Staff that. Then I'm going to get him over here today, along with LaMotte and Barry for their data and contacts. You and LaMotte will find or create a secret communication line to Gurenko, if at all possible, and see if you can interest him in carrying out a coup in the Kremlin."

  His eyes found Bulavin's and held them. "Does that sound at all possible?"

  Bulavin sat quietly for a long several seconds. "Mr. President, a year ago I'd have said no. Not remotely possible. Either making contact with him or getting his interest. And assuming that by some miracle we did both of those, I could not even have conceived of his actually carrying out a successful coup. Not even as chief of the GRU. I'd have said that the chance was absolutely zero, and I'd have been right.

  "But now, with things as they are there, I can conceive of it." Bulavin grinned. "Just barely, I can conceive of it. And to try—That would be the challenge of a lifetime!"

  "Good." The president reached for his phone. "Then we might as well get started."

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  The president burst out of bed to the high-pitched sound of an alarm—not the building alarm—that continued for several long seconds, punctuated midway by a bang a little distance off. Lois was sitting up, staring at her husband crouched in the darkness.

  "What is it?"

  He straightened. "I'm not sure. Did you hear the explosion? The instruments on the roof may have picked up something, maybe a rocket, and used the ECMs to blow it up." He took his bathrobe from a chair beside his bed. "I'm going to go find out. Do you think you can get back to sleep?"

  She got up. "I think I'll read till you come back. Then you can tell me about it."

  He left thinking what a cool head she had, and took the stairs to the third floor command room. The first lieutenant in charge of the watch was startled to see the bathrobed president come in.

  "What happened?" Haugen asked.

  "Sir, a rocket was fired at the White House. We shot it down. We also got a read on the origin, and sent a gunship; I haven't heard them shooting though. The enemy may try again later; do you want to evacuate?"

  "No. How loud does your alarm need to be?"

  "It's more than loud enough now, Mr. President."

  "Right. How loud does it need to be? I presume the watch on duty is always awake."

  "Yessir! Always!"

  "Then what's the function of the alarm?"

  "Well, sir, it lets us all know and—it galvanizes us."

  "Umh. I see. How loud does it need to be to do that? You galvanized me, too, and when you're going to bed in the morning, I'll be going to work."

  "I see your point, Mr. President. I'll set the volume down to—how would a third be? If there's time to evacuate, we'll hit the building alarm anyway."

  "Okay, try it at a third. And thank you, lieutenant, for your good shooting. I'm glad you and your men are here."

  He strolled out on the third-floor promenade then. The night was still and overcast, the temperature up around forty. Some civilian staff were out too, gathered in a loose group, gazing across the city. He joined them.

  "A little excitement, eh?" he said.

  "Yes sir," one of them answered.

  "I told them to cut back the volume on their alarm. No need to shock everyone in the building unless we need to head for the shelter."

  "Yes sir." The man turned to look northward again. "It would have been interesting to see the shooting. They must have blown up whatever it was; I heard an explosion."

  "They did. And a marine gunship went after whoever fired it. I'm going back to bed now; the excitement seems to be over. Have a good night."

  As he headed back to his apartment, he wondered what form the next attack would take.

  ***

  Seven hours later the president was briefed by Secretary Valenzuela. The Republic of South Africa had stopped their advance in Namibia when the West German squadrons had arrived. But they refused to withdraw unless the United States, Britain, and West Germany recognized their right to pursue raiders north across the borders into the black nations they raided from. And also their right to hit raider staging areas in the black nations. Otherwise the Afrikaner army would stay in southern Namibia.

  It was an impasse, and Haugen had no solution to suggest. Unless someone came up with something, the Germans and Cubans both would be unhappy. He half wished now that he'd refused to intervene. But only half wished. It was unlike him to half-do anything; it seemed part of a vaguely depressed feeling that had settled over him at times lately.

  He told himself, after Valenzuela left, that he needed to get himself together again. He should feel pretty good about things. The economic recovery was progressing steadily if slowly, unemployment was dropping, public morale was better than anyone had expected, and the
repeal bill had failed by a goodly margin in both houses of Congress.

  And the new Morrisey and Spencer public opinion survey had come out even more favorable than the one before, though the difference wasn't very big.

  He knew one thing that was bothering him; Pavlenko and the eruptions. Suppose the Soviets released a few megatons of energy in the Yellowstone hotspot! That could make Mount Spurr or Mount St. Helens look like cherry bombs.

  They probably wouldn't hit Yellowstone though. It had the potential to produce a year without a summer, worse than the legendary year of eighteen hundred and froze to death, after Tamboro Volcano blew in 1815. Something like that would hurt the Soviets worse than it would America, though the ashfall would cause enormous damage in Montana and Wyoming.

  And there was always the San Andreas Fault. No one planning a scalar resonance attack would overlook that as a possibility. Or the Juan de Fuca subduction zone off the coast of Washington; if that one had the potential energy many geophysicists thought, a quake there would hit eight-plus, maybe nine, on the Richter scale and wreck Seattle, Vancouver, Victoria... that whole section of coast. There'd be not only the quake, but the tsunami, and the harbor waves trapped in Puget Sound and the Straits of Juan de Fuca and Georgia. And if Mount Rainier let go as a side result...

  He tried to shake off the thoughts, but they snapped back at once. No one knew for sure whether the Juan de Fuca had built a lot of stress or not: The subduction might be relatively smooth. But even a quake of 6 would be bad news.

  He wondered how Bulavin and LaMotte were doing on getting a line in to Gurenko. Or how Gurenko would respond if they succeeded.

  He sat back in his chair. I'm getting nothing done this morning—nothing except wallowing. Occasionally back home, when necessary to get rid of a fixation, he'd drive out of town and walk in the woods, seeing how many different things he could spot. Bobcat dung, fungal conks on trees, a porcupine half hidden in the foliage of a white pine, fly amanitas sprouting from the forest floor, the chiseled out nest of a pileated woodpecker in a big old balm of gilead ... But here if he tried to walk in the park, the Secret Service would go crazy.