The phone rang and General Leiber reached for it eagerly. He hesitated, scratching absently at his mustache. Might be the joint Chiefs. Carefully he picked up the phone but said nothing. If it was the joint Chiefs, he'd crackle some paper against the receiver and try to bluff it out as a bad connection.
Finally a voice asked, "Hello?"
"That you, Major Cheek?"
"Yes, General. You said you wanted to hear the minute we confirmed anything."
"Yes," said General Leiber. "But speak carefully, man. This line may be tapped."
"Yessir, General," Major Cheek said. "Now, what have you got?"
"Confirmation, sir."
"Outstanding! Outstanding, Major. Confirmation of what?"
"The object we discussed, sir."
"Yes, yes, I know. But what is it? Come on, out with it. "
"A bell."
"A what?"
"I can confirm that the mashed brass object is definitely a bell."
General Leiber looked at the receiver clutched in his whitening hand and his eyes got sick. His mouth moved, but nothing came out. Finally he got control of himself.
"A bell?" he asked in a hoarse voice.
"Total confirmation. We even got it to ring. Listen." From the background came a discordant sound like a sick buoy.
"A bell," General Leiber repeated. "You've been at it half the day and all you have is a bell. What about the zillion tons of scrap you pulled out of that hole, mister?"
Mostly iron, sir. Scorched and pitted. Some of it has fused into slag. We do have several less-damaged sections we are still analyzing, but they're a real mess. This could take days."
"Days," General Leiber said. His voice cracked. Then he pulled himself together. His voice became tight. "We don't have days, mister. The security of the United States of America is at stake here. Do you understand the seriousness of this situation?"
"I think I do, General."
"Think! I know! I know how damn serious it is!"
"We'll need better equipment."
"Anything. I can procure anything you need. What? Name it. Spectroscopic analyzers. Metallurgic equipment. I can probably rustle up an electron telescope if necessary."
"I think you mean microscope, General. There's no such thing as an electron telescope."
"Don't split hairs with me. Just give me a list."
"First we'll need anvils."
"ANVILS, right." General Lieber started a list. "Refresh my memory. That's an acronym for what?"
"Nothing, sir. An anvil is a block blacksmiths use to hammer metal on. We've got a lot of mangled iron here. The only way to deal with it is to heat it up and try to restore the parts to their original forms."
"I understand, but we won't call them anvils. Well call them Metallurgical Component Restoration Bases."
"With all due respect, General, I think you could get them faster if you simply asked for anvils."
"How much would you guestimate an anvil would cost?"
"Oh, less than a hundred dollars each."
"If we call them Metallurgical Component Restoration Bases, I can add an extra zero to the end of that figure."
The major sighed. "I understand perfectly, sir."
"Now, what else?"
"Hammers."
"High-Impact Reshaping Implements. Hi-Rimps for short."
"Something to heat the metal pieces for reforming. I don't know what they call those things."
"Free-Standing Tripodal Heating Stations," the general said, thinking of a blue-tag special on barbecue grills he had seen at a hardware store. He could buy those himself, jack up the price, and pocket the difference. He wrote it down.
"Tongs."
"Manual Securing Tools," said General Leiber, adding Mansees to the list. "Anything else?"
"The work would go a lot faster if we had experienced blacksmiths. "
"Metallurgical Consultants!" the general shouted, his eyes lighting up. "Now you're talking! Consultants are a big budget item."
"Yes, sir," said the major, who wondered where national security fit into all of this.
"You'll have all this stuff by midday." And the general hung up. He quickly made a series of phone calls. His years of wheeling and dealing as a procurement officer had built up a network of contacts and suppliers. If it could be bought or bartered, General Leiber could get it.
An hour later, he had everything but the blacksmiths and the barbecue grills. The latter items he intended to pick up himself. But the blacksmiths were tough. His regular network of suppliers did not deal in such people. There wasn't even a listing for blacksmiths in the yellow pages. They were hard to track down.
This called for extraordinary assistance, General Leiber told himself. He asked the Pentagon operator to put in an overseas call to Zurich, Switzerland.
A flat, emotionless voice answered in the middle of the first ring.
"Friendship, International," it said.
"Hello, Friend."
"Hello, General Leiber. It is good of you to call."
"I didn't think you'd remember me, Friend," General Leiber said.
"Your voice registered instantly. I never forget a customer."
"I have something more urgent than our last deal."
"I trust the Cuban cigars were satisfactory."
"I'm down to my last box. But we can chew that over later. I need something special and you're the only guy I know who might be able to help."
"How may I help?"
"Blacksmiths. I need maybe twenty of them. But we can't call them blacksmiths. We'll have to put them down as Metallurgical Consultants.''
"I can supply. For the right price."
"I can offer seven hundred dollars an hour. Plus meals. But they have to be on a plane to Washington within an hour."
"Feasible. But your price is too low."
"For crying out loud, they're only blacksmiths."
"Metallurgical Consultants," the other voice corrected. "Okay, one thousand dollars an hour. And I'll put them up in the best hotels for the duration of the assignment."
"I would prefer to barter. Like the last time."
"I don't know about that. I almost got-caught last time."
"I do not require any more shoulder-fired missiles. My shoulder-fired-missile stock is satisfactory. I have another client who requires something special. Something you may be in a position to supply."
'What?"
"A substance called carbon-carbon."
"Never heard of it."
"It is a filament substance used to coat the nose cones of missiles to protect them against reentry burnup. It is very expensive and very difficult to secure. I need thirty miles of it."
"Sounds like NASA stuff," the general said. "I can't make any promises, but I can look into it."
"Look into it. I will have your Metallurgical Consultants assembled by the time you call back."
"Gotcha," said General Leiber, hanging up. He dialed another number, thinking that he should have thought of Friendship, International sooner. That funny-voiced guy had always come through in the past. If only he didn't always ask for the moon....
By three P.M., exactly twelve hours after the unknown object had impacted on United States soil, the carbon-carbon spools were on their way to Zurich and the Metallurgical Consultants were en route to Washington. General Leiber had even found time to get the barbecue grills. He had them delivered to a roped-off aircraft hangar at Andrews Air Force Base while he returned to his coveted window office in the outer ring of the Pentagon.
But when he stepped into his office, he knew that the joint Chiefs of Staff could no longer be denied. They were there, waiting for him. They were also rummaging through his desk.
General Leiber gave them a snappy salute. The Joint Chiefs, representing the highest officers of the combined United States military, returned his salute. Their faces were stern.
"General Leiber, we demand to know what is going on."
"I have the situation in hand," Genera
l Leiber said. He chewed his mustache concernedly.
"The President won't take our calls. We understand he has delegated all crisis-management responsibility to you."
"I happened to be on duty when the threat object impacted. I am the only one with operational knowledge of the situation."
"For God's sake, you're only a two-starrer."
"Not my fault, sir. I was passed over last time."
"That's not what he means and you know it," said an Army general. General Leiber declined to reply. He did not deal with the Army. Even if the Army general did outrank him by two stars.
"Where is this threat object?" an Air Force general asked. General Leiber had to answer him.
"In a secure area being analyzed, General."
"Where?"
"I cannot tell you that."
"Cannot? Why not?" the general roared.
"Because if I reveal its location, you very important officers will rush to inspect it."
"That's our damn job."
"And expose yourselves to unknown risks. As the President's surrogate, I would be derelict in my duty if I allowed you to expose yourselves to possible death."
"Death? Then the object is armed?"
"My team is attempting to confirm that."
"Is Washington still in danger?"
"My people are unable to say at this time. They are trying to identify the nature of the KKV."
"KKV?"
"Kinetic Kill Vehicle," said General Leiber.
An involuntary gasp came from the joint Chiefs. They sounded like spinsters who had stumbled into a massage parlor.
"That is what I have designated the unknown. Until we know its mission and capabilities, I am assuming it is hostile."
"Then it's not a dud missile."
"I can safely say that its constitutional elements give a strong indication of belonging to an offensive weapon hitherto unknown to the global stage."
The Joint Chiefs looked edgy. And General Leiber knew he had them right where he wanted them.
"Sirs, I realize I may be overstepping my authority, but it is my professional opinion as an officer that we face two scenarios here."
"Go on."
"Scenario one: we have been attacked by an unknown weapon launched by an unknown power. The double nature of the unknownness clearly indicates that none of our normal tactical responses are necessarily viable."
"What does that mean, exactly?"
"That we would be foolish to assume that just because the KKV has not gone off on impact that it was designed to go off on impact. It may be a delayed-reaction device of some kind."
"Yes. It's possible. Good thinking."
"Scenario two," General Leiber went on, feeling the mood shift in his favor. "It was a misfire. The KKV failed in its primary mission."
"In that case, Washington may be in no immediate danger. "
"Wrong. The danger is just as great. Even greater. Whoever launched the KKV knows by now their first strike failed. They are right now evaluating the situation. They must assume that we are analyzing their weapon. Once we succeed, we should be able to identify its origin. And when we do that, we have no choice but to take retaliatory measures."
The Joint Chiefs nodded. The general was absolutely correct. Once they identified the aggressor, they would have to take retaliatory action or risk showing weakness in the face of a brazen attack.
"Therefore," General Leiber said quickly, "it is incumbent upon this enemy to launch a second strike. To take out our command structure before we can identify and retaliate. Every minute that ticks by brings us closer to a second strike."
The Joint Chiefs looked at one another. General Leiber had analyzed the situation with terrifying clarity. Either way it stacked up, they were standing on ground zero.
"Well," said the Air Force general, clearing his throat. "If the President has designated you as surrogate, I don't feel we are in a position to second-guess him. What do you gentlemen think?"
There was a chorus of agreement. A ribbon-bedecked admiral turned to General Leiber.
"General, if this great nation is facing a crisis of such vast proportions as you describe, it is incumbent upon us to advance to a position of command. If Washington goes, someone will have to manage the next phase."
"Yes, sir," said General Leiber.
"If you want us, we'll be down in the Tank. Carry on." General Lener saluted snappily. Sweat trickled down the gully of his spine. It was as cold as day-old dishwater. And after the Joint Chiefs had marched out of the room, he sank into his chair trembling.
It was a hell of a gamble, but it had worked. The Joint Chiefs were riding a high-speed elevator down to the nuke-proof command bunker under the Pentagon. They wouldn't dare stir until he gave the all-clear signal.
And General Martin S. Leiber wasn't about to give the all-clear until General Leiber was in the damned clear. He grabbed the telephone and got down to the high-risk business of career advancement.
Chapter 5
Something was definitely wrong.
Dr. Harold W. Smith's ordinarily pale face was greenish from the backglow of his CURE terminal. If he leaned any closer to the CRT tube, he would bump it with his nose.
Official Washington seemed to be operating under a blanket of secrecy tighter than anything Smith had ever seen before. It was ominous. In the past, no matter how grave the crisis, there was a storm of leaks and rumors. Not this time. This time the routine political games were not being played. It was as if the situation was so grave everyone from the CIA to the Pentagon had decided to work as if they were on the same team, which of course they were.
Smith paged through his on-screen interceptions. There was unusual activity at Andrews Air Force Base. Movements of classified individuals and materiel. The Joint Chiefs of Staff had abruptly left their offices. Among the NORAD and Spacetrack early-warning systems, every unit had been quietly ordered to narrow its field of focus on a certain segment of the sky over the Atlantic Ocean. They were searching for something. Or they expected something. An attack.
As usual, it was the press who first noticed something was amiss. The media did not have a news story, per se. In fact, it was the absence of a story that started the rumor mills buzzing.
Specifically, where was the President of the United States?
The Washington press corps had expected a round of photo opportunities today. After all, it was the first working day for the new President. But the press corps was turned away by a nervous press secretary with the explanation that the President was "indisposed."
Smith frowned when that item greeted his eyes. He punched up the whereabouts of the Vice-President. The Vice-President was not in Washington either. He had returned to his home state very suddenly. The whereabouts of the Acting Secretary of Defense was unknown. And Congress wasn't due to reconvene for another week.
Smith made a series of untraceable phone calls. Pretending to be a wire-service reporter, he tried calling the heads of the CIA, the FBI, and other intelligence services. They were all out of town for the day, he was told.
When Smith hung up the phone, he was trembling slightly. The President had apparently disappeared and everyone else had left town. What the hell was going on? Who was in charge down there?
Smith picked up the dialless red telephone that was direct line to an identical phone tucked away in the nightstand in the President's bedroom. He listened to the ringing at the other end. One ring. Then two. Then three. It was a new President, so there was no telling how long he would take to get to the phone. The last President usually took six rings.
After twenty rings, Smith replaced the receiver, his face gray. The President was not going to answer. Smith was forced to conclude that he could not answer. The President was either not in the White House or no longer among the living.
Smith ordered the CURE computer to scan all official Washington phone lines for high activity. But even the phones were quiet. Small wonder. There was no one down there to man them.
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With one exception. A single phone in the Pentagon showed constant use. Smith called up an identification code and instantly the computer relayed the information that the line emanated from the office of General Martin S. Leiber. Smith punched up the file on Leiber. It was brief. The man was a two-star general with an undistinguished field record and a flair for procurement. Some of his methods were unorthodox and there was some question about cost overruns in projects under his control. Smith's fingers went to work. In a flurry of keystrokes he instituted a tap on General Leiber's line. Instantly the computer converted the audio feed into an on-screen display.
Someone was complaining to the general. Something about barbecue grills. They weren't hot enough to do the job.
Barbecue grills? Smith wondered. It must be an open code. He asked the computer to identify the source of the incoming call.
The computer told him Andrews Air Force Base. Smith remembered that he had indications of strange activity at Andrews.
General Leiber's response to the complaining call was to ask what the hell did the caller need.
The caller needed brick ovens. And bellows. Lots of bellows.
General Leiber promised the caller immediate delivery on several high-temperature organic kiln-constructs and dynamic exhaust oxygenators, and then hung up.
Smith wondered what had happened to the requested ovens and bellows.
"Code," he mutterd. "This must be a code."
He saved the phone intercept in memory and ordered the computer's decrypting software to attack the text. After five minutes of listening to the program hum, an error message flashed on the screen.
"EXPLAIN ERROR," Smith keyed.
"OPTIONS FOLLOW," the computer told him. "OPTION I: CODE UNDECIPHERABLE.
"OPTION 2: INSUFFICIENT TEXT TO EXECUTE PROGRAM.
"OPTION 3: TEXT IS NOT IN CODE."
"It must be," Smith muttered. "Washington has been virtually abandoned. No one in his right mind would be procuring ovens at such a time."
Smith switched back to the tap on General Leiber's phone. It had saved the last ten minutes of intercepts. As it played back, Smith's jaw fell. The idiot was ordering ovens. And bellows. They were being requisitioned for immediate shipment to Andrews.
"This makes no sense," Smith said in frustration. But because he believed that his computers could crack any problem, he attacked the puzzle again. Somewhere in the miles and miles of data transferring between the nation's computer networks, there was an explanation for all this. All Smith had to do was find it.
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