"Marty! Hello. Uh, there's no problem with that last batch of stuff, is there?"
"No, the carbon-carbon was fine. Listen, you're with NASA. You know a lot of scientific space crap.
"I stay informed."
"I got a hypothetical for you."
"Shoot."
"Suppose-just suppose -I wanted to launch something across the Atlantic. Something big."
"How big?"
"Oh, four, five hundred tons."
"That's a lot of throw weight."
"That's what I've been saying."
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing. This is strictly theoretical. I want to launch this thing, but I can't have any on-board propulsion. What would do it?"
"Hmmm. Nothing we have at the moment."
"Speculate. There's gotta be some blue-sky launch system that could move that kind of tonnage."
"Well, in another decade or so, we could be launching satellites without rockets. That's the talk."
"Using what?"
"Well, they're just in the theoretical stage. There's a lot of talk that the latest superconductor breakthroughs might be the key. They've got them working on a small scale. They're basically peashooters using magnetic propulsion."
"Magnetic!" the general said excitedly, scribbling on a pad.
"Right. Imagine a rifle that fires a bullet without using gunpowder."
"Yeah!" the general said, writing that down too.
"Those we have. Now imagine one a thousand times bigger. "
"I can see it clear as day," the general said loudly. "That's the next generation of satellite launcher."
"This thing you're talking about. Could it launch a warhead?"
"No problem. You wouldn't need boosters or fuel or anything of that sort. Just load it and press the button."
"How about a locomotive?"
"Come again, General?"
"Could it launch a steam engine? I'm being theoretical here. "
"Into orbit?"
"Maybe. Not necessarily," General Leiber said guardedly. "If someone could build a prototype launcher large enough, sure. But it would have to be nearly a quarter of a mile long."
"Yeah?" the general said, writing the figure down. "How come?"
"To build up the power to throw it. The device I'm talking about would be electromagnetic."
"Electromagnetic!" the general said enthusiastically, writing the word down. After a pause he added the prefix "hyper."
"Hyperelectromagnetic," he said under his breath.
"What's that, General?"
"Nothing," said the general, his pencil poised to write the NASA man's next words after "hyperelectromagnetic." This was great. He didn't need to show the model after all.
"Now, what do they call one of these babies?"
"A rail gun."
The general's pencil lead snapped at the tail of the letter R.
"A what?" he croaked.
"A rail gun."
"You said 'rail'?"
"Yeah, rail. Why? You sound funny."
General Leiber turned to see what the President was doing. The President was coming toward him. He wore a strange expression on his face. It was half-scowl, half-confusion.
"Quick," he whispered. "Give me all the scientific theory you can as fast as you can."
General Leiber scribbled furiously. "I gotta go now, Bob," he said hastily, and hung up. He put on his best smile and turned to face the President. He shifted on his seat and managed to slip the locomotive under him. Another part snapped under his shifting weight and he winced as something-it felt like the cowcatcher-dug into his scrotum.
"You have something for me, Mr. President?"
"NORAD just transmitted these satellite photos." Hesitantly General Leiber accepted the photographs from his Commander in Chief. He looked at the blurred black smear floating above the blue of the Atlantic on the first photo.
"NORAD believes that's your KKV," the President said.
"Mean-looking brute, isn't it?" the general said, flipping to the second photo. It too showed an indistinct blot. The general began to let out his pent breath-then he saw the third photo. He started coughing.
"Have you an explanation for this, General?" the President asked bitingly.
The general got control over his cough.
"Oh!" he said suddenly, jumping to his feet. "I nearly forgot. I was going to show you the KKV model." He presented the President of the United States with the paper-bag-wrapped package.
The President took the package. He tore away the paper with careful fingers. The paper fell to the floor and the President held in both hands a model of a steam locomotive with the cowcatcher askew.
"This is a locomotive," the President said quietly. "Actually, that's the civilian term for it, sir. We in the military prefer to call it a KKV, because, sir, as you can see, sir, while it appears to be a steam locomotive and may well have been built for that purpose, these photographs show conclusively that some dastardly outlaw nation has perverted the designer's original intent. It's a Kinetic Kill Vehicle now. Sir."
"I have one question for you, General."
"Sir?"
"How?"
"As a matter of fact, sir, I have just completed my task analysis of the problem. Obviously the Soviets have beaten us in the rail-gun race."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Rail gun, sir. Don't tell me you've never heard of it?"
The President's face hardened. "No."
"Well, you're new, sir. I suppose you haven't been briefed."
"Stop telling me I'm new, dammit!" the President yelled suddenly, his voice no longer under control. "My first day on the job and I'm hiding a mile underground because you tell me it's suddenly raining steam engines!"
"Sorry, sir. But I think you're underestimating the threat factor."
"I am not underestimating the threat factor. I'm not sure what the threat factor is."
"Allow me to explain the principle behind the rail gun, sir."
"Do so." The President folded his arms.
"We've been working on them for more than a decade. They're the ultimate satellite delivery system. We can throw out the shuttle, and all our rockets and missiles. This baby works on magnetic propulsion principles. What we do is, we build a tube large enough to do the job and stick a magnetically charged rail on either side of the tube. Step up the power with maybe a zillion gigawatts. And zoom! Whatever we stick in one end is propelled out the other so fast your head would spin. Sir. Mr. President. Sir. "
"Rail gun?"
"The baby that shot that thing into orbit would have to be as long as the Holland Tunnel, sir. Of course, the more accepted term for it is electromagnetic cannon, or EM cannon. But the techies, they like to call it a rail gun."
"Rail?" asked the President, looking at the model in his hand.
"Rail. Obviously the Russians took the rail part a tad literally." The general cracked a weak, lopsided smile.
"There's only one thing wrong with your Russian-railgun theory."
"Respectfully, Mr. President, I believe my theory is sound."
"The second KKV was not launched from Russia."
"Sir?"
"NORAD says it lifted off from Africa."
"That's absurd, Mr. President. The Africans can't possibly have a rail gun. Hell, even we don't have a full-scale version."
"It came from Africa," the President repeated firmly.
"If you say so, sir."
"We're going up, General. To the surface."
"Glad to hear it, sir."
"When we get upstairs, I'm going to brief the press on this entire matter."
"Sir, I don't think that would be a good idea ... sir."
"But I do. And I am your Commander in Chief."
"As your surrogate, Mr. President-"
"Forget that surrogate stuff. From now on, I'm going to do my job. And so are you."
"Yes, sir," General Martin S. Leiber said miserably, accepting the plastic locomotive model the President thrust i
nto his hands.
Chapter 12
Pyotr Koldunov threw the cutoff switches himself. It was a job for a lowly technician, not for one of the top scientists of the Soviet Ministry of Science. But he was not in Soviet Russia now and he didn't trust even the most intelligent of his Lobynian assistants not to accidentally bump the controls and trigger the launch sequence while he was inside the Electromagnetic Launch Accelerator, hurling him into orbit like a bug blown through a straw.
With all available power no longer diverted to the EM Accelerator, the overhead lights automatically brightened. The strong illumination seemed to take the curse off the underground complex. Months of dwelling under the Lobynian Desert with only the swarthy Lobynian technicians for company and no sunlight had reduced Pyotr Koldunov to a state of perpetual gloom.
As he stepped to the massive round chamber hatch, more like a bank-deposit vault than what it really was-the breech of the most powerful weapon ever created-Koldunov wondered if he were one of those people who suffer from light-deprivation mood swings. He made a mental note to check with a Moscow specialist if he ever got out of this sand burrow with his mind intact. Bitterly he punched out the access code on the wall-mounted keypad, carefully blocking the device so that none of the Lobynians could see the combination.
The light mounted over the keypad turned red, indicating acceptance of the access code. Koldunov turned quickly. The black-eyed Lobynians in their stupid green smocks were watching him avidly. The disappointment visible on their dark faces told him they had not gleaned the combination.
The final step was to hit the hydraulics button. He punched it angrily and waited. He was sick of the incessant Lobynian spying. Lobynia was supposed to be a Soviet client state, but their leader was a madman. As a rational, patriotic scientist, it sickened Pyotr Koldunov to be made subservient to the Lobynian dictator, Colonel Hannibal Intifadah. As a man, it infuriated him to know that if he slipped up, the Lobynians would slit his throat and take control of the EM Accelerator.
The huge hatch rolled aside and the square, tunnellike maw of the device gaped as black as a capitalist's heart, Koldunov thought morosely. The odor was worse than the last time. The ozone stink was nearly overwhelmed by the bitter stench of seared metal. Black. It smelled black. As black as it looked. Black as a Lobynian's soul, he thought with grim humor. Yes, it was that black.
Koldunov clicked on his powerful argon flashlight and stepped in. He breathed through his mouth. He wanted to gag. The light splashed along the walls of the tunnel. It was more than twenty feet high and inclined at a shallow upward angle. Not for the first time, Koldunov thought it was like walking into a serpent's belly.
The tunnel was constructed of four thick walls held together with massive external bolts. Mounted on each side wall was a flat copper rail. These were the power rails. Electricity pumped through them provided the magnetic pulse that could in theory propel a skyscraper into orbit.
The flashlight revealed that the left-hand rail had been damaged by the last launch. The copper surfaces were gouged and melted as if the powerful electric forces had boiled off the outer skin. The right rail was less damaged. But as he stepped further along, picking his way carefully as the incline grew steeper, he saw that the true damage was to the right rail. It had cracked at a joint. No wonder Soviet tracking systems had reported that the second projectile had tumbled in flight. Koldunov sighed. Both rails would have to be replaced.
Colonel Intifadah would not like this. Not at all.
The carrier rails were in worse shape. Mounted side by side on the launcher's flat floor, they were simply a section of the People's Lobynian Railroad System diverted underground through the complex and into the launcher itself.
The tracks ran up to the very mouth of the gun, a quarter of a mile away, where it poked out at ground level. These rails were twisted off their ties. He had half-expected that. They had been relaid after the first test and that had weakened them. He had told Colonel Intifadah exactly what would happen. But Colonel Intifadah had screamed at him for a straight twenty minutes until Koldunov had, in exasperation, stopped trying to make his case.
Now he would have to face Colonel Intifadah with the unhappy news that not only did the carrier rails have to be relaid once again, but also the power rails would probably have to be changed after each launch as a matter of routine maintenance. That would throw the Colonel's schedule completely off. It also meant that Pyotr Koldunov would be stuck in Lobynia far longer than he had planned.
Shaking his head, he left the breech and closed the hatch. He entered the sealing code, careful to shield that too. As long as only he knew those codes, the Lobynians dared not kill him. Even Colonel Intifadah was sane enough to know that.
Exiting the machine, he carefully stepped over the tracks leading into the hatch and mounted the concrete steps to the shielded control booth overlooking the launch-preparation area. He picked up the green-telephone hot line.
"Why do you not restore power to the device?" asked Musa Al-Qaid. Even in the air-conditioned chill of the underground complex, Al-Qaid's face had that greasy sheen of perpetual sweat. Probably it was fear.
"There is no need," Koldunov told him curtly.
"But our people will soon deliver the next revenge vehicle. Our glorious leader has decreed that it will be launched on schedule."
"Your glorious leader should have listened to me if he wished to maintain his precious schedule," Koldunov told him. "The device is inoperable."
"Then our glorious leader must be so informed immediately."
Koldunov shrugged, waited for the first ring, and quickly handed the phone to the other man.
"Be my guest. I was in the process of doing exactly that."
Al-Qaid took the receiver without thinking. Placing it to his ear, he got the switchboard of the People's Provisional Palace in the Lobynian capital.
"I . . . that is, this is Musa Al-Qaid. I am calling on a matter of utmost importance for our glorious leader." He stared daggers at Koldunov's white-smocked back.
Pretending to examine the control console, Pyotr Koldunov smiled tightly. That would fix the officious bastard, he thought.
"Yes, Brother Colonel," Al-Qaid said quickly. "A problem, Brother Colonel. He will not say, Brother Colonel. No, sir. Yes, sir. At once, Brother Colonel."
Al-Qaid hung up the phone and addressed Koldunov in a stiff voice.
"Our glorious leader demands your immediate presence in the capital."
"Good," said Koldunov.
"Good?" sputtered the Lobynian. "Many who are summoned to his office do not return alive."
"I am not concerned ... for myself," Koldunov said simply.
"It was your device. Your failure."
"Yes, exactly. My device. My access codes. My everything. On loan to your government as a gesture of solidarity from my government. I am hardly expendable. Can you say the same, Al-Qaid?"
Musa Al-Qaid blinked as if a thought had just occurred to him. "Colonel Intifadah directed that you be brought before him immediately," he countered.
"And who did he say would perform that errand?"
"I have that privilege."
"You? Not a flunky, but the senior Lobynian adviser on this project?" "
"Colonel Intifadah obviously thinks highly of me."
"On the other hand, it was you who gave him the bad news. And we all know how Colonel Intifadah reacts to bad news."
Al-Qaid had no answer to that. The Lobynian swallowed tightly. He kept on swallowing all the way up the bucket elevator to the surface and to the green helicopter waiting on the pad.
The ride to the Lobynian capital of Dapoli was pleasant. The sun was high in the desert sky. It was a cruel sun, but it brightened Pyotr Koldunov's mood. The thought that Colonel Intifadah might become extremely irate upon being told that his revenge weapon was temporarily inoperative did not lessen his improving humor. In fact, it added to it. Perhaps Colonel Intifadah might become so upset that he would shoot someone.
>
Koldunov turned to look at his pilot. Al-Qaid. Koldunov smiled. Al-Qaid looked at him quizzically.
Yes, life would be more pleasant without Al-Qaid. The man smelled of fear and constant perspiration. And his Russian was atrocious. He mangled the language worse than the conscripts from Urkutsk and Tashkent with whom Koldunov had been forced, in his long-ago youth, to serve in the Red Army. He hated them too-and their backward ways. Besides, Al-Qaid was next to useless as a technician. Koldunov suspected that he was a CID spy. Koldunov suspected half his technical staff were in the employ of Colonel Intifadah's Green Intelligence Directorate. Even Lobynian technicians could not be so incompetent.
Yes, it would be pleasant if Colonel Intifadah had Al-Qaid shot.
Pyotr Koldunov settled back in his seat as the many-towered capital of Lobynia loomed ahead, confident that he was not expendable.
The helicopter landed in the palace courtyard. From the air it looked as if the courtyard was green with welltended grass. In fact it was concrete painted green. The helipad was a lighter shade of green.
The door to Colonel Intifadah's office was also green. The guards on either side of the door carried green rifles and wore green uniforms. They belonged to Colonel Intifadah's elite Green Guard. They pushed Koldunov back from the door and, taking Al-Qaid by the arms, escorted him into the Colonel's office. The green door slammed shut and Pyotr Koldunov found a seat on a long leather divan. It matched the walls, which were chartreuse.
When fifteen minutes had passed and no sound of gunshots came from behind the green door, Pyotr Koldunov decided that Colonel Intifadah was not going to execute Al-Qaid. Koldunov frowned.
Then the green door opened and the two Green Guards carried out the limp body of Al-Qaid. His green smock was almost black with blood. His head hung slack-jawed from his scrawny neck.
Al-Qaid looked as if he had been methodically beaten to death. The splintered and stained rifle butts of the guards told Pyotr Koldunov that his guess was probably correct.
Koldunov smiled as the guards carried the scientist to a green elevator door. They pressed a button. The doors slid instantly apart and the guards heaved the body in.
The thud of it landing came loudly even though the body had obviously fallen several floors.
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