“As soon as we’re finished with the weather.”
“You ready for that, sir?”
“First, how much time have we got? What’s the time to detonation?”
The deputy checked his watch. “Approximately one hour and thirty-five minutes.”
The President sighed audibly. “And the media situation?”
“Sir, the country is, in a word, terrified. We’re getting reports from all over of businesses frantically shutting down their computer systems, all sorts of last-minute bank transactions, communication switches overloading, and that’s all in addition to the disruption of shutting down the national air system, trains, and so on.”
“My little speech didn’t do any good?”
The Press Secretary stepped into view. “On the contrary, I think it helped a lot because it eliminated doubt about whether the threat was real. I’ll tell you this, though. Outside of Washington, which is still in shock that a bomb was flying over their heads, the prospect of a Medusa Wave is scaring people far more profoundly than the basic reality of what a thermonuclear explosion would have done to D.C.”
The President nodded. “This would be Hiroshima times fifty if it detonated over any populated region, even without the Medusa Wave. As I said earlier, let’s keep in mind what a terrifying prospect this is, even if it’s only a thermonuclear bomb.” He looked down, unsmiling, and shook his head in wonder at his own reference. “Good grief, what a thing to say! ‘Only a thermonuclear bomb.’”
The President looked over at his aide. “Okay, switch me over to Miami.”
The Washington half of the Starsuite dissolved into an electronic kaleidoscope for a few seconds and then returned with the identical interior, this one occupied by several new faces in Miami, including Peter Ronson, the director of the National Hurricane Center, who rapidly introduced himself.
“Dr. Ronson, this is not accusatory, okay? But earlier today I was told in no uncertain terms that this hurricane was headed north and would probably miss us entirely. Suddenly it’s mauling the mid-Atlantic coast and said to be poised to do us unprecedented damage. What happened? I wouldn’t have left for Japan if I’d had any idea it would be this bad.”
“Mr. President, big hurricanes can take unpredictable turns, and that’s what happened here. We just didn’t expect it to turn west so suddenly. This is a killer storm of unprecedented proportions and power. A level-five hurricane. The worst. We measured the cloud coverage of the storm at nearly a thousand miles in diameter, but the storm really is an eight-hundred-fifty-mile-diameter monster, with winds near the center now approaching two hundred and five miles per hour. We’ve seen hurricanes with extreme winds near the center like this, but never a storm with this kind of scope and breadth. Atmospheric pressure near the center is below two-seven-point-eight-zero inches of Mercury. This is a direct result, in my humble opinion, of global warming, sir. It’s being fueled by increased heat coming out of the oceans.”
“I appreciate the unique aspect, Doctor, but tell me what it’s going to do to us now.”
The director touched a button and a full-color satellite map swam into view in front of the President. Another adjustment caused the map to take on three-dimensional form, with the various altitudes of the clouds clearly conveyed from space.
“My Lord, what a picture!” the President exclaimed. “Is this live?”
“Yes, sir. The picture comes from Nimbus Eight, which we launched last year, and it is live. Sir, this hurricane has already washed a storm surge of thirty feet of water into the upper New Jersey coast, and nearly thirty-five feet around the southern New Jersey coast. Cape May through Atlantic City north to Asbury Park are already being mauled and devastated. The boardwalks will undoubtedly be destroyed in their entirety, and the damage to waterfront properties will easily be in the tens of billions, and that doesn’t include industrial facilities, ferry docks, fishing vessels, et cetera. Delaware Bay is building up a huge tidal surge, and we expect massive near-total devastation from Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, down to Ocean City, Maryland. The eye is aimed right now almost dead-on at Chincoteague Island near Wallops Island, Virginia. If the speed holds, and we expect it to, the heart of this monster will roar ashore with sustained winds of over two hundred miles per hour in another six hours. The Washington, D.C., area is already being battered, but things will get far worse. We expect winds in D.C. before this is over to hit one hundred miles per hour steady state, with gusts of one hundred and twenty-five miles per hour. Chesapeake Bay is in trouble as well, with storm surges and extensive flooding virtually guaranteed. Virginia Beach, Norfolk, and points south all the way to Kitty Hawk will get hit badly, with unprecedented beach erosion and flooding, but nothing like the areas to the north. Even New York City will get gusts of over a hundred miles per hour, if the storm doesn’t veer off to the north.”
The President of the United States sat back in his chair, shaking his head slowly and sadly.
“Anyone know the situation with ocean traffic?” he asked at last.
Another man moved to the director’s elbow. “Mr. President, seas in the heart of the storm are running forty to sixty feet. Two freighters are in trouble, and the Coast Guard fears they’ve sunk. One other, a Panamanian-registered freighter, is out of contact. Bermuda has sustained heavy damage, and the British are sending help already. Power and communications there were pretty much obliterated by the winds. As for our ships, one of our aircraft carriers, the USS Eisenhower, has had to divert around the southern edge of the storm, but they’re essentially in it now and battling some pretty high seas to the south, here.” A laser point flared on the map at the southern end of the so-called Bermuda triangle.
“How about the area around Goldsboro, North Carolina?”
“They’ll get high winds in the seventies before it’s over, but their main threat is tornadoes and, later tomorrow, flooding over a wide area.”
The men in Miami fell silent as they watched the image of the President contemplating their display from the interior of Air Force One a little under five thousand miles distant. For all practical purposes he was a few feet away, and when he moved suddenly, they all jumped.
“Gentlemen, thank you for the comprehensive update. Oh, one thing, Dr. Ronson.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re aware of our airborne nuclear crisis?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And you’re aware it’s coming to a head at Seymour-Johnson Air Force Base near Goldsboro?”
The director nodded.
“Okay …” the President began and then hesitated, contemplating his fingertips as they drummed the top of the conference table.
“Sir,” the director said, breaking the silence, “you’d like to know about the track of any fallout, should that thing detonate?”
The President looked up and caught his eye for a few very long seconds. The director could see deep fatigue there.
“Exactly.”
“South over South Carolina as far down as Charleston, but then out to sea to dissipate over the Atlantic.”
“That’s something at least.”
“The outcome is in doubt, sir? There’s a chance it won’t be defused in time?” the director asked tenuously.
The President got to his feet and smiled a very thin smile.
“Let’s just say a few prayers would be in order … and appreciated.”
EIGHTEEN
ABOARD SCOTAIR 50—6:26 P.M. EDT
Jerry Christian had finished his portion of the before-landing check and swiveled his seat to the forward position when Scott leaned toward him suddenly.
“I hate to have you do this, Jerry, but I’ve gotta know something. Go back and take another look at that thing. See if you can find any way they could penetrate the shell without drilling or using a welding torch. I didn’t see any seams or any panels, other than the one we opened.”
“Most of it is inside that crate,” Jerry replied.
“I know. Hurry. I need your
best guess.”
“Why, Scott?”
“No time to explain. Just do it, please!”
Jerry tossed his seat belts aside and disappeared through the cockpit door as the three-engine jetliner settled onto a five-mile final approach, the winds and turbulence rocking it slightly as the speed settled down to a relatively sedate one hundred seventy knots.
I just assumed they would have all the answers, Scott chided himself. I just assumed they’d have the experts. I might’ve just assumed myself into a corner here, and they’re about to screw this up!
“Gear down, landing check, flaps twenty-five,” Doc intoned. Scott reached over and lowered the landing gear handle before remembering the previous unsafe indication on the gear doors.
“Doc, we forgot the gear indication …” Scott began.
A sudden lurch and muffled crunching sound echoed through the cockpit. Both pilots looked at the gear indicators. The nose and right main were showing a green light apiece, indicating down and locked.
The left main gear was showing red.
“Oh jeez,” Doc said. “I forgot about that. We must have really damaged it back there at Pax River.”
“Why don’t we retract and re-extend it, Doc?”
“Hold it!” Doc said. “That could make things worse. How about those fighters out there? Could they take a look at it?”
Scott nodded. “Good idea. Where are those F-16’s?”
“They’ve broken off to the right.”
Scott dialed the air-to-air frequency in the UHF radio once again and keyed the microphone.
“F-16 flight from ScotAir Fifty. You guys still there?”
The voice of the lead pilot came back immediately.
“Roger, ScotAir. Go ahead.”
“We’ve got an unsafe gear indication on our left main. Could you come under and take a look at it? We’ll level off here and do a low approach to the runway, straight ahead at a thousand feet.”
The F-16 lead pilot agreed and began maneuvering to the left as Doc leveled the Boeing at a thousand feet and Scott informed Seymour tower what they were going to do.
Scott could see the F-16 move in from the right and disappear behind them. Thirty seconds ticked by before the lead fighter pilot’s voice came over the radio.
“Okay, ScotAir, your left main gear appears to be undamaged and appears to be in the same position as the right one. Your left landing gear door, the one attached to the left main gear, looks like a big dog’s been chewing on it. The bottom edge is broken and ragged, and it’s partially hanging from its mounting.”
“We’ve got two larger doors on the belly. Are those both closed?” Scott asked.
“Yes, sir, they appear to be. The one I’m talking about is actually attached to the gear strut.”
Jerry had returned to the cockpit in time to hear the exchange. In one fluid motion he put on his seat belt and leaned forward over the center console.
“Scott, first try recycling the gear.”
Scott nodded and told the F-16 lead what they were going to do and what to look for.
“Gear up, Doc.”
He pulled the gear handle up, and once again the left main showed an unsafe red.
“Gear down.”
Doc positioned the handle, and the lurch and muffled noise once again reached their ears.
“You’re back in the same position, Captain,” the F-16 pilot told him. “It looks to be down and locked in the same position as the right one.”
“But”—Doc was pointing to the warning lights—“it’s still showing unsafe.”
Scott turned to Jerry. “Worst case?”
“It collapses on landing and we have trouble steering. It’s probably safe, Scott. I thought I felt it lock, so maybe the microswitch is screwed up.”
“Should we give it a try?”
Jerry nodded. “Yeah, just favor the right side and be prepared for a collapse.”
“Roger.”
“Scott, about the bomb.”
“Just a second. Doc, tell the tower we’re going to make right closed traffic and stay visual, then just circle us around to the right and realign with the runway.”
Doc nodded as he reached for the radio.
“Okay, Jerry. Tell me what you saw.”
“Scott, every inch of that damn thing is welded shut, except the hatch where the TV screen and keyboard are located. The only way in is to cut the metal with a cutting torch, or drill in, and it looks like the shell is case-hardened stainless steel. You could burn your way in, all right, but the heat of a cutting torch will be easily detectable, and I’ll bet anything the diabolical inventor has it filled with heat sensors. He would have expected exactly that sort of attempt.”
Scott nodded. “There’s no way one solitary technician’s going to penetrate that thing undetected.” Scott looked back, searching Jerry’s face. “You agree?”
“Yeah. It’s also repeating the same warnings about not trying to explode or burn it. I forget the exact words, but something regarding an electronic nuclear trigger.”
Scott watched Doc begin the right turn over the airport. He chewed his lower lip for a few seconds before looking back.
“I think we’ve got to assume it’s telling the truth that any attempt to blow it up will be fatal, to us and a million others. That leaves one thing: Dump it at sea.”
“That’s what Vivian said,” Linda interjected.
“And if they won’t do it?” Jerry asked.
“Then, old friend, we’re all toast.”
FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON, D.C.—6:26 P.M. EDT
Tony DiStefano held his hand over the receiver as he looked at Donna and rolled his eyes. His whisper could be heard across the room, but not over the line.
“God help us, we’ve drawn Attila the Hun as our agent in charge at Seymour-Johnson.”
“Who?” Donna asked, looking from Tony to another male agent and back.
“Harold Hanks, special agent extraordinaire,” Agent Bill Watson explained to her. “You’ve never met him?”
Donna shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of.”
“You’d remember. Combine the self-importance of a Douglas MacArthur with the paranoia of J. Edgar Hoover and the linguistic arrogance of William F. Buckley, and then issue it a badge.”
“Jesus!” Donna mumbled under her breath.
“Oh yes, Him too.”
“The perfect senior bureaucrat, in other words.”
Bill nodded. “In the field without a clue.”
The others could see Tony’s jaw muscles working as he struggled for composure, his voice carrying an artificial niceness. “Harold, is that you?”
There was a pause, and another look of disgust crossed Tony’s face like a fast-moving cloud.
“Okay, I understand Agent Hanks is busy, but would you tell him that headquarters would like a word with him if it isn’t too much trouble? You see, that’s why we issue you guys these cellular telephones.”
Tony suddenly shook his head in utter disgust. “This is FBI headquarters! Your fripping boss! You see, this could come as a shock, but I believe the ID card in your badge wallet says FBI, not the Harold Hanks Agency, and since we’d sorta like to talk to Agent Hanks for purposes of, oh, I don’t know, maybe coordination, it would probably be a good career move for you to HAND THE DAMN PHONE TO HANKS NOW!”
Tony’s face was turning a shocking shade of red.
“Jesus H. Christ!” he snarled to the small group gathering around him as he held his hand over the receiver again, then removed it.
“You’re damn right I’m being sarcastic!”
Tony pulled up a swivel chair and plunked himself in it as a voice came on the other end.
“Harold? Tony DiStefano in D.C. So sorry to tear you away. I need to make sure we’re singing from the same songbook, okay? First, where is the … okay, on final approach. Harold, you’re going to have to play this very, very delicately. We do not believe Mrs. Henry is in the cockpit, and … Ha
rold, I know you’ve been briefed at my direction already, but now I’m briefing you in person, understand? We do believe that you can talk in the clear to the captain, either on the UHF radio or on his Flitephone. No, I said you CAN. Did you get that Flitephone number? Okay, it should work down there if you need it. Here’s the thing I’m most concerned about. I’m afraid that crew may be on Mrs. Henry’s side. I don’t think they realize what a beef she’s had with the government, and I get the feeling they think she’s incapable of pulling this off herself. That could lead to real problems if she starts calling the shots directly or indirectly, and it could lead to their interference if they thought we were abusing her by making an arrest. Your … yeah, Harold, I’m aware of that. Our job is to assist the Air Force commander in getting his men to the bomb as fast as possible. Do what you have to do, but don’t let procedure get in the way of getting them to the bomb.”
Tony closed his eyes, propped an elbow on the desk, and began rubbing his head. “Harold, I’m not implying anything. Look, we’ve had this discussion before. I don’t like you a whole helluva lot and you don’t like me. That’s a given. But professionally, I’m telling you to do whatever’s needed, but don’t let standard procedure get in the way of getting the Air Force in possession of that weapon. We’ll be standing by. Yeah, good luck.”
Tony stood up and poised the receiver high over his head with eyes flaring, as if he were about to slam-dunk it onto the desk. He froze in position then and let his eyes shift to the others as they watched and held their breath. Tony let a deliberately maniacal smile spread slowly over his face, then raised both eyebrows.
“Just kidding.” He lowered the phone to its cradle, shaking his head. “I remember thinking the character of Major Frank Burns on M*A*S*H was a ridiculous caricature. No one could be that officious, that stupid. But there he is, in the flesh, about to handle the most delicate assignment in recent FBI history.”
“What you’re saying is …” Donna began.
“We’re probably screwed,” Tony finished.
SEYMOUR-JOHNSON AIR FORCE BASE, NORTH CAROLINA—6:31 P.M. EDT
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