“He’s viffing,” Colonel Christopher said. Then she added for Kaufman’s benefit, “Vectoring in flight.”
“I know what viffing is,” Kaufman replied testily. “Like the Marines’ Harriers. They can take off straight up, like a helicopter.”
The three MiGs made a tight turn and circled around to take up a station off the 747’s left wing tip. Before Christopher could say anything, they zoomed ahead again and turned the other way, then settled into formation again off the right wing.
Christopher laughed. “They’re flying rings around us.”
“Showing off,” Kaufman grumbled.
The Sukhoi pulled up even closer. Christopher could see two helmeted heads inside its elongated canopy.
O’Banion’s voice piped up in her earphone. “They’re painting us with radar, Colonel.”
“I’ll bet they are,” said Christopher. “And with everything else they’ve got. They’d x-ray us if they could.”
She saw the pilot of the flanker looking over at her as he held the fighter alongside. On an impulse, she waved at him. After a moment he waved back.
“Next thing you know he’ll be asking for your phone number,” Kaufman muttered.
“That’s better than shooting at us.”
“Guess so.” But Kaufman didn’t sound convinced of it.
The snow was getting thicker. Charley Ingersoll nudged the windshield wiper control and the blades smeared freshly fallen flakes across the SUV’s windshield.
The weather report on the radio had called for “cloudy and mild” all afternoon, with a chance of snow after sunset. We oughtta be home before sunset, Charley said to himself. Specially if we don’t stop for lunch.
Sure enough, Charley Jr. piped from the backseat, “I’m hungry! When are we gonna eat lunch?”
The boy must have mental telepathy, Charley thought.
“Me too!” Little Martha added. She never wanted to be left out of anything her older brother did.
Charley scowled at the thickening snow. The highway was still dry, nothing much had accumulated on the paving, but Charley knew it was only a matter of time before the road became slick and slippery.
“We got anything to feed them?” he asked his wife.
Martha gave him one of her you-always-blame-everything-on-me looks as she said, “No, dear. You said we’d stop for lunch on the way home, remember?”
“Okay, okay.”
The gas gauge had dipped well below half, Charley saw.
“Look out for a gas station,” he said to Martha. “One with a convenience store. You can get something for the kids to eat while I fill the tank.”
They passed a big sign for another RV park up the road. It looked like an old sign, beat-up and weathered. Just as they sped past the entrance to the park, Charley Jr. announced, “I gotta go.”
“Me too,” said Little Martha.
His wife turned in her seat and said sternly, “Just control yourselves for a few more minutes. Your father’s looking for a gas station. You can go there.”
The snow was getting heavier. Charley punched the radio on again. Still nothing on the satellite stations. Martha fiddled with the dial until they got the tail end of a local weather report.
“... cloudy and mild, with a chance of snow this evening,” a cheery male voice was saying. “Snow accumulation could be more than a foot in the upper elevations.”
“It’s snowing now,” Martha said, sounding a little nervous.
Charley saw a sign that announced a gas station five miles ahead.
“Five miles, kids,” he said. “Just hang in there for another few minutes.”
The gas station was nothing much: just a couple of pumps and a little building that looked barely big enough to hold an attendant. A sign saying NO CASH TRANSACTIONS was plastered by the door.
Charley pulled the SUV up to the pumps. Almost before he stopped the kids had the side door slid open and were racing for the side of the building. Martha got out and hurried after them, bundling her coat around herself as she ran through the thick wet flakes of snow that had already covered the parking area with white.
Charley was surprised by how cold it felt. A stinging wind cut through the light jacket he was wearing. His face felt cold, raw. Muttering to himself about weather forecasters, he slid his credit card into the pump’s slot. Nothing happened. The screen was blank.
Grumbling now, Charley stomped through the wet snow to the building and pushed its door open. A pimply- faced kid sat huddled in a tatty-looking wool coat. His hair looked as if it hadn’t been combed in a week and hadn’t been washed in Lord knows how long.
“The pump won’t take my card,” Charley complained.
“Yeah, I know,” the kid said, his voice raspy. “No electricity. We lost power ‘bout half an hour ago. Soon’s my pop comes to pick me up I’m outta here.”
“Don’t you have a manual pump?”
“Nope.”
“How do I get gas?” Charley demanded. “Beats me,” the kid said.
“Where are they now?” General Higgins asked. “Over the Pacific, approaching Japan,” replied General Scheib, pointing to the electronic map on the wall screen. A tiny winking light gave the position of ABL-1, a thin trace of blue line showed its course so far. Scheib wondered if Higgins couldn’t see the map clearly; maybe he’s nearsighted or something.
Higgins had loosened his tie and hung his blue jacket on the back of his chair. The situation room looked lived-in, plastic coffee cups dotting the oblong conference table, the cart that once held pastries and other snacks now bearing nothing but crumbs and three empty stainless steel urns.
Zuri Coggins had moved from her seat at Higgins’ right hand down the table to be next to Michael Jamil, who was still bent over his iPhone. He had connected it wirelessly to the DoD computer that served the situation room and was slaving away over calculations of some sort.
On the wall opposite the big map, screens showed satellite views of North Korea. The two missiles still stood on their launch pads. No sign of the troops that Pyongyang had reportedly sent, but the satellite imagery was spotty, at best.
The admiral seated halfway down the table looked up from his laptop screen. “The Russian planes have turned back,” he said, looking relieved. Like Higgins, the admiral had long since taken off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair.
“They got a damned good look at our plane,” Higgins muttered.
General Scheib nodded. He was on his feet, pacing the length of the situation room as if he were doing his daily exercises.
“They can’t tell much from the exterior,” Scheib said, trying to sound reassuring. But then he added, “Of course, that turret on the nose could be a giveaway. There’s been enough publicity about the airborne laser that they’ll recognize ABL-1 from that potato nose.”
General Higgins shot an angry look at him and Scheib remembered the general’s “Possum” nickname. Smart, he berated himself. Real smart.
“Who’s flying the plane?” Higgins asked. “I hope we’ve got a good man at the controls.”
Scheib started for his chair and the notebook computer opened on the table in front of it.
