“We can still turn around,” Foster said.
The President gave him the stare that often froze lesser men. Foster gazed back at his boss without flinching.
“They’re still worried about the city being nuked?”
“Took a call direct from your National Security Advisor. The admiral thinks the prudent thing to do would be to turn back.”
“I’d look like a damned fool if nothing happens.”
“You’d be dead if they nuke the city. Me too.”
With an easy smile the President said, “I’m going through with this. I can’t afford to look like a coward. I’d never live it down.”
Foster clenched his fists on his lap. “The plane could develop engine trouble. We could divert the flight to some other airport. A military base.”
The President’s smile faded. “You really think they’re going to hit San Francisco.”
“I think they might try.”
“Might.”
“If they do—”
“Norm, you’ve sat in on those intelligence briefings as often as I have. The North Koreans don’t have a missile that can reach San Francisco.”
“Maybe not.”
“Hell, the last time they launched a missile it flopped into the middle of the Pacific. Besides, I’ve checked the reports,” the President went on. “I haven’t been sitting back here playing solitaire, Norm. I do my homework. According to the latest intelligence estimates the North Koreans do not have a missile with the range to reach San Francisco. Nor the accuracy. And especially not the reliability.”
“And you’re willing to pin your life to that?”
The President hesitated for the slightest fraction of a heartbeat, then said firmly, “Yes. I am.”
Foster looked around the compartment, gathering his thoughts. Then he said, “There’s this guy from the NIC sitting in on the special situation team we put together—”
“In the Pentagon?”
“Right.” Foster nodded. “He’s insisting that the North Koreans are aiming for San Francisco, specifically because they know you’re going to be there tonight.”
“He’s running counter to the intelligence reports.”
“He’s got the representative from your National Security Advisor worried enough that she got him to put in another call to us here, warning us.”
“One guy from the NIC?” the President asked. “What’s his background? What does he know about the missiles the North Koreans have?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know his name. But he claims that if they could deliver a nuke into orbit and knock out all the communications satellites, the same kind of missile could hit San Francisco.”
The President leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin thoughtfully.
“One guy,” he muttered.
Foster nodded.
“What’s his background? Where’s he from? Could be a Republican who wants to make me look bad.”
Foster threw his hands up in the air. “For Chris-sakes! We’re talking nuclear war here!”
“We are talking,” the President said coldly, precisely, “about an unsubstantiated theory by some unknown guy from the National Intelligence Committee.”
“Look, there’s a lot at stake here. The chances of the gooks nuking San Francisco might be damned small, but the consequences if they do are huge! Enormous!”
“That’s what my science adviser says about global warming, for god’s sake.”
“Tell the pilot to divert to an Air Force base. Tell him to say we’ve got engine troubles. Tell—”
The pilot’s voice broke in from the intercom speaker set into the compartment’s overhead. “We are on final approach to San Francisco, sir. Please fasten your seat belt.”
The President glanced at the speaker grill, then back at the friend and companion who had guided him to the White House.
“Too late, Norm. We’re there.”
Harry made his way aft, down the length of the big COIL, through a narrow hatch, and into the plane’s rearmost section, where the stainless steel fuel tanks full of liquefied oxygen and iodine stood man-tall and frosted with rime. Rosenberg and Reyes were right behind him. Harry could feel their resentment at his insisting that they check every square centimeter of the tankage all over again.
It took the better part of an hour, but at last Harry was satisfied that the tanks were properly filled, at their correct cryogenic temperatures, and—most important of all—not leaking.
Now the two engineers stood glumly before Harry, both of them waiting for Harry to explain what was behind his sudden insistence on this inspection.
Rosenberg and Reyes couldn’t look less alike, Harry thought. Rosenberg had a long, narrow face with teeth that looked a size too big for his jaw and a thick mop of tightly curled russet hair; his body looked soft, potbellied. But his tongue was sharp. Wally always had a quip or a wisecrack at hand. He could be cutting. Angel Reyes was built like a Venezuelan shortstop—small, agile, almost a full head shorter than Wally. Dark brown hair cut in bristling spikes, big liquid dark eyes like you see on sentimental paintings of little waifs. Angie was quiet, soft-spoken. At first glance he looked like one of those gardener’s guys who runs leaf blowers all day. But Angie had an engineering degree from Florida State University, where he had indeed played four years of varsity baseball for the Seminoles. Shortstop.
It felt chilly and cramped back here near the plane’s tail. Harry imagined that’s what a morgue would feel like: cold as death. He could see his breath forming little clouds of steam in the air despite the tanks’ heavy insulation. At least he didn’t smell any leaks.
Rosenberg caught his sniffing. “There’s no leaks,” he said, his voice resentful. “We’ve checked from end to end.”
“Good,” said Harry. But he was thinking, Should I tell them about the missing optics assembly? Should I tell them that we have a saboteur on board? Maybe one of them is the guy. Maybe they already know.
Somehow the steady growl of the 747’s engines was louder back here, Harry thought. Just like an airliner: first class is up front; the peasants sit in back.
“Okay,” he said to the two men. “I want you to keep your eyes open. We’ve… uh, we’ve got a problem.”
Reyes’s dark eyes went wider. Rosenberg looked skeptical.
“What problem?” Wally asked, almost sneering.
“Somebody tried to sabotage the ranging laser.”
“What?”
Reyes’s mouth dropped open but he said nothing.
“The forward optics assembly’s gone missing,” Harry explained. “Monk’s replacing it from the spares.”
“For crap’s sake, Harry, that doesn’t mean sabotage,” Rosenberg snapped. “What’s the matter with you? It’s not like you to go off the deep end.”
Harry studied Rosenberg’s face. Wally looks sincere enough, he thought. He’s sore at me for thinking it’s sabotage.
“Look,” he said. “Monk says he checked the ranger last night and it was all right. Now that we’re out here over the goddamned Pacific Ocean the forward optics assembly goes missing. Somebody took it out of its setting and hid it. That’s sabotage. Somebody’s trying to abort this mission. And it’s got to be one of us.”
“Jesus,” Reyes muttered.
