Able One

The Secretary started to reply, but Jamil suddenly added, “We know they’ve placed their ballistic missile forces on alert. We should try to ascertain if their political leadership has left Beijing and gone to shelters.”

The Secretary’s eyes flared. “Do you expect me to believe that the Chinese government is ready to have a nuclear exchange with us? That they are willing to start World War III?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s exactly what I expect you to believe.”

In her office, the Secretary of State stared hard at this young intelligence analyst. He looks like an Arab, she thought. How can I trust him? He might have all sorts of security clearances, but he could be a plant, a mole who’s been working inside our intelligence apparatus for years, waiting for this chance to launch a nuclear jihad.

She took a deep breath to calm herself. Stay cool, she told herself. Every word you say is being recorded for history. You want to come across as concerned, informed, on top of this situation. You want to look presidential. He’ll run for reelection next time around, but you’re young enough to have a good chance for the nomination four years afterward, especially if you come out of this looking presidential.

She glanced at the data bar running along the bottom of her wall screen as she said carefully, “Mr… eh, Jamil, has it occurred to you that I have sources of information that you do not?”

Jamil’s lips became a thin, hard line.

“Has it occurred to you,” the Secretary went on, “that I have unofficial sources that place me in contact with the highest levels of the government of the People’s Republic of China?” Struggling to keep her voice cool, presidential, she went on. “Has it occurred to you that my contacts assure me that China has no wish to attack the United States? Shouldn’t you rethink your scenario in the light of those facts?”

Despite the Secretary of State’s measured words, Jamil could almost feel her cold fury radiating from the conference room’s wall screen. And he felt angry, too—outraged that this woman refused to see the obvious.

“Has it occurred to you, Madam Secretary,” he retorted, “that your sources are lying to you? Or at least not telling you the entire truth? Have they told you that China will not under any circumstances launch their missiles against us? Have they offered to stop the North Koreans? Why do you think you haven’t been able to speak directly to the Chinese leadership? They’re probably in their underground city right now, waiting for the bombs to start falling! While the President’s in San Francisco preparing to give a speech!”

For a flash of an instant the Secretary of State looked flustered, but she immediately regained her icy composure. “Thank you for your frank opinion, Mr. Jamil.”

The wall screen went blank.

General Higgins pushed his chair away from Jamil and heaved himself to his feet. “You sure know how to make friends in high places, kid,” he said. Then he headed back to his place at the head of the table.

Jamil sat there alone. Why don’t they understand? he asked himself. It’s as if they don’t want to understand.

As the others took their seats around the conference table, Zuri Coggins came up to Jamil and placed a hand on his shoulder. “You’d better update your resume, Michael,” she said, shaking her head. “Nobody talks to that woman like that and lives to tell the tale.”

Jamil agreed with a morose nod. But as he looked up at Coggins, he saw the wall screen behind her. “Look!” he said, pointing with a trembling hand.

“They’ve got a bunch of people working around the missiles.”

Every eye in the situation room turned to the satellite view of the North Korean site. The two missiles stood on their pads as before, but now teams of men in coveralls were clustered around the base of each missile.

“Final checkout,” said General Scheib. “They’re starting their countdown. They’re going to launch those birds.”

San Francisco: St. Francis Hotel

“Wow!” exclaimed Vickie as she turned completely around, taking in the suite’s sitting room with its beautiful draperies and handsome furniture. “Can we afford this?”

Sylvia laughed, delighted that at last something had impressed her sixteen-year- old. “It’s only for this one night. And besides, the party committee’s paying for it.”

Denise went to the bedroom door and peeked in. “Twin beds,” she noted. “Queens.”

Before her younger daughter could ask, Sylvia explained, “You two sleep in there. I’ll use the pull-out sofa.”

Vickie and Denise glanced at each other. Before they could say anything, their mother said, “I don’t want you two arguing over who sleeps where. You each get one of the beds, share and share alike.”

With a shrug, Denise changed the subject. “When do we eat?”

Their landing at the airport had been delayed because of the President’s arrival, and then it had been hell getting a taxi in the drizzling rain. The highway was clogged with slow-moving traffic and now it was dinnertime and their luggage hadn’t come up from the lobby yet.

“As soon as the bellman brings our bags we’ll grab a quick bite someplace close by and then head out to the Cow Palace.”

“If we can get a cab,” Vickie said.

Denise went to the desk, where a few glossy magazines were arranged in a fan. “I’ll look up a good restaurant.”

Denise was always the practical one, Sylvia thought.

ABL-1: Cockpit

“Any word from the tanker?” Colonel Christopher asked.

“Not a peep,” O’Banion replied.

Christopher glanced at the fuel gauges, then over at Major Kaufman, sitting as grim as death in the right- hand seat.

“They’ll be here, Obie,” she said.

“If you say so, Colonel.”

She restrained an impulse to whistle at the hostility in Kaufman’s voice. Or maybe it’s fear, she thought. The major was staring straight ahead at the swirl of dirty gray clouds far below them. The tanker might be having trouble getting through that soup, she thought. Winds must be pretty strong down there. She leaned back in her chair and lifted her helmet partway off. The headache was getting worse. Stress, she knew. Try to relax. Chill out. At least we haven’t gotten word that the tanker’s not on its way to us.

“Take over, Obie,” she said, unstrapping her seat harness and getting up from the chair. “I’ll be back in five.”

Kaufman nodded and mumbled something about a potty break.

Damned creep, Christopher thought. She stepped through the hatch onto the flight deck, where Sharmon and O’Banion sat at their stations. They both looked pretty strained. So different, Christopher thought. Skinny black kid and chunky redheaded Irishman. But they’re both wearing Air Force blue and that’s what matters.

Placing a hand on each of their shoulders, Colonel Christopher said, just loud enough for them to hear her over the drone of the engines, “You heard the major and me hollering at each other.”

O’Banion shrugged and Sharmon nodded solemnly.

“That was a difference of opinion between the two of us. It’s all straightened out now. And forgotten. Understand?”

Sharmon blinked several times before saying, “Yes, ma’am. Forgotten.”

O’Banion broke into a lazy grin. “I gotcha, Colonel. No problemo.”

Christopher smiled down at the two of them. “Good. Now where the hell is that tanker?”

Harry saw that Monk was sitting beside Taki at the battle management station. There were four consoles lining one curving bulkhead of the compartment; in a real battle situation four Air Force blue-suiters would be