A pause. Then O’Banion replied, “Time hack says four minutes ago.”
At least they’ve got a direct link with us now, Christopher realized, finally. Now they can watch us get shot down in real time.
She asked O’Banion, “Estimated time to intercept?”
Again a pause. Then, “Ten… to twelve minutes.”
“Get Mr. Hartunian up here. On the double.”
Harry was sitting beside Taki, helping her check out all the electronic controls for the COIL.
It couldn’t have been Taki, he was telling himself. Unless she’s a damned good actress. But why would she do it? Why would she try to abort this flight? Why would any of them?
He asked himself again if one of the Air Force crew might have stolen the lens assembly. And again the answer came back negative. They don’t know enough about the system to cripple it like that. Besides, if one of them had started tinkering with the laser in its housing up there, the rest of them would have seen him.
Harry realized the gangly black lieutenant had ducked into the compartment, a puzzled frown on his face.
“You guys need to keep the intercom open,” he said without preamble. “Our comm man has been trying to get you on the squawk line for the past five minutes. The skipper wants to see you, Mr. Hartunian. And I mean
Harry pushed himself to his feet as Taki snatched up the headphone from its hook on the console and clamped it over her spiky hair.
Colonel Christopher was standing in the rear of the flight deck, by the mussed-up pair of cots, as Harry clambered up the ladder. The redheaded captain was peering intently at his radar screen. As Lieutenant Sharmon went back to his console, Harry went aft toward the colonel. He realized that she was quite good-looking, even in blue Air Force fatigues. Slim figure, pretty oval face, dark hair cropped short. Sexy, almost. Except that she looked as bleak as death.
“Are you ready for action?” she asked, keeping her voice so low Harry barely heard her over the thrumming of the plane’s engines.
He nodded. “All systems are go.”
“We’re going to be shooting very soon. Within minutes.”
“We’re ready.”
She took a breath, then added, “And we’re going to be shot at, most likely.”
“What?”
“There’s a pair of North Korean interceptors heading toward us.”
Harry’s mind spun into overdrive. “Look, they won’t know if we fire the COIL or not. It’s an infrared beam. You can’t see it.”
Colonel Christopher’s brows knit slightly. “That’s something . . .” Then she asked, “Could we shoot down a plane?”
“If you can get the COIL’s beam on it for a couple of seconds. Heat up the aluminum skin to its ignition point and then the airflow starts the aluminum burning.”
“Is that real or some scientist’s theory?”
“We’ve done it on the test range, with fans blowing air across the target.”
“At what range?”
Harry had to think back. “Half a mile. But the COIL can hit a target much farther than that. A hundred miles, maybe more.”
“So we can defend ourselves, maybe.”
“Only if the bad guy’s dumb enough to fly in front of us. The output turret up in the nose can only swivel thirty degrees left or right.”
Christopher looked disappointed. “They’re not that dumb. They’ll come up behind us and pop an air-to-air missile at us.”
“Jeez.” Harry suddenly felt an overwhelming need to urinate.
“Our alternative is to turn around and head for Japan.”
“And let them fire their ballistic missiles?” She nodded grimly. “Nice choice, isn’t it?”
“Wow, it’s big!” said Denise as she, her sister, and her mother followed the crowd streaming from the BART station to the Cow Palace’s main entrance. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but still their hair was wet and plastered on their scalps by the time they got into the huge auditorium.
Once inside the vast, barnlike stadium, Sylvia told her daughters, “They’ve held national conventions in here, rodeos, basketball games, hockey games, even Roller Derbies.”
“Roller Derbies?” Vickie asked, curious despite her practiced teenaged boredom. “What’s that?”
Sylvia explained as they climbed the concrete stairs and found their seats. From this high up the platform on which the President would speak looked little bigger than a postage stamp.
“You said we were going to be in the front row,” Vickie accused.
“We’re not that far away,” said Sylvia as they sat down.
“They’ve set up big TV screens,” Denise said, pointing.
“We’ll be able to see the President’s face very clearly,” Sylvia said. “Just like we’re sitting next to him, almost.”
Vickie muttered, “Big deal.” Sylvia pretended not to hear her.
As the limousine pulled up at the Cow Palace, the President asked his chief of staff, “What’s happening in Korea?”
Norman Foster pulled the phone bud out of his ear. “Looks like they’re getting ready to launch those other two birds.”
“We can see them?”
“Satellite imagery. From the National Reconnaissance Office.”
The Secret Service agent pulled the door open on the President’s side of the limo. The motorcade had driven directly into the Cow Palace’s underground parking area, which had been cleared for security. No cheering crowds. No band playing “Hail to the Chief.” Just a shadowy concrete expanse, chilly, damp.
Before the President could get out of the limo the chief of his Secret Service detail, a tall, lanky man with a weatherbeaten face and a dour expression, ducked his head into the open door and said, “Mr. President, we’ve got to head back to the airport, sir.”
“No, we don’t,” the President said, smiling pleasantly at the agent’s grimly determined face.
“Sir, it’s my duty—”
“I make the decisions, Ron. I’m going ahead with my speech.”
The black-suited agent looked as if he wanted to argue the point, but he recognized the steel behind the President’s smile. “You’re the boss, sir.”
“That’s right, Ron,” said the President. As he got out of the limo he asked his chief of staff, “What about that laser plane?”
Sliding across the leather seat, Foster replied, “Approaching the North Korean coast. Should be in position to shoot at the missiles as soon as they’re launched.”
“If it can get close enough to them,” the President muttered.
“Yep,” said Foster. “There is that.”
The President nodded. Foster slid out of the limo and straightened up slowly. Arthritis, the President knew.
The chief of staff made a small, involuntary groan as he stood up. Then, “The Aegis ships are alerted and ready. So are the ABM bases in Alaska and Vandenberg.”
With another nod, the President muttered, “Now we’ll see if we’ve spent the taxpayers’ money wisely.”
“You bet your life,” said Foster, without a trace of a smile.
