Last Gasp

'Not necessarily all,' said Ralf Zadikov, seated on the president's left. The secretary of defense was a gaunt figure, pointed chin resting on clasped scarecrow hands,

General Stafford's lips tightened. Along the table several people shuffled papers and avoided one another's eyes. It was bad form to admit, or even mention, the existence of the sealed oxygen-enriched enclosures reserved for high-ranking politicians and military personnel. This was another key element in the ASP master plan, thoughtfully provided by Madden and designed and built by JEG Construction.

To cover this lapse General Beaver said hurriedly, 'Can we see our deployment pattern on display, Colonel Madden?'

As soon as Madden gave the order over the desk mike a brightly colored azimuthal projection of the globe shimmered in the black air behind the glass. Missile sites were red; tankers in black against the blue ocean. Nine of the missiles and four of the tankers had the Greek letter |3, for beta, in silver in the center of each symbol.

There was silence while everyone contemplated the pleasing design. Then General Smith said, 'What's our present state of readiness, Colonel?'

'Three hundred ninety-five missiles payloaded with Bloomingdale's targeted on key areas of jungle and rain forest on all continents outside North America. We have thirty-eight tankers of two hundred thousand to two hundred and fifty thousand tons capacity of Macy's constantly on the move in all major oceans. By the end of this year we will have fifty-two tankers. The missiles and tankers designated beta contain a new bacteriological herbicide that is much more powerful and effective than conventional chemical compounds. We're proceeding as fast as possible to make the conversion to all our missiles and tanker fleet.'

'Will this be enough to give us herbicidal overkill?' General Smith asked.

'Yes, sir.' Madden used the electronic indicator, a glowing white dot. 'As you'll have noted, the tankers are grouped in convoys and not scattered at random. These areas'--the white dot danced about--'the equatorial Pacific, the North Atlantic, the Southern Ocean around Antarctica, and parts of the Indian Ocean near the Madagascar Basin are richest in phytoplankton and therefore contribute most of the global oxygen yield. We estimate that with our present fleet we can eliminate up to eighty-five percent of marine plant life.'

'Then why upgrade the fleet at all if we already have that capability?' General Stafford wanted to know. As air force chief of staff he could see the need to deploy more missiles, but who the hell wanted more tankers? The defense budget was tight enough without wasteful and unnecessary expenditure.

Madden read the general's mind and had his answer ready. 'The time factor, sir. With more tankers we can speed up the process.'

'Why not more missiles and speed it up even more?'

'Because the forest and jungle targets are less important, General. They contribute only about thirty percent of the oxygen in the atmosphere; the oceans are the major supplier.'

General Smith seemed mesmerized by the display floating in the darkened chamber. 'How long will it take?' he asked in a faraway voice.

'For elimination of marine plants we estimate six to nine months-- with the existing fleet. When our tanker program is complete we can reduce that to between three and six months. Also our new bacteriological herbicide will be far more efficient. These organisms are biologically alive as distinct from chemically dead, so they reproduce themselves and actually increase their effectiveness from the moment of dispersal. The longer they're in the water the more abundant they become.'

An army colonel down the wing of the table said, 'How soon before there's an appreciable drop in oxygen content?'

'We have no idea,' Madden said quite calmly.

'No idea?' General Beaver said. 'None at all?'

Madden shook his head, unperturbed by this admission. 'Scientific opinion is at variance. At one extreme it's thought that a reduction in atmospheric oxygen will be apparent within five years. At the other, twelve thousand. We simply don't know.'

'Can I amplify that?' Farrer put in, raising his hand like a schoolboy asking to leave the room. A civilian member of the scientific liaison team, he was in here in the Prime Situation Center for precisely this purpose.

'I wish someone damn well would,' General Beaver said icily.

Farrer smiled diffidently. 'There are two factors that make an accurate forecast extremely difficult if not impossible. The first is the sheer volume of the earth's atmosphere: fifty-seven hundred million million tons. The second factor is the complexity of the biosphere and the interaction of its various components: oceans, atmosphere, landmass, living organisms, and so on. Interpretation of the figures, as Colonel Madden has mentioned, varies a great deal. Some forecasts have it that oxygen depletion will become noticeable in just a few years--maybe five, ten, twenty. Others say that were photosynthesis to cease altogether, less than one percent of our present oxygen stock would be used up, in which case it would take many thousands of years.'

'It was my impression, Colonel,' said General Beaver, fixing Madden with a stony eye, 'that DELFI had provided us with an accurate prediction--isn't that so?'

'Correct, General, up to a point.'

'What . . . point?' General Beaver said ominously.

'DELFI extrapolates from data we already possess, not from hypothetical factors such as the implementation of DEPARTMENT STORE. Computer weather modeling is still an inexact science and is subject to the same constraints I mentioned a moment ago; that's to say, a lot depends on individual interpretation.'

'So where does this leave us in relation to the Soviet threat?' General Smith demanded. 'Can anyone answer me that?'

'Where we've always been,' Madden said promptly. 'Holding the balance of power.'

'Explain that to me, Colonel.'

'Well, sir, the Russians have Project Arrow, we have DEPARTMENT STORE. Neither of us knows what the effects might be should these schemes be implemented, and it's precisely this uncertainty that each side is seeking to exploit.'

'Dammit, Colonel Madden!' General Smith exploded. 'Over a year ago you and--and--' He jabbed his finger.

'Farrer,' Madden supplied.

'You and Farrer stated with absolute certainty what the effects would be on the United States if the Soviets went ahead with their scheme to divert two rivers away from the Arctic Basin. Your report stated quite specifically'--he ticked them off on his fingers-- 'droughts, flooding of our major coastal cities and towns, widespread crop failures throughout the midwest. Are you now saying that this isn't likely to happen?'

'Not at all, sir. Those effects were, and still are, predicted as accurately as we know how. But as Farrer has made clear, the biosphere is an extremely complex mechanism. Neither we nor the Russians knows precisely what might happen.' Madden smiled blandly. 'Just as no one could say with total certainty how nuclear warfare would affect the planet, General. The same applies to environmental war. It's a gamble.'

'Come on, George, we knew that all along,' General Stafford admonished his fellow chief of staff. 'Hell, if we dealt in copper-bottomed certainties we could hook up a computer and let it make all the decisions. As far as I'm concerned Colonel Madden has laid it on the line.'

'So we're back to stalemate,' said General Beaver with a heavy sigh. He looked directly at the president. 'Until the Soviets decide to go ahead while we're still dithering.'

It seemed that the president hadn't heard, or chose to ignore, the criticism. He was watching the display, eyes half-closed. But then he said, 'When they make their move we'll be ready. Mr. Zadikov assured me that DEPARTMENT STORE is superior to the Soviet threat. They know we can wipe out the biosphere any time we feel like it. And I would add that I have complete confidence in Mr. Zadikov's judgment.'

Of late, Binch had begun to scour the Reuters and AP press reports that chattered off the center's teleprinter day and night. There was a pile on his desk this morning and he skimmed through them before he did anything else. It had become a kind of ritual.

His secretary, Janis Swan, poured a cup of coffee, added the three regulation heaped spoonfuls of sugar, and placed it by his elbow. She was middle-aged and unmarried, neither of which seemed to bother her. 'Is the world