“And the psychological capability.”
“In my view, she is the child of Bakunin and Jean Paul
Sartre-” Again Parker nodded heavily and Peter went on.
“The anarchist conception that destruction is the only truly creative act, that violence is man recreating himself. You know Sartre said that when the revolutionary kills, a tyrant dies and a free man emerges.”
“Will she go all the way?” Parker insisted.
“Yes, sir.” Peter answered without hesitation. “If she is pressed she’ll go all the way you know the reasoning. If destruction is beautiful, then self-destruction is immortality.
In my view, she’ll go all the way.” Parker sighed and knocked the stem of his pipe against his big white teeth.
“Yes, it squares with what we have on her.”
“You have read her?”
Peter asked eagerly.
“We got a firstclass voice print, and the computer cross matched with her facial structure print.”
“Who is she?” Peter cut in impatiently; he did not have to be told that the sound intensifier and the zoom video cameras had been feeding her voice and image into the intelligence computer even as she issued her demands.
“Her born name is Hilda Becker. She is a third-generation American of German extraction. Her father is a successful dentist widowed in
1959. The girl is thirty-one years old-” Peter had thought her younger, that fresh young skin had misled him. “- I.Q. 138.
University of Columbia 1965-68, Master’s degree in Modern Political
History. Member of SDS that’s Students for a Democratic Society-“
“Yes.” Peter was impatient. “I know.” Activist in Vietnam war protests. Worker for the draft evasion pipeline to Canada. One arrest for possession of marijuana 1967, not convicted. Implicated with
Weathermen and one of the leaders of on-campus rioting in the spring of 1968. Arrested for bombing of Butler University and released. Left
America in 1970 for further study at Dusseldorf. Doctorate in
Political Economics 1972. Known association with Gudrun Ensslin and
Horst Mahler of the Baader-Meinhof. Went underground in 1976 after suspicion of implication in the abduction and murder of Heinrich
Kohler, the West German industrialist—2 Her personal history was an almost classical development of the modern revolutionary, Peter reflected bitterly, a perfect picture of the beast. “Believed to have received advanced training from the PFLP in Syria during 1976 and
1977.
No recorded contact since then. She is a habitual user of cannabis-based drugs, reported voracious sexual activity with members of both sexes-” Parker looked up. “That’s all we have, he said.
“Yes,” Peter repeated softly. “She’ll go all the way.”
“What is your further assessment?”
“I believe that this is an operation organized at high level possibly governmental-“
“Substantiate!” Parker snapped.
“The coordination with UNO. proposals sponsored by the unaligned nations points that way.”
“All right, go on.”
“For the first time we have a highly organized and heavily supported strike that is not seeking some obscure, partisan object. We’ve got demands here about which a hundred million Americans and fifty million Englishmen are going to say in unison, “Hell, these aren’t unreasonable.””
“Go on, “said Parker.
“The militants have picked a soft target which is the outcast pariah of Western civilization. That U.N. resolution is going to be passed a hundred to nil, and those millions of Americans and Englishmen are going to have to ask themselves if they are going to sacrifice the lives of four hundred of their most prominent citizens to support a government whose racial policies they abhor.”
“Yes?” Parker was leaning forward to stare into the screen.
“Do you think they’ll do a deal?”
“The militants? They might.” Peter paused a moment and then went on. “You know my views, sir. I oppose absolutely dealing with these people.”
“Even in these circumstances?” Parker demanded.
“Especially now. My views of the host country’s policies are in accord with yours, Doctor Parker. This is the test.
No matter how much we personally feel the demands are just, yet we must oppose to the death the manner in which they are presented. If these people win their objects, it is a victory for the gun and we place all mankind in jeopardy.”
“What is your estimate for a successful counter strike
Parker demanded suddenly, and even though he had known the question must come, still Peter hesitated a long moment.
“Half an hour ago I would have put the odds at ten to one in our favour that I could pull off condition Delta with only militant casualties.”
“And now?”
“Now I know that these are not fuddle-headed fanatics.
They are probably as well trained and equipped as we are, and they have had years to set this operation up.”
“And now? “Parker insisted.
“We have a four to one in our favour of getting them out with a
Delta strike, with say less than ten casualties.”
“What is the next best chance?”
“I would say there is no middle ground. If we failed, we would be into a situation with one hundred per cent casualties we would lose the aircraft and all aboard, including all Thor personnel involved.”
“All right then, Peter.” Parker leaned back in his chair,
the gesture of dismissal. “I am going to speak with the President and the Prime Minister, they are setting up the link now. Then I will brief the ambassadors and be back to you within the hour.” His image flickered into darkness, and Peter realized that all his hatred was suppressed. He felt cold, and functional as the surgeon’s blade.
Ready to do the job for which he had trained so assiduously, and yet able to assess and evaluate the enemy and the odds against success.
He pressed the call button. Colin had been waiting beyond the soundproof doors of the command cabin, and he came through immediately.
“The explosives boys have taken down the grenade. It’s a dandy.
The explosive is the new Soviet Q composition, and the fusing is factory manufacture. Professional stuff and it will work. Oh, baby,
will it ever work. Peter hardly needed this confirmation, and Colin went on as he flung himself untidily in the chair opposite Peter.
“We put the list of names and the text of the militant statement on the teleprinter for Washington,-” He leaned forward and spoke into the cabin intercom. “Run that loop without sound first.” Then he told
Peter grimly. “Here’s the bad news I promised.” The loop of video tape began to run on the central screen. It had clearly been shot from the observation post in the office overlooking the service area.
It was a full shot of the Boeing, the background flattened by the magnification of the lens and swimming and wavering with heat mirage rising from the tarmac of the main runway beyond the aircraft.
In the foreground were Peter’s own naked back and shoulders as he strode out towards the aircraft. The lens had again flattened the action so that Peter appeared to be marking time on the same spot without advancing at
