When he finished reading the draft, Isaacs stared at the last page, his eyes defocused, straining with his mind's eye to see where this attempt would lead. Despite himself, his mind filled with an image of Rutherford , those last seconds, desperately trapped in the submerged bridge. He shook his head and rose from his desk. Something fearful was at work here. McMasters had to free his hands to go after it. Kathleen was gone for the day. He unlocked a cabinet and placed the clipped sheaf of paper in the front of her work file.
In the parking lot he unlocked the door of the car and half-tossed his briefcase into the passenger seat. He sat behind the wheel a moment, feeling like driving, but with no particular place to go. Finally, he wheeled out of the lot to the rear exit from the grounds, past the guardhouse and down the long leafy lane. He turned right on Route 123, but the traffic heading into McLean was still fairly heavy, the driving unsatisfactory. He joined the throng on the throng headed north. He took the first turn-off after crossing the Potomac and headed home, still frustrated and deeply troubled.
A week later, Isaacs stood with his back to the wall, away from the early Sunday crowds beginning to fill the Air and Space Museum. He came here sometimes for the pleasure of it, sometimes to think. This was a thinking time. His eyes caressed the old F-86 Sabrejet. It was his favourite craft in the whole place. The first grace of swept-back wings and tail. The captivating curve of the intake maw, surmounted by the subtle outward swell of the radar housing, a puckered lip to kiss the wind. With none of the venomous dihedral of today's fighters, the Sabrejet gave him the profound feeling of inner peace that came from witnessing perfect design.
He could not hold it. The peaceful feeling slipped, shattered and fell away from him. Rather than despoil his favoured icon with secular thought, he wandered back towards the main rooms. Starting with the loss of Rutherford and the Stinson, the last week had been horrendous. Just like a roller coaster, Isaacs had known what was coming as the chain ratcheted him towards the top, but that did not keep his stomach from leaping as the dizzying fall began.
The Soviets had completed preparations at Tyuratam and launched their second laser flawlessly at midweek. The President immediately put the armed forces on full alert. Around the world, attack submarines encircled Soviet flotillas and Russian and American aircraft flew sorties eyeing one another on radar. A hundred hair triggers waited for the slightest pressure.
Drefke had returned from the NSC meeting nearly hysterical. Hysteria may have been the only sane response. Myriad alternatives sifted, the President had chosen the one he felt most appropriate. Specifically targeted to the task. Limited enough not to demand full-scale war if implemented. Stark enough to be impossible to ignore. The US spelled out its position in graphic detail to the Soviets at all diplomatic levels. If they used the laser, retaliation would be swift and sure, treaties to the contrary notwithstanding.
Isaacs stood looking up at the Mercury capsule. Is this where it began? he wondered. Or maybe with his Sabrejet out in the far wing. Or, over there, with the Wright brothers. Or with the goddamned wheel! He gritted his teeth in despair and frustration and wandered up the stairs towards the Saturn booster. The new plateau of crisis had made him easy pickings for McMasters. He reached in and felt the letter from McMasters folded in his jacket pocket. Coincidence. No proof. Crisis. No time. The fool! McMasters couldn't, wouldn't see the truth. Of course the Agency was in overdrive, with no resources to spare. But the root of the crisis was not in the White House, or even in the Kremlin. It hurtled through the earth, a sly unknown enemy that had us at each other's throats. If the world proceeded to nuclear holocaust would this thing care? Would it continue to sift through the seared rubble?
Isaacs followed the crowd into the auditorium and sat, his eyes blitzed by the recorded history of the air, his mind in its own warp. Subconsciously, he had known it would come to this. His alternatives were sorted and banded up to him even as he read the letter from McMasters. Someone had to focus on this evil in the earth. He had to go it alone. His career, his rapid rise to authority, all his hard work, seemed like a fragile bird in his hand. So easily it could die, or fly away. But what alternatives did he have? To watch the world careen to disaster? A disaster that might be forestalled if only they knew the true origin of this thing? He thought of Muriel, her successful career built on the precarious sands of political influence. If he failed, were found out, disgraced, she'd have a lot at jeopardy as well. They would go down together. Would they go down together? Would they be together? Would she forgive him for sacrificing her to a cause of which she was ignorant? What of his daughter? How would she take the news of her father's ejection from the Agency for wilful violation of policy? What would she think of a father in a unique position to stem the rush to war who lacked the courage to act? Disgrace or the prospect of nuclear war. Could there be any real choice?
One step at a time. He fumbled his way out of the auditorium, the aisle sporadically lit by the flashing screen. He pulled up his steep driveway twenty minutes later and stared for a moment at the house, picturing the occupants, before getting out of the car. As he closed the front door behind him, he could hear the perpetual music from Isabel's room and the rustle of paper from the front room, Muriel digesting the Sunday Post. She looked up as he came in.
'Hi!' she said cheerily. 'Have a nice drive?'
He sat on the edge of a chair next to her. 'I worked some things out.'
She sobered at his look.
'I need to talk to you. Can you get some clothes on? I'd just as soon get out of the house.'
'Well, sure.' She pinched at the lapels of her robe. 'I'll just be a few minutes.' She gave him a perplexed look and headed up the stairs. Five minutes later, he heard her knock on Isabel's door and announce they were going for a ride.
'My hair's a mess. We're not going anywhere in public are we?' she asked as he joined her in the hallway.
'No, you look fine. I just want to find a quiet place to talk.'
In the car he headed them towards the Naval Observatory grounds and found an empty turnoff where they could park. He turned off the ignition and looked out over the rolling lawns.
Muriel broke the silence.
'This is a little frightening, you know.'
'I am frightened,' he said with a shy grin. He half turned in his seat to face her. 'I'm about to take a big step. I've never involved you in Agency business, but if I miss my footing here, it could be very bad.'
'You know I trust you.'
