Andrew, Jr., seventeen; Louise, fourteen-named after her maternal grandmother-and Bobby, eight.
'Hey, Daddy!' Bobby shouted, running up to the president, a toy space ship in his hands, its laser cannons blasting.
The president bent down and swept the boy up into his arms. 'And how are you, spaceman? 'What's the latest word from Alpha Centauri?'
'Oh, Daddy-I'm just playin'.'
'Oh, okay,' the president said. 'How about giving the president a kiss-that's an order from the commander-in- chief of the space fleet.'
The boy wrapped his arms around his father's neck. The president's eyes met his wife's for a brief moment as he bent to set the boy down.
'I want you to take care of your mother, Bob. You know she doesn't like helicopter rides. Oh, and I got Lieutenant Brightston to promise to haul out any videotape you want tonight and run it on the big screen at the mountain-so don't let him forget.'
'Gotcha,' the boy said, reaching up for a quick kiss, then running off toward his older brother and sister who were standing by the curb.
Out of the corner of his eye, the president saw his chief of staff, Paul Dorian, walking briskly down the steps, right hand raised discreetly, eyes boring toward him. 'You go ahead, Marilyn,' the president said, then waited, his shoulders hunched against the cold for Dorian to join him.
'What is it, Paul?'
'The full alert is in effect, sir. All standbys are cancelled-everything. Word from SAC Headquarters at Sioux Mountain is that the Russians are doing the same. CIA confirms that. So does Air Force intelligence, everything.'
'The hot line?'
'Ready when you are, sir. The premier is available.'
'Good,' the president said, but the word soured in his mouth. 'Oh, Paul?'
'Yes, Mr. President,' Dorian said. 'Let's go ahead with that drill on the Eden Project thing-just in case.'
The president studied the hard set Paul Dorian's eyes took. Mention of the Eden Project worried Dorian. As the president started toward his wife and children, to take the short walk to the White House lawn where his personal helicopter awaited, he thought, 'All well and good.' It was about time Paul Dorian started to worry.
Chapter Seven
Elizabeth Jordan brushed a wisp of blonde hair back from her forehead and tucked it under the thin wire band of her headset, then tapped out a response to Yuri Borstoi, who was on the other end of the hot line.
'Yuri, word is that the president will be on the line soon. What do you think on your end? Liz.'
She waited as the satellite hook-up carried her message and as Yuri-the man she had known by satellite for three years-formed an answer. Like herself, Yuri was unmarried. At first jokingly, but in the last few months quite seriously, they had talked about meeting someday. The hot line was always kept open, testing and retesting that the vital link between East and West remained operational. And, when formal testing was not run, Administration almost encouraged a constant chatter along the line, to make sure it was in a constant state of readiness.
She had never heard Yuri's voice but imagined what it was like. She had never seen his face, but they had described themselves to each other, and she had a fair enough idea of his looks. Now, as she waited for his reply, she tried to picture him. It was easy. His face was thin. He had said that he was a student nights at a Polytechnic Institute with a name she could not pronounce and that he didn't get enough sleep so there were dark circles under his eyes. His hair was black and straight. He was twenty-four-a year younger than she was. He had said his eyes were brown.
'Liz,' the message began, 'I too am worried. Reasonable men-I should not say this-can do unreasonable things. The premier will be coming on in a-must go. I love you.' He hadn't even had time for his signature. As the line went dead-the President and the Premier would be talking now-she realized too that it was the first time he had said, 'I love you.'
Chapter Eight
'I've read all the books and articles you put out, John. Fascinating stuff. The thing on hyperthermia should save a few lives, I'd say.'
'That's the idea, Major,' Rourke said, slumping back into the overstuffed chair. 'It was nice of you to invite me to your home, by the way.'
'Stranger in a strange country, and all that. Anyway, I had an ulterior motive,' the Royal Canadian Mounted Police inspector said, smiling and handing Rourke a drink.
Rourke took the whiskey and sipped at it, then said, 'And what was your ulterior motive?'
'As you probably know, John-It's not much of a secret-our services here are looking into quite a number of modern small arms for the military. Made me give some thought to weaponry for our specialized teams in RCMP. I know survival isn't your only thing. You know weapons too. Thought I might pry a few opinions from you while I ply you with some whiskey and my wife's home cooking.'
'Ply away,' Rourke said, smiling.
'Your mind is somewhere else, isn't it? That snowstorm sort of put the squeeze on your plans to fly out tonight. But the meteorology people are saying everything will be clear by midday tomorrow. Tonight, just take it easy.'
