16—Payloads
The final step in arming the H-11/SS-19 missiles necessarily had to await official word from the nation's Prime Minister. In some ways the final payoff was something of a disappointment. They had originally hoped to affix a full complement of warheads, at least six each, to the nose of each bird, but to do that would have meant actually testing the trans-stage bus in flight, and that was just a little too dangerous. The covert nature of the project was far more important than the actual number of warheads, those in authority had decided. And they could always correct it at a later date. They'd deliberately left the top end of the Russian design intact for that very reason, and for the moment a total of 10 one-megaton warheads would have to do.
One by one, the individual silos were opened by the support crew, and one by one the oversized RVs were lifted off the flatcar, set in place, then covered with their aerodynamic shrouds. Again the Russian design served their purposes very well indeed. Each such operation took just over an hour, which allowed the entire procedure to be accomplished in a single night by the crew of twenty. The silos were resealed, and it was done; their country was now a nuclear power.
'Amazing,' Goto observed.
'Actually very simple,' Yamata replied. 'The government funded the fabrication and testing of the 'boosters' as part of our space program. The plutonium came from the Monju reactor complex. Designing and building the warheads was child's play. If some Arabs can do a crude warhead in a cave in Lebanon, how hard can it be for our technicians?' In fact, everything but the warhead-fabrication process had been government funded in one way or another, and Yamata was sure that the informal consortium that had done the latter would be compensated as well. Had they not done it all for their country? 'We will immediately commence training for the Self-Defense Force personnel to take over from our own people—once you assign them to us for that purpose, Goto-san.'
'But the Americans and the Russians…?'
Yamata snorted. 'They are down to one missile each, and those will be officially blown up this week, as we will all see on television. As you know, their missile submarines have been deactivated. Their Trident missiles are already all gone, and the submarines are lined up awaiting dismantlement. A mere ten working ICBMs give us a marked strategic advantage.'
'But what if they try to build more?'
'They can't—not very easily,' Yamata corrected himself. 'The production lines have been closed down, and in accordance with the treaty, the tooling has all been destroyed under international inspection. To start over would take months, and we would find out very quickly. Our next important step is to launch a major naval-construction program'—for which Yamata's yards were ready—'so that our supremacy in the Western Pacific will be unassailable. For the moment, with luck and the help of our friends, we will have enough to see us through. Before they will be able to challenge us, our strategic position will have improved to the point where they will have to accept our position and then treat with us as equals.'
'So I must now give the order?'
'Yes, Prime Minister,' Yamata replied, again explaining to the man his job function.
Goto rubbed his hands together for a moment and looked down at the ornate desk so newly his. Ever the weak man, he temporized. 'It is true, my Kimba was a drug addict?'
Yamata nodded soberly, inwardly enraged at the remark. 'Very sad, is it not? My own chief of security, Kaneda, found her dead and called the police. It seems that she was very careful about it, but not careful enough.'
Goto sighed quietly. 'Foolish child. Her father is a policeman, you know. A very stern man, she said. He didn't understand her. I did,' Goto said. 'She was a kind, gentle spirit. She would have made a fine geisha.'
It was amazing how people transformed in death, Yamata thought coldly. That foolish, shameless girl had defied her parents and tried to make her own way in the world, only to find that the world was not tolerant of the unprepared. But because she'd had the ability to give Goto the illusion that he was a man, now she was a kind and gentle spirit.
'Goto-san, can we allow the fate of our nation to be decided by people like that?'
'No.' The new Prime Minister lifted his phone. He had to consult a sheet on his desk for the proper number. 'Climb Mount Niitaka,' he said when the connection was made, repeating an order that had been given more than fifty years earlier.
In many ways the plane was singular, but in others quite ordinary. The VC-25B was in fact the Air Force's version of the venerable Boeing 747 airliner. A craft with fully thirty years of history in its design, and still in serial production at the plant outside Seattle, it was painted in colors that had been chosen by a politically selected decorator to give the proper impression to foreign countries, whatever that was. Sitting alone on the concrete ramp, it was surrounded by uniformed security personnel 'with authorization,' in the dry Pentagonese, to use their M-16 rifles far more readily than uniformed guards at most other federal installations. It was a more polite way of saying, 'Shoot first and ask questions later.'
There was no jetway. People had to climb stairs into the aircraft, just as in the 1950's, but there was still a metal detector, and you still had to check your baggage—this time to Air Force and Secret Service personnel who X-rayed everything and opened much of it for visual inspection.
'I hope you left your Victoria's Secret stuff at home,' Jack observed with a chuckle as he hoisted the last bag on the counter.
'You'll find out when we get to Moscow,' Professor Ryan replied with an impish wink. It was her first state trip, and everything at Andrews Air Force Base was new for her.
'Hello, Dr. Ryan! We finally meet.' Helen D'Agustino came over and extended her hand.
'Cathy, this is the world's prettiest bodyguard,' Jack said, introducing the Secret Service agent to his wife.
'I couldn't make the last state dinner,' Cathy explained. 'There was a seminar up at Harvard.'
'Well, this trip ought to be pretty exciting,' the Secret Service agent said, taking her leave smoothly to continue her duties.
'Where's she keep her gun?' Cathy asked.
'I've never searched her for it, honey,' Jack said with a wink of his own. 'Do we go aboard now?'
'I can go aboard whenever I want,' her husband replied. 'Color me important.' So much the better to board early and show her around, he decided, heading her toward the door. Designed to carry upwards of three hundred passengers in its civilian incarnation, the President's personal 747 (there was another backup aircraft, of course) was outfitted to hold a third of that number in stately comfort. Jack first showed his wife where they would be sitting, explaining that the pecking order was very clear. The closer you were to the front of the aircraft, the more important you were. The President's accommodations were in the nose, where two couches could convert into beds. The Ryans and the van Damms would be in the next area, twenty feet or so aft in a space that could seat eight, but only five in this case. Joining them would be the President's Director of Communications, a harried and usually frantic former TV executive named Tish Brown, recently divorced. Lesser staff members were sorted aft in diminishing importance until you got to the media, deemed less important still.
'This is the kitchen?' Cathy asked.
'Galley,' Jack corrected. It was impressive, as were the meals prepared here, actually cooked from fresh ingredients and not reheated as was the way on airliners.
'It's bigger than ours!' she observed, to the amused pleasure of the chief cook, an Air Force master sergeant.
'Not quite, but the chef's better, aren't you, Sarge?'
'I'll turn my back now. You can slug him, ma'am. I won't tell.'
Cathy merely laughed at the jibe. 'Why isn't he upstairs in the lounge?'
'That's almost all communications gear. The President likes to wander up there to talk to the crew, but the guys who live there are mainly cryppies.'
'Cryppies?'
