“Oh.” Lab Rat’s mouth snapped shut. Whatever the senior chief had been doing at the Space Command was far too classified to be discussed in any parking lot. “Yes, I think that is my car.”
“What do you guess, maybe a quarter mile away?” The senior chief asked.
“About that.”
Lab Rat forgot about the cold for a while as they trudged toward his car. The news that the senior chief had spent a fair amount of time at the joint command located deep under Cheyenne Mountain was not surprising, although he had not known it before. That would explain how much he’d known about Cobra Dane and Cobra Judy, the long-range over-the-horizon sensors that had been so critical during the Taiwan-China conflict. It would explain a lot about his ability to glean information from satellite photos as well.
“They asked me about you, too, Senior Chief,” Lab Rat said slowly. “About when you were going to retire.”
Lab Rat took some satisfaction at seeing shock flash across the older man’s face. “Omicron’s got its eyes on you.”
“No kidding.”
Lab Rat nodded. “They seemed to know a lot about you. They want you real bad, Senior Chief. And me, too, for some reason. I take it you know what this is about?”
The senior chief seemed lost in thought. Finally, he nodded slowly. “Yes, I think I do. When we get back on board, I’ll tell you what I know.”
For the rest of the trip back to the hotel, the senior chief was silent. He seemed to be deep in thought, as though considering his options. Lab Rat couldn’t blame him, but wished he knew which way he was leaning on the retirement issue.
Whatever the senior chief made in the Navy, and it wasn’t nearly as much as Lab Rat made, he was underpaid. There were people in the civilian world that recognized that, and could offer far more money than the Navy ever dreamed possible. The senior chief had a wife and three kids to support, and Lab Rat knew the prospect of putting all three kids through college was on his mind. Although he would hate to see him go, Lab Rat couldn’t blame him if he retired and took a high-paying civilian job.
For his own part, the senior chief was following a similar train of thought. Sure, of course he had thought about working for them after he retired. But that had always been sometime in the far future, not even very real to him. Someday, he would leave the Navy. Maybe at twenty years, maybe at thirty years. He liked the Navy, despite the low pay, long hours, and time away from home. He wasn’t sure how he would fit in wearing a suit.
But if Omicron was asking about him, then that meant that they were moving ahead on Brilliant Pebbles. It was a follow-on to the Reagan Star Wars concept, an antiballistic missile defense system intended to guarantee the security of the continental United States. Using a dedicated network of satellites, high-intensity lasers, and long- range antimissile missiles, Brilliant Pebbles looked quite attractive on paper. Sure, there were a number of technical difficulties to work out, mostly those involving the scattering of the laser beams in the atmosphere and command and control circuitry for the antimissile missiles. But if they were talking to JCS and Commander Busby, he was willing to bet that they’d made progress on whipping the technical issues. Made progress, and were ready to go into field-testing. And that, the senior chief thought, was something he very much wanted to be a part of.
And maybe the commander wanted to be part of it, too. “Sir?” the senior chief said slowly, trying to figure out how to tactfully broach the subject. “Would you be interested in seeing what some of the systems can do these days? I could arrange a demonstration.”
Lab Rat stared at him.
The senior chief flushed. “Yes, well — yes, I could. And I think you’d be interested in what Omicron has going on.”
Lab Rat smiled at him like a bemused parent surprised by a prodigal child. “Sure, Senior Chief. If you can set it up, I’d like to see it.”
Ambassador Sarah Wexler had been United States’ ambassador to the United Nations for the last three years. During that time, she and the president had come to know each other fairly well, to the point at which they could anticipate each other’s reactions and plan accordingly. It had led both of them into some cunning schemes using reverse psychology, and had deepened the respect they had for each other.
Yet, as Wexler tried to analyze the sense of foreboding stirring in her, she knew she would get absolutely nowhere with the president unless she could present facts to back up intuition. He was three years into his first term as president, and he understood diplomacy in a way that many did not. Nevertheless, he tended to discount her gut feelings.
But this time, she had to convince him. She called in Brad, her aide, to rehearse her arguments with him.
“Sit behind my desk,” she ordered, vacating her chair and coming around to the visitor side. “Just a second — there,” she said, as she adjusted the American flag to his right. “Gives it a little bit more atmosphere, I think. And keep your jacket on. Lean forward, put your elbows on the desk, and stare at me.” She surveyed him critically as he complied, then nodded. “Yes, that will do.”
“I can have one of the secretaries hunt down a greyhound if you like,” he offered. The president’s passion for rescued greyhounds and his efforts to ban greyhound racing within the United States were well-known. Two retired racers lived at the White House, and they got more press coverage than any other presidential pet she could remember. When the press could catch up with them, that was. The greyhounds seemed to delight in racing past waiting cameras at their still-respectable speeds of around forty miles an hour.
“Not necessary,” she said. “He’s usually got one of them in the office with him, and it pisses him off when people ignore them.”
“Okay, shoot,” Brad said, adopting a Texas drawl. “Ah’m all ears, darlin’.”
Wexler marshaled her thoughts and began. “Mr. President, we have discussed the possibility of a reunified Soviet Union several times. And, in the past, we have both agreed that it might indeed be a possibility. I’ve come today to tell you that I think it may now be happening.”
Brad stared at her, unblinking. “Pretty strong accusation, Madam Ambassador. What kind of evidence do you have? Anything like a signed declaration of war? A sunken passenger liner, or such?”
“Not yet, Mr. President,” she said firmly, and let the silence lengthen.
“What do you mean, not yet? Your saying it’s that serious?” Brad said, his Texas twang slipping slightly as he caught her mood.
She nodded. “Perhaps. If it starts, it will start like this.”
“I’m all ears,” the substitute president said.
“To begin with, the international treaty on the conduct of operations at sea is currently under review by several committees. I briefed you on that last month, and told you that the Russians had promised us a speedy response. I thought we’d hammered out all the essential terms and that it would be signed quickly.”
“It hasn’t happened?” he asked.
“No. It has not. There’s been no response. In fact, the Russian delegation has refused to return phone calls from our people. They’ve been avoiding them in the hallways, snubbing them in the dining facilities, and generally avoiding us.”
“Rudeness doesn’t hardly mean World War Three,” Pratt observed dryly.
“It’s more than that,” she said, suddenly feeling terribly inadequate to this task. How to possibly convey the nuances of interpersonal contact, the subtle signals used in the diplomatic corps to express problems or issues. It was almost impossible, but she had to try. The president must understand what was coming — must understand, so he could be prepared, even if he didn’t believe her right now.
She tried again. “Last week, the Russian delegation hosted a huge reception for the touring Bolshoi Ballet Company. They’ve been here touring the country, as you know.”
“Saw them myself when they were in D.C.,” the president agreed. “So what?”
“The Bolshoi tour has been cut short by three weeks. The Russians say it’s due to the illness of the male
