William Prochnau - Trinity's Child

“Mr. Secretary,” the phone voice said more sternly now, “I am the President of the United States and you know that very well. You are from Anadarko, Oklahoma. I attended your granddaughter’s baptism not three months ago. The child’s name is Rachel. She has beautiful blond ringlets.”

The successor winced. “You’re a fraud,” he said painfully. His granddaughter did have beautiful blond ringlets.

“Ask him for authenticator-card confirmation,” the Librarian intoned.

The successor withdrew his card and struggled to remember the routine Alice had put him through. “In the upper-right-hand corner of your Sealed Authenticator System card,” the successor said, “read me the third, fourth, and fifth letters and/or digits.”

“My card’s lost, Mr. Secretary. That shouldn’t surprise you. You were on the ground. It’s not the first time a President’s card has been missing. President Reagan’s was gone for two days when he was shot. It’s a lot messier down here now than it was then.” The President drew a breath and continued bluntly. “I’m issuing you a direct command now. Land that aircraft at the nearest available field.”

“Lost,” the successor said.

“Lost,” the Librarian echoed knowingly.

“You’re a no-good commie fraud,” the successor said evenly.

“You are making a monumental error, Mr. Secretary. It could mean the end of everything.”

The successor shook his head at the gall of it, even playing on his love for his granddaughter. He struggled for an appropriate parting remark that would be earthy and memorable.

“Tough titty, comrade,” he said, and hung up the phone.

The chatter between the F-18 ‘s had stopped briefly. Kazakhs and Moreau looked at each other in confused apprehension. The interceptors should be on their tail now. It had occurred to Kazakhs to send Moreau back to Halupalai’s empty station to try to activate their tail cannon. It had occurred to him to try to use the hung-up SRAM, even though that was a thousand-to-one shot. He had dismissed both ideas quickly. Both were pointless. A carrier of this size had many more F-18’s and perhaps sixty or seventy additional aircraft that could bring them down. He also had no stomach for shooting his own. Kazaklis gestured to Moreau to prepare for ejection. She shook her head. The radio squawked again suddenly.

“Holy heaven…”

“Don’t look at it, buddy…”

“But it—”

“Don’t look at it!”

The voices warped in and out, half in awe, half in horror. Kazaklis felt a surge of curiosity and thought of banking the plane for a look. He didn’t. He plodded on, neither adding throttle nor maneuvering. He stared straight into the approaching clouds, the heat-lightning flare having come and gone instantly. Moreau craned her neck far to the right and out the side window but saw nothing. The clouds seemed to be enveloping them, still miles away but curling up around them. She started to speak to Kazaklis, but the pilot shook his head.

“Red Fox Two, I’ll take the first pass…”

Kazaklis reached far over, grabbed Moreau’s hand, and placed it over the ejection lever, forcing her fingers around it. She withdrew her hand. He looked at her angrily.

“Break it off, Larry,” the voice of the wing man, Red Fox Two, crackled. But it sounded weepy through the static.

“You take the second pass, buddy….”

“This isn’t shit duty now… It’s crazy…”

“Get your act together!”

“It’s finished, Larry.”

Silence huzzed out of Red Fox One.

“Let ’em go, Larry…. let somebody go, for God’s sake…”

The empty static roared into the cockpit of the B-52, Red Fox One not replying. Then the radio crackled again.

“Red Fox Two, this is Red Fox One. I’m goin’ in…”

“Break away! Break away! Get off ’em, Larry….”

“Closing…”

“Ple-e-ease… !” The anguished screech, a banshee wail, pounded through the earphones inside the B-52. Then through the radio din came a faint chug-a-chug-a, one short burst. Kazaklis tightened the muscles in his back to prepare for the impact. Moreau hunched forward slightly, then glanced in puzzlement at the pilot. The radio huzzed, then snapped again. “Eject, damn you! Larry!” The raw torment of the voice sliced through the two people in the B-52. “Get out! Hit it, Larry! Hit it!”

“I couldn’t order you to do that,” the President said. “I couldn’t order anyone to do it.”

“Order me, sir?” Alice asked. “I was breathing his fumes when you called. At that time, all I had for hope was a prayer to a merciful God. I must say the signs of His mercy were difficult to see.”

“There must be some other way.”

“Mr. President, I have serious doubt there is any way. With that aircraft aloft, I know there is no way. If those subs get conflicting orders—if TACAMO gets conflicting orders—they’ll go with the orders they had. It’s that simple.”

The President sighed forlornly. From his bed, he slowly moved his eyes across the ceiling in a habit that no longer served him. “What do you think, Sedgwick?”

The young naval aide, listening on a separate phone from his bed in the doorway, wagged his head gloomily. He was glad the President could not see his despair. He looked at the clock. The time was 1940 Zulu. Without the two command planes, they would lose their best—probably their only—potential relays to the TACAMO aircraft. Still, Sedgwick thought bleakly, without the general’s offer, not even a miracle could occur. “I’m afraid the general’s right, Mr. President,” he said. “To make anything work, however, the general will have to read me the authenticator codes. Digit by digit. Letter by letter. That’s extremely dangerous. We know the Soviets can hear the Looking Glass. If they pick them up, they’ll have almost as much control over our weapons as you do, sir.”

The President’s eyes remained open, staring emptily at the ceiling. “Yesterday that would have been high treason, Sedgwick,” he said sadly. “Today it sounds like it comes out to zero plus zero.”

“It is dangerous, Mr. President,” Alice cut in.

“Yes, general, I know damned well it is. But I can’t imagine anything more dangerous than what we have right now. I’ve asked the Premier to trust me. I suppose I’d better reciprocate. Read Sedgwick the codes. I couldn’t see them to write them down.” He swallowed hard. “Let’s pray I haven’t lost all my vision.”

For the next several minutes Sedgwick methodically transcribed the codes, double-checking each. With the task completed, the President gave Alice his approval for a suicidal collision of America’s two premier command planes.

“I don’t know what to say to you, general. Except thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, Mr. President. I don’t feel comfortable being thanked. It’s time to get on with it. We’ve lost some ground. It won’t be as easy this time.”

“Will you call me before the… uh…?”

“The end, Mr. President,” Alice calmly helped him. “Yes, of course.” The general paused a moment. “We did a lot of faulty people programming, sir. Condor’s defending God and country too. His version.”

“Yes,” the President replied. “Yes, I know.”

A single F-18 Hornet appeared suddenly off Moreau’s wingtip, the pilot pulling in tightly and peering into the cockpit of the B-52. He stared silently at them for several seconds and then the radio crackled once more.

“Good luck, Polar Bear,” the pilot said in a voice incredibly young and incredibly sad. Moreau felt a lump grow in her throat. She stared into the F-18, trying to probe the youthful face. But his visor was down, shielding his embarrassment, making him more apparition than man. “Why?” Moreau asked.