William Prochnau - Trinity's Child

The interceptor’s wings tipped slightly, as if the apparition were about to vanish, having passed its only message. “Why?” Moreau asked again.

The empty fish-bowl face reflected fading sunbeams at her. “We had nowhere to go,” the hollow voice responded. “Maybe you do.”

“Your carrier?”

The Navy pilot’s voice suddenly choked with anguish. “Just gone,” he burbled. “There was a flash. The bow went down in one place, the stern in another… and it was just gone…”

“Holy Mary, mother of God,” Moreau whispered, crossing herself again.

“We knew it would go.” The pilot’s voice gathered strength and a certain impatience. “I gotta leave you now.” He started to break off and then he leveled out again. “You know anything about home?”

“Not much,” Moreau said. “Hawaii.”

“Yeah, we saw the flashes last night. We knew it was Pearl. Worse than that?”

“Much.”

“Yeah. You’d think they’d stop, wouldn’t you?”

“Not sure they know how.”

The radios huzzed briefly without words. Then Kazakhs cut in.

“Hey, buddy, why don’t you tag along?”

“Palm trees and coconuts and native girls?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“It’s a pretty empty ocean.”

“Invitation stands.”

“Negative, thanks. I got a buddy in the drink back there.”

“He made it?”

“Oh, yeah. I just whumped him a little one. He got out. He’s got his raft open. No fun being alone down there. I’ll bet he’s feeling meaner than a barracuda right now, too.”

Moreau was fighting back tears again.

“Polar Bear? “

“Yeah, Red Fox?”

“When the two of us come paddlin’ in, you bring on the dancin’ girls.” The radio crackled. “Hear?”

“You bet, Red Fox,” Kazakhs replied, fighting hopelessly against his faltering voice. Moreau gazed into the cockpit canopy through the blur of moistened eyes and saw the pilot snap a cocky thumbs-up at them. “Luck!” she and Kazakhs said simultaneously. But before the word was out, the gleaming fighter was gone and the B-52 plowed head-on into the murk of the storm.

As he reentered the cockpit of the Looking Glass, Alice’s heart sank. The E-4 had pulled almost a mile ahead of them again, Smitty having lost far more ground than the general had expected.

“They’ve decided to take the rads too.” Smitty shrugged. “I guess they figure school’s out. They’ve stopped ducking the clouds. Makes it tougher.”

“It’s more important now, Smitty,” the general said.

The pilot cocked an eye at Alice. “Your talk improved the odds?”

“Yes,” Alice said with a faint smile. “They’re down to about a hundred to one.”

Smitty raised his eyebrows. “Shit, general, that’s almost a shoo-in.” He nudged the throttles, trying to pick up a few knots of air speed.

“I must ask you to hold off until twenty-one hundred hours, Mr. Premier. A little more than sixty minutes. Are you able to do that?”

The nurses fluttered nervously around the President, wedging the radio operator in between two dead teletypes as they elbowed for space to get at the man. His face was mottled and clammy, his body shuddering involuntarily. It was clear he was in extreme pain, although he withheld all complaints. He did not withhold his irritation, batting at them blindly as if he were flailing at two buzzing houseflies. They shot concerned looks at Sedgwick. The man was pushing himself far too hard. Sedgwick shook his head slowly to let them know the man’s agony was necessary.

“Do I have a choice, Mr. President?” the Premier asked.

“No, I’m afraid not. I am doing everything I can, but my situation is desperate.”

He could hear the Premier grunt and answer in aggravation that was softened somewhat by the interpreter.

“Your situation may be desperate, Mr. President. But need I remind you that it is my people who will be at the receiving end of your desperation?”

The President swatted angrily at a hand that mopped his forehead. “Need I remind you that it was my people who were at the end of yours, Mr. Premier?” he snapped.

A long pause followed and then a much more subdued Russian voice responded, small catches of silence punctuating the words. “No, Mr. President, you do not need to remind me. I fear it was my desperation—although I still see no way I could have avoided it—that placed both our peoples in the path of the dragon. I will spend the rest of my time living with that curse. All of one hour, perhaps. Can we slay the dragon in that time, Mr. President?”

“I cannot assure you of anything, Mr. Premier. I can only tell you that I have taken every possible step and some of my people are making great personal sacrifices—ultimate sacrifices—to give us a chance.”

“There are many sacrifices being made,” the Premier said after a brief pause. “You do know that both our nations are continuing to lose cities?”

“Lose cities?” The President was staggered. “All the bombers returned hours ago,” he said in disbelief.

He could hear a great sigh on the phone. “You did not know,” the Premier said sadly. “I regret to be the one to inform you, but your lack of that knowledge may help illustrate my problem. My nation has lost the cities of Nakhodka, Pushkin, and most recently Kursk. Your nation has lost Baton Rouge, Raleigh, and just moments ago, the city of Phoenix.”

The President lay back in his bed, exhaustion eat ng at him. “How, Mr. Premier? How could such a thing happen now? Why?”

“Mr. President, your submarines and mine have been pursuing each other for fourteen hours. As good as they are, it was inevitable that a few would be caught like fish in a net. When trapped, they operate on the same principle They fire their missiles before the net closes. Thus far, we have been… it is difficult to say, with so many lives lost… but thus far we have been most fortunate. The submarine commanders have shown great restraint in choosing relatively minor targets and not spraying their weapons.”

Phoenix. Raleigh. Baton Rouge. Minor targets, The President groaned, bringing a nurse rapidly to his side. He brushed her away. “We have created a relentless dragon, Mr. Premier.”

“A most relentless dragon. But to satisfy your curiosity about my situation, Mr. President, I must warn you that the dragon’s breath may be hotter in my cave than yours. My people are aware of the loss of those cities. They are nervous, and many are mourning the loss of families.”

Deep in the bowels of the Cherepovets bunker, the Premier stopped and the translator looked at him expectantly. The Soviet leader pondered whether to tell the President of his own bellicose Condor whom he had to harness in the distant deserts of Zhangiztobe. He knew he also had other rebellious birds, held on a short tether right here in his own nest. The translator cleared his throat to bring the Premier back. “Not all my people are certain of your intentions, Mr. President,” he finished.

“Mr. Premier,” the President said wearily but firmly, “you are aware of my intentions. You overheard my conversation with the commanding general of the Strategic Air Command. You are aware of his intentions, the personal totality of his commitment.” The President paused and took a deep breath. “I have asked you for one hour.”

“Mr. President,” the Premier said slowly, “I believe in your intentions. I will try to grant you your hour—and guarantee my commitment to it with the same totality given by your general. But I must warn you. The control has largely left our hands. If one of your submarine commanders, trapped in a net, decides Leningrad or Moscow is a more attractive target than another Pushkin…”