William Prochnau - Trinity's Child

Kazakhs turned off the equipment, and the navigational gear downstairs as well, both being useless to him anyway. But on the instrument panel in front of him, which he needed, the yellow lights began to sputter and fail too. The directional gyro went, as did the horizon gyro. So did various of their compasses and altimeters, as well as the fuel-flow indicator. They had almost two hundred gauges and switches, most of which were dead, malfunctioning, or simply lying. They had no idea if they were flying level or descending, although common sense told them the latter. At eye level in front of Kazakhs and Moreau the two green screens still shimmered, the trustworthy nose cameras probing ahead. But the images they fed back told the pilots nothing. They were computer-scrambled green visions of hell.

By no measure—neither the pilot’s percentage baseball nor the manufacturer’s stress guidelines—could the B-52 survive the punishment. It groaned and shrieked in protest. It fell hundreds of feet in downdrafts, belly-flopping into new air currents that racked human and aluminum bones alike, wrenching at arms, tearing at fragile wings more comfortable in the thin reaches of the stratosphere long since abandoned. After more than half an hour, Kazakhs and Moreau had no idea how high above the ocean they flew. Each time they bellied out, certain they had struck the swells, they bulled the aching aircraft back upward, or so they hoped, through the turmoil. They spoke only when necessary, but they acted as one now.

Kazakhs looked out the window. Through the sheets of water he could not see the wingtip. He could not see beyond the feeble gray outline of the nearest engine. Kazakhs glanced back at Moreau. She stared rigidly ahead, unaware of him, her face quietly intent.

“Fire in Number Three,” she said mechanically.

Kazakhs looked back out into the murk but saw no more where one of their inboard engines was giving out.

“Shut it down,” he said calmly. She already had done it.

The Librarian grinned broadly, the very audacity of his discovery giving him great satisfaction. The radio-room crew watched him strangely, finding no humor in their predicament. But to the colonel the others were not present. He had found a way to break through to the TACAMO planes, guaranteeing beyond any doubt that the submarines would fire. He congratulated himself for his relentless and unappreciated years studying the Soviets. It now had paid off so handsomely! He would contact the Navy command planes with the Russians’ own communications equipment! He chuckled aloud at the triumph, then paused for a moment, testing the wisdom of the idea. Would the Soviets catch on? Probably. Would their awareness make any difference? No. Could they stop him? Highly unlikely. His grin spread from ear to ear. He glanced at the clock. 2015.

Alice irritably ripped off the cigarette filter, concluding that John Kennedy had been all too correct: life is not fair. The Pall Malls were gone and the copilot had offered a Carlton—one of those infernally denatured weeds that threatened to give you a heart attack trying to inhale it. He dragged hard and looked out the cockpit window, furthering his irritation. The giant presidential command plane screamed through the thin air and dancing clouds ahead of them, always just beyond reach. He looked at his watch. 2016. The Looking Glass had lost its edge. There was no point in calling the President to tell him that.

The last amphetamine had jarred the Soviet Premier’s sensibilities into a jangled alertness again. He sat in the same chair and stared into his display screens. Under the artificial stimulus of the drug, the ICBM cursors appeared to throb rather than gleam, taunting him—Yoshkar Ola field ready, comrade; Zhangiztobe field ready, comrade. Zhangiztobe.

The Premier suddenly felt uncomfortable, a presence hovering near him. He looked away from the screen into the grim face of the new commander of the Rocket Forces.

“The silo doors are open,” the Premier said. He had no question in his voice.

“Yes, they are open.” The reply was sullen.

“They will fire if necessary.”

“It is quite a simple act, Comrade Premier.”

“Yes. And closing the doors also is simple?”

The general stared probingly into the Premier’s drawn face. He cocked his head, averting his gaze to the map without answering.

“Zhangiztobe,” the Premier said forlornly.

The general continued to stare into the map, unresponsive.

“General! Can we stop Zhangiztobe?”

The general turned slowly and looked at the Premier. The general was no fool. He could see the ravages of the man’s fatigue. He also could see the effects of the amphetamines and the occasional vodka. “Can the Americans stop their submarines?” he asked, a slight touch of hostility in his voice.

The Premier bristled, then snapped: “Comrade general, I do not need a Viennese psychiatrist answering questions with questions.”

“The rocket-base commander is not rational, comrade. His family is dead. Killed by the Americans. He is holding. I do not believe he will continue to hold if we order him to close his doors.”

“Not even if the American submarines are stopped,” the Premier said. It was not a question and it received no answer. He looked at the clock. 2017. “How many rockets remain at Zhangiztobe?”

“About forty, comrade.”

“With multiple warheads?”

“Most of them.”

“Their targets?”

“Petroleum facilities and ports.”

“But they can be retargeted? On site?”

“In minutes, Comrade Premier.”

“And to what targets?”

The general’s eyes darted away from the Premier, nervously and evasively. He gazed back into the map of the missile fields over which he had taken command just hours ago at this man’s behest. “The retargeting has its limitations.” Behind him, he heard a fist pound powerfully into a desk. Chert voz’mi! The devil take it! “I am losing my patience, comrade! Can you see the clock?”

“The warheads can be retargeted on most of the major cities in the central and northern United States,” the general said rapidly.

The Premier slumped. His tortured nervous system sent electric shocks down his arms and legs. How had he let this sit so long? “Where are our nearest bombers?” he asked.

The general wheeled on the Premier, his eyes narrow and accusatory. “Comrade Premier, you called them back to crashes into the Arctic Ocean. A handful made northern airfields. Zhangiztobe is one of our more isolated fields, more than two thousand kilometers south of the northern frontier—”

The Premier pounded his fist again and again. “Find me an answer, general!”

“You trust the Americans that much?”

“I trust nothing except this infernal system we created!”

Reflexively the general’s hand edged over his button-holster sidearm. The two men stared at each other coldly, the Premier’s weary face slowly breaking into a half-smile.

“You think that is the answer, comrade general?”

The general sagged in despair. “But how can we do this before the Americans have their submarines under control?”

“Will it do any good afterward? The submarines will still exist. The Americans will have thirty Zhangiztobes floating beneath the sea. With commanders as irrational, comrade, if more of their cities are destroyed.”

The general’s hand dropped away from his sidearm, but he could no longer hold his eyes on the Premier. “We have several Backfire bombers stationed 150 kilometers away near Ust-Kamenogorsk.” His voice was dull and lifeless. He paused and added sadly, “They were deployed against the Chinese.”

“They can destroy the command post?”

“Quite certainly.”