William Prochnau - Trinity's Child

“Calm down, commander,” Polar Bear Three said quietly. “We’ll respectfully decline. We already talked, and none of us feels much like wanderin’ around in the desert for a few hours, stumblin’ over mutated prairie dawgs. We didn’t get very far from home. Dunno how the plane held together. Marvel of American technology. Thank the boys at Boeing for us. Old pappy’s not so good at flyin’ blind, though. ‘Fraid I wobbled us right through the edge of the cloud. We took about two thousand REM’s.”

Moreau shuddered. The crew of Polar Bear Three had taken a massively lethal dose of radiation. In a hospital, they’d be dead in a few days. They weren’t going to a hospital.

Down below, Radnor began shaking like a leaf. He had never heard of anyone taking that much radiation. In front of him, the jellyfish was growing, enveloping almost half his screen.

“We got our seein’-eye dogs down in the basement,” Radnor heard Polar Bear Three say. “They didn’t take the flash, lucky boys. And they’s hot—pardonin’ the ‘spression, Mama Bear—to trot far as we can git after the bad guys.”

Radnor’s bones suddenly ached. He knew the two men, down in the dark basement of Polar Bear Three, just like he and Tyler, had been protected from the blinding flash. He also knew nothing except distance could protect them from the radiation. His skin felt prickly, as if just below the surface the white blood cells were munching away at the red. His head throbbed. His eyes ached. The jellyfish grew, as Kazakhs neared its edge.

“Think we’ll just mosey on north and see how far we git,” Polar Bear Three continued serenely. “We don’t make it, ya-all do us a favor? Get those mutha-fuckahs for us. Pardonin’ the language, Mama Bear.”

The jellyfish pulsed almost off the wingtip.

“Commander!” Radnor screamed.

Almost simultaneously, Radnor’s screen flashed, flaring wildly, and then flashed again, completely washing out the jellyfish.

“Radnor?” Kazakhs responded.

Again, there had been absolutely no motion in the plane. Radnor, embarrassed that he had panicked, took the briefest moment to compose himself. Then he said: “Nudets, sir. At least two detonations.”

Kazakhs began counting. “Where?”

“Dunno. Screen’s flaring again.”

“Lemme know.” Kazakhs sounded so calm Radnor’s embarrassment deepened.

Five. Six.

“Polar Bear Three, this is Mama Bear,” Moreau continued. “Do you read me? Do you read me, Polar Bear Three?” She heard nothing but static.

Seven. Eight.

Halupalai saw the curl of the thirty-footer forming, feeling the mix of fear and exhilaration. He poised for it. He reached over and placed his hand on O’Toole’s.

Nine. Ten.

“Screen’s settling.”

Eleven. Twelve.

“Detonations north,” Radnor said, struggling to pick through the electronic riot of his screen. “Twelve miles. Fifteen miles.” The jellyfish was receding, and others, more distant, were forming.

Kazakhs stopped counting at thirteen. He relaxed briefly. His taut shoulders sank, the double white bars of his shoulder patch drooping with them, as did the lightning bolt, the eagle’s talons, and the olive branch. He began whistling, Oh beautiful, for spacious skies… Some seconds later, the first quiet little ripple of vibration moved through the Buff, then the second, pocketa, pocketa, magic fingers nursing the pilot’s temples…. for amber waves of grain…

“Little more practice,” Kazakhs said jauntily, “and we’ll have this down pat.”

Moreau looked at him strangely. “Polar Bear Three, this is Mama Bear,” she said urgently. “Do you read, Polar Bear Three?”

“I don’t think I’d bother, copilot,” Kazakhs interrupted.

“Polar Bear Three, this is Mama Bear,” Moreau insisted.

“You see any airplanes down there, radar?” Kazakhs asked Radnor.

“I can’t find him, commander. The screen’s still kinda cluttered.”

But Radnor knew, as did Kazakhs.

“Polar Bear Three! Polar Bear Three!”

“They were heading straight into the detonations, copilot. They’re better off. Do a radiation check on us.”

“Polar Bear Three…” Moreau’s voice trailed off. She slumped in her seat, rubbing her white eye. Then she began checking the radiation equipment.

“We took fifty to a hundred REM’s on launch, commander, sir,” Moreau said brittlely. “Maybe two hundred, probably one-fifty, passing the cloud. Commander. Sir.” Moreau felt perversely sorry she couldn’t tell Kazakhs he was glowing in the dark. The dose would make them nauseous in a few days, but not seriously, and probably long after they would have to worry about it.

“Well,” Kazaklis said cheerfully, “sounds like we’re all gonna get a little dose of the Russian flu. Everybody get their shots?”

“Commander? Would you turn on the heater? It’s colder than a witch’s tit down here.”

It was Tyler. Maybe he’s shaken it off, Kazaklis thought. He switched on the heater, having forgotten the routine chore in the turmoil.

Fear the goat from the front, the horse from the rear, and man from all sides. At the end of their single unproductive meeting the Premier, his gray eyes staring unblinking as the translator repeated the words in English, had suddenly popped the old Russian proverb at him. The President remembered bristling, intentionally tightening every facial fiber to stare back sternly. That sounds like a threat, Mr. Premier. The Premier’s face had sagged into hound-dog sadness, Russian fatalism seeming to mold consternation into a face that would give but not yield. A threat; ah, yes, I suppose it is, Mr. President. To both of us. We now return to our world of men. Do you think we can control such a place?

Icarus interrupted the President’s brief musing, answering a previous question. “How the hell can I explain what the Chinese did, Mr. President? Frankly, I think they did us a favor. I just wish their hardware had been a little better.”

Icarus was down to eight minutes and he was not happy. He did not want to bother with this part. The President did. He was trying to get some grasp on a tangle of far-off events that made no sense. He needed to understand. One set of American missiles was on its way, at his instruction. But he still had a decision to make. A big one.

“But Pakistan, for God’s sake,” the President replied. “Pakistan has been allied with China longer than anyone in Asia.”

“We’re reasonably certain that was an error, a stray. A lot of mistakes are being made. Not only overseas.”

The President let the last comment pass. He felt penned in, like a steer on the way to slaughter. Every new bit of information seemed to poke at him, cattle prods urging him this way and that, but always toward the same end.

“And the Russians have not yet responded to the Chinese?”

“They appear to be moving troops across parts of the Chinese border. It is difficult to determine. It is not exactly our most pressing problem here at the moment. The Soviets have not responded with heavy weapons.”

“Heavy weapons. You mean nuclear weapons, general. They took a nuclear attack from the Chinese and did not respond.”

“Mr. President, the Soviets have had less than five minutes. You’ve had almost twenty. The Chinese weapons were very crude. Of the forty-nine Soviet divisions the Chinese tried to hit along their border, I doubt a dozen were destroyed. Everybody in the world with a two-bit space satellite is watching this. The Chinese saw an opportunity and took it. It was semi-successful.”

“Semi. I’ll bet that word sells well in Islamabad. The Pakistanis are not the most stable lot. The missile landed in the outskirts of the capital?”