William Prochnau - Trinity's Child

“You’re wrong on that one,” Kazaklis snapped. “PRP made sure of that. It took simultaneous key turns. So it might have been two and it might have been two hundred. It sure as hell wasn’t 197.” Again Kazaklis wished he had bitten his tongue. Moreau was mousetrapping him into another one of these screwball conversations.

“My bet’s still 197.”

“Forget it.”

“Yeah, I figure 196 launched just like nice little robots should. Two figured out a long time ago, talked it over in some bar like your Boom-Boom Room, that they wouldn’t do it. And in that one other capsule two guys had their own little World War Three. Number 197 turned right on schedule. Three, two, one… mark. Number 198 sat there and stared at the Missiles Away light and froze. No go. He couldn’t do it.”

Moreau paused. Kazaklis wouldn’t play. Moreau took his straight-man line anyway.

“So then what happened? Number 197 took out his handgun.

That’s what they’ve got them for. To use on each other. They weren’t expecting a commie invasion sixty feet under those wheatfields. So Number 197 points the forty-five at Number 198 and says: Turn the goddamn key. Number 198 looks at his buddy and shrugs: It’s all over, gumdrop, so let’s give the mamushka in Kiev ten hours to pack before the Buffs get there. Ka- pow! War’s over for Number 198. Omaha overrides his key and the missiles go anyway.”

Moreau paused again. Kazaklis was seething and she could feel it.

“Now, the ultimate question is: who was the sane one? Number 198? He tried to give the mamushka, plus a million or so, an extra ten hours. He ends up dead and the mamushka does, too. Number 197? He followed his training, killed a million commie devils and one buddy. And if he’s lucky—or unlucky, depending on your point of view—and the Russians missed his capsule, he’s sitting down there now in a twelve-by-twelve bunker staring at a dead man. He gets to stay down there two weeks, you know. Those are the orders. Two weeks to let the fallout settle, then dig your way up to what’s left of Montana.”

Moreau felt Kazaklis staring at her. She turned and looked into eyes so angry they glinted.

“Moreau,” he said very slowly and almost menacingly, “I’m going to tell you something I didn’t think I’d ever tell you. You are a good pilot. An excellent pilot. You are better than anyone else I’ve ever had in the right-hand seat. You probably saved this aircraft when the first bombs went off. You also are a bitch. I never wanted you here. I wish you weren’t here now. But I never thought you’d fuck up, mentally or physically. You are fucking up right now.”

He stopped for a second, then continued.

“I cannot make it in or out without you. You cannot make it in or out without me. We can be Number 197 and 198. We’ve got the equipment, too. It’s your choice. But I don’t want to hear another word of this pop-psychology shit. It’s down-to-business time. Understood?”

Moreau was silent for what seemed an eternity. She wasn’t afraid of the pilot’s .45. She wasn’t afraid of the refueling, the Russian interceptors, the SAM’s, or the low-level run over Irkutsk. She was afraid of the logic. She knew Kazaklis was right and she didn’t look at him as she finally spoke.

“Understood, commander,” she said, not making an excuse of how difficult it was to lose her religion, all her belief in the rightness of her dedication, in one brief wail of a klaxon. “I’m sorry. No more mind-fucking. I’m with you one hundred percent. Mind and body.” She stopped abruptly, and swiveled a quick and challenging look at him. “Kazakhs, please don’t smart-aleck that one.”

Kazakhs chuckled, an honest, straight, relieved chuckle. “No, sir,” he said. “I won’t. Tonight I’m going to need both. A mind and a body trained like yours. I’m going to need them badly.” He paused. “Thank you, captain,” he added.

The two of them could feel the tension flow out of the cockpit of the giant bomber. Then the radio started squawking and the tension was back instantly, but of a different kind. Even through the static, the anxiety in the voice from Elsie crackled like sparks from a broken power line.

“Polar Bear! Polar Bear. Do you read, Polar Bear? Acknowledge. Closing on your position. IP estimated nine minutes. Do you read, Polar Bear?”

The voice was female. It also was urgent and brittle, but not frightened.

“Read you loud and clear now, Elsie, ” Moreau answered. Polar Bear here.” The incoming voice had been so taut and clipped, she added, “Are you Mayday?”

For a moment only the strange radio sounds of the Arctic night—huzzes and snaps from the aurora borealis, whoosh warps from the nearby magnetic pole—danced into Moreau’s headphones. The sounds mesmerized her, tapping a momentary Morse code of guilt against her eardrums. She asked herself if she had been as professional as this pilot, a woman, too, flying in circles for hours now, waiting for them, following a duty that doomed her. She didn’t answer herself.

“Thank God in heaven,” the radio finally whispered in relief. “We found you.”

Moreau asked: “Repeat. Are you in a Mayday situation?”

“Negative, Polar Bear.” The voice was loud and clear this time. “Not yet.”

Moreau looked over at Kazakhs, who seemed deep in thought. His face was furrowed, his eyes staring over the instrument panel into the dull gray of the flash curtain. For no apparent reason he reached forward and ran a finger down a curtain crease. Suddenly Moreau knew what he was thinking. They had to see for this one. She rubbed her good eye, her only eye, and cursed herself for the involuntary display of weakness.

“Elsie, we need a precise rundown on your condition.” Moreau thought her voice sounded hollow.

“Precision isn’t our game tonight, Polar Bear. Our fuel gauges are bouncing like jumping beans. We might have 100,000 pounds. We should be able to make a precise connect. But I tell you this: we gotta get that probe in the womb fast. No foreplay. This one’s gotta be slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am. How much jizz you need?”

Moreau turned to Kazakhs, who looked unnecessarily at their fuel gauge and shrugged.

“All we can get, Elsie.”

“Okay. Now, get this and get it good.” The voice turned to stone. “When I say breakaway, I mean breakaway. No questions. No good-byes. No screw-ups. One of us is going in anyway. Screw up and we take you with us.”

“We read you, Elsie,” Moreau said. “Thanks.”

“That’s what we get paid for,” the tanker pilot replied tonelessly.

“Well, Elsie,” Moreau continued, trying to sound upbeat, “you got the biggest runway in the world below you. Great Bear Lake oughta be frozen twelve feet thick.”

“Oughta be,” Elsie said. “At sixty below zero. But this big baby ain’t a glider, honey. And you hotshots got the ejection seats. Not us. It’s a little chilly down there for a San Diego girl anyway. And the nearest hot tub is in Fairbanks.” The radio went silent for a moment, only the haunting huzzes and whooshes echoing in Moreau’s ears. Then Elsie added flatly: “Was in Fairbanks.”

“That bad?” Moreau asked painfully.

“That bad,” Elsie repeated simply.

“Damn, I’m sorry.” Moreau’s words sounded hollow.

“Don’t be,” Elsie replied with a tinny nonchalance. “In a way, it makes all this easier. We were on our way back, couple hundred miles away, when it went. Looked like the northern lights. Didn’t believe it at first. So we started on in. Then we got the call from the Looking Glass.”