William Prochnau - Trinity's Child

“Omaha Beach syndrome.”

“You okay?”

“We need to do a little mission planning.”

“We don’t even have a mission.”

“Mission planning!”

Very shrewd, commander. Now you’re being the commander, commander. Keep them busy while they’re in the landing boat. Keep yourself busy.

“Okay, heroes, we’re gonna do a run-through on Irkutsk,” Kazaklis heard himself say to all crew stations.

Downstairs, Tyler turned toward Radnor. “Jesus Christ, Kazaklis is really something. Mission planning. To Irkutsk. Jesus. Guess that’s why they think he’s such a hotshot. He takes everything so serious.”

Radnor turned his head away. His stomach gnawed. Please be quiet, Tyler.

“Not me. Tell you that, Radnor. I’ll never take this stuff so serious. This is a stepping-stone for me. I’m getting out as soon as I can. Use the Air Force, that’s what I say. Let ’em get you that master’s degree and get back outside to a nice quiet, sane life quick. That’s what I’m doing. No more war games for me. No sir-ree.”

For the first time, Radnor thought Tyler sounded as if he were trying to convince himself. The thought made the radar operator still more nervous. He had to get away again. “Request permission to leave station, sir,” he radioed up to Kazaklis.

Why, Sarah Jean? Nothing is forever. Why not, Sarah Jean? “Pee in your frigging boot, Radnor!” Moreau looked at Kazaklis and thought his eyes glistened. But that, of course, couldn’t be, and the commander quickly lowered his visor.

“Is the E-4 down, Sam?”

“I think so, general.”

“No radio confirmation?”

“Christ no, sir. They sure as hell don’t need to send up any beacons. We got one big sitting duck on the ground in Baton Rouge right now and there still are plenty of hunters around.”

“Subs.”

“We had no trouble taking out the ones they used in the first exchange. They were gone in minutes. We also caught a Delta-class sub in the harbor near Havana. The commander must have been sound asleep or chasing Cuban fanny in town. But we lost track of one Yankee-class boat a coupla days ago after he went silent off Haiti. And we know there were a couple more off Venezuela about the same time. We sure as hell can’t find them now—or do anything about it if we could.”

“It’s a damned risky landing.”

“I don’t know if 1 would have taken the chance, general.”

“We’ve still got a little document called the Constitution, Sam.”

“Yeah, I know, sir. But are we even sure we got the right guy?”

“Sam, old friend, right now you are flying around in a world without an ionosphere. You are flying over a country that doesn’t have fifty functioning computers. Nobody said nuclear war was going to be an exact science. The last word we got from the Presidential Successor Locator, two minutes before it and most of the successors went, said he was the highest-ranking likely survivor. The plan said don’t fart around, get the most likely. And get him fast.” Alice paused. “Bird-watching in rural Louisiana was a pretty good place to be when the bubble burst.”

“Jesus, is that what he was doing?”

“He was on an inspection tour of a game-management area. Camping out overnight to please the nature-lovers.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. I’m not. That was his job, Sam.”

“God. A couple of hours ago his biggest problem was understanding the mating habits of the red-billed osprey. I wouldn’t want to be the first guy to brief him on the forty thousand target options in SIOP.”

“The man’s got a much bigger problem than understanding SIOP, Sam. And a decision to make.”

“Fast.”

“Very fast.”

“The Secretary of the Interior. Whew.”

“Eighth-ranking in the constitutional order of succession, Sam. President of the United States. Your Commander-in-Chief.”

“Okay, kids,” Kazakhs said jauntily. “We’re at the dateline and I’m takin’ her down.”

Moreau felt the adrenaline surge through her, washing away the lingering aches of the refueling. Below her, in her mind’s eye, as she had a dozen times in mission drills on the ground at Fairchild, she could see the twisted crags and soulful spires of Arctic Ocean ice floes rising up toward them. She could almost feel the huge drooping wings of her bomber, her strategic penetrator, strain against heavier and heavier air as they dropped lower and lower, beneath the radar, beneath the eyes of their adversaries.

“Ready offense?” Kazakhs asked.

“Ready,” Tyler responded.

“Ready, defense?”

“Ready,” Halupalai answered.

“Position, nav?”

“One hundred eighty degrees longitude, seventy-seven degrees north.”

“Entry point?”

“Landfall, one hundred forty-six degrees east, seventy-five degrees thirty minutes north. Asian landmass, one hundred thirty degrees east, seventy-two degrees north.”

“Right on, nav,” Kazakhs acknowledged, his voice chipper. “Hokay, radar, we’re at two hundred feet. In the weeds, pal, and whadda we got for obstacles?”

“Landfall, no problems, sir,” Radnor replied. “Straight in over Faddeevski Island, thread the needle past Kotclny. High point on Kotelny, 1,227-foot hill starboard. Approach the landmass over Laptev Sea, with a feint straight at Tiksi. Break it off, taking a heading due south over the gulf, and tiptoe through the foothills of the Verkhoyansk Mountains back toward the Lena.”

“Sound like you been here before, radar. Hokay, defense, the natives are a little restless down there. What you see?”

Halupalai fumbled briefly. In front of him lay O’Toole’s charts, looking like a new set of plays for the Rose Bowl.

“Early-warning radar stacked throughout the islands,” he said, beginning slowly. “Jamming now. Missile batteries, Kotelny. Our problem. Decoys, chaff dispatched. SIOP says forty percent chance Tiksi destroyed in first wave. If not, our problem. Heavy radar concentrations, major SAM batteries.

The feint will draw them out, unless they think we’re a decoy for the others coming in behind us.”

“The others,” Kazakhs said. “Yeah. That would be nice.”

“If they see us,” Halupalai continued.

“That’s what you got all those toys for, defense.”

“Yep. Tiksi is the biggest problem. Past the village, heading down the gulf, we got one more major battery of missiles near our entry point at Nyayba. Jamming. Decoys if necessary. Sharp eyes down below, please.”

“That’s you two in the basement,” Kazakhs said.

“Got it,” Tyler said.

Halupalai paused again. He could see the gray shark of the SAM racing up at him. His hand involuntarily went to the Gatling-gun trigger. He shook his head. “Then we are in the mountains,” he continued, “and the threat is MIG’s.”

“Also requiring sharp eyes down below,” Kazakhs added. “Got your eyes open down there, radar?”

“Wide, commander,” Radnor answered.

“Okay, sarge,” Kazakhs said to Halupalai. “Not bad, coming off the bench. We’re in the mountains now, huggin’ and hidin’ for a while. Three hundred feet and eyes on the ridges, please. If we got anybody watchin’ up above, assumin’ our guys missed a satellite or two, we’re headin’ on a course for…?”

“Vladivostok,” Tyler answered.

“Or maybe the Petropavlovsk submarine base on Kamchatka,” Kazakhs acknowledged. “Shifty little buggers, aren’t we? So we pivot…?”

“At one hundred twenty-six degrees east, sixty-five degrees north,” Tyler said. “Right, twenty degrees.”

“And we’re into the wide-open spaces. Tundra. Down to one hundred fifty feet. You might let me know when we see the tree line. Larch scrub first, pine forests next. No pine needles in the intakes, please. Other obstacles?”