William Prochnau - Trinity's Child

“Red Fox One, this is Red Fox Two, into the turn…”

“Lost you in the sun, Red Fox Two …”

In his mind Kazaklis could see the two deadly jets—F-18’s were top of the line—sweeping into majestic arcs away from each other to swoop back together behind him.

“About two o’clock…. You’ll pick me up in a second….”

“Roger, Two. Got you now. Let’s not get a bloody nose out of this….”

Kazaklis shook his head at Moreau and broke the silence between them. “Bloody nose,” he said sarcastically. “Buggers are worried about shooting themselves in the foot.”

“Do we have to listen to the play-by-play, Kazaklis?” Moreau’s voice was brittle.

Kazaklis shrugged. “You want a black hood?”

Moreau looked at him without replying.

“Have you ever ejected from one of these beauties, Moreau?”

“Uh-uh.”

“You want me to throttle it back to a couple hundred knots?” He asked the question compassionately. They both knew air-men who had become instant vegetables taking the windblast head-on. They also both thought immediately of Halupalai.

“No,” she said. “Are you going to eject?”

“I dunno, Moreau. Right now I feel like riding the old boy down, if I get the chance. It could blow, you know.” He looked at her beseechingly. “Please, Moreau, I’d like you to jump. They’ll pull you out.”

Moreau started to speak.

“Okay, Red Fox Two, pull it in a little tighter,” the radio crackled. “You see ’em?”

“Roger, One. Got ’em. Three miles.”

“Okay, Two. Let’s go for it.”

“Larry?”

“Two?”

“Real shit duty, isn’t it?”

“Everything’s shit duty today, Red Fox Two. In we go.”

Kazakhs grunted. “Those guys got a lot of heart.”

“Duty.” Moreau spoke without malice. “Everybody’s doing their duty today.”

The two sat silently for a moment, their minds retreating.

“Hey, Moreau?” She turned to find him staring intently at her. “I wish I had come to know you better, too.” His face wore no con.

She smiled. “My knickers, Kazakhs,” she said without hostility. “You wish you had known my knickers.”

He grinned. “Oh, those too,” he said jauntily. “Pretty nice knickers, they are.”

Moreau laughed lightly. “I seem to remember something about better thighs on a Safeway fryer.”

He reached over and patted her thigh. “Did I say that? Feels like triple-A to me.”

She removed his hand. “But attached to a real bitch, huh?” she said sadly.

“Yeah, sometimes,” he said.

“Yeah, most of the time,” she said, and they fell silent again.

“One mile, Red Fox Two. Take it up a bit and come down on ’em….”

“Moreau?” The voice was urgent and she turned quickly toward him. “I wasn’t talking about your knickers.”

A shiver raced through her. “Thanks, Kazakhs,” she said.

In front of them the black clouds loomed larger, but still out of reach. A flash, like heat lightning, illuminated the leading edge of the approaching storm. A slight shudder rippled through the B-52. Red Fox One crackled, “What the hell was that?”

The Looking Glass patched the call straight through to the white phone, so it was President to President immediately, without the preliminary formality of authenticator cards.

“Condor,” the successor said as he lifted the phone.

He heard a vaguely familiar chuckle on the other end. “Good God, is that what they call you?” the undeniably familiar voice asked cheerily. “I don’t know if I’d stand for that, Mr. Secretary.”

After his conversation with Alice, the President had concluded that he would have severe problems with his Cabinet secretary. So he had decided to approach him obliquely.

Condor, on the other hand, was suffering less than might be expected from the anxiety of the doomsday chase with the Looking Glass. Across from him, the Librarian fidgeted. Condor, however, had resolved, in his own mind, that he had made the right decision, a hard and brutal one in a hard and brutal world. He had concluded that his place in history was assured and, perhaps more important, that the events and his role in them could not be changed even if preceded by his death. He had deduced, without further assistance from the colonel, that the mutual destruction of the two command planes assured that the submarines would fire as he wanted. No one would be left in a position to redirect them. He considered that a Divine Irony, and he rather enjoyed it. Condor had made his peace with his Maker—made it long ago, as a matter of fact. So, while not eager, he was ready. Now, in this suddenly teetering moment of doubt, he wondered if Divine Irony had been supplanted by a Divine Joke. “You’re dead, Mr. President,” he whispered.

The Librarian blanched, then leaped out of his seat. The voice on the phone chuckled again. “Like Mark Twain, Mr. Secretary, I’m afraid the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated. I’m told, however, that you have done a superb job while I was incapacitated. Turning the bombers was a brilliant stroke.”

Condor stared wordlessly across the room, a perplexed look of ambivalence spreading across his face. The Librarian hovered over him, tugging at the arm holding the phone. “Who the devil is it?”

“It was a statesman’s stroke, Mr. Secretary. I’m not sure I would have been so cool myself. I congratulate you and give you my eternal thanks.” The voice was soothing and calm.

“What the hell is going on?” The Librarian was pulling at him.

“Now we have to work together on the next step, my old friend. We haven’t much time.”

Uncertainty crept into the successor’s eyes. The colonel struggled more fiercely for the phone. “It’s the President,” the successor said, trying to shoulder him away. The Librarian loosened his grip and shook his head, smiling thinly in disdain.

“We must stop those submarines, Mr. Secretary. It’s going to take the two of us.”

“This is the oldest trick in the book,” the Librarian said, withdrawing a step and continuing to shake his head.

“It’s the President,” Condor protested feebly.

“Ninety minutes, Mr. Secretary. I need your help. Or everything we both hold dear and holy will be gone forever. I am counting on you.”

“My fellow Americans,” the Librarian began mockingly, “I come into your living rooms tonight to discuss a matter of the gravest importance…” The voice was a near-perfect mimicry of the voice on the white phone. The successor paled.

“We must send out the orders for a cease-fire, Mr. Secretary. Then, together, we can begin to put what’s left of our nation back together again.”

“Who are you?” the successor asked. The question carried an edge, and beneath the farmlands outside Olney, the President sagged back into his pillow. He could hear bits and pieces of the other voice contradicting him about the E-4. He knew his bluff wasn’t working, the system too stringent, the man and the liturgy—his own liturgy not long ago—too compelling. For a split second the President saw himself long ago on Inauguration Day, still viewing the world in the comfortable simplicity of his election rhetoric. He saw his former self in the man on the other end of the phone. He knew what would come next.

Aboard the E-4, the Librarian challenged Condor confidently now. “A thousand Russians are trained to do that. Tape machines. Audio enhancers. They can make the President’s voice tell you to fly this aircraft nonstop to Vnukovo Airport for surrender ceremonies. They can tell you your wife’s maiden name, your favorite breakfast cereal.” He paused dramatically, changing tone and pitch. “They’ve got turds in their pants. They’re scared silly. They’re trying everything.”