Ben Bova - Able One

“They’re going to launch those missiles,” the Secretary said, her voice flat and hard. “Unless somebody stops them, they’re going to launch both those nukes.”

“If they attack China we will obliterate them,” Quang said flatly. “They know that.”

“But if they attack the United States . .”

Shifting uneasily in the armchair, Quang said, “That would be regrettable. And an American strike on the DPRK would be even more regrettable.”

“What do you expect us to do?”

“Think before you act. An American invasion of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea is no more acceptable to China today than it was in 1950. And a strike against the DPRK would force us to retaliate… to say nothing of the effect the fallout would have on Japan.”

“We wouldn’t have to nuke them, necessarily,” the Secretary of State said. But her tone was subdued, tentative.

Quang replied, “If you attack North Korea in any way the pressures on my government to protect our Asian neighbor would be overwhelming. It is a matter of face, as well as realpolitik.”

The Secretary studied her old friend’s unreadable expression for several moments. Then, “You’d launch a nuclear strike against us?”

Quang stared back at her for a long, silent moment. Then he murmured, “You must realize that there are factions within our council as well. We have our own hard-liners, you must understand.”

“But that’s just what the terrorists want! Don’t you see, they want a nuclear Armageddon!”

“As I told you, we do not believe they are terrorists. They do not seek nuclear holocaust.”

“Then what do they want?”

“Control of the government in Pyongyang. Reunification with South Korea—under their terms. Economic aid. Neutralization of Japan. The removal of American bases and influence in East Asia.”

The Secretary sagged back in her chair. It was her turn to be silent now, thinking that what the North Koreans wanted suited the Chinese government perfectly. A stalking horse, she said to herself. Could Beijing be behind this? If we react against North Korea, will the Chinese use it as an excuse for striking back at us?

“They want the impossible,” she said at last. “What they’re going to get is pulverized.”

“Do not overreact, I beg of you.”

“If they nuke an American city…” The Secretary shook her head. “You saw our reaction to 9/11. And that was only a couple of buildings that were destroyed. If they wipe out Honolulu… or San Francisco… if they kill the President… For god’s sake!”

Quang leaned forward in his chair. The Secretary noticed a thin bead of perspiration trickling down his left cheek.

“Madam Secretary,” he said, his tone suddenly stiffly formal, “I agreed to meet with you because I—like you—wish to avert a nuclear confrontation between our two peoples.”

The Secretary nodded warily. There was more coming, she knew.

“However,” Quang went on, “if the United States attacks the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, my government will be forced to respond.”

“So we’re supposed to sit still while they nuke a couple of our cities?”

“The rebels will be caught and dealt with. Do not attack North Korea, I beg of you. If you do, China will be forced to respond.”

“And the Russians watch us destroy each other.”

“This has always been the weakness of the retaliation policy.”

“Mutual assured destruction,” the Secretary murmured.

“A policy intended to deter nuclear attack. It has worked very well between your nation and ours.”

“And the Russians.”

“Yes,” Quang agreed. “But when fanatics gain nuclear weapons, such a policy becomes useless. Mutual suicide.”

With that, Quang got to his feet. The Secretary rose on shaky legs and walked him to the door. They exchanged meaningless words, and he left her alone in the sumptuous suite, leaning against the tightly shut door, wondering if the world was indeed coming to an end.

But then she straightened and headed for the phone. The President’s off on a macho trip to San Francisco, she told herself. The Vice President’s safely in the National Redoubt, as if saving his worthless hide means anything. I’ve got to get to the Speaker of the House and Senator Yanez. Somebody’s got to take control of this situation. Somebody’s got to start acting presidential, and it might as well be me.

Phyllis Mathiessen was more annoyed than worried. Well, no, she really was worried—about the dinner she was planning for tomorrow evening. This was the third supermarket she’d driven to this morning, and none of them had pecans. She needed pecans for the pie.

Feeling nettled as she pushed her grocery cart along the fresh-produce aisle, she couldn’t for the life of her understand why a big supermarket chain like Lukkabee’s couldn’t keep pecans on the blessed shelves. Pecans! It’s not like she wanted something exotic. Just plain old pecans.

She saw one of the store’s employees staring glumly at a row of empty display cases, where they usually kept the lettuce and cabbage and carrots. The shelves were bare. The man looked as if he had nothing to do. His kelly green bib overalls were spotless, as if he hadn’t lifted a crate or carried a single package all morning.

Phyllis knew the man, at least well enough to smile at him when they passed in the store’s aisles. What was his name? She hated to peer at the tag pinned to the chest of his overalls, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember—

Giovanni! That was his name. Was it his first name, though, or his last?

“Good morning, Mrs. Mathiessen,” he said with a toothy smile. He was short, bald, round of face and body.

“Good morning, Mr. Giovanni,” said Phyllis.

“If you’re looking for lettuce, this morning’s order hasn’t come in yet.” Giovanni glanced at his wrist-watch. “They’re awful late today.”

“No,” she said. “I want some pecans. I’m going to bake a pecan pie.”

Giovanni made an elaborate shrug. “They were supposed to come in this morning, with the lettuce and the rest of the produce.”

“Will they be in later?”

Another shrug. “Mr. Andrews, he’s been on the phone all morning. Called the distributor. Called the trucking company. Called Mr. Lukkabee hisself, got him out of bed.”

“What’s the matter?” Phyllis asked.

“Everything’s all screwed up. Nobody’s computers are working. The trucking company says they can’t even tell where their trucks are because the GPS ain’t working.”

Phyllis had the vague notion that GPS had something to do with giving you directions when you were driving. Her husband had been hinting that he’d like one for Christmas.

“So you won’t have any pecans?”

“Maybe later today. I dunno.”

Phyllis tried to hide her annoyance. After all, it wasn’t Giovanni’s fault. But she blew her stack half an hour later when she pulled into the gas station and the pumps weren’t working. The warning light on her gas gauge was already blinking, and before she could pull out of line she got blocked in by another car behind her. When the impatient old jerk behind her started blasting his horn she jumped out of her car in a fury and told him to behave himself or she would call the police. It took nearly ten minutes to untangle the jam and get on her way home.

She ran out of gas on the way, right in the middle of the highway. Nervous as a cat, she glided the Cadillac to the shoulder of the road as cars and trucks swooped past her way above the speed limit. Then she couldn’t get her husband on her cell phone. Or anybody else. Not even the AAA. The phone seemed to be dead. Phyllis broke into tears when a police car coasted to a stop behind her, its lights blinking red and blue.