Ben Bova - Able One

She had never had a ticket before in her whole life. And it was starting to snow.

“Do you trust him?” Zuri Coggins finished pouring herself a cup of coffee before she looked up at General Higgins. The general had called for a coffee break, and almost immediately a pair of army tech sergeants had entered the situation room rolling a cart bearing three stainless steel urns, Styrofoam cups, and two trays of buns and pastries. He must have had the sergeants on call outside in the corridor all morning, she thought.

“Trust who?” she asked the general.

His eyes flicking across the room to where Michael Jamil still sat at the foot of the conference table, pecking away at his iPhone, Higgins whispered, “Him. The Arab.”

“I believe he’s Lebanese,” Coggins replied.

“Lebanese, Arab, they’re all the same.”

General Higgins had removed his tunic and loosened his necktie. His shirt was wrinkled and he looked sweaty. He could stand to lose twenty or thirty pounds, Coggins thought. But despite his physical appearance Higgins wore four stars on his collar and the Joint Chiefs of Staff had appointed him to head this emergency action team.

“He was born here,” she added.

Higgins nodded as he picked up a sticky bun. “He’s an academic. I don’t trust academics. They always think they know everything, but they don’t have any real-world experience. Ivory-tower eggheads.”

Coggins felt a mild tic of surprise. She hadn’t heard the term “egghead” since a graduate class in the history of American politics, nearly ten years earlier.

“Yet he’s made an important point, don’t you think? If the North Koreans are targeting San Francisco…”

Higgins snapped up half the bun in one bite. His mouth full, he still answered, “Scheib thinks that’s bullshit, and Scheib knows more about missiles than that Arab kid.”

Coggins nodded halfheartedly and stepped away from the general, as much to avoid the spray of crumbs from his mouth as to disengage from what could become an argument. I’m not here to argue, she told herself. I’m here to report to the National Security Advisor on what this team thinks we should be doing.

Can we shoot down their missiles? she wondered. And if we do, would the North Koreans consider it an act of war? Would the Chinese come in?

For several moments she watched Jamil intently hunching over his iPhone. He was the only person still sitting at the table; everyone else was standing in little knots of two or three, either at the front of the conference room, where the coffee cart was, or toward the rear, where the doors led to restrooms out along the corridor.

Abruptly, she went to her own chair and opened her minicomputer. Not much bigger than a paperback book, it still had the power and speed of the best laptops. The Department of Defense’s internal data network did not depend entirely on satellite links; it was connected across the continent by hardened landlines. With a few touches of the little machine’s keyboard, Coggins pulled up Michael Jamil’s unclassified dossier.

Born in Baltimore, she saw. Only son of Lebanese parents who fled their country during the civil war there. They were already living in Baltimore when Israel invaded Lebanon. Graduated magna cum laude from Johns Hopkins in information technology. Hired by DoD, moved up to the Defense Intelligence Agency, appointed to National Intelligence Council last year. A bright young man, Coggins decided. Then she realized that Jamil was only a year younger than she. Well, she thought, I’m a bright young woman.

Clicking the mini closed, she got up from her chair and walked down the table toward Jamil. He was sitting alone at the foot of the table; it seemed as if all the others—military and civilians alike—were shunning him.

He looked up as she sat next to him. He seemed surprised, almost perplexed.

“I have a mini, if you need something more powerful than your phone,” Coggins said.

His expression changed. Still surprised, but now pleasantly so.

“I was just going over the figures for the Taepodong-2,” he said, almost apologetically. “General Scheib doesn’t believe it, but those birds could reach San Francisco, I’m pretty sure.”

With a slight smile, Coggins said, “‘Pretty sure’ isn’t going to impress Scheib. Or General Higgins.”

“I guess not,” Jamil admitted. His voice was soft, but he was clearly upset. “The thing is, I always thought that military men based their plans on the worst that an enemy can do, not on what they hope the enemy’s likely to do.”

“That makes sense.”

“We ought to recommend that the President stay out of San Francisco.”

“We’ve apprised him of the possibility.”

Jamil shook his head. “Not strong enough. It’s got to be a recommendation from this emergency committee. Full strength.”

“I’m afraid General Higgins doesn’t put much faith in your calculations,” she said, as gently as she could.

“He’s a jackass, then.”

Coggins broke into a laugh. “That may be, but he’s chairing this group.”

Jamil hunched forward in his chair, toward her. “You’re inside the White House. Can’t you make a recommendation to the National Security Advisor? On your own?”

Her laughter cut off. He was serious. Deadly serious. And he was putting her on the spot.

“I… I don’t know . . .”

He slumped back again. “You don’t believe me either.”

“It’s not that,” she said quickly. “It’s just... well, if you’re wrong, I’d look awfully stupid, wouldn’t I?”

Very seriously, Jamil replied, “No, you’d look awfully stupid if the President gets killed in a nuclear attack on San Francisco.”

She stared at him. He was intent, totally convinced that she had to stick her neck out and urge the National Security Advisor to get the President to turn back. Not his neck, Coggins told herself. Mine.

“All right,” General Higgins bawled from the front of the room, where the snack cart was parked. “We’re out of sticky buns. Let’s get back to work.”

“Look! It’s starting to snow!”

Charley Ingersoll was passing an eighteen-wheeler when his eight-year-old son, Charley Jr., gave out his delighted squeak. It was getting close to noon, they were hours away from Missoula, and now snow was falling.

“It’s only a few flakes,” said his wife, Martha, sitting in the right-hand seat of the SUV. Charley Jr. and Little Martha, four, had the second bench to themselves. The rear was piled high with luggage and toys.

“Can we make a snowman?” Little Martha asked.

Cheerily, her mother answered, “If it’s deep enough when we get home, dearie.”

Snow, Charley thought. Bad enough to be driving all the distance from Grangeville with the two kids yapping every inch of the way. Now they’ve gotta give me snow to deal with.

He tapped the radio button but got nothing except hissing static. Hadn’t been able to raise Sirius Radio or XM all morning. He started to fiddle with the dial, trying to get a local station, but Martha slapped his hand gently.

“You pay attention to your driving, Charley. I’ll find us some music.”

“Put on one of my CDs!” Charley Jr. piped.

Over her shoulder, Martha said, “Your father wants to get the weather report, dearie. Isn’t that right, Charley?”

He nodded vigorously. The snow didn’t seem very serious, but out here in the mountains you had to be extra careful. He remembered seeing a sign a few miles back for an RV camp. If the weather turns really bad, Charley thought, we can turn in at one of them.