Ben Bova - Able One

“Apparently?” the President snapped. “Did they or didn’t they?”

“The MiG caught fire and crashed into the sea, sir,” Higgins replied, his voice tinny and small. “Whether it was from ABL-1’s laser or just an engine malfunction remains unclear, Mr. President.”

The President glanced at Foster, who spread his hands, palms up. “Either way, we win,” Foster said.

“So where’s ABL-1 now?” the President demanded.

“Over the Sea of Japan, sir, heading for Misawa Air Base.”

“Can they send out a search-and-rescue team?”

“If the plane ditches—”

“Now! I want it sent out now. Whether the plane ditches or not.”

“Yessir. Of course. I’ll get the word to Misawa right away.”

“Good. Thank you, General Higgins.”

Foster clicked the cell phone closed.

The President stood in silence for a long moment, then said to his chief of staff, “We’ve done all we should do, Norm. Our skirts are clean.”

Foster ran a hand over his shaved head. “But if the North Koreans send out more fighters…” He let the thought dangle.

“If they shoot down our plane over international waters they’re clearly in the wrong. The important thing is that we’ve gotten rid of the missile threat. I don’t want a war breaking out now, there’s no need for it.”

Foster nodded. “Except for the crew of that 747.”

“That’s why I ordered the SAR unit, Norm. They’ll pick up the crew from the water.”

Unless the gooks shoot down the SAR plane, too, Foster thought. But he did not mention his fear aloud.

Out of the corner of her eye Senator Youmans saw the President standing in the wings, waiting to be introduced to the crowd. First I have to talk to them because he’s not ready to come out, she grumbled to herself, and now I’ve got to cut my speech short because he is ready. And antsy, from the looks of him.

She betrayed none of those thoughts on her face. With a dimpled smile, she said into the microphones before her, “So, without further ado, the President of the United States!”

The crowd roared to its feet. The band struck up “California, Here I Come,” and the President strode out onto the stage, grinning and waving both his arms.

“Colonel, we’ve cleared North Korean airspace.” Karen Christopher heard the obvious relief in Lieutenant Sharmon’s soft voice.

She spoke into her lip mike: “Brick, any more transmissions from their defense command?”

“Just repeating their order for us to head inland and wait for another fighter ‘escort,’ Colonel.”

“Screw that.”

Major Kaufman turned toward her and asked, “You think they’ll send another batch of fighters after us?”

“Probably.” Karen realized that she was tired, emotionally and physically drained. But the plane was flying better; they were barely above twenty thousand feet now, but the buffeting had eased a bit. Still, she wondered how long the bird would hold together.

“Obie, you think you can handle things by yourself for a few minutes?”

Kaufman nodded vigorously.

As she unstrapped her safety harness, Christopher said, “I’ll send O’Banion up here, in case you need another pair of hands to work the controls.”

The major nodded again, less enthusiastically.

Every muscle in her body seemed to be aching as Colonel Christopher pulled herself out of the seat and took off her heavy, cumbersome flight helmet. Nestling the helmet under one arm, she stepped to the hatch at the rear of the cockpit. Kaufman clutched his control yoke with both hands. The plane was still vibrating, rattling hard enough to make her grab for the rim of the hatch as she went through.

She stepped onto the flight deck and patted Lieutenant Sharmon’s shoulder. “How’re we doing, Jon?”

“On course for Misawa, Colonel. I’ve got their radio beam loud and clear.”

“Good.” Turning to O’Banion, she said, “Brick, go up and sit with Major Kaufman. Don’t touch anything unless he tells you to.”

O’Banion blinked uncertainly but murmured, “Yes, ma’am” and got up from his seat.

Karen dropped her helmet on one of the bunks, then climbed down the ladder and saw Hartunian and the Japanese-American woman sitting side by side in the battle management compartment.

“Good shooting,” she called to them through the open hatch.

Hartunian grinned at her. The woman asked, “What happened to the second fighter?”

“He stayed where his buddy went down. Standard operating procedure. Waiting for a SAR chopper to pick up the man in the water.”

Hartunian asked, “Are they sending out more fighters?”

“Maybe,” Christopher answered with a weary shrug. “Do you have enough fuel to shoot ‘em down?”

He shook his head. “Maybe one or two squirts, not much more. We used up a lot of fuel on that one fighter. Kept bouncing in and out of acquisition.”

Colonel Christopher looked at Hartunian, studied his face for the first time. Soft brown eyes, she noticed. He doesn’t look like a warrior. Not at all.

But she crooked a finger at him and said, “Come on to the galley with me, Mr. Hartunian.”

He looked surprised for a flash of a second, then unstrapped his harness and rose to his feet. The plane bucked slightly and he reached for the console to steady himself.

“We’re not out of the woods yet,” said Colonel Christopher, with a thin smile.

“I guess not,” replied Hartunian shakily.

Once they entered the cramped little galley, Christopher went straight to the coffee urn. There was only half a mugful left, dregs. Still, it was better than nothing. She cradled the mug in both hands.

Turning back to Hartunian, she said, “Now, what about this saboteur?”

The engineer looked surprised. “What about him?”

“We’ve got to find out who he is and why he tried to scratch this mission, Mr. Hartunian.” “Harry.”

Christopher ignored his request for informality as she sipped at her coffee. It was bitter and only lukewarm. And full of grounds. The colonel repeated, “Which one of your people tried to ruin this mission, Mr. Hartunian?”

General Scheib scowled at the blank screen of his laptop. He was getting audio from ABL-1, but no imagery. And now the audio was giving him trouble.

“What do you mean, she’s not available?” he grumbled into his lip mike.

A moment’s hesitation while his demand was relayed through a military communications satellite orbiting some twenty-two thousand miles above the equator.

Then Captain O’Banion’s voice came through the plastic bud that Scheib had jammed in his left ear. “She’s not in the cockpit, sir. She’s taking a break.”

“Did you tell her who’s calling?”

“Yes, sir, I did, sir. She said she’ll call you back shortly, sir.” The young man’s voice sounded clearly troubled.

Scheib clenched his teeth together, then growled, “I want her on this frequency right away, mister. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir!”

From down at the far end of the table, Zuri Coggins watched the grim expression of Scheib’s face. More bad news? she wondered. But the general leaned back in his chair, wormed the bud out of his ear, and simply sat there glaring at his laptop’s blank screen.

General Higgins was at the coffee cart again. Cog-gins glanced at her wristwatch and realized with a shock of surprise that it was after 9:00 p.m. We’ve been in this room for nearly ten hours, she said to herself. The President’s due to start his speech in San Francisco right about now.

The speech had been scheduled for the evening news hour, so that the network and cable TV shows could carry it live. But with all the commercial commsats off the air there could be no coast-to-coast TV coverage. Even radio would be spotty. That nuclear blast in orbit had rattled long-range radio transmission, too. Something about high-energy electrons in the ionosphere.