Ben Bova - Able One

“Like your brother-in-law,” she murmured.

“The chairman is indeed a farsighted statesman. But he must balance the various forces and attitudes that are present in the Central Committee.”

Slowly, State said, “I think I’m beginning to understand.”

Leaning forward slightly, toward her, Quang said, “Today you demonstrated that missile defense is possible. Yes, it was only two missiles, but you proved that they could be stopped. Today could mark a turning point in the global strategic picture.”

The Secretary of State noticed the slight but definite emphasis Quang put on the word “could.”

Trying to hide her exasperation, she asked as sweetly as she was able, “Just what do you mean?”

“Let me be frank, then.”

“By all means. We’re alone here. There are no recording devices.” That was a lie, but an understandable one, she thought. No one would see the transcript of this conversation but herself and her closest aides.

Raising a stumpy index finger, Quang said, “The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea is a rogue nation, we both agree.”

State nodded.

“There are other such rogues in the world. Iran, for one.”

She nodded again.

“The world must be protected against such rogues.”

“And against terrorists,” State added.

“Agreed. Terrorists armed with long-range missiles could plunge the world into nuclear war.”

“Which neither of us wants.”

Now Quang nodded. Vigorously.

Reaching for her chardonnay, State asked, “So what do you propose?”

“The United States is in a position to… suggest, that is the proper word, I believe… suggest an international conference on the subject of missile defense.”

She felt her brows knitting.

Quang went on. “At such a conference the leading governments of the world could come to an agreement that any unauthorized rocket launch anywhere in the world will be shot down by missile defense forces.”

“Unauthorized rocket launch?” State asked. “What do you mean?”

“It is very simple, Madam Secretary. An international commission would be established to send inspectors to examine the payloads of all rocket launches.”

“Like the International Atomic Energy Agency.”

“Just so. But with this difference. Any rocket launch that has not been inspected and approved will be shot down.”

State leaned back against the pillows of the sofa. “But that would mean… we’d have to make our missile defenses available to this international commission.”

“Perhaps. At the very least you would have to pledge that you will act on the commission’s recommendations.”

She put her wineglass down on the coffee table between them before replying. “I don’t know if we could ever get that through Congress.”

“You must! Recognize that now, this very day, Beijing and Moscow and others are moving to create their own missile defense technology. The United States could lead the way by offering to share such technology—under international control.”

State shook her head. “Congress would never go for that.”

With a shrug, Quang said, “Then there will be a new arms race in missile defenses. Far better for the U.S.A. to take the lead on this issue, to show the world how to move away from the threat of missile attack.”

“That’s a very tall order, Mr. Quang.”

“It is the way to end the threat of rogue nations and terrorists using long-range missiles. It is the way to a new stability in the international political situation.”

“Beijing would agree to this?”

“I believe so. What is more important, my brother-in-law believes so.”

The Secretary of State picked up her wineglass again and twirled it in her fingers, her thoughts swirling with the wine. She remembered that the first Limited Nuclear Test Ban Treaty came directly out of the confrontation of the Cuban missile crisis. Maybe we can pull something good, something worthwhile, out of this.

To Quang she said, “I’ll talk to the President about this. I’ll suggest he call your chairman.”

“If you like, I could suggest to my brother-in-law that he call your President.”

“That would be very good. Very good indeed.” And she thought, If I can set up a global missile defense agreement I’d be a shoo-in for the nomination five years from now.

“Left main gear is no-go,” said Major Kaufman. Colonel Christopher saw the red light glaring on the control board. It wasn’t the only one, but it seemed bigger, hotter than all the others.

“Must’ve been shot up when that missile hit number two engine,” Kaufman added.

Christopher nodded, wondering what else was damaged by that missile hit. Deep inside the swirling storm, the plane was shaking badly, shuddering like a palsied old man.

“Jon,” she called into her mike, “how far from the field are we?”

“Eighty-two miles, Colonel.” “Brick, get me the tower.”

A moment’s silence, then, “Tower on freak four, ma’am.”

“Misawa tower here. Report your—”

“ABL-1,” she interrupted. “We’re on final. One engine out and left main gear won’t deploy.”

Karen could hear voices chattering in the background. She remembered the old story about a pilot telling the control tower that his engine was dead and his controls weren’t responding. “What should I do?” the panicked flier asked. And the control tower calmly responded, “Repeat after me: ‘The Lord is my shepherd…’ ”

At last, the voice from the control tower replied coolly, “Abort your final approach and orbit the field until you’ve burned off your fuel.”

“Can’t do it!” Christopher snapped. “We’re damaged. I don’t know how long this bird’ll hold together. I’m going to dump our fuel.”

“Negative. Environmental regulations forbid—”

“Screw the environmental regs! We’re shot up and bouncing around up here like a kid on a trampoline. I’m dumping our fuel and coming in!”

Colonel Christopher clicked off the connection with Misawa and turned to Kaufman. “Open ‘em up, Obie.”

With a grim smile, Kaufman reached for the fuel tank controls. “What about the stuff for the laser? They got anything left in their tanks?”

Harry had decided to let Monk out of the lavatory. The big engineer, his face somewhere between surly and sheepish, sat in the bucket seat next to Wally Rosenberg.

“Strap in good,” Harry said tightly. “It’s going to be a rough landing.”

“Like it ain’t rough already,” Delany muttered.

It was getting even rougher, Harry thought. It was difficult to click his safety harness shut, the plane was stuttering around so badly.

“Hartunian!” The overhead intercom speaker cracked like a rifle shot. “Blow out the fuel in your tanks. Pronto!” Colonel Christopher’s voice.

Harry stared at the speaker grill above him. Then he turned to Wally Rosenberg. “You heard the lady,” he said, unclicking his harness. “Let’s get it done.”

Rosenberg reluctantly got to his feet.

“I’ll go, jefe,” said Angel Reyes, fumbling with his harness.

“Stay here,” Harry said. “Wally and I can do it.”

The plane lurched so badly that Harry jolted into little Taki Nakamura’s lap. Rosenberg banged against the bulkhead.

“Oof!” said Takamura. “Watch it.”

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled. Getting to his feet, he grabbed for Rosenberg’s arm. “C’mon, Wally. Pronto, the lady said.”

Rubbing his shoulder, Rosenberg grumbled, “Of all the gin joints in all the towns—”

“Never mind the wisecracks,” Harry said. “Let’s get the job done.”

“Fuel’s all dumped, Colonel.” Hartunian’s voice sounded over the intercom.