Ben Bova: Able One

The rear door opened and Michael Jamil stepped in, looking apologetic. All eyes around the oblong conference table turned to him.

“Sorry to be late,” he said, his voice soft, contrite. “They held me up at the security checkpoint outside.”

Jamil, a civilian analyst from the National Intelligence Council, was in a suede sports jacket and baggy, creaseless chinos. No tie, but a sleeveless V-neck yellow sweater beneath the jacket. He slid into an empty seat at the foot of the conference table, glancing at the displays on the smart screens that lined three of the room’s four walls. The images showed a satellite view of the missile launching site in the rugged mountains of North Korea, an electronic map of the North Pacific Ocean with each U.S. Navy surface vessel and submarine highlighted by a pinpoint light, and other satellite pictures of Air Force bases in Alaska, Okinawa, and Japan.

Jamil was of medium height, spare of build, his face fringed with a neatly trimmed light brown beard. His skin was the color of tobacco leaf, although he had never smoked in his life. He brushed at a lock of sandy hair that stubbornly fell across his high forehead and nervously adjusted his tinted eyeglasses. His eyes were caramel brown. He felt very junior to this assemblage of uniformed brass and high-powered civilians, even though he was convinced that he knew more about the situation than most of them did.

“Are we all here now?” General Higgins asked, his tone biting, his fleshy face clearly displeased.

His aide, an Air Force major sitting on his left, replied, “The representative from the Chief of Naval Operations is on his way, sir. And the chief of the Homeland Security office at Honolulu was going to attend via a satellite link, but the link isn’t operative this morning.”

Higgins grumbled, “Which is why we’re here, isn’t it?”

Zuri Coggins said, “The President and the National Security Advisor have both instructed me to assure you that any and all resources you may need will be made available.” She peered down the table toward Major General Bradley Scheib.

Brad Scheib gave the impression of being a dashing sky warrior in his crisp blue uniform with its chest full of ribbons, and his handsome, chiseled features. In reality he was more of a tech geek than a jet jock. A graduate of Caltech, Scheib had spent more of his career in laboratories than cockpits.

“What about it, Brad?” General Higgins asked. “Is your missile defense system up and running?”

With a curt nod, Scheib answered, “We’ve activated all our ABM units in Fort Greely, in Alaska, and at Vandenberg Air Force Base. The Navy has alerted all four of its Aegis battle groups in the western Pacific. Two of them are steaming at full speed for the Sea of Japan; the other two are deploying between Japan and Hawaii.”

“There’s only two missiles to worry about,” one of the civilians on the other side of the table said, pointing to the satellite image of the North Korean launch site.

“Two that we know about,” Scheib replied.

“How many do the Chinese have?” an Army officer asked.

“And the Russians?”

“They both have missile-launching submarines, too.”

Zuri Coggins said, “The President has decided that our moves will be strictly defensive.” Poking at the air with one finger to emphasize her words, she added, “We will not do anything that could provoke a Chinese response. Or a Russian one.”

“But they’ve both gone on alert, haven’t they?” asked the admiral sitting across the table from her.

“Not yet,” Coggins replied, “although the State Department was tasked with informing them that our own nuclear retaliatory forces are being placed on full alert.”

“State Department,” the admiral muttered distastefully.

General Higgins looked toward one of the civilians sitting down the table from Coggins. “Are our snooper satellites still working?”

“They are,” said the civilian. “ELINT birds have picked up coded messages sent along landlines in China and Russia.” Glancing at Coggins, he continued. “They are in the process of putting their missile forces on full alert.”

Higgins nodded morosely, as if he had expected nothing less.

“Pakistan and India, too,” the civilian added.

“Sweet Jesus,” said the admiral. “That’s all we need, those two pulling the trigger.”

“What about the Iranians?” Higgins asked.

“They’ve only got a half dozen missiles.”

“Guess where they’ll fire them?” asked Higgins’ aide, who was Jewish.

“What if the Chinese or the Russians take advantage of this situation to attack us?” Higgins snapped.

Coggins replied firmly, “That will trigger a fullscale retaliation by our missile forces and both the Chinese and Russians know it. What’s more, they know that our systems are on full alert. We could respond with a devastating nuclear counterstrike at a moment’s notice.”

“Even if the President is dead?” Jamil asked. His voice was soft, tentative, as if he’d surprised himself by speaking up.

Everyone turned to him. Her dark eyes narrowing, Coggins demanded, “What do you mean by that?”

Suddenly the focus of everyone around the table, Jamil blinked his brown eyes nervously and pawed at his unruly hair. At last he said, “Well, the President is scheduled to give a speech in San Francisco tonight.”

General Scheib pointed to the wall screen with one hand as he pecked with a single finger at his laptop’s keyboard. A schematic drawing of a ballistic missile appeared on the screen, with a list of performance specifications alongside it.

“Those two missiles are Taepodong-2s,” Scheib said. “They don’t have the range to reach San Francisco. Or the reliability. The last time they fired one it splashed into the Pacific several hundred miles short of Hawaii.”

Jamil had to turn in his chair to see the drawing. “According to our information,” he said, “the Taepodong-2 has a range of ten thousand kilometers.”

“That’s Pyongyang propaganda. In the real world, the Taepodong-2 doesn’t have the range to reach San Francisco.”

“I admit that San Francisco is at the extreme fringe of the missile’s capability.” Jamil’s tone was conciliatory, yet he was clearly contradicting the general.

Scheib glared at the civilian analyst. “Even so, the missile doesn’t have the accuracy to hit San Francisco, not at that range.”

Jamil nodded slightly but countered, “Yet they launched a bird into geosynchronous orbit. General, I submit that their guidance system has demonstrated a sophisticated degree of accuracy.”

“You can submit whatever you want,” Scheib retorted with a humorless grin. “They can’t reach San Francisco.”

General Higgins pointed down the table at Jamil. “Are you saying those two missiles could hit San Francisco?”

“It’s within the realm of possibility,” Jamil replied.

Shaking his head vigorously, General Scheib insisted, “They’re Taepodong-2s! They don’t have the range. Or the accuracy.”

“Then how did they get a nuclear warhead all the way up to geosynch orbit?” Jamil asked. “If you do the math, you can see that they do indeed have the capability.”

“For Chrissakes, we can see the missiles on their pads,” Scheib retorted. “We can count the solid rocket units they’ve strapped onto their first stages. They don’t have the range to reach San Francisco.”

“But if you do the math—”

“Screw the math,” Scheib snapped. “We’ve got satellite imagery.”

Zuri Coggins looked from Scheib to Jamil. “Do you seriously believe that those missiles could hit San Francisco?”

“It’s theoretically possible, if their payloads are light enough.”