Alexis Gilliland - The Third Wave

Illustration by Vincent Di Fate

The intercom came to life. “Mister de la Haye to see you, sir,” said the receptionist, as the secretary of the Navy walked in on the heels of the announcement with a young fellow in tow. Rear Admiral Fontaine, a tall lean man with dark circles under his eyes, stood up and came out from behind his desk to meet his boss half way.

“Always good to see you, chief,” he said. “How did the hearings go this morning?”

The secretary of the Navy shrugged. From his demeanor, he was not a happy camper. “It’s been one of those days, Henry. Ah went down to tell the committee that we need to deploy at least a squadron of nuclear warheads in lunar orbit to protect Earth from collision with comets and asteroids—or planetesimals as the staff wants to call ’em.”

Nuclear warheads in lunar orbit? Fontaine winced. “Uh, I hope that was vehicles in orbit, warheads on Earth, chief?”

“Oh, hell yes, that’s what I said to those people: We anticipate being in full compliance with the Geneva Convention, yes, indeed. For a supporting argument, I had some truly elegant graphics to show. Really neat stuff that actually went down 65,000,000 years ago, superimposed on today’s landscape.”

Fontaine nodded. His office had contracted out for them.

“Beautiful graphics, which ought to have been persuasive for the pitiful puny piddling program which those bean-counting scum-sucking liberal esso-bees have reduced us to, but no, the senator from Utah tells me that the latest survey of planetesimals crossing Earth’s orbit shows positively no collisions for the next 250 years.”

“Dilberg got the number wrong,” Fontaine told him. “That’s 2,500 years.”

De la Haye eased himself into one of the chairs. “You’re almost as much help as he was, Henry. So I says, yes, for the rocks, maybe, but what about the comets, what about them?”

“What about them comets, chief?”

“Dilberg’s staff had dug up some neat graphics of their own, of course. You spot one of those suckers coming in, you send out a fleet of little robots with little dinky solar sails, maybe two or three acres each is all, and two or three of them latch on to the comet and reflect sunlight to steer the poor darling out of harm’s way with jets of gas and whatever.”

That would be the Japanese version of the Yelton plan, thought Fontaine. Technically elegant, but I don’t think old Delay is in the mood to listen up on the subject. “The committee bought it?”

A slow nod. “We waltzed that one around a few times, but I could see those poor bastards going for the cheap. The Cis Lunar Missile Defense Protocol may not be totally down the tubes, but without nukes, no comet is going to take them seriously.”

“Too bad,” said Fontaine. Operation Clamdip had always been problematical, of course, but that was no skin off his nose. “What brings you here?”

“A helicopter,” de la Haye said, his soft southern accent thickening, “Mah boss, the secretary of defense, arranged foah me to ride back with him out of the goodness of his heart. That good and kindly man is doing the secretary of state a favor by finding a slot for this young fellah, heah He removed his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. “ And he prevailed upon me by the force of sweet reason to see things his way.Admiral Fontaine, this is Doctor Turi John Ramos. Turi John, this is Rear Admiral Henry B. Fontaine.” The two shook hands with pro forma expressions of pleasure. “Ah expect you can find him a place in your shop with no trouble at all, at all; y’all were looking to fill a vacancy, right?”

We had a vacancy, at any rate, thought Fontaine resignedly. Well, cooperate with the inevitable. “A mission-connected slot, sir,” he replied, hoping to inspire feelings of guilt. “If I may ask, how come we’re being gifted with such a handsome and talented young man?”

De la Haye shrugged. “When Ah asked mah boss why, all he tole me was that ‘it was politically unseemly for a member of UNNDC to lobby for the repeal of the Geneva Convention.’ Now lissen, Ah’m running late, but why don’t the two of you set down and make yourselves acquainted? Ah’m sure things will work out jes’ fine once the boy gets settled in. They shook hands all around, and the secretary of the Navy left. Fontaine resumed his place behind the desk, and motioned for Turi John to seat himself.

“You want to tell me about it, Doctor Ramos?”

Turi John Ramos, a thirty-something set piece out of Gentleman ’s Quarterly , crossed his legs and smiled politely, showing beautiful white caps on his teeth. “I’d be delighted, sir. How much detail do you want?”

“There was a time when I commanded a nuclear submarine and ate details for breakfast,” the admiral shook his head. “But not now, not a half hour before lunch. Just give me an inkling so I have some idea of what ought to be done with you.”

“Yes sir,” replied Turi John. “My resume, when it works its way up to your desk, will tell you that I took a bachelor and master of fine arts from the Chicago Art Institute, but I’m not an artist, and a couple of law degrees from the University of Chicago, but I’m not a lawyer, either. The senator found me a place with the Institute for Nuclear Disarmament, where I was an intern for a couple of years, and a fellow for a couple more. Then I went over to the UNNDC, the UN’s Nuclear Disarmament Commission.”

The admiral brushed one hand over his white hair. Focus on what is essential, he reminded himself. “The senator?”

“My mother’s sister is married to Senator Metcalfe.”

The good old boy from Texas that heads up the Appropriations Committee, thought Fontaine resignedly. Well, I’ll be retiring in eleven months and nine days, and no way am I going to let this well-connected fop make me break a sweat. “So we may be doing the secretary of state a favor, more than likely. How did you get in trouble over at the UN?”

Turi John smiled and adjusted his Gucci silk cravat. “I wound up on the Plutonium Disposal Study Group. Nasty stuff, plutonium. Nobody wants it loose in the environment, and rightly so. Try to burn it up in power reactors, and it makes so much economic sense to breed more of the stuff that nobody is willing to even try it. When I was there, we couldn’t even get studies funded. The best, the cleanest method was to put the world’s inventory of plutonium in orbit and give it a few pushes so that it falls into the Sun.”

“I remember,” said the admiral. “Once the UN went public to get approval for the idea, old Jeremy Rifkin came tottering out of his nursing home to warn congress that the Sun might go nova, and the son of a bitch dropped dead in the middle of the damned hearing. After that, nobody could convince the American public to go with the idea, and if we wouldn’t go with it, neither would anyone else.”

“Exactly, sir. The whole issue is driven by irrational fear. On the other hand, with all the political instability around the world, it isn’t safe to leave the stuff sitting around, and people know that too. The question is, can rational fear triumph over irrational fear?”

Do I hear a well rehearsed opening gambit? “Any fear can paralyze action,” Fontaine replied mournfully, “if you need people to move, sweet reason will start them taking teeny tiny baby steps. Sweet reason will not persuade them to take a great, dramatic leap.”