James Morrow - This Is the Way the World Ends

‘Why Antarctica?’

‘A big chunk of real estate, right? Hence, a high warhead-exhaustion factor. Excellent place for a command-and-control center. Looks like the Joint Chiefs thought of everything – I’m a good man with an ICBM, Wengernook knows what we should commit to the European theater, Randstable can probably maintain a decent R and D effort throughout, and Reverend Sparrow will do wonders for our morale. All right, all right, I’ll admit it. We should all just admit it, right? We’re scared. We’ve never done this before. The cheerleader and the quarterback. You must be dousing your drawers, what with your MARCH Plan on the line and everything. I’m a big supporter of MARCH, you know. Over at SAC they called me the MARCH Hare.’

‘ My plan? I don’t have anything to do with the MARCH Plan, General Tarmac. I’d never heard of it until Professor Carter—’

‘Modulated Attacks in Response to Counterforce Hostilities – that’s not your baby?’

‘No.’

‘The SPASM, then. You’re one of the geniuses behind the SPASM.’

‘The SPASM?’

‘Single Plan for Aligning the Services of the Mili… er, what exactly are you doing on this team, Paxton?’

‘Wish I knew. Two weeks ago I signed a really strange scopas suit contract.’

‘Scopas suits? Hell, they don’t work. We ran tests.’

‘I have one that works. In my closet. It didn’t get… where it was supposed to go.’

‘You aren’t in the defense community? You aren’t at Sugar Brook or Lumen or anything?’

‘I inscribe tombstones.’

‘Tombstones?’

‘Lately I’ve been writing the epitaphs.’

‘Epitaphs? I hate to say this, Paxton, but they sure made a mistake evacuating you .’

‘I don’t want to be on the team. I just want to be dead.’

The MARCH Hare could think of no adequate response to this. ‘Dead?’ he said. He rubbed his hand across his hair, each strand of which was as straight and rigid as a sewing needle.

‘Dead?’ he said again. His waist was encircled by a utility belt from which hung an object that looked like a skyrocket. ‘Nice cabin you got here. Mine’s not bad, either. But then, the Navy always did have a sweet tooth, eh? I understand this boat hauls thirty-six E4 Multiprongs, all gassed up and loaded for Russian bear.’

George looked at the sea horse tank, studied the antics of Jennifer, Suzy, Jeremiah, Alfred, and Margaret. The previous day some babies had appeared. He could imagine Holly discovering them. The hallucinated sound of her oooooh’s and ahhhhh’s was like a jagged bronze bell implanted in his skull.

Brat got himself a second cup of coffee, drained it instantly, went for a third. ‘Epitaphs, you said? Hmmm, maybe they expect this fight to last so long we’ll all be needing a few well-chosen words over our heads. In any event, welcome to the show. We’ve got some tough decisions to make. Started your therapy?’

‘No. You?’

‘I suppose so. Mostly we just sit in Dr Valcourt’s cabin and palaver, for which the Navy evidently pays her the going rate. I tell her the main guilt I’ve got comes from not being at SAC when we retaliated.’ He grinned, forced a laugh. ‘Don’t let anybody kid you – our air-launched Javelin missiles are the finest a federal deficit can buy.’ His grin suddenly degenerated. He grabbed his mouth as if to forestall vomit. ‘Hell, I’m scared, Paxton.’

‘I don’t like Dr Valcourt.’

Brat took a deep breath. ‘Yeah, I know, kind of an ice cube, but I do enjoy our sessions. Maybe I’ll end up on the fun side of her pants some day.’ He crushed his Styrofoam cup. Coffee erupted over his fist. ‘Shit, wouldn’t you think they’d give us a few scenarios to mull over? You can be sure the Cossack generals aren’t sitting around in some goddamn submarine.’

Jeremiah Sea Horse and Margaret Sea Horse were kissing. ‘Have you ever noticed that when a four-year-old draws a human face, it’s always smiling?’ George asked. ‘At least, my four-year-old’s faces were always smiling. Her name was Holly.’

‘I’m sorry. War is hell, huh?’ Brat removed the skyrocket from its holster. ‘Jesus Christ – it’s really happening! Just about the most tragical thing a person can conceive of, and it’s… happening! The point is, after you get into one of these failed-deterrence situations, you can’t let the enemy call the shots. In quite a few scenarios – more than you’d think – the victor is the guy who gets off the last strike.’ Brat waved his weapon. ‘It’s small, but it packs a wallop. David and Goliath.’

‘A hand grenade?’

‘Nah, come on, we’re in the age of microtech, Paxton. The Navy may get to piss in gold cups, but turn to your Air Force for the state of the art. This is a one-kiloton man-portable thermonuclear device complete with delivery system. Looks just like—’

‘A toy,’ said George, edging toward the back of his cabin. Indeed, the missile was so toylike that, had Holly been there, she would have used it to send a teddy bear to the moon. ‘I would like you to leave now,’ he said. ‘I feel an attack of survivor’s guilt coming on.’

George spent the next four days in his canopied bed, under silk sheets, wishing for death. He cursed God, but he did not die. His mind wanted no dealings with whatever remained of the world, but his body declined to cooperate. His heart, unmindful of Justine’s fate, kept beating. His kidneys, indifferent to Holly’s absence, continued to filter. His mouth got dry, and he drank. His stomach growled, and was fed. George Paxton cursed God, and he cursed the false adage that time heals all wounds.

The only exercise he got that week came from walking in his sleep.

‘Well, well, who have we here ?’

He was being shaken so vigorously that all his bones seemed about to disconnect. He opened his eyes. Six ensigns filled his field of vision. They became four. The vibrations stopped. Two ensigns – moon-faced, pudgy, not notably distinguishable from each other.

‘To begin with, you should salute us,’ said the first ensign.

‘Quite so,’ said the second.

‘Salute who?’

‘Ensign Cobb,’ said the first.

‘And his cousin, Ensign Peach,’ said the second.

‘Mister Peach, I do believe we are in the presence of George Paxton,’ said Ensign Cobb.

‘Do tell, Mister Cobb. Are you referring to George Paxton of the McMurdo Sound Agreement?’ said Ensign Peach.

‘One and the same,’ said Ensign Cobb.

Ensign Peach lifted a stray thread from the Navy insignia on George’s silk pajamas. ‘Some say we should build slow, inaccurate, invulnerable missiles,’ he said with a sly grin.

‘Thereby allaying Soviet fears that we intend to strike first,’ continued Ensign Cobb.

‘Whereas others say that a force of fast and accurate missiles—’

‘Is a more credible deterrent,’ said Ensign Cobb.

‘Because it does not imply mutual suicide,’ said Ensign Peach.

‘Contrariwise, some say the enemy command-and-control structure must be spared.’

‘So that the war can be brought to a negotiated end.’

‘Whereas others say you must hit command-and-control right away—’

‘So that the enemy will be decapitated and unable to retaliate.’

‘Contrariwise, if it was so, it might be.’

‘And if it were so, it would be.’

‘But as it isn’t, it ain’t.’

‘That’s strategic doctrine.’

‘Salute us, Mister Paxton.’

George fired off an uncertain salute.

‘Sorry,’ said Ensign Peach. ‘Not good enough.’

George saluted again.

‘ Still not right,’ said Ensign Cobb. ‘Looks like we’ll have to put you in a torpedo tube after all.’