"No," the President said firmly. "Even if I could agree with you, I won't do it. Not on my first day in office. It would set a bad precedent."
"It's your decision, sir."
"You'll continue your search for the aggressor nation. In the meantime, I want a complete briefing on the KKV threat. What exactly are they and what do they do?"
"Well," said General Martin S. Leiber, steeling himself, "I kinda figured you were going to ask me that, so, I took the liberty of having a prototype model constructed."
"Good," said the President. "Let me see it."
General Leiber stood up and set the paper-wrapped model on the President's gleaming desk. He took a deep breath. He started to tear off the wrapping. He hoped the President had a sense of humor.
General Leiber never found out, because before the KKV model was exposed, Secret Service agents burst into the room.
"What is it?" the President asked fearfully.
"I'm sorry, Mr. President. NORAD has picked up another bird heading this way. Come with us."
"General, follow me," the President said, hurrying from the room.
Clutching the model, General Leiber trotted after the President, his eyes wide in fear. Other agents converged on the special elevator, the First Lady running whitefaced between them.
"General," the President said from the open elevator, "I want you down there with me."
General Leiber hesitated. A Secret Service agent yanked him aboard. The cage sank. It ran very fast.
"Can you manage your people from my phones?"
"Yes, sir. Most of my best work is done over the phone."
"Good. Let's hope that someone survives to take your calls."
"Yes, sir," said General Leiber, hiding the paper-wrapped model behind his back. No way was he going to let the President see it now. Down under bedrock, there would be no place to hide. Who knew, the President might even declare martial law and stand him before a firing squad. There was no telling what a civilian would do in a crisis situation. They were all crazy.
Chapter 11
This time, NORAD's BMEWS radar station at Fylingsdale, England, picked up the object shortly after launch.
The Air Force general designated CINCNORAD considered this a vindication of the Spacetrack system, which was a series of satellite and ground stations so sophisticated that they could detect a soccer ball over the British Isles.
"Excellent," he said as he moved between the consoles at the main command post deep within the hollows of Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. The lights were dim. The greenish backglow of the radar screen created a sickly atmosphere. Except for the scurrying uniformed personnel and the giant wall displays, the command post might have been a small brokerage office.
"Sir, we've computed a trajectory that will deposit the hostile in the vicinity of Washington." There was a note in the status officer's voice that begged a question.
"We might not be able to save Washington, but we're sure going to know where it came from," CINCNORAD assured him.
"I'm not certain of that, sir,." ..What?"
"We picked it up at apogee."
"What do the computers say?"
"It's an unknown, sir. The computers can't identify."
"Damn," said the general fervently. He yearned for the old days before all this computer horseshit. Back in the days of the 440-L radar system, status officers were worth something. They were trained to read the radar signatures bouncing off the ionosphere. A top man could tell from the squiggle whether he was dealing with an SS-18 or an SS-N-8. Nowadays, if the software couldn't recognize it, they all sat there and chewed their cuds.
"Why didn't the system pick it up at liftoff?"
"I think because it went up too fast to get a reading."
"Too fast! What the hell could be faster than a missile at launch?"
"This thing is, sir," returned the status officer.
The general stared at the huge overhead situation display. The hostile was shown as a code-tagged green triangle dropping onto a wire-frame simulation of the earth's surface. The projected impact point-indicated by a green letter I-was Washington, D. C. In all the simulated drills the general had ever taken part in, nothing had moved as fast as this object.
"If we have an impact fix," the general said confidently, "we gotta have a launch point."
"No, sir. Just a broad area of probability."
"What? Where? What area?"
"Africa, sir."
"Damn. Where in Africa?"
"That's it. Africa. "
"Why the hell can't the blasted computer pinpoint better than that?"
"Because, sir, the object appears to be tumbling. Its course is erratic. See, the impact site keeps shifting." The general looked. On the overhead screen, the I-for-Impact symbol kept jumping. One moment, it was D.C. Then it was over in Virginia. Then it was in Maryland. "Dammit, we've got to do better than this. If we lose Washington, we must repeat, must-retaliate. We can't nuke the whole of Africa."
"I'm sorry, sir. The system has never encountered anything like this."
And then all eyes turned to the overhead screen. The green coded triangle descended upon the Washington area and merged with the impact symbol.
The two symbols flared and died like a faraway candle burning out. A hush fell over the room:
"Maybe the satellite photos will tell us something," the general muttered weakly.
The first photos were beamed down from an orbiting KH-11 reconnaissance satellite. A uniformed clerk handed the initial batch to the general without comment. He started to walk away hurriedly.
The general flipped through the first several photos. They were high-resolution images, of unusual clarity, and showed the European and African landmasses. The bottom photos had been taken over water. The Atlantic. The general noticed a dark lump like a beetle on one of them. It floated over wrinkled water. He turned to the next photo. The object was there, only bigger. It was not distinguishable. But the third and final photo showed the object clearly.
"Clerk!" the general yelled. Every status officer in the complex jumped at his station.
The clerk came back. His expression was sheepish. "What the hell is this?" The general screamed, waving the bottom photo in the clerk's reddening face.