"Alas, no. Not at this time."
"What, then?"
"Imagine one of your engines hurtling to the United States."
"I do not need to imagine it. I have been doing it all day. So far, I have squandered millions of dollars to assassinate an American evangelist and a dairy cow."
"Imagine that same engine hurtling to America, its boiler containing a large quantity of nerve gas."
"Gas! Gas! Of course. Why did I not think of such a thing? Gas. It is better than a nuclear weapon. Even the people on ground zero suffer instead of being obliterated in a painless flash. With gas, I could strike anywhere in Washington and it would not matter. All would die."
"I can supply two chemicals. Each by itself is relatively harmless. But when combined, they create the most lethal chemical agent known."
"Yes, yes. Tell me more."
"It will be very expensive."
"I will pay whatever you ask."
"'Those words are music to my ears, Friend Colonel."
In his office, General Martin S. Leiber strode over to his file cabinet. He opened the first drawer, flipped through the file folders until he got to the letter G, and reached in. He pulled his old service .45 out of the G folder. He returned to his desk and checked the clip. It was full. A full clip was not necessary. All he would need was one bullet to blow his brains out.
General Leiber saw no other option. The Joint Chiefs were about to blow his cover to the President. The President was hollering for action. His other people had failed him, he said.
What could General Leiber tell his President that he knew who was selling the locomotives to the enemy? That the seller was a business friend of the general's? That General Leiber, in fact, had sold this associate the very carbon-carbon that had coated the KKV that had pulverized part of New York City?
No. No way was General Leiber going to do that. He would not suffer the indignity of court-martial, of the stockade. Hell, they might stand him in front of a firing squad. After all, a thousand people were already dead.
The way General Leiber saw it, he had no way out but to face the business end of the .45.
He clasped his hands in front of his bent forehead, muttered a few rusty prayers, and as a last gesture to the thing he held dear, kissed the brass stars on his steel combat helmet and placed it on his head.
Then he picked up the pistol and shoved it in his mouth.
The phone rang. Too late, he thought.
But the lure of the instrument that had made him a success was too great. He picked it up and announced his name in a croaking voice.
"Greetings, General Leiber."
"Friend. Er, what do you want?"
"I have been reconsidering. I might be ready to meet with you."
General Leiber let the automatic drop.
"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. Now, where and when? I can leave right away."
"Not just yet. I would not consider violating a corporate rule without something in return."
"Name it. Anything."
"I need nerve gas. Perhaps seven hundred liquid gallons of it."
"Nerve ... Oh, God."
"General, are you still there?"
"Yes." The answer was a whisper.
"Can you deliver?"
"Yes. You want nerve gas, you get nerve gas. I'll deliver it personally."
"Not necessary. I will provide a transshipment point. Send it there. I will handle it from there."
"Done. When can we meet?"
"When the cargo reaches its ultimate destination."
"I'll await your callback," said Leiber, hanging up.
He got to his feet. Fate had offered him a second chance. He knew what Friend had meant: when the nerve gas reached its ultimate destination. He meant its target. General Leiber knew that the rain of terror was escalating. And dammit, he wasn't going to chicken out of the fight now.
Not when fate had handed him a way to get directly to the origin of the intercontinental ballistic locomotives. And screw Friend and his crap about a meeting. The bastard might never deliver.
Getting the nerve gas was a snap. The Pentagon had tons of it stockpiled. And General Leiber had sent a thousand sergeants a bottle of Scotch each Christmas for just such a need as this. The stuff was already in transit when Friend called back with the shipment information.
Then General Leiber strapped on his automatic, and, giving his telephone a final contemptuous glance, strode out of his office.
From now on, he was going to act like a real soldier. An InterFriend corporate plane picked up the three coffin-shaped containers in Canada. They were waiting in a deserted airfield exactly as the instructions said.
"That's funny," the pilot said. "What?"
"I see three boxes. There were supposed to be only two. "
"Should I load them or not?"
The pilot shrugged. A shortage would have been a problem. Overage was fine. "Load them," he ordered. As the crewman shoved the third box into the cargo bay, it smashed against the plane wall.
"Careful! Who knows what's inside those things."
In the third box, General Martin S. Leiber allowed himself to breathe again. They had not opened any of the boxes. He was on his way. He prayed for a short trip. He had spent so much time driving the nerve-gas components here that he had forgotten to pick up food for the trip. And he was already hungry.
When word came in on line one that the pickup had been made, Friend arranged to purchase a gas-mask supply house on line three. He then purchased all available stock in public-health-maintenance organizations. He expected to make a windfall when the first gas-laden locomotive came down.