"Will do, Major."
At GEODSS headquarters, secure international phone lines were worked until the word came back.
"Finland has it, Major. The picture is coming in now."
GEODSS had its own giant screen, and the feed displayed the mysterious orbital object as it shifted over the Atlantic.
"Will it pass over the continental U.S.?" the GEODES major barked.
A technician shook his head. "Not this orbit. But on the next, for sure."
"How long?"
"Give it ninety minutes."
"I gotta tell the President," said the GEODES major, grabbing another dedicated line whose plastic contours felt slick under his perspiring palm.
THE CALL FROM GEODSS did not go directly to the White House. It had to go through channels. After twenty minutes, an Air Force general at the Pentagon told the secretary of the air force, who called the secretary of defense, who took the intelligence to the President personally. Getting through District of Columbia traffic ate another twenty precious minutes.
The President sat heavily in his chair in the Oval Office at the end of the defense secretary's grim recitation.
"Will it pass over Washington?" he croaked.
"It can."
"Do we know what it is yet?"
"No. It's just a dark ball. But in its present orbital orientation, we can see only the Earth-facing side of it."
"We're going to have to shoot it down," said the President. "We can't wait for it to strike again. We have to shoot it down."
"We can't," snapped the secretary of defense.
"What do you mean, can't?"
"Not without starting a war with the Russians."
"If it's a Russian satellite, the war has already started."
"We don't know that."
"If it's not Russian, then why should they care?"
The secretary of defense wore the face of a man who has discovered himself trapped in an inescapable box.
"The technology exists. We have an antisatellite missile that can be rigged up for launching from a high-flying F-15. Or maybe it's an F-16. We just have to attach a special launch rack. But deployment of weapons in space is specifically prohibited by the START treaty. "
"It is?"
"Absolutely. The Russians are cosignatories on that treaty. If we violate it, all of space may be militarized. And given the shifting geopolitical sands over there, don't think there aren't a pack of Kremlin hard-liners only too happy to start a new arms race in space."
"Maybe that's it," the President breathed.
"Sir?"
"Maybe they want to provoke us into attacking this doomsday satellite. To get us to violate START so they can militarize space."
"It's a theory ...."
The President took his graying head in his hands and hung it in agony. "All we have is theories. And the doomsday clock is ticking. What if they're out to attack Washington?"
"If they are, we're sitting ducks here. There's no defense except a preemptive strike." The secretary of defense paused and in a voice made thick by controlled emotion, asked, "Mr. President, are you ordering such a strike at this time?"
The President of the United States stared at his own dazed reflection in the desk surface a very long time before he opened his mouth to answer.
IN Moscow, Major-General Iyona Stankevitch of the FSK put down his third glass of vodka and buzzed his secretary.
"Bring me the Cosmic Secret file. At once."
Then he downed another stiff belt. He intended to drink all the vodka possible in the few short hours he and the world had left to enjoy.
Chapter 37
LaGuardia wouldn't take the Yak-90. Nor would Kennedy International Airport.
"Divert to Boston," Remo told the nervous Russian pilot.
"We have barely the fuel to make it to Boston," he protested.
"Perfect."
"Why is that perfect, crazy one?"
"Once you tell them we're out of fuel, they've gotta let us land," explained Remo.
"They could force us to circle until we crash."
"You're thinking of the Russian response. This is America."
Over Logan International Airport, they orbited for what seemed to be an eternity.
"Look Remo, there is our home!" Chiun squeaked.
Remo looked out the window. Below, Quincy Bay sat gray and flat under overcast skies.
"I don't see it," said Remo, not really wanting to.