The seventh number-- the status of New York City-- suddenly jumped from zero to nine.
Remo pointed at it. "What's that mean?"
"It means we've all just been destroyed by a nuclear attack," Pamela said.
"It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be," Remo said. "I don't feel anything."
"There's got to be an error here. Nine means complete annihilation," she said.
"So it's wrong," Remo said. "So much for this stupid machine."
The third and fourth numbers on the screen began changing.
"What does that mean?" Remo asked.
"That means the Strategic Air Command has gotten a report of this false attack and they're checking."
The third number returned to zero.
Remo said, "That means they checked it out and there's nothing to worry about."
Pamela nodded. "But look at the fourth number," she said.
It was a nine.
"What does that mean?" Remo said.
"It means that somewhere in the United States there's a missile battery and it believes all of us have been destroyed. It's probably going to fire its missiles at the Russians." She turned from the screen and looked at Remo. "I do believe World War III has begun."
"What a pain in the ass," Remo said.
But Pamela Thrushwell didn't hear him. She thought of Liverpool, her native Liverpool, and the English countryside going up in a nuclear holocaust. She thought of tens of millions of people dying, and then, in what was perhaps an instinctive British reaction to massive warfare, she reached for Remo's pants.
Lieutenant Colonel Armbrewster Naismith had been on duty in his missile bunker since exactly eight A.M. when he had parked one of his two Mercedeses in front of the battery headquarters.
It was about noon when he was asked to destroy everything in Russia east of Moscow and west of Vladivostok. He could do this by turning a key. He would turn one key and his executive officer would turn another separate key, and then he would wait for final approval, and then he would press a button.
"Quite a realistic alert," Naismith said.
"No alert," his executive officer said. "New York has been destroyed. Total annihilation."
"I hope it's not serious," Naismith said.
"Sir?" said the exec.
"Well, we don't know that it's war. We don't know that."
"It's Bravo Red," the exec said. "We've got to key in."
"We don't have to rush into things," Naismith said.
"It calls for an immediate response, sir," the executive officer said. "We have to activate everything."
"I know that, dammit. I'm the commanding officer."
"Then what are you waiting for?"
"I'm not waiting. I want to make sure we give a proper response. All right, New York is gone. That's a tragedy certainly. But is it an act of war? I mean, maybe our response will be a grain embargo. Maybe we won't go to the Olympics. We don't know. We don't run things. So we've lost New York. Lots of countries have lost cities. We don't have to be rash about it. We can always send a stern note of disagreement."
"I think it's gone beyond that, sir," said the executive officer. "I've got my key. I see the command. I see your key. My key is in and I can't turn it until yours turns too, sir."
"I am not here because I run off half cocked," Naismith said stiffly. "I have a responsible position and I intend to perform my duties."
"The command is to key-insert," the exec said.
"I see that."
"Well?"
"I'm doing it. So, I'm doing it."
Lieutenant Colonel Naismith took the key from the chain around his neck and inserted it into the slot. He looked at the green screen. The missile bunker felt crowded now, crowded and hot. New York had been destroyed. Boston had gone up. Atlanta was in flames. Bravo Red flashed again on the screen and began blinking.
Then a new message appeared on the screen.
It warned that if Naismith didn't turn his key immediately, the bunker would be declared in violation of orders. And thus the real horror of military service stared Armbrewster Naismith right square in the face: if America should survive a nuclear war, he would face life without a pension.
And possibly worse.
Naismith wanted to run out of the bunker, get into his Mercedes, and drive away, possibly to an airport, perhaps to his winter condo in the Caribbean.
The code-violation warning blinked again on the screen. The executive officer was about to withdraw his key and code back to SAC headquarters that the bunker was inactive because of personnel problems. Suddenly, Naismith inserted his key and turned.
The missile battery was operational. Naismith smiled weakly. His crew looked up at him from their stations. His executive officer stared suspiciously.
"That was an awful long time, sir."
"I didn't want to rush into things."
"Yes sir," said the exec, but he made a note in his log that the colonel should be given another Psych-Seven, the basic week-long psychological test for missile men to weed out anything but the basic vanilla. "Basic vanilla" was the slang phrase given to the correct character profile for an officer in a missile battery. First, he should not be the kind to panic. Second, he should not be the kind to panic. Third, he should not be the kind to panic.
The other seven requirements were identical. The ideal missile officer was the sort of man who at the end of the world would make sure the front door was locked. They had happy marriages, modest bank accounts, neat homes, a two-year-old American car they repaired themselves, 2.10 children, no drinking or eating problems, and most quit smoking when the surgeon general's report came out.
Of Ambrewster Naismith, it had been said he not only would lock the front door at the end of the world, but would file away the key in case the human race ever got started again.
In brief, he was not someone who would delay arming his missiles for firing. He was not someone who would be trembling while he waited for the command to fire.