more important than the actual number of warheads, those in authority had
decided. And they could always correct it at a later date. They’d deliberately
left the top end of the Russian design intact for that very reason, and for the
moment a total of 10 one-megaton warheads would have to do.
One by one, the individual silos were opened by the support crew, and one
by one the oversized RVs were lifted off the flatcar, set in place, then cov-
ered with their aerodynamic shrouds. Again the Russian design served their
purposes very well indeed. Each such operation took just over an hour,
which allowed the entire procedure to be accomplished in a single night by
the crew of twenty. The silos were resealed, and it was done; their country
was now a nuclear power.
“Amazing,” Goto observed.
“Actually very simple,” Yamata replied. “The government funded the
fabrication and testing of the ‘boosters’ as part of our space program. The
plutonium came from the Monju reactor complex. Designing and building
the warheads was child’s play. If some Arabs can do a crude warhead in a
cave in Lebanon, how hard can it be for our technicians?” In fact, every-
thing but ihc warhead-fabrication process had been government funded in
one way or another, and Yamata was sure that the informal consortium that
had done the latter would be compensated as well. Had they not done it all
for their country? “We will immediately commence training for the Self-
Defense Force personnel to take over from our own people-once you as-
sign them to us for that purpose, Goto-san.”
“But the Americans and the Russians . .. ?”
Yamata snorted. “They are down to one missile each, and those will be
officially blown up this week, as we will all see on television. As you know,
their missile submarines have been deactivated. Their Trident missiles are
already all gone, and the submarines are lined up awaiting dismantlement. A
mere ten working ICBMs give us a marked strategic advantage.”
“But what if they try to build more?”
“They can’t-not very easily,” Yamata corrected himself. “The produc-
tion lines have been closed down, and in accordance with the treaty, the tool-
ing has all been destroyed under international inspection. To start over
would take months, and we would find out very quickly. Our next important
step is to launch a major naval-construction program”-for which Yamata’s
yards were ready-“so that our supremacy in the Western Pacific will be
unassailable. For the moment, with luck and the help of our friends, we will
have enough to see us through. Before they will be able to challenge us, our
strategic position will have improved to the point where they will have to
accept our position and then treat with us as equals.”
“So I must now give the order?”
“Yes, Prime Minister,” Yamata replied, again explaining to the man his
job function.
Goto rubbed his hands together for a moment and looked down at the or-
nate desk so newly his. Ever the weak man, he temporized. “It is true, my
Kimba was a drug addict?”
Yamata nodded soberly, inwardly enraged at the remark. “Very sad, is it
not? My own chief of security, Kaneda, found her dead and called the police.
It seems that she was very careful about it, but not careful enough.”
Goto sighed quietly. “Foolish child. Her father is a policeman, you know.
A very stern man, she said. He didn’t understand her. I did,” Goto said.
“She was a kind, gentle spirit. She would have made a fine geisha.”
It was amazing how people transformed in death, Yamata thought coldly.
That foolish, shameless girl had defied her parents and tried to make her own
way in the world, only to find that the world was not tolerant of the unpre-
pared. But because she’d had the ability to give Goto the illusion that he was
a man, now she was a kind and gentle spirit.
“Goto-san, can we allow the fate of our nation to be decided by people
like that?”
‘ ‘No.” The new Prime Minister lifted his phone. He had to consult a sheet
on his desk for the proper number. “Climb Mount Niitaka,” he said when
the connection was made, repeating an order that had been given more than
fifty years earlier.
In many ways the plane was singular, but in others quite ordinary. The VC-
256 was in fact the Air Force’s version of the venerable Boeing 747 airliner.
A craft with fully thirty years of history in its design, and still in serial pro-
duction at the plant outside Seattle, it was painted in colors that had been
chosen by a politically selected decorator to give the proper impression to
foreign countries, whatever that was. Sitting alone on the concrete ramp, it
was surrounded by uniformed security personnel “with authorization,” in
the dry Pentagonese, to use their Mi6 rifles far more readily than uniformed
guards at most other federal installations. It was a more polite way of saying,
“Shoot first and ask questions later.”
There was no jetway. People had to climb stairs into the aircraft, just as in
the 195os, but there was still a metal detector, and you still had to check your
baggage-this time to Air Force and Secret Service personnel who X-rayed
everything and opened much of it for visual inspection.
“I hope you left your Victoria’s Secret stuff at home,” Jack observed
with a chuckle as he hoisted the last bag on the counter.
“You’ll find out when we get to Moscow,” Professor Ryan replied with
an impish wink. It was her first state trip, and everything at Andrews Air
Force Base was new for her.
“Hello, Dr. Ryan! We finally meet.” Helen D’Agustino came over and
extended her hand.
“Cathy, this is the world’s prettiest bodyguard,” Jack said, introducing
the Secret Service agent to his wife.
“I couldn’t make the last state dinner,” Cathy explained. “There was a
seminar up at Harvard.”
“Well, this trip ought to be pretty exciting,” the Secret Service agent
said, taking her leave smoothly to continue her duties.
Not as exciting as my last one, Jack thought, remembering another story
that he couldn’t relate to anyone.
“Where’s she keep her gun?” Cathy asked.
‘ ‘I’ve never searched her for it, honey,” Jack said with a wink of his own.
“Do we go aboard now?”
‘ ‘I can go aboard whenever I want,” her husband replied. ‘ ‘Color me im-
portant.” So much the better to board early and show her around, he de-
cided, heading her toward the door. Designed to carry upwards of three
hundred passengers in its civilian incarnation, the President’s personal 747
(there was another backup aircraft, of course) was outfitted to hold a third of
that number in stately comfort. Jack first showed his wife where they would
be sitting, explaining that the pecking order was very clear. The closer you
were to the front of the aircraft, the more important you were. The Presi-
dent’s accommodations were in the nose, where two couches loukl convert
into beds. The Ryans and the van Damms would be in the next area, twenty
feet or so aft in a space that could seat eight, but only live in iliis case. Join-
ing them would be the President’s Director of Communications, a harried
and usually frantic former TV executive named Tish Brown, recently di-
vorced. Lesser staff members were sorted aft in diminishing importance
until you got to the media, deemed less important still.
“This is the kitchen?” Cathy asked.
“Galley,” Jack corrected. It was impressive, as were the meals prepared
here, actually cooked from fresh ingredients and not reheated as was the way
on airliners.
“It’s bigger than ours!” she observed, to the amused pleasure of the chief
cook, an Air Force master sergeant.
“Not quite, but the chef’s better, aren’t you, Sarge?”
“I’ll turn my back now. You can slug him, ma’am. I won’t tell.”
Cathy merely laughed at the jibe. “Why isn’t he upstairs in the lounge?”
“That’s almost all communications gear. The President likes to wander
up there to talk to the crew, but the guys who live there are mainly cryp-
pies.”
“Cryppies?”
“Communications guys,” Jack explained, leading his wife back to their
seats. The seats were beige leather, extra wide and extra soft, with recently
added swing-up TV screens, personal phones, and other features which
Cathy started to catalog, down to the presidential seal on the belt-buckles.
“Now I know what first-class really means.”
“It’s still an eleven-hour flight, babe,” Jack observed, settling in while
others boarded. With luck he’d be able to sleep most of the way.
The President’s televised departure statement followed its own pattern. The
microphone was always set up so that Air Force One loomed in the back-
ground, to remind everyone of who he was and to prove it by showing his
personal plane. Roy Newton watched more for timing than anything else.