“Jesus, sir,” the chief said belatedly.
“Not quite. Thanks for the smoke.” Two more steps and he was behind a guy with silver EAGLEs on his collar. That would be the captain of USS Gettysburg. Ryan took a long and comforting drag on the smoke.
“God damn it! There’s no smoking in my CIC!” the captain snarled.
“Good evening, Captain,” Ryan replied. “I think at this moment we have a ballistic warhead inbound on Washington, presumably with a thermonuclear device inside. Can we set aside your concerns about secondhand smoke for a moment?”
Captain Blandy turned around and looked up. His mouth opened as wide as a U.S. Navy ashtray. “How—who—what?”
“Captain, let’s ride this one out together, shall we?”
“Captain Blandy, sir,” the man said, snapping to his feet.
“Jack Ryan, Captain.” Ryan shook his hand and bade him sit back down. “What’s happening now?”
“Sir, the NMCC tells us that there’s a ballistic inbound for the
East Coast. I’ve got the ship at battle stations. Radar’s up. Chip inserted?” he asked.
“The chip is in, sir,” Senior Chief Leek confirmed.
“Chip?”
“Just our term for it. It’s really a software thing,” Blandy explained.
Cathy and the kids were pulled up the steps and hustled into the forward cabin. The colonel at the controls was in an understandable hurry. With Three and Four already turning, he started engines One and Two, and the VC-25 started rolling the instant the truck with the steps pulled away, making one right-angle turn, and then lumbering down Runway One-Nine Right into the southerly wind. Immediately below him, Secret Service and Air Force personnel got the First Family strapped in, and for the first time in fifteen minutes, the Secret Service people allowed themselves to breathe normally. Not thirty seconds later, Vice President Jackson’s helicopter landed next to the E-4B National Emergency Airborne Command Post, whose pilot was as anxious to get off the ground as the driver of the VC-25. That was accomplished in less than ninety seconds. Jackson had never strapped in, and stood to look around. “Where’s Jack?” the Vice President asked. Then he saw Andrea, who looked as though she just miscarried her pregnancy.
“He stayed, sir. He had the pilot drop him on the cruiser in the Navy Yard.”
“He did what?”
“You heard me, sir.”
“Get him on the radio—right now!” Jackson ordered.
Ryan was actually feeling somewhat relaxed. No more rushing about, here he was, surrounded by people calmly and quietly going about their jobs-outwardly so, anyway. The captain looked a little tense, but captains were supposed to, Ryan figured, being responsible in this case for a billion dollars’ worth of warship and computers.
“Okay, how are we doing?”
“Sir, the inbound, if it’s aimed at us, is not on the scope yet.”
“Can you shoot it down?”
“That’s the idea, Mr. President,” Blandy replied. “Is Dr. Gregory around?”
“Here, Captain,” a voice answered. A shape came closer. “Jesus!”
“That’s not my name—I know you!” Ryan said in considerable surprise “Major—Major . . .”
“Gregory, sir. I ended up a half a colonel before I pulled the plug. SDIO. Secretary Bretano had me look into upgrading the missiles for the Aegis system,” the physicist explained. “I guess we’re going to see if it works or not.”
“What do you think?” Ryan asked.
“It worked fine on the simulations” was the best answer available.
“Radar contact. We got us a bogie,” a petty officer said. “Bearing three-four-niner, range nine hundred miles, speed—that’s the one, sir. Speed is one thousand four hundred knots—I mean fourteen thousand knots, sir.” Damn, he didn’t have to add.
“Four and a half minutes out,” Gregory said.
“Do the math in your head?” Ryan asked.
“Sir, I’ve been in the business since I got out of West Point.”
Ryan finished his cigarette and looked around for—
“Here, sir.” It was the friendly chief with an ashtray that had magically appeared in CIC. “Want another one?”
“Why not?” the President reasoned. He took a second one, and the senior chief lit it up for him. “Thanks.”
“Gee, Captain Blandy, maybe you’re declaring a blanket amnesty?”
“If he isn’t, I am,” Ryan said.
“Smoking lamp is lit, people,” Senior Chief Leek announced, an odd satisfaction in his voice.
The captain looked around in annoyance, but dismissed it.
“Four minutes, it might not matter a whole lot,” Ryan observed as coolly as the cigarette allowed. Health hazard or not, they had their uses.
“Captain, I have a radio call for the President, sir.”
“Where do I take it?” Jack asked.
“Right here, sir,” yet another chief said, lifting a phone-type receiver and pushing a button.
“Ryan.”
“Jack, it’s Robby.” “My family get off okay?”
“Yeah, Jack, they’re fine. Hey, what the hell are you doing down there?”
“Riding it out. Robby, I can’t run away, pal. I just can’t.”
“Jack if this thing goes off—”
“Then you get promoted,” Ryan cut him off.
“You know what I’ll have to do?” the Vice President demanded.
“Yeah, Robby, you’ll have to play catch-up. God help you if you do.” But it won’t be my problem, Ryan thought. There was some consolation in that. Killing some guy with a gun was one thing. Killing a million with a nuke . . . no, he just couldn’t do that without eating a gun afterward. You’re just too Catholic, Jack, my boy.
“Jesus, Jack,” his old friend said over the digital, encrypted radio link. Clearly thinking about what horrors he’d have to commit, son of a preacher-man or not. . .
“Robby, you’re the best friend any man could hope to have. If this doesn’t work out, look after Cathy and the kids for me, will ya?”
“You know it.”
“We’ll know in about three minutes, Rob. Get back to me then, okay?”
“Roger,” the former TOMCAT driver replied. “Out.”
“Dr. Gregory, what can you tell me?”
“Sir, the inbound is probably their equivalent of one of our old W-51s. Five megatons, thereabouts. It’ll do Washington, and everything within ten miles—hell, it’ll break windows in Baltimore.”
“What about us, here?”
“No chance. Figure it’ll be targeted inside a triangle defined by the White House, the Capitol Building, and the Pentagon. The ship’s keel might survive, only because it’s under water. No people. Oh, maybe some really lucky folks in the D.C. subway. That’s pretty far underground. But the fires will suck all the air out of the tunnels, probably.” He shrugged. “This sort of thing’s never happened before. You can’t say for sure until it does.”
“What chances that it’ll be a dud?”
“The Pakistanis have had some failed detonations. We had fizzles once, mainly from helium contamination in the secondary. That’s why the terrorist bomb at Denver fizzled-”
“I remember.”
“Okay,” Gregory said. “It’s over Buffalo now. Now it’s reentering the atmosphere. That’ll slow it down a little.”
“Sir, the track is definitely on us, the NMCC says,” a voice said.
“Agreed,” Captain Blandy said.
“Is there a civilian alert?” Ryan asked.
“It’s on the radio, sir,” a sailor said. “It’s on CNN, too.”
“People will be panicking out there,” Ryan murmured, taking another drag.
Probably not. Most people don’t really know what the sirens mean, and the rest won’t believe the radio, Gregory thought. “Captain, we’re getting close.” The track crossed over the Pennsylvania/New York border—
“System up?” Blandy asked.
“We are fully on line, sir,” the Weapons Officer answered. “We are ready to fire from the forward magazine. Firing order is selected, all Block IVs.”
“Very well.” The captain leaned forward and turned his key in the lock. “System is fully enabled. Special-Auto.” He turned. “Sir, that means the computer will handle it from here.”
“Target range is now three hundred miles,” a kid’s voice announced.
They’re so cool about this, Ryan thought. Maybe they just don’t believe it’s real. . . hell, it’s hard enough for me . . . He took another drag on the cigarette, watching the blip come down, following its computer-produced velocity vector right for Washington, D.C.
“Any time now,” the Weapons Officer said.
He wasn’t far off. Gettysburg shuddered with the launch of the first missile.
“One away!” a sailor said off to the right. “One is away clean.”
“Okay.”
The SM2-ER missile had two stages. The short booster kicked the assembly out of its silo-type hole in the forward magazine, trailing an opaque column of gray smoke.
“The idea is to intercept at a range of two hundred miles,” Gregory explained. “The interceptor and the inbound will rendezvous at the same spot, and—zap!”
“Mainly farmland there, place you go to shoot pheasants,” Ryan said, remembering hunting trips there in his youth.
“Hey, I got a visual on the fucker,” another voice called. There was a TV camera with a ten-power lens slaved into the fire-control radar, and it showed the inbound warhead, just a featureless white blob now, like a meteor, Ryan thought.
“Intercept in four—three—two—one—”
The missile came close, but exploded behind the target.