Medusa's Child

SEVENTEEN

As the descent began, Linda McCoy returned to the cargo cabin to brief Vivian, who seemed on the verge of tears.

"About ten minutes more," Linda told her, adjusting the single blanket protecting Vivian from the cold floor.

Vivian patted her hand in return. "I appreciate your coming back to check on me."

"I hate that you've had to sit alone back here."

"I'm so sorry, Linda, that I've involved all you good people in this mess. I had no idea…"

"Don't worry about it. Really. What's important is that we're in this together, and we're going to take care of it together. Okay?"

"Okay."

"Good." Linda brushed back her hair with her free hand as she knelt beside Vivian. "Now here's what I need to tell you. Our young captain's been talking almost nonstop to the FBI. They're fully aware you can't get more than fifteen feet away from this thing, but they've got a radio circuit rigged to fool it. They'll figure out the frequency and identification codes broadcast by your pacemaker and adjust their radio to mimic it. Once that's working, they can get you out of here. The bomb won't know the difference."

"You said we're near Goldsboro, North Carolina, Linda. They can't let the thing explode anywhere on the continent, and certainly not close to any cities. The government does understand this is a thermonuclear bomb that will trigger a Medusa Wave, don't they?"

"They seem to. Look, Vivian, I'll be brutally honest with you on this. Scott's trying to get their promise not to burn this device or blow it up with high explosives. He read the same message on the computer screen you and I did. He's terrified the military won't listen, because we're both convinced the thing's not bluffing. So, can you tell me anything I can pass on, any snippet of information I could give them, that would help prove your husband could have put a booby trap on this thing?"

"A booby trap…?" Vivian suddenly dropped her gaze to the aluminum floor and smiled slightly as her expression brightened.

"What?" Linda asked, puzzled.

Vivian looked up, still smiling.

"The image!" she said cryptically, waving a hand at the bomb as if trying to exorcise some vision Linda couldn't see. "I… I'm sorry! You triggered a silly image."

Linda cocked her head slightly. "What? Tell me."

"Rogers was cruel to me, abused me, and belittled me, and in later years grew into a monster. That's all true. But in the early days of our marriage he could be hilarious, too. A dry, droll sense of humor. That's one reason I fell in love with him."

"But what's so funny now?"

"When you mentioned 'booby trap,' I couldn't help laughing. That was what Rogers called my bra."

Linda rolled her eyes and shook her head as Vivian grew serious again.

"You asked what to tell them, Linda. Tell them to look into my husband's work in the sixties and seventies. They'll find he invented the most accepted nuclear trigger mechanism and at the same time wrote at least one paper on the fact that any existing trigger could be modified to set off a nuclear detonation if high explosives were used to destroy it. He knew how. Tell Scott he's right. If they blow it up, they'll trigger the Medusa Effect."

Linda nodded. "Okay."

Vivian reached out to grab Linda's arm. "But there's more to consider here. They're going to waste time if they try to defuse it. They won't be successful, and if they push too far, they'll blow all of us off the map and unleash Medusa. There's nothing Rogers won't have thought of. Nothing. The case is welded shut, and any attempt to get inside…"

"Listen to yourself, Vivian!" Linda's voice sounded incredulous. The older woman responded instantly, as if jolted.

"Wha… what?"

"You sound just like those warnings your husband programmed into the computer."

Vivian looked up, then turned to study the bomb. "I guess I do," she said, absently, as her eyes locked on Linda again. "But it's because I know he's not bluffing."

"But he was bluffing when he said any movement would be detected, wasn't he?"

Vivian shook her head vigorously no. "That wasn't a bluff. That was a foul-up of some sort. He made a mistake, or something malfunctioned. Vastly different. We can't rely on any more mistakes."

"So what makes you think that single mistake won't let us find a way in?"

"He would have expected a frantic attempt to defuse it, can't they see that? He'll have known that the military couldn't just sit back and wait to see if he was really going to wipe out the Pentagon and most of Washington, not to mention unleash the Medusa Wave. He knows they'll have to try to get inside and turn it off. He's probably loaded dozens of warning algorithms. Ultimately, he'll explode it rather than permit it to be defused."

"Just like he did when you walked to the back of the plane?"

Again Vivian looked at her with surprise. Linda could see confusion in her eyes.

"He… that may have been different. He wants to make me hurt. He wants to scare me."

"Right. So why would he want to set it off? Think about it, Vivian. Setting it off would end your pain and suffering. If he's bluffing but keeps threatening, he gets the maximum terroristic advantage. The more he can pull your chain, the more he can torture you. He blows you up, that's the end of the torture."

"But, Linda, there is a limit. Rogers knew that if someone got inside the casing with the intent to disarm it, he'd lose his leverage. He can't accept any loss of control. He'll detonate it, rather than lose control. What happened before—my attempt to walk away and his reaction—didn't do enough to threaten his control. If he detects…"

"If it detects. Your husband's dead. Don't forget, this is a thing!"

"Okay. If it finds it's about to be defused, it will detonate."

Linda nodded. "That's logical."

"Listen to me, Linda. You've got to convince Scott and everyone else out there making decisions that the only way to avoid this horror is to take advantage of the one mistake Rogers made, the fact that the bomb doesn't know where it is. You can't reason with this terrorist. He's dead. You can't defuse the bomb. But you can fly it over the ocean and dump it. It probably can't successfully trigger a Medusa Wave if it blows up far enough underwater."

"We've got to get you free first."

"If there's enough time, and if we find a way. If not, I'll have to go with it. I'm responsible for everyone being in this fix to begin with. But the Air Force will have to get this thing offshore and fast!"

"Vivian, Scott's arranged to get my cargo off and have Jerry and Doc and me rush away to cover. He'll stay with you until you're sprung loose from this thing, but I'll stay, too, if you'd like."

Vivian's head was moving back and forth in an emphatic no. "You'll do nothing of the sort. You take those three guys and get as far away as you can. I don't even want Scott to stay."

"I have a feeling you won't convince him," Linda said.

"He'll accomplish nothing staying with me. I don't need the hand-holding. I'd feel better knowing all four of you were a hundred miles away."

"I'll feel better knowing this thing is turned off and dismantled."

Vivian nodded, but Linda caught a quizzical look in her eyes and arched an eyebrow to ask what she was thinking.

"You know, Linda, it's funny."

"What's that?"

"You can't be more than, what, thirty-two? And Scott can't be more than thirty, yet you referred to him as 'our young captain.' I can tell you I'm pretty impressed with that young captain, whatever his age."

Linda looked slightly embarrassed. "Well, I am, too." She looked toward the front of the compartment, past the ticking bomb. "I sat behind him through that frightening approach to Pax River, Vivian, and watched him. I watched the veins in his arms and hands and how he refused to let the airplane get away from him. I was pretty angry with him at first today for various reasons, but he's… quite capable. I do trust him, and that doesn't come easy for me."

"Trust?"

"Trusting the male of our species. Any male." She looked at Vivian and smiled a radiant smile as she cocked her head and fluttered an eyebrow for emphasis. "Long story for later. I love 'em—I just can't trust 'em. You know, can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em, and they're too dumb to tram."

"I'd love to hear your life history, Linda. I wish there was time."

"There will be. This evening, for instance. But it'll sound like a soap opera. A version of As the Stomach Turns."

Linda readjusted the cargo strap over Vivian's lap and gave her a small hug before returning to the cockpit. She put on her seat belt and headset as Doc read back the latest air traffic clearance and dialed in a new frequency. Without warning he glanced up and caught her eye.

"Notice anything, Doctor?"

She looked around, wondering what he meant. "You mean, other than the fighter escort?"

"Yeah. Hear much on the radio?" Doc wasn't smiling.

"No."

He nodded. "They're grounding air traffic all over the country as a precaution. The frequencies are getting quieter and quieter."

Scott turned partway around to look at her. "Linda? We're about twelve miles out, and I think they're gonna let us land straight-in without holding. When we get on the ground and stop—while we're shutting down things up here—I'd like you to go take the automatic deployment bar off the inflatable emergency slide on the front left door right behind the cockpit and open the door, being very careful not to fall out. Help them get the portable stairs positioned. Doc and Jerry will be right out. I want to see all three of you sprinting across the tarmac to the arms of the FBI, and I want them to get you out of here immediately. We'll get your equipment off as quickly as possible."

"Understood. No offense, but I can't get away from this airplane fast enough. But what about you? And Vivian?"

"I'll be okay. As soon as we've secured the bomb, I'll be right behind you. It'll be a classic 'feets-don't-fail-me-now' situation."

"With Vivian?"

"She'll be with me." He paused. "I hope."

"What do you mean, you 'hope'?"

Scott gestured to the Flitephone. "I'm… getting the disturbing impression they think Vivian is far more involved than she is. The FBI may want to have some extensive talks with her."

"Define 'involved,' Scott."

"Ah, I think they're unconvinced she's a complete victim. You overheard some of DiStefano's earlier questions, right?"

Linda grabbed Scott's seatback and pulled herself closer, glancing at Doc and back to Scott as she searched for nuances. "I thought those were standard questions off a hijacking checklist. Now you're telling me they suspect her?"

Scott shrugged. "I don't know, but it's not a comfortable feeling, the questions they've been asking."

Doc looked over at Linda and nodded as Scott continued.

"I'm scared to death they think we're being held hostage up here by Vivian, which is a ludicrous idea. But remember, they've never met her and she is the one who actually shipped the bomb to the Pentagon. I'm sure to them, with her background involving the nuclear program and her husband being dead for two years, it probably looks more than suspicious. I just don't want any trigger-happy skycop or fed down there taking a potshot at her."

Linda seemed awash in thought for a few moments as Doc's voice filled the air.

"Okay, Scott, we're descending through eighteen thousand now, altimeter two-eight-eight-six."

"Two-eight-eight-six," Scott echoed as he adjusted his two altimeters on the forward panel.

"The weather's coming forward, Scott," Jerry added as he handed Scott a small laminated card covered with grease pencil markings. "Winds are getting up there, but this weather's a wus compared to what we went through at Pax River. Three-five-zero at eighteen, gusts twenty-two. Light rain showers."

"Thanks, Jerry," Scott acknowledged.

"Scott," Linda said. He turned around far enough to see she was staring at some indistinct point on the center console, though for a second he let his eyes try to follow hers. There was nothing of consequence there.

"Yeah?"

Her eyes came up and latched on his with an almost physical impact.

"Scott, Vivian may be in big trouble if they're thinking that way."

"What do you mean?" Doc interjected from the right seat, and Linda glanced over at him.

"What I mean is, the only evidence anyone has of whether she set this up or he set this up is the bomb itself and what her husband programmed it to say."

"I'm not following you, Linda," Scott said.

She gripped the back of Scott's seat even harder, shook it slightly, and pulled herself forward, her mouth almost brushing his ear, triggering sensations he didn't have time to consider, but which somewhere inside he knew were very pleasant.

"I'm no lawyer, but…"

"That's why we respect you, Doctor," Doc said with a grin.

She ignored the comment. "I don't know the law, but I've had some exposure, and the problem is evidence. There's evidence up the kazoo, if you wanted to read it that way, that Vivian Henry purposely brought this bomb on a civilian aircraft to terrorize the government. If it's a real nuke, and I think it is, there's no end to the laws she could be accused of violating. If they can't turn this thing off and analyze it—if they blow it up or dump it or destroy it—there goes the only evidence that exists showing that her husband set her up."

"You mean the computer program inside?" Scott asked.

"Yes. I mean, she could have programmed even that, but if they have the whole thing to probe and decipher, she could probably prove that he did it, and not her."

"Why, Linda? Why would she do all this? What motivation would she…?"

Scott stopped cold.

"What is it?" Linda asked.

"I've…"

Doc's voice cut off the thought in midsentence. "Passing eleven thousand for ten thousand, Scott. I'm slowing us to two hundred fifty knots. Radar shows a bunch of returns ahead we need to steer around."

Scott nodded at Doc. "Roger. Would you take care of the radios for a few minutes?"

Doc nodded. "You bet."

Scott looked back at Linda.

"She has a motivation, Linda. At least in the eyes of the feds. Remember the fight over her pension? Did you know DiStefano asked me if I knew about that?"

"I didn't hear him say that. I couldn't overhear everything."

"He did. And suspiciously."

Linda McCoy let out a deep breath. "That lady is a victim, Scott. I'd bet my life on it." She paused. "I guess we're all betting our lives on it. But do you think our testimony alone—this crew and I—would be enough to keep her safe from prosecution? We all heard the device threaten and scare her."

"But that operations manager in Miami will swear he heard her threaten my crew and me to get us to come back and pick her up. She's the shipper. She arranged everything. She could have made up the story about her husband wanting her to ship the device and written the detailed instructions she said he left."

"Bull!" Linda shot back.

Scott shook his head after a few seconds of thought. He could sense Linda's shoulders slumping slightly behind him.

"Linda, maybe a lawyer would say something or see something different, and maybe there's other evidence in Miami we're not considering, but everything we've seen and heard and experienced she technically could have manipulated by herself."

"Never! That's setting her up to be an abuse victim yet again."

"I know that! You know that! But would a prosecutor accept that? Good grief, Linda, the whole nation's aware of this now! Even if nothing happens, they're gonna want as much blood as they did after Oklahoma City. Since they can't try a dead man, they'll probably go after his wife."

"No one in this country seems to understand a thing about spousal abuse. 'If she was abused,' they'll say, 'and if he was such a horrible man, why would she have done her husband's bidding, even after his death?' " Linda shook her head and sighed. "Provided we get out of this, Vivian will be in great legal peril."

"If the device is destroyed."

"I know. So what do we do?" Linda asked.

Scott shook his head sadly. "We land. We taxi in. We pray they can defuse this thing. And we get ourselves to a safe distance as rapidly as possible."

"I can't…" Linda began.

"Linda! Linda, listen to me!" Scott's voice was full of authority, but his eyes were full of compassion, and she could see he was equally upset. "One step at a time. We'll defend her every way we can. But right now, the country needs to get its experts at that weapon back there. We mustn't forget the power of what we're carrying."

"Scott?" Doc's voice cut through his thoughts.

"Yes," Scott answered as he swiveled himself back around in the left seat.

"We'd better do this together. I've tiptoed around the buildup on the left, there, but we need to get down in altitude."

"Right. Okay, I'll take the radios now." Scott checked the frequency and asked the controller for a lower altitude as he scanned the approach procedure. He'd already briefed the approach to Seymour-Johnson, a relatively simple combination of radar vectors to an instrument approach.

He checked the mileage. They were eight miles out.

The controller responded, "Roger, ScotAir Fifty. Fly heading one-six-zero degrees, descend to and maintain two thousand feet."

Scott reset the altitude alerter to two thousand feet as Doc altered the course. There was one major duty remaining, and they were almost out of time.

"Doc, we're set up for the ILS approach." Scott turned toward Linda. "That's an instrument landing system approach, Linda. We can follow it down with great precision when we can't see." He turned back to Doc. "I've got to raise the mission commander down there. Watch the radios, please."

"Roger. Come back soon, old son."

Scott spun the frequency selector dials on the military-style UHF radio on the center console. "Seymour-Johnson mission commander, this is ScotAir Fifty. Are you there?"

A voice came back almost instantly. "Roger, ScotAir. This is Colonel Peters. Go ahead."

"Did our FBI contact, Tony DiStefano, brief you on my concerns, Colonel?"

"Yes, Captain."

Using the push-to-talk radio versus the Flitephone was a pain, Scott thought, as he pressed the transmit button again.

"Did DiStefano tell you there's no way this device can be treated like a military nuke in terms of emergency disposal?"

"You can talk in the clear, Captain. Yes, he told me you were insisting the thing will detonate if we try to blow it up or burn it."

"And you're not convinced?"

"Captain, we know what we're doing, okay? You're not a nuclear expert, nor am I, but we have someone here who is, and he'll call the shots."

Scott poised his finger over the transmit button but held back pressing it. How adamant should he be? After all, he was just guessing. They obviously knew infinitely more than he did about how to explode a nuclear warhead and what not to do.

The image of the runway ahead filled his mind's eye. In a couple of minutes they would be down and the nightmare would almost be over. The impending failure of ScotAir, the airline, seemed totally insignificant now. Just getting rid of the threat seemed the best goal in the world, and it was very close.

They'd know what to do.

Wait! Scott thought. He said, "someone." The colonel had referred to the nuclear team in the singular. There was supposed to be a group of experts inbound.

"Ah, Colonel, has the Pax River team arrived yet?"

Seven miles ahead, standing on the ramp, Colonel Jeff Peters felt a warning flag go up in his mind about the Pax River crash. Someone hadn't told ScotAir.

"Captain, no one survived that crash."

The long silence from the 727 raised the hairs on the back of Peters' neck. Maybe he wasn't supposed to tell them.

"Say again, Colonel? What crash are we talking about?"

"Ah, Pax River. The people who were to work on the device were in an accident a while ago, Captain. We've brought others in, however."

"The disarming team? They were killed?" Scott asked.

"Affirmative, sir."

Scott heard Linda inhale sharply behind him.

"Who else do you have?" Scott asked.

"Captain, don't worry about it. We've got a man from Wright-Patterson who zipped in here a few minutes ago. He's up to speed."

One guy? Scott thought, his mind reeling from the news.

"Scott," Doc began, "I can do this solo, but I'd prefer we do it together."

"Yeah, just a second, Doc. Keep her coming."

"Roger."

One technician to disarm a bomb designed by a scientist who had probably thought of every possible solution. And the stakes if the technician didn't know what he was doing?

Scott pressed the transmit button. He felt his voice becoming more strained and he was fighting not to let it show. "Colonel, I've got to have your personal assurance that there will be no attempt to burn or explode this weapon. I don't get the assurance, I don't land."

The reply was swift. "Captain, you have my assurance. We've got a C-141 right here on the deck and standing by to fly the bomb out if necessary."

"Good!" Scott said as he punched the transmit button again. "Roger. We'll be on the runway in a moment. You'll have a 'Follow Me' truck, I take it?"

"Yes, sir. He's waiting."

Scott changed the radio to the tower frequency as Doc ordered the flaps to five degrees.

The runway was coming into view in the distance.

It was almost over.

For a moment, the name White House Signals made no sense to the young Air Force staff sergeant who answered the phone.

Then it coalesced.

"Yes, sir!"

"We need to set up a feed of several different radio frequencies back to us here for relay to Air Force One, understand?"

"Ah, what do you mean, 'relay,' sir?"

"We need you to get very clever and find a way to commandeer at least four telephone lines out without compromising your normal functions. Each of those lines will need to be carrying the audio, in other words, monitoring a different radio channel. One for your control tower frequency, one for ground control, one for the command channel your commander is using to coordinate, and one connected to the ear of your duty officer, in case we need something else."

"I… think I can set that up, sir. But why?"

"Because the President of the United States wants to listen in on what's happening, and he wants it hooked up sometime yesterday. Good enough?"

"Absolutely, sir."

"So how much time do you need?"

The staff sergeant looked around at his duty officer, a major, who was watching him closely with a highly suspicious look on his face. The sergeant gestured for the major to wait. "Probably ten minutes, sir. We just have to tape a couple of receivers to the radio speakers in the command post."

"As fast as possible, Sergeant, please. Here are the telephone numbers."

Signals passed four different unlisted numbers with a Beltway area code and a master number, in case they were disconnected.

"I'll need to brief my commander," the sergeant said.

"No, you start working now. Tell your commander to talk to me on this line right now, please."

"Yes, sir." The sergeant turned to the major with a fleeting feeling of superiority. The power conferred by relaying such a call was invigorating.

"Major? The White House would like a word with you on line four."

Rewarded by the appropriate look of panic on his commander's face, the sergeant quickly turned back to his console to begin the process of jury-rigging the system.

Twenty-five minutes after he'd left the Starsuite, the President returned, summoned by an urgent request from his Chief of Staff to review the alarming progress of Hurricane Sigrid.

"Okay, folks, we can convene this session of Disasters 'R' Us," the President said seriously.

"We've arranged a tie-in with the National Hurricane Center in Miami, sir," the Chief of Staff said, "because this thing is already chewing up the Atlantic coast to a degree we've never experienced. You need to see the latest satellite photos. We're already bracing for the disaster declaration requests."

The President raised his hand. "Before you switch over, give me an update on the 727."

A deputy stepped forward with a sheaf of papers and a headset, which he removed.

"Uh, sir, the aircraft is on approach to Seymour-Johnson at this time. We've got two F-16's with him. The base is under the same hurricane watch, but it's the downwind side of the storm, so the winds are reasonable. They've evacuated the base… the last few tankers are leaving right now… and I'm hearing that the bomb defusing expert has arrived."

"Can he handle it?" the President asked point-blank.

The deputy shrugged. "No one knows, sir. At least he's there."

"Are you monitoring communications at the base?"

"Yes, sir. Control tower, ground, command radios, several other channels. We couldn't get video hooked up, but we'll be piping everything else through to you on your request."

"As soon as we're finished with the weather."

"You ready for that, sir?"

"First, how much time have we got? What's the time to detonation?"

The deputy checked his watch. "Approximately one hour and thirty-five minutes."

The President sighed audibly. "And the media situation?"

"Sir, the country is, in a word, terrified. We're getting reports from all over of businesses frantically shutting down their computer systems, all sorts of last-minute bank transactions, communication switches overloading, and that's all in addition to the disruption of shutting down the national air system, trains, and so on."

"My little speech didn't do any good?"

The Press Secretary stepped into view. "On the contrary, I think it helped a lot because it eliminated doubt about whether the threat was real. I'll tell you this, though. Outside of Washington, which is still in shock that a bomb was flying over their heads, the prospect of a Medusa Wave is scaring people far more profoundly than the basic reality of what a thermonuclear explosion would have done to D.C."

The President nodded. "This would be Hiroshima times fifty if it detonated over any populated region, even without the Medusa Wave. As I said earlier, let's keep in mind what a terrifying prospect this is, even if it's only a thermonuclear bomb." He looked down, unsmiling, and shook his head in wonder at his own reference. "Good grief, what a thing to say! 'Only a thermonuclear bomb.'"

The President looked over at his aide. "Okay, switch me over to Miami."

The Washington half of the Starsuite dissolved into an electronic kaleidoscope for a few seconds and then returned with the identical interior, this one occupied by several new faces in Miami, including Peter Ronson, the director of the National Hurricane Center, who rapidly introduced himself.

"Dr. Ronson, this is not accusatory, okay? But earlier today I was told in no uncertain terms that this hurricane was headed north and would probably miss us entirely. Suddenly it's mauling the mid-Atlantic coast and said to be poised to do us unprecedented damage. What happened? I wouldn't have left for Japan if I'd had any idea it would be this bad."

"Mr. President, big hurricanes can take unpredictable turns, and that's what happened here. We just didn't expect it to turn west so suddenly. This is a killer storm of unprecedented proportions and power. A level-five hurricane. The worst. We measured the cloud coverage of the storm at nearly a thousand miles in diameter, but the storm really is an eight-hundred-fifty-mile-diameter monster, with winds near the center now approaching two hundred and five miles per hour. We've seen hurricanes with extreme winds near the center like this, but never a storm with this kind of scope and breadth. Atmospheric pressure near the center is below two-seven-point-eight-zero inches of Mercury. This is a direct result, in my humble opinion, of global wanning, sir. It's being fueled by increased heat coming out of the oceans."

"I appreciate the unique aspect, Doctor, but tell me what it's going to do to us now."

The director touched a button and a full-color satellite map swam into view in front of the President. Another adjustment caused the map to take on three-dimensional form, with the various altitudes of the clouds clearly conveyed from space.

"My Lord, what a picture!" the President exclaimed. "Is this live?"

"Yes, sir. The picture comes from Nimbus Eight, which we launched last year, and it is live. Sir, this hurricane has already washed a storm surge of thirty feet of water into the upper New Jersey coast, and nearly thirty-five feet around the southern New Jersey coast. Cape May through Atlantic City north to Asbury Park are already being mauled and devastated. The boardwalks will undoubtedly be destroyed in their entirety, and the damage to waterfront properties will easily be in the tens of billions, and that doesn't include industrial facilities, ferry docks, fishing vessels, et cetera. Delaware Bay is building up a huge tidal surge, and we expect massive near-total devastation from Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, down to Ocean City, Maryland. The eye is aimed right now almost dead-on at Chincoteague Island near Wallops Island, Virginia. If the speed holds, and we expect it to, the heart of this monster will roar ashore with sustained winds of over two hundred miles per hour in another six hours. The Washington, D.C., area is already being battered, but things will get far worse. We expect winds in D.C. before this is over to hit one hundred miles per hour steady state, with gusts of one hundred and twenty-five miles per hour. Chesapeake Bay is in trouble as well, with storm surges and extensive flooding virtually guaranteed. Virginia Beach, Norfolk, and points south all the way to Kitty Hawk will get hit badly, with unprecedented beach erosion and flooding, but nothing like the areas to the north. Even New York City will get gusts of over a hundred miles per hour, if the storm doesn't veer off to the north."

The President of the United States sat back in his chair, shaking his head slowly and sadly.

"Anyone know the situation with ocean traffic?" he asked at last.

Another man moved to the director's elbow. "Mr. President, seas in the heart of the storm are running forty to sixty feet. Two freighters are in trouble, and the Coast Guard fears they've sunk. One other, a Panamanian-registered freighter, is out of contact. Bermuda has sustained heavy damage, and the British are sending help already. Power and communications there were pretty much obliterated by the winds. As for our ships, one of our aircraft carriers, the USS Eisenhower, has had to divert around the southern edge of the storm, but they're essentially in it now and battling some pretty high seas to the south, here." A laser point flared on the map at the southern end of the so-called Bermuda triangle.

"How about the area around Goldsboro, North Carolina?"

"They'll get high winds in the seventies before it's over, but their main threat is tornadoes and, later tomorrow, flooding over a wide area."

The men in Miami fell silent as they watched the image of the President contemplating their display from the interior of Air Force One a little under five thousand miles distant. For all practical purposes he was a few feet away, and when he moved suddenly, they all jumped.

"Gentlemen, thank you for the comprehensive update. Oh, one thing, Dr. Ronson."

"Yes, sir."

"You're aware of our airborne nuclear crisis?"

"Yes, I am."

"And you're aware it's coming to a head at Seymour-Johnson Air Force Base near Goldsboro?"

The director nodded.

"Okay…" the President began and then hesitated, contemplating his fingertips as they drummed the top of the conference table.

"Sir," the director said, breaking the silence, "you'd like to know about the track of any fallout, should that thing detonate?"

The President looked up and caught his eye for a few very long seconds. The director could see deep fatigue there.

"Exactly."

"South over South Carolina as far down as Charleston, but then out to sea to dissipate over the Atlantic."

"That's something at least."

"The outcome is in doubt, sir? There's a chance it won't be defused in time?" the director asked tenuously.

The President got to his feet and smiled a very thin smile.

"Let's just say a few prayers would be in order… and appreciated."