The War Cloud

57

High over the Pacific Ocean, ten 747 jumbo jets were strung out like white pearls in the moonlight. Inside their respective cockpits, President Deborah Sachs’ very weak voice came through the secret frequency: “Arm your phasers,” she said. “Target is now U.S. Minutemen missiles entering Chinese airspace. Repeat. Target is now ten U.S. missiles entering Chinese airspace.”

Inside Northern Command, General Block heard her too, thanks to the Defender One pilot who was patching everything through for verification since General Marshall had ceased transmission.

“Good God,” Block told his senior controller. “They’re really up there, fully operational. Ten actual airborne Defenders.”

“They’re requesting confirmation for the destruction of outgoing U.S. missiles in place of potential incoming Chinese missiles,” the senior controller said.

Even now, Block realized, elements of his own armed forces still refused to heed the words of their new commander-in-chief. “You tell them they heard right.”

Floating at 35,000 feet, Defender One swung into position. Mounted on its nosecone, a large swiveling laser cannon turret containing a beam director and infrared sensor scanned the horizon for missile launches.

The beam director shot a low-powered laser beam to track the missiles and measure atmospheric distortion.

Meanwhile, inside the forward fuselage of the Defender, a mirror adjusted while the displays of a computer console flashed. One display read Atmospheric Distortion 34.222. Another display read: missile tracking: locked.

The mirror locked into place.

Inside the rear fuselage of Defender One, walls of transparent storage tanks lined both sides of a narrow aisle—30,000 pounds of chemicals moving at supersonic speeds, mixed in a rocket engine-like chamber. A flash in the mix lit up and shot through the clear shaft.

The laser burst out through the beam director in the nosecone of the 747.

Over the Pacific Ocean, the first Minuteman exploded over black waters.

Not cheers but stunned silence lay like a cloud over the Northern Command headquarters as one by one the blips representing Minuteman missiles coming down on China disappeared.

Block exhaled with both admiration and horror. “Goddamn Marshall.”

It didn’t take long for General Zhang to call.

Block picked up his red phone. “What do you want, Zhang?”

Zhang said in perfect American English, “We wish to cease hostilities.”

“I’m sure you do,” Block said. “You saw that we can destroy our own missiles. Which means we can destroy yours too.”

Zhang continued, “We suggest an immediate, verifiable cease-fire.”

“Lucky for you, President Sachs agrees. But she wants a long-term, verifiable treaty we’ll work out later.”

“Agreed.” Zhang said. “Over.”

Before Zhang cut off, Block caught several more words in Mandarin that he didn’t understand. He hung up and looked at his senior controller, who was fluent in Mandarin.

“Tough broad,” he translated. “But what can we do?”

“You got that right,” Block said. “Tell her we’ve got teams from Grand Forks on the way to her with medical attention.”

But his senior controller said, “She’s not responding anymore, sir.”