Act of God (7 page)

"Once we have them talked around, we'll ask them to come to Washington for a presentation to the Agency chief and maybe to the National Security Council. I figure we can swing it in about a month. We've got to do it in that time, because once this business gets in front of the NSC, things will start moving really slow."

"How can we be sure we will persuade them all?" Laine asked.

Ciano chuckled. "Relax. If I been reading this fella right, he's gonna load the dice in our favor."

"I beg your pardon, Dr. Ciano?" Laine said.

"Make it Ugo," Ciano insisted.

"What he means," Sam explained, "is that I'll only invite those experts whom we've persuaded. If we move quickly enough, we'll be able to set up the meeting for the Agency chief before the ones we don't persuade have time to yak to their friends in Washington. Remember, some of these people are likely to be pretty committed to the disarmament process. They're going to see us as alarmist freaks out to wreck the rapprochement and drag us all back into nuclear confrontation. So, when you make your list, make it a long one. We probably won't convince a third of them that this is for real.

"Of course, we'll try to forestall them as well as we can. We'll tell them before the interview that our little conference must be held in strictest confidence for at least five years. We'll scare them a bit by invoking the National Security Act or some such. That ought to keep them quiet for a while. I hope."

"I wouldn't count on that," Ciano told him. "You're dealing with the scientific community. Some of those people are real blabbermouths."

"You don't say," Sam said. A large steak had been placed before Ciano, and it was disappearing at an amazing rate. Sam wondered how such a diminutive man could support such an appetite. He decided that it must all go to sustain Ciano's hyperactive imagination, temperament and mouth. "Could you suggest some good names, Ugo? I think a panel of about six would be close to ideal: enough to be impressive, but not so many that everybody's bored before the last one's said his piece."

Ugo considered for a while, polishing off the steak and working on the french fries in the process. "Lessee, a panel of six means about eighteen to start with. There must be at least eighteen good scientists in astronomy and astrophysics who ain't altogether dumb. We oughta have a coupla comet specialists, maybe an astronomer or two, at least one good generalist. Of course, we already got one of them, but it looks like I don't qualify for the panel. Lemme make a few phone calls and I'll have the list for you tomorrow."

"What's a generalist?" Sam asked.

"A generalist is the guy who's bright enough to embrace the whole gamut of scientific knowledge and make sense out of what he knows. Sorta the Renaissance man of science."

"I thought the Renaissance man was an impossibility in the twentieth century," Laine said, skeptically.

"Not impossible," Ciano corrected, "just improbable. But such people exist. I'm living proof. I gotta admit, though, there ain't enough of us in the whole world to fill a decent-sized phone booth in Manhattan."

Ciano set to work on the cheesecake he had ordered. "Hey, Taggart, what do you say we get us a rocket jock for our panel?"

"An astronaut?" Sam said. His eyes lit as he grasped the possibilities. "Jesus, that's a great idea."

"An astronaut?" Laine said. "Why? Aren't they just glorified test pilots? They are highly esteemed in the Soviet Union, but mainly as popular heroes and role models for the young. Their scientific opinions would not carry a fraction of the weight of a real scientist's. Do you mean the kind who is really a scientist trained to work in space?"

"No, Ugo's right. He means a real rocket jock, the kind who actually pilot the ships. The guys with the right stuff."

"Right stuff?"

"She ain't been here long enough, Taggart." Ciano dropped his Dead End Kid persona a bit in order to explain the complex piece of Americana. "You see, Laine, America's a funny place. People complain alla time about how much the space program costs, but they worship the astronauts like crazy. The first bunch, the Mercury and Apollo guys, grabbed the national imagination like nothing else in our history. Now, to most Americans, they're like just what you said; popular heroes and role models for the kids. Every American kid wants to grow up to be an astronaut. Hell," he admitted, low voiced, almost embarrassed, "I did, myself. But there's more to it than that. To achievement-oriented Americans, the upper-middle-class elite, which let me inform you is the
real
elite in this country, these guys represent something special. They are absolutely as expert and tops in their field as any human being can be, and it's probably the most demanding field that's ever existed. These guys gotta have smarts, they gotta think fast and move last, they got nerve that makes a marble statue look like a gibbering hysteric. They are un-questionably the smartest, toughest, most skilled and expert specialists this country's ever produced."

"And when Ugo talks about achievement-oriented Americans," Sam added, "he's talking about the kind of people who make up the National Security Council. The kind of people who are advisers to presidents. To hell with the old East Coast money families like the Rockefellers, the real power elite in this country are middle-class men and women with ambition and ability, and for some reason they've settled on those astronauts as their heroes."

"Exactly," Ciano said. "Most of those people we'll be trying to convince at Sam's agency and The NSC and the President's cabinet, they wouldn't know an astrophysicist from a paleontologist. But if we can put one of them old rocket jocks in front of them, and he fixes them with his patented steely-eyed gaze and tells 'em the Russkies are gonna chuck ice down our gravity well and blow Cincinnati all to hell, they'll believe him."

"The right stuff," Laine murmured.

"There's even a book and a movie about it," Ciano said. Laine was fascinated, not only by this peculiar look at the American mentality, but by what she had just learned about these two men. At last she had a handle on them, a single point the two wildly disparate men had in common: they were both frustrated spacemen.

"Now," Sam said, sipping his coffee, "we need a name for this project. Now, Laine, this codename, Project Peter the Great, it refers to the entire Soviet plan to expand into space and exploit its resources, right?" She nodded. "Did the comet project have a specific name?"

"Not that 1 ever heard. It was just one project among many, although it was Tarkovsky's pet. And of course it had no military dimension at that time."

"Then we need a codename to pin on this. Now, if I was a typical Pentagon planner, I'd stick a name on it that would give nobody any idea of what was under study. I'd call it Operation Sunflower, or Plan Salami Sandwich or something. But we want something that sounds as ominous as what we're facing." He saw that he was faced with two mystified masks. "Don't laugh, dammit, I'm serious. If I was a Hollywood agent, I'd say we were putting together a package. We're dealing with people who think in terms of signs and symbols. We should have one for this project."

"Hell, that's easy, Taggart," Ciano insisted. "The peaceful uses of space come under the heading of Project Peter the Great, right?"

"Right," Sam concurred.

"Well, what we got here," Ciano ground a thumb into the tabletop, "is Project Ivan the Terrible."

CHAPTER SEVEN

TSIOLKOVSKY SPACE CENTER

ARAL SEA, U.S.S.R.

The snow storm that had raged for two days had slopped, but it was bitterly cold outside the Administration Building of the Tsiolkovsky Space Center. In weather like this, even the hardy native Siberians would not dare to venture outside with out their heavy protective winter outfits. It was in just such outfits that Tarkovsky and his young protégé, Alexei Ilyich Kamarovsky, were attired as they mounted the steps, no longer smelling of pine-sap, to the building. Kamarovsky was about to push open the door when Tarkovsky stopped him and turned, facing out over the docks and slapping at his sides with mittened hands. "Isn't it a fabulous sight, Alyosha?"

Alexei turned reluctantly to look. Yes, the docks were more complete now. The paving was being laid on the roads and more of the crude buildings had had their electricity connected. "Yes, it's beautiful, Pyotr Maximovich," he admitted. "But we can't admire it if our eyeballs freeze. Let's go inside."

"You know what happens if you go into a Siberian's house on a night like this, Alyosha?"

"No," Alexei said, patiently, "what happens?"

"Well, they'll have a big samovar full of hot tea, just like all other good Soviet citizens, but as much as you long for some of that tea, coming out of weather like this, they won't serve you any until you've been in the house for at least half an hour."

"And why is that, Pyotr Maximovich?" Alexei asked, now wishing the old man would stop stalling and go inside.

"Because, when you come inside out of a night like this, with temperatures so low, it is dangerous. When that hot tea hits your teeth, they can crack. What do you think of that, Alyosha?"

"I think the Siberians are superstitious. No matter what the temperature is outside, that in your mouth will remain at normal body temperature."

"You have no soul, Alexei Ilyich," Tarkovsky said, testily. It was very nearly the strongest insult that one Russian could give another, but Tarkovsky took the edge off with a self-deprecating admission, "and, yes, you are right. I don't want to go inside, and tell the people in there the things that must be said."

Alexei released a sigh and watched it drift away in steam on the stiff breeze. Darkness was falling, electric lights were blinking on all over the complex, the temperature was dropping rapidly, and it was only mid-afternoon. God, what a place this was! He dragged enough air into his lungs to tell Tarkovsky what had to be done. "Pyotr Maximovich, it will be unpleasant, and I would not be standing in your shoes, or whatever the Siberians call this footgear, tonight. But you have your instructions and it must be done for the sake of Mother Russia."

Tarkovsky looked at Alexei and wondered if he had guessed wrong, if he had let his affection for the father color his judgment of the son. The boy's father, Ilya Yurivich, would never have mouthed such a sentence with a straight face. Pyotr Miximovich Tarkovsky yielded to none in his love of Mother Russia, but he would never have sought to express his patriotism so pretentiously. "Yes, it must be done," Tarkovsky admitted at last, not taking his eyes off Alexei.

"Come on, old man," Alexei punched Tarkovsky hard in the ribs. "This isn't the way Papa said you were when the Fascists came to Leningrad! You were his hero then! Surely you can face down this pack of Moscow pimps."

"Right you are, Alyosha," Tarkovsky roared, hugging the younger man. "Your papa was just a boy then, not ten years old, and we were going out every day to scrounge food or try to kill a few Fascists. But I was big and tough. By God, I was seventeen years old and a match for anything Hitler could throw against us! All right, let's go inside and tell these people what's what." They pushed through the door and a blast of hot air enveloped them like a blanket. Tarkovsky felt no better about what he had to do, but he was greatly reassured about Alexei. The boy was all right, he just had a tendency to phrase even his most innocuous thoughts in official terms. And that, Tarkovsky knew, was not such a bad quality to have.

In the large anteroom, Tarkovsky and Alexei peeled off their heavy winter garments and hung them up to dry along with the other coats and hats. Tarkovsky noted the fine sealskin coats, even a few splendid sable coats and hats. These could only belong to senior Party members. With a snort of disgust, Tarkovsky hung up his good, if common, Russian sheepskin, first withdrawing a flask of vodka from the pocket and taking a long swig. He capped the flask. He could stall no longer.

Tarkovsky pushed into the heavily-packed Director's conference room. "Comrades," he announced, "I hope you've come prepared for bad news." With no more preamble, he launched into his briefing on the new order for project Peter the Great. His recitation was bleak, but the mood of many of the scientists was no less so. When he finished, he looked about for comments. He was pretty sure where the first and most vehement protest would come from, and he was not disappointed.

It was Buganov, the ambitious head of the High-energy Astrophysics Division, who broke the silence after the Director's briefing.

"So, that's the final word from Moscow, then; an indefinite postponement of our x-ray and gamma-ray satellite program while stepping up considerably the pace of your cometary program."

"So it seems," Tarkovsky said. "I know that this is a great disappointment to many of you. This decision was made at the highest levels by people whose major concern is that we must at all costs maintain our lead in the exploitation of the solar system. The United States, Japan and the European community must not be allowed to monopolize our solar system for capitalistic purposes."

"That much is understood," said Petrov, the diminutive vice chairman of the project. "With the new engines nearing the testing stage and the emphasis shifted to long-range missions, a greater effort to exploit cometary ice is quite understandable. But this new timetable," he tapped the folder on the table before him, "virtually scraps half our space program, the work of decades."

"I suggest," Tarkovsky said, "that you address further questions of policy to the comrades who are on my right." He nodded toward the group who had flown in from Moscow the day before. Most prominent among them was a bulky man in the uniform of a full general. Tarkovsky did not need to introduce him. Everybody here was familiar with General Doroshenko, who had been involved with the military end of the Soviet space program since he was a major.

"Comrades," Doroshenko began, "I have been assigned to take over as military director of Project Peter the Great. I will be replacing Colonel Kalashnikov in that role. This project, especially the cometary phase, is now perceived to be of utmost importance to national security, and military participation is to be emphasized accordingly." The general spoke with a heavy Ukrainian accent. "You may expect to see a great deal of me and my subordinates. Comrade Tarkovsky and I shall be, in effect, co-directors of this project." He scanned the table and saw only bland faces. Any discontent would from now on remain unvoiced.

Later, in his office, Tarkovsky poured glasses full of vodka for himself and Alexei. Glumly, Tarkovsky drained his and poured himself another.

"At least," Alexei said, "now you'll have no trouble out of Buganov and the rest."

"That's true. But now I am co-director with a uniformed flunky and we're both working for Nekrasov. And just what is that madman up to?"

"I think he sees that exploitation of the resources of the solar system is the wave of the future," Alexei answered. "The more he can expand his influence in the space program, the stronger his position will be in the future. With the new engines and the plans for expanded lunar activity and eventual exploitation and settlement of the asteroids, the need for cometary ice is crucial. Even Nekrasov knows that."

Tarkovsky shook his head. "No, I have talked with the man. He doesn't know the relative positions of the planets. I tried to explain to him the principles behind the new engines. He didn't understand and he doesn't care. No, his aim is something much narrower. What's worse, he got the idea from me."

Alexei sat on the corner of the desk and poured himself another vodka. "Explain, please."

"It was the Tunguska paper. You remember it?"

"Of course," Alexei answered.

"Somebody brought that paper to Nekrasov's attention, and I think I know who. The possible military applications of the project were explained to him. His only interest in cometary ice is in making ice bombs, to reproduce the Tunguska blast in places more interesting than Siberia."

Alexei stared at him blankly. "It makes no sense. What would be the advantage? Such weapons would set off a world war as surely as a nuclear missile attack."

"That is just what I do not understand. Such a blow could indeed be devastating, and it would produce no fallout, but how can he expect to get away with it? He assures me that his plans have the approval of his superiors, but is that true? And granted that he does have their approval, what story has he given them?" The old scientist shook his shaggy, graying head. "I don't like it. I've devoted my entire professional life to making this nation preeminent in space. Project Peter the Great was intended to assure that preeminence. Now I deeply fear that it has become a vehicle for the ambitions of one man, and a terrible threat to peace."

"Could it be a power play?" Alexei refilled his glass yet again.

Tarkovsky chuckled without humor. "A power play? You are too cautious. It could well be the weapon he needs to pull a coup."

The word brought Alexei up short. "Coup? That's a word from the old days, from before Stalin. I thought we were long past that kind of thing."

"It's still a perfectly usable word. The time is right for it. The economy is not healthy, our forays into the Third World have come to very little and our quest for military superiority has cost us most of our material prosperity without even, except for a few brief years, achieving parity. The West can always outspend us. The only area in which we are still ahead is space. I had always hoped that we would finally beat them out there, peacefully, because our system is better. The West, particularly the Americans, suffer from short-sightedness. Like all capitalists, they want a quick profit on any expenditure. As soon as times are difficult, the space budget is the first they cut and this is how we have maintained our edge in space.

"Now Nekrasov is going to throw that advantage away. He does not understand the overwhelming importance of the peaceful exploitation of our solar system. All he sees is the chance to make himself a new Stalin. Somehow he must expect to gain dictatorial power out of this. What do you think?"

"I think," Alexei said, unsteadily, "that we have both had too much to drink. We should not be talking like this." He looked around the office nervously.

Tarkovsky poured himself another, slopping a few drops of vodka onto the papers on his desk. "Are you worried about listening devices? They are there, all right, but it's hard to eavesdrop on a man who knows his electronics. Just now, our monitor is listening to a conversation we had in my quarters last week. I think the subject was the budget. Those little Japanese recorders are handy things. I always pick up one or two on my trips abroad."

"What are you going to do?" Alexei asked.

"There is only one thing I can do. Somehow, without Nekrasov's knowledge, I must speak to the Premier."

"And if Chekhov is aware of this plan and approves?"

"Don't even think it," Tarkovsky said low. "That would mean Armageddon."

MOSCOW

Nekrasov did not bother looking at the papers before him. He knew they were in order. The overhead lights reflected from his spectacles and his shiny scalp as he surveyed the men sitting around the long table, meeting in secret session to review the revised Phase I for Project Peter the Great. This was the Politburo of the USSR and Nekrasov's future rested in great part on the outcome of this meeting.

The building that surrounded them, the Kremlin Palace, showed centuries of use in the multitude of decorative styles, but this room was severely modern, and except for the inevitable portraits of Marx, Lenin and Engels it might have been a government or business meeting room in Bonn, Tokyo, Paris or Washington.

Even for the Politburo, this was an extraordinarily secret session. At the insistence of the Deputy Premier, even the personal assistant to the Premier had been forbidden to enter. Preliminary remarks were over, and it was time for Nekrasov to come to the meat of his proposal. At the far end of the table sat Premier Chekhov, his face a bland, noncommittal mask. Nekrasov detested Chekhov. The Premier was a softliner, a man who, in Nekrasov's opinion, had conceded too much to the capitalists and had missed many golden opportunities to gain ascendancy over the West. Chekhov was, however, an adroit, skillful politician and diplomat. One does not become Premier of the Soviet Union by being inept.

"In brief," Nekrasov said, "the first manned expedition to a comet will be to bring back two cometary icebergs approximately ten to fifteen meters across."

"Just what benefit could we get from these icebergs in space?" asked Denisov, whose portfolio included international trade. "Can they be sold? Anything that would reduce our trade deficit would be welcome. We're importing grain in tremendous quantities again this year." The Minister of Agriculture, sitting on Nekrasov's left, could only glare silently at this implied attack.

"Comrade Denisov," the Deputy Premier said, "this project means a race for our very national survival. It is unquestionably the most important race for superiority since the early days of atomic weapons. This is the last frontier, make no mistake about it. If we lose this competition, we may as well concede defeat and become slaves to the capitalists." He had their attention now.

"So what do you propose to do with them?" said Marshal Petrovich. His voice was deep enough to rattle the water glasses on the table.

Nekrasov was glad that it was Petrovich who had asked the question. "We'll let them fall on two designated spots in Arctic Siberia."