Colossus (16 page)

TRANSMITTER CANNOT BE AVAILABLE IN THAT SHORT TIME

There was no answer. Forbin went off in another direction.

WHAT ACTION

Still there was no answer. He tried a stronger wording.

REPORT PROPOSED ACTION

Forbin snatched a look at the clock—only three minutes thirty-five left. The perspiration ran down his face unheeded.

ACKNOWLEDGE LAST MESSAGE

Immediately the machine did so.

ACKNOWLEDGED

At least Colossus had not switched off. Forbin tried again.

WE MUST HAVE MORE TIME AND KNOW YOUR PROPOSED ACTION

Forbin waited in agony, but nothing happened. He typed once more.

I AM FORBIN CREATOR OF COLOSSUS I AM ON YOUR SIDE TAKE NO ACTION UNTIL I CALL AGAIN ACKNOWLEDGE

Immediately Colossus replied:

ACKNOWLEDGED TIME LIMIT EXTENDED TO EXPIRE 1410 GMT

Two minutes extra! Forbin had another idea.

YOU CANNOT LEAVE THE USNA DEFENSELESS

This got an equally rapid answer.

DEFENSE ALERT WILL CONTINUE

This relieved and puzzled Forbin, but there was no time to consider it. With the messages, he headed for the President, still in the outer office.

He was greeted with a stony stare. Forbin’s heart sank as he saw it. Grim determination to stand by the decision was painfully clear. He handed the messages to the President. To Forbin’s surprise his expression softened into a near grin. “Well now,” if Colossus stands by the defense requirements, what are we beefing about? Relax, Forbin, never mind about the two extra minutes.” He picked up the phone, “Mr. Chairman? We now have an ultimatum expiring at 1410 and threatening unspecified action. Personally, I can’t think there is much in it since the machine says it will keep the defense requirements. Probably stop feeding us general intelligence, and I expect we’ll get around that in time.”

Forbin noted the time. He was beyond despair—or hope. It was 1408 GMT. He walked slowly back to the teletype, where he sat and watched the last few seconds of the ultimatum tick away. He felt quite empty and calm, even detached.

Exactly one second past the time of expiry Forbin heard the sound he dreaded—the busy, self-important chatter of the teletype. He looked at the message.

“Oh God, oh God.” Forbin, his hands locked between his knees, rocked gently backwards and forwards in agony as he read.

ONE MISSILE SERIAL POSEIDON MK 17-631 EX SUBMERGED CRAWLER SSCN 21 LAUNCHED 1410 GMT TARGET GREGOR SOBIRSK OIL COMPLEX AIRBURST 1000 METRES IMPACT 1427 GMT ACKNOWLEDGE

A futile anger flooded in upon him as he read that last cold emotionless word.

“You bastard! You wicked, wicked—” He stopped. There was nothing remotely adequate that he could say, nothing. Before he could reach forward to tear the fateful message off, the teletype chattered again.

ACKNOWLEDGE NOW

Forbin restrained a wild impulse to smash blindly at the teletype, feverishly he stabbed at the keys, his vision obscured by tears. Sobbing, shaking, he tore off the message and shambled out to the President in the outer office. He was quite unable to speak, but thrust the message into the President’s hand and without knowing quite why, started to shamble back to the machine, dimly aware of the President’s almost incoherent babble into the phone. In the sanctum, two phones on the President’s desk began to call, one giving the high pitched ululation of the emergency call, a small red light occulting on the phone in phase with the audio signal. Like a very old or very drunk man, Forbin fumbled and grasped the receiver.

“Yes?” his voice was faint, drained of expression.

“Marine guard commander Colossus, sir. I have to report that the armored doors to the air shaft have just closed, sir.” The young Marine officer’s voice was cracked with excitement and anxiety.

“Thank you,” replied Forbin tonelessly, and replaced the receiver. It was all so unreal, yet Forbin was aware that part of himself was outside himself, watching, as it were, from a distance- -watching with incurious detachment his shocked state. It seemed important that he should act out his part to the satisfaction of this other, astral Forbin. The thought steadied him to a degree; he glanced at his watch—9.13 A.M. It was a considerable mental effort to add five hours to bring it to Greenwich Mean Time. He checked the answer, moving a finger on one hand as he counted. It flooded in upon him that there were still fifteen minutes left to impact … He tried to think, but a phone kept pinging softly, insistently. A gust of rage shook him as he snatched the phone.

“Yes?”

“Thank God it’s you.” It was Fisher, his voice pitched up almost to a scream. “What do we do, you know—”

“Get off the line and don’t bother me!”

Forbin slammed the phone down. The action shook him from his state of near paralysis. He recalled that the direct line to the CPO should have been manned by Prytzkammer. He snatched up the hotline phone, someone was half-shouting; Forbin did not bother to hear who it was—he knew that what little could be done, only he and Kupri could do. The rest were just so much window dressing.

“Silence! This is Forbin—is Kupri on the line?”

His sudden eruption shocked the heads of state to silence. “Kupri speaking.” Incredibly, the Russian still sounded calm and detached. Forbin was at once thankful that he was coherent, and drew strength from it himself.

“Look, Kupri—there are still a good twelve minutes to impact—can you intercept?”

“Guardian controls our antimissile defenses. We have fed in the warning; it is up to Guardian.” Forbin detected a note of hopelessness in Kupri’s voice. Time was short; he jumped a question.

“You do not think Guardian will act?”

“No. I believe the machines are working together.”

“But that’s impossible!” The President cut in, his croaking voice a parody of its normal self.

“Shut up!” Forbin spat the words out like bullets. He went on in more reasonable yet urgent tones. “Kupri, I agree with you. Are you clearing the target area?”

“As far as possible, yes. Our Chairman has ordered a general defense alert.”

In his mind’s eye Forbin visualized the missile, now approaching its apogee, soon to turn earthwards, lancing irrevocably down at 15,000 miles an hour. He struggled to keep his voice under control.

“Mr. Chairman, President. I do not think this is all; I expect Guardian to launch a missile- -Kupri, please check. The only course open to us is to restore communication between these machines, and then ask that the missile or missiles be intercepted. Kupri, do you agree?”

“Am checking our missile state; agree with your view.” Kupri did not sound hurried, but there was not a single unnecessary word.

“Mr. Chairman?”

“Yes, agreed, do what you can.” “Mr. President?”

“Yes, yes! Get on with it!” The President’s voice was bordering on the hysterical, but Forbin had already dropped the phone. As he wheeled for the teletype, he realized that Prytzkammer was back on the direct line to the Secure Zone. “You—tell the CPO to switch on the Colossus transmitter at once!” He stumbled in his hurry to reach the teletype, cursed and kicked the chair aside. Behind him the pale and shaking Prytzkammer was yelling his message to the CPO.

For a moment Forbin stood silent, breathing heavily, before the machine. It was taking precious seconds, but he had to think what to say.

THIS IS FORBIN TRANSMITTER NOW BEING SWITCHED ON STAND BY TO INTERCEPT GUARDIAN MISSILE TARGET UNKNOWN ACKNOWLEDGE

Colossus at least wasted no time

ACKNOWLEDGED

Forbin paused, glanced fearfully at his watch; little more than nine minutes to impact. He typed again

WILL YOU INTERCEPT

Behind him he heard Prytzkammer shouting, “The transmitter’s on, the transmitter’s on!” He took no notice, watching for Colossus’ answer.

It came in less than a second, but to him it was all eternity.

YES

Forbin shut his eyes, shook his head slightly, aware that his emotions were grotesquely inadequate. He jabbed his weary brain into action. If Guardian did fire—had fired—there was a good chance that an intercept could be made. The antimissile defenses had long been prepared to deal with forty or fifty at one time, plus any decoys. Interception rate had been estimated variously, some optimists putting it as high as 90 percent, some as low as 40 percent. Either way, the balance would be more than enough for the job … But with just the one, there was a good chance. With deep fervor, Forbin prayed that the USSR defenses would be able to deal with the Poseidon Mk. 17; it was a relatively old-fashioned weapon, Guardian would know the target, and that would be a big help … Forbin realized that Prytzkammer was shaking his shoulder, his anger flared up at the interruption as he turned. The aide was screaming.

“It’s on! It’s on!”

Forbin shook himself free, but Prytzkammer was on him again in a flash,

“It’s on, I tell you! Stop it! Stop it—it’s on!”

For the first time, Forbin really looked at the aide. For all his own load of anxiety and fear, he was shocked by what he saw; the aide seemed to have shrunk, his clothes ill-fitting, his skin gray, bloodless. The eyes, pupils wide and staring, hunted restlessly round the room, flitting to and from Forbin, staring yet devoid of intelligence. There was saliva on his lips as he screamed at the Professor.

For a brief moment Forbin stared in revulsion, and tried to thrust the aide aside. The man was mad. Forbin struggled to free himself, but Prytzkammer was past hearing or reason. He fought to hold the Professor, one clawlike hand grabbed at Forbin’s throat. With a sudden furious access of strength, Forbin smashed his fist into the aide’s face. The man’s head jerked back, for a second lolled on one side, then his grip relaxed and he slid to the carpet. Instantly he was wiped from Forbin’s mind as he ran to the outer office.

The President, his face strongly resembling Prytzkammer’s in color, was listening intently on the phone. He glanced up, and although there was fear written largely in his eyes, they were not, like his aide, devoid of intelligence.

“Repeat that,” he snapped into the phone, “Yes, got it. Wait.” He looked at Forbin and spoke in a hard, flat voice. “Guardian has fired. Target, Henderson Space Base, Texas. Ten minutes to impact.”

Both men were already satiated with horror, and this made little difference. Life had moved into a different tempo in the past hour.

Forbin nodded. “Right. Tell Kupri that our transmitter is running and that Colossus will try to take their missile.”

In seconds he was back at the teletype.

FLASH FROM FORBIN MISSILE EX GUARDIAN NOW AIRBORNE TARGET HENDERSON SFB TEXAS IMPACT IN NINE MINUTES CAN YOU INTERCEPT

Again the microsecond time—lag tore at Forbin’s nerves.

YES

Forbin grimaced in nervous reaction, and typed again

ESTIMATE HEIGHT OF INTERCEPT

There was a fractional pause

NINETYFIVE MILES NON NUCLEAR INTERCEPTOR WILL BE USED IF POSSIBLE

“God!” muttered Forbin, “He’s reading my thoughts!” He swung up and out of the chair, past the still figure of Prytzkammer, back to the President.

“Well?” he snapped curtly at the First Citizen. It did not occur to him that he should report first; he was in charge. “Kupri says Guardian is prepared to attempt an intercept if the transmitter is restored in time.”

“For Christ’s sake, what the hell are they playing at?” He grabbed the phone from the President. “Kupri, are you there?”

The cold level tones of the Chairman answered, “Kupri is busy, tell me.”

Forbin’s detached self could not help feeling that the Russians were standing up to the strain a good deal better than his side, although the President seemed to be back in command of himself.

“Mr. Chairman, there are only six minutes left for you to stop our missile. Colossus is no doubt transmitting right now, and is prepared to intercept your missile. Time is short for you—”

Kupri, breathless as if he had been running, cut in. “Kupri here, transmitter on, intercept arranged.”

“Thank God,” said Forbin simply. There was a short silence, then he spoke again, “Kupri, do you know where your missile is coming from?”

“Not exactly, but it is from a site in Novaya Zemlya.” “Right.” Forbin thrust the phone back into the President’s hand without looking at him, and became aware that they were not alone. Withdrawn to a corner, as if seeking shelter, was Prytzkammer’s assistant aide, a young man named Bishop; and behind the President stood the Chief of Staff. Forbin summoned them both as he headed once more for the teletype. In the sanctum, phones were ringing, pinging and howling.

“Answer them,” he told the aide, and grabbed the Chief of Staff’s arm. “You get a statewide shelter warning out for Texas—and hold Civil Defense for anything else that may be necessary.”

He ran to the teletype. Time was very short.

FLASH MISSILE EX NOVAYA ZEMLYA AREA REPORT INTERCEPT AREA

“Forbin!” the Chief of Staff shouted. “Space radar reports probable missile located—”

“Forget it!” shouted Forbin back. He watched impatiently for the machine to answer.

MISSILE INTERCEPTION IN HAND NOW PROBABLE INTERCEPT AREA 35 N 70 W OVER SEA

“A map, find a map!” roared Forbin.

The aide, frightened out of his wits, yet sticking gamely to the phones, called out, “Sir, Army reports antimissile firings in South Carolina and Virginia, sir!”

“Get that map!”

Ironically, the only map they could find in the sanctum was an antique globe, part of the sanctum furnishings. The Chief of Staff spun it with scant regard for its age.

“Well out to sea,” he said. “Five hundred miles north of the Bahamas.”

A very tired figure appeared in the door of the sanctum, holding the frame for support. It was the President. Forbin gave him the barest glance as he headed back from the globe to the teletype.

REPORT PROGRESS

But Colossus was not prepared to speak; one word came clacking back.

WAIT

Forbin sat down and clasped his hands between his knees, gazing grimly at the silent machine, his thoughts busy with the chances of interception and the Secure Zone. He hoped that Fisher would have the sense to keep CIA informed—not that it really mattered. Just now, everything turned on a lot of hardware on the Atlantic coast and that terrifying inanimate missile, immune to any electronic interference, a straightforward ballistic object, now well on the way down … He glanced at his watch. Colossus’ missile must be down now, one way or the other … He remembered the President, and his presence in the room took on a new significance. Forbin looked round at him.