Nemesis (25 page)

“Ease off, Sam, you’re on too much choke,” said the Secretary of Defense. “Wallis, I respect your need for a legal basis, but it exists. The authority for launching nuclear weapons passes through the President, the Vice-President and myself as SecDef. The procedural requirement is that a decision to launch is made in consultation with Hooper here as Chief of JCS.”

“That means two against two,” said Wallis, “with the President carrying the ultimate authority.”

“There’s a loophole,” said Bellarmine. “In the context of the Situation Room, with a nuclear strike in the balance, and each and every second of huge importance, Hooper and I alone are the principal officers of the executive department. On the issue of presidential fitness to discharge his powers and duties, Hooper and I alone make the decision. We don’t consult the cabinet, and we dispense with written declarations. The guys who wrote this stuff just didn’t have this situation to handle.”

“Seems to me that, by the Twenty-fifth, if you remove Grant you end up with the Vice-President,” said Wallis. “Where does McCulloch stand?”

Bellarmine said, “He hasn’t been briefed. He knows nothing about Nemesis.”

“Come on, pal, McCulloch’s a chimpanzee,” Hooper interrupted. “Fat wino shopkeeper with an IQ about sixty. He
couldn’t even grasp the issues. Everybody knows Grant just chose him for the Southern vote. You want a chimpanzee to make the decision for a nuclear strike? Is that what you want, Wallis? The decision left to a chimpanzee?”

“Yes, sir, if it’s next in the chain of command.”

Bellarmine tapped his fingers on the table. “McCulloch won’t be available for consultation.”

“What does that mean in plain English, sir?”

Hooper said, “Foggy, you might want to consider whether that’s an appropriate tone to address the Secretary. What you’ve just been told is all you need to know. McCulloch won’t be available for consultation.”

“But by the Twenty-fifth, you need the Vice-President to remove the President.”

“He won’t be available for consultation,” Hooper repeated in a voice which closed the matter.

Bellarmine continued. “Our problem is this, Colonel Wallis. Suppose we remove Grant by wielding the Twenty-fifth. Would the Communications personnel then accept my authority as President
pro tempore
? The big enemy is the clock. The whole transfer of command has to be over in seconds. There will be no time for long explanations. Or even short ones.”

“The swiftest rebellion in history,” said Hooper. “It has to be over and the new chain of command in place in the seconds between the asteroid entering our air space and the blast reaching our silos.”

“Which is where you come in, Wallis, you and your Signals background,” Bellarmine continued. “A transfer will come through for you in the next day or two. You will be given command of the communications room. Briefing sessions are being set up for you. You will be in charge of the personnel at the crucial moment. The decision that Communications accepts my authority will be made by you. Our counterstrike will then be enabled.”

“You’re trying to slip one over on me,” Wallis insisted. “If the President is removed you still have the Vice-President.”

Hooper banged a fist on the table. “We have here the most doggone stubborn soldier in this man’s army.” Bellarmine raised a hand to silence the Chief of the JCS.

Wallis bowed his head for some seconds. Then he said, thinking as he spoke, “I suppose if the Vice-President is out of it, and the President is legitimately removed by the Twenty-fifth, and SecDef at least is the only relevant principal officer in the circumstances, then yes”—he seemed to come to a decision—“the SecDef does become the Acting President. Gentlemen, I can’t connive in the removal of the Vice-President from the decision-making process. But if for whatever reason he is absent at the crucial moment, I can then follow your orders with a clear conscience.”

In a moment of panic, Wallis realized that with these words he had become a party to a plot to overthrow the President of the United States and launch a nuclear strike in which the dead would be counted in the hundreds of millions. “Oh Holy Christ,” he added, suddenly feeling nauseous.

Bellarmine half-smiled.

“Margaret’s fixed up for a fireworks display about now,” Hooper said, picking up his sombrero.

“I’ll want to bring some of my own people with me, people who know me,” Wallis said, cold sweat developing on his brow.

Hooper stood up. “Sure and begorrah. Just let me have their names. We shouldn’t miss it.”

Bellarmine turned into a werewolf again.

The crowd Ooh’d and Aah’d as rockets whooshed into the night sky, exploding with a
Whump!
into multi-coloured stars, while a dazzling waterfall of silver flame poured expensively on to the far end of the lawn. Wallis thought of the shadowy figure he had seen on the approach road, and the polite young man who had known just where to find him in the dark woods.

If I’d made for the freeway, I would probably now be wrapped in chains, and spiralling down towards the bottom of Lake Pepsi: an act of patriots, for love of country
.

Soft flesh was pressing against his arm. Another starlet-in-waiting, hormones awash, dark eyes staring up into his; she said isn’t it exciting; and he slid an arm around her waist and said Yeah sister, cool, like I’m glad I slipped out of the AIDS hospice for the night.

masque
[masquerata
: see MASK] 1. a masked ball. 2. a disguise, pretence.
vi
. 1. to take part in a masquerade. 2. to act under false pretences.

Webb wakened with a jerk around 7 a.m., having had two hours’ sleep in the past twenty-four. The memory of that morning’s unsettling discovery came to him—but something else, an inspiration, was speaking to him like a voice inside his head. The Tenerife question would have to wait.

Fearful that the thought would fade as he came to, he focused on it single-mindedly, visualizing it in an assortment of bizarre contexts. He staggered to the bathroom and shaved off a two-day stubble under a shower, his eyes closed. He then dressed quickly, by now fully awake and easily able to resist the fatal inner voice telling him to stretch out again for a couple of minutes.

He tapped on Noordhof’s door, Number Four with a desert view, and tapped again. Noordhof appeared in underpants, swimming with sleep. The soldier, Webb noticed, had the beginnings of a pot belly.

“Colonel, I need to make a call to Europe.”

Noordhof scratched under his armpit. “Telephones are death, Oliver.”

“I’ve had an idea. It’s a long shot and it’s probably dead in the water. But if it’s right it leads us straight to Nemesis.”

Noordhof was instantly awake. “Okay. We’ll use the secure cable to Albuquerque. I’ll ask our Communications hotshots to route your call via some innocuous address. Who are you calling?”

“An old friend. She’s not in the asteroid business, not
even in science. Nobody would have reason to connect her with Nemesis.”

“Give me ten minutes, then join me in the common room.”

Webb put on a heavy pullover and went outside, running around the building in sheer frustration. Judy’s Firebird was tinged with frost, and the tracks of small animals crisscrossed the car park snow, concentrating around the garbage bins.

“Join me, Oliver?” Judy asked, emerging from the main door in her grey tracksuit. “Ten minutes’ aerobic.”

“Thanks, Judy, but not this morning. You’ll stay within Noordhof’s hundred-metre circle, of course.”

She smiled enigmatically. Webb followed her trim, lithe frame as she took off through the trees at a fair pace, blonde hair bouncing. In spite of their weird heart-to-heart of only a few hours ago, she was still, to him, an enigma. Either she hadn’t grasped the responsibility she was carrying, or there were nerves of steel underneath that bouncy exterior.

Noordhof, now dressed in smart casual style, was waiting for Webb at the telephone. Shafer was in an armchair, covering a sheet of paper with equations; he gave Webb a friendly wave without looking up.

“Right. This call can’t be overheard at the US end but we can’t answer for Europe. We had to give you a local address because of the transatlantic delay. If your friend asks, you’re phoning from the Ramada Inn in Tucson. We’re reserving a room there in your name as a precaution. You’re doing the Grand Canyon, the Painted Desert, whatever. Dial out as usual. Just be extremely careful what you say. I’ll be listening on the kitchen extension.”

Webb dialled, and a few seconds later a male voice answered, “Western Manuscripts,” as clearly as if it came from three feet away.

“Virginia Melbourne, please.”

“She’s at home today.”

“Thank you.” Webb dialled her Bicester home number. It rang for nearly a minute; and then a contralto, somewhat husky voice said “Virginia Melbourne.”

“Hi, Virginia.”

A transatlantic pause, and then: “Ollie! How are you? Are you calling from Oxford?”

“Actually I’m in the States. What mischief are you up to, Virginia?”

“For starters, I’m standing here naked and dripping wet.”

“I’ll try not to think about that.”

“I’d rather you did, darling. Whereabouts in the States are you?” Noordhof, looking through the open doorway from the kitchen, visibly tensed.

“Arizona, doing the tour. I thought I’d treat myself to a warm Christmas for a change but I’m beginning to twitch. You remember that manuscript I was translating? Volume Three of
Phaenomenis Novae
, by Father Vincenzo?”

“Remember it, darling? We scoured the Bod looking for it. Did your lost photocopy ever turn up?”

“No. What about your original?”

“No. It’s still missing. And you just can’t steal a manuscript from Western Manuscripts: our archives are a hundred per cent secure. It’s the oddest thing.”

“Virginia, I need a favour.” Webb ignored the wicked chuckle in his ear. “You told me there’s an original?”

“
The
original. Our Bodleian copy was a Late Renaissance transcription made in Amsterdam. Looking at myself in the mirror, I’d say I have a pretty good figure.”

“Where can I get my hands on it?”

“The manuscript, you mean? It’s somewhere in Italy. I can’t be sure. Vincenzo’s not one of your big names, Ollie, not like Galileo.”

“Please, Virginia!”

“Well now, I might be able to rustle up a contact for you. I think one of the Jesuit priests at Castelgandolfo could point the way. Shall I look into it?”

“Please. Send me as much information as you can about the historical background to
Phaenomenis
. I’m preparing a monograph on comets, and I thought I’d say something about the Renaissance theories. Maybe draw up a chapter outline while I’m at the Grand Canyon.”

Virginia’s contralto voice dripped with unconcealed envy. “Some people have all the sodding luck. Can you access a terminal?”

Noordhof was tensed up again.

“Yes, I’m due to drop in on a colleague at the University of Arizona.”

“In that case I’ll scan things in and type something up, and put it on anonymous ftp. You should be able to access it through my home page within a couple of hours. But it’ll cost you.”

“Name your price.”

“A weekend in Paris?”

“Agreed.”

“A naughty one?”

Noordhof’s eyeballs were rolling.

“Virginia, I’m forever grateful. Byee.”

Elated, the astronomer turned to Noordhof. “Mark, I must get to Rome right away. I want to get my hands on a four-hundred-year-old manuscript.”

Noordhof was about to reply but the glass door banged open and there was the sound of running footsteps along the corridor. Judy entered the room panting, flushed and shaking. “Come quickly.”

The men left Kowalski and Sacheverell asleep and followed her at a fast trot to the cable car shed. She pointed upwards. A wisp of cloud was swirling around Eagle Peak; but then it cleared, and they could just discern a man dangling from the cable car, his arms at full stretch, legs waving.

Webb sprinted back to the observatory building and reappeared with a coastguard telescope and a tripod. They quickly set it up. In the eyepiece, Webb traced the cable up to the
summit. The top platform almost filled the field of view. The car had stopped about twenty feet down from it. There was a clear three thousand feet of air between the man and the ground below. “It’s André. The door’s open and he’s hanging on to the edge of the floor. By the tips of his fingers, I think.”

“How the bloody hell?” Shafer asked.

Judy’s fists were at her mouth, clenched in fright. “How long has he been like that?”

Noordhof ran into the cable car winch house. Judy and Shafer followed him in, staring up through the big plate glass window. Webb stayed at the eyepiece. Noordhof moved over to the panel. It was on a gunmetal grey desk, with a large On–Off switch and a lever marked Up and Down.

“What are you doing, Mark?” Webb called in.

“I’m sliding the car up. He can’t hang on like that for more than a few minutes.”

“You’ll knock him off. He’ll hit the concrete platform.”

“It’s up or down. And his grip won’t last the trip down.”

Shafer was holding his head in his hands, looking up. “How long has he been hanging like that?”

“Try it slow,” Webb shouted in to the winch house.

Noordhof pulled the big switch to On. The motor whined and gears clashed. He turned the lever slowly from neutral towards its Up position. In the eyepiece of the telescope, Webb saw the little car jerk alarmingly, and Leclerc’s feet wave frantically in space. It edged up towards the platform. The Frenchman’s body drew alongside a concrete wall; it seemed to be scraping his back.

“Slow!” Webb shouted in. Then “Stop! He’s not going to make it. It’s the Eskimo suit. There isn’t the space. If we try to drag him through he’ll lose his grip.”

Noordhof sprinted out and put his eye to the telescope. Leclerc’s head seemed almost to be jammed in the space between platform and car. His arms were stretched full length above him, as if he was grasping for something almost out of reach. He was about one unattainable metre from safety.