The General's President (41 page)

Acts of God—eruptions, great hurricanes, tidal waves—can be more engrossing than acts of man, and Haugen and Flynn watched intently. By that time it was daylight in Anchorage, and planes had already overflown the devastation, taking such pictures around Mount Spurr as the light there allowed. The more impressive footage was of the Redoubt Volcano. The dust cloud from Mount Spurr was drifting east, not south toward Redoubt, thus a rising sun lit the scene redly through sooty fumes and steam. Lava still ponderously flowed, the snow retreating ahead of it, and debris-filled mud lay in great fans of ruin at the foot of the ravines.

It was midafternoon in D.C. when James Gupta at the NSA called the president. The seismograms associated with the eruptions, he said, were peculiar in several respects, and taken together left no doubt in his mind that this quake and eruption were triggered by scalar resonance.

"What's the certainty level?" Haugen asked.

"The probability is well above the ninety-nine percent level—better than 0.999."

"Hm-m." The president frowned. "Why Mount Spurr?"

"I have no substantial idea, sir."

"How about an insubstantial idea?"

"It could have been a demonstration—the Soviets reminding us of what they can do. In a location that did no severe damage to populations or property."

"To what purpose?"

"It could be to worry us, in advance of some Soviet move in Europe or Asia. To make us hesitant, more reluctant to mount a countermove."

The president's look was thoughtful, perhaps tinged with skepticism. "If you say the quake and eruption were created by scalar resonance, I'll accept that. But we already knew what they have the power to do, and they know what we can do if we choose to."

"True."

Briefly Haugen said nothing. "Well, I won't rack my brain over it. At least not until we have more data." He paused. "And just to be sure, check on our own resonance transmitters; I need to be damn certain we didn't do it. Check that right away and get back to me on it."

Gupta's answer was delayed slightly. Obviously the order bothered him. "Yes sir," he said.

"How long will it take you? I presume you know exactly who you need to check with at each location."

"Yes sir, I do. I should have the information to you within the hour."

"Good. They'll probably think you're crazy for asking. Tell them the president wants to be absolutely sure before he takes certain steps."

Gupta nodded very soberly, wondering what those "certain steps" might be. When they'd disconnected, the president buzzed Cromwell, just down the hall.

"Jumper," Haugen said, "I need to talk with Colonel Schubert again. Tomorrow morning. Any problem with that?"

"I'll have to check, but I doubt it very much."

"Fine. Let me know."

It was hard for Arne Haugen to put his attention back on the proposed tax reform package the Joint Committee on Taxation had sent him. But he persisted until it had his complete attention. It was detailed and well written, with glossary and appendix. The discussion seemed very thorough and the proposal very rational.
Why
, he asked himself,
didn't earlier committees come up with one like this?
The reason, when he thought about it, seemed obvious: The difficulty of getting it through a Congress beset by a hundred special interest groups, or a thousand, almost all of them persuasive and some of them convincing, arguing or wheedling for modifications and compromises. And all wielding influence in the form of political support, and frequently potential campaign contributions.

His phone buzzed again. "What is it, Jeanne?"

"Your daughter's on line one, sir."

The president felt a pang of guilt as his finger moved to the flashing key; he hadn't called Liisa since—since the Christmas that hardly was. Her face appeared on the screen, a face more resembling his own than Lois's—good but not pretty.

"Hi, sweetheart. How's it going in far away Grand Forks?"

"It's cold here, daddy. Six below at noon."

"How's Ed doing? And the kids?"

"Ed's fine. He's still acting department chairman; Professor Becker's not recovering as quickly as expected. I just wanted to let you know that Joyce is expecting. I'm going to be a grandmother."

She didn't sound very enthusiastic. "Huh! That's interesting. Any more talk about a wedding?"

"Nothing definite. Well, in a way. They've definitely decided to, but they haven't set a date. Not even a month." She paused. "Joey only makes a dollar an hour. He does pick and shovel work for the P.W.A."

"What does Ed think of all this?"

"About Joyce's pregnancy? He doesn't know yet. Joyce just found out for sure this morning, though she's suspected for the last couple of days. Joey's supposed to have been taking that new oral male contraceptive that the FDA approved last year. Either it didn't work, or Joey forgot."

Probably the latter, Haugen thought. Ed considered Joey Lund a world class bumbler. Likeable but a klutz. The president grinned at his daughter, strangely lightened by her report, as if it somehow lent perspective to things. "Life gets complicated around here, too, honey. Have you told your mother yet?"

His security phone began to buzz, and a code number had formed on its screen.

"No. I thought I'd call her next," Liisa said.

"Good idea. Liisa, the National Security Agency is trying to get me on my security phone. I need to hang up. Thanks for the news, and for thinking of me."

"You're welcome, daddy. 'Bye."

"Goodbye, honey."

He disconnected and reached for the security phone.
Life does get complicated all right
, he mused.

THIRTY-SIX

The word from Gupta had been unequivocal and negative: The American scalar resonance transmitters had not triggered the Mount Spurr eruption. They'd stood unused for weeks; for years except for bimonthly equipment tests.

Then the president had the Washington-Moscow Direct Communications Link—the "Hot Line" office—arrange a conference between himself and Premier Pavlenko, via the video "red phones" that Wheeler and Gorbachev had had installed.

The first thing next morning, Haugen and his guests rode the emergency elevator down to the bomb shelter beneath the White House. There, in a rather small but comfortable room, he took a seat beside a State Department interpreter. Out of sight of the video pickup sat General Cromwell, Secretary of State Valenzuela, and Gupta of NSA. And an unintroduced Colonel, Schubert/Bulavin, who'd come in with Cromwell. The president nodded at a major watching from the control room through a small glass window. The major nodded back, and no doubt signaled a sergeant.

For a moment, the telephone screen paled diffusely, then a picture flashed into being. The face of Marshal Premier Oleg Stepanovich Pavlenko looked out at the president.

It was 1600 hours in Moscow, with its year-round daylight saving time, and 0800 in Washington.

"Good afternoon, Marshal Premier Pavlenko," Haugen said in Russian.

"Good morning, Mr. President."

Pavlenko appeared to be a man about sixty years old, mostly bald, thin-lipped, wearing thick, wire-rimmed glasses. "What is it you wished to talk about?" he asked. Haugen's interpreter, wearing headphones, translated into English scarcely a thought behind the Premier. The sound volume in Russian was subdued, too quiet to follow, to avoid confusion in listening to the English translation. Haugen didn't feel confident enough of his Russian fluency to try carrying on a sensitive exchange in the language—an exchange that could conceivably become technical. He, Valenzuela, and Schubert/Bulavin would listen to the original Russian afterward, on tape.

The president answered now in English. "We have had a great volcanic eruption in our state of Alaska."

The face that looked out at him wore no identifiable expression; it was simply cold. The eyes were colder. "I have heard."

"My specialists have assured me that it was not an unassisted act of nature. They tell me it was triggered by a very large and explosive release of energy via scalar resonance."

"Why are you telling this to me?"

"We here in America did not trigger it. And there are only two nations with the ability to. Therefore it follows that someone in the Soviet Union is responsible. I am calling to ask why it was done. Assuming that my information and my assumptions are correct."

The thin lips smiled slightly, but the eyes did not change. "Mr. President. We have contingency plans of every sort here. Including plans for delivering attacks of various sorts and intensities on many countries. If I were to carry out such an attack, I would not choose a location where the damage would be so meaningless."

"Then the Soviet Union is not responsible for the eruption yesterday?"

"No." The slight, cold-eyed smile returned, perhaps a trifle wider this time. "You have my word on it."

"Thank you, Marshal Premier Pavlenko," the president replied, in Russian again. He deliberately kept expression from both his face and his voice. "You can imagine how reassured I am. Perhaps we shall talk again sometime under more relaxed circumstances."

The image in front of him snapped off, and the president signaled the major that he was done. Then he looked at the men sitting away from the pickup.

"Did you learn anything?" asked Cromwell.

"Not much. Let's listen to the recording." He touched the playback key on the console, and after a brief delay, Pavlenko's Russian came from the set. When it was over, the president sat back. "How I read it is that Pavlenko is quite happy for us to believe he's responsible. He'd like us to worry about possible future attacks on locations where an earthquake or eruption would be a lot more serious.

"I presume he has it in mind to do more than he has. He could have scalar warfare in mind, but it's probably something else, because of the risk that scalar war would go nuclear. Or he may be testing us, feeling his way a step at a time." Haugen looked around. "Do any of you have any comments?"

No one spoke; heads shook.

"All right. Then we might as well leave."

They did. Most left the White House entirely, but Schubert/Bulavin went to the Oval Office with the president. When the president had poured coffee, they sat down.

He gazed at the ex-Soviet spy, ex-Soviet major general, ex-Soviet deputy ambassador. "What kind of reputation did Pavlenko have in the Soviet army when you were there?" he asked. "As a person."

"He was considered a dangerous person to work under. Fanatical, totally patriotic, and liable to punish severely for a first error. Particularly if it could be interpreted as an expression of moral corruption." Bulavin paused. "Moral corruption isn't really a good translation. He had a reputation for cruelty and for abusing women. Let's say he was harsh toward official corruption—corruption political and financial."

"I got an impression of him, on the phone," Haugen said. "One of the reasons I like video phones so well; they make it easier to evaluate the person you're talking to. There's a concept I ran into once, in reading, that might apply here:
reasoning psychotic
."

Bulavin's eyebrows lifted.

"Reasoning psychotics apply more or less rational intelligence to carry out insane purposes," the president continued. "If they're single-minded enough, they can be very effective; effectively destructive, ordinarily. Could that describe Pavlenko?"

The Russian answered thoughtfully. "Perhaps. I've never known Pavlenko myself. I've seen him, but never talked to him."

The president nodded. "Do you have any idea what his motives might be in setting off a volcanic eruption in Alaska?"

"None whatever. I must tell you, I had no idea at all that such a thing was possible, until last night, when Vice President Cromwell briefed me in preparation for this morning. In Russia I'd heard rumors of a great secret weapon, with installations in the arctic and near Riga, and in Kazakhstan. But in the GRU, it is easy to be cynical. And if it was true, then it was the kind of thing you're wise not to speculate about."

"Have you known General Gurenko?"

"Gurenko?" Bulavin sounded surprised. "Yes. Rather well, although our contacts were professional, never personal. He was in charge of the San Francisco residency when I was a young operational officer there. A very fair officer, but of course very ruthless. As I was. As the GRU goes, he was a good officer to work under."

"What's his attitude toward Americans?"

Bulavin reflected for a moment. "It was not something we discussed. But he wasn't a xenophobe like Pavlenko and so many others. He'd lived abroad too much for that, particularly in the States."

Haugen nodded. "I've been assuming you're with the Defense Intelligence Agency now; that or Army Intelligence. Is that right?"

Bulavin smiled a one-sided smile. "While General Cromwell was the CJCS, I was his intelligence aide. Since then I've had an 'open assignment' on the Joint Staff. Before he was chairman, I was briefly with the Defense Intelligence Agency, but there were two problems with that. One was the need to keep my true identity confidential; only three people there were allowed to know it. And more difficult, more basic, there was the understandable problem that the seniors there—the people who knew who I was—didn't fully trust me. So they made limited use of my particular qualifications.

"Any intelligence organization is very sensitive to the danger of double agents, and most intelligence officers, here as well as in the Soviet Union, are very afraid of making errors. Too much is at stake."

"Why does Jumper trust you?"

"I'm a man with an exceptional memory. Not an eidetic memory, but exceptional. So when I defected, I was able to provide an extreme amount of detailed and valuable information on the Soviet military and government. I've been called the most valuable defector ever. And so far as I know, in no case has any of my information proved false."

Again the one-sided smile. "Beyond that, it seems to me that the general is a man who tends to trust his intuitions."

That fits
, Haugen said to himself.
That sure as hell fits.