Power curve, p.43
Power Curve, page 43
“How much longer before what?” she finally replied.
“Before you realize you’re making a bad mistake.”
“Are we?” she asked.
Now it was his turn to be silent. Timing was everything because her next command would set the guards on him. He watched for the telltale contraction of facial muscles. He spoke just as her lips opened. “Most assuredly,” he said. “Unfortunately, Mr. Wang does not understand President Turner. That could lead to a terrible tragedy. So unnecessary.” From the look in her eyes, he was certain she was listening.
“Chairman Wang understands all that is important,” she said.
“He doesn’t know what President Turner will do next,” Bender said.
“And you do?”
“Most assuredly,” he repeated. “Perhaps you should tell him that I know.” They stared at each other a few seconds. It seemed like hours. She spoke to the guards, and they picked up Davis’s body as she turned to leave. “We need blankets and food,” he said to her back. The door banged shut, and the Americans were alone.
“What are you doing?” Courtland asked.
“Negotiating.”
“Someone’s coming,” Burke cautioned from his listening perch by the back wall. The door lock rattled, and the door burst open. A guard shoved the muzzle of his submachine gun in, and for a split second, Bender was certain they were dead. Another guard threw in a bundle of blankets while a third placed a basket on the floor. They backed out and closed the door.
Courtland passed out the blankets while Burke checked the basket. Inside were four plastic bowls, four spoons, and a covered pot. “Negotiations are in progress,” Bender muttered. She’s lying, he thought. Wang isn’t the chairman, not yet.
Lawrence Livermore Labs
Livermore, California
Tobias J. Malthus was sitting at the shot director’s console in the control room of the Nova Laser Facility. Toby Malthus was a bearded teddy bear of a man in his late fifties, six feet tall with soft brown eyes and the disposition to match. Women wanted to cuddle him and thought of him as a muffin. Secretly, Malthus often wished they would add “stud” to the “muffin,” but he couldn’t change what he was, a gentle human being who played with nuclear fusion, the stuff that powers our sun and the distant stars. On this particular early Thursday morning, he was about to create a tiny star of his own that would live for a billionth of a second.
Malthus gave the word to start the three-minute countdown to another shot, their term for an experiment. Because computers handled all the necessary tasks, little was said.
In the basement of the Nova Laser Facility, the 10,000 capacitors released a large burst of electrical energy into the ten laser beamlines in the main bay. Each of the beamlines was approximately thirty inches in diameter, about the length of a football field, and resembled a Rube Goldberg collection of sewer pipes connected with coffinlike transformer boxes. The beamlines were stacked in banks of five, and an unwary visitor might think he or she was in a plumbing warehouse suffering from an overdose of steroids. Ten trillion watts of energy went down each laser beamline and was focused into a target chamber that might have once been a deep-sea diving bell. Suspended in the target chamber was a fuel pellet the size of a grain of salt. For most humans, what happened next equated to magic. The laser beams compressed the pellet to a density twenty times greater than lead, reduced its size by a factor of thirty, and caused a nuclear reaction.
In quiet moments on long walks, Toby Malthus ran the mathematical probabilities of a shot releasing the full potential of the energy in the small pellets they bombarded with lasers. There was no danger of a mushroom cloud rising over Livermore, everyone agreed on that. But they were trying to fuse two forms of hydrogen to generate heat. That also created radiation. What if they were too successful and the Nova Laser Facility got an unexpected dose of radiation? Then his dreams of being a studmuffin would have to go on permanent hold while the physicists returned to their computers and drawing boards. But even then, he would be that much closer to giving the world the gift of a clean, safe, and unlimited source of energy in the form of heat. It amused him that the hope of the future might be found in the same weapons laboratories that designed thermonuclear weapons. He was a very contented man.
The director of Lawrence Livermore buzzed for entrance into the control room. He was a friendly man, superintelligent, given to expensive suits, and an astute scientist who could explain nuclear physics to kindergarten children and, therefore, politicians. “Toby,” he called, “you free to talk?”
“Uh-oh,” Malthus replied. He knew how the director worked.
“Weren’t you involved with the W-40 warhead?”
“I was young then,” Malthus told him. “That was way before your time.” As a young physicist, Malthus had predicted that the type W-40 thermonuclear warhead would, under the right circumstances, not detonate or only achieve a low-order detonation. It had been an esoteric argument based on Malthus’s calculations pitted against those of another physicist. The argument had raged hot until it was settled in a tunnel deep underneath the Nevada desert. “It was one of the last underground tests before the ban,” Malthus said. “I was wrong.”
“You heard about the Chinese?”
“Who hasn’t,” Malthus replied. In the world of nuclear physics, a nuclear explosion was a main event roughly equivalent to the second coming.
“We responded,” the director said.
“I didn’t hear about that.”
“We dropped a B-61.”
Malthus’s mind raced with implications. The B-61 used the W-40 warhead.
“It turns out,” the director said, confirming Malthus’s suspicions, “that you were right. You’re leaving for Okinawa.”
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago. Don’t bother to pack. A helicopter’s waiting.”
Washington, D.C.
Ben stood behind at the rear of the news studio evaluating the intern on the center camera. She was a tall and lithe tomboy with dreams of a career in TV news. She reminded him of a young Liz Gordon, fresh from Seattle twelve years ago. Liz came onto the set and sat down opposite Paul Ferguson, the network’s aging superstar. They exchanged small talk and Ben smiled at Paul’s pose: all friendliness, teeth, and smiles. And this is the woman who Paul pronounced dead two days ago, he thought. Things do change.
At exactly twelve o’clock, the director gave Ferguson the cue that they were live. “Good afternoon, America. We are in the fourth day since China detonated a nuclear weapon over the East China Sea and brought the world to the brink of nuclear war. While other nations wait and look to the United States for leadership, our president has not responded. Here with me for an update is Elizabeth Gordon.” He turned to face her. “Liz, you were at the White House from the very first. Do you have an explanation for this apparent paralysis we are seeing.”
“At this point,” Liz replied, “I wouldn’t call it paralysis. It is fair to say that the only person not panicking and demanding a knee-jerk reaction is the president. While it has been slow to emerge, we are now seeing a deliberate strategy of—”
Paul interrupted her. “But she has done nothing other than issue appeals for peace.”
“That is the public, visible part of her strategy,” Liz answered. “But there has been a flurry of diplomatic and military activity behind the scenes.” She ticked off what had been accomplished. “But there is more. For example, the national security adviser, General Robert Bender, is conducting secret talks with the Chinese.”
She’s got an inside! Ben thought, chalking one up for Liz. Her revelation would cause a big wave in the day’s news. “But the fact remains,” Paul persisted, “she has given in to nuclear blackmail.”
“Sources high in the White House,” Liz said, “tell me the president is still exploring every possible avenue for peace. These are uncharted waters and she is going slowly.”
“At this point, it is fair to ask,” Paul said, deliberately mimicking her, “will the president act?”
“Paul, in talking with my sources, I sensed a building momentum in the administration. You’ll have an answer to your question in a very short time, probably less than twenty-four hours.”
Ben laughed to himself. You got him again! he thought. And if you’re right—move over Paul Ferguson, there’s a new kid on the block!
27
Shahe Air Base, China
“I hear footsteps,” Larry Burke whispered. The sergeant was lying on his bunk in the early-morning dark, his ear against the wall. “Coming this way.” Bender rolled over and sat on the edge of his bunk, his blanket draped over his shoulders. He put on his shoes and stood up, adjusting his clothes and knotting his tie. The door banged open and the lone light bulb flicked on. The woman was standing in the doorway flanked by two guards.
Unconsciously, Bender checked his watch: 2:15 Friday. It’s still Thursday in the States, he thought. Nancy is probably just returning from lunch. The woman spoke in Mandarin, and two guards grabbed him, pinning his arms, while a third slapped handcuffs on his wrists. He stared at her passively. “Where are we going?” he asked. She spoke to the guards, and they shoved him into the hallway, slamming the door. “They need more blankets and drinking water,” he told her.
The woman gave a command in Mandarin, and a guard swung his truncheon, laying it across the back of Bender’s shoulders. He staggered but did not fall. “You will only speak to answer questions,” the woman told him. The guards half pushed, half dragged him to a waiting van and shoved him into the back. The woman climbed into a waiting limousine that led the two-car procession to Beijing. Bender struggled to a sitting position and looked out a window, surprised that the base was so busy at such an early hour. A guard pushed him back to the floor and barked a command that he did not understand. “And up yours, too,” he answered in what he hoped was a servile tone. The guard picked up a thick rubber hose and hit him across the shoulders. It hurt much more than he expected.
“I speak English,” the guard said. Bender nodded, not answering this time. They rode in silence until the van reached the same nondescript government building in central Beijing. A guard grabbed him by the arm and jerked him out of the van, ripping his coat sleeve at the shoulder seam. Bender almost said, “Made in Hong Kong,” but thought better of it when he saw the rubber hose still in the guard’s hand. They hustled him inside and up the stairs. The guards were breathing heavily by the second floor. He increased the pace and made the guards hurry to keep up. The one with the hose was gasping for breath by the time they reached their floor. The woman was waiting in the hall and glared at the panting guards. I won’t get away with that one again, he decided.
“Chairman Wang wishes to speak to you,” she said.
“Does that require an answer?” he asked. She spoke in Mandarin, and the guard swung his hose. But he was still suffering from the run up the stairs, and the blow had lost its punch. Bender faked it and gasped for air as he fell to the floor. He rolled in what he hoped was fair imitation of someone in pain. A guard kicked him in the side, and he came to his knees. They know what the real thing looks like, he decided.
She confirmed his guess. “No more games, General.” The guards pulled him to his feet and pushed him into a room. It was an austere office with a single table and two chairs. A single filing cabinet stood against the bare walls. The woman sat down in one of the chairs, and they waited. She crossed her legs and lit a cigarette. “What are you thinking?” she asked.
“Why would such a beautiful woman smoke,” he lied.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I told you the truth.”
She nodded at the guard, and he laid the rubber hose across Bender’s back. But he had regained his strength, and this time drove Bender to his knees. “I didn’t ask a question,” she told him. They played the game for an hour as they waited. She would speak to him, and he would only answer when she asked a direct question. Once, he hesitated too long before answering and was rewarded with another blow across the back. “Whatever is taking the chairman so long?” she asked.
“I have no idea,” he replied.
She spoke to the guard, and he swung the hose. “That was a rhetorical question not intended for you.” She tilted her head to one side and nodded at him. He closed his eyes and nodded back as if saying “I understand.” And he did. She was softening him up and conditioning him for the meeting with Wang. “What are you thinking now?” she asked.
“I’m being mugged by a beautiful butterfly who likes to hurt people.” He braced himself for the blow that never came.
“I believe you,” she said.
The door opened, and Wang walked into the room. He was wearing a classic Mao Tse-tung suit and his hair was cut in the same manner as the famous Mao. He sat down and crossed his legs. “A chair for the general,” he said.
Magically, a third chair appeared, and Bender sat down, surprised how relieved he felt. An alarm went off inside his head. I’m caught in a good cop-bad cop routine, he thought.
“The games are over,” Wang said. “I am told you have information of value.”
“Not if your goon keeps beating me with that hose,” Bender answered. He braced himself for the blow. Again, it didn’t come.
“Don’t waste my time,” Wang said. “What is it you have to say?”
“I know what President Turner is going to do next.”
“It doesn’t matter what she does next,” Wang replied.
Then why are you here? Bender thought. “I assure you that what you are interpreting as weakness and the inability to act is wrong.”
“You are full of assurances,” the woman said.
“But they are valid,” he replied. It was time to start the bidding. “I’m sorry that what I have to say has no value for you. I had hoped that—”
She interrupted him. “You wish to cut a deal?”
“Your command of the English language is excellent,” he said.
“There are no deals to be made,” Wang said. “It is beneath me to haggle.”
But you are here, Bender reminded himself. He half expected the guard to go back to work with the hose. But Wang just sat and stared at him, his face impassive. Then Bender saw the corner of Wang’s eye twitch. You’re running out of time, he thought. “My concern is for my crew,” he said.
“And not yourself?” the woman answered. “How altruistic.”
“What are your concerns?” Wang asked.
It’s still good cop-bad cop, Bender decided. “That my men should be reunited with their families at the earliest possible moment.”
“Why should I release spies?” Wang asked.
“Because they are not spies,” Bender replied.
“And you are,” the woman said. It was not a question.
Bender took the mental equivalent of a deep breath. “That is for you to decide in your own time.” The deal was on the table.
“I see,” Wang said. “The crew goes free and you remain with us. In exchange, you tell us what your president will do next. Perhaps, we can reach an understanding. If what you tell us proves to be true, then we will release your crew. But not until then.”
It was all Bender was going to get. “I trust you to keep your promise,” he said. “Unless you return to the status quo, President Turner will respond, in kind, to your actions.”
Wang laughed. “She won’t. Your president is a foolish woman. She is afraid of real power, real war, and real nuclear weapons. But she is not alone, your countrymen tremble in fear.”
“You are misjudging her,” Bender replied. “You shouldn’t believe what you read in the newspapers or what your ambassador tells you.”
Wang laughed again. “And when will she do this?”
“In the very near future.”
“Where?” Wang demanded. Bender didn’t answer.
“Do you believe him?” the woman asked in Mandarin.
Wang answered in the same language. “No.”
“Are you going to tell Lu Zoulin?”
“There is no need,” Wang replied. “He would only argue for caution, and the generals are demanding we proceed as planned. Besides, it is too late to cancel the operation.”
The woman smiled. “Shall I have them shot?”
“Not yet,” Wang answered. “They may still be of some use.”
“But if Bender is right and the American witch does as he says, it will be, ah, most embarrassing when the generals discover we were warned.”
“Then immediately execute them, and the generals will never learn of it.”
“General Bender,” the woman said in English, “this has been a waste of time.”
“You need a lesson in etiquette,” Wang said. He spoke to the guards in Mandarin. They dragged Bender to his feet and jammed a canvas bag over his head. One grabbed it and jerked, led him back to the van, and pushed him inside. He hit his knee on the edge of the van’s door frame and pain shot up his leg and into his groin. The driver slammed the van in gear and pulled away, throwing him around. His hurt knee smashed into the wheelwell and he almost lost control of his bladder as pain ripped into his body.
The woman watched the van until it disappeared. No sign of emotion or worry marred her smooth face as she stepped into the waiting limousine. There was no doubt in her mind that Bender had been telling the truth and that Wang should have heeded his warning. That was a problem.
Bender tried to get his bearings as they drove through the city, but he could only tell it was still dark. He counted the passing seconds, and when he estimated an hour had passed, the van slammed to a halt. He was hustled out of the van, and he felt a hand grab the top of the canvas bag. The rough fabric tore at his skin as it was pulled off. He blinked in the bright light. He was standing outside his cell with four guards. Each had a rubber hose or truncheon shoved under his belt. One unlocked the door and pushed him inside. The guards followed, swinging their hoses and truncheons. A heavy rubber hose slammed into his mouth, and he tasted blood. He fell to the floor and curled into a fetal position. The guards beat on him until their arms were tired.
