Read Online Trinity's Child by William Prochnau - Free Book Online
Authors: William Prochnau
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another job—finding a surviving President. Any surviving President, most likely a successor. Harpoon turned slowly to face him and stared without expression at the general.
“It's time to go, admiral,” Icarus said softly.
“The Navy doesn't like to abandon ship, general.”
“This is my ship, admiral. You got a new one now.”
“Still . . .”
“You don't want me to order you to do your duty.”
“No.”
The admiral rose, picked up the satchel at his side, gazed one last time down at the men below, and then snapped a salute. The general saluted back.
“Godspeed,” Icarus said.
“God grace,” Harpoon replied.
The general watched the sailor's ramrod-straight back move across the Command Balcony. The admiral tapped a young escort on the shoulder. Even now, twenty minutes before the No Lone Zone beneath Omaha would become most lonely indeed, the admiral could not move alone here. The two of them disappeared around the balcony's corner and the general returned his attention to the screens.
The admiral moved quickly now, striding into a tiny hallway and up to the vault door that sealed the post off against gases and biological spores. At one time, long ago, the door offered some blast protection. Not now. Man had moved beyond defense in that area. Two guards, dressed ranger-style in berets and ascots, stood barrierlike at the door. Holsters were unsnapped over pearl-handled pistols.
“Open it up,” the admiral said.
“Sir,” one protested firmly, the awe of military brass ruthlessly drummed out of him.
“Open it.”
“Sir. I am not allowed.”
“You been practicing practices, son,” the admiral said without rancor. “The door will be opened.” Harpoon gestured at the red cipher box behind them. “Zebra One, Charlie Six, Zebra Three, Alpha One-Niner.” The guard fingered his sidearm, as he had been trained, then turned and punched the instructions into the code box. He looked up without expression and asked: “Code word?”
“Jericho.” And the walls came tumbling, Harpoon thought.
“Jericho,” the guard repeated in an emotionless voice. He turned and spun the wheel on the back of the door. The door hissed, then gave way. The admiral and his escort moved quickly through it into an empty hallway. The door hissed behind them, sealed again, for the last time now. The admiral glanced at an elevator door, decided against trusting technology tonight; and headed for the stairway, choosing the short walk to the surface. He took the stairs two at a time, followed by his escort. At the top, he met two more stern guards.
“ID, sir,” the first said.
The admiral unsnapped the sealed plastic card from his shirt pocket, handed it to the young man, and watched as the card passed first under ultraviolet light and then through an electronic authenticator.
“Right hand,” the guard said.
The admiral laid his hand on a plastic square. He thought he felt the probes tickle but knew that was his imagination.
“Code.”
“Jericho.”
“Your card, sir,” the guard said, returning the ID. “The alert truck is at the door.”
The admiral wheeled away, then paused briefly to look back at his escort. “You can't go,” Harpoon said.
“I know, sir.”
“You can't go back, either.”
“I know that, too, sir. Maybe I can find a good gin-rummy game in the cafeteria. Stakes ought to be out of sight tonight.”
The admiral looked deep into the young man's face. There was no fear in it. “Good luck, son,” Harpoon said. He turned away from the young man quickly and began sprinting now. “Shove it up their commie asses, admiral.” The voice trailed off behind him. He ran down the office-hallway entrance to SAC headquarters, past the bust of Curtis LeMay and the glass-encased red phone, and stiff-armed the outside door.
The cold air and the undulating orange alert lights hit him simultaneously. The orange lights played discolike on the neutered mockup of a symbolic Minuteman missile planted
“It's time to go, admiral,” Icarus said softly.
“The Navy doesn't like to abandon ship, general.”
“This is my ship, admiral. You got a new one now.”
“Still . . .”
“You don't want me to order you to do your duty.”
“No.”
The admiral rose, picked up the satchel at his side, gazed one last time down at the men below, and then snapped a salute. The general saluted back.
“Godspeed,” Icarus said.
“God grace,” Harpoon replied.
The general watched the sailor's ramrod-straight back move across the Command Balcony. The admiral tapped a young escort on the shoulder. Even now, twenty minutes before the No Lone Zone beneath Omaha would become most lonely indeed, the admiral could not move alone here. The two of them disappeared around the balcony's corner and the general returned his attention to the screens.
The admiral moved quickly now, striding into a tiny hallway and up to the vault door that sealed the post off against gases and biological spores. At one time, long ago, the door offered some blast protection. Not now. Man had moved beyond defense in that area. Two guards, dressed ranger-style in berets and ascots, stood barrierlike at the door. Holsters were unsnapped over pearl-handled pistols.
“Open it up,” the admiral said.
“Sir,” one protested firmly, the awe of military brass ruthlessly drummed out of him.
“Open it.”
“Sir. I am not allowed.”
“You been practicing practices, son,” the admiral said without rancor. “The door will be opened.” Harpoon gestured at the red cipher box behind them. “Zebra One, Charlie Six, Zebra Three, Alpha One-Niner.” The guard fingered his sidearm, as he had been trained, then turned and punched the instructions into the code box. He looked up without expression and asked: “Code word?”
“Jericho.” And the walls came tumbling, Harpoon thought.
“Jericho,” the guard repeated in an emotionless voice. He turned and spun the wheel on the back of the door. The door hissed, then gave way. The admiral and his escort moved quickly through it into an empty hallway. The door hissed behind them, sealed again, for the last time now. The admiral glanced at an elevator door, decided against trusting technology tonight; and headed for the stairway, choosing the short walk to the surface. He took the stairs two at a time, followed by his escort. At the top, he met two more stern guards.
“ID, sir,” the first said.
The admiral unsnapped the sealed plastic card from his shirt pocket, handed it to the young man, and watched as the card passed first under ultraviolet light and then through an electronic authenticator.
“Right hand,” the guard said.
The admiral laid his hand on a plastic square. He thought he felt the probes tickle but knew that was his imagination.
“Code.”
“Jericho.”
“Your card, sir,” the guard said, returning the ID. “The alert truck is at the door.”
The admiral wheeled away, then paused briefly to look back at his escort. “You can't go,” Harpoon said.
“I know, sir.”
“You can't go back, either.”
“I know that, too, sir. Maybe I can find a good gin-rummy game in the cafeteria. Stakes ought to be out of sight tonight.”
The admiral looked deep into the young man's face. There was no fear in it. “Good luck, son,” Harpoon said. He turned away from the young man quickly and began sprinting now. “Shove it up their commie asses, admiral.” The voice trailed off behind him. He ran down the office-hallway entrance to SAC headquarters, past the bust of Curtis LeMay and the glass-encased red phone, and stiff-armed the outside door.
The cold air and the undulating orange alert lights hit him simultaneously. The orange lights played discolike on the neutered mockup of a symbolic Minuteman missile planted
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