Footfall Read online

  Blunt son of a bitch

  , Jenny thought. "We can’t stop them from bombarding us with asteroids until we can take control of space again, and we’ll never get space away from them while they have that mother ship," Curtis continued.

  "Perfect naval doctrine," Admiral Carrell said. "But a navy needs ships, Dr. Curtis!"

  "Orion," Curtis said. "Old bang-bang."

  The President looked puzzled, and Jenny thought Curtis looked pleased as he turned to the blackboard. Not too often a writer gets to lecture to the President of the United States.

  "Take a big metal plate," Curtis said. "Big and thick. Make it a hemisphere, but it could even be flat. Put a large ship, say the size of a battleship, on top of it. You want a really good shock absorber system between the plate and the ship.

  "Now put an atom bomb underneath and light it off. I guarantee you that sucker will move." He sketched as he talked. "You keep throwing atom bombs underneath the ship. It puts several million pounds into orbit. In fact, the more mass you’ve got, the smoother the ride."

  Admiral Carrell looked thoughtful. "And once in space—"

  "The tactics are simple," Curtis said. "Get into space, find the mother ship, and go for it. Throw everything we have at it. Ram if we have to."

  "Hard on the crew," the President said.

  "You’ll have plenty of volunteers, sir," Ed Gillespie said. "The whole astronaut corps for starters."

  True enough. Most of them had friends at Moon Base. Odd, they did use nuclear weapons there, but nowhere on Earth.

  "Is this—Orion—feasible?" Admiral Carrell asked.

  Curtis nodded. "Yes. The concept was studied back in the sixties, Chemical explosive test models were flown. It was abandoned after the Treaty of Moscow banned atmospheric nuclear detonations. As far as I know, though, Michael is the only quick and dirty way we have to get a battleship into space."

  "Michael?" the President asked.

  "Sony, sir. We’ve already given it a code name. The Archangel Michael cast Satan out of Heaven."

  "Appropriate enough name. However, our immediate problem is to get them out of Kansas . . .

  "That does no good," Curtis said. "As long as they own space, they can land whenever and wherever they want, and there’s damned little we can do about it. Mr. President, we have to get to work on Michael now."

  The President looked thoughtful. "Perhaps I agree." He turned to Ed Gillespie. "General, we’re pretty shorthanded here. I believe you’re presently without an assignment?"

  "Yes, sir,"

  "Good. I want you to head up the team for Project Archangel. Look into feasibility, armament, who you need for a design team, where you’d build it, how long it would take. Report to Admiral Carrell when you know something. Perhaps these gentlemen can help you." He looked to the writers.

  "Sure," Curtis said. "One thing, though—"

  "Yes?"

  "We could use my partner. Nat Reynolds. Last I heard, he was in Kansas City."

  "Combat area," General Toland said.

  "Nat’s pretty agile, though. He may have got away. And he’s just the right kind of crazy," Curtis said earnestly.

  "Major Crichton can see to that," the President said. "Now, to return to something you said earlier. Lasers?"

  "Yes, sir," Curtis said "I believe they’ll use lasers to launch theft ships from the ground"

  "Why?"

  "Why wouldn’t they? They’ve got good lasers, much better than we have, and it’s certainly simple enough if you’ve got lasers and power."

  "I asked the wrong question," Coffey said. "How?"

  Curtis looked smug again. He sketched. "If you fire a laser up the back end of a rocket—a standard rocket-motor bell shape, but thick—you get much the same effect as if you carried rocket fuel aboard, but there’s a lot more payload, because you can leave your power source on the ground. Your working mass, your exhaust, is air and vaporized rocket motor, hotter than hell, with a terrific exhaust velocity. It uses a lot of power, but it’ll sure work. Pity we never built one."

  "Where would they get the power?" the President asked. "They’ve blown up all our dams. They can’t just plug into a wall socket,"

  Curtis pointed to a photograph pinned to his blackboard. It showed a strange, winged object, fuzzily seen against the back ground of space.

  "Ransom found that picture, among a lot of them Major Crichton’s people gave us to look at," he said. "Joe—"

  Ransom shrugged. "An amateur astronomer brought that in to the intelligence people. I don’t know how he talked the guards into getting it inside, but I ended up with it. It looks like they’re deploying big solar grids, way up in geosynchronous orbit."

  "We looked into building those," the President said.

  "Sure," Curtis said dryly. "But Space Power Satellites were rejected. Too costly, and too vulnerable to attack."

  "They’re vulnerable?"

  "Not to anything we have now," Curtis said. "To attack something in space you’ve got to be able to get at space."

  Coffey looked around for support. Admiral Carrell shrugged. "It’s true enough," he said. "They’ll shoot down anything we send up long before it can get that high."

  "So what can we do?"

  "Archangel," Ed Gillespie said. "When we send something up, it needs to be big and powerful and well armed. I’ll get on it."

  "And meanwhile, they’re throwing asteroids at us," the President said. "General, I think you’d better work fast." He turned to go.

  "One more thing, Mr. President," Curtis said insistently.

  "Yes?"

  "Today’s attack. I suppose you’ll be sending in lots of armor."

  The President looked puzzled.

  "We’ll do it right, Doctor," General Toland said. He turned to leave. "And I’d like to get at it."

  "Thor," Curtis said.

  Toland stopped. "What’s that? It sounds like something I’ve heard of—"

  "Project Thor was recommended by a strategy analysis group back in the eighties," Curtis said. "flying crowbars." He sketched rapidly. "You take a big iron bar. Give it a rudimentary sensor, and a steerable vane for guidance. Put bundles of them in orbit. To use it, call it down from orbit, aimed at the area you’re working on. It has a simple brain, just smart enough to recognize what a tank looks like from overhead. When it sees a tank silhouette, it steers toward it. Drop ten or twenty thousand of those over an armored division, and what happens?"

  "Holy shit," Toland said.

  "Are these feasible?" Admiral Carrell asked.

  "Yes, sir," Anson said. "They can seek out ships as well as tanks—"

  "But we never built them," Curtis said. "We were too cheap."

  "We would not have them now in any case," Carrell said. "General, perhaps you should give some thought to camouflage for your tanks—"

  ‘Or call off the attack until there’s heavy cloud cover," Curtis said. "I’m not sure how well camouflage works. Another thing, look out for laser illumination. Thor could be built to home in that way."

  "Yes. We use that method now," Toland said. His tone indicated triumph. These guys didn’t know everything.

  "Maybe we should delay the attack," the President said. General Toland glanced at his watch. "Too late. With our unreliable communications, some units would get the word and some wouldn’t. The ones that didn’t would go in alone, and they’d sure be slaughtered. On that score, we’ve got to get back up to Operations."

  "Thank you, gentlemen," the President said.

  As they left, Jenny heard Curtis muttering. "What do they do if it doesn’t work? They’ll have to call the Russians for help."

  * * *

  The sign read ELVIRA. It couldn’t have been a large town to begin with, now it was deserted, except for some military vehicles.

  There were soldiers in camouflage uniforms at the entrance to the Elvira Little League playing field. Brooks stopped the car.

  "What?" In the backseat, Reynolds struggled to wakef
ulness. "Where are we?"

  "Not far from Humboldt," Brooks said. He got out. Rosalee, half awake now, got out on the passenger side. Nat eased himself out from under Carol’s head and arm and— wiggled out past the driver’s seat. Carol stretched out in the backseat without waking.

  Roger had seen people sleep like that after some disaster. In the dark of Carol North’s mind, kinks were straightening out . . . or not. She would wake sane, or not.

  "You can’t park that here," one of the soldiers shouted.

  He was a very young soldier and he looked afraid. There’d been an edge of panic in his voice, too.

  Out beyond him the Little League field was covered with troops. They huddled around small fires. Plenty of soldiers. No tanks. No vehicles at all. Why? Further down the road and on the other side, in what had been a park, was a big tent with a bright red cross on it. Other tents had been put up next to it. There were stretchers outside the tents.

  "A MASH unit," Nat Reynolds said. He kept his voice low. "Full up, from the stretchers outside. Roger, Rosalee, I think we better get out of here."

  "Not yet." Brooks went up to the soldiers at the gate. He showed them his press card. "What happened, soldier?"

  "Nothin’."

  Roger pointed to the MASH. "Something did."

  "Maybe. Look, you can’t park that thing here. They shoot at vehicles. Maybe at cars! Move it, damn it, move it! Then think about going on foot!"

  "In a second. Can you call an officer?"

  The soldier thought about that for a moment. "Yeah." He shouted back into the camp. "Sarge, there’s a guy here from the Washington Post wants to talk to the Lieutenant."

  They went from the Lieutenant to the Colonel in one step. By then Rosalee was back in the car, but Nat wasn’t. He found that odd, but he trailed along.

  "We don’t have facilities for the press," Colonel Jamison was saying. "In fact, Mr. Brooks, we don’t have accommodations for civilians at all, and I don’t see any reason why I should talk to you."

  Brooks looked around the tent. It held two tables and a desk, a field telephone, and a canteen hanging from the center pole. "Colonel, I’m the only national press reporter here."

  Jamison laughed. "And where are you going to publish?"

  Roger gave him an answering chuckle. "Okay. I don’t even know if my paper exists anymore! But surely the people have a right to some news coverage of this—"

  Jamison spoke slowly, from exhaustion. "I’ve never been sure of that. Whatever happened to Loose lips sink ships? Okay, Mr. Brooks. I’m going to tell you what happened, but not for the reason you think."

  "Then why?"

  Jamison pointed to Nat Reynolds. "Your friend there."

  Nat Reynolds looked up from the map he’d been studying. "What?"

  "You’re an important man, Mr. Reynolds," Colonel Jamison said. "We have a total of no fewer than forty messages from Colorado Springs, and one of them asks us to watch out for you. That’s why Lieutenant Carper brought you to me. We’re supposed to cooperate with you, and send you back to Cheyenne Mountain first chance we get. Now why is that?"

  Reynolds thought it over, and smiled. "Wade."

  The colonel waited.

  "Dr. Wade Curtis. My partner. He must be working with the government. It follows that he’s alive . . .Reynolds looked back down at the map. "We’re still a long way from Colorado if we can’t go through Kansas."

  "We can’t," Jamison said. "God knows we can’t."

  "So what did happen?" Brooks asked.

  Jamison sighed. "Nothing to brag about. This morning we were supposed to make a big push. Throw the goddam snouts all the way back to Emporia. Went pretty good at first. And then—"

  "Then what?"

  "Then they stamped us flat."

  "A whole armored division?’

  "Three divisions." Jamison shook his head as if to ward off the memory. "The tanks went in. Everything was fine. We saw some of those floating tanks they use, and we shot the shit out of them! Then these streaks fell out of the sky. Lines of fire, hundreds of them—parallel, slanting, like rain in a wind, they pointed at our tanks and the tanks exploded."

  "Thor," Reynolds said, as if he were talking to himself. He looked up from the map. "That’s what it was."

  "You know what did that to us?"

  "Yah. It wasn’t just science fiction," Reynolds said wonderingly.

  "Reynolds! What did they do to my men?"

  "It’s an orbital weapon system. They dropped meteors on you, Colonel. There wasn’t anything you could do. Shall I explain?"

  "Sure, but not just to me," Jamison said. "Marty! Marty, get on the line and see what’s keeping Mr. Reynolds’s transportation! They need him back at the Springs!"

  The helicopter came an hour later.

  Rosalee was over by the car, pacing, but Carol was awake and frightened. "What will happen to me? Nat, you can’t leave me here—"

  "No, of course not." Reynolds looked around helplessly for someone in charge. He shouted toward the chopper, and a uniformed woman came out, a major.

  By God!

  "Jenny!" Roger Brooks caned. "Jenny, it’s me, Roger! Can you take me to the Springs?" "Roger? Hi! No, there’s not room."

  "You have to make room," Reynolds shouted. "For Carol!"

  Jenny shook her head. "Mr. Reynolds, we have several hundred miles to go. The fuel situation is critical. We can’t carry extra weight."

  Picture of a torn man

  , Brooks thought. So what will he do? "Carol’s not heavy," Reynolds said. "I’ll leave my suitcase."

  "No." Major Crichton was firm. "Mr. Reynolds, you’ll endanger all of us if you insist. Believe me, your friend is safer here."

  "Then why am I getting into that thing?" Reynolds demanded.

  "Because the President of the United States told me to bring you," Jenny said. "Sergeant, help Mr. Reynolds aboard."

  Reynolds spread his arms, broadcasting helplessness. "If they want me that bad— Sorry, Carol."

  He let the Army sergeant assist him into the helicopter. Major Crichton climbed in after him. She turned in the doorway to wave; then the door closed and the engine revved up.

  And now I’ve got five hundred miles to go, fuel for six hundred, and two women to worry about

  . "Come on, ladies," Roger said. "We’ll just have to take the low road."

  21

  WAR PLANS

  The rules of conduct, the maxims of action, and the tactical instincts that serve to gain small victories may always be expanded into the winning of great ones with suitable opportunity; because in human affairs the sources of success are ever to be found in the fountains of quick resolve and swift stroke; and it seems to be a law inflexible and inexorable that he who will not risk cannot win.

  —JOHN PAUL JONES

  COUNTDOWN: H PLUS TWO WEEKS

  Jenny laid the printed copies of the agenda on top of the yellow tablets, and stepped back to admire her work. Then she grinned wryly. It didn’t look much like the Cabinet Room in the White House. Instead of a big wood conference table, there were two Formica-topped folding tables set together. Most of the chairs were Army issue folding chairs, although they had managed to get one big wooden armchair for the center of the table.

  A slide projector was set up at one end of the room. Jenny inspected it, turning the light on and off. In addition to the places at the table, another score of chairs faced the President’s seat in the center.

  The U.S. and presidential flags stood behind the chair. They looked out of place against a bare wall.

  "It’ll have to do."

  "What’s that?" Jack Clybourne came in.

  "The conference room," Jenny said.

  Jack nodded. "Made you a secretary, did they?"

  "Somebody’s got to do it," Jenny protested. "We don’t have a full staff, and—"

  "Gotcha."

  "Yep."

  "Heck, they have me typing his appointment list," Jack said. "Not that I mind. Gives me s
omething to do."

  She grinned. "Not going to search for bombs in the flag stands?"

  "Phooey. Whatcha doing after dinner?"

  "I don’t know—why?"

  "My roommate’s going Outside," Jack said. He grinned. "Of course I could clean up my room—"

  "You can do that tomorrow. See you about midnight. Now I’ve got to go get my science-fiction writers."

  * * *

  Three aides sat at chairs near the wall. No one else was in the room. It would fill according to rank, with the most junior coming in to wait for the more senior.

  Jack Clybourne studied the names on his list. Joe Dayton from Georgia, the Speaker of the House of Representatives. He’d be the highest-ranking man after the President. Senator Alexander Haswell of Oregon, the President Pro Tern of the Senate. Senator Raymond Can from Kansas. Admiral Carrell. Hap Aylesworth, with no title listed after his name. Mrs. Connie Fuller, Secretary of Commerce. Jim Frantz, Chief of Staff. General Toland. Arnold Biggs, Secretary of Agriculture. They’d all have seats at the table.

  Jenny came in with the science-fiction people. Robert Anson. He seemed older than the last time Jack had seen him. Dr. Curtis. And a new one.

  "This is Nathaniel Reynolds," Jenny said. "Mr. Reynolds, Jack Clyhourne is in charge of security for the President."

  "Hi," Reynolds said.

  He looks confused. Not that I blame him.

  Jenny conducted the writers to chairs near the wall. Then she went out again. After a few minutes she returned with an older woman.

  Attractive, if a bit used, important. And not on my list at all—.

  "This is Mrs. Carlotta Dawson," Jenny said.

  Aha

  . "Thank you." Jack waited to see where Jenny would seat her. At the table, but at one end, facing the President but with her back to the writers and staff. Jenny went out again. A few minutes later, the rush began.

  * * *

  "Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States," Jack Clybourne announced formally.

  He does that well