“Good idea. Meanwhile, since the note seems to imply there’ll be an aerial display of some kind I’d suggest we include the secretary of defense in any briefing. It’s not impossible that some nut’s gotten hold of a missile or something.”
Those words were chilling. Sumpter hadn’t been scared before. Now he was. The thought of a warhead slamming into the White House curdled his blood. Even in the quietest times more than a hundred people worked inside. Some of them were certain to be hurt, maybe killed. “I want the secret service to clear out as many non-essential people as it can.”
“We’ll take care of that, Mr. President. Everything will be fine. If they mean what they say we’ve got almost twelve hours to get ready.”
“That’s assuming,” Sumpter answered, “that whatever they’re planning happens tonight. It might not. Their note’s not dated.”
“Somehow, I think it’s going to be tonight, Mr. President. The fact that it involves the switch means an early deadline. I think you ought to watch on TV, though, from the bunker.”
“I’ll think about it. Now, you’d better get to work. Keep in touch, Sam.”
“Yes, sir.”
The White House bunker was comparatively roomy and quite comfortable. Built during the Cold War to serve as an emergency command post, it was designed to survive anything short of a direct hit by a thermonuclear warhead. It had been kept in a ready condition even after that generation-long crisis had ended, and its communication gear was state-of-the-art. Down here, Sumpter actually had a better view of the sky than he would have had from the rooftop. The best toys the military owned were in operation, including some that easily penetrated the light overcast.
Sumpter actually found himself becoming more relaxed as the appointed time approached. The scientist in him had had most of the day to adjust, to ponder the obstacles an assailant would have in mounting such an attack. He was half convinced that this was a hoax.
But he became even more puzzled when, as the onscreen countdown reached zero, a tiny pip of light flared only briefly. In proportion, it looked like a photographer’s flashbulb going off. It was far less impressive than the average meteor. It would have gone unnoticed had they not been watching for it.
But a murmur arose from the military people who stood behind him at their instruments, and he knew that he was merely misinterpreting what he had seen.
“What was that?” He asked the nearest of them.
“A chemical explosion, probably TNT, judging by the spectra,” the man answered.
“Where?”
“In Low Earth Orbit, directly overhead.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“No, sir. Not yet. But it implies access to far greater technical assets than a simple assassin would have. As a matter of fact, it implies complicity of a major spatial power. The motion of the debris cloud suggests that whatever this was it was, in a polar orbit. That alone takes it out of the amateur class.”
“I agree.” Sumpter was now far more impressed with his unknown enemy. He was a physicist, not a rocket expert, still, he could now rule out most of countries that had only marginal spatial capability. China, Japan, France, Russia, and possibly India could have done this easily, but none of those countries had a good reason to block the switch, and in fact, should all benefit from the switch.
“Excuse me, sir.”
Sumpter looked away from the screen and turned toward the voice. It was Colonel Carl Brinker, his Pentagon liaison.
“Sir, there’s been another message. You might want to look at it in your office.”
Sumpter rose, and followed Colonel Brinker. Inside his office a sergeant waited with a fax in his hand.
Sumpter took it, read it, and gasped. “What you have just seen was the explosion of 200 kilograms of TNT. This was only a part of the payload our satellite carried. Unless you immediately cancel all plans to alter the US currency another charge will be detonated. It will be larger. It will scatter hundreds of thousands of steel fragments into near space. These will spread out in a globular configuration to surround the Earth. Collisions would destroy all existing orbiting facilities within a few days, and all near-Earth space will become permanently unusable unless you meet our terms.
“Our satellite is equipped with defensive devices. If you attack it or attempt to approach it these will activate automatically. You will be given additional instructions in a few days.”
The message was unsigned.
“Your orders, Mr. President?”
“Stand by. I’ll get back to you. Meanwhile, find out as much as you can about this—but do it safely. Whoever is behind this is right. If we lose the use of near-Earth space we are back in the Stone Age. Tell the guys to be careful, Colonel.”
“Yes, sir.”
It had not been a good night for sleeping. Knowing that he might be needed awake and alert on a moment’s notice, Sumpter declined the White House physician’s offer of a sedative. Consequently, when he finally rose after hours of tossing and turning, Sumpter had slept almost none of this time.
His first act after rising was to contact the duty officer and arrange a briefing. His call was routed to Colonel Brinker.
“Yes, sir. We’ve made a little progress, although it lengthened our list of suspects. Cheyenne Mountain has located the launch data, of course. It was an ordinary commercial launch, nothing suspicious about it at all, so there was no background check on the customer. NORAD just issued it a pre-launch catalog number as requested, watched it go up and logged it onto the tracking system. That was three days ago.”
“Who?”
“Francospatiale, from the Chad facility.”
“The French! Wouldn’t you know!”
Colonel Brinker didn’t comment.
“Have you told State?”
“Yes, sir. They’re on the horn with the French foreign minister now. He’s promised they’ll try to find out who’s behind it.”
“They’re going to try?!”
“Sir, it seems French law is a little vague about stuff like this, and Francospatiale is a private enterprise.”
“There’s a treaty covering killer satellites, Colonel. Even I know about that. France is a signatory.”
“We’ve reminded them, sir.”
“Good. What else do you know about this thing?”
“It’s big enough so it could be carrying a large warhead, sir, but I’m afraid we haven’t found out much else. We’re monitoring it for R/F emissions but so far there haven’t been any. Chances are that even if we can intercept transmissions they won’t help us identify the people who put it up. Our best chance for that is diplomatic pressure on France. I’m sure they know more than they’re telling us.”
“Keep on it, Colonel. Report directly to me if you learn anything more.”
“Yes, sir.” The colonel left, followed by his sergeant.
Sumpter almost wished he had stayed in the bunker with Colonel Brinker, whose unit would remain there for the duration of the emergency. Topside, he had to face the real world, and the real world had become exceedingly ugly.
“It’s a nightmare, Mr. President,” Marsh grumbled. “The reporters are all over us, demanding interviews. If you turn on your TV that explosion will be on every channel. They show it over and over again. Some of them have enhanced it. Others have added graphics. Every channel’s got its ‘expert,’ shooting his mouth off about how serious this could be. It’s a feeding frenzy, welfare for impoverished professors. I’ll bet you know at least half of them.”
“More like two-thirds, Frank. Scientific controversy brings all kinds of people out of the woodwork.”
“This is exactly what we don’t need, Mr. President, the people are so used to getting their minds washed out by the box that they treat catastrophe like entertainment.”