“I didn’t start it, Mr. President. They started it,” Oswald whined.
“And do you think the Russians are going to take this lying down, Oswald?”
“I raised that very point with Curtiss, Mr. President. He assured me that our first-strike capacity, as compared to the Russian air force’s first-strike capacity--”
“Just a minute,” the President interrupted. “What about the missiles their subs are carrying? What did Curtiss say about that?”
“Well, he didn’t want to step on the Navy’s toes. You know how it is, Mr. President. But he promised to bring the matter up tactfully with the admiral at this dinner party they’re both going to tonight.”
“ ‘Dinner party’ ” the President repeated dully.
“There’s really no cause for worry, Mr. President. With our antimissile defense system, the Russky hardware can only be seventy percent effective. And our underground launchers give us a second-strike capacity of —”
“Oswald!”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Shut up. Just shut up!”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
There was a long silence, broken only by the trickle of the plumbing, While the President’s mind strained to evaluate the situation. The Russians had as much reason to want Jonathan Relevant alive as the United States did, he decided. Therefore the fighter planes were just a show of muscle. Aware of the consequences, the Russian premier was much too sensible to order them to attack. It was a bluff. The Russian fighters wouldn’t attack, and therefore neither would the American bombers.
The President finally broke the silence. “It’s all right, Oswald,” he said aloud. “The Russians won’t attack. Our planes won’t have to drop their H-bombs.”
“Too bad, Mr. President.” Oswald sighed. “That will disappoint Strom.”
The President’s sphincter muscle contracted painfully at mention of the name. He changed the subject quickly. “All right now, Oswald. Tell me who authorized the hijacking of that transport.”
“Actually, no one did, Mr. President. One of our men simply used his own initiative.”
“You mean some CIA agent just decided to grab this plane all on his own? Without authorization?”
“Yes sir, Mr. President.”
“What’s the man’s name?”
“Leander Pigbaigh, Mr. President.”
“Pigbaigh . . . it figures! Oswald, I want his scalp!”
“Aren’t you being a little hard on him, Mr. President? After all, the CIA prides itself on inculcating initiative in its men.”
“Dammit, Oswald, who’s deciding this country’s foreign policy anyway? The President? Or the CIA?”
There was a long, noncommittal silence.
“Oswald? Answer me! I am the elected head of this government, am I not?”
“Yes, Mr. President. But--”
“But what?”
“If you’ll pardon me, Mr. President, that’s just it. Your office is political. The CIA is above politics. When it comes to the security of the nation, ours is an ongoing concern. After all, Presidents come and go, but the CIA continues to guard the nation against its enemies, foreign and domestic, regardless of changes in the administration.”
“I thought that was the FBI,” the President muttered.
“Can you really trust them, Mr. President?”
“Be careful, Oswald! This wire might be tapped!”
“No, it’s not, Mr. President,” Oswald assured him.
“How can you be sure of that?”
“Because we tap the phone of Jay Edgar Nightlight himself and we have a tape of him making the decision not to tap the White House phone. He doesn’t question your loyalty, Mr. President.”
“I guess I should be grateful,” the President grunted. “But what about you, Oswald? What about the CIA? Do you tap my phone?”
“What a question, Mr. President.” Oswald laughed.
“Yes. Isn’t it? But what’s the answer?”
“The answer is that the CIA is much more thorough than the FBI, Mr. President.”
“I see. Well, good-bye, Oswald. Say hello to Strom for me.”
“Will do, Mr. President. Good-bye.”
The President hung up. He reached for the toilet paper. Just as he tore off a few sheets, the hot-line telephone rang.
“Mr. President?” The Russian premier’s tone was strangely conciliatory. “There’s been this little boo-boo on my end that I think we should discuss.”
“A little boo-boo on your end? You should see my—”
“I mean a slipup, Mr. President. Only a small oversight, really, but—”
“Would it have anything to do with those Russian fighter planes, Mr. Premier?”
“Well, yes, Mr. President. As you know, our pursuit jets are designed for short-range combat. Therefore they have a limited amount of fuel. Now, on this particular flight, due to the suddenness with which they were put into the air, the squadron was operating under standard instructions.” The premier paused.
“And what are ‘standard instructions,’ Mr. Premier?” the President prodded him.
“One half hour before the point of no return, the planes attack unless they have received orders to turn back to their base.”
“But of course they were given such orders, Mr. Premier.”
“Well, you see, Mr. President, the base commander was waiting to hear from his superior officer in Moscow. And his superior officer was waiting to hear from me. Which brings me to that little boo-boo I was talking about. . . .”
“Mr. Premier! Do you mean you didn’t issue the order?”
“Uh—well, actually, no. I didn’t.”
“But why not?”
“I had to go to the bathroom,” the premier admitted in a very small voice. “And I forgot.”
“I understand.”
“You do?”
“If anybody does, Mr. Premier, I do.” The President’s empathy was genuine. “But about the boo-boo you mentioned—- Do you mean that your fighter planes—”
“Are attacking now,” the premier confessed. “It’s too late to stop them, Mr. President. They’ve probably already shot down the transport carrying Ivan Relevant. That’s why I’m calling, Mr. President. I wanted you to hear about it from me before the situation became exaggerated.”
“Exaggerated? Do you realize, Mr. Premier that three squadrons of American planes will be dropping H-bombs on your country by the time we hang up?”
“You’ll have to stop them, Mr. President!”
"I_can’t stop them! As soon as they learn that transport is beihg attacked, our bombers will establish radio silence. They'll fly above your radar. They could be dropping their bombs any minute now!”
If they do, Mr. President, reciprocation will be automatic and instantaneous. If you attack our cities, we shall have to attack yours.”
“But you started it!”
“I already apologized for that, Mr. President. I told you it was a boo-boo. I had to go to the bathroom! What do you want me to do? It won’t do any good for me to go on feeling guilty for the rest of my life.”
“But you are guilty!”
“Some times, Mr. President, you remind me of my mother. The premier spoke strongly now. “If you bomb us, we'll hit you!” he reiterated.
“Mr. Premier, this means war!” The President stood up. Nuclear War, do you understand?” The President flushed the toilet, which played a march by Sousa. “War!” he repeated.
“Be kind to your web-footed friends. . . .”
WAR!
CHAPTER FOUR
The lead jet of the Russian squadron plunged sharply to- ward the fat center section of the transport plane. The pilot’s thumb flexed to push the button that would spray death from the machine guns in the winds of the jet. He squinted through the crosswire of the aiming mechanism, waiting for the last split second to fire in order to get the maximum effect of devastation. Then the eye pressed to the sights blinked . . . unbelievingly . . . and blinked again . . . and the instant for firing had passed!