"Our main weapon is a 'gun' that fires electromagnetically accelerated projectiles. Just think of them as special bullets that use electromagnetic energy instead of gunpowder. These projectiles travel very, very fast, and when they strike their target, they hit with such force that they either shatter it or, at least, shatter everything inside it by concussion. There are several kinds of projectiles — the fire-control computer selects the right type automatically. One type is solid and can penetrate virtually anything. Another has two layers, the first of which detonates against the outside, igniting anything that will burn, while the hard inner core proceeds on through any known armor. The shock wave alone kills any enemy soldiers inside a vehicle, while rendering the vehicle itself useless. A tremendous advantage is that one M-100 can locate and destroy several hundred targets on a single mission. After that, the 'gun' needs to be recalibrated back at its support base, but it's still far more versatile, lethal, and survivable than the Japanese laser gunships."
"And the pilot's… just basically along for the ride?" the President said. "The M-100… does everything automatically?"
"It can do a great deal automatically. But the vehicle commander — the pilot — and his copilot/gunner still make the broad decisions. And the desperate ones that a machine still cannot think through. Ideally, you go in firing fully automatic, because the computers can identify and attack multiple targets in a matter of seconds. And the computer gets intelligence input directly from national-level systems. But it's still the man who decides what to do when the chips are down. For instance, the computer never decides when to land and employ the dragoons. It's a smart horse. But, in the end, it's still a horse."
Despite Taylor's best efforts, the President still looked slightly baffled. Then Waters spoke:
"Well, Colonel Taylor, while you've been filling me in, I've been watching some graphics your boss called up for me. Very impressive. Very impressive, indeed." His distant eyes seemed to search very hard for Taylor's. "Tell me, is it really going to work? In combat?"
"I hope so, Mr. President."
"And… you have enough… of these systems?"
Enough for what? You never had enough.
"Mr. President, I've got what my country could give, and we're going to do the best we can with it. I'm confident that we have sufficient combat power to accomplish the mission as foreseen by our current op-plan. Besides, there's more to the regiment than just the M-l00s. First, we have fine soldiers: superb, well-trained soldiers who are ready to believe in the job you sent them to do, even if they don't fully understand it. Without them, the M-100 is just an expensive pile of nuts and bolts." Taylor paused, as the mental images of countless men with whom he had served marched by — not just the soldiers of the Seventh, but faces remembered from half a dozen trials, as well as from the endless drudgery of peacetime garrisons. "Mr. President, I've got other equipment, as well. Magnificent electronic warfare gear… a battalion of heavy air-defense lasers to protect us while we're on the ground… wing-in-ground transporters that can haul my essentials in a single lift. And the Tenth Cav is giving me tremendous intelligence, electronic attack and deception support. But, in the end, it's going to come down to those soldiers down in the squadrons and troops. Are they tough enough? Are they sufficiently well-trained? Will they have the wherewithal to hold on longer than their adversaries? I think the answer is yes."
President Waters felt greater confidence than ever in this man with the ruined face and the firm voice. As a politician, he recognized that he had been a bit taken in by his own desire to believe that all would go well, coupled with the infectious persuasiveness of this colonel in the odd foreign uniform. He had been listening to exactly the sort of speech he wanted to hear, a speech in which the spoken words themselves were far less important than the manner in which they were spoken. Yet, this recognition of his own weakness did little to dilute the new confidence he felt. That, too, would slip away. But, for the moment, he felt that things might not go so badly after all.
He wondered if he should tell this hard-eyed colonel about the Scrambler business, to warn him, just in case there was something to it. But the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had recommended against bringing up the matter. And, surely, these military people knew among themselves what was best for their own.
Still, the Scrambler business nagged at him. The instincts that had led him to the White House said, "Tell him. Right now."
The briefing room door opened, and John Miller poked his head inside.
"Excuse me. Mr. President, if we could clear the monitors for a moment, the sandwiches are here. And your salad."
President Waters nodded. But he held up his finger to the communications officer. Wait.
The President stared into the central monitor, where Colonel George Taylor's discolored face waited impassively, larger than life-size.
"Colonel Taylor," the President said, "we're going to blank the system out for just a moment. But I'd like you to stand by. We have an intelligence briefing coming up, and I'd like you to listen in. To ensure that we all have exactly the same picture of what's going on."
Waters thought that his logic sounded pretty good. But, in his heart, he knew that the intelligence update was only a pretext. He simply was not quite ready to release this man who had so much confidence to share.
When the monitor came back to life, Taylor saw the President with a forkful of lettuce in his right hand. The man looked surprised, and Taylor figured that the sudden reappearance of his face was not particularly good for anyone's appetite. The monitor system was superb — state of the art — and keyed to respond to certain registered voices, giving the effect of brisk, clean editing. But it had not been programmed to beautify its subjects.
"Colonel Taylor," the President said. "You're back with us. Good. We're just about to begin the intelligence update. It will probably mean more to you than to me." The President's eyes strayed from contact with the monitor, hunting more deeply into the briefing room. "Miss Fitzgerald?" he said.
Before Taylor could prepare himself, the monitor filled with a shot of Daisy, showing her from mid-thigh upward. For an instant it seemed as though their eyes made contact, then Taylor realized, thankfully, that it was merely an illusion. His face would no longer be on the monitor now. Only the intelligence briefer and the visual supports.
He relaxed slightly. Daisy. He had tried so hard not to think of her. There was too much to resolve, too much to fear — and he had far more important matters with which to occupy his mind. But, watching her now, as she went through the formalities of opening her portion of the briefing, he was struck by how weary she, too, looked, and by how much, and how helplessly, he loved her.
A map of the south-central Soviet Union replaced Daisy on the screen, while her voice oriented the President to the location of cities, mountains, and seas. She swiftly recapitulated the most significant developments, speaking in terms far simpler than those she had used when briefing Taylor on the developing situation in her office in the old CIA building in Langley, now property of the Unified Intelligence Agency that had been formed to eradicate interagency rivalry and parochialism in the wake of the African disaster and the unforeseen dimensions of the trade war with the Japanese. Taylor smiled to himself. He remembered how her hair had been pinned up, as though in haste, and the visible smudge on the corner of her oversize glasses. She had not reacted to the sight of him with any special distaste. She had hardly reacted at all. He had been merely another obligation in the course of a frantic day. And he remembered the first remotely personal thing she had said to him, an hour into the briefing that had been scheduled to take up thirty minutes of her time: "Well," she had said, looking at him through those formidable glasses, "you certainly do your homework, Colonel. But I don't think you really understand the background of all this."