The knock on George’s door had the brisk, impatient cadence of a person accustomed to getting his way.
‘It’s open.’ George sat on a plush divan reading the Book of Job for the third time that week. Once again he was finding the drama cruel and absurd.
A military man entered. His uniform, curiously, was of the United States Air Force. His presence on a Navy submarine entailed the incongruity of a rabbi in a cathedral.
‘You’re evacuee Paxton, aren’t you?’
George closed the Bible and said yes. The Air Force refugee approached, arm poised for a mandatory handshake. He was constructed of massive shoulders, a rough rock-like head, a formidable trunk, and limbs of simian length. A flurry of decorations and service ribbons hung from his breast opposite a nameplate that read TARMAC.
‘Major General Roger “Brat” Tarmac,’ the refugee said in a large, wholesome voice. Shaking hands with Brat Tarmac was a workout. ‘Deputy Chief of Staff for Retargeting, Strategic Air Command. I was in downtown Omaha when the Cossacks came. Had to do my Christmas shopping some time, right? So there I am, buying my sister’s kid this clown, when quick-as-shit a warhead goes off behind me, and the next thing I know I’m in the Navy. It’s all so crazy. The clown needed batteries – that was going to be my next stop. I keep telling myself, “Brat, face facts. You’ll never see those people again – your sister’s a casualty.” I say that, and I don’t believe it. She was a pilot. Like me. Flew strategic interceptors. Jesus. Incredible.’
George had never taken so immediate a liking to anyone before. Brat Tarmac was the sort of handsome, athletic soldier ten-year-old boys wanted for fathers, a fantasy to which George, at age thirty-five, was not entirely immune.
‘Coffee?’ George offered.
‘Affirmative,’ said the general.
Obtaining coffee aboard the City of New York was a simple matter of walking up to your cabin’s vending machine and pushing some buttons. ‘Cream and sugar?’
‘Black. In a dirty mug, eh? No frills for us bomber jockeys.’
A Styrofoam cup caught the stream. George’s hand made a spider over the rim, and he carried the coffee to his guest.
‘So far I’ve managed to locate all the Erebus personnel but that evangelist, Sparrow.’ Brat sucked coffee across his leathery lips. ‘We’ll be working with a pretty broad spectrum of talent. Wengernook is—’
‘I met him in the sick bay.’
‘Impressive guy, huh?’
‘Nervous.’
‘Intense. He should quit smoking. Then we’ve got Brian Overwhite of the Arms Control and Disarmament Agency, and you’ll never guess who they stuck in the cabin next to yours.’
‘Who?’
‘William Randstable. Remember when he beat that Cossack at chess? He was only seven or something.’
‘I don’t follow chess.’
‘It was a big propaganda thing for us. The kid worked at one of those think tanks for a while, then they put him on missile accuracy over at Sugar Brook or someplace. All in all it’s a pretty classy act our President’s putting together down in Antarctica. In a few days they’ll be calling the whole team together – after they run us through this survivor’s guilt crap – so we can chart out our options. God, I hope they’ve got a crisis relocation effort going. I can’t bear to think of this turning into a high civilian-casualty thing.’
‘Why Antarctica?’
‘A big chunk of real estate, right? Hence, a high warhead-exhaustion factor. Excellent place for a command-and-control center. Looks like the Joint Chiefs thought of everything – I’m a good man with an ICBM, Wengernook knows what we should commit to the European theater, Randstable can probably maintain a decent R and D effort throughout, and Reverend Sparrow will do wonders for our morale. All right, all right, I’ll admit it. We should all just admit it, right? We’re scared. We’ve never done this before. The cheerleader and the quarterback. You must be dousing your drawers, what with your MARCH Plan on the line and everything. I’m a big supporter of MARCH, you know. Over at SAC they called me the MARCH Hare.’
‘My plan? I don’t have anything to do with the MARCH Plan, General Tarmac. I’d never heard of it until Professor Carter—’
‘Modulated Attacks in Response to Counterforce Hostilities – that’s not your baby?’
‘No.’
‘The SPASM, then. You’re one of the geniuses behind the SPASM.’
‘The SPASM?’
‘Single Plan for Aligning the Services of the Mili… er, what exactly are you doing on this team, Paxton?’
‘Wish I knew. Two weeks ago I signed a really strange scopas suit contract.’
‘Scopas suits? Hell, they don’t work. We ran tests.’
‘I have one that works. In my closet. It didn’t get… where it was supposed to go.’
‘You aren’t in the defense community? You aren’t at Sugar Brook or Lumen or anything?’
‘I inscribe tombstones.’
‘Tombstones?’
‘Lately I’ve been writing the epitaphs.’
‘Epitaphs? I hate to say this, Paxton, but they sure made a mistake evacuating you.’
‘I don’t want to be on the team. I just want to be dead.’
The MARCH Hare could think of no adequate response to this. ‘Dead?’ he said. He rubbed his hand across his hair, each strand of which was as straight and rigid as a sewing needle.
‘Dead?’ he said again. His waist was encircled by a utility belt from which hung an object that looked like a skyrocket. ‘Nice cabin you got here. Mine’s not bad, either. But then, the Navy always did have a sweet tooth, eh? I understand this boat hauls thirty-six E4 Multiprongs, all gassed up and loaded for Russian bear.’
George looked at the sea horse tank, studied the antics of Jennifer, Suzy, Jeremiah, Alfred, and Margaret. The previous day some babies had appeared. He could imagine Holly discovering them. The hallucinated sound of her oooooh’s and ahhhhh’s was like a jagged bronze bell implanted in his skull.
Brat got himself a second cup of coffee, drained it instantly, went for a third. ‘Epitaphs, you said? Hmmm, maybe they expect this fight to last so long we’ll all be needing a few well-chosen words over our heads. In any event, welcome to the show. We’ve got some tough decisions to make. Started your therapy?’
‘No. You?’
‘I suppose so. Mostly we just sit in Dr Valcourt’s cabin and palaver, for which the Navy evidently pays her the going rate. I tell her the main guilt I’ve got comes from not being at SAC when we retaliated.’ He grinned, forced a laugh. ‘Don’t let anybody kid you – our air-launched Javelin missiles are the finest a federal deficit can buy.’ His grin suddenly degenerated. He grabbed his mouth as if to forestall vomit. ‘Hell, I’m scared, Paxton.’
‘I don’t like Dr Valcourt.’
Brat took a deep breath. ‘Yeah, I know, kind of an ice cube, but I do enjoy our sessions. Maybe I’ll end up on the fun side of her pants some day.’ He crushed his Styrofoam cup. Coffee erupted over his fist. ‘Shit, wouldn’t you think they’d give us a few scenarios to mull over? You can be sure the Cossack generals aren’t sitting around in some goddamn submarine.’
Jeremiah Sea Horse and Margaret Sea Horse were kissing. ‘Have you ever noticed that when a four-year-old draws a human face, it’s always smiling?’ George asked. ‘At least, my four-year-old’s faces were always smiling. Her name was Holly.’
‘I’m sorry. War is hell, huh?’ Brat removed the skyrocket from its holster. ‘Jesus Christ – it’s really happening! Just about the most tragical thing a person can conceive of, and it’s… happening! The point is, after you get into one of these failed-deterrence situations, you can’t let the enemy call the shots. In quite a few scenarios – more than you’d think – the victor is the guy who gets off the last strike.’ Brat waved his weapon. ‘It’s small, but it packs a wallop. David and Goliath.’