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far as the rest of the world knew, this was a gathering of oilmen to discuss new pipeline routes for
Caspian Sea crude. The cover story excused secrecy amid tight security.
Also as far as rest of the world (and, hopefully, the aliens) knew, President Robeson and his senior
advisors were on retreat at Camp David . . . but when Marine One, the presidential helicopter, had
returned to its base in Quantico, Virginia, the summiteers were on board. A low-key motorcade that had
to have made the Secret Service cringe took the entourage to the general-aviation section of Dulles
International Airport outside Washington. Their Russian counterparts arrived in Turkey by equally
circuitous, and, it was hoped, confidential means.
The room had been swept for bugs by the protection details of two presidents. Sergei, whom Kyle was
glad but unsurprised to see, accompanied him on another inspection. This was one meeting most
definitely not staged for hidden observers. Completing their rounds, they eyed the sumptuous buffet left
by their absent host. Kyle hurried to his seat, pausing only to fill a mug with strong, muddy Turkish
coffee. No time would be spent coddling the jet-lagged.
"Dmitri Pyetrovich, how are you?" began President Robeson. Dark bags beneath his eyes belied a light
tone.
"Fine, fine." President Chernykov impatiently waved his interpreter to silence. A former KGB
apparatchik, his English was excellent. "You, me, the bug-eyed monsters, we are all great. Is merely a
vacation of old friends." The cigarette trembling in his hand underlined the sarcasm.
"I take your point, Dmitri. We cannot be out of the public eye for long, and we have much to do."
"I hope we can agree on something to do."
Kyle summarized America's findings, Sergei from time to time interjecting corroborative data from the
Russian investigations. Kyle tried to be brief, but there were enough new players in the two delegations
that much give-and-take was required. When he at last retook his chair, utterly drained, he was hopeful
that the gist had been successfully conveyed.
The Galactic orbs, those supposed symbols of peace and unity so freely dispensed by the F'thk, were
spying devices. The systematic destruction of the satellites each nation relied on for detecting ballistic
missile launches, losses that gave credibility to the innuendoes spread by the aliens on their travels. The
many peculiarities of the F'thk visitors. The anomalies of the mother ship: none of the expected gamma
radiation, its complete lack of detail when viewed with microwaves, its transparency to X-rays. Human
disappearances at sites marked by the signs of a F'thk lifeboat landing often months before the
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announced arrival of the aliens. And the pièce de résistance: the alien defector whose shocking
explanation "it's only a movie" explained every known fact.
A movie intended to climax in the nuclear self-annihilation of Earth.
Chernykov's expression grew uglier and uglier. None of this could have been new to him, but the
succinct totality was intense. "Damn these aliens. Damn them. I want to strike. Enough, I say, of science
projects." He snarled something in Russian.
General Mikhail Denisovich Markov, Chernykov's military advisor, sat ramrod straight in his chair,
looking ill at ease in his civilian clothes. A jagged scar angled down his left cheek. He reddened at his
president's words.
"Who speaks today about how we will destroy these evil creatures?" said the American translator.
Something in the delivery suggested a serious toning down of Chernykov's comment.
A muttered Russian response. Chernykov cut off the translator. "My military feels we cannot attack. The
once-proud Russian armed forces cower from a movie company on a rundown cargo ship."
Kyle's fingers dug into the padded arms of his chair. This was no time for macho crap. Britt might later
tear him a new one, but Kyle had to speak. "This movie company has a starship at its disposal. They
have a fusion reactor. I've seen their incredibly powerful masers microwave-frequency lasers destroy
a space shuttle. We know they can fry satellites with X-ray lasers. Swelk, our defector, says the starship
uses lasers to blast space junk. If they can vaporize objects hurtling at them at an appreciable fraction of
light speed, do you think anything we launch at them can matter? We damn well should be afraid of
attacking."
His words tumbled out, faster and faster. "Suppose we attack and do succeed? Will the fusion reactor
blow up? Will the stardrive, about which we haven't a clue, explode? How big a crater will be made if
that ship does go boom?"
Chernykov, his upper lip curled, studied faces turned ashen at Kyle's outburst. "I thought we had come
here to prepare to act. They have blown up your shuttle Atlantis. They have cost each of us one of our
finest submarines. Will you ask them, 'Please, go home now' ?"
What of the five crew on that shuttle, or the hundreds on those subs? The never-distant image of the
fireball above Cape Canaveral blossomed anew in Kyle's mind. How many millions had to join them? A
hand was suddenly squeezing Kyle's forearm. A warning from Britt . . .
"Dmitri." President Robeson's voice oozed calm reason. Kyle had learned over the past few months that
the icy calm masked bottled anger. At whom this anger was directed was not obvious. "We concur on
the need to act. That agreement leaves many questions. What are the aliens' vulnerabilities? How can we
exploit such weaknesses? When and where can we strike?"
"This is better, Harold. Please tell me more."
"General Bauer will explain, Dmitri."
Ryan went to the head of the table. "Dr. Gustafson raises pertinent points about the complexity of an
attack on the aliens."
Chernykov frowned but held his peace.
"The aliens' laser weapons would be a factor in any attack on the ship in flight. We must assume, as the
good doctor suggests, that the ETs can acquire and destroy targets quickly. Our bombs and missiles
would be nothing more than slow-moving space junk, easily killed."
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A burst of Russian words stopped Bauer. The American translator rendered Markov's interruption.
"Certainly, General, the starship must handle an occasional meteor. Would it handle many targets at
once? Perhaps we can overwhelm their defense with a massed attack."
Bauer's forehead creased in thought.
This was madness but could he raise another objection without being escorted from the room? Kyle
began drumming on the table; as people looked his way in annoyance, he managed to catch Sergei's eye.
"Quite ingenious," said Sergei, taking the hint. "Still, I hope you will indulge a physicist's view of the
problem. Our fastest missiles go only a few kilometers per second. In CIA debriefing notes I have been
shown, this Swelk claims their ships approach light speed. As you know, the speed of light is three
hundred thousand kilometers per second. That's how fast their ship overtakes space junk that's more or
less stationary. At even one-hundredth that speed which rate they surely exceed, or else a trip between [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]