Complete Short Fiction, page 36
“No, the airport is fine. Melissa is coming in there. And don’t you get that boy all toked up, Stubb! I want everybody straight-arrow in Bangor!”
“Young Bob’s a match for ’em, straight or bent, Nate. If I wuz you, I’d worry ’bout that top-heavy Emmeline falling over when you ain’t around to help her git up.”
“Comedians galore today!” said the congressman, but his face became craftier. “Stubb,” he said sweetly, “there’s a gram or so of white nosecandy hereabout, as fine as any they use at the White House. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll deliver that boy unstoned to Bangor.” Having waved his stick and presented his carrot, Hazelton softened his expression. “The point is, Stubb, I don’t want anybody getting ahead of anyone else on this or meeting the press high down there. There’ll be time to blow some of your goodies on the way back, and then we’ll all be together.”
After the copter had taken off, Congressman Hazelton returned to the house and thoughtfully finished his drink. “As soon as Emmeline gets back, or a tow truck gets your car here, we’re going to zip to Bangor in a police cruiser. Now Lou, my office has this number. If they call before we’re back with Stubb, get it all down, then call me either on the cruiser radio or in the chopper coming back. O.K, here’s how to do both those things,” and he handed her a series of numbers. “And, hey, lay off the scotch, Lou.”
Betty Lou grinned at her brother and puffed fiercely. “I wouldn’t fall down in front of the president, Nate. You know that.” She stared directly at him, shaking her head. “Jesus, Nate, this is crazy. Can we pull this off? I mean. . . .”
Congressman Hazelton, noting with satisfaction that a large, low, luxurious police cruiser had pulled into the Muth yard and the uniformed driver was now waiting in respectful silence prior to a red-light-flashing chase through the big woods, poured just one more scotch. “Lou,” he said thoughtfully, “there’s no escaping it. The president has only two viable options. . . .”
VII
President O’Connell spoke with iron control. “General Zinkowski, I don’t want to discuss landing the Langley at any particular place or in any particular way until we have first discussed the concept, landing, itself. That is—and if I’m going too fast, please stop me; I know how philosophical digressions bother you practical men—can we go over the exact steps needed to put the Langley back on solid ground and without nuclear detonations.” The president looked around with thin-eyed mildness. “Unless, of course, you have a place for her . . . up there?” He pointed skyward, and his tone was now that of an impatient attendant dealing with a room full of mental patients.
Zinkowski nodded helpfully. “Absolutely, sir. Glad to help. She comes down to whatever approach altitude the pilot chooses at about 150 . . . ”
“Miles per hour?”
“Yessir. That’s about as slow as the aircraft can go on idle reactor power. We don’t want to risk shutting the thing down completely because it might be impossible to restart the plant in the air. O.K., well, in the next step, they drop the wheels to slow her up. . . .”
“An aerial brake,” said the president.
“Correct,” said Zinkowski encouragingly. “But not a very effective one. This gets the Langley down to around one hundred miles an hour. Since this is still too fast to touch down, we next go to ‘reversal’. You see, Mr. President, the Langley is so heavy and has so much momentum that the only way to stop her in any reasonable distance is to reverse the the fans. There are separate reverseturbines geared onto the fan shafts, and the propulsion-machinery engineer now has to feed steam to these to stop the windmilling and reverse blade direction, to start blowing air out the front. The thing that’s tricky is that at some point the condenser stops working because we’re blowing air forward at the same velocity that it’s coming in from the front due to the Langley’s forward velocity.”
O’Connell held up his hand. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. The reactor then melts out the bottom, igniting the atmosphere and turning the earth into a nova?”
“Nossir, but the condenser might blow open. What we have to do is let the steam from the turbines leave the aircraft through valves—run the system ‘open cycle’, in other words, for the few moments it takes the airflow to really get going the other way.”
“And what if there isn’t enough water to complete this ‘reversal’, as you call it?”
Zinowski drew his brows together. “She carries plenty of extra water, sir. For combat losses and other emergencies. We figure to blow that away during the reversal phase.”
“But since none of this has ever been done before, there is that small chance—vanishingly small, perhaps, because we know how wonderfully these gadgets all work, don’t we?—but still a chance, that there won’t be enough water?” When Zinkowski made no immediate answer, the president lifted a large finger and pointed. “At Moosefoot the Langley would take out a number of trees in that case, right, General? And if the reactor happened to find a clear path through those trees . . . well, boom, as they say. Now, suppose the thing does get reversed?”
“She’d stop in two miles or less, sir. Once they get her fans going in the opposite direction, she’ll slow up quick.”
“No wheel brakes?”
The general shook his head. “Impractical. The landing gear has enough problems. And reversing the thrust by movable cowlings, as in most other jets, was impossible from a weight standpoint. The whole wing would have to have been shrouded.”
“Well, we certainly are learning plenty today, Jack,” said O’Connell heartily. “And I think what I’ve learned already is that a landing at Moosefoot AFB is out of the question, so we won’t need to waste time on that so-called option! Any questions?”
General Zinkowski grimaced and rubbed his thumb on his forefinger. “I think we could get her down there safe, Mr. President. And it is a remote area.”
“Not so remote that a twenty-kiloton blast wouldn’t be readily heard, here and in Canada,” snarled the president. “We’re not at war and we’re not taking wartime risks! And. . . .” His voice was acid, “. . . where does one stick the thing in Moosefoot, with no ‘hot hangar’ in place?”
Zinkowski shrugged. “We could shield her, sir. . . .”
“No,” said the president in a final tone. “No and NO!” He looked around. “Option two. . . .” And when no one spoke at once, he cocked his head at them. “Well, isn’t that Ice Island Number Three, General!” he suddenly shouted.
Zinkowski nodded stiffly. “We can discuss that option now, if you wish, President OConnell.”
“It isn’t your first choice, then, General?” asked O’Connell sarcastically.
“It happens to be my personal choice, Mr. President. The other men”—Zinkowski gestured at the officers around him—“may have other ideas.”
“Then I assume the runway on the ice island is long and smooth enough, General?”
“It isn’t long enough yet, sir. But we have equipment up there to make it as long as we want, up to the twenty-two mile length of the island in the north-south direction.”
“But there is a runway there now, isn’t there, General?” The president looked at him through narrow eyes. “For the scientific staff and their support?”
Zinkowski shrugged. “Yes, but it doesn’t get much use. Just flying in food and gear now and then.”
“It’s hardly a little neighborhood grass strip, General Zinkowski! You’re flying Hercules and CargoMaster transports in and out regularly!” said the president.
“Sir,” pleaded Zinkowski, “the whole island is basically flat and hard, It takes very little effort to clear it and keep it swept.”
“And that so-called scientific staff,” said the president. “It’s all young officers and cadets on leave from the service academies, right, General?”
Zinkowski permitted himself a terse smile. “Well, Mr. President, you remember how the First Lady in the previous administration got hot on that business about the service academies not turning out humanity-oriented students and worldly officers. Well, one of the upshots was the ‘life-experience’ junior year, so the young man—or woman—has a chance to live in another part of the world, see how things are really done outside school.”
“Ah,” said the president dreamily. “Sort of like a junior year abroad, eh?”
“That’s about it, sir.”
“So they’re all up there with the lacy cathedrals of ice hanging about the Quonset huts, the cultural opportunities of the PX library, and the scientific insights attendant on following the refueling operations of Soviet Badger aircraft on radar! The fact is, General,” said O’Connell, his voice rising, “you people have established a cadre of dedicated young officers on the ice island, plus the facilities to move in more buildings, ground-to-air defensive weapons, and the rest of it, probably in seventy-two hours, as needed to construct a complete offensive air base and refueling depot!”
The president’s security adviser swiveled his glasses, shining like tiny twin oil slicks, to focus on his chief. “Zir, lezz than that, I think. More like a day and a half. And Zir, if zat research group were not on Ize Island Three now, ze Badgers would be flying in and out wiz regularity from zat field!”
The president’s lips twisted and he snarled at Bzggnartsky. “How you people can keep finding these sticks to poke up the fire is simply amazing!” He turned to the other side of the table. “Who’s here from State?” he asked sharply.
A small, thin man of advanced age, Undersecretary Wilson Woodford, raised a brown-spotted claw of a hand. “At your service, Mr. President,” he said in a dry, crackly voice.
President O’Connell sighed. “Ah, yes, Woodford. What’s the status of Ice Island Three in the U.N.?”
Undersecretary Woodford cocked his small, bald head and pursed his lips, making birdlike noises. He began shuffling large masses of loose papers around in front of him, humming and chirping busily to himself.
O’Connell tried to remember why they had kept this damned old fart on at State. Was his brother a governor? Or a senator? Woodford seemed to have finally sorted his papers into three general piles in front of him and was now pushing these around in a fit of straightening and organization. “Secretary Woodford,” said the president in a dry voice. “Are we eventually going to get to guess which pile the pea is in?”
In common with other slow-thinking men, Wilson Woodford was relatively imperturbable. He smiled quickly at the president. “Be with you in a moment, sir,” he said briskly. “I don’t like to start on something like this until I have my documents fully accessible.” His hands fluttered like dark sparrows among the papers in a final convulsion of organization. Then he looked up and picked the top paper off the middle pile. He cleared his throat, snapped the paper as though it wert two fifty-dollar bills he was trying to separate, then set his lips and jaws into periodic chewing motions designed to ensure that his dentures didn’t loosen during the presentation.
“So,” said Undersecretary Woodford, in his best seminar voice, “Mr. President, we find three different positions on Ice Island Three.” He paused and blinked vague, thin eyes at O’Connell.
“The United Nations’ position is that since the island was discovered after 1946, it belongs only to that organization. They interpret the charter as ending the seizure of any territory on the basis of discovery only.”
“Mr. Secretary, what in hell does the United Nations want with Ice Island Three? Surely there are enough ice machines in New York City to keep even that bunch of rumdums happy?”
Secretary Woodford gave a nervous chirp of laughter at this witticism. “They aren’t quite sure yet, sir. There has been talk of using it as a storage for excess food.”
“A giant freezer,” breathed the president. “Or they might put their various deceased officials into glass cases for all posterity to come and see. Kind of a chilly Madame Tussaud’s and certainly more terrifying. Now, what is the Soviet position?”
Secretary Woodford turned to the pile on his left and snapped the top paper several times, checking his teeth again as he did so. “The Soviets claim that Ice Island Three is not an island at all, but simply part of the Arctic pack and that the use of it for bombing planes would be a violation of the U.N. resolution, of which we are signatories, concerning the banning of nuclear weapons on the Arctic and Antarctic ice.”
President O’Connell held up his hand. “I find that position quite persuasive, Mr. Secretary. It’s certainly the one I would adopt if I were working from Moscow. How do we answer such a claim? The island is entirely ice, isn’t it?”
Professor Bzggnartsky, having prepared a homework assignment on this topic, interjected himself again. “Pleezzz, Mr. Prezident. Ve have wiz us today, Dr. Richard Armstrong, chairman of ze National Academy Committee on Permanent Ize Ztructures. He vill explain ze United Ztates claim, zir.”
That crystal glass with the neat Jack Daniels and the two uncorrupted ice cubes now seemed to President O’Connell as no more than a kind of grail, shimmering distantly in some other and better time and place, a Glastonbury Abbey of the inner heart. No wonder the kids hate school, he thought in a kind of insightful fury, with egocentric, incompetent, insufferable, boring stupids like these freaks preaching absolute shit and nonsense at them.
Dr. Armstrong, twenty-nine and in a three-piece, single-breasted darkgreen suit, chain with Phi Beta key, and a shock of blond hair falling attractively across his large, blackrimmed glasses, sat up to give his lecture. He had that bright, intent look of an assistant professor on his final meeting with the university tenure committee. “Could we dim the lights, please,” he said with a nervous curtness. “Now, sir, in this first slide. . . .”
“Agghhh . . . !” said Happy Jack under his breath. “Stupid slides yet.”
But President O’Connell was glad of the chance to rest his eyes and imagine other, happier scenes in the soothing gloom.
The first slide showed a cross-sectional diagram of Ice Island Three. “There are several more-or-less-permanent ice structures now known in the Arctic Ocean,” began Dr. Armstrong. “But the other three or four islands have ages of only a few hundred years and will eventually break up. Number Three is quite different. For one thing, the sea is quite shallow there, and the seabed on which the ice rests is solid permafrost down to several hundred meters. Also, that part of the Arctic Ocean seems to be a kind of wheel-hub around which the whole pack slowly rotates. We know that Number Three is at least ten thousand years old. It evidently was created in the last period of glaciation. Slide Two shows a satellite photo of the whole area around the island. You can see the extent of the permanent ice marked out on the photo.”
President O’Connell came out of his reverie to a state of sudden alertness. “Just a second here! Let’s see that photo without the lines drawn on it!”
Dr. Armstrong gave the president a tremendously respectful, yet puzzled, glance. “Well, sir, I don’t know if we have. . . .”
“Look,” said President O’Connell in a gritty voice. “The Russians claim this so-called island is part of the ice pack. Does it smell like part of the ice pack? Does it look like part of the ice pack? Does it quake like part of the ice pack?”
“You mean, how did we determine that boundary, sir?” said Dr. Armstrong in sudden comprehension.
“Exactly,” said O’Connell. “I can’t see the slightest visible difference between the inside and outside parts of that line you drew.”
“Slide three,” said the geophysicist, “shows how we took test borings right across the island. There are two or three good ways of dating ice samples and . . . Slide four, please. . . . here you see the age-contour lines of the ice around the island.” This slide showed a roughly oval shape surrounded by what looked like concentric contour lines with shapes somewhat different from, but generally parallel to, the innermost line.
The screen went immediately dark, but President O’Connell spoke sharply, “Get that one back!” and the screen was lit again. “Now, Doctor, if I interpret this diagram correctly,” said the president slowly, “those various closed, contour lines mark out ice of different ages, is that correct?”
Dr. Armstrong nodded. “The numbers give the average age of the ice at that point in tens or hundreds of years: one thousand, one hundred, fifty, ten, and so on.”
“So,” said O’Connell in a silky voice. “Where exactly do we stake our claim? Surely real estate that’s lasted a thousand years is a pretty good bet? A hundred . . . well . . .?” The president spread his palms. Everybody stared at him silently.
“Oh, come, gentlemen,” he said in his most sarcastic voice. “The point is, simply, that the Soviets have a point! Ice is ice! That supposed island is clearly a contiguous part of the polar ice cap in the exact sense of the U.N. resolution. The fact that the ice is old in no way alters the legal sense of that document. Turn on the lights!”
As the fluorescent blazed up, President O’Connell found himself blinded by the twin defocused laser beams off Professor Bzggnartsky’s glasses. “Zir! Vatever you may zay . . . or the U.N. may zay, ze moment ve abandon Ize Island Three, ze Zoviets vill be zhere ze day after.”
“And yet,” said the president, in the bitterest of voices, “if you pointy-headed, empire-building, Ph.D.-glutted bastards hadn’t found this nonisland in the first place, no one would give a damn for that hunk of ice! All right. Let’s get on to the other options for landing the Langley. I’ve had a gutful of Ice Island Three!”
The president looked directly at General Zinkowski, who cleared his throat in surprise. “Ah, yes, sir. Well, the other option is to ditch her at sea.”
“The other? This is the last option, General?”
Zinkowski nodded quickly. “We have analysts examining the whole system again, sir, but at this point it appears that the ditch option is the only other feasible, and safe, one.” He paused and took a breath. “This involves bringing the Langley down to a suitably selected and protected body of water or seacoast region and landing it, essentially as I described earlier, but with the landing gear retracted. In this mode, the pilot would slow the aircraft as rapidly as possible after reversal has been completed. . . .”
