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.’
‘A hand grenade?’
‘Nah, come on, we’re in the age of microtech, Paxton. The Navy may get to piss in gold cups, but turn to your Air Force for the state of the art. This is a one-kiloton man-portable thermonuclear device complete with delivery system. Looks just like—’
‘A toy,’ said George, edging toward the back of his cabin. Indeed, the missile was so toylike that, had Holly been there, she would have used it to send a teddy bear to the moon. ‘I would like you to leave now,’ he said. ‘I feel an attack of survivor’s guilt coming on.’
George spent the next four days in his canopied bed, under silk sheets, wishing for death. He cursed God, but he did not die. His mind wanted no dealings with whatever remained of the world, but his body declined to cooperate. His heart, unmindful of Justine’s fate, kept beating. His kidneys, indifferent to Holly’s absence, continued to filter. His mouth got dry, and he drank. His stomach growled, and was fed. George Paxton cursed God, and he cursed the false adage that time heals all wounds.
The only exercise he got that week came from walking in his sleep.
‘Well, well, who have we here ?’
He was being shaken so vigorously that all his bones seemed about to disconnect. He opened his eyes. Six ensigns filled his field of vision. They became four. The vibrations stopped. Two ensigns – moon-faced, pudgy, not notably distinguishable from each other.
‘To begin with, you should salute us,’ said the first ensign.
‘Quite so,’ said the second.
‘Salute who?’
‘Ensign Cobb,’ said the first.
‘And his cousin, Ensign Peach,’ said the second.
‘Mister Peach, I do believe we are in the presence of George Paxton,’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘Do tell, Mister Cobb. Are you referring to George Paxton of the McMurdo Sound Agreement?’ said Ensign Peach.
‘One and the same,’ said Ensign Cobb.
Ensign Peach lifted a stray thread from the Navy insignia on George’s silk pajamas. ‘Some say we should build slow, inaccurate, invulnerable missiles,’ he said with a sly grin.
‘Thereby allaying Soviet fears that we intend to strike first,’ continued Ensign Cobb.
‘Whereas others say that a force of fast and accurate missiles—’
‘Is a more credible deterrent,’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘Because it does not imply mutual suicide,’ said Ensign Peach.
‘Contrariwise, some say
‘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.’
‘A hand grenade?’
‘Nah, come on, we’re in the age of microtech, Paxton. The Navy may get to piss in gold cups, but turn to your Air Force for the state of the art. This is a one-kiloton man-portable thermonuclear device complete with delivery system. Looks just like—’
‘A toy,’ said George, edging toward the back of his cabin. Indeed, the missile was so toylike that, had Holly been there, she would have used it to send a teddy bear to the moon. ‘I would like you to leave now,’ he said. ‘I feel an attack of survivor’s guilt coming on.’
George spent the next four days in his canopied bed, under silk sheets, wishing for death. He cursed God, but he did not die. His mind wanted no dealings with whatever remained of the world, but his body declined to cooperate. His heart, unmindful of Justine’s fate, kept beating. His kidneys, indifferent to Holly’s absence, continued to filter. His mouth got dry, and he drank. His stomach growled, and was fed. George Paxton cursed God, and he cursed the false adage that time heals all wounds.
The only exercise he got that week came from walking in his sleep.
‘Well, well, who have we here ?’
He was being shaken so vigorously that all his bones seemed about to disconnect. He opened his eyes. Six ensigns filled his field of vision. They became four. The vibrations stopped. Two ensigns – moon-faced, pudgy, not notably distinguishable from each other.
‘To begin with, you should salute us,’ said the first ensign.
‘Quite so,’ said the second.
‘Salute who?’
‘Ensign Cobb,’ said the first.
‘And his cousin, Ensign Peach,’ said the second.
‘Mister Peach, I do believe we are in the presence of George Paxton,’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘Do tell, Mister Cobb. Are you referring to George Paxton of the McMurdo Sound Agreement?’ said Ensign Peach.
‘One and the same,’ said Ensign Cobb.
Ensign Peach lifted a stray thread from the Navy insignia on George’s silk pajamas. ‘Some say we should build slow, inaccurate, invulnerable missiles,’ he said with a sly grin.
‘Thereby allaying Soviet fears that we intend to strike first,’ continued Ensign Cobb.
‘Whereas others say that a force of fast and accurate missiles—’
‘Is a more credible deterrent,’ said Ensign Cobb.
‘Because it does not imply mutual suicide,’ said Ensign Peach.
‘Contrariwise, some say
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