stared in dead white. Neither asked for help.
“The kid told me, Melech hamafis. The king of death is in the room. He was warning me, saying good-bye.”
“Moreau . . .” The pilot's words trailed off. He knew Moreau had felt little if any pain, that the light had quickly burned away the optic nerve. But he didn't know about the rest of her head, and he did know what was coming next.
“PRP's back, Kazaklis,” she assured him, the monotone almost as vacant as her eye. “Let's get on with it.”
Moreau reached forward and gripped the controls. She also knew what was coming next. She braced herself for the wave.
“Alice here,” the baritone voice responded immediately.
“Icarus,” the general said unnecessarily, the black phone into which he was speaking connecting only two points—the Command Balcony and the Looking Glass plane. “Harpoon's launched.”
“I know, sir,” the general in the Looking Glass replied. “We watched him on radar.”
“God damn you!” Icarus exploded. “If you're watching us, you're too damned close to Omaha. I need at least two of you up there, general.”
For a moment the phone between the underground post and the flying command post seemed dead, only the low hzzzzzzzz of the radio connection speaking to the contrary. Icarus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn't want to chew on this man. He was too good. The country was very lucky it had him aboard the Looking Glass on this night. Sheer luck of the draw, too. Every moment since February 3, 1961—through cold wars with the ultimate adversary in Moscow and hot wars with the pests in Hanoi, through detente and confrontation, through Geneva negotiations and vitriolic speeches at the UN—the Looking Glass had been in the air, ready to take command instantly when Omaha went. The fleet of Looking Glass planes was outmoded now, modified old Boeing 707's crammed full of communications gear and a battle staff of twenty. But they still served their purpose, eternally vigilant, one always in the air, rotating on eight-hour shifts with the incoming crew up before the outgoing came down. And always with a general officer aboard. But a general of this man's caliber drew the duty no more than once a month. Top-notch. Friend of his, friend of General Moreau's.
“We're okay, sir,” Alice interrupted the silence.
“I'm taking a lot of shit from the politicians tonight.”
“No apology necessary.”
“Apology? You ever hear me apologize to anybody?”
“Just once, sir.”
“Bullshit.”
“To Moreau.”
“No way.”
“Well, you were just a pup.”
“No way!”
“General, you almost took his wing off.”
“How do you remember that?”
“You almost took mine off, too. You were a little eager for a routine strafing practice.”
Icarus grunted. “I was a pup then. Don't remember any apology, though.”
“Well, you and Moreau cussed each other like longshoremen for twenty minutes first.”
“Yeah. Then what'd I say?”
“You stuck your chin about an inch from his, standing there on the runway, and said: 'You're right. I was wrong. I apologize. Fuck you.'”
The hzzzzzzz returned. On the Command Balcony, the general averted his eyes from the battle staff. The eyes moistened ever so briefly. Then he chuckled. “Ivan's probably mousing us,” Icarus said.
“Probably,” Alice replied.
“You let 'em know my one failing in thirty years, asshole.”
“Yeah. Just another soft, decadent, capitalist general waiting for his pension and a hundred thou a year at General Dynamics.”
“Well, if Ivan's listening, he knows the same thing we do. Every one of his Model T missiles is missing by a country mile. What you think of that, Ivan? A fucking country mile.”
Hzzzzzzz.
“Those cretins always did have trouble with anything fancier than a screwdriver,” Alice responded.
Hzzzzzzz.
Beneath Omaha, Icarus looked up at the sixteen-foot-missile-display screen. He saw the one with his name on it
“The kid told me, Melech hamafis. The king of death is in the room. He was warning me, saying good-bye.”
“Moreau . . .” The pilot's words trailed off. He knew Moreau had felt little if any pain, that the light had quickly burned away the optic nerve. But he didn't know about the rest of her head, and he did know what was coming next.
“PRP's back, Kazaklis,” she assured him, the monotone almost as vacant as her eye. “Let's get on with it.”
Moreau reached forward and gripped the controls. She also knew what was coming next. She braced herself for the wave.
“Alice here,” the baritone voice responded immediately.
“Icarus,” the general said unnecessarily, the black phone into which he was speaking connecting only two points—the Command Balcony and the Looking Glass plane. “Harpoon's launched.”
“I know, sir,” the general in the Looking Glass replied. “We watched him on radar.”
“God damn you!” Icarus exploded. “If you're watching us, you're too damned close to Omaha. I need at least two of you up there, general.”
For a moment the phone between the underground post and the flying command post seemed dead, only the low hzzzzzzzz of the radio connection speaking to the contrary. Icarus closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn't want to chew on this man. He was too good. The country was very lucky it had him aboard the Looking Glass on this night. Sheer luck of the draw, too. Every moment since February 3, 1961—through cold wars with the ultimate adversary in Moscow and hot wars with the pests in Hanoi, through detente and confrontation, through Geneva negotiations and vitriolic speeches at the UN—the Looking Glass had been in the air, ready to take command instantly when Omaha went. The fleet of Looking Glass planes was outmoded now, modified old Boeing 707's crammed full of communications gear and a battle staff of twenty. But they still served their purpose, eternally vigilant, one always in the air, rotating on eight-hour shifts with the incoming crew up before the outgoing came down. And always with a general officer aboard. But a general of this man's caliber drew the duty no more than once a month. Top-notch. Friend of his, friend of General Moreau's.
“We're okay, sir,” Alice interrupted the silence.
“I'm taking a lot of shit from the politicians tonight.”
“No apology necessary.”
“Apology? You ever hear me apologize to anybody?”
“Just once, sir.”
“Bullshit.”
“To Moreau.”
“No way.”
“Well, you were just a pup.”
“No way!”
“General, you almost took his wing off.”
“How do you remember that?”
“You almost took mine off, too. You were a little eager for a routine strafing practice.”
Icarus grunted. “I was a pup then. Don't remember any apology, though.”
“Well, you and Moreau cussed each other like longshoremen for twenty minutes first.”
“Yeah. Then what'd I say?”
“You stuck your chin about an inch from his, standing there on the runway, and said: 'You're right. I was wrong. I apologize. Fuck you.'”
The hzzzzzzz returned. On the Command Balcony, the general averted his eyes from the battle staff. The eyes moistened ever so briefly. Then he chuckled. “Ivan's probably mousing us,” Icarus said.
“Probably,” Alice replied.
“You let 'em know my one failing in thirty years, asshole.”
“Yeah. Just another soft, decadent, capitalist general waiting for his pension and a hundred thou a year at General Dynamics.”
“Well, if Ivan's listening, he knows the same thing we do. Every one of his Model T missiles is missing by a country mile. What you think of that, Ivan? A fucking country mile.”
Hzzzzzzz.
“Those cretins always did have trouble with anything fancier than a screwdriver,” Alice responded.
Hzzzzzzz.
Beneath Omaha, Icarus looked up at the sixteen-foot-missile-display screen. He saw the one with his name on it
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