arching down out of suborbit, edging over the Canadian wastes. It was not missing. High above, flying farther away from Omaha at 42,000 feet, the Looking Glass general looked at the same data being relayed to him. Bull's-eye.
“Cretins,” Icarus said.
“Cretins,” Alice said.
The phone conversation paused briefly.
“Moreau's kid is on alert duty tonigbt,” Icarus said without emotion. “The girl. At Fairchild.”
Alice thought a second. “He'd probably prefer it that way.”
“Yeah,” Icarus said. “You getting all the data? The SIOP data?
Missile-impact projections? The submarine missiles have begun to impact.”
“Yes, general.”
“My clock says nineteen minutes.”
Alice looked at his watch. “0611 Zulu,” he said, preferring to mark time that way. Icarus was looking at his execution date. Alice felt uncomfortable—as if he were running away, being up here.
“Even all these misses are gonna knock the shit out of your computers and radio gear.”
“I know, sir.”
“Might be hours before you get the stuff back up.”
“We're good, sir.”
Hzzzzzz.
“Yeah, I know you are. It's gonna get busy around here. I'll try to get back up to you with a couple of minutes to go. Harpoon, too. Give you both a last good read. If I'm not arguing with some piss-ant politician.”
“Just be your usual diplomatic self, sir.”
“You can count on that.”
Four
0630 ZULU
To Halupalai, the wave was mystical, almost metaphysical. His earliest memories, those spellbinding image warps of infancy, etched the wave in some magical place in his mind. Even before he could speak, he toddled down to the sandy beach to watch it for hours, entranced. It emerged from the sea, swelling hypnotically until the little boy's neck craned high to watch the sunlight filter through the perfect prism of its curl. Then it crashed, thundering with the infinite power of nature, and sent swirls of foam and churning coral bits and little messages from distances undreamed washing up around the boy's naked feet. He could imagine no power greater. Soon his father taught him how to meld with it, not conquer it, for that was futile and wrong and ungodly. He learned to slice through its awesome strength, his body a spear, and swim far out beyond into the peaceful cradle of the sea. There he would bob for an entire afternoon before returning, stretching his young body rigid to ride the curl. Still later, he learned how to ride inside the curl, caught within the prism of dancing, holy light. He took endless voyages inside the curl, respectful of its power, worshipful of the halo of green-white radiance surrounding him. One day his father took him to the island of Oahu and they traveled north to the remote beach called Makaha. The boy stood mesmerized. The wave rose out of the ocean like a mountain, taller than the palms, taller than the houses. It loomed four, five times as high as anything he had seen on Kauai. The water roiled like a devil's caldron at his feet. He looked up at his father, his eyes asking in both fear and expectation: Is this the next test? His father shook his head no. This was for fools and haoles, mainlanders who believed they could control all forces. A dozen years later, however, Halupalai came back, a high-school boy full of beer and the playful challenges of a California-born schoolmate, a haole who had conquered every wave from Malibu to San Onofre. Halupalai caught the curl of a thirty-footer, riding it flawlessly and ecstatically, never feeling such exhilaration as he pulled himself from the whirlpool tug of the caldron moments later and threw himself on the beach. His friend never came out. They found him later, his spine snapped clean where the curl had landed on it.
As the light invaded the B-52, Halupalai sat with his back to the cockpit. O'Toole sat alongside him. Halupalai closed his eyes instinctively, but even so, even with his back turned, the light was so strong he could see the veins in
“Cretins,” Icarus said.
“Cretins,” Alice said.
The phone conversation paused briefly.
“Moreau's kid is on alert duty tonigbt,” Icarus said without emotion. “The girl. At Fairchild.”
Alice thought a second. “He'd probably prefer it that way.”
“Yeah,” Icarus said. “You getting all the data? The SIOP data?
Missile-impact projections? The submarine missiles have begun to impact.”
“Yes, general.”
“My clock says nineteen minutes.”
Alice looked at his watch. “0611 Zulu,” he said, preferring to mark time that way. Icarus was looking at his execution date. Alice felt uncomfortable—as if he were running away, being up here.
“Even all these misses are gonna knock the shit out of your computers and radio gear.”
“I know, sir.”
“Might be hours before you get the stuff back up.”
“We're good, sir.”
Hzzzzzz.
“Yeah, I know you are. It's gonna get busy around here. I'll try to get back up to you with a couple of minutes to go. Harpoon, too. Give you both a last good read. If I'm not arguing with some piss-ant politician.”
“Just be your usual diplomatic self, sir.”
“You can count on that.”
Four
0630 ZULU
To Halupalai, the wave was mystical, almost metaphysical. His earliest memories, those spellbinding image warps of infancy, etched the wave in some magical place in his mind. Even before he could speak, he toddled down to the sandy beach to watch it for hours, entranced. It emerged from the sea, swelling hypnotically until the little boy's neck craned high to watch the sunlight filter through the perfect prism of its curl. Then it crashed, thundering with the infinite power of nature, and sent swirls of foam and churning coral bits and little messages from distances undreamed washing up around the boy's naked feet. He could imagine no power greater. Soon his father taught him how to meld with it, not conquer it, for that was futile and wrong and ungodly. He learned to slice through its awesome strength, his body a spear, and swim far out beyond into the peaceful cradle of the sea. There he would bob for an entire afternoon before returning, stretching his young body rigid to ride the curl. Still later, he learned how to ride inside the curl, caught within the prism of dancing, holy light. He took endless voyages inside the curl, respectful of its power, worshipful of the halo of green-white radiance surrounding him. One day his father took him to the island of Oahu and they traveled north to the remote beach called Makaha. The boy stood mesmerized. The wave rose out of the ocean like a mountain, taller than the palms, taller than the houses. It loomed four, five times as high as anything he had seen on Kauai. The water roiled like a devil's caldron at his feet. He looked up at his father, his eyes asking in both fear and expectation: Is this the next test? His father shook his head no. This was for fools and haoles, mainlanders who believed they could control all forces. A dozen years later, however, Halupalai came back, a high-school boy full of beer and the playful challenges of a California-born schoolmate, a haole who had conquered every wave from Malibu to San Onofre. Halupalai caught the curl of a thirty-footer, riding it flawlessly and ecstatically, never feeling such exhilaration as he pulled himself from the whirlpool tug of the caldron moments later and threw himself on the beach. His friend never came out. They found him later, his spine snapped clean where the curl had landed on it.
As the light invaded the B-52, Halupalai sat with his back to the cockpit. O'Toole sat alongside him. Halupalai closed his eyes instinctively, but even so, even with his back turned, the light was so strong he could see the veins in
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