Footfall (4 page)

He stared at his notes. Aliens. An alien spaceship was coming to Earth. Nonsense.

But it is not nonsense, he thought. Pavel Bondarev would not have been my ideal of a son-in-law. I would have preferred that Marina marry a diplomat. Still, there is no questioning that the Academician is intelligent. Intelligent and cautious. He would not call if he were not certain. The Americans have seen this object — the Americans say they have seen this object. An American scientist calls a Soviet scientist. A friendly gesture, one scientist to another.

Could this be? Narovchatov stared at his notebook as if the notes he had taken could tell him something he didn’t know. Pavel Bondarev was intelligent, he knew this American, and he believed that this was real. But of course he would. The CIA was clever. Almost as clever as the KGB.

And more to the point: the KGB would not believe the Americans. He thought of the problems a provincial KGB officer would have in trying to notify Moscow of a development like this, and nodded in satisfaction. it would be hours before the senior officials of the KGB would know.

The Americans have seen something, or say they have. More important, now that they knew where to look, Russian astronomers at the Urals Observatory have seen it as well.

Not nonsense. It is real. Something is there. Could the Americans have done something like this? It didn’t seem likely, but the Americans had surprised them before.

I must do something. I do not know what.

Narovchatov’s ornately carved desk stood at one end of a long, high-ceilinged room. The inevitable portrait of Lenin dominated rugs covered the floor. The room was comfortable, full of quiet elegance, tasteful and restful, a room where he could work; but it was also a room where he could relax, as was necessary more and more often now.

He had first seen this room as a very young soldier at the beginning of the Great Patriotic War. His special regiment had been assigned to guard duty in the Kremlin just before the Germans were driven away. It was not a long tour of duty. The OMSBON were sent to chase Germans soon after.

It had been long enough, and he had seen enough. Nikolai Nikolayevich Narovchatov would never return to Kirov, where his father worked in the hammer mill. Communism had been kind enough to Nikolai Narovchatov. It had taken him from the villages to Kirov, from the stolid peasant misery of a Russian winter to the comparative warmth of the city and industrial life. It had made his children literate. Nikolai never wanted more, but his son did. If that office came from Communism, then Communism was worth studying.

It took him thirty years, but he never doubted that he would arrive. Party work in the Army, then Moscow University, where he studied engineering and always took excellent marks in the political courses. He could have had better grades in his academic subjects, but he did not want to show up his friends, for he always sought out the relatives of high party officials. If you wish power, it is best to have friends in high places; and if you know no one in high places, meet their children.

Great Stalin died, and Khrushchev began his slow rise to power. Those were not easy years, for it was difficult to tell who would win in the inevitable struggle. Beria had fallen, and with him fell the NKVD, to be divided into the civil militia and the KGB… Nikolai Narovchatov chose his friends carefully, and kept his ties with the Party. Eventually he married the daughter of the Party Secretary of the Russian Soviet Federated Socialist Republic, largest of the fifteen republics that together made up the USSR. Shortly after, Khrushchev fell, and the Party men became even more dominant.

From then on his rise was rapid. He became a “political general.” Mostly he despised that group, but the title was useful. it paid well, and gave him ties within the Army and the Rocket Forces; and unlike many political generals, he had fought in the Great Patriotic War, and elsewhere. He had earned his medals.

As I have earned my place, he thought. Party work, arse kissing, yes, enough of that, but I have also built factories that actually produce goods. I have helped keep the Germans helpless, cannot the Americans understand why we must? I have dismissed corrupt officials where I could, and minimized the damage of those I could not do without. I have been a good manager, and I have earned my place. A good place, with my son safely established in the Ministry of Trade, and my daughters well married, one grandchild in Moscow’s Institute of International Relations…

And now this.

At least I shall be the first to inform the Chairman. Marina, Marina, I did not approve your choice of a husband, but I see I was wrong. It was a good day when you met Pavel Aleksandrovich Bondarev. A very good day.

He pushed back his chair and stood, and feeling very weary, went down the ornate hall to the office of the Chairman.

The biggest story in history, and David Coffey was president when it happened. Aliens, coming here!

He sat at the center of the big table in the Cabinet Room. The others had stood when he entered, and didn’t take their seats until he was settled. It upset David, but he’d become used to it. They didn’t stand for David Coffey, but for the President of the United States.

Coffey was aware that at least half the people in the room thought they could do the job better than he could, and one or two might be right. They’d never get the chance. Not even Henry Morton. The political writers all like to talk about Henry being ‘a heartbeat away from the Presidency,’ but I never felt better in my life. The Party wanted Morton as Vice President, but he’ll never have a clear shot at this chair.

David was a little in awe of the Secretary of State. Dr. Arthur Hart had written a best-seller on diplomacy, made a fortune trading in overseas commodities, and was a favorite guest on the TV talk shows. Hart’s face was probably better known to the average citizen than the President’s. But he’ll never sit here either. Hasn’t enough fire in his belly. He’d like to be President, but he hasn’t the killer instinct it takes to get high elective office.

David looked around the table at the others. Certainly Hart was the most distinguished man in the room. It wasn’t an overwhelmingly distinguished cabinet.

“I don’t think I have it in me to be a great president,” David had told his wife the night he was elected. When Jeanne protested, David shook his head. “But then I don’t think the country wants a great president just now. The nation’s about worn out with great this and great that. I can’t be a great president, so I’ll just have to settle for being a damned good one — and that I can manage.”

And so far I have. It’s not a great cabinet, but it’s a damned good one.

“Gentlemen. And ladies,” he added for the benefit of the Secretary of Commerce and the Secretary of the Interior. “In place of our regular agenda, there is a somewhat pressing item which the Chief of Staff will explain to you. Jim, if you will …”

“It’s just plain damned crazy,” Peter McCleve said. “Mr. President, I will not believe it.” He turned toward the President in his place at the center of the big conference table. “I simply do not believe it.”

“You can believe it,” Ted Griffin said. The Secretary of Defense spoke directly to the Attorney General, but he talked mostly for the President’s benefit. “Peter, I heard it just before I came over.”

“Sure, from the same people who told Dawson,” McCleve said.

“They do seem to have checked it thoroughly.” Ted Griffin was a big man, tall and beefy and built like the football player he’d been. He looked as if he might shout a lot, but in fact he almost never did.

“You accept the story, then?” the Secretary of State asked.

“Yes.”

“I see.” Arthur Hart put the tips of his fingers together in a gesture he’d made famous on Meet the Press. Constitutionally, the Secretary of State was the senior Cabinet officer. In fact he was the fourth most important man in the room, counting the President as top. Numbers two and three (the order was uncertain) were Hap Aylesworth, Special Assistant to the President for Political Affairs, and Admiral Thorwald Carrell.

“Assume it’s true,” Hart continued. “I do. So the important thing is, what do we do now?”

“I suppose you want to tell the Russians,” Alan Rosenthal said. Arthur Hart looked at the Secretary of the Treasury with amusement. Rosenthal couldn’t always contain his dislike of Russians. “I think someone must,” Hart said.

“Someone did,” Ted Griffin announced. When everyone was looking at him, he nodded for emphasis. “I got that news just before I came over here. That astronomer guy in Hawaii called someone…” he glanced at a note on the table in front of him. “… a Pavel Bondarev at the Astrophysics Institute near Sverdlovsk. Yeah, well, who could stop him? He dialed direct.”

“How long do you suppose it takes a story like that to get from Sverdlovsk to the Kremlin?” the Attorney General asked.

“It could be quite a while,” Arthur Hart said. “I was thinking that the President might call the Chairman…”

“Moscow already knows,” Admiral Carrell said. His gravelly voice stopped all the extraneous chatter in the mom. “Payel Bondarev is the son-in-law of General Narovchatov. Narovchatov’s been with Chairman Petrovskiy for twenty years.”

Everyone turned to look at the Chief of Staff. Jim Frantz almost never said anything in Cabinet meetings.

“What prompted that, Jim?” Arthur Hart asked.

“I often wonder if any country in the world could operate if communications went only through channels,” Ted Griffin said. “So. The Russians know, and by the time we leave this meeting, the country will know.” He smiled at the startled looks that caused. “Yes, Captain Crichton said this astronomer chap was calling a press conference.”

“So we have to decide what to tell the public.” Hap Aylesworth was short and beefy, perpetually fighting a weight problem. His necktie was always loosened and his collar unbuttoned. He seldom appeared in photographs; when cameras came out, Aylesworth would usually urge someone else forward. As Special Assistant he was the President’s political advisor, but for the past nine years he’d given David Coffey political advice. The Washington Post called him the Kingmaker.

“There may be a more pressing problem,” Admiral Carrell said.

Aylesworth raised a bushy eyebrow.

“The Russians. I don’t know it would be such a good idea for the President to call Chairman Petrovskiy, but I think I’d better get on the horn to General Narovchatov.”

“Why?” Ted Griffin asked.

“Obvious, isn’t it?” Carrell said. He pushed back a gray pinstripe sleeve to glance at his watch. “One of the first things they’ll do once they’re sure of this is start mobilizing. Military, civil defense, you name it. Ted, I’d hate for your military people to get all upset …”

“Are you certain of this?” David Coffey asked.

“Yes, sir,” Admiral Carrell said. “Sure as anything, Mr. President.

“Why would they assume this…” Attorney General McCleve had trouble getting the words out. “… this alien spacecraft is hostile?”

“Because they think everything is hostile,” Carrell said.

“Afraid he’s right, Pete,” Arthur Hart said. The Secretary of State shook his head sadly. “I could wish otherwise, but that’s the way it will be. And they’ll very shortly be demanding an official explanation of why one of our scientists called one of theirs, instead of passing this important news through channels as it ought to be done.”

“That’s crazy,” Peter McCleve said. “Just plain crazy!”

“Possibly,” Secretary Hart said. “But it’s what will happen.”

“To sum up, then,” David Coffey said. “The Soviets will shortly ask us for our official position, and they will begin mobilizing without regard to what that position is.”

Admiral Carrell nodded agreement. “Precisely, Mr. President.”

“Then what should we do?” Hap Aylesworth asked. “We can’t let the Russians mobilize while we do nothing. The country won’t stand for it.”

“I can think of senators who would be delighted,” Coffey said.

“On both sides of the aisle,” Aylesworth said, “Doves who’ll say there’s never been anything to be afraid of, and will move resolutions congratulating you on your steady nerves — and hawks who’ll want to impeach you for selling out the country.”

“Admiral?” David Coffey asked. Admiral Canell was another advisor the President was in awe of. They’d known each other for more than a dozen years, since the day Vice Admiral Carrell had walked into a freshman congressman’s office and explained, patiently and with brutal honesty, how the Navy was wasting money in a shipyard that happened to be one of the major employers in David’s district.

Since that time, Carrell had become Deputy Director of the National Security Agency, then Director of the CIA. David Coffey’s first officially announced appointment was Dr. Arthur Hart to be Secretary of State, but he’d decided on Thorwald Carrell as National Security Advisor before his own nomination, and the announcement came the day after Hart’s appointment.

“I think a partial mobilization,” Admiral Carrell said. “We’ll need a declaration of national emergency.”

“This is senseless.” Commerce Secretary Connie Fuller had a surprisingly low voice for such a small lady. “If we believe this is really an alien ship — and I think we must — then this is the greatest day in human history! We’re sitting here talking about war and mobilization when … when everything is going to be different!”

“I agree,” Arthur Hart said. “But the Soviets will begin mobilization.”

“Let them,” Fuller said. Her brown eyes flashed. “Let them mobilize and be damned. At least one of the superpowers will behave like … like responsible and intelligent beings! Do we want these aliens? Mr. President, think of the power they have! To have come from another star! We want to welcome them, not appear hostile.”

“That’s what Wes Dawson thinks,” President Coffey said. “Matter of fact, he wants to meet them in orbit. He thought that might impress them a little.”

“An excellent suggestion,” Secretary Hart said.

“Couldn’t hurt,” Ted Griffin agreed.

“Except that we don’t have a space station,” Admiral Carrell said.

“The Soviets do,” Connie Fuller said. “Maybe if we asked them—”