Colt jumped to his feet. Still unaccustomed to lunar gravity, he knocked the chair over backward. "Goddammit, Chet, you're gonna get your ass killed! I know you're up to something crazy, and I know it's not Murdock's orders. Now take some advice from a friend, man, and—"
"Frank!" Kinsman cut in. "I don't want advice. 1 know what I have to do."
"Don't do it, Chet! I'm asking you. Don't do it, whatever crazy scheme you're cookin'. You're gonna force me to kill you."
"There won't be any killing, Frank."
"I don't know what the hell's going through your head," Colt's voice was trembling, almost breaking, "but don't put 408 me on the spot. I don't want to have to choose between your life and mine."
"You won't have to choose," Kinsman said, trying to keep his voice calm despite the tightness gripping his chest.
"If you try to hand this base over to the Russians ..."
"Don't be silly!"
"Or do anything against the United States . . . Chet, I'll have to stop you. I'll have to!"
"You'll have to try, I guess. If and when the time comes."
"Chet! Dammit!"
Rising slowly from his chair, Kinsman said, "Frank, if and when the time comes, we'll all have to do what we think is best. If you've got to kill me ... Well, everybody dies sooner or later."
"Jesus H. Christ on the motherfuckin' cross!" Colt threw his hands up and stamped out of the office.
Kinsman stood there for a long time, leaning on the desk, waiting for the tension to ease away from his chest.
Saturday 11 December 1999:
0112hrsUT
IT WAS EVENING in Washington, dark and raining.
General Murdock shivered as he humped his overweight body against the limousine's jumpseat. It was not the rain or the cold that sent the shudders down his spine, although God knew the rotten weather made the bedraggled tinsel and gaudy decorations of the downtown stores look even cheaper and drearier than usual. No one—absolutely no one—was walking on the streets. A mud-brown Army combat patrol car stood at every street intersection, glistening in the wan streetlights and steady downpour of rain, turrets buttoned up and guns aimed along the sidewalks.
Even General Hofstader looked gloomy. His uniform 409 was crisp, his ribbons shone in the darkness of the limousine. But his face was gray, creased, shrinking into premature old age from the tensions that he was forced to endure.
It was the other man's voice that made Murdock shiver. That harsh, labored whisper, like a demon clawing its way up from hell.
"Enemies within as well as without," he rasped, pointing a heavy hand toward the empty streets. "With the Soviets about to attack us, every fool pacifist and Communist sympa- thizer in the land is preparing to stab us in the back."
"I didn't realize . . ." Murdock began, then immediately wished he had not. General Hofstader froze him with a glare.
"Didn't realize," the other man said, his rage-filled face twisting even more. "How many Americans do realize the seriousness of this crisis. Few. Very few. Precious few."
He lapsed into silence for a moment. Neither general dared to speak. The limousine sped through the rain, its turbine whining shrilly. There was no traffic to hinder them. The only other sound was the thwack, thwack of the wind- shield wiper on the back window. The front of the limo was acoustically sealed off from the rear.
"We precious few." The man wheezed. It was as close as he ever came to laughter. "We will live through the holocaust and then begin a new world—begin afresh, the right way, the way that made this nation great."
