An Earnest of Intent, by Alfred D'Attore

Daniel Marcus Friedman, Major, United States Air Force, was not given to introspection. It wasn't healthy in his business, certainly not while traveling at four hundred knots, fifty feet above the water. He was trying to concentrate on his flying, holding his altitude, heading and airspeed very accurately ... But his mind kept going back to the meeting at the base.

"An earnest of intent," they told him. The phrase was descriptive. From the Cuban Crisis, he remembered. Left-over jargon from the literature of the day. It meant a sort of down payment, a token of good faith. But it had another meaning too: it was an omen, a presage of things to come

The compass moved slowly, almost imperceptibly off heading. Major Friedman nosed the aircraft gently in correction. There were no landmarks to check, only open sea. The ripples were small on the water, so wind was negligible. Navigation would be no problem. Tientsin's harbor was quite large.

He broke the seal on the special weapons panel and armed the weapon. It was set for an air burst. This was a first, he realized. Heretofore, no fighter-bomber crewman had ever done that. He turned the radar to standby. For a while, his thoughts drifted. They were not pleasant.

They would retaliate, he reasoned. They must. The way he saw it, the strike at the Cormorant was a calculated risk, not a bluff. He thought of his wife and two children. How many times would they hit the base, he wondered?

Seeing became difficult, so he nosed up a bit and removed his sunglasses. He blinked rapidly in the cool air of the cockpit until his eyes cleared. Then he replaced his glasses. He was getting close to Talien, and he couldn't afford to do that. He resumed his former altitude, then checked his fuel. But there was no problem there, not this mission. It was a cake walk as far as flight profile was concerned.

A flashing red light on the right console shot adrenaline through his system. Radar scan, he thought, but it was intermittent, so they were not tracking him yet. Not surprising, that. He was very low, and his course was such as to maximize his distance from land at all points until he reached the harbor at Tientsin.

He heard some static on UHF radio. Some new "friend" was checking in. Even that small sound jarred him. He shook his head in annoyance. He was pretty much unnerved, he realized, less professional than he had hoped he might be in such circumstances. But there was a sense of the unreal about all this. Daniel Friedman was normally a relaxed type, confident and self-assured. This, however, was like some almighty convulsion. Too much was happening, too fast. There was no time to get things straight.

He stole a quick glance skyward. There was high cirrus, going to five-tenths. And water below. Such conditions made for relatively high thermal reflectivity. Thankfully, he was carrying a low-yield weapon.

Talien was off his right wing. There was no indication of pursuit, no radar track that he could discern. He made a slight heading change. Tientsin was now dead ahead.

He thought about the city, the people unknowing, unsuspecting. Between Tientsin proper and the port areas to the east, the population ran in excess of five million. How many would he kill, he wondered, directly? How many indirectly? And this was just the beginning -

He pulled up into a shallow climb and removed his sunglasses once more. With the back of the same hand, he wiped at his eyes. Why the nuclear strike? he asked silently. Why such desperate measures? Why?

Jonathan Kevin Harcourt, Secretary of State, was short, heavyset, and balding. He had a rumpled, disheveled look as if his clothes did not fit. He appeared to be uncomfortable, and he was. For he was acutely conscious of his appearance. It was a source of much distress, and at times, it made him press too hard and overreact. It was a genuine debility, and it was unfortunate, for behind the bulbous, sweating countenance, the intellect was penetrating, analytical, and altogether sound.

He sat down and looked around. Two of the other statutory members were there: the Secretary of Defense and the Director of Emergency Planning. The President and the Vice-President had not yet arrived. Of the unofficial membership, most were already in evidence. The Joint Chiefs of Staff were seated, as was Dr. Stanley Hanson, the President's chief adviser. There were a good many others.

A solemn assemblage, thought State. Dr. Hanson looked particularly grim. State wondered how far Stanley had gone with the President on the crisis. He tried to read the doctor's expression but with no success. Thankfully, Hanson's was a calm, sure intellect. That was a decided plus.

State continued his silent inventory. There were Budget and Treasury. Both were out of it, substantially. In these matters, they were little more than interested observers. O'Malley, the young Attorney General was there. He had a seat next to Dr. Hanson. Normally, he did not attend council meetings. But his presence was hardly a surprise. The President set great store by him. State agreed. He knew O'Malley to be sound on policy matters. That was another plus.

A hush fell on the chamber. State turned toward the entrance. Edward Coniglio, Vice-President of the United States, had entered. He was a bluff, handsome man with a presence variously described as arresting, imposing, even commanding. He was alone. He carried no brief and had no aides. State's lips compressed. Typical, he thought. It was a fetish with the Vice-President, disdaining the accouterments of office.

Then he shook his head. He was annoyed with himself. He was letting an innate dislike for the man cloud his judgment. No, Coniglio was many things, but he was no posturing fool.

Rather, he was unique, one of a kind, resembling in no way the top-level political figures of the day. He held strong, individual opinions, markedly opposed to the policies of recent administrations, including - to some extent - the present one. He expressed these views candidly, with no apparent interference, real or implied, from the President. And he was a lucid, remarkably persuasive speaker. Demagoguery, thought State, cast in the mold of a modern-day Cicero.

Worst of all, Coniglio had the President's ear. This, and the President's illness, his extreme frailty, held ominous portent for the future. Many a high-level government official, of like mind with the Secretary of State, said fervent prayers for the President's return to health and vigor.

The Vice-President nodded his greeting to the members absently. He was preoccupied, his normally open countenance clouded and troubled. He picked up one of the sharpened pencils before him and exchanged it end for end through his fingers, bringing the point and eraser alternately in contact with the table. His eyes regarded the action but quite obviously took no notice of it. It was a small display of nerves, but it was out of character. Well, thought State, interesting. A chink in the armor. It was reassuring.

He cleared his throat. "Stanley," he asked of the President's adviser, "what have you recommended to the President?" He spoke the words softly, but they were heard, nonetheless, throughout the chamber.

"We have not discussed ways and means as yet, Jonathan," answered Dr. Hanson. "It's a complicated situation."

"I agree," said State. "The thing to avoid at all costs now is precipitate action." He turned his eyes to the Vice-President, meeting the latter's cold stare and holding it. Then the President arrived.

Everyone rose. Bradford Elliot Coulter, thirty-eighth President of the United States, was tall, gaunt, and very obviously ill. He took his place at the head of the huge table and smiled toward the Vice-President. He nodded to the others in unison. "Sit down, gentlemen, please," he bade them. He turned to General Garretson, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. "General, would you bring the council up to date?"

The general nodded to Admiral Bradford seated to his left. The admiral gave a prepared memo to the recorder, then read from a copy. "At 0600 hours, Greenwich Mean Time - " he stopped and explained, "early Afternoon where the incident took place." He resumed the text: " - the U.S.S. Cormorant, electronics surveillance vessel of the Pueblo class, on station, 37 degrees, 20 minutes north latitude, 124 degrees, 05 minutes east longitude, was hailed by the Chinese destroyer, Lin Tao. The Lin Tao was accompanied by four large gunboats. The Cormorant was ordered by radio to heave to and prepare for boarders. The order was repeated twice, at two-minute intervals. Commander E. F. Cummings, in command of the Cormorant, made no reply. Instead, he implemented long-standing orders for security of classified materials and ordered the forward gun of the Cormorant manned.

"At 0605 hours, GMT, the Chinese flotilla opened fire. Two rounds from the Lin Tao destroyed the forward gun of the Cormorant and most of the bridge. Commander Cummings and his first officer were killed instantly. The Chinese continued their attack for thirteen minutes, but with small arms only.

"At 0630 hours, GMT, after a full report of the incident was transmitted and acknowledged, Lt. Commander B. G. Osterman, the second officer, surrendered the ship. Of the Cormorant's seventy-nine crew members, seven were dead, four wounded. All survivors were taken prisoner."

The admiral looked up expectantly. The Attorney General was the first to speak. "Admiral, you said the report was transmitted and acknowledged. Acknowledged by whom?"

"The transmission was received in many places, in Korea and aboard a number of ships at sea." The admiral laid the memo on the table and continued. "You see, Mr. O'Malley, all messages were sent in the clear, ours and the Chinese. No visual signals were used. No messages were coded. With respect to our radio broadcasts, the Chinese made no attempt to jam."

"There must have been provocation," broke in State. "Our relations with the Chinese have been good for some years now. They would not jeopardize our good offices without reason."

"There was none," answered General Garretson, "The coordinates provided are the Cormorant's own. But they are quite accurate, having been confirmed from many points, independently. The U.S.S. Cormorant was in international waters."

"An openly aggressive act," mused the Attorney General, "for all the world to see." He turned to the President. "But toward what end?"

The President looked toward the director of the Central Intelligence Agency. "Perhaps, Martin, you might like to answer that."

Martin Alder was small, thin and waspish. He was proud of his organization, and most of the time his pride was justified. State had always found the director reasonable and cooperative. But it was in the nature of overlapping jurisdictions that the parties cooperate or accomplish nothing. State was wary of Alder. He knew him to be a strong advocate of the Vice-President. That made his interpretation of somewhat more than passing interest.

"You are correct, Mr. O'Malley," began Martin Alder incisively. "It was an openly aggressive act, daring and provocative, and deliberately so. The Communists feel they are now militarily superior - at all levels. They are ready for greater and farther-reaching adventures. They are virtually sure we will shrink from a final encounter, much as we have in the past - "

"Mr. President," interrupted State. Damn him, he thought. "I protest - "

CIA raised his voice. "This is a test, the final test, I might add, of - "

"Mr. President - " interrupted State again.

But CIA would brook no further interruption. Glaring straight at the Secretary of State, and in a very loud but still controlled voice, Alder pressed on: " - a test of our determination to contain Communist aggression." He paused momentarily and regarded State with open hostility. Harcourt was disarmed, despite himself. Except for the damnably dangerous situation, he would have laughed aloud. That bantam rooster was literally daring him to interrupt again. But State offered no further comment. "How we handle this affair," went on CIA, "will determine our efficacy as a force for peace and stability in the world."

State remained silent until he was sure CIA was through. Then he began in a low voice. "Mr. President, such interpretations are highly speculative, inflammatory, bound to create an atmosphere - "

"But I agree," interrupted the President. "Martin's points are well taken." He turned to the council at large. "The Chinese make no denials. They maintain the mission of the Cormorant was prejudicial to the best interests of the Chinese People's Republic." He smiled mirthlessly. "That covers a multitude of ills, real or fabricated."

CIA carried on. "The words were carefully chosen. They are a studied and patent slur. In effect, they are daring us to do our worst. 'Under which circumstance,' to quote their English language broadcasts, `questions relating to territorial cognizance are entirely immaterial.' So goes the current propaganda. Broadcast to the world, I might add. One cannot help but wonder what will ensue if the United States `fails' this test."

The President smiled again. "The world awaits our reply, gentlemen, with bated breath. Which, of course, is why you are here."

"What is Russia's position?" asked the Secretary of Defense.

State cleared his throat. "They are noncommittal," he answered, then lapsed into silence.

The Secretary of State was a sensitive man. He was as much attuned to the tenor and tone of a discourse as he was to the words. And presently, he was disturbed. He felt a great apprehension for the direction the council was taking. He determined that another area for speculation had to be opened quickly, before confrontation could become a fixed idea.

"Mr. President," he began, "that interpretation - that view - must be speculative. We cannot know what is China's true motivation. This may be another propaganda ploy. Tweaking the tiger's tail - so to speak - once more."

"I don't think so," said the President.

"Face facts," said CIA. "It's about time you did."

State flushed angrily and was about to reply, when the Vice-President interjected a question. "Where is the Cormorant now, Martin, and the crew?"

"The Cormorant was taken to the harbor complex east of Tientsin. The crew is in a test camp near Peking, one of those well-staffed, complex affairs used during the Korean War for research into the control of human behavior. The prospect is not pleasant for them, I'm afraid."

The Vice-President nodded. Then he addressed further questions toward CIA and the gathered Defense Department personnel relating to the crew, the harbor at Tientsin, and the Cormorant.

Meanwhile, Jonathan Harcourt considered the situation. Of the participating members, he felt he could count on Dr. Hanson and Defense for support. Strange, thought State, that the Secretary of Defense should be so at odds with his own personnel. He felt fairly sure of O'Malley too. Powerful allies, those three. On the other side stood the Vice-President, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and Martin Alder. An equally formidable array.

It seemed ironic to State that Martin should evoke the specter of reality. The underlying, all-encompassing "fact" of an ill-considered response was nuclear war. It seemed inconceivable to State that sentient beings could weigh such a possibility in the balance. As if they were conducting a trade-off study, with annihilation in the offing, a measurable, calculable alternative.

The three-part discussion was over, so State addressed the chair. "Mr. President, our reaction should be carefully considered. Slow, deliberate, made if possible in concert with our allies. World opinion must be rallied. The facts are, after all, in our favor. First and foremost, we must appeal to the United Nations. Then, we must consult with our chief allies - "

"That," interrupted the President, "is a possible course of action. One, I might add, that I'm well familiar with. There are others. It is the others I should like to hear."

"Retaliate," said General Garretson.

"Punitive measures," echoed Admiral Bradford. "Make them pay."

"How?" asked Defense, with some irony. "Another expeditionary force? That should make Vietnam look like an afternoon tea."

"That is not what I had in mind," replied the admiral. "We can react with much more force and much less commitment."

"Nuclear weapons!" exclaimed the Attorney General, astonished.

"Unthinkable!" blurted Budget, then flushed. But the members seemed to approve the declamation.

"Exactly," said State coldly. "And with that judgment, let's table such recommendations permanently."

"No," said the Vice-President. "I should like to have that alternative examined closely, and soon. The how, the where, and the possible ramifications."

The members of the council were dumbfounded. They turned as a body toward the President, expecting at the very least some modification. Even the Joint Chiefs of Staff were surprised. They regarded the Vice-President as basically one of their own, but this immediate, unqualified support was unexpected.

The President did not answer right away. It seemed to the council members that the Vice-President's interjection had caught the President unaware. Finally, the President nodded.

The silence in the room was palpable, like some physical thing. Stanley Hanson spoke first. "Perhaps," he began quietly, "retaliation in kind - precisely in kind - is exactly right." He waited until he had the council's full attention. "Unlike North Korea," he continued, "China has an appreciable fleet. This makes her vulnerable to the same extent as we. Let us play tit-for-tat. We'll commandeer one of her vessels. Take her crew captive. Then we may barter on more even terms."

The council took a moment to consider his words. Then the Attorney General grinned. "Trust Stanley to come up with something. It's good. Forceful, yet cautious too."

"It's a circumvention," commented CIA flatly, "however brilliant."

"Perhaps, Martin," answered O'Malley, "but not entirely so. It may be a way out of this damned situation. I like it more and more."

The Joint Chiefs of Staff were not enthusiastic, nor was the Vice-President. State had mixed emotions. He saw it as no solution.

And if he judged Dr. Hanson's motives correctly, neither did he. But it might buy time. State felt that with time, a more moderate position would emerge, if not from the council, then certainly at the behest of Congress, the press, or public opinion. He determined to support the plan.

"I believe the plan has merit," he began. "I favor a less provocative procedure, but I can support this course of action. I believe we all can."

"Garbage - " began General Garretson, but his comment was drowned out in 'the general assent. The majority of the members were well-disposed toward the plan, even grateful. It presented a course other than the usual inaction. And it fell well short of direct confrontation.

"It has its element of risk, too," warned Dr. Hanson. "We cannot know what will be China's reaction." But the tenor of conversation had turned optimistic as member after member offered encouraging comments.

General Garretson had been watching and listening. His face was flushed, his eyes darting from speaker to speaker. Again, he started to interrupt. "A more direct approach - " but the enthusiastic discussion continued without pause. "I believe - " he started once more, but again, he failed. Finally, he could contain himself no longer. He stood up.

"Mr. President," he called loudly. This time, his words cut through the tumult clearly. State glanced at Defense in warning. "Mr. President," the general called again. His face was now scarlet, the creases tight and white about his mouth. The President nodded.

General Garretson leaned on his hands well forward over the table. "This is no plan," he stated emphatically. "It is tantamount to doing nothing. It is a stall."

The Secretary of Defense reached over and placed a restraining hand on the general's sleeve, but the soldier shook him off angrily. He turned back to the President. "What has happened to us? Have we lost our capacity for righteous anger? This is the second such incident. It is an act of war." He exploded the word, simultaneously lifting a fist and bringing it down on the table violently. "We should be pressing an ultimatum. Instead, we rise to new heights in devising vacillation."

He stood back, the flood of words momentarily halted. He glared at the assemblage, his anger such as to preclude speech. Then he leaned forward once more and said in a strangled voice, "Not this time. We will not turn the other cheek. Not again."

Across the table, State bounded to his feet. "What the hell do you mean, General? Are you threatening the council?" The other members rose too. They were outraged. It seemed to them the general had given them a warning.

"Gentlemen!" called the President, rising to his feet and using the gavel for the first time. But the chamber did not quiet immediately. "Gentlemen!" he called once more, this time pounding the gavel repeatedly in slow cadence. The general fell back into his seat. He was perspiring heavily. He brought out a handkerchief and wiped at his cheeks and brow. The council members slowly began to take their seats.

"You sit down too, Harcourt!" The Secretary of State looked at the Vice-President. The words had come from him, soft-spoken, but flat and vehement. Edward Coniglio's face was livid, a mirror to tight, controlled fury. Again State had cause to be surprised. He had never seen the Vice-President angry before. Angry? Venomous was a better word.

State became aware that the chamber was quiet again. "Take your seats, gentlemen, please," said the President. The few left standing took their seats, State along with them.

General Garretson addressed the chair. He seemed to have quite recovered. "Mr. President," he said quietly, "there was no threat, real or implied, in my remarks." He paused to clear his throat. "Nevertheless, the outburst was reprehensible. I apologize - to you - and to the members of the council." He cleared his throat again. "It is just - "

"I understand, General Garretson," said the President quietly. "And I'm sure the members of the council can appreciate the frustration of our military personnel. We'll say no more of this."

The President remained standing. He addressed the council. "Gentlemen, we have now had three recommendations." He turned toward State, anticipating his objection. "Yes, Jonathan, three. I wish to have details for their implementation." He handed the gavel to Dr. Hanson. "Keep me informed."

He turned to leave and the council rose. The President laid a hand on the Vice-President's shoulder. He said quietly, "Edward, join me, please." The Vice-President left with his chief.

In the chamber, State sat nonplussed. He was much disturbed. Matters had not gone well. He looked up toward Dr. Hanson, his eyes mirroring his worry. The new chairman waved the recorder silent. For the while, comment was unofficial.

"Has the scepter passed?" asked Defense.

"Heaven help us if it has," answered State.

"That is a calumny," said General Garretson. "The Vice-President is an able and dedicated public servant."

State ignored the protest. "Stanley," he asked the President's aide, "is the President seriously considering an ultimatum?"

"Seriously, Jonathan? Yes, he is considering it. But I believe he is considering all the alternatives. He must have them all fully examined."

"I think it is more than that. The President is desperately ill. And the further he sinks, the more he leans toward the Vice-President."

"But that's to be expected," said the Attorney General.

"It is not to be countenanced," answered State. "Not with this crisis upon us. Edward Coniglio is a dangerous man. It is time the Senate was brought into this."

"They are aware of the situation," said O'Malley.

"They are not aware of this turn of events," countered State. "The Senate Majority Leader should be informed." He got up to leave.

"Sit down, Jonathan!"

"What?"

"Sit down," said the Attorney General.

"I don't understand."

"I must ask you to remain. All of you. My people have been posted outside."

State collapsed in his chair. "But this is unbelievable!" he exclaimed.

The Attorney General said quietly, "The council has business to conduct, Jonathan. We have need of you here."

Jonathan Harcourt was in a state of consternation. My God, he thought, has it come to this? He spoke then, the words coming from a throat suddenly dry. "I had the impression - you saw things - much the way I did."

"I did. I do," answered the cabinet member gravely. "But the decision to go outside the council must remain with the President. It is when we disagree with the chief, that loyalty takes on its true meaning."

Stanley Hanson broke the ensuing silence. He said dryly, "Since an ultimatum is on everyone's mind, let's discuss that first. What form should it take? How do we follow up? What are the risks? The possible consequences?"

The President was seated low in his chair, elbows resting upon the arms, hands folded over a brandy glass. He took a very small sip. He thought idly of his personal physician and grinned.

"Mr. President?"

President Coulter looked up at his subordinate seated across the room. "Pardon me, Edward. I was thinking of Dr. Wiley." He held up the brandy glass. "How he would fuss."

The President lapsed into silence again. He thought of his past relationship with the Vice-President. In all the important ways, Edward had supported him unswervingly. He was loyal to a fault. And while his views were individualistic, in some ways unique, he never overstepped bounds.

Their relationship was a good one, ideal really. It was cordial, respectful, but never intimate. Like a commanding officer and his executive.

Of course, that was exactly what it was. And it explained why the President's imminent death had brought forth this apparent change in Edward Coniglio. This was the real man emerging. A remarkable personage, this Vice-President.

He thought of the recent council meeting. It had been disappointing. But it was really nobody's fault. Truly, there were but two real courses of action: to confront the Chinese, or to do nothing. The latter, typically, with its attending footwork. Speaking of footwork, perhaps Dr. Hanson's plan -

"Stanley's plan," he said abruptly, "you don't approve. Why?"

"It avoids the issue, Mr. President. It accomplishes nothing of lasting importance. It may buy a little time, but to what avail? It may make matters worse."

"Explain."

"Well," continued the Vice-President, "we have answered a very serious act of aggression with - how did Martin put it? A brilliant circumvention. No one will be fooled. No one that counts.

"Then too, the Communists have a habit of upping the ante whenever we do less than call their hand completely, unequivocally. How far are we prepared to exchange 'tit-for-tat'? Mock trial for mock trial? Execution for execution? It would be entirely in character for the Communists.

"On the other hand, Mr. President, a cautious approach would prove equally futile. Even if we could digest this latest humiliation, it would not end there. This is prelude. It is the final test. If we falter now, the least we may expect is repeated and incalculable blackmail. And the next adventure? It would be in Taiwan, Israel or Berlin."

"What would you do, Edward?"

The Vice-President looked at his chief closely. "It would be easy enough to give you an answer. But the decision is not mine to make."

"The decision might well be yours, Edward. Or yours to live with. What would you do?"

"I would strike back, Mr. President. Hard. Overwhelmingly. One plane, one bomb. I would take out the Cormorant in Tientsin harbor and a portion of the city with it."

"You would go that far? Nuclear weapons?"

"That is the most important part, Mr. President. There was never a time since World War Two that we could match the Communists in total conventional warfare capability. Our superiority was based upon nuclear weapons. Unless we are prepared to back our military action with nuclear weapons, conventional warfare - measured reaction, so-called - can buy us nothing. Now, they are virtually convinced we will never use the bomb. We have gone to great lengths to assure them of this.

"Short of a massive confrontation, Mr. President, this may be our last chance to turn them around. We must establish our willingness to risk it all, if the need arises. We must give an earnest of our intent. Now. And it must be unequivocal."

An amazing declamation, thought the President. Well-reasoned and cold. Especially the latter. And therein lay the difficulty, for it gave the Vice-President a blind spot. Ultimately, did it not impair his judgment? Difficult to determine, mulled the President. Difficult. In all other ways, the President realized, Edward Coniglio was almost ideally suited to the Presidency. He had the training, the intellect, and - he had to admit it - the raw courage.

"Edward, it could lead to World War Three."

"Yes, Mr. President."

And there it was, thought the President, the blind spot. It was not that the Vice-President did not appreciate the possible consequences of direct confrontation. He simply did not permit it to alter an otherwise logical conclusion. As for the immensity of the act itself? That, apparently, was no consideration at all

Yet, this was the next President. And this was the course the country would take. No mistaking it. Notwithstanding any action Brad ford Coulter could take to preempt his subordinate. The other courses of action were by their very nature delaying tactics. That meant the Vice-President would have his way - in the end. And quite soon. Death was that close.

The President bowed his head and put two fingers to the bridge of his nose. He was tired. He wished he could see this thing more clearly. It was just possible they might get away with it. And if they did - aside from humanitarian considerations - it would auger well for the country's future. The world, for that matter. "But do we dare?" he murmured aloud. "Do we dare?"

"Yes, sir," answered the Vice-President. "We must. Because they do. And as long as they dare, and we do not - they must win, and we must lose." The Vice-President stopped for a moment and waited for the President's reaction. But the chief executive made no comment. "Have you thought, Mr. President, of the risk China takes with this act of piracy?"

"They know us well, Edward."

"Not so well as that, sir, or there would be no need to test."

The President considered the words. His subordinate seemed to have all the answers. Had it occurred to Edward, he wondered, that there might be alternatives to victory? That the price of freedom might actually get too high? It was a surprising notion, that. But having framed the concept, he realized immediately its essential truth. It summed up the situation well. Brutally, but well.

The President leaned forward. "Edward," he asked softly, "would losing be so bad?"

The Vice-President's face remained impassive. He said levelly, "You're overwrought, Mr. President. Tired."

The President's eyes narrowed. There was a slight edge to his voice. "Answer me, Edward. Is freedom so important?"

"Freedom has nothing to do with it," said the Vice-President. "We would lose. That is everything."

The President nodded ever so slightly, then he leaned back in his chair again. So be it, he thought. The decision was fixed. He could not alter it. But he could clear the way for the next President. He could make it easier for him - in the aftermath. He smiled inwardly. How neatly their roles had changed.

He looked up. "You would use an ultimatum?"

"Yes."

"Allowing how much time?"

"Not more than four hours, Mr. President. Once the ultimatum is given, the situation at home will become difficult to manage. Congress, the press - "

"Is it possible, do you think, that China might accede?"

"No, Mr. President. We would have to carry through. I'm sure." The President nodded again. He picked up his brandy glass. The contents were virtually untouched, but still he did not drink. He held the glass instead motionless on the arm of his chair. "Thank you, Edward," he said.

The Vice-President got up to leave. He hesitated a moment with the door open and regarded his chief intently. The President was immersed in thought. He had not moved. The Vice-President closed the door.

Major Friedman shook his head. This wouldn't do, he knew. He was at five hundred feet. He nosed down to his former altitude quickly. He replaced his sunglasses and concentrated upon the aircraft. That was the way, he thought. Keep busy.

He went through his check list ending by engaging the bombing computer. He readied the aircraft for bomb release. Everything was in order. The cockpit clock showed a couple of more minutes to go.

Just two minutes, he thought. He needed more time. Something was nagging at him. An earnest of intent ... the phrase kept coming back to him, as if there was some important message there. Something quite apart from his orders -

Land! He was there. Incredible, he thought. It was too quick, too easy. No hitches. No difficulties. Armageddon, just like that.

He increased his airspeed to six hundred knots and held it there.

All was in readiness. He swung the aircraft marginally right and lined up on the Cormorant. It was harbored at T'angku, the northernmost port at Tientsin. He aimed for the forward mast. Just before passing over, he cut in afterburners. He depressed the bomb release button and pulled up, following a timed "G" schedule. The aircraft started into its loop.

Under control of the bombing computer, the weapon does not go immediately. But if the pilot keeps the button depressed, bomb release is assured. It is automatic. At the appropriate angle and range, the bomb would be lofted upward and minimally back, its trajectory such as to permit the delivery aircraft time to escape the effects of its own weapon.

But the bomb did not go! It did not separate from the aircraft! Major Friedman had released the button!

He completed his half loop, righting the aircraft at altitude. He was heading out toward open sea. Flack began to form around him. The Chinese knew he was there. He dived for low altitude.

He remained supersonic until well out over the waters again. Then he throttled back. He was numb for a while, appalled at what he had done. For a moment he became disoriented and pulled up frantically. But the vertigo passed quickly. He closed his eyes momentarily and bit hard on his lower lip.

The pain helped drive back the panic. Then, forcing his attention back to flying, he resumed his former altitude.

He thought of his situation for the first time since his bomb run. He tried to remember his thoughts at the precise moment of abort. But he couldn't think clearly. Self-condemnation was consuming him. Was this the end product of all his training, his dedication to the Service? He pulled off his oxygen mask and bit on gloved knuckles.

He would have to go back. He knew that. But it would be tougher now. And tougher still for some poor bastard who might have to follow. He groaned in anguish, then rolling the aircraft on its side and pulling on the stick, he turned back hard toward the target. The horizon was unbroken ahead of him, but he was on course again to Tientsin.

Then, suddenly, it was all clear.

He knew why he had aborted the run. An earnest of intent ... the bomb was a message. Unlike any message sent previously in the history of man - desperate, hard, unequivocal - but a message nonetheless.

Major Friedman breathed deeply, holding the last breath, a protracted time. Then he expelled it in a rush. It was like a great weight lifted from his chest.

The message would be delivered. But without a holocaust.

Part of it was delivered already.

The Chinese had seen him. They fired at him. They knew his bomb run had been successful in all respects save one. It remained but to show that the abort was a matter of personal choice.

That responsibility was plainly his. It could only be so. Such a course as he intended could never have been ordered. Not in the United States. The Chinese would appreciate that fact.

He "safed" the weapon. This precluded nuclear yield. The bomb was impact-safe. He switched off the bombing computer and turned on the gun sight. A lighted reticle and crosshair sprang into view on the windscreen ahead of him. He ran the back of his hand gently over bruised lips. Strange, he thought, the panic was gone, completely gone. He hooked up the mask. It would be all right, now. Everything would be all right.

He edged the throttles forward slightly, increasing his airspeed to .95 Mach. The harbor was in sight again. He moved the aircraft until the Cormorant was centered in the gun sight reticle. Amidships, he decided, at the water line. There would be no nuclear detonation. But the Chinese would know of his bomb load, nonetheless, from the debris. The radioactive debris -

He whispered, "Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One." The Cormorant grew large in the gun sight.

"The Lord, He is ..."