minutes later the secure telex located in the Pentagon office of General Jones started buzzing.
The night-duty officer attached to Jones's command retrieved the short message, read it once, then immediately called over to Jones's residence.
"Sorry to bother you, sir," the night officer explained to the still-yawning Commander in Chief. "But we've just received an urgent communique from Commander Yastrewski, via the Free Canadian Naval base at Halifax."
"Read it to me . . ." Jones replied.
The night officer took a deep breath and then read the message through dry lips:" 'Port of Yarmouth attacked by unknown force before 1100 hours last.
City completely devastated by fire. No survivors.' "
57
Chapter Ten
Off the coast of New Hampshire
His name was Rook, and this morning, like every other morning for the past two years, he arose and poured himself half a glass of whiskey.
The weather was already getting warm, and as the harsh liquor made its way into his distended belly, he knew that another day of heavy lifting awaited him.
The small island off the coast of the old city of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, had been his home since the end of the second Circle War. A South African mercenary, Rook had fought on the losing side and was present at the resounding defeat of the Circle Army at the hands of the United American forces in the pivotal battle of Washington, DC.
He deserted the field just minutes before his unit was wiped out by a United American air strike, and had spent the next few weeks making his way up through New England until he found the small deserted island and set up refuge. The ensuing two and a half years had passed in relative calm-all except, that is, for the day that the Soviet ICBM came crashing down onto his beach.
It had happened almost a year before. Rook had been asleep as usual when a monstrous crashing noise just about threw him from his bed. Dashing from his log cabin hideout, he had been amazed to see the smoky remains of a huge Soviet SS-19 missile sticking up in the sand just above the high tide water mark on the east side of the island.
58
His first reaction was to flee. He had been trained in the South African Army as an airborne explosives expert, and as such he knew an intercontinental ballistic missile when he saw one-especially one carrying a nuclear warhead.
Yet, at the same time, he knew that whoever launched the missile had done so incorrectly. The object he had discovered that morning was very nearly an entire missile-launch stages, warhead, everything. The missile had not separated in the upper reaches of the earth's atmosphere as it was supposed to. Instead, it had landed on his beach virtually intact.
Knowing that the warhead could explode at anytime, Rook had hastily packed his things and took to his small boat almost immediately after the missile crashed. Making his way to shore, he hid in a cave for the next twelve hours, knowing that if the warhead did explode, it would be a waste of time trying to get out of the blast area.
But when the nuclear device did not explode, he summoned up enough gumption to leave the cave and move into Portsmouth. He spent the next few months living in a partially abandoned section of the city.
It was during this time that he realized that the missile sticking out of the sand back on his island was worth a fortune.
One of the most profitable enterprises in postwar America was the black market, especially the segment dealing in weapons. Through a few whispered conversations, Rook was able to ascertain that the going rate for a nuclear device in repairable condition was a whopping five thousand bags of gold. With that kind of money. Rook knew he could make it to one of the Carribbean islands-hell, he could buy one of them! - invest in a couple of pounds of cocaine, purchase a bevy of female love slaves, and live the rest of his life in contented decadence.
Just a few things stood in the way of his dream.
One of them was that the warhead had
The night-duty officer attached to Jones's command retrieved the short message, read it once, then immediately called over to Jones's residence.
"Sorry to bother you, sir," the night officer explained to the still-yawning Commander in Chief. "But we've just received an urgent communique from Commander Yastrewski, via the Free Canadian Naval base at Halifax."
"Read it to me . . ." Jones replied.
The night officer took a deep breath and then read the message through dry lips:" 'Port of Yarmouth attacked by unknown force before 1100 hours last.
City completely devastated by fire. No survivors.' "
57
Chapter Ten
Off the coast of New Hampshire
His name was Rook, and this morning, like every other morning for the past two years, he arose and poured himself half a glass of whiskey.
The weather was already getting warm, and as the harsh liquor made its way into his distended belly, he knew that another day of heavy lifting awaited him.
The small island off the coast of the old city of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, had been his home since the end of the second Circle War. A South African mercenary, Rook had fought on the losing side and was present at the resounding defeat of the Circle Army at the hands of the United American forces in the pivotal battle of Washington, DC.
He deserted the field just minutes before his unit was wiped out by a United American air strike, and had spent the next few weeks making his way up through New England until he found the small deserted island and set up refuge. The ensuing two and a half years had passed in relative calm-all except, that is, for the day that the Soviet ICBM came crashing down onto his beach.
It had happened almost a year before. Rook had been asleep as usual when a monstrous crashing noise just about threw him from his bed. Dashing from his log cabin hideout, he had been amazed to see the smoky remains of a huge Soviet SS-19 missile sticking up in the sand just above the high tide water mark on the east side of the island.
58
His first reaction was to flee. He had been trained in the South African Army as an airborne explosives expert, and as such he knew an intercontinental ballistic missile when he saw one-especially one carrying a nuclear warhead.
Yet, at the same time, he knew that whoever launched the missile had done so incorrectly. The object he had discovered that morning was very nearly an entire missile-launch stages, warhead, everything. The missile had not separated in the upper reaches of the earth's atmosphere as it was supposed to. Instead, it had landed on his beach virtually intact.
Knowing that the warhead could explode at anytime, Rook had hastily packed his things and took to his small boat almost immediately after the missile crashed. Making his way to shore, he hid in a cave for the next twelve hours, knowing that if the warhead did explode, it would be a waste of time trying to get out of the blast area.
But when the nuclear device did not explode, he summoned up enough gumption to leave the cave and move into Portsmouth. He spent the next few months living in a partially abandoned section of the city.
It was during this time that he realized that the missile sticking out of the sand back on his island was worth a fortune.
One of the most profitable enterprises in postwar America was the black market, especially the segment dealing in weapons. Through a few whispered conversations, Rook was able to ascertain that the going rate for a nuclear device in repairable condition was a whopping five thousand bags of gold. With that kind of money. Rook knew he could make it to one of the Carribbean islands-hell, he could buy one of them! - invest in a couple of pounds of cocaine, purchase a bevy of female love slaves, and live the rest of his life in contented decadence.
Just a few things stood in the way of his dream.
One of them was that the warhead had
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