have preferred styling it in a’60s Beatles fashion, to disguise his ears.
There was Hampstead family money, correctly accumulated in steel and railroads, but other than for his education and a Triumph TR-3 when he was an undergraduate, his father did not spread it lavishly among Hampstead and his four siblings. Hampstead earned his living, and he did it in a Hampstead tradition. Most of his ancestors, and two of his brothers and one of his sisters, devoted themselves to public service. It was an honorable calling.
His youngest sister, Adrienne, lived in New York City and promoted gargantuan professional wrestling matches. He loved her dearly.
From time to time, the door to the Situation Room opened and Chief of Staff Balcon or National Security Advisor Amply stuck his head out and beckoned someone inside. The room should have a revolving door on it, Hampstead thought.
He was called at a quarter of seven.
By Carl Unruh.
He had not even been sure that Unruh was in the room.
Hampstead stood up, stretched, tugged his suit jacket into place, and passed through the doorway. It was similar, he thought, to entering an execution chamber. Same effect on the senses.
There were over twenty people in the secured room — Senate and House leaders, Pentagon people, White House people. Unruh introduced him to the group, but did not bother providing the other side’s names. It would not have mattered, anyway. He knew who the President was, and he recognized the congressional faces, along with that of the Director of Central Intelligence, but he would have immediately forgotten the names of all the generals, admirals, and agency heads.
“Mr. Hampstead,” Unruh said, “is an undersecretary in the Department of Commerce. He is responsible for things oceanworthy, primarily in the areas of exploration and development.”
“Thank you for coming over so quickly, Mr. Hampstead,” the President said.
“Not at all, sir. I’m happy to cooperate.” With what, he was not certain.
Unruh indicated two upholstered chairs at the table, and they both sat.
“General Wiggins, would you brief Mr. Hampstead?” the President asked.
Wiggins stood up, and Hampstead vaguely recalled the Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency. He was built like an extremely short fire hydrant, and his voice rumbled around large pieces of gravel.
“Mr. Hampstead, first of all, what you learn here this morning is not for public consumption. All contact with the media, or with anyone else, will be made through the White House spokesman.”
“Certainly, General.”
Wiggins crossed the room to a large screen radiating a map of the northern Pacific Ocean. South of Midway Island, there was a red dot. The general picked up a pointer and pointed out the red dot.
“Shortly after midnight this morning, a CIS A2e rocket splashed down at this location directly after launch. It was unintentional.”
The general paused, so Hampstead said, “Yes, sir.”
“We don’t know the current condition of the rocket or the payload, but we do know that the payload was an advanced nuclear reactor.”
“Ooh.” Hampstead did not know whether or not his exclamation was a vocal one.
“We have been briefed by Defense Department and Nuclear Regulatory Commission nuclear experts, and we believe that there is a high probability that the reactor may go supercritical, that is, into a meltdown state.”
Hampstead sat upright and placed his arms on the table. He did not know what else to do with them. “Is there a timetable, General?”
“Unknown at this time. Our people are working on it.”
“Have the Russians said anything? There should have been telemetry readings.”
“The Russians are noncommital, Mr. Hampstead,” Warren Amply said.
“I see. Do we know the size of the reactor?”
“Fifteen megawatts or better, at best estimate,” Wiggins said.
That was not large by land-based reactor standards, but Hampstead assumed it was massive in terms of its brothers
There was Hampstead family money, correctly accumulated in steel and railroads, but other than for his education and a Triumph TR-3 when he was an undergraduate, his father did not spread it lavishly among Hampstead and his four siblings. Hampstead earned his living, and he did it in a Hampstead tradition. Most of his ancestors, and two of his brothers and one of his sisters, devoted themselves to public service. It was an honorable calling.
His youngest sister, Adrienne, lived in New York City and promoted gargantuan professional wrestling matches. He loved her dearly.
From time to time, the door to the Situation Room opened and Chief of Staff Balcon or National Security Advisor Amply stuck his head out and beckoned someone inside. The room should have a revolving door on it, Hampstead thought.
He was called at a quarter of seven.
By Carl Unruh.
He had not even been sure that Unruh was in the room.
Hampstead stood up, stretched, tugged his suit jacket into place, and passed through the doorway. It was similar, he thought, to entering an execution chamber. Same effect on the senses.
There were over twenty people in the secured room — Senate and House leaders, Pentagon people, White House people. Unruh introduced him to the group, but did not bother providing the other side’s names. It would not have mattered, anyway. He knew who the President was, and he recognized the congressional faces, along with that of the Director of Central Intelligence, but he would have immediately forgotten the names of all the generals, admirals, and agency heads.
“Mr. Hampstead,” Unruh said, “is an undersecretary in the Department of Commerce. He is responsible for things oceanworthy, primarily in the areas of exploration and development.”
“Thank you for coming over so quickly, Mr. Hampstead,” the President said.
“Not at all, sir. I’m happy to cooperate.” With what, he was not certain.
Unruh indicated two upholstered chairs at the table, and they both sat.
“General Wiggins, would you brief Mr. Hampstead?” the President asked.
Wiggins stood up, and Hampstead vaguely recalled the Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency. He was built like an extremely short fire hydrant, and his voice rumbled around large pieces of gravel.
“Mr. Hampstead, first of all, what you learn here this morning is not for public consumption. All contact with the media, or with anyone else, will be made through the White House spokesman.”
“Certainly, General.”
Wiggins crossed the room to a large screen radiating a map of the northern Pacific Ocean. South of Midway Island, there was a red dot. The general picked up a pointer and pointed out the red dot.
“Shortly after midnight this morning, a CIS A2e rocket splashed down at this location directly after launch. It was unintentional.”
The general paused, so Hampstead said, “Yes, sir.”
“We don’t know the current condition of the rocket or the payload, but we do know that the payload was an advanced nuclear reactor.”
“Ooh.” Hampstead did not know whether or not his exclamation was a vocal one.
“We have been briefed by Defense Department and Nuclear Regulatory Commission nuclear experts, and we believe that there is a high probability that the reactor may go supercritical, that is, into a meltdown state.”
Hampstead sat upright and placed his arms on the table. He did not know what else to do with them. “Is there a timetable, General?”
“Unknown at this time. Our people are working on it.”
“Have the Russians said anything? There should have been telemetry readings.”
“The Russians are noncommital, Mr. Hampstead,” Warren Amply said.
“I see. Do we know the size of the reactor?”
“Fifteen megawatts or better, at best estimate,” Wiggins said.
That was not large by land-based reactor standards, but Hampstead assumed it was massive in terms of its brothers
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