Able One by Ben Bova

pulverized.”
    “Do not overreact, I beg of you.”
    “If they nuke an American city ...” The Secretary shook her head. “You saw our reaction to 9/11. And that was only a couple of buildings that were destroyed. If they wipe out Honolulu ... or San Francisco ... if they kill the President.... For god’s sake!”
    Quang leaned forward in his chair. The Secretary noticed a thin bead of perspiration trickling down his left cheek.
    “Madam Secretary,” he said, his tone suddenly stiffly formal, “I agreed to meet with you because I--like you--wish to avert a nuclear confrontation between our two peoples.”
    The Secretary nodded warily. There was more coming, she knew.
    “However,” Quang went on, “if the United States attacks the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea, my government will be forced to respond.”
    “So we’re supposed to sit still while they nuke a couple of our cities?”
    “The rebels will be caught and dealt with. Do not attack North Korea, I beg of you. If you do, China will be forced to respond.”
    “And the Russians watch us destroy each other.”
    “This has always been the weakness of the retaliation policy.”
    “Mutual assured destruction,” the Secretary murmured.
    “A policy intended to deter nuclear attack. It has worked very well between your nation and ours.”
    “And the Russians.”
    “Yes,” Quang agreed. “But when fanatics gain nuclear weapons, such a policy becomes useless. Mutual suicide.”
    With that, Quang got to his feet. The Secretary rose on shaky legs and walked him to the door. They exchanged meaningless words, and he left her alone in the sumptuous suite, leaning against the tightly shut door, wondering if the world was indeed coming to an end.
    But then she straightened and headed for the phone. The President’s off on a macho trip to San Francisco, she told herself. The Vice President’s safely in the National Redoubt, as if saving his worthless hide means anything. I’ve got to get to the Speaker of the House and Senator Yanez. Somebody’s got to take control of this situation. Somebody’s got to start acting presidential, and it might as well be me.
     
    Spokane, Washington: Lukkabee’s Supermarket
    Phyllis Mathiessen was more annoyed than worried. Well, no, she really was worried--about the dinner she was planning for tomorrow evening. This was the third supermarket she’d driven to this morning, and none of them had pecans. She needed pecans for the pie.
    Feeling nettled as she pushed her grocery cart along the fresh-produce aisle, she couldn’t for the life of her understand why a big supermarket chain like Lukkabee’s couldn’t keep pecans on the blessed shelves. Pecans! It’s not like she wanted something exotic. Just plain old pecans.
    She saw one of the store’s employees staring glumly at a row of empty display cases, where they usually kept the lettuce and cabbage and carrots. The shelves were bare. The man looked as if he had nothing to do. His kelly green bib overalls were spotless, as if he hadn’t lifted a crate or carried a single package all morning.
    Phyllis knew the man, at least well enough to smile at him when they passed in the store’s aisles. What was his name? She hated to peer at the tag pinned to the chest of his overalls, but she couldn’t for the life of her remember--
    Giovanni! That was his name. Was it his first name, though, or his last?
    “Good morning, Mrs. Mathiessen,” he said with a toothy smile. He was short, bald, round of face and body.
    “Good morning, Mr. Giovanni,” said Phyllis.
    “If you’re looking for lettuce, this morning’s order hasn’t come in yet.” Giovanni glanced at his wrist-watch. “They’re awful late today.”
    “No,” she said. “I want some pecans. I’m going to bake a pecan pie.”
    Giovanni made an elaborate shrug. “They were supposed to come in this morning, with the lettuce and the rest of the produce.”
    “Will they be in later?”
    Another shrug. “Mr.