Able One by Ben Bova Page A

Andrews, he’s been on the phone all morning. Called the distributor. Called the trucking company. Called Mr. Lukkabee hisself, got him out of bed.”
    “What’s the matter?” Phyllis asked.
    “Everything’s all screwed up. Nobody’s computers are working. The trucking company says they can’t even tell where their trucks are because the GPS ain’t working.”
    Phyllis had the vague notion that GPS had something to do with giving you directions when you were driving. Her husband had been hinting that he’d like one for Christmas.
    “So you won’t have any pecans?”
    “Maybe later today. I dunno.”
    Phyllis tried to hide her annoyance. After all, it wasn’t Giovanni’s fault. But she blew her stack half an hour later when she pulled into the gas station and the pumps weren’t working. The warning light on her gas gauge was already blinking, and before she could pull out of line she got blocked in by another car behind her. When the impatient old jerk behind her started blasting his horn she jumped out of her car in a fury and told him to behave himself or she would call the police. It took nearly ten minutes to untangle the jam and get on her way home.
    She ran out of gas on the way, right in the middle of the highway. Nervous as a cat, she glided the Cadillac to the shoulder of the road as cars and trucks swooped past her way above the speed limit. Then she couldn’t get her husband on her cell phone. Or anybody else. Not even the AAA. The phone seemed to be dead. Phyllis broke into tears when a police car coasted to a stop behind her, its lights blinking red and blue.
    She had never had a ticket before in her whole life. And it was starting to snow.
     
    The Pentagon: Situation Room
    “Do you trust him?” Zuri Coggins finished pouring herself a cup of coffee before she looked up at General Higgins. The general had called for a coffee break, and almost immediately a pair of army tech sergeants had entered the situation room rolling a cart bearing three stainless steel urns, Styrofoam cups, and two trays of buns and pastries. He must have had the sergeants on call outside in the corridor all morning, she thought.
    “Trust who?” she asked the general.
    His eyes flicking across the room to where Michael Jamil still sat at the foot of the conference table, pecking away at his iPhone, Higgins whispered, “Him. The Arab.”
    “I believe he’s Lebanese,” Coggins replied.
    “Lebanese, Arab, they’re all the same.”
    General Higgins had removed his tunic and loosened his necktie. His shirt was wrinkled and he looked sweaty. He could stand to lose twenty or thirty pounds, Coggins thought. But despite his physical appearance Higgins wore four stars on his collar and the Joint Chiefs of Staff had appointed him to head this emergency action team.
    “He was born here,” she added.
    Higgins nodded as he picked up a sticky bun. “He’s an academic. I don’t trust academics. They always think they know everything, but they don’t have any real-world experience. Ivory-tower eggheads.”
    Coggins felt a mild tic of surprise. She hadn’t heard the term “egghead” since a graduate class in the history of American politics, nearly ten years earlier.
    “Yet he’s made an important point, don’t you think? If the North Koreans are targeting San Francisco ...”
    Higgins snapped up half the bun in one bite. His mouth full, he still answered, “Scheib thinks that’s bullshit, and Scheib knows more about missiles than that Arab kid.”
    Coggins nodded halfheartedly and stepped away from the general, as much to avoid the spray of crumbs from his mouth as to disengage from what could become an argument. I’m not here to argue, she told herself. I’m here to report to the National Security Advisor on what this team thinks we should be doing.
    Can we shoot down their missiles? she wondered. And if we do, would the North Koreans consider it an act of war? Would the Chinese come in?
    For several moments she