Able One by Ben Bova Page B

watched Jamil intently hunching over his iPhone. He was the only person still sitting at the table; everyone else was standing in little knots of two or three, either at the front of the conference room, where the coffee cart was, or toward the rear, where the doors led to restrooms out along the corridor.
    Abruptly, she went to her own chair and opened her minicomputer. Not much bigger than a paperback book, it still had the power and speed of the best laptops. The Department of Defense’s internal data network did not depend entirely on satellite links; it was connected across the continent by hardened landlines. With a few touches of the little machine’s keyboard, Coggins pulled up Michael Jamil’s unclassified dossier.
    Born in Baltimore, she saw. Only son of Lebanese parents who fled their country during the civil war there. They were already living in Baltimore when Israel invaded Lebanon. Graduated magna cum laude from Johns Hopkins in information technology. Hired by DoD, moved up to the Defense Intelligence Agency, appointed to National Intelligence Council last year. A bright young man, Coggins decided. Then she realized that Jamil was only a year younger than she. Well, she thought, I’m a bright young woman.
    Clicking the mini closed, she got up from her chair and walked down the table toward Jamil. He was sitting alone at the foot of the table; it seemed as if all the others--military and civilians alike--were shunning him.
    He looked up as she sat next to him. He seemed surprised, almost perplexed.
    “I have a mini, if you need something more powerful than your phone,” Coggins said.
    His expression changed. Still surprised, but now pleasantly so.
    “I was just going over the figures for the Taepodong-2,” he said, almost apologetically. “General Scheib doesn’t believe it, but those birds could reach San Francisco, I’m pretty sure.”
    With a slight smile, Coggins said, “‘Pretty sure’ isn’t going to impress Scheib. Or General Higgins.”
    “I guess not,” Jamil admitted. His voice was soft, but he was clearly upset. “The thing is, I always thought that military men based their plans on the worst that an enemy can do, not on what they hope the enemy’s likely to do.”
    “That makes sense.”
    “We ought to recommend that the President stay out of San Francisco.”
    “We’ve apprised him of the possibility.”
    Jamil shook his head. “Not strong enough. It’s got to be a recommendation from this emergency committee. Full strength.”
    “I’m afraid General Higgins doesn’t put much faith in your calculations,” she said, as gently as she could.
    “He’s a jackass, then.”
    Coggins broke into a laugh. “That may be, but he’s chairing this group.”
    Jamil hunched forward in his chair, toward her. “You’re inside the White House. Can’t you make a recommendation to the National Security Advisor? On your own?”
    Her laughter cut off. He was serious. Deadly serious. And he was putting her on the spot.
    “I ... I don’t know . . .”
    He slumped back again. “You don’t believe me either.”
    “It’s not that,” she said quickly. “It’s just... well, if you’re wrong, I’d look awfully stupid, wouldn’t I?”
    Very seriously, Jamil replied, “No, you’d look awfully stupid if the President gets killed in a nuclear attack on San Francisco.”
    She stared at him. He was intent, totally convinced that she had to stick her neck out and urge the National Security Advisor to get the President to turn back. Not his neck, Coggins told herself. Mine.
    “All right,” General Higgins bawled from the front of the room, where the snack cart was parked. “We’re out of sticky buns. Let’s get back to work.”
     
    U.S. Route 12, Bitterroot Mountains, Idaho
    “Look! It’s starting to snow!”
    Charley Ingersoll was passing an eighteen-wheeler when his eight-year-old son, Charley Jr., gave out his delighted squeak. It was getting close to noon, they were hours away