Alternities by Michael P. Kube-McDowell Page A

explain to the President why something he had asked for wasn’t possible.
    Robinson read the hesitation and guessed the reason for it. “Shoot straight, Gregory. You’re not in that much trouble with me—yet.”
    With a rueful nod, O’Neill complied. “Operationally, we’re right there. Communications are first-class. The Bell Labs people have really come through. It’s the front end that’s weak. We’re pushing the limits of this generation of sub detection technology. This isn’t news to you.”
    “No.”
    “The moored sonobuoys are sensitive but not reliable, not as reliable as something that hard to get to needs to be. The look-down rigs in the P-5 planes aren’t worth a damn in shallow water. We don’t have enough ASW frigates to patrol the whole coastline. On top of which their Horizon-class boats are quiet as a whisper at a hundred paces. So, yes—this is the best you can hope for. For now.”
    Robinson mulled that for a moment. “What about our friends in Boston? Is there anything better in the pipeline?”
    “Nothing that I’m aware of.”
    Idly, Robinson drummed his fingers on the desk. “What’s the head count?”
    “As of about two hours ago, fifteen subs within the two hundred-mile range of the Javelin batteries.”
    “And if I gave the order to take them out, how many would you expect to survive?”
    “Under present conditions—with no war alert?”
    “Under present conditions. This very moment.”
    There was something about the way Robinson had framed the question that disturbed O’Neill, but then the whole Javelin program had never sat well with him. It was hard to see the defensive value of fixed coastal missile batteries against a mobile submarine force, especially when the same money could have bought badly needed patrol boats.
    The Javelin batteries had some PR value domestically, that was true. But the only tangible impact of their presence so far was to prompt the Soviet Naval Command to bring in extra deep-water boats on both coasts, presumably to target the batteries. Within ten minutes of the outbreak of war, the batteries would be gone.
    The way O’Neill added it up, unless they were used preemptively—an idea which deserved no consideration, in light of the total strategic picture—the Javelins were next to worthless. It didn’t much matter how many subs with empty silos the Coast Guard sank. It didn’t matter to the Russians, and it didn’t matter to the targets of the inbound missiles.
    But there was no point in arguing the point. The Coast Guard was delighted with their expanded role, the Navy was officially indifferent, and Javelin was the issue over which Robinson’s first Secretary had departed.
    “Five,” he said curtly. “Minimum. Maybe as many as eight.”
    “That’s not good enough.”
    “I know. Not when we’re targeting boats with a hundred men in them and they’re targeting cities of a hundred thousand.” What would you say if I told you we could get them all? he wondered.
    “So what are you doing to do about it?”
    O’Neill bristled. “We’ve increased our capability five hundred percent since Cyclops deployment started—”
    “It looks like another couple hundred percent is in order.”
    “With all due respect, sir, you’re not making allowance for the difficulty—”
    “I make no allowances for people who tell me they can hit a target and then fall short.”
    “Rayedon Electronics made the promises, sir, not DOD. And I specifically cautioned—”
    “Then pull the contract out from under them and give it to someone who can do the job,” Robinson said quietly.
    “The learning curve on the technology the NRC is fronting to Rayedon—”
    At that moment the telephone rang. On the second ring, O’Neill started toward it, but Robinson stopped him.
    “Don’t. It’ll be for me.” Just as a playful child might have, Robinson backpedaled from the table in his chair, coasting on silent casters to the corner table where the telephone