“Senator, if God cared what the Japanese thought about the Pacific Ocean he wouldn’t have made us so good at building aircraft carriers.” The NSA drains his glass and belches through his cigarette. “Ninety minutes ago we had a sea monster problem. Now we’ve got an exciting news day and a bump in the polls. The president is dreaming untroubled dreams. Just as you and I should be.”
Let’s make a list. Title it “Top Twenty Ways to Seriously Annoy an Awakened Watchseed.”
The bottom nineteen items are irrelevant. Just leave ’em blank. At the top of the list, write: “Tickle it with an atomic bomb.”
The drop is lucky, a pickle straight into the barrel. The parachute-slowed Mark 7 is fused to airburst at fifty feet, with a yield of twenty-two kilotons. This is a compromise setting, meant to allow deployment whether the Mid-Pacific Entity is submerged, surfaced, or stomping around on an island. Half a dozen observation aircraft are monitoring at a presumably safe distance, gulping data from this unprecedented combination of atomic field test and public-relations bonanza (assuming things shake out; if the monster swims out of the mushroom cloud unharmed, a lot of film canisters are going straight into a vault at Pearl Harbor).
The water column above Messenger eats most of the thermal and hard radiation pointed in that direction. Several hundred feet of water vaporize, leaving a goodly amount to be compressed by the blast wave, which follows merrily in the wake of the X-rays and gamma rays, turning the immediate area into a hell of hydrostatic shock. As a fresh white plume of radioactive steam and condensation rises somewhere southeast of Eniewetok Atoll (Merry Christmas, Marshall Islanders, and, not for the first time, surprise!), Messenger sinks in a slow flat spin, oozing clouds of blood.
Self-repairing, stuffed full of modular biofactories, Messenger has nonetheless underprepared for direct violence of this magnitude. The sudden overpressure cracks its carapace and fills its joints and hollows with thousands of seeping fissures. This is a setback.
Yet only that. Messenger is still in the game, already calculating food requirements for repairs and improvements, visualizing a larger, tougher battle configuration to help these primates grasp the points it needs to make. Remember those gradually escalating stages of violence, those generous intervals of time for reflection? Oh, that’s done.
Overhead the handshakes and promotions are already starting. Messenger flutters back down into the cold blackness, making a list and checking it twice.
“I’m sorry we had to wake you, Mr. President,” says the NSA.
“Story of my life.” The president groans, settles into his chair behind Teddy Roosevelt’s old desk, stares at his cigarette before puffing with guilty resignation. “What do we have?”
“It’s more a case of what we don’t have,” says an admiral with a seamy face and a cap that looks more comfortable than parade-ready. “Seventh Fleet has lost contact with the
“Please don’t say the Marshall Islands.”
“Yes, sir. The Marshalls again. And we have a picture of the, uh, primary suspect, from Seventh Fleet photo recon. Right here.”
The president stares at the glossy eight-by-ten. “Coffee,” he says at last. “And there’d better be brandy in it. So we have another one of these goddamn things.”
“Near as we can tell, Mr. President.” The NSA steps in, making gestures at his aides, large and expansive ones to indicate the size of the pour on the requested brandy. “Mid-Pacific Entity One was about a hundred and twenty feet; MidPac-2 must be twice as long. Same general look, though. Scales and everything.”
“And we dropped the bomb on its little brother,” growls the president. “Well, we won’t play the waiting game this time. Pacific fleet to maximum readiness. I want some very sugar-coated notes for the Chinese and the Soviets, explaining ourselves, and I don’t want so much as an unscheduled fart from our forces in Europe.”
“Respectfully, Mr. President,” says one of the suits in the entourage of interchangeable suits, “assuming a deferential posture to the reds could have adverse consequences for the election—”
“Damn it, I’m gonna let them know it’s lizard hunting season again, not volunteer to wash Khrushchev’s feet for Holy Week.” says the president. His brandy arrives, plausibly disguised beneath a thin layer of coffee, and is subjected to immediate attack. “There’s no room for ambiguity if we’re going to be throwing lead at this damned thing.”
“Do you want us to put the vice-president in the picture?” says the NSA with a thin smile.