"Why?" Elizabeth Elliot asked in a voice more brittle than Fowler's. "What could have done that?"

"We don't know. A nuclear detonation in space might, from EMP effects - that's electromagnetic pulse. When a nuclear device explodes at high altitude, most of its energy is released in the form of electromagnetic radiation. The Russians know more about the practical effects of such explosions than we do; they have more empirical data from their tests at Novaya Zemlya back in the 1960s. But we have no evidence of such an explosion, and we should have noticed it. Therefore, a nuclear attack on satellites is most unlikely. Next possibility is a massive blast of electromagnetic energy from a ground source. Now, the Russians have pumped a lot of money into microwave weapons-research. They have a ship in the Eastern Pacific with lots of antennas aboard. It's the Yuri Gagarin. She's classed as a space-event-support ship, and she has four enormous high-gain antennas. That ship is currently three hundred miles off the coast of Peru, well within sight of the injured satellites. Supposedly, the ship is supporting operations for the Mir space station. Aside from that, we're out of guesses. I have an officer talking with Hughes Aerospace right now to see what their thinking is.

"Okay, we're still trying to get ATC tapes from Stapleton to see if an aircraft might have delivered the bomb, and we are awaiting word from rescue and other teams dispatched to the site of the explosion. That's all I have."

"We have two wings fully in the air, and more coming on line as we speak," CINC-SAC said next. "All my missile wings are alerted. My Vice-CINC is in the air in Looking Glass Auxiliary West, and another Kneecap is about to take off for where you are, sir."

"Anything happening in the Soviet Union?"

"Their air-defense people are increasing their alert level, as we have already discussed," General Borstein replied. "We're getting other radio activity, but nothing we can classify yet. There is no indication of an attack on the United States."

"Okay." The President let out a breath. Things were bad, but not out of control. All he had to do was get things settled down, and then he could go forward. "I'm going to open the direct line to Moscow."

"Very well, sir," NORAD replied.

A Navy chief yeoman was two seats away from President Fowler. His computer terminal was already lit up. "You want to slide down here, Mr President," the chief said. "I can't cross-deck my display to your screen."

Fowler crab-walked his swivel chair the eight feet to the chief's place.

"Sir, the way this works is, I type in what you say here, and it's relayed directly through the NMCC computers in the Pentagon - all they do is encipher it - but when the Russians reply, it arrives in the Hot Line room in Russian, is translated there, and then sent here from the Pentagon. There's a backup at Fort Ritchie in case something goes wrong in D.C. We have land-line and two separate satellite links. Sir, I can type about as fast as you can speak." The chief yeoman's nametag read ORONTIA, and Fowler couldn't decide what his ancestry was. He was a good twenty pounds overweight, but he sounded relaxed and competent. Fowler would settle for that. Chief Orontia also had a pack of cigarettes sitting next to his keyboard. The President stole one, ignoring the no-smoking signs that hung on every wall. Orontia lit it with a Zippo.