He sat with Timothy March and Dale Jarvis, the Joint Chiefs having returned to their respective offices in the Pentagon to begin launching the expected investigations, dictating the expected reports, and issuing the expected directives. In a few hours the shock would wear off and the news media would start shouting for blood, anyone’s blood.

The President had settled on a course of action. The public outcry had to be softened. Nothing would be gained by proclaiming the raid as another day of infamy. The pieces were to be swept under the carpet of confusion as delicately as possible.

“Word has just come in that Admiral Bass has died at Bethesda Naval Hospital,” Jarvis announced softly.

“He must have been a strong man to have carried the terrible burden of the Quick Death’s secret all these years,” said the President.

“That’s the end of it, then,” March murmured.*

“There is still Rongelo Island,” said Jarvis.

“Yes,” the President said, nodding wearily, “there is still that.”

“We cannot allow any trace of the organism to remain.”

The President looked at Jarvis. “What do you propose?”

“Erase the island from the map,” Jarvis replied.

“Impossible,” said March. “The Soviets would raise holy hell if we set off a bomb. The moratorium on aboveground nuclear tests has been respected by both nations for two decades.”

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A thin smile touched Jarvis’s lips. “The Chinese have yet to sign the pact.”

“So?”

“So we take apage from Operation Wild Rose,” explained Jarvis. “We send one of our missile-carrying subs as close as we dare to the Chinese mainland, then order it to launch a nuclear warhead at Rongelo Island.”

March and the President exchanged thoughtful glances. Then they turned to Jarvis, waiting for the rest of it.

“As long as American preparations for a test are nonexistent and none of our surface ships or aircraft are within two thousand miles of the blast area, there is no tangible evidence the Russians can use to build a case against us. On the other hand, their spy satellites cannot help but record the missile trajectory as originating from Chinese territory.”

“We might pull it off if we played shadylike,” said March, warming to the scheme. “The Chinese would, of course, deny any involvement. And after the usual nasty accusations from the Kremlin, our own State Department, and the other outraged nations, condemning Peking, the episode would die and be mostly forgotten inside two weeks.”

The President stared into space as he battled with his conscience. For the first time in nearly eight years he felt the total vulnerability of his office. The armor of power was filled with hairline cracks that could burst apart when struck by the unanticipated.

At last, with the exertion of a man twice his age, he rose from his chair.

“I pray to God,” he said, his eyes filled with sadness, “I am the last man in history who willfully orders a nuclear strike.”