Free Trinity's Child by William Prochnau

damn well there was nothing sexual about a stray hand in the chimney of the B-52. Not with the clock running.
    Moreau cursed herself silently. She was having a bad night. She knew the hand had strayed accidentally. She could have saved herself a lot of grief six months ago. But she wasn't a grief-saver. And when he came at her with that Captain Shazam of the Strategic Air Command crap—the same line, she imagined, that rounded the heels of every female in the High Pine Lounge—she had shrieked in laughter. Not that any line would have worked. Moreau had been on the Kazaklis trip herself, matched him conquest for conquest, she was sure. But she had stopped a year ago, looking for a better hold on a very shaky life. Like everything she did, she also stopped with a totality bordering on obsession. She hadn't been with a man for more than a year, ending the earlier obsession with what might have been the consummate sex act in the history of SAC. In a No Lone Zone. Well, she hadn't violated security. She sure as hell hadn't been alone.
    At the top of the stairwell, Moreau glanced sideways at the code box on the jump seat and hurried forward to the right-hand seat. She pulled the white helmet over her head, adjusted the radio to all five channels. Kazaklis , immediately behind her, slipped into the left-hand seat and did the same, his mind as far from their flare-up as hers now.
    “Ignition,” Kazaklis said in a crackling, radio-warped voice, which Moreau echoed. Then the pilot's sinewy hands, covered in fireproofed gloves, began manipulating the eight white engine throttles between them and Moreau began the methodical activation of other instruments. The engine roar gradually accelerated.
    Kazaklis glanced at the luminous dial of his watch and mentally complimented himself. They had made it very quickly, under three minutes. Then he began to chafe, waiting impatiently for the codes. He turned and peered into the dark recesses of the back of the compartment. There, over the locked code box, he saw two vague forms. One, Halupalai, he thought, grabbed the other, O'Toole, and shook him violently. He saw Halupalai's arm rear back and then plunge forward toward O'Toole's face.
    “Codes!” Kazaklis said angrily into the radio. “Have you fuckers gone crazy back there? Codes!”
     
     
    The President's appointments secretary shook him gently by the elbow. “Finish it, Mr. President,” his old friend said. “There is so little time.” It was only then that the President realized his eyes had drifted away from the telegram. His aide smelled of bourbon. Lucky fellow.
    “. . . It is of epochal importance that you understand my rationale and recognize that this is not an act of aggression. Two weeks ago the Politburo voted to mount a full Counterforce attack against all your military and strategic targets simultaneously, with a second assault poised against your cities if you responded. It was the attack my country's military leaders have advocated for years—sudden, preemptive, and total. You would not have survived. We would not have survived either, although not all in my government agree with that assessment. I was able to delay that action. But I have merely bought us a brief moment for one last effort to halt the madness. Our meeting in Vienna was a similar effort. It failed. The misunderstandings ran deeper than my worst expectations. What you apparently perceived as my weakness was in reality an effort to warn you how fragile was the balance of the debate within my government over the threat of your massive arms buildups. The failure of Vienna tipped that balance. The cost of matching you weapon for weapon is far too great for the Politburo faction that sees our social fabric ripping because of the immense investments we made to draw even with you in nuclear weaponry after the Cuban debacle. The cost of allowing you to proceed unmatched is far too great for the faction that believes we cannot ever be at bay again as we