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3.
"Let's talk a little about the purpose of today's launch," Leader Moss murmured softly, so only Major Tonsonby could hear. Moss put an arm around Tonsonby's shoulder, and guided him out of earshot. They stood by the cold, frosty window glass overlooking tawdry streets with dim neon cheer below. Cars and ant-like citizens pushed through the drizzle and vapor on the dark streets. The very street lights were still lit, though it was midmorning. "Good day for a launch," Moss said with a tight little grin. He clapped Tonsonby on the shoulder a last time, then sat on the window sill in a pensive mode as if he had much to say. An orderly tiptoed near to refill their brandies. After the quick dip here, there, of the bottle, Moss waved him away. Moss said to Tonsonby: "I'm afraid I have disturbing news for you."
"I was afraid you might, Leader."
Moss shrugged disarmingly, though his eyes had a dangerous light that contradicted his words. "Nothing to fear. I have it all under control."
"What, Leader?" Tonsonby's gut wrenched. He thought sickeningly of his wife, his two little children, his safe and comfortable existence…how easily it could all fall away into an abyss. The thought of losing it all suddenly loomed terrifyingly—perhaps even spending the rest of his life in a dungeon somewhere, with his family told he'd died in a plane crash while on duty or some such nonsense.
Moss took a quiet breath, utterly in charge of himself and the world around them, and said: "I'm afraid we have learned that your subordinate Dr. Moira is working for the other side."
"No." Tonsonby felt horrified as his world started to melt around him like candle wax.
"I told you not to worry," Moss said. He gave Tonsonby another cold, domineering, but somehow vaguely reassuring clap on the shoulder. "Drink your brandy. You look as if you need it."
Tonsonby obeyed, shooting the burning sweet liquid down his throat. He almost choked, fearing it was a trick and they'd put something in there to corrode his insides and make him collapse of a faux heart attack. He regarded Moss with utter terror, like a drowning man looking up at someone coldly amused by his plight. But the feeling passed. The brandy was good and warm. Moss wasn't amused by his terror but apparently pleased to have outwitted the other side. Every such victory gave off a rewarding glow, since such triumphs were few and far between in this endless, nerve-wracking war to the death between two alienated super-states that dominated the entire Earth between them.
"The launch isn't going to happen," Moss said quietly.
"It isn't?"
Moss nodded. "Think about it. They have a new technology for stopping our launches dead. If we were to actually send up nukes today, they'd blow them up over our heads. No, my dear fellow, we're after a different brace of game today. We'll reserve the antimatter bombs for another day. Today it's all a show of pyrotechnics, while my agents swoop in and clean up the nest of spies you've been brooding like a hen in your shop over there."
Tonsonby stumbled back and clicked to attention. "Leader, I beg your forgiveness."
"Stop making a scene," Moss growled through gritted teeth. "Play it straight, you dunderhead. We don't want these boys to understand that something is afoot."
"Of course, Leader." Tonsonby was still sweating, and trembling, but he pulled himself together as best he could.
"Ten seconds to launch," said a controller's voice far away at the rocketdrome, echoing in Moss's office public address system.
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