
TEN TO MIDNIGHT
All Rights Reserved © 2000 Toby Murray
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EXCERPT FROM TEN TO MIDNIGHT
The air was thick with a sweet, burning stench that reminded Father O'Malley of overcooked chicken. He didn't care to pursue that thought any further. For the first time in living memory, the Houston skyline was unobstructed by skyscrapers and other creations of man. Only the foundations of the city's gleaming concrete towers remained; pathetic testaments to a civilization whose fragility had been exposed in a moment of ultra-physical annihilation.
Cars and buses had been contorted into parodical, abstract forms, their paintwork uniformly scorched black. Gas pipes protruded at impossible angles from the ruined ground, the protective layers of earth above having been violently uprooted by Godlike forces. Millions of tons of incinerated rubble mercifully concealed the numerous human forms beneath, although one didn't have to look far for signs of human destruction. Corpses and parts of corpses, mostly charred black, scattered the smoldering landscape in abundance. Out of morbid curiosity, O'Malley stopped to inspect one such body. The cadaver was of indeterminate gender, so deformed had it been by blast effects. Its lips and most of its facial flesh had been seared into non-existence, creating the illusion of a hideous grin on what little remained of its features. Only then did O'Malley realize that he wasn't looking at an entire corpse, merely a head and upper torso that had been separated from the rest of an unseen body.
He held a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from retching over the remains, unwilling to further defile its final resting place with vomit.
FOREWORD BY THE AUTHOR
One of the more popular fallacies of our time is that the horrible specter of nuclear apocalypse has been vanquished by the end of the Cold War and the onset of détente. A brief objective analysis of the world political scene, however, reveals just how dangerously misplaced this belief is. Particularly when placed in the context of modern history, which teaches us that even prolonged periods of peace are generally followed by a series of short, brutal wars. Mankind's nature being what it is, the prospect of war looms for as long as governments deem it necessary to maintain armed forces. So goes the theory; now let us deal with the facts.
The end of the Cold War has created a geopolitical vacuum that has been filled by what one might describe as geopolitical stasis where nuclear weapons are concerned. U.S.-Russian negotiations to limit strategic nuclear weapons no longer make the headlines; not surprising when one considers that the START-II treaty signed by both the US and Russia in the not so distant past, when post-Cold War euphoria abounded, are not even close to being ratified. Meanwhile, Russia itself is sliding further towards anarchy with every passing day. As it does so, the safety protocols that govern the use of nuclear weapons are at best deteriorating, and at worst being totally ignored.
Eternal optimists will refer with glee to the informal 1994 agreement between the US and Russia, which stated that neither nation would any longer target their nuclear weapons at the other. Yet, although this agreement was made with the best of intentions, it holds little substance in a world where sophisticated guidance systems can be re-programmed in a matter of minutes. At the end of 1997, the United States and Russia still possessed a combined nuclear arsenal of approximately 30,000 operational warheads; more than enough to wipe out virtually all life on the planet several times over. This, if nothing else, should provide a sobering reminder of the dangers that still face us to those who thought that phrases such as "overkill" and "megatonnage" belonged exclusively to the dark ages of the Cold War.
In the wings, meanwhile, we see other nations joining the vaunted "nuclear club". Iran and North Korea are thought by western intelligence sources to be close to achieving nuclear capability, if indeed they have not already done so. India and Pakistan, as we now know, are already nuclear capable. Israel is also strongly believed to possess a sizeable nuclear arsenal. Several other emerging military powers, such as Argentina, Brazil, South Africa and even Japan are thought to have the capability to build a nuclear deterrent should they wish to do so. As we enter the 21stcentury, we are in increasing danger of witnessing the total collapse of existing non-proliferation treaties. This is a peril that western leaders have shown reticence in acknowledging, much less tackling. In less than a decade, there may be as many as a dozen nuclear powers, the majority of whom will inevitably possess ballistic missile technology capable of delivering these terrible weapons to almost any location on the planet.
If the likes of Russia, North Korea, India and Pakistan have taught us anything, it is that the ability to build an operational nuclear arsenal is not necessarily relative to economic might. All that is required is political will. In the New World Order, nuclear weapons have become something of a political fashion statement --- He has it, thus I must have it too. A nuclear arsenal is increasingly seen as indicative of a nation's status and potency. Russia, in particular, embodies this theory. It is still considered to be a major player on the international stage, and continues to hold a permanent seat on the UN Security Council (I find it interesting that all five permanent members just happen to be founder members of the nuclear club). Yet Russia is essentially a third world nation. Her GDP is less than that of Portugal. As one US State Department official stated recently, "Russia is little more than Burkina Faso with nukes." Such flippant remarks are indicative of the dangerous and arrogant complacency that has become so alarmingly prevalent within western governments.
Thus far, the response of western leaders to the inherent dangers posed by nuclear proliferation has been to play down the threat, almost as if they sense that their electorates have developed a psychological blind spot to the prospect of nuclear conflict. In a sense, you can understand this from the point of view of leaders catering to constituencies spoon-fed on junk culture --- masses who find sex scandals and other trivial irrelevancies far more engaging than the more abstract issues that threaten our very existence. After all, there is far much more airtime to be gained by a politician prepared to discuss the intricate aspects of Presidential fellatio than one concerned with such severe topics as the proliferation of nuclear weapons. Indeed, it is considered politically incorrect these days even to suggest the possibility that a third world nation might, under certain circumstances, feel compelled to use the ultimate weapon of mass destruction. Political correctitude tends to the misguided belief that if nations such as the US, Britain, France, China and Russia can be trusted with nuclear weapons, then why not third world nations also?
The logic to this argument seems to be that since the presence of nuclear weapons has maintained world peace for over half a century, then the proliferation of nuclear weapons is not necessarily a bad thing. Yet what this dangerously naïve logic tends to ignore is that deterrence worked during the Cold War purely because of the doctrine of Mutual Assured Destruction (i.e. both sides had sufficient nuclear capability to ensure that a nuclear attack would prove fatally counter-productive). The MAD concept has little or no relevance to a third world nation in possession of just a few low-yield tactical warheads that it might decide to use against an enemy who lacks the ability to respond in kind.
Another ominous factor, often overlooked by commentators, is that many of the current generation of western leaders reached political maturity only after the Cold War ended. Accordingly, they are largely unschooled in the fundamental aspects of the geopolitics of the nuclear age. This is a state of affairs that they have at best learned to live with, at worst conditioned themselves to disregard. Complacency, as history teaches us, is an inherently dangerous trait for those connected with the volatile arena of International Relations. Indeed, modern history is full of examples of complacency leading to conflict. If nothing else, the Cold War conditioned world leaders to be more acutely conscious of the wider implications of engaging in military action. Ironically, that period of history was characterized by the enforced subordination to the doctrines of bipolar politics of the rogue nations who may provide the most potent threats of the 21stcentury.
While researching this novel, I examined a number of possible scenarios for a nuclear conflict, and was alarmed at quite how many actually exist; and not necessarily the obvious ones. For example, consider the threat of a war between the NATO and Russia over Ukraine. You might think this to be a distant possibility, but then who would have thought in 1914 that the assassination of an unloved nonentity in Eastern Europe would lead to one of the cruelest wars in history? The essential ingredient for any war is an underlying distrust between the competing powers. Add to that an element of fear, and you have a potential conflict.
All of these ingredients are present in the Ukrainian scenario, for the following reasons: As the European economic zone of influence expands further east, swallowing former Soviet republics, Russia finds herself increasingly isolated. This has shown signs of engendering within Russia a dangerous inferiority complex that would only be aggravated by former Soviet republics sealing their ties with the west by seeking membership of NATO, or worse, the EU. Hence the number of current Russian political and military leaders who have warned Western powers against expanding NATO to Russia's own borders; threats that are being foolishly disregarded by our own leaders. To understand why Russia is being so defensive in this respect, one needs only to look at its history. Russia has been invaded - usually without success - more often than perhaps any other nation on earth. It is therefore only natural that it should feel threatened by the prospect of an awesome military power such as NATO perched on its doorstep. How would America react in such a scenario?
Needless to say, these issues have been ignored by western policymakers, who may come to rue the day that they dismissed Russian sentiments with such contempt.
After some consideration, the scenario I chose for this novel was one of the more obvious ones. It is unlikely that any rational power would intentionally start a nuclear war, but the possibilities for an accident are almost infinite, particularly if the element of tension already exists.
Personally, I do not believe that nuclear conflict is inevitable, but that is not to say that the threat does not continue to cast a shadow over the very existence of our infant civilization.
I leave you, the reader, to judge on just how successful I have been in creating a future history of what would be the most horrific war in the history of mankind. I hope that once you have read this novel, you are in no doubt whatsoever that the world is on the brink every bit as much as it was twenty years ago.
And to hell with blow jobs in the Oval Office.
Toby Murray
London, England,
November 1998
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing this novel - in all its incarnations - has been a labor of love for the best part of three years. There have been times when I wanted to quit, and times when I never wanted to see a word processor for the rest of my life. I would therefore like to accord my gratitude to the people who convinced me that TTM was worth persevering with, for this novel would not exist without them:
My wife Lee, for her love, advice, creative input, brutally honest criticism and for the endless hours of brainstorming (apologies for blowing up her nation in the progress). This story is as much hers as it is mine.
To all the informed members of the 'alt.war.military.us' and 'alt.us.politics' Internet newsgroups who have endured my endless questions and answered them with patience, diligence and detail. Also to Jurgen Voegler, Major Tim Evans, Anatoly Filitov, Dr John Moorhouse for helping me wargame the Third World War, the folks at the Royal Institute of International Affairs (www.riia.org), 1stLt. Sandy Tollmeyer, Doug McClelland and Captain Richard Barnes. Particular thanks also to my good E-Mail buddy Sergei Avalev for the "Pep" on Russian aphorisms. Very amusing. As promised, the vodka is on me next time I'm in Moscow.
Colin Rowbotham, my old English teacher; the man who first encouraged me to put pen to paper (or finger to keyboard) and taught me that a failed novelist who only half finishes a work is far better than one who spends his life not even trying.
Tony Tyler for his encouragement, proofing and not being afraid to tell me when I was writing "inane waffle" (his words not mine).
Gwyneth for persuading me that Investment Banking was far less rewarding than she convinced herself it was.
John Blackshaw, Lorna Otieno, Andy Afolabi, Dave Chinnick, Barry Shaw, Martyn Burns, Adrian Bowers, Richard Bennett, Herbie 'Bassey', Derek Oliver, Pattie, Peter Thomson and Richard Ellison for being the best friends one could have and for picking me up from various pub floors when the booze flowed a little too freely. Although I'll never admit it to your faces, you guys kept me going.
Craig Rosenthal for the original concept (and for loaning me a couple of characters).
Andrew Murray (no relation) for the politics - any mistakes are mine, not his.
All the ladies and gents at the Los Alamos Atomic Research Institute's public relations office for being so helpful, patient and diligent in dealing with my asinine inquiries.
Especially to my Mum, Aunt Glad, Cyril & Barbara, Roberta & Micky, Charlotte, Dan and Nikki for always believing in me and for enduring the whims and eccentricities of their oft-wayward relative (they might recognize some of the characterizations). Also to my late, great grandmother Grace Emden, for always being there.
This novel is dedicated to the many brave men and women of the British and U.S. armed forces who continue to fight the good fight, and especially to those who never came home.
At what point shall we expect the danger? By what means shall we fortify against it? Shall we expect some transatlantic military giant to step the ocean and crush us at a blow? Never! All the armies of Africa, Asia and Europe combined, with all the treasure of the earth... could not by force, take a drink from the Ohio or make a track on the Blue Ridge in a trial of a thousand years... If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher. As a nation of freemen, we must live through all time, or die by suicide.
Abraham Lincoln
January 27, 1838
A man's character is his fate...
Heraclitus
I do not know with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.
Albert Einstein
If the radiance of a thousand suns were to burst forth at once in the sky, that would be like the splendor of the Mighty One... I am become Death, the shatterer of worlds.
The sacred Hindu epic Bhagavad-Gita recalled by J. Robert Oppenheimer
July 16, 1945
The living would envy the dead.
Nikita Khrushchev
20 July, 1963
To Steve and Caroline. I told you so.
NOTES
· It is estimated that, under the terms of the START II treaty, the combined nuclear arsenals of the United States and Russian Federation will, by 2003, number approximately 20,000 warheads. This number comprises all weapons in the nuclear triad (air, sea and land based). At the time of writing, neither the United States nor Russia has yet ratified START II.
· Ethnic Russians comprise approximately 22% of the Ukrainian population. Since the disintegration of the Soviet Union, there have been several clashes between this group and Ukrainian nationalists.
· In 1992, the Strategic Air Command was disbanded and replaced by Air Combat Command; the justification being that a new organizational structure was required to cope with the challenges of a multipolar world, rather than a bipolar one. In 1995, USSTRATCOM was established to exercise command authority over all strategic forces (air, land and sea based).
· Intelligence sources have estimated that Russia's satellite based early warning systems are only sixty percent functional, possibly less. This has been caused by a lack of funding causing orbital stations to fall into disrepair.
· In 1998, a friendship treaty was signed between the Russian Federation and the Republic of Ukraine, with a view to establishing an economic and military union. However, certain political elements in both countries remain fundamentally hostile to the idea.
· In 1996, President Bill Clinton was said to have informed Congressional leaders that it was no longer the policy of the United States to automatically retaliate against a nuclear attack against the west.
PERSPECTIVE: POLITICAL BACKGROUND TO THE RUSSO-UKRAINE CONFLICT
The background to the conflict between the Russian Federation and Ukraine can be traced back to the last days of the Soviet Union. Ukraine became autonomous of the USSR on 1stDecember, 1991. Following the collapse of the Soviet Empire, Ukraine found itself the custodian of not only the feared Black Sea Fleet but a substantial arsenal of intermediate range and intercontinental ballistic nuclear weapons.
These issues were duly settled, with control of both the Black Sea Fleet and Ukrainian ICBM fields reverting to Moscow. However, the Russian Federation remained suspicious of the Ukraine's stated desire to move closer to the European Union, and thus NATO. In December 1998, a friendship treaty was signed between Russia and Ukraine, with the ultimate aim of creating an economic - if not political - union.
Opposition parties in the Ukraine vehemently opposed this treaty and in the subsequent general election, a right wing nationalist coalition won a landslide majority and promised to renege on the treaty with Russia. Ethnic Russians, who comprised 22% of Ukraine's population, took to the streets to protest against the new government's nationalist policies. Several hundred of them were gunned down outside the parliament building in Kiev by Ukrainian security forces.
Russian President Mikhail Godonov - under political pressure to intervene - pledged that "this heinous crime will not go unanswered". Two days later, a Russian Expeditionary Force crossed Ukraine's border, provoking a brutal and bloody conflict.
PERSPECTIVE: MILITARY BACKGROUND TO THE RUSSO-UKRAINE CONFLICT
After occupying most of the Ukraine east of the Dneiper in the early days of the war, the Russian Expeditionary Force has been slowly pushed back towards its own borders by the Ukrainian Army, which has enjoyed success in severing vital Russian supply lines from the north. Despite the Russians' own success in securing unchallenged air superiority early in the conflict, Ukrainian troops have pinned the bulk of the invading ground army into the far east of the country, and are themselves beginning to make significant gains in the northeast.
The latest phase of the war has seen Russia attempt to outflank the Ukrainians by taking advantage of poorly defended lines in the south, while under the protective umbrella of the Black Sea fleet. Yet here too they have encountered fierce opposition and have been unable to make any significant gains.
It is also worth noting - and this is something that hasn't gone unnoticed by Russian military planners - that the Ukrainians have held back a significant proportion of their armed forces in the west, on the Polish, Romanian and Moldovan borders. These units, largely comprising tank brigades and heavy armor units, constitute the bulk of the Ukraine's elite Nationalist Army.
PERSPECTIVE: THE BALANCE OF POWER
As the story begins, relations between Russia and the United States are at their lowest ebb since the end of the Cold War. There are several reasons for this, primary among them Russia's invasion of Ukraine and NATO's expansion into Eastern Europe. NATO troops are now within striking distance of Russia's western and southwestern borders, a situation that has resulted in a vast increase in Russian military expenditure.
Nevertheless, most of this increase has been absorbed by the Ukrainian conflict, on which the U.S. Government's public stance has been at best guarded, at worst neutral.
Russia's strategic nuclear forces have suffered from a lack of funding and it is widely considered that much of her ICBM arsenal is inoperative, having slipped into a state of disrepair. Furthermore, a classified estimate by the Rand Corporation of Russian strategic readiness has warned that Russia's satellite and ground based early warning systems are, at best, sixty percent and possibly as low as thirty percent operational.
In the meantime, several other nations have acquired ballistic missile capability, enabling them to launch nuclear strikes against almost any target on Earth. These nations include North Korea, Iran, India and Pakistan. Four years ago, the U.S. Senate published the Strategic Defense Review, which concluded that the United States must enhance its strategic nuclear capability in order to deal with an increased threat of attack, not only from Russia, but also from several rogue states.
The main consequence of this is that America now has three active B-2 Stealth Bomber wings on constant strip alert, as opposed to just one in the late nineties. These are based at Dyess AFB in Texas, Whiteman AFB in Missouri and Fairchild AFB in Washington. All are ready to scramble at a moment's notice. Additionally, the U.S. Navy now has no less than thirty nuclear-armed Ballistic Missile submarines put to sea at any one time.
Yet, despite the U.S. Government's perception of an increased threat of nuclear conflict, there has been little attention paid to or money spent on civil defense.
CHARACTERS FEATURED IN TEN TO MIDNIGHT
Bert Aldick
National Security Advisor
Gen. Robert Allen
Commander in Chief of NORAD
Douglas Altman
U.S. Consul-General in Frankfurt, Germany
Carl Beakman
Director of FEMA emergency bunker at Olney, Maryland
Franz Berger
Chancellor of Germany
Jean-Claude Betin
President of France
Anthony Bishop
Director of the CIA (DCI)
Tabatha Canning
Teenage lover of Bert Aldick
Admiral James Dunster
Secretary of the Navy
Richard Gellis
Foreign correspondent for the New York Post
Mikhail Godonov
President of the Russian Federation
Alexander Stephanovich Grizov
Director of Russian Security Service (FSB)
John Huth
CIA Deputy Director of Operations (DDO)
Nikolai Stefanovich Pushkin
Russian Prime Minister
Harry Jago
FEMA Communications Officer
Steve Jefferson
Secret Service agent attached to the Presidential detail
Gen. Anatoly Mikhailovich Kalushin
Commanding General of Russian Air Force
Capt. Holly Kurato
Missile Launch officer at Warren AFB
Grigory Kurov
Russian intelligence officer
Bethany Logan
Martin Logan's wife
Cathy Logan
Martin Logan's mother
Maj. Martin Logan
B-2A Mission Commander
Patrick Logan
Martin Logan's father
Alexander Lukin
Russian Ambassador to the United States
Maj-Gen Frank Mackay
Deputy Commander-in-Chief of NORAD
Capt. Laura McCann
B-2A Flight Commander
Dr Joanne Miller
Cardiovascular surgeon at Johns Hopkins Medical Center
Edward Francis Mitchell
President of the United States
Professor Margaret Mitchell
First Lady
Betsy Morgan
Hilary Thomson's best friend
Paul Nielsen
U.S. Secretary of Defense
Capt. Nick Pearson
Missile Launch officer at Warren AFB
Jim Reynolds
White House Chief of Staff
Dr Ivan Rosenberg
Neurosurgeon at Johns Hopkins Medical Center
David Sharp (a.k.a. FALCON)
CIA field operative based in Ukraine
Dr Lewis Stein
Russian capabilities expert/Presidential advisor
Bradley Copeland
U.S. Secretary of State
Jack Sullivan
Anchorman for Global Cable News
Mikhail Olegovich Suronev
Russian Foreign Minister
Hilary Thomson
Judy Thomson's elderly mother
Judy Thomson
White House switchboard operator
Gen. Marion Westwood
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff
Gen. Harry Wilkes
Director of the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA)
Harold Winterburn
Prime Minister of Great Britain
Gen. Gennady Andreiovich Yazov
Chief of Russia's Strategic Rocket Forces (RVSN)
ACRONYMS USED IN TEN TO MIDNIGHT
AAMRAM
Air To Air Missile
ABM
Anti Ballistic Missile
ACC
Air Combat Command
AEDS
Atomic Energy Detection System
ALCM
Air Launched Cruise Missiles
APC
Armored Personnel Carrier
BMEWS
Ballistic Missile Early Warning System
CO
Commanding Officer
CONUS
Continental United States
DCI
CIA Director of Central Intelligence
DDI
CIA Deputy Director of Intelligence
DDO
CIA Deputy Director of Operations
DEFCON
Defense Condition
DMSP
Defense Meteorological Support Program
DSCS
Defense Satellite Communications System
EAM
Emergency Action Message
EAS
Emergency Alert System
ELINT
Electronic Intelligence
EMP
ElectroMagnetic Pulse
EWO
Emergency War Orders
FEMA
Federal Emergency Management Agency
FSB
Russian Intelligence Service
GCHQ
British Government Communications H.Q.
HUD
Heads Up Display
HUMINT
Human Intelligence
ICBM
Intercontinental Ballistic Missile
IRBM
Intermediate Range Ballistic Missile
JCS
U.S. Joint Chiefs of Staff
JEEP
Joint Emergency Evacuation Plan
KNEECAP
National Emergency Airborne Command Post
KT
Kiloton
NBC
Nuclear Chemical Biological suit
NCA
National Command Authority
NMCC
National Military Command Center at the Pentagon
NORAD
North American Air Defense Command
PAVE PAWS
Phased Array Warning System
PCP
Positive Control Point
PLA
Chinese People's Liberation Army
PSESP
Presidential Successor Emergency Support Program
PSI
Pounds pressure per Square Inch
PVO-STRANY
Russian Air Defense Command (equivalent to NORAD)
RVSN
Russian Strategic Rocket Forces
SAM
Surface to Air Missile
SBIRS
Space Based Infrared Systems
SIOP
Single Integrated Operations Plan
SIS
British Special Intelligence Service
SLBM
Submarine Launch Ballistic Missile
SSBN
Ballistic Missile Submarine
STAVKA
Russian Military High Command
STRATCOM
U.S. Strategic Command
TACAMO
Take Charge And Move Out
USSS
U.S. Secret Service
XO
Executive Officer
PRELUDE
"It is not the bullet with my name on it that bothers me; it is the bullet addressed 'To Whom It Concerns'..."
Anonymous Belfast resident, quoted in the London Guardian (1995)
IVANKOV, KIEV PROVINCE, UKRAINE
He checked his watch and swore. His name was Oleg Stefanovich Gerasimov, but his men better knew the Ukrainian Army Colonel as 'The Hunter'. It was a title of great reverence bestowed upon a cunning warrior whose adeptness on the battlefield had already made him something of a national folk hero.
Just a few years earlier, one might have found him teaching English to classrooms of teenage students in Kiev. That was before the Russians had invaded his country, their tanks and heavy artillery flattening every village in their path. One such village, a small hamlet called Pukhovka, had contained Gerasimov's wife, mother and seven-year-old daughter. Their remains were now buried in unmarked graves, alongside the countless other civilians who had died at the hands of the murderous invaders from the northeast.
For Gerasimov, who until that dreadful day had never lifted a finger in anger, the slaughter of his family had been a defining moment in his life. He didn't remember the precise moment when he had decided to make the transition from schoolteacher to soldier. It had just happened naturally. The schoolteacher in him had died, creating a void to be filled by a life very much different. Indeed, his memories of a normal, civilian existence faded a little more with every passing day. The only memory that remained clear in his mind was that of his beautiful wife, Ivana, smiling angelically at him as she held Gerasimov's daughter in her arms. That was the last time he'd seen either of them. The image haunted Gerasimov every time he closed his eyes, and provided him with all the motivation he needed to deal with the fear and solitude of his new incarnation.
Unlike many of his comrades in the Ukrainian Army, his motivation was not so much to free his homeland from Russian oppression, but to satisfy a basic craving for retribution. Caring little for the political implications of Russia's invasion, he wanted simply to kill as many as possible of the men who had slain his loved ones. Perhaps the individuals responsible for their deaths would not be among those whose lives he took, but that didn't really matter, did it? They were all animals. All of a sameness.
Almost two years to the day since Russian heavy armor had first crossed Ukraine's border, Gerasimov found himself standing on the muddy banks of the River Zdvizh, gazing across the serene water that flowed downstream from the Dneiper, the republic's main river along which Russian naval vessels ferried troops and supplies to the front. The Russians had come to know this supply route as 'Death Alley', since the riverbanks invariably provided a gauntlet of Ukrainian artillery units, many of them under Gerasimov's command. It was an ugly place, no more so now than before the war. But for all its aesthetic shortcomings, it was one of the most valuable pieces of real estate in the entire Ukraine, from a strategic perspective anyway. That was something Gerasimov had appreciated long before his Russian counterparts, and that was why his troops and not the enemy now held this territory.
Gerasimov was a rather ordinary looking man, although his penetrating ice blue eyes and rugged Slavic features radiated a danger that his late wife would not have recognized. At barely thirty-five years old, he was one of the youngest Ukrainian officers to have made the rank of Colonel. He was also one of the few who spoke fluent English, having studied in England many years earlier.
Which had made him uniquely qualified for this operation.
It was a cold, dank morning, a reluctant sun peering over the Chernivhiskan hills, as if somewhat disinclined to cast illumination over the battle-scarred lands of the Urals. As dawn rolled over the land, Ivankov's 5,000 or more inhabitants began to rise. Their town had become a nationalist stronghold since several hundred Ukrainian troops had captured it from occupying Russian forces some six months earlier. Ivankov was now the Ukrainian Army's base of operations in Kiev Province.
The Russians were concentrating their efforts to the southeast these days, but were encountering fierce opposition from defending forces in the towns and hamlets surrounding Donets'k. Gerasimov had heard rumors that the Russian Army, beleaguered and demoralized, was on the verge of abandoning its illfated invasion. But he didn't trust rumors, for they had a tendency to encourage complacence. He would believe the rumors only once the last Russian invader had left the Ukraine in a body bag. Not that he'd offered much thought to what he would do once the war was over. Perhaps he'd give his relations the funeral they deserved. Or perhaps, like the war dog he'd become, he would allow the sum of the horrors he'd witnessed over the past two years to encroach upon his sanity.
But such issues were for another day.
He checked his watch again, cursing silently. The two lieutenants flanking him glanced at each other, both sensing their commander's foul mood.
"There!" one of them exclaimed, pointing upstream.
Gerasimov squinted, using a hand to shade his eyes from the fierce morning sun. He allowed himself a thin smile, more out of relief than joy. The river transport was steadily drifting towards the bank upon which Gerasimov stood, its engines switched off to limit the risk of enemy detection. This had become a routine operation over the past several months; perhapstoo routine, he reflected. He momentarily considered making alternative arrangements for the next time, before his luck ran out and a curious Russian officer decided to inspect the cargo of the innocuous looking river transport.
As the boat came to shore, Gerasimov's two lieutenants tied it to its moorings and jumped aboard, where they were met by men who had become familiar acquaintances - if not quite friends - over recent months. Greetings and handshakes were exchanged. They promptly disappeared below deck. Not Gerasimov though. He stayed on the shore, waiting.
A blonde man in jeans, black t-shirt and blue baseball cap stepped ashore and smiled cockily at the Ukrainian, exposing perfect white teeth. He shared a brief embrace with the Colonel. Gerasimov knew his contact only by the codenameFalcon . He was an American; and, although his accent betrayed his origins as Texan, he spoke Russian like a native. Gerasimov imagined he'd learned that at the CIA's language training facility in Virginia. It was said that their teachers were among the best in the world.
"You're late," the Ukrainian told him in perfect English. His choice of tongue was a deliberate reminder to the American that not all Slavs were barbarians.
"I'm sorry, Colonel. We got held up by a Russian frigate coming out of Gornostaypol'."
Gerasimov's eyes widened in concern.
"Don't worry,"Falcon reassured him. "They didn't find anything. We told them we were shipping medical supplies." He brandished the papers that would have given credence to that claim had the Russians bothered to check "I figure the Russkies have got bigger fish to fry these days, anyway."
Gerasimov, who knew that he was one of those fish, dismissed the American's observation. "Good," he nodded, his taut, alert eyes scanning the horizon for danger. "You have everything I requested?"
"Check it for yourself." The American jerked his head back towards the boat, where the men who had disappeared below deck moments earlier were emerging with three large wooden crates, each weighing over two hundred pounds. They heaved them onto the riverbank then returned to the boat to fetch some more.
Gerasimov took a crowbar and a hammer from his backpack and jimmied the first crate open. His mouth curled upwards. He produced two M-60 machine guns and handed them to his lieutenants. They inspected them with glee, mentally picturing what their new toys would do to any Russian soldier who got close enough.
"Eighty units with ammo,"Falcon confirmed. "As requested."
Gerasimov nodded briskly and opened the second crate. This one was filled to the brim with small packages that proved rather impressible to the touch. There was enoughplastique here to wake up the Gods, he realized with no small degree of satisfaction.
The third crate contained about three hundred rocket grenades, neatly packed in polystyrene. That would lift the troops' morale, he thought. Rocket grenades had proved the most effective weapon against Russian convoys heading south. The best tactic against convoys, he had taught his men, was to take out the lead vehicle, creating an obstruction that would stall the following vehicles, thus making them sitting ducks for Ukrainian artillery.
"I need more supplies," he told the American.
No need to thank me,Falconthought bitterly. "What do you need?"
The Ukrainian handed him a list. Falconarched his eyebrows as he scanned it. The order was unconventional, to say the least, but the American knew that it was not his place to question its contents. He pocketed the list and nodded to the affirmative. "Might take a few weeks. We'll be in touch, huh?"
"Don't take too long."
Gerasimov made a gesture to his men, who closed the crates, loaded them onto a truck, and covered them with a dark green tarpaulin. Within half an hour, the new shipment of weaponry would be securely packed in the town armory, a building which until quite recently had been Ivankov's sole police station. With the Ukrainian Army now maintaining a heavy presence in the town, there was no longer any need for police.
He shook hands with the CIA operative, turned on his heel and climbed into the front passenger seat of the truck.
FALCONreturned to the boat, grumping to himself about how ungrateful these damn Ukes were. He didn't understand why the US government was covertly assisting them, given that Washington was publicly maintaining a neutral stance on the Russo-Ukrainian conflict, but he reminded himself that it wasn't his job to understand the logic of his political leaders. His role was merely to do his masters' bidding, and that was perhaps the most exasperating aspect of what he considered to be an otherwise rewarding job. As he always told new recruits, the lot of a CIA field officer could be a pleasant one, providing that one enjoyed foreign travel, being shot at and occasionally getting to kill the odd bad guy.
His boat headed west. Within three hours, he was in the city of Zhitomir, where he assumed the cover of a German journalist working for theBerliner Morgenpost newspaper. His German, although rusty, was spoken with an East Berlin accent, and his fake papers would survive close scrutiny. He had to hand it to the boys at Langley; they really knew their stuff.
In Zhitomir, he headed on foot towards the train terminal. On the way, he collided with an innocuous looking man in shabby overalls and a wooly hat. Apologies were exchanged, and, in the same instant, Gerasimov's shopping list was slipped into the pocket of the man's overalls. The chance encounter was an ordinary accident, nothing to arouse suspicion. And the handover was so slickly executed that even a trained eye would have had trouble spotting it. Falcondidn't know what would happen to the list, but an educated guess was that it would end up at Langley, via the US Embassy in Kiev.
Falconcaught a train to Kiev, where he used a UK passport in the name of Douglas Nevin to catch a British Airways flight to London and back into friendly territory.
After that, he didn't offer much thought to Gerasimov or any of the other Ukrainian men and women who were using American weapons to kill Russian troops. His only thought concerned the prospect of spending a couple of well earned vacation days fishing in Maine.
HOUSTON, TEXAS
Dr Jake Bremner saw it every day, especially in this part of town. It never ceased to amaze him that, no matter how much you tried to educate them, teenage girls still had unprotected sex without allowing any thought to the consequences. This neighborhood was full of young, single mothers who were unable to support their babies. Hell, most of these kids couldn't even read or write yet, never mind find a job. The babies themselves were, of course, raised in the same culture of poverty and welfare dependency as their parents. And thus the vicious circle was perpetuated. It was enough to test any man's faith in human nature, but Bremner had long since become immune to his miserable surroundings, largely by constantly reminding himself that he was a doctor, and not a sociologist.
This particular girl's name was Tabatha Canning. A pretty and intelligent 14-year-old, she might have made something of her life had fate dealt her a better hand (or a better neighborhood, Bremner reflected sadly). She was the eldest of four children, all of whom had been sired by different fathers. Two of her younger siblings were girls, and Bremner expected that they would probably soon enough end up in the same predicament as their big sister.
Tabatha's grades were excellent and, like most of her peers, she was acutely streetwise. Despite this, she had still succumbed to peer pressure and - well, Bremner knew the rest. If he'd seen it once, he'd seen it a thousand times. Whatever her potential had been, it would probably remain forever unrealized.
"Okay, Tabatha," he said, having completed his examination. "You can put your clothes back on now."
Once she had dressed, she sat down opposite the doctor. He was scribbling notes on her file.
"Well, Tabatha," Bremner intoned softly. "You're going to be a mother." His feigned cheerfulness concealed the sadness he felt for her.
No matter how many times he'd said those words to girls that were no more than children themselves, it still distressed him to see the effect it had on them. Of course, they all reacted differently; some were distraught, others overjoyed. But most were just stunned into silence, unable to comprehend how this could have happened to them.
Tabatha, falling distinctly into the latter category, stared at him with incredulity. She blinked and shook her head with vigor, as if trying to wake up from a bad dream. "But he said..."
"That he was sterile, right?" Bremner finished the sentence for her. Bastard, he thought bitterly. The things some guys will do to get a girl into bed. "I've heard that one before."
"Yeah, sterile. That's it."
Bremner shook his head in dismay. Not as streetwise as I thought. "And you bought that?"
She couldn't look the doctor in the eye. Her head was hung in shame at her own stupidity. "Not at first, I didn't, no. But, him bein' so important, an' all, I didn't think he'd bullshit me."
Important? A local drug pusher, perhaps? Bremner adopted his most reassuring tone. "You need to think about your future, Tabatha," he advised. "You need to consider whether you're ready for this. I won't try to talk you into anything you don't want to do, but make sure you know what you're in for. No more partying. No more socializing. For the next twenty-one years, you will be entirely responsible for another human life. Do you understand what that means? More importantly, do you realize that youdo have a choice?" He gave this speech to every girl that came into his clinic with the same problem. It wasn't a matter of being pro or anti abortion; it was more a matter of allowing every woman - or, in this case, child - a second chance to make something of her life if she wanted to take it.
"'Course I know," she snapped. "And I'm keepin' the baby, y'hear?"
Bremner pursed his lips and nodded sympathetically. She might change her mind once she'd had time to reflect on her circumstances, but probably not. "What about the father?" he asked. "Will he support you?" Dumb question, Jake, he told himself.
She shrugged with indifference. "He's back in DC now. I met him in a hotel bar. My cousin is a hotel bartender, see? He lets me sit at the bar and talk to him when things get rough at home. The guy who did this to me," she pointed at her still flat stomach, "was a real hotshot. Older guy, said he was in town for a conference. He wore an expensive watch. A gold one." She paused. "Hell, he probably doesn't even remember me. He got me drunk and, well..." She shrugged, leaving the rest unsaid.
"What's his name? Maybe I could try to contact him." It wasn't something Bremner offered to do as a rule, but Tabatha was different. She had the potential to break out of this neighborhood, perhaps even get a college scholarship. That in itself made her worth the exception. Every soul saved...
She smiled. It was a pretty, intelligent smile that made her look much older than her fourteen years. A detached part of the doctor's mind could understand what might have endeared her to an older man. He immediately reproached himself for the thought.
"I don't think he'd take your calls either," she told him.
"Why not?"
Tabatha revealed the father's identity, certain that Bremner wouldn't believe her.
HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT
Waxy'swas not an establishment noted for its friendly welcome or sophisticated ambience. Popular among the local biker community, it was rather better known as a place to get into an old fashioned bar brawl or 'score' a hit of illegal narcotics. Unsurprisingly, this made it the target of periodic raids by the Hartford Police Department who, more often than not, arrived too late to catch anybody breaking the law in any way.
One of the regulars, however, was neither a biker nor a junkie. So far as his colleagues and neighbors were concerned, he was merely a quiet, polite guy who happened to teach at the University of Connecticut. A loner who showed no predilection to talk about himself or his past. Only those who studied his eyes - and knew what to look for - were given the slightest indication that he had ever been anything more than a mere teacher.
His appearance was closer to that of a drunken bum than a Doctor of International Affairs. His leathery features were framed by scraggy, lank hair that looked like it hadn't been washed in a week. Although his lean frame was powerful and deceptively muscular, you certainly wouldn't bet on him winning a fight with a competent brawler. His olive skin and deep-set brown eyes gave him a slightly Mediterranean appearance, and he was the only customer in Waxy's to wear a tie, albeit very loosely knotted around the open collar of an unironed shirt. Otherwise, there was nothing terribly distinctive about him. That was no accident. He enjoyed his anonymity.
His name was Dr. Lewis Stein, and he was rapidly getting drunk.
Propped at the bar, he took his last cigarette from its pack and lit it, dropping the empty packet on the floor.
"You all set?" the bartender called over.
Lewis considered the offer for all of a microsecond, and drained his fifth straight shot of neat Jack Daniels with an eye-watering swig.
"Not now I'm not, Jim," he growled, slamming his empty glass on the bar. "Hit me."
Lewis's origins were betrayed by his accent. Despite having been a naturalized American citizen for over a decade, he had never lost the Estuary cadence that identified him as a former native of London, England. His family -- which now comprised only his mother and a great aunt - still resided there, but his own memories of the old country were becoming foggier by the bottle. He still maintained contact with them, although these days contact was generally restricted to a brief phone call every month or so (yes I'm doing well, yes I'm eating well, yes I'm still teaching, please stop fussing like I'm a kid, I'm thirty-nine years old). He kept telling himself that he should visit them, having not done so for over two years. All that prevented him from doing so was a reluctance to let them see him in his current burned-out state. Not much for a mother to be proud of, am I?
"Here you go, Doc," the bartender said, placing a fresh shot of Jack in front of him.
"Nice one, Jim."
As he went to pick up his drink, he became aware of impending danger. He hadn't exactly seen the two men approaching from behind, but his well-honed instincts had kicked in, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand on end. He gently placed his drink down on the bar and turned around.
The two men that confronted him looked no different from any of the other lowlifes who frequentedWaxy's . One was tall and grossly overweight, a beer gut peering over the waistline of absurdly tight leather pants. He would've cast an intimidating figure for anybody who thought that size was necessarily relative to physical strength. Lewis, however, was less intimidated than amused by the comically obese figure.
His companion, also wearing leathers, was skinny and ugly as hell, exposing gaps in his stained, crooked teeth as he smiled. His features struck Lewis as bearing some resemblance to those of a rodent. A cigarette drooped from his mouth, and his dull, heavy lidded stare belonged to someone who wasn't terribly bright.
Fatboy and Ratboy, Lewis mentally termed them. That thought almost elicited a chuckle.
"Cute accent you got there, pal," Fatboy noted in a deep growl that seemed to rise from the bowels of his ample stomach. "You really a doc?"
Lewis's cold eyes appraised his new acquaintances. "Not the sort you need, pal," he grinned, a mocking edge to his tone.
"Hey," Ratboy enthused to his larger friend. "We got us a Limey here."
"What you've got yourselves, boys," Lewis corrected him, "is more trouble than you need. Now why don't you leave me alone and drink your drinks, and everybody will be happy."
"Oh," Fatboy said, mock disappointment. "That's a shame. I was kinda hopin' you'd help my friend here, you bein' a doc an' all. He needs a doc."
Lewis glanced at Ratboy, who was excitedly nodding agreement, a demented look in his eyes. Drugs, he realized with no small measure of distaste.
"Evidently," he sneered. "But, like I said, I'm not the guy you need." His eyes adopted a fierce intensity that only those who knew him recognized as dangerous to the extreme. Unfortunately for Fatboy and Ratboy, neither of them knew him, and even if they had known him, they probably wouldn't have been smart enough to recognize the danger they were in. "In fact," he warned quietly, "I'm thelast fucking guy you need right now, understand?" How many warnings do you need, you dumb fucks?
Fatboy squared up to Lewis, trying to intimidate him with his sheer bulk. It had always worked for him before. The logic was simple; he was twice Lewis's size. But the college lecturer remained unfazed, his eyes unblinking, peripheral vision alert to any danger that Ratboy or anybody else was likely to pose.
"Hey guys," the bartender implored. "Let's all take it easy, okay?"
"Fuck you," Fatboy barked, not realizing that the plea had been aimed more at Lewis than the bikers. The bartender hadn't seen Lewis in action before, but he'd heard rumors. Nasty ones. Enough to make him nervous for the bikers' safety.
Almost everybody in the bar had stopped what they were doing. Even the guys who had been shooting pool laid their cues on the blue baize so they could watch. Fights were not uncommon in Waxy's, but this one had a definite twist. A drunk in a suit squaring up to two hard-ass bikers. Either he had a death wish, or he'd had too much liquor for his own good.
Lewis began to sense a shadow of fear creeping into Fatboy's eyes. This was obviously a guy who was accustomed to other men backing down in the shadow of his considerable girth. He wasn't sure how to react to somebody who didn't. Perhaps, finally, he'd recognized danger when he found it on a barstool.
There was a lot at stake here. Fatboy couldn't be seen to back off in front of his biker buddies. If he allowed a candy-ass doctor to face him down, he'd never be able to set foot in this establishment again.
That thought, after a fashion, had to be going through his mind, Lewis knew. Therefore, it was just a matter of who took the first swing.
And so it begins.
"Anyhow, who said anything aboutme needing you?" Fatboy growled so quietly that only Lewis could hear him. "It's my friend who has needs. Get the drift?" He leaned forward so that Lewis could feel his fetid breath on his face. Lewis sized up the overweight aggressor one last time, allowing him a final generous opportunity to walk away, but always knowing that he wouldn't.
"You've got a cute butt," Ratboy giggled, fidgeting on the spot. He posed little threat, Lewis decided.
Fatboy, on the other hand, not only had an obvious need to prove his masculinity, but he suffered from a serious BO condition. Unfortunately for him, that was about to become the least of his problems.
"I get the drift," Lewis confirmed.
The move was so swift that nobody even saw it. Lewis fired a hard right jab, angled upwards into Fatboy's jugular with such force that the larger man's windpipe was virtually crushed. In the same instant, he slid off his barstool, used his spare hand to grab Fatboy's right arm, and snapped it over his knee at an impossible angle. Before the wave of pain even hit the biker, Lewis whipped the broken arm upwards, using Fatboy's own fist to break his nose.
That entire sequence of moves took less than two seconds. Had Lewis been ten years' younger, it would have been even quicker.
Fatboy staggered backwards, clutching his throat with his left hand and distantly wondering why his other arm wasn't responding. His eyes were wide with shock. Blood gushed from his nose. He slumped to the floor, the pain from all his various injuries hitting him simultaneously. His mouth widened as if to scream, but the damage to his windpipe prevented any sound from escaping his lips.
Lewis's peripheral vision caught something approaching him from his right. He instinctively pivoted on the ball of his left foot while bringing his right up with his full body weight behind it. It connected at tremendous velocity with the jaw of a previously anonymous biker who had tried to sneak up on him. The sound of crunching bone was swiftly followed by a thud as the crippled biker hit the floor, his feeble groans those of a man verging on unconsciousness.
The other bikers backed off as a nervous collective. Sure, they could have taken him had they combined their efforts. But nobody wanted to be the first, and besides, they were no longer sure that this ragged looking Limey doctor was just another drunk. After all, you sure didn't see many drunk doctors move that fast. Behind his intense, alert expression, Lewis sensed the question that - after a fashion - was going through their minds: Just who the hell is this guy?
He maintained a defensive posture for a few moments, but nobody else dared to challenge him. Ratboy was nowhere to be seen.
Lewis relaxed and looked down at Fatboy, who was still on the floor gasping, his windpipe shattered. He hadn't wanted it to come to this. The truth of it was, he abhorred violence in all its forms. But violence had sadly become an integral part of his life, and it always seemed to find him no matter how much he tried to avoid it. Violence had made him what he was. It had taken the lives of several friends and cost him his marriage. And now here he was, trying to find solace in a bottle of Jack, and still violence had found him. He wanted to ask the bikers why they had provoked him, why they couldn't have just left him alone. Unfortunately, they didn't seem in any condition to answer.
Bitter at life, at the world, but most of all at himself, he threw a fifty-dollar bill onto the bar and pushed his way past the stunned onlookers towards the exit.
Behind him, he didn't hear the acerbic remark that the bartender made to the semi-conscious Fatboy.
"Nowyou need a doctor, pal."
THE CRISIS
I
RUMBLINGS
"The human race cannot coexist with nuclear weapons"
Iccho Itoh, Mayor of Nagasaki (1995)
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
Several years after the event, somebody would note that, "World War Three began in the most peculiar of circumstances". In fact, the terrible sequence of events that were to lead to global conflict began in the Kremlin office of the then Russian President, who could not have known that his entire life was about to come to an abrupt and premature end, or that his death would, through a perverse distortion of fate, lead to the deaths of millions more.
His doctors were always warning him to lay off the alcohol, but what did they know about the stresses faced by the leader of the world's largest nation? Theydidn't have to worry about how on earth they were going to keep Russia's eternally warring political factions from dragging the entire nation into a pit of anarchy. Neither didthey have to worry about how to pay the soldiers who insured against that very event. Or about how to placate the West, with its self-righteous implorations to stick to a suicidal economic reform program that was strangling the Russian economy. For how much longer will the people believe that better times are around the corner? Without the West's continued support, Russia's struggling economy - insofar as it was any longer an economy - would implode. As for the spiraling problem of crime and corruption; well, that wasn't the doctors' problem either, was it?
All of these things did, however, concern Mikhail Pushkinich Godonov, President of the Russian Federation. And, whatever the doctors said, alcohol was the only thing that kept the vast responsibilities of state from driving him to insanity. He wished that they could understand that simple truth. If he gave up his one small luxury in life and capitulated to a nervous breakdown because of it, the nation might well explode into civil war as all the potential successors to the Presidential throne fought over the political carcass of a man who had led Russia for almost a decade.
Frowning to himself, he punched a button markedIntercom, and instructed his secretary that under no circumstances was he to be disturbed for the next hour. Then he refilled his empty vodka glass, thinking,to hell with the doctors.
The top secret report on his desk did nothing to alleviate his foul mood. It told him what he and everybody else already knew, that the war in Ukraine had been fought to a stalemate. Unsurprisingly, morale among the armed forces was at an unprecedented low. Not only were they not getting paid, but they were being humiliated by a ragtag army of nationalist conscripts in a republic that had, until quite recently, been a part of the great Soviet empire. Although Godonov - who had once been a political prisoner under Brezhnev - despised Communism with every fiber of his soul, he could sympathize with those of his fellow countrymen who longed for the good old days when the perceived might of Russia's armed forces -- always more of a false perception than a reality, he knew -- had been feared throughout the world. Of course, the country once known as the USSR no longer existed apart from in history books and in the minds and memories of those who longed for a return to those good old days (not so good for some, the Russian President told himself).
Godonov flicked to the third page of the document. It was headedAnalysis of Defection Trends - Classified . A cursory glance of the document told him that two brigade size infantry units had already switched sides to fight alongside the Ukrainian nationalists, and more were likely to follow as news of the defections spread through the ranks. Well, who can blame them? Godonov thought bitterly. The defectors were young boys, being asked to make a terrible sacrifice for a country that couldn't even afford to pay them.
He knew that he had to find a political solution to this conflict that would allow him to save at least some face. It was just over two years since he had first sent the expeditionary force into Ukraine following the massacre of 200 ethnic Russians by security forces in Kiev. In the abstract, it was a simple military operation designed to oust the ultra-nationalist Ukrainian government. But the realities of war weren't abstract, and that simple operation had escalated into a full blown conflict, costing billions of rubles that the economy couldn't afford to spare, not to mention the lives of more than 300,000 Russian soldiers. As much as he wanted the entire mess to simply go away, he knew that if he acquiesced now, as his predecessors had been forced to in Afghanistan and Chechnya, then all those brave young men would have died for nothing. And that would open the floodgates to political turmoil the likes of which had not been seen since the 1917 Revolution. He couldn't believe that he, of all people, had made the same mistake as Brezhnev in 1979 and Yeltsin in 1993.
The Russian President took a swig of vodka. Perhaps the turmoil of a revolution would not necessarily be a bad thing, he mused, loosening his tie. Perhaps Russia needed to undergo a cleansing process, even though it would be bloody to the extreme. Perhaps it would be best to grant an opportunity to all the nation's warring political factions to place their cards face up on the table so they could...
Don't be ridiculous. He reproached himself for the very thought. Russia had a history of turning to brutal dictators in troubled times. What if, in its hour of need, it turned to a lunatic like that rabid nationalist Viktor Ninchenko? Here was a man who in one of his saner moments had pledged to use nuclear weapons against the West if it tried to prevent him recapturing what he had termedGreater Russia ? Godonov knew that he himself would never be remembered as one of history's great leaders, but that didn't bother him. For better or for worse, his presence was the only thing separating Russia from anarchy at the moment. And anarchy was represented by populists such as Ninchenko.
He emptied the glass in a single swig and poured himself another shot. In two days' time, he was due to meet his American counterpart, who was experiencing a few political difficulties of his own. What would Godonov tell him? Russia was surviving on a purely adhoc basis, and although the fatalistic tolerance of the Russian people was legendary, it was by no means unlimited. He would use this very argument to justify his plea for increased U.S. economic assistance. What else could he do?
Over the past few years, relations between Washington and Moscow had deteriorated to levels comparable to those of the Cold War. Much of that had to do with Russia's intervention in the Ukraine, although the United States publicly remained neutral on the conflict. Relations had also been damaged by Godonov's embrace of nationalist policies that had been forced on him by the State Duma. Not only was he attempting to hold the country together while seeking a resolution to the Ukrainian conflict, but he was treading a political tightrope between a nationalist dominated parliament and the liberal democracies of the west, without whose investment Russia would starve. But that investment came at a price. NATO troops were now stationed in Poland, Hungary and the Czech Republic. More ammunition for the nationalists, he thought bitterly. He seemed to recall that the Americans had an aphorism for his predicament. Something about arock and ahard place .
Reaching for his glass, he felt overwhelmed by a sense of claustrophobia and intense solitude. If he were so inclined, he might have cried, might have...
Presently, the glass slipped from his fingers and shattered on the desk. He became aware of his hands shaking, failing to respond to the signals his brain was sending to them.
From that moment, everything seemed to move in slow motion.
The pain hit him with the force of a sledgehammer, exploding up the left side of his body and spreading across like a red hot vice being tightened around his chest. Clutching his chest, he tried to call for help, but could barely muster a gasp as his lungs refused to take in oxygen.
Oh God. Not this, not now...
Godonov struggled to stand upright. His legs buckled, and he collapsed to the floor in an ungracious heap. The door was over twenty feet away, but in his present condition it might as well have been in outer space. He desperately tried to drag himself across the floor, aware that not even the sound of breaking glass would have penetrated the soundproofed door. At that moment, the President felt more alone than ever, knowing that the fate of his country depended entirely on him reaching that door.
His eyes were beginning to cloud now, and it wasn't entirely due to his medical condition. He was scared. For himself, and for Russia. So much to do. For my country, I must not close my eyes... He managed to pull himself forward by a couple of feet, but the effort required by that single movement drained every last ounce of his remaining strength.
Godonov rolled over onto his back, staring up at the high, gilt-carved ceiling. Like many things in this remarkable building, it provided testament to the extravagancy of the Czars. For all their shortcomings, he thought, they'd certainly had taste. He briefly wondered why he had never appreciated that until now.
A merciful darkness encroached upon his vision as he joined them in Eternity.
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON D.C.
On the other side of the world, President Edward Francis Mitchell was about to perform the singularly most unpleasant task of his career. He had been awake all night dreading the moment, but it was finally at hand. Tension was etched on his grandfatherly features as his secretary buzzed him.
"The National Security Advisor is here to see you, sir," she reported.
"Send him in, Joan," the President said, stiffening in his chair. The National Security Advisor entered the Oval Office a couple of seconds later.
Bert Aldick -- the President's Special Advisor for National Security Affairs - had been a close friend of Mitchell's since their days together at Harvard. As young men they had been as close as brothers, sharing apartments, belongings, even girlfriends. Indeed, Mitchell's wife had once been Bert's girlfriend, a fact that very few people knew.
In the abstract, the two men were complete opposites. Aldick came from old money, the solitary heir to a banking fortune. His family had always been extremely prominent in New York society and, with several relatives still in Wall Street directorships, remained so to this day. Mitchell's father, on the other hand, had been a police officer from Sacramento, California. Yet these social contrasts had drawn them together, each man driven by a mutual fascination with the motivations and lifestyles of society's other half.
After Harvard, the two men had gone their own separate ways; Aldick to join a Washington think tank, Mitchell to become an economics lecturer at UCLA. But, despite the distance between them, they had remained in touch. It was now almost thirty years since Aldick had attended a lecture by Mitchell on the limitations of interventionist economics. Although the subject hadn't particularly interested Aldick at the time, he had been struck by the brilliance of his old friend's oratory, the way he'd captivated his audience using skillful lingual nuances and gentle humor to draw them willingly into the substance of his logic. Immediately after that lecture, Aldick had persuaded Mitchell to try his hand in the political arena, to use his oratory skills tomake a difference and fight for the ideals that both men had harbored in their youth.
It had taken several months of cajoling to convince Mitchell to come to Washington. When he did, Aldick introduced him to many of the capital's most prominent figures and ensured that the Police Officer's son was seen in all the right places with all the right faces. Within two years, Edward Mitchell had been elected to Congress; within five, he had become Governor of California.
And now, a political lifetime later, he was three and a half years into his first term as President of the United States.
All of which made what he was about to do all the more difficult.
Aldick was a big man, both in terms of stature and physique. Well known in DC's finer dining establishments, his appetite for red meat was legendary. As was his fondness for the opposite sex. There weren't many female staff in the White House who could claim not to have been propositioned by the National Security Advisor at one time or another, and it was a source of amazement to many Washington insiders that he had avoided allegations of sexual harassment. But, in fact, many of his female conquests could be counted among his closest friends. He had a unique charm that seemed, so far, to have dissuaded any of his various one-night-stands from turning against him. Most spoke about him with fondness, rather than acerbity.
But lately, he had been looking tired and the signs of age were beginning to show on the rotund features that normally bore his trademark crooked grin. The Russia-Ukraine war had taken its toll on everybody; not least of all Aldick, who had spent much of the last six months shuttling between Moscow and Kiev, vainly attempting to negotiate a ceasefire to a conflict that was now threatening to engulf the rest of Eastern Europe. It was for that reason that U.S. troops were now stationed in Hungary, the Czech Republic and Poland. And, because of that, relations between Washington and Moscow had reached their lowest ebb since the 1980's.
"Hi Ed." Aldick couldn't seem to muster the energy for a proper smile as he entered the Oval Office. "What gives?"
"Take a seat, Bert." The President's oddly formal tone with his old friend immediately put Aldick on edge. Mitchell looked up at the two Secret Service agents flanking the door. "Could you guys leave us alone please?"
The agents departed reluctantly. Mitchell was certain that they had the room bugged anyway, or at least had a hidden camera somewhere in the room, just in case Aldick - in a moment of blind insanity - tried to strangle the Leader Of The Free World. But they understood what was going on and, furthermore, that even a President needed to do some things in privacy. This was one such instance.
"The Chief of Staff wanted to do this," Mitchell began, shifting awkwardly in his Kevlar reinforced leather chair. "But I felt you should hear it from me instead."
"Hear what?" Aldick's mind was racing. He tried to imagine what he could have possibly done wrong. Unlike some that he could think of, he had always served his country with conviction and hadn't to his knowledge acted unethically or in any way that was detrimental to the interests of the American people. He prided himself on his honesty - not always a worthy trait in DC, but certainly not one deserving of the sack. Of course, there was always the matter of his various sexual liaisons, but the President had known him long enough to know exactly what he was like. Certainly, he had never seemed to consider that aspect of his friend's behavior a serious problem before. After all, every man has his weaknesses, and women just happened to be Aldick's. It wasn't as if he toured the country preaching family values, leaving himself open to charges of moral hypocrisy. So...
"Bert, we've been friends since college." There was no anger in Mitchell's voice. Sadness, perhaps, but no anger. "If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have met Margaret. If it weren't for you, I certainly wouldn't be sitting in this chair now. I owe you everything, Bert. Everything. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Aldick understood perfectly. He's firing me, he realized, wishing that his boss would get to the point.
The President took a deep breath before dropping the bombshell. He had been rehearsing this moment almost constantly since learning of Aldick's mistake (crime didn't seem quite the correct word to apply in this case. Not at this stage, anyway). Yet now his carefully crafted words seemed oddly stilted. Diverting from the script, he cut straight to the chase.
"I don't know how else to tell you this," he said, unable to meet Aldick's eyes. "You may be facing charges of sexual misconduct, Bert."
"What?" Aldick snorted incredulously. "That's completely preposterous. I mean, I know I've always had an eye for the ladies, but I've never... not ever... not against their will. Dammit. You don't actually believe..."
"Of course I don't believe it," the President snapped. "I'm not talking about rape, for crying out loud. I'm talking about having sex with a minor."
The color seemed to drain from Aldick's face. His eyes drifted as he searched his mental database of one-night stands for anyone who might have been younger than they had appeared. "I swear to God, Ed... I never knowingly..."
"That doesn't matter any more." Mitchell passed a manila envelope across the desk. The National Security Advisor momentarily stared at him in disbelief, then opened it.
Inside was a set of photographs showing Aldick together with a pretty black girl. The pictures were arranged almost like a comic book story, showing them entering a seedy motel room together, then kissing on the bed. There were sixteen photos in the set, and by the sixth one, they were already naked, the girl astride him.
"The photos were taken by the motel owner," Mitchell explained as the National Security Advisor flicked through them, a stunned expression on his face. "Seems he's something of a voyeur. A greedy one too. He's just sold them to a tabloid newspaper for a pile of money. They won't publish the more explicit ones, of course. But I'm sure that even those will eventually find their way onto the Internet."
"How long have you known?"
"Oh, about a week or so," the President revealed. "We managed to keep a lid on it, and I hoped it would stay that way. But now it turns out that the girl is with child. That's complicated things to say the least."
Bert looked up at the President, his eyes bulging with shock.
"It may not be yours," Mitchell admitted, "but the media won't care much about that. The tabloid that bought the pictures has just offered her a small fortune for her story." I can't protect you any more, the President's tone really said. The alleged crime had taken place in Texas, whose Governor was a sworn political enemy of Mitchell. That did not bode well with only six months to go until the election. The Governor had already informed Mitchell of his intention to press for criminal charges to be brought against Aldick, who was so closely associated with the President that such allegations could only damage his bid for a second term.
Aldick was trying to remember the girl's name. Tara? Tamara? Tanya? Something like that. It had happened about three months ago. From what he recalled, he had met her in the bar of a Houston hotel where he'd just given a speech. They'd started talking and, well, such things just tend to happen. She certainly hadn't acted like a minor in bed; that much hedid recall.
"Her name is Tabatha Canning," Mitchell told him sourly. "She's fourteen years old, although I'm sure you didn't know that." The implication was clear. The media would have a field day with this one. Mitchell was already envisaging the headlines: PRESIDENTIAL ADVISOR FATHERS CHILD OF TEXAS MINOR... CRIMINAL CHARGES IMMINENT. Or perhaps even:BERT 'ALL DICK' IN UNDERAGE SEX SCANDAL . The point was that once Aldick's sexual activities became a matter of public interest, dozens more women would appear, offering their own bedside tales involving the National Security Advisor. And that would cast a distracting shadow over Mitchell's campaign for a second term.
"Of course I didn't know," Aldick insisted. "Do you honestly think I would fuck around with a child?" He felt physically sick. How could I have been so stupid? "I would never do anything to hurt you politically, you know that." It took him no more than a moment to consider his options. There was only one open to him; Mitchell's expression made that eminently clear. "You'll have my resignation on your desk by tomorrow morning, and I'll do everything I can to stop this hurting you."
The President's face turned beet red, and his quietly spoken monotone was edged with anger. "Do you know what really hurts me, Bert? It's not the fact that this is gonna hit my approval ratings in an election year. It's not the fact that I'm leading the second successive administration to be hit by a sex scandal. It's not even the fact that I'm losing a brilliant National Security Advisor at a time when I need him most. What hurts me is that I thought I knew you. I credited you with more sense. I thought I knew you better than I knew myself. Sure I knew about your fondness for pretty girls, but I always thought you were careful enough not to let anything like this happen."
Aldick hung his head in shame. Part of him had always known that something like this might happen someday. But he simply hadn't been able to stop himself from pursuing young, female companionship. It was part of his genetic make-up, he supposed; perhaps a need to substitute the motherly love he'd lacked as a child with something else. Still, he didn't imagine that the media would care much for such excuses. He'd played at the riskiest game of all and ended up losing it all. The only scant consolation he could draw from the episode was that at least he wasn't married and didn't have to face the humiliation of being labeled a 'love-rat', or whatever the tabloids' favorite term for such people happened to be these days.
"You abused your position, Bert. I've always turned a blind eye to your dalliances, and I've managed to protect you from the media more times than you will ever know. But this is one fuck too far. What the hell were you thinking?"
Aldick stood to leave the room. He was close to tears, his shoulders hunched against whatever emotions had to be assaulting his conscience right now. He had aged tangibly in the last ten minutes.
"Same as any other man who sees a pretty girl," Aldick said quietly as he stood. Before leaving the Oval Office for the last time, he stopped at the door and turned.
"The only difference was that I did something about it."
DEFENSE MINISTRY, MOSCOW
Within an hour of President Godonov's secretary finding him sprawled out across the floor of his office, Moscow's political community was awash with rumors of his death. Inevitably, there was less grief among this group of people than concern about how their own careers were to be affected. The consequence of this was a flurry of background activity as they jockeyed for position in the new regime. What very few of them could have known was that, in assuming a smooth and constitutional transition of power, they were essentially backing the wrong horse.
Under the terms of the Russian Constitution, Prime Minister Nikolai Pushkin was the legal successor to the leadership, but he was widely seen as a caretaker President at best. Pushkin was a career technocrat who lacked the experience and authority to unite Russia's vast array of political factions. The former Agriculture Minister had been appointed Prime Minister three months' earlier, purely because his relative anonymity had guaranteed that his selection wouldn't evoke any strong feelings in the State Duma. He was neither liked nor disliked by the major parliamentary blocs, but he lacked that one crucial quality that Russia tends to seek in its leaders, particularly in traumatic times.
Charisma.
Political analysts both in Russia and elsewhere had been speculating about who might be Godonov's natural successor ever since his first coronary while on a state visit to Germany five years' ago. Many of the leading contenders had since either disappeared into political obscurity or fallen foul of corruption charges, but there remained a small hardcore of candidates who had always lingered quietly and patiently in the wings.
One of those candidates was General Gennady Andreiovich Yazov, commanding officer of theReketney Voiska Stratigichesko Naznacheniya - Russia's Strategic Rocket Forces, RVSN.
Yazov had always been a loyal servant of the President, but like everybody else had known that Godonov would not last forever. That was why he had spent most of the past five years preparing for this very moment, devotedly serving his beleaguered political masters while covertly establishing a solid power base in the background of Russia's chaotic political system.
Fortuitously, Yazov had been working late in his office at the Defense Ministry when the rumors of Godonov's death had first started circulating. In fact, he was one of the first people in Moscow to hear of the news; one of the benefits of having allies and contacts in every walk of political life. A few carefully placed phone calls later, he was in a conference room within the bowels of the Defense Ministry, addressing a selection of senior military officers and junior cabinet ministers from across the political spectrum.
Godonov had been dead for precisely ninety minutes.
Yazov was handsome in an oddly robust way. His high Slavic cheekbones framed grizzled features that were characterized by thick, black eyebrows and jet-black hair, shaped into a functional crew. Broad shoulders, sloping into oblivion, favored the impression that he lacked a neck as such. His penetrating blue eyes were both intelligent and intense. At barely fifty years old, he was one of the few members of the General Staff whose career had remained untarnished by the embarrassing military failures in Afghanistan, Chechnya and, more recently, the Ukraine. Although he represented a branch of the armed forces that many considered to be an anachronism these days, his influence stretched far beyond that of his command.
He was, as everybody present in the conference room already knew, a brilliant orator, capable of using a subtle combination of modest rationale and fierce nationalism to touch the deepest, darkest fears of any red-blooded Russian. He would need those talents in the coming days, he knew.
"... it is therefore obvious," he was telling them, "that Russia faces its gravest crisis since Hitler's troops captured Leningrad." Significantly, he referred to the nation's second city of St. Petersburg by its Communist-era name. Such subtle inferences, he knew, were bound to evoke the nostalgic sentiments of those who remembered the good old days when the world had feared the awesome - if overestimated - might of the Soviet Union. The implication was that Russia could once again be great, and the greater that Russia was, the more power these men would have. Although power in itself was not a motivation for Yazov, he understood that not everybody in the room felt the same way. Power was not only a language of sorts to these men, but it was a currency, to be traded among themselves like chips in a casino. Those were the rules of the game he was playing and, although he didn't necessarily like them, he realized that he needed to become adept at them in order to realize his own goals.
"Our people are confused, lost, directionless. They have always been accustomed to strong, decisive leadership, qualities they have lacked since the early nineties. Look at what fills that vacuum. Crime and corruption on an epic scale. Poverty. Our people are facing famine this winter. Our once proud military is in a state of disarray, and no wonder. Many of our brave soldiers in the Ukraine have not been paid in over a year. They have families to feed. Is it any wonder that they turn to the bosom of organized crime to earn a living?"
One of Yazov's closest allies, General Anatoly Mikhailovich Kalushin, took his cue. Kalushin, Commanding General of the depleted Air Force, had endlessly rehearsed this moment with his old friend over the past eighteen months. He knew precisely what to say and when to say it. Incredibly, he was the only man in the room who understood just how contrived this entire episode was. That nobody else had noticed was testament to Yazov's intricate eye for detail.
"The problem as I see it, General Yazov," he remarked, "is the Ukrainian war. It is draining us both militarily and economically. Not to mention the effect on our troops' morale. Our internal problems are largely symptomatic of this conflict. If we are to address them, we need first to make a breakthrough on the Ukrainian front."
Yazov theatrically arched his thick eyebrows as if he hadn't previously considered that point.
"A good point, Anatoly Mikhailovich, with which I agree entirely. It is, of course, obvious that we must bring a rapid cessation to hostilities in the Ukraine before we can begin to address our domestic problems."
"You suggest surrender," noted the Interior Minister, a small, rotund man with oddly bulbous eyes and a known fancy for teenage boys. "The Russian people will not tolerate another..."
Yazov cut him off with a disarmingly warm smile. "I suggest nothing of the sort, my friend. Quite the contrary." Make them quiver in the shadow of defeat, and then offer deliverance, he thought. Those seated closest to the General detected an almost mischievous glint in his eye. Only Yazov himself knew how afraid he truly was. But it was for the Motherland that he was afraid, not himself. What he was about to propose amounted to no less than the ultimate reaction to years of rule by weak and greedy politicians with no real concept of the true exercise of power other than using it to grow fatter at the expense of the masses. Well, the civilian leaders had now grown fat to the point of bursting, and the Russian people had been bled dry. So the moment of truth was at hand, and Fate had chosen Yazov to be its champion. Would history remember him as a hero or a treasonous madman? Right now, he didn't care. History often chose to ignore thought processes that hadn't been blessed with the gift of hindsight. After all, history was always written by the victors, not by the vanquished. If he proved to be Russia's savior, his actions would be seen as justified in the context of the times. If not... well, he probably wouldn't live long enough to hear what the historians said about him. He knew it, and everybody else in the room knew it also. They were quite prepared to see him take that risk for now, especially since none of them had either the stomach or intellect for such a dangerous game.
Yazov had learned by studying the shortcomings of the political masters he had served over the years that power was a subtle art form. Something to be applied with discretion, not with the flamboyance of an Arab sheik brandishing chips at a casino. Power was a finite resource, and abusing it merely had the effect of sterilizing its effect over time, like a virus that strikes often enough for the body to develop an immunity to it. Had Hitler, Napoleon or indeed the late Czar understood this simple fact, they might not have failed so abjectly in the face of their respective goals. Each of them had abused vast reserves of power until it became impotent in the face of concerted opposition.
Those who do not learn from history are destined to repeat history's mistakes...
Yazov had no intention of repeating such mistakes.
His plan, which took barely five minutes to outline, provoked uproar around the conference table. Precisely as he had hoped. Before his very eyes, moderates were being drawn into open conflict with those who supported his radical strategy for ending the Ukrainian conflict. Yazov observed the debate impassively, making a mental note of those who he would draw into his inner circle - which didn't necessarily exclude those who disagreed with his strategy - and those who would be shut out. He was looking for patriots; men with strong convictions, regardless of whether or not their ideas coincided with his own. That was a subtle, yet important point lost on many of the quarreling idiots in the room.
"... totally unthinkable," the Health Minister was shouting at a naval officer. "If the Americans think..."
"The Americans are irrelevant," another voice barked. "We have nothing to fear from them. They will not start a war over this..."
"... there is no other option," Kalushin was reasoning with an Army General, whose expression was a wide-eyed mask of shock. "Of course it is an undesirable solution, but what alternative is there? Surrender? Or a war of attrition that we will lose anyway?"
Yazov allowed the argument to rage until he was satisfied that the consensus had swung decisively in his favor. At that moment, he raised a hand, swiftly restoring order to the room.
"Our country," he explained in the manner of a teacher addressing his students, "needs unity in order to survive. I shall welcome opinions and advice from across the political spectrum, and will embrace all of Russia's legitimate political parties, for I represent not a party but an entire people. We need to work together to bring order to Mother Russia. Our country is sick, in great pain. Conflict, either internal or external, will serve only to aggravate its condition, perhaps terminally.
"I am a military officer by nature and training. I lack the arrogance to pretend to know anything about health, education or economics, and I will need the assistance of experts in all of these fields to repair the damage caused to our nation by years of political mismanagement. But, although I know little of these topics, I know much about warfare. And I know, as each of you know, that this war with the Ukraine will destroy our nation. I cannot permit that. If anybody knows of a better way to end it with our dignity intact, then please speak now."
The invitation hung over the conference table for several tense moments. Nobody took it up.
Satisfied, Yazov continued. "There will, of course, be democratic elections soon after the Ukrainian situation has been resolved. At that time, I shall willingly resign my position as President. Until then, I suggest we consider the declaration of a State of Emergency and the imposition of martial law in order to allow us to reconstitute our government."
The Health Minister noted how smoothly Yazov had made the transition from discussing power as an abstraction to appointing himself Godonov's natural successor. He wondered if anybody else in the room had made the same observation. Certainly, nobody seemed to object to the idea. Each man, for his own private reasons, was scared for Russia's future. Yet none of them had the stomach for the risks that Yazov was prepared to take. So better to ally with him and let him suffer the consequences were the gambit to fail then to sit helplessly on the deck of a sinking ship. In that moment of enlightenment, the Minister thought that Yazov was either selflessly brave, or terminally stupid.
"One small problem," Interior noted. "Pushkin is the constitutional successor to Godonov. How do you intend to depose him?"
Everybody was surprised to see Yazov laugh. It wasn't something he did often. "I don't," he said, going on to explain precisely what he had in mind.
Suddenly, Yazov's plan was no longer an abstraction. The race to seize power of the world's largest nation had begun.
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON D.C.
That of the White House Press Room was one of the most famous images in the world yet was probably the most unkempt of all the rooms in that vast building, having fallen into a state of disrepair over the years. Other than the platform from where briefings were delivered, it was in little better condition than a high school locker room. Much of this was due to the lack of respect shown by thousands of journalists who had passed through this room over the years.
Apart from being smaller than it appeared on television, the temperature of the Press Room was always chillier than that of any other room in the White House. This not only prevented the speaker from sweating before the cameras, but also tended to make reporters distinctly uncomfortable; a fortuitous convergence of necessity and circumstance.
Even before Bert Aldick made his way to the lectern, carrying the sheet of paper that contained his resignation speech, the reason for his departure had become an open secret among the Washington press corps. Indeed, uncensored copies of the 'Tabatha Photo file', as it would become known, had already found their way onto some of the Internet's less salubrious domains.
As he took his place at the lectern, a hush fell on the room. He looked out at the faces that had become as familiar to him as those of his family during his three years as National Security Advisor. He did so in the full knowledge that not a single one of them would hesitate in tearing him apart in the feast of moralistic fervor that would inevitably follow. More than one member of the press corps noticed that Aldick seemed to have aged considerably since his last public appearance, less than two days earlier. Once the press had finished with him, he'd look even worse.
"I'm going to make a short statement," he told them, "but, under legal advice, will not be answering any questions at this time."
He smoothed out the printed copy of his speech on the lectern and took a deep breath. "As many of you will be aware by now, I am about to become the subject of certain allegations concerning sexual misconduct with a minor. I admit, I have a weakness for the opposite sex. And, yes, I did engage in an inappropriate encounter with the young lady in question. But at no time did I suspect, or have any reason to suspect, that she was underage. I met her in a hotel bar, where one wouldn't normally expect to find a minor. Her appearance and demeanor gave me absolutely no reason to doubt that she was beyond the age of legal consent. However, this does not excuse the fact that I made a gross error of judgment that has left me humiliated and ashamed.
"Accordingly, I have this morning tendered my resignation as Special Advisor for National Security Affairs. The President accepted my resignation with regret, but understands the reasons why I cannot continue to serve in my present capacity. President Mitchell has been a friend of mine for over three decades, and I continue to support him wholeheartedly. My misdeeds should in no way reflect upon either him or his administration. The President is an honest, moral and patriotic man who deserves better than to be let down by an old friend and trusted adviser in such a shabby manner."
Aldick swallowed hard, aware that his eyes were moistening. He wanted this ordeal to be over, for the ground to swallow him whole. There was no sympathy in the eyes of the media piranhas before him, and that told him precisely how they were going to cover his resignation in tomorrow's papers.
"I am proud of what we have achieved in the past three years. I have served my country to the utmost of my abilities. Yet America continues to face many dangerous challenges, particularly in the area of National Security. I urge the American people to focus on these challenges. In the meantime, I offer my best wishes to my successor, whoever he or she may be. I shall be vacating my office this afternoon, and intend to return to a private life. I ask only that you respect my wish for privacy."
As he walked away from the lectern, more than one reporter was heard to shout, "What about the baby?"
90thSPACE WING, WARREN AFB, WYOMING
In the gaming room of theGround Zero noncom bar, Captain Nick Pearson of the U.S. Air Force sunk his third beer of the evening before carefully lining up his next shot.
"Twenty bucks riding on this nine ball, Nicky," Captain Holly Kurato reminded him. She was thirty years old, petite and steadfastly single. Her Japanese ancestry had blessed her with delicate features, which certainly didn't reconcile with her flair for whipping Pearson's ass on the pool table. He was already sixty bucks down tonight, and it would have been far worse had Kurato not fouled the six ball in the last game.
"Don't talk to me about pressure," he told her, lowering his chin onto the cue as he stretched it out in front of him. "Pressure is something I can deal with." As petite as Kurato was, so Pearson was big. Six foot three and two hundred and thirty pounds of Arkansan muscle. Kurato thought it looked odd for such a big man to be bent over a pool table. She tried to imagine how uncomfortable it must have been for him.
He modified his aim slightly, pulled his cue back like a trigger, and firmly struck the white ball.
It made a one-third connection with the nine ball, sending it whizzing towards the top corner pocket -
- and rattling in its jaws.
Pearson stared in disbelief as the nine-ball inexplicably stayed up.
"At this rate, Nick," Kurato chided, "you're going to have to remortgage your house."
"How the fuck did that happen?" He shook his head in bewilderment. "I swear, Holly, you've put some of that Jap voodoo shit on me."
She barely had to concentrate as she sunk the nine-ball. "Whatever. Pay up, buster."
He reluctantly whipped a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to her. Her smile was rich with smugness.
Under other circumstances, Pearson thought that something might have developed between him and Kurato. But theirs weren't normal circumstances. They formed one of a dozen ICBM launch crews at Warren, responsible for more firepower than had been released in the history of mankind. And although Pearson, like Kurato, was unmarried, he certainly wasn't unsuccessful with women. Indeed, he had gained a studly reputation at Warren of which he was quite proud. God knows, it had taken enough effort to achieve. But when he closed his eyes at night, he often found himself thinking of Holly Kurato and what, under different circumstances, might have been. He'd never really thought about a woman in such terms before, and that troubled him somewhat. Perhaps it was the fact that her position and demeanor made her unattainable.
Hell,he thought,if we didn't work together, she probably wouldn't even associate with the likes of me. Not an educated girl like her.
"Another game?" she asked him. "I'm in ass-kicking mood tonight."
He shook his head. "No chance. Poor Arkansan boy like me can't afford it."
"Aw," Kurato grinned, theatrically playing an air violin.
"Well, you can afford to buy me another beer with your winnings. I can still drink you under the table, you know."
She waved a twenty-dollar bill under his nose. "I doubt that too, but if you want me to open another can of whip-ass, it's your funeral."
A few minutes later, she returned with two bottles. As they stood at the bar drinking and shooting the bull, they were joined by two of their fellow launch officers; Lee Simmons and Mike McAvoy. The four of them found a vacant table. That wasn't hard. It was mid-afternoon, and most of the off-duty crews were spending time with their families. These four didn't have families, a topic of frequent discussion among them.
"You hear anything about missile cuts?" McAvoy said. He had a reputation as the base gossip. If there was a rumor going around, you could bet even money that he'd started it.
"Usual stuff," Pearson said. "Rumors. Believe me, they ain't gonna start downsizing nukes while the Russkies are playing with their toy soldiers in Ukraine."
"That's not what we heard," Simmons said gravely. "Word is that the Prez has offered aquid pro quo to the Reds." Even though Communism in Russia was long dead, many officers still used old terms to describe the Russians. Some cultural habits died hard. "You know the kind of thing," he elaborated. "We cut some of our Minutemen, and you pull your troops out of Ukraine."
Kurato snorted derisively. "That won't happen, Lee, and you know it. I know Mitchell is a bit of a wimp, but it's an election year. You don't win elections by lowering your guard. Everybody knows that."
"Don't know what difference it makes," Pearson said. "They ain't ever gonna use 'em. If they were, they would've done it by now." He started laughing. "Shit, can you imagine Mitch pressing the button? No way, man. He probably doesn't even know we're here. And that's the truth. We're the forgotten guardians of peace, man."
"But we're also some of the best paid," McAvoy added.
"Amen to that," Kurato enthused. "The stalwart defenders of" - she furrowed her brow - "what the hell is it we're supposed to be defending?"
Amid the laughter, the four officers raised their beer bottles and clinked.
II
DUTIES AND OBLIGATIONS
It is easier to fight for one's principles than to live up to them.
(Alfred Adler)
JOHNS HOPKINS MEDICAL CENTER, MARYLAND
The staff cafeteria was bristling as ever with chatter and gossip, but the Director of Cardiology was oblivious to it all, staring into a cup of coffee, watching a granule of powdered milk rotate around the cup as it stubbornly resisted the thermal pressure to dissolve. Just like life, she reflected sourly. You can try to stay intact for as long as possible, but eventually you dissolve into the mass just like everyone else. Just another inconsequential molecule.
Inevitably, the granule surrendered to the hot liquid. Professor Joanne Miller lifted the cup and took a sip, hoping the caffeine boost would help to negate the effects of thirty-six sleepless hours.
"You look like shit, honey."
She looked up and managed only a weak smile at her friend and colleague Dr Ivan Rosenberg, a kindly looking neurosurgeon twenty years her senior. Rosenberg was an Alabaman Jew and spoke with a lazy southern drawl that complemented an easygoing charm, making him the one person who could have gotten away with making such an observation in Jo's current mood. Anybody else might have gotten that hot cup of coffee thrown in their face.
Rosenberg pulled up a chair and sat at her table with a glass of fresh orange and a couple of slices of toast, an anxious expression on his face as he studied hers. She saw the look and recognized it immediately for what it was.
"What?" she said, trying to force a smile as she braced herself for the inevitable lecture on how she should stop being such a workaholic. What in her life did she have other than work? Long, empty nights in front of the TV, occasionally being invited into the lives of married friends who took pity on her? No thank you very much.
"How long is it since you slept?" Rosenberg raised an accusatory eyebrow.
"Sleep," she sighed dreamily, resting her chin on her hand. "Oh, yeah. I remember that. Did it once, didn't like it much. Decided I'd rather be a surgeon."
Rosenberg had known Jo long enough to that he recognized the sarcasm as a sure sign of her exhaustion. Jo's biggest problem had always been an acute inability to recognize her own limitations. She was the type of woman who would quite willingly give everything to her job until she quite literally collapsed of nervous and mental exhaustion. That hadn't happened yet, but Rosenberg suspected that it could happen before very much longer. Stubbornness was a dangerous trait in someone whose job it was to save lives. Tired people made mistakes, he knew from bitter experience, and mistakes in the medical profession often ended in tragedy.
But Jo didn't need to hear that right now. She knew the score.
"You know," he remarked thoughtfully, taking a sip of his juice, "you have a damn good staff in cardio. I'm sure they wouldn't miss you for a few hours. Hell, they'd probably appreciate you coming back in a better mood. Ever hear of the wordvacation ?"
Jo snickered at that. "Thanks for the advice, Ivan, but I'd rather not be alone right now if it's all the same to you."
Rosenberg noticed that she was toying with a bare finger where, until quite recently, she had worn a gold wedding band. Ding!
"Missing him?" More an observation than a question.
She looked up vaguely towards the ceiling, her clear blue eyes moist with sadness. It was no use pretending. Better to pour out her guts to someone who would understand. Rosenberg's wife had left him for a young plastic surgeon from California two years ago, so who better to confide in?
"It's a year today since the divorce became final," she told her colleague. "And still I can't look at anyone else. I keep thinking he'll come back a changed man, you know? That we'll pick up where we left off, make a home, make..." Her voice trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid. Jo had always wanted children, as had her ex-husband, but the laws of biology had brutally conspired against them. They'd separated without ever discovering the reasons why. Just one of those things, she supposed, and that was the most unsatisfying answer of all, wasn't it? Instead, she was left to wonder whether things might have panned out differently had they been blessed with an offspring.
Rosenberg gently touched her cheek. With the perfect symmetry of features inherent to the Irish; beautiful, big blue eyes and a smooth, creamy complexion outlined by a cascade of thick black hair, Jo's good looks had attracted several propositions from male colleagues and even more from patients, all of which she had rejected flatly. She just could not let go of her ex-husband, and that was tragic for such a beautiful woman in the prime of her life.
"You're a beautiful girl," he told her. "You can have your pick of the men out there. Why don't you make consider a fresh start, maybe even relocate? It could be exactly what you need."
"I could have my pick of the men," she repeated sourly, "but none of them are..." She couldn't even say his name without engaging emotions that were better kept locked away, since she didn't know whether, once she had unlocked those emotions, she could control them. Better to maintain the cold, clinical facade that had become familiar to her colleagues in the past couple of years. Only Rosenberg knew that it was a facade, and that was because he was astute enough to understand why she had erected it in the first place. He had, after all, been there and done that.
"Love has a price, Jo. And very often that price is knowing when to let go. I know what you're feeling, believe me. When Cheryl left me, I didn't want to hear from nothing or nobody. I became paranoid. I thought my friends only called me because they felt sorry for me. Problem was, they weren't reallymy friends at all. They wereour friends. So I dropped them and made a fresh start. If I hadn't done that, I would have stuck around and let it eat at me, just as you're doing now. Go figure."
Jo chuckled bitterly. "Yeah, but the difference between you and me is that you had no choice. Cheryl left you. My circumstances were rather different. I kicked my husband out, remember?"
Rosenberg shrugged. "You had no choice either. I do remember that. I remember how much it was killing you to see him burning himself out with stress. You did it for his sake as much as yours. You did it because you loved him, and because you thought some time apart might shake him up enough to straighten out his priorities. But you must've known there was a chance it would go the other way. And now look at you. You're doing precisely the same thing you accused him of - burning yourself out. What are you trying to prove? That you can burn out as good as him?"
"Okay, there's no need to rub it in."
"I'm not rubbing it in," he insisted. "All I'm saying is that you have to accept the possibility that he's rebuilt his life now, perhaps even with someone else. You have to do the same, move on. How long since you heard from him?"
"About six months." How time flies, she realized. One of the reasons Jo tried to avoid sleep was because every time she closed her eyes, her mind was consumed with the prospect that her ex-husband might have found another woman; someone younger, prettier. That thought terrified her even more than that of spending the rest of her life alone. His framed photograph still graced her nightstand, and she had left his old office in the basement of the house untouched, just in case he decided to return one day.
"A lot can happen in six months." Rosenberg warned. Aware that he was close to overstepping the mark, he decided to change the subject. His lip curled into a sly grin. "You know, Dr Foster has a real crush on you."
She cocked her head to one side, smiling in bemusement. "Oh, please."
"Hey, what's so strange about that? He's a good-looking boy, lots of money, a nice house. And," he lowered his voice to a whisper, saving the best until last, "he's Jewish." He wondered what kind of reaction that would provoke. Jo's ex-husband was also Jewish.
She responded by laughing for the first time that day. "Yeah, and he's also slept with just about every nurse on his staff."
"Well," Rosenberg conceded with a sly shrug, "nobody's perfect."
Jo finished her coffee and stood. "Right now, Ivan, men are the last of my priorities. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got some notes to finish up."
Within an hour, Doctor Joanne Miller had surrendered to a fitful, lonely sleep.
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON D.C.
Margaret Mitchell had never seen her husband look so tired. The ordeal of having to fire Bert Aldick had really drained him, perhaps more so than any other single task he'd had to perform since taking office. He hadn't spoken to her about it, and after twenty-five years of marriage, Margaret knew better than to press him. He would talk about it once he was ready. Until then, Bert Aldick was a taboo subject.
It was well past 1am when the First Couple finally retired to the Lincoln bedroom. The President would be allowed no more than four hours' sleep before his first meeting of the next day, as had been the case almost every day since the Mitchells had moved into the White House.
To think that men would willingly spill blood for this job, Margaret thought incredulously. Why? After three and a half years of his Presidency, she had watched her husband age by as many decades; an observation that had been cruelly noted by several reporters. Indeed, she was beginning to doubt whether he had the stamina to last for the remainder ofthis term, never mind another. Part of her would be relieved if he were defeated in the upcoming election. She suspected that even her husband might be privately thankful to be rid of the burden of office, regardless of how much he denied it.
As the President climbed into bed, Margaret glanced bitterly at the door behind which the Secret Service would be standing guard, periodically checking on the First Couple through a tiny peephole. She wouldn't have been surprised to learn that the room was bugged. No aspect of their lives was sacred, nothing subject to privacy. For all intents and purposes, the Mitchells had become elected slaves of the American people.
The President was staring blankly at the ceiling, unready to yield to his tiredness. To the rest of the world, he was a statesman; an abstract figure both ridiculed and respected. A man with the power to destroy worlds and replace them with new ones. An almost godlike entity. But to Margaret Mitchell, he was still plain old Eddie, the same man she'd met so many years before when both had been young teachers fresh out of Harvard. Despite his lofty position, he still had the same doubts and fears as the next man, and perhaps that was what distinguished him from so many of his predecessors. When he said he cared, hemeant it, and it was purely because the American people had believed him that the Mitchell residence was now 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington D.C., and not a suburban house in Sacramento, California.
He hadn't ever really harbored ambitions to high office, especially notthis high. In fact, the Mitchell Presidency had come about almost by accident. During the first round of primaries in the last election, his party's leading contender had been ruined by a catastrophic money-laundering scandal that would ultimately result in a five-year prison sentence. The party leadership, stunned as it watched its electoral prospects disappear into a vacuum created by the lack of a viable candidate, had approached Mitchell out of desperation. Despite his relative inexperience, Mitchell - then Governor of California - possessed all the necessary qualities for a Presidential candidate. He was honest, photogenic, a brilliant debater and, best of all, had no trace of a shady past. So, with some reluctance, he'd accepted the invitation to revive the electoral prospects of the party. By the time of the convention in San Diego, he had almost single handedly converted a ten point poll deficit into a twenty point lead over the opposition. His opponent, despite having attempted to make capital of Mitchell's inexperience, had been seen by the voters as a dull reactionary with nothing to offer a forward looking nation, whereas Mitchell had come across as witty, positive and natural; the kind of guy to whom Joe Six-Pack could relate. The result was one of the biggest landslides in living memory.
In January of the following year, Edward Mitchell had assumed office with typical modesty, his inaugural speech characterized by a promise to do his best for the American people and an acknowledgment that although he would sometimes make mistakes - as what mortal man wouldn't? - he would match his errors with the courage to admit to them.
Those closest to the President knew that his biggest weakness was pride. He had made a promise to the American people, and Edward Mitchell was a man who prided himself on never breaking a promise to anybody. So every decision he took as President - every action made in his name - had to reconcile to that very promise. There would be no hint of corruption or scandal. He had decided that it was time to restore some honor to the Presidency. Inevitably, that had made him enemies both on Capitol Hill and amongst special interest groups alike.
As she watched him lay beside her, his mind still too active for sleep, Margaret was both proud of what her husband had achieved and disappointed in what he had become. Proud because of what he stood for; proud because he was perhaps one of the few men to have inhabited this office in recent years who understood what it was really all about. Yet she was disappointed that he would not allow himself the weaknesses of other men. He had no desire to carve himself a place in history, only to be true to himself and to know at the end of his term that he had done his utmost for those he served.
Those he served were, of course, the American People; an abstract collective that Margaret was beginning to resent, if for no other reason than because they had stolen her husband without showing any gratitude for the personal sacrifices he had made for them.
"Time to sleep, honey," she whispered, turning off the bedside lamp in the knowledge that her husband would continue to lay awake in the darkness, wondering if anything he'd done that day could have been done better. She gave him a reassuring peck on the forehead and held his hand beneath the silk sheets.
Within minutes, he was asleep. It would not last for long.
Margaret was wrenched from slumber when the bedroom door swung open. She jerked upright, instinctively knowing that something was wrong. A quick check of the bedroom clock told her it was barely 3am. The President was still sleeping soundly into his pillow.
The White House Chief of Staff, Jim Reynolds, raced to her husband's side of the bed, brandishing a piece of paper. Wearing only a silk dressing gown, he muttered something reminiscent of an apology to the First Lady as he entered the room.
Reynolds was part of the White House furniture. So obsessive was he about controlling access to the President that nobody got near Mitchell without his express permission. He had cast a constant shadow over the White House ever since masterminding the brilliant campaign that had swept Mitchell into office, and he'd quickly carved himself a reputation as a ruthless political operator to whom voters were considered mere abstractions, identified only in terms of focus groups and opinion polls. Some referred to him as the 'Prince of Darkness' or 'The King Of Spin', although some of the other terms applied to him -- particularly by the President's political enemies -- were somewhat less elegant He knew what people said about him, of course. There wasn't much that Jim Reynolds didn't know when it came to who was saying what to whom. Few people even farted in Washington without Reynolds knowing about it, and fewer still did so without his formal consent. Accordingly, the former native of Baton Rouge, Louisiana had quickly become one of the most reviled men in the capital, or one of the most respected, depending on one's political leanings. That didn't bother him, so long as he remained one of the most powerful. And the key to power in this town, he knew, was controlling access to the President. That was the reason that he, instead of a junior aide, was delivering a message to Edward Mitchell at 3am. Margaret wondered if the man ever slept. Probably not, she thought.
"Jim," she began to protest, "what the hell..."
Reynolds' voice was clipped with urgency. "We need the President downstairs, right now, Ma'am. I'm sorry," he added as an afterthought.
Almost as if his subconscious mind had registered the words, the President's eyes snapped open, taking a moment to adjust to a day that wasn't supposed to begin for at least another three hours.
"What is it?" he asked Reynolds, a horrible taste in his mouth as an unwelcome wave of consciousness swept over him.
"Flashtraffic from Moscow, sir. Levelcritic ." He handed the piece of paper to the President, who switched on the bedside lamp and squinted against the light as he groped for his reading spectacles. Squinting against the light, he needed to read the message twice to make sure he wasn't dreaming. As comprehension dawned, he bit his lip so hard that it nearly bled.
"What gives?" Margaret asked anxiously, sensing the anxiety emanating from her husband as he took in the contents of the message.
"Godonov's dead," he told her in a matter-of-fact monotone.
NEW YORK CITY
Within minutes of the succinct Kremlin press release, telephone lines around the world were buzzing with the news of the Russian President's sudden death. Special Bulletins interrupted late night shows. Newspaper editors were awoken and duly issued orders to hold front pages that had already been reserved to accommodate news of the Aldick scandal. It was a difficult choice for many newspapermen and women to make; should they award the front page to a potential crisis in Russia or a sex scandal in the American Government? The answer to this dilemma inevitably depended on the nature of the publication and, accordingly, the preferences of its readership. The only thing that mattered was that whichever story was given priority, circulation figures would generally be better than on a normal news day.
In an apartment on Manhattan's Upper East Side, however, both Bert Aldick and Mikhail Godonov were the last things on the mind of the New York Post's chief foreign correspondent.
"Faster! Faster!" the woman beneath him was panting when the shrill ring of the telephone broke his firm, rhythmic thrust.
"Oh, dammit," Richard Gellis snarled. "What now?"
"Let it ring," she pleaded, squirming against his pelvis. "Don't stop."
"I have to. Could be important."
Gellis reached for the receiver and picked it up, perspiring and breathless from his exertions. He thought that whoever it was had better have a damn good reason for interrupting what until now had been a rather pleasant evening with a woman he'd met only two hours earlier in a Soho bar.
"Gellis."
The woman sulked when he withdrew from her and turned his back. She didn't see the shocked expression on his face as he listened to the voice on the other end of the line.
"This'd better not be a joke, Alec," he warned. Gellis's companion couldn't imagine what could possibly be more important than humping her brains out. All she could tell from the tone of the muffled voice on the other end of the line was that it sounded excited about something.
"I'll be there in twenty."
She kicked Gellis in the back of the leg, causing him to yelp. He looked over at her, first with puzzlement, then with a leer. Oh, what the hell? The crisis in Russia could wait, right?
"Make it an hour."
Gellis's SAAB Turbo convertible pulled up outside the Post's offices precisely fifty-six minutes later. The journey from Upper Manhattan had taken twenty minutes in traffic that was relatively clear at this time of night. That had allowed him ample time to catch up with unfolding events on the car radio. Although Godonov's death provided the lead headline, its impact had been slightly blunted by the shock resignation of the President's well-respected National Security Advisor, Bert Aldick.
Damn! Gellis thought. I take a day off work and the world goes nuts. Go figure.
Even as the thought occurred to him, the analytical part of his mind was somewhat disturbed that the President would have to deal with a potentially volatile situation in Russia without a National Security Advisor who was widely thought to be the most able for many years. He briefly wondered whether there was any connection between the two events, but quickly discarded the thought. How could there be?
Gellis was better qualified than most to understand how potentially volatile the situation in Russia might be. The son of an American diplomat and a Russian doctor, he was born in St Petersburg back in the days when it had still been known as Leningrad. Although Richard and his parents had moved to the United States when he was five years' old, he was - thanks to his mother - fluent in the language, and had spent several years in Moscow since the collapse of Communism, both as a student and as a reporter. Not only did he understand the mentality of the Russian people far better than they did his but, thanks to his ancestry and supreme language skills, he had found it easier than many of his fellow American reporters to get an inside line to the heart of Russia's chaotic government. All of this combined to give him an acute awareness of the implications of Godonov's death.
This knowledge and experience didn't make him feel any easier.
"Sorry to interrupt your vacation, Richie," his editor remarked as soon as Gellis entered his office.
That was the first lie of the evening, Gellis knew. Alec Potter was one of the new breed of managing editors; a corporate man to the death. With an MBA from Harvard and a Masters in journalism from Columbia, he certainly hadn't needed to prove his journalistic talents in the real world in order to land his own corner office at the Post. He understood that circulation figures were the only reality that mattered, and the best way to boost those figures was to scare the living crap out of as many people as possible. Potter often wished he'd been an editor during the Cold War, when the odd front page scare story about a Superpower crisis had been guaranteed to add another couple of percent to the circulation figures. Nowadays, such incidents were extremely rare, so a crisis in Russia provided an exceptional opportunity that he was determined not to waste.
"No problem, boss," came the equally dishonest response.
"So, Richie," the editor smiled, chewing on a blunt pencil. It was a habit he'd developed since quitting cigarettes a few months' ago. He often joked that he was a twenty-pencil-a-day man now. "You're our resident Russian expert. How do you read this?"
"Extremely dangerous," Gellis stated, slumping into a convenient chair. "Godonovis Russia. Has been for the best part of a decade. Most of the men around him are old-style technocrats. None of them have the charisma or support to stand out as an obvious contender."
"We're holding the front page. I want to do something that'll really grab people's attention. Any radicals in the running to succeed him?"
Gellis ran a hand through his thick blonde hair and scratched his head. "Aren't there always? Hell, this is Russia we're talking about. According to their constitution, the Prime Minister will succeed him, but Pushkin is considered too staid by most experts, and that's saying something for Russia. He'll assume the Presidency in the short term, but I don't expect him to last long. Their biggest priority right now will be to find someone who can lead them through the Ukrainian conflict. Pushkin just won't cut it. I would be surprised if the political maneuvering hasn't already begun."
"Okay, so we can write off Pushkin. Talk to me about radicals."
That wasn't hard. Russia's parliament, the Duma, was full of them, representing as it did every extreme of that vast nation's political spectrum. "Well, there's Ninchenko, leader of the nationalist bloc. He's got widespread support in the armed forces, makes a lot of threats about restoring what he callsGreater Russia and nuking anybody who gets in his way. And then there's always..."
Before Gellis could say anything else, Potter snapped his fingers and pointed at the reporter. "That's our guy. That's the sort of bad guy we need." The front-page headline formed in his head: CHAOS IN RUSSIA THREATENS WORLD PEACE.
"Alec," Gellis reasoned, "I don't honestly think they'll allow a lunatic like Ninchenko to become President. They need stability, not fanaticism."
"Well, who decides what happens next?"
It was like explaining the alphabet to an infant, Gellis thought. "Initially, the constitution allows for these circumstances. Like it or not, Pushkin is now President. But the Duma has the power to impeach him. If that happens -- which it could but probably won't -- it's an open field." As a bleak afterthought, he added, "Actually, I don't think we need worry ourselves about radical politicians."
"Why not?"
"Because the balance of power lies with the military. They tolerated Godonov purely because ousting him would've caused too much upheaval. Now he's gone, they might decide they're tired with being killed in pointless wars without getting paid for it. If they decide to make a move on the Presidency, I don't see there's a whole lot anybody could do about it. All you need is a high-profile General with enough charisma to swing popular opinion his way, and - hey presto - you've got an instant dictator. Hell, the Russians love strong leaders. Everybody knows that. They've never known any different until recently. If you listen to what ordinary people say, then..."
Potter cut him off. "A military coup," he said thoughtfully, twisting the pencil between his fingers. "That wouldn't help relations with the U.S., would it?" His face seemed to glow with the prospect.
"I'm not sure that's the issue, Al." Gellis lit a cigarette, ignoring Potter's disapproving frown. "Whoever takes over will have more important things to worry about than us. Like addressing the problem of crime and corruption. Making sure state employees get paid. Ending the Ukrainian conflict. Reviving the economy. They couldn't afford to fight another Cold War even if they wanted to."
Potter's lip curled into a smirk. "Our readers don't care about that. That's our angle, Richie. Life in Russia under a military dictatorship. I want you do a feature on all the leading contenders from the Army, where they stand politically and, most importantly, what their attitude is towards us. Get Mary Lou to help you put it together. Once you've done that, I want you to fly out to Moscow, call in some of those contacts you have out there, get us a head start on the Washington Post for once. Maybe even get an exclusive interview with the next Russian premiere, huh?"
Gellis' expression failed to hide his displeasure with being told to sensationalize what was --could be , he corrected himself -- an extremely grave situation. But, until a more discerning employer discovered him, he had no alternative but to follow orders.
"Consider it done."
"Good man."
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
Yazov knew he had to move not only quickly but smartly if he were to save Russia. That meant applying subtlety of a nature not usually associated with military officers. Staging a straightforward military coup would have been easy to organize, but the inherent risks were too grave to consider. Any sign of gunplay at this particularly sensitive time could trigger a catastrophic civil war.
No. If he were to succeed, Yazov knew he had to be seen to abide by the constitution. Well, at least the letter, if not the spirit. He needed a tangible justification for his seizure of power, and that would require many other people to play their parts, not least of all new President Nikolai Pushkin. Of course, Yazov had his doubts that such a ploy would work, but he'd already shown his cards to other senior members of the Russian Government, so if he were to back down now, his career would be finished anyway. He had passed the point of no return, and that was the bottom line. He wondered if the same thoughts had occurred to other men who had led coups in the past. Some of them, of course, didn't live long enough to tell their tales. And the successful ones were usually too proud to admit they'd had doubts. Yazov didn't consider himself to be a man of considerable pride -- other than that which was professional -- but neither was he unequivocally altruistic. The realization that he actuallywanted to be Russia's savior took him by surprise, even though he knew he was the only man up to this not inconsiderable task.
It was this train of thought that had led to him requesting a meeting with President Pushkin in the office where, less than twenty-four hours earlier, the late former leader had breathed his last breaths.
"Gennady Andreiovich," Pushkin smiled coldly at the heavily built General. "How may I help you?"
Yazov had carefully rehearsed his approach, even down to the timing of facial expressions. Given the lack of scope for error in these circumstances, one could never rehearse too much. He saluted his new Commander-in-Chief, who gestured him to a chair.
"I am here because I believe I can help you, sir." Yazov knew Godonov's successor to be an insufferably vain man who, like all vain politicians, was acutely susceptible to shows of deference. Pushkin had what Americans might have termed a 'small man complex'. At barely five feet tall, he restricted his public appearances to occasions where he didn't have to risk sharing a stage with speakers noticeably taller than himself. But he more than compensated for his vertical shortcomings with staggering ambition. Lacking the charisma and authority that Russians tended to seek in their leaders, he had worked his way up the notoriously greasy pole of Russian politics purely by cunning and ruthless deceit, traits he'd perfected in his former incarnation as a local party boss for the Communists, Yazov supposed. The General knew that Pushkin had no real convictions other than a personal belief that he was intellectually superior to those around him. To a certain extent, that arrogance was his major strength. But Yazov also knew that, cleverly exploited, it could be his greatest weakness.
"How might you do that?" Pushkin arched his eyebrows, reclining smugly into his chair. ThePresident's chair, he reminded himself with no small measure of satisfaction.
"I wish to serve my nation, as I have always done," Yazov stated firmly. "But I also wish to help you consolidate your position, sir. There are those who would wish to see you destroyed. I am in a position to identify these traitors. It would bring great sadness to me to do so, for several of them are esteemed colleagues. But it would bring me even greater sadness to see them destroy our country purely because of their own personal ambitions. You are the constitutional successor to the former President. If we stray from the constitution at the first time of asking, what hope is there for any of us?"
Pushkin tilted his head to one side. "You surprise me, General. But you please me also. You are obviously an intelligent man. And a patriot. I have always thought highly of you, and now perhaps is the time to bring you into my counsel." He paused dramatically, as if about to impart a deep, personal secret. "As a military man, what do you suggest I do about the Ukrainian situation?" His tone actually said: Let's see how smart you really are...
Yazov had to be careful how he played this. The President wouldn't be as easily sold on his strategy for ending the conflict as others had been. This situation called for a more sophisticated approach, although in essence it remained very much similar to the strategy he had already employed with others that day to great effect. Lead him to the brink of the abyss, then pull him back.
"Before we can even consider the Ukrainian situation," Yazov began, "we have to address the problem of morale in the armed forces."
"They will be paid," Pushkin promised with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I shall make it a priority."
"That is only part of the problem, sir. You see, since Gorbachev, the armed forces have lacked decisive political leadership. In the past three decades, we have been involved in as many pointless, costly wars. For what reason? In each case, to satisfy a political agenda that, by its very nature, soon rendered itself obsolete. Some people, particularly in the military, see you as just another faceless bureaucrat who will use them to satisfy yet another disposable agenda. I have heard them say as much. I know differently, of course, but I'm going to find it difficult to convince them that you offer the best hope this country has. Especially when mine is a minority opinion among the General Staff."
Fear crept into Pushkin's eyes, and his back appeared to stiffen. Good. "What are you saying, General?"
"I'm afraid that certain elements of the military will use this period of instability to overthrow the legitimate government. Yourgovernment, sir."
The concern was real and evident now. "How do we stop them?"
Yazov snorted bitterly, noting the subtle transition fromI toWe . This was easier than he had expected. The seeds of paranoia had been planted firmly in Pushkin's mind. It was now time to nurture them.
"You can't. If you attempt to suppress a military coup, you risk triggering a civil war. If you attempt to identify its leaders before they've even made a move, you will attract accusations of victimization and oppression, and that could have the same effect. Historical fact, sir: the military have been extensively involved in almost every major change in Russia's political system."
"Butpolitical will rolled up Communism, did it not?" the President pointed out.
"Would it have done so had the military not supported Gorbachev when the hardliners tried to oust him in '91? Or had it not supported Yeltsin in '93?"
Pushkin hung his head in desolation, the implications of Yazov's grim analysis quickly sinking in. His own challenge to the General's intellect had backfired on him in a way that he could not have anticipated. Now he was looking to Yazov for guidance. "Gennady Andreiovich, you know the military. What can we do?"
This was the moment. Yazov's heart was racing, knowing that his nation's future, and indeed his own, would be decided by the President's reaction to his proposal. He hid his anxiety behind a suitably neutral expression. "You have to end the Ukrainian war, sir. End it decisively. Conclusively. You have to show the courage to consider extraordinary measures for an extraordinary situation and demonstrate the hand of firm leadership to those who doubt you."
The General explained what he had in mind, just as he had done to the General Staff earlier in the day. As he did so, he watched the color drain from Pushkin's impassive face.
"This will work?" was the final, deadpanned response.
Yazov spread his arms wide. His laugh sounded more like a bark. "There are no guarantees, sir. There never are. But this strategy certainly provides your best chance to consolidate your position by winning the unqualified respect of the military and rendering your political opponents impotent. You will go down in history as the man who led Russia to victory at the eleventh hour. Otherwise you have just two choices. Surrender and go down in history as the President who lost the war, or fight on and bankrupt the nation. The truth of the matter is that we will ultimately lose in any case. We can no longer afford fuel and supplies for our front line troops, never mind the cost of maintaining our equipment." He didn't need to add that the Ukrainians were receiving military advice, supplies and equipment from their friends in Berlin and Paris (Yazov didn't know that they were also receiving covert assistance from the Americans).
Pushkin spent a few moments in the realms of deep, dark contemplation. He had already heard a similarly grim analysis from his intelligence chief, but hearing it from an officer of Yazov's standing merely clarified the issue for him. All things considered, the potential benefits of Yazov's radical plan far outweighed the risks, especially when juxtaposed against his extremely credible warning of an imminent coup.
The President's response was characteristically brusque.
"When?"
"The necessary arrangements can be made immediately. They will take several hours to effect."
"And what of the Americans?"
"The Americans will offer no opposition. Naturally, they will make diplomatic protests, very likely call for an emergency debate at the United Nations." Yazov gave a nonchalant shrug. "But no more than that, I am certain. They will understand. They have no desire to see Russia sink into anarchy or to see this war perpetuated. An unstable Russia is not in their interests. That is why they have invested so much money in this country. Besides, the Americans have too many domestic concerns of their own to risk a confrontation over this."
Pushkin acknowledged the truth of that statement. His American counterpart was twenty points behind in the polls, thanks to a recession that was laughably insignificant compared to the economic meltdown being experienced by Russia. And, with only five months until Edward Mitchell sought reelection, it was doubtful that the American leader would risk opening a potentially dangerous can of worms by rattling his saber on the international stage.
"Do it."
Yazov offered a stiff salute to his commander-in-chief. "Yes, sir. You will need to give final authorization once preparations have been finalized."
"I understand. We will speak again at that time."
The General turned to leave the President's office.
"One more thing, General."
Yazov stopped.
"The conspirators you spoke of. Who are they?"
Feigning reluctance, Yazov named over a dozen leading military and political figures. In less than a minute, he had ruined the careers of every serious contender for the Presidency, plus a few men who hadn't even considered themselves in contention. The logic was seamless. Once Pushkin had fired them from whatever positions they held, Yazov would be in an ideal position to capitalize upon their collective bitterness. Without knowing it, Pushkin was just about to consolidate Yazov's power base.
As he left the office, Yazov allowed himself a rare smile, borne more out of relief than triumph. He reflected that, all in all, today was a day of which Machiavelli himself would have been proud.
III
FIRST WARNING
"Oh, thou hast a damnable iteration, and art indeed able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me Hal, God forgive thee for it. Before I knew thee Hal, I knew nothing, and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked."(William Shakespeare: King Henry IV)
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON D.C.
Dawn was still a couple of hours away, but the lights were already on in the Oval Office where the President had gathered his advisors to discuss the sudden change of government in Russia.
Each of them had been woken by a call from the White House Signals Office and the grim mood was at least partly reflective of the tiredness they all felt.
"What do we know about Pushkin?" The President stifled a yawn as he pitched the first ball of the day.
"Not enough." The catcher was Bradley Copeland, who at only 38 years old was one of the youngest men in living memory to hold the office of Secretary of State. This was his first major crisis - if that's what it was - since the sudden death of his predecessor three months earlier. Obviously keen to impress at the first time of asking, he had yet to learn that the diplomatic rules that applied to the international arena were equally valid - if not more so - in the White House. One of those rules was never to commit to a position until you had checked your territory for bear traps. More than one person in the room sensed that his enthusiasm was in danger of leading him straight into one.
All eyes turned to him for clarification. He cleared his throat, perceptibly nervous. "Um... As you know, Pushkin is widely perceived as a caretaker Prime Minister, at best a unity figure to hold things together until someone more able is found. He's got a pretty low profile, even in Russia. I met him once, at a state dinner, and found him somewhat..." He searched for the right word, so important in these situations. "Intense."
"Intense, huh?" Mitchell grunted, noting how cleverly Copeland had managed to remain vaguely noncommittal and thus avoid the first rank of bear traps. "Can he hold things together over there, Tony?"
Anthony Bishop was Director of the Central Intelligence Agency. A career spook who had the alert look that came from years of working in the field, he had never felt entirely comfortable in the company of bureaucrats and politicians conditioned to mask their true feelings. To a man such as Bishop, paranoia was second nature, and the ability to read people a crucial survival technique. He couldn't always read politicians, so adept were they at deception, and that was enough to put him on guard.
"Our Russian experts -- such as they are -- reckon he's got a fifty-fifty chance," he stated. "It all depends on how the Army react. They supported Godonov because there was no viable alternative. With the vacuum his death is bound to have created, they may feel compelled to make a move. They don't know Pushkin. Sure as hell they won't trust him."
As with Copeland, Bishop's reluctance to commit to anything didn't go unnoticed by the President, who not for the first time wondered if anybody in this room -- indeed in this business -- had the guts to stick out their neck on an issue. One of the unspoken rules of politics was that a leader would carry the can if he acted on the bad advice of his staff, but the advisors would take the credit were the leaders successful. How did Bishop made the transition from spy to politician? Mitchell wondered with a trace of sadness, already knowing the answer. Like any good spook, which the DCI had certainly been, he was merely adapting to his environment.
"There aren't any real contenders from the army," the Secretary of Defense pointed out. His name was Paul Nielsen. A thirty-year Washington veteran, he had preceded Bishop as CIA Director and was probably one of the least popular members of Mitchell's administration. His appointment to one of the key cabinet posts had been little more than an olive branch to a hostile Congress in return for its approval of the President's flagship welfare reform bill. Mitchell didn't like Nielsen much. He always gave the impression -- intentionally or not -- that he was holding something back. And some of his political opinions were somewhere to the right of Genghis Khan. One political opponent had once said of Nielsen that you could hear him ooze into a room before you even saw him. Nielsen's narrow gray eyes and angular features, crowned by a thin layer of wavy black hair, did not lend themselves to the image-conscious world of the professional politician, hence the reason why he had always tended to maintain a low public profile. But he liked things that way; no recognition equated to little accountability.
"Mind you," he added, "there is one guy we should keep an eye on. His name is General Gennady Yazov. He's the commander of the Strategic Rocket Forces. Not one of the key commands these days, but the guy's got charisma and the troops seem to like him."
The President saw Bishop nod in agreement. Even Copeland's eyes came to life at the mention of the RVSN General. "Tell me about him," Mitchell said, wondering if he was the only person in the room who had never heard of this Yazov character.
"I've seen his file," Bishop offered. "He's a tough son-of-a-bitch, and a damn smart cookie to boot. Chemistry degree from Moscow University, first in his class in Strategic Doctrine at the Frunze Academy. He speaks fluent English, demands very high standards of his men, but he's always kept a distance from the political arena, so no real enemies in the Duma. All the same, if the military makes a move, it's a good bet he'll be involved somewhere. Our sources say that he's probably the most influential figure within the General Staff these days."
The next person to speak was Reynolds. He was no expert on Russian affairs, and had never professed to be. But he did pride himself on his knowledge of people. And Russians were still people, weren't they? They had the same weaknesses and fallibilities as anybody else. It was just a matter of finding out what their weaknesses were, and deciding how to capitalize upon them. That was the most important rule of politics, and international crisis or not, this was still a political situation.
"I knew this guy once, a poker player," he remarked. "A real shit hot player, he was."
The President cocked a grin. He was accustomed to Reynolds's anecdotes, and had learned that to entertain them was often to learn something from the wily political specialist.
Reynolds leaned forward in his chair as if addressing a kindergarten class. He had his audience. He lived for moments like this. "Well," he went on, lowering his voice an octave, "this guy got involved in this game one night. Big stakes. All the other guys were strangers, but it didn't matter to him because he had the knack of reading people. He could tell what you were thinking just by the way you breathed."
"Bullshit," Nielsen snorted with undisguised contempt. "Get to the point, Jim."
Reynolds zeroed in on the Secretary of Defense. "You ever played big stakes poker, Paul?" In his Maine accent, poker was pronouncedpoke-ah .
"No," Nielsen admitted.
"Well then shut up and listen. You might learn something." He took a deep breath before proceeding. "Anyway, this guy cleaned up, walked away with the whole fucking pot. Not immediately, mind you. He played the long game, throwing a few hands while he studied the other players' weaknesses. But in the end, he broke 'em all. Walked away from that table with a cool half mil. Best night's work of his life. So he starts thinking about taking his pretty young wife away for a nice long vacation, maybe buying a new sports car. Hell, he even thought about getting himself a condo on Malibu beach. He made all these plans about what to do with this money he'd won."
Copeland was clearly hooked. "So what happened to him?"
"He walked out of the club, went home, and guess what? When he got home, he found his wife humping the guy who owned the gaming room. Funny thing was, they both thought the husband would be at the game all night. Didn't think he'd clean up so quickly. In fact, the owner of the gaming room invited him to the game just so he could be alone with the guy's wife, and all the other players knew what was going on. After that, the husband lost his touch. He was never able to play poker again. His wife divorced him and ended up taking most of his winnings, and he ended up a broke and lonely hobo All because he didn't find out why he'd been invited to the game in the first place." Reynolds smiled crookedly at Mitchell as he concluded the lesson. "My point is, Mr. President, that you should never play the game until you find out who's really running it and why. Seems to me that none of you really know what the game is in Russia right now, never mind who the other players are. Until you find that out for sure, don't play. You might get stung."
"Is that story true?" Copeland asked.
"What do you think?" the chief of staff replied cryptically.
Mitchell understood the point Reynolds was making. And the bitch of it was that the chief of staff was right. There was no point trying to anticipate your next move in a game that hadn't even started yet. He almost turned to ask for Bert Aldick's opinion, but stopped himself just in time, glancing sadly at the empty chair that his National Security Advisor would normally have filled. In situations like this, Bert had been the only man whose opinion could have been relied upon for its absolute objectivity and honesty. How the hell do I replace him? The President asked himself. He made a mental note to ask Margaret about that. It was a situation that would have to be tackled sooner rather than later.
He pinched the bridge of his nose and allowed himself a yawn. Time to wrap things up. "Okay, well, the press is expecting a statement soon, hopefully in time for the late editions. Something for people to chew on over lunch. I take it we should offer our tentative support to Pushkin."
"With reservations," Copeland advised. "We should support him as a continuity figure, somebody we can deal with, providing that he proceeds with economic reform and continues to seek a diplomatic solution to the Ukrainian conflict."
The President searched the faces of the other men in the room. There were no objections to Copeland's advice.
"Okay." To Reynolds: "Jim, get Sara Walsh to draft a statement, something expressing sympathy for Godonov's family, a tragic loss of a great statesman, a friend of the American people. Normal drivel."
"Who'll attend the funeral?" Copeland inquired.
Mitchell and Reynolds exchanged a glance. They were both thinking the same thing.
"Might as well leave the veep out there for that," the President suggested. The Vice President was already in Moscow, leading a U.S. trade delegation to the Russian Federation.
"That'll keep him happy," Reynolds noted dryly. "He likes overseas travel. Besides, it'll keep him out of trouble for a few more days."
That remark caused everybody to snigger. Vice President Adam Jones was as much of a joke within the realms of government as he was outside. But the youthful former resident of Fort Lauderdale, Florida,had delivered the Sunshine State, and that was the only reason Mitchell had chosen him as a running mate.
"Oh, and Brad," the President added.
"Sir?"
"Summon the Russian ambassador and reaffirm in person ourconditional support for Pushkin. I'll draft a personal letter for you to deliver to him."
"The Ambassador's in Moscow at the moment, but he's due back later today," Copeland reported. "I'll arrange to meet him as soon as he gets back."
"Good."
After the meeting, the President sat down to breakfast with Margaret. It was one of the few times of the day they could actually enjoy any semblance of privacy. But even at breakfast, a Secret Service agent would hover impassively in the background.
"What's in your diary for today?" Mitchell asked his wife, unsuccessfully trying to trap a slippery slice of grapefruit with his spoon. It occurred to him that he was supposedly the most powerful man in the world, and yet sometimes even the most menial of tasks eluded him.
"I'm flying down to North Carolina to visit an abused women's center, no less," she told him, watching with amusement as her husband's spoon vainly pursued the grapefruit around the bowl. "I imagine one of Jim's focus groups has identified abused women as a major voting bloc. Can't get thar without them," she added, cruelly lampooning Reynolds' Maine inflection.
"What about abused men?" the President half-smiled, temporarily giving up on the grapefruit.
"Nah, their wives probably don't let them vote."
The First Couple shared a chuckle. A rare moment these days.
"What about you?" she asked him with an edge of concern. Her husband looked physically and mentally exhausted, even if he wouldn't admit to it. She'd have to talk to his physician about that, she thought. "I imagine your day will be pretty much taken up with Russia, huh?"
"Pretty much. Apparently, Godonov died of a massive coronary. I have to say, his timing was immaculate." He frowned. "I tell you, Bert couldn't have picked a worse time to get caught with his zipper undone. If ever I needed his advice..." He paused, leaving the rest unsaid. "I've got to find a replacement. The National Security Advisor is one of the few posts I can appoint without legislative approval. I need somebody who knows what the hell they're talking about. You know I'm not big on foreign..."
He saw a ponderous grin flicker across Margaret's lips. He knew that expression.
"What are you thinking?"
"I think I might know just the man you're looking for. He's one of the best Russian experts around. Somebody you can trust a hundred percent. Only problem is, I doubt he'd want the job."
"Who is he?"
"A guy I met when I was teaching at Princeton." Margaret took a sip of coffee. "Actually, he was a star pupil of mine. Probably the best I ever had." The First Lady was a Professor of International Relations, and would have made an adept National Security Advisor herself had she not been married to the President. There were some things -- blatant nepotism being one of them -- that even a President couldn't get away with.
"Okay then, how do I approach him?"
"You don't," she stated. "Get Bishop to do it."
The President raised a quizzical eyebrow, picking up his spoon for another attempt.
"This guy used to work for Tony at the CIA, both as a field officerand an analyst. He left Langley a few years' ago and took a job teaching at UCONN, so he may be a bit rusty on current events. But if you need a good Russia guy, he's your man. While he was at the Agency, he spent a lot of time over there working in the field. He speaks the language like a native. Arabic too, so I recall."
"Sounds promising," the President agreed, quite proud that he had finally managed to trap the elusive slice of grapefruit. "I'll call Tony after breakfast, get him to set up a meet. If he's as good as you say he is, perhaps this guy could come in on a temporary basis for the time being. What's his name, anyway?"
INDEPENDENCE, MISSOURI
"Goddammit. Where the hell are they?"
Beth Logan checked her watch again, her face darkening with anger. She glanced through the kitchen window and muttered a curse.
"Probably caught up in traffic on the Interstate, honey," her husband Martin suggested. "Don't worry, they'll be here."
"Dinner will be burned to charcoal by the time they arrive," she grumped. "I took a day off work to prepare for your parents' visit. The least they could do is show me somegoddamn respect by being punctual."
Martin wrapped a muscular arm around his wife's shoulder in a vain attempt to ease her foul mood. That usually worked. But not this time. She shrugged him off and opened the oven to check on the lamb, leaving Martin looking slightly hurt.
Beth had never been on the best of terms with her in-laws, largely due to religious differences. The Logans were devout Irish Catholics, while Beth - whose maiden name was Goldberg - was a New York born Jew. Two weddings had been required in order to placate both families, although neither Beth nor Martin had ever seen the need to change their own respective religions purely because they happened to love each other. If only Martin's parents could have been so compromising. After all, Beth's parents -- both of whom, sadly, were dead now - had accepted Martin, so why couldn't his folks have done the same? He'd spent many a sleepless night wrestling with that question without ever obtaining a satisfactory answer.
In fact, his parents had only visited their son and daughter-in-law twice during the three years that he had been married to Beth. They owned a bar in Chicago, which did enough business to allow them the nominal excuse of having too little time to come all the way to Missouri for a fleeting visit. They managed to do this, Martin thought, without ever leaving any doubt as to the real reason for their absence. So he had some sympathy with Beth's refusal to travel to Chicago just to visit in-laws who did their utmost to make her feel unwelcome. After all, he would have felt exactly the same way in her position.
Of course, Martin's allegiances were somewhat confused, and that was not a comfortable predicament for a US Air Force bomber pilot who was conditioned to measure life in terms of simple polarities; black and white, right and wrong, good and bad. He was actually hoping that this visit, which had required the diplomatic skills of Henry Kissinger to arrange, would show his parents that, regardless of what they thought, he loved Beth and wasn't about to leave her just because she had been brought up to worship the same deity in a slightly different manner than he. It had taken all of his persuasiveness to persuade Beth also to give them a chance; and if they did show any hostility towards her, to take it all with a pinch of salt. His parents were too set in their ways to change, he had told her, so she'd just have to try to accept them for what they were.
"Why should I?" she had snapped at him during that very argument two days' earlier. "Why should I sit back and listen to all their shit in my house. Myhouse."
And that's what it all came down to, wasn't it? Martin reflected sadly. I have home advantage, so you will live by My Rules. If you don't like it, you damn well know where the door is.
"Well," she snorted, slamming the oven door shut. "I just hope they like charred lamb. It'll sure as hell give your mother a reason to criticize my cooking." And wouldn't that be something, coming from a woman whose idea of haute cuisine is a bacon sandwich with a Guinness chaser, she didn't say.
Martin glanced through the kitchen window and, to his relief, he saw his parents' white sedan turn into the driveway. Good timing, guys.
"You can stop complaining now," he told his wife. "They're here." Brace yourself. Here we go...
Beth joined Martin at the front door to welcome Patrick and Cathy Logan to Missouri. Hugs and greetings were exchanged, albeit frostily on Beth's part. They all went through to the dining room, where Martin's parents brought their son up to date with all the gossip from Chicago while Beth served up dinner.
"Have you been eating too much chocolate?" Cathy smiled coldly as Beth spooned vegetables onto her mother-in-law's plate. "You're losing your shape, dear."
Beth narrowed her eyes at her husband, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"Well, I think Beth looks stunning, Mom," he objected, coming to his wife's defense. In his eyes, she hadn't changed much from the petite blonde he had first met at college nearly two decades ago. The hair was a little shorter, the crows' feet slightly more prominent, but she was still capable of turning heads.
For many years, their relationship had been entirely platonic. They first met when Beth started dating a fellow student called Simon Hall, who happened to be one of Martin's teammates from the college football team. Simon was later to become her first husband. After college, when Beth was a young stockbroker and Martin an Air Force cadet, she periodically exchanged postcards and letters with Martin. But as the future husband and wife both pursued their own careers, correspondence between them gradually became less frequent, and eventually stopped altogether. In that time, Martin worked his way through the Air Force ranks, himself chalking up one broken marriage to a younger woman who hadn't been able to cope with the irregular lifestyle that his job had entailed. The final separation had been triggered by Martin's posting to Germany, a country that she decided to hate after just a few days. She promptly returned to America, and that was the last that Martin heard of her until she served him with divorce papers.
It wasn't until nearly a decade later that, by freak coincidence, he again crossed paths with Beth. By this time, Martin had made the rank of Captain and had been posted to the 509thBomb Wing at Whiteman AFB, Missouri. To celebrate his promotion, he and a few buddies had decided to take a vacation in the picturesque resort of Shoshone, California. Fortuitously, Beth and her sister had had the same idea, although in their case it had been to celebrate Beth's divorce from Simon. This time, neither Martin nor Beth were prepared to let destiny escape them.
Within six months of meeting again, they were engaged. Beth gave up a lucrative career on Wall Street to join a small investment boutique in Kansas City, sixty miles away from Whiteman. Adjusting from Manhattan's intensity to KC's easygoing ambience hadn't been easy, but Beth had no regrets. Sure, she would never earn as much as she could have done in the Big Apple, but the relaxed lifestyle and shorter working hours provided ample compensation for that. Plus she was with the man she loved.
In fact, life would have been perfect if it wasn't for -
"Who are you to talk?" Cathy was yapping at her son. "Look at the state of you. You've lost so much weight. Have you been eating properly?" The obvious insinuation was that Beth wasn't taking care of her husband.
That was enough to shatter Beth's reverie. She narrowed her eyes at Cathy. "Martin's eating just fine. He's been working out more often. That's why he looks slim." Don't you dare even try to suggest that I don't take proper care of him, her expression warned.
"Damn good lamb," Patrick enthused, his mouth full. "A bit overcooked, but never mind."
Beth took a mouthful of food to prevent herself saying anything she might come to regret. Her face said it all. She'd have rather been having surgery without anesthetic than enduring her in-laws' acerbic gibes. And I've got three days of this shit to put up with, she reflected bitterly, wondering for how long she could keep a lid on her temper.
"Not bad," Cathy agreed. "But I do prefer a nice piece of pork myself." She feigned an apologetic look at Beth. "Oh, I forgot. Youpeople don't eat pork, do you?"
That was the final straw, Beth pursed her lips, screwed up her serviette and threw it onto her plate. "I'm not hungry," she told her husband. "I'm going upstairs for a lay down. I've got a headache." Glowering at Cathy, she added, "Even Jews get headaches."
Beth stormed out of the dining room before Martin could say anything to stop her.
"Such a sensitive girl," Cathy sighed with complete indifference, helping herself to some more vegetables.
"What is it with you?" Martin snapped at both his parents. "Beth went to a lot of trouble to prepare this dinner, and all you do is insult her."
Patrick raised his finger, as if to make a point, but Martin cut him off.
"Well, let me tell you something. Whenever you insult her, you insult me. She's my wife, not some piece of trash."
"She's not your type," Cathy told her son. "You could do so much better. I just don't want to see you get hurt. It just upsets me to see you with someone who, let's be honest, isn't good enough for you."
"That's where you're wrong, Mom. I love Beth, and she loves me. We've been married for three years, and we'll be married long after you've gone. So deal with it, okay?"
Patrick's finger was still wagging. He was determined to have his say. "You've got no right talking to your mother like that. She gave you..."
"Oh, for Chrissakes, don't give me that speech again, Pop. I'm thirty-eight years old. And you guys have no right talking to Beth like that either. She's given me a lot too."
"Hasn't given you a child yet," Cathy mutteredsotto voce as she stuffed a forkful of overcooked lamb into her mouth.
Martin flinched. The mention of children was a sore point for him. As a Catholic, he had been raised not to believe in contraception, while Beth wasn't yet ready for children. She had a good career, and her salary was almost double that of Martin's. Cathy and Patrick didn't know this, of course. It was none of their business. The point was that Beth believed that a woman should only have children if she was able and prepared to devote all her time to them. Presently, her career would not allow that, and she wasn't prepared to give it up just yet. There would be plenty of time for kids later on, once her and Martin had saved up enough money to give their children a stable upbringing and a good education. Until then, it was a non-subject. Martin knew he had a choice. He could either accept that she was on the pill, or he could live a life of celibacy. And his Catholic convictions were notthat strong.
So far as his parents were concerned, the long-awaited conception just hadn't happened yet, for reasons that only biology could explain. Privately, Cathy blamed it on religious incompatibility -- God's disapproval of a bi-religious union -- although not even she had the courage to say as much to her son. The fact of the matter was that Martin simply couldn't bring himself to tell them the truth. Not because he wanted them to be disappointed in him - after all, how much more disappointed in him could they be? - but because he didn't have the will or the energy for the inevitable arguments that would ensue.
"I'm not hungry either," he said. "I'm going inside to watch TV. Enjoy your meal."
Once Martin had left the room, Cathy leaned over to her husband and lowered her voice to a whisper.
"She's really not taking good care of that boy, you know."
JFK INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, NEW YORK CITY
Less than twelve hours earlier, he'd been getting laid. Now Richard Gellis was queuing at the UA checkin desk for a flight to Moscow. Funny how things panned out, he mused.
It would be freezing in the Russian capital -isn't that always the truth? - and the trip was open ended, its duration entirely contingent upon the course of events. So he'd taken care to pack two suitcases with just about every piece of winter clothing in his wardrobe. Although he'd been born in Russia, Gellis had grown up in San Diego, California, and had never quite conditioned himself to the harsh chill of Moscow.
"How you doing?" he beamed at the clerk, a pretty young woman whose lack of a wedding or engagement ring didn't go unnoticed by the amorous journalist. Gellis handed his passport and ticket to her.
"One moment, sir." She tapped his name into the computer and checked his passport against the details on the screen. "Ah, here we are Mr. Gellis. Business class to Moscow, yes?"
"That's right." With a grunt, he heaved his luggage - heavy with equipment - onto the conveyor belt, wondering as always whether he would ever see it again. Fortunately, the airlines didn't lose luggage quite as often as they had used to, but it still happened occasionally. And given the law of averages, it would happen to a frequent traveler like Gellis sooner or later.
A display on the clerk's desk reported the weight as 41kg, just inside his baggage allowance. She attached two labels to his luggage and started to print his boarding pass.
"Are you going on business, sir?"
"Something like that," he smiled cockily. "I'm a reporter for the New York Post. I'm going out there to cover Godonov's death."
The clerk - her nametag identified her as Mandy Willis - pretended to be impressed. "Oh, how exciting. Interesting times over there, huh?"
Gellis leaned on the desk, beginning to make his move. He thought himself to be something of an expert at such things. "Well, I've seen a lot on my travels. It takes a lot to impress me, Mandy."
"Uh-huh." She handed him his boarding card and passport, smiling her sweetest smile. "Me too." You ain't got a chance, buster, the smile said.
"Thanks." Oh well, so much for that, he smiled back, his illusions shattered.
He still had over an hour to kill before his flight boarded. Enough time to grab a bagel and a cup of coffee and forget all about the atypical rejection. Unfortunately, almost all of JFK was completely non-smoking these days, a rule that was also true for the vast majority of airlines that departed from it. He figured that he would have to suppress his nicotine craving for another fifteen hours until he set foot in the smokers' haven of Shermeteyevo Airport in Moscow. It had been just half an hour since his last cigarette, and Gellis was already suffering.
Fifteen hours to go. Over half a day. He toyed with the idea of buying a nicotine patch.
He was not to know that his plane would never touch down in Russia.
WASHINGTON D.C.
John Huth, the CIA's Deputy Director of Operations, was a man with a lot on his mind. He hadn't slept all night, and it showed in the bags underlining his eyes. Sitting in a booth in one of D.C.'s finer dining establishments, awaiting the arrival of his luncheon partner, he lit his tenth cigarette of the day.
He couldn't resist having a quick glance around to see who else was in the restaurant. The staff here was accustomed to servicing some of the capital's most prominent figures. The secluded dining booths lent themselves to privacy, and the restaurant owner, who was actually a former Congressman himself, carefully screened his employees. More deals were struck here, more unattributable leaks uttered, than perhaps in any other building in the United States. If you weren't part of the establishment, you had no chance of getting a table. And even then, you had to be approved by the owner; a man who had struck his own fair share of underhand deals during a brief but colorful political career.
It was lunchtime, and the restaurant was filled with the normal Washington set; lobbyists, government employees, aides, lawyers, politicians and just a few journalists (the maitre'd had a list of select political correspondents whose discretion was guaranteed. Any reporter not on the list didn't get past the front door). Soft jazz music played in the background, deliberately concealing whispered revelations and deals.
Huth's Special Protection Officer was sat at a booth no more than ten feet away, as watchful for eavesdroppers as he was for potential assassins. He looked up as his charge's guest arrived with his own SPO in tow.
"John," the Secretary of Defense smiled, patting Huth on the shoulder as he sat in the booth. "You look tired."
"What took you so long?" Huth had been waiting for half an hour. With a crisis unfolding in Russia, that was time he could ill afford to waste. I should be back at Langley, his conscience kept reminding him.
"What do you think?" Nielsen snorted derisively. "Explaining things to that man is like dealing with a child. It says something for the overestimated wisdom of the American people that they would vote a moron like that into the White House."
"I guess Russia's not his thing," the DDO volunteered.
"Sometimes I wonder what is his thing. You know, Reagan may have been a dumb-ass cowboy with some half-cocked ideas, but at least he was a patriot. Mitchell? I don't know. I often think he'd like to sell this nation to the goddamn corporations. He's got no concept of the danger we could be facing from those red bastards. He just doesn't get it."
"Who does these days? The Soviet Union died a long time ago, Paul."
Nielsen rolled his eyes. "Yes, but those who propagated Communist ideals didn't die with it, did they? No, they simply put on new hats, pretended to be free market democrats and started kissing babies. But underneath, they're still reds, no matter which way you slice it. You know something? I've a feeling that with Godonov gone, they'll start to show their true colors again. And then what do we do? Our benevolent C-in-C has presided over a net thirty percent cut in our defense budget, a cut that I have to explain to the boys out there on the frontline. We have only a third of the nuclear capability we had in 1989, two operational aircraft carriers at any one time. And our submarines are contracting out their services to environmental groups; tracking whales, for Chrissakes. All in the name of peace," he added with a contemptuous snort.
"Hey, you're preaching to the choir here," Huth reminded him, raising his hands. His own budget had been slashed over the past couple of years, to the point where it was impossible to keep an eye on all the parts of the world that needed an eye keeping on. The fact of the matter was that the CIA, particularly its operational arm, wasn't too popular with Congress these days, not to mention with a President who had stated that he thought of the Agency as an anachronism.
A waiter appeared, handing menus to the two men. Once he'd disappeared, the DDO got down to business. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "Anyway, enough of that. We need to talk aboutOverlord ."
Nielsen showed no reaction to the mention of what was one of the CIA's most closely guarded secrets. OperationOverlord had begun during his tenure as CIA Director. Ithad been his pet project, involving as it did the covert supply of arms to Ukrainian nationalists fighting against the Russian Army. Neither President Mitchell nor his predecessor, under whose administrationOverlord had begun, knew anything about it. That it continued owed everything to Huth's success in concealing it from his new boss, Anthony Bishop and, accordingly, the President.
"What's the problem?" the Secretary of Defense asked as he turned his attention to the menu. His tone exuded indifference. Huth concealed his irritation at his ex-boss's apparent flippancy.
"The problem is that we don't know what's going to happen in Russia now," he stated. "That increases the risk of exposure, don't you think?"
Nielsen peered over the menu at the DDO. "IsFalcon still running things over there?"
"Yes."
The former DCI nodded his approval and returned his attention to the menu. "He's a good man. One of the best. He'll keep things tight, don't worry."
Huth bit his lip hard in frustration. "But Ido worry, Paul. I worry that if it ever gets out what we're doing over there, I'm the one whose ass is on the line. Bishop doesn't know a thing about it. You're not at Langley any more. I'm out there on my own, it's my ass on the line. And, quite frankly, I've got no intention of taking the fall for this. Have you seen what they've been asking for lately?" He was referring to the latest list of supplies requested by the Ukrainians; a document only ever seen byFalcon , Huth and Nielsen, whose job it was to provide the necessary items. "Computer chips. High voltage capacitors. Specially configured laser machine tools. Krypton gas. I mean we're way past rocket grenades here. Krypton gas, for Chrissakes."
"Who knows? Perhaps they're trying to kill Superman," the Secretary of Defense remarked facetiously. "What's your point, John?"
"My point is that all of these items can be used for building a bomb." Huth lowered his voice to a whisper. "Athermonuclear bomb. Do you get my drift?" he hissed through clenched teeth.
"Sure," Nielsen acknowledged. "And also for building microwave ovens, I dare say. I may not be a scientist, but I always thought you needed elements such as tritium and uranium to build nuclear bombs. You can't exactly buy that stuff at your local hardware store. Where are they going to get it? Our AEC inspectors visited their nuclear plants last year, and they're satisfied that the Ukes aren't capable of producing weapons-grade material. Anyway," he added with a sniff, "even if you're right about this, it might be the best thing that could have happened."
"What on Earth are you talking about?"
"Well, if the Ukes get the bomb - and Heaven knows how they'll do it - but if they do, it might give the Russians pause for thought. I mean, after all, nuclear deterrence worked for us, didn't it?"
Huth considered that. Nielsen's flippancy was beginning to concern him now. At the very least, he'd expected the Secretary of Defense to express some concern. But no. He didn't seem bothered in the slightest that the United States might covertly be creating a new nuclear power, and that this power was at war with another nation with the same potential for destruction.
"All the same," the DDO concluded, inhaling deeply, "I'm not comfortable with this any more. I'm going to call it off."
That got Nielsen's attention. He laid down his menu and appeared to stiffen before Huth. "You can't do that," he growled. It's my operation, he almost said.
"Why not? I'm the Deputy Director of Operations."
Nielsen momentarily squeezed his eyes shut. When he opened them again, they were hard with determination. "If we don't stop those bastards in the Ukraine, where will it end? Where will we make our stand, eh? Kazakhstan? Georgia? Mol-fucking-dova? We have to make our stand now, in Ukraine, otherwise we'll be facing a new Russian empire before you can sing Howdy Doody. Only this time, we won't be dealing with reds, we'll be dealing with nationalists. And, guess what? Nationalists don't tend to like us very much."
"And for as long as we perpetuate the war," Huth retorted, "the greater the risk of Russia slipping into chaos. Quite frankly, I'd rather face a Russian empire than a Russian anarchy. We've dealt with an empire before, we can do it again."
Nielsen grimaced, wondering if the progressive liberal epidemic that already seemed to have debased America's political establishment was truly infectious enough to have reached Langley also. Was he the only true American left in Washington? Could none of these idiots see what was going to happen? He didn't mind being alone - he had, after all, spent most of his political career fighting the good fight against frequently overwhelming odds - but this was one situation that was slipping out of his control. He could no longer issue direct orders to the Deputy Director of Operations. But that wasn't to say that other alternatives didn't exist. Normally, even an experienced operator such as Nielsen would have thought twice about resorting to blackmail, but these were extraordinary circumstances. Huth had been his protégé. He never thought that the DDO would wimp out at the moment of reckoning. Perhaps he'd read him wrong.
"Tell me," the Secretary of Defense said casually, "how is Cleo?"
There was a sinister edge to Nielsen's tone that caused the DDO to flinch at the mention of his wife. "You wouldn't," he muttered, knowing very well that Nielsen would.
"I imagine you've told her about that young lady in Georgia whose son's education you're financing. Youare still sending her money, aren't you?"
The color drained from Huth's face. It had happened nearly two decades' earlier, when he was an Army Captain fresh home from the Gulf War. Cleo, to whom he'd been married for just over a year, was a young, ambitious attorney in Baltimore. Because of the situation in Iraq, they'd actually spent seven months as a married couple when he was sent overseas, and upon returning from the Middle East, he was rewarded for his efforts in the Gulf with an assignment to the Brigade Combat Team Task Force at Fort Benning in Georgia, whose locality didn't exactly lend itself to career opportunities for rising lawyers. Actually, the posting meant an increase in salary and rank for Huth, although from his wife's perspective, this did not compensate for having to move from Maryland to the Deep South.
For the next couple of months, Cleo suffered the solitude and isolation of living in Georgia, but she could no more stop being a lawyer than her husband could stop being a soldier. That realization coincided with a lucrative job offer from a law firm in Washington D.C.. For her, it was the opportunity of a lifetime; the chance to practice corporate law for one of the most exclusive partnerships in the country. Huth understood this. He didn't see why his wife should have to sacrifice her career for the sake of his, and that was why he advised her to move north. In the meantime, he'd apply for a transfer so that he could be reunited with her as soon as possible. If such a transfer weren't forthcoming, he promised to willingly resign his commission and seek civilian employment in D.C.. After all, he had an MBA from Yale. How hard would it be to find a good job?
As it happened, his request for a transfer was duly accepted. He was offered a posting at the National Security Agency at Fort Meade in Maryland, but was told that -- for bureaucratic reasons -- he would not be able to leave Benning for six months. So, for that time, he remained alone in Georgia while Cleo pursued her own career, seeing his wife only when he was on leave, which wasn't as often as he would have liked.
One evening, he and some buddies from Benning went into town for a few beers. It was a routine event that normally resulted in nothing worse than a stinking hangover. But this particular evening was to be somewhat different. It was the evening that he met Helen.
Helen was an attractive young waitress in a bar that was a regular haunt for off-duty troops from Benning. It was only her second night on the job, but it was the night that she would end up in bed with Major John Huth. He hadn't intended it to happen and, until laying eyes on Helen, had never considered that he could be unfaithful to Cleo. But he was lonely and drunk, and Helen had been giving him the come-on. The sex was passionate, almost animalistic. For the next three months, he found himself unable to stop the affair, even though he knew how wrong it was. Their relationship was to end only when he transferred to Fort Meade.
Shortly before he moved, Helen dropped the bombshell. She was carrying his child, and she intended to keep it. Although she didn't ask for anything in the way of support, John Huth still maintained at least some of the old-fashioned values with which he'd been raised. He had money, having been the sole heir to his late father; a man of not inconsiderable wealth. And Helen's child was his responsibility.
So for almost twenty years, he'd been paying $1,500 per month into a trust fund for a son he'd never met. Even though he hadn't seen Helen since leaving Georgia, he still maintained occasional contact with her. She would write to his work address at Langley, keeping him abreast of Billy's progress. Apparently, he'd just won a place at the University of Georgia to study medicine. From the pictures John Huth had seen, he was the type of boy to make any father proud; captain of the football team, a gifted athlete and academically brilliant. He comforted himself with the knowledge that at least something good had resulted from that sordid episode.
And, to this day, Cleo still knew nothing of Helen or Billy. She didn't pay close attention to her husband's finances, so she had never noticed the regular monthly payments to the Columbus branch of the First Bank of Georgia. John and Cleo Huth had two children of their own now, aged eleven and three. For all intents and purposes, their lives epitomized middle-aged domestic bliss. But even now, John Huth was still a man plagued by guilt. He had spent two decades asking himself why he had done it, but had never come up with a satisfactory answer. Perhaps it was loneliness, perhaps it was just because he had the opportunity. The truth of it was that Helen and Billy embodied a secret that would probably go with him to the grave.
In fact, the only person who had ever uncovered the story was Paul Nielsen. It had happened when John Huth was recruited by the Agency a few years' earlier. Anybody joining a sensitive organization such as the CIA is subject to the strictest of background checks. One routine check uncovered the anonymous payments. Nielsen had quizzed Huth on it, and the future DDO had known better than to lie. After he'd come clean, Nielsen promised him that it was not a problem and that the story would never be repeated. I know what it's like, every man has his secrets, doesn't he, and yes, I understand what it's like to be away from your family and be surrounded by temptation, nothing to be ashamed of, you're not the first, won't be the last.
Now four years' later, that same man was smiling at him across a dinner table, threatening to use his knowledge of Helen and Billy to destroy a blissful marriage in order to satisfy an immoral and quite possibly illegal political agenda.
"I guess I have no choice, do I?" Huth said finally.
Nielsen smiled thinly at him, saying nothing, his face aglow with self-satisfaction. Then he returned his attention to the menu.
"I've heard the gravis lax is excellent in here," he remarked. "Shall we order?"
"I'm not hungry any more."
John Huth had never hated anyone as much as Paul Nielsen at that moment.
FARMINGTON VALLEY, CONNECTICUT
He had fallen asleep fully clothed on his bed, a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sitting open on the nightstand. On the television, Jay Leno was cracking jokes at the expense of Vice President Adam Jones; a tragicomic figure whose apparent intellectual shortcomings had made him an irresistible target for satirists and comedians. The sound on the TV was muted, and its pale blue light reflected off the pastille gray walls of the darkened bedroom.
He was sweating profusely, his sleep tortured by unseen demons that he fended off with his arms. His murmur was groggy but repetitive.
"Sandra... Sandra..."
Suddenly, he jerked upright in his bed, aware that something other than the nightmare had disturbed his sleep. His head felt like it had taken the full weight of a sledgehammer and he had a terrible taste in his mouth, as if something had defecated in it.
What the hell...?
Somebody was knocking at the door. He checked his watch. Who the hell could be bothering me at this time of night? He had vague recollections of a bar brawl. Had that been today, or the day before? Perhaps he was imagining it. With every passing day, events and dreams seemed to blur increasingly into a single strand of consciousness where reality was not necessarily a given. It was the booze, he knew. It was the booze that kept him sane, and it was the effect of booze that was destroying his mind.
Heads I lose, Tails you win.
And I'm too yellow to face my sins.
He rose to his feet and was rewarded with a throbbing sensation in his head that caused him to groan. His body's tolerance for liquor seemed to be diminishing by the day. Getting old, pal, he told himself for not the first time recently. That point was emphasized when he caught a glimpse of his haggard features in the bedroom mirror. Thirty-nine going on sixty. As if he didn't have enough enemies in the world, now Time had joined the long line of abstractions queuing up to hurt him. Well, he thought,at least I'm still in good shape. And the old reflexes are still there ,even if they are a bit blunter than they were .
His visitor knocked again.
"Okay, for God's sake. I'm coming."
He staggered into the hallway, barely managing not to stumble into a wall that seemed to have moved since the last time he was here.
He opened the door
"Hey buddy," his visitor grinned. "You look like shit."
Dr Lewis Stein felt his jaw drop in astonishment. As a former member of the British parachute regiment and American intelligence services, he had learned to expect almost anything.
Anything except for the Director of the CIA banging on his door.
NATIONAL MILITARY COMMAND CENTER, THE PENTAGON
"Okay. What the hell is so important that you have to drag me all the way down here at this time of night?"
General Marion Westwood, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, didn't bother to conceal his displeasure as he stormed into a soundproofed conference room, known as 'The Bubble'. A 275lb mountain of muscle standing over six feet tall, Westwood still spoke with the brogue of Detroit's ghettoes, where he'd been raised. He had come a long way since then, of course. The son of a Baptist preacher, he had worked his way through the ranks of the US Army, graduating from West Point and earning an MBA from Yale in the process. He was the proud recipient of a decoration for valor in the Gulf War. Yet, even his consummate professionalism failed to conceal the straight talking bluntness that he had developed in his formative years on the streets of one of the country's toughest neighborhoods.
The brave individual who had disturbed the Chairman's slumber, a two star General called Harry Wilkes, was chief of the Defense Intelligence Agency; the lesser known but far better equipped of America's two major intelligence agencies.
"Something strange going on in Ukraine, sir," Wilkes reported, spreading out a series of opaque satellite reconnaissance photographs on a backlit presentation table. To the uninitiated, the monochrome images would have been little more than obscure abstractions. But Westwood's trained eye knew exactly what they represented. "Just got these in from Langley."
Westwood picked up a magnifying glass and began to examine the images before him.
"The first one was taken at twelve hundred Zulu today," Wilkes explained. "Note the positions of the three Russian tank brigades around Chernihiv, and the two infantry battalions south of Konotop. Looks like they're involved in one hell of a scrap with the Ukes."
"That's the front line," Westwood observed. "They've been stuck in the mud for six months now. "So?"
"Six months. Precisely." Wilkes pushed the second image forward. "This next one was taken at zero hundred hours Zulu - just over an hour ago."
Westwood didn't require any further explanation. He immediately saw what was bothering Wilkes. Three Russian tank brigades were retreating northeast towards the border in a ragged formation. The distance they had covered between the two satellite passes suggested that they were moving at breakneck speed, which meant that they were consuming vast amounts of fuel that the Russian military could hardly afford to spare. By their very nature, tanks require heavy maintenance, and the fact that lack of maintenance had cursed much of the Russian offensive made the rapid retreat even stranger. Westwood also saw that the Ukrainians weren't bothering to pursue them. It was almost as if the Russians had thrown in the towel, and now they were trying to get out of the way of ....what?
"What the hell...?" What am I missing here?
Wilkes smiled thinly. "They're getting out of Dodge. Thing is, they weren't exactly getting their butts whipped by the Ukes, not in that part of the country anyway. There doesn't seem to be any obvious reason for them to run away like that. Certainly goes against everything I know about the Russians. They've left their MSR" - Main Supply Route - "totally exposed."
"Damn right they have," Westwood grunted, a bad feeling developing in his gut. It seemed too much of a coincidence that the Russians were running like chicken so soon after Godonov's death. Where they were going? And why were they going there so fast? "What about Russian forces in eastern Ukraine? Are they bailing out too?" He was thinking aloud, clutching at straws.
"We're still waiting for confirmation from NSA. But early indications suggest not." That had been the first thing the DIA had checked, based on the theory that the new Russian President might have ordered an unconditional retreat without telling anybody. "Perhaps the ELINT will tell us more. NSA is working on the translations as we speak. There's been a lot of radio chatter between Moscow and the Russian brigades in Northern Ukraine, significantly most of it coming out of Moscow, not a lot going the other way."
"I want those translations ASAP," Westwood ordered, mentally ticking boxes on a checklist of possibilities. "Any sign of increased military activity inside Russia?"
"Some signs of increased alert status around bases on the Ukrainian border. No unusual activity around Moscow though, so I don't figure on a coup. Besides, why would the Army recall units from the Ukrainian front to assist in a coup? If something like that was going down, they'd use troops closer to home. These guys running from Ukraine won't be in any fit state to do anything by the time they get to Moscow."
Westwood exhaled loudly. His gut feeling was becoming more portentous by the second. "Yeah, I know, but I still don't like it. Any indication from Moscow that they're calling off the war?"
Wilkes almost laughed at that. "Hell, no. The fighting is still going on in the south of the country, fierce as ever. But they're leaving holes in their northern flanks, and that's the damnedest thing. They're not covering their ground; they're just running. I guess it's always possible that we're witnessing the early stages of a revolt, especially given the increased alert status of Russian border installations."
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs pinched his eyes shut. His senses weren't fully alert yet. At this ungodly hour, he needed a cup of Java before he could function effectively. Even so...
"You gonna inform the President?" Wilkes asked him.
"No, not yet. Let's wait for NSA to come up with the goods. In the meantime, we keep a close eye on things, see how they pan out. There could be a rational explanation for all this."
But if there was, neither man could think what it might be.
FARMINGTON VALLEY, CONNECTICUT
"I'm sure there's a rational explanation for this visit," Lewis said, pouring himself a shot of Jack Daniels.
Bishop ignored the remark. "You look like you've been doing far too much of that," he observed as his former colleague drained the glass in one hit.
"Only pleasure I've got these days, old pal," Lewis chuckled, refilling the glass and collapsing into an armchair with all the grace of a discarded rag doll. He raised his glass in mock salute - "Cheers." - and promptly sunk another shot.
Bishop eyed him with concern. They had met in Moscow many years earlier, back in the days when both had been in the field. As a matter of fact, Lewis had saved the CIA Director's life, even though they had been working for very different employers - indeed, differentnations - in those days. But that was another story, and one upon which Bishop didn't care to reflect right now. Nevertheless, that single show of heroism by the Englishman had sealed a lifelong friendship between the two men. A friendship that had, shortly afterwards, enabled Lewis and his ex-wife to shortcut the standard INS bureaucracy to obtain American citizenship. And that was the beginning of another story.
Now, more than a decade later, Lewis's haunted expression was that of a man who had experienced more pain and tragedy than any human being should be expected to endure in a lifetime, and that was something for which Bishop had to admit some degree of responsibility. After what Lewis had endured, it was small wonder he'd hit the bottle. Anybody else might have cracked completely. Yet, even though years of self-neglect had taken its physical toll, those deep set brown eyes still projected a fierce intelligence, always alert and scouting for danger. Yep, Bishop thought to himself. You may lose the muscle, but you never lose the look. It was the look of a man who had done both the takingand the saving of life; a look that could only be recognized by another who had done likewise.
"Why are you here, Tony?" Lewis asked, impatience creeping into his voice. He lit a cigarette. "Bit far for you to come for a social call. 'Specially at this time of night," he added with a mordant smirk. "You interrupted a wonderful dream I was having. You were in it somewhere, I think."
"I'm sorry I haven't called for a while, Lew," Bishop apologized, sipping from a can of Coke that Lewis had fetched him from the kitchen. "You know how it is..."
"Yeah, you've got a big intelligence agency to run now. So. How is life at Spook Central these days?"
"We've had better times," the DCI admitted sourly.
Lewis took a long drag of his cigarette and squinted at Bishop through a cloud of blue smoke. "Russia?"
"You've been watching the news." More an observation than a question.
That remark earned him a disdainful snort. "How bad is it?"
"That's why I'm here. The boss needs good advice, and he's not getting it. Aldick's gone, State is in a mess, so the Agency is acting point on Russia. And, as much as I hate to admit it, we're seriously weak in that area right now. Congress doesn't like us much, and the budget cuts have hit us hard. There's nobody on the Russia desk who could make a gut call without a fifty thousand volt prod up his ass."
That comment elicited a chuckle loaded with bitter irony. Lewis had faithfully served two different nations in his life, and had flirted with death for both of them during a career that had cost him one marriage and very nearly his sanity. At the very least, it had reduced him to little more than a semi-alcoholic, socially challenged burnout who paid the bills by teaching hormonally overloaded college kids about Things That Mattered. He'd paid his dues with interest, and still his former employers wanted more. Even now, they wanted hisinsight and hisadvice . Because the world was in danger, and who else was going to save the day but Superspook? His chuckle almost developed into a belly laugh when he saw the half empty bottle of Jack Daniels sitting on the sideboard beside a framed wedding photograph of him and his ex-wife.
Some fucking Superhero!
"Tony," he said gravely. "How many billions is the CIA's annual budget? And what about the NSA? Or, for that matter, the DIA?"
Bishop gave him a quizzical look. "What are you getting at?"
"I mean, with all those resources, you're saying that you've got nobody brighter than me to figure things out? I don't buy it."
"I know where you're coming from, Lewis." Bishop leaned forward, lowering his voice an octave. "But I've never met anybody who can piece things together like you can. Sure, we have lots of specialists; but they're damnacademics , each and every one of them. None of them have ever been out there, in the field, like you have. We've got nobody like you who can see the big picture. My Russian experts are people who have only read about Russia in textbooks. You, on the other hand, have been there and done that. You speak my language; you're not a fucking politician like the rest of them. And you haven't been locked up in a Washington office with your head up your ass for so long that you can't make sense of things."
"No, I've been stuck with my head in a bottle of booze for so long that I can't make sense of things. I mean, what's to make sense of, huh? What's to figure out? You want me to tell you whether we should back Pushkin? I think you know my answer to that. Don't insult my intelligence, Tony. What do youreally want from me?"
Lewis sensed that Anthony Bishop, his old friend, mentor and boss, was carefully considering whether to spill the entire jar of beans. An awkward dilemma for the CIA boss, for once he had crossed that line of disclosure there was no going back. Lewis, of course, still had a higher security clearance than most of the Agency pukes who worked at Langley, but that wasn't the point, was it? He wasoutside . And therefore, a potentialliability .
"Okay," the DCI sighed acquiescently, "here goes. You know what happened to Bert Aldick, right?"
"As you so helpfully pointed out, Ido read the newspapers."
"Well then, here it is." Bishop took a deep breath. "I'm not inviting you back to Langley. I'm here on behalf of the President to offer you a seat at the top table. Actually, the First Lady recommended you to him. You'd come in on a consultancy basis to begin with. I'm not saying that you'll replace Aldick - only the President can make that offer - but if you call this one right, who knows?"
Lewis Stein was a man known among his few friends for an almost superhuman tolerance for alcohol. But he had sure knocked back a few tonight, and any trace of inebriation he might have felt a few moments' earlier sharply evaporated. His wide-eyed expression made that clear enough.
"You're kidding," he exclaimed. "So why isn't the President making this call?"
"He thought that, because of our relationship, it might be better..." Bishop left the rest unsaid.
Lewis said it for him. "You mean because I might beunstable , right?"
There was no point lying. Bishop respected Lewis too much for that. "Right."
"Well, fuck you very much, pal. If I'm so unbalanced, why the job offer? I'm quite happy..."
Bishop cut him off sharply. "Bullshit you're happy. Look at the state of you. I'll level with you, Lewis. If I were the Pres, I wouldn't offer you the job. But youare still one of the best at what you do. So it's your call now."
Lewis and Bishop locked eyes for several long seconds. Finally, Lewis broke the tension by standing to pour himself another shot of Jack. "I'm out of the game, Tony. Have been for a couple of years."
"Look, man," the DCI said. "I'm talking to you as a friend now, not as your boss or even as a government employee. I know the pressure of the job screwed you up. I watched it happen, for Chrissakes. Do you know what that did to me?"
"You did nothing to help," Lewis muttered sulkily.
"There was nothing Icould do," Bishop retorted. "You refused counseling, refused to talk about it. What did you say? I won't waste my time with all that bullshit psychobabble. You know what you are? You're a typical stiff upper-lipped Limey, repressing everything beneath that cold exterior you like to put on. You never expected that it would all come back on you one day. You never learned that every man has an emotional threshold. Even you."
Lewis's expression contorted into a wry smile. "Finished yet?"
"I haven't even started, pal. Do you remember the Grosny mission?"
How could he forget? That had been his last field operation in the employ of the CIA, and the first one he'd fucked up. Admittedly, he'd achieved his primary objective, the elimination of a Chechen Mafia boss suspected of flooding Western Europe with heroin. But, thanks to a combination of bad luck and poor planning, he'd also managed to kill two innocent children in the process. Yes, they may have been offspring of the Chechen gangster and therefore potential future gangsters themselves, but one of them might just have grown up to be an Einstein or a Kissinger. At least with adults who had gone bad, you knew that they'd had a chance to prove what they could be and wasted it, and therefore the death of a particularly bad adult could sometimes be justified, depending on one's sensibilities. But how could one justify the death of a child thatmight grow up to be just like its parents? That was a question with which Lewis had wrestled for nearly three years, and he had yet to find a satisfactory answer.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I remember Grosny."
The DCI saw an implicit warning in Lewis's eyes. Don't push this one. Bishop knew he had to tread lightly. Few people had ever seen that dangerous look and lived to tell the tale.
"Lewis, there's something you don't know about that. About two weeks after you came back, your wife called me."
Lewis's eyes narrowed at the mention of his ex-wife. It had been almost two years to the day since she'd walked out on him. Even now, he still loved her as much as he had ever loved anybody -- and knew that the feeling was probably mutual -- but until he made some changes in his life, there was little hope of reconciliation. His current funk, he knew, was the reason she had left him. That was understandable, wasn't it? I wouldn't want to live with me either.
"She mentioned that she was worried about you," Bishop recalled. "She told me about the nightmares you were having, and the fact you wouldn't talk about them. Lewis, she asked me to tell her - just that once - what you'd been involved in."
"And did you?"
"No. You know I couldn't. That's not to say I wouldn't have turned a blind eye had you decided to tell her. Anyway," he went on, "I told her to try and talk you into seeing the Agency counselor."
"What good would that have done? What does a counselor know? Have they ever been out into the field? Have they ever killed a seven year old kid? If I'd wanted to talk to anybody, I would have talked to someone who'd been there and done that. Somebody like you. To tell you the truth, I wonder whether anything we ever did was worth a damn. The bad guys are still out there, aren't they? Russia's still a mess."
Bishop failed to prevent himself from shouting. "I don't fucking believe you, Stein. First of all, you wouldn't talk to me or anybody else. That's the whole fucking point. You insisted on maintaining that cold facade. Everybody saw right through it, do you know that? Me and your ex-wife, we both tried to stay patient with you, thinking that you would come through it eventually. But then you skulked off into self-pity. You didn't resign from the Agency, yourana-fucking-way . You didn't divorce your wife, youdrove her away. You ran away to Nowhereville, Connecticut to play teacher. You decided to play it safe, just so you could wallow in self-pity and a bottle of Jack, damn you. If there's one thing that offends me, it's a wasted talent. And you've got fucking talent, or at least you did. I don't know what you are any more, to tell the truth. The fact of the matter is, the work that we did together saved more lives than it cost. A hell of a lot more. So don't ever fucking tell me that it doesn't matter, you hear me?"
"If you think I screwed up, Tony, just tell me," Lewis remarked dryly. "Don't beat about the bush."
Bishop reproached himself for losing his temper. This wasn't the way to get through to him. "It just saddens me. No," he corrected himself, "it goddamnoffends me that a guy with your talent and intellect is willing to waste his life because he's too damn proud to admit he's hurting."
Lewis lowered his eyes. He felt a strange emotion. An emotion that didn't feel very pleasant at all.
He felt ashamed. But not for the reasons that he usually felt ashamed. Nothing quite so tangible as the death of a child or the loss of a good wife. The shame he felt was much more abstract than normal, something that penetrated the psychological barriers he'd put in place over the years. This type of shame was the type that rang in his conscience like an alarm bell. A wake up call, of sorts.
"What are you saying?" he said meekly.
Bishop put a hand on his old friend's shoulder. The lecture was over. The look in Lewis's eyes told him that, somehow, something he'd said had struck a chord. Now it was time to mend whatever damage had been done.
"I'm saying, Lewis, that I remember when I first met you. You had that arrogant confidence of youth, yet you knew exactly when to be scared and, more importantly, you knew what you didn't know. As an analyst, your instincts were always that much sharper than anyone else's, but you had a thirst for knowledge. And, because of that, you saw things that nobody else did. As a field officer, hell, you were a legend. Still are, as a matter of fact. Okay, so you fucked up in Grosny, and you took it hard because you'd never fucked up before. So what? You learned the lesson that you're only human, and that's often the hardest lesson of all. So you took a couple of years out to sulk, feel sorry for yourself and punish your liver. Well, I hope you enjoyed your sabbatical, buddy, because your country needs you again. It needs you to be a man again."
Lewis looked up at the man who had once been his mentor in the intelligence business.
"What's the deal?" he snorted acquiescently after several moments of loaded silence.
"Russia's in deep shit. Nobody seriously thinks Pushkin will last long. Question is, what happens next? The President needs you to get a handle on things out there, figure out some of the issues. Maybe think of angles we haven't already considered. How will the change in government impact our relations? Who are the players? Who's pulling the strings over there? That kind of thing."
Lewis had to admit to himself that there had been several occasions over the past two years of self-inflicted reclusion when he'd actively considered returning to government service. But, even though teaching wasn't quite as rewarding as servitude to one's country, it did allow him the freedom to feel sorry for himself. And it was far easier to do that than to confront one's demons, wasn't it?
Onlyhe knew how much it rankled him to read the daily newspapers without knowing what wasreally going on behind the headlines. Being involved had its price, butnot being involved was often frustrating as hell. He missed not being on the inside, not being able to play a part in the making of the headlines he read. Lewis knew that this was perhaps his last chance to get back into the game. It was a game whose rules he had observed for most of his adult life; a game that had made him precisely what he was. Furthermore, it was a game that - deep in his heart - he knew he needed almost as much as the air he breathed. Without the challenge and a corresponding set of rules to provide a final checking balance on what he had become, he would never feel quite complete.
That sudden realization both shocked and relieved him. Shocked him because he had never considered himself totally reliant upon anything before; relieved him because he had just found a valid justification for swallowing his pride and retracing a path that might allow him in some small way to redeem himself for the death of those two young children in Chechnya, not to mention a young Irish Catholic girl who might have still been alive had she not made the mistake of falling in love with him so many years ago. Another story...
War had always been a second home to Lewis, and he had learned through bitter experience that war often begot heroes. But the same rule also applied to peace, for those who prevented loss of life were also heroes, weren't they? Henceforth, Lewis's objective would be the pursuit of the latter. Enough lives had ended at his hands for the sake of what had been deemed The Greater Good. Now he had a part to play, a past for which to compensate.
But most importantly, he still had a place where he belonged and a purpose in which he believed.
That entire thought process took a fraction of a second.
Now the decision had been made, he smiled mischievously.
"Sounds like it could be fun."
"Good. Then you'd better clean up and have a black coffee."
"And then what?"
Bishop raised an eyebrow. "My private jet is waiting for us at Bradley International. And there'll be a limo waiting at Andrews to take us straight to the White House. Ever been there?"
Lewis blinked, suddenly wishing he had abstained from alcohol that day.
HOUSTON, TEXAS
Tabatha Canning's fifteenth birthday was one she would remember for the rest of her life. Three months' pregnant and at least $100,000 richer after selling her story to a supermarket tabloid, the teenager whose claim to fame was being impregnated by the former National Security Advisor was about to make a decision that would change her life even more significantly still.
Tabatha was laying in bed listening to the angry exchange taking place downstairs between her mother Louise and Tabatha's latest stepfather. Dick was at least the third one in as many years; a local car dealer with a drink problem almost as bad as Louise's. He wasn't as bad as some of the other losers with whom she had lived, but his drinking binges often ended in a violent rage, the main victim of which tended to be Louise. The only saving grace was that Louise was usually too coked-up to know about it.
More often than not, the onset of sobriety would coincide with a fortuitous memory loss that prevented Dick from ever recalling punching Louise or banging her head against the wall or throwing her down the stairs. But Tabatha didn't forget anything. She certainly would never forget crying herself to sleep at night, terrified that Dick might enter the room at any moment in search of a new target for his unspent rage. Her concern was not so much for herself as for her three younger siblings. All four children shared a room no bigger than many peoples' closets, and Tabatha felt wholly responsible for their welfare. After all, who else was going to look after them? Their drunken, junkie whore of a mother? Yeah, right.
She flinched as athud echoed through the house. That would be Dick throwing Louise onto the floor. She heard her mother yelp in pain; a sound as familiar to the teenager as that of her own voice. Even in the darkness, she could hear the youngest of her siblings, four-year-old Garry, sobbing into his pillow.
"Shut up, Garry," twelve-year-old Nina hissed. Not because the crying particularly bothered her, but because she was scared that it might attract Dick's unwanted attention.
Tabatha sat upright in her bed. She'd often fantasized about taking a kitchen knife and plunging it into Dick's ample gut, but she knew that it would always remain just a fantasy. Even though Louise was her mother, she didn't respect her. As far as Tabatha was concerned, Louise was a drunken, weak whore who thought nothing of the impact on her kids whenever she found a new loser willing to keep her in liquor and drugs.
So it's all down to me, Tabatha thought. She knew that Dick could snap her in half should he so choose. And she wasn't enough of a martyr not to be scared. But, for her little brother, three sisters and the child yet unborn, she sure as hell had to be strong. With that in mind, she decided that the biggest test of her strength would take place tonight. Tonight was the night when her patience had finally expired. Tonight was the night when she'd made the decision to leave.
She stood up and quietly got dressed.
"What are you doin'?" Rhonda whispered. Rhonda was nine.
"Listen up," Tabatha said to her siblings. "We're gettin' outa here. I want you to put on your clothes, very quietly, and then do what I tell you."
"Dick'll kill us," Nina pointed out.
"Dick couldn't give a fuck," Tabatha told her. "Now do what I say. Right fucking now."
There was some reluctance among the children to leave the sanctuary of their beds. Nina was the first to move. Then Rhonda, and finally Garry. They began to get dressed, confusing quietness with moving very slowly. It took five minutes for all of them to get dressed, by which time Louise's shrieks were reverberating through the house as Dick's onslaught intensified.
"How we gonna get out then?" Rhonda inquired. "He'll see us."
Tabatha had already thought of that. She opened the window, careful not to make any noise. It was a dry, balmy night, full of the promise of summer. The childrens' room was at the back of the house, facing out onto a small, overgrown yard. Tabatha climbed up onto the window ledge and looked down onto the roof of a dilapidated gazebo. The drop was about ten feet. She hoped that the gazebo would take her weight.
"What you doin'?" Nina exclaimed, almost forgetting to stay quiet.
"Stay here until I call you," Tabatha ordered. She contemplated the drop, for once thankful for her gym training (she was captain of the school gymnastics team). It occurred to her that the fall might carry some risks for her unborn child, but she calculated that the end probably justified the means.
Tabatha crouched low on the window ledge, holding her breath, and dropped off feet first. This was where her gym training came in. She controlled the fall to perfection, landing on the tips of her toes, arms outstretched to maintain balance. Realizing with some gratitude that the roof of the gazebo was sturdy enough to hold her, she exhaled a sigh of relief. Then she looked back up at the bedroom window, through which her three siblings were craning their necks.
"Okay," she whispered. "I want all of you to drop down, just like I did." Noting the reticence in their faces, she extended her arms out in front of her. "Don't worry. I'll catch you. Now move it, before Dick finds out."
Nina was the eldest of the remaining three and therefore considered it her duty to set an example to the others. Although not quite as lithe as her older sister, she did well to reproduce Tabatha's drop. The fifteen-year-old struggled to hold her, but just about managed to do so.
"Right, now climb down and head for the pick-up," Tabatha instructed her. "Wait for us there."
Nina looked hesitant, but the hard determination in her older sister's eyes dissuaded her from putting up an argument. Tabatha watched as the twelve-year-old climbed down the gazebo's wooden siding and disappeared down an alleyway at the side of the house, which led to the main street.
Rhonda was next to make the drop. Her confidence buoyed by having watched her two older sisters make it, she wasn't anywhere near as reluctant as Nina had been. This was becoming something of an adventure for her. It was the most exciting thing she'd ever done. And that was her way of coping with what her racing heart told her was actually quite a dangerous moment in her young life.
"Come on, Garry," Tabatha whispered. Garry was sitting on the ledge, his legs dangling outside. The drop looked immense to the tiny four-year-old. He was trying to muster the courage to fall off and entrust Tabatha to catch him. But he couldn't, and was sobbing for that reason. He didn't want to disappoint his big sis. He didn't want to be left behind. But neither did he want to take that jump.
Tabatha was aware that the longer this took, the greater the chances of Dick finding out what was going on. This situation called for a new approach.
"If you don't fall down," she warned the little boy, "the boogieman will catch you and eat you all up. You're a big boy now. You can do it. Now come on. You don't think I'd do anything to hurt you, do you?"
Garry shook his head vigorously. He loved his big sister. She took care of him. She wouldn't let anything bad happen to him, would she? He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched his nose, just as Tabatha had taught him at the swimming pool. Then he pushed himself off the ledge. When he opened his eyes, he was in Tabatha's arms. And then he really started sobbing.
She carried him down into the yard and hurried along the alleyway to the front of the house. Dick's battered blue pick-up was parked in its normal spot on the other side of the street. Nina and Rhonda were already over there, hiding behind it. Tabatha could see them craning their necks over the hood to see who was coming. She also saw the relief on their faces when they realized it was only her, and not Dick.
She placed Garry down again and opened the cab door. "Get in," she told the other children. They obliged, becoming more assured with each passing moment. They'd put all their trust in Tabatha, and so far she'd kept them safe. So far.
Tabatha climbed into the driver's seat, quietly shutting the door behind her.
"Now what?" Nina said, still keeping her voice quiet, even though Dick was out of listening range. "He's got the keys. How you gonna start this heap of shit?"
Tabatha was already crouching beneath the steering wheel. "Who needs keys?" the teenager responded as she began hotwiring the car. Apparently, gymnastics wasn't her only area of expertise. The other children stared at her in admiration. A couple more years in this neighborhood, Tabatha thought, and they'd all learn how to do this as well. The process took her a few minutes, and she breathed an audible sigh of relief when the engine -- which was actually almost as old as her -- spluttered into life.
She put the pick-up into gear and drove away, not really sure where she was heading, but knowing that it would be far away from Dick and Louise. Tabatha also knew that her mother's bank account now contained a $100,000 check, courtesy of a certain supermarket tabloid. The fifteen-year-old had her mother's looks and could easily pass for being several years' older (if she could fool the National Security Advisor, she could sure as hell fool a dumb-ass bank clerk). Fortunately, she was also an expert at forging her mother's signature, a talent that had until now been useful only for signing school documents and sick notes.
By the time Dick discovered what had happened, the four children were thirty miles away, heading north towards the Missouri state line.
THE STATE DEPARTMENT, WASHINGTON D.C.
Like a lamb to the slaughter. That was precisely how Alexander Lukin, Russia's ambassador to the United States, felt whenever he visited the State Department. The palatial decor and trappings of power were designed to intimidate. As a career diplomat, he respected this. But like many things in this amazing country, the tactic lacked subtlety; a concept that the Americans had never quite understood. Well, they were still a young country, he thought. They would learn given enough time.
An aide showed Lukin into the John Quincy Adams drawing room, where he gently lowered himself into one of two identical armchairs arranged in front of the fireplace. He remembered reading somewhere that both chairs had been handmade in Philadelphia and dated back to the colonial era.
As indeed did many items in this extraordinary room. A grand portrait of Adams, painted in 1816 when he had been Minister to Great Britain, adorned the wall over the fireplace. A collection of Chinese export porcelain that had once belonged to George Washington himself was prominently displayed in an illuminated cabinet.
Lukin's favorite piece of furniture in the room, however, was arguably the least eye-catching. It was an inconspicuous writing table made out of mahogany, spruce and white oak. On a previous visit to Foggy Bottom, it had been explained to the Russian Ambassador that the table boasted an extraordinary historic association. For it was the table upon which the Treaty of Paris had been signed in 1783, bringing to an end Britain's ownership of the American colonies. A keen student of history, Lukin had often wondered how different things might have been had the British won the War of Independence.
Perhaps, he mused, this rather ordinary piece of furniture would yet bear witness to yet another great turning point in history. As he sat there awaiting his host, Lukin reflected that history was quite a relative term when one thought about it. American history, for example, hadn't even begun when Prince Alexander Yaroslavevich routed the invading Swedish and German knights in the thirteenth century. Time was somewhat equivocal to the Americans. They were a young country, yes, and their preoccupation with youth was certainly evident in their popular culture. But, in dealing with other nations, they tried to act like an ancient civilization, blessed with the wisdom of millennia. And that had always been their weakness, hadn't it? They thought that because they had worn down the British in 1783, helped to beat the Germans twice in the twentieth century (they didn't like to be told that they couldn't have won those two wars without assistance) and taught that Arab barbarian Saddam Hussein a lesson or two about the exercise of might in 1991, they had the right to lecture the rest of the world about how it should conduct itself. America was a land of many contradictions, he had learned in his five years as Ambassador to the United States. It would willingly go to war to fight for freedom and democracy, and yet it would just as often provide assistance to nations whose governments didn't even understand such concepts. Lukin didn't dislike the Americans, but he did sometimes find their arrogance bewildering. They were like the Roman Empire of old, he thought. And just like the Roman Empire, decadence and complacency would probably be their nemesis.
He realized that his mind was drifting, and he attributed that to jetlag, having only landed back at Dulles an hour earlier following a six-hour meeting in Moscow with Russian Foreign Minister Suronev. The meeting had been convened at extremely short notice in the wake of President Godonov's death. Lukin had expected it to be a purely routine meeting. What he hadn't expected was to return to Washington with a revelation that could irrevocably change the existing world order. He was certain that the young American Secretary of Statecertainly wouldn't be anticipating the news that he was about to receive.
"Alex."
Bradley Copeland entered the room, a warm and friendly smile on his face. An aide followed two steps behind him. The Secretary of State and the Russian Ambassador had been diplomatic acquaintances - if not quite friends - for almost a decade, since the time Copeland had been part of a US trade delegation to Russia. In those days, Lukin was an undersecretary to the then Minister of Agriculture, and was a key member of the Russian negotiating team. Lukin and Copeland had struck an instant rapport, the Russian remembered. His English was just about flawless -- the product of a classical education -- and he was known for a relaxed sense of humor that had made him somewhat unique among his rather severe mannered colleagues.
Lukin stood to shake the Secretary of State's hand. It occurred to the Russian that this was the first time he had met Copeland in that capacity. The last time he'd visited the State Department, it had been to meet Copeland's predecessor for a discussion about President Mitchell's planned state visit to Moscow; a visit that, due to Godonov's death, had now been temporarily postponed. In the three months that had passed since that meeting, both Godonov and the former Secretary of State had died. Yet, as the Americans said, the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.
"Congratulations on your promotion, Bradley."
"Thank you, Alex." Copeland gave him a cordial nod. "It's a shame it couldn't have been under more auspicious circumstances. This is Carl Taylor, my new Undersecretary for Russian Affairs," he went on, introducing his aide.
"Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Taylor," Lukin said, bowing respectfully. He'd already read the file on the American, of course. It wasn't terribly flattering.
Taylor didn't like the Russians. Despite an Ivy League education and heaps of worldly wisdom, his inexplicable dislike of all Slavic races bordered on racist. He thought that they smelled strange and looked shifty. But, all said and done, he was a professional diplomat, and was well practiced in concealing these sentiments behind a poker face that had taken years to perfect.
"Likewise," he lied.
The three men sat down in front of the fireplace. Lukin and Copeland took their places in the armchairs, which were set to face each other at a slight angle. A coffee table sat between them. Taylor took his place in a beautiful pre-revolution side chair, which he pulled up as if it were a piece of cheap garden furniture.
As Copeland and Lukin engaged in the compulsory niceties that were an integral element of such meetings, a maid fetched tea on a solid silver tray. Even that gesture was extravagant in a typically American way. The solid silver neoclassical tea service, designed by John LeTellier, dated back to the 1790's. Lukin nodded his thanks to the maid as she poured, wondering what the Bolsheviks would've made of such ostentation. The thought almost occasioned a smile.
The more things change...
Next came the exchange of pleasantries, a mandatory if somewhat tiresome element of such meetings. Yes, I'm fine, how is your wife, my wife is fine, and my children are fine too, and I agree it is indeed quite cold for this time of year, but they forecast better weather soon, andblah, blah, blah...
That took about ten minutes. Now it was time to get down to business.
"Mister Ambassador," Copeland began. "First let me extend to you our nation's gravest sympathies regarding the death of President Godonov. He was a great statesman, and a good man. I have here with me a personal note from my President to yours, extending the regret of the American people." He handed a sealed envelope to the Russian, which was duly pocketed.
Godonov was a drunken buffoon who took my country to the brink of oblivion, Lukin didn't say. Instead, he smiled graciously. "Thank you, Bradley. I will convey your sentiments to my government."
"You might be pleased to know that the Vice President intends to remain in Moscow for the funeral. In fact, he was rather hoping to arrange a brief private meeting with your new President Pushkin while he is there. A show of moral support for your new President, if you like." And also to check him out, look into his eyes and see what's ticking, the Secretary of State didn't add.
Lukin's reaction caught the two Americans off guard. Normally, such an offer of support for a new leader would have been warmly embraced, particularly by a country such as Russia, which needed all the support it could get. But instead Lukin grimaced, which in diplomatic terms was as close as one could come to cold shouldering a proposal without rejecting it out of hand. "I am sure that my President will be receptive to your offer," he remarked, sipping his tea.
A brief pause. Something was clearly troubling the Russian, Copeland saw. What the hell is going on here? Something isn't right.
"Bradley," the Russian said finally, glancing at Taylor, "could we speak in private?"
The Secretary of State blinked. This wasn't going at all how he had anticipated. After momentary consideration, he gestured Taylor to leave the room. The aide, making his displeasure clear, did so. Lukin watched Taylor shut the door behind him before he spoke again. Bradley Copeland, the youngest Secretary of State for over a century, would remember the moment for the rest of his life.
"Bradley. We have spoken as diplomats. Now I speak to you as an old friend. My nation is in very grave danger. Things were unstable enough before Godonov's death. But now, events have moved beyond instability. Pushkin lacks the necessary qualities to hold the country together. The people don't know him, the Duma doesn't trust him and the military doesn't respect him. He has no ideas of his own, other than to seek power for its own sake. I am certain your own people" -- he glanced at the door through which Taylor had just left -- "have given you a similar analysis, have they not?"
Jesus! Copeland thought in astonishment. How many diplomatic rules has he broken here? Of course, the State Department and the CIA had, as Lukin stated, already reached much the same conclusion about Pushkin, and the Russians would almost certainly have known that. But there was a time and place to discuss such things, and this sure as hell wasn't the timeor the place.
The Secretary of State cleared his throat. He was shaken, the Russian saw. Copeland wasn't old enough to have perfected the ability to always mask one's true feelings. Yes, he was a good diplomat and, yes, he was even effective when it came to trade negotiations and the like. But where really important issues were concerned, he hadn't been tested yet. Lukin almost felt sorry for SecState, but the boy had to learn sooner or later, didn't he? Diplomacy was not a game in which mercy played a great role.
"I'm not sure this is really..." the American stuttered, until the Ambassador cut him off.
"I have been authorized to convey a message on behalf of certain individuals who are attempting to save my country," Lukin said flatly. "You may take notes if you wish, but I'm sure your bugs will record this conversation for the record." That was an educated guess on the Russian's part, but he was an old pro and would have been surprised had the Americans not littered the room with recording devices for later scrutiny by voice analysis equipment.
Copeland swallowed hard, trying to maintain a neutral expression. In all the years he'd known Lukin, he had never seen the Russian look so intense. Or is that just me?
"As you have probably guessed," the Ambassador stated, "my government has been trying to find an acceptable solution to the Ukrainian problem for some time. In fact, we have been engaged in low-level direct talks with the Kiev government for several months."
The Secretary of State raised his eyebrows at that, feigning surprise, although British intelligence had already informed their counterparts at the CIA of the secret talks. Lukin's admission had just made the revelation official. That in itself was a major development, but the Russian's tone was almost dismissive of the fact. Something else was coming, Copeland knew.
"I regret to inform you that these negotiations have been unsuccessful." There was genuine sadness in the Ambassador's voice. "This war, Bradley, has taken my country to the brink of bankruptcy. Our Central Bank has very little reserves left, and my people are facing their hardest winter for years. A famine, perhaps. Quite frankly, Mr. Secretary, the war in Ukraine is unwinnable, and yet we cannot seek a truce with the Ukrainians that would allow us to save face. If we surrender, Ninchenko and others like him will be in the Kremlin before Christmas. Nobody wants that, least of all your government." He took a deep breath before concluding his statement. "We must therefore seek other means to bring a swift end to this conflict before it destroys us."
The grim finality of that last sentence -- particularly the way Lukin had stressed the words "other means"--caused Copeland's heart to skip a beat. He felt a ball of ice form in his gut. He sensed what was coming and prayed that he was wrong, just this once.
Lukin leaned forward, lowering his voice to a mere whisper. "Bradley, I have been charged to inform you that twelve low yield tactical nuclear warheads have been approved for deployment against Ukrainian forward positions."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees from where the Secretary of State was sitting. There was no precedent for this. How was he supposed to react? Jesus... For the first time, he felt completely out of his depth, and it showed in the sudden loss of color in his face.
"I assure you," the Russian added, "that this does not constitute part of a wider campaign involving nuclear weapons. It will be an isolated operation calculated to generate a strategic advantage, and neither the United States nor its NATO allies has any need to be concerned. Indeed..."
"Hold on, Alex." Copeland cut him off with a raised hand. "Did you just say what I think you said?"
Lukin's mouth twitched at the corner. The Secretary of State was reacting exactly as he had anticipated. That was not necessarily a good thing. He'd hoped his old sparring partner would be more understanding of Russia's dilemma. That was why he'd requested they be left alone in privacy, to allow the American the opportunity to demonstrate his personal, if not official, sympathy.
"Bradley," he said softly, trying to reassure the Secretary of State, "I understand your concern, and I imagine that your President will raise the alert levels of your strategic forces as soon as this meeting is concluded. We would probably do the same in your position. But please try to understand our predicament. The Ukrainian war is crippling our nation, and this is really the last course of action open to us."
"If you need economic assistance, Mr. Ambassador, I'm sure my government can come up with some kind of emergency package. If it's food you need, we can do that too. But not this, Alex. Please, not this."
"I am sorry, Bradley. But we have no other choice. We cannot afford another Afghanistan or Chechnya. Neither politically nor economically."
"So what are you telling me? That Godonov didn't have the guts to go through with something like this? For God's sake, Alex, the man's body isn't even cold yet, and you're opening a can of worms that could lead to who knows where. This could spin out of control, can't you see that? Once you set a precedent of using nuclear weapons against a non-nuclear power, there is no telling where we'll end up. Just think of all the things that could go wrong." Copeland was struggling to maintain his composure. Focus on the ball, he kept telling himself. Focus.
Lukin replied with a nonchalant shrug. "Forgive me, Bradley, but it was the United States that set the precedent of using nuclear weapons against a nation unable to respond in kind, was it not?" Deuce!
"When is this going to happen?"
The Ambassador placed his teacup gently on the saucer and glanced at his watch. He looked Copeland straight in the eye. "Within the next hour. I should add, Bradley, that the only other nation we are informing of our decision is China, for obvious reasons. I imagine that the United States will inform her other NATO allies as she sees fit."
"I need to consult with my superiors," Copeland remarked bluntly. Which meant, of course, the President. He knew that he would only waste precious time by trying to dissuade Lukin from a course of action that had already been decided upon by the people in Moscow who were responsible for making such decisions. "I'm certain that our official response will be, at the very least, one of strong condemnation. We will almost certainly feel compelled to impose some form of sanctions against Russia, a trade embargo even, and there'll be hell to pay at the U.N.. I mean... hell, Alex, these are uncharted waters. Do your superiors understand the risk they're taking? Damn."
"You will do what you must, my friend. I am a humble messenger, charged only to relate the policies of my government, not to make them. Russia places enormous value upon its relationship with the United States. We are grateful for your efforts - however much in vain - in brokering negotiations with Ukraine. We understand what a difficult predicament you are in, particularly given the European Union's friendly stance towards Kiev. But we must not allow this incident to trigger a crisis that could have grave consequences for both of our great nations."
Copeland took a moment to analyze Lukin's words. The first part of his statement was an impassioned plea to the United States not to disregard the cordial, if extremely wary, relationship that had been forged between Moscow and Washington since the Cold War. What interested the Secretary of State, however, was the implicit threat embedded in Lukin's final sentence. Grave consequenceswas a term generally used by diplomats only when one nation was threatening war against another. The Russians were telling the US to keep their noses out, Copeland realized. Or else...
He needed urgently to get to a telephone, even though the unseen eavesdroppers had probably already alerted anybody of any consequence in Washington.
"Stay near a phone Alex. I'm certain we'll be talking soon."
"I hope so, Bradley. I really do."
With that brief exchange, one game drew to a close, and another began. Only a few of the participants understood the rules at this stage - fewer still the objectives - and none of them could have predicted how the game would unfold, much less how it would end.
PERSPECTIVE: OCTOBER 1999
An Analysis of Russia in the European context by Dr Lewis Stein
CIA Directorate of Intelligence - Eyes Only
Although, for all intents and purposes, the Balkan situation - in particular that in Kosovo - has apparently been resolved, there is still potential in this region and several others for a flare up involving NATO and the Russian Federation.
For the makings of a crisis in this region, we should perhaps begin by looking at Russia itself. Next year sees the first Presidential elections of the post-Yeltsin era; perhaps the most important event since the collapse of the Soviet Union. With Russia's economy and social structure verging on total breakdown, there is a dangerous vacuum that could easily be filled by a range of populist candidates, the most extreme of whom have threatened to wage nuclear war against the west if NATO's expansion reaches Russia's frontiers.
History teaches us that in times of adversity, Russia has a habit of turning to strong, charismatic leaders, who by definition are often extremist, their policies tending to play to the fears of a desperate people. Russian democracy is at an infantile stage in its development, and party politics as we in the west might understand them are still an alien concept to most Russians. Hence the emergence and prominence in the State Duma of extremist parties with a powerful patriotic agenda that strikes a chord with the electorate. Many of these organizations comprise only a handful of individuals, but that makes them no less dangerous. After all, the Nazis and the Bolsheviks only started with a handful.
So what has this to do with NATO? I believe the answer to that is found in the paranoid nature of Russia's extremist element. As we almost learned to our cost (and indeed still may do) in Kosovo, a strong bond exists between Russia and its fellow Slavs in Serbia. Many ordinary Russians and, indeed, elements of the political elite were disgusted at Yeltsin's decision to cooperate with NATO in its eviction of Serb forces from Kosovo.
This disgust is primarily caused by a lingering distrust of the West. Many Russians see NATO as a threatening force whose influence is now expanding to their own frontiers (ask any Russian what they think of the proposed NATO membership of Poland, the Czech Republic and Hungary). This sentiment is exacerbated by the symbolism of Russia betraying its ancient allies to a long-standing enemy. In a sense, Russian distrust of NATO is understandable, for Russia is a nation with a long history of being invaded from its western frontier. Certainly, such fear is no less irrational than was western fear of Communism during the Cold War, particularly in the context of NATO's recently stated aim of becoming a global reaction force.
Should the Russian people elect a leader who shares these sentiments and is prepared to act upon them, the Kremlin may well feel compelled to take action to quell the perceived NATO threat. Certainly, the election of a nationalist - if not extremist - Russian President would send tremors throughout southeastern Europe. NATO members such as Turkey and Greece are likely to fear Russian supported ethnic insurgency and may call upon their NATO allies for military support. That would serve only to further antagonize Russia, who may see such a move as sufficient justification for its own form of military intervention.
A consensus is developing within Russia that the west, although still perceived as omnipotent in terms of its ability to project power, is fundamentally weak in many other respects. This consensus adheres to the theory that Western governments are driven by public opinion, which in turn has been colored somewhat by low-casualty "Nintendo" wars such as those in Serbia and Iraq. Many Russian political leaders and commentators believe that NATO would balk at the prospect of a conflict that could see massive casualties. They are also aware that we still harbor a quiet fear of Russia's perceived might. It is interesting to note that the Russian Government has done nothing to placate these fears. As why should it? NATO's fear is Russia's most valuable bargaining chip.
Russia has been economically and socially humiliated in many ways. It has suffered these ordeals with grudging dignity. But the prospect of losing its status as a Superpower may well be the final straw. A future Russian leader might choose to test NATO's resolve. And, with Russian troops already in the Balkans -- albeit in a peacekeeping capacity -- southeastern Europe may well provide the perfect stage for him to do so.
IV
RULES OF ENGAGEMENT
"There are some people that will be deterred by the fact that we have nuclear weapons... But those people are the folks we can deal with anyway".
Gen. Charles Horner, Commander of U.S. Space Command, July 1994
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON D.C.
One of the more popular misconceptions of government is that bureaucracy always prevents things from being accomplished. In normal times, there might have been some truth to this notion. But these were not normal times, and in a crisis of this magnitude, even the most pedantic of bureaucrats knew what to do and how to do it swiftly.
Within minutes of Copeland's call to the White House, President Mitchell had gathered his senior military and political advisors in the Situation Room; a converted bomb shelter in the basement of the White House. Unlike the popular celluloid image of a vast cavern filled with electronic gadgetry and big screens, the Situation Room was actually little more than a small, nondescript office, adjoining a state-of-the-art communications center that enabled direct contact between the President, other Heads of State and US military commanders around the globe. The room was, of course, completely soundproofed, and the communication lines were subject to the most impenetrable encryption systems the National Security Agency had been able to devise.
Yet none of this hi-tech wizardry enabled the President to contact his Russian counterpart. President Pushkin, so his personal secretary was claiming, was "out of location". She would not say where exactly, and that made the atmosphere in the Situation Room - which was already tense enough to smell - even worse. It was extremely rare for a leader of one nation not to take a call from another, particularly at a moment of such grave tension. Either Pushkin was deliberately eluding the American President, or he was simply giving America the finger. Or was something else going on? Mitchell wondered. What are we missing here?
Each person in the room had their own private telephone and a black leather-bound file containing briefing documents that had been hurriedly compiled by high-ranking officials at the DoD and NSA. Mostly, everybody in the room had spent the first few minutes of the crisis scanning the documents within the file, trying to come to terms with what was happening. The problem was that there was no precedent for a situation like this, and so the standard procedures for a nuclear crisis -- mostly designed during the Cold War -- were largely theoretical in nature, and most of the authors of those procedures were now either dead or retired.
"I suggest increasing our alert status to DefCon Four," General Westwood declared, breaking the silence. He had just arrived at the White House from the Pentagon, his driver having broken every traffic law in order to make the journey in record time. Fortunately, the roads had been quiet, given that the public still knew nothing about the unfolding crisis. That would change, Westwood knew.
Mitchell was still wearing a tuxedo and bow tie. He had received the message from Copeland during a State Dinner for the new President of Tanzania, a charming individual with the terrific smile of a man who had just achieved his life's ambition and would shortly return to his country to deal with those who had opposed his ascension to office. Mitchell already regretted the three glasses of champagne he'd consumed. He stared at Westwood with puzzlement, still convinced that this was all a surreal dream. The implications of Copeland's message hadn't yet sunk in. History was about to be made - if one could be clinical enough to think of a nuclear attack in such terms - and the President didn't know what he was supposed to do. Nuclear weapons were about to be used in anger for the first time in over half a century and here he was, supposedly the most powerful man in the world, impotent to do a damn thing about it.
He took no more than a couple of seconds to consider the General's suggestion. "I don't want to do anything that might aggravate matters," he stated. "This is still a localized situation. I would rather do nothing than risk a confrontation with the Russians at this stage."
"What's our official position?" asked Reynolds. Military situations made the chief of staff uncomfortable. Although he was a proficient political operator -- some said the most capable for many years --he'd never served in uniform and therefore wasn't certain how to deal with people who had. That gave him a sense of not being in control; a sensation he didn't like very much at all.
"We don't have one yet," the President admitted, momentarily on comfortable ground. "I don't want a word of this leaking out until we know for sure what we're dealing with. There's still a chance that they might call this thing off."
Returning to the real issue at hand, Westwood leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Sir, the Russians have already told Mr. Copeland that they expect us to increase our alert status. It's purely a precaution, nothing more, for us to do just that. And it'll send out the strongest possible signal to the Russians how we feel about this. We've been at DefCon Four more often over the years than you might think."
"Yes, well this is a rather unique situation, isn't it General?" Mitchell snapped. Westwood sank back in his chair, reproached.
"This certainly explains why the Russians are pulling their troops back so quickly." That insight came from Paul Nielsen, referring to the Russian retreat from the Northern Ukraine.
"Getting out of the whorehouse before it gets raided," Reynolds added dryly.
"Marion." The President's tone was almost apologetic for having bitten Westwood's head off a moment earlier. "Tell me about delivery systems. What can we expect?"
"The Russians have a roughly equivalent arsenal of tactical nukes to ours, sir," Westwood reported. "They've still got a small stockpile of low yield artillery shells, yielding between five and ten KTs. We can't be certain how many of those are operative."
"KTs?" Reynolds raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"Kiloton," the Chairman elaborated without looking at the Chief of Staff. "But DIA thinks they'll be aiming to take out the Ukrainian heavy armor and infantry units that have been giving them so many problems. Those guys are pretty thinly dispersed; that's just the way they fight. So, to make it worth their while, the Russians will probably use something a little bit more extravagant."
"Such as?"
"Short range Air Launched Cruise Missiles with a probable yield of anywhere between twenty and a hundred KTs. That'll create one hell of a mess," he added as an afterthought. Westwood, like many military officers, thought of nuclear weapons as nothing more than a necessary evil. He found their purpose utterly abhorrent, having little to do with the real business of war.
"Do the Ukrainians have the ability to retaliate?"
"No sir," Westwood explained. "A few years before the war started, control of all Russian ICBMs and IRBMs on Ukrainian territory reverted to Moscow. The IRBMs were abolished in any case, under the terms of the 1997 INF treaty, and most of the ICBMs in Ukraine were scrapped under START-II. All that remained were a few SS-11s, but they were pulled out of Ukraine when the war started. So, no sir, they don't have any nuclear capability of their own."
"Well, that's something," the President grunted. Out of the corner of his eye, Mitchell noticed the Secretary of Defense shift uneasily in his chair, but he thought little of it.
Reynolds fired the next question. "What sort of civilian casualties can we expect?"
Westwood pursed his lips, making some quick mental calculations. "Where target units are in proximity to population centers, a lot of people are going to die. At least two of the likely target units -- the Ukrainian 4thand 6thMechanized Tank Brigades -- are encamped in towns with a combined population of about 30,000."
"Jesus." The President winced, raising a hand to his mouth and looking as if he'd been slugged in the stomach with an iron crowbar. 30,000 people! My God. He pictured them going about their everyday business, the war something of a distant abstraction to them now that the Russian forces had beaten a hasty retreat. They would be blissfully unaware that, in less than an hour, their lives were going to end in a millisecond of incandescent white light. It provided scant consolation to him that while this happened, he would be sitting in an underground shelter over 10,000 miles away, listening to the play-by-play as if it were a spectator sport. What if it were Chicago or New York about to be vaporized? Would the loss of life be any less significant? No, of course it wouldn't. Human life is still human life, regardless of what language it speaks and what beliefs it has. It occurred to him that, in some respects, the main difference between war and sport was that in war, you buried the guy who finished second. Thinking crazy stuff, Ed, he told himself. A combination of shock and exhaustion had caused his mind to drift, and the President was aware that he was finding it difficult to focus on the issue at hand.
"Sir," Nielsen was saying, "I concur with General Westwood's suggestion that we go to DefCon Four. Particularly given Pushkin's reticence to even discuss the matter."
Mitchell glanced at Reynolds, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. The chief of staff had never professed to be an expert on military affairs, but his instincts were usually impeccable. With what he'd heard so far, the increase in alert status seemed logical enough. This was one occasion when he was prepared to let somebody else take the initiative. After all, this was hardly an everyday occurrence, was it? And for once, Reynolds admitted to himself that he was somewhat out of his depth.
"What precisely does that involve?" the President asked.
Westwood offered the explanation. "Different things for different units, sir. Submarines, by the very nature of their operations, are permanently at DefCon Two. There'll be little effect on the boats already on patrol, but those in dry-dock will put to sea as soon as they can. Elsewhere, DefCon Four involves wide dispersion of forces in case of nuclear attack. Leave will be cancelled for officers until the crisis is over. The ACC's B-52, B-1 and B-2 bomber wings will be scrambled. ICBM facilities will be put on Combat Alert Status. Strategic Command's E-6 Looking Glass plane will take off from Tinker in Oklahoma. As for our ground based units..."
Reynolds cut the General off. "What about the evacuation of dependents from possible military targets?" His niece was married to a USAF pilot at Barksdale AFB, Louisiana. Suddenly, he was beginning to understand just how dangerous this situation could be.
"Not at Four, sir," Westwood told him. "Besides, we don't want to create too much panic just yet."
The President still thought that any sort of reaction at this early stage of the crisis was futile. After all, the US wasn't under attack, was it? Why escalate things unnecessarily? Then again, he wasn't a military officer, whereas Westwood was. He had known the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs long enough to know that he wasn't the type to overreact, but the General clearly seemed concerned that the President should be doingsomething...
"Okay," he told Westwood, his tone edged with reluctance. "Do it."
The General punched a button on his private telephone. Within seconds, he was patched into the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon.
"Dick, it's Marion Westwood."
"Yes sir," replied the Major-General who was currently the NMCC's senior watch officer.
Westwood came straight to the point. "NCA has orderedPancake House ."
There was a short pause. The US had not been at DefCon Four for many years, but the Major-General at NMCC had heard about the sudden retreat of Russian troops from Ukraine - if not the latest revelation about an imminent nuclear strike. He managed to put two and two together. "What gives, sir? Is this to do with Russia?"
The reply was spoken in a matter-of-fact monotone. "They're about to go nuclear in Ukraine. Just do it."
The Major General's tone adopted a sudden urgency. "Yessir."
As Westwood cut the line, one of the President's two telephones started to buzz. He was relieved to see that it was the black one, and not the red one. He pressed a button and was answered by a female voice from the Signals Office..
"The Prime Minister of Great Britain is on Line five, sir."
"Right. Keep him holding for a moment."
"And the French President is on Line Two."
"To hell with the damn French. They can wait." He reproached himself for allowing his frustration to show. If ever there was a time he needed to stay calm, it was now. He took a deep breath. "Get Tony Bishop on the line, and put Prime Minister Winterburn through. I'll deal with him first."
"Yes, sir."
"Mr. President," the British PM said a few seconds later. "Thank you for sparing the time. I know how busy you chaps must be over there."
Mitchell almost laughed. "You can say that again, Harold. Are you up to speed with what's going on?"
Winterburn couldn't suppress a bitter chuckle. It sounded hollow under the circumstances. "As much as you are, I shouldn't wonder." He didn't explain how the British Government had found out, given that there had been no formal communication between Washington and London as yet. Mitchell decided he didn't need to ask. The Brits had their methods of finding this out, same as did the Americans. Mounted high on one of the walls in the Situation Room was a bank of clocks showing the time in every city around the world. It was currently the middle of the night in England. Winterburn must've been woken with the news, Mitchell realized, and yet he didn't sound in the slightest bit groggy.
"What are you planning to do?" the Prime Minister asked.
"I've just ordered our strategic forces to DefCon Four -"
"That doesn't surprise me."
"- and I guess now we just sit back and see what happens next."
Winterburn made a noise that sounded like he was clearing his throat. "Mr. President, I just want you to know that my Government will support whatever measures you deem necessary. I've ordered our own Trident submarines to maximum alert status. Hopefully, we won't need them, but one can never be too sure where the Russians are concerned, right?"
The Englishman's jovial manner was beginning to irritate the President. He had a deep personal affection for the Prime Minister, but, hell, this wasn't the time to be cheerful. "I appreciate that, Harold. I'll keep you posted as soon as we have anything to report."
"Good luck, Mr. President."
"You too, Prime Minister."
That line went dead and another came to life.
"Bishop here, sir." Even on the digital line, the reception was poor. "What's going on?"
"Where are you?"
"About 5,000 feet above Delaware. ETA at Andrews in about twenty minutes. I've got Dr Stein with me."
"Good. There'll be a chopper at Andrews to bring you straight to the White House. You'll be briefed on the way. Dr Stein's going to be thrown in at the deep end. Is he up to it?" Aware that Bishop was using a non-secure cellular phone, the President was careful not to reveal too much.
He didn't see the smile on the other end. "Up to it, sir? He will be after another cup of Java."
OVER DOVER, DELAWARE
Much in the same way as a virulent disease, fear and anxiety are often highly infectious things, except that unlike a virus, they can be transmitted across a telephone line. This was a case in point. The detectable tremor in the President's voice had been enough to concern Bishop. He looked anxiously at Lewis, who recognized the DCI's expression and immediately heard alarm bells ringing in his head.
"What's up?" he asked.
Bishop placed the cellular phone back in his attaché case and glanced out of the cabin window over the coastline thousands of feet below. "Something big is going down. We're being met by a chopper at Andrews. Don't ask me why. The boss says we'll get the lowdown when we land."
"So much for the limo trip, huh?" Lewis quipped nervously. He didn't like choppers, and had rather been looking forward to the sumptuous luxury of a Government Issue limo. Actually, he didn't much like flying, period. Even the converted Gulfstream-IV in which he was presently traveling had induced enough nausea to ruin his appetite for the rest of the day. It wasn't that he was afraid of air travel, just that it didn't agree with his constitution. He couldn't explain why that was, but he'd sure as hell be relieved to walk on real ground again.
Still, the shower he'd taken before leaving his apartment for Bradley International Airport in Hartford had left him feeling refreshed. Meanwhile, the effects of the previous evening's alcohol intake had been largely cancelled by a couple of Tylenol that Bishop happened to have been carrying, and several cups of Espresso-strength Java. Thanks to the concoction of caffeine and other substances, he now felt about eighty percent alert, almost ready to deal with anything the world could throw at him.
But that didn't stop him worrying about what was going on thousands of feet below, and what awaited him when he landed. Across the aisle, Bishop's Special Protection Officer - a severe young woman called Amanda Stapleton - was reading the latest edition of Newsweek. On its cover, Mitchell's likely opponent in the imminent Presidential Election beamed a brilliant smile, his portrait framed by the headlineA New American Dream? According to recent opinion polls, Massachusetts Governor Joseph Burke was considered a near certainty to be the next Commander-in-Chief, a fact about which Lewis cared very little. Politicians were much of a sameness really, weren't they?
"What's he like?" he asked Bishop distantly, trying to distract himself from speculating about whatever crisis might be unfolding.
The question broke Bishop's reverie. He looked up. "Huh?"
"The President. What's he like?" Lewis was genuinely curious. Prior to being a teacher, he had been a government employee for long enough to have developed a healthy skepticism of politics. As a matter of fact, he'd never voted once since taking U.S. citizenship. Much of his apathy, he knew, derived from the insight he had gained into the psychology of political leaders from his time as a CIA analyst and field officer. But, if there was a major crisis going on down there, he would be more comfortable knowing that the Head Honcho was up to the task and wasn't too proud to take advice.
Lewis had always thought it would have been a good idea for politicians to sit through a Personnel Reliability Profile, the kind that Air Force pilots were required to undertake. After all, how could a politician order men and women into battle without understanding the very nature of war; without knowing what it meant to look into the eyes of another human being whose life you were about to extinguish? Of course, true war heroes were thin on the ground in an age of high-tech, remote-controlled combat, and those who remained were often sufficiently screwed up by their experiences that they would be every bit as unsuitable for public office as any civilian leader. Lewis wondered what sort of political leader he himself might make. That notion almost elicited a bitter smile. Perhaps there was a strong argument for civilian leadership after all, he mused.
"Mitchell's as straight as they come," Bishop remarked. "Hell, he's a fucking boy scout, to tell the truth. But he's a good man, you know? Calls 'em straight. That's why he's having so many political problems. He pretty much stumbled accidentally into the White House, and he hasn't quite learned to play the game yet, if you know what I mean. He'stoo damn straight sometimes."
"Funny," Lewis said, "I thought that's the way it was supposed to be."
Bishop snorted cynically. "You really have been out of the game a long time, haven't you?"
"I've forgotten more than I ever knew, old friend."
"Ain't that always the truth?"
The two men laughed. It would be the last time either of them did that for a while.
INDEPENDENCE, MISSOURI
Martin couldn't wait to return to the relative serenity of Whiteman AFB, where life was decidedly simpler than it was at home right now.
After that first disastrous supper following Cathy and Patrick's arrival, Beth had decided that she wasn't going to be a prisoner in her own home, and certainly wasn't going to let Cathy's acerbic comments go unanswered. Martin knew his mother wasn't the type of woman to back down either, and in turn Patrick usually acquiesced to Cathy's whims. He was too terrified to do otherwise. So what resulted was something of a domestic standoff with Martin's wife and parents glowering at each other, firing cheap shots whenever the opportunity arose and generally creating a bad atmosphere.
With the battle lines drawn, Martin had found himself caught in a no-man's-land between his wife and parents. He loved his parents, and he loved his wife. But they reviled each other. What was he to do? He had the beginnings of a tension headache, and it occurred to him that, after a fashion, his peacekeeping role was turning him into a carbon copy of his own browbeaten father. In terms that made far better sense to Martin, he was on autopilot, just going with the flow. Patrick had done the same thing for over thirty-five years. That was why he had eventually become so apathetic. It was his defense mechanism. That's why my Dad is a wimp, Martin thought angrily.
But Martin knew that this state of affairs could not continue forever. Something had to give. He knew of a psychotic disorder - whose name presently escaped him - that caused even the meekest of men to snap, often with violent consequences. He had seen it happen to a fellow officer many years before, back in the days when he himself had been a mere First Lieutenant.
The officer, a polite and quietly-spoken Major called Roberto Vialli, had been married to the most neurotic, demanding, loud-mouthed bitch that Martin had ever met. She was the sort of woman who expected her husband to drop everything whenever she snapped her fingers, no matter what he was doing. Martin had later found out that she had been treated for manic depression. But Roberto Vialli had loved her dearly, and would have done anything to keep her happy. Behind his back, his colleagues had referred to her asIron Tits . Of course, he had known what people thought of his wife and was aware that they sneered at his unwillingness to stand up to her. But the meek mannered Major suffered in silence for ten years, pandering to her whims and appeasing her moods. Just like Dad, Martin thought. Just like me right now.
Nobody had ever found out what finally pushed Roberto Vialli over the edge; but one day, he simply snapped and shot his wife dead before turning the gun on himself.
The moral to that tragic story, Martin thought, was that every man has his breaking point and should be aware of it before it's too late. Sure, Beth was nothing like poor Major Vialli's wife, but - not knowing where his own breaking point might be - Martin knew that he had to find a way of dealing with the situation between her and his parents before it got out of hand. They were scheduled to stay with Martin and Beth for another three days, and whatever happened in that time, he knew that their departure would swiftly be followed by a ferocious argument between him and his wife, who would by then need to blow off the steam that had accumulated since his parents' arrival.
He gripped Beth's hand as they sat on the loveseat watching some pointless sitcom on TV. He stifled a yawn. The only program he ever watched with any regularity was the news. His parents were on the other couch, whispering quietly to each other. He couldn't ascertain the topic of conversation and wasn't particularly interested.
At least while the TV was on, Beth and Cathy weren't hissing at each other like a couple of junkyard cats. Small graces.
The show's nerdish main character was stuttering as he feebly attempted to ask the girl of his dreams on a date, unaware that she was actually a lesbian. The audience laughed uproariously, mainly because they knew something that the protagonist didn't. Martin grimaced at the inanity of it all. He derived most of his entertainment from books rather than TV. Give me Hemmingway over Seinfeld any day, he thought
As the woman was about to reveal her sexual orientation to the hapless geek, a plain blue screen with the caption SPECIAL BULLETIN suddenly replaced the picture. That got Martin's attention.
"Hey!" Beth complained at the TV, as if it could hear her.
"Shhh, babe," he told her.
The network anchorman appeared on screen, wearing a stern expression as he read from the TelePrompTer.
"We interrupt your regular programming to bring you this Special Bulletin."
Cathy and Patrick were still whispering, oblivious to the broadcast. Martin placed a finger over his lips to silence them. They obliged, following his eyes to the screen.
"We're receiving reports of unusual activity around government buildings in Washington D.C. and at military installations across the United States this evening. It is not presently known what might have provoked this development, but high-ranking Pentagon officials are indicating that the President has ordered a general military alert."
The hair on the back of Martin's neck stood on end. "Holy God," he muttered just loudly enough that Beth heard him.
The anchorman fingered his earpiece. "I believe we can now go live to Roberta Benson at the White House. Roberta, are you there?"
The screen cut to the White House Press Room, where a young, attractive Oriental woman began to relate what she had learned.
"Yes, Frank, I'm here. We're expecting a statement anytime now from General Marion Westwood, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. In the meantime, let me tell you what we know so far."
Martin leaned forward attentively. Beth placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, sensing the tension emanating from him.
"Although Pentagon officials are remaining tight lipped about what might have provoked this flurry of activity, we do know that the alert status of U.S. military forces around the world has been increased. We're hearing reports of heightened activity at American bases not only in this country, but also in Europe and in the Far East."
The screen split into two; the White House correspondent on one half, the New York anchorman on the other.
"Roberta," the anchorman said, "has there been any talk of a perceived threat to American forces?"
"Like I said, Frank," she replied, "nobody's really telling us anything right now. There is a distinct air of tension in Washington at the present time, and quite possibly that's because nobody reallyknows what's happening." A pause. "Frank, the General is just making his way to the podium."
The screen filled with the imposing image of General Westwood.
"Ladies and Gentlemen," he intoned solemnly. "The President has authorized me to issue a brief statement. For reasons of national security, I will not be answering any questions at this time."
Unbidden, Martin reached for the remote control and increased the volume.
ARNOLD, MARYLAND
Jo was just about to leave the house for another twelve-hour shift when the Special Bulletin began. Although she was well versed in current affairs, she rarely paid much attention to the TV news, preferring instead to browse the Washington Post before setting out to work every day.
By the time Westwood had begun his statement, however, she was transfixed by the drama playing itself out on screen. She sat on the edge of an armchair in the living room and listened intently.
"... part of a general alert," he was reading from a script. "I am not at liberty at this time to reveal the reasons for this alert, except to say that we are confident that it is merely a precautionary measure and should provide no cause whatsoever for panic."
Jo snorted disdainfully, knowing that very remark was bound to have precisely the opposite effect. Tell people not to panic, and you're implying that they have every reason to do so. What sort of idiots write this shit?she mused, already knowing the answer. Dumb shits who have never lived in the real world.
"Accordingly, all leaves have been cancelled and members of the following units are ordered to report for duty immediately, using whatever means of transport necessary to reach their posts: 2ndBomb Wing, 5thBomb Wing, 28thBomb Wing..."
INDEPENDENCE, MISSOURI
"509thBomb Wing," were the words that caused Martin's blood to freeze. He blinked, not quite believing what he had just heard. He didn't notice Beth tightly squeeze his hand.
"What's going on, Martin?" Cathy asked. She didn't really understand military jargon, since it had nothing to do with her friends in Chicago or shopping or anything else that she considered of particular importance.
Martin remained silent. He was concentrating intently on the screen as Westwood continued to list what seemed to be an endless list of Air Force, Naval and Army units. In fact, the list took him no more than two minutes to read. Once he had finished, the General left the stage to a cacophonic volley of unanswered questions being yelled at him by the press corps.
"What does that mean?" Beth asked her husband, already knowing the answer but not quite wanting to believe it.
"Exactly what the man said," Patrick answered for his son. "Martin's got to report for duty. Sounds like a full mobilization." Patrick knew about such things, being an avid reader of Tom Clancy novels.
Beth embraced her husband, who was still staring at the TV. His pager started beeping. Knowing exactly what that meant, he switched it off without checking the message.
"... just come in." The anchorman was reading from a slip of paper, and his tone had lowered to indicate the gravity of the news he had just received. "The French News Agency is quoting government sources in Paris as claiming that a Russian nuclear attack in the Ukraine may be imminent. This is unconfirmed as yet." He paused, listening to something on his earpiece. "And I've just been told that the President will be addressing the nation in just over five minutes..."
Beth tightly gripped Martin's arm as he stood to leave the room. "Do you have to go?" she pleaded. "Can't you just pretend that you haven't heard about the alert?"
He shook his head sadly. "I can't, honey. I'm sorry. This is what I'm trained for. My unit is relying on me being there."
"I'mrelying on you beinghere ," Beth protested. The possibility that one day Martin might have to face a real alert was something they had occasionally discussed on those long, dark nights whenever conversation had dried up and physical desires had been satiated. But neither of them had realistically expected that it would ever actually happen. It occurred to Martin that by this time tomorrow, he might be responsible for the deaths of thirty million innocent people, and Beth might be nothing more than vapor in the upper stratosphere. That was a sobering thought, but then again, hadn't that always been the case? He didn't know who the perceived enemy might be, but an educated guess told him that it was Russia. Yes, it had to be Russia, didn't it? They wouldn't scramble America's entire strategic bomber fleet for anybody else.
"We should head back to Chicago," Cathy suggested to her husband. She was more concerned about being left alone with Beth than the implications of the unfolding crisis.
"No, Mom," Martin snapped. "I want you two and Beth to head up to Dad's cabin in Iowa. You should be able to make the state line in a couple of hours. I need all three of you to look after each other, okay? Besides," he added as an afterthought, "if this is a full alert, you may have problems getting into Chicago." He knew that in an emergency situation, the military authorities could quite legally commandeer transport facilities and highways if they deemed it in their interests to do so. At least he thought they could. There was no precedent for this, was there?
Cathy and Patrick exchanged an awkward glance. "Oh, come on, Cath," Patrick reasoned. "We can't leave Beth here on her own, can we?"
Reluctantly, Cathy hung her head. "No, I don't suppose we can." She looked up at Martin. "If we can't go back to Chicago, we might just as well stay here. Nobody would want to waste a bomb on this town."
Sometimes, his mother's naivety beggared belief, Martin thought. "Mother," he said, fixing her with a hard glare, "We're sitting about ten miles away from Whiteman Air Force Base, home to twenty B-2 strategic nuclear bombers. That makes us a pretty major target. I don't know why this is happening, but the fact of the matter is that they don't call general alerts for the sheer hell of it. If this thing is for real, then everything from here to Kansas City, right the way down to Sedalia Springs will be vaporized. The only mercy you'd have is that you wouldn't know a hell of a lot about it." Seeing the color drain from his mother's face, Martin reproached himself for scaring his family even more than they were already scared. "Hell," he remarked unconvincingly, "it'll probably come to nothing anyway."
"So what does it matter, then?" Cathy snorted.
"My point exactly," Beth stated, for once finding common ground with her mother-in-law. Even Patrick blinked at that. "What does it matter, Martin? What does it matter whether you stay here with me or go away to blow up Russia, or wherever the hell they send you. As you say, you'd have no home to come back to if there's a war. If we're going to die, I'd rather us die together. And if the world's gonna blow up, it's gonna do it with or without your help."
Martin could sympathize with Beth's logic. Perhaps had the roles been reversed, he might have used the same argument. But the rolesweren't reversed, were they? Bethhadn't sworn an oath of allegiance to protect her country against all enemies. Itwasn't her responsibility to ensure that the strategic war aims of the United States were met, for better or for worse. All of these thingswere , however, his responsibility. As frightened as he was, he would never be able to live with himself were he to fold at the most important time of all.
Despite Beth's weak attempts to physically restrain him, he went upstairs to start packing his overnight bag, leaving her sobbing into her hands. She didn't give a damn what Cathy or Patrick thought of her for doing so. Only a vague part of her mind registered what the talking heads were saying on the TV.
"And now, the President of the United States."
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON D.C.
"My fellow Americans." President Mitchell began to read from the TelePrompTer. His neutral expression masked the abject terror he felt inside. "It is with deep regret that I report to you on events that have transpired this evening. Events that pose the greatest threat to world peace since the Second World War."
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
President Pushkin lit a Havana cigar and reclined in his chair, listening impassively to the dubbed translation of Mitchell's address, which was now being broadcast live around the world.
"Just over an hour ago, the Secretary of State received notification from the Russian Ambassador to the United States that the use of nuclear weapons against Ukrainian ground forces had been authorized by Russian premiere Pushkin. Although the Ambassador has given assurances that this operation is not intended as a precursor to any further use of nuclear weapons, this administration treats the use of such weapons as a matter of the gravest consequence."
It had been just over two hours since Pushkin had issued the authorization codes for the attack. Anytime now, he knew, six TU-95 'Bear' bombers would take off from bases in Southern Russia for their designated targets inside the Ukraine. Each of them was carrying two AS-15 'Kent' ALCMs, both tipped with a twenty kiloton tactical nuclear warhead. Big enough to blow up a small town. Or indeed an armored brigade. The weapons, Yazov had told him, were relatively 'clean', which apparently meant that the fallout would be limited to the immediate vicinity of the targets. Prevailing weather patterns would carry any radioactive fallout south, away from the Russian border, or so the Russian Army's meteorological office had claimed.
But the material damage was of little interest to Pushkin. He was more concerned that he had shown enough resolve to be the first leader to use a nuclear device in the twenty-first century. Today would be remembered as the day that Russia once again became a superpower feared by all mankind. And Pushkin would be the champion of that renaissance. Yes, that was much more important than radioactive clouds, wasn't it? Radioactive clouds faded with time, but reputations did not.
"I regret to inform you that I have been unable to contact President Pushkin," Mitchell was saying. "But, if he is watching this broadcast, I urge him to refrain from this murderous course of action."
Pushkin thought that his American counterpart looked scared. So, they had finally started taking Russia seriously. That was a start, wasn't it?
ARNOLD, MARYLAND
Jo pulled on her coat as she listened to the President's address. If there was going to be a war, there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it other than to carry on doing her job until the world went up in a puff of smoke. Somehow, she doubted other people would see things quite the same way. Her mind clouded with images of panic buying and civil unrest on a hellish scale. The vision caused her to shudder.
"... and are in danger of losing the conflict in Ukraine," the President was reporting, "However, this does not excuse an action which, if carried out, will set a dangerous precedent for generations to come. The use of nuclear weapons is an abhorrent act, which contravenes binding treaties that have been ratified by both the Russian and US governments over the past several decades. This development simply cannot be tolerated. Russia's actions, if carried out, would be those of a reckless and cowardly government which clearly has scant regard for world peace.
"Accordingly, I have ordered that all American military forces around the world be placed on a state of general alert as a purely precautionary measure. I am also consulting with my advisors and America's allies to discuss further punitive measures against Russia, including the use of economic and trade sanctions. Furthermore, I issue this message to the Russian President. Any use of nuclear weapons that either directly or indirectly causes harm to American interests, or those of our NATO allies, will be considered an act of war."
Jo involuntarily flinched at that remark. This was as real as it got.
"My advice to you, the American people, is to stay home. Don't panic. Your government is working to resolve this crisis in a timely and peaceful manner. I will keep you informed of developments as they unfold. In the meantime, goodbye, God bless you all. And God bless the United States of America."
It occurred to Jo that the responsible thing might be to head north to Canada. That's what her husband -ex husband, she corrected herself - would have advised her to do.
"Damn," she muttered to herself. "If it all goes to hell, not even Canada will be safe."
With that bleak thought, she switched off the TV and left her house for work. She couldn't help wondering if she was doing so for the last time.
CONROE, TEXAS
Tabatha kept glancing in her rear view mirror. Although she knew there was no way Dick could possibly track her, that didn't stop her being afraid. She'd spent her whole life being afraid of him, so why stop now? Actually, what really concerned her was the prospect of being pulled over by the cops. That was why she was driving so carefully. Tabatha knew that the first thing the cops would do would be to call her parents. And then she'd find herself in a world of hurt. Fortunately for Tabatha, her mature looks defied her fifteen years -fifteen today! What a fucking birthday, huh? - and weren't likely to attract undue suspicion.
Nina sat in the front passenger seat, staring blankly at the road ahead, an anxious look etched on her face. She hadn't said a word since passing through Houston's city limits. Rhonda and Gary were in the back; Gary sound asleep with his head rested on Rhonda's lap. The fact that Gary was sleeping and not crying prevented Tabatha from turning on the radio. She didn't want to disturb him.
"How we doin' on gas?" Rhonda whispered.
Tabatha checked the fuel gauge. Not good. And the four children didn't have enough money between them for a gallon, never mind a full tank. Tomorrow, once the banks were open, she'd be able to cash a check on her mother's account. But not tonight. And it was tonight that she needed money.
"We've got enough to make it to Huntsville," she said. "They'll have banks there. We might have to hunker down for the night, find a side road or sum' tin. You mind?"
Nina shrugged, frowning skeptically. The look didn't go unnoticed by Tabatha.
"You got a problem wit' that, girl?"
"How long d'ya think we're gonna get away wit' this?" Nina muttered. "Sooner or later, the old man's gonna catch up with us. The longer we're gone, the worse it's gonna be. I say we turn back."
Tabatha nodded as if she understood. Then she eased the pick-up into the right hand lane and slowed down, pulling to a stop on the roadside. Nina shot her a quizzical stare.
When Tabatha spoke, there was an explicit challenge in her tone. It was herI-won't-take-any-shit voice. "You wanna go back?" she offered. "Then git. You walk back, girl, and you explain to the old man whass gone down. But you gonna be lonely, cos the rest of us are headin' north."
Nina stared at her.
"I ain't kiddin', Nina. You go. Should make it to the city limits by dawn. You'll be dead by midday, once the old man gets his hands on you."
"I ain't goin' alone," Nina said weakly.
"Then you ain't goin', period," Tabatha stated. "Now you gonna put a sock in it, or what?"
Nina didn't have to think long about that. She nodded in dejection, not meeting her older sister's eyes.
As Tabatha pulled into the traffic again, she addressed her siblings in an even, matter-of-fact fashion that left no room for argument. "We've been 'fraid for a long time. We can deal with anything now, as long as we all remember the reasons we runnin'. Now I'm gonna get you kids through this. You just gotta believe in me. Got it?"
Nina didn't react, but Rhonda nodded fervently. She'd seen Tabatha in this mood before, and knew that her older sister was in no mood to tolerate dissension. Big Sis had her bossy hat on. That meant no arguments, no complaints. Period.
"Ain't nothin' to be 'fraid of now," Tabatha muttered, trying to convince herself as much as convince the kids. "Nothin' at all."
V
FIRST STRIKE
"It is not for him to pride himself who loveth his own country, but rather for him who loveth the whole world. The earth is but one country and mankind its citizens."Baha'u'llah
NEW YORK CITY
No sooner had the President's speech finished than the terror began to set in. Late night supermarkets found themselves besieged by frightened hordes. People were buying as much as they could, as quickly as possible. Batteries, bottled water and canned food were especially in demand. Within ten minutes of the President's address, the shelves of many late night stores across America were virtually empty.
Surprisingly, the panic buying was for the most part orderly to begin with. But, inevitably, that would change. The first reported incident of civil disorder occurred in the Crown Heights district of New York City, where Charlie Benzotti and his wife Carla owned a small grocery store.
The Benzottis had two grown up children, neither of who had anything to do with the family business. Robert was a Sergeant in the U.S. Marines, while Amy was at college studying for a Law degree. Both were a source of great pride to their parents, who like many post-war immigrants, had arrived in America with little more than a strong belief in the importance of education and family values.
The Benzotti grocery store was well established in the neighborhood and, apart from the occasional robbery that was to be expected in this part of town, Charlie and Carla shared a good rapport with their hard core of regular customers. They prided themselves on being able to offer everything the locals might need at reasonable prices. It was often said that the Benzottis' shelves were never empty. That was because Charlie's brother-in-law, who ran a discount warehouse in New Jersey, was their main supplier. Otherwise they would have gone bankrupt years ago.
After hearing the presidential address on his wireless, Charlie had suggested to his wife that they should keep the shop open late that night, since people would be wanting to stock up on food and other necessities. Besides, he'd told his wife, the extra money would come in useful for Amy's twenty-first birthday next month. Privately, the Benzottis were as worried about the crisis as anyone else, especially with Robert being stationed at Okinawa, but by unspoken mutual consent, that was an issue they didn't discuss. Charlie hoped that matters would be resolved peacefully. Just as they had during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962.
So, with some reluctance, Carla had agreed to help him keep the shop open until 2am to service their customers as the Benzottis had been doing for over forty years. That way, at least they would still be awake when Amy returned home from her date. She had gone out that evening with her latest spotty, longhaired boyfriend, a musician or something of the like. Carla hoped her daughter - who seemed to be returning home later and later every night - had remained pure. So many bad influences in the world today...
The panic started no more than five minutes after the President had finished his address. Even Charlie, who considered himself a keen observer of human nature, was surprised at how quickly people reacted. Normally sane individuals rushed through the aisles, grabbing things they wouldn't normally buy (and in many cases couldn't afford). Charlie urged his customers to calm down, but nobody seemed to be listening. He didn't know whether they were buying things through genuine fear or just to make sure that nobody else got them first. Whatever the reason, his till enjoyed its busiest night ever. Nuclear War was good for business, he mused to himself, so long as it didn't actually happen.
As word of the crisis spread among those who had missed the President's address, the panic buying intensified. A population that took for granted the bare necessities of life had suddenly been gripped by the collective fear that bare necessities might not be in such plentiful supply in future. Bottled water, tinned food and condensed milk were by far the most popular items. Cigarettes, sanitary towels, and medicines also sold out quickly. One woman bought thirty tubes of toothpaste, as if clean teeth would be of such importance in the aftermath of a nuclear holocaust.
The amazing thing was that nobody seemed to be worried about overspending their monthly grocery budget in one night, money having been relegated in importance by a far greater fear than that of poverty. This wasn't a wealthy neighborhood, and Charlie hoped that his customers wouldn't come back seeking a refund once the crisis had blown over and they realized how much unnecessary shopping they had done.
Within an hour, the Benzottis' shelves were almost empty for the first time either of them could remember. Carla gleefully estimated that they had taken over a thousand dollars in barely a couple of hours, and her mind was already calculating ways in which to spend it on Amy's birthday. Meanwhile, late night shoppers, realizing how late they actually were, began to demonstrate the first signs of hysteria. Charlie tried to explain to his desperate customers that he was not expecting another delivery of supplies for at least two more days. One man reminded him that the world might have blown up by then.
By this time, people were starting to arrive home from bars and clubs. As they learned of the crisis, they plundered the few remaining items. Some, fuelled by alcohol or drugs, became aggressive. It was a gang of such young men that were to be the Benzottis' last ever customers.
Charlie instinctively knew they were trouble as soon as they entered the shop. The ringleader was a lanky black teenager known for reasons long forgotten as Coney (his real name, Jamie, hadn't exactly lent itself to street cred). A gifted basketball player, he'd once been scouted by the Boston Celtics, but by the time he was invited to try out for them, he had succumbed to the addiction of crack cocaine and the lifestyle that went with it.
Now he lived on his wits, his existence more or less dominated by the small circle of peers whose influence had led him to drug addiction. Coney, as he would tell anybody willing to listen, thought of himself as a shrewd businessman. And he saw the global crisis as a heavensent business opportunity. The only member of his gang to possess a high school diploma, Coney had enough foresight to understand that everyday items would soon be in real demand, and he could charge real cash for them. Selling tinned peas wasn't as risky as pushing crack, but the profit margins would be far more rewarding.
When Coney and his gang stormed the shop, Charlie tried to explain that he was about to close. They didn't seem interested. They danced through the aisles, screaming and whooping, taking great pleasure in wrecking the displays. Charlie moved as if to intervene, but Carla restrained him. They had taken enough money tonight, she pointed out. Nothing was worth getting killed over.
Only Coney had the intelligence to realize that the shelves no longer contained anything of value, and nobody got rich by wrecking shop displays. While his friends created havoc, he approached the Benzottis with an arrogant strut, matched by a menacing grin that never quite reached his eyes.
"Where's all your shit, man?"
"I'm afraid," Charlie explained politely, "that we're sold out. You'll have to come back in a few days when we get more supplies."
"Bullshit, man," Coney sneered, rubbing his nose. "Bull-shit. What about your stockroom?"
"It's empty," Carla snapped. "You'll have to go elsewhere."
"Well, that's the problem, see? I like to shop here." The grin had given way to a sinister scowl. "Now open the fucking storeroom, you dumb-ass wop."
Carla saw that two of Coney's friends had taken defensive positions behind him. Like Rottweilers, she thought, waiting to be unleashed.
"Don't you talk to my wife like that," Charlie growled.
"Fuck you, old man." In a single motion, Coney produced a revolver from his jacket and shot Charlie Benzotti in the chest. Blood spurted, then oozed from the bullet wound as the store owner toppled backwards, for all intents and purposes dead before he even hit the ground.
"Hey, that's a fucking kill," one of the other teenagers enthused.
Carla's legs buckled beneath her. She slumped to her knees and rested her head on her husband's bloody chest, sobbing uncontrollably. "Charlie, Charlie..." she cried, unaware that it was already too late.
"Aw," Coney grinned with mock sorrow, "ain't that touching? Now open the storeroom, you cunt, before I blow a hole in your sorry head too."
Carla's teary eyes rose to meet Coney's. "Do what you want, you ignorant nigger."
Strangely, it was less her use of the wordnigger than her suggestion that he was ignorant that caused Coney to snap. He kicked Carla square in the jaw, feeling a satisfyingcrunch on impact. She screamed with pain and fell sideways onto the tiled floor. The last moments of Carla Benzotti's life became an insane kaleidoscope of grief, hatred, and the excruciating sensation of Coney's boot repeatedly smashing bones in her head.
Her last thought before the darkness took her into its embrace was that she still hadn't bought Amy's birthday present.
Coney was still kicking Carla's head moments after her heart had stopped beating. His friends had seen him in this kind of rage before and knew better than to intervene. Carla's features had been grossly disfigured by the vicious assault, and her head had literally cracked open to reveal a rubbery gray substance.
"Hey, Coney," one of them said eventually. "She's dead, man, all right? Let's split before some fucker calls the cops."
Coney stopped kicking her, his face a contortion of hate. He aimed his gun and shot Carla several times in the back. His rage utterly spent, he turned around and made casually for the exit as if nothing had happened.
As the teenagers stepped outside the store, they stopped dead in their tracks. As many as twelve armed officers had guns trained on them. The cops were ducking low behind an untidy barricade of patrol cars.
"This is the police," a disembodied voice called out. "Drop your weapons and lay face down on the ground."
Coney knew that all his associates were looking to him for guidance. To their collective horror, he raised his pistol at the cops.
The volley of shots that killed Coney and his gang was audible throughout Crown Heights. In itself, that was nothing unusual, the Heights being one of New York's less salubrious neighborhoods. However, word quickly spread through the black community that the cops had murdered five Afro-American teenagers. Italians reacted with similar outrage to the brutal murder of the much-loved Benzottis. These two explosive elements combined to ignite the evening's first riot. An Italian gang firebombed an Italian household, incinerating three young children who had been asleep. Heavily armed black gangs retaliated against a predominantly Italian housing project with Uzis, Kalashnikovs and Molotov cocktails.
Within the hour, riot police were struggling to hold their positions in Brooklyn, Queens and Harlem as a lethal brew of drugs, alcohol, fear and rage took hold of the ghettos.
By that time, similar disturbances were being reported in Chicago, Los Angeles, Detroit, Newark and Atlanta.
OVER THE NORTHERN UKRAINE
Major Vasily Pasaev of the Russian Air Force eased back the throttle of his TU-95 'Bear' strategic bomber, descending smoothly to 4,000 feet. By his own calculations, he would reach his primary target in less than four minutes. A part of him silently prayed for the recall order, although he knew in his heart it would not come.
A quick glance around him revealed that the two MIG-29 fighter jets that had been flanking him since take off were still there. Nominally, their role was to protect him from Ukrainian air defenses, such as they were, but Pasaev imagined that they had orders to shoot him down if he tried to abort the mission for what might be termedethical reasons .
"Distance to target, Captain," he called out.
Captain Nychin, the flight navigator, checked his instruments. The oldest member of the four-man crew, he had cut his teeth as a navigator in the days of the old Soviet Union, when he had practiced weaving complex paths through simulated NATO airspace. This was a poor challenge in comparison.
"Approximately 195 kilometers, sir," came the instant response. "Launch point is three minutes fifteen on current heading."
Pasaev grunted and switched his HUD from Navigation to Attack mode. A small red square flashed on his display, a green diamond shaped symbol appearing above it. Other figures and symbols advised the Captain on variable factors relevant to his mission, such as bearing, speed and altitude. The target coordinates had already been programmed into the Bear's internal navigation computer prior to take off. Pasaev edged the jet two degrees north, centering the diamond, which moved across the display as the warplane's bearing altered. Once the diamond was perfectly aligned within the square, the nuclear-tipped missile would be fired.
A high-pitched tone in Pasaev's headset notified him that the jet had passed its final control point. The Weapons Officer flicked a switch on his weapons panel, arming the nuclear warhead on the ALCM.
Pasaev could hear the heavy breathing of his co-pilot. The tension was almost unbearable now. Until this moment, none of the crew had really believed that what they were doing was for real. He wondered whether he was the only one who doubted that what they were doing wasright . Well, there would be plenty of time to discuss that among themselves when they returned to base.
Perhaps.
On his HUD, the targeting diamond started to move smoothly towards the square, which was now flashing to indicate that the warhead had been armed. Pasaev raised the nose of the jet, easing back the throttle to maintain current altitude. The horizon disappeared beneath his cockpit window. Pasaev hoped that the targeting coordinates were accurate enough to limit civilian casualties to an acceptable minimum.
As the diamond and square converged, a high-pitched buzz sounded in the Captain's headset. Locked on the target, he reached for the missile release switch. He closed his eyes to protect them against the blinding flash of the missile launch. When he opened them again, he saw a white plume of spent rocket fuel streaking into the far distance.
"May God have mercy on my soul," he muttered, not caring whether the rest of his crew heard him or not.
He pulled the jet into a steep incline, arcing away from the target area.
ANDREWS AFB, MARYLAND
The first thing that caught Lewis's attention as the Gulfstream-IV made its final descent into Andrews was the frenetic activity taking place on the ground. Soldiers were running in all directions, hurriedly performing whatever duties an alert of this type required them to perform. Across the runway, an E-4B command plane stood ready for immediate take off should the need exist to evacuate the President. Disturbingly, the cabin lights were on.
He had just read the transcript of Mitchell's address, which had been faxed to Bishop's jet minutes earlier. Neither man had said a word since. They were both busy reviewing the situation in their minds, and coming to terms with what was now a very grave and unexpected crisis.
Lewis's particular areas of expertise included Russian history and strategic capability, the latter having until now been considered largely irrelevant in a world in which the United States stood unchallenged as a global superpower. How quickly things change, he thought. A cynical part of his mind wondered just how much of a coincidence it was that he should be recalled to government service on the same day as Russia going nuclear against Ukraine. Did Bishop know about this? And if so, for how long? He made a mental note to raise these issues with Bishop, but this was not the time or place.
As they disembarked the aircraft, Lewis and the DCI were met by a phalanx of Secret Service agents.
"This way gentlemen." The lead agent had to shout to make himself heard above the roar of aircraft engines and other activity around the base. The protective detail hurriedly ushered their charges to a converted VH-3 helicopter transport that would adopt the call signHawk-Two as soon as they boarded.
Neither Lewis nor Bishop had ever experienced anything like this before. Neither of them had thought they would ever have to. The palpable tension pervading the airbase excited Lewis in an extremely odd way, but the more rational part of his mind was scared as hell. Everybody around him seemed to assume the prospect of a war with Russia was very real. Therefore, he had to condition himself to think the same way, however much his intellect told him otherwise.
They strapped themselves into their seats onHawk-Two . Temporarily, Lewis had allowed himself to forget just how much he hated helicopters. He hated nuclear weapons even more.
A Marine Sergeant checked on the two men as the chopper lifted off.
"Are you comfortable, gentlemen?"
Lewis nodded uncertainly. "How long 'til we get to the White House?" he asked.
"ETA is about eight minutes, Dr. Stein. Just relax and enjoy the ride."
He smiled nervously and turned to Bishop. "That's what my ex-wife always used to say to me, and look what happened there."
Bishop glared coldly at Lewis. He recalled that, in the days when they had worked together in the field, Lewis had often used dark humor to conceal his fear; an unconvincing show of bravado. The fact that he was doing so now was not reassuring.
Lewis peered out of the window, watching the lights of Andrews disappear out of view. He still didn't know what would be expected of him once he arrived at the White House. But behind closed eyes, he prayed to God that he wouldn't be found wanting at the moment when his adopted country needed him most.
Why the hell did I agree to this?
INDEPENDENCE, MISSOURI
Beth had always been proud of Martin in his Air Force Captain's uniform. She had often boasted to her friends that her husband was a B-2 stealth bomber pilot responsible for more explosive firepower than had ever been unleashed in the entire history of war. But her sophisticated banker friends tended to consider people such as Martin an anachronism. Nuclear bombs had no relevance these days, did they? The Cold War was over. Your husband is simply prehistoric, dear.
She was certain they wouldn't be so smug now. At this moment, she was prouder of Martin than ever. It was men and women such as he that would give the Russians pause for thought, not the sneering investment bankers who, for all their self-importance, wouldn't have a clue about what to do right now.
As she embraced Martin in the driveway of their house, ten miles from Whiteman AFB, Beth couldn't help wondering if she would ever see him again. For his sake, she fought back the tears that were desperately trying to find a release. Both of them had always known that this might happen someday. But now that itwas happening, the moment had a somewhat unreal, almost dreamlike quality. It didn't seem possible that, after all these years of détente, the United States could actually be going to war with Russia. It seemed even less real to Beth that this might be their last goodbye. She didn't want her husband's last memory of her to be of a woman crying and begging him not to go. So she brushed down his uniform, like a mother sending her son off to school for the first time, and gave him her most beautiful smile. It was the same smile that had caused his heart to flutter all those years ago when he had first laid eyes on her. And damn if it didn't still work.
"I love you," he whispered in her ear.
"I love you too."
"I love you three."
"Love you more," she smiled bravely, her voice trembling. They kissed passionately. In the background, Cathy and Patrick looked on impassively.
"I'm proud of you, honey," she told him. "Just remember that."
He nodded, not wanting to let go of her, but knowing that every passing moment was a waste of precious time for both of them.
"Load up the Explorer with as much as you can," he told her firmly. "Bottled water, canned food, candles. There's a ham radio up at the cabin. Dad knows how to use it. Get going as quickly as you can. The highways will be jammed, so stick to the back roads. You should make Iowa in a couple of hours."
"I know the way," she mumbled, a tangible quiver in her voice now.
He gently stroked her cheek. She gripped his hand tight in hers.
"I promise you, honey," he said, "that when this is all over, I'll quit the Air Force and get a normal job."
"Promise?"
"You bet."
He walked over to his parents. Patrick had his arm wrapped around Cathy, whose head was rested on her husband's shoulder.
"Some vacation, huh?" Martin quipped.
"So this is what my son does for a living," Cathy observed dryly. "I'm proud of you too, you know that?"
Martin shuffled his feet, feeling uneasy. Yeah, I'm something to be proud of, huh? Your son might be about to incinerate ten million innocent people. But he kept his thoughts to himself and embraced both his parents. Neither of them had ever been big on shows of affection, so by unspoken consent it was kept brief.
"Don't let those Russkies give you any shit, son," Patrick told him. "If they start bothering you, make sure you blow them back to the Stone Age."
"Sure, Pop." And somewhere in Russia, a scene exactly like this is probably taking place right now. A proud Russian father telling his bomber pilot son to fry the Yankees if they start getting uppity.
Martin climbed into his Cherokee jeep and started up the engine.
"I need you guys to look out for each other," he called out, glaring firmly at his wife and parents in turn. "I don't want to hear that there's been any trouble when I get back, okay?"
Patrick walked over to Beth and held his daughter-in-law's hand. Cathy opened her mouth to protest, but bit her lip. "We hear you, son," he affirmed.
"See you soon," Martin promised over his shoulder, slamming the door shut. He eased the Jeep into gear and pulled away.
Once the Cherokee had disappeared from sight, Patrick turned to Beth.
"Come on, honey," he whispered. "Let's start loading the car."
NORAD, CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO
Despite the complex being a non-smoking facility, the Commander-in-Chief of North American Air Defense Command (CINC-NORAD) lit his tenth filter tip of the day. He didn't think anyone would mind. After all, there were more dangerous things in the world than passive smoking right now, weren't there?
General Robert Allen was standing on an elevated bridge that allowed him a view of the cavernous room - 'The Pit' - that constituted the heart of the NORAD facility. A tall, wiry man who had been a Wing Commander in the Gulf War, Allen gazed down with impassive blue eyes on the activity taking place below him. Hundreds of American and Canadian technicians were racing in all directions, bumping into each other as they performed their various duties. A wall mounted electronic board showed NORAD's current DefCon status as Four. That would automatically go to Three as soon as a nuclear detonation took place anywhere in the world. It had never gone to two before, never mind one.
A sixteen-foot-square computer display - technically known as the Command Center Processing and Display System, but more commonly termed theBig Board for brevity's sake - showed a map of the Russian Federation and the former Soviet republics. Missile silos and air bases were represented by various graphics denoting their current alert status (presently, the naval base at Vladivostok flashed to indicate that two Russian Akula fast-attack subs were putting to sea). A series of smaller displays showed similar representations of the United States, Western Europe, Ukraine and China. They derived their information from a variety of sources. SBIRS satellites, in geosynchronous orbit 22,000 miles above the Earth, used infrared sensors to detect thermal plumes that might represent ballistic missile launches and/or nuclear detonations. This data was continually processed by a high-end mainframe computer known as ALERT. Meanwhile, BMEWS stations at Thule in Greenland, Cobra Dane in the Aleutians and Fylingdales in England would track ballistic missile trajectories make estimations of probable impact points. The BMEWS system was supported by PAVE PAWS stations at Beale AFB in California and Cape Cod in Massachusetts. Meanwhile, DMSP satellites in polar orbits of about 450 nautical miles provided data on weather patterns and the effects of the ionosphere on long-range communications and radar tracking systems. A network of four MILSTAR and ten DSCS satellites constituted a highly advanced global communications system, linking command authorities with military assets around the world in the event of conventional systems being disabled by nuclear attack. Additionally, a series of NSA reconnaissance satellites monitored activity around Russian missile silos as a means of detecting any increase in the alert status of Russia's Strategic Rocket Forces.
All of this information was being continually processed on a 365-day-a-year, 24-hour-a-day basis by a Cray supercomputer, located deep in the bowels of the NORAD complex, its insanely powerful processors were kept cool by liquid nitrogen. Actually, the Cray served a dual purpose. In addition to maintaining the constant flow of data, it was also responsible for generating a vast array of effective attack strategies based on the real-time information available to it. Known as the Single Integrated Operation Plan (SIOP), this set of attack plans would enable US Strategic Command (USSTRATCOM) to present a variety of strategic options to the President; ranging from Limited Counterforce (selective targeting of military and strategic assets) to Total Countervalue (unprejudiced targeting of industrial, civilian, military and strategic assets), with approximately fifty thousand attack variations between these two extremes.
The Big Board had been tracking six Soviet -Russian , Allen corrected himself, unable to rid himself of old prejudices - bombers crossing the Ukrainian border, heading south-southwest. Commonsense suggested that if a tactical nuclear strike was in progress, these jets had something to do with it. Their formation was ragged, as if their missions were totally unrelated (which in a sense they were, Allen thought).
His heart skipped a beat as one of the bombers started to blink on the screen. He knew what that meant. He's firing an ALCM. Presently the bomber turned back towards the border with steadily increasing velocity while a small dart-like graphic headed in the opposite direction even faster. A cold shudder shot down Allen's spine as he realized that the abstract image on the screen was all very real for somebody, somewhere.
"ALERT reports ALCM launch in Northern Ukraine," someone yelled. "Attempting SRV."
Then another bomber blinked and turned. Then another.
Suddenly, the NORAD facility filled with the scream of alarm klaxons, causing him to jump. A small white bloom appeared on the electronic map of Ukraine.
Allen's phone started to ring. Its single, repetitive tone indicated an internal call from the Pit. He picked it up.
"General Allen," a frightened sounding technician yelled. "We have positive verification of anucflash over the Ukrainian town of Konotop. SRV is negative; repeat, Systems Readiness Verification is negative."
Even as he spoke, another bloom appeared fifty miles to the west of Konotop and the wall-mounted DefCon indicator changed to three.
"Possiblenucflash over the town of Nizhyn, sir," the technician added. "Attempting to verify."
Allen placed his hand over the mouthpiece and turned to the Canadian Air Force Colonel standing beside him. "Get me the President." The General felt his lip quiver as a fifth bloom appeared thirty miles east of Kiev.
In that moment came the realization that he wasn't as prepared for this moment as he'd thought he was.
IVANKOV, UKRAINE
Colonel Oleg Gerasimov of the Ukrainian Army -The Hunter - had to remind himself of his real name from time to time in order to retain something of his own identity. There would not be much left for him to live for once this war was over, but a small part of him that hoped he could revive some shred of the civilian existence he had led before it had all started. Perhaps return to teaching? Yes, that would be something, wouldn't it? A man who had killed hundreds of Russian soldiers teaching English to schoolchildren. And how could he look at those children in the knowledge that he had failed to prevent his own child from being killed? Such thoughts were enough to drive a man to drink, he knew. It would be so easy to walk away from the war and finally surrender to his pent-up grief. But if he did that, then the Russians would have finally beaten him, wouldn't they? He cursed himself for thinking such thoughts. Gerasimov had joined the Army in the knowledge that his career would end only when Russia surrendered or when they killed him. And in the two years of fighting, nothing had changed that conviction.
The Ukrainian Army convoy was heading south towards the town of Makarov, carrying supplies for troops struggling to maintain a rigid defensive formation against Russian infantry units that were advancing on them from the East. The convoy comprised four scouting jeeps, six Army trucks and three APCs. Gerasimov was in the lead jeep, his alert eyes searching left and right for signs of danger. It occurred to him that he hadn't seen a Russian soldier for nearly two days. Perhaps the rumors of Russia's capitulation had some substance after all. But now was not the time for complacency. Gerasimov had prudently ensured that the convoy had sufficient firepower to defend itself against even the most well orchestrated Russian ambush. His comrades in Makarov were counting on their supplies getting through.
The Ukrainian stronghold of Ivankov was about eight miles behind them now. Gerasimov glanced at his driver. A serious looking woman called Ivana Serov, she had also led a relatively normal civilian life before the war; husband to a lawyer, mother to two young children. But like Gerasimov, her family had been murdered by the Russians. He knew her to be an expert in hand-to-hand combat. Not that there had been much opportunity to demonstrate those skills against the Russians, who like the cowards they were, chose to hide behind their artillery shells and laser-guided bombs. He imagined that she had been stunningly beautiful before the war. Now those looks had been spoiled by a permanent scar running down the left side of her face; the result of a shrapnel wound sustained when a Russian mortar shell had exploded just a few feet away from her six months' ago.
But, for Gerasimov, Serov's beauty was not so much aesthetic as in her passion for the cause she defended. That was not necessarily a sexual observation, since he felt precisely the same way about many of the men under his command.
"When we get to Makarov, Ivana, we will drink," he told her. "I think we have earned it, don't you?"
She tried not to smile, but couldn't prevent a corner of her mouth twitching. Although she would never admit it, and certainly wouldn't allow anything ever to come of it, she found Gerasimov hugely attractive. Perhaps, under different circumstances, a romantic attachment might have developed. Although, under different circumstances, both of them would have had their own families and probably wouldn't have given the prospect a second thought. Since the deaths of their respective families, neither of them had indulged in pleasures of the flesh. Not when there were more important things upon which to expend energy.
"In moderation," she asserted.
"Of course."
Serov glanced in her rear view mirror to check that the rest of the convoy was keeping pace with her. They were. In fact, she could clearly see the bespectacled face of the man driving the truck behind her.
It would be the last thing she saw for a very long time.
Without warning, her world was consumed by an incandescent white flash, the light of a sun exploding in fury. The dazzling reflection in her rear view mirror blinded Serov, causing her to scream and raise her hands to her eyes. Instinctively, she slammed on the brakes. The driver of the truck behind her was too slow to react and crashed into the back of the jeep, jolting it a few feet forward.
"What the..." Gerasimov began, feeling nauseous from the impact of the truck hitting his vehicle. He was aware of the flash, but his mind hadn't quite registered it.
Gathering his senses, he turned around and stared over his shoulder in horror. Beside him, Serov groaned, hands clamped to her useless eyes. Other soldiers disembarked their vehicles and stood transfixed by the spectacle. None of them were psychologically prepared for the scene that confronted them.
A two hundred foot mushroom cloud rose into the clouds over where the town of Ivankov had been.
Amongst the rubble were the remains of regional Army headquarters and a number of senior Ukrainian officers.
MOSCOW, RUSSIA
"Has Pushkin lost his fucking mind?" The Foreign Minister -- a pudgy-looking reformed Communist called Mikhail Suronev -- was beet red with fury when Yazov reported the news to him. "He will destroy us all."
Yazov impassively watched Suronev pace his office in the Russian Foreign Ministry, shoulders hunched, fists clenched. His mood hadn't been improved by the fact that one of Pushkin's first decisions as President had been to fire him as Foreign Minister. That decision itself had been encouraged by Yazov's suggestion that Suronev was one of the shadowy political figures planning to make Pushkin's term in office as short as possible. Naturally, Suronev knew nothing of this. He probably never would.
"And now the Americans have gone on full alert," Yazov reported, knowing that Suronev hadn't seen President Mitchell's address. The General's words had the intended effect of further aggravating the Foreign Minister. "They are planning to impose economic sanctions against us, possibly even a trade embargo. That will destroy our nation, sir. Our people are already facing famine this winter."
Suronev stopped pacing and fixed the General with a hard stare. "You are certain of this?"
"The American President made the announcement a short time ago," Yazov confirmed. "Our President seems to have set back our relations with Washington by a couple of decades in no more than three days, don't you think?"
The former Minister grunted. The prospect of Russia's civilian population facing famine did not overly concern him. His dacha north of Moscow was well stocked, and he had enough contacts in the black market to ensure that it remained so. But Suronev had an acute sense of history, and he knew that the Russian people wouldn't tolerate much more hardship, certainly not a famine. The Czars had made the fatal mistake of underestimating the peoples' resolve in 1917. He didn't intend to allow Pushkin to make the same mistake. Not when he himself had so much to lose.
"He must be stopped," Suronev concluded flatly.
"And then what? The military is beginning to react of its own accord to the American alert. These events have a tendency to take on a life of their own. We need to replace Pushkin with somebody to whom the military will listen. Somebody who can stabilize the situation." The General had rehearsed this scene with Kalushin for nearly two days, and he calculated that the lie he had just told was an acceptable risk. The military wasnot reacting to the American alert. Yazov had given express orders that Russia's alert levels should remain normal. For, even though the nuclear strike had been his idea, he had no desire to risk an accidental conflict with the Americans.
Suronev stared into Yazov's eyes, measuring him. Yazov stared back, giving nothing away. The politician sensed that the General had already given the issue some thought, and in a sense Suronev's assumption was quite correct, although not in the way he thought.
"What are you suggesting?" The former Minister narrowed his eyes inquisitively.
"We need to work together, sir. I can persuade the military to stand down before this situation with the Americans escalates any further. I already have the support of several cabinet ministers and the General Staff. But I need you to take care of the political aspect. The Duma respects you, sir. They will abide by what you tell them."
Suronev started pacing again while he performed a series of quick mental calculations. A man who had cut his political teeth in the former Supreme Soviet, he was well known for his acute political instincts; the sole reason he had managed to resuscitate his career following the demise of Communism. Now he needed those instincts more than ever. Requisite to Yazov's plan for ousting Pushkin was that the General himself became de-facto President of Russia for the short term at least. Suronev wasn't entirely comfortable with the prospect of putting the nation in military hands, but he knew that a man such as Yazov would need an astute politician to guide him through what promised to be one of the most difficult periods in Russia's troubled history. Suronev imagined that was where he himself figured in the equation. For this reason alone, Yazov's proposal was the least of a series of possible evils. If he were to assist Yazov, he would be in an ideal position to succeed him. And, more importantly, he would remain close to the epoch of power throughout. The alternative was to suffer political exile. Suronev calculated that this was a very real danger, since a man such as Yazov would not have approached Suronev unless he had already consolidated a power base.
"And what happens once this crisis has passed?"
"A transition of power to civilian rule," Yazov promised. "On the condition that free, democratic elections are held at the earliest opportunity. This will be an essential part of the nation's healing process."
Healing process indeed, Suronev thought bitterly. What sentimental rubbish. "Then we must move quickly, before the damage is done."
"The process is already underway," Yazov told him. Had he the time to do so, the General might have allowed himself to wallow in the Machiavellian genius of his strategy. In little over seventy-two hours, he had persuaded Pushkin to go nuclear in the Ukraine and then gone on to exploit the new President's inherent paranoia in order to isolate him from Russia's political elite. Then he had turned that same political elite against Pushkin on the basis of the nuclear attack against Ukraine and the political divisions that Yazov had himself engineered. The irony was almost tragic.
Suronev considered Yazov's last statement and turned his back on the General to gaze through the window of his office. It was a bitterly cold, dark night outside, and he didn't offer much thought to those less fortunate than he - people whose homes would be poorly heated and lit - other than to remember that a disenchanted peasantry had altered Russia's destiny once before and could quite possibly do so again. Many of Russia's modern day peasantry belonged to a still vast military whose role it was to defend a country that was dangerously adrift without an effectual captain at the helm.
And that very military was presently embodied by a certain General Gennady Pushkinich Yazov.
"You would have proceeded regardless of my cooperation," Suronev quietly spoke to the window, more a conclusion than a question.
Yazov remained impassive and silent. That, of course, meantyes .
Suronev turned to face him. Military rule unnerved him, but not half as much as the prospect of the prospect of exile from the hub of power. He was an experienced politician, and had an acute instinct for when not to force an issue. This was such a time.
"What do you have in mind?"
Yazov outlined a plan that had already been set in motion.
KIEV, UKRAINE
"How bad is it?" the President asked on a secure line.
"We managed to get out of Ivankov before it happened. Three of my people of injured, one with flashburns, two more with slight blast injuries. The town has been destroyed. Communications are irregular, due to the effects these weapons have, I imagine." The line crackled, threatening to die altogether. For once, Gerasimov was thankful for the EMP-hardened communications gear with which the Americans had supplied him.
"We are equipped to respond?"
"We are, and we should, sir."
Gerasimov heard some muffled chattering in the background. The President and his advisors took no more than twenty seconds to come to their decision.
"Very well. You have my authorization."
"Thank you, sir. And good luck."
"Good luck to you too, Colonel. I think we're going to need it."
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON D.C.
Lewis didn't really believe where he was going untilHawk-Two landed on the front lawn of the White House. It occurred to him that, despite all the times he had been to Washington, he had never seen the Presidential residence up close.
He stared at Bishop, his eyes full of awe. The DCI managed a grim smile when he saw Lewis's expression.
"You look like a kid in a candy store," he remarked.
"Yeah, I mean, Jesus. TheWhite House , for Chrissakes."
Bishop patted Lewis on the shoulder. "Hey, it's nothing special. You'll get used to it. Just relax and don't be yourself," he joked.
As they climbed out of the helicopter, the awaiting Secret Service detail ushered them to the West Wing entrance, where Jim Reynolds met them.
"Hey Jim," the DCI said. "I'd like you to meet Dr. Lewis Stein."
"Heard a lot about you, Dr. Stein," Reynolds remarked, shaking his hand. Lewis felt himself being measured by the chief of staff. "Welcome to the White House. Come on, I'll show you through. The President is in the SitRoom waiting for you guys. Ever seen the movie Dr Strangelove?"
Lewis shook his head as the three men started walking. "No."
"Good. Because the real life SitRoom is nothing like in the movies. It's a fucking broom cupboard actually."
"Thanks for the heads up," Lewis said politely. He decided that he liked Reynolds but wasn't sure why. An instinct? Well, Lewis had cheated death more than once by trusting those. Nevertheless, he knew he'd best be on his guard around the chief of staff. As adept as he was -used to be , he corrected himself - in a combat situation, this was an alien, potentially hostile, environment to him and he had the disadvantage of being the only guy in the game who didn't know the rules. Reynolds was obviously one of the key players.
Lewis didn't notice the metal detector through which he passed, so well concealed was it in the wooden doorframe. He did, however, notice the two severe looking Secret Service agents a few steps behind him and Bishop, who were themselves a few steps behind Reynolds.
He felt like a tourist taking in the surroundings as Reynolds led the way through the palatial Cross Hall. The walls were adorned with portraits of the White House's past occupants; some good, some bad, but all of them worthy of their own footnote in the great book of American history. The surroundings were clearly designed to intimidate foreign dignitaries, a blatant show of American might. It was a tactic originated by the British, he recalled. And damn if it isn't effective, Lewis thought, himself feeling slightly intimidated.
He had already become totally disorientated in this surprisingly vast building. That sensation wasn't helped when Reynolds showed the new arrivals into an elevator, which was perhaps smaller than it should have been. One of the Secret Service agents pressed a button that took them into a reinforced basement, a hundred feet below ground level.
"First time in the White House, Dr. Stein?" Reynolds asked amiably, still trying to get a feel for this intense-looking newcomer.
"Yes it is. Quite impressive, if I may say so."
"Well, I'm sorry we've only got time for the dime tour today. Perhaps we can arrange something a little more comprehensive when things calm down a bit."
"That's okay," Lewis said. Had he wanted to see the White House, he would have done so before now. But he'd never had much inclination to worship the palatial trappings of America's political elite. That was why he was so surprised by his awestruck reaction to his surroundings.
"It hasn't got as much history as some of your buildings in the old country," Reynolds noted, "but we're quite proud of it. Although I dare say that just as much fooling around goes on here as in Buck House." He whispered in Lewis's ear. "That's just between you and me though."
Ah, here we go, Lewis thought, noting the reference to his former nationality. Well, it was natural that people here should be wary of a foreigner, wasn't it? He'd had the same problem when he'd worked at Langley. Even though he was a naturalized American with a U.S. passport, a social security number and hundreds of thousands of dollars in paid taxes to his name, Lewis would always be a foreigner for as long as he spoke with an English accent.
He could have said as much to Reynolds, but instead restricted himself to a diplomatic smile.
The doors to the elevator opened onto a nondescript gray corridor with several doors leading off it. Outside one of those doors stood two Secret Service agents. Lewis guessed correctly that this was where they were headed.
"Guys." Reynolds politely acknowledged the agents, both of whom checked Lewis out and decided that what they saw was worthy of respect. Despite his scruffy appearance, he had the look. They stood aside to allow the three men passage.
As he entered the room, Lewis felt the eyes of America's most powerful figures checking him out. He was becoming accustomed to the feeling. I know what a goldfish feels like now.
President Edward Mitchell rose from his seat and came over to shake Lewis's hand. He looked older than he appeared on TV, Lewis noted, unsure whether that was because of the lack of make-up or the stress of his current situation. Lewis decided that he liked him anyway. He had the look of a decent man, which came as something of a surprise when one remembered that he was still a politician. Bishop's opinion of the commander-in-chief had gone a long way towards forming Lewis's judgment. The DCI was one of the few men whose opinions Lewis had always trusted.
"Dr Stein," the President smiled tiredly. "It's good to meet you at last. Margaret's told me a lot about you."
"It's an honor to meet you, sir," Lewis replied, nodding respectfully. He had long since learned that the best way to judge a man was to look into his eyes. And the President's eyes had a certain integrity and warmth about them. To his surprise, Lewis actually felt slightly sorry for him. Tough break, pal, he thought. You look like a guy who's fallen into a shark-infested sea without a lifejacket or a swimming lesson.
Bradley Copeland was the next person to greet Lewis, his impassive face that of a professional diplomat. Unlike the President, Copeland actually looked younger than he did on TV. Lewis wondered how the Secretary of State handled himself in tough negotiations with older foreign diplomats, hardened by years of experience. Not too well, according to recent press reports. So, are the sharks nibbling at you too?
General Westwood appraised Lewis through narrow, suspicious eyes as they shook hands. Throughout the introductions, the two soldiers were taking the measure of each other, keeping their opinions concealed behind neutral expressions. Again, Lewis detected that this was probably another one of the good guys. After all, Westwood had been there and done that. And, despite his advancing years, he still had the look of a man who would have rather been out in the field leading his men than sitting here in an underground office surrounded by politicians.
Nielsen's welcome was vaguely indifferent. He eyed Lewis with the contempt that one might show a cockroach, as if the new arrival wasn't worthy of his attention. In spite of his instant dislike for the Secretary of Defense, Lewis acted with polite dignity as the two men exchanged cool greetings.
And, finally, came Margaret Mitchell. Of course, Lewis was already well acquainted with the First Lady. She had been his lecturer at Princeton, and it was purely because of her tutorship that he was nowDoctor Stein, rather than plain oldMister . She greeted him with a friendly hug.
"Good to see you again, Lewis." What have you done to yourself?she didn't ask, noting the weight gain and the pallid complexion that seemed to have aged him since they'd last met on the day he'd graduated from Princeton.
"You too, Ma'am."
The three arrivals took their seats at the conference table. Lewis found himself sat between Westwood and Copeland, at the far end of the table from the President. Bishop was directly opposite him.
"I know you expected to be here today to discuss the possibility of an advisory position," Mitchell said to Lewis, leaning forward with his hands folded on the conference table. "Unfortunately, things have moved on, as you already know. You've been drafted, I'm afraid. Margaret tells me you're an expert on Russian capabilities. Is that correct?"
Lewis cleared his throat, shaken by his sudden transformation from a drunk, burned out college lecturer to Presidential advisor. "That's true, sir. I'm a bit rusty, been out of the game for a couple of years, but I've been keeping abreast of events, and I've got a pretty good insight into the way they think."
"Good," Mitchell acknowledged, his expression now gravely serious. "General Westwood, why don't you bring Tony and Dr. Stein up to speed on the situation?"
"Yes sir," the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs agreed. His expression and tone were neutral, as if he were commenting on the weather. "NORAD has confirmed ten nuclear detonations over rebel targets in the Ukraine over the past half an hour. Estimated yields between fifteen and twenty KTs. We're still awaiting damage estimates."
Lewis closed his eyes in despair. He had spent the past two years teaching acne-ridden kids about strategic doctrine, always safe in the knowledge that the theories would probably never be tested. Now it had all suddenly become very real, and he felt like a student himself. Words likeoverkill andblastwave were no longer abstract concepts to be studied in a classroom. They were horrific realities that, at that very moment, thousands of innocent Ukrainians were experiencing on a first hand basis.
"Method of delivery?" Bishop inquired.
"Retrofitted Bears."
"ALCMs," Lewis observed bitterly. "What about civilian casualties?"
Westwood eyed the newcomer with caution, wondering for the first time what level of security clearance he had. "No figures as yet. Some of the targets were inevitably towns and villages that were in Ukrainian Army hands. NORAD has declared DefCon Three."
"What?" Bishop exclaimed. His former incarnation had been as a CIA field officer. He was, by his own admission, weak when it came to matters of strategic doctrine.
"Standard procedure for an aggressive nuclear strike, Tony," Lewis explained calmly. He turned back to Westwood. "Any increased activity around Russian missile silos, General?"
"Not yet."
"Don't be surprised if it happens," he advised, glancing at the President. "That would be a natural response to our increased readiness. In fact, I'm surprised they haven't reacted already."
"Perhaps they want to keep a lid on things," Reynolds proffered with a shrug. "You know how these situations tend to take on a life of their own when everybody starts squeezing the trigger. They probably don't want to up the ante. That would be natural enough."
Lewis shook his head, frowning skeptically. "That doesn't sound like the Russians I know."
"You said it yourself," Copeland reminded him. "You've been out of the game a while."
"Two years, Mr. Secretary. Two years. The Russian nature doesn't change in two years. There's another element here, something we're missing."
"Like what?" Mitchell asked.
Lewis had no answer for that.
NORAD, CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO
Everybody in the NORAD complex was starting to calm down after the initial excitement - nobody could think of a better word - created by the nuclear strikes against Ukraine. USSTRATCOM was scrambling every operational Strategic Bomb Wing in the United States. Crews manning ICBM launch capsules in North Dakota, Wyoming, Minnesota, Montana, Missouri and Nebraska had been placed on alert. A total of eight ballistic missile submarines - some with barely half their crews aboard - had hurriedly put to sea from Bangor in Washington State, San Diego in California and Kings Bay in Georgia.
Allen's deputy - a Canadian Air Force General named Frank Mackay - came running up the metal steps onto the bridge, taking them two at a time.
"Status report, sir," he offered, handing General Allen a sheet of paper. It read:
06160235Z//
FROM: CincUSStratCom
TO: CincNorad, CincAcc, CincLant, CincEur//
Top Secret//
Oprep/Nucflash/10//
StratStatRep/3//
All strategic assets at alert levels concurrent with general DefCon Three status/10 (ten) Russian nuclear impact points in Ukraine/Ivankov Konotop Nizhin Poltava Rovno Vinnitsa Bakhmach Kozelets Ichnya Oster/2 (two) negative impacts/All targets known to be occupied by Ukrainian Army/Yields range between 15KT and 20KT/No est on casualties/No further Russian strategic activity detected/Situation is fluid//
END//
Allen handed the sheet of paper back to Mackay. "Still no sign of an increase in Russian alert status?"
"Six hunter-killers put to sea from Vladivostok and Murmansk, but other than that nothing out of the ordinary," Mackay reported. "What do you make of that?"
"I would have expected some sort of response to our alert," Allen admitted. He had a bad feeling about this. The Russians weren't acting how they were supposed to act. In the abstract, that was a good thing, for it meant that they probably weren't planning any further use of nuclear weapons. But situations like this weren't abstract, were they? And for that reason, he couldn't believe that they would simply allow the American alert to go unchecked. Not unless they had a damn good reason for doing so. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, although he didn't yet know why.
Both men were oblivious to the pit technician who was monitoring the status of Ukrainian Air Force assets on his terminal. A 22-year-old Second Lieutenant from New Jersey, he had only been at NORAD for three months, and was already wishing he had taken another posting. He was coming to the end of his twelve hour shift and toyed with the idea of grabbing himself a cup of machine coffee - not as good as the real stuff, but never mind - to stay alert.
He picked his nose and was looking for a concealed spot to stick his booger when a small red circle appeared in the center of the electronic map on his display. Catching it out of the corner of his eye, he blinked, hoping he'd imagined it. But, to his horror, he quickly realized that he hadn't. In as much time as it took for that thought to register, another one appeared to the south. Then a third. He felt his neck muscles tense. "Holy motherfucking Christ," he muttered to himself, almost dropping the phone as he picked it up. By the time his finger reached the button that connected him to General Allen, klaxons were screaming all around the NORAD complex, and the Big Board was flashing the message 'MISSILE EVENT' in bold red letters.
"What gives?" Allen barked into the phone.
"Sir," the technician said, his voice trembling, "I have a possible missile event! I'm tracking three - repeat, three - possible ballistic missile launches from western Ukraine."
"Run an error check," CINC-NORAD ordered, reacting instinctively.
The technician took the SBIRS satellites offAuto-Detect and quickly ran a series of predefined system checks, just as he had been trained to. "Negative on error check, sir," he reported after a few seconds. "SRV is valid; repeat, SRV is valid." An indicator lit on his console. "We've also got positive verification from STRATCOM." He punched a button beneath the indicator to acknowledge receipt of the verification to U.S. Strategic Command at Offutt AFB in Nebraska.
Allen hung up. "Damn," he grumbled, hurrying down the steps that led into the pit. This was turning out to be one heck of a shitty day. With Mackay hot on his heels, he paced briskly to the BMEWS terminal, where a female officer was using a trackball to trace the missile trajectories.
"Talk to me, Lieutenant."
The woman was startled by the General's sudden presence. "Fylingdales verifies three ballistic missile launches from western Ukraine, sir," she reported. "Probable impact points inside central Russia."
"PAVE PAWS is tracking three ballistic missile launches from western Ukraine," another voice called out.
"I have concurrence from Thule and Space Command," another yelled.
Allen looked up at the Big Board. Three blinking white triangles had appeared on the map of Russia. Based on information already gained from the missiles' trajectory and velocity by the BMEWS network, ALERT was estimating that detonation would take place somewhere within those triangular areas. A line of summary information appeared at the bottom of the display. Total Missiles - TOTMISL - currently stood at three. TTG - Time To Go until first detonation - read 11:25.
He lifted the Lieutenant's phone and barked an order to connect him to the President.
WHITEMAN AFB, MISSOURI
The Commanding Officer of the 509thBomb Wing, Brigadier-General Joe Voeller, stood in front of a projected map of the Ukraine, holding a laser pointer as he delivered his briefing. The forty-two aviators who comprised the 325thBomb Squadron - which was the core element of the 509th- were seated in three rows of fourteen, attentively hanging on his every word. Only a few of them had ever seen real combat before, and Voeller sensed how scared they were. About half as scared as he was. He had to struggle to make himself heard above the scramble alert klaxons that were echoing around the base.
"It is our understanding," he was saying, "that twelve low-yield nuclear bombs were detonated over Ukrainian forward positions, using Bears as a means of delivery." His resonance was rich and booming; the authoritative tone that of a man accustomed to issuing orders. He turned the projector off.
"People," he said, "you don't need me to tell you how big this thing is. We are facing probably the most dangerous military crisis for over half a century. Russia has broken the last taboo of warfare. The mission of the 509this to protect the United States of America against nuclear attack, to give any potential aggressor pause for thought, and to serve as the first and last line of defense should all else fail."
In the second row of seats, Major Martin Logan and his co-pilot Captain Laura McCann exchanged a nervous look.
"Each of your bombers will scramble with a payload of sixteen B-83 bombs, tipped with nuclear warheads yielding between two hundred kilotons and one megaton. Should this thing escalate into a shooting war, you will receive instructions for yield and burst selection in your SIOP mission profile.
"You are in the 509thbecause you are the cream of America's aviators. Believe me, nobody hopes more than I do that this crisis ends peacefully. But if it doesn't, your country will be relying on you to carry out your duty, as terrible as it is. I know that none of you will be found wanting if and when that moment comes. Good luck, people, and God speed. Dismissed," he concluded with a stiff salute.
The forty-two aviators of the 325thstood as one and started racing towards the runway, where maintenance crews were performing final checks on the twenty-one B-2 Stealth Bombers about to take to the skies. In the background, a tannoy boomed out the 509th's chosen theme tune for an alert.
It was the theme tune toThe Dambusters .
VI
ESCALATION
It is the common fate of the indolent to see their rights become a prey to the active. The condition upon which God hath given liberty to man is eternal vigilance; which condition if he break, servitude is at once the consequence of his crime and the punishment of his guilt.(John Philpot Curran - Speech upon the Right To Election, 1790)
WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON D.C.
"What?" Mitchell exclaimed, not quite believing what Allen was telling him. The secure line was on speaker, and everybody in the Situation Room could hear the klaxons that were screaming throughout the NORAD complex. Lewis found the noise even more frightening than what it actually represented.
"I don't know how," General Allen admitted, "but that's what we're seeing. We've got positive verification from STRATCOM and Space Command."
Westwood leaned towards the speakerphone. "Rob, it's Marion."
"Hello, sir," came the curt response, one military professional to another.
"Rob, I'm going to recommend we convene a general threat conference and missile threat conference," Westwood said. He glanced at the President, who nodded firmly, unsure what the General meant but not wanting to admit as much.
"I concur, sir," Allen agreed.
Within seconds, everybody with a stake in this latest development had been patched into a conference call with NORAD and the White House Situation Room. US Strategic Command (CINCUSSTRATCOM) at Offutt AFB in Nebraska was NORAD's sister facility, and could assume NORAD's role were Cheyenne Mountain to be lost in time of war; providing command, control and communication facilities for all American nuclear forces worldwide. Likewise, the E-6 "Looking Glass" served as an airborne version of USSTRATCOM. The CO of "Looking Glass" was codenamedAlice , a literary reference to Hans Christian Andersen's most famous creation. The Commander of Air Combat Command (CINCACC) was in the NMCC center at the Pentagon, the Commander of Atlantic Command (CINCLANT) was attending a NATO conference in Brussels, while the Commander of US forces in Europe (CINCEUR) was at the Finnish Defense Ministry in Helsinki. Despite the variance in their physical locations, they were all immediately available to take the call.
"How the hell did Ukraine..." CINCUSSTRATCOM began to ask.
"I think I can answer that one, sir," Lewis offered, anticipating the question.
"Who the hell is this?" barked the four-star General in his native southern drawl. He wasn't accustomed to being interrupted, certainly not by an impudent foreigner whose voice he didn't recognize.
Lewis glanced at the President, who explained. "That, General, is Dr. Lewis Stein, acting National Security Advisor. He's an authority on Russian capabilities. Proceed, Dr. Stein."
"Thank you, sir." It occurred to Lewis that the President's introduction had made his appointment somewhat more official. At least he now knew what his job title was. ActingNational Security Advisor. Yep, I sure need to know how to act today. He turned back to the speakerphone. "A few years ago, there were rumors circulating the intelligence community of missing Soviet missiles, specifically SS-20s and '25s, both of which are usually mounted on mobile launchers. When these discrepancies appeared during the verification phase of the INS treaty, the Russians insisted that they'd overstated the size of their IRBM arsenal."
"So?" CINCEURsnapped testily.
"So," Lewis explained, "the CIA made some discreet inquiries. We focused on the obvious places; Iran, Iraq, North Korea and Libya. But we found no concrete evidence. One of the scenarios we considered was that the former Soviet republics might have kept a few stashed away when the Red Army went home. But, again, we found nothing to corroborate this theory. I figure if the Ukes could hide them from the Russians, they could easily hide them from us."
"How could they lose a batch of mobile launched nukes?" Reynolds said incredulously. "One or two warheads I could understand, but a pile of goddamn IRBMs? I've seen one of those things in a museum," he added, looking at the President. "And I tell you, you couldn't hide it in your garage."
It was Bishop who provided the answer. "It's not a matter of losing them, Jim. More likely is that they were sold in return for hard currency when the Soviet Union collapsed. The Russian military has been through so much in the past few years that its institutional memory has probably forgotten. Obviously the Ukrainians retained them even after signing the Treaty of Cooperation with Russia. And now they've figured out a way to make them work."
"That's what I don't understand," CINCACC said. A former naval captain, he had a Masters in nuclear physics and had a solid comprehension how such weapons were built and operated. "The warheads carried by SS-20s and '25s are not straightforward devices. What I mean is that you can hardly unscrew a warhead from the missile and then just use it, never mind press a button to launch the missile itself. You would need to hack through not only the encrypted security systems embedded within the launch mechanisms, but the safety traps contained within the warheads themselves. That's no mean feat."
"I agree," CINCLANT added. "We're probably one of the very few countries in the world with the resources to do something like that. Sure as hell the Ukrainians don't have that kind of technology. At least I didn't think they did."
"It doesn't matter how they got them or made them work," Nielsen snapped, becoming quite irate. "We'll have plenty of time to discuss that later. Question is, what happens now?"
"That depends on what the Russians do next," Margaret answered. "The ball is in their court now."
"Any signs of a Russian response yet, Rob?" Westwood asked. A horrifying thought had just occurred to him. A Russian response could only take one form, and that would mean another stage of escalation which nobody wanted. But their failure to doanything suggested that they hadn't even detected the Ukrainian launch, which in many respects was even more disturbing.
At NORAD, Allen checked the Big Board. TTG was now 6:39. The targeting triangles had narrowed to the areas surrounding the cities of Tula, Volgograd and -Shit! - Moscow. Three of Russia's biggest cities, he realized with horror. They're not going for military targets. They're going for population centers. "Negative, sir. It's almost as if they don't even see it coming. You should be advised that ALERT is now predicting impact points at Moscow, Tula and Volgograd in less than seven minutes."
"I concur with that estimate, sir," CINCUSSTRATCOM confirmed, checking his own data.
That engendered a chilling silence, filled only by the constant screaming of klaxons from NORAD. Lewis and Bishop exchanged a horrified glance that conveyed a general fear that the Russians would let loose with everything they had; a dread that was accompanied by a collective sense of impotence. For all the combined power in the room and on the conference line, nobody could do anything to slow the escalation of a crisis that was already developing a life of its own.
"Sir." Lewis turned to the President, breaking the silence. "We have to find a way to reach President Pushkin, right now."
"And tell him what?" Mitchell hissed.
"I'm worried, sir," Lewis explained, voicing a concern that had registered in the minds of more than one person in the room, "by Russia's failure to respond. That indicates, as General Allen pointed out, that they haven't detected the launch. Perhaps that's because their orbital defense systems have fallen into disrepair. Whatever the reason, when those bombs start falling, who do you think they're going to suspect? More to the point, they must know by now that we've increased our alert status. If we were in their shoes, whom wouldwe point the finger at?"
The President's eyes widened slightly, his mouth opening in horror. He saw the same expression reflected on Copeland's face. Suddenly, the room had become extremely claustrophobic.
Mitchell punched a button, connecting him to the White House switchboard. "Get me the Russian President. And don't take no for an answer."
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
Pushkin instinctively leapt to his feet when the door to his office flew open. Before he could react, Russian Army commandos were pouring into the room. It took him a moment to realize that their weapons were aimed at him. Their eyes warned him not to make any sudden moves. Unbidden, he raised his hands, thinking that this was what he was supposed to do in such circumstances.
"What is this?" the Russian leader asked weakly, failing to elicit a response from the soldiers as comprehension slowly dawned on him.
His jaw fell agape when Suronev entered the room. The arrogance of the former Foreign Minister's stride was not matched by the grimness of his expression. He walked right up to Pushkin, his hard stare fixing the President like a staple gun.
"Mikhail Olegovich," Pushkin smiled nervously. "What are you doing here?"
Suronev's response was spoken in a flat monotone. "You have betrayed your country, you idiot. Do you not realize what you have done? Your actions will make us a pariah in the international community. You risk starting a war with America. Weneed America," he snarled through clenched teeth.
The President shook his head vigorously. "I don't understand."
Suronev didn't have the patience or the time to elaborate. "Nikolai Stefanovich Pushkin," he intoned coldly. "Under the provisions of the revised Emergency Powers Act, I am relieving you of command and placing you under arrest for treasonous activities against the Russian Federation."
"You can't do that," Pushkin protested.
The former Foreign Minister gestured to the soldiers standing behind him. "Tell it to them."
"But, you have to understand, Mikhail," the outgoing President protested as two Commandos seized his arms. "The nuclear strike was Yazov's idea."
Suronev's lips tightened in disgust. "I truly expected more of you. While our nation faces ruin, the best you can do is pass blame onto a true patriot. You are not fit to lead a girl's netball team, never mind a great nation." He turned to the senior Commando officer. "Take him away."
Pushkin was led out of the room, a stunned expression on his face. But, even as he began to contemplate the sudden destruction of his political career, he was scheming his return to the nucleus of power. Yes, he thought, the truth would eventually come out that it had been Yazov's idea. Pushkin would say that Yazov had acted precipitously and illegally. Yazov would take the blame for this, his disgrace generating a smoke screen behind which Pushkin would make a stealthy return to public life. That was the way of Russian politics, wasn't it? Always had been, always would be. And when that day came, that was when Suronev would be made to pay for his betrayal.
Yet, as he left the office that he had so briefly occupied, he failed to notice the wry smile that Suronev allowed himself.
"Revenge," the former Foreign Minister muttered under his breath, "is a dish best served cold, is it not, Nikolai Stefanovich?"
\*
The Kremlin Communications Center was roughly equivalent to the White House Signals Office. Not only did it serve as a switchboard for the full-time Kremlin staff, but it housed a variety of advanced encryption and communication systems comparable to those in the White House Signals Office. These systems allowed secure point-to-point communication with any point on Earth.
Approximately twenty-five switchboard operators were employed in the Communication Center on a rotating shift basis. One of them was Vera Chernovichin, a 47-year-old childless divorcee who lived in one of Moscow's less salubrious neighborhoods. Vera had been attractive once. But now, her pretty blue eyes and long blonde hair - tied back into a utilitarian bun - were all that remained of the attractive young girl who had once been an exotic dancer. Poor dietary habits had taken their toll on her once svelte figure, and her obesity was not helped by the fact that her job - which involved sitting in a hard, uncomfortable chair all day - did not lend itself to physical conditioning. In many respects, she considered herself a typical single, middle-aged Russian woman. She had little hope of attracting a suitor. The best she could hope for was to survive the daily grind, which was becoming harder with every passing dawn, until one day in the not-too-distant future, she would die and be promptly forgotten by everybody but the worms who would feed on her rotting carcass.
Well, she mused,at least the worms will appreciate me. Heaven knows - there's enough for them to feast on.
Vera's funk was interrupted by the sound of raised voices in the corridor outside the room. She looked up just as a company of Russian paratroopers stormed through the doors, brandishing AK-47 assault rifles. Before she could even register what was happening, the soldiers had taken strategic positions all around the vast, cavernous room.
She heard one of her fellow operators cry out in alarm. The next thing she became aware of was a rifle being aimed directly at her head from point blank range. The soldier behind the rifle had the dispassionate look of a man who wouldn't think twice about pulling the trigger. She could see it in his eyes. She meant nothing to him. Vera froze, but not before she had come to realize that all her fellow operators were in a similar predicament.
"Deactivate the systems!" barked a Colonel, who had entered the room behind the rest of his men. The authority in his tone suggested to Vera that he was in charge of these men. She exchanged a brief glance with one of her fellow operators. They were both thinking the same thing. Somebody wanted to seal off the Kremlin from the outside world.
Under the extremely watchful eyes of the paratroopers, Vera and the other operators deactivated their switchboards, computers and fax machines. Other technicians disengaged the encryption systems that provided secure links to military facilities and the like. They're overthrowing the government,Vera realized with a mixture of alarm and relief. Like most ordinary Russians, she had suffered intolerable poverty in the last few years, and her brother was fighting in the Ukraine while Russia's corrupt political leaders sat comfortably in their dachas planning how to bleed the proletariat still drier. Well, now their days were numbered, she thought gladly. Perhaps now that the Army was in charge, her brother would come home in one piece, and Russia might have a genuine chance of becoming a proud nation again.
Perhaps I might afford some proper food, she hoped.
She smiled at the soldier whose gun was aimed at her. His expression remained neutral. Like most of his fellow soldiers, he knew only of his own small role in the grand plan, although he had guessed that the involvement of an elite unit such as the 4thParatroopers meant that the military had finally tired of the political parasites that had brought Russia to its knees. The thought of being involved in Russia's first revolution since 1917 both exhilarated and terrified him, a paradoxical sensation that he dealt with by focusing intently on the job at hand.
"Clear!" one of his comrades yelled, once the final communication system had been deactivated.
The operation to isolate the Kremlin from the outside world had taken less than three minutes and, mercifully, had not resulted in any casualties.
Yet.
WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON D.C.
"The Kremlin lines are dead," reported Vera's counterpart in the White House Signals Office. Her voice crackled slightly on the speakerphone. "I can't even get a connection now."
"Dammit!" Mitchell snarled through grated teeth. A quick check of his watch told him that Moscow would be hit in less than five minutes. "I don't care what you have to do, just get hold ofsomebody at the Kremlin. What's your name, Miss?"
"Judy, Mr. President."
Mitchell made a conscious effort to soften his voice. "Listen, Judy. We have an extremely grave situation here. Moscow will be incinerated in the next few minutes, and that might trigger a nuclear war beyond all comprehension. A billion people might be about to die, Judy, and everything hangs on you hooking me up to somebody --anybody -- in the Kremlin. I know that's a tough break for you, and I'm sorry, but that's where we're at. I'll speak to the fucking janitor if I need to. Understand?"
Judy's voice quivered perceptibly. "I'll... I'll do my best, sir."
Judy Thomson had been a switchboard operator at the White House for six years. She liked her job, and the sense of importance that went with it. Although the salary wasn't great - as what government salaries were? - the security clearance that came with the position, and the fact that she got to speak to VIPs on a regular basis, gave her something to brag about to the girls at the hairdressing salon. I'd love to tell you what's going on in the White House, but it's classified...
Actually, the President had been quite correct when he'd referred to her as "Miss". A string ofunfortunate andinadvisable relationships (her words) had left her a 40-year-old spinster with a nice house in Maryland that she shared with her recently widowed mother, Hilary. At least ithad been a nice house before her mother moved in. Judy no longer had any space of her own, not even enough space in which to conduct anunfortunate orinadvisable relationship. She felt almost like a middle-aged teenager, attracting narrow eyed disapproval from Hilary whenever she came home late. Even if she did have a boyfriend -- which she presently didn't - she wouldn't have been able to bring him home. Just a temporary arrangement, Hilary had promised when she'd moved in six months ago. Well, as much as she loved her mother, Judy knew that the day was coming when she'd have to confront her about the situation. Judy had already checked out nursing homes in the Maryland area, although she hadn't yet mustered the courage to mention that fact to Hilary.
Although she was not unattractive, Judy knew that her biological clock was relentlessly ticking down towards the day that she finally became barren. Every day she remained single was another day less in which she had to find the right man and have children. And, God, how she wanted children. Soon, she knew, that biological clock would simply stop ticking and become a deafening alarm bell, announcing the onset of middle age without warning, thus ending any hopes she'd ever had of being a mother.
But perhaps, she thought as she tried desperately to contact the Kremlin, it was a blessing that she didn't have children. The President's remarks had sent a shiver down her spine. She didn't understand much about politics; and, having dealt with some of the assholes that surrounded the hub of America's government, had little desire to understand. But she did know that if Moscow were -how did he put it? -- "incinerated", then that was a distinctly ominous development. She'd seen the President - if not actually spoken to him - on numerous occasions, and he'd always struck her as being a friendly, relaxed and easygoing guy. That certainly hadn't been the case when he'd spoken to her a few moments' ago.
The words kept ringing through her head. A billion people might be about to die...
And there was still no response from the Kremlin switchboard.
It was at that moment that Judy Thomson decided to do something that she'd never even considered before. She'd started working in the White House during the Clinton administration, and could have related some juicy stories about the former President had she been so inclined, but she had always taken her security clearance far more seriously than certain other individuals. No matter how much her closest friends harassed her for tidbits from the White House, she'd never uttered a word of who was doing what to whom in the heart of Government.
Until now.
Allowing the Kremlin switchboard to continue ringing on Line One, she switched to Line Two and dialed her home telephone number. It took barely three seconds to answer.
"Hi, Mom, it's me. I want you to listen very carefully," she said urgently, spitting out her words in rapid machine-gun fashion.
CATONSVILLE, MARYLAND
Hilary Thomson had been watching the news all evening, as anxious as anybody else about the nuclear attacks on Ukraine. She didn't quite know where Ukraine was, and didn't think she knew anybody who lived there, but Hilarydid know that nuclear blasts were probably a bad thing. Certainly, the folks on the TV seemed to be shaken up by what was going on, and that in itself was enough to shake up the seventy-two-year-old spinster.
For once, she followed Judy's orders to the letter. Take only what you need. Pack a suitcase and head north to Aunt Helen's place in upstate New York. Judy had sounded even more shaken than the folks on the TV, andshe worked at the White House. If anybody knew how serious this situation was, it would be her. But Judy would be safe, wouldn't she? If a war were coming, the government folks in Washington would evacuate Judy and all the other important people who worked for the President. Hilary was sure of that.
Hilary's bedroom window afforded a good view of the suburban street on which she and Judy lived. It seemed strange to her that nobody else seemed to be leaving town. All the neighbors' cars were still parked in their driveways. Perhaps they hadn't realized just how serious things were. Well, of course they hadn't, she thought. Theirdaughters didn't work for the President, did they?
As Hilary loaded a duffel bag onto the old Plymouth that she hoped would get her as far as Harrisburg without requiring gas, she decided that it wouldn't be fair to let the neighbors remain ignorant. After all, she was a devout Christian, and the Christian thing to do was to warn them of what might be coming. But there wasn't time to tell them all, was there? Judy had been quite specific about that.
She decided that the only person she had time to warn was Judy's immediate next door neighbor, an elderly lady called Betsy Morgan, with whom Hilary often shared afternoon coffee and reminisced on the good old days when both of their husbands had been alive. The fact that Betsy and Hilary hadn't met until a few months' ago - and their husbands had almost certainlynever met - was beside the point.
Unlike Hilary, Betsy had switched off the TV once the news started becoming too depressing, and she was presently listening to a Frank Sinatra LP on her old phonogram when Hilary knocked on her door. She furrowed her brow and shook her head in confusion as Hilary tried to explain what was happening.
"Well, where are you going?" Betsy asked.
"Judy told me to head north. She didn't seem to think it was safe here. They're evacuating the President. Do you want to come?"
Betsy snorted in bemusement. Such things. "Oh, well. I suppose it'll do me good to get out of the house for a while. When do you think it'll be safe to come back?"
"After the bombs have fallen, I imagine," Hilary shrugged, not really sure. I should have asked Judy about that.
Her neighbor took a moment to consider the offer. Betsy thought that Hilary was probably a bit loopy, but since she didn't have anything else to do, she found the offer tempting. It had been years since she'd been for a pleasant evening drive. And if the driver was her batty old neighbor, then so be it.
"Oh, okay then," she agreed. "Let me get my coat. I just want to call my son before I go, so he won't worry too much if he tries to phone me."
"Okay, but be quick, Bets. I'll keep the engine running."
Betsy had two sons, the eldest of which did something or other for the government. She never knew where he was; always away somewhere on business, whatever that business was. However, her younger son Harry lived in Los Angeles with his wife and kids. He did all the normal things that any middle-class American husband and father did, including taking the kids to ball games and going to PTA meetings. But his salary check was paid by the Los Angeles Post, where he headed the Foreign Affairs desk.
Harry Morgan was initially skeptical of his mother's claims that the White House was being evacuated. Even so, that didn't stop him sending out an inquiry on the wire services, just in case. That inquiry, in turn, was picked up by watch officers and editors in news organizations and intelligence agencies all over the world.
Within minutes, what had started as a panicked phone call from a switchboard operator, and then been distorted by the Chinese whispers of two elderly ladies, had become an "unconfirmed rumor" being reported to millions of people all over the world.
That rumor was that Washington D.C. was being evacuated.
WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON D.C.
"The lines are still dead, sir," Judy Thomson told the President, her tone elevated by fear. "What do you want me to do?"
Mitchell checked each of the faces around him for suggestions. As he did so, Bishop's eyes lit with an idea.
"The Vice President," the DCI enthused. "He's in Moscow, isn't he?"
"Damn," Mitchell growled. How the hell did I forget about him? "Judy, track down the Veep and get him on the line right now."
"Yes, Mr. President," said the switchboard operator.
Four minutes to go. Maybe just enough time...
PVO-STRANY COMMAND CENTER, MOSCOW
Located one hundred and fifty feet below street level, the command center of PVO-Strany - Russia's equivalent to NORAD - was far darker and considerably less spacious than that of its American counterpart, although the same had been true even during the Cold War, when PVO-Strany had been considered important.
In those halcyon days, PVO had been every bit as technologically advanced as NORAD; indeed, probably more so. But now, the facility was considered an anachronism. Accordingly, its officers were often the last in line when it came to paying military personnel. Some hadn't been paid for nearly a year, and even the most optimistic of them didn't expect their wages to arrive in the near future, particularly while the war with Ukraine continued to put a drain on the Russian Central Bank's dwindling reserves.
All of these factors contributed to one of the highest alcoholic rates within any Russian military facility. That was no mean feat, but neither was it surprising; after all, PVO's staff had little else to boost morale.
When the Ukrainian missile launch had first been detected a few moments' earlier, the Major in charge of the Missile Detection console (southwest region) had cursed loudly, slamming the terminal with the palm of his hand. He lit a cigarette, frowning when the display refused to change. It had to be a malfunction, he reasoned through a haze of alcoholic inebriation. Ukraine didn't have any nuclear weapons of its own, did it? Everybody knew that. And it wasn't unusual for Russia's ailing early warning systems to mistake a flock of geese for a missile. Besides, he was sure the alarm klaxons would have sounded had the launch been authentic. He wasn't to know that the generic alarm system was currently being repaired (it had been undergoing maintenance for several months, insofar as anything in PVO was maintained. The difference in Russia between 'Under Repair' and 'In Disrepair' was a negligible one).
After watching the missile trajectory appear and disappear for several seconds, he tiredly lifted his phone.
"Colonel, can you come down here please?"
In his vast office elsewhere in the complex, the senior watch officer muttered a profanity, clearly angered by the unwelcome interruption. He liked his job. Apart from according him a rank and status his limited talents would not have afforded him in any other branch of the military, it allowed him a quiet life; not to mention that no PVO-Strany officer would ever be sent to the Ukrainian front. His days were normally spent drinking vodka and playing computer games.
"What is it, Major?" he asked when he appeared a few moments later.
"I'm getting a missile warning, sir. Three birds, origin of launch Western Ukraine."
"That's impossible," the Colonel snorted. "Have you checked for a malfunction?" System malfunctions were a running joke within PVO. In fact, some considered it a minor miracle that Russia's aging early warning systems worked at all, since many of them dated back to the 1970's. Funding cuts had prevented essential periodic maintenance. Accordingly, the systems that had until quite recently been considered an integral element of Russian strategic defense planning had fallen into a state of disrepair that would have been unthinkable just a decade or two earlier.
"I've checked, sir," the Major lied, unwilling to say that he'd been too lazy to do so. "Negative malfunction."
The Colonel thumped the fifteen-year-old IBM computer monitor with his right hand. Presently, the screen went blank and the power light on the monitor died. The Major looked at him with wide-eyed shock.
"There you go," the Colonel smiled triumphantly. "No more missiles."
He returned to his upstairs office, where a half finished bottle of vodka was awaiting him. Just as he sat down, his phone rang again.
"What?" he barked angrily.
"Yevgeny, you old drunkard," came the jovial response.
"Andrei," the Colonel smiled. He recognized the voice as that of his counterpart in PVO's regional BMEWS station on the arctic island of Novaya Zemaya. "Has your fuck stick dropped off in that cold weather yet?"
He received a guffaw in response. "At least mine still works, old man." Andrei's tone was suddenly all business. "Yevgeny, this might sound really strange, but we're detecting three missile launches in the Ukraine. They fit the profile of '25s. It's probably another malfunction, but I wondered if you could see anything."
The Colonel felt the blood drain from his face. He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Perhaps a flock of birds, or an atmospheric anomaly caused by our nuclear strike on Ukraine. But Andrei sees it too...
"Yevgeny?"
"I'll get back to you, Andrei," he snapped, slamming the receiver into its cradle. He ran down the steps that led from his office to the command center, almost tripping over as he did so. By now, several other technicians had also belatedly detected the launch and were shouting angrily at each other.
"We are tracking three Positive Inbounds, estimated impact points inside Central Russia," somebody reported loudly.
"Colonel," a young woman called out, breathless with urgency as she fell into step behind him. "We have preliminary impact estimations. Moscow is one of the targets, sir."
The Colonel suddenly didn't like his job as much as he had a few minutes' earlier. He stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face her. "Activate the ABM system," he ordered. "And get me the Kremlin."
Panic crept into her voice. "I've tried, Colonel. All the lines are dead."
"Fuck those imbeciles!" the Colonel barked. Nobody was sure whether he was referring to the Russian Government or the Ukrainians. "How long until impact?"
She swallowed hard. "Less than three minutes."
The Colonel looked at the main display screen, which now showed three missile tracks moving slowly and relentlessly in a north-northeasterly direction towards their targets inside Russia. He didn't need to calculate the distance from PVO-Strany to the Kremlin. Even if he had a military escort and was to jump every red light en route, there simply wasn't enough time for him to get there before the bombs detonated.
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
At that very same moment, the new President of the Russian Federation entered his office. General Gennady Andreiovich Yazov did not look quite so self-satisfied as Suronev. The price for Suronev's cooperation had been Yazov's unconditional support for the former Foreign Minister's Presidential candidacy when elections were finally held for a new civilian government. That, however, was the least of Yazov's concerns right now. His first priority was to rebuild bridges with the West and, indeed, with his own people. Once he'd done that, he would go about negotiating acceptable terms for a ceasefire in the Ukraine.
Suronev watched his new leader lower himself into the President's chair, the third man to do so in as many days. Yazov looked uncomfortable. He hadn't intended to spend his life sitting at a desk, but it seemed a small price to pay for the survival of his nation. He would be relieved when his tenure was over and he could hand responsibility over to a man better suited to politics; a man like Suronev. But in the meantime, he would do as he had always done, and serve the best interests of the motherland.
"That was easy enough," Suronev observed.
Yazov looked up at him, unappreciative of the remark. "I will address the nation," he informed the Foreign Minister. "Then I think I will need to speak to the American President. There is still time to dissuade him from proceeding with economic sanctions."
"The nuclear launch codes. They are secure?"
A raised eyebrow. "I am -was - Commander of the Strategic Rocket Forces. Of course they are secure."
WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON D.C.
Everybody held their breath when the line clicked and emitted a short burst of static.
The next thing to be heard was the shaky voice of Adam Jones, Vice President of the United States.
"What is it, sir?" Jones said, the U.S. Ambassador beside him in the Moscow compound.
"Adam," the President intoned solemnly, his heart racing against his words. "I need you to listen very carefully. We don't have very much time. In about three minutes, Moscow will be hit by a Ukrainian nuclear missile. There are two others headed for Tula and Volgograd."
"Are you sure?" Jones exclaimed. "There haven't been any warnings."
"You think I would fucking joke about this?" Mitchell snapped. Margaret placed a hand on his arm to calm her husband. He took a deep breath to compose himself before proceeding. "We're unable to contact Pushkin to tell him what's going on. We think that he may not know about the missile launch, never mind its origin. If that's the case, then..."
The Ambassador cut him off. "Mr. President, we've been trying to contact the Kremlin too. The streets are thick with tanks and APCs heading towards Red Square. We don't know why. We've been trying to contact someone - anyone - in the Russian government to get an answer. Those whose phones are working know as little as we do. Or at least that's what they're saying." He didn't mention that Russian security forces had arrested one of his contacts, a Pushkin loyalist, while he was on the telephone to the Ambassador.
"This could be the Russians increasing their alert status," Reynolds suggested. "We expected that, didn't we?"
Lewis shook his head doubtfully, a fist of ice clenching in his stomach as the situation gained clarity. "My best guess is that there's some kind of coup in progress. That would explain why the Kremlin lines are down. Whoever's behind this - the coup, I mean - has cut off the government from the outside world." And they couldn't have picked a worse time to do it.
"We should get to a secure location," Jones was telling the Ambassador while Lewis spoke. "We might have just enough time."
"Is there no way you can physically get to the Kremlin?" Nielsen asked.
The Vice President made a sound that could have been a laugh, but was probably something else entirely. "Even if we ran there, we wouldn't get far. Not with all these troops on the streets."
Mitchell closed his eyes in despair. "Okay, that does it. Adam, I want you and the Ambassador to get out of there while there's still time."
"There's a chopper on the roof," the Ambassador reported. "We might just make it."
"Jesus!" Jones's voice exclaimed in the background. "I think you should know, sir, that there are flashes up in the sky. Bright, blinding flashes high above us. I'm standing right by the window. There's three -- no, wait -- four of them."
The President looked at Westwood in alarm. "Has it started?"
"If it had," Lewis said, not caring that the Vice President and the Ambassador could hear him, "we wouldn't be having this conversation. He's probably seeing ABM missiles; small nuclear warheads designed to stop the incoming missiles."
"Then the Russians must know about the launches," Copeland remarked with a sigh of relief.
Raised voices could be heard in the background from the Embassy. The words were incomprehensible, but the urgency in the voices suggested to Lewis that they were probably the shouts of Secret Service agents trying to evacuate the Vice President and the Ambassador.
The President leaned towards the speakerphone. "You'd better go," he said, knowing that Jones and the Ambassador probably wouldn't make it anyway. "And good luck."
"To you too, sir," Jones replied.
It would be the last anybody ever heard of him.
FSB HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW
Russia's primary intelligence agency, the Federal Security Service (FSB), was not unlike PVO-Strany in the respect that it had become a mere shadow of its Cold War incarnation, the KGB. Although still among the world's premier intelligence services, the FSB nowadays lacked the financial resources that had once enabled its predecessor to run sophisticated, high-level networks within governments around the world. This was frustrating for Russian intelligence professionals who had learned their trade in the good old days of Superpower rivalries. The dank corridors of the Lubyanka, where political prisoners had once suffered at the hands of KGB interrogators, were now open to the general public. The Lubyanka itself was now a museum. Even the FSB had made concessions to détente by opening a public relations office.
Yet, one of the constants of the Russian character was its inherent sense of paranoia; something that hadn't changed with the onset of détente. Located in a soundproofed basement area eighty feet below ground level was the FSB's Information Directorate. This was where dozens of analysts and language experts spent their days watching televisions, scanning newspapers, monitoring wire services, and listening to radio broadcasts from around the world. Their role was to develop an insight into how the rest of the world was thinking and, more specifically, to measure the rest of the world's attitude towards Russia. The Information Directorate's task was to sift through the mountains of extraneous information that polluted the global media in order to find the rare golden nuggets that might be considered of relevance to Russia's leaders. But for some of the analysts, the job was simply an opportunity to watch a better quality of television than that to which most Russians were accustomed.
The Information Directorate was departmentalized along geographical lines, with analysts split into small teams by their linguistic and political expertise. By far the most important area was the America Desk, where up to thirty analysts - comprising two teams rotating on a 12-hour basis - continuously monitored the U.S. media.
They had learned with horror of Russia's nuclear attack on the Ukraine through GCN -- Global Cable News -- rather than the Russia media (although they might have been surprised to learn that the same had largely been true for many of their American counterparts at the CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia). Now they were working feverishly to prepare reports on America's reaction to this development.
The America Desk was headed by Grigory Kurov, a 39-year-old former English teacher who had once spent several years in the United States as a Russian translator. He was one of the new breed of Russian intelligence professionals; urbane, highly articulate, well versed in world affairs and utterly corruptible. While in America, he had developed a taste for nice clothes and fine food, things which were readily available in Moscow if one knew where to look, who to ask, and could offer hard currency; specifically US Dollars or Euros. Fortunately, Kurov had good contacts and, accordingly, plenty of hard foreign currency. Some might have called him a parasite; the kind of individual that had brought Russia to its knees. Kurov preferred to think of himself as an opportunist. That was a distinction about which he'd learned a great deal in America.
Following the nuclear strikes in Ukraine, Kurov had placed his entire team on alert; including those who had been off duty at the time. That had inevitably earned him a few dirty looks, but it wasn't often that something of this magnitude happened. Actually, nothing of this magnitude hadever happened, he reminded himself. If his team performed well tonight, he might earn the attention of his superiors and get himself promoted out of this godforsaken dungeon.
He was contemplating this when he was summoned by an analyst whose monitor was tuned into NBC.
"Supervisor, please."
Kurov temporarily cast his dreams aside and made his way across the huge, open plan office. As he did so, another analyst called him. Then another. Kurov could see their screens, but could not hear anything. The analysts used headphones to listen to radio and TV broadcasts. There was, however, a large 60-inch wall mounted television screen that was rarely used. Kurov turned it on and tuned in to GCN, which was barely a couple of seconds behind MSNBC with the same story.
An anchorman, the type of handsome Negro that Americans seemed to find aesthetically pleasing, was being handed a slip of paper. He began to read it to the camera.
"And breaking news just coming in. Associated Press is reporting an unconfirmed rumor that plans are underway to evacuate the White House and other government buildings in Washington D.C.. I repeat, rumors are circulating of an evacuation of government personnel from Washington, although this is unconfirmed as yet. It is unknown whether this is connected to the earlier nuclear attack on..."
Kurov swore loudly, causing all heads to turn his way. He lifted the nearest convenient telephone.
"Get me the Director," he snapped, barely pausing to listen to the response. "I don't fucking care where he is. This is an emergency."
GLOBAL CABLE NEWS STUDIOS, ATLANTA, GEORGIA
The anchorman, Jack Sullivan, had a producer screaming updates in his earpiece, assistants handing him slips of paper and a TelePrompTer that was being continually updated. Such was the nature of global crisis. His unenviable job was to compress the relentless bombardment of information into a form digestible to a hundred million viewers worldwide without allowing the stress of the moment to register on his face or in his voice.
"I have on the line from California, Chris Ellison, former director of the Los Angeles bureau of the Federal Emergency Management Agency. Mr. Ellison, can you hear me?"
"Yes, I'm here," came the disembodied response.
"Mr. Ellison. How do you read this situation?"
The line from Sacramento crackled slightly. "Well, Jack, this sounds like precisely the kind of operation that's always been planned in the event of a National Emergency."
"What kind of National Emergency?"
Even though the audience was unable to see his face, the reticence in Ellison's voice was obvious. He carefully chose his words, mindful of the risk of inciting further panic. "Well, we don't really know anything yet, do we? I think we should wait until we get clarification before jumping to conclusions."
Sullivan paused as he received an update on his earpiece. "I've just been told, Mr. Ellison, that the source of this rumor has been identified as a member of the White House staff."
That revelation was greeted by silence.
"Mr. Ellison, are you there?"
The voice that answered was strangely distant and spoken in a flat monotone. "If this is true, Jack, and I pray to God that it isn't, then one can only presume that... that we're on the verge of some sort of ... and I can only speculate... but that we're on the verge of nuclear war."
JOHNS HOPKINS MEDICAL CENTER, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
"Jesus motherfucking Christ," the orderly muttered to himself. "Are you watching this, Doc?"
A small group of staff and patients had gathered around a television in the reception area, whispering quietly to each other. There was a tense buzz in the air that disturbed Jo even more than what she was hearing on the television. As a surgeon, the one thing she'd been conditioned to fear was unpredictability. And that was precisely the word that summed up the mood around her.
If it's tense in here - a hospital of all places - I shudder to think what it must be like outside. Her mind filled with visions of rioting and looting. Roads log-jammed with people trying to get out of the cities. Horrific violence as tempers frayed. Even if the world didn't blow up, the masses would ensure that the apocalypse currently the subject of speculation on GCN became, after a fashion, self-fulfilling.
Involuntarily, she folded her arms to ward off a cold shiver.
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
Yazov had to admit to himself that Suronev had been right. This had been remarkably easy so far. But now, here he was, the new leader of the world's largest nation, with nothing to do but wait for others to come to him. He distantly wondered whether a Presidential handbook existed; an instruction manual on how to govern nearly two hundred million people in ten easy steps.
The thought evoked a thin smile, even as he began to realize that he didn't know the first thing about how to govern a nation. He was certain the job would become more challenging as time passed and people came to realize that he was the man with whom the buck stopped. One of his first tasks would be to address the Russian people for the first time. His message would be one of reconciliation, an optimistic message to a people that didn't have much about which to be optimistic these days. He didn't know how they'd react to him, a military leader who had seized power in the most underhand of fashions. Would they prefer him to the political crooks who had brought the country to its knees? Yes, he decided, they probably would.
Then he would speak with President Mitchell and begin the long, hard process of rebuilding bridges with the West. After that would come a meeting with the Chairman of the Russian Central Bank and the Finance Minister to decide a strategy for resuming salary payments to Russia's public servants and military personnel as soon as possible. Then a conference with the General Staff to decide how the Ukrainian conflict could be brought to a hasty conclusion without further aggravating relations with the West. The earlier nuclear strike had created many valuable gaps in the Ukrainian lines that could easily be exploited. Russia's newfound strategic advantage had afforded it a strong negotiating position, allowing Yazov to take the credit for winning the war. Yazov himself didn't covet such acclaim, but he needed the breathing space that a decisive victory would afford him. That alone would provide sufficient political capital to enable him to make the tough decisions imperative to Russia's recovery.
Yazov reclined in his chair to contemplate the future, wondering how -
-What...?
Presently, his office was engulfed by a flash of all-consuming white light, effulgent in its fury. Before he had time to react, the ground began to shake violently and a deafening roar rose from the bowels of the earth. Pictures fell from the walls and ornaments tumbled to the floor, shattering into thousands of pieces.
Yazov instinctively dove beneath his desk. He did so just as the heavily reinforced windows in his office were blown inwards by a shockwave traveling at over three hundred miles per hour. Billions of glass shards became a volley of lethal projectiles as they whizzed through the air, many of them lodging firmly in the desk and walnut paneled walls.
He could hear tornado force winds howling outside his exposed office, and it was only then that he began to suspect what had happened. Amidst all the cacophony, he didn't hear himself scream.
But how...? Who?
As the winds began to subside, four members of the Presidential security detail came rushing into the office, assault rifles at the ready. One of them crouched below the desk, attending to the President.
"Are you all right, sir?"
"I... I think so," Yazov stammered. "What..."
"We need to get you to a place of safety, General," another bodyguard said. "To the bunker downstairs. We must hurry." He still didn't explain what had happened. He didn't need to and besides, that was a job for others. His priority was to protect his charge, and that was exactly what he intended to do.
Momentarily forgetting that he was still beneath the desk, Yazov thumped his head as he tried to rise. He cried out in pain.
"Be careful, sir," the second bodyguard advised, gently assisting the President to his feet.
Yazov, shaken and nauseous from the force of the blast, shook himself free of the bodyguard's grip and staggered over to one of the enormous broken windows in his office. At first, he didn't understand what he was seeing. But then his senses began to report back into him and he found himself confronted by his ultimate nightmare.
A tumultuous, churning red and black mushroom cloud - the hated symbol of the apocalypse - towered over what remained of downtown Moscow with the incandescent fury of an angry God.
NORAD, CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO
"I have an event, sir!" came the excited cry from the pit. "Nucflashsouth of Moscow. SRV is valid; repeat, SRV is valid."
"InitiatingOpRep Zenith Nucflash-4 ," somebody else shouted. Nucflash-4, Allen's mind recalled. Detonation of nuclear device creating threat of nuclear war.
The thermal bloom appearing on the Big Board was indicative of a significantly larger detonation than those previously detected over the Ukraine. At the AEDS terminal, a Canadian officer zoomed in on the blast area with his trackball, attempting to get an early estimate of its yield.
Allen felt his blood run cold as the klaxons once again came to life. No matter how many times he had rehearsed for this moment, nothing had prepared him for the awful reality of knowing that several hundred thousand civilians had just been incinerated, and that they could yet be the first of many. A sobering thought, to be sure. Watching the horrible drama unfold on a multitude of computer screens made it seem about as real as a game of Nintendo. But he knew that it was real enough. The abstract graphics appearing over Central Russia were the product of mankind's most awful creation, and Allen felt utterly impotent to do anything about the insane destruction being unleashed. He had become little more than a mere observer. For a man who was accustomed to exerting control over most aspects of his life and career, that was perhaps the worst sensation of all.
Around him, the Command Center was a scene of well-orchestrated chaos; the swarms of pit technicians urgently performing the routines for which they had trained. The sound of the klaxons - a rising and falling buzz like that of a chainsaw being revved up and powered down - only partially drowned out the shouted orders and requests that were flying in all directions.
Allen knew that for many of the hundreds of officers and support staff who lived and worked within the NORAD complex and the surrounding ground facilities, duty and responsibility provided a means of distraction from whatever fears they held for themselves and - more importantly - their loved ones. Had he the time to do so, his thoughts might have been with his own family. His wife was presently at home in the Allens' spacious house near Petersen AFB. That was three miles from Cheyenne Mountain, a prime target for any missile attack. His son, a soldier like his father, was based at Fort Worth, Texas. His daughter, was studying psychology at college in Boston. All of them separated and exposed at the most important time of all.
Can't afford to think about that, Rob, he told himself. I've got to do what I can to stop this escalating any further.
As he reached for the phone that would connect him with the White House Situation Room, another thermal bloom appeared over the city of Volgograd.
"I have a preliminary estimate on the Moscow blast," Mackay called out as he raced across the floor towards Allen, almost skidding on the polished surface in his haste. The Canadian looked pallid, his shoulders stiff, eyes wide with terror. Like everybody else in the room, he was facing his worst nightmare. Terror takes the form of a mushroom cloud, Allen thought.
"And?"
Mackay was struggling to catch his breath. "About five hundred KTs, sir."
Allen swallowed hard. For the first time in his life, he was truly scared. "I want absolute verification of that, you hear me?"
"Yes sir."
CINC-NORAD lifted the phone.
VII
OUTPOST MISSION
"Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear -- not absence of fear."(Mark Twain)
CAMERON, MISSOURI
The lack of traffic on the roads surprised Beth. She had expected them to be jammed at the first mention of nuclear bombs, even if they were going off on the other side of the world. Her route had taken her through the eastern suburbs of Gladstone. Even there, a stone's throw from Kansas City and close enough to Whiteman to be in grave danger, the roads had been conspicuously clear of traffic. Not that Beth minded. The lack of traffic improved her chances of getting to safety - and to the Logans' fishing cabin in Iowa - before the bombs hit. She flinched at the thought, realizing that a part of her mind had already accepted the inevitability of a nuclear strike.
"You don't really think they'll launch their rockets at us, do you?" Cathy asked, as if reading Beth's mind. She had also noted the absence of traffic on the roads, and was beginning to wonder whether her son and daughter-in-law had overreacted. That prospect made her feel rather stupid. How her friends back home in Chicago would laugh at her were that the case.
"Of course they won't," Patrick laughed, a nervous tremor in his voice. "It's like Martin said. You don't really think we're gonna blow ourselves to kingdom come over some shitty country in Europe, do you?"
"Martin was worried enough to tell us to get the hell out of Dodge," Beth recalled. "That's all I need to know." She wondered where he was now. Probably about 40,000 feet above ground, she thought,and heading towards - what does he call it? - his 'Positive Control Point'. Yeah, right. Nuclear War. Real Positive. She had to hold it together, for his sake if nothing else. She couldn't afford to think that she'd never see him again. If she focused on that too much, she'd do so at the expense of her sanity.
He would return, she decided. This crisis would blow over, and he would come home safely, resign his commission and get a normal job. After all, he was a smart guy, wasn't he? A lot of employers would love to have someone with Martin's brains working for them. Perhaps she'd put in a good word with that friend of hers who ran a software company down in KC. They did a lot of work for the military, and Beth knew that many of the people who worked there were former USAF officers. Martin would feel right at home. He would get a good salary, a company car, and he'd be at home at weekends.
The absence of traffic -- indeed, of any human life -- on the roads leading north was starting to bother her. It was almost as if everybody had chosen to stay home with their loved ones and wait for updates on the TV. Well, Martin had thought his loved ones would be better off getting a head start on the rest of the population, and she trusted his judgment implicitly. He wasn't the type to overreact. Therefore, she just had to assume that the rest of America wasn't quite as smart as her husband.
She turned on the radio, earning a terse look from Cathy. The radio was playingHammer To Fall by Queen.
"I'm just trying to find out what's happening," Beth explained. "It could be over by now, for all we know."
'Those who stand up tall and proud, in the shadow of the mushroom cloud...'
"Well turn it down a bit then," Cathy told her. "Damn awful racket."
Beth reached for the volume switch.
'What the hell are we fighting for? Close your eyes and it won't hurt at all.'
She drove past a gas station. In the forecourt, a minibus stood abandoned, its doors wide open, driver nowhere to be seen. Beth wondered what could have...
'We're just waiting for a Hammer to Fall...'
"You're listening to WKTM on 106.6 FM," the DJ enthused, "The heart and soul of RRRRRRo..Ro..Rock and Roll! Over to our news desk for the latest on what's shakin'. What's shakin', Chuck?"
"As I speak, reports are coming in," announced the newsreader, "of three nuclear detonations near the Russian cities of Volgograd, Tula and the capital, Moscow."
Unbidden, Beth pressed hard on the gas. She had one hand on the steering wheel, and was using the other to wipe away the tears that had begun to streak down her face.
"Holy God," Cathy muttered, glaring at her husband. She acidly imitated his voice. "Of course they won't do it, he says. What the hell do you know?"
"You expect me to know everything, woman?" he retorted, leaning forward in his seat so he could hear the news report. "Just shut up and listen to the goddamn radio, will you?"
Cathy narrowed her eyes as if she was about to slap her husband. "Don't youdare presume to tell me what to do. I'm as ..."
"Shut up!" Beth screamed. Cathy and Patrick both stared at her with saucer-eyed shock. They weren't accustomed to their daughter-in-law raising her voice. "Please, both of you. Shut the fuck up."
"... waiting for further updates. Meanwhile, the White House is remaining tight-lipped on rumors that the government is evacuating from Washington. This follows a report on the AP wire, suggesting that plans are underway to move the President and other vital government personnel to secure locations around the country..."
Beth's speedometer passed 95mph. She didn't imagine the Missouri Highway Patrol would be bothering her today.
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
Yazov was still dazed, both from the psychological impact of the nuclear blast and from the physical impact of banging his head on the desk. His first thought, as his bodyguards hurriedly ushered him into the underground command post, was that he would have one hell of a headache when he woke up tomorrow.
His next thought was to wonder whether there would actually be a tomorrow.
"... hit somewhere to the south of Moscow," Suronev was explaining to Yazov as they rushed through a maze of dank subterranean corridors towards the Command Center. "That's why we're still alive, General. The American missiles weren't as accurate as they were meant to be."
Reality began to creep up on Yazov as he entered the Command Center, 200 feet beneath the Kremlin. Several Marshals from the STAVKA High Command were already present, as were a number of Generals and cabinet ministers - though not, Yazov noted, Nikolai Stefanovich Pushkin. He guessed that the ousted President was probably dead. He eyed Suronev with puzzlement as he fingered the swelling bump on his head. "Americans? That doesn't make sense. Why would they do such a thing when they know how we'll react?"
Kalushin strode into the room, his pallor accentuated by harsh overhead lighting. He managed only a thin smile of relief when he saw his old friend.
"Gennady," he sighed, briefly embracing Yazov. "Thank Heavens you're safe."
Other people - mostly aides and officers from the Defense Ministry, which provided a secondary access point to the bunker - started to fill the room, engaging in urgent sounding conversations with each other. Yazov only managed to catch snippets of these conversations. He knew that he had to get a grip on the situation and think. Only he didn't have much time to think, did he? His understanding of the situation to date was, to say the least, vague. And vagaries left only speculation in their wake.
"Our Early Warning systems have been incapacitated," Suronev was saying. "We are blind..."
Yazov began to mentally prioritize the most important questions:
Point 1. Moscow has been attacked with nuclear weapons. By whom?
Point 2. Is Moscow the only target, or is this part of a wider campaign?
Point 3. Are our strategic forces sufficiently functional to stage a response?
"Are you feeling okay, General?" Kalushin inquired with genuine concern, noting the obvious bewilderment in Yazov's eyes.
Yazov's head was turning from left to right. He was trying to focus on one of the numerous conversations taking place around him, but was failing to do so. It seemed to him almost as if everybody was speaking a foreign language.
He raised a hand.
"Gentlemen," he announced in a firm baritone. "Please. Stop talking."
A deathly hush settled on the room, all eyes turning to the General (he would always think of himself as a military officer, even if others came to think of him as a political leader).
He turned to Kalushin. "Anatoly. What do we know?"
A chorus of voices simultaneously shouted their opinions. Yazov angrily slammed his fist on the conference table, once again bringing silence to the room.
"I asked General Kalushin what weknow ," he growled, "not what wethink we know. I can speculate, and there will be time enough for that later. Right now, I need facts. General, please continue."
Kalushin's head was bowed. He was not dealing with this very well, Yazov thought. Well, who was? "There have been three thermonuclear explosions over the cities of Moscow, Volgograd and Tula," he told his new President. "We detected the impacts shortly before we lost our Early Warning systems. There may be more. I don't know. The impacts all yielded between a two hundred fifty and five hundred kilotons."
"Origin?"
Kalushin and Colonel Alexander Grizov, the FSB Director, momentarily locked eyes as if they disagreed about the answer to that question. The look didn't go unnoticed by Yazov, who glanced curiously at both of them in turn.
It was Suronev who finally answered. "There are only six countries in the world who have weapons this big. Ourselves, the Americans, the British, the French, the Israelis and the Chinese."
A white-haired Marshal leapt to his feet. "Mikhail Olegovich, you cannot simply identify the aggressor by a process of elimination. We're not dealing with a detective mystery, for Heaven's sake. Do we know the method of delivery?"
"Early eyewitness accounts suggest an airburst," Kalushin answered. "That would be more indicative of a missile attack, rather than a bomber attack."
"Then why was no warning given?" Yazov demanded to know. Actually, he already suspected he knew the answer, but hoped that he was wrong. "Why did PVO not detect any missile tracks?"
"We are presently unable to contact PVO to ask them," the same white-haired Marshal reported apologetically, adding with a grimace, "Our communications have been severely damaged. Probably by the EMP effects of the airburst."
"Perhaps there was a systems malfunction at PVO," Kalushin proffered. "It wouldn't be the first time. It is possible that the atmospheric effects of our own strikes damaged our detection systems."
"There is a more likely explanation," Grizov said.
"Explain," Yazov snapped.
"That the Americans destroyed our orbital detection systems before they attacked. We know that they have the means to do this."
Again, the room erupted into cacophony as everybody tried to make their opinions heard. Yazov locked eyes with Grizov. The General raised his hand to restore order, then nodded firmly at the FSB chief. "Why would they do that, Alexander Stephanovich?"
Grizov ran a hand through his thinning gray hair and paced the room as he outlined his theory with the crisp delivery of a defense lawyer addressing a jury, which actually wasn't a bad analogy given the current situation, he thought. "We warned the Americans that we were planning to use nuclear weapons in Ukraine. They reacted by increasing their alert levels, which is precisely what we expected them to do. A precautionary measure, yes? We took the decision that it was pointless to increase our own alert levels in response, that the crisis would run its course and die a natural death. These facts are undisputed, are they not, General?"
Yazov frowned impatiently, wishing that Grizov would get to the point. This was no time for him to be showboating. Time was of the essence now.
"Minutes before the first blast over Moscow, American television was reporting that their government was being evacuated from Washington. This was nearly two hours after we warned them about the attacks on Ukraine. Why would they wait so long to evacuate?"
He allowed his own question to hang in the air for several seconds before providing the answer. "The only logical explanation is that they somehow found out about the transition of power taking place here in Moscow, and chose to seize upon what they perceived as a window of opportunity to attack us. They took advantage of our political instability."
Yazov shook his head vigorously. "No! No! No!" he insisted. "They would never do such a thing."
Grizov pointed angrily at the ceiling. "Then who did that?" he barked. "Over a million Muscovites are dead or dying up there." He placed a hand on Yazov's shoulder and lowered his voice. His words were spoken in the manner of a parent consoling a petulant child. "Face the facts, Gennady Andreiovich. The Americans betrayed us. For what reason, we don't know. But it is obvious that they intended to kill you, me and the rest of our government."
"Why?" Yazov still refused to accept an insane logic that actually wasn't quite so insane in the context of the situation.
This time, it was Suronev who explained. His tone was bleak as he outlined his theory. "Because, General, their nuclear doctrine has always advocated the destruction of the enemy's political leadership in order to break the chain of command and inhibit the enemy's ability to retaliate."
But I'm not a political leader, the President's mind objected.
"They didn't kill us," Suronev added. "That means we have a second chance to stop them. We may not get a third."
Grizov cleared his throat before speaking. "General, we have to face some hard realities here," he said solemnly. "Our communications are crippled. Even if this were not the case, it is impossible to say whether any of our early warning systems are still operational. We're pissing in the dark. So, for all we know, there could be a thousand ICBMs on their way to Russia at this very moment. They may already be laying our country to waste and destroying our ability to respond." He checked his watch. "Every second is critical now. We must retaliate massively before there is nothing left for us to retaliate with."
Systematically checking the faces of every man in the room, Yazov realized that the consensus was almost universal. While his conscience continued to wrestle with the powerful logic of the argument presented by Grizov and Suronev, he was acutely aware of his own political vulnerability. Were he to act against what seemed to be the overwhelming consensus, men such as Suronev could quite easily replace him with somebody willing to retaliate against the Americans with undiluted vengeance, and that would surely trigger a nuclear war of such magnitude as to wipe out all life on earth. Thus, he was learning the lesson that so many of his predecessors had been forced to learn. The choices he made as President were not so much his own as those of the shadowy figures that silhouetted the nucleus of power. Yet, as the commanding officer of Russia's Strategic Rocket Forces, he understood better than anybody else in the room the consequences of what he was about to do.
"Very well," he said finally, his eyes closed as if in silent prayer. "We will respond with an attack pattern designed specifically to reduce their strategic capability. Primary targets will include ICBM and SSBN bases, Command and Control facilities and Early Warning stations. Only three cities are to be attacked, roughly equivalent to the three Russian cities that weknow to have been hit. Since Moscow was one of their targets, Washington must be one of ours. Alexei," he said to an Army Colonel, "I want an estimate on civilian equivalencies within the next three minutes. Other than that, civilian and industrial targets are to be avoided at all costs."
Alexei nodded and hurried out of the room to perform his duties.
"But why would they only attack three cities?" Grizov objected. "Why not three hundred? It doesn't make sense. We may never get another chance to strike. You cannot limit the strike tojust three cities."
Yazov rubbed his temples, beginning to get the first warnings of a migraine. "If we receive confirmation that their attack has been more widespread, then we can use our submarines to respond in kind. In the meantime, I want no effort spared to reestablish communications with their government." He turned to Kalushin. "General. I want you to send out general alert orders to all strategic air squadrons on UHF. Those who have survived will respond. I want those bombers in the air."
"I believe PVO will already have initiated that order automatically," Kalushin advised. "But I will issue a confirmation order, just to make sure."
The Commanding Officer of the Russian Navy added, "I will see whether we can establish communication links with our submarine fleet."
"That shouldn't be a problem," Kalushin pointed out. "As of a few minutes ago, ORION was still on line." ORION was the highly encrypted Russian communication satellite used as a back-up system for issuing launch orders to ICBM and SSBN crews.
"Good," Yazov said. "Then until we have better information, our response will be selective."
Grizov tried again. "But, for all we know..."
Again, Yazov cut him off. "Precisely. Wedon't know. That is my point." He locked eyes with the FSB chief. It took only a few seconds for the older man to back down under the penetrating stare of the General.
The tension was broken when Alexei returned with a sheet of paper.
"General, we have run an equivalency algorhythm against the American attack. It suggests that we should target the cities of Houston, Seattle and Washington D.C."
Yazov wondered what factors were involved in the algorhythm. Population density? Administrative importance? Economic status? Probably all three, he guessed, plus quite a few more variables that he couldn't think of.
With a wave of his hand, he summoned the two RVSN officers seated quietly in a far corner of the room. Their twochyorny chemodanchiki - little black suitcases - contained the codebooks and communication devices required to authenticate the use of nuclear weapons. Both men stood and opened the metallic cases on the conference table, unlocking them with a combination which only they and their relief officers knew.
Yazov understood the procedure better than almost any other man alive, having himself enhanced many of the existing safety protocols in his capacity as Commanding General of the RVSN. He withdrew a small plastic card from his pocket. On the card were seven groups of nine-digit numbers. Only one of these groups would initialize the communicators, and only he knew which one. As he read it out aloud, both officers simultaneously tapped the numerical sequence into their communicator keypads. Immediately, a red light blinked on both devices to confirm that a valid authentication code had been entered.
The two officers then validated this with another four-digit code. Each officer had a different code from the other, and these were recorded only in their own heads. An additional safeguard designed to prevent a renegade RVSN officer from launching unilaterally.
The red lights turned green.
Both officers produced identical two-inch thick red books from their briefcases. The more senior of the two handed his book to Yazov. It contained a multitude of attack options converse yet similar to those represented by the SIOP attack options that would be generated for the U.S. President. Yazov quickly found the targeting profile that best suited his objectives. It read:
ATTACK OPTION B2Z
AUTHENTICATION/TYL-07-YVP-92-BBOR
ICBM Counterforce Profile - Continental USA
OBJECTIVE:
Reduction of American strategic nuclear capability,
Disruption of administrative functionality
PRIMARY TARGETS:
(SS-11 mode of delivery):
Naval Bases (Air Burst):
New London, Connecticut (16); San Diego, California (22); Norfolk, Virginia (24); Pearl Harbor, Hawaii (20); Kings Bay, Georgia (24); Charleston, South Carolina (22); Bremerton, Washington (20)
Army Bases (Ground Burst):
White Sands (14), Fort Campbell (12), Fort Bragg (8), Fort McNair (16)
(SS-18 mode of delivery):
Air Force Facilities (Ground Burst):
Grand Forks (26), Whiteman (24), Eglin (18), Offutt (24), Minot (24),
Ellsworth (18), McConnell (14), Malmstrom (30), Travis (10), Fairchild (12), Kirtland (14), Nellis (16), Dyess (20), Tinker (14), Barksdale (18)
Mountain Home (28), Edwards (20), Columbus (12), Kessler (12), Elmendorf (28), Goodfellow (22), Maxwell (14), Robins (18), Schreiver (20), Vandenberg (30), Pope (12), Warren (30), Altus (16), Brooks (14), McChord (22), McDill (18), Petersen (20)
C&C Facilities:
Cheyenne Mountain (14), Raven Rock (10)
SECONDARY TARGETS:
(SS-11 mode of delivery - Air Burst):
BMEWS at Fylingdales, England (3); Cobra Dane, Aleutians (3); Thule, Greenland (3); Clear, Alaska (3)
PAVE PAWS at Cape Cod (4), Beale (4)
(Special Release Orders):
Nine (9) 1mt warheads reserved for Electro Magnetic
Pulse at Extremely High Altitude. Objective to
disrupt enemy communications
BALLISTIC MISSILE SUBMARINES:
(Special Release Orders):
Authorization of fail deadly attack mode
CITY WITHHOLDS:
(Special Release Orders)
(SS-11 mode of delivery - Airburst):
Washington D.C. (1), Seattle (1), Houston (1)
The attack profile was designed specifically to inhibit America's ability to visit any further damage upon the Russian Federation. The targeting of American cities, however, was direct retribution for the destruction of Moscow, Tula and Volgograd. Of course, Yazov knew that a large number of American submarines and nuclear-armed bombers had already been scrambled, and this would leave U.S. forces with an extensive range strategic options, but the subs and bombers would not be in a position to attack for several hours. That pause would give both sides an opportunity to negotiate a truce, he hoped.
All the same, he felt physically sick. He had no grievance with America. In fact, he'd met his U.S. counterparts on several occasions over the years, and had found them to be polite, hospitable and worthy of his professional respect. Now he was about to order the deaths of several million of them. Why? Because the U.S. government had made a deadly miscalculation. He winced at the thought. The United States was no different to Russia in many respects. There too, ordinary people would suffer for their leaders' folly.
Yet, in the final analysis, he knew that this catastrophic situation was of his own making. It was he who had persuaded Pushkin to use nuclear weapons in the Ukraine. And now it was he who would have to live with the deaths of millions - possibly many more - on his conscience. All because he had been arrogant enough to assume that he had known best how to save his country. He had acted with the loftiest of intentions, and now it looked as though he might succeed only in turning his country into a radioactive morgue. Now Yazov truly understood why he had never wanted to be a politician. A military officer could always blame the politicians for failure on the battlefield, while a political leader had to assume absolute accountability for all actions taken in his name. An American euphemism came to mind, one that a former President had once uttered: The buck stops here. For the first time, he understood what that really meant.
He read the attack option and authentication codes aloud, watching intently as the RVSN officers entered them into the communicators. The launch buttons on each communicator needed to be pressed simultaneously to confirm the order.
Yazov nodded. With that one solitary gesture, he had ordered the deaths of millions.
The officers, with the flawless professionalism that Yazov had always demanded of his men, pressed their buttons on the count of three.
Yazov remembered a passage from the sacred Hindu text Bhagavad-Gita, recited by Robert Oppenheimer, creator of the atomic bomb. It seemed particularly apt at this darkest of moments in human history.
"I am become Death," he intoned in perfect English. "Shatterer of worlds."
Everybody stared at him.
THE WHITE HOUSE, WASHINGTON D.C.
"Outpost Mission!"
That single phrase - spoken into a thousand phones and radios across Washington within moments of the first Ukrainian warhead detonating over Moscow - started in process the operation to evacuate the President and senior government officials from Washington.
WhileOutpost Mission had always worked in the abstract, nobody could be certain that nothing would go wrong when human fallibility came into the equation. That itdid work was a credit to both its architects and to the hundreds of men and women charged with implementing it.
The operation was, to say the least, a highly complex proposition, required to work on a number of different levels. At the Federal Reserve records center in Culpeper, Virginia, trillions of megabytes of data were transferred onto ultra-dense optical discs at extremely high transfer rates. Similar measures were being taken at other government buildings throughout the capital. Elsewhere, the Alternate Seat of Government in Albany, New York, and the AT&T National Emergency Control Center in Netcong, New Jersey, were placed on standby.
Meanwhile, senior officials from the Federal Emergency Management Agency were liaising with their Secret Service counterparts to ensure that every possible measure was being taken to ensure the continuity of a functional Government. Central to this objective was the implementation of what FEMA officials termed the Presidential Successor Emergency Support Plan. This involved dispersing constitutional and extra-constitutional successors (excluding the Vice President, who was presumed dead in Moscow) to secure locations within the 'Federal Ark', a series of government shelters within a hundred mile radius of Washington. Such facilities included the FEMA bunkers at Mount Weather in Virginia, Raven Rock on the Maryland-Pennsylvania border and the Civil Defense bunker in Maynard, Massachusetts.
Those Senators, members of Congress and Supreme Court Justices who could be located were evacuated with their families to the Mount Weather complex, eighty miles from the capital, and to Raven Rock. A few VIPs in the Midwest and on the west coast were evacuated instead to the NORAD facility and other secondary bunkers in Nevada, Oregon and New Mexico.
Measures were also taken to protect America's heritage. The original Declaration of Independence, the American Constitution, the Bill of Rights, a Gutenberg bible and the papers of Jefferson, Mason and Madison were flown to the Greenbriars facility in White Sulphur Springs, Virginia. At the National Gallery, precious works of art such as Leonardo da Vinci'sGinevra de' Benci and Rogier van der Weyden'sSt George and the Dragon were packed in pressurized metal containers - which were cushioned with bags of chemicals to counteract any humidity in the air - before being moved.
Yet no special provisions were made for the millions of terrified civilians who helplessly watched this awful drama unfold on television.
Senior executives at Exxon and Amtrak were alerted; the former to execute emergency procedures designed to ensure a continuation of energy supplies; the latter to make special provisions for military transportation across a country that was now, for all intents and purposes, under a State of Emergency.
Government employees received notification of the alert according to a system that ranked them on a three-grade scale of importance. This system was called the Joint Emergency Evacuation Plan (JEEP). There were fifty-nine JEEP-1 cardholders in Washington, including the President, Secretary of Defense, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Secretary of State. Naturally, their safety took precedence over that of anybody else. Three hundred and eighty-one JEEP-2 cardholders -- comprising FEMA officials, senior government agency employees and selected members of the National Science Foundation - were evacuated to the nearest secure location to where they happened to be at the time. Those with JEEP-3 status -- including middle ranking government employees, selected academics and senior executives of the Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation -- received 'Advanced Alert' telephone calls and were ordered to stand by.
At the White House, Reynolds was explaining the key aspects ofOutpost Mission to the President as the Secret Service detail rushed them and other key staff into the Rose Garden and across the lawn. A chopper was awaiting their arrival, its blades already in motion.
Lewis noted that two agents were hurriedly erecting a Stinger missile battery on the lawn. Searchlight beams could be seen rising from the roof of the White House, probing the sky for aerial dangers. A company of Marines crouched low, their rifles pointed upwards, ready to deal with any threat. Even though it was too dark to make out their faces, the experienced soldier in Lewis could sense the tension emanating from them. He had only to look at the way they held their weapons to know they were serious. Beyond the perimeter fencing, a steadily growing band of protesters was forming. Lewis saw that many of them were holding placards, but the buzz of the helicopter blades mercifully drowned out their chants.
"The E-4 is waiting for us at Andrews, sir," Reynolds was telling the President, whose bodyguards were helping him climb into the helo. Mitchell barely acknowledged the chief of staff. He appeared to be in a state of shock. Noting his pallor, Margaret gripped his hand tightly as they took their seats. Lewis was sitting opposite her. She momentarily locked eyes with him and saw her own anxiety mirrored on his face. She sensed that he was trying to shut out his own emotions by concentrating on the task at hand. In this case, his primary task was to advise the President on how to turn off this rapidly escalating crisis. The President looked like he needed all the advice he could get right now.
"Baptism of fire for you, hey, Dr. Stein?" Nielsen shouted at him above the sound of the rotating blades.
"Perhaps you might choose another euphemism, Mr. Secretary," Lewis said dryly, leaving the Secretary of Defense feeling slightly embarrassed. I could have been in a bar right now, drinking myself into oblivion, Lewis mused grimly. Instead, I've got to try and stop the President stumbling into World War Three by accident.
Once the Presidential entourage was on board and securely strapped into their seats, the helicopter lifted off. As it banked over Pennsylvania Avenue, Lewis glanced down at the army of camera crews and protesters camped outside the White House. If this crisis did turn into a shooting war, he imagined that everybody down there would be vaporized in a millisecond. He wondered if that thought had crossed their minds. In many respects, he envied them. Their instant annihilation would make them far more fortunate than the survivors, condemned to stagger blindly through the post-nuclear landscape, many of them dying from their injuries and from radiation sickness. He recalled something that Nikita Khrushchev had once said: The living would envy the dead...
He reproached himself for that thought. It was his job to ensure that things didn't go that far. But the problem, he knew, was that the nature of crisis was to fulfill itself. Crisis was all a matter of perception, really. If one side considered a situation serious enough to present a danger to its existence, then it would be theoretically prepared to wipe the other side out of existence in order to defend itself, evoking a similar reaction in the other side, which in turn served to escalate the crisis, and so forthad infinitum or until the point of implosion. That was a rule so simple, yet one that was often overlooked by politicians. Two things were fueling this crisis, he knew. Firstly, the fact that the last taboo of war had been broken. Secondly, the mutual distrust that still existed between Russia and the United States. And no crisis could be
Russia had dropped nuclear weapons on Ukraine; an event that would not have even made the headlines had the weapons been conventional. In fact, a heavy conventional bombardment would have probably caused just as much damage as that inflicted by the tactical nukes. So why hadn't Russia used conventional weapons to the same effect? For precisely the same reason we didn't level Hiroshima and Nagasaki with conventional bombing raids rather than with atomic bombs,Lewis thought. They wanted to make a point. Insofar, there were similarities in the mentality surrounding the nuclear attacks on Japan in 1945 and Ukraine in the present day. In a pouch beneath his seat was a complementary notepad and pen, both bearing the legendThe White House, Washington D.C . He rested it on his lap and started scribbling notes, a technique he often used when brainstorming a conceptual analysis. He wrote the heading 'Why nukes?', then proceeded to outline the answers:
A. More efficient. Cost less than conventional equivalent.
B. Political statement. Demonstrating resolve to enemy.
C. Detrimental effect on enemy morale.
But the Russians obviously hadn't expected the Ukrainians to retaliate with nuclear weapons themselves. If nothing else, the old popular theory that 'once one uses nukes, everybody will let loose' had been proved at least partly true tonight. But that still left questions unanswered. As he thought of them, Lewis scribbled notes:
Q1. Who survived in Russian government? What capacity to retaliate?
Q2. Did they know it was Ukrainians who attacked them?
Q3. Why haven't they tried to contact us?
The truth was - and this frightened Lewis more than anything else that had happened so far - that nobody really knew what shape the Russian government was in and what it might be thinking right now. If any surviving members of the government were watching GCN, they would see their American counterparts evacuating Washington. That might cause them to put two and two together, and come up with...
"Oh my God," Lewis muttered to himself, realizing that the United States might have just inadvertently upped the ante.
He wasn't to know that, at that precise moment, his worst fears were already being realized.
OUTSIDE HUNTSVILLE, TEXAS
"Shee-it! Where the hell's all this traffic comin' from?"
Tabatha thumped her steering wheel in frustration. The roads had been relatively clear until just a few miles back, allowing her to test the speed limit and get further away from Dick. And then traffic had begun to appear from everywhere. Many of the vehicles around her were loaded with what looked like personal possessions, as if their occupants were going on vacation. But at this time of night? Something wasn't right, although she didn't know what. She'd seen quite a few vehicles dodging erratically through the traffic with total disregard for speed limits, but the cops were doing nothing to stop them. In fact, there wasn't a single cop in sight. That was even stranger still.
The increasing congestion had eventually created a gridlock, and Tabatha found herself stuck firmly in the middle of it, surrounded by the raised voices and blaring foghorns of other drivers. The commotion had awoken Gary, who was now crying again, instinctively aware of grown-ups being horrible to each other. He knew that when grown-ups shouted at each other, he normally ended up getting hurt. In the back seat, Nina tried to calm him down, to reassure him that the grown-ups weren't going to hurt him any more. But she wasn't entirely convinced of that herself.
Tabatha watched as two men climbed out of their respective cars and began fighting for no apparent reason as their wives tried to break them up. Another man climbed out of his car and inexplicably started to kick it, cursing loudly as he did so. A woman was running through the gridlock, hands aloft, screaming as a man wearing a nothing more than a Stetson and a pair of shorts chased after her.
It was as though the whole world had gone crazy.
Instinctively, Tabatha locked her door, then leaned across Nina to lock the passenger door also. She was aware that she was low on gas; a couple more miles in the tank at most. And there was nowhere for her to go. She'd end up stuck out here, pregnant, in the middle of Nowhereville, Texas, responsible for the welfare of her younger siblings until the cops picked her up and took her back to Louise and Dick. Way to go, girl, she thought to herself.
"So what now?" Nina asked, nervously taking in the cacophony surrounding her.
"How the hell should I know?" Tabatha snapped. "The roads are s'posed to be clear this time of night." She momentarily considered her options, then wound down the window. The car to her left - a battered silver Chevy Nova - was carrying an elderly couple. They looked harmless enough. Certainly not as crazed as some of these loonies around her.
"'Scuse me," Tabatha called out, leaning through the window.
The old woman in the front passenger seat unwound her window. "Yes, dear?"
"What's going on? Has there been an accident or sum' tin?"
For a moment, the woman just stared at her as if she were a visitor from another planet. Then her expression relaxed, and she addressed Tabatha in a slightly condescending tone. "Haven't you heard? We're going to war."
War? What the... Tabatha blinked, not quite believing what she'd heard. Of course, she didn't make a habit of reading the newspapers - it wasn't exactly a cool thing to do - but she still considered herself relatively well informed about such things. Compared to her peers, anyway.
"War with who?" she asked.
"With Russia, of course. You should listen to the radio, dear."
No, that wouldn't be a good idea at all, Tabatha decided. It would only scare the kids even more than they were already scared.
The old man leaned across his wife, correcting her. "Actually," he called out, "we're not at war yet. But the Russians have gone nuclear in Ukraine."
"Uke-where?" Nina said. Even she was attentive now.
"Ukraine, duh!" Tabatha said. "It's in Europe. S'been some kinda war goin' on over there for ages. Don't you know nothin'?" She turned back to the old couple. "So why we involved in all this?"
The couple didn't really know, although they wouldn't admit as much. Especially not to a group of kids. All they knew was that nukes were going off somewhere, and that was enough to justify leaving town. After all, that was what everybody else seemed to be doing, even though few seemed to have a destination in mind other than Anywhere But Here.
"Listen to the radio," the old woman advised. "You'll find out more on there." With that, she wound up the window again.
"You think they're nuts or sum' tin?" Nina asked, not really sure herself.
"If they're nuts, then all these folks are nuts." Tabatha gestured at the traffic around her. "What d'ya reckon the chances of that?" Damn, this is the last thing I need. Can't go forwards, can't go back. Where to go except Nowhere At All?
There was an exit about fifty yards ahead. That was their only chance, she knew. Beyond that, she didn't have a plan of action in mind. Perhaps she would find a car that she could hotwire. Or, with all these people leaving town, there would have to be some empty houses she could get into. Just somewhere to sleep for the night.
The truth was, Tabatha didn't know what was going to happen any more than did anyone else, but she couldn't admit that to the kids.
They were relying on her to be strong, and right now she felt more scared than at any time in her life.
WASHINGTON D.C.
Carl Beakman hated Washington dinner parties with a vengeance. Actually, he wasn't too fond of Washington, period. It was said that if you wanted to be in the movie business, you went to L.A.. If you wanted to be a car manufacturer, Detroit was the place to be. Washington D.C.'s business, on the other hand, was politics. And anybody of any consequence in this town was in some way connected to the political world. There were no prizes for guessing what the chief topic of conversation tended to be at social gatherings.
Like many of his fellow guests at this particular dinner party, Beakman was a government employee. But his role was not political. He was Director of the FEMA Special Facility in Olney, Maryland; an anachronistic construction whose purpose dated back to the Cold War when it had been one of the primary government bunkers surrounding the capital. Nowadays, both its classification and personnel had been reduced in accordance with its new official status as a Satellite Teleregistration Facility. Olney also housed the National Warning Center and the Alternate National Warning Center, both of which served to comprise the primary control element of the National Warning System (NAWAS).
Beakman's face boasted prominent dimples and a perpetual cheeky half-smile that seemed to invoke a maternal instinct in women. He was accustomed to women referring to him as cuddly, and that might have bothered him had he been interested in women. But since his current partner was a handsome 25-year-old Puerto Rican called Victor, women were the least of his priorities.
Victor had been his lover for the last eighteen months. Young, dark and athletic, he was the physical antithesis of the middle-aged, balding Beakman. But they were compatible in every other way and were very much in love with each other. Although Beakman himself couldn't understand why a man such as Victor would be interested in him, he knew that the rules of love were not bound by logic. Sometimes there was just no explaining mutual attraction.
He was half-listening to the conversation taking place around him, but his eyes were locked on Victor, seated opposite him. Victor returned the look; a momentary glance rich with promises of things to come.
"It's only Ukraine, for God's sake," the woman next to Beakman was saying. Dripping in diamonds and other glittery decorations, she was apparently a political columnist or something.
"And, in 1939, it was only Poland," a slick looking man piped up. He was a young, idealistic aide to some Congressman or other, trying to make a name for himself in the capital. Good luck, kid, Beakman thought. He'd seen it all before. Many came to this town, but very few survived.
"That's true," another man pointed out, "but the Nazis didn't have the Bomb, did they? I mean, would we have squared up to Germany if they had the ability to blow up New York or D.C.? I don't think so."
Beakman saw Victor's eyes glaze over with boredom. Victor had as little patience for this type of discussion as did his older lover. Neither of them ever bothered to vote. So far as they were concerned, political parties were all much of a sameness. Lots of self-important people trying to impress each other by solving problems that they weren't important enough to do anything about. That was made frequently apparent to Beakman by dinner table conversations such as this.
He was about to make an excuse for himself and Victor to leave when his pager began to vibrate. He pulled it out of his pocket and read the display. As he did so, he felt the blood drain from his face. Victor looked at him quizzically, mouthing the words, "What's wrong?"
Beakman kept staring at the pager's LCD display, not quite believing what he was seeing:
FEMA Alert: Outpost Mission
He gestured Victor out of the room and smiled apologetically at some of the other guests who were asking questions with their eyes.
"What is it?" Victor said. He had never seen Carl look this anxious, and that worried him.
Beakman placed both his hands on Victor's shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. "Vic, I want you to go home and hunker down in the storm cellar until I get back." He knew how ridiculous that must've sounded to his young lover, but he couldn't think of anything better to say. Home was a four-bedroom house on the Chesapeake Bay, where many properties were equipped with storm cellars to protect their occupants from the occasional fierce winds that swept in from the Atlantic. As Victor opened his mouth to reply, Beakman cut him short. "Don't argue with me, darling. Just do it."
Victor shook his head in confusion. "I don't understan'. Why don't you tell me whass goin' on?"
"They're evacuating the government. I've got to get to the office." Beakman always referred to the Olney facility asThe Office , even though it was nothing of the sort. But such ordinary terminology seemed to humanize his job somewhat, make it sound more palatable to those who didn't really understand what a sinister purpose the facility had actually been designed for. "Just remember that I love you, and I'll be home as soon as this thing blows over, okay?"
He kissed Victor passionately on the lips, leaving the younger man looking scared, like a little boy who'd lost his mother.
"What if it don't blow over?" the Puerto Rican asked, his voice cracking.
"It will," Beakman assured him. "These things always do. Trust me. Now just take the car and go, will you?"
"Why can' I come wit you?"
"Because access to the facility is for authorized personnel only, you know that. If I could take you, I would. I really would. But I can't." One of the other reasons - one that he couldn't admit to Victor - was that Beakman's homosexuality was a secret from his staff. He wasn't sure how they'd react if he bought his gay lover to the facility when they'd all left families -normal families,straight families - at home.
"How you gonna get there if I take the car?"
Beakman gestured to the dining room out of which they'd just stepped. "I figure there are at least five essential personnel in there. I'll hitch a lift. Don't worry about me. Just move it."
They hugged and Victor began to cry. Beakman sensed his lover's resignation. "I go," the younger man wept with characteristic drama, "but I no like it."
The last Beakman ever saw of Victor was his young lover leaving through the front door, his head slumped in desolation.
Once he'd gone, Beakman returned to the living room, where voices were being raised in anger and panic, the discord punctuated by the trill of pagers and mobile phones. He opened his wallet and pulled out the plastic card that confirmed his JEEP-2 status in bold black letters. On the flip side was his name, photograph and a directive proclaiming: The person identified on this card is an essential Government employee with vital duties pertaining to National Emergency Operations. Full assistance and unrestricted movement is to be granted the person to whom this card is issued. The only time he'd ever had to use the card was in an exercise. Now it was time to see whether all those drills had been worth it.
Almost half of the guests at the dinner party were either JEEP-2 or JEEP-3 cardholders. Looking around him, Beakman saw the same scene he'd had with Victor a few moments earlier being played out in multitude. Wives and husbands were exchanging farewell embraces, often followed by angry exchanges as those who were to be left behind tried to persuade their loved ones to take them to whichever secure location they were heading for.
A young woman approached Beakman. She had attended the party alone. From what he remembered of the earlier introductions, she was some kind of hotshot at the DoD.
"Mr. Beakman," she said, her demeanor all business, "I understand you need to get to Olney. Am I right?"
"Yes," he stammered. "Yes, that's right."
She nodded, understanding, and rattled off her words in machine-gun fashion. "I don't have transport either. I came here in a taxi. I'm a JEEP-2 cardholder. An Army jeep is on its way to collect me. They can take you as well, if you wish."
"Thanks," he said, not really meaning it. He didn't like Army jeeps, although he had no aversion to men in uniform. "If it's not too much trouble."
The woman snorted bitterly. "Trouble is one thing we've got plenty of tonight," she said.
B-2A BOMBER - "SPIRIT 16" - OVER KANSAS
With the sleekness and grace of an airborne feline, the 180,000-kilogram B-2A stealth bomber provided one of the key elements of America's triumvirate nuclear arsenal. Somewhat larger and more powerful than its sister plane - the F-117A stealth fighter - the B-2 had but one purpose; to penetrate defenses without being detected and unleash a world of destruction upon the enemy before anybody even knew it was coming.
The 325thBomb Squadron of the 509thBomb Wing, comprising twenty-one stealth bombers, was one of three active B-2 units in the U.S. Air Force. Until the disbanding of the former Strategic Air Command in 1992, American bomber squadrons such as the 325thhad been permanently equipped with a full nuclear payload, ready to be scrambled at fifteen minutes' notice. That had changed following the signing of the START-II treaty, which stipulated that nuclear ordinance was to be kept in storage depots, separate from the bombers. Then, quite recently, as relations between Washington and Moscow had begun to deteriorate once more, President Mitchell's notoriously right-wing predecessor had ordered that the 509th and other bomb wings of its ilk once again be placed on 24-hour strip alert. So when the crews of the 325thresponded to the latest crisis, their bombers were armed and ready for action.
The twenty-one crews of the 325thwere, by definition, the cream of America's bomber fleet. Each of them - forty-two men and women in all - had gone through a stringent selection process, designed not only to measure their flying abilities but also their psychological suitability for the awful mission to which they were assigned.
Before training for the B-2 mission, Logan had flown B-1Bs for the 7thBomb Wing at Dyess AFB, Texas (another wing that had since been furnished with B-2s). Essentially, many of the procedures were identical, but the B-2 boasted a level of technological wizardry that still astounded him. Its advanced computer systems meant that the B-2 only required a crew of two, as opposed to four on the B-1. Logan was the Mission Commander and, therefore, the senior officer. To his right sat his Flight Commander, Captain Laura McCann.
Logan and McCann had flown together for five years, and their professional relationship was such that each of them had an almost telepathic ability to anticipate the actions of the other. This time, however, was no exercise. Gone was the banter and bravado characteristic of training missions and drills. Tonight, they remained mostly silent. Focused.
This was as real as it got.
Logan kept his voice cool and dispassionate as he read the target designation aloud. "Authentication Alpha-Charlie-Romeo-Romeo-Victor-Sierra-Bravo-Zero. Primary target is the Russian city of St Petersburg. Regional headquarters of PVO and FSB command. Attack profile; two B-83 gravity bombs, each armed with a single one-megaton warhead. Target designation, one thousand feet airburst. Civilian population five point one million," he added, snapping the target directory shut.
McCann looked distinctly uneasy when Logan mentioned civilians. With short, cropped black hair and soft green eyes, she was attractive in a girl-next-door kind of way. But her looks concealed a cool professionalism that had earned her the accolade of being one of the U.S. Air Force's first female stealth bomber pilots. Under certain circumstances, Martin could have imagined himself making a move on her. But inter-personnel relationships were strictly prohibited in the Air Force. Not to mention that both of them were married; Martin to Beth, and McCann to an awfully nice computer programmer from Des Moines with whom she'd had two kids.
"I concur," she said with an edge of reluctance, having verified the code against her authentication card.
On Logan's command, they ran through the lengthy checklist designed for nuclear weapon release. It was nothing like the checklist required for dropping conventional ordinance. All items on the list that related solely to nuclear launch protocol were marked in bold red typeface.
"Yield selection, one megaton," Logan announced as he dialed the weapon yield on his console. McCann mirrored his actions and flicked the Yield Selection switch. "Confirmed," she said.
"Arm weapons on my mark. Three, Two, One, Mark..." Simultaneously, McCann and Logan turned their arming dials. A blue light appeared on Logan's console to inform him that the nuclear warheads had been successfully armed.
With a flick of the wrist, he froze his stopwatch. "One minute twenty-nine," he announced. "Good exercise."
"Let's hope it'll be that easy over a real target," McCann remarked solemnly as she deactivated the weapon.
Logan frowned. Spirit 16, along with the rest of the 325th, had been in the air for little over thirty minutes, heading towards various separate Positive Control Points off the western and eastern seaboards and over southern Canada. Logan had expected to have received a recall order by now; to be told that that the crisis was over. The more time that passed, the less likely it was that such a message would be received. Both he and McCann knew as much, but neither of them wanted to be the first to say it aloud. In the meantime,Spirit 16 continued to head relentlessly towards its own PCP, just over the U.S.-Canadian border. Once there, they would orbit until ordered either to return to base or to proceed to their designated target inside Russia, some nine to eleven hours away. They wouldn't know their target profile until they received their final set of Emergency War Orders. If we receive them, he reminded himself, hoping that such a moment never came.
He wondered where Beth and his parents were now. Getting close to the Iowa state line, he hoped. If this crisis escalated into a shooting war, he wanted them to be as far away from potential targets as possible. That wasn't easy given their proximity to both Whiteman AFB and Kansas City. But his father's fishing cabin on Red Rock Lake, southeast of Des Moines, would be far enough in the wilderness for them to have a chance. Martin knew that his father always kept the cabin stocked with food and provisions. It had always served as a peaceful refuge from Cathy. Martin had fond memories of summer weekends at the cabin as a boy with his older brother Sean and his father. Those were among the only fond childhood memories he had. When Martin was fourteen, Sean was killed in a car crash. He had been driving up to the cabin with his girlfriend. For years afterwards, Patrick had blamed himself for encouraging Sean to visit the cabin, and it had taken him a long time before he could again visit it himself. By that time, Martin had reached adulthood. There would be no more fishing weekends for him, ever.
He doubted that Beth would want to spend her twilight hours with her in-laws. That thought occasioned a wry smile, which evaporated when he heard a computerized female voice announce, "Incoming Emergency Action Message." He exchanged a nervous glance with McCann. Perhaps this was the recall order they had been awaiting. Perhaps not, a part of him warned.
McCann stood and made her way aft, where the UHF receiver was located. She tore the message from the Teletype, returned to her seat and briefly read its contents. Even in the dimly lit cockpit, Logan could see that the color had drained from his co-pilot's face. She checked the authentication code against her one-time codebook. "I have a properly formatted Emergency Action Message, Major." Her voice was close to cracking as she handed it to Logan. "Please verify."
He also checked the message against his codebook. "It's valid all right." He read it aloud, as if that was the only way he could be sure he'd understood it correctly. "From NCA to ACC bomber crews. One: Nuclear warheads detonated over Moscow, Volgograd and Tula by Ukrainian Army. Two: NORAD has declared DefCon Three. Three: Proceed to designated PCP and await further orders. Four: Good hunting.."
"That's all they're gonna tell us?"
"Well, what did you expect?"
McCann pursed her lips sulkily. Her professional relationship with Logan had never been tested in a live-fire situation. You could run drills until you were blue in the face, but no matter how well trained you were, a part of your mind was always conscious that it was only a drill. Nothing could simulate the knowledge that everybody back home might soon be vaporized. Including Simon and the kids, she thought grimly.
"What's wrong?" Logan snapped, feeling McCann's eyes boring into him. She and her husband had often socialized with Martin and Beth. She thought she knew her co-pilot as well as she'd ever known anybody. She'd at least expected him to show some emotion. Instead, his military training had overwhelmed whatever emotions he might be feeling. He was going to do exactly what he was ordered and had been trained to do. Perhaps, she reflected, that made him a better officer than her. Because she was as scared as she'd ever been and wasn't so reticent about showing it.
The success of this mission is his responsibility, she realized with a start. He's using his sense of responsibility as an excuse not to confront his feelings. Everybody reacts differently under stress. This is just his way. I never thought I would be the one to let it get to me.
"Nothing," she said, realizing that she didn't really know him any better than she knew herself.
ANDREWS AFB, MARYLAND
Marine Onetouched down barely fifty meters away from the E-4B National Emergency Airborne Command Post, a converted 747 better known by the acronym KNEECAP. As the chopper made its descent, the President was surprised to see that the base was swarming with Marines, just as it had been when Lewis and Bishop had arrived here a couple of hours earlier. The Marines looked deadly serious. If anybody was in any doubt that this crisis was for real, they would have only to study their eyes, he thought. It occurred to him that Andrews was a likely target in any nuclear exchange, and these Marines were bound to know that they would be caught right in the epicenter. He frowned, thinking that theirs was perhaps a far more desirable predicament than his own. It was his responsibility to ensure that there was no epicenter in which for them to be caught.
No sooner had the chopper touched the ground than the Secret Service began shepherding the President and other VIPs across an expanse of asphalt towards KNEECAP, whose engines were already roaring. Mitchell could feel his heart racing, and was perspiring heavily. One member of his protective detail held the base of his neck to keep his head low.
In the group behind Edward and Margaret Mitchell were Lewis, Nielsen, Copeland, Bishop and General Westwood. Behind them came Reynolds and Admiral James Dunster, Secretary of the Navy. Bringing up the rear was the Marine warrant officer who carried a briefcase - affectionately known as 'The Football' - that contained the nuclear launch codes. The officer wasn't alone in hoping that he wouldn't be asked to open it tonight.
Once the Presidential entourage was safely on board KNEECAP, the pressurized door was shut and sealed and word passed to the pilot to commence take-off.
Outpost Missionwas precisely nine minutes old.
The President and First Lady were met by a short, stocky Air Force officer with spiky silver hair and piercing blue eyes. "Good evening, Mr. President. Ma'am. My name is Brigadier General Eugene Shelley. I'm in charge of KNEECAP operations. Unfortunately, we don't have time for a grand tour at the moment. If you'd like to come with me, sir, I believe the attack conference is about to get underway."
Shelley led the entourage aft, past several closed doors. Lewis wondered what lay behind them.
"Why are the blinds shut?" Copeland asked, gesturing at the portholes.
"To protect against retinal burns from a nuclear blast," Shelley stated matter-of-factly, not slowing his brisk stride. "They're lined with aluminum."
"What about the pilots?" Margaret inquired. "Are they afforded protection?"
"Absolutely."
"Then how can they see where to fly?" she pressed him, an edge of concern in her voice.
"They've got a television monitor in the cockpit, Ma'am," he explained. "They can see exactly what they need to see. Until recently, the only protection they had was an eyepatch, so that they could still use one eye if the other was blinded." He stopped dead in his tracks and gestured the President into a conference room. "Right in here, sir."
It was a conference room just like any other, dominated by a long mahogany table, in the center of which sat a black communications console. In front of each seat at the table was a private telephone. At least the leather chairs looked more comfortable than those in the White House Situation Room, Mitchell thought, realizing that this was the first time he'd ever seen KNEECAP's interior.
He took his place at the head of the table. The First Lady and General Westwood sat either side of him. Lewis was located furthest away, opposite Copeland. He still felt that this whole situation had a somewhat sublime quality, as if it were a dream from which he was going to wake at any moment. This time twenty-four hours ago, he had been getting shit-faced in a downtown Hartford bar. And eight hours ago, he had been back in his Connecticut apartment, sleeping off one drinking session in preparation for another. Now, here he was, on a military jet with the President of the United States, with the world on the verge of nuclear annihilation.
Why the hell did I let Tony talk me into this? I don't want this!
As the E-4 began taxiing for take-off, Lewis began to feel claustrophobic and had an urge to run away as fast as he could; even if that involved jumping off the plane. In his heart, he was still a soldier; a doer rather than a talker. He had been so since the day when, shortly after graduating from Cambridge with a Masters in History and not knowing what to do with it, he'd walked into an Army recruitment office in London. Until that moment, the idea of a military career had never occurred to him. Most of his peers from University had followed the predictable career paths; banking, the civil service, law and academia. But Lewis had never been one to follow the herd, and insofar, he had always been something of an outsider, even at University.
After basic officer training, he attended Sandhurst, where he discovered the fierce camaraderie and sense of belonging he had sought ever since the age of eleven, when he'd found himself outcast as a product of one of the roughest parts of London's East End, attending an elite private school on an assisted place scholarship (which was a way of allowing gifted working-class British kids the opportunity to attend the country's best schools). But, even now after so many years, his voice still carried a trace of the Cockney accent he had developed in the East End. Although he would never be too ashamed to admit to his roots, the fact that Lewis - unlike most of his childhood friends - had managed to transcend the class barriers that still existed in England was the only reason he was here now.
Lewis had graduated from Sandhurst with flying colors, having been top of his class in hand-to-hand combat and tactical planning. That led to a commission with Britain's elite Parachute Regiment, with whom he served in the Gulf War and in three tours of Northern Ireland.
It was during the first of those visits to Ulster that he met Sandra Quinnan, a pretty Catholic girl who lived in Catholic West Belfast. Of course, it was generally prohibited for soldiers to engage in romantic entanglements with civilians - especially in Northern Ireland - but love is one of those things that cares little for rules. And so it had been with Lewis and Sandra. Other than the customary series of one-night stands at University, she was his first serious girlfriend. Reticent about breaking the rules, he duly informed his CO of the relationship and, although it was frowned upon by the military hierarchy, he was given grudging permission to carry on seeing her.
Six months after they met, Lewis came to a decision. He would resign his commission in order that he could marry Sandra and take her back to the mainland, where she would have been able to live comfortably without having to worry about her affair with a British soldier being discovered by some of Ulster's more extremist elements.
Sadly, it wasn't to be. During his third and final tour of the province, Sandra was shot dead by a sniper, just feet away from Lewis, who was off duty and hadn't been able to do a damn thing about it. To this day, he still had nightmares about holding her in his arms while the last breaths of life escaped her, and screaming at the Gods until he was hoarse. She had been executed in cold blood purely for the cardinal crime of falling in love with a British soldier -the enemy!
Shortly afterwards, Lewis indeed resigned his commission, just as he had intended. For the next few months, he attempted to readjust to civilian life, but succeeded only in finding his way into a bottle (funny how history so often repeats itself, he sometimes thought). That period of his life came to an end when, through a combination of fortuitous timing and circumstance, he fell into the employ of the British intelligence services, who had been impressed by his education, military record, combat experience and fluency in Russian and Arabic. The basis of his employment was to be strictly adhoc, which was a polite way of saying that he would be paid on a job-by-job basis without the security services having to take any responsibility for his actions. This had both positive and negative aspects. The up side was that he could take only what jobs appealed to him, and he didn't have a CO as such. The down side was that he was effectively a mercenary, employed to carry out perilous tasks that were, by definition, too sensitive for official military or intelligence assets to perform. This meant that if he were to land in trouble in some far-flung corner of the planet, the British Government would be able to deny all knowledge of his existence or actions. Lewis didn't mind this. The money was excellent, and he had come to think of his own life as expendable in any case. It also allowed him the license to hunt down Sandra's killer; an experience that, although cathartic in many ways, left him feeling singularly unpleasant once he had taken the sniper's life. It was as though a chapter of Lewis's life had truly concluded, with the only consequence being the deaths of two people.
It was during his employ with the SIS that he met his future wife, then a junior surgeon training at St. Bartholomew's Hospital in London. He hadn't expected to fall in love again, not quite so soon after losing Sandra, but within a year of meeting, Lewis Stein and Jo Miller were married.
Their first two years together had been some of the happiest times of Lewis's life. But the demands of his career soon began to place a strain on their marriage.
Lewis conducted several missions in Russia and the Middle East during the nineties. One such operation had involved rescuing from Russia a CIA paramilitary field officer whose cover was about to be blown. That operative was Anthony Bishop, a so-called 'illegal' who had been in Moscow using the cover of an Italian journalist. It had been one of the most dangerous and terrifying missions of Lewis's career, and to this day, he still had nightmares about that surreal chase through the streets of Moscow, he and Bishop being pursued by the Russian police. The fact that both men were still alive owed more to luck and the ineptitude of Russia's law enforcers than it did to any particular skill on Lewis's part, a fact that he frequently reminded himself of.
That particular operation led to an invitation from Bishop's grateful superiors for Lewis to emigrate to the United States and work for the CIA as a full time field officer with additional responsibility for training new recruits at the Agency's Virginia training camp, known as 'The Farm'. He gave the offer considerable thought and discussed it with Jo. They finally agreed that a fresh start might benefit both of them. Lewis had just turned thirty and knew that he couldn't remain a mercenary (he'd always preferred the termfreelancer ) forever. Emigration offered him the chance to make a fresh start and restore some stability in his life. Jo hoped that the transition would give their marriage a fresh boost. They had been together for two years, and her husband was already showing the first signs of burnout.
Whilst in the CIA's employ, Lewis earned a Doctorate in Strategic Affairs from Princeton under the tutorship of the now First Lady, Margaret Mitchell. Bishop, meanwhile, became Deputy Director of Operations, reporting to DCI Paul Nielsen. Nominally, Lewis had the rank of training officer at Langley, but he was also carving himself a reputation as a brilliant analyst, particularly in Russian and Eastern European affairs. He was still occasionally assigned to field operations, although not as often as had once been the case.
But it was a field operation in the Chechen capital Grosny that was to change his life again. After returning from that fateful mission, where he had unwittingly killed two innocent children, Lewis again turned to alcohol. He resigned from the CIA and took a job at the University of Connecticut, teaching International Affairs. As time passed, he and Jo drifted further apart. Partly because they had been seeing increasingly less of each other due to their respective occupations. But mostly because of Lewis's alcoholism.
Eight years after they had married, Lewis and Jo were divorced. The separation had been amicable, but had left both parties distraught and remorseful. Lewis conceded the marital home in Maryland and all its contents to Jo, since she had always been the main breadwinner. He moved permanently into the Connecticut apartment that he had leased after accepting the job at UConn.
There was not a day that passed when he didn't regret throwing away the one thing in his life that had really meant something. But he had resolved not to call her until he had found the courage to make some changes in his life. He wondered where she was now. If he knew her as well as he thought he did, she would be at Johns Hopkins, preparing for the likely intake of casualties following a possible nuclear attack. That was presuming that the hospital itself wasn't destroyed in such an attack. Dedicated to the end. That's my Jo.
He systematically checked the faces of the other men around the conference table who -- after a fashion -- held the fate of an entire planet in their hands. He wondered if they were also considering their loved ones' chances of surviving this crisis. In a situation like this, he knew, even politicians were human. Perhaps it was their humanity that would prevent any of them from acting irresponsibly. That was something to be optimistic about in an otherwise grave situation. Nuclear war sure is a great leveler, isn't it?
"... and your daughter is being flown to the Special Facility at Raven Rock as we speak," Shelley was telling the First Couple.
"It may bespecial ," Margaret noted, "but is it safe?"
"As safe as anywhere else right now," he promised. Margaret didn't look convinced. Shelley quickly changed the subject. "Also, the PSESP is being implemented, and..."
The President cut him off. "The what?" He was becoming tired of all these acronyms he was having to learn. Why can't military types speak plain English just like everybody else?
"Sorry, sir. That's the Presidential Successor Emergency Support Plan. It means that, in the event that... well, if this was to..." Shelley fidgeted, trying to explain in the most diplomatic terms possible.
"For Chrissakes," Mitchell barked. "Get to the point."
Shelly was clearly becoming flustered. "It means, Mr. President, that if anything was to happen to you, there has to be a line of succession. That requires the dispersion of your constitutional successors."
"So where are they?" he snapped.
"Well, as you know, the Vice President was staying at the U.S. Ambassador's residence in Moscow for President Godonov's funeral. We haven't been able to establish communications with either the Vice President's helicopter or the Embassy Signals Office since the attack on Moscow, and therefore have to presume that he didn't make it."
I sent him there, was the unbidden thought that occurred to the President. It was immediately followed by: That could have been me.
"The Speaker of the House is at the Mount Weather facility on the Maryland-Pennsylvania border. The Secretary of the Treasury is out of location in Geneva, and the Secretary of the Interior was in LA last we knew. Once the Secret Service find him, he'll be flown to Nellis Air Force Base."
"If this flying fortress is as safe as you claim," Copeland objected, fear creeping into his voice, "then why all this talk about succession?"
"These are just precautionary measures," Shelley assured the Secretary of State as the E-4 lifted into the air. "KNEECAP is about as safe as any aircraft in the world. Although we don't have any weapons systems of our own, we're flying with a detachment of four well-armed F-16s. Also, this jet has been retrofitted with highly advanced anti-missile systems."
"What about EMP effects?" Lewis asked. Much of what was known about the effects of the electromagnetic pulse that would emanate from a high altitude nuclear detonation was still theoretical. That worried him more than the effects of the blast itself, for EMP could potentially wreck communication systems and any other equipment that contained sensitive components. Including aircraft, he thought darkly.
"All the components on KNEECAP have been EMP hardened, sir," came the response. Of course, they've never been tested in a nuclear conflict, he didn't add.
The President waved a dismissive hand. "Okay, General. Let's proceed with the conference, shall we?"
"Of course, sir." Shelley stretched over the table, between Lewis and Copeland, to activate the speakerphone. "Night Lightis five by five," he reported. Lowering his voice, he explained to the President, "Night Lightis our designation."
"Good to hear you,Night Light, " came the response. "This isLooking Glass . We're five by five."
"That's StratCom's C&C alert aircraft," Shelley told the President, who was scribbling the designations on a piece of paper.
"Storm Rock, five by five."
"NORAD at Cheyenne Mountain."
"Rain Flower, five by five."
"STRATCOM at Offutt, Nebraska," Shelley announced. Lewis noticed that Westwood was making ticks on a checklist as each command reported in.
"Big Bird, five by five," crackled a voice that sounded as if it were being spoken from the end of a long tunnel.
"That's Air Combat Command at Langley."
"Smoke Finger, five by five."
"Atlantic Command."
"Earth Digger, five by five."
"That'sthe National Military Command Center at the Pentagon."
"Star Stalker, five by five, sir." The voice sounded youthful and frightened.
"Space Command at NASA."
"Okay, that's everybody," Westwood said, having ticked off all the participants on his list.
Mitchell leaned towards the speakerphone. "We've been out of it for a while. Any new developments... um," he checked his notepad for NORAD's designation, "Storm Rock?"
"The situation is fluid at the moment, Mr. President," reported General Allen's voice. "But we're not getting any ELINT from inside Russia. That's largely because of the blast effects, but it's worrying all the same. It means we don't know what they're thinking."
"What about the KH-12's?" Bishop asked, referring to the network of photoreconnaissance satellites in low orbit.
"Who is this?"
"DCI Bishop."
"We've retasked some of the KH-12's, sir. The data is being processed as we speak."
"Mind telling me what we're looking for?" the President asked.
"Increased activity around missile fields," Lewis informed him. "Subs being put to sea. Anything indicative of a strategic response." He turned to the speakerphone. "This is Lewis Stein. I was just thinking that perhaps the reason you're not hearing anything from Russia, and the reason they haven't reacted yet is because the attack decapitated their C3ability."
"I doubt that,"Rain Flower objected. "They've got provisions for command succession same as we have."
"Not necessarily," Lewis said. "My guess is that all the potential successors were in Moscow for Godonov's funeral. Imagine if a nuclear warhead landed on Washington. Imagine if we had no warning until it happened. Now imagine if the President and all his constitutional successors were in town at the time. Who would issue the order to retaliate?"
"We could do it directly from here,"Looking Glass said.
"And so could we,"Storm Rock added.
"Perhaps," Lewis accepted. "But if you add the time element into the equation, then by the time you've reacted to the breakdown in C3and made the necessary provisions to act unilaterally, you may have nothing left to fire at the enemy."
"What are you getting at, Dr Stein?" Westwood said impatiently. His tone suggested that he still didn't trust this outsider with the English accent.
"What I'm saying is that if you multiply that problem tenfold, you've got some indication of what the Russians might have to contend with. Their nuclear launch protocols work on a primary control basis, you see, and..."
Night Diggercut him off. "Excuse me, Mr. President, but I think I know where Dr Stein is coming from. Their launch systems are completely automated. They authenticate a launch using two sets of communicators carried in briefcases, similar to The Football. If either one of those is destroyed, then it's extremely difficult for them to launch. The communicators are launch mechanisms in themselves. There are back-ups, but there would be a considerable time delay involved in producing and authenticating new codes, and providing them to a viable command authority."
"Exactly," Lewis concurred. "And there's every reason to suspect that a huge number of their ICBMs have fallen into such a state of disrepair, they wouldn't be able to get off the ground in any case."
"What about their subs?" the President asked, turning to the Secretary of the Navy.
"They work on a similar basis to ours," Dunster told him. "They surface every eight to ten hours to receive new orders, and..."
Nielsen cut him short. "And what if there's nobody to send them any orders?"
Tense looks were exchanged. Dunster finally took up the question. "If they operate on a similar basis to ours, sir, which I suspect they do, then if they surface and hear nothing, they would launch on the assumption that command authority has been neutralized. I don't know that for sure, of course, but it would seem a logical assumption."
Before anybody could take up the point, the speakerphone emanated the strident buzzing noise of a warning klaxon. A sense of dread filled the KNEECAP conference room.
"What's that?" the President asked, suddenly looking very pale.
"Are you getting this,Alice ?" General Allen's voice yelled.
"Yep, I've got it, Rob,"Looking Glass replied calmly. "Running SRV check."
The President leapt to his feet, his brow knotted in rage. "Will somebody please tell me what the fuck is going on?"
NORAD, CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO
"We're picking up two... wait,three possible SS-11 launches from Perm ICBM field," Allen yelled into the phone, suddenly more frightened than he'd ever been in his life. He knew that if Russia were planning to retaliate against Ukraine, they would be more likely to use bombers or shorter range IRBMs. The SS-11 'Sego' ICBM was roughly equivalent to the U.S. Minuteman III missile and was capable of carrying either a one-megaton warhead or three smaller warheads.
They're aimed at us! Allen's mind screamed.
"Where are they headed?" the President demanded to know.
Another launch detection appeared on the Big Board. This one was from the SS-18 field in Kartaly. Allen swallowed hard. The SS-18 'Satan' was perhaps the most powerful ICBM ever built. It served but one purpose - the pinpoint destruction of hardened military targets, such as missile silos and command bunkers.
Such as Cheyenne Mountain, he thought grimly. In as long as it took for that thought to occur to him, five more ICBM launches were detected at Perm, Kartaly and Aleysk.
"Still waiting for confirmation of that, sir, but my best guess is CONUS."
PERSPECTIVE: U.S. PREPAREDNESS FOR NUCLEAR WAR
America has been preparing for the possibility of nuclear war since the late 1940's. An entire generation grew up on a diet of civil defense films; the main consequence of which was to convince the American people that it was possible to survive a nuclear war providing that you "Ducked And Covered". Later generations would look back on these public information films as touchingly naïve.
But that was no reflection on the American Government's seriousness in preparing for the aftermath of a nuclear attack. If anything, the hopelessly optimistic tone of such material was designed to maintain public calm and ensure continued popular support for America's costly nuclear weapons program. It also helped to conceal the true nature of the Government's nuclear war planning.
In 1949, a system known as CONELRAD was established. This was America's first national civil defense system, enabling National Command Authority to communicate attack warnings to local authorities and coordinate recovery efforts in the aftermath of a nuclear attack. This was replaced in the early 1960's by the far more advanced Emergency Broadcast System, which provided a key element of U.S. Civil Defense Planning until 1997. During those years, most Americans became familiar with the EBS test broadcast; a high-pitched hum that indicated imminent disaster. Fortunately, it was never called upon to warn of a real nuclear attack. Other nations likely to be involved in a nuclear conflict implemented similar systems of their own.
Following the end of the Cold War, Civil Defense in the nuclear context had all but vanished. By 1998, FEMA's National Preparedness Directorate - which had provided the key element in U.S. Civil Defense Planning - was abolished(1) . The Emergency Broadcast System itself was replaced by a new high-tech system known as the EAS (Emergency Alert System). Funding for Civil Defense was delegated from Federal to Local level, effectively entrusting responsibility for nuclear attack recovery to local authorities. Although National Security Directive 66 states that the U.S. Government would "respond to emergencies of all kinds, including attack", there was no mention of Civil Defense in either FEMA's 1998 Mission Statement or the DoD's graphic in the same year on "Responding to the Proliferation threat"(2) . Funds previously earmarked for Civil Defense were instead diverted to environmental research and planning. Indeed, the EAS itself was designed with environmental disasters in mind, rather than the threat of nuclear attack. This prompted Representative Bob Dornan (R-CA) to warn in 1994 that nuclear defense was being "dangerously under funded or totally ignored". The DoD's response was to claim rather cryptically that it would "issue defense planning guidance to the services to make sure everyone understands what the President wants."
By 1999, FEMA's official advice to those wishing to learn about its plans for nuclear attack was to contact the local office of emergency planning for further information. In other words, FEMA had abrogated responsibility for Civil Defense in the nuclear context, focusing its attention instead on more tangible threats such as freak weather and other environmental disasters. Although fallout shelters continued to exist in every town and city in the United States, little if anything was done to inform the public about their whereabouts or what to do in the event of a nuclear attack.
The Reagan years saw increased public awareness about the effects of nuclear war. This was partly fuelled by Hollywood movies, which painted a far darker picture of the aftermath than did movies of the 1950's and 60's. But this public canniness soon festered into apathy, and by the late 1990's into total indifference. Much of this had to do with the nothing-I-can-do-about-it mentality. But it had far more to do with the perception that the nuclear threat had almost entirely disappeared. The Clinton administration did nothing to discourage this perception.
With the emergence of an assertive Russian Government in the early years of the 21stCentury, American defense planners once again began to prepare for the possibility of nuclear war. Two bomb wings were placed on permanent strip alert for the first time since 1993. Expenditure on nuclear weapons was increased. But still nothing was done to educate the public about the threat of nuclear attack. The Civil Defense budget remained diminutive. And the public perception (which, incidentally, was not shared by senior Defense planners) was that the threat of Russian missile attack remained miniscule.
Meanwhile, Russia continued to escalate its program of nuclear weapon modernization.
(1) Physicians For Civil Defense, "1994 Civil Defense Perspectives"
(2) Journal of Civil Defense, Spring 1997
THE WAR
VIII
IMPACT POINT
"Each of us bears his own Hell."(Virgil:Publius Vergilius Maro , 70-19 B.C.)
UPPER ATMOSPHERE - ABOVE NORTHERN EUROPE
Weighing over 480,000 pounds, the first of the Russian SS-18 ICBMs reached the peak of its boost phase some sixty miles above the earth.
The missile was armed with a single one-megaton thermonuclear warhead, behind which was situated a highly sophisticated inertial navigation system. Assembled in a clean room in a facility north of Moscow, this comprised a powerful microchip capable of some several billion calculations per second whose purpose was to measure the missile's relative acceleration and convert it into far simpler variables of speed and distance to target. Based on these constantly changing variables, a guidance system made minor adjustments to the booster thrust.
At the precise moment that the accelerometer decided that the missile's inertial boost had matched the required trajectory for it to reach its target, the solid fuel boosters were abruptly shut down. Timing was critical here. If the boosters burned for one thousandth of a second too long, the warhead could land up to four hundred yards wide of its target, and once the booster had been shut down, it could not be restarted.
The SS-18 went ballistic when the Post Boost Vehicle detached from the main body of the missile and carried the warhead on the next stage of its journey. From this point on, it was little more than an artillery shell, drifting silently through space without any further encouragement or direction from its internal systems.
It crossed over the Arctic poles and began to descend as gravity embraced it.
NORAD BMEWS FACILITY: FYLINGDALES MOOR, YORKSHIRE, ENGLAND
The phased array radar was approximately the size of a football field. It moved in perpetual rotation, probing the atmosphere with thin rays of energy.
As the rays struck the casing of the SS-18, they were bounced back, colliding at various points on the huge antenna. This rare event activated an alarm in the facility's mainframe computer system, which easily separated the returned signal from the normal transient background noise. A second set of rays was also bounced back. The second return was significant, for it not only provided confirmation that the first hadn't been a fluke, but it allowed the mainframe to make estimates on speed and trajectory, using an algorhythm that worked by calculating the difference in location and time between the two returns and drawing a line between them.
That calculus took approximately one hundredth of a second.
Within another tenth of a second, the data had been uploaded onto a SBIRS satellite, which compared it to its own calculations and transmitted the results to NORAD, USSTRATCOM, NMCC, Space Command andLooking Glass .
ABOARD KNEECAP
"We now have positive verification of thirty six - correction thirtyseven - ICBM launches from central Russia,"Looking Glass reported matter-of-factly. "SBIRS and BMEWS at Fylingdales and Thule have confirmed missile tracks. Estimated impact area is CONUS."
"We're moving toHot Pepper ,"Storm Rock announced.
"What the hell...?" the President muttered.
"Attack Condition Yellow," Westwood explained, swallowing hard. "It means that a hostile missile attack is in progress against the Continental United States."
"We are now at DefCon Two," Dunster observed flatly.
The President seemed to shrink before everybody's eyes. He sunk his head into the palms of his hands. Nobody could see his expression, but it wasn't hard to imagine what he was thinking.
"Where in the US?" Bishop voiced the question that was on everybody's mind.
"Still uncertain," Allen said. "The '18s are likely to be headed for hardened targets such as ICBM silos and C&C facilities. The '11s are probably aimed at softer targets."
It was Copeland who reached the conclusion first. "Like cities, right?"
"Forty-two confirmed inbounds,"Earth Digger reported.
"Quite possibly," Allen accepted. Even on a telephone line, the urgency in his voice was obvious. "But more likely soft military targets. The attack pattern seems so far to be consistent with a classic counterforce strike rather than countervalue."
"They're going after our ability to retaliate," Nielsen thought aloud.
"Fifty-three inbounds."
Lewis reacted instinctively. Had he the time to consider the available options, his advice might have been different. But time was one commodity that was in desperately short supply right now. "I think this is the time to consider an ACC alert order," he suggested. When he saw the confusion in the President's eyes, he elaborated. "That means implementation of the SIOP plan to destroy Russia's strategic forces before they can do any more damage."
Nielsen and General Westwood nodded agreement. It seemed to them like the only rational course of action under the circumstances.
"Sixty-one inbounds."
"I concur with Dr Stein," Westwood said to the President. "Those missiles will hit us in about twenty-five minutes. Once they do, our ability to respond will be severely inhibited."
Mitchell looked up with a wry smile. "Perhaps I don't want torespond , General. Perhaps I think that enough people have already died tonight. Several million Russians, and now possibly several million Americans. If we - as you say -respond , do you think the Russians will just say okay and call it quits?"
Westwood allowed his irritation to show. "I'm not sure that's the issue here, sir. The whole point of having an integrated early warning and response system is to give us the ability to respond to an enemy attack. Are you just suggesting that we sit here and do nothing while America blows up?"
"Use 'em or lose 'em," Nielsen added. "Sir."
Lewis leaned forward so that he could make eye contact with the President, at the other end of the table. "Mr. President, nobody wants this war," he said in a calm tone that masked his true fear. "I don't believe the Russians really want it any more than we do, but we have to face some hard facts here. One: We are the likely target of a massive Russian nuclear strike. Two: We cannot establish communications with whoever's in charge in Moscow to ascertain their intentions. Three: For these reasons, this may be just the opening stage of a full nuclear commitment on the part of the Russians. They obviously think, for whatever reason, that it was us who attacked them."
The President slammed the table with a clenched fist. "Dr. Stein, I'm not going to escalate a situation that's already been escalated far enough. No! I want every possible effort expended to contact Pushkin, or whoever the hell is in charge over there now. We need to turn this thing off."
At the other end of the table, Lewis squeezed his eyes shut, hoping more than ever that this was just a terrible nightmare. But when he reopened them, the nightmare was still very real. He was theNational Security Advisor , for fuck's sake. If he couldn't offer his best advice now, when could he offer it? The problem was, he didn't know what his best advice was. This was one of those occasions when political expediency just wouldn't reconcile to moral propriety. The old paradigm of nuclear war was being realized. Insofar, the President was quite correct. Retaliating without even having communicated with the Russian leadership could very well be just the sort of irrational decision to invite a murderous response. Yet, was it just as wrong to let the murder of millions of Americans simply go unanswered? It came down to one simple question:
To avenge or not to avenge?
Lewis had once acquiesced to the need to exact revenge upon Sandra Quinnan's killer. Had that been right? He couldn't answer that honestly. Again, it may have been the right thing to do in the abstract; yet it had still been an immoral act. So did that make the murder of one individual any less immoral than that of ten million? What value could one place upon human life - be it a singular or a multitude? It was the old Hitler question so beloved of philosophy professors: If you could go back in time and murder Hitler as a baby, or kill his mother before she became pregnant, would it be morally correct to do so? As a Jew, that provided an interesting dilemma. Lewis's maternal grandmother had been one of seven Jewish children from Rotterdam. She and four of her siblings had fled to England shortly before Hitler's invasion of the Netherlands. Her remaining two sisters had chosen to stay behind with their mother and father. The last time anybody had seen them, they were being herded onto a cattle truck destined for Belsen.
In the final analysis, it didn't matter whether it would have been right or wrong to kill Hitler's mother. But it had certainly been right to prosecute the war with Nazi Germany, if only for the sake of the greater good. It hadn't been a matter of revenge, but survival. So how did those standards apply to the present situation? Would the Russian nuclear attack threaten the principles upon which America had been built? If the answer was no, then to retaliate would be a simple act of revenge. It would be inherently dangerous to allow such a primitive sentiment to become a deciding factor when the stakes were so high. America would survive this attack, Lewis knew. There were ways other than nuclear attack to punish Russia for the honest mistake they had made. Buthad it been an honest mistake? He couldn't answer that with any degree of certainty.
"Storm Rock," he said. "What are their bombers doing?"
"They're proceeding to their Positive Control Points, just as ours are."
"Seventy-eight inbounds."
"And their subs?" Westwood asked.
The answer was a moment coming. "Still waiting for confirmation of numbers, sir, but early indications are that they're putting to sea as fast as they can."
That was precisely the answer Lewis didn't want to hear, for it proved correct his worst fears. "From what we know, Mr. President," he explained, "my guess is that the ICBMs are targeted almost exclusively at military targets. The role of the subs and bombers will be to wipe up the cities. You see, SLBMs and Russian bombers are not usually as accurate as ICBMs, and their CEP" - Circular Error Probable - "is greater than that of, say, an SS-11 or 18. If you're attacking a hardened military bunker, you need to achieve total accuracy in order to destroy it, whereas a few hundred yards CEP doesn't matter if you're attacking a soft target. In other words, their ICBMs will be used on targets where accuracy is of greater importance, and the second phase of the attack will concentrate on soft targets such as cities."
"One hundred and sixteen inbounds."
"So what you're saying," the President concluded, "is that no matter what we do, we can't stop their bombers and subs, right? If that's the case, why do anything?"
"Our air defenses should be able to stop at least some of their bombers," Westwood responded.
"One hundred and thirty nine inbounds."
"And I'd give us a better than average chance of reducing their naval capability," Dunster added. "We've always kept close tabs on their boomers. We pretty much know exactly where they are, and we could order their destruction. It won't be pretty. It could be the biggest naval battle since Midway, but I'm confident that we can destroy enough of their subs to make a pretty big difference."
"Mr. President," Looking Glassannounced, "I've got some preliminary target estimates here. Seems like Dr. Stein was correct; they're attacking our strategic capability. Primary targets appear to be," he took a deep breath before reading the list, "Offutt in Nebraska, Eglin in Florida, Whiteman in Missouri, Grand Forks, Minot, McConnell in Kansas, Malmstrom in Montana, Fairchild in Washington, Travis in California, Kirtland in New Mexico, Beale in California, Nellis in Nevada and Dyess in Texas. We think that Tinker, Barksdale, Edwards, Petersen and Mountain Home have also been targeted. It's a classic countervalue attack pattern."
Everybody in the room noted the calmness inAlice's voice as he continued listing the targets. Professionalism was overwhelming his emotions, Lewis realized. It was a sensation with which he was acutely familiar. Nobody saw Reynolds go pale as he thought of his young niece, at home in the base accommodation on Barksdale AFB with her six-month-old daughter. They're killing babies, the chief of staff's mind screamed in outrage.
"The naval facilities under attack are as follows. New London, Connecticut. Kings Bay, Georgia. Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. San Diego, California. Charleston, South Carolina. Norfolk, Virginia and Bremerton, Washington. And our C3installations are also under attack. They are" - another deep breath - "Cheyenne Mountain, Raven Rock, our PAVE PAWS stations at Cape Cod, Mass and Beale, California, and outside CONUS, our BMEWS stations at Fylingdales, England, Cobra Dane in the Aleutians, Clear in Alaska and Thule in Greenland."
"Hold on a moment, General," the President interrupted. "Did you say Raven Rock?"
"Yes, sir."
He and Margaret exchanged a horrified glance as they both arrived at the same conclusion... "My daughter is being taken there." Mitchell wondered if that sounded selfish under the circumstances. After all, everybody would more than likely lose loved ones tonight. But if the world's most powerful man couldn't even prevent the death of his own daughter, what was the point? Margaret gripped his hand tightly.
"That's negative, sir,"Big Bird revealed. "Her chopper has been diverted over the Atlantic. She's being taken to the USS Northampton."
"The Northampton is a specially equipped communications vessel, sir," Westwood explained. "It's presently anchored off Newfoundland. She'll be quite safe there."
"Two hundred and four confirmed inbounds."
"Thank you," the President said quietly, feeling Margaret relax her grip on his hand. He felt truly ashamed of himself for being so selfish. His daughter would be safe, but millions of sons and daughters and mothers and fathers wouldn't be so fortunate, since they hadn't been afforded the privilege of being directly related to the President of the United States. That was a fact with which he'd have to come to terms later. Providing there was a later, of course. "Carry on, General."
"In the special category," Allen continued, "there are twenty-four complete misfires so far and nine missiles set to detonate off the Pacific and Atlantic Coasts and the Gulf of Mexico. Now these may also be misfires, but it's more likely that they're high altitude EMP bursts."
"Is that all?" the President asked, his hands visibly twitching as the enormity of what was happening began to dawn on him.
"Um... not quite sir,"Storm Rock admitted. "There are also three missiles targeted at cities."
"Two hundred and fifty nine inbounds."
The President felt his stomach contract. He suddenly wanted to vomit. "Which ones?"
"Washington D.C., Seattle and Houston, sir. My guess is that they selected roughly equivalent cities to those attacked by the Ukrainians."
"Oh my God," Copeland murmured just audible enough to be heard.
"How many warheads in total, General?" The question came from Nielsen.
"So far, estimated count is just over six hundred and four. That's six-oh-four warheads, sir."
"I concur with that,"Storm Rock announced. "I hate to say it, Mr. President, but this attack sounds worse than it is. They've left a lot of holes in their attack pattern. We estimate that over eighty percent of our bombers will have been scrambled by the time of impact, and their attack pattern is way short of taking out our ICBM capability either. That's possibly because a lot of their birds didn't get off the ground. The point is, we can still hit 'em hard."
"But any holes the Russians have left," Westwood added, "will probably be filled by their bomber fleet, SLBMs and ALCMs. That's why it's imperative that we respond quickly."
To Lewis's surprise, the President sought his advice. "Dr Stein, you're an expert on Russian thinking. Whatare they thinking? And how will they respond if we, as General Allen says,hit 'em hard ?"
Lewis was filled with a sense of utter solitude as all eyes turned to him. The President of the United States - supposedly the world's most powerful man - had granted him the casting vote on what would happen next in what had already become the most dangerous night in human history. The irony of the situation wasn't lost on him. He had accepted Bishop's approach to come to Washington purely so that he might contribute to saving lives rather than destroying them. But a nameless Russian politician or even perhaps a General several thousands of miles away had denied him that opportunity.
He cleared his throat. "Based on what we already know, Mr. President, they've committed with almost all the force they can muster to destroying both our strategic capability and infrastructure. They know that we are likely to respond in kind. That's the whole premise of Mutual Assured Destruction. Throughout history, they've proved time and time again that they're prepared to accept massive losses to achieve their goals. Now I don't believe for a moment that they intended for this war to happen. But now that it has, whoever's in charge right now has committed to it. To put it another way, sir, they've thrown a war and they're going to have one whether or not we come. My advice to you, sir, is to retaliate with a counterforce strike designed to closely mirror theirs. At this stage, I recommend that we avoid cities wherever possible. That gives us a shot at turning this thing off before it escalates into total nuclear conflict."
"Well, it already sounds pretty damn total to me," the President snapped.
"Precisely, Mr. President," Nielsen agreed, seizing the opportunity to present his own argument, which was somewhat more radical than Lewis's. "That's why we should go for the jugular. If we target their C3capability - and, unfortunately, that would entail attacking most of their major administrative centers and cities - then there won't be anybody left alive to order in the subs and bombers against our own cities. Besides, most of their strategic forces are still on the ground. We can order our bombers to attack leadership bunkers, communication facilities and so forth. We call it the 'Grand Tour'."
At the mention of that phrase, Lewis felt his veins turn to ice. It was a phrase he hadn't heard for a long time, a term that belonged to the Cold War. The First Lady met his eyes. He could see that she was thinking precisely the same thing. She turned back to her husband, holding his hand under the table.
"Ed, I think that Dr Stein's advice is more appropriate at this time," she advised. "It's far too premature to consider the Grand Tour. A counterforce strike gives us time to negotiate a ceasefire with the Russians."
Nielsen opened his mouth to say something, but even at this defining moment in history knew better than to contradict the First Lady, who he knew would quite willingly chew him up and spit him back out again for the sheer hell of it. His time would come, but not just yet. That was okay with him. He was a patient man.
The President looked up at Margaret, his eyes those of a man burdened with humanity's fate. In all these years, she had never offered one piece of bad advice and he couldn't imagine that she would begin to do so now.
"Very well," he said finally. "Let's do it."
Lewis duly excused himself from the room, ran to the bathroom and vomited. Only, for once, the vomiting had less to do with the alcohol he'd consumed that day than it did with a shocking thought that had just occurred to him.
Jo's near Washington.
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
For the first time in its history, the FEMA Special Facility was on full-scale alert, and the predominant thought in Carl Beakman's mind was to wonder whether Victor had made it home safely. Less than half of his department heads and senior staff had reported in following the alert. He presumed that many of them had greater reservations about leaving their families behind than he'd had about leaving Victor. Or perhaps they'd just been caught in traffic on highways jammed with civilians scrambling to leave town.
The main consequence of the staff shortages was a number of sudden promotions for junior personnel. A 21-year-old intern had been promoted to Director of Civilian Manpower, since he was the only member of that particular department who'd made it to Olney. Similarly, the Director of Civil Defense was a young woman barely six months out of college. All had gathered in the Operations Center a hundred and fifty feet below ground level to report to Beakman on the facility's state of readiness.
He stood in front of an electronic map of the United States, which used various colored lights and symbols to show the status of other FEMA and military facilities across the country. At the moment, the status indicator above the map was Yellow, which meantAlert -- Emergency Possible . Normally, it was Green. It had never gone to Red, except in an exercise, of course.
As he reviewed the facts of the department heads and acting department heads, Beakman saw that they all had one thing in common. They were all scared out of their skin.
"Okay," he began. "We're going to go around the table. I want each of you to tell me where your departments are up to. This is the real deal, people. So let's start with you." He pointed at the Military Liaison Officer, a Lieutenant Colonel on secondment from the Pentagon. "Why don't you begin by giving us some background on the situation."
The LC's hard, chiseled features somehow contradicted his impassive tone. "Twelve low-yield nuclear warheads were airburst earlier this evening over forward Ukrainian positions. Approximately half an hour later, Ukraine responded with a nuclear strike of its own, destroying the cities of Tula, Volgograd and Moscow with intermediate range ballistic missiles. NCA has declared DefCon Three, and the President is currently aboard KNEECAP. I think we can assume that the Vice President, who was in Moscow at the time, is probably dead."
Several of those in the room hadn't heard about the Ukrainian retaliatory strike yet. The result was a chorus of raised voices and dejected groans. Beakman's pleas for silence went unheeded. After a couple of moments, the Lieutenant-Colonel proceeded, his commanding resonance succeeding where Beakman had failed.
"We don't know what state the Russian leadership is in right now," he reported. "In fact, we don't even know who's in charge. Communications with Moscow are down for the time being, so we can only speculate on what's going on. That's all I know for the time being."
"Thank you," Beakman said, preempting a volley of questions. He scribbled a few notes on the pad in front of him. "What about you?" He was pointing at the Director of Civilian Operations, one of the few authentic department heads who'd made it to Olney.
The Director was a lanky bearded man in his mid-forties, whose narrow wire-rimmed spectacles gave him a somewhat gawky appearance. "As you know, the Army is moving to close down the Interstates to civilian traffic. That is having the predictable effect of panicking people into violence and causing logjams and road accidents on secondary routes. Similar measures are being effected to take control of commercial airports. To put it another way, there will be no commercial flights until the emergency has passed. And, just in case of..."
He was interrupted by a deep, continual buzz that resonated throughout the entire facility. It's suddenness caused everybody to jump. Then to freeze in terror as they realized what it meant.
Beakman looked up at a backlit wall display. Flashing in time with the tone against a red background was a message in bold black letters: Attack Warning --- Condition Red. The status indicator above the wall map obediently turned red.
For a moment, Beakman's mind went blank and a . Despite the numerous exercises -- which, privately, he'd always considered to be meaningless - he couldn't remember what he was supposed to do next. But that sensation lasted no more than an instant before professionalism took over. TheAttack Warning sign had been triggered by the facility's air defense station, which sourced its real-time data directly from the NORAD mainframe. ACondition Red could only be initiated once NORAD had received confirmation of an attack from secondary BMEWS stations and STRATCOM in Omaha. It was as close to a foolproof system as any, and Beakman knew that there was no way Olney could receive an erroneous attack warning. It just wasn't possible.
"Okay, people," he barked, jumping to his feet. "This is it. Everybody to your stations."
For a moment, nobody moved from their seats. They were either staring at the sign in abject horror or were looking at Beakman in puzzlement, as if they hadn't understood what he'd said. Then they began to respond as they arrived at the same conclusion as their boss. Their actions became automatic; the product of repetitive training. They rushed to their posts, carrying out tasks that none of them had ever thought they'd have to perform in anything other than a drill.
The Director of Communications was charged with ensuring intact links with KNEECAP, NORAD and other regional FEMA facilities around the country, including Mount Weather and Raven Rock.
At his station, meanwhile, the Military Liaison Officer began to prepare computer generated damage estimates, based on attack data received from NORAD. "StratCom confirms a massive inbound Russian ICBM attack," he yelled at Beakman, reading from a sheet of paper that he'd just torn from the Teletype.
"How many?" Beakman asked, striding over to the General's desk. He was already wondering if Victor had made it back to Chesapeake Bay. A check of his watch and a quick mental calculation told him probably not. Especially in the traffic out there.
"About six hundred and counting so far," the LC reported. For the first time since Beakman had known him, his face expressed an emotion that Beakman vaguely recognized as fear. "D.C. is one of the targets," he added.
Beakman suddenly wished he hadn't quit smoking a few weeks' ago. If ever he'd had a craving...
"Thank you, Mike."
He looked around him, taking in the scene of well-rehearsed chaos and ticking items off a mental checklist of tasks that had to be performed before the world was torn asunder. Like cleaning a house in preparation for visiting relatives. A thousand megatons of visiting relatives.
The most important role at this early stage was that of the Director of Civil Defense. It was his job to activate the Emergency Alerting System and initiate air raid sirens around the Washington D.C. metropolitan area. There were about forty of them, generally located at strategic points atop high buildings throughout the capital.
The staff at Olney were among the first people in Washington to learn of the imminent attack. Within a couple of minutes, everybody else in the capital would also know.
PHELPS, TEXAS; 65 MILES NORTH OF HOUSTON
"Well, that's it," Tabatha announced as the pick-up slowed to a halt. "We're out of gas."
"Fucking great," Nina snorted, looking around her. They were on a dark country road. Although they were only a couple of miles away from the Interstate, there was no traffic in sight. There was no anything in sight. Not even streetlights. Just fields and the dim glow of a full moon. She looked up at the star drenched sky, not remembering the last time she'd seen so many stars. It was pretty, but also kind of awesome. It made her feel even smaller and insignificant than she already felt.
"I'm scared," Rhonda announced. "It's scary out here."
"Ain't nothin' to be scared of," Nina said, her tone laced with sarcasm. "Not accordin' to Big Sis."
Tabatha stared icily at her. She was scared too. Scared that she would let the kids down, that she wouldn't be able to protect them out here. Damn, I'm a city girl. I hate the fucking boondocks. This was alien territory, full of risks and dangers she couldn't even imagine. But experience had taught her that the best way to deal with fear was to tackle it head on. After all, she'd spent most of her young life doing just that.
"Come on," she said finally. "Let's check this place out." Sensing the reluctance of the others, she added, "W'all stick together, right? If any of ya' wander off, I'll kill ya'."
That seemed to inspire a certain amount of confidence. Not much, but it would have to do for now.
Tabatha climbed out of the pick up. Nina, Rhonda and Gary joined her.
The muggy night rang with the sound of libidinous crickets. The humidity caused Tabatha's cotton blouse to cling to her skin. She hated this time of year. This was the time of year that you got big, motherfucking bugs. 'Specially at night, she thought. Tabatha hated bugs.
Anticipating Nina's question, she pointed in the direction the truck was facing. "This way," she said.
The four children headed off, treading carefully, holding hands with each other. They took comfort in numbers. Always had done.
"Momma always says that country folk don't like black folks," Nina pointed out.
"Well I don't like them much either," Tabatha said. "But we ain't got much choice. Now shut up before you scare Gary."
Nina huffed. "I'm tired of you talkin' down at me. You only a couple of years older than me."
"Fine," Tabatha told her. "Then you decide what we do. You be in charge."
Nina hung her head. She didn't have any better ideas. It was just that she was scared. But wasn't everybody? Even those folks back on the Interstate had looked scared. "You really buy that shit about a war?" she asked, unaware that the fear had finally crept into her own voice.
Tabatha shrugged. "I dunno. Ain't nothin' we can do 'bout it, anyways." She narrowed her eyes, searching for any sign of civilization. Her peripheral vision registered an oblong shape in the distance, slightly darker than the horizon. Her hopes lifted.
"Over there." She pointed at the shape. "Could be a barn or sum' tin."
"I don't wanna sleep in a barn," Rhonda whined. "You get rats and shit in barns."
"You prefer it out here?" Tabatha asked her. Rhonda shook her head. "Didn't think so. Look on the bright side. It could be a house."
Nina stared at her incredulously. "You gonna break in?"
"No, dummy. I'm gonna knock on the door and ask if they've got a spare room for four nigger kids. 'Course I'm gonna break in, stoopid. As long as nobody's there."
They headed towards the building. None of them said a word. It was a conscious attempt not to attract any unwanted attention.
It soon became apparent that the building was indeed a house. A traditional, wooden house with a porch; the kind that was common in this part of the country. Nothing special, but at least it was shelter. There was a chicken coop at the back, so the owner was probably a farmer, Tabatha guessed. Well, so was everybody else in the boondocks, she figured.
An old pick up was parked outside the house, but it didn't look in any usable condition. By the look of it, the only place it was going was to the junkyard. This was the point at which Tabatha really became scared. She had to check whether the place was empty, and the only way she could do that was to knock. But what if somebody answered? What then?
I'll deal with that when it comes to it.
"You sure 'bout this, Tabby?" Nina asked. She was considering hiding behind the pick up until Tabatha had checked the house for occupants. But she didn't want to be left out here alone.
"Ain't got much choice, have I?"
With some trepidation, Tabatha stepped up to the front door, knocked lightly and waited.
Nothing.
She knocked again, this time with slightly more force.
Still nothing.
"It's empty," she concluded, trying the doorknob. Fortunately, it was unlocked, saving her the bother of having to pick the lock. She stepped inside, her younger siblings close behind her.
The first thing they noticed was the rancid stench; a stale odor that invoked visions of dry rot and putrefying food. Rhonda clasped her hand over her mouth and nose.
"Shee-it!" Nina exclaimed. "Somebody die in here?"
That thought had already occurred to Tabatha. "Don't be stoopid," she snapped. "Just got a hygiene problem, thass all."
"When we goin' home?" Gary moaned.
"Tomorrow," Nina lied reassuringly. "We goin' home tomorrow."
The four children took careful steps, feeling their way along the walls. They entered what sufficed for a breakfast room. Tabatha resisted the temptation to switch on the light, although for some reason it seemed brighter in here than it had done outside. Perhaps her eyes had adapted to the dark, she thought. She also noticed that the stench was much stronger in this room.
"I think I liked it more outside," Nina remarked. She wasn't the only one. Even Tabatha was beginning to have her doubts. What if somethingisdead in here? Damn. I don't know what a dead body smells like. Don't want to know.
The room had a storm door that led to a ramshackle greenhouse. For some reason, the prospect of going out there sent a shiver down Tabatha's spine. It was almost as if a sixth instinct was warning her against it. Something bad out there, and I don't want to know what it is.
"I think w'all should get outa here," she heard herself say. "It ain't safe."
"No shit," Nina agreed.
As they turned back the way they came, a hand flicked on the light switch. A large, rough hand. Tabatha swung around -
- to find herself staring down the barrel of a twelve bore shotgun.
She jumped in fright, instinctively grabbing Nina's hand.
The man holding the gun looked to be in his mid-forties with narrow weather beaten features. His small menacing eyes and thin rancorous lips lent themselves to malevolence. He was wearing a pair of grimy dungarees, one strap hanging loosely at his side. And, despite his thin face, he looked big enough to crush any of the four children with his bare hands.
"You kids are in a world of shit," he told them in a slow, sinister drawl.
FLIGHT UA4171, OVER NORTH ATLANTIC
"So," Richie Gellis smirked cheekily at the blonde flight attendant as she served him a mini can of beer. "Do you get frequent flyer miles in this job, or what?"
"We get..." She paused, handing him his can. "... certain concessions."
He raised a libidinous eyebrow at her, wondering for how long she would be in Moscow. Female companionship was usually thin on the ground in the Russian capital, unless one wanted to pay for it and risk catching something wholly undesirable. The attendant smiled at him and quickly moved on to the next passenger. Gellis made sure he got a good view of her pert backside as she did so.
She thinks I'm cute, he mused.
What an asshole, she thought.
He opened a compartment in the arm of his reclining seat and erected the small television monitor. A quick check of the in-flight film guide told him that he had a choice of movies; from Leonardo DiCaprio's Oscar-winning adaptation ofHamlet , to Sigourney Weaver's latest outing inAlien Incursion Gellis put on his headphones and began to flick through the various channels as he sipped from his can of beer.
The night outside was black as sackcloth. Gellis lowered his blind and adjusted his seat into a reclining position, debating whether to grab a few hours' sleep. He doubted whether he would get much sleep once he arrived in Moscow.
The Captain, cutting into the in-flight entertainment system, interrupted his train of thought.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the Captain speaking. Because of technical difficulties, we are unable to land in Moscow at the present time. Instead, we're diverting to Frankfurt..."
"What the hell..." Gellis muttered under his breath. He removed his headphones and craned his neck to see what was going on. There appeared to be a lot of activity taking place towards the front of the cabin, outside the cockpit. Three flight attendants were talking in hushed tones, their expressions indicative of the tense atmosphere among the cabin crew. A buzz of exasperation resounded through the cabin as other passengers complained to each other and speculated about the reasons for the diversion.
"... will be landing approximately three and a half hours earlier than planned," the Captain was explaining.
The man sitting next to Gellis - some kind of businessman, judging by his expensive looking designer suit - said, "They've probably had a power cut in Moscow or something."
Gellis stared at him. His journalistic instinct had been aroused. Something wasn't right here. What technical difficulties? Is that all he's telling us? And why do the flight attendants look so anxious? "I'm going to find out what's going on," he told his neighbor, standing up.
He walked towards the front of the plane, reaching into his pocket for his press ID. As he approached the cockpit door, the blonde attendant who had served him a few moments' earlier stopped him.
"I'm sorry, sir, but you can't go in there," she told him.
Gellis flashed his press card. "I'm a reporter for the New York Post, Ma'am. Our readers are depending on me getting to Moscow to tell them what's going on over there. So I owe it to them to know why we're not going to Moscow."
Oh, what the hell?the attendant thought to herself. "Well, Mister" - she checked his card - "Gellis. I think your readers will probably already know why you're not going to Moscow."
He looked at her quizzically. "Huh?"
She spoke in an even monotone, as if she were remarking on the weather. "You see, Mr. Gellis. There is no Moscow any more. It was destroyed by a nuclear blast about half an hour ago."
Gellis stared at her, his eyes wide with disbelief. "I hope you're fucking joking," he muttered, knowing that nobody would joke about such a thing. He felt his legs weaken. "Who... Why?"
"That's all I know, I promise," she said quietly, already reproaching herself for having told him. "Please, do us all a favor and keep this to yourself, huh? The last thing we need right now is a panic."
"But don't you think the other passengers have a right to know?"
She hung her head in bemusement. "Mr. Gellis, I'm as scared as you are right now. God knows what it's like down on the ground. Imagine what it'll be like if you start telling everybody what's happening. They'll demand to know everything, and when we tell them that we don't know, they won't believe us. And then we'll have anextremely ugly situation on our hands. Do you want to be responsible for that?"
Gellis took a moment to consider her point. Eventually, he nodded his reluctant agreement. "Okay," he said, "you're right. I'll agree to keepschtum on one condition."
"What's that?"
"That if you find out any more information, you let me know immediately, right?"
"Deal."
He returned to his seat, his stomach churning with fear. Knowing only half the story was perhaps the worst possible position to be in right now, he realized. It would have been better to knowall the details, or nothing at all. How much do people on the ground know?he wondered.
"So," the businessman next to Gellis asked cheerfully, "what's the story?"
Gellis attempted to put on a brave smile. "Like you said, power cut at Shermeteyevo."
BROOKLAND, WASHINGTON D.C.
Donald and Mary Patterson, like millions of other Americans that evening, had been watching the crisis develop live on GCN, a real-life soap opera. And, like most of their fellow countrymen, they were both frightened and disbelieving that their country could be on the verge of nuclear war. The news reports seemed so abstract, nothing to do with the daily business of going to work and worrying about saving enough money to buy nice birthday presents for the kids. Besides, they had thought that the threat of nuclear war was supposed to have diminished with the end of the Cold War. They couldn't understand why the government was evacuating just because of a distant conflict in which America wasn't even involved. Their fear was borne out of a sheer lack of comprehension. Like many Americans at that moment, they simply assumed that the government suits knew something they didn't.
The kids - too young to understand what was going on, thank God - were safely tucked up in bed, oblivious to the terrible events unfolding in the adult world. Mary had just phoned her mother in Idaho to make sure that she was okay and that she had enough food in her cupboards to survive in the event of a nuclear attack. Donald, like many ordinary American men, tried to ignore his own fears by concentrating on the abstractions being discussed on GCN. Why was the government evacuating? What would happen next? Who was in charge in Moscow now?
He picked up the remote control and switched the channel to a local Washington affiliate.
"... resulting in several hundred fender-benders as citizens attempt to flee the metropolitan area," the anchorwoman was reporting over aerial footage of jammed highways and automobile collisions. "The Maryland State Police and the Federal Emergency Management Agency are advising people to stay at home, and not to venture out unless absolutely necessary. The Mayor of Washington has declared a State of Emergency and called in the National Guard to maintain law and order in several boroughs. Meanwhile, citizens are advised that the following routes have been restricted to military and Federal vehicles only: US-1, the I-95 and I-495 Beltway, I-270 and I-395. A statement just released by FEMA's Washington bureau advises that citizens attempting to use these roads to leave the city will be turned back by the US Army, by force if necessary..."
"This is just too unreal," Mary muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. "It's all going too fast."
"Don't worry," Donald reassured her. "The talking heads are saying that this is just standard procedure. The President will probably be back at the White House within the hour. Just a storm in a teacup, that's all." He didn't believe for a moment that the U.S. government was going to start World War Three over a piece of war torn wasteland somewhere in Eastern Europe.
"So why is everybody so scared?" she asked, pointing at the TV screen. "Even the newsreader looks shaky. Look at her face."
Donald chuckled condescendingly. "Listen, honey. Whenever you mention nukes, people panic. Tomorrow, everybody will be feeling pretty damn stupid for overreacting so much."
"I hope you're right."
An off-screen assistant handed the anchorwoman a slip of paper. She read it into the camera. "I've just been handed another FEMA advisory, recommending what citizens should do in the unlikely event of a nuclear attack. When the..."
Presently, the picture was replaced by a plain red screen with the caption 'EMERGENCY ALERTING SYSTEM' emblazoned in large white letters. The accompanying high pitched hum caused Mary's stomach to clench into a fist of ice. It was followed by a prerecorded announcement. The female voice was calm and impassive.
"This is the Emergency Alerting System," it said. "An air raid is in progress. Citizens in the Washington D.C. metropolitan area are advised to remain in their homes or proceed to the nearest convenient place of shelter."
Initially, Donald did what any other American man might have done. He picked up the remote control and switched channels. But the announcement was being broadcast on every commercial wavelength.
By the time he realized this, the air raid sirens were clearly audible from outside.
Mary grabbed her husband by the scruff of the neck, her voice hysterical. "What do we do now, Donald? What do we do?"
He was shaking his head and staring blankly at the TV, which was continually looping the EAS tone and announcement. "I don't know, honey," he said, his voice distant. "I really don't know."
In his Washington apartment, a mildly disturbed man called Philip Cole was watchingIndependence Day on video for about the hundredth time. The divorced father of three had no friends and only two interests; horror books and disaster movies. His current favorite wasIndependence Day . He knew the script by heart, but still watched the film at least three times a week.
Cole's life had been a lonely one since his divorce six months ago. Following the separation, he had been forced to rent an apartment in one of Washington's less salubrious areas. The judge, meanwhile, had awarded his wife the marital home northeast of the city as part of the settlement in which she had cited Martin's unusual state of mind as grounds for divorce.
Bitch.
He was also restricted to only seeing his kids for six hours every Saturday. And even those visits were strictly supervised.
Bitch.
It wasn't as though she had needed the house. The geek of a lobbyist she was now dating earned at least ten times Cole's salary and even owned - as she always gloated whenever Philip went to see his kids - a country home in upstate New York. As a matter of fact, the kids -mykids - were up there with the asshole right now.
One of his favorite scenes inIndependence Day was the one in which a crowd of Californian hippies on the roof of an LA skyscraper got zapped by aliens they were welcoming to Earth. Had the movie been for real, Cole thought, his dozy ex-wife would have probably been among the doomed new-agers. She believed in shit like aliens and the supernatural. For not the first time, part of him fantasized about her getting zapped by a deadly luminescent laser beam.
On the screen, the advancing alien ship emerged from above the clouds, casting a shadow over New York. Then Cole heard something that he had never heard on the film before. A dull banshee wail accompanied by hysterical screaming.
Air raid warning?
He paused the video. The sound was still audible.
Strange.
Scratching his head, he went to the grimy window of his living room and opened it. As he did so, the siren became more audible, although its moan was indistinct compared to the screams emanating from the hordes of people he saw charging along the street below.
Where do they think they're going?he wondered. He pulled on a parka and headed downstairs to street level. Standing in the doorway of his apartment building, he took a perverse fascination in watching the people run. They didn't seem to have a common destination in mind; some were running one-way, some the other. Smiling to himself, he folded his arms and watched the people panic.
He heard a squelchy thud that caused him to turn. He winced, realizing that somebody had thrown themselves - or been pushed - out of a high-rise building. Cool! Across the street, people swarmed into a subway station, trampling the weak in their stampede. A young woman bounced off the windscreen of a BMW as it raced along the street. Way to go! Two cars collided head on right in front of Philip; one of the drivers hurled through his windscreen by the impact. Why on earth would anyone want to miss this, the ultimate disaster movie? Talk about virtual reality.
The problem was, nobody knew precisely where the bomb was going to fall. The general consensus seemed to be that the most likely targets were landmarks such as the White House and the Washington Memorial. People in the vicinity of such places ran away from them as if the buildings themselves were about to explode. Not that it made any difference, of course. Martin knew that no human being could run far enough away from ground zero in such a short time. The disaster movie fanatic thought himself to be something of an authority on such matters.
Oh well, if the world was going to end, he figured that he might as well reserve himself a ringside seat. With this in mind, he made his way back up to his apartment. His kitchen closet was a trove of junk (most of it useless, but one never knew when it might come in handy) that he had collected over the years. Buried beneath it all was a foldaway plastic chair. Cole wasn't sure how stable it was, but it certainly looked to be in good enough shape. He tucked it under his arm and grabbed a bottle of cold beer from the fridge.
Then he made his way up to the roof and made himself comfortable. The eerie rising and falling tone of the sirens excited him. He took a sip of beer, hoping that he lived just long enough to see a real mushroom cloud.
27-year-old Elroy Simpkins had just stubbed out his third crack joint of the day when the sirens began their chilling wail. Unsure what he was hearing, he peered through the window of his apartment onto the street below.
"All the people, man," he mumbled to himself. "What the fuck they all doin' there?"
A distant part of his mind registered the sound of multitudes screaming; of blaring car horns in the distance. Perhaps he'd smoked some bad shit, he thought. Wouldn't be the first time. Sure as hell wouldn't be the last.
In his intoxicated state, he was lured by the combination of people and noise like a moth to light. He made his way outside and lost himself in the cacophony. They all look freaked, man, he heard a voice in his head say. Gotta get me another fix. Like the transvestite guy who fixes things. Yeah, that's it. I'll go see the fix-man.
He staggered through the chaotic scene, past a man who was spending his last moments on Earth brutally raping a young woman, past another man who was randomly firing a rifle at any human target unfortunate enough to catch his eye. Simpkins, who looked at least thirty but figured he was probably younger, had never known anythingbut chaos. He was right at home. Subconsciously, he registered the lack of a police presence and sensed opportunity.
For some reason known only to him, he found himself drawn towards the local shopping mall, from where most of the noise seemed to be emanating. When he reached it, he was confronted by a scene that most people would have described as hellish. To Elroy Simpkins, it was comforting.
The shops were being emptied of their contents by looters. The process was random rather than systematic, although some shops were proving more popular than others. Jewelry shops for example. Apparently, nobody had given much thought to the value of jewelry in the aftermath a nuclear war. The same went for electrical stores, with TV's and videos proving especially popular. Again, nobody seemed to be worried that there might not be any electricity with which to run their new appliances after a nuclear attack.
Other groups, however, were raiding grocery stores and supermarkets. Although many had been shut for the evening when the air raid sirens had started, that hadn't deterred those who were smart enough to realize that food might very well become as valuable as legal tender in a post-holocaust world.
Unfortunately for Elroy, his ignorance of what was coming meant that he wasn't concerned with stealing food. He wanted the valuable stuff that would pay for his next fix. And there were no cops around to stop him. He didn't understand why, and didn't particularly care. All he knew was that opportunities like this didn't present themselves every day.
He ran through the shattered display of a jewelry store, grabbing whatever he could and stashing it in his pockets. Everyone seemed to be in a real hurry, so he figured he'd better hurry too, before all the good stuff was gone.
As he stepped back out onto the street, a volley of shots rang out. The teenage boy who fired them didn't know why he was doing so, and was even less concerned with who he shot.
Elroy Simpkins found himself standing directly in the line of fire, and was the first person to be hit, a solitary bullet lodging in his left lung. He slumped to the ground, gurgling blood, blissfully ignorant as to why he was unable to move. He would never live long enough to appreciate the irony that his life had been prematurely ended by another crack addict.
Mercifully, he was dead by the time the bomb arrived.
Elsewhere in Washington, the air raid sirens provided an eerie soundtrack to an apocalyptic spectacle of hysteria on a biblical scale. With the highways jammed, the net effect was not entirely unlike that of a million rabid animals caged under sentence of death.
Many people had been woken by the sirens. A few slept through the commotion and continued to sleep until the bomb fell. A surprising number of people had, until that point, been completely ignorant of the crisis and thought that the sirens had been started by accident. Only those who checked the television to find the EAS message looping continuously discovered otherwise.
Within three minutes of the EAS being activated, there were very few people in Washington D.C. who doubted that the warning was for real.
On the corner of 7thStreet and Rhode Island Avenue, a young mother holding her daughter was looking up at the skies in fearful anticipation of the inevitable. A puddle of urine had formed at her feet.
In the East Potomac Park, fifty or sixty students had gathered to spend their last moments smoking cannabis joints under the full moon. A boom box was blasting out loud rock music. Other passers-by came to join the students, bringing with them alcohol and a range of chemical substances. None of them wanted to have their senses intact when the moment of reckoning came. In the heart of a city in chaos, the jollity and high spirits in the East Potomac Park provided a somewhat surreal spectacle.
Elsewhere, however, hundreds of people committed suicide rather than face the horror of what was coming. The most popular means of doing this was by putting a gun to one's head. Those without access to a firearm chose either to slash their wrists or take massive overdoses in the hope that they would lose consciousness before the bombs fell.
Meanwhile, similar scenes were being played out in towns and cities across the United States.
JOHNS HOPKINS MEDICAL CENTER, BALTIMORE
If there was anything that really bothered Jo, it was that Lewis hadn't called her; even just to say a final goodbye. She imagined he was in some goddamn bar, too intoxicated even to understand what was going on. Her eyes moistened as she began to think about all the things she would never get to say to him. All the things she might never have the chance to do.
Jo was thirty-eight years old - although she could have easily passed for ten years younger - but now it seemed as though she might not live to be any older. She had spent the best part of her adult life helping the sick. It struck her as rather poignant that she would probably die with them too.
An eerie atmosphere had descended upon the hospital when the sirens began. A few staff and patients had left the complex to try and get to their families before the bombs fell, but most had chosen to remain with those whose ailments denied them the chance to leave. Nurses continued to do their rounds, as they would have done on any other evening shift. Surgeons who had been in theater when the sirens began continued whatever procedures they had been performing. People were generally politer to each other than normal, having gained a sudden appreciation for human life. Of course, there were some who became hysterical, but there was always somebody at hand to comfort them. The general consensus seemed to be to maintain a facade of normality.
Except that this time, the situation wasn't normal at all, was it? Jo thought. In the background, the banshee sirens provided a chilling reminder of that.
Jo attempted a brave smile when she saw Dr Rosenberg making his way up the corridor towards her.
"You okay, honey?" he asked, immediately realizing how insane that must have sounded under the circumstances.
"I'm fine," she lied, distantly wondering how many minutes it would be until her life ended in an annihilating flash. "Part of me is hoping that we get a direct hit, you know? I don't know if I want to live to see what happens afterwards."
Rosenberg furrowed his brow. "Part ofme is hoping this is just a big practical joke; you know, like H.G. Wells' War of the Worlds broadcast."
Jo managed a bitter laugh. "Jeez. That'd be something, wouldn't it? Everybody getting worked up over nothing." She involuntarily shivered, thinking of the hysteria that must have gripped the general population by now. "You know, it just doesn't seem real. Here we are, having a perfectly rational conversation, and in less than half an hour, all of this" - she gestured all around her - "could be dust in the atmosphere. We've known for over sixty years that this could happen -sixty goddamn years - and what did we do to stop it?"
"What could we have done?" Rosenberg noted bleakly.
A thin smile of reminiscence flickered across Jo's lips. "Lewis always used to say that so long as the bombs existed, there was always a danger of something like this happening. I used to think that he was exaggerating. But he knew. Deep in his heart, he knew that the people in charge couldn't be trusted with the power of Gods. If only they had listened to him," she added meekly.
"Kind of ironic, isn't it?" Rosenberg remarked, watching a nurse push an elderly man back to his bed in a wheelchair. "We're still here, trying to save people's lives using techniques developed by the world's finest scientific minds, and yet science is about to destroy us all. I don't know how World War Three will be fought, but World War Four will be fought with sticks and stones. Einstein said that. Ever since that first bomb dropped on Hiroshima, this was always kind of inevitable when you think about it. Have you ever heard of a weapon that's been built but never used? Funny how things gain clarity at a time like this."
Jo tried to disregard a vision in her head of the horrific aftermath; an aftermath that was but minutes away. She imagined crazed and mutilated survivors staggering through a desolate wasteland of radioactive debris, scavenging for whatever scraps of food they could find. Rape and murder would be endemic, not to mention the diseases encouraged by several million bodies rotting in a dead world. She remembered another quote that Lewis had once related to her. A quote first uttered by Nikita Khrushchev in 1962.
The living will envy the dead.
Jo had dedicated her life to the protection and preservation of other lives, and so her mind screamed in outrage that so many were about to be destroyed so cheaply. Somewhere in Russia, a faceless man had decided that it was right to order the deaths of millions of Americans he'd never met and who probably hadn't entertained any feelings towards him one way or the other. Soon, she knew (if it hadn't already happened), a similarly faceless man in America would decide to do the same to several million Russians, incinerating lives, hopes, dreams, plans and memories in an instant of nuclear extermination. In this supposedly enlightened age, historians looked back on the barbarities of the Dark Ages without realizing, ironically, that the self-destructive nature of mankind hadn't really changed all that much after all. Only the weapons had become more sophisticated. She wondered if there would be any future historians to write about this night of infamy. And if there were, would they have learned anything from this? Probably not, she concluded. Probably not. You couldn't stop mankind being what it was any more than you could train a dog to be a cat. And that, Jo realized, would probably be humankind's epitaph: We emerged, we progressed, we learned, we built, we explored, and then we destroyed ourselves because it turned out we didn't actually like ourselves very much.
"You know," she reflected, "if Hopkins isn't destroyed, we might end up being the only functional hospital for miles. And, before long, every injured or dying survivor will find their way here. We'll be overrun. That's a comforting thought, isn't it?"
Rosenberg grimaced. "I've been trying not to think about that, Jo."
CIVIL BEND, MISSOURI
Many years ago, when Beth Logan had been a young girl, she had stolen some candy from old Mr. Goldberg's shop in the Queens neighborhood where she had grown up. All her school friends had done the same at one time or another, except that they had been more accomplished thieves than Beth. She stole not because she had particularly wanted the candy, but because she had craved the acceptance of her peers.
Mr. Goldberg had seen her pocket the candy bar, and as she'd left the shop, he'd stopped her. She still remembered being terrified that he would tell her parents; honest people who would have grounded her for life had they found out. But instead, he had just smiled at her and said, "Bethany, dear, if you want a candy bar and you can't afford it, just ask. There's no need for you to steal. You're better than those other kids." He hadn't told her parents, and she had never stolen another thing since. Yet that single moment, when she had thought hemight tell them, had been the most frightening of her life.
Until the moment when she heard the EAS announcement on the radio.
The Logan family -most of them, she corrected herself, remembering that Martin was somewhere above the clouds right now - were sixty miles from the Iowa state line when it started. She calculated that if the roads were this clear all the way, they could make Iowa in about forty-five minutes. That would be just after the bombs started hitting North America, presuming that the EAS had allowed half an hour's warning of the event. Whiteman and Kansas City were far enough behind for them to be safe. So they would probably make it, she calculated.
But that wasn't important, was it?
Cathy instantly recognized the high-pitched EAS tone as soon as it interrupted the radio broadcast, having heard it being tested on numerous occasions over the years. Memories of childhood came flooding back to her; of being told by a very severe schoolteacher to 'Duck And Cover' when the nuclear flash came. That memory was somehow associated with a recollection of the first time she had heard of an island called Cuba and of a Russian man called Khrushchev. She remembered that the adults around her had been frightened of something, although she hadn't been old enough back then to understand quite what thatsomething was, except that it was bad and that there was nothing she could do to prevent it.
But now she did understand, and wished that she didn't.
"Perhaps it's a drill," Patrick suggested. "You know, like they're just testing out the system."
Beth didn't look over her shoulder. She didn't need to in order to know that Cathy was crying. Despite all the problems between them, Beth wanted nothing more than to give her mother-in-law a reassuring hug right now. Perhaps, she reasoned, it was just that she craved human contact at this darkest of times, even if the sentiment wasn't necessarily reciprocal. She knew that Martin would have wanted his wife and parents to make their peace at the time when it mattered most. And if not now, then when?
"You okay, Cath?" she inquired softly.
"I'm fine," Cathy sobbed. "Just turn that damn radio off."
Beth obliged, silencing the endless loop of tones and announcements. The nearest air raid siren was miles away, out of earshot. It was a calm night, the spring air fresh with the promise of a glorious summer. A gentle breeze was flirting with the trees lining the roadside. At any other time, they could easily have been on a pleasant evening drive. It seemed surreal to Beth that they were actually in a country that was about to be consumed by nuclear fire. She tried to picture the chaos that would be taking place in the cities at that very moment, but quickly shut the thought out of her mind.
Utterly helpless, she thought. Utterly, totally helpless.
All she could do was drive. And pray for the first time in years.
90thSPACE WING, WARREN AFB, WYOMING
In a steel capsule one hundred feet below ground level, Captain Nick Pearson ticked off the next item on his prelaunch checklist. "I'm tellin' you, man, it's just a damn drill. I had a hot date tonight. Swear they pulled this shit on purpose."
Captain Holly Kurato, Pearson's co-launch officer, fixed him with a hard glare from her seat twelve meters away. "Let's just assume that it is for real. It's easier that way."
Pearson retorted with a cocky smile, exaggerating his Arkansan drawl. "Sometimes I just think you dyin' to be fryin', dah-lin'."
"Can it Nick, okay?" Kurato didn't look up from her checklist as she spoke.
"Yessir," was the response, edged with more than a touch of sarcasm.
Whiteman had been at DefCon Two for little over three minutes. The base commander, who was located in the Launch Control Facility at ground level, had issued a verbal notification of the alert. It had been immediately confirmed by the distant boom of the Launch Control Center's concrete blast doors closing. The finality of that sound provided a grim reminder to the launch officers that they were now sealed off from the elevator shaft and everything else beyond.
Their capsule - which measured no more than forty by twenty five feet - was suspended from the roof of its cavern by four hydraulic jacks and sat on two giant titanium springs, designed to dampen the impact of a nuclear blast. Further protection was afforded by titanium blast doors at the top of the elevator shaft and a special polymer coating on the blast doors at the bottom. Of course, the effectiveness of all this protection had never been proved in anything other than a theoretical sense. But, Pearson admitted to himself, if it didn't serve the purpose for which it had been designed, he and Kurato would probably be dead before they had a chance to complain about it.
They had been nearing the end of their twelve-hour shift when the alert was called, and standard protocol in such a situation was that nobody left their posts during an alert, regardless of whether or not their shift was over. The launch officers on duty at the time of alert were now in it for the duration of the exercise - or whatever the hell this thing was. From experience, Pearson knew that it could last a couple of hours or more. Great,he thought, already planning to have a quiet grumble about it when he met with his fellow officers in theGround Zero bar tomorrow. This would be his second alert drill in a month.
Like many launch officers, Pearson only planned to remain in his current posting until he got his MBA, which was, after all, the only route for advancement in the Air Force. Kurato, two years his junior, planned a career in Air Force Intelligence once she got hers. Although the selection criteria for missile launch officers were among the most stringent in the armed forces, involving extensive psychological profiling and aptitude tests, most silo jocks merely considered the job a stepping-stone to greater things. Preferably located above ground.
A red light blinked on Pearson's missile status designator. He spotted it out of the corner of his eye. The purpose of the designators was to inform the launch officers of technical hitches with any of the Minuteman-III missiles deployed at Warren. He had green lights across the board, apart from the bird in number nine silo.
"Got a problem on number nine, Holly," he reported. Why did this have to happen on a goddamn alert?
"Yeah, I see it too. Didn't we check that one out the other day?"
"Sure," he remembered, scribbling an entry in his log. "I sent Sanchez up there to fix it. Just some moisture on the guidance chip."
"Dammit," Kurato muttered under her breath. "Not a whole lot we can do about it now." She made a note on her checklist to inform the maintenance crew at the ground facility.
Pearson snorted in derision. "Strike for the home team, huh?"
"Big time, buddy."
The ring of a red phone in front of him - the Primary Alerting System - caused Pearson to jump. Here we go,he thought. They're calling off the exercise. He lifted the phone and upon hearing the cool, mechanical female voice, his veins turned to ice.
"Ivy Dance, Drumbeat... Ivy Dance, Drumbeat..." The voice looped continuously, and Pearson forced himself to listen at least three times until he was certain that he'd heard it correctly. He froze, immediately understanding what it meant. Drumbeat... this is not a drill. Lifting her own phone, Kurato heard the same message. She reacted as her training had conditioned her to. She hung up the receiver and went to work.
Suddenly, Pearson felt clammy. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow as he started to conduct a mental inventory of his loved ones. Mum and Dad, at home asleep in Little Rock... Sister Betty, with her husband and kids in Charlotte. Although he had been trained for this moment and was considered by the Air Force to be emotionally equipped to act when called upon, the officer who had only just graduated from high school when the Berlin Wall came down had never truly believed that he would face this moment. Just a stepping-stone to better things...
"I have Air Defense Warning Yellow," Kurato reported, her voice utterly calm. Always the consummate professional.
"Air Defense Warning Yellow - confirmed," Pearson replied, his voice not quite so calm. He hung up the receiver and punched a button on the phone. That sent an acknowledgment to USSTRATCOM at Omaha that the message had been received. His brain embarked on two distinct and independent tangents. The first was the product of training, allowing him to automatically perform the tasks for which he had been trained. The second was bewildered, terrified and considering the horrible implications of what was happening.
Kurato picked up a white phone that linked her to the Launch Control Facility. "Hey, Anderson. We've got a yellow alert and a red light on number nine. Get your boys to move their asses and fix it. We need that bird working yesterday."
"Yes, Ma'am," came the reply. Kurato hung up and turned to Pearson, whose chair was situated at a forty-five degree angle from her own. "Nick, I want to run through the checklist again."
"Sure." Need to stay focused...
As he picked up his laminated red prelaunch manual, a deafening high-pitched tone filled the capsule. He immediately understood its significance and muttered a blasphemous curse that could not be heard above the din.
"Incoming EAM," Kurato announced. Now panic was finally creeping into her voice as comprehension dawned. So she'd thought it was a drill as well,Pearson's distracted mind thought.
While Kurato ran across the capsule to obtain the message coming off the Teletype, Pearson quickly lifted the red phone again. This time, the voice was that of the senior controller at the Launch Control Facility.
"EWO... EWO... Emergency War Orders... Emergency War Orders... This is a two part alphanumeric message. Message is: November Echo Victor Niner Zero Oscar Sierra Five - Break - Zulu Four Romeo Romeo Bravo Foxtrot." Pearson scribbled the code on his notepad. Kurato returned to her chair and hurriedly opened a safe above her console. Pearson did likewise.
"I have a properly formatted EAM. Confirm authentication." Kurato tore the authenticator card from its plastic wallet, reading the alphanumeric code back to Pearson as she compared it to the authentication code on the EAM.
"November Echo Victor..."
With every alphanumeric character that he ticked off on his notepad, Pearson felt as though he were edging towards a dark abyss that offered nothing in the way of deliverance.
The alarm stopped and was replaced by the cool woman's voice that had initially announced the alert. "You have received a valid launch order from National Command Authority... Repeat, you have received a valid launch order from National Command Authority. Your condition is red."
"I have a valid EAM," Kurato announced, her voice rapid and high-pitched.
"I confirm valid EAM." If there is a God up there and He's listening, please let this be a test. Oh God, please...
"EWO checklist."
Pearson reached for the safe that contained the Emergency War Orders checklist. He imagined that his counterparts in the six other launch centers at Whiteman would be doing precisely the same thing at this moment. If not... then his prayers had been answered, and the test was specifically for the benefit of him and Kurato. If this is an exercise, it's the most realistic one I've ever heard of.
"Launch Designation, Five-Kilo."
"Confirmed," Pearson said, entering the code into his launch selection console.
"Preparatory Auto-Launch Command."
"Alpha Launch confirmed." An amber light started to blink above the slot where he would insert his launch key. Alpha Launch - Automatic Launch, no timer delay. Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus... The back of his neck was coated with a sticky film of sweat that caused an unpleasant prickly sensation. "Entering Individual Launch Command," he added. That was a personal code known only to each individual launch officer.
"Entering Individual Launch Command," Kurato echoed, already tapping her personal code into the console.
The blinking light above the key slot turned green. At that point, an alarm bell started to ring in short bursts and the ACC Teletype began to chatter a new message. The alarm bell meant one of the other combat crews at Warren had completed the launch procedure and had turned their keys, thus 'voting' for a launch. If another of the crews did likewise, the missiles would fly.
It's down to us, Pearson realized. He turned momentarily and caught Kurato's eye. He knew that she was thinking precisely the same thing.
"To hell with this," he growled, leaving his chair and hurrying across the capsule to the Teletype.
Kurato looked up at him with severe determination. "Pearson, get the fuck back to your station," she barked, reaching for her sidearm. "Right fucking now!"
He ignored her and tore off the Teletype. It read:
Flash Report
FROM: CINCACC/NCA Washington D.C.
TO: All ACC Launch Crews
0447Z/TOP SECRET
Ivy Dance - Hammerhead
1. Russian ICBM strike in progress. 760 (seven six zero)
inbound RVs confirmed. Target CONUS.
2. NCA orders are confirmed EWO/DefCon One.
3. Good Shooting.
Wallace/GEN USAF/CINCACC
"Holly," he said quietly, "this ain't no drill." As he spoke those words, their meaning chilled him to the core. "Hammerhead - we're under attack."
"You're shitting me," she laughed nervously.
The alarm bell changed from short bursts to a steady, constant ring. Kurato and Pearson looked at each other in terror. They both knew what that sound meant.
Another control center had voted to launch.
The missiles were flying.
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
"What do you mean, Ukrainians?" Yazov barked, his temple pulsing with rage.
"PVO-Strany detected the missile tracks," Kalushin explained, his eyes downcast. "They were unable to alert us in time, due to the Kremlin communication center being cut off. We've just received the back-up tapes from northern regional command. The bastards used our own SS-25s against us."
Sensing Kalushin's unease, Grizov elaborated. "It appears that the atmospheric effects of our own strike in Ukraine interfered with our early warning systems. Besides, the Ukrainian missiles were launched in a depressed trajectory. It would have been too late to do anything about it even had PVO issued a warning.
Yazov slammed the table with his fist. The deep growl in his tone chilled Grizov to the bone. "But it would have been early enough to prevent a mistake that will end up costing millions of lives. Do you understand what the Americans will do to us, you fucking idiot?" He moved to grab the terrified FSB Chief. Kalushin restrained him by both arms. Eventually, Yazov calmed down and slumped desolately into a chair, holding his head in his hands.
Kalushin adopted his most soothing tone. "General, old friend. We have to make a decision. At this moment, the Americans will probably be preparing to retaliate against what they see as an unprovoked attack." He checked his watch. "By my estimations, we have no more than five minutes before they launch their counterstrike. It will be massive, possibly indiscriminate. Our early warning systems are still inoperative, so we may not even detect a launch in time to get our missiles into the air."
Yazov shook his head vigorously, as if trying to rid himself of a flea. "If you are asking me to preempt the Americans with a massive strike on the basis of supposition, I will not do such a thing. Icannot do such a thing. Have I not done enough damage already?" He looked up at Kalushin, his eyes grieving for an entire species. "What have I done, Anatoly Mikhailovich?" The inevitable thoughts tortured his mind. If only I had not been so naïve. If only I had waited for another few hours to take control of the Kremlin... after the Kremlin had been destroyed...
"You did what any of us would have done, General," Kalushin reassured him. "Indeed, you have reacted with far more restraint than most of us might have showed." Looking at the faces around the room, the Air Force General knew that many of the men present would have retaliated against the Americans much more vehemently than Yazov had. Russian nuclear doctrine had always been to respond to even a limited American strike with a massive countervalue attack, designed to include America's 300 largest cities.
The Russian leader rose slowly to his feet, his shoulders hunched against whatever demons were tormenting him. "We must contact President Mitchell before he launches his missiles against us. We must try to persuade him that this is all a terrible mistake."
"But, General," Kalushin argued.
Yazov raised his hand. "We must try," he insisted, making clear that his word was final.
Kalushin glanced at Suronev, whose face remained impassive. Then he turned back to Yazov. "We will see what we can do." Contacting the American President would not be an easy task, he knew; especially in such a short timeframe. In fact, he half expected that the Americans would refuse to take the call. There was bound to be tremendous political upheaval in the United States at this moment, and that made what was already a dangerous situation even more unpredictable. He turned to Grizov. "Where will the American President be now?"
Grizov, who had been appointed head of Russia's intelligence apparatus because of his extensive political connections rather than his accomplishments as an intelligence officer, cleared his throat while he attempted to recall the procedure that the Americans would use in such a situation. "He will be aboard his E-4 command plane, I suspect. The American communication systems are quite formidable. We should be able to reach him through the emergency channel."
"What emergency channel?" Yazov asked, his eyes brightening.
"A transatlantic fiber-optic landline that links identical computer terminals here and in Washington. Both you and the American President type messages into the terminals. They are translated and sent. It is a cumbersome system, but extremely reliable."
"Where is this terminal?"
"In the Defense Ministry bunker," Grizov told him. The Defense Ministry and Kremlin deep level bunkers were connected by a heavily reinforced tunnel network that also ran to other locations around Moscow, including an extensive subterranean subway system that enabled Russia's leaders to reach provincial shelters across European Russia.
"We must move quickly," Yazov stated. "Before it is too late."
IX
SHIFTING SANDS
"If men can develop weapons that are so terrifying as to make the thought of global war include almost a sentence for suicide, you would think that man's intelligence and his comprehension... would include also his ability to find a peaceful solution."
(President Dwight D. Eisenhower, November 1956)
ABOARD KNEECAP
President Mitchell was oblivious to the arguments going on around him. A detached part of his mind understood that each of the individuals in the room was facing his or her own personal loss, and all of them would have to deal with tragedy in their own individual ways. Some of them wanted to prevent the nuclear exchange from escalating to another, possibly final, level. That faction presently seemed to be led by Lewis Stein and General Marion Westwood. Others, such as Paul Nielsen and General Allen in the NORAD command center, sought old-fashioned revenge. Everybody else was still trying to come to terms with what had happened.
It amazed the President that, although more firepower had already been unleashed in the last hour than in the entire history of warfare, there remained those who called for yet further destruction. He could empathize with their craving for revenge. But did such a base emotion provide sufficient justification for the incineration of another few million innocents?
As commander-in-chief, that decision was ultimately his to make. And he would have to live with it for however much longer God allowed him to live. Those around him could - to an extent - detach themselves from any responsibility, for they had only toadvise , not to be held accountable for one of the biggest decisions any national leader had been forced to take in human history. What price was worth paying to defend the national interest? The annihilation of an America that he hadsworn to protect and defend? Or the annihilation of an entire planet? He had an obligation to his oath and to the people who had entrusted him with their protection. Yet he had an equal obligation to his species. If only the choices that faced him were really that simple.
Five minutes had passed since the President had issued the order to retaliate against Russia.
Lewis and Nielsen were shouting at each other from opposite ends of the table. Nielsen supported a massive, indiscriminate SLBM and bomber attack pattern that would catch the Russians off guard and destroy their command structure, as well as decimate their population.
"What about their subs?" Lewis argued. "Even if we could take out every ICBM silo and command bunker in Russia, which I very much doubt, those subs in the Kara Sea probably operate on a fail-deadly basis. When they resurface for new orders and hear nothing, they'll launch. And you can bet your ass that their SLBMs are programmed to hit our cities."
"What the fuck are you talking about, Stein?" Nielsen barked. He turned to Bishop. "Where the hell did you find this jerk, Tony? We're facing annihilation, and he's telling us we have to sit tight and keep a stiff upper lip." To Lewis: "Well, perhaps that works in England, until we have to bail your asses out of trouble, but in America we do things rather differently."
"So I've noticed," Lewis observed flatly. "If you want to get abusive, fine. I've taken abuse from bigger men than you. And you're right. I may be just ajerk with astiff upper lip. But just try and listen for once in your fucking life. This is my area of expertise. I know how Russian strategic defense systems work, and I know how they think."
Further down the table, even Margaret managed a thin smile when she saw the Defense Secretary's stunned expression. Nielsen wasn't used to being chastised, especially by a man he obviously considered to be his intellectual inferior, not to mention an outsider. And that was what it was all about, wasn't it? Even at such a pivotal moment in human history, men like Nielsen remained utterly protective of the power and influence they had broken countless careers to earn. As Secretary of Defense, he had almost unlimited access to the President, and he was more concerned with defending that than he was with defending the American people.
It's all coming apart, the President thought. He had to regain control of the situation. "Dr Stein. Paul. You can both debate abstracts all you like, but my decision has been made. We will not further escalate this situation until such time as we can ascertain what's going on inside Russia. They have to be as afraid as we are. I suspect that if we can turn this thing off right now, we have every chance of achieving a mutually acceptable outcome."
Nielsen looked at the President with thinly veiled incredulity. "I can't believe I'm hearing this, sir. Not from you. Not from the man who I considered to be the most principled leader since Kennedy. Your people, sir, are being killed on an unprecedented scale by a Russian murderer. Your job is to defend them, not to expect them to take their losses while you sit up here out of harm's way. Do you not realize that you are being conned on a monumental scale? Not just by the Russians, but by people likehim. " He pointed straight at Lewis. "We have to hit them with all the firepower we can muster. History will never forgive us if we don't. You have an obligation, sir. To history and to the American people."
Even without looking at him, Margaret sensed the explosive fury welling up in her husband. She grabbed his hand, trying to calm him down, but he shook it off. He rose slowly to his feet, his eyes bulbous with undiluted rage. Nielsen immediately realized he'd overstepped his bounds. "Don't youdare fucking tell me about my duties to the American people, Mr. Nielsen. And don'tever presume to imply that I'm sitting here smug as pie. You have no fucking idea of the burden I shoulder at this moment. And it's purely because of my obligations to the American people that I have decided to try and turn this thing off. Because I find it preferable to lose ten million totwo hundred and sixty million! " He hissed the number through clenched teeth.
The room fell silent as Nielsen sunk back into his seat with the hurt expression of a child being reprimanded by a particularly stern parent. The President sat back down and took a deep breath to compose himself. "I am the President of the United States," he reminded everybody. "I am the Commander in Chief of this nation's armed forces. We have suffered horrendous losses tonight, and we have exacted retribution for those losses. Now it has to stop before we destroy whatever remains of our world. There will be noGrand Tour . There will be no further escalation of this war on our part. That is my final word on the matter."
Lewis checked his watch. Washington would be destroyed in approximately three minutes. What was Jo doing right now? He swallowed hard, trying to shut the thought from his mind for now. There would be time for grieving later.
He hoped.
The silence in the room was broken when an Air Force major opened the door. He looked apologetic for having interrupted proceedings.
"Mr. President, sir," he stammered, looking as frightened as anybody else. "We've got an incoming transmission on the Emergency Communications Channel."
The President frowned. "From whom?"
"Well," the Major stammered, "the person on the other end claims to be the Russian President."
"Pushkin?" Copeland asked. There was something in the Major's voice that made him suspect this was not exactly the case.
"No, sir. The guy says his name is Yazov. Says it's urgent."
"Really?" The President almost laughed at that. If ever I've heard an understatement...
In KNEECAP's communications center, an Army Major was permanently on hand to enter the President's messages into a PC terminal. The message was relayed through the Pentagon's National Military Command Center using meteor burst technology, which wasn't reliant on satellites that may have been destroyed in hostilities. A back-up system was in place at Fort Meade, Maryland, in case anything were to go wrong at the Pentagon. The computers at Fort Meade and NMCC would translate each message into Russian. The transmission would then be routed by either transatlantic landline or two separate satellite links to Moscow, via the British Government's GCHQ facility in Cheltenham, England. The process was reversed for Russian messages being sent to the KNEECAP communications room. Transcripts of all communications between the two leaders were automatically relayed to NORAD, STRATCOM and theLooking Glass command plane.
The communications center was, as one might expect, somewhat claustrophobic. The effect was especially pronounced when the President, his advisors and a phalanx of Secret Service agents were all attempting to cram into it. Lewis noticed hundreds of flashing lights doing whatever it was that flashing lights did, while an array of computers and communication equipment was being attended to by a team of technicians who hardly took any notice when the VIPs entered the room.
A Navy officer surrendered his operator's chair for the President, who pulled it up in front of the computer terminal while the Air Force Major explained the procedure to him.
"You tell me what you want to say, sir, and I type it in. The message normally takes a couple of minutes to reach the other end, which is a terminal under the Russian Defense Ministry. When it arrives in the Russian Hot Line room, it will appear on their screens in Russian."
Mitchell nodded impatiently. He didn't have the patience for a lecture in computer technology. He'd spent his life studiously avoiding the contraptions. "Okay," he said. "Type this..."
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
General Yazov --- This is President Mitchell. I understand that you now claim to be the leader of the Russian Federation. If this is the case, you will be able to answer the following questions:
1.Why is Pushkin not in command authority?
2.Why have you launched ICBM's against the United States when we did nothing to provoke such an attack?
Yazov read the encrypted message as it appeared on his screen. Although the American's opening remarks were predictable, the Russian President's brow furrowed with concern. "He doesn't say whether he has launched a retaliatory strike."
"He is frightened," observed an Army Marshal with barely concealed delight.
Yazov gave the Marshal his most withering look. "I would like to think that we areall scared, Marshal. He is curious. He wants an explanation. He deserves one, don't you think?"
ABOARD KNEECAP
President Mitchell --- In answer to your questions:
1.President Pushkin was declared unfit to exercise the obligations of office after he launched the unforgivable nuclear attack against the Ukraine. He is currently under detention, although we cannot ascertain whether he survived the attack against Moscow. In the meantime, I have been appointed as a temporary successor under emergency constitutional provisions. I have every intention of returning control to a democratically elected civilian leadership at the earliest opportunity. Naturally, this process may be delayed by the damage caused to our nation.
2.The missile attack against the United States is the result of a terrible mistake committed by our air defenses. We knew nothing of the attack against us, or of its origins, until the bombs detonated. Having received intelligence that Washington was being evacuated minutes before the attack, we erroneously assumed that the United States was responsible and reacted accordingly. Only later did we discover who had truly attacked us. We are urgently investigating how the Ukrainian government came into the possession of functional nuclear weapons. I will inform you as soon as we have any further information on this matter.
"He's being defensive," Copeland pointed out. "He acknowledges that the attack came from Ukraine, so..."
Nielsen completed the sentence with his own theory. "So he knows more than he's letting on. What I would like to know is why haven't they retaliated against the Ukrainians yet?"
"Perhaps they think this has gone far enough already," the President suggested. "I know I do."
"That doesn't correlate with their behavior so far," Westwood remarked. "Three of their cities got hit, and they responded massively. They got hit with three warheads, and they launched severalhundred at us. Now those aren't the actions of a man who wants to bring this situation to a swift resolution."
"With all due respect, General, I disagree," Lewis said, trying not to sound as though he were coming down hard on Westwood. "We have to remember that there is bound to be immense political confusion over there right now, particularly with a military coup in progress. Not to mention that their BMEWS systems are probably unable to tell them whether or not the three Ukrainian missiles were merely part of a larger attack. They're probably blind right now, we have to remember that. Believe me, if they had wanted to really hit us hard, we would have found our cities under swarm attack."
Margaret nodded her agreement to the President. "I'm inclined to agree, Ed. The attack profile is concurrent with a counterforce strike. And, as General Allen pointed out earlier, it's full of holes. For the most part, they seem to be avoiding civilian and industrial targets."
"You seem to have forgotten Houston, Seattle and D.C.," Nielsen pointed out.
"Not at all," the First Lady fixed him with a cold stare. "I'm just saying that those cities are roughly equivalent to Moscow, Volgograd and Tula. They have no more desire in escalating this than we do."
"I agree," the President said. "I was just asking myself how would we have reacted in their shoes? Use 'em or lose 'em, right Paul?" He glanced at Nielsen, who shifted uncomfortably upon hearing his own words used against him. "That's what they were forced to do." The resolve in his voice deterred anybody from voicing their disagreement.
"Excuse me." Lewis interrupted his former boss, looking apologetic for doing so. "I've met Yazov on several occasions. I actually had dinner with him and his wife Svetlana once in Moscow."
"And?" Bishop asked, waiting to see if Lewis's assessment reconciled to the CIA's evaluation of the Russian General.
"And I'm pretty certain that he's for real. Both his kids are in the military, did you know that?" No one did. "His daughter Katrina is a fighter pilot, a damn good one too, and his son Ivan is a Major in the Army. He's always been thought of as one of the more moderate members of their General Staff. Always steered clear of politics, but he gave me the impression of being quite pro-Western. If you're looking for a madman, you've got the wrong guy."
"Yeah right," Nielsen snorted. "Just an everyday rational guy who launches hundreds of nuclear warheads at the United States of America. Tell me another one, Stein."
"Have you met him?" Lewis retorted sharply. Nielsen lowered his head, saying nothing. Lewis turned to the President. "Sir, I'm willing to bet my life that he's genuine. The stakes are too high for deceit now. We have to tell him about the launch against his country. If they're taken by surprise again, there's no telling how far this thing could go."
"Oh, that's just great," Nielsen scowled. "We give them just enough warning to get the rest of their ICBMs out of the silos before our missiles hit. Anyway, even if you're right about Yazov, who's to say that it's really him in charge over there? You said yourself that Moscow is in political turmoil. It could be a trick by the extremists to convince us that a more rational head is calling the shots."
The President turned on the Secretary of Defense, his lip trembling with fear and anger. "Paul, that'senough ," he barked. "Dr Stein is right. I'm not going to be responsible for any more misunderstandings. Let's clear this mess up once and for all."
Edward Mitchell had left nobody in any doubt. He was the President of the United States.
PHELPS, TEXAS
Tabatha had never felt so scared of anybody in her life. Not even Dick. She'd persuaded Al - as he called himself - to lower his weapon by telling him the truth about why the Canning kids had left Houston, and how they'd ended up in Huntsville. Upon hearing the part of her story about a war, he'd slumped into an armchair, head hung in desolation. He was still sat there, rifle rested across his lap. Nina, Rhonda and Gary stood behind Tabatha, eyeing him nervously.
"You sure we're at war?" he asked.
"Thass what folks're sayin'," Tabatha replied. She shrugged. "I don't know how or why, but they all seem to think it's real enough. Why don't you check the TV or radio?"
His lip curled into a crooked smile. It didn't look pleasant on him. "Ain't got noTee-Vee . Ain't got no radio either. Just got your word, that's all I've got." There was an edge of menace to the last sentence that didn't go unnoticed by Tabatha. She was sensitive to such things.
"Look, mister," she said. "All we need is somewhere to sleep for the night. We weren't gonna rob you or nothin'. If you don't want us, we'll find someplace else."
Nina tugged Tabatha's shirt from behind, trying to get her big sister's attention. Her eyes widened, as if to say,are you crazy? Tabatha smiled reassuringly at her, then sweetly at Al.
"Al ain't gonna hurt us, are you Al?"
Al stared at each of the kids in turn, his eyes still narrow and malevolent. He looked at the children as if he were planning to dine on them. The stare caused Nina to shiver involuntarily. Rhonda and Gary stood with their heads hung low, unwilling to make eye contact with him. They were more scared of Al than they were of the darkness outside. In fact, the only comfort they drew was from Tabatha's apparent lack of fear. What they didn't know was that she was damn good at hiding it.
"Nah," he said finally, "Ah ain't got no problem with that. You kids can stay here. After all, ah caint throw y'all out at this time o'night, can ah?"
He smiled at the children, exposing crooked, gap-ridden teeth, rich with black decay. It was the most chilling, ugly smile Tabatha had ever seen.
He was still wearing it when, suddenly, the lights died and the ground began to shake.
90thSPACE WING, WARREN AFB, WYOMING
Kurato was fighting back tears when the warning bells ceased. The silence was perhaps more foreboding than the cacophony that had preceded it. Her job was done. Her war was over. She had just killed twenty million people. Twenty million lives, hopes and dreams. Twenty million people just like her. Congratulations, Miss Holly Kurato, you've just scored a massive twenty million on the death-o-meter, which ranks you above last week's winner, Adolf Hitler. Ladies and Gentlemen, please join us next week for another round of Global Genocide...
Pearson lit a cigarette and offered one to Kurato. "These things'll probably kill you," he remarked dryly, "but what the hell?"
She managed a brave smile and took the filter tip. Pearson lit it for her. She inhaled and spluttered, her eyes watering. It was the first cigarette she'd ever smoked. Well, today was full of firsts, wasn't it?
"You know," she said, dragging more carefully the second time, "this is the one thing the Air Force didn't train us for."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean what to do after it's all over. We just sit down here until radiation levels become safe -if they ever become safe - and then dig our way out -if we can dig our way out - and return to the surface..."
Pearson concluded the sentence. "Ifthere's anything left to return to."
"And all of that assumes that we survive the attack."
A thoughtful pause.
"Do you want to?" It was a question Pearson had been asking himself ever since the ICBMs had flown from Warren.
She considered the question, taking another drag of the cancer stick. The intake of nicotine made her light headed. "I'm not sure," she answered finally. "Everything I know tells me that we'd be better off getting a direct hit and knowing nothing about it."
"But there's a part of you thatneeds to know what comes next, right?"
Kurato nodded. "Right."
"How long you figure we've got?"
Kurato checked the alert clock. It showed T plus 25:34, with T representing the moment when STRATCOM had announced Attack Condition Yellow. "I don't think I'm going to get to finish this cigarette," she quipped, attempting to put a brave face on the situation.
Pearson opened his mouth to say something, but was stopped by a steady, high-pitched squeal that put his teeth on edge. Both launch officers knew precisely what it meant.
"Incoming!" he yelled, urgently groping for his seat belt. "Kurato. Strap yourself in!"
Both officers belted themselves tightly into their seats, fumbling in their haste.
Pearson's heart was racing. I will fear no evil... I will fear no evil...
The primary lighting died and the emergency lights flickered on, illuminating the capsule an eerie yellow hue. Kurato screamed.
There was a distant boom, shortly followed by a deep rumble that was racing towards them at a terrifying rate, ever increasing in ferocity. In its cavern, the launch capsule shuddered violently on its supports, creating a nauseous sensation in both officers. That was the first warhead.
Kurato and Pearson reached out to hold hands, but their chairs were too far apart.
They were looking into each other's eyes, both lost in their own private thoughts, when a second warhead detonated directly over their capsule.
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
General Yazov --- Having consulted with my advisors, I am convinced that you are a man of integrity. Furthermore, I do not believe that you want this war any more than we do. It is time to correct this terrible mistake and work together to bring about a cessation of hostilities so that we may begin to rebuild both our nations.
I say both our nations because, a short time ago, I authorized a retaliatory strike against your country. This strike was directly proportionate to that inflicted upon our own nation. We have gone to great efforts to ensure that Russian civilian casualties are minimized. The attack is concentrated on your communications facilities, strategic missile, submarine and bomber bases, as was yours.
As a result of this conflict, my advisors have told me that both our nations can expect to lose between twenty and thirty million people. I am sure you agree that this has gone quite far enough. Accordingly, I propose an immediate cessation of hostilities on the following basis:
1.Complete and unconditional withdrawal of all Russian forces from the Ukrainian Republic.
2.Negotiations to commence multilateral disarmament of all Russian and American strategic nuclear weapons under the supervision of the United Nations.
3.A coordinated reduction in strategic alert levels on both sides to begin with the recall of all Russian and American nuclear bombers which, at this very moment, are progressing towards their targets in both our countries.
I trust that you will find these conditions acceptable.
Yazov shivered, his worst fears realized. Of course, he had expected that the Americans would retaliate, but until the moment when he saw confirmation of the fact in President Mitchell's message on the computer monitor, he hadn't really accepted it as inevitable. What have I done?
Sensing his friend's distress, Kalushin placed a hand on Yazov's shoulder. "You must not blame yourself, Gennady Andreiovich," he said softly. "We did what we had to do. Nobody could have foreseen this."
Yazov looked at Kalushin, his eyes full of pleading. "You know, Anatoly Mikhailovich, I have never been a religious man. But if there is a God, he will punish me for all Eternity for what I have done."
"You cannot afford to think that way," Kalushin reasoned. "We acted as we saw fit. You are not in this alone, you must remember that. We are all responsible."
Grizov reread the message with an expression of disgust. "I hope you're not seriously considering these proposals."
"What do you mean?" Yazov said.
The FSB chief gestured at the monochrome computer display. "He insults our intelligence. He takes us for fools. He proposes the decapitation of our nation. He launches thousands of missiles against us, then asks that we stand down our forces. He must know that our early warning systems are currently inactive, so all we have is his word that he hasn't attacked our cities."
Suronev's expression indicated that he agreed with Grizov's appraisal of the situation. "General, we must consider the possibility that Mitchell is no longer in control."
"Why wouldn't he be?" Yazov asked, his tone challenging the FSB chief and the Foreign Minister.
It was Grizov who answered. "The FSB's appraisal of Mitchell is that he is a weak leader, unable to control the political factions that exist within the American government. His Congress treats him with contempt and his public approval ratings are dismal. I have no doubt that he is still President, but I very much doubt that he is still in control, which is not necessarily the same thing."
"Carry on," Yazov offered, intrigued to know where this was leading.
"Ordinarily, Mitchell's main advisor in this situation would have been his National Security Advisor, Robert Aldick. Had that been the case, I would have been more inclined to believe that these proposals were not meant to trick us. Aldick was an intelligent and honorable man. But with Aldick gone, Mitchell will be receiving most of his advice from his Secretary of Defense, who we know to be a hawk. Therefore, it is possible that Paul Nielsen holds the reins of power in Washington right now."
"Wedestroyed Washington," Kalushin reminded him bitterly.
Grizov ignored the remark, lowering his voice to a reverential whisper. "General, the Americans must have guessed that our early warning systems are inoperative. What is to say that they haven't attacked our cities anyway? They could have launched at every strategic target in Russia, and then used their subs and stealth bombers to wipe up our civilian and industrial centers. And we wouldn't know a thing about it until too late. By which time, we would be unable to retaliate. And then what? They would let us die amidst the radioactive rubble, then send their troops in to occupy Russia."
"If that were their strategy," Yazov argued, keeping his voice even, "then why would they even bother to tell us about their retaliatory strike?"
"Because they know we would never have believed them had they told us they had not retaliated," Suronev answered.
"But even if your theory is correct," Kalushin pointed out, "our own submarine and bomber fleets would still be in a position to exact catastrophic damage upon the Americans."
Grizov's words were firm and deliberate. "Not if we have already recalled them. That is why we must not accede to the Americans' demands."
Yazov sensed an implicit threat in Grizov's tone that matched the cold smile on his face. The confidence of the FSB chief's posture worried Yazov. Why was he so assured? Of course... How could I have been so stupid? Ever since the attack on Moscow, Grizov had been quietly courting the endorsement of other cabinet ministers and military officers in the vast bunker. Behind the FSB chief was the impassive, mostly silent figure of Suronev. So, the Foreign Minister was looking for a new puppet. It all began to make sense. Most of those surrounding the nucleus of power thought that Yazov hadn't punished the Americans harshly enough. It didn't matter that the Americans weren't responsible for the attack on Russia. Now that the Americans had retaliated, the pressure would increase for Russia to respond massively; a policy evidently advocated by Grizov and Suronev.
That was the moment Yazov knew that the sands of power were once again shifting. Were he to allow that to happen, he had no doubt that paranoiacs such as Suronev and Grizov would show little hesitation in triggering a global catastrophe. It was the way such men were programmed.
Again, Yazov realized that he was backed into a corner. He looked at the faces around him, and could see in their eyes the predatory glint of wolves hunting an injured prey. He had to cling to power in order to prevent the global destruction that Grizov and Suronev would surely bring about. In order to do that, he had to find a viable compromise.
He hated politics.
WASHINGTON D.C.
When the air raid sirens suddenly fell quiet, they left in their wake only the screaming and fear of multitudes. But people quickly became aware that the sirens were no longer moaning, and they all reacted in different ways.
Some hugged each other and celebrated an eleventh-hour reprieve. Others looked up to the skies and thanked whatever deity they believed in. A few looked at each other in bewilderment.
But many understood the significance of the silence and realized that their entire futures comprised mere seconds. They took cover in doorways, under cars or in subway stations. Anywhere that would afford some protection - however minimal - from the imminent cataclysm.
On the roof of his apartment block, Philip Cole jumped to his feet when something caught his eye. A white streak, arcing high over the city towards the northeast.
"Look at that motherfucker go!" he cried, punching the air in manic jubilation.
The white streak suddenly, without warning, began its steep descent..
In his twelfth-story penthouse in the Watergate complex, Bert Aldick stood at the window sipping from a glass of malt whiskey and puffing on an expensive Honduran. The soundproofed glass protected him from the wail of the air raid sirens and the hysterical screams of multitudes. But he knew what was coming. He knew that he was drinking his last drink and smoking his last cigar.
Perhaps it was fitting, he reflected, that for all his sins, his life should end like this. He wondered what it would be like at the very end. Would he be vaporized in a millisecond of annihilating white light? Or would he be doomed to lie dying under tons of scorched rubble?
Of course, it had occurred to him that had this happened two days' earlier, he would have been at the President's side aboard KNEECAP, offering counsel and advice. But that destiny had been denied him by his inability to control his libido. Perhaps, he thought, it was poetic justice. The hundreds of women he had used for gratification over the years would not be afforded the protection of a bunker or a secure aircraft, so why should he? He found it kind of ironic that, despite years of regular female companionship, he would die alone and isolated, surrounded only by material wealth that would shortly be rendered worthless by mankind's ultimate instrument of death.
His lip began to quiver. Not out of self-pity, and certainly not out of regret - after all, he'd had a good life - but out of grief for his country. In the final analysis, centuries of toil, blood and effort had been rendered worthless. Despite the best intentions of so many great men and women, years of arms negotiations, treaties and summits had failed to prevent this darkest of nights. If the attack were total, Earth would shortly become a graveyard inhabited only by the dead and the living dead.
He just hoped that the President was getting good advice; hopefully not from a man such as Paul Nielsen.
ABOARD KNEECAP
President Mitchell --- Although I believe that your intentions are honest, I am under tremendous political pressure and am therefore unable to accede to your request to stand down our strategic forces at this time. However, I am optimistic that once we have confirmation that your nuclear strike against my nation is no more than a precise reflection of our own against yours, we will be in a position to reduce our alert levels accordingly.
As you know, this information may take some time to collate. In the meantime, both our bomber fleets will continue to proceed towards their respective targets and our submarine fleets will remain on full combat alert. I hope you will understand that, for our part, this is purely a defensive measure.
Unfortunately, we have still been unable to reach the remains of the American Embassy in Moscow to ascertain the status of your Vice President. Unfortunately, we have to assume that he did not survive the Ukrainian attack.
In the meantime, I believe that we both have much work to do, conducting damage estimates and performing other tasks. I therefore suggest that we reconvene in precisely two hours for further discussions. I am optimistic that by this time, we will both have more information with which to make a decision concerning the alert levels of our strategic forces.
"There you go," Nielsen barked triumphantly, pointing an accusatory finger at the screen. "What did I tell you? They have no intentions of standing down. They're prepared to go the distance with this thing."
The President's shoulders sagged. He read the message again, word for word, his face a mask of disbelief. Why would anybody want to prolong this conflict? It just didn't make sense.
"I don't understand why he made that point about the Vice President," Lewis said to Margaret. "It's completely out of context with the rest of his remarks."
"I think he's trying to make a point," Copeland proffered.
"What point?" The President asked. And then it dawned on him. He turned back to the screen, narrowing his eyes angrily. "The son of a bitch thinks I'm not in charge any more."
"And we don't know who the hell is in charge over there," Nielsen added sardonically. "Great."
Lewis sensed that the situation was spiraling out of control. Egos were beginning to fuse with distrust to create an atmosphere so combustible that just one tiny spark could set the entire planet ablaze. He was the acting National Security Advisor, whether or not he wanted to be, and it was his job to calm things down. And to do that, he had to admit that Nielsen might have had a point. The words he saw on the screen didn't reconcile with what he knew about Yazov. If Yazov was in charge over there, someone else was pulling his strings. But to agree with Nielsen in the present climate could be interpreted as also agreeing with his solution to the crisis, and that didn't bear thinking about. There was only one solution...
"Mr. President," he said, "can I borrow the terminal?"
Everybody stared at him.
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
Luke Masterton considered himself to be the luckiest seventeen-year-old alive. With a mane of blonde hair, the tanned good looks of a surfer and a firm, solid physique, he had never had any problems attracting members of the opposite sex. The fact that he looked several years' older than he was did not bother him in the slightest. He found it easy to purchase liquor, and even easier to find older women willing to satisfy his voracious sexual appetite.
Luke considered himself to be good at sex. An early developer, he had lost his virginity at the age of thirteen to a lithe dancer ten years' his senior. She had been the first of a series of conquests. He had learned from each one, his technique improving all the time. Having glimpsed at his peers' naked bodies in the locker room, he also knew himself to be comparatively well endowed; a fact that was frequently pointed out by his sexual conquests, who were often surprised that a boy of his age could be so well developed and so accomplished in bed. He had no interest in girls of his own age. They generally lacked the experience and open-mindedness to engage him. So he had imposed on himself a rule of not sleeping with any woman younger than twenty-five. Knowing that many of his less fortunate friends were still struggling to lose their virginity, he recognized how lucky he was that he could be so choosy. In fact, Luke had experienced more than most men twice his age; including a mother and daughter in consecutive weekends and two sisters simultaneously (that would be one for his autobiography, he thought). Many of his conquests were lonely housewives whose husbands were preoccupied with careers and other interests. Not all were wealthy, but if they were, all the better. More than one woman had paid him for his attentions. He would have done it for nothing - for he never slept with a woman he didn't find attractive - but he had no objections to accepting the monetary gratitude of those he satisfied.
He had a weekend job as a waiter in an exclusive downtown restaurant calledBertoni's ; the type of establishment that normally required at least a two-week advance booking to secure a table. Bertoni'swas where he met most of his conquests. His potential targets usually either dined alone or with girlfriends. It was all a matter of knowing how to read their body language; the wicked smile, the eye contact that lasted a split second longer than necessary. More often than not, they wore wedding bands. And when he attached his phone number to the check, they more often than not called him.
He had set himself a personal target of notching up his hundredth conquest by his eighteenth birthday. That was in two months' time, and he was only three short.
Estelle Martinez was number ninety-seven, although she didn't know that. Unlike most of his partners, he hadn't met her at the restaurant. She attended the same gym as Luke, and they'd been passing acquaintances for at least six months. After learning that she'd just become divorced, he had finally made her move. At thirty-seven years old, Estelle was still svelte and fit, and her dark beauty made her the target of frequent male attention. Fortunately, she enjoyed male attention. Lots of it, as Luke was learning.
She had come out of the divorce with a sizeable settlement. Having rid herself of a useless husband whose primary interest had seemed to be playing Golf with his buddies, she had no interest in another relationship for the time being. Insofar, Luke met her requirements to perfection. He was cute, good in bed and had an IQ that was smaller than his waist measurement.
Presently, she sat upon her kitchen table, naked as the day she was born, and parted her legs temptingly, a mischievous smile inviting Luke to seize upon the moment. This would be the third time today. Neither Estelle nor Luke had any particular desire to stop just yet.
He moved slowly towards her, already erect. Then he sunk himself into the glistening, thick black mound of pubic hair. She threw her head back and gasped as he pushed himself inside her, resting her shapely legs against his smooth chest, affording him maximum penetration.
As he began to ease into a slow, rhythmic thrust, drawing all the way out and pushing deep back inside, almost touching her cervix, Estelle suddenly became very rigid. She pushed Luke away from her. He looked hurt, his brow creasing in puzzlement.
"What is it?"
Estelle placed a finger to her lips. "Shhh," she whispered. "Can you hear that?"
He could, but he didn't know what it was. A rising and falling moan, echoing through the streets outside. "Some kind of police siren, that's all." He went to carry on where he'd left off, but Estelle stopped him.
"Wait a minute," she snapped, pausing to listen to the sound some more. "That's an air raid siren." Her jaw slackened. It can't be that.
"Air raid?" Luke laughed. "No way, man. Must be a mistake."
She climbed down from the table, heading off towards the front room. "I'm going to find out."
Luke didn't understand what she was so worried about. She had been enjoying the sex, hadn't she? What else mattered? He stood there in the kitchen for a moment, naked, shaking his head in bafflement. Then he followed her into the front room, where he found her watching a blank red screen with the message 'EMERGENCY ALERTING SYSTEM' emblazoned across it in white letters. He arrived just in time to see her turn up the volume.
The EAS message became audible as it looped. A shrill hum followed by the dispassionate prerecorded announcement:
"An air-raid is in progress. Citizens are advised to remain in their homes or proceed to the nearest convenient place of shelter."
"What the hell...?" Luke muttered. Who would launch an air raid? Where the hell is the nearest shelter? I knew I should've paid more attention to that stuff. Estelle was older than him. She would know what to do. Another advantage of being with older women, he figured. They were good in a crisis. "What does this mean?"
He was amazed to see that Estelle hadn't bothered to move from the armchair into which she'd sunk herself. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, her expression one of resignation. Perhaps, Luke thought, that was because she was older. She'd had a good life and had no fear of death. "I hope I was a good lay," she mused, "because I'm probably the last you're ever going to have."
His voice rose an octave nearer to panic. "I don't understand. We've got to get to a shelter. There has to be one near here, doesn't there?"
Estelle looked up at him. "Even if there were, I doubt we'd make it in time."
He was shaking his head in bewilderment. Estelle's casualness frightened him. He was seventeen years old, and he wasn't ready to die. Dying was something old people did, not young men like Luke Masterton. There was still too much he wanted to do with his life, so much he needed to experience. His throat tightened with fear, and for the first time in his life he wanted to cry.
"Why is this happening?" he asked her, a scared little boy seeking reassurance.
"I don't know," Estelle said. "I honestly don't know. Perhaps somebody hit the wrong button somewhere. Who knows how these things start."
"I've got to call my Dad." Luke's mother had died when he was five-years-old. But his Dad was a smart guy. He'd know what to do. Luke reached for the telephone, but there was no dialing tone. He tried punching the buttons at random. Nothing. "Phones are down," he reported, placing the receiver back in its cradle.
"That makes sense," Estelle nodded. "Communications was probably the first thing to be hit. Either that or our benevolent Government have deliberately shut down the lines."
Actually, Estelle was half right on both counts. Commercial telephone networks had literally been overloaded as millions of Americans called friends and relatives to either find out what the hell was going on or to say a final goodbye. Under the burden of such demand, many networks had simply failed.
"How come you know so much about this stuff?"
"I read a lot," Estelle remarked. She switched off the television and turned on the CD player, selecting a Rolling Stones track to drown out the horrible wail of the air raid sirens. "You know," she added, "we're probably in the best place right now. Seattle should be a primary target. One millisecond of brilliant light, and we're dust. We won't feel a thing."
'Ev'rywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet, oh, boy.'
Estelle's composure began to make sense to Luke. She was divorced from her husband - a man she had truly loved, but who had betrayed her love by taking a mistress - and she'd had a good life. She'd traveled the world, experienced things far beyond Luke's scope of comprehension, and now she was quite ready to diein a millisecond of bright light rather than grow old and die a normal, possibly painful, death.
But he wasn't ready. "How long do you figure we've got?"
'But what can a poor boy do except to sing for a Rock 'N' Roll Band, 'cause in sleepy London town, there's just no place for street fighting man! No! Hey!'
Estelle lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and exhaled with a bitter laugh. "Fifteen minutes, give or take a few. Enough time for a drink, I guess. Want one?"
'Said my name is called Disturbance, I'll shout and scream, I'll kill the king, I'll rail at all his servants.'
Luke calculated that even if he was to steal a car and jump every light, fifteen minutes wasn't enough time to get back to his house on the other side of town. He wondered what his father was doing right now. Probably alone in his favorite armchair or possibly in the local bar with all the other old crusties. Luke didn't know much about the physics involved in a nuclear explosion - he'd never paid much attention to that stuff - but he did know that the destructive potential of such weapons was more or less total, and that was all that mattered really, wasn't it?
"Or," Estelle leered, noting the fear etched on her young lover's features, "we could go out with a bang, so to speak. Would you prefer that?"
He nodded with some uncertainty. For once in his life, sex was the last thing on his mind. Totally helpless, he thought to himself.
'Well, what can a poor boy do except to sing for a Rock 'N' Roll Band...'
She knelt before Luke and took his thick penis into her mouth, teasing its head with her enthusiastic tongue -
- but it just wasn't happening. Impotence was a new experience for Luke, and one that he could have lived without. When Estelle looked up at him, he was whimpering, his pained expression that of a little boy miscomprehending of the terrible ways of the adult world. He was being forced to grow up faster than he had ever dreamed would be necessary. He was facing the most terrible of realities. There had been no warning, no indication that his world might end so suddenly, and now he regretted having wasted so much of his short life. He'd never learned another language, never read works of classic literature, never been overseas.
He'd never learned to swim.
Because there had always been all the time in the world. But now there was no more time, and soon, no more world.
He found sanctuary in Estelle's arms, and in a rare moment of insight came to realize why he'd always been attracted to older women. They offered the warm, affectionate reassurance of the mother who fate had so cruelly stolen from him. In the arms of an older woman, he could fool himself that everything in the world was just as it should be. He lost himself in Estelle's warmth, the scent of her perfume, and for just a moment imagined that he was back in his late mother's embrace.
When the apartment filled with effulgent nuclear light, Estelle and Luke were still holding each other. Before either of them could register the fact, they had been incinerated; reduced to their component atoms of organic vapor.
Luke Masterton would never reach his hundredth conquest.
ABOVE VIRGINIA
As the Bell 412 helo lifted off from the CIA Headquarters at Langley, DDO John Huth looked down at the building for what he imagined might very well be the last time. Over 3,000 men and women were still working down there, toiling away their last minutes on Earth. All for their country, or whatever would soon be left of it. Huth's JEEP-2 status afforded him a place at Mount Weather, the relative safety of which would allow him to observe the play-by-play of World War Three. Those who he'd left behind at Langley were not important enough to spare, no matter how devotedly they'd served their country.
And Cleo... in Washington, helpless, scared and alone. The Secret Service hadn't been able to track her down. God only knew where she was. Their two boys were on a camping trip in the Appalachians, probably far enough away from the major cities to afford them some protection, although not from the deadly fallout that would descend in the wake of the bombs.
And it's all my fault, he kept thinking. If only I'd stoppedOverlord sooner, the Ukrainians would never have been able to launch those damned missiles. I should have told Cleo about Helen. My selfishness caused this... He didn't know if he'd ever be able to live with his conscience. Perhaps it would be better if he never made it to Mount Weather. Then he'd only have to answer to his maker, not whatever remained of the American people. How could he justify what he'd done? Not only had it been illegal, immoral and unconstitutional, but it had triggered a global catastrophe. Of course, there were only three people alive who knew that; Huth, Nielsen andFalcon - whereverhe was. Nielsen's excuse for a conscience would not compelhim to come clean. AndFalcon - if he was still alive - was too much of a pro to break his silence. He had been handpicked for the mission firstly for his language skills, but also because ultra-sensitive operations were nothing new to him.
Huth didn't know if he was ready to convict himself by revealing the story ofOverlord . It was probably too late anyway, he reckoned. Within two hours, there might not be anybody left to care, never mind convict him. And then he'd be left to rot in his own guilt for all eternity.
He hoped that his life ended before he was forced to make that decision.
BROOKLAND, WASHINGTON D.C.
Donald and Mary Patterson held each other tightly on their living room sofa, thankful that the chaos outside hadn't woken the kids. The EAS message on the TV had been replaced by patriotic music playing over sentimental footage of everyday life. A line of cheerleaders. Farmers plowing their fields. Children playing hopscotch. A baseball game. A homecoming parade. Mickey Mouse. A little girl eating cotton candy at a funfair. Factory workers on a car production line.
Donald found himself mesmerized by the sequence, unable to believe that what he saw - all that characterized America and everything for which it stood - was about to be destroyed for all time.
Mary's grief was much more personal. She grieved for her children, who would never be allowed the opportunity to become fully grown adults. A faceless, nameless Russian who had never met her beautiful children, much less known their names, had denied them life. She understood that he was probably only doing his duty, but she offered a silent prayer for his eternal damnation all the same.
The power died, plunging the house into darkness for the last time.
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
General Yazov --- Has Svetlana figured out a recipe for chocolate cheesecake brownies yet?
Yazov's jaw dropped when he read the new message. I'll be damned.
Kalushin eyed him with puzzlement. "What the hell does that mean?"
Yazov smiled crookedly. "It means that we have a friend in America. Someone we can trust."
ABOARD KNEECAP
Dr Stein --- She gave up cooking after that night. Incidentally, Yuri apologises for drinking you under the table.
"Would somebody tell me what the hell this is all about?" the President barked, growing impatient. Millions were dead or dying, and his National Security Advisor was exchanging cryptic messages with the man responsible.
"Is this some sort of code, Lewis?" Margaret inquired.
Lewis allowed himself a quiet chuckle, laced with bitterness. "That's Yazov over there all right. You see, I've got a weakness for chocolate cheesecake brownies, and the first time I met Yazov and his wife, she made some for me. But they had the texture of rubber and made me ill. The second time I met him, his brother Yuri offered me some homemade vodka. That made me even more ill than the brownies. Nobody else could know about that." He looked up at the President. "Sir. There's a steady head in charge over there. He doesn't want this war any more than we do. We should trust him."
Nielsen's disdain was evident on his face and in his voice. "Mr. President, I can't believe you're taking this seriously. Chocolate brownies, for Chrissakes?"
The President stared deep into Lewis's eyes for several seconds, taking his measure. Lewis stared back, unblinking, anxiously waiting to see whether the President trusted him. It seemed like an Eternity before Mitchell finally made his decision.
"Okay, Dr. Stein, you've just bought Yazov his two hours."
Lewis emptied his lungs in what looked like a massive sigh of relief. In fact, he'd been holding his breath while awaiting the President's decision. Perhaps there was some hope of turning this thing off after all.
That was the moment when an Air Force captain came running into the room, clearly shaken. He stood to attention in the doorway, pale faced and panting. Everybody turned to look at him, the air cloyed with an almost tangible smell of fear.
"Sir," he wheezed. "We're detecting multiple nuclear impacts on CONUS, sir."
X
MULTIPLE IMPACTS
Turning and turning in the widening gyre;
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhereThe ceremony of innocence is drowned;The best lack all conviction, while the worstAre full of passionate intensity....
(WB Yeats)
WASHINGTON D.C.
As it made its final descent, the SS-11 warhead's internal altimeter triggered a small nuclear fission explosive. The atomic charge - in itself not large enough even to seriously damage a single building - acted as a trigger for the chain of events that would inevitably result in a thermonuclear explosion.
The bomb was essentially a fusion device, unlike the massive three stage thermonuclear bombs whose yields can be measured in terms of megatons. Even so, its explosive potential was far greater than that of a fission bomb, such as the 20KT device exploded over Hiroshima many decades earlier. This was because nuclear fusion works by using the energy liberated in the fusion of light elements, rather than utilizing the energy released by a chain reaction in fissile material. Fusion, therefore, is diametric to fission, since it involves fusing together the isotopes of light atoms such as hydrogen.
The first internal reaction to the explosive charge was the fusion of small amounts of deuterium and tritium - both hydrogen derivatives - to form a quantity of helium. Although the net energy release of this process was less than it would have been in a fission device, the heavier material used in a fission device would have contained many more atoms. Accordingly, the hydrogen isotopes liberated almost three times as much energy as their equivalent weight of Uranium.
Nevertheless, a fusion reaction can only occur at temperatures of several million degrees, the rate of fusion increasing exponentially with each rise in temperature. This is what is known as a thermonuclear (i.e. heat-induced) explosion.
In reality, this meant that the nuclei involved in the fusion process adopted a range of energies proportionate to the temperature generated by the fission trigger. The fission charge was engineered in such a way as to concentrate its energy towards the atoms liberated by the energy release.
At this point, barely two millionths of a second after the trigger had been detonated, the only tangible effect was that the Uranium-238 bomb casing glowed red as high-speed neutrons generated by the hydrogen-heat reaction bombarded it. The U-238 atoms effectively fused with the lighter hydrogen atoms, adding to the explosive yield.
This process had the secondary effect of releasing energy waves, which fanned out from the warhead faster than the speed of light, overloading electrical components across a five mile radius and blacking out most of Washington D.C.. This pre-blast phenomenon is commonly known as Electro Magnetic Pulse.
Mercifully, the 50,000 or so people within that five-mile radius barely had time to register any of this.
Three millionths of a second into the fusion process, the heavy and light atoms within the bomb had released their full potential of energy, yet they still continued to bombard each other.
Critical mass.
The accumulated energy of this entire reaction was released simultaneously in the form of light, gamma radiation and heat. Night turned to day. Anybody looking directly at the brilliant white flash suffered chlorioretinal burns. Those caught in the open within five miles of the epicenter were instantaneously vaporized by the tremendous discharge of heat and radiation. Even those who weren't vaporized suffered horrific burns that would more than likely prove fatal.
And the worst effects of the blast hadn't yet begun.
A vaporous fireball almost a mile in diameter with a core temperature of twenty million degrees Fahrenheit began to expand outwards, compressing the surrounding air and pushing before it a violent blastwave at supersonic speed. The blastwave consumed everything in its path. Overpressure caused buildings to implode and human organs to rupture. And anything that survived the blastwave still had to contend with the fury of a firestorm that was following closely behind.
For all its intensity, the firestorm was mercifully brief, since it was largely extinguished by tornado strength winds of up to two hundred miles an hour. These ferocious winds uprooted anything that wasn't secured to the ground. Telephone poles turned into flying javelins of death. Cables danced violently in the air like charmed snakes. Vehicles, debris and trillions of glass shards became lethal projectiles, flying in all directions at impossible speeds. One fire joined another to become part of a general conflagration that would quickly reduce the heart of Washington to ash.
Meanwhile, the fireball itself had created a vacuum and started to spin in on itself, forming a mushroom cloud as it sucked in dust and debris which would become contaminated by fission-produced radioactive isotopes and later float back to the earth as deadly fallout.
The blast was no more than three seconds old, and nearly sixty thousand people were already dead; among them Bert Aldick, Donald and Mary Patterson; and the crack addict who had ended Elroy Simpkins' life a short while earlier.
They were to be the first of many.
Philip Cole was facing away from the blast. He turned quickly in its direction, too late to see the initial flash, but just in time to see the initial blast effects. It looked as though the sun had exploded. A quick mental calculation of distance and direction told him that the blast would probably have taken out the White House and all the surrounding government buildings.
Actually, Ground Zero was just south of Brookland, twelve miles to the northeast of Cole's apartment. As he had rightly estimated, the White House and Capitol Hill were totally destroyed by the blastwave, along with just about every other building and living organism within the government district. Georgetown, Hyattsville and the various embassies along Connecticut Avenue had been reduced to dust. The Washington Monument had been cleanly snapped at a height of seventy feet and hurled across the Potomac, eventually landing in Arlington National Cemetery where it shattered into a million pieces of concrete.
Cole's jaw dropped as he watched a fiery orange and red mushroom cloud form over the city. Wow, these things look even better in real life. People on the street below were staring at it in morbid fascination, their faces contorted with horror. Some fainted as they realized the enormity of what had happened. Some took whatever cover they could in anticipation of further blasts.
The shockwave raced towards him, a distant buzz that became a deafening roar as it got closer. Windows shattered throughout the neighborhood. The ground trembled, and several buildings collapsed, clogging the air with dust and dirt. Cole lost his balance and was knocked over by the force of the shockwave. A pressure wave swept over him, making his ears pop. He clutched his head, which felt like it was going to explode with the overpressure.
Cole was vaguely aware that his skin was burning, but he was far enough from the blast that the effect was no worse than that of severe sunburn. The shockwave seemed to last forever, but in fact lasted no more than a few seconds. As it passed, he came to realize that he was still alive.
He stood up and, with a gleeful chuckle, remembered that his bitch of an ex-wife had been in Brookland at the time of the blast. Now she was less than ash. She was less than nothing. She had beenatomized . His only regret was that he'd forgotten to bring his camera with him to record this historic occasion.
By the time the nuclear wind brushed through his hair, it had become little more than a warm breeze invigorated by the deaths of thousands.
509thBOMB WING, WHITEMAN AFB, MISSOURI
"It's nearly time, sir."
"Yes, Danny, I know."
Brigadier-General Joe Voeller didn't want the other men to hear the dialogue between him and his XO, Colonel Danny Atherton. The two officers were in a makeshift shelter at Whiteman; an aircraft hangar that was normally home to one of the B-2 stealth bombers presently on its way to Russia. Also in the hangar were more than three hundred ground staff attached to the 509th. Many of them believed that the aluminum-coated hangar would afford sufficient protection from the imminent blast. But some of them knew that the thin layer of protection afforded them would be torn and roasted like paper by the awesome physical forces about to be unleashed. Voeller and Atherton were among the realists.
Voeller turned to address his men (and women, he realized), who were all sat on the concrete floor, huddled in small groups as if nuclear bombs observed the rule of safety in numbers.
"Okay, people, this is it. I want you all to assume brace positions, with your head between your knees. Do not, I repeat, donot look up when the bomb hits. Good luck, people, and I'll see you all..."
Voeller was stopped dead in his tracks by the most tremendous noise he had ever imagined; a boom that shook the very ground upon which he stood. He had barely enough time to see the terrified expression on Atherton's face before the roof of the hangar was torn clean away, revealing a fiery orange-red sky, churning tumultuously as the air of the still unseen epicenter pushed against it. The walls of the hangar began to shake furiously in a vain attempt to resist the forces assaulting them.
The ground rose a full six inches as the geological pressure of the blast stretched outwards from the epicenter. Voeller lost his balance and tumbled backwards. But before he hit the ground, the blastwave struck, tossing him into the air like an unwanted rag doll. Flying through the air at tremendous velocity, he was vaguely aware of his skin melting as the air around him literally ignited. He finally smashed into one of the hangar walls with such force that his spine shattered in three places, his rib cage was crushed and both his legs broken. He was not to know that he was being seared to the bone even as the blackness of death began to creep over him. His last seconds became a horrific kaleidoscope of pain, which ended only when the overpressure caused his lungs and other internal organs to rupture.
Within twelve seconds of the blast, all that remained of Brigadier-General Joseph Voeller was a small lump of charred organic material and billions of vaporized atoms that were greedily sucked up by the voracious fireball.
JOHNS HOPKINS MEDICAL CENTER, BALTIMORE
When the lighting died, everyone knew what was coming. Until that point, the threat had been abstract enough to offer encouragement to the hope that it was all a false alarm; that nothing was actually going to happen. But when the hospital complex was plunged into darkness, reality struck everyone inside with the force of a sledgehammer. Cries of terror and grief filled the air.
In the same instant that the emergency generator returned lighting to the complex, an almighty boom drowned out those screams and cries. The building shook violently on its foundations, but was far enough away from the blast not to yield to its fury.
Jo stumbled as the floor trembled, and held onto something to maintain her balance. Her heart was racing with fear as she became aware of a tremendous roar in the distance, similar to that of a tidal wave getting rapidly nearer. She closed her eyes and braced herself for the inevitable, hoping it would be painless. Not just for her, but for those around her.
The inevitable didn't come.
Johns Hopkins was approximately thirty miles to the northeast of ground zero, and withstood most of the bomb's effects. The blastwave - much of its power having been spent long before reaching Baltimore - rippled over the complex, an orchestra of noise causing Jo to clamp her hands over her ears as they popped with the sudden rise in atmospheric pressure. She wondered if the horrendous din was ever going to end. In fact, it lasted no more than four seconds -
- leaving only a multitude of desperate moans and cries in its wake.
Jo pulled herself to her feet, unable to believe that she was unscathed. She brushed herself down and looked around at the other people in the corridor. Only then did she realize that everybody was looking at everybody else, all thinking the same thing: Has everybody else been as lucky as I have? She detected the shock and terror in the air and imagined that her expression probably reflected those emotions also.
"Is that it?" asked a young nurse, her eyes moistening with tears of relief. "Are there going to be any more bombs?"
"I hope not," Rosenberg said, patting the nurse on the shoulder.
Lewis always used to say that DC was an overkill zone, Jo remembered. He told me about Russian targeting strategy once. How many warheads did he say were probably aimed at the metropolitan area? Thirty? Something like that...
"Where did it hit?" she wondered aloud.
There were no windows in the corridor, so nobody really knew, much less cared. All they knew and cared about right now was that they were all unharmed. There would be time enough later to grieve for those who hadn't been quite so lucky.
A staff doctor pointed over Jo's shoulder. "The blastwave sounded like it came from that way. That would mean the bomb hit somewhere southwest of here, I think."
"Downtown D.C.," an orderly speculated.
Rosenberg wrapped a protective arm around Jo. "You okay, honey?" he inquired. Jo couldn't tell from his face whether he was relieved to have survived or terrified of what might happen next.
"Yeah," she said flatly. "I will be once I know the fallout isn't blowing this way."
Rosenberg's jaw sagged. "Let's deal with one thing at a time, huh?"
She started to walk away.
"Where are you going?"
"To find a window," she said without slowing her pace. "I want to see it."
Rosenberg followed her into a waiting room, which looked out onto a staff car park at the front of the hospital. Until a few minutes ago, one would have looked through double glazed windows. Now all that remained were empty frames. A coating of shards that sparkled like spilt diamonds on the tiled floor provided the only indication that there had ever been windows in the room.
Jo moved slowly towards the bare window frame, mesmerized by the scene beyond. A tepid breeze brushed gently against her cheek. The smell of burned wood was already cloying, and the smoke-filled air limited visibility to a few meters.
In fact, all that was visible beyond the thick black smoke was the glowing orange-red nuclear cloud, pushing upwards into the atmosphere. Violent infernos flickered in the immediate vicinity of the blast. From this distance, they looked no more significant than campfires.
"They did it," she said quietly to herself, wide eyed with shock. "The stupid sons-of-bitches finally did it."
Rosenberg moved to her side. He followed Jo's eyes to the devastation outside. Had he not known that so many people had been killed or were lying injured among the burning rubble, he might have found the scene oddly beautiful. Certainly, it was an awesome spectacle; nothing like he'd imagined it would be. Until this moment, he hadn't really known what to expect. It hadn't seemed plausible.
But, as he looked out towards the devastated city, there was nothing out there among the smoke and fire to indicate that what he saw had ever been America's capital.
In the corridor behind them, people were beginning to react to what had happened. Rosenberg and Jo became aware of raised voices becoming hysterical in tone. They looked at each other.
"Now the fun part begins," he said dryly.
"Yeah," Jo snorted. "Welcome to the Dark Ages."
NORAD, CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN
General Allen had been monitoring the flow of messages betweenKNEECAP and the Kremlin with interest. For the President and his circle of advisors, NORAD had now become little more than a command facility that would shortly be erased from existence. To Allen, however, NORAD was a home and workplace for over two thousand dedicated men and women, all of whom had but moments left to live.
Looking out across the Pit, he saw technicians and support staff shaking hands, hugging each other, saying their last goodbyes. It all made for a strange atmosphere. He was surprised that nobody seemed to be getting hysterical or tearful. Indeed, the general sentiment seemed to be one of acceptance. They had all signed up for this duty in the full knowledge that something like this might happen one day. In fact, most of NORAD's staff had spent a large part of their professional careers training for this moment. Even now, a few officers continued to work feverishly, outloading data to external sources before the complex was destroyed. Dedicated to the end, Allen thought bleakly.
Meanwhile, the Big Board showed a squadron of SS-18's - represented by red arrows - moving across the Nebraska state line into Colorado, edging steadily towards the blue circle that represented Cheyenne Mountain. The TTG indicator continued to tick away the seconds. 1:05...04...03...
Allen picked up a microphone and punched a button that connected him with the PA system, which was relayed to every loudspeaker in the NORAD complex. He cleared his throat. The sound echoed throughout the facility, causing people to stop whatever they were doing.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is General Allen," he began. "I haven't got much time to say what I want to say, and I never was very good with words anyway. I'd just like to say how honored I am to have led the bravest, most dedicated group of men and women that have ever served in the armed forces of this great nation."
0:48...47...46...
Allen swallowed back a lump in his throat. "I'm proud of you all, people. I look at you all and what do I see? I see heads held high. I see a group of men and women that are facing the end with dignity, not despair. We may not survive this catastrophe, but America will. It will survive because of people like you." A tear trickled down his cheek.
31...30...29...
He opened his mouth to say something, but the words became lost in his throat. "That's all," he said, turning off the microphone.
"Sir."
The General turned around to find Frank Mackay standing before him. Mackay offered a stiff salute to his Commanding Officer.
"It's been an honor, sir."
Allen returned the salute. "Thanks, Frank."
Somebody in the Pit started applauding. The applause became infectious, sweeping around the command center and gaining momentum until it became a reverberating roar. It provided an effective distraction from what was coming.
20...19...18...
Allen's telephone rang. He picked it up as the cheering continued, having to shout to make himself heard.
"This is General Allen."
"Rob," came the familiar voice. "It's Marion."
ABOARD KNEECAP
Everybody in the conference room was puzzled by the sound of cheering. The President's first instinct was that the NORAD staff was celebrating a negative detonation. Likewise, Nielsen briefly wondered if it was possible that the Russian missile attack had failed.
Lewis, however, understood perfectly what was going on at Cheyenne Mountain. His facial muscles tightened into a knot of emotion.
"What the hell is going on down there, Rob?" Westwood asked the speakerphone.
"Just a last goodbye, sir. That's all." The cheering died as suddenly as it had started once the NORAD staff began to realize that Allen was engaged in what might be an important last communication with KNEECAP. "I take it you know about Washington and Seattle. Houston will be hit any moment now. But we probably won't be here to confirm it," he added as an afterthought.
Westwood's head dropped. "Looking Glassis keeping us posted." The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs shuffled awkwardly in his chair. He could only imagine what was going through the mind of his fellow General at this moment. They had known each other since West Point, when Westwood had been a smart-ass black kid from the Detroit ghetto who had joined up simply because he was tired of his peers questioning his sexuality on the basis of his feminine Christian name, and Allen had been a rich kid who had joined up in order to prove a point to a father that had wanted his son to become a lawyer. The two cadets hadn't seen each other again until the Gulf War, several years' later, when Westwood had found to his surprise that he actually outranked Allen. Who would've thought it, huh?
"Well, sir," Allen said, his tone remarkably ebullient, "I think I've done all I can at this end. AliceandRain Flower can take it from here. I'd just like to wish you all good luck."
Now it was Westwood who was choking back tears, an unfamiliar sensation for the General. "Thanks Rob."
"And make sure that..."
A deafening screech filled the room, causing everybody to wince. Reynolds clamped his ears shut. Nielsen reached over and turned off the speakerphone, which Westwood was staring at with wide-eyed disbelief.
NORAD had been neutralized.
NORAD, CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO
Traveling at some 20,000 miles per hour, the penetrator from the first SS-18 slammed into the side of Cheyenne Mountain, burrowing to a depth of some 100 feet. It was trailed by a one-megaton warhead, which detonated once it had caught up with the penetrator.
The NORAD facility was actually a complex of some fifteen buildings, each of which was mounted on giant springs designed to absorb the shock of a nuclear blast. In the first moments of the attack, they served their purpose well. The facility - buried deep within the mountain - reverberated and tilted slightly to one side, causing people to lose their balance, equipment to topple over and lighting to flicker ominously.
In the command center, the cheers had been replaced by screams and moans. Nine people were killed by the first impact, all of them crushed by heavy equipment that had fallen onto them.
That was but a preview of what was yet to come.
The second warhead and penetrator capitalized on the fractural damage caused to the mountain by the first explosion. Impacting at a higher altitude than the first warhead, it completely sheared off the mountain peak, leaving the upper levels of the NORAD complex dangerously exposed. A blast wave tore through the main access tunnel and ripped loose both of the twenty ton steel doors that led into the complex. One of the buildings was imploded by overpressure; its occupants instantaneously reduced to pulp.
A third SS-18 followed, but was deflected by the updraft caused by its predecessors. It skidded harmlessly over the new, lower mountain peak, shot through the air and finally came to rest in a leafy clearing more than half a mile away.
NORAD's structural foundations were beginning to fail now. Those who were still alive felt nauseous as the complex vibrated and the air began to compress.
Their misery was not to last. The fourth warhead detonated at the base of the mountain. Friction caused by the penetrator's sheer speed vaporized the surrounding granite even before the warhead exploded. When it did, the blastwave found a narrow cavity that led into an airshaft. Superheated gases blew the cavity wide open, carving a route for the trailing wave of overpressure directly into NORAD's heart.
A human being can sustain levels of overpressure up to thirty PSI. Instantly, the atmosphere within the NORAD complex was pressurized to levels of more than one million PSI. The net effect was the molecular disintegration of every living being and organism within the facility, including General Allen and his staff.
Eight more warheads had yet to impact.
ABOARD UA4171, OVER THE EASTERN ATLANTIC
The tannoy announcement came as a relief to Richie Gellis. For the last two hours, he had been nodding amiably while his neighbor, an investment banker from New Jersey, rambled on about all the places in Europe he'd visited and all the bars in which he'd passed out drunk. Meanwhile, Gellis had been wondering if any of those places still existed.
"Mr. Richard Gellis," announced the flight attendant's voice. "Richard Gellis, could you please come forward to the cockpit. Thank you."
"Excuse me," Gellis smiled politely to his neighbor.
"Sure thing, buddy."
Gellis felt cold, and it had nothing to do with the in-flight air conditioning. He had the ability to read moods just by a tone of voice. The attendant's tone hadn't sounded promising. It had sounded scared.
She was waiting for him outside the cockpit. Her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying. When she spoke, Gellis detected a slight tremor in her voice.
"Mr. Gellis, the Captain would like a quick word with you."
His heart skipped a beat. "Is this about..."
She cut him short, opening the cockpit door for him. "I think it's best if the Captain tells you."
He entered the cockpit with some apprehension and saw that the pilot and co-pilot were manning their controls as if nothing were wrong. A flight navigator sat at his console, monitoring instruments and pressing buttons. All of them had their backs turned to him.
"Excuse me," Gellis said, unsure whether they even knew he was there.
"Mr. Gellis," the Captain acknowledged him without turning around. "I understand you're a reporter for the New York Post, is that right?"
"That's correct." Get to the point. Gellis realized that his palms were sweating.
"And you know what happened to Moscow earlier, right?"
"One of the flight attendants told me, yes."
The Captain didn't even pause. He reported the news in a flat, matter-of-fact monotone. And still he didn't turn to look at the reporter. "Well, the same thing has happened to Washington. And Seattle. And Houston. And a pile of other places in between."
Gellis's first reaction was to laugh, but it was a laugh edged with terror. "You're pulling my leg. It can't have happened," he insisted. "The flight attendant put you up to this, right?"
"Mr. Gellis, I would not joke about such a thing. I assure you that much of America is in ruins right now."
The news wouldn't really sink in until much later, when he could see it for himself. Right now, a cynical part of his mind still believed that this entire episode was a sick joke, contrived solely for his benefit. "How did it happen?" he asked calmly, the reporter in him beginning to probe. "Who started it?"
"I'm afraid that's all I know," the Captain replied. Gellis would have given anything to see his eyes at that moment, but something in the Captain's voice warned him against pressing the issue. The co-pilot and navigator remained silent, lost in whatever thoughts they were thinking. Gellis wondered what was going through their minds.
He struggled to think of something to say, but no words seemed appropriate any more.
"Thank you."
He turned and left the cockpit.
B-2A BOMBER - "SPIRIT 16" - OVER NEBRASKA
"Shit!" Logan growled when the Blast Warning indicator started blinking on his console, accompanied by a constant, high-pitched alarm. "Get your visor down, McCann," he yelled, already fumbling to lower his own.
Momentarily, McCann froze. Every strategic bomber pilot knew what the tone meant, and it was a sound they feared like no other. She suddenly had an overwhelming urge to urinate.
"I said, lower your goddamn visor," Logan barked. "That's an order."
She fixed him with a dirty look, but followed his instructions nonetheless. The darkened visor was coated with aluminum to provide protection against retinal burns. Of course, were a one-megaton bomb to detonate within five miles of the B-2, no amount of aluminum would make much difference.
The skies outside were still full of commercial traffic whose pilots were probably ignorant of what was coming. As she tightened the safety harness around her waist, McCann offered a silent prayer for the pilots, their passengers and for everybody else who would die tonight, not least of all her own husband and kids, who had been in Kansas City, adjacent to Whiteman AFB.
For a few seconds, nothing happened and she hoped that the alarm might be false. But then her radar screen fuzzed over like a television suffering interference. The focus of the distortion seemed to be about ten miles behind them. Then came the white flash. Even through her visor, she squinted against the tremendous light that filled the B-2s cockpit. It lasted for barely two seconds. Her eyes took another couple of seconds to readjust.
"Ground burst, five 'o' clock, eleven miles," she reported, quickly scanning her instruments. The first thing she noticed was that at least three of the five commercial jets on her radar screen had disappeared. They had been within the blast zone. The remaining two appeared to be in some trouble, judging by the speed of their descent. She had to concentrate to expel from her mind the image of screaming, terrified passengers plummeting to a fiery doom.
May God have mercy on their souls.
"Shockwave," Logan yelled urgently. "Brace."
Both pilots assumed brace positions at precisely the same moment that the shockwave rolled over the B-2. The bomber's weight was as nothing to the godlike forces that first lifted it, then tossed it into a twenty-degree frontal spin. Logan knew precisely how vulnerable they were. The B-2 was built of graphite rather than aluminum. This had the advantage of trapping radar signals inside the jet, rather than reflecting them, but it also made the stealth bomber considerably more fragile than most other warplanes.
Logan could barely hear the creaking and groaning of the B-2's airframe above the orchestra of alarms that simultaneously warned of myriad system failures. Both he and McCann were powerless against the mighty forces assaulting their plane. He caught a glimpse of his altimeter, which showed them dropping sharply. His increasingly blurred vision was coupled with an overwhelming sense of nausea as the perpetual spin simulated more than eight G's. His G-suit automatically inflated to compensate, but it was not enough for him to cope with the sudden loss of orientation.
He closed his eyes, knowing that he wasn't going to come through this alive, and hoping that the end came quickly.
But, in fact, the end didn't come at all. The shockwave passed over the B-2, leaving it in a frontal spin, sustained by its own momentum. The bomber was still intact, but in serious trouble. A repetitive tone, rising and falling like a police siren, told them that the plane was about to stall. Logan groped for his joystick, but it didn't seem to be where it normally was. In his disorientated state, it was no longer clear to him which way was up and which was down. The sensation was not unlike being caught in a washing machine on fast spin.
"Take the controls," he cried at McCann. "I'm losing it."
"I've got it," she yelled back, no less uncertain of her bearings than her co-pilot. She was acting on pure instinct now. Three years of intensive training and physical conditioning with the 325thBomb Squadron at Whiteman came back to her. She fought with the aircraft to force a counterspin, leveling out the pitch and yaw that had been created by the shockwave. At least two of the alarms fell silent. But the B-2 was still losing altitude fast. As her senses began to report in, she realized that altitude had fallen to barely 1,500 feet and was dropping by more than 150 feet per second. She gently brought the nose of the plane up, simultaneously increasing throttle.
"1,200 feet," she reported calmly, professionalism taking over.
Logan prayed.
"1,000 feet."
"240 knots," Logan announced, regaining his bearings. "We're gonna make it. Keep pushing, honey."
"700 feet."
The rate of fall began to decrease as the B-2's engines, at full throttle, just about accumulated enough power to maintain altitude.
"550 feet." McCann exhaled a deep sigh of relief. "Come on, baby... Come to me... Leveling out at 420 feet," she reported with an audible sigh of relief.
"Take her up," Logan ordered, panting heavily. For not the first time, he thanked God for pairing him with such a calm, efficient co-pilot. But that didn't detract him from the knowledge that, for a few critical moments back there, he had lost it. McCann wouldn't say anything, of course. She was too much of a pro for that. But she knew and, more importantly,he knew, and that was enough to damage his pride and confidence. The effect was made all the worse by the fact that he outranked her. How could she respect a CO who hadn't been able to cut it when it had mattered most of all? Damn!
He glanced over at McCann, wondering what she was thinking. She had raised her visor and was staring wide-eyed at the frontal view. Her mouth was half open in a silent cry of horror. He lifted his own visor and followed her gaze.
The horizon was peppered with nuclear mushroom clouds. Six of them were about twenty miles away, and eight more were visible in the far distance. Omaha, he realized. They've taken out Omaha.
Logan checked his rear view monitor and saw another five clouds behind them. Twenty-one altogether. Twenty-One! Even when his wing had been scrambled, he hadn't truly believed that it would come to this. But what until a few minutes' earlier had been an abstract possibility was now awful reality. Although he had been trained for this moment, he had never expected to have to really face it.
"They must've hit everything between Omaha and Wichita," McCann remarked incredulously. "They've killed everybody."
"Not everybody," Logan assured her. She looked up at him, her brow furrowing a question. "We're still alive," he elaborated. "And we've got a job to do."
McCann stifled a sarcastic laugh. "What the hell for?"
He pointed through the window. "To make sure the bastards who did that fry in hell."
But even as he said the words, one thought dominated Logan's mind.
I'll never see my Beth again.
PLEASANT RIDGE, MISSOURI
The first indications of a mass exodus had manifested with remarkable suddenness. Roads that had been silent just a few hours' earlier were now clogged with traffic. The result was chaotic. Cars loaded with people and possessions, horns blaring, their drivers showing scant regard to road signs and lane markings. Hikers trying to hitch a lift on the roadside. A few people on bicycles and motorcycles, weaving in and out of the larger vehicles. All of them had just two things in common; they were heading north, and they all wanted to get there as quickly as possible.
Despite all the traffic, Beth was still maintaining an average speed of no less than sixty miles per hour as she weaved through the thickening army of vehicles. She overtook a trailer whose driver responded by giving her the finger. She didn't notice, didn't care.
"Beth, slow down," Cathy ordered, feeling more nervous of her daughter-in-law's disregard for the State speed limits than of the nuclear terror about to descend from the skies.
"No way, no way," Beth insisted. "We're running out of time."
"My God," Cathy sighed, taking in the chaotic scenes around her. "What's with all these people? They're acting like animals."
"They're acting like people who want to live," Patrick corrected her.
Beth slammed the steering wheel in frustration as she found herself caught in the right lane. A bus, crammed with passengers, was coming up hard on her left. Immediately in front of her was a battered white van, testing its own mechanical limits at forty miles per hour. Beth had nowhere to go. She was locked in.
"Get out of my fucking way, dammit!" she cried, as the trailer came up hard on her rear.
Cathy was appalled. "Mind your language, Bethany!"
Beth's reply was cut short by a dullthwump behind her. It was a sound that could only mean one thing. No sooner had her mind registered that thought than her entire world was bathed in a dazzling chalky white light, brighter than anything she'd ever seen. Instinctively, she slammed on the brakes, causing the trailer behind to slam into her rear. Her airbag activated immediately, preventing her from flying through the windscreen.
In the back seat, Patrick wasn't so lucky. He was thrown forward by the impact, his head smashing into the front passenger seat. In the maelstrom, Cathy somehow landed in an unruly heap on the floor.
Beth was confined by the airbag, screaming into it. She heard the rumble getting closer and sensed that her entire future could be measured in mere seconds.
But by the time the blastwave reached the car, it had lost much of its strength and the overpressure succeeded only in smashing every window in the vehicle that hadn't already been broken by the collision. A shard of glass sliced through the airbag, causing it to rapidly deflate.
Beth forced the door open and collapsed out onto the asphalt road surface. As she looked up, she saw:
Three fiery mushroom clouds towering into the atmosphere, their luminescence lighting up the sky, partly concealing several more in the far distance.
The entire horizon seemingly ablaze.
Other drivers and passengers staggering out of their own vehicles to stare at the hellish spectacle.
"Holy God," she muttered to herself, unable to stop herself staring.
And then she became aware of the desperate screams, cries and moans that saturated the air. Some people had been flashblinded by the blast. Others had died or been seriously injured in road accidents. Half a mile behind her, a gas tanker exploded, creating a mushroom cloud that was but a tiny facsimile of those dominating the horizon. Several vehicles were ablaze, their occupants still inside.
But she could not stop staring at the nuclear clouds.
That's Whiteman, she realized with horror. Martin!
She turned to her car and opened the back door. Cathy was sprawled out on the floor, mumbling something incomprehensible. Beneath her was Patrick. He wasn't making a sound.
"Come on, Cath," Beth said, pulling her mother-in-law out of the vehicle. She laid her on the asphalt. Cathy was delirious, obviously concussed.
But still not a peep from Patrick.
Beth reached in and felt for a pulse.
Nothing.
She reached to check for dilation in his eyes, but as she touched his face she realized that his head was twisted at an impossible angle. And then she realized.
Oh God, his neck is broken.
As that realization struck her, she heard the distantthwump of another bomb.
XI
TRANSITION
"Anyone who considers using a weapon of mass destruction against the United States or its allies must first consider the consequences. ... We would not specify in advance what our response would be, but it would be both overwhelming and devastating"
(Secretary of Defense William Perry, April 1996)
ABOARD KNEECAP
The stunned silence that filled the conference room was broken only by the steady hum of the E-4's jet engines as it cruised over a devastated America. Lewis took an inventory of the faces around the conference table, all confronting their own personal grief for the first time. The eyes of those around him were either downcast or bleakly contemplating what had happened and - worse still - what was yet to come.
The President was taking it harder than anybody, Lewis saw. His face was ashen, unblinking eyes staring at a fixed point in space. He was the one who would have to explain to what remained of the American people why they had been attacked. The First Lady caught Lewis's eye and nodded almost imperceptibly, her expression saying: I'll take care of him. Don't worry.
But Lewis wasn't worried about the President. He was worried about Jo, the one person about whom he truly cared. He wouldn't have minded so much had he known for sure whether she was alive or dead, but the uncertainty provided a lingering torture that was more than a psychological pain. It was physical. He could feel it in every molecule of his body.
His mind replayed their last telephone conversation with each other, some six months earlier. Jo had called him to ask whether he wanted the set of rare pewter spoons that his late grandmother had bought for him as a child. The spoons were all handcarved, each of them representing a scene from a Charles Dickens' story. He had left them, along with many of his belongings, at the Maryland home he'd shared with Jo; perhaps in the subconscious hope that he would return there one day. Now both the spoons and - he imagined - Jo had almost certainly been destroyed.
That last conversation had ended with Jo asking him if he had given any more thought to seeing a counselor. Lewis had reacted angrily. The subsequent shouting match ended with Lewis slamming the phone down on her. He would regret that for the rest of his life, he knew. If only he hadn't been so fucking proud, he might have found the courage to tell Jo how much he loved her.
He closed his eyes...
To his alarm, he couldn't even remember what she looked like. He knew that she was beautiful, but for the first time since they'd separated, he couldn't picture her. All he could see in his mind was a skeletal parody of his ex-wife, a few wisps of her thick black hair swaying in a wind of atomic vapor. She was wearing the bridal gown that she'd worn on their wedding day, but her eyes were missing and her fingers were charred into blackened claws as they reached out towards him.
Lewis snapped his eyes open and realized that Bishop was staring at him across the conference table. A look of mutual understanding passed between them. The DCI's wife had been at home in Northeast Washington at the time of the attack, virtually at ground zero. In fact, the families of most of those aboard KNEECAP had lived within the blast zone. Sons, daughters, mothers, fathers, husbands, wives. There was hardly a person on boardthat hadn't lost somebody. It came as scant consolation to him that he wasn't alone in his grief.
He had to do something to distract himself from a barrage of emotions that was testing his sanity. Looking up at the President, he said, "We need to think about what happens next, sir."
Everybody stared at Lewis for a moment as if he'd spoken in a foreign tongue.
"Dr Stein is right." Reynolds broke the silence. "We can't just sit up here and pretend it hasn't happened. There's bound to be mass hysteria down there at the moment. People will be confused and frightened."
The President nodded his reluctant agreement. "I know, Jim. I've been thinking about that. Thing is, there's no precedent for what to do now. It's not as if there's some goddamn rulebook for this kind of scenario."
"Address the nation, sir," Lewis suggested firmly. "The folks out there will need reassurance that the government is still working for them." Not that it's ever really worked for them before, he didn't say. "Explain to people exactly what's happened and that you're in control of the situation." He paused, carefully pondering how to word his next suggestion. "We need to discuss what to do about all the people who have been disenfranchised by the attack. How many are we talking about?" His eyes directed the question at Westwood, but it was Margaret who answered the question.
"Rough estimate in this kind of scenario," she speculated grimly, her eyes downcast. "I'd say at least twenty million people would be homeless. At least twenty million more wounded."
The President shook his head in disbelief. "Twenty million homeless Americans," he muttered, accentuating each syllable of the incomprehensible figure. "What the hell are we supposed to do with them? Build refugee camps?"
"It may just come to that," Westwood acknowledged, his brow a knot of anguish. He had neither wife nor children, having always stated that,"The Army is my wife, my men are my children, the constitution my mother and the American people my father." He grieved for all of them.
Reynolds agreed. "And we're not just talking about twenty million ordinary Americans," he remarked. "We're talking about an unpredictable mass. Twenty millionfrightened, hysterical Americans."
The President considered that. He felt completely out of touch thousands of feet above the chaos in a luxurious command plane. That was why, he supposed, none of this seemed any more real than a Nintendo game. He didn't feel comfortable with the apparent gulf that separated him from his people, and it showed in his face. "What about the National Guard, Paul?" he asked the Secretary of Defense. "How stretched are they in the cities?"
Nielsen shook his head. "The call up has been selective so far. If we're talking about policing camps containing a couple of million people, we'd need to announce a general call up."
"And many of our reservists will be among the refugees," Lewis pointed out. Not to mention among the dead, he didn't add, even though he knew everybody was thinking it. "What about regular Army?"
The Secretary of Defense glanced at Westwood, who answered the question. "That's another possibility we may have to consider. I'm not very comfortable with it though."
"Why not?" The President asked.
"Because supposing this thing hasn't run its course yet, and all our regular Army are tied up policing refugees?" He paused, allowing that prospect to hang in the air. "I for one don't want us to be caught with our pants down if Russia decides to up the ante."
"I don't see that happening," Mitchell said, just as Admiral Dunster's telephone rang.
"Dunster." The Secretary of the Navy lifted his receiver and listened. "How many?" He glanced up at the President. "I'm putting you on speaker."
"Can you hear me?" The voice at the other end echoed in the conference room.
"Yes," Mitchell replied. "This is the President. Who is this?"
"Admiral Dick Fallon, Commander of Pacific Fleet, sir. I'm on the Nimitz, about two hundred miles southeast of Japan."
"What can I do for you, Admiral Fallon?"
"I've just received notification of a flare up in the Eastern Pacific, sir. A Russian Akula torpedoed the USS California about twenty-five minutes ago."
"How bad?" the President asked him, mentally calculating the wider implications of this latest incident. He remembered conducting an inspection of the California, a nuclear-powered cruiser, shortly after his inauguration. He even remembered the Captain, who had then just taken command of the vessel. That made this incident slightly more personal than it might otherwise have been.
"Last transmission from the California came in about five minutes ago. They said they were listing heavily to port. They're going down, sir."
Mitchell closed his eyes. "Have we sent a rescue ship to search for survivors?"
"Yes, sir. But there are some real bad storms in that area right now, and it won't be easy getting to them. We know that they've already sustained heavy casualties," he added sadly. Although CINCPAC hadn't served aboard a ship for more than a decade, he had never really stopped being a sailor and, accordingly, still felt a personal responsibility for the California's crew.
"And the Akula?"
"The California managed to take it out shortly before the torpedo hit. There were no survivors, sir."
Somehow that didn't make the President feel any better.
"Admiral, this is General Westwood," the JCS Chairman announced. "Are we certain that the Akula fired first?"
"Sir," came the immediate response, "I spoke to the skipper myself. I've known him for thirty years. He told me that the Akula fired without provocation. That's good enough for me. I'm sure the tapes will corroborate his story."
"Fair enough," the President said. "Keep us posted, Admiral."
"Yes, sir." The line went dead.
Mitchell took a deep breath and paused to consider what he'd just heard. "Two things," he said finally, turning to Lewis as he spoke. "One: Is this an isolated incident, or are we likely to see other flare ups of this nature? Two: Are the Russians trying to pick off our conventional forces?"
"I think one answer will deal with both questions," Lewis replied. "Both our forces and the Russians' are at maximum alert. Fingers are squeezing triggers, and that degree of tension often causes people to make mistakes. I think there's an extremely high likelihood that everywhere in the world where Russian and American forces are within a couple of hundred miles of each other, there could be flare ups. But I don't think this is what the Russians want. With their communications in disarray and heavy concentrations of their conventional forces destroyed by our missile strike, they're competing at a massive tactical disadvantage, and they know it. These incidents are a symptom of the crisis, rather than an element of it."
Mitchell nodded, understanding. He liked Lewis. Unlike most people with whom the President had to deal, Lewis hadn't lost the knack of speaking plain English. And neither was he afraid of making bold assertions where others might have prevaricated. Perhaps he wasn't politically astute enough to assume the National Security Advisor's role on a permanent basis, but there were surely other applications for his knowledge and insight.
The red phone - an encrypted line reserved for priority communications - began to trill.
"Yes." The President immediately placed the call on speaker. Everybody else in the room listened in on their own phones.
"This isAlice , Mister President. I have a preliminary impact estimate."
"Go ahead,Alice ." Mitchell felt uncomfortable addressing a four-star General by a girl's name, although he was certain that the day would come when there would be numerous female Generals. Old prejudices, Ed. Gotta rid yourself of them.
"We've confirmed six and eighty three impacts against CONUS. It'll still be a few hours before we're able to conduct a full damage survey and estimation of fallout patterns, but we're fairly certain that more than sixty percent of our strategic facilities have been destroyed. NORAD has also been taken out, as you know. But the good news is that we have established communications with Mount Weather. They took a hit, but the warhead overshot them by two miles and fizzled. They're still alive down there. Shaken, but still alive."
"That's something, I guess," the President remarked. Mount Weather was the primary evacuation site for the Senate, Supreme Court judges, the Speaker of the House, and at least two of his own junior cabinet members. That meant America still had a working government. "What about the cities?" Even as he asked the question, he knew that the news would not be good. Had any of the city-bound missiles failed,Alice would surely have told him straight away.
"I'm afraid that Houston, Seattle and Washington were all hit, sir. The D.C. missile detonated over Brookland, about four miles northeast of Capitol Hill. Pretty much everything inside the Beltway has been wiped out."
Lewis performed a quick mental calculation. Johns Hopkins was approximately thirty-five miles northeast of the blast. Far enough, providing she's not downwind of the fallout, he calculated to his relief. He tried to imagine what conditions would be like on the ground right now but quickly shut the thought from his mind, knowing that he would find out for himself sooner or later.
"Any news from Omaha?" Westwood asked, referring specifically to the USSTRATCOM command center.
"No, sir,"Alice replied. "StratCom took a direct hit..." He paused. "My nephew was serving there."
"I'm sorry, General," the President said, genuinely meaning it. He wondered if there was a single American alive at this moment that hadn't lost a friend or relative.
"That's okay, Mister President. He did his duty." The remark was automatic, andAlice's tone suggested that it did not reflect what he truly felt. "I also have some preliminary data on casualties. These are only computer-generated estimates, and the margin of error could be as much as fifteen percent either way."
The President braced himself for the statistics. Except they weren't statistics, were they? They were flesh and blood, lives and hopes and dreams.
"Based on the time of the attack and the attack pattern, up to five million people were killed by the blast effects alone. Up to another twelve million have suffered burn and secondary injuries from which they will not recover. Approximately twenty to thirty million people will be homeless, although some of these will be among the dying. And all of these figures," he added grimly, "fail to take into account the implications of fallout and other environmental damage. Until we have more data, we won't be able to offer an accurate projection of fallout patterns."
A murmur swept around the room, the sound of a tortured animal. Alice'sestimations finally brought home to everybody the enormity of what had happened. Up to thirty million Americans, possibly more, were dead or would soon be dead. How many more would soon be wishing they were among them?
"What about our missiles?" Nielsen asked, possibly the only person in the room who wasn't showing any visible signs of distress. Lewis briefly wondered whether the Secretary of Defense was actually human. He hadn't seemed affected by any of this. Perhaps he was just hiding it, Lewis hoped. That was a reaction with which he was acutely familiar. Even so...
"First impacts should be in the next five minutes,"Alice reported. "No misfires that we can see so far. But one thing you should know, sir, is that the Russian ears are opening. They must've bust a gut to do it, but we're monitoring a lot of UHF radio chatter between what remains of Moscow and other military installations. That's all we know so far." He suddenly sounded distracted. "I've got to sign off for a while. I'll get back to you in precisely five minutes."
"Thank you,Alice ," the President said meekly. "Good luck."
He allowed his eyes to shut for a few seconds, beginning to feel the first symptoms of fatigue. When he opened them again, he turned to Reynolds.
"Jim. I want to address the nation as soon as possible. Make it happen."
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
The transition of power had been so smooth, Yazov hadn't even noticed it. He wondered indeed if it had actually taken place or whether he was just being paranoid. But a cursory examination of Grizov's eyes left him in no doubt as to whose star was in the ascendancy. There was something about the self-assurance with which the FSB Director conducted himself, a distinct haughtiness in his tone and demeanor. And, most worrying of all, other senior military officers in the underground complex were beginning to use Grizov as a conduit through which to pass information to Yazov. That afforded Grizov the luxury of passing on only what information he considered relevant. And, even in the midst of nuclear war, information was perhaps the most precious commodity of all. Indeed, more so now than ever.
Yazov, who had thought himself to be something of an authority on the exercise of power, was beginning to realize that he'd forgotten the most basic lesson of all. If you showed weakness or gave your subordinates any reason to doubt your ability to command, power would slip through your hands like water through a colander. And I'm guilty on both counts, Yazov admitted to himself. He had shown weakness by his indecision over whether to attack the Americans, and that had given his men reason to doubt his leadership qualities. He was even beginning to doubt those qualities himself, so how could he expect others to believe in them?
Whether, in retrospect, it had been right to attack the United States or not was irrelevant. The issue was that he had not acted on the evidence before himat the time , and that hesitation had been read as weakness; mostly by Grizov, but also by the other senior officers in the command bunker. After all, Yazov was inexperienced and untested as a national leader, whereas Grizov had more than three decades' experience within Government. He knew how to play the game.
But losing power was of no real consequence to Yazov. He was only concerned with Grizov's warmongering tendencies, which had somehow attached themselves to an innate sense of paranoia. That was a highly dangerous combination at this particular moment in history, Yazov knew. Grizov had made it clear that he favored a total nuclear commitment to settle this war once and forever. He hadn't garnered quite enough support for that yet, but from what Yazov knew of the FSB Director, he was a patient man and would be quite happy to play the long game. In fact, he had between eight and ten hours before U.S. and Russian strategic bombers reached their respective targets. At approximately the same time, both nations' submarines would resurface for new orders. Ten hours wouldn't have normally been much time in which to alter a nation's strategic doctrine, but in the midst of a nuclear war it was an eternity.
In the war room around him, uniformed officers were hurriedly compiling data on the Russian attack and America's retaliatory strike. With communications still in disarray, it would take some time to form an accurate picture of events. Regional PVO stations were beginning to report in, as were conventional military units and civilian government installations that had survived the attack. But it was a disorganized and somewhat chaotic process, the main consequence of which was much shouting, running and panicking. Grizov was in the thick of it, issuing orders and receiving frequent updates.
Yazov decided to take advantage of Grizov's distraction.
"Anatoly Mikhailovich," he whispered to Kalushin so as not to attract attention to himself. "I need to speak to you in private. In my quarters."
A quizzical look started to form on Kalushin's face, but it didn't last for long. He followed Yazov along a long, dark corridor, illuminated only by yellow fluorescent wall lights spaced at twenty feet intervals. Towards the end of the corridor was an anonymous black door that led into Yazov's quarters.
Kalushin realized it was the first time he'd seen the room, but it already had Yazov's touch. The first thing that struck him was how Spartan it was. It managed to contain everything Yazov might need, but no more. Books - both English and Russian - were systematically arranged on a steel shelving unit, indexed by subject and then alphabetically. The bed was neatly made to military standards. A framed photograph of Yazov's late wife Katrina sat on a small table, facing the bed. In the corner, a drinks cabinet was stocked only with a bottle of vodka and a bottle of port.
"Take a seat," Yazov offered, closing and locking the door behind him.
When he saw Yazov lock the door, Kalushin began to realize that this wasn't going to be an ordinary chat. Well, what was ordinary about today?
He pulled up a molded plastic chair and nervously lowered himself into it. Yazov sat on the edge of his bed, no more than three feet away from Kalushin. He was staring straight into the Air Force General's eyes. Kalushin had the feeling of being probed.
"What is it?" the Air Force General asked, finally breaking the silence.
Oddly, Yazov's eyes seemed to be dancing with amusement. "Old friend," he said, "we have succeeded in destroying a planet today. Does that not make you feel like a God?"
Kalushin suddenly felt afraid. He hadn't seen Yazov in this mood before, and had no way of predicting what might happen next. He hung his head so that Yazov wouldn't see his expression. "I feel ..." He paused, trying to find the right words to describe how he felt. Somehow, no words seemed appropriate except for, "Nauseous. Not like a God, no."
Yazov firmly patted him on the shoulder, causing Kalushin to look up at him. "Good. Neither do I feel like a God. But we cannot ignore what has been done." So Yazov had been testing him, Kalushin realized. But why?
"No," Kalushin agreed, "we can't. What is your point?"
"My point is that whatever we have done is as nothing compared to what might yet be done. Anatoly Mikhailovich, in all the years we have been friends, I have never known you to lie. You are the one person of whom I can ask this question and be guaranteed an honest answer."
"What question?"
Yazov glanced up at the door before speaking. "Is Grizov able to seize power?"
Kalushin knew the answer to that question as well as Yazov did. But that didn't make verbalizing it any easier. It emerged from his mouth as a stammer. "I believe this is already happening."
Yazov's worst fears had been confirmed. So it wasn't a paranoid delusion. Kalushin had noticed it as well.
"Do you realize," Yazov said, "what will happen if he is allowed to seize control?"
Kalushin said nothing. He didn't have to. Yazov answered the question for him.
"He will destroy whatever is left. He must be stopped. We must..."
A knock on Yazov's door stopped him dead in his tracks. "Who is it?" he called.
"Grizov, General," came the muffled response. Yazov and Kalushin exchanged a nervous glance. Yazov stood and opened the door.
"General Yazov," the FSB chief said, glancing into the room and seeing Kalushin. His eyes betrayed nothing of what he thought about that. He obviously had something far more important on his mind. "Your presence is required in the war room."
"Why? What is it?"
The answer caught Yazov unaware.
"China."
PERSPECTIVE: Positive Control Points for U.S. Strategic Bombers
At this point in the story, each B-1B and B-2A in America's strategic bomber fleet has been assigned a Positive Control Point. Once they have passed these points, they will proceed to their designated targets inside Russia unless they receive a direct recall order from National Command Authority. At the time of the first Russian attack, they are between three to five hours away from these locations, otherwise known as 'Failsafe' points.
Once they have reached their PCPs, the bombers will orbit until they receive an order either to proceed to their designated targets or to turn back. Once an order to proceed has been issued, the bombers take between six to eight hours to reach their targets. After this point, only the President himself may issue a recall order.
The bombers in this scenario have staged out of several bases in the Continental United States and overseas USAF bases in England and Germany. Two hours into the conflict, 179 ACC bombers are airborne with a total arsenal of precisely 902 nuclear warheads.
XII
SURVIVORS
"There are plenty of problems in the world, many of them interconnected. But there is no problem which compares with this central, universal problem of saving the human race from extinction."
(John Foster Dulles, 1952)
REISTERSTOWN, MARYLAND
Hilary Thomson slammed on the brakes when she saw it in her rear view mirror. The suddenness of that action caused her friend Betsy to jolt forward in the passenger seat.
"What are you doing, you silly woman?" Betsy protested. "You're gonna get us both killed stopping like that. There could have been something behind us."
Hilary was staring at her mirror with childlike awe. "Thereis something behind us, Bets. Look."
The two elderly women turned around to look through the rear window. It was a clear night, and Betsy immediately realized what had caught her friend's attention. The horizon was glowing a beautiful hue of reds and yellows.
"Oh, what a beautiful sunset," Betsy cooed. "You don't see many of those any more, do you? Not since those hairspray cans made that hole in the E-Zone layer."
Hilary looked at her friend with disdain. "Don't be ridiculous, Bets. That ain't no sunset. That's one of them - what do you call 'em?" Her brow furrowed as she tried to remember. Judy would know if she were here. Something to do with the sun being somewhere other than where it was supposed to be... "An Ellipse."
"Eclipse," Betsy corrected. "And that ain't no eclipse. An eclipse is something to do with the moon, and I sure as hell don't see no moon up there. I'm not stupid, Hilary. That's a goddamn sunset if ever I saw one."
Hilary shook her head vigorously. "At this time of night? Come on, what do you take me for? That's an ellipse."
"Sunset."
"Ellipse."
Hilary frowned in annoyance. Sometimes she wondered how somebody as obviously feeble minded as Betsy had managed to raise a family. Long experience had taught her that there was only one way to deal with ignorance, and that was to shout. "Look, this is my goddamn car," she snapped, "and that there is an ellipse. If my Judy was here, she'd tell you. She's smart about things like that."
Betsy shrugged acquiescently, beginning to tire of the argument. She knew she was right, and that was all that mattered. She'd just been trying to educate her friend, that was all. But some people were too stubborn to learn anything. "Oh well, whatever it is, it sure is pretty. I envy your Judy being in DC. I bet she's got a great view of it."
A fond smile appeared on Hilary's lips as she considered that. Her daughter, an important aide to the President, no less. Who'd have thought it? Certainly not Judy's high school Math teacher, who had told her that she would never amount to anything. Whatever this national emergency was, Hilary knew that her daughter would be at the President's side, providing wise counsel and insight. "I knew it was a good idea to come out for a drive tonight," she remarked. "Just think, if we hadn't come out, we wouldn't have seen that there ellipse."
"Or that shooting star we saw earlier," Betsy reminded her, blissfully unaware that the shooting star to which she referred had in fact been tipped with a five hundred kiloton thermonuclear warhead, and the 'ellipse' to which Hilary referred was its consequence. Of course, Hilary was equally unaware that her daughter had been reduced to little more than organic vapor floating on a radioactive breeze.
"Such a beautiful thing, nature," Hilary chirped, starting up the engine again. "Just think what else we might see tonight."
"I wouldn't mind seeing a gas station," her friend complained. "Somewhere we could get a coffee and something to eat. I'm starving."
Hilary eased the car into gear and headed north towards Connecticut. "There was a gas station a couple of miles back. Why didn't you say anything then?"
"Because I wasn't goddamn hungry then," Betsy snapped. "Besides, it was closed. I checked."
"Was it?"
"Yep. In fact," she added, glancing accusingly at her friend, "everything we've passed has been closed. Don't tell me you haven't noticed."
Hilary considered that. Now she comes to mention it... "Yeah, strange that. Perhaps they all went to DC to look at the ellipse," she proffered.
"Sunset."
"Ellipse."
And so the two dotty old women continued to drive north, for what reason neither of them were certain, other than because Hilary's late daughter had told them to, and she always knew what was best. They had no way of knowing that they had, in some small way, been responsible for the partial destruction of their nation. But this was sure as hell the most fun either of them had had for years.
PHELPS, TEXAS
The four children huddled together on the floor. This time, it wasn't only Gary that was crying; Nina was sobbing into Tabatha's shoulder and Rhonda was shaking uncontrollably. Even from this distance, the fireball was clearly visible, hanging over what used to be Houston. It was an awesome sight, but it represented the end of everything they'd ever known; their friends, their neighborhood, Dick and Louise. Of all the children, only Gary had no concept of nuclear weapons. Tabatha remembered reading in a history lesson about the survivors of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. It had seemed so distant, yet so horrific. She couldn't comprehend that the same thing had just happened to her own country. Her own town.
Al, meanwhile, seemed amazingly calm. He was slouched back in an armchair, the rifle still laid across his lap. As long as he had that rifle, he had authority. He had power. And Al seemed to like having authority and power, for what purpose Tabatha hadn't yet figured out.
"Look on the bright side, kids," he sneered. "Seems to me like you got outa town just in time."
Tabatha stared at him, their eyes locking in the dim illumination afforded by the distant fireball.
"I need to use your bathroom," she told him flatly. Actually, she'd been dying for a pee for the last two hours. One of the less agreeable symptoms of pregnancy. But she hadn't wanted to leave the other kids alone. Now she had no choice. Either she went, or she ruined Al's threadbare excuse for a carpet.
"Sure," he agreed after considering it for a moment. "Upstairs, first door on your left."
She touched Nina's arm, giving her a look that said you're in charge now. Then she gave Gary a reassuring peck on the forehead. "Be back in a minute, big guy."
"Don't try anythin' stupid," he warned Tabatha. "Remember, your kin are still keepin' me company."
Al watched Tabatha through narrow, piggy eyes as she navigated her way in the darkness, eventually disappearing up the staircase. Then he smiled at the other three children, his face eerily illuminated by the burning remains of Houston.
"Well, seems to me like we're all stuck with each other for a while," he whispered, leaning forward as if about to tell a story to the children. "Why don't we pass the time with a little game? Give Big Sis a surprise when she gets back."
\*
Tabatha had always prided herself on her acute instincts. They had been prerequisite to survival in her neighborhood. Of course, there was nothing left of her neighborhood now, but Tabatha's instincts remained. And those instincts were telling her that there was something seriously wrong with this whole picture.
It wasn't just Al. Neither was it the fact that he had a gun, or even the rancid stench of his house. It was something else. Something she'd sensed in the way he looked at her and the other kids. The sinister glint in his eyes went beyond malice. It spoke of an evil the likes of which she'd never encountered before, and that was truly saying something. He looked at the children as if he were about to devour them. Something told her that he wasn't planning on letting them leave too quickly, and it was down to her to change his mind about that.
How the hell did we get into this mess?
She reached the top of the staircase and, as much as she wanted to use the bathroom, she was consumed by intrigue. She had to know what Al - if indeed that was his real name - was all about. Not only to satisfy her own curiosity, but also to enable her to prepare for whatever he might have in mind.
Her heart racing with the prospect of being discovered, she tiptoed past the bathroom and headed for the next room. The door was slightly ajar. She opened it with extreme caution, worried that the slightest creak might give her away.
She could see enough in the dim light to know that she was in the bedroom. It looked ordinary enough, despite the strong smell of rotten wood. An unmade king size bed left only enough space in the room for a chest of drawers. Tabatha couldn't help it. She had to know. Perhaps she wouldn't find anything. But she still had to be sure.
She took a deep breath and carefully opened the top drawer. To her relief, all she found were balled socks and underwear, arranged in a disorganized fashion. She was about to give up when she noticed a manila envelope placed on top of the chest. For a moment, she stared at it, wondering whether she was doing the right thing.
To hell with the Right Thing, girl. My home is gone, and I've got to look out for all of us now.
The envelope felt heavy in her hands, but it had already been opened. That was something, she supposed, not sure how she would have steamed it open otherwise. A check of the exterior revealed no markings to suggest what the envelope contained. Without further hesitation, she emptied the contents onto the bed.
Photographs!
Perhaps she'd been worried over nothing, she thought. There were about a hundred photographs in the envelope. No harm in that. Part of her felt guilty for poking around among Al's personal possessions, rummaging through what was probably nothing more sinister than family photos. None of my business. All the same, she couldn't resist the temptation to examine them. She picked up a handful and crept over to the window, where the moonlight and the distant fireball afforded some illumination.
At first, Tabatha thought she was looking at a series of abstract images. She squinted in the dim light, flicking through them, wondering... And then she began to realize that her mind was denying what the images represented. As comprehension dawned, she felt a compelling need to vomit. For a moment, she stared at the photographs, silently praying that her mind was playing tricks on her. But she knew that her mind was incapable of conjuring such horrors of its own accord.
As she inadvertently vomited over the floor, she heard a blood-curdling scream from downstairs.
JOHNS HOPKINS MEDICAL CENTER, BALTIMORE
The grim expressions on the faces of his senior staff were no less than he had expected. Dr Doug Sandler was the Chief Administrator at Johns Hopkins. A portly man to whom middle age had not been kind, he had never pretended to be one of the world's great medical practitioners. But he was one hell of an organizer, and an even better man manager. If ever he needed those skills, he knew, it would be tonight.
He had gathered together his senior staff in a conference room to review the hospital's ability to cope with the likely flood of patients from the Washington blast. In fact, the trickle had already started. The first bomb casualty, a teenage boy, had been brought in by his girlfriend less than half an hour after the blast. He had been driving in the vicinity of Washington Cathedral when it happened and, through no fault of his own, had been looking straight at the blast. As a consequence, he had suffered severe chlorioretinal burns. His girlfriend had improvised by wrapping a woolen scarf around his eyes and, sensibly deciding to take him to a well-equipped hospital outside of Washington itself, found her way to Johns Hopkins. He would probably regain his sight eventually, but as Sandler explained, he was likely to be the first of many casualties. Most of those would be suffering from injuries far more serious than flashblindness.
After the blast, the hospital's emergency generators had kicked into action. But they only had a maximum of twelve hours' life in them, and nobody imagined that electric supplies would be restored by then. If indeed ever. With the loss of electricity went the ability to sterilize instruments, and that would mean having to perform all manner of medical procedures in conditions that would be little short of medieval. Although everybody in the room had privately considered this issue, none of them had raised it yet. At this stage, it wasn't as important as worrying about how to survive from hour to hour. Right now, twelve hours was a small eternity.
"What about radiation?" Dr. Greg Foster asked, his voice laced with concern. He was applying a wet towel to a gash on his head, sustained when a light fitting had fallen on him during the blast. "Who's to say the water supply hasn't been contaminated?"
"Early indications are," Sandler reported, "that the prevailing winds are blowing the fallout to the southeast, away from us. FEMA and the National Guard are trying to evacuate as many people as they can but, as you can imagine, it's a huge task given the limited time available. The good news - if one can think of anything tonight asgood - is that we should be relatively safe from fallout here. Unless those winds suddenly change direction, of course," he added as a grim afterthought. "Of more concern right now is our ability - or lack thereof - to deal with the likely influx of casualties."
That remark provoked an uneasy murmur among those present. Although Johns Hopkins was one of the world's best equipped and most highly respected medical facilities, it lacked the human and technological resources to deal with an event of this magnitude.
"We could send people to Montgomery and Bethesda," Foster recommended.
Sandler grimaced. "No way, Greg. They'll be in a worse state than us. Casualties from the Washington bomb will reach Bethesda and Montgomery long before they get here."
"What about the FEMA bunker at Olney?" Jo suggested. "We could send non-critical cases there. They're equipped to deal with something like this, and I doubt that too many of the survivors would ordinarily think of heading there."
A few of her colleagues nodded agreement. Olney was only ten miles southwest of Johns Hopkins. It was closer to Washington, but still upwind of the radioactive fallout. She seemed to remember that the facility was protected against fallout in any case.
The only dissenting voice was that of Dr John Shelby. He was the Assistant Director of Cardiology, which made him Jo's number two. "I'd like to know who's going to turn all these people away to Olney," he pointed out. "We're not talking about an ordinary emergency here. We're going to be dealing with a lot of hysterical people, many of them psychologically devastated by what's happened. Even those with minor cuts and bruises will demand immediate treatment. And the burn injuries..."
"But a lot of themwon't be hysterical," Rosenberg pointed out, cutting him short. "They're the ones we should be thinking about. They're the important ones."
Sandler furrowed his brow. "I don't understand."
Rosenberg explained patiently. "I'm talking about all the people that will be bringing in friends and relatives, but won't be too badly injured themselves. A lot of those people will have cars, you see."
"And?" Foster shook his head in confusion.
"And," Rosenberg elaborated, drawing out the word, "we could draft them in to assist us with moving patients to Olney."
Sandler's mouth opened into a silentAhhh as comprehension dawned. "You mean like a shuttle service, right?"
"Right," the neurosurgeon said. "And those who don't have cars can help out here. I'm sure we could find plenty of things for them to do. Perhaps some of them will have medical experience. Who knows?"
"Good idea," Sandler agreed.
Jo noticed how much Rosenberg's suggestion had improved the morale of those around her. Suddenly, there was some small cause for optimism.
Until Shelby spoke.
"One thing we haven't thought of, boss," he remarked dourly to Sandler. "How do we know that we've seen the last of the bombs?"
PLEASANT RIDGE, MISSOURI
The screams and cries so prevalent a few minutes earlier had now been replaced by a chorus of anguished moans and pleas for help. Beth was starting to realize that she was one of the few people in the vicinity who hadn't been seriously injured. Actually, she hadn't been injured at all. But that didn't stop the tears from streaking her face. Her wounds were internal.
Cathy was still sprawled out on the roadside, having been drifting in and out of consciousness since the blast. Beth had no idea what to do for her. The nearest hospital was over forty miles away and even if she could get her there, it would more than likely be overwhelmed with patients whose injuries were far worse than those incurred by her mother-in-law.
"Hang in there, Cath," she whimpered, stroking Cathy's head. "It'll be okay." And that was perhaps the biggest lie she had ever told. In the distant south, a string of mushroom clouds were deteriorating into stratospheric towers of black smoke, beginning to lean towards the southwest. Beth didn't know a hell of a lot about radioactive fallout, but she figured that if prevailing winds were blowing the clouds southwest, far away from her, then that was where they would carry the fallout also. With that in mind, she quickly checked the northern horizon for any clouds that might be blowing fallout in her direction. Fortunately, there were none. None that she could ascertain, anyway.
But in spite of such small graces, she was still stuck on the Interstate in the middle of nowhere, with nowhere to go and no way of getting there. Enough of her fellow drivers had been injured or killed by the blast that the roads were now clogged with stationary vehicles, many of them ablaze. With the power lines dead, the flickering glows of myriad fires provided the only means of illumination, casting eerie shadows over a grisly scene.
She felt so alone, a feeling that was amplified as she took a mental inventory of her loved ones:
- her cousin Barry in New York City. He was Beth's only living immediate relative. She had no way of knowing whether the Big Apple had been spared. Probably not, she figured. Hopefully, Barry hadn't known too much about it.
- Martin, no doubt exacting revenge at that very moment for what had been done to America. He probably knew he wouldn't be coming home. Not that there was much of a home for him to return to.
- Patrick. His lifeless body still in the back seat of the Ford Explorer.
- Cathy...
The irony wasn't lost on Beth. She had never liked Cathy, much less loved her, but right now she was praying for the recovery of her mother-in-law. Perhaps her wish for Cathy's survival was a selfish antidote to her fear of loneliness, but it was much more than that. Reviewing the devastation around her, Beth began to realize that human life had suddenly become more rare and precious than ever.
"Oh, Martin," she cried. "Where are you?"
A few yards away, a middle aged man in a business suit staggered blindly through the frozen traffic, arms outstretched like a zombie, hysteria in his sightless eyes. As he toppled forwards, Beth saw that his back was a pincushion of glass shards. Further along the roadside, a young woman tended to her lifeless boyfriend, who had been crushed between two vehicles. His steaming intestines had poured out onto the asphalt, yet she still continued in her vain attempts to revive him. Just a few yards away from her, an elderly man was on his knees, holding his dead wife's head in his arms and staring in saucer-eyed horror at the fading atomic clouds.
And in the distance, secondary explosions periodically shook the ground, like aftershocks following a major earthquake. Or the last spasms of a dying planet, Beth thought.
"Bethany," Cathy moaned weakly.
Beth's attention returned to her mother-in-law. "It's okay, Cath," she assured her. "It's over."
"What... what happened? Were we in an accident?"
"It doesn't matter. Can you sit up?"
"Bit... bit dizzy," the old woman complained. "I'll try."
With Beth's assistance, Cathy slowly came upright. As her lucidity returned, she started to take in the scene around her. It didn't reconcile with anything she'd ever experienced or imagined and, momentarily, she thought she might be hallucinating. But the desperate sounds of human misery were all very real, as was the stench of gasoline and charred air.
"Oh, my God," she muttered. "Oh no." Her eyes turned to the towering atomic clouds that would dominate the southern horizon for hours to come. "Please tell me I'm dreaming." Her eyes welled with tears. She didn't understand much about nuclear war, but she did know that nobody had ever directly attacked her country before (Pearl Harbor didn't count, since that was in Hawaii). And she was smart enough to realize that what had happened would have an irrevocable effect on everyday life for a long time.
She looked up at Beth, her eyes pleading for her daughter-in-law to erase this dreadful image before her. But Beth could do no more to change what had happened than could the poor boy whose intestines had spilled out (she was thankful that Cathy hadn't seenthat image yet).
"Paddy," Cathy gasped. "Where's Paddy?"
Beth opened her mouth, but couldn't find the words to explain. She shook her head sadly. That gesture told Cathy all she needed to know. To Beth's surprise, her mother-in-law managed a brave smile. "Well," she said, a slight tremor in her voice, "it's probably for the best. I mean, at least he didn't know much about it. It's better that he didn't have to see this. He was a good man, you know?"
Beth was openly sobbing now. "Yes, I know. A lot of good men have died today."
"Well, that's God's reward for the good," Cathy reasoned in a controlled tone. "We must have done something wrong in our lives, because we've been left behind in Hell. Judgment day has come, and God didn't think us worthy of redemption." It was the only logic that made any sense to her.
"No," Beth insisted. "That's not true. We mustn't think like that. Life will go on."
The old woman looked again at the blazing, apocalyptic southern horizon. "Perhaps," she admitted. "But what sort of life will it be?"
Beth wasn't ready to tackle that particular issue just yet. She stood up, hoisting Cathy to her feet. "Come on, we have to move."
"I don't want to," Cathy protested. But her voice was full of resignation. Deep in her heart, she no more wanted to stay in this burning morgue than she wanted to live. She simply wanted to be with Patrick again, someplace where there were no nuclear bombs, no suffering multitudes. Only peace.
"We have to find help. Come on." Beth wrapped Cathy's right arm around her shoulder and together they started to head away from the apocalyptic landscape.
Neither of them knew what destiny might hold in store for them, but north seemed to be a good place to find out.
FLIGHT UA4171, OVER WESTERN EUROPE
"This is the Captain speaking. We're now beginning our descent into Rhein-Main International Airport in Frankfurt. The temperature on the ground is a balmy sixty-eight degrees. Once again, I'd like to apologize for any inconvenience caused by the diversion of this flight from its intended destination. The United Airlines ground staff at Frankfurt will be on hand to assist you with alternative arrangements. In the meantime, please ensure your seat belts are fastened and your trays are in the upright position. Thank you for flying United Airlines, and we look forward to seeing you again."
Gellis almost laughed aloud. The Captain's voice was a study of professionalism, betraying nothing of what he knew. He wondered what the reaction of his fellow passengers would be once they discovered what had happened. The vast majority of those aboard the flight were American. How would they take the news that their nation had been destroyed?
He was only just beginning to realize how comfortable he'd become until now with the popular, if misplaced, belief that large scale war was a thing of the past. But wasn't that true for everybody? Ever since the end of the Cold War, society had developed a psychological blind spot to the threat of nuclear conflict. People generally tended to fool themselves that if they ignored the omnipresent danger, it didn't exist. He remembered when, after the demise of Communism, all things Russian had suddenly become fashionable. Except for poverty, organized crime and an inefficient bureaucracy, he thought bitterly. Gellis had been a student when Mikhail Gorbachev had charmed America, bringing New York City to a standstill with an impromptu walkabout. He remembered the euphoria when, as the last President of the Soviet Union, Gorbachev had signed the INF treaty with Ronald Reagan in 1987. But, like with the moon landings, that initial euphoria had soon degenerated into apathy. By the mid-1990's, people had stopped caring that Russia still had enough nuclear weapons - most of them still aimed at the United States - to destroy the world several times over.
Such complacency had not been exclusive to the public, he knew. Even western political leaders had come to believe their own rhetoric that the world had been made a safer place by the disintegration of the Warsaw Pact. They had assumed that the victorious West could go about constructing a New World Order without Russian interference. That was a joke, if ever there was one. Even now, Saddam Hussein was still in power, despite numerous botched attempts by the US to oust him. Milosevic, although assassinated in mysterious circumstances a couple of years ago, had survived the 1999 Kosovan War. And, in the meantime, Russia had been sinking slowly and painfully into anarchy for nearly two decades, while a succession of arrogant western leaders kept reassuring Moscow that if it persisted with economic reform, it would probably pull through. Gellis found it ironic that such platitudes had always been edged with a warning that if reforms were at all tempered, the west would cut off whatever limited economic aid it provided to Russia (a miniscule sum given the sheer scale of the republic's land and population base, but still enough to ruin the Russian economy were it to be withdrawn). Meanwhile, NATO had rubbed salt into Russia's already wounded pride by stationing troops in the territories of the former Soviet bloc; primarily Hungary, the Czech Republic, Romania, Bulgaria and Poland.
But, until today, wounded pride had been the least of Russia's problems. Most of its people - the majority who didn't participate in the black market - were suffering terribly under an economic system saddled with hyperinflation and corruption. Many soldiers hadn't been paid in months. And, incredibly, the west still showed amazement at the surge in popularity of extremist political movements over there.
Well, now the west's self-assured arrogance had been repaid with interest. Gellis derived no satisfaction from that. Both his nation of birth - Russia - and his nation of residence - America - had been destroyed because of the complacency of a few men who had thought they'd known better.
Those who don't learn from history are destined to repeat history's mistakes...
Gellis lifted his window blind and saw that an awesome red sun was rising over the Eastern horizon.
It looked as though it was edged with death.
GCN HEADQUARTERS, ATLANTA
The newsroom had been operating on a skeleton staff ever since news of the imminent nuclear attack had prompted many staff to rush home to their families. Anchorman Jack Sullivan, however, was one of the few who had stayed behind. His wife and kids were visiting relatives in Detroit. Although he had made a telephone call shortly before the attack to ensure they were safe and to tell them he loved them, he knew that it would be impossible for him to reach Detroit given the present chaotic conditions and the Government's decision to suspend Interstate travel
So all that was left for him was to continue doing his job, as he had been doing five nights a week since being promoted to anchor two years' earlier. A junior studio assistant was operating the camera when Sullivan's face appeared on millions of TV screens around the world. Luckily, enough of the senior production staff had also chosen to stay, ensuring that he still had something to report. But, for the most part, he was winging it. There was no TelePrompTer. The EMP effects caused by a high-altitude airburst over the Gulf of Mexico had knocked out electricity grids throughout the southeastern United States. Accordingly, everything was now running off an emergency generator, the GCN building being one of the few in Atlanta with electricity. He had no idea how many people were picking up this first broadcast of the post-apocalypse era, but it was still his job to deliver it.
"Hello America and the rest of the world," he began, his resonant tones as authoritative as ever. "I don't know how many of you are picking this up, but we're staying on the air for as long as we can. Many of GCN's staff, quite understandably, have opted to be with their families at this dark moment in human history. That means I don't have a script, so please bear with me. Let me begin with what we know for certain.
"Late last evening, Russian forces used tactical nuclear weapons against enemy positions in the Ukraine. What happened next is still uncertain, but it appears that the Ukraine somehow managed to launch a nuclear strike of its own against Russia, destroying three cities, including the Russian capital Moscow. Soon afterwards, American and Russian forces were involved in an extensive nuclear exchange. How and why this came about is still a matter of speculation, but what is clear is that Washington D.C., Houston and Seattle have been destroyed, as have a number of American military facilities across the country. I understand that a similar amount of damage has been inflicted on Russia.
"The President and his senior staff are currently airborne in an E-4 command plane, from where he is understood to be controlling wartime operations."
Sullivan fingered his earpiece. "I'm just hearing that we've established a live link with the Speaker of the House of Representatives, George Halligan. Mr. Halligan is at the secure Mount Weather bunker in Pennsylvania with a number of Senators, Congressmen and Supreme Court judges. Mr. Halligan, can you hear me?"
Halligan's voice was barely audible above the crackling interference. "Yes, Jack, I can."
"Mr. Speaker, thank you for sparing the time to talk to us. Firstly, let me ask, how are you?"
The response was a few seconds coming. "I'm shaken, Jack, as are most of us down here. We're all worried about our loved ones, our constituencies and our country. Mount Weather was targeted by a single Russian warhead, but fortunately for everybody down here, it seems to have been less than accurate. I believe it overshot us by a couple of miles."
"How many people made it to Mount Weather in time?"
"Not enough, Jack, not enough. Just over half the Senate and House of Representatives are here, and eight of eleven Supreme Court judges. We can only assume that many of those who never made it are no longer alive."
The watching audience saw Sullivan swallow hard. "I don't know how much you can tell us, but how bad was the attack?"
"We've been receiving regular updates from the President's E-4. I can tell you that we've been struck with well in excess of six hundred nuclear warheads, roughly equivalent to five hundred megatons in total, and that American strategic forces have responded in kind. The Russian attack seems to have been concentrated mainly on strategic military targets around the country, but three cities were also hit. Those were Washington, Seattle and Houston. The Russians seem to have deliberately attacked corresponding cities to those that were hit in their own country."
"The question that everyone will want to know the answer to, Mr. Speaker, is how did this happen? How did America become involved in what, after all, began as a regional crisis?"
The line crackled and fuzzed, after which Halligan's voice could be heard saying, "Sorry Jack, I didn't catch that. Could you repeat the question?"
Sullivan raised his voice slightly. "Can you reveal the reasons for America's involvement in what was initially a localized conflict?"
"Well, that's a matter of some speculation here too," the Speaker admitted. "We've only got half the picture, but it seems that Russia was unable to detect the Ukrainian launch and, when it hit, they thought it was an American attack and reacted accordingly. If that's the case, then the question has to be asked whether a nation whose early warning systems are so unreliable can be trusted with nuclear weapons. I for one will be exerting pressure on the Mitchell administration to push for a total disarmament of Russia's nuclear arsenal. By whatever means necessary," he added flatly.
Something in Halligan's tone sent a shiver down Sullivan's spine. "I know you're busy, Mr. Speaker, and I thank you for your time. I would just like to ask one final question. Is the nuclear war over?" The last sentence sounded terrifyingly surreal to the anchorman even as he asked it.
"I'm afraid, Jack, that for security reasons I'm unable to reveal any details about the current military situation. To be honest, I don't know much more than you. What I do know, and what I can tell you, is that the strategic forces of both sides are still at the highest state of alert. There have been limited communications between the President and his Russian counterpart, but I can't tell you what was discussed or agreed."
Can't or won't? Sullivan wanted to ask. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Halligan, and good luck to you."
"Good luck to you too, Jack," came the response. "And to everybody watching. I think we're all going to need it."
Sullivan turned back to the camera, visibly shaken. "That was George Halligan, Speaker of the House of Representatives, at the Mount Weather government bunker in Pennsylvania."
He fingered his earpiece again. "And I've just been informed that the President will be addressing the nation from aboard his E-4 wartime command plane in just over an hour."
PHELPS, TEXAS
Over the years, Tabatha had learned to cope with fear like an uncomfortable but necessary jacket, and because of this, she sometimes had difficulty knowing the difference between fear and the other extraneous emotions that she had to deal with on a daily basis. But as she charged downstairs, almost tripping in the darkness, she knew that she had never felt so scared in her life. Her family, her home had been destroyed. Probably most of America with it. And now the only family she had left was in trouble at the hands of -
-what? Her mind screamed. That was the problem. She really didn't know what she was dealing with. Didn't know how crazed Al really might be. All she knew was what she'd seen in the photographs, and that had been sickening enough. What if that pungent stench really was -
-Oh God, Oh God!
She ran into the breakfast room, praying that she wasn't too late but not knowing what she'd do about it even if she weren't. It took her a moment to comprehend what was happening. Gary, Nina and Rhonda had all been restrained; their mouths and hands bound by duct tape. How the hell did he do that so fast? All Tabatha could make out in the darkness were their eyes, bulging with fear, their screams muffled by the restraints.
Al was standing over them, his rifle pointed at Tabatha. He wasn't smiling now. His expression was closer to a leer.
"You let them go, you sick motherfucking son-of-a-bitch," she warned through clenched teeth. But even as she spoke, Tabatha knew that there wasn't a damn thing she could do to him. Not as long as he had the gun. She had to get that gun off him somehow, and her mind was hurriedly calculating strategies for doing just that.
"Nice language for such a perty girl," Al drawled. "Now ah'll tell you how things are gonna be now. You, young lady, are gonna give me just what I want, otherwise the next thing you hear will be the sound of high-velocity steel against your bee-lov-ed little siblings' skulls."
The thought caused Tabatha to flinch. "You can't do that," she said uncertainly.
Al's sick smile reappeared. "Sure ah can. You see, things have changed now." He pointed towards the window, through which the Houston fireball was still clearly visible. "That there bomb means no more cops, no more nothin'. Which means that ah can do anything ah want. You gettin' the picture?"
She stared at him, terrified, as if her soul was naked before the Devil. But she knew that he was right. They were in the middle of nowhere. Perhaps the last nowhere on Earth, she thought. And thingswere going to be different now. Men such as Al would be the masters of the new world. A world in which innocents such as Nina, Rhonda and Gary had no place.
But this is my family, her mind screamed in protest. And I'm responsible for them.
Her mind was racing, trying to think of a way to talk her way out of this. She knew what was coming, of course. The photographs she'd seen had left her in no doubt as to the fate Al had in mind for her. And she didn't fancy her chances of reasoning with him. He didn't look like he had the brains or inclination to be reasoned with.
That left only one choice. And as much as the thought disgusted her, she knew it was the only chance she and her family might have to get out of this situation alive.
"I think I am gettin' it," she smiled sweetly at him. "You're right. Things have changed, and I've just got to adapt to the way things are, right?"
Al paused uncertainly, the rifle twitching in his hands. "Right," he said, the same idea occurring to him. "Now strip your clothes, you little nigger bitch."
Tabatha's smile didn't falter. "It don't have to be nasty, Al. You don't have to force me. I know what you want, and the fact is, I've got needs of my own. You might be the only healthy man for miles, and if I don't get it from you, then who the hell am I gonna get it from?"
He shifted on his feet, watching her through narrow eyes. "You shittin' me, you slut?"
She parted her lips seductively. "I'll give you the best night of your life, Al. I'll blow you so hard, you'll think you've been hit by a truck. All I ask is that we don't do it in front of the kids. I can't focus in front of the kids." Tabatha couldn't bring herself to look at her siblings, especially not while she was talking dirty. She'd have to explain to them later. If there was a later, she thought.
Al felt a growing hardness in his pants. That was when his sense of logic ended and other instincts took over. "Where then?"
Tabatha pointed to the greenhouse. "Out there. I love to do it outdoors." There was another reason for her choosing the greenhouse, of course, but she couldn't even admit that to herself. Not yet.
"Okay then," he agreed after a moment's contemplation. "Git." With the rifle, he gestured her to the greenhouse. The same greenhouse that Tabatha had been so afraid of ever since entering the house what seemed like an eternity ago. "Remember ah've got the gun. If you're shittin' me, I'll blow your fuckin' head off."
Tabatha ambled out towards the greenhouse, gently swaying her hips as she did so, calculating the effect such a gesture would have on him. He had the gun, but she had a weapon far more potent.
She could hear his footsteps behind her as she entered the greenhouse. The stench was worse in here than any other place in the house. But that didn't surprise her. Having seen the photographs, she now understood why that was so.
It didn't look like the greenhouse had been used for its designed purpose for many years. Shards of broken glass littered the floor, glistening in the moonlight like jewels. Plants rotted in their pots, long dead. Several compost bags were lined up against the far wall, unopened.
Once Al had closed the door behind him, he stood there, leering at her. "Okay, ah kept my side of the bargain. Now take your clothes off, slut. All of 'em. Let me see what ah'm gettin'."
He still had the rifle, Tabatha saw. She had no choice but to oblige. But she didn't simply remove her clothes. She performed for him; just the way she'd seen girls do it in movies; a slow, seductive strip. The fear and revulsion she felt was nothing compared to the obligation she had to her family, and that was perhaps the only reason that she managed to conceal her true feelings towards Al. She hoped the dance was satisfactory enough for him.
It was. His eyes widened in the bleakness as she stood before him, naked as the day she was born. She noticed that his grip on the gun had relaxed slightly. He had other things on his mind now.
To her concealed horror, he whipped out his already erect penis. For some reason, she recalled an incident at school - only two months' ago - when a boy had done exactly the same thing in front of her. She'd looked at the boy's tiny member and sneered at the hapless student, "Is that supposed to impress me, or the bugs you're gonna use it on?"
But wit wouldn't help her now. She resisted the temptation to back away as Al moved towards her. As he got closer, she could smell his rancid breath; a slightly harsher smell than that which surrounded her. The stench was blended with that of stale sweat.
He fondled her breasts with his right hand, while his left held the rifle in a much looser fashion than before. She gagged in revulsion, but didn't let it affect her lustful smile. She had to let him think she was enjoying this ordeal.
She whispered into his ear. "That looks like a cock that needs a good sucking. When was the last time any woman did that for you?"
He shook his head, his face twitching with anticipation. "Ne... Never."
"Over here." She led him to the far wall, near the bags of compost. "I can see you better here. I want to see your face when you cum."
Al didn't object. He would have quite willingly done it anywhere at that moment. And that was the moment that Tabatha realized she was getting the upper hand. Now it was just a matter of patience.
As he stood there, Tabatha lowered his pants and kneeled before him. She involuntarily gagged at the prospect of taking him in her mouth, even though she had no intention of doing so. Her right hand was trembling as she softly stroked his penis, and her face contorted in revulsion. Not that Al noticed. His eyes were closed, face twisted in ecstasy. And the rifle hung loosely in his left hand.
This was the moment. It had to be now. As much as the prospect terrified her, she knew that she had no choice. Her family was relying on her.
As she took his penis into a firm grip with her left hand, her right hand groped on the floor behind her and picked up a large, crescent shaped glass fragment she'd spotted earlier.
In one swift arcing motion, she drove it hard up into Al's scrotum. As his eyes bulged in paralyzing, uncomprehending pain, she snatched the rifle from him and, with a carefully aimed swing, cracked his head with the butt.
Al toppled backwards into the compost bags, his hand desperately groping for a scrotum that was spurting blood in all directions. The pain was so intense, he hadn't even noticed the blow to his head. His screaming echoed in the greenhouse, and for almost a mile around.
"Thass it," Tabatha cried at him, tears streaming from her eyes. "Thass fucking it. You cry like a girl, you motherfucking sicko." She cracked his head with the rifle butt again. He keeled over, holding a hand up to protect his face. "You think you can do to my family what you did to those poor motherfuckers in the photos? You think you gonna fuck me, then chop me up and bury me in this greenhouse, you motherfucker?" Her voice was hysterical now as she allowed the sum of her fears to wash over her. "No way, man. You gonna die with your victims. You gonna bleed to death out here."
Al was still screaming. "You... can't... leave... me... here," he sobbed breathlessly.
Tabatha was beginning to regain her composure as she dressed. The nightmares could wait. "Like you said. The world's changed. No cops, no paramedics. You gonna burn in hell, motherfucker."
90thSPACE WING, WARREN AFB, WYOMING
Two hundred feet below ground, Pearson reached out to Kurato, whose head had been gashed when her chair was uprooted during the blast.
"You okay, Holly?"
"I'll live," she said, applying a handkerchief to the wound.
The only illumination afforded the launch officers was that of the eerie yellow emergency lighting, which tended to cast long shadows over everything, exaggerating the pallor of the capsule's occupants.
They were in one of the worst locations on earth right now, Pearson thought. Cut off from everything and everybody, they had no way of knowing how bad the nuclear attack had been. No way of knowing whether it had focused solely on military installations, or whether it had been unprejudiced. No way of knowing if there was anything left for them to return to. That was assuming, of course, that they could dig their way out in any case.
All they could rely on now was training and procedure. They had ample supplies to exist below ground for up to three months after the attack. They had also been equipped with NBC suits and sidearms for when they did return to the surface. If all else failed, the Air Force had in its benevolence also given them two cyanide capsules each. Just in case.
Two months alone in a capsule with only each other for company. Well, Pearson imagined that they would be playing cards an awful lot. Perhaps, he thought, they would also discover other activities in which to indulge. He quickly expelled the thought from his mind. At a time like this, all you can think about is sex... You should be ashamed of yourself, Nick Pearson.
"So," Holly sighed, pulling herself upright, "the war's over, our job's done. What happens next?"
"I guess we'll have time to get to know each other a bit better." He immediately reproached himself for voicing what he had just thought, and sure enough the flippancy in his voice attracted a withering look from Kurato. "I'm sorry," he said. "But how the hell should I know what happens next? We can stay down here for two months, that's all I know."
"And then what?"
"Well," he sighed ponderously, "two possibilities. We might get up there and find the place teeming with life. Perhaps they'll have filled in the bomb craters and built some shopping malls on them."
"Or?"
Pearson shrugged and gestured up to the ceiling. "Planet of the Apes."
XIII
THE GLOBAL DIMENSION
"The nuclear weapon is obsolete. I want to get rid of them all."
Gen. Charles Horner, Commander of U.S. Space Command (1994)
POKROVKA, SINO-RUSSIAN BORDER
It is a fine day for a war, Colonel Lin Paulin of China's 48thMechanized Tank Brigade thought to himself as he gazed through binoculars across the Amur River; the expanse of water that separated Russia and the People's Republic. Paulin had never witnessed live combat before, but that held no fear for the forty-two year old Colonel. His heart was too full of excited anticipation to spare room for trepidation.
To his satisfaction, he saw through his binoculars that the Russian border post at Pokrovka lay deserted. Similar reports were coming in from PLA units all along the Sino-Russian frontier. Paulin lowered his binoculars and awaited the order that he knew was imminent. The order for which he'd waited almost his entire career.
It is often said that the most important element in military strategy is that of surprise. What is less frequently admitted, but is still grudgingly acknowledged by experienced military commanders, is that luck can be equally important. In the theater of warfare, the difference between luck and strategic brilliance can be marginal. That was not a lesson lost on the commanding generals of China's Army, the PLA. For the past several hours, Beijing had been keeping a close eye on the conflict between America and Russia, remaining neutral while it awaited its opportunity. When that opportunity arose, the PLA was ready to seize upon it.
The vast majority of Russian soldiers manning the border posts at Pokrovka and other places along the Amur had deserted their posts soon after news reached them of the American attack on their country. Many of them had fled because they wanted to be with their families, others because they had realized that they now found themselves in one of the most dangerous spots on Earth.
On the Chinese side of the Amur, Colonel Paulin and other PLA unit commanders - who had always kept a constant watch on their Russian counterparts - eagerly relayed the news to Beijing.
For many years, many of China's elite units had been on permanent alert at strategically located bases within a hundred miles of the Russian border. Their state of readiness was such that they were always able to launch a concerted attack against their historical enemy at less than an hour's notice. But they had never been ordered to test that theory.
Until now.
Paulin had only been briefed on the specifics of OperationLuan a short time ago. But he already knew the essential details. He had been rehearsing such an operation in his head for as long as he had been a professional soldier. There would be no mistakes, for his men were ready. They had always been ready.
No sooner had he received the order to proceed than the roar of low flying MIG-29s filled the air. Their tails were emblazoned with the distinct emblem of the PLA Air Force; a single red star. It would take a several minutes for the few Russians who had remained at their posts on the border to understand what was happening. By then, it would be too late.
China's MIG-29s had been purchased from Russia in the mid-1990's during one of the periodic thaws in relations between the two countries. At the time, the deal had been beneficial for both nations. Russia had needed the cash, and China's military had desperately required modern weaponry. But now only one side stood to benefit from that trade. Many Russian soldiers still hadn't quite accepted that the huge nation to their south now had Russian-built weapons at their disposal. For this reason, many of the Russian border troops initially thought the overflying aircraft were friendly. Which accounted for their sluggish response.
It was a delay that was to cost Russia dearly.
The MIGs had but one purpose - to clear a path for the PLA ground troops soon to cross the Amur. Each was armed with four air-to-surface missiles whose 1000lb conventional warheads were used to devastating effect against Russian positions. The Chinese missiles were broadly similar to the AGM-650 'Mavericks' used by the US Air Force. Their guidance systems applied optical and IR tracking technology to find their targets, allowing the pilot to 'Fire And Forget'. This technology also meant that the Chinese jets didn't have to risk venturing too deep into Russian territory. Their AGM missiles had a range of over thirty miles. In the opening stages of this latest Sino-Russian conflict, these were used effectively against Russian radar installations, SAM batteries and border posts.
Nevertheless, the aerial intruders were soon picked up by Russian Regional Air Command, which scrambled several squadrons of MIG-31 'Foxhounds' and SU-27 'Flankers' to intercept them. By the time they were in the air, however, the damage had been done and the PLA warplanes were already returning to their bases. The entire operation to neutralize what remained of Russia's forces along the Amur had taken less than thirty minutes.
The Russian jets pursued the PLA MIGs deep into China's mountainous northeastern province of Heilongjiang. But, less than twenty miles over the border, Chinese SAM batteries lay in wait. These batteries had left their radars off, so as not to attract any undue attention from the enemy, but as soon as the Russian warplanes came into range, the radars were switched on and the Russians found themselves lit up like Christmas trees before they could figure out what was going on. Several Russian jets fell victim to the SAMs as the PLA's ground force began its advance. Because the Russian jets had only been fitted with AAMRAM missiles, they weren't properly equipped to engage ground forces, never mind SAM sites. A few tried to strafe the rapidly advancing PLA troops with cannons, but the Chinese were simply too numerous and widely dispersed for this tactic to have any serious impact.
It soon became apparent that Russia's disorientated Army would be unable to contain the irrepressible Chinese advance. PLA amphibious units were the first ground troops to cross into Russian territory, exploiting the holes smashed in Russia's defensive line by PLA bombers. They formed a series of beachheads on Russia's side of the Amur and secured several strategically vital bridges crossing the river. Once they had done so, thousands of elite paratroopers were dropped deep into Russian territory. Simultaneously, armored and artillery units crossed the now secure bridges. They encountered little resistance in doing so.
The operation was little over an hour old.
With air superiority now more or less assured, the PLA armored units would form the crux of the Chinese push to the north. The paratroopers would secure towns and villages on Russia's side of the Amur. Within an hour, the entire Chinese invasion force comprised almost three quarters of a million troops.
In Khabarovsk, the General in charge of Russia's Eastern Command began to panic. Having assumed that his superiors in Moscow would be more concerned with events elsewhere, he had been reticent about informing them of what he'd initially thought to be a minor border clash. But as reports of PLA incursions along the entire length of the Sino-Russian border flooded in, he began to understand what was happening. Russia had been invaded.
He didn't know who was in charge in Moscow right now, but whoever it was would soon have more to worry about than American nuclear attacks. At first, the military aide who took his call at the Kremlin command bunker dismissed the report as an overreaction symptomatic of the general panic that had gripped the nation's military. It was only when the General explained that, at their current rate of advance, Chinese troops would be in Vladivostok, Novosibirsk, Khabarovsk and Krasnoyarsk within twelve hours that the aide took notice and informed Colonel Grizov.
That had been twenty minutes ago. Another report had just landed on the General's desk. He read it with a sense of foreboding that was to prove justified.
The Chinese had reached the city limits of Vladivostok.
And there was still no sign of assistance from Moscow.
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
Despite the sense of dread he felt at the news that Russia was being invaded, Kalushin felt a wisp of relief that Yazov had reasserted his authority at this critical moment in history. His old friend was back. This was the Yazov who had so cunningly seized power by exploiting the weaknesses of the powerful and the egos of the stupid. It had taken a Chinese invasion to jolt him out of his funk, but that didn't matter. It was Grizov who was now on the back foot.
And with very good reason. The conflict with America had been largely political in nature. After all, there were no military geniuses where nuclear war was concerned. The conflict in the east, however, called for a military solution, and Grizov was certainly no military leader.
Yazov was making that point eminently clear as he paced the war room, aware that he had everyone's attention. "This situation is far more dangerous than the conflict with America," he was explaining in his most thoughtful tone. "It is clear - is it not? - that the objective of China's invasion is not merely territorial, but is aimed at seizing the Siberian oil fields."
Of course, most of those present had privately arrived at the same conclusion, but only Yazov had voiced it. His revelation caused a dull murmur to sweep the room.
"Nonsense," Grizov protested. It was the first time he had openly challenged Yazov, and the fact that he chose this moment to do so showed his desperation to retain whatever influence he retained. "The Americans have killed over ten million Russians. They pose the greater danger, not China."
Yazov didn't show any reaction to Grizov's patronizing tone. Instead, his face registered the faintest hint of a smile as he walked over to a large wall map of Russia. Keep talking, Colonel. With every word, you make my job easier. He used his hand to draw an invisible line on the map, running north from the western tip of the Sino-Russian border, through the Siberian lowlands, up to the Arctic coast.
"At their current rate of advance, Chinese troops will be in Novosibirsk within a few hours. That is the point at which they will strangle our supply routes to the east. Effectively, Novosibirsk will give them control over the Russian Far East. Meanwhile, their paratroopers and armored divisions in the Far East are moving into Vladivostok at this very moment, and they are doing so with remarkable ease. The central prong of their advance, comprising heavy armor and artillery, appears to be focused on Siberia. So far, we have offered little in the way of resistance, and it seems increasingly likely that by the time we're able to mount a cohesive response, the Chinese will have already achieved their objectives."
"So," an elderly Marshal shrugged, "we wait until the situation with America is resolved and then push them back later. We've done that before." He was barely old enough to remember the Great Patriotic War, and never wasted an opportunity to remind everyone of the fact.
Yazov grimaced as if he had a foul taste in his mouth. "If only it were that simple, Marshal, but you fail to take into account America's reaction to this development. The Americans will be terrified of a Chinese expansion into European Russia, particularly after what has happened in the past twenty-four hours." He stroked his unshaven face. His words were edged with grim finality. "I guarantee, gentlemen, that if China continues its advance unchecked, NATO forces will invade European Russia to head them off. Our nation will be partitioned, carved up, and we will be slaves to both west and east."
"NATO will never invade us," Grizov protested. "They wouldn't dare. Not with tensions still so high."
Yazov fixed him with a hard glare. "You are talking, of course, about launching another nuclear attack to repel the invaders."
Grizov lowered his head and said nothing. But what Yazov proposed next caused him to look up in surprise.
"And you are quite correct," Yazov added. "But this time the attack should be against China, not NATO. That is clearly the only chance we have of stopping the Chinese. If we allow them to continue unimpeded, and NATO forces invade from the west, the nuclear option will be stolen from us. We must use it whilst we can."
Suddenly, it all made sense to Kalushin. The man is a genius. Grizov had been cultivating a growing consensus to escalate the nuclear war against America and begin targeting their cities. Yazov considered this idea both insane and abhorrent. So he had seized the initiative from Grizov by appearing to be more hardline than the FSB chief. Except he had used the Chinese invasion to divert the hardliners' attention, and he had done so by using his favorite psychological tactic; the same tactic he'd used to seize power in the first place.
Take them to the brink, draw them back and milk their gratitude...
By concentrating on the Chinese, he'd bought himself just enough political capital to call off the war with America. And if that meant killing a few million Chinamen, well that was just too bad, wasn't it?
RESIDENCE OF THE GERMAN CHANCELLOR, BERLIN
Like many other world leaders, German Chancellor Franz Berger felt as if he hadn't slept for a month, even though it had only been a few hours since the Foreign Minister had first informed him about the terrifying global crisis that was unfolding. The Chancellor had just returned home from a banquet in Stuttgart when the news broke. It seemed as though several eternities had passed since then, and Berger's foul mood was not helped by the gradual realization that, of all the world's major powers, his was the most impotent given that it possessed neither a permanent seat on the U.N. Security Council nor a nuclear arsenal with which to enter what had become an essentially nuclear game. He found it bitterly ironic that the five permanent U.N. Security Council members were all founder members of the nuclear club. That, so far as he was concerned, spoke volumes about the priorities of realpolitik.
By definition, Germany's potential role in any East-West conflict was limited. Not only did it lack a nuclear arsenal - Berger hated the damned things anyway - but it lacked the practical experience of modern warfare that would lend itself to this particular scenario. Although Germany was Europe's economic engine, Britain and France had traditionally provided the continent's muscle in times of international crisis. It therefore didn't surprise Berger that the United States had chosen to liaise with the EU and NATO through London, rather than Berlin. He was certain that, had the circumstances been less perilous, the British Ambassador in Berlin might have taken the opportunity to gloat over Washington's sudden favoritism towards London. Despite the constant talk about harmonious European relations, Britain and Germany still acted like a couple of immature children when it came to competing for the attentions of their big cousin across the water.
Britain's Prime Minister had not called Berger for over an hour, leaving the Chancellor not much better informed than his public. The German government was increasingly deriving most of its intelligence data from GCN and the Internet. Because events were unfolding at such breakneck speed, it was hard for everybody to keep track of what was going on. To an extent, that meant nobody had time to let the consequences of what they were hearing sink in, although that didn't stop them being any less frightened.
Berger could hear the distant sound of a peace protest outside his office window. Glancing through the reflective glass, he saw a rainbow of color as a hundred or so demonstrators - flanked by nervous looking police - converged just yards away from his palatial residence. Most of the demonstrators, he reckoned, probably didn't even understand what they were demonstrating against. And besides, what the hell did they expecthim to do? Politely ask the Russians and Americans to stop fighting? If only they really knew how little influence he had in such areas.
This protest was only the beginning, he knew. Morning was creeping across Europe, and as people woke up to news of the nuclear exchange, panic would beget chaos. There were already reports of widespread rioting and looting elsewhere on the continent and, despite Germany's reputation for orderliness and reticence, the German people were bound to be as frightened as anybody else; with good cause, given that their nation was likely to provide the focus of any conventional hostilities in Europe. Fear knew no national boundaries.
European diplomatic reaction to the crisis had been sluggish at best. That was at least partly due to the fact that the crisis had emerged in the middle of the night, but also owed something to its unexpected suddenness. Britain (naturally, Berger grumped) and Italy had been the only two countries to react so far, both issuing solid statements of support for America and expressing optimism that a diplomatic solution could be found before the conflict escalated to global proportions. Even so, Berger had learned from his Defense Minister that Britain had placed its own nuclear submarine fleet on combat alert. France, Germany, the Netherlands and Spain had so far remained silent. As far as Berger knew, that had less to do with any reservations about supporting their American allies than a lack of information from across the Atlantic.
Also lacking was a coherent reaction from the European Union. The Brussels parliament was due to convene in a couple of hours' time for an emergency debate on the nuclear war, although this would probably be subordinate to similar debates that would simultaneously take place in national parliaments across the continent. Berger expected a degree of anti-American rhetoric from the heavy concentration of socialist members in his own parliament; ideological throwbacks that until a few hours' ago had been rendered anachronistic by the New World Order.
Shortly, Berger was due to meet the Ministers of Defense and Foreign Affairs for an update on military and political developments. That was to be followed by a full meeting of the cabinet, the debate likely to focus on emergency war provisions. That meeting was scheduled for two hours, after which Berger would give a press conference and make his way to parliament for an emergency debate. All of this took for granted that the Russians and Americans hadn't blown up the world by mid-morning.
His telephone started to ring, its harsh trill almost causing him to jump.
"Ja," he said, lifting the receiver.
The cool, female voice was that of his private secretary. "The French President is on line six, Herr Chancellor."
What took you so long, Jean-Claude? "Put him through."
There were a couple of clicks on the line, followed by the voice of French President Jean-Claude Betin. "Franz, how are you?"
As always, the Frenchman spoke in his native tongue, even though he was quite capable of speaking German. In that respect, Betin was as arrogant as many of his other countrymen when it came to linguistic prejudices.
"I've had better days," Berger admitted. "Et Tu?"
The reply was curt and humorless. "I feel like I've aged ten years in the past few hours, Franz." Betin cut straight to the chase. "We need to formulate a policy regarding the Americans, don't you think? As the two leading members of the European Union, others will be looking to us for a lead."
Except for the British and Italians, who have already affirmed their allegiance to America, the German didn't say. "What is there to discuss, Jean-Claude? We are both members of NATO. We must both adhere to our treaty obligations. If a NATO country is attacked, we are obliged to offer whatever assistance is requested of us."
The five-second silence that followed told Berger more than words about Betin's real reason for the call. "Are we indeed?" came the eventual response. "I wonder about that. The European Union, in terms of size, population and military manpower, is considerably bigger than the United States which, after all, has just toppled from its pedestal. So why should we allow Europe once more to be their battlefield?"
The implication caused Berger to shiver involuntarily. "You are, of course, assuming in your statement about the Union's size that our fellow members would support an autonomous policy. I find that highly unlikely, Jean-Claude, given the warm relationship that exists between London, Rome and Washington."
"The British and Italians are irrelevant," spat the Frenchman. "I'm not suggesting that we support the Russians. God forbid. I am simply posing a rhetorical question. Is this conflict really any of our business? And if so, does it justify the annihilation of our continent? You and I both know, Franz, that if this situation escalates,all NATO countries will become viable targets. You will also be aware that, in such a scenario, Germany would be targeted more than any other European nation."
As if I hadn't already thought about that, Berger wanted to say. "It is simply a matter of principle, Jean-Claude," he reasoned. "If we were to renege on our NATO commitments at the most important time of all, how could we expect any nation ever to take us seriously again?"
"We are both member states of the Union," Betin reminded him. "Are you saying that membership of NATO should override our bilateral EU obligations? If so, then the implication is that the EU is subordinate to the whims of our American brethren."
"It depends on the situation. The interests of the Union and of NATO should coincide."
"And, thus far, they have," the Frenchman admitted. "But this is an extraordinary situation. It is also an opportunity - is it not? - for the Union to assert its autonomy in matters of international affairs. We should state clearly that the conflict between America and Russia - which is by its nature strategic rather than localized - is of no concern to us."
"But this cannot be legitimate Union policy without the tacit agreement of all member states," the German protested. As he spoke the last word of that sentence, it began to dawn on him what wasreally happening here. This wasn't Betin's idea. The Frenchman had been bullied into a corner by his socialist-dominated government. Now he needed - notwanted , butneeded - Germany's support if his Presidency were to survive. This wasn't a matter of principle. It was old-fashioned political posturing, pure and simple.
It was almost as if Betin could read the thoughts of his German counterpart, for he remained silent for several seconds while the Chancellor pieced this theory together in his mind.
"What is France's position?" Berger asked finally, knowing that this was the question that really mattered. He had calculated that if he provided his support to what he privately believed was a senseless French policy, then Betin would be in his debt for the remainder of his political life. And in the hothouse of European politics, such debts were often worth more than principle or life itself.
"I think that is obvious," came the response. "I imagine that certain elements of your own government will be advocating a similar policy." Betin's confident tone suggested that contacts had already been made by senior French officials with their German counterparts to seek support for an independent European policy.
In that moment of realization, the German Chancellor began to understand that the Union's neutrality was as inevitable as it was inherently dangerous.
"What needs to be done, Jean-Claude?"
GOVERNMENT COMMAND BUNKER, BENEATH LONDON
Until the crisis erupted, Prime Minister Harold Winterburn had been only vaguely aware of the existence of the huge government bunker that dominated the subterranea of London's government district. Originally constructed during World War Two, it had been expanded and hardened to cope with the threat of nuclear attack during the 1950's and 60's. Since then, various extensions had been added whenever new subway lines were built; part of the reason that engineers involved in the fabrication of such tunnels were privy to the Official Secrets Act and why subway construction projects generally ran over budget and behind schedule.
The complex - the bulk of which was over two hundred and fifty feet beneath street level - covered five square miles and was four floors deep. Primary access points were located at the Ministry of Defense in Whitehall, Somerset House on the Thames Embankment, 10 Downing Street, Westminster and Buckingham Palace. There were also a number of secondary emergency access points, but these were mainly ventilation shafts; innocuous-looking manholes at street level and secreted iron doors in subway tunnels.
The complex not only boasted its own internal transit system but also deep-level subway links to London's two main airports at Heathrow and Gatwick. It also housed three separate broadcasting studios, although Winterburn wondered who would be left alive to listen to TVs or radios after a nuclear apocalypse. Fiber-optic and satellite relay links afforded means of communication to other NATO leaders, and a series of IBM mainframes worked 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, collating data from around the world on weather patterns, troop movements and military preparedness.
At the heart of the complex was a command center, a smaller facsimile of the annihilated NORAD war room at Cheyenne Mountain. Technicians feverishly worked away at computer terminals whose flickering glare illuminated their faces in the otherwise murky light. On an elevated platform overlooking the center was a soundproofed, glass-walled briefing room. This was where Winterburn and his advisors were gathered.
The Prime Minister took his place at the head of the table. Not all key members of the cabinet had been able to reach the bunker yet, but the important ones were present; Defense Secretary George Williams, Foreign Secretary Sir Christopher Roland, Chief of Defense Staff General Sir Michael Rhys-Jones and Home Secretary Howard Bland.
It had been nearly two hours since the nuclear exchange and five hours since the British government had first learned of Russia's intention to end the Ukrainian War with nuclear weapons.
To Harold Winterburn, it seemed like an eternity ago that the world had been a peaceful place. His brain was functioning on a number of levels. A distant part of his mind - of which he was ashamed -- felt honored to be present at such an historic moment. Another part of him felt powerless to protect his country from a fate that would be decided by two far greater powers. But both of these sentiments were far less than a sense of fear that was so overwhelming it left him almost numb.
Britain's relationship with the United States had cooled somewhat over the past six months, partly due to Winterburn's vociferous support for the EU in its latest trade dispute with Washington. Even so, America's relationship with London was still far warmer than it was with other European governments. On a personal level, Winterburn and President Mitchell genuinely liked each other. The Prime Minister hoped that this closeness would afford him some influence at the top table right now. For many years, Britain had -- to coin a phrase first used by former Foreign Secretary Douglas Hurd -- been 'punching above its weight'. Now that was more necessary than ever.
Winterburn knew that, at this very moment, millions of Britons would be awakening to news of the terrible overnight developments. He could only begin to wonder at their own sense of shock and impotence, which would surely dwarf his own. And, sometime in the next couple of hours, he would have to explain to them that the British government had matters under control. Which, of course, was a blatant lie. More so, everybody would know it was a lie. But such meaningless platitudes were part of the game in which Winterburn had volunteered to participate upon first entering parliament all those years ago.
"... and we've anticipated widespread civil disturbance," Bland was saying, "particularly in the cities. We can expect panic buying as people begin to wake up to what's happening. And once the shelves run dry, I imagine there will be some degree of looting."
"Well, I can't spare any more troops," General Rhys-Jones said, preempting the implicit request.
"What about the TA?" Winterburn said, referring to the Territorial Army - Britain's equivalent to the American National Guard.
Rhys-Jones shrugged. "Difficult to say how many will respond to the call up and how quickly."
"Do what you can," the Prime Minister ordered him, putting on his reading spectacles as he turned to the next page in his red leather-bound file. "Next item. We need to make preparations for casualties from a possible nuclear attack. I've instructed the Health Secretary to clear hospitals of all non-essential patients. We'll need those beds, and..."
Roland cut him off. The Foreign Secretary was well regarded on the international stage, having served as Ambassador to several key countries prior to entering politics. At sixty-three, he was the oldest member of the cabinet and widely considered to be the cleverest, which was why he had never sought the leadership of his party.
"Excuse me, Prime Minister," he said in the softly spoken Welsh accent that was his trademark, "but not even the entire resources of the National Health Service, even if they survived, would be able to cope with the casualties from just one nuclear explosion over a major city. I don't see..."
"You may be right," Winterburn conceded, "but we have to beseen to be doing something."
"It'll just create panic," Bland complained, puffing from his pipe. "We'll be sending out a signal to people that an attack islikely rather than justpossible . Anyway, how quickly can an operation of that magnitude be organized?" The Home Secretary allowed the question to hang in the air for a few moments before proceeding to answer it himself. "Not quickly enough. If we're attacked, it's going to happen within hours rather than days. And do you seriously expect medical staff to wait at their posts for the bomb to drop?"
The Prime Minister lowered his eyes, remembering that the Health Secretary had told him precisely the same thing a short time earlier.
"What about the media?" Williams asked. "What are they telling people?"
Roland shrugged. "Does it matter? Most people have got access to cable and the Internet these days. When something like this happens, they take their news from GCN and Global News Dot Com, not BBC-1."
"Nothing like thishas ever happened," Bland corrected his colleague sharply. "We're stuck a couple of hundred feet below ground. I don't see how we can even begin to imagine what people up there are doing or thinking right now. I'm more concerned about how badly we're likely to be hit if the worst does happen." That last sentence was directed at Rhys-Jones.
The Chief of Defense Staff withdrew an A4 sheet from his own file. He summarized the key points with the casualness of someone reading a shopping list. "The good news is that we wouldn't be as badly hit as we might have been in the 1980's, when both sides had IRBMs in Europe. Of course, it's hard to say precisely what state Russia's strategic forces are in following the American attack, but I think we'd be targeted primarily by their 'Backfire' strategic bombers out of the Baltic and SLBMs from their sub fleet in the Kara Sea."
His voice was devoid of emotion as he continued. "A typical attack pattern would involve the primary disruption of military-industrial infrastructure. This would mean primary targeting of the Liverpool docks, Heathrow and Gatwick airports, the shipyards at Newcastle and GCHQ Cheltenham."
"And London?" Winterburn said flatly.
"More than likely," Rhys-Jones nodded. "Such an attack pattern would target our ability to retaliate or even coordinate. A key element in such an attack would be disruption of the chain of command. Naturally, C3derives mostly from London. So, yes, that would make London a symbolic target, to say the least."
Great, the Prime Minister thought bitterly. Millions die for the sake of symbolism. Isn't military logic wonderful? "How likely is that, General?"
Rhys-Jones glanced through the glass wall at the command center outside. On the huge, slightly curved display that dominated the room, he could see the current positions of NATO and Russian strategic bombers and submarines. "Both the American and Russian strategic bomber fleets are still advancing towards their targets, Prime Minister. Our own Trident submarines are on combat alert in the North Sea and just off the west coast of Ireland. They've been ordered to maintain radio silence, but they'll resurface in" - he checked his watch - "six hours for new orders. By that time, we'll know whether the Russians and Americans have either already blown up the world or called the whole thing off."
Winterburn curled his lip into a vicious snarl. "This is fucking insane," he said, his use of profanity uncharacteristic.
In the silence that followed, a military aide - her face gravely serious - entered the room, handed a note to Roland and offered a curt salute before turning on her heel.
"What is it?" the Prime Minister asked.
Roland's lips had parted in surprise. "You're not going to like this, Prime Minister."
"There are a lot of things I don't like today. Give me one more."
The Foreign Secretary looked up at Winterburn, apologizing with his eyes as he handed the message to his boss.
"It's the bloody Frogs."
AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL TOWER, STUTTGART AIRPORT, GERMANY
"Sir, we have a new contact bearing two thirty-two degrees south-southwest, descending awfully fast."
The supervisor leaned over the operator's shoulder, and used a trackball to zoom in on the object. The aircraft's transponder identified it as an American warplane. Upon seeing this, the supervisor frowned. This was the kind of incident he'd been dreading.
"Give me your headset," he said.
The operator obliged. The supervisor held the headset to his ear and switched the radio transmitter to a channel reserved for emergencies and military communications.
"This is Stuttgart control," he said in clipped English. "I am speaking to the military aircraft heading two thirty-four degrees south-southwest. Please state your intentions."
He heard a brief burst of static and then an American accented voice shouting over what sounded like an alarm in the background.
"Mayday... Mayday," the man yelled. "This is American aircraft Eagle-Niner. We are a U.S. Air Force B-1 strategic bomber out of..." Another burst of static obscured the next few words. "...malfunction... Two engines down and we're losing fuel fast. Clear a path, Stuttgart, we're coming in."
The supervisor muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse to the operator. He'd received the Top Secret directive from Berlin little over ten minutes ago. It hadn't made sense to him then, even though he'd immediately understood its implications. It still didn't make sense to him, but he had his orders and he hoped that the politicians in Berlin knew what they were doing. As for his own conscience... Well, he'd just have to deal with that later.
"Negative, Eagle-Niner," he said sharply, causing the operator to look up at him in shock. "You do not - repeat,do not - have permission to land. There is commercial traffic out there, and I cannot allow you to endanger civilian life." That was a lie, of course, but it was the best excuse he could come up with for condemning an entire bomber crew to their certain deaths.
"Are you fucking crazy, Stuttgart?" came the response. "We are a U.S. military aircraft going down. Not enough fuel to make it to Ramstein. We're coming in whether you like it or not."
As the supervisor opened his mouth, he saw two new objects appear on the ATC screen. From their transponder signatures, he identified them immediately as German F-14s. They were on an intercept course with Eagle-Nine, less than thirty miles to their west. A quick mental calculation told him that they would pick up the U.S. bomber some seventy-odd miles northeast of Stuttgart, and at that moment he knew that Eagle-Nine was doomed, one way or another.
As the drama was played out on his headset, part of him wished that he could switch it off and pretend that he hadn't played a part in the death of six Americans. But the tension of the moment held a morbid fascination, not unlike that common to drivers who slow down to observe the scene of a horrific car crash.
"Two new contacts, bearing fifty-four degrees and fifty-six degrees north-northwest," a female American voice reported. "Look like kraut F-14s, sir."
"Shit."
A German voice in English: "Eagle-Nine, this is Major Klaus Sommer of the German Air Force. Please alter course immediately or we will have no choice but to force you down."
"This is Eagle-Niner telling you to eat shit, you goddamn Nazi bastard," the American captain barked.
It was to be one of the last things he ever said.
The entire incident was monitored by an E-4 AWACS reconnaissance plane high over Eastern Europe. The onboard computer produced, encrypted and routed a digital upload of the event via a relay satellite to the watch center at the NSA complex at Fort Meade, Maryland, where an intelligence officer's computer screen informed him of incoming traffic. The digital file was instantly decrypted and transcribed. The NSA officer could hardly believe what he was reading. As if things weren't scary enough already.
Within three minutes of the first German AAMRAM missile slamming into Eagle-Nine's fuselage, a transcript of the incident was coming off encrypted fax machines at the CIA's watch center in Langley, the office of NATO's Supreme Commander in Brussels, the E-6 Looking Glass and the President's E-4 command plane.
RHEIN-MAIN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, FRANKFURT, GERMANY
When the airport official revealed to the passengers of UA4171 the real reason why they hadn't been able to land in Moscow, and related the events that had transpired while they'd been in the air, their initial response was one of stunned disbelief. But as it became clear to them that there was no mistake - both America and Russia had been devastated - the sound they made was not unlike that of a pride of wounded animals; a low, desolate groan that was not quite a cry but nevertheless reflected the sense of despair they all felt. Richard Gellis would remember the moment for the rest of his life.
The airport was buzzing with human activity. Evidently, thousands of Germans had concluded that their country was no longer as safe as it had been twenty-four hours earlier. Unfortunately, their attempts to flee the country had largely been thwarted by the German government's decision to suspend all commercial flights until further notice. Gellis could sense that, even among the normally reserved Germans, a collective sense of fear and panic could quite easily explode into violence at any time. He could smell the tension in the air as flustered airport staff tried to explain to hopeful travelers that nobody was going anywhere for the time being. Gellis only understood fragments of German, but he could tell that people were being advised to return to their homes. And that was a piece of advice they clearly didn't like.
As his mind made that observation, he saw a well-built German skinhead punch a female ticket clerk, sending her sprawling to the floor, blood gushing from her nose. Other people, outraged at the actions of the man, pounced upon him, precipitating a brawl that was made all the more menacing by the gutteral Germanic shouts of the participants.
If people are panicking in Germany, God only knows what it's like back home. The thought occasioned a chill. He didn't know how many people had been killed in America, or rather how many had survived the attack. The airport staff had been vague about how badly America had been hit; not because they were deliberately withholding information, but because they genuinely didn't know. Most Americans arriving in Frankfurt, however, didn't believe that for a moment. They demanded information and their frustration in not obtaining it was beginning to turn ugly. The businessman who had been sitting next to Gellis aboard the plane grabbed a hapless German airline official by his lapel, growling something at him that Gellis couldn't quite hear above the general cacophony. Meanwhile, police moved to break up the skirmish that had been started by the skinhead.
Gellis quickly realized that he was probably going to be stuck in this noisy shithole for a while. So he decided to search for a television, and eventually found one in a cafeteria. It was tuned to a German news station, but he didn't have to understand the language to see that the anchorwoman was clearly shaken. He managed to catch recognizable words such asKernangriff (which he knew translated roughly as 'nuclear attack'),Niederschlag ('fallout') and the German pronunciations of Washington and Texas. A map of the United States appeared on the screen, headedAmerikanische Kernziele . It was peppered with red dots, heavily concentrated in the Midwest. He immediately realized that the dots represented nuclear detonations. His blood ran cold when he saw just how many there were. Although New York appeared to have escaped destruction for now, a large red dot was clearly visible where Washington had been.
It didn't take a genius to work out that, for all intents and purposes, America had been ruined. Perhaps not by the bombs themselves, but certainly by the environmental effects. Nuclear winter, fallout, disease, starvation. All were going to be rife in the new America.
A tear welled in his eye for what had forever been lost. At that moment in time, he couldn't imagine that America would ever recover from such devastation. Even if it did, it would be psychologically scarred for generations. The self-assured, optimistic country in which he had grown up was gone forever, its innocence stolen in a few hours' of infernal lunacy.
Somebody tapped him on the shoulder.
"Sind sie ein Amerikaner?"
The man was in his mid-twenties, immaculately dressed in what looked like a tailored business suit, his hair slicked back with gel. He was carrying an attaché case in one hand and a cellular phone in the other. He smiled sympathetically at Gellis.
"Ja bin ich," Gellis replied in broken German. "Ich bin von New York."
"New York, eh?" The man spoke with a clipped English accent. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry about what's happened, old chap. Terrible business. Have you just arrived in Frankfurt?"
"Yes, I was on my way to..." Gellis's voice trailed off as he thought of his friends and relatives in Moscow. They were probably somewhere in the upper stratosphere right now, he imagined grimly. "It doesn't matter."
"Well, I don't think you'll be going any further than here tonight. I've just arrived here on a business trip. Can I give you a lift into town?"
Gellis looked at him. Either this guy was a faggot or simply a very polite Englishman. An idea occurred to the reporter. "Actually, perhaps you can help me. Do you know where the American consulate is?"
"Yes, of course. It's on Siesmayerstrasse. Just around the corner from my hotel actually. I'll take you there. My car's outside."
"Thanks, buddy. By the way, my name's Richard Gellis. I'm a reporter for the New York Post."
The Englishman smiled wryly. "Reporter, eh? David Middleton, former stockbroker. Pleased to meet you." They shook hands.
"Formerstockbroker?"
Middleton's expression remained unchanged. "Well, I don't imagine there'll be any stock market activity for a while. Do you?"
As Gellis picked up his luggage, he asked, "So how did you guess I was American? Do we stand out that much in Europe?"
"Not really, old chap. I saw your expression as you watched the telly. It didn't take a genius to work it out."
PERSPECTIVE: Effects of first wave of Russian attack on the U.S.A.
The first wave of Russian nuclear weapons detonated over the United States resulted in approximately 1,150,000 fatalities within the first ten minutes. Blast and various other secondary effects caused most of these deaths. A further 2,500,000 suffered injuries, which would ultimately prove fatal. And in the next two weeks, radiation clouds from the attack would cause approximately 2,000,000 deaths as they drifted downwind.
Other than Houston, Seattle and Washington D.C. - the population centers deliberately targeted by the Russian attack - San Diego, Kansas City, Boston, Oklahoma City and (to a lesser extent) San Francisco and Los Angeles would suffer large numbers of casualties as a result of radioactive fallout. Over the next thirty years, cancer and leukemia cases in the United States would increase by over 1,500%. There would also be a dramatic increase in birth deformities and failed pregnancies.
Fallout from the Houston and Seattle bombs claimed relatively few victims as prevailing winds blew radioactive dust over the Gulf of Mexico and the Pacific Ocean respectively. The Washington D.C. attack affected Baltimore and most of Virginia and Maryland as the fallout headed southeast towards the Atlantic coast. The most devastating effects, however, were caused by the twelve one-megaton warheads that destroyed the NORAD complex at Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado and those that exploded at nearby Petersen AFB and Schreiver AFB. Fallout from these detonations affected most of Colorado State itself and much of southwestern Kansas as it was blown in a south-southeasterly direction.
Environmental effects would also be dramatic. Farms in the Midwest would endure two successive lost harvests due to contaminated soil and livestock. As the smoke from the bombs rose into the atmosphere, impairing sunlight, a limited nuclear winter would affect the climate throughout the northern hemisphere for several years to come, although the climactic changes would not be as calamitous as some scientists had feared. In the bomb zones, bodies would lay unburied for weeks, encouraging the spread of typhoid and cholera. Medical supplies across the country would be severely limited.
Even in the areas not directly affected by the attack, there would be severe consequences. EMP effects from high-altitude airbursts in the Gulf of Mexico and off the Pacific coast would ruin electricity supplies and normal communication lines for some time, although some areas - particularly in the Central and Northeastern United States - would largely escape this disruption.
Within two weeks of the attack, over 15,000,000 Americans would die from the effects of this first wave of bombing - approximately 6% of the total population. The only consolation to be drawn from this fact is that the Russian bombs had been relatively "clean", and that radiation effects might have been far worse.
XIV
A CHORUS OF MISERY
"Forgiveness of enemies can only come upon their repentance."
(William Blake: Annotations To Lavater, 1788)
ABOARD KNEECAP
"And there have been more skirmishes on the Polish border involving Polish and Russian fighter jets," Westwood reported, reading from the latest communiqué from Atlantic Command.
"Did the Poles suffer any losses?" the President asked him. The edge of indifference in his voice was symptomatic of his fatigue. He was becoming terrified of closing his eyes, in case they wouldn't open again. But if he didn't get some sleep soon, he knew his judgment might become impaired, and that could prove catastrophic under the circumstances.
"Two, sir," Westwood informed him. "The Russians lost seven."
"We have to turn this thing off, Marion," the President concluded. Reports had been flooding in of isolated skirmishes between NATO and Russian forces all over the world during the past two hours. Much of that was symptomatic of the heightened state of alert on both sides, but the President imagined that it also had something to do with the emotional reactions of soldiers outraged by the devastation of their homelands. Nevertheless, each incident served to further complicate the possibility of diffusing this crisis. "How long until I'm scheduled to speak with Yazov again?"
Copeland checked his watch. "Twenty minutes sir."
"And all our bombers are at their positive control points," Mitchell remarked dourly. "Which means that their bombers are also awaiting orders." He looked up at Reynolds. "Okay, let's do the conference."
"Yes, sir." Reynolds activated the conference line, linking KNEECAP to the Director of FEMA, the Secretary of the Treasury, the Postmaster General and the Assistant Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare (her boss had been missing since the Washington blast).
Once the brief introductions had been made, it was down to business. The FEMA Director was first to speak.
"Sir, we've been working with the Department of Agriculture to conduct a preliminary survey of food stockpiles and the likely effect of contamination upon our crops. Based on that information, I've got an estimated rationing program here for your approval."
"Okay, keep it brief though. We've got a lot to get through."
"Of course, sir. We estimate that the basic weekly food allowance for adults over the age of eighteen will be six eggs, three pints of milk, ten rashers of bacon, 250 ounces of butter, a loaf of bread, half a pound of sugar, half a pound of cereal, two bars of plain chocolate and seven cans of tinned vegetables."
"Jesus," Margaret exclaimed. "How are people expected to survive on that for a week?" Americans had never known what it was like to go without luxury foodstuffs, but now they were going to have to face a new reality. They weren't going to like that one bit, she thought.
"There will, of course, be variations for the young and elderly."
"How long will this last for?"
"Hard to say, sir. The problem is that most of our crops in the Midwest will be heavily contaminated from nuclear attacks in those areas. This year's harvest can be pretty much written off. Assuming that we start to recover next year, this program could last for as little as three years, or in the worst case scenario, up to eight years."
"But surely," Nielsen pointed out, "the population decrease will cushion the effect to some degree."
"Not necessarily," the FEMA Director told him. "One of the consequences of a population decrease is a shortage of manpower for food production and other industries, especially given that many millions of people will be preoccupied with reconstruction and providing medical care. And then there are other imponderables, such as environmental effects. We don't know, for example, whether the theory of nuclear winter will be borne out."
Great,the President thought. Give me something else to worry about. "Okay, I'll approve your rationing program. Now talk to me about recovery efforts within the bomb zones."
"Nothing to report yet, sir," came the apologetic response. "It's still too early to get people near the bomb zones. Not just because of radiation, but also because of fires raging out of control."
"Well, can't you send in choppers or fire engines to put the fires out?"
"We've got choppers in the affected cities, dousing the fires with water. But most of them are just too intense. And, because of rubble, we can't get fire engines close enough. Besides, even if they could get in close enough, there would be no water supply for them to tap into."
"Well keep trying," Mitchell ordered. "Next question. What are we doing about the dispossessed?"
"In accordance with emergency provisions designed long before the attack, sir, we're setting up camps around the country. These are operated at local level by town councils and the like, who in turn report to FEMA state representatives. Unfortunately, what the designers of this plan didn't think of is that many of the people charged with putting it into effect have been killed or have simply failed to report in for duty. As such, our people are failing to cope with the sheer numbers of refugees. Illinois, for example, is having to cope with tens of thousands of refugees from the Midwest. And we're also having problems getting supplies through to refugee centers because of the volume of traffic."
"Mr. President," Lewis interjected, "may I offer some advice here?"
"Sure," Mitchell shrugged, rubbing his eyes, which were increasingly bloodshot and sore. "Anything constructive is helpful right now."
"Extend the ban on Interstate travel to all major highways until FEMA have got their resources in place. That should help not only with the traffic problem, but it'll stop some states being too heavily burdened with survivors."
The President barely took a second to ponder that. "Good idea. Let's do it."
"Um, sir," Nielsen interrupted. "Just who are we going to get to enforce this ban? The National Guard is already stretched just maintaining civil order."
The President allowed his frustration to show. "Then send in the regular Army, for Chrissakes. I don't care."
"I thought we'd already dismissed that idea, just in case we need..."
"Well, I just changed my mind," Mitchell barked at the Secretary of Defense. "FEMA will get as many regular troops as they need to supplement their own staff and the National Guard. I'm going with Dr Stein's idea, my mind is made. Now make it happen."
Nielsen stood to leave the room, visibly stung by the President's biting reprimand. "Yes, Mr. President."
"I'll draw up an executive order to authorize the ban," Mitchell told the FEMA Director once Nielsen had left the room. He checked his agenda. "Okay, next item. Emergency courts. I take it this has something to do with the maintenance of civil order, correct?"
"Yes, sir," FEMA said. "Wartime provisions exist for the establishment of emergency courts of justice empowered to fast-track criminals through the judicial process. And the National Guard is authorized to use deadly force in cases of rape, murder and looting. For less serious crimes, detention camps will be set up until suspects are brought before the emergency courts. I just need your signature, sir, to effect these provisions."
The President was uncomfortable with the prospect of yet more Americans dying in violent circumstances, but he was a realist and understood that such happenings were a fact of life (or death) in extraordinary circumstances such as this. "Okay, I'll have the order faxed to you. Let's move on. Brian," he said to the Secretary of the Treasury, "what effect will all of this have on the economy?" Mitchell, an Economics professor, was on comfortable ground here.
"Devastating, as you can imagine," SecTreas reported. "The dollar has crashed in Far Eastern markets to about 85 against the Yen. It closed at 149 yesterday. The slump is likely to continue when Europe opens for business. We're powerless to stop it."
Mitchell wasn't surprised by the news. "Fine. Freeze the exchange rate. Suspend all currency speculation until further notice. Same goes for the commodity and equity markets. They stay closed, okay? What about our national reserves?"
"Thankfully, our gold and currency reserves are intact, and the Fed managed to back up all its data before the attack."
"Good. Get to work on closing those markets before they bankrupt us. Thanks Brian." He turned his attention to HEW next. "Sally, I'm sorry about Michael. He was a good man."
"Thank you, sir, he was," the acting Secretary said, referring to her boss, who was still unaccounted for.
"Well, I know you wasn't expecting this sudden promotion, but you've just been thrown in at the deep end. How are our hospitals coping?"
"Again, sir," she said reticently, "they're being overwhelmed as you can imagine. I've been getting reports from all over the country of hospitals running out of supplies. Some have been reduced to operating in medieval conditions, without power, drugs or sterilized instruments. And we haven't even begun to see the effects of radiation yet. At this stage, most of the casualties appear to be burn victims. I should also add, sir, that doctors are applying discretionary treatment."
"What does that mean?"
"It means, Mr. President, that people whose injuries are terminal are being..." She paused, trying to find the right words. "Helped along."
"Oh my God," Margaret muttered, her face contorted into an expression of horror.
The President pondered that. He knew that he should have been disturbed at the prospect, but realized that the accrued horrors of the last few hours had desensitized him somewhat to such revelations. "Well, we've got an emergency Federal stockpile of medical supplies. Why aren't they getting through?"
"Excuse me, sir," the FEMA Director said, "I could answer that question. If we were to use up all our emergency supplies now, we'd be wasting a lot of them on patients that would probably die anyway. It's standard policy in this kind of scenario to withhold those supplies for at least three days, so they can be applied to those who are likely to survive."
"So what you're saying," the President thought aloud, "is that we're denying Americans the right to medical treatment?"
"Dying Americans," FEMA corrected. "Those who are likely to survive will do so until we begin to distribute supplies."
Mitchell shook his head in disbelief. He had sworn an oath toprotect and defend the American people, and now he was being asked to deny them basic medical treatment simply because they were going to die anyway. No, he decided, this was one measure he was unable to reconcile with his conscience. "To hell with normal policy, Jack," he told FEMA. "Start distributing those supplies immediately. Commandeer civilian transport if you have to. In fact, I don't care what it takes, but those supplies are going to get to the people who need them."
"But sir..." FEMA began to protest.
"Now!" Mitchell barked. "That's an order."
"Yes, sir," the Director responded feebly.
Westwood's private line began to ring. He picked it up and whispered quietly to the caller while the President continued on conference.
"Finally, the postal system. How bad, Steve?" That question was directed at the Postmaster General.
"Severely impaired, sir," the PG told him. "But it's recoverable. I recommend that for the time being, we deliver first class post only. Any post going to areas destroyed by bombs can be archived for two weeks so that survivors can collect it."
"Fine. Do it."
Westwood hung up the phone, stood and walked over to the fax machine. The President looked up. "What's going on, Marion?"
The Chairman peeled a sheet of paper from the fax machine. He briefly checked it before handing it to the President, who put his reading spectacles on.
"It's the Glass Eye report, sir."
Mitchell tried to make sense of the diagram. It was clearly a map of America, covered with black spots, swirling tails of various lengths trailing from each of them. He ended the conference call and turned to Westwood. "What does this mean?"
"Radiation effects, sir," the Chairman explained, returning to his seat. "The black spots mark ground zero for each bomb. The tails indicate the path of radiation clouds."
The President felt his jaw sag with horror. It was worse than he had ever feared. Not being an expert in nuclear physics, he had assumed naively that fallout would be restricted only to areas hit by bombs. But according to the Glass Eye report, at least half the country had been affected. The largest tails seemed to be emanating from Colorado, Wyoming, Missouri and Nebraska. Smaller clouds from other sites covered - among others - the cities of Los Angeles, Boston, Dallas and Kansas City. How many millions would die in the misplaced belief that that they had survived the attack?
"Are you certain this is accurate?" he asked finally.
"The Glass Eye report is based on data provided by weather satellites over the U.S.," Westwood told him. "A computer at StratCom collates the information by calculating the effects of prevailing wind patterns and other environmental factors. So that's about the most accurate picture you can get."
The President considered issuing an order to the FEMA Director to evacuate as many people as possible from the affected cities, but his train of thought was interrupted when one of his own private lines began to ring. It was the red phone. The bad one that rang only in times of extreme emergency. Mitchell's blood ran cold. His mouth ran dry. He became aware of his heart racing much faster than it should. He could see that his fear was reflected on the faces of those around him. Unbidden, he held his breath.
The President lifted the receiver, his voice edged with a nervous tremor. "Yes?"
The voice belonged toAlice on the Looking Glass aircraft. "Mr. President," he said urgently, "we've just detected another Russian missile launch from Omsk. We've got positive verification of twenty six - repeat two six - inbounds."
"Destination?" A bead of sweat trickled down the President's brow and stung his eye.
"We won't know that for at least another ten minutes, sir, since we've lost our BMEWS stations. Omsk was one of the ICBM bases we didn't destroy totally. It houses SS-18's, sir."
SS-18's,the President recalled. City killers. "Keep me posted," he toldAlice . "I've got work to do." He was sweating profusely, but it was a cold sweat unlike anything he'd ever experienced before. Instinctively, Margaret grabbed his hand. It was freezing. That caused the First Lady to stare at her husband in alarm.
The door flew open and a harried looking Nielsen entered, flanked by General Shelley and two Secret Service agents.
In the same instant, the President's eyes glassed over and his pallor seemed to worsen. He gasped desperately for air, but his lungs didn't seem to accept the oxygen they took in. He wasn't to know that this was because was because his aorta had ruptured, causing internal bleeding and restricting blood flow to the heart.
"Ed?" Margaret gasped, beginning to react. "What's wrong?"
Excruciating pain paralyzed the left side of his body. Unbidden, he clutched his chest and keeled over the conference table, his last vision that of the conference room spinning around him. A Secret Service agent was already behind the President, moving to provide urgent assistance. Margaret let out a cry of horror and leapt from her chair.
"Code Blue, Code Blue!" the agent yelled into her radio. "Request urgent medical assistance to the conference room. Teacheris down, repeat,Teacher is down."Teacher was the Secret Service's codename for the President, a reference to his former occupation as an Economics lecturer.
Within seconds, three more USSS agents were in the room. Two of them laid the President flat on the floor; a third held a large black bag containing various medication and resuscitation equipment. The agent carrying the bag -- a youthful black man called Jefferson -- was a qualified paramedic. He took the President's pulse and blood pressure and grimaced. Not good. Meanwhile, Margaret looked on anxiously as her husband drifted into unconsciousness without even a murmur.
"He's out," Jefferson reported, glancing up worriedly at the lead agent, Angela Nichols. "BP is 170 over 110. We have to get him to a hospital, right the hell now."
"Well, then do it!" Margaret cried at Nichols. The agent glanced at Nielsen, who was now the senior executive present. SecDef nodded his consent, his face white with shock. Somehow, this was affecting him worse than anything else that had happened in the past few hours. Since America was technically at war, constitutional provisions existed for the Secretary of Defense to assume National Command Authority in the absence of both the President and Vice President. In peacetime, the Speaker of the House would have been next in line of succession to the Vice President - which was, after all, how Gerald Ford had come to power - but peacetime was as distant a concept as any right now.
Bishop, Westwood, Copeland, Reynolds and Dunster were watching anxiously as Jefferson attended to the President. Lewis was on his feet, knowing that he should be doing something, but unable to think what that something might be. Yes, he was accomplished at the taking of life, but not so much the saving of it. Jo was the doctor in the family. Oh shit, I wish she was here now.
Nichols muttered something into her radio and listened to the response. She turned to the First Lady. "We're about a hundred miles off the Delaware coast at the moment, Ma'am. The pilot says the nearest safe airport is Baltimore-Washington. We can be there in ten minutes and have a chopper waiting to take him either to the FEMA bunker at Olney or to Bethesda."
"They're both too close to Washington," Margaret protested. "It isn't safe."
Lewis picked up the Glass Eye report. "Not necessarily, Ma'am. The prevailing winds are blowing to the southeast. Olney's about fifty miles north of D.C.. Bethesda's a little closer, but I think they'll already be overwhelmed with casualties. At least Olney is shielded against the effects of radiation." He knew of the existence of the FEMA facility at Olney. Technically, its role had been downgraded after the Cold War from that of a secondary government bunker to that of a Communications/Early Warning center. But, as a key FEMA facility, it still housed a fully equipped medical wing designed to cope with almost any eventuality. And not all of its Cold War functionality had disappeared, although this was a fact that had never been made public.
"Dr Stein's correct," Nichols agreed. "Olney is probably the safest place for him to go. Civilian hospitals won't be able to give him the attention he needs, and the logistics of getting the President there in the middle of a national crisis don't bear thinking about."
Margaret nodded her reluctant agreement as two more agents arrived with a stretcher and gently lifted the President onto it.
"Go with him, Ma'am," Lewis said quietly, placing a reassuring hand on her arm. "He'll be okay, trust me."
Both of them knew that was probably a lie, but Margaret nevertheless took Lewis's hand in her own. "Thank you, Lewis. All I ask is that you do your job. Help get us out of this mess, huh?"
He felt a lump in his throat. Not only because he genuinely liked the President, and not only because Margaret was a very dear friend to him and he hated to see her suffer so, but because he was beginning to fear that the President's successor might inadvertently destroy the planet. Lewis knew that he could trust only himself to prevent that happening.
"I'll try," he said quietly, imagining that the odds of mankind's annihilation had just drastically fallen. He didn't know whether Nielsen would listen to him, much less take his advice. But he had to try, didn't he? He was still the National Security Advisor. He hadn't wanted the job, but he was here now and it was down to him to turn this situation around. For the first time in his adult life, he felt truly vulnerable. He had nobody to fall back on now - not even Margaret.
Before leaving the room with her husband and a phalanx of USSS agents, Margaret fixed Nielsen with a hard glare. She voiced the thought that had already crossed the minds of everybody else in the room.
"This planet is home to all of us," she reminded the new Commander-in-Chief. "Just remember that."
BETHANY, MISSOURI
Checking her watch, Beth realized that the dawn light should have been illuminating the sky by now. But, as she looked up, she saw that the sky was still as black as sackcloth. Not the normal darkness of night, but a turbulent, low hanging blackness that prohibited any sunlight from reaching the ravaged earth.
She and Cathy had been weaving their way north through the stationary traffic, neither of them saying a word as they did so. They were just two of hundreds of refugees marching silently in search of absolution; a parade of misery. The only sounds to be heard were those of the occasional baby crying, someone screaming, injured moans and secondary explosions in the far distance. The sense of shock that seemed to blanket the survivors forbade normal conversation. Beth feared that she would never again hear the joyous sound of laughter or music. Simple pleasures that, only twenty-four hours earlier, she had taken for granted. But pleasures - simple or not - had no place in this hellish new world.
Cathy's head was hung low as she walked, as if to avert her eyes from the awful sights that surrounded her. Indeed, some of them went far beyond awful. Beth had seen burn victims, their clothes scorched from them, skin hanging from their bodies like strips of torn ribbon. She had seen blackened faces coughing blood. Terrible sights that surpassed her worst nightmares. Every time she thought nothing else could shock her, she was confronted by another sight that proved her wrong. It amazed her that the human body could suffer so much damage yet continue to live. Would I want to live if I'd been injured that badly?
Beth was aware of how fortunate she and Cathy had been, compared to many of those around her. But fortunate was a relative term nowadays, wasn't it? The truly fortunate, she thought, had been at ground zero; vaporized even before their brains had time to register the fact.
The sound of a helicopter's whining engine caused her to look up. It was coming from the north. From civilization! As the other survivors became aware of the chopper's approach, they began to stir.
It was tracing the Interstate at about 100 feet altitude, heading south towards the bomb zone. Some of those around Beth began to wave and scream at the helicopter, desperate for any kind of contact with civilization. The chopper probed the Interstate with a dazzling searchlight, forcing many of the survivors to shield their eyes.
As it got closer, Beth could tell that it had Army markings. She wondered what was going through the minds of the crew as they passed over the apocalyptic scene below. Had they lost loved ones too?
She was still wondering about this when the chopper passed overhead, continuing relentlessly south towards the blazing southern horizon.
When the survivors realized it was not going to stop for them, a despondent cry filled the air.
A chorus of desolation.
ABOARD KNEECAP
The procedure that had enabled Paul Nielsen to succeed President Mitchell was irregular, owing to the nature of the crisis at hand, but nevertheless constitutional. Even in the midst of a nuclear war, there are some things that can be done quickly. One of them is the appointment of a Presidential successor. No sooner had Mitchell collapsed than moves were underway to replace him.
During brief consultations with the Attorney General, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and the Speaker of the House - all of whom were at Mount Weather - it was agreed that, as Secretary of Defense, Nielsen should assume the President's duties until such time as the war was over, when the Speaker would become peacetime Commander-in-Chief. The Air Force chaplain on board KNEECAP conducted the hurried swearing in of Paul Nielsen. Meanwhile, the Looking Glass and TACAMO command planes generated new nuclear launch codes so that those on Nielsen's SIOP card were recognized as those of National Command Authority.
The entire process had taken no more than five minutes. It was now seven minutes since the second Russian launch. Quickly easing himself into the role that he had always seen as his ultimate destiny, Nielsen was quickly regaining his composure, knowing that he could not afford to show any sign of weakness at this pivotal moment in history. He had acquired Absolute Power, something that he had spent his entire career working towards. And he had no intentions of allowing human weaknesses to deny him his moment of glory. No; when it came to writing the great book of human history, his name would be mentioned in the same breath as that of Churchill or Eisenhower or even George Washington himself (Nielsen remembered that Churchill had only come to power following the disgraceful resignation of a quisling predecessor). He was surrounded by lesser men than he, but that wasn't his fault was it? It certainly wasn't his fault that they hadn't been blessed with his intelligence and aptitude for leadership. It was all a matter of breeding. He had it, they didn't. Breeding. That was why he - and not anybody else - was responsible for saving the world from Russian domination. God had meant it to be so, he thought to himself. Perhaps God was an American after all.
It was still unclear as to whom the Russian launch was directed at, given that America's primary early warning systems had been destroyed, but everything was already clear to Nielsen. A power struggle in Moscow had resulted in hardliners seizing control and consolidating their grip on power by inflicting further punishment on the nation that had ravaged theirs. That nation was the United States of America.
Well, that was to be a costly mistake, he thought, looking up at Westwood. "General, I'm going to ask you a question and I want you to answer it honestly."
Westwood narrowed his eyes slightly. He had never been anythingbut honest and prided himself upon the fact. Any implication to the contrary offended his very soul. But this was not the time or place to say that. "Of course, sir."
"Can we stop the Russian bombers?"
"Well, sir, those bombers are still at least four to five hours away from their targets in America. I would hope that we can diffuse this crisis before it comes to that."
Nielsen snorted contemptuously. "The Russians have just initiated a second launch and you're talking aboutdiffusing the crisis. Give me a break."
"We don't know that they've launched against us, sir. We should wait until we have confirmation."
"Well, perhaps you could enlighten us on who else they might have launched their missiles against. Now, I asked you a question General, and I demand a straight answer." He rephrased the question, slowly pronouncing each syllable. "Can we stop their bombers?"
Westwood fought to maintain his composure. It wasn't hard; he'd had a lifetime of practice. "It's impossible to say. We've got enough fighters left to mount a cohesive defense, but a few bombers might still get through."
Nielsen placed his hands together on the table; not flatly, but in an inverted V. "Let me put the question another way. Will more of their bombers get through than ours?"
He thinks it's a fucking game,Lewis realized. He thinks he can just add up the points and see who comes out on top. He couldn't maintain his silence any longer. "Mr. Nielsen," he said, unable to bring himself to refer to Mitchell's successor asMr. President while Mitchell was still alive. "I'm not sure that's the issue here. We can't afford to think that a nuclear war is winnable. It quite simply isn't."
Nielsen fixed the National Security Advisor with a malevolent glare. "Firstly, Dr Stein, I asked the question of General Westwood, not you. Secondly, we didn't escalate this conflict. Theydid. And if they want to throw a war, we're sure as hell gonna come. And we'll win. Why? Because the American people will demand victory. Perhaps, as a foreigner, you're not in a position to understand quite how determined the American people can be."
Had Nielsen been an ordinary citizen, Lewis might have felt compelled to punch him. The Secret Service agents at the door, however, deterred such a possibility. Instead, he used words with which to attack the acting Leader Of The Free World. "Have you ever fought for your country, sir? Have you ever risked your life for it?"
"Lewis," Bishop warned, gently touching Lewis's arm to calm him down. Lewis swiped it away and continued unabated.
"I have. I've done things for my country that are so fucking classified that not even you have high enough clearance to know about them. I've killed for my country, sir. Do you know what that means? To look into somebody's eyes and kill them? It means you've got to be prepared to die yourself. Well, I am prepared to die for my country. Always have been. But nobody gave me the right to make that decision for the millions of poor bastards out there. Certainly nobody gave you the right either. My country, sir, is the United States of America. So don't ever lecture me on the hardiness of the American people." His anger spent, he reclined in his chair, bracing himself for Nielsen's retort. "I may speak with an English accent, but I'm as much an American as you'll ever be. And I will not sit here and watch you pass a death sentence on my country. My world."
Nielsen's retort took a couple of moments to come. When it did, it was notable for its lack of vitriol. His smile and tone, however, was more condescending than ever. "Thank you for that brief biography, Dr Stein. But the fact remains that I am the President of the United States and I, not you, will have to answer for my actions to themillions of poor bastards out there , as you so eloquently term them. Anyway," he waved a dismissive hand, "we haven't got time to argue about abstractions. So I ask the question once again. General Westwood, will more of our bombers get through than theirs?"
Westwood was clearly reluctant to answer the question, but he kept to himself whatever private feelings he had for his new commander-in-chief. "More than likely, sir, yes. The 509thBomb Wing out of Whiteman got all its B-2 Stealth Bombers off the ground before the base was hit, and they'll be extremely difficult to stop. In fact, I imagine that Russia's air defenses are currently in such disarray that they wouldn't have much more success with our B-1s."
Lewis reproached himself for his earlier outburst. That was not the way to get through to Nielsen. Unfortunately, he couldn't think of a better tactic right now. He composed himself before speaking. "But they've still got enough subs," Lewis pointed out, "to blow whatever's left of our country back to the Stone Age."
"And so have we," Nielsen retorted. "They have ICBMs airborne as we speak. I anticipate that their subs will also launch at any time. We can't stop that. The fact of the matter is that we still have time to save the world from those bastards." He turned back to Westwood. "General, get meAlice . And I need the launch codes. We're sending the bombers in. I want to target population centers, leadership bunkers and industrial targets. I want to rip the heart out of Russia."
"Sir," Westwood protested, "let us just wait."
Again, Nielsen waved a dismissive hand. "I haven't got time to wait. America hasn't got time to wait."
Lewis closed his eyes in despair. He had failed. Hellish images of apocalypse passed through his mind, of an entire species dying a slow, agonizing death under the freezing shroud of nuclear winter. He wasn't a religious man by any means (he'd renounced his Jewish upbringing many years' ago) but he couldn't prevent himself thinking that Hell was descending upon Earth, and Nielsen was its champion.
When he opened his eyes, the Marine Warrant Officer carrying the 'Football' was standing beside Nielsen, opening up the attaché case on the table. Nobody said a word. Lewis momentarily locked eyes with Bishop, whose gaunt expression reflected the fear that the National Security Advisor felt.
Lewis had never been a quitter before. God knows, he'd had his chances to lay down and die when it seemed as though he'd had nothing left for which to live. But this time, it was more than just his own life at stake. It was that of an entire planet. If his agnosticism was proved wrong and he was brought before his maker, he wouldn't be able to face Him knowing that he'd sat here and done nothing while a death sentence had been passed upon mankind.
He sensed the E-4's engines slowing as it began its descent into Baltimore-Washington. This moment was the checking balance to which Lewis would have to reconcile at the end of his life; however many minutes, hours or years away that proved to be. It would be the test of everything he was, everything in which he believed. And if he didn't act then everything else he'd done in his life would be meaningless.
He felt himself rise from his chair. When he spoke, his voice was edged with a grim flatness, his face devoid of emotion. Only Bishop recognized the fierce intensity that burned within those deep-set brown eyes. The DCI immediately sensed the danger of the moment, but knew there was nothing he could do to stop it.
"Mr. Nielsen, can I offer you just one piece of advice before you issue that order?"
Nielsen looked up. He sensed an implicit threat in Lewis's tone. And something in the National Security Advisor's eyes told him that this was not a man with whom to fuck. "I'm always open to advice, Dr Stein. Make it quick."
"Take a deep breath, sir. Don't act on impulse over something this important. Think about what you're doing, because if you're wrong, it can't be undone. There is still just enough of America left to salvage. If you want to punish Russia some more, fine. There are other ways to do it. But if we send in those bombers, we're almost certainly committing ourselves to launching our sub-based missiles too. And that means their subs will also launch. Yazov is due to call again in the next few minutes. Wait until you've heard what he has to say. Wait until we can ascertain where those missiles are headed."
A cold smile flickered across Nielsen's lips. "Ironic, isn't it, how they choose to launch just before we're due to speak with them again? They figured we'd hesitate for the reasons you've just outlined. And while we're wasting time talking to Yazov, their subs will be launching their missiles. Well, they might have fooled you, but they sure as hell won't foolthis President, Dr Stein. Never."
Lewis felt the rage well up inside him until he could no longer contain it. Words were wasted on this megalomaniac. He was intent on waging a nuclear war just to prove that he could be a proper leader. Astrong leader. And to hell with the billion poor souls whose lives would be sacrificed for that point.
In as much time as it took for that thought to pass through Lewis's mind, he felt himself lunging across the table at Nielsen, knocking him backwards onto the floor in one swift movement.
In fact, the movement was so swift that by the time the two USSS agents in the room reacted, Lewis's hands were already throttling Nielsen's neck. But, as Nielsen began to comprehend that he was about to die, Lewis felt something hard and cold strike the base of his skull. The impact rang through his head, completely disorientating him.
By the time he'd regained his senses, he was flat on his back, looking up at the two agents whose pistols were trained on him. Their eyes told him that they would have no compunctions about pulling the triggers.
Nice one, Lewis, he thought bleakly. The world just blew up because you couldn't control your fucking temper. Explain that one to God.
Nielsen was gasping for breath as he pulled himself upright. "Put this man under arrest. When we land, I want him off this plane and out of my fucking way."
The agents hoisted Lewis upright, their guns still trained on him. Had they been two ordinary soldiers, he might have fancied his chances of disarming them both and turning the situation around. But these weren't ordinary soldiers. He knew just how well trained they were. It was in the eyes. If he so much as flinched, they'd shoot him without hesitation. And what would that achieve?
Lewis knew that for as long as he was alive, he still had a faint chance of preventing a global catastrophe.
Nielsen stood eyeball to eyeball with him, their noses almost touching. There was a glint of smug, self-satisfaction in his eyes, the look of a man who reveled in Absolute Power. The look of a man whose perverse sense of superiority forbade normal rationality or logic. He rubbed his neck where Lewis had gripped it.
His words were quiet and deliberate. "Dr Stein. You're fired."
"Mr. Nielsen," Lewis warned quietly before being led from the room. "You'd better pray that we never meet again."
GCN STUDIOS, ATLANTA
"Millions of Americans are just waking up to the terrible events that have transpired overnight," Jack Sullivan reported solemnly, "having slept through the first nuclear conflict in history. They are awakening to an America that has become unrecognizable in the past twelve hours; an America that might never be the same. In what we believe is the first measure of public opinion since the conflict, our New York bureau has taken a straw poll of five hundred New Yorkers. We asked them whether the President should further prosecute the war against Russia. The results are somewhat surprising considering the damage this nation has suffered."
A pie chart indicating the poll results filled the screen.
"Eighty-two percent want the Mitchell administration to pursue military action against Russia. Of those, fifty-three percent advocate the use of nuclear weapons to achieve that goal. Only eleven percent of those polled call for a ceasefire.
Another graphic appeared on the screen.
"We also asked people what U.S. objectives should be in pursuing this conflict. On this issue, the response was less unanimous. Fifty-two percent advocated the destruction of Russia's nuclear arsenal as a primary objective. Thirty-nine percent called for the military occupation of Russia. The remaining nineteen percent did not know."
Sullivan's face filled the screen again.
"We're now going live to Steve Carlisle in Times Square, where thousands of New Yorkers have gathered this morning in a spontaneous demonstration calling for further military action against Russia. Steve, can you hear me?"
The image of GCN's New York correspondent appeared, the reception extremely distorted. He was fingering his earpiece. The air was filled with the chants and roars of irate multitudes, many of them flying American flags.
"Yes, Jack, I can hear you."
Sullivan spoke over the image. "Steve - what's the atmosphere like in New York right now?"
Carlisle used his hand to gesture the scene, sweeping it in a semi-circular motion. "As you can see," he yelled above the noise, "the emotions of New Yorkers have been fired up by events overnight. Americans are discovering for the first time what it's like to be directly attacked by a foreign power, and they don't like it. Earlier, I witnessed a violent assault on a man who was calling for a cessation of hostilities. The vast majority of people here want President Mitchell to punish the Russians with extreme force for what they've done to America."
"Are people afraid?" Sullivan asked him.
That question elicited a wry smile from Carlisle. "I think furious would be a more accurate adjective than afraid, Jack. If New Yorkers are afraid, then they're taking comfort in numbers. Although there has been isolated rioting and looting in Queens and Brooklyn, the atmosphere in Manhattan is almost like a carnival, albeit an extremely combustible one."
At that point, three teenagers standing behind Carlisle - two boys and a girl - spotted the camera. They started waving an American flag and chanting.
"Steve - can you ask those kids behind you what they think?"
Carlisle turned around. "Hi, Steve Carlisle from GCN." That got their attention. "Are you guys all from New York?"
"No," the girl answered, "we're students from Florida on vacation. We were in a nightclub when we heard."
"And what did you hear?" Carlisle asked.
One of the boys dealt with that question. "Those sons-of-bitches nuked us. And we nuked 'em back."
"What do you think about that?"
"We oughta make the motherfucks fry in hell," the second boy said; too quickly for the program editor to beep out the profanity. "We're goin' down to the recruitment office later to join up. We're gonna make those fuckers pay with interest for what they've done."
"Time to get even," the girl stated.
"Fuckin' A!" the first boy added.
Spontaneously, the three students hoisted the flag aloft, chanting, "Hey, Hey, U-S-A! Hey, Hey, U-S-A!"
"I think," Carlisle said to the camera, "that pretty much sums up the sentiments of most New Yorkers this morning. This is Steve Carlisle, for GCN in Times Square."
Sullivan's image replaced that of the New York link, but he didn't say anything for a few moments. His brow was furrowed as he listened to something being shouted into his earpiece. "And I'm just hearing," he said hesitantly, "that we're getting reports of a medical emergency aboard the President's airborne command post, from where he's been conducting operations since the beginning of this crisis. I understand that this incident involves the President himself, and the E-4 command plane is making an emergency landing at an undisclosed location so that he can receive medical treatment. In the meantime, Secretary of Defense Paul Nielsen has been sworn in as acting commander in chief. Let me emphasize that this report is unconfirmed, although I understand it derives from a well-placed source at the Mount Weather government bunker. If it is true, then we can only speculate on what implications this will have for the swift resolution of the conflict with Russia."
GOVERNMENT COMMAND BUNKER, LONDON, ENGLAND
The Prime Minister reread the Top Secret electronic intercept, rubbing his brow in disbelief. It was a little known secret that, since the Thatcher era of the 1980's, Britain's Security Services had been routinely eavesdropping on communications between other European countries, particularly France and Germany, who were blissfully unaware that their encryption codes had been broken by experts at the British Government's GCHQ communications facility at Cheltenham.
Less than fifteen minutes after the conversation between President Betin and Chancellor Berger, a transcript had been prepared at GCHQ and forwarded to the headquarters of Britain's foreign counterintelligence service (MI6) in London, where the duty officer realized that the intercept demanded the immediate attention of the Prime Minister.
Winterburn shook his head incredulously, muttering, "Those mad, mad bastards. Do they realize what they're doing?"
"They see it as an opportunity to establish the self-reliance of the European Union," Foreign Secretary Roland noted, a derisive edge to his tone.
"But the EUisn't self-reliant. Not militarily. Not yet. When the Americans find out..." Winterburn left the rest unsaid. He didn't need to elaborate. The Prime Minister, having spent two years at Yale many years earlier, thought he had the measure of the American people. Right now, they were at war. The heart of their nation had been physically attacked for the first time in American history. And now two of their most important allies - with whom they had binding treaty obligations - were hanging them out to dry. "What about American bases in Germany?" The question was directed at General Rhys-Jones.
The Chief of Defense Staff leaned forward, clasping his hands on the conference table. "Well, if I understand this correctly, the French and German governments are going to deny airspace to any U.S. military aircraft. If this conflict continues, that will severely impede American operations. They'll have lost the use of a third of their European forces. Not to mention supply and support facilities that have always provided an integral element of European defense planning. They'll go through the bloody roof when they find out."
Winterburn took no more than a few moments to consider his options. There weren't many to choose from. "Fine. If that's the way they want to play it. America's always been there for us, so I'm damned if we're going to let them down now. And I don't think we'll find ourselves alone on this."
"Belgium, Luxembourg, Portugal, Austria and Greece are likely to side with the Franco-German axis," Roland pointed out. "Those countries are all strictly within Berlin's sphere of influence right now. Spain and Holland, who knows?" He shrugged dismissively. "Who cares? I reckon the only governments that'll side with us and the Americans are Italy, the Scandi countries and the Eastern Europeans. They won't sit this one out. Particularly the Poles and Czechs."
Hungary, Poland and the Czech Republic were still only associate members of the EU, but their political influence was nonetheless important for that. And they all had long, bitter memories of domination by both Germany and Russia in turn.
"Okay," Winterburn concluded, turning to a military aide, "set up a conference call with the leaders of Norway, Finland, Sweden, Denmark, Poland, Hungary, Italy and the Czech Republic. And then I want to speak with President Mitchell. He needs to know about this."
And, in that moment, Winterburn began to set in motion the dismemberment of the European Union.
JOHNS HOPKINS MEDICAL CENTER, BALTIMORE
It was a scene redolent of Jo's worst nightmare. The steady stream of casualties from Washington was continuing unabated. Until now, she hadn't realized just how much damage could be done to the human body. It was a disturbing revelation. She had found herself treating injuries so horrific that they had until now been mere textbook abstractions to her. The sound, smell and sight of human misery on a Hadean scale assaulted her senses, and she wasn't certain that she'd come through this with her sanity intact.
The pristine white corridors were now stained with blood. The normal fragrance of detergent so prevalent in hospitals had been replaced with that of scorched flesh and human waste. The wards had long ago filled to capacity, and medical staff were being forced to treat casualties in corridors and waiting rooms.
Sandler had just informed his staff that stocks of painkillers, morphine, plasma and certain blood supplies were running low. Jo and other senior doctors had been instructed not to prescribe drugs to those who were clearly going to die anyway.
One thing that particularly struck her was how nuclear bombs failed to discriminate between young and old, rich and poor. They were all suffering together, and their howls of agony all sounded alike.
She was currently bandaging the severed arm of an elderly woman called Rose, whose strident cries of pain caused Jo to wince as if she herself were suffering. The woman, laid flat on the floor of a waiting room, had lost her arm when a large fragment of something or other had severed it during the blast. Her eighty-five year old husband hadn't been so lucky. The same fragment of something or other that had sliced through Rose's arm had continued on its path through the air and decapitated him.
A severed arm didn't provide the full extent of Rose's injuries, however. Her hair had been scorched from her head, leaving her exposed scalp reddened like an overripe tomato. The left side of her face was charred black where it had been facing the thermal pulse. She had third degree burns over at least twenty percent of her body. At seventy-eight years old, it was a miracle that she was still alive.
"Please... Please..." she was howling.
Jo wiped the sweat from her brow as she pulled the bandage tight. She was trying to stop her hands shaking with the emotional trauma of everything she'd experienced tonight. "I can't do anything to help you, Rose," she wept. "I would if I could, but I really can't."
"Can... can... Husband die... I die..."
Jo knew what the old woman was trying to say. She wanted to be relieved of her misery. She'd lived a long life, only to see her husband of however many years killed in the most horrible of circumstances. Why would anyone want to live after that? Jo nodded her understanding.
"I'll see what I can do, Rose. I promise."
Jo stood and headed along a corridor, weaving her way through an obstacle course of victims. She saw Sandler holding down a hysterical patient while another doctor performed an emergency amputation without anesthetic. She placed a hand on Sandler's shoulder, but he was preoccupied with the patient, who was biting on a piece of wood, grunting against the pain.
"What?" Sandler barked.
"Doug, we need to start moving people to Olney. We're being overwhelmed here."
"You're telling me," Sandler snapped without a trace of irony. "Jo, if you want to move people to Olney, fine. You organize it. And while you're at it, see if you can rustle up some more help."
"I'll do my best," she promised. Suddenly remembering Rose, she hurried back down the corridor to the waiting room where the old woman had been laying. But when she arrived, Rose's eyes were staring sightlessly up at the ceiling, her mouth agape. She hadn't waited for Jo to return before giving up on life.
Some way to die...
Jo gently lowered Rose's eyes shut, hoping that the old woman would find some peace in the afterlife and wondering whether she had any children in far-flung places who would never know what had happened to their mother. Jo quickly dismissed the thought. She had no time to concentrate on the dead; not while there were others still suffering. In the hallway, she grabbed a chair and stood on it.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she called out, raising her voice above the chorus of agony. "My name is Dr. Joanne Miller. If we're going to treat people properly, I'm going to need your help."
A few people looked up, but most were too lost in their own misery to care. "We're going to have to move some of you to the FEMA bunker at Olney. I need anybody who has means of transport and is not seriously injured to help me do this. And I also need people with medical experience. Any medical experience at all. We need all the help we can get."
An impossibly obese man in a baseball cap stood up. Apart from a few burns to his face, he appeared to be in reasonable shape. "I've got a pick-up outside," he volunteered. "That'll take at least a dozen folks."
"Great," Jo enthused, hoping that his offer would encourage others. She was right.
A large, black woman with gaps in her teeth raised her hand. "I trained for two years as a nurse. That any good?"
"That's great. Go to the reception area and report in."
"One condition, girl," the woman said. She brought forward her two children, a boy and a girl both aged no older than seven. The girl was half naked, the left side of her body horribly burned. The boy had similar burns to his back and legs. Both children were crying in agony. "This place where you goin'. They got medical supplies there?"
"Yes, they've got supplies," Jo promised. "More than enough."
"Then you take my kids there and make sure they get treated good. This is no place for kids to be seein'."
Jo nodded sympathetically. "You've got yourself a deal, Ma'am."
Within a few minutes, she had rustled up twenty qualified medical staff -- including three doctors -- to assist the hospital staff. More importantly, she had organized a small convoy of vehicles and over ninety patients willing to transfer to Olney.
In the grand scale of things, it wasn't much, but it was a start.
XV
THE SPIRIT OF DESTRUCTION
"Everybody's going to make it (Nuclear War) if there are enough shovels to go around... Dig a hole, cover it with a couple of doors and then throw three feet of dirt on top. It's the dirt that does it."
T.K. Jones, Deputy Under Secretary of Defense (1982)
BALTIMORE-WASHINGTON AIRPORT, DELAWARE
Like most airports in the United States, Baltimore-Washington had been rapidly taken over by the military and other emergency services. Commercial jets were being used as military transports and as crucial elements in the supply process by FEMA officials. Airport terminals had been largely closed to civilian passengers vainly attempting to flee the country.
Although military operations were still the responsibility of America's executive branch, FEMA was effectively in charge of civilian recovery efforts on the ground. In as much, they had almost unlimited authority under the provisions of emergency powers granted them by President Mitchell shortly before his heart attack.
It was the job of FEMA staff to ensure that the runway was clear for KNEECAP's landing, and that the chopper responsible for getting the President to a medical facility was ready to go.
The head of FEMA's Baltimore bureau was Kyle Jagdar. A 26-year-old Californian who'd only obtained his MBA six months earlier, he felt like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards after the events of the past several hours. Although he'd trained for the eventuality of nuclear attack, he had never taken it as seriously as the exercises geared towards, for example, an earthquake or a biological event. The most important lesson he'd learned in this, his first real disaster, was that reality was invariably more horrific than theory. And now, on top of everything else, he was responsible for ensuring the President's safety. Who'd have thought it? Any of it? He'd have time to wonder about that later. But not now. He was too preoccupied to think about anything but the immediate task at hand.
Jagdar was standing at the point on the runway where KNEECAP would brake to a halt. The voice of his Assistant Director, standing beside him, caused him to look up.
"Here she comes."
In the distance, through the charred spring air, Jagdar could just make out the blinking red lights on KNEECAP's wingtips as it began its descent, although the roar of the E-4's engines hadn't yet reached him.
"Okay, people, we're on," he yelled into his handheld radio. "Let's go."
A paramedic crew took up their positions just a few yards behind him. Across the runway, a Marine Black Hawk helicopter started its engines. The slow whir of the rotor blades began to increase, creating a brisk artificial breeze that swept through Jagdar's blonde hair. Jagdar had also been asked by the USSS to ensure an FBI presence, although the reasons hadn't been explained to him. Accordingly, two FBI agents and the airport's Chief of Security had also joined the welcoming party, if one could think of it in such terms.
Now he could hear KNEECAP's engines, getting louder and closer. He swallowed hard. All he knew was that there was a medical emergency onboard the E-4 involving the President. He had no idea what sort of emergency, although the Secret Service had told him to have resuscitation equipment and oxygen supplies on standby. They had given him no more than ten minutes' warning. The fact that all his staff had got to where they were supposed to be at such short notice during a nuclear war was testament not only to FEMA's professionalism, but to the architects of the emergency provisions under which FEMA was now operating.
The E-4, emblazoned with the distinctive 'UNITED STATES OF AMERICA' legend, came to a halt precisely where it was supposed to have done. Good flying, boys,Jagdar thought. Yep, everybody's doing their duty today. A staircase was rushed to the cabin entrance, the door to which was already being opened. Jagdar sprinted to the bottom of the staircase, the paramedics right behind him.
First out of KNEECAP was Agent Angela Nichols, who raced down the steps, taking them two at a time.
"Are you Jagdar?" she asked, urgency in her voice.
"Yeah. Agent Nichols?"
"Right. The President is still alive, but unconscious. He's suffered a suspected coronary. Your people ready?"
Jagdar glanced up at the stairway. Two more agents were bringing the President down the steps on a stretcher. They were being deliberately careful, but nonetheless brisk for that. Behind them was the First Lady, her face gaunt and pallid, her eyes staring blankly into mid-space. Jesus, that's a lady who's been to Hell and back, Jagdar thought.
"Yeah," he said. "They're ready."
"Good. Excuse me if I don't stop for a chat," she said dryly, "but we're still EWO and we need to get back up in the air right away. Agents Carver, Herbert and Simonsen will stay with POTUS and FLOTUS. They're good at what they do, so just let them do it."
"Yes, Ma'am," Jagdar nodded, watching the paramedics attach an oxygen mask to the President's face as they hurried him across the asphalt towards the waiting helicopter.
Nichols waited until she saw that the President, First Lady and their respective security details were safely aboard the chopper. Then she shouted into her radio as it lifted off. "TeacherandMatron are in the air. Bring him out."
A tall black agent appeared at the cabin door, pushing Dr. Lewis Stein - whose hands were bound by handcuffs - before him. Jagdar reviewed Lewis's face and saw -
- nothing. Not a trace of emotion. Not even a hint of defiance. Jagdar wasn't a soldier, but he knew danger when he saw it. Lewis reminded Jagdar of a caged animal, patiently awaiting an opportunity to break free of his shackles. The thought caused the FEMA official to shudder.
Lewis casually glanced at the FBI agents rushing to meet him at the bottom of the steps. Even now, his face betrayed nothing.
"What the hell is this?" Jagdar demanded, correctly guessing that somebody had not wanted either the President or First Lady to witness this element of the drama. Nielsen, aware of the close relationship between Lewis and Margaret, had insisted that he be kept apart from the First Couple. In fact, Margaret still knew nothing of the incident that had led to Lewis's arrest.
Nichols addressed the FBI agents. "This is Dr Lewis Stein. He's to remain in custody until we can decide what to do with him."
"What's the charge?" the airport's Chief of Security asked her, his eyes fixed on the suspect.
"Mutiny and attempted assassination of the commander-in-chief."
"Jesus," Jagdar muttered under his breath. You're in a world of shit, boy.
"Okay buddy." The senior FBI man coldly addressed his suspect. "Let's go."
"Agent Jefferson will be going with you," Nichols said. "He's not to let Dr Stein out of his sight for a moment, okay?"
"Fine," the junior FBI agent agreed, acknowledging Jefferson with a nod of professional courtesy. The Secret Service was nominally in charge of the investigation given that it had involved a physical attack against the acting President. The FBI's role was to take care of the legal technicalities and ensure that everything was done by the book. It was therefore required that representatives of both organizations accompanied Lewis every step of the way.
Nichols watched the law enforcement officers lead Lewis to a waiting car, Jefferson a couple of steps behind them. She turned back to Jagdar.
"Thanks for your help, and good luck," she half-smiled before ascending the staircase as quickly as she'd descended it.
"You too," he called after her.
As she reached the top of the staircase, Nichols yelled into her radio, "Delivery has been made. Let's go, go, go!"
Less than five minutes after landing, KNEECAP was back in the air again.
ABOARD 'MARINE ONE', BALTIMORE-WASHINGTON AIRPORT
The President's breathing was becoming increasingly shallow, Margaret noted, as it echoed inside his oxygen mask. She was sitting beside him, tightly gripping his icy hand. Her tears were all spent, and all that remained was a sense of cold bitterness. Bitterness at the demands placed on him, demands that had finally caused his heart to fail. Bitterness that all the work her husband had done to ensure a safe, peaceful world for subsequent generations had been undone in just a few hours. Bitterness that a man who wasn't even fit to occupy the same room as her husband was probably, even as she thought it, plotting to undo not only the President's work, but that of God.
Perhaps, she thought, it was best that the President was unconscious and didn't have to witness whatever came next. The fate of mankind was now in the hands of Paul Nielsen and whoever happened to be today's Russian President. Only the egos of those two men stood between recovering whatever was left of civilization and the killer blow from which mankind would never recover.
"ETA at Olney is twenty minutes, Ma'am," Agent Sarah Herbert shouted above the noise of the Black Hawk's engine.
Margaret nodded distantly, hearing but not really registering Herbert's words. Her eyes were staring blankly out of the window, onto the streets and towns below. The northbound highway leading out of Baltimore was congested with traffic. Likewise for the back roads out of Washington D.C., although not, Margaret noted, the highways. She could also see tiny dots that were people -flesh and blood, hopes and dreams - moving slowly north, part of the general exodus. The Interstate to Washington passed beneath the chopper; devoid of traffic, apart from occasional convoys of military vehicles and tanks heading towards the devastated capital. Elsewhere, secondary fires burned out of control with no firefighters available to deal with them.
It was her first experience of the nuclear aftermath that, aboard KNEECAP, had been little more than a nightmarish abstraction, and Margaret realized that she was looking at the New America, a nation she no longer recognized as her own.
GARDNER, MISSOURI
"There," Beth pointed straight ahead of her when she saw a row of floodlights in the distance. Squinting through the smoky air, she could just make out a barricade of Army vehicles. She guessed they were Army vehicles because of their shape, rather than because of any distinctive markings that she could identify. Food, shelter, medicine... help...
Cathy tiredly followed her daughter-in-law's pointed finger. She wasn't really interested. Others may have been excited by the first signs of civilization since Civil Bend, but the only prospect that interested Cathy right now was that of joining her husband in Eternity.
The survivors who had been staggering north in a disorderly clutter suddenly appeared to find a new lease of life. Their pace quickened as they hurried urgently to make contact with the apparition before them. Beth found herself dragging Cathy along, hardly noticing the reluctance in her mother-in-law's shuffling steps.
As she got nearer, she began to make out white shapes. Man-shaped figures dressed in strange suits that didn't end at their necks. And then she realized. They were protective suits. Protective against what? Radiation? Closer still, she saw that all of them were armed and that none of the shuffling masses ahead of her seemed to be getting past them. She became vaguely aware of voices raised in anger. Although she couldn't ascertain what was going on, it didn't sound encouraging.
About a hundred yards away from the Army blockade, Beth and Cathy had reached a point where the crowd was no longer moving forward. As others arrived behind them, Beth found herself being pushed forward against her will. The despairing moans of earlier had been replaced by angry shouts.
"What the fuck is going on?" one man yelled.
"Why won't they let us through?" another cried
"Keep moving... Keep moving..."
"Push!"
Beth was still gripping Cathy's hand, afraid that she was going to lose her mother-in-law in the maelstrom. "Hold on Cath," she shouted. Cathy's muttered response was inaudible above the noise of an incensed multitude whose increasing rage seemed to surround her.
A helicopter buzzed ahead, its engines temporarily drowning out the noise. A disembodied male voice addressed the crowds through a loudspeaker. The tone was firm and left no room for ambiguity.
"The Interstate has been closed by Federal Order. There is to be no civilian Interstate travel until further notice. This road is reserved for military and essential personnel only. Red Cross and Army relief facilities have been set up at Gilman City and Wildwood. Those of you in need of shelter and medical assistance are advised to proceed to these facilities immediately."
The announcement seemed to have no effect on the crowds, other than to further antagonize them. Several people yelled abuse at the chopper. Somebody fired a handgun in its direction, provoking a minor wave of hysteria. It didn't take much to trigger panic in these circumstances.
Beth was being crushed as the weight of people behind continued to push harder. Although she still had Cathy's hand in her own, she could no longer see her mother-in-law.
The chopper circled over the crowds again. This time, the announcement was more austere.
"You are to disperse immediately. If you do not, we will be compelled to use force to disperse you. Proceed immediately to the Red Cross and Army relief camps at Gilman City and Wildwood. This is your last warning."
They can't use force against civilians, Beth's mind screamed in outrage. This is America, for God's sake. But it was not the same America of twenty-four hours ago, she knew. The rules had changed, and so had the definitions of right and wrong. What would yesterday have been condemned as tyrannical could now be deemed in The National Interest. Right had become a matter of perception, measured in terms of what was necessary to preserve the crumbling social order. Wrong encompassed anything beyond that.
Another wave of screaming swept through the crowd, although she didn't immediately realize what had provoked it this time.
She soon would.
Tear gas canisters started bombarding the crowd, causing people to stagger and choke. The ensuing panic was totally disproportionate to the effects of the gas. People tried to run away, but found their paths blocked by the multitude. Punches were exchanged. Gunshots were fired. A stampede began.
Chaos.
The tears were streaming so hard from Beth's eyes that she could no longer see. As she raised her hands to her face, desperately gulping oxygen, an anonymous elbow smashed her in the forehead and knocked her to the floor.
Instinctively, she covered her head with her hands to protect herself against the stampeding feet all around her. Part of her mind was vaguely aware of the screams and coughs that filled the air. She curled into a fetal position on the asphalt, and stayed there for what seemed like an eternity, too terrified to move.
A pair of feet ran over her back, causing a jolt of pain that shot through her entire body. She tried to stand, but was knocked over again when somebody's knee slammed into her chest. Gasping for air, it occurred to her that she probably wouldn't live through this. If she didn't die of asphyxiation, she would surely be trampled.
But, luckily for her, neither of those things happened. Eventually, she was able to partially open her eyes; just enough to see through her tears that the crowds had begun to disperse. Still spluttering, she hoisted herself uncertainly to her feet. Her chest and head were throbbing where she'd been struck, but she was miraculously alive. Rising uncertainly to her feet, Beth took in the scene around her and began to realize that, again, others hadn't been quite so lucky. She could see at least a dozen bodies that had been trampled to death in the stampede.
It was only then she realized that, in the confusion, she'd lost Cathy. Staggering in the opposite direction from the Army blockade, her vision began to clear further. Her head swept left and right, looking for her mother-in-law, but Cathy was nowhere to be seen. Not even among the bodies.
"Cathy! Cathy!"
Her cries were lost in the noise of a scared and angry crowd as it retreated south. Perhaps Cathy had been dragged along with them. Beth continued to stumble down the road for more than fifty yards before she finally conceded defeat.
"Cathy!"
No response. No sign. Suddenly, Beth felt more alone than she'd ever been, and it began to dawn on her just how much emotional comfort she'd derived from Cathy's presence during the nightmarish journey that had brought them here. And now she missed her desperately. She'll never survive out there on her own.
"Oh, Cathy." Beth's call was less of a cry than a lamenting whimper for something else lost. I never even had time to make my peace with you...
Presently, she sunk to her knees in desolation and sobbed.
Only this time, the tears were not induced by gas.
B-2 BOMBER - "SPIRIT 16" - OVER BAFFIN ISLAND, NORTHERN CANADA
Logan was the first to notice when the EAM indicator started flashing, accompanied by a strident tone. It was the third message to be received by the B-2 in less than an hour. He exchanged a glance with McCann, both of them thinking precisely the same thing. Could this be the one?
Without saying a word, McCann went aft to collect the message. Moments later, she returned with a two-inch telex.
"Major," she reported, her tone a model of professionalism, "I have a properly formatted Emergency Action Message. Authentication Bravo Six Zulu."
"Okay, let's see it." He took the telex from her and read the code. "I confirm properly formatted EAM, authentication Bravo Six Zulu." This is a new one.
McCann returned aft and unlocked the safe that contained the one-time codes relating to the three-character EAM messages. She returned with two plastic authenticators - each the size of a credit card - and handed one of them to Logan. They locked eyes again, but this time the look was edged with anxiety.
Once she had returned to her seat, the two pilots simultaneously cracked open the plastic authenticators. Inside each of them was a red slip of paper, upon which was stenciled in bold black typeface the authentication code B6Z and a corresponding codeword.
"Codeword isHammerhead , repeatHammerhead ," McCann informed him.
"I concur," Logan sighed, trying to sound indifferent. "Let's look upHammerhead ."
Beneath each of the pilot's seats was a box containing a thick red book. The two books were theoretically identical and contained a range of over 25,000 wartime attack options relating to each authenticated order. The attack options all comprised part of what was known as the Single Integrated Operations Plan and were arranged in alphabetical order according to the corresponding codeword. Not all the options, however, related to offensive operations. At least three of the codewords signified recall orders and even more were variations on 'Orbit and Await Further Orders', a term usually referred to by pilots as 'OAFO'.
McCann foundHammerhead first. "I've got it, Major."
Something in her tone sent a shiver down Logan's spine. When he spoke, he was surprised to hear that his own voice was shaking. He was still flicking through his own red book. "So, what is it?" he asked nervously. "Another OAFO? Or do we go home?"
McCann read verbatim in a flat monotone from the appropriate page. "Hammerhead. SIOP attack plan five six seven zero. Precision bombing of enemy leadership bunkers, industrial targets and population centers. Primary targets are the city of Murmansk and the city of Volg - excuse me - Vologda, primary relocation site for the Russian Prime Minister, Chief of Foreign Intelligence Service, Commanding General of Air Force, Speaker of the State Duma. Secondary targets are munitions factory at Kineshma and military airbase at Yaroslavl. Yield designations are" - she took a deep breath as she rattled off the words with pronounced urgency - "Murmansk: one single two megaton ground burst. Vologda: two one-megaton ground bursts. Kineshma... Jesus Christ," her voice trailed off. "The crazy motherfuckers have really gone and done it."
By the time McCann had finished reading the attack plan, Logan had found it for himself. Even in the dim light of the B-2's cockpit, his face had suddenly adopted a pallid complexion. He snapped the book shut and cleared his throat to stop his voice from trembling.
"Okay, well this is what we've trained for. Let's do it."
McCann stared at him with incredulity. "Are you fucking serious, Logan? Do you realize what this means?"
He narrowed his eyes at her. "Of course I fucking realize what this means. It means that the Russians have murdered everybody we know and love back home, and now we're murdering 'em back."
McCann chortled bitterly. "Do you really believe that, Martin?"
Logan averted her eyes, concentrating on his instrument panel. No, he didn't believe it any more than she did, and the fact that she'd seen through him so easily was testament to the almost telepathic relationship the two pilots had developed in the cockpit.
"How the hell should I know?" he growled. "I'm not a goddamn politician, any more than you are. They just train us how to drop the damn thing when and where we're told to, not to know why we're doing it."
"Well, if I'm going to be responsible for murdering twenty million people, Ineed to know why I'm doing it. I would like to think that you do also."
Logan fixed her with a cold glare, and then grabbed a clipboard from beneath his seat. He slapped it with his hand and read aloud the first EAM they had received. "To 325thBomb Squadron from StratCom. Attack Condition Yellow. Russian ICBM attack against CONUS. Approximately seven hundred red birds confirmed inbound. NCA has declared DefCon One." He tossed the clipboard angrily at McCann, who caught it in her lap. "You need to know why we're doing it? There's your fucking reason why. We saw the bombs go off with our own eyes. Now we've got a job to do, and we're gonna do it. Understand?"
She stared at him, her eyes flaring. She'd never known Logan to lose his cool before. In fact, he had a reputation at the base for being the most laid-back pilot in a typically belligerent squadron of pilots that reveled in their stature of belonging to the cream of America's military aviators. Well, everybody's acting against type today, aren't they? I wonder if this same conversation is taking place in the other bombers, she thought. Somebody had obviously decided that genocide was suddenly an acceptable mode of foreign policy, and now she was being expected --no, ordered! -- to subscribe to that belief. She had spent years training for this moment, and now she had to wonder whether she was really up to it. Oh sure, dropping dud nukes on training exercises in the Mohave Desert was fine, so long as you knew they were only duds. Yet all the ambition she'd had and all the pride she'd taken in belonging to the 325thnow seemed worthless. This was the aspect of the job she'd always imagined would remain a forever distant abstraction, and she knew that she had no right to complain about doing a job for which the U.S. Air Force had trained her to the cost of several millions of dollars. Logan had obviously reached the same conclusion.
"I understand, Major."
McCann calculated that it would take them approximately three and a half hours to reach their first primary target, the city of Murmansk. That gave whoever was left of the world's leaders about three hours and twenty-nine minutes to call a halt to this lunacy.
For the first time in her life, Captain Laura McCann prayed.
ABOARD KNEECAP
"What is it,Alice ?" Nielsen testily asked the Commanding Officer aboardLooking Glass .
There was genuine enthusiasm inAlice's voice. "Some good news for a change, sir. We've got a trajectory reading on the second Russian launch. They're aimed at the Chinese, not us. ELINT indicates that the Chinese have initiated some kind of military action against the Russians. We're still trying to ascertain what's going on. But the good news is, sir, that you can recall the bombers now."
Nielsen pondered that revelation while he considered the faces around him. He knew that they were holding their collective breath, awaiting his decision, much in the same way that the Roman courtiers of old had once hung on Julius Caesar's every word. The comparison caused his spine to tingle with excitement. Nielsen felt more alive than at any time he could remember, and was finally beginning to understand why men throughout history had coveted power, indeed been prepared to shed blood -- even their own -- for its acquisition. Power was a truly potent drug, although that was not the whole of it. As acting President of the United States, he had a moral obligation to satisfy the demands of the American people and prove himself a leader worthy of their trust. Harry Truman, an otherwise unaccomplished President, had ended the war with Japan by dropping atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945, and for that he would always be remembered. Nielsen intended to reserve himself a similarly prominent chapter in the great book of American history, and that would mean showing solid resolve at the time when it mattered most.
"NowAlice ," he sighed condescendingly. "What makes you think that I would want to recall our bombers?"
"With all due respect, sir, I would advise you to think about ways of turning this thing off before it's too late. Now if I'm not mistaken, you're due to speak with the Russian President in the next few minutes. If he thinks that you're planning to escalate matters, he'll let loose with everything he's got."
Nielsen shook his head despairingly, as if he was explaining a simple problem to a small child. "General, you're just a soldier, not a political adviser. If I want political advice, I've got plenty of other people up here far better qualified than yourself to offer it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a war to win. If I need anything, I'll be in touch." BeforeAlice could respond, Nielsen cut the line.
He felt Westwood's eyes drilling into him. When he looked up, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was glaring at him with barely concealed malice.
Nielsen frowned at him. "Something you want to add, Westwood?"
"You shouldn't have come down so hard onAlice , sir," the General pointed out, finding it increasingly difficult to maintain his composure. "He does have a point, you know. If Yazov realizes that we've ordered in the bombers, he'll order his subs to strike our cities when they resurface. That could be five hours away, it could be five minutes."
"And if we recall the bombers," Nielsen argued, "he might still order his subs to fire. Except that we'll have no means of response, because our bombers will be caught on the ground."
"But our own subs are still out there, sir," Admiral Dunster reminded him. "In that scenario, they could cause just as much destruction. The Russians must know that, and that's why I don't believe that they'll launch first."
Nielsen reclined back in his chair and exhaled sharply. "And then we have a tie. The American people won't settle for that."
Reynolds was the next to offer his opinion. "Neither will they settle for global extinction, sir. That seems to be where this is heading."
Nielsen picked up a sheet of paper and waved it theatrically. "This is a transcript of a straw poll taken by GCN not more than an hour ago." He donned his reading spectacles and read it aloud. "Eighty-two percent of the American people call for the prosecution of the war against Russia." He looked up, emphasizing each syllable to drive the point home. "Eighty-two percent."
Nielsen removed his spectacles and placed them on the table before proceeding. "Now my moral obligation is to the people of the United States. They want me to punish the Russians for what they've done, and that is precisely what I intend to do."
Copeland meekly raised his hand. "Sir," he stammered. "That poll sounds suspiciously like a knee-jerk reaction to the attack. You can hardly call it scientific. People haven't had time to think it through yet. Not... not the consequences."
Reynolds leaned forward, pointing at Nielsen, his knuckle hovering just above the table surface. "Brad's right, Paul. That poll was taken in New York. New York hasn't been touched by any of this yet. And the people polled certainly haven't got a clue how much damage these damn bombs have done. Show them a few pictures of charred corpses and flattened towns and tell them that New York could be next, and I guarantee you a swing of - oh - thirty percent at the bottom end. Hell, just show them a picture of D.C. right now, and the swing will probably be greater still." He pointed at the sheet of paper in Nielsen's hand. "That poll is in no way representative of popular opinion. You're making a decision of historical magnitude based on the emotional opinions of five hundred New Yorkers? Gimme a break."
"What do you think?" Nielsen asked Bishop, his former subordinate at Langley, who had been quietly watching the discussion unfold.
"I think," the CIA Director remarked quietly, "that enough people have died. Let's end this thing, Paul. Recall the bombers. If the Russians double-cross us, which I don't think they will - particularly not while they're so preoccupied with the Chinese situation - then we can use our subs as a fallback option."
Nielsen stared at Bishop for several long seconds. Bishop met his eyes without blinking. Finally, Nielsen rose from his chair, shaking his head sadly. "I really don't believe this. I'm trying to ensure that those bastards never threaten anybody again, and you all want to let them off the hook. Well, I've heard enough. Let's go and speak to Yazov."
With that, he turned and left the room. Behind him, those left in the conference room exchanged anxious glances, silently communicating the same thought.
He's losing it.
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
"Here it comes," Kalushin said hopefully as the characters began to appear on the computer screen.
General Yazov, or whoever leads Russia now --- As you may or may not know, President Mitchell has been taken ill and is currently receiving urgent medical attention. This is Secretary of Defense Paul Nielsen, and I have been sworn in as his successor.
We have observed your launch against the Chinese. Once again, you demonstrate your zeal for using nuclear weapons without first considering the consequences. We will not tolerate this. We are prepared to take all necessary measures to ensure that your warlike nation never again endangers world peace. The United States government demands that you cease all military action forthwith. You must recall your bombers and your submarines without further delay or face incalculable consequences.
Yazov's strong features bulged with undiluted fury as he read the translation.
"How dare he..." Yazov snarled at the screen. "How dare he lecture us. How dare he threaten us." He turned on Grizov who involuntarily backed off under the General's intense stare. "What do we know of this Nielsen? What sort of maniac is he?"
"From what we know of him," Grizov remarked, "he's a reactionary of sorts. Extremely popular with the conservative right wing in their Congress. In as much, he's a misfit in a liberal administration. I understand that his appointment as Secretary of Defense was Mitchell's concession to a hostile Congress. Under the circumstances," he added bleakly, "we could not wish for a worse adversary."
Yazov pondered that, wiping a thin film of sweat from his brow. He was staring at the computer screen. "All necessary measures," he repeated quietly to himself. To Kalushin: "What does that mean? They lack the capability to launch an invasion at this time. And the prospect of economic sanctions is laughable given what has already happened. What other measures can they possibly take against us?" A distinct tremor had crept into his voice, Kalushin noted.
"I think you know the answer to that as well as I do, Gennady Andreiovich."
ABOARD KNEECAP
Mr. Nielsen --- You make threats against us without considering what you might have done in our position. Our missile launch against the Chinese was purely defensive. Perhaps you would you prefer to face a Chinese Empire stretching from Hong Kong to the Urals. If we do not contain the Chinese today, then you will surely have to deal with them tomorrow. Please bear that in mind.
I find your tone both offensive and disturbing. We have no desire for further conflict with your country. Enough people have died, and I believe it is time to try and rebuild whatever is left of our world. Although that is not to say that we will not react appropriately to any further attacks on the sovereign territory of the Russian Federation.
As a gesture of goodwill, I have decreed that an entire bomber squadron comprising nineteen strategic nuclear bombers is to be recalled immediately. If you wish to demonstrate your own goodwill, you might wish to act similarly.
However, should you choose to proceed with your aggressive actions, I will be left with no choice but to retaliate massively. For the sake of both our countries, and indeed the world, I implore you to begin a phased reduction of your alert levels. Should you agree to this, I can guarantee that my forces will reciprocate.
"Jesus," Bishop muttered under his breath. "That is one scared son-of-a-bitch."
"Good," Nielsen noted. "That means he knows we're serious."
Westwood rounded on the President. His natural talent for controlling his anger no longer felt quite so natural. He was having to force himself to remain calm. "You think that a scared leader in a nuclear crisis is a good thing, sir? Just consider that for a moment. If he thinks for just one second that we intend to go all the way with this thing, he'll hit us with everything he's got."
"He wants to strike a deal," Copeland added. "He's turning a whole bomber squadron. They need those bombers more than we do. Take the deal, sir. Let's call this thing off." Please, he almost added.
Nielsen leaned against a steel bulkhead and pinched the bridge of his nose, a frustrated grimace flickering across his aristocratic features. He felt like he was the only person in the entire government prepared to carry out the will of the American people. Yes, prosecution of a nuclear war would result in a horrendous number of deaths, but sacrifices had always been necessary for the greater good. Previous generations had understood that basic truth far better than the present one, he thought bleakly. Unfortunately, most people in the modern era had grown up in an world where wars were merely abstract forms of entertainment to be played out on GCN with the same deference one might afford a video game. Bang Bang, you're dead! Dead because I pressed a button faster than you.
Nielsen understood that the real world wasn't like that. War wasn't a video game. People died in war, and sometimes - sadly - those people just happened to be civilians. His grandfather had been one of the World War Two bomber pilots involved in the firebombing of Dresden. Many people had died there too but, despite the efforts of revisionist historians to protest the futility of that operation, it was now generally accepted that the residents of Dresden had died to serve a greater good. The spine of Nazism had been broken by such sacrifices, morally objectionable as they may have been.
Up to thirty million Americans were dead or dying purely because a reckless Russian General had chosen to cross a line that no national leader had dared approach for over half a century. Now that same Russian General, while impelling America's leaders to stand down its forces, had crossed that line again. In less than twenty-four hours, he had waged nuclear war on three separate nations. So therein lay the dilemma. In stopping him, Nielsen might well be responsible for the deaths of another twenty or thirty million innocent people. But if he didn't stop him now, the madman currently in charge of Russia might go on to kill abillion . The American people would accept that the lesser sacrifice was not only preferable, butnecessary .
So there was no argument, was there?
He looked up at Admiral Dunster, whose reticence during the past two hours had not gone unnoticed.
"James, I'm going to ask you a question and I want a straight, honest answer. Can you give me that?"
Dunster noted the condescending edge to Nielsen's tone. "Yes, sir, I can."
"Good. Tell me, Admiral. How many of their boomers do you think we can take out?"
The Admiral didn't have to give much thought to the question. The answer came automatically. He had been thinking of little else over the past several hours. "Their boomers tend to maintain a bastion defensive formation, so getting close enough to kill them without sustaining heavy losses on our own side won't be easy. They have five Typhoons and seven Delta IVs on the Kola Peninsula, heavily protected by Akulas. The same goes for the eight Delta IIIs on the Kamchatka Peninsula."
"What's a bastion formation?" Copeland asked.
Dunster could see that Nielsen didn't know either, but the commander-in-chief was evidently too proud to admit that. "It means that their boomers maintain positions in protected waters close to Russian shores. These areas are covered by maritime patrol aircraft, surface anti-sub vessels, sonar listening networks, plus a number of hunter-killer subs such as the Akulas. It makes it damn hard for anybody to get near them. That's why bastion defense has been the primary tactical doctrine for Russian boomers since the days of the Soviet Union."
Nielsen furrowed his brow in incredulity. "Are you saying that we're not eventrying to take them out?"
"Not at all, sir," the Admiral stated. "Our fast attack subs are already out there looking for them; standard operating procedures at DefCon One. When they find them, they'll sink 'em."
"So how long will that be?"
Dunster shrugged. "Who knows? The Russian subs are operating under combat alert status. That means they'll be ultra-silent until the time comes for them to launch their missiles. That won't make it easy for our boys to locate them. If they can get past their bastion defenses in the first place, that is."
"You said a moment ago that theywould find them. You saidwhen ."
"What I said, sir, is that when we find them, we'll sink them. But I believe I qualified that remark. We've never been here before. Their sub commanders are well trained, among the best in the world. They'll know that we're hunting them, and they'll know how to deal with that. Hell, sir, they've spent their entire lives training for this mission. To put it bluntly, sir, our best and possiblyonly shot at taking them out will be when they rise to launch depth."
"It'll be too late by then," Bishop observed grimly.
"Not necessarily," Dunster said. "You see, they'll be resurfacing at some point for new orders. As soon as they come up, we'll have a shot at picking them off. More than likely get a few of them. If they hear nothing from command authority while they're up, they'll assume that command authority has been neutralized and begin launch preparations. They'll go under and stay ultra-silent during that period. That takes, oh, about fifteen minutes. Then they'll rise to launch depth. That's our second shot at taking them out. I'm not saying that we'll get them all. Some will inevitably get through. But we've got them pretty well outnumbered and outgunned. I would be confident of sinking at least a third of them before they launch. Our strategy for handling this is in the hands of CINCSUBLANT and CINCSUBPAC. They're both good men. Smart men. And if I know them as well as I think, they'll be ordering our fast attack subs to keep their heads down until the Russian boomers make themselves heard. There's no point getting ourselves killed just yet."
Nielsen performed a quick mental calculation. America still had enough fighters -- mainly belonging to State air reserves -- to cause serious damage to Russia's incoming bomber fleet. But the same wasn't true in reverse, given the dismal state of the Russian Air Force. With a bit of luck, the U.S. Navy might also stop a large number of Russia's submarine fleet before it could launch. Also, the United States still had a significant number of ICBMs that hadn't been destroyed by the Russian attack, while Russia's ICBM arsenal was now almost totally depleted.
Yes, he concluded, this war was winnable.
"They've turned a squadron of bombers," he observed quietly. "All of ours are still on course to hit their targets in Russia within the next few hours. I read that as a strategic advantage." He looked up, reviewing every face around him as he spoke in a flat monotone. "Gentlemen, let me make myself quite clear. I, the President of the United States of America, intend to wage nuclear war against the Russian Federation until an acceptable outcome is achieved."
The first person whose eyes he met was Westwood. The General looked beleaguered. The same look was reflected on the faces of Nielsen's other advisors. They had finally accepted that there was to be no turning back. Their commander in chief would not be dissuaded from his chosen course of action.
A general sense of depression prevented further argument.
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
General Yazov --- I await confirmation that you have indeed recalled a single bomber squadron. Unfortunately, I am unable to reciprocate your actions at this time. I am nevertheless hopeful that this gesture is indicative of a general cessation of all hostilities on your part. Until I receive confirmation that you have stood down your strategic forces in their entirety, I cannot recall our own bombers or submarines. When considering this, please take time to remember how this conflict began. You used nuclear weapons against the Ukraine. You then used nuclear weapons in an unprovoked attack against the United States. Now you have proceeded to use them once more against China. In that context, the American people will not tolerate anything less than total dismantling of your remaining nuclear arsenal. This can only begin once you have stood down your strategic forces to peacetime alert levels. Until then, we will consider that a state of war exists between our two countries.
I should also remind you that the United States of America has a distinct military advantage and can visit sufficient damage on your nation to ensure that it is rendered uninhabitable for a thousand years. I doubt that your forces are able to inflict similar damage on the United States. Accordingly, I am sure that you will come to see the futility on your part of pursuing this conflict any further. I hope you see sense before it is too late for Russia.
At this time, I have other business to attend to. We may speak again once you have reached a decision.
Yazov felt his legs go weak beneath him, almost as if the ground itself had suddenly become unstable. He closed his eyes, hoping that all of this was a bad dream from which he would soon awaken. But when he opened his eyes again, the foreboding message was still glowing on the monochrome screen. "He's going to do it," he murmured incredulously. "The mad bastard is really going to do it."
Suronev shook his head in disbelief. During the short period when it had looked as though Grizov might seize power, the Foreign Minister had kept his distance from Yazov, particularly since the FSB Chief was an old friend and political ally of Suronev. But once it had become clear that Yazov had reasserted his authority, the wily politician in Suronev resurfaced. Ever since the moment when Yazov had authorized the missile launch against China, Suronev had not left his side. His friendship with Grizov was clearly no match for his political ambition.
"I thought you said you had a friend in their government. Stein, was it?"
The Russian leader pondered that. Lewis Stein was the National Security Advisor. His opinion would have been instrumental in Nielsen's decision. From what Yazov knew of the new American commander-in-chief, he couldn't even tie his shoelaces without explicit instructions on how to do so. I misread Stein, General Gennady Yazov realized with a start. He had always prided himself on being a good judge of character. That was one of the reasons he had survived and prospered in a notoriously corrupt system without ever having to compromise his principles. But clearly Stein had fooled him. Nielsen didn't have the intelligence or guts to be a nuclear warmonger. Stein, however, had not only the guts but also the ability to teach his new master how.
Yazov turned and eyed Suronev coldly, his voice edged with a monotonic bass that chilled the Foreign Minister to the bone.
"I was wrong," he said. "I have no friends in their government."
"What are we going to do?" Kalushin said, the first signs of panic creeping into his voice.
"We are going to take the only option they have left open to us. We are going to issue proceed orders to our bombers. When our submarines resurface, we will issue the launch codes." He sunk his head low and closed his eyes. "We are going to destroy everything."
ABOARD KNEECAP
The mood on the E-4 had gone through several transitions in the past few hours, from fear to shock to anger and, finally, acquiescence. Much of that was due to general fatigue. There wasn't a person aboard who had slept in the last twenty-four hours. And, as a crimson dawn peered over the eastern seaboard of the United States, the widespread, if unspoken, consensus was that Nielsen could not be diverted from his chosen course of action any more than he could be relieved of office. He had committed himself to waging nuclear war with the Russian Federation. Nobody had the will, the energy or indeed any idea how to stop him.
Following the last message to Yazov, Copeland, Bishop and Dunster had retired to their private quarters, certain that the emerging dawn would be the last they were likely to see. Nielsen hadn't protested. He'd come to find their presence increasingly tiresome anyway. He was now alone in the conference room with Westwood and Reynolds.
His first task was to take a call from British Prime Minister Winterburn.
"I'm terribly sorry to hear about the President," Winterburn intoned gravely, meaning it. "He's a delightful chap. You will ensure that he and Margaret receive our best wishes, won't you?"
"Of course," Nielsen assured him, not meaning it. "Now, what can I do for you, Prime Minister?"
Winterburn proceeded to relate the contents of the electronic intercept of the conversation between the French and German leaders. Nielsen scribbled notes in shorthand while he listened silently, stopping only occasionally to grunt or to glance at Westwood, whose expression remained neutral throughout. The General was convinced that secondary conflicts such as that looming in Europe had been rendered insignificant by the devastation shortly to befall mankind.
"I've taken soundings from some of our closer allies in Europe," Winterburn reported. "The Italians are outraged. I shan't repeat what their PM said about Chancellor Berger. The Eastern Europeans are spoiling for a fight. The Finns, Norwegians, Swedes and Danes are understandably nervous. They rely heavily on close relations with the Franco-German axis for their prosperity. But they also feel a natural instinct to honor their NATO treaty obligations. I think they're waiting to see what we do."
"We?" Nielsen asked distantly.
"We, as in the United Kingdom."
"Harold, if the French and the Germans and those other sycophant nations hanging onto their coattails do anything - I meananything - to impede the operations of our military forces..."
"You won't have to do anything, Mr. Nielsen. We're reasonably confident of our chances in a scrap with our old friends." There was a distinct undertone of sarcasm in the way he enunciatedold friends .
"If you get involved in this, you know the French will probably issue a nuclear threat. Remember, it's open season on nuclear combat right now."
Nielsen heard a whispered exchange on the other end. Finally, Winterburn said, "My Chief of Defense Staff tells me that we shouldn't be overly concerned about that. The nuclear equation between France and Britain is quite simple, you see. They may have marginally more firepower than us, but we know precisely where their missiles are, whereas our own nuclear capability is entirely based on Trident submarines. They wouldn't find them even if our subs were floating like dog shit on the surface of the English Channel. We can be reasonably confident of using precision bombing to neutralize France's nuclear capability. That's the problem with our French cousins, you see. Arrogance. They can't resist boasting about where they store their nuclear missiles."
"We can provide all the logistical support you need," Nielsen promised. He glanced at Westwood, who nodded to the affirmative. "Question is, could this be mere bluster, or have they really got the stomach for a fight?"
A brief pause. "Well, let's find out, shall we? I can organize a conference call from here. That'll shake them up."
"Good idea. Let's do it."
A few moments later, the conference call was set up. Once initial pleasantries had been exchanged (even in the midst of nuclear war, some diplomatic protocols simply had to be adhered to), Nielsen got down to business. By unspoken consent, Winterburn remained largely silent throughout.
"President Betin, Chancellor Berger. I need to understand the intentions of your respective governments concerning our ongoing conflict with Russia."
It took several seconds for the remark to be translated into French for the benefit of President Betin. Berger spoke English fluently. It was, however, the French leader who finally replied.
"This conflict is not our concern. NATO was not established merely to protect America's interests. The world has moved on in the last twenty years."
"As I understand it," Nielsen pointed out, "the primary directive of NATO is to defend the interests ofall its member states. If one member is attacked, the others are compelled to assist. Or has something changed that I don't know about?"
"Well, this is a rather unique situation," Betin retorted. "The European Union is our primary strategic interest now. We are no longer America's lackeys" - that remark was directed at Winterburn - "and we are not prepared to risk annihilation purely to ensure the continuation of the American way of life. You had the power to prevent an incident like this happening, but you chose to sit back and do nothing. The Cold War ended nearly two decades ago, and you've spent the intervening period sitting on your hands, reveling in your glory, smugly proclaiming your victory to the world. Well, that victory has come back to haunt you now, Mr. Nielsen. And I assure you that when the smoke clears, it will be the monolith of the European Union that rises from the ashes. America's period of dominance is over."
The heartfelt passion of Betin's outburst lost something in the monotonic translation, but the meaning wasn't lost on Nielsen. For a moment, he said nothing, reclining back into his chair, his face registering astonishment. It took him a few moments to digest the implicit threat in Betin's words.
When he spoke again, however, the expression on his face had transformed into grim determination. "President Betin, I would advise you to think very,very carefully before making threats, be they explicit or implicit. You lead a nation that has failed abysmally to win any conflict of any kind that I can recall. If you're looking to have your butts kicked again, then you're going the right way about it."
In the British government bunker, Winterburn grimaced at Nielsen's coarseness. But some of his advisors were not quite so reserved. The PM saw that Roland was trying hard not to laugh.
"You are in no position to be making threats," Berger said, breaking his silence.
Nielsen placed the palms of both hands flat on the table, hunching his shoulders towards the speakerphone. His words were spoken in a flat monotone that left no room for ambiguity. "Gentlemen, let me spell it out for you quite clearly. In the next few hours, U.S. supertankers and support aircraft will be taking off from bases around Europe in support of our strategic bomber fleet. If one -just one - of them is impeded, I will consider that a state of war exists between NATO and your respective nations. Furthermore, I will personally ensure that the reign of destruction that befalls your nations exceeds anything in your darkest nightmares. And this time, there will be no Marshall Plan to bail you out. America has been attacked with weapons of mass destruction. The one and only consequence of this is that America will now wage war with all the power -- I repeat,all the power -- at her disposal. We are about to unleash the appetite for vengeance of two hundred and sixty million people. If you want to help us, then I would much appreciate that. If not..." Nielsen paused, allowing his words to sink in. "If not, then I will consider that you are an enemy of the United States, and your nations will suffer the entirety of our vengeance."
There was a stunned silence on the other end of the phone. Finally, Betin replied in a meek voice, "I think we have nothing further to discuss, Mr. Nielsen."
A few moments later, Winterburn and Nielsen were once more alone on the line. "What did you think?" The American asked.
"Very... diplomatic," his British counterpart replied tactfully. "But I know these chaps, Mr. Nielsen. They are solid in their resolve. They really believe that America is a fallen giant, and they don't think that Britain has the stomach to go it alone."
"And have you the stomach, Harold?"
A short pause. "As I speak, a squadron of RAF Tornado bombers is being scrambled. They will fly to the Plateau d'Albion, where the bulk of France's nuclear arsenal is located. Of course, the French also have some sub-launched nuclear missiles, but not as many as do we. I don't anticipate they'll use those, since we can retaliate in kind. Besides, I really don't believe the French have the stomach for that kind of fight."
"I hope you're right," Reynolds commented. "What else are you planning, Prime Minister?"
"Well, another RAF squadron is flying out of Norway, from where they will attack German radar capability. Their job is to draw fire away from your forces. If we can keep French and German defenses busy for long enough, they'll be too preoccupied to bother you. One more thing."
"Yes?"
"We have one card up our sleeve that the French don't know about yet."
Westwood immediately realized what the British PM was referring to. "The X-40," he muttered under his breath.
Nielsen looked at him in puzzlement.
"The X-40," Westwood repeated, louder.
This time, Nielsen understood what he meant. The X-40 was the world's first tri-service stealth fighter, a VTOL fighter/bomber, jointly designed by British Aerospace and Lockheed-Martin for deployment by both American and British forces. Its maneuverability was at least as good as an F-22 and its stealth capabilities were far greater. It was, however, still an experimental warplane, and that had prevented its deployment so far in this conflict.
"But we're not rolling them out for another two years," Nielsen pointed out.
"That's right, but the Royal Navy have been testing the prototype for the last eighteen months," Westwood reminded him. "They've got a dozen of 'em."
"Are you sure those planes are combat ready?" Nielsen asked Winterburn.
"I am assured that they are. We intend to use them to eliminate France's ground-based radar capability and, since we'll have AWACS watching everything, we stand an excellent chance of achieving total air dominance, despite France's vaunted Mirage jets."
"How do you intend to do that with a dozen prototypical X-40s?" Westwood inquired.
Nielsen could almost imagine the smile on Winterburn's face. "You've obviously forgotten about the Eurofighter. One of the benefits of being in the EU, General, was that we managed to acquire ninety of them. They will be used to maintain air dominance once the X-40s have cleared a path."
"Don't the French have them too?" Nielsen asked.
"Yes, but they only have about a dozen of them. And I believe that our pilots are somewhat more accomplished. Better training, you see."
"We're not just talking about France and Germany though," Westwood remarked. "Who else in the EU is likely to back them up?"
The reply came from the British Chief of Defense Staff. "Oh," he remarked dryly, "the Belgians will probably scramble both of their fighter jets. The Dutch will make a lot of noise, but in the final analysis, they'll sit things out and wait to see what happens. The Austrians? I don't even think they have a military of any note. The Spanish will more than likely taunt us in Gibraltar, but they don't have the ability to do much more than that. Especially since we have a carrier, HMS Excalibur, down in the Med. Greece might cause us a few headaches in Cyprus, but nothing we haven't handled before. As for Luxembourg and Portugal, well..." He left the rest unsaid. They were of no consequence.
"You do realize," Nielsen reminded him, "that you guys are on the front line here. We have no aerial capability in Europe any more." In fact, the last American offensive weapons had been reassigned from Western Europe to Poland and Czechoslovakia three years' ago, further antagonizing the Russians in the process. USAF bases in locations such as Ramstein, Volkel, Lakenheath and Spangdahlem now contained support staff and equipment only. In fact, the sole remaining active USAF base in Western Europe was Aviano in Italy, which housed the 31stFighter Wing, although the seventy-five F-16s that comprised the 31stwere already too busy on combat patrol over the Med to be of any use.
Nielsen lowered his voice a notch. "I'm relying on you and whatever other forces you can muster from your friends to help ensure that our bombers complete their missions."
"You really intend to go through with this, don't you?" Winterburn commented, more a statement of fact than a question. He was, of course, referring to the nuclear bombardment of Russia.
"Unless Yazov suddenly has a change of heart, yes I do."
"Very well," the PM sighed acquiescently. "If our cross-Channel cousins want a fight, I suggest we give them one. Don't you agree?"
For the first time in hours, Nielsen managed a thin smile. "I couldn't have put it better myself, Prime Minister. Couldn't have put it better myself."
When the call was over, Nielsen turned to Westwood, a wry grin on his face.
"You know, that is one ballsy bastard."
Westwood and Reynolds, exchanging an uneasy glance, didn't share in their Commander-in-Chief's amusement.
THE AFTERMATH
XVI
MEANWHILE...
And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.
(Revelation 6:8)
THE PEOPLE'S REPUBLIC OF CHINA
Despite Russia's attempt to cut them off with nuclear strikes, they continued to surge forward, their relentless advance barely slowed. Indeed, if anything, the nuclear attack had given fresh impetus to PLA Commanders who dared not return to Beijing with anything less than total victory.
Twenty-five Russian nuclear warheads -- varying in yield between a hundred kilotons and one megaton -- had been airburst over Chinese positions on the border. Although each target had represented a key strategic stronghold for the PLA, their forces were too widely dispersed for the nuclear attack to have anything more than a nominal effect. Russian military planners would later lament that the nuclear attack had, if anything, taken place too soon. The bulk of China's expeditionary force hadn't even crossed the Amur yet.
Despite the nuclear detonations, bulkily dimensioned PLA transport planes continued to ferry in weapons and supplies to troops that were on the verge of occupying Vladivostok and Novosibirsk, having encountered little in the way of Russian resistance in their forceful advance. Control of these cities effectively afforded China control of the Russian Far East.
And neither did the Russian nuclear attack go unanswered. Thirty minutes after the airbursts over PLA positions, China retaliated by detonating forty low yield nuclear warheads over Russian military bases that had not yet been affected by the American strikes. Most of them were either inactive or deserted, but the attack nevertheless served to hammer yet another nail into the coffin of Russia's corpse.
ASIA-PACIFIC REGION
For the first time since 1945, Japan's self-defense forces went on full scale alert; a state of affairs provoked by both the nuclear conflict and what the Japanese Prime Minister termed "Chinese belligerence", in a reference to the PRC's invasion of Russia.
Indeed, Japan had much to be concerned about. In an emergency cabinet meeting, the Prime Minister reminded colleagues that America's value as an ally had been severely - perhaps irreparably - impaired by the nuclear conflict, and that Japan might now have to stand alone in the Far East against the People's Republic without American support. He speculated that this was the reason for China's invasion of Russia. Now that two superpowers had been effectively removed from the geopolitical equation, China was moving to fill the global power vacuum. Japan simply could not allow that to happen. Were China to establish itself as not only a regional superpower, but a global one, the Japanese would be relegated to the role of paupers to the Communist Prince.
Following that meeting, the Prime Minister issued a statement, warning China to "cease its aggressive actions or face the gravest of consequences." He added that, "Japan will not allow the Beijing Government to destabilize matters in the Pacific region.... [We] will take all necessary measures to defend ourselves."
Elsewhere in the region, attention was focused on financial markets that were taking an unprecedented hammering. America had always provided the solid foundations upon which the world economy was built. Now those foundations had crumbled, leaving nothing to support the burgeoning economies of nations such as Thailand, Malaysia and South Korea. Eventually, all central banks in the region suspended trading in all markets in a desperate attempt to stop the avalanche of selling. By the time they did so, Far East stock market indices had lost anything from thirty to sixty percent of their opening values.
Even if the world recovered from the nuclear war, it was now bound to face a global economic depression of unprecedented magnitude.
But at this stage, nobody outside of the financial markets cared much about that.
EASTERN EUROPE
The first skirmishes between Polish and Russian jets went largely unnoticed with everything else that was happening at the time. As it happened, the Russians were outnumbered and outgunned by Polish F-16s and F-14s with relative ease. For the Poles, the victory was less strategically important than it was cathartic. A small reimbursement for years of Soviet occupation.
By the time Hungarian and Czech forces were spurred into action, there was no enemy left for them to fight. Russia's western air defenses - what remained of them - had been totally smashed. Even the few Russian jets that remained flight-worthy were grounded, abandoned by their crews.
Soon, the focus in Eastern Europe would shift west.
To Germany.
THE MIDDLE EAST
The Arab world's first reaction to the Russian-American conflict came almost inevitably from Saddam Hussein. In an address broadcast on Iraqi state television, he enthused that "the world's two great bullies have finally been punished for years of murderous deeds, and the Iraqi people shall rejoice in their suffering."
Reaction was somewhat more muted, however, in Iran and Israel. One of Iran's leading hardline clerics -- a protégé of the late Ayatollah Khomeini -- held a rally to celebrate the destruction of the "Great Satan and the Lesser Satan". Barely 5,000 people turned up, all of them looking uneasy and doing anything but celebrating. An Iranian commentator justified the low attendance by explaining that many people had stayed at home due to Iran's proximity to Russia and therefore its susceptibility to radioactive fallout. Inevitably, this was blamed on American warmongering.
In Tel Aviv, Israel's Prime Minister urged his people to pray for peace, and for the millions who had died in the nuclear war. Over 50,000 people -- Jew and Moslem alike -- spontaneously gathered in East Jerusalem in an unprecedented show of unity. Holding candles aloft as they marched silently through the ancient city, their calls for peace went unnoticed by the rest of the world.
Elsewhere, Saudi Arabia asserted its neutrality, with state-controlled news bulletins referring only briefly to the nuclear war as "a military clash between America and Russia". But Kuwait offered its unqualified support to the United States, its Emir noting that "the brotherhood forged between the American and Kuwaiti people in our hour of need will be remembered and honored for all time."
But, for once, the Middle East had become an irrelevancy in the big picture.
Nobody was listening.
THE BALTIC SEA
Like a tiger stalking its helpless prey. Sleek, efficient and deadly, the fast-attack submarine USS Los Angeles was assigned to a mission that its captain thought had become obsolete with the end of the Cold War. Its task was to detect, hunt down and kill as many Russian boomers as it could find. Without getting killed itself, of course.
Most of the crewmembers were too young to remember the days when American and Soviet subs had routinely played cat and mouse in the world's oceans, preparing for the day of reckoning that had now arrived. But the Captain remembered those days well. He had been an XO back then and he was now reminded of the tense silence that had descended on his crew whenever it got the faintest sniff of a Soviet sub.
Of course, his present crew was not quite so combat-sharp as its predecessors had been in the 1970's and 80's. Small wonder, given that most of these kids had spent their entire sub-aquatic careers tracking whales on behalf of environmental groups with money to burn. But the same was also true for the Russians, wasn't it? Indeed, more so. Many Russian crews were not just ill prepared but -- unpaid and unmotivated -- they were downright incompetent.
That was good news for the Los Angeles and other U.S. fast attack subs. It made for easy pickings. So the theory went...
In reality, of course, things were rather different. Russian boomers -- the very vessels set to wreak devastation on U.S. cities in due course -- were easy to detect once you found yourself in their vicinity, butfinding their vicinity without first being detected by Russian 'Bastion' patrols was quite another matter entirely. Although the Captain of the Los Angeles assured his crew that it was purely a matter of patience, skill and cunning, he would only admit to himself that the most important factor of all was luck.
As it happened, luck was to grant him a small favor this time. His sonar officer detected the unmistakable signature of a Typhoon in shallow waters outside of Murmansk. It was such an easy kill that the Captain thought it almost unsporting. Then he remembered that the Typhoon's mission probably involved the murder of several million Americans. Oh well, buddy. Tough luck. Nothing personal. After stalking in the Typhoon's wake for no more than ten minutes, the Russian sub was torpedoed before its unfortunate crew even knew the Los Angeles had been trailing it.
Within two hours, five Russian boomers had been detected and destroyed by U.S. fast attack subs. British submarines in the North Atlantic sank three more. NATO ships suffered no losses in these exchanges.
But there were still many more Russian boomers out there, waiting to fire their SLBMs at helpless American cities. Between them, they still had over five hundred nuclear warheads.
That point was not lost on one single U.S. submarine commander involved in the conflict.
NORTHERN FRANCE
Francois Gertilimon had been tending his fields for the near entirety of his seventy-six years, as had his father before him, and since he had never ventured far outside of his immediate community, he had little interest in the fact that his country was about to go to war again. He was just old enough to remember when, as a small child, he had seen the first of the German invaders enter the village. He could still recall their starched uniforms and steel boots, and the distinctive sound their boots made on the cobblestones of the village. Yet Francois' father had not stopped work for as much as a day during the Nazi occupation, even when he knew his profits were going to the Vichy government. He hadn't known how to stop working. He hadn't known how to do anything else.
And so it was for Francois. Although uneducated by urban standards, he was by no means illiterate. He understood precisely what was going on in the world. It was going mad. But that was no excuse for giving up work. The world had gone mad before; it would surely do so again. The Nazis had come and gone, but the Gertilimon farm remained, as it had done for nearly two centuries. This war would also pass into the history books given time. Such things did not concern him, and even if they did, what could one do about them?
Francois' existence was a model of routine. He rose at 4am to milk the cows and clear out the stables, while he listened to the weather report on the wireless. He couldn't afford help, even though his wife kept reminding him that he was getting too old to do everything himself. Alas, they hadn't been blessed with children, so it looked as though - barring some anomaly of science - he might be the last Gertilimon to manage the fields. After his death, the farm would probably fall into the hands of a cooperative and would be managed by a man in a suit who knew nothing about the land or what it was capable of.
That was very sad. But at least Francois would be too dead to care.
Small graces.
When he rose on this particular morning, he heard the blare of police sirens and what sounded faintly like gunshots from the town five miles away. Yes, he thought, the worldwas going mad. But he didn't afford that concept more than a moment's thought. He had more pressing matters on his mind.
As he crouched with his milk bucket to the first of his four cows -- how much harder that was becoming these days -- the wireless told him that some kind of war had broken out between America and Russia, two countries about which Francois had only read in newspapers and books. He was mildly concerned when the news announcer reported that the conflict had involved atomic weapons, but America and Russia were both far away from his farm, so he couldn't imagine how such a thing might affect him, sad as it most certainly was.
Stepping out of the barn, something caught his eye from above. Instinctively, he looked skywards. The dawn was blacker than normal for this time of year. Smoke from the atomic bombs, he guessed. Yet...
There it was again. A pinprick of white light; there one second, gone the next.
Another flash. This time it was shortly followed by a tiny bloom of fire that was brighter and lasted for a few seconds. There was no sound, just a bloom.
Francois was not to know that he had just witnessed the destruction of a French Mirage fighter jet by a British Eurofighter at approximately 30,000 feet over the English Channel.
As he blinked in confusion, he became distantly aware of something else approaching him at an impossible speed...
He turned just in time to see the sleek black dart of a British prototype X-40 streak over his head, hugging the terrain at an altitude of no more than a hundred feet. Because it was flying at supersonic speed, the sound of its engines hadn't reached him yet.
In as long as it took him to wonder why, the sonic boom erupted like an earthquake around him. He instinctively clapped his hands over his ears, but that didn't stop the ground shaking or the ferocious flapping of the trees as they struggled to maintain verticality.
By this time, the X-40 was more than two miles away, and the only indication that it had ever been over Francois Gertilimon's field was the lingering cacophony of hysterical farmyard animals, outraged at having been disturbed in such a forceful manner.
HOUSTON, TEXAS
Many years ago, when he had been a newly ordained minister, Father Sean O'Malley had been asked by a young boy whether he believed in Hell, and if so, how he envisaged it.
He had told the boy that, yes, he did believe in Hell, and he envisaged it not as the Hadean inferno of popular myth, but as an otherworldly place where everybody was destined to be alone for all Eternity, deprived of all contact with other souls.
As he emerged from the basement where he had taken shelter during the blast, it occurred to Father O'Malley that he had been both right and wrong. Hell was indeed a desolate and lonely place, but it wasn't otherworldly. It was right here and now, surrounding him, and for reasons known only to the Good Lord, he had been condemned to bear witness to its fury.
The air was thick with a sweet, burning stench that reminded Father O'Malley of overcooked chicken. He didn't care to pursue that thought any further. For the first time in living memory, the Houston skyline was unobstructed by skyscrapers and other creations of man. Only the foundations of the city's gleaming concrete towers remained; pathetic testaments to a civilization whose fragility had been exposed in a moment of ultra-physical annihilation.
Cars and buses had been contorted into parodical, abstract forms, their paintwork uniformly scorched black. Gas pipes protruded at impossible angles from the ruined ground, the protective layers of earth above having been violently uprooted by Godlike forces. Millions of tons of incinerated rubble mercifully concealed the numerous human forms beneath, although one didn't have to look far for signs of human destruction. Corpses and parts of corpses, mostly charred black, scattered the smoldering landscape in abundance. Out of morbid curiosity, O'Malley stopped to inspect one such body. The cadaver was of indeterminate gender, so deformed had it been by blast effects. Its lips and most of its facial flesh had been seared into non-existence, creating the illusion of a hideous grin on what little remained of its features. Only then did O'Malley realize that he wasn't looking at an entire corpse, merely a head and upper torso that had been separated from the rest of an unseen body.
He held a hand over his mouth to prevent himself from retching over the remains, unwilling to further defile its final resting place with vomit.
A few feet in front of him, a disembodied hand maintained a death grip on a dog lead, the other end of which was concealed beneath the ruins. Upon closer inspection, he saw that the lead was still twitching and a faint canine whimper was audible from beneath the rubble.
And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.
Across the street were the remains of a tenement block. The upper three floors had been shorn off, but the bottom two remained. Atop the ruined building, he saw a human figure moving slightly. It was the first survivor he had seen. As he squinted to get a better view, he realized that the figure was that of a child dripping in blood where both its arms had been severed. Above the roar of uncontrolled fires, he could hear it screaming for its unseen (and probably dead) mother. The sound went through him like a warm knife through butter.
And upon all this devastation fell a fine white dust, affording a wintry aspect to the charred remains of the city. Yet the dust was no less deadly than the firestorm that had preceded it. O'Malley knew this, but whatever fear he had left in him had been suppressed by the sheer narcosis evoked by the horror of such omnipresent destruction.
From what he could ascertain, the bomb had exploded somewhere in the vicinity of Galena Park, approximately six miles to his north. Everything from Pasadena in the south to Jacinto City in the north; from the city center west of the blast to State Highway 9 in the east had been lain to waste. It occurred to him that he had no right to have survived, not when so many others more worthy than he had died in such horrific circumstances. Or perhaps the converse was true, he thought. Perhaps the dead were the chosen ones, and the few survivors like himself were the damned. Of course, how could it be otherwise? Virtually everybody in the immediate vicinity had been killed and yet somehow he had not. His injuries were slight, under the circumstances. The only wound of which he was aware was an emerging bump on his crown, where a loose beam of wood had clipped him during the blast. Destiny had either chosen him or cursed him to witness this tragedy, although only God knew for what purpose.
And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, and the mighty men, and every bondman, and every free man, hid themselves in the dens and in the rocks of the mountains...
He felt himself staggering zombie-like through the ruins, stopping occasionally to take in another grisly sight, each one seemingly less shocking than the last. Perhaps he was becoming immunized to the horror around him. That prospect disturbed him. How could anyone become immune to this?
And the third part of trees was burnt up, and all green grass was burnt up...
O'Malley was drawn by the sounds of human activity coming from the banks of the Sims Bayou. As he got closer, the moans and weak cries of mankind's torment became increasingly discernible.
Nothing had prepared the priest for the sight that confronted him when he reached the Bayou. Burned survivors - many of them horribly disfigured or dismembered - were shuffling slowly into the cool, surprisingly tranquil water. Their slow, hesitant movements were those of a beleaguered, bewildered mass. Nobody spoke. Nobody cried. They simply moved forward as a wretched collective.
But that wasn't all that O'Malley saw. Many of the survivors were so horribly burned, their flesh literally melted away as they entered the water, as if the Bayou were filled with sulphuric acid. He focused on a woman whose protruding stomach suggested an advanced state of pregnancy. He knew what was going to happen as she silently waded into the water, but he was helpless to do anything about it. She was in God's hands now.
Globules of flesh and muscle fell away from the woman as she entered the Bayou. By the time she realized what was happening, it was too late. The last that O'Malley saw of her before she and her unborn child disappeared beneath the water was of her two arms reaching skywards in a silent cry of agony.
Father Sean O'Malley had truly discovered Hell.
Presently, he sunk to his knees and in a perverse mimicry of the woman he had just seen, stretched his arms to the heavens. And although he screamed, his cry was lost amid the deafening clamor of a moribund world.
"Bastards!"
GCN HEADLINE NEWS
"And now, live from the President's Emergency Airborne Command Post, the Secretary of Defense, Mr. Paul Nielsen."
The address was being beamed live to almost every country on Earth, but there was no corresponding picture. Nielsen's words were broadcast over a series of still shots of KNEECAP's interior. The luxurious furnishings of the E-4 provided a stark contrast to the conditions that many millions of ordinary citizens had suddenly found themselves forced to endure.
"My fellow Americans, good morning. I'm not actually sure if that is the right way to begin, but I wish you good morning anyway.
"Firstly, let me assure you that America has survived this terrible ordeal, and that your government continues to work on behalf of the American people. Secondly, I would like to explain why it is me making this address and not your President. A short time ago, President Mitchell suffered a suspected heart attack. Heis alive. He is undergoing treatment at the hands of some of our nation's finest medical professionals, and I am confident that he will make a full recovery and return to office in due course. In the meantime, I have assumed the burden of office. This is a burden that on this darkest of days, no rational human being would want. Yet, as a public servant, I take pride in serving my country. And I accept this responsibility with a heavy heart.
"You may ask - why Paul Nielsen? That is a valid question, which I shall endeavor to answer. The Vice President, who would normally have succeeded the President, was in Moscow at the time of the attack, and has been unobtainable since. Sadly, we are forced to assume the worst. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the families of the Vice President and his wife. In peacetime, the Speaker of the House would normally have been next in the line of succession. But America is at a state of war. And, under these extraordinary circumstances, certain provisions exist for the Secretary of Defense to assume the role of acting President. I pray to God that you, the American people, do not find me wanting at this terrible time.
"Many millions of Americans have died in the last few hours, and I fear that many millions more will yet join them. It is my duty, therefore, to ensure that their deaths do not go unavenged. Their murderers will be made to pay dearly for the genocidal crimes committed against our nation. This day of infamy will be etched into history for a thousand generations as the day when the forces of Good confronted and prevailed over those of Evil. For I promise you, we shall prevail. America may have been damaged, but it will rise again with a fury, for there is no spirit on Earth like that with which the American people have been blessed. We will need to work together, to help each other on the long road to recovery. That will mean we, as a nation, will have to adapt to the radically changed circumstances in which we find ourselves.
"I would like to talk about how these changed circumstances affect you, and what your Government is doing to help recovery efforts on the ground.
"Firstly, with the assistance of the American Red Cross and the Federal Emergency Management Agency, a number of camps are being hastily constructed across the country for displaced persons. Your local authorities will notify the locations of these camps to you. I have authorized deployment of Federal medical and food stockpiles to assist those of you in need of such provisions.
"Secondly, FEMA is coordinating with local units of the National Guard, town and city councils to establish work committees assigned to reconstruction duties. If you are healthy and able, you should report for duty to your local committee as soon as possible. I shan't lie to you -- much of the work will be unpleasant, but it is your duty as Americans to pull together in our country's hour of need.
"Finally, all economic mechanisms have been indefinitely suspended. Prices and wages will remain frozen until further notice. There will be no hoarding, no black marketeering. Any evidence of such activities will be dealt with. Harshly.
"I urge you to remain calm, to assist those in need, and to pray for those whose lives have been extinguished on this dark, tragic day. I will keep you informed.
"Goodbye, God bless you, and God bless the United States of America."
PERSPECTIVE: ECONOMIC EFFECTS OF NUCLEAR WAR
Although it is only possible to speculate about the effects of a nuclear attack upon the American economy, it is safe to say that - even in the limited war scenario used in this story - the effects would be dramatic and in many respects calamitous.
The most obvious impact of such a conflict would be on manpower, and in particular on skilled labor. That applies especially to the agricultural industry, upon which America depends for food and which accounts for a significant proportion of GDP. Some of America's most fertile crops are within proximity of strategic military targets that would be heavily attacked in any such conflict. Note the abundance of ICBM silos and bomber bases in states such as Missouri, Kansas, Montana and Nebraska. This means not only the destruction (or at least contamination) of crops and livestock, but of skilled farm labor.
As for other industries, approximately one third of the U.S.'s manufacturing capacity lies within regions likely to be heavily attacked in any nuclear conflict. Because of the interdependency of various industries, one likely effect would be that of "bottlenecking". This is where the disruption of one industry has a detrimental impact upon others; for example a lack of steel affecting the car industry and machine tool production. Despite the possibility of product substitution (e.g. plastic for steel or cotton for wool), it is fair to assume that up to 25% to 50% of America's manufacturing capacity would be devastated by even a limited nuclear war.
The banking and financial system, meanwhile, would suffer catastrophically. Apart from the obvious loss of tangible assets (no business insurance would cover this type of disaster), the infrastructure of capital markets themselves would be severely impaired. Many banks and financial institutions would be in contaminated areas, accentuating the effect of financial paralysis. Given the near impossibility of the banks' capacity to pursue normal lending policies, it is likely that they would have to defer or write off business and personal loans, particularly where the debtors have been killed or displaced. This would raise the specter of major banks folding under immense debt and, consequently, of businesses and individuals being bankrupted.
It is likely that the Federal Government would be called upon to provide emergency regional disaster loans to help relocate displaced citizens. It would also be required to save key industries from bankruptcy and satisfy enormous social service demands such as welfare, medicine and emergency housing. This would require the Federal Government to seek vast loans, the main effect being a detrimental impact on Bond prices and an incremental effect on Interest Rates in order to stifle the likely emergence of hyperinflation.
Given the dependence of so many other nations' economies upon the strength of the U.S. economy, it is difficult to say how much aid would be forthcoming from overseas.
Perhaps the most calamitous effect, however, would be on transport and, thus, the distribution network. Since primary food and resource distribution routes pass through areas likely to be contaminated or destroyed, the effects of a breakdown in the transport system on the population and economy of the United States cannot be understated.
XVII
POWER PLAYS
Human reason has this peculiar fate that in one species of its knowledge it is burdened by questions which, as prescribed by the very nature of reason itself, it is not able to ignore, but which, as transcending all its powers, it is also not able to answer.(Immanuel Kant: Critique of Pure Reason)
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
Since the nuclear attack on Washington, a scattering of civilians had found their way to Olney. The vast majority of them were suffering from an awful variety of burn and secondary injuries, although many were not physically injured at all, even though they refused to accept the fact. Even though the facility technically boasted a full medical staff, not all of them had made it in time. That it hadn't erupted into chaos provided testament to the skill and dedication of those whohad made it into work.
Fortunately, the existence of the emergency medical wing within the Olney facility was not widely known among the populace, otherwise it might have found itself more overwhelmed than it already was. Facility Director Carl Beakman guessed that a large number of survivors had instead found their way to alternative medical sites in the Washington D.C. area, such as Bethesda, Montgomery General and Walter Reed, all of which had barely survived the attack.
No more than sixty percent of Beakman's staff had been accounted for so far. If many more civilians kept arriving, he knew that he would have to start turning people away in order to maintain operational effectiveness. Beakman didn't relish that prospect. Not only would it be logistically dangerous to turn people away, but it would offend his own principles to do so. And now, to cap everything, he had been told that the President was to be treated here. Beakman's cardiology staff comprised a junior surgeon and a cardiovascular specialist. They would be responsible for saving the President's life. That was another prospect he didn't relish. And, despite their insistences to the contrary, neither did they.
Wearing full NBC protective gear, he presently stood on the facility's helipad, located on the roof of the building. His eyes were searching the skies for the first sign ofMarine One . Around him, FEMA officials and paramedics rushed around making hurried preparations for the President's arrival. But Beakman hardly noticed them. From his elevated vantage point, he could clearly see the hellish inferno that had once been Washington, and that was what had captured the focus of his attention. The capital was now no more than a heap of burning rubble whose glow still reflected off the clouds. Among it was Victor, he realized with a start. His grim reverie was broken when his handheld radio crackled to life.
"Sir, I think you'd better get down here."
"What?" Beakman shouted into his unit, his voice distorted by his protective helmet. "I've got the President arriving any minute. What's the problem?"
"I think you should come down here and take a look for yourself."
"Will you just tell me what's going on, dammit?" As he asked the question, he spotted a faint sparkle of light in the sky. Hail to the Chief.
"We've just received some new arrivals, sir. Quite a few of them. Actually, sir, a convoy."
"Shit," Beakman snorted. "How many are we talking about?"
"Approximately a hundred people, sir. From Johns Hopkins."
He could now hear the engines ofMarine One as it began its descent through the smoke-clogged air.
"They drove here?"
"That would appear to be the case, sir, yes. There's a doctor with them. What do I do? Shall I let them in?"
Beakman's training and intellect told him to turn them back. A hundred extra casualties would stretch the facility's resources to breaking point. But they had driven all the way from Baltimore to get here, and he didn't know if he could live with himself were he to turn them back and sentence them to almost certain death in the radioactive wilderness of Maryland. Besides, what were a hundred more casualties on a day when millions had died?
"Let them in."
"Boss says you can go through," the FEMA officer told Jo, who was driving the lead vehicle - a battered blue GM pick up. She had eight people in the back, all suffering from various injuries. Inevitably, some of them would not live much longer, but she was a doctor and it was her job to ensure that they received treatment.
She didn't smile gratitude at the officer. Instead, she simply nodded and revved up the engine. She reflected that the bomb apparently hadn't killed off all the bureaucrats. Perhaps they were to be the meek who would inherit of the Earth, she mused.
"Where do I go?"
The guard - whose face was concealed behind a darkened Perspex mask - pointed straight ahead at a pair of twelve foot tall iron gates. Upon them was a sign: Trespassing strictly forbidden by order of U.S. Gov't.
"Through there, Ma'am. There's a reception area right ahead of you. You and your patients will be processed and allocated according to your skills and state of health."
"Allocated to what?"
He paused, causing Jo to speculate about the expression on the face behind that mask.
"Just allocated, Ma'am."
"Right." She was vaguely aware of a helicopter landing on the roof of the facility, but didn't afford it much attention. She had more urgent concerns, like getting to cover before she and her patients took in too many rads.
She put her foot on the gas and drove towards the iron gates, following the guard's directions. The gates opened electronically. As she passed through them, Jo checked her rear view mirror to ensure that all the other vehicles in the convoy were still with her. After another fifty yards or so, she came to a blockade, manned by a phalanx of Marine guards whose weapons were pointed neutrally at the unnatural crimson-brown sky. All of them were wearing white NBC suits. One of them approached her cab, while the others moved to inspect the vehicles following her.
"Name, Ma'am?"
"Doctor Joanne Miller. I'm a..."
He didn't look up at her, instead scribbling something unintelligible on his clipboard. "Nature of your sickness?"
"I don't have a sickness. I'm a doctor from Johns Hopkins bringing these patients in for treatment."
That got his attention. Peering at her through his mask, he asked her, "What sort of doctor?"
Jo huffed testily. "I'm Chief of Cardiology at Johns... Jesus, does it matter?"
"Cardiology, huh? That makes you a heart surgeon, right?"
She was beginning to lose her patients with the officious guard. Why oh why were goddamned 'crats selected to survive this thing? "Right," she snapped. "Now will you please let us through? While you're wearing that goddamn spacesuit, we're taking in rads out here."
"And you're healthy, right?"
"So far yes, Goddammit, I'm healthy. But I won't be if I'm exposed out here for much longer. Now will you please..."
He signaled to the other guards to let her convoy pass. They promptly cleared a loose path for the arriving vehicles. "Drive straight through to the decon center, Ma'am. You'll be given further information there."
"Thank you."
As she drove away towards the bright halogen lamps that surrounded the main entrance to the facility, the same question kept nagging her.
Now what the hell was that all about?
\*\*\*
"He's unconscious, but still hanging in there," Special Agent Sarah Herbert shouted above the noise ofMarine One's engines as two paramedics carried the President out of the helicopter. He was still laid out on a stretcher, his face white as salt, shirt unbuttoned, an oxygen mask attached to his face. Agent Danny Carver carried a heart monitor, whose electrodes were stuck to the President's bare chest. He was running alongside the stretcher, anxious about getting his charge to safety as soon as possible.
"Are your staff ready?" Herbert asked Beakman loudly.
"They're ready," Beakman yelled back. "Let's get him inside."
BALTIMORE-WASHINGTON AIRPORT
Like most civilian airports in the United States, Baltimore-Washington was now effectively under military jurisdiction. That rule applied not only to airports nationwide, but to all U.S.-registered civilian aircraft that used them. Many of the jets were being used to ferry National Guard and regular Army units into cities that had rapidly descended into chaotic disorder. But the main reason that civilian aircraft had been universally grounded was that it simply wasn't safe for them to fly any more. Not with so many military jets competing for limited quantities of airspace. Besides, many primary ATC systems had been crippled by the nuclear attack. Also, it went without saying that since so many USAF bases had been destroyed, the strategic importance of civilian airports had become somewhat more pronounced.
As USSS Special Agent Steve Jefferson led him through the arrivals lounge, Lewis quickly realized that almost everybody in the building was in uniform. Army, Navy, Air Force, even the goddamn Marines were present. Great, he thought bleakly. Some of them were talking urgently into satellite phones, others gathering around laptop computers in hushed conference. But mostly, the soldiers simply milled about with bewildered expressions, looking like they didn't know what they were supposed to do or why they were supposed to do whatever it was they weren't doing. Much of that, Lewis supposed, was due to the breakdown in the chain of command. Questions were being passed up the food chain by soldiers expecting an answer, but once those questions reached a certain level, there was nobody available to pass them up to. So the questions were being bounced back down the chain again without the answers and, more significantly, the orders that had been anticipated. This provided a recipe for confusion, which Lewis could see etched on the faces of every soldier around him. They had been called up for World War Three, and they didn't know what they were supposed to do. Damn.
Lewis's alert eyes took in every detail and every face around him, and filed it all in a well-trained mental database for future reference; an old habit from his own military career. By the time he arrived at the immigration hall, he had counted over ninety soldiers and could even recount the approximate locations of each of them. But, with his hands tightly bound by cuffs and two severe-looking FBI agents close behind him and Jefferson, there was nothing he could do about that.
Yet.
"In here." Jefferson shoved him into an interview room normally used by INS officials dealing with dubious immigrants. The USSS agent whispered something unintelligible to the two FBI agents. They nodded in agreement and assumed their posts outside the room. Jefferson followed Lewis inside and locked the door shut behind him. His jacket was undone, exposing a semi-automatic. He stood with his back against the door, cautiously watching his prisoner, who lowered himself into a molded plastic seat.
"So what now?" Lewis asked him casually. He had already got the measure of the handsome Afro-American. At an even six feet tall and a robust 190lbs, Jefferson had the appearance of a competent athlete. He looked no older than thirty. Lewis had noticed the wedding band on his left hand and, although his stern expression reflected the professionalism drilled into him by years of hard training, his eyes occasionally betrayed an edge of uncertainty. Well, who was certain about anything today?
"You'll find out," the agent said stiffly. Again, the flickering eyelids betraying his own doubts. He wouldn't have made a great poker player, Lewis thought. Lesson number one, buddy: You may be able to use a gun, but if you can't hide behind your eyes, you're a dead man.
"You don't know, do you? Nobody's considered the legalities for any of this, have they?"
"I assure you that we have procedures for this kind of incident, Dr. Stein."
Lewis smiled acidly. "Bullshit you have. I'm a trained paramilitary, Agent Jefferson. I'm a black belt in three martial arts, a skilled marksman, a Sandhurst-trained para, fluent in three languages, a former field operative of the Britishand American security services. I've killed more men than I care to remember and I've been shot five times in live combat situations. And now, to cap everything, I've made an attempt on the life of the President.
"Two things here, Jefferson. First: Why take a chance by assigning only three men to me, two of which are not even in the room right now? If I were you, I'd be a lot more cautious. Second: With my training, had I really decided to kill Nielsen, he would've been in Hell ten seconds before he even knew he was dead. That's a fact, and you know it. At worst, all I've done is committed assault against theacting President."
"You've nevertheless committed a Federal crime," Jefferson pointed out.
"So attacking a warmongering nutcase is a Federal crime, but killing a billion people isn't. Yeah, I see the logic in that. Twisted but utterly comprehensible. You know something? That's the same dumb logic that got us into this mess in the first place."
"That's not my concern, Dr. Stein."
Lewis almost leapt from his seat in anger but, noting the menace in Jefferson's demeanor, he thought better of it. Deep breath. Control that temper. "That's where you're wrong, Agent Jefferson. It'severybody's concern. Don't act like an uneducated goon. I know that you don't get onto the Presidential detail without some serious qualifications. What did you major in?"
"Law."
"Colombia, right?"
For the first time, Jefferson's face registered surprise. "Yeah. How did you guess?"
"I didn't." Lewis nodded at the agent's right hand. "I noticed the frat ring. I also noticed the wedding band. You got kids?"
Jefferson's jaw clenched. He fixed Lewis with a hard stare that warned the prisoner not to press too hard.
"Listen, pal," Lewis grinned, trying to reason with his captor, "the world is about two hours from oblivion. Talking to me isn't a crime, you know."
After a pause, Jefferson replied, "My wife is three months pregnant."
Lewis lowered his head and shook it sadly. "And you say that none of this is your concern." He looked up. "It is your concern, Jefferson. It's my concern too. I don't have kids, but I have a wife - sorry,ex- wife - and I love her more than anything else in the world. I don't know whether she's still alive, but I owe it to her to try and find out, maybe even to give our marriage another chance. Can you understand that?"
A firm nod. "I understand. My wife is at home in Baltimore. Probably," he added with an edge of sadness. Although at least the city looked unharmed when we landed there, he thought. Perhaps she's okay.
"You're an educated man," Lewis told him. "You understand damn well what's going on here. You were in the conference room when Nielsen issued the proceed orders to our bombers, weren't you? Well, I can't do much about that now, not while I'm bound up in handcuffs. So here it is. A billion people, possibly many more, are going to die horribly in due course. Among them will be my wife, your wife,and your unborn child. And you're the only one who can do a damn thing about it. Now I know that's a tough break, but life's full of those, and for that I apologize. But if I can get to thereal President, perhaps, just maybe, we've got a chance at turning this thing off."
Jefferson didn't have a reply to that. He frowned as he considered the treasonous implications of Lewis's statement. Paramount among the rules observed by USSS agents was that they remained politically neutral. Sometimes that meant being prepared to take a bullet for a charge whom they personally found repellent. Other times it meant being party to the most abhorrent of political schemes while maintaining their vow of silence. Being a USSS agent, especially on protective detail, often left a bad taste in one's mouth. Nevertheless, the rules had always stood, and the very few agents who had ever even considered breaking them had invariably enjoyed short careers in the Service. The USSS prided itself on its reputation as a deadly, silent praetorian guard. That was the role for which it had been designed and, despite a few hiccups, had performed faithfully since its inception.
And now Jefferson was actively considering betrayal of that proud tradition. Needless to say, it wasn't a concept with which he felt comfortable. It defied his principles, his training and his personal feelings towards the Service. Nevertheless, something in Lewis's statement had said struck a very deep chord with the agent. He had only been married for eighteen months and, since the conception of his child, he had often considered turning his back on the long hours and inherent risks of his occupation to embark upon a more normal career that would allow him the time to see his child grow up.
And that was the bottom line. He had joined the Secret Service in order to make a difference, not because he had wanted to use firearms and look tough. Now he was in a position where he might -- just might -- be able to make the biggest difference of all. Is it really that simple to make the decision to commit treason?
After a long, thoughtful pause, he looked up at Lewis. Even as he spoke the words, he was barely able to believe he was saying them. It disturbed him how easy it was to breach the fine line that separated patriotism and treason. But he consoled himself with the knowledge that his loyalty was to the Constitution of the United States of America, not to Paul Nielsen. Perhaps that wasn't his call to make, but it was the best justification he had for his feelings right now.
"If I were to help you, what chance do you think we've got? Half the goddamn U.S. armed forces are outside that door. Two of us against all of them? We'd be lucky to get more than ten yards."
Lewis cautiously rose to his feet, lowering his voice to prevent the FBI agents outside from hearing. He hoped Jefferson would take the hint and lower his own voice in kind. "Don't underestimate me, Jefferson. I've been in tighter spots than this. There's nobody in the immigration hall apart from those two Feds outside. If we can take them, we've got half a chance. And if we die" - he shrugged - "well, at least we die trying. Better than sitting here waiting for the sky to fall, don't you think?"
Jefferson examined the older man's face. Lewis met his eyes, his expression betraying not a hint of self-doubt. That wasn't to say that he didn't harbor doubts, just that he chose to ignore them right now. He had never embarked upon any mission considering failure as a likely outcome. This was no exception. But neither had he ever embarked upon a mission where he hadn't had doubts.
This is one cocky, dangerous son-of-a-bitch, the agent thought to himself.
Jefferson closed his eyes, mentally picturing his pregnant wife sitting at home in front of the TV.
Lewis's words resounded in his mind.
Waiting for the sky to fall.
"Okay," Jefferson sighed acquiescently. "What do you have in mind?"
SIESMAYERSTRASSE, FRANKFURT, GERMANY
Dawn cast an ominous shadow over the ultra modern cityscape. The blood red sunrise shimmering on the glass and metal skyscrapers of the city's financial district would ordinarily have provided a beautiful spectacle were it not for the conspicuous lack of people.
That is not to say the roads were empty. Indeed, the traffic was more intense than usual for this early hour. Except that the traffic consisted almost exclusively of military vehicles; soulless gray and green shells whose roaring engines resounded through the canyons of boulevards and streets as they raced towards unseen destinations. There were hardly any civilians to be seen. No rioting. No looting. Not even soldiers standing post. Just military vehicles. Helicopters occasionally buzzed overhead, but these also carried the distinct markings of the German Army. In keeping with its reputation, Germany's version of chaos seemed somewhat orderly.
This all made for a singularly eerie atmosphere that wasn't lost on either Middleton or Gellis. As they drove through the city, they became acutely conscious that theirs was one of the very few civilian vehicles in sight. They didn't yet know that they were now in a hostile country; but then neither did most Germans know about their nation's conflict with the rapidly disintegrating NATO alliance. The German Government had still not revealed this element of the escalating global crisis to its people.
The radio was broadcasting endless prerecorded public information broadcasts, advising people to stay in their homes. The tone of the announcements suggested to Middleton that they were not so much advisory notices as implicit orders. He pointed this out to Gellis, who ventured that perhaps the implication was a linguistic nuance that only a German would understand.
"Maybe they've declared martial law," the reporter suggested, testing his theory on the Englishman, who seemed to be quite well acquainted with the German psyche.
"Perhaps," Middleton conceded with a shrug. "I suppose you'd know more than me about such things. But would they use tanks to impose martial law?"
Gellis watched another Bradley M-1 race past them in the opposite lane. That was about the tenth he had seen since leaving the airport. Good point, he thought. "I know the Germans have got a reputation for obeying rules, but this is fucking ridiculous. Where is everybody? Why aren't they panic buying or raping and pillaging? Isn't that what's supposed to happen in a situation like this?"
Middleton gestured at an Armored Personnel Carrier. "Speaking for myself, I think I'd be deterred from doing anything that would upset those lads. But that's just me."
The reporter grimaced. "I guess we'll find out more when we get to the Consulate."
Middleton turned the car into an expansive boulevard, which was totally devoid of traffic, military or otherwise. "Well, it's right here," he told the American, pointing through his windscreen.
The American Consulate was a modern architectural masterpiece, its construction post-dating the Cold War by more than a decade. A gleaming monolith of mirrored glass and steel, it provided just one more testament to the American glory that had been suddenly and brutally mutilated in the past twelve hours. Three hundred years to build a civilization; twelve hours to destroy it, Gellis mused darkly.
The Consulate was surrounded by tank traps, installed quite recently to deter terrorist suicide bombings. Parking was strictly prohibited on that part of the street, which meant that Middleton had to find a spot two blocks away. Gellis was desperate to visit the men's room, but that wasn't the only reason he would be glad to get to the building. He felt desperately exposed out here.
As the two men began to walk back towards the Consulate building, Gellis felt the unmistakable sensation of being watched. At first, he dismissed the feeling, attributing it to the creeps. But glancing down a dark, narrow side street, he spotted a jeep moving slowly in his direction. Against the faint dawn light, he could make out the silhouettes of three figures.
"Halt!"
Momentarily, Gellis looked around, thinking the order must have been directed at someone else. The expression on Middleton's face told him otherwise. Both men stopped in their tracks, watching the jeep anxiously as it drew closer.
"Must be some kind of curfew," the Englishman whispered. "And we've just broken it."
"Great." Gellis began to reach for his press pass.
As the jeep emerged from the dark side street into the well-lit Siesmayerstrasse, Gellis wasn't surprised to see that the vehicle carried the markings of the German Army. The driver and his two passengers all wore gray-green combat fatigues. One of the passengers climbed out of the back seat and approached the two foreigners. His uniform bore the rank insignia of an Army Colonel. An inch or two shorter than Gellis, he measured the reporter through narrow blue eyes.
"American?" he asked in heavily accented English.
"Yes, I'm a repor..."
"You are not supposed to be on the street."
"We just came from the airport," Middleton explained. "We were about to check in at the Consulate to find out what's happening."
The Colonel glared icily at Middleton, then at Gellis. "Your country has declared war on Germany and the European Union."
"What?" Gellis exclaimed. "You're joking."
"Nobody is joking now," the Colonel told him, his cool expression emphasizing the fact. "I will take you into arrest now. Both of you."
"Now wait just one..."
Gellis was cut off by a loudsnap that sounded not unlike a firecracker. It took him a fraction of a second to recognize the sound for what it was. Instinctively, he pulled Middleton to the ground. The Englishman, disorientated by this unexpected turn of events, clearly didn't understand what was going on. In as much time as it took for him to hit the ground, two moresnaps echoed through the deserted street.
When Gellis looked up, he saw that the Colonel who had been questioning him was now laying face down in a pool of blood on the sidewalk. A small hole was clearly visible in the back of his head. The other two soldiers in the jeep were both motionless; their heads lifelessly askew. Middleton had never seen a dead body before. His complexion turned green, and he pursed his lips as if about to vomit.
Before Gellis could fully comprehend what had happened, a rough pair of hands grabbed his collar and hoisted him to his feet.
"Okay, buddy, let's move it." The accent was distinctively American. Gellis briefly glimpsed the youthful, handsome face. For some reason, it looked familiar, but he couldn't remember where he'd seen it before.
For a moment, Middleton didn't move. His eyes were transfixed by the horrific spectacle before him. His body felt as though it were paralyzed. But a hard shove from the stranger was enough to get him moving. Gellis and Middleton were quickly shepherded towards the Consulate, the pace of their rescuer forcing them to jog. They didn't need much encouragement. Both men wanted to get to safety as quickly as possible before more German troops appeared. This time, Gellis suspected, theKrauts would not be quite so polite.
The stranger was behind them, jogging backwards, his pistol poised to deal with any threat.
It was the longest twenty seconds of Richard Gellis's life.
Thankfully, the three men made the front gate of the compound without any further incident. A Marine guard was ready to meet them. He hurriedly guided them inside.
It was only then, in the lobby of the U.S. Consulate that Gellis laid eyes on his savior for the first time.
"Richard Gellis," the man grinned crookedly. Gellis thought he saw a mischievous glint in his eye. "We do tend to meet in the most curious of circumstances."
As the American Consul-General arrived to greet the new arrivals, Gellis found himself staring wide-eyed at a ghost, a face from another life.
The face belonged to the CIA field officer known asFalcon .
OUTSIDE GILMAN CITY, MISSOURI
The morning sky was now the deepest crimson, edged with dark gray clouds that hung low over the desolated land. It looked both awesome and unnatural. It appeared to Beth as though the skies themselves were bleeding. Perhaps they were, she thought. Perhaps the masters of this genocide had even succeeded in destroying the heavens.
She hadn't seen Cathy since Gardner, and had accepted the fact that her mother-in-law had probably followed Patrick into Eternity. And Martin? She instantly rejected the thought that he might be with them. He was still alive. She would have sensed it had that not been so.
Wouldn't I?
Beth was exhausted, hungry and forlorn. But her suffering was nothing compared to that of the many who marched with her. She didn't remember how she'd fallen into the human procession that was slowly trudging westwards. It had just happened that way. She had to remind herself that this time yesterday, the pathetic wretches around her had led normal, mundane lives. They'd had hopes and dreams, ambitions and fears. They'd gone to work, made love, paid bills and complained about the weather. But now all of that, all of their worlds had been reduced to a kaleidoscope of anguish and pain. Beth found it cathartic to focus on the misery of others. It distracted from her own sense of loss.
The images and sounds of the marching dead would stay with her for the rest of her life, she knew. The survivors shuffled forwards like zombies; shoulders hunched, heads bowed as if afraid of taking in another spectacle more grisly than the last. Some mumbled unintelligibly to themselves. Others moaned with every agonizing movement. A few collapsed, unable to walk any more, but nobody stopped to help them. Helicopters occasionally whizzed overhead, but they had long since stopped being beacons of hope.
Beth knew little of radiation sickness other than what Martin had told her, and she couldn't even remember that much now. She didn't know what it looked, smelled or tasted like. She didn't know how she would tell whether she had it. All she knew was that it was mortally dangerous, and that it could be penetrating her like an x-ray at that very moment. She suddenly wanted to vomit, although she wasn't sure whether that was due to shock or radiation sickness.
She had stopped being aware of the lifeless forms abandoned along the roadside. None of them had been killed directly by the bombs; most had died as a result of their injuries. Some of the bodies looked relatively unscathed, and Beth imagined that they had simply given up on life and decided to stop living. She could relate to that. Nothing shocked her any more. She was - in her husband's parlance - on autopilot. She just kept moving forward with the marching dead, and would continue doing so until she stopped moving forever. Life was that simple now, wasn't it?
A small black man in front of her stumbled and fell onto his face. He would never rise again. Beth casually stepped around him. Another one gone. How many millions were dead? More to the point, how many left alive? She wondered whether all the world's great cities - New York, Paris, Tokyo, London - looked exactly like Missouri now, or even worse.
The first that Beth saw of the refugee camp was a string of white lights about half a mile ahead. That would be civilization, she thought. Or perhaps not. She remembered making that same false assumption earlier.
This time, however, there were to be no tear gas canisters or stampedes. The marching dead just kept marching relentlessly towards the lights.
And they moved beyond them.
As she got nearer, she could see that a multitude of large green tents had been erected on a field more than twenty acres in size. Many of them bore the unmistakable emblem of the Red Cross. Military vehicles and personnel hurried around the camp, carrying casualties and supplies. She watched a helicopter land beside the field, where it was met by a group of soldiers in NBC gear. They removed several crates of medical supplies and food and loaded them onto a truck. So this is where the helicopters have been going, she realized. The speed at which the camp had been built - especially in the middle of a nuclear war - amazed her. It occurred to her that the plans for such an eventuality must've already been in place. For some reason, that thought offended her. They knew this was going to happen?
A row of more than twenty makeshift desks had been set up at the entrance to the camp, manned by Army officers. Their job was to process the many thousands of casualties who were only just beginning to arrive. It was a thankless task. Like all the other military personnel she'd seen, these soldiers were accorded anonymity by their analogous white NBC suits.
"Name, Ma'am?" the officer at Desk Fourteen asked her as she came to the front of the queue. He didn't look up from the blank form in front of him.
"Bethany Elizabeth Logan," she said, having to raise her voice above the symphony of moans and screams that had become the soundtrack of the apocalypse.
He made an entry on the form. "Age?"
"Thirty-seven."
"Married?"
"Yessir. My husband flies B-2s out of Whiteman."
This time, the man afforded her a cursory glance. It lasted for less than a second. She couldn't see the expression behind the mask, and his flat monotone betrayed nothing. Like everybody else, he was just doing his job, coping with the abstract horror around him by adopting the mentality of an automaton.
"Where are you from?"
"Independence, Missouri."
"The nature of your injuries, Mrs. Logan?"
She felt slightly embarrassed, but didn't know why. "Well, I don't really have any. I just came here with everybody else. I had somebody else with me, my mother-in-law, Catherine Logan. You don't know if she's alive, do you?" Even as she said it, she knew it was a dumb question.
"You can look for her in the camp if you like." The man looked up at Beth. She felt herself being appraised, although she didn't know for what purpose. "What do you do for a living, Mrs. Logan?"
"If it's relevant, I'm an investment banker."
"Any medical or military experience?"
"I've got a First Aid certificate. I trained in..."
"That'll do just fine. You feel up to helping out around here? We need all the assistance we can get."
She looked around at some of the other survivors; pathetic wretches displaying a range of injuries that dispelled her preconceptions about how much damage the human body could sustain. "What do you want me to do?"
He pointed at a large gray tent behind the row of desks. "Head over there and report to Colonel Hollinger. You'll undergo a quick rad check. If you check out okay, you'll be given some inoculations and kitted out with NBC gear. You up to it?"
Beth blinked hard. Her husband was - probably - somewhere in the upper atmosphere, taking millions of lives, and here she was being asked to save them. The irony wasn't lost on her.
"Yes, sir. I'm up to it."
PERSPECTIVE: U.S. NUCLEAR FORCES: OCTOBER 1999
STRATEGIC BOMBERS
As of October 1999, the United States Air Force had approximately 92 long-range bombers assigned to strategic nuclear operations. These are the B-2A - such as that flown by Martin Logan and Laura McCann - and the older B-52H. Meanwhile, the B-1B has been assigned to conventional operations, although it could quickly be reconfigured to carry nuclear weapons in a crisis. The B-2A can carry up to sixteen B83 and B61-7 gravity bombs, although it has been designated as the prime carrier of the B61-11 "bunker-buster", America's newest nuclear weapon. The only active B-2A wing in the United States is the 509th, based at Whiteman AFB, Missouri.
The 93 active B-52Hs are assigned to the 2ndBomb Wing at Barksdale AFB, Louisiana, and the 5thBomb Wing at Minot AFB, North Dakota. These are tasked to standoff missions using Advanced Cruise Missiles (ACM) and Air Launched Cruise Missiles (ALCM).
STRATEGIC NUCLEAR SUBMARINES (SSBNs)
The 18 active Ohio-class SSBNs in the U.S. Navy carry almost 3,500 Trident I and Trident II nuclear warheads between them. Between eight and eleven SSBNs are on patrol at any one time, conducting routine simulated strike operations. This is one aspect of American nuclear strategy that has not been diminished by the end of the Cold War. The Ohios normally patrol in the Northeast Atlantic, the Pacific south of Alaska and occasionally in the Mediterranean and other distant areas.
The Trident missiles have a range of more than 4,600 miles.
INTERCONTINENTAL BALLISTIC MISSILES (ICBMs)
America's ICBM arsenal comprises 550 missiles at the end of 1999. These are armed with a total of over 2,000 warheads. By definition, ICBM crews are on continuous alert and undergo a rigorous training and inspection process every 18 months.
ICBMs come in two types. The MX/Peacekeeper - deployed at Warren AFB, Wyoming - carries ten W87 warheads, although these missiles are to be phased out in 2007 under the provisions of the START II treaty. The warheads, however, are to be retained and either transferred onto Minuteman III missiles or stored in reserve.
The Minuteman III missile is deployed at Malmstrom AFB in Montana, Warren AFB in Wyoming and Minot AFB in North Dakota. Each missile carries three W78 or W62 warheads, although they are to be downgraded to carry only one warhead under START II. These missiles have undergone a huge modernization program, intended to prolong their operational life to 2025 at the earliest.
XVIII
OVERTURES
"I want to record my strong conviction that the risks entailed by nuclear weapons are far too great to leave the prospects of their elimination solely within the province of governments."
(Gen. Lee Butler: Former Commander of Strategic Air Command, 1996)
ABOARD KNEECAP
Under wartime regulations, the Looking Glass had been reporting in to KNEECAP every fifteen minutes with status reports. The telephone call fromAlice was punctual as always. Nielsen took it in the conference room. Only Westwood was present with him. Everybody else had left the room, either because their presence was not currently needed, or because they just wanted to be left alone with their thoughts. Following Lewis's arrest, it had become obvious that Nielsen was not about to be diverted from the course of action in which he appeared so passionately to believe. And nobody really had the stomach to watch him bring the guillotine down upon mankind's head. Westwood was present mainly because his presencewas required by the Commander-in-Chief.
"ACC have scrambled two squadrons of F-22s and three each of F-16s and F/A-18s to head off the Russian bombers,"Alice reported. "It's all we could come up with. Communications are down and..."
Nielsen cut him off. "Is that enough?"
"Probably not, sir,"Alice admitted. "Some of the bombers will certainly get through. We should be able to stop between forty and fifty percent at the top end. But what really concerns me is the subs. They could fire at any time. We don't know when they'll be resurfacing for new orders."
"Forty or fifty percent," Nielsen repeated thoughtfully, savoring each syllable. After a pause: "I want an improvement on that. Any less than eighty percent is unacceptable, General. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir, but realistically..."
"Good. Now, Marion, how long until our subs resurface?"
Westwood didn't need to check his watch. Behind his grim features, he had been mentally ticking away the seconds to Doomsday. "Forty-seven minutes."
"Then in forty-seven minutes, our submarines will receive orders from the TACAMO aircraft to launch their missiles. That means Russian command and control will be destroyed in approximately one hour. How long until first contact with the Russian bombers?"
"One hour fifteen,"Alice said.
Nielsen nodded approvingly. "Then that's how long you have to find some more fighter jets to take those bastards down."
"But the Russian subs..."Alice began. Again, Nielsen interrupted him.
"I understand your concerns,Alice , I really do. Indeed, I share them. But I have been advised that our fast-attack subs are out there right now hunting down the Russian boomers. I may not be a naval commander, General, but I do know that the noise generated by the Russian boomers will attract our hunter-killers like moths to light. And I don't think the Russians' Bastion defense is as good as we give them credit for. After all, it wouldn't be the first time we've overestimated their ability. But I thank you for your comments,Alice . Call me back in fifteen."
BeforeAlice could utter another word, Nielsen had severed the connection.
"I wish I could share your confidence, sir," Westwood remarked with obvious derision. Nielsen was really losing it now, he thought. He was gambling mankind's destiny on a gut feeling about Russian naval capabilities, or lack thereof. Similar bouts of self-delusion had precipitated the downfall of many a dictator, but the stakes had never been this high before. "You seem to forget that the Russian sub commanders have been trained to deal with precisely this kind of scenario. They may be loud, yes, but they're also smart, and their evasion techniques are at least as good as ours."
"Perhaps," Nielsen admitted with characteristic nonchalance. "But their fast attack subs are in no condition to stop our boomers. The Russians may get a few missiles through, I admit that, but we'll sure as hell get more of ours through." Noting the skepticism etched on Westwood's features, he rolled his eyes tiredly. "General, I intend to win this war. Don't you?"
"At any cost?"
"Victory always has a price, Marion. You know that better than I do." He paused thoughtfully and rubbed his eyes. "You think I'm just some maverick cowboy eager to wage war from my airborne fortress, don't you? Do you think that I don't care about all the millions of Americans who are dead and dying out there?"
Westwood lowered his eyes, saying nothing.
Nielsen shook his head, a look of sadness impressed on his features. "I do care, Marion. And, yes, I'm as scared as you are. But I know the Russians. I understand Russian mentality. The one thing they disdain more than anything else is weakness. If we don't carry this thing through, then they will fucking destroy us as soon as we lower our guard. We may get hit, I accept that. But we can take it. Sustaining another limited Russian attack will be nothing compared to the cost of defeat or appeasement. Don't you understand?" He looked up at the General with pleading eyes. "I'm scared that they'll overrun us. I'm scared of being the President who lost America."
For the first time, Westwood felt a sliver of hope. For the first time, Nielsen had offered a glimpse into his own darkest fears. Forty-five minutes. Still enough time to turn this thing around. And the General thought he knew precisely how to do it.
"Sir." Westwood lowered his voice and leaned forward across the table as if about to impart a deep secret. "Negotiating a ceasefire is not a sign of weakness. We've already hit them far harder than we've been hit ourselves. Not to mention the effect on Russia of the attacks from China and Ukraine. Russia is going to be more concerned with China than it is with us. In fact, I thinkwe should be more concerned with China. If the world is to recover, than it will need all the natural resources it can lay its hands on. Oil, metals, you name it. And Siberia is the world's greatest reserve of untapped natural resources. If the Chinese control Siberia, then they hold the key to everything."
"Precisely," Nielsen agreed. "And once we've dealt with the Russians, we'll be able to deal with the Chinese. By comprehensively defeating the Russians, we'll have demonstrated our resolve to the Chinese."
Westwood raised his eyebrows in incredulity. "You're going to do the same to China?" He's losing the goddamn plot. He really doesn't understand...
"If I have to, yes. We still have a couple of thousand warheads that haven't been affected by the Russian attack. Not to mention Britain's nuclear arsenal. Hell, we may even be able to get the Indians involved." To Westwood's horror, Nielsen seemed almost excited by the prospect, as ideas and strategies began to gel in his head. "But I don't think it'll come to that. The Chinese will see the futility of resisting our will. I'm confident of that. America will be the only superpower left standing when this is all over. And then we can begin to rebuild the world in our own image."
Westwood closed his eyes. "What value a King whose Kingdom lay in ruins?" He didn't know whether he was referring to Nielsen or America. Nevertheless, the words came to his lips without effort. "I suggest, Mr. Nielsen, that you find yourself a military advisor who is prepared to carry through your will, because you've left me no alternative but to resign my commission."
Nielsen's eyes momentarily widened with astonishment. But the expression was just as quickly replaced by one of sadness. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Marion. I thought you would understand what I'm trying to do here. But I thank you for your candor. I'm sure that, in time, you will come to understand my reasons."
As Westwood stood to leave the conference room, he turned and said grimly, "Sir, I'm not sure that any of us have got much time left."
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
"Hello, Dr Miller." Beakman greeted Jo with a tired smile. "I'm Carl Beakman, director of this facility. This is Dr Levy, our in-house cardiologist. I believe you two have met before."
Jo acknowledged the young doctor with a brisk nod, one professional to another. She vaguely remembered meeting him at some conference or other. He seemed to have aged severely since then. Well, that was true of almost everybody today, wasn't it? She also noticed another figure standing quietly in the corner, watching her through impassive, unblinking eyes. In his black suit and tie, he stood out like a hooker in a monastery, and there was an implicit menace in his demeanor. What kind of security guard are you?
"Why am I here?" she asked Beakman, a hint of resentment creeping into her voice. She had been shepherded into his office immediately after arriving at the facility. "Where are the people I brought with me?"
"They're being taken care of," Beakman assured her, the chubby half grin ever present. It served as a convenient mask for his sense of fear. "I understand that you're a cardiovascular surgeon at Johns Hopkins. Is that right?"
"That's correct," she confirmed. Again, she glanced at the mysterious figure in the black suit, and then looked Beakman straight in the eye. "What is this all about, Mr. Beakman?"
Beakman glanced at Levy, who elaborated with the casual tone of somebody reading a shopping list. "Dr. Miller, The President was brought here a short time ago with suspected heart failure. I've conducted a preliminary examination myself. He has a history of hypertension caused by under-perfusion in the kidneys. It appears that this has resulted in an aortic rupture. He collapsed nearly an hour ago with hypovolaemic shock."
Jo blinked, momentarily wondering whether this was a sick joke. Then the trained professional in her took over. She knew that if the rupture were severe, the patient would have been dead within an hour. And if he was alive after an hour, his chances of survival were probably at least twenty percent; better than would have normally been the case for a man of his age with an aortic rupture. Already, she had stopped thinking of him as the President. He was a case like any other; although she knew that, under present circumstances, an ordinary person wouldn't have received such attention. "Have you run a CXR?" she asked.
Levy appeared slightly insulted. "Of course I have. And the results were concurrent with my initial diagnosis. Widened upper mediastinum, the trachea shifting to the right and depression of the left main bronchus/trachea angle. We've depressed systolic-diastolic pressure to lower the risk of the rupture widening, but as you know, that will only buy us a certain amount of time."
"I understand this is a major procedure," Beakman noted, having not understood a single word of the medical dialogue.
Jo snorted, her mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "You'd better believe it, Mr. Beakman. From what Dr. Levy has just told me, the lesion could be excised and replaced with a Dacron graft. But that's not as simple as it sounds. A patient of the President's age is at severe risk of heparinisation or paraplegia, although bypassing the aorta during cross clamping can reduce the risk to a certain degree. I presume you do have a heparinless bypass machine here," she asked her medical colleague.
"Er, no," Levy admitted, looking slightly ashamed.
Jo frowned disdainfully. She knew the odds, and there was no point in pretending otherwise. "If you're asking me whether I'm qualified to do this," she told Beakman, "the answer is yes. If you're asking me whether I'm confident of his survival, I have to say no. But I have performed this procedure before, albeit under less extreme circumstances and with better equipment. So if you want me to do it, let's go. Because while we're sitting around here, the President is dying."
Beakman gave a firm nod. "That's good enough for me, Dr Miller."
U.S. CONSULATE, FRANKFURT
The Consul-General looked like a man with a lot on his mind. A fifty-five year old self-made computer software tycoon called Doug Altman, he had only been in his current posting for three months and had until now thought that in Frankfurt, he had one of the world's easiest diplomatic assignments. So far, his job had largely involved promoting U.S. trade policy to local businessmen and hosting lavish dinners for the same people whenever they became disgruntled at what they saw as unfair American trade practices. If there was one thing he was good at, it was the charming of corporate executives. That was how he'd made his fortune.
Altman had been awarded the post purely on the basis of his long-standing contributions to party funds. He was a close friend of Jim Reynolds and of the Party Chairman. Some might have called his appointment nepotistic, but Altman preferred to think of it as a fair reward for years of loyalty. Those who saw him as the beneficiary of nepotism were grossly naïve. The world had always worked this way; probably always would.
But now he was faced with a situation slightly more serious than a disgruntled business community, and both Gellis andFalcon sensed immediately that the diplomat was out of his depth.
"As of two hours ago, France, Germany and several other EU nations withdrew all cooperation from NATO to pursue their own independent foreign policy," Altman was explaining to the new arrivals. "It appears this policy is based on" - he checked the telex from NATO headquarters in Brussels - "enforced neutrality."
"Enforced?" Falconexclaimed. "What the hell does that mean?"
"I think it means that they're willing to prevent NATO forces engaging in any military action on their territory. That includes overflying their airspace."
"Mitchell must've loved that one," Gellis snorted.
"Well, that's another thing. President Mitchell is undergoing treatment for a suspected heart attack. It seems that the fate of our country is now in the hands of the Secretary of Defense."
"That's fucking great,"Falcon almost laughed. "That's like putting Charles Manson in charge of a kindergarten. So how has he reacted to this" - he said the words with obvious disdain - "enforced neutrality?"
Altman avertedFalcon's eyes as he answered the question. "It appears that a technical state of war now exists between certain members of the European Union and the United States of America."
"Technical?" Falconexclaimed. "Well, I guess that's one way of putting it. Damn if we ain't pissing everybody off today."
Gellis felt his jaw drop in disbelief. He closed his eyes, hoping this was all a terrible nightmare. But when he opened them again, the nightmare remained. The entire world order had been turned upside down in little over twelve hours. It was almost like a bad movie. At the same time, he felt an overwhelming sense of anger and betrayal. America had protected these sons-of-bitches for more than two generations. And this was how they showed their gratitude. Damn them to Hell!
"You saidcertain members," heremarked. "That implies that not everybody in the EU sits comfortably with this new separatist ideal." He spat out the last three words with obvious contempt.
"That's correct," Altman confirmed. "As we speak, British bombers are roaming through the French countryside, taking out strategic military installations and - so I understand - their nuclear capability. The Eastern Europeans, Italians and Scandinavians have also sided with us. But the point is, gentlemen, we are now smack bang in the middle of enemy territory. Hence the incident you had outside with the German Army."
"And when they discover the bodies," Gellis thought aloud, "all hell will break loose, right?"
"Precisely. So you see, Mr...." He looked up atFalcon , realizing that he didn't know the CIA operative's real name.
"Sharp,"Falcon told him. "David Sharp."
"Mr. Sharp," Altman continued, "that's why your little escapade out there wasn't exactly helpful."
"I acted as I saw fit. Sir." Sharp/Falcondidn't bother to conceal his scorn for the Consul-General.
"Evidently. Now we'll just have to see what happens next, won't we?"
Gellis didn't want to think about that. He couldn't remember ever being this frightened. "Where do we stand right now?" he asked. "Strategically, I mean."
"As we speak, American and Russian bombers are advancing on their respective targets. But the devastation they cause will be nothing next to what the submarines will do when they launch. It appears that Nielsen is determined to fight this war and has no interest in calling it off. That's what I've heard, anyway."
An aide crept quietly into the room, handing a slip of paper to Altman. The Consul-General read it, and then looked at Gellis and Sharp in turn.
"The German foreign minister is on the telephone. If you'll please excuse me, gentlemen."
"Of course," Sharp said bitterly. He touched Gellis's arm and nodded towards the door. Both men left the room.
Once outside the office, Sharp roughly manhandled Gellis into the men's room. After checking the cubicles to ensure they were empty, he leaned back against a washbasin and stared at the shocked journalist through taut, alert eyes.
"Okay, Gellis," he said finally. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I was on my way to... Hold on, what the hell areyou doing here? I thought you were dead."
"Yeah," Sharp snorted. He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, inhaling deeply. "Sorry to disappoint you," he exhaled.
Gellis clearly remembered the last time they had met. It had been in Grosny, Chechnya, almost five years' ago. Sharp had been a member of an elite special ops team led by Lewis Stein, assigned to eliminate a Chechen mafia boss. Gellis had happened to be in the former Soviet republic preparing a feature on the aftermath of the Chechnya war when he'd inadvertently stumbled upon the operation -what a story that would have made, if only I could tell it , he thought for not the first time. He recalled the moment when Sharp had held a loaded pistol to his head (he was thankful that it hadn't been Stein holding the pistol, otherwise he probably wouldn't have lived not to tell the tale). In fact, it had required all his charm and negotiating skills to talk his way out of trouble. In return for his life, Gellis had promised never to utter a word of the Grosny mission to anybody. So far, he'd kept that promise, knowing that if he broke it, he would be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Sharp and Stein were not the type of guys with whom one wanted to fuck.
Two years after that mission, Gellis heard that Sharp had been killed in Iran; arrested and executed for espionage, so the story went. Obviously, that had been a cover for something else, he now realized. And he intended to find out what. Even in the middle of a nuclear war, he was still a reporter.
"Do you still keep in touch with Stein?" he asked casually, beginning to probe the CIA man.
Sharp took another drag of his cigarette. "Last I heard, he was teaching at U-Conn. Total burn out, apparently." He gave a nonchalant shrug. "Stein was a good man, you know? The best. But, hell, sometimes innocent people get caught up in the crossfire. Some people can cope with that, and others can't. What can I tell you? Stein was a damn good soldier, but he all too often acted with his conscience, rather than his balls." He paused, a private moment of contemplation. "Shit, those kids would've probably grown up to be gangsters anyway. We probably saved the world a lot of grief in years to come."
"He's still well connected," Gellis pointed out. "Good friend of Tony Bishop, isn't he?"
That remark evoked a wry smile. "Let me tell you something about those two. Bishop never gave up on Stein. He always hoped that he would come back to Langley. But I saw Stein about a year ago. You know something? I hardly recognized the guy. Even if he did come back, he wouldn't be any good to us. Hell, the grumpy son-of-a-bitch is probably dead now anyway, God rest his soul."
"Got a smoke?" Gellis asked. He had lost his cigarettes in the struggle outside the Consulate. Sharp offered him a filter tip and lit it for him. "You sound bitter, Sharp. Why are you still at the Agency?"
The CIA operative shrugged again. "Good money, foreign travel. And occasionally, they let me kill bad guys." He was only half-joking, Gellis suspected. "Why am I still there? Because I don't know how to do anything else. I just keep doing it, even if I don't always approve of what I'm doing."
Gellis's journalistic instincts were aroused by that remark and the way Sharp had delivered it. He smelled a story. "And whathave you been doing that you don't necessarily approve of?"
Sharp's eyes swept the room, checking for eyes and ears that weren't there. He lowered his voice, his expression deadly serious. "Normally, I would answer that question by telling you to go fuck yourself. But, hell, what does it matter now, right?" He inhaled another drag of nicotine. "For the last two years, I've been a delivery boy, running arms and equipment to the Ukrainian Army. That was why the Agency conjured up my early demise. It was a cover, but I guess you already figured that out, right?"
Gellis's eyes widened. "I thought the U.S. was supposed to be neutral."
Sharp stubbed out the remains of his cigarette underfoot. "Damn, I thought you were more worldly wise than that, Richie-boy. Lesson number one about U.S. foreign policy: America isnever neutral. Lesson number two: If there's a conflict going on somewhere, there's money to be made." He paused, chewing his lip. "This operation is so black, that I doubt that even the President knows about it."
"Plausible deniability, right?" Gellis snorted. Sometimes he heard things that made him ashamed to be an American, things that reminded him that democracy was often the greatest illusion of all.
"You're learning fast, buddy."
"What kind of stuff were you delivering to them?"
"Oh, guns, rockets, even goddamn missile components. You name it."
"Missile components? Are you sure?"
"Listen man, I just deliver the stuff. They give me a list. I hand it up the chain of command, and that's where the decisions are made. Been runnin' back and forth since just before the Russo-Ukrainian war broke out. Why me? Because I know the language, I'm discreet and I'm the best at what I do." Not to mention I'm the only fucker crazy enough to do it, he didn't say.
A theory began to gel in Gellis's mind. Two years... That means Paul Nielsen was DCI when this operation started. It was his baby. And it continued under Bishop's tenure... An idea had just occurred to him. An idea so absurd, there had to be something in it. If it were true... "These components that you delivered. Could they have been used for, say, a ballistic missile?"
Sharp shrugged nonchalantly. He couldn't see what relevance this had to anything, but then he didn't know much about what had provoked the war. "Sure, but they could've been used for other things too, I guess. Why do you ask?"
"What do you know about how the nuclear war started?"
"Not a lot. I was on a train from Prague when it began. All I know is that the Russians attacked us. I don't know how or why. Quite frankly, I don't much care. So long as we hit 'em back."
Gellis couldn't believe Sharp's indifference. Either he really didn't care, or he had a death wish, or perhaps it was all part of the act. Whatever the reasons, the reporter chose to educate the spy with what little information he knew. "It wasn't like that at all. Russia nuked Ukraine. Ukraine nuked Russia back - nobody knows how they managed that. Russia thought that it was us who nuked them. So they nuked us. We nuked 'em back. You see where I'm coming from?"
Sharp did, but at the same time, he refused to acknowledge his role in the awful chain of events that had taken place. "No," he insisted. "That's ridiculous. You're implying that we gave the Ukes the technology to start this?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying." He was on a roll here. The investigative reporter in him continued to piece everything together as he spoke. "This operation started when Nielsen was DCI, right?"
"Right," Sharp agreed. "So?"
"And it continued after Bishop took over. Any chance that Bishop might not know what you've been doing?"
"I don't report to Bishop. I report to the DDO, who reports to Bishop."
"And the Director of Operations is..."
"John Huth," both men said simultaneously.
"Right," Gellis continued. "And John Huth, if I'm not mistaken, is Nielsen's protégé. He's a leftover from the old regime, right?"
"You could say that."
"And Nielsen is now commander-in-chief." He enunciated his words slowly, driving the point home. "What if he's been running his own operation in Ukraine? And now he's threatening to destroy Russia, and probably Ukraine with it. Nuclear war sure is a good way to cover your tracks, don't you think?"
Sharp took a few moments to contemplate the outlandish theory. "Y'know Gellis, that's awfully thin. I mean, who would want to wage a nuclear war to cover their tracks?" He snorted contemptuously. "Shit, what difference does it make now anyway?"
"It makes all the goddamned difference in the world," Gellis insisted. "If this link to Nielsen is for real, then he's effectively been conducting his own foreign policy independent of the Mitchell administration. For what purpose, who knows? But the point is, that would bring into question his right or authority to act as commander-in-chief, especially under the present circumstances." He paused, wondering whether this new information might change anything. From what he understood, the crisis was being driven entirely by Nielsen now. But if he could be stopped... "I think we need to go to Altman with this. Right now."
Sharp sighed indifferently. "You do what you want, buddy. I'm gonna get me some sleep. I've been traveling since half past forever. Maybe I'll wake up to the smell of a Kentucky fried world. Who knows? Damned if I can do anything about it."
That really got Gellis's back up. "Now you look me in the eye, Sharp, and you tell me that you don't give a damn. I don't believe that for a second. You're still an American. You swore an oath of allegiance, remember?"
Sharp walked right up to Gellis, so that their noses were almost touching. He jabbed the reporter hard in the chest, knocking him slightly off balance. "Don't you dare preach to me about oaths and obligations. I've risked my life for my country. What's your excuse?"
Gellis refused to back down. "I don't have one. But all those things you did for your country mean nothing if you do nothing when it really matters."
And there the two men stood, eyeball to eyeball, for several long, tense moments. Eventually, it was Sharp who broke the silence. "Okay, MisterNew York Post . You think it's gonna make one bit of difference? You want a Pulitzer that badly? Then let's go. Let's speak to the suit. I betcha he'll laugh us out. But if that's what you want, fine."
"Thank you."
The two men left the washroom and headed for the Consul-General's office.
BALTIMORE-WASHINGTON AIRPORT
Jefferson's heart was racing. He'd never been this scared. Not because of what might happen to him, but because of all that depended on his success in the next several, violent minutes. Being prepared to take a bullet for his charge was one thing. But knowing that an entire planet's fate could depend on his actions was something for which his training hadn't prepared him. He took a series of short, sharp breaths to compose himself before embarking on what would be his first combat mission.
"Just think of it as a video game," Lewis advised. "When we move, we move together, just as I told you. If I take the lead, you cover. And vice versa." He didn't mention that he hadn't been in a combat situation for nearly five years, and that the odds of two men against ninety-odd soldiers didn't provide a perfect scenario for which to reacquaint himself with the intricacies of battle. He hoped that what he had taught trainee field officers at the Agency still held true. Combat skills were something that - once you had them in your blood - never really left you. But, hopefully, it wouldn't come to that. Lewis's plan was to avoid confrontation if at all possible. And if the Gods were smiling on him and Jefferson tonight, then they would get through this without having to fire a single shot.
"Got it," Jefferson nodded uncertainly, checking that Lewis's cuffs were firmly secured.
"You ready, bud?"
Again, Jefferson nodded.
"Good. Let's lock and load."
Jefferson checked his sidearm. Holding Lewis in front of him like the prisoner he was, he unlocked and opened the door. As expected, the two FBI agents moved quickly to block their passage.
"Hey," the more senior of the two agents said. "Where the hell are you going?"
"To the runway, of course," Jefferson said, looking at the agent as though he were from another planet. "Didn't you guys get the message? Transport's here for the prisoner."
"I don't think so, sir," the second agent said.
"Tell you what. Why don't you check it out yourself?" Jefferson knew that was a dumb idea. The Feds wouldn't know who to check it out with. The chain of command, particularly in the law enforcement community, had been blurred to the point of incomprehensibility by the nuclear attack.
The two agents glanced hesitantly at each other. That split second provided the window of opportunity Lewis and Jefferson needed. In a swift, blurring motion, Jefferson withdrew his sidearm and cracked the second agent's head with its butt. The agent's legs folded beneath him. As he fell to the floor, Lewis moved on the second man, who was rigid with shock. With his hands still cuffed, Lewis head butted the agent and followed the movement with a hard leg sweep that knocked him to the floor. By the time both agents were on the floor, Jefferson had acquired their weapons.
"Good move," Jefferson said admiringly.
"Where I come from, they call it a Glasgow Kiss," Lewis informed him.
"Remind me never to go to Glasgow."
He quickly unlocked Lewis's cuffs and handed him one of the agents' guns. The two Feds were still on the floor, struggling to regain their bearings, when their two attackers began to drag them into the interrogation room.
Jefferson stripped them of their blue FBI jackets - emblazoned with the Agency legend -- while Lewis relieved them of their radios and cuffed their hands together around a radiator pipe. They weren't going anywhere now, no matter how hard they struggled to free themselves. Jefferson handed one of the blue jackets to Lewis and kept the other for himself.
As Jefferson and Lewis turned to leave the room, one of the agents called after them.
"You're gonna fry for this, you bastards."
Lewis turned, unable to resist the bait. "Buddy, if we fail, we're all gonna fry tonight. Now just take it easy. Someone'll come to help you out soon enough." Nothing personal, guys. Just business. Hope you understand.
And with that, Jefferson and Lewis left the room, locking it behind them.
U.S. CONSULATE, FRANKFURT
Altman's face raged red as beetroot. "Have you looked out the window?" he snarled. "Thanks to your escapades, there are over a hundred German soldiers out there, just waiting for orders to storm this place. And now you waste my time with some horseshit about missile components."
Sharp leaned casually against the wall and lit a cigarette, peering at Gellis through a cloud of acrid blue smoke. "Told you he wouldn't give a shit."
"And put that goddamn cigarette out," the consul-general barked. Sharp obliged, theatrically stamping it underfoot on the white shag-pile carpet. He gave a charming smile to the diplomat.
"All we're asking for," Gellis reasoned, "is a line to the President. I know you know where he's being treated. He needs this information. This could have major implications."
Altman grunted. "Our communications are in chaos, for Chrissakes. How the hell am I supposed to patch you through to a goddamn bunker in Maryland? In case you hadn't noticed, we're in the middle of a continent at war. And you want me to connect you to another continent that's been laid to waste. Even if I could, I doubt the President would give you five seconds. And that's presuming he's still alive."
"I could set the comlink up," Sharp remarked casually, as if commenting on the weather, "for what it's worth." He produced a small laptop computer from the briefcase he'd been carrying since leaving Kiev two days' earlier.
Altman and Gellis looked up at the CIA man, whose face bore a wry grin.
BALTIMORE-WASHINGTON AIRPORT
They strode purposefully through the airport lounge, eyes sweeping left and right for signs of trouble, their hands poised over their sidearms in case any presented itself. They were trying their best to look casual, but not too casual. After all, the nation was at war and nobody looked all too relaxed about that. But the trick was to look like they knew where they were going, and even though they really didn't, they tried not to let that show.
So far, nobody had stopped to question Lewis's and Jefferson's FBI credentials. Not for the first time, Lewis was grateful that he had one of those nondescript faces nobody ever remembered. He was in combat mode; his senses sharp and alert, aware of every movement around him. He hoped that his combat skills wouldn't be tested. Not yet, anyway. As proficient a warrior as he was, Lewis knew that real-life combat wasn't like in the movies. If two men tried to engage ninety soldiers in an open area such as an airport lounge, the two men would die, pure and simple. And, with that in mind, he couldn't remember ever being this nervous.
Jefferson, meanwhile, was struggling just to keep his breathing even. Everything seemed to have moved into slow motion for him. He expected somebody to stop him at any moment - and then it would all be over. Not just his life, but those of the next three billion human beings. He blinked hard as a bead of sweat trickled into his eye. What the hell am I doing here?he thought. I'm a beefed-up bodyguard, not a goddamn special ops guy.
They were heading for an emergency exit that led onto the runway. The door was about ten yards away from them now, and they had a clear path to it. Lewis realized that the analogy he'd used earlier of a video game hadn't been too far from the truth. Getting to the door was to reach the end of Level One. He didn't know what Level Two would involve, but was sure that it would be much harder.
Mercifully, the soldiers and other assorted personnel around the lounge seemed too preoccupied to notice the two bogus FBI agents. The activity seemed much more frenetic now than when Lewis had first been led through the building. He was thankful for that, and even more thankful that nobody remembered him from earlier.
That was about to change.
"Hey!" The shout stopped them in their tracks. Jefferson's heart skipped a beat. His sweaty right hand touched his semi-automatic for comfort. Stay cool, man. Stay cool.
As the two men turned, they saw an Army Colonel striding briskly towards them. The tag on his uniform identified him as McGuire.
"What's the problem, Colonel?" Lewis grinned cockily, adopting a southern accent. It was the one American accent at which he was adept.
"Who the hell are you guys?"
Lewis answered. "Ah'm Special Agent Harrison. This is mah partner, Special Agent Milburn. We're from the Baltimore field office. Damned if ah know what we're s'posed to be doin' here though. You the guy in charge?"
McGuire was carefully studying Milburn/Jefferson's face, which was now perspiring heavily. "You'd better believe it, pal. What's wrong with you, boy? You hot?"
"Just scared, Colonel," Jefferson admitted. That wasn't a lie; but it conveniently suited the situation. "I just want this thing to be over, you know?"
McGuire said nothing. His gut instinct told him that something was wrong here. Badly wrong. He shook his head uncertainly. "I don't buy this. I'm gonna check you guys out."
As he reached for his handheld radio, Lewis moved swiftly to his side. "Ah wouldn't do that if ah were you, Colonel McGuire," he smiled coldly, pronouncing the Colonel's name asmag-wah . McGuire felt the unmistakable sensation of a gun barrel being pressed into his ribs. Lewis covered the weapon with the wing of his jacket. "Now ah'll tell ya what's gonna happen now, Colonel. We're all gonna walk very quietly and merrily towards through that there door" - he pointed at the Emergency Exit - "and you're gonna pretend that everything's hunky dory. Y'hear?"
McGuire nodded nervously. Despite his rank, he'd never experienced combat and had certainly never had to fear for his life before. Lewis had correctly guessed from his accent and demeanor that McGuire was very likely the product of an Ivy League college and West Point; no doubt the son of a well-connected Daddy. No other way for such a clean cut kid to make Colonel. Well, it was time to introduce Mr. Clean to the harsh realities of life. That was too bad for Mr. Clean, but fortunate for Lewis and Jefferson that he was too terrified to put up a struggle.
The three men left through the emergency exit, McGuire sandwiched between the two renegades, Lewis's semi-automatic pressed into his ribcage. As they stepped outside, Lewis immediately spotted a Bell 412 chopper about a hundred yards away. Despite its civilian markings, Lewis guessed that it had probably been requisitioned by the military under EWO regs. He nodded in the general direction of the chopper. Jefferson took the hint. They made towards it. It occurred to Lewis that he didn't have the first clue how to fly a helicopter. He hoped Jefferson did. Talk about winging it,he mused.
As they got closer to the Bell, Lewis could see that a pilot was already at the controls. The pilot was wearing Marine gear and, like thousands of other soldiers tonight, was probably awaiting his next set of orders.
He was about to get them.
"Okay, Colonel," Lewis whispered in McGuire's ear, reverting to his natural English accent, "you're going to order the pilot to take us to Maryland."
"Maryland?" McGuire hissed through clenched teeth. He momentarily considered calling for help, thinking that there was no way that these guys would start a firefight with so many armed troops around. But when he saw the intensity in Lewis's eyes, he realized that, yes, they probably would. In the final analysis, McGuire wasn't prepared to gamble his life on the off chance that Lewis and Jefferson were bluffing. "What the hell do you want in Maryland? Who are you guys?"
Lewis increased the pressure of his gun against McGuire's ribcage. "We're the last guys you're ever going to see if you don't shut your fucking mouth. Now just do it."
The pilot turned to see the three men standing a few feet away from him. Noting the Colonel's stripes, he offered a stiff salute that was casually returned by McGuire. "What's up, Colonel?"
"Special Orders, Captain. Me and these two gentlemen from the FBI are going to Maryland."
Doubt crept into the pilot's eyes. "I haven't heard anything about Special Orders, sir."
"You have now," Jefferson told him firmly. "Now get the engine running before..."
He was cut off by the sound of police sirens from behind him. When he turned, he saw that soldiers were flooding out of the airport building, heading towards him, rifles poised.
Lewis's and Jefferson's luck had just run out.
LAST RITES
"The ego is not master in its own house."
(Sigmund Freud)
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
"Mrs. Mitchell," Jo announced as she entered the waiting room, abruptly interrupting whatever dark thoughts the First Lady had been harboring.
Margaret looked up at the doctor, her eyes full of hope. And then her eyes widened in both recognition and surprise.
"Jo?" She had met the surgeon on several occasions before, while Lewis had been at Princeton. "What are you doing here?"
"Ma'am," Jo said, glancing at a Secret Service agent who was standing post at the door, "I'm going to be operating on your husband. He's suffered an aortic rupture. Now I'll level with you. This is not a straightforward procedure. The good news is that because he's survived this long, his chances are better than would normally be the case for a man of his age. That indicates that the fissure isn't irreparable."
Although Margaret's previous encounters with Jo had always been in a social environment, the First Lady knew that the young woman standing before her was supposedly one of the best heart surgeons alive.But is she good enough to save Ed?
As if reading her thoughts, Jo adopted a sympathetic smile. "If anybody can save him, I can." She was accustomed to breaking bad news to a relative. But telling the First Lady that her husband might die was something else entirely. Jo immediately reproached herself for that thought. She had to be professional; to think of the President like any other patient. Were she to feel intimidated, the results could be catastrophic. As if there hasn't been enough catastrophe today, she reflected grimly.
Margaret took Jo's hand in her own. Her eyes were pregnant with tears. That would've amused some of her political enemies in Washington, she thought, had they still been alive. "If we survive this, you have to get back together with Lewis. He's pulling himself straight again."
Jo blinked. Now it was her turn to be surprised. "You've seen him?"
The revelation was delivered with a bitter laugh. "He's on the E-4 command plane. He was acting National Security Advisor when my husband collapsed. He's about the only person stopping that madman Nielsen from killing us all."
Jo swallowed hard. She'd wanted to call Lewis so many times, just to see how he was doing. And now it seemed that he'd straightened himself out just in time for Doomsday. Her mind swelled with a host of questions she wanted to ask the First Lady, but there wasn't time. Not now, perhaps not ever. She knew that the President's odds of survival were falling with every passing second.
Her voice cracked slightly as she spoke. "I'll do what I can to save your husband, Ma'am."
With that, she donned her surgical gear and entered the theater, hoping that there might be a chance of seeing Lewis again after all.
First thing's first though, she told herself. I've got a President's life to save. How about that?
BALTIMORE-WASHINGTON AIRPORT
Lewis sprayed half a round of semi-automatic fire at the lines of advancing police and soldiers. The rapid fire made a buzz not unlike that of a chainsaw. He didn't aim to kill anyone; just to slow them down. The tactic worked. He saw figures ducking for cover. And while they were ducking, they weren't chasing or gaining ground. Every second of bought time was critical now.
"Get that fucking engine running," he yelled behind him at Jefferson, who had bundled McGuire into the chopper as the terrified pilot watched anxiously.
"This baby's going nowhere without my right hand man," the pilot informed Jefferson.
"Are you kidding?" the Secret Service agent snapped. "You'll just have to do without him."
"No way," McGuire told him. "Don't you know anything about flying, Milburn or whatever the hell your name is? This is a Bell 412. Requires a minimum crew of two. Now I only see one. Looks like you're bang out of luck, pal." There was no smugness in his tone.
Jefferson swore under his breath and glanced at Lewis, who was still on the tarmac fighting a rearguard action to repel the growing numbers of troops and police, who were peppering the chopper with sporadic bursts of gunfire. Jefferson aimed his weapon through the door and returned fire, hoping that his contribution might buy Lewis another couple of seconds. He glared angrily at McGuire, aware that both time and options were becoming more limited by the second. He aimed the semi-automatic at the Colonel's head.
"Get in the front seat," he ordered. McGuire opened his mouth to say something, but Jefferson cut him off with a commanding growl. "If you want your head and shoulders to stay attached, get in the co-pilot's seat before I count to three."
McGuire hesitated.
"That's a fucking order, Colonel. One..."
Uncertain whether Jefferson was serious about pulling the trigger, but not wanting to find out, McGuire climbed fore into the co-pilot's seat, nervously holding his hands aloft.
"What's going on up there?" Lewis called over his shoulder just as a hail of bullets whistled past his right ear and ricocheted off the chopper's steel hull. "Shit!" He instinctively rolled under the fuselage and, laying flat on his chest, squeezed off another volley of shots. The front line of police and soldiers had advanced to a distance of no more than fifty yards. So far, Lewis had deliberately aimed high with his shots. He didn't want to have to kill anybody - especially fellow Americans - but if they got much closer, he knew he'd have to start dropping them like skittles.
"I don't have any flying experience," McGuire complained to Jefferson in the helicopter.
The USSS man still had his weapon trained on the Colonel's head. "Then you'll just have to learn. Damn quick." To the pilot: "Okay, now you've got a co-pilot. Start the fucking engine."
"You're the guy with the gun," the pilot shrugged, obediently flicking a sequence of switches. As the engine came to life, he leaned over to McGuire. "Okay, I know you outrank me, Colonel, but not on this baby, okay? When I tell you to do something, you do it without hesitation. That's if you don't want to drop out of the sky like a rock through water."
Outside, Lewis fired another sustained burst of gunfire. He saw two figures - soldiers,good guys - drop to the ground under the impact of his fire. He'd never know who they were or whether they would survive their bullet wounds, but he figured he'd have time enough to worry about that later. Maybe. Sorry guys. You just became another casualty of this damn mess. Just as the thought entered his head, he became aware of the helicopter's blades whirring into motion.
Jefferson felt the vibrations of the engine. "Come on," he yelled at Lewis, "let's go."
The pilot apparently thought the order was directed at him. He immediately pulled back on his joystick, causing the helicopter to rise off the ground.
"Wait!" Lewis screamed. But the pilot didn't hear him. "Fuck! Wait!" he yelled again as the chopper began to lift off.
"Stop the damn chopper," Jefferson ordered the pilot. "We've left a man behind."
The pilot either didn't hear the order or chose to ignore it; Jefferson would never be quite sure which.
Aware that if he stayed on the tarmac, he was as good as dead, Lewis grabbed the landing rail, gripping it for dear life as the chopper began to climb into the night sky. He knew that, hanging helplessly in mid air, he now made a much easier target for the enemy. That point was emphasized when several bullets slammed into the fuselage, again missing him by mere inches. He thought he felt at least one of them buzz past his right cheek.
The chopper lowered its nose and powered forward at an altitude of about a hundred feet. Lewis knew that with every yard, enemy gunfire would become less effective and he would make a smaller target. Keep moving, keep moving, he mentally urged the pilot. Within seconds, the Bell was out of range of the weapons still being fired at him. Looking over his shoulder, he could still see muzzle flashes on the ground behind him, but they were becoming more sporadic as the airport's security forces began to realize that their efforts were futile. Now they would consider alternative ways of catching the renegades. It occurred to him that he had made it through Level Two of his metaphorical video game . He wasn't terribly keen to see what Level Three had to offer.
With a helping hand from Jefferson, Lewis hoisted himself aboard the helicopter, landing in a heap on the floor in front of the USSS agent.
"I'll hand it to you, man," Jefferson grinned, visibly relieved to have escaped in one piece. "You've gotcajones the size of Nevada."
"Don't get too cocky," Lewis panted, struggling to regain his breath after the adrenaline rush of the take-off. You're out of condition, boy,he told himself as he cleared his throat. "Right now, they'll be looking for us on radar. If they find us, they'll probably send up an Apache to intercept. If the Apache tracks us down, well, we won't know a hell of a lot about it."
"I thought you said we'd be okay once we got on the chopper," Jefferson protested in alarm.
A sly grin. "I lied. Didn't want to worry you unduly."
Lewis pulled himself upright and peered through the front window, sticking his head between McGuire and the pilot. "Take her down to about fifty feet," he ordered. "That should improve our chances of radar evasion."
"And then what?" the pilot asked, too scared to look Lewis in the eye.
Lewis slapped him on the shoulder like an old drinking buddy. "Maryland, Captain."
ABOARD KNEECAP
"You wanted me, sir?" The Secretary of the Navy said, entering the conference room. He glanced at the two Secret Service agents and the Marine Warrant Officer - who was carrying the nuclear 'football' - standing just behind Nielsen. By now, Admiral James Dunster knew of Westwood's resignation. That made him acutely aware of being the most senior military official on board KNEECAP; a prospect that did not exactly fill him with enthusiasm.
"Ah, Admiral Dunster." Nielsen looked up, folding his arms across his chest. "Indeed I did." He ran his hands through his thin hair, feeling the makings of an imminent migraine. "In approximately twenty minutes, we will be issuing final launch orders to our submarine fleet via the TACAMO aircraft. I want you to run me through the procedure one more time." He showed no indication of self-doubt, certainly no indication of being afraid. He was dealing with the situation as if preparing for a meeting with a small town Mayor, Dunster thought with no small measure of alarm.
"You're still going through with this insanity, aren't you?" the Admiral said, his tone laced with incredulity. He had hoped that Westwood's resignation might have shaken up the commander-in-chief just enough to make him reconsider his decision. Obviously, he had been wrong.
Nielsen rolled his eyes. In fact, the closer the world came to Armageddon, the more arrogant he seemed to become. That was the first sign of a detachment from reality, Dunster knew. He'd seen it happen to commanders before. Better commanders than Nielsen. It occurred to him that granted the power of God, Nielsen had allowed omnipotence to intoxicate his judgment.
"The procedure, if you please Admiral."
Nielsen's irrationality scared Dunster more than anything he'd ever encountered. But the fact was that Nielsen was the commander-in-chief, and Dunster, at best, was a military advisor. That made any concept of insurrection a constitutional issue. Although Dunster thought he understood the intentions of the men who had penned the American Constitution, he recognized that they hadn't been in the position of custodians for an entire planet. Sure, the Constitution had served a purpose at the time of its conception, but how did that relate to the nuclear age? Dunster briefly wondered if George Washington or Thomas Jefferson would have worded that sacred document any differently had nuclear weapons been a fact of life in their day. As it stood, Nielsen's license to issue authorization for a nuclear strike was almost unequivocal under wartime regulations. Under the two-man authorization rule, he still required a Congressional appointee to sanction the launch order (in this case, that would be Dunster's job), but that was now little more than a technicality at best. For even if Dunster refused, there were others who wouldn't.
To resist the will of the commander-in-chief was to defy the Constitution. Even to consider such an act could be considered treasonous. And once that line had been crossed, America might as well become a military dictatorship. Dunster felt that it would take a stronger and better man than he to cross that line. It all came down to one simple fact. He had sworn an oath to the Constitution. To God. An oath that compelled him to obey orders, without question, from his commander-in-chief. And the Nazis "only followed orders" too, didn't they?
Perhaps when this thing was over, when he was finally brought before his maker, Dunster would find a way to reconcile his reticence with his conscience. For he knew that were he to disregard his oath, Nielsen would replace him with somebody not quite so reluctant to follow orders. After all, he wasn't entirely alone in his desire to reduce Russia to a heap of charred ruins. For one thing, he probably had the support of Joe Public, and for another, there were enough surviving Generals in the U.S. military who would not think twice about sanctioning the order.
The Admiral acquiescently withdrew a plastic card from his inside pocket, his hand trembling slightly as he did so. It was the size and shape of a credit card and, within alternating red and black strips, contained seven groups of alphanumeric codes. Only one of the codes was valid, and only Dunster knew which one it was.
"You should have an identical card to this," he informed Nielsen, the tremor in his hands affecting his voice. "When the time comes to issue a launch order, both of us will need our cards to validate your identity to the TACAMO aircraft. Without it, they won't give us the time of day."
Nielsen opened his wallet. His own card was sandwiched between his American Express and Visa Titanium card. He checked it and nodded in comprehension. "Okay. That seems pretty straightforward."
"Once we establish contact with the TACAMO aircraft, you will need the SIOP code for the appropriate attack pattern."
"I've already decided on the code." He spoke it slowly, accentuating every syllable. "Bravo Five Foxtrot."
Dunster swallowed hard. He knew precisely what that particular designation entailed. It was a code he never thought he'd hear in any other situation but an exercise. SIOP Attack Plan EWO-B5F,his mind translated. Unprejudiced precision nuclear bombing of Russian population centers, industrial centers and leadership bunkers. "Sir," he said quietly, placing both his hands firmly on the conference table and leaning forward to within a few inches of the Acting President. "Do you realize what that entails?"
Something reminiscent of a smile flickered across Nielsen's thin lips. "Of course I do, Admiral. It means that we're going to demonstrate to the world that America will not be broken. We're going to change the world tonight."
"Let's just hope that there's a world left to give a damn," the Admiral remarked bluntly. "Sir."
Nielsen raised his eyebrows at the Admiral. "I sense some reluctance on your part, Admiral. That's quite okay, you know. If you don't feel comfortable sanctioning this order, I could find someone who is, and that way your conscience would survive intact."
"I know that, sir, and that's why I have no intention of letting you down."
"I didn't think you would," the Acting President smiled.
90thSPACE WING, WARREN AFB, WYOMING
"Okay," Pearson sighed. "I've told you about my love life. Now you tell me about yours."
The two launch officers had been in the capsule for barely a day, and already the conversation was beginning to dry up. The only topic they hadn't discussed was the future. Partly, that was because neither of them truly believed they had one to look forward to. But even if they did have one, they avoided the subject by unspoken consent.
So instead, they talked about their careers, personal lives, their youth and their families. That covered just about every subject apart from the reason they were stuck in a metal tomb, two hundred feet below ground.
"I don't have a love life," Kurato told him, grinning wickedly. For a moment, she could almost convince herself that she back in theGround Zero bar, shooting the bull with her fellow officer. Almost.
"Oh, come on," Pearson insisted. "You're a beautiful girl. You must have guys falling at your feet."
"Yeah, right," she snorted. "The only ones that fall at my feet are the ones who do so because they're piss drunk. Or the ones who end up leaving an apologetic note on the bedside table."
"Perhaps you're just looking in the wrong places. You know, going to the wrong bars."
"Thanks for the advice, Dr. Ruth, but I don't think you pick up decent guys in bars. Perhaps you might," she joked, "but not me."
"TouchÀ," Pearson sniggered. Then he lowered his eyes sadly. "Doesn't really matter much any more, does it?"
Kurato looked at him and said nothing.
"I mean, it's over," he repeated. "The dream is fucking over, right?"
"Nick, don't," she pleaded, knowing what was coming. She had always known that if either of them were to lose it, it was most likely to be Pearson. Kurato came from a typical Japanese family in which emotions were always kept tightly bound. That accounted for her logical, methodical nature. Pearson, on the other hand, had always shown a tendency for being highly-strung, something that she was surprised the PRP tests hadn't picked up.
"Why the hell not?" Hysteria began to creep into his voice. "We need to talk about it sooner or later. The world is gone. It's just us, right? Just us down here in this motherfucking coffin." Presently, he slammed the steel wall with his fist and was rewarded with a bolt of agony that shot up his arm. He clenched his fist and held it to his chest, his teeth clamped in a silent scream of pain. Tears began to stream down his cheeks. Not just because of the pain, but because he was beginning to feel the first flutter of mourning for a deceased world.
Kurato moved towards her partner and wrapped her arms around him. Then she inspected his injured hand with the tenderness that a mother might show her child. A cursory inspection revealed that it wasn't seriously injured. Probably no more than a bruised bone. But the worst of Pearson's injuries were not physical, and she knew it.
She hugged him tightly to her chest.
They kissed nervously.
They fumbled.
They made love.
After all, there was nothing else for them to do. And both Holly Kurato and Nick Pearson came to realize the truth in the old theory about death being the ultimate aphrodisiac.
GOVERNMENT COMMAND BUNKER, LONDON
General Rhys-Jones found Winterburn sitting on the king-size bed in his private quarters. Since his last conversation with Nielsen, the British Prime Minister had retreated into a state of despondency. He had delegated most of the important decisions to aides and minions. There was nothing more to be done now. The brief conflict with the EU separatist nations had gone much better than planned. Both France and Germany had been quickly cowed, having been caught unaware by the swift and brutal British/Italian strikes against their relative military infrastructures. France's nuclear capacity had been mostly eradicated; the Plateau d'Albion now no more than a smoldering ruin thanks to the efforts of Britain's prototype X-40s. Air superiority would be achieved by the Eurofighter squadrons within another few hours. Part of him wondered whether it mattered, whether Britain's efforts would even warrant a footnote in the great book of history once this war was over. He imagined how such a footnote might read. Loyal until the end, but was destroyed anyway.
"We're about to start," Rhys-Jones reported to the Prime Minister.
Winterburn had discarded his silk tie. His immaculately groomed white hair was askew. In his slacks and open necked shirt, he looked nothing like a world leader. But then, who did right now?
He looked up at the Chief of Defense Staff, his eyes tired and devoid of hope.
"Are you okay, Prime Minister?"
Winterburn answered the question with a kindly smile. "I wonder if future historians will look back on this day as the beginning of the second Dark Age? Actually, I wonder if there will be anybody left to study history. What do you think?"
Rhys-Jones furrowed his brow in concern. The British Prime Minister was showing the first signs of cracking under pressure. Like most other world leaders at this moment, he was impotent as the combined nuclear forces of the U.S.A. and Russia prepared to fight the cataclysmic battle that had been foretold for a thousand years. The General said nothing. He couldn't think of anything appropriate to say to a man in Winterburn's predicament.
"Oh well," the Prime Minister sighed, finally breaking the uneasy silence. "Duty calls, eh?"
He stood up and made his way to the briefing room.
The hastily assembled British War Cabinet and senior officials from the three branches of the military awaited Winterburn's arrival. They were in a soundproofed briefing room elevated above the glass command center where dozens of technicians continued dutifully about their assigned tasks, mostly focused on continuing hostilities in Europe. The room looked out onto the command center, although the glass was one-way, so those outside couldn't see in.
"Gentlemen," the Prime Minister said as he took his place at the center of the table. "What's the latest?"
The Commanding Officer of the Royal Air Force read from a briefing file. "Prime Minister. Our warplanes, in conjunction with the Italian Air Force, have successfully neutralized France's ICBM complex in the Plateau d'Albion and are now roaming at will, destroying French radar capability. So far, we haven't encountered much in the way of resistance. Our Eurofighters caught most of the French Air Force on the ground. The remainder are being picked off as and when they pose a threat. The situation is similar on the German front, although they've put up more of a fight. Despite the assistance of Polish and Czech air squadrons, we've lost two Tornados and a Eurofighter over Germany. No survivors."
Winterburn winced. He had sent those men into battle - the first British casualties of World War Three, although he imagined their deaths would be shortly rendered insignificant by the next several million.
"At the very least," the Air Force General continued, "we're well on the way to clearing European airspace for American bombers."
"Does Nielsen know?" Winterburn asked.
"I'm pretty certain he's getting the same information we are," Rhys-Jones replied.
"That'll please him," the Prime Minister snorted. His growing disdain of the new American leader was evident on his face. He had only met Nielsen once before, at a banquet in Washington two years' earlier. His impression of the then Secretary of Defense hadn't been favorable. And now the fate of the entire planet rests with him. How comforting.
The next person to speak was the Director-General of MI6, Britain's foreign counterintelligence service. "One rather interesting development, Prime Minister. It appears that certain elements of the German government are getting cold feet about this arrangement with France. Apparently, Berger didn't discuss the issue with his cabinet before entering into agreement with Paris. GCHQ have intercepted several conversations between German ministers. I seem to recall the words 'vote of no confidence' and 'unconstitutional'being mentioned."
"That's encouraging," the Foreign Secretary enthused. "If the Germans pull out of the anti-NATO coalition, the other rats are sure to follow them overboard. Seems like the Frogs are going to find themselves very lonely all of a sudden. Wouldn't be the first time, of course."
Winterburn wasn't listening to Roland's preamble. His eyes were fixed on the main display board in the control room, which currently showed the positions of American and Russian strategic bombers. A clock in the bottom left hand corner of the screen ticked down the seconds to Doomsday. It currently stood at 18:26.
"Well, as I see it gentlemen," the Prime Minister remarked grimly, "all of this becomes a moot point in eighteen minutes. Perhaps two hours ago, it might have mattered. Not now, though. Not now."
Nobody could disagree with him.
GCN STUDIOS, ATLANTA
Jack Sullivan looked solemnly into the camera. Once again, he was improvising for lack of a script. His words were filled with dejection. He hadn't slept all night, and it showed. He knew this might be the last broadcast he ever made.
The last broadcast - period.
"And now the world can do little but hold its breath. In less than" - he checked his watch - "eighteen minutes, the first U.S. strategic bombers will hit their targets inside Russia. And we have to assume that the Russians will retaliate massively. The fate of humanity rests in the hands of two men. Secretary of Defense Nielsen and whoever is in charge of the Russian Federation right now. But it seems that, at the present time, neither side is willing to be the first to back down."
He swallowed hard. "GCN will stay with you until the very end. However it pans out."
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
A deathly hush had descended on the room, punctuated only by the relentless ticking of a wall clock upon which everybody's eyes were fixed.
With every passing second, the prospect of total annihilation became ever more likely. Yazov still harbored a faint hope that his American counterpart was playing a deadly game of bluff and would back down at the last moment. But even he was beginning to accept the fact that such a hope was wildly optimistic. Nobody played bluff with an entire planet.
Kalushin broke the silence. "The American bombers will begin reaching their targets in the next sixteen minutes," he remarked glumly. And there was not a damn thing Russia's depleted air force could do to stop them, he didn't need to add. "Our bombers will reach their targets inside America in twenty-five."
Nobody acknowledged the remark. They didn't need to. It was a simple equation. American bombers would have already been laying Russian cities and other targets to waste for nine minutes by the time Russia's bombers started doing the same to America. And then the submarines of both sides would add to the summary devastation.
"Our submarines will surface for orders in twenty-nine minutes," Yazov added. "The American submarines may do so before then. Half an hour until the end of all things."
This time, even Grizov looked frightened.
EXTRACT FROM REUTERS NEWS AGENCY WIRE
261052Z Berlin (Reuters): German President Heinz Tollmeyer has denounced Chancellor Franz Berger for refusing to support NATO in its ongoing conflict with the Russian Federation.
"NATO has kept the peace in Europe for over half a century," Tollmeyer said in an emergency address, broadcast live on German television and radio. "No single man, indeed no single European state, has the moral right or authority to renege on long standing treaty obligations in our allies' hour of need."
Denouncing his French counterpart Jean-Claude Betin as a "renegade", he added that, "the German people stand shoulder to shoulder with their American allies."
Tollmeyer concluded his address by urging both the United States and the Russian Federation to "seek a peaceful resolution to the crisis before it is too late for all of us."
TIMES SQUARE, NEW YORK
An air of tense anticipation had replaced the angry cacophony of a couple of hours earlier as over twenty thousand people gathered in Times Square to await the inevitable. It was almost as if they were seeking safety in numbers, even in the knowledge that nuclear bombs had little regard for numbers.
Some people openly prayed. Others tried unsuccessfully to galvanize the spirit of those around them. A few smoked marijuana joints and played music on guitars and boom-boxes. But mostly, the gatherers simply stared at the sprawling visual display mounted high above the square, upon which Jack Sullivan's broadcast played down the seconds to Doomsday.
There were seventeen minutes to go.
OVER MARYLAND
"Holy God," Jefferson muttered to himself. He was staring wide eyed through the window of the chopper at the smoldering remains of Washington in the distance. The mushroom cloud had faded, but the fires would continue to burn for many days. It would be that long before there was any hope of getting firefighting equipment and heavy lifting gear close to the bomb zone.
In the back of the helicopter, Lewis followed the Secret Service agent's gaze towards the dead city. It was the first time he'd ever seen the effects of a nuclear blast for real. He was suitably horrified, and had to remind himself that he was looking at the remains of what this time yesterday had been America's capital. In his mind, he catalogued all the things that had gone forever: The White House, the Washington Memorial, Capitol Hill, the Library of Congress, Rock Ridge Park, half a million Washingtonians. It still seemed so unreal that something so utterly devastating could happen in such a short space of time. Perhaps, he hoped, if the world survived this next hour, it might learn a lasting lesson. Probably not, the cynical part of him concluded.
The Bell 412 chopper was still maintaining altitude at just under fifty feet. So far, the military had failed to trace it. Perhaps, Lewis thought, that was due to the disruption caused to radar signals by the nuclear blasts, or even the fact that the military had bigger fish to fry right now. But it was just as likely due to the pilot's skilful evasion techniques. Ever since leaving Baltimore-Washington, he had been zigzagging towards Maryland, making Lewis somewhat nauseous in the process.
"What is it you guys want?" McGuire asked tiredly. His tone of voice suggested to Lewis that he was didn't really care, but wanted to satisfy his own curiosity anyway.
Jefferson answered the question. "I'm sorry you got caught up in this, Colonel. My name is Special Agent Steve Jefferson of the U.S. Secret Service. This here is Dr. Lewis Stein, National Security Advisor to President Mitchell."
McGuire's eyes widened slightly. "You're Lewis Stein?"
Lewis nodded, too distracted by the apocalyptic vista to offer anything further by way of a greeting.
"Damn. They said you tried to assassinate the President. Is that what this is all about?"
Lewis, who was sitting behind McGuire, leaned forward. "If that were true, do you honestly think a Secret Service agent would be helping me? I assaulted theacting President. And, you know, if I had killed him, the world would be a much safer place right now. We're here to put that right."
"What do you mean?"
The former National Security Advisor went on to outline the situation in grim detail; Nielsen's intention to destroy Russia and the likelihood of massive Russian retaliation. He explained how he had tried desperately to prevent Nielsen committing an act of lunacy, but had instead ended up as a fugitive, flying in a stolen helicopter.
McGuire listened intently throughout. By the time Lewis's explanation was complete, the Colonel's jaw had sagged, and he seemed somewhat more concerned with the situation than he had a few moments' earlier.
"For real?"
"For fry-your-ass real, Colonel," Jefferson snorted acidly, just managing to suppress his irritation with the Army officer. "Now, are you gonna work with us, or what?"
The invitation startled McGuire. There was hesitation on his face as he considered disobeying orders for the first time in his previously uneventful career.
"We're coming into Olney," the pilot called over his shoulder. "They've given us clearance to land on the FEMA helipad."
Lewis and Jefferson were scrutinizing McGuire's face, awaiting his answer. Eventually, the Colonel looked up at them. Throughout his short Army career, he had often hungered for some action or at least for a brief shot at glory. Towing the line and keeping his nose clean certainly hadn't gotten him anywhere. I'm already an accessory to whatever crimes these guys have committed, but they do seem to know their stuff.
"Oh, what the hell?" he muttered. "Yeah, I'll help you. But if this is bullshit..." He left the rest unsaid.
"I wish it were, Colonel," Jefferson sighed. "I really wish it were."
Lewis glanced at the Secret Service agent and offered a cheeky grin. "Well, what do you know, Steve? Looks like we've got ourselves a rebel without a war."
As the Bell began its descent into Olney, McGuire shifted uncomfortably in his seat, pondering that last remark.
XX
CONSTITUTIONAL FIRE
"At this time of day, in the twilight, there is no wind. At this time there is only power."
(Don Juan to Carlos Castaneda)
U.S. CONSULATE, FRANKFURT
The situation in Europe was changing by the minute, perhaps more so than anywhere else in the world. News had just reached Germany that the French coalition government was on the verge of collapse following the mass resignation of right-wingers outraged at France's anti-NATO stance. Several countries normally allied to the Franco-German axis had quickly voiced their own opposition to the isolationist policy. The European Union was disintegrating at a rate nobody could have foreseen. The German Government was in chaos. Almost half of its members - including the President - had expressed grave misgivings about Chancellor Berger's policy of enforced autonomy from NATO. But Berger and a small hardcore of supporters still remained committed to a position on which they found themselves increasingly isolated. Despite France's hasty retreat from this policy, Berger recognized that he had passed the point of no return. For the sake of his own political survival, he had to stand strong. And if he prevailed, he knew that the likes of France and some of the EU's smaller members could not survive without Germany.
Accordingly, members of the German Special Forces continued to gather and organize outside the U.S. Consulate, awaiting orders to storm the building; a situation that would have been unthinkable just a few hours' earlier. There were now more than two hundred troops in position, many of them looking bewildered and frightened. They still believed that America was one of Germany's closest allies, and were struggling to reconcile that belief with the current situation. Few of them could understand how things had changed so quickly. And if Germany really was at war, they would have wished for an easier opponent than America. But orders were orders. And nuclear war had unpredictable effects. That much they did understand. Many of the soldiers, however, recalled that thousands of German troops had also followed orders more than sixty years' ago. Some of them wondered whether history was repeating itself, whether Germany would once again be left in ruins because of the megalomaniacal instincts of a rogue leader.
Inside the compound, meanwhile, the resident U.S. Marine detachment of twenty men prepared for a firefight that nobody really wanted. Consulate staff were urgently shredding sensitive documents in preparation for the imminent onslaught. For all intents and purposes, they now considered themselves isolated within an enemy nation. German authorities had effectively severed communications between the Consulate and the outside world, which only served to increase the sense of isolation among the seventy-odd Consulate employees.
Under Gellis's watchful eye, Sharp worked feverishly to establish a communications link with the FEMA bunker at Olney. Comms were his specialty, and he'd had to improvise urgent comlinks enough times in the field that the task at hand should have been second nature to him. But he'd never had to work in such extreme circumstances against such a tight deadline with communications effectively ruined. He was acutely aware of that deadline and what it entailed. He figured that although millions of his countrymen were already dead, there were many more who weren't. And it was for them that he had to succeed. Even though he often gave the impression of not caring, he did care. That was something he had to keep reminding himself.
The device that he was hooking up to the ELF transmitter looked like a standard laptop computer, and in many respects, that's exactly what it was. But it was also more than that. Embedded in a series of hidden program files was a unique piece of software affectionately termedParrot , which had been designed by the National Security Agency to scramble and encrypt audio sound waves, such as the sound of someone's voice. Parrotworked by digitizing an audio signal and scattering encrypted fragments of it across random frequencies of the digital spectrum. These were bounced off a predetermined chain of MILSTAR satellites in order to reach their destination. The frequencies to be used were determined by a randomized seed, which was where the technology entered the domain of supermath and Sharp's understanding of it ended. Because the decryption, SatCom and unscrambling algorhythms were by definition unique to theParrot system, signals could only be transmitted to and received from anotherParrot- capable terminal. Fortunately, this current version of the software was standard issue within most Government and military facilities. The FEMA facility at Olney was one of them.
But operation of the software nevertheless required a degree of technical expertise. Unless you knew the Dayword and Authentication codes - which formed part of the encryption algorhythm - the system was useless, since these codewords were responsible for generating the randomized seed. An additional layer of security that guaranteed the system's integrity. Needless to say, Sharp had both codewords stored in his head.
"Dammit," he growled when the transmitter rewarded him with a burst of static as he attempted to find the FEMA terminal on the network. Because he was wearing headphones, he didn't realize how loud his voice was. "I can't get a connection."
"What do you mean?" Gellis inquired, checking his watch. Fifteen minutes.
Sharp removed his headphones and wrapped them around his neck, but didn't look up from the delicate task at hand. "The bombs have fucked things up. Normally, the software would automatically find the terminal I'm trying to connect to. But, because of the atmospheric interference caused by the bombs, I've got to do it manually. There are about a thousand network nodes out there. Some of them have been knocked out by the bombs. But, even so, finding Olney among the remaining ones is like finding a needle in a stack of needles."
"Oh," Gellis nodded as if he understood.
"It's possible that one of the MILSTARs in the chain has been knocked out. If that's happened, then... Hold on," he said, placing the headphones to his ear. "I think I've got something. Give me that microphone." He pointed at a long wire microphone on the other side of the room. Gellis handed it to Sharp, who snatched it from him.
"This is the United States Consulate in Frankfurt," he intoned slowly. "I'm trying to reach the FEMA compound at Olney, Maryland. Who is this?"
He listened as the response came back. A beam exploded across his face. He turned around and shook a triumphant fist at Gellis.
"We've got contact," he reported.
Gellis visibly exhaled a sigh of relief, allowing himself a thin smile.
"I need to speak to either the President of the United States or an available aide," Sharp declared casually. "If it's not too much trouble."
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
As Lewis, Jefferson and McGuire disembarked the Bell, they were met by three armed Marine guards in customary white NBC gear.
"Colonel McGuire, U.S. Army," McGuire announced, shouting over the Bell's engines. "This is Special Agent Jefferson of the Secret Service and Dr. Lewis Stein, National Security Advisor. We need to see the Director of this facility right now."
One of the guards stepped forward. "We had no notification of your arrival, sir."
"That figures." McGuire feigned annoyance, maintaining the facade of officialdom just as Lewis had advised. "Comms have been in a mess since the attack. Can we see the Director? It's extremely urgent, and we're taking in rads out here."
The guard considered the request for a few moments while he checked the faces of the three new arrivals. "You'll have to hand over your weapons, Colonel."
"No problem."
Lewis reluctantly passed his submachine gun to one of the guards. Jefferson did likewise. McGuire hadn't been armed since leaving Baltimore-Washington. He hoped that wouldn't look too suspicious. Thankfully, the guards didn't seem to care.
For some reason, Lewis felt desperately vulnerable without his weapon, and he knew the sensation wouldn't pass until he'd reached the President, or at least someone else in authority. He was instinctively aware of an unseen clock ticking down the seconds to Armageddon while overcautious Marine guards performed their duty with casual diligence. Still, at least they seemed cooperative. That was something, he supposed.
"Come with me," the guard said.
The new arrivals followed the three Marines down a stairwell and through a set of double doors into the heart of the FEMA complex.
The sights, sounds and smells that greeted them comprised a nightmare of Dantean proportions.
Lewis's first reaction was surprise at the amount of activity taking place around him. The facility had been turned into a makeshift hospital. Casualties were being treated in corridors by inexperienced medical staff, some of whom looked visibly disturbed, as one might expect. Their pallor was accentuated by harsh overhead lighting that cast an eerie illumination over the human catastrophe taking place throughout the complex.
This was the first time any of the visitors had seen the human consequences of nuclear attack with their own eyes. Jefferson felt an urge to vomit. As his senses began to register the full horror of the spectacle, Lewis wondered why - when he'd seen so much death and mutilation in his life - he felt so shaken by what he saw now. Because they're civilians, dammit, he realized. They're women and kids and husbands. They didn't ask for any of this. The realization infuriated him. He wondered if Nielsen might reconsider his megalomaniacal intentions were he to see these tragic scenes with his own eyes. The grim, stomach-churning soundtrack of groans, screams, hysteria and fear reverberated off the walls. These were Americans, dammit. They weren't abstractions. Neither were theycollateral damage . They were the people for whom the tenets of the Constitution had been designed.
Lewis wanted to make somebody, somewhere, pay for this. But the irony was that the one person at whom his anger was directed hadn't actually killed anybody.
Yet.
McGuire's eyes, meanwhile, were fixed straight ahead. He was trying not to look at the human wretches littering the corridors. He simply wanted to get to his destination as quickly as possible, to be away from this carnage.
Jefferson was for the first time beginning to understand why it was so important to stop this insanity going any further. He had understood before, of course. But previously, words such as overkill, holocaust and Doomsday had been no more than abstract phrases for which he had no point of reference. The hellish sight and smell of human misery at its zenith made such phrases somewhat less abstract. It occurred to him that were he and his two comrades to fail, what he saw now would be just the beginning.
The Marines stopped outside an office door. One of them knocked, and then opened it. Without a word, he gestured the three guests inside.
Beakman was sitting behind his desk, his shirt half open. His tie had long since been discarded. He rose from his chair to greet the visitors.
"I'm Carl Beakman, director of this facility. And you are?"
McGuire conducted the introductions. Then he glanced at Lewis, who took the floor.
"Mr. Beakman, I understand you have the President here."
"I'm not allowed to..." Beakman began. Lewis cut him off sharply by raising his hand.
"No disrespect, Mr. Beakman, but we don't have time for bureaucratic bullshit or secrecy. In about thirteen minutes, what has happened in Washington will be happening all over the world."
"I know what's going on, Dr. Stein, believe me I do. But the President is in surgery, and we don't expect him to regain consciousness for at least another three hours - if at all."
Jefferson's head slumped in desolation. "Then it's over," he muttered.
"Not necessarily," Lewis corrected. An idea had just occurred to him. "I presume that the First Lady is here," he said to the Director.
Beakman paused. His training told him not to answer the question, but what the hell, right? "Yes she is," he confirmed.
"I need to see her."
Again, Beakman hesitated, clearly uncertain what to do. He hadn't been trained for this. Then again, who had been trained for anything that had happened today?
"Tell her that I'm here for her," Lewis pleaded. "She'll see me, I guarantee it. She's the only one who might be able to stop this."
As Beakman opened his mouth, a FEMA officer poked his head around the door.
"Sir, we're getting a message from someone claiming to be from the U.S. Consulate in Frankfurt. Name of David Sharp."
Lewis looked up in astonishment, recognizing a name that belonged to another life. Memories of Grosny and other equally unpleasant places came flooding back to him.
"Mr. Beakman, I know that guy," he heard himself say.
Jefferson turned and looked at Lewis in puzzlement. This guy never stopped surprising him. Was there anybody hedidn't know? First Margaret Mitchell, then General Yazov, and now this stranger calling from another continent.
"So what?" Beakman snorted. "You want to talk to him now as well?"
"Yes I do," Lewis stated. "If he's made the effort to contact this facility, you can be sure there's a damn good reason." Lewis checked his watch and narrowed his eyes at the reticent Director. "Mr. Beakman, I'd love to sit here all day and ponder the right thing to do, God knows I would. But we don't have all day. The world has about twelve minutes. Now you're either going to help us, or we'll take matters into our own hands. Do I make myself clear?"
Reacting to the implicit threat, Beakman looked to McGuire as the most senior military officer in the room - theonly military officer in the room, he realized. For some reason, he would feel better with the reassurance of somebody in uniform.
McGuire simply nodded. This guy's for real, his expression said.
"Okay," Beakman agreed. "Let's go."
The four men jogged through the corridors - past multitudes of human casualties - towards the communications room. Beakman wasn't as fit than his three companions, and it showed. After no more than twenty yards, he was already panting heavily. The others hadn't even broken a sweat, he realized with some consternation. By the time they reached the communications room, his chest was burning with overexertion. He had to lean up against the doorframe to catch his breath.
A small, pudgy man of Oriental appearance was sitting at the communications console, a pair of headphones strapped across his balding peak. He looked up when his peripheral vision registered the four men entering the room. Upon seeing McGuire's stripes, he stood urgently to attention.
"Major Harry Jago, sir. Army Reserves." He offered a stiff salute. McGuire didn't return it.
"At ease, Major," McGuire nodded. "We don't have the time. Tell me about this message from Frankfurt."
"To hell with that, McGuire," Lewis scowled at the Colonel. He snatched the headphones from Jago.
"Hey, you can't..." Jago began to protest, but was stopped by an implicit warning in Lewis's eyes.
"You got a microphone?" Lewis asked.
Jago, his hand trembling, pointed at the desk at which he'd just been sitting. Lewis took the seat and lifted the microphone.
"This is Lewis Stein at FEMA in Olney. Who is this?"
U.S. CONSULATE, FRANKFURT
In his line of work, Sharp was accustomed to dealing with surprises, but on this occasion even he failed to conceal his astonishment. Well, I'll be damned. It took him a couple of moments to compose himself and respond.
"Y'know," he said finally, "five years ago I saw two kids and their Dad fry in a car bomb attack. Worst thing I ever saw. I was just wondering if you knew anything about that."
Gellis smiled admiringly. He could see where this was going.
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
"Yes, I remember Grosny too, David," Lewis said flatly. "And, believe me, what I've seen here today makes it look like a picnic. Now we can either sit here until Doomsday establishing each other's credentials or we can stop a billion more kids frying. So say whatever you want to say."
"Okay," Sharp said, immediately recognizing Lewis's brusque manner. "I've got some information about how the Ukrainians made their nukes work."
Lewis shook his head in angry disbelief. "I don't have time for this, Sharp," he growled. "Who fucking cares how they made 'em work?"
"I think you should care. I delivered the equipment to the Ukrainian Army. Krypton gas, electronic components, you know, the kind of stuff mushroom clouds are made of."
This time it was Lewis who failed to conceal his surprise as the pieces began to gel. "You mean the CIA has been supplying the Ukrainian Army." That was more a statement than a question. If that's true, then we're responsible for this whole damn mess. "Was Bishop in on this?" His eyes registered an edge of sadness. Although he couldn't believe that his friend and mentor would have been involved in such a repugnant scheme, long experience had taught him never to expect anything less than the worst where human nature was concerned. Particularly when the twin evils of politics and money came into the equation.
"I doubt it," came the response. "I've been running weapons to the Ukes for three years, since before the war started. It was Nielsen's baby to start with. I always reported back to John Huth. When Bishop took over, nothing changed. I doubt the DCI has got a clue about what I've been doing out there."
Lewis instantly reached the same conclusion as Gellis had done a short while earlier. If Nielsen was implicated in this, there might be grounds to remove his command authority. The constitution was shady on that issue, and he imagined that people such as Speaker of the House George Halligan and Attorney General Kate Winslow, both of whom were at Mount Weather, would make the final call. Lewis didn't know whether enough time existed to work out the legalities of Nielsen's authority, particularly given the lack of material evidence. And if he failed to convince people such as General Westwood and the Speaker, it was a moot point anyway.
He checked his watch again. Eleven minutes. "I'll get back to you," he snapped, aware that Nielsen could be issuing launch orders to American submarines at any moment.
"Good luck, buddy," Sharp remarked. "It's good to have you back."
"Yeah." Lewis hastily removed his headphones and turned to Beakman. "Take me to the First Lady."
"What was that all about?" Jefferson inquired.
Lewis shook his head, snorting cynically. "Some things never fucking change. They really don't."
"What?" McGuire said, puzzled.
"I'm talking about the enemy within, Colonel. And we've got to stop him."
"This way, gentlemen," Beakman panted. He didn't relish the prospect of any more jogging, but he didn't suppose that his three guests cared much about that.
U.S. CONSULATE, FRANKFURT
"Did he buy it?" Gellis's face was twisted with anxiety.
Sharp ran a hand through his lank, blonde mane. "Yeah, he bought it."
They could hear helicopters buzzing overhead. German Army helicopters. Sharp imagined that at that very moment, assault troops were abseiling onto the roof of the Consulate, assuming their positions.
"What happens now?" the reporter wondered aloud.
Sharp glanced up at the ceiling. He didn't know whether Gellis was referring to the Consulate or the world; not that it made much difference, of course. The answer was the same.
"Who knows? Tell you what though. The Doc's fired up about this thing. Maybe the world's got a chance after all." He frowned. "Not so sure about us though. I think we may have pissed off theKrauts ."
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
"The first target to be hit will be Murmansk," Kalushin reported grimly. "Once we get confirmation that Murmansk has been destroyed, we'll know that the Americans intend to carry through with their attack."
Yazov stared blankly at the wall clock. He didn't need Kalushin to tell him that Murmansk would be destroyed in just over ten minutes. That meant Russia's submarines would surface to receive their orders in nineteen. Nobody knew how many of Russia's boomers had managed to evade America's hunter-killers, but he guessed that it would be enough to lay the vast majority of North America and Western Europe to waste.
He closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to a deity in which he had never believed. He tried to imagine what it must have been like for ordinary people at ground level awaiting their collective doom. The thought occasioned a shudder.
"That madman," he muttered to himself. "Can nobody stop him?" The question wasn't directed at anybody in particular. He systematically checked the faces of each of the twelve Generals, ministers and Marshals in the room, but none of them met his eyes. His question hung in the air for several long moments.
"Sir." Grizov finally broke the silence. "We need to decide on an attack pattern for the submarines."
Yazov nodded his reluctant assent, too depressed and exhausted to harbor any hope of deliverance. For the second time in twelve hours, he opened the red book containing strategic attack options for the U.S.A.. Under the section titledStrategic Naval Attack (Countervalue) , he found the relevant pattern. The objective was coldly described asDestruction of Enemy Cities, Industrial Centers - Disruption of Civilian and Military functionality.
In clinical detail, the four-page plan described the targeting of America's 300 largest cities and industrial targets, 165 cities in other NATO countries and 228 military and strategic targets around the world. A total of 7,250 warheads would be used, translating into an average of ten warheads per target. This was by no means a uniform figure; the target designations ranging from fifteen warheads of various yields for Los Angeles to one small 100Kt warhead for Turin. Of course, there was a margin of error to account for faulty missiles and crippled submarines. But these figures nevertheless discounted the effect of Russia's bomber fleet, which would clean up other targets across the U.S.A.; mainly hardened targets where pinpoint accuracy was required.
Yazov imagined that the Americans' attack strategy for Russia was broadly similar in scope, perhaps even more intense. It didn't take a genius to work out the net effect of this second exchange between the U.S.A. and Russia. It would spell the end of all things. He momentarily entertained the idea of standing down his own forces to see how the Americans would react. But, as he studied the faces of the men around him, he knew that they would never allow that to happen. For them, it was too much of a gamble to take; to carelessly abandon Russia's last opportunity to retaliate against a massive American attack. Nobody truly believed that Nielsen would stand down his own forces if presented with the opportunity to strike a defenseless Russia. For all intents and purposes, Nielsen was committed to a war that only he seemed to want. A war that was becoming more inevitable with every passing second.
He watched the two RVSN officers who were carrying the launch communicators activate their consoles in preparation for the last order Yazov was ever likely to issue.
All that remained now was to await confirmation that Murmansk had been destroyed.
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
Margaret looked up in alarm when the door to the waiting room burst open. The two USSS agents on her detail reacted instantly, swiftly drawing their weapons on the four men who entered.
"Freeze!" yelled Agent Sarah Herbert, the most senior of the two agents.
Beakman nearly pissed his pants. His arms instinctively shot towards the ceiling, just like in the movies.
McGuire also raised his hands, albeit in a more controlled manner. He was carefully watching the eyes of the two agents, not doubting that they would pull their triggers if they felt the need to do so. These guys were pros. But that also reassured him somewhat. It meant they wouldn't act precipitously.
Jefferson didn't react at all, but then he was a Secret Service agent himself and counted the First Lady's present bodyguards among his best friends. Besides, he had been expecting this sort of reception.
Lewis, however, immediately realized that he was the one upon whom both pistols were trained. The two agents obviously remembered him from KNEECAP. He appreciated just how precarious his situation was right now. Much more so than his three compatriots.
"Lewis!" Margaret exclaimed. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be on..."
"He's a fugitive, Ma'am," Herbert interrupted, her narrow eyes fixed on Lewis.
"Bullshit, Sarah," Jefferson snorted. "He's one of the good guys. Trust me."
A shadow of doubt crept into Herbert's eyes. She had known Jefferson since the Academy. They had graduated in the same class. He was one of the straightest sons-of-bitches she had ever known. He wouldn't be involved in anything underhand. Would he? She couldn't afford to take the risk. "I don't buy it, Steve. What the hell is going on?"
Lewis knew from experience that this standoff might last for more time than the world could afford. There was only one person capable of breaking the stalemate. He turned to Margaret, careful not to make any sudden moves. "Ma'am. I need to speak to you urgently."
Margaret hesitated, her eyes flickering between Lewis and Herbert. She didn't know what had happened with Lewis on KNEECAP, but she had never known him to be anything less than an honorable, devoted public servant. Nielsen on the other hand...
It took her no more than a fraction of a second to guess what had happened. She'd heard about Lewis's volatile temper. Obviously, Nielsen had pushed him too far and... well, it didn't take much to figure out the rest. He must've somehow escaped from custody. But why? What had brought him here?
At first, she imagined that he had come here for Jo, but then she glanced at McGuire, Beakman and Jefferson. A Colonel, a Secret Service agent and a FEMA executive. He's obviously sold them on his cause, whatever it is. So it has to be something more serious than reuniting with his wife.
Ultimately, curiosity got the better of her. "Lower your weapons," she ordered the agents.
They did so with visible reluctance, their suspicious eyes never wavering from Lewis for a second.
Beakman emitted an audible sigh of relief as his arms dropped back to his sides.
"Okay, what gives?" Margaret sighed, as if talking to a young child that had gotten into a scrape.
Lewis quickly related to her the information he had learned from Sharp about Nielsen, and outlined Nielsen's intentions to embark upon a 'Grand Tour' of Russia. He hardly paused for breath throughout, but he did study Margaret's face closely. As his words sunk in, he saw her already pallid face drain of whatever color remained.
"I know the President won't regain consciousness in time," he remarked, "but you can convince the Speaker and the Attorney General to relieve Nielsen of command. And I understand that John Huth is at Mount Weather also. He can correlate the story. We might be able to turn this thing off. If we can turn the bombers..."
Margaret frowned. "Do you understand the legalities involved? You have no material evidence, apart from Huth's statement,maybe. And even that is purely circumstantial. You're talking about a constitutional crisis, Lewis. In the middle of a war." Without realizing it, she had adopted the same tone that she had once used with her students.
Lewis almost laughed aloud. "Then let's have a goddamn constitutional crisis. Better that than the destruction of a planet. We have to try."
"Of course we do," she agreed after a moment's contemplation. "I'm just saying that this is thin, Lewis. Awfully thin."
He shrugged, remaining tight-lipped.
"Okay," she concluded. "Beakman. Can we hook up to Mount Weather?"
"Um... yes," Beakman stammered. "Deep level fiber-optic links. We checked them earlier. They're fully functional."
"What about KNEECAP?" McGuire asked him.
"A little more complex, but yes. We've established that link also, when KNEECAP advised us that the President was coming in."
The First Lady took charge. "Okay, boys. Then let's go." To her protection detail: "You too."
The ever increasing band -- which had started with just three people, and now comprised seven -- sprinted back towards the communications room. All of them had become somewhat desensitized to the spectacle of horrifically injured civilians that scattered the corridors. They were now focused on preventing that scene being repeated on a global scale.
By the time they reached the room, Lewis's watch told him that just over eight minutes remained until the first American bomber struck Murmansk.
Jago looked startled when he saw the First Lady among the visitors. He leapt up from his seat, knowing that somebody was bound to steal it from him in any case.
"Jago," Beakman said, wheezing badly. "Patch us through to Mount Weather."
"Yes, sir."
Lewis remained focused on his watch while Jago established the link, a task that consumed thirty-five precious seconds. Once he'd established a connection with his counterpart in the government bunker, Jago looked to Beakman for further instructions. Margaret took the headphones and microphone from him and sat in his chair.
"This is Margaret Mitchell," she announced. "I need to talk to the Speaker, the Attorney General, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and DDO John Huth right now."
"I'm not sure if that's possible," the communications officer at Mount Weather responded. He sounded young. Young and frightened.
"Listen, kid," she snapped, "if you don't want to see the world go up in a puff of smoke, then don't fuck with me. Just make it happen. Make them run if you have to. Understand?"
This time, the reply carried more conviction. "Yes, Ma'am."
XXI
RULES OF SUCCESSION
"Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction."
(Blaise Pascal, 1670)
ABOARD KNEECAP
Westwood gazed sadly through a porthole at the puffy white clouds below. It was amazing, he thought, how easy it was to delude oneself into thinking that everything was fine with the world, when really it was anything but. The gentle hum of the E-4's engines was calming almost to the point of being hypnotic, the soft clouds masking the devastation beneath them.
For a moment, the General had allowed himself to forget that in less than an hour, there would be no world left. No world of any value, anyway. The clouds would explode with brilliant nuclear light. Firestorms and unnatural forces would lay the Earth's major cities to waste. Billions of people would die in those first hours. The survivors would probably not last much longer under the freezing shroud of nuclear winter. And the last dawn would peer over the Eastern horizon to bear witness to civilization's demise.
And then, he supposed, it would be the insects' turn. Would they make a better job of things? More to the point, could they do any worse? Well, that was God's business, wasn't it?
All this because of a megalomaniac with more ego than brains. Westwood mused that if politicians and political appointees were subjected to the same psychological screening as, say, bomber pilots, this situation might never have arisen. But it was too late for such thoughts now, he supposed. Too late for regrets. Too late for everything.
Westwood had often laughed at Hollywood portrayals of warmongering Generals eager to use their nuclear toys. He didn't know a General alive who liked nuclear weapons, much less wanted to use them. Nuclear bombs contravened the rules of warfare, and were an insult to the code of honor that was instilled into all professional soldiers. No, he thought, Hollywood had always gotten it wrong. Warmongering Generals had never been a danger. The real threat came from other men. Men such as Nielsen, who had never served in uniform, never known what it was to look into the eyes of a man before taking his life. To men such as Nielsen, sacrifice was an abstract concept; to be imposed on others, but not made by themselves. Westwood recalled the words of a former General who had once been in charge of the now defunct Strategic Air Command. Nuclear weapons are too important to be left in the hands of politicians, or something like that.
Hollywood and the rest of the world would learn that lesson much too late. Soon, there would be no Hollywood. No New York. No Rome. No San Francisco. Soon, there would be nothing but radioactive ghosts of a failed species; a species abandoned by God as a lost cause. And what was Nielsen if not the instrument of God's wrath?
He glanced at each of the men with him in the passenger cabin, and wondered what they were thinking. Whatever thoughts Bishop, Reynolds and Copeland harbored, they kept them concealed behind distant expressions. Nobody had said a word for over twenty minutes. Perhaps, he thought, the other men with him were spending their final hours reconciling their consciences with whatever deities they believed in. Perhaps they were wondering whether there had been anything more they could have done. Or perhaps they were just waiting, wondering how it would end for each of them.
In just a few minutes, America's strategic bombers would begin laying Russia to waste. At that time, Nielsen would issue launch orders to the TACAMO aircraft. A few minutes later, Russian bombers would begin dropping their nuclear payloads on the United States. And then their subs would launch anytime after that. Even if Admiral Dunster refused to authenticate the President's launch order for the submarines, America's bombers would still fulfill their role of triggering the final battle of the last Great War in human history.
Thirty thousand years to build a civilization - one hour to destroy it. Perhaps mankind's obituary would be that it was far easier to destroy than to create.
Westwood turned his attention back to the clouds outside, savoring their tranquil beauty before they disappeared forever.
FEMA GOVERNMENT BUNKER, MOUNT WEATHER
You could have heard a pin drop in the cavernous chamber. It was here that the Speaker of the House, along with the eight surviving Supreme Court judges and nearly two hundred Senators, Congressmen and aides had gathered to watch the final spectacle of mankind's annihilation play itself out on a big computer screen. The images, which were being downloaded in real time from the Looking Glass aircraft, depicted the locations of American and Russian nuclear bombers as they closed on their respective targets.
Speaker of the House George Halligan regretted that he hadn't been killed in the Washington blast, along with his wife Mary and teenage daughter Roxanne, who hadn't managed to evacuate in time. Apparently, they had been aboard a helicopter leaving Washington when the bomb hit. The emotional part of Halligan wanted to see every Russian fry in hell for what had happened to his loved ones. But the rational part of his mind accepted the terrible price of revenge. He knew that the lives of three civilians, no matter how much they meant to him, couldn't justify the deaths of three billion.
But after nearly twenty-four hours without sleep, he now just wanted for the whole thing to be over, for mankind to be put out of its torment. In many respects, waiting for annihilation was far worse than the final moment itself. Or so he imagined. The point was, he didn't know what to expect, any more than did the next man. Nevertheless, he was pretty certain that nobody in this chamber would ever see another sunset.
He was startled when one of his aides tapped him on the shoulder.
"Mr. Speaker."
Halligan turned around to face the young man. "What is it?"
"We've received an urgent communication for you. From the First Lady, sir."
The Speaker arched his eyebrows in puzzlement. "Maggie Mitchell? What the hell does she want?"
"I'm not sure, but she says it's urgent. She said that you should run to the communications room if you have to. Her words, sir."
At that moment, Halligan realized that Attorney General Kate Winslow and Chief Justice Judge Marcus Shaw were being led out of the chamber by their own aides. A speculative buzz was beginning to sweep the chamber as others noted the activity. It was the first thing of consequence to have happened here since President Mitchell's collapse.
"Okay," he said, standing up. "Which way?"
The aide looked as terrified as everybody else. "I'll take you there, Mr. Speaker. This way. We have to hurry."
"Yeah," Halligan muttered. "Ain't that the line of the day?"
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
Yazov watched tiredly as the final act in mankind's epic story played itself out. The two launch officers had entered the attack and authentication codes into their communicators. Now their fingers hovered over the flashing buttons that would effect America's destruction. They watched Yazov, tensely awaiting his final order. Once he gave it, they would press their buttons simultaneously.
A low-frequency radio link had been established with the Russian naval base at Murmansk. On the other end was an extremely frightened Admiral, who knew that his entire future could be measured in moments. As soon as he confirmed impact at Murmansk -- probably by vaporizing in a scorching nuclear firestorm -- Yazov would issue the launch order.
Yazov had considered offering reassurance to the man, but knew that any platitudes he could muster would probably seem empty under the circumstances. What could you say to a man whose only remaining purpose in life was to let everybody know when he had died?
"Thank you for staying with us, Admiral," Yazov heard himself say. "You are a true patriot. A good Russian."
The Admiral's voice cracked as he replied. "I have nowhere else to go, General Yazov."
FEMA GOVERNMENT BUNKER, MOUNT WEATHER
Nobody had seen John Huth since the President's incapacitation. It took two precious minutes for the U.S. Secret Service to determine that he had slunk off to his private quarters, located nearly a quarter of a mile away from the main chamber where everybody else was gathered.
Fortunately, the Mount Weather complex boasted its own internal transit system, which allowed the two agents responsible for locating Huth to reach his quarters within moments. They knocked on his door, but received no reply. Attempts to open the door confirmed that it was locked from the inside. It took the combined strength of both agents to smash the lock. When they did so, they found -
- John Huth, laying on his bunk, eyes closed as if asleep. One of the agents attempted to wake him up, but it was immediately apparent that he was no longer alive. The other agent picked up an empty bottle of painkillers that was laying on the floor; the only object out of place in an otherwise tidy room.
On a cabinet beside the bunk was a half empty bottle of Brandy minus its cap. The same agent who had tried to revive Huth picked up the bottle. Only then did he see the envelope upon which the bottle was placed. Scrawled on the envelope in thick red pen was the word 'GUILTY'. He picked it up, exchanging an anxious glance with his partner. Upon feeling the envelope, he realized that it contained something.
"Don't open it," the other agent told him, reading his partner's intrigued expression. "That's not our job."
"No," he admitted, "I don't suppose it is."
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
"Come on, come on," Lewis growled to himself, painfully aware of every passing second. He could feel the tension in every muscle in his body, and sensed that the others in the room felt similarly anxious. He had learned over the years that tension wasn't just an abstract; it was something tangible. You could smell it. You could feel it.
He exchanged an uneasy glance with Margaret, whose fingers were drumming on the communications console as she awaited a response from Mount Weather.
Six minutes to go.
"Can we put this thing on speaker?" she asked Jago.
"Yes, Ma'am, of... of course," the FEMA officer stammered. He reached over her shoulder and flicked a switch. Now everybody could hear the same silence coming from Mount Weather.
"Where the hell are they?" Jefferson thought aloud. His face was covered with a thin film of sweat. That was partly due to the extreme humidity within the bunker, but it had far more to do with fear.
A brief burst of static emanated from the loudspeaker. It was followed by a man's voice.
"Mrs. Mitchell?"
Margaret immediately recognized the southern drawl as that of George Halligan. She breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "Yes, George. Is that you?"
"Yes," he confirmed testily. "I've got the AG and Judge Shaw here with me. What's going on? And why isn't Nielsen making this call?"
"I need you to listen very carefully," she remarked, her tone amazingly even. She seemed to be handling the situation far better than anybody else, Lewis thought. "I've just become aware of certain information that could have a bearing on the validity of any launch orders issued by Nielsen."
She went on to explain, in as few words as possible, what Lewis had told her about Nielsen's involvement in arms smuggling to Ukraine. Halligan listened quietly throughout.
The next voice was that of Attorney General Kate Winslow. "How did you come into this information, Ma'am?"
Lewis touched Margaret's shoulder. She passed the microphone to him, deciding that the explanation would sound better coming from the horse's mouth, so to speak.
"Ma'am, this is Dr. Stein, National Security Advisor."
"Who?" Judge Shaw wondered aloud. Lewis's appointment had never been made official, coming as it did in the middle of a nuclear war.
"It's okay," Halligan assured his colleagues. "Proceed, Dr Stein."
"My source is the very same CIA field officer who's been delivering this equipment to the Ukrainians. I know this guy. I've worked with him in the field. He's as straight as they come. We knew when this started that Ukraine's nuclear arsenal was probably stolen from Russia, but we didn't know how they made it work. Now we do." He inhaled deeply, beginning to crave for a cigarette. "Mr. Speaker. Even if there's a one percent chance that there might be something in this, isn't that enough to bring into question the validity of Nielsen's authority to exercise command?"
There was some whispered discussion at Mount Weather; too quiet for anybody to ascertain what was being said. It was Winslow who responded.
"Where is this" - she spoke the words with obvious skepticism - "CIA field officernow then?"
Margaret took the microphone back from Lewis. "He's holed up in our Frankfurt Consulate," she informed the AG. "Which is, I'm sorry to say, surrounded by the German Army."
"The constitutional implications of this," Judge Shaw noted in a gravely barotone, "are complex to say the least. Even if you had some tangible evidence of Nielsen's involvement in a conspiracy, it would require an extraordinary joint session of Congress to vote on impeachment."
"We don't have time for that, Marcus," Margaret hissed through clenched teeth. "Our bombers will start hitting Russia in just over five minutes. After that, it's all over. There won't be a Congress. I'm asking for you to bend the rules here. I'm asking for..."
Halligan cut her off. "Hold on a second, Ma'am. For all we know, you people could be Russian impersonators. I know they've got people trained to sound like our own."
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, George," Margaret retorted. "You don't really believe that, do you? It's that sort of thinking that got us into this mess in the first place. John Huth will correlate the details. Where is he?"
"The Secret Service are trying to track him down," Winslow reported. "This is an awfully large facility, you know."
Halligan returned to the issue at hand. "If I'm hearing you correctly, Dr. Stein, you're suggesting that we stand down our forces while their bombers and submarines prepare to fire on us. If we go with your suggestion, at the very least we're triggering a constitutional crisis. At worst, we're leaving ourselves totally exposed."
Lewis leaned over Margaret's shoulder and spoke into the microphone, struggling to maintain his composure. Just for once, Lewis, he told himself,hold your temper . "That's not entirely accurate, Mr. Speaker," he said. "If Nielsen's authority to exercise command is revoked, you will by default assume National Command Authority. Am I correct?"
"I imagine so," came Halligan's hesitant response. Actually, in the absence of the Vice President, the Speaker would have ordinarily become NCA following Mitchell's incapacitation. Indeed, there was a precedent for such a scenario in Gerald Ford's ascension to power. Nielsen, as Secretary of Defense, had taken control through extraordinary constitutional provisions for Presidential succession in wartime.
"In that case," Lewis remarked, "you will have full authority to issue a launch order."
"Yes I would," the Speaker replied testily. "What's your point, Dr Stein?"
"My point is that as soon as the first Russian bomb hits the United States, you can order our bombers back in, and issue new launch orders to the TACAMO aircraft. The subs will receive those orders the next time they surface. I'm not saying that we should stand down completely. Our nuclear forces will still maintain alert status. I'm just asking for time for us to turn this thing off. If we don't take our chance now, we'll never get another."
Again, there was some whispered conferral on the other end.
"Who would issue the order to stand down our bombers?" Winslow asked.
Margaret answered that question. "That would be the StratCom 'Looking Glass' aircraft."
"Who won't even take our call without valid authentication codes," Halligan pointed out. "Do you see our point? Even if we revoked Nielsen's authority right now, there isn't enough time to effect a handover of authentication codes before our bombs start hitting Russia."
"You mean you're just giving up?" Lewis exclaimed. "This isn't just about constitutional politics, Mr. Speaker. This is about everything."
"I'm sorry, Dr Stein," Winslow remarked sadly. "But we're simply being realistic."
Lewis closed his eyes. Margaret's head slumped in desolation.
It was all over.
ABOARD KNEECAP
"It's time, sir," General Shelley whispered in Westwood's ear. "Care to come upstairs to watch the show?" He was referring, of course, to the spectacle of Nielsen and Dunster issuing final launch orders to the TACAMO aircraft. That would happen as soon as confirmation was received of the destruction of Murmansk.
Which would happen in four minutes.
"What's the point?" Westwood muttered sourly, still staring through the porthole at the clouds below. "I think I'd rather just enjoy the view. Last time I'll ever get the chance."
Reynolds looked up. "Might also be the last chance we get to stop that old bastard," he remarked.
"You really believe that, Jim?" Bishop snorted. "I think we're long past that."
The Chief of Staff chuckled bitterly. "Y'know, I once heard this story about a guy who couldn't get it up. For twenty years, he lived in denial. For twenty years, his wife didn't get any. Of course, they maintained the facade of having a normal marriage. Nobody had a clue that the old man was a limp dick. Anyway, one day, his wife decided she'd had enough. She went to this bar and picked up this 21-year-old kid. Took him home, fucked his brains to hell. And then, in her post-coital ecstasy, she died of a massive heart attack. They found her in this young guy's bed with a big smile on her face. When her husband learned of her death, and the way she died, he put a gun to his head and blew his brains out."
Copeland shook his head. "What's your point, Jim?"
Reynolds shrugged. "Don't have one. I just wanted to tell that story to somebody before I died."
Westwood allowed himself a smile, knowing that it might be his last. The smile became a chortle, and then a hearty laugh that reverberated off the walls of the cabin. It was an infectious, booming laugh. Even Bishop and Copeland found themselves chuckling. "You know something, Jim?" he said through his tears of mirth. "You are one fucking piece of work."
"I'll take that with the affection with which it was intended, General," Reynolds smiled back.
"Oh, what the hell?" Westwood shook his head acquiescently. "We've sat through most of the play. Might as well see the final act."
The four men, together with General Shelley, headed up to the communications room to watch Paul Nielsen destroy a world.
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
"It's not your fault," Jefferson told Lewis, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "You did more than anybody else to try and stop this thing."
"Yeah," Lewis snorted skeptically. "That'll look good on my tombstone. Here lies Lewis Stein -- he did his best to stop the fucking world blowing up."
Margaret was fighting back tears. She took Lewis's hand in her own. "Steve's right," she said. "You mustn't beat yourself up about it. We knew we only had a slim chance of success. But at least we tried." She paused to wipe a tear from her eyes. "For what it's worth, at least you'll get to be with your wife at the end."
Lewis furrowed his brow in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"
"She's here, Lewis. Operating on my husband."
"Jo's here?" I'll get to hold her one last time, he realized. He had faced death so many times that he had stopped fearing it long ago. His only fear was that of dying without having made his peace with Jo, without having had the chance to say goodbye. He knew that, so long as he could spend his final moments with her, he could face the end with dignity. I'm sorry I couldn't save the world for you, Jo. I tried...
But not hard enough...
Three minutes. Slightly more time than it took to boil an egg, slightly less than to run a mile. How long to send a fax? An idea had just occurred to him. His back stiffened, his expression registering an edge of hope. Maybe, just maybe it's possible.
Margaret saw the change in his expression. Her grip on his hand tightened. "What is it, Lewis?"
He snatched the microphone. "Mrs. Winslow. Are you still there?"
"Yes," the AG responded. "We're still here." Then urgency crept into her voice as the room at Mount Weather filled with raised voices. "Hold on, Dr Stein, something's just happened..."
Lewis's stomach clenched into a ball of ice. It's started...
B-2A BOMBER -- SPIRIT SIXTEEN -- OVER THE BALTIC SEA
Once again, McCann mentally catalogued the loved ones she would never see again, although she knew that however this mission panned out, they were probably already dead. What was left for her now, other than the mission? Unlike Logan, McCann hadn't advised her husband to leave town when the alert was declared. In fact, she hadn't even been able to contact him. He was at a conference in New York and his cellular phone was switched off. Perhaps New York had been spared, she thought. Unlikely, but possible. She offered a silent prayer that he would be spared the agony of survival, of stumbling sightlessly through the charred ruins.
Logan was lost in his own thoughts, still wondering if Beth had made it to Iowa. Still wondering if it mattered.
"What happens to us when we've done our job?" McCann said, checking her instruments. Neither her nor Logan knew thatHammer 16 was to be the first American bomber to reach its assigned target. She did know, however, that the target was less than four minutes' away.
Logan tightened his lips, pondering the question. "I think you already know the answer to that, Laura," he said finally. They had discussed this subject before, of course. But such discussions had always been abstract, concerning a situation that neither of them had thought they would ever have to face. They had agreed, long ago, that if they ever found themselves in this kind of situation, they would go down with the last of their nuclear warheads. Instantaneous suicide. Infinitely preferable to ditching in the middle of Siberia and waiting for cold, hunger and radiation to take them.
McCann nodded. She understood. Her only purpose in life now was to release sixteen nuclear bombs and die. In that respect, her destiny was as certain as the billions of other poor souls out there.
On Logan's HUD, a diamond shaped symbol called the CCIP (Continuously Computed Impact Point) appeared near the bottom of the Bomb Fall Line. It began to move steadily up the line towards the green square that represented the target coordinates. When the two symbols merged, an alarm tone would confirm lock-on, and the first ofHammer 16' s nuclear bombs would be released on the dual authentication of its crew.
"Commencing bomb run," Logan reported. "Target is pickled." He turned to McCann. His eyes looked as though they were moist. McCann would never know whether they really were, or whether it was just a trick of the light. "Good luck, Laura."
She said nothing. Her eyes were fixed on the CCIP, her mind focused on what it represented.
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
"Will somebody tell me what the hell is going on?" Margaret yelled into the microphone. Lewis placed a hand on her shoulder, thinking it somewhat ironic that for once he was the one trying to calm somebody down, and not the other way around.
Winslow's voice replied almost instantly. "I'm sorry, Ma'am. John Huth is dead. Seems like he took his own life."
"Oh, shit," Lewis hissed. What else can go wrong? Come on God, just give us a chance. "There goes our evidence against Nielsen."
"Not necessarily," Judge Shaw said. "He left a note behind. It's a full confession, actually, corroborating your allegations against Nielsen. It looks like we have the material evidence we need."
"Problem is," Halligan added, "there isn't time to organize an emergency vote on his impeachment. Not without bending the rules."
Lewis wasn't listening. His mind had returned to the idea he'd begun to form in his mind just a minute or two earlier. Bending the rules. Think, Lewis. Think... The idea was still gelling in his mind as he voiced it in rapid, machine-gun fashion. "Ma'am. I need from you a note, a note signed by yourself and countersigned by Judge Shaw and the Speaker, revoking Nielsen's command authority. Scribble it on the back of an envelope if you have to. Can you fax that to me?"
"Is that legal?" Halligan said.
"Strictly speaking, no," Shaw said, realization beginning to dawn. "But I think I know where Dr. Stein is going with this."
"I wish I did," McGuire muttered.
"Anybody got a piece of paper?" Winslow yelled.
Margaret frowned in puzzlement. "What's going on, Lewis?"
Lewis's voice was filled with urgency. He hardly took a breath between sentences. "If we can get something in writing, we might be able to convince theLooking Glass to turn the bombers. And if we can do that, Nielsen's credibility is shot and Dunster might refuse to authenticate the launch order to the TACAMO aircraft."
"But I thought you saidLooking Glass wouldn't listen to us," McGuire pointed out.
"They won't," Lewis said, the corner of his mouth curling into a half-smile. "Not to us."
Comprehension registered on Margaret's face.
"Westwood."
FEMA GOVERNMENT BUNKER, MOUNT WEATHER
An aide sprinted into the room, brandishing a blank sheet of paper. He handed it to Winslow.
"Pen, dammit," she demanded. "Who's got a pen?"
Halligan reached into his inside pocket and produced a ballpoint. She snatched it from him. "Okay, how do we word this?"
Shaw had already thought of that. He dictated to her. "We, the undersigned, hereby revoke with immediate effect the authority of Paul Robert Nielsen to exercise the duties of the President of the United States of America, pending a full Senate inquiry into alleged treasonous activities committed by the aforementioned. We do so in the interests of the American people in accordance with the Constitution of the United States of America."
Winslow scribbled Shaw's words, trying to ensure that her handwriting was legible as she did so. She signed it, and then handed it to Halligan and Shaw, who countersigned and handed it back to her. She ran over to the fax machine, which was located on the other side of the room.
"Fax number," she yelled so that the microphone would pick up her voice. "What's your fax number?"
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
All eyes turned to Jago, who was visibly trembling. "Oh..." he said, struggling to recall the number under extreme pressure. "Just dial four-two-double-zero."
"Did you get that?" Margaret said into the microphone.
"Yes," Halligan responded. "Four-two-double..."
"No," Jago corrected himself. "Four-four-double-zero. Sorry, my mistake. That was my PIN number."
"You'd better be fucking sure," Lewis warned the FEMA officer.
"Yes... Yes, I am," he stuttered.
"Four-four-double-zero," Halligan repeated. "We're sending it through."
"Mr. Jago," Margaret said. "Can you set up a conference with KNEECAP?"
"Yes. Yes I can. I... er... need to get to the console, Ma'am."
Margaret surrendered her seat to him. "Make it quick."
Jago, wiping sweat from his brow, fiddled with some wires and switches. He took the microphone. "Night Light," he said, "this is FEMA at Olney. Are you receiving?"
"We're five by five, affirmative," came the response. "Who is this?"
Margaret snatched the microphone from Jago. "This is Margaret Mitchell," she announced. "I need to speak to General Westwood, right now."
Jefferson was standing by the fax machine, waiting for the message to arrive from Mount Weather. He heard the quiet, high-pitched tone indicative of an incoming fax. It was followed by three strident beeps. Something was wrong...
"Ma'am," the KNEECAP operator responded. "This is a restricted channel. You must..."
"Don't you dare tell me what I must do," she snapped. "Just get me the goddam General."
Jefferson checked the fax machine, whose LCD display was now flashing an alphanumeric error code. He opened the paper feeder and swore to himself. "Paper," he yelled urgently. "It's out of fucking paper."
Meanwhile, the operator was clearly shaken by Margaret's tone. "I'm, um... He's... he's just arrived, Ma'am."
Beakman opened a wall cupboard and produced a ream of paper. His hands were shaking as he tried to rip the cellophane wrapping.
"Give me that!" Jefferson barked, snatching the ream from the hapless FEMA officer. He tore the cellophane open with his teeth and slapped a half-inch thick bundle of paper into the feeder.
To everybody's collective relief, the fax began to print.
ABOARD KNEECAP
Westwood, Bishop, Copeland and Reynolds arrived in the tiny communications room seconds ahead of Nielsen and Admiral Dunster.
"Ah, Gentlemen," Nielsen's cheerful voice enthused from behind them. "Good of you to join us. Couldn't resist being present at the making of history, eh?"
Westwood spun on his heel, as if to strike the smug bastard. He was stopped by the communication officer's voice.
"General Westwood," he said. "I've got somebody claiming to be the First Lady."
"I'll deal with her," Nielsen stated.
The officer shook his head nervously. "No, sir. She was quite specific about wanting to speak to the General."
"FormerGeneral," Nielsen corrected. "If I'm not mistaken, Mr. Westwood, you resigned due to - what was it? - Moral objections or some such bull?"
Westwood's eyes narrowed to mere slits. "Well, I've just withdrawn my resignation," he growled. "Fire me if you want. But I'm taking that call."
He took the headset from the communications officer and clipped it around his ear and chin. "Ma'am?"
Nielsen pursed his lips, seething. He turned to Dunster. "To hell with this. I haven't got time to waste. Let's get moving." To the communications officer: "Set up a link with the TACAMO aircraft."
"It's already done, sir," the officer reported, pointing to an empty chair at another console diametrical to that at which Westwood was standing. "You'll need to issue the codes verbally. They use a voice recognition system to verify your identity."
Nielsen glanced at Dunster, who nodded confirmation of the fact.
Westwood was listening intently to what the First Lady was telling him. He glanced over his shoulder at Nielsen, whose back was turned to him. Copeland and Bishop exchanged a curious glance. They didn't know quite what was going on, but they both sensed a change in Westwood's mood. He had gone past depression.
His face was contorted with rage.
"This isNight Light ," Nielsen told the TACAMO aircraft.
"I need it faxed to the Signals Room," Westwood whispered into the headset. "I can't do a thing without it. I'm heading to my quarters now. While I'm gone, getLooking Glass on the line."
Nielsen had his authenticator card in front of him. "Dayword Icarus, Authentication Delta-Five," he read aloud, confirming his identity. It would take a few moments for officers aboard the TACAMO aircraft to check his voice pattern against that stored on record.
Westwood removed his headset, and flicked a switch on the console that would patch the call through to his private quarters. He gestured Copeland, Reynolds and Bishop outside the room. Dunster offered him a quizzical look. He shook his head, as much to say,don't ask .
In the corridor, Westwood placed his hands on Copeland's shoulders. The Secretary of State looked pale and shaken.
"Brad," he whispered, "I need you to run to the Signals Room. There's a fax coming in from Olney. As soon as it comes off, meet me in my quarters. Now go."
Copeland sprinted along the corridor. The Signals Room was at the other end of the plane, and that was why Westwood had chosen the Secretary of State for the task. As well as being the youngest man present, the former University of Michigan distance runner was also probably the fittest.
Westwood turned to Reynolds. "Jim, I need you to stay here and keep an eye on Nielsen. Stall him if you have to. Just make sure he doesn't issue those codes."
Reynolds shook his head doubtfully. "I don't know, General. He won't fall for..."
"Just three minutes. That's all I need." Westwood held up three fingers to emphasize the point. "Three minutes."
"I'll do what I can."
The General slapped him on the back. "Good man."
"What's going on?" Bishop asked.
"Come with me. I'll explain on the way."
General Westwood, all 275lbs of him, started running towards his quarters, Bishop close behind him.
B-2A BOMBER -- SPIRIT SIXTEEN -- OVER NORTHWESTERN RUSSIA
The B-2 stealth bomber leveled out at 15,000 feet as Logan and McCann performed their final checks. McCann checked the distance to target.
Twenty-five miles.
"On my mark," said Logan. He lifted the plastic casing that protected a red switch whose purpose was to arm the first of the B-2's six nuclear bombs. His finger touched the switch. Glancing over at McCann, he could see that the Flight Commander had mirrored his actions. "Three... Two... One..."
"Mark," McCann said. Both pilots flicked their arming switches simultaneously. A 'READY' message appeared on Logan's HUD, informing him that the bomb had been armed. It was accompanied by a short beep in his headset. "Ninety seconds to release."
Despite the facade of professionalism that both officers struggled to maintain, they knew that they were rapidly approaching the point of no return.
XXII
REVOLUTION
"It is not the function of our government to keep the citizen from falling into error; it is the function of the citizen to keep the government from falling into error."
Robert H. Jackson, U.S. Supreme Court Justice (1950)
ABOARD KNEECAP
Copeland willed the fax to come through faster. It emerged face down, so he couldn't read its contents. It did so at a leisurely pace, fax technology annoyingly indifferent to the urgency of the situation.
When it had fully emerged, he swiped it from the machine and started running.
Westwood's tiny private quarters were necessarily sparse. For one thing, any excessive clutter would have made the room impossible to move around. For another, he had no requirement for any personal belongings other than bare essentials such as toiletries and a single change of clothes.
He burst into the room - Bishop behind him - and headed straight for the telephone on his desk. He picked it up.
"Hello?" he said tentatively.
"Marion," Margaret replied, relief evident in her voice. "We're here."
"AndLooking Glass ?"
Alice'svoice was unmistakable to Westwood. They had been friends since West Point. "We're five by five, affirmative. I need your authentication codes, sir."
Westwood sighed irritably as Copeland entered the room, brandishing the decree that had just been faxed from Olney. The General took the sheet of paper without looking up.
"We don't have time for that,Alice ," he replied sourly. And besides, I threw my card at Nielsen when I resigned. What a fucking idiot. "I don't have them."
"Without those codes, I can't validate your identity. I'm cutting you off."
"No!" Margaret pleaded from Olney.
Alicewas, predictably, all business. That was not surprising, was it? America was at war, and he was just doing his duty.
"Harry," Westwood pleaded, "it's me, Marion. For Chrissakes, just listen to me, will you? I'm trying to stop you incinerating the entire fucking world."
There was hesitation on the other end. That meantAlice was thinking about it. Good.
"I'm extremely busy,"Alice /Harry told him. "You've got twenty seconds. Make it quick."
Westwood knew thatAlice had every intention of cutting him off after precisely that amount of time. It was his way. "I need you to recall the bombers before they hit Russia."
"No way," came the instant response. "I have valid orders from NCA."
"No you don't," Margaret stated firmly. "Nielsen's executive authority has been suspended. General, listen to me," she pleaded. "Both General Westwood and myself have in front of us a decree signed by the Attorney General, the Speaker of the House, and the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court revoking Paul Nielsen's authority to act as commander-in-chief. We can fax you a copy, if you like. But we don't have time. We have less than two minutes."
"I know precisely how long we have, Ma'am,"Alice snapped. "But even if we turn the bombers, that won't stop the subs launching. Air Force can't issue orders to Navy."
"Let me worry about the subs, Harry," Westwood told him. "But if those bombers start hitting Russia, it won't matter a damn what the subs do."
This time, there was a long pause fromLooking Glass . Everybody else on the conference call held their breath, awaitingAlice's response. Finally, he said, "Even if what you're saying is true, the orders still stand."
"No they don't," a man's voice told him. "Because I'm revoking them. I'm ordering a recall for the bombers. They're to maintain alert status."
"Who the hell is this?" Alicebarked.
"This is Speaker of the House George Halligan. Your new Commander-in-Chief. I'm giving you a direct order, General, to recall the bombers."
AboardLooking Glass ,Alice closed his eyes, trying to figure out the right thing to do. Protocol and training dictated that without valid verification codes, he should ignore everything he was being told. But he also knew there was no time to confirm the codes in any case. If this was a Russian trick, then America would be hit in little over ten minutes. And if that happened,Alice had the authority to order the bombers straight back in. The submarines weren't his responsibility.
"For God's sake, Harry," Westwood pleaded. "If we're shitting you, go ahead and bomb them. Bomb the bastards into the Stone Age. But you know what's at stake."
Until this moment, every decisionAlice had made in his thirty-year long career had been made by the book. He was renowned for his attention to detail. Indeed, regulations to him were as sacred as the Bible was to others. But what he was presently contemplating contravened everything he'd ever believed in. Everything he'd ever known.
This was no ordinary situation. He had no precedents against which to measure his actions. And the protocols that governed the deployment of nuclear weapons had been designed in peacetime by people who viewed such a conflict as a distant abstraction. Theoretically, those protocols served the best interests of America's defense. Yet, was that the same thing as the best interests of mankind?
If he acted in contravention of nuclear weapons protocol, he risked at best spending twenty years in Leavenworth; at worst facing a firing squad. But for either of those outcomes to happen, the world would have to survive.
And that was what it came down to, wasn't it? He had nothing to lose. In his heart, he knew that the call was genuine. Irregular and probably illegal, for sure. But genuine.
After a silence that seemed to last forever, Westwood heardAlice address his second-in-command.
"Frank, issue the recall codes. We have a new Commander-in-Chief."
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
McGuire punched the air and whooped. Jefferson and Herbert exchanged a high-five. Herbert had tears in her eyes. Jago and Beakman hugged each other. Margaret closed her eyes and touched Lewis's arm; an unspoken gesture of gratitude for all he had done. The sounds of laughter and jubilation were also clearly audible from Mount Weather, although not from KNEECAP, where Westwood still had work to do.
Lewis remained tense; his eyes fixed on the console.
"Now all that remains is for us to stop the Russians," he remarked to himself.
That brought the jubilation to an abrupt end. Everybody stared at him.
They'd forgotten about that.
B-2A BOMBER -- SPIRIT SIXTEEN -- OVER NORTHWESTERN RUSSIA
The B-2's internal computer had already calculated the optimum timing for bomb release in order to achieve a direct hit on the naval base at Murmansk. It had taken into account variable factors such as wind shear, cloud cover and temperature, all of which appeared as graphic representations on Logan's HUD.
He watched as the time-to-release figure fell, and began to count it down verbally, his hand poised over the Bomb Release switch.
"Six... Five... Four... It's been a pleasure serving with you, Laura," he remarked.
"You too, Martin... One... Release."
In the same instant as Logan punched the release switch, the EAM indicator began flashing, accompanied by a shrill tone.
"Incoming Emergency Action Message," McCann announced urgently.
But the bomb had already been dropped.
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
"I can see a jet plume high in the sky," the Admiral reported from Murmansk. His voice was shaking. He sounded on the verge of tears, despite the excitement in his tone.
Yazov closed his eyes and waited for the burst of high-pitched static that, within the next few moments, would replace the Admiral's voice forever.
And, meanwhile, the launch officers remained poised at their communicators. They shared a nervous glance. Any second now, they thought. Any second now.
ABOARD KNEECAP
"I'm ordering Bravo Five Foxtrot," Nielsen told the operator aboard the TACAMO plane. "Repeat, Bravo Five Foxtrot."
Reynolds' mind was racing. He had to figure out a way to stall the launch order, but didn't know how. A quick glance at the three Secret Service agents standing between him and Nielsen prohibited any ideas about a physical diversion. Perhaps if... Think, he told himself. Think...
"I confirm valid launch order - SIOP code Bravo Five Foxtrot," the TACAMO operator responded. "I need secondary authentication."
Nielsen looked at Dunster, whose expression was as blank as his face was pale. It was down to him, he knew. "This is Admiral James Dunster," he said. "DaywordBabylon , authentication Zebra-Six."
A few moments passed while TACAMO confirmed his voice identity. In that time, Reynolds attempted to figure out a way to buy just another minute or two. He acted on pure instinct. It was not something that came easily to the logical, practical nature of the political mastermind.
"Admiral, stop!" he barked, unable to think of anything else to say. Damn, Jim. Is that the best you could come up with? Stop? For Chrissakes... He stammered as all eyes turned his way. "You know this is wrong. You fucking know it. Don't let this happen, Admiral, please. Think of what's at stake."
Nielsen's jaw stiffened with rage. "Will you shut the fuck up?" He turned to one of the Secret Service agents and issued a firm order. "Get him out of here. Shoot him if you have to. He's endangering National Security."
As the agent grabbed Reynolds' arm and began to manhandle him out of the communications room, Reynolds called over his shoulder. "He's the one endangering National Security, Admiral. You know it. He's endangering everything."
Dunster, his face beleaguered, watched Reynolds being led away. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, knowing that the Chief of Staff couldn't hear him. "I'm just doing my job."
In a corridor outside the communications room, Copeland, Westwood and Bishop appeared just in time.
"Release that man," Westwood ordered the Secret Service agent who was leading Reynolds away. A smile of relief crossed Reynolds' pudgy features.
"General," the agent said, visibly perplexed. "I have orders."
Westwood waved the fax. "If those orders were issued by Paul Nielsen, they're invalid. I have documentation to that effect. Now release him." This time, the order was firmer, and left the young agent in no doubt whatsoever as to what might happen were he to refuse.
He obliged, relaxing his grip on Reynolds' arm.
"Are we too late?" Westwood asked the Chief of Staff.
"Maybe just in time," Reynolds panted.
"Let's hope so."
B-2A BOMBER -- SPIRIT SIXTEEN -- OVER NORTHWESTERN RUSSIA
Logan had taken the flight controls while McCann checked the codebook against the Emergency Action Message. The Major was arcing the plane away from the bomb zone, climbing all the time, just as he had been trained to do.
Twenty seconds since release. Detonation in another ten to twelve seconds.
"Holy damn," McCann muttered to herself as she read the code twice over to make sure it was for real. Her voice was inaudible below the roar of the B-2's engines. "It's a recall!" she screamed. "Zebra-Zero-Zebra! Cease all hostilities. It's a fucking recall!"
"You sure?" was Logan's response. He wasn't sure that he'd heard his Flight Commander properly.
"The hell I'm sure." McCann threw her codebook on the floor and was already reaching for the armaments panel.
Eight seconds.
Logan saw what his co-pilot was doing and hesitated. He hadn't seen the EAM himself, but if it were for real, then he didn't have time to check. He had flown with McCann for several years, and she was as professional as they came. She wouldn't bullshit about something like this. Not now.
"If you're shitting me..." he warned, leveling the jet.
"Then shoot me!" McCann scowled, her eyes challenging the Major.
Five seconds.
"Disarm procedure on my mark. Three... Two..."
Three seconds.
"One..."
They simultaneously flicked the Disarm switches on their respective armaments panels. Both pilots offered a silent prayer that they had done so in time.
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
Yazov listened intently to the radio as the seconds passed. Still no burst of static. Still no detonation. The waiting was worst of all. It had been nearly a minute since the Admiral had reported seeing the jet trail over Murmansk. Surely the American pilots would have released their bomb by now.
"Do you see anything, Admiral?"
"No, not... Wait..."
Yazov's heart skipped a beat.
Panic crept into the Admiral's voice. "Something falling very fast, something..."
Yazov looked up at the launch officers. Their fingers were almost touching the launch buttons. He shook his head. Not yet.
Presently, the radio emitted an almighty roar that caused Yazov and several others to clamp their hands over their ears.
In that moment came the realization that it was really happening.
The end of all things.
GCN STUDIOS, ATLANTA
"We have now passed the time when American bombers are supposed to have begun striking their targets in Russia." Jack Sullivan's voice was cracking. He had abandoned his tie, and was now facing the world with his collar open. "What is happening out there, we cannot be sure. As for what happens next..." He frowned, trying to find the right words. "Well, I guess we're in God's hands now."
Around the world, churches and temples overflowed with worshippers, using their last moments to make peace with whatever God they believed in. Many had never prayed before, but they were learning fast. Others took the opportunity to indulge in more Earthly pleasures such as sex, drugs and alcohol; the apparent objective to be either ecstatic or stoned beyond comprehension when the end came.
Surprisingly, the streets of cities such as Los Angeles, London and Tokyo were largely deserted; the hordes of people having been supplanted by an eerie, foreboding silence that invited the echoing moan of air raid sirens.
MURMANSK, RUSSIA
The B-83 gravity bomb descended through 500 feet and was falling at an exponentially increasing rate of 750 feet per second. Its internal altimeter had been programmed to trigger a small explosive charge once it sensed that its altitude had dropped below fifty feet. That, in turn, would set in motion the chain reaction that would result in a nuclear explosion. Theoretically, this process would take less than one tenth of a second.
But at just over 200 feet from the ground, the bomb's internal computer received a radio signal from the B-2 to disable its altimeter. No altimeter, no trigger. No trigger, no explosion.
On the docks hugging the Bay of Murmansk, hundreds of people watched transfixed as the bomb fell at incredible speed. They braced themselves for the inevitable; some of them crying, some praying. Mostly though, they just watched and waited. There was nothing else they could do. Nowhere to run.
But nothing happened.
The 1,200lb bomb struck a wooden fishing boat that was tied to its moorings. Fortunately, nobody was aboard the vessel at the time, for it was literally disintegrated by the kinetic force of the bomb's descent. A huge plume of water rose more than a hundred feet into the air, soaking those standing around the bay and showering them with fish.
For a moment, the onlookers waited, thinking this was just a harbinger of the destruction to follow.
But, seconds later, they were both relieved and amazed to see that Murmansk was still there.
ABOARD KNEECAP
"I confirm your identity as Admiral James Malcolm Dunster, Secretary of the Navy," the TACAMO officer reported. "I have received a valid launch order from National Command Authority, authentication Bravo Five Foxtrot. Do you confirm?"
"I..." he began.
"Delay that order, Admiral!"
The deep, rolling boom was unmistakably Westwood's, well-practiced and rich with authority. Dunster spun around, astonished to see Westwood, Copeland, Reynolds and Bishop at the door with the agent who had moments earlier taken Reynolds into custody.
"What the hell is this?" Nielsen demanded to know.
Westwood strode across the room, brandishing the fax. There was no pleasure in his voice as he addressed the Commander-in-Chief. Just curt matter-of-factness. "Mr. Nielsen. I hereby relieve you of command in accordance with the Constitution of the United States of America."
Nielsen's jaw dropped. His eyes were drawn to the fax, although he couldn't make out the words. "On what basis?" he snapped.
"Treason," Bishop informed him coldly. He had personal reasons for wanting to see Nielsen brought to justice, but that could wait. "Endangering the lives of Americans, and every other goddamn person on the planet."
"The bombers have been recalled," Westwood added. "It's over."
Nielsen's eyes alternated from one man to the next, seeking any indication of support, no matter how slight. His acute political antennae sensed trouble. But he had never walked away from a fight in his life. He didn't know how to. Survival was in his blood. God knows, his back had been against enough walls during his career, yet he had always managed to weasel his way out and prevail over those who had attempted to destroy him. Why? Because he was superior to them. Better breeding, better education. And he certainly wasn't going to be relieved of command by some lowbred Negro from Detroit, of all places. No. Paul Nielsen hadn't come this far to endure that indignity. He would prevail. He always did.
Sneering condescendingly, he snatched the fax from Westwood and read it. "What is this, huh?" He glanced at it and brandished the sheet of paper like it were garbage. "Anybody could have written this. It's probably a Russian ploy. Damn, if they can imitate our voices, they can sure as hell imitate signatures. That's assuming, of course, that these signatures are those of the people they claim to be." His eyes narrowed accusingly at Westwood. "Have you checked them?" Then he turned to Copeland: "Have you?"
"Sir," Copeland pleaded, "the bombers have turned. It's over."
Nielsen tore the sheet of paper in half and threw both fragments onto the floor. He shook his head, chuckling at some private joke. "You know, you people are so naïve. The war is over, my ass. You really believe that, don't you? You really believe that just because you've turned our bombers, the Russians are going to call this whole thing off and live happily ever after. You think that because youheroes have turned the bombers that I'll be forced not to order the subs to launch. Well, that's where you're wrong. We don't need the bombers, you see. Our nuclear submarines still possess more firepower than has ever been unleashed in the history of war. I still intend to relocate Russia and all the gutter rats that live there into the upper stratosphere. So you go ahead, if you want to, and play your quasi-constitutional legal games. I've got a war to fight. We're making history here today, gentlemen. History." He leveled an accusatory finger at Westwood, Copeland and Bishop in turn. "You people. You are the traitors, not me."
Westwood turned his attention to Dunster. "Don't do it, James. His authority has been revoked. This is an improper order. Do you understand?"
Nielsen touched Dunster's arm and tried reasoning with him. "They're clutching at straws, Admiral. They have no just cause to do this. You and I both know that."
"Admiral Dunster," repeated the TACAMO operator. "Do you confirm a valid NCA order for the deployment of strategic nuclear weapons?"
Dunster shook his head at Westwood. I'm sorry. He wasn't sure what to do in these circumstances, except what he had always done. Go with the book.
"I, Admiral James Malcolm Dunster -- "
Westwood closed his eyes to avoid Nielsen's smug, self-satisfied sneer.
The Admiral inhaled deeply. " -- do not, repeat,do not confirm this order as valid."
"What?" Nielsen exclaimed, unable at first to believe what he was hearing. He wasn't accustomed to insubordination, and he had no intentions of tolerating it now. "Confirm the launch, Admiral. That's a fucking order."
"I acknowledge negative confirmation of NCA launch order," TACAMO reported flatly. "Combat Alert status will be maintained."
Dunster turned slowly to his Commander-in-Chief. His face betrayed no emotion. Just tiredness. "Sir, the reason we have dual authentication is to ensure that no one man can launch nuclear missiles independently. Not even the President of the United States. If there is any doubt, any doubt whatsoever, as to the validity of a launch order, then it is propernot to verify that order." He glanced at the torn shreds of paper on the floor. "Obviously, there is some dispute here as to your privilege to exercise command authority. Until that matter is resolved, I am unable to comply with your request." He offered a limp salute. "Sir."
Nielsen visibly deflated before everybody's eyes. His posture sagged, and for a moment, Dunster felt a tinge of sympathy for him. But that didn't last for any longer than it took him to remember the poor wretches out there whose lives had already been destroyed. If anybody was deserving of sympathy, it was them.
Nielsen slowly approached Westwood. "Do you realize what you've done here, you idiot? In less than ten minutes, Russian bombers will be roaming our cities at will, and you've taken away our capacity to retaliate."
"That's a change of tune, Paul," Copeland pointed out. "A couple of hours ago, you told everybody that those bombers would never get through. That our fighters would stop them. Same with their subs."
Nielsen ignored the sarcastic reminder. When he spoke, his voice was weak, almost pleading. "There is no constitutional basis for revoking my authority. I am the Commander-in-Chief, dammit."
Bishop stepped between him and Westwood. He wanted so badly to make this point. Nielsen had been willing to sacrifice the DCI's ass, and now it was payback time. "Youwere theacting Commander-in-Chief," he reminded him, failing to conceal his self-satisfaction. "But you surrendered any rights to command when you began conducting your own independent foreign policy."
The words took a few seconds to register. Nielsen felt trapped, like a wounded animal being hunted by a pride of lions. "What?"
"Selling arms to the Ukraine, you son-of-a-bitch. More specifically, ballistic missile components. It was your idiocy that started this thing. The Ukrainians would never have had nuclear missiles if it wasn't for you. Washington, Seattle and Houston would still be standing if it wasn't for you. You and your pet rat John Huth, who incidentally has taken his life because he couldn't live with what he'd done. Both of you used my agency to do it. Myagency," Bishop hissed through clenched teeth. His nostrils were flaring, and Nielsen suddenly felt very frightened. His eyes searched the room for support, but none was forthcoming, not even from the Secret Service detail (they didn't like him either). He was at the mercy of the lions.
Bishop wasn't finished yet. Not by a long shot. "You would have quite willingly put my ass on the line. For what? So you could line your own filthy pockets?"
Nielsen attempted a sneer, but he seemed to have lost the will to fight. He didn't attempt to deny the allegations. His words came out automatically. "I could never expect an ignorant cretin like you to understand," he said, not meeting Bishop's eyes. "How could we remain neutral while those Russian bastards attacked a defenseless country? Perhaps weak men like you and Mitchell could, but not me. I did it for my country, and for the principles upon which my country was built."
"Well, thanks to you and your schoolboy politics," Westwood reminded him, "there isn't much of your country left any more. You ought to think about that. God knows, you'll have plenty of time to ponder it where you're going."
"What are you saying?" Nielsen snorted. "That you're placing me under arrest? Not a chance." He pushed Bishop aside and made for the door. Westwood nodded to the agent standing post at the door, the same man who had taken Reynolds into custody minutes' earlier. The agent stretched out an arm to stop Nielsen. His other hand was touching his sidearm.
"I'm sorry, sir." The agent was unable to prevent a satisfied grin flickering across his lips as he stopped the former Commander-in-Chief. "But I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Before Nielsen could respond, Westwood's voice filled the room. "Paul Nielsen. I am placing you under arrest on the charge of treasonous activities against the government and people of the United States." He wasn't able to recall the Miranda act, which was a shame because he would have loved to have read Nielsen his rights given the chance. You have the right to swing first. Should you choose to do so, I have the right to break every fucking bone in your sorry excuse for a body.
As Nielsen began to contemplate the end of his career, and of everything else, it was Reynolds who inevitably got in the last word.
"Hey, look on the bright side, Paul. You may end up with a pretty cellmate called Bubba. If they don't fry you, of course," he added as a jovial afterthought.
For all intents and purposes, everybody in the room except for Nielsen had convinced themselves that the war was over, and that mankind had enjoyed the narrowest of escapes.
They were wrong.
XXIII
SOLUTIONS
"There has never been a good war, or a bad peace."
(Benjamin Franklin)
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
"We're still alive," the Admiral screamed jubilantly. "We have negative detonation. Repeat, negative detonation."
"What?" Yazov thought aloud. An excited murmur swept the conference room.
Grizov frowned. He wasn't likely to get carried away so easily. "It means that they dropped a faulty bomb," he explained in a dour monotone. "Murmansk was lucky. I doubt that the rest of Russia will escape so lightly."
"Perhaps they're standing down," Suronev hoped aloud. He could sense that nobody actually believed that. He didn't truly believe it himself, but that didn't stop him hoping nonetheless.
Yazov pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to concentrate. He knew that America's stealth bombers were equipped with the ability to disarm their bombs in the seconds following release. Maybe that was it. Maybe they had just wanted to push Russia to the wire, to see if she backed down. And Yazov hadn't backed down, had he? So they had allowed disarmed nuclear bombs to fall onto Murmansk. It didn't make much sense, but in his exhausted mind, it was as logical a concept as any.
"What is the next target to be hit?" He asked Kalushin.
The younger General checked his list. "Very likely to be Vladivostok in about four to five minutes."
"And our submarines will be resurfacing for new orders in three," Grizov reminded him. "We cannot afford to wait to see if Vladivostok is hit. If we don't issue the launch orders to our submarines now, we may never get another chance."
"So what?" Suronev barked. It was the first time he had openly opposed Grizov. "If their bombers hit us, our bombers will hit them. Nobody's suggesting that we recall our bombers. They still carry enough firepower to destroy most of North America."
"And they will also reach their targets in eight minutes," Kalushin pointed out. "So if we want to stand down, the time to do so is now."
"Okay," Suronev sighed. "So what do we do?"
For once, Yazov didn't have the answer.
ABOARD KNEECAP
"Okay," the technician nodded. "Here goes."
The screen flickered to live, and a cursor blinked as it awaited input. Of course, everybody knew the procedure for communicating with the Kremlin by now. Whether the Kremlin would be receptive to further communications was another matter entirely. Now that the American threat had been contained, Westwood understood that the fate of the world depended on the new Commander-in-Chief's ability to convince Russia to stand down its own forces.
"You got the conference set up?" Bishop asked another technician.
"Yes, sir. Olney and Mount Weather are on line."
"Put 'em on speaker," Reynolds ordered.
"Yessir."
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
The tension had subsided somewhat following confirmation of Nielsen's arrest. But there was no sense of triumph. There were still some harsh realities to face. Firstly, how to prevent the Russians from proceeding with their own attack. Secondly, how to rebuild a seriously wounded America.
Well, Lewis thought, one thing at a time. He looked around him. Although the moans and screams of human misery could still be heard from the corridors outside, his compatriots seemed to be much more relaxed than they had been. It wasn't that they were at ease with their predicament; just that they had adjusted to it. That was a concept with which Lewis was acutely familiar. He recognized it as a basic human survival trait; the ability to adapt to radically changed circumstances and environment. Perhaps, he mused, he ought to become a psychologist once this was all over. Wouldn't Jo just love that? Two physicians in the family.
Given the lack of a computer link at either Olney or Mount Weather, communications with Moscow would be handled verbally. The new Commander-in-Chief, George Halligan, would relate his messages to KNEECAP, where they would be entered into the computer terminal. Conversely, somebody aboard KNEECAP would read Yazov's responses aloud. Lewis and Margaret would listen in and offer advice, should any be required.
But with every passing moment, Lewis became increasingly aware of another looming deadline.
Except that this time, it wouldn't be Murmansk that was destroyed.
In eight minutes' time, it would be San Francisco.
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
The sudden appearance of a military aide caused everybody to look up.
"General Yazov. We have incoming traffic from America."
Yazov raised his eyebrows. Suddenly, he felt a tinge of optimism. So, the Americans were willing to talk again. "From Nielsen?"
The aide shook his head. "No, sir. I think you'd better come and see for yourself."
Grizov touched Yazov's arm. "General, it's a trick. A diversionary tactic. They want to confuse you into aborting the launch."
As he stood, Yazov shrugged off the FSB chief's hand. "I'm going to take the message. You stay here and keep an eye on things." When he reached the door, he stopped and turned. "Incidentally, Alexander. I'm surprised you think I can be so easily confused. How terribly naïve of you."
Kalushin and Suronev followed Yazov into the computer room. Those who remained in the war room shared a light chuckle at Grizov's expense.
To whoever is in charge of Russia --- This is George Halligan, Speaker of the House of Representatives and acting Commander-in-Chief of the armed forces of the United States of America. Before we proceed, may we establish with whom we are dealing?
Yazov failed to prevent a smile flickering across his lips as he read the message. If the Americans were being honest, then Paul Nielsen was no longer the man with whom to reckon. Certainly, the tone seemed conciliatory. It had come as something as a shock to Suronev. That much was obvious by his uncharacteristic silence.
ABOARD KNEECAP
"Here it comes," the technician announced as characters began appearing sequentially on the monitor. Even he couldn't hide his enthusiasm. "They're talking to us, gentlemen. They're talking."
Westwood read the message aloud as soon as it had appeared in its entirety.
Mr. Halligan --- You are dealing with General Gennady Yazov, President of the Russian Federation. As you may expect, we have a number of questions for you:
1.Where is Paul Nielsen, and why is he not involved in this dialogue?
2.Are American forces proceeding with their attack against our nation?
3.Have launch orders been issued to your submarines?
As you well know, our own forces are continuing to advance on your nation in lieu of evidence that American strategic forces have been recalled. Accordingly, I urge you to respond quickly in order that we may take appropriate action before it is too late.
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
Lewis clenched a fist in triumph. "They've given us an opening, Mr. Speaker," he remarked as soon as Westwood had finished relating Yazov's message. "Yazov is tired and weary of this whole thing. He just wants it to be over. The key to that is in the last sentence. He's asking us to give him a guarantee that we've stood down our forces. Appropriate actioncan only mean that he's willing to stand down his own forces if we reply positively."
Margaret nodded her agreement. "I read it exactly the same way," she said.
"I'm not so sure," remarked Bishop from KNEECAP. "I was just wondering whether they would be so trusting."
"What do you mean?" Halligan asked. Like President Mitchell, diplomacy wasn't his forte. His political career had been built mainly on agricultural and industrial issues. That was largely due to the rural constituency that he represented.
"I mean," the DCI explained, "that there appears to be some contradiction here. His second question suggests that either they've lost the radar capability to detect our bombers, or if they haven't, he's just testing us to see if we're telling the truth. The penultimate sentence may or may not be an implicit threat."
"It's a statement of fact, Tony," Margaret protested. "They know that we know their bombers are advancing."
"Then why remind us?" Halligan stated. "If not to threaten us."
"Okay," Lewis said sourly. "What about the last sentence, Tony? What's the ulterior motive in that?"
"We-ll," the DCI began thoughtfully, drawing out the word. "When you juxtapose that sentence against the penultimate sentence and the second question, it's rendered quite irrelevant."
Lewis was tired of all this paranoia. That was what had created this mess. He allowed his irritation to show. "Then why does he ask us to respond quickly?" he snapped. "If he intended to hit us anyway, he wouldn't be asking."
"Unless he doesn't know that we've already stood down," Margaret thought aloud. She looked up apologetically at Lewis. "I think I see where Tony is coming from."
Lewis rubbed his eyes as he spoke. They felt leaden with fatigue. "The simple fact is," he sighed, "that wehave stood down our forces. All we have to do is tell them that, and we can end this whole thing right now. If we decline to tell them, they'll assume that we haven't stood down, and they'll blow us to Kingdom come anyway."
Halligan took a few moments to ponder the arguments he'd heard. Then he verbalized his response, which was entered by the operator aboard KNEECAP.
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
General Yazov --- In reply to your questions:
1.Paul Nielsen has been relieved of command and detained under charge of treason and unlawful exercise of his powers. I am quite willing to provide further details should you so wish.
2.My first act as Commander-in-Chief was to recall all American strategic nuclear bombers. This order has been authenticated and effected. If you have radar capability, you will be able to confirm that our bombers have turned.
3.We have not issued launch orders to our submarines, but they have been ordered to maintain combat alert status.
I can personally guarantee that your nation will sustain no further damage at the hands of our forces. The above actions have been taken unilaterally in the interests of world peace. I now request that you take similar measures to stand down your own strategic forces. This entire conflict has been a terrible, costly mistake. We have no quarrel with Russia or the Russian people. I believe the time has now come for us to work together to rebuild what remains of our two great nations.
Yazov had to read the message twice to make sure he hadn't misunderstood it. He felt every muscle in his body loosen as the tension drained from him. Although his training had conditioned him to treat any American's word with skepticism, he was desperate enough to clutch at any grain of hope offered him.
"What are they up to?" Kalushin wondered aloud. "It surely cannot be that easy."
Yazov laughed tiredly. "For once, old friend, I think that they are not up to anything. They don't want this war any more than we do. They never did." His placed his hands on Kalushin's shoulders. His eyes were dancing with glee. "I think that our world has been given another chance."
"So you intend to stand down our forces on the basis of an American's word," Suronev stated sourly. It was less of a question than a conclusion.
The Russian President stretched his tired limbs. "Mikhail Olegovich," he sighed. "We have to start trusting each other one day. Today is as good a day as any, don't you think?"
Suronev had no reply to that.
ABOARD KNEECAP
Mr. Halligan --- With respect to your gracious offer, I am pleased to inform you that I have issued urgent orders to our strategic forces to cease all hostilities while maintaining alert status. I suggest that we establish lines of communication between officials in both our nations to discuss the logistics of a bilateral reduction of alert levels to peacetime status at the earliest opportunity.
Enough people have died on this awful day. Perhaps we might learn something from this. Perhaps we might learn that we are children in the possession of terrible weapons whose destructive potential exceeds our worst nightmares. Perhaps we cannot be trusted with those weapons. And I hope there is a chance that the millions of our countrymen who have died will not have done so in vain. If we can supplant the politics of suspicion with an ethos of trust, our world may prosper and survive for many thousands of generations.
"Jesus," Reynolds quipped, for once lost for words. "Is this guy relieved or what? Sounds like he's been smoking a Woodstock special."
Westwood wrapped an arm around Bishop. Nobody in the room had ever seen such a terrific beam as that on the General's face. "Who cares, Jim?" he enthused. "We're alive."
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
Lewis allowed the fatigue to sweep over him. For the first time since the onset of the crisis, he realized just how exhausted he was. The situation still had a somewhat surreal quality, and he knew that the triumphant smiles would last only until the reality of a devastated America had to be faced. But, for a solitary moment, he allowed himself to wallow in the glory of a world reprieved.
Margaret caught him off guard when she embraced him. Jefferson and McGuire immediately joined in, forming a four-way group hug. Then Beakman, Jago and Herbert made seven. Lewis suddenly felt uncomfortable sharing in all this jubilation, knowing that so many people were suffering outside the room. But it could have been many more, he kept telling himself.Many more...
"You did it, pal," Jefferson enthused in Lewis's ear. "You pulled it off."
"I had a good teacher," he said, grinning at Margaret.
"Oh shucks," she grinned modestly. Despite her apparent good cheer, Lewis sensed a shadow of anxiety creeping into her eyes as her thoughts turned to a husband whose chances of survival were by no means assured. And, no doubt, to a world whose chances of recovery were not much better.
Lewis struggled to find the right words to reassure her without sounding condescending. He managed a tight-lipped smile. "Ma'am, if anybody can save the President, Jo can. She's one of the best at what she does."
"I know," Margaret nodded, attempting a brave smile. "Doesn't stop me worrying though. I don't know what I'll do without him."
She wiped a tear from her eyes with the back of her hand. Lewis couldn't tell whether it was a tear of joy or grief. He suspected the latter. "Come on," he whispered reassuringly. "Let's go back to the medical wing, see how he's doing. He might be recovering by now."
As they were about to leave the room, they were stopped by a voice from KNEECAP. It belonged to Westwood. "Hold on, folks. We've got another incoming message."
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
After issuing the recall order, Yazov requested that he be left alone in the computer room to type a very private message to his American counterpart. Following the initial wave of euphoric relief, it had not gone unnoticed that he was becoming rapidly more dejected as the enormity of what had happened struck him.
After some persuasion, Kalushin had reluctantly acquiesced to his friend's wish to be left alone. He ambled out of the computer room, quietly shutting the door behind him.
Yazov, breathing heavily and fighting against the tears that had begun to streak his face, began to type in English.
ABOARD KNEECAP
To all in America who might be reading this note --- I write now, not as a national leader and not as a military officer. I write to you as an ordinary man. A man who was arrogant enough to think he knew better than those he served. A man whose arrogance has cost the lives of so many millions of innocent Americans and Russians. I stand condemned for my arrogance. I stand guilty of genocide.
The American and Russian people deserve much better than to be patronized by my worthless apologies. But I offer them anyway. There is no explanation or justification for the crimes that I have committed. Now it is for God to judge my actions and for others to repair the damage I have caused.
Russia deserves to be led by a better man than myself. I hope that my good friend and colleague General Anatoly Kalushin will succeed me. He has the strength, the will and the intelligence to lead this nation through its darkest hour. Russia has survived hard times throughout its history. Under his leadership, I am sure that it will do so again.
Until today, I had never believed in God. But, as I face my judgment, I am learning to believe. I truly am. I face my final moments in the hope that mankind will learn something from the terrible events that have transpired today. May future national leaders learn from my mistakes and may they not repeat them. I do not seek understanding or forgiveness, for I am not worthy of such sentiments. I merely seek deliverance. Perhaps I will find this in my next life.
With profound remorse,
General Gennady Andreiovich Yazov
"Jesus," Bishop exclaimed. "It sounds almost like a..."
Margaret's voice interrupted him. She had obviously just reached the same conclusion.
"Oh my God!"
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
All chatter in the conference room was brought to an abrupt halt by a suddencrack . Kalushin spun around in the direction of the noise, but he instinctively knew what it was.
He ran to the computer room, Suronev and Grizov close behind him. When he opened the door, he was confronted by a sight that caused a wave of nausea to sweep over him.
Yazov was still seated at the computer console, facing away from the monitor. But the upper half of his head was missing; most of its contents sliding down the computer screen and the gray wall behind it. His limp right hand held a revolver, whose barrel was still emitting thin plumes of smoke.
Fighting back the urge to vomit, Kalushin ran over to his late, dear friend and collapsed at his feet, sobbing hysterically and screaming unintelligible pleas.
Suronev and Grizov stood motionless and impassive in the doorway, their eyes transfixed by the grisly spectacle. But, behind their masks of shock, the two political veterans were beginning to appreciate that the balance of power in Russia had just shifted once again.
And soon, the political maneuvering would recommence.
XXIV
LOOSE ENDS
Nothing in his life
Became him like the leaving of it.
(William Shakespeare: Macbeth, 1606)
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
"Close him up," Jo instructed Levy, who presently began to seal the incision on Mitchell's chest. She left the sterile operating room, stripping her latex gloves and removing her surgical mask as she did so.
Although Jo had been subconsciously aware that the world might end at any moment during the procedure, she had remained the consummate professional throughout and completed the operation. If nothing else, it had offered a distraction from the horrors taking place outside the room.
Now she was left with the knowledge that, in spite of everything, she'd done her best. There was no point wondering whether she could have done better. What would have been a complex operation at the best of times had been made all the more difficult by the extreme circumstances in which she'd found herself. Operating under the scrutiny of two impassive Secret Service agents for one thing.
She ran a hand through her tangled, greasy black hair, craving a hot shower but knowing that hot showers might be an extremely rare luxury for a while. Straightening her cramped spine, she took a deep breath before heading for the waiting room.
She found Margaret sitting on a molded plastic chair with her head bowed. The First Lady was exactly where Jo had left her prior to the operation. With her were her two Secret Service bodyguards plus Jefferson and McGuire. Jo hadn't seen the last two individuals before, but thought nothing much of the fact. Just another two faceless staffers hanging on the President's fate.
Margaret looked up as Jo entered the room, her eyes both hopeful and afraid.
"Mrs. Mitchell," Jo intoned evenly. "I have some news for you..."
GCN STUDIOS, ATLANTA
Sullivan hadn't slept for well over twenty-four hours. He had been on the air when the crisis started late on the previous evening. Other than occasional dashes to the men's room, he hadn't taken a break since. And for the most part, he'd been adlibbing in lieu of a prepared script. That was not easy at the best of times, but in the middle of a nuclear war...
Well, now the accumulated effects of all this were beginning to show. His speech was becoming mildly incoherent, peppered with long pauses and half-finished sentences. His heavy lidded eyes conveyed the exhaustion he felt. And he was running out of reassuring platitudes for his audience. After all, how many ways could you prepare your viewers for the end of the world?
"We're still waiting for news from Russia, still waiting for Russia's response," he was saying. "Waiting is perhaps worse than the event itself, although nobody can know how bad the event itself... itself... well... might be."
As he spoke, viewers saw a harried production assistant appear behind him and slap a sheet of paper on the anchorman's desk. Sullivan picked it up and read it. He started to cry. But they were tears of joy, not of misery. Little did he know it, but it was an image that would become engrained in the national consciousness for years to come.
"Ladies and Gentlemen." The words struggled to penetrate a wall of emotion that had overwhelmed him. "The war... is... is over..."
B-2A BOMBER -- SPIRIT SIXTEEN -- OVER NORTHERN RUSSIA
The first indication Logan had that anything was wrong was by the looping alarm tone in his headset. It told him that a SAM battery had achieved lock-on. McCann received the warning simultaneously. That was when professionalism and training took over.
It didn't matter that the war was supposedly over. Neither did it matter that the B-2's low radar profile supposedly made them undetectable. The only fact that counted at this stage was that somebody on the ground had somehow locked onto them. SAMs are every pilot's worst enemy. Logan and McCann were no exception. And both of them had heard the rumors of a Russian radar system capable of detecting stealth aircraft. Now they knew it to be true.
McCann immediately took evasive action, taking the B-2 into a steep decline, so as to lower its radar profile. At the same time, she broke right, towards the source of the Doppler signal. That was not as crazy as it sounded. Because Doppler signals fan out from their source, they are often less effective at detecting targets at close range.
Logan felt his G-suit inflate against his chest to protect him against the force of the turn. He watched the altimeter drop below 5,000 feet. Meanwhile, the looping tone turned into a shrill, constant hum. The reason for that was made obvious by the graphic representation on his HUD.
"SAM in the air," he told McCann. She already knew.
"Releasing countermeasures," she reported calmly, switching to the ECM panel on her HUD and selecting chaff. As she turned the plane away from the countermeasures, two more SAMs were launched. The second one achieved instant lock-on.
"SAM Three," Logan shouted. "Five degrees south, ten miles." Even as he said it, he knew that was too close. Far too close. The evasive maneuvers McCann was taking had already sacrificed whatever stealthiness they had. The B-2 wasn't a fighter jet, and it lacked the maneuverability of one. It was designed to sneak up on a target, drop its payload and get out; not to evade SAMs or engage in aerial dogfights.
Nevertheless, she wasn't about to give up on this baby until all was lost. The first SAM went after the chaff and was more than two miles aft of the B-2 when it detonated. The second was confused by the thermal signature of the explosion, and did what any self-respecting missile would do under the circumstances and headed straight for the maelstrom. Unfortunately for SAM 2, it failed to distinguish between the heat generated by an explosive warhead and that of a jet engine. By the time it had realized its mistake and attempted to reacquire its original target, it had burned out of fuel. It exploded harmlessly in its bewilderment.
The third SAM, however, was unlikely to make the same mistake. Its turning angle was much sharper than that of the relatively cumbersome B-2, and its optical guidance system wasn't likely to lose its target once it had achieved lock-on. The rate of closure was now more than six hundred miles per hour. At that rate, it would catch them in less than ten seconds.
Upon performing that instant mental calculation, Logan understood the futility of carrying on. The B-2 was one of the more fragile bombers ever built. A 1000lb explosive warhead would rip it to shreds. He didn't intend to be around when that happened.
"That's it," he shouted above the myriad warning tones now filling the cockpit. "Eject Eject Eject..."
"No, one more..."
"That's an order, McCann!" Without another word, he pulled the eject lever. A small explosive charge beneath his seat triggered a mechanism that launched him through the ceiling of the cockpit at tremendous velocity. He heard - rather than felt - the crack of his helmet smashing through the thin layer of cockpit separating him from the cold air outside. Within five seconds, he reached the peak of his ascent and began to fall.
He scanned the sky around him for McCann's chute, but it was nowhere to be seen. In the same instant as he realized she hadn't ejected, he saw a streak of white smoke merge with the doomed stealth bomber. The missile slammed into the fuselage, effectively slicing the plane in half. A split second later, the fuel line ignited, creating a fireball that blew the B-2 into tiny fragments of shrapnel.
McCann was vaporized instantly by the intense heat of the explosion.
"Noooo!" Logan cried into the eerily silent sky. Why had she stayed with the plane? Why hadn't she known when to quit?
He wasn't to know that she had in fact attempted to bail out, but the eject mechanism on her seat had failed for reasons that would never be known. Even if he had known, it would have been small consolation for the loss of his friend and partner.
Logan saw the icy wastelands of Northern Russia emerge through puffy white clouds. Despite his overwhelming sense of anger and helplessness, he tried to reconcile what had happened. Why had the Russians fired without warning when the war was over? His only conclusion was that there were elements of the Russian military that didn't yet know about the ceasefire. Or maybe they did know, he thought, but just didn't care.
The answers would soon become clear enough. His parachute opened at 3,000 feet. As the ground raced towards him, he could see dozens of soldiers and several military vehicles in his drop zone. They were waiting for him to land. He was now an easy target. Logan squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the bullet that would end his life. He hoped Beth wouldn't mind him not coming home. If she was still alive, that was.
But the bullet didn't come, and he felt an inexplicable resentment for that. Why had they killed McCann and not him? Why couldn't the bastards just put him out of his misery?
"Shoot me, you Russian sons-of-bitches!" he cried, his voice echoing through the Arctic skies. "Come on, I dare you! Your mothers are whores! Your children are animals!" And you don't understand a fucking word of English, do you?he thought.
After a descent that seemed to last forever, Logan landed hard in a field and rolled for more than ten yards, precisely as he had been trained. In the abstract, he had always feared bailing out more than the instant death of being blown up by a missile. But when it had come to the crunch, his instinct for survival had overwhelmed all fears. He was relieved to still be in one piece. His relief, however, was tempered somewhat by the sense of grief he felt for McCann. Somebody, somewhere was going to pay for this. Big Time.
He spent a few moments trying to untangle himself from the chute. As he did so, he became aware of foreign voices around him. Russian voices. What a surprise.
When he finally relieved himself of the chute, he found himself laying on his back looking up at three soldiers. They all wore Russian Air Force uniforms. All of them carried assault rifles.
A grim-faced Colonel stepped forward. He was pointing a pistol at Logan's head.
"You are quite correct," the Russian said in heavily accented English. "My motherwas a whore." His deeply recessed eyes were dark with the promise of death, and the thin smile that flickered across his lips chilled Logan to the bone. The Colonel inspected the nametag on Logan's flight suit. And in that moment, Logan knew he was going to die.
"Welcome to Russia, Major Logan."
U.S. CONSULATE, FRANKFURT
Sharp slammed a magazine into a pistol and glanced up at Gellis, whose terrified eyes were fixed on the weapon. They were in the lobby. Around them, the Consulate's Marine guards prepared their firearms and assumed defensive positions for the assault that everybody appeared to be expecting.
The commotion outside the compound was clearly audible as German troops continued their preparations.
"Ever used one of these?" the CIA agent asked, squinting down the barrel as he checked his aim.
"Squeezed off a few rounds on a firing range once," Gellis admitted. "But on a live target?" He shook his head. "Jesus, you don't think it'll really come to that, do you? I mean, they're just trying to scare us, right?"
"Right," Sharp sneered acidly. "If I've learned one thing in the field, it's never to take the enemy's actions or motivations for granted. 'Specially when they've got guns. Here, take this." He handed the pistol to the reporter.
"What about you?"
With a sly grin, Sharp produced another pistol that had been tucked against the small of his back. "I prefer the Baretta nine mil myself. The professional's chosen instrument of extremely ugly death."
Gellis held his weapon delicately, feeling its smooth, cold metal casing. He didn't know whether he could actually pull a trigger on a live target, but figured that he'd find out soon enough. Until now, he'd only ever written about such events, never participated in them.
The CIA agent sensed what was going through Gellis's mind. "Hell," he said, "you'll be fine. Believe me, if it's you or the other guy, you'll find it in yourself to pull that trigger. If not..." He gave a nonchalant shrug. "Then I'll see you in Hell, buddy."
"Perhaps," Gellis admitted, checking his aim just as Sharp had moments earlier, trying to look as if he knew what he was doing. He realized that his hands were shaking. "But could I live with myself afterwards?"
That remark elicited a bitter laugh. "Who cares? To live with guilt, you have to be alive in the first place. Doc Stein taught me that one." His brow furrowed with anxiety. Gellis knew what Sharp was thinking.
"Do you think he pulled it off? Stopped the attack, I mean."
Sharp frowned. "I feel better knowing that he's on the case. He's a stubborn, single-minded son-of-a-bitch. If anybody could stop this thing happening..." His voice trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.
Both men looked up as the Consul-General came running down the staircase into the lobby. His face was alight with a huge smile. He raised his hands to get everybody's attention, not caring that the only people in the lobby were armed men preparing for battle.
"We've just received notification that the war is over," he enthused. "American and Russian forces have ceased hostilities."
An excited murmur emanated from the Marine guards, but it was muted somewhat by the knowledge that they were likely to be killed anyway by the German Army.
Sharp shook his head in wry disbelief. "As I was saying," he remarked to Gellis. "They'll probably make the Doc King of the World for this."
Before Gellis could reply, one of the Marine guards at the front of the lobby called out. "Hey!" He was pointing through the one-way windows that looked out onto Siesmayerstrasse.
Tentatively, the other Marine guards moved forward to see what had attracted their comrade's attention. Gellis and Sharp were at the back of the lobby, and couldn't see what was going on. But they heard somebody laugh. And somebody else made a whooping sound. The excitement became infectious, quickly escalating into something like a jubilant cheer.
And then they heard somebody yell.
"They're falling back! The Kraut sons-of-bitches are falling back!"
Sharp smirked crookedly at Gellis. "I guess they saw you with that gun and got scared."
DISPLACED PERSONS CAMP 404, GILSON CITY, MISSOURI
Word quickly swept the camp that the war was over. But there was no joy, no jubilation, and certainly no sense of triumph. Just the sound, sight and smell of human misery at its apex. Yes, the war was over, but for many of the dead and dying Americans in Camp 404, it hadn't ended soon enough. Nearly everybody here had lost homes, loved ones, body parts and, in many cases, their sanity. Beth could now imagine what the Dark Ages must have been like; although in the Dark Ages, phenomena such as radiation sickness and flashburns hadn't existed, had they?
Nevertheless, Beth couldn't help feeling mildly optimistic about the future. She had an unwavering faith in the human spirit. Mankind had survived the Dark Ages, after all, and had gone on to thrive and prosper. It would survive this ordeal also, she knew. She suspected her optimism was partly fuelled by the slim hope that she might see Martin again. That was assuming he hadn't been shot down over Russia, of course. Momentarily, she considered how they might begin to rebuild their lives, but she reproached herself for the thought. There was no point getting her hopes up until she knew for certain whether he had survived. For all she knew, his body could be scattered all over the Siberian lowlands now. She tried not to think about it, instead distracting herself with the task at hand.
Until today, her experience of medical care had been restricted to attending cuts and bruises. But the range of injuries that she was now being forced to deal with exceeded anything in her wildest imagination, never mind her experience. Some of the injured were so horribly disfigured, they were barely recognizable as humans. In fact, she was astonished that the human body could sustain so much damage and yet still live. She was also astonished that she hadn't felt the urge to vomit in the face of such horrors. As the years passed, she would come to realize that she had merely adapted to her environment. The ordinarily horrific had rapidly become normal.
Most of the officers running the camp were employed by FEMA, the American Red Cross or the Army. But there were also dozens of volunteers such as herself whose only qualifications for the role were that they were healthy and sane. She had heard that there were now more than three hundred staff at Gilman City, attending more than 7,000 'displaced persons'. That number was steadily climbing by the hour, but the increase was tempered somewhat by the death rate. More than 5,000 had died in the camp so far, and many more would join them within the next twenty-four hours. Mass graves were urgently being prepared, in order to limit the risk of Typhoid and Cholera outbreaks. Despite the fervent efforts of the Red Cross, medical supplies were running low and the few fully qualified doctors in the camp were being forced to operate in almost medieval conditions.
Although nobody discussed it openly, euthanasia was becoming an increasingly common practice. Normally, this concept would have been abhorrent to Beth, but even she accepted that the morality of normal times had been distorted somewhat by the conditions of a post-nuclear world. Nevertheless, she was still unable to take a patient's life herself. She didn't think her sanity would survive that.
As she made her way through the ever expanding camp, stepping over human forms and debris, she felt an overwhelming urge to remove her protective helmet. Sure, she knew that she might be exposing herself to radiation by doing so, but surely just a couple of minutes wouldn't hurt. Besides, she was dosed up on Iodine. That should afford her some protection, shouldn't it?
She unzipped the helmet and gently lifted it from her head.
The first thing that struck her was the fetid stench of human excrement and burned flesh; a sickly-sweet smell that reminded her of a barbecue in a sewer. She held her nose and swallowed hard, resisting the urge to vomit. And then she realized that she could also hear much more without the helmet. Mostly a symphony of human distress; the moaning, groaning, screaming, crying. Yet amidst all this, she could also hear the laughter of children playing. The sound both excited and saddened her; excited her because the innocent laughter symbolized hope for the future, saddened her because it provided a reminder of a world lost forever. The end of mankind's innocence.
She found herself drawn automatically towards the source of the laughter. Making her way towards it, she became oblivious to the horrific sights and smells that provided such a stark contrast to the joyful sound.
And then she saw them. Three young children playing tag, chasing each other through the maze of bodies and tents, their faces alive with glee. The sight caused her to weep. It started with a single tear, then another. She sunk to her knees and began sobbing inconsolably, the children oblivious to her anguish.
Will they ever forgive us?
"Bethany."
At first she thought she was imagining the weak voice that summoned her. Was this how it felt to lose one's sanity?
"Bethany."
She turned around. Initially, she had trouble seeing anything through her teary eyes. She wiped them, trying to focus.
"Bethany."
And then she saw the familiar form laying on a blanket a few feet away. She moved towards it, tentative, uncertain. She touched the woman's cheek. Incredibly, she didn't seem badly injured. Just tired.
"Cathy?"
Her mother-in-law managed a weak smile. Her only injury appeared to be a bruised face. Somehow, the tough old Irish bitch had made it. She would survive.
Beth took her into a tight embrace. And then the tears really began to flow. For both of them. Perhaps not everything had been lost after all.
"You should get back to Chicago as soon as you can," Beth said. She was thinking about Martin's older sister Maggie, alone in Chicago with her two kids. Maggie's husband had left her for a younger woman a few weeks' ago. He had gone to live with his lover in what used to be Seattle. Perhaps there is some justice in the world,Beth thought.
Cathy shook her head, an obstinate look on her face. "No. I'm staying here with you. I can't leave you alone, not until Martin gets home."
Beth smiled, although she wasn't sure why. Perhaps she was smiling at Cathy's naïveté. "You and I both know that Martin's probably dead," she remarked, surprised to hear herself say it in spite of her certainty that he had survived. Am I kidding myself or what? "Your place is with the rest of your family. They're going to need you."
Cathy considered that for a moment. She looked around her, taking in the scene of human misery. The truth was that she didn't want to stay in this graveyard for a moment longer than she had to. And she sensed that Beth knew it. Finally, she looked up at her daughter-in-law and said, "Why don't you come back with me? When Martin gets back, that's the first place he'll look."
Beth also looked around her, but what she saw was something quite different. Yes, she wanted to leave. But so did the thousands of people inhabiting Camp 404. But most of them couldn't, for they had no other place to go. She shook her head sadly. "I'm sorry, Cath. My place is here now. These people need me."
"They can do without you."
"Perhaps. But Martin went away to fight for his country, and he's probably dead. I owe it to him to help my country recover. It's what he would want. I've never done anything worthwhile, Cath. I was a banker, a stockbroker. All I did was make rich people a bit richer. Now, for the first time in my life, I've got a purpose. These people have got nowhere to go. I have. So I can't turn my back on them."
Cathy nodded. She understood. "Then I'll stick around for a while, keep you company. Maybe I can even help out a bit."
"I've already told you. Maggie and the kids need..."
Cathy placed her hands on Beth's cheeks, looking deeply into her eyes. "I've lost a son, Bethany. But I've gained a daughter. You're also my family now, and you need me more than Maggie does. I'll go back to Chicago in a month or two. Maggie can cope until then. My sister and brother-in-law are in Chicago. They'll take care of her. She has a family around her; you don't. I'll send her a letter to explain." She paused thoughtfully. "Martin always wanted me to like you. I'm just sorry that I gave you such a hard time. You're a good girl. You didn't deserve that. He'd like to know that we've made our peace. And now it's time for me to make it up to you."
Beth went to protest, but Cathy preempted her with a raised finger.
"No arguments," she said. "I'm from tough Irish stock. I won't take any shit. Now tell me what I can do to help out around here."
Beth smiled, and then giggled. The giggle became a hearty, teary laugh that bordered on hysteria. Cathy stared at her in puzzlement.
LAWRENCEVILLE, NEW YORK STATE/MARYLAND BORDER
Betsy frowned, as if in pain. "I'm dying for a pee," she complained. "Can't we stop somewhere?"
"Have you seen anywhere open?" Hilary snapped. "'Cos I sure as hell haven't. Cross your legs or something."
That attracted a hostile glare. "You're just lucky I'm not incompetent," she snapped. "Otherwise I'd do it right here."
"Incontinent," Hilary sighed irritably. "And that's something that only happens to old people," she added, not imagining that some might consider a seventy-five year old womanold .
Hilary was vaguely aware that they were running low on gas, but at the same time she had an unwavering faith in her old car. It had never let her down before, had it? Besides, if she told Betsy that she was running low, that would only give the old bag something else to whine about. In fact, Hilary was becoming tired of her friend's whining. I want to pee... I'm hungry... I'm tired... I want to go home... I want I want I want... It was like looking after a child.
She saw some lights on the road ahead of her. Not lights like those of traffic. These lights were stretched across the entire road, and didn't seem to be moving. She leaned forward and squinted, her eyesight not what it had once been.
"What now?" Betsy scowled. And then she saw it too. "Looks like a road blockage. I saw this on a movie once. They're probably looking for a murderer or something."
As they got closer, Hilary saw that there were half a dozen vehicles parked long ways across the road. She slowed down. A man in Army uniform stepped forward, raising his hand as if ordering them to stop. Hilary did so and wound down her window as he made his way to the side of the car. He bent down to the window, resting one hand on the roof.
"Hello, Ladies," he smiled, actually quite relieved that he was not having to deal with anything more threatening than a couple of kindly looking grannies. There had been reports of rogue gangs testing the resolve of National Guard units at checkpoints all over the country. He hadn't personally encountered any yet, but he was certain it would be only a matter of time.
"Hello, young man," Hilary smiled back. "Are you looking for a fugiteer?"
"Huh?"
"A fugitive, she means," Betsy corrected, glancing disapprovingly at Hilary. "You'll have to excuse my friend. She's a bit dim sometimes."
The officer frowned in puzzlement, deciding not to answer the rather odd question. "Um... Where are you ladies heading?"
"Connecticut," Hilary told him. "My Judy said we should go there. Perhaps you know her. She's very important. Works for the President."
"Oh God," Betsy sighed, "you don't miss an opportunity, do you? The whole darn world knows your Judy works for the President. My son works for the government too. He's real important." She was referring not to Harry, who worked for the Los Angeles Post, but to her eldest son.
"So where is he now, eh?" Hilary snapped. "When was the last time you heard from him? I've never even seen him visit you. I suppose you're going to tell me he's some kind of spy or something."
Betsy sneered haughtily. "He's always abroad. That's why you never see him around. But he writes to me all the time. Naturally, I can't tell you what he does. It's all need to know. Very top secret." The truth was that Betsy didn't really understand what he did either.
Watching the two women bicker, the amused officer ran a hand through his brush cut, thinking,just wait until I tell the guys about this one . He was almost reluctant to interrupt, but he had a job to do. "I'm sorry, ladies. All Interstate travel has been banned by Presidential order."
Betsy folded her arms and allowed herself a self-satisfied grin. "There you go. Maybe your Judy isn't so smart after all. She tells you to go north, and then the President tells us we can't. I don't know why I listened to you in the first place."
"Listen, young man," Hilary said firmly to the officer, as if addressing a small child. "My daughter is very important, and she says we should go to Upstate New York. Now I demand an explanation. What the hell is going on?"
"The war, Ma'am. It's..."
"War?" Betsy exclaimed. "Don't be silly. That's on the other side of the world."
The officer shook his head. Just my luck, he thought. I've found the only two people on Earth who haven't got a clue what's going on. "Didn't you know?" he said, visibly perplexed. "Our nation's been attacked with nuclear weapons. We're at war."
Comprehension dawned on Hilary. She raised her eyebrows disapprovingly at the officer. "I know what's going on here," she said conspiratorially, wagging her finger at him. "You're a drug addict, aren't you? Oh yes, I know about what young people do." She turned to Betsy and whispered. "There's this drug called LCD. It causes young people to imagine things."
"Don't be stupid," Betsy sneered, pointing at the officer. "He's a soldier. Look how immaculate his uniform is. He wouldn't take LCD. I doubt he'd even take Aspirin." She smiled kindly at the soldier. "'Specially with atonomic bombs going off all over the place. Isn't that right, young man?"
"Er... yes, Ma'am," he said, hesitating. "Listen, perhaps you might want to try the back roads. It's just the Interstates that are closed. Or even head for Baltimore. You'll find out more information there."
Hilary's eyes brightened with comprehension as she recalled what Judy had told her. "Oh, yes, of course. The war. Atonomic bombs. The Japs have attacked us." She nudged Betsy. "The Japs."
Betsy scowled angrily. "Darn it. They just never leave us alone do they? Well, Hil, we beat 'em before. We'll do it again. Thanks to young men like this one," she beamed at the young soldier. "I bet the Japs aren't so smartly turned out. Slitty-eyed little runts."
The officer looked down at his combat fatigues, slightly embarrassed. "Thank you, Ma'am. Now, as I said, if you head back to Baltimore and..."
Betsy cut him off. "You don't know of anywhere I can pee, do you?"
FEMA GOVERNMENT BUNKER, MOUNT WEATHER
There were two broadcasting studios within the Mount Weather complex, each of them decorated to suit a different mood. One was an exact replica of the Oval Office; the other adorned with austere oak paneling and lined with books. Given that the White House had been destroyed, it was the latter set that Halligan chose from which to make his first address to the nation. It would be broadcast live on every radio wavelength, digital and terrestrial television channel in the United States and many other nations.
The director counted down from five to one. Mounted high on a wall behind the camera was a small yellow bulb above a plastic sign captioned 'ON AIR'. The bulb lit up. Halligan knew that the eyes of the world were now on him.
"Hello, my fellow Americans," he began, "and to all those watching around the world. For those of you who don't know me, my name is George Halligan, Speaker of the House of Representatives. For the time being, I am Acting President of the United States, and it is in that capacity that I address you on this most tragic of days.
"First, let me begin by explaining how I come to be here. As you may know, President Mitchell has been undergoing emergency surgery for a suspected heart condition. In his absence, Secretary of Defense Paul Nielsen assumed the responsibilities of Acting President. However, for reasons that shall become clearer in the days and weeks to come, Mr. Nielsen has been duly relieved of command. So here I am.
"Many of you watching will have lost homes, loved ones and livelihoods in the nuclear attack that has left both our country and the Russian Federation severely damaged. I too have lost loved ones. My wife and two children. So I know what many of you are going through. The grief, the heartache, the emptiness. You might be asking yourself why such a terrible event has happened, and how it could have been allowed to happen. I also ask myself these questions. I wish I had an answer, but I don't.
"The fact is that America has survived this ordeal. We may be bloodied, but we're still alive. Less than half an hour ago, I negotiated with my Russian counterpart an immediate cessation to hostilities. As I speak, both American and Russian nuclear bombers are returning to their respective bases, although forces on both sides remain on extremely high alert. We are working with the Russian government to reduce alert levels to peacetime status at the earliest possible time. There is no point pretending. Our nation has been severely crippled by this awful conflict. Houston, Seattle and Washington D.C. are gone. Hundreds of towns and villages will be uninhabitable for many years, due to blast and radiation effects. Russia has sustained equally calamitous damage. But we can take some consolation in the knowledge that it could have been far worse. The damage is severe, but it could have been total.
"Although the war is over, some aspects of our daily lives will remain changed for at least the foreseeable future. The United States of America still exists under a State of Emergency, and the Government is operating under certain extraordinary powers. For the time being, Interstate travel is restricted to military and essential personnel only. Commercial domestic and international flights will be heavily curtailed. Economic mechanisms have been frozen at pre-war status. Strict rationing of food, fuel and medical supplies will continue. Civil disorder and crime will be dealt with harshly, as will black marketeering and hoarding. Over the coming days, you will receive information from your local authorities concerning details of each of these measures, among others, and how they affect you.
"America was built on the indomitable spirit of its people. Those who pioneered our great nation did so by working together, by harnessing their resources and by treating with compassion those less fortunate than themselves. And these qualities will ensure that, once again, the United States of America prevails and prospers.
"The war is over. Now the recovery begins. For the first time in its history, the American mainland has been directly attacked by a foreign power. But, as we face the tough times ahead, let us not do so with bitterness and hate. Let us do so with hope and forgiveness. Today is not the end of the American story, merely the beginning of a new chapter.
"Wherever you are, Good night, God bless you. And God bless the United States of America."
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
Jo had seen it so many times in the eyes of relatives. The hope, the fear, the numbness. That was one aspect of her job with which she had never quite felt comfortable; the knowledge that her words were capable of invoking such extreme emotion. Of destroying lives, hopes and dreams.
She faced the First Lady just as she had thousands of relatives before. It was no easier, no harder than ever; a fact that struck her as somewhat ironic considering how many people had already died today.
"It was a difficult operation," she began. "And it wasn't made any easier by the delay in obtaining treatment. Your husband's chances of survival were fifty-fifty at best."
Margaret's brow knotted in anxiety. Her jaw slackened as she braced herself for the news that she had just become a widow.
Jo took a deep breath. "But I think he's going to be just fine," she smiled.
Margaret didn't cry, didn't smile. She simply relaxed. Her posture loosened and she closed her eyes in quiet relief. Having already prepared for and faced the worst, the news that Jo had just delivered came as a bonus to what she had been expecting.
Jo placed a hand on the First Lady's shoulder. Margaret looked up at her from beneath heavy eyelids.
"So is yours," she remarked.
"Huh?"
"Your husband is going to be just fine too."
Jo gave her a quizzical look. Before she could say anything, a figure appeared before her. He had somehow sneaked into the room without her noticing. He had always been good at that.
"So where were you while we were saving the world?" he chided, a corner of his mouth curling into a mischievous grin.
"Lewis?" It took a moment to register. She covered her mouth in shock. "I thought Margaret... I mean, Mrs. Mitchell said you were on the President's plane."
"They threw me off." He shrugged. "Something about not having a valid boarding pass. Hell, saving the world is easier when your feet are on the ground anyway."
Jo ran over to her husband and threw her arms around him, finally allowing her emotions a release. She sobbed into his shoulder; tears that contained grief for what had been lost and relief that it hadn't been worse. Relief that she and her husband had survived. Until that moment, she hadn't realized how much emotion had been festering inside her. Once she started crying, she didn't know whether she could ever stop. Lewis understood. He'd been bottling up a few things himself. But no more.
He gently brushed a loose fringe from her face and kissed her forehead.
"It's over," he whispered. "They called it off."
Jo didn't care. Even if nuclear apocalypse was about to engulf the world, at least she would die in her husband's arms. "I love you," she told him.
Lewis felt his heart skip a beat; a feeling he hadn't had for a long time. Not since -
-forever . For the first time in years, he felt his eyes moisten. It was a strange feeling.
"I love you too," he said. "I never stopped loving you, you know."
Through her tears, Jo began laughing hysterically.
Lewis's brow furrowed in concern. "What is it, babe?"
"I was just thinking," she giggled. "We're probably going to end up married again, you know that?"
He slapped his head mockingly. "Oh, damn. Then maybe we'd better stop hugging like this. You know what a grind marriage is."
Jo looked into her ex-husband's eyes and smiled lovingly. "I couldn't stop holding you even if I wanted to."
"Me neither," he beamed.
"So what happens now?" she asked him, not sure whether she was referring to their relationship or to the world in general.
Lewis considered that for a moment. He glanced at the First Lady, who was also looking at him as if he had all the answers. Finally, he shrugged. "I guess we do what people have done in bad times throughout history. We lick our wounds, brush ourselves down and plan our recovery."
Jo looked at him quizzically, wondering whether Lewis wasn't just being hopelessly naïve. But the more she considered it, the more she realized that perhaps it really was that simple. In less than twenty-four hours, The Bomb had outmoded modern ideologies such as political correctness and sexual politics. In a sense, mankind would now have to revert to its base instincts in order to survive. In the aftermath of nuclear war, the world needed leaders with guts and common sense. People who could shed themselves of ideological baggage and focus on the simple solutions that would be needed. People like Lewis, she realized.
"It's not going to be easy," Margaret mused. "It's going to be painful. We're in uncharted waters here."
"Recovery is always painful," Lewis reminded her, taking Jo's hand in his own. "Believe me, I know a thing or two about that. But adversity does have a tendency to bring out the best in human nature."
"And the worst," Jo reminded him.
"Admittedly," Lewis agreed. "But I think that we've already seen the worst and survived it. Now we've got a world to rebuild. That requires an element of hope, don't you think?"
Jo raised her eyebrows. "Is this optimism I hear? From the same Lewis Stein who's always been so cynical about human nature? My, how you've changed."
Despite Jo's facetious tone, Lewis was deadly serious. He looked at her.
"Yes I have," he admitted. "A lot of things have changed. I guess we'll just have to get used to them."
"The bitterest tears shed over graves are for things left unsaid and deeds left undone."
(Harriet Beecher Stowe)
90thSPACE WING, WARREN AFB, WYOMING
Pearson was breathing heavily against his racing heart. As much as he wanted to escape the steel and concrete tomb that had been his home for the past twelve weeks, he wasn't sure whether he really wanted to see what was outside. At least in the capsule, he had been protected from the abject horrors of nuclear war's aftermath.
It had taken Pearson and Kurato more than two days to dig a route up to the ground-level entrance passage. Neither of them had wanted to, but they hadn't been left with much choice. Their supplies had all but run out. So now they found themselves in full NBC gear, standing at the massive steel blast door. It was all that separated them from the ravaged world beyond.
Pearson could see his trepidation mirrored in Kurato's face, although she would never admit to being afraid. They had both constantly been asking themselves the same questions since the war started three months' ago. What if they were the only two people left alive? What would become of them? How would they survive? Would they want to?
"On the count of three," Kurato said, her voice quivering. Pearson helped her push against the blast door. "One, two..."
"Three!" The door reluctantly opened a few inches. Daylight poured into the dimly illuminated hallway, causing both of them to squint. It was the first natural light either of them had seen in three months. Pearson's first reaction was that at least daylight seemed to have proved wrong the theory of nuclear winter. Small graces.
The door refused to open more than about ten inches, no matter how hard they pushed and grunted against its immense weight.
"Something must be blocking it on the other side," Kurato pointed out.
"No shit. Can you squeeze through there?" Pearson knew he must have put on about fifteen pounds while in the capsule. There was no way he could've made it through the narrow gap.
"I... I think so." The exertion of heaving against the door had left her breathless. Neither of them had had much conventional exercise down in the capsule.
She pulled in her chest - which was mercifully small - and squeezed through the ten-inch gap, scraping her head on the steel airlock as she did so.
"There's a lump of concrete blocking the door," she called back from the outside. "I think I can move it."
Pearson heard her grunting as she shifted the heavy obstacle. She was sweating profusely inside her NBC suit and couldn't muster the strength to move it more than a few inches. That would have to do.
"Okay, you push, I'll pull."
"Count of three?"
This time the door opened enough to allow Pearson through.
His first sight of the post-nuclear world was nothing less than he had expected. Nothing remained of Warren. A crater more than a hundred feet wide and fifty feet deep started about twenty yards away from the capsule entrance, and covered the territory where a complex of buildings and hangars had once stood. Scorched rubble provided the only indication that the area had ever been anything less than a radioactive desert. Violent black-gray clouds rolled low in a crimson sky. Suddenly, Pearson was overwhelmed by a sense of solitude. Was all of America like this?
"How many warheads hit us, do you think?" Kurato asked vaguely, her eyes sweeping the wasteland for any sign of life.
"Does it matter?"
Pearson briefly wondered how his fellow launch officers in Warren's other capsules had fared. The prospect that he and Kurato might be Warren's sole survivors only served to accentuate his sense of loss. Maybe the others had already left their posts. Maybe they had been buried alive. As he looked incredulously at the crater, he came to the conclusion that their corpses were most likely decomposing beneath his feet. That thought occasioned an involuntary shudder.
"Come on," Kurato said. "Let's get out of this graveyard."
They began to head south, for that seemed as good a direction as any. Neither of them said a word to each other as they took in their surroundings - or lack thereof. The bombs had left absolutely nothing of any recognizable value. No highways, no telephone poles. Not even a goddamn tree. They had terraformed Wyoming into a bleak wilderness.
For two hours, they walked in a straight line away from the crater. Kurato periodically checked her Geiger counter in the vain hope that it would be safe enough to remove her helmet. She was perspiring heavily in the mid-afternoon sun. Well, at least they hadn't destroyed that, she thought. Nevertheless, the counter barely dipped below seventy rads; still far too high for unprotected exposure.
Both of them knew that the time would come when they would have to remove their protective clothing. And then their fates would be at the mercy of the Gods. Pearson badly needed to urinate, but he distracted himself with abstract thoughts rather than face the dilemma of whether to remove his suit or piss in it. Neither prospect seemed particularly attractive.
The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that both of them were damned. They had been damned to live in a world of the damned. If there was anybody left out there, they wouldn't be so...
"There!" Kurato cried, her voice charged with enthusiasm. "Look."
Pearson followed her pointed finger to the western horizon, squinting against the sun. He could make out a series of moving shapes about a mile away. They might have been people, except for -
- the glint of sun on metal.
"It's a goddamn convoy," he yelled. "That's life out there, Kurato." He leaped into the air and whooped. Kurato threw her arms around him in relief. For a moment, they hugged each other and allowed themselves to forget the reason they were so excited.
"Come on," Kurato said. "Let's check it out."
They jogged across the barren land towards the convoy, their ebullience charging them with enough energy to cover the distance in relatively little time. It still seemed like an eternity to them, however, before they were in sight of the vehicles, which were moving at a forty-five degree angle towards them.
By now, Pearson could make out the distinctive shapes of APCs and jeeps. The colors confirmed his initial suspicion that they were military vehicles. He wondered whether it was an apparition. But how could it be? Kurato saw it too.
The convoy slowed to a halt.
"They've seen us," Kurato panted. "They're stopping for us."
A figure in white NBC gear identical to their own climbed out of one of the jeeps and began to stride purposefully towards them. By the time they reached him, both were out of breath, but that owed as much to excitement as it did to exhaustion.
"I'm Colonel Daniel McDermott, U.S. Army," the man announced. He had the deep, confident tone of a man accustomed to command. "Who the hell are you?"
Pearson was keen to answer. "Captains Nick Pearson and Holly Kurato, U.S. Air Force. And it's damn good to see you, sir."
McDermott paused. "Air Force? What the dickens are you doing out here, son?"
"We've just come from Warren, sir," Kurato told him, stuttering as she attempted to regain her breath.
"Warren? You mean there are people still alive out there? We're just on our way there now to conduct a damage assessment."
"I wouldn't bother, sir," Pearson told him. "Ain't nothing left there 'cept for a big smokin' hole. Must've got hit pretty bad. You're the first person we've seen in three months."
"Hold on, what are you talking about? Three months? I think you'd better start at the beginning, son."
He clearly didn't get it, Pearson thought. "We're ICBM launch officers, sir. We've been underground since it happened. I don't know if any of the other crews made it, but we're alive. We're here."
"Jesus fuck-a-duck," McDermott could be heard to mutter behind his protective mask. "You kids must've gone through hell, not knowing what's been going on an' all."
"That's for sure," Kurato snorted, thankful that the Colonel couldn't see her disdainful expression.
"Is it over?" Pearson asked him, before his partner had the chance. "Did we win?"
"It's over," McDermott nodded. "As for who won... well, America's still alive. It ain't as bad as you probably think it is. Most of the cities escaped unharmed. Hell, half the country has still got cable. I think we'd better take you kids in for debriefing. You'll have all your questions answered soon enough."
"Yes, sir."
McDermott ordered one of the jeeps in the convoy to take Pearson and Kurato to the nearest functional Air Force facility. And that was the last they ever saw of him. It was also the last time either of them wore an Air Force uniform. After debriefing, both of them took up the offer of extended leave. But neither Kurato nor Pearson had any intention of ever returning to duty. After six months, they resigned their commissions and moved to Florida.
After seven, they were married.
PRESIDENT'S OFFICE, PHILADELPHIA
It wasn't quite the Oval Office, but it was as good a place as any from which to organize the recovery of a nation. In fact, President Mitchell preferred his new residence to the White House. It seemed somewhat less formal, and certainly not as claustrophobic. That would change, he imagined, as soon as the machinery of America's government began to creak into action again.
But, until then, he had almost unprecedented freedom from the normal grind of politics to concentrate on rebuilding his country. That was no easy task. The logistics were a nightmare, and would have been complicated even more were the nation not still under a State of Emergency. Martial Law wasn't a concept with which Mitchell felt comfortable, but it was a necessary evil for the time being.
Offers of aid had been pouring in from other friendly nations, including the new German government, which had now devolved from the European Union. The French were another matter. For the moment, they seemed quite happy to skulk in shame. That would have to change, Mitchell knew. He would speak to Winterburn about how to encourage them back into the international community again.
The knock on his door prompted him to check his watch. Jesus, is it that time already? How time flies when you're busy... That was another notable difference from the White House. In Washington, he would have had an army of aides and advisors to organize every aspect of his life; from ensuring that he visited the toilet regularly to ensuring he was meticulously prepared for every meeting in his diary. In Philadelphia, however, the President's visitors could just knock on his office door irrespective of anything so pedantic as a schedule. That was not to say that security was any less tight - indeed, the Secret Service were more protective than ever - just that the machinery around him was less regimented.
He straightened his tie and stood up, folding his hands behind his back.
"Come in."
As soon as Lewis entered the room, Mitchell noticed that he had lost a good ten pounds since last they met. With his formerly lank hair cut into a functional crew, he looked at least ten years younger. His face wore a tight grin, but there was no intensity in the eyes any more. Just a fierce intelligence. For the first time since the President had known him, Lewis looked at ease with himself. Mitchell wondered what kind of man could go through such extreme transitions of mood without losing his sanity.
"Lewis, you're looking great. It's good to see you."
"It's good to see you too, sir. You're looking pretty good yourself." They shook hands.
Mitchell gestured him into a seat. "Would you like a drink?"
"Water, please."
Mitchell raised an eyebrow at that.
"I'm dry, sir. Have been for three months."
"Congratulations. I imagine that Jo has had some influence there."
Lewis chuckled. "Actually, sir, it was my decision. But you're quite correct. She'd crucify me if she smelled alcohol on my breath again."
The President fetched him a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator, and a can of Diet Coke for himself. He slumped into his chair opposite Lewis.
"So, howis Jo?"
"She's good, sir. Actually, she's great. Funny how it took a nuclear war to reconcile us," he added thoughtfully. After a pause: "She asked me to remind you to take it easy. You know..." Lewis patted the left side of his chest. "That was a near miss you had, sir. I'm surprised you've returned to a full time schedule so quickly."
Mitchell huffed his cheeks. He'd had this lecture several times from Margaret. "I have responsibilities, Lewis. To hell with my ticker." He gestured at the window behind him. "There are people out there suffering far worse injuries than a heart problem and they don't get a break, do they? I have a commitment to them. Who else is going to do it? My Veep is dead, Halligan's busy reconstituting the Executive Branch, and Nielsen will never hold public office again. Besides, I'll be okay so long as I have good doctors checking up on me every day and the love of a good woman to keep me strong."
"I know that one, sir," Lewis said. "It makes a difference to have someone like that behind you. Sometimes I wonder how I ever blew it with Jo the first time around." He shrugged. That was ancient history now, wasn't it? Like a lot of things. "I'll tell you something though. I'm never letting go of her again."
"You'd better not," the President warned jokingly, "otherwise I'll set Margaret onto you."
"Now that's a threat I don't relish," Lewis chuckled.
"You've probably got some idea why I invited you here today." Business.
Lewis knew exactly why he'd been invited, but rocked his head in a noncommittal fashion, not wanting to appear too presumptuous.
Mitchell sipped from the can of Coke and placed it on his desk. "We may have survived the war, but there are some tough times ahead of us. Some tough challenges. There will be individuals and nations seeking to take advantage of a weakened America. People who have awaited such an opportunity for years."
Lewis nodded in agreement. "I could think of a few suspects, sir, yes."
"Well, it's no secret that foreign affairs have never been my forte. I need a good National Security Advisor to help me identify and deal with those who wish to further damage our country. I need somebody who is above politics, somebody with integrity who will serve the nation's best interests. Let's just say that your name was at the top of an extremely short list, and that you passed your probationary period with flying colors. So. There it is. The job's yours if you want it."
Lewis's instant response didn't surprise Mitchell. "Sir, that is the most flattering offer anybody's ever made to me. But I hope you won't be offended if I decline. I'm afraid I've already committed to another job."
The President already knew about that. He hadn't realistically expected Lewis to change his mind, but it had been worth a try. "The UN Committee for Decommissioning of Nuclear Armaments, right?"
"Correct. It's something I believe strongly in, and I believe I'll be able to make a difference. We've got some tough work ahead of us, ensuring that every nuclear power in the world scraps its weapons, but I think it can be done. The thing is, I don't want my kids ever to have to face what we went through a few months ago. And as long as those things exist, there's a danger of it happening again. Right?"
Mitchell smiled wryly. "You know, a year ago, I might have called such comments naïve and idealistic. Treasonous even. But that was before I understood the true nature of treason, and before I realized that we were the naïve ones; those of us who accepted nuclear weapons as a fact of life without respecting the inherent dangers of their existence."
"If it's any consolation, sir, you weren't alone in that belief. I'm not a religious man, as you know, but if there is a God he gave us a second chance. We have to use it, because I don't know if we'll get a third."
The President nodded sympathetically. The same thought had crossed his mind on more than one occasion. America had survived, but only barely. And even now, it was by no means certain that it would continue to survive in any recognizable form. Because of the terrible events of three months earlier, his grandchildren would grow up in a world very much different from the one in which he had been raised. Whether that world would be better or worse than that which had preceded it was still debatable. But it would certainly be different.
"You know, you don't have to look far for a truly great National Security Advisor," Lewis remarked hesitantly. "Somebody who possesses all the qualities you require, and somebody who's a hell of a lot smarter than me. You're married to her."
"I know," Mitchell said, having already reached the same conclusion himself. "Back in Washington, all that prevented me appointing her as Bert Aldick's replacement were political considerations. The Hill would've never forgiven me, and it would've looked too much like nepotism to the media."
"In case you hadn't noticed, sir, politics are on hold at the moment. The Hill is a pile of charred rubble. And, for the time being, you don't have to worry about what the media think of you. Use that freedom, because I guarantee it won't last."
"Thank you for your advice, Lewis. Brutally honest as always."
Lewis allowed himself a modest smile. "As you say, there are some tough times ahead and some dangerous people out there who are probably plotting at this very moment to take advantage of the situation. But my job now is to make sure that the world is a little less dangerous than it was. You do understand that, don't you?"
"Of course I do. I never seriously expected you to return to government service anyway. And you mustn't feel like you have any obligation to do so. America, indeed the whole of mankind, owes you an eternal debt. Unfortunately, the full story of what happened will probably never be made public in our lifetimes."
"That's okay, sir. I'm used to being an anonymous hero," Lewis mused. "I prefer things that way. I don't get harassed by autograph hunters when I go shopping."
"There are many people who over the years have contributed to our nation without ever receiving public recognition. It looks like you'll be one of them. But everybody who knows what happened will never forget the role you played. If ever you feel the need to come back inside, you can pretty much pick whatever job you want. Perhaps when you've finished with the Commission."
"Perhaps. But I doubt it. Once I've finished this job, I want to do what I should've done years ago. Settle down with Jo and start a family. Live a normal life; two cars, two kids, a dog, that sort of stuff. If you'll pardon the phrase, anuclear family ."
Mitchell laughed aloud at that. Humor - even black humor - had been unsurprisingly rare lately. "I always did admire your British sense of irony. Don't ever lose it."
"I don't know how to do things any differently, sir."
As he stood to leave the room, Lewis shook the President's hand warmly. Even though they would probably never work together again, the mutual respect and fondness would last for the rest of their lives.
"If we need your expertise again, Lewis..."
Lewis cocked his head to one side and grinned slyly. "You've got my phone number, Mr. President."
DISPLACED PERSONS CAMP 404, GILSON CITY, MISSOURI
Beth was gently attending to a teenage girl whose legs had been horribly burned when a man's voice caused her to freeze.
At first, she thought she was imagining it. The result of too many sleepless nights, being kept awake by the desperate moans and wails of the injured and dispossessed. Perhaps the first shadows were encroaching upon her sanity. She had seen it happen to so many other ordinary people over the past few weeks, so why not her? She returned her attention to the girl, who didn't yet know that both her parents had died of radiation sickness two days' ago and were now joining thousands of others in one of the mass graves five miles to the south of camp 404. The girl wouldn't last much longer herself, Beth knew. She was already in the final stages of radiation sickness. All Beth could do was to try and make her last few hours as comfortable as possible.
Beth ran a hand through her tangled, greasy hair, aware that she must smell like shit. What she wouldn't have given for a shower right now. But, like many aspects of everyday life, showers had become largely a thing of the past. Those who had survived the Third World War were having to come to terms with some harsh new realities. An America that had never wanted for food, shelter or wealth had in a period of weeks been reduced to little more than a second rate nation. It would rise again, she knew. For the determination and fortitude upon which America had been built was still embodied by those who had survived the nation's darkest hour. But it would be some time before hot showers and plentiful food returned in abundance. Such luxuries belonged to another world.
Like Martin, she thought.
Beth had heard nothing of him since that awful night when she had watched him drive away from the house for the last time. Although a stubborn part of her still refused to accept it, she knew that Martin was dead. Had to be. Probably scattered all over Russia, or floating in the upper stratosphere. The knowledge didn't trouble her as much as it should have done. She reflected that he was better off dead, not having to witness this carnage. Consolation came in the hope that the end had been painless for him.
Cathy, another widow, had returned to Chicago a few weeks after the war. She had pleaded with Beth to go with her, but Beth had refused. She still had work to do, people that depended on her. Chicago survived. So did New York, Los Angeles and San Francisco. But not Independence. Not Kansas City. And not any of my friends who lived there.
The voice called her again.
"Beth."
This time, she surrendered to the temptation to look up. At first, all she could see was a silhouette, shadowed by the harsh crimson sky that had become a normal atmospheric feature since the war. Even when she squinted against the glare, she couldn't make out the facial features.
But the figure's shape and voice were unmistakable.
She stood up.
She looked into the man's eyes and saw that they were moist with tears.
"Let's go home, honey," he said.
She embraced her husband.
TEMPORARY HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES, PHILADELPHIA
With the proceedings only five days' old, the Congressional Inquiry into the Nuclear War had become the most eagerly anticipated legal hearing in history, and today was the day that Dr Lewis Stein and David Sharp were to give their depositions. It was anticipated that both testimonies would prove damning to Paul Nielsen, who was facing charges of treason, war crimes and abuse of command.
Many of the questions that would be asked of Lewis and Sharp could only be answered behind closed doors, for reasons of National Security. Such questions largely concerned nuclear launch protocols and operational matters. But the fact that much of the trial would remain classified did nothing to dampen public enthusiasm. The public wanted someone to blame for the war. A bad guy. Better that it was someone recognizable.
Unfortunately for him, Paul Nielsen was perfectly suited to the villain's role.
An electric buzz filled the old City Hall, which was now the new home of the House of Representatives. Several commentators had noted the irony in America's Government returning to its roots. Philadelphia, after all, had originally been the administrative capital of the United States.
With minutes to go until the day's proceedings began, hundreds of politicians, observers and casual onlookers mingled in the lobby under the watchful eye of Secret Service and FBI agents, working with officers of the Philadelphia Police Department and just a few Marine guards. Lewis had always felt nervous of crowds; too many people to watch at once. But Jo was slowly rekindling his faith in human nature. It wouldn't happen anytime soon, he knew - particularly not while men such as Paul Nielsen existed - but he was learning slowly.
"You look fine," Jo assured him, brushing down his charcoal gray suit. "Don't worry about a thing. You're a hero. Just go in there and tell the truth."
"I always do," he said. "It's not the questions that worry me. It's the cameras. You know I don't like my photo being taken. They'll probably catch me sticking my tongue out or something."
"Then keep your tongue in," she suggested dryly. Whispering in his ear: "Until we get home."
As Lewis felt himself blushing, he heard a familiar voice from behind him.
"Yo, Doc!"
Lewis turned around and smiled warmly as Sharp came striding through the crowd, which seemed to clear a path for him as if he were Moses parting the Red Sea. Gellis was a couple of steps behind him, looking rather uncomfortable with himself. He was more accustomed to reporting on the news, not being part of it.
"Saved any worlds lately?" the CIA agent joshed. "Or is it just me who does that shit now?" To Jo: "You're looking great, honey. Why don't you drop this loser and give me a chance?"
Jo gripped her husband's hand. "I don't think so, pal. Perhaps when I've worn him out, we'll talk again."
Sharp raised his eyebrows and whistled. "Whoa. Sounds like you got a handful there, Doc. No wonder you look so old."
"It's good to see you too," Lewis grinned. He glanced at Gellis, then back at Sharp. "So, I hear you've got a new partner in crime. How do you like Langley, Richie?"
Following their near escape in Frankfurt, Sharp had recommended Gellis to Bishop as a potential candidate for field operations. Actually, it wasn't unusual for the CIA to recruit reporters as agents. After all, they already had many of the key qualities required for the job; the ability to cultivate contacts, sift through mountains of extraneous data and identify things that didn't quite fit. Gellis had an added advantage in that he was fluent in Russian. Now the former journalist was spending six days a week at the CIA's paramilitary training facility in Virginia, and as many evenings with Sharp learning about the less teachable aspects of the job.
"Well, as my mentor keeps telling me," Gellis pointed out, "I'll get to travel to weird places, get shot at and maybe kill the odd bad guy."
"Yeah," Lewis snorted. "Well, don't listen too much to Sharp. He'll probably get you killed in some Marrakech whorehouse."
Sharp feigned an expression of hurt. "You suggestin' I'm a cowboy, Doc?"
"Nah, cowboys can shoot straighter than you."
An elderly woman appeared at Sharp's side. She beamed fondly at Lewis, looking him up and down. His English accent reminded her of a kind, dashing gentleman she'd known many years earlier. Pleasant memories that belonged to another lifetime, when she'd been an attractive young woman coveted by a small army of men.
At first, Lewis imagined that she was just another member of the public, curious to meet the man who had reportedly been instrumental in preventing Armageddon (those were just unsubstantiated rumors, of course). But then Sharp wrapped an arm around her frail looking shoulders.
"I'd like you to meet my mother, Betsy Thomson," he grinned proudly. "Mom, this is Dr Lewis Stein, an old friend of mine."
Lewis gently shook Betsy's hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Thomson. You should be proud of your David. He's served his country well."
"David? Is that what you call yourself now?" She stared at her son, then pinched his cheek, her face glowing with pride. "He's an angel, isn't he? I always knew he'd make something of himself one day. He was such a smart child, you know. Always first in his class."
Sharp - his Texan tough guy image under threat - shifted uncomfortably, failing to prevent a blush from appearing on his face. "Mom, please," he muttered.
Lewis was hamming the moment for all it was worth. "Oh, come on. Your Mom's proud of you. And she's right. You aresuch an angel." He could barely suppress his laughter. Sharp's eyes said it all: You just wait, Stein. You just wait. In the background, Gellis chuckled quietly.
"Listen to the young man," Betsy advised her son. "He's a doctor. He knows what he's talking about."
Jo furrowed her brow in puzzlement. "Pardon me for asking, but I thought your name was Sharp. How is it that your mother has a different surname?"
Lewis whispered the explanation in her ear. "You don't think David Sharp is his real name, do you?"
She raised her eyebrows in comprehension, her mouth shaped into a silent 'O'.
"I'd tell you my real name, but I'd have to kill you afterwards," Sharp added with a dry grin.
Betsy shook her head in annoyance at her son. "Oh, don't be bashful. I think Joey is a lovely name."
Lewis almost doubled up in hysterics. "Joey... Joey Thomson! All these years... I had no idea. Pleased to meet you...Joey ." His chest heaved with laughter.
Sharp glanced at Gellis, who was also laughing heartily. Others in the lobby had turned to see what all the commotion was about. Finally, even Sharp/Thomson saw the funny side. He allowed himself a quiet chuckle. "Okay,Louie . Make the most of it. I'm still a better shooter than you."
In the abstract, Lewis thought it might have been in poor taste to be laughing and joking shortly before giving testimony on one of the darkest events in human history. Yet one of the unexpected effects of the nuclear war was that it wasn't uncommon for people to smile more than they had done previously. Part of that, he imagined, was due to subconscious relief at having survived. But it owed more to a natural desire to escape the reality of what had suddenly become a very grim and foreboding world.
A court official tapped Lewis on the shoulder. "Dr Stein? We're ready."
And now reality beckoned once more.
Lewis took a deep breath to calm his nerves. Jo gave him a good luck kiss and a wink. Then she turned and made for the public gallery.
"Oh well," Lewis said to himself. "Here goes everything."
As he began to walk towards the chamber, Sharp touched his arm to stop him. For once, his expression and tone was deadly serious.
"Make sure that bastard fries for this," he growled.
Lewis stared at him for a moment, nodded thoughtfully, and then walked away.
The first thing of which he became aware upon entering the chamber was the chorus of chatter and tungsten flashbulbs. It took him a moment to realize that the army of cameras was mostly focused on him. He squinted against the bright white light. It reminded him of something that he, like millions of others, would rather forget about.
As he made his way to the stand - which was actually a long wooden bench situated directly in front of the six judges who headed the inquiry - it began to dawn on him that as many as a billion people around the world were scrutinizing his every move and gesture at this moment. So this is what it's like to be famous. And there are people who actually want this? Damn.
Glancing around the chamber, he recognized a couple of familiar faces. Tony Bishop, General Westwood - in civilian clothes - and Jim Reynolds among others. But his eyes were drawn to another bench, directly in front of him where Paul Nielsen was seated between two severe looking FBI agents. Lewis felt his nostrils flare. In the abstract, he had promised himself that he wouldn't let this happen. In reality, however, it was not so easy.
He felt himself being drawn towards the accused. As the former Secretary of Defense began to realize what was happening, a hint of fear crept into his eyes. The FBI agents either side of him stiffened nervously.
Lewis felt something he hadn't felt in a long time. He was back in combat mode; the hunter stalking his prey. He became acutely aware of every muscle in his body; finely tuned components of a lethal instrument working in faultless harmony. His eyes darkened. His jaw stiffened.
Lewis stopped right in front of Nielsen. The former Secretary of Defense stood to face his nemesis, comforted only by the knowledge that the FBI agents either side of him were present to guarantee his safety as much as to prevent his escape.
Lewis and Nielsen stood eyeball-to-eyeball for what seemed like an eternity to the former Secretary of Defense. Lewis felt the need to do this, to look behind the man's eyes. He didn't have any preconceptions about what he'd find. But he needed to know nonetheless. This man had been prepared to incinerate an entire planet purely to satiate his own ego. As a self-taught student of the human condition, Lewis wanted to know why.
But as he clinically scrutinized Nielsen, he sensed neither regret nor bitterness. Instead, he found a broken, disillusioned wretch. Nielsen had aged badly since the war. And now he had no fight left in him, no will. He was weak, pathetic.
Beaten.
As the two men faced each other, a few inches separating them, the cameras began flashing so rapidly that the flashes blurred into an almost constant white light. This was the kind of rare, dramatic moment about which newspaper editors had wet dreams.
Without saying a word, Lewis allowed a self-satisfied sneer to flicker across his thin lips. Then he turned his back and walked away. He sat beside his lawyer, who gave him a quizzical look before turning his attention to the mountain of legal documents before him.
After a few moments, the Chief Justice used his gavel to bring the court to order.
"All rise," he intoned, his voice echoing in the cavernous room.
Lewis stood. The next voice he heard was that of a clerk, who held a copy of the Torah before him. Lewis placed his left hand upon it and raised his right.
"Doctor Lewis Jacob Stein. Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"
"I do."
"Please be seated," the Chairman ordered. "Dr Stein, please be advised that you are now under oath."
Lewis nodded solemnly.
He glanced up at Jo.
She smiled.
And so it began.
CENTRAL ASIA
The complex had always escaped the attentions of orbital satellites. That was no accident. Apart from being blown deep into the granite of a mountain, its sole entrance was located in a deep, narrow valley that afforded both protection and anonymity from satellite reconnaissance. It was from territory such as this that the Mujahedeen had waged its successful campaign against the Soviet Army during the 1980's.
Boasting a sophisticated array of communications equipment and a fearsome arsenal of weaponry, it was nothing short of a fortress. Over two hundred men worked and lived here, all of them unquestioningly devoted to a single cause. More specifically, the cause of a single man, for it was his money that had financed the project for the past decade.
He had made his money in the oil business, dealing with western investors who had treated him as though he were an imbecile peasant. For years, he had smiled politely while they patronized him and insulted his culture. Yet the smile had concealed a simmering rage that had only been contained by the satisfaction derived from taking the westerners' money. It had been a means to an end. And the end was now in sight. In little more than two decades, he had risen from a mere oil billionaire to possibly the world's most feared man. Oh, how the Americans and their vaunted CIA had tried to find him, toneutralize him. And how he had taken pleasure in deceiving them time and time again. Who were the imbeciles now?
They had tried, of course, to freeze his assets. Having anticipated this tactic, he had deliberately left some of his financial links exposed, to fool the westerners into thinking that they were actually doing something to hurt him. But in fact, the vast bulk of his assets were invested globally, through an intricate network of dummy corporations and investment schemes so complex that all the financial acumen in the world couldn't unravel it. The few millions of dollars actually seized by western authorities were as significant to him as an ant to an elephant.
Despite his vast wealth, his living quarters within the mountain hideaway were amazingly sparse, for he didn't crave material possessions. From here, he could monitor any cable channel or radio station on Earth. Although he had teams of translators working for him, sifting through the mass of extraneous information they received every day, he was quite capable of monitoring the world's media himself, fluent as he was in six languages. That was one benefit, he supposed, of an English classical education. He also had allies in the upper echelons of some of the world's most powerful governments. That was another advantage of wealth. His spies were often greedy infidels, but in the final analysis, even infidels served a higher purpose.
For the past three months, he had been carefully monitoring events in America as they unfolded. So. The Great Satan had come to realize the true meaning of suffering. Oh, how the mighty had fallen. A nation built on excess and extravagance was having to come to terms with the brutal reality of the world. He derived some satisfaction from that, but not too much. Unlike many of those who had preceded him, he respected the fortitude and determination of the Americans. Fools like Saddam Hussein and some of Iran's hardline clerics had condemned America as a dying, corrupt power. Yet neither Iran nor Iraq had ever been capable of really hurting America when it counted. Eventually, they had always been forced to settle for aquid pro quo with the Great Satan. In general, those nations who condemned America as weak were usually the weak ones themselves.
He was not like the others, for he had something they had always lacked.
Patience.
And it was that God-given quality that had allowed him the luxury of choosing his moment. When he struck, it would be ruthless and final. He had foreseen that America would suffer a body blow such as it had. And he knew precisely how the next act would play out also.
For Sadek Rahman, it was just a matter of when.
TO BE CONCLUDED...
The story will continue in "Chaos Theory" -- the sequel to Ten To Midnight.
THE LAST WORD
In the foreword at the beginning of this book, I discussed the political aspect of this issue, primarily to set the scene for the story, but also to raise some of my anxieties about the general complacency demonstrated by western leaders where matters of nuclear defense are concerned.
Shortly after completion of the first draft of Ten To Midnight, I launched a website on the World Wide Web (http://tentomidnight.jumpbooks.com)previewing the first seven chapters. I was quite overwhelmed by the response. Many people e-mailed me with questions about the characters featured in this story. Some wanted to know from where the creative inspiration derived. And just a few wanted to offer congratulatory superlatives. As I have promised these correspondents already, they would get their answers in due course.
Now the story has been told, I would like to keep my promise to these folks and take some time to discuss the inspiration for some of the ideas and subplots within this book.
The concept behind TTM originated, believe it or not, from an inebriated conversation in 1992 between myself and a work colleague of mine, Craig Rosenthal. It was the type of conversation that began with "what if?" and quickly snowballed into an alcohol-fired intellectual exercise. At that point in my life, I was beginning many books that would never be completed and would result only in a host of files on my hard drive named "Chapter1.txt" and the like. But one thing that did derive from those scribbles was a life-weary character called Lucas Goldstein; one day to become Ten To Midnight's cynical protagonist Lewis Stein.
For five years, I toyed with the idea of writing a story about nuclear conflict, but I lacked both the inclination and the desire to take on the vast amounts of research required.
It wasn't until the Spring of 1997 when I was signed off work for several weeks with illness that I once again began to contemplate the scenario of nuclear conflict. I storyboarded a plot involving a conflict between the United States and China, and duly threw Lewis Stein into the maelstrom. The story -- then called Balance of Power -- worked, but the politics sadly did not. Once I returned to work, the manuscript was shelved -
- until a year later when I met Lee, the woman who was to become my wife. Herself an avid writer, she read a formative draft of Balance of Power and insisted that it was too good a story not to pursue. After much nagging and cajoling (the kind of stuff at which wives are so adept), I returned to the word processor and got serious with my research. For several months, while I was still living in the UK awaiting my INS approval and she was in Connecticut, we engaged in long, daily transatlantic brainstorming sessions, throwing plot concepts into the mix (and often straight into the bin). In many respects, Lee was my worst critic, particularly since she has never been a particular fan of what one might term the 'technothriller' genre. Yet it is for this reason that I owe her so much. She showed me how to humanize an otherwise severe topic without falling into the trap of concentrating on technical and political abstractions. She also has an extremely graphic imagination. Hence, the horrific vignette in chapter sixteen -- in which we see the post-apocalyptic landscape through the eyes of a priest -- is largely the product of her skewed imagination (cue screams of indignation from Herself). This was one of the last scenes to be written, and is one of my favorite scenes in the book.
In November 1999, I completed what I facetiously refer to as the first draft of the final version of the second form of the manuscript, and to some extent I was sad that this long and winding road had led straight into a cul-de-sac. Which is precisely why Ten To Midnight is to be the first installment of a trilogy. At the time of writing, I have already begun work on the first sequel, Chaos Theory. This story is set five years after the nuclear conflict, with America reduced to the status of a Third World nation and various bad guys around the world hungrily eyeing the fallen giant. Elsewhere, a constitutional crisis is brewing in the UK and a revolution is taking place in Iran. All of these elements are linked in a story that will, of course, reunite such characters as Lewis Stein, Marion Westwood, David Sharp and Richie Gellis. Chaos Theory is to be followed by a final installment, set fifteen years before the beginning of Ten To Midnight. Tentatively called Shades of Gray, this is to be the epic story of Lewis Stein, taking us from his graduation right up to the point where he and Jo separated, in the process answering all the questions about Northern Ireland and Grozny, as well as revealing a few other secrets that I am keeping up my sleeve for now.
Lewis is a composite of various folks I have encountered over the years. My own relationship with him is a strange one. In many ways, he is everything I would like to be, but in others he is everything I am afraid of becoming. It will be difficult to imagine writing a novel without him, although I know that day will surely come. Jo provides the perfect counterbalance to his cynicism. Where he is passionate, she is clinical. Where he is impulsive, she is practical. Where he is weak, she is encouraging. Yet they are hugely interdependent on each other, as we learned in the first third of this story, and that is an element I would like to further explore in subsequent books.
Several people have asked me whether Lewis is based in any way on Tom Clancy's protagonist Jack Ryan. Admittedly, there are similarities. Both are learned academics. Both have served in uniform. Both have a background in intelligence. But that is where the similarities end. Whereas Ryan is a true-blue believer in human faith, Lewis is a life-weary cynic. Ryan is happily married; Lewis's marriage failed due to his alcoholism and depression. Ryan appears to feel comfortable around people from all backgrounds and cultures, whereas Lewis is quite happy to remain a loner, trusting nobody and relying on none.
Unfortunately, the tight chronology and rapid pace of Ten To Midnight's plot did not afford as much license as I would have liked to fully flesh out some of my characters, particularly Richie Gellis, Marion Westwood and Tony Bishop. This is going to be noticeably different in Chaos Theory, which takes place over a nine-month period. Unfortunately, there will be no return for Betsy and Hilary, who served their purpose of providing a comic aspect to an otherwise grim scenario. Actually, they were based on my grandmother Grace and Great Aunt Gladys. Don't we all have relatives such as these?
One of the aspects I so wanted to explore in Ten To Midnight was the effect of an extraordinary situation such as nuclear war on the human psyche and, more specifically, the natural ability of human beings to adapt to a violently altered environment. One of the unforeseen consequences of my fictional universe was that I imagined characters such as Lewis rediscovering their humanity while others lost touch with it. This led me to the conclusion that, in dramatic circumstances such as those surrounding a nuclear war, the strongest characteristics of a human being would become, if anything, more pronounced. In the story, we found that Jo distracted herself from the escalating crisis by becoming even more clinical and professional than usual, focusing on her medical duties and the needs of those around her. Lewis rediscovered who he truly was; a warrior rather than a self-pitying drunk. Nielsen teetered on the brink of insanity as his egotistical quest for glory intensified. Sharp became increasingly facetious. Each of these characters dealt with the terrible situation unfolding around them by reverting further to type and casting aside any social or intellectual barriers that might have restrained them from doing so in normal times.
At the beginning of this story, I set out to convince the reader that the world is as dangerous now, if not more so, than ever. To that extent, only the reader can judge how successful I have been in painting an authentic future history of a war that will hopefully never happen.
There is one final point that I wanted to discuss, and that is the climax to the story. There are three ways that a tale such as this can end. The first involves everybody dying. The second involves everybody living, and then dying anyway. The third, however, is the one for which I finally opted. I opted for a climax that offers hope. I truly believe that, were such a terrible conflict to occur, mankind would pull through in one way or another. It wouldn't be pretty and it wouldn't be pleasant. But I still maintain that there isn't a weapon in existence strong enough to break the spirit of man, nuclear weapons included. Ten To Midnight left its core characters facing an uncertain future in a world very much different from the one to which they had become accustomed. It is for you to imagine what happens to them next.
At least until the sequel spoils your illusions.
Thanks for sticking with the story. Hope it was worth it.
Toby Murray,
Simsbury, Connecticut,
April 19th, 2000

