by Andrew Watts
The president could feel the sweat in his armpits and on his forehead. He didn’t want to make the decision. Tonight was the culmination of a career of military studies and training for these men in uniform. A part of him suspected they almost enjoyed this moment. That it was some sort of glorious climax to end their military careers. The president was annoyed by their eagerness, and by the ease with which they navigated through the heavy jargon and complicated subjects. It was all so unfamiliar to him. But at the same time, he needed their expertise.
“What’s your recommendation, General?”
General Rice said, “A limited strike on their strategic capability. We need to make sure the Chinese can’t escalate. We need to neutralize their ability to launch further nuclear attacks on the US.”
The president shot a glance to his chief of staff. He knew him better than these other men and trusted his judgment.
“Paul?”
“The missiles headed this way could be more EMPs.”
“Unlikely, sir,” said the STRATCOM general on the phone.
The national security advisor said, “Mr. President, EMPs are nuclear weapons. We would be within our rights to respond with our own nukes. Not only that, but EMP weapons are considered first strike weapons. They are meant to mask further strategic attacks.”
The president looked at the NSA with annoyance. “I know that much, for God’s sake.”
The national security advisor said, “Mr. President, I disagree with the general. We need a full-throated response. You could end the war today. We now have information that our military is under attack by Chinese forces in the Pacific, our homeland has been attacked via cyber and EMPs, and there are Chinese military attacks going on within the boundaries of the US. I recommend a full-scale nuclear strike on the Chinese military. No restrictions.”
General Rice shook his head. “Sir, I vehemently disagree. It is critical that we be measured. The use of nuclear weapons must be proportional and targeted appropriately.”
The national security advisor frowned. “Think of the long-term ramifications. We have an advantage now. That could be gone tomorrow. We have the justification we need. This would be a defensive measure—”
General Rice said, “What do you propose? That we wipe out their entire military? Do you know where their military bases are? Do you know how many hundreds of millions of people would be killed? Their population centers are dense and coastal. And a strike of that size would have global implications. Nuclear winter.”
“There were nuclear detonations in Korea!”
“North Korea isn’t the US.”
“Does it matter?”
“Mr. President, we don’t have much more time…”
The voices broke out into arguments.
“…The Russians have thousands of nukes. If they see us launch…”
“…limited strike options. We can attack only Chinese strategic nuclear targets…”
“…simultaneously use backchannel communications with the Russians…”
“I don’t recommend that, sir…”
“…but if we’re trying to reduce risk…”
The president put up his hand, and the room went silent. “If I was to go with the limited nuclear response, what are my options?”
General Rice looked up at the colonel, who held the Football.
The colonel removed three large plastic cards. “Sir, based on the conversation with the National Event Conference, I understand that you wish to pursue a retaliatory strike on the Chinese military using assets from the nuclear triad. Am I correct in that assessment?”
The president nodded. “I’m giving the order. A limited strike.” He removed the ID card from its case, holding it up.
The colonel read a challenge code. He looked up the code on his Biscuit card and responded appropriately.
The colonel looked at General Rice. “Sir, please verify that—”
“I verify that the order came from the president.”
The colonel then nodded and typed the code into the hardened communications device within the suitcase. The message was coded, encrypted, and transmitted around the world via ELF radio transmitters.
The United States had just activated the nuclear triad.
Seconds later, the four General Electric GF-6 engines of Air Force One roared to life as it began making its takeoff from the runway.
4
Lieutenant Ping’s team of Chinese commandos had been specially trained for this mission. They were the elite of the elite. Young and less experienced than their US special operations counterparts, but skilled and determined nonetheless.
Ping’s team had been waiting in a rural section of Maryland for the past week. Twelve shoulder-mounted surface-to-air missiles, the latest generation of Chinese technology, were loaded into the back of two pickup trucks and driven to the top of a hill on the farm property. Ping had received the radio signal to prepare for the EMP detonation. He had quickly instructed his men to wait in their vehicles, eyes trained on the floor, until the event was over.
The flash lasted almost two full seconds. It made no audible sound, over one hundred miles up. But Lieutenant Ping watched as the bright white light of the EMP painted his knees while he sat in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle. When the world went dark again, he began issuing orders.
“Power up the weapons and radar. Check that everything is working.” He hoped that the engineers who had planned for this mission had performed their calculations correctly. It would be a shame if the EMP had wiped out his ability to detect and target air contacts.
“Radar functioning normally. Op checks passed with no flags.”
Ping nodded.
“We are in the window,” the senior enlisted man told Ping.
Ping looked at his watch. Timing was everything. It was possible that they wouldn’t get the opportunity to use their training. But if they did, it could change the war.
A decapitation on day one would send a powerful message. It could throw America into further chaos. He would be a hero.
“Contact!” one of his men shouted. The soldier was monitoring the returns from a hardened laptop computer, connected by wire to a set of six radar dishes, each aimed at the horizon. Together they formed a miniature phased-array. Again, the latest Chinese technology. No expense had been spared for this assignment. Still, it would require a bit of luck. Their mission required Ping’s team to remain undetected. This meant that limited-range shoulder-mounted weapons had to be used.
Would their target venture into the range of these weapons? If the aircraft turned out to sea before acquisition or stayed low and traveled south…they would not get a shot off. But based on the threat, the intelligence experts from Beijing had expected the flight pattern to be to the northwest. Hence their current location in rural Maryland.
Two of his men were kneeling, aiming the shoulder-mounted weapons at the correct angle, and finished with their preparations.
“Stand by,” called out the soldier monitoring the radar. They were each wearing hearing protection, so his voice was muffled.
The officer in charge walked over and stood behind him. He was nervous, double-checking his men’s work even though he knew they almost never made mistakes.
“Target confirmed,” one of the other men said, looking at a satellite phone in his hand. One of their men was sitting in a parking lot only a few miles from the runway where Air Force One had just taken off. “Turning to the north.” Excitement in his voice.
“Coming in range. Almost there…in range.”
“Fire at will,” the officer shouted, louder than he had intended. Nerves.
The night sky lit up, and his ears, even over the hearing protection he wore, were filled with the thunderous sounds of the surface-to-air missiles firing off into the distance.
The president and his men stared silently at each other for a moment. Now that the nuclear launch order had been given, they sat in numb shock. The SecDef looked ashamed. General Rice was scribbling notes
on a piece of paper, a phone to his ear, his eyes shifting between the president and the others in the room. The national security advisor looked pleased and strong. The president’s chief of staff left the room in a rush, his face green.
“What’s next?” the president asked.
“We’ll continue to get updates as our order is executed, sir. The first volley will be from our land-based missiles near Cheyenne Mountain…”
A panicked voice came over the speakerphone. “General Rice! Sir…we have an important status update. Our ballistic missile data has been updated with new sensor information. Sir, the four missiles that we had been tracking have all fallen into the sea. There are no inbound missiles headed towards the US mainland. Repeat, no inbound missiles headed towards the US.”
The president stood and leaned forward, hands on the desk. “What does that mean? What about the Chinese missiles? The second set of—”
“Sir, we have a few active systems coming online. As a result, NORAD has a full picture. There are no Chinese missiles inbound. We don’t know what happened to them. But we can now confirm that there are no further ICBMs headed to the US.”
A stunned silence filled the room.
The president had just ordered a nuclear attack on China, but now he was hearing that they had not fired first. This was no longer a proportional response, even if China had launched the EMP attack.
He felt a sickening feeling enter his chest. “Can we turn off the attack order?”
STRATCOM answered over the phone. “Sir, the system is designed so that—”
“Yes or no, General?”
“Yes, sir. But—”
The colonel who kept the Football said, “Sir, the order may not be received in time.”
The president looked around the room, his heart beating in his chest.
The national security advisor said, “Mr. President, I advise against changing course. Regardless of whether the Chinese have nukes headed this way, you have made the right call, sir. We need to—”
General Rice looked horrified. “I disagree. I think we should try to terminate the order. Regardless of Chinese actions, our strategic response should be proportional in nature. If—”
The president nodded. “Agreed. Terminate the order. Now.”
Two of the officers in the room sprang into action. One began calling for Nightwatch on the radio and relaying a set of coded instructions. A frantic back-and-forth ensued. The president could barely understand the language the men were using, with many of the words heavy jargon, code words, or military acronyms.
After sixty seconds of this, the colonel who manned the Football once again turned to the president. “Sir, we’ll need you to provide your challenge code again.”
The president nodded and began to speak but was interrupted by a warning alarm that began blaring over the overhead speaker system.
The Air Force pilot’s voice was loud, clear, and professional. “This is the pilot. Surface-to-air missile warning. Secure passengers and brace for impact.”
The president’s personal security detail jumped to their feet and began treating him like an emergency room patient. Their hands raced over him, once again making sure that he was secured and in the crash position.
The aircraft banked sharply to the left, and the president felt his head grow heavy and his body pressed down into his seat as increased G-forces came over the aircraft. The Secret Service agents were tossed back into the opposite wall and then rose off the floor towards the ceiling as Air Force One dove.
The president saw one of the Secret Service men, now unconscious on the floor after bumping his head. Then the president noticed the officer in charge of the Football sitting next to him, pounding on the surface of the table. The man’s mouth was moving, but the president couldn’t understand what he was saying.
The officer had one hand on the Football computer and was pointing at the president’s chest. General Rice was also now yelling something.
The sound of the world was coming back. An Air Force steward was pointing at the president. “Sir, your head is bleeding…”
Everyone at the table was yelling for his attention.
“…pass code!” General Rice said.
Pass code.
The president touched his head and felt something wet. He removed his hand and saw blood. Something must have struck him when the aircraft had maneuvered.
The overhead speakers announced, “All personnel, brace for impact!”
The first two surface-to-air missiles were tricked by countermeasures released from Air Force One, sailing harmlessly past and landing in the Chesapeake Bay. The third missile drove itself right into the innermost engine on the left wing, exploding and sending metallic fragments throughout the aircraft. Less than one second later, a fourth missile exploded after impacting an engine on the opposite wing, the detonation igniting one of the aircraft’s fuel cells. The subsequent explosion of jet fuel was catastrophic.
The blast killed everyone on board and was clearly visible five miles away on the ground, at a hilly farm property in rural Maryland.
Lieutenant Ping allowed his men a moment of quiet celebration and then ordered them to stow all gear in the trucks and move out. The war had just begun. And with any luck, their contributions would be many.
5
First Lieutenant Lucy Esposito hated the feeling she always got at the beginning of her shift. She sat in the passenger seat of a US Air Force pickup truck. The vehicle bounced and jolted as it made its way down the gravel farm road in the middle of the night. This meant that she was near her destination. The nuclear missile silos were spread out over acres and acres of Nebraska farmland.
Flight Golf was hers. Ironic, since she’d been a golfer at the Academy. But there was no golfing out here. Golf was part of the phonetic alphabet—the letter G identified this section of the US Air Force’s missile field. One hundred and fifty nuclear-tipped intercontinental ballistic missiles, stuffed five stories below the earth, awaiting the moment they were needed to end the world.
Which was like, never. It was a bullshit job, thought up decades ago by a bunch of men who were all dead now. Yet here she was, wasting her life away underground.
God help her.
Three years ago, Lucy had been a senior at the US Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs. Her hopes had been high. Like most Air Force Academy cadets, she had wanted to become a pilot after graduation. But the Air Force was minting more drone pilots than manned aircraft pilots nowadays. And Lucy didn’t have the class rank to get her first choice…or her fourth choice, for that matter. Never in a million years had she expected to spend her career in a missile silo. But that was sure as shit where she’d ended up.
It had started out a little rough, but she was at least proud of the progress she’d made. Now she was a twenty-five-year-old commander of a two-person missile squadron combat crew. There were ten missile silos in her flight, with a single missile alert facility centrally located.
Lucy was stationed at F.E. Warren Air Force Base near Cheyenne, Wyoming. Her life was spent standing duty, studying for her qualifications, and working on her military education credits.
It was dead out in this part of the country. She missed the city. Lucy had made her way home to Brooklyn on Christmas leave back in December. It had been good to see them, but hard to leave. Her older brothers couldn’t believe it when she’d described her job. They’d taken her out drinking, and she had proudly told them that she was now a steely-eyed missile man.
She sighed, bouncing around in the truck. She missed her family.
The driver made a call over the radio as the truck continued down the dark road.
“Golf Control, Trip 14 on your axis, request entry Lieutenant Esposito plus one.”
The voice over the radio responded, “Roger, entry granted.”
She watched as the gate opened in front of them.
The rectangular missile alert area in front of her was not large—only two acres. Dim ligh
ts flickered on overhead as they arrived. The land had been purchased by the government from a local farmer several decades ago. It had easy access to the main road—you could see it from where they were. And it was surrounded by chain metal fencing and barbed wire. Towering poles mounted with flood lights overhead, each with tiny security cameras that monitored the barren area around the missile silo.
A few minutes later, the pickup truck had dropped off Lieutenant Esposito and parked next to the lone building inside the fence. It would wait here until she was done with her watch turnover, then it would bring the man she was relieving back to F.E. Warren Air Force Base, a little over an hour away.
“Have fun, Ma’am.”
“Oh yeah.” She gave him a thumbs-up and threw her duffle bag over her shoulder, shutting the passenger door behind her.
Inside, she went through more security. ID checks and signing the log. Security personnel behind glass windows, ensuring that even though they knew her, she wasn’t able to get past the first room of the building without passing muster.
A few minutes later, she was opening the metal-grated double doors of the elevator. The outside of the elevator had a big sticker with a picture of a red devil on it. A bubble quote coming from his mouth said, “See you down there!” Lucy loved the dark humor.
She closed the two metal grate doors behind her and pressed the button for the elevator to bring her fifty feet down to where two other officers were waiting, one of whom she was relieving.
The watch turnover took about twenty minutes. They went over schedules of topside transportation, maintenance and training. There were a few items that needed repair, but nothing mission-critical.
“Make sure you read the geopolitical intel brief. The CO said the stuff with North Korea is getting hairy.”
“Same old thing.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. But Lucy noticed a funny look in his eye. They finished turnover, and he was heading up the elevator the second they were done.
Lucy stuffed her bag in her locker and sat down at the computer terminal where she would spend most of her time for the next twenty-four hours. She looked ten feet away, where another first lieutenant sat. He was about a year greener than her.