The Sum of All Fears

by Tom Clancy

  “So, what do I do?” Fowler asked.

  “Sir,” NORAD said, “I don’t like this ‘you must believe’ stuff either. It might be a good idea to let him know that we’re ready to defend ourselves.”

  “Yeah,” General Fremont agreed. “He knows that, anyway, if his people are doing their job right.”

  “But what if he takes our alert level as a threat?”

  “They won’t, sir,” NORAD assured him. “It’s just how anybody would do business in a case like this. Their senior military leadership is very professional.”

  Dr. Elliot stirred at that remark, Fowler noted. “Okay, I’ll tell him we’ve alerted our forces, but that we don’t have any evil intentions.”

  PRESIDENT NARMONOV:

  WE HAVE NO REASON TO SUSPECT SOVIET INVOLVEMENT IN THIS INCIDENT. HOWEVER, WE MUST ACT PRUDENTLY. WE HAVE BEEN THE VICTIM OF A VICIOUS ATTACK, AND MUST TAKE ACTION TO PROTECT OURSELVES AGAINST ANOTHER. ACCORDINGLY I HAVE PLACED OUR ARMED FORCES ON A PRECAUTIONARY ALERT. THIS IS ALSO NECESSARY FOR THE MAINTENANCE OF PUBLIC ORDER, AND TO ASSIST IN RESCUE OPERATIONS. YOU HAVE MY PERSONAL ASSURANCE THAT WE WILL TAKE NO OFFENSIVE ACTION WITHOUT JUST CAUSE.

  “That’s reassuring,” Narmonov said dryly. “Nice of him to let us know about the alert.”

  “We know,” Golovko said, “and he must know that we already know.”

  “He does not know that we know the extent of his alert,” the Defense Minister said. “He cannot know that we are reading their codes. The alert level of their forces is more than precautionary. The American strategic forces have not been at this readiness status since 1962.”

  “Really?” Narmonov asked.

  “General, that is not technically true,” Golovko said urgently. “Their ordinary level of readiness is very high for American strategic forces, even when their military posture is Defense Condition Five. The change to which you refer is inconsequential.”

  “Is this true?” Narmonov asked.

  The Defense Minister shrugged. “It depends on how you look at it. Their land-based rocket force is always at a higher level of alert than ours because of the lower maintenance requirements of their rockets. The same is true of their submarines, which spend far more time at sea than ours do. The technical difference may be small, but the psychological difference is not. The increased level of alert tells their people that something horrible is under way. I think that is significant.”

  “I do not,” Golovko shot back.

  Marvelous, Narmonov thought, two of my most important advisers cannot agree on something this important....

  “We need to reply,” the Foreign Minister said.

  PRESIDENT FOWLER:

  WE HAVE NOTED YOUR INCREASED ALERT STATUS. SINCE MOST OF YOUR WEAPONS ARE IN FACT POINTED AT THE SOVIET UNION WE MUST ALSO TAKE PRECAUTIONS. I SUGGEST THAT IT IS VITAL THAT NEITHER OF OUR TWO COUNTRIES TAKE ANY ACTION THAT MIGHT SEEM PROVOCATIVE.

  “That’s the first time he didn’t have it canned,” Elliot said. “First he says ‘I didn’t do it,’ now he says we better not provoke him. What’s he really thinking?”

  Ryan looked over the faxes of all six messages. He handed them to Goodley. “Tell me what you think.”

  “Pure vanilla. Looks like everyone is playing a very cautious game, and that’s what they should be doing. We alert our forces as a precaution and they do the same. Fowler’s said that we have no reason to think they did it—that’s good. Narmonov says both sides should play it cool on provoking the other side—that’s good, too. So far, so good,” Ben Goodley thought.

  “I agree,” the Senior Duty Officer said.

  “That makes it unanimous,” Jack said. Thank God, Bob, I didn’t know you had it in you.

  Rosselli walked back to his desk. Okay, things appeared to be more or less under control.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Rocky Barnes asked.

  “Hot Line room, things appear to be fairly cool.”

  “Not anymore, Jim.”

  General Paul Wilkes was almost there. It had taken nearly twenty minutes to get from his house onto I-295 and from there to I-395, a total distance of less than five miles. Snow-plows had barely touched this road, and now it was cold enough that what had been salted was freezing to ice anyway. Worst of all, those few D.C. drivers who were venturing out were showing their customary driving skill. Even those with four-wheel-drives were acting as though the additional traction made them immune to the laws of physics. Wilkes had just passed over South Capitol Street, and was now heading downhill toward the Maine Avenue exit. To his left, some maniac in a Toyota was passing him, and then came right, to head for the exit into downtown D.C. The Toyota skidded sideways on a patch of ice that front-wheel drive didn’t master. There was no chance to avoid it. Wilkes broadsided the car at about fifteen miles per hour.

  “The hell with it,” he said aloud. He didn’t have time for this. The General backed up a few feet and started to maneuver around before the driver even got out. He didn’t check his mirror. As he changed lanes, he was rear-ended by a tractor-trailer doing about twenty-five. It was enough to drive the General’s car over the concrete divider and into the face of another car. Wilkes was killed instantly.

  39

  ECHOES

  Elizabeth Elliot stared blankly at the far wall as she sipped her coffee. It was the only thing that made sense. All the warnings they’d had and ignored. It all fit. The Soviet military was making a power-play and targeting Bob Fowler had to be part of it. We should have been there, she thought. He wanted to go to the game, and everyone expected him to, because Dennis Bunker owned one of the teams. I would have been there, too. I could be dead now. If they wanted to kill Bob, then they also wanted to kill me....

  PRESIDENT NARMONOV:

  I AM GRATIFIED THAT WE AGREE ON THE NECESSITY FOR CAUTION AND REASON. I MUST NOW CONFER WITH MY ADVISERS SO THAT WE MAY ASCERTAIN THE CAUSE OF THIS HORRIBLE EVENT, AND ALSO TO BEGIN RESCUE OPERATIONS. I WILL KEEP YOU INFORMED.

  The reply that came back was almost immediate.

  PRESIDENT FOWLER:

  WE WILL STAND BY.

  “That’s simple enough,” the President said, looking at the screen.

  “Think so?” Elliot asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Robert, we’ve had a nuclear explosion at a location that you were supposed to be at. That’s number one. Number two: we’ve had reports of missing Soviet nuclear weapons. Number three: how do we really know that it’s Narmonov at the other end of this computer modem?” Liz asked.

  “What?”

  “Our best intelligence suggests the possibility of a coup d’etat in Russia, doesn’t it? But we’re acting now as though such intelligence did not exist even though we’ve had what very easily could be a tactical nuclear weapon—exactly what we think is missing—explode over here. We are not considering all of the potential dimensions here.” Dr. Elliot turned to the speakerphone. “General Borstein, how hard is it to get a nuclear device into the United States?”

  “With our border controls, it’s child’s play,” NORAD replied. “What are you saying, Dr. Elliot?”

  “I’m saying that we’ve had hard intel for some time now that Narmonov is in political trouble—that his military is acting up, and that there’s a nuclear dimension. Okay, what if they stage a coup? A Sunday evening—Monday morning—is good timing because everyone’s asleep. We always assumed that the nuclear element was for domestic blackmail—but what if the operation was more clever than that? What if they figured they could decapitate our government in order to prevent our interference with their coup? Okay, the bomb goes off, and Durling is on Kneecap—just like he is right now—and they’re talking to him. They can predict what we’re going to think, and they pre-plan their statements over the Hot Line. We go on automatic alert, and so do they—you see? We can’t interfere with the coup in any way.”

  “Mr. President, before you evaluate that possibility, I think you need some outside advice from the intelli
gence community,” CINC-SAC said.

  Another phone lit up. The yeoman got it.

  “For you, Mr. President, NMCC.”

  “Who is this?” Fowler asked.

  “Sir, this is Captain Jim Rosselli at the National Military Command Center. We have two reports of contact between U.S. and Soviet forces. USS Theodore Roosevelt reports that they have splashed—that means shot down, sir—a flight of four inbound Russian MiG-29 aircraft—”

  “What? Why?”

  “Sir, under the Rules of Engagement, the captain of a ship has the right to take defense action to protect his command. Theodore Roosevelt is now at DEFCON-TWO, and as the alert level changes, you get more latitude in what you can do, and when you can take action. Sir, the second is as follows: there is an unconfirmed report of shots being exchanged between Russian and American tanks in Berlin. SACEUR says the radio message stopped—I mean, it was cut off, sir. Before that, a U.S. Army captain reported that Soviet tanks were attacking the Berlin Brigade at its base in southern Berlin, and that a tank battalion of ours was just about wiped out, sir. They were attacked in their lager by Soviet forces stationed just across from them. Those two things—the reports, I mean, were almost simultaneous. The reported times were just two minutes apart, Mr. President. We’re trying to reestablish contact with Berlin right now, going through SACEUR at Mons, Belgium.”

  “Christ,” Fowler observed. “Elizabeth, does this fit into your scenario?”

  “It could show that they’re not kidding, that they are serious about not being interfered with.”

  Most of the American forces had escaped out of the lager. The senior officer on the scene had decided on the spot to turn and run for cover in the woods and residential streets around the brigade base. He was a lieutenant colonel, the brigade executive officer. The Colonel commanding the brigade was nowhere to be found, and the XO was now considering his options. The brigade had two mechanized infantry battalions and one of tanks. From the last, only nine of fifty-two M1A1s had gotten away. He could see the glow from the rest of them, still burning in their lager.

  A DEFCON-THREE alert out of nowhere, and then minutes later, this. Over forty tanks and a hundred men lost, shot down without warning. Well, he’d see about that.

  The Berlin Brigade had been in place since long before his birth, and scattered throughout its encampment were defensive positions. The Colonel dispatched his remaining tanks and ordered his Bradley fighting vehicles to volley-fire their TOW-2 missiles.

  The Russian tanks had overrun the tank lager and stopped. They had no further orders. Battalion commanders were not yet in control of their formations, left behind by the mad dash of the T-80s across the line, and the regimental commander was nowhere to be found. Without orders, the tank companies stopped, sitting still, looking for targets. The regimental executive officer was also missing, and when the senior battalion commander realized this, his tank dashed off to the headquarters vehicle, since he was the next-senior officer in the regiment. It was amazing, he thought. First the readiness drill, next the flash alert from Moscow, and then the Americans had started shooting. He hadn’t a clue what was going on. Even the barracks and administrative buildings were still lit up, he realized. Someone would have to get those lights off. His T-80 was back-lit as though on a target range.

  “Command tank, two o’clock, skylined, moving left to right,” a sergeant told a corporal.

  “Identified,” the gunner replied over the intercom.

  “Fire.”

  “On the way.” The corporal squeezed his trigger. The seal-cap blew off the missile tube, and the TOW-2 blasted out, trailing behind a thin control wire. The target was about twenty-five hundred meters away. The gunner kept his crosshairs on target, guiding the antitank missile to its target. It took eight seconds, and the gunner had the satisfaction of seeing detonation right in the center of the turret.

  “Target,” the Bradley commander said, indicating a direct hit. “Cease fire. Now let’s find another one of these fuckers ... ten o’clock, tank, coming around the PX!”

  The turret came left. “Identified!”

  “Okay, what does CIA make of this?” Fowler asked.

  “Sir, again all we have is scattered and unconnected information,” Ryan replied.

  “Roosevelt has a Soviet carrier battle group a few hundred miles behind them, and they carry MiG-29s,” Admiral Painter said.

  “They’re even closer to Libya, and our friend the Colonel has a hundred of the same aircraft.”

  “Flying over water at midnight?” Painter asked. “When’s the last time you heard of the Libyans doing that—and twenty-some miles from one of our battle groups!”

  “What about Berlin?” Liz Elliot asked.

  “We don’t know!” Ryan stopped and took a deep breath. “Remember that we just don’t know much.”

  “Ryan, what if SPINNAKER was right?” Elliot asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if there is a military coup going on right now over there, and they set a bomb off over here to keep us from interfering, to decapitate us?”

  “That’s totally crazy,” Jack answered. “Risk a war? Why do it? What would we do if there were a coup? Attack at once?”

  “Their military might expect us to,” Elliot pointed out.

  “Disagree. I think SPINNAKER might have been lying to us from the beginning on this issue.”

  “Are you making this up?” Fowler asked. It was coming home to the President now that he might actually have been the real target of the bomb, that Elizabeth’s theoretical model for the Russian plan was the only thing that made sense.

  “No, sir!” Ryan snapped back indignantly. “I’m the hawk here, remember? The Russian military is too smart to pull something like this. It’s too big a gamble.”

  “Then explain the attacks on our forces!” Elliot said.

  “We don’t know for sure that there have been attacks on our forces.”

  “So now you think our people are lying?” Fowler asked.

  “Mr. President, you are not thinking this through. Okay, let’s assume that there is an ongoing coup in the Soviet Union—I don’t accept that hypothesis, but let’s assume it, okay? The purpose, you say, for exploding the bomb over here is to keep us from interfering. Fine. Then why attack our military forces if they want us to sit on our hands?”

  “To show that they’re serious,” Elliot fired back.

  “That’s crazy! It’s tantamount to telling us they did explode the bomb here. Do you think they would expect us not to respond to a nuclear attack?” Ryan demanded, then answered his own question: “It does not make sense!”

  “Then give me something that does,” Fowler said.

  “Mr. President, we are in the very earliest stages of a crisis. The information we have coming in now is scattered and confused. Until we know more, trying to put a spin on it is dangerous.”

  Fowler’s face bore down on the speakerphone. “Your job is to tell me what’s going on, not to give me lessons in crisis-management. When you have something I can use, get back to me!”

  “What in the hell are they thinking?” Ryan asked.

  “Is there something I don’t know here?” Goodley asked. The young academic looked as alarmed as Ryan felt.

  “Why should you be any different from the rest of us?” Jack snapped back, and regretted it. “Welcome to crisis-management. Nobody knows crap, and you’re expected to make good decisions anyway. Except it’s not possible, it just isn’t.”

  “The thing with the carrier scares me,” the S&T man observed.

  “Wrong. If we only splashed four aircraft, it’s only a handful of people,” Ryan pointed out. “Land combat is something else. If we really have a battle going on in Berlin, that’s the scary one, almost as bad as an attack on some of our strategic assets. Let’s see if we can get hold of SACEUR.”

  The nine surviving M1A1 tanks were racing north along a Berlin avenue, along with a platoon of Bradley fighting veh
icles. Streetlights were on, heads sticking out windows, and it was instantly apparent to the few onlookers that whatever was happening wasn’t a drill. All the tanks had the speed governors removed from their engines, and they could all have been arrested in America for violating the national interstate highway limit. One mile north of their camp, they turned east. Leading the formation was a senior NCO who knew Berlin well—this was his third tour in the once-divided city—well enough that he had a perfect spot in mind, if the Russians hadn’t got there first. There was a construction site. A memorial to the Wall and its victims was going up after a long competition. It overlooked the Russian and American compounds which were soon to be vacated, and bulldozers had pushed up a high berm of dirt for the sculpture that would sit atop it. But it wasn’t there yet, just a thick dirt ramp. The Soviet tanks were milling about on their objective, probably waiting for their infantry to show up or something. They were taking TOW hits from the Bradleys and returning fire into the woods.

  “Christ, they’re going to kill those Bradley guys,” the unit commander—a captain whose tank was the last survivor of his company—said. “Okay, find your spots.” That took another minute. Then the tanks were hull-down, just their guns and the tops of turrets showing. “Straight down the line! Commence firing, fire at will.”

  All nine tanks fired at once. The range was just over two thousand meters, and now the element of surprise was with someone else. Five Russian tanks died with the first volley, and six more in the second, as the Abrams tanks went into rapid fire.

  In the trees with the Bradleys, the brigade XO watched the north end of the Russian line crumple. That was the only word for it, he thought. The tank crews were all combat vets, and now they had the edge. The northernmost Russian battalion tried to reorient itself, but one of his Bradleys had evidently scored on its commander, and there was confusion there. Why the Russians hadn’t pressed home the attack was one question that floated about the rear of his brain, but that was something to save for the after-action report. Right now he saw that they had screwed up, and that was a good thing for him and his men.