by Isaac Hooke
He withdrew the barrel, keeping it aimed at the man's face.
"These missiles, are they nuclear capable?" Ethan asked.
Ahmed didn't answer. He was grimacing, and his eyes fluttered. He was obviously in pain from the broken cartilage.
"Hey!" Ethan gave the man a kick. "Are the missiles nuclear capable?"
Ahmed shrugged. "I don't know." His voice gurgled, thanks to the blood pouring down his nasal cavity and throat.
"Does it matter?" Bretta said from the front. "They only need the U.S. or Russia to think that the missiles are."
"Al Sifr will destroy the world," Ethan said.
"No." Ahmed coughed. Blood splattered his lips.
"What?" Ethan told the prisoner. "Speak up!"
"Only the U.S., and Russia. Only those two die. Annihilate themselves. The rest of the world lives."
"You're wrong," Ethan said. "The massive firestorms caused by a devastating U.S.-Russia nuclear attack will send over a hundred million tons of black carbon into the stratosphere and plunge the entire world into nuclear winter. Radioactive particles will drift on the atmospheric winds and spread to every country. Black rain will fall everywhere. There will be worldwide famine. Mass extinctions. Nowhere is safe. Not even your precious Middle East." He turned toward Bretta. "Faster, woman!"
"I'm going as fast as I reasonably can!" Bretta said.
As if to emphasize her words, the vehicle hit another bad bump, and Ethan's head nearly impacted the ceiling.
Ahmed spoke again. "The Middle East welcomes nuclear winter. A respite from the heat. When Saddam ignited the oil wells, the sky turned black at noon. Temperatures dropped by five degrees. Hardly even noticeable. And fallout will spread, yes, but for us it will be no worse than the meltdown in Tokyo, or Chernobyl. With the U.S. and Russia gone, and the remaining Western countries struggling to survive, the Middle East will prosper. The Shia will convert, and all Muslims will unite, beginning a new age of peace. The age of the Ninth Caliphate."
Somehow Ethan doubted it would be so simple.
The vehicle was almost at the base when two more missiles launched from it, heading skyward.
Ethan rubbed his forehead in despair.
Ahmed's sickening chortle floated to his ears.
Ethan rammed the butt of his rifle into the man's temple, silencing him.
Bretta didn't let up on the accelerator. The canopied base grew near. A chain-link fence girded the perimeter; a guard station allowed access via gate.
The Hilux was approaching too fast.
"Bretta, slow down," Ethan said. "Bretta!"
She finally eased off the accelerator, cutting the speed to around twenty kilometers an hour.
"When you get to the gate, stop," Ethan told her. "Simply nod your head to any questions the guard asks. I'll do the talking. If things go south, we fight our way inside. Are you ready?"
"The best plans are the simplest," she said, raising her scarf to cover the lower half of her face.
"They are." Ethan lifted his own scarf.
Ahmed stirred. Ethan rammed the rifle butt repeatedly into Ahmed's temple, drawing blood. The man lost consciousness as Bretta pulled in front of the guard station.
The fatigue-wearing fighter seated in the guard station smiled at Bretta.
"Success, brother!" the guard said in Arabic.
Ethan leaned forward from the back seat. "Success!"
The guard seemed suddenly puzzled, but before he could say anything, Ethan added: "Open the gate! We have a brother here in critical condition!"
The man flicked a switch and the chain-link fence directly in front of the SUV began to open.
"Why are you masked?" the guard said.
"Say again?" Ethan held a hand to his ear, pretending not to hear above the noise of the sliding fence.
"Why are you masked?" the guard shouted.
"Yes, success, brother!" Ethan made a fist and held up his index finger, making the gesture that alluded to the belief that Allah was the only God, one of the five pillars of Islam. It also symbolized the goal of every true adherent to Salafist doctrine: one God, one religion, one state. Worldwide.
Thankfully, Bretta drove through the opening before the guard could respond.
"You should have shot him," Bretta said.
"I was tempted. Believe me."
She accelerated underneath the canopy, maneuvering between the self-framing steel hangars toward the L-shaped, two-story main building.
Ethan taped Ahmed's hands to his feet, and then secured a thick piece of duct tape over his mouth. The man was only then becoming conscious, and moved very groggily. Ethan had likely given him a concussion in addition to the broken nose. Ahmed certainly deserved it.
Beside the black and green two-story building was a place where other Hiluxes were parked. Bretta turned in there.
A Saudi dressed in combat fatigues waited as the vehicle pulled up.
The scarf had fallen from Ethan's face by then and he hadn't bothered to replace it: hiding his features at that point would only arouse suspicion. If the Saudi challenged them, the man wouldn't live very long.
"Success, brother," the Saudi said in Arabic as Ethan got out.
"Success," Ethan responded. There wasn't anyone else around. He considered shooting the man right there if only to save time.
"How did it go?" the Saudi inquired.
Ethan realized the Saudi's voice belonged to the radio operator.
"We lost Ahmed," Ethan said. He decided to forgo the Pashto accent, and instead use something more appropriate to a speaker of the Urban Najdi dialect of Riyadh, hoping the familiarity would put the Saudi more at ease. "Along with most of the men." He beckoned toward the dead bodies in the rear cargo area.
The man stiffened. "But I just talked to Ahmed on the radio."
Ethan sighed, feigning sadness. "Yes. He succumbed to his wounds shortly after."
"I must inform Al Sifr."
Ethan felt his heart rate increase. He's here.
"You come, too," the Saudi continued. "I want him to hear the words from your mouth."
The man's afraid Al Sifr will shoot the messenger, Ethan thought. All the better for me.
"All right," Ethan said. "I'll be happy to inform Al Sifr."
"Wait a second," the man said. "Where did you get that radio?" He pointed at the military grade PRC-153 at Ethan's belt.
Ethan felt his stomach cramp up. "I confiscated it from the intruders."
The Saudi regarded him suspiciously. His eyes darted to Ethan's M16A4 and then the Glock at his hip.
Ethan tapped the barrel of the rifle. "Also from the intruders."
"You're not part of Ahmed's team," the Saudi said. "Your accent is wrong: all his men are Afghans."
Maybe it had been a mistake to imitate a Saudi. Ethan prepared to mow the man down.
"I'm a substitute," Ethan said. He threw out a name he'd heard in the gunfight: "Abu Raafe was sick this morning. I'm Abu Emad Al-Saudi."
The man seemed unconvinced. He glanced at Bretta, who continued to wear her scarf high. She was careful not to meet his eye.
"Why does he hide his face here?" the Saudi asked, nodding toward her.
Ethan recalled another name from the gunfight. "Abu Busyr here took a bad shot to the mouth. It's quite grisly under there. He can't even talk. I can show you if you like." Ethan reached for the scarf.
"That's all right." The Saudi turned toward the main building. "Let's go."
"Abu Busyr needs to go to the infirmary," Ethan said.
"Yes yes." The Saudi waved a dismissive hand. "I'm sure he knows the way."
Bretta shook her head violently. Obviously she was against splitting up. She wanted Al Sifr. Either to enact vengeance, or out of guilt at losing him those two years ago.
"Go," Ethan mouthed before marching away with the Saudi. He knew she could cause some major damage down here. She might even be able to stop the launches on her own. And if Ethan was killed where he was going, at least she'd still be aroun
d to handle Al Sifr.
"Why are you in such a hurry?" the Saudi said as they approached the main building; two armed men stood guard at the entrance.
"I want the caliph to know how valiantly Ahmed died. I want him to hold back nothing as he unleashes his wrath upon our enemies. And truthfully, I want to witness firsthand the birth of the Ninth Caliphate. A front row seat to the destruction of the U.S. and Russia."
The Saudi smirked, saying nothing.
Motion drew Ethan's eye northward. There, he saw an Iveco Trakker semi equipped with monster truck wheels towing a long trailer from a hangar. On the trailer a missile rested horizontally within a launch framework comprised of steel bars.
Ethan glanced over his shoulder at Bretta. Leaving her face veiled, she had returned to the Hilux, likely to stock up on ammunition. She would probably grab some of the C-4, too. Ethan certainly would have. He was glad she'd obeyed; it was a sign of maturity when an operative didn't let his or her personal feelings get in the way of a mission. She had accepted that Ethan would handle Al Sifr, and that was that.
He knew if she stopped the launches, or otherwise discovered anything of importance, she would contact him via the encrypted radio.
He could count on her.
Good luck, Bretta.
44
Washington, D.C., White House
THE DEFENSE SUPPORT PROGRAM early warning satellites operated by the 2d Space Warning Squadron of the 460th Space Wing, headquartered in Buckley Air Force Base, Colorado, detected the incoming missile headed toward the continental U.S. before it reached apogee. The night crew alerted the NORAD and USSTRATCOM early warning centers in the Cheyenne Mountain Complex; these defense hubs in turn informed various agencies around the world.
In the White House Situation Room, the graveyard shift team of watch officers—comprised of members of the CIA, military, and State Department—received the alert. The watch officer in charge that night was CIA analyst Jonathan Briggs. His first phone call was to the National Security Adviser.
"Have you informed the President, yet?" the National Security Adviser asked.
"No, sir—"
"Then call his detail, you moron!"
THE PRESIDENT'S eyes shot open as the door to the residence slammed open.
"Mr. President!" a member of the Secret Service detail came barging inside. "Get up! The country is under attack!"
The President scrambled to his feet. "What do you mean? Particulars, man!"
"It's a nuke! A Russian submarine has launched a nuke!"
The President stared blankly at the dark-suited Secret Service member for several seconds. He glanced at the First Lady, who was also on her feet, then he donned his slippers and said: "Beth, let's go."
He glanced at the digital clock before he left the room. Three fifty a.m.—the Russians certainly picked a good time to attack.
He touched the top portion of his pajamas. The "Biscuit" was precisely where he'd left it the night before, secure in the breast pocket. The size of a credit card, it contained the Gold Codes he would need to authenticate a nuclear strike.
As the Secret Service detail rushed him to the elevator, the President asked: "Where's my Football?"
"The aide will meet us in the PEOC." Presidential Emergency Operations Center. A bunker located six stories beneath the East Wing of the White House. Able to withstand a nuclear detonation.
The President had five aides who alternately carried the Football, one from each branch of the military. They were all pay-grade O-4 or above. Yankee White clearance. He wasn't sure whose shoulders the burden would fall to tonight.
When the main elevator reached the basement floor, the security detail rushed him through the tunnels to the East Wing, where he took another elevator.
Stuck inside that steel box, descending into the bowels of the earth, he held his wife's hand. She gripped it tightly, eyes shining.
Give me strength, Beth.
Six stories beneath the White House, the President and First Lady emerged into the subterranean hallways. They had walked only a few paces when a steel door hissed closed behind them. The air smelled different. Recycled. Exposed pipes and tubing clung to the ceiling.
Up ahead he saw the renovated area. He passed two Secret Service men on watch and entered the conference room of the Presidential Emergency Operations Center. Another steel door hissed closed behind him.
Air Force Lieutenant Colonel James Nielson stepped forward, dressed in his service uniform. He was the aide that night, then. Beth had tried to get them to wear business attire like all other military personnel in the White House, but the President had overruled her. He needed to be able to pick out the men immediately in a time of crisis.
The Lieutenant Colonel wore a sidearm on his right hip, and carried a black suitcase in his left hand. He offered the latter item.
"Not yet, James," the President said. He continued into the command and control room, equivalent to the "watch floor" of the White House Situation Room, and the aide followed at his heels.
The far wall was covered in four large LCD displays. Above it a wide international clock showed the current time of various world capitals in big digital characters. Arrayed before the displays were two rows of desks connected in a semi-circular fashion. Three duty officers manned the terminals of the lower row, while a communications assistant and an intelligence analyst worked from the upper row.
"The skeleton crew," the President commented. He sat at the place reserved for him in the upper row. The First Lady took a seat beside him. The President was conspicuously aware that besides his wife, he was the only one in PJs. "What about my cabinet?"
"I've sent out teleconference and videoconference codes to all senior staff," one of the duty officers said. "Tagged Code Scarlet." That was the highest alert level.
"Has anyone joined yet?"
A voice came from the secure conference phone in the middle of the table. "National Security Advisor, present."
"And your Chief of Staff." Another voice.
Both useless, thought the President. "Anyone else?"
"Vice President."
Better. The three of them were likely driving to the White House at that very moment, seeking the protection of the bunker to ensure continuance of government.
And to save their own skins.
"I'm here, too," the Secretary of Defense said. He appeared on a screen dedicated to the secure videoconference. Small boxes at the bottom and right of the screen displayed the feeds of those others who had operational video. Whenever someone spoke, they would show up in the main area, unless the President overrode them with the small touchscreen device on the desk.
"Robert. Don't tell me you're at the Pentagon already?" On the display, the background behind the Secretary of Defense was too dark to discern where he was.
"Conferencing in from home," the Secretary of Defense said. "My deputy is en route to the White House, of course. Just in case..."
Other people announced themselves, but the Secretary of State cut them off by saying: "We're all here, Mr. President."
That made sense: by the time it took the President to reach the Emergency Operations Center, everyone in the cabinet and senior command would have been notified, first by email, then pager, and lastly direct telephone call, courtesy of the Code Scarlet alert.
The President focused on the centermost display of the far wall. "So what am I looking at?"
"World War III." The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff replaced the Secretary of Defense on the video conference screen.
On the main display, overlaid onto a map of the United States, a curved red trajectory above the North Atlantic indicated the incoming missile. Secondary curves falling away from the main designated the spent first and secondary stages. A dotted red line marked the computed path of the ICBM, and it ended in the Midwest—there didn't seem to be any major US cities targeted. Four blue curves originating from California presumably signified the U.S.-launched interceptors.
&n
bsp; It was every President's nightmare: awakened in the middle of the night, evacuated six stories down to the Emergency Operations Center, and informed that World War III had commenced.
"Why are the Russians firing into the heart of the Midwest?" the President said.
"We're guessing it's going to be a high altitude detonation," the Chairman said. "Probably one of the super-EMP warheads the Russians have developed, with intense gamma radiation capable of delivering a shock more powerful than a lightning bolt to every electronic device in the continent. Not even circuit breakers and other EMP protectors like glass switches can withstand it. We'll lose communications nationwide, including our early warning radars and defense satellites. The nation's power grid will be devastated, maybe irreparably. It's meant to disrupt our retaliatory capabilities, and it will do that, trust me. By the time we're back online, the second wave will have already struck."
"Do we have confirmation of a second wave yet?"
"No," the Chairman said. "Just the one ICBM."
"Do we know the launch location?"
"We believe it was launched from a Russian nuclear submarine. Anywhere within a fifty kilometer radius southwest of Iceland." On the screen a circle lit up—it partially overlapped Iceland.
"Why wouldn't the Russian submarine launch closer to the East Coast?"
"And risk discovery from our own submarines patrolling international waters off shore? I think it makes perfect sense that they fired where they did." The Chairman paused. "Look at it. Damn thing is moving fast. We have maybe five minutes before it descends to optimal detonation altitude."
"Have any of our departments received notice of a research launch from Iceland in the past few days or weeks?" the President said.
The young analyst in the upper row beside him answered. "No sir, Mr. President, sir."
"Is it possible some rogue non-state actor launched the nuke from Iceland?" the Director of Homeland Security asked over the conference phone.
"Possible," the Chairman of the Joint Chief of staffs said. "But unlikely. Based on computer models, we're ninety-nine percent certain it's from a submarine in the area."
"Ninety-nine percent certain," the President said. "What if the computers are wrong?"