"Yes, sir," he replied and stepped out onto his balcony overlooking a floor half the size of a football field where SAC officers manned their consoles deep beneath Offutt Air Force Base near Omaha. Display screens told them which bombers were in the air, which were sitting on runways and how long their engines had been running. "I'm on it."
Carver hung up and picked up the red telephone to the Primary Alerting System. As soon as he did, an alarm warbled and a rotating red beacon flashed.
On the surface, sirens blared as blue trucks rushed pilots to their awaiting bombers and tankers already lined up for a quick escape.
"Alert crews to your stations," blared the senior controller's voice over the base speakers. "This is not a drill. Repeat. This is not a drill."
On the runways, B-2, B-52 and B-21 Raider bombers and their supporting KC-46 Pegasus tankers began to blast off in Minimum Interval Take Offs (MITOs), one after another with less than twelve seconds between them, collectively armed with enough nuclear warheads to destroy the world’s 25 largest cities.
15
1149 Hours
Looking Glass
The Looking Glass plane had reached its 30,000-foot cruising altitude among the thunderclouds when Marshall heard the ominous click-clack of an Emergency Action Message or "go code" print out in the battle staff compartment. Wilson ripped it off and walked it over to him.
"Northern Command confirms a first strike on U.S. soil, sir,” Wilson said in a trained monotone stripped of all emotion. “The ANMCC says we’ve lost the Pentagon, White House and most of the nation’s elected leadership."
Marshall read the EAM, his mind racing. Without a star in charge and only a junior-grade skeleton staff, the Alternate National Military Command Center at Raven Rock was about as valuable now as a call center in Bangalore, India. That left General Duane Carver at Strategic Command, General Norm Block at Northern Command, and himself aboard Looking Glass as the essential National Command Authority to run the country.
They would be contacting him any second now, Marshall thought, when
Major Tom’s voice came on the speaker from the communications compartment.
“Sir, I’ve got Generals Carver and Block for you in the conference center.”
“I want a launch poll, Major Tom,” he told her as he rose to his feet. “I want to know what assets got off the ground, what assets are on the ground and which ones are in the ground. And I want it waiting for me when I get there in thirty seconds.”
Marshall found the two faces of his last remaining superiors staring from the big screen when he sat down in the conference center: Block, the squat cigar-chomping warrior from the old schools, and Carver, the tall, wiry egghead from the new. Laurel and Hardy in uniform, except Block was white and Carver was black.
“Damage reports, Marshall?”
“Early reports indicate a ground burst,” Marshall said, glancing down at the screen beneath the surface of the table. “One hundred fifty KT. Blast radius three miles. Casualties estimated at about four thousand. Looks like snow kept most nonessential federal workers at home.”
“So we caught a break,” Block said. “That puppy’s bark was worse than its bite.”
“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” Carver said dully. “Marshall, the launch poll.”
Marshall glanced down again. The poll had just popped up. It was everything they already knew, but protocol demanded acknowledgment.
“We’ve lost the Commander-in-Chief at the White House and the Joint Chiefs at the National Military Center at the Pentagon. But we still have command posts at Northern Command, Strategic Command and the ANMCC at Raven Rock,” Marshall reported. “We are the National Command Authority now.”
Block looked relieved on screen. “So the actual damage to our ability to fight this war is minimal.”
“I suppose so, sir,” Marshall said. “General Block, you now have operational launch control of U.S. ICBMs in the ground. I’m your back-up here in the Looking Glass air command. General Carver?”
“All my birds are in the air and my sharks are in the water,” he said, referring to U.S. bombers and submarines armed with nuclear warheads. “All awaiting orders, soon as we know whom to strike.”
“I put my chips on yellow,” said Block. “I bet it’s General Zhang and the chinks.”
Marshall could see the grimace on Carver’s face at Block’s derogatory remark. But Carver was too smart to be politically correct in a state of war and kept his cool. “From this moment on, everything goes strictly according to our plan per our Post Attack Command Control System,” Carver ordered. “Hell, Marshall, you wrote it. What’s next?”
“The Nightwatch plane from Andrews is circling in the air until the Central Locator selects a designated presidential successor, ” said Marshall and pressed his speakerphone. “Major Tom, patch us through to Edwards. The NCA needs to speak to the new president, President O’Donnell.”
“Negative, sir,” the voice on speaker said at the same moment Wilson walked into the conference room with another EAM printout. If Marshall didn’t know better, he could have sworn the impenetrable soldier’s lower lip was now quivering.
“This just came in, sir.”
Marshall scanned the EAM. Twice. Then he looked up at the big screen and broke the news to Block and Carver. “Central Locator says the SecDef swiped his card at the White House just before the blast. He died with the president.”
Block looked stunned. “Then who is the designated presidential successor?”
Marshall had trouble forming the words.
“The Secretary of Education,” he said. “Deborah Sachs.”
“Deborah Sachs?” Carver repeated, the look of dismay on his face rivaling that of Block’s. “Are you sure?”
“Central Locator says so,” Marshall said. “As of right now, if she’s alive, she’s our new Commander-in-Chief.”
“Deborah Sachs sure as hell ain’t my Commander-in-Chief,” Block said. “Who else have you got?”
Marshall frowned and glanced at Carver on the split screen.
“This isn’t a football game, Block,” Carver said, quickly getting a hold of himself. “We can’t simply sub any quarterback we like from our roster.”
“You kidding me?” Block shot back. “This is the goddamn Armageddon Bowl, and Team USA needs to field her best quarterback.” Block glared out of the screen at Marshall. “Now, son, who else have we got?”
“We have Percy Carson, the Secretary of Homeland Security,” Marshall said, playing along with Block as he tried to figure this nightmare out. “He was in Chicago to face election fraud charges from his stint as senator. The president wanted him out of sight for his State of the Union.”
“Good enough for me,” Block said. “And a hell of a lot more qualified than Sachs.”
Marshall said, “Only problem is that presidential succession goes in the order in which the Cabinet offices were created. And Homeland Security was created after Education.”
“Then what about the Speaker of the House, somebody, anybody. How do we know for sure they’re all dead?”
“Central Locator says so,” Marshall said. “Even if it’s wrong, FEMA rules state that if a higher-ranking successor has survived, he cannot retrieve the office from the sworn successor. Once Sachs is sworn in, she’s Commander-in-Chief.”
Block said, “Then we have to see to it that she’s not sworn in until we’ve got somebody better to present to America’s people and enemies.”
“Careful, boys,” Carver warned with unmistakable firmness. “The Constitution trumps any post-Apocalypse game scenarios. Report back in two minutes.”
Carver disappeared from view, leaving a fuming Block on the screen.
Marshall said, “You have a problem with the plan, sir?”
“You tell me, Marshall. How does Sachs compute into all your scenarios?”
“She doesn’t, sir.”
“What the hell does that mean, son?” Block demanded. “Y
ou see, unlike you, I’m an old fart who has no plans to run for office, or not run for office, whatever the hell dance you and the president had going on. So I can say whatever the hell I goddamn please.”
Marshall bristled at the condescension and looked down at his screen. “Profile says she’s a reformer. The teachers unions hate her. But whatever her own opinions, she kept them to herself when they differed from Rhinehart’s public policies. For the most part. She certainly spoke her mind to the president in private, which was probably why he asked for her resignation.”
“And now she’s the president,” said Block. “You saying she might surprise us and prove tougher on the enemy?”
“I’m saying if Sachs is appointed, she’s going to play by the book,” Marshall said. “And our playbook is pretty clear. Regardless of who’s the president, he or she has only a limited set of response options to choose from. In other words, she’s not a factor.”
“Not a factor?” Block said in disbelief. “Hell, Marshall. The sight of her alone is going to inspire the chinks to unload everything they’ve got at us. So don’t give me this bullshit that she’s not a factor. You better goddamn believe she’s a factor. Figure out how.”
Marshall crumpled the communiqué in his hand. “Yes, sir.”
"God help us if she’s still alive, Marshall.”
16
1155 Hours
The Westchester School
"The federal government can't do everything," Sachs said from the podium in the gymnasium. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind her framed the school's wintry track and field. "But it can do something."
The bored eyes of the students and faculty were glazing over. Sachs could see Jennifer slump even lower in her folding chair.
So much for the lecture circuit.
"Please tell me there's more to the United States of America than a libertarian philosophy of no government, no shared values, no community and the notion that the only moral authority for each of us is ourselves."
That seemed to perk them up, ironically, because the students and faculty stirred.
"That's not a country," she continued with more feeling. "That's chaos."
But all eyes were looking over her shoulder. She turned and blinked as two military Black Hawk choppers with side-mounted machine guns landed on the school green and soldiers in field uniforms jumped out.
Suddenly there was a crash from the opposite side of the gym. A dozen men in dark overcoats and sunglasses burst through the doors into the gymnasium.
Some kid yelled, “It’s Rambo!” as the men rushed past Jennifer to get to the podium. The look on Jennifer’s face said, "You really did it now, Mom."
The leader of the detail halted in front of Sachs. "Secret Service, ma'am. You are Deborah Sachs?”
“And you are?”
“Special Agent Raghav. May I see your authentication card?”
Sachs rummaged through her purse and presented her card to Special Agent Raghav.
He looked back and forth at her like a passport inspector at Dulles International Airport, like she was on the terrorist watch list. Then, showing no emotion, he returned the card and nodded to the others. The agents closed ranks in a circle around her. “Please come with us.”
Sachs didn’t budge. “Where?”
“A secure location, ma’am.”
“I’m not leaving my daughter.” She looked over at Jennifer, who took a few steps back into the crowd, trying to disappear.
Raghav nodded to two agents. “Grab the kid.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you goons!” Jennifer shouted as they approached her. “I’m staying with my friends.” She then shoved a prominent middle finger above the heads of the student body and made a break for the opposite exits, the two agents giving her chase.
“Jennifer!” Sachs called out.
But Raghav and the rest tightened their protective ring around her, lifting her an inch off the floor and forcibly carrying her away.
"Smoker Four," Raghav said into his lapel. "Secure exit!"
The freezing air outside on the school green slapped Sachs in the face. A dozen Green Berets wearing distinctive 1st Special Forces headgear and holding M4 carbine assault rifles guarded the Sikorsky S-70 Black Hawks. The rotors were turning impatiently, screaming to lift off. But the commanding officer, a hulking, pock-faced presence in field uniform and jump boots, halted Special Agent Raghav and Sachs’ protective detail with a broad, flat hand.
"I’m Colonel Kyle,” the officer said. “This chopper is reserved for Green Dove. We’ll take it from here.”
Raghav flashed his ID. "Wherever she goes, I go."
"I'm not going anywhere without my daughter and until you tell me what's going on," she demanded, trying to veil her fear.
Colonel Kyle looked like he was about to bark an order but seemed to change his mind when he noticed the sea of faces pressed against the gymnasium glass.
"Green Dove and two agents board Black Hawk One,” he ordered. “The rest of the suits, inside Black Hawk Two.”
Before Sachs could protest, Raghav shoved her hard into the eleven-seat chopper, then climbed in after her with five Green Berets so she couldn’t get out. Kyle was the last to board. He signaled the pilot to lift off.
“This is Black Hawk One to base,” the pilot spoke into his radio. “Green Dove is airborne. Repeat. Green Dove is airborne. En route to DZ.”
As the Black Hawk lifted off, a furious, helpless Sachs could see students and teachers below, noses pressed to the glass wall of the gymnasium, waving good-bye.
“I’m going to have it out with the president when I see him,” Sachs said. “If anything happens to my daughter…”
“Don’t worry,” Colonel Kyle assured her. “We’ll get her.”
17
1200 Hours
The Westchester School
Jennifer and a thousand other students exploded out the front doors to the pandemonium in the pick-up lanes. An army of Range Rovers, Mercedes and BMWs jammed the snow-plowed street in front of the entrance. Mothers and a few fathers were screaming for their children.
Jennifer slogged across the slushy parking lot as fast as she could. But now two Green Berets in field uniforms and M4s were gaining on her, and a line of waiting cars stood in her way.
The touch of a hard combat glove on her back prompted her to scream and leap head first across the icy hood of a Mercedes, sliding off into the snow.
She barely had time to look up before she saw a Volvo careening toward her, brakes locked, skidding on the ice. She rolled away seconds before it crashed into the Mercedes.
Getting up, she looked back to see the Marines on the other side of the cars, pointing at her. They split and came at her from both sides, stymied by the panic in the streets.
She turned to run away when a silver minivan braked to a halt in front of her, stopping her cold. Jennifer held her breath as the door slid open automatically and the driver’s window rolled down at the same time.
Behind the wheel was her prom date, Robbie, who had given her the red thong for the dance. “Get in!” he shouted.
“What are you doing, Robbie?” she screamed. “You don’t have a license!”
Robbie looked panic-stricken. “Quick!”
Jennifer glanced back over her shoulder. The Marines had cleared the line of cars and were closing in fast. She opened the driver’s side door.
“Move over!” she ordered, climbing inside. “I’m driving.”
Robbie resisted. “What are you talking about?”
“Your feet barely reach the pedal,” she said. “Move! Now!”
She pushed Robbie into the passenger seat, closed her door, slipped behind the wheel and hit the accelerator.
The minivan lurched backward, knocking the front corner of a sedan and kicking up slush into the windshields of the cars behind it.
“Dang,” she said.
“Dang?!” Robbie repeated, apoplectic.
She checked the rear
view mirror and saw one of the Marines aiming his M-16 at them.
“Holy shit!” Robbie shouted. “They’re going to shoot!”
Jennifer shifted into drive and they shot off.
She took the first corner too fast, and they slid across the ice, side-swiping a Jeep before gaining traction. Robbie slammed against the inside of the passenger door.
“What the hell did your mom do?” Robbie cried out.
“I don’t know.” Jennifer looked up in her rearview mirror, worried that bullets would shatter the back windshield at any moment. “But I’m not gonna sit around to find out.”
She hit the accelerator again, and they sped off onto the straightaway.
18
1210 Hours
Black Hawk One
It wasn't long before the chopper was skimming the white trees of the Hudson Valley and Sachs could see the hills of White Plains rising ahead. They must be going to the local airport. She thought of Jennifer on the run from the very people sent to help her, and worried that in her haste her daughter would put herself in harm’s way.
“Where are you taking me?” she demanded.
Colonel Kyle of the Green Berets said nothing, but Special Agent Raghav of the Secret Service told her, “Nearest presidential emergency facility.”
“Emergency?” Her brushes in the past with Washington security types had taught her a general rule of thumb: the less the inflection in the monotone voice, the worse the situation. “What kind of emergency?”
“There was an explosion in Washington a few minutes ago.”
My God, she thought, I was supposed to be there tonight for the State of the Union address. Her mind raced through the multiple-choice scenarios. She closed her eyes and said, “Tell me the worst.”
“It was nuclear.”
So the correct answer was: d) worse than she had imagined. Sachs snapped her eyes open and stared at the deadpan Secret Service agent. “How many casualties?” she heard herself ask hoarsely.
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