She was good, Koz thought. He tested her further. “So what exactly are the Chinese supposed to be doing?”
“According to Brad Marshall?” She didn’t even have to glance at the report. “First, they’re supposed to be hitting us at Kadena Air Base in Okinawa, hoping to strike before our F-35 fighters get in the air and knock out our best staging area for combat patrols. Second, they’re supposed to blind us in the theater of war by knocking out our overhead communication and imaging satellites. Third, if necessary, they might launch their new anti-ship ballistic missiles at our carrier groups plowing toward Taiwan. But they’ve done none of those things yet.”
“No, they haven’t, Madame President,” he told her. “But General Zhang has proven to be irrational in the past, and it sure looks like the Chinese hit D.C. and accomplished an unimaginable regime change in the United States. A regime change that put you in charge, Madame President, and your actions or lack thereof can only stoke speculation.”
“Meaning I’m a Chinese sleeper of some kind?” she asked him.
He knew the idea was ridiculous, but he had to push. She had enough doubters already in the ranks of the military, and she couldn’t afford having her authority questioned. “It was you, after all, and not the Central Locator that found a way for you to get out of Washington before the blast, ma’am. That’s a fact.”
“I am not an agent of any foreign power, Colonel,” she said firmly, her brown eyes on fire with rage. “How can I prove it to any of you?”
“With this, actually.” He reached into his pocket and removed an authenticator card with the presidential seal on it. "This secret code card will establish your identity as president to military commanders if you're ever caught away from secure communications facilities." He paused, and then gave her his warmest smile. “I know you’re not a plant. But you might have to prove it to others. That card will help.”
“Thank you,” she said and slipped the card inside her flight suit's outside pocket.
Koz wasn't satisfied. "Not a secure location."
Sachs started to unzip the top of her flight suit.
Koz tried to keep a straight face as he watched her tuck it into her bra. It was certainly the first time he was aware of an authenticator card occupying that kind of space, except maybe for the time when former president Bill Clinton lost his one night.
She asked, "How's this?"
"Better," he nodded as Captain Li opened the door in time to see Sachs adjust her bosoms.
Koz leaped to his feet in embarrassment, as if he had been caught in some sordid act. "Captain."
"Excuse me," said Li without batting an eyelash. The iron-rod discipline of the USAF had taken over. "NORAD reports a massive wave of Chinese missiles heading our way."
"Trajectory?" Koz demanded.
Li was grim. "They're silo killers."
32
1445 Hours
Northern Command
"Use 'em or lose 'em?"
General Block watched President Sachs make a face on the big screen from his office perch overlooking the underground Northern Command. But he was more concerned with the two big screens in the operations center below. The left screen displayed TOT MISL 50 — total number of Chinese DF-5 ICBMs launched. The right screen displayed TTG -34.07.12 — time to go before detonation. Meanwhile, six other screens providing real-time data from the USAF Space Command’s early warning radar sites at Clear AFS in Alaska and Beale AFB in California projected their trajectory toward Minutemen III missile fields in Montana, Wyoming and Colorado.
"That's what I'm saying, ma'am," Block told her and Generals Marshall and Carver on the split screen. “These Chinese DF-5s are silo-killers. We either launch our M-III’s or lose them, along with the ability to retaliate.”
He could see Sachs flinch at the either-or scenario, and sure enough she said, “Two options are a dilemma, General Block. Three options is at least a choice. What about our satellites? Do we have any visuals from space? Or even our forward-deployed fleet in the South China Sea?”
Block paused. “Our satellites over China were blinded minutes before the DF-5s launched, and neither our air base at Kadena in Japan nor the Seventh Fleet has a visual confirmation.”
“Then maybe they haven’t launched, General Block,” Sachs said. “Maybe this is a phantom missile strike generated by the Red Glare cyberweapon. Isn’t it convenient that we’re denied visual verification at the same time our radars are registering incoming missiles? General Marshall?”
Block thought Marshall looked surprised. “You’re probably half right, Madame President. The Chinese technically could have used Red Glare to blind our satellites, but in political and military terms it would make no sense for them to fake a missile launch and prompt a massive U.S. nuclear retaliation.”
“Not for the Chinese,” Sachs said. “But maybe for another party.”
There she goes again, Block thought, refusing to accept the obvious for some shadowy conspiracy.
Sachs addressed Brad Marshall again, and said, “General Marshall, do you agree with General Block?”
Block could only hope the kid could make Sachs see straight. Or use his baby blues to hypnotize her or something. Anything.
“I have to, Madame President,” he told her. “Right now we have the advantage of not only firepower but accuracy in striking Chinese military targets. We would spare most of the civilian Chinese population while degrading their military’s ability to destroy ours.”
“Even if that prompts them to strike back?”
“Well, it looks like they already have, Madame President. And if they haven’t, I don’t see how they could strike back if we hit them now while we can.”
Block could see Sachs try to keep a poker face, like she was thinking it through. But that was two votes of the NCA to her one, with Carver left to cast his ballot. “General Carver,” she finally said. “If the Chinese attack is for real, and if we do lose our land-based ICBMs, will our nuclear-armed bombers and submarines survive the attack?”
Block knew Carver had to nod a yes, which is what he did.
Carver said the only thing he could in his position: “The airborne and seaborne legs of our defense triad will indeed survive, Madame President, with enough firepower to destroy the world several times over and, per our war plan, preserve the continuity of government for the United States of America.”
Block could see that was enough to satisfy Sachs and give her what she needed: a 2-2 split between the four of them. Worse, she clearly interpreted her vote as commander-in-chief to count as two in a tie. “So we can live without land-based ICBMs."
We can live without ICBMs? Block sensed that this failed Cabinet secretary was losing her grip on reality.
"Of course," Marshall cut in, “you realize that if you allow the enemy to attack yet again without retaliation, you'll only encourage further aggression against America."
Block watched her reaction on the screen. The woman looked positively constipated.
"General Marshall, you're the one who told Congress that great care and billions of dollars have been spent to construct American nuclear weapons systems that will survive a nuclear attack," Sachs replied testily. "The point was to give the civilian Commander-in-Chief—that's me, not you—the luxury of determining his or her response after the shape of the battle is clear.”
Marshall said, “But you’re letting the enemy shape it.”
“No,” she insisted, summing up. “We’ve got conflicting signals about the reality of this incoming attack. Northern Command says DF-5 silo killers are coming our way. But our satellites show nothing. The best course of action is to ride this out and determine our response after the shape of the battle is clear.”
Ride this out? Block thought with almost unbearable frustration. This has nothing to do with conflicting signals. She’s incapable of pulling the trigger.
“With all due respect, Madam President,” he said, knowing the inflection in his voice sounded anything b
ut respectful, “the shape of this battle looks pretty clear on my screens, and that looks like one big mushroom cloud over Cheyenne Mountain in 24 minutes and 53 seconds.”
“Then I suggest you prepare for impact,” she said. “General Marshall, please send me a prioritized target list for those Mavericks you talked to me about earlier. The bunker-busters we’ve got up in the air now that we can always recall. I think you called it the Tall option.”
She had to put that little tweak in the nose at the end, thought Block. Couldn’t leave well enough alone. But at least this was something.
“On its way,” Marshall said and cut out.
Sachs moved on to Carver. “General Carver, American citizens have to prepare themselves for any eventuality. Issue a national attack warning. Move our subs into attack position. I want every plane from Kadena and the USS George Washington airborne. We’ll reconvene five minutes before impact. Over.”
Sachs disappeared from the screen, leaving Block on the video conference with Carver at Strategic Command. If anything, Carver was the one most at risk here, as Block always considered Cheyenne Mountain a far more formidable fortress than Carver’s underground operations center beneath Offutt Air Force Base in Omaha.
Block said, "I say we go ahead and launch.”
Carver frowned. "You can't be serious!"
"Come on," said Block. "What are we talking about here? A woman who can't make up her mind. I say we remove her from the chain of command."
Carver was adamant. "We can't do that, Block."
"Technically, the National Command Authorities are running the show now. That's us. She's only one vote out of four in the NCA."
Carver said, "She is our commander in chief."
“What the hell kind of commander in chief is this, Carver?”
“The only one we’ve got, understand? Look, she’ll come around. It’s Colonel Kozlowski and Captain Li who are advising her.”
“The Pollock and the chink,” Block said. “She’s got a goddamn rainbow coalition behind her. All she needs now is a Vulcan.”
“Just prepare for impact,” said a stone-faced Carver, obliging him with the split-fingered Vulcan “live long and prosper” salute from Star Trek. “I’ll sound the National Attack Warning.”
33
1450 Hours
Bedford Trails
Air raid sirens blared as Jennifer and her horse Punk rode beneath the frosty canopy of the Piney Woods Preserve. She feared she had only minutes to lose the Green Berets before they and every police unit in Westchester County converged on the area. She had to disappear, go somewhere nobody would ever consider, not even her mother.
There was Union Cemetery up ahead, or the Bedford Golf Club to her right. Either way, she’d have to emerge from the protection of the preserve to cross Clinton Road.
She dismounted Punk in the preserve and gave him a slap on the rump to make him move away from her. Then in one boot and one cold stocking foot, she ran across the narrow, unplowed road. She clamored over a tall, green chain link fence on the other side and dropped along the 17th fairway of the Bedford Country Club. It dated back to 1892. Practically Neolithic-era, she thought, as she ran toward the majestic clubhouse beyond the 18th hole.
She skirted the clubhouse and went around back to the small, decrepit caddyshack, where Robbie had taken her to make out twice. Well, maybe one-and-a-half times. Nobody would expect to find her here, she decided, because it’s the last place she expected herself to be right now.
She crunched through the snow to the freestanding mailbox in front of the caddy shack. She cracked open the icy latch to find dozens of score cards and pencils—and a key taped to the bottom. She pulled it out and looked back to make sure enough snow was falling to cover her tracks, but it would be a good half hour before that would happen. She realized she had no choice.
She locked the door behind her and shivered in the darkness. It was almost as cold inside the caddyshack as outside. She waited for her eyes to adjust in the dim light. First, she had to find out what was going on in the world. Then she had to decide whether she should use Carla’s phone. She wanted to send her mom that picture of the Green Beret, but she didn’t want to risk giving her location away to the goon and die.
She opened the broom closet and saw the words “R&J 4eVer” etched into a wall. Beneath the etching was an old AM/FM/CD boombox. She took out the boombox and put it on the floor, then wrapped herself with the dusty beach blanket she had stashed on the shelf weeks ago and sat down.
She said a quick prayer and hit the “on” switch. The boombox still worked. Batteries and everything. She turned up the volume and adjusted the dial.
“This is the National Warning Center,” said the voice of God, or so it sounded. “Emergency. This is an attack warning. Repeat. This is an attack warning.”
A bleeping sound started to repeat itself, then her mom’s voice came on. Jennifer leaned closer to the box.
“This is President Sachs with a warning that another attack is imminent.”
Jennifer gasped. “Oh, God.”
“The threat appears aimed at U.S. military targets, not population centers. So there is little to gain in mass evacuations or hysteria. The best thing every American can do at this moment is to simply take cover in basements, schools, offices, churches, synagogues and mosques until the threat passes.”
Jennifer looked around the sorry interior of the caddyshack. It had no basement but was about as good as anywhere else at the moment.
“Local police departments and National Guard units will be patrolling streets to enforce safety and use deadly force against those who would see this crisis as an opportunity to break the law.”
What about those Green Berets chasing me? Jennifer wondered.
“Rest assured that the United States armed forces are standing by to unleash the full fury of their wrath upon those states that have financed, equipped or harbored those who have attacked us. Until then, fellow Americans, our prayers are with you and our children. Help them, and help your neighbors.”
Jennifer pulled out Carla’s phone. She knew the government could track her even when it was off, but only if they knew what phone she had. As soon as she placed a call, they’d know.
The EAS announcer came back on. “This was a message of the Emergency Alert System. This is not a test. Repeat. This is not a test.”
That was enough to remind her that she could not be selfish in times like this. If there was anything she could report to her mom that would be helpful, she had to do it, even if it gave her away.
She turned the phone on, got a dial tone and punched in her mom’s number. “Mom, pick up,” she breathed.
Even as she heard the ringing on the other end, she saw a flash of light outside and ran to the window. There in the distance was that black Suburban, high beams shooting out its crumbled front end. It was tracing a long path across the vast course, following the buried golf cart paths. It was still a ways off. But the path could only end at the clubhouse, she realized, and then here.
Phone to her ear, Jennifer paced nervously. Light from an outside lamppost streamed through the dirty window, through which she peered with each turn. The Suburban had disappeared from view, and she paused.
“Please identify,” said a woman’s voice in her ear, not her mother’s.
Jennifer jumped in surprise. Her call had gone through. But to whom?
“Jennifer Sachs, is that you?” the woman asked.
Jennifer didn’t know what to say. She was scared.
“My name is Captain Li, Jennifer,” the woman said. “I’m putting you through to your mother now.”
Jennifer heard a click and then her mother’s voice. "Baby, where are you?" She sounded both relieved and frantic.
"I can't say yet, Mom. This line isn't secure."
"It's OK, I have people who can come and get you."
"Like the ones who killed Carla and almost killed me?"
There was an audible gasp. "What?!"
Jennifer lost it then. She could feel her eyes tearing up. "They killed Carla, Mom. And if Aunt Dina wasn't out of town with her boyfriend, they would have killed her too. They're probably listening to me right now."
"Jennifer, please, tell me where you are."
Jennifer paused as she heard a distant wail of the national warning system sirens. "Like it matters now, Mom. We're all going to die. Just like Dad."
"Jennifer, I won't let that happen. Tell me where you are. I’ll send help."
"No, I'll help you, Mom. I'm sending you a picture of the guy who tried to kill me." She found the photo in the phone’s SD media card file and emailed it to her mother. "Just make sure whoever you send isn't him."
Suddenly two headlight beams pierced the window and the low hum of a distant vehicle grew louder. "Oh, God!"
Her mother’s voice screamed through the phone. "Jennifer!"
Jennifer ducked and then peered through a corner of the window. The black Suburban with the crushed front end braked to a squeaky halt outside. The two Green Berets stepped out like something out of Red Glare.
"They found me!" she breathed into the phone and hung up.
34
1501 Hours
Air Force One
Now it was Sachs who lost it, screaming into the phone, "Jennifer!" She sank to her knees and burst into tears, unable to hold back. It all came out, everything she had bottled up since the morning: her separation from Jennifer, the chopper crash, her lock-up in the infirmary and the strain of circumstances.
Red Glare Page 9