by Tom Clancy
“We're under attack — commence firing commence firing!” the “Soviet” tank commanders screamed into their own command circuits.
Keitel ran to the command vehicle. “I am Colonel Ivanenko. Your commander is dead — get moving! Take those crazy bastards out while we still have a regiment left!”
The operations officer hesitated, having not the slightest idea what was happening, only able to hear the gunfire. But the orders came from a colonel. He lifted his radio, dialed up the battalion command circuit and relayed the instruction.
There was the expected moment's hesitation. At least ten American tanks were now burning, but four were shooting back. Then the entire Soviet line opened fire, and three of the active American tanks were blown apart. Those shielded by the front row began firing off smoke and maneuvering, mainly backwards, as the Soviet tanks started to roll. Keitel watched in admiration as the Soviet T-8os moved out. Seven of them remained still, of which four were burning. Two more blew up before they crossed the line where once a wall had stood.
It was worth it, Keitel thought, just for this moment. Whatever Günther had in mind, it was worth it to see the Russians and Americans killing each other.
* * *
Admiral Joshua Painter arrived at CINCLANT headquarters just in time to catch the dispatch from Theodore Roosevelt.
“Who's in command there?”
“Sir, the battlegroup commander flew into Naples. Senior officer in the group is Captain Richards,” Fleet Intelligence replied. “He said he had four MiGs inbound and armed, and since we're at DEFCON-TWO, he splashed them as a potential threat to the group.”
“Whose MiGs?”
“Could be from the Kuznetzov group, sir.”
“Wait a minute — you said DEFCON-TWO?”
“TR's east of Malta now, sir, SIOP applies,” Fleet Operations pointed out.
“Does anybody know what's going on?”
“I sure as hell don't,” the Fleet Intelligence Officer replied honestly.
“Get me Richards on a voice line.” Painter stopped. “What's the fleet status?”
“Everything alongside has orders to prepare to get underway, sir. That's automatic.”
“But why are we at DEFCON-THREE here?”
“Sir, they haven't told us that.”
“Fabulous.” Painter pulled the sweater over his head and yelled for coffee.
“ Roosevelt on line two, sir,” the intercom called. Painter punched the button and put the phone on speaker.
“This is CINCLANT.”
“Richards here, sir.”
“What's going on?”
“Sir, we're fifteen minutes into a DEFCON-TWO alert here. We had a flight of MiG-29s inbound, and I ordered them splashed.”
“Why?”
“They appeared to be armed, sir, and we copied a radio transmission about the explosion.”
Painter went instantly cold. “What explosion?”
“Sir, BBC reports a nuclear detonation in Denver. The local TV station that originated the report, they say, is now off the air. With that kind of information, I took the shot. I'm senior officer present. It's my battle group here. Sir, unless you have some more questions, I have things to do here.”
Painter knew he had to get out of the man's way. “Use your head, Ernie. Use your goddamned head.”
“Aye aye, sir. Out.” The line went dead.
“Nuclear explosion?” Fleet Intelligence asked.
Painter had a hot line to the National Military Command Center. He activated it. “This is CINCLANT.”
“Captain Rosselli, sir.”
“Have we had a nuclear explosion?”
“That's affirmative, sir. In the Denver area, NORAD estimates yield in the low hundreds and high casualties. That's all we know. We haven't got the word out to everyone yet.”
“Well, here's something else for you to know: Theodore Roosevelt just intercepted and splashed four MiG-29s inbound. Keep me posted. Unless otherwise directed, I'm putting everything to sea.”
* * *
Bob Fowler was into his third cup of coffee already. He was cursing himself for having drunk those four, strong German beers like he was Archie Bunker or something, and one of his fears was that the people here would notice the alcohol on his breath. Intellect told him that his thought processes might be somewhat affected by the alcohol intake, but he'd had the drinks over a period of hours, and natural processes plus the coffee either already had or soon would purge it from his system entirely.
For the first time, he was grateful for the death of his wife Marion. He'd been there at the bedside, had watched his beloved wife die. He knew what grief and tragedy were, and however dreadful the deaths of all those people in Denver might be, he told himself, he had to step back from it, had to set it aside, had to concentrate on preventing the death of anyone else.
So far, Fowler told himself, things had gone well. He had moved quickly to cut off the spread of the news. A nationwide panic was something that he didn't need. His military services were at a higher level of alert that would either prevent or deter an additional attack for some indefinite period of time.
“Okay,” he said on the conference line to NORAD and SAC. “Let's summarize what has happened to this point.”
NORAD answered: “Sir, we've had a single nuclear detonation in the hundred-kiloton range. There has as yet been no report from the scene. Our forces are moving to a high state of alert. Satellite communications are down—”
“Why?” Elizabeth Elliot asked in a voice more brittle than Fowler's. “What could have done that?”
"We don't know. A nuclear detonation in space might, from EMP effects — that's electromagnetic pulse. When a nuclear device explodes at high altitude, most of its energy is released in the form of electromagnetic radiation. The Russians know more about the practical effects of such explosions than we do; they have more empirical data from their tests at Novaya Zemlya back in the 1960s. But we have no evidence of such an explosion, and we should have noticed it. Therefore, a nuclear attack on satellites is most unlikely. Next possibility is a massive blast of electromagnetic energy from a ground source. Now, the Russians have pumped a lot of money into microwave weapons-research. They have a ship in the Eastern Pacific with lots of antennas aboard. It's the Yuri Gagarin. She's classed as a space-event-support ship, and she has four enormous high-gain antennas. That ship is currently three hundred miles off the coast of Peru, well within sight of the injured satellites. Supposedly, the ship is supporting operations for the Mir space station. Aside from that, we're out of guesses. I have an officer talking with Hughes Aerospace right now to see what their thinking is.
“Okay, we're still trying to get ATC tapes from Staple-ton to see if an aircraft might have delivered the bomb, and we are awaiting word from rescue and other teams dispatched to the site of the explosion. That's all I have.”
“We have two wings fully in the air, and more coming on line as we speak,” CINC-SAC said next. “All my missile wings are alerted. My Vice-C IN C is in the air in Looking Glass Auxiliary West, and another Kneecap is about to take off for where you are, sir.”
“Anything happening in the Soviet Union?”
“Their air-defense people are increasing their alert level, as we have already discussed,” General Borstein replied. “We're getting other radio activity, but nothing we can classify yet. There is no indication of an attack on the United States.”
“Okay.” The President let out a breath. Things were bad, but not out of control. All he had to do was get things settled down, and then he could go forward. “I'm going to open the direct line to Moscow.”
“Very well, sir,” NORAD replied.
A Navy chief yeoman was two seats away from President Fowler. His computer terminal was already lit up. “You want to slide down here, Mr. President,” the chief said. “I can't cross-deck my display to your screen.”
Fowler crab-walked his swivel chair the eight feet to the chief's place.
“All ready, sir.” Chief Pablo Orontia looked sideways at his Commander-in-Chief. His gaze didn't betray the fact that he'd been born in Pueblo, Colorado, and still had family there. The President would settle things down, that was his job. Orontia's job, he reasoned, was to do his best to help the man. Orontia had served his country in two wars and many other crises, mainly as an admiral's yeoman on carriers, and now he turned off his feelings as he had trained himself to do.
“Dear President Narmonov…”
* * *
Captain Rosselli watched the first for-real transmission on the Hot Line since his arrival in Washington. The message was put up on the IBM-PC/AT and encrypted, then the computer operator hit the return button to transmit it. He really should be back at his desk, Jim thought, but what went through here might be vital to what he was doing.
AS YOU HAVE PROBABLY BEEN TOLD THERE HAS BEEN A MAJOR EXPLOSION IN THE CENTRAL PART OF MY COUNTRY. I HAVE BEEN TOLD THAT IT WAS A NUCLEAR EXPLOSION AND THAT THE LOSS OF LIFE IS SEVERE, President Narmonov read, with his advisors at his side.
“About what one would expect,” Narmonov said. “Send our reply.”
* * *
“Jesus, that was fast!” the Army colonel on duty remarked and began his translation. A Marine sergeant typed the English version, which was automatically linked to Camp David, Fort Ritchie, and the State Department. The computers printed out hard copy that was sent almost as fast to SAC, NORAD, and the intelligence agencies via facsimile printer.
AUTHENTICATOR: TIMETABLE TIMETABLE TIMETA-BLE
REPLY FROM MOSCOW
PRESIDENT FOWLER:
WE HAVE NOTED THE EVENT. P LEASE ACCEPT OUR DEEPEST SYMPATHY AND THAT OF THE SOVIET PEOPLE. HOW IS SUCH AN ACCIDENT POSSIBLE?
“Accident?” Fowler asked.
“That was awfully fast, Robert,” Elliot observed at once. “Too damned fast. His English isn't very good. The message had to be translated, and you take time to read things like this. Their reply must have been canned — made up in advance… what does that mean?” Liz asked, almost talking to herself, as Fowler formulated his next message. What's going on here? Who is doing this, and why…?
* * *
PRESIDENT N ARMONOV:
I REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT THIS WAS NOT AN ACCIDENT. T HERE IS NO AMERICAN NUCLEAR DEVICE WITHIN A HUNDRED MILES, NOR WERE ANY US WEAPONS IN TRANSIT IN THE AREA. THIS WAS A DELIBERATE ACT BY UNKNOWN FORCES.
“Well, that's no surprise,” Narmonov said. He congratulated himself for correctly predicting the first message from America. “Send the next reply,” he told the communicator. To his advisers: “Fowler is an arrogant man, with the weaknesses of arrogance, but he is no fool. He will be very emotional about this. We must settle him down, calm him. If he can keep control of himself, his intelligence will allow him to maintain control of the matter.”
“My President,” said Golovko, who had just arrived in the command center. “I think this is a mistake.”
“What do you mean?” Narmonov asked in some surprise.
“It is a mistake to tailor your words to what you think of the man, his character, and his mental state. People change under stress. The man at the other end of that telephone line may not be the same man whom you met in Rome.”
The Soviet President dismissed that idea. “Nonsense. People like that never change. We have enough of them here. I've been dealing with people like Fowler all my life.”
* * *
PRESIDENT FOWLER:
IF THIS IS IN FACT A DELIBERATE ACT THEN IT IS A CRIME WHOLLY WITHOUT PRECEDENT IN HUMAN HISTORY. WHAT MADMAN WOULD DO SUCH A THING, AND TO WHAT PURPOSE? SUCH ACTION MIGHT ALL TOO EASILY LEAD TO GLOBAL CATASTROPHE. YOU MUST BELIEVE THAT THE SOVIET UNION HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS INFAMOUS ACT.
“Too fast, Robert,” Elliot said. “'You must believe'? What is this guy trying to say?”
“ Elizabeth, you're reading too much into this,” Fowler replied.
“These responses are canned, Robert! Canned He's answering too fast. He had them prepared in advance. That means something.”
“Like what?”
“Like we were supposed to be at the game, Robert! It looks to me like these were tailored for somebody else — like Burling. What if the bomb was supposed to get you, too, along with Brent and Dennis?”
“I have to set that aside, I told you that!” Fowler said angrily. He paused and took a deep breath. He could not allow himself to get angry. He had to stay calm. “Look, Elizabeth —”
“You can't set that aside! You have to consider that possibility, because if it was planned, that tells us something about what is going on.”
“Dr. Elliot is right,” NORAD said over the open phone line. “Mr. President, you are entirely correct to distance yourself from this event in an emotional sense, but you have to consider all possible aspects of the operational concept that may be at work here.”
“I am compelled to agree with that,” CINC-SAC added.
“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, this 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 differen
ce may be small, but the psychological difference is not. The increased level of alert tells their people that something horrible is underway. I think that is significant.”
“I do not,” Golovko shot back.
Marvelous, Narmonov thought, two of my most important advisors 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. Snowplows 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 towards 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.