Final Strike--A Sean Falcone Novel

by William S. Cohen

  “Someday,” Taylor said, chuckling, “I hope I’ll be able to use that line in a lecture.”

  They talked for over an hour about the design and the steps in the building of the conventional HAIV. Then Taylor shifted to the double-barrel version. “Let’s get right to the thicket,” he said. “What do the nuke guys say about the first section having a nuclear package?”

  Hardwick reached for a three-ring Air Force–blue binder and handed it to Taylor. “It’s all right here, Ben. The NNSA guys, including their NASA liaison scientist, agreed that its contents—an adaption of a standard W76 warhead—would survive the hyperkinetic burrowing and, acting as a shaped charge, the nuke would enhance the depth of the crater when it detonates.”

  Taylor turned the pages in silence for a few moments and then said, “The simulation results look damn good. Maybe two nukes could be better than one. But I’m going with the original NASA one-nuke design, with a recommendation for the maximum nuclear explosion possible.”

  “So that’s it?” Hardwick asked with a shrug.

  “Yes. But the White House has to sign off. I alerted NNSA before I came down here. Sue Nakama of NNSA will handle all the paperwork and set up the delivery and accompany it from Nevada. I’m sure you’ve been through this operation plenty of times at Air Force bases with nuke storage.”

  “Sure. It’ll be routine,” Hardwick said, going over to the coffeemaker. He refilled their cups. In the silence they could hear the faint shouts of the causeway mob. “But we’ll need heavy security if those bastards find out about the nukes.”

  “We’re on an island that will be defended by Special Forces. You can bank on that.” Taylor held up a small suitcase. “They told me I had a bunk here somewhere. I think I’ll hang around for a couple of days.”

  Taylor would spend those days satisfying himself that a backup would be built and hoping that it would not have to be used. Topol’s two warheads were bad enough. He detested the thought of polluting space with nuclear weapons, even though those weapons were in civilian guise.

  98

  Oxley had decided to declare martial law and begin the evacuation of coastal areas during the Topol’s voyage to the asteroid. But the news from Cape Canaveral added a new urgency. A mob was threatening a U.S. government site that would soon possess modified nuclear warheads. The Florida National Guard had been called out. Other governors would soon be doing the same before he had a chance to federalize the Guard. He began thinking about acting immediately. He phoned Falcone and said he wanted to go over the wording of a martial law proclamation.

  While walking to the Oval Office, Falcone imagined Oxley standing at a bulletproof window that looked out onto the South Lawn. There had been days when Falcone had walked into the Oval Office and seen Oxley at that window. Falcone remembered a photograph of JFK doing the same thing during the Cuban Missile Crisis. And he wondered whether or not Oxley was engaged in pantomime or truly feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders. Was Atlas performing or bearing and bending?

  Funny, but after having spent six years with Oxley, Falcone still found the man a puzzle. Outwardly, he projected a cool exterior. But Falcone was certain that there was a soul inside the man, that he was not all ice.

  Few occupants of this office arrived devoid of ambition’s fire. Some came without the talent to match the relentless quest for power. Oxley was not among them. He relished showing his intelligence. He kept shrouded any window to his interior landscape—at least to those who were not part of a very tight circle of his friends. Falcone was not one of them, and so he found himself close to the political sun and light-years away from it at once.

  Not once had Falcone been in the Residence, Oxley’s island of privacy. Oxley viewed dinner with his family as a sacred obligation. Close friends had been in the Residence, and, yes, big donors had got their reward with a night in the Lincoln Bedroom. But never dinner with Oxley’s wife, the dutiful First Lady, and the young son who was growing up in the White House bubble, having play dates watched over by the Secret Service.

  It’s a pretty strange and silly place, Washington, Falcone thought after getting the presidential summons. Congressional leaders wanted to impeach him for refusing to bomb Iran. Now a rock is about to destroy the planet, and they’ll probably say that God is punishing them for the sin of electing a black man in the first place.

  Oxley had tried mightily to avoid talking about the persistence of bigotry in America. Whenever he ventured out into that zone of even almost speaking about racism, his critics on Capitol Hill and the radio talk meisters shoved his soft-pedaled words down his throat. But Oxley permitted no indulgence in self-pity … or perhaps in self-analysis.

  * * *

  Sure enough, there he is at the window, Falcone thought as he entered.

  “So, Mr. President, you’re still thinking about martial law,” he said.

  “More than thinking, Sean,” Oxley replied. He held up a yellow pad, its first page nearly covered with scrawls.

  “Sir, no matter your good intentions, an announcement about relocating American citizens will sound like a dog whistle to conspiracists who are convinced the asteroid is a hoax and is in fact your plan to take over the government. Hamilton called you the Antichrist. A lot of people are going to believe him.”

  “Right. I’m the Antichrist who’s going to save them from their Christian desire to welcome the Second Coming of Christ!” He handed the pad to Falcone and said, “What do you think?”

  Falcone began reading:

  My fellow Americans, even as we prepare to destroy the asteroid that threatens Earth, we must acknowledge that some of us face a special danger. These are the men, women, and children, the grandmothers and grandfathers, the hospital patients—and yes, the prisoners—who live along our coasts.

  Tonight I proclaim a temporary imposition of martial law so that we can get as many citizens as possible away from our coastal areas. This precaution is necessary because scientists may have erred in their calculations about the probable date of a possible asteroid strike. Or the attempt to destroy the asteroid may fail. If the asteroid hits, an impact on the ocean is highly probable. That could produce tsunamis—waves three hundred feet high or higher. They are capable of killing every living thing and destroying every structure for miles inland.

  U.S. Army North, located at Fort Sam Houston in Texas, will carry out the first phase of the evacuation by moving people in and around San Diego, California, to an inland evacuation center. The evacuation will begin tomorrow morning.

  I pray that the spacecraft being launched on February 5 will destroy the asteroid. And then those who were moved to safety will be returned to their homes.

  Good night. And God bless America.

  Falcone was sitting next to the President’s desk. He handed back the pad and sat silently for a moment before saying, “At least, sir, take out the part about moving the prisoners. That sounds frightening. And also omit mention of U.S. Army North. Have you seen the description of it? Quote ‘responsible for defending the U.S. homeland and coordinating defense support of civil authorities’ unquote. It’s replaced the black helicopter as the crazies’ bogeyman, the sign of a military coup. And as for the idea of evacuation, you know my feeling. And martial law? It goes back to what the attorney general said. Invoking martial law in anticipation of need is dangerous for at least two reasons: the need may not come, and once one need is found, maybe other needs will be found.”

  “Sounds like you don’t trust me, Sean,” Oxley said.

  “It’s not a matter of trust, sir.”

  “Well, then, judgment?”

  “Yes, sir. And why, sir, only San Diego?”

  “It’s full of Navy retirees, not long-haired surfers. And it will give me an idea about how well an evacuation will work.”

  “I’m sure you know that the mere mention of a controlled evacuation will start impromptu evacuations,” Falcone said.

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “The
evacuation idea, sir. I just can’t—”

  “Can’t what, Sean?” Oxley asked, his tone hard.

  “Mr. President, I can’t see the need or the practicality. Nearly forty percent of Americans live in shore areas. Evacuate and then return?… It’s impossible, sir.”

  “Let’s see, Sean. Let us see.”

  99

  The next day, TV channels that were showing scenes of panic and rioting suddenly showed the grim face of the President behind his desk in the Oval Office. The White House had not given an advance announcement of a presidential speech. Oxley believed that the best way to end the rumors of martial law was to announce it, using the text he had shown Falcone. Oxley had taken one bit of advice: He did not mention prisoners.

  Before he finished his address, GNN split the screen. On one side was the President speaking; on the other, a seemingly endless stream of cars barely moving across the Golden Gate Bridge. When the President ended his speech, an off-screen commentator excitedly spoke: “Here in California and all over the country people are getting in their cars and fleeing the shore.”

  Millions of Americans were in motion. Vehicles heading upward or inward filled the highways. GNN and other networks reported looting in cities from Baltimore to Portland. Mobs surged into supermarkets, grabbing whatever they could from rapidly emptying shelves. Schools closed. Malls closed. Drug stores were looted and burned. Drivers abandoned their buses and trucks, further clogging the highways along every American shore.

  Occasionally there were scenes of people praying. White-robed Californians knelt and prayed in a meadow; some of them were the grandchildren of similarly clad Californians who had knelt there during an asteroid scare in 1968. A family in Mobile, Alabama, prayed around the kitchen table. Some bishops and preachers, emirs and rabbis warned that The End was near. Other bishops and preachers, emirs and rabbis preached that the threat from on high had nothing to do with the End of the World.

  Then another scene: A GNN correspondent stood before the flashing red lights of state police vehicles blocking a highway. “Here at the Massachusetts–New Hampshire border,” she said, “police are turning away cars with Massachusetts license plates. Officials say—”

  A speeding car smashed a police vehicle aside and continued down the highway. A trooper fired and the speeding car spun out of control.

  “Good Lord!” the commentator exclaimed. The trooper turned his gun toward the camera and shouted, “Get the fuck out of here!”

  The screen went blank until a harried Ned Winslow appeared in the World Newsroom before a U.S. map. Red lights were blinking in many states. “Panic! Violence! Looting!” Winslow said. “A day of unprecedented fear and dread.”

  In America and throughout the world, panic was spreading like a pandemic. Chinese authorities clamped down hard, using water guns and tear gas against a crowd in Tiananmen Square. Lebed ordered Red Square closed and shut down two newspapers for inciting citizens to riot. Word spread throughout the world: higher was safer.

  * * *

  Immediately after the President spoke, San Diego residents had been told, by local radio and television stations and by social-media messaging: Mandatory evacuation begins tomorrow. Pack a small suitcase or backpack with two changes of clothing, a sweater or parka, toilet articles, and medications. For babies, toddlers, and young children, add appropriate necessities. Pets will not be evacuated.

  Early the next morning, three C-130 Hercules transports carrying advance units of the U.S. Army North were shot at as they approached San Diego International Airport. The first aircraft landed and opened its rear ramp. Before the first troops were visible, more shots were fired.

  After a slight delay, two fully armored soldiers emerged and fired at an approaching truck, which burst into flames and stopped. Several men stumbled out of the wreckage and were gunned down by the soldiers.

  Troops poured out of the aircraft and fast-stepped to a terminal. As the next Hercules landed, a squad emerged from the terminal and, while searching around the runways for any other armed protesters, found three security guards, two of them dead. The surviving guard said they had been shot by airport invaders who called themselves the Evac Militia.

  The airport was deserted. Here, as in nearly every coastal airport on Earth, all flights had been canceled and the aircraft had flown to inland destinations. Dozens of city buses were lined up in empty parking lots to take troops to evacuation headquarters, a tent city erected by FEMA at a park about sixteen miles east of San Diego.

  Buses were already loading other evacuees. They were sailors and officers from ships, ordered to shore and docked at the many piers of the San Diego Naval Station. Other evacuees were families from the seaside naval housing area. The highway leading to the tent city was closed, except for the stream of evacuation buses. Instructions to the troops had not mentioned the naval-evacuation-within-the-mass-evacuation. So Navy SEALs took over some buses supposed to accompany Army troops. Officers quickly quelled clashes between sailors and soldiers.

  Army lieutenants led squads of armed enlisted men who started out following the instructions in their Evacuation Manuals, going door-to-door through their assigned neighborhoods. Each squad was trailed by buses that would take the evacuees to the tent city.

  In house after house, in apartments and condos, troops discovered that people had self-evacuated. Many who stayed behind were elderly, disabled, or defiant. Troops did the best they could, adapting to realities that the manuals had not anticipated. The manuals said that the troops would be assisted by local police officers, firefighters, and emergency medical workers. But few local assisters appeared because many had self-evacuated, some of them in their official vehicles.

  Gunfights started on several streets when members of the Evac Militia shot at arriving soldiers. They returned fire, killing or wounding militiamen and innocent bystanders. By nightfall, the Navy had delivered 874 people. But only 232 San Diego people were in the tent city, which was surrounded by a perimeter of bivouacking troops. Sentinels were under orders to shoot trespassers.

  * * *

  At 12:10 on the morning of Evacuation Day 2, the brigadier general in charge of the San Diego troops called Major General Hodson, who called Secretary Winthrop, who called the President. He was in the Situation Room staring at GNN on one of the wall monitors. He had turned off the sound.

  “Yes, George. Yes, I understand.… I understand,” Oxley said, trying to sound convincing. “This was a test, George. A test. Pass the word that I am canceling the evacuation because so many people are leaving on their own without Army aid. The White House will be issuing a statement shortly. Goodbye, George.” Oxley turned to Falcone, who sat next to him. “And you’re going to write that statement—as punishment for the ‘I told you so’ that I know is brewing in your brain.”

  “And martial law?” Falcone asked.

  “No mention. But it’s still in force.”

  100

  And then it was Launch Day, and the panic began to ease. Now came hope, calming and slowing the flight from shores, the looting, the road blocks, the riots.

  At the Plesetsk Cosmodrome, the American observers were bused to Launch Pad 13. The Chinese general and his entourage had left during the night. For propaganda purposes, the departure was a show of displeasure at the sight of nuclear weapons being sent into space.

  The Americans, as usual, gave up their cell phones and filed into the bunker, already occupied by a camera crew of the state-controlled All-Russia State Television Company, which was beaming the event to the world.

  A few minutes after the observers’ arrival, the image of President Lebed, seated in his Kremlin office, appeared on the bunker’s two large screens. As he spoke, Chinese, and English translations appeared along the bottom of the screens.

  “Happy Launch Day!” Lebed exclaimed in the English caption. “On this day, Rescue, Russia’s space missile, will save the world by destroying Asteroid USA, which threatens the Earth. The huge space rock was pushed i
nto a dangerous position by a spacecraft controlled by Robert Wentworth Hamilton, a greed-driven American businessman. This man who endangered all the people in the world, this man was never prosecuted for his foul deed.”

  As Lebed spoke, the scene shifted to a transformed Topol coming out of the forest. It had been painted white and the doors’ red stars had been replaced by a Russian word. “Rescue,” Navy Captain Anderson translated and said, “That goddamn Lebed is sure making this a Russian show.”

  The missile carrier parked in the center of the launch pad. Next on screen came another showing of Shvernik’s voyage simulation video. In the upper left of the screen was a countdown timer.

  10-9-8-7-6-5-4-3-2-1.

  The time of the waiting began. In 17.764 days, said Shvernik’s fact book, Rescue would reach Asteroid USA and destroy it. Never in history had there been days counted like this, one by one.… Days that would end in death and disaster or faith and hope.

  Most people were able and willing to watch the passage of days with a numbness, an understanding that they were in the clutches of time. Others raged and killed or sought peace in suicide.…

  * * *

  In the Situation Room, President Oxley, Falcone, Winthrop, and Quinlan were watching the liftoff. Taylor had decided to spend Launch Day at Cape Canaveral. “Mr. President,” Falcone said, “you’ve seen General Amador’s fifty-fifty report. Big rocks are going to fall from the sky. They could strike Washington. I strongly urge you to begin your continuity of government plan.… And I think you’d better order everyone to get the hell out of the White House.”

  “Sean, I told you I’m not leaving.”

  “With all due respect, Mr. President, that’s bullshit,” Falcone said. “You have to get out of here.”

  “Was it bullshit when you refused early release from prison?” Oxley asked. “Didn’t you say you had to wait for your turn?”

  “Yeah, but that was different … I was…” Falcone saw that Oxley wasn’t open to reason. “Okay, have it your way, but you’d better have a guest room made up for me.”