“Heard a lot about you, Dr. Stein,” Reynolds remarked, shaking his hand. Lewis felt himself being measured by the chief of staff. “Welcome to the White House. Come on, I’ll show you through. The President is in the SitRoom waiting for you guys. Ever seen the movie Dr Strangelove?”
Lewis shook his head as the three men started walking. “No.”
“Good. Because the real life SitRoom is nothing like in the movies. It’s a fucking broom cupboard actually.”
“Thanks for the heads up,” Lewis said politely. He decided that he liked Reynolds but wasn’t sure why. An instinct? Well, Lewis had cheated death more than once by trusting those. Nevertheless, he knew he’d best be on his guard around the chief of staff. As adept as he was -used to be , he corrected himself - in a combat situation, this was an alien, potentially hostile, environment to him and he had the disadvantage of being the only guy in the game who didn’t know the rules. Reynolds was obviously one of the key players.
Lewis didn’t notice the metal detector through which he passed, so well concealed was it in the wooden doorframe. He did, however, notice the two severe looking Secret Service agents a few steps behind him and Bishop, who were themselves a few steps behind Reynolds.
He felt like a tourist taking in the surroundings as Reynolds led the way through the palatial Cross Hall. The walls were adorned with portraits of the White House’s past occupants; some good, some bad, but all of them worthy of their own footnote in the great book of American history. The surroundings were clearly designed to intimidate foreign dignitaries, a blatant show of American might. It was a tactic originated by the British, he recalled. And damn if it isn’t effective, Lewis thought, himself feeling slightly intimidated.
He had already become totally disorientated in this surprisingly vast building. That sensation wasn’t helped when Reynolds showed the new arrivals into an elevator, which was perhaps smaller than it should have been. One of the Secret Service agents pressed a button that took them into a reinforced basement, a hundred feet below ground level.
“First time in the White House, Dr. Stein?” Reynolds asked amiably, still trying to get a feel for this intense-looking newcomer.
“Yes it is. Quite impressive, if I may say so.”
“Well, I’m sorry we’ve only got time for the dime tour today. Perhaps we can arrange something a little more comprehensive when things calm down a bit.”
“That’s okay,” Lewis said. Had he wanted to see the White House, he would have done so before now. But he’d never had much inclination to worship the palatial trappings of America’s political elite. That was why he was so surprised by his awestruck reaction to his surroundings.
“It hasn’t got as much history as some of your buildings in the old country,” Reynolds noted, “but we’re quite proud of it. Although I dare say that just as much fooling around goes on here as in Buck House.” He whispered in Lewis’s ear. “That’s just between you and me though.”
Ah, here we go, Lewis thought, noting the reference to his former nationality. Well, it was natural that people here should be wary of a foreigner, wasn’t it? He’d had the same problem when he’d worked at Langley. Even though he was a naturalized American with a U.S. passport, a social security number and hundreds of thousands of dollars in paid taxes to his name, Lewis would always be a foreigner for as long as he spoke with an English accent.
He could have said as much to Reynolds, but instead restricted himself to a diplomatic smile.
The doors to the elevator opened onto a nondescript gray corridor with several doors leading off it. Outside one of those doors stood two Secret Service agents. Lewis guessed correctly that this was where they were headed.
“Guys.” Reynolds politely acknowledged the agents, both of whom checked Lewis out and decided that what they saw was worthy of respect. Despite his scruffy appearance, he had the look. They stood aside to allow the three men passage.
As he entered the room, Lewis felt the eyes of America’s most powerful figures checking him out. He was becoming accustomed to the feeling. I know what a goldfish feels like now.
President Edward Mitchell rose from his seat and came over to shake Lewis’s hand. He looked older than he appeared on TV, Lewis noted, unsure whether that was because of the lack of make-up or the stress of his current situation. Lewis decided that he liked him anyway. He had the look of a decent man, which came as something of a surprise when one remembered that he was still a politician. Bishop’s opinion of the commander-in-chief had gone a long way towards forming Lewis’s judgment. The DCI was one of the few men whose opinions Lewis had always trusted.
“Dr Stein,” the President smiled tiredly. “It’s good to meet you at last. Margaret’s told me a lot about you.”
“It’s an honor to meet you, sir,” Lewis replied, nodding respectfully. He had long since learned that the best way to judge a man was to look into his eyes. And the President’s eyes had a certain integrity and warmth about them. To his surprise, Lewis actually felt slightly sorry for him. Tough break, pal, he thought. You look like a guy who’s fallen into a shark-infested sea without a lifejacket or a swimming lesson.
Bradley Copeland was the next person to greet Lewis, his impassive face that of a professional diplomat. Unlike the President, Copeland actually looked younger than he did on TV. Lewis wondered how the Secretary of State handled himself in tough negotiations with older foreign diplomats, hardened by years of experience. Not too well, according to recent press reports. So, are the sharks nibbling at you too?
General Westwood appraised Lewis through narrow, suspicious eyes as they shook hands. Throughout the introductions, the two soldiers were taking the measure of each other, keeping their opinions concealed behind neutral expressions. Again, Lewis detected that this was probably another one of the good guys. After all, Westwood had been there and done that. And, despite his advancing years, he still had the look of a man who would have rather been out in the field leading his men than sitting here in an underground office surrounded by politicians.
Nielsen’s welcome was vaguely indifferent. He eyed Lewis with the contempt that one might show a cockroach, as if the new arrival wasn’t worthy of his attention. In spite of his instant dislike for the Secretary of Defense, Lewis acted with polite dignity as the two men exchanged cool greetings.
And, finally, came Margaret Mitchell. Of course, Lewis was already well acquainted with the First Lady. She had been his lecturer at Princeton, and it was purely because of her tutorship that he was nowDoctor Stein, rather than plain oldMister . She greeted him with a friendly hug.
“Good to see you again, Lewis.” What have you done to yourself?she didn’t ask, noting the weight gain and the pallid complexion that seemed to have aged him since they’d last met on the day he’d graduated from Princeton.
“You too, Ma’am.”
The three arrivals took their seats at the conference table. Lewis found himself sat between Westwood and Copeland, at the far end of the table from the President. Bishop was directly opposite him.
“I know you expected to be here today to discuss the possibility of an advisory position,” Mitchell said to Lewis, leaning forward with his hands folded on the conference table. “Unfortunately, things have moved on, as you already know. You’ve been drafted, I’m afraid. Margaret tells me you’re an expert on Russian capabilities. Is that correct?”
Lewis cleared his throat, shaken by his sudden transformation from a drunk, burned out college lecturer to Presidential advisor. “That’s true, sir. I’m a bit rusty, been out of the game for a couple of years, but I’ve been keeping abreast of events, and I’ve got a pretty good insight into the way they think.”
“Good,” Mitchell acknowledged, his expression now gravely serious. “General Westwood, why don’t you bring Tony and Dr. Stein up to speed on the situation?”
“Yes sir,” the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs agreed. His expression and tone were neutral, as if he were commenting on the weather. “NORA
D has confirmed ten nuclear detonations over rebel targets in the Ukraine over the past half an hour. Estimated yields between fifteen and twenty KTs. We’re still awaiting damage estimates.”
Lewis closed his eyes in despair. He had spent the past two years teaching acne-ridden kids about strategic doctrine, always safe in the knowledge that the theories would probably never be tested. Now it had all suddenly become very real, and he felt like a student himself. Words likeoverkill andblastwave were no longer abstract concepts to be studied in a classroom. They were horrific realities that, at that very moment, thousands of innocent Ukrainians were experiencing on a first hand basis.
“Method of delivery?” Bishop inquired.
“Retrofitted Bears.”
“ALCMs,” Lewis observed bitterly. “What about civilian casualties?”
Westwood eyed the newcomer with caution, wondering for the first time what level of security clearance he had. “No figures as yet. Some of the targets were inevitably towns and villages that were in Ukrainian Army hands. NORAD has declared DefCon Three.”
“What?” Bishop exclaimed. His former incarnation had been as a CIA field officer. He was, by his own admission, weak when it came to matters of strategic doctrine.
“Standard procedure for an aggressive nuclear strike, Tony,” Lewis explained calmly. He turned back to Westwood. “Any increased activity around Russian missile silos, General?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t be surprised if it happens,” he advised, glancing at the President. “That would be a natural response to our increased readiness. In fact, I’m surprised they haven’t reacted already.”
“Perhaps they want to keep a lid on things,” Reynolds proffered with a shrug. “You know how these situations tend to take on a life of their own when everybody starts squeezing the trigger. They probably don’t want to up the ante. That would be natural enough.”
Lewis shook his head, frowning skeptically. “That doesn’t sound like the Russians I know.”
“You said it yourself,” Copeland reminded him. “You’ve been out of the game a while.”
“Two years, Mr. Secretary. Two years. The Russian nature doesn’t change in two years. There’s another element here, something we’re missing.”
“Like what?” Mitchell asked.
Lewis had no answer for that.
NORAD, CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO
Everybody in the NORAD complex was starting to calm down after the initial excitement - nobody could think of a better word - created by the nuclear strikes against Ukraine. USSTRATCOM was scrambling every operational Strategic Bomb Wing in the United States. Crews manning ICBM launch capsules in North Dakota, Wyoming, Minnesota, Montana, Missouri and Nebraska had been placed on alert. A total of eight ballistic missile submarines - some with barely half their crews aboard - had hurriedly put to sea from Bangor in Washington State, San Diego in California and Kings Bay in Georgia.
Allen’s deputy - a Canadian Air Force General named Frank Mackay - came running up the metal steps onto the bridge, taking them two at a time.
“Status report, sir,” he offered, handing General Allen a sheet of paper. It read:
06160235Z//
FROM: CincUSStratCom
TO: CincNorad, CincAcc, CincLant, CincEur//
Top Secret//
Oprep/Nucflash/10//
StratStatRep/3//
All strategic assets at alert levels concurrent with general DefCon Three status/10 (ten) Russian nuclear impact points in Ukraine/Ivankov Konotop Nizhin Poltava Rovno Vinnitsa Bakhmach Kozelets Ichnya Oster/2 (two) negative impacts/All targets known to be occupied by Ukrainian Army/Yields range between 15KT and 20KT/No est on casualties/No further Russian strategic activity detected/Situation is fluid//
END//
Allen handed the sheet of paper back to Mackay. “Still no sign of an increase in Russian alert status?”
“Six hunter-killers put to sea from Vladivostok and Murmansk, but other than that nothing out of the ordinary,” Mackay reported. “What do you make of that?”
“I would have expected some sort of response to our alert,” Allen admitted. He had a bad feeling about this. The Russians weren’t acting how they were supposed to act. In the abstract, that was a good thing, for it meant that they probably weren’t planning any further use of nuclear weapons. But situations like this weren’t abstract, were they? And for that reason, he couldn’t believe that they would simply allow the American alert to go unchecked. Not unless they had a damn good reason for doing so. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, although he didn’t yet know why.
Both men were oblivious to the pit technician who was monitoring the status of Ukrainian Air Force assets on his terminal. A 22-year-old Second Lieutenant from New Jersey, he had only been at NORAD for three months, and was already wishing he had taken another posting. He was coming to the end of his twelve hour shift and toyed with the idea of grabbing himself a cup of machine coffee - not as good as the real stuff, but never mind - to stay alert.
He picked his nose and was looking for a concealed spot to stick his booger when a small red circle appeared in the center of the electronic map on his display. Catching it out of the corner of his eye, he blinked, hoping he’d imagined it. But, to his horror, he quickly realized that he hadn’t. In as much time as it took for that thought to register, another one appeared to the south. Then a third. He felt his neck muscles tense. “Holy motherfucking Christ,” he muttered to himself, almost dropping the phone as he picked it up. By the time his finger reached the button that connected him to General Allen, klaxons were screaming all around the NORAD complex, and the Big Board was flashing the message ‘MISSILE EVENT’ in bold red letters.
“What gives?” Allen barked into the phone.
“Sir,” the technician said, his voice trembling, “I have a possible missile event! I’m tracking three - repeat, three - possible ballistic missile launches from western Ukraine.”
“Run an error check,” CINC-NORAD ordered, reacting instinctively.
The technician took the SBIRS satellites offAuto-Detect and quickly ran a series of predefined system checks, just as he had been trained to. “Negative on error check, sir,” he reported after a few seconds. “SRV is valid; repeat, SRV is valid.” An indicator lit on his console. “We’ve also got positive verification from STRATCOM.” He punched a button beneath the indicator to acknowledge receipt of the verification to U.S. Strategic Command at Offutt AFB in Nebraska.
Allen hung up. “Damn,” he grumbled, hurrying down the steps that led into the pit. This was turning out to be one heck of a shitty day. With Mackay hot on his heels, he paced briskly to the BMEWS terminal, where a female officer was using a trackball to trace the missile trajectories.
“Talk to me, Lieutenant.”
The woman was startled by the General’s sudden presence. “Fylingdales verifies three ballistic missile launches from western Ukraine, sir,” she reported. “Probable impact points inside central Russia.”
“PAVE PAWS is tracking three ballistic missile launches from western Ukraine,” another voice called out.
“I have concurrence from Thule and Space Command,” another yelled.
Allen looked up at the Big Board. Three blinking white triangles had appeared on the map of Russia. Based on information already gained from the missiles’ trajectory and velocity by the BMEWS network, ALERT was estimating that detonation would take place somewhere within those triangular areas. A line of summary information appeared at the bottom of the display. Total Missiles - TOTMISL - currently stood at three. TTG - Time To Go until first detonation - read 11:25.
He lifted the Lieutenant’s phone and barked an order to connect him to the President.
WHITEMAN AFB, MISSOURI
The Commanding Officer of the 509thBomb Wing, Brigadier-General Joe Voeller, stood in front of a projected map of the Ukraine, holding a laser pointer as he delivered his briefing. The forty-two aviators who comprised the 325th
Bomb Squadron - which was the core element of the 509th- were seated in three rows of fourteen, attentively hanging on his every word. Only a few of them had ever seen real combat before, and Voeller sensed how scared they were. About half as scared as he was. He had to struggle to make himself heard above the scramble alert klaxons that were echoing around the base.
“It is our understanding,” he was saying, “that twelve low-yield nuclear bombs were detonated over Ukrainian forward positions, using Bears as a means of delivery.” His resonance was rich and booming; the authoritative tone that of a man accustomed to issuing orders. He turned the projector off.
“People,” he said, “you don’t need me to tell you how big this thing is. We are facing probably the most dangerous military crisis for over half a century. Russia has broken the last taboo of warfare. The mission of the 509this to protect the United States of America against nuclear attack, to give any potential aggressor pause for thought, and to serve as the first and last line of defense should all else fail.”
In the second row of seats, Major Martin Logan and his co-pilot Captain Laura McCann exchanged a nervous look.
“Each of your bombers will scramble with a payload of sixteen B-83 bombs, tipped with nuclear warheads yielding between two hundred kilotons and one megaton. Should this thing escalate into a shooting war, you will receive instructions for yield and burst selection in your SIOP mission profile.
“You are in the 509thbecause you are the cream of America’s aviators. Believe me, nobody hopes more than I do that this crisis ends peacefully. But if it doesn’t, your country will be relying on you to carry out your duty, as terrible as it is. I know that none of you will be found wanting if and when that moment comes. Good luck, people, and God speed. Dismissed,” he concluded with a stiff salute.
The forty-two aviators of the 325thstood as one and started racing towards the runway, where maintenance crews were performing final checks on the twenty-one B-2 Stealth Bombers about to take to the skies. In the background, a tannoy boomed out the 509th’s chosen theme tune for an alert.
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