FOREWORD

by Ten To Midnight--Free(Lit)

  It was the theme tune toThe Dambusters .

  VI

  ESCALATION

  It is the common fate of the indolent to see their rights become a prey to the active. The condition upon which God hath given liberty to man is eternal vigilance; which condition if he break, servitude is at once the consequence of his crime and the punishment of his guilt.

  (John Philpot Curran - Speech upon the Right To Election, 1790)

  WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON D.C.

  “What?” Mitchell exclaimed, not quite believing what Allen was telling him. The secure line was on speaker, and everybody in the Situation Room could hear the klaxons that were screaming throughout the NORAD complex. Lewis found the noise even more frightening than what it actually represented.

  “I don’t know how,” General Allen admitted, “but that’s what we’re seeing. We’ve got positive verification from STRATCOM and Space Command.”

  Westwood leaned towards the speakerphone. “Rob, it’s Marion.”

  “Hello, sir,” came the curt response, one military professional to another.

  “Rob, I’m going to recommend we convene a general threat conference and missile threat conference,” Westwood said. He glanced at the President, who nodded firmly, unsure what the General meant but not wanting to admit as much.

  “I concur, sir,” Allen agreed.

  Within seconds, everybody with a stake in this latest development had been patched into a conference call with NORAD and the White House Situation Room. US Strategic Command (CINCUSSTRATCOM) at Offutt AFB in Nebraska was NORAD’s sister facility, and could assume NORAD’s role were Cheyenne Mountain to be lost in time of war; providing command, control and communication facilities for all American nuclear forces worldwide. Likewise, the E-6 “Looking Glass” served as an airborne version of USSTRATCOM. The CO of “Looking Glass” was codenamedAlice , a literary reference to Hans Christian Andersen’s most famous creation. The Commander of Air Combat Command (CINCACC) was in the NMCC center at the Pentagon, the Commander of Atlantic Command (CINCLANT) was attending a NATO conference in Brussels, while the Commander of US forces in Europe (CINCEUR) was at the Finnish Defense Ministry in Helsinki. Despite the variance in their physical locations, they were all immediately available to take the call.

  “How the hell did Ukraine…” CINCUSSTRATCOM began to ask.

  “I think I can answer that one, sir,” Lewis offered, anticipating the question.

  “Who the hell is this?” barked the four-star General in his native southern drawl. He wasn’t accustomed to being interrupted, certainly not by an impudent foreigner whose voice he didn’t recognize.

  Lewis glanced at the President, who explained. “That, General, is Dr. Lewis Stein, acting National Security Advisor. He’s an authority on Russian capabilities. Proceed, Dr. Stein.”

  “Thank you, sir.” It occurred to Lewis that the President’s introduction had made his appointment somewhat more official. At least he now knew what his job title was. ActingNational Security Advisor. Yep, I sure need to know how to act today. He turned back to the speakerphone. “A few years ago, there were rumors circulating the intelligence community of missing Soviet missiles, specifically SS-20s and ‘25s, both of which are usually mounted on mobile launchers. When these discrepancies appeared during the verification phase of the INS treaty, the Russians insisted that they’d overstated the size of their IRBM arsenal.”

  “So?” CINCEURsnapped testily.

  “So,” Lewis explained, “the CIA made some discreet inquiries. We focused on the obvious places; Iran, Iraq, North Korea and Libya. But we found no concrete evidence. One of the scenarios we considered was that the former Soviet republics might have kept a few stashed away when the Red Army went home. But, again, we found nothing to corroborate this theory. I figure if the Ukes could hide them from the Russians, they could easily hide them from us.”

  “How could they lose a batch of mobile launched nukes?” Reynolds said incredulously. “One or two warheads I could understand, but a pile of goddamn IRBMs? I’ve seen one of those things in a museum,” he added, looking at the President. “And I tell you, you couldn’t hide it in your garage.”

  It was Bishop who provided the answer. “It’s not a matter of losing them, Jim. More likely is that they were sold in return for hard currency when the Soviet Union collapsed. The Russian military has been through so much in the past few years that its institutional memory has probably forgotten. Obviously the Ukrainians retained them even after signing the Treaty of Cooperation with Russia. And now they’ve figured out a way to make them work.”

  “That’s what I don’t understand,” CINCACC said. A former naval captain, he had a Masters in nuclear physics and had a solid comprehension how such weapons were built and operated. “The warheads carried by SS-20s and ‘25s are not straightforward devices. What I mean is that you can hardly unscrew a warhead from the missile and then just use it, never mind press a button to launch the missile itself. You would need to hack through not only the encrypted security systems embedded within the launch mechanisms, but the safety traps contained within the warheads themselves. That’s no mean feat.”

  “I agree,” CINCLANT added. “We’re probably one of the very few countries in the world with the resources to do something like that. Sure as hell the Ukrainians don’t have that kind of technology. At least I didn’t think they did.”

  “It doesn’t matter how they got them or made them work,” Nielsen snapped, becoming quite irate. “We’ll have plenty of time to discuss that later. Question is, what happens now?”

  “That depends on what the Russians do next,” Margaret answered. “The ball is in their court now.”

  “Any signs of a Russian response yet, Rob?” Westwood asked. A horrifying thought had just occurred to him. A Russian response could only take one form, and that would mean another stage of escalation which nobody wanted. But their failure to doanything suggested that they hadn’t even detected the Ukrainian launch, which in many respects was even more disturbing.

  At NORAD, Allen checked the Big Board. TTG was now 6:39. The targeting triangles had narrowed to the areas surrounding the cities of Tula, Volgograd and -Shit! - Moscow. Three of Russia’s biggest cities, he realized with horror. They’re not going for military targets. They’re going for population centers. “Negative, sir. It’s almost as if they don’t even see it coming. You should be advised that ALERT is now predicting impact points at Moscow, Tula and Volgograd in less than seven minutes.”

  “I concur with that estimate, sir,” CINCUSSTRATCOM confirmed, checking his own data.

  That engendered a chilling silence, filled only by the constant screaming of klaxons from NORAD. Lewis and Bishop exchanged a horrified glance that conveyed a general fear that the Russians would let loose with everything they had; a dread that was accompanied by a collective sense of impotence. For all the combined power in the room and on the conference line, nobody could do anything to slow the escalation of a crisis that was already developing a life of its own.

  “Sir.” Lewis turned to the President, breaking the silence. “We have to find a way to reach President Pushkin, right now.”

  “And tell him what?” Mitchell hissed.

  “I’m worried, sir,” Lewis explained, voicing a concern that had registered in the minds of more than one person in the room, “by Russia’s failure to respond. That indicates, as General Allen pointed out, that they haven’t detected the launch. Perhaps that’s because their orbital defense systems have fallen into disrepair. Whatever the reason, when those bombs start falling, who do you think they’re going to suspect? More to the point, they must know by now that we’ve increased our alert status. If we were in their shoes, whom wouldwe point the finger at?”

  The President’s eyes widened slightly, his mouth opening in horror. He saw the same expression reflected on Copeland’s face. Suddenly, the room had become extremely claustrophobic.

  Mitchell punched a button, co
nnecting him to the White House switchboard. “Get me the Russian President. And don’t take no for an answer.”

  THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW

  Pushkin instinctively leapt to his feet when the door to his office flew open. Before he could react, Russian Army commandos were pouring into the room. It took him a moment to realize that their weapons were aimed at him. Their eyes warned him not to make any sudden moves. Unbidden, he raised his hands, thinking that this was what he was supposed to do in such circumstances.

  “What is this?” the Russian leader asked weakly, failing to elicit a response from the soldiers as comprehension slowly dawned on him.

  His jaw fell agape when Suronev entered the room. The arrogance of the former Foreign Minister’s stride was not matched by the grimness of his expression. He walked right up to Pushkin, his hard stare fixing the President like a staple gun.

  “Mikhail Olegovich,” Pushkin smiled nervously. “What are you doing here?”

  Suronev’s response was spoken in a flat monotone. “You have betrayed your country, you idiot. Do you not realize what you have done? Your actions will make us a pariah in the international community. You risk starting a war with America. Weneed America,” he snarled through clenched teeth.

  The President shook his head vigorously. “I don’t understand.”

  Suronev didn’t have the patience or the time to elaborate. “Nikolai Stefanovich Pushkin,” he intoned coldly. “Under the provisions of the revised Emergency Powers Act, I am relieving you of command and placing you under arrest for treasonous activities against the Russian Federation.”

  “You can’t do that,” Pushkin protested.

  The former Foreign Minister gestured to the soldiers standing behind him. “Tell it to them.”

  “But, you have to understand, Mikhail,” the outgoing President protested as two Commandos seized his arms. “The nuclear strike was Yazov’s idea.”

  Suronev’s lips tightened in disgust. “I truly expected more of you. While our nation faces ruin, the best you can do is pass blame onto a true patriot. You are not fit to lead a girl’s netball team, never mind a great nation.” He turned to the senior Commando officer. “Take him away.”

  Pushkin was led out of the room, a stunned expression on his face. But, even as he began to contemplate the sudden destruction of his political career, he was scheming his return to the nucleus of power. Yes, he thought, the truth would eventually come out that it had been Yazov’s idea. Pushkin would say that Yazov had acted precipitously and illegally. Yazov would take the blame for this, his disgrace generating a smoke screen behind which Pushkin would make a stealthy return to public life. That was the way of Russian politics, wasn’t it? Always had been, always would be. And when that day came, that was when Suronev would be made to pay for his betrayal.

  Yet, as he left the office that he had so briefly occupied, he failed to notice the wry smile that Suronev allowed himself.

  “Revenge,” the former Foreign Minister muttered under his breath, “is a dish best served cold, is it not, Nikolai Stefanovich?”

  * * * * *

  The Kremlin Communications Center was roughly equivalent to the White House Signals Office. Not only did it serve as a switchboard for the full-time Kremlin staff, but it housed a variety of advanced encryption and communication systems comparable to those in the White House Signals Office. These systems allowed secure point-to-point communication with any point on Earth.

  Approximately twenty-five switchboard operators were employed in the Communication Center on a rotating shift basis. One of them was Vera Chernovichin, a 47-year-old childless divorcee who lived in one of Moscow’s less salubrious neighborhoods. Vera had been attractive once. But now, her pretty blue eyes and long blonde hair - tied back into a utilitarian bun - were all that remained of the attractive young girl who had once been an exotic dancer. Poor dietary habits had taken their toll on her once svelte figure, and her obesity was not helped by the fact that her job - which involved sitting in a hard, uncomfortable chair all day - did not lend itself to physical conditioning. In many respects, she considered herself a typical single, middle-aged Russian woman. She had little hope of attracting a suitor. The best she could hope for was to survive the daily grind, which was becoming harder with every passing dawn, until one day in the not-too-distant future, she would die and be promptly forgotten by everybody but the worms who would feed on her rotting carcass.

  Well, she mused,at least the worms will appreciate me. Heaven knows - there’s enough for them to feast on.

  Vera’s funk was interrupted by the sound of raised voices in the corridor outside the room. She looked up just as a company of Russian paratroopers stormed through the doors, brandishing AK-47 assault rifles. Before she could even register what was happening, the soldiers had taken strategic positions all around the vast, cavernous room.

  She heard one of her fellow operators cry out in alarm. The next thing she became aware of was a rifle being aimed directly at her head from point blank range. The soldier behind the rifle had the dispassionate look of a man who wouldn’t think twice about pulling the trigger. She could see it in his eyes. She meant nothing to him. Vera froze, but not before she had come to realize that all her fellow operators were in a similar predicament.

  “Deactivate the systems!” barked a Colonel, who had entered the room behind the rest of his men. The authority in his tone suggested to Vera that he was in charge of these men. She exchanged a brief glance with one of her fellow operators. They were both thinking the same thing. Somebody wanted to seal off the Kremlin from the outside world.

  Under the extremely watchful eyes of the paratroopers, Vera and the other operators deactivated their switchboards, computers and fax machines. Other technicians disengaged the encryption systems that provided secure links to military facilities and the like. They’re overthrowing the government,Vera realized with a mixture of alarm and relief. Like most ordinary Russians, she had suffered intolerable poverty in the last few years, and her brother was fighting in the Ukraine while Russia’s corrupt political leaders sat comfortably in their dachas planning how to bleed the proletariat still drier. Well, now their days were numbered, she thought gladly. Perhaps now that the Army was in charge, her brother would come home in one piece, and Russia might have a genuine chance of becoming a proud nation again.

  Perhaps I might afford some proper food, she hoped.

  She smiled at the soldier whose gun was aimed at her. His expression remained neutral. Like most of his fellow soldiers, he knew only of his own small role in the grand plan, although he had guessed that the involvement of an elite unit such as the 4thParatroopers meant that the military had finally tired of the political parasites that had brought Russia to its knees. The thought of being involved in Russia’s first revolution since 1917 both exhilarated and terrified him, a paradoxical sensation that he dealt with by focusing intently on the job at hand.

  “Clear!” one of his comrades yelled, once the final communication system had been deactivated.

  The operation to isolate the Kremlin from the outside world had taken less than three minutes and, mercifully, had not resulted in any casualties.

  Yet.

  WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON D.C.

  “The Kremlin lines are dead,” reported Vera’s counterpart in the White House Signals Office. Her voice crackled slightly on the speakerphone. “I can’t even get a connection now.”

  “Dammit!” Mitchell snarled through grated teeth. A quick check of his watch told him that Moscow would be hit in less than five minutes. “I don’t care what you have to do, just get hold ofsomebody at the Kremlin. What’s your name, Miss?”

  “Judy, Mr. President.”

  Mitchell made a conscious effort to soften his voice. “Listen, Judy. We have an extremely grave situation here. Moscow will be incinerated in the next few minutes, and that might trigger a nuclear war beyond all comprehension. A billion people might be about to die, Judy, and everything hangs
on you hooking me up to somebody –anybody – in the Kremlin. I know that’s a tough break for you, and I’m sorry, but that’s where we’re at. I’ll speak to the fucking janitor if I need to. Understand?”

  Judy’s voice quivered perceptibly. “I’ll… I’ll do my best, sir.”

  Judy Thomson had been a switchboard operator at the White House for six years. She liked her job, and the sense of importance that went with it. Although the salary wasn’t great - as what government salaries were? - the security clearance that came with the position, and the fact that she got to speak to VIPs on a regular basis, gave her something to brag about to the girls at the hairdressing salon. I’d love to tell you what’s going on in the White House, but it’s classified…

  Actually, the President had been quite correct when he’d referred to her as “Miss”. A string ofunfortunate andinadvisable relationships (her words) had left her a 40-year-old spinster with a nice house in Maryland that she shared with her recently widowed mother, Hilary. At least ithad been a nice house before her mother moved in. Judy no longer had any space of her own, not even enough space in which to conduct anunfortunate orinadvisable relationship. She felt almost like a middle-aged teenager, attracting narrow eyed disapproval from Hilary whenever she came home late. Even if she did have a boyfriend – which she presently didn’t - she wouldn’t have been able to bring him home. Just a temporary arrangement, Hilary had promised when she’d moved in six months ago. Well, as much as she loved her mother, Judy knew that the day was coming when she’d have to confront her about the situation. Judy had already checked out nursing homes in the Maryland area, although she hadn’t yet mustered the courage to mention that fact to Hilary.