Although she was not unattractive, Judy knew that her biological clock was relentlessly ticking down towards the day that she finally became barren. Every day she remained single was another day less in which she had to find the right man and have children. And, God, how she wanted children. Soon, she knew, that biological clock would simply stop ticking and become a deafening alarm bell, announcing the onset of middle age without warning, thus ending any hopes she’d ever had of being a mother.
But perhaps, she thought as she tried desperately to contact the Kremlin, it was a blessing that she didn’t have children. The President’s remarks had sent a shiver down her spine. She didn’t understand much about politics; and, having dealt with some of the assholes that surrounded the hub of America’s government, had little desire to understand. But she did know that if Moscow were -how did he put it? – “incinerated”, then that was a distinctly ominous development. She’d seen the President - if not actually spoken to him - on numerous occasions, and he’d always struck her as being a friendly, relaxed and easygoing guy. That certainly hadn’t been the case when he’d spoken to her a few moments’ ago.
The words kept ringing through her head. A billion people might be about to die…
And there was still no response from the Kremlin switchboard.
It was at that moment that Judy Thomson decided to do something that she’d never even considered before. She’d started working in the White House during the Clinton administration, and could have related some juicy stories about the former President had she been so inclined, but she had always taken her security clearance far more seriously than certain other individuals. No matter how much her closest friends harassed her for tidbits from the White House, she’d never uttered a word of who was doing what to whom in the heart of Government.
Until now.
Allowing the Kremlin switchboard to continue ringing on Line One, she switched to Line Two and dialed her home telephone number. It took barely three seconds to answer.
“Hi, Mom, it’s me. I want you to listen very carefully,” she said urgently, spitting out her words in rapid machine-gun fashion.
CATONSVILLE, MARYLAND
Hilary Thomson had been watching the news all evening, as anxious as anybody else about the nuclear attacks on Ukraine. She didn’t quite know where Ukraine was, and didn’t think she knew anybody who lived there, but Hilarydid know that nuclear blasts were probably a bad thing. Certainly, the folks on the TV seemed to be shaken up by what was going on, and that in itself was enough to shake up the seventy-two-year-old spinster.
For once, she followed Judy’s orders to the letter. Take only what you need. Pack a suitcase and head north to Aunt Helen’s place in upstate New York. Judy had sounded even more shaken than the folks on the TV, andshe worked at the White House. If anybody knew how serious this situation was, it would be her. But Judy would be safe, wouldn’t she? If a war were coming, the government folks in Washington would evacuate Judy and all the other important people who worked for the President. Hilary was sure of that.
Hilary’s bedroom window afforded a good view of the suburban street on which she and Judy lived. It seemed strange to her that nobody else seemed to be leaving town. All the neighbors’ cars were still parked in their driveways. Perhaps they hadn’t realized just how serious things were. Well, of course they hadn’t, she thought. Theirdaughters didn’t work for the President, did they?
As Hilary loaded a duffel bag onto the old Plymouth that she hoped would get her as far as Harrisburg without requiring gas, she decided that it wouldn’t be fair to let the neighbors remain ignorant. After all, she was a devout Christian, and the Christian thing to do was to warn them of what might be coming. But there wasn’t time to tell them all, was there? Judy had been quite specific about that.
She decided that the only person she had time to warn was Judy’s immediate next door neighbor, an elderly lady called Betsy Morgan, with whom Hilary often shared afternoon coffee and reminisced on the good old days when both of their husbands had been alive. The fact that Betsy and Hilary hadn’t met until a few months’ ago - and their husbands had almost certainlynever met - was beside the point.
Unlike Hilary, Betsy had switched off the TV once the news started becoming too depressing, and she was presently listening to a Frank Sinatra LP on her old phonogram when Hilary knocked on her door. She furrowed her brow and shook her head in confusion as Hilary tried to explain what was happening.
“Well, where are you going?” Betsy asked.
“Judy told me to head north. She didn’t seem to think it was safe here. They’re evacuating the President. Do you want to come?”
Betsy snorted in bemusement. Such things. “Oh, well. I suppose it’ll do me good to get out of the house for a while. When do you think it’ll be safe to come back?”
“After the bombs have fallen, I imagine,” Hilary shrugged, not really sure. I should have asked Judy about that.
Her neighbor took a moment to consider the offer. Betsy thought that Hilary was probably a bit loopy, but since she didn’t have anything else to do, she found the offer tempting. It had been years since she’d been for a pleasant evening drive. And if the driver was her batty old neighbor, then so be it.
“Oh, okay then,” she agreed. “Let me get my coat. I just want to call my son before I go, so he won’t worry too much if he tries to phone me.”
“Okay, but be quick, Bets. I’ll keep the engine running.”
Betsy had two sons, the eldest of which did something or other for the government. She never knew where he was; always away somewhere on business, whatever that business was. However, her younger son Harry lived in Los Angeles with his wife and kids. He did all the normal things that any middle-class American husband and father did, including taking the kids to ball games and going to PTA meetings. But his salary check was paid by the Los Angeles Post, where he headed the Foreign Affairs desk.
Harry Morgan was initially skeptical of his mother’s claims that the White House was being evacuated. Even so, that didn’t stop him sending out an inquiry on the wire services, just in case. That inquiry, in turn, was picked up by watch officers and editors in news organizations and intelligence agencies all over the world.
Within minutes, what had started as a panicked phone call from a switchboard operator, and then been distorted by the Chinese whispers of two elderly ladies, had become an “unconfirmed rumor” being reported to millions of people all over the world.
That rumor was that Washington D.C. was being evacuated.
WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON D.C.
“The lines are still dead, sir,” Judy Thomson told the President, her tone elevated by fear. “What do you want me to do?”
Mitchell checked each of the faces around him for suggestions. As he did so, Bishop’s eyes lit with an idea.
“The Vice President,” the DCI enthused. “He’s in Moscow, isn’t he?”
“Damn,” Mitchell growled. How the hell did I forget about him? “Judy, track down the Veep and get him on the line right now.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” said the switchboard operator.
Four minutes to go. Maybe just enough time…
PVO-STRANY COMMAND CENTER, MOSCOW
Located one hundred and fifty feet below street level, the command center of PVO-Strany - Russia’s equivalent to NORAD - was far darker and considerably less spacious than that of its American counterpart, although the same had been true even during the Cold War, when PVO-Strany had been considered important.
In those halcyon days, PVO had been every bit as technologically advanced as NORAD; indeed, probably more so. But now, the facility was considered an anachronism. Accordingly, its officers were often the last in line when it came to paying military personnel. Some hadn’t been paid for nearly a year, and even the most optimistic of them didn’t expect their wages to arrive in the near future, particularly while the war with Ukraine continued to put a drain on the Russian Central Bank’s d
windling reserves.
All of these factors contributed to one of the highest alcoholic rates within any Russian military facility. That was no mean feat, but neither was it surprising; after all, PVO’s staff had little else to boost morale.
When the Ukrainian missile launch had first been detected a few moments’ earlier, the Major in charge of the Missile Detection console (southwest region) had cursed loudly, slamming the terminal with the palm of his hand. He lit a cigarette, frowning when the display refused to change. It had to be a malfunction, he reasoned through a haze of alcoholic inebriation. Ukraine didn’t have any nuclear weapons of its own, did it? Everybody knew that. And it wasn’t unusual for Russia’s ailing early warning systems to mistake a flock of geese for a missile. Besides, he was sure the alarm klaxons would have sounded had the launch been authentic. He wasn’t to know that the generic alarm system was currently being repaired (it had been undergoing maintenance for several months, insofar as anything in PVO was maintained. The difference in Russia between ‘Under Repair’ and ‘In Disrepair’ was a negligible one).
After watching the missile trajectory appear and disappear for several seconds, he tiredly lifted his phone.
“Colonel, can you come down here please?”
In his vast office elsewhere in the complex, the senior watch officer muttered a profanity, clearly angered by the unwelcome interruption. He liked his job. Apart from according him a rank and status his limited talents would not have afforded him in any other branch of the military, it allowed him a quiet life; not to mention that no PVO-Strany officer would ever be sent to the Ukrainian front. His days were normally spent drinking vodka and playing computer games.
“What is it, Major?” he asked when he appeared a few moments later.
“I’m getting a missile warning, sir. Three birds, origin of launch Western Ukraine.”
“That’s impossible,” the Colonel snorted. “Have you checked for a malfunction?” System malfunctions were a running joke within PVO. In fact, some considered it a minor miracle that Russia’s aging early warning systems worked at all, since many of them dated back to the 1970’s. Funding cuts had prevented essential periodic maintenance. Accordingly, the systems that had until quite recently been considered an integral element of Russian strategic defense planning had fallen into a state of disrepair that would have been unthinkable just a decade or two earlier.
“I’ve checked, sir,” the Major lied, unwilling to say that he’d been too lazy to do so. “Negative malfunction.”
The Colonel thumped the fifteen-year-old IBM computer monitor with his right hand. Presently, the screen went blank and the power light on the monitor died. The Major looked at him with wide-eyed shock.
“There you go,” the Colonel smiled triumphantly. “No more missiles.”
He returned to his upstairs office, where a half finished bottle of vodka was awaiting him. Just as he sat down, his phone rang again.
“What?” he barked angrily.
“Yevgeny, you old drunkard,” came the jovial response.
“Andrei,” the Colonel smiled. He recognized the voice as that of his counterpart in PVO’s regional BMEWS station on the arctic island of Novaya Zemaya. “Has your fuck stick dropped off in that cold weather yet?”
He received a guffaw in response. “At least mine still works, old man.” Andrei’s tone was suddenly all business. “Yevgeny, this might sound really strange, but we’re detecting three missile launches in the Ukraine. They fit the profile of ’25s. It’s probably another malfunction, but I wondered if you could see anything.”
The Colonel felt the blood drain from his face. He opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Perhaps a flock of birds, or an atmospheric anomaly caused by our nuclear strike on Ukraine. But Andrei sees it too…
“Yevgeny?”
“I’ll get back to you, Andrei,” he snapped, slamming the receiver into its cradle. He ran down the steps that led from his office to the command center, almost tripping over as he did so. By now, several other technicians had also belatedly detected the launch and were shouting angrily at each other.
“We are tracking three Positive Inbounds, estimated impact points inside Central Russia,” somebody reported loudly.
“Colonel,” a young woman called out, breathless with urgency as she fell into step behind him. “We have preliminary impact estimations. Moscow is one of the targets, sir.”
The Colonel suddenly didn’t like his job as much as he had a few minutes’ earlier. He stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face her. “Activate the ABM system,” he ordered. “And get me the Kremlin.”
Panic crept into her voice. “I’ve tried, Colonel. All the lines are dead.”
“Fuck those imbeciles!” the Colonel barked. Nobody was sure whether he was referring to the Russian Government or the Ukrainians. “How long until impact?”
She swallowed hard. “Less than three minutes.”
The Colonel looked at the main display screen, which now showed three missile tracks moving slowly and relentlessly in a north-northeasterly direction towards their targets inside Russia. He didn’t need to calculate the distance from PVO-Strany to the Kremlin. Even if he had a military escort and was to jump every red light en route, there simply wasn’t enough time for him to get there before the bombs detonated.
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
At that very same moment, the new President of the Russian Federation entered his office. General Gennady Andreiovich Yazov did not look quite so self-satisfied as Suronev. The price for Suronev’s cooperation had been Yazov’s unconditional support for the former Foreign Minister’s Presidential candidacy when elections were finally held for a new civilian government. That, however, was the least of Yazov’s concerns right now. His first priority was to rebuild bridges with the West and, indeed, with his own people. Once he’d done that, he would go about negotiating acceptable terms for a cease-fire in the Ukraine.
Suronev watched his new leader lower himself into the President’s chair, the third man to do so in as many days. Yazov looked uncomfortable. He hadn’t intended to spend his life sitting at a desk, but it seemed a small price to pay for the survival of his nation. He would be relieved when his tenure was over and he could hand responsibility over to a man better suited to politics; a man like Suronev. But in the meantime, he would do as he had always done, and serve the best interests of the motherland.
“That was easy enough,” Suronev observed.
Yazov looked up at him, unappreciative of the remark. “I will address the nation,” he informed the Foreign Minister. “Then I think I will need to speak to the American President. There is still time to dissuade him from proceeding with economic sanctions.”
“The nuclear launch codes. They are secure?”
A raised eyebrow. “I am -was - Commander of the Strategic Rocket Forces. Of course they are secure.”
WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM, WASHINGTON D.C.
Everybody held their breath when the line clicked and emitted a short burst of static.
The next thing to be heard was the shaky voice of Adam Jones, Vice President of the United States.
“What is it, sir?” Jones said, the U.S. Ambassador beside him in the Moscow compound.
“Adam,” the President intoned solemnly, his heart racing against his words. “I need you to listen very carefully. We don’t have very much time. In about three minutes, Moscow will be hit by a Ukrainian nuclear missile. There are two others headed for Tula and Volgograd.”
“Are you sure?” Jones exclaimed. “There haven’t been any warnings.”
“You think I would fucking joke about this?” Mitchell snapped. Margaret placed a hand on his arm to calm her husband. He took a deep breath to compose himself before proceeding. “We’re unable to contact Pushkin to tell him what’s going on. We think that he may not know about the missile launch, never mind its origin. If that’s the case, then…”
The Ambassador cut him off. “Mr. President, we’v
e been trying to contact the Kremlin too. The streets are thick with tanks and APCs heading towards Red Square. We don’t know why. We’ve been trying to contact someone - anyone - in the Russian government to get an answer. Those whose phones are working know as little as we do. Or at least that’s what they’re saying.” He didn’t mention that Russian security forces had arrested one of his contacts, a Pushkin loyalist, while he was on the telephone to the Ambassador.
“This could be the Russians increasing their alert status,” Reynolds suggested. “We expected that, didn’t we?”
Lewis shook his head doubtfully, a fist of ice clenching in his stomach as the situation gained clarity. “My best guess is that there’s some kind of coup in progress. That would explain why the Kremlin lines are down. Whoever’s behind this - the coup, I mean - has cut off the government from the outside world.” And they couldn’t have picked a worse time to do it.
“We should get to a secure location,” Jones was telling the Ambassador while Lewis spoke. “We might have just enough time.”
“Is there no way you can physically get to the Kremlin?” Nielsen asked.
The Vice President made a sound that could have been a laugh, but was probably something else entirely. “Even if we ran there, we wouldn’t get far. Not with all these troops on the streets.”
Mitchell closed his eyes in despair. “Okay, that does it. Adam, I want you and the Ambassador to get out of there while there’s still time.”
“There’s a chopper on the roof,” the Ambassador reported. “We might just make it.”
“Jesus!” Jones’s voice exclaimed in the background. “I think you should know, sir, that there are flashes up in the sky. Bright, blinding flashes high above us. I’m standing right by the window. There’s three – no, wait – four of them.”
The President looked at Westwood in alarm. “Has it started?”
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