“If it had,” Lewis said, not caring that the Vice President and the Ambassador could hear him, “we wouldn’t be having this conversation. He’s probably seeing ABM missiles; small nuclear warheads designed to stop the incoming missiles.”
“Then the Russians must know about the launches,” Copeland remarked with a sigh of relief.
Raised voices could be heard in the background from the Embassy. The words were incomprehensible, but the urgency in the voices suggested to Lewis that they were probably the shouts of Secret Service agents trying to evacuate the Vice President and the Ambassador.
The President leaned towards the speakerphone. “You’d better go,” he said, knowing that Jones and the Ambassador probably wouldn’t make it anyway. “And good luck.”
“To you too, sir,” Jones replied.
It would be the last anybody ever heard of him.
FSB HEADQUARTERS, MOSCOW
Russia’s primary intelligence agency, the Federal Security Service (FSB), was not unlike PVO-Strany in the respect that it had become a mere shadow of its Cold War incarnation, the KGB. Although still among the world’s premier intelligence services, the FSB nowadays lacked the financial resources that had once enabled its predecessor to run sophisticated, high-level networks within governments around the world. This was frustrating for Russian intelligence professionals who had learned their trade in the good old days of Superpower rivalries. The dank corridors of the Lubyanka, where political prisoners had once suffered at the hands of KGB interrogators, were now open to the general public. The Lubyanka itself was now a museum. Even the FSB had made concessions to détente by opening a public relations office.
Yet, one of the constants of the Russian character was its inherent sense of paranoia; something that hadn’t changed with the onset of détente. Located in a soundproofed basement area eighty feet below ground level was the FSB’s Information Directorate. This was where dozens of analysts and language experts spent their days watching televisions, scanning newspapers, monitoring wire services, and listening to radio broadcasts from around the world. Their role was to develop an insight into how the rest of the world was thinking and, more specifically, to measure the rest of the world’s attitude towards Russia. The Information Directorate’s task was to sift through the mountains of extraneous information that polluted the global media in order to find the rare golden nuggets that might be considered of relevance to Russia’s leaders. But for some of the analysts, the job was simply an opportunity to watch a better quality of television than that to which most Russians were accustomed.
The Information Directorate was departmentalized along geographical lines, with analysts split into small teams by their linguistic and political expertise. By far the most important area was the America Desk, where up to thirty analysts - comprising two teams rotating on a 12-hour basis - continuously monitored the U.S. media.
They had learned with horror of Russia’s nuclear attack on the Ukraine through GCN – Global Cable News – rather than the Russia media (although they might have been surprised to learn that the same had largely been true for many of their American counterparts at the CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia). Now they were working feverishly to prepare reports on America’s reaction to this development.
The America Desk was headed by Grigory Kurov, a 39-year-old former English teacher who had once spent several years in the United States as a Russian translator. He was one of the new breed of Russian intelligence professionals; urbane, highly articulate, well versed in world affairs and utterly corruptible. While in America, he had developed a taste for nice clothes and fine food, things which were readily available in Moscow if one knew where to look, who to ask, and could offer hard currency; specifically US Dollars or Euros. Fortunately, Kurov had good contacts and, accordingly, plenty of hard foreign currency. Some might have called him a parasite; the kind of individual that had brought Russia to its knees. Kurov preferred to think of himself as an opportunist. That was a distinction about which he’d learned a great deal in America.
Following the nuclear strikes in Ukraine, Kurov had placed his entire team on alert; including those who had been off duty at the time. That had inevitably earned him a few dirty looks, but it wasn’t often that something of this magnitude happened. Actually, nothing of this magnitude hadever happened, he reminded himself. If his team performed well tonight, he might earn the attention of his superiors and get himself promoted out of this godforsaken dungeon.
He was contemplating this when he was summoned by an analyst whose monitor was tuned into NBC.
“Supervisor, please.”
Kurov temporarily cast his dreams aside and made his way across the huge, open plan office. As he did so, another analyst called him. Then another. Kurov could see their screens, but could not hear anything. The analysts used headphones to listen to radio and TV broadcasts. There was, however, a large 60-inch wall mounted television screen that was rarely used. Kurov turned it on and tuned in to GCN, which was barely a couple of seconds behind MSNBC with the same story.
An anchorman, the type of handsome Negro that Americans seemed to find aesthetically pleasing, was being handed a slip of paper. He began to read it to the camera.
“And breaking news just coming in. Associated Press is reporting an unconfirmed rumor that plans are underway to evacuate the White House and other government buildings in Washington D.C.. I repeat, rumors are circulating of an evacuation of government personnel from Washington, although this is unconfirmed as yet. It is unknown whether this is connected to the earlier nuclear attack on…”
Kurov swore loudly, causing all heads to turn his way. He lifted the nearest convenient telephone.
“Get me the Director,” he snapped, barely pausing to listen to the response. “I don’t fucking care where he is. This is an emergency.”
GLOBAL CABLE NEWS STUDIOS, ATLANTA, GEORGIA
The anchorman, Jack Sullivan, had a producer screaming updates in his earpiece, assistants handing him slips of paper and a TelePrompTer that was being continually updated. Such was the nature of global crisis. His unenviable job was to compress the relentless bombardment of information into a form digestible to a hundred million viewers worldwide without allowing the stress of the moment to register on his face or in his voice.
“I have on the line from California, Chris Ellison, former director of the Los Angeles bureau of the Federal Emergency Management Agency. Mr. Ellison, can you hear me?”
“Yes, I’m here,” came the disembodied response.
“Mr. Ellison. How do you read this situation?”
The line from Sacramento crackled slightly. “Well, Jack, this sounds like precisely the kind of operation that’s always been planned in the event of a National Emergency.”
“What kind of National Emergency?”
Even though the audience was unable to see his face, the reticence in Ellison’s voice was obvious. He carefully chose his words, mindful of the risk of inciting further panic. “Well, we don’t really know anything yet, do we? I think we should wait until we get clarification before jumping to conclusions.”
Sullivan paused as he received an update on his earpiece. “I’ve just been told, Mr. Ellison, that the source of this rumor has been identified as a member of the White House staff.”
That revelation was greeted by silence.
“Mr. Ellison, are you there?”
The voice that answered was strangely distant and spoken in a flat monotone. “If this is true, Jack, and I pray to God that it isn’t, then one can only presume that… that we’re on the verge of some sort of … and I can only speculate… but that we’re on the verge of nuclear war.”
JOHNS HOPKINS MEDICAL CENTER, BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
“Jesus motherfucking Christ,” the orderly muttered to himself. “Are you watching this, Doc?”
A small group of staff and patients had gathered around a television in the reception area, whispering quietly to each other. There was a tense buzz
in the air that disturbed Jo even more than what she was hearing on the television. As a surgeon, the one thing she’d been conditioned to fear was unpredictability. And that was precisely the word that summed up the mood around her.
If it’s tense in here - a hospital of all places - I shudder to think what it must be like outside. Her mind filled with visions of rioting and looting. Roads log-jammed with people trying to get out of the cities. Horrific violence as tempers frayed. Even if the world didn’t blow up, the masses would ensure that the apocalypse currently the subject of speculation on GCN became, after a fashion, self-fulfilling.
Involuntarily, she folded her arms to ward off a cold shiver.
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW
Yazov had to admit to himself that Suronev had been right. This had been remarkably easy so far. But now, here he was, the new leader of the world’s largest nation, with nothing to do but wait for others to come to him. He distantly wondered whether a Presidential handbook existed; an instruction manual on how to govern nearly two hundred million people in ten easy steps.
The thought evoked a thin smile, even as he began to realize that he didn’t know the first thing about how to govern a nation. He was certain the job would become more challenging as time passed and people came to realize that he was the man with whom the buck stopped. One of his first tasks would be to address the Russian people for the first time. His message would be one of reconciliation, an optimistic message to a people that didn’t have much about which to be optimistic these days. He didn’t know how they’d react to him, a military leader who had seized power in the most underhand of fashions. Would they prefer him to the political crooks who had brought the country to its knees? Yes, he decided, they probably would.
Then he would speak with President Mitchell and begin the long, hard process of rebuilding bridges with the West. After that would come a meeting with the Chairman of the Russian Central Bank and the Finance Minister to decide a strategy for resuming salary payments to Russia’s public servants and military personnel as soon as possible. Then a conference with the General Staff to decide how the Ukrainian conflict could be brought to a hasty conclusion without further aggravating relations with the West. The earlier nuclear strike had created many valuable gaps in the Ukrainian lines that could easily be exploited. Russia’s newfound strategic advantage had afforded it a strong negotiating position, allowing Yazov to take the credit for winning the war. Yazov himself didn’t covet such acclaim, but he needed the breathing space that a decisive victory would afford him. That alone would provide sufficient political capital to enable him to make the tough decisions imperative to Russia’s recovery.
Yazov reclined in his chair to contemplate the future, wondering how -
-What…?
Presently, his office was engulfed by a flash of all-consuming white light, effulgent in its fury. Before he had time to react, the ground began to shake violently and a deafening roar rose from the bowels of the earth. Pictures fell from the walls and ornaments tumbled to the floor, shattering into thousands of pieces.
Yazov instinctively dove beneath his desk. He did so just as the heavily reinforced windows in his office were blown inwards by a shockwave traveling at over three hundred miles per hour. Billions of glass shards became a volley of lethal projectiles as they whizzed through the air, many of them lodging firmly in the desk and walnut paneled walls.
He could hear tornado force winds howling outside his exposed office, and it was only then that he began to suspect what had happened. Amidst all the cacophony, he didn’t hear himself scream.
But how…? Who?
As the winds began to subside, four members of the Presidential security detail came rushing into the office, assault rifles at the ready. One of them crouched below the desk, attending to the President.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“I… I think so,” Yazov stammered. “What…”
“We need to get you to a place of safety, General,” another bodyguard said. “To the bunker downstairs. We must hurry.” He still didn’t explain what had happened. He didn’t need to and besides, that was a job for others. His priority was to protect his charge, and that was exactly what he intended to do.
Momentarily forgetting that he was still beneath the desk, Yazov thumped his head as he tried to rise. He cried out in pain.
“Be careful, sir,” the second bodyguard advised, gently assisting the President to his feet.
Yazov, shaken and nauseous from the force of the blast, shook himself free of the bodyguard’s grip and staggered over to one of the enormous broken windows in his office. At first, he didn’t understand what he was seeing. But then his senses began to report back into him and he found himself confronted by his ultimate nightmare.
A tumultuous, churning red and black mushroom cloud - the hated symbol of the apocalypse - towered over what remained of downtown Moscow with the incandescent fury of an angry God.
NORAD, CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO
“I have an event, sir!” came the excited cry from the pit. “Nucflashsouth of Moscow. SRV is valid; repeat, SRV is valid.”
“InitiatingOpRep Zenith Nucflash-4 ,” somebody else shouted. Nucflash-4, Allen’s mind recalled. Detonation of nuclear device creating threat of nuclear war.
The thermal bloom appearing on the Big Board was indicative of a significantly larger detonation than those previously detected over the Ukraine. At the AEDS terminal, a Canadian officer zoomed in on the blast area with his trackball, attempting to get an early estimate of its yield.
Allen felt his blood run cold as the klaxons once again came to life. No matter how many times he had rehearsed for this moment, nothing had prepared him for the awful reality of knowing that several hundred thousand civilians had just been incinerated, and that they could yet be the first of many. A sobering thought, to be sure. Watching the horrible drama unfold on a multitude of computer screens made it seem about as real as a game of Nintendo. But he knew that it was real enough. The abstract graphics appearing over Central Russia were the product of mankind’s most awful creation, and Allen felt utterly impotent to do anything about the insane destruction being unleashed. He had become little more than a mere observer. For a man who was accustomed to exerting control over most aspects of his life and career, that was perhaps the worst sensation of all.
Around him, the Command Center was a scene of well-orchestrated chaos; the swarms of pit technicians urgently performing the routines for which they had trained. The sound of the klaxons - a rising and falling buzz like that of a chainsaw being revved up and powered down - only partially drowned out the shouted orders and requests that were flying in all directions.
Allen knew that for many of the hundreds of officers and support staff who lived and worked within the NORAD complex and the surrounding ground facilities, duty and responsibility provided a means of distraction from whatever fears they held for themselves and - more importantly - their loved ones. Had he the time to do so, his thoughts might have been with his own family. His wife was presently at home in the Allens’ spacious house near Petersen AFB. That was three miles from Cheyenne Mountain, a prime target for any missile attack. His son, a soldier like his father, was based at Fort Worth, Texas. His daughter, was studying psychology at college in Boston. All of them separated and exposed at the most important time of all.
Can’t afford to think about that, Rob, he told himself. I’ve got to do what I can to stop this escalating any further.
As he reached for the phone that would connect him with the White House Situation Room, another thermal bloom appeared over the city of Volgograd.
“I have a preliminary estimate on the Moscow blast,” Mackay called out as he raced across the floor towards Allen, almost skidding on the polished surface in his haste. The Canadian looked pallid, his shoulders stiff, eyes wide with terror. Like everybody else in the room, he was facing his worst nightmare. Terror takes the form of a mushroom cloud, Allen thought.
“And?”
Mackay was struggling to catch his breath. “About five hundred KTs, sir.”
Allen swallowed hard. For the first time in his life, he was truly scared. “I want absolute verification of that, you hear me?”
“Yes sir.”
CINC-NORAD lifted the phone.
VII
OUTPOST MISSION
"Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear -- not absence of fear."
(Mark Twain)
CAMERON, MISSOURI
The lack of traffic on the roads surprised Beth. She had expected them to be jammed at the first mention of nuclear bombs, even if they were going off on the other side of the world. Her route had taken her through the eastern suburbs of Gladstone. Even there, a stone’s throw from Kansas City and close enough to Whiteman to be in grave danger, the roads had been conspicuously clear of traffic. Not that Beth minded. The lack of traffic improved her chances of getting to safety - and to the Logans’ fishing cabin in Iowa - before the bombs hit. She flinched at the thought, realizing that a part of her mind had already accepted the inevitability of a nuclear strike.
“You don’t really think they’ll launch their rockets at us, do you?” Cathy asked, as if reading Beth’s mind. She had also noted the absence of traffic on the roads, and was beginning to wonder whether her son and daughter-in-law had overreacted. That prospect made her feel rather stupid. How her friends back home in Chicago would laugh at her were that the case.
“Of course they won’t,” Patrick laughed, a nervous tremor in his voice. “It’s like Martin said. You don’t really think we’re gonna blow ourselves to kingdom come over some shitty country in Europe, do you?”
“Martin was worried enough to tell us to get the hell out of Dodge,” Beth recalled. “That’s all I need to know.” She wondered where he was now. Probably about 40,000 feet above ground, she thought,and heading towards - what does he call it? - his ‘Positive Control Point’. Yeah, right. Nuclear War. Real Positive. She had to hold it together, for his sake if nothing else. She couldn’t afford to think that she’d never see him again. If she focused on that too much, she’d do so at the expense of her sanity.
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