The couple didn’t really know, although they wouldn’t admit as much. Especially not to a group of kids. All they knew was that nukes were going off somewhere, and that was enough to justify leaving town. After all, that was what everybody else seemed to be doing, even though few seemed to have a destination in mind other than Anywhere But Here.
“Listen to the radio,” the old woman advised. “You’ll find out more on there.” With that, she wound up the window again.
“You think they’re nuts or sum’ tin?” Nina asked, not really sure herself.
“If they’re nuts, then all these folks are nuts.” Tabatha gestured at the traffic around her. “What d’ya reckon the chances of that?” Damn, this is the last thing I need. Can’t go forwards, can’t go back. Where to go except Nowhere At All?
There was an exit about fifty yards ahead. That was their only chance, she knew. Beyond that, she didn’t have a plan of action in mind. Perhaps she would find a car that she could hotwire. Or, with all these people leaving town, there would have to be some empty houses she could get into. Just somewhere to sleep for the night.
The truth was, Tabatha didn’t know what was going to happen any more than did anyone else, but she couldn’t admit that to the kids.
They were relying on her to be strong, and right now she felt more scared than at any time in her life.
WASHINGTON D.C.
Carl Beakman hated Washington dinner parties with a vengeance. Actually, he wasn’t too fond of Washington, period. It was said that if you wanted to be in the movie business, you went to L.A.. If you wanted to be a car manufacturer, Detroit was the place to be. Washington D.C.’s business, on the other hand, was politics. And anybody of any consequence in this town was in some way connected to the political world. There were no prizes for guessing what the chief topic of conversation tended to be at social gatherings.
Like many of his fellow guests at this particular dinner party, Beakman was a government employee. But his role was not political. He was Director of the FEMA Special Facility in Olney, Maryland; an anachronistic construction whose purpose dated back to the Cold War when it had been one of the primary government bunkers surrounding the capital. Nowadays, both its classification and personnel had been reduced in accordance with its new official status as a Satellite Teleregistration Facility. Olney also housed the National Warning Center and the Alternate National Warning Center, both of which served to comprise the primary control element of the National Warning System (NAWAS).
Beakman’s face boasted prominent dimples and a perpetual cheeky half-smile that seemed to invoke a maternal instinct in women. He was accustomed to women referring to him as cuddly, and that might have bothered him had he been interested in women. But since his current partner was a handsome 25-year-old Puerto Rican called Victor, women were the least of his priorities.
Victor had been his lover for the last eighteen months. Young, dark and athletic, he was the physical antithesis of the middle-aged, balding Beakman. But they were compatible in every other way and were very much in love with each other. Although Beakman himself couldn’t understand why a man such as Victor would be interested in him, he knew that the rules of love were not bound by logic. Sometimes there was just no explaining mutual attraction.
He was half-listening to the conversation taking place around him, but his eyes were locked on Victor, seated opposite him. Victor returned the look; a momentary glance rich with promises of things to come.
“It’s only Ukraine, for God’s sake,” the woman next to Beakman was saying. Dripping in diamonds and other glittery decorations, she was apparently a political columnist or something.
“And, in 1939, it was only Poland,” a slick looking man piped up. He was a young, idealistic aide to some Congressman or other, trying to make a name for himself in the capital. Good luck, kid, Beakman thought. He’d seen it all before. Many came to this town, but very few survived.
“That’s true,” another man pointed out, “but the Nazis didn’t have the Bomb, did they? I mean, would we have squared up to Germany if they had the ability to blow up New York or D.C.? I don’t think so.”
Beakman saw Victor’s eyes glaze over with boredom. Victor had as little patience for this type of discussion as did his older lover. Neither of them ever bothered to vote. So far as they were concerned, political parties were all much of a sameness. Lots of self-important people trying to impress each other by solving problems that they weren’t important enough to do anything about. That was made frequently apparent to Beakman by dinner table conversations such as this.
He was about to make an excuse for himself and Victor to leave when his pager began to vibrate. He pulled it out of his pocket and read the display. As he did so, he felt the blood drain from his face. Victor looked at him quizzically, mouthing the words, “What’s wrong?”
Beakman kept staring at the pager’s LCD display, not quite believing what he was seeing:
FEMA Alert: Outpost Mission
He gestured Victor out of the room and smiled apologetically at some of the other guests who were asking questions with their eyes.
“What is it?” Victor said. He had never seen Carl look this anxious, and that worried him.
Beakman placed both his hands on Victor’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “Vic, I want you to go home and hunker down in the storm cellar until I get back.” He knew how ridiculous that must’ve sounded to his young lover, but he couldn’t think of anything better to say. Home was a four-bedroom house on the Chesapeake Bay, where many properties were equipped with storm cellars to protect their occupants from the occasional fierce winds that swept in from the Atlantic. As Victor opened his mouth to reply, Beakman cut him short. “Don’t argue with me, darling. Just do it.”
Victor shook his head in confusion. “I don’t understan’. Why don’t you tell me whass goin’ on?”
“They’re evacuating the government. I’ve got to get to the office.” Beakman always referred to the Olney facility asThe Office , even though it was nothing of the sort. But such ordinary terminology seemed to humanize his job somewhat, make it sound more palatable to those who didn’t really understand what a sinister purpose the facility had actually been designed for. “Just remember that I love you, and I’ll be home as soon as this thing blows over, okay?”
He kissed Victor passionately on the lips, leaving the younger man looking scared, like a little boy who’d lost his mother.
“What if it don’t blow over?” the Puerto Rican asked, his voice cracking.
“It will,” Beakman assured him. “These things always do. Trust me. Now just take the car and go, will you?”
“Why can’ I come wit you?”
“Because access to the facility is for authorized personnel only, you know that. If I could take you, I would. I really would. But I can’t.” One of the other reasons - one that he couldn’t admit to Victor - was that Beakman’s homosexuality was a secret from his staff. He wasn’t sure how they’d react if he bought his gay lover to the facility when they’d all left families -normal families,straight families - at home.
“How you gonna get there if I take the car?”
Beakman gestured to the dining room out of which they’d just stepped. “I figure there are at least five essential personnel in there. I’ll hitch a lift. Don’t worry about me. Just move it.”
They hugged and Victor began to cry. Beakman sensed his lover’s resignation. “I go,” the younger man wept with characteristic drama, “but I no like it.”
The last Beakman ever saw of Victor was his young lover leaving through the front door, his head slumped in desolation.
Once he’d gone, Beakman returned to the living room, where voices were being raised in anger and panic, the discord punctuated by the trill of pagers and mobile phones. He opened his wallet and pulled out the plastic card that confirmed his JEEP-2 status in bold black letters. On the flip side was his name, photograph and a directive proclaiming: The person id
entified on this card is an essential Government employee with vital duties pertaining to National Emergency Operations. Full assistance and unrestricted movement is to be granted the person to whom this card is issued. The only time he’d ever had to use the card was in an exercise. Now it was time to see whether all those drills had been worth it.
Almost half of the guests at the dinner party were either JEEP-2 or JEEP-3 cardholders. Looking around him, Beakman saw the same scene he’d had with Victor a few moments earlier being played out in multitude. Wives and husbands were exchanging farewell embraces, often followed by angry exchanges as those who were to be left behind tried to persuade their loved ones to take them to whichever secure location they were heading for.
A young woman approached Beakman. She had attended the party alone. From what he remembered of the earlier introductions, she was some kind of hotshot at the DoD.
“Mr. Beakman,” she said, her demeanor all business, “I understand you need to get to Olney. Am I right?”
“Yes,” he stammered. “Yes, that’s right.”
She nodded, understanding, and rattled off her words in machine-gun fashion. “I don’t have transport either. I came here in a taxi. I’m a JEEP-2 cardholder. An Army jeep is on its way to collect me. They can take you as well, if you wish.”
“Thanks,” he said, not really meaning it. He didn’t like Army jeeps, although he had no aversion to men in uniform. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
The woman snorted bitterly. “Trouble is one thing we’ve got plenty of tonight,” she said.
B-2A BOMBER - “SPIRIT 16” - OVER KANSAS
With the sleekness and grace of an airborne feline, the 180,000-kilogram B-2A stealth bomber provided one of the key elements of America’s triumvirate nuclear arsenal. Somewhat larger and more powerful than its sister plane - the F-117A stealth fighter - the B-2 had but one purpose; to penetrate defenses without being detected and unleash a world of destruction upon the enemy before anybody even knew it was coming.
The 325thBomb Squadron of the 509thBomb Wing, comprising twenty-one stealth bombers, was one of three active B-2 units in the U.S. Air Force. Until the disbanding of the former Strategic Air Command in 1992, American bomber squadrons such as the 325thhad been permanently equipped with a full nuclear payload, ready to be scrambled at fifteen minutes’ notice. That had changed following the signing of the START-II treaty, which stipulated that nuclear ordinance was to be kept in storage depots, separate from the bombers. Then, quite recently, as relations between Washington and Moscow had begun to deteriorate once more, President Mitchell’s notoriously right-wing predecessor had ordered that the 509th and other bomb wings of its ilk once again be placed on 24-hour strip alert. So when the crews of the 325thresponded to the latest crisis, their bombers were armed and ready for action.
The twenty-one crews of the 325thwere, by definition, the cream of America’s bomber fleet. Each of them - forty-two men and women in all - had gone through a stringent selection process, designed not only to measure their flying abilities but also their psychological suitability for the awful mission to which they were assigned.
Before training for the B-2 mission, Logan had flown B-1Bs for the 7thBomb Wing at Dyess AFB, Texas (another wing that had since been furnished with B-2s). Essentially, many of the procedures were identical, but the B-2 boasted a level of technological wizardry that still astounded him. Its advanced computer systems meant that the B-2 only required a crew of two, as opposed to four on the B-1. Logan was the Mission Commander and, therefore, the senior officer. To his right sat his Flight Commander, Captain Laura McCann.
Logan and McCann had flown together for five years, and their professional relationship was such that each of them had an almost telepathic ability to anticipate the actions of the other. This time, however, was no exercise. Gone was the banter and bravado characteristic of training missions and drills. Tonight, they remained mostly silent. Focused.
This was as real as it got.
Logan kept his voice cool and dispassionate as he read the target designation aloud. “Authentication Alpha-Charlie-Romeo-Romeo-Victor-Sierra-Bravo-Zero. Primary target is the Russian city of St Petersburg. Regional headquarters of PVO and FSB command. Attack profile; two B-83 gravity bombs, each armed with a single one-megaton warhead. Target designation, one thousand feet airburst. Civilian population five point one million,” he added, snapping the target directory shut.
McCann looked distinctly uneasy when Logan mentioned civilians. With short, cropped black hair and soft green eyes, she was attractive in a girl-next-door kind of way. But her looks concealed a cool professionalism that had earned her the accolade of being one of the U.S. Air Force’s first female stealth bomber pilots. Under certain circumstances, Martin could have imagined himself making a move on her. But inter-personnel relationships were strictly prohibited in the Air Force. Not to mention that both of them were married; Martin to Beth, and McCann to an awfully nice computer programmer from Des Moines with whom she’d had two kids.
“I concur,” she said with an edge of reluctance, having verified the code against her authentication card.
On Logan’s command, they ran through the lengthy checklist designed for nuclear weapon release. It was nothing like the checklist required for dropping conventional ordinance. All items on the list that related solely to nuclear launch protocol were marked in bold red typeface.
“Yield selection, one megaton,” Logan announced as he dialed the weapon yield on his console. McCann mirrored his actions and flicked the Yield Selection switch. “Confirmed,” she said.
“Arm weapons on my mark. Three, Two, One, Mark…” Simultaneously, McCann and Logan turned their arming dials. A blue light appeared on Logan’s console to inform him that the nuclear warheads had been successfully armed.
With a flick of the wrist, he froze his stopwatch. “One minute twenty-nine,” he announced. “Good exercise.”
“Let’s hope it’ll be that easy over a real target,” McCann remarked solemnly as she deactivated the weapon.
Logan frowned. Spirit 16, along with the rest of the 325th, had been in the air for little over thirty minutes, heading towards various separate Positive Control Points off the western and eastern seaboards and over southern Canada. Logan had expected to have received a recall order by now; to be told that that the crisis was over. The more time that passed, the less likely it was that such a message would be received. Both he and McCann knew as much, but neither of them wanted to be the first to say it aloud. In the meantime,Spirit 16 continued to head relentlessly towards its own PCP, just over the U.S.-Canadian border. Once there, they would orbit until ordered either to return to base or to proceed to their designated target inside Russia, some nine to eleven hours away. They wouldn’t know their target profile until they received their final set of Emergency War Orders. If we receive them, he reminded himself, hoping that such a moment never came.
He wondered where Beth and his parents were now. Getting close to the Iowa state line, he hoped. If this crisis escalated into a shooting war, he wanted them to be as far away from potential targets as possible. That wasn’t easy given their proximity to both Whiteman AFB and Kansas City. But his father’s fishing cabin on Red Rock Lake, southeast of Des Moines, would be far enough in the wilderness for them to have a chance. Martin knew that his father always kept the cabin stocked with food and provisions. It had always served as a peaceful refuge from Cathy. Martin had fond memories of summer weekends at the cabin as a boy with his older brother Sean and his father. Those were among the only fond childhood memories he had. When Martin was fourteen, Sean was killed in a car crash. He had been driving up to the cabin with his girlfriend. For years afterwards, Patrick had blamed himself for encouraging Sean to visit the cabin, and it had taken him a long time before he could again visit it himself. By that time, Martin had reached adulthood. There would be no more fishing weekends for him, ever.
He doubted that Beth would want to spend her twi
light hours with her in-laws. That thought occasioned a wry smile, which evaporated when he heard a computerized female voice announce, “Incoming Emergency Action Message.” He exchanged a nervous glance with McCann. Perhaps this was the recall order they had been awaiting. Perhaps not, a part of him warned.
McCann stood and made her way aft, where the UHF receiver was located. She tore the message from the Teletype, returned to her seat and briefly read its contents. Even in the dimly lit cockpit, Logan could see that the color had drained from his co-pilot’s face. She checked the authentication code against her one-time codebook. “I have a properly formatted Emergency Action Message, Major.” Her voice was close to cracking as she handed it to Logan. “Please verify.”
He also checked the message against his codebook. “It’s valid all right.” He read it aloud, as if that was the only way he could be sure he’d understood it correctly. “From NCA to ACC bomber crews. One: Nuclear warheads detonated over Moscow, Volgograd and Tula by Ukrainian Army. Two: NORAD has declared DefCon Three. Three: Proceed to designated PCP and await further orders. Four: Good hunting..”
“That’s all they’re gonna tell us?”
“Well, what did you expect?”
McCann pursed her lips sulkily. Her professional relationship with Logan had never been tested in a live-fire situation. You could run drills until you were blue in the face, but no matter how well trained you were, a part of your mind was always conscious that it was only a drill. Nothing could simulate the knowledge that everybody back home might soon be vaporized. Including Simon and the kids, she thought grimly.
“What’s wrong?” Logan snapped, feeling McCann’s eyes boring into him. She and her husband had often socialized with Martin and Beth. She thought she knew her co-pilot as well as she’d ever known anybody. She’d at least expected him to show some emotion. Instead, his military training had overwhelmed whatever emotions he might be feeling. He was going to do exactly what he was ordered and had been trained to do. Perhaps, she reflected, that made him a better officer than her. Because she was as scared as she’d ever been and wasn’t so reticent about showing it.
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