In the final analysis, it didn’t matter whether it would have been right or wrong to kill Hitler’s mother. But it had certainly been right to prosecute the war with Nazi Germany, if only for the sake of the greater good. It hadn’t been a matter of revenge, but survival. So how did those standards apply to the present situation? Would the Russian nuclear attack threaten the principles upon which America had been built? If the answer was no, then to retaliate would be a simple act of revenge. It would be inherently dangerous to allow such a primitive sentiment to become a deciding factor when the stakes were so high. America would survive this attack, Lewis knew. There were ways other than nuclear attack to punish Russia for the honest mistake they had made. Buthad it been an honest mistake? He couldn’t answer that with any degree of certainty.
“Storm Rock,” he said. “What are their bombers doing?”
“They’re proceeding to their Positive Control Points, just as ours are.”
“Seventy-eight inbounds.”
“And their subs?” Westwood asked.
The answer was a moment coming. “Still waiting for confirmation of numbers, sir, but early indications are that they’re putting to sea as fast as they can.”
That was precisely the answer Lewis didn’t want to hear, for it proved correct his worst fears. “From what we know, Mr. President,” he explained, “my guess is that the ICBMs are targeted almost exclusively at military targets. The role of the subs and bombers will be to wipe up the cities. You see, SLBMs and Russian bombers are not usually as accurate as ICBMs, and their CEP” - Circular Error Probable - “is greater than that of, say, an SS-11 or 18. If you’re attacking a hardened military bunker, you need to achieve total accuracy in order to destroy it, whereas a few hundred yards CEP doesn’t matter if you’re attacking a soft target. In other words, their ICBMs will be used on targets where accuracy is of greater importance, and the second phase of the attack will concentrate on soft targets such as cities.”
“One hundred and sixteen inbounds.”
“So what you’re saying,” the President concluded, “is that no matter what we do, we can’t stop their bombers and subs, right? If that’s the case, why do anything?”
“Our air defenses should be able to stop at least some of their bombers,” Westwood responded.
“One hundred and thirty nine inbounds.”
“And I’d give us a better than average chance of reducing their naval capability,” Dunster added. “We’ve always kept close tabs on their boomers. We pretty much know exactly where they are, and we could order their destruction. It won’t be pretty. It could be the biggest naval battle since Midway, but I’m confident that we can destroy enough of their subs to make a pretty big difference.”
“Mr. President,” Looking Glassannounced, “I’ve got some preliminary target estimates here. Seems like Dr. Stein was correct; they’re attacking our strategic capability. Primary targets appear to be,” he took a deep breath before reading the list, “Offutt in Nebraska, Eglin in Florida, Whiteman in Missouri, Grand Forks, Minot, McConnell in Kansas, Malmstrom in Montana, Fairchild in Washington, Travis in California, Kirtland in New Mexico, Beale in California, Nellis in Nevada and Dyess in Texas. We think that Tinker, Barksdale, Edwards, Petersen and Mountain Home have also been targeted. It’s a classic countervalue attack pattern.”
Everybody in the room noted the calmness inAlice’s voice as he continued listing the targets. Professionalism was overwhelming his emotions, Lewis realized. It was a sensation with which he was acutely familiar. Nobody saw Reynolds go pale as he thought of his young niece, at home in the base accommodation on Barksdale AFB with her six-month-old daughter. They’re killing babies, the chief of staff’s mind screamed in outrage.
“The naval facilities under attack are as follows. New London, Connecticut. Kings Bay, Georgia. Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. San Diego, California. Charleston, South Carolina. Norfolk, Virginia and Bremerton, Washington. And our C3installations are also under attack. They are” - another deep breath - “Cheyenne Mountain, Raven Rock, our PAVE PAWS stations at Cape Cod, Mass and Beale, California, and outside CONUS, our BMEWS stations at Fylingdales, England, Cobra Dane in the Aleutians, Clear in Alaska and Thule in Greenland.”
“Hold on a moment, General,” the President interrupted. “Did you say Raven Rock?”
“Yes, sir.”
He and Margaret exchanged a horrified glance as they both arrived at the same conclusion… “My daughter is being taken there.” Mitchell wondered if that sounded selfish under the circumstances. After all, everybody would more than likely lose loved ones tonight. But if the world’s most powerful man couldn’t even prevent the death of his own daughter, what was the point? Margaret gripped his hand tightly.
“That’s negative, sir,”Big Bird revealed. “Her chopper has been diverted over the Atlantic. She’s being taken to the USS Northampton.”
“The Northampton is a specially equipped communications vessel, sir,” Westwood explained. “It’s presently anchored off Newfoundland. She’ll be quite safe there.”
“Two hundred and four confirmed inbounds.”
“Thank you,” the President said quietly, feeling Margaret relax her grip on his hand. He felt truly ashamed of himself for being so selfish. His daughter would be safe, but millions of sons and daughters and mothers and fathers wouldn’t be so fortunate, since they hadn’t been afforded the privilege of being directly related to the President of the United States. That was a fact with which he’d have to come to terms later. Providing there was a later, of course. “Carry on, General.”
“In the special category,” Allen continued, “there are twenty-four complete misfires so far and nine missiles set to detonate off the Pacific and Atlantic Coasts and the Gulf of Mexico. Now these may also be misfires, but it’s more likely that they’re high altitude EMP bursts.”
“Is that all?” the President asked, his hands visibly twitching as the enormity of what was happening began to dawn on him.
“Um… not quite sir,”Storm Rock admitted. “There are also three missiles targeted at cities.”
“Two hundred and fifty nine inbounds.”
The President felt his stomach contract. He suddenly wanted to vomit. “Which ones?”
“Washington D.C., Seattle and Houston, sir. My guess is that they selected roughly equivalent cities to those attacked by the Ukrainians.”
“Oh my God,” Copeland murmured just audible enough to be heard.
“How many warheads in total, General?” The question came from Nielsen.
“So far, estimated count is just over six hundred and four. That’s six-oh-four warheads, sir.”
“I concur with that,”Storm Rock announced. “I hate to say it, Mr. President, but this attack sounds worse than it is. They’ve left a lot of holes in their attack pattern. We estimate that over eighty percent of our bombers will have been scrambled by the time of impact, and their attack pattern is way short of taking out our ICBM capability either. That’s possibly because a lot of their birds didn’t get off the ground. The point is, we can still hit ‘em hard.”
“But any holes the Russians have left,” Westwood added, “will probably be filled by their bomber fleet, SLBMs and ALCMs. That’s why it’s imperative that we respond quickly.”
To Lewis’s surprise, the President sought his advice. “Dr Stein, you’re an expert on Russian thinking. Whatare they thinking? And how will they respond if we, as General Allen says,hit ‘em hard ?”
Lewis was filled with a sense of utter solitude as all eyes turned to him. The President of the United States - supposedly the world’s most powerful man - had granted him the casting vote on what would happen next in what had already become the most dangerous night in human history. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. He had accepted Bishop’s approach to come to Washington purely so that he might contribute to saving lives rather than destroying them. But a nameless Russian politician or even perhaps a General several thousands of miles
away had denied him that opportunity.
He cleared his throat. “Based on what we already know, Mr. President, they’ve committed with almost all the force they can muster to destroying both our strategic capability and infrastructure. They know that we are likely to respond in kind. That’s the whole premise of Mutual Assured Destruction. Throughout history, they’ve proved time and time again that they’re prepared to accept massive losses to achieve their goals. Now I don’t believe for a moment that they intended for this war to happen. But now that it has, whoever’s in charge right now has committed to it. To put it another way, sir, they’ve thrown a war and they’re going to have one whether or not we come. My advice to you, sir, is to retaliate with a counterforce strike designed to closely mirror theirs. At this stage, I recommend that we avoid cities wherever possible. That gives us a shot at turning this thing off before it escalates into total nuclear conflict.”
“Well, it already sounds pretty damn total to me,” the President snapped.
“Precisely, Mr. President,” Nielsen agreed, seizing the opportunity to present his own argument, which was somewhat more radical than Lewis’s. “That’s why we should go for the jugular. If we target their C3capability - and, unfortunately, that would entail attacking most of their major administrative centers and cities - then there won’t be anybody left alive to order in the subs and bombers against our own cities. Besides, most of their strategic forces are still on the ground. We can order our bombers to attack leadership bunkers, communication facilities and so forth. We call it the ‘Grand Tour’.”
At the mention of that phrase, Lewis felt his veins turn to ice. It was a phrase he hadn’t heard for a long time, a term that belonged to the Cold War. The First Lady met his eyes. He could see that she was thinking precisely the same thing. She turned back to her husband, holding his hand under the table.
“Ed, I think that Dr Stein’s advice is more appropriate at this time,” she advised. “It’s far too premature to consider the Grand Tour. A counterforce strike gives us time to negotiate a cease-fire with the Russians.”
Nielsen opened his mouth to say something, but even at this defining moment in history knew better than to contradict the First Lady, who he knew would quite willingly chew him up and spit him back out again for the sheer hell of it. His time would come, but not just yet. That was okay with him. He was a patient man.
The President looked up at Margaret, his eyes those of a man burdened with humanity’s fate. In all these years, she had never offered one piece of bad advice and he couldn’t imagine that she would begin to do so now.
“Very well,” he said finally. “Let’s do it.”
Lewis duly excused himself from the room, ran to the bathroom and vomited. Only, for once, the vomiting had less to do with the alcohol he’d consumed that day than it did with a shocking thought that had just occurred to him.
Jo’s near Washington.
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
For the first time in its history, the FEMA Special Facility was on full-scale alert, and the predominant thought in Carl Beakman’s mind was to wonder whether Victor had made it home safely. Less than half of his department heads and senior staff had reported in following the alert. He presumed that many of them had greater reservations about leaving their families behind than he’d had about leaving Victor. Or perhaps they’d just been caught in traffic on highways jammed with civilians scrambling to leave town.
The main consequence of the staff shortages was a number of sudden promotions for junior personnel. A 21-year-old intern had been promoted to Director of Civilian Manpower, since he was the only member of that particular department who’d made it to Olney. Similarly, the Director of Civil Defense was a young woman barely six months out of college. All had gathered in the Operations Center a hundred and fifty feet below ground level to report to Beakman on the facility’s state of readiness.
He stood in front of an electronic map of the United States, which used various colored lights and symbols to show the status of other FEMA and military facilities across the country. At the moment, the status indicator above the map was Yellow, which meantAlert – Emergency Possible . Normally, it was Green. It had never gone to Red, except in an exercise, of course.
As he reviewed the facts of the department heads and acting department heads, Beakman saw that they all had one thing in common. They were all scared out of their skin.
“Okay,” he began. “We’re going to go around the table. I want each of you to tell me where your departments are up to. This is the real deal, people. So let’s start with you.” He pointed at the Military Liaison Officer, a Lieutenant Colonel on secondment from the Pentagon. “Why don’t you begin by giving us some background on the situation.”
The LC’s hard, chiseled features somehow contradicted his impassive tone. “Twelve low-yield nuclear warheads were airburst earlier this evening over forward Ukrainian positions. Approximately half an hour later, Ukraine responded with a nuclear strike of its own, destroying the cities of Tula, Volgograd and Moscow with intermediate range ballistic missiles. NCA has declared DefCon Three, and the President is currently aboard KNEECAP. I think we can assume that the Vice President, who was in Moscow at the time, is probably dead.”
Several of those in the room hadn’t heard about the Ukrainian retaliatory strike yet. The result was a chorus of raised voices and dejected groans. Beakman’s pleas for silence went unheeded. After a couple of moments, the Lieutenant-Colonel proceeded, his commanding resonance succeeding where Beakman had failed.
“We don’t know what state the Russian leadership is in right now,” he reported. “In fact, we don’t even know who’s in charge. Communications with Moscow are down for the time being, so we can only speculate on what’s going on. That’s all I know for the time being.”
“Thank you,” Beakman said, preempting a volley of questions. He scribbled a few notes on the pad in front of him. “What about you?” He was pointing at the Director of Civilian Operations, one of the few authentic department heads who’d made it to Olney.
The Director was a lanky bearded man in his mid-forties, whose narrow wire-rimmed spectacles gave him a somewhat gawky appearance. “As you know, the Army is moving to close down the Interstates to civilian traffic. That is having the predictable effect of panicking people into violence and causing logjams and road accidents on secondary routes. Similar measures are being effected to take control of commercial airports. To put it another way, there will be no commercial flights until the emergency has passed. And, just in case of…”
He was interrupted by a deep, continual buzz that resonated throughout the entire facility. It’s suddenness caused everybody to jump. Then to freeze in terror as they realized what it meant.
Beakman looked up at a backlit wall display. Flashing in time with the tone against a red background was a message in bold black letters: Attack Warning --- Condition Red. The status indicator above the wall map obediently turned red.
For a moment, Beakman’s mind went blank and a . Despite the numerous exercises – which, privately, he’d always considered to be meaningless - he couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do next. But that sensation lasted no more than an instant before professionalism took over. TheAttack Warning sign had been triggered by the facility’s air defense station, which sourced its real-time data directly from the NORAD mainframe. ACondition Red could only be initiated once NORAD had received confirmation of an attack from secondary BMEWS stations and STRATCOM in Omaha. It was as close to a foolproof system as any, and Beakman knew that there was no way Olney could receive an erroneous attack warning. It just wasn’t possible.
“Okay, people,” he barked, jumping to his feet. “This is it. Everybody to your stations.”
For a moment, nobody moved from their seats. They were either staring at the sign in abject horror or were looking at Beakman in puzzlement, as if they hadn’t understood what he’d said. Then they began to respond as they arrived at
the same conclusion as their boss. Their actions became automatic; the product of repetitive training. They rushed to their posts, carrying out tasks that none of them had ever thought they’d have to perform in anything other than a drill.
The Director of Communications was charged with ensuring intact links with KNEECAP, NORAD and other regional FEMA facilities around the country, including Mount Weather and Raven Rock.
At his station, meanwhile, the Military Liaison Officer began to prepare computer generated damage estimates, based on attack data received from NORAD. “StratCom confirms a massive inbound Russian ICBM attack,” he yelled at Beakman, reading from a sheet of paper that he’d just torn from the Teletype.
“How many?” Beakman asked, striding over to the General’s desk. He was already wondering if Victor had made it back to Chesapeake Bay. A check of his watch and a quick mental calculation told him probably not. Especially in the traffic out there.
“About six hundred and counting so far,” the LC reported. For the first time since Beakman had known him, his face expressed an emotion that Beakman vaguely recognized as fear. “D.C. is one of the targets,” he added.
Beakman suddenly wished he hadn’t quit smoking a few weeks’ ago. If ever he’d had a craving…
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