“You okay, Cath?” she inquired softly.
“I’m fine,” Cathy sobbed. “Just turn that damn radio off.”
Beth obliged, silencing the endless loop of tones and announcements. The nearest air raid siren was miles away, out of earshot. It was a calm night, the spring air fresh with the promise of a glorious summer. A gentle breeze was flirting with the trees lining the roadside. At any other time, they could easily have been on a pleasant evening drive. It seemed surreal to Beth that they were actually in a country that was about to be consumed by nuclear fire. She tried to picture the chaos that would be taking place in the cities at that very moment, but quickly shut the thought out of her mind.
Utterly helpless, she thought. Utterly, totally helpless.
All she could do was drive. And pray for the first time in years.
90thSPACE WING, WARREN AFB, WYOMING
In a steel capsule one hundred feet below ground level, Captain Nick Pearson ticked off the next item on his prelaunch checklist. “I’m tellin’ you, man, it’s just a damn drill. I had a hot date tonight. Swear they pulled this shit on purpose.”
Captain Holly Kurato, Pearson’s co-launch officer, fixed him with a hard glare from her seat twelve meters away. “Let’s just assume that it is for real. It’s easier that way.”
Pearson retorted with a cocky smile, exaggerating his Arkansan drawl. “Sometimes I just think you dyin’ to be fryin’, dah-lin’.”
“Can it Nick, okay?” Kurato didn’t look up from her checklist as she spoke.
“Yessir,” was the response, edged with more than a touch of sarcasm.
Whiteman had been at DefCon Two for little over three minutes. The base commander, who was located in the Launch Control Facility at ground level, had issued a verbal notification of the alert. It had been immediately confirmed by the distant boom of the Launch Control Center’s concrete blast doors closing. The finality of that sound provided a grim reminder to the launch officers that they were now sealed off from the elevator shaft and everything else beyond.
Their capsule - which measured no more than forty by twenty five feet - was suspended from the roof of its cavern by four hydraulic jacks and sat on two giant titanium springs, designed to dampen the impact of a nuclear blast. Further protection was afforded by titanium blast doors at the top of the elevator shaft and a special polymer coating on the blast doors at the bottom. Of course, the effectiveness of all this protection had never been proved in anything other than a theoretical sense. But, Pearson admitted to himself, if it didn’t serve the purpose for which it had been designed, he and Kurato would probably be dead before they had a chance to complain about it.
They had been nearing the end of their twelve-hour shift when the alert was called, and standard protocol in such a situation was that nobody left their posts during an alert, regardless of whether or not their shift was over. The launch officers on duty at the time of alert were now in it for the duration of the exercise - or whatever the hell this thing was. From experience, Pearson knew that it could last a couple of hours or more. Great,he thought, already planning to have a quiet grumble about it when he met with his fellow officers in theGround Zero bar tomorrow. This would be his second alert drill in a month.
Like many launch officers, Pearson only planned to remain in his current posting until he got his MBA, which was, after all, the only route for advancement in the Air Force. Kurato, two years his junior, planned a career in Air Force Intelligence once she got hers. Although the selection criteria for missile launch officers were among the most stringent in the armed forces, involving extensive psychological profiling and aptitude tests, most silo jocks merely considered the job a stepping-stone to greater things. Preferably located above ground.
A red light blinked on Pearson’s missile status designator. He spotted it out of the corner of his eye. The purpose of the designators was to inform the launch officers of technical hitches with any of the Minuteman-III missiles deployed at Warren. He had green lights across the board, apart from the bird in number nine silo.
“Got a problem on number nine, Holly,” he reported. Why did this have to happen on a goddamn alert?
“Yeah, I see it too. Didn’t we check that one out the other day?”
“Sure,” he remembered, scribbling an entry in his log. “I sent Sanchez up there to fix it. Just some moisture on the guidance chip.”
“Dammit,” Kurato muttered under her breath. “Not a whole lot we can do about it now.” She made a note on her checklist to inform the maintenance crew at the ground facility.
Pearson snorted in derision. “Strike for the home team, huh?”
“Big time, buddy.”
The ring of a red phone in front of him - the Primary Alerting System - caused Pearson to jump. Here we go,he thought. They’re calling off the exercise. He lifted the phone and upon hearing the cool, mechanical female voice, his veins turned to ice.
“Ivy Dance, Drumbeat… Ivy Dance, Drumbeat…” The voice looped continuously, and Pearson forced himself to listen at least three times until he was certain that he’d heard it correctly. He froze, immediately understanding what it meant. Drumbeat… this is not a drill. Lifting her own phone, Kurato heard the same message. She reacted as her training had conditioned her to. She hung up the receiver and went to work.
Suddenly, Pearson felt clammy. A bead of sweat trickled down his brow as he started to conduct a mental inventory of his loved ones. Mum and Dad, at home asleep in Little Rock… Sister Betty, with her husband and kids in Charlotte. Although he had been trained for this moment and was considered by the Air Force to be emotionally equipped to act when called upon, the officer who had only just graduated from high school when the Berlin Wall came down had never truly believed that he would face this moment. Just a stepping-stone to better things…
“I have Air Defense Warning Yellow,” Kurato reported, her voice utterly calm. Always the consummate professional.
“Air Defense Warning Yellow - confirmed,” Pearson replied, his voice not quite so calm. He hung up the receiver and punched a button on the phone. That sent an acknowledgment to USSTRATCOM at Omaha that the message had been received. His brain embarked on two distinct and independent tangents. The first was the product of training, allowing him to automatically perform the tasks for which he had been trained. The second was bewildered, terrified and considering the horrible implications of what was happening.
Kurato picked up a white phone that linked her to the Launch Control Facility. “Hey, Anderson. We’ve got a yellow alert and a red light on number nine. Get your boys to move their asses and fix it. We need that bird working yesterday.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” came the reply. Kurato hung up and turned to Pearson, whose chair was situated at a forty-five degree angle from her own. “Nick, I want to run through the checklist again.”
“Sure.” Need to stay focused...
As he picked up his laminated red prelaunch manual, a deafening high-pitched tone filled the capsule. He immediately understood its significance and muttered a blasphemous curse that could not be heard above the din.
“Incoming EAM,” Kurato announced. Now panic was finally creeping into her voice as comprehension dawned. So she’d thought it was a drill as well,Pearson’s distracted mind thought.
While Kurato ran across the capsule to obtain the message coming off the Teletype, Pearson quickly lifted the red phone again. This time, the voice was that of the senior controller at the Launch Control Facility.
“EWO… EWO… Emergency War Orders… Emergency War Orders… This is a two part alphanumeric message. Message is: November Echo Victor Niner Zero Oscar Sierra Five - Break - Zulu Four Romeo Romeo Bravo Foxtrot.” Pearson scribbled the code on his notepad. Kurato returned to her chair and hurriedly opened a safe above her console. Pearson did likewise.
“I have a properly formatted EAM. Confirm authentication.” Kurato tore the authenticator card from its plastic wallet, reading the alphanumeric code back to Pe
arson as she compared it to the authentication code on the EAM.
“November Echo Victor…”
With every alphanumeric character that he ticked off on his notepad, Pearson felt as though he were edging towards a dark abyss that offered nothing in the way of deliverance.
The alarm stopped and was replaced by the cool woman’s voice that had initially announced the alert. “You have received a valid launch order from National Command Authority… Repeat, you have received a valid launch order from National Command Authority. Your condition is red.”
“I have a valid EAM,” Kurato announced, her voice rapid and high-pitched.
“I confirm valid EAM.” If there is a God up there and He’s listening, please let this be a test. Oh God, please…
“EWO checklist.”
Pearson reached for the safe that contained the Emergency War Orders checklist. He imagined that his counterparts in the six other launch centers at Whiteman would be doing precisely the same thing at this moment. If not… then his prayers had been answered, and the test was specifically for the benefit of him and Kurato. If this is an exercise, it’s the most realistic one I’ve ever heard of.
“Launch Designation, Five-Kilo.”
“Confirmed,” Pearson said, entering the code into his launch selection console.
“Preparatory Auto-Launch Command.”
“Alpha Launch confirmed.” An amber light started to blink above the slot where he would insert his launch key. Alpha Launch - Automatic Launch, no timer delay. Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus… The back of his neck was coated with a sticky film of sweat that caused an unpleasant prickly sensation. “Entering Individual Launch Command,” he added. That was a personal code known only to each individual launch officer.
“Entering Individual Launch Command,” Kurato echoed, already tapping her personal code into the console.
The blinking light above the key slot turned green. At that point, an alarm bell started to ring in short bursts and the ACC Teletype began to chatter a new message. The alarm bell meant one of the other combat crews at Warren had completed the launch procedure and had turned their keys, thus ‘voting’ for a launch. If another of the crews did likewise, the missiles would fly.
It’s down to us, Pearson realized. He turned momentarily and caught Kurato’s eye. He knew that she was thinking precisely the same thing.
“To hell with this,” he growled, leaving his chair and hurrying across the capsule to the Teletype.
Kurato looked up at him with severe determination. “Pearson, get the fuck back to your station,” she barked, reaching for her sidearm. “Right fucking now!”
He ignored her and tore off the Teletype. It read:
Flash Report
FROM: CINCACC/NCA Washington D.C.
TO: All ACC Launch Crews
0447Z/TOP SECRET
Ivy Dance - Hammerhead
1. Russian ICBM strike in progress. 760 (seven six zero)
inbound RVs confirmed. Target CONUS.
2. NCA orders are confirmed EWO/DefCon One.
3. Good Shooting.
Wallace/GEN USAF/CINCACC
“Holly,” he said quietly, “this ain’t no drill.” As he spoke those words, their meaning chilled him to the core. “Hammerhead - we’re under attack.”
“You’re shitting me,” she laughed nervously.
The alarm bell changed from short bursts to a steady, constant ring. Kurato and Pearson looked at each other in terror. They both knew what that sound meant.
Another control center had voted to launch.
The missiles were flying.
UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN
“What do you mean, Ukrainians?” Yazov barked, his temple pulsing with rage.
“PVO-Strany detected the missile tracks,” Kalushin explained, his eyes downcast. “They were unable to alert us in time, due to the Kremlin communication center being cut off. We’ve just received the back-up tapes from northern regional command. The bastards used our own SS-25s against us.”
Sensing Kalushin’s unease, Grizov elaborated. “It appears that the atmospheric effects of our own strike in Ukraine interfered with our early warning systems. Besides, the Ukrainian missiles were launched in a depressed trajectory. It would have been too late to do anything about it even had PVO issued a warning.
Yazov slammed the table with his fist. The deep growl in his tone chilled Grizov to the bone. “But it would have been early enough to prevent a mistake that will end up costing millions of lives. Do you understand what the Americans will do to us, you fucking idiot?” He moved to grab the terrified FSB Chief. Kalushin restrained him by both arms. Eventually, Yazov calmed down and slumped desolately into a chair, holding his head in his hands.
Kalushin adopted his most soothing tone. “General, old friend. We have to make a decision. At this moment, the Americans will probably be preparing to retaliate against what they see as an unprovoked attack.” He checked his watch. “By my estimations, we have no more than five minutes before they launch their counterstrike. It will be massive, possibly indiscriminate. Our early warning systems are still inoperative, so we may not even detect a launch in time to get our missiles into the air.”
Yazov shook his head vigorously, as if trying to rid himself of a flea. “If you are asking me to preempt the Americans with a massive strike on the basis of supposition, I will not do such a thing. Icannot do such a thing. Have I not done enough damage already?” He looked up at Kalushin, his eyes grieving for an entire species. “What have I done, Anatoly Mikhailovich?” The inevitable thoughts tortured his mind. If only I had not been so naïve. If only I had waited for another few hours to take control of the Kremlin… after the Kremlin had been destroyed…
“You did what any of us would have done, General,” Kalushin reassured him. “Indeed, you have reacted with far more restraint than most of us might have showed.” Looking at the faces around the room, the Air Force General knew that many of the men present would have retaliated against the Americans much more vehemently than Yazov had. Russian nuclear doctrine had always been to respond to even a limited American strike with a massive countervalue attack, designed to include America’s 300 largest cities.
The Russian leader rose slowly to his feet, his shoulders hunched against whatever demons were tormenting him. “We must contact President Mitchell before he launches his missiles against us. We must try to persuade him that this is all a terrible mistake.”
“But, General,” Kalushin argued.
Yazov raised his hand. “We must try,” he insisted, making clear that his word was final.
Kalushin glanced at Suronev, whose face remained impassive. Then he turned back to Yazov. “We will see what we can do.” Contacting the American President would not be an easy task, he knew; especially in such a short timeframe. In fact, he half expected that the Americans would refuse to take the call. There was bound to be tremendous political upheaval in the United States at this moment, and that made what was already a dangerous situation even more unpredictable. He turned to Grizov. “Where will the American President be now?”
Grizov, who had been appointed head of Russia’s intelligence apparatus because of his extensive political connections rather than his accomplishments as an intelligence officer, cleared his throat while he attempted to recall the procedure that the Americans would use in such a situation. “He will be aboard his E-4 command plane, I suspect. The American communication systems are quite formidable. We should be able to reach him through the emergency channel.”
“What emergency channel?” Yazov asked, his eyes brightening.
“A transatlantic fiber-optic landline that links identical computer terminals here and in Washington. Both you and the American President type messages into the terminals. They are translated and sent. It is a cumbersome system, but extremely reliable.”
“Where is this terminal?”
“In the Defense Ministry bunker,” Grizov told him. The Defense Ministry and Kremlin
deep level bunkers were connected by a heavily reinforced tunnel network that also ran to other locations around Moscow, including an extensive subterranean subway system that enabled Russia’s leaders to reach provincial shelters across European Russia.
“We must move quickly,” Yazov stated. “Before it is too late.”
IX
SHIFTING SANDS
“If men can develop weapons that are so terrifying as to make the thought of global war include almost a sentence for suicide, you would think that man’s intelligence and his comprehension… would include also his ability to find a peaceful solution.”
(President Dwight D. Eisenhower, November 1956)
ABOARD KNEECAP
President Mitchell was oblivious to the arguments going on around him. A detached part of his mind understood that each of the individuals in the room was facing his or her own personal loss, and all of them would have to deal with tragedy in their own individual ways. Some of them wanted to prevent the nuclear exchange from escalating to another, possibly final, level. That faction presently seemed to be led by Lewis Stein and General Marion Westwood. Others, such as Paul Nielsen and General Allen in the NORAD command center, sought old-fashioned revenge. Everybody else was still trying to come to terms with what had happened.
It amazed the President that, although more firepower had already been unleashed in the last hour than in the entire history of warfare, there remained those who called for yet further destruction. He could empathize with their craving for revenge. But did such a base emotion provide sufficient justification for the incineration of another few million innocents?
As commander-in-chief, that decision was ultimately his to make. And he would have to live with it for however much longer God allowed him to live. Those around him could - to an extent - detach themselves from any responsibility, for they had only toadvise , not to be held accountable for one of the biggest decisions any national leader had been forced to take in human history. What price was worth paying to defend the national interest? The annihilation of an America that he hadsworn to protect and defend? Or the annihilation of an entire planet? He had an obligation to his oath and to the people who had entrusted him with their protection. Yet he had an equal obligation to his species. If only the choices that faced him were really that simple.
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