FOREWORD

by Ten To Midnight--Free(Lit)

  She considered the question, taking another drag of the cancer stick. The intake of nicotine made her light headed. “I’m not sure,” she answered finally. “Everything I know tells me that we’d be better off getting a direct hit and knowing nothing about it.”

  “But there’s a part of you thatneeds to know what comes next, right?”

  Kurato nodded. “Right.”

  “How long you figure we’ve got?”

  Kurato checked the alert clock. It showed T plus 25:34, with T representing the moment when STRATCOM had announced Attack Condition Yellow. “I don’t think I’m going to get to finish this cigarette,” she quipped, attempting to put a brave face on the situation.

  Pearson opened his mouth to say something, but was stopped by a steady, high-pitched squeal that put his teeth on edge. Both launch officers knew precisely what it meant.

  “Incoming!” he yelled, urgently groping for his seat belt. “Kurato. Strap yourself in!”

  Both officers belted themselves tightly into their seats, fumbling in their haste.

  Pearson’s heart was racing. I will fear no evil… I will fear no evil…

  The primary lighting died and the emergency lights flickered on, illuminating the capsule an eerie yellow hue. Kurato screamed.

  There was a distant boom, shortly followed by a deep rumble that was racing towards them at a terrifying rate, ever increasing in ferocity. In its cavern, the launch capsule shuddered violently on its supports, creating a nauseous sensation in both officers. That was the first warhead.

  Kurato and Pearson reached out to hold hands, but their chairs were too far apart.

  They were looking into each other’s eyes, both lost in their own private thoughts, when a second warhead detonated directly over their capsule.

  UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN

  General Yazov --- Having consulted with my advisors, I am convinced that you are a man of integrity. Furthermore, I do not believe that you want this war any more than we do. It is time to correct this terrible mistake and work together to bring about a cessation of hostilities so that we may begin to rebuild both our nations.

  I say both our nations because, a short time ago, I authorized a retaliatory strike against your country. This strike was directly proportionate to that inflicted upon our own nation. We have gone to great efforts to ensure that Russian civilian casualties are minimized. The attack is concentrated on your communications facilities, strategic missile, submarine and bomber bases, as was yours.

  As a result of this conflict, my advisors have told me that both our nations can expect to lose between twenty and thirty million people. I am sure you agree that this has gone quite far enough. Accordingly, I propose an immediate cessation of hostilities on the following basis:

  1.Complete and unconditional withdrawal of all Russian forces from the Ukrainian Republic.

  2.Negotiations to commence multilateral disarmament of all Russian and American strategic nuclear weapons under the supervision of the United Nations.

  3.A coordinated reduction in strategic alert levels on both sides to begin with the recall of all Russian and American nuclear bombers which, at this very moment, are progressing towards their targets in both our countries.

  I trust that you will find these conditions acceptable.

  Yazov shivered, his worst fears realized. Of course, he had expected that the Americans would retaliate, but until the moment when he saw confirmation of the fact in President Mitchell’s message on the computer monitor, he hadn’t really accepted it as inevitable. What have I done?

  Sensing his friend’s distress, Kalushin placed a hand on Yazov’s shoulder. “You must not blame yourself, Gennady Andreiovich,” he said softly. “We did what we had to do. Nobody could have foreseen this.”

  Yazov looked at Kalushin, his eyes full of pleading. “You know, Anatoly Mikhailovich, I have never been a religious man. But if there is a God, he will punish me for all Eternity for what I have done.”

  “You cannot afford to think that way,” Kalushin reasoned. “We acted as we saw fit. You are not in this alone, you must remember that. We are all responsible.”

  Grizov reread the message with an expression of disgust. “I hope you’re not seriously considering these proposals.”

  “What do you mean?” Yazov said.

  The FSB chief gestured at the monochrome computer display. “He insults our intelligence. He takes us for fools. He proposes the decapitation of our nation. He launches thousands of missiles against us, then asks that we stand down our forces. He must know that our early warning systems are currently inactive, so all we have is his word that he hasn’t attacked our cities.”

  Suronev’s expression indicated that he agreed with Grizov’s appraisal of the situation. “General, we must consider the possibility that Mitchell is no longer in control.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?” Yazov asked, his tone challenging the FSB chief and the Foreign Minister.

  It was Grizov who answered. “The FSB’s appraisal of Mitchell is that he is a weak leader, unable to control the political factions that exist within the American government. His Congress treats him with contempt and his public approval ratings are dismal. I have no doubt that he is still President, but I very much doubt that he is still in control, which is not necessarily the same thing.”

  “Carry on,” Yazov offered, intrigued to know where this was leading.

  “Ordinarily, Mitchell’s main advisor in this situation would have been his National Security Advisor, Robert Aldick. Had that been the case, I would have been more inclined to believe that these proposals were not meant to trick us. Aldick was an intelligent and honorable man. But with Aldick gone, Mitchell will be receiving most of his advice from his Secretary of Defense, who we know to be a hawk. Therefore, it is possible that Paul Nielsen holds the reins of power in Washington right now.”

  “Wedestroyed Washington,” Kalushin reminded him bitterly.

  Grizov ignored the remark, lowering his voice to a reverential whisper. “General, the Americans must have guessed that our early warning systems are inoperative. What is to say that they haven’t attacked our cities anyway? They could have launched at every strategic target in Russia, and then used their subs and stealth bombers to wipe up our civilian and industrial centers. And we wouldn’t know a thing about it until too late. By which time, we would be unable to retaliate. And then what? They would let us die amidst the radioactive rubble, then send their troops in to occupy Russia.”

  “If that were their strategy,” Yazov argued, keeping his voice even, “then why would they even bother to tell us about their retaliatory strike?”

  “Because they know we would never have believed them had they told us they had not retaliated,” Suronev answered.

  “But even if your theory is correct,” Kalushin pointed out, “our own submarine and bomber fleets would still be in a position to exact catastrophic damage upon the Americans.”

  Grizov’s words were firm and deliberate. “Not if we have already recalled them. That is why we must not accede to the Americans’ demands.”

  Yazov sensed an implicit threat in Grizov’s tone that matched the cold smile on his face. The confidence of the FSB chief’s posture worried Yazov. Why was he so assured? Of course… How could I have been so stupid? Ever since the attack on Moscow, Grizov had been quietly courting the endorsement of other cabinet ministers and military officers in the vast bunker. Behind the FSB chief was the impassive, mostly silent figure of Suronev. So, the Foreign Minister was looking for a new puppet. It all began to make sense. Most of those surrounding the nucleus of power thought that Yazov hadn’t punished the Americans harshly enough. It didn’t matter that the Americans weren’t responsible for the attack on Russia. Now that the Americans had retaliated, the pressure would increase for Russia to respond massively; a policy evidently advocated by Grizov and Suronev.

  That was the moment Yazov knew that the sands of power were once again shifting. Were he
to allow that to happen, he had no doubt that paranoiacs such as Suronev and Grizov would show little hesitation in triggering a global catastrophe. It was the way such men were programmed.

  Again, Yazov realized that he was backed into a corner. He looked at the faces around him, and could see in their eyes the predatory glint of wolves hunting an injured prey. He had to cling to power in order to prevent the global destruction that Grizov and Suronev would surely bring about. In order to do that, he had to find a viable compromise.

  He hated politics.

  WASHINGTON D.C.

  When the air raid sirens suddenly fell quiet, they left in their wake only the screaming and fear of multitudes. But people quickly became aware that the sirens were no longer moaning, and they all reacted in different ways.

  Some hugged each other and celebrated an eleventh-hour reprieve. Others looked up to the skies and thanked whatever deity they believed in. A few looked at each other in bewilderment.

  But many understood the significance of the silence and realized that their entire futures comprised mere seconds. They took cover in doorways, under cars or in subway stations. Anywhere that would afford some protection - however minimal - from the imminent cataclysm.

  On the roof of his apartment block, Philip Cole jumped to his feet when something caught his eye. A white streak, arcing high over the city towards the northeast.

  “Look at that motherfucker go!” he cried, punching the air in manic jubilation.

  The white streak suddenly, without warning, began its steep descent..

  In his twelfth-story penthouse in the Watergate complex, Bert Aldick stood at the window sipping from a glass of malt whiskey and puffing on an expensive Honduran. The soundproofed glass protected him from the wail of the air raid sirens and the hysterical screams of multitudes. But he knew what was coming. He knew that he was drinking his last drink and smoking his last cigar.

  Perhaps it was fitting, he reflected, that for all his sins, his life should end like this. He wondered what it would be like at the very end. Would he be vaporized in a millisecond of annihilating white light? Or would he be doomed to lie dying under tons of scorched rubble?

  Of course, it had occurred to him that had this happened two days’ earlier, he would have been at the President’s side aboard KNEECAP, offering counsel and advice. But that destiny had been denied him by his inability to control his libido. Perhaps, he thought, it was poetic justice. The hundreds of women he had used for gratification over the years would not be afforded the protection of a bunker or a secure aircraft, so why should he? He found it kind of ironic that, despite years of regular female companionship, he would die alone and isolated, surrounded only by material wealth that would shortly be rendered worthless by mankind’s ultimate instrument of death.

  His lip began to quiver. Not out of self-pity, and certainly not out of regret - after all, he’d had a good life - but out of grief for his country. In the final analysis, centuries of toil, blood and effort had been rendered worthless. Despite the best intentions of so many great men and women, years of arms negotiations, treaties and summits had failed to prevent this darkest of nights. If the attack were total, Earth would shortly become a graveyard inhabited only by the dead and the living dead.

  He just hoped that the President was getting good advice; hopefully not from a man such as Paul Nielsen.

  ABOARD KNEECAP

  President Mitchell --- Although I believe that your intentions are honest, I am under tremendous political pressure and am therefore unable to accede to your request to stand down our strategic forces at this time. However, I am optimistic that once we have confirmation that your nuclear strike against my nation is no more than a precise reflection of our own against yours, we will be in a position to reduce our alert levels accordingly.

  As you know, this information may take some time to collate. In the meantime, both our bomber fleets will continue to proceed towards their respective targets and our submarine fleets will remain on full combat alert. I hope you will understand that, for our part, this is purely a defensive measure.

  Unfortunately, we have still been unable to reach the remains of the American Embassy in Moscow to ascertain the status of your Vice President. Unfortunately, we have to assume that he did not survive the Ukrainian attack.

  In the meantime, I believe that we both have much work to do, conducting damage estimates and performing other tasks. I therefore suggest that we reconvene in precisely two hours for further discussions. I am optimistic that by this time, we will both have more information with which to make a decision concerning the alert levels of our strategic forces.

  “There you go,” Nielsen barked triumphantly, pointing an accusatory finger at the screen. “What did I tell you? They have no intentions of standing down. They’re prepared to go the distance with this thing.”

  The President’s shoulders sagged. He read the message again, word for word, his face a mask of disbelief. Why would anybody want to prolong this conflict? It just didn’t make sense.

  “I don’t understand why he made that point about the Vice President,” Lewis said to Margaret. “It’s completely out of context with the rest of his remarks.”

  “I think he’s trying to make a point,” Copeland proffered.

  “What point?” The President asked. And then it dawned on him. He turned back to the screen, narrowing his eyes angrily. “The son of a bitch thinks I’m not in charge any more.”

  “And we don’t know who the hell is in charge over there,” Nielsen added sardonically. “Great.”

  Lewis sensed that the situation was spiraling out of control. Egos were beginning to fuse with distrust to create an atmosphere so combustible that just one tiny spark could set the entire planet ablaze. He was the acting National Security Advisor, whether or not he wanted to be, and it was his job to calm things down. And to do that, he had to admit that Nielsen might have had a point. The words he saw on the screen didn’t reconcile with what he knew about Yazov. If Yazov was in charge over there, someone else was pulling his strings. But to agree with Nielsen in the present climate could be interpreted as also agreeing with his solution to the crisis, and that didn’t bear thinking about. There was only one solution…

  “Mr. President,” he said, “can I borrow the terminal?”

  Everybody stared at him.

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  Luke Masterton considered himself to be the luckiest seventeen-year-old alive. With a mane of blonde hair, the tanned good looks of a surfer and a firm, solid physique, he had never had any problems attracting members of the opposite sex. The fact that he looked several years’ older than he was did not bother him in the slightest. He found it easy to purchase liquor, and even easier to find older women willing to satisfy his voracious sexual appetite.

  Luke considered himself to be good at sex. An early developer, he had lost his virginity at the age of thirteen to a lithe dancer ten years’ his senior. She had been the first of a series of conquests. He had learned from each one, his technique improving all the time. Having glimpsed at his peers’ naked bodies in the locker room, he also knew himself to be comparatively well endowed; a fact that was frequently pointed out by his sexual conquests, who were often surprised that a boy of his age could be so well developed and so accomplished in bed. He had no interest in girls of his own age. They generally lacked the experience and open-mindedness to engage him. So he had imposed on himself a rule of not sleeping with any woman younger than twenty-five. Knowing that many of his less fortunate friends were still struggling to lose their virginity, he recognized how lucky he was that he could be so choosy. In fact, Luke had experienced more than most men twice his age; including a mother and daughter in consecutive weekends and two sisters simultaneously (that would be one for his autobiography, he thought). Many of his conquests were lonely housewives whose husbands were preoccupied with careers and other interests. Not all were wealthy, but if they were, all the better. More than one woman had paid h
im for his attentions. He would have done it for nothing - for he never slept with a woman he didn’t find attractive - but he had no objections to accepting the monetary gratitude of those he satisfied.

  He had a weekend job as a waiter in an exclusive downtown restaurant calledBertoni’s ; the type of establishment that normally required at least a two-week advance booking to secure a table. Bertoni’swas where he met most of his conquests. His potential targets usually either dined alone or with girlfriends. It was all a matter of knowing how to read their body language; the wicked smile, the eye contact that lasted a split second longer than necessary. More often than not, they wore wedding bands. And when he attached his phone number to the check, they more often than not called him.

  He had set himself a personal target of notching up his hundredth conquest by his eighteenth birthday. That was in two months’ time, and he was only three short.

  Estelle Martinez was number ninety-seven, although she didn’t know that. Unlike most of his partners, he hadn’t met her at the restaurant. She attended the same gym as Luke, and they’d been passing acquaintances for at least six months. After learning that she’d just become divorced, he had finally made her move. At thirty-seven years old, Estelle was still svelte and fit, and her dark beauty made her the target of frequent male attention. Fortunately, she enjoyed male attention. Lots of it, as Luke was learning.

  She had come out of the divorce with a sizeable settlement. Having rid herself of a useless husband whose primary interest had seemed to be playing Golf with his buddies, she had no interest in another relationship for the time being. Insofar, Luke met her requirements to perfection. He was cute, good in bed and had an IQ that was smaller than his waist measurement.