“What is France’s position?” Berger asked finally, knowing that this was the question that really mattered. He had calculated that if he provided his support to what he privately believed was a senseless French policy, then Betin would be in his debt for the remainder of his political life. And in the hothouse of European politics, such debts were often worth more than principle or life itself.
“I think that is obvious,” came the response. “I imagine that certain elements of your own government will be advocating a similar policy.” Betin’s confident tone suggested that contacts had already been made by senior French officials with their German counterparts to seek support for an independent European policy.
In that moment of realization, the German Chancellor began to understand that the Union’s neutrality was as inevitable as it was inherently dangerous.
“What needs to be done, Jean-Claude?”
GOVERNMENT COMMAND BUNKER, BENEATH LONDON
Until the crisis erupted, Prime Minister Harold Winterburn had been only vaguely aware of the existence of the huge government bunker that dominated the subterranea of London’s government district. Originally constructed during World War Two, it had been expanded and hardened to cope with the threat of nuclear attack during the 1950’s and 60’s. Since then, various extensions had been added whenever new subway lines were built; part of the reason that engineers involved in the fabrication of such tunnels were privy to the Official Secrets Act and why subway construction projects generally ran over budget and behind schedule.
The complex - the bulk of which was over two hundred and fifty feet beneath street level - covered five square miles and was four floors deep. Primary access points were located at the Ministry of Defense in Whitehall, Somerset House on the Thames Embankment, 10 Downing Street, Westminster and Buckingham Palace. There were also a number of secondary emergency access points, but these were mainly ventilation shafts; innocuous-looking manholes at street level and secreted iron doors in subway tunnels.
The complex not only boasted its own internal transit system but also deep-level subway links to London’s two main airports at Heathrow and Gatwick. It also housed three separate broadcasting studios, although Winterburn wondered who would be left alive to listen to TVs or radios after a nuclear apocalypse. Fiber-optic and satellite relay links afforded means of communication to other NATO leaders, and a series of IBM mainframes worked 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, collating data from around the world on weather patterns, troop movements and military preparedness.
At the heart of the complex was a command center, a smaller facsimile of the annihilated NORAD war room at Cheyenne Mountain. Technicians feverishly worked away at computer terminals whose flickering glare illuminated their faces in the otherwise murky light. On an elevated platform overlooking the center was a soundproofed, glass-walled briefing room. This was where Winterburn and his advisors were gathered.
The Prime Minister took his place at the head of the table. Not all key members of the cabinet had been able to reach the bunker yet, but the important ones were present; Defense Secretary George Williams, Foreign Secretary Sir Christopher Roland, Chief of Defense Staff General Sir Michael Rhys-Jones and Home Secretary Howard Bland.
It had been nearly two hours since the nuclear exchange and five hours since the British government had first learned of Russia’s intention to end the Ukrainian War with nuclear weapons.
To Harold Winterburn, it seemed like an eternity ago that the world had been a peaceful place. His brain was functioning on a number of levels. A distant part of his mind - of which he was ashamed – felt honored to be present at such an historic moment. Another part of him felt powerless to protect his country from a fate that would be decided by two far greater powers. But both of these sentiments were far less than a sense of fear that was so overwhelming it left him almost numb.
Britain’s relationship with the United States had cooled somewhat over the past six months, partly due to Winterburn’s vociferous support for the EU in its latest trade dispute with Washington. Even so, America’s relationship with London was still far warmer than it was with other European governments. On a personal level, Winterburn and President Mitchell genuinely liked each other. The Prime Minister hoped that this closeness would afford him some influence at the top table right now. For many years, Britain had – to coin a phrase first used by former Foreign Secretary Douglas Hurd – been ‘punching above its weight’. Now that was more necessary than ever.
Winterburn knew that, at this very moment, millions of Britons would be awakening to news of the terrible overnight developments. He could only begin to wonder at their own sense of shock and impotence, which would surely dwarf his own. And, sometime in the next couple of hours, he would have to explain to them that the British government had matters under control. Which, of course, was a blatant lie. More so, everybody would know it was a lie. But such meaningless platitudes were part of the game in which Winterburn had volunteered to participate upon first entering parliament all those years ago.
“… and we’ve anticipated widespread civil disturbance,” Bland was saying, “particularly in the cities. We can expect panic buying as people begin to wake up to what’s happening. And once the shelves run dry, I imagine there will be some degree of looting.”
“Well, I can’t spare any more troops,” General Rhys-Jones said, preempting the implicit request.
“What about the TA?” Winterburn said, referring to the Territorial Army - Britain’s equivalent to the American National Guard.
Rhys-Jones shrugged. “Difficult to say how many will respond to the call up and how quickly.”
“Do what you can,” the Prime Minister ordered him, putting on his reading spectacles as he turned to the next page in his red leather-bound file. “Next item. We need to make preparations for casualties from a possible nuclear attack. I’ve instructed the Health Secretary to clear hospitals of all non-essential patients. We’ll need those beds, and…”
Roland cut him off. The Foreign Secretary was well regarded on the international stage, having served as Ambassador to several key countries prior to entering politics. At sixty-three, he was the oldest member of the cabinet and widely considered to be the cleverest, which was why he had never sought the leadership of his party.
“Excuse me, Prime Minister,” he said in the softly spoken Welsh accent that was his trademark, “but not even the entire resources of the National Health Service, even if they survived, would be able to cope with the casualties from just one nuclear explosion over a major city. I don’t see…”
“You may be right,” Winterburn conceded, “but we have to beseen to be doing something.”
“It’ll just create panic,” Bland complained, puffing from his pipe. “We’ll be sending out a signal to people that an attack islikely rather than justpossible . Anyway, how quickly can an operation of that magnitude be organized?” The Home Secretary allowed the question to hang in the air for a few moments before proceeding to answer it himself. “Not quickly enough. If we’re attacked, it’s going to happen within hours rather than days. And do you seriously expect medical staff to wait at their posts for the bomb to drop?”
The Prime Minister lowered his eyes, remembering that the Health Secretary had told him precisely the same thing a short time earlier.
“What about the media?” Williams asked. “What are they telling people?”
Roland shrugged. “Does it matter? Most people have got access to cable and the Internet these days. When something like this happens, they take their news from GCN and Global News Dot Com, not BBC-1.”
“Nothing like thishas ever happened,” Bland corrected his colleague sharply. “We’re stuck a couple of hundred feet below ground. I don’t see how we can even begin to imagine what people up there are doing or thinking right now. I’m more concerned about how badly we’re likely to be hit if the worst does happen.” That last sentence was directed at Rhys-Jones.
The Chief of Defense St
aff withdrew an A4 sheet from his own file. He summarized the key points with the casualness of someone reading a shopping list. “The good news is that we wouldn’t be as badly hit as we might have been in the 1980’s, when both sides had IRBMs in Europe. Of course, it’s hard to say precisely what state Russia’s strategic forces are in following the American attack, but I think we’d be targeted primarily by their ‘Backfire’ strategic bombers out of the Baltic and SLBMs from their sub fleet in the Kara Sea.”
His voice was devoid of emotion as he continued. “A typical attack pattern would involve the primary disruption of military-industrial infrastructure. This would mean primary targeting of the Liverpool docks, Heathrow and Gatwick airports, the shipyards at Newcastle and GCHQ Cheltenham.”
“And London?” Winterburn said flatly.
“More than likely,” Rhys-Jones nodded. “Such an attack pattern would target our ability to retaliate or even coordinate. A key element in such an attack would be disruption of the chain of command. Naturally, C3derives mostly from London. So, yes, that would make London a symbolic target, to say the least.”
Great, the Prime Minister thought bitterly. Millions die for the sake of symbolism. Isn’t military logic wonderful? “How likely is that, General?”
Rhys-Jones glanced through the glass wall at the command center outside. On the huge, slightly curved display that dominated the room, he could see the current positions of NATO and Russian strategic bombers and submarines. “Both the American and Russian strategic bomber fleets are still advancing towards their targets, Prime Minister. Our own Trident submarines are on combat alert in the North Sea and just off the west coast of Ireland. They’ve been ordered to maintain radio silence, but they’ll resurface in” - he checked his watch - “six hours for new orders. By that time, we’ll know whether the Russians and Americans have either already blown up the world or called the whole thing off.”
Winterburn curled his lip into a vicious snarl. “This is fucking insane,” he said, his use of profanity uncharacteristic.
In the silence that followed, a military aide - her face gravely serious - entered the room, handed a note to Roland and offered a curt salute before turning on her heel.
“What is it?” the Prime Minister asked.
Roland’s lips had parted in surprise. “You’re not going to like this, Prime Minister.”
“There are a lot of things I don’t like today. Give me one more.”
The Foreign Secretary looked up at Winterburn, apologizing with his eyes as he handed the message to his boss.
“It’s the bloody Frogs.”
AIR TRAFFIC CONTROL TOWER, STUTTGART AIRPORT, GERMANY
“Sir, we have a new contact bearing two thirty-two degrees south-southwest, descending awfully fast.”
The supervisor leaned over the operator’s shoulder, and used a trackball to zoom in on the object. The aircraft’s transponder identified it as an American warplane. Upon seeing this, the supervisor frowned. This was the kind of incident he’d been dreading.
“Give me your headset,” he said.
The operator obliged. The supervisor held the headset to his ear and switched the radio transmitter to a channel reserved for emergencies and military communications.
“This is Stuttgart control,” he said in clipped English. “I am speaking to the military aircraft heading two thirty-four degrees south-southwest. Please state your intentions.”
He heard a brief burst of static and then an American accented voice shouting over what sounded like an alarm in the background.
“Mayday… Mayday,” the man yelled. “This is American aircraft Eagle-Niner. We are a U.S. Air Force B-1 strategic bomber out of…” Another burst of static obscured the next few words. “…malfunction… Two engines down and we’re losing fuel fast. Clear a path, Stuttgart, we’re coming in.”
The supervisor muttered something under his breath that sounded like a curse to the operator. He’d received the Top Secret directive from Berlin little over ten minutes ago. It hadn’t made sense to him then, even though he’d immediately understood its implications. It still didn’t make sense to him, but he had his orders and he hoped that the politicians in Berlin knew what they were doing. As for his own conscience… Well, he’d just have to deal with that later.
“Negative, Eagle-Niner,” he said sharply, causing the operator to look up at him in shock. “You do not - repeat,do not - have permission to land. There is commercial traffic out there, and I cannot allow you to endanger civilian life.” That was a lie, of course, but it was the best excuse he could come up with for condemning an entire bomber crew to their certain deaths.
“Are you fucking crazy, Stuttgart?” came the response. “We are a U.S. military aircraft going down. Not enough fuel to make it to Ramstein. We’re coming in whether you like it or not.”
As the supervisor opened his mouth, he saw two new objects appear on the ATC screen. From their transponder signatures, he identified them immediately as German F-14s. They were on an intercept course with Eagle-Nine, less than thirty miles to their west. A quick mental calculation told him that they would pick up the U.S. bomber some seventy-odd miles northeast of Stuttgart, and at that moment he knew that Eagle-Nine was doomed, one way or another.
As the drama was played out on his headset, part of him wished that he could switch it off and pretend that he hadn’t played a part in the death of six Americans. But the tension of the moment held a morbid fascination, not unlike that common to drivers who slow down to observe the scene of a horrific car crash.
“Two new contacts, bearing fifty-four degrees and fifty-six degrees north-northwest,” a female American voice reported. “Look like kraut F-14s, sir.”
“Shit.”
A German voice in English: “Eagle-Nine, this is Major Klaus Sommer of the German Air Force. Please alter course immediately or we will have no choice but to force you down.”
“This is Eagle-Niner telling you to eat shit, you goddamn Nazi bastard,” the American captain barked.
It was to be one of the last things he ever said.
The entire incident was monitored by an E-4 AWACS reconnaissance plane high over Eastern Europe. The onboard computer produced, encrypted and routed a digital upload of the event via a relay satellite to the watch center at the NSA complex at Fort Meade, Maryland, where an intelligence officer’s computer screen informed him of incoming traffic. The digital file was instantly decrypted and transcribed. The NSA officer could hardly believe what he was reading. As if things weren’t scary enough already.
Within three minutes of the first German AAMRAM missile slamming into Eagle-Nine’s fuselage, a transcript of the incident was coming off encrypted fax machines at the CIA’s watch center in Langley, the office of NATO’s Supreme Commander in Brussels, the E-6 Looking Glass and the President’s E-4 command plane.
RHEIN-MAIN INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT, FRANKFURT, GERMANY
When the airport official revealed to the passengers of UA4171 the real reason why they hadn’t been able to land in Moscow, and related the events that had transpired while they’d been in the air, their initial response was one of stunned disbelief. But as it became clear to them that there was no mistake - both America and Russia had been devastated - the sound they made was not unlike that of a pride of wounded animals; a low, desolate groan that was not quite a cry but nevertheless reflected the sense of despair they all felt. Richard Gellis would remember the moment for the rest of his life.
The airport was buzzing with human activity. Evidently, thousands of Germans had concluded that their country was no longer as safe as it had been twenty-four hours earlier. Unfortunately, their attempts to flee the country had largely been thwarted by the German government’s decision to suspend all commercial flights until further notice. Gellis could sense that, even among the normally reserved Germans, a collective sense of fear and panic could quite easily explode into violence at any time. He could smell the tension in the air as flustered airport staff tri
ed to explain to hopeful travelers that nobody was going anywhere for the time being. Gellis only understood fragments of German, but he could tell that people were being advised to return to their homes. And that was a piece of advice they clearly didn’t like.
As his mind made that observation, he saw a well-built German skinhead punch a female ticket clerk, sending her sprawling to the floor, blood gushing from her nose. Other people, outraged at the actions of the man, pounced upon him, precipitating a brawl that was made all the more menacing by the gutteral Germanic shouts of the participants.
If people are panicking in Germany, God only knows what it’s like back home. The thought occasioned a chill. He didn’t know how many people had been killed in America, or rather how many had survived the attack. The airport staff had been vague about how badly America had been hit; not because they were deliberately withholding information, but because they genuinely didn’t know. Most Americans arriving in Frankfurt, however, didn’t believe that for a moment. They demanded information and their frustration in not obtaining it was beginning to turn ugly. The businessman who had been sitting next to Gellis aboard the plane grabbed a hapless German airline official by his lapel, growling something at him that Gellis couldn’t quite hear above the general cacophony. Meanwhile, police moved to break up the skirmish that had been started by the skinhead.
Gellis quickly realized that he was probably going to be stuck in this noisy shithole for a while. So he decided to search for a television, and eventually found one in a cafeteria. It was tuned to a German news station, but he didn’t have to understand the language to see that the anchorwoman was clearly shaken. He managed to catch recognizable words such asKernangriff (which he knew translated roughly as ‘nuclear attack’),Niederschlag (‘fallout’) and the German pronunciations of Washington and Texas. A map of the United States appeared on the screen, headedAmerikanische Kernziele . It was peppered with red dots, heavily concentrated in the Midwest. He immediately realized that the dots represented nuclear detonations. His blood ran cold when he saw just how many there were. Although New York appeared to have escaped destruction for now, a large red dot was clearly visible where Washington had been.
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