FOREWORD

by Ten To Midnight--Free(Lit)

  A pair of feet ran over her back, causing a jolt of pain that shot through her entire body. She tried to stand, but was knocked over again when somebody’s knee slammed into her chest. Gasping for air, it occurred to her that she probably wouldn’t live through this. If she didn’t die of asphyxiation, she would surely be trampled.

  But, luckily for her, neither of those things happened. Eventually, she was able to partially open her eyes; just enough to see through her tears that the crowds had begun to disperse. Still spluttering, she hoisted herself uncertainly to her feet. Her chest and head were throbbing where she’d been struck, but she was miraculously alive. Rising uncertainly to her feet, Beth took in the scene around her and began to realize that, again, others hadn’t been quite so lucky. She could see at least a dozen bodies that had been trampled to death in the stampede.

  It was only then she realized that, in the confusion, she’d lost Cathy. Staggering in the opposite direction from the Army blockade, her vision began to clear further. Her head swept left and right, looking for her mother-in-law, but Cathy was nowhere to be seen. Not even among the bodies.

  “Cathy! Cathy!”

  Her cries were lost in the noise of a scared and angry crowd as it retreated south. Perhaps Cathy had been dragged along with them. Beth continued to stumble down the road for more than fifty yards before she finally conceded defeat.

  “Cathy!”

  No response. No sign. Suddenly, Beth felt more alone than she’d ever been, and it began to dawn on her just how much emotional comfort she’d derived from Cathy’s presence during the nightmarish journey that had brought them here. And now she missed her desperately. She’ll never survive out there on her own.

  “Oh, Cathy.” Beth’s call was less of a cry than a lamenting whimper for something else lost. I never even had time to make my peace with you…

  Presently, she sunk to her knees in desolation and sobbed.

  Only this time, the tears were not induced by gas.

  B-2 BOMBER - “SPIRIT 16” - OVER BAFFIN ISLAND, NORTHERN CANADA

  Logan was the first to notice when the EAM indicator started flashing, accompanied by a strident tone. It was the third message to be received by the B-2 in less than an hour. He exchanged a glance with McCann, both of them thinking precisely the same thing. Could this be the one?

  Without saying a word, McCann went aft to collect the message. Moments later, she returned with a two-inch telex.

  “Major,” she reported, her tone a model of professionalism, “I have a properly formatted Emergency Action Message. Authentication Bravo Six Zulu.”

  “Okay, let’s see it.” He took the telex from her and read the code. “I confirm properly formatted EAM, authentication Bravo Six Zulu.” This is a new one.

  McCann returned aft and unlocked the safe that contained the one-time codes relating to the three-character EAM messages. She returned with two plastic authenticators - each the size of a credit card - and handed one of them to Logan. They locked eyes again, but this time the look was edged with anxiety.

  Once she had returned to her seat, the two pilots simultaneously cracked open the plastic authenticators. Inside each of them was a red slip of paper, upon which was stenciled in bold black typeface the authentication code B6Z and a corresponding codeword.

  “Codeword isHammerhead , repeatHammerhead ,” McCann informed him.

  “I concur,” Logan sighed, trying to sound indifferent. “Let’s look upHammerhead .”

  Beneath each of the pilot’s seats was a box containing a thick red book. The two books were theoretically identical and contained a range of over 25,000 wartime attack options relating to each authenticated order. The attack options all comprised part of what was known as the Single Integrated Operations Plan and were arranged in alphabetical order according to the corresponding codeword. Not all the options, however, related to offensive operations. At least three of the codewords signified recall orders and even more were variations on ‘Orbit and Await Further Orders’, a term usually referred to by pilots as ‘OAFO’.

  McCann foundHammerhead first. “I’ve got it, Major.”

  Something in her tone sent a shiver down Logan’s spine. When he spoke, he was surprised to hear that his own voice was shaking. He was still flicking through his own red book. “So, what is it?” he asked nervously. “Another OAFO? Or do we go home?”

  McCann read verbatim in a flat monotone from the appropriate page. “Hammerhead. SIOP attack plan five six seven zero. Precision bombing of enemy leadership bunkers, industrial targets and population centers. Primary targets are the city of Murmansk and the city of Volg - excuse me - Vologda, primary relocation site for the Russian Prime Minister, Chief of Foreign Intelligence Service, Commanding General of Air Force, Speaker of the State Duma. Secondary targets are munitions factory at Kineshma and military airbase at Yaroslavl. Yield designations are” - she took a deep breath as she rattled off the words with pronounced urgency - “Murmansk: one single two megaton ground burst. Vologda: two one-megaton ground bursts. Kineshma… Jesus Christ,” her voice trailed off. “The crazy motherfuckers have really gone and done it.”

  By the time McCann had finished reading the attack plan, Logan had found it for himself. Even in the dim light of the B-2’s cockpit, his face had suddenly adopted a pallid complexion. He snapped the book shut and cleared his throat to stop his voice from trembling.

  “Okay, well this is what we’ve trained for. Let’s do it.”

  McCann stared at him with incredulity. “Are you fucking serious, Logan? Do you realize what this means?”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Of course I fucking realize what this means. It means that the Russians have murdered everybody we know and love back home, and now we’re murdering ‘em back.”

  McCann chortled bitterly. “Do you really believe that, Martin?”

  Logan averted her eyes, concentrating on his instrument panel. No, he didn’t believe it any more than she did, and the fact that she’d seen through him so easily was testament to the almost telepathic relationship the two pilots had developed in the cockpit.

  “How the hell should I know?” he growled. “I’m not a goddamn politician, any more than you are. They just train us how to drop the damn thing when and where we’re told to, not to know why we’re doing it.”

  “Well, if I’m going to be responsible for murdering twenty million people, Ineed to know why I’m doing it. I would like to think that you do also.”

  Logan fixed her with a cold glare, and then grabbed a clipboard from beneath his seat. He slapped it with his hand and read aloud the first EAM they had received. “To 325thBomb Squadron from StratCom. Attack Condition Yellow. Russian ICBM attack against CONUS. Approximately seven hundred red birds confirmed inbound. NCA has declared DefCon One.” He tossed the clipboard angrily at McCann, who caught it in her lap. “You need to know why we’re doing it? There’s your fucking reason why. We saw the bombs go off with our own eyes. Now we’ve got a job to do, and we’re gonna do it. Understand?”

  She stared at him, her eyes flaring. She’d never known Logan to lose his cool before. In fact, he had a reputation at the base for being the most laid-back pilot in a typically belligerent squadron of pilots that reveled in their stature of belonging to the cream of America’s military aviators. Well, everybody’s acting against type today, aren’t they? I wonder if this same conversation is taking place in the other bombers, she thought. Somebody had obviously decided that genocide was suddenly an acceptable mode of foreign policy, and now she was being expected –no, ordered! – to subscribe to that belief. She had spent years training for this moment, and now she had to wonder whether she was really up to it. Oh sure, dropping dud nukes on training exercises in the Mohave Desert was fine, so long as you knew they were only duds. Yet all the ambition she’d had and all the pride she’d taken in belonging to the 325thnow seemed worthless. This was the aspect of the job she’d always imagined would remain a forever distant abstraction, and she k
new that she had no right to complain about doing a job for which the U.S. Air Force had trained her to the cost of several millions of dollars. Logan had obviously reached the same conclusion.

  “I understand, Major.”

  McCann calculated that it would take them approximately three and a half hours to reach their first primary target, the city of Murmansk. That gave whoever was left of the world’s leaders about three hours and twenty-nine minutes to call a halt to this lunacy.

  For the first time in her life, Captain Laura McCann prayed.

  ABOARD KNEECAP

  “What is it,Alice ?” Nielsen testily asked the Commanding Officer aboardLooking Glass .

  There was genuine enthusiasm inAlice’s voice. “Some good news for a change, sir. We’ve got a trajectory reading on the second Russian launch. They’re aimed at the Chinese, not us. ELINT indicates that the Chinese have initiated some kind of military action against the Russians. We’re still trying to ascertain what’s going on. But the good news is, sir, that you can recall the bombers now.”

  Nielsen pondered that revelation while he considered the faces around him. He knew that they were holding their collective breath, awaiting his decision, much in the same way that the Roman courtiers of old had once hung on Julius Caesar’s every word. The comparison caused his spine to tingle with excitement. Nielsen felt more alive than at any time he could remember, and was finally beginning to understand why men throughout history had coveted power, indeed been prepared to shed blood – even their own – for its acquisition. Power was a truly potent drug, although that was not the whole of it. As acting President of the United States, he had a moral obligation to satisfy the demands of the American people and prove himself a leader worthy of their trust. Harry Truman, an otherwise unaccomplished President, had ended the war with Japan by dropping atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945, and for that he would always be remembered. Nielsen intended to reserve himself a similarly prominent chapter in the great book of American history, and that would mean showing solid resolve at the time when it mattered most.

  “NowAlice ,” he sighed condescendingly. “What makes you think that I would want to recall our bombers?”

  “With all due respect, sir, I would advise you to think about ways of turning this thing off before it’s too late. Now if I’m not mistaken, you’re due to speak with the Russian President in the next few minutes. If he thinks that you’re planning to escalate matters, he’ll let loose with everything he’s got.”

  Nielsen shook his head despairingly, as if he was explaining a simple problem to a small child. “General, you’re just a soldier, not a political adviser. If I want political advice, I’ve got plenty of other people up here far better qualified than yourself to offer it. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a war to win. If I need anything, I’ll be in touch.” BeforeAlice could respond, Nielsen cut the line.

  He felt Westwood’s eyes drilling into him. When he looked up, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs was glaring at him with barely concealed malice.

  Nielsen frowned at him. “Something you want to add, Westwood?”

  “You shouldn’t have come down so hard onAlice , sir,” the General pointed out, finding it increasingly difficult to maintain his composure. “He does have a point, you know. If Yazov realizes that we’ve ordered in the bombers, he’ll order his subs to strike our cities when they resurface. That could be five hours away, it could be five minutes.”

  “And if we recall the bombers,” Nielsen argued, “he might still order his subs to fire. Except that we’ll have no means of response, because our bombers will be caught on the ground.”

  “But our own subs are still out there, sir,” Admiral Dunster reminded him. “In that scenario, they could cause just as much destruction. The Russians must know that, and that’s why I don’t believe that they’ll launch first.”

  Nielsen reclined back in his chair and exhaled sharply. “And then we have a tie. The American people won’t settle for that.”

  Reynolds was the next to offer his opinion. “Neither will they settle for global extinction, sir. That seems to be where this is heading.”

  Nielsen picked up a sheet of paper and waved it theatrically. “This is a transcript of a straw poll taken by GCN not more than an hour ago.” He donned his reading spectacles and read it aloud. “Eighty-two percent of the American people call for the prosecution of the war against Russia.” He looked up, emphasizing each syllable to drive the point home. “Eighty-two percent.”

  Nielsen removed his spectacles and placed them on the table before proceeding. “Now my moral obligation is to the people of the United States. They want me to punish the Russians for what they’ve done, and that is precisely what I intend to do.”

  Copeland meekly raised his hand. “Sir,” he stammered. “That poll sounds suspiciously like a knee-jerk reaction to the attack. You can hardly call it scientific. People haven’t had time to think it through yet. Not… not the consequences.”

  Reynolds leaned forward, pointing at Nielsen, his knuckle hovering just above the table surface. “Brad’s right, Paul. That poll was taken in New York. New York hasn’t been touched by any of this yet. And the people polled certainly haven’t got a clue how much damage these damn bombs have done. Show them a few pictures of charred corpses and flattened towns and tell them that New York could be next, and I guarantee you a swing of - oh - thirty percent at the bottom end. Hell, just show them a picture of D.C. right now, and the swing will probably be greater still.” He pointed at the sheet of paper in Nielsen’s hand. “That poll is in no way representative of popular opinion. You’re making a decision of historical magnitude based on the emotional opinions of five hundred New Yorkers? Gimme a break.”

  “What do you think?” Nielsen asked Bishop, his former subordinate at Langley, who had been quietly watching the discussion unfold.

  “I think,” the CIA Director remarked quietly, “that enough people have died. Let’s end this thing, Paul. Recall the bombers. If the Russians double-cross us, which I don’t think they will - particularly not while they’re so preoccupied with the Chinese situation - then we can use our subs as a fallback option.”

  Nielsen stared at Bishop for several long seconds. Bishop met his eyes without blinking. Finally, Nielsen rose from his chair, shaking his head sadly. “I really don’t believe this. I’m trying to ensure that those bastards never threaten anybody again, and you all want to let them off the hook. Well, I’ve heard enough. Let’s go and speak to Yazov.”

  With that, he turned and left the room. Behind him, those left in the conference room exchanged anxious glances, silently communicating the same thought.

  He’s losing it.

  UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN

  “Here it comes,” Kalushin said hopefully as the characters began to appear on the computer screen.

  General Yazov, or whoever leads Russia now --- As you may or may not know, President Mitchell has been taken ill and is currently receiving urgent medical attention. This is Secretary of Defense Paul Nielsen, and I have been sworn in as his successor.

  We have observed your launch against the Chinese. Once again, you demonstrate your zeal for using nuclear weapons without first considering the consequences. We will not tolerate this. We are prepared to take all necessary measures to ensure that your warlike nation never again endangers world peace. The United States government demands that you cease all military action forthwith. You must recall your bombers and your submarines without further delay or face incalculable consequences.

  Yazov’s strong features bulged with undiluted fury as he read the translation.

  “How dare he…” Yazov snarled at the screen. “How dare he lecture us. How dare he threaten us.” He turned on Grizov who involuntarily backed off under the General’s intense stare. “What do we know of this Nielsen? What sort of maniac is he?”

  “From what we know of him,” Grizov remarked, “he’s a reactionary of sorts. Extremely popular
with the conservative right wing in their Congress. In as much, he’s a misfit in a liberal administration. I understand that his appointment as Secretary of Defense was Mitchell’s concession to a hostile Congress. Under the circumstances,” he added bleakly, “we could not wish for a worse adversary.”

  Yazov pondered that, wiping a thin film of sweat from his brow. He was staring at the computer screen. “All necessary measures,” he repeated quietly to himself. To Kalushin: “What does that mean? They lack the capability to launch an invasion at this time. And the prospect of economic sanctions is laughable given what has already happened. What other measures can they possibly take against us?” A distinct tremor had crept into his voice, Kalushin noted.

  “I think you know the answer to that as well as I do, Gennady Andreiovich.”

  ABOARD KNEECAP

  Mr. Nielsen --- You make threats against us without considering what you might have done in our position. Our missile launch against the Chinese was purely defensive. Perhaps you would you prefer to face a Chinese Empire stretching from Hong Kong to the Urals. If we do not contain the Chinese today, then you will surely have to deal with them tomorrow. Please bear that in mind.

  I find your tone both offensive and disturbing. We have no desire for further conflict with your country. Enough people have died, and I believe it is time to try and rebuild whatever is left of our world. Although that is not to say that we will not react appropriately to any further attacks on the sovereign territory of the Russian Federation.

  As a gesture of goodwill, I have decreed that an entire bomber squadron comprising nineteen strategic nuclear bombers is to be recalled immediately. If you wish to demonstrate your own goodwill, you might wish to act similarly.