“ACC have scrambled two squadrons of F-22s and three each of F-16s and F/A-18s to head off the Russian bombers,”Alice reported. “It’s all we could come up with. Communications are down and…”
Nielsen cut him off. “Is that enough?”
“Probably not, sir,”Alice admitted. “Some of the bombers will certainly get through. We should be able to stop between forty and fifty percent at the top end. But what really concerns me is the subs. They could fire at any time. We don’t know when they’ll be resurfacing for new orders.”
“Forty or fifty percent,” Nielsen repeated thoughtfully, savoring each syllable. After a pause: “I want an improvement on that. Any less than eighty percent is unacceptable, General. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir, but realistically…”
“Good. Now, Marion, how long until our subs resurface?”
Westwood didn’t need to check his watch. Behind his grim features, he had been mentally ticking away the seconds to Doomsday. “Forty-seven minutes.”
“Then in forty-seven minutes, our submarines will receive orders from the TACAMO aircraft to launch their missiles. That means Russian command and control will be destroyed in approximately one hour. How long until first contact with the Russian bombers?”
“One hour fifteen,”Alice said.
Nielsen nodded approvingly. “Then that’s how long you have to find some more fighter jets to take those bastards down.”
“But the Russian subs…”Alice began. Again, Nielsen interrupted him.
“I understand your concerns,Alice , I really do. Indeed, I share them. But I have been advised that our fast-attack subs are out there right now hunting down the Russian boomers. I may not be a naval commander, General, but I do know that the noise generated by the Russian boomers will attract our hunter-killers like moths to light. And I don’t think the Russians’ Bastion defense is as good as we give them credit for. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time we’ve overestimated their ability. But I thank you for your comments,Alice . Call me back in fifteen.”
BeforeAlice could utter another word, Nielsen had severed the connection.
“I wish I could share your confidence, sir,” Westwood remarked with obvious derision. Nielsen was really losing it now, he thought. He was gambling mankind’s destiny on a gut feeling about Russian naval capabilities, or lack thereof. Similar bouts of self-delusion had precipitated the downfall of many a dictator, but the stakes had never been this high before. “You seem to forget that the Russian sub commanders have been trained to deal with precisely this kind of scenario. They may be loud, yes, but they’re also smart, and their evasion techniques are at least as good as ours.”
“Perhaps,” Nielsen admitted with characteristic nonchalance. “But their fast attack subs are in no condition to stop our boomers. The Russians may get a few missiles through, I admit that, but we’ll sure as hell get more of ours through.” Noting the skepticism etched on Westwood’s features, he rolled his eyes tiredly. “General, I intend to win this war. Don’t you?”
“At any cost?”
“Victory always has a price, Marion. You know that better than I do.” He paused thoughtfully and rubbed his eyes. “You think I’m just some maverick cowboy eager to wage war from my airborne fortress, don’t you? Do you think that I don’t care about all the millions of Americans who are dead and dying out there?”
Westwood lowered his eyes, saying nothing.
Nielsen shook his head, a look of sadness impressed on his features. “I do care, Marion. And, yes, I’m as scared as you are. But I know the Russians. I understand Russian mentality. The one thing they disdain more than anything else is weakness. If we don’t carry this thing through, then they will fucking destroy us as soon as we lower our guard. We may get hit, I accept that. But we can take it. Sustaining another limited Russian attack will be nothing compared to the cost of defeat or appeasement. Don’t you understand?” He looked up at the General with pleading eyes. “I’m scared that they’ll overrun us. I’m scared of being the President who lost America.”
For the first time, Westwood felt a sliver of hope. For the first time, Nielsen had offered a glimpse into his own darkest fears. Forty-five minutes. Still enough time to turn this thing around. And the General thought he knew precisely how to do it.
“Sir.” Westwood lowered his voice and leaned forward across the table as if about to impart a deep secret. “Negotiating a ceasefire is not a sign of weakness. We’ve already hit them far harder than we’ve been hit ourselves. Not to mention the effect on Russia of the attacks from China and Ukraine. Russia is going to be more concerned with China than it is with us. In fact, I thinkwe should be more concerned with China. If the world is to recover, than it will need all the natural resources it can lay its hands on. Oil, metals, you name it. And Siberia is the world’s greatest reserve of untapped natural resources. If the Chinese control Siberia, then they hold the key to everything.”
“Precisely,” Nielsen agreed. “And once we’ve dealt with the Russians, we’ll be able to deal with the Chinese. By comprehensively defeating the Russians, we’ll have demonstrated our resolve to the Chinese.”
Westwood raised his eyebrows in incredulity. “You’re going to do the same to China?” He’s losing the goddamn plot. He really doesn’t understand…
“If I have to, yes. We still have a couple of thousand warheads that haven’t been affected by the Russian attack. Not to mention Britain’s nuclear arsenal. Hell, we may even be able to get the Indians involved.” To Westwood’s horror, Nielsen seemed almost excited by the prospect, as ideas and strategies began to gel in his head. “But I don’t think it’ll come to that. The Chinese will see the futility of resisting our will. I’m confident of that. America will be the only superpower left standing when this is all over. And then we can begin to rebuild the world in our own image.”
Westwood closed his eyes. “What value a King whose Kingdom lay in ruins?” He didn’t know whether he was referring to Nielsen or America. Nevertheless, the words came to his lips without effort. “I suggest, Mr. Nielsen, that you find yourself a military advisor who is prepared to carry through your will, because you’ve left me no alternative but to resign my commission.”
Nielsen’s eyes momentarily widened with astonishment. But the expression was just as quickly replaced by one of sadness. “I’m sorry you feel that way, Marion. I thought you would understand what I’m trying to do here. But I thank you for your candor. I’m sure that, in time, you will come to understand my reasons.”
As Westwood stood to leave the conference room, he turned and said grimly, “Sir, I’m not sure that any of us have got much time left.”
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
“Hello, Dr Miller.” Beakman greeted Jo with a tired smile. “I’m Carl Beakman, director of this facility. This is Dr Levy, our in-house cardiologist. I believe you two have met before.”
Jo acknowledged the young doctor with a brisk nod, one professional to another. She vaguely remembered meeting him at some conference or other. He seemed to have aged severely since then. Well, that was true of almost everybody today, wasn’t it? She also noticed another figure standing quietly in the corner, watching her through impassive, unblinking eyes. In his black suit and tie, he stood out like a hooker in a monastery, and there was an implicit menace in his demeanor. What kind of security guard are you?
“Why am I here?” she asked Beakman, a hint of resentment creeping into her voice. She had been shepherded into his office immediately after arriving at the facility. “Where are the people I brought with me?”
“They’re being taken care of,” Beakman assured her, the chubby half grin ever present. It served as a convenient mask for his sense of fear. “I understand that you’re a cardiovascular surgeon at Johns Hopkins. Is that right?”
“That’s correct,” she confirmed. Again, she glanced at the mysterious figure in the black suit, and then looked Beakman straight in the eye. “What is t
his all about, Mr. Beakman?”
Beakman glanced at Levy, who elaborated with the casual tone of somebody reading a shopping list. “Dr. Miller, The President was brought here a short time ago with suspected heart failure. I’ve conducted a preliminary examination myself. He has a history of hypertension caused by under-perfusion in the kidneys. It appears that this has resulted in an aortic rupture. He collapsed nearly an hour ago with hypovolaemic shock.”
Jo blinked, momentarily wondering whether this was a sick joke. Then the trained professional in her took over. She knew that if the rupture were severe, the patient would have been dead within an hour. And if he was alive after an hour, his chances of survival were probably at least twenty percent; better than would have normally been the case for a man of his age with an aortic rupture. Already, she had stopped thinking of him as the President. He was a case like any other; although she knew that, under present circumstances, an ordinary person wouldn’t have received such attention. “Have you run a CXR?” she asked.
Levy appeared slightly insulted. “Of course I have. And the results were concurrent with my initial diagnosis. Widened upper mediastinum, the trachea shifting to the right and depression of the left main bronchus/trachea angle. We’ve depressed systolic-diastolic pressure to lower the risk of the rupture widening, but as you know, that will only buy us a certain amount of time.”
“I understand this is a major procedure,” Beakman noted, having not understood a single word of the medical dialogue.
Jo snorted, her mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “You’d better believe it, Mr. Beakman. From what Dr. Levy has just told me, the lesion could be excised and replaced with a Dacron graft. But that’s not as simple as it sounds. A patient of the President’s age is at severe risk of heparinisation or paraplegia, although bypassing the aorta during cross clamping can reduce the risk to a certain degree. I presume you do have a heparinless bypass machine here,” she asked her medical colleague.
“Er, no,” Levy admitted, looking slightly ashamed.
Jo frowned disdainfully. She knew the odds, and there was no point in pretending otherwise. “If you’re asking me whether I’m qualified to do this,” she told Beakman, “the answer is yes. If you’re asking me whether I’m confident of his survival, I have to say no. But I have performed this procedure before, albeit under less extreme circumstances and with better equipment. So if you want me to do it, let’s go. Because while we’re sitting around here, the President is dying.”
Beakman gave a firm nod. “That’s good enough for me, Dr Miller.”
U.S. CONSULATE, FRANKFURT
The Consul-General looked like a man with a lot on his mind. A fifty-five year old self-made computer software tycoon called Doug Altman, he had only been in his current posting for three months and had until now thought that in Frankfurt, he had one of the world’s easiest diplomatic assignments. So far, his job had largely involved promoting U.S. trade policy to local businessmen and hosting lavish dinners for the same people whenever they became disgruntled at what they saw as unfair American trade practices. If there was one thing he was good at, it was the charming of corporate executives. That was how he’d made his fortune.
Altman had been awarded the post purely on the basis of his long-standing contributions to party funds. He was a close friend of Jim Reynolds and of the Party Chairman. Some might have called his appointment nepotistic, but Altman preferred to think of it as a fair reward for years of loyalty. Those who saw him as the beneficiary of nepotism were grossly naïve. The world had always worked this way; probably always would.
But now he was faced with a situation slightly more serious than a disgruntled business community, and both Gellis andFalcon sensed immediately that the diplomat was out of his depth.
“As of two hours ago, France, Germany and several other EU nations withdrew all cooperation from NATO to pursue their own independent foreign policy,” Altman was explaining to the new arrivals. “It appears this policy is based on” - he checked the telex from NATO headquarters in Brussels - “enforced neutrality.”
“Enforced?” Falconexclaimed. “What the hell does that mean?”
“I think it means that they’re willing to prevent NATO forces engaging in any military action on their territory. That includes overflying their airspace.”
“Mitchell must’ve loved that one,” Gellis snorted.
“Well, that’s another thing. President Mitchell is undergoing treatment for a suspected heart attack. It seems that the fate of our country is now in the hands of the Secretary of Defense.”
“That’s fucking great,”Falcon almost laughed. “That’s like putting Charles Manson in charge of a kindergarten. So how has he reacted to this” - he said the words with obvious disdain - “enforced neutrality?”
Altman avertedFalcon’s eyes as he answered the question. “It appears that a technical state of war now exists between certain members of the European Union and the United States of America.”
“Technical?” Falconexclaimed. “Well, I guess that’s one way of putting it. Damn if we ain’t pissing everybody off today.”
Gellis felt his jaw drop in disbelief. He closed his eyes, hoping this was all a terrible nightmare. But when he opened them again, the nightmare remained. The entire world order had been turned upside down in little over twelve hours. It was almost like a bad movie. At the same time, he felt an overwhelming sense of anger and betrayal. America had protected these sons-of-bitches for more than two generations. And this was how they showed their gratitude. Damn them to Hell!
“You saidcertain members,” heremarked. “That implies that not everybody in the EU sits comfortably with this new separatist ideal.” He spat out the last three words with obvious contempt.
“That’s correct,” Altman confirmed. “As we speak, British bombers are roaming through the French countryside, taking out strategic military installations and - so I understand - their nuclear capability. The Eastern Europeans, Italians and Scandinavians have also sided with us. But the point is, gentlemen, we are now smack bang in the middle of enemy territory. Hence the incident you had outside with the German Army.”
“And when they discover the bodies,” Gellis thought aloud, “all hell will break loose, right?”
“Precisely. So you see, Mr.…” He looked up atFalcon , realizing that he didn’t know the CIA operative’s real name.
“Sharp,”Falcon told him. “David Sharp.”
“Mr. Sharp,” Altman continued, “that’s why your little escapade out there wasn’t exactly helpful.”
“I acted as I saw fit. Sir.” Sharp/Falcondidn’t bother to conceal his scorn for the Consul-General.
“Evidently. Now we’ll just have to see what happens next, won’t we?”
Gellis didn’t want to think about that. He couldn’t remember ever being this frightened. “Where do we stand right now?” he asked. “Strategically, I mean.”
“As we speak, American and Russian bombers are advancing on their respective targets. But the devastation they cause will be nothing next to what the submarines will do when they launch. It appears that Nielsen is determined to fight this war and has no interest in calling it off. That’s what I’ve heard, anyway.”
An aide crept quietly into the room, handing a slip of paper to Altman. The Consul-General read it, and then looked at Gellis and Sharp in turn.
“The German foreign minister is on the telephone. If you’ll please excuse me, gentlemen.”
“Of course,” Sharp said bitterly. He touched Gellis’s arm and nodded towards the door. Both men left the room.
Once outside the office, Sharp roughly manhandled Gellis into the men’s room. After checking the cubicles to ensure they were empty, he leaned back against a washbasin and stared at the shocked journalist through taut, alert eyes.
“Okay, Gellis,” he said finally. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I was on my way to… Hold on, what the hell areyou doing here? I thought you were d
ead.”
“Yeah,” Sharp snorted. He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, inhaling deeply. “Sorry to disappoint you,” he exhaled.
Gellis clearly remembered the last time they had met. It had been in Grosny, Chechnya, almost five years’ ago. Sharp had been a member of an elite special ops team led by Lewis Stein, assigned to eliminate a Chechen mafia boss. Gellis had happened to be in the former Soviet republic preparing a feature on the aftermath of the Chechnya war when he’d inadvertently stumbled upon the operation -what a story that would have made, if only I could tell it , he thought for not the first time. He recalled the moment when Sharp had held a loaded pistol to his head (he was thankful that it hadn’t been Stein holding the pistol, otherwise he probably wouldn’t have lived not to tell the tale). In fact, it had required all his charm and negotiating skills to talk his way out of trouble. In return for his life, Gellis had promised never to utter a word of the Grosny mission to anybody. So far, he’d kept that promise, knowing that if he broke it, he would be looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life. Sharp and Stein were not the type of guys with whom one wanted to fuck.
Two years after that mission, Gellis heard that Sharp had been killed in Iran; arrested and executed for espionage, so the story went. Obviously, that had been a cover for something else, he now realized. And he intended to find out what. Even in the middle of a nuclear war, he was still a reporter.
“Do you still keep in touch with Stein?” he asked casually, beginning to probe the CIA man.
Sharp took another drag of his cigarette. “Last I heard, he was teaching at U-Conn. Total burn out, apparently.” He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Stein was a good man, you know? The best. But, hell, sometimes innocent people get caught up in the crossfire. Some people can cope with that, and others can’t. What can I tell you? Stein was a damn good soldier, but he all too often acted with his conscience, rather than his balls.” He paused, a private moment of contemplation. “Shit, those kids would’ve probably grown up to be gangsters anyway. We probably saved the world a lot of grief in years to come.”
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