Accordingly, members of the German Special Forces continued to gather and organize outside the U.S. Consulate, awaiting orders to storm the building; a situation that would have been unthinkable just a few hours’ earlier. There were now more than two hundred troops in position, many of them looking bewildered and frightened. They still believed that America was one of Germany’s closest allies, and were struggling to reconcile that belief with the current situation. Few of them could understand how things had changed so quickly. And if Germany really was at war, they would have wished for an easier opponent than America. But orders were orders. And nuclear war had unpredictable effects. That much they did understand. Many of the soldiers, however, recalled that thousands of German troops had also followed orders more than sixty years’ ago. Some of them wondered whether history was repeating itself, whether Germany would once again be left in ruins because of the megalomaniacal instincts of a rogue leader.
Inside the compound, meanwhile, the resident U.S. Marine detachment of twenty men prepared for a firefight that nobody really wanted. Consulate staff were urgently shredding sensitive documents in preparation for the imminent onslaught. For all intents and purposes, they now considered themselves isolated within an enemy nation. German authorities had effectively severed communications between the Consulate and the outside world, which only served to increase the sense of isolation among the seventy-odd Consulate employees.
Under Gellis’s watchful eye, Sharp worked feverishly to establish a communications link with the FEMA bunker at Olney. Comms were his specialty, and he’d had to improvise urgent comlinks enough times in the field that the task at hand should have been second nature to him. But he’d never had to work in such extreme circumstances against such a tight deadline with communications effectively ruined. He was acutely aware of that deadline and what it entailed. He figured that although millions of his countrymen were already dead, there were many more who weren’t. And it was for them that he had to succeed. Even though he often gave the impression of not caring, he did care. That was something he had to keep reminding himself.
The device that he was hooking up to the ELF transmitter looked like a standard laptop computer, and in many respects, that’s exactly what it was. But it was also more than that. Embedded in a series of hidden program files was a unique piece of software affectionately termedParrot , which had been designed by the National Security Agency to scramble and encrypt audio sound waves, such as the sound of someone’s voice. Parrotworked by digitizing an audio signal and scattering encrypted fragments of it across random frequencies of the digital spectrum. These were bounced off a predetermined chain of MILSTAR satellites in order to reach their destination. The frequencies to be used were determined by a randomized seed, which was where the technology entered the domain of supermath and Sharp’s understanding of it ended. Because the decryption, SatCom and unscrambling algorhythms were by definition unique to theParrot system, signals could only be transmitted to and received from anotherParrot- capable terminal. Fortunately, this current version of the software was standard issue within most Government and military facilities. The FEMA facility at Olney was one of them.
But operation of the software nevertheless required a degree of technical expertise. Unless you knew the Dayword and Authentication codes - which formed part of the encryption algorhythm - the system was useless, since these codewords were responsible for generating the randomized seed. An additional layer of security that guaranteed the system’s integrity. Needless to say, Sharp had both codewords stored in his head.
“Dammit,” he growled when the transmitter rewarded him with a burst of static as he attempted to find the FEMA terminal on the network. Because he was wearing headphones, he didn’t realize how loud his voice was. “I can’t get a connection.”
“What do you mean?” Gellis inquired, checking his watch. Fifteen minutes.
Sharp removed his headphones and wrapped them around his neck, but didn’t look up from the delicate task at hand. “The bombs have fucked things up. Normally, the software would automatically find the terminal I’m trying to connect to. But, because of the atmospheric interference caused by the bombs, I’ve got to do it manually. There are about a thousand network nodes out there. Some of them have been knocked out by the bombs. But, even so, finding Olney among the remaining ones is like finding a needle in a stack of needles.”
“Oh,” Gellis nodded as if he understood.
“It’s possible that one of the MILSTARs in the chain has been knocked out. If that’s happened, then… Hold on,” he said, placing the headphones to his ear. “I think I’ve got something. Give me that microphone.” He pointed at a long wire microphone on the other side of the room. Gellis handed it to Sharp, who snatched it from him.
“This is the United States Consulate in Frankfurt,” he intoned slowly. “I’m trying to reach the FEMA compound at Olney, Maryland. Who is this?”
He listened as the response came back. A beam exploded across his face. He turned around and shook a triumphant fist at Gellis.
“We’ve got contact,” he reported.
Gellis visibly exhaled a sigh of relief, allowing himself a thin smile.
“I need to speak to either the President of the United States or an available aide,” Sharp declared casually. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
As Lewis, Jefferson and McGuire disembarked the Bell, they were met by three armed Marine guards in customary white NBC gear.
“Colonel McGuire, U.S. Army,” McGuire announced, shouting over the Bell’s engines. “This is Special Agent Jefferson of the Secret Service and Dr. Lewis Stein, National Security Advisor. We need to see the Director of this facility right now.”
One of the guards stepped forward. “We had no notification of your arrival, sir.”
“That figures.” McGuire feigned annoyance, maintaining the facade of officialdom just as Lewis had advised. “Comms have been in a mess since the attack. Can we see the Director? It’s extremely urgent, and we’re taking in rads out here.”
The guard considered the request for a few moments while he checked the faces of the three new arrivals. “You’ll have to hand over your weapons, Colonel.”
“No problem.”
Lewis reluctantly passed his submachine gun to one of the guards. Jefferson did likewise. McGuire hadn’t been armed since leaving Baltimore-Washington. He hoped that wouldn’t look too suspicious. Thankfully, the guards didn’t seem to care.
For some reason, Lewis felt desperately vulnerable without his weapon, and he knew the sensation wouldn’t pass until he’d reached the President, or at least someone else in authority. He was instinctively aware of an unseen clock ticking down the seconds to Armageddon while overcautious Marine guards performed their duty with casual diligence. Still, at least they seemed cooperative. That was something, he supposed.
“Come with me,” the guard said.
The new arrivals followed the three Marines down a stairwell and through a set of double doors into the heart of the FEMA complex.
The sights, sounds and smells that greeted them comprised a nightmare of Dantean proportions.
Lewis’s first reaction was surprise at the amount of activity taking place around him. The facility had been turned into a makeshift hospital. Casualties were being treated in corridors by inexperienced medical staff, some of whom looked visibly disturbed, as one might expect. Their pallor was accentuated by harsh overhead lighting that cast an eerie illumination over the human catastrophe taking place throughout the complex.
This was the first time any of the visitors had seen the human consequences of nuclear attack with their own eyes. Jefferson felt an urge to vomit. As his senses began to register the full horror of the spectacle, Lewis wondered why - when he’d seen so much death and mutilation in his life - he felt so shaken by what he saw now. Because they’re civilians, dammit, he realized. They’re women and kids and husbands. They didn�
��t ask for any of this. The realization infuriated him. He wondered if Nielsen might reconsider his megalomaniacal intentions were he to see these tragic scenes with his own eyes. The grim, stomach-churning soundtrack of groans, screams, hysteria and fear reverberated off the walls. These were Americans, dammit. They weren’t abstractions. Neither were theycollateral damage . They were the people for whom the tenets of the Constitution had been designed.
Lewis wanted to make somebody, somewhere, pay for this. But the irony was that the one person at whom his anger was directed hadn’t actually killed anybody.
Yet.
McGuire’s eyes, meanwhile, were fixed straight ahead. He was trying not to look at the human wretches littering the corridors. He simply wanted to get to his destination as quickly as possible, to be away from this carnage.
Jefferson was for the first time beginning to understand why it was so important to stop this insanity going any further. He had understood before, of course. But previously, words such as overkill, holocaust and Doomsday had been no more than abstract phrases for which he had no point of reference. The hellish sight and smell of human misery at its zenith made such phrases somewhat less abstract. It occurred to him that were he and his two comrades to fail, what he saw now would be just the beginning.
The Marines stopped outside an office door. One of them knocked, and then opened it. Without a word, he gestured the three guests inside.
Beakman was sitting behind his desk, his shirt half open. His tie had long since been discarded. He rose from his chair to greet the visitors.
“I’m Carl Beakman, director of this facility. And you are?”
McGuire conducted the introductions. Then he glanced at Lewis, who took the floor.
“Mr. Beakman, I understand you have the President here.”
“I’m not allowed to…” Beakman began. Lewis cut him off sharply by raising his hand.
“No disrespect, Mr. Beakman, but we don’t have time for bureaucratic bullshit or secrecy. In about thirteen minutes, what has happened in Washington will be happening all over the world.”
“I know what’s going on, Dr. Stein, believe me I do. But the President is in surgery, and we don’t expect him to regain consciousness for at least another three hours - if at all.”
Jefferson’s head slumped in desolation. “Then it’s over,” he muttered.
“Not necessarily,” Lewis corrected. An idea had just occurred to him. “I presume that the First Lady is here,” he said to the Director.
Beakman paused. His training told him not to answer the question, but what the hell, right? “Yes she is,” he confirmed.
“I need to see her.”
Again, Beakman hesitated, clearly uncertain what to do. He hadn’t been trained for this. Then again, who had been trained for anything that had happened today?
“Tell her that I’m here for her,” Lewis pleaded. “She’ll see me, I guarantee it. She’s the only one who might be able to stop this.”
As Beakman opened his mouth, a FEMA officer poked his head around the door.
“Sir, we’re getting a message from someone claiming to be from the U.S. Consulate in Frankfurt. Name of David Sharp.”
Lewis looked up in astonishment, recognizing a name that belonged to another life. Memories of Grosny and other equally unpleasant places came flooding back to him.
“Mr. Beakman, I know that guy,” he heard himself say.
Jefferson turned and looked at Lewis in puzzlement. This guy never stopped surprising him. Was there anybody hedidn’t know? First Margaret Mitchell, then General Yazov, and now this stranger calling from another continent.
“So what?” Beakman snorted. “You want to talk to him now as well?”
“Yes I do,” Lewis stated. “If he’s made the effort to contact this facility, you can be sure there’s a damn good reason.” Lewis checked his watch and narrowed his eyes at the reticent Director. “Mr. Beakman, I’d love to sit here all day and ponder the right thing to do, God knows I would. But we don’t have all day. The world has about twelve minutes. Now you’re either going to help us, or we’ll take matters into our own hands. Do I make myself clear?”
Reacting to the implicit threat, Beakman looked to McGuire as the most senior military officer in the room - theonly military officer in the room, he realized. For some reason, he would feel better with the reassurance of somebody in uniform.
McGuire simply nodded. This guy’s for real, his expression said.
“Okay,” Beakman agreed. “Let’s go.”
The four men jogged through the corridors - past multitudes of human casualties - towards the communications room. Beakman wasn’t as fit than his three companions, and it showed. After no more than twenty yards, he was already panting heavily. The others hadn’t even broken a sweat, he realized with some consternation. By the time they reached the communications room, his chest was burning with overexertion. He had to lean up against the doorframe to catch his breath.
A small, pudgy man of Oriental appearance was sitting at the communications console, a pair of headphones strapped across his balding peak. He looked up when his peripheral vision registered the four men entering the room. Upon seeing McGuire’s stripes, he stood urgently to attention.
“Major Harry Jago, sir. Army Reserves.” He offered a stiff salute. McGuire didn’t return it.
“At ease, Major,” McGuire nodded. “We don’t have the time. Tell me about this message from Frankfurt.”
“To hell with that, McGuire,” Lewis scowled at the Colonel. He snatched the headphones from Jago.
“Hey, you can’t…” Jago began to protest, but was stopped by an implicit warning in Lewis’s eyes.
“You got a microphone?” Lewis asked.
Jago, his hand trembling, pointed at the desk at which he’d just been sitting. Lewis took the seat and lifted the microphone.
“This is Lewis Stein at FEMA in Olney. Who is this?”
U.S. CONSULATE, FRANKFURT
In his line of work, Sharp was accustomed to dealing with surprises, but on this occasion even he failed to conceal his astonishment. Well, I’ll be damned. It took him a couple of moments to compose himself and respond.
“Y’know,” he said finally, “five years ago I saw two kids and their Dad fry in a car bomb attack. Worst thing I ever saw. I was just wondering if you knew anything about that.”
Gellis smiled admiringly. He could see where this was going.
FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND
“Yes, I remember Grosny too, David,” Lewis said flatly. “And, believe me, what I’ve seen here today makes it look like a picnic. Now we can either sit here until Doomsday establishing each other’s credentials or we can stop a billion more kids frying. So say whatever you want to say.”
“Okay,” Sharp said, immediately recognizing Lewis’s brusque manner. “I’ve got some information about how the Ukrainians made their nukes work.”
Lewis shook his head in angry disbelief. “I don’t have time for this, Sharp,” he growled. “Who fucking cares how they made ‘em work?”
“I think you should care. I delivered the equipment to the Ukrainian Army. Krypton gas, electronic components, you know, the kind of stuff mushroom clouds are made of.”
This time it was Lewis who failed to conceal his surprise as the pieces began to gel. “You mean the CIA has been supplying the Ukrainian Army.” That was more a statement than a question. If that’s true, then we’re responsible for this whole damn mess. “Was Bishop in on this?” His eyes registered an edge of sadness. Although he couldn’t believe that his friend and mentor would have been involved in such a repugnant scheme, long experience had taught him never to expect anything less than the worst where human nature was concerned. Particularly when the twin evils of politics and money came into the equation.
“I doubt it,” came the response. “I’ve been running weapons to the Ukes for three years, since before the war started. It was Nielsen’s baby to start with. I always
reported back to John Huth. When Bishop took over, nothing changed. I doubt the DCI has got a clue about what I’ve been doing out there.”
Lewis instantly reached the same conclusion as Gellis had done a short while earlier. If Nielsen was implicated in this, there might be grounds to remove his command authority. The constitution was shady on that issue, and he imagined that people such as Speaker of the House George Halligan and Attorney General Kate Winslow, both of whom were at Mount Weather, would make the final call. Lewis didn’t know whether enough time existed to work out the legalities of Nielsen’s authority, particularly given the lack of material evidence. And if he failed to convince people such as General Westwood and the Speaker, it was a moot point anyway.
He checked his watch again. Eleven minutes. “I’ll get back to you,” he snapped, aware that Nielsen could be issuing launch orders to American submarines at any moment.
“Good luck, buddy,” Sharp remarked. “It’s good to have you back.”
“Yeah.” Lewis hastily removed his headphones and turned to Beakman. “Take me to the First Lady.”
“What was that all about?” Jefferson inquired.
Lewis shook his head, snorting cynically. “Some things never fucking change. They really don’t.”
“What?” McGuire said, puzzled.
“I’m talking about the enemy within, Colonel. And we’ve got to stop him.”
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