FOREWORD

by Ten To Midnight--Free(Lit)

  “This way, gentlemen,” Beakman panted. He didn’t relish the prospect of any more jogging, but he didn’t suppose that his three guests cared much about that.

  U.S. CONSULATE, FRANKFURT

  “Did he buy it?” Gellis’s face was twisted with anxiety.

  Sharp ran a hand through his lank, blonde mane. “Yeah, he bought it.”

  They could hear helicopters buzzing overhead. German Army helicopters. Sharp imagined that at that very moment, assault troops were abseiling onto the roof of the Consulate, assuming their positions.

  “What happens now?” the reporter wondered aloud.

  Sharp glanced up at the ceiling. He didn’t know whether Gellis was referring to the Consulate or the world; not that it made much difference, of course. The answer was the same.

  “Who knows? Tell you what though. The Doc’s fired up about this thing. Maybe the world’s got a chance after all.” He frowned. “Not so sure about us though. I think we may have pissed off theKrauts .”

  UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN

  “The first target to be hit will be Murmansk,” Kalushin reported grimly. “Once we get confirmation that Murmansk has been destroyed, we’ll know that the Americans intend to carry through with their attack.”

  Yazov stared blankly at the wall clock. He didn’t need Kalushin to tell him that Murmansk would be destroyed in just over ten minutes. That meant Russia’s submarines would surface to receive their orders in nineteen. Nobody knew how many of Russia’s boomers had managed to evade America’s hunter-killers, but he guessed that it would be enough to lay the vast majority of North America and Western Europe to waste.

  He closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer to a deity in which he had never believed. He tried to imagine what it must have been like for ordinary people at ground level awaiting their collective doom. The thought occasioned a shudder.

  “That madman,” he muttered to himself. “Can nobody stop him?” The question wasn’t directed at anybody in particular. He systematically checked the faces of each of the twelve Generals, ministers and Marshals in the room, but none of them met his eyes. His question hung in the air for several long moments.

  “Sir.” Grizov finally broke the silence. “We need to decide on an attack pattern for the submarines.”

  Yazov nodded his reluctant assent, too depressed and exhausted to harbor any hope of deliverance. For the second time in twelve hours, he opened the red book containing strategic attack options for the U.S.A.. Under the section titledStrategic Naval Attack (Countervalue) , he found the relevant pattern. The objective was coldly described asDestruction of Enemy Cities, Industrial Centers - Disruption of Civilian and Military functionality.

  In clinical detail, the four-page plan described the targeting of America’s 300 largest cities and industrial targets, 165 cities in other NATO countries and 228 military and strategic targets around the world. A total of 7,250 warheads would be used, translating into an average of ten warheads per target. This was by no means a uniform figure; the target designations ranging from fifteen warheads of various yields for Los Angeles to one small 100Kt warhead for Turin. Of course, there was a margin of error to account for faulty missiles and crippled submarines. But these figures nevertheless discounted the effect of Russia’s bomber fleet, which would clean up other targets across the U.S.A.; mainly hardened targets where pinpoint accuracy was required.

  Yazov imagined that the Americans’ attack strategy for Russia was broadly similar in scope, perhaps even more intense. It didn’t take a genius to work out the net effect of this second exchange between the U.S.A. and Russia. It would spell the end of all things. He momentarily entertained the idea of standing down his own forces to see how the Americans would react. But, as he studied the faces of the men around him, he knew that they would never allow that to happen. For them, it was too much of a gamble to take; to carelessly abandon Russia’s last opportunity to retaliate against a massive American attack. Nobody truly believed that Nielsen would stand down his own forces if presented with the opportunity to strike a defenseless Russia. For all intents and purposes, Nielsen was committed to a war that only he seemed to want. A war that was becoming more inevitable with every passing second.

  He watched the two RVSN officers who were carrying the launch communicators activate their consoles in preparation for the last order Yazov was ever likely to issue.

  All that remained now was to await confirmation that Murmansk had been destroyed.

  FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND

  Margaret looked up in alarm when the door to the waiting room burst open. The two USSS agents on her detail reacted instantly, swiftly drawing their weapons on the four men who entered.

  “Freeze!” yelled Agent Sarah Herbert, the most senior of the two agents.

  Beakman nearly pissed his pants. His arms instinctively shot towards the ceiling, just like in the movies.

  McGuire also raised his hands, albeit in a more controlled manner. He was carefully watching the eyes of the two agents, not doubting that they would pull their triggers if they felt the need to do so. These guys were pros. But that also reassured him somewhat. It meant they wouldn’t act precipitously.

  Jefferson didn’t react at all, but then he was a Secret Service agent himself and counted the First Lady’s present bodyguards among his best friends. Besides, he had been expecting this sort of reception.

  Lewis, however, immediately realized that he was the one upon whom both pistols were trained. The two agents obviously remembered him from KNEECAP. He appreciated just how precarious his situation was right now. Much more so than his three compatriots.

  “Lewis!” Margaret exclaimed. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be on…”

  “He’s a fugitive, Ma’am,” Herbert interrupted, her narrow eyes fixed on Lewis.

  “Bullshit, Sarah,” Jefferson snorted. “He’s one of the good guys. Trust me.”

  A shadow of doubt crept into Herbert’s eyes. She had known Jefferson since the Academy. They had graduated in the same class. He was one of the straightest sons-of-bitches she had ever known. He wouldn’t be involved in anything underhand. Would he? She couldn’t afford to take the risk. “I don’t buy it, Steve. What the hell is going on?”

  Lewis knew from experience that this standoff might last for more time than the world could afford. There was only one person capable of breaking the stalemate. He turned to Margaret, careful not to make any sudden moves. “Ma’am. I need to speak to you urgently.”

  Margaret hesitated, her eyes flickering between Lewis and Herbert. She didn’t know what had happened with Lewis on KNEECAP, but she had never known him to be anything less than an honorable, devoted public servant. Nielsen on the other hand…

  It took her no more than a fraction of a second to guess what had happened. She’d heard about Lewis’s volatile temper. Obviously, Nielsen had pushed him too far and… well, it didn’t take much to figure out the rest. He must’ve somehow escaped from custody. But why? What had brought him here?

  At first, she imagined that he had come here for Jo, but then she glanced at McGuire, Beakman and Jefferson. A Colonel, a Secret Service agent and a FEMA executive. He’s obviously sold them on his cause, whatever it is. So it has to be something more serious than reuniting with his wife.

  Ultimately, curiosity got the better of her. “Lower your weapons,” she ordered the agents.

  They did so with visible reluctance, their suspicious eyes never wavering from Lewis for a second.

  Beakman emitted an audible sigh of relief as his arms dropped back to his sides.

  “Okay, what gives?” Margaret sighed, as if talking to a young child that had gotten into a scrape.

  Lewis quickly related to her the information he had learned from Sharp about Nielsen, and outlined Nielsen’s intentions to embark upon a ‘Grand Tour’ of Russia. He hardly paused for breath throughout, but he did study Margaret’s face closely. As his words sunk in, he saw her al
ready pallid face drain of whatever color remained.

  “I know the President won’t regain consciousness in time,” he remarked, “but you can convince the Speaker and the Attorney General to relieve Nielsen of command. And I understand that John Huth is at Mount Weather also. He can correlate the story. We might be able to turn this thing off. If we can turn the bombers…”

  Margaret frowned. “Do you understand the legalities involved? You have no material evidence, apart from Huth’s statement,maybe. And even that is purely circumstantial. You’re talking about a constitutional crisis, Lewis. In the middle of a war.” Without realizing it, she had adopted the same tone that she had once used with her students.

  Lewis almost laughed aloud. “Then let’s have a goddamn constitutional crisis. Better that than the destruction of a planet. We have to try.”

  “Of course we do,” she agreed after a moment’s contemplation. “I’m just saying that this is thin, Lewis. Awfully thin.”

  He shrugged, remaining tight-lipped.

  “Okay,” she concluded. “Beakman. Can we hook up to Mount Weather?”

  “Um… yes,” Beakman stammered. “Deep level fiber-optic links. We checked them earlier. They’re fully functional.”

  “What about KNEECAP?” McGuire asked him.

  “A little more complex, but yes. We’ve established that link also, when KNEECAP advised us that the President was coming in.”

  The First Lady took charge. “Okay, boys. Then let’s go.” To her protection detail: “You too.”

  The ever increasing band – which had started with just three people, and now comprised seven – sprinted back towards the communications room. All of them had become somewhat desensitized to the spectacle of horrifically injured civilians that scattered the corridors. They were now focused on preventing that scene being repeated on a global scale.

  By the time they reached the room, Lewis’s watch told him that just over eight minutes remained until the first American bomber struck Murmansk.

  Jago looked startled when he saw the First Lady among the visitors. He leapt up from his seat, knowing that somebody was bound to steal it from him in any case.

  “Jago,” Beakman said, wheezing badly. “Patch us through to Mount Weather.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lewis remained focused on his watch while Jago established the link, a task that consumed thirty-five precious seconds. Once he’d established a connection with his counterpart in the government bunker, Jago looked to Beakman for further instructions. Margaret took the headphones and microphone from him and sat in his chair.

  “This is Margaret Mitchell,” she announced. “I need to talk to the Speaker, the Attorney General, the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court and DDO John Huth right now.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s possible,” the communications officer at Mount Weather responded. He sounded young. Young and frightened.

  “Listen, kid,” she snapped, “if you don’t want to see the world go up in a puff of smoke, then don’t fuck with me. Just make it happen. Make them run if you have to. Understand?”

  This time, the reply carried more conviction. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  XXI

  RULES OF SUCCESSION

  “Men never do evil so completely and cheerfully as when they do it from religious conviction.”

  (Blaise Pascal, 1670)

  ABOARD KNEECAP

  Westwood gazed sadly through a porthole at the puffy white clouds below. It was amazing, he thought, how easy it was to delude oneself into thinking that everything was fine with the world, when really it was anything but. The gentle hum of the E-4’s engines was calming almost to the point of being hypnotic, the soft clouds masking the devastation beneath them.

  For a moment, the General had allowed himself to forget that in less than an hour, there would be no world left. No world of any value, anyway. The clouds would explode with brilliant nuclear light. Firestorms and unnatural forces would lay the Earth’s major cities to waste. Billions of people would die in those first hours. The survivors would probably not last much longer under the freezing shroud of nuclear winter. And the last dawn would peer over the Eastern horizon to bear witness to civilization’s demise.

  And then, he supposed, it would be the insects’ turn. Would they make a better job of things? More to the point, could they do any worse? Well, that was God’s business, wasn’t it?

  All this because of a megalomaniac with more ego than brains. Westwood mused that if politicians and political appointees were subjected to the same psychological screening as, say, bomber pilots, this situation might never have arisen. But it was too late for such thoughts now, he supposed. Too late for regrets. Too late for everything.

  Westwood had often laughed at Hollywood portrayals of warmongering Generals eager to use their nuclear toys. He didn’t know a General alive who liked nuclear weapons, much less wanted to use them. Nuclear bombs contravened the rules of warfare, and were an insult to the code of honor that was instilled into all professional soldiers. No, he thought, Hollywood had always gotten it wrong. Warmongering Generals had never been a danger. The real threat came from other men. Men such as Nielsen, who had never served in uniform, never known what it was to look into the eyes of a man before taking his life. To men such as Nielsen, sacrifice was an abstract concept; to be imposed on others, but not made by themselves. Westwood recalled the words of a former General who had once been in charge of the now defunct Strategic Air Command. Nuclear weapons are too important to be left in the hands of politicians, or something like that.

  Hollywood and the rest of the world would learn that lesson much too late. Soon, there would be no Hollywood. No New York. No Rome. No San Francisco. Soon, there would be nothing but radioactive ghosts of a failed species; a species abandoned by God as a lost cause. And what was Nielsen if not the instrument of God’s wrath?

  He glanced at each of the men with him in the passenger cabin, and wondered what they were thinking. Whatever thoughts Bishop, Reynolds and Copeland harbored, they kept them concealed behind distant expressions. Nobody had said a word for over twenty minutes. Perhaps, he thought, the other men with him were spending their final hours reconciling their consciences with whatever deities they believed in. Perhaps they were wondering whether there had been anything more they could have done. Or perhaps they were just waiting, wondering how it would end for each of them.

  In just a few minutes, America’s strategic bombers would begin laying Russia to waste. At that time, Nielsen would issue launch orders to the TACAMO aircraft. A few minutes later, Russian bombers would begin dropping their nuclear payloads on the United States. And then their subs would launch anytime after that. Even if Admiral Dunster refused to authenticate the President’s launch order for the submarines, America’s bombers would still fulfill their role of triggering the final battle of the last Great War in human history.

  Thirty thousand years to build a civilization - one hour to destroy it. Perhaps mankind’s obituary would be that it was far easier to destroy than to create.

  Westwood turned his attention back to the clouds outside, savoring their tranquil beauty before they disappeared forever.

  FEMA GOVERNMENT BUNKER, MOUNT WEATHER

  You could have heard a pin drop in the cavernous chamber. It was here that the Speaker of the House, along with the eight surviving Supreme Court judges and nearly two hundred Senators, Congressmen and aides had gathered to watch the final spectacle of mankind’s annihilation play itself out on a big computer screen. The images, which were being downloaded in real time from the Looking Glass aircraft, depicted the locations of American and Russian nuclear bombers as they closed on their respective targets.

  Speaker of the House George Halligan regretted that he hadn’t been killed in the Washington blast, along with his wife Mary and teenage daughter Roxanne, who hadn’t managed to evacuate in time. Apparently, they had been aboard a helicopter leaving Washington when the bomb hit. The emotional part of Hallig
an wanted to see every Russian fry in hell for what had happened to his loved ones. But the rational part of his mind accepted the terrible price of revenge. He knew that the lives of three civilians, no matter how much they meant to him, couldn’t justify the deaths of three billion.

  But after nearly twenty-four hours without sleep, he now just wanted for the whole thing to be over, for mankind to be put out of its torment. In many respects, waiting for annihilation was far worse than the final moment itself. Or so he imagined. The point was, he didn’t know what to expect, any more than did the next man. Nevertheless, he was pretty certain that nobody in this chamber would ever see another sunset.

  He was startled when one of his aides tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Mr. Speaker.”

  Halligan turned around to face the young man. “What is it?”

  “We’ve received an urgent communication for you. From the First Lady, sir.”

  The Speaker arched his eyebrows in puzzlement. “Maggie Mitchell? What the hell does she want?”

  “I’m not sure, but she says it’s urgent. She said that you should run to the communications room if you have to. Her words, sir.”

  At that moment, Halligan realized that Attorney General Kate Winslow and Chief Justice Judge Marcus Shaw were being led out of the chamber by their own aides. A speculative buzz was beginning to sweep the chamber as others noted the activity. It was the first thing of consequence to have happened here since President Mitchell’s collapse.

  “Okay,” he said, standing up. “Which way?”

  The aide looked as terrified as everybody else. “I’ll take you there, Mr. Speaker. This way. We have to hurry.”

  “Yeah,” Halligan muttered. “Ain’t that the line of the day?”

  UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN