FOREWORD

by Ten To Midnight--Free(Lit)

  “Is that legal?” Halligan said.

  “Strictly speaking, no,” Shaw said, realization beginning to dawn. “But I think I know where Dr. Stein is going with this.”

  “I wish I did,” McGuire muttered.

  “Anybody got a piece of paper?” Winslow yelled.

  Margaret frowned in puzzlement. “What’s going on, Lewis?”

  Lewis’s voice was filled with urgency. He hardly took a breath between sentences. “If we can get something in writing, we might be able to convince theLooking Glass to turn the bombers. And if we can do that, Nielsen’s credibility is shot and Dunster might refuse to authenticate the launch order to the TACAMO aircraft.”

  “But I thought you saidLooking Glass wouldn’t listen to us,” McGuire pointed out.

  “They won’t,” Lewis said, the corner of his mouth curling into a half-smile. “Not to us.”

  Comprehension registered on Margaret’s face.

  “Westwood.”

  FEMA GOVERNMENT BUNKER, MOUNT WEATHER

  An aide sprinted into the room, brandishing a blank sheet of paper. He handed it to Winslow.

  “Pen, dammit,” she demanded. “Who’s got a pen?”

  Halligan reached into his inside pocket and produced a ballpoint. She snatched it from him. “Okay, how do we word this?”

  Shaw had already thought of that. He dictated to her. “We, the undersigned, hereby revoke with immediate effect the authority of Paul Robert Nielsen to exercise the duties of the President of the United States of America, pending a full Senate inquiry into alleged treasonous activities committed by the aforementioned. We do so in the interests of the American people in accordance with the Constitution of the United States of America.”

  Winslow scribbled Shaw’s words, trying to ensure that her handwriting was legible as she did so. She signed it, and then handed it to Halligan and Shaw, who countersigned and handed it back to her. She ran over to the fax machine, which was located on the other side of the room.

  “Fax number,” she yelled so that the microphone would pick up her voice. “What’s your fax number?”

  FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND

  All eyes turned to Jago, who was visibly trembling. “Oh…” he said, struggling to recall the number under extreme pressure. “Just dial four-two-double-zero.”

  “Did you get that?” Margaret said into the microphone.

  “Yes,” Halligan responded. “Four-two-double…”

  “No,” Jago corrected himself. “Four-four-double-zero. Sorry, my mistake. That was my PIN number.”

  “You’d better be fucking sure,” Lewis warned the FEMA officer.

  “Yes… Yes, I am,” he stuttered.

  “Four-four-double-zero,” Halligan repeated. “We’re sending it through.”

  “Mr. Jago,” Margaret said. “Can you set up a conference with KNEECAP?”

  “Yes. Yes I can. I… er… need to get to the console, Ma’am.”

  Margaret surrendered her seat to him. “Make it quick.”

  Jago, wiping sweat from his brow, fiddled with some wires and switches. He took the microphone. “Night Light,” he said, “this is FEMA at Olney. Are you receiving?”

  “We’re five by five, affirmative,” came the response. “Who is this?”

  Margaret snatched the microphone from Jago. “This is Margaret Mitchell,” she announced. “I need to speak to General Westwood, right now.”

  Jefferson was standing by the fax machine, waiting for the message to arrive from Mount Weather. He heard the quiet, high-pitched tone indicative of an incoming fax. It was followed by three strident beeps. Something was wrong…

  “Ma’am,” the KNEECAP operator responded. “This is a restricted channel. You must…”

  “Don’t you dare tell me what I must do,” she snapped. “Just get me the goddam General.”

  Jefferson checked the fax machine, whose LCD display was now flashing an alphanumeric error code. He opened the paper feeder and swore to himself. “Paper,” he yelled urgently. “It’s out of fucking paper.”

  Meanwhile, the operator was clearly shaken by Margaret’s tone. “I’m, um… He’s… he’s just arrived, Ma’am.”

  Beakman opened a wall cupboard and produced a ream of paper. His hands were shaking as he tried to rip the cellophane wrapping.

  “Give me that!” Jefferson barked, snatching the ream from the hapless FEMA officer. He tore the cellophane open with his teeth and slapped a half-inch thick bundle of paper into the feeder.

  To everybody’s collective relief, the fax began to print.

  ABOARD KNEECAP

  Westwood, Bishop, Copeland and Reynolds arrived in the tiny communications room seconds ahead of Nielsen and Admiral Dunster.

  “Ah, Gentlemen,” Nielsen’s cheerful voice enthused from behind them. “Good of you to join us. Couldn’t resist being present at the making of history, eh?”

  Westwood spun on his heel, as if to strike the smug bastard. He was stopped by the communication officer’s voice.

  “General Westwood,” he said. “I’ve got somebody claiming to be the First Lady.”

  “I’ll deal with her,” Nielsen stated.

  The officer shook his head nervously. “No, sir. She was quite specific about wanting to speak to the General.”

  “FormerGeneral,” Nielsen corrected. “If I’m not mistaken, Mr. Westwood, you resigned due to - what was it? - Moral objections or some such bull?”

  Westwood’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Well, I’ve just withdrawn my resignation,” he growled. “Fire me if you want. But I’m taking that call.”

  He took the headset from the communications officer and clipped it around his ear and chin. “Ma’am?”

  Nielsen pursed his lips, seething. He turned to Dunster. “To hell with this. I haven’t got time to waste. Let’s get moving.” To the communications officer: “Set up a link with the TACAMO aircraft.”

  “It’s already done, sir,” the officer reported, pointing to an empty chair at another console diametrical to that at which Westwood was standing. “You’ll need to issue the codes verbally. They use a voice recognition system to verify your identity.”

  Nielsen glanced at Dunster, who nodded confirmation of the fact.

  Westwood was listening intently to what the First Lady was telling him. He glanced over his shoulder at Nielsen, whose back was turned to him. Copeland and Bishop exchanged a curious glance. They didn’t know quite what was going on, but they both sensed a change in Westwood’s mood. He had gone past depression.

  His face was contorted with rage.

  “This isNight Light ,” Nielsen told the TACAMO aircraft.

  “I need it faxed to the Signals Room,” Westwood whispered into the headset. “I can’t do a thing without it. I’m heading to my quarters now. While I’m gone, getLooking Glass on the line.”

  Nielsen had his authenticator card in front of him. “Dayword Icarus, Authentication Delta-Five,” he read aloud, confirming his identity. It would take a few moments for officers aboard the TACAMO aircraft to check his voice pattern against that stored on record.

  Westwood removed his headset, and flicked a switch on the console that would patch the call through to his private quarters. He gestured Copeland, Reynolds and Bishop outside the room. Dunster offered him a quizzical look. He shook his head, as much to say,don’t ask .

  In the corridor, Westwood placed his hands on Copeland’s shoulders. The Secretary of State looked pale and shaken.

  “Brad,” he whispered, “I need you to run to the Signals Room. There’s a fax coming in from Olney. As soon as it comes off, meet me in my quarters. Now go.”

  Copeland sprinted along the corridor. The Signals Room was at the other end of the plane, and that was why Westwood had chosen the Secretary of State for the task. As well as being the youngest man present, the former University of Michigan distance runner was also probably the fittest.

  Westwood turned to Reynolds. “Jim, I need you to s
tay here and keep an eye on Nielsen. Stall him if you have to. Just make sure he doesn’t issue those codes.”

  Reynolds shook his head doubtfully. “I don’t know, General. He won’t fall for…”

  “Just three minutes. That’s all I need.” Westwood held up three fingers to emphasize the point. “Three minutes.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  The General slapped him on the back. “Good man.”

  “What’s going on?” Bishop asked.

  “Come with me. I’ll explain on the way.”

  General Westwood, all 275lbs of him, started running towards his quarters, Bishop close behind him.

  B-2A BOMBER – SPIRIT SIXTEEN – OVER NORTHWESTERN RUSSIA

  The B-2 stealth bomber leveled out at 15,000 feet as Logan and McCann performed their final checks. McCann checked the distance to target.

  Twenty-five miles.

  “On my mark,” said Logan. He lifted the plastic casing that protected a red switch whose purpose was to arm the first of the B-2’s six nuclear bombs. His finger touched the switch. Glancing over at McCann, he could see that the Flight Commander had mirrored his actions. “Three… Two… One…”

  “Mark,” McCann said. Both pilots flicked their arming switches simultaneously. A ‘READY’ message appeared on Logan’s HUD, informing him that the bomb had been armed. It was accompanied by a short beep in his headset. “Ninety seconds to release.”

  Despite the facade of professionalism that both officers struggled to maintain, they knew that they were rapidly approaching the point of no return.

  XXII

  REVOLUTION

  “It is not the function of our government to keep the citizen from falling into error; it is the function of the citizen to keep the government from falling into error.”

  Robert H. Jackson, U.S. Supreme Court Justice (1950)

  ABOARD KNEECAP

  Copeland willed the fax to come through faster. It emerged face down, so he couldn’t read its contents. It did so at a leisurely pace, fax technology annoyingly indifferent to the urgency of the situation.

  When it had fully emerged, he swiped it from the machine and started running.

  Westwood’s tiny private quarters were necessarily sparse. For one thing, any excessive clutter would have made the room impossible to move around. For another, he had no requirement for any personal belongings other than bare essentials such as toiletries and a single change of clothes.

  He burst into the room - Bishop behind him - and headed straight for the telephone on his desk. He picked it up.

  “Hello?” he said tentatively.

  “Marion,” Margaret replied, relief evident in her voice. “We’re here.”

  “AndLooking Glass ?”

  Alice’svoice was unmistakable to Westwood. They had been friends since West Point. “We’re five by five, affirmative. I need your authentication codes, sir.”

  Westwood sighed irritably as Copeland entered the room, brandishing the decree that had just been faxed from Olney. The General took the sheet of paper without looking up.

  “We don’t have time for that,Alice ,” he replied sourly. And besides, I threw my card at Nielsen when I resigned. What a fucking idiot. “I don’t have them.”

  “Without those codes, I can’t validate your identity. I’m cutting you off.”

  “No!” Margaret pleaded from Olney.

  Alicewas, predictably, all business. That was not surprising, was it? America was at war, and he was just doing his duty.

  “Harry,” Westwood pleaded, “it’s me, Marion. For Chrissakes, just listen to me, will you? I’m trying to stop you incinerating the entire fucking world.”

  There was hesitation on the other end. That meantAlice was thinking about it. Good.

  “I’m extremely busy,”Alice /Harry told him. “You’ve got twenty seconds. Make it quick.”

  Westwood knew thatAlice had every intention of cutting him off after precisely that amount of time. It was his way. “I need you to recall the bombers before they hit Russia.”

  “No way,” came the instant response. “I have valid orders from NCA.”

  “No you don’t,” Margaret stated firmly. “Nielsen’s executive authority has been suspended. General, listen to me,” she pleaded. “Both General Westwood and myself have in front of us a decree signed by the Attorney General, the Speaker of the House, and the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court revoking Paul Nielsen’s authority to act as commander-in-chief. We can fax you a copy, if you like. But we don’t have time. We have less than two minutes.”

  “I know precisely how long we have, Ma’am,”Alice snapped. “But even if we turn the bombers, that won’t stop the subs launching. Air Force can’t issue orders to Navy.”

  “Let me worry about the subs, Harry,” Westwood told him. “But if those bombers start hitting Russia, it won’t matter a damn what the subs do.”

  This time, there was a long pause fromLooking Glass . Everybody else on the conference call held their breath, awaitingAlice’s response. Finally, he said, “Even if what you’re saying is true, the orders still stand.”

  “No they don’t,” a man’s voice told him. “Because I’m revoking them. I’m ordering a recall for the bombers. They’re to maintain alert status.”

  “Who the hell is this?” Alicebarked.

  “This is Speaker of the House George Halligan. Your new Commander-in-Chief. I’m giving you a direct order, General, to recall the bombers.”

  AboardLooking Glass ,Alice closed his eyes, trying to figure out the right thing to do. Protocol and training dictated that without valid verification codes, he should ignore everything he was being told. But he also knew there was no time to confirm the codes in any case. If this was a Russian trick, then America would be hit in little over ten minutes. And if that happened,Alice had the authority to order the bombers straight back in. The submarines weren’t his responsibility.

  “For God’s sake, Harry,” Westwood pleaded. “If we’re shitting you, go ahead and bomb them. Bomb the bastards into the Stone Age. But you know what’s at stake.”

  Until this moment, every decisionAlice had made in his thirty-year long career had been made by the book. He was renowned for his attention to detail. Indeed, regulations to him were as sacred as the Bible was to others. But what he was presently contemplating contravened everything he’d ever believed in. Everything he’d ever known.

  This was no ordinary situation. He had no precedents against which to measure his actions. And the protocols that governed the deployment of nuclear weapons had been designed in peacetime by people who viewed such a conflict as a distant abstraction. Theoretically, those protocols served the best interests of America’s defense. Yet, was that the same thing as the best interests of mankind?

  If he acted in contravention of nuclear weapons protocol, he risked at best spending twenty years in Leavenworth; at worst facing a firing squad. But for either of those outcomes to happen, the world would have to survive.

  And that was what it came down to, wasn’t it? He had nothing to lose. In his heart, he knew that the call was genuine. Irregular and probably illegal, for sure. But genuine.

  After a silence that seemed to last forever, Westwood heardAlice address his second-in-command.

  “Frank, issue the recall codes. We have a new Commander-in-Chief.”

  FEMA SPECIAL FACILITY, OLNEY, MARYLAND

  McGuire punched the air and whooped. Jefferson and Herbert exchanged a high-five. Herbert had tears in her eyes. Jago and Beakman hugged each other. Margaret closed her eyes and touched Lewis’s arm; an unspoken gesture of gratitude for all he had done. The sounds of laughter and jubilation were also clearly audible from Mount Weather, although not from KNEECAP, where Westwood still had work to do.

  Lewis remained tense; his eyes fixed on the console.

  “Now all that remains is for us to stop the Russians,” he remarked to himself.

  That brought the jubilation to an abrupt end. Everybod
y stared at him.

  They’d forgotten about that.

  B-2A BOMBER – SPIRIT SIXTEEN – OVER NORTHWESTERN RUSSIA

  The B-2’s internal computer had already calculated the optimum timing for bomb release in order to achieve a direct hit on the naval base at Murmansk. It had taken into account variable factors such as wind shear, cloud cover and temperature, all of which appeared as graphic representations on Logan’s HUD.

  He watched as the time-to-release figure fell, and began to count it down verbally, his hand poised over the Bomb Release switch.

  “Six… Five… Four… It’s been a pleasure serving with you, Laura,” he remarked.

  “You too, Martin… One… Release.”

  In the same instant as Logan punched the release switch, the EAM indicator began flashing, accompanied by a shrill tone.

  “Incoming Emergency Action Message,” McCann announced urgently.

  But the bomb had already been dropped.

  UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN

  “I can see a jet plume high in the sky,” the Admiral reported from Murmansk. His voice was shaking. He sounded on the verge of tears, despite the excitement in his tone.

  Yazov closed his eyes and waited for the burst of high-pitched static that, within the next few moments, would replace the Admiral’s voice forever.

  And, meanwhile, the launch officers remained poised at their communicators. They shared a nervous glance. Any second now, they thought. Any second now.

  ABOARD KNEECAP

  “I’m ordering Bravo Five Foxtrot,” Nielsen told the operator aboard the TACAMO plane. “Repeat, Bravo Five Foxtrot.”

  Reynolds’ mind was racing. He had to figure out a way to stall the launch order, but didn’t know how. A quick glance at the three Secret Service agents standing between him and Nielsen prohibited any ideas about a physical diversion. Perhaps if... Think, he told himself. Think…