FOREWORD

by Ten To Midnight--Free(Lit)

  “I confirm valid launch order - SIOP code Bravo Five Foxtrot,” the TACAMO operator responded. “I need secondary authentication.”

  Nielsen looked at Dunster, whose expression was as blank as his face was pale. It was down to him, he knew. “This is Admiral James Dunster,” he said. “DaywordBabylon , authentication Zebra-Six.”

  A few moments passed while TACAMO confirmed his voice identity. In that time, Reynolds attempted to figure out a way to buy just another minute or two. He acted on pure instinct. It was not something that came easily to the logical, practical nature of the political mastermind.

  “Admiral, stop!” he barked, unable to think of anything else to say. Damn, Jim. Is that the best you could come up with? Stop? For Chrissakes… He stammered as all eyes turned his way. “You know this is wrong. You fucking know it. Don’t let this happen, Admiral, please. Think of what’s at stake.”

  Nielsen’s jaw stiffened with rage. “Will you shut the fuck up?” He turned to one of the Secret Service agents and issued a firm order. “Get him out of here. Shoot him if you have to. He’s endangering National Security.”

  As the agent grabbed Reynolds’ arm and began to manhandle him out of the communications room, Reynolds called over his shoulder. “He’s the one endangering National Security, Admiral. You know it. He’s endangering everything.”

  Dunster, his face beleaguered, watched Reynolds being led away. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, knowing that the Chief of Staff couldn’t hear him. “I’m just doing my job.”

  In a corridor outside the communications room, Copeland, Westwood and Bishop appeared just in time.

  “Release that man,” Westwood ordered the Secret Service agent who was leading Reynolds away. A smile of relief crossed Reynolds’ pudgy features.

  “General,” the agent said, visibly perplexed. “I have orders.”

  Westwood waved the fax. “If those orders were issued by Paul Nielsen, they’re invalid. I have documentation to that effect. Now release him.” This time, the order was firmer, and left the young agent in no doubt whatsoever as to what might happen were he to refuse.

  He obliged, relaxing his grip on Reynolds’ arm.

  “Are we too late?” Westwood asked the Chief of Staff.

  “Maybe just in time,” Reynolds panted.

  “Let’s hope so.”

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

  Logan had taken the flight controls while McCann checked the codebook against the Emergency Action Message. The Major was arcing the plane away from the bomb zone, climbing all the time, just as he had been trained to do.

  Twenty seconds since release. Detonation in another ten to twelve seconds.

  “Holy damn,” McCann muttered to herself as she read the code twice over to make sure it was for real. Her voice was inaudible below the roar of the B-2’s engines. “It’s a recall!” she screamed. “Zebra-Zero-Zebra! Cease all hostilities. It’s a fucking recall!”

  “You sure?” was Logan’s response. He wasn’t sure that he’d heard his Flight Commander properly.

  “The hell I’m sure.” McCann threw her codebook on the floor and was already reaching for the armaments panel.

  Eight seconds.

  Logan saw what his co-pilot was doing and hesitated. He hadn’t seen the EAM himself, but if it were for real, then he didn’t have time to check. He had flown with McCann for several years, and she was as professional as they came. She wouldn’t bullshit about something like this. Not now.

  “If you’re shitting me…” he warned, leveling the jet.

  “Then shoot me!” McCann scowled, her eyes challenging the Major.

  Five seconds.

  “Disarm procedure on my mark. Three… Two…”

  Three seconds.

  “One…”

  They simultaneously flicked the Disarm switches on their respective armaments panels. Both pilots offered a silent prayer that they had done so in time.

  UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN

  Yazov listened intently to the radio as the seconds passed. Still no burst of static. Still no detonation. The waiting was worst of all. It had been nearly a minute since the Admiral had reported seeing the jet trail over Murmansk. Surely the American pilots would have released their bomb by now.

  “Do you see anything, Admiral?”

  “No, not… Wait…”

  Yazov’s heart skipped a beat.

  Panic crept into the Admiral’s voice. “Something falling very fast, something…”

  Yazov looked up at the launch officers. Their fingers were almost touching the launch buttons. He shook his head. Not yet.

  Presently, the radio emitted an almighty roar that caused Yazov and several others to clamp their hands over their ears.

  In that moment came the realization that it was really happening.

  The end of all things.

  GCN STUDIOS, ATLANTA

  “We have now passed the time when American bombers are supposed to have begun striking their targets in Russia.” Jack Sullivan’s voice was cracking. He had abandoned his tie, and was now facing the world with his collar open. “What is happening out there, we cannot be sure. As for what happens next…” He frowned, trying to find the right words. “Well, I guess we’re in God’s hands now.”

  Around the world, churches and temples overflowed with worshippers, using their last moments to make peace with whatever God they believed in. Many had never prayed before, but they were learning fast. Others took the opportunity to indulge in more Earthly pleasures such as sex, drugs and alcohol; the apparent objective to be either ecstatic or stoned beyond comprehension when the end came.

  Surprisingly, the streets of cities such as Los Angeles, London and Tokyo were largely deserted; the hordes of people having been supplanted by an eerie, foreboding silence that invited the echoing moan of air raid sirens.

  MURMANSK, RUSSIA

  The B-83 gravity bomb descended through 500 feet and was falling at an exponentially increasing rate of 750 feet per second. Its internal altimeter had been programmed to trigger a small explosive charge once it sensed that its altitude had dropped below fifty feet. That, in turn, would set in motion the chain reaction that would result in a nuclear explosion. Theoretically, this process would take less than one tenth of a second.

  But at just over 200 feet from the ground, the bomb’s internal computer received a radio signal from the B-2 to disable its altimeter. No altimeter, no trigger. No trigger, no explosion.

  On the docks hugging the Bay of Murmansk, hundreds of people watched transfixed as the bomb fell at incredible speed. They braced themselves for the inevitable; some of them crying, some praying. Mostly though, they just watched and waited. There was nothing else they could do. Nowhere to run.

  But nothing happened.

  The 1,200lb bomb struck a wooden fishing boat that was tied to its moorings. Fortunately, nobody was aboard the vessel at the time, for it was literally disintegrated by the kinetic force of the bomb’s descent. A huge plume of water rose more than a hundred feet into the air, soaking those standing around the bay and showering them with fish.

  For a moment, the onlookers waited, thinking this was just a harbinger of the destruction to follow.

  But, seconds later, they were both relieved and amazed to see that Murmansk was still there.

  ABOARD KNEECAP

  “I confirm your identity as Admiral James Malcolm Dunster, Secretary of the Navy,” the TACAMO officer reported. “I have received a valid launch order from National Command Authority, authentication Bravo Five Foxtrot. Do you confirm?”

  “I…” he began.

  “Delay that order, Admiral!”

  The deep, rolling boom was unmistakably Westwood’s, well-practiced and rich with authority. Dunster spun around, astonished to see Westwood, Copeland, Reynolds and Bishop at the door with the agent who had moments earlier taken Reynolds into custody.

  “What the hell is this?” Nielsen demand
ed to know.

  Westwood strode across the room, brandishing the fax. There was no pleasure in his voice as he addressed the Commander-in-Chief. Just curt matter-of-factness. “Mr. Nielsen. I hereby relieve you of command in accordance with the Constitution of the United States of America.”

  Nielsen’s jaw dropped. His eyes were drawn to the fax, although he couldn’t make out the words. “On what basis?” he snapped.

  “Treason,” Bishop informed him coldly. He had personal reasons for wanting to see Nielsen brought to justice, but that could wait. “Endangering the lives of Americans, and every other goddamn person on the planet.”

  “The bombers have been recalled,” Westwood added. “It’s over.”

  Nielsen’s eyes alternated from one man to the next, seeking any indication of support, no matter how slight. His acute political antennae sensed trouble. But he had never walked away from a fight in his life. He didn’t know how to. Survival was in his blood. God knows, his back had been against enough walls during his career, yet he had always managed to weasel his way out and prevail over those who had attempted to destroy him. Why? Because he was superior to them. Better breeding, better education. And he certainly wasn’t going to be relieved of command by some lowbred Negro from Detroit, of all places. No. Paul Nielsen hadn’t come this far to endure that indignity. He would prevail. He always did.

  Sneering condescendingly, he snatched the fax from Westwood and read it. “What is this, huh?” He glanced at it and brandished the sheet of paper like it were garbage. “Anybody could have written this. It’s probably a Russian ploy. Damn, if they can imitate our voices, they can sure as hell imitate signatures. That’s assuming, of course, that these signatures are those of the people they claim to be.” His eyes narrowed accusingly at Westwood. “Have you checked them?” Then he turned to Copeland: “Have you?”

  “Sir,” Copeland pleaded, “the bombers have turned. It’s over.”

  Nielsen tore the sheet of paper in half and threw both fragments onto the floor. He shook his head, chuckling at some private joke. “You know, you people are so naïve. The war is over, my ass. You really believe that, don’t you? You really believe that just because you’ve turned our bombers, the Russians are going to call this whole thing off and live happily ever after. You think that because youheroes have turned the bombers that I’ll be forced not to order the subs to launch. Well, that’s where you’re wrong. We don’t need the bombers, you see. Our nuclear submarines still possess more firepower than has ever been unleashed in the history of war. I still intend to relocate Russia and all the gutter rats that live there into the upper stratosphere. So you go ahead, if you want to, and play your quasi-constitutional legal games. I’ve got a war to fight. We’re making history here today, gentlemen. History.” He leveled an accusatory finger at Westwood, Copeland and Bishop in turn. “You people. You are the traitors, not me.”

  Westwood turned his attention to Dunster. “Don’t do it, James. His authority has been revoked. This is an improper order. Do you understand?”

  Nielsen touched Dunster’s arm and tried reasoning with him. “They’re clutching at straws, Admiral. They have no just cause to do this. You and I both know that.”

  “Admiral Dunster,” repeated the TACAMO operator. “Do you confirm a valid NCA order for the deployment of strategic nuclear weapons?”

  Dunster shook his head at Westwood. I’m sorry. He wasn’t sure what to do in these circumstances, except what he had always done. Go with the book.

  “I, Admiral James Malcolm Dunster – ”

  Westwood closed his eyes to avoid Nielsen’s smug, self-satisfied sneer.

  The Admiral inhaled deeply. “ – do not, repeat,do not confirm this order as valid.”

  “What?” Nielsen exclaimed, unable at first to believe what he was hearing. He wasn’t accustomed to insubordination, and he had no intentions of tolerating it now. “Confirm the launch, Admiral. That’s a fucking order.”

  “I acknowledge negative confirmation of NCA launch order,” TACAMO reported flatly. “Combat Alert status will be maintained.”

  Dunster turned slowly to his Commander-in-Chief. His face betrayed no emotion. Just tiredness. “Sir, the reason we have dual authentication is to ensure that no one man can launch nuclear missiles independently. Not even the President of the United States. If there is any doubt, any doubt whatsoever, as to the validity of a launch order, then it is propernot to verify that order.” He glanced at the torn shreds of paper on the floor. “Obviously, there is some dispute here as to your privilege to exercise command authority. Until that matter is resolved, I am unable to comply with your request.” He offered a limp salute. “Sir.”

  Nielsen visibly deflated before everybody’s eyes. His posture sagged, and for a moment, Dunster felt a tinge of sympathy for him. But that didn’t last for any longer than it took him to remember the poor wretches out there whose lives had already been destroyed. If anybody was deserving of sympathy, it was them.

  Nielsen slowly approached Westwood. “Do you realize what you’ve done here, you idiot? In less than ten minutes, Russian bombers will be roaming our cities at will, and you’ve taken away our capacity to retaliate.”

  “That’s a change of tune, Paul,” Copeland pointed out. “A couple of hours ago, you told everybody that those bombers would never get through. That our fighters would stop them. Same with their subs.”

  Nielsen ignored the sarcastic reminder. When he spoke, his voice was weak, almost pleading. “There is no constitutional basis for revoking my authority. I am the Commander-in-Chief, dammit.”

  Bishop stepped between him and Westwood. He wanted so badly to make this point. Nielsen had been willing to sacrifice the DCI’s ass, and now it was payback time. “Youwere theacting Commander-in-Chief,” he reminded him, failing to conceal his self-satisfaction. “But you surrendered any rights to command when you began conducting your own independent foreign policy.”

  The words took a few seconds to register. Nielsen felt trapped, like a wounded animal being hunted by a pride of lions. “What?”

  “Selling arms to the Ukraine, you son-of-a-bitch. More specifically, ballistic missile components. It was your idiocy that started this thing. The Ukrainians would never have had nuclear missiles if it wasn’t for you. Washington, Seattle and Houston would still be standing if it wasn’t for you. You and your pet rat John Huth, who incidentally has taken his life because he couldn’t live with what he’d done. Both of you used my agency to do it. Myagency,” Bishop hissed through clenched teeth. His nostrils were flaring, and Nielsen suddenly felt very frightened. His eyes searched the room for support, but none was forthcoming, not even from the Secret Service detail (they didn’t like him either). He was at the mercy of the lions.

  Bishop wasn’t finished yet. Not by a long shot. “You would have quite willingly put my ass on the line. For what? So you could line your own filthy pockets?”

  Nielsen attempted a sneer, but he seemed to have lost the will to fight. He didn’t attempt to deny the allegations. His words came out automatically. “I could never expect an ignorant cretin like you to understand,” he said, not meeting Bishop’s eyes. “How could we remain neutral while those Russian bastards attacked a defenseless country? Perhaps weak men like you and Mitchell could, but not me. I did it for my country, and for the principles upon which my country was built.”

  “Well, thanks to you and your schoolboy politics,” Westwood reminded him, “there isn’t much of your country left any more. You ought to think about that. God knows, you’ll have plenty of time to ponder it where you’re going.”

  “What are you saying?” Nielsen snorted. “That you’re placing me under arrest? Not a chance.” He pushed Bishop aside and made for the door. Westwood nodded to the agent standing post at the door, the same man who had taken Reynolds into custody minutes’ earlier. The agent stretched out an arm to stop Nielsen. His other hand was touching his sidearm.

  “I’m sorry, sir.” The age
nt was unable to prevent a satisfied grin flickering across his lips as he stopped the former Commander-in-Chief. “But I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  Before Nielsen could respond, Westwood’s voice filled the room. “Paul Nielsen. I am placing you under arrest on the charge of treasonous activities against the government and people of the United States.” He wasn’t able to recall the Miranda act, which was a shame because he would have loved to have read Nielsen his rights given the chance. You have the right to swing first. Should you choose to do so, I have the right to break every fucking bone in your sorry excuse for a body.

  As Nielsen began to contemplate the end of his career, and of everything else, it was Reynolds who inevitably got in the last word.

  “Hey, look on the bright side, Paul. You may end up with a pretty cellmate called Bubba. If they don’t fry you, of course,” he added as a jovial afterthought.

  For all intents and purposes, everybody in the room except for Nielsen had convinced themselves that the war was over, and that mankind had enjoyed the narrowest of escapes.

  They were wrong.

  XXIII

  SOLUTIONS

  “There has never been a good war, or a bad peace.”

  (Benjamin Franklin)

  UNDERGROUND COMMAND POST, THE KREMLIN

  “We’re still alive,” the Admiral screamed jubilantly. “We have negative detonation. Repeat, negative detonation.”

  “What?” Yazov thought aloud. An excited murmur swept the conference room.

  Grizov frowned. He wasn’t likely to get carried away so easily. “It means that they dropped a faulty bomb,” he explained in a dour monotone. “Murmansk was lucky. I doubt that the rest of Russia will escape so lightly.”