by Dale Brown
“That’s sheer nonsense, Mr. President,” Thorn said. “I’ve taken full responsibility for each and every one of those attacks, all of which were provoked by Russian military hostilities; and may I remind you that the United States has paid millions of dollars in reparations and legal claims as a result of those attacks. I want you to abort those missiles immediately and—”
“President Thorn, I asked you to listen to me,” Gryzlov’s interpreter said. “This is not a negotiation, only a notification. The missiles cannot and will not be aborted. The targets are offensive bomber and missile bases and combat command-and-control facilities only. The warheads are one-kiloton nuclear devices with bunker-penetrating technology, designed to destroy armored underground facilities—”
“My God!”
“They are no more powerful than the plasma-yield devices you used over Korea and only a few magnitudes more powerful than the thermium-nitrate weapons you used on Engels Air Base, and I predict that the death toll will be much lower in this attack than from the one on Engels,” Gryzlov went on. “At least I gave you the courtesy of notifying you ahead of time, Mr. President.”
“What?”
“If you’ll check your hot-line messages, I notified the White House of the targets of the attack shortly after the missiles were launched,” the interpreter said. “You have the entire target list, exactly as programmed into the attack computers of every aircraft in our strike force. I had intended to give you a full hour to evacuate those targets, but our strike force was discovered, and the flight leader ordered his force to retarget and launch early.
“You are more than welcome to try to shoot down the warheads, since I am certain that you can accurately predict the missiles’ flight path, but I am assured that it is almost impossible to do so even with your impressive Patriot PAC-3 surface-to-air missile. Of course, you might have a chance to do so with the AL-52 Dragon anti-ballistic-missile laser aircraft under General McLanahan’s command, but our intelligence tells me that you have grounded his entire fleet of aircraft. Unfortunate.”
“McLanahan is no longer in command of the Air Battle Force, Gryzlov,” Thorn said angrily. Marine One banked sharply, lining up for its final approach to landing. “You’re doing all this to avenge yourself on a man that’s not even in the picture anymore!”
“That does not matter, Mr. President,” the interpreter said. “For too long you and your predecessors have sanctioned McLanahan’s actions, and when he performs some heinous attack without your authority, you chose not to punish him—even when his actions kill thousands of innocent men, women, and children and terrorize the entire civilized world. McLanahan is nothing but a wild dog—but you are the dog’s handler. It is your responsibility, and you have failed. Now it is time to accept your punishment.
“I know you have absolutely no reason to trust me, President Thorn,” the interpreter went on, “but what I am about to tell you is the truth, and if your officers will check the data I have provided, you will see that I have told you the truth all along. I will continue to do so until I perceive that you will not be truthful with me. I do not want to start a nuclear war with you, Mr. Thorn—”
“But that is exactly what you’re doing!” Thorn retorted. The noise level inside the cabin rose as Marine One began its hover approach to its landing zone on the parade grounds outside the Fort Leavenworth headquarters building. “What do you expect me to do, Gryzlov—sit still while Russia drops dozens of nuclear warheads on the United States?”
“That is precisely what I expect you to do—for the sake of the world,” Gryzlov said. “I promise you, on my mother’s eyes, soldier to soldier, that I will not launch any further attacks on the United States of America, its allies—what few allies you have left—and its territories, unless you decide to retaliate. This attack is a response to your attacks against Russia. It is merely payback. Remember that.
“And if you study the effect of this attack, Mr. President, you will see in very short order that it leaves the United States and Russia with exactly the same number of strategic weapon systems—in other words, nuclear parity, with an equal number of delivery vehicles on both sides.”
“Are you actually going to present to the world that this attack is an arms-control exercise?” Thorn asked incredulously. “Do you honestly expect anyone on Earth to believe that?”
“Nonetheless, it will be true, and you may verify it yourself,” Gryzlov’s interpreter said. Thorn could hear papers shuffling—the interpreter was likely reading from a prepared script. “Now, I know that you have eight to ten Ohio-class nuclear ballistic-missile submarines on patrol at the present time, plus an equal number at port or undergoing maintenance. That is five times more than Russia has and, as much as I hate to admit it, I fear that our submarines will probably blow themselves up the moment they try to launch a missile. That gives the United States a substantial deterrent capability.”
“What’s your point, Gryzlov?”
“The point is, sir, that even if our attack is one hundred and ten percent effective, the United States would still have a substantial advantage over Russia. We could then—”
“Gryzlov, you don’t understand a thing,” Thorn snapped. “I don’t give a damn about the weapons. I’m all for reducing our nuclear arsenal to below two thousand warheads, maybe even lower. I would have been happy to work with you to draft a new Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty. But what you’re doing is killing potentially thousands of people in a sneak attack against the United States. No American president would allow that to happen unavenged.”
“So a sneak attack against Russia is acceptable to you, but a sneak attack against the United States is not?”
Thorn found he had no answer for Gryzlov. He felt that the Russian president was right: McLanahan had staged a sneak attack against Russian border guards in Belgorod, trying to rescue two of his crew members who’d been shot down over Russia—after he was specifically ordered to return to base. McLanahan had launched a sneak attack against Engels Air Base, moments before Russian bombers were to launch and execute a massive attack against Turkmeni military forces that had defeated a Russian battalion in Turkmenistan. McLanahan had destroyed a Russian air-defense site in Turkmenistan without proper authorization.
He hadn’t used nuclear weapons, of course—but did that really matter? The attack on Engels had killed thousands, including some civilians, and nearly destroyed one of Russia’s main military air bases. McLanahan’s attack on the air-defense site had killed almost two dozen, and that was against a completely defensive weapon system. Was Gryzlov a worse leader just because he was using nuclear weapons? Was Patrick McLanahan the real provocateur in this entire matter after all?
The door to Marine One opened, and two Secret Service agents, a general officer, and several armed soldiers stood outside in the driving rain, waiting excitedly for the president to alight. He did not need to glance at his watch to know that time was running out—no, time had run out a long time ago. Time had run out when he’d failed to deal with McLanahan, when he’d let his secretary of defense, Robert Goff, talk him out of punishing the general.
“Listen to me, President Thorn,” Gryzlov went on. “I need to know what you decide. Will you retaliate?”
“What if I do?”
“Then, depending on the threat to my government and my people, I will have to respond in kind,” the interpreter responded.
“Following your sneak attack with more threats, Gryzlov?”
“Allow me to remind you again, Mr. President: This attack, although preemptive and heinous, makes us even. For the first time in history, Russia and the United States are at a strategic parity, with the United States definitely holding a technological and, at least for the time being, a moral advantage. If you retaliate, you’ll be condemning the world to nuclear disaster. You will be the aggressor.”
There was a rustling of sound on the phone, and then General Anatoliy Gryzlov’s voice, speaking in halting and heavily accented English, t
ook over from that of the interpreter. “Mr. President, you have made remarks in the past saying that a limited nuclear war is not just possible but probable. You have seen nuclear weapons used by the People’s Republic of China, the former North Koreans, and even Ukraine against Russia itself. Surely you have given this topic much thought. You know your answer. You know that the risk I have taken is great, but the risk you take by retaliating heightens the danger to the world a thousandfold.”
“Mr. President, I want you into a shelter in five minutes,” the chief of the Presidential Protection Detail said sternly. Thorn’s internal “commando clock” told him there was less than twenty minutes before the first warhead would hit. “We have to go now.”
“President Thorn?” Gryzlov asked. “What will you do?”
Thorn looked at his PPD chief, then at the floor of the VIP cabin of the helicopter. Taking a deep breath, he raised his head and said, “What I’m going to do…is not talk to you any longer, Gryzlov,” the president said. “You launch nuclear weapons at my country and then tell me that you won’t launch any more unless we do—and you say it as casually as apologizing for accidentally splashing mud on someone? I’ll do what I have to do, without conferring with you beforehand.” Gryzlov was saying something in Russian in the background, but Thorn hung up before the interpreter could translate.
He leaped out of the helicopter. The general officer saluted, and Thorn returned his salute. “Mr. President, I’m Major General Robert Lee Brown, commanding general,” he said. “This way, sir, quickly.” Brown motioned to a waiting staff car, and they drove off, surrounded by Army military-police escorts. They drove to a traditional-looking three-story brick building; inside, it looked anything but traditional. There was a welcome area featuring several large computer screens where visitors could watch images of computerized tank and helicopter battles, with captions underneath showing which units were participating in the mock battle. All of the screens were dark now, shut down to prevent damage in case of an electromagnetic pulse, and the area was deserted except for a few worried-looking soldiers in battle-dress uniforms stepping hurriedly past.
The group took a concrete-and-steel stairway down two floors, followed a long minimally decorated corridor, and entered an office complex with a secretarial staff area flanked by several large office suites. “This is the computer operations hub for the National Simulation Center, which conducts several different types of battlefield combat simulations,” Brown said. “This office complex is the most secure location on base, and it is also equipped with secure high-speed communications facilities. You should be safe down here for as long as you need to stay. We’re not hardened against EMP, nor are we equipped with biochem filters, but this is the safest place on post. We should be safe if Whiteman or McConnell is attacked.”
“That’s okay, General,” Thorn said. “We’ll be on our way as soon as we’re able. Thank you. Please see to your command now—make sure everyone is safe.” The general saluted the president, shook his proffered hand, then departed. “Mark, get me the NMCC.”
The Secret Service agent got a quick briefing on the phone system, then dialed the National Military Command Center, checked in, and activated the speakerphone. “This is the president, secure,” Thorn said. “Situation report.”
“Sir, this is General Venti. Secretary Goff and I are en route to Andrews to take the NAOC airborne.” The NAOC, or National Airborne Operations Center, was the flying version of the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon, a converted Boeing 747 able to communicate with government, civil, and military forces around the world. “We are still in an Air Defense EMERCON. Four bases in Alaska have been struck by small-yield nuclear missiles—all radar sites and ballistic-missile defense installations. NORAD is now tracking several dozen inbound very-high-speed cruise missiles over south-central Canada. Estimated time to first impact: nine minutes, twelve seconds; target: Minot Air Force Base, North Dakota.”
“I spoke with Gryzlov—he confirmed he launched the attack and warns us not to retaliate,” Thorn said grimly. “Status of the government and military command-and-control network?”
“Good and bad, sir,” Venti said. “Most of the cabinet and congressional leadership have checked in with the comm center. Most are staying in Washington, unless there’s evidence that they might try to strike the capital. Since there are no tracks detected heading toward Washington or anywhere east of the Mississippi, the vice president relocated to High Point instead of going airborne. We’ll take several members of Congress and other agencies airborne with us. Secretary of State Hershel is airborne in a C-32 from Phoenix. Attorney General Horton hasn’t checked in, but his deputy said he was en route to Andrews, along with the director of the FBI.”
“I want you and Secretary Goff airborne ASAP, General, as soon as you arrive at Andrews,” the president said. “As soon as both of you are on board, lift off. Don’t wait for stragglers.”
“Understood, sir.”
“What’s the bad news, General?”
“The bad news, sir,” Venti said grimly, “is that we’re going to get clobbered, and there’s nothing we can do about it except watch—and wait for the casualty counts to come in.”
Site 91-12, North Dakota
That same time
Their day had started at seven-thirty the previous morning. Captain Bruce Ellerby and Second Lieutenant Christine Johnson, his assistant crew commander, met at the 742nd Missile Squadron to review tech-order changes and alert notes. They wore royal blue Air Force fatigues with white name tapes and insignia, along with squadron scarves.
After a series of briefings to the entire oncoming crews, including launch-facility status, intelligence, weather, and standardization/evaluation reports, the crews piled their tech orders, manuals, and other bags into assigned vans and headed out to their assigned launch-control facilities. Both Ellerby and Johnson were taking correspondence classes while on alert, so they brought backpacks filled with books: Ellerby was working on his master’s degree in aviation-maintenance management from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, while Johnson was working on both Squadron Officer School and her master’s degree in computer science from the University of North Dakota.
After dropping off another crew, Ellerby and Johnson made their way to their facility and checked in with the security-forces commander around noon. A security-alert team was sent out to check ID cards and access badges, and the van was allowed to approach the launch-control facility. The crew checked in with the “House Mouse,” the noncommissioned officer who controlled access to the facility, to get the security and operational status of the site, and then placed a lunch order with the cook. By then the House Mouse had checked in with the offgoing crew, received verification of crew change and code words, then opened the elevator-shaft access door for the ongoing crew.
Despite its being only an eight-story ride, it took four minutes for the elevator to reach the bottom. Their first task after reaching the subterranean level was to manually pump open the locking pins securing the ten-ton outer blast door leading to the launch-control electrical bay. Despite being heavy, the door was so well balanced on its hinges that it was easy for Ellerby and Johnson to pull it open. Once inside, the crew completed their preflight checks of the high-voltage electrical systems, switching panels, generators, and batteries, which would supply electrical power to the launch-control facility in case city power was disrupted. Once the checklist was complete, the crew closed the big door and pumped the locks back in.
Meanwhile, the offgoing crew in the launch-control capsule was pumping open the blast door to the capsule. By the time Ellerby and Johnson were finished, the door was open, and they walked across a narrow tunnel leading to the launch-control capsule, an egg-shaped room suspended from the ceiling by enormous spring shock absorbers designed to protect the crew from the blast effects of all but a direct hit by a nuclear weapon.
The offgoing crew commander briefed the ongoing crew on the status of the faci
lity and on any scheduled maintenance or security-team inspections that were to be performed on the facility itself or any of the ten primary and ten secondary missiles under their supervision. The final task was for the offgoing crew to remove their combination locks from the red safe above the deputy commander’s launch console and cut off the tamper-evident truck seals securing the safe. The oncoming crew checked the authentication documents and launch keys, logged the new seal numbers, then closed, locked, and safety-sealed the safe. With the changeover complete, the offgoing crew turned over their sidearms to the new crew and departed. A final one hundred pumps on the handle, and the capsule was closed. After a check-in with the squadron’s other four launch-control facilities and assessment of equipment status, the twenty-four-hour alert tour began.
Normally, pulling alert in a missile launch-control facility meant hours and hours of boredom, punctuated by a few hours of busywork and a few minutes of excitement. This tour was anything but normal. After a fairly quiet day and early evening, the communications system became more and more active as the evening wore on, with several communications and status-report queries from wing and Twentieth Air Force headquarters. Tensions were obviously high. The crews were fully aware of the events that had taken place in Central Asia in recent weeks and months, and of the overall heightened degree of distrust and suspicion of the Russians.
The tension exploded early the next morning with a loud, rapid deedledeedledeedle! warning tone, signaling receipt of an emergency action message. Christine Johnson, taking a nap in the crew bunk, immediately bolted upright and hurried over to her deputy crew commander’s seat. Ellerby was already in his seat, and he had his codebook out and open. Seconds later a coded message from the wing command post was broadcast, and both crew members copied the message in their codebooks with grease pencils and began decoding it.