“Impressive,” Bud had to admit. “How did they do it?”
Drummond sensed that it was his turn to join in his boss’s presentation. “It looks like some sort of tail-rotor failure. Not an explosive of any kind; otherwise, that bloom you saw when it failed would have been a hell of a lot brighter. Somehow they tampered with the rotor housing or something, because when it came up to speed, the thing just came apart. If you look real closely, you can actually see blades flying off as it disintegrates.”
“And the other two Hinds suffered the same fate a few minutes later,” the DCI added. “The Cubans must have thought the first two were shot down. You can imagine the confusion there. Unfortunately the satellite was not able to keep its sensors on that area of observation.”
Bud perked up at that comment. “Why not?”
“There’s a problem with the stabilization system for the real-time sensors,” the DCI explained. The “real-time sensors” were the video camera systems, which were often used to transmit images as they happened, hence the name.
Fantastic! The only platform to observe and provide the intelligence the rebels wanted wasn’t fully functioning. There were three KH-12s in orbit, two of which were tasked with monitoring the removal of the former Soviet ICBMs from the Ukraine. The more capable KH-12 ENCAP (Enhanced Capability) was almost out of fuel. It was presently, as it had been for the previous year, running a straight orbital path at five hundred miles altitude. Budget cuts and the lack of any real threats had resulted in the refueling flight by the Space Shuttle being postponed indefinitely. Bud knew there were other means to maintain the country’s “eye in the sky” capability, but this situation damned sure didn’t warrant the risk of exposure or the expense.
“Would the information we can get from the satellite still serve the purpose?” the President asked.
“Absolutely,” Merriweather answered without hesitation. “The still imagery is what we need in order to provide information to the rebels.”
The President sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed on the frozen image at the end of the video. “What about other facilities in Cuba?”
“We have stills from seven major airfields taken on the same pass as these,” the DCI responded, pointing to the second set of photos on the table. “Sir, the Cuban government effectively has no air force remaining.”
It was really happening, the President thought. The second-to-last bastion of communism was finally crumbling, and it was on his watch.
And now it was time to commit. “Anthony, get things moving. Our investment in this may be small, but the return could be tremendous. I don’t want to miss this opportunity.”
“Gladly, sir.” Merriweather looked to the NSA with a look that begged of a challenge, but there was none.
“Then let’s do this,” the President said. He stood, as did the others in his presence, and wished them well before going to the adjoining study to complete work reviewing several policy papers.
Merriweather headed out, leaving his deputy and the NSA alone in the Oval Office. The younger man avoided the NSA’s stare for a moment. “Sorry, Bud.”
“Just what does he think he’s doing?”
Drummond looked to the door that had closed behind the President. “Not here.”
“Come on.” They were in Bud’s office a minute later, Old Executive partially visible through the windows facing west. “Your boss is now officially on my shit list. What in the hell does he think he’s doing advising the President to do this!”
The DDI knew it wasn’t a question, despite the wording. It was a release. “Anthony is out to prove history wrong, Bud.”
“What does that mean?”
Drummond took a seat on the liberally cushioned couch. “You remember old Professor Merriweather’s book, Victory in Vietnam: Winning the War We Lost. He crucified Kennedy and Johnson for failing to seize the initiative in the early stages of involvement. For some reason he left Ike out of the equation, which is kinda funny, considering his politics. Attacking two Democrats must have seemed more salient, I guess.” Drummond, the conservative Republican, let his personal politics slip into an official conversation. It was a rare enough happening that Bud’s expression changed from one of anger to one of wonder. “He thought we should have been more aggressive in trying to destabilize the North by insurrection, rather than let them do the same thing to the South. Remember the final four chapters.” A nod signaled him to proceed. “My esteemed director explained in detail how such a plan to defeat the North could have worked. First, commit minimum resources. Second, find disgruntled officers in the military. Third, use the carrot on the stick to get those officers to take out their own government. Kind of like ‘We’ll give you this, but you have to do this first.’” He looked to the dark carpeting at his feet. “When the Cubans practically walked in ready to fulfill his twenty-year-old prophecy, well...”
Bud leaned against his file-strewn desk. “Jesus, Greg. Does he have any idea what...” He stopped in mid-sentence. “Stupid question.”
“Anthony knows exactly what this could mean, but he chooses to ignore anything that might get in the way of his theory of ‘baited revolution’ being proven. He chooses to ignore a lot of things.”
“I can’t believe this. I really can’t.” Bud walked around his desk and fell into the high back chair. “Do you know what the Russians would do if they found out about this? Christ, Greg, Cuba may not be their little brother anymore, but that doesn’t mean they think there’s an implied carte blanche to kick Castro out. Dammit!” He spun the chair to face the window. “Any hint that we’re involved in Cuba would make trust a moot point. The modernization program would be down the tubes.” Bud turned back to the sullen DDI. “And Konovalenko, and his reforms, well, he doesn’t need any other pressures right now.”
“I argued for a timing change,” Drummond explained. “But Anthony wouldn’t go for it.”
“You should have gone to the President.”
The DDI raised an unsure eyebrow at the suggestion. “Right. I bypass my boss and go to the Man. Aside from the fact that I like to be able to feed my family, you know as well as I that he wouldn’t have bought it. You saw him. He’s as much into this as Anthony. Mainly because of Anthony.”
Bud knew his friend was right. It was a suggestion, really a wish, born of frustration. “Dammit, Greg. Why now? Even if it is going to work, why now?”
“Because he’s an idiot,” Drummond said. The characterization might have been harsh, but he could have said worse at the moment. “All he sees is success, and he’s got the President believing that, too. And they want it now.”
It wasn’t hard to see why the President was going along with this so willingly. Merriweather had carefully orchestrated it so that only he would advise the President on SNAPSHOT until it was actually under way. Then it would be too late to do anything about it.
So that was the reason for the show. The realization of what had really happened a few minutes before in the Oval Office came to Bud very suddenly. “Your boss is no idiot, Greg. He’s smart.”
“How do you figure?”
Bud laughed openly. “He keeps the President isolated from any negative analysis of SNAPSHOT by restricting knowledge only to those who won’t or can’t challenge the plan. Namely he was worried about me. You know as well as I that he’s never been a fan of mine, and he knew I’d have serious reservations about his operation. He also knew that the President would listen to me. So what does he do? When it’s time to let me in, he uses me to give credibility to the results we saw in there by asking for my analysis. I couldn’t lie; it looked impressive. The rebels were obviously well prepared for this, and that imagery didn’t just give Anthony the validation the President wanted—he used it to solicit my tacit approval for the President. Like you said, all they see is success, and now he’s negated the person who would have squawked the loudest.”
“I’m used to the abuse part from him,” Drummond said. “How does it feel being used
?”
“It’s not so bad when you don’t know it for ninety-nine percent of the time it’s going on,” Bud joked.
Drummond couldn’t see where his friend was finding humor in this. “I wish I could laugh it off like you.”
“ ‘Once the derby starts, the horses don’t run backward,’ ” Bud said, the familiar quote bringing a smile to his face and a slight lump to his throat.
“Herb Landau sticks with you, doesn’t he?” the DDI said. He had heard the same words from his former boss in some of the darker times when events seemed to be overtaking those who were supposed to be in control. “So what now?”
“We try and keep any major fuckups from happening,” Bud said confidently. “If I know you, you’ve kept Anthony as much on the straight and narrow as is possible.”
“Except for his choice of who’s to take the reins down there.”
“Some things will have to straighten themselves out once this is done.” Maybe like in Panama, Bud thought to himself. That was still to be resolved.
“I hope so,” the DDI said. “Now would be a good time to fill you in on what we need from the military.”
“Shoot.”
It took only a few seconds to explain. “Sort of a bodyguard and escort service.”
“I think they have a less flattering term for this kind of mission,” Bud commented. The boys in black were again being tasked for a mission that was a waste of their talent. But being special, he reminded himself, didn’t always guarantee the glory. “Drew is going to love being kept out of the loop on this.” Secretary of Defense Andrew Meyerson, though not always of the same mind as the NSA, was likely to have the same reaction at having been kept in the dark on SNAPSHOT.
“You can share some of your empathy,” Drummond suggested playfully. The feeling that he was alone in the world was finally subsiding.
“Time for teamwork,” Bud said. “I’ll keep the President from getting only a rosy picture of things, and you keep your boss from tripping over his satisfaction.”
“Mike will be glad to know it’s not just him and me against the world anymore.” The DDI got up and started for the door.
“Your duet just became a trio.”
“Wanna try for an orchestra?” the DDI asked with a smile, then left the NSA alone in his office.
Solitude was conducive to thought, and thought to worry, in situations such as this. What had begun could not be stopped. Herb Landau’s words might have said the same more poetically, but neither statement could tell Bud what lay ahead. That was his question of the moment and was sure to be the one of the hour, day, and week until there was a resolution to that which he really had no control over. Influence was the best he could hope to offer, and that only in limited quantities.
But he did have his own operation of sorts to see to, one that was itself gaining steam. He looked at the clock. The convincing move in the plan to assuage any final fears in the Kremlin was about to take place. After that things would happen too fast to turn back. That was his hope. It would also become his fear in short order.
* * *
“This is our force-monitoring panel, Marshal Kurchatov.” CINCNORAD gestured across the five-foot console and directed the two Russians to take the seats on either side of the watch officer, an Air Force major. “NORAD is an alternate command center, as you know. Our normal mission in any strategic conflict would be to monitor, track, and advise the National Command Authority. If necessary, though, we can run the show.”
“How do you say...redundancy?”
CINCNORAD nodded. “If the command center above is knocked out, the one below takes over immediately. And so on. The same as your forces, Marshal.”
“Yes, the same,” Kurchatov agreed, lying as best he could behind the smile. The Americans would be horrified to know how little redundancy their Russian counterparts had built into their strategic systems.
“For our purposes today, though, we will not actually have control. We will be monitoring orders given by Strategic Command. These displays will show you the status of every strategic system we have. Even the missile subs,” Walker added with some coolness. “This is the first time even I’ve known where they all are. They usually go where they want within a very large patrol area.”
“It is true, then,” Kurchatov said with some surprise. “Your raket submarines elude even you?”
General Walker nodded. “That’s their job: to disappear. Except for right now.” The general’s plaster-like smile masked the difficulty he was having with this as he noted the positional notations of the United States’ ballistic-missile subs, which were out of their element, not hiding in the protective waters of the oceans but tied up at dock. Up and down both coasts the subs were spread, many at bases that usually handled only attack subs. This was done to keep observant eyes from noting unusually large numbers of the metal leviathans at their usual ports of Bangor, Washington, and Kings Bay, Georgia.
Colonel Belyayev took the one eared headset lying on the console’s flat deck and slid it on. There was none for the defense minister, but then, he was an observer. His presence was to add credibility and surety to the operation, so that any unforeseen happening would not need to be explained to Moscow by a junior officer. The fact that there was none more senior than Kurchatov made his presence all the more desirable.
Belyayev touched the trackball to his right, which operated a digitized pointing device on the large display before him, though not as large as the screens in a separate room—actually more of a theater—of the Cheyenne Mountain Complex where the activities of “enemy” missiles inbound on the United States would be watched. He deftly moved the arrow-shaped pointer to each of the notations that corresponded to the subs, his lips moving as he counted. Russian satellites had done passes over the ports on both coasts that serviced the American missile subs, verifying that the electronic images Belyayev was seeing were not just ghostly manipulations. One leg of the American strategic triad—land-based ICBMs and long-range bombers were the other two—was being temporarily taken out of service. Except...
“Pennsylvania,” Belyayev said, the pointer circling the sub base at Kings Bay, Georgia. “He is not here.”
General Walker knew this was coming. The last Russian satellite pass, whose information had been quickly transmitted to his two guests from Moscow, had shown the USS Pennsylvania, an Ohio-class ballistic-missile sub, still not in port. When the orders went out two weeks before instructing individual subs—none knew that all of their kind were coming in—to return to port and tie up by a specified time, Pennsylvania had acknowledged the transmission as expected. But now she was overdue, though not technically in Navy terms. Missile subs generally had a twenty-four-hour window in which to arrive when returning to base. This was no ordinary return, however, and Pennsylvania’s twelve-hour delay was beginning to sound alarms.
“She may have some mechanical problems,” CINCNORAD posited. It was both a guess and a sincere hope.
“She.” Belyayev remembered that the Americans referred to their ships and submarines the opposite of the Russians. “She was due in Kings Bay, yes?”
CINCNORAD nodded. “She and four others.” Norfolk and Groton would split the remainder of the missile boats in the Atlantic.
“You do not know where she is?” Marshal Kurchatov inquired seriously. The joviality had left his manner.
“Like I said, their job is to disappear. Strategic Command doesn’t even know.” The Strategic Command, a joint-service command headed by a Navy admiral, had replaced the Strategic Air Command, and was keeper of the nation’s entire nuclear arsenal.
“Have you tried communicating with hi— her?” Belyayev asked.
General Walker paused for just a second. “Yes, we have, and there has been no reply.”
“It is possible, then, that Pennsylvania is lost?” Marshal Kurchatov wondered, looking briefly to Colonel Belyayev.
“We hope not. In a few hours we will have to assume the possibility, though, and be
gin a search.” The United States had never lost a boomer, and now was by far the worst time for that first to occur.
The marshal, resplendent in his dress greens and breast of medals and ribbons, looked briefly to his subordinate. A decision had to be made. If the Americans were lying, concealing one of their missile submarines out in the waters of the Atlantic, then the Motherland would be vulnerable to a surprise attack once her radar-warning system was shut down. He glanced at the highly technical displays to his front. Could some electronic wizardry perpetrated by the Americans mask a secret launch by the Pennsylvania? Was he being duped?
Or were they telling the truth?
A brief moment of reflection convinced the marshal of the latter. “Let us hope it is simply a mechanical difficulty.”
“Yes,” General Walker agreed. “Shall we begin?”
“Yes.”
CINCNORAD gave the go-ahead to the duty officer. The major pressed a single button on his communication console. “Red Bird, Red Bird. This is NORAD Alternate Command Console.”
“This is Red Bird,” the major’s counterpart at Strategic Command acknowledged.
“Red Bird, CINCNORAD requests execution of RANDOM LANCE.”
There was a brief silence. “RANDOM LANCE approved.”
All eyes shifted to the largest display. Colonel Belyayev already had a zoom box squared around the area in southern Wyoming that they were watching. A click brought the magnification up to reveal an electronic representation of the missile fields surrounding Francis E. Warren Air Force Base. The Minuteman missiles of the 90th Strategic Missile Wing, spread over 12,600 square miles, had dwindled in number after the Strategic Arms Reduction Talks (START) from two hundred to just eighty. The MIRVed LGM-30G Minuteman IIIs remaining had given up two of their three 335-kiloton Multiple Independently Targeted Reentry Vehicles to comply with START, and one of those missiles, number six in Hotel Flight, had recently had its single warhead replaced with a benign-range instrumentation package, a common payload for test launches.
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