“Correct. Anything short of the megaton range would be useless.”
“Not much of a choice,” Beskrovny said. “Either we stand by and watch helplessly as Chinese paratroopers drop into my country, or we start a nuclear war.”
Mason said, “There may be a third option.”
“What’s that, Dick?” asked Cathermeier.
“Toothpick.”
Cathermeier sighed, shook his head. “Jesus.”
“What’s Toothpick?” asked Lahey.
The project codenamed Toothpick began in 1983 as an offshoot to Reagan’s Strategic Defense Initiative, Mason explained. Having been proven impractical for ABM, or anti-ballistic missile defense, space born kinetic-energy weapons were scrapped in favor of particle and focused radiation weapons until the wholesale scaling down of the U.S.’s nuclear arsenal began in the ’90s. Recognizing the need for semi-smart, autonomous conventional weapons that could be employed in low-intensity conflicts, Toothpick was taken off the shelf in 1993.
Based on a KH-12 spy satellite platform, Toothpick consisted of a “nested drum” of five hundred fifty pound “spikes,” each made from an alloy of super-dense, heat-resistant tungsten, tantalum, niobium, cobalt, and nickel.
Receiving input from a constellation of surveillance and weather satellites, Toothpick’s targeting computer at NO-RAD was designed to calculate a target’s location, air temperature and wind layering, earth rotation, and atmospheric turbulence to arrive at the optimal aiming point for Toothpick’s designator, a blue green argon laser able to penetrate fog, rain, snow, and clouds.
Costing a mere $3,000 apiece, each six-foot spike consisted of little more than a teardrop head, fins, and a rudimentary seeker designed to guide the spike down the beam like a pea through a straw.
“Six feet and fifty pounds?” said Lahey. “Forgive me if that doesn’t sound very impressive.”
“It’s all about speed and focus,” Cathermeier said. “Toothpick orbits at about twenty-five miles—roughly one hundred twenty thousand feet above the earth. By the time one of the spikes hits the ground, it’s traveling at nearly eighteen thousand miles an hour—or five miles a second. You get the kinetic energy equivalent of a ten thousand pound blockbuster bomb.”
“In other words,” Mason added, “All that destructive power—millions of pounds of pressure, heat, and energy—is focused into an area the size of a dinner skillet.”
Lahey stared at them. “I think I’m starting to get the picture. How many of these things do we have?”
“Three in orbit,” Cathermeier said. “The first live-fire test is scheduled for next month.”
“So we have no way of knowing whether it will even work.”
“No, sir, we don’t. Given our alternatives, though, I suggest it might be time to find out.”
Lahey turned and stared at the wall map for several seconds. He turned back to Cathermeier. “How long do you need?”
The ambassador of the People’s Republic of China stepped off the elevator in the White House’s subbasement and was met by a pair of Secret Service agents who escorted him down the hall to an oak-paneled door bearing a small placard reading SITUATION ROOM. One of the agents punched a code into the pad beside the knob, then pushed open the door and nodded to the ambassador.
The ambassador stepped through. The room was darkly paneled with subdued track lighting along the walls and a long, diamond-shaped conference table in the middle. High-backed leather chairs ringed its perimeter. Sitting at the far end of the table was David Lahey; standing behind him, Leland Dutcher and Dick Mason.
“Please come in, Mr. Ambassador,” Lahey said, gesturing to a chair.
Visibly wary, the ambassador pulled out a chair and sat down. “Where is President Martin?”
“President Martin is indisposed,” Lahey replied. “As of last night, he transferred to me all the powers of the presidency.”
“I … I don’t understand.”
“You had an arrangement with Phillip Martin. I’m here to tell you it’s over. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you’re not privy to the whole of your government’s plans for Siberia, but trust me when I tell you: Your role in this fiasco is enough to land you in prison for the rest of your life.”
“First, Mr. Lahey, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” replied the ambassador. “Second, I have diplomatic immunity; the worst you can do is expel me.”
“Don’t push your luck. You played intermediary for a pair of Guoanbu spies who not only conspired to blackmail a president of the United States, but who also slaughtered an entire family—including two little girls. We’re well beyond expulsion at this point, Mr. Ambassador, so choose carefully your words. They may decide your fate.”
The ambassador lifted his chin indignantly. “Why have you summoned me here?”
“Your country is preparing to conduct a full-scale invasion of Russia.”
“I know of no—”
“I’m offering you a chance to put a stop to it before it’s too late.”
“Me? I have no authority to—”
“I realize that. But you can forward my offer to your premier.” Lahey gestured to the phone beside the ambassador’s elbow. “Simply pick up the phone and the call will be put through.”
The ambassador chuckled. “And what do I tell him—that you want him to call off an imaginary invasion? I can’t do that.”
Lahey stared hard at him for several seconds, then looked over his shoulder at Dutcher. “Leland, if you would.” Dutcher walked down the table, laid a sheet of paper before the ambassador, then returned. “If you’ll look, Mr. Ambassador, you’ll see that sheet lists twelve latitude and longitude coordinates. Each represents a secret underground air base your government has built in the Hingaan Mountains.”
Lahey pressed a button in the tabletop and one of the wall’s panels retracted, revealing a sixty-inch television monitor. Centered on the screen was a black-and-white image of the Mongolian salient and Hingaan Mountains.
“The bases in question are highlighted by the red circles you see, labeled one through twelve. Each facility holds some eighty to one hundred transport planes and over eight thousand airborne troops—all awaiting the order to drop into Siberia.”
“I don’t see anything,” the ambassador replied. “This is nonsense.”
Lahey folded his hands on the table and leaned forward. “Again, Mr. Ambassador, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt. Pick up the phone and relay our terms to your premier. If your government fails to do as we ask, we’ll destroy each of these bases in turn, then move on to the PLA’s command and control facilities.”
The ambassador spread his hands. “Mr. President, I—”
“I won’t ask again.”
“I cannot help you.”
Lahey punched a button on his phone. “General Cathermeier, are you there?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Proceed with the first target.”
“Stand by.” Twenty seconds passed. “First salvo en route. Impact in forty-two seconds.”
“Very well.” Lahey turned to the ambassador. “Keep your eye on the easternmost base, Mr. Ambassador.”
Cathermeier called, “Twenty seconds to impact.”
The ambassador said, “What am I—”
“Just watch.”
The image shimmered, then refocused, tightening on the red circle labeled “1.”
“What am I looking for?” said the ambassador. “All I see is what looks like a … quarry.”
Cathermeier’s voice: “Ten seconds … five … four … three … two … one.”
On the screen, a black speck suddenly appeared in the center of the red circle. Then two more, then five. Within ten seconds, the white area within the circle was filled with dark specks. In slow motion, a grayish cloud began spreading outward from the circle’s perimeter. The smoke cleared, revealing a rubble-filled crater.<
br />
The ambassador’s mouth worked, but no words came out.
Lahey said, “Mr. Ambassador, the rubble inside that crater is all that remains of a division of airborne troops, their planes, and the base’s six hundred support personnel. There are eleven more facilities like this one, and we’ll destroy each of them in turn until the invasion is halted.”
“This is a trick.”
“No.”
“You’re bluffing, then.”
His eyes never leaving the ambassador’s, Lahey said, “General Cathermeier?”
“Sir.”
“Prepare the second package.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Wait!” the ambassador cried. He stared openmouthed at the screen. “My God … That’s truly an air base? That crater was …”
“Yes.”
“Lord, what have you done?”
“Nothing compared to what we’re prepared to do, Mr. Ambassador. Your country’s little adventure in Siberia is over. The only question that remains is, How many Chinese soldiers and airmen have to die before your government realizes it?”
The ambassador tore his eyes from the screen and looked at Lahey. He closed his eyes for a moment, then reached for the phone.
Epilogue
China’s invasion of Russia ended with a whimper.
Alerted to the alleged demise of their base, PLAAF surveillance planes were quickly dispatched to the area. The pictures they returned with were quickly sent up the chain of command and landed on the desk of the premier two hours after Toothpick’s first salvo.
The cornerstone to their Rubicon gambit, the PLA’s decade-long marvel of engineering had in the space of ten seconds been turned into a crater. Every blade of grass, every tree, every slab of concrete was dust. Not a single aircraft or soldier survived.
Further satellite and aerial reconnaissance showed no evidence that nuclear weapons were involved; rescue workers found no signs of radiation. Nothing could explain the utter destruction that had befallen their installations—nothing but the ambassador’s testimony that the United States caused it.
With no other course left open, the premier acceded to David Lahey’s terms.
Two days later, under the watchful eyes of Russian and American strike aircraft orbiting above, the troops and support personnel of the remaining eleven bases were shuttled south to Beijing, two airplanes at a time.
With the images being transmitted to PLA headquarters in Beijing, the remaining underground bases, now ghost towns, were one by one destroyed by Toothpick’s deadly rain.
Spared the brunt of the explosion by Mike Skeldon’s sacrifice, Ian Cahil survived with only a broken collarbone, several dozen scrapes’, and some bruises. Twelve hours after clawing his way out of the partially collapsed vent tunnel, he drove Skeldon’s truck to a village called Tas-Yuryakh sixty miles east of Chono Dam and pulled to a stop before a ramshackle hut that served as the village’s general store, barbershop, and administration building, and walked inside.
The proprietor, a toothless old man smoking a pipe, gaped at him.
Putting on what he hoped was his most amiable smile, Bear cleared his throat and said, “Can you please tell me where the nearest phone is? I seem to be a little lost.”
Intimidated by Columbia’s timely and dramatic appearance in front of them, the soldiers in pursuit of Jurens and his team stopped and began circling at a distance as the commander in charge pondered his next step. To nudge him in the right direction, Archie Kinsock called out his twelve-man Security Alert Team, which emerged from the fore and aft escape trunks, trotted to the foredeck, and snapped into parade rest formation, M-16’s held across their bodies.
Eyeing each other across the water—Kinsock standing on Columbia’s monolithic fairwater, the Russian commander at the stem of wooden skiff—the two men came to an unspoken agreement. Columbia’s raft was sent across to Jurens and his team, who were pulled aboard and ferried back.
Columbia’s escape from Russian territorial waters was a close-run race. Alerted to her presence by the Federation ground commander at Nakhodka-Vostochny, the Krivak frigate and two Osa patrol boats to the northeast came about and headed down the coast at flank speed and were soon joined by the lone Akula Columbia had encountered days before.
With the pursuers closing the noose around his boat and no chance of evading them, Kinsock sent a flash message to the NMCC reporting their situation. What he wouldn’t know until days later was that General Cathermeier had already informed Marshal Beskrovny about Columbia’s peril. Aware that Columbia had played a role—albeit an involuntary one—in the destruction of Nakhodka but determined to avoid the war China was so desperately trying to manufacture, Beskrovny sent his own flash message to his Far East District Commander. With both the Krivak and Akula closing to within firing range of Columbia, each captain got the same baffling yet unequivocal order: Let the American submarine pass unmolested.
Four hours after rising off the bottom, Columbia, tooling along on the surface at four knots, exited Russian territorial waters, where she was met by Cheyenne, dispatched from the Stennis group to serve as her escort. An hour later an SH-60 Seahawk from Stennis picked up an unconscious but stable Smitty and flew him to the carrier for treatment.
Jurens and Dickie, both uninjured but sick at heart, remained aboard Columbia to see Zee’s body back to Pearl, where they were met by his wife, his four-year-old son and two-year-old daughter.
As for Sunil Dhar, he was met pierside by two men in dark suits who ushered him into the back of a nondescript government sedan and whisked away.
Rappahannock River
In the end, it had been a bizarre confluence of irony and luck that had saved Tanner’s life.
The first bullet had torn through his right buttock, missing his pelvic bone by a quarter inch, then blasted out of the front of his thigh. The second shot was more serious, having entered his lower back and cutting a ragged groove through both his diaphragm and spleen before exiting his abdomen.
Already slipping into shock, Tanner’s plunge into the icy water pushed him toward the edge of hypothermia, slowing both his respiration and circulation as his body began to instinctively shut down nonessential systems. The snow he’d packed around his wound further slowed the bleeding of his ruptured spleen. By the time Hsiao pulled him aboard the helicopter, Tanner’s heartbeat and respiration were nearly undetectable.
His stroke of luck came in the form of Novotroitskoye’s base doctor, a former army field surgeon who’d served during the Soviet Union’s invasion of Afghanistan. He’d seen and treated the worst of wounds in the worst of conditions. Upon seeing Tanner, he wasted no time, bypassing traditional treatment methods for those he’d successfully used so many times on the battlefield.
Keeping Tanner in a limbo of near-hypothermia, the doctor packed the major arteries in his arms and legs in ice, then took him straight to surgery, repairing the gash in his diaphragm and removing his spleen in a record thirty-four minutes. As the last stitch was closed, he ordered Tanner transferred to a warming table, covered with blankets, and pumped full of intravenous fluids.
For two days Briggs lay unconscious, his lungs and heart pumping at bare sustenance levels.
As the doctor predicted, on the third day Tanner’s natural healing system took over and he regained consciousness. “Welcome back,” the doctor said with a smile.
Tanner blinked his eyes open. “Where am I?” he rasped.
“Under the care of the greatest doctor in all of Siberia, that’s where.”
“Glad to hear it. How long have I—”
“Three days. This afternoon we’ll have you up and walking—with a cane, mind you—and by the end of the week you’ll be well enough to leave for your cell at the gulag.”
“What?”
“Just a joke.” ‘
“Very funny.”
The doctor shrugged. “As I understand it, there’s an American transport
plane waiting for you.”
“Where are my—”
“Friends? They’re outside, waiting to see you.”
“They’re okay?”
“Compared to you, they’re Olympians.”
Tanner nodded, then laid his head back and closed his eyes. “Good.”
Twenty days after entering China, Tanner was back home.
Kam Hsiao and Han Soong were secreted in a luxurious CIA safe house in rural Maryland, where they would spend the next few months, after which both would receive new identities, homes, and vocations if they so chose. Either way, Dick Mason said, both men would never want for anything again. Along with Tanner, Cahil, Mike Skeldon, and Charlie Latham, Soong and Hsiao had helped prevent what could have easily become the third world war.
Kyung Xiang had vanished. As Tanner and the others were en route back to Novotroitskoye, the base commander had ordered a pair of Havoc helicopter gunships loaded with soldiers back to the Bira River. Xiang, his remaining paratroopers, and Lian Soong were gone, as was Xiang’s Hind. The Hoplite pilot was found alive in the cabin where they’d left him and was returned to the border.
In subsequent meetings between the U.S.-Russian delegation and its Chinese counterpart, questions about Xiang were deflected with the vague comment, “Former-director Xiang is unavailable at this time.” Recognizing diplomatic subtlety when they saw it, State Department analysts took it to mean Xiang had either already been executed, or he was already locked away in a dank laogi cell.
For Tanner’s part, he spent his first days home savoring hot showers, home-cooked meals, dry clothes, and a bed with soft sheets and thick blankets. After his time in China, each experience seemed new. He vowed to never take such amenities for granted again.
All in all, he decided, it felt good to be alive.
It was just after dusk when Tanner arrived home from his second-to-last physical therapy session. Though the damage to his leg was neither permanent nor disabling, the bullet had badly torn muscles and tendons in its passage. Tanner had rid himself of the cane the previous week and now walked with only a slight limp. Ignoring warnings to the contrary, he’d started swimming in the mornings and running in the evenings—or as Cahil had called it, “hobble-jogging.” Tanner found every stroke and step painful, but each day he awoke feeling a bit more like himself.
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