by Tom Clancy
He turned his head to see the Washington Monument, and beyond that the reflecting pool and the Lincoln Memorial. He was in the same line as those men, in the city named for one, and saved in time of war by another... and he was running away from danger... the Capitol Building, home of the Congress. The light was on atop the dome. Congress was in session, doing the country’s work, or trying to, as they did... but he was running away... eastern Washington, mainly black, working-class people who did the menial jobs for the most part, and had hopes to send their kids to college so that they could make out a little better than their parents had... eating their dinner, watching TV, maybe going out to a movie tonight or just sitting on their porches and shooting the bull with their neighbors—
—Ryan’s head turned again, and he saw the two gray shapes at the Navy Yard, one familiar, one not, because Tony Bretano had—
Ryan flipped the belt buckle in his lap and lurched forward, knocking into the Marine sergeant in the jump seat. Colonel Malloy was in the right-front seat, doing his job, flying the chopper. Ryan grabbed his left shoulder. The head came around.
“Yes, sir, what is it?”
“See that cruiser down there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Land on it”
“Sir, I—”
“Land on it, that’s an order!” Ryan shouted at him.
“Aye aye,” Malloy said like a good Marine.
The Blackhawk turned, arcing down the Anacostia River, and flaring as Malloy judged the wind. The Marine hesitated, looking back one more time. Ryan insistently jerked his hand at the ship.
The Blackhawk approached cautiously.
“What are you doing?” Andrea demanded.
“I’m getting off here. You’re going to KNEECAP.”
“NO!” she shouted back. “I stay with you!”
“Not this time. Have your baby. If this doesn’t work out, I hope the kid turns out like you and Pat.” Ryan moved to open the door. The Marine sergeant got there first. Andrea moved to follow.
“Keep her aboard, Marine!” Ryan told the crew chief. “She goes with you!”
“NO! ” Price-O’Day screamed.
“Yes, sir,” the sergeant acknowledged, wrapping his arms around her.
President Ryan jumped to the nonskid decking of the cruiser’s landing area and ducked as the chopper pulled back into the sky. Andrea’s face was the last thing he saw. The rotor wash nearly knocked him down, but going to one knee prevented that. Then he stood up and looked around.
“What the hell is—Jesus, sir!” the young petty officer blurted, recognizing him.
“Where’s the captain?”
“Captain’s in CIC, sir.”
“Show me!”
The petty officer led him into a door, then a passageway that led forward. A few twists and turns later, he was in a darkened room that seemed to be set sideways in the body of the ship. It was cool in here. Ryan just walked in, figuring he was President of the United States, Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy, and the ship belonged to him anyway. It took a stretch to make his limbs feel as though they were a real part of his body, and then he looked around, trying to orient himself. First he turned to the sailor who’d brought him here.
“Thanks, son. You can go back to your place now.”
“Aye, sir.” He turned away as though from a dream/nightmare and resumed his duties as a sailor.
Okay, Jack thought, now what? He could see the big radar displays set fore and aft, and the people sitting sideways to look at it. He headed that way, bumping into a cheap aluminum chair on the way, and looked down to see what looked like a Navy chief petty officer in a khaki shirt whose pocket—well, damn—Ryan exercised his command prerogative and reached down to steal the sailor’s cigarette pack. He lifted one out, and lit it with a butane lighter. Then he walked to look at the radar display.
“Jesus, sir,” the chief said belatedly.
“Not quite. Thanks for the smoke.” Two more steps and he was behind a guy with silver eagles on his collar. That would be the captain of USS Gettysburg. Ryan took a long and comforting drag on the smoke.
“God damn it! There’s no smoking in my CIC!” the captain snarled.
“Good evening, Captain,” Ryan replied. “I think at this moment we have a ballistic warhead inbound on Washington, presumably with a thermonuclear device inside. Can we set aside your concerns about secondhand smoke for a moment?”
Captain Blandy turned around and looked up. His mouth opened as wide as a U.S. Navy ashtray. “How—who—what?”
“Captain, let’s ride this one out together, shall we?”
“Captain Blandy, sir,” the man said, snapping to his feet.
“Jack Ryan, Captain.” Ryan shook his hand and bade him sit back down. “What’s happening now?”
“Sir, the NMCC tells us that there’s a ballistic inbound for the East Coast. I’ve got the ship at battle stations. Radar’s up. Chip inserted?” he asked.
“The chip is in, sir,” Senior Chief Leek confirmed.
“Chip?”
“Just our term for it. It’s really a software thing,” Blandy explained.
Cathy and the kids were pulled up the steps and hustled into the forward cabin. The colonel at the controls was in an understandable hurry. With Three and Four already turning, he started engines One and Two, and the VC-25 started rolling the instant the truck with the steps pulled away, making one right-angle turn, and then lumbering down Runway One-Nine Right into the southerly wind. Immediately below him, Secret Service and Air Force personnel got the First Family strapped in, and for the first time in fifteen minutes, the Secret Service people allowed themselves to breathe normally. Not thirty seconds later, Vice President Jackson’s helicopter landed next to the E-4B National Emergency Airborne Command Post, whose pilot was as anxious to get off the ground as the driver of the VC- 25. That was accomplished in less than ninety seconds. Jackson had never strapped in, and stood to look around. “Where’s Jack?” the Vice President asked. Then he saw Andrea, who looked as though she just miscarried her pregnancy.
“He stayed, sir. He had the pilot drop him on the cruiser in the Navy Yard.”
“He did what?”
“You heard me, sir.”
“Get him on the radio—right now!” Jackson ordered.
Ryan was actually feeling somewhat relaxed. No more rushing about, here he was, surrounded by people calmly and quietly going about their jobs—outwardly so, anyway. The captain looked a little tense, but captains were supposed to, Ryan figured, being responsible in this case for a billion dollars’ worth of warship and computers.
“Okay, how are we doing?”
“Sir, the inbound, if it’s aimed at us, is not on the scope yet.”
“Can you shoot it down?”
“That’s the idea, Mr. President,” Blandy replied. “Is Dr. Gregory around?”
“Here, Captain,” a voice answered. A shape came closer. “Jesus!”
“That’s not my name—I know you!” Ryan said in considerable surprise “Major—Major ...”
“Gregory, sir. I ended up a half a colonel before I pulled the plug. SDIO. Secretary Bretano had me look into upgrading the missiles for the Aegis system,” the physicist explained. “I guess we’re going to see if it works or not.”
“What do you think?” Ryan asked.
“It worked fine on the simulations” was the best answer available.
“Radar contact. We got us a bogie,” a petty officer said. “Bearing three-four-niner, range nine hundred miles, speed—that’s the one, sir. Speed is one thousand four hundred knots—I mean fourteen thousand knots, sir.” Damn, he didn’t have to add.
“Four and a half minutes out,” Gregory said.
“Do the math in your head?” Ryan asked.
“Sir, I’ve been in the business since I got out of West Point.”
Ryan finished his cigarette and looked around for—
“Here, sir.” It was the friendly chi
ef with an ashtray that had magically appeared in CIC. “Want another one?”
“Why not?” the President reasoned. He took a second one, and the senior chief lit it up for him. “Thanks.”
“Gee, Captain Blandy, maybe you’re declaring a blanket amnesty?”
“If he isn’t, I am,” Ryan said.
“Smoking lamp is lit, people,” Senior Chief Leek announced, an odd satisfaction in his voice.
The captain looked around in annoyance, but dismissed it.
“Four minutes, it might not matter a whole lot,” Ryan observed as coolly as the cigarette allowed. Health hazard or not, they had their uses.
“Captain, I have a radio call for the President, sir.”
“Where do I take it?” Jack asked.
“Right here, sir,” yet another chief said, lifting a phone-type receiver and pushing a button.
“Ryan.”
“Jack, it’s Robby.”
“My family get off okay?”
“Yeah, Jack, they’re fine. Hey, what the hell are you doing down there?”
“Riding it out. Robby, I can’t run away, pal. I just can’t.”
“Jack if this thing goes off—”
“Then you get promoted,” Ryan cut him off.
“You know what I’ll have to do?” the Vice President demanded.
“Yeah, Robby, you’ll have to play catch-up. God help you if you do.” But it won’t be my problem, Ryan thought. There was some consolation in that. Killing some guy with a gun was one thing. Killing a million with a nuke... no, he just couldn’t do that without eating a gun afterward. You’re just too Catholic, Jack, my boy.
“Jesus, Jack,” his old friend said over the digital, encrypted radio link. Clearly thinking about what horrors he’d have to commit, son of a preacher-man or not...
“Robby, you’re the best friend any man could hope to have. If this doesn’t work out, look after Cathy and the kids for me, will ya?”
“You know it.”
“We’ll know in about three minutes, Rob. Get back to me then, okay?”
“Roger,” the former Tomcat driver replied. “Out.”
“Dr. Gregory, what can you tell me?”
“Sir, the inbound is probably their equivalent of one of our old W-51s. Five megatons, thereabouts. It’ll do Washington, and everything within ten miles—hell, it’ll break windows in Baltimore.”
“What about us, here?”
“No chance. Figure it’ll be targeted inside a triangle defined by the White House, the Capitol Building, and the Pentagon. The ship’s keel might survive, only because it’s under water. No people. Oh, maybe some really lucky folks in the D.C. subway. That’s pretty far underground. But the fires will suck all the air out of the tunnels, probably.” He shrugged. “This sort of thing’s never happened before. You can’t say for sure until it does.”
“What chances that it’ll be a dud?”
“The Pakistanis have had some failed detonations. We had fizzles once, mainly from helium contamination in the secondary. That’s why the terrorist bomb at Denver fizzled—”
“I remember.”
“Okay,” Gregory said. “It’s over Buffalo now. Now it’s reentering the atmosphere. That’ll slow it down a little.”
“Sir, the track is definitely on us, the NMCC says,” a voice said.
“Agreed,” Captain Blandy said.
“Is there a civilian alert?” Ryan asked.
“It’s on the radio, sir,” a sailor said. “It’s on CNN, too.”
“People will be panicking out there,” Ryan murmured, taking another drag.
Probably not. Most people don’t really know what the sirens mean, and the rest won’t believe the radio, Gregory thought. “Captain, we’re getting close.” The track crossed over the Pennsylvania/New York border—
“System up?” Blandy asked.
“We are fully on line, sir,” the Weapons Officer answered. “We are ready to fire from the forward magazine. Firing order is selected, all Block IVs.”
“Very well.” The captain leaned forward and turned his key in the lock. “System is fully enabled. Special-Auto.” He turned. “Sir, that means the computer will handle it from here.”
“Target range is now three hundred miles,” a kid’s voice announced.
They’re so cool about this, Ryan thought. Maybe they just don’t believe it’s real... hell, it’s hard enough for me... He took another drag on the cigarette, watching the blip come down, following its computer-produced velocity vector right for Washington, D.C.
“Any time now,” the Weapons Officer said.
He wasn’t far off. Gettysburg shuddered with the launch of the first missile.
“One away!” a sailor said off to the right. “One is away clean.”
“Okay.”
The SM2-ER missile had two stages. The short booster kicked the assembly out of its silo-type hole in the forward magazine, trailing an opaque column of gray smoke.
“The idea is to intercept at a range of two hundred miles,” Gregory explained. “The interceptor and the inbound will rendezvous at the same spot, and—zap!”
“Mainly farmland there, place you go to shoot pheasants,” Ryan said, remembering hunting trips there in his youth.
“Hey, I got a visual on the fucker,” another voice called. There was a TV camera with a ten-power lens slaved into the fire-control radar, and it showed the inbound warhead, just a featureless white blob now, like a meteor, Ryan thought.
“Intercept in four—three—two—one—”
The missile came close, but exploded behind the target.
“Firing Two!” Gettysburg shook again.
“Two away clean!” the same voice as before announced.
It was over Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, now, its speed “down” to thirteen thousand miles per hour...
Then a third missile launched, followed a second later by a fourth. In the “Special-Auto” setting, the computer was expending missiles until it saw a dead target. That was just fine with everyone aboard.
“Only two Block IVs left,” Weps said.
“They’re cheap,” Captain Blandy observed. “Come on, baby!”
Number Two also exploded behind the target, the TV picture showed.
“Three—two—one—now!”
So did Number Three.
“Oh, shit, oh, my God!” Gregory exclaimed. That caused heads to snap around.
“What?” Blandy demanded.
The IR seekers, they’re going for the centroid of the infrared source, and that’s behind the inbound.”
“What?” Ryan asked, his stomach in an instant knot.
“The brightest part of the target is behind the target. The missiles are going for that! Oh, fuck!” Dr. Gregory explained.
“Five away... Six away... both got off clean,” the voice to the right announced again.
The inbound was over Frederick, Maryland, now, doing twelve thousand knots...
“That’s it, we’re out of Block IVs.”
“Light up the Block IIIs,” Blandy ordered at once.
The next two interceptors did the same as the first two, coming within mere feet of the target, but exploding just behind it, and the inbound was traveling faster than the burn rate of explosive in the Standard-2-ER missile warheads. The lethal fragments couldn’t catch up—
“Firing Seven! Clean.” Gettysburg shook yet again.
“That one’s a radar homer,” Blandy said, clenching his fist before his chest.
Five and Six performed exactly as the four preceding them, missing by mere yards, but a miss in this case was as good as a mile.
Another shudder.
“Eight! Clean!”
“We have to get it before it gets to five or six thousand feet. That’s optimal burst height,” Gregory said.
“At that range, I can engage it with my five-inch forward,” Blandy said, some fear in his voice now.
For his part, Ryan wondered why he wasn’t shaking. Deat
h had reached its cold hand out for him more than once... the Mall in London ... his own home ... Red October... some nameless hill in Colombia. Someday it would touch him. Was this the day? He took a last drag on the smoke and stabbed it out in the aluminum ashtray.
“Okay, here comes seven—five—four—three—two—one—now!”
“Miss! Fuck!”
“Nine away—Ten away, both clean! We’re out of missiles,” the distant chief called out. “This is it, guys.”
The inbound crossed over the D.C. Beltway, Interstate Highway 695, now at an altitude of less than twenty thousand feet, streaking across the night sky like a meteor, and so some people thought it was, pointing and calling out to those nearby. If they continued to look at it until detonation, their eyes would explode, and they would then die blind...
“Eight missed! Missed by a cunt hair!” a voice announced angrily. Clear on the TV, the puff of the explosion appeared mere inches from the target.
“Two more to go,” the Weapons Officer told them.
Aloft, the forward port-side SPG-62 radar was pouring out X-band radiation at the target. The rising SM-2 missile, its rocket motor still burning, homed in on the reflected signal, focusing, closing, seeing the source of the reflected energy that drew it as a moth to a flame, a kamikaze robot the size of a small car, going at nearly two thousand miles per hour, seeking an object going six times faster... two miles ... one mile... a thousand yards... five hundred, one hun—
—On the TV screen the RV meteor changed to a shower of sparks and fire—
“Yeah!” twenty voices called as one.
The TV camera followed the descending sparks. The adjacent radar display showed them falling within the city of Washington.
“You’re going to want to get people to collect those fragments. Some of them are going to be plutonium. Not real healthy to handle,” Gregory said, leaning against a stanchion. “Looked like a skin-skin kill. Oh, God, how did 1 fuck up my programming like that?” he wondered aloud.
“I wouldn’t sweat it too bad, Dr. Gregory,” Senior Chief Leek observed. “Your code also helped the last one home in more efficient-like. I think I might want to buy you a beer, fella.”