“Fuck the ROE,” said Sanchez. “If this Russian skipper is playing some fucking game, he just crossed the line.”
By now everyone in the control room was staring in disbelief, scared and confused. Terrified would be a better word. They were thinking, break off and get us out of here. We don’t want to die.
Sanchez turned and glared. The crew tensed as their leader stared them down. “Listen up,” he said in a low voice. “This is no bullshit peacetime game. We’re going to blow the motherfucker out of the water. Do I make myself clear? If I’m wrong, the Victor will be caught off guard, and we’ll nail him too.” He didn’t elaborate on if he was right.
No one in Control said a word. The ops officer slowly turned to his panel, his face as white as a sheet, and began preparations for torpedo firing. The others resumed their duties, shaken.
“All tubes flooded and ready for firing, Skipper,” reported the ops officer, his voice cracking with the strain.
“Open outer doors.”
“Opening outer doors.” The creaking of the Delta’s massive missile-tube doors would mask the slight rumbling as San Francisco’s torpedo-tube doors were retracted and locked.
“Doors open.”
“Any change in the Victor?”
“No, sir.” San Francisco might have a chance to break away at flank speed and elude any retaliatory torpedoes, maybe even to get in firing position for a shot. It was a big maybe.
With four missile-tube doors open, the Delta was well into the firing sequence for the first salvo of the SS-N-23 SLBMs resting in her tubes. Each massive door slamming against its stop vindicated Sanchez’ order. Even the XO was now resigned, his normally unshakable mask starting to crack. He couldn’t believe it was happening—a submariner’s fantasy turned nightmare.
“Fire one through four,” ordered Sanchez hoarsely. He took a deep breath. “Standby for a flank bell, maximum down angle on the planes. Hard turn to port.”
The ops officer hesitated, his finger resting on the plastic button on the attack console. He swallowed hard and then pushed the glowing buttons in sequence. They changed color when depressed. “One away, two away, three away, four away,” he reported in cadence.
As each Mark 48 torpedo was ejected from San Francisco in a rush of pressurized air, she shuddered. The sailors in Control flinched in response to each impulse transmitted through the hull, as if a lethal jolt of electricity had just surged through their bodies. When number four cleared, the pressure hull was pummeled by the harsh, ringing ping of the Victor’s active sonar. It was certain death knocking on their steel door.
Sanchez barked orders, sending San Francisco into a radical, steep dive, her single propeller spinning to maximum RPM, the whine reverberating throughout the boat.
“Left five degrees rudder,” he ordered. Sailors struggled to maintain their balance amid flying gear.
Suddenly, San Francisco’s sonar picked up a spread of enemy torpedoes launched from the Victor. They immediately went active, their miniature sonars easily acquiring the Americans at such short range. But Sonar also picked up the deafening underwater roar as San Francisco’s Mark 48 torpedoes tore into the Delta, ripping her hull to shreds, aided by tons of detonating solid-rocket propellant.
Desperately turning and twisting through the ocean depths, San Francisco tried to shake the Russian torpedoes that dogged her like hungry sharks drawn to blood. At fifty-five knots, the torpedoes advanced indomitably, rapidly decreasing the range. Sanchez said a silent prayer as he gazed at his magnificent crew. He loved them like family. But he knew there was no escape. In seconds, death’s cold hand would reach out and plunge his brave men to an icy end.
CHAPTER 16
A creation of 1950s Cold War hysteria, the American/Canadian North American Aerospace Defense Command was buried deep within the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain, west of Colorado Springs. NORAD, as it was called, stood watch over the vast air and space frontiers of the North American land mass. Despite the end of the Cold War, the primary threat axis was still due north—the shortest distance for missiles and bombers from Russia. That rump superpower was still the only sovereign nation on the planet that could annihilate the United States in an afternoon.
Constructed to withstand a determined nuclear onslaught, Cheyenne Mountain’s survivability was suspect in the modern age. The intricate design of fifteen huge steel boxes suspended on massive steel springs in a cavern carved from solid granite boggled the mind. Twenty-five-ton blast doors sealed the drive-through entrance, and when those steel monstrosities loudly locked into place, it sent shivers up your spine. Redundant emergency power systems and ample supplies of food and water reinforced the determination to survive any attack. Its longevity was classified, but leaked reports put it at well over one year. Cynics snickered, as if any rational human being could tolerate being locked in a tomb for that duration with the outside world in flames.
Component commands were the Missile Warning Center, keeper of the early warning satellites floating over the earth and the giant, phased-array radars encircling the continent, and the Space Defense Operations Center. The SPADOC, as it was called, tracked thousands of objects, big and small, orbiting the planet with a system of highly sophisticated radars, optical telescopes, and infrared satellites. Their current focus was on the plague of spaceborne debris. Particles as tiny as a few microns could disable a satellite or pit the Plexiglas on a shuttle. Larger objects, those pushing a few centimeters, were like hundred-mile-per-hour bowling balls in space.
Both the SPADOC and the MWC were at heightened readiness. Sensors, computer systems, and communications gear had been checked and rechecked. Tensions had been higher only twice in the distant past—the Cuban missile crisis and the one day when the Soviets had brazenly launched a handful of ICBMs north from their silos, only to detonate them midflight, shortly after they crossed the pole. They had never said a word, nor had the United States.
At that moment, 22,300 miles above the equator, shortwave, infrared-sensing DSP early warning satellites scanned the earth’s surface. They monitored all Russian silo fields and vast ocean areas for the telltale fiery plumes of ballistic missiles. These marvels were America’s first line of defense. Their sensitivity for detecting even minute amounts of heat was legend.
During a routine communication check with STRATCOM’s airborne command post, code-named Looking Glass, the DSP over Asia detected a series of hot spots against the cool earth background. The news was instantly bounced off communication satellites and downlinked to satellite control at Falcon AFB on the other side of the globe at Colorado Springs. Forwarded to NORAD, the news triggered an incredibly loud horn, which blared for ten seconds, shattering the tense atmosphere.
Watch standers froze. Astonished faces turned in unison toward the big screen. They searched for the indicator that would jump out, announcing a system-hardware fault or software bug. Instead they were greeted with a rapid succession of small symbols popping on the center screen, marking DSP-provided launch detections in central Russia. It had to be a computer malfunction, they convinced themselves, like the false alarms in the early eighties.
The MWC battle watch commander was struck dumb like his compatriots. The air force general fought to maintain his equilibrium. He steadied himself while listening to a communication headset clutched in his free hand. Acknowledging the news, his shoulders sagged, and his face paled. He reached for a small handset mounted on a metal bracket by his knees. Swallowing hard, the words finally flowed, albeit in a jerky monotone.
“This is not a test,” he announced haltingly over the PA system. “I repeat, this is not a test.” The statement echoed throughout the cavernous chamber. He couldn’t believe the words himself.
The delayed reaction was palpable, like a car bomb exploding. Groans and gasps rose in chorus. Then a tidal wave of sheer bedlam swept the cavern. Watch standers brushed off the initial shock and sprinted to battle stations, manning consoles and conducting communications checks with STRATC
OM’s stable of nuclear forces. Action, any action, acted as strong medicine against the tug of personal despair.
Preliminary tracking data blossomed on the three-dimensional polar projection of the earth dominating the center screen. The IBM mainframes, dedicated to cataloguing the attack down to the last reentry vehicle, predicted threatened targets. Targets meant people and places. This was no drill. ICBMs launched from the Russian heartland would take thirty or so minutes to fly their deadly course.
Forty-five seconds after the ripple of ICBM firing, sea-launched ballistic-missiles rose from the ocean off the US East Coast. They arched westward, with a time to target measured in minutes.
“Sir,” reported a stammering officer near the battle watch commander, “we have attack confirmation. Eighty-five SS-18s. Twelve SLBMs from Track Alpha Two. Possible cruise missiles have been detected off both coasts and in the Gulf of Mexico. The SS-18s are targeted on Peacekeeper and Minuteman forces. SLBMs are against SAC bases and C3 sites. It will be six or seven minutes before we pick up the first ICBM reentry vehicles on BMEWS.” BMEWS was the early warning radar system, the modern version of the old DEW line stretching across Alaska.
The colonel wearing the headset sat motionless. Receiving added bad news, he dutifully passed it along. The first ICBMs would arrive in twenty-five minutes, while the lead SLBMs would strike in less than eight.
The battle watch commander placed his hand on the little-used phone connecting him directly to the National Military Command Center in Washington and to STRATCOM headquarters in Omaha. At higher DEFCONs, he would have accessed the president directly. Today the NMCC had the conn. A quick glance at the screen highlighted the swarm of hostile missiles bearing down on the continental United States, their colored leaders inching across the globe.
“This can’t be happening,” he gasped inwardly. His jaw tightened as he picked up the red phone. Beginning to speak, he stumbled over the words he had repeatedly rehearsed and committed to memory after countless drills in the mountain.
Thomas sat stewing. Another ten minutes and he would ring Alexander again. Thomas had calmed down yet was obsessed with the thought of a Russian military move somewhere around the globe. But where?
Suddenly a series of short, sharp horn blasts echoed throughout the NMCC. The local klaxon had been triggered by NORAD, the distress signal relayed by secure landline. Startled and incredulous, Thomas sprang to his feet and gazed through the thick floor-to-ceiling glass, a shocked expression painted across his face. A knot formed in his stomach. He zeroed in on the watch commander, down in the pit. The general on watch staggered and then backed down in his chair, stunned. He stared into space for precious moments then grabbed an aide by the collar and whispered into his ear. The man nodded and ran off.
The watch section on the floor collectively held their breath. No movement, no noise. The emotional rollercoaster at NORAD was replayed in detail, but these unfortunates, farther down the intelligence pipeline, didn’t have the entire picture just yet.
To Thomas’s right, a door opened, and the battle watch commander’s aide, an army officer escorted by marines, stepped through. “Please follow me, General Thomas,” he asked. Thomas rose without saying a word. The marines fell in on his flanks.
Thomas navigated the staircase and found himself immersed in the chaos gripping the NMCC. The noise level had increased tenfold.
“You better hear this, sir,” the watch commander shouted, handing Thomas a phone connected to NORAD. After code-word authentication, a distraught voice on the other end struggled through a cryptic attack summary laced with technical jargon. Thomas stood stiffly, listening, but not physically reacting, his mind frozen on his abortive attempt to reach Alexander only forty minutes earlier. Like the others, his brain was in full retreat.
He had sensed trouble but did nothing. No matter that his take had been completely off base. Who could have imagined? Thomas’s failure made him ill. NORAD asked for orders. It was the president’s and STRATCOM’s call, Thomas had answered curtly. Follow procedures in place until instructed otherwise. Get General Morgan to the mountain. He wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know.
Thomas began to drop the handset but stopped. “Make sure CINCSTRAT is getting his planes away.”
“Already done, sir,” was the reply. “They’re off, but we can’t tell how many will make it.” Thomas nodded sadly. The big planes no longer on alert had little chance of escape from a surprise attack. “Let me know when you have radar confirmation.” Another “yes, sir” came from the voice on the line. Thomas hung up the phone and looked at the ashen face of the WATCH COMMANDER.
A myriad of possibilities raced through Thomas’s mind. Was it an accidental launch by a renegade Russian officer? Computer malfunction? It couldn’t be a deliberate attack. Yet only moments before, he had seen the evidence, the repositioning of Russian hardware. What were the targets? NORAD didn’t have decent data and wouldn’t for at least ten minutes. My God, my family, he thought. How could people function? God help us all.
“Make the call,” he said out of nowhere. It was more instinct than anything. The man opposite him shouldn’t have needed prompting, but who was he to judge. Thomas was teetering on the knife edge himself. General Patterson hesitated and then unlocked a red plastic encasement, handing one of the handsets to Thomas.
After several rings, an icy White House staffer answered. “Yes?”
The watch commander took a deep breath. The muscles in his neck were as taut as wire. “This is General Patterson at the NMCC. We have a confirmed Russian attack against targets in the continental United States; I must speak to the president immediately.” The words sounded bizarre to Thomas. Even from where he stood, with the hard evidence staring him in the face, it seemed preposterous.
The voice at the other end paused then said, “What? There wasn’t an exercise scheduled for today; it’s not until next week.”
“This isn’t a goddamn test,” shouted the watch officer, “put the president on the line immediately.” The veins on his temples bulged. Thomas steadied his subordinate by touching his arm.
“One moment.” Within seconds, the president answered. His greeting signaled consternation and confusion.
“Mr. President,” Patterson reported rapidly, “we are under nuclear attack by the Russians. NORAD has confirmed nearly one hundred missiles inbound. We’re tracking down the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the secretary of defense.”
The president’s voice cracked, like someone had suddenly kneed him in the stomach. “What do you mean we’re under attack? Is this a test?” The man’s anguish could be felt through the wire.
“No, sir. NORAD has not made an error. We’re under nuclear attack.” The president could only mutter, “Oh my God.” Before he could say anything else, the burly chairman of the Joint Chiefs burst through the door like a hurricane hitting shore and snapped his fingers for a handset. His body vibrated with energy, his reddened face boiling. He forced a healthy dose of self-control down his throat before speaking.
“Mr. President,” said the chairman evenly, “the secretary of defense will be here momentarily.”
“The secretary of state is here with me,” stammered the president. “What the hell is going on, General?” It was a plea more than a question. The chairman summarized the terrible numbers. The killer was the nearly one hundred SS-18 class ICBMs. Then he recited the rest of the bad news—first impact for SLBM warheads in seven minutes; Twenty-one for the ICBMs. No time for discussion; we need to act.
The rapid-fire report left the president breathless. He mumbled something to an aide off-line. Thomas wondered if the president truly comprehended what he had just heard—the magnitude of the crisis. His heart broke for the man across the river, standing there with a phone in his hand and wondering what had happened to his world in the last few minutes.
“Mr. President,” said the chairman with conviction, “we must retaliate. We’ve got less than fifteen minutes.
CINCSTRAT has to receive authorization to launch our Peacekeeper and Minuteman missiles before the Russians destroy them in their silos. We should execute SIOP Option 2M immediately. I must stress the urgency, Mr. President. We have only minutes.”
The president struggled against the stiff current sweeping him toward Armageddon. “How do I know this isn’t all a terrible mistake?” he blurted. “The Russians would never do this. A surprise attack is out of the question. There must be another explanation. General, you assured me that this kind of mistake would never happen again, that all the software problems had been fixed.” The president was grasping at straws. He was no different than the rest of them.
“NORAD has verified the attack, sir,” answered the chairman, his frustration beginning to explode to the surface. “Multiple, independent sensors are tracking the missiles. There is no mistake! I repeat, Mr. President, we need a decision!”
“Mr. President,” they heard the secretary of state plead off-line, “we need to talk.” There was a lapse as the line went dead. Thomas and the generals sagged in unison, lowering their handsets and staring blankly at the linoleum floor. The tactical support team of military and civilian advisors formed a semicircle around the trio, awaiting orders to do something, anything.
Thomas raised his head and surveyed the emotional bloodbath sweeping the floor. Thomas knew war, understood war, but this wasn’t his war. War slowly builds in intensity over months, even years, then climaxes in victory or defeat. In Vietnam, he had knowingly killed, calculating violence against enemy troops. His personal war had been a few hundred feet above the jungle canopy, not face-to-face, down in the mud, and he was certain he had left his mark. The trailing napalm fireballs and cluster-bomb fireworks from his Phantom, spread over vast tracks of jungle, surely took their toll. And he had seen enough dead soldiers up close, both American and Vietnamese to last him a lifetime. Two inspections of the war zone, familiarization tours for close-air-support pilots, they were called, had given him a belly full. Yet he had learned to live with the killing and the death, and later found peace of mind. He never had been one of the handwringers who lamented their roles in the fighting.
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