At twenty-five seconds the dreadful ordeal had passed. Total blackness engulfed the Capitol, an eerie stillness broken by scattered muffled cries of agony from amid the ruin. The nuclear storm had extinguished the lights through physical damage and electro-magnetic pulse effects to the power grid. Emergency generators struggled to life in cellars of hospitals and key buildings. Fires were obscured by the dust and smoke, which choked those in the open, and hung like a thick blanket over an area of thirty square miles. Life stopped within a four-mile radius of the blast, broken only by an occasional dazed survivor shuffling to seek aid.
The grisly picture was repeated to the north and the south. Central Rosslyn, hit with between five and eight psi, was annihilated, its modern office buildings covered with sheening silver and copper glass sheets no match for the savage shock front. Twisted ruins lay smoldering; the streets were buried under tens of feet of rubble. Portions of Georgetown and Alexandria suffered similar fates. Older, granite block buildings fared best, some miraculously spared, while the newest structures evaporated before the onslaught.
The attack timing had minimized prompt casualties. Many Washingtonians had fled the city for the holiday, while the rest were home enjoying dinner or a few drinks when the air-raid sirens resonated through the city. The warning had puzzled most, eliciting awkward glances toward the sky from pedestrians and those in autos. A test, they concluded, and a very stupid time for one.
The most horrible casualties occurred in the thousands of cars easily swept off the roadways by the encroaching blast wave. Survivors were few. Following closely were deaths caused by collapsing buildings, falling debris, and the later fires.
In less than three minutes, the huge blackish-gray nuclear cloud towered over the city, its immense mushroom silhouette obscured by the dark. Airborne observers could see only a faint glimmer as the illumination from a new moon reflected off the rapidly expanding cloud. The upper reaches of the nuclear cloud continued to ascend to sixty thousand feet, where it would eventually spread laterally, then slowly dissipate, driven by the upper atmospheric winds. By morning, all traces of the holocaust would be gone.
At 7:58 p.m., a second reentry vehicle silently arched toward the ruins of the city. The weapon detonated six hundred feet to the north of the first. Although the same yield, structural damage was more widespread as weakened buildings collapsed, unable to withstand further punishment. Mercifully, the majority of the survivors had sought immediate shelter. A few unfortunates, probably near death, were dispatched by this second blow to snuff out all life in the nation’s Capitol.
CHAPTER 22
“Let’s get started,” Jackson stated curtly. A submarine wardroom, even on a larger boomer, resembles a mini-storage locker. Michigan’s was decorated with a few simple nautical pictures on freshly painted white bulkheads and the mandatory twenty-four-hour wall clock. A two-by-two opening with a stubby stainless-steel ledge provided access to the adjacent galley where mess cooks served four meals per day. The food itself was prepared down in the boat’s mess decks. Overhead were ventilation ducts, pipes of various diameters and colors, and the standard navy shipboard fluorescent lights with the red or white option.
Michigan’s officers and chiefs were crowded around the small Formica-topped metal table. Others squeezed behind, pancaked against the bulkheads. The boat’s navigator, cradling a roll of nautical charts tucked under his arm, forced the aluminum door open against the mass of humanity. He pushed past the straphangers and laid the key chart directly in front of Jackson and the executive officer. The noisy exhaust blower labored to remove the heat buildup from the sweaty bodies. The only other sound was the breathing of emotionally exhausted men. Perspiration stains marked their dark blue overalls, while those with hair had it matted across their foreheads from the buildup of dried sweat and grease. In all, they looked like shit, sapped by a mixture of anxiety, fatigue, and grief. Eyes were glued on their captain. Jackson knew there weren’t any miracles on the horizon. Not from him anyway.
Their CO carefully read the faces one at a time, formulating a subjective assessment of each man’s condition. He made a couple of mental notes to discuss later with the doctor. Then his thoughts turned inward, struggling to dig deep and tap whatever energy reserves remained, to do the expected. After all, he was the captain, their captain, the one expected to shoulder the crew’s burden with superhuman strength. What a bunch of crap, he groused. The world’s in the shitter, and I’m supposed to pull a miracle out of my ass. A glance from the XO told him it was time to get the show on the road. His number two appeared to be holding up heroically.
Jackson reached out and smoothed the curled edges of the nautical chart, folding it over the table’s edge. Their future, or the next piece that truly mattered, lay before them on the tabletop. It depicted the navigator’s pencil-drawn track all the way from Bangor to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and on to the Pacific. The transit distance appeared overwhelming for a submarine with a bounty on its head. He pressed his finger lightly against the chart and methodically traced the transcribed route, one that he had memorized from numerous transits. His lips moved in silence as he incremented the miles and did time-distance calculations on the fly. Without prompting, the navigator broke into a recitation. He was young, like all the officers aboard, and scared. His voice showed it as he stumbled over the first few words.
“We’re here, Skipper,” the young man said, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “We’ve got fifteen miles to the sound. The depth is anywhere from two hundred to three hundred and fifty feet. The Defense Mapping Agency has told us the soundings may be no good. They say the bottom is cluttered with sunken logs and tree stumps. Plus unchartered sandbars. An attack boat struck one two years ago, right here.”
The lieutenant’s fingers moved northward on the chart. It took him a second to catch his breath. “It’s better once we get by Foulweather Bluff and into the sound. But then it’s twenty miles ’til the strait.” Jackson knew all this but let the navigator go on. It was an essential part of rebuilding his wardroom’s shattered confidence.
“I calculated that at five knots we could easily be here by morning,” he said, pointing at a location five miles beyond Foulweather Bluff. “That’s if we started after dark, 2130 to be safe.”
Jackson frowned and rubbed his chin, now covered with rough stubble. He closed his eyes momentarily to clear his thoughts, to get balanced. He was searching beyond the highlighted pencil dot on the chart. The strait, that shallow, broad inland sea that led to the vast Pacific Ocean, that’s where his eyes were now transfixed. What lay out there? Who might be lurking?
Russian visitors had never dared venture into the landlocked Strait. They were satisfied to loiter off Cape Flattery in deeper water, hoping to tag a careless Trident departing for patrol. The executive officer, squinting to study the chart from the side, interrupted. He looked puzzled, which was unusual for him.
“How the hell are we going to make it to the sound, Skipper, let alone the strait?” Jackson didn’t immediately answer. His mind still focused on Cape Flattery. “I know you’re there, Ivan,” he said under his breath.
“What was the last position on that Akula out of Petro?” he asked the group, his head screwing left and right. Jackson referred to the latest and greatest Russian attack submarine that rivaled American boats in quietness, sensor performance, and weapons, and vastly outperformed them in raw speed and operating depth. One had been lurking a few hundred miles from the West Coast for two weeks. In a few short years, the Akulas had become the bane of American submarine skippers long accustomed to technological superiority and a very comfortable acoustical advantage. An ensign standing next to the master chief answered first.
“Ninety miles southwest of the Cape, Skipper.”
“That’s six hours to the entrance at fifteen knots,” grunted the completely bald operations officer.
“He can go faster,” reminded the XO. “None of our attack boats are near.” With ample warning, US att
ack submarines would have scrambled from San Diego or Pearl and sanitized or “deloused” the narrow approaches to the Trident transit lanes. But this Akula had no such worry. The nearest US attack boat was a thousand miles away. “He could make it in four,” the XO added as an afterthought.
“Maybe to the mouth, but he’d be crazy to steam down into the strait, Skipper,” offered operations officer.
The executive officer had astutely picked up on the captain’s mental restlessness. “He knows we can launch in the strait. That bastard could be sitting at the edge of our launch depth, just waiting for us to make a stupid move.”
The executive officer plucked the navigator’s dividers from his hand and marked off the distance from the entrance eastward. End over end they went, the sharp points digging into the chart. “If he made the entrance in four hours, he’d need another four to get in position. Even if he slowed to ten knots, he could reach here, well past the six hundred-foot contour.” All faces leaned forward in unison to see the spot under the XO’s forefinger. It was sobering.
The ops officer scrunched his face. He was habitually throwing cold water on other people’s ideas, but he knew his job inside and out. A more gregarious man than the stiff executive officer, he was the perfect complement. The sometimes feuding pair brought a balance to tactical discussions.
“Ivan wouldn’t go that shallow; he’d lose his tactical advantage, his maneuverability. He’d hang around in seven hundred or eight hundred feet of water to maximize sensor performance. He’d let us come to him. In four hundred or five hundred feet of water with this mucky bottom he wouldn’t be able to hear shit. Acoustical torpedoes wouldn’t work worth a damn either. I’ll bet he’s counting on us to make a run for the ocean.” A chorus of nods validated the ops officer’s sensible observation.
“I don’t know,” Jackson said softly, circling his finger around the disputed location. “If I knew a Trident was alive, I’d steam up to the pier at Bangor if I had to.”
Jackson looked over at Ops. “You’ve got a point, though. There’s a limit to how far he would go. Looks like 123-30 degrees to me. After that it would be dicey. Farther east and he could get in deep shit with the bottom. You’re right.” He nodded grudgingly. “He’d be too unfamiliar with the waters to screw around.” Jackson stretched his arms out in front, resting his sticky palms on the table. He let out a relieved sigh.
“So where does that leave us?” He started to think out loud, chewing on the options—something his officers always appreciated. “We’d have to go to 123-30 degrees ourselves in order to launch, which we’re not ordered to do yet. The EAM was only an alert. No one knows for sure we’re alive. If the order comes, we could launch in the strait, but it would be a lousy choice. Someone would surely see the missiles broach, and I’d wager we’d be dead in less than an hour. Or the Akula could surprise us and slip farther east than we think and nail our ass. No, we have to keep moving and go for the Pacific. But we’ll take our time and try to draw him out.” Jackson seemed satisfied. So did the others.
“Any questions?”
The master chief spoke up. “Skipper, do you really think a Russian boat would do that? Come down the strait, I mean.” He had twice the sea time as Jackson and easily as much common sense. “It just don’t figure.”
“I’d do it,” replied Jackson, pinching the ridge of his nose to relieve the pressure. “This is war. We’ll survive by doing things the enemy doesn’t expect. He’ll be thinking the same.” The word “war” had an unsettling effect. It made the cramped room squirm.
“Could we transit faster, sir?” asked a lieutenant. “Get to deep water sooner and be in better position to detect a sub?”
“Good thought, but we can’t risk being on the surface, even at night. We know there are always agents monitoring traffic on the Canal. I’ve got to believe they’re still there. If we’re spotted, they won’t need an attack boat, they could finish us with a ballistic missile. It only takes thirty minutes, and we’d have moved along a known path.”
“You think they’d spot us at night, Skipper?”
“We can’t take that chance. We shouldn’t even have our scope exposed for any length of time, at least not until we reach the sound.” That meant a submerged transit at night. The executive officer cringed. That’s what he was afraid the skipper had meant.
“But no one’s ever done that. Any dickhead on the Russian payroll is long gone. We could make ten to fifteen knots on the surface, even at night.”
“Can’t risk it. We go submerged. We’ll lift off the bottom at 2130. We’ll follow the navigator’s plan and set down past Foulweather Bluff early in the morning and take inventory. In the meantime, get as much rest as possible and some chow. Any other questions?” Jackson looked around one final time. “Dismissed.” There was a surge for the door and fresh air.
Jackson glanced at his watch. “Lieutenant Brandice.” A medium-built, blond-haired officer jerked to a halt and looked up. “Have a seat.” Brandice struggled against the tide of bodies until he was opposite the captain and then sat down nervously. Jackson waited until the others had departed. But all had known the topic as soon as the officer’s name was called. Lieutenant Norman Brandice was the strategic weapons officer.
The lieutenant was in his late twenties, with a round face and was slightly overweight. It was a curse that plagued the constantly confined submariners who rated the best chow in the fleet. He was relatively new aboard Michigan, and Jackson had not gotten to know him very well, too much confusion during refit. He disposed of any pleasantries. He looked at Brandice hard.
“When the order comes, and it will, I need to be assured there won’t be any problems.” The lieutenant understood, nodding, and started to respond, but Jackson cut him off.
“I know what you’re going to say, but hear me out.” Jackson folded his hands and rested them on the table. His eyes bored in on Brandice. “We’ve all gone through the drills. We try to imagine what we would do if the real thing ever happened. Well, it has. If any man has moral reservations, I won’t hold it against him. But I can’t have hesitation. Canvas your department, and let me know. Give them time to think it over.” Jackson started to stand. “That includes you by the way.”
“There won’t be a problem, Captain.” Brandice’s tone was soft, yet firm. Jackson managed a slight smile. “That’s all.”
Jackson watched the weapons officer depart, and then hung his hand over the open door. He was so tired he could barely stand. “Go lie down,” he scolded. The thought of an hour in his rack brought a rush of contentment. Then he flashed back to Brandice’s final comment. Won’t be a problem? he thought. He remembered once reading interviews with the crewmen of the Enola Gay. How would he feel days, weeks, years after—if he were alive? Michigan would make the historic suffering imposed on the Japanese people look like child’s play.
CHAPTER 23
The MH-53J helicopter plunged as it crossed the jagged tree line, popping white-hot magnesium flares—a precaution against someone with a Stinger missile. The passengers clung tightly to aluminum tubing welded to the fuselage, fighting the G-forces that squeezed their bodies. The engine vibration shaking the cabin made it worse. Thomas, a veteran of countless helo rides, broke into a sweat. Aft, Genser’s aide was doubled over, vomiting. The foul smell quickly engulfed the cabin, gagging his immediate neighbors.
The special ops bird flared and hung motionless then dipped and bounced roughly to a stop. Colonel Harcourt sprang to his feet, pistol in hand, forcing open the cabin door, jumping to the dirt. The pilot idled, waiting for the reassuring all-clear before securing the engines. When the twin turbines changed pitch and wound down, Harcourt stuck his head back through the retracted door and locked his eyes on Alexander.
“Follow me, sir,” he barked against the racket. He wanted to get his passengers out of the helo. Sitting on the ground, it was a big, fat target.
It was 8:05 p.m. The last traces of daylight disappeared behind tall pines. The
trees grew black and ominous. Alexander poked his head through the exit and led his troupe down the aluminum steps. They moved haltingly, gripping the handrail, glancing nervously across the unfamiliar landscape. They were quickly surrounded by twenty or so Rangers in full battle dress, camouflage paint smeared over their exposed skin. All carried the recently issued, shortened M-16, the M4A. Squad leaders maneuvered the soldiers quickly and efficiently, without a sound.
“Where the hell are we?” Alexander asked the colonel.
Harcourt looked exasperated. “Change of plans, sir. The GMCC is not ready. They’ve had trouble getting a full crew and getting underway. It’s going to be a while before we can rendezvous. My orders are to hold here.”
“What’s a while?” barked Alexander. He wasn’t long on patience at the moment.
“Can’t say, sir. Maybe two hours, maybe three. I have to keep you safe. We can’t risk a linkup until the GMCC is operational and security has been set. Right now, it’s a mess. We’ve always had a lot more time.”
Alexander was beside himself. Here he was the secretary of defense, and he felt like a hostage. He needed to get back into the command loop. He needed to find out what was happening. He turned to Thomas. “We’ve got to get some sort of comms going. See what you can do. Coordinate with General Bartholomew. Come up with a plan.”
Thomas grabbed the colonel and moved out. The other passengers were herded well away from the helo. Rangers bracketed the leaders from Washington as they marched down a narrow trail leading into the woods.
Alexander’s troupe had landed on the outskirts of Mathews Arm Campground, a popular overnight campground bordering Skyline Drive. Terrified holiday visitors had been ushered to the exit by men in combat gear. A handful of stubborn campers were under a makeshift house arrest.
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