Blacksnow Zero

by Lee Gimenez

  The camera light went from green to red and Taylor breathed a sigh of relief. He leaned back in his seat and saw Corvan walk up to him.

  “That was excellent, Mr. President.”

  “Thank you, General.”

  Taylor glanced out the plane’s windows. The sky had turned dark and threatening, the bright blue giving way to almost black. It looked like a powerful storm was brewing, even at this altitude.

  ***

  Command & Control Center

  Chinese Military

  Beijing, China

  General Chang had gone back to watching the NATO tank drills on the small monitors when Colonel Zhu came up to him.

  “General, we’re picking up something ominous on satellite 365.”

  Chang looked up from the small screen. “Okay, Colonel, put the image on Screen 2.”

  The colonel went to a console, punched in numbers and the image on one of the massive video screens on the far wall shifted quickly. It now showed a blurred overhead picture of a blue ocean with black dots streaking over it.

  “What am I looking at, Colonel?” Chang asked, confused by the image.

  “Sir, the satellite has picked up a large group of missiles. They broke the surface of the Yellow Sea. The missiles are heading for our mainland!”

  “Are you saying we are under attack, Colonel?” the astonished general asked.

  “Yes, sir! There is no doubt about it. Missiles are headed our way.”

  “Where are they in the Yellow Sea?”

  “Sir, they originated in the approximate area where we spotted the American submarine.”

  “There’s no way one sub could fire that many missiles.”

  “I agree, General. There must be a fleet of submarines there.”

  “My God,” Chang exclaimed, his heart pounding in his chest. “I can’t believe the bastard Americans are attacking us!” His mind racing, he said, “How much time before they hit us, Colonel?”

  “Minutes, General.”

  “There’s no time to consult with the Premier. Alert our ICBM bases. I’m authorizing an immediate attack against the United States. I have no choice. How long before our missiles can lift off, Colonel?”

  Zhu glanced at the wall clock. “Approximately fifteen minutes, sir. The silos need that much time to prepare.”

  “Do it, Colonel! Do it now!”

  Zhu picked up a phone and yelled orders into the receiver. Then he sprinted to a computer console and began to furiously tap in instructions.

  A shrill alarm began to howl in the Center and there was a flurry of activity as technicians rushed to all of the work stations in the room.

  A moment later the colonel ran back to where Chang was standing. “It is done, General.”

  “Good. How long before our missiles lift off?”

  “Very soon, sir.”

  “Heaven help us, Zhu.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Just then one of the large screens on the wall flashed brilliant white. Then the image flickered and turned dark.

  “What was that screen showing, Colonel?”

  “That image was a satellite feed of the city of Shanghai.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  A moment later Chang heard an ear-splitting explosion, felt the floor vibrate under his feet, and saw a blinding white light engulf him. In a split-second he felt an excruciating burning pain sear through every part of him.

  Then everything went black as he and the room were vaporized.

  1 Day after Zero Hour

  Cheyenne Mountain Complex

  North American Aerospace Defense Command

  (NORAD)

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  President Matt Taylor stood in the empty conference room looking through the glass wall at the frenzy of activity below. In the massive amphitheater, NORAD personnel worked feverishly at hundreds of computer consoles. At the far end of the cavernous room, giant video screens displayed satellite images from all parts of the world.

  The NORAD complex was located deep inside the granite mountain range. Taylor knew the hardened site had been constructed to withstand a direct strike from an enemy nuclear missile, something that gave him comfort. From this site, military personnel controlled the U.S. arsenal of land-based ICBMs, the Strategic Air Command with its fleet of long-range bombers, and the U.S Navy’s Trident submarine fleet.

  As he stared at the screens on the wall, his thoughts drifted to the horrific events that occurred yesterday. Although the attack had gone as planned and had been successful, several Chinese missiles had been launched.

  He was jittery from stress, no sleep, too much coffee, and too much aspirin. A blinding migraine had settled in his head and nothing seemed to clear it. But at least he hadn’t resorted to his old friend, booze. And knowing his wife and two sons were safe here, in the complex, eased his anxiety. Bringing them along on Air Force One had been smart on his part.

  Turning away from the scene below, he glanced at the TV monitors to his right. The TVs were tuned to ZNN and Fox News, but he had muted the sound earlier. The horrific images were more than enough – he didn’t need to hear the talking heads.

  The news coverage had been non-stop since yesterday, the streaming images of a devastated Washington D.C. and Los Angeles competing for attention. Two Chinese ICBM missiles had evaded the U.S.’s anti-ballistic missile defense, and effectively obliterated the centers of both of those American cities.

  A new stab of pain formed in his temples and he rubbed his forehead, trying to push it away. The ache, he was sure, was a reminder of the casualties the U.S. had suffered. Early estimates were in the range of 600,000 dead in LA and 200,000 in the D.C. area.

  The phone on the conference table rang and Taylor picked it up. He listened a moment, said okay, and hung up.

  Moments later General Corvan and Admiral Peters stepped in the room and closed the door behind them.

  The president slumped onto a chair and motioned for the two to do the same.

  Corvan grinned and said, “Mr. President, the satellite images have now confirmed it. Operation BlackSnow was a success. We’ve destroyed all of the Chinese ICBM complexes, their military bases, and at least thirty of their major cities. Beijing, Shanghai, Guangzhou, Tianjin, Wuhan, Shantou, and Shenzhen have all been wiped out. We won, Mr. President.”

  Taylor glanced at the TV screens, picked up the remote and turned off the sets. “Yes. But at a damn high cost. I didn’t expect so many Americans would die.”

  Peters, his expression grim, said, “This is war, sir. There are always casualties. The important thing is the United States has won.”

  The president nodded and pushed aside his negative thoughts. “You’re right, Admiral.” He turned to Corvan. “What’s next?”

  “Sir,” the general replied, “I recommend two things. First, we should launch a second nuclear strike. Hit China with our land-based ICBMs and bomber fleet. This would effectively destroy every city, every town and the entire infrastructure in China. The American people have suffered losses. They need revenge. After a second, massive strike, China will cease to exist.”

  Taylor rubbed his forehead. “What’s the second thing you recommend?”

  “Sir, I believe we should declare Martial Law in the U.S. It would allow Army and Marine units to be deployed to the affected areas. They can give assistance to local police and other emergency responders.”

  The president turned to Peters. “What do you think, Admiral?”

  “I agree, sir.”

  Taylor nodded. “Okay, gentlemen. Let’s go ahead with both. Corvan, write up an Executive Order declaring Martial Law. I’ll sign it immediately.”

  “How long of a period do you want the Law to last, sir?” the general asked.

  “Indefinitely.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Taylor leaned forward and faced the admiral. “Peters, go get the nuclear ‘football’. I want to blow those Chinese bastards off the face of the map.”
/>   “Yes, sir.”

  2 Days after Zero Hour

  Prison Complex

  Guantanamo Bay Naval Base

  Guantanamo, Cuba

  Erica Blake knew something was wrong, she just didn’t know what. The routine at the prison had changed dramatically.

  After hearing loud sirens going off yesterday, she saw the two Marine guards leave the corridor. They hadn’t returned. Meals had stopped coming, in spite of the shouting from the other prisoners on this wing.

  Erica gripped the bars of her cell and stared at the clock on the corridor wall. The minutes crawled forward, time seeming to stand still. Her empty stomach growled, but she was more worried about the lack of drinking water. Her parched throat felt like sandpaper.

  The Muslim prisoners who filled the other cells began a wailing, Arabic sounding chant and she picked up scraps of paper from the floor, wadded them up and stuck them in her ears. Then she went to her cot and sat down, trying to will away the empty time.

  An hour later she heard a door clanging open and she sprang up, hoping to see the Marines in the corridor passing out water bottles.

  But instead she saw Ensign Tulley striding toward her cell. Using a bulky metal key, the young officer opened her door and came in. She noticed that his usually crisply starched naval uniform looked wrinkled and slept-in today. His eyes were weary-looking, with dark circles under them.

  “It’s good to see you, Ensign,” she said. “What the hell is going on?”

  A frown creased his face and he shook his head slowly. “Things are bad, Miss Blake. You won’t believe what’s happened.”

  She shrugged. “I’m stuck in this shit-hole. Could they get worse?”

  Tulley sat down on the end of the cot. “Yeah. They could, and they have.”

  Erica plopped down on the other side of the bunk. “Okay. Enough with the bullshit. Just tell me what’s happened.”

  He nodded, but the grim expression stayed on his face. “Miss Blake…screw it – it’s time I called you by your first name. Erica, there’s been a nuclear war. China has been wiped out. And we’ve suffered terrible losses. Los Angeles and Washington, D.C. are partially gone.”

  “Gone? What do you mean gone?”

  “Chinese missiles destroyed large parts of the downtown areas. The city centers were vaporized. Fires are rampant in the surrounding areas. The news reports estimate human casualties at close to a million.”

  “Oh, my God.” The shock hit her like a punch in the gut and she was speechless a moment. “What happened, Tulley? Who started it?”

  “President Taylor was on TV, said the Chinese were going to hit us first, so he ordered an attack.”

  She nodded, as a dawning realization hit her. “Maybe this was all part of the plan. The conspiracy.”

  Tulley rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s what I think, too. It all fits together.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “There’s more, Erica.”

  “More?”

  “Martial law has been declared in the United States,” he continued. “The Army and other military units are being deployed in the LA and D.C. areas to help restore order. Civil liberties are being suspended until the crisis is over.” He paused, took a deep breath. “The stock market is in shambles – it was closed today, after a 4,000 point drop yesterday. It’s going to take a long time for the country to come back.”

  “You said downtown D.C. is gone? What about Congress? The Senate and the House?”

  “All of those buildings were destroyed. Congress was in session. The newscasts say most of the legislators are presumed dead. The president was traveling when the attack happened and now he’s at an undisclosed location, along with most of the Cabinet.”

  She shook her head slowly. “God all mighty.”

  “There’s more. All U.S. Navy units from Guantanamo are being re-deployed back to the States. I’ll be leaving on a Navy cargo ship tomorrow. I’ve been re-assigned to Norfolk.”

  “What about me?”

  He grimaced. “I’m working on that. I’ve talked to the military judge a couple of times already. I’m trying to get you out of here. After all that’s happened, I believe your story. You’re not guilty of anything.”

  She motioned with her hand. “What about the other prisoners here?”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know. From what I’ve heard, the Marine guards are leaving too. My guess is, the prisoners will stay locked up.”

  “With no food or water?”

  “I’m afraid so. But I can’t save them. You’re my client. I’m going to do everything I can to legally get you out of here.”

  “Thank you, Tulley.”

  The grim expression was still on his face. “Don’t thank me yet. It’s going to be difficult. Damn difficult.”

  He turned around and left the cell, locking the door behind him.

  A sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.

  ***

  Special Operations

  Marine Corps Detachment

  Training Facility, Building 14

  Fort Bragg, North Carolina

  Bobbie Garcia sat behind his desk in his office, staring down at the empty tumbler in front of him. Picking up the bottle of Jack Daniels, he poured himself his fourth drink and downed it one swallow. The harsh liquor burned his throat, but the light-headed buzz was beginning to dull the pain.

  The image of Maria’s face flashed in his mind and the pain came back with a vengeance. While he had been here at Ft. Bragg, she had been home in D.C. Minutes before the blast hit, he had been on the phone with her, talking happily about their future plans. Their apartment, along with thousands of others, had been obliterated.

  General Corvan had called him later that day to give his condolences. The satellite images, the general said, confirmed that the area of D.C. where the apartment was located was now no more than a pile of burning rubble. Garcia requested a leave-of-absence to search for her body, but the general had denied it, saying the radiation levels were extremely high and would remain that way for a long time. And, Corvan added, Garcia was needed here at Ft. Bragg in case his services were required again.

  Pouring himself another drink, Garcia sipped it, the depression and bitterness over Maria’s death settling over him like a suffocating blanket, literally sucking the air out of his lungs.

  His eyes misted over and he closed them, all while sipping the Jack Daniels.

  Sometime later he heard a knock at his door. Putting the bottle and glass in a drawer, he said, “Come in.”

  Sergeant Thomas walked in. “Captain, I’m giving the team a refresher course on sniper techniques. Would you like to listen in, sir?”

  Garcia shrugged, mumbled, “Naw. You go ahead, Sergeant.”

  “You okay, sir? You don’t look well.”

  A bolt of anger shot through Garcia. “Get the hell out of my office!”

  Thomas backed away, did a quick salute, turned and left the room.

  Garcia put his head in his hands and wept uncontrollably.

  3 Days after Zero Hour

  Gimmlewald, Switzerland

  Megan Lewis was in her suite at the inn, watching the international newscast on the large flat screen TV. The chaotic images of the two devastated American cities were being replayed, along with new commentary updating human casualties. The dead were now estimated to be over a million Americans. Estimates of the number of wounded varied wildly, depending on which source was quoted. But the number was large and growing every day, according to several news outlets. As more wounded survivors were found, they were being transported to hospitals in nearby states. The regional hospitals had been flooded with patients and could not take more.

  The Army Corps of Engineers, FEMA, and Homeland Security personnel had been deployed quickly around the affected areas and were providing assistance to the local police and fire units. Massive fires were still burning, but authorities expected they would be contained in a few weeks’ time.

 
Some things would take longer to solve. Radiation from the nuclear fallout, the newscaster said, would contaminate the devastated areas for years, much like Hiroshima and Nagasaki experienced after their bombing in World War II.

  The newscast changed and a different anchor’s face filled the screen. The new reporter was an exotic-looking Nordic woman, and Megan turned up the volume.

  “…and although,” the anchor said, “the downtown areas of Washington and Los Angeles were destroyed, the rest of the U.S. does not appear to be affected. There were no other missile strikes on any other American cities. We also have some further, good news to report. Our correspondents, who cover a wide variety of locations from around the world, are now confirming that Europe, Canada, Latin and South America were spared during the nuclear exchange. They are reporting no infrastructure damage, nor loss of life. There was also no damage to Africa, India, Australia, Russia and some parts of Asia. China, however, is another matter altogether.” The anchor paused a moment, then continued. “Because of the colossal devastation to that country, no reporters have been able to go near it. But satellite images from at least ten different governments confirm that China has been completely destroyed. All their cities and towns, and even a large part of their countryside, have been reduced to piles of burning rubble. Nuclear radiation levels there are extremely high and the fallout has drifted over parts of Japan and South Korea. Those countries are advising their citizens to remain indoors as much as possible.”

  Megan turned off the set and began to pace the room. She had been watching the news for days, transfixed by the horrific images in the United States. The initial shock had given way to a deep sadness. Her friends, family, and colleagues, most of who lived in D.C., were most likely dead. And if not dead, then badly wounded or sick from the radiation.

  As she paced, her own situation crossed her thoughts. She felt fairly safe here, hiding in this remote corner of Switzerland. If she kept a low profile in the small town, the odds were Taylor’s men wouldn’t find her. And since she had plenty of money, she could live here indefinitely. Mueller wasn’t too far away, and his visits would be a welcome distraction.