Dead Heat

by Joel C. Rosenberg

  and the feeling of helplessness that had gripped him for most of the night began to come over him once more.

  The clinic's air-conditioning had broken down, Bennett noticed. Perspiration soaked the collar of his shirt. Bennett's eyes were growing heavy. He didn't know if it was denial or depression, but something was telling him none of it mattered and lulling him to sleep. He could hear the CNN anchor remark on how quickly the American government was moving to

  reconstitute itself, but Bennett found that he didn't really care. He could hear some expert commenting on how important it was for the rest of the world—and particularly the enemies of the U.S.—to see that someone was in charge, but little of it registered.

  At the same time, Bennett could hear the doctors around him arguing over who

  might be behind the attacks and what the new president should do about it. But what did any of that really matter? he asked himself. The world was going up in flames. Evil was being unleashed. What were another few nuclear missiles lobbed at innocent civilians?

  All he wanted to do was sleep.

  Erin, he decided, was the fortunate one at the moment. She was so drugged up she had

  no idea what was happening. The last thing she had heard was that she was having a baby in eight months, and now she was savoring the sweetness of that moment with no idea it

  might be her last. Why not join her? Bennett mused. Why not just curl up for a few hours or a few days and dream about a life that could have been?

  He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. His thoughts drifted, away from the

  news, away from the camp, away from the nightmare unfolding around him. He could

  suddenly see Erin again, as he had the first time he'd ever laid eyes on her. He could still remember the physical sensation he had felt as she'd stepped into his thirty-sixth-floor conference room in Manhattan with that brown skirt, silk blouse, and pearls. She'd been there to interview for a stock analyst job or investment strategist or something, but he could still remember thinking that if this beautiful girl had half a brain in her head, he would never forgive himself if he didn't hire her for something and figure out the details later.

  He could still picture her handing him a resume and smiling. He could still smell

  the scent of her perfume that seemed to linger in the air. He could feel the law bond cotton stationery in his hands, and he could feel his heart accelerate as he scanned the text while she sat at the conference table across from him.

  Summa cum laude from UNC Chapel Hill with a bachelor's in economics. An MBA

  from Wharton. World traveler—London, Paris, Berlin, Hong Kong, and Cairo. A great-

  grandfather who had once been the U.S. secretary of state. And no rings on either hand.

  How could a girl this beautiful still be single? he had wondered then. How in the world did she ever fall in love with me? he wondered now.

  10:49 P.M. EST-OVER THE ATLANTIC, JUST OFF THE COAST OF MARYLAND

  They came fast, hard, and without warning.

  One after the other, the two F-18s swooped down from the night sky and buzzed

  the deck of the Liberian freighter at Mach 1.8, nearly twice the speed of sound. They

  shattered the windows of the bridge and knocked everyone on deck off their feet, sending them scrambling for safety. Seconds later, the fighter pilots were radioing back to

  NORAD.

  "Crystal Palace, this is Canyon One-Niner. We have a visual on the target; do you

  copy? Over."

  "Canyon One-Niner, this is Crystal Palace. What do you see, son?"

  The pilot of the lead Super Hornet from the 105th Strike Fighter Squadron quickly

  confirmed all the details Coast Guard Specialist Carrie Sanders had sent up the

  system. It was a massive ship—at least three football fields in length—with a black

  hull marked with large white letters, a Liberian flag, and plenty of containers, several of them open. He saw no evidence of missile contrails. The winds had probably erased

  them. But what really terrified him was what was happening at the stern.

  "Crystal Palace, this is Canyon One-Niner. The crew has set up another mobile

  launcher. I repeat, they have set up another mobile launcher. They've got a missile in place.

  It looks ready to go. It looks like they'll be ready to fire again any moment."

  * * *

  Briggs gasped.

  He had dozens of fighter jets, navy destroyers, fast attack subs, and Coast Guard cutters heading into the air and waters off New York, New Jersey, Maryland, California, Oregon, and Washington State in the frantic hunt for the ships that had fired upon American cities.

  But suddenly he had a live target and only seconds to act.

  Two large-screen monitors mounted on the far wall of the NORAD Operations Center

  showed him live streaming video from each of the F-18s. A third screen displayed a

  newly acquired live satellite feed of the Liberian frigate, just coming into view. Sure enough, Briggs thought, he was staring down the barrel of a Scud C ballistic missile, armed and ready for launch. He could see the billows of smoke pouring out from its engines, and every muscle in his body tightened.

  "Canyon One-Niner, Canyon Two-Zero, this is Lieutenant General Charles Briggs, commander of NORAD. I order you to take that missile out and sink that ship

  immediately. Take that ship down immediately. Do you copy?"

  There was a flash of static.

  "Canyon One-Niner, Canyon Two-Zero, this is Crystal Palace. Do you copy?"

  But all he heard was more static.

  "Canyon One-Niner and Canyon Two-Zero, this is Lieutenant General Briggs at

  NORAD. Do you copy? I repeat, do you copy?"

  A transmission came in, but garbled. Briggs's mouth went dry. His face was covered

  with sweat. From the satellite image he could see the crew on the deck of the Liberian

  ship scrambling for cover. The launch was imminent. They were out of time.

  Every eye in the ops center was riveted to the video screens. Several staffers clasped

  their hands to pray. They all knew what Briggs knew. A few seconds more and it would

  be too late. Another American city could be obliterated.

  Briggs blinked hard. He ordered a glass of water and wiped his brow. This couldn't be

  happening again. But it was. His vision was blurring. He felt light-headed and dizzy. Just like he had before, on a day seared into his memory forever.

  Instead of a Liberian frigate, Briggs suddenly found himself staring at a live video

  feed of a Russian jumbo jet, thirty-five miles from Washington and coming in red-hot. He found himself listening to the voice of Bob Corsetti, the White House chief of staff,

  pleading with the president to make a decision.

  "Sir, you don't have a choice. You need to take this guy out fast."

  Briggs could feel his pulse skyrocketing as he waited for the president to speak, to act, and quickly. Corsetti was right. MacPherson had been out of options, out of time. It was his constitutional duty to defend the country. What was taking so long? Why was he

  hesitating? Didn't he understand the stakes?

  Seconds passed, though they felt like an eternity. Then MacPherson had finally come to

  his senses. He gave the order and it was quickly passed down the chain of command. Briggs could still see images like they were yesterday. He could still hear the audio. How could he ever forget?

  "Devil One-One, POTUS declares the target is hostile. You are cleared to engage."

  "CONR Command, do I understand you right? Target is hostile? You want me to

  engage? You want me to fire on an unarmed civilian jetliner?"

  He could still hear the tremor in the flight leader's voice. It wasn't just nerves. It was something else—hesitation, resistance. But why? It wasn't a pilot's job to wrestle through the moral justification of
a call like this. It was the president's. It was the commander in chief's. And now that commander had just issued an order. Why wasn't it being executed?

  The Aeroflot jet was now twenty-five miles out. They were out of time.

  As though he were hovering outside his own body, Briggs could see himself lunge

  forward, grab the radio, and scream at the lead pilot.

  "Devil One-One, this is Lieutenant General Charles Briggs at NORAD. Son, you are ordered to take this Russian jet down. Repeat, take the target down—now."

  For the longest moment, there was nothing but silence.

  Then the lead pilot said, "I can't, sir. . . . I'm sorry, sir I I. . . I just can't do it. . . . It's not right."

  With the Russian aircraft closing in on Washington, Briggs had grabbed the radio.

  All this time later, he could once again feel his heart pounding in his chest as it had on that day. He had already had three heart attacks. He couldn't afford a fourth. Certainly not now.

  MacPherson had spoken before Briggs could. "General Briggs, this is the president of the United States. The capital of the country is under attack. I am ordering you to take that plane down—now."

  Briggs had never heard the president so angry. Nor would he ever again.

  Aeroflot 6617 was just fourteen miles out and picking up speed. Briggs could still feel the cold radio receiver in his hand.

  "Devil One-One, this is General Briggs at NORAD. Peel off immediately. Devil One-Two, do you have a shot?"

  There was nothing but silence.

  "Devil One-Two, do you have a shot?"

  Suddenly a flash of static, a garbled transmission, and then, finally, "Roger that, General—I have a shot."

  "Then take it, son—before ten thousand people die."

  Until the day he died, Briggs would never forget the image of that Russian jumbo jet,

  screaming down the Potomac River, on a suicide mission into the heart of the capital, an American F-16 flown by a twenty-five-year-old kid hot on his tail.

  "Sir, I have radar lock. . . ."

  The Russian plane was just eight miles from the White House. "I have tone. . . ."

  It was now or never. Take the shot, Briggs screamed inwardly. Take the shot.

  "Fox two!"

  But now the memory—painful though it was—faded, replaced by the reality of an

  ongoing operation somewhere over the Atlantic, just off the coast of Maryland. Briggs

  winced as he watched an air-to-ground missile explode from the right side of one of the F-18s, and then another, and a third. And a fourth. The second jet fired as well—again and again.

  Briggs was mesmerized as he watched the barrage of missiles streak through the sky,

  homing in on their prey. Pain shot through his stomach, and then his chest. He winced

  again, opening his eyes just in time to witness the impact. But it wasn't a Russian jetliner he was watching explode. This time it was an African freighter, erupting in a massive fireball, sinking to the bottom of the frigid Atlantic, with an unfired Scud sinking with it. The ops center erupted in applause. But Briggs collapsed to the floor.

  5:59 A.M.-A REFUGEE CAMP IN NORTHERN JORDAN

  Only a handful of people knew of the drama in the Atlantic.

  The rest of the world was riveted on a new drama unfolding in China. Bennett certainly

  was. He shook off the fatigue that had been lulling him into inaction and asked Dr.

  Kwamee to turn up the volume as several more doctors and a few off-duty orderlies

  crowded into the physician's cramped office. Kwamee quickly complied as the anchor—

  looking shaken and pale—began to speak.

  "This is Terry Cameron at CNN Center in Atlanta. We will continue, of course, to

  bring you the latest on the horrific events unfolding in four American cities at this hour, but we now have word of breaking news in Beijing. We're going to take you live to a press

  conference that is about to begin at the Great Hall of the People. . . . CNN correspondent Wang Li Peng is standing by. Wang Li, can you hear me?"

  "Yes, Terry, I can hear you."

  "I understand you have some serious developments there. What can you tell us?"

  "Terry, just a few moments ago, Foreign Minister Zeng Zou gave an off-camera

  briefing to a hastily assembled group of Western reporters," the correspondent said, his voice quick and agitated. "He expressed sorrow for the attacks on the United States. He condemned those attacks in no uncertain terms. He insisted that China had absolutely no role in the attacks whatsoever. But what he said next struck my colleagues and me as

  quite ominous, to say the least. The foreign minister said that Chinese satellites have observed U.S. strategic nuclear forces going to DefCon One—or Defense Condition One.

  That's military lingo for America preparing for all-out war. The question is, against whom?

  The foreign minister also claimed that two U.S. nuclear aircraft carriers have just been ordered into the East China Sea, which in the next few hours would put them right off the western coast of China, not far from Shanghai, one of China's most important cities. The foreign minister called these—let me make sure I quote him precisely. . . ."

  Peng flipped through his notepad to find the exact quote. "Yes, here it is—the foreign minister called these 'highly provocative military moves' that are 'tantamount to a

  declaration of war' and could push China and the United States into what he called 'an

  apocalyptic moment.'

  Was China behind these attacks? Bennett wondered. Did the president know it?

  Was he considering a nuclear retaliation against the most populous country on the

  planet?

  The CNN correspondent in Beijing said that they were awaiting a hastily called press

  conference with the Chinese premier himself. He said that based on his conversations with high-ranking officials in Beijing, he believed there was a real and growing fear in the Chinese government that the U.S. may believe China was somehow behind the attacks

  and might be planning to retaliate. What's more, the correspondent noted that one of the problems the Chinese government was having was that its own ambassador to the United

  States—as well as all of its embassy staff in Washington—had been killed in the nuclear attacks. The same was true of its consulate staff in New York and Los Angeles.

  "The government here is finding it difficult to get precise information on what is happening in the U.S.," Wang Li Peng explained. "Government officials here are not exactly sure who to speak with in the U.S. or how to establish direct contact. So far as we can tell, that's why the premier himself is about to come out and make a statement. We're not sure if he will take questions. I can tell you, Terry, that the PLA—the People's Liberation Army—has gone into a state of emergency. Mobile antiaircraft batteries are being positioned around the capital. We've seen numerous fighter aircraft scrambled to protect the capital, and we assume this is hap pening in other cities as well. According to state radio, all military leaves have been canceled, and the mood here is darkening very quickly."

  Terry Cameron in Atlanta asked, "Has the U.S. Embassy in Beijing had any comment

  yet?"

  "Not officially, not on the record," his correspondent replied. "But one senior American Embassy official told me by phone just a few minutes ago—on the condition of anonymity—

  that he himself is not sure who to talk to back in the U.S. As he understands it, the State Department has been destroyed. Secretary of State Marsha Kirkpatrick is believed to be

  dead. The president—President Oaks, that is—has apparently been sworn in aboard Air Force One, as you've reported, but no one seems to know where Air Force One is or how to reach it."

  Events were about to spiral out of control, Bennett realized. Why in the world would the Chinese have attacked the U.S.? It made no sense. They had to know the U.S. would launch an all-out retaliat
ion that could leave a billion Chinese dead in less than an hour.

  Had they calculated that taking out the American president and his Cabinet would

  prevent a response? The notion was as insane as it was suicidal.

  Then again, Bennett thought, what if the Chinese weren't involved? What if the president and whatever staff he still had around him were misreading the intelligence?

  Or what if they were ramping up for retaliation against someone else, and it was

  the Chinese government that was misreading the signals? He had to call someone. He had to do something. But what?

  Now a CNN military analyst—a former two-star U.S. Air Force general—was on the air

  from a studio in Berlin explaining just what military assets Beijing could bring to bear in a war with the U.S.

  "Red China has 1,525 fighter jets," the general said. "At least 425 of these jets are typically pre-positioned within range of Taiwan. Beijing also has almost eight hundred

  bombers, some of them very sophisticated. About a quarter of those—about two hundred

  bombers—are also typically stationed within range of Taiwan. By contrast, Taiwan has

  barely three hundred fighter jets and no bombers to speak of."

  "Is it possible that China could be using the attacks on the U.S. whether Beijing was responsible for them or not—to prepare for an invasion of Taiwan?" Cameron asked.

  "It's certainly possible," the American general said. "When I served in the Pentagon, one of my responsibilities was to plan for a Chinese move on Taiwan. Beijing has wanted to do it for as long as any of us can remember. They've been building up military assets for years. They've been planning, preparing, biding their time. Now let me be clear: I'm not saying the Chinese had anything to do with the sickening attacks. I have no access to

  classified intelligence. It's all moving too fast anyway, and I've heard that the CIA and DIA were completely destroyed in the attacks on Washington. But I am saying we'd better watch the PLA closely because they could take advantage of a terrible situation."