by E. J. Simon
“Moscow, Saint Petersburg, Novosibirsk, Yekaterinburg, Nizhny Novograd, Kazan…” An electronic voice matter-of-factly called out the cities that were minutes away from annihilation. “Chelyabinsk, Omsk…” As each city was mentioned, an aerial map of the location flashed onto one of the screens alongside the larger global map showing the missies on their way.
As Benoit and his staff worked at their computers, the generals and their aides spoke in hushed tones through their headsets, all eyes focused on the big screen showing twenty red missile-like symbols approaching the Russian mainland. The formation had just begun to split up as half of them stayed on a direct line toward Moscow while the other half appeared to be fanning out to cover other targets.
The roll call of Russian cities continued, echoing through the room, “Samara, Rostov-on-Don, Ufa…”
“Soon,” Sculley said, pointing with a laser pointer, “each one of these missiles will open up and twelve warheads will come out of each, and those two hundred and forty warheads will travel to their targets, the ones you just heard, at different velocities and on different trajectories, making it virtually impossible for Russian anti-missile defenses to stop them all. In fact, we believe that the overwhelming majority of the warheads will reach their targets.”
“Jesus,” O’Brien muttered. “We’re sending two hundred and forty nuclear bombs?”
“It’s only a small part of our arsenal, sir. Most of our missiles and warheads are on subs.”
“Is that supposed to be a consolation?” O’Brien thought again of Hiroshima and the destruction from that single, now antiquated atomic bomb. He wished he were somewhere else, he wished he were someone else. He forced his mind back on track. He had to stay focused but for what? What was there left for him or anyone to do now? The missiles were approaching their targets; the US had been crippled by its own technology, and it was down to a Hail Mary hope that Benoit could decode the AI technology from a dead man who appeared to have disappeared, then hack into the already hacked systems and destroy the missiles. The President looked up at the digital timer. It all had to happen in the next eight minutes.
In a matter of days, he’d been responsible for the downing of a passenger airliner, albeit with already dead passengers, and now this.
“In addition,” Sculley continued, “a series of dummy warheads will be released, which are indistinguishable from the armed ones. This is intended to further confuse the Russian’s anti-missile systems. All of this will make it virtually impossible for their defenses to stop the warheads from hitting their targets as we swamp their defenses.”
“Let me ask you,” O’Brien said, “if the Russians launch a counterattack, will we be in the same position, apparently unable to stop their incoming missiles?”
Sculley looked around the table as though he were asking for help from the room. All of the other military brass looked back at him with blank stares.
“Yes, sir, I’m afraid so,” Sculley said. “We are in somewhat better shape with our defenses and technology but, the reality is, we will never stop most of the Russian missiles if they launch a full attack on us.”
“JFK once said that trying to knock a warhead out of the sky was like trying to hit a fly with a bullet,” Goodrich said. “It’s as true today as it was then, maybe even more so now with greater missile velocities and improved anti-missile defense technologies. We’re trying to hit a bullet with a bullet.”
“What does that mean in terms of casualties, deaths…on both sides?”
“It’s impossible to know for sure, of course, but a rough estimate would be a minimum hundred million on their side. Casualties will be much worse for us due to the high population density of our cities. I think we have a pretty good idea of which ones the Russians will target, starting with New York City, Washington, Chicago…I could keep going…”
“Don’t,” O’Brien said.
“Then, besides the obvious direct destruction of cities by nuclear blasts and firestorms, there are the effects from nuclear famine, nuclear winter, widespread radiation sickness, and then other secondary problems from the bombs’ electromagnetic pulses.”
“Electromagnetic pulses?”
“Yes, sir. All it would take would be just a few nuclear detonations in the middle of the country and it would likely wipe out most of our technology, everything from the Internet, telephones, cell phones, televisions, GPS, you name it. That would cripple our businesses and industry, hospitals, police. You’d have a total breakdown of society.”
No sooner had Sculley finished speaking than a warning buzzer sounded as small red lights on the big screen associated with each missile began blinking rapidly.
“What’s happening?” O’Brien asked.
Sculley stood up again from his seat, his posture ramrod straight, as though he were at attention. “That’s a signal we’re about to enter the final phase; the missiles will release their multiple warheads in two minutes and the warheads will hit their targets a minute or so after that. Unless, of course, we can destroy them first.”
All eyes in the room turned to Benoit.
Chapter 72
12:12 a.m.
The White House
Washington, DC
Benoit, head down, absorbed in the series of laptops arrayed in front of him, appeared to ignore the attention focused upon him.
On another monitor, a series of split-screen images appeared: television newscasters could be seen breaking into the networks’ normally scheduled programs with chilling news:
We interrupt this program for this very important bulletin. Our nation’s emergency alert system has been activated, indicating that a potential nuclear missile strike on the United States is imminent. I’ll repeat this, all broadcast networks have been notified of a potential nuclear strike against the United States. At this time, we do not know the exact target areas for this strike or from where it is originating, but everyone is urged to stay indoors and, if possible, to seek shelter underground immediately.
On yet another screen, a simple television graphic appeared:
Emergency Alert—Inbound missile threat. Seek immediate shelter. This is NOT a test.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” O’Brien said, his eyes scanning the uniforms around the table. “Is it over?”
“We’re on red alert, sir, “Sculley said. “Our defenses are as ready as they can be for an incoming attack. For what it’s worth…”
Sculley’s already shifted from our attack on the Russians to their attack on us, O’Brien thought.
They’d given up, except for Benoit and his tech staff, who continued to work frantically.
A series of short intermittent sirens jarred everyone even further, as all eyes in the room were once again fixated on the giant radar screen. The screen showed seventy-five missiles suddenly multiplying into what appeared to be a thousand, initially running parallel but quickly fanning out toward Moscow and the other targets. There were so many warheads headed for Moscow that the city itself was obscured by all the red flashing lights.
As though on cue, an old-fashioned ring, a throwback to an earlier time, emanated from the red telephone on the conference table. For a moment that seemed like forever, everyone froze.
Goodrich reached over and picked up the receiver. “Yes,” he said, “he’s right here.” He handed the phone to O’Brien. “It’s Putin.”
O’Brien took the receiver as Goodrich moved the phone over to him.
“Mr. President, I see that you have been unable to halt your attack. You must understand, I have no choice but to retaliate. We are on the eve of mutual destruction.”
“We’re still trying, you have to hold off.”
“My generals tell me that to delay any further could risk our ability to launch our own attack, the consequences of numerous nuclear explosions being untested and unknown. We fear the possibility of una
nticipated disruptions to our attack infrastructure.”
“But this is exactly what the perpetrators of this attack want to happen, for us to destroy each other.”
There was a pause.
“Then I’m afraid, Harry, that they will have accomplished their objective.”
It was the first time that Putin had called him by his first name. It made the message all the more chilling.
Michael watched the room. MacPherson and his aides seemed to be concentrating on images being flashed up on another screen off to the side. “This, sir, is Claus Dietrich, a direct descendent of Joseph Goebbels, Hitler’s propaganda minister. We’ve located him in Berlin. This was just a few minutes ago.” The camera zoomed into a scene showing Dietrich entering a glass office building, the Brandenburg Gate in the background. The image was followed in quick succession by other scenes around the world of individuals obviously under surveillance. One of them gave Michael pause, a woman sitting on a terrace overlooking a bright blue body of water, a typical scene from the Mediterranean. He recognized the spot, Santorini, and the woman on her computer, staring back into the screen. Clearly her laptop had been hacked, and little did she know she was staring back at the US government’s surveillance apparatus, let alone being watched by the CIA director and the President of the United States.
Sindy Steele. How and why had they located Sindy and why were they watching her? Quickly, the image changed.
Michael, unsure of what was going on, stayed silent.
“Have we lost Alex?” Michael asked, turning his attention back to those in the White House.
“It appears so,” Benoit said.
Everyone was looking up at the central screen, following the flashing red lights showing the course of the missiles as they approached their targets.
Michael, too, stared, helplessly. As he did, a light disappeared from the screen, then another one. He was sure his eyes were tricking him, possibly from the stress and pressure. Wishful thinking, perhaps?
“Hold on!” Benoit shouted. “Something’s happening.”
In rapid succession the red dots started disappearing, turning off one by one until they were all gone.
“What’s going on, John?” O’Brien said. “Is it what I think it is? The missiles…”
Benoit raised his arms to the sky. “We did it…We did it! They’re gone. It worked!”
A cheer went up throughout the room, quickly interrupted by Goodrich, “Mr. President, we need to get Putin on the phone, now.”
In seconds the phone was handed back to O’Brien. “Vlad, as I hope you can see, we’ve destroyed the missiles. There’s no attack. It’s over.”
But, instead of a relieved Putin, he was greeted by silence.
“Vlad, are you there?”
Several seconds went by without a word. O’Brien looked around the room, the mood of celebration suddenly becoming restrained, waiting for Putin’s final acknowledgment.
“Vlad?” O’Brien said. “Can you hear me now? Are you there?”
“Yes, Mr. President, I am here.” Putin’s voice was cold and somber.
Michael watched the scene unfolding as a pall fell over the room like a dark wave, tension returning to the faces staring in unison at the red phone.
“Vlad, what’s wrong?” O’Brien said, his voice no longer confident.
“Mr. President, is this some type of trick or deception? All of our radar and other data indicate that your missiles are continuing on their course. There has been no change. We are proceeding with our final preparations for a retaliatory strike on your mainland.”
Chapter 73
6:12 a.m., Berlin, Germany
From his desk, Dietrich watched the scene in the Stars Wars room. “My dear Monsignor Schlegelberger, you are a genius, you should have been the pope.”
“Perhaps I shall be yet,” Schlegelberger said. “And now, here is what the Russians are seeing,” Schlegelberger said as he switched their computer screens to show a radar screen overlaid with a map of Russia. There were a cluster of flashing red dots moving closer to Moscow and a series of other ones heading to surrounding and more distant parts of Russia.
“This is magnificent,” Dietrich said. But as he continued to look, the red dots suddenly disappeared from the radar screen.
“I’m afraid I spoke too soon,” Schlegelberger said. “It appears we have a problem.” He zoomed in on the radar map of Russia, which clearly indicated that the dots representing the US missiles had disappeared.
“What happened?” Dietrich said as he leaned in closer to the monitor screen. “The red dots, the missiles—they’re gone.”
Schlegelberger was, momentarily, silent. “The Americans have evidently been successful in taking back control of their missiles. It looks like they’ve indeed destroyed them.”
“I assume that Alex Nicholas gave his source code to them,” Dietrich said. “This is a disaster.”
“Not quite, not at all, actually. Yes, despite my efforts to block him, Alex Nicholas appears to have given up his source code. They have won a temporary victory but they have not been able to properly destroy me. Unfortunately, they have prevented the initial US attack on Russia.”
“What does this mean?”
“It means, my friend,” Schlegelberger said, calmly, “that we go to plan B. I have already implemented it.”
Dietrich, slightly more relaxed, said, “Plan B?”
The White House
“What the hell is happening?” O’Brien said to the room. “I thought we destroyed our missiles?”
“We did, we burned them up in the air,” Sculley said, looking over at his military aides, “Didn’t we?”
“Oh, my God,” Goodrich said. “What’s going on? We’re about to destroy ourselves here.”
“I think I know what happened,” Benoit called out. “They’ve been hacked.”
“Who?” O’Brien said.
“The whole goddamned world has been hacked,” Sculley said. “This is crazy.”
“No,” Benoit said, pecking away at his computer. “The radar feed into Moscow, into the Kremlin, has been hacked. It shows our missiles are still on their way. The Russians think they’re still being attacked. But it’s false data.”
O’Brien picked up the red phone. “Vlad, your radar feed has been hacked. Our missiles have been destroyed in the air. Someone has penetrated your systems and is trying to get you to launch your missiles at us. I’m sure it’s the same people that corrupted our missile systems. Don’t do anything. You are not being attacked any longer. I give you my word. The missiles are gone.”
Once again, there was silence on the other end. Then, “I’m afraid that is not how we see it. We will launch our missiles in precisely three minutes.”
President O’Brien checked the big clock: 12:12 a.m.
6:13 a.m., Berlin, Germany
“Plan B?” said Dietrich, wondering for the first time if Schlegelberger’s powers had been bested by the Americans and Alex Nicholas.
“Yes, the missiles have been destroyed—but the Russians will not be able to see that. We have co-opted the communication from their radar and satellite systems into their Command Center, so it will appear to them as though the attack is still underway with the American missiles just minutes from their targets. The Russians will retaliate as it appears the American warheads are about to reach them.”
“Brilliant, Kurt. And then the Americans will be forced to launch another attack against them.”
“Yes,” said Schlegelberger, “but this time from their submarines, most of which are in close proximity to Russia so that it will only take minutes for them to reach Moscow and the other cities.”
Dietrich took a deep breath of relief and sat back in his chair. “So, we are nearing the climax. This ‘plan B’ is what you might call a sort of Romeo and Juliet ending. Both
parties misjudged, and so they kill themselves.”
“Yes,” Schlegelberger said, “the world as we know it, will come to an end in the next several minutes.”
Chapter 74
Russian Ministry of Defense, Command Center, Moscow, 6:14 a.m.
“We cannot wait any longer,” Minister of Defense General Sergey Shoigu said, addressing his supreme commander in chief, Vladimir Putin. “We must not accept the American president’s word over the clear information and data we see with our own eyes.”
Several minutes earlier, President Vladimir Putin had hurriedly descended two hundred feet down in an elevator followed by a ninety-second ride on a high-speed underground train through a labyrinth of tunnels to the secure Russian Ministry of Defense’s three-tiered, multibillion-dollar control-center bunker. He had entered the massive room with an air of celebrity. This was his moment. He would save Mother Russia.
On movie-theater-size screens, live broadcasts showed long-range strategic bombers taking off from Russian air bases and preparations at several eerily lit missile sites around the country.
The Control Center was designed to be a new nerve center for the Russian military, created by Putin to coordinate military action around the world, including ballistic missile launches and strategic nuclear deployments.
The center, heavily fortified in order to withstand a direct hit nuclear attack, sat on top of a maze of underground tunnels on the Frunze Naberezhnaya on the left bank of the Moscow River, two miles from Red Square. In case of an attack, it would be Russia’s sole communications center, a place where Putin felt strangely at home.
“We should order our attack now, sir,” General Shoigu said. “Once we are hit, it will be impossible to be sure that we will be able to fully launch from our ground-based missiles. Although we have taken the greatest care over the years to remain secure despite a full-scale attack upon us, one can never be certain about the degree of disruption from a massive strike to our mainland. Many of these systems are relatively old and, in the last several years, the Americans have made advances with their warheads.”