The Seventh Angel (14 page)

Hitler’s super rockets had come too late to turn the tide of the war, but no one could deny that the V-1 and V-2 really
were
the super rockets that he had threatened to build.

On the other side of the world, the war in the Pacific was entering its bloodiest phase. The defeat of Imperial Japan was considered a certainty, but the Japanese were preparing to fight to the very last man, woman, or child. Japan would
not
surrender.

But everything changed in August of 1945. On the sixth day of that month, an American B-29 bomber obliterated the Japanese city of Hiroshima with a single atomic bomb. More than 70,000 people were killed instantly, and nearly a quarter of a million more would die from the effects of nuclear radiation over the next few years.

Three days after the destruction of Hiroshima, while Japan was still reeling from the shock of losing an entire city to a single bomb, America followed up with a second nuclear attack on the Japanese city of Nagasaki. Once again, a single atomic bomb was used, and once again the devastation was complete. Somewhere between 40,000 and 75,000 people were killed by the direct effects of the explosion. And—as with Hiroshima—tens of thousands more would die over the following years.

Representatives of the Japanese Emperor formally signed the documents of surrender on September 2, 1945, aboard the battleship USS
Missouri
, at anchor in Tokyo Bay. The Second World War was officially over. The nations of the earth were ready to turn towards peace. But the threat was not ended.

Germany’s rocket scientists had shown the world how to build missiles and rockets capable of reaching space, and spanning the distances between nations. America’s own scientists had discovered the secret to building nuclear weapons. It was only a matter of time before the two deadliest technologies in history merged to become a single weapon with unimaginable destructive power.

The weapons of World War II had given rise to the weapons of World War III. For the first time, mankind had the knowledge and the ability to destroy all life on planet earth.

AVACHA BAY COMMERCIAL SEA PORT FACILITY (OJSC)

PETROPAVLOVSK-KAMCHATSKI, RUSSIA

WEDNESDAY; 27 FEBRUARY

1814 hours (6:14 PM)

TIME ZONE +12 ‘MIKE’

The sun was just beginning to dip below the volcanic peaks to the west of the city, when Customs Officer Evgeny Petrov spotted the militia car. The big black Volga squeaked to a stop near the head of the pier, about thirty meters from where the customs man was standing.

Arms wrapped around himself for warmth, Petrov hunkered farther down into his heavy wool greatcoat, and trudged toward the car, his boots crunching through the layer of rime ice and snow that covered the cement quay. He had called for militia backup nearly two hours ago, and the idiots were just now getting here.

A car door opened and a man climbed out and tightened his own coat, as Petrov covered the remaining distance to the car. The driver wore the uniform and insignia of a major in the militia.

A major? That much was good, at least. The militia man was going to need some clout to handle this situation. But where were his men? Had the fool come alone?

The militia officer straightened his hat and turned up the collar of his coat against the wind. “I am Major Noviko,” he said. “Are you Petrov?”

Petrov nodded. “Yes.” He looked around. “Where are your men?”

“
A truck is coming behind me,” Noviko said. “It should be along in a minute or two. In the meantime, why don’t you tell me what the problem is?”

Petrov pointed toward the pier. “
There
is the problem,” he said.

Moored to the pier were two ships: enormous boxy vessels, the size of skyscrapers laid on their sides. The ships were car carriers, both of the same design, with blue-painted hulls and white superstructures.

The vessel closest to the head of the pier had the name
Shunfeng
lettered on the hull near the bow. The second ship had the name
Jifeng
painted in the same location.

Both ships had large open cargo doors, and steel ramps extended down to the pier. As the two men watched, strange-looking six-wheeled vehicles drove down the ramps of both ships, and fell into line behind long rows of similar vehicles that were already parked on the pier.

There were perhaps a hundred vehicles on the pier already, their motors all running as they sat idling on the snow-encrusted concrete. They were all painted dark green, and they all had angular profiles and heavy construction. Some were relatively featureless. Others bristled with antennas, or were topped by what were unmistakably guns. They were obviously military vehicles.

“
These ships have no authorization,” Petrov said. “We have spoken to the masters of both vessels, and they claim that these vehicles are for delivery to the naval base at Rybachiy. But they have produced no proof of clearance, no manifest transfers, no delivery authorization of any kind.”

Petrov nodded toward the still growing ranks of military vehicles. “I have formally notified both masters that it is against the law to offload their cargoes without customs clearance.” He scowled. “As you can see, they ignore our warnings.”

The major nodded gravely. “Yes, I see. And how many men do you have in your charge, here?”

“
Three,” Petrov said. “Myself, and two other customs agents.” As he watched, another pair of the angular six-wheeled vehicles rolled onto the pier. These were topped by what seemed to be rocket launchers.

“
So far, they are remaining inside the fence of the customs area,” Petrov said. “But we can’t keep them here if they decide to leave. That’s why I called the militia for reinforcements.”

“
A prudent move,” Major Noviko said. He checked his watch and frowned. “My men should be here by now.”

“
Perhaps you should call them, to check,” Petrov said.

“
I will,” Noviko agreed. “But first, please summon your other two agents.” He surveyed the lines of military vehicles. “We’re going to need a much larger response force to contain this. I want to have more information before I call in the request.”

Petrov nodded and unclipped a tape-swaddled radio from his belt. The pier lights were flickering on now, and the sun was nearly gone behind the peak of Koryaksky mountain.

As he summoned his men by radio, Petrov noted that the stream of vehicles had finally halted. They sat idling on the pier, clouds of vapor rising from their exhaust pipes.

Shubin arrived almost immediately. Borodin took a couple of minutes longer. He’d been down at the far end of the pier, and he was breathing heavily when he stumped over to stand near his supervisor and the militia officer.

Major Noviko nodded. “Is this everyone?”

“
Yes,” Petrov said. “At least until our reliefs show up in about an hour.”

“
Good,” Noviko said. His right hand came out of the pocket of his greatcoat, and Petrov had barely registered the presence of the automatic pistol when he heard the crack of the first bullet.

Borodin dropped to the frozen concrete like a sack of potatoes. Shubin raised his hands and took a rapid step toward the militia officer, but the gun whipped around quickly, and a bullet hammered through his forehead. His body collapsed beside Borodin, blood spilling among the ice and snow.

Stunned by the suddenness of the attacks, Petrov’s only thought was to run. He turned, his boot heels slipping on ice, but Noviko’s pistol barked again.

He felt himself slammed forward, as though someone had punched him in the spine. He pitched forward, and fell to the pier. The impact with the frost-covered concrete was somehow more painful than the bullet.

He lay in the ice and snow, his faced turned toward the nearer ship. Men were coming down the cargo ramp now. A
lot
of men. Soldiers. In black uniforms.

Petrov’s vision was failing by the time the first squad of soldiers came near. He couldn’t turn his head for a better look, and he couldn’t see them clearly. But as his brain processed his very last rational thought, he wondered why the strangers were speaking Chinese.

WHITE HOUSE

WASHINGTON, DC

WEDNESDAY; 27 FEBRUARY

3:12 AM EST

President Chandler nearly dropped the phone before his sleep-numbed fingers managed to fumble the receiver to his ear. “Yes?”

“
Mr. President, this is Lieutenant Colonel Briggs, the Situation Room Watch Officer. I’m sorry to wake you at this hour, but we have a developing situation that requires your attention, sir.”

The president muffled the mouthpiece of the phone with one hand and yawned heavily. When the worst of it was past, he uncovered the receiver. “Situation room?”

“
No, sir,” the lieutenant colonel said. “This is a National Command Authority issue. The Secret Service is going to want you in the bunker, Mr. President. And the National Military Command Center is requesting permission to initiate COG protocols.”

The president sat upright in bed, the sudden movement jerking the phone to the edge of the bedside table, where it teetered precariously.
COG
was short for
C
ontinuity
o
f
G
overnment. COG protocols were rapid action plans for moving designated cabinet secretaries and members of Congress to secure locations outside of the Washington, DC area, to protect the succession of national leadership in situations that directly threatened the survival of the American government. In theory, COG protocols were intended to react to unknown threats as well as known. In practice, that was understood to mean one of three things: extraordinary natural disasters, terrorist acts of nearly unimaginable scope, or impending nuclear attack.

The thought drove the last vestiges of sleep from President Chandler’s brain. “Are we under attack?”

“
No, sir,” Lieutenant Colonel Briggs said. “Fighting has broken out in Kamchatka. We don’t have many details yet, but it appears to be some kind of revolution or military coup. There are a relatively large number of Russian long-range nuclear missiles stationed in Kamchatka, and we don’t know who has control of them at this time.” He paused for a few seconds. “I can’t go into details over a non-secure phone, Mr. President. We should have more information for you when you get down to the bunker.”

As if on cue, there was a light knock on the door. A second later, it opened to reveal a pair of Secret Service agents. “Mr. President? We have orders to escort you down to the bunker.”

The president hung up the phone and looked over at Jenny, still snoring softly beside him. He peeled the blankets off his legs and turned to put his feet on the carpet. “I’ll wake up Jenny,” he said. “Make sure the agents assigned to Susan and Nicole get them down to the bunker, and try not to frighten them any more than necessary.” He lifted his robe from the back of a chair and began pulling it on.

The nearer agent nodded. “We’ll wake up your family if you’d like, sir. But Command Post is online with the National Military Command Center, NORAD, the National Reconnaissance Office, and the 21st Space Operations Center. If there’s a launch, missile flight-time from Kamchatka will give us about thirty minutes warning. In the event of a nuclear launch alert, we can evacuate your family to the bunker in under five minutes. If I may offer a suggestion, Mr. President, it would probably be less frightening to let them sleep, for the moment at least.”

The president shook his head and opened his mouth to repeat the order to wake his family. Then, he caught himself. His own concern for his family’s safety grew out of the love he felt for his wife and daughters. The Secret Service’s motivations were professional rather than emotional, but they were at least as powerful. He had no doubt that any member of his protection detail would willingly step in front of a bullet to protect his wife and children. It was their profession, their sworn duty, and the central tenet of their entire way of life. Reminding them to consider his family’s safety was entirely unnecessary, and probably insulting.

He checked his head shake and turned it into a nod. “Fair enough,” he said. Then the father-husband instinct made a last quick attempt to override logic. “Don’t let anything … I mean, if there’s any doubt about their safety …”

The agent nodded. “You have my solemn word, Mr. President. If there’s any doubt at all, we won’t waste a
second
in moving your family.”

President Chandler pulled the belt of his robe tight and took one more look at the sleeping form of his wife. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Three levels below the East Wing of the White House was a tube-shaped citadel known officially as the
Presidential Emergency Operations Center
, or
PEOC.
Unofficially, the shelter was called the
bunker
, a nickname that had emerged during the Reagan administration when nuclear war with the Soviet Union had seemed like a very real possibility. Protected by a forty foot blast shield of high-tensile ferroconcrete, Kevlar, and armored steel plating, the bunker housed office facilities, sleeping quarters, computer systems, communications equipment, and a command center that duplicated the functions of the West Wing’s Situation Room.