The Seventh Angel (22 page)

The door to the command post opened behind him, and Zhukov turned to see one of his lieutenants walk between the pair of Chinese soldiers who guarded the entrance to the facility. The lieutenant strode briskly toward his new president, sparing not even a glance for the Chinese guards, as though even the act of looking at them was beneath him.

Zhukov understood the lieutenant’s feelings. Apart from the fact that Asians were ethnically classified as
chernyee
, or
black
, to the burgeoning groundswell of racism in Russia, these chernyee were mercenaries. They had come here to fight, not because they supported the reestablishment of communism in Russia, but because their politburo—the Central Committee of the People’s Republic of China—was willing to trade the lives of forty thousand combat troops for access to crucial nuclear missile technology.

Their black uniforms had been stripped of labels and insignia; they carried no identification or personal effects, and the serial numbers had been removed from their weapons. They had even been delivered by civilian automobile transport ships, with no traceable connection to the Chinese government. Their political masters in Beijing were taking every precaution to allow themselves maximum deniability if Zhukov’s plans for revolution went astray.

Of course, the Chinese soldiers had been told none of this. They had been told only that they were part of a covert combat action that was crucial to the defense of their country. They had all received bonuses equal to three years worth of pay, with the promise of a matching bonus upon successful completion of the mission. That, plus the rigid discipline of the Chinese military, was enough to ensure their functional loyalty for the moment at least.

Zhukov had no illusions that the chernyee bastards would stay bought, but he wouldn’t need them for very long. They were not the core of his revolution. They were merely the torch needed to light the fire.

The lieutenant halted, came to attention, and saluted. “Comrade President, there is news.”

Zhukov returned the salute and accepted a small bundle of papers from the lieutenant’s gloved left hand. “Thank you, Comrade Lieutenant.” He glanced down at the papers. “Give me a summary.”

The lieutenant dropped his salute, but remained at attention. “Comrade President, your staff is downloading press statements from
Pravda
,
Izvestia
, and several western news sources. They are all carrying essentially the same story. Moscow has issued a formal statement that the revolution has been put down. They claim to have wiped out our command and control infrastructure, and they are speculating that most of our senior officers and officials were killed by their cruise missile attacks. They confirm the destruction of your offices at Ploshad Lenina, and your private residence. You are listed as missing and presumed dead, Comrade President.”

Zhukov smiled and thumped himself on the chest. “I must admit that I feel pretty good for a walking corpse.”

The lieutenant returned his smile. “Yes, sir! The papers also report that the threat of nuclear action has passed, and that the
Zelenograd
is trapped under the ice pack, where it will be located and destroyed shortly.”

Zhukov felt his smile widen a fraction. This was the news he had been waiting for. He nodded toward the man. “Thank you, Comrade Lieutenant. You may return to your duties.”

The lieutenant saluted, did an about-face, and marched past the Chinese guards and into the command post.

When the door had closed behind the man, Zhukov looked down at the printouts from the newspaper websites. He’d read them later. For now, it was enough to feel them in his hand. Once again, Moscow was reacting as he had predicted.

He turned his eyes to the pillars of smoke rising from the city below him. He would let the story percolate through the various news medias for another couple of hours, to give most of the supposed experts an opportunity to weigh in on the swift destruction of his revolution. Then he would give the order for the next phase of the operation, and reveal to the world that so-called Russian government was populated by liars and fools.

ICE PACK - NORTHERN SEA OF OKHOTSK

LATITUDE 58.29N / LONGITUDE 155.20E

SUNDAY; 03 MARCH

1001 hours (10:01 AM)

TIME ZONE +11 ‘LIMA’

The timing was precise. All six charges detonated at the same instant, and a circular stretch of the ice pack exploded into an expanding cloud of water vapor and ice fragments. When the rumble of the blast had faded to silence and the last of the scattered ejecta had fallen back to surface of the ice pack, a large opening—about thirty meters in diameter—remained in the ice. Between the displacement effect of the shockwave and the heat of the expanding gases, the hole was nearly clear of debris, leaving a sizeable circle of the Sea of Okhotsk open to the frigid Siberian sky.

Left alone, the newly-formed pocket of open sea would have begun to skin-over with new ice almost immediately. But it was not to be left alone, because the detonation of the shaped charges was only the tiniest precursor of the energies about to be channeled through this particular section of frozen ocean.

The water near the center of the opening began to foam, and the surrounding ice began to vibrate. An enormous bubble broke the surface of the water, followed a millisecond later by the blunt-nosed cylindrical shape of a Russian R-29R nuclear missile.

Still riding the supercavitating gas bubble of its submerged launch system, the 35-ton missile had barely cleared the surface of the water when the liquid-fueled rocket engines of its first stage ignited. Nitrogen tetroxide merged with unsymmetrical dimethylhydrazine to feed the missile’s fiery exhaust. With a roar like an insanely-massive blowtorch, the weapon leapt toward the sky on a silver-white column of smoke and flame.

Accelerating rapidly, it was moving at 5 kilometers a second—roughly four times the speed of a high-powered rifle bullet—when it blew through the thin layer of cirrostratus clouds in the upper troposphere and shot into the stratosphere. Three seconds later and still accelerating, the first stage burned out and the missile passed through 25,000 meters, where the deepening blue of the sky gave way to the blackness of space.

The engines of the second stage fired, blasting the upper third of the missile up and away from the burned out and empty hulk of the first stage. Relieved of its burden, the missile gained still more speed, climbing away on its own pillar of flame while the remains of the discarded first stage fell back to earth like a man-made meteor of scorched aluminum-magnesium alloy.

The second stage burned out at an altitude of 200 kilometers, triggering timed electrical pulses to a ring of small explosive charges in the mating collar that joined the second stage of the missile to the warhead bus. The explosives detonated instantly, fracturing the aerodynamic collar along carefully-engineered structural stress points. The inertia imparted by the small explosion was enough to separate the warhead bus from the expended second stage.

Referred to by missile engineers as
mechanical separation
, this final severance of the payload from its launch vehicle marked the end of the
boost
phase of the trajectory, and the beginning of the
ascent
phase. Moving at 7 kilometers per second, the bluntly-conical warhead bus no longer needed rocket engines to complete its journey. From this point forward, the earth’s gravitational pull and the physics of ballistic flight would do all the work.

The trajectory of the weapon began to flatten now, nosing over into a curving arc toward the east, and that mass of land known to humans as
North America
.

* * *

21
^ST
Space Operations Center (Sunnyvale, California)
:

Technical Sergeant Diane Claxton watched the screen of her SAWS console and inhaled softly through clenched teeth. This couldn’t be right. This just
couldn’t
be right. Ignoring the pulsing red alert icon at the top of her display screen, she tapped a rapid series of commands into her console and called up an off-axis view from another early warning satellite. The second bird—another U.S. Air Force
Eagle Eye
series surveillance satellite—was at the extreme edge of its operational footprint, so the images it produced were grainy and poorly-focused. Despite the lack of optical clarity, the feed from the second satellite confirmed the findings of the first.

Technical Sergeant Claxton adjusted her communications headset so that the microphone hung a few inches in front of her mouth. She keyed the mike. “Senior Watch Officer, this is Station Five. Eagle Eye is tracking a ballistic missile launch alert in sector green, grid reference twenty-eight alpha. The launch point appears to be south of Siberia and west of Kamchatka. Looks like the Sea of Okhotsk.” She tapped in another sequence of keystrokes. “I have off-axis confirmation from a second Eagle Eye bird. Missile trajectory is east, toward California.”

A voice crackled in the sergeant’s left ear. “This is the Senior Watch Officer; I copy ballistic missile launch alert in sector green, grid reference twenty-eight alpha. Cross-check with PAVE PAWS for radar confirmation.”

PAVE PAWS
, short for
P
recision
A
cquisition
V
ehicle
E
ntry
P
hased
A
rray
W
arning
S
ystem, was a long-range land-based radar network operated by the U.S. Air Force’s Space Command. Its primary mission was to detect and track ballistic missiles that might pose a threat to U.S. territory.

It took less than a minute for the PAVE PAWS radar installation at Beale Air Force Base, California to corroborate the inbound missile. By that time, the installation at Clear Air Force Station, Alaska had locked on and was also tracking the missile. Both radars confirmed the findings of the Eagle Eye satellites: an unannounced missile launch, with a ballistic trajectory toward the United States.

The Senior Watch Officer lifted the handset of a blue telephone. The phone had no buttons or dial; it was a direct connection to North American Aerospace Defense Command in Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado. The Senior Watch Officer swallowed and then spoke the words he had trained for many times, but never expected to say. “This is Tripwire Command. I have emergency flash traffic for CINCNORAD… Code word
PINNACLE
.”

* * *

White House, Presidential Emergency Operations Center (Washington, DC)
:

President Chandler was glad he was sitting, because his knees were so weak that he wasn’t sure he could stand. He glanced around the room at the military and civilian personnel who staffed the PEOC. To outward appearances, they were going about the details of their respective jobs as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. People studied video screens, worked at computer stations, spoke quietly into telephones and communications handsets, wrote on clipboards, and exchanged printouts and folders with the same intense but subdued efficiency they showed on any other day. How did they do that? How could they calmly go about their business when a nuclear missile was screaming toward the United States at twenty-five times the speed of sound?

Was it their training, or some unnatural level of personal discipline? Was it possible that it was all a front? Could they all be faking it, putting on the outward signs of professional detachment when they were really quaking in their boots?

This last idea made sense to him, because that’s exactly what
he
was doing at the moment. On the outside, he was the leader of the most powerful nation on earth, thoughtful, decisive, and utterly unruffled by the emergency unfolding around them. On the inside, he was one step short of peeing in his pants. He wanted to run around the room, shrieking at the top of his lungs—not that his shaky knees were up to such an energetic task at the moment.

He jerked his gaze to the wall-sized geographic display screen. The image looked so harmless, just a thin red line curving from the Sea of Okhotsk to a point somewhere above the middle of the Pacific Ocean. As he watched, the arc disappeared from the screen for a fraction of a second, and then reappeared—redrawn slightly longer as the missile came closer to the West Coast of his country.

For all of its graphic simplicity, that curving red line represented destruction and death on a scale almost beyond the scope of imagination. In all of history, only two nuclear weapons had been used against human targets. Between them, the bombs codenamed ‘
Fat Man
’ and ‘
Little Boy
’ had devastated the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, killing over 150,000 people. Another half million people had died from nuclear radiation over the following five years. The combined yield of those first two atomic bombs had been 36 kilotons: the destructive equivalent of 36,000 tons of conventional explosives.

The missile hurtling through the black reaches of near-earth space carried
three
warheads, each with a destructive yield of 200 kilotons. Combined, the destructive power of those warheads was more than fifteen times greater than the two most terrible weapons ever turned by man onto his fellow men.