The Seventh Angel (23 page)

A door opened at the rear of the room and the president glanced over his shoulder to see National Security Advisor Gregory Brenthoven walk into the operations center, followed by a young Marine lieutenant. The lieutenant made a beeline toward the Deputy Watch Officer, and the national security advisor pulled out a chair and seated himself at the briefing table.

The president turned back to the geographic display. The curving red line on the screen flashed again, and grew longer. The unfinished end of the arc continued to edge its way eastward, toward the coast of California.

The carnage at Nagasaki and Hiroshima had been so dire that the leaders of the most powerful nations in the world had, for the first time in history, shied away from using one of the weapons in their collective arsenals. Nuclear bombs and missiles had been built, tested in remote areas, and stockpiled against some unthinkable future. But they’d never again been used against human beings. Not until now…

The president felt a shudder coming on, and he clamped down on his muscles to suppress it. The Commander in Chief of the United States military could
not
get the shakes during a crisis.

It wasn’t a personal fear thing. At least he could comfort himself with that knowledge. He’d been in life-threatening situations before, and he’d never reacted this way. He didn’t want to die, but he wasn’t terrified by the idea. He knew that it was in him to sacrifice his life, if the circumstances demanded.

This wasn’t about self-preservation, or the safety of his family. That missile couldn’t get anywhere
near
Washington. From its estimated launch position in the Sea of Okhotsk, the R-29R missile could hit any American city west of Denver. That put Washington, DC about 1,500 miles outside the target zone.

Personal safety wasn’t the issue here. The
real
danger was in what that missile could trigger.

On the table in front of him lay a heavy ten-ring binder, with anodized aluminum covers and color-coded pages. Its official title was the
S
ingle
I
ntegrated
O
perational
P
lan
, or
SIOP
. It was the strategic blueprint for nuclear war—America’s plan for employing the ultimate Weapons of Mass Destruction.

The binder was open to
Section Orange
, the pages the color of children’s aspirin. Bold block letters at the top of every page identified this section as “
RETALIATORY NUCLEAR STRIKE OPTIONS
.”

But the president wasn’t looking at the SIOP. His eyes remained fixed on the geographic display. That harmless looking line of red pixels on the video screen could turn out to be the opening stroke of Armageddon. He might be looking at the first shot of the last war mankind would ever fight. The one Einstein had spoken of as the end of the human species.

The president took a breath and exhaled sharply. “Talk to me, general. Give me the latest.”

General Horace Gilmore, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, looked up from a red and white striped folder of computer hardcopy. He paused for a second, as though marshalling his thoughts.

“
Sir, we’re getting the last of the readiness confirmations now. We are at DEFCON 1: full offensive and defensive nuclear readiness. All active missile squadrons are at full alert, and all Minuteman III silos are at launch-standby. The Navy has issued pre-launch warnings to all deployed Trident ballistic missile subs. The Air Force is scrambling B-2 bombers from Whiteman Air Force Base, and B-52s from Minot, and Barksdale.”

The president held up a hand. “Wait a second … We’re
already
launching bombers?”

The general nodded. “Yes, sir. It’s standard operating procedure.”

The president frowned. “
Strategic
bombers? Carrying
nuclear
weapons?”

General Gilmore nodded again. “Affirmative, Mr. President. Standard precautionary deployment.” He glanced down at the computer printouts in the red and white striped folder. “The Vice President and the Secretary of Defense are in route to…”

The president cut him off. “Hold it. Just stop right there. I have
not
authorized the deployment of nuclear weapons. Who in the hell is launching bombers with nuclear payloads?”

Gregory Brenthoven cleared his throat. “Ah … Mr. President, that’s a standard response. As soon as we confirmed the presence of an inbound nuclear missile, the Commander in Chief, North American Aerospace Defense Command declared an Air Defense Emergency. Precautionary deployment is within the scope of his authority, but that’s as far as he can go without presidential authorization. He can put bombers in the air, but he can’t order them to attack. Only
you
can do that, sir.”

“
That’s correct, sir,” the general said. He pointed to the open binder on the briefing table. “It’s all spelled out in the Single Integrated Operational Plan. CINCNORAD is just ensuring that our strategic bomber wings don’t get caught on the ground when that missile’s warheads start hitting their targets.”

The president paused for a second, and loosened his necktie. “I interrupted your briefing, General. Please continue.”

The general glanced down at the striped folder. “Vice President Wainright and the Secretary of Defense are in route to the Alternate National Military Command and Control Center at Site Romeo. Per your orders, Homeland Security is issuing civil defense warnings to all cities and towns west of Burlington, Colorado. After we know the impact zones for the warheads, Homeland Security will coordinate with FEMA and the National Weather Service to calculate fallout footprints. Then they’ll issue radiation warnings in the affected areas and initiate quarantine protocols if necessary.”

President Chandler nodded, partly in response to what the general had
not
said. When news of the incoming warheads began to take hold, there would be panic in the western states—assuming that it hadn’t started already. The civil defense warning would advise people to stay off the roads and take shelter indoors, in their own homes where possible. But how many people would actually follow the guidelines? And how many would run to their cars and bolt for the nearest highway out of town?

The interstates would be jammed, and a lot of people were going to get hurt in the mad rush to get away from the cities, even in areas far removed from the actual target sites. There would be looting, rioting, and crimes of opportunity.

The loss of life due to ill-conceived panic reactions would probably exceed the casualty counts from the bombs, wherever they happened to strike. That made for a compelling argument against warning the civilian populace of an impending attack.

But the citizenry
had
to trust its leaders in times of crisis. If the Russian warheads fell on civilian targets without warning, the country would come apart at the seams the instant the public realized that the government had known the truth and chosen to hide it. After that, no amount of good intent would be able to stop the slide into chaos.

The problem was complicated by the fact that they didn’t yet know where the warheads were going to fall. If they could narrow down the list of potential targets, they could confine the emergency warnings to only the areas that were likely to be hit. That would presumably reduce the scope of the panic, which should help limit the resulting injuries. Fewer people stampeding away from target zones should translate into fewer traffic accidents, fewer heart attacks, fewer suicides … fewer instances of all the myriad ways that frightened humans could find to hurt themselves.

But that was part of the terrible beauty of the MIRV design. The warheads would not be locked into their final trajectories until just minutes before they re-entered the atmosphere. By then, it would be too late to warn anyone.

Despite the predictable consequences, there was no real choice. The people
had
to be told, even if the act of warning them sent some of them to their deaths.

On the geographic display, the curving red line flashed again and grew longer.

A Marine captain walked to General Gilmore’s side, stopped, and spoke softly.

The general nodded, and turned to the president. “Sir, the hotline is up. We’ve got it patched through to your secure telephone, and President Turgenev is on the line.”

The president reached for the phone. “Thank you.”

In movies, the famed hotline between Washington and Moscow is usually depicted as a futuristic-looking red telephone, often decorated with flickering lights and strange mechanical reinforcements intended to convey the impression that the phone is somehow armored or bombproof. In at least one popular action film, the handset of the famous red phone was locked to the cradle by a formidable-looking steel clamp that could only be released by a key worn on a chain around the neck of the president.

But the Secure Terminal Equipment phone sitting on the briefing table looked like any other black multi-line telephone—the kind you might find on a desk in any office building. Only the narrow horizontal slot in the front of the base suggested that the STE phone might be something out of the ordinary.

The Marine captain leaned across the table and inserted a
Fortezza-Hyper
series encryption card into the slot. The phone beeped once softly, and the word ‘SECURE’ appeared in the rectangular LCD call display.

The young officer slid the phone across the table top until it rested directly in front of the president. “Ready, sir.”

President Chandler lifted the handset.

His Russian counterpart, President Anatoliy Petrovitch Turgenev, spoke almost immediately.

“
Mr. President …
Frank
… Are you on the line?”

The Russian president’s voice sounded hollow and metallic, a side-effect of digital compression, and the encryption/decryption process that scrambled and unscrambled the signal. His English was accented, but very fluent.

“
Yes, Anatoliy,” the president said. “I’m on the line.”

“
It’s a pleasure to hear your voice,” the Russian leader said. “I only wish we were speaking under better circumstances.”

“
So do I,” the president said. “So do I.”

“
This attack is not the work of my country,” Turgenev said. “Zhukov is a maniac. He is operating without the support, or the consent of my Government. You must believe that, Frank.”

“
I
do
believe it,” the president said. “I’m well aware of your efforts to put down Mr. Zhukov’s coup. But those efforts have failed, and the situation is now beyond your control. Frankly, Anatoliy, it may have gone beyond
anyone’s
control.”

There was a pause before the Russian president spoke again. “Frank … Mr. President, I know that this crisis requires your full concentration, and I don’t want to delay you or distract you. But I must ask for your assurance that the United States will not retaliate with nuclear weapons.”

President Chandler felt his grip on the telephone receiver tighten. “Pardon me?”

“
The government of the Russian Federation would like your personal guarantee that the United States will not attack targets in Russian territory with nuclear weapons.”

It was President Chandler’s turn to pause.

“
I’m, sorry,” he said slowly, “I do not believe I can make that guarantee.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. On the big display screen, the red arc grew longer as the Russian missile continued its trajectory toward California.

After several seconds, the Russian leader spoke again. “Mr. President, if we cannot reach some agreement, this situation can easily get out of hand.”

“
My country is under nuclear attack,” the president said. “The situation has
already
gotten out of hand.”

“
I am attempting to prevent an escalation,” Turgenev said softly.

“
I understand that,” the president said. “And the United States has no intention of escalating this conflict, if that can be prevented. We’re preparing to intercept the warheads now. If we’re successful, and there are no further attacks, your government and mine can consider how to proceed. But if nuclear warheads fall on American soil, the United States
will
retaliate in kind.”

“
I see,” the Russian president said. “May I at least ask that you confine your counterstrikes to targets in Kamchatka?”

“
Of course,” President Chandler said. “Our retaliation will be directed against the rogue element who launched this attack, not against your country. Will that be satisfactory?”

“
I don’t know, sir,” the Russian president said. “I will convey your message to my government. Let us hope for the best.”

“
Yes,” said the president. “Let’s do that.”

He replaced the telephone receiver gently in its cradle, and looked up at Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Give me a status update, General. Where are we with this?”

General Gilmore checked the latest printouts in his striped folder. “Mr. President, our ground-based Midcourse Defenses at Fort Greely and Vandenberg are preparing to launch EKVs,” he said. “We’re going to try to intercept the incoming missile over the Pacific.”