by Tom Clancy
Jackson watched the entire process. He’d probably set an all-time one-shot record. Four aircraft on one missile salvo. But there had been no skill involved. As with his Iraqi victim, they hadn’t known he was there. Any new nugget right out of the RAG could have done this. It was murder, not war—what war? he asked, was there a war?—and he didn’t even know why.
“Splash four MiGs,” he said over the radio. “Stick, this is Spade, splash four. Returning to CAP station, we need some gas.”
“Roger, Spade, tankers are overhead now. We copy you splashed four.”
“Uh, Spade, what the fuck is going on?” Lieutenant Walters asked.
“I wish I knew, Shredder.” Did I just fire the first shot in a war? What war?
Despite his earlier screaming, the Guards tank regiment was about as sharp a Russian unit as Keitel had ever seen. Their T-80 main battle tanks looked slightly toylike with their reactive armor panels festooned on turret and hull, but they were also low-slung dangerous-looking vehicles whose enormously long 125mm guns left no doubt as to their identity and purpose. The supposed inspection team was moving about in groups of three. Keitel had the most dangerous mission, as he was with the regimental commander. Keitel—“Colonel Ivanenko” —checked his watch as he walked behind the real Colonel.
Just two hundred meters away, Günther Bock and two other ex-Stasi officers approached a tank crew. They were boarding their vehicle as the officers approached.
“Stop!” one ordered.
“Yes, Colonel,” the junior sergeant who commanded the tank replied.
“Step down. We are going to inspect your vehicle.”
The commander, gunner, and driver assembled in front of their vehicle while the other crews boarded theirs. Bock waited for the neighboring tanks to button up, then shot all three Russians with his silenced automatic. The three bodies were tossed under the tank. Bock took the gunner’s seat and looked around for the controls he’d been briefed on. Not twelve hundred meters away, parked at right angles to his tank, were over fifty American M1A1 tanks whose crews were also boarding their vehicles.
“Power coming on,” the driver reported over the intercom. The diesel engine roared to life along with all the others.
Bock flipped the loading switch to Armor-Piercing Fin-Stabilized Discarding-Sabot round and punched the load button. Automatically, the breech to the tank’s main gun dropped open, and first the shell, then the propellant charge were rammed home, and the breech shut by itself. That, Bock thought, was easy enough. Next he depressed the gunsight and selected an American tank. It was easy to spot. The American tank park was lit up like any parking lot so that trespassers might easily be spotted. The laser gave him a range display, and Bock elevated the gun to the proper stadimeter line. The wind he estimated as zero. It was a calm night. Bock checked his watch and waited for the sweep hand to reach the twelve. Then he squeezed the triggers. Bock’s T-80 rocked backwards, along with three others. Two-thirds of a second later, the shell struck the turret of the American tank. The results were impressive. He’d struck the ammo compartment in the rear of the turret. The forty rounds of ammunition ignited at once. Blowout panels vented most of it straight up, but the protective fire-doors inside the vehicle had already been blown out by the shell, and the crew incinerated in their seats as their two-million-dollar tank turned into a mottled green-and-brown volcano, along with two others.
One hundred meters to the north, the regimental commander froze in midsentence, turning toward the noise in disbelief.
“What’s going on?” he managed to shout before Keitel shot him in the back of the head.
Bock had already fired his second round into the engine box of another tank, and was loading a third. Seven M1A1s were burning before the first American gunner got a round loaded. The huge turret swung around while tank commanders screamed orders at their drivers and gunners. Bock saw the operating turret and swung toward it. His round missed wide to the left, but struck another Abrams behind the first. The American shot also missed high because the gunner was excited. His second round was instantly loaded, and the American exploded a T-80 two down from Bock’s. Günther decided to leave this American alone.
“We’re under attack—commence firing commence firing!” the “Soviet” tank commanders screamed into their own command circuits.
Keitel ran to the command vehicle. “I am Colonel Ivanenko. Your commander is dead—get moving! Take those crazy bastards out while we still have a regiment left!”
The operations officer hesitated, having not the slightest idea what was happening, only able to hear the gunfire. But the orders came from a colonel. He lifted his radio, dialed up the battalion command circuit, and relayed the instruction.
There was the expected moment’s hesitation. At least ten American tanks were now burning, but four were shooting back. Then the entire Soviet line opened fire, and three of the active American tanks were blown apart. Those shielded by the front row began firing off smoke and maneuvering, mainly backwards, as the Soviet tanks started to roll. Keitel watched in admiration as the Soviet T-80s moved out. Seven of them remained still, of which four were burning. Two more blew up before they crossed the line where once a wall had stood.
It was worth it, Keitel thought, just for this moment. Whatever Günther had in mind, it was worth it to see the Russians and Americans killing each other.
Admiral Joshua Painter arrived at CINCLANT headquarters just in time to catch the dispatch from Theodore Roosevelt.
“Who’s in command there?”
“Sir, the battle group commander flew into Naples. Senior officer in the group is Captain Richards,” Fleet Intelligence replied. “He said he had four MiGs inbound and armed, and since we’re at DEFCON-TWO, he splashed them as a potential threat to the group.”
“Whose MiGs?”
“Could be from the Kuznetzov group, sir.”
“Wait a minute—you said DEFCON-TWO?”
“TR’s east of Malta now, sir, SIOP applies,” Fleet Operations pointed out.
“Does anybody know what’s going on?”
“I sure as hell don’t,” the Fleet Intelligence Officer replied honestly.
“Get me Richards on a voice line.” Painter stopped. “What’s the fleet status?”
“Everything alongside has orders to prepare to get under way, sir. That’s automatic.”
“But why are we at DEFCON-THREE here?”
“Sir, they haven’t told us that.”
“Fabulous.” Painter pulled the sweater over his head and yelled for coffee.
“Roosevelt on line two, sir,” the intercom called. Painter punched the button and put the phone on speaker.
“This is CINCLANT.”
“Richards here, sir.”
“What’s going on?”
“Sir, we’re fifteen minutes into a DEFCON-TWO alert here. We had a flight of MiG-29s inbound and I ordered them splashed.”
“Why?”
“They appeared to be armed, sir, and we copied a radio transmission about the explosion.”
Painter went instantly cold. “What explosion?”
“Sir, BBC reports a nuclear detonation in Denver. The local TV station that originated the report, they say, is now off the air. With that kind of information, I took the shot. I’m senior officer present. It’s my battle group here. Sir, unless you have some more questions, I have things to do here.”
Painter knew he had to get out of the man’s way. “Use your head, Ernie. Use your goddamned head.”
“Aye aye, sir. Out.” The line went dead.
“Nuclear explosion?” Fleet Intelligence asked.
Painter had a hot line to the National Military Command Center. He activated it. “This is CINCLANT.”
“Captain Rosselli, sir.”
“Have we had a nuclear explosion?”
“That’s affirmative, sir. In the Denver area, NORAD estimates yield in the low hundreds and high casualties. That’s all we know. We haven’t got the w
ord out to everyone yet.”
“Well, here’s something else for you to know: Theodore Roosevelt just intercepted and splashed four MiG-29s inbound. Keep me posted. Unless otherwise directed, I’m putting everything to sea.”
Bob Fowler was into his third cup of coffee already. He was cursing himself for having drunk those four strong German beers like he was Archie Bunker or something, and one of his fears was that the people here would notice the alcohol on his breath. Intellect told him that his thought processes might be somewhat affected by the alcohol intake, but he’d had the drinks over a period of hours, and natural processes plus the coffee either already had or soon would purge it from his system entirely.
For the first time, he was grateful for the death of his wife, Marian. He’d been there at the bedside, had watched his beloved wife die. He knew what grief and tragedy were, and however dreadful the deaths of all those people in Denver might be, he told himself, he had to step back from it, had to set it aside, had to concentrate on preventing the death of anyone else.
So far, Fowler told himself, things had gone well. He had moved quickly to cut off the spread of the news. A nationwide panic was something that he didn’t need. His military services were at a higher level of alert that would either prevent or deter an additional attack for some indefinite period of time.
“Okay,” he said on the conference line to NORAD and SAC. “Let’s summarize what has happened to this point.”
NORAD answered: “Sir, we’ve had a single nuclear detonation in the hundred-kiloton range. There has as yet been no report from the scene. Our forces are moving to a high state of alert. Satellite communications are down—”
“Why?” Elizabeth Elliot asked in a voice more brittle than Fowler’s. “What could have done that?”
“We don’t know. A nuclear detonation in space might, from EMP effects—that’s electromagnetic pulse. When a nuclear device explodes at high altitude, most of its energy is released in the form of electromagnetic radiation. The Russians know more about the practical effects of such explosions than we do; they have more empirical data from their tests at Novaya Zemlya back in the 1960s. But we have no evidence of such an explosion, and we should have noticed it. Therefore a nuclear attack on satellites is most unlikely. Next possibility is a massive blast of electromagnetic energy from a ground source. Now, the Russians have pumped a lot of money into microwave weapons-research. They have a ship in the Eastern Pacific with lots of antennas aboard. It’s the Yuri Gagarin. She’s classed as a space-event-support ship, and she has four enormous high-gain antennas. That ship is currently three hundred miles off the coast of Peru, well within sight of the injured satellites. Supposedly the ship is supporting operations for the Mir space station. Aside from that, we’re out of guesses. I have an officer talking with Hughes Aerospace right now to see what their thinking is.
“Okay, we’re still trying to get ATC tapes from Stapleton to see if an aircraft might have delivered the bomb, and we are awaiting word from rescue and other teams dispatched to the site of the explosion. That’s all I have.”
“We have two wings fully in the air and more coming on line as we speak,” CINC-SAC said next. “All my missile wings are alerted. My Vice-CINC is in the air in Looking Glass Auxiliary West, and another Kneecap is about to take off for where you are, sir.”
“Anything happening in the Soviet Union?”
“Their air-defense people are increasing their alert level, as we have already discussed,” General Borstein replied. “We’re getting other radio activity, but nothing we can classify yet. There is no indication of an attack on the United States.”
“Okay.” The President let out a breath. Things were bad, but not out of control. All he had to do was get things settled down, and then he could go forward. “I’m going to open the direct line to Moscow.”
“Very well, sir,” NORAD replied.
A Navy chief yeoman was two seats away from President Fowler. His computer terminal was already lit up. “You want to slide down here, Mr. President,” the chief said. “I can’t cross-deck my display to your screen.”
Fowler crab-walked his swivel chair the eight feet to the chiefs place.
“Sir, the way this works is, I type in what you say here, and it’s relayed directly through the NMCC computers in the Pentagon—all they do is encipher it—but when the Russians reply, it arrives in the Hot Line room in Russian, is translated there, and then sent here from the Pentagon. There’s a backup at Fort Ritchie in case something goes wrong in D.C. We have landline and two separate satellite links. Sir, I can type about as fast as you can speak.” The chief yeoman’s name tag read Orontia, and Fowler couldn’t decide what his ancestry was. He was a good twenty pounds overweight, but he sounded relaxed and competent. Fowler would settle for that. Chief Orontia also had a pack of cigarettes sitting next to his keyboard. The President stole one, ignoring the no-smoking signs that hung on every wall. Orontia lit it with a Zippo.
“All ready, sir.” Chief Pablo Orontia looked sideways at his Commander-in-Chief. His gaze didn’t betray the fact that he’d been born in Pueblo, Colorado, and still had family there. The President would settle things down, that was his job. Orontia’s job, he reasoned, was to do his best to help the man. Orontia had served his country in two wars and many other crises, mainly as an admiral’s yeoman on carriers, and now he turned off his feelings as he had trained himself to do.
“Dear President Narmonov ...”
Captain Rosselli watched the first for-real transmission of the Hot Line since his arrival in Washington. The message was put up on the IBM-PC/AT and encrypted, then the computer operator hit the return button to transmit it. He really should be back at his desk, Jim thought, but what went through here might be vital to what he was doing.
AS YOU HAVE PROBABLY BEEN TOLD, THERE HAS BEEN A MAJOR EXPLOSION IN THE CENTRAL PART OF MY COUNTRY. I HAVE BEEN TOLD THAT IT WAS A NUCLEAR EXPLOSION, AND THAT THE LOSS OF LIFE IS SEVERE.
President Narmonov read, with his advisers at his side.
“About what one would expect,” Narmonov said. “Send our reply.”
“Jesus, that was fast!” the Army Colonel on duty remarked and began his translation. A Marine sergeant typed the English version, which was automatically linked to Camp David, Fort Ritchie, and the State Department. The computers printed out hard copy that was sent almost as fast to SAC, NORAD, and the intelligence agencies via facsimile printer.
AUTHENTICATOR: TIMETABLE TIMETABLE TIMETABLE
REPLY FROM MOSCOW
PRESIDENT FOWLER:
WE HAVE NOTED THE EVENT. PLEASE ACCEPT OUR DEEPEST SYMPATHY AND THAT OF THE SOVIET PEOPLE. How IS SUCH AN ACCIDENT POSSIBLE?
“Accident?” Fowler asked.
“That was awfully fast, Robert,” Elliot observed at once. “Too damned fast. His English isn’t very good. The message had to be translated, and you take time to read things like this. Their reply must have been canned-made up in advance ... what does that mean?” Liz asked, almost talking to herself, as Fowler formulated his next message. What’s going on here? Who is doing this, and why ... ?
PRESIDENT NARMONOV:
I REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT THIS WAS NOT AN ACCIDENT. THERE IS NO AMERICAN NUCLEAR DEVICE WITHIN A HUNDRED MILES, NOR WERE ANY US WEAPONS IN TRANSIT IN THE AREA. THIS WAS A DELIBERATE ACT BY UNKNOWN FORCES.
“Well, that’s no surprise,” Narmonov said. He congratulated himself for correctly predicting the first message from America. “Send the next reply,” he told the communicator. To his advisers: “Fowler is an arrogant man, with the weaknesses of arrogance, but he is no fool. He will be very emotional about this. We must settle him down, calm him. If he can keep control of himself, his intelligence will allow him to maintain control of the matter.”
“My President,” said Golovko, who had just arrived in the command center. “I think this is a mistake.”
“What do you mean?” Narmonov asked in some surprise.
“It is a mistake
to tailor your words to what you think of the man, his character, and his mental state. People change under stress. The man at the other end of that telephone line may not be the same man whom you met in Rome.”
The Soviet President dismissed that idea. “Nonsense. People like that never change. We have enough of them here. I’ve been dealing with people like Fowler all my life.”
PRESIDENT FOWLER:
IF THIS IS IN FACT A DELIBERATE ACT THEN IT IS A CRIME WHOLLY WITHOUT PRECEDENT IN HUMAN HISTORY. WHAT MADMAN WOULD DO SUCH A THING, AND TO WHAT PURPOSE? SUCH ACTION MIGHT ALL TOO EASILY LEAD TO GLOBAL CATASTROPHE. YOU MUST BELIEVE THAT THE SOVIET UNION HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS INFAMOUS ACT.
“Too fast, Robert,” Elliot said. “‘You must believe’? What is this guy trying to say?”
“Elizabeth, you’re reading too much into this,” Fowler replied.
“These responses are canned, Robert! Canned. He’s answering too fast. He had them prepared in advance. That means something.”
“Like what?”
“Like we were supposed to be at the game, Robert! It looks to me like these were tailored for somebody else—like Durling. What if the bomb was supposed to get you, too, along with Brent and Dennis?”
“I have to set that aside, I told you that!” Fowler said angrily. He paused and took a deep breath. He could not allow himself to get angry. He had to stay calm. “Look, Elizabeth—”
“You can’t set that aside! You have to consider that possibility, because if it was planned, that tells us something about what is going on.”
“Dr. Elliot is right,” NORAD said over the open phone line. “Mr. President, you are entirely correct to distance yourself from this event in an emotional sense, but you have to consider all possible aspects of the operational concept that may be at work here.”
“I am compelled to agree with that,” CINC-SAC added.
