by Tom Clancy
“Nothin‘, Sarge. It’s all—wait! Something moving, ’bout two miles down the street....” The soldier raised a pair of glasses. “BDRM! The missile kind.”
Okay, the sergeant thought, that’ll be the reconnaissance element for the next wave. His job was entirely straightforward. Reconnaissance was a two-part job. His job was both to find the enemy and to prevent the enemy from finding things.
“Another one!”
“Get ready to move. Traverse right, targets to the right,” he added for the gunner.
“Ready, Sarge.”
“Go!” The Bradley’s armored body rocked backwards as a vehicle leaped into the intersection. The gunner brought his turret around. It looked like a small-bore shooting gallery. There were two BDRM armored scout cars heading straight toward them. The gunner engaged the leader, exploding the antitank missile launcher on top. The BDRM veered to the left and rammed some parked cars. Already the gunner shifted fire to the second, which jerked right to evade, but the street was too narrow for that. The chain gun was a nice compromise between a machine gun and a cannon. The gunner was able to walk his tracers into the target, and had the satisfaction of watching it explode. But—
“Back fast—now!” the sergeant screamed into the intercom. There had been a third BDRM back there. The Bradley retreated the way it had come. Barely had it gotten behind the buildings when a missile streaked down the street it had crossed, trailing a thin wire behind it. The missile exploded a few hundred meters away.
“Time to leave, turn us around,” the track commander said. Then he activated his radio. “This is Delta Three-Three. We have contact with reconnaissance vehicles. Two destroyed, but the third one spotted us. We got more friends coming in, sir.”
“General, we’ve pushed them back across the line, I can hold out against what’s here, but if more gets in to us, we’re screwed,” Colonel Long said. “Sir, we need help here!”
“Okay, I’ll have some air to you in ten minutes. Fast-movers on the way now.”
“That’s a start, but I need more than that, sir.”
SACEUR turned to his operations officer. “What’s ready?”
“Second of the 11th Cav, sir. They’re moving out of their kazerne right now.”
“What’s between them and Berlin?”
“Russians? Not much. If they move fast....”
“Move ’em out.” SACEUR walked back to his desk and lifted the phone for Washington.
“Yes, what is it?” Fowler asked.
“Sir, it appears that the Russians are bringing reinforcements into Berlin. I have just ordered the 2nd Squadron, 11th Armored Cav to move toward Berlin to reinforce. I also have aircraft heading in now to assess the situation.”
“Do you have any idea what they’re up to?”
“None, sir, it makes no damned sense at all, but we still have people being killed. What are the Russians telling you, Mr. President?”
“They’re asking why we attacked them, General.”
“Are they nuts?” Or is it something else? SACEUR wondered. Something really frightening?
“General.” It was a woman’s voice, probably that Elliot woman, SACEUR thought. “I want to be very clear on this. Are you sure that the Soviets initiated the attack?”
“Yes, ma‘am!” SACEUR replied heatedly. “The commander of the Berlin Brigade is probably dead. The XO is Lieutenant Colonel Edward Long. I know the kid, he’s good. He says the Russians opened fire on the brigade without warning while they were responding to the alert you sent out from D.C. They didn’t even have their tubes loaded. I repeat, ma’am, the Russians are the ones who started shooting, and that’s definite. Now, do I have your permission to reinforce?”
“What happens if you don’t?” Fowler asked.
“In that case, Mr. President, you have about five thousand letters to write.”
“Look, okay, send in the reinforcements. Tell Berlin to take no offensive action. We’re trying to get things settled down.”
“I wish you luck, Mr. President, but right now I have a command to run.”
PRESIDENT NARMONOV:
WE HAVE RECEIVED WORD FROM EUROPE THAT A SOVIET TANK REGIMENT LAUNCHED AN ATTACK ON OUR BERLIN BRIGADE WITHOUT WARNING. I JUST TALKED TO OUR COMMANDER AND HE CONFIRMS THAT THIS IS TRUE.
WHAT IS HAPPENING? WHY DID YOUR TROOPS ATTACK OUR TROOPS?
“Have we heard anything from Berlin yet?” Narmonov asked.
The Defense Minister shook his head. “No, the lead reconnaissance elements should just be getting in now. Radio communications are a disaster. Our VHF radios work poorly in cities because they are line-of-sight only. What we’re getting is fragmented, mainly tactical communications between subunit commanders. We have not established contact with the regimental commander. He may be dead. After all,” Defense pointed out, “the Americans like to go after commanders first.”
“So we really do not know what is going on?”
“No, but I am certain that no Soviet commander would open fire on Americans without just cause!”
Golovko closed his eyes and swore under his breath. Now the Defense Minister was showing the strain.
“Sergey Nikolay’ch?” Narmonov asked.
“We have nothing more to report from KGB. You may expect that all of the American land-based missiles are fully on alert, as are all their submarine missiles at sea. We estimate that the American missile submarines in port will all have sortied in a matter of hours.”
“And our missile submarines?”
“One is leaving the dock now. The rest are preparing to do so. It will take most of the day to get them all out.”
“Why are we so slow?” Narmonov demanded.
“The Americans have two complete crews for their boats. We have only one. It’s simply easier for them to surge them out this way.”
“So you are telling me that their strategic forces are totally ready, or nearly so, and ours are not?”
“All of our land-based rockets are fully prepared.”
“President Narmonov, your reply to the Americans ... ?”
“What do I say now?” Andrey Il’ych asked.
A colonel entered the room. “Report from Berlin.” He handed it to the Defense Minister.
“The Americans are in the eastern part of the city. The first wave of scout cars was taken under fire. Four vehicles, the officer commanding was killed in one of them. We’ve returned fire and gotten two American vehicles ... no contact as yet with our regiment.” The Defense Minister looked at the other one. “Carrier Kuznetzov reports that he launched a two-plane patrol. They detected a rescue radio signal and went to investigate. Contact was then lost. They have an American carrier battle group four hundred kilometers away, and request instructions.”
“What does that mean?”
The Defense Minister checked the times on the second dispatch. “If our planes are not back by now, they are nearly out of fuel. We must assume they were lost, cause unknown, but the close proximity of the American carrier is troubling.... What the hell are they doing?”
PRESIDENT FOWLER:
I AM CERTAIN THAT NO SOVIET COMMANDER WOULD ATTACK AMERICAN TROOPS WITHOUT ORDERS, AND THERE WERE NO SUCH ORDERS. WE HAVE SENT ADDITIONAL TROOPS INTO BERLIN TO INVESTIGATE AND THEY WERE ATTACKED BY YOUR FORCES IN THE EASTERN PART OF THE CITY, WELL AWAY FROM YOUR ENCAMPMENT. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
“What the hell is he talking about? What am I doing? What the hell is he doing!” Fowler growled. A light came on. It was the CIA. The President pushed the button, adding a new line to his conference call.
“That depends on who ‘he’ is,” Elliot warned.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Mr. President, what we have here is simple confusion.”
“Ryan! We don’t want analysis, we want information. Do you have any?” Liz shouted.
“The Soviets are sortieing their ships out of the Northern Fleet ports. One missile submarine is supposed to be heading out.”
“So
their land-based missiles are fully alerted?”
“Correct.”
“And they’re adding to their submarine missile force also?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Do you have any good news?”
“Sir, the news is that there is no real news right now, and you’re—”
“Listen, Ryan. One last time: I want information from you and nothing else. You brought me that Kadishev stuff and now you’re saying it was all wrong. So why should I believe you now?”
“Sir, when I gave it to you I told you it was not confirmed!”
“I think we may have confirmation now,” Liz pointed out. “General Borstein, if they’re fully on line, what exactly is the threat?”
“The fastest thing they can get to us is an ICBM. Figure one regiment of SS-18s targeted on the Washington area, and most of the others targeted on our missile fields in the Dakotas, plus the sub bases at Charleston, King’s Bay, Bangor, and the rest. Warning time will be twenty-five minutes.”
“And we will be targets here?” Liz asked.
“That is a reasonable assumption, Dr. Elliot.”
“So they will try to use SS-18s to finish what the first weapon missed?”
“If that was their work, yes.”
“General Fremont, how far out is the backup Kneecap?”
“Dr. Elliot, it took off about ten minutes ago. It’ll be at Hagerstown in ninety-five minutes. They have some good tail winds.” CINC-SAC regretted that addition almost at once.
“So if they are thinking about an attack, and they launch it within the next hour and a half, we’re dead here?”
“Yes.”
“Elizabeth, it’s our job to prevent that, remember?” Fowler said quietly.
The National Security Advisor looked over at the President. Her face might have been made of glass, so brittle it looked. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She was the chief adviser to the most powerful man in the world, in a place of ultimate safety, guarded by dedicated servants, but less than thirty minutes from the time some faceless, nameless Russian made a decision, perhaps one already made, she’d be dead. Dead, a few ashes in the wind, certainly no more than that. Everything she’d worked for, all the books and classes and seminars would have ended in a blinding, annihilating flash.
“Robert, we don’t even know who we’re talking to,” she said in an uneven voice.
“Back to their message, Mr. President,” General Fremont said. “‘Additional troops to investigate.’ Sir, that sounds like reinforcements.”
A rookie fireman found the first survivor, crawling up the concrete ramp from the basement loading dock. It was amazing he’d made it. His hands had second-degree burns, and the crawl had ground bits of glass and concrete and Lord knew what into his injuries. The firefighter lifted the man—it was a cop—and carried him off to the evacuation point. The two remaining fire engines sprayed both men with water, then they were ordered to strip, and they were hosed again. The police officer was semiconscious, but tore a sheet of paper off the clipboard he’d been holding, and all during the ambulance ride he was trying to tell the fireman something, but the firefighter was too cold, too tired, and much too scared to pay attention. He’d done his job, and might have lost his life in the process. It was altogether too much for a twenty-year-old, who simply stared at the wet floor of the ambulance and shivered inside his blanket.
The entranceway had been topped with a pre-stressed concrete lintel. That had been shattered by the blast, with one piece blocking the way in. A soldier from the tank snaked a cable from the turret-mounted winch around the largest of the remaining blocks. As he did this, Chief Callaghan kept staring at his watch. It was too late to stop now in any case. He had to see this through if he died in the process.
The cable went taut, pulling the concrete fragment clear. Miraculously, the remainder of the entranceway did not collapse. Callaghan led the way through the rubbled opening, with Colonel Lyle behind him.
The emergency lights were on, and it seemed that every sprinkler head had gone off. This part of the stadium was where the main came into the structure, Callaghan remembered, and that explained the falling water. There were other sounds, the kind that came from people. Callaghan went into a men’s room and found two women, both sitting in the water, both of their coats sprinkled with their own vomit.
“Get ’em out of here!” he shouted to his men. “Go both ways, give it a quick check, and get back here fast as you can!” Callaghan checked all the toilet stalls. They were unoccupied. Another look at the room showed nothing else. They’d come all this way for two women in the wrong bathroom. Just two. The chief looked at Colonel Lyle, but there really wasn’t anything to say. Both men walked out into the concourse.
It took Callaghan a moment to realize it, even though it was right there, an entrance to the stadium’s lower level. Whereas only a short time before the view would have been of the stadium south side, and the roof, what he now saw was the mountains, still outlined in orange by a distant setting sun. The opening called to him, and as though in a trance, he walked up the ramp.
It was a scene from hell. Somehow this section had been shielded one way or another from the blast. But not the thermal pulse. There were perhaps three hundred seats, still largely intact, still with people in them. What had once been people. They were burned black, charcoaled like overdone meat, worse than any fire victim he’d ever seen in nearly thirty years of fighting fires. At least three hundred, still sitting there, looking at where the field had been.
“Come on, Chief,” Colonel Lyle said, pulling him away. The man collapsed, and Lyle saw him vomiting inside his gas mask. The Colonel got it off him and pulled him clear. “Time to leave. It’s all over here. You’ve done your job.” It turned out that four more people were still alive. The firemen loaded them on the engine deck of the tank, which drove off at once to the evacuation point. The remaining firefighters there washed everything off and departed, too.
Perhaps the only good luck of the day, Larry Parsons thought, was the snow cover. It had attenuated the thermal damage to the adjacent buildings. Instead of hundreds of house fires, there were only a few. Better, the afternoon sun of the previous day had been just intense enough to form a crust on the yards and roofs around the stadium. Parsons was looking for material on that crust. He and his men searched with scintillometers. The almost incredible fact of the matter was that while a nuclear bomb converted much of its mass into energy, the total mass lost in the process was minuscule. Aside from that, matter is very hard to destroy, and he was searching for residue from the device. This was easier than one might have thought. The material was dark, on a flat white surface, and it was also highly radioactive. He had a choice of six very hot spots, two miles downrange of the stadium. Parsons had taken the hottest. Dressed in his lead-coated protective suit, he was trudging across a snow-covered lawn. Probably an elderly couple, he thought. No kids had built a snowman or lain down to make angels. The rippling sound of the counter grew larger ... there.
The residue was hardly larger in size than dust particles, but there were many of them, probably pulverized gravel and paving material from the parking lot, Parsons thought. If he were very lucky, it had been sucked up through the center of the fireball, and bomb residue had affixed itself to it. If he were lucky. Parsons scooped up a trowel’s worth and slid it into a plastic bag. This he tossed to his teammate, who dropped the bag into a lead bucket.
“Very hot stuff, Larry!”
“I know. Let me get one more.” He scooped up another sample and bagged it as well. Then he lifted his radio.
“Parsons here. You got anything?”
“Yeah, three nice ones, Larry. Enough, I think, for an assay.”
“Meet me at the chopper.”
“On the way.”
Parsons and his partner walked off, ignoring the wide eyes watching from behind windows. Those people were not his concern for the moment. Thank God, he thought, that they hadn’t
bothered him with questions. The helicopter sat in the middle of a street, its rotor still turning.
“Where to?” Andy Bowler asked.
“We’re going to the command center—shopping center. Should be nice and cold there. You take the samples back and run them through the spectrometer.”
“You should come along.”
“Can’t,” Parsons said with a shake of the head. “I have to call into D.C. This isn’t what they told us. Somebody goofed, and I gotta tell them. Have to use a landline for that.”
The conference room had at least forty phone lines routed into it, one of which was Ryan’s direct line. The electronic warble caught his attention. Jack pushed the flashing button and lifted the receiver.
“Ryan.”
“Jack, what’s going on?” Cathy Ryan asked her husband. There was alarm but not panic in her voice.
“What do you mean?”
“The local TV station says an atomic bomb went off in Denver. Is there a war, Jack?”
“Cathy, I can’t—no, honey, there’s no war going on, okay?”
“Jack, they showed a picture. Is there anything I need to know?”
“You know almost everything I know. Something happened. We don’t know what exactly, and we’re trying to find out. The President’s at Camp David with the National Security Advisor and—”
“Elliot?”
“Yes. They’re talking to the Russians right now. Honey, I have work to do.”
“Should I take the children somewhere?”
