Patrick McLanahan Collection #1

by Dale Brown

  “What are you talking about, ‘preserve the government’?” Thorn asked. “This is a precaution, a contingency. With all that’s happening in Turkmenistan and the Middle East, the heightened tensions, the saber rattling, it’s understandable—”

  “Mr. President, with all due respect, sir, you have no friggin’ idea what’s about to happen,” Busick said seriously. “As soon as you step aboard Air Force One, you will become the executive branch of the United States government—not just the White House but every department and every executive agency that exists. You may be alone and isolated for days, maybe weeks. You may not be in contact with your cabinet or advisers.

  “What I’m tryin’ to tell you is that I think this is it, Mr. President,” Busick went on. “The warning came right from NORAD. They were talkin’ about missile tracks and flight times. They—”

  “What are you saying, Les?”

  “I’m tellin’ you, Mr. President, I think we just caught the bolt from the blue,” Busick said. “And I’m telling you that you need to be strong and you need to be tough. Because there will be a lot of hurt people in this country very, very soon, and they’ll be looking to you for leadership. You’ve got to give it to them. And sometimes being the leader means doin’ the most horrific thing you can damned well think of.”

  “Les…” Thorn tried to tell him again that everything was going to be okay, that this was just some sort of mistake or false alarm, but he didn’t know what it was, and he would sound silly trying to reassure the veteran politician of something he himself knew absolutely nothing about. Finally he said, “Les, my family…?”

  “Helicopters picked them up from Rutland minutes ago. They should be launching from Burlington International about the time you go airborne.” The first lady was a former state supreme court justice from Vermont, and she visited her family near the Vermont state capital whenever the president went out on his infrequent political travels.

  The phone buzzed, interrupting their conversation—a higher-priority call than the vice president had to be pretty damned important. “I’ll talk to you soon, Les.”

  “Yes, sir,” Busick replied. Then he added, “Be tough, Thomas. You’re the fucking president, sir. Shove it down their throats.” Thorn was going to ask him to elaborate, but by then Busick had hung up.

  Thorn hit the TALK button. “This is Séance.”

  “Mr. President, this is General Venti. I’m en route to the NMCC, but I’ve received the latest from NORAD. I request permission to change your escape routing.”

  “Whiteman…?”

  “Sir, Whiteman is not secure.” Whiteman Air Force Base, an hour’s drive east of Kansas City in Knob Noster, and the home of the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber, was where Air Force One was based while the president was in Kansas City.

  “Tell it to me straight, General.”

  There was a slight pause before Venti said, “Yes, sir. NORAD has issued an air-defense emergency. The Missile Warning Center is tracking a number of high-speed, high-altitude cruise missiles, launched by Russian Bear bombers. We count twenty-seven tracks so far. We believe that each missile carries two nuclear warheads, yields unknown. One track is definitely headed for Whiteman Air Force Base. Time to impact, approximately thirty-five minutes.”

  “Oh, my God…”

  “Other confirmed tracks are headed for Offutt Air Force Base in Nebraska; Ellsworth Air Force Base, South Dakota; Minot Air Force Base, North Dakota; Twentieth Air Force headquarters at F. E. Warren Air Force Base in Wyoming; and several missile-launch control facilities in Wyoming, Montana, and Colorado. It appears that the Russians are attempting to take out all of our land-based strategic nuclear-strike weapon systems—our ICBMs and bombers—in one massive preemptive strike.”

  “I…I can’t believe it,” Thorn muttered. “This can’t be happening….”

  “It’s confirmed, sir,” Venti said, his voice a bit shaky and strained. “The first missile will hit Minot Air Force Base in less than thirty-four minutes. Minot has thirty-two B-52 bombers, twenty-eight KC-135 aerial-refueling tankers, and other support aircraft; plus, they serve as Ninety-first Space Wing headquarters, controlling one hundred and fifty Minuteman III missiles.”

  “Can…can any of those bombers escape?”

  There was another slight pause. “We’re trying to get as many aircraft as we can off the ground, sir, any way we possibly can—maintenance troops, students, transient alert crews, anybody who can start the engines and take the controls and have any chance at all of landing it afterward. We have no strategic strike aircraft on ready alert. I’m afraid that the only survivors might be aircraft that are ready to launch on training or operational-support missions, are deployed, or already airborne.”

  “My God…”

  “Mr. President, our first consideration is to be sure you can escape,” Venti said. “Whiteman is definitely out. The other Air Force base within range of Marine One is McConnell, near Wichita, but it was once an Air National Guard B-1 bomber base and might be a target as well.” He was silent for a moment. “The staff recommends you be evacuated to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. It’s the most secure location nearby. Once Angel escapes, we can arrange a rendezvous.”

  “Sounds fine to me,” the president said. “Angel” was the unclassified code word for the Air Force VC-25 transport planes, known as “Air Force One” when the president was aboard. Both planes in the fleet were always deployed with the president on his travels, and at least one was always kept ready to fly at a moment’s notice.

  “Is Foghorn with you, sir?”

  Thorn looked at the Navy officer with the “football.” “Yes.”

  “Sir, I recommend you change the national defense configuration to DEFCON One,” Venti said. “All surviving military forces will begin preparations for war, should you order it in the future. You don’t need to give me an authorization code—your verbal order is enough until we can formalize it in writing.”

  “Very well. Issue the order,” Thorn responded immediately.

  Venti barked out an order over his shoulder, then returned to the phone: “I also recommend you increase the strategic force posture to red, sir,” he said.

  Thorn hesitated. The Defense Configuration, or DEFCON, ordered all military units to various readiness states, with DEFCON One being maximum readiness for war. The “posture” told the units with weapons exactly what state or operational status their weapons and delivery systems should be in. The exact state varied by unit and weapon system but was broken down into three stages: red, yellow, and green, with green meaning that weapons in secure storage and coded documents and launch or enabling devices locked away; to red, which meant that weapons were loaded and the crews had all the documents and devices they needed to prearm and launch live nuclear weapons. The crews still needed the execution order from the president to release live nuclear weapons, but under a Posture Red, the crews were just a few switches away from unleashing hell on the enemy.

  “Sir?”

  “Go to Red Posture, General Venti,” Thorn said finally.

  “Yes, sir. Understand. Posture Red.” Again he gave a verbal order to his deputy to issue the posture change to military forces around the world. Then he said, “Sir, I know we’ve game-planned this out in advance, but I still want to ask you: Do you wish to order any retaliatory or preemptive strikes at this time?” Any particular combination of DEFCON and posture initiated a series of actions by various military units around the world, depending on the nature of the emergency. Several actions were automatic—dispersing ships and aircraft, retargeting missiles, activating shelters, and sending commanders to alternate and airborne command centers—and other actions were optional. Among the optional actions were nuclear and nonnuclear strikes on selected important targets.

  Thorn had made it clear early on in his administration that he would not initiate nuclear retaliation based on just an attack notification—the so-called launch-on-warning option—but the plans were still in the bag sitti
ng on the shelf anyway, and Venti thought it his duty to ask. There were several targets he’d like to see vaporized right now, he thought.

  “No. Proceed as planned, General,” Thorn replied. The president’s standing order to any attack on the United States, from another September 11–style terrorist attack to a massive nuclear attack, was the same in all cases: Ride it out, then plan a response based on all available intelligence and advice. It assumed that every other aspect of emergency planning remained the same: survival of key government officials, ensuring constitutional succession, and maintaining positive and unambiguous control of the nation’s nuclear weapons; but in any case, Thomas Thorn insisted on complete and absolute control over his nuclear forces. “Any word from Gryzlov?” Thorn asked.

  “Stand by, sir….” A moment later: “Yes, sir, there are numerous hot-line messages, both voice and e-mail.”

  “Have Signal connect me to President Gryzlov, General,” Thorn ordered.

  “Sir, we don’t have time—”

  “Link us up, General.”

  “Mr. President, I…sir, whatever they say, I hardly think they have the slightest bearing on what our response should be!” Venti said. “The Russian Federation has initiated a sneak attack against the United States of America, and the first weapon impacts in about thirty minutes. They certainly didn’t consult us before launching this attack!”

  “General…”

  “With all due respect, sir, it doesn’t goddamn matter what Gryzlov has to say!” Venti stormed. “You know he’s going to come up with some cockamamie reason, invent some crisis or trigger event, blame the whole event on us, and warn us not to retaliate. What the hell difference does it make if he apologizes, if he says it was a mistake, if he’s sorry, if he’s angry? He still launched an attack on us, squarely aimed to take out most if not all of our land-based long-range attack forces!”

  “It’s all right, Richard,” the president said, trying to soothe his obviously agitated Joint Chiefs chairman. “I’m not going to make a decision without consulting the Joint Chiefs and the Cabinet. Now, get him on the line. I’ll be on Marine One in a few minutes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Venti finally responded, the outrage obvious in his voice. “Stand by.” It took several minutes, during which time Thorn had transferred to Marine One and was on his way across Kansas City to Fort Leavenworth, about thirty miles to the northwest. It was risky making such a call—although the circuit was encrypted to protect eavesdroppers from listening in, the bearing to Marine One could easily be measured and the helicopter tracked across the sky.

  “Marine One, this is Signals, your party is on the line, secure,” the Army communications officer announced.

  “President Gryzlov, I assume you have an explanation for this attack,” Thorn said without preamble or pleasantries.

  “President Thorn, listen to me very carefully,” the voice of the Russian interpreter said. Anatoliy Gryzlov’s voice could be heard in the background. He did not seem to be agitated in the least, as if launching missiles at the United States were an everyday occurrence. But he was the former chief of the general staff of the world’s second-largest military, and he was accustomed to giving orders that sent thousands to their deaths. “This action is nothing more than retaliation for the attack against Engels Air Base, Zhukovsky Flight Test Center, and our paramilitary forces near Belgorod, perpetrated by Major General Patrick McLanahan and his band of high-tech aerial terrorists, acting under your full authority and direction—”

  “That’s sheer nonsense, Mr. President,” Thorn said. “I’ve taken full responsibility for each and every one of those attacks, all of which were provoked by Russian military hostilities; and may I remind you that the United States has paid millions of dollars in reparations and legal claims as a result of those attacks. I want you to abort those missiles immediately and—”

  “President Thorn, I asked you to listen to me,” Gryzlov’s interpreter said. “This is not a negotiation, only a notification. The missiles cannot and will not be aborted. The targets are offensive bomber and missile bases and combat command-and-control facilities only. The warheads are one-kiloton nuclear devices with bunker-penetrating technology, designed to destroy armored underground facilities—”

  “My God!”

  “They are no more powerful than the plasma-yield devices you used over Korea and only a few magnitudes more powerful than the thermium-nitrate weapons you used on Engels Air Base, and I predict that the death toll will be much lower in this attack than from the one on Engels,” Gryzlov went on. “At least I gave you the courtesy of notifying you ahead of time, Mr. President.”

  “What?”

  “If you’ll check your hot-line messages, I notified the White House of the targets of the attack shortly after the missiles were launched,” the interpreter said. “You have the entire target list, exactly as programmed into the attack computers of every aircraft in our strike force. I had intended to give you a full hour to evacuate those targets, but our strike force was discovered, and the flight leader ordered his force to retarget and launch early.

  “You are more than welcome to try to shoot down the warheads, since I am certain that you can accurately predict the missiles’ flight path, but I am assured that it is almost impossible to do so even with your impressive Patriot PAC-3 surface-to-air missile. Of course, you might have a chance to do so with the AL-52 Dragon anti-ballistic-missile laser aircraft under General McLanahan’s command, but our intelligence tells me that you have grounded his entire fleet of aircraft. Unfortunate.”

  “McLanahan is no longer in command of the Air Battle Force, Gryzlov,” Thorn said angrily. Marine One banked sharply, lining up for its final approach to landing. “You’re doing all this to avenge yourself on a man that’s not even in the picture anymore!”

  “That does not matter, Mr. President,” the interpreter said. “For too long you and your predecessors have sanctioned McLanahan’s actions, and when he performs some heinous attack without your authority, you chose not to punish him—even when his actions kill thousands of innocent men, women, and children and terrorize the entire civilized world. McLanahan is nothing but a wild dog—but you are the dog’s handler. It is your responsibility, and you have failed. Now it is time to accept your punishment.

  “I know you have absolutely no reason to trust me, President Thorn,” the interpreter went on, “but what I am about to tell you is the truth, and if your officers will check the data I have provided, you will see that I have told you the truth all along. I will continue to do so until I perceive that you will not be truthful with me. I do not want to start a nuclear war with you, Mr. Thorn—”

  “But that is exactly what you’re doing!” Thorn retorted. The noise level inside the cabin rose as Marine One began its hover approach to its landing zone on the parade grounds outside the Fort Leavenworth headquarters building. “What do you expect me to do, Gryzlov—sit still while Russia drops dozens of nuclear warheads on the United States?”

  “That is precisely what I expect you to do—for the sake of the world,” Gryzlov said. “I promise you, on my mother’s eyes, soldier to soldier, that I will not launch any further attacks on the United States of America, its allies—what few allies you have left—and its territories, unless you decide to retaliate. This attack is a response to your attacks against Russia. It is merely payback. Remember that.

  “And if you study the effect of this attack, Mr. President, you will see in very short order that it leaves the United States and Russia with exactly the same number of strategic weapon systems—in other words, nuclear parity, with an equal number of delivery vehicles on both sides.”

  “Are you actually going to present to the world that this attack is an arms-control exercise?” Thorn asked incredulously. “Do you honestly expect anyone on Earth to believe that?”

  “Nonetheless, it will be true, and you may verify it yourself,” Gryzlov’s interpreter said. Thorn could hear papers shuffling—the interpreter was
likely reading from a prepared script. “Now, I know that you have eight to ten Ohio-class nuclear ballistic-missile submarines on patrol at the present time, plus an equal number at port or undergoing maintenance. That is five times more than Russia has and, as much as I hate to admit it, I fear that our submarines will probably blow themselves up the moment they try to launch a missile. That gives the United States a substantial deterrent capability.”

  “What’s your point, Gryzlov?”

  “The point is, sir, that even if our attack is one hundred and ten percent effective, the United States would still have a substantial advantage over Russia. We could then—”

  “Gryzlov, you don’t understand a thing,” Thorn snapped. “I don’t give a damn about the weapons. I’m all for reducing our nuclear arsenal to below two thousand warheads, maybe even lower. I would have been happy to work with you to draft a new Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty. But what you’re doing is killing potentially thousands of people in a sneak attack against the United States. No American president would allow that to happen unavenged.”

  “So a sneak attack against Russia is acceptable to you, but a sneak attack against the United States is not?”

  Thorn found he had no answer for Gryzlov. He felt that the Russian president was right: McLanahan had staged a sneak attack against Russian border guards in Belgorod, trying to rescue two of his crew members who’d been shot down over Russia—after he was specifically ordered to return to base. McLanahan had launched a sneak attack against Engels Air Base, moments before Russian bombers were to launch and execute a massive attack against Turkmeni military forces that had defeated a Russian battalion in Turkmenistan. McLanahan had destroyed a Russian air-defense site in Turkmenistan without proper authorization.