by Tom Clancy
CHAPTER 61
Revolution
As usual, the news didn’t get back quickly to the place where it had actually started. Having given the launch order, Defense Minister Luo had little clue what to do next. Clearly, he couldn’t go back to sleep. America might well answer his action with a nuclear strike of its own, and therefore his first rational thought was that it might be a good idea for him to get the hell out of Beijing. He rose, made normal use of his bathroom, and splashed water on his face, but then again his mind hit a brick wall. What to do? The one name he knew to call was Zhang Han Sen. Once connected, he spoke very quickly indeed.
“You did—what happened, Luo?” the senior Minister Without Portfolio asked with genuine alarm.
“Someone—Russians or Americans, I’m not sure which—struck at our missile base at Xuanhua, attempting to destroy our nuclear deterrent. I ordered the base commander to fire them off, of course,” Luo told his associate minister, in a voice that was both defiant and defensive. “We agreed on this in our last meeting, did we not?”
“Luo, yes, we discussed the possibility. But you fired them without consulting with us?” Zhang demanded. Such decisions were always collegial, never unilateral.
“What choice did I have, Zhang?” Marshal Luo asked in reply. “Had I hesitated a moment, there would have been none left to fire.”
“I see,” the voice on the phone said. “What is happening now?”
“The missiles are flying. The first should hit their first targets, Moscow and Leningrad, in about ten minutes. I had no choice, Zhang. I could not allow them to disarm us completely.”
Zhang could have sworn and screamed at the man, but there was no point in that. What had happened had happened, and there was no sense expending intellectual or emotional energy on something he could not alter. “Very well. We need to meet. I will assemble the Politburo. Come to the Council of Ministers Building at once. Will the Americans or Russians retaliate?”
“They cannot strike back in kind. They have no nuclear missiles. An attack by bombers would take some hours,” Luo advised, trying to make it sound like good news.
At his end of the connection, Zhang felt a chill in his stomach that rivaled liquid helium. As with many things in life, this one—contemplated theoretically in a comfortable conference room—was something very different now that it had turned into a most uncomfortable reality. And yet—was it? It was a thing too difficult to believe. It was too unreal. There were no outward signs—you’d at least expect thunder and lightning outside the windows to accompany news like this, even a major earthquake, but it was merely early morning, not yet seven o’clock. Could this be real?
Zhang padded across his bedroom, switched on his television, and turned it to CNN—it had been turned off for most of the country, but not here, of course. His English skills were insufficient to translate the rapid-fire words coming over the screen now. They were showing Washington, D.C., with a camera evidently atop the CNN building there—wherever that was, he had not the faintest idea. It was a black American speaking. The camera showed him standing atop a building, microphone in hand like black plastic ice cream, speaking very, very rapidly—so much so that Zhang was catching only one word in three, and looking off to the camera’s left with wide, frightened eyes.
So, he knows what is coming there, doesn’t he? Zhang thought, then wondered if he would see the destruction of the American capital via American news television. That, he thought, would have some entertainment value.
“Look!” the reporter said, and the camera twisted to see a smoke trail race across the sky—
—What the hell is that? Zhang wondered. Then there was another... and more besides... and the reporter was showing real fear now...
... it was good for his heart to see such feelings on the face of an American, especially a black American reporter. Another one of those monkeys had caused his country such great harm, after all ...
So, now he’d get to see one incinerated... or maybe not. The camera and the transmitter would go, too, wouldn’t they? So, just a flash of light, maybe, and a blank screen that would be replaced by CNN headquarters in Atlanta...
... more smoke trails. Ah, yes, they were surface-to-air missiles... could such things intercept a nuclear missile? Probably not, Zhang judged. He checked his watch. The sweep hand seemed determined to let the snail win this race, it jumped so slowly from one second to the next, and Zhang felt himself watching the display on the TV screen with anticipation he knew to be perverse. But America had been his country’s principal enemy for so many years, had thwarted two of his best and most skillfully laid plans—and now he’d see its destruction by means of one of its very own agencies, this cursed medium of television news, and though Tan Deshi claimed that it was not an organ of the American government, surely that could not be the case. The Ryan regime in Washington must have a very cordial relationship with those minstrels, they followed the party line of the Western governments so fawningly...
... two more smoke trails... the camera followed them and... what was that? Like a meteor, or the landing light of a commercial aircraft, a bright light, seemingly still in the sky—no, it was moving, unless that was the fear of the cameraman showing—oh, yes, that was it, because the smoke trails seemed to seek it out... but not quite closely enough, it would seem... and so, farewell, Washington, Zhang Han Sen thought. Perhaps there’d be adverse consequences for the People’s Republic, but he’d have the satisfaction of seeing the death of—
—what was that? Like a bursting firework in the sky, a shower of sparks, mainly heading down... what did that mean...?
It was clear sixty seconds later. Washington had not been blotted from the map. Such a pity, Zhang thought ... especially since there would be consequences ... With that, he washed and dressed and left for the Council of Ministers Building.
Dear God,” Ryan breathed. The initial emotions of denial and elation were passing now. The feelings were not unlike those following an auto accident. First was disbelief, then remedial action that was more automatic than considered, then when the danger was past came the whiplash after-fear, when the psyche started to examine what had passed, and what had almost been, and fear after survival, fear after the danger was past, brought on the real shakes. Ryan remembered that Winston Churchill had remarked that there was nothing more elating than rifle fire that had missed—”to be shot at without result” was the exact quote the President remembered. If so, Winston Spencer Churchill must have had ice water in his cardiovascular system, or he enjoyed braggadocio more than this American President did.
“Well, I hope that was the only one,” Captain Blandy observed.
“Better be, Cap’n. We be out of missiles,” Chief Leek said, lighting up another smoke in accordance with the Presidential amnesty.
“Captain,” Jack said when he was able to, “every man on this ship gets promoted one step by Presidential Order, and USS Gettysburg gets a Presidential Unit Citation. That’s just for starters, of course. Where’s a radio? I need to talk to KNEECAP.”
“Here, sir.” A sailor handed him a phone receiver. “The line’s open, sir.”
“Robby?”
“Jack?”
“You’re still Vice President,” SWORDSMAN told TOMCAT.
“For now, I suppose. Christ, Jack, what the hell were you trying to do?”
“I’m not sure. It seemed like the right idea at the time.” Jack was seated now, both holding the phone in his hand and cradling it between cheek and shoulder, lest he drop it on the deck. “Is there anything else coming in?”
“NORAD says the sky is clear—only one bird got off. Targeted on us. Shit, the Russians still have dedicated ABM batteries all around Moscow. They probably could have handled it better than us.” Jackson paused. “We’re calling in the Nuclear Emergency Search Team from Rocky Mountain Arsenal to look for hot spots. DOD has people coordinating with the D.C. police... Jesus, Jack, that was just a little intense, y’know?”
“Yeah, it was
that way here, too. Now what?” the President asked.
“You mean with China? Part of me says, load up the B-2 bombers on Guam with the B-61 gravity bombs and send them to Beijing, but I suppose that’s a little bit of an overreaction.”
“I think some kind of public statement—not sure what kind yet. What are you gonna be doing?”
“I asked. The drill is for us to stay up for four hours before we come back to Andrews. Same for Cathy and the kids. You might want to call them, too.”
“Roger. Okay, Robby, sit tight. See you in a few hours. I think I’m going to have a stiff one or two.”
“I hear that, buddy.”
“Okay, POTUS out.” Ryan handed the phone back. “Captain?”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Your entire ship’s crew is invited to the White House, right now, for some drinks on the house. I think we all need it.”
“Sir, I will not disagree with that.”
“And those who stay aboard, if they feel the need to bend an elbow, as Commander in Chief, I waive Navy Regulations on that subject for twenty-four hours.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Chief?” Jack said next.
“Here, sir.” He handed his pack and lighter over. “I got more in my locker, sir.”
Just then two men in civilian clothes entered CIC. It was Hilton and Malone from the night crew.
“How’d you guys get here so fast?” Ryan asked.
“Andrea called us, sir—did what we think happened just happen?”
“Yep, and your President needs a bottle and a soft chair, gentlemen.”
“We have a car on the pier, sir. You want to come with us?”
“Okay—Captain, you get buses or something, and come to the White House right away. If it means locking the ship up and leaving her without anyone aboard, that’s just fine with me. Call the Marine Barracks at Eighth and I for security if you need to.”
“Aye, aye, Mr. President. We’ll be along shortly.”
I might be drunk before you get there, the President thought.
The car Hilton and Malone had brought down was one of the black armored Chevy Suburbans that followed the President everywhere he went. This one just drove back to the White House. The streets were suddenly filled with people simply standing and looking up—it struck Ryan as odd. The thing was no longer in the sky, and whatever pieces were on the ground were too dangerous to touch. In any case, the drive back to the White House was uneventful, and Ryan ended up in the Situation Room, strangely alone. The uniformed people from the White House Military Office—called Wham-O by the staff, which seemed particularly inappropriate at the moment—were all in a state somewhere between bemused and stunned. And the immediate consequence of the great effort to whisk senior government officials out of town—the scheme was officially called the Continuation of Government—had had the reverse effect. The government was at the moment still fragmented in twenty or so helicopters and one E-4B, and quite unable to coordinate itself. Ryan figured that the emergency was better designed to withstand a nuclear attack than to avoid one, and that, at the moment, seemed very strange.
Indeed, the big question for the moment was What the hell do we do now? And Ryan didn’t have much of a clue. But then a phone rang to help him.
“This is President Ryan.”
“Sir, this is General Dan Liggett at Strike Command in Omaha. Mr. President, I gather we just dodged a major bullet.”
“Yeah, I think you can say that, General.”
“Sir, do you have any orders for us?”
“Like what?”
“Well, sir, one option would be retaliation, and—”
“Oh, you mean because they blew a chance to nuke us, we should take the opportunity to nuke them for real?”
“Sir, it’s my job to present options, not to advocate any,” Liggett told his Commander-in-Chief.
“General, do you know where I was during the attack?”
“Yes, sir. Gutsy call, Mr. President.”
“Well, I am now trying to deal with my own restored life, and I don’t have a clue what I ought to do about the big picture, whatever the hell that is. In another two hours or so, maybe we can think of something, but at the moment I have no idea at all. And you know, I’m not sure I want to have any such idea. So, for the moment, General, we do nothing at all. Are we clear on that?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Nothing at all happens with Strike Command.”
“I’ll get back to you.”
“Jack?” a familiar voice called from the door.
“Arnie, I hate drinking alone—except when there’s nobody else around. How about you and me drain a bottle of something? Tell the usher to bring down a bottle of Midleton, and, you know, have him bring a glass for himself.”
“Is it true you rode it out on the ship down at the Navy Yard?”
“Yep.” Ryan bobbed his head.
“Why?”
“I couldn’t run away, Arnie. I couldn’t run off to safety and leave a couple of million people to fry. Call it brave. Call it stupid. I just couldn’t bug out that way.”
Van Damm leaned into the corridor and made the drink order to someone Jack couldn’t see, and then he came back in. “I was just starting dinner at my place in Georgetown when CNN ran the flash. Figured I might as well come here—didn’t really believe it like I should have, I suppose.”
“It was somewhat difficult to swallow. I suppose I ought to ask myself if it was our fault, sending the special-operations people in. Why is it that people second-guess everything we do here?”
“Jack, the world is full of people who can only feel big by making other people look small, and the bigger the target, the better they feel about it. And reporters love to get their opinions, because it makes a good story to say you’re wrong about anything. The media prefers a good story to a good truth most of the time. It’s just the nature of the business they’re in.”
“That’s not fair, you know,” Ryan observed, when the head usher arrived with a silver tray, a bottle of Irish whiskey, and some glasses with ice already in them. “Charlie, you pour yourself one, too,” the President told him.
“Mr. President, I’m not supposed—”
“Today the rules changed, Mr. Pemberton. If you get too swacked to drive home, I’ll have the Secret Service take you. Have I ever told you what a good guy you are, Charlie? My kids just plain love you.”
Charles Pemberton, son and grandson of ushers at the White House, poured three drinks, just a light one for himself, and handed the glasses over with the grace of a neurosurgeon.
“Sit down and relax, Charlie. I have a question for you.”
“Yes, Mr. President?”
“Where did you ride it out? Where did you stay when that H-bomb was coming down on Washington?”
“I didn’t go to the shelter in the East Wing, figured that was best for the womenfolk. I—well, sir, I took the elevator up to the roof and figured I’d just watch.”
“Arnie, there sits a brave man,” Jack said, saluting with his glass.
“Where were you, Mr. President?” Pemberton asked, breaking the etiquette rules because of pure curiosity.
“I was on the ship that shot the damned thing down, watching our boys do their job. That reminds me, this Gregory guy, the scientist that Tony Bretano got involved. We look after him, Arnie. He’s one of the people who saved the day.”
“Duly noted, Mr. President.” Van Damm took a big pull on his glass. “What else?”
“I don’t have a what-else right now,” SWORDSMAN admitted.
Neither did anyone in Beijing, where it was now eight in the morning, and the ministers were filing into their conference room like sleepwalkers, and the question on everyone’s lips was “What happened?”
Premier Xu called the meeting to order and ordered the Defense Minister to make his report, which he did in the monotone voice of a phone recording.
“You ordered the launch?” Foreign Minister Shen
asked, aghast.
“What else was I to do? General Xun told me his base was under attack. They were trying to take our assets away—we spoke of this possibility, did we not?”
“We spoke of it, yes,” Qian agreed. “But to do such a thing without our approval? That was a political action without reflection, Luo. What new dangers have you brought on us?”
“And what resulted from it?” Fang asked next.
“Evidently, the warhead either malfunctioned or was somehow intercepted and destroyed by the Americans. The only missile that launched successfully was targeted on Washington. The city was not, I regret to say, destroyed.”
“You regret to say—you regret to say?” Fang’s voice spoke more loudly than anyone at the table could ever remember. “You fool! If you had succeeded, we would be facing national death now! You regret?”
At about that time in Washington, a mid-level CIA bureaucrat had an idea. They were feeding live and taped coverage from the Siberian battlefield over the Internet, because independent news coverage wasn’t getting into the People’s Republic. “Why not,” he asked his supervisor, “send them CNN as well?” That decision was made instantaneously, though it was possibly illegal, maybe a violation of copyright laws. But on this occasion, common sense took precedence over bureaucratic caution. CNN, they decided quickly, could bill them later.
And so, an hour and twenty minutes after the event, http://www.darkstarfeed.cia.gov/siberiabattle/realtime.rambegan to cover the coverage of the near-destruction of Washington, D.C. The news that a nuclear war had been begun but aborted stunned the students in Tiananmen Square. The collective realization that they themselves might be the targets of a retaliatory strike did not put fear so much as rage into their young hearts. There were about ten thousand of them now, many with their portable laptop computers, and many of those hooked into cell phones for Internet access. From overhead you could tell their positions just by the tiny knots of pressed-together bodies. Then the leaders of the demonstration got together and started talking fast among themselves. They knew they had to do something, they just didn’t know exactly what. For all they knew, they might well all be facing death.
