Blink of an Eye

by William S. Cohen

  *

  IN the Situation Room, Falcone assembled what he dubbed the Executive Committee—thus escalating the Savannah disaster to the level of the Cuban missile crisis, which had been managed by a secret group of officials known as the ExComm.

  Around the table were General Wilkinson; Secretary of Defense Kane; Homeland Security Secretary Walker; Admiral David Mason, commandant of the Coast Guard; Ray Quinlan; Secretary of State Bloom; and, seated next to him, Deputy Secretary of State Marilyn Hotchkiss. Sam Stone, director of the CIA, sat next to Kane. Falcone had chosen Stone over Chuck Huntington, director of National Intelligence, because he wanted only one intelligence chief on the committee, and Falcone believed that Stone was better tuned into counterterrorism than Huntington. In seats along the wall were Falcone’s deputies, Anna Dabrowski and Marine Lieutenant Colonel Jeffrey Hawkins, along with Navy Captain Spencer, who was still holding the folder full of notes that he had used to brief President Oxley for the eleven o’clock speech.

  Vice President Cunningham would soon appear on a monitor, joining the Executive Committee via a secure videoconference line from Raven Rock.

  Quinlan reported that the networks had agreed to a predawn televised address from the Oval Office. The pool camera crew for the eleven o’clock address was, in fact, still on White House grounds, loading their vehicles, when Secret Service agents herded them back in.

  “Stephanie,” Quinlan continued, “has Barry Ellicott working on a draft of—”

  “Tell Stephanie I’ll give Barry a briefing at about four thirty A.M.,” Falcone said, breaking in. He was thinking and speaking fast. He knew that Barry Ellicott was the President’s favorite speechwriter. But to Ellicott, all issues were political issues, and Falcone was already planning how he would channel his thoughts on the crisis. “The problem … and this will be a continuing problem … is what we decide to tell and what we decide not to—”

  A light lit on the console in front of Falcone. The caller ID said ANDREWS. “The recon,” he said, then pointed to Captain Spencer. “Get ready for images.”

  Falcone picked up the headset and heard, “Commander Davis here. Joint Base Andrews duty officer. Reporting the recon mission is about to start.”

  “About to start?” Falcone exclaimed. “What the fuck is going on?” Others at the table exchanged surprised looks.

  “What is going on, Mr. Falcone, is the beginning of a mission. That is what I am reporting.”

  Falcone looked at his watch. Twenty minutes after eleven. “Hold on, Commander,” Falcone said, turning to the people around the table. “Sorry. We don’t have the information I had anticipated. Please remain nearby. We will reassemble as soon as I get the recon.”

  Anna Dabrowski quickly arranged for National Security Council staffers to set up cots in the cubicles around the Situation Room. She had the White House Mess call in reinforcements for its usual overnight crew. Marines and Secret Service agents donated toilet articles and sweatsuits for anyone who wanted them.

  As everyone was leaving the room, Falcone switched back to Commander Davis at Andrews. Trying to keep his voice even, he said, “This is an urgent, high-priority mission, Commander. It should have started more than an hour ago.”

  “I have no indica—”

  Falcone interrupted to ask, “Are you SCI-cleared?”

  “Yes … sir.”

  “This is SCI, authorized by the President. Code name is Stonewall. All paperwork about this flight is to be classified SCI. When the pilot returns, a White House vehicle will be waiting to take him to the Situation Room. All understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” Davis replied. He thought of SCI as Top Secret on steroids. A mission labeled SCI—Sensitive Compartmentalized Information—did not come along that often. SCI was not officially higher than Top Secret, but the SCI designation sharply restricted the dissemination of information only to people who possessed SCI clearance for the mission. “The pilot is Air Force Captain Sarah Bernton, sir.”

  “Patch me into the pilot,” Falcone said.

  “She’s on the runway. Patching her is rather—”

  “Patch me to the goddamn pilot!”

  *

  “AIR Force Captain Sarah Bernton, sir,” the pilot responded when Falcone identified himself. She was at the controls of an A-10 Warthog, a close-air-support aircraft known for its ability to fly slow and low. The A-10’s official Air Force name was Thunderbolt. But everyone who knew it called it the Warthog, a nickname inspired by its homely, unaerodynamic look: Two jet engines jutted from its double tail and hung over the fuselage like a pair of misplaced bulging eyes. The cockpit, inside a large bubble canopy, was forward of the wings, looking oddly misplaced but giving the pilot a wide view of the terrain below.

  Ordinarily, the A-10 did not have a night vision-imaging system. But the Air Force had recently ordered a squadron of the A-10s to be retrofitted with LANTIRN (Low Altitude Navigation and Targeting Infrared for Night) for special missions in Afghanistan. The aircraft in which Captain Bernton was seated was an A-10 that now had this capability.

  “Are you cleared for SCI, Bernton?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You are now, for this mission. The SCI name is Stonewall. I assume you are familiar with the use of the scrambler band.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Switch to that band.” Falcone heard a click.

  “Done so, sir.” Bernton’s voice became robotic.

  “You are plugged directly into Summit, the White House Situation Room,” Falcone said in a similarly robotic voice. “This is a matter of extreme national security. Your transmissions and my responses will be automatically recorded and classified SCI. You know the deal: This mission must not be disclosed to anyone. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Stonewall, there is a serious possibility that you may be exposed to dangerous levels of radioactivity.” Falcone hesitated for a moment. “You can decline this mission. I am asking if you are willing to volunteer.”

  “Yes, sir. I am,” Bernton instantly replied.

  “Thank you, Sarah. Okay. When you return, you’ll be checked for exposure. And you’ll be given every necessary medical treatment.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, the mission. You have infrared photographing capability?”

  “Affirmative, sir.”

  “Your target area, as you probably know from Commander Davis, is Savannah, Georgia.”

  “Yes, sir. We heard the President.”

  “Good. You will photograph as much of the target area as possible. And you will describe what you see when, flying toward Savannah, you observe a blacked-out area. I want you to indicate the northern perimeter of the blackout area, do a recon flight over Savannah, then fly southward to determine the southern perimeter of the blackout. Clear?”

  “Yes, sir. May I punch perimeter coordinates into my navigation log?”

  “Affirmative. Then, before arrival back at Andrews, relay your log and photos to Summit and then erase the log and infrared photos. Understood?”

  “Sir, I cannot erase the log or photos.”

  “Very well. I will arrange for the aircraft to be impounded at Andrews until I send technicians to remove your photographic and navigation systems.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “ETA?”

  “I estimate ninety-six minutes, sir.”

  “Can’t go faster?”

  “I’ll push the Warthog as hard as I can, sir. But I’ve got to figure fuel consumption for a round trip.”

  “Okay, Stonewall … Sarah. Good luck.”

  The Warthog sped down the runway, rose, and headed south through the sky of the crescent moon.

  31

  WHEN THE first transmission came in from Bernton, Falcone was hunched over a cup of coffee and a yellow legal pad in the Situation Room Watch Center, which he had designated as the temporary headquarters for Stonewall operations.

  “This is Stonewall,” Bernton said. Her strangely deh
umanized voice momentarily confused Falcone.

  “I am passing over the northern perimeter at slowest possible speed,” she continued. “Navigation map display shows me along the Savannah River, entering Georgia from South Carolina approximately at a wildlife refuge near Port Wentworth at the crossing of Interstate 95 and Georgia Highway 21. Port Wentworth is dark. To the west is Savannah/Hilton Head International Airport, showing lights. Wait! Also flames. Flames near an east-west runway. Appears to be aircraft fire.”

  As Falcone talked to Bernton, he scribbled a note and handed it off to Hawkins. Check FAA. Report plane down Savannah airport.

  “Very well, Stonewall. Stay slow. As you approach Hutchinson Island, head—”

  “Reporting aircraft on fire. Appears to be a commercial airliner and—”

  “Ignore the fire, Stonewall. Continue southward to Hutchinson Island, north of downtown Savannah, where the Back River breaks off from the Savannah River.”

  “Over Hutchinson. It’s dark. All dark.”

  “Okay, Stonewall. Now head west. You will be crossing Savannah and heading toward the U.S. Coast Guard Air Station, which is at the northern end of the Hunter Army Airfield.”

  A minute later, Stonewall transmitted, “Oh my God! All blacked out. Gleaming water. Map shows a city but I see nothing. Oh my God!”

  “Steady, Stonewall.”

  “I am over central Savannah. I see nothing. Except flames. Flames along what looks like waterfront. Flames lighting up floating debris.”

  “Keep photographing, Stonewall, and look for the southern perimeter.”

  “This is so awful. All these people.” Her voice trailed off.

  “Get hold of yourself, Stonewall,” Falcone said. “You’re our only eyes right now.”

  “Coast Guard station dark. Hunter Army Airfield is dark,” she said, her voice strengthening. “Some lights showing along U.S. Highway 17 near Richmond Hill. Some lights to west at site designated as Fort Stewart Military Reservation. Beyond, southwest along U.S. Highway 95, I am seeing some lights.”

  “Good work, Stonewall. Now head southeast from Hunter,” Falcone said, his eyes on a monitor showing a map of the Savannah area. “Tell me when you see lights again.”

  “Lights begin just north of Montgomery. I am on a line heading northeast toward Wilmington Island. Getting a few lights. Looks spotty. But my map shows wetlands with few towns or population clusters.”

  “Got it, Stonewall. Now, head toward Tybee Island.”

  “Darkness, Summit. Darkness. Darkness. A few lights at southern edge of Tybee.”

  “Okay, Stonewall. Head home. A vehicle at Andrews will take you to Summit.”

  As Bernton was reporting, her information was being gathered and infrared images were being tagged at a nearby console by an analyst sent to the Situation Room by the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency. The identification badge on a chain around his neck bore the name James Annaheim. He had never been to the White House before, but he knew that his highly regarded products had been there many times.

  The NGA, which operated under the Department of Defense, was a relative newcomer to the Intelligence Community. A descendant of the old Army Map Service, the NGA analyzed satellite images, battlefield overviews, geographical data, and whatever resources it needed to produce geospatial intelligence packets, usually for the CIA, including the CIA officers who produced the President’s Daily Brief. The packets supplied coordinates and imagery for CIA operatives directing missile-bearing drones to Al Qaeda targets in Afghanistan, Pakistan, and other troubled spots.

  “The burning aircraft seen by Stonewall was probably the Acme Airlines flight due tonight at Savannah International at 8:54 and reported missing on GNN,” Annaheim said after consulting an aviation database. “The aircraft is—was—an Airbus A319. Its passenger capacity is one hundred and twenty-five.” He tagged the image POSSIBLE FLIGHT 342.

  NGA’s myriad of databases included one that contained information about every major bridge in the world. The analyst was able to zoom into one of Stonewall’s infrared images—a huge pile of wreckage along the Savannah River—and identify a length of twisted cable and piece of steel as coming from the main southern pier of the Talmadge Memorial Bridge.

  “That’s a confirmation on the bridge, sir. Totally destroyed,” Annaheim said, tagging the image and adding the information to one of the new Stonewall databases he was creating to document the disaster. Two minutes later, he copied another section of an image, consulted one of the NGA’s marine databases, and told Falcone, “There is an identifiable ship, sir. Or a slice of it, in shallow water. It is—was—a cruise ship, the Regal, registered in—”

  “How many passengers?” Falcone interrupted.

  “Full complement, two hundred and fifteen passengers and crew,” Annaheim replied, looking up from the database file on one of his twin monitors. “But, as to the number actually aboard last night—”

  “Never mind that right now,” Falcone said. “Just keep mapping the disaster zone.”

  A CIA analyst, regularly assigned to the Situation Room, was working at a station behind Falcone. He had overheard the exchange. “We might be able to get the Regal manifest from Homeland Security,” he said, turning around to address the NGA analyst. “They’re supposed to keep track of everyone entering the country. I have a source who—”

  “But this is a coastal cruise ship,” Annaheim said. “Didn’t leave the country, and it—”

  “For Christ’s sake!” Falcone yelled. “Shut up and keep figuring out what the hell happened to Savannah.” In the moment of silence that followed, he said softly, “Sorry. Nerves. Sorry.”

  Every workstation in the Watch Center had an analyst from an intelligence agency. Analysts were supposed to piece together bits of information and produce what the handbooks called “an integrated view” of whatever issue they had been assigned to. If the information they had was hazy or not quite trustworthy, they hacked away at the ambiguities until they could present to their customers reasonable interpretations of events and equally reasonable suggestions for dealing with those events.

  At least, Falcone thought, that’s the way it was supposed to be. But what about now? What about dealing with the unthinkable? A city destroyed.

  The disaster map, based roughly on what places were showing lights, encompassed a darkness that blotted out about three hundred square miles. Falcone, studying the map, thought of Tourtellot’s description of what happened to his helicopter’s computer.

  “Hawk,” Falcone called over to his military aide, who was in a nearby cubicle. “Find Tourtellot at Parris Island and talk to him on a secure line. I want to know everything about the way his radio and computer failed. And get that Coast Guard helicopter impounded. We need a high-tech inspection of it.”

  “EMP?” Hawkins asked. Falcone nodded. Hawkins realized that Tourtellot’s experience pointed to an electromagnetic pulse, a product of a nuclear explosion.

  The pulse phenomenon was discovered in 1962 during a nuclear weapon test over the Pacific. The rocket-launched weapon exploded two hundred and fifty miles above a coral atoll called Johnston Island. In Hawaii, nearly nine hundred miles away, streetlights went out and telephone networks shut down. Many homeowners reported odd events—such as burglar alarms going off—as the pulse rippled through the islands. Information about the pulse was withheld while the public wondered about what happened.

  Falcone had no way of knowing what the pulse had done in its nanoseconds of existence. He had Hawk find a Department of Energy expert on the EMP phenomenon. Most scientific knowledge, the expert said, stemmed from the high-altitude Johnston Island explosion.

  “But,” the expert said, “laboratory simulations show that a nuclear detonation at any altitude will produce some kind of EMP, depending upon the explosion’s energy yield and its interaction with the earth’s magnetic field. Whatever this event is, it does not appear to be high-altitude and it apparently produced an EMP with characteristics we don
’t yet understand. But I’d bet this EMP burned out a lot of power transmission lines and unprotected electrical and electronic equipment like computers.”

  After hearing Hawkins’s report on what he had learned from the DOE expert and Tourtellot, Falcone had no need to guess what had caused the blackout. And the infrared images of the damage, added to the evidence of the pulse, made a nuclear explosion almost certain. But there was no way yet to determine the boundaries of the nuclear explosion, the extent of the blackout caused by the pulse, or the levels of possible radiation.

  Falcone called a classified number at the Department of Energy and asked for the NNSA duty officer. Among the responsibilities of the National Nuclear Security Administration was the security of nuclear weapons. NNSA, whose very existence had once been classified, was also the nation’s lead responder to any nuclear or radiological incident within the United States or abroad.

  “Antonio Gomez, emergency response officer, speaking. Is this in regard to a nuclear weapon?”

  Falcone identified himself and said, “This call is SCI.”

  “Understood,” Gomez responded, checking his console to make sure the call was being recorded.

  “I have information leading me to believe that a nuclear device has produced an EMP in and around Savannah, Georgia. There is also some evidence of a denotation of a device. Shortly after dawn, on presidential authority, the Secretary of Defense will issue a Nucflash message. Also on presidential authority, I want a NEST sent to Savannah.”

  “I must notify Secretary Graham,” Gomez said, referring to Dr. Harold Graham, a former Princeton physicist who was the Secretary of Energy.

  Falcone knew that Graham would not have any day-to-day knowledge of NNSA activities. Nor would he necessarily be aware of its resources, which included helicopters and aircraft containing radiation-detection devices. Bureaucratically, the large and well-funded NNSA was to the Department of Energy what the FBI was to the Department of Justice.