Blink of an Eye

by William S. Cohen

  Every fifteen minutes the Advisory Center circulated real-time conditions and forecasts, which were so positive that Admiral Mason used them as reassuring illustrations when he started his twice-daily briefings. Somewhere deep in the map’s data were the first bits of information that Russ Belcher and the others had transmitted during their NEST sortie in the Strykers.

  Fred Malcomson, a physicist who had become a nuclear weapon designer, and Liz Dalton, an authority on nuclear-weapon attribution, worked in another corner of the room, where Army engineers had assembled a deployable field laboratory. It looked like a boxcar that had been shrunk to one-third normal size. Its sliding door was open. Painted on aluminum siding flanking the door was the new radioactive warning symbol: a large black triangle that framed radiating waves, a skull and crossbones, and the figure of a person running away from something so dangerous that you should flee from it.

  Malcomson and Dalton, wearing disposable full-body laboratory suits, disposable gloves, and safety glasses, were trying to tease information out of samples of radioactive debris they had found when the Strykers rumbled through the disaster area. More samples flowed into the laboratory when the new radiation-detection team began its surveys.

  Using tongs and tweezers, and working behind radiation-resistant glass shields, they moved samples through instruments and chemical baths. On their wrists were dosimeters tracking durations of exposure to iodizing radiation.

  Their mission was to determine the origin of the nuclear material that had produced the radiation. On long-term loan to Lanier from Homeland Security’s National Technical Nuclear Forensics Center, Malcomson and Dalton had been trying for more than five years to solve a single problem: how to assess blame for a nuclear or radiological attack.

  In their brains and computer files was the sum total of what the United States knew about the arcane science of nuclear tracking. They worked continually at finding methods that would trace a radioactive substance back to the device that produced it—and also back to its birthplace in a reactor or enrichment facility somewhere in the world.

  Until now, the secret forensics work of Malcomson and Dalton had been based on their analyses of bits of nuclear material presented to them by clandestine collectors from intelligence, military, and law-enforcement agencies. The two scientists had accumulated a collection of nuclear and radiological materials from all over the world, each one bearing a label, such as CHINA, POSSIBLE LOP NOR TEST SITE or KAZAKHSTAN, PROBABLE VVR-K REACTOR. They did not know how the materials had been obtained, and they were not expected to ask, but they did know that someday their radioactive evidence could doom a nuclear nation or nuclear terrorists as certainly as DNA evidence could condemn a murderer.

  Malcomson and Dalton knew they needed more time and more data before they could give a solid, trustworthy answer to Lanier. However, Lanier was not to be denied.

  They had been working for fourteen hours and had lost count of how many times Lanier had stuck his head into the laboratory and asked, “What have you got?”

  “What we’ve got is fatigue and a serious chance of making careless mistakes,” Malcomson said to Lanier as he made still another visit. Malcomson was in his late thirties, plump, with a full black beard. He wore black-rimmed glasses under his safety glasses.

  “We need more time, more data, Rube,” Dalton said, looking up.

  “Well, happy birthday anyway,” Lanier said, smiling. He knew everyone’s birthday, and much more, because he had access to the National Nuclear Security Administration’s highly classified personnel database.

  “Thanks for remembering, Rube.”

  “You’re welcome. We can’t wait, Liz,” Lanier said. “The White House wants attribution. Did you see Senator Stanfield on television?”

  “Are you kidding?” Dalton said. “I haven’t looked at anything human except you and Fred all day and into the night.”

  “Stanfield is blaming Iran. Any way you can tie this to Iran?”

  “We’ve based all our studies on samples from every country that has exploded a nuclear weapon, including North Korea. Iran is not in that club—yet. We have some Iranian samples—smears from control rods, samples of radioactive water and metal shavings that I assume some Iranian spy gave to his CIA contact. That’s all. None of the material we have on Iran is forensic, meaning suitable for determining attribution of a nuclear explosion. In other words, there is simply no way for us to pin this on Iran.”

  “Thanks, Liz. That’s valuable in a negative way.”

  “You’re welcome, Rube,” she said, then paused and added, “but believe it or not, we’re working on something that might be positive.” She almost forgot she had safety glasses on. She pushed them up, looked up at him, shook her head, and said, “Positive. As if positive is the word for anything that has to do with all this.” She swept an arm to encompass the room.

  She had turned sixty the day before but looked years younger, even with her shoulder-length white hair, now bundled into a plastic shower cap. She had a lithe body beneath her white lab coat. If she had not been flown out of Albuquerque because of her NEST duties, she would have been running in a marathon there today.

  “Yes, Rube, there might be something,” Dalton said, lowering her voice. “Come back in an hour or so.” Then she returned to the mass spectrometer she had been using.

  “Okay, Liz, thanks again. I’ve got to make a call.”

  47

  THE SITUATION Room’s Watch Center had become the Savannah Center, with Falcone as its commander. The White House Mess had turned two of the Sit Room cubicles into a fast-food franchise, and the White House physician’s office was running out of stay-awake pills. Hurrying to the potential quiet of his office, Falcone passed several officers of the Secret Service Uniformed Division. They weren’t talking, but obviously there had been a rise in death threats.

  The disaster had overwhelmed all other issues involving the White House and the Cabinet. But Falcone still had to keep watch over all the perennials in the back of the closet: Japan’s obsession about getting our forces out of Okinawa; NATO resolutions that needed to be acknowledged; European Union resolutions that needed to be analyzed from a U.S. viewpoint; Australia’s concern about Chinese taking control of mineral resources.

  He had been behind his desk less than ten minutes when his direct-line phone rang. That phone did not go through Mae, and he handed out the number cautiously. Rarely did that ring signal the arrival of good news.

  “Lanier here,” said the caller, and Falcone thought, I might as well have stayed in the Sit Room.

  “I hope you have attribution news,” Falcone said.

  “Sort of. I saw Stanfield putting the blame on Iran, and—”

  “And?” Maybe good news.

  “And, if Iran did do it, we don’t have the means to prove it,” Lanier said, going on to briefly repeat Liz Dalton’s explanation for being unable to get evidence that could accuse or exonerate Iran.

  Falcone did not speak, and Lanier, hearing frustration in the silence, decided to inject hope. “But Liz says she’s working on something else. I’m haunting her. I’ll get you her news pronto.”

  “Haven’t heard that word in a long time,” Falcone said. “Thanks, Rube, for giving me something to cling to.”

  Falcone looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes till the war meeting. He had not been surprised by Oxley’s request for the meeting—or, officially, “combat operations processes,” which covered targets, time lines, logistics, and the integration of land, air, sea, and cyber assets. He knew that Pentagon war planners must prepare for crises and ways to respond to them.

  Rarely was detailed knowledge of war plans necessary beyond the hierarchy of the Department of Defense and the planners themselves. Occasionally, however, Falcone or Secretary of Defense George Kane might know of a policy change that could affect a specific plan and ask for a meeting. Something like that was happening tonight. But, with Stanfield’s claim that Iran had ordered the attack now hangin
g over Oxley—along with the threat of impeachment—this was hardly a routine meeting.

  48

  GENERAL GABE Wilkinson was the first to arrive at the President’s Briefing Room, a secure niche for small meetings within the Situation Room complex. Falcone thought Wilkinson looked surprised.

  “Didn’t expect to see you here,” Wilkinson said. “It’s not about the emergency in Savannah, Mr. Continuity of Government.”

  “But I’ve got two hats, Gabe. I’m still the President’s national security advisor, and if you warriors are going to start a war, I want to at least watch.” But I want Oxley to get a pure military brief, Falcone thought. He had decided to remain silent to allow Wilkinson and Secretary of Defense Kane to lay out options without interference or comments by him.

  “Well, I hope it’s a teaching moment for you, Sean,” Wilkinson said, smiling. He laid out a large map on the table, then sat down next to Falcone. As an image of the map appeared on large wall screens, Kane entered and greeted Falcone and Wilkinson. Kane also seemed surprised.

  Falcone went through a dialogue similar to the one he had had with Wilkinson. He was beginning to feel not wanted, and he thought about the underlined pages in Brothers.

  The others filed in: Secretary of State Bloom, Director of National Intelligence Huntington, and Attorney General Williams. At each seat there was a folder that contained such data as possible targets, assets to be deployed, time lines, and anticipated consequences. Bloom, Huntington, and Williams would probably not have much to say. The presentation would come from Kane and Wilkinson; the questions would come from the President.

  President Oxley entered the room. Everyone stood. Ray Quinlan followed a few steps behind Oxley and took a seat between Falcone and the President.

  Falcone was not surprised that Oxley made no reference to Stanfield’s tirade. He merely said, “Gabe and George, thanks for getting this together so quickly.”

  “Not a problem, Mr. President,” Kane said. “We’ve been working these issues pretty hard for some time now.”

  “I take it that this is a Conops?” Oxley asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Wilkinson said. “A concept of operations.”

  “And how long would it take to make the concept operational?” Oxley asked, obviously surprising Wilkinson, who had thought that the meeting was little more than a briefing. Isolated in the Pentagon, preparing for the meeting, he had not seen Stanfield’s Senate performance.

  Kane, who had seen Stanfield making the speech, spoke before Wilkinson had a chance to answer. “It’s been pretty much ready to go, Mr. President. And now, with Stanfield…”

  Oxley nodded and Kane continued, “Normally, it would have taken several days or more to spin everything up. But we’ve been keeping this plan on the front burner. As soon as you approve the targets we’ve selected and we determine a proposed time to launch, we can execute pretty fast. Our ships, submarines, and aircraft are all in place. We’re already on DEFCON One, the highest alert possible. We’re good to go whenever you give us a thumbs-up, sir.”

  Oxley studied the map on the table as Wilkinson, following through on Kane’s assertion, said, “As you can see, Mr. President, there are a lot of moving parts involved in all of this.”

  Oxley shifted his gaze to a memo Kane had handed him. “Why,” he asked, “do you have Venezuela on the list, George?” Oxley’s brow was furrowed with perplexity.

  “Just a precaution, Mr. President,” Kane said. “Venezuela has been cozying up to Iran lately. Russia has sent some S-300 missiles down there. As you know, Venezuela has been trying to undermine Colombia and destabilize other parts of Latin America. I’m not suggesting that we hit Caracas, just that we have to be prepared for every contingency and make sure that Venezuela doesn’t make any moves in the wake of an attack on Iran.”

  Looking at the map, with all the icons showing the location of U.S. military assets and the potential targets that would be hit, Oxley suddenly grasped the scope and enormity of the war plan. He took a deep breath and sat back in his chair. He thought of remarking that it would be a disaster to bomb Venezuela, a country with which the United States had diplomatic relations. But, determined not to show any emotional reaction, he simply said, “Continue, Gabe.”

  “Mr. President,” Wilkinson said after a nod from Kane, “you asked us to provide you with several options. For the purpose of simplicity, I’ll call them Light, Medium, and Heavy.”

  “The Light one being…”

  “That, sir, would be a bolt-out-of-the-blue attack on Iran’s leadership, the IRGC—Iranian Republican Guard Corps—and all fixed missile launching sites. In other words, a decapitating strike. We know pretty much where they are. Even though their leaders are in bunkers at the moment, we can probably take them out. That would give you the opportunity to demand that Iran suspend its nuclear activities, dismantle all nuclear sites and weapons, and allow for international inspectors to enter the country to ensure that your demands are carried out.”

  “Sort of Pearl Harbor Light,” Oxley said. “And if they refuse?”

  “Well, sir,” Wilkinson said, smiling, “you’ve got a nuclear sword of Damocles hanging over the heads of their people. That’s the upside of this option, sir. It’s light and it’s fast.”

  “And the downside?”

  Secretary Kane, eager to show that he was intimately involved in every step of the planning, interjected, “The downside, Mr. President, is the likelihood that you might forfeit the option to strike Iran again if they refuse to accept your demands. Russia and China can be expected to denounce the strike.”

  “And if they did?” Oxley asked.

  “They would most likely demand that you cease and desist until the UN Security Council has the opportunity to bring about a peaceful solution,” Kane answered.

  Falcone resisted the temptation to add his view of what an attack on Iran would produce. He remained silent as Wilkinson took off from Kane’s remark.

  “From a military standpoint, sir, I don’t think it’s probable that either Russia or China would harshly react,” Wilkinson said. “But one or the other might declare that a security treaty is in force with Iran and threaten retaliation if you were to proceed. As I said, unlikely, but—”

  “So, you are recommending against this option?” Oxley asked.

  “No, sir,” Wilkinson instantly responded. “My job is to lay out the options to be considered. It’s going to be your call, Mr. President. Whichever one you think is best.”

  Oxley was clearly annoyed with the answer—and was even more annoyed that Kane had remained silent, not wanting to disclose his hand.

  “Okay, gentlemen,” Oxley said, his brisk tone indicating his impatience. “Option Two involves what?”

  “Option Two,” Wilkinson answered, “is to hit their deeply buried underground weapons-making sites. This would have to involve our Stealth B-2 Bombers, as well as SLBMs—our submarine launched ballistic missiles—and other precision-guided munitions.”

  “Are you talking about nuclear weapons, General?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Oxley, his eyes blazing, looked directly at Wilkinson and said, “But if we use nuclear weapons—for the second time in modern history and the only country to do so—then everything I have tried to do to stop the spread of these terrible weapons … everything … is gone.”

  He turned to Kane, as if he felt a kinship with someone in civilian clothes, and said, “Even Ronald Reagan wanted to see a world free of the most destructive weapons man has ever invented. If we need any example of what’s involved, just take a look at Savannah. And that was a mere pop gun compared to what you want me to unleash.”

  “I understand, Mr. President,” Wilkinson said quietly, as if he were reacting to some misunderstood technical matter. “It’s not an easy call. But it’s the professional judgment of our analysts that our conventional weapons don’t have the firepower to go deep enough underground to get at Iran’s bomb-making facilities. As you know, we
had recommended that such a capability be—”

  “Enough said, General,” Oxley snapped. He did not want to be reminded that he had rejected a forty-billion-dollar proposal to build bunker-busting bombs. Bombs, Oxley thought, that would’ve busted the budget before it busted any bunkers.

  Wilkinson knew he was wading into deep water by raising this issue now, but he wanted to make sure that there would be no finger-pointing at the military leadership if the Iranian targets were not destroyed.

  “Mr. President,” Wilkinson continued, his voice drained of emotion, “if we only use conventional bombs, the strike is unlikely to be successful. We’ll get none of the upside for having taken action and all of the downside: Muslim riots everywhere, attacks on our troops in the region, suicide bombers here at home, et cetera. It won’t look good, sir.”

  Oxley continued to scrutinize the map, asking detailed and probing questions about the diplomatic issues involved if he were to order a strike, conventional or nuclear.

  “It’s complicated, sir,” Kane said, nodding toward Secretary Bloom. “We’ll, of course, have to get State involved before any action is taken. At the very last minute we’d have to talk with the Russians and the Chinese—especially the Chinese, to get them to hold back the North Koreans from launching an attack on South Korea. If the North Koreans get spooked and think that we are targeting them, they could reduce much of South Korea to rubble, even some parts of Japan.”

  “Jesus!” Oxley said softly.

  “We’d also have to persuade the Indians and Pakistanis to stand down,” Kane continued, as if he had not heard Oxley’s exclamation. “Either one might see this as a chance to launch a preemptive nuclear strike against the other.”