by Dale Brown
ever seen. It was just on the horizon, almost directly off the nose.
And just as quickly the light enveloped and blinded him. His eyes
became two red-hot spheres of excruciating pain, burned, it seemed, by
molten lava. Behind him, Pilas was screaming and Tamalko realized he,
too, was screaming. The roar of the F-4E's big engines was gone, which
meant they had been hit by something big enough to cause a double
flameout-a big missile must have exploded right in front of them,
blinding them and shelling out the engines. The control stick was
beginning to tighten up as hydraulic power bled away-soon it would
freeze up completely. He hauled back on the stick to try to start a zoom
maneuver and trade some of their Mach one speed for altitude-if they
ejected at Mach one, the windblast would tear them apart. He couldn't
tell if they were gaining altitude... there wasn't time to think.
"Eject! Eject!" Tamalko screamed, then crossed his wrists in front of
him, grasped the ejection ring between his legs, and pulled. The canopy
ripped off in the slipstream before the crewmen's heads crashed through
it, and both he and Pilas were rocketed free and clear of the stricken
plane. Tamalko's body was flying forward at almost seven hundred feet
per second. The wall of compressed, superheated air rushing toward him
from the explosion of the single RK-55 nuclear warhead of the Fei Lung-9
missile was traveling at two thousand feet per second. When the two
met, Tamalko, Pilas, and the crippled F-4E Phantom II fighter were
mercilessly crushed into powder, then vaporized by the
five.thousand-degree heat of the fringes of the fireball that had
already destroyed the Philippine corvette Quezon and its three antiship
helicopters. FIRST AIR WING COMMAND AND CONTROL OPERATIONS CENTER
CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN AFB, COLORADO SAME TIME A young Air Force staff
sergeant, Amy Hector, was on the FOREST GREEN console at the U.S. Air
Force Space Command's Command and Control Operations Center, deep within
the Cheyenne Mountain NORAD complex, when her detection board went
crazy. "Red Collar, Red Collar, " Staff Sergeant Hector called on the
center-wide intercom, pressing the "Call" button on her console so that
her warning message would override all the other transmissions in the
Operations Center. The words "Red Collar" would also ensure immediate
attention by all-the effect those simple code-words had was akin to her
screaming at the top of her lungs: "FOREST GREEN with an event-detection
warning, all stations stand by.. ." Hector waited a few more
'heartbeats, then quickly began reading her detection figures aloud,
knowing ~7~~~, :r'~ ~~//~ ~~i~~~Ur~~j~/hJPJf~~rP >cr~zzibJizig to their
~~ats azid chcc&zg ~~ "FOREST GREEN shows three units with amphtu~e
pu'Ise threshold readings. System reports confirmation of readouts,
repeat, system reports readout confirmation, event confidence is high."
Technicians at Cheyenne Mountain seldom used words like "nuclear
detonation" or "explosion"-these were collectively called "events" and
"readouts." emotional detachment prevalent inside the Mountain, as if
they could somehow block the horrors they saw by naming them something
harmless. It was a relatively low-tech device that issued a warning on
that Wednesday afternoon, a device that had gone all but unused for
years. In an effort to increase the number of nuclear detection devices
in orbit without increasing the actual number of satellites, in the late
1 970s and early 1 980s a secret program code-named FOREST GREEN was
implemented. NAVSTAR Global Positioning System navigation satellites
were fitted with electromagnetic pulse sensors and devices called (quite
appropriately for nuclear detonation detection) Bhangmeters, which were
sensitive optical flash detectors that could determine the explosive
yield of a nuclear explosion by the brightness of the flash. Unlike
AMWS, which were used only on specific (albeit very wide) areas of the
Earth, FOREST GREEN had global coverage because the eighteen-satellite
NAVSTAR constellation had at least three satellites looking at every
piece of the Earth at every moment. A nuclear explosion has a definite
pattern of two pulses-the first less intense than the second-caused
first by the detonation of the triggering device, followed exactly
one-third of a second later by the main explosion; this was the reason
Bhangmeters were mounted in pairs, with one more sensitive than the
other. The EMP detectors on the three FOREST GREEN satellites also
registered the disruption of the ionosphere before communication between
the satellites and their receivers on Earth were abruptly cut off. The
senior controller in the Operations Center, an Air Force colonel named
Randolph, immediately put the staff sergeant's console display up on the
"big board, " a rectangle of six 2-by-3foot screens in the front of the
Operations Center. The display was relatively uninformative at this
point-three lines out of eighteen on the display were flashing, with a
string of numbers showing the system readings and the threshold levels
preprogrammed into the system. "All stations, this is Randolph. I
confirm a FOREST GREEN event detection and classification, I need a
status check and report in thirty seconds, all stations stand by." The
problem with the FOREST GREEN sensors was that they were not highly
directional-the sensors could accurately record a nuclear detonation but
not precisely pinpoint the explosion's location; when the Bhangmeters
were installed on older Vela nuclear-detection satellites, the device's
telescopic eye could pinpoint the location of the detonation, but on
NAVSTAR satellites the sensors were relegated to area reports only. In
a few moments Amy Hector had replaced the cryptic lines of data with a
graphic pictorial of the information: a chart of the Earth that was
within line-of-sight reach of the three NAVSTAR satellites that had
suddenly gone off the air. Somewhere within the three overlapping
shaded spheres, the first aboveground nuclear device in thirty years had
detonated. Unfortunately, the display showed the explosion could have
occurred anywhere from Hawaii to Thailand and from Japan to Australia.
"I need better information than that, " Colonel Randolph said. "Find
out why no DSP systems issued an alert." DSP was a constellation of
satellites so sensitive that they could detect brush fires, structure
fires, or even high-performance aircraft using afterburners-all from
twenty-two thousand miles in space. "Sir, this is Staff Sergeant Hector
on FOREST GREEN, " Hector interjected. "I think I can come up with a
rough triangulation."
"Let's have it, Sergeant." "I've got the exact time when all three of
the NAVSTAR satellites shut down, " Hector explained, "and I've got the
time down to one-one-hundredth of a second. I can Randolph looked at
her. "I get the picture, Sergeant Hector. Speed of gamma particle
versus time. Are the off-air times that different?"
"Stand by, sir." There was a slight pause, then Hector replied: "Two
times are the same;
the other is different. I can poll the sensor
threshold-release circuits and get a more exact time; I can also try a
laser orbital velocity measurement to see if the event changed the
orbits-"
"Just do it, Amy." This was the first time he had ever recalled calling
Hector by her first name, but it seemed oddly appropriate now. "But
first, I need an acknowledgment of a suspected FOREST GREEN event from
CINCSPACECOM right awayalso get SAC and JCS on the line."
"Yes, sir. "NORAD hasn't issued an alert yet, " Randolph muttered
half-aloud. "Why the hell haven't they said anything? Something big
enough to knock out three satellites is not good news. ABOARD SKY
MASTERS DC-10, OVER CALIFORNIA SAME TIME Jon Masters had his feet up on
the bulkhead, was on his third plastic squeeze bottle of Pepsi and
halfway through a bologna and cheese sandwich when the toneless,
emotionless voice of the Air Force mission control tracking officer on
the radio said, "Masters One, College, contact lost with Jackson One."
Masters sat upright, put down the Pepsi, and quickly checked his
readouts. "College, this is Masters One, I-" He did a double-take.
Seconds ago he'd been getting a stream of position and velocity readouts
from the NIRTSat in its orbit. Now the readouts were zero. Masters
sighed. "Confirmed on this end. Stand by. I'll try to re-establish
communications." On the interphone to his crew, he said, "Give me a
turn westbound and a climb to best altitude. We've got a problem with
the satellite." Helen Kaddiri entered the flight deck. "What is it,
Jon?"
"We lost contact with the satellite." She looked at him as if to say,
I'm not surprised. Instead, she said, "Same problem we had before?"
"That was a loose plug, Helen, this"-he scratched his head in an
uncharacteristic moment of confusion-"has got to be something else. But
what, I don't know." ABOARD WHISPER ONE-SEVEN, OVER POWDER RIVER MOA,
MONTANA SAME TIME McLanahan began programming the final launch
instructions on his Super Multi Function Display so they could take out
the last few sortie targets in General Jarrel's setup and then head
home. The display shimmered and abruptly changed. "What the-" McLanahan
muttered. Instead of the gently rolling hills and dry gullies of
southeastern Montana, the SMFD showed a confusing pattern of light spots
in a blank, featureless background. It did have one very prominent
terrain feature-a mountain nearly twenty thousand feet high and sixty
miles wide. It was as if Mount Everest had just been transplanted into
the middle of the Great Plains. "I don't believe this . . ." McLanahan
said, staring at the SMFD. "What is it?" Ormack asked. "That doesn't
look like the target area."
"The computer must be decoding the signal wrong, McLanahan guessed.
Amazingly, the computer began plotting a recommended course on the
erroneous computer display, with sharp changes in heading away from the
larger moving spots but fairly close to the smaller, non-moving ones.
The computer even made weapon selections, although with only two weapons
on board the choice was relatively simple-the longer-range SLAM missile
for the large moving spots that were to be circumnavigated, and the
STRIKER glide-bomb for the smaller, stationary ones. The strike computer
began the arming and countdown procedures to attack these "targets, "
and that's when McLanahan got tired of this. "There's some glitch in the
system and it's not 1 clearing. I'll reset the system and go manually
until I get a usable display back." But he did not simply reset the
computers-he used the on-board computer memory to save the last few
seconds of images first before clearing the bogus display. "What do you
think is the problem?" Ormack asked. "I don't know, " McLanahan
replied. "I'll check switchesthe system will report on any switches out
of position in the post-mission computer dump. Maybe there was a glitch
in the satellite. Who knows?" He bent toward the screen and began
identifying radar aimpoints, getting ready for the "bomb" releases.
"Probably something minor. . But that new satellite image did not look
like something minor, McLanahan thought uneasily. It was more than a
glitch. The computer was processing the data it received from NIRTSat
as if it were real, uncorrupted data, and he knew enough about the
NIRTSat system to know that the computer would reject false data. No,
whatever that twentythousandfoot~high "mountain" was, McLanahan thought,
it was real. Something very serious had just happened somewhere in the
world. HIGH TECHNOLOGY AEROSPACE WEAPONS CENTER "What the hell
happened?" Colonel Wyatt exclaimed. They were looking in stunned
amazement at the high-definition TV monitor, and at the monstrosity that
the computer was showing them: a mountain thousands and thousands of
feet high and dozens of miles wide, engulfing ships in its path with
devastating power. "Must be a sensor glitch. .. a solar flare or a
power spike, " Major Kelvin Carter tried. He spoke with the
technicians, but none of those present could understand the display.
"Whatever it is, it killed the satellite, " Carter said. "This is the
last image received; the satellite is off the air."
"Too bad, " Wyatt said. "McLanahan's run was looking real good, too."
Captain Ken James' attention was riveted on the display frozen on the
screen. "It's a weird picture, but the computer is displaying valid
data on it, " he said. "Look: height, width, speed, density, course-the
thing is moving and growing all at once. "But it's showing it as
terrain, Ken, " Carter said. "That can't be right. We were looking at
the Philippines first, then at Montana. There's no mountain in either
place." Wyatt shrugged, then began packing up his notebook. "It was
still a spectacular display, gents, " he said, "but I-"
"Sir, phone call for you, " one of the technicians said. "Urgent from
NMCC." As Wyatt trotted to the phone, James turned to Carter and asked,
"Nimic? What's that?"
"National Military Command Center, " Carter replied. "The War Room at
the Pentagon." James nodded, making a mental note. STRATEGIC AIR COMMAND
HEADQUARTERS OFFUTT AIR FORCE BASE, NEAR OMAHA, NEBRASKA WEDNESDAY, 21
SEPTEMBER 1994, 1425 HOURS LOCAL neral Larry T. Tyler, commander in
chief of the Strategic Air Command, was getting ready to make his first
serve of the tennis match between members of the headquarters staff when
the beeper on his portable radio went off. But, like a baseball pitcher
halfway into his windup, he completed the serve and managed to hit his
Reserve Forces Advisor, Colonel Hartmann, in the left leg. Hartmann was
distracted and didn't expect his boss to finish his serve. "Cheap shot,
General, " Hartmann shouted. Tyler raised his racket to offer an
apology to Hartmann, who politely waved it off, then trotted over to the
bench, where his radio was sitting. Tyler's driver, a young buck
sergeant named Meers, heard the beeper and immediately started up the
General's staff car, which was waiting just a few dozen yards away. In
Tyler's
footsteps was his doubles partner, the former commander of
Pacific Air Force's Philippine-based Thirteenth Air Force, Major General
Richard "Rat Killer" Stone, who was to become Tyler's Deputy Chief of
Staff of Pacific Operations in a few weeks. It had been said that
CINCSAC-the Commander in Chief of the Strategic Air Command-was a
prisoner of his job, and to a certain extent it was true-the radio, the
car, and the driver were his constant companions. But the
fifty-six-year-old ex-Notre Dame football quarterback was determined not
to let the awesome responsibility of his position disrupt his lifeand
that responsibility was truly awesome. Tyler was in charge of the United
States' smaller but still potent nuclear combat force of ninety B- lB
Excalibur bombers, two hundred B-52G and H-model Stratofortress bombers,
ten B-2A Black Knight stealth bombers, six hundred Minuteman III
intercontinental ballistic missiles, one hundred railgarrison
Peacekeeper ICMBs, fifty MGM-134A Mustang road-mobile ICBMs, eight
hundred AGM-129A advanced cruise missiles, and one thousand AGM-131A
Short-Range Attack Missiles. In addition he commanded several hundred
aerial refueling tankers, strategic reconnaissance aircraft, airborne
command posts, and communications aircraft, and a total of about eighty
thousand men and women, civilians as well as military, all around the
globe-and his job was to stay within momentsnotice contact with each and
every one of his sixty active and reserve units at all times. Although
he was at the very pinnacle of his Air Force career, he was determined
not to get jabbed in the ass by its sharp point. As Tyler made his way
to the bench where his radio sat, he noticed the amber rotating lights
at the street intersection nearby-the SAC command post was recalling the
alert crews, and the amber warning lights told other drivers to be aware
of alert crews heading toward the flight line. Offutt Air Force Base
had an alert force of four KC-135 aerial refueling tankers that would
prepare for takeoff to support airborne command post aircraft at Offutt,
as well as other strike and communications aircraft. The alert crews
were tested regularly to make sure their response time was always within
