Luke Stone 04 - Oppose Any Foe

by Jack Mars

  “Vladimir, you can’t do that. We have—”

  “Yes, I know. You have a missile defense system that will respond automatically to any attack on a major American city. I suggest you take that system offline for the duration of the crisis. We didn’t lose these warheads, lovely lady. We didn’t empower these terrorists. I am certain that history will absolve us of any responsibility for the unfortunate consequences of your actions.”

  “Vladimir—”

  “As always, it has been my pleasure to discuss world affairs with someone as serious and well-informed as yourself.”

  The phone went dead.

  Susan looked around the table at the faces gathered there. The Russian President had just hung up on her. “It gets better and better with that guy, doesn’t it?”

  “Susan,” Kurt Kimball began. He had black rings around his eyes. His skull was starting to appear hollowed out. Was she hallucinating this? She needed sleep.

  “Kurt, how long would we need to bring our missile defense system offline, as he suggests?”

  “I don’t suggest you do that,” Haley Lawrence said. “It would leave us exposed.”

  Kurt shook his head. “Our defense system is incredibly robust. Bringing it offline would be an incremental process that would take years to complete. It doesn’t matter anyway. He was lying when he said their response would be measured. They have a missile defense system similar to ours. Its capabilities have degraded quite a bit since the Soviet Union collapsed, but that just means it’s more likely to launch in the event of an attack, not less so. The finer the calibration, the more subtle the response. I believe that one nuclear warhead detonating anywhere in Russia will result in the launch of hundreds of missiles within minutes.”

  “So if ISIS launches a missile at them, or more than one…”

  “Right, then they launch at us in response…”

  “And that trips our own…”

  “Yes,” Kurt said. “And that means game over.”

  Susan sighed heavily.

  “We need to get those warheads back.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  12:40 p.m. Moscow Time (4:40 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time)

  The Main Centre for Missile Attack Warning

  Timonovo, Russia

  They had done it to him again.

  Yuri Grachev, thirty years old, walked briskly through the hallways of the missile attack warning center, on his way to the large situation room. His footsteps echoed along the empty corridor.

  Yuri was the senior aide and personal assistant to the Russian Defense Minister. Six months ago, when the United States had been briefly toppled in a coup d’etat, the Minister’s black nuclear suitcase, his Cheget, had been handcuffed to Yuri’s right wrist for more than forty-eight hours.

  Now, in the past fifteen minutes, it had appeared there once again. He supposed he had done such a good job carrying it the last time, he might as well repeat the performance.

  He hated the Cheget. It was old and heavy, with a battered leather cover over the steel case proper. The handcuff bit into his wrist and left a mark there. As he recalled, the weight of the case should soon cause his arm to ache all the way down from the shoulder to the tips of his fingers. Inside the case were the codes and mechanisms to launch missile strikes against the West.

  As before, Yuri didn’t want this horrible thing attached to him. He wanted to go home to his wife and young son. But unlike last time, he didn’t feel like he might cry or crumble in the face of crisis. He was stronger now, more resilient. He stood tall, with the impassive face of a trusted government official. Something serious was happening. He would do his best to meet the challenge of it.

  Just ahead, a wide automatic door slid open. He passed through the doorway and into the swirling chaos of the command center’s main room. The chatter of voices hit Yuri like a wall as he entered.

  Two hundred people filled the space. There were at least forty workstations, some of them with two or three people sitting at five computer screens. On the big board up front, there were twenty different television and computer screens.

  Screens showed digital maps of Russia, Georgia, Ukraine, Turkey, and the wider Middle East. Live video streams showed activity at the border crossings between Russia and Georgia. Satellite imagery keyed in on movement along Turkish highways.

  A series of screens showed location maps of American nuclear capabilities and missile sites spread out across the United States, Asia, and Europe.

  Two of the screens currently showed President Putin standing near a podium and surrounded by aides and bodyguards. He was about to go on the air. As he approached the microphone, the voices in the command center began to die down.

  “My countrymen,” Putin began, and the command center went dead silent. “And our many friends abroad.”

  All eyes were now on the screens where Putin appeared. Yuri scanned the room. Putin’s face was now on half the computer terminals in the command center.

  “I come before you today to share difficult news. Little more than one hour ago, I hung up the telephone with the President of the United States. She has informed me that during the current unrest in Turkey, the Americans have lost control of at least eight nuclear warheads positioned on a military base there.”

  A loud gasp went around the command center, two hundred people speaking as one. Conversations broke out, but were instantly hushed by other people in the crowd.

  “The Fashion Model in Chief believes these warheads have fallen into the hands of Islamic extremists, terrorists of which we have long and bitter experience. She can make no assurances that the weapons will not be detonated or launched. Indeed, she impressed upon me the notion that it is her belief, and the belief of her intelligence networks, that the terrorists intend to launch the weapons against the Russian Federation.”

  The talking was louder this time, excitement veering toward panic. Yuri felt his heart begin to beat harder and faster. A strange thought began to come over him—the thing at the end of his wrist was alive, and it was actually its heartbeat that he felt hammering against his chest.

  “Shut up!” a three-star general near the front of room shouted. “Shut up, I said.”

  “Each of the warheads stolen,” Putin said, “have a destructive power equal to ten times the Hiroshima blast. In other words, each warhead has the potential to kill at least a million and a half people in the initial explosion alone.”

  “Oh God,” someone in the room said.

  “We will leave for another time the recklessness with which these weapons were deployed. We will leave for another time speculation about how the weapons fell into the hands of the terrorists, or about the decades-long relationship the powers in Washington have enjoyed with these same terrorist forces. All of that is for another time. Now is the time for action.”

  On the screens, Putin paused, giving the world a steel-eyed glare. To Yuri, the gaze seemed like one of resolve, but resolve in the face of another emotion. Was it fear?

  “I have instructed our defense forces, including missile defense, to assume the highest states of readiness. Our intelligence services are now scouring satellite and surveillance data to do what the United States cannot or will not—namely, find these weapons before they are launched.”

  He took a breath. “In the meantime, I am issuing an ultimatum to the individuals responsible for this theft. We know who you are. We know what countries you come from, and where your loved ones live. It is now just before one o’clock pm in Moscow. You have four hours to surrender the weapons, along with furnishing evidence and all assurances that the weapons you surrender are the only ones that were taken.

  “At exactly five p.m., if no weapons have been surrendered, we will launch simultaneous and devastating attacks against the state sponsors of terror in the Middle East. Targets will include major cities in Turkey, Saudi Arabia, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Kuwait, the United Arab Emirates, and Israel. At our discretion, we will not limit ourselves to these targets. We
are warning these countries in advance so they can take the necessary actions to retrieve the missing weapons and save the lives of their people. Once it begins, our onslaught will be swift, terrible, and impossible to defend against. We will reduce your countries to ruins.”

  No one in the command center said a word. Yuri glanced around, and spotted moisture in the eyes of several people. Near him, a woman in a military dress uniform choked back a deep sob. She closed her eyes as the tears began to roll down her cheeks.

  “To my countrymen, please know that we don’t take this action lightly. We will not stand aside and allow millions of our loved ones to perish in an attack that is as avoidable as it is calculated. Thank you.”

  At the end of Yuri Grachev’s arm, the monstrous living thing, its heart already beating, came awake and began to breathe.

  CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

  5:05 a.m.

  The White House Residence, Washington, DC

  Susan was drifting, alone on the king-sized bed.

  Thoughts came to her, thoughts that made no sense, and that was okay. A dream was beginning. She was playing a large cello—an instrument she had not so much as touched, never mind played, in her life. She sat on a stool in a wide open field, and a beautiful hard rain was falling. It was a bright morning, and she was playing the cello in the rain.

  Sleep! Blessed sleep. She needed more of it.

  The phone was ringing.

  She resisted it for a long moment. They had to leave her alone. A person couldn’t live without sleep. A person couldn’t make decisions without sleep. Whatever was happening now, it had to wait.

  But the phone was implacable. It was not going to stop ringing. It was not going to go away.

  She opened her eyes. The room was dark. The tall shades were pulled, but there wasn’t even any light in the sky behind them. She glanced at the clock.

  Jesus. Thirty minutes. She had closed her eyes thirty minutes ago.

  She picked up the telephone.

  “Kurt?”

  “Susan.”

  “I need sleep, Kurt. You need sleep. People need sleep. This is crazy.”

  “Putin went on Russian television fifteen minutes ago,” Kurt said. “It was live, and was picked up worldwide. He confirmed the fact of the stolen warheads to the wider public. And he gave the terrorists four hours to surrender them. After that, he’s going to start a bombing campaign. He’s going to attack Middle Eastern countries he referred to as state sponsors of terror. Saudi Arabia, Turkey, Pakistan, Israel—”

  “He never said a word about that on the phone,” Susan said. She shook her head to clear the fog. She was honestly confused. “He said if they were bombed, they would respond in kind.”

  “Yes, I know. I suppose he changed his mind.”

  Susan was silent. She rubbed her eyes. It never ended.

  It was never going to end.

  Kurt went on. “Immediately after his remarks, the airwaves went berserk. ECHELON, all the listening stations, Fairbanks, Menwith Hill in England, Misawa Air Force Base in Japan, everything we have. The data is coming in fast and furious. Every country he threatened is going to a war footing. Iran and China are doing so as well. Nigeria will begin massing troops on the Somali border within the next hour.

  “The Indians and Pakistanis are already testing their missile launch sequences. They both suspect the other will use the confusion for a preemptive strike. There is a real danger of a nuclear exchange between the two of them, regardless of what the Russians or the terrorists do. Meanwhile, the Russians have immediately stepped up their bombing of al-Raqqa. It appears to be intended to soften ISIS defenses in preparation for a full-on assault by Spetsnaz commandos.”

  Susan could not find her voice. There didn’t seem to be a reasonable response to the things Kurt was saying. Kurt droned on, being Kurt, doing what Kurt did. Susan wondered if on some level he wasn’t enjoying this.

  “The phones are ringing off the hook,” he said. “The State Department is looking for guidance from us. There are protests beginning outside at least twenty of our embassies, across Europe, Asia, and the Middle East. We expect more of them, and we anticipate that some will turn violent. Meanwhile, here in the States, looting has already started in a dozen cities.”

  What do you want me to do?

  She almost said it. She was one person, and these were forces that one person could not stop. She wanted to tell him that, she really did. Instead, she held her tongue. She just let Kurt keep talking.

  “I’ve been in touch with Haley Lawrence and the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The Pentagon wants to elevate Strategic Air Command and NORAD from DEFCON level 4, where we have been for the past two months, straight to DEFCON level 2, bypassing level 3. All other branches will elevate from DEFCON 4 to DEFCON 3 and await further orders. Both Haley and I agreed with the Chairman on this.”

  “Can you describe DEFCON 2 in English, please?”

  “DEFCON 2,” Kurt said, his voice taking on the tone he used when reading from a page in front of him. “Second highest readiness level—the next step to nuclear war. Armed forces ready to deploy and engage in six hours or less.”

  There was a pause over the line.

  “Susan?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Cheyenne Mountain Complex outside Colorado Springs is the most secure nuclear bunker we have. It can withstand a near direct hit by a thirty-megaton warhead. The valve system there is the most advanced in terms of filtering radiological contaminants from the outside air. It will take Air Force One approximately two and a half hours to reach the complex, and the plane can land right at the base.”

  “What are you saying, Kurt?”

  “There’s still time to make it there. Your family on the west coast can be there in one hour from now. If we wait until an emergency arises…”

  In Susan’s mind, she saw a long narrow corridor deep underground. She was moving down it, two Secret Service men ahead of her, one trailing behind. They were a couple minutes late to a press conference, and were walking fast.

  Suddenly the steel door in front of them blew inward. The first Secret Service agent in line died instantly. Basically, he evaporated. The next turned to come back up the corridor. As he did, he burst into flames.

  After that, everything went black.

  “Yeah, Kurt, because that worked so smashingly well the last time.”

  “This is different,” Kurt said. “The site is secure. It’s swept for bombs or other security breaches every two days. It is at the highest state of readiness at all times. There is an advanced command center there, recently updated. The electronics and life support systems can withstand a direct hit from an electromagnetic pulse weapon. It’s also a sprawling complex, larger, more modern, and more comfortable than Site R in Pennsylvania. Site R is obviously closer, but is older, smaller, and less able to withstand attack. With Mount Weather no longer operational, Site R will be the only option available to you if you wait until—”

  “I’m not doing it,” Susan said. “I’m not going underground like a rat. I’m not going to go on TV and tell the American people to remain calm because all is well while I’m at the bottom of a mine shaft. We can run the show from the Situation Room right here.”

  “Susan, the Situation Room is designed for convenience first and foremost, security a distant second. In the event of a nuclear war with Russia, there isn’t going to be a Situation Room.”

  “Kurt, my point is that there isn’t going to be a nuclear war. It’s not going to happen because we’re going to do our jobs and stop it from happening.”

  “Events are moving very fast,” Kurt said. “I’m afraid it might be too late for that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

  11:20 a.m. Mediterranean Time (5:20 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time)

  al-Raqqa, Syria

  The men behind him were chanting.

  “Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!”

  Swann knew enough Arabic to understand w
hat they were saying.

  God is great!

  Swann had been forced to his knees on the ground amidst some ruined cinderblock. A destroyed building loomed above their heads. Everything was vague and uncertain, a mass of colors and shapes. They had taken his glasses and he couldn’t see very well without them. It didn’t matter anyway—he didn’t want to see anymore. And they had beaten him so badly that his eyes could hardly open.

  He was done. He recognized that. They were going to kill him. There was nothing he could do—his arms were tied behind his back. He couldn’t see. He was too weak to run. He didn’t even care. The thought of death didn’t bother him anymore. He had reconciled to it quickly. Everything had been stripped away—all his desires, all his ambitions, his former life, the adventures he’d had—it was all tattered and torn and faded to nothing now, almost like it had never existed. Soon it would all be gone.

  Gone.

  He just didn’t want them to slit his throat, not while he was awake. And he didn’t want them to cut his head off.

  He couldn’t bear the thought of that. He had seen so many heads in the short time he had been here. They held them right up to Swann’s face so he could see them better—so he could soak up the blank looks in the half-open eyes of the dead men, their mouths hanging open. The faces looked hypnotized, as if you could snap your fingers and they would wake up again.

  These people were animals. They were barbarians. They carried severed human heads around casually, like they were bowling balls. They made piles of stones, like people in the United States did along hiking trails. But then these maniacs placed the heads on top of the piles.