The Day after Oblivion

by Tim Washburn

  CHAPTER 12

  White House Situation Room

  The intercom in the Situation Room chimes. “Mr. President, I have an urgent call from a Colonel Hal Hooper at NORAD.”

  Aldridge glances at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, who shrugs. “Don’t know him, sir.”

  Aldridge scowls and picks up the phone. He listens for a few moments, the blood draining from his face. He hangs up the phone with a trembling hand and stares at a spot on the far wall for a moment. Then, in a flat tone, he says, “Punch up the feed from NORAD.”

  When the screen showing missile trajectories pops into view, everyone in the room gasps.

  “In addition to the missile launches you are seeing and the explosion of our drone over Russian soil,” Aldridge says, “a nuclear weapon was detonated high over Kansas City that triggered a massive EMP. The explosion was tracked to a North Korean satellite—”

  Aldridge is interrupted by the arrival of six Secret Service agents. The lead agent of his personal protection detail, Ed Henry, steps forward. “Sir, we’d like to move you into the bunker and move the vice president to another location.”

  “Stand down, Ed,” Aldridge says. “We need to get a handle on the situation before we even think about relocation.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Ed, I said stand down. That’s an order. We’ll worry about that stuff later. Right now, this nation and our staunchest ally are under attack.”

  Ed Henry hesitates for a moment, but finally accedes to the President’s wishes and signals the other agents to leave and falls in behind them. Aldridge, his composure returning, begins calling out orders. “Isabella, get the Israeli ambassador on the phone. Camila, work with State on reaching out to the Russians. Explain to them that our drone was hacked and not under our control when it entered their airspace. Admiral Hill, I want a list of military options if this situation spirals out of control.” Aldridge turns to the director of homeland security, Nancy Copeland. “Nancy, talk with your folks at Homeland Security. I want some type of damage assessment from the EMP.”

  Hands start reaching for phones as the vice president and Jim Keating, secretary of state, huddle in a corner of the room talking strategy before reaching out to the Russians.

  “Sir, I have the Israeli ambassador on the line,” Isabella says.

  “Put him on speaker.”

  Isabella reaches over to a triangular-shaped device on the table and punches a button. “You’re on, sir.”

  The President glances up at the big screen to see more red lines streaking away from Israel. “Benjamin, what the hell is going on?”

  “Sir, my country is currently under attack from Iran. Entirely unprovoked.”

  “And you are responding with what?” the President asks.

  “We are responding in kind, sir.”

  “With what type of weapons?”

  There’s a long pause as the room waits for the ambassador’s reply.

  “Sir, we’ve launched a flight of twenty intercontinental ballistic missiles.”

  “Benjamin, you’re evading my question, so I’ll make my next question succinct. Are the missiles armed with thermonuclear warheads?”

  “Yes, sir, they are.”

  Another collective gasp sounds from those gathered in the room. When the President speaks, his voice is low, urgent, “Ben, patch me through to your prime minister.” While waiting for the call to go through, Aldridge strides across the room, stopping near the vice president and secretary of state. “Did you reach out to the Russians?”

  “We’re strategizing the call, sir,” the VP replies.

  “Fuck strategy. Make the call.” He pivots on his heel and returns to his place at the table as the prime minister of Israel comes on the line.

  “Mr. President, we believe the incoming missiles from Iran are nuclear in origin,” the prime minister of Israel, Eliana Salomon, says.

  “Believe, but don’t know for certain?” He picks up a handset and signals Isabella to kill the speaker. “And you fire off a nuclear barrage with no consultation?”

  “There wasn’t time for consultation, Tom. My country is under attack.”

  “As is my country, Eliana. We’ve been hit with some type of EMP device, but are searching for a more measured response.”

  “This is our measured response,” Salomon says.

  “How many of those Iranian missiles will actually penetrate your vaunted air defenses?”

  “One is too many, Mr. President.”

  The President pauses his response on the approach of the vice president. He covers the mouthpiece with a palm and Martinez says, “The Russians are refusing to take our call.”

  “Goddammit,” the President mutters. He puts the phone to his ear. “Eliana, please refrain from launching any further attacks until we can get this sorted out. I’ll phone you again, within the hour.” The President drops the handset in the cradle. “Why are the Russians refusing to take our call?”

  Before anyone can answer, three chimes sound through the speakers, and the video screen transitions to a man, surrounded by a wall of computer monitors. His camo fatigues are darkened with sweat and his face is pinched with worry. A name pops onto the screen: Colonel Hal Hooper, NORAD. “Mr. President, we are tracking well over two hundred ICBMs that have been launched from mainland Russia. In addition, we are also tracking multiple submarine-based launches along the eastern seaboard.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Off the northwest coast of Russia

  Cruising at a depth of 300 feet, the Ohio-class ballistic missile submarine, USS New York—SSBN-744 in navy terms—is twenty miles off the northern coast of Russia and sailing west. Eighty-seven days into their ninety-day mission, the crew is looking forward to some R & R at the end of the week. The USS New York is one of fourteen such submarines in the navy fleet. The subs are silent predators and represent the third leg of the nation’s nuclear triad. Armed with twenty-four Trident II missiles with nuclear warheads, the crew can put a missile within a hundred yards of target from a distance of 7,456 miles.

  Although there are only twenty-four missiles aboard ship, each missile is armed with eight individual warheads that can be independently targeted. The USS New York operates in near silence and carries the equivalent of 7,680 Hiroshima-sized nukes on board, making the sub an apocalyptic piece of military hardware capable of wiping out an entire continent. Although poised to deliver death at a moment’s notice, the submarine and her crew have yet to launch their lethal weapons on live targets.

  Captain Rex “Bull” Thompson is the commanding officer. A graduate of the Naval Academy, Thompson is a stocky, broad-shouldered man, hence his nickname. His salt-and-pepper hair is cut high and tight, and his dark, deep eyes are famous for their penetrating gaze. Seated in an elevated chair in the center of the bridge, he’s perusing the personnel schedule when a yeoman from the radio room rushes in and thrusts a piece of paper into the hands of Lieutenant Commander Thomas Quigley.

  Quigley reads the message and his lips begin to tremble. He steps over to Captain Thompson, the paper fluttering in his hand. “Captain, we are in receipt of a valid emergency action measure that directs the launch of target package one. Request permission to authenticate?”

  “Authenticate the message,” Thompson orders. He stands from his chair and steps over to the chart table where he’s joined by his executive officer, Commander Carlos Garcia, and other senior officers. Thompson looks up. “Conn, sound the general alarm. Battle stations, missile.” As the electronic Klaxon sounds, Thompson turns to Quigley. “Q, is this a drill?”

  Quigley looks up, sweat popping on his forehead. “No, sir, I don’t believe it is.”

  “Christ,” the captain mutters.

  The message is coded with a cypher to insure the order originated from the President. Quigley calls out the code while Garcia authenticates. Once the message is decoded, Garcia exhales a breath and says, “Captain, the message is authentic.”

  Two of the othe
r senior officers concur, and the captain authorizes missile launch. Quigley and Garcia walk over to a dual-dial safe inserted into the bulkhead and both enter their combinations and pop open the doors to retrieve the launch keys.

  Captain Thompson begins barking orders. He calls down to the missile control center, one deck down. “Insert targeting package one.” He punches another button on the intercom handset. “Radio room, I want a patch through to USSTRATCOM.” He looks toward the helm. “Dive Officer, take us up to one-three-zero.”

  His commands are repeated, and the sub begins to ascend. Captain Thompson, twenty years into his naval career, is wondering, why now? He calls down to the missile control center again. “How long to insert the targeting package and incorporate the Permissive Action Link?” The PAL is required to arm the warheads.

  “A little more than seven minutes, Skipper.”

  Thompson makes another call to the radio room.

  “Radio room, sir. We haven’t received any return radio calls, Captain,” the radio technician says.

  “Run out a communication buoy and try again.”

  His order is confirmed and Thompson turns to Garcia. “If the comm buoy idea doesn’t work, I’m thinking of ordering an emergency blow to make a phone call to USSTRATCOM for confirmation of the orders. Your thoughts?”

  “We’d be a sitting duck, sir. And we don’t have any idea what the hell is going on topside. If the message has been authenticated, and it has, we should launch the missiles.”

  Thompson lowers his voice. “We launch these missiles we can kiss our world good-bye.”

  “It may already be happening, Bull,” Garcia says, turning his body so that he can look his captain and friend in the eye. “We have no way of knowing if we are the first strike or a follow-up attack. We’ve trained for years on this exact scenario and now the order arrives and you have second thoughts?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “I do. But there has to be a valid reason for the President to issue a launch order.”

  “What about our families, Carlos?”

  Garcia hesitates before answering. Then in a faltering voice, says, “They may already be gone, Bull.”

  The radio room reports the communication buoy deployed and Thompson grabs the phone and pushes the hotline button to the U. S. Strategic Command (USSTRATCOM). He puts the phone to his ear, but the only thing he hears is silence. He hails the radio room. “Is the buoy operational?”

  “Affirmative, sir,” the yeoman at the radio controls says. “Communication buoy is up and operational.”

  “What’s wrong?” Garcia asks.

  “The phone is dead,” Thompson says.

  “I don’t think it’s the phone, Bull,” Garcia says.

  “You think the satellites are toast?”

  Garcia nods.

  Thompson slowly replaces the phone. “Conn, turn to a heading of two-seven-zero and take us up to periscope depth.” As the sub’s nose rises at a twenty-degree angle, Thompson looks at Garcia. “I should be able to see part of the Russian mainland. Just a quick peek.”

  Within moments the sub levels out and the periscope ascends. Thompson steps up to the viewer and swivels the periscope toward the Russian mainland. What he sees makes his blood run cold. His shoulders sag as he slaps the periscope handles up and orders the periscope down. In a subdued voice, he says, “Dive, make our depth one-three-zero,” as he walks unsteadily to his chair and sits. When the sub levels off he hails the missile control center. “How long?”

  “Two minutes, sir,” the weapons officer replies

  “Roger, fire when ready.”

  Garcia approaches. “What did you see?”

  “Mushroom clouds all across the horizon.” Thompson white-knuckles the arms of his chair as the huge boat shudders with each launch of her twenty-four deadly missiles.

  CHAPTER 14

  Over Greenland

  Melissa Watkins sighs and unbuckles her seat belt, climbing over the other two people sitting in her row. Three hours out of London, their flight is scheduled to land at New York’s JFK airport in six hours. Melissa shuffles up the aisle and stops next to the teen who has been a thorn in her side the past eleven days. She grabs the left earlobe of fourteen-year-old Jonathon Taylor and twists, whispering, “I’m not going to tell you again. Keep your hands to yourself.” She gives the earlobe another twist to reinforce her words as Jon tries to duck away. She points a finger at him then shuffles back down the aisle and climbs over her fellow passengers, collapsing in her seat.

  Melissa is exhausted. A middle schoolteacher from Lubbock, Texas, she supplements her teaching income by chaperoning a group of teenagers as they tour a foreign destination for twelve days in the summer. The organization, Teen World Discovery, offers an international program designed to broaden the minds of middle school students. This year’s group numbers seventeen, including Jonathon and another turd-head, Caleb Carson. Their behavior has Melissa questioning whether she’ll ever do this again.

  Most of the students are from West Texas, as is the second chaperone, Lauren Thomas, who teaches at Plainview Middle School, north of Lubbock. Lauren currently occupies the seat next to Melissa and she leans over and whispers, “Jon again?”

  “Yes. I’m ready for that little shithead to be out of my hair. If I have any hair left after this is over.”

  Lauren chuckles. “I’m tired of looking at all of them. The girls aren’t much better. Drama, drama, drama.” The two teachers had divided the group, Lauren taking responsibility for the ten girls, while Melissa drew the short straw and ended up with the seven boys.

  Melissa kicks at her overstuffed carry-on crammed under the seat in front of her. “Tell me again why we do this?” Melissa is twenty-three, has a pear-shaped body, and is a tad too heavy for her five-foot-three-inch frame. She has an on-and-off boyfriend and the relationship is currently in the off position.

  “The money, honey,” Lauren says. “Three grand for twelve days is more than we could make working part-time for an entire summer. Plus we get free travel to places we could never afford.”

  “All of that sounds divine if we could leave the kids behind.”

  During their trip, they’ve hiked, bussed, and trained all over the United Kingdom. From London to Glasgow, they toured archaic churches, bustling parks, and historic landmarks, finishing most evenings with a nice dinner. Or what were supposed to be nice dinners. Taking seventeen teenagers to dinner is like herding cats. The first items tossed around the table are the sugar packets, followed by the loosening of the lids on the salt and pepper shakers, and all that is topped off by spitballs shot through straws. Melissa shudders, thinking about it. She flags down a flight attendant and orders a glass of red wine.

  If the dinners weren’t bad enough, once back at the hotel, Melissa and Lauren were responsible for keeping the students in their assigned rooms. They instituted a strict curfew for 11:00 P.M., but were often up well past midnight to enforce it. No doubt some of the kids are sexually active and the last thing either of them wanted was for a girl to return home knocked up. Melissa pushes those thoughts out of her mind when her wine arrives. She chugs the first glass and orders another.

  “How long is our layover in New York?” Lauren asks. Twenty-seven, Lauren is the exact opposite of Melissa. She’s long, well proportioned, and has a head of dark wavy hair that brushes the top of her narrow shoulders. Currently unattached, she has her share of suitors, but none have clicked as of yet.

  “Two hours, I think. I can’t remember what time we’re due to arrive in Dallas.” Melissa cranes her head over the seat in front of her to see Jon playing hand slap with the boy seated next to him. “Lauren, do you mind switching seats with Jonathon?”

  “No, I don’t mind. But I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. I’ll go talk to him.”

  “Thank you. Maybe we could slip him an Ambien.”

  “I wish.” Lauren pulls herself out of the seat and climbs across the lap of Lindsey Scott, a mousy fi
fteen-year-old from Lubbock. A clinger, Lindsey hasn’t been more than ten feet from Lauren during the entire trip. Lauren shuffles down the aisle and squats down next to Jonathon. “That’s enough. If I have to come up here again, I’m calling your father the moment we land. Do you want me to call him?”

  Jonathon shakes his head.

  “I’m going to be watching you the rest of the flight. Keep your hands to yourself or my first call is to your father. And it won’t just be a telephone call, Jonathon. I’ll request he fly to New York to pick you up. Think that’ll make him happy?”

  Jonathon frowns and shakes his head again.

  Lauren makes a jabbing motion toward her eyes with two outstretched fingers and points at Jonathon before retreating to her seat.

  “How’d it go?” Melissa asks.

  “I threatened to call his father. Told him I’d make his dad fly to New York to pick him up.”

  “Jesus, I hope that doesn’t happen. That man’s an asshole.” Having taught Jonathon last year, Melissa’s very familiar with the boy’s father. “Overbearing doesn’t even begin to describe the man. No wonder his son is such a little shit.”

  Melissa takes a sip of wine and both women settle into their seats. Little do they know their journey is just beginning.

  CHAPTER 15

  10 Downing Street, London

  United Kingdom’s prime minister, Blair Hamilton, is reading through the latest in a pile of documents on Britain’s exit from the European Union when his phone rings. He turns to look at the phone console, but doesn’t see any flashing lights. On the second ring he realizes the call is coming from the special beige phone tucked away in a drawer of his desk—the hotline to the White House. He opens the drawer and picks up the handset. “Hello, Tom,” he says as he leans back in his chair and crosses one leg over the other.