by Tom Clancy
“Possibly,” Defense admitted. “But they do not know the success we’ve had reading their codes. Perhaps they think they have concealed this from us.”
“No,” Kuropatkin said in his command center. “I must disagree with that. We could hardly fail to see some of these indicators. They should know that we are aware of some aspects of their strategic alert.”
“But not all.” The Defense Minister turned to stare at Narmonov. “We must face the possibility that the American President is no longer rational.”
“The first time?” Fowler asked.
Elizabeth Elliot nodded. She was quite pale now. “It’s not widely known, Robert, but it is true. The Russians have never placed their Strategic Rocket Forces on alert. Until now.”
“Why now?” the President asked.
“Robert, the only thing that makes sense is that it isn’t Narmonov over there.”
“But how can we be sure?”
“We can’t. All we have is this computer link. There’s no voice link, no visual link.”
“Dear God.”
40
COLLISIONS
“Ryan, how do we know it’s really Narmonov over there?”
“Mr. President, who else would it be?”
“Goddamn it, Ryan! You’re the one who brought me the reports!”
“Mr. President, you have to settle down,” Jack said in a voice that wasn’t particularly calm. “Yes, I brought you that information, and I also told you it was unconfirmed, and I just told you a few minutes ago that we have reason to believe that it may not ever have been true at all.”
“Can’t you see your own data? You’re the one who warned us that there might be some missing nukes!” Elliot pointed out. “Well, they turned up—they turned up here, right where we were supposed to be!”
Christ, she’s even more rattled than he is, Helen D’Agustino told herself. She traded a look with Pete Connor, who was pasty-white. This is going too fast.
“Look, Liz, I keep telling you that our information is too damned thin. We don’t have enough to make any kind of informed judgment here.”
“But why have they gone on nuclear alert?”
“For the same reason that we have!” Ryan shouted back. “Maybe if both sides would back off—”
“Ryan, don’t tell me what to do,” Fowler said quietly. “What I want from you is information. We make the decisions here.”
Jack turned away from the speakerphone. Now he was losing it, Goodley thought, now Ryan was pale and sick-looking. The Deputy Director of Central Intelligence stared out the windows at the CIA courtyard and the largely empty building beyond. He took a few deep breaths and turned back.
“Mr. President,” Jack said under taut control, “our opinion is that President Narmonov is in control of the Soviet government. We do not know the origin of the explosion in Denver, but there is no information in our possession that would lead us to believe that it was a Soviet weapon. Our opinion is that for the Soviets to undertake such an operation would be lunacy, and even if their military were in control—after a coup about which we have no information at all, sir—such a miscalculation is unlikely to the point of—the likelihood is so low as to approach zero, sir. That is CIA’s position.”
“And Kadishev?” Fowler asked.
“Sir, we have evidence just developed yesterday and today to suggest that his reports may be false. We cannot confirm one of the meetings that should—”
“One? You can’t confirm one meeting?” Elliot asked.
“Will you let me talk?” Jack snarled, losing it again. “Damn it, it was Goodley who did this work, not me!” He paused for a breath. “Dr. Goodley noted some subtle differences in the nature of the reports and decided to check up on them. All of Kadishev’s reports supposedly came from face-to-face meetings with Narmonov. In one case we cannot reconcile the schedules of both men. We cannot be sure they met in that case at all. If they didn’t meet, then Kadishev is a liar.”
“I suppose you’ve considered the possibility that they met in secret?” Elliot inquired acidly. “Or do you think that a subject like this would be handled as a routine business matter! Do you think he’d be discussing a possible coup in a routine scheduled meeting!”
“I keep telling you that his information has never been confirmed, not by us, not by the Brits, not by anybody.”
“Ryan, would you expect that a conspiracy leading to a military coup, especially in a country like the Soviet Union, would be handled in the utmost secrecy?” Fowler asked.
“Of course.”
“Then would you necessarily expect to have it confirmed by other sources?” Fowler asked, talking like a lawyer in a courtroom.
“No, sir,” Ryan admitted.
“Then this is the best information we have, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Mr. President, if it’s true.”
“You say that you have no firm evidence to confirm it?”
“Correct, Mr. President.”
“But you have no hard information to contradict it either, do you?”
“Sir, we have reasons—”
“Answer my question!”
Ryan’s right hand compressed into a tight, white fist. “No, Mr. President, nothing hard.”
“And for the past few years he’s given us good, reliable information?”
“Yes, sir.”
“So, based on the record of Mr. Kadishev, this is the best available information?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you. I suggest, Dr. Ryan, that you try to develop additional information. When you get it, I’ll listen to it.” The line clicked off.
Jack stood slowly. His legs were stiff and sore from the stress of the moment. He took one step to the window and lit a cigarette. “I blew it,” he told the world. “Oh, Christ, I’ve blown it....”
“Not your fault, Jack,” Goodley offered.
Jack spun around. “That’ll look real good on my fucking tombstone, won’t it? ‘It wasn’t his fault’ the fucking world blew up!”
“Come on, Jack, it’s not that bad.”
“Think so? Did you hear their voices?”
The Soviet carrier Kuznetzov didn’t launch aircraft in the manner of U.S. carriers. Rather, it had a ski-jump bow configuration. The first MiG-29 raced forward from its starting point and went up the angled ramp and into the air. This manner of takeoff was hard on pilots and aircraft, but it worked. Another aircraft followed, and both turned to head east. They’d barely gotten to altitude when the flight leader noted a buzz in his headphones.
“Sounds like an emergency beeper on the guard frequency,” he said to his wingman. “Sounds like one of ours.”
“Da, east-southeast. It is one of ours. Who do you suppose it is?”
“I have no idea.” The flight leader passed this information on to Kuznetzov and received instructions to investigate.
“This is Falcon-Two,” the Hawkeye reported. “We have two inbounds from the Russkie carrier, fast movers, bearing three-one-five and two-five-zero miles from Stick.”
Captain Richards looked at the tactical display. “Spade, this is Stick. Close and warn them off.”
“Roger,” Jackson replied. He’d just topped his fuel tanks off. Jackson could stay up for another three hours or so, and he still carried six missiles.
“‘Warn them off?” Lieutenant Walters asked.
“Shredder, I don’t know what’s going on either.” Jackson brought the stick around. Sanchez did the same, again splitting out to a wide interval.
The two pairs of aircraft flew on reciprocal courses at a closing speed of just under a thousand miles per hour. Four minutes later both Tomcats went active on their radars. Ordinarily that would have alerted the Russians to the fact that American fighters were in the area, and that the area might not be totally healthy. But the new American radars were stealthy and were not picked up.
It turned out that this didn’t matter. A few seconds later the Russians activated their own rada
r systems.
“Two fighters coming in toward us!”
The Russian flight leader checked his own radar display and frowned. The two MiGs were only supposed to be guarding their own task force. The alert had come in, and the fighters went up. Now he was on what might be a rescue mission and had no particular desire to play foolish games with American aircraft, especially at night. He knew that the Americans knew he was about. His threat receiver did detect the emanations from their airborne early-warning aircraft.
“Come right,” he ordered. “Down to one thousand meters to look for that beeper.” He’d leave his radar on, however, to show that he didn’t wish to be trifled with.
“They’re evading to the left, going down.”
“Bud, you have the lead,” Jackson said. Sanchez had the most missiles. Robby would cover his tail.
“Stick, this is Falcon-Two, both inbounds are breaking south and diving for the deck.”
As Richards watched, the course vectors changed on both inbound aircraft. Their course tracks were not actually converging with the Roosevelt group at the moment, though they would be coming fairly close.
“What are they up to?”
“Well, they don’t know where we are, do they?” the Operations Officer pointed out. “Their radars are on, though.”
“Looking for us, then?”
“That would be my guess.”
“Well, now we know where the other four came from.” Captain Richards picked up the mike to talk to Jackson and Sanchez.
“Splash ’em,” was the order. Robby took high cover. Sanchez went down, pulling behind and below both MiGs.
“I’ve lost the Americans.”
“Forget them! We’re looking for a rescue beeper, remember ?” The flight leader craned his neck. “Is that a strobe light? On the surface at two o’clock ... ?”
“I have it.”
“Follow me down!”
“Evading, down and right!” Bud called. “Engaging now.”
He was a bare two thousand yards aft of the MiGs. Sanchez selected a Sidewinder and lined his aircraft up on the “south guy,” the trailing wingman. As the Tomcat continued to close, the pilot got the warbling tone in his earphones and triggered off his missile. The AIM-9M Sidewinder leaped off its launch rail, straight into the starboard engine of the MiG-29, which exploded. Barely had that happened when Sanchez triggered off a second ‘Winder.
“Splash one.”
“What the hell!” The flight leader caught the flash out the corner of his eye and turned to see his wingman’s aircraft heading down before a trail of yellow. He wrenched his stick left, his throttle hand punching the flare/chaff-release button as his eyes searched the darkness for his attacker.
Sanchez’s second missile missed right. It didn’t matter. He was still tracking, and the MiG’s turn brought the target right into the path of his 20mm cannon. One quick burst detached part of the MiG’s wing. The pilot barely ejected in time. Sanchez watched the chute deploy. A minute later, as he orbited overhead, he saw that both Russians seemed to have survived the incidents. That was fine with Bud.
“Splash two. Stick, we have two good chutes on the splashes ... wait a minute, there’s three strobes down there,” Jackson called. He gave the position, and almost instantly a helicopter lifted off from Theodore Roosevelt.
“Spade, is it supposed to be this easy?” Walters asked. “I thought the Russians were smarter than this myself,” the Captain admitted. “This is like first day of duck season.”
Ten minutes later Kuznetzov made a radio call for its two MiGs and got no reply.
The Air Force helicopter returned from Rocky Flats. Major Griggs alighted with five men, all of them dressed in protective gear. Two of them ran to find Chief Callaghan close to the M728 engineer tanks.
“Ten more minutes if we’re lucky,” Colonel Lyle shouted from atop the lead tank.
“Who’s in charge here?” one of the NEST team asked.
“Who are you?”
“Parsons, team leader.” Laurence Parsons was the head of the on-duty Nuclear Emergency Search Team, yet another failure for this day. Their job was to locate nuclear devices before they went off. Three such teams were kept on duty around the clock, one just outside Washington, another in Nevada, and the third, recently activated at Rocky Flats to help make up for the retirement of the Energy Department’s weapons-fabrication facility outside Denver. It had been anticipated, of course, that they wouldn’t always be able to get there in time. He held a radiation counter in his hand, and didn’t like what he saw. “How long have your people been here?”
“About half an hour, maybe forty minutes.”
“Ten more minutes, I want everybody away from here. You’re taking Rems here, Chief.”
“What do you mean? The Major said the fallout is all—”
“What you’re getting is from neutron activation. It’s hot here!”
Callaghan cringed at the thought. His life was being attacked by something he couldn’t see or feel. “There may be people inside. We’re almost there.”
“Then do it fast! I mean fast!” Parsons and his team started moving back to the helicopter. They had their own work to do. At the chopper they met a man in civilian clothes.
“Who the fuck are you?” Parsons demanded.
“FBI! What happened here?”
“Take a guess!”
“Washington needs information!”
“Larry, it’s hotter here than it is at the stadium!” another NEST team member reported.
“Makes sense,” Parsons said. “Ground burst.” He pointed. “Far side, downwind side. In-close was shielded some.”
“What can you tell me?” the FBI agent asked.
“Not much,” Parsons said over the sound of the turning rotor. “Ground burst, yield under twenty KT, all I got.”
“It’s dangerous here?”
“Hell, yes! Set up—where, where?”
“How about at the Aurora Presbyterian Hospital, two miles upwind?” a NESTer suggested. “Across from Aurora Mall. Ought to be okay there.”
“You know where that is?” Parsons asked.
“Yes!”
“Then move out! Ken, you tell these people to get the hell out of here, it’s twenty percent hotter here than in close. We have to get samples. Ken, you make sure they clear the area in ten minutes—fifteen max. Drag them out if you have to. Start here!”
“Right.”
The FBI agent ducked as the helicopter lifted off. The NEST team member began running down the line of fire trucks, waving for them to get away. The agent decided to do the same. After a few minutes he got in his car and headed northeast.
“Shit, I forgot about the neutrons,” Major Griggs said.
“Thanks a lot!” Callaghan screamed over the sound of the tank.
“It’s okay, they cut it off at a hundred. A hundred won’t really hurt anybody.”
Callaghan heard the sound of the engines pulling away. “What about the people inside?” The chief found the interphone at the back of the tank. “Listen up, we have ten minutes and we gotta get the hell out of here. Lean on it!”
“You got it, man,” the tank commander replied. “Better get clear. I’ll give you a ten count.”
Callaghan ran to the side. Colonel Lyle jumped off and did the same. Inside the vehicle, the driver backed off ten yards, took the engine to the red line, and slipped the brake. The M728 crushed five vehicles, slamming them aside. The tank was moving at perhaps a mile per hour, but it didn’t stop. Its treads ripped up the asphalt, then it was through.
The area immediately next to the stadium structure was amazingly intact. Most of the wreckage from the roof and upper wall had been thrown hundreds of yards, but here there were only small piles of brick and concrete fragments. Too much for a wheeled vehicle, but clear enough that men could walk. Firefighters advanced and sprayed everything. The asphalt was still very hot, and the water steamed off it. Callaghan ran in front of the tank, waving fo
r his men to go left and right.
“You know what this looks like?” a NEST team member said as the helicopter circled the ruined stadium.
“Yeah, Chernobyl. They had firemen there, too.” Parsons turned away from that thought. “Head downwind,” he told the pilot. “Andy, what do you make this?”
“Ground burst, and this wasn’t any hundred-KT weapon, Larry, not even twenty-five.”
“What screwed up NORAD’s estimate, do you think?”
“The parking lot. Asphalt, plus all those burning cars—it’s the perfect black-body material—it’s even black, for God’s sake! I’m surprised the thermal pulse didn’t look bigger than that—and everything around here is white from the snow ‘n’ ice, right? They got a megareflection plus a huge energy contrast.”
“Makes sense, Andy,” Parsons agreed. “Terrorists?”
“That’s my bet for now, Larry. But we gotta get some residue to be sure.”
The sounds of battle had died down. The Bradley commander heard scattered firing and guessed that the Russians had pulled back partway, maybe all the way to their own kazerne. It made sense, both sides’ tanks had been badly mauled, and it was now a battle for infantrymen and their fighting vehicles. Foot soldiers, he knew, were smarter than tankers. It came from wearing a shirt instead of a foot of iron. Vulnerability made you think. He changed position yet again. It was odd how this worked, though he’d practiced the maneuver often enough. The vehicle ran close to a corner, and a man would dismount to peer around it.
“Nothin‘, Sarge. It’s all—wait! Something moving, ’bout two miles down the street....” The soldier raised a pair of glasses. “BDRM! The missile kind.”
Okay, the sergeant thought, that’ll be the reconnaissance element for the next wave. His job was entirely straightforward. Reconnaissance was a two-part job. His job was both to find the enemy and to prevent the enemy from finding things.
