Dead Hand

Chapter 2

From his scat against the wall, Major Andrew Fretello, United Slates Army, listened attentively as an Air Force lieutenant colonel answered questions that were being thrown at him by the bevy of generals and admirals seated around a conference table. Though the Chief of Staff of the Air Force was doing his best to deflect some of the more pointed inquiries concerning the plan the colonel had just presented, it was clear to Fretello that both the briefer as well as his proposal were 011 the verge of foundering. His solution to the problem under discussion contained little that was new. Anyone who regularly participated in these unannounced war games was familiar with the standard Air Force response to a crisis. That alone, Fretello reasoned as he watched, was grounds enough for the unmerciful pounding to which the briefer was being subjected.

A Naval lieutenant commander sealed next to Fretello leaned over and whispered in his ear. "Stealth bombers and smart bombs. Stealth bombers and smart bombs. Doesn't the Air Force know anything else?"

Fretello pulled away and gave the Naval officer a funny look. "What docs the Navy have to deal with in this situation that the Air Force doesn't?"

The lieutenant commander smiled as he tapped the Navy SEAL emblem pinned on his chest. "We have Demi Moore!"

As a longtime member of the Army's Special Forces, Fretello appreciated the joke. Rolling his eyes and shaking his head, he suppressed a groan. Without a word, he turned his attention back to the briefing.

As well as exercising DoD's Crisis Action Team or CAT. readiness tests and no-notice war games such as this gave talented officers like Fretello an opportunity to engage in some high-speed exercises that were as exotic as they were intriguing. The face time before the military's most senior leadership wasn't anything to sneeze at either. That is, of course, provided they liked what you were saying. In the case of the poor Air Force officer nervously twirling his laser pointer about as he waited for the next volley of questions, it was obvious that his briefing had fallen wide of the mark.

"Let me gel this straight," the Army's Chief of Plans and Operations said as he shifted about in his seat. "The best your plan can deliver is a ninety-percent success rate."

The Air Force officer, standing before the gathered generals like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding car, was quick to respond. "That's for the first strike only. The follow-up strike would, without doubt, eliminate those targets that were not neutralized by the initial attack."

Picking up the Army general's point, the Chief of Naval Operations leaned back in his seat and waved his hand about. "What makes you think the missiles that survived your first strike will still be there? The Russians, after all, also understand the principle of use 'em or lose 'em. I'm sure there isn't a man at this table who wouldn't be pounding down the President's door demanding he issue the release order if the Russians or Chinese had destroyed ninety percent of a key component of our strategic nuclear force." The admiral paused only long enough to see how many were shaking their heads in agreement before pressing on. "I'm afraid that no matter how you dress this solution up, Colonel, it isn't going to hack it. Our first strike will be our only strike. Though it is a trite old saying, 'Failure, even ten-percent's worth, is not an option.' "

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, having heard enough of the Air Force's plan, nodded in agreement. "Admiral Langsdorf is correct. The parameters set down for this exercise require not only a rapid and overwhelming response, but one that provides us with one-hundred-percent results, guaranteed."

Angered by this statement, the Chief of Staff of the Air Force threw his hands up in frustration. "Christ! You might as well ask us to deliver the moon and the stars." Pausing only long enough to rein in his anger, he continued: "We've all been involved in military operations. We all know that there is no such thing as guarantees when it comes to combat. Only a fool would make one."

After staring at the Air Force general for a moment, just to make sure that he was finished, the Chairman swiveled his seat around until he was looking at the Chief of Staff of the Army. "Well, Chuck. How's the Army's inventory of fools looking these days?" Smiling, General Chuck E. Smith glanced over at Fretello. "Well, sir, if it's a fool you want, I've got one on deck, primed and ready to go." Turning back to face the other Joint Chiefs and their senior operations officers, Smith introduced the man who would present the Army's solution to the exercise problem the CAT was convened to resolve. "Major Andrew Fretello is a plans-and-operations officer at Fort Bragg. He's served with Special Force units in Central and South America, Europe, and Southwest Asia. Though still quite junior, his planning of and participation in several special projects, including last year's raid against the Iraqi chemical-warfare facilities, make him eminently qualified to deal with the situation at hand."

Taking his cue, Fretello stood up and quickly made his way to the front of the room. He carried no notes, no handouts. All of his briefing charts and diagrams were already in the hands of the NCO charged with operating the briefing room's audio-visual equipment. Fretello didn't even carry a pointer. In his opinion, they were a crutch used by weak or nervous briefing officers. By the time Smith was finished with the introduction, the Special Forces major, decked out in his greens, stood tall before the assembled general officers, straphangers, and fellow briefers. Having participated in numerous planning sessions, Fretello knew he could ignore just about everyone in the room. The only person he needed to be concerned with during the course of his presentation was the most senior officer present. He and no one else set the tone and pace. Having been afforded the opportunity to observe how the Chairman had handled those who went before him, it was clear that the man was using this exercise as a true working session. This, Fretello realized, allowed him greater freedom in the manner in which to proceed.

After finishing a hushed conversation with his aide, who was dutifully seated behind his boss, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff twisted his seat about, locked eyes with Fretello, and gave him a nod. "Before proceeding any further, sir," Fretello stated crisply as he stood before the Chairman, "I wish to restate the parameters under which we are operating as set out in the initial planning guidance. The only criteria enumerated in the mission statement was one-hundred-percent destruction of the designated targets. To achieve this, the planning guidance stated that we can draw upon any national asset except special weapons. Nowhere was there any mention of limitations such as collateral damage, friendly casualties, or violation of the airspace of nations either affected by or not involved in the operation. I am therefore assuming that these factors are of no concern to us."

The Chairman nodded. "You are correct, Major. At this juncture, we are concerned only with an OPLAN that will achieve complete destruction of the targets."

With a slight nod, the Special Forces officer acknowledged the Chairman's confirmation of his assumption as he prepared to launch into his briefing. "Gentlemen, despite great strides in the modernization and digitalization of our munitions and weapons," Fretello stated boldly, "there is nothing yet in our inventory that matches the precision or reliability that can be achieved by a well-trained and disciplined soldier. While it is true that a soldier is vulnerable to enemy action, terrain, and other environmental factors, he is not susceptible to electronic spoofing or countermeasures. A soldier on the ground not only provides us with immediate and accurate damage assessment, he affords us an opportunity for an immediate follow-up attack, if necessary."

These statements, all of them directed at the Chairman, caused some of the other officers, both at the table and scattered about the room, to squirm in their seats. Some, Fretello noted, were clearly angered by his words. But none dared jump on him, yet. Their opportunity to pile on would come when the Chairman opened the floor to a general discussion and questions.

"First slide," Fretello stated quietly after casting a quick glance over to the sailor controlling the audio-visuals. "Operation Balaklava involves the insertion of U. S. and NATO Special Operations Forces on or near the missile sites that are to be attacked."

Clearing his throat, the Chairman snickered. "I'm not too sure I approve of the name you selected for your operation, Major." Those present who had a grounding in military history chuckled.

Fretello smiled. "Sir, my choice was intentional and, I daresay, accurate, given what happened then and what I anticipate would happen during this operation." He paused, letting his smile fade.

"While we consider the comparison of a modern military operation with an event that most consider a blunder, let me remind you that the Light Brigade did succeed in seizing the Russian guns they were sent to capture despite the odds against them and the horrendous casualties they suffered. The only problem the British found after securing the guns was that they didn't have the means to destroy those guns. Our people will be far better prepared."

Fretello waited for all the chuckles and sneers to fade before he continued. "The concept of the operation is the same one used by the Germans on May tenth, nineteen-forty, to destroy the key Belgian fortress of Eban Emael. In that operation, a handful of German glider-borne combat engineers landed on top of that Belgium fort, placed shaped-charge explosives directly on top of the gun-and observation turrets of the fortress, and neutralized the entire installation without having to enter it or overpower its garrison. The speed, the precision, and the results achieved that day rival, and I daresay surpass, those that the Air Force could hope for with its most sophisticated munitions. Next."

Behind him, the image of a standard Army cratering charge flashed onto the screen. "Given the time constraints, we will need to use demolitions that are suited for the task, on hand, available in sufficient numbers to accomplish the mission, and are man-portable. In this case, the munitions of choice is the standard forty-pound cratering charge. Not only is it easy to set up and very reliable, it is also a shaped charge designed to direct the bulk of its destructive power downward. Based upon the data we have on the nature of the silo covers, a number of these devices, placed directly over the missile, will not only penetrate the cover, but will generate sufficient fragmentation and shrapnel to disable or destroy the unarmored warhead of the missile below. Even if there are no sympathetic detonations due to the rupturing of the missile's fuel tanks, damage to the warhead will be sufficient to keep the missile from functioning properly."

As before, several officers around the room shifted and squirmed about in their seats. Fretello, however, was undeterred by this display of nervousness and displeasure. "Next slide." On the screen, a schematic showing the composition of the assault teams came up. "Three six-man teams will be assigned to each target. All will be fully self-contained and able to execute their assigned task independently. Each of these teams will be inserted separately and approach their target from different directions. All teams will be briefed that if discovered by Russian security forces, they will do their best to draw those forces away from the target, thus increasing the chance that one of the remaining teams will be able to reach the target and execute the assigned task."

Not waiting for any questions or reactions, Fretello pressed on. "Next." The new chart displayed the major Special Operations Forces of the United States, the United Kingdom, and France. Under each was listed the contribution each nation would be required to make. Next to each team was a designated target. "Because of the number of targets we are required to hit, the necessary redundancy the Chairman's criteria of success mandates, and the limited time we have to muster and deploy into the theater of operations, we will need to draw upon those Special Operations commands, both U. S. and NATO, that have trained personnel on hand and at the ready. As you can see, we will pretty much exhaust our appropriate national resources."

After permitting the assembled officers to digest the information on the slide, Fretello called for the next slide. "Upon completion of their mission, the teams will assemble at designated rally points. From there, they will either be extracted by NATO or directed to link up with Russian forces still loyal to the government in Moscow. Should our actions, or the overall political situation in Russia, result in a hostile environment that would rule out those alternatives, then the teams will be directed to either escape and evade, or to hunker down someplace safe until an Allied operation to extract them could be mounted."

Finished, Fretello gave the NCO in charge of the audio-visual equipment a nod. On cue, the last of the major's slides, one depicting the emblem of the Army's Special Forces and motto, flashed across the screen. "Sir," Fretello snapped, "are there any questions?"

Leaning forward, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs removed his glasses and looked up at Fretello as he stood before the assembled senior officers at parade rest. "Is that all?" the Chairman asked.

"That, sir, is the concept of the operation," Fretello replied without hesitation. "The rest of my briefing covers the operational details concerning the actual loads each man would carry, locations for the marshaling of transports and teams, routes in and out for those transports, specific drop zones, and other sundry items, none of which 1 assume is critical at this juncture of the planning process."

After staring at the Army major for a moment, the Chairman looked over at General Smith. "A rather high-risk operation, Chuck."

The Chief of Staff of the Army understood what the Chairman was driving at. Turning to face him, Smith cleared his throat, throwing a quick glance in Fretello's direction. "Every member of the Army's Special Forces knows what's expected of him." Lifting his hand, he used his fingers to indicate each point of his case as he made it. "To start with, those people joined the Army of their own accord, many at a lime when the nation's economy was booming and unemployment was all but unheard of. Most of them selected a combat branch when they enlisted. All elected to go airborne. And each and every one of them placed himself through hell to earn the right to wear that beret. At each step of the process, they were not only trained, they were indoctrinated in what membership in that elite band of brothers means. Let there be no doubt, if you say 'Jump,' each and every one will respond with a rousing, it's about time!' "

Dropping his fingers, Smith pointed at Fretello with his thumb. "While the people here in Washington have grown used to beating down our foes by remote control and on the cheap, those of us charged with preparing to wage war on the ground have never forgotten that the microchip cannot solve every problem. Men like the major there know that the time will come when we will come face-to-face with a situation to which there are no good alternatives, a crisis that will demand we ante up and pay, in blood, in order to remain king of the hill. While not everyone is as cavalier as Major Fretello, I assure you, they'll do their duty."

The Chairman sat and stared at Smith for several seconds after the Army general finished. He was about to open the floor to questions from other members of the Joint Chiefs when his aide, noting a flashing light on the phone at his side, picked up the receiver.

Turning around, the Chairman waited until the aide, receiver at his ear, looked at his boss, then put his hand over the end of the receiver. "Sir, they're ready with that update you've been waiting for."

Though Fretello had no idea of who "they" were or what the update concerned, it was obvious that it was a showstopper. This was confirmed when the Chairman turned to his fellow service chiefs. "We're going to have to finish this at a later date, gentlemen." Then he looked around the room. "I appreciate your efforts and opinions. As you know," he added after a moment's hesitation, "exercises such as this are, ah, quite useful to us here. Though we may wear all the brass, we don't hold a monopoly on all the best ideas."

While a few of the briefers and straphangers acknowledged the Chairman's stab at humor with a cursory chuckle, none paused as they prepared to clear the room. Within seconds, only the five members of the Joint Chiefs and the Chairman's aide were left. "Okay, Gus," the Chairman muttered to his aide. "Tell them we're ready."

Two officers, an Air Force major general and an Army colonel, entered, using a door opposite the one through which the participants of the exercise had filed out. The colonel carried a thin folder from which he pulled prepared briefing slides. Quickly, quietly, he laid them out before each member of the Joint Chiefs. Even before he had finished, the Air Force major general began. "We are now reasonably sure that the events of the past few days have been resolved. The assault on the command-and-control bunker of the rebellious rocket regiment was successful. The ICBM's controlled by that facility have all been secured by troops loyal to Moscow and stood down."

The Chairman looked up from the annotated satellite photo he had been looking at and stared at the Air Force general. "How sure are you?"

The major general did not respond. Instead, he glanced down at his shoes, shrugged, and waved his right hand about at his side before looking the Chairman in the eye and responding. "We are as sure as we're going to be. Both the CIA and NSA confirm our conclusions. Everything, from satellite imagery to electronic intercepts, as well as analysis of operational traffic, seems to indicate this."

The chairman thought about this for a moment before he asked his next question. "What about the CIA's man in the Kremlin?"

Caught off guard, both the major general and the colonel looked at each other. The fact that the CIA had a contact who was a high-ranking member of the Russian government was one of those secrets no one dared mention, let alone discuss, not even among such high-ranking officers as the Joint Chiefs. That the Chairman would bring this up only highlighted the concern he harbored over the events in Siberia.

Nervously, the Air Force general cleared his throat. Even as he replied to his superior's pointed question, he could not bring himself to admit to the fact that such an agent existed. "Not all CIA sources have confirmed this. sir. They are awaiting additional data before they take this to the President."

While he mulled this over, the chairman looked through the package the colonel had handed out. As he was doing so. the Air Force major general interrupted. "We have been able to confirm that one of the missiles assigned to this regiment is part of Perimeter."

This announcement caused the Chairman to stop what he was doing and look up at the Air Force officer. Slowly, he turned to face the other members of the Joint Chiefs. "It would seem, gentlemen." he announced dryly, "that the little exercise we've been running this morning n «. S justified."

As they nodded in agreement, the Chairman turned his attention back to the package before him. wondering when, and not if. he would have to give the men and women under his command the order to charge the Russian guns.

When the door of the conference room swung open, an Army colonel wailing in the brightly lit corridor snapped to attention. Unlike many of his fellow GRU officers. Colonel Demetre Orlov looked every inch a model soldier. There was no sign of flap or fat anywhere.

Even the taut skin on his freshly shaved face was tan, showing that he spent far more time outside doing, instead of hiding away in a vault theorizing. The colonel's uniform was tailored to complement the slim, muscular physique, the kind that cannot be acquired by generating intelligence reports.

Any doubts about what sort of soldier Orlov was were dispelled by the ribbons, medals, and qualification badges he wore riveted to his chest. The collection of decorations he proudly sported was an unusually robust one. A person able to decipher the special code that the colored ribbons represented could have discerned that this man had been everywhere. Everywhere, that is, where there had been "active" operations. No one, of course, could tell that he had also been involved in operations for which a medal would never be struck.

One man emerged from the room Orlov stood facing. Had the person in a rumpled, dark-blue suit been a younger man, he would have stood a good quarter meter taller than he did. But years of working in the old Communist party, and then for a dizzying rotation of Ministers of Defense, had taken their toll on this man. Both the verbal beatings he had been subjected to over his long career in Russia's byzantine system and the insoluble problems he faced day in, day out, left Yuri Anatov's head perpetually bowed between his sloping shoulders.

This morning was no different. Orlov could see that his superior's head was bowed just a bit lower as he emerged from a long meeting with the current President and the pack of jackals who served as his advisers. Anatov had been called forth, alone, to account for the incident east of the Urals that had paralyzed the Kremlin. Finished now, he was in a hurry to put as much distance between himself and the President as quickly as his short legs could carry him. Without a word being exchanged, Orlov fell in on his superior's left and accompanied him down the hall. The staff and lesser lights moving along the long corridors did not step aside out of respect or fear of the wizened old man who was supposedly one of the most powerful men in the government. Rather, they parted and let the odd pair pass because of Orlov, a man with the charm and demeanor of a trained attack dog, an analogy the GRU colonel intentionally cultivated.

Only when they were outside of the building did they exchange words. "So," Orlov stated crisply, "you have survived yet again!"

The minister of defense stopped abruptly on the steps and stared at the colonel. "Is that what you think this is all about? My personal survival?"

The colonel paused and looked back at the balding man and smiled, unapologetically. He waved his hands in the air. "That is not a bad thing, Minister. Your survival means that others, such as myself, survive."

"Since when," Anatov asked coldly, "did you depend on anyone besides yourself for survival, Colonel Orlov?"

Turning, the colonel continued down the steps, speaking over his shoulder as he did so. "These are very difficult times, Minister. We must depend upon each other if any of us are to live to see better days."

Anatov did not respond or move. Rather, he looked down at the self-assured colonel who had, just days before, "cleaned up" the unfortunate mess that a rebellious colonel in command of a regiment of ICBM's had created. It seemed to the aging bureaucrat that men like himself were always finding themselves dependent upon men like Orlov to bail them out of embarrassing situations.

Yet the cruel realities of the post-Communist Russia they ruled often left them little choice but to force some portion of the population to suffer in order to keep another, more volatile portion of the same population from going under. Sometimes, in the day-today running of the government, things slipped through the cracks. Resources diverted from here to help over there were not replaced. What started as a temporary sacrifice quickly became routine. When the affected portion of the population was one with little clout, the noise of more pressing concerns drowned out their cries. But when, as with the mutinous Strategic Rocket Regiment, these demands for restoration were backed by a real and viable threat, quick and decisive action must be taken.

Hence, the need for men like Orlov. As long as he and the crack commandos under his command remained loyal to the government, promises could be fudged and errors in judgment "corrected." Anatov's chief problem in dealing with issues in this manner was the cold fact that men like Orlov could be depended upon only up to a point. "Patriots wed to the silly notion that they owe all to Mother Russia and nothing to the system that gave them their power," the old man had told his political masters in the meeting he had just left, "are dangerous. The people we send to deal with those who wish to discredit us may, one day, decide that we, and not those they were sent to eradicate, are the problem. When that happens, they will ride into Red Square with our heads upon their lances."

"By the way, Minister," Orlov asked innocently as he paused before reaching the bottom of the steps, "did the issue of Dead Hand come up?"

Anatov's expression turned from one of concern to that of anger. Nervously, he glanced to his left and right before he descended the remaining steps until he stood toe-to-toe with Orlov. "No one in Moscow is to know about that. Do you hear? No one."

It took all of Orlov's strength to keep from smirking. His mention of the Perimeter system, using the code word "Dead Hand," had achieved the desired effect on the Minister of Defense. Few in the Russian government knew of the existence of Perimeter, a system designed to respond to a first nuclear strike.

The entire system was dreamed of and built during the Soviet era when the Kremlin was acutely aware of the growing precision of the United States' overwhelming nuclear arsenal. Unable to match the Americans' technological edge, the Soviet leadership searched for a system that would dissuade the Americans from launching a deadly accurate first strike against them.

Since military planners assumed that an American first strike would disrupt their strategic command-and-control, perhaps even eradicate their national political and military leadership in the process, they appreciated the fact that they, or their successors, might not be able to launch their own counterstrike. While such an event was in of itself terrible to contemplate, this assessment was made worse by the idea that they would be unable to respond in kind. Mother Russia and her brand of communism would be wiped from the face of the earth, leaving capitalism and America unscratched and triumphant.

This line of thinking led to a system that was meant to be robust, redundant, self-contained, and to the greatest' degree possible, self initiated. Put simply, it was an automated means of retaliation, a sort of doomsday system. Called "Perimeter," it was better known within the Russian military as Dead Hand, for obvious reasons. Of all the remnants of the old regime and the Cold War, Perimeter was one of the best-kept secrets, and most-feared element, of the Soviet Union's nuclear arsenal.

At the core of Perimeter were fields of sensors located at strategic points throughout Russia and parts of the former Soviet Union. These sensors were designed to detect major and unnatural disruptions of the earth's surface, like those created by a nuclear attack, as well as unexplained disruptions of the military's command-and-control channels. If enough cues were picked up by Perimeter's sensor fields, selected missiles would automatically be activated and prepared for launch. These designated missiles, unlike those they were collocated with, carried a transmitter instead of a nuclear payload. Once alerted that a Perimeter missile was set, the commander of the regiment to which it belonged simply had to confirm the circumstances that had triggered the activation. If he could not contact his superiors in a reasonable amount of time, the regimental commander was authorized to enter a code from his location to complete the launch cycle. After that, everything happened automatically.

Each Perimeter missile had a set program and flight path that took it on a low-level trajectory over the missile fields belonging to other regiments of the Strategic Rocket Force. Once launched, the Perimeter missile would transmit a special launch code to selected missiles that were tied into the Perimeter system. Unlike the initial Perimeter missile, these second-tier missiles were nuclear-armed. And unlike the initiating missile, they would launch without any further input, either from the regimental command-and-control bunker in the missile field in which they were located or the National Command Authority.

Anatov glared at the GRU officer. The Minister of Defense hated it when a man such as Orlov made a comment like that. Without saying so, Orlov was telling his superior that he, Orlov, had information that, used properly, could ruin him. How willing Orlov was to play this particular hand or any of his other well-kept secrets was a matter of speculation. That the military man would, under the proper circumstances, use his information was without doubt. Orlov had, after all, been given barely enough time to wash the blood of his fellow Army officers from his hands before returning to Moscow to report on the situation in person. That those same hands could be turned on him, or on any other government official the military deemed unworthy, was a cold fact never far from Anatov's thoughts.

Sensing that he had gotten the minister's attention, Orlov turned and continued on down the steps. When he reached the car, he opened the door but waited to get in. Looking back, he studied the old man glaring down at him. It gnawed at Orlov that he had to serve a man such as this. In the night, the screams of those he had murdered to protect the lumbering government in Moscow robbed him of his sleep. The voices of his victims called for atonement. They pleaded with him in his nightmares for justice. But Orlov was a realist. He knew there could be no justice in this world as long as the people of Russia cowered like sheep before men such as Anatov. Until someone with a vision, a proper one, for Russia came forth, he and others like him could only do what they could to hold things together.

Turning, Orlov looked out into Red Square. For a brief moment, the image of Marshal of the Soviet Union Georgi K. Zhukov, leading the victorious Red Army while mounted on a white horse in defiance of Stalin, flashed through Orlov's mind. "Perhaps," the GRU colonel whispered, "another such as he will step forth and save Mother Russia."