Dead Hand

Chapter 4

Having finished rereading the chapter that covered the Battle of Canne. General Chuck H. Smith closed the book on Hannibal, set it down in his lap. and looked around the room. As he did every evening before heading off to bed. he read from one of the hundreds of history books that lined the shelves of his small study. This was the only time of day that he was free to enjoy the quiet, to indulge his own thoughts, and to ponder personal issues that needed sorting out. As Chief of Staff of the Army and an integral part of the National Command Authority, opportunities such as this were quite rare.

On this night, the personal issues that Smith found himself mulling over were disquieting. As March gave way to April, the fact that he would be retiring within three months could no longer be ignored. After thirty-five years of service to his nation as a soldier, he would be forced to stack arms and walk away from the only profession he knew. On the last day in June, after an appropriately dignified ceremony, he would be tossed from the secure embrace of the United Slates Army and out into a world about which he knew very little.

Not since his plebe year at West Point had Smith been so gripped with such an all-pervasive apprehension and loathing of the unknown. For Smith, the Army had been a sanctuary, a place where honor and traditions meant something. To him. the nation he had been charged to defend bore no resemblance to the well-ordered machine that he had come to command. The world outside the perimeter fence was populated by ruthless corporate CEO's, cutthroat lawyers, clueless twenty-something professionals, immoral politicians. and godless sodomites.

As disquieting as such thoughts were, there was no escaping the inevitable. It was time to make a decision as to what he would do with the rest of his life. This was no easy task. During his tenure as Chief of Staff of the Army, there had been no world-shaking events, such as a minor ground war, in which he had played a pivotal role. That meant he was not a good candidate for the rubber-chicken lecture circuit or a lucrative book deal. Teaching at a university was out. The idea of wasting his time trying to educate undergraduates who were convinced they knew more than their professors was almost as repugnant to Smith as the thought of associating with ultraliberal colleagues. Even the option of throwing his lot in with one of the defense contractors who provided a safe haven for many a retired officer was less than attractive. To Smith, that would be like selling his soul and his reputation at a public auction.

That pretty much narrowed his options to an offer from a think tank that specialized in military affairs. He was, after all, more than qualified for it. But even this left Smith cold. He found it difficult picturing himself stuffed away in an office, day in and day out, working with other retired generals discussing world events that they were unable to influence. Looking up at the bookshelves across from him, the weary old soldier stared at the cluster of books on George S. Patton. In the end, Smith thought to himself, Patton bad gotten it right. Although his death had been the result of an accident, when the alternatives were considered, the Fates had been most kind to Old Blood and Guts.

Slowly, almost subconsciously, Smith ran his hand across the cover of the closed book in his lap. He had often thought about taking up writing. He loved history. Throughout his life it had been a constant, a friend to whom he could turn. Whether he would be able to make a living out of recounting events that had been discussed and debated countless times before didn't matter. After having been in the Army for so long, he was used to doing things because he believed in what he was doing, and not simply for material gain.

Smith was in the midst of these deliberations when he heard the phone ring. Slowly, he turned his head and gazed at the extension on the table next to him. Years ago, he would have bounded out of his seat without a second thought, snatching up the receiver and dutifully answering the call to arms. As of late, however, with the end of his long career so clearly in sight, his response to these late night intrusions was something less than automatic. Soon, he told himself as he listened to the second ring fade, he'd be out of the loop, just another old soldier who had been ridden hard and long before being put out to pasture and forgotten, like so many before him.

When the phone didn't ring again, Smith knew that his wife had taken the call. Perhaps, he found himself hoping, it was one of their kids calling their mom to fill her in on the latest accomplishments of their own children, or seeking counsel on an issue that threatened to overwhelm them. Even as he tried to guess who was calling at this hour, he found himself envying his wife. Her role in the world would hardly change. While he would be demoted from the most senior officer in the United States Army to a retired old geezer overnight, she would remain a wife to him, a mother to a son and two daughters, and a grandmother of six. No matter where they went, no matter what he did with the rest of his life, she would find a church to attend, would volunteer with the local Red Cross, and knit together a gaggle of friends with whom she could share a cup of coffee and gossip, just as she had done a dozen or more times as they had traveled the world, moving from one assignment to the next.

From beyond the dim light of the study, a voice called out, "Chuck, it's for you. The duty officer at the war room."

Before moving, the tired old general looked at the clock on the wall. Out of habit, his mind automatically computed Greenwich mean time as well as the current time in Moscow, Riyadh, Seoul, and the Taiwan Straits. After laying the history of Hannibal aside, he reached over, picked up the phone and growled into the receiver. "Smith here. Who's rattling his cage tonight?"

On the other end of the line, the duty officer took the general's gruff response in stride. "Sir, it's not a who. Rather, it's a what. It seems that NORAD's deep-space radar has picked up a hither-to unknown object that is on a collision course with Earth."

"A meteor?" Smith asked as he rallied himself out of his funk and began to slip back into his role as Chief of Staff of the Army.

"The Air Force is calling it an asteroid, but I don't think they know for sure yet. As of five minutes ago, they had yet to contact the Near-Earth Object team over at NASA to confirm this. Until they do, the Air Force is labeling it an unknown object."

"Has the Chairman called a meeting?" Smith fired back. "No sir. not yet. Hut the duty officer in the joint Operations war room expects that he will be doing so shortly." "What makes you say that?" Smith asked curtly. "Well. sir. if the initial calculations from the tracking team at NORAD are confirmed by NASA, whatever it is that's out there will reach us in lour days."

The duty officer didn't need to say another word. In an instant. General Smith realized that within the hour, every man and woman who was considered a key player in the federal government would be manning their respective command-and-control centers, wailing for hard information and preparing plans for a contingency that no one. as best as he knew, had ever thought seriously about.

"Okay." Smith replied to the duty officer. "Notify the joint Ops Center that I will be in directly. Activate our own Crisis Action Team and pass the word on. As you get to all major commands. Advise forces Command, as well as Seventh Army, to put their CAT's on a short string."

Smith hung up the phone without wailing for a response. As he rose from his chair, leaving his book on ancient history behind, a strange thought popped into his head. "Perhaps," he found himself thinking. "I won't have to settle for rewriting someone else's history."

Panicked calls by junior officers who were ignorant of even the barest facts were not new to Demetre Orlov. Nor was wailing in the outer office of the Minister of Defense. In fact, he had become such a fixture there that he even had a favorite chair that was automatically vacated by whomever occupied it at the moment Orlov entered the room. It was less a point of respect than one of I ear, for everyone associated with the Ministry of Defense knew who Orlov was.

Though no one talked about it, all knew what his very special skills were used for and that his presence meant that they would soon be employed.

On this day, the colonel who commanded Russia's elite special response team didn't have to wait long. In fact, he was still in the process of settling into the overstuffed leather seat that he preferred, when the Minister's doors flew open. Like a locomotive under a full head of steam emerging from a tunnel, Yuri Anatov plowed through the crowded waiting room, head down as usual, and made straight for Orlov.

Surprised, Orlov barely had enough time to come to his feet before the Minister reached him, grabbed his arm, and escorted him out of the anteroom and into the bustling corridor. This neither surprised Orlov nor anyone else who had been waiting for their moment with the Minister. Like everyone connected to the government. Anatov had no doubt that his office was bugged by at least one agency, perhaps more.

Once in the flow of the traffic that always seemed to be going this way and that but never getting anywhere, Anatov began to speak in hushed tones. "I want you to pull together as large a team as you can, as quickly as you can, and be ready to go when I give you the word."

Orlov raised an eyebrow. "So, it has been confirmed? It will hit Russia.".

The Minister of Defense sighed. "Yes, again." There was a silence as the two walked briskly down the hall. Everyone who saw them coming parted for them, as much out of fear for Orlov as for respect for their superior. This was good, for the tired old man who was charged with defending Russia's faltering regime was staring vacantly at the floor as he marched on. When he finally did speak again, there was a hint of anger in his voice, mixed with a bit of frustration. "For the second time in one hundred years, we are going to be hit by a meteor." Looking over at Anatov, the colonel could see the concern in his expression as he continued to mumble: "The mystics and the fringe have already latched onto that little coincidence. I'm sure you've seen them in the streets and on the bloody damned television, spewing their prophecies of impending doom."

Without commenting, Orlov nodded. The comparison between the Tunguska event and the political turmoil in Russia that followed less than nine years after that had been seized upon by more than one group in opposition to the current regime. The similarities between the corruption that was rampant in czarist Russia and the state of affairs in modern Russia were far too obvious to ignore. Hence, the connection between the devastating event of 1908 and the revolution that followed in 1917 was being viewed as a blessing from the heavens by those who sought to stir the people of Russia to rise up and sweep away the government in Moscow.

These thoughts led Orlov to his next question. "Is there a particular target of interest that you would like me to concentrate on?"

Yuri Anatov hesitated before answering. He knew that Orlov was politically astute. To survive as long as he had in his profession, particularly in the position he held, one needed to know who the players were and how to stay afloat in the swirling tides of intrigue that were part of Russia's political system. From the way the colonel had framed his question, the minister of defense suspected that he knew who in the regime in Moscow he was most concerned with. "Yes," Anatov stated bluntly. "General Likhatchev."

Stopping, Orlov stared at his superior with an expression that was as much one of anger as surprise. Being dispatched to the far reaches of Russia to deal with an officer who had stepped out of line was one thing. To be ordered to go after a man whom many considered to be the last true patriot in all of Russia, a man whose only crime was that he had dedicated his entire life to the service of their Motherland, was quite another.

Caught off guard by Orlov's sudden stop, Anatov hesitated, turned, and looked back at the silent colonel. "Is there a problem?"

Unsure of where he stood on the issue, Orlov chose the course he normally followed. Gathering himself as quickly as he could, he allowed his face to assume its usual dispassionate expression. "No, Minister. Not at all."

"Good," Anatov snapped. "Now, let us continue. I have much to do and so little time." Orlov acknowledged with a mumbled response that the Minister of Defense did not hear. General Igor Likhatchev was an ultranationalist who had barely been beaten during Russia's last presidential election. That he intended to have that position, one way or the other, was not a state secret. The General took every opportunity he could to promote himself and to criticize the current president. It came, therefore, as no surprise that Likhatchev would find a way to use the pending disaster to his advantage.

After moving along the corridor in silence for several seconds, the Minister picked up where he had left off. "If projections are correct, the resulting impact of the meteor, though not catastrophic, will have the same characteristics of a nuclear detonation. It is believed that the disruption of normal communications as well as the seismic signature of the impact will be enough to trigger a fully functional Perimeter. Therefore I issued an order last night to all elements of the Strategic Rocket Force to disable the Perimeter system." After a moment's hesitation, Anatov glanced up from the floor in front of him and over to Orlov. "This morning, when it became obvious that this order was being ignored, it was repeated. An hour ago, every regimental commander in Likhatchev's province responded that they would not comply."

"The launch officers at the individual sites must still initial the final sequence," Orlov stated briskly. "They, and not General Likhatchev, are the key to Perimeter."

"Ordinarily, that would be true," Anatov countered. "But it seems that General Likhatchev has managed to subvert the normal chain of command. As you know, he took extraordinary steps to ensure that key military units and personnel in his province were well taken care of in an effort to cultivate their loyalty."

This came as no surprise to the colonel. Likhatchev's efforts to generate a base loyal to him and him alone was well known throughout the military. Even officers in Orlov's own handpicked command had been courted by representatives of the General. "What makes you think that removing General Likhatchev will make a difference?" Orlov asked.

This time, it was Anatov who stopped in his tracks. "Damn it, Colonel. I do not have time for this! What is and is not possible on the political level is not your concern. You are a soldier, I give the orders, you execute them. Is that clear?"

Orlov hesitated before answering. While none of his missions could be described as ordinary, this one was quite different. The other targets Orlov had dealt with had meant nothing to him. General Likhatchev, on the other hand, did. In his heart, Orlov had long ago suspected that it would take a man like the General to save Russia. Perhaps, Orlov thought to himself as Anatov droned on, the general is the one, the man on the white horse who has come to save Russia.

"Colonel," Anatov snapped. "You do understand what you must do?"

Suddenly aware that his mind had been wandering, Orlov managed a crisp "Yes, Minister, of course."

Satisfied by this automatic response, Anatov resumed his brisk pace. Without another word, the colonel fell in, like a good soldier should, to the left of his superior. As they continued down the corridor and Colonel Orlov listened to the Minister's special instructions, he began to formulate his own plan of action.