DEFCON One

Chapter Eighteen

The president, vice president, chief of staff, close cabinet members, and the military Joint Chiefs of Staff crowded into the White House Situation Room. The walls were covered with various screens, maps, projections, and satellite data.

Grant Wilkinson had been in private conference with Cliff Howard, secretary of defense, and the Joint Chiefs for the past twenty minutes.

Wilkinson spoke first. “Mister President, Admiral Chambers will speak for the Joint Chiefs.”

Chambers looked uneasy. “Sir, I know I was skeptical about the scenario painted by Mister Wilkinson. I’m still apprehensive about this whole affair.” Chambers inhaled, breathing deeply. “However, after analyzing all the data we currently have, along with the present Soviet nuclear status, I would conclude, I would have to say a Soviet first strike is a very real probability.”

The president sat quietly a few seconds, turned to his right, then addressed the Joint Chiefs. “Gentlemen, how do you view this revelation?”

General Hollingsworth, the Marine Corps commandant, spoke first. “Sir, you met Zhilinkhov. What does he have to lose?” Hollingsworth didn’t wait for an answer.

“His country is in shambles and rapidly eroding. Their only grasp, as far as power, is their military. Especially their massive nuclear capability.”

The general reached for his water glass, sipped a small amount to moisten his throat, then continued.

“SDI would render them almost impotent. The entire picture is a very real and very frightening situation. Sir, I believe we need … Well, I’ll let Mister Wilkinson explain our position.”

“No, you say whatever is on your mind, General,” the president said, lighting his rum crook.

“Well, sir,” Hollingsworth replied, “as I’m sure you’re aware, we’ve had options in the plans for just such a situation as a worst case—”

“What kind of situation?” the president asked, puffing lightly on the sweet cigar.

“Possible first-strike scenarios, sir,” Hollingsworth said, darting a look at Wilkinson.

The president remained quiet. The room was totally void of noise, tomblike.

“Grant,” the president said, sitting upright in his chair.

Wilkinson eyed the president, took a deep breath, then spoke directly to him, ignoring the remainder of the staff members.

“Mister President,” Wilkinson began, “we’ve been together, politically, and as friends, for what would we say … twenty-three years?”

“That’s right.”

The president placed his cigar down, clasped his hands, fingers entwined, then looked Wilkinson in the eye. “Explain your position.”

“Sir, we,” Wilkinson spoke very slowly, “the Joint Chiefs, Cliff Howard, and I, believe the United States should initiate a preemptive strike, a nuclear first strike against the Soviet Union.”

The room remained quiet as the stunned president and vice president stared at Wilkinson, not quite seeing the chief of staff in their shock. Herb Kohlhammer, slowly shaking his head, was speechless.

“For God’s sake,” the president exploded, looking appalled at the thought. “You’re serious! All of you!”

Grant Wilkinson stretched both arms on the table, palms down. “Sir, we are in a position from which we can’t extricate ourselves.” Wilkinson looked down for a moment, then returned his scan to the president. “Gridlocked, sir. Checkmated.”

“Jesus, Grant,” the president said, exasperation written on his face. “You can’t be serious.”

“Sir,” Wilkinson continued, “we have finally reached a point of no return. We can’t go back to yesterday and put another Band-Aid on the problem. We have finally been placed in a no-win position.” Wilkinson looked at Chambers, then back to the president. “No recourse.”

“Grant, we are the leaders of the United States of America,” the president said. “Your proposal is absolutely unthinkable.”

Wilkinson spoke slowly and forcefully. “Sir, we have no other choice. They’ve provoked us to the brink of war to test our reactions. They’ve attacked our space shuttle and SDI satellites. Their nuclear forces, en masse, are waiting for the order from the Kremlin, and we—”

Wilkinson stopped abruptly, looking down the table at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, then focused his eyes on the president.

“We have a trusted and loyal Kremlin operative, in direct contact with Zhilinkhov, corroborate our worst-case situation.” Wilkinson thought for a second. “The agent could have had no idea we had reached the same conclusion.”

Wilkinson leaned forward, then spoke quietly. “The Soviets, sir, are going to blow us off the face of the earth. Zhilinkhov doesn’t need the endorsement of anyone to order the strike. You know that.”

Wilkinson leaned back, then stared at the president. The chief of staff had to hold his hands together to keep them from shaking.

Wilkinson spoke again. “Sir, the Soviets … Zhilinkhov … is doing exactly what our Kremlin agent—”

“Dimitri,” General Hollingsworth quietly provided.

“What Dimitri said. Precisely. This isn’t coincidence, sir. Our operative broke the absolute rule of contact to get this information to us. He went through hell to escape after the KGB disaster, then saw his mentor killed. Yet, he remained rational and got the message to us.”

The chief of staff waited a few seconds. “Mister President,” Wilkinson drew in a breath, “I believe him. We’ve been exposed to Zhilinkhov. I don’t have a doubt in my mind.” Wilkinson paused, composing his thoughts. “Sir, the picture is absolutely clear.”

“Wait a minute,” the president said. “Zhilinkhov isn’t going to live forever.”

“True,” Wilkinson replied. “There are seven people, at the top, involved in this. We don’t have any way of knowing what the other six would do with Zhilinkhov out of the picture. We aren’t in a position to wait and see, sir. Zhilinkhov has only to give the order and it will be carried out.”

Wilkinson looked at Admiral Chambers, then back to the commander-in-chief. “Mister President, you have the same prerogative.”

No one spoke a word.

“Sir, we don’t have much time,” Wilkinson said gently. “Zhilinkhov is a very mercurial person. We have no idea what he’ll do next, or when. We only know he is going to pull the trigger.”

Wilkinson waited a moment, then continued, “I understand how you feel. Until I analyzed this situation, bombing the Soviets first would have been the last thing on my mind.” Wilkinson looked at Blaylocke. “Unthinkable. Reprehensible.”

“Americans, Grant,” the president said, “we’re Americans, for the love of God.”

“Sir, we can sit here extolling the virtues of the American way of life and watch two hundred million Americans be annihilated,” Wilkinson paused, “or we can render the Soviet Communist party helpless, with minimal damage to the United States.”

The president didn’t reply.

“Sure, we’ll take some damage,” Wilkinson said, becoming more forceful, “but it won’t be a Pyrrhic victory.”

Wilkinson waited a few seconds, anticipating questions. No one said a word as startled minds tried to comprehend the magnitude of the suggestion before them. Bomb the Soviet Union.

“Our other option,” Wilkinson continued, “is to do nothing, remain in DEFCON-One, and wait for the eventual onslaught. We’ll lose tens of millions of lives, at the least, and the America we enjoy will be gone forever.”

The president had a blank look on his face as he leaned back in his seat.

“Mister President,” Wilkinson said in a pleading manner, “you do have an obligation to the American people. An obligation, sir, to protect them.”

The president looked at Blaylocke. “I want to hear from Susan, Cliff, and Herb.”

“I’m in shock,” the vice president began, looking around the table. “But I can see the logic in what Grant is telling us, regardless of how horrible it is.”

Blaylocke looked at the president before speaking again. “If I’m honest, gentlemen, I must say I’ve thought about this concept more than once, even today, privately. It was just a shock to hear someone voice the possibility, the unthinkable, as the president said.”

The president interrupted. “We just can’t arbitrarily push the button and destroy the Soviet Union!” The president looked perplexed. “We have to apprise members of Congress and—”

“Sir,” Wilkinson interjected, “if we get Congress embroiled in this, you will be facing impeachment proceedings.” Wilkinson almost shouted. “We’ll be waist-deep in rubble before Congress even gets the hearings underway. Mister President, Zhilinkhov has the power to destroy us, and he is going to use it.”

“Cliff,” the president said, ignoring Wilkinson, “what is your position in this matter?”

Howard, very controlled, addressed the president. “Sir, I can only reiterate what Grant said. We’re going to take battle damage regardless of what we elect to do. The question is, in my opinion, how much damage do we intend to take? Are we willing to risk losing everything? Are we willing to see America, as we know it, gone forever? Our hard-won freedom, sir, tossed away, along with millions of lives? I don’t think so.”

The president glanced at Wilkinson, saw him move his head slowly back and forth.

“The choice has been made for us,” Howard said, sadness in his voice. “I urge you to initiate a preemptive strike on the Soviet Union.” Howard waited for a response from the president.

When he didn’t receive any acknowledgement, he continued. “Now, Mister President, while we have a choice in the outcome. The future of this country, this nation and its people, rests on your decision, sir.”

The president, stunned, stared at the defense secretary with unfocused eyes.

A quiet knock on the heavy doors preceded the entry of the somewhat stout Russian physician, followed by a nurse and a military aide.

The doctor examined the general secretary, noting that he was conscious but not attempting to speak. He seemed to be in very stable condition and resting well.

“Comrade General Secretary,” the doctor said, “you are making excellent progress.” The cardiologist smiled in a perfunctory manner. “Can you move your fingers for me?”

Zhilinkhov responded weakly, appearing irritated, or in pain. The doctor knew he had to be careful not to agitate the party boss. Two more hours would see him off duty, relaxing with a vodka, and letting that slob, Doctor Pyadyshev, take the hot seat. No one wanted to be on duty if something happened to Zhilinkhov.

“Do you have any pain?” the cardiologist asked, checking Zhilinkhov’s vital signs.

Zhilinkhov moved his head very slowly, indicating no. He still had not attempted to speak.

The military aide remained quiet, but nervous, as the doctor patted Zhilinkhov’s shoulder and gathered his instruments. He gave the nurse instructions, then turned back to Zhilinkhov.

“I will check on you in another hour, comrade,” the doctor said unctuously. “Rest well, and try to sleep, if possible.”

The doctor walked across the room, opened the huge door, and, relieved, quietly exited the private quarters of the party general secretary.

As soon as the massive door shut, the military aide leaned over Zhilinkhov. “Comrade General Secretary, I am pleased to inform you that Colonel General Vranesevic reports the spies have been killed.”

Zhilinkhov rolled his eyes back toward the top of his head and attempted to speak. “Con … firm …”

“Sir,” the aide said, delighted to bring the general secretary good news, “all three American helicopters were downed, with no survivors. This has been confirmed, General Secretary.” The aide stepped back a pace, reflecting a high degree of military discipline.

Zhilinkhov, a faint smile spreading across his sallow, craggy face, nodded. He was obviously pleased by the good news. His secret was safe, and the Americans would be destroyed.

Colonel General Vranesevic had used the holocaust at the communications towers to conceal the spies’ escape. The carnage was unrecognizable as either American or Soviet, thus sparing his life and career.

Zhilinkhov whispered to the aide, deeply slurring his words. He wanted his coconspirators in his presence immediately.

“Yes, Comrade General Secretary,” the aide replied, standing erect at attention. “Immediately.”