DEFCON One

Chapter Nineteen

The president had taken off his suit coat, opened his collar, and donned a white cardigan sweater. He looked haggard and his stomach was causing him great discomfort.

“Herb, what is your opinion, your honest opinion, about this preemptive attack?” the president asked, gently rubbing his temples, elbows resting on the shining table.

“I can’t comprehend it, sir.” Kohlhammer exhaled, his body seeming to deflate. “I don’t agree with the proposal. It’s sheer madness. We would be the terrorist of the planet … if we survived the retaliation.”

“Susan.” The president turned slightly to face his vice president. “I want it straight.”

“I’ll tell you straight,” Blaylocke answered with a serious look. “I always have, sir.”

“I know, Susan,” the president replied. “Sorry. I’m tired, and confused.”

Blaylocke turned toward the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. “Admiral Chambers, before I go on record about this preemptive operation, I want to understand the details, the plan of action, if you will.”

Every eye turned to the highest ranking officer in the military services.

“We — the Joint Chiefs — have reviewed this scenario from a tactical standpoint and conclude, unanimously, that a preemptive nuclear strike against the Soviet Union is feasible. We will prevail, no question about it,” Chambers said in a controlled voice. “I am not in a position to address the political or economic ramifications.”

The president spoke to Chambers. “What about Milt Ridenour? Is he in concurrence with this … action?”

“Yes, sir. Unequivocally,” Chambers replied, feeling the president was beginning to respond to the inevitable. “You can confirm that, sir. He is immediately available in the ‘Looking Glass.’ ”

“I will, Admiral, if this continues in the developmental stage.” The president, jaw set, looked into Chambers’s eyes. The face of the chairman reflected a grim determination.

“Continue your brief, Admiral,” the president said, rubbing his temples.

“We can inform our theater commanders, via secure net, to prepare for an imminent nuclear strike. This will allow us to place our missiles closest to the Soviet Union on the primary targets in the least amount of time.”

“What about the Warsaw Pact nations?” Blaylocke asked, jotting notes on her legal pad.

“We will confine their involvement, as much as possible, to conventional weapons. The major strikes — nuclear strikes — will be confined to the military installations, manufacturing plants, cosmodromes, and other strategic locations.”

“Cosmodromes?” Blaylocke asked, a quizzical look on her face.

“Yes, ma’am,” Chambers replied politely. “We have to take away any residual capability to launch space vehicles of any kind, including their two space shuttles, Buran and Ptichka. We will eliminate the Baikonur Cosmodrome at Tyuratan, along with various other launch sites, including the cosmodrome at Plesetsk.”

“What about the Soviet submarines?” the president asked.

“We will be able to eliminate perhaps forty to fifty percent of their submarines before they can respond, sir. Our hunter-killer submarines and ASW aircraft are dogging them now.”

“I’m afraid, Admiral,” the president interrupted, “that I don’t share your confidence in our ability to track Soviet submarines.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Chambers responded in a surprised voice. The president had never been so caustic in a meeting with the Joint Chiefs.

“If you will recall, Admiral, the incident in late 1986,” the president leaned forward across the table, “when one of our attack submarines — the USS Augusta—while cruising underwater off Gibraltar, collided with a goddamn Russian submarine.”

The president sat back in his chair and waited a couple of seconds. “They never even heard it!”

Chambers cleared his throat. Only a privileged few knew about the embarrassing incident. “We can’t destroy all the Russian submarines, sir, but we anticipate our antimissile systems will be able to eliminate most warheads that do get airborne.”

“That still leaves warheads that are going to impact the continental United States.” The president paused, reflectively. “Not to mention Alaska and Hawaii.”

“Yes, sir,” Chambers said, feeling a dampness under his uniform blouse. “That is true, no question about it.”

“And the Soviet bombers?” the president asked, staring intently at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “The ones we don’t get in our strike?”

“We’ll be able to down the majority, but …” Chambers slowed, looking tired, “we’ll receive some impact damage. Primarily from cruise missiles.”

“Any projections as to the Soviet priorities, Admiral?” Blaylocke asked, noticing Grant Wilkinson had not said a word during this question-and-answer session.

“Only speculation,” Chambers answered in a cordial manner, ever the gentleman. “Military primarily, then secondary targets. We simply can’t project that information with any degree of accuracy.”

“What amount of damage can we expect to sustain?” Blaylocke paused, writing continuously on her legal pad. “Realistically?”

“We’ll receive considerable damage. Probably greater than our projections, to tell you the truth,” Chambers answered, holding up his hand to indicate he wasn’t finished. “However, I can tell you it will be a fraction of the damage we will receive if the Soviets strike first.”

Chambers stopped for a moment, then added a serious warning. “You must consider the difference. Think about it. We have been given a warning. An opportunity to control our destiny.”

The room remained quiet while everyone digested what Chambers had said.

“The Joint Chiefs,” Chambers continued, “are convinced, as are the chief of staff and the secretary of defense, that a Soviet preemptive strike is imminent and inevitable, Mister President.”

The president looked at his vice president. “Okay, give me your decision, Susan.”

“Sir, I have been trained for years to gather all the information, analyze the material, then make a clinical, unbiased, objective decision.” The vice president looked around the room. Every eye met hers.

Blaylocke continued, confident, clear of voice. “As I see it we are faced with doing nothing with every warning light flashing, and accepting the consequences, whatever they may be.”

Blaylocke looked at her yellow pad. “Or we can follow the course presented by Admiral Chambers and—”

“On the word of a Soviet emigrant? A neophyte in the CIA?” the president asked, a surprised look in his weary, bloodshot eyes.

“Please, let me have the floor,” Blaylocke asked in an even, pleasant voice.

“I’m sorry, Susan. Please continue,” the president replied, clearly distraught over the possibility of nuclear warfare.

“Or,” Blaylocke continued, “we can follow the suggestion of the military experts, with the support of Grant and Cliff, and preempt the Soviets.”

Blaylocke removed her glasses before speaking again. “We control the situation, not the Soviets.”

Susan Blaylocke looked at Chambers, then Wilkinson, before concluding her remarks. “That is about it, my considered judgement, Mister President,” Blaylocke said. “I’m satisfied that we don’t have a choice. The bell has sounded, and we’re waiting to see who throws the first punch.”

Chambers replied, “A very astute analogy, ma’am. This is, in fact, a first-punch fight. There won’t be another chance for the runner-up.”

The room remained hushed while the president of the United States of America digested the proposed action. It was unprecedented.

Grant Wilkinson broke the silence. “Sir, TASS, Izvestia, Moskovskii Komsomolyets, along with various other Soviet media, are reporting the death of the American spies. We know that Zhilinkhov believes that blatant lie, or heads would have rolled by this time.”

“Please make your point, Grant,” the president said, impatience beginning to show on his strained face.

“Zhilinkhov is insane, desperate, sir,” Wilkinson continued. “Now he believes his plan is still safe because the Kremlin operative is dead. We don’t know when he will strike. We only know he intends to blast us into oblivion.”

Wilkinson exhaled sharply, looked at the ceiling, then back to the president. “We either strike first, Mister President,” Wilkinson waited a long four seconds, “or we become a nation that was.”

“I just need more information, more intelligence before I can make a decision affecting the future of this planet,” the president said, as much to himself as to anyone around the elaborate table.

“With respect, sir,” Wilkinson said in a soothing tone, “the next piece of information you receive will most likely be a Russian warhead penetrating the roof.”

“Goddamnit, Grant,” the president shouted, shocking the entire staff, “I need time, time to think this through and arrive at a logical conclusion.”

The room returned to silence, tension straining nerves to the breaking point. Fear began to grip the minds of the staff members.

“Sir,” Susan Blaylocke leaned over to the president, talking gently, “would you consider taking a short break?”

“No, Susan,” the president replied in a calm voice. “We need to resolve this. Now.”

Wilkinson started to speak, then fell silent as he saw the president raise his pencil and start pointing, running the pencil back and forth, at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.

“Admiral,” the president began slowly, once again in control of himself, “the lives of millions of people, let alone the future of this country — the future of the world — are on the line.”

The president grabbed his pencil with both hands, holding it in front of his face. “You are convinced, along with the other military chiefs, that we have no other choice: we must launch a nuclear strike against the Soviet Union? You are totally, unequivocally, convinced this course of action is in the best interest of the United States?”

Chambers sat up straight, shoulders squared, and looked into the president’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”

SNAP!!

The broken pencil sounded like a rifle shot in the quiet, tense room. Every person in the room flinched or jumped nervously.

“Grant?” the president asked, holding both ends of the severed pencil.

“We have no choice!” Wilkinson exclaimed sharply, then replied quietly. “Mister President, I fully endorse the proposed preemptive strike. I will undoubtedly have nightmares for the rest of my life, but I have a responsibility. The choice has been made for us, sir, and that is a significant point. We must act to preserve our country and our freedom.”

“Susan?” the president bluntly asked his second-in-command.

“As painstaking as this is for me, for all of us, I agree with Grant and the Joint Chiefs, sir.”

“Cliff?” The president looked across the table at his secretary of defense.

“No other plausible choice, sir.” Howard cleaned his glasses, then replaced them on his nose. He adjusted the fit and met the president’s stare. “Time is running out, Mister President.”

“Herb?” the president placed the broken pencil pieces on the table, then looked at his friend, the secretary of state.

“You will have my resignation within the hour, Mister President.” Kohlhammer appeared saddened, as if he were grieving.

The president, surprise and pain written on his face, replied quietly, “I understand, Herb.”

“Thank you, sir,” Kohlhammer said in a low, dejected voice. “It has been a pleasure serving you these past years. I would never have dreamed that … I wish to be excused, Mister President.”

“Absolutely, Herb,” the president responded, standing to offer his hand. “Your efforts have been splendid, and I wish you every success in the future.”

“If we have a future,” Kohlhammer replied, shaking the president’s hand.

The remaining members of the staff stood in unison as the secretary of state left the room. Kohlhammer’s sudden resignation had surprised everyone. He had always taken a hard line with the Soviets in previous matters.

“Well, gentlemen, Susan,” the president said, still standing. “I wish I could resign, too. But I can’t do that, you see.” The president looked around the table before speaking again. “And do you want to know why?”

No one made a sound, not sure if the leader of the American people was in the process of becoming unbalanced under the strain.

“Because if I resign, my successor, the first female president of the United States, is going to step up and blast the Soviet Communist party off the face of the earth.”

Grant Wilkinson glanced at Blaylocke, then back to the president. “Sir, you—”

“Can it, Grant,” the president replied testily, “and start the plan in motion.”

Wilkinson turned to Chambers. “Admiral?”

“Yes, sir,” replied the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “We are prepared to execute the strike in minimal time.”

Zhilinkhov smiled slightly when his closest friend, and “Inner Circle” cofounder, Boris Dichenkovko, entered the massive room. The former Politburo member, followed by Minister of Defense and General of the Army Trofim G. Porfir’yev, approached the general secretary’s bed.

“You are feeling better, Viktor Pavlovich?” Dichenkovko asked, taking a seat in a large, stuffed chair next to Zhilinkhov’s bed.

“Da, much better,” the stricken leader replied slowly, haltingly. “Our wonderful news has strengthened me, my friend.”

“Yes,” Dichenkovko responded, looking up at Porfir’yev, then back to Zhilinkhov. “The spies have been killed.”

Aleksandr Pulaev and Yegoery Yevstigneyev joined the group. Their faces reflected apprehension.

“I told you,” Zhilinkhov said, slurring his words, “that everything would be … fine.”

“Yes, you did, Viktor Pavlovich,” Dichenkovko said without emotion. “Now, you must rest, my good friend.”

The general secretary attempted to smile again, but the result showed only on the right side of his face.

“No, comrades,” Zhilinkhov said in a strained voice, weakly motioning for the minister of defense to step closer. “Now we launch the strike … on the United States.”

Porfir’yev, unsure of how he should respond, looked to Dichenkovko for guidance. No one said a word.

Zhilinkhov’s cold eyes hardened. “Give the order, General Porfir’yev. This minute!”

Dichenkovko hesitated, then inhaled deeply. “Viktor Pavlovich, we must suspend our plan for—”

“Enough!” Zhilinkhov spat through clenched teeth. “You have your orders, General. Carry out my command, or you will be relieved this moment.”

Porfir’yev, pale and wide-eyed, again looked to Dichenkovko for help. Pulaev and Yevstigneyev turned aside, speechless. Dichenkovko remained quiet, avoiding the defense minister’s unspoken plea.

“General Secretary,” Porfir’yev said slowly, “as the ranking member of the Soviet armed forces, it is my duty to counsel you not to launch a strike at this ti—”

“The strike will be launched … now,” Zhilinkhov hissed, mustering his waning strength, “with or without you, General. Give the order, or I will have Colonel General Vranesevic place you in custody.”

Porfir’yev blanched, then stepped back in shock, his face contorted in rage. He paused, then found his voice. “The order will be carried out.”

Dichenkovko stood up and turned away from Zhilinkhov, slowly shaking his head in resignation. “Viktor Pavlovich, you—”

“Give the order!” Zhilinkhov threatened, lamely pointing his finger at Porfir’yev.

The defense minister walked across the room to the private communications console and picked up the handset. Porfir’yev tapped in the number to Marshal Nicholas Bogdonoff, then waited for the chief of the general staff to answer.

Porfir’yev stared out the window at the gently falling snow, then heard Bogdonoff’s aide.

“Porfir’yev. Give me General Bogdonoff.”

The defense minister glanced at Zhilinkhov, then back out the window. Eight seconds passed before Bogdonoff was on the line.

“General Bogdonoff, Porfir’yev. Launch the strike, Operation Galaxy. General Secretary’s orders. Launch the strike.”

“Has this been authenticated?” General Matuchek asked, unbelieving.

Canadian Lt. Gen. Jonathan Honeycutt, NORAD vice commander, slowly nodded his head. “I’m afraid so, J.B.”

“Prepare for imminent strike?” Matuchek asked Honeycutt. “I don’t understand, John. Are the Soviets preparing to strike us, or are we going to launch a preemptive strike on Russia?”

“We,” Honeycutt paused, looking left and right, “are going to launch a first-strike, all-out effort.”

Matuchek turned pale, gripped the side of his command console, then slowly sank into his chair.

“What the hell is going on here?” the NORAD commander absently asked his vice commander. “Have they gone insane at the White House?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, J.B.,” Honeycutt responded, glancing at the Top Secret Nuclear message in his hand. He read it again. “All we can do is comply. It is authenticated. White House, Presidential.” Honeycutt placed the message folder on the console in front of Matuchek. “We’re about to hit the marbles, I’m afraid,” Honeycutt said in a halting voice.

Matuchek placed his head in his hands. “Read it to me again, John.”

Honeycutt picked up the red folder, put his glasses back on, then read the Top Secret message to his boss.

Matuchek rubbed the back of his neck, then slowly stood up from his console. “Have the field commanders submit their status reports every five minutes, John.”

“Yes, sir,” Honeycutt responded quietly, reaching across to his phone.

“Oh, God,” Matuchek said, suffering from acute anguish, “Alice has no idea.”

The NORAD commander was oblivious to the frantic activity taking place around him. Frightened faces looked up at the two generals, then to the twenty-four-hour clock over the status boards.

The Trident II fleet ballistic missile submarine, ninety-seven nautical miles due east of Karaginskiy Island, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, cruised silently at a depth of four hundred feet.

The submarine was operating as the right flank of the carrier task force headed by the USS Constellation. The aircraft carrier, on full alert, had been flying sorties around the clock.

“Ken,” Capt. Mark McConnell said to his executive officer, Cmdr. Ken Houston, “have the officers and Chief Booker report to the wardroom.”

“Yes, sir,” Houston replied, simultaneously flipping the overhead PA switch. “This is the executive officer. Captain McConnell requests all officers and the chief of the boat to report to the wardroom, on the double.”

The captain and his XO sat in stunned silence as the officers and Booker hurried into the wardroom.

“Ken,” McConnell said quietly, “have the stewards go to the general mess, then secure the hatch when the last man is out.”

“Aye aye, skipper,” Houston replied, stepping into the galley.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” McConnell instructed in a subdued, almost inaudible voice.

Houston stepped back into the wardroom, dogging the hatch behind him. “All secure, sir.”

McConnell nodded his head in acknowledgement, then spoke to the assembled men. “Gentlemen,” McConnell started slowly, “I have a message — an order, if you will — from the president of the United States. Our commander-in-chief.”

The captain looked around the table at the blank expressions. The officers knew something strange was about to take place. McConnell was more serious than anyone had ever seen him.

“I’m going to read it to you.” McConnell looked down at the message, then back to his officers. “Then I will take questions, one at a time, beginning with Lieutenant Commander Lewandowski, proceeding clockwise around the table.”

When McConnell finished reading the shocking message there was a look of bewilderment on every face gathered around the table.

“We took an oath in order to join this service,” McConnell said. “We have been ordered, by our commander-in-chief, the president of our country, to strike the Soviet Union with every available missile on board. I don’t know why, or what provocation brought this about….”

McConnell waited a few seconds before continuing. “Does anyone in this room have a problem — any problem with our orders? The orders I have to carry out?”

No one uttered a sound. The officers were speechless, each trying to grasp the magnitude of the message.

“Actually,” McConnell placed the message on the table, “you know as much about it now as I do. The strike is scheduled within the hour.”

The engineering officer, Lt. Cmdr. Samuel Woolf, indicated he had a question.

“Sam?” McConnell responded.

“Skipper, what about the men? Are you going to inform them?” Woolf looked anxious, not sure what to expect after the stunning news.

“Yes, absolutely,” McConnell responded. “After you return to your duty stations, I’ll make the announcement. If we have any dissenters, or individuals who have philosophical differences, they will be placed in confinement until further notice.”

McConnell looked at the shocked officers. “If there are no further questions, you are dismissed.”

The group rose to their feet, confusion written on every face. The shocking order, along with the consequences, were difficult to understand in such a short time frame.

McConnell turned to his XO as the officers and Chief Booker filed out of the wardroom. “Well, Ken,” McConnell said with sadness in his eyes, “the unthinkable is going to happen in forty-three minutes. Our world, as we knew it when we left port, is going to be changed forever.”

Houston didn’t respond. He couldn’t trust his voice, or his emotions.