Plan of Attack

6

The chief of the Presidential Protection Detail of the Secret Service didn’t call first before rushing into the president’s hotel suite, but he wasn’t surprised to see President Thomas Thorn hurriedly putting on his trousers in the sitting area. The president had always exhibited a weird second-sight ability to anticipate events before they happened. “What’s happened, Mark?” the president asked.

“NMCC called a ‘campfire,’ sir,” the PPD chief said, his voice wavering in terror. The president’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and he was going to ask the PPD chief to repeat, but one look at the man’s face told him that he’d indeed heard the right code word — the one for an “enemy nuclear attack on the United States under way”—and that this was no exercise. In moments the president was dressed for quick travel, wearing his dark brown leather flying jacket over a white shirt, a dark blue Air Force One ball cap, dark gray business slacks, and thick-soled casual shoes.

“Let’s get moving, gents,” the president said, and he rushed past the astonished agents and out into the hallway, toward the staircase. Members of the Secret Service were trained to physically take control of their charges in the process of evacuation — usually the evacuees were too confused, sleepy, or scared to know which way to go, and they never moved fast enough to suit the PPD — but Thorn, an ex — U.S. Army Green Beret, was moving so quickly that the agents couldn’t get a grasp on his arms.

Inside the armored limousine, Thorn met up with the U.S. Navy officer who carried the “football,” the briefcase containing coded documents and communications equipment that would allow him to issue orders to America’s nuclear forces anywhere in the world. “Marine One is ready to fly, sir,” the chief PPD officer said as they peeled out of the hotel entryway, surrounded by police cars and flanked by Secret Service armored Suburbans. “We’ll be at Union Station pickup point in three minutes.” He listened to the reports through his earpiece. “Your staffers are asking us to return to pick them up.”

“Negative. Let’s roll,” the president said. He obviously did not want to wait for anyone — which suited the PPD just fine. The chief made a report on his secure cell phone, then handed it to the president. “This is Séance,” he responded, using his personal call sign. “Go ahead.”

“Thank God you’re all right, Mr. President,” came Vice President Lester Busick’s voice. When he was excited, Busick’s thick South Florida drawl became obvious, almost indecipherable. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, Les. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know yet. The Secret Service blew the whistle, and I’ve been on the move ever since,” Busick replied. “I thought those bastards were going to rip my arms off carrying me out of the residence. I do know we’re on our way to Andrews, not High Point. I think I’m going airborne.”

“Who’s with you?”

“Nobody,” Busick responded. “Hell, I couldn’t even get the old lady out of bed.”

“I’ll talk to you after I’m airborne, Les.”

“Okay, Thomas. I’ll see you back at the ranch after they’re done screwing with us.” The heaviness in his voice said much more than his words — they both knew that something serious was happening, and they most likely wouldn’t be going back to Washington for quite some time.

“Everything will be okay, Les,” the president said. “I’ll call as soon as I hear anything.”

“You take care, Thomas,” Busick said. Thorn was about to hang up when he heard, “Thomas?”

“Go ahead, Les.”

“You need to be tough now, Thomas,” Busick said. “I got a feelin’ the shit’s hittin’ the fan. I want you to be strong, Thom — I mean, Mr. President.”

“Since when do you call me ‘Mr. President’ when we’re—?”

“Damn it, Mr. President, please listen,” Busick said earnestly. “We may not be able to talk for a while, so just listen. I’ve seen this before, sir—”

“Seen what?”

“Seen this shit that’s happenin’ right now,” Busick said. “The last time was in ’91, when we thought the Iraqis were launching biochem weapons at Israel and we were getting ready to drop a nuke on Baghdad. I was the Senate majority whip. We were hustled out of Washington faster than shit from a goose. And it wasn’t just to the Mountain — we were dispersed to preserve the government, sir.”

“What are you talking about, ‘preserve the government’?” Thorn asked. “This is a precaution, a contingency. With all that’s happening in Turkmenistan and the Middle East, the heightened tensions, the saber rattling, it’s understandable—”

“Mr. President, with all due respect, sir, you have no friggin’ idea what’s about to happen,” Busick said seriously. “As soon as you step aboard Air Force One, you will become the executive branch of the United States government — not just the White House but every department and every executive agency that exists. You may be alone and isolated for days, maybe weeks. You may not be in contact with your cabinet or advisers.

“What I’m tryin’ to tell you is that I think this is it, Mr. President,” Busick went on. “The warning came right from NORAD. They were talkin’ about missile tracks and flight times. They—”

“What are you saying, Les?”

“I’m tellin’ you, Mr. President, I think we just caught the bolt from the blue,” Busick said. “And I’m telling you that you need to be strong and you need to be tough. Because there will be a lot of hurt people in this country very, very soon, and they’ll be looking to you for leadership. You’ve got to give it to them. And sometimes being the leader means doin’ the most horrific thing you can damned well think of.”

“Les…” Thorn tried to tell him again that everything was going to be okay, that this was just some sort of mistake or false alarm, but he didn’t know what it was, and he would sound silly trying to reassure the veteran politician of something he himself knew absolutely nothing about. Finally he said, “Les, my family…?”

“Helicopters picked them up from Rutland minutes ago. They should be launching from Burlington International about the time you go airborne.” The first lady was a former state supreme court justice from Vermont, and she visited her family near the Vermont state capital whenever the president went out on his infrequent political travels.

The phone buzzed, interrupting their conversation — a higher-priority call than the vice president had to be pretty damned important. “I’ll talk to you soon, Les.”

“Yes, sir,” Busick replied. Then he added, “Be tough, Thomas. You’re the fucking president, sir. Shove it down their throats.” Thorn was going to ask him to elaborate, but by then Busick had hung up.

Thorn hit the TALK button. “This is Séance.”

“Mr. President, this is General Venti. I’m en route to the NMCC, but I’ve received the latest from NORAD. I request permission to change your escape routing.”

“Whiteman…?”

“Sir, Whiteman is not secure.” Whiteman Air Force Base, an hour’s drive east of Kansas City in Knob Noster, and the home of the B-2A Spirit stealth bomber, was where Air Force One was based while the president was in Kansas City.

“Tell it to me straight, General.”

There was a slight pause before Venti said, “Yes, sir. NORAD has issued an air-defense emergency. The Missile Warning Center is tracking a number of high-speed, high-altitude cruise missiles, launched by Russian Bear bombers. We count twenty-seven tracks so far. We believe that each missile carries two nuclear warheads, yields unknown. One track is definitely headed for Whiteman Air Force Base. Time to impact, approximately thirty-five minutes.”

“Oh, my God…”

“Other confirmed tracks are headed for Offutt Air Force Base in Nebraska; Ellsworth Air Force Base, South Dakota; Minot Air Force Base, North Dakota; Twentieth Air Force headquarters at F. E. Warren Air Force Base in Wyoming; and several missile-launch control facilities in Wyoming, Montana, and Colorado. It appears that the Russians are attempting to take out all of our land-based strategic nuclear-strike weapon systems — our ICBMs and bombers — in one massive preemptive strike.”

“I…I can’t believe it,” Thorn muttered. “This can’t be happening….”

“It’s confirmed, sir,” Venti said, his voice a bit shaky and strained. “The first missile will hit Minot Air Force Base in less than thirty-four minutes. Minot has thirty-two B-52 bombers, twenty-eight KC-135 aerial-refueling tankers, and other support aircraft; plus, they serve as Ninety-first Space Wing headquarters, controlling one hundred and fifty Minuteman III missiles.”

“Can…can any of those bombers escape?”

There was another slight pause. “We’re trying to get as many aircraft as we can off the ground, sir, any way we possibly can — maintenance troops, students, transient alert crews, anybody who can start the engines and take the controls and have any chance at all of landing it afterward. We have no strategic strike aircraft on ready alert. I’m afraid that the only survivors might be aircraft that are ready to launch on training or operational-support missions, are deployed, or already airborne.”

“My God…”

“Mr. President, our first consideration is to be sure you can escape,” Venti said. “Whiteman is definitely out. The other Air Force base within range of Marine One is McConnell, near Wichita, but it was once an Air National Guard B-1 bomber base and might be a target as well.” He was silent for a moment. “The staff recommends you be evacuated to Fort Leavenworth, Kansas. It’s the most secure location nearby. Once Angel escapes, we can arrange a rendezvous.”

“Sounds fine to me,” the president said. “Angel” was the unclassified code word for the Air Force VC-25 transport planes, known as “Air Force One” when the president was aboard. Both planes in the fleet were always deployed with the president on his travels, and at least one was always kept ready to fly at a moment’s notice.

“Is Foghorn with you, sir?”

Thorn looked at the Navy officer with the “football.” “Yes.”

“Sir, I recommend you change the national defense configuration to DEFCON One,” Venti said. “All surviving military forces will begin preparations for war, should you order it in the future. You don’t need to give me an authorization code — your verbal order is enough until we can formalize it in writing.”

“Very well. Issue the order,” Thorn responded immediately.

Venti barked out an order over his shoulder, then returned to the phone: “I also recommend you increase the strategic force posture to red, sir,” he said.

Thorn hesitated. The Defense Configuration, or DEFCON, ordered all military units to various readiness states, with DEFCON One being maximum readiness for war. The “posture” told the units with weapons exactly what state or operational status their weapons and delivery systems should be in. The exact state varied by unit and weapon system but was broken down into three stages: red, yellow, and green, with green meaning that weapons in secure storage and coded documents and launch or enabling devices locked away; to red, which meant that weapons were loaded and the crews had all the documents and devices they needed to prearm and launch live nuclear weapons. The crews still needed the execution order from the president to release live nuclear weapons, but under a Posture Red, the crews were just a few switches away from unleashing hell on the enemy.

“Sir?”

“Go to Red Posture, General Venti,” Thorn said finally.

“Yes, sir. Understand. Posture Red.” Again he gave a verbal order to his deputy to issue the posture change to military forces around the world. Then he said, “Sir, I know we’ve game-planned this out in advance, but I still want to ask you: Do you wish to order any retaliatory or preemptive strikes at this time?” Any particular combination of DEFCON and posture initiated a series of actions by various military units around the world, depending on the nature of the emergency. Several actions were automatic — dispersing ships and aircraft, retargeting missiles, activating shelters, and sending commanders to alternate and airborne command centers — and other actions were optional. Among the optional actions were nuclear and nonnuclear strikes on selected important targets.

Thorn had made it clear early on in his administration that he would not initiate nuclear retaliation based on just an attack notification — the so-called launch-on-warning option — but the plans were still in the bag sitting on the shelf anyway, and Venti thought it his duty to ask. There were several targets he’d like to see vaporized right now, he thought.

“No. Proceed as planned, General,” Thorn replied. The president’s standing order to any attack on the United States, from another September 11–style terrorist attack to a massive nuclear attack, was the same in all cases: Ride it out, then plan a response based on all available intelligence and advice. It assumed that every other aspect of emergency planning remained the same: survival of key government officials, ensuring constitutional succession, and maintaining positive and unambiguous control of the nation’s nuclear weapons; but in any case, Thomas Thorn insisted on complete and absolute control over his nuclear forces. “Any word from Gryzlov?” Thorn asked.

“Stand by, sir….” A moment later: “Yes, sir, there are numerous hot-line messages, both voice and e-mail.”

“Have Signal connect me to President Gryzlov, General,” Thorn ordered.

“Sir, we don’t have time—”

“Link us up, General.”

“Mr. President, I…sir, whatever they say, I hardly think they have the slightest bearing on what our response should be!” Venti said. “The Russian Federation has initiated a sneak attack against the United States of America, and the first weapon impacts in about thirty minutes. They certainly didn’t consult us before launching this attack!”

“General…”

“With all due respect, sir, it doesn’t goddamn matter what Gryzlov has to say!” Venti stormed. “You know he’s going to come up with some cockamamie reason, invent some crisis or trigger event, blame the whole event on us, and warn us not to retaliate. What the hell difference does it make if he apologizes, if he says it was a mistake, if he’s sorry, if he’s angry? He still launched an attack on us, squarely aimed to take out most if not all of our land-based long-range attack forces!”

“It’s all right, Richard,” the president said, trying to soothe his obviously agitated Joint Chiefs chairman. “I’m not going to make a decision without consulting the Joint Chiefs and the Cabinet. Now, get him on the line. I’ll be on Marine One in a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” Venti finally responded, the outrage obvious in his voice. “Stand by.” It took several minutes, during which time Thorn had transferred to Marine One and was on his way across Kansas City to Fort Leavenworth, about thirty miles to the northwest. It was risky making such a call — although the circuit was encrypted to protect eavesdroppers from listening in, the bearing to Marine One could easily be measured and the helicopter tracked across the sky.

“Marine One, this is Signals, your party is on the line, secure,” the Army communications officer announced.

“President Gryzlov, I assume you have an explanation for this attack,” Thorn said without preamble or pleasantries.

“President Thorn, listen to me very carefully,” the voice of the Russian interpreter said. Anatoliy Gryzlov’s voice could be heard in the background. He did not seem to be agitated in the least, as if launching missiles at the United States were an everyday occurrence. But he was the former chief of the general staff of the world’s second-largest military, and he was accustomed to giving orders that sent thousands to their deaths. “This action is nothing more than retaliation for the attack against Engels Air Base, Zhukovsky Flight Test Center, and our paramilitary forces near Belgorod, perpetrated by Major General Patrick McLanahan and his band of high-tech aerial terrorists, acting under your full authority and direction—”

“That’s sheer nonsense, Mr. President,” Thorn said. “I’ve taken full responsibility for each and every one of those attacks, all of which were provoked by Russian military hostilities; and may I remind you that the United States has paid millions of dollars in reparations and legal claims as a result of those attacks. I want you to abort those missiles immediately and—”

“President Thorn, I asked you to listen to me,” Gryzlov’s interpreter said. “This is not a negotiation, only a notification. The missiles cannot and will not be aborted. The targets are offensive bomber and missile bases and combat command-and-control facilities only. The warheads are one-kiloton nuclear devices with bunker-penetrating technology, designed to destroy armored underground facilities—”

“My God!”

“They are no more powerful than the plasma-yield devices you used over Korea and only a few magnitudes more powerful than the thermium-nitrate weapons you used on Engels Air Base, and I predict that the death toll will be much lower in this attack than from the one on Engels,” Gryzlov went on. “At least I gave you the courtesy of notifying you ahead of time, Mr. President.”

“What?”

“If you’ll check your hot-line messages, I notified the White House of the targets of the attack shortly after the missiles were launched,” the interpreter said. “You have the entire target list, exactly as programmed into the attack computers of every aircraft in our strike force. I had intended to give you a full hour to evacuate those targets, but our strike force was discovered, and the flight leader ordered his force to retarget and launch early.

“You are more than welcome to try to shoot down the warheads, since I am certain that you can accurately predict the missiles’ flight path, but I am assured that it is almost impossible to do so even with your impressive Patriot PAC-3 surface-to-air missile. Of course, you might have a chance to do so with the AL-52 Dragon anti-ballistic-missile laser aircraft under General McLanahan’s command, but our intelligence tells me that you have grounded his entire fleet of aircraft. Unfortunate.”

“McLanahan is no longer in command of the Air Battle Force, Gryzlov,” Thorn said angrily. Marine One banked sharply, lining up for its final approach to landing. “You’re doing all this to avenge yourself on a man that’s not even in the picture anymore!”

“That does not matter, Mr. President,” the interpreter said. “For too long you and your predecessors have sanctioned McLanahan’s actions, and when he performs some heinous attack without your authority, you chose not to punish him — even when his actions kill thousands of innocent men, women, and children and terrorize the entire civilized world. McLanahan is nothing but a wild dog — but you are the dog’s handler. It is your responsibility, and you have failed. Now it is time to accept your punishment.

“I know you have absolutely no reason to trust me, President Thorn,” the interpreter went on, “but what I am about to tell you is the truth, and if your officers will check the data I have provided, you will see that I have told you the truth all along. I will continue to do so until I perceive that you will not be truthful with me. I do not want to start a nuclear war with you, Mr. Thorn—”

“But that is exactly what you’re doing!” Thorn retorted. The noise level inside the cabin rose as Marine One began its hover approach to its landing zone on the parade grounds outside the Fort Leavenworth headquarters building. “What do you expect me to do, Gryzlov — sit still while Russia drops dozens of nuclear warheads on the United States?”

“That is precisely what I expect you to do — for the sake of the world,” Gryzlov said. “I promise you, on my mother’s eyes, soldier to soldier, that I will not launch any further attacks on the United States of America, its allies — what few allies you have left — and its territories, unless you decide to retaliate. This attack is a response to your attacks against Russia. It is merely payback. Remember that.

“And if you study the effect of this attack, Mr. President, you will see in very short order that it leaves the United States and Russia with exactly the same number of strategic weapon systems — in other words, nuclear parity, with an equal number of delivery vehicles on both sides.”

“Are you actually going to present to the world that this attack is an arms-control exercise?” Thorn asked incredulously. “Do you honestly expect anyone on Earth to believe that?”

“Nonetheless, it will be true, and you may verify it yourself,” Gryzlov’s interpreter said. Thorn could hear papers shuffling — the interpreter was likely reading from a prepared script. “Now, I know that you have eight to ten Ohio-class nuclear ballistic-missile submarines on patrol at the present time, plus an equal number at port or undergoing maintenance. That is five times more than Russia has and, as much as I hate to admit it, I fear that our submarines will probably blow themselves up the moment they try to launch a missile. That gives the United States a substantial deterrent capability.”

“What’s your point, Gryzlov?”

“The point is, sir, that even if our attack is one hundred and ten percent effective, the United States would still have a substantial advantage over Russia. We could then—”

“Gryzlov, you don’t understand a thing,” Thorn snapped. “I don’t give a damn about the weapons. I’m all for reducing our nuclear arsenal to below two thousand warheads, maybe even lower. I would have been happy to work with you to draft a new Strategic Arms Limitation Treaty. But what you’re doing is killing potentially thousands of people in a sneak attack against the United States. No American president would allow that to happen unavenged.”

“So a sneak attack against Russia is acceptable to you, but a sneak attack against the United States is not?”

Thorn found he had no answer for Gryzlov. He felt that the Russian president was right: McLanahan had staged a sneak attack against Russian border guards in Belgorod, trying to rescue two of his crew members who’d been shot down over Russia — after he was specifically ordered to return to base. McLanahan had launched a sneak attack against Engels Air Base, moments before Russian bombers were to launch and execute a massive attack against Turkmeni military forces that had defeated a Russian battalion in Turkmenistan. McLanahan had destroyed a Russian air-defense site in Turkmenistan without proper authorization.

He hadn’t used nuclear weapons, of course — but did that really matter? The attack on Engels had killed thousands, including some civilians, and nearly destroyed one of Russia’s main military air bases. McLanahan’s attack on the air-defense site had killed almost two dozen, and that was against a completely defensive weapon system. Was Gryzlov a worse leader just because he was using nuclear weapons? Was Patrick McLanahan the real provocateur in this entire matter after all?

The door to Marine One opened, and two Secret Service agents, a general officer, and several armed soldiers stood outside in the driving rain, waiting excitedly for the president to alight. He did not need to glance at his watch to know that time was running out — no, time had run out a long time ago. Time had run out when he’d failed to deal with McLanahan, when he’d let his secretary of defense, Robert Goff, talk him out of punishing the general.

“Listen to me, President Thorn,” Gryzlov went on. “I need to know what you decide. Will you retaliate?”

“What if I do?”

“Then, depending on the threat to my government and my people, I will have to respond in kind,” the interpreter responded.

“Following your sneak attack with more threats, Gryzlov?”

“Allow me to remind you again, Mr. President: This attack, although preemptive and heinous, makes us even. For the first time in history, Russia and the United States are at a strategic parity, with the United States definitely holding a technological and, at least for the time being, a moral advantage. If you retaliate, you’ll be condemning the world to nuclear disaster. You will be the aggressor.”

There was a rustling of sound on the phone, and then General Anatoliy Gryzlov’s voice, speaking in halting and heavily accented English, took over from that of the interpreter. “Mr. President, you have made remarks in the past saying that a limited nuclear war is not just possible but probable. You have seen nuclear weapons used by the People’s Republic of China, the former North Koreans, and even Ukraine against Russia itself. Surely you have given this topic much thought. You know your answer. You know that the risk I have taken is great, but the risk you take by retaliating heightens the danger to the world a thousandfold.”

“Mr. President, I want you into a shelter in five minutes,” the chief of the Presidential Protection Detail said sternly. Thorn’s internal “commando clock” told him there was less than twenty minutes before the first warhead would hit. “We have to go now.”

“President Thorn?” Gryzlov asked. “What will you do?”

Thorn looked at his PPD chief, then at the floor of the VIP cabin of the helicopter. Taking a deep breath, he raised his head and said, “What I’m going to do…is not talk to you any longer, Gryzlov,” the president said. “You launch nuclear weapons at my country and then tell me that you won’t launch any more unless we do — and you say it as casually as apologizing for accidentally splashing mud on someone? I’ll do what I have to do, without conferring with you beforehand.” Gryzlov was saying something in Russian in the background, but Thorn hung up before the interpreter could translate.

He leaped out of the helicopter. The general officer saluted, and Thorn returned his salute. “Mr. President, I’m Major General Robert Lee Brown, commanding general,” he said. “This way, sir, quickly.” Brown motioned to a waiting staff car, and they drove off, surrounded by Army military-police escorts. They drove to a traditional-looking three-story brick building; inside, it looked anything but traditional. There was a welcome area featuring several large computer screens where visitors could watch images of computerized tank and helicopter battles, with captions underneath showing which units were participating in the mock battle. All of the screens were dark now, shut down to prevent damage in case of an electromagnetic pulse, and the area was deserted except for a few worried-looking soldiers in battle-dress uniforms stepping hurriedly past.

The group took a concrete-and-steel stairway down two floors, followed a long minimally decorated corridor, and entered an office complex with a secretarial staff area flanked by several large office suites. “This is the computer operations hub for the National Simulation Center, which conducts several different types of battlefield combat simulations,” Brown said. “This office complex is the most secure location on base, and it is also equipped with secure high-speed communications facilities. You should be safe down here for as long as you need to stay. We’re not hardened against EMP, nor are we equipped with biochem filters, but this is the safest place on post. We should be safe if Whiteman or McConnell is attacked.”

“That’s okay, General,” Thorn said. “We’ll be on our way as soon as we’re able. Thank you. Please see to your command now — make sure everyone is safe.” The general saluted the president, shook his proffered hand, then departed. “Mark, get me the NMCC.”

The Secret Service agent got a quick briefing on the phone system, then dialed the National Military Command Center, checked in, and activated the speakerphone. “This is the president, secure,” Thorn said. “Situation report.”

“Sir, this is General Venti. Secretary Goff and I are en route to Andrews to take the NAOC airborne.” The NAOC, or National Airborne Operations Center, was the flying version of the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon, a converted Boeing 747 able to communicate with government, civil, and military forces around the world. “We are still in an Air Defense EMERCON. Four bases in Alaska have been struck by small-yield nuclear missiles — all radar sites and ballistic-missile defense installations. NORAD is now tracking several dozen inbound very-high-speed cruise missiles over south-central Canada. Estimated time to first impact: nine minutes, twelve seconds; target: Minot Air Force Base, North Dakota.”

“I spoke with Gryzlov — he confirmed he launched the attack and warns us not to retaliate,” Thorn said grimly. “Status of the government and military command-and-control network?”

“Good and bad, sir,” Venti said. “Most of the cabinet and congressional leadership have checked in with the comm center. Most are staying in Washington, unless there’s evidence that they might try to strike the capital. Since there are no tracks detected heading toward Washington or anywhere east of the Mississippi, the vice president relocated to High Point instead of going airborne. We’ll take several members of Congress and other agencies airborne with us. Secretary of State Hershel is airborne in a C-32 from Phoenix. Attorney General Horton hasn’t checked in, but his deputy said he was en route to Andrews, along with the director of the FBI.”

“I want you and Secretary Goff airborne ASAP, General, as soon as you arrive at Andrews,” the president said. “As soon as both of you are on board, lift off. Don’t wait for stragglers.”

“Understood, sir.”

“What’s the bad news, General?”

“The bad news, sir,” Venti said grimly, “is that we’re going to get clobbered, and there’s nothing we can do about it except watch — and wait for the casualty counts to come in.”

Their day had started at seven-thirty the previous morning. Captain Bruce Ellerby and Second Lieutenant Christine Johnson, his assistant crew commander, met at the 742nd Missile Squadron to review tech-order changes and alert notes. They wore royal blue Air Force fatigues with white name tapes and insignia, along with squadron scarves.

After a series of briefings to the entire oncoming crews, including launch-facility status, intelligence, weather, and standardization/evaluation reports, the crews piled their tech orders, manuals, and other bags into assigned vans and headed out to their assigned launch-control facilities. Both Ellerby and Johnson were taking correspondence classes while on alert, so they brought backpacks filled with books: Ellerby was working on his master’s degree in aviation-maintenance management from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University, while Johnson was working on both Squadron Officer School and her master’s degree in computer science from the University of North Dakota.

After dropping off another crew, Ellerby and Johnson made their way to their facility and checked in with the security-forces commander around noon. A security-alert team was sent out to check ID cards and access badges, and the van was allowed to approach the launch-control facility. The crew checked in with the “House Mouse,” the noncommissioned officer who controlled access to the facility, to get the security and operational status of the site, and then placed a lunch order with the cook. By then the House Mouse had checked in with the offgoing crew, received verification of crew change and code words, then opened the elevator-shaft access door for the ongoing crew.

Despite its being only an eight-story ride, it took four minutes for the elevator to reach the bottom. Their first task after reaching the subterranean level was to manually pump open the locking pins securing the ten-ton outer blast door leading to the launch-control electrical bay. Despite being heavy, the door was so well balanced on its hinges that it was easy for Ellerby and Johnson to pull it open. Once inside, the crew completed their preflight checks of the high-voltage electrical systems, switching panels, generators, and batteries, which would supply electrical power to the launch-control facility in case city power was disrupted. Once the checklist was complete, the crew closed the big door and pumped the locks back in.

Meanwhile, the offgoing crew in the launch-control capsule was pumping open the blast door to the capsule. By the time Ellerby and Johnson were finished, the door was open, and they walked across a narrow tunnel leading to the launch-control capsule, an egg-shaped room suspended from the ceiling by enormous spring shock absorbers designed to protect the crew from the blast effects of all but a direct hit by a nuclear weapon.

The offgoing crew commander briefed the ongoing crew on the status of the facility and on any scheduled maintenance or security-team inspections that were to be performed on the facility itself or any of the ten primary and ten secondary missiles under their supervision. The final task was for the offgoing crew to remove their combination locks from the red safe above the deputy commander’s launch console and cut off the tamper-evident truck seals securing the safe. The oncoming crew checked the authentication documents and launch keys, logged the new seal numbers, then closed, locked, and safety-sealed the safe. With the changeover complete, the offgoing crew turned over their sidearms to the new crew and departed. A final one hundred pumps on the handle, and the capsule was closed. After a check-in with the squadron’s other four launch-control facilities and assessment of equipment status, the twenty-four-hour alert tour began.

Normally, pulling alert in a missile launch-control facility meant hours and hours of boredom, punctuated by a few hours of busywork and a few minutes of excitement. This tour was anything but normal. After a fairly quiet day and early evening, the communications system became more and more active as the evening wore on, with several communications and status-report queries from wing and Twentieth Air Force headquarters. Tensions were obviously high. The crews were fully aware of the events that had taken place in Central Asia in recent weeks and months, and of the overall heightened degree of distrust and suspicion of the Russians.

The tension exploded early the next morning with a loud, rapid deedledeedledeedle! warning tone, signaling receipt of an emergency action message. Christine Johnson, taking a nap in the crew bunk, immediately bolted upright and hurried over to her deputy crew commander’s seat. Ellerby was already in his seat, and he had his codebook out and open. Seconds later a coded message from the wing command post was broadcast, and both crew members copied the message in their codebooks with grease pencils and began decoding it.

The first indication that this was not going to be a normal day: The message decoded as an “Actual” message, not an “Exercise,” and although they had received several “Actual” messages already that shift, getting another so early in the morning was not normal. “I decode the message as a Message Eleven,” Ellerby announced.

“I concur,” Johnson said, her mouth turning instantly dry. She stood up and removed her lock and the truck seal from the red safe while Ellerby joined her. He removed the proper authentication card from the outer compartment. “Card Bravo-Echo.”

“Checks,” she said. He snapped open the foil card and tore off the top, exposing a combination of six letters and numbers underneath the foil, then laid it down on the message book. The characters were exactly as Johnson had copied.

“Authenticators match and are in exact sequence,” Ellerby said.

“I concur,” Johnson said, her heart pounding now.

This time both crew members did everything together, slowly and carefully. They decoded the rest of the message, entering the proper date-time group and instructions on another page in the message book. When they were finished, they looked at each other — and realized they were about to do something neither one of them had ever done except in a simulator.

Ellerby removed his lock from the red safe, cut off the second truck seal, and opened the main compartment. He handed Johnson a key and three more authenticator cards, then took a key and his cards back to his console. The two consoles were fifteen feet apart, separated to avoid any one person from touching the other’s console — especially the switch into which the launch keys were inserted. Meanwhile, Johnson looped the launch key over her neck, strapped herself into her steel seat with a four-point harness, and tightened the straps.

Both crew members began running their checklists as directed in the emergency action message: They notified the other launch-control facilities in the squadron that they had copied and authenticated a valid message; they began the power-up and data-transfer and alignment sequence; and they alerted the aboveground security and maintenance crews that they had received a launch-alert message. The crew was in a hair-trigger readiness state, waiting for the next message.

The next message arrived a few moments later, with retargeting information. On day-to-day alert, the Minuteman III missiles at Minot and elsewhere had “open-ocean” coordinates programmed into the missiles, so in case of an accidental or terrorist launch, the warheads would not hit any real targets. Now real targets had to be entered back into each missile’s warhead. It did not take long to do, but it was scary for the crew members to realize that they had taken the next step toward actually firing their missiles in anger. If the missiles left their silos now, they would strike their assigned targets minutes later — there was no abort, no recall, and no retargeting while in flight.

After the retargeting was completed, there was nothing to do but sit back and wait to copy and authenticate an execution message, which would direct them to complete their launch checklist. The final step was to insert their launch keys into the launch switch and perform simultaneous key turns, which would enter a launch vote into the time-shared master computer. Successful key turns by at least two launch-control capsules with no INHIBIT commands from any other squadron LCCs was necessary to launch the missiles; three successful key turns in the squadron would send a launch command, no matter how many other INHIBIT commands were entered. The master computer would then decide when each missile would launch, automatically holding some missiles while others launched so the warheads would not destroy each other after—

Suddenly the entire launch-control capsule heaved. The lights blinked, then went out, then came back one by one. The air became heavy, then hot, then seemed to boil with moisture and red-hot dust. The capsule banged against something solid — probably the bottom of the facility — and then bounced and shook like a bucking bronco. Both crew members screamed as their bodies were hurled against their restraints. Equipment, books, and papers started flying in every direction around the capsule, but Ellerby and Johnson didn’t notice as they fought to stay conscious against the tremendous pounding. The heat began to build and build….

And then it all exploded into a wall of fire, which mercifully lasted only one or two heartbeats, until everything went forever dark and silent.

Attention all aircraft on this frequency, this is Salt Lake Center, I have received an emergency notification from the U.S. Defense Department and the Department of Homeland Security,” the message on the radio said suddenly. “You are instructed to divert to the nearest suitable airport and land immediately. Any aircraft not in compliance within the next twenty minutes is in violation of federal air regulations and will be prosecuted, and you may be shot down by ground or airborne air-defense weapon systems without further warning.”

Patrick McLanahan, sipping on a bottle of cold water while at the controls of his own Aerostar 602P twin-engine airplane, nearly gagged when he heard that announcement. He immediately punched the NRST button on his GPS computer, which gave him a list of the nearest airports. Luckily, there were a lot to choose from in this area — a few minutes farther west, out over the vast high deserts of western Utah and eastern Nevada, and he’d be in big trouble.

His Aerostar was a rather small, bullet-shaped twin-engine plane, built for speed, with short wings that needed a lot of runway for takeoff, so he had to choose carefully or he might have trouble departing; Patrick also remembered that thousands of air travelers had been stranded for several days after they were grounded following the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, and several hundred general-aviation aircraft were grounded for weeks if they were based near Boston, New York City, or Washington, D.C. The nearest airport to him now, Nephi Municipal, was only six miles away, which would take him about two minutes, but Provo Municipal was only twenty-eight miles farther north and would only take him an extra nine minutes to reach; it had a longer runway and better airport services. He figured he’d be much more likely to get a bus or train ride home from Provo than he would from Nephi.

The channel was clogged with voices, dozens of pilots all trying to talk at once. “All aircraft on this frequency, shut up!” the controller shouted. It took several such calls for the frequency to clear. “Everyone, listen carefully and cooperate. Don’t acknowledge my calls unless I ask you to, and keep all channels clear unless it’s an emergency — and by God, it had better be a big emergency.

“All VFR aircraft using radar flight following: Radar services are terminated, squawk VFR, and land immediately at the nearest suitable airfield,” the controller went on, struggling to remain calm and measured. “Aircraft below flight level one-eight-zero on IFR flight plans in VMC, remain VMC, squawk VFR, and land at the nearest suitable airfield immediately.” Patrick was on an IFR, or Instrument Flight Rules, flight plan, which meant his flight was being monitored by federal air traffic controllers. Because the controllers were responsible for safe aircraft and terrain separation, IFR pilots had to follow precise flight rules. All aircraft at or above eighteen thousand feet were required to be on such a flight plan.

Below eighteen thousand, pilots flying in good weather (called VMC, or “visual meteorological conditions”) had the option of filing an IFR flight plan or flying under VFR, or Visual Flight Rules, which allowed much more freedom. Pilots flying VFR were responsible for their own traffic and terrain separation, but could request radar service, called “flight following,” which controllers would provide if they weren’t too busy with their IFR responsibilities.

“IFR aircraft in positive control airspace, if you are so equipped and can ensure your own terrain and traffic separation, squawk VFR and proceed immediately to the nearest suitable airport for landing — I should be able to figure out which airport you’re headed for and change your flight plan.

“All other aircraft, I am going to be giving you initial vectors, so listen up. Approach controllers will be giving you further vectors for landing. Do not acknowledge radio calls, just do what I tell you to do. As soon as you descend below one-eight thousand feet in VMC, squawk VFR and proceed to the nearest suitable airport for immediate landing. Keep your eyes and ears open for traffic advisories and monitor GUARD for emergency messages.”

Patrick adjusted the autopilot for a quick descent, set his transponder to “1200,” which meant he was accepting responsibility for his own navigation and collision avoidance, pulled out his approach charts, and began running his checklists for landing. The Center frequency was hopelessly clogged with radio calls, despite the controller’s pleas, so Patrick tuned the radio to Salt Lake City radar approach control, checked in, and received approach instructions. Weather was good. He popped the speed brakes to increase his rate of descent, careful not to pull too much power off, because his engines were warm and a rapid descent plus low power settings might damage the Aerostar’s big-bore turbocharged engines.

He knew he should be concentrating on his plane, approach, and landing, but he couldn’t help it — he had to find out what had caused the air-defense emergency.

“McLanahan to Luger,” Patrick spoke into midair. His original subcutaneous transceiver had been removed—“hacked out” would be more accurate — by the Libyans two years earlier, but the new one, implanted into his abdomen to make locating and removing it more difficult, worked perfectly. All personnel assigned to the High Technology Aerospace Weapons Center wore them for the rest of their lives, mostly so the government could keep track of them in case the need arose.

“Patrick!” Dave Luger responded. “Where the hell have you been?”

“On my way to Sacramento to meet up with my family,” Patrick said. “I’m in the Aerostar, about to land in—”

“Muck, all hell is breaking loose,” Luger said. “I’ve just launched four Vampires, five Megafortresses, and six tankers to escape orbits off the coast.”

“What?”

“Muck, the damned Russians actually did what you predicted — they launched a gaggle of Blackjack, Bear, and Backfire bombers and attacked with AS-17s and -19s, exactly like over Uzbekistan,” Luger said. “First they sent two Blackjack bombers in low-level and wiped out Clear Air Station in Alaska, then shot nuclear missiles at Fort Wainwright, Fort Greely, and Eielson—”

“What? Oh, Jesus…!”

“Looks like the targets were all ballistic-missile defense sites, Muck,” Dave went on. “Then they blasted a hole in the North Warning System radars with missiles from Backfires and drove about thirty Bear bombers through. They were caught by the Canadians about three hundred miles after feet-dry and started firing missiles. The Canucks got a couple, but DSP estimates at least fifty hypersonic cruise missiles are on their way.”

“Oh, shit!” Patrick swore. His throat and lips turned instantly dry, there was a buzzing sound in his ears, and his heart felt as if it were going to jump right out of his chest. He could not believe what he’d just heard — but then, he’d been so certain it would happen that he really wasn’t that surprised. “Wh-when will they hit?”

“First CONUS missile hits Minot any minute now,” Luger responded. “Looks like they’re going after ballistic-missile defense bases, bomber bases, missile launch-control facilities…and STRATCOM headquarters at Offutt.”

“My God…what about Washington…?”

“Not yet,” Luger responded. “Just Alaska and the Midwest bomber and missile bases. Where are you, Muck?”

“Getting ready to land in Provo, Utah.”

“It’d be safer for you here, and it won’t take you long in your Aerostar — maybe an hour and a half. Got enough gas to make it?”

“I just refueled in Pagosa Springs, so I have plenty of gas,” Patrick said, “but air-traffic control ordered all aircraft to land. I’ve got ten minutes to be on the ground.”

“I’ll give them a call and see if they’ll let you come on in. Stand by.” But less than a minute later, he came back. “No good, Muck. Every phone line is jammed.”

Patrick hesitated — but only for a moment. He retracted the speed brakes, pushed in the mixture and prop levers, then slowly moved up the throttles, while at the same time continuing his descent. Soon the radar altimeter, which measured the distance between the airplane and the ground, clicked in at two thousand feet above ground level.

“Aerostar Five-six Bravo Mike,” the approach controller radioed a few moments later, “you are below my radar coverage, radar services terminated, frequency change approved. Land immediately and remain on the ground until specifically cleared for flight again by the FAA. Do not acknowledge.”

Don’t worry, I won’t, Patrick said to himself. When the radar altimeter read one thousand feet aboveground, Patrick leveled off — and then he punched the DIRECT-TO button on his GPS navigator and entered “KBAM,” the identifier for Battle Mountain, Nevada. He had to adjust the routing to stay away from restricted airspace around the Dugway Proving Grounds, but soon he was heading westbound as fast as the Aerostar could carry him, as low as he could safely go in the mountainous terrain. “Dave, I’m coming in, ETE one hour twenty-five minutes,” Patrick reported.

“How’d you manage that, Muck?”

“The old-fashioned way — terrain masking,” Patrick replied. “I just hope no interceptors think I’m a bad guy. Send a message to NORAD and tell them what I’m doing so their fighter jocks won’t shoot me down.” Undoubtedly the North American Aerospace Defense Command would set up air patrols around the entire region in very short time. “After you do that, you can brief me on the status of your forces.”

“They’re your forces, Muck,” Luger said.

“I’ve been bounced out of my last command, Dave,” Patrick said. “Houser has preferred charges against me. I’m not in command of anything.”

“These are your forces, Muck — always were, always will be,” Luger repeated. “I’m just keeping them warm for you. You realize, of course, that I never received orders confirming me as commander of Air Battle Force?”

“Yes you did. The message from the Pentagon—”

“Only directed that I take control of the force while you were called to take command of the Nine-sixty-sixth,” Luger said. “You’re still the boss — and I think the powers that be wanted it that way. Come on in, and we’ll figure out what we’re going to do next — if we survive this, that is.”

“We’ll survive it,” Patrick said. “Were you able to deploy any of the Tin Men?”

“I’ve got two teams deployed to Eareckson right now,” Luger said. “I’m just awaiting an execution order.”

“Get them out of there — if the Russians are going after ballistic-missile defense bases, it’s likely to be next.”

“Already done, Muck,” Luger said. “We dispersed them to Attu as soon as the air-defense alerts were broadcast.”

Patrick made several rapid mental calculations and quickly determined that the mission was nearly impossible. It was around fifteen hundred miles from Eareckson Air Force Base on the island of Shemya in the Aleutian Islands of western Alaska to Yakutsk, Russia. For the MV-32 Pave Dasher tilt-jet aircraft, it meant five hours and at least two aerial refuelings one way, flown over open ocean as well as over some of the most inhospitable terrain on the planet. The team’s tanker aircraft, a U.S. Air Force HC-130P special-operations tanker, would have to fly over the Kamchatka Peninsula, the Sea of Okhotsk, and probably a good portion of Siberia to rendezvous with the MV-32 on its return leg.

If the Pave Dashers missed any of their refueling rendezvous, they would not make it back home.

From the moment the MV-32 and the HC-130P left Shemya, it would be virtually over enemy territory — there was nothing between Shemya and Yakutsk except icy-cold oceans and Russian territory. It was suicidal. No one would ever imagine that such a mission could succeed.

Which made it perfect for the Tin Men. “Have the team stand by, Dave,” Patrick said. “I want to get them airborne as soon as possible — but they’re not going in alone.”

The intercom phone next to Lieutenant General Terrill Samson’s seat buzzed. He, along with Major General Gary Houser of the Air Intelligence Agency and several of their senior staff members, were flying to Offutt Air Force Base south of Omaha, Nebraska, to meet with General Thomas Muskoka of Air Combat Command and the staff of the United States Strategic Command to discuss activities in Russia and what sort of plans they should recommend to the Pentagon to respond. Samson glanced at Houser, who was seated across from him in the club seating of the small jet, silently ordering him to answer it. Houser reached forward and picked up the receiver. “This is General Houser.”

“Major Hale up on the flight deck, sir,” the copilot of the Air Force C-21 transport jet responded. “We’ve received a notification of an air-defense emergency over the United States.”

“What?” Houser exclaimed. “What’s the emergency?”

“Unknown, sir,” the copilot responded. “Air-traffic control is ordering us to land immediately. Offutt Air Force Base has closed its runway because of operational requirements. The nearest suitable base for us is Lincoln Municipal.”

“We’re not landing at a civilian airfield, Major — we’re a military SAM flight, for Christ’s sake,” Houser retorted. A SAM, or Special Air Mission, was a designation that gave government or military flights priority handling by air-traffic controllers, almost on a par with Air Force One itself. “And what the hell does ‘operational requirements’ mean?”

“They wouldn’t say, sir.”

“TellATC that we’re going to land at Offutt unless further notified,” Houser said. “Remind them, again, that we’re a military SAM flight. Then get the Fifty-fifth Wing commander on the line immediately.”

“Sir, we’ve already tried to communicate with him directly — no response.”

“I’ve got General Samson with me. He’ll authorize us to divert to Offutt.”

“Sorry, sir, but this directive comes down from NORAD through the FAA.”

“Then request General Samson speak with General Shepard at NORAD ASAP — he’s probably already at Offutt for the meeting we’re supposed to attend, for Christ’s sake. If he’s not available, get General Venti at the Pentagon. We’re not going to divert to a civilian airfield, especially not if an emergency exists that we need to respond to. Hurry it up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Samson looked up from his laptop computer. “What’s going on, Gary?”

“ATC says someone’s declared an air-defense emergency,” Houser said. “They’re trying to get us to land at the nearest civilian airfield.”

“They know we’re a SAM flight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Base ops at Offutt will have to contact FAA directly.”

“The crew has tried to contact the Fifty-fifth Wing commander directly. They’re going to try to get General Shepard to get us permission to land. He should be right there at the STRATCOM command center.”

The phone buzzed again, and this time Samson picked it up. “General Samson.”

“Major Hale up on the flight deck, sir. ATC says to divert immediately to Lincoln Municipal. Offutt is out. They say base ops at Offutt advised ATC not to allow anyone to land there, including inbound SAMs. No response from General Shepard.”

“What in hell is going on, Major?”

“I don’t know, sir,” the copilot responded, “but I’m monitoring the radios, and it sounds like Offutt launched one of their AOCs.” AOCs were the Airborne Operations Center E-4Bs based at Offutt, modified Boeing 747 airliners with the ability to communicate with and direct military forces worldwide.

“So the runway itself is okay?”

“Sounds like it, sir.”

“Then advise ATC that we’re landing at Offutt,” Samson ordered. “If they still want you to divert, declare an emergency for national security reasons and proceed to Offutt.”

“Yes, sir.”

Samson hung up the intercom, picked up the in-flight phone, and dialed his command post’s number. No response. He tried his office number — still no response. “Well, what the hell is going on?” he muttered. “I can’t get through to anyone.”

“Maybe we ought to land at Lincoln as they ordered,” Houser suggested nervously, “and then sort it out on the ground.”

“We’re less than forty miles from landing — we’re not going to divert an extra fifty just because ATC has got a bug up their ass about something,” General Samson said. “Besides, if something’s going on, the best place for us to be is at Offutt in the command center. We’ll go there, even if we have to land on the taxiway.” Samson had a bit of trouble relaying that desire to the pilot, but once the C-21 pilot was reminded exactly who in the back of the plane was calling the shots, the decision was quickly made.

They watched out the small jet’s windows as they broke through a thin overcast layer and caught a glimpse of the air base off in the distance. Nothing looked out of the ordinary — no smoke or fire from a plane crash, no signs of any sort of terrorist attack or of an approaching tornado or severe thunderstorm. They appeared to be lining up for a straight-in approach. Gary Houser felt relieved when the landing gear came down, indicating they were cleared to land.

On the five-mile final, Houser was busy packing up his briefcase and getting ready for landing when he noticed a bright flash of light, like a nearby bolt of lightning. At that exact moment, the lights inside the airplane cabin popped out.

“Holy crap!” Terrill Samson said, “I think we just got hit by lightning.”

“It sounds like the engines are spooling down, too,” Houser said. It was hard to tell with the noise from the landing gear and flaps — or was that noise from the gear…or something else? This was bad. They might be able to drag it in from this altitude, but these jets didn’t glide too well. He tightened his seat belt and waited for the impact. He could hear the jet engine’s starters roaring and the igniters clicking as the pilots frantically tried to restart the engines. They had flown through that thin overcast, but there didn’t seem to be any thunder-heads nearby — where did the lightning come from? He glanced out the window.

And saw what he thought was a huge tornado, like something in a disaster movie, that had instantly materialized out of nowhere right in the middle of the base. It was an immense column of dirt rising vertically, at least a mile in diameter — with what looked like orange, red, and yellow volcano-like rivers of fire mixed in. He opened his mouth to yell out a warning to the cockpit when he heard an earsplitting blast, like a thousand crashes of thunder.

Then he felt, saw, and heard nothing.