Plan of Attack

7

President Thomas Thorn sat at his desk in the executive office suite in the nose section of Air Force One, staring at a computerized map of the United States. Several dots on the map, representing military installations, were blinking; others had red triangles around them. Another flat-panel digital monitor had images of the vice president at the Mount Weather Continuation of Government Special Facility, known as “High Point,” in Berryville, West Virginia; another showed images of Secretary of Defense Robert Goff and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff General Venti, both airborne aboard the E-4B National Airborne Operations Center, orbiting out over the Atlantic Ocean with two F-15C Eagle fighters in formation with it. Several members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff — the ones that managed to make it to Andrews in time for takeoff — were also present in the NAOC’s conference room and listening in on the teleconference, but were not visible on the screen.

“NORAD is showing no more tracks, Mr. President,” Goff said somberly over the secure videoconference link. “Looks like the attack is over.”

It was over, all right — over for thousands of military men and women, their families, and many thousands more innocent civilians living near the military targets.

As hard as he tried, Thomas Thorn found himself growing angrier by the second. He knew before receiving any estimates that the death toll was going to be huge — ten, twenty, maybe thirty times greater than the number of lives lost in New York, Washington, and Pennsylvania on September 11. How could the Russians do something like this? It was such an unbelievable act of pure homicidal madness. Calling this an “act of war” just didn’t seem to cut it. This was an act of insanity.

“You okay, Thomas?” Vice President Busick asked over the secure video teleconference. “You look like you’re flying through some rough air.”

“I’m okay,” Thorn replied.

“I know what you’re feelin’, Thomas,” Busick said. “You wanna go wring someone’s neck.” Thorn glanced at Busick’s face in the monitor. “Get over that, Thomas. You have a lot of dead Americans out there, and a lot more that want to know what’s gonna happen next. You’re the man that’s going to need to have some answers. Let’s get organized.”

Thorn stared blankly at a window — thick silver curtains had been installed over all the windows in Air Force One to prevent injury by flash blindness, should any more nuclear warheads explode nearby. He felt helpless, overwhelmed. He and a handful of military and government advisers were locked up in an airplane, flying over the ocean, far away from the capital. Bits of information were dripping in, but for the most part they were disconnected from the rest of the country. They were cut off.

No, even that wasn’t exactly true. They were running. They had abandoned the capital and were doing nothing more than fleeing to save their own lives, while the rest of America had to sit and take whatever the Russians were going to fire at them next.

He had faced many such unexpected disasters in his years as a special-operations officer in the U.S. Army. When an operation went wrong or when they were discovered, the team went into a sort of mental shock. They had planned and sometimes rehearsed many alternate and emergency-contingency missions, but when the shit hits the fan for real, the only plan they usually thought of was escape. It was confusing, chaotic, and, frankly, it didn’t look very heroic. Weeks and sometimes months of planning gave way to a headlong, almost irrational fleeing instinct. Some of the more experienced troops remembered to tell the others important things — like which way to go, what to watch out for, and to remember to collect up things like maps, comm gear, weapons, and fallen comrades. But for everyone the bottom line is simple: Get out. Save yourself. Run.

Once they had escaped, rendezvoused, and inventoried themselves and their equipment, the very next thing they did was look to the team leaders, the officer and NCO in charge, for guidance and a plan of action. They didn’t want anger, or vows of revenge, or signs of grief and sorrow — they wanted and needed leadership. That’s what President Thomas Thorn had to provide—now. Even if he didn’t know exactly what he wanted to do, he had to have the strength and courage to gather up his forces and get them moving.

Thorn drew in a deep breath, retrieved a bottle of water, took a deep swig, then turned back to the video teleconference camera, “facing” his team of advisers. “Analysis?” the president asked simply.

“I’ve got a very preliminary tally, Mr. President,” General Richard Venti, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, responded. He took a deep breath, steeling himself to deliver a report he thought he would never, ever have to present:

“First to be hit was Clear Air Station in Alaska,” he began. “Clear is…was…is a major radar and command-and-control base for the entire state of Alaska and the approaches into North America. The attack destroyed several radar systems, communications facilities, and a ground-based interceptor silo complex being built for the ballistic-missile defense force. Clear was the main ballistic-missile and aircraft-tracking station in the north, manned by approximately one thousand men and women. It was hit by a total of eight low-yield nuclear weapons, some with air-burst fuzes to destroy aboveground facilities, others with penetrating bunker-buster fuzes to destroy the ground-launched interceptor silos.

“Next was an attack against three major military bases in eastern Alaska, near Fairbanks,” Venti went on. “Eielson Air Force Base is the home of the Three-fifty-fourth Fighter Wing, an F-16 and A-10 attack wing, but it also houses several components of the national missile-defense infrastructure, including the Alaskan headquarters for the system. Fort Wainwright and Fort Greely are Army installations housing several infantry units, but they also contain several key NMD facilities. The bases were hit by eight nuclear-tipped missiles.”

“How many men and women at those bases, General?” the president asked woodenly, dreading the answer.

“About…approximately fifteen thousand in all four bases, sir,” Venti responded.

“My…God…” Thomas Thorn felt his face redden, and tears flowed into his eyes. He could barely fathom such a number killed all at once. His voice cracked as he said, “Those bastards…!” He rested his head on his fingers, blankly staring straight ahead. After a few moments, with his head still bowed, he asked, “Do we know what kind of bombers they used?”

“The attacks against Alaska were accomplished by an unknown number of high-speed bombers, probably Tupolev-160s, code-named ‘Blackjack,’ ” Air Force Chief of Staff General Charles Kuzner responded. “The Blackjack’s standard strategic attack armament is sixteen AS-16 ‘Kickback’ missiles, inertially guided, short range, high speed, similar to our obsolete AGM-69 short-range attack missiles that used to arm our strategic bombers. The bombers probably came in at treetop level all the way from Siberia. FAA and NORAD spotted them as they came ashore, but we couldn’t get any more interceptors in the air fast enough.” The president raised his head and stared accusingly into the camera, which prompted Air Force General Kuzner to blurt out, “Sir, we had already launched fighters from Eielson and Elmendorf because of the air-defense threat farther north and—”

“I’m not blaming anyone, General,” Thorn said.

“We had four fighters rolling at Eielson when the base came under attack,” Kuzner went on. “We had two more coming up from Elmendorf searching for them, but the electromagnetic pulses from the aboveground nuclear explosions were scrambling radar and communications for hundreds of miles. The F-15s couldn’t see a thing, couldn’t talk to anyone, couldn’t do a damned thing to stop them….”

“I said I’m not blaming you, General Kuzner,” the president repeated. He could see Kuzner’s Adam’s apple bobbing up and down and his facial muscles slacken as he silently tried to deal with the horror — the horror that his forces might have prevented, had they been more prepared.

Venti waited until he could see the president look at him, silently asking him to continue, then cleared his throat and went on. “The first CONUS base to be hit was Minot Air Force Base, thirteen miles outside the city of Minot, North Dakota. That base is the home of the Fifth Bomb Wing, with twenty-four B-52H Stratofortress bombers and twelve KC-135R Stratotanker aerial-refueling tankers. Minot is also the home of the Ninety-first Space Wing, a Minuteman III missile wing, which comprises fifteen underground launch-control centers spread out over eighty-five hundred square miles of North Dakota. Each LCC controls ten LGM-30G Minuteman intercontinental ballistic missiles; in compliance with the START II treaty, each Minuteman has been downgraded from three independently targeted warheads to just one W78 nuclear warhead. We have detected direct hits on the base itself and several hits near the LCCs, but we don’t yet know how many were knocked out.”

“What about the base?”

“Unknown yet, sir,” Venti responded somberly. “It took two direct hits.”

“How many personnel on that base?”

“About…about five thousand military.” Left unsaid was the obvious fact that perhaps two to four times that many military dependents and civilians living near the base could have perished.

“My God,” the president breathed. He could scarcely believe that this was happening — and yet he reminded himself that the death toll had not even begun to be calculated. “What about the city?”

“A few reports of damage, a few casualties, but it appears the city itself was not affected.”

“Thank God.”

“The attacks on the continental U.S. appear to have been done by Tupolev-95 Bear bombers, launching very long-range AS-19 hypersonic missiles, code-named ‘Koala,’ ” Venti said. “The Bear bombers are not supersonic, but their range is almost twice that of the Blackjack bomber. Several Bear bombers were intercepted and shot down over Canada by Canadian air-defense forces.”

“AS-19—isn’t that the same missile supposedly used over Uzbekistan?” Vice President Busick asked.

“Yes, sir,” Secretary of Defense Goff said. “Apparently the attack against our CIA station in Uzbekistan was an operational test launch.”

“Oh, shit…”

“Next to be hit was Grand Forks Air Force Base, sixteen miles west of the city of Grand Forks, North Dakota,” Venti went on. “Grand Forks is the headquarters of the new U.S. National Missile Defense Command, the agency that will control our ballistic-missile defense forces. The base also has a reserve nuclear-weapon storage facility that houses approximately four hundred and forty Minuteman-missile warheads, air-launched cruise-missile warheads, and B61 and B83 nuclear bombs, all in secure storage. It was hit by a single Russian cruise missile with great accuracy. It’s possible the direct casualty count here is very small, although that doesn’t take into account the fallout and contamination from the warheads that were not incinerated in the blast. The base was also home to the Three-nineteenth Air Refueling Wing, with twenty-two KC-135R tankers.”

The president could do nothing but shake his head, almost overwhelmed by the enormity of this disaster. The effect of the fallout — dirt and debris bombarded by gamma radiation, making it radioactive, then carried aloft by the force of the blast, spreading over hundreds of thousand of square miles by high-altitude winds, then falling back to Earth — was something to which very little attention had been paid since the collapse of the Soviet Union and the end of the Cold War. Thorn remembered the civil-defense exercises he’d participated in as a child, and fallout was one of those fearsome things that caused nightmares in impressionable young children. Now they had to face it for real — and he found he was still scared of the harm it might cause.

“Next was Malmstrom Air Force Base, just six miles east of Great Falls, Montana,” Venti went on. “The Three-forty-first Space Wing there deploys two hundred Minuteman III missiles in twenty LCCs spread out over twenty-three thousand square miles of Montana. The base itself, which does not have an operating runway, did not appear to be hit. Unfortunately, the missile-silo fields surround the city of Great Falls on three sides, and we have detected explosions all around the city. It’s possible casualties could be relatively small here, too, but it’s too early to tell.

“Next was Ellsworth Air Force Base, twelve miles east of Rapid City, South Dakota. Ellsworth is the home of the Twenty-eighth Bomb Wing, a B-1B Lancer-bomber base. It was hit by a single missile. This target is somewhat unusual, in that all the other places targeted by the Russians were related to nuclear warfighting — Ellsworth’s B-1 bombers were made nonnuclear eight years ago to conform to Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty limits. Although it’s possible to make them capable of carrying nuclear weapons, it would take many months to do it, and it would greatly downgrade our conventional bombing capability. This signals a flaw in the Russians’ intelligence matrix — either they forgot that we made the B-1s nonnuclear or they thought we were about to turn them back into nuclear bombers.”

“Which is precisely what we should be doing, sir,” Kuzner interjected, “along with the aircraft in flyable storage. As soon as we convert them and train crews to man them, we should put them on alpha alert.”

“I have no intention of putting nuclear-loaded bombers back on alert, General,” President Thorn said. “Those days are over.”

“With all due respect, Mr. President, it looks to me like those days are back again,” Kuzner said bitterly. “Without the ICBMs we have no choice but to put every aircraft we can back on nuclear alert — not just the bombers but every tactical jet capable of carrying a thermonuclear weapon.”

“General Kuzner…”

“Mr. President, we can’t waste any time on this. It’ll take four to eight weeks to recertify a new B-1 aircraft with positive-control switches and devices for nuclear weapons, plus twenty to thirty weeks to train a new aircrew and forty to sixty weeks to train a new maintenance technician. We need to—”

“That’s enough, General,” Thorn said sternly. “We’ll discuss this when the time comes.”

“Will we? Or are you just going to let another six thousand airmen on one of my bases die?”

“I said that’s enough, General,” Thorn snapped. He noticed that neither Vice President Busick, Secretary of State Goff, or Joint Chiefs chairman General Venti attempted to shut Kuzner down — they wanted him to go off, and they wanted to see how Thorn would handle it. “I assure you, when the time comes, we’ll plan an appropriate response and use every weapon in our arsenal to implement the plan. In the meantime I want to hear what we’ve lost and what we might have left before I start loading nuclear weapons on bombers again. Is that clear, General?” Kuzner said nothing and responded with the faintest of nods. Thorn noticed this and gave Kuzner a stern glare but decided not to argue further. “General Venti, continue your report.”

“Yes, sir. Next was Francis E. Warren Air Force Base, adjacent to the city of Cheyenne, Wyoming. F. E. Warren is Twentieth Air Force headquarters, responsible for all of America’s land-launched intercontinental ballistic missiles, and is also the home of the Ninetieth Space Wing, which controls one hundred and fifty Minuteman ICBMs. One cruise missile hit on the base itself — we don’t know exactly where yet. Most of the other missiles were targeted on the fifteen launch-control centers spread out over almost thirteen thousand square miles of Wyoming, Colorado, and Nebraska.

“The next target was Whiteman Air Force Base, located in a relatively rural area of western Missouri, about forty-five miles east of Kansas City. Whiteman is the home of the Five-oh-ninth Bomb Wing, with nineteen B-2A Spirit stealth bombers and fourteen KC-135R tankers, plus an OA-10 Thunderbolt II close-air-support fighter wing. Two Russian warheads hit the base itself. Again, approximately four to five thousand personnel were stationed at Whiteman.

“The last target was Offutt Air Force Base, eight miles south of Omaha, Nebraska. Offutt has the Fifty-fifth Wing, which controls all of the nation’s strategic electronic reconnaissance and electronic command-and-control aircraft, and of course it is the headquarters of U.S. Strategic Command, the Joint Intelligence Center, the Air Force Weather Agency, and the Pentagon’s National Airborne Operations Center — all important military agencies necessary in planning and executing strategic combat missions, such as what we would employ if we fought a nuclear conflict with Russia. The base was hit by at least four warheads.”

“Military contingent at Offutt?” the president asked woodenly.

Venti hesitated, swallowed, then responded, “Over eight thousand, sir.” “Jee-zus,” Vice President Busick exclaimed.

“There was one clean miss, sir — unfortunately, it could be the greatest disaster of the attack,” Venti said. “Two warheads from one missile were apparently targeted for the weapon-storage facility at Fairchild Air Force Base near Spokane, Washington, which stores approximately five hundred nuclear gravity bombs, and warheads for cruise missiles, naval missiles, and torpedoes. The missile fell short and hit outside the city. No specific casualty reports yet, but damage is extensive.

“DSP reports a total of sixty-three explosions in the United States,” Venti summarized. “Thirty-one warheads targeted against Minuteman III launch-control centers, obviously intended to prevent the missiles from being launched; sixteen against ballistic-missile defense installations; ten warheads targeted against nuclear-capable bomber bases and weapon-storage facilities; and six against strategic command-and-control bases, mostly involving nuclear warfighting. The Air Warning Center tracked over fifty missiles inbound on the attack against the CONUS, so perhaps as many as ten Russian cruise missiles malfunctioned and failed to detonate; one missile malfunctioned but its warheads did detonate, with disastrous results.”

“Still no contact with anyone at STRATCOM?” the president asked.

“No, sir — it looks like Offutt took a direct hit with three warheads,” General Venti said. “The airfield took one, and two hit the underground command center. No word yet if anyone survived. One warhead exploded north of the city of Bellevue — damage and casualty estimates are not in yet. All of the warheads used in these attacks were very small, perhaps one or two kilotons — less than a tenth the size of the bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima.”

“What are the chances anyone survived at STRATCOM?”

“The command center was designed to take the shock and overpressure from a one-megaton warhead,” Venti responded. “Many of the warheads used on this attack were designed to explode deep underground. It’s very possible anyone inside the underground facility could have survived, if the complex was sealed up and fully disconnected from all external power and air in time. Same with the Minuteman-missile launch facilities. They are built on shock absorbers that are designed to survive tremendous overpressure. But they can’t survive inside the fireball. If the earth and the facility shielding couldn’t stop the fireball from forming underground, they couldn’t make it.”

“Just one aircraft made it away from Offutt?”

“One E-4B Airborne Operations Center, which was on alert at the time. They have checked in and are fully functional, although they do not have a complete battle staff. Rear Admiral Jerrod Richland is the battle-staff director. Although it does not have a complete crew, it can do all the command-and-control functions of the STRATCOM command center. No other aircraft made it off in time.”

“So I can still talk to our subs and military headquarters?” the president asked. “I still have control of the nuclear warheads?”

“The E-4 is a global communications platform, able to communicate directly with any civilian or military person on planet Earth with a radio receiver or computer — it took over for the old Strategic Air Command EC-135 ‘Looking Glass’ aircraft, which were designed to ‘mirror’ operations in SAC’s underground command center,” Venti responded. “The E-6B is a communications aircraft, designed to communicate with military units and ballistic-missile submarines deep under the ocean, but the difference is that the B-model can format and send execution messages to nuclear forces and can also monitor and launch land-based ballistic missiles.”

“Can’t I do all that from Air Force One?” the president asked. “You can communicate easily with the E-4 and E-6 aircraft and issue orders to them and to any military command centers and government operations centers; you can also break in on civil television and radio frequencies to speak with the American people,” Venti explained, “but Air Force One was not designed as an airborne military command post, only as an airborne White House. You cannot actually launch a nuclear strike yourself.”

“So do I have control of our nuclear forces or not?” the president asked, struggling to keep his head clear through the enormous jumble of information he was absorbing. “Exactly what am I left with here?”

“You can issue orders to the ballistic nuclear submarine force at any time through coded messages to the E-6A TACAMO aircraft that are airborne over the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans,” chimed in Admiral Charles Andover, Chief of Naval Operations, who was back in the National Military Command Center at the Pentagon. “The E-6A’s job is to talk with the boomers while submerged with extremely low-frequency transmitters, and that network is still in place and operational.”

“We issued a change in posture and DEFCON—”

“So the boomers know that tensions are high,” Andover said. “Under DEFCON One and a Posture Red, the boomers will proceed to their launch positions and wait. After several days, if they don’t receive a ‘withhold’ or ‘termination’ message, they’ll launch.” Andover saw the concern in President Thorn’s face and added quickly, “That is the procedure under these circumstances, sir. In case an attack completely wipes out the leadership, under DEFCON One the subs are authorized to launch if they don’t hear from us again. It ensures maximum stealth and maximum deterrent effect — the subs don’t have to expose themselves to enemy forces just to receive another execution message, and the Russians know they can’t completely destroy our most survivable nuclear forces just by killing the president.”

“What else do we have left?”

“We don’t know how many land-based ICBMs we have left yet,” General Venti responded. “With STRATCOM and Twentieth Air Force headquarters destroyed, the U.S. Space Command will need to hook into alternate communications lines to assess the status of the individual Minuteman launch-control centers and the weapons themselves. That should be done shortly.”

“If any survived, can we control those missiles?”

“The B-model Mercury aircraft should be able to take control of the ICBMs, sir,” Venti said. “Stand by one, sir.” He studied his status-of-forces report for a moment, then said, “The E-6Bs are based at Tinker Air Force Base in Oklahoma City. Normally, they embark a battle staff at Offutt and then disperse to various locations around the United States. The relief aircraft was destroyed at Offutt, but the alert E-6B was dispersed to ground alert at Naval Air Station Dallas, and it launched as soon as the air-defense alert was sounded. They’ll fly to their monitoring-and-control orbit over Wyoming and try to make contact with the launch-control centers to find out how many of our land-based missiles made it.”

Venti nodded to an off-camera screen. “As far as the bomber fleet goes: If you’ll look at the DSP satellite readouts, sir, you’ll see that three very critical bases were destroyed: Minot Air Force Base in North Dakota, Ellsworth Air Force Base in South Dakota, and Whiteman Air Force Base in Missouri,” he went on. “We don’t know how many bombers based at those locations survived. This leaves just one B-52 wing at Barksdale, near Shreveport, Louisiana, capable of executing a nuclear strike.”

“How many bombers are based there?”

“Eighteen, sir.”

“That’s it? That’s all the heavy bombers we have left?”

“Those are all the nuclear-capable bombers we have left, sir,” Venti said. “There may be other surviving bombers that were airborne at the time of the attack. General Kuzner, what other forces do we have available?”

“We have just one base with B-1B Lancer long-range bombers left — Dyess Air Force Base just outside Abilene, Texas,” Kuzner responded. “It has about twenty aircraft, plus their air-refueling tankers. However, we deployed four of Ellsworth’s B-1 bombers to Andersen Air Force Base on Guam and six to Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean as part of a contingency fast-strike and naval surface action group air support force for the Middle East and Asia. So it appears we have a total of about thirty B-1 bombers left. We also have another twenty to thirty B-1 bombers in flyable storage, which is the most ridiculous oxymoron ever invented — most of those planes would take months to make flyable, and some will never fly again.

“Keep in mind, sir, that B-1s cannot carry nuclear weapons without significant and lengthy work. However, they can now carry cruise missiles — they have always had the capability of carrying cruise missiles but were prevented from doing so by the START treaty. I think it’s safe to say that all treaties with the Russians are null and void at this point.”

“I will inform you about which treaties are in force and which are null and void, General Kuzner,” President Thorn snapped.

“Of course,” Kuzner went on angrily, ignoring the president’s remark, “we’ve converted so many nuclear cruise missiles to conventional-warheads-only that there aren’t enough for the B-1s to carry. Barksdale lost all of their ALCMs and has only enough advanced cruise missiles to equip its own fleet of B-52s—”

“General Kuzner, go get yourself a cup of coffee,” General Venti said, and he reached over and punched a button that deactivated Kuzner’s video-teleconference camera. He turned back to his own camera. “I apologize, Mr. President. He’s a little upset. General Kuzner’s family is from Cheyenne.”

“We’re all a little upset, General,” Thorn said. “Have him resume his duties as soon as he can think and speak clearly. Understood?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“So what do we have left to retaliate against the Russians with, General?” Vice President Busick asked.

Venti added up the numbers. “At the present time, sir, we have six Ohio-class ballistic-missile submarines on patrol, three each in the Pacific and Atlantic, each loaded with twenty-four D-5 Trident II sea-launched ballistic missiles — SLBMs — each of which has five independently targeted nuclear warheads,” he said. “We have another four subs that can be deployed in a short amount of time.”

“Where are the other subs?”

“Undergoing extensive overhauls, sir. Each overhaul takes about a year.”

“What sort of targets?”

“On day-to-day patrol, each SLBM has target coordinates only for ice packs,” Andover responded. “That’s a safety measure set in case of accidental or terrorist launch. But when we changed the DEFCON level, the crews would have changed to normal SIOP targets — military bases, command-and-control facilities, and major lines of communications.”

“You mean cities?”

“Yes, sir — telephone and data-switching stations, power plants, gas and oil pipelines and distribution systems, highways, railroads, ports — any civilian infrastructure that could support sustained military operations,” Andover said. “The goal is to eliminate Russia’s ability to fight an intercontinental war.”

“Even though it obviously means greater civilian casualties?”

“We don’t specifically target civilians. We don’t attack cities or towns indiscriminately,” Venti said.

“What other nuclear forces do we have left that we know about?” the president asked.

“We have fifteen heavy bombers that can be generated for nuclear strike missions, plus two more undergoing depot-level maintenance and one in extended local-level maintenance status — meaning it’s the ‘hangar queen,’ being used for spare parts until more come in.

“Fifteen bombers? That’s it?” the president exclaimed. “My God!”

“And the thirty surviving B-1s are not nuclear capable,” Venti reminded him. “The only long-range nuclear air-attack forces left are the eighteen B-52s left at Barksdale, plus any other bombers that were airborne or deployed during the attack. We think only two B-2 stealth bombers survived. That could leave us with about twenty nuclear-capable long-range bombers.

“We do have other forces capable of delivering nuclear weapons, but it will take time to generate those forces, and they’re not as survivable as the heavies,” Venti went on. “As I mentioned, there are about thirty B-1B bombers that can be converted back to carrying nuclear weapons. The Air Force also has about one hundred and seventy-five F-15E Strike Eagle tactical fighter-bombers that are capable of delivering nuclear weapons, based at six locations in the continental U.S. and Alaska — unfortunately, we closed the F-15E base at RAF Lakenheath in England and brought all of the nuclear weapons stored in Europe back to the U.S. Although no warships except the ballistic-missile subs carry nuclear weapons, ships can be quickly supplied with nuclear cruise missiles and gravity bombs — the F/A-18 Hornet carrier-based fighter can deliver nuclear weapons.”

“I think it would be wise to disperse those bombers and any other bombers that survived around the country,” Secretary of Defense Goff said, “to make it harder for the Russians to attack them. If they want to go after bomber bases, they’ll be next.”

“I sent a message to Air Combat Command to suggest exactly that,” Venti said. “We can phone or instant-message all the commanders from the NAOC, just as you can from your phones and computers aboard Air Force One. General Muskoka of ACC is on his way back to Langley. He was en route to Offutt Air Force Base for a meeting with STRATCOM, NORAD, Space Command, First Air Force, and Eighth Air Force commanders to discuss reestablishing a tighter air-defense network in the continental U.S. and perhaps putting the bomber force back on twenty-four/seven alert.” He paused, swallowed, then added, “I’ve received no response from General Samson of Eighth Air Force, who is the commander of the bomber forces. His staff thinks he had just arrived at Offutt when the attack took place. Air Force has also not heard from General Shepard of NORAD, General Wollensky of Space Command, General Craig of First Air Force, and General Houser of Air Intelligence Agency. They may have been at Offutt as well.”

“Oh, Christ,” Goff breathed. “That’s most of the Air Force’s senior commanders.”

“We need replacements for the dead and missing generals, and we need them fast,” the president said. “Then I need to talk to them right away. I can’t even begin to try to plan a response to this attack before I know what we have and what they have.”

“My staff is working on all that as we speak, Mr. President,” General Venti said. “I’ve already been in contact with the deputy commander of the Nine-sixty-sixth Information Warfare Wing, Colonel Trevor Griffin. He’s taking a military jet from San Antonio and will be at the Pentagon in a few hours. The STRATCOM ops detachment here at the Pentagon can brief us on the status of strategic forces anytime you’re ready.”

“Have Griffin contact me as soon as he’s briefed, General,” Thorn said. “What about civil defense and securing the blast sites?”

“The governors of each affected state and several of the neighboring states have activated their national guards,” Secretary Goff responded, “and we’re working with the Federal Emergency Management Agency and U.S. Northern Command to secure the impact sites and provide relief services. It’s too early to tell the extent of contamination — the weapons were detonated underground but were extremely small, so the hazard of radioactive fallout might be minimal.”

“Thank God,” the president murmured. He rubbed his eyes wearily. “All right, everyone, my first order of business is to find out what we lost and what we have left. I can’t say much of anything to the American people or to the world right now, except that I’m alive and our capital and government are still functioning. But very soon everyone’s going to wonder what our first move will be. That’s what I need to figure out. We’ll talk again in one hour, or sooner if conditions warrant.” And the connection was broken.

Nice to see you again, Tagger,” Patrick McLanahan said. He was in the Battle Management area of the command center, speaking to Colonel Trevor Griffin at Air Intelligence Agency headquarters via a secure video teleconference. Patrick McLanahan was busily checking the streams of data being fed to Battle Mountain from the Seventieth Intelligence Wing, Fort Meade, Maryland, which had several technicians and experts poring over intelligence-satellite imagery recently received from space. “Glad to have you running the show there now.”

“I just wish it hadn’t happened because of a damned Russian sneak attack,” Griffin said.

“We’ll take care of that problem shortly, Tagger,” Patrick said. “I damned well guarantee it.” There was then a brief moment of silence as they thought about the devastation that had come down on Offutt, Minot, Ellsworth, Whiteman, and all the other targets of Russian cruise missiles. America had suffered its worst-ever attack on its own soil — and now it was their job to find a way to give the president of the United States some options other than initiating a nuclear response.

“The data feed is looking good,” Patrick said to break the reverie.

“This stuff is hot off the presses,” Trevor Griffin said. “The last NIRTSat overflight was just five minutes ago. Man, you guys have the best toys.”

They did indeed, Patrick thought. The four-satellite NIRTSat—“Need It Right This Second” satellite — constellation launched just a few hours ago by Jon Masters was speeding over southern Siberia, photographing hundreds of thousands of square miles of territory with ultrabroadband radar and high-resolution imaging infrared cameras every twenty minutes, then instantly beaming any returns back to Battle Mountain. The images were analyzed by comparing their size, density, and heat signatures to a catalog of known military objects.

“Okay, guys, here’s what we got,” Tagger began. “Let’s start with the bombers. The Russians took some serious hits with their bomber fleet on their attack, but they were very effective and bit a big chunk out of our asses. They easily have over a hundred and fifty or so planes left, spread out across ten bases. They lost about a quarter of their fleet in the initial attack, but it’s not slowing them down one bit. It definitely looks like they’re reloading and rearming and getting ready for another swipe — and this time they’ll have an easier time of it. Their next attack could well reach every base and every government office in North America.

“Their tanker tactics are very impressive — they’re using a level of organization and sophistication that equals ours,” Tagger observed. “They launch the bombers with maximum ordnance and minimal fuel, refuel them with unit tankers as they cruise-climb to altitude, then top them off with task-force tankers from Yakutsk before they begin their launch run. They’re tanking all the way to feet-dry, and they have a huge reserve. By the time the bombers return to Siberia, the tankers have loaded up at Yakutsk, and they go out and meet the bombers and just repeat the whole process back to landing. Questions?”

Patrick said nothing, but he nodded slowly as he studied the satellite imagery of the bases Griffin had just briefed.

“Let’s take a look at the Russian land-based missiles now,” Tagger went on. “The SS-18s at Aleysk and Uzhur are definitely warmed up and ready to go. Uzhur has the largest deployment, with four launch-control centers each controlling twelve silos. Aleysk has just two launch-control centers.

“Patrick, you asked about the composition of the launch-control centers. The Russians did away with modernizing their SS-18 LCCs in favor of improving their mobile-missile survivability. They assumed we were going to smack their LCCs hard, so they emphasized fast-reaction silo launches versus the idea of riding out an attack and then launching. So the answer is, yes, a weapon like a Longhorn with bunker-busting technology — a hardened penetrating nose cap, delayed fuze, and booster motor — along with an enhanced-yield but nonnuclear payload such as a thermium-nitrate warhead can, we believe, take out a SS-18 launch-control center. We just have to be sure that we get to them before they launch.

“The real trick has been the SS-25s,” Trevor Griffin went on. “Those bastards are road-mobile, and they’ve had plenty of time to deploy. We took a chance and started checking out every known garrison location for the SS-25s, and I think we’ve hit pay dirt.

“The largest missile wing, Kansk, has forty-six units, but all of them relocated to their garrisons. Although they can still launch from a garrisoned position, we’re hoping that’s a sign of either equipment malfunctions or crew disillusionment. The smallest wing, Drovyanaya, hasn’t even moved their missiles off the base yet — they’re all in their security garages. Both of these wings are the most geographically isolated, so I think without a lot of adult supervision, the local commanders decide on their own whether to deploy their rovers or not. Looks like in these two cases they decided on very limited deployments.

“The other three missile wings are more difficult to surveille,” Tagger admitted. “They dispersed their units quickly, and they’re not using their garrisons as much — perhaps only a quarter of the units are in garrison locations. Barnaul, Novosibirsk, and Irkutsk’s missiles are likely to escape. We can get the ones in the garrisons, but that still leaves over seventy units unaccounted for.”

“We’ll target the ones in the garrisons and hope we catch a break on the rest,” Patrick said.

“We’ve got the garrisons covered,” David said. “The SS-25s may be mobile, but in their garrisons they’re detectable and stoppable, and out in the open they’re still detectable and as vulnerable as a tree. StealthHawks fitted with ultrawideband sensors can look inside the garrison shelters easily, and millimeter-wave radar and imaging infrared sensors can spot transporter-erector-launchers under foliage and hidden by camouflage.”

“We definitely got a surprise here,” Tagger went on. “We weren’t looking for them, but they popped up on our overflights anyway: activity at the old SS-24 garrisons at Krasnoyarsk.”

“What?” Patrick remarked. “SS-24s on the move?” The SS-24 “Scalpel” rail-mobile intercontinental ballistic missile was the weapon that changed the course of arms-limitation-treaty talks in the 1990s. The SS-24 was a copy of the American Peacekeeper ICBM, a long-range missile designed to carry ten independently targeted nuclear warheads to ranges out to ten thousand miles. Like the original Peacekeeper missile, the SS-24 was designed from the outset to travel on the national railway system, mixing in with Russia’s substantial train population and making targeting virtually impossible. At the beginning of the 1990s, Russia had 150 three-missile units deployed throughout the country. They could be launched anywhere with just a few minutes’ warning time, and the warheads they carried were the most accurate carried by any Russian ballistic missile.

The second Strategic Arms Reduction Treaty signed between the United States and Russia was supposed to eliminate the long-range rail-mobile SS-24 and Peacekeeper missiles, and to make all land-based ICBMs carry only single rather than multiple warheads. The United States deactivated its last Peacekeeper missile in 2002 and destroyed its silos; the Russians were supposed to transfer the rail-mobile SS-24s to older SS-18 silos and make them carry single warheads only.

“Obviously the Russians have been cheating on START II,” Tagger summarized. “I think we might have as many as twelve SS-24s on the move.”

“Dave?”

“The SS-24s are the biggest threats,” Luger said. “They have the longest range, carry more warheads, and are more accurate than anything else the Russians have.” He sat back in his seat and finally shook his head. “It’s not going to work, Muck,” he said. “Even before we found the SS-24s, we were pushing it — now I don’t think we have a chance. Even if we gain all of the Air Force’s surviving bombers, we just can’t surge enough airframes to drive ten thousand miles and take all these locations at once. Some will leak through.”

Patrick remained silent for a few more moments, then turned to Luger. “I know how to surge our planes,” he said. “I need Rebecca, Daren, Hal, and the entire staff ready to do some planning — but I think I know how we can do it. I’ll need to speak with General Venti in about an hour.” He nodded his thanks to Trevor Griffin, then asked, “Anything else, Tagger?”

“Sure,” Griffin said matter-of-factly. His face broke out with a sly, boyish smile. “Want to know where Anatoliy Gryzlov is now?”

“What? You know where Gryzlov is?”

“Air Intelligence Agency routinely tracks his command posts and monitors radio and data traffic from Russia’s forty-seven various alternate military command centers scattered around the country,” Tagger said. “Gryzlov is crafty. He launched two sets of airborne military command posts before the attacks began, and there’s a lot of confusing and conflicting radio traffic, meant as diversions. But I think we’ve pinpointed his actual location: Ryazan’, at an underground military facility next to a deactivated military base, about a hundred forty miles southeast of Moscow. We noticed shortly after the base closed that a substantial amount of work was being done on Oksky Reserve, a game and forest preserve adjacent to the old military base; when we saw a lot of dirt being moved but didn’t see any structures being built aboveground, we suspected the Russians of building either an underground weapon-storage facility or a command center. Gryzlov also happens to be from Ryazan’ Oblast.”

“How certain are you that he’s there?”

“As certain as we can be, boss.”

“Which is…?”

Tagger shrugged. “Sixty percent sure,” he admitted.

Patrick nodded, thankful for Griffin’s honesty. “Thanks for the info, Tagger,” he said. “Let’s concentrate on nailing those ICBMs, and then maybe we’ll get a shot at the general himself. But I want those missiles — especially the SS-24s.”

McLanahan is on a secure link, sir,” General Richard Venti said to the secretary of defense, Robert Goff. Along with them were members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or their designees — all of the chiefs did not make it on board the NAOC before it departed Washington.

“Oh, brother!” Goff exclaimed. “Wonder what in hell he wants? Where is he?”

“Battle Mountain, sir.”

“I should have known,” Goff said. He wearily massaged his temples, but nodded. Venti pointed to the communications technician, and moments later Patrick McLanahan appeared on the video-teleconference monitor, wearing a flight suit. Goff recognized most of the officers seated with him: David Luger, the new commander of McLanahan’s old unit; Rebecca Furness, the commander of the high-tech bomber wing at Battle Mountain Air Reserve Base; her ops officer, Daren Mace; and one of Furness’s squadron commanders, the one in charge of the modified B-52 bombers, Nancy Cheshire. “I see you are alive and well, General,” Goff said.

“That’s correct, sir,” Patrick replied.

“I also see you’re in flight gear. I hope it’s just for convenience’s sake, General. I believe you’re no longer on flight status, pending the outcome of your court-martial.”

Rebecca Furness looked at McLanahan in some surprise — obviously she hadn’t heard this development. “I’ll fly only if I’m ordered to do so, sir,” McLanahan responded.

“That would be a first,” Goff said dryly. “I don’t have much time, General. What’s on your mind?”

“Upon General Luger’s authority, our attack and support forces are holding in secure survival orbits off the West Coast until we can determine what the Russians intend to do,” Patrick replied. “We have a total of eight strike and six support aircraft airborne, plus five more strike aircraft and two support aircraft safe on the ground, operational and ready to go.”

“That’s good news, General,” Goff said, “because right now you represent about one-third of America’s surviving bomber force.”

Luger’s and Furness’s faces turned blank in surprise, but Patrick’s was as unflinching and stoic as ever. “We count two B-2As, two B-52Hs, and four B-1B bombers that survived the attacks on Whiteman, Minot, and Ellsworth,” he said.

“How do you know that so quickly, General? We don’t even have that information yet.”

“The Air Battle Force routinely monitors all military aircraft movement, sir, especially the heavy bombers and tankers,” Dave Luger said. “We keep up with where every aircraft is, even those that aren’t active — in fact, we keep track of where every aircraft component and part is, right down to the tires. We build a lot of equipment from off-the-shelf parts and non-mission-ready airframes.”

“Impressive,” Goff muttered. “So what’s the purpose of the call, General McLanahan?”

“Sir, I’m ready to take command of Eighth Air Force and begin a counteroffensive against the Russian Federation,” Patrick said.

“I’m not in the mood for jokes, McLanahan,” Goff said. “I’ve already picked officers to replace the men we lost in the attack. Besides, you’re not in line to take command of anything.”

“That’s…not exactly true, sir,” General Venti said.

“What are you talking about, General?”

“Sir, Patrick McLanahan was the senior wing commander of Air Intelligence Agency,” Venti explained. “Upon the death of General Houser, Patrick assumes command of Air Intelligence Agency—”

“What?”

“—and he also becomes the deputy commander in charge of intelligence of several units and agencies, including Air Combat Command, Space Command, the Air Force, and U.S. Strategic Command, and even reports to the National Security Council, the Joint Chiefs, and the White House.”

“Not unless I say so!” Goff snapped. “I’ll put someone else in that position — someone who’s not about to be court-martialed!”

“As commander of Air Intelligence Agency, General McLanahan is an ex officio deputy commander of Eighth Air Force, in charge of intelligence operations,” Venti went on. “And since there was no vice commander, the senior ranking deputy commander takes charge.”

“McLanahan.”

“Yes, sir. And as commander of Eighth Air Force, McLanahan also becomes a deputy commander in charge of bomber forces for U.S. Strategic Command.”

“Wait a minute — are you saying that McLanahan is going to advise the STRATCOM commander on the bomber force — or what’s left of it?” Admiral Andover asked. “With all due respect, sir, you can’t allow that to happen. No one in the Navy trusts McLanahan. Sir, McLanahan is the last guy you should choose to represent the Air Force or the bomber force in STRATCOM.”

Goff was thunderstruck — but not for long. He thought for a moment, then waved a hand at Andover. “I don’t trust him either, Admiral. But he saw the signs and called this conflict a long time ago, and he was frighteningly accurate.” He paused, then turned to General Venti. “Dick, you know I can make all this hocus-pocus chain-of-command shit go away like that. What are your thoughts on this?”

“Technically, McLanahan should take command because of his rank, but General Zoltrane does have more command and headquarters experience than McLanahan, and I think he knows the force better,” Venti admitted. “Charlie Zoltrane would definitely be the better choice. We’re at war here, sir — we need someone with true command experience to take charge of the strategic nuclear air fleet.”

Goff thought for a moment, then nodded. “I agree. Dick, direct General Kuzner to order Zoltrane to take command of Eighth Air Force, and have him report to us via secure video teleconference as soon as possible,” Goff ordered. “He’ll have to reorganize his staff and line units on the fly. Then have Kuzner direct Colonel Griffin to take command of Air Intelligence Agency, and have him prepare to brief the leadership by video teleconference.”

“Sir, I have a way to downgrade or perhaps even effectively neutralize Russia’s strategic nuclear forces that might threaten North America,” McLanahan interjected. Robert Goff paused and swallowed, but he was going to repeat his order to upchannel his plan through the proper chain of command, when McLanahan added, “I can set it in motion in less than thirty-six hours — and I can do it without using nuclear weapons.”

“I’m going to be perfectly honest with you, General McLanahan: No one, including myself, trusts you,” Robert Goff said seriously, ignoring McLanahan’s words. “You have certainly set a record for how many times a line officer can be busted, driven out of office, demoted, and charged with insubordination, refusing to follow orders, and conduct unbecoming. I think you have even managed at your young age to eclipse Bradley James Elliott as the biggest uniformed pain in the ass in U.S. history.”

“Sir, I’m not asking for a leadership position — let Zoltrane and Griffin keep on doing what they know best,” Patrick said. “But put me back in the field where I belong — here, in charge of the Air Battle Force.”

“Why should I do that, General?” Goff asked.

“Sir, neither General Zoltrane nor the two surviving bomb-wing commanders have any experience with the Megafortresses based out here at Battle Mountain. Generals Furness, Luger, and myself, along with Colonels Mace and Cheshire, are the only ones capable of employing the weapon systems here. On the other hand, all of us have experience leading B-52, B-1, and B-2 bombers into combat.”

“McLanahan, I don’t have time for this. Put it in writing and submit it to—”

“Sir,” General Venti said with a firmness that surprised the secretary of defense. He turned away from the camera, speaking directly to Goff as privately as he could in front of a camera. “Whatever you think of Patrick McLanahan, sir, may I remind you that he predicted exactly what has happened,” Venti said. “He saw the signs and wasn’t afraid to make the call. We all saw the same data, but we never allowed ourselves to believe it would happen.”

“So what, General?”

“At the very least, sir, McLanahan deserves a listen,” Venti said. “We’re threatening to put the guy in prison — I wouldn’t have blamed him if he went home, packed up his family, and hightailed it up to Lake Tahoe. But he didn’t. He made it to Battle Mountain, got into a flight suit, and put a plan together to deal with this emergency.”

Venti was right, Goff thought, but he wasn’t ready to admit it. He turned to the chief of naval operations. “Admiral Andover?”

“I’ve made my opinions known already, sir — McLanahan is a menace and should not even be in a military uniform, let alone being considered to lead a military unit into combat,” Andover responded. “Sir, give me a few days and I’ll brief a combined-forces operation—”

“How many Russian targets can the fleet hold at risk without using nuclear weapons, Admiral?” Goff asked. “A couple dozen? A couple hundred — as long as the shooters can safely move within a few hundred miles of the shore? And how much time do you think we have?”

“We’ve got as much time as we need, sir — and we sure as hell have enough time to consider options other than sending Patrick McLanahan. And I damned well know that the U.S. Navy can put many more targets at risk than one Reserve unit can. And if a nuclear strike is necessary, the Navy can exercise that option, too — McLanahan can’t.”

“Sir, Battle Mountain’s planes, the Megafortresses, are some of the most high-tech aircraft left in our arsenal,” Venti went on. “They are designed for SEAD — suppression of enemy air defenses — and antiballistic-missile defense, but they also pack a considerable precision standoff attack capability. Although the unit itself is not operational and all of its aircraft are considered experimental, McLanahan’s Air Battle Force and Furness’s One-eleventh Attack Wing of the Nevada Air National Guard have proven themselves in combat many times, from United Korea to Libya to Central Asia to western Russia.” He shrugged and added, “And no one else in the Air Force except General Terrill Samson knows much, if anything, about them — and Samson is apparently one of the casualties at Offutt.”

Goff shook his head. He expected Venti, an Air Force general, to support his fellow blue-suiters. Most Joint Chiefs chairmen had biases toward their own services. “And I’m supposed to forget the fact that he disregards directives and busts the chain of command to suit himself?” Goff asked. He rubbed his eyes in exasperation. “Richard, McLanahan is a good guy, but I just can’t trust him. He’s the definition of ‘loose cannon.’ The president doesn’t trust him. Even Gryzlov wants his head on a plate. Why on earth should I allow him back in uniform? Damn it, General, I sure as hell shouldn’t allow him back at Battle Mountain, with access to all those fancy high-tech aircraft and weapons — God knows what he might do, or what he might be doing right now!”

Venti took a deep breath, ready to argue — but he couldn’t. He found himself nodding agreement. “Sir, at least consider this: It’ll take Zoltrane and Griffin a few hours to get up to speed and report in — and they won’t have a plan ready until they can assemble their own battle staffs and pull packages off the shelf. Until we assess the status of the ICBM and bomber fleets, the only other option is the sea-launched nukes. Long before we have a plan, the subs will be in position — and the Russians know this.”

“So?”

“Whatever the Russians will do next, sir, they’ll do it before the boomers get into launch position,” Venti said. “The sub bases in Washington State and Georgia, the remaining bomber bases, Europe, NATO, Washington, they’ll all be at risk — unless you believe that the Russians really will stop?”

Goff’s eyes unconsciously widened. “Do you think this could be the prelude to a wider attack?”

“I don’t know, sir — but right now we’re totally on the defensive until the subs get into launch position,” Venti said. “The Russians have the complete advantage of surprise and position. We can’t do much no matter where they move next. It could take us days or weeks to plan and organize a response by sea or a special-operations mission, and weeks to months to plan a ground offensive.” He took another deep breath. “I see two options right now, sir: Listen to McLanahan’s plan, or plan a strike using the subs in about forty-eight hours.”

“A nuclear strike?” Goff asked.

Venti nodded. “But I don’t think the president will authorize it,” he said. “Do you, sir?” Goff responded with silence. “Then I recommend we hear what McLanahan has to say.”

Stand by for final launch run, crew,” radioed the bombardier aboard the lead Tupolev-160 Blackjack bomber. “Final radar fix in progress, stand by for transfer-alignment maneuver. Radar to radiate…now.”

The bombardier activated his radarscope, already preset to the proper range and tilt for the fastest and sharpest return — and there it was, right where he predicted it would be: the American island of Shemya, almost at the very end of the Aleutian Island chain. This little flat rock in the ocean was one of America’s most important surveillance outposts: Its COBRA DANE radar could monitor each and every Russian land-and sea-launched ballistic-missile test fired into the Pacific instrumented target range, and electronic listening posts collected broadcasts from Russian and Chinese military bases half a world away. It was also a linchpin in America’s new and highly illegal ballistic-missile defense system.

In short, it was going away — right now.

Although they had initiated their attacks on America’s bases in Alaska hours ago, it had taken this long to fly back across the Bering Sea to get into position to strike this last but no less important target. After this, it was an easy cruise back to the air-refueling track to rendezvous with the tankers operating out of Yakutsk, and then an easy ride home.

The radar crosshairs were less than a hundred meters off the aimpoint — the COBRA DANE antenna itself — so the bombardier laid them back on, magnified the image to ensure they were on the right spot — the northernmost corner of the massive array — checked the aimpoint coordinates, and then pressed the RADAR FIX button. The precise radar fix, combined with GLONASS satellite-navigation signals, would help keep the Tu-160’s inertial navigator properly aligned. Thirty seconds later the navigation computer dumped velocity, heading, and position information to the four remaining Kh-15 nuclear missiles in the forward bomb bay.

“Fix complete,” he reported. “Stand by for TAL maneuver. Left turn, thirty degrees of bank, ten seconds…now.” The pilot commanded the autopilot to accomplish the turn. The TAL, or transfer alignment maneuver, “exercised” the inertial-navigation system and allowed a known quantity of velocity readings to fine-tune it. “Hold heading for twelve seconds…. Good, now right turn, center up the heading bug. Remaining on this heading. Three minutes to launch point. TAL complete, all remaining missiles reporting ready for launch. Confidence is high.”

The Tu-160 was traveling at one thousand kilometers per hour at an altitude of one hundred meters above the Bering Sea. His course would take him about a hundred kilometers north of Shemya, out of range of any Patriot surface-to-air missiles the Americans may have placed there. The American naval base at Adak Island had been closed for a few years now, but there was no use taking chances; besides, they had plenty of fuel to make it back to the refueling anchor and to the first alternate landing site if they couldn’t make their refueling. They’d had training missions twice as long and many times more complex than this. But it was strange that the Americans didn’t place defensive weapon systems around their own bases. Obviously, they thought themselves invincible to attack — even way out here along the Aleutian Islands, where Shemya was half as close to Russia than it was to Juneau, the Alaskan capital.

Russia had proved this day how very wrong the Americans were. America was not invincible. In fact, this attack was unbelievably easy. They had detected just two American fighters during their entire two-hour attack run into Alaska, and the fighters had zoomed right over them without locking on even for a second. True, the electromagnetic pulses created by the multiple nuclear detonations around Fairbanks had helped degrade their radar. But launching only two fighters for the entire state of Alaska? Didn’t the United States have any love or respect for their forty-ninth state? Did they think so little of this big, beautiful, mineral-rich place that they chose not to defend it with every weapon system in their arsenal? Heading outbound toward Shemya was even easier, as if the Americans never even tried to look for them. Could they really be this completely disorganized?

The bombardier took a few radar sweeps of the ocean, scanning for American warships. Nothing straight ahead, just a few small vessels, probably fishing or patrol vessels — nothing with the size to suggest they had the surface-to-air missile capacity to threaten a Tupolev-160. “This is lead. You see that surface target at eleven o’clock, fifty kilometers?” the bombardier radioed.

“I see it,” the bombardier aboard the number-two Tu-160 responded. “Less than twenty-five meters long, I’d say. Shaped like a trawler. No threat.”

“We’ll keep our distance anyway,” the lead bombardier responded. But he did not alter his flight-plan routing. They would be at least five kilometers north of the sea target at their closest point — well out of range of Stinger or other shoulder-fired antiaircraft weapons, which were not very much of a threat to a Tupolev-160 anyway. “Two minutes to launch.”

“Acknowledged. Search-radar contact only — no targeting radars.”

“EWO?” the pilot radioed to the electronic-warfare officer. “Check those radar contacts.”

“Search radars only,” the electronic-warfare officer aboard the lead Tu-160 reported after double-checking his readouts. “Echo-band air-traffic control radar from Shemya, X-ray band phased array search radar also from Shemya — the COBRA DANE long-range radar — and F-band search radar from just offshore, probably a surface-search radar from that trawler. No height finders.”

“One minute to missile launch.”

The pilot’s voice sounded much more apprehensive. “Where’s that trawler?” he asked.

“Eleven o’clock, thirty-two kilometers.”

“And you say it’s painting us with radar?”

“Search radar only, pilot,” the EWO responded.

“Can he see us?”

“Probably.”

“Then let’s deviate around him,” the pilot said. “Bombardier, give me a vector.”

“Negative. Less than forty seconds to launch. Deviating might put us outside the footprint. Hold heading.”

“If that trawler lights us up with a height finder, I want him blown out of the water,” the pilot ordered.

“With a one-kiloton nuclear warhead? You want to nuke a little fishing boat with a ten-million-ruble nuclear missile?”

“Have number two target that trawler — he’s got four missiles to spare. That’s an order.”

“Roger.” On the interplane radio, the bombardier relayed the order from the flight commander. The number-two Blackjack’s bombardier laid his radar crosshairs on the radar return, hit a button to engage the moving-target designation mode, waited thirty seconds for the crosshairs to drift off, then placed them back on the target. The attack computers automatically calculated the trawler’s speed — less than ten knots — and computed a set of target coordinates for where the trawler would be at the end of the missile’s very short flight time.

Not that it mattered much: A one-kiloton nuclear warhead would create an eight-cubic-kilometer hole in the ocean that would suck millions of kilos of seawater into it within seconds, crushing anything inside that was not already vaporized in the blast. The missile could miss by several kilometers and still destroy the little trawler.

“Stand by for missile launch,” the lead bombardier reported. “Missile counting down…Doors coming open…Missile one away…Launcher rotating…Missile two away…Doors coming closed…All missiles away.”

At this range it would take just over one minute for the first missile to hit. “Double-check curtain seals,” the pilot ordered. The pilots made sure that the silver-and-lead-lined anti — flash blindness curtains covering the cockpit windows were closed and securely fastened in place. “Crew, sunglasses secure, dark helmet visors down, interior lights full bright.” They turned the inside lights full bright so they could see their instruments through all the eye protection and to constrict their irises as much as possible. “Autopilot is off, climbing to one thousand meters. Prepare for—”

Just then the bombardier radioed, “Lost contact with missile one…Missile two still on track…Thirty seconds to second missile impact…twenty…Stand by for shock wave from first missile detonation…ten…Shit, I lost contact with the second missile…. Shock wave impact, now.” There was nothing. “Stand by for shock wave from missile two….”

“What happened, bombardier?” the pilot asked.

“Unknown. I just lost contact…. Shock wave coming up, now.” Still nothing. “No detonation. I don’t understand it, pilot. I had two good missiles until just before detonation, and then nothing.”

The pilot started pulling off the anti — flash blindness curtains from his cockpit windscreen. “I’m going to look for a mushroom cloud or signs of detonation. Copilot, shield your eyes.” The pilot gingerly opened his curtains a few centimeters. There was no sign of a nuclear explosion. “Nothing! What could have happened?”

“Want me to launch the last two missiles at Shemya?”

“We were supposed to save the last two for surface targets we’d encounter on our way back,” the pilot reminded him, “and then save any unexpended weapons for contingencies.” But Shemya was a very important target, he thought. “Have our wingman cancel his attack on that surface target and launch two missiles at Shemya — then we’ll both have two missiles remaining. That’s better than one plane having four left but being unable to launch.”

“Acknowledged. Break. Two, this is lead, put a couple on Shemya. Our two missiles malfunctioned.”

“Acknowledged. Changing to left-echelon formation.” Since his missiles would be flying south, the number-two Blackjack bomber crossed over to the lead bomber’s left side and prepared to launch two Kh-15 missiles at Shemya.

“Zagavn’at!” the pilot swore aloud. “How could we fuck up that bad?”

“We didn’t do anything wrong, pilot,” the bombardier said. “Who knows? Maybe the missile’s electronics got beat up too badly during the long low-level cruising. Maybe the fuze malfunctioned.”

“Any air defenses on Shemya?”

“None whatsoever,” the electronic-warfare officer responded, puzzled.

“And even if there were, even a Patriot missile would have a hard time shooting down a Kh-15,” the bombardier says. “The Kh-15 flies faster and lower than the Patriot can—”

“Uyobyvay!” the copilot suddenly swore. “What in hell was that?”

The pilot saw it too — a streak of blue-yellow flashed by the windscreen, so fast that it seemed like a beam of light — except the streak left a thin, white, steamy contrail. “Was that a surface-to-air missile?”

“I’m not picking up any uplink or height-finder radars,” the electronic-warfare officer said immediately. “Scope’s clear except for a surface-search radar at eleven o’clock, ten kilometers.”

“That trawler is still painting us?”

“It’s not a SAM radar, just a—”

At that instant the crew felt a tremendous bang! reverberate through the aircraft — very quick and sharp, almost like clear-air turbulence. “Station check, crew!” the pilot ordered as he snapped his oxygen mask in place. “Everyone on oxygen.”

“Offense in the green.”

“Defense in the green.”

“Copilot is in the — Wait, I’ve got a tank low-pressure warning in the fuselage number-two fuel tank,” the copilot reported as he continued scanning his instruments. “Pressure is down to ten kilopascals…. Fuel quantity is dropping, too. I’m initiating transfer to the main body and transferring wing main fuel to the outboards.”

“Any other malfunctions?”

“Negative, just the fuel pressure and—”

At that moment there was another sharp bang! The air inside the cabin turned instantly cloudy, as if a thick fog had appeared out of nowhere. The pilot felt air gush out of his nostrils and mouth so loudly that he barked like a dog. “What was that? Station check again! Report!”

“My God!” the electronic-warfare officer screamed. “Oh, my God…!”

“What is it? Report!”

“Igor…the bombardier…God, he’s been hit…Jesus, his entire body exploded!” the EWO screamed over the intercom. “I felt that second thud, and I looked over, and…oh, God, it looks like his body was blown in half from head to toe. Something came up from the bottom of the aircraft and blew Igor into pieces!”

“Copilot…?”

“Explosive decompression, two alternators and generators offline, and I feel a tremor in the fuselage,” the copilot reported.

“I have the airplane,” the pilot said. “I’m turning north.” He keyed the mike button. “Two, this is lead, I think we’ve been hit by ground fire. We’re taking evasive action north.”

“We’re thirty seconds to missile launch, lead,” the second Blackjack bomber pilot responded. “We’re not picking up any threats. We’ll stay on the missile run and rendezvous when—”

And the radio went dead.

The pilot strained forward in his seat to look as far to his left as he could — and he saw the second Blackjack bomber start a tail-over-head forward spin, flames tearing through the bomb bay, its burning wings breaking off and cartwheeling across the sky. “Oh, shit, two just got hit!” he cried out. “He’s on fire!” He shoved his control stick farther right. “We’re getting out of here!”

He’s turning, Top — don’t let him get away,” Hal Briggs radioed.

“I can see that, sir,” Sergeant Major Chris Wohl said. He was standing atop the MV-32 Pave Dasher tilt-rotor aircraft as it bobbed in the choppy and gently rolling Bering Sea, sixty miles north of Shemya Island. Wohl, along with one more commando in Tin Man battle armor and eight more commandos in advanced ballistic infantry armor seated in the cargo compartment, had raced across the Bering Sea to a spot where they predicted they could intercept any Russian attack aircraft returning from Alaska that might launch a similar attack against Shemya. The MV-32 crew then deployed its emergency-survival flotation bags, which resembled a gigantic raft surrounding the entire lower half of the tilt-jet aircraft, and set the aircraft down on the Bering Sea.

Wohl smoothly tracked the target through his Tin Man electronic visor display, which showed the Russian Blackjack bomber in a steep right turn. The display also showed the predicted impact point for one of his hypersonic electromagnetic projectiles, fired from his rail gun. Wohl’s microhydraulically powered exoskeleton covering his Tin Man electronic body armor allowed him to easily track the bomber while holding the large, fifty-eight-pound weapon. He lined up the impact reticle onto the radar depiction of the bomber as precisely as a conventional soldier would sight the main gun on an Abrams battle tank.

“Fire five,” he said, and he squeezed the trigger. A pulse of electricity sent a seven-pound aerodynamic depleted-uranium projectile out of the large rail-gun weapon at a muzzle velocity of over eighteen thousand feet per second. The heat generated by the projectile’s movement through the atmosphere turned it into blue-and-yellow molten metal, but the supersonic slipstream kept the bolus together, leaving a long, hot vapor trail in its wake. When the molten uranium hit the Blackjack bomber, the bolus cooled and decelerated. The collapsing supersonic cone caused the bolus to break apart, scattering thousands of pellets of red-hot uranium in a wide circular pattern through the Blackjack’s fuselage, like an immense shotgun blast.

The Blackjack was obviously hit, but it unsteadily continued its northbound turn. In a few seconds, it would be out of range. “Crap, not a fatal shot.”

“Don’t let it get away, Top,” Hal Briggs warned. He and another of his Tin Man commandos had returned to Shemya from Attu Island to help defend the island against the expected Russian attack. They had successfully shot both Kh-15 missiles out of the sky with their rail guns. The other Battle Force commandos, along with as many of the island’s personnel as they could carry in several trips with the MV-32, had evacuated Shemya for Attu.

“Don’t worry, sir,” Wohl responded. “Got it, Sergeant?”

“Roger that, sir,” responded the second commando in Tin Man armor, alongside Wohl. “Fire six.” Even at such a great distance, it only took three seconds for the projectile to hit. This time the shot had a more spectacular effect — the entire aft end of the fuselage sheared off the aircraft, sending the big bomber tumbling out of control.

“Good shooting, boys,” Hal Briggs said. “Control, splash two Blackjacks and a couple cruise missiles. Sensors are clear.”

“Copy that,” Patrick McLanahan responded. “Nice work. Glad you made it out there in time.”

“We couldn’t just sit out there on Attu and watch Shemya get blown to bits by those Russian muthas,” Hal said. “So what’s the plan now, boss?”

“You guys are on,” Patrick said. “I need you refueled, equipped, and on your way as soon as possible. We’re in the process of recovering all our planes and loading them up. The Dragons will be headed out from Dreamland in a couple hours.”

“All right!” Briggs exclaimed. “Those are my honeys!”

“We’re going to launch everything we got and get some help from a few planes from off-station,” Patrick went on. “You’ll have as much backup as we can provide, but you guys are going to have to be the pointy end of the spear. Take those bastards down, and get the place ready for visitors.”

“You got it, boss,” Hal Briggs said. “Good to have you back on the team.”

“Good to be back, guys,” Patrick said proudly. “It’s damn good to be back.”