The Sum of All Fears

39 ECHOES

Elizabeth Elliot stared blankly at the far wall as she sipped her coffee. It was the only thing that made sense. All the warnings they'd had and ignored. It all fit. The Soviet military was making a power-play, and targeting Bob Fowler had to be part of it. We should have been there, she thought. He wanted to go to the game, and everyone expected him to, because Dennis Bunker owned one of the teams. I would have been there, too. I could be dead now. If they wanted to kill Bob, then they also wanted to kill me…

The reply that came back was almost immediate.

“That's simple enough,” the President said, looking at the screen.

Think so?" Elliot asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Robert, we've had a nuclear explosion at a location that you were supposed to be at. That's number one. Number two: we've had reports of missing Soviet nuclear weapons. Number three: how do we really know that it's Narmonov at the other end of this computer modem?” Liz asked.

“What?”

“Our best intelligence suggests the possibility of a coup d'etat in Russia, doesn't it? But we're acting as though such intelligence did not exist, even though we've had what very easily could be a tactical nuclear weapon — exactly what we think is missing — explode over here. We are not considering all of the potential dimensions here.” Dr. Elliot turned to the speaker phone. “General Borstein, how hard is it to get a nuclear device into the United States?”

“With our border controls, it's child's play,” NORAD replied. “What are you saying, Dr. Elliot?”

“I'm saying that we've had hard intel for some time now that Narmonov is in political trouble — that his military is acting up, and that there's a nuclear dimension. Okay, what if they stage a coup? A Sunday evening — Monday morning — is good timing, because everyone's asleep. We always assumed that the nuclear element was for domestic blackmail — but what if the operation was more clever than that? What if they figured they could decapitate our government in order to prevent our interference with their coup? Okay, the bomb goes off, and Durling is on Kneecap — just like he is right now — and they're talking to him. They can predict what we're going to think, and they pre-plan their statements over the Hot Line. We go on automatic alert, and so do they — you see? We can't interfere with the coup in any way.”

“Mr. President, before you evaluate that possibility, I think you need some outside advice from the intelligence community,” CINC-SAC said.

Another phone lit up. The yeoman got it.

“For you, Mr. President, NMCC.”

“Who is this?” Fowler asked.

“Sir, this is Captain Jim Rosselli at the National Military Command Center. We have two reports of contact between U.S. and Soviet forces. USS Theodore Roosevelt reports that they have splashed — that means shot down, sir — a flight of four inbound Russian MiG-29 aircraft—”

“What? Why?”

“Sir, under the Rules of Engagement, the captain of a ship has the right to take defense action to protect his command. Theodore Roosevelt is now at DEFCON-TWO, and as the alert level changes, you get more latitude in what you can do, and when you can take action. Sir, the second is as follows: there is an unconfirmed report of shots being exchanged between Russian and American tanks in Berlin. SACEUR says the radio message stopped — I mean, it was cut off, sir. Before that, a U.S. Army captain reported that Soviet tanks were attacking the Berlin Brigade at its base in southern Berlin, and that a tank battalion of ours was just about wiped out, sir. They were attacked in their lager by Soviet forces stationed just across from them. Those two things — the reports, I mean, were almost simultaneous. The reported times were just two minutes apart, Mr. President. We're trying to reestablish contact with Berlin right now, going through SACEUR at Mons, Belgium.”

“Christ,” Fowler observed. “ Elizabeth, does this fit into your scenario?”

“It could show that they're not kidding, that they are serious about not being interfered with.”

Most of the American forces had escaped out of the lager. The senior officer on the scene had decided on the spot to turn and run for cover in the woods and residential streets around the brigade base. He was a lieutenant-colonel, the brigade executive officer. The colonel commanding the brigade was nowhere to be found, and the XO was now considering his options. The brigade had two mechanized infantry battalions, and one of tanks. From the last, only nine of fifty-two M1A1s had gotten away. He could see the glow from the rest of them, still burning in their lager.

A DEFCON-THREE alert out of nowhere, and then minutes later, this. Over forty tanks and a hundred men lost, shot down without warning. Well, he'd see about that.

The Berlin Brigade had been in place since long before his birth, and scattered throughout its encampment were defensive positions. The colonel dispatched his remaining tanks, and ordered his Bradley fighting vehicles to volley-fire their TOW-2, missiles.

The Russian tanks had overrun the tank lager and stopped. They had no further orders. Battalion commanders were not yet in control of their formations, left behind by the mad dash of the T-8os across the line, and the regimental commander was nowhere to be found. Without orders, the tank companies stopped, sitting still, looking for targets. The regimental executive officer was also missing, and when the senior battalion commander realized this, his tank dashed off to the headquarters vehicle, since he was the next-senior officer in the regiment. It was amazing, he thought. First the readiness drill, next the flash alert from Moscow, and then the Americans had started shooting. He hadn't a clue what was going on. Even the barracks and administrative buildings were still lit up, he realized. Someone would have to get those lights off. His T-8o was back-lit as though on a target range.

“Command tank, two o'clock, skylined, moving left to right,” a sergeant told a corporal.

“Identified,” the gunner replied over the intercom.

“Fire.”

“On the way.” The corporal squeezed his trigger. The seal-cap blew off the missile tube, and the TOW-2 blasted out, trailing behind a thin control wire. The target was about twenty-five hundred meters away. The gunner kept his cross-hairs on target, guiding the antitank missile to its target. It took eight seconds, and the gunner had the satisfaction of seeing detonation right in the center of the turret.

“Target,” the Bradley commander said, indicating a direct hit. “Cease fire. Now let's find another one of these fuckers… ten o'clock, tank, coming around the PX!”

The turret came left. “Identified!”

“Okay, what does CIA make of this?” Fowler asked.

“Sir, again, all we have is scattered and unconnected information,” Ryan replied.

“ Roosevelt has a Soviet carrier battle group a few hundred miles behind them, and they carry MiG-29s,” Admiral Painter said.

“They're even closer to Libya, and our friend the colonel has a hundred of the same aircraft.”

“Flying over water at midnight?” Painter asked. “When's the last time you heard of the Libyans doing that — and twenty-some miles from one of our battle groups!”

“What about Berlin?” Liz Elliot asked.

“We don't know!” Ryan stopped and took a deep breath. “Remember that we just don't know much.”

“Ryan, what if SPINNAKER was right?” Elliot asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What if there is a military coup going on right now over there, and they set a bomb off over here to keep us from interfering, to decapitate us?”

“That's totally crazy,” Jack answered. “Risk a war? Why do it? What would we do if there were a coup? Attack at once?”

“Their military might expect us to,” Elliot pointed out.

“Disagree. I think SPINNAKER might have been lying to us from the beginning on this issue.”

“Are you making this up?” Fowler asked. It was coming home to the President now that he might actually have been the real target of the bomb, that Elizabeth 's theoretical model for the Russian plan was the only thing that made sense.

“No, sir!” Ryan snapped back indignantly. “I'm the hawk here, remember? The Russian military is too smart to pull something like this. It's too big a gamble.”

“Then explain the attacks on our forces!” Elliot said.

“We don't know for sure that there have been attacks on our forces.”

“So, now you think our people are lying?” Fowler asked.

“Mr. President, you are not thinking this through. Okay, let's assume that there is an on-going coup in the Soviet Union — I don't accept that hypothesis, but let's assume it, okay? The purpose, you say, for exploding the bomb over here is to keep us from interfering. Fine. Then why attack our military forces if they want us to sit on our hands?”

“To show that they're serious,” Elliot fired back.

“That's crazy! It's tantamount to telling us they did explode the bomb here. Do you think they would expect us not to respond to a nuclear attack?” Ryan demanded, then answered his own question: “It does not make sense!”

“Then give me something that does,” Fowler said.

“Mr. President, we are in the very earliest stages of a crisis. The information we have coming in now is scattered and confused. Until we know more, trying to put a spin on it is dangerous.”

Fowler's face bore down on the speaker phone. “Your job is to tell me what's going on, not to give me lessons in crisis-management. When you have something I can use, get back to me!”

“What in the hell are they thinking?” Ryan asked.

“Is there something I don't know here?” Goodley asked. The young academic looked as alarmed as Ryan felt.

“Why should you be any different from the rest of us?” Jack snapped back, and regretted it. “Welcome to crisis-management. Nobody knows crap, and you're expected to make good decisions anyway. Except it's not possible, it just isn't.”

“The thing with the carrier scares me,” the S&.T man observed.

“Wrong. If we only splashed four aircraft, it's only a handful of people,” Ryan pointed out. “Land combat is something else. If we really have a battle going on in Berlin, that's the scary one, almost as bad as an attack on some of our strategic assets. Let's see if we can get hold of SACEUR.”

The nine surviving M1A1 tanks were racing north along a Berlin avenue, along with a platoon of Bradley fighting vehicles. Street lights were on, heads sticking out windows and it was instantly apparent to the few onlookers that whatever was happening wasn't a drill. All the tanks had the speed governors removed from their engines, and they could all have been arrested in America for violating the national interstate highway limit. One mile north of their camp, they turned east. Leading the formation was a senior NCO who knew Berlin well — this was his third tour in the once-divided city — well enough that he had a perfect spot in mind, if the Russians hadn't got there first. There was a construction site. A memorial to the Wall and its victims was going up after a long competition. It overlooked the Russian and American compounds which were soon to be vacated, and bulldozers had pushed up a high berm of dirt for the sculpture that would sit, atop it. But it wasn't there yet, just a thick dirt ramp. The Soviet tanks were milling about on their objective, probably waiting for their infantry to show up or something. They were taking TOW hits from the Bradleya, and returning fire into the woods.

“Christ, they're going to kill those Bradley guys,” the unit commander — a captain whose tank was the last survivor of his company — said. “Okay, find your spots.” That took another minute. Then the tanks were hull-down, just their guns and the tops of turrets showing. “Straight down the line! Commence firing, fire at will.”

All nine tanks fired at once. The range was just over two thousand meters, and now the element of surprise was with someone else. Five Russian tanks died with the first volley, and six more in the second, as the Abrams tanks went into rapid fire.

In the trees with the Bradleys, the brigade XO watched the north end of the Russian line crumple. That was the only word for it, he thought. The tank crews were all combat vets, and now they had the edge. The northernmost Russian battalion tried to reorient itself, but one of his Bradleys had evidently scored on its commander, and there was confusion there. Why the Russians hadn't pressed home the attack was one question that floated about the rear of his brain, but that was something to save for the after-action report. Right now he saw that they had screwed up, and that was a good thing for him and his men.

“Sir, I've got Seventh Army.” A sergeant handed him a microphone.

“What's happening over there?”

“General, this is Lieutenant Colonel Ed Long, we just got our ass attacked by the regiment across town from us. No warning at all, they just came into our kazerne like Jeb Stuart. We've got 'em stopped, but I've lost most of my tanks. We need some help here.”

“Losses?”

“Sir, I've lost over forty tanks, eight Bradleys, and at least two hundred men.”

“Opposition?”

“One regiment of tanks. Nothing else yet, but they have lots of friends, sir. I could sure use some myself.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

General Kuropatkin checked his status board. Every radar system that was not down for repair was now operating. Satellite information told him that two SAC bases were empty. That meant their aircraft were now airborne and flying towards the Soviet Union along with KC-135 tankers. Their missile fields would also be at full alert. His Eagle satellites would give launch-warning, announcing that his country had thirty minutes left to live. Thirty minutes, the General thought. Thirty minutes and the reason of the American president were all that stood between life and death for his country.

“Air activity picking up over Germany,” a colonel said. “We show some American fighters coming out from Ramstein and Bitberg, heading east. Total of eight aircraft.”

“What do we have on the American Stealth fighters?”

“There is a squadron — eighteen of them — at Ramstein. Supposedly, the Americans are demonstrating them for possible sale to their NATO allies.”

“They could be all in the air right now,” Kuropatkin noted, “carrying nuclear weapons, for that matter.”

“Correct, they can easily carry two B-61-type weapons each. With high-altitude cruise, they could be over Moscow before we knew it… ”

“And with their bombsights… they could lay their weapons exactly on any target they wish… two and a half hours from the time they lift off… my God.” In the weapon's earth-penetration mode, it could be placed close enough to eliminate the president's shelter. Kuropatkin lifted his phone. “I need to talk to the President.”

“Yes, General, what is it?” Narmonov asked.

“We have indications of American air activity over Germany.”

“There's more than that. A Guards regiment in Berlin reports being under attack by American troops.”

“That's mad.”

And the report came in not five minutes after my friend Fowler promised not to do anything provocative. “Speak quickly, I have enough business here already.”

“President Narmonov. Two weeks ago, a squadron of American F-117A Stealth fighters arrived at their Ramstein air base, ostensibly for demonstration to their NATO allies. The Americans said they want to sell them. Each of those aircraft can carry two half-megaton weapons.”

“Yes?”

“I cannot detect them. They are virtually invisible to everything we have.”

“What are you telling me?”

“From the time they leave their bases, then refuel, they can be over Moscow in less than three hours. We would have no more warning than Iraq had.”

“Are they truly that effective?”

“One reason we left so many people in Iraq was to observe closely what the Americans are capable of. Our people never saw that American plane on a radar scope, neither ours nor the French scopes Saddam had. Yes, they are that good.”

“But why should they wish to do such a thing?” Narmonov demanded.

“Why would they attack our regiment in Berlin?” the Defense Minister asked in reply.

“I thought this place was proof against anything in their arsenal.”

“Not against a nuclear gravity bomb delivered with high accuracy. We are only one hundred meters down here,” Defense said. In the old battle between warhead and armor, warhead always wins…

“Back to Berlin,” Narmonov said. “Do we know what's happening there?”

“No, what we have has come from junior officers only.”

“Get someone in there to find out. Tell our people to fall back if they can do so safely — and take defensive action only. Do you object to that?”

“No, that is prudent.”

The National Photographic Intelligence Center, NPIC, is located at the Washington Navy Yard, in one of several windowless buildings housing highly sensitive government activities. At the moment, they had a total of three KH-11 photographic and two KH-12 “Lacrosse” radar-imaging satellites in orbit. At 00:26:46 Zulu Time, one of the -11s came within optical range of Denver. All of its cameras zoomed in on the city, especially its southern suburbs. The images were downlinked in real-time to Fort Belvoir, Virginia, and sent from there to NPIC by fiber-optic cable. At NPIC, they were recorded in two-inch videotape. Analysis started immediately.

This aircraft was a DC-10. Qati and Ghosn again availed themselves of first-class seating, pleased and amazed at their good luck. The word had gotten out only minutes before the flight was called. As soon as the report had gone out on the Reuters wire, it had been inevitable. AP and UPI had instantly picked it up, and all television stations subscribed to the wire services. Surprised that the networks had not yet put out their own special bulletins, the local affiliates ran with it anyway. The one thing about it that had surprised Qati was the silence. As the word spread like a wave through the terminal building, what lay behind it was not shouting and panic, but an eerie silence that allowed one to hear the flight calls and other background noises normally submerged by the cacophony of voices in such public areas. So the Americans faced tragedy and death, the Commander thought. The lack of passion surprised him.

It was soon behind him in any case. The DC-10 accelerated down the runway and lifted off. A few minutes later, it was over international waters, heading towards a neutral country and safety. One more connection, both men thought in a silence of their own. One more connection, and they would disappear completely. Who would have expected such luck?

“The infra-red emissions are remarkable,” the photo-analyst thought aloud. It was his first nuclear detonation. “I have damage and secondary fires up to a mile from the stadium. Not much of the stadium itself. Too much smoke and IR interference. Next pass, if we're lucky, we ought to have some visible-light imagery.”

“What can you tell us about casualty count?” Ryan asked.

“What I have is inconclusive. Mainly the visible-light shots show smoke that's obscuring everything. Infra-red levels are very impressive. Lots of fires immediately around the stadium itself. Cars, I guess, gas tanks cooking off.”

Jack turned to the senior Science and Technology officer. “Who do we have up in the photo section?”

“Nobody,” S&T replied. “Weekend, remember? We let NPIC handle weekend work unless we expect something hot.”

“Who's the best guy?”

“Andy Davis, but he lives in Manassas. He'll never make it in.”

“Goddamn it.” Ryan picked up the phone again. “Send us the best ten photos you have,” he told NPIC.

“You'll have them in two or three minutes.”

“How about someone to evaluate the bomb effects?”

“I can do that,” S&T said. “Ex-Air Force. I Used to work intel for SAC.”

“Run with it.”

The nine Abrams tanks had by now accounted for nearly thirty of the Russian T-8os. The Soviets had pulled south to find cover of their own. Their return fire had killed three more of the M1A1s, but now the odds were a lot more even. The captain commanding the tank detachment sent his Bradleys east to conduct reconnaissance. As with their first dash, there were people watching them, but for the most part they did this from windows now unlit. The street lights worried one Bradley commander, who took a rifle and began shooting them out, to the horror of Berliners who had the courage to watch.

“Was nun?” Keitel asked. What now?

“Now we get the devil away from here and disappear. Our work is done,” Bock replied, turning the wheel to the left. A northerly escape route seemed best. They'd dump the car and truck, change their clothes, and vanish. They might even survive all this, Bock thought. Wouldn't that be something? But his main thought was that he'd avenged his Petra. It had been the Americans and Russians who'd brought her death about. Germans had only been the pawns of the great players, and the great players were paying now, Bock told himself, were paying now and would pay more. Revenge wasn't so cold a dish after all, was it?

“Russian staff car,” the gunner said, “and a GAZ truck.”

“Chain gun.” The track commander took his time identifying the inbound targets. “Wait.”

“I love killin' officers… ” The gunner centered the sight for his 25mm cannon. “On target, Sarge.”

For all his experience as a terrorist, Bock was not a soldier. He took the dark, square shape two blocks away for a large truck. His plan had worked. The American alert, so perfectly timed, could only mean that Qati and Ghosn had done their job exactly as he'd envisioned five months earlier. His eyes shifted as he saw what looked like a flashbulb and a streak of light that went over his head.

“Fire, hose 'em!”

The gunner had his selector switch on rapid fire. The 25-millimeter chain gun was wonderfully accurate, and the tracers allowed you to walk fire right into the target. The first long burst hit the truck. There might be armed soldiers in the truck, he reasoned. The initial rounds went into the engine block, shattering it into fragments, then, as the vehicle surged forward, the next burst swept through the cab and cargo area. The truck collapsed on two flattened front tires and ground to a halt, the wheel rims digging grooves in the asphalt. By that time, the gunner had shifted fire and put a short burst through the staff car. This target merely lost control and slammed into a parked BMW. Just to make sure, the gunner hit the car again, and then the truck. Someone actually got out of the truck, probably wounded already from the way he moved. Two more 25 mm rounds fixed that.

The track commander moved immediately. One does not linger where one has killed. Two minutes later, they found another surveillance spot. Police cars were racing down the streets, their blue lights flashing. One of them stopped a few hundred meters from the Bradley, backed up and raced off, the track commander saw. Well, he'd always known German cops were smart.

Five minutes after the Bradley departed for another block, the first Berliner, an exceedingly courageous physician, came out his front door and went to the staff car. Both men were dead, each torso ripped to shreds by the cannon shells, though both faces were intact except for the splashed blood. The truck was an even greater mess. One of the men there might have survived for a few minutes, but by the time the doctor got there, it was far too late. He found it odd that they all wore Russian officers' uniforms. Not knowing what else to do, he called the police. Only later did he realize how disproportionate his understanding of the events outside his home had been.

“They weren't kidding about the infra-red signature. This must have been some bomb,” the S&T guy observed. “Damage is a little funny, though… hmph.”

“What do you mean, Ted?” Ryan asked.

“I mean the ground damage ought to be worse than this… must be shadows and reflections.” He looked up. “Sorry. Shock waves don't go through things — like a hill, I mean. There must have been reflections and shadows here, that's all. These houses here ought not to be there anymore.”

“I still don't know what you mean,” Ryan said.

“There are always anomalies in cases like this. I'll get back to you when I have this figured out, okay?” Ted Ayres asked.

Walter Hoskins sat in his office because he didn't know what else to do, and as most senior man present, he had to answer the phones. All he needed to do was turn to see what the stadium was. The pall of smoke was only five miles away through his windows, one of which was cracked. Part of him wondered if he should send a team down there, but he had no such orders. He turned his chair to look that way again, amazed that the window was almost intact. After all, it was supposed to have been a nuclear bomb, and it was only five miles. The remains of the cloud were now over the front range of the Rockies, still intact enough that you could tell what it had been, and behind it like a wake was another black plume of fires from the bomb area. The destruction must be…

… not enough. Not enough? What a crazy thought. With nothing else to do, Hoskins lifted the phone and dialed up Washington. “Give me Murray.”

“Yeah, Walt.”

“How busy are you?”

“Not very, as a matter of fact. How is it at your end?”

“We have the TV stations and phones shut down. I hope the President will be there when I have to explain that one to the judge.”

“Walt, this isn't the time—”

“Not why I called.”

“Well, then you want to tell me?”

“I can see it from here, Dan,” Hoskins said, in a voice that was almost dreamy.

“How bad is it?”

“All I see is the smoke, really. The mushroom cloud is over the mountains now, all orange, like. Sunset, it's high enough to catch the sunset, I guess. I can see lots of little fires. They're lighting up the smoke from the stadium area. Dan?”

“Yeah, Walt?” Dan responded. The man seemed to be in shock, Murray thought.

“Something odd.”

“What's that?”

“My windows aren't broken. I'm only five miles from there, and only one of my windows is cracked, even. Odd, isn't it?” Hoskins paused. “I have some stuff here that you said you wanted, pictures and stuff.” Hoskins leafed through the documents that had been set in his In basket. “Marvin Russell sure picked a busy day to die. Anyway, I have the passport stuff you wanted. Important?”

“It can wait.”

“Okay.” Hoskins hung up.

“Walt's losing it, Pat,” Murray observed.

“You blame him?” O'Day asked.

Dan shook his head. “No.”

“If this gets worse…” Pat observed.

“How far out is your family?”

“Not far enough.”

“Five miles,” Murray said quietly.

“What?”

“Walt said that his office is just five miles away, he can see it from there. His windows aren't broken, even.”

“Bullshit,” O'Day replied. “He must really be out of it. Five miles, that's less than nine thousand yards.”

“What do you mean?”

“NORAD said the bomb was a hundred-kiloton range. That'll break windows over a hell of a long distance. Only takes half a pound or so of overpressure to do a window.”

“How do you know?”

“Used to be in the Navy — intelligence, remember? I had to evaluate the damage distances for Russian tactical nukes once. A hundred-kiloton bomb at nine thousand yards won't sink you, but it'll wreck everything topside, scorch paint, start small fires. Bad news, man.”

“Curtains, like?”

“Ought to,” O'Day thought aloud. “Yeah, regular curtains would light up, especially if they're dark ones.”

“Walt's not so far out of it that he'd miss a fire in his office…” Murray lifted his phone to Langley.

“Yeah, what is it, Dan?” Jack said into the speaker.

“What number do you have on the size of the explosion?”

“According to NORAD, one-fifty, maybe two hundred kilotons, size of a big tactical weapon or a small strategic one,” Ryan said. “Why?” On the other side of the table, the S&.T officer looked up from the photos.

“I just talked to my ASAC Denver. He can see the stadium area from his office — five miles, Jack. He's only got one cracked window.”

“Bull,” S&T noted.

“What do you mean?” Ryan asked.

“Five miles, that's eight thousand meters,” Ted Ayres pointed out. “The thermal pulse alone should fry the place, and the shock wave would sure as hell blow a plate-glass window out.”

Murray heard that. “Yeah, that's what a guy here just said. Hey, my guy might be a little out of it — shock, I mean — but he'd notice a fire next to his desk, don't you think?”

“Do we have anything from people on the scene yet?” Jack asked Ayres.

“No, the NEST team is on the way, but the imagery tells us a lot, Jack.”

“Dan, how quick can you get somebody to the scene?” Ryan asked.

“I'll find out.”

“Hoskins.”

“Dan Murray, Walt. Get some people down there fast as you can. You stay put to coordinate.”

“Okay.”

Hoskins gave the proper orders, wondering just how badly he might be endangering his people. Then, with nothing else to do, he looked over the file on his desk. Marvin Russell, he thought, yet another criminal who died of dumb. Drug dealers. Didn't they ever learn?

Roger Durling was grateful when the Kneecap aircraft disengaged from the tanker. The converted 747 had the usual pussycat ride, but not when in close proximity to a KC-10 tanker. It was something only his son enjoyed. Aboard in the conference room were an Air Force brigadier, a Navy captain, a Marine major, and four other field- and staff-grade officers. All the data the President got came to Kneecap automatically, including the Hot Line transcripts.

“You know, what they're saying is okay, but it sure as hell would be nice to know what everyone's thinking.”

“What if this really is a Russian attack?” the General asked.

“Why would they do it?”

“You've heard the chatter between the President and CIA, sir.”

“Yeah, but that Ryan guy's right,” Durling said. “None of this makes any sense.”

“So, who ever said the world had to make sense? What about the contact in the Med and Berlin?”

“Forward-deployed forces. We go on alert, and they go on alert, and they're close to each other, and someone goofs. You know, like Gavrilio Prinzip shooting the Archduke. An accident happens and then things just slide down the chute.”

That's why we have the Hot Line, Mr. Vice President."

“True,” Durling conceded. “And so far it seems to be working.”

They made the first fifty yards easily, but then it got harder, and soon it went from hard to impossible. Callaghan had a total of fifty firefighters trying to fight their way on, with a hundred more in support. On reflection, he had a continuous water spray over every man and woman. If nothing else, he reasoned, he would wash whatever fallout or dust or whatever the hell was out here off his people and into the sewer drains — that which didn't freeze first, that is. The men in front were coated with ice that made a translucent layer on their turn-out coats.

The biggest problem was the cars. They'd been tossed about like toys, laying on their sides or tops, leaking gasoline that collected into burning puddles that were being supplied faster than they burned off. Callaghan ordered a truck in. One at a time, his men ran cables to the frames of the wrecked cars, and the truck dragged them clear, but this was horribly time-consuming. It would take forever to get in to the stadium. And there were people in there. He was sure of it. There had to be. Callaghan just stood there, out of the water spray, guilty that he was warmer than his people. He turned when he heard the roar of a large diesel engine.

“Hello.” It was a man wearing the uniform of a U.S. Army colonel. The nametag on his parka read Lyle. “I hear you need heavy equipment.”

“What you got?”

“I have three engineer tanks, M728s, just rolling in now. Got something else, too.”

“What's that?”

“A hundred MOPP suits, you know, chemical warfare gear. It ain't perfect, but it's better than what your people got on. Warmer, too. Why don't you pull your people off and get them outfitted. Truck's over there.” The colonel pointed.

Callaghan hesitated for a moment, but decided that he couldn't turn this offer down. He called his people off and pulled them back to don the military gear. Colonel Lyle tossed him an outfit.

The water fog's a good idea, ought to keep dust and stuff down. So, what do you want us to do?"

“You can't tell from here, but there's still some structure in there. I think there might be survivors. I have to find out. Can you help us get through these cars?”

“Sure.” The colonel lifted his own radio and ordered the first vehicle in. The M728, Callaghan saw, was essentially a tank with a dozer blade on the front, and a big A-frame and winch on the back of the turret. There was even an odd-looking short-barrelled gun.

“This isn't going to be very neat. Can you live with that?”

“Screw neat — get in there!”

“Okay.” Lyle picked up the interphone at the left rear of the vehicle. “Make a hole,” he ordered.

The driver revved up the diesel just as the first firemen returned. He made a sincere effort to avoid the fire hoses — even so he split eight two-and-a-half-inch lines. The blade dropped, and the tank crashed into the mass of burning cars at twenty miles per hour. It made a hole, all right, about thirty feet deep. Then the tank backed off and started widening it.

“Jesus,” Callaghan observed. “What do you know about radiation stuff?”

“Not much. I checked with the NEST guys before I drove down. They ought to be here any time. Until then…” Lyle shrugged. “You really think there's live ones in there?”

“Part of the structure is still there. I saw it from the chopper.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah, I saw it.”

“But that's crazy. The NORAD guys say it was a big one.”

“What?” Callaghan shouted over the noise of the tank.

“The bomb, it was supposed to be a big one. There shouldn't even be a parking lot here.”

“You mean this was a little one?” Callaghan looked at the man as though he were crazy.

“Hell, yes!” Lyle stopped for a moment. “If there's people in there…” He ran to the back of the tank and grabbed the phone. A moment later, the M728 stopped.

“What's the matter?”

“If there are survivors, hell, we might squash one this way. I just told him to take it easier. God damn, you're right. And I thought you were crazy.”

“What do you mean?” Callaghan shouted again, waving his firefighters to put their spray on the tank also.

“There may be survivors in there. This bomb was a hell of a lot smaller than they told me on the phone.”

“ Maine, this is Sea Devil One-Three,” the P-3C Orion called. “We're about forty minutes out from your position. What seems to be the problem?”

“We have screw and shaft damage, and we have an Akula in the neighborhood, last fix five-zero thousand yards southwest,” Ricks answered.

“Roger that. We'll see if we can drive him off for you. We'll report when we get on station. Out.”

“Captain, we can do three knots, let's do that, north, open as much as we can,” Claggett said.

Ricks shook his head. “No, we'll stay quiet.”

“Sir, our friend out there must have copied the collision transient. He will be coming this way. We've lost our best sonar. Smart move is to evade as best we can.”

“No, the smart move is to stay covert.”

“Then at least launch a MOSS.”

“That makes sense, sir,” the weapons officer thought.

“Okay, program it to sound like we are now, and give it a southerly course.”

“Right.” Maine 's number-three torpedo tube was loaded with a MOSS, a Mobile Submarine Simulator. Essentially a modified torpedo itself, the MOSS contained a sonar transducer connected to a noise generator, instead of a warhead. It would radiate the sound of an Ohio-class submarine, and was designed to simulate a damaged one. Since shaft damage was one of the few reasons that an Ohio might make noise, that option was already programmed in. The weapons officer selected the proper noise track, and launched the weapon a few minutes later. The MOSS sped off to the south, and two thousand yards away, it began radiating.

The skies had cleared over Charleston, South Carolina. What had fallen as snow in Virginia and Maryland had been mainly sleet here. The afternoon sun had removed most of that, returning the antebellum city to its normally pristine state. As the Admiral commanding Submarine Group Six watched from the tender, two of his ballistic-missile submarines started down the Cooper River for the sea and safety. He wasn't the only one to watch. One hundred ninety miles over his head, a Soviet reconnaissance satellite made its pass, continuing up the coast to Norfolk, where the sky was also clearing. The satellite downlinked its pictures to the Russian intelligence center on Cuba 's western tip. From there it was immediately relayed by communications satellite. Most of the Russian satellites used high-polar orbits, and had not been affected by the BMP. The imagery was in Moscow in a matter of seconds.

“Yes?” the Defense Minister asked.

“We have imagery of three American naval bases. Missile submarines at Charleston and King's Bay are putting to sea.”

“Thank you.” The Defense Minister replaced the phone. Another threat. He relayed it at once to President Narmonov.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that the military action taken by the Americans is not merely defensive. Some of the submarines in question carry the Trident D-5 missile, which has first-strike capability. You'll recall how interested the Americans were in forcing us to eliminate our SS-18s?”

“Yes, and they are removing a large number of their Minutemen,” Narmonov said. “So?”

“So, they don't need land-based missiles to make a first-strike. They can do it from submarines. We cannot. We depend on our land-based ICBMs for that.”

“And what of our SS-18s?”

“We're removing the warheads from some of them even as we speak, and if they ever get that damned deactivation facility working, we'll be in full compliance with the treaty — we are now, in fact, just the damned Americans don't admit it.” The Defense Minister paused. Narmonov wasn't getting it. “In other words, while we have eliminated some of our most accurate missiles, the Americans still have theirs. We are at a strategic disadvantage.”

“I have not had much sleep, and my thinking is not at its best,” Narmonov said testily. “You agreed to this treaty document only a year ago, and now you're telling me that we are threatened by it?”

They're all the same, the Defense Minister thought. They never listen, they never really pay attention. Tell them something a hundred times and they just don't hear you!

“The elimination of so many missiles and warheads changes the correlation of forces—”

“Rubbish! We're still equal in every way!” President Narmonov objected.

“That is not the question. The important factor is the relationship between the number of launchers — and their relative vulnerability — and the number of warheads available to both sides. We can still strike first and eliminate the American land-based missile force with our land-based missiles. That is why they were so willing to remove half of theirs. But the majority of their warheads are at sea, and now, for the first time, such sea-based missiles are totally adequate for a disarming first strike.”

“Kuropatkin,” Narmonov said. “Are you hearing this?”

“Yes, I am. The Defense Minister is correct. The additional dimension, if I may say it, is that the reduction in the number of launchers has changed the overall ratio of launchers-to-warheads. For the first time in a generation, a truly disarming first-strike is possible, especially if the Americans are able to decapitate our government with their first strike.”

“And they could do that with the Stealth fighters they put in Germany,” Defense concluded the statement.

“Wait a minute. Are you telling me that Fowler blew up his own city as an excuse to attack us? What madness is this?” Now the Soviet president began to understand fear.

The Defense Minister spoke slowly and clearly. “Whoever detonated that weapon is beside the point. If Fowler begins to think that it was our doing, he has the ability to act against us. Comrade President, you must understand this: technically speaking, our country is on the edge of annihilation. Less than thirty minutes separate their land-based missiles from us. Twenty minutes for their sea-based ones, and as little as two hours from those goddamned invisible tactical bombers, which would be the most advantageous opening move. All that separates us from destruction is the mental state of President Fowler.”

“I understand.” The Soviet president was quiet for half a minute. He stared off at the status board on the far wall. When he spoke, his voice showed the anger that comes from fright. “What do you propose we should do — attack the Americans? I will not do such a thing.”

“Of course not, but we would be well-advised to place our strategic forces on full alert. The Americans will take note of this, and realize that a disarming attack is not possible, and we can settle this affair down long enough for reason to take hold.”

“Golovko?”

The First Deputy Chairman of the KGB shrank from the inquiry. “We know that they are at full alert status. It is possible that our doing the same will provoke them.”

“If we do not, we present ourselves as a much more inviting target.” The Defense Minister was inhumanly calm, perhaps the only man in the room who was fully in control of himself. “We know that the American president is under great stress, that he has lost many thousands of his citizens. He might lash out without thinking. He is much less likely to do so if he knows that we are in a position to respond in kind. We do not dare to show weakness at a time like this. Weakness always invites attack.”

Narmonov looked around the room for a dissenting opinion. There was none. “Make it so,” he told Defense.

“We still haven't heard anything from Denver,” Fowler said, rubbing his eyes.

“I wouldn't expect much,” General Borstein replied.

NORAD's command post is literally inside of a mountain. The entrance tunnel had a series of steel blast-doors. The structures inside were designed to survive anything that could be aimed at them. Shock-absorbing springs and bags of compressed air isolated the people and machines from the granite floors. Overhead were steel roofs to stop any rock fragments that might be blasted free by a near-miss. Borstein didn't expect to survive an attack. There was a whole regiment of Soviet SS-18 Mod 4s tasked to the destruction of this post and a few others. Instead of ten or more MIRVs, they carried a single twenty-five-megaton warhead whose only plausible military mission was to turn Cheyenne Mountain into Cheyenne Lake. That was a pleasant thought. Borstein was a fighter pilot by trade. He'd started off in the F-100, called the “Hun,” by its drivers, graduated from there to F-4 Phantoms, and commanded an F-15 squadron in Europe. He'd always been a tactical guy, stick and rudder, scarf and goggles: kick the tires, light the fires, first one up's the leader. Borstein frowned at the thought. Even he wasn't old enough to remember those days. His job was continental air defense, to keep people from blowing his country up. He'd failed. A nearby piece of America was blown up, along with his boss, and he didn't know why or how or who. Borstein was not a man accustomed to failure, but failure was what he saw on his map display.

“General!” a major called to him.

“What is it?”

“Picking up some radio and microwave chatter. First guess is that Ivan's alerting his missile regiments. Ditto in some naval bases. Flash traffic outbound from Moscow.”

“Christ!” Borstein lifted his phone again.

“Never done it?” Elliot asked.

“Strange but true,” Borstein said. “Even during the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Russians never put their ICBMs on alert.”

“I don't believe it,” Fowler snorted. “Never?”

“The General's right,” Ryan said. “The reason is that their telephone system historically has been in pretty bad shape. I guess they've finally gotten it fixed enough—”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. President, God is in the details. You send alert messages by voice — we do it that way, and so do the Soviets. The Russian phone system stinks, and you don't want to use a flukey system for orders of that importance. That's why they've been investing so much money in fixing it up, just as we have invested a lot in our command-and-control-systems. They use a lot of fiberoptic cable now, just like we do, plus a whole new set of microwave relays. That's how we're catching it,” Jack explained. “Scatter off the microwave repeaters.”

“Another couple of years, they'll be fully fiber-optic, and we wouldn't have known,” General Fremont added. “I don't like this.”

“Neither do I,” Ryan said, “but we're at DEFCON-TWO also, aren't we?”

“They don't know that. We didn't tell them that,” Liz Elliot said.

“Unless they're reading our mail. I've told you we have reports that they've penetrated our cipher systems.”

“NSA says you're crazy.”

“Maybe I am, but NSA's been wrong before, too.”

“What do you think Narmonov's mental state is?”

As scared as I am? Ryan wondered. “Sir, there's no telling that.”

“And we don't even know if it's really him,” Elliot put in.

“Liz, I reject your hypothesis,” Jack snapped over the conference line. “The only thing you have to support it comes from my agency, and we have our doubts about it.” Christ, I'm sorry I ever took that report in, he told himself.

“Cut that out, Ryan!” Fowler snarled back. “I need facts, not arguments now, okay?”

“Sir, as I keep pointing out, we do not as yet have sufficient information on which to base any decision.”

“Balls,” the Colonel next to General Fremont said.

“What do you mean?” CINC-SAC turned away from the speaker-phone.

“Dr. Elliot is right, sir. What she said earlier makes sense.”

“Mr. President,” they heard a voice say. “We have a Hot Line transmission coming in.”

“Oh, shit,” Ryan said, looking at the fax.

“I need opinions, people,” Fowler said over the conference line.

“The best thing is to say that we have no knowledge of this incident,” Elliot said. “If we admit knowledge, we have to assume some responsibility.”

“This is a singularly bad time to lie,” Ryan said forcefully. Even he thought he was overdoing it. They won't listen to you if you shout, Jack, boy…

“Tell that to Narmonov,” Elliot shot back. “They attacked us, remember?”

“So the reports say, but—”

“Ryan, are you saying our people lied?” Borstein snarled from Cheyenne Mountain.

“No, General, but at times like this the news is chancy, and you know that as well as I do!”

“If we deny knowledge, we can avoid taking a stand that we might have to back down from, and we avoid challenging them for the moment,” the National Security Advisor insisted. “Why are they bringing this up now?” she asked.

“Mr. President, you used to be a prosecutor,” Ryan said. “You know how unreliable eyewitness accounts can be. Narmonov could be asking that question in good faith. My advice is to answer it honestly.” Jack turned to Goodley, who gave him a thumbs-up.

“Robert, we're not dealing with civilians, we're dealing with professional soldiers, and they ought to be good observers. Narmonov is accusing us of something we didn't do,” Elliot countered. “Soviet troops do not initiate combat operations without orders. Therefore, he must know that his accusation is false. If we admit knowledge, we will appear to admit his charge is true. I don't know what game he's playing — whoever that is at the other end of the line — but if we simply say we don't know what he's talking about, we buy ourselves time.”

“I strongly disagree with that,” Jack said, as calmly as he could manage.

“Opinions?”

“The bastard's lying through his teeth,” the Defense Minister said. “Their communications system is too good for that.”

“Robert, Robert, why do you lie when I know you are lying…?” Narmonov said, his head down. The Soviet president now had his own questions to ask. Over the past two or three months, his contacts with America had grown slightly cold. When he asked for some additional credits, he was put off. The Americans were insisting on full compliance with the arms-reduction agreement, even though they knew what the problem was, and even though he'd given Fowler his word face-to-face that everything would be done. What had changed? Why had Fowler retreated from his promises? What the hell was he doing now?

“It's more than just a lie, more than just this lie,” the Defense Minister observed, after a moment.

“What do you mean?”

“He has emphasized again that his interest is in rescue of casualties in the Denver area, but we know he has placed his strategic forces on full alert. Why has he not told us of this?”

“Because he is afraid of provoking us…?” Narmonov asked. His words seemed rather hollow even to himself.

“Possibly,” Defense admitted. “But they do not know the success we've had reading their codes. Perhaps they think they have concealed this from us.”

“No,” Kuropatkin said in his command center. “I must disagree with that. We could hardly fail to see some of these indicators. They should know that we are aware of some aspects of their strategic alert.”

“But not all.” The Defense Minister turned to stare at Narmonov. “We must face the possibility that the American president is no longer rational.”

“The first time?” Fowler asked.

Elizabeth Elliot nodded. She was quite pale now. “It's not widely known, Robert, but it is true. The Russians have never placed their Strategic Rocket Forces on alert. Until now.”

“Why now?” the President asked.

“Robert, the only thing that makes sense is that it isn't Narmonov over there.”

“But how can we be sure?”

“We can't. All we have is this computer link. There's no voice link, no visual link.”

“Dear God.”