The Sum of All Fears

40 COLLISIONS

“Ryan, how do we know it's really Narmonov over there?”

“Mr. President, who else would it be?”

“God damn it, Ryan! You're the one who brought me the reports!”

“Mr. President, you have to settle down,” Jack said, in a voice that wasn't particularly calm. “Yes, I brought you that information, and I also told you it was unconfirmed, and I just told you a few minutes ago that we have reason to believe that it may not ever have been true at all.”

“Can't you see your own data? You're the one who warned us that there might be some missing nukes!” Elliot pointed out. “Well, they turned up — they turned up here, right where we were supposed to be!”

Christ, she's even more rattled than he is, Helen D'Agustino told herself. She traded a look with Pete Connor, who was pasty-white. This is going too fast.

“Look, Liz, I keep telling you that our information is too damned thin. We don't have enough to make any kind of informed judgment here.”

“But why have they gone on nuclear alert?”

“For the same reason that we have!” Ryan shouted back. “Maybe if both sides would back off—”

“Ryan, don't tell me what to do,” Fowler said quietly. “What I want from you is information. We make the decisions here.”

Jack turned away from the speaker-phone. Now he was losing it, Goodley thought, now Ryan was pale and sick-looking. The Deputy Director of Central Intelligence stared out the windows at the CIA courtyard and the largely empty building beyond. He took a few deep breaths and turned back.

“Mr. President,” Jack said under taut control, “our opinion is that President Narmonov is in control of the Soviet government. We do not know the origin of the explosion in Denver, but there is no information in our possession that would lead us to believe that it was a Soviet weapon. Our opinion is that for the Soviets to undertake such an operation would be lunacy, and even if their military were in control — after a coup about which we have no information at all, sir — such a miscalculation is unlikely to the point of — the likelihood is so low as to approach zero, sir. That is CIA's position.”

“And Kadishev?” Fowler asked.

“Sir, we have evidence just developed yesterday and today to suggest that his reports may be false. We cannot confirm one of the meetings that should—”

“One? You can't confirm one meeting?” Elliot asked.

“Will you let me talk?” Jack snarled, losing it again. “Damn it, it was Goodley who did this work, not me!” He paused for a breath. “Dr. Goodley noted some subtle differences in the nature of the reports and decided to check up on them. All of Kadishev's reports supposedly came from face-to-face meetings with Narmonov. In one case we cannot reconcile the schedules of both men. We cannot be sure they met in that case at all. If they didn't meet, then Kadishev is a liar.”

“I suppose you've considered the possibility that they met in secret?” Elliot inquired acidly. “Or do you think that a subject like this would be handled as a routine business matter! Do you think he'd be discussing a possible coup in a routine scheduled meeting!”

“I keep telling you that his information has never been confirmed, not by us, not by the Brits, not by anybody.”

“Ryan, would you expect that a conspiracy leading to a military coup, especially in a country like the Soviet Union, would be handled in the utmost secrecy?” Fowler asked.

“Of course.”

“Then would you necessarily expect to have it confirmed by other sources?” Fowler asked, talking like a lawyer in a courtroom.

“No, sir,” Ryan admitted.

“Then this is the best information we have, isn't it?”

“Yes, Mr. President, if it's true.”

“You say that you have no firm evidence to confirm it?”

“Correct, Mr. President.”

“But you have no hard information to contradict it, either, do you?”

“Sir, we have reasons—”

“Answer my question!”

Ryan's right hand compressed into a tight, white fist. “No, Mr. President, nothing hard.”

“And for the past few years he's given us good, reliable information?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So, based on the record of Mr. Kadishev, this is the best available information?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you. I suggest, Dr. Ryan, that you try to develop additional information. When you get it, I'll listen to it.” The line clicked off.

Jack stood slowly. His legs were stiff and sore from the stress of the moment. He took one step to the window and lit a cigarette. “I blew it,” he told the world. “Oh, Christ, I've blown it…”

“Not your fault, Jack,” Goodley offered.

Jack spun around. “That'll look real good on my fucking tombstone, won't it? 'It wasn't his fault' the fucking world blew up!”

“Come on, Jack, it's not that bad.”

“Think so? Did you hear their voices?”

The Soviet carrier Kuznetzov didn't launch aircraft in the manner of U.S. carriers. Rather, it had a ski-jump bow configuration. The first MiG-29 raced forward from its starting point and went up the angled ramp and into the air. This manner of takeoff was hard on pilots and aircraft, but it worked. Another aircraft followed, and both turned to head east. They'd barely gotten to altitude when the flight leader noted a buzz in his headphones.

“Sounds like an emergency beeper on the guard frequency,” he said to his wingman. “Sounds like one of ours.”

“Da, east-south-east. It is one of ours. Who do you suppose it is?”

“I have no idea.” The flight leader passed this information on to Kuznetzov, and received instructions to investigate.

“This is Falcon-Two,” the Hawkeye reported. “We have two inbounds from the Russkie carrier, fast movers, bearing three-one-five and two-five-zero miles from Stick.”

Captain Richards looked at the tactical display. “Spade, this is Stick. Close and warn them off.”

“Roger,” Jackson replied. He'd just topped his fuel tanks off. Jackson could stay up for another three hours or so, and he still carried six missiles.

“'Warn them off?'” Lieutenant Walter asked.

“Shredder, I don't know what's going on, either.” Jackson brought the stick around. Sanchez did the same, again splitting out to a wide interval.

The two pairs of aircraft flew on reciprocal courses at a closing speed of just under a thousand miles an hour. Four minutes later, both Tomcats went active on their radars. Ordinarily that would have alerted the Russians to the fact that American fighters were in the area, and that the area might not be totally healthy. But the new American radars were stealthy, and were not picked up.

It turned out that this didn't matter. A few seconds later, the Russians activated their own radar systems.

“Two fighters coming in towards us!”

The Russian flight leader checked his own radar display and frowned. The two MiGs were only supposed to be guarding their own task force. The alert had come in, and the fighters went up. Now he was on what might be a rescue mission, and had no particular desire to play foolish games with American aircraft, especially at night. He knew that the Americans knew he was about.

His threat receiver did detect the emanations from their airborne early-warning aircraft. “Come right,” he ordered. “Down to one thousand meters to look for that beeper.” He'd leave his radar on, however, to show that he didn't wish to be trifled with.

“They're evading to the left, going down.”

“Bud, you have the lead,” Jackson said. Sanchez had the most missiles. Robby would cover his tail.

“Stick, this is Falcon-Two, both inbounds are breaking south and diving for the deck.”

As Richards watched, the course vectors changed on both inbound aircraft. Their course tracks were not actually converging with the Roosevelt group at the moment, though they would be coming fairly close.

“What are they up to?”

“Well, they don't know where we are, do they?” the Operations Officer pointed out. Their radars are on, though."

“Looking for us, then?”

“That would be my guess.”

“Well, now we know where the other four came from.” Captain Richards picked up the mike to talk to Jackson and Sanchez.

“Splash 'em,” was the order. Robby took high cover. Sanchez went down, pulling behind and below both MiGs.

“I've lost the Americans.”

“Forget them! We're looking for a rescue beeper, remember?” The flight leader craned his neck. “Is that a strobe light? On the surface at two o'clock…?”

“I have it.”

“Follow me down!”

“Evading, down and right!” Bud called. “Engaging now.”

He was a bare two thousand yards aft of the MiGs. Sanchez selected a Sidewinder and lined his aircraft up on the “south guy,” the trailing wingman. As the Tomcat continued to close, the pilot got the warbling tone in his earphones, and triggered off his missile. The AIM-9M Sidewinder leaped off its launch rail, straight into the starboard engine of the MiG-29, which exploded. Barely had that happened when Sanchez triggered off a second 'Winder.

“Splash one.”

“What the hell!” The flight leader caught the flash out the comer of his eye and turned to see his wingman's aircraft heading down before a trail of yellow. He wrenched his stick left, his throttle hand punching the flare/chaff-release button, as his eyes searched the darkness for his attacker.

Sanchez's second missile missed right. It didn't matter. He was still tracking, and the MiG's turn brought the target right into the path of his 2omm cannon. One quick burst detached part of the MiG's wing. The pilot barely ejected in time. Sanchez watched the chute deploy. A minute later, as he orbited overhead, he saw that both Russians seemed to have survived the incident. That was fine with Bud.

“Splash two. Stick, we have two good chutes on the splashes… wait a minute, there's three strobes down there,” Jackson called. He gave the position, and almost instantly a helicopter lifted off from Theodore Roosevelt.

“Spade, is it supposed to be this easy?” Walters asked.

“I thought the Russians were smarter than this myself,” the captain admitted. “This is like first day of duck season.”

Ten minutes later, Kuznetzov made a radio call for its two MiGs, and got no reply.

The Air Force helicopter returned from Rocky Flats. Major Griggs alighted with five men, all of them dressed in protective gear. Two of them ran to find Chief Callaghan close to the M728 engineer tanks.

“Ten more minutes, if we're lucky,” Colonel Lyle shouted from atop the lead tank.

“Who's in charge here?” one of the NEST team asked.

“Who are you?”

“Parsons, team leader.” Laurence Parsons was the head of the on-duty Nuclear Emergency Search Team, yet another failure for this day. Their job was to locate nuclear devices before they went off. Three such teams were kept on duty around the clock, one just outside Washington, another in Nevada, and the third, recently activated at Rocky Flats to help make up for the retirement of the Energy Department's weapons-fabrication facility outside Denver. It had been anticipated, of course, that they wouldn't always be able to get there in time. He held a radiation counter in his hand, and didn't like what he saw. “How long have your people been here?”

“About half an hour, maybe forty minutes.”

“Ten more minutes, I want everybody away from here. You're taking Rems here, Chief.”

“What do you mean? The Major said the fallout is all—”

“What you're getting is from neutron activation. It's hot here!”

Callaghan cringed at the thought. His life was being attacked by something he couldn't see or feel. There may be people inside. We're almost there."

“Then do it fast! I mean fast!” Parsons and his team started moving back to the helicopter. They had their own work to do. At the chopper, they met a man in civilian clothes.

“Who the fuck are you?” Parsons demanded.

“FBI! What happened here?”

“Take a guess!”

“ Washington needs information!”

“Larry, it's hotter here than it is at the stadium!” another NEST team member reported.

“Makes sense,” Parsons said. “Ground burst.” He pointed. “Far side, down-wind side. In-close was shielded some.”

“What can you tell me?” the FBI agent asked.

“Not much,” Parsons said, over the sound of the turning rotor. “Ground burst, yield under twenty KT, all I got.”

“It's dangerous here?”

“Hell, yes! Set up — where, where?”

“How about at the Aurora Presbyterian Hospital, two miles up-wind?” a NESTer suggested. “Across from Aurora Mall. Ought to be okay there.”

“You know where that is?” Parsons asked.

“Yes!”

“Then move out! Ken, you tell these people to get the hell out of here, it's twenty percent hotter here than in close. We have to get samples. Ken, you make sure they clear the area in ten minutes — fifteen max. Drag them out if you have to. Start here!”

“Right.”

The FBI agent ducked as the helicopter lifted off. The NEST team member began running down the line of fire trucks, waving for them to get away. The agent decided to do the same. After a few minutes, he got in his car and headed northeast.

“Shit, I forgot about the neutrons,” Major Griggs said.

“Thanks a lot!” Callaghan screamed over the sound of the tank.

“It's okay, they cut it off at a hundred. A hundred won't really hurt anybody.”

Callaghan heard the sound of the engines pulling away. “What about the people inside?” The chief found the interphone at the back of the tank. “Listen up, we have ten minutes and we gotta get the hell out of here. Lean on it!”

“You got it, man,” the tank commander replied. “Better get clear. I'll give you a ten count.”

Callaghan ran to the side. Colonel Lyle jumped off and did the same. Inside the vehicle, the driver backed off ten yards, took the engine to the red line, and slipped the brake. The M728 crushed five vehicles, slamming them aside. The tank was moving at perhaps a mile per hour, but it didn't stop. Its treads ripped up the asphalt, then it was through.

The area immediately next to the stadium structure was amazingly intact. Most of the wreckage from the roof and upper wall had been thrown hundreds of yards, but here there were only small piles of brick and concrete fragments. Too much for a wheeled vehicle, but clear enough that men could walk. Firefighters advanced and sprayed everything. The asphalt was still very hot, and the water steamed off it. Callaghan ran in front of the tank, waving for his men to go left and right.

“You know what this looks like?” a NEST team member said, as the helicopter circled the ruined stadium.

“Yeah, Chernobyl. They had firemen there, too.” Parsons turned away from that thought. “Head downwind,” he told the pilot. “Andy, what do you make of this?”

“Ground burst, and this wasn't any hundred-KT weapon, Larry, not even twenty-five.”

“What screwed up NORAD's estimate, do you think?”

“The parking lot. Asphalt, plus all those burning cars — it's the perfect black-body material — it's even black, for God's sake! I'm surprised the thermal pulse didn't look bigger than that — and everything around here is white from the snow 'n' ice, right? They got a mega-reflection, plus a huge energy contrast.”

“Makes sense, Andy,” Parsons agreed. “Terrorists?”

“That's my bet for now, Larry. But we gotta get some residue to be sure.”

The sounds of battle had died down. The Bradley commander heard scattered firing and guessed that the Russians had pulled back part way, maybe all the way to their own kazerne. It made sense, both side's tanks had been badly mauled, and it was now a battle for infantrymen and their fighting vehicles. Foot soldiers, he knew, were smarter than tankers. It came from wearing a shirt instead of a foot of iron. Vulnerability made you think. He changed position yet again. It was odd how this worked, though he'd practiced the maneuver often enough. The vehicle ran close to a corner, and a man would dismount to peer around it.

“Nothin', Sarge. It's all — wait! Something moving, 'bout two miles down the street… ” The soldier raised a pair of glasses. “BDRM! The missile kind.”

Okay, the sergeant thought, that'll be the reconnaissance element for the next wave. His job was entirely straightforward. Reconnaissance was a two-part job. His job was both to find the enemy, and to prevent the enemy from finding things.

“Another one!”

“Get ready to move. Traverse right, targets to the right,” he added for the gunner.

“Ready, sarge.”

“Go!” The Bradley's armored body rocked backwards as a vehicle leaped into the intersection. The gunner brought his turret around. It looked like a small-bore shooting gallery. There were two BDRM armored scout cars heading straight towards them. The gunner engaged the leader, exploding the anti-tank missile launcher on top. The BDRM veered to the left and rammed some parked cars. Already, the gunner shifted fire to the second, which jerked right to evade, but the street was too narrow for that. The chain gun was a nice compromise between a machinegun and a cannon. The gunner was able to walk his tracers into the target, and had the satisfaction of watching it explode. But—

“Back fast — now!” the sergeant screamed into the intercom. There had been a third BDRM back there. The Bradley retreated the way it had come. Barely had it gotten behind the buildings when a missile streaked down the street it had crossed, trailing a thin wire behind it. The missile exploded a few hundred meters away.

“Time to leave, turn us around,” the track commander said. Then he activated his radio. “This is Delta Three-Three. We have contact with reconnaissance vehicles. Two destroyed, but the third one spotted us. We got more friends coming in, sir.”

“General, we've pushed them back across the line, I can hold out against what's here, but if more gets in to us, we're screwed,” Colonel Lang said. “Sir, we need help here!”

“Okay, I'll have some air to you in ten minutes. Fast-movers on the way now.”

“That's a start, but I need more than that, sir.”

SACEUR turned to his operations officer. “What's ready?”

“Second of the 11th Cav, sir. They're moving out of their kazerne right now.”

“What's between them and Berlin?”

“Russians? Not much. If they move fast… ”

“Move 'em out.” SACEUR walked back to his desk and lifted the phone for Washington.

“Yes, what is it?” Fowler asked.

“Sir, it appears that the Russians are bringing reinforcements into Berlin. I have just ordered the 2nd Squadron, 11th Armored Cav to move towards Berlin to reinforce. I also have aircraft heading in now to assess the situation.”

“Do you have any idea what they're up to?”

“None, sir, it makes no damned sense at all, but we still have people being killed. What are the Russians telling you, Mr. President?”

“They're asking why we attacked them, General.”

“Are they nuts?” Or is it something else? SACEUR wondered. Something really frightening?

“General,” it was a woman's voice, probably that Elliot woman, SACEUR thought. “I want to be very clear on this. Are you sure that the Soviets initiated the attack?”

“Yes, ma'am!” SACEUR replied heatedly. “The commander of the Berlin Brigade is probably dead. The XO is Lieutenant-Colonel Edward Long. I know the kid, he's good. He says the Russians opened fire on the brigade without warning while they were responding to the alert you sent out from D.C. They didn't even have their tubes loaded. I repeat, ma'am, the Russians are the ones who started shooting, and that's definite. Now, do I have your permission to reinforce?”

“What happens if you don't?” Fowler asked.

“In that case, Mr. President, you have about five thousand letters to write.”

“Look, okay, send in the reinforcements. Tell Berlin to take no offensive action. We're trying to get things settled down.”

“I wish you luck, Mr. President, but right now I have a command to run.”

“Have we heard anything from Berlin yet?” Narmonov asked.

The Defense Minister shook his head. “No, the lead reconnaissance elements should be getting in now. Radio communications are a disaster. Our VHF radios work poorly in cities because they are line-of-sight only. What we're getting is fragmented, mainly tactical communications between sub-unit commanders. We have not established contact with the regimental commander. He may be dead. After all,” Defense pointed out, “the Americans like to go after commanders first.”

“So, we really do not know what is going on?”

“No, but I am certain that no Soviet commander would open fire on Americans without just cause!”

Golovko closed his eyes and swore under his breath. Now the Defense Minister was showing the strain.

“Sergey Nikolay'ch?” Narmonov asked.

“We have nothing more to report from KGB. You may expect that all of the American land-based missiles are fully on alert, as are all their submarine missiles at sea. We estimate that the American missile submarines in port will all have sortied in a matter of hours.”

“And our missile submarines?”

“One is leaving the dock now. The rest are preparing to do so. It will take most of the day to get them all out.”

“Why are we so slow?” Narmonov demanded.

“The Americans have two complete crews for their boats. We have only one. It's simply easier for them to surge them out this way.”

“So, you are telling me that their strategic forces are totally ready, or nearly so, and ours are not?”

“All of our land-based rockets are fully prepared.”

“President Narmonov, your reply to the Americans…?”

“What do I say now?” Andrey Il'ych asked.

A colonel entered the room. “Report from Berlin.” He handed it to the Defense Minister.

“The Americans are in the eastern part of the city. The first wave of scout cars was taken under fire. Four vehicles, the officer commanding was killed in one of them. We've returned fire and gotten two American vehicles… no contact as yet with our regiment.” The Defense Minister looked at the other one. “Carrier Kuznetzov reports that he launched a two-plane patrol. They detected a rescue radio signal and went to investigate. Contact was then lost. They have an American carrier battle group four hundred kilometers away, and request instructions.”

“What does that mean?”

The Defense Minister checked the times on the second dispatch. “If our planes are not back by now, they are nearly out of fuel. We must assume they were lost, cause unknown, but the close proximity of the American carrier is troubling… What the hell are they doing?”

“What the hell is he talking about? What am I doing? What the hell is he doing!” Fowler growled. A light came on. It was the CIA. The President pushed the button, adding a new line to his conference call.

“That depends on who 'he' is,” Elliot warned.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Mr. President, what we have here is simple confusion.”

“Ryan! We don't want analysis, we want information. Do you have any?” Liz shouted.

“The Soviets are sortieing their ships out of the Northern Fleet ports. One missile submarine is supposed to be heading out.”

“So, their land-based missiles are fully alerted?”

“Correct.”

“And they're adding to their submarine missile force also?”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Do you have any good news?”

“Sir, the news is that there is no real news right now, and you're—”

“Listen, Ryan. One last time: I want information from you and nothing else. You brought me that Kadishev stuff and now you're saying it was all wrong. So, why should I believe you now?”

“Sir, when I gave it to you I told you it was not confirmed!”

“I think we may have confirmation now,” Liz pointed out. “General Borstein, if they're fully on line, what exactly is the threat?”

“The fastest thing they can get to us is an ICBM. Figure one regiment of SS-18s targeted on the Washington area, and most of the others targeted on our missile fields in the Dakotas, plus the sub bases at Charleston, King's Bay, Bangor, and the rest. Warning time will be twenty-five minutes.”

“And we will be targets here?” Liz asked.

“That is a reasonable assumption, Dr. Elliot.”

“So, they will try to use SS-18s to finish what the first weapon missed?”

“If that was their work, yes.”

“General Fremont, how far out is the backup Kneecap?”

“Dr. Elliot, it took off about ten minutes ago. it'll be at Hagerstown in ninety-five minutes. They have some good tail winds.” CINC-SAC regretted that addition almost at once.

“So, if they are thinking about an attack, and they launch it within the next hour and a half, we're dead here?”

“Yes.”

“ Elizabeth, it's our job to prevent that, remember?” Fowler said quietly.

The National Security Advisor looked over at the President. Her face might have been made of glass, it looked so brittle. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was the chief advisor to the most powerful man in the world, in a place of ultimate safety, guarded by dedicated servants, but less than thirty minutes from the time some faceless, nameless Russian made a decision, perhaps one made already, she'd be dead. Dead, a few ashes in the wind, certainly no more than that. Everything she'd worked for, all the books and classes and seminars would have ended in a blinding, annihilating flash.

“Robert, we don't even know who we're talking to,” she said in an uneven voice.

“Back to their message, Mr. President,” General Fre-mont said. “'Additional troops to investigate.' Sir, that sounds like reinforcements.”

A rookie fireman found the first survivor, crawling up the concrete ramp from the basement loading dock. It was amazing he'd made it. His hands had second-degree burns, and the crawl had ground bits of glass and concrete and Lord knew what into his injuries. The fire-fighter lifted the man — it was a cop — and carried him off to the evacuation point. The two remaining fire engines sprayed both men with water, then they were ordered to strip, and they were hosed again. The police officer was semi-conscious, but tore a sheet of paper off the clipboard he'd been holding, and all during the ambulance ride he was trying to tell the fireman something, but the firefighter was too cold, too tired, and much too scared to pay attention. He'd done his job, and might have lost his life in the process. It was altogether too much for a twenty-year-old who simply stared at the wet floor of the ambulance and shivered inside his blanket.

The entranceway had been topped with a pre-stressed concrete lintel. That had been shattered by the blast, with one piece blocking the way in. A soldier from the tank snaked a cable from the turret-mounted winch around the largest of the remaining blocks. As he did this, Chief Callaghan kept staring at his watch. It was too late to stop now in any case. He had to see this through if he died in the process.

The cable went taut, pulling the concrete fragment clear. Miraculously, the remainder of the entranceway did not collapse. Callaghan led the way through the rubbled opening, with Colonel Lyle behind him.

The emergency lights were on, and it seemed that every sprinkler head had gone off. This part of the stadium was where the main came into the structure, Callaghan remembered, and that explained the falling water. There were other sounds, the kind that came from people. Callaghan went into a men's room and found two women, both sitting in the water, both of their coats sprinkled with their own vomit.

“Get 'em out of here!” he shouted to his men. “Go both ways, give it a quick check, and get back here fast as you can!” Callaghan checked all the toilet stalls. They were unoccupied. Another look at the room showed nothing else. They'd come all this way for two women in the wrong bathroom. Just two. The chief looked at Colonel Lyle, but there really wasn't anything to say. Both men walked out into the concourse.

It took Callaghan a moment to realize it, even though it was right there, an entrance to the stadium's lower level. Whereas only a short time before the view would have been of the stadium south side, and the roof, what he now saw was the mountains, still outlined in orange by a distant setting sun. The opening called to him, and as though in a trance, he walked up the ramp.

It was a scene from hell. Somehow this section had been shielded one way or another from the blast. But not the thermal pulse. There were perhaps three hundred seats, still largely intact, still with people in them. What had once been people. They were burned black, charcoaled like overdone meat, worse than any fire victim he'd ever seen in nearly thirty years of fighting fires. At least three hundred, still sitting there, looking at where the field had been.

“Come on, Chief,” Major Lyle said, pulling him away. The man collapsed, and Lyle saw him vomiting inside his gas mask. The colonel got it off him, and pulled him clear. “Time to leave. It's all over here. You've done your job.” It turned out that four more people were still alive. The firemen loaded them on the engine deck of the tank, which drove off at once to the evacuation point. The remaining firefighters there washed everything off, and departed, too.

Perhaps the only good luck of the day, Larry Parsons thought, was the snow cover. It had attenuated the thermal damage to the adjacent buildings. Instead of hundreds of house fires, there were only a few. Better, the afternoon sun of the previous day had been just intense enough to form a crust on the yards and roofs around the stadium. Parsons was looking for material on that crust. He and his men searched with scintillometers. The almost incredible fact of the matter was that while a nuclear bomb converted much of its mass into energy, the total mass lost in the process was minuscule. Aside from that, matter is very hard to destroy, and he was searching for residue from the device. This was easier than one might have thought. The material was dark, on a flat white surface, and it was also highly radioactive. He had a choice of six very hot spots, two miles down-range of the stadium. Parsons had taken the hottest. Dressed in his lead-coated protective suit, he was trudging across a snow-covered lawn. Probably an elderly couple, he thought. No kids had built a snowman or lain down to make angels. The rippling sound of the counter grew larger… there.

The residue was hardly larger in size than dust particles, but there were many of them, probably pulverized gravel and paving material from the parking lot, Parsons thought. If he were very lucky, it had been sucked up through the center of the fireball, and bomb residue had affixed itself to it. If he were lucky. Parsons scooped up a trowel's worth and slid it into a plastic bag. This he tossed to his teammate, who dropped the bag into a lead bucket.

“Very hot stuff, Larry!”

“I know. Let me get one more.” He scooped up another sample and bagged it as well. Then he lifted his radio.

“Parsons here. You got anything?”

“Yeah, three nice ones, Larry. Enough, I think, for an assay.”

“Meet me at the chopper.”

“On the way.”

Parsons and his partner walked off, ignoring the wide eyes watching from behind windows. Those people were not his concern for the moment. Thank God, he thought, that they hadn't bothered him with questions. The helicopter sat in the middle of a street, its rotor still turning.

“Where to?” Andy Bowler asked.

“We're going to the command center — shopping center. Should be nice and cold there. You take the samples back and run them through the spectrometer.”

“You should come along.”

“Can't,” Parsons said with a shake of the head. “I have to call into D.C. This isn't what they told us. Somebody goofed, and I gotta tell them. Have to use a landline for that.”

The conference room had at least forty phone lines routed into it, one of which was Ryan's direct line. The electronic warble caught his attention. Jack pushed the flashing button and lifted the receiver.

“Ryan.”

“Jack, what's going on?” Cathy Ryan asked her husband. There was alarm but not panic in her voice.

“What do you mean?”

“The local TV station says an atomic bomb went off in Denver. Is there a war, Jack?”

“Cathy, I can't — no, honey, there's no war going on, okay?”

“Jack, they showed a picture. Is there anything I need to know?”

“You know almost everything I know. Something happened. We don't know what, exactly, and we're trying to find out. The President's at Camp David with the National Security Advisor and—”

“Elliot?”

“Yes. They're talking to the Russians right now. Honey, I have work to do.”

“Should I take the children somewhere?”

The proper thing, and the honorable and dramatic thing, Jack told himself, was to tell his wife to stay home, that they had to share the risks with everyone else, but the fact was there was no place of safety that he knew. Ryan looked out the window, wondering what the hell he should say.

“No.”

“Liz Elliot is advising the President?”

“That's right.”

“Jack, she's a small, weak person. Maybe she's smart, but inside she's weak.”

“I know. Cathy, I really have things to do here.”

“Love you.”

“And I love you, too, babe. Bye.” Jack replaced the receiver. “The word's out,” he announced, “pictures and all.”

“Jack!” It was the Senior Duty Officer. “AP just sent out a flash: shooting in Berlin between U.S. and Soviet forces. Reuters is reporting the explosion in Denver.”

Ryan got on the phone to Murray. “You have the wire services?”

“Jack, I knew this wouldn't work.”

“What do you mean?”

“The President told us to shut the networks down. I guess we goofed somewhere.”

“Super. You should have refused that one, Dan.”

“I tried, okay?”

There were just too many redundancies, too many nodes. Two satellites serving the United States were still up and operating, and so were nearly all of the microwave-repeater systems that had preceded them. The networks didn't merely run out of New York and Atlanta. NBC's Los Angeles bureau, after a surreptitious call from Rockefeller Center, took over for that network. CBS and ABC accomplished the same out of Washington and Chicago, respectively. The irate reporters also let the public know that FBI agents were “holding hostage” the network news headquarters people in the most heinous abuse yet of the First Amendment. ABC was outraged that its crew had been killed, but that was a small thing compared to the scope of the story. The proverbial cat was out of the bag, and phone lines at the White House press office lit up. Many reporters had the direct number to Camp David as well. There was no statement from the President. That only made things worse. The CBS affiliate in Omaha, Nebraska, had only to drive past SAC headquarters to note the beefed-up guard force and the empty flight line. Those pictures would be on nationwide in a matter of minutes, but it was the local news teams who did the best and the worst work. There is scarcely a city or town in America that lacks a National Guard armory, or a base for reservists. Concealing the activity at all of them was tantamount to concealing a sunrise, and the wire-service printers reported activity everywhere. All that was needed to punctuate those reports was the few minutes of tape from KOLD in Denver, running almost continuously now, to explain what was going on, and why.

The phones at the Aurora Presbyterian were all being used. Parsons knew that he could have forced his way onto one, but it was easier to run across the street to a largely deserted shopping center. He found an FBI agent there, wearing a blue “raid” jacket that proclaimed his identity in large block letters.

“You the guy from the stadium?” Parsons' head gear was gone, but he still wore the metallic coat and pants.

“Yeah.”

.“I need a phone.”

“Save your quarters.” They were standing outside a men's clothing store. The door had alarm tape on it, but looked cheap. The agent pulled out his service pistol and fired five rounds, shattering the glass. “After you, pal.”

Parsons ran to the counter and lifted the store phone, dialing his headquarters in Washington. Nothing happened.

“Where are you calling?”

“D.C.”

“The long-distance lines are down.”

“What do you mean? The phone company shouldn't be hurt from this.”

“We did it. Orders from Washington,” the agent explained.

“What fucking idiot ordered that?”

“The President.”

“Outstanding. I gotta get a call out.”

“Wait.” The agent took the phone and called his own office.

“Hoskins.”

“This is Larry Parsons, NEST team leader, can you relay something to Washington?”

“Sure.”

“The bomb was a ground-burst, less than fifteen kilotons. We have samples of the residue, and it's on the way to Rocky Flats for spectroscopy. You know how to get that out?”

“Yes, I can do that.”

“Okay.” Parsons hung up.

“You have pieces from the bomb?” the FBI agent asked incredulously.

“Sounds crazy, doesn't it? That's what fallout is, bomb residue that gets attached to dirt particles.”

“So what?”

“So, we can figure out a lot from that. Come on,” he told the agent. Both men ran back across the street towards the hospital. An FBI agent, Parsons decided, was a useful fellow to have around.

“Jack, got something from Denver, came in through Walt Hoskins. The bomb was a ground burst, fifty or so kilotons. The NEST guys have residue, and they're going to test it.”

Ryan took his notes. “Casualty count?”

“Didn't say.”

“Fifty kilotons,” the S&.T man observed. “Low for what the satellites said, but possible. Still, too goddamned big for an IND.”

The F-16C wasn't exactly ideal for this mission, but it was fast. Four had left Ramstein only twenty minutes earlier. Put aloft by the initial DEFCON-THREE alert, they'd come east to what they still referred to as the inter-German border. They'd not even arrived there when new orders had sent them towards the southern end of Berlin to get a look at what was happening at the Berlin Brigade's kazerne. Four F-15s from Bitburg joined for top-cover. All eight USAF fighters were loaded for air-to-air missions only, with two extra fuel tanks each in the place of bombs for the F-16s, and conformal fuel cells for the Eagles. From ten thousand feet, they could see the flashes and explosions on the ground. The flight of four broke into two elements of two each, and went down for a closer look, while the Eagles orbited overhead. The problem, it was later decided, was two-fold. First, the pilots were simply too surprised at the turn of events to consider all the possibilities; adding to this was the fact that American aircraft losses over Iraq had been so minor as to make the pilots forget that this was a different place.

The Russian tank regiment had both SA-8 and SA-11 missiles, plus the normal complement of Shilka 23mm flak vehicles. The antiair company commander had waited for this moment, not illuminating his radars, playing it smart, as the Iraqis had singularly failed to do. He waited until the American aircraft were under a thousand meters before giving his order.

Barely had their threat receivers come on when a swarm of missiles rose from the eastern edge of the Russian encampment. The Eagles, high up, had a much better chance at evasion. The F-16 Fighting Falcons, descending right into the SAM trap, had almost none. Two were blotted out in a matter of seconds. The second pair dodged the first wave of SAMs, but one was caught in the frag pattern of second-wave SA-11 it almost but not quite evaded. That pilot ejected successfully, but died when he landed too hard on the roof of an apartment building. The fourth F-16 escaped by skimming the rooftops and screaming west on full burner. Two of the Eagles joined him. A total of five American aircraft crashed into the city. Only one of the pilots lived. The escaping aircraft radioed the news to Commander U.S. Air Forces Europe at Ramstein. Already, he had twelve F-16s arming up with heavy ordnance. The next wave would be different.

“What does this mean?”

“'Shot down without warning'? There's a battle under way, and that's why the aircraft were sent there! The regiment has antiaircraft troops,” the Defense Minister explained. “They only have short-range, low-altitude rockets. If the Americans were just looking from a safe height — ten thousand meters — we couldn't even have touched them. They must have been lower, probably trying to support their troops with an air attack. That's the only way we could have gotten them.”

“But we have no information?”

“No, we have not established contact yet.”

“We will not answer this one.”

“That is a mistake,” Golovko said.

“This situation is dangerous enough already,” Narmonov said angrily. “We do not know what is going on there. How can I respond when he claims to have information which I do not?”

“If you do not respond, you appear to admit the incident.”

“We admit nothing!” the Defense Minister shouted. “We could not even have done this unless they were attacking us, and we don't know whether it really happened or not.”

“So, tell them that,” Golovko suggested. “Perhaps if they understand that we are as confused as they, they will also understand that—”

“But they won't understand, and they won't believe. They've already accused us of launching this attack, and they won't believe that we have no control over the area.”

Narmonov retreated to a corner table and poured himself a cup of tea, while the intelligence and defense advisors traded — arguments? Was that the right word? The Soviet President looked up at the ceiling. This command center dated back to Stalin. A spur off one of the Moscow subway lines built by Lazar Kaganovich, Stalin's pet Jewish anti-Semite and his most trusted henchman, it was fully a hundred meters down, but now his people told him that it was not truly a place of safety after all.

What was Fowler thinking? Narmonov asked himself. The man was undoubtedly shaken by the murder of so many American citizens, but how could it be possible that he was thinking that the Soviets were responsible? And what was actually happening? A battle in Berlin, a possible clash between naval forces in the Mediterranean, all unrelated — or were they?

Did it matter? Narmonov stared at a picture on the wall and realized that, no, it did not matter. He and Fowler were both politicians for whom appearances had more weight than reality, and perceptions more importance than facts. The American had lied to him in Rome over a trivial matter. Was he lying now? If he were, then none of the past ten years of progress mattered at all, did they? It had all been for nothing.

“How do wars begin?” Narmonov asked himself quietly in the corner. In history, wars of conquest were started by strong men who wished to grow stronger still. But the time for men of imperial ambition had passed. The last such criminal had died not so long before. All that had changed in the twentieth century. The First World War had been started — how? A tubercular assassin had killed a buffoon so unloved that his own family had ignored the funeral. An overbearing diplomatic note had prompted Czar Nikolay II to leap to the defense of people he hadn't loved, and then the timetables had begun. Nikolay had the last chance, Narmonov remembered. The last of the Czars had held in his hand the chance to stop it all, but hadn't. If only he'd known what his decision for war would mean he might have found the strength to stop it, but in his fear and his weakness he'd signed the mobilization order that had ended one age and begun another. That war had begun because small, frightened men feared war less than showing weakness.

Fowler is such a man, Narmonov told himself. Proud, arrogant, a man who lied in a small thing lest I think less of him. He will be angered by the deaths. He will fear additional deaths, but he will fear displaying weakness even more. My country is at the mercy of such a man.

It was an elegant trap Narmonov was in. The irony of it might have evoked a tight, bitter smile, but instead the Soviet President set down his tea, for his stomach would take no more hot, bitter liquid. He could not afford to show weakness either, could he? That would only encourage Fowler to yet more irrationality. Part of Andrey Il'ych Narmonov asked if what he thought of Jonathan Robert Fowler might also apply to himself… But he had no reply. To do nothing would display weakness, wouldn't it?

“No answer?” Fowler asked the chief yeoman.

“No, sir, nothing yet.” Orontia's eyes were locked on the computer screen.

“My God,” the President muttered. “All those people dead.”

And I could have been one of them, Liz Elliot thought, the idea coming back to her like waves on a beach, crashing in, ebbing away only to crash back again. Someone wanted to kill us, and I am part of that “us”. And we don't know who or why…

“We can't let this go any farther.”

We don't even know what we are trying to stop. Who is doing this? Why are they doing it? Liz looked over at the clock and calculated the time to the arrival of the Kneecap aircraft. We should have gone out on the first one. Why didn't we think to have it fly to Hagerstown to pick us up! We're stuck here in a perfect target, and if they want to kill us, this time, they'll get us, won't they?

“How can we stop it?” Liz asked. “He's not even answering us.”

Sea Devil One-Three, a P-3C Orion anti-submarine aircraft out of Kodiak Naval Air Station, was buffeting through the winds at low altitude, about five hundred feet. It laid the first line of ten DIFAR sonobuoys ten miles southwest of Maine 's position. In the back, the sonar operators were strapped tightly into their high-backed seats, most with a vomit bag close by as they tried to make sense of their displays. It took several minutes for things to firm up.

“Christ, that's my boat,” Jim Rosselli said. He dialed Bangor and asked for Commodore Mancuso.

“Bart, what gives?”

“ Maine reported a collision, shaft and screw damage. There's a P-3 riding shotgun on her right now, and we have Omaha heading towards her flat-out. That's the good news. The bad news is that Maine was tracking an Akula at the time.”

“She was what!”

“Harry sold me and OP-02 on the idea, Jim. Too late to worry about it now. It should be okay. The Akula was way off. You heard what Harry did to Omaha last year, right?”

“Yeah, I thought he stripped a gear.”

“Look, it should be okay. I'm surging my boats right now, Jim. Unless you need me for something else, I'm kinda busy.”

“Right.” Rosselli hung up.

“What gives?” Rocky Barnes asked.

Rosselli handed over the message. “My old sub, disabled in the Gulf of Alaska, and there's a Russian prowling around.”

“Hey, they're quiet, right? You told me that. The Russians don't even know where they are.”

“Yeah.”

“Cheer up, Jim. I probably knew some of those F-16 drivers who got snuffed over Berlin.”

“Where the hell is Wilkes? He should have been here by now,” Rosselli said. “He's got a good car.”

“No tellin”, man. What the fuck is going on?"

“I don't know, Rocky.”

“We've got a long one coming in,” Chief Orontia said. “Here it comes.”

“He's blustering,” Liz Elliot observed at once. “Whoever it is over there is rattled. Good, we may get the upper hand yet.”

“Good?” CINC-SAC asked. “You realize that this frightened person you're talking about has a whole lot of missiles pointing at us. I don't read it that way, Dr. Elliot. I think we have an angry man here. He's thrown our inquiries right back in our face.”

“What do you mean, General?”

“He says he knows we're alerted. Okay, that's no surprise, but he also says that those weapons are pointed at him. He's accusing us of threatening him now — with nukes, Mr. President. That matters a hell of a lot more than the piss-ant business in Berlin.”

“I agree,” General Borstein added. “He's trying to bluster us, sir. We asked about a couple of lost airplanes, and we get all this tossed back at us.”

Fowler punched up CIA again. “Ryan, you got the latest one?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you make of Narmonov's mental state?”

“Sir, he's a little angry right now, and also very concerned about our defensive posture. He's trying to find a way out of this.”

“I don't read it that way. He's rattled.”

“Well, who the hell isn't?” Jack asked. “Of course he's rattled, the same as everyone else.”

“Look, Ryan, we are in control up here.”

“I never said otherwise, Liz,” Jack replied, biting off what he really thought. “This is a grave situation, and he's as concerned as we are. He's trying to figure out what's happening the same as everyone else. The problem is nobody really knows anything.”

“Well, whose fault is that? That is your job, isn't it?” Fowler asked testily.

“Yes, Mr. President, and we're working on it. A lot of people are.”

“Robert, does this sound like Narmonov? You've met the man, you've spent time with him.”

“ Elizabeth, I just don't know.”

“It's the only thing that makes sense…”

“Liz, who says that any of this has to make sense?” Ryan asked.

“This weapon was a big one, right, General Borstein?”

“That's what our instruments tell us, yes.”

“Who has bombs that large?”

“Us, the Russians, the Brits, the French. Maybe the Chinese have weapons like this, but we don't think so; theirs are big and clunky. Israel has warheads in this range. That's it. India, Pakistan, South Africa all probably have fission weapons, but not large enough for this.”

“Ryan, is that correct information?” Elliot asked.

“Yes, it is.”

“So, if it wasn't Britain, France or Israel, then who the hell was it?”

“God damn it, Liz! We don't know, okay? We do not know, and this isn't a fucking Sherlock Holmes mystery. Eliminating who it wasn't doesn't tell us who it was! You can't convert the absence of information into a conclusion.”

“Does CIA know everybody who has weapons of this type?” Fowler asked.

“Yes, sir, we think we do.”

“How confident are you in that?”

“Until today, I would have bet my life on it.”

“So, again, you are not telling me the truth, are you?” Fowler observed coldly.

Jack stood from his chair. “Sir, you may be the President of the United States, but don't you ever accuse me of lying again! My wife just called here to ask if she should take the kids somewhere, and if you think I'd be so goddamned dumb as to play games at a time like this, you, sir, are the one who needs help!”

“Thank you, Ryan, that will be all.” The line clicked off.

“Jesus!” the Senior Duty Officer observed.

Jack looked around the room for a waste basket. He just made it in time. Ryan fell to his knees and vomited into it. He reached for a can of Coke and washed his mouth out, spitting back into the basket. No one spoke until he rose.

“They just don't understand,” Jack said quietly. He stretched, then lit a cigarette. They just don't understand.

“You see, this is all very simple. There is a difference between not knowing anything and understanding that you don't know. We have a crisis, and all the players are reverting to type. The President is thinking like a lawyer, trying to be cool, doing what he knows how to do, running down the evidence and trying to make a case, interrogating the witnesses, trying to reduce everything, playing that game. Liz is fixed on the fact that she might have been blown up, can't set that aside. Well.” Ryan shrugged. “I guess I can understand that. I've been there, too. She's a political scientist, looking for a theoretical model. She's feeding that to the president. She has a real elegant model, but it's based on crap, isn't it, Ben?”

“You left out something, Jack,” Goodley pointed out.

Ryan shook his head. “No, Ben, I just haven't gotten there yet. Because I can't control my fucking temper, they won't listen to me now. I should have known, I had my warning — I even saw it coming — but I let my temper get the best of me again. And you know the funny part? If it wasn't for me, Fowler would still be in Columbus, Ohio, and Elliot would be teaching shiny young faces at Bennington.” Jack walked to the window again. It was dark outside, and the lighted room made it into a mirror.

“What are you talking about?”

“That, gentlemen, is a secret. Maybe that's what they'll put on the stone: ”Here lies John Patrick Ryan. He tried to do the right thing — and look what happened.“ I wonder if Cathy and the kids will make it… ”

“Come on, it's not that bad,” the Senior Duty Officer observed, but all the others in the room felt the chill.

Jack turned. “Isn't it? Don't you see where this is heading? They're not listening to anybody. They're not listening. They might listen to Dennis Bunker or Brent Talbot, but they're both air pollution, little bits of fallout somewhere over Colorado. I'm the closest thing in town to an advisor right now, and I got myself tossed out.”