Cobb was unsurprised. The scenario, as he had learned back in Washington, prophesied exactly the moves the Russians had made so far: Turkish ports on the Black Sea immediately neutralized; fast motorized forces crossing the Bulgarian border to the north, one group driving southeast in a pincer movement in concert with Soviet marines landing to the east of Istanbul, the other advancing in tandem with tank divisions aimed at Gallipoli. NATO indicated that the Turks, weakened by their short tiff with the Greeks, would fall faster than initial computer projections.
The second part of the Russian scenario called for destruction of the carrier battle groups in the Mediterranean. The closest, and thus the first, would be Saratoga’s group.
Admiral Turner’s voice droned on. “I think my first responsibility is to get you and General Keradin off this ship, and I think your young lady deserves some land-based medical care.”
“Could we grab a few hours’ sleep, Admiral? It’s been two days since we’ve really had any rest.” The passage from Istanbul had involved too many hours, including a refueling stop at the island of Samos. Much of the run through the Aegean had been in the dark. The winds had slackened enough to maintain speed, but it was still rough enough to prohibit sound sleep. They had come alongside Saratoga in the early morning hours, just as the sun was rising. Verra, seasick and in pain, had been sent to sick bay. Cobb was fed and then had reported to Admiral Turner’s quarters.
“I’d like to give you some rest, son, but I intend to come into the wind in about an hour. I’m going to launch relief for our Hawkeyes out on the perimeter, and I’m going to launch every fighter I’ve got except for my own CAP.”
Cobb looked up, caught by surprise. He understood what that meant. “I take it that we’re pretty close?”
“Too close. Satellite recon picked up a new launch yesterday from their Tyuratum Rocket Center. As far as we can determine, they put up antisatellite systems and something is flying around up there that has a nuclear instrument of some kind aboard. And,” he sighed, “we have a flight of their Backfire bombers approaching their initial launch point now. We know they won’t fire right away, not at that range, because they couldn’t get a hit on us. But…” His voice drifted off.
The description was accurate, Cobb realized, as accurate as could be. Knock out our early-warning satellite system with ASATs, send in a flight of Backfires with anti-radiation missiles to knock out the Hawkeyes, then launch cruise missiles once their own satellites had a guidance solution for them. Those would be targeted for Saratoga’s battle group. But a nuclear weapon in space? That didn’t figure. The Russian scenario didn’t call for a first launch of anything nuclear unless the U.S. gave an indication they would.
“Have we sent in — or has NATO sent in — any requests to use nuclear weapons?”
“Nothing. That wouldn’t come anyway until we had an idea how long we could hold them on the ground in Germany.”
“How much hardened gear do you carry?” Cobb was referring to electronic equipment designed to withstand a high-level atomic detonation. Such a burst could knock out all communications, radar, and launching systems.
“I think you understand why I want you off to Kennedy.” Turner’s face was grim. “The Air Force has already launched F15s. They’re going to try to take out whatever it is up there. But who knows if they’ll be on time. We could end up being sitting ducks in a matter of hours.” Again his voice drifted off. Then he got to his feet. “So when I come into the wind, you folks are on your way. It may be the last chance I’ll have to get you off, and your Russian friend seems to be a key.”
“He’s very important, Admiral.”
“That’s what Pratt told me. So my first responsibility is to get you off of here in one piece. Be ready in half an hour. An escort will pick up you and the girl in sick bay. General Keradin will already be aboard the aircraft.”
Cobb stood. “I wish you luck, sir.”
“I sincerely hope that luck holds.” Turner grinned wryly. “If it doesn’t, it won’t take long for them to go after their next target.” They both knew that would be the second carrier battle group — Kennedy’s.
The fireball was not brilliant, not what military people had been trained to expect. But even in the early morning sunlight, it caught the eye like the flash of a camera. Cobb was in the copilot’s seat at the time, talking with the pilot while they awaited clearance for takeoff. He noticed it immediately, but said nothing. It was, after all, a blast at 150 or more miles in the sky, and could easily be mistaken for any number of natural occurrences.
The pilot looked at Cobb out of the corner of his eye. “Notice that?”
Cobb nodded, saying nothing. He put on the extra set of headphones to listen to the air-control net. There was dead silence for a moment. Then he heard the voices, normal at first, then more anxious, calling on the net. First they asked for radio checks, then requested those who answered to call the long-range planes on other frequencies.
But Cobb knew what the response would already be. Nothing. It was not a large burst as megatons went — probably no more than one or two, but at that height — two hundred kilometers, the computers projected — the damage would already be taking effect. The Air Force F-15s hadn’t gotten to it in time.
There would be no burst effect, nothing that would bring the launching of ICBMs in retaliation. There would be no loss of equipment or lives, nor even wounded or radiation victims. Instead, the victims would be the heart of the American offensive and defensive machine — electronics. The atmospheric ionization caused by the detonation of an atomic weapon at that height, well above the atmosphere, would halt all medium- and long-range communications for ranges of possibly 1,500 miles for up to two hours. Line-of-sight radio communications would not be affected, but satellites were out of the question, as were all air-defense and airborne communications. The electromagnetic pulse (EMP) could also damage solid-state electronics. Virtually all susceptible computers and sensors would be inoperative and even radar and microwave transmissions might be mute for as long as an hour.
It was long enough, Cobb knew, long enough to get in that first launch against Saratoga’s battle group. The computers could only assume so much, but to his knowledge, no programs had ever been developed coordinating EMP with the Soviet Backfires launching their cruise missiles. Would they launch just before or just after the blast? How might the missiles be affected. Was it all timed so that Soviet submarines would pop to the surface and take control of the missiles, guiding them the last short distance to target?
Cobb didn’t know. Neither did Turner, nor Pratt. No one really did. And the computers were inoperative.
“What happened?” the pilot asked Cobb.
“Perhaps you’ll be able to tell your grandchildren that you saw the first atomic blast of the war — and survived it.”
The man blanched.
“Doesn’t affect you or me or anyone in the whole group. Not directly, anyway. But you can’t believe how screwed up the nervous system of this whole damn battle group is now.” He thought of what would follow. “Come on. Call up control and let’s get out of here. Pretty soon there will be something that’ll hurt you pretty bad.” It didn’t require a genius to do the simple mathematics necessary. Air-launched cruise missiles would be arriving in half an hour or so, give or take a few minutes. The Hawkeyes would do what they could, but they were a long distance from the carrier, they couldn’t communicate, and they couldn’t use the satellites in the way they were intended to, and the group’s own early-warning system was useless at this stage.