Two thousand miles to the west of where the Strategic Air Command was holding its annual bombing competition, a drama of a different sort-this one carrying consequences far more serious for the crew members involved-was playing itself out. Two types of surveillance machines-one a U.S. Alpha Omega Nine Satellite traveling in a geosynchronous orbit at an altitude of twenty-two thousand three hundred miles, the other a U.S. RC- 135 surveillance aircraft flying at an altitude of forty thousand feet-were following courses that would bring them roughly over the same part of the globe in a matter of minutes. The RC- 1 35, with a crew of twelve men and women, had penetrated the Soviet Air Defense Zone to gather data on a strange radar that had begun tracking the aircraft as it passed within a hundred miles of the Soviet coast on its way home from Japan to Alaska.
Suddenly the world got very bright.
The pilots aboard the RC-135 were bathed in an eerie red-orange glow for several seconds, wiping out their night vision.
They felt as if they had stepped inside the core of a nuclear reactor-every inch of their bodies felt warm and viscous, as if their skin was about to melt away.
When the red-orange illumination disappeared, the cabin went to black.
Several tiny spotlights and some engine gauges operating off the aircraft's batteries could still be seen, but everything else snapped off. The roar of the engines began to subside.
"All of the generators went off-line," the RC-135s co-pilot 3p, said.
"We've lost engines two, three and four," the pilot said "Airstart checklist. Fast.
"Crew, this is the pilot. We are starting engines. Check your oxygen, check your stations, report in by compartment damage and casualties."
All departments reported in with only minor equipment malfunctions.
The pilot gave an order to code a message to SATCOM. Suddenly the aircraft's reconaisance officer came on the interphone. "Radar target-tracking signal strength is increasing."
The pilot pushed on the yoke, forcing the RC-135s nose steeply downward. "That last shot was aimed at something else, now it's us… We're going down to one thousand feet."
"Pilot," the RSO said, "signal strength increasing… blanking out my-" He never finished his report.
An intense beam of orange-red light slashed across the top and sides of the RC-135.Once it had pierced the aluminum skin of the jet, the beam found little resistance. It tracked precisely along the center of the aircraft, instantly superheatin the heavy oxygen atmosphere and creating a huge bubble Of plasma. The resulting explosion turned the two hundred million dollar aircraft into flecks of dust in a fraction of a second. The beam ignited the vaporized fuel that erupted from the disintegrated airplane and added the force of fifty thousand pounds of jet fuel to the detonation.
As fast as it had begun, it was over. The fireball grew to three miles in diameter, then hungrily feeding on itself in the intense plasma field, dissolved into the black Siberian night.
WASHINGTON.D.C
General Wilbur Curtis, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, stood at ramrod attention as the President of the United States entered the White House Situation Room, the emergency alternate conference center and shelter. The President was followed closely by Marshall Brent, the Secretary of State, and Kenneth Mitchell, Director of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Trailing behind them was a man in civilian clothes but with a short military haircut. He carried a black leather briefcase.
The President, wearing a blue and red athletic warmup suit, glared at Curtis as he sat down at the head of a large oblong table. His thick brown hair was tangled, and beads of sweat dropped from the ends and trickled down his neck. Curtis went over to the steel vault-like door and checked that it was locked.
The President unzipped the warmup suit half-way and picked up a telephone on the table in front of him.
"Jeff?."he asked. "Have some coffee and croissants brought down to the Situation Room right away. And see if you can move the morning Budget Committee meeting to this afternoon. If you can't, let me know and I'll try to shake loose… what? No, I don't know how long this will be."
He slammed the receiver down on its cradle.
The man with the briefcase set it down at a console in a far corner of the room. He put on a headset and punched a series of numbers into the keyboard. He spoke briefly, then watched the few moments later, he nodded and indicators on the console. A turned to the President.
"Full connectivity, Mr. President," the man asked. "Sir, your helicopter is fifty seconds from touchdown on the south lawn.
Air Force One is ready for immediate takeoff."
The President said nothing. The man at the communications console was in charge of the "football," a tiny transceiver and several sets of authentication and coding documents packed inside the briefcase. That briefcase was always within arm's reach of the President. In case of a surprise attack or other emergency, the President could instantly direct all of the United States' strategic forces by typing a series of coded instructions into the miniature portable transceiver. Now, in the emergency command post under the White House, the President had instant communications capability with command centers all over the world.
"All right, General," the President asked. "This seems to be your little party. Another unscheduled emergency exercise?if so, it couldn't have come at a worse time. I was in the middle of my first workout in a week, and I've got a-" "It is no exercise, sir, " Curtis asked. "Exactly fifteen minutes ago, we received confirmation that an Alpha Omega Nine surveillance satellite was lost. It―"
"A satellite?" the President asked. "That's all?"
"This particular satellite," Curtis went on, "was this nation's primary missile-launch detection vehicle for eastern Russia and the western Pacific areas, Currently, Mr. President, we have absolutely no missile launch detection capability for an estimated one-fifth of the Soviet's ground- and sea-based intercontinental ballistic missiles."
"Surely, you're exaggerating," Kenneth Mitchell asked. "We have dozens of surveillance satellites-" "But only one over eastern Russia," Curtis interrupted, specifically designed to warn us of an I.C.B.M launch from sea or land. Now we have none-at least, until we can reposition another satellite over that area. That may take some time."
Curtis turned back to the President. "Meanwhile, sir, we need to have you available to evacuate Washington in less than ten minutes.
"Why ten minutes?" the President asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.
"That, Mr. President, is how much warning time we have," Curtis explained. "Ten minutes from when the Soviet I.C.B.Ms cross the horizon in the midcourse phase until the warheads impact. We believe none of those missiles would be targeted on Washington, but we can't take the chance. "The President was quiet for a moment. The stillness was broken by the arrival of the President's chief of staff, Jeffrey Hampton, followed by an aide with a tray of coffee and pastries. The aide circled the table, making sure that everyone's coffee cup was filled.
"I couldn't reach all of the Committee members, Mr. President," Hampton asked. "I'll keep trying."
"Never mind, Jeff," the President asked. "We're going to wrap this up shortly."ilk General Curtis stiffened. This President, he noted, was never very serious during the few simulations they had held, testing the emergency communications and evacuation plan.
Now it was the real thing, and he was already anxious to leave.
"I have more news, sir," Curtis said, not touching his coffee. "We lost an RC- 135 reconnaissance plane near Russia sometime this morning."
The President closed his eyes and let his coffee cup clatter back onto its saucer. "How? Where…?"