Or were they telling the truth?
A brief moment of reflection convinced the marshal of the latter. “Let us hope it is simply a mechanical difficulty.”
“Yes,” General Walker agreed. “Shall we begin?”
“Yes.”
CINCNORAD gave the go-ahead to the duty officer. The major pressed a single button on his communication console. “Red Bird, Red Bird. This is NORAD Alternate Command Console.”
“This is Red Bird,” the major’s counterpart at Strategic Command acknowledged.
“Red Bird, CINCNORAD requests execution of RANDOM LANCE.”
There was a brief silence. “RANDOM LANCE approved.”
All eyes shifted to the largest display. Colonel Belyayev already had a zoom box squared around the area in southern Wyoming that they were watching. A click brought the magnification up to reveal an electronic representation of the missile fields surrounding Francis E. Warren Air Force Base. The Minuteman missiles of the 90th Strategic Missile Wing, spread over 12,600 square miles, had dwindled in number after the Strategic Arms Reduction Talks (START) from two hundred to just eighty. The MIRVed LGM-30G Minuteman IIIs remaining had given up two of their three 335-kiloton Multiple Independently Targeted Reentry Vehicles to comply with START, and one of those missiles, number six in Hotel Flight, had recently had its single warhead replaced with a benign-range instrumentation package, a common payload for test launches.
“Notify PMTC,” CINCNORAD ordered. The tracking radars supporting the Pacific Missile Test Center, headquartered at Point Mugu in California, normally watched launches from Vandenberg Air Force Base, just miles from Mugu, or from White Sands in New Mexico. It took a few minutes for the radars to be slewed in the proper direction to cover the launch from the Northeast.
“PMTC is ready,” the major reported. “Red Bird, Alternate is ready.”
“Hotel One reports launch ready.” Strategic Command was relaying word from the launch control center of Hotel Flight’s ten missiles that number six was ready to fly. All that remained was for the two officers buried deep underground in the LCC to concurrently turn their keys jointly to the “enable” position.
“Colonel, on your word,” the major said.
Colonel Belyayev focused his attention on the informational readout printed next to the number-six silo on the display. “Launch.”
The order went through the open channel to the LCC. Miles from the underground control center, the heavy concrete blast lid was propelled away from Hotel Six, exposing the silo. Immediately the Minuteman III missile bolted upward from the silo using the cold-launch technique, which allowed the undamaged silo to be reloaded (in theory). Its first-stage solid-rocket engine ignited fifty feet above the prairie and rapidly accelerated the former weapon, now little more than a big radar target, toward the Pacific Missile Range in the Southwest.
“I verify launch,” Belyayev stated. The notations on his display changed as the missile left its silo. He looked away for the phone he was supposed to use.
“This one,” the major prompted. “Just pick it up. It’s pre-dialed.”
The colonel lifted the black handset to his ear and was immediately connected with the headquarters of Voyska PVO, the Russian Air Defense Forces. “This is Colonel Belyayev,” he said in Russian. “Have you detected a launch?”
“Yes,” the male voice answered in its native tongue. “Warren Air Force Base. Missile number six, Hotel Flight. We show a thermal launch signature.” Several minutes of silence followed as they waited for the still-operating Russian BMEWS to pick up the missile as it rose above the radar horizon. “We show a missile track, southwest course, high to low aspect. Confirm launch and flight, predicted target is in Pacific Ocea n.”
Marshal Kurchatov turned back to General Walker. “Very fine. Very fine.”
“You now have as much access to the monitoring systems for our strategic forces as I do.” And more than I would have given you… “If a missile is launched, it will be registered right here. If a bomber as much as taxis, you’ll know it. And the subs, well, you’ve seen it.”
“Except for the Pennsylvania,” Colonel Belyayev said, his eyes locked with CINCNORAD’s.
“That will not be a problem,” Kurchatov said. “Colonel?”
“Not a problem.”
“Good,” General Walker said. “Major, the duty officer is from this point forward to report any occurrences directly to Marshal Kurchatov and Colonel Belyayev. They will be in the VIP quarters.” CINCNORAD looked back to the Russians. “Right through those doors. You’ll be twenty feet away, and you are welcome to monitor the console with the duty officer at any time.”
“Very fine. Yes.” Kurchatov thanked the major and stood. “The colonel will remain here, General Walker. I must now inform my government to proceed.”
Maybe this was good, Walker thought. If the Russians were willing to trust them with one boomer still out there, then they might not just be blowing smoke. He sure as hell wouldn’t have trusted them had the situation been reversed. Things really were changing. He’d waited more than thirty years to believe it, and the feeling wasn’t all that bad.
“I’ll show you to the com center, Marshal,” General Walker offered. “Then maybe we can talk about those Siberian reindeer you’re so boastful about.”
He sat ramrod-straight in the chair, his hands loose at his side. Bad guys were on both sides and behind in the darkened room. A window was to his left, behind the reflective surface of which were the witnesses to his fate.
The beeper on his watch sounded, and he closed his eyes behind the polycarbonate glasses.
Boom!
The door was directly to the front of Major Sean Graber, ten feet away. It folded downward under the force of the entry charge. From both sides forms in black entered, four in all, their faces hidden by ungainly-looking devices that covered their eyes and protruded in a single Cyclops-like lens. Two went high, two low. Three fired in rapid succession, quick double taps on their pistols, long, oversized weapons that emitted little sound.
Sean kept his eyes closed until the shooting ended. Twelve shots, four for each bad guy. “Exercise over!”
The lights came up in the hostage room, and in the observation room behind the thick bulletproof glass. Sean stood and turned to the left. The five visitors were exchanging amazed looks and words of wonder at the display they had just seen. The major motioned to Captain Chris Buxton, squad leader of the unit that had just “rescued” the number-two man in command of Delta from three cardboard cutouts.
“Unbelievable!” the chairman of the House Armed Services Committee commented as he entered from the observation room. The smell of gunpowder was heavy in the room but was purged by exhaust fans a few seconds after the entourage, all members of the congressman’s staff, entered.
“Glad you enjoyed it,” Sean responded. He wasn’t really, but selling the capabilities of Delta to what his superior, Colonel William Cadler, called “the briefcase brigades” had become part of his duties. That meant occasional shows for whomever the secretary of defense deemed in need of convincing. Budgets! Now they were quibbling over how many rounds of ammunition Delta should be burning in their training!
“AN/PVS-7?” the lone female member of the group wondered aloud, looking at the monocular goggles flipped up on the four troopers’ heads. She was the congressman’s resident expert on the technology side of things.
“Antonelli.”
The big Italian lieutenant stepped forward at the behest of the man he had rescued a minute before. “No, ma’am. Our own modification. Well, our idea, but the EO lab at Belvoir put it together. You see, ma’am, the standard ‘seven’ is best for image intensification — taking what light is there and amplifying it. The IR capability — that’s infrared — was limited in a zero light environment. Not quite up to snuff to use with our new toys.”