The NMCC was large, the size of a gymnasium, with row upon row of state-of-the-art computer terminals. The only light bathing the floor was the soft glow emanating from bright graphics displays, subtly augmented by buzzing red fluorescents that marked one of the hundreds of phones directly linked to someone important. The front section was reserved for the battle watch. The frequent guests were relegated to a glass-enclosed balcony perched high above the floor. Plush chairs and secure phones provided the necessary comforts. This viewing cage shielded visitors from the constant commotion on the floor, which on occasion could rise in pitch to rival the Chicago Mercantile Exchange.
Thomas camped out upstairs. He stared at the “big board” as it was still called. The two errant Russian subs off the Mexican west coast stood out like a sore thumb. The display rammed home how frighteningly close those boats were to US soil. US military installations up and down the Pacific coast were within quick striking range of the Delta’s SS-N-23 ballistic missiles. Flight times would be as short as six to seven minutes. Too short to do anything but cover your head and pray. A glance toward the Atlantic showed a solo Delta III two hundred miles closer to the East Coast than normal. Most of the other Russian boats were near the Barents, close to Russian home waters. Thomas yanked the chair-mounted phone handset to his ear, triggering a flashing red light below. The Battle Watch Commander, an air force brigadier, answered promptly and politely.
“What steps have been taken to implement the NSC directive?” Thomas asked dryly. The officer knew who he was.
“STRATCOM has begun to move aircraft to secondary bases; ten or fifteen have been identified so far, all B-1Bs. The chairman is concerned. Says they’re moving too fast. Overhead reconnaissance sweeps have increased, but the space-borne platforms we have in orbit are getting low on fuel. A replacement photo recon bird is scheduled to go up in three weeks, but JCS is pushing SPACECOM to make it sooner.” Thomas grunted a curt thank you.
Leaning back, he mentally filtered the pieces and players. In terms of numbers of platforms, the Russian deployments were not that unusual, except for the Delta off Mexico. But he’d never witnessed such firepower. Two Typhoons at sea plus the Deltas, Blackjack bombers at an Arctic staging base, and SS-24s and 25s still absent from garrison. Was Laptev indulging in a little saber rattling? The last few years had dulled America’s Cold War sense for mischief. Changes in Russian military operations that used to trigger alarms were now below the threshold of pain. Too many other issues competed for attention. People’s receivers had become desensitized by the constant background noise of fiscal and domestic policy.
Thomas frowned, his chin cradled in his right hand. He swiveled and spotted a secure phone. He scooted to the edge of a nearby chair and dialed Alexander’s private number. The secretary answered on the first ring.
“Mr. Secretary, I’m recommending we push for an increase in DEFCON. I can’t put my finger on it, but the Russians have too many frontline assets deployed.” Thomas heard a sigh on the line. He felt his own heart sink.
“No way, Bob. A DEFCON change would be an escalation; remember the meeting? It’s a dead issue.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Thomas, hanging up the phone, frustrated. His pulse quickened. What the hell is going on? He had to find the missing piece.
Thomas crossed the deck in quick strides and took a seat at one of the computer workstations and flicked on the power to bring up the display. After a few seconds to whir, click, and boot, the nineteen-inch color CRT depicted a brilliant three-dimensional globe peppered with iconic symbols for friendly and non-friendly units worldwide.
Thomas could rotate the earth with the computer’s three-button mouse, then select a specific location and zoom for detail, all the way down to a relatively minute ten-mile square chunk. Within minutes, Thomas was able to status every major Russian installation.
As he sucked in the detail, Thomas shifted uncomfortably. A handful of key units appeared at full alert, while most conducted business as usual. He was missing something. Laptev’s boast to pacify the Ukraine filtered through. Check the airborne divisions, he told himself.
Moving the cursor over the map to central Russia, he searched for a minor city with a name he couldn’t pronounce. The local airborne division was gone. They had left two days earlier for a training exercise. He pushed the cursor to the north, tracing a path toward Moscow. To the southeast of the city, he remembered the newest SS-25 garrison. A quick click exploded a table listing the unit’s assets. Twenty-five erector launchers, all participating in Operation Vigilant Shield. Thomas’s greatest fear was all these mobile SS-25 ICBMs strewn about forests and roads. Russian mobile missiles had been operating away from home base more and more the last two months.
Staring at the screen, impulsively swirling the cursor in slowly expanding circles, Thomas spotted a new symbol, distinct from the horizontal missile denoting a mobile ICBM unit. This one had the missile icon superimposed on a building. He activated the symbol and was greeted with a screen dump of data. “This site scheduled to become a depot for SS-25 reloads. Operational July time frame.”
A sense of panic gripped Thomas. “You idiot!” he cursed out loud. He racked his brain for other sites. He found the first. No missiles. Likewise for the second, the trucks reported having left two or three weeks before.
“No,” he said, “it can’t be.” He was incredulous. Thomas leapt out of the chair and ran to the bank of phones near the window. He buzzed the battle watch commander once more. The brigadier looked up curiously as he answered the blinking phone.
“Yes, sir, General Thomas?”
“Did you know all the SS-25 storage depots are empty?” he blurted out.
“No, sir.” It didn’t seem to click with the man.
“How about the command trains?”
“The last pictures we have are from two days ago. They were in station. But the weather has been lousy lately.”
Thomas slouched, catching his breath. The panic subsided only slightly. “Let me know if you get anything on the mobiles.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thomas hung up the receiver and massaged his forehead and temples. A premonition overtook him — the image of a Russian military move against US forces somewhere around the globe. He could see it now. Laptev moves into Ukraine in force then proceeds toward Poland for real or for bluff. The effect would be the same — chaos and confusion, the Europeans falling all over themselves to get out of the way. Of course Laptev would have placed his prized nuclear assets in a safe place. The West thought him a buffoon, but the crafty Russian had fooled them all. How about the US nuclear forces?
Thomas buzzed the brigadier. “How do I get NORAD on the line?”
The brigadier sounded incredulous. “What?”
Thomas realized what he had said and paused. He was out of line, way out. “Never mind,” he said with a gush of air, “I had a question about one of the recon satellites.” He hung up, still holding onto the receiver, tapping it in his palm. They’d think I’m crazy, he reflected. Maybe he was becoming hysterical — reading too much into the data. He prayed he was wrong.
CHAPTER 13
Major Buckmeister Grant rolled over in bed, groping for the ringing telephone resting on the adjacent nightstand. He simultaneously plucked a fresh Kleenex with his free hand to wipe his runny nose. “Hello,” he mumbled, half asleep, propping himself on one elbow. “Major Grant.”