Both the SPADOC and the MWC were at heightened readiness. Sensors, computer systems, and communications gear had been checked and rechecked. Tensions had been higher only twice in the distant past — the Cuban missile crisis and the one day when the Soviets had brazenly launched a handful of ICBMs north from their silos, only to detonate them midflight, shortly after they crossed the pole. They had never said a word, nor had the United States.
At that moment, 22,300 miles above the equator, shortwave, infrared-sensing DSP early warning satellites scanned the earth’s surface. They monitored all Russian silo fields and vast ocean areas for the telltale fiery plumes of ballistic missiles. These marvels were America’s first line of defense. Their sensitivity for detecting even minute amounts of heat was legend.
During a routine communication check with STRATCOM’s airborne command post, code-named Looking Glass, the DSP over Asia detected a series of hot spots against the cool earth background. The news was instantly bounced off communication satellites and downlinked to satellite control at Falcon AFB on the other side of the globe at Colorado Springs. Forwarded to NORAD, the news triggered an incredibly loud horn, which blared for ten seconds, shattering the tense atmosphere.
Watch standers froze. Astonished faces turned in unison toward the big screen. They searched for the indicator that would jump out, announcing a system-hardware fault or software bug. Instead they were greeted with a rapid succession of small symbols popping on the center screen, marking DSP-provided launch detections in central Russia. It had to be a computer malfunction, they convinced themselves, like the false alarms in the early eighties.
The MWC battle watch commander was struck dumb like his compatriots. The air force general fought to maintain his equilibrium. He steadied himself while listening to a communication headset clutched in his free hand. Acknowledging the news, his shoulders sagged, and his face paled. He reached for a small handset mounted on a metal bracket by his knees. Swallowing hard, the words finally flowed, albeit in a jerky monotone.
“This is not a test,” he announced haltingly over the PA system. “I repeat, this is not a test.” The statement echoed throughout the cavernous chamber. He couldn’t believe the words himself.
The delayed reaction was palpable, like a car bomb exploding. Groans and gasps rose in chorus. Then a tidal wave of sheer bedlam swept the cavern. Watch standers brushed off the initial shock and sprinted to battle stations, manning consoles and conducting communications checks with STRATCOM’s stable of nuclear forces. Action, any action, acted as strong medicine against the tug of personal despair.
Preliminary tracking data blossomed on the three-dimensional polar projection of the earth dominating the center screen. The IBM mainframes, dedicated to cataloguing the attack down to the last reentry vehicle, predicted threatened targets. Targets meant people and places. This was no drill. ICBMs launched from the Russian heartland would take thirty or so minutes to fly their deadly course.
Forty-five seconds after the ripple of ICBM firing, sea-launched ballistic-missiles rose from the ocean off the US East Coast. They arched westward, with a time to target measured in minutes.
“Sir,” reported a stammering officer near the battle watch commander, “we have attack confirmation. Eighty-five SS-18s. Twelve SLBMs from Track Alpha Two. Possible cruise missiles have been detected off both coasts and in the Gulf of Mexico. The SS-18s are targeted on Peacekeeper and Minuteman forces. SLBMs are against SAC bases and C3 sites. It will be six or seven minutes before we pick up the first ICBM reentry vehicles on BMEWS.” BMEWS was the early warning radar system, the modern version of the old DEW line stretching across Alaska.
The colonel wearing the headset sat motionless. Receiving added bad news, he dutifully passed it along. The first ICBMs would arrive in twenty-five minutes, while the lead SLBMs would strike in less than eight.
The battle watch commander placed his hand on the little-used phone connecting him directly to the National Military Command Center in Washington and to STRATCOM headquarters in Omaha. At higher DEFCONs, he would have accessed the president directly. Today the NMCC had the conn. A quick glance at the screen highlighted the swarm of hostile missiles bearing down on the continental United States, their colored leaders inching across the globe.
“This can’t be happening,” he gasped inwardly. His jaw tightened as he picked up the red phone. Beginning to speak, he stumbled over the words he had repeatedly rehearsed and committed to memory after countless drills in the mountain.
Thomas sat stewing. Another ten minutes and he would ring Alexander again. Thomas had calmed down yet was obsessed with the thought of a Russian military move somewhere around the globe. But where?
Suddenly a series of short, sharp horn blasts echoed throughout the NMCC. The local klaxon had been triggered by NORAD, the distress signal relayed by secure landline. Startled and incredulous, Thomas sprang to his feet and gazed through the thick floor-to-ceiling glass, a shocked expression painted across his face. A knot formed in his stomach. He zeroed in on the watch commander, down in the pit. The general on watch staggered and then backed down in his chair, stunned. He stared into space for precious moments then grabbed an aide by the collar and whispered into his ear. The man nodded and ran off.
The watch section on the floor collectively held their breath. No movement, no noise. The emotional rollercoaster at NORAD was replayed in detail, but these unfortunates, farther down the intelligence pipeline, didn’t have the entire picture just yet.
To Thomas’s right, a door opened, and the battle watch commander’s aide, an army officer escorted by marines, stepped through. “Please follow me, General Thomas,” he asked. Thomas rose without saying a word. The marines fell in on his flanks.
Thomas navigated the staircase and found himself immersed in the chaos gripping the NMCC. The noise level had increased tenfold.
“You better hear this, sir,” the watch commander shouted, handing Thomas a phone connected to NORAD. After code-word authentication, a distraught voice on the other end struggled through a cryptic attack summary laced with technical jargon. Thomas stood stiffly, listening, but not physically reacting, his mind frozen on his abortive attempt to reach Alexander only forty minutes earlier. Like the others, his brain was in full retreat.
He had sensed trouble but did nothing. No matter that his take had been completely off base. Who could have imagined? Thomas’s failure made him ill. NORAD asked for orders. It was the president’s and STRATCOM’s call, Thomas had answered curtly. Follow procedures in place until instructed otherwise. Get General Morgan to the mountain. He wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know.
Thomas began to drop the handset but stopped. “Make sure CINCSTRAT is getting his planes away.”
“Already done, sir,” was the reply. “They’re off, but we can’t tell how many will make it.” Thomas nodded sadly. The big planes no longer on alert had little chance of escape from a surprise attack. “Let me know when you have radar confirmation.” Another “yes, sir” came from the voice on the line. Thomas hung up the phone and looked at the ashen face of the WATCH COMMANDER.
A myriad of possibilities raced through Thomas’s mind. Was it an accidental launch by a renegade Russian officer? Computer malfunction? It couldn’t be a deliberate attack. Yet only moments before, he had seen the evidence, the repositioning of Russian hardware. What were the targets? NORAD didn’t have decent data and wouldn’t for at least ten minutes. My God, my family, he thought. How could people function? God help us all.