Across the Potomac, additional helos filled the sky, whisking important senators, congressmen, and federal officials to the safety of command centers or air-raid shelters. Most assumed they were heading directly to Mount Weather, FEMA’s highly acclaimed crown jewel in rural Virginia, which had its cover blown in 1991. It was still used for annual crisis-action exercises. But that was it. Mount Weather was a well-maintained museum to the 1950s, when officials in Washington would have been moved to that underground city to fight the war and run the nation for months on end. Anyone there today didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell, unless the Russians missed or decided not to waste an RV on a location they knew held no one particularly important.
The real dispersal sites were randomly spread throughout Virginia, Maryland, and Pennsylvania at innocuous government-owned buildings. The effectiveness of this short-notice evacuation was remarkable given the compressed timeline.
Suddenly an air-raid siren energized from the direction of Rosslyn, the high-pitched whine waxing and waning. Heads jerked skyward. Washington was under attack. The sound made Thomas’s skin crawl. A rumbling in the basement signaled panic as the masses understood the meaning. The marine major picked up the pace.
Directly ahead was a flat-black helicopter. The bulky helo with large external fuel tanks was poised for takeoff. An in-flight refueling probe protruded from its nose. It was a MH-53J Pave Low III Special Operations Forces helo, which incorporated state-of-the-art avionics into a basic CH-53 airframe. The kit included terrain following/ avoidance radar, a GPS terminal, secure communications, and a sophisticated ECM suite, providing all-weather and night-flying capability. The bird itself was upgraded with titanium armor, a 20 mm mini-gun, and flares to decoy IR homing missiles. Customized for the National Command Authority, this model had a padded interior to cut down internal noise and an expanded communications suite. Its express purpose in life was to rescue the secretary of defense to fight another day.
The air-raid siren continued to wail, joined by a companion across the Potomac. If any doubt had clouded their minds, it evaporated. They forged ahead. They were greeted by an army colonel in full combat gear, a portable radio in his hand, a determined toughness painted in the weathered lines of his face. He smelled of infantry.
“Colonel Harcourt, Mr. Secretary, 75th Rangers.” He shouted to be heard over the racket from the helo’s engines. The colonel looked every inch the professional ranger. Lean and determined. “We’d better move, sir. I’ve been ordered to get this helo airborne in three minutes. Washington is under attack,” he said grimly. Alexander grunted a reply. He scrambled aboard, followed by the others.
The helo’s cavernous cabin was a dramatic transition. The thick, gray padding covering the interior muffled the engine whine, while an air-conditioning system dropped the temperature by twenty degrees. The cool air felt wonderful on Thomas’s face and neck, bringing a feeling of relief. He peered down to the far bulkhead. Seated nearest the forward cabin in a jump seat was Air Force General Roderick Bartholomew, vice chairman of the Joints Chiefs. Bartholomew was the archetype bureaucrat, a master at playing the Pentagon power game. He and Thomas went way back.
Thomas took the jump seat next to Alexander, directly across from Bartholomew. The general’s face was fixed with a hostile glare. He was bracketed by two other general officers, one army and one marine corps. An admiral sat directly aft of the cockpit bulkhead. Genser and his aide were farther aft, clumsily hooking themselves into the intercom system and staring at the seat harnesses in dismay. At the rear of the cabin were others. The doctor had taken station by a medic, the two of them talked softly as they examined radiation detectors. The cabin door slammed shut, and the helo lurched skyward. It hovered twenty or thirty feet off the ground, maneuvered to port, then slowly advanced to the west, accelerating smoothly.
Plans called for them to fly to a rendezvous with a ground mobile command center. The port turn meant they would proceed on a westerly course, fly south of Fairfax, then follow Interstate 66 until they broke to the southwest toward Front Royal and then straight south to Bentonville. If all went well, a rendezvous with a fully functional GMCC would be waiting, protected by elite troops. It would only be a pit stop to get them back in the communications net before moving on. Movement was the key. They couldn’t stay in one location for any length of time this early in the war. The final destination would be a secure bunker, either in North Carolina or Georgia.
Despite being strapped in and the noise, Alexander wanted to conduct business. He keyed his microphone for a comm check. One by one the passenger’s acknowledged him. The secretary of defense wanted to hit the high points. “Where do we stand on comms?”
Bartholomew leaned forward from across the cabin. “NEACP and Looking Glass are airborne, and we have comms. STRATCOM’s airborne command posts, the airborne launch control centers, and the UHF relay aircraft all escaped. PACCS is in place. So far the satellites have survived. The Russians have detonated high-altitude bursts. HF and LF are holding up. EHF is good; SHF is marginal, UHF SATCOM, worthless.” Bartholomew thought for a moment. “If the MILSTAR and DSCS satellites go, we’re in trouble. We need the bandwidth to get the targeting updates to the forces. Can’t do that over HF or LF.”
The general fidgeted, waiting for a signal from Alexander.
“Electro-magnetic pulse effects have been negligible,” Bartholomew added as an afterthought. “Only the old gear has been affected.”
Alexander was surprised that communications had held. The money spent on strategic C3 in the 80s had paid off. He paused while digesting the general’s words. Mentally he created an image of the United States, placing the players in their respective locations like so many pieces on a board game. “Where’s the Commander-in-Chief Strategic Command?” he asked.
“CINCSTRAT evacuated Offut and is heading to his mobile command center.”
Alexander nodded. They had to rapidly establish communications with all the mobile command centers spread the entire length and breadth of the country. Sooner or later the airplanes would have to come down. Then it would be up to the mobiles to carry on the fight for the duration — however long that was.
Thomas leaned and poked his boss. He had overlooked the most important question. “Where’s the vice president?” he interjected. He said it to Alexander, but they all heard.
“He’s being flown directly to the North Carolina bunker,” came the answer from somewhere in the cabin. The secretary grimaced. “Who the hell made that decision?”
“He did, sir,” answered Bartholomew. “His staff felt it was too risky to bring NEACP down.”
Alexander showed a flash of anger. “Those idiots. All the fixed sites will be hit. STRATCOM HQ in Omaha, the CSOC at Falcon, NORAD, the ANMCC at Fort Ritchie, Mount Weather, they’re all gone. The vice president should be airborne with a battle staff, ready to be sworn in.”
The secretary stewed. “All right,” he said, too fatigued to remain angry. “How about Indications and Warnings?”
Bartholomew signaled the army major general on his left.
“Ground based I and W is getting shot to hell, Mr. Secretary, just like the fixed comm sites. The early warning radars are gone, including the over-the-horizon backscatter radars. That means we can’t detect cruise missiles except with AWACS aircraft. The Defense Support Program satellites are still operational, so we can detect ballistic-missile launches, but we can’t get any worthwhile tracking data. We don’t know where the weapons are headed anymore. The nuclear detonation sensors on the Global Positioning System birds are working, so we’re getting damage reports.”