“Papa!” he screamed. “I’ve got a good identification. Target is an American bomber. I say again. Target is an American B-1 bomber. We are under a U.S. attack!”
Vladimir Fedotov breathed a sudden and angry groan, then turned around to face General Nahaylo. “Are you telling me it is an American aircraft? An American missile?”
The minister of defense wiped his nose. “Sir, there is absolutely no doubt. It is an American B-1 bomber. It launched some kind of cruise missile. And then turned away.”
Fedotov raised an eyebrow. “Only one missile?”
“Yes,” Nahaylo replied. This curious fact was not lost on either man.
Fedotov felt his heart beating faster. He took a series of short and shallow breaths. His hands, tightly clasped across his lap, began to tremble ever so slightly as he clenched his fingers together.
Cowardly American harlots! Killers! American pigs! How could they have resorted to this?
Staring up at General Nahaylo, he demanded, “Tell me, what is the range of this American missile?”
Nahaylo took a quick look at his notes. “We believe that the missile must be one of their ALCMs, sir. Max range, about 1,100 miles. Max speed, about 500 knots. Which would put the missile over Moscow in another… forty-five minutes. Assuming that Moscow is even the target.”
“Oh, sweet Mary!” President Allen cried. His face was a white sheet of pale flesh. His eyes were wide and dry with sudden fear. His hands trembled and shook at his side.
“Are you certain? How do you know?”
“Yes, sir. We are certain. The RC-135 orbiting over northern Turkey picked up the radio communications just seconds ago. A Russian SU-27 witnessed the missile launch. They just simply got lucky. And now, even as we speak, they are recalling their eastern fighters to join in the search for the Bandit.”
“Sonofa…” Allen’s voice trailed off. He fell back in his seat and raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if seeking divine intervention.
“And… have they… confirmed the source of the missile?” Allen’s voice was hesitant and hollow. He did not want to know the answer to this question.
Blake stared down at his feet and cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. They have. They have confirmed it is from a U.S. B-1 bomber. Don’t ask me how. We haven’t got a clue. But they know it was an American aircraft.”
Allen closed his eyes and muttered to himself as his face took on an even lighter shade of pale.
“Have they passed along the information?” he finally asked.
“Yes, sir. By now, the entire Russian military and civilian battle-staff have been notified.”
“And what about the bomber?”
“They are after it. That’s all that we know.”
Allen passed his hands over his eyes and cursed to himself. Blake stood before him like a whipped puppy. “Sir,” he muttered. “There is the matter of the missile. We have to destroy it, sir. There is nothing more we can do. We must destroy it before it gets to its target. Every missile has a self-destruct mechanism. We can use the EYE to command the missile to self-destruct. And if we destroy it now, perhaps we can keep the match from the fuse.
“But if we don’t stop the missile… if it reaches its target… well… who knows what could happen?
“The situation has become very dangerous. Uncertain and unpredictable. Things could quickly spin out of control.”
Richard Ammon had assumed that Morozov had turned so quiet because he was angry, which wasn’t true. He was busy. Very busy. He worked as fast as he could, punching the new target coordinates and launch instructions into his computer.
So they never got within range of their targets. So what did he care? That didn’t mean that the mission was over. All was not lost. He could still attain what they were after. It would just be in a different way. A more violent means. But the effect would be just the same.
With a final stroke of a key into his offensive computer, Morozov commanded five of his nuclear short-range attack missiles to their new coordinates and put them into their final countdown.
The target names appeared on his screen. Kursk. Voronezh. Orel. Kaluga. Novemoskovsk. All major cities. Industrial centers. Masses of Russian population.
In minutes, they would be reduced to a heap of molten cinder block and burning debris. The citizens would die by the thousands, vaporized into a black mist. Burned beyond recognition. Destruction to a nightmarish degree.
Morozov sat back.
He would have the last laugh. He would sizzle half of southern Russia, if that’s what Ammon wanted. But the mission… his mission… his baby… it would not be a failure. Not while he was alive.
Morozov reached up and launched the first of the missiles.
The aircraft shuddered with a buzzing vibration. Ammon looked up with a start. His bomb bay doors were beginning to swing open. He glanced down at the weapons configuration panel. Five missiles were armed and ready to fire! The doors slammed open with a thump!
“No! No!” Ammon shouted as he watched.
But it was already too late. With a slap and a thump, the missiles were gone. He squinted his eyes from the flash of their engines. The five missiles’ ramjet engines ignited with a lightning-bright flash, casting deep shadows across the dark sky. The missiles shuddered and wobbled in midair, then dipped toward the earth and sped away.
Peleznogorsk dropped his hands from his face as the light faded and then disappeared.
“I’ve got Babies! I’ve got Babies! Four… five… count’em… five confirmed missile launches!” Major Peleznogorsk screamed into his mask. His fear was real and intense.
“Oh, geez,” his wingman called out. “Did you see that, Lead. They looked like nuclear ALCMs. I could tell by the fat harpoon tips. I say again, the missiles might be armed with nuclear warheads.”
“Papa! Do you read!” Peleznogorsk cried out. “We’ve got five suspected nuclear cruise missiles inbound.”
The controller sat at his console in a horrified stupor.
“Oh, Mother, it’s over,” he cried to himself.
The whoosh and rush of the helicopter blades filled the air. They beat at the tree limbs and lay the neatly trimmed grass flat against the soil as the three Presidential helicopters made their short approach to the White House lawn. The President and his party were already waiting. The helicopters had barely touched down before a small door just behind the cockpit swung open and a short step was extended out onto the grass.
Within just a few minutes, the three helicopters were airborne again. They flew in a loose trail formation, one behind the other, as they made their way across the Washington, D.C., terrain. Flying low, they turned westward toward the Virginia side of the city. As they crossed over the top of the Pentagon, an American Airline 727 was just climbing out from National Airport, which was only three quarters of a mile to the south.
President Allen watched the airliner as it climbed overhead. He watched as the aircraft pulled in her landing gear and accelerated northbound.
For just a moment, he could envision the aircraft’s crowded cabin. He could picture the business men and tourists as they stared out of their small oval windows, watching the city slip by them, the monuments and buildings growing smaller as the aircraft climbed into the sky.
The President had to wonder. Was this the last time those passengers would look down upon this city? Were some of them leaving loved ones they would never see again?
“Lord, please don’t let them be the lucky ones,” he prayed as the 727 disappeared from his sight.