Ivan Morozov was still alive as his body was blown up and over the tail of the bomber. He knew exactly what was going on. His mind was alert, for he hadn’t the time yet to panic. But for the first time in his life, he felt honest fear. Honest, gut-wrenching fear. The horror was complete and mind-boggling as he realized that he was going to die.
Morozov felt the oxygen get sucked from his chest. He felt burning pain from his broken shoulders and ribs. He gasped, but couldn’t breath. He arced over the tip of the B-1’s twenty-foot tail. The burning aircraft shined in the night.
He felt the sudden rush of a bitter cold wind as he began to fall back to the earth. He had a clear sensation of falling. His body tumbled and rolled in the slipstream. He saw the trees coming at him at an incredible speed. He closed his eyes and started to scream.
For a few moments the SU-27 pilot lost sight of the bomber. He pulled his nimble fighter into a steep climb, pushing himself away from the ground so he could search the dark sky for any sign of the burning aircraft. He jerked his head around in the cockpit, looking left and looking right.
He leveled off at 9,000 feet and frantically searched all around him. The air was clear. Not a cloud in the sky. He circled once, eyes darting from side to side.
Then he saw it. A flash of light. A rolling ball of fire. Directly in front of him, a huge explosion rocked through the night sky, filling his cockpit with a bursting yellow light. He squinted his eyes to protect his night vision. But even through his half-closed eyelids, the pilot could clearly see the debris start to scatter through the air as the fireball rolled skyward and then disappeared.
The pilot watched for long moment, then pressed his microphone switch. “Control, this is Dark Flight. Scratch the enemy bomber. Seven-zero-nine has a confirmed kill. I say again, seven-zero-nine has a confirmed kill.”
FORTY
The SS-18 built up speed as it began its descent back to Earth. Enormous heat was generated as the missile began to pass through the hydrogen-rich upper atmosphere. The skin of the missile began to expand and glow against the heat and the pressure.
The missile was one hundred and ten miles above the surface of the earth and moving downward at a near vertical angle. It was within a few meters of its intended flight path. The ten individual warheads had all accepted their targets. Twenty-nine times every second, the missile’s guidance and targeting computers did a complete self-check of their systems. Everything was in perfect order.
The SS-18 continued its descent, building up speed until it reached its terminal velocity of eight thousand feet per second.
In a matter of minutes, the SS-18’s nose would peel back and spit out the ten warheads, each to home in on its target.
The missile was approaching the coast of Sweden before it was finally detected by the American early warning over-the-horizon radar at Reykjavík, Iceland. The radar center immediately began to analyze the size and speed of the sub-orbit missile in an attempt to determine what kind of weapon it was.
A huge mainframe computer began to track the missile’s flight path. After tracking the missile for thirty seconds, the computer began to predict what the missile’s targets would be. It soon determined the missile was heading for somewhere along the east coast, probably the mid-Atlantic, more specifically Washington, D.C. However, because the missile was an SS-18, with ten separate nuclear warheads, the tracking computer could only guess what each individual target would be.
Within seconds after identifying the target as an SS-18, the President of the Unites States was notified of the incoming missile. Seconds after that, the United States Strategic Command was ordered to Attack Option CONFINE.
The rules of engagement under CONFINE were simple. Under this plan, if any nuclear weapons were detonated on United States soil, a limited retaliatory strike was automatically authorized. There was no choice. It had to be. The military was instructed not to wait for authorization from the President. Instead, they were instructed to immediately launch a crippling retaliatory strike.
Attack Option CONFINE was a necessary holdover from the Cold War. It was an integral part of the doctrine of mutually assured destruction. CONFINE was a way of ensuring that the United States could respond to a nuclear attack, even if all of its civilian leadership was already dead.
What CONFINE lacked in flexibility, it made up for in its power to deter, for it promised any potential aggressor that he could not win at a nuclear war. Even if he were successful in eliminating all of the nation’s senior leadership, he would not go unpunished. He would not be left unharmed to claim victory. Indeed, he would probably be counted among the dead.
Lt Jason Pond turned to look at the senior launch-control officer. Capt Tracy Leaven’s face was drained of all color. She appeared ghostlike under the milky lights of the launch center. Pond couldn’t help but notice the trembling of her hands as she reached above her head to open the red box.
The alert message bells continued to ring through the chamber. They echoed off the cement walls and bounced from ceiling to floor. Red warning lights added their crimson glow to the dimly lit room. Printers clattered and rolled, drowning out the constant hum of the air purifiers and the equipment cooling systems.
Lt Pond turned back to his console. He stared at the key which he held in his hand. It pressed against his flesh, heavy and warm.
With great effort, he reached up to the red cabinet that hung over his missile launch console and inserted the key into his box. The key slipped smoothly into the lock. The door sprung open. Lt Pond reached in and pulled out a thick red binder. It was sealed in tight clear plastic and was clearly marked “TOP SECRET” on every side. Lt Pond used his fingernail to break the seal, then flipped open the binder to the tab marked “OPTION CONFINE.”
“I’ve got a confirmed checklist,” Capt Leaven called across the launch center floor.
“Roger that,” Pond replied. “Standing by, ready to copy.”
For almost thirty seconds no one spoke. Both officers sat motionless, strapped to their impact-resistent chairs by tight belts that ran around their waists.
Suddenly the alert message bells fell silent. Lt Pond and Capt Leaven sat up in their chairs. They each held thick grease pencils in their hands. They hunched over their binders like schoolchildren, anxious to copy every word.
Ten seconds after the bells stopped ringing, three huge ceiling-mounted speakers began to boom.
“For bunker. For bunker. For bunker. Message follows.” Lt Pond licked his dry lips as he stared at the plastic-covered pages of his binder.
“Echo Lima Delta Two Charlie Two Charlie Seven Foxtrot Sierra Two Five Mike Mike Seven Niner Mike Hotel Whiskey Alpha Oscar Four Four.
“I say again. Echo Lima Delta Two Charlie Two Charlie Seven Foxtrot Sierra Two Five Mike Mike Seven Niner Mike Hotel Whiskey Alpha Oscar Four Four. Time now, twenty-three fifteen. Message complete.”
Lt Pond stared at the thick, black grease pencil marks he had scribbled onto the plastic pages of his binder. He then began to compare them with the codes that had been previously typed in the code book. He went through the letters very carefully, reading them out loud as he went.