Tom Clancy, Steve Pieczenik, Larry Segriff, Steve Perry
Springboard
Acknowledgments
We would like to acknowledge the assistance of Martin H. Greenberg, Denise Little, John Helfers, Brittiany Koren, Lowell Bowen, Esq., Robert Youdelman, Esq., Danielle Forte, Esq., Dianne Jude, and Tom Colgan, our editor. But most important, it is for you, our readers, to determine how successful our collective endeavor has been.
— Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik
PROLOGUE
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the tour guide said, “this is the original Paramount Studios wrought-iron gate, built in 1926. Those of you who are movie fans have undoubtedly seen this entrance a number of times. It has been featured in many pictures, most notably Sunset Boulevard.” She paused for a moment to give everyone a chance to take photographs, or to merely admire the historic structure, then went on. “Sound stage number four is just ahead there. The newer gates, modeled on this one, are over there.”
The guide was a beautiful, perky, large-busted blonde who might have been twenty. The day was warm and sunny, and the air not nearly as smoggy as the tourists expected.
Walter and Maybelle Perkins, from Pine Ridge, Alabama, stared at the studio gate. “Get another picture, Walt,” Maybelle said.
Walt already had his new Canon multi-megapixel electronic camera raised. He framed the image and snapped the photo. While he was at it, he snapped one of the guide, too. She was gorgeous, after all. Probably be a movie star someday.
Their guide went on. “It is called the Bronson Gate, from the avenue that leads to it. Some of you may have seen old films with the actor Charles Bronson in them. Not many people know that the actor, whose real name was Buchinski, took his movie name from this very gate.”
After another brief pause she added, “Paramount is the only major motion picture studio still in Hollywood, and the oldest continuously operating one, as well. Now, if you will follow me, we’ll begin the tour inside.”
Walter glanced back over the lot. Los Angeles was a lot noisier than he was used to. Its cars, trucks, loudmouthed people, construction, and helicopters all combined to make it louder at midnight than Pine Ridge was at noon on Saturday down at the Safeway.
As Walter turned to follow their guide there was a flash of light, and Walter, Maybelle, their tour guide and tour group — and a good section of noisy Hollywood — got blasted by a man-made sun and crisped in a heartbeat to radioactive ash.
The ballistic missile was a small one, in that the atomic bomb it carried was no more than three or four megatons. The fireball and mushroom cloud were fairly spectacular when viewed from the hills east of Malibu, since, until that moment, the air had been relatively clear — you could even see Catalina Island from the shore.
The initial death toll was just under 300,000. The weapon was a dirty bomb, however, so at least that many more could be expected to die from radiation in short order. The toll would increase even further because of the usual secondary effects of a nuclear bomb, including falling buildings, ruptured gas lines, and rioting.
The second bomb hit near Coit Tower in San Francisco. Only a couple hundred thousand died in that impact. The buildings of San Francisco, designed to withstand earthquakes, proved even sturdier than expected. Also, though no one could explain it at the time, more of the blast channeled out to the bay than toward the suburbs.
The third bomb struck the water just short of the ferry docks in downtown Seattle. A freak effect of the explosion tore the top of the Space Needle loose and spun it away like a giant Frisbee.
Four hundred thousand souls perished in that strike.
The Star Wars umbrella stopped all nine of the remaining missiles. Before the first missile had hit — moments after the initial launch, in fact — the United States had blown through Defcon One and responded to the attack.
Ohio-class ballistic missile submarines of SUBCOM-PAC’S Group Nine, already on station in the South China and Yellow Seas, unleashed barrages of the new Tomahawk Block VI Nuclear variant (TLAM-N-VI) with its INS/TER-COM /DSMAC/KSA systems, each carrying a standard W80 nuclear warhead. The USS Henry M. Jackson (SSBN 730) was the first to fire, but not the last, and four other boomers let go half of their missiles within moments.
Every known major military base in China got a fiery wake-up call.
ICBMs that had stood quietly for fifty years in silos hidden around the United States lifted and sped halfway around the world.
Beijing became a pile of glowing rubble — as did every other targeted major city on mainland China.
Navy troop carriers bearing thousands of Marines — led by MAFORPAC’s 31st MEU — headed at full steam to China’s shores, to open the door for a full-scale invasion.
B-52 bombers based in NATO-allied European and former Eastern Bloc countries rumbled into the air to rain more atomic grief on the Chinese, who must have had a collective suicide wish—
At that moment, the entire United States military— submarines, carriers, aircraft, ballistic missiles, Marines, and all — vanished.
Along with China. And the rest of the world…
Four-Star Army General Patrick Lee Hadden, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, leaned back in his chair in the Pentagon’s VR-SYSOPCOM Virtual Reality Theater. “What just happened here, Major?”
Major George Bretton, U.S. Army Computer Corps, shook his head. “The VR shut down, sir.”
Hadden glared at Bretton. “I can see that, Major. What I want to know is why the exercise shut down.”
“Unknown, sir. The system seems to be running fine, mainframe is on-line, all hardware systems check out. It would appear to be a glitch in the software.”
The general frowned. “Major, the United States military does not abide glitches. Find out what happened and fix it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Major,” the general added, “lose the hillbilly tourists. Alabama has electricity and flush toilets these days, and since my wife’s family still lives there, I don’t find it amusing.”
“Yes, sir.”
The general and his aides left, and Major Bretton stared at his console. This was bad. This was end-a-career bad. He needed to do something and do it quick.
1
Thomas Thorn was reviewing personnel files when his intercom lit up.
“Commander Thorn? I’ve got General John Howard on line one.”
Thorn looked at the speaker box on his desk. It still surprised him that Net Force, of all places, didn’t have something more high-tech — maybe even something virtual — in place of their old-fashioned intercom system. Maybe he would speak to Jay Gridley about that one of these days. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll take it.” He waved his hand over the phone back and forth twice. The phone came to life.
“Commander,” the general said.
Thorn looked at the image of John Howard, a forty-something African-American who had run Net Force’s military arm since its inception. Howard had left to take a job as a consultant at the same time that Thorn had taken over the organization last year.
Howard was a good man, and a good general. Thorn had been sorry to see him leave.
“General. How are you?”
“Fine, sir.”
“Still enjoying consulting?”
“Yes, sir. Or at least I was.”
“Sounds like one shoe dropping, John,” Thorn said with a small smile. “Want to let the other one go?”