At McConnell, the first aircraft to move was the wing commander's personal B-1B. An athletic forty-five, the colonel also had the advantage of having his aircraft parked closest to the alert shack. As soon as all four of his engines were turning and the way cleared, he tripped his brakes and began to taxi his aircraft towards the end of the runway. That took two minutes, and on reaching the spot, he was told to wait.
At Offutt, the alert KC-135 was under no such restrictions. Called “Looking Glass,” the converted — and twenty-five-year-old — Boeing 707 had aboard a general officer and a complete if downsized battle-staff. It was just lifting off into the falling darkness. Onboard radios and command links were just coming on line, and the officer aboard hadn't yet learned what all the hubbub was about. Behind him on the ground, three more additional and identical aircraft were being prepped for departure.
“What gives, Chuck?” CINC-SAC said as he came in. He was wearing casual clothes, and his shoes were not tied yet.
“Nuclear detonation at Denver, also some trouble on satellite communications links that we just found out about. I've postured the alert aircraft. Looking Glass just lifted off. Still don't know what the hell's going on, but Denver just blew up.”
“Get 'em off,” the Commander-in-Chief Strategic Air Command ordered. Timmons gestured to a communications officer, who relayed the order. Twenty seconds later, the first B-1B roared down the runway at McConnell.
It was not a time for niceties. A Marine captain pushed open the door into the President's cabin and tossed two white parkas at Fowler and Elliot even before the first Secret Service agent showed up.
“Right now, sir!” he urged. “Chopper's still broke, sir.”
“Where to?” Pete Connor arrived with his overcoat unbuttoned, just in time to hear what the Marine had said.
“Command post, 'less you say different. Chopper's broke,” the captain said yet again. “Come on, sir!” he nearly screamed at the President.
“Bob!” Elliot said in some alarm. She didn't know what the President had heard over the phone, merely that he looked pale and sick. Both donned their parkas and came outside. They saw that a full squad of Marines lay in the snow, their loaded rifles pointed outward. Six more stood around the Hummer whose engine was screaming in neutral.
At Anacostia Naval Air Station in Washington, the crew of Marine Two — it wouldn't be Marine One until the President got aboard — was just lifting off amid a worrisome cloud of snow, but in a few seconds they were above the ground effect and able to see fairly well. The pilot, a major, turned his aircraft northwest, wondering what the hell was happening. The only people who knew anything knew merely that they didn't know very much. For a few minutes, this would not matter. As with any organization, responses to a sudden emergency were planned beforehand and had been thoroughly rehearsed both to get things done and to attenuate the panic that might come from indecision mixed with danger.
“What the hell is going on in Denver that I need to know about?” General Kuropatkin asked in his hole outside Moscow.
“Nothing I know of,” his intelligence officer replied honestly.
That's a big help, the General thought. He lifted the phone to the Soviet military intelligence agency, the GRU.
“Operations/Watch Center,” a voice answered.
“This is General Kuropatkin at PVO Moscow.”
“I know the reason for your call,” the GRU colonel assured him.
“What is happening at Denver? Is there a nuclear-weapons storage facility, anything like that?”
“No, General. Rocky Mountain Arsenal is near there. That is a storage center for chemical weapons, in the process of being deactivated. It's turning into a depot for the American reserve army — they call it the National Guard — tanks and mechanized equipment. Outside Denver is Rocky Flats. They used to fabricate weapons components there, but—”
“Where exactly?” Kuropatkin asked.
“Northwest of the city. I believe the explosion is in the southern part of Denver, General.”
“Correct. Go on.”
“Rocky Flats is also in the process of deactivation. To the best of our knowledge, there are no more weapons components to be found there.”
“Do they transport weapons through there? I must know something!” The General was finally getting excited.
“I have nothing more to tell you. We're as much in the dark as you. Perhaps KGB has more, but we do not.”
You couldn't shoot a man for honesty, Kuropatkin knew. He switched lines again. Like most professional soldiers, he had little use for spies, but the next call was a necessity.
“State Security, command center,” a male voice said.
“American department, the duty watch officer.”
“Stand by.” There was the usual chirping and clicking, and a female voice answered next. “American desk.”
“This is Lieutenant General Kuropatkin at PVO Moscow Center,” the man said yet again. “I need to know what, if anything, is happening in the Central United States, the city of Denver.”
“Very little, I would imagine. Denver is a major city, and a large administrative center for the American government, the second-largest after Washington, in fact. It is a Sunday evening there, and very little should be happening, at the moment.” Kuropatkin heard pages riffling. “Oh, yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“The final game in the championship-elimination series of American-rules football. It is being played in the new Denver city stadium which, I believe, is an enclosed structure.”
Kuropatkin managed not to curse the woman for that irrelevancy. “I don't need that. Is there any civil unrest, any sort of disturbance or ongoing problem? A weapons-storage facility, a secret base of some sort that I don't know about?”
“General, everything we have on such subjects is available to you. What is the nature of your inquiry?”
“Woman, there has been a nuclear explosion there.”
“In Denver?”
“Yes!”
“Where, exactly?” she asked, cooler than the General was.
“Stand by.” Kuropatkin turned. “I need coordinates on the explosion and I need them now!”
“Thirty-nine degrees forty minutes north latitude, one hundred five degrees six minutes west longitude. Those numbers are approximate,” the lieutenant on the satellite desk added. “Our resolution isn't very good in the infra-red spectrum, General.” Kuropatkin relayed the numbers.
“Wait,” the woman's voice said. “I need to fetch a map.”
Andrey Il'ych Narmonov was asleep. It was now 3:10 in the morning in Moscow. The phone woke him, and an instant later his bedroom door opened. Narmonov nearly panicked at the second event. No one ever entered his bedroom without permission. It was KGB Major Pavel Khrulev, the assistant chief of the president's personal security detail.
“My President, there is an emergency. You must come with me at once.”
“What is the matter, Pasha?”
“There has been a nuclear explosion in America.”
“What-who?”
“That is all I know. We must go at once to the command bunker. The car is waiting. Don't bother getting dressed.” Khrulev tossed him a robe.