“Yes.”
“Sir, on my own command authority as acting-C IN C-NORAD, I have placed my command on DEFCON-ONE alert. As you know, NORAD has that authority, and also nuclear-release authority for defensive purposes only.”
“You will not release any nuclear weapons without my authorization,” Fowler said forcefully.
“Sir, the only nukes we have in our inventory are in storage,” Borstein said. His voice was admirably mechanical, the other uniformed people thought. “I propose that we next initiate a conference call with CINC-SAC.”
“Do it,” Fowler ordered. It happened instantly.
“Mr. President, this is CINC-SAC,” General Peter Fremont, USAF announced. His voice was all business.
“What the hell is going on?”
“Sir, we do not know that, but there are some things we should do immediately.”
“Go on.”
“Sir, I recommend that we immediately place all of our strategic forces on a higher alert level. I recommend DEFCON-TWO. If we are dealing with a nuclear attack, we should posture our forces to maximum readiness. That will enable us to respond to an attack with the greatest possible effect. It could also have the effect of deterring whoever got this thing underway, in the event that he might have — or we could give him — second thoughts.”
“If I can add to that, sir, we should also increase our readiness across the board. If for no other reason, the availability of military units to provide assistance and to reduce possible civilian panic might be very useful. I recommend DEFCON-THREE for conventional forces.”
“Better to do that selectively, Robert,” Liz Elliot said.
“I heard that — who is it?” Borstein asked.
“This is the National Security Advisor,” Liz said, a touch too loudly. She was as pale as her white silk blouse. Fowler was still under control. Elliot was struggling to do the same.
“We have not met, Dr. Elliot. Unfortunately, our command-and-control systems do not allow us to do that selectively — at least not very fast. By sending out the alert now, however, we can activate all the units we need, then select the units we need to do things while they come on line. That will save us at least an hour. That is my recommendation.”
“I concur in that,” General Fremont added at once.
“Very well, do it,” Fowler said. It sounded reasonable enough.
The communications were handled through separate channels. CINC-SAC handled the strategic forces. The first Emergency Action Message used the same robotic voice that had already scrambled the alerted SAC wings. While the SAC bomber bases already knew that they were being alerted, the DEFCON-TWO notice made it official and far more ominous. Fiber-optic land-lines carried a similar notice to the Navy's Extremely Low Frequency radio system located in Michigan 's Upper Peninsula region. This signal had to be sent out by mechanical Morse. The nature of this radio system was such that it could only send out its characters very slowly, rather like the speed of a novice typist, and it acted as a cueing system, telling submarines to come to the surface for a more detailed message to be delivered by satellite radios.
At King's Bay, Georgia, Charleston, South Carolina, and Groton, Connecticut, and at three other locations in the Pacific, signals by land-line and satellite link were received by the duty staffs of the missile submarine squadrons, most of them aboard submarine tenders. Of America 's thirty-six missile submarines in service at the moment, nineteen were at sea, on “deterrence patrol,” as it was called. Two were in yard-overhaul status, and were totally unavailable for duty. The rest were tied up alongside tenders, except for USS Ohio, which was in the boat shed at Bangor. All had reduced crews aboard, though not one had her CO aboard this Sunday evening. That didn't really matter. The “boomers” all had two crews, and in every case one of the two commanding officers assigned to each boat was within thirty minutes of his command. All carried beepers, which went off almost simultaneously. The duty crews aboard each submarine began preparations for immediate sortie. The Command Duty Officer on each boomer was an officer who had passed the stringent test required before a submariner could be “qualified for command.” Their operational orders were clear: when this sort of alert came, they had to get to sea just as fast as possible. Most thought it a drill, but drills for strategic forces were a serious business. Already, tugboats were lighting up their diesels to help the slate-gray hulls away from the tenders. Deck crews were removing safety lines and stanchions, as men who'd been aboard the tenders scrambled down the ladders to their various ships. Aboard, division officers and assistants checked their rosters to see who was aboard and who was not. The fact of the matter was that these warships, like all warships, were overmanned. They could easily sail and operate with half a crew if they had to. DEFCON-TWO meant that they had to.
Captain Rosselli and the NMCC staff handled the conventional forces. Pre-set recordings went directly to the individual units. In the Army, that meant division level. In the Air Force, it was at the wing level, and in the Navy, it was at the squadron level. The conventional forces were going to DEFCON-THREE. Captain Rosselli and Colonel Barnes handled voice lines to higher command levels. Even when talking to three-star officers with no less than twenty-five years of service each, it was necessary to tell every single one that: No, sir, this is not repeat not a drill.
American military units all over the world went instantly on alert. As was to be expected, those units which ordinarily maintained high alert levels responded the most quickly. One of these was the Berlin Brigade.
37
HUMAN EFFECTS
“Captain, we have an Emergency Action Message on the ELF.”
“What?” Ricks asked, turning away from the chart table.
“Emergency Action Message, Captain.” The communications officer handed over the brief code group.
“Great time for a drill.” Ricks shook his head and said, “Battle Stations. Alert-One.”
A petty officer immediately activated the 1-MC and made the announcement. “General Quarters, General Quarters, all hands man your battle stations.” Next came an electronic alarm sure to end the most captivating of dreams.
“Mr. Pitney,” Ricks said over the noise. “Antenna depth.”
“Aye, Captain. Diving officer, make your depth six-zero feet.”
“Make my depth six-zero feet, aye. Helm, ten degrees up on the fairwater planes.”
“Ten degrees up on the fairwater planes, aye.” The young crewman — helm duty is typically given to very junior men — pulled back on the aircraft-like wheel. “Sir, my planes are up ten degrees.”
“Very well.”
Barely had that been done when people flooded into the control room. The Chief of the Boat— Maine 's senior enlisted man — took his battle station at the air-manifold panel. He was the submarine's senior Diving Officer. Lieutenant Commander Claggett entered the conn to back the captain up. Pitney, the boat's navigator, was already at his post, which was conning officer. Various enlisted men took their seats at weapons consoles. Aft, officers and men assumed their positions as different as the Missile Control Center — MCC — which monitored the status of Maine's twenty-four Trident missiles, and the auxiliary equipment room, which was mainly concerned with the ship's backup diesel engine.
In the control room, the 1C — internal communications — man of the watch called off the compartments as they reported in as manned and ready.
“What gives?” Claggett asked Ricks. The captain merely handed over the brief EAM slip.
“Drill?”
“I suppose. Why not?” Ricks asked. “It's a Sunday, right?”