All nine tanks fired at once. The range was just over two thousand meters, and now the element of surprise was with someone else. Five Russian tanks died with the first volley, and six more in the second, as the Abrams tanks went into rapid fire.
In the trees with the Bradleys, the brigade XO watched the north end of the Russian line crumple. That was the only word for it, he thought. The tank crews were all combat vets, and now they had the edge. The northernmost Russian battalion tried to reorient itself, but one of his Bradleys had evidently scored on its commander, and there was confusion there. Why the Russians hadn't pressed home the attack was one question that floated about the rear of his brain, but that was something to save for the after-action report. Right now he saw that they had screwed up, and that was a good thing for him and his men.
“Sir, I've got Seventh Army.” A sergeant handed him a microphone.
“What's happening over there?”
“General, this is Lieutenant Colonel Ed Long, we just got our ass attacked by the regiment across town from us. No warning at all, they just came into our kazerne like Jeb Stuart. We've got 'em stopped, but I've lost most of my tanks. We need some help here.”
“Losses?”
“Sir, I've lost over forty tanks, eight Bradleys, and at least two hundred men.”
“Opposition?”
“One regiment of tanks. Nothing else yet, but they have lots of friends, sir. I could sure use some myself.”
“I'll see what I can do.”
General Kuropatkin checked his status board. Every radar system that was not down for repair was now operating. Satellite information told him that two SAC bases were empty. That meant their aircraft were now airborne and flying towards the Soviet Union along with KC-135 tankers. Their missile fields would also be at full alert. His Eagle satellites would give launch-warning, announcing that his country had thirty minutes left to live. Thirty minutes, the General thought. Thirty minutes and the reason of the American president were all that stood between life and death for his country.
“Air activity picking up over Germany,” a colonel said. “We show some American fighters coming out from Ramstein and Bitberg, heading east. Total of eight aircraft.”
“What do we have on the American Stealth fighters?”
“There is a squadron — eighteen of them — at Ramstein. Supposedly, the Americans are demonstrating them for possible sale to their NATO allies.”
“They could be all in the air right now,” Kuropatkin noted, “carrying nuclear weapons, for that matter.”
“Correct, they can easily carry two B-61-type weapons each. With high-altitude cruise, they could be over Moscow before we knew it… ”
“And with their bombsights… they could lay their weapons exactly on any target they wish… two and a half hours from the time they lift off… my God.” In the weapon's earth-penetration mode, it could be placed close enough to eliminate the president's shelter. Kuropatkin lifted his phone. “I need to talk to the President.”
“Yes, General, what is it?” Narmonov asked.
“We have indications of American air activity over Germany.”
“There's more than that. A Guards regiment in Berlin reports being under attack by American troops.”
“That's mad.”
And the report came in not five minutes after my friend Fowler promised not to do anything provocative. “Speak quickly, I have enough business here already.”
“President Narmonov. Two weeks ago, a squadron of American F-117A Stealth fighters arrived at their Ramstein air base, ostensibly for demonstration to their NATO allies. The Americans said they want to sell them. Each of those aircraft can carry two half-megaton weapons.”
“Yes?”
“I cannot detect them. They are virtually invisible to everything we have.”
“What are you telling me?”
“From the time they leave their bases, then refuel, they can be over Moscow in less than three hours. We would have no more warning than Iraq had.”
“Are they truly that effective?”
“One reason we left so many people in Iraq was to observe closely what the Americans are capable of. Our people never saw that American plane on a radar scope, neither ours nor the French scopes Saddam had. Yes, they are that good.”
“But why should they wish to do such a thing?” Narmonov demanded.
“Why would they attack our regiment in Berlin?” the Defense Minister asked in reply.
“I thought this place was proof against anything in their arsenal.”
“Not against a nuclear gravity bomb delivered with high accuracy. We are only one hundred meters down here,” Defense said. In the old battle between warhead and armor, warhead always wins…
“Back to Berlin,” Narmonov said. “Do we know what's happening there?”
“No, what we have has come from junior officers only.”
“Get someone in there to find out. Tell our people to fall back if they can do so safely — and take defensive action only. Do you object to that?”
“No, that is prudent.”
The National Photographic Intelligence Center, NPIC, is located at the Washington Navy Yard, in one of several windowless buildings housing highly sensitive government activities. At the moment, they had a total of three KH-11 photographic and two KH-12 “Lacrosse” radar-imaging satellites in orbit. At 00:26:46 Zulu Time, one of the -11s came within optical range of Denver. All of its cameras zoomed in on the city, especially its southern suburbs. The images were downlinked in real-time to Fort Belvoir, Virginia, and sent from there to NPIC by fiber-optic cable. At NPIC, they were recorded in two-inch videotape. Analysis started immediately.
This aircraft was a DC-10. Qati and Ghosn again availed themselves of first-class seating, pleased and amazed at their good luck. The word had gotten out only minutes before the flight was called. As soon as the report had gone out on the Reuters wire, it had been inevitable. AP and UPI had instantly picked it up, and all television stations subscribed to the wire services. Surprised that the networks had not yet put out their own special bulletins, the local affiliates ran with it anyway. The one thing about it that had surprised Qati was the silence. As the word spread like a wave through the terminal building, what lay behind it was not shouting and panic, but an eerie silence that allowed one to hear the flight calls and other background noises normally submerged by the cacophony of voices in such public areas. So the Americans faced tragedy and death, the Commander thought. The lack of passion surprised him.
It was soon behind him in any case. The DC-10 accelerated down the runway and lifted off. A few minutes later, it was over international waters, heading towards a neutral country and safety. One more connection, both men thought in a silence of their own. One more connection, and they would disappear completely. Who would have expected such luck?
“The infra-red emissions are remarkable,” the photo-analyst thought aloud. It was his first nuclear detonation. “I have damage and secondary fires up to a mile from the stadium. Not much of the stadium itself. Too much smoke and IR interference. Next pass, if we're lucky, we ought to have some visible-light imagery.”
“What can you tell us about casualty count?” Ryan asked.
“What I have is inconclusive. Mainly the visible-light shots show smoke that's obscuring everything. Infra-red levels are very impressive. Lots of fires immediately around the stadium itself. Cars, I guess, gas tanks cooking off.”