“So, you are telling me that their strategic forces are totally ready, or nearly so, and ours are not?”
“All of our land-based rockets are fully prepared.”
“President Narmonov, your reply to the Americans…?”
“What do I say now?” Andrey Il'ych asked.
A colonel entered the room. “Report from Berlin.” He handed it to the Defense Minister.
“The Americans are in the eastern part of the city. The first wave of scout cars was taken under fire. Four vehicles, the officer commanding was killed in one of them. We've returned fire and gotten two American vehicles… no contact as yet with our regiment.” The Defense Minister looked at the other one. “Carrier Kuznetzov reports that he launched a two-plane patrol. They detected a rescue radio signal and went to investigate. Contact was then lost. They have an American carrier battle group four hundred kilometers away, and request instructions.”
“What does that mean?”
The Defense Minister checked the times on the second dispatch. “If our planes are not back by now, they are nearly out of fuel. We must assume they were lost, cause unknown, but the close proximity of the American carrier is troubling… What the hell are they doing?”
PRESIDENT F OWLER:
I AM CERTAIN THAT NO SOVIET COMMANDER WOULD ATTACK AMERICAN TROOPS WITHOUT ORDERS, AND THERE WERE NO SUCH ORDERS. WE HAVE SENT ADDITIONAL TROOPS INTO BERLIN TO INVESTIGATE, AND THEY WERE ATTACKED BY YOUR FORCES IN THE EASTERN PART OF THE CITY, WELL AWAY FROM YOUR ENCAMPMENT. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
“What the hell is he talking about? What am I doing? What the hell is he doing!” Fowler growled. A light came on. It was the CIA. The President pushed the button, adding a new line to his conference call.
“That depends on who 'he' is,” Elliot warned.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Mr. President, what we have here is simple confusion.”
“Ryan! We don't want analysis, we want information. Do you have any?” Liz shouted.
“The Soviets are sortieing their ships out of the Northern Fleet ports. One missile submarine is supposed to be heading out.”
“So, their land-based missiles are fully alerted?”
“Correct.”
“And they're adding to their submarine missile force also?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Do you have any good news?”
“Sir, the news is that there is no real news right now, and you're—”
“Listen, Ryan. One last time: I want information from you and nothing else. You brought me that Kadishev stuff and now you're saying it was all wrong. So, why should I believe you now?”
“Sir, when I gave it to you I told you it was not confirmed!”
“I think we may have confirmation now,” Liz pointed out. “General Borstein, if they're fully on line, what exactly is the threat?”
“The fastest thing they can get to us is an ICBM. Figure one regiment of SS-18s targeted on the Washington area, and most of the others targeted on our missile fields in the Dakotas, plus the sub bases at Charleston, King's Bay, Bangor, and the rest. Warning time will be twenty-five minutes.”
“And we will be targets here?” Liz asked.
“That is a reasonable assumption, Dr. Elliot.”
“So, they will try to use SS-18s to finish what the first weapon missed?”
“If that was their work, yes.”
“General Fremont, how far out is the backup Kneecap?”
“Dr. Elliot, it took off about ten minutes ago. it'll be at Hagerstown in ninety-five minutes. They have some good tail winds.” CINC-SAC regretted that addition almost at once.
“So, if they are thinking about an attack, and they launch it within the next hour and a half, we're dead here?”
“Yes.”
“ Elizabeth, it's our job to prevent that, remember?” Fowler said quietly.
The National Security Advisor looked over at the President. Her face might have been made of glass, it looked so brittle. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She was the chief advisor to the most powerful man in the world, in a place of ultimate safety, guarded by dedicated servants, but less than thirty minutes from the time some faceless, nameless Russian made a decision, perhaps one made already, she'd be dead. Dead, a few ashes in the wind, certainly no more than that. Everything she'd worked for, all the books and classes and seminars would have ended in a blinding, annihilating flash.
“Robert, we don't even know who we're talking to,” she said in an uneven voice.
“Back to their message, Mr. President,” General Fre-mont said. “'Additional troops to investigate.' Sir, that sounds like reinforcements.”
A rookie fireman found the first survivor, crawling up the concrete ramp from the basement loading dock. It was amazing he'd made it. His hands had second-degree burns, and the crawl had ground bits of glass and concrete and Lord knew what into his injuries. The fire-fighter lifted the man — it was a cop — and carried him off to the evacuation point. The two remaining fire engines sprayed both men with water, then they were ordered to strip, and they were hosed again. The police officer was semi-conscious, but tore a sheet of paper off the clipboard he'd been holding, and all during the ambulance ride he was trying to tell the fireman something, but the firefighter was too cold, too tired, and much too scared to pay attention. He'd done his job, and might have lost his life in the process. It was altogether too much for a twenty-year-old who simply stared at the wet floor of the ambulance and shivered inside his blanket.
The entranceway had been topped with a pre-stressed concrete lintel. That had been shattered by the blast, with one piece blocking the way in. A soldier from the tank snaked a cable from the turret-mounted winch around the largest of the remaining blocks. As he did this, Chief Callaghan kept staring at his watch. It was too late to stop now in any case. He had to see this through if he died in the process.
The cable went taut, pulling the concrete fragment clear. Miraculously, the remainder of the entranceway did not collapse. Callaghan led the way through the rubbled opening, with Colonel Lyle behind him.
The emergency lights were on, and it seemed that every sprinkler head had gone off. This part of the stadium was where the main came into the structure, Callaghan remembered, and that explained the falling water. There were other sounds, the kind that came from people. Callaghan went into a men's room and found two women, both sitting in the water, both of their coats sprinkled with their own vomit.
“Get 'em out of here!” he shouted to his men. “Go both ways, give it a quick check, and get back here fast as you can!” Callaghan checked all the toilet stalls. They were unoccupied. Another look at the room showed nothing else. They'd come all this way for two women in the wrong bathroom. Just two. The chief looked at Colonel Lyle, but there really wasn't anything to say. Both men walked out into the concourse.
It took Callaghan a moment to realize it, even though it was right there, an entrance to the stadium's lower level. Whereas only a short time before the view would have been of the stadium south side, and the roof, what he now saw was the mountains, still outlined in orange by a distant setting sun. The opening called to him, and as though in a trance, he walked up the ramp.
It was a scene from hell. Somehow this section had been shielded one way or another from the blast. But not the thermal pulse. There were perhaps three hundred seats, still largely intact, still with people in them. What had once been people. They were burned black, charcoaled like overdone meat, worse than any fire victim he'd ever seen in nearly thirty years of fighting fires. At least three hundred, still sitting there, looking at where the field had been.