“Down there!” shouted Omar.
On the track, attached to the rail’s tie-plate, was a small black box on which an even smaller red light was blinking. The security cameras had missed it.
Omar dove for the device even as the Metro shot out of the tunnel and into the station. He desperately tried to disengage the signal box. He looked up helplessly at his partners a second before the Metro, brakes squealing, mowed him down, tripping the signal box and detonating the nuclear warhead bolted to the train.
Suddenly there was a blinding white flash.
13
The deer raised her head from the fresh powder of snow and stood deathly still while the pine trees, dripping white, trembled ever so slightly. Then she scrambled away over a slope past the “Danger! Restricted Area” sign and out of view of the security c
Hundreds of feet beneath the earth, behind a giant vault-like door of titanium cut out of the mountain, it was snowing inside too, on the monitors of the command center of the U.S. Northern Command.
USAF Maj. Gen. Norman Block, squat and brash, stared at two giant screens where his bosses used to be. “What the hell happened?”
“IONDS sensors detect a nuclear detonation within the U.S., sir,” his senior controller reported. “It’s Washington.”
Block looked at the reconfiguring screens. The left screen displayed TOT MISL 1 — total number of missiles launched. The right screen displayed TTG +00.00.35 — time to go before detonation. It was the plus sign that made Block’s blood jump.
“God Almighty,” he said.
What happened next went strictly according to plan as America’s so-called Post Attack Command Control System swung into action.
Block picked up the gold phone of the Joint Chiefs of Staff Alerting Network (JSCAN) from the console in front of him.
“Put me through to General Carver at SAC.”
14
Inside the underground command center of the Strategic Command, the gold JSCAN telephone started beeping in SC Commander Duane Carver’s office. Carver, a lean, low-key man, picked up and heard the news from Block.
“Yes, sir,” he replied and stepped out onto his balcony overlooking a floor half the size of a football field where SAC officers manned their consoles deep beneath Offutt Air Force Base near Omaha. Display screens told them which bombers were in the air, which were sitting on runways and how long their engines had been running. “I’m on it.”
Carver hung up and picked up the red telephone to the Primary Alerting System. As soon as he did, an alarm warbled and a rotating red beacon flashed.
On the surface, sirens blared as blue trucks rushed pilots to their awaiting bombers and tankers already lined up for a quick escape.
“Alert crews to your stations,” blared the senior controller’s voice over the base speakers. “This is not a drill. Repeat. This is not a drill.”
On the runways, B-2, B-52 and FB-11 bombers and their supporting KC-135 tankers began to blast off in Minimum Interval Take Offs (MITOs), one after another with less than twelve seconds between them, collectively armed with enough nuclear warheads to destroy the world’s 25 largest cities.
15
The Looking Glass plane had reached its 30,000-foot cruising altitude among the thunderclouds when Marshall heard the ominous click-clack of an Emergency Action Message or “go code” print out in the battle staff compartment. Wilson ripped it out and walked it over to him.
“Northern Command confirms a first strike on U.S. soililson said in a trained monotone stripped of all emotion. “The ANMCC says we’ve lost the Pentagon, White House and most of the nation’s elected leadership.”
Marshall read the EAM, his mind racing. Without a star in charge and only a junior grade skeleton staff, the Alternate National Military Command Center at Raven Rock was about as valuable now as a call center in Bangalore, India. That left General Duane Carver at Strategic Command, General Norm Block at Northern Command, and himself aboard Looking Glass as the essential National Command Authority to run the country.
They would be contacting him any second now, Marshall thought, when
Major Tom’s voice came on the speaker from the communications compartment.
“Sir, I’ve got Generals Carver and Block for you in the conference center.”
“I want a launch poll, Major Tom,” he told her as he rose to his feet. “I want to know what assets got off the ground, what assets are on the ground and which ones are in the ground. And I want it waiting for me when I get there in thirty seconds.”
Marshall found the two faces of his last remaining superiors staring from the big screen when he sat down in the conference center: Block, the squat cigar-chomping warrior from the old schools, and Carver, the tall, wiry egghead from the new. Laurel and Hardy in uniform, except Block was white and Carver was black.
“Damage reports, Marshall?”
“Early reports indicate a ground burst,” Marshall said, glancing down at the screen beneath the surface of the table. “One hundred fifty KT. Blast radius three miles. Casualties estimated at about four thousand. Looks like snow kept most nonessential federal workers at home.”
“So we caught a break,” Block said. “That puppy’s bark was worse than its bite.”
“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” General Carver said dully. “Marshall, the launch poll.”
Marshall glanced down again. The poll had just popped up. It was everything they already knew, but protocol demanded acknowledgment.
“We’ve lost the Commander-in-Chief at the White House and the Joint Chiefs at the National Military Center at the Pentagon. But we still have command posts at Northern Command, Strategic Command and the ANMCC at Raven Rock,” Marshall reported. “We are the National Command Authority now.”
Block looked relieved on screen. “So the actual damage to our ability to fight this war is minimal.”
“I suppose so, sir,” Marshall said. “General Block, you now have operational launch control of U.S. ICBMs in the ground. I’m your back-up here in the Looking Glass air command. General Carver?”
“All my birds are in the air and my sharks are in the water,” he said, referring to U.S. bombers and submarines armed with nuclear warheads. “All awaiting orders, soon as we know whom to strike.”
“I put my chips on yellow,” said Block. “I bet it’s General Zhang and the chinks.”
Marshall could see the slight grimace on Carver’s face at Block’s derogatory remark. But Carver was too smart to be politically correct in a state of war, and Marshall had never seen Carver lose his cool. “From this moment on, everything goes strictly accordour plan per our Post Attack Command Control System,” Carver ordered. “Hell, Marshall, you wrote it. What’s next?”
“The Nightwatch plane from Andrews is circling in the air until the Central Locator selects a designated presidential successor, “ said Marshall and pressed his speakerphone. “Major Tom, patch us through to Edwards. The NCA needs to speak to the new president, President O’Donnell.”