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“What are the submarines' preprogrammed targets, sir?” Filipov repeated. “If they perceive that they are under attack and fire their missiles on their own under the fail-deadly policy, what targets were programmed by Zorin's nuclear control orders?”

There was an awkward silence as Razov stared at his haggard aide, worrying at the sight of him and at his unprecedented interruption.

General Mishin cleared his throat and said, “Oh, uh, gentlemen, this is Colonel Filipov. You might remember him as General Razov's aide from the last war.” Several of the old men nodded.

“What are the submarines' preprogrammed targets, sir?” Filipov said again, amazingly calmly to Razov's relief and surprise.

Admiral Verkhovensky turned to stare at Filipov, and then looked down at his hands, his mouth hanging open for a moment before answering. “Well,” he began, never lifting his eyes. “Apparently, Admiral Grubov had raised the alert status of the submarine fleet to ‘Increased' before the Chinese strikes, before he and the other members of
STAVKA
were murdered by Zorin. When Zorin's control orders were issued, all of the submarines not already on station were flushed. Right now, the Kara Bastion contains 22 ballistic-missile submarines of various classes.” He paused, his thoughts straying before he refocused and went on, a deep solemnity to his voice. “They have 416 SLBMs with 3,760 warheads. They are redundantly targeted.” His voice seemed to sink deeper within his frame the further he went. “ ‘Overtargeting'—we assume not all platforms, maybe less than a quarter, would actually survive American antisubmarine efforts and fire.”

He looked up, not at Filipov but at Razov. “The targets for 1,610 warheads, under the firing plan selected by Zorin, are the 536 U.S. military installations worldwide that remain unhit. The balance—2,150 warheads—are targeted at the 304 largest American cities.”

“We're eighteen hours into SIOP-6C, sir,” General Thomas said as Lambert and the Joint Chiefs sat around the conference table. “We have four hundred and forty sorties over Russia at this moment, thirty-six of which have nuclear weapons locks removed. Most should achieve a release, but some won't make target and others will abort because of weather minimums or mechanical problems or safe separation violations determined to exist by the controllers, or some other reason.”

The President sat erect. He was showered and clean-shaven, and although he couldn't have had much sleep, Lambert thought that he looked refreshed, invigorated. Lambert told himself it was time for him to do the same. He felt grungy in the suit he had worn for over thirty hours straight, and it affected his disposition.

“All right,” the President said, his voice firm and sure, “here are your orders.” He looked at the gathering of generals and the admiral one at a time, and then spoke slowly as several put pens to notepads. “You are to cease all combat operations against the Russians immediately. Nuclear, conventional, whatever. No incursions into Russian airspace, no provocative action of any kind anywhere in the world.” There was silence. “It's over, gentlemen. This war is over.”

A silence descended over the room until Air Force General Starnes squirmed in his seat and cleared his throat. “Do you mean, as of right now, sir? Effective immediately? ‘Cause we got all those people over Russia right now, and . . . ” He concluded just by shaking his head.

“I mean, gentlemen, that all authority previously granted by me for the conduct of offensive military operations against the armed
forces of Russia is hereby revoked. The—war—is—over. It's that simple.”

Lambert's eyes followed those of the military officers to the Secretary of Defense, who sat with hands clasped before him and eyes downcast. Lambert raised a hand to rub the back of his neck and caught the eye of General Thomas across the table from him. “I'm afraid it might not be quite that simple, Walter,” the Secretary said. He heaved a deep sigh before looking at President Livingston. “Those air force and navy crews over Russia right now not only have to fight their way in, they've gotta fight their way out too.”

“Then just call off all future incursions into Russian airspace,” the President interrupted, still sounding confident.

“Some of the air defense suppression missions that are supposed to help them get out haven't penetrated Russian airspace yet,” the Secretary said.

“Then I'll permit only
those
missions to violate Russian airspace, but you call off all others.”

The Secretary was obviously highly uncomfortable, and his hands grabbed his face and pulled the skin back, covering his tired, bloodshot eyes for a moment before he went on. “That's not the hard part, sir. The hard part is this. We've got thousands upon thousands of units large and small spread all across the globe facing off against the Russians at this very moment. From the four tactical fighter wings in Eastern Europe whose combat air patrols are in near constant contact with Russia fighters, to attack submarines on both sides who are maneuvering, I guarantee you, this very moment for shots deep underwater in the Arctic, Western Pacific, and Indian oceans and Norwegian, Mediterranean, and Barents seas. And there are ground troops, sir, in Eastern Europe that are awfully close to Russian forces, awfully close.”

“I hear what you are saying,” the President said, staring straight back at his Secretary, and then looking at the military men and continuing, “but I am commander in chief of the armed forces of the United States, and if I say the war is over, then the war is over.” He looked back at the Secretary. “Of course, our units have, as they've always had, the right to take action in self-defense. But nothing more. Is that absolutely clear?” he asked the table in a louder than normal voice.

As the men gathered there nodded or mumbled their affirmations, Lambert marveled at the President's transformation. He seemed to have gathered himself, and with it, gained strength. Lambert knew him to be a man who all his life had abhorred war, and it made sense that he would go to war reluctantly but seek peace with resolve. The President glanced at Lambert by his side and winked,
the briefest of smiles betraying a spark of life that had returned to the man.

“Sir,” General Thomas said, “just to make clear what exactly the rules of engagement are, may I pose a series of scenarios to you, and you respond with whether or not our forces may fire in ‘self-defense'?”

“I think that's an excellent idea, General,” the President said, nodding once and rocking back in his chair to listen.

General Thomas hesitated, the faint whoosh of air slipping by the jet filling the silence, and then began in deadly earnest. “The sonarman in the combat information center of an aircraft carrier in the Indian Ocean reports a contact inside the defensive perimeter of the battle group and within range of the carrier with rocket-assisted torpedoes. May the carrier captain fire at the contact?”

The President sighed and looked off, refocusing on Thomas a moment later and saying, “Yes, he may,” in an authoritative tone.

As the Chief of Naval Operations began to write on his legal pad, Thomas said, “The radar operator on an
AWACS
over the Sea of Japan reports a large contact at low altitude and high speed inbound for Japan. The senior controller vectors a pair of F-15Cs for a closer look. The F-15's long-range cameras identify the contact as two Russian nuclear-capable Su-27 attack aircraft. An
AWACS
radarman plots an intercept and informs the senior controller that, based on the Su-27s' speed, range, and heading, and the F-15s' fuel status, there is only one intercept point between the Russian planes' present position and potential weapons release points against our bases in Japan. May the senior controller vector the intercept?”

“I see what you're doing here, General Thomas,” the President said, and Lambert searched his voice for any trace of animosity but found none. “But let me tell you what I'm trying to do. I'm trying to prevent World War Three, a war that nobody, not the Russians and certainly not we, wanted or had any reason whatsoever
for.”

“We got about six million dead or dyin' reasons now,” Marine General Fuller muttered, but the President ignored him.

“Now, I understand your need for rules, and I'll work with you in the drafting of a rule that says reasonable force may be exercised if a commander in good faith determines, after due inquiry and upon consultation, that some preventative action may be necessary, including even the preemptive use of deadly force, or some such language. But all of your hypotheticals, General, are designed to get me to authorize the use of force, and in order to stop this thing, gentlemen,” he said as he looked at the group, “I'm warning you right now—somebody, somewhere, is going to have to absorb some blows and take some losses.”

The Secretary of Defense spoke up. “Uh, Walter, the scenarios Andy was just sketching were from reports that came in just before this briefing. The F-15s shot down both Su-27s, but the carrier captain held his fire. It seems there was a British submarine somewhere in the vicinity that was unaccounted for according to the preliminary inquiry. A Russian sub hit one of his auxiliaries. She's afire, and there was heavy loss of life.”

“The captain in question has been relieved of his command,” Admiral Dixon said.

“All right,” the President said. “You draft the rules with enough latitude for our forces to defend themselves, and I'll review them.” General Thomas nodded.

The President turned to Lambert. “Now, Greg, I think it's time to call the Russians. Can you get General Razov on the line?”

As shocked as anyone in the conference room by the sudden request, Lambert nevertheless recovered quickly and picked up the phone in front of him. As the Joint Chiefs continued their briefing of the President in lowered voices, Lambert went through a series of Russian military operators. The Russians all reacted with surprise, presumably hearing the thick American accent he had always been told he had when he spoke Russian. Suddenly, Lambert heard, “Hello?” in a voice he'd known for years.

“Filipov? Pavel, is that you?” Lambert asked in amazement, and the briefing stopped as the men around the table looked his way.

“It's me, Greg,” Pavel said after a momentary transmission delay.

“Is, uh, General Razov there?” Lambert asked, feeling the stares of the men around the table.

“Just one minute,” Filipov said, his monotone voice responding in kind to Lambert's own formality.

Greg cupped his hand over the phone. “Either Filipov has flown to Khabarovsk, or Razov has flown to Moscow,” he whispered. “My guess is the latter.”

“Razov,” the hoarse voice came over the phone.

“Sekundochky, pozhal'sta”—one second, please
—Lambert said. He hit the speakerphone button. The taping light came on automatically. Lambert nodded at the President.

“General Razov?”

“Mr. President.” From the looks Lambert saw exchanged, the barely civil tone of Razov's voice struck everyone in the room.

Undeterred, the President said, “I've called you to talk peace.”

The burst of air into Razov's mouthpiece that crackled out of the table's speaker could only have been the bitter beginnings of a chuckle. “Peace? You wish to discuss peace?” Razov had twice spat
the word “peace” from his mouth. In the background, muted reports could be heard from many voices in a hectic and confused scene. “And even now your nuclear weapons continue to rain down on my country. Let me tell you this, Mr. President. I have held my fire, as I promised, and have employed not one nuclear weapon after the initial accident, but I am under strong, very strong pressure here from my colleagues to resume the war with all means available.”

“That will most certainly not be necessary,” President Livingston said, sliding up to the front of his chair. “I have just ordered all units of this country's armed forces to cease and desist from further offensive operations against your country except as required by their temporary tactical situation. You have my word, General, that this war is over.”