Arc Light (50 page)

“Request denied,” snapped the commander of the Ukrainian Strategic Direction, which would soon be renamed the Ukrainian Front, taking his ear just briefly away from the phone before returning to it and saying, “Continue.”

“That was a good idea of yours, General Razov,” General Karyakin said as he lounged in his chair next to Razov, the Strategic Rocket Forces officer also having very little to do. “A spoiling attack against their forces in eastern Slovakia, good idea.” He nodded at the vote tallies on television, which were mounting quickly in favor of impeachment. “The Americans don't seem to be waiting, so why should we?”

“Commander of Iceland Landing Force reports contact with main elements of American 82nd Airborne Division. He has ordered his men to temporarily assume a tactical defense and requests information as to when next resupply convoy or airdrop will arrive.”

Razov looked at Admiral Verkhovensky, who despite having phones pressed to each ear had obviously heard the report. Verkhovensky looked at Razov and shook his head.

“Tell the commander,” Razov said, raising his voice over the noise, “to assume both the tactical and the strategic defensive. Tell him that we are unable at this time . . . that we are unable to resupply him.”

The aide looked at Razov for just a moment longer than normal, then nodded curtly and turned to leave. When Verkhovensky hung one of the two phones up, Razov said, “What about the Kara Bastion?”

Several of the senior commanders' heads turned at that question. Verkhovensky shook his head and cupped the mouthpiece. “They're building in the Barents Sea west of Novaya Zemlya—have one carrier battle group on station and another on the way—but they seem to be making no attempts to penetrate.”

“They're probably just cutting off Iceland from our northern ports,” the commander of Construction Troops said.

“That is an awful lot of naval power for the interdiction role,” Verkhovensky said, but then got pulled back onto the phone. “No! I want everything we've got pulled back into the Sea of Japan. Everything!” He listened. “Yes, that includes the Petrozavodsk battle group.” He listened again. “Then we give up the Kurils and they fight their way through the Soya Strait! Everything comes back to the Sea of Japan!”

“Two more votes, sir,” Filipov said, keeping one eye on the screen as he stepped forward from the wall to whisper in Razov's ear.

Razov looked at the screen. Sixty-four in favor of impeachment, three opposed.

“All right!” Razov said in a loud voice, the American Senate's vote a foregone conclusion now. “Everybody back to their wartime command posts. Next
STAVKA
meeting in sixteen hours.”

Almost all of the commanders and their aides were up at once, and a bottleneck built at the door. The noise in the room began to die down as the men, now switching to cellular telephones, filed out.

“Si-i-ixty,” Karyakin said, holding his hand pointed up in the shape of a pistol as he watched the television, “six!” He pointed his hand down at the television screen just as the number rolled up, squeezing the trigger. “That does it. We're at war.”

Razov looked at the man, who, Filipov thought, seemed almost pleased with the outcome. Karyakin and the commanders of Construction Troops and Military Production stood and headed for the door.

“Oh, I don't know if you noticed,” Karyakin said, casually picking at the fingernail of his bent finger with his thumb as he turned from the doorway, “but we have completed decontamination of forty-nine intact silos and are beginning reloading tonight.” He looked up at Razov. “They should be on line and ready to fly within the week. Just thought you'd like to know,” he said smiling, and left.

“Close the door, Pavel,” Razov said to Filipov. When the door was shut, they were alone. “I've got a job for you.” When Filipov looked up at Razov's face, there was a momentary period during which Filipov felt the general's scrutiny. Filipov focused his concentration, as was so difficult to do these days.

“You saw the newspaper digests from the USA/Canada Bureau about the death of your friend Lambert's wife,” Razov said, and Filipov nodded. “But you still have no word of Irina?”

Filipov shook his head again. He had gotten the full articles and poured over every word of the sketchy details—sneaking away from his official duties with deepening guilt at doing so—but still there was no word of Irina's having been with Jane. Which meant she was where? In Washington? Lying dead, unidentified, in one of those mass viewing areas or already bulldozed into a trench? In a fallout shelter? She had asked once as they had a snack in the cafeteria of the National Gallery, Filipov remembered, what the yellow and black sign in the basement meant. Fallout shelter! He had told her the sign meant fallout shelter! It was like a drowning man thrown a life preserver.

“Pavel,” Razov said in a low voice, and Filipov remembered where he was and focused on the general. “This is a matter of vital importance. The fate of our nation, of ours and of the United States, may well ride on the outcome of your mission.”

Filipov nodded.

“I want you to go to America.”

“Yes, sir!” Filipov blurted.

“I'm telling you this in here because it's the only room I'm absolutely certain is not bugged. I want you to go to America under cover of a search for your wife, meet with this Lambert, and inform him of the fail-deadly firing orders of our submarines in the Kara Sea Bastion.”

Filipov stared back at Razov in silence. “Do you understand,” Razov said as Filipov felt the intense, unblinking stare of the man's gray eyes, “the profound and urgent importance of communicating to the Americans what would happen if they carried their attacks into the Kara Sea?”

The chill sank in on Filipov, and he nodded.

“You understand also,” Razov said, “that you are not doing this at the behest of STAVKA, or of any officer other than myself?” Filipov nodded. “And you understand further that discussion with the Americans of the nuclear war orders of our remaining submarine forces would quite probably be considered by some to be treason during time of war?” Filipov nodded again. “And you know the punishment for that crime?”

Filipov stared back at Razov, and then nodded a final time, having waited a respectable period to feign consideration of Razov's request, as Razov appeared to desire, but thinking the entire time,
Irina, Irina.

“Please repeat after me,” Chief Justice Rehnquist said as Costanzo raised his right hand and placed his left on the family Bible held by his wife. Lambert stood, as did everyone else in the packed Senate chamber. “I, Paul Stephen Costanzo . . . ”

“I, Paul Stephen Costanzo,” he said, repeating the oath, “do solemnly swear . . . that I will faithfully execute . . . the office of President of the United States . . . and will, to the best of my ability . . . preserve, protect, and defend . . . the Constitution of the United States of America.”

“Congratulations, Mr. President,” the Chief Justice said, shaking Costanzo's hand, and the enclosed chamber exploded in a standing ovation that went on for several minutes.

Lambert and Thomas walked to the side door of the packed chamber to watch from there. Lambert felt the eye of the television lens stray onto him and Thomas frequently during the long ovation,
and he tried not to let his impatience show. Finally, the new President took to the podium.

“My fellow Americans,” Costanzo repeated several times until the crowd fell quiet, “my fellow Americans, I will keep my remarks brief. As I assume the great office of President, I do so knowing our country to be scarred and blackened with great wounds. Several millions of our countrymen lie dead, and millions of others bless us with their presence only for the moment, and will soon be gone, having come to a tragic and terrible end due to a force that no one can see, or taste, or smell, or feel.”

Lambert dropped his head, but as he did he saw the red light on the minicam stuck into his face. He was being shown to the nation, he knew, by some network news director as the poster boy of grieving relatives, and he ground his jaw and stared sternly at the podium.

“I do not enter this humbling office at a time of peace, but to the great misfortune of all I enter it at a time of war. It is not a war of our own choosing, for we are a peace-loving people. But once roused, once the blood of our young patriots is committed to a great cause, this mighty land of ours shall surely enter the fray no matter how great the cost, how great the sacrifice. And let me assure you, my fellow Americans, this nation shall also just as surely prevail.”

Again there was a rousing ovation, just as ardent from both sides of the aisle.

“All Americans,” Costanzo began, trying to force the Joint Session of Congress to quiet, “all Americans . . . all Americans remember December seventh as the day on which the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. Our President, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, said then that day will live in infamy for all time. But how much more infamous a day was June eleventh? I will leave it for historians to decide, but for all of us who lived through it, it was truly a day of infamy. Tomorrow, however, will be a day of victory, for early this morning I and former President Livingston jointly authorized the armed forces of this country to initiate Operation Avenging Sword. I will have more to say about the war effort in the near future, but suffice it to say that we shall take the war to the Russians, we shall prosecute that war with the utmost zeal, conviction, and resolve, and our guns will not fall silent until our forces have achieved victory on the field of battle!” The roar of cheers exploded from the standing men and women. “May God bless the United States of America,” he shouted into the roar, “and the success of her armed forces!”

The shouting and cheering were deafening inside the cramped enclosure.

When the President, followed by Lambert and General Thomas, burst into the conference room, the scene was hectic, unlike what Lambert had expected. “Jesus Christ, how the hell . . . ”

“President's on deck!” one of the navy aides said, and stood, as did Admiral Dixon. The rest of the Chiefs, whose torsos were projected onto three screens along the walls of the room beside those of the secretaries of State and Defense and the directors of the CIA and NSA, all fell quiet.

Costanzo strode straight to the head of the table and said, “Be seated, gentlemen—and lady,” he said, nodding at one of Lambert's aides. When he himself had sunk into his seat, his hands clasped in front of him on the table, he said, “How goes the war?”

“Uh, I'm afraid we've got a situation on our hands here, sir,” Air Force General Starnes said from one of the screens.

“And just what situation is that, General, exactly?”

“Well, sir, it seems that Russian Backfire bombers of their Long-Range Aviation forces, which are large, supersonic aircraft similar to our B-1Bs, are in the process of raiding certain of our facilities—naval facilities, mainly, but also fuel storage and some power generation. They're nuclear-capable bombers, but they're using them to deliver conventional ordnance.”

“Well, General,” Costanzo said as he looked at Starnes on the projection screen, shrugging and spreading his hands out to show his lack of surprise, “this is a war.” He hesitated, and then said, “Wait, did you say they're raiding our power generation facilities?”

“Yes, sir. They hit us pretty quick and hard, but we've got interceptors in fast pursuit. We'll either knock down most of 'em or we'll run 'em outa fuel before—”

“Wait a minute!” Costanzo interrupted. “Where did they attack? Where were these facilities?”

Starnes looked down at the paper in front of him. “San Diego Naval Shipyard; a Chevron fuel tank farm in New Jersey just across the river from New York; and civilian power stations, both hydrocarbon and nuclear, supplying New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Seattle, San Francisco, and Los Angeles.”

“Channel Four interrupts this network broadcast to bring you a special bulletin.”

Melissa stared bleary-eyed at the television with Matthew lying propped up on her bare thighs.

The scene changed to a harried local newsman, who was holding his earphone to his ear and shouting, “What?” off to the side of the camera. He turned back and said, “Channel Four just received word that the FAA has issued a Notice to Airmen warning all civilian flights away from LAX and Orange County airports. The word we received just moments ago from the tower at LAX was that civilian radars at the FAA Regional Air Control Center had picked up . . . ”

There was a deep rumble, and the clock on the mantelpiece shook. Melissa waited frozen in time for the bright light that would precede the breaking of glass, the fires, the winds that would end it all.

“I don't know if you could hear that!” the reporter shouted. “A very, very loud explosion or series of explosions. We could hear it right here in our studios.”

Another series of crumping sounds rattled the windowpanes of Melissa's family room.

“There! There it is again! Another one, louder than before.”

Melissa put Matthew on her shoulder and ran to the back door. The deck was on the side of the hill, offering a partial view of the brown air over downtown Los Angeles.

“The Los Angeles Fire Department is advising everyone to stay in their homes,” Melissa heard through the open door as she walked to the wood railing and looked out in the distance at the black smoke that rose over the hills to her left.

“The possibility of broken glass or downed power—” There was a loud string of booms over the hills that seemed to shake the very air around her, and she saw just briefly a red ball of flame rise up and then cool to a boiling cloud of black smoke. In the flicker of an eye she saw two large black aircraft sweep through the hills below her, banking steeply and disappearing behind her neighbor's house on the right. Her heart stopped as their engine's scream tore across the back of the house, rattling the windows and causing Matthew to jerk and then begin crying, his little body rigid with the effort.