Red Hammer 1994 (18 page)

The MWC battle watch commander was struck dumb like his compatriots. The air force general fought to maintain his equilibrium. He steadied himself while listening to a communication headset clutched in his free hand. Acknowledging the news, his shoulders sagged, and his face paled. He reached for a small handset mounted on a metal bracket by his knees. Swallowing hard, the words finally flowed, albeit in a jerky monotone.

“This is not a test,” he announced haltingly over the PA system. “I repeat, this is not a test.” The statement echoed throughout the cavernous chamber. He couldn’t believe the words himself.

The delayed reaction was palpable, like a car bomb exploding. Groans and gasps rose in chorus. Then a tidal wave of sheer bedlam swept the cavern. Watch standers brushed off the initial shock and sprinted to battle stations, manning consoles and conducting communications checks with STRATCOM’s stable of nuclear forces. Action, any action, acted as strong medicine against the tug of personal despair.

Preliminary tracking data blossomed on the three-dimensional polar projection of the earth dominating the center screen. The IBM mainframes, dedicated to cataloguing the attack down to the last reentry vehicle, predicted threatened targets. Targets meant people and places. This was no drill. ICBMs launched from the Russian heartland would take thirty or so minutes to fly their deadly course.

Forty-five seconds after the ripple of ICBM firing, sea-launched ballistic-missiles rose from the ocean off the US East Coast. They arched westward, with a time to target measured in minutes.

“Sir,” reported a stammering officer near the battle watch commander, “we have attack confirmation. Eighty-five SS-18s. Twelve SLBMs from Track Alpha Two. Possible cruise missiles have been detected off both coasts and in the Gulf of Mexico. The SS-18s are targeted on Peacekeeper and Minuteman forces. SLBMs are against SAC bases and C3 sites. It will be six or seven minutes before we pick up the first ICBM reentry vehicles on BMEWS.” BMEWS was the early warning radar system, the modern version of the old DEW line stretching across Alaska.

The colonel wearing the headset sat motionless. Receiving added bad news, he dutifully passed it along. The first ICBMs would arrive in twenty-five minutes, while the lead SLBMs would strike in less than eight.

The battle watch commander placed his hand on the little-used phone connecting him directly to the National Military Command Center in Washington and to STRATCOM headquarters in Omaha. At higher DEFCONs, he would have accessed the president directly. Today the NMCC had the conn. A quick glance at the screen highlighted the swarm of hostile missiles bearing down on the continental United States, their colored leaders inching across the globe.

“This can’t be happening,” he gasped inwardly. His jaw tightened as he picked up the red phone. Beginning to speak, he stumbled over the words he had repeatedly rehearsed and committed to memory after countless drills in the mountain.

Thomas sat stewing. Another ten minutes and he would ring Alexander again. Thomas had calmed down yet was obsessed with the thought of a Russian military move somewhere around the globe. But where?

Suddenly a series of short, sharp horn blasts echoed throughout the NMCC. The local klaxon had been triggered by NORAD, the distress signal relayed by secure landline. Startled and incredulous, Thomas sprang to his feet and gazed through the thick floor-to-ceiling glass, a shocked expression painted across his face. A knot formed in his stomach. He zeroed in on the watch commander, down in the pit. The general on watch staggered and then backed down in his chair, stunned. He stared into space for precious moments then grabbed an aide by the collar and whispered into his ear. The man nodded and ran off.

The watch section on the floor collectively held their breath. No movement, no noise. The emotional rollercoaster at NORAD was replayed in detail, but these unfortunates, farther down the intelligence pipeline, didn’t have the entire picture just yet.

To Thomas’s right, a door opened, and the battle watch commander’s aide, an army officer escorted by marines, stepped through. “Please follow me, General Thomas,” he asked. Thomas rose without saying a word. The marines fell in on his flanks.

Thomas navigated the staircase and found himself immersed in the chaos gripping the NMCC. The noise level had increased tenfold.

“You better hear this, sir,” the watch commander shouted, handing Thomas a phone connected to NORAD. After code-word authentication, a distraught voice on the other end struggled through a cryptic attack summary laced with technical jargon. Thomas stood stiffly, listening, but not physically reacting, his mind frozen on his abortive attempt to reach Alexander only forty minutes earlier. Like the others, his brain was in full retreat.

He had sensed trouble but did nothing. No matter that his take had been completely off base. Who could have imagined? Thomas’s failure made him ill. NORAD asked for orders. It was the president’s and STRATCOM’s call, Thomas had answered curtly. Follow procedures in place until instructed otherwise. Get General Morgan to the mountain. He wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know.

Thomas began to drop the handset but stopped. “Make sure CINCSTRAT is getting his planes away.”

“Already done, sir,” was the reply. “They’re off, but we can’t tell how many will make it.” Thomas nodded sadly. The big planes no longer on alert had little chance of escape from a surprise attack. “Let me know when you have radar confirmation.” Another “yes, sir” came from the voice on the line. Thomas hung up the phone and looked at the ashen face of the WATCH COMMANDER.

A myriad of possibilities raced through Thomas’s mind. Was it an accidental launch by a renegade Russian officer? Computer malfunction? It couldn’t be a deliberate attack. Yet only moments before, he had seen the evidence, the repositioning of Russian hardware. What were the targets? NORAD didn’t have decent data and wouldn’t for at least ten minutes. My God, my family, he thought. How could people function? God help us all.

“Make the call,” he said out of nowhere. It was more instinct than anything. The man opposite him shouldn’t have needed prompting, but who was he to judge. Thomas was teetering on the knife edge himself. General Patterson hesitated and then unlocked a red plastic encasement, handing one of the handsets to Thomas.

After several rings, an icy White House staffer answered. “Yes?”

The watch commander took a deep breath. The muscles in his neck were as taut as wire. “This is General Patterson at the NMCC. We have a confirmed Russian attack against targets in the continental United States; I must speak to the president immediately.” The words sounded bizarre to Thomas. Even from where he stood, with the hard evidence staring him in the face, it seemed preposterous.

The voice at the other end paused then said, “What? There wasn’t an exercise scheduled for today; it’s not until next week.”

“This isn’t a goddamn test,” shouted the watch officer, “put the president on the line immediately.” The veins on his temples bulged. Thomas steadied his subordinate by touching his arm.

“One moment.” Within seconds, the president answered. His greeting signaled consternation and confusion.

“Mr. President,” Patterson reported rapidly, “we are under nuclear attack by the Russians. NORAD has confirmed nearly one hundred missiles inbound. We’re tracking down the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the secretary of defense.”

The president’s voice cracked, like someone had suddenly kneed him in the stomach. “What do you mean we’re under attack? Is this a test?” The man’s anguish could be felt through the wire.

“No, sir. NORAD has not made an error. We’re under nuclear attack.” The president could only mutter, “Oh my God.” Before he could say anything else, the burly chairman of the Joint Chiefs burst through the door like a hurricane hitting shore and snapped his fingers for a handset. His body vibrated with energy, his reddened face boiling. He forced a healthy dose of self-control down his throat before speaking.

“Mr. President,” said the chairman evenly, “the secretary of defense will be here momentarily.”

“The secretary of state is here with me,” stammered the president. “What the hell is going on, General?” It was a plea more than a question. The chairman summarized the terrible numbers. The killer was the nearly one hundred SS-18 class ICBMs. Then he recited the rest of the bad news—first impact for SLBM warheads in seven minutes; Twenty-one for the ICBMs. No time for discussion; we need to act.

The rapid-fire report left the president breathless. He mumbled something to an aide off-line. Thomas wondered if the president truly comprehended what he had just heard—the magnitude of the crisis. His heart broke for the man across the river, standing there with a phone in his hand and wondering what had happened to his world in the last few minutes.

“Mr. President,” said the chairman with conviction, “we must retaliate. We’ve got less than fifteen minutes. CINCSTRAT has to receive authorization to launch our Peacekeeper and Minuteman missiles before the Russians destroy them in their silos. We should execute SIOP Option 2M immediately. I must stress the urgency, Mr. President. We have only minutes.”

The president struggled against the stiff current sweeping him toward Armageddon. “How do I know this isn’t all a terrible mistake?” he blurted. “The Russians would never do this. A surprise attack is out of the question. There must be another explanation. General, you assured me that this kind of mistake would never happen again, that all the software problems had been fixed.” The president was grasping at straws. He was no different than the rest of them.

“NORAD has verified the attack, sir,” answered the chairman, his frustration beginning to explode to the surface. “Multiple, independent sensors are tracking the missiles. There is no mistake! I repeat, Mr. President, we need a decision!”

“Mr. President,” they heard the secretary of state plead off-line, “we need to talk.” There was a lapse as the line went dead. Thomas and the generals sagged in unison, lowering their handsets and staring blankly at the linoleum floor. The tactical support team of military and civilian advisors formed a semicircle around the trio, awaiting orders to do something, anything.

Thomas raised his head and surveyed the emotional bloodbath sweeping the floor. Thomas knew war, understood war, but this wasn’t his war. War slowly builds in intensity over months, even years, then climaxes in victory or defeat. In Vietnam, he had knowingly killed, calculating violence against enemy troops. His personal war had been a few hundred feet above the jungle canopy, not face-to-face, down in the mud, and he was certain he had left his mark. The trailing napalm fireballs and cluster-bomb fireworks from his Phantom, spread over vast tracks of jungle, surely took their toll. And he had seen enough dead soldiers up close, both American and Vietnamese to last him a lifetime. Two inspections of the war zone, familiarization tours for close-air-support pilots, they were called, had given him a belly full. Yet he had learned to live with the killing and the death, and later found peace of mind. He never had been one of the handwringers who lamented their roles in the fighting.

But on this particular afternoon, time was their enemy. Time mocked them. Time compressed so intensely that all experienced a vertical emotional ramp-up that threatened their sanity. His thoughts returned to Sally, who he loved more than his own life. She was at home, probably worried sick about him, wondering if she should keep dinner. Tears welled in his eyes, but he fought them with all his strength. Like all good soldiers, feelings were to be brutally suppressed in crisis. But how do you watch your world disintegrate before your eyes?

Thomas heard a commotion and turned to see Alexander and his troupe marching through the back entrance. Alexander’s face was flushed; sweat cascaded down his cheeks. Before he even had time to catch his breath, General Patterson was shouting in one ear while the chairman acted out the president’s response in the other. Alexander reacted with predictable overload.

“He’s incapable of making a decision,” was the part Thomas caught. Alexander nodded in sympathy. The chain of command was cast in concrete. It had to be. Any breach or challenge to authority would be like tossing a hand grenade in a crowded bus station. They could cajole, bluster, and rant, but the president had to make the final decision.

It seemed an eternity before the Commander-in-Chief returned. The poor man sounded on the brink of a nervous breakdown. He panted through his sentences. A touch of anger crept into his voice.

“Jonathon says that I should leave for the airborne command post. He says there is time to consider options, to contact the Russians. I agree. I need more information. I can’t be expected to make a decision like you’re asking for on so little information.” The president paused. His anger ripened as he sensed his words fell hollow on the men in the NMCC. “Jonathon summarized Option 2M. Do you really recommend launching all our ICBMs, General? Haven’t the Russians launched only a fraction of theirs?”

The president grew reflective. “We have to stop this. This must be a mistake, an accidental launch by some crazy local commander. We’ll contact the Russians on the hotline. We must stop this!”

Thomas was an expert on the various SIOP options and started to mentally recite the objections from Genser. The answers would seem as jargon to civilians. How, for God’s sake, do you debate nuclear targeting strategies in thirty seconds to men backed into a corner? He bent and whispered what he considered relevant to Alexander. The secretary nodded.

“Mr. President,” interjected Alexander, sensing the hopelessness, “The chairman is right. This was a deliberate attack. Those SS-18s carry nearly one thousand reentry vehicles; with their accuracy, they can destroy the majority of our ICBMs sitting in their silos before we fire a shot. If that happens, we’ll have few ICBMs left, while the Russians will have much of their ICBM force intact, in reserve.” Alexander broke his delivery infrequently, coughing into his balled hand, his dry throat turning hoarse.

“We’d have to capitulate and seek a brokered peace on Russian terms, or strike with our bombers and submarines. They don’t provide the hard target kill capability the ICBMs do. We would strike softer targets, industrial sites and military bases, and invite a similar response from the Russians. That’s what they’re counting on; that we’ll be unwilling to conduct a retaliatory strike that could lead to a wider exchange. We must retaliate to convince the Russians to negotiate on our terms.”