The War Cloud (5 page)

“Next stop, the Pentagon.”

The caution lights lining the edge of the platform ahead began to blink. As the commuters began to queue up, a beam of light from the Metro stabbed out of the tunnel.

Six Special Forces troops burst onto the platform and fanned out, parting the sea of commuters into waves of panic and confusion. Their commanding officer, Lt. Matt Omar, was once an Azerbaijani national in Baku, trained by the CIA and Oklahoma National Guard to fight terrorists, before Wanda Randolph of the U.S. Capitol Police brought him stateside and helped him become an American citizen. She had argued that anyone already putting his life on the line for America deserved it.

“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.

T
he 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.”

I
nside 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.

T
he 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.”

“Negative, sir,” the voice on speaker said at the same moment Wilson walked into the conference room with another EAM printout. If Marshall didn’t know better, he could have sworn the impenetrable soldier’s lower lip was now quivering.

“This just came in, sir.”

Marshall scanned the EAM. Twice. Then he looked up at the big screen and broke the news to Block and Carver. “Central Locator says the SecDef swiped his card at the White House just before the blast. He died with the president.”

Block looked stunned. “Then who is the designated presidential successor?”

Marshall had trouble forming the words.

“The Secretary of Education,” he said. “Deborah Sachs.”

“Deborah Sachs?” Carver repeated, the look of dismay on his face rivaling that of Block’s. “Are you sure?”

“Central Locator says so,” Marshall said. “As of right now, if she’s alive, she’s our new Commander-in-Chief.”

“Deborah Sachs sure as hell ain’t my Commander-in-Chief,” Block said. “Who else have you got?”

Marshall frowned and glanced at Carver on the split screen.

“This isn’t a football game, Block,” Carver said, quickly getting a hold of himself. “We can’t simply sub any quarterback we like from our roster.”

“You kidding me?” Block shot back. “This is the goddamn Armageddon Bowl, and Team USA needs to field her best quarterback.” Block glared out of the screen at Marshall. “Now, son, who else have we got?”

“We have Percy Carson, the Secretary of Homeland Security,” Marshall said, playing along with Block as he tried to figure this nightmare out. “He was in Chicago to face election fraud charges from his stint as senator. The president wanted him out of sight for his State of the Union.”

“Good enough for me,” Block said. “And a hell of a lot more qualified than Sachs.”

Marshall said, “Only problem is that presidential succession goes in the order in which the Cabinet offices were created. And Homeland Security was created after Education.”

“Then what about the Speaker of the House, somebody, anybody. How do we know for sure they’re all dead?”

“Central Locator says so,” Marshall said. “Even if it’s wrong, FEMA rules state that if a higher-ranking successor has survived, he cannot retrieve the office from the sworn successor. Once Sachs is sworn in, she’s Commander-in-Chief.”

Block said, “Then we have to see to it that she’s not sworn in until we’ve got somebody better to present to America’s people and enemies.”

“Careful, boys,” Carver warned with unmistakable firmness. “The Constitution trumps any poApocalypse game scenarios. Report back in two minutes.”

Carver disappeared from view, leaving a fuming Block on the screen.

Marshall said, “You have a problem with the plan, sir?”

“You tell me, Marshall. How does Sachs compute into all your scenarios?”

“She doesn’t, sir.”

“What the hell does that mean, son?” Block demanded. “You see, unlike you, I’m an old fart who has no plans to run for office, or not run for office, whatever the hell dance you and the president had going on. So I can say whatever the hell I goddamn please.”

Marshall bristled at the condescension and looked down at his screen. “Psych profile says she’s a reformer. The teachers unions hate her. Her husband died in the 9-11 attacks. Went down with the North Tower of the World Trade Center.”

Block said, “You saying she might surprise us and prove tougher on the enemy?”

“I’m saying if Sachs is appointed, she’s going to play by the book,” Marshall said. “And our playbook is pretty clear. Regardless of who’s the president, he or she has only a limited set of response options to choose from. In other words, she’s not a factor.”

“Not a factor?” Block said in disbelief. “Hell, Marshall. The sight of her alone is going to inspire the chinks to unload everything they’ve got at us. So don’t give me this bullshit that she’s not a factor. You better goddamn believe she’s a factor. Figure out how.”

Marshall crumpled the communiqué in his hand. “Yes, sir.”

“God help us if she’s still alive, Marshall.”

“T
he federal government can’t do everything,” Sachs said from the podium in the gymnasium. The floor-to-ceiling windows behind her framed the school’s wintry track and field. “But it can do something.”

The bored eyes of the students and faculty began to glaze over. Sachs could see Jennifer slump even lower in her folding chair.

So much for the lecture circuit.

“Please tell me there’s more to the United States of America than a libertarian philosophy of no government, no shared values, no community and the notion that the only moral authority for each of us is ourselves.”

That seemed to perk them up, ironically, because the students and faculty stirred.

“That’s not a country,” she continued with more feeling. “That’s chaos.”

But all eyes were looking over her shoulder. She turned and blinked as two military Black Hawk choppers with side-mounted machine guns landed on the school green and soldiers in field uniforms jumped out.

Suddenly there was a crash from the opposite side of the gym. A dozen men in dark overcoats and sunglasses burst through the doors into the gymnasium.

Some kid yelled, “It’s Rambo!” as the men rushed past Jennifer to get to the podium. The look on Jennifer’s face said, “You really did it now, Mom.”

The leader of the detail halted in front of Sachs. “Secret Service, ma’am. I’m Special Agent Raghav. You are Deborah Sachs?”

“And you are?”

“Special Agent Curtis Raghav. Secret Service. May I see your authentication card?”

Sachs rummaged through her purse and presented her card to Special Agent Raghav.

He looked back and forth at her like a passport inspector at Dulles International Airport, like she was on the terrorist watch list. Then, showing no emotion, he returned the card and nodded to the others. The agents closed ranks in a circle around her. “Please come with us.”

Sachs didn’t budge. “Where?”

“A secure location, ma’am.”

“I’m not leaving my daughter.” She looked over at Jennifer, who took a few steps back into the crowd, trying to disappear.