Red Hammer 1994 (25 page)

This particular SS-25 warhead detonated a few feet above the top of the Pentagon Metro station, more than seven hundred feet southeast from its designated ground zero or DGZ, the center of the Pentagon courtyard. Within a millisecond, the enormous release of fusion energy vaporized hundreds of thousands of cubic yards of dirt and rock and consumed the massive superstructure of the Pentagon as if it were swallowed whole. The blinding, incandescent fireball, heated to millions of degrees by the release of deadly
X
-rays, transformed the pinkish glow on the horizon into blazing daylight for tens of miles in all directions. The clear night sky enhanced the devastating thermal radiation effects, extending their lethal range far beyond that of hazy or overcast skies. Far below ground, the manned command center sagged and groaned like a wounded beast under the tremendous overpressure. The transmitted shock wave ruptured the main support walls, crushing and burying hundreds on duty under tons of cement slabs and debris. Vital communication links worldwide suddenly went dead, signaling the instantaneous evaporation of the NMCC, and with it, the president of the United States.

The split-second pause was broken by a loud cracking noise heard for tens of miles as the vicious blast wave rolled smoothly outward like a stone thrown in a still pond, traveling at the speed of sound. After the initial scorching flush of ultraviolet rays in the first tenth of a second, the nuclear cloud caught its breath then belched forth the full fury of its thermal energy in the visible and infrared wavelengths in a second horrific thermal pulse lasting several se-conds. Combustible material out to almost two miles was instantly incinerated, long before the arrival of the blast wave or the sound of the detonation. The fireball jerked violently upward, sucking up the weapon debris and dirt, rising at hundreds of feet per second. A close observer would swear the earth was vomiting its molten core. Cooling rapidly, it formed an expanding, reddish-brown nuclear cloud of vaporized material and water vapor, later to be dumped as lethal fallout far downwind from the explosion.

The monstrous detonation dug a crater over 180 feet deep and nearly 750 feet across. It was rimmed with a neat, concentric bank of pulverized ejecta that extended the total disfigurement of the earth to a third of a mile in diameter. The surrounding landscape out to three-quarters of a mile from ground zero was mangled, looking like the surface of the moon.

At one point eight seconds, the blast wave, now traveling at over seven hundred miles per hour, had surged to one mile, exerting twenty pounds per square inch of overpressure and packing unbelievable 490 mile per hour winds. Only 60 percent of the thermal energy had been deposited in those brief two seconds, but any exposed, living organism was cremated by over two hundred calories per centimeter squared, bursting into flames like dry wood long before they would be swept away by the rushing winds. To the east, the Twin Bridges Marriot was obliterated, while to the south the invisible tidal wave of death devastated the Crystal City complex, leaving only twisted steel skeletons amid the flames, smoke, dust, and flying debris. Not a living soul was left.

The shock front rushed inexorably onward, unstoppable by any man-made object. At three seconds, it skimmed over the still surface of the Potomac, boiling the waters, collapsing the near ends of the numerous bridges to the east and twisting the rest into unrecognizable forms. Its ferocity roiled the surface of the Tidal Basin, only superficially scarring the smooth, rounded, Jefferson Memorial, while the boxy Lincoln Memorial to the northeast lay decapitated. To the southeast, the busy Washington national airport was literally blown skyward by hurricane winds with parked airliners popping like firecrackers from detonating fuel, shredded into kindling.

The first prominent federal office buildings, the Department of State, the Federal Reserve, the Bureau of Engraving, survived the vicious onslaught. Their massive granite block construction withstood the attack of eight psi overpressure and 240 mile per hour winds, standing scarred by thermal energy and debris. Their windows had all been blown out, with all interior walls and furnishings torn to pieces and in flames.

At six point five seconds, the deadly destruction extended past two miles. The deluge slackened, unleashing its energy over greater and greater surface areas for each linear increment of travel. Overpressure was a mere five psi, enough to trash residences and light commercial structures and shatter windows and blow unfortunate inhabitants out of tall commercial buildings. Those in the open would become airborne at over thirty feet per second, thrown about like rag dolls, battered and broken. Death would come from impact or by flying debris, if they hadn’t been hideously burned by over 70 kilocalories per square centimeter. Surviving structures provided protection from the ravages of thermal effects, which need uninterrupted line-of-sight to kill. This only meant fewer prompt casualties, but more lingering deaths. The benefit of a ground burst with a reduced destructive radius was offset by the hellish fallout which would curse downwind survivors for weeks.

The shock front traversed the Ellipse and visited the White House, leaving a scene reminiscent from storms, which occasionally pounded the East Coast. Trees were ripped out by their roots, charred, denuded of leaves. Debris covered the grounds, now brown and gray in the rapidly fading light. The majestic house was scorched, pitted and marred, with a few windows curiously intact. It stood defiantly amid smoldering ruin. Vehicles were thrown about on the surrounding streets, some protruded bizarrely from adjacent buildings.

By the time the blast wave reached the Capitol at ten seconds, its wrath had mostly been spent. Overpressure had dropped to less than three psi, winds to one hundred miles per hour. At this range only hapless observers caught in the open or near windows were victims, knocked off their feet, struck by flying glass or scraps of wood, or their exposed skin charred and blistered by twenty kilocalories per square centimeter, twice the amount required to precipitate third-degree burns. Those huddled indoors were temporarily safe, unless victims of the fires that quickly spread from ruptured gas mains. Fuel loading precluded a firestorm or conflagration, as long as the fires could eventually be brought under control. Time would tell.

In the air, the dynamic pressure coupled with two to three psi overpressure was sufficient to swat circling aircraft from the skies, like so many irritating flies. Complete immunity from the death and destruction wouldn’t come until at least four to five miles, where both blast effects were negligible, and the thermal effects were tolerable.

At twenty-five seconds the dreadful ordeal had passed. Total blackness engulfed the Capitol, an eerie stillness broken by scattered muffled cries of agony from amid the ruin. The nuclear storm had extinguished the lights through physical damage and electro-magnetic pulse effects to the power grid. Emergency generators struggled to life in cellars of hospitals and key buildings. Fires were obscured by the dust and smoke, which choked those in the open, and hung like a thick blanket over an area of thirty square miles. Life stopped within a four-mile radius of the blast, broken only by an occasional dazed survivor shuffling to seek aid.

The grisly picture was repeated to the north and the south. Central Rosslyn, hit with between five and eight psi, was annihilated, its modern office buildings covered with sheening silver and copper glass sheets no match for the savage shock front. Twisted ruins lay smoldering; the streets were buried under tens of feet of rubble. Portions of Georgetown and Alexandria suffered similar fates. Older, granite block buildings fared best, some miraculously spared, while the newest structures evaporated before the onslaught.

The attack timing had minimized prompt casualties. Many Washingtonians had fled the city for the holiday, while the rest were home enjoying dinner or a few drinks when the air-raid sirens resonated through the city. The warning had puzzled most, eliciting awkward glances toward the sky from pedestrians and those in autos. A test, they concluded, and a very stupid time for one.

The most horrible casualties occurred in the thousands of cars easily swept off the roadways by the encroaching blast wave. Survivors were few. Following closely were deaths caused by collapsing buildings, falling debris, and the later fires.

In less than three minutes, the huge blackish-gray nuclear cloud towered over the city, its immense mushroom silhouette obscured by the dark. Airborne observers could see only a faint glimmer as the illumination from a new moon reflected off the rapidly expanding cloud. The upper reaches of the nuclear cloud continued to ascend to sixty thousand feet, where it would eventually spread laterally, then slowly dissipate, driven by the upper atmospheric winds. By morning, all traces of the holocaust would be gone.

At 7:58 p.m., a second reentry vehicle silently arched toward the ruins of the city. The weapon detonated six hundred feet to the north of the first. Although the same yield, structural damage was more widespread as weakened buildings collapsed, unable to withstand further punishment. Mercifully, the majority of the survivors had sought immediate shelter. A few unfortunates, probably near death, were dispatched by this second blow to snuff out all life in the nation’s Capitol.

CHAPTER 22

“Let’s get started,” Jackson stated curtly. A submarine wardroom, even on a larger boomer, resembles a mini-storage locker.
Michigan’s
was decorated with a few simple nautical pictures on freshly painted white bulkheads and the mandatory twenty-four-hour wall clock. A two-by-two opening with a stubby stainless-steel ledge provided access to the adjacent galley where mess cooks served four meals per day. The food itself was prepared down in the boat’s mess decks. Overhead were ventilation ducts, pipes of various diameters and colors, and the standard navy shipboard fluorescent lights with the red or white option.

Michigan
’s officers and chiefs were crowded around the small Formica-topped metal table. Others squeezed behind, pancaked against the bulkheads. The boat’s navigator, cradling a roll of nautical charts tucked under his arm, forced the aluminum door open against the mass of humanity. He pushed past the straphangers and laid the key chart directly in front of Jackson and the executive officer. The noisy exhaust blower labored to remove the heat buildup from the sweaty bodies. The only other sound was the breathing of emotionally exhausted men. Perspiration stains marked their dark blue overalls, while those with hair had it matted across their foreheads from the buildup of dried sweat and grease. In all, they looked like shit, sapped by a mixture of anxiety, fatigue, and grief. Eyes were glued on their captain. Jackson knew there weren’t any miracles on the horizon. Not from him anyway.

Their CO carefully read the faces one at a time, formulating a subjective assessment of each man’s condition. He made a couple of mental notes to discuss later with the doctor. Then his thoughts turned inward, struggling to dig deep and tap whatever energy reserves remained, to do the expected. After all, he was the captain, their captain, the one expected to shoulder the crew’s burden with superhuman strength. What a bunch of crap, he groused. The world’s in the shitter, and I’m supposed to pull a miracle out of my ass. A glance from the XO told him it was time to get the show on the road. His number two appeared to be holding up heroically.

Jackson reached out and smoothed the curled edges of the nautical chart, folding it over the table’s edge. Their future, or the next piece that truly mattered, lay before them on the tabletop. It depicted the navigator’s pencil-drawn track all the way from Bangor to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and on to the Pacific. The transit distance appeared overwhelming for a submarine with a bounty on its head. He pressed his finger lightly against the chart and methodically traced the transcribed route, one that he had memorized from numerous transits. His lips moved in silence as he incremented the miles and did time-distance calculations on the fly. Without prompting, the navigator broke into a recitation. He was young, like all the officers aboard, and scared. His voice showed it as he stumbled over the first few words.

“We’re here, Skipper,” the young man said, wiping his brow with his sleeve. “We’ve got fifteen miles to the sound. The depth is anywhere from two hundred to three hundred and fifty feet. The Defense Mapping Agency has told us the soundings may be no good. They say the bottom is cluttered with sunken logs and tree stumps. Plus unchartered sandbars. An attack boat struck one two years ago, right here.”

The lieutenant’s fingers moved northward on the chart. It took him a second to catch his breath. “It’s better once we get by Foulweather Bluff and into the sound. But then it’s twenty miles ’til the strait.” Jackson knew all this but let the navigator go on. It was an essential part of rebuilding his wardroom’s shattered confidence.

“I calculated that at five knots we could easily be here by morning,” he said, pointing at a location five miles beyond Foulweather Bluff. “That’s if we started after dark, 2130 to be safe.”