Red Hammer 1994 (29 page)

“General Ogden said you want a detailed rundown, sir.” Thomas nodded. The officer used the mouse to rapidly rotate the globe, positioning the United States front and center. A double click zoomed until the continental United States filled the ample screen. He froze the image then popped open a series of menus to query the underlying database. He cocked his head up at Thomas, waiting for directions. Thomas paused to soak up the new view of the world that had unfolded before his eyes.

“Can you expand the view to include Canada and Alaska?”

The officer obliged with an effortless swirl of the mouse. The forty-eight states shrunk to accommodate the expanded landmass. “How’s that, sir?”

“Fine. Start with CONUS-based forces pre-attack.”

The officer triggered hundreds of small icons, which bloomed in bright colors across the map. Bombers sortied or on the ground, ICBMs, submarines in port or near the coast, the entire US arsenal sprang to life in the wink of an eye.

“Overlay C3,” added Thomas.

The previous symbols were joined by almost one hundred others, which marked fixed communications, radar, and satellite control sites and the multitude of command centers, including the dozen or more aircraft.

Thomas pointed to a menu selection permitting a historical replay. “Run the attack at sixty-times normal.” he said, tapping the screen. The first hour of the attack would be reduced to less than sixty seconds. An additional minute would capture the devastating Russian second wave.

In the first twenty seconds, the only movement was bombers and tankers scrambling for their lives. Suddenly red symbols appeared, blotting out targets on the East Coast. Next, the US ICBMs were fired in salvoes from STRATCOM bases. They were countered by hundreds of red icons, which methodically hammered targets across the breadth of the country, moving north to south.

Thomas was stunned by the sheer power of the onslaught. Nearly fifteen hundred weapons had detonated with unimaginable ferocity, yet this was still less than half of the Russians’ arsenal, one-tenth of the peak in the mid 1980s.

Thomas sagged backward in the seat, closing his eyes. His country couldn’t stand any more.

“General?” The young officer had replayed the horror show enough times to be numb.

“Too fast. Slow it down.” The captain obliged. The second go-around left Thomas with a seed of hope. So far only military targets had been hit. Industrial complexes had been spared, as had cities. Collateral damage appeared tolerable. Thomas frowned. The nasty word “relative” had crept into his thought processes, a cold-hearted frame of reference for evaluating human misery.

“Show me Russia.” The globe spun, and the captain clicked the mouse.

Now the Russians were the recipients, pounded with over one thousand US warheads. But the sheer vastness of the former Soviet Union seemed to swallow up the weapons with little discernible effect. Thomas intuitively knew what damage had been done, but the map did show the Russians with impressive numbers of ICBMs in reserve and surviving missile submarines at sea. A sick feeling swept through Thomas. In four minutes, he had seen everything meaningful, all the pie-ces on the board, in space, in the air, on land, and under the sea. The United States was locked in a deadly stalemate, one that threatened to escalate into an unparalleled disaster for the country and the planet.

Alexander leaned over the soldier feverishly tuning the WSC-10 satellite transceiver. The SHF satellite link had collapsed in a heap of static. They struggled to restore comms with NEACP and STRATCOM. Various combinations of antennas, couplers, and crypto devices had failed miserably. A sudden amber synch light on the shoebox-sized transceiver signaled success.

“I’ve got STRATCOM’s mobile headquarters,” cried the youthful comm operator as the first decoded characters clattered across the adjacent daisy-wheel printer. “It’s their call sign; I’m certain, sir.”

“Send them the frequencies for secure voice,” prompted Alexander, handing the operator a message. “Keep trying NEACP.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alexander straightened. “General Bartholomew, if we get NEACP, arrange a conference call.” The heavyset vice chairman acknowledged his request. Alexander signaled Thomas to follow him out into the night.

Thomas stepped from the cramped trailer out into the sticky evening air. Deep breaths momentarily relaxed his tight muscles. The shredded plastic canopy hanging above intensified the humidity. Alexander stood motionless a few feet from Thomas and peered off into the distance.

“Now what am I supposed to do?” he complained bitterly, his hands resting on his hips. He answered himself before Thomas could. “We’ve got to get the chain of command sorted out.”

Thomas lowered his head and stared at the black ground under foot. Interleaving the National Command Authority’s hierarchy with presidential succession was a recipe for disaster. The NCA org chart positioned the secretary of defense right below the president, with power emanating from the secretary of defense directly to the various Commanders-in-Chief of the Unified and Specified Commands. They were the war fighters, not the Joint Chiefs of Staff, whose role was advisory and administrative. The Joint Staff, the equivalent of the general staff in many foreign countries, worked directly for the Chairmen of the Joint Chiefs as their analysis and planning arm. They ensured that the NCA’s orders were transmitted, received, and properly executed by the CINC’s, war or peace, but the words came directly from the lips of the president and his secretary of defense.

The other side of the coin, the constitutionally mandated succession list, following the now-dead vice president, was topped by the speaker of the House, then by the president pro tempore of the Senate. The chance that others farther along the seniority chain—the cabinet secretaries in order of their department’s creation—would receive the call was normally dismissed out of hand. It simply couldn’t happen. Alexander was actually number two after Genser in the cabinet sweep-stakes, with state taking precedence over war, the forerunner of defense.

Thomas bowed his head in dismay. That would be the ultimate irony; Genser giving Alexander marching orders. For the moment, that wasn’t a concern. With the president dead, Alexander alone called the shots until the proper successor took the oath.

Thomas stepped parallel to Alexander and folded his arms across his chest. He too searched the forest. His ghosts were the men and women he knew in Washington proper—soldiers, sailors, airmen, and civilians, now little more than charred dust. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

Alexander looked over at his friend, forlorn and distant. “Do we have a chance of ending this before the entire country is destroyed?

Thomas stared straight ahead, not blinking, his breathing shallow. He was enjoying the irregular tree line; his pale blue eyes delineated each tree’s outline from the black smudge touching the horizon. It was soothing.

“I don’t know, Mr. Secretary, I honestly don’t know.”

Alexander sighed sadly in reply. “What the hell happened? This is the nineties, not the seventies.”

“Mr. Secretary, General McClain’s on the line. But we don’t have NEACP yet.” The voice drifted across the compound to claim Alexander’s conscience. He quickly strode the thirty yards and up the steps, Thomas behind, then grabbed the outstretched handset from Bartholomew. Every pair of eyes was glued on their leader.

“General McClain, this is Secretary Alexander.”

There was a gush of emotion at the other end. “Mr. Secretary, I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re alive.” Alexander leaned against the wall. His voice dropped in tone, the words coming slowly.

“Have you heard about the vice president?”

McClain was silent for a moment. Alexander was ill prepared for his reply. The general’s delivery was steady.

“Yes, sir, we received word directly from NEACP. They had comms with
Air Force Two
before it went down. The battle watch has located the speaker. He’s demanding that his plane be diverted immediately. He’s outraged that he hasn’t been sworn into office yet. Seems the officials escorting him are requiring definitive proof that the president and vice president are dead before they administer the oath of office. He says they’re stalling on purpose. Those were his words. His aides are pushing for him to can all of you. It’s going to be a fucking mess, Mr. Secretary, no doubt about it.”

Alexander’s shoulders sagged visibly. He slumped into a nearby folding chair, tapping the phone in the palm of his free hand. Any hope of a smooth transition was crumbling. A bitter political struggle could unravel everything.

An elderly member of the House from the rural Midwest, the speaker ruled the House of Representatives with an iron fist. He had been a member of Congress for so long that people had trouble remembering what he had done previously in life. He had been a critic of the military his entire life, and now he stood on the threshold of being elevated to the presidency. Alexander blanched at the thought.

Alexander chewed on McClain’s heads-up, balancing fact and emotion. CINCSTRAT, like the other senior commanders, had received special attention from the speaker of late, the gentleman taking delight in dismantling significant portions of the US military. The speaker, like others of his ilk, still smarted over the maltreatment during the years of the Reagan fiscal steamroller. Alexander had softened the harshest hatchet blows.

Shoring up his defenses, Alexander accepted the inevitable. Thomas, Bartholomew, and the others huddled around.

“When do you estimate he’ll arrive, General?”

“Hard to say. Best guess is after 0300. He’s scheduled to land short of your location and then be heloed to the camp.”

“Do you have comms with the speaker’s plane?”

“Through NEACP.”

“For some reason we haven’t raised NEACP yet.” Alexander paused. It was time. “The speaker is to be sworn in as president immediately. On my direct order. Pass the word through the battle watch commander on NEACP.”

McClain’s torrent of cursing over the circuit was drowned out by an outburst from Bartholomew. The overweight general lost control.

“You can’t do that, Mr. Secretary!” he shouted. “Our military will collapse. The man has no idea what he’s doing. He’s a fool.”

Alexander stood calmly and faced the angry man. In the dim light, his black eyes burned. “We’ll discuss later what I can and can’t do,” Alexander replied sharply. He put the phone back to his ear.

“General McClain, did you hear me?” he asked rhetorically.

McClain didn’t hesitate this time either. “Our forces will be put at grave risk, Mr. Secretary. You can’t stop something like the SIOP without catastrophic effects. The bombers can’t be recalled at this point, they’d be annihilated. I need time, at least three days.”

Alexander let out a sigh. “General McClain, you’re speculating. What do you propose, that I declare myself president?” he answered sarcastically.

“That’s not what I meant, sir; it’s just the timing.”

Ironically, that had been Alexander’s original thought. But no matter what the strategic value, it was wrong. “I understand your concerns, but pass the order, now.” He added the last word with special emphasis.

Alexander unceremoniously tossed the handset and walked to the back of the trailer. He plopped down on a bench, resting his elbows on his thighs. Bartholomew bore down for another round. He prudently waited until Alexander glanced up before speaking. Thomas was ready to hit the man.

“You can reverse your decision, Mr. Secretary; it isn’t too late,” Bartholomew said, pleading. “We don’t have proof that either the president or the vice president is actually dead. An investigation could be conducted. That’s reasonable under the circumstances.”

A look of disgust spread across Alexander’s face. He shook his head in annoyance and incredulity.

“General, this isn’t the time for legalisms.”

“No, but…”

“General Thomas, what does the NUDET data show?”

“Two detonations over Washington, on the Virginia side of the Potomac.”

“Well, General?”

Bartholomew retreated, muttering under his breath. “The CINCs will be furious; you’re going to have a rebellion on your hands.”

“What?” shouted Alexander, jumping to his feet. He had endured enough. “The CINCs will follow orders, just like you!” Alexander turned and grabbed General Ogden by the sleeve.

“Tell Secretary Genser we’ll meet in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” Ogden quickly left followed by Bartholomew, leaving Alexander and Thomas alone with the communications crew. The clatter of high-speed printers and older teletypes filled the void, increasing in intensity. Slowly, methodically, the isolated mobile command center was connecting to survivors spread over thousands of miles, resurrecting the communications network necessary to pull together the shattered government.

Alexander motioned for Thomas to join him on the aluminum bench. The two sat, not speaking.

“We’ve got to be ready,” Alexander began haltingly. “McClain’s right; so is Bartholomew, but I had no choice.”

Thomas nodded his head in agreement. There was nothing to say.

“I have a duty to present the speaker, I mean president, with a recommended course of action. Then I can offer my resignation.”

“The speaker will be a fool if he accepts it,” Thomas replied.

“The constitution’s clear,” Alexander replied. “Everyone’s creating their own worst-case scenarios. The nation needs a president,” he said with conviction. Alexander rose, pushing off the bench. “Let’s get moving.”

The hastily erected tent provided a welcome respite from the oppressive heat in the cramped trailers. It was large, the size of two mobile homes; olive drab; and supported by thick pine poles posted every six feet. Removable lighting was strung along the sides with orange extension cords, supporting caged, bright white, naked lightbulbs. Wooden folding chairs encircled metal folding tables. Around the perimeter were storage containers and cots waiting to be assembled.

The group was small—the sensitive nature of the discussion precluding all but the most senior officials. Everyone was exhausted. Alexander reached deep to tap into his final wellspring of strength within.