Arc Light (13 page)

He looked up, and as he did Lambert looked from face to face around the table. No one said a word. There was silence, calm, just the gentle whoosh of the air slipping by the giant aircraft and the faint whine of the engines on the wings.

“The commander of my heavy artillery and rocket forces reported that the tactical warheads were fired on time and all achieved acceptable detonations,” Razov said. “I'm waiting now on the call from the RVSN about the Strategic Rocket Force's ICBMs.”

“Finally something goes right,” Mishin said.

“Listen, I tried calling Zorin a while back . . . ” Razov began.

“You did
what?”

“It worries me. He has possession of those communicators, and he knows nothing about our plans to fire at the Chinese. I wanted to brief him on what was happening, but I've been unable to get through to him.”

“We've got assault troops moving into position around the Kremlin and we're cutting Zorin's communications to prevent any tactical warning of the assault,” Mishin said. “I can stop my people and raise him on the special channels if you want. Or we can still go through his liaison officer.”

The duty officer came in and motioned to attract Razov's attention. When Razov looked up and arched his eyebrows, the man said, “Far Eastern RVSN Command is on line three, General Razov.”

“There's my call on the ICBMs,” Razov said.

“What do you want to do about Zorin?”

Razov thought for a second as the red light blinked on his phone. “Never mind. Finish cutting him off in there and proceed with the assault. I'll call to let you know about the ICBM firing.” Razov
punched the button for line three on his phone. “General Razov,” he said.

“This is General Makarin. We had faults showing on two missiles during prelaunch, but we worked around the problems. All of the missiles were fired in the correct phasing by the silos' automatic timers, and initial satellite yield data indicates detonations within acceptable ranges from all aim points.” Makarin then went on to discuss the reserve force.

Razov was distracted by the duty officer again at the door, this time waving a slip of paper to get his attention. “I'm sorry, General Makarin. What did you say?” Razov waved the duty officer over.

“We'll have damage assessment in forty minutes on the 1550 local pass and will advise as to whether a restrike is necessary, which appears highly unlikely at this point.”

The duty officer leaned over and whispered into Razov's ear, “PVO-Strany is on the line. General Mishin says it's urgent.”

I said I'd call!
Razov thought angrily. “Thank you, General Makarin. Keep me informed.”

The duty officer punched the blinking red light on Razov's telephone and the sound of the Klaxon at the air defense headquarters blared from the speaker.

“I thought you told me the Chinese couldn't fire their missiles in time! How could they have fired four?” the President demanded accusingly. Lambert's chin sank to his chest as the full weight of the disaster bore down on him.

“All of our intelligence,” General Thomas said, “indicated that their liquid-fueled rockets required too much time to generate given the tactical warning times that they would have of inbound Russian ICBMs. Even if they were on higher alert because of the war, they wouldn't fuel those missile tanks.”

“Then what the hell happened?” the Secretary of Defense asked.

Thomas shook his head. “The only thing it could be, Mr. Secretary, is that somehow the Chinese got Indications and Warning. Maybe the Europeans—or the Japanese, more likely—screwed up big time and told them.” Thomas turned to the President. “Indications and Warning is distinguished from tactical warning, which is
actually detecting the incoming missiles. I&W is ‘forewarning of enemy actions or—' ” Thomas stopped and stared at the shock registered on Livingston's face. The President's haunted eyes rose slowly to meet Lambert's.

There was a knock on the door. Zorin awoke with a start, wet and chilled with sweat in his uniform. A wave of nausea washed over him instantly. There was another knock. “What?” Zorin shouted. “What is it?”

The door opened, the light causing daggers of pain to shoot into his head. Again it was the captain.

“I told you, you tell Razov I'll talk to him when I damn well please!”

“It's not General Razov, sir, it's American television.”

“What could the Americans possibly be doing?” Zorin asked out loud as an aide translated the CNN special report of B-1B bombers taking off from Dyess and Sawyer air force bases in Texas and Michigan. “Why are they . . . ?” His voice trailed off, the effort of speaking too great despite the lift he was feeling from the amphetamines he had taken to clear his head. The junior officers stood mutely around the long conference table. He would get no counsel from them. He had admitted no one of his age or rank to the inner circle.

Zorin looked down the table at the nuclear code cases and then turned to the captain who was translating the satellite television broadcast. “And you say the government is evacuating Washington?” The translator nodded. “And you're sure about the reports of American bombers?”

“That's what their television reported, sir.”

He looked at the two officers seated at the table. Their nuclear communicators sat darkly in front of them. Zorin stared at the two men, and they stared back. His body craved sleep, but he felt so jittery from the medicine he could not even force himself to sit.
What are they doing?
he thought again as he began to pace up and down the carpeted floor behind the nuclear communicators, like a nervous captain on the bridge of his ship. “What could the Americans
possibly
be up to?” he mumbled, only afterward looking up at the staring
faces of the men in the room and realizing that he had spoken the words aloud. He resumed his pacing, forcing the increasingly frantic thoughts and fears back into their cage with little energy left over for the effort of sorting through the puzzle.

The door burst open. The captain who had awakened him earlier but whose name he had forgotten said, “General Zorin, you've got a call!”
Melnikov,
Zorin remembered.

Razov again. I'd forgotten.
“All right. Yes,” he said, walking to the console set up in the room by their signalmen. “We'll get some answers now. Put General Razov on.”

“It's not General Razov, sir. It's PVO-Strany. Our liaison officer there. He said it was urgent.”

Zorin's eyes widened, and Melnikov pushed a button on the console. The piercing sound of the klaxon filled the room.

“What's going on there?” Zorin demanded as a tingle like electricity shot through his fragile nervous system.

“General Zorin! I don't have much time!” The muffled sound of men shouting and a high, grating whine like that of a drill that intermittently encountered dense obstructions could be heard in the background. “They're trying to cut our communications! There is a missile attack under way, sir! The missiles are headed toward Moscow and will arrive—” The drilling sound groaned deeply and the line was cut with a screech.

“My God! What was that?” Zorin shouted.

His signals officer worked frantically at the communications panel until he finally said, “This line is dead now too, sir.”

Zorin turned to stare at the two officers seated at the table.
Missiles. Missiles headed toward Moscow. An American evacuation. American bombers.
The prickly fingers of fear roamed his body as the realization hit home. “They're crazy,” he mumbled.
How could they make such an insane mistake?
His breathing was rapid and shallow, and he grabbed onto the table as he felt light-headed.
“Goddamn
them!” He shook his head in utter disbelief and then clenched his teeth. Pain spread through his jaw as anger rose from deep within. His blood began to boil, and he had to force his voice to remain level as he stared down at the nuclear communicators.

“Activate those things.”

The two officers began opening the cases.

“Sir?” Captain Melnikov asked urgently. “What're you doing?”

“We are under attack!” Zorin yelled, his anger finding a vent at the stupidity of the young officer. “You heard it with your own ears!”

“But . . . but we don't know that,” the impudent junior officer replied. “We don't know what's going on.”

General Zorin stared at the man in disbelief. Never before had he understood so clearly the innate superiority of staff officers over their cousins in the field. “You saw the American television. They've already evacuated their government! Open them!” he shouted to the two men at the table.

“But . . . but why?” Melnikov whined.

“Because they see what's happening!” Zorin snapped, and in being forced to answer the man's question it all became clear. “They somehow know of our seizure of power and that I have these code cases. They know of the fracturing of our command and control system that the seizure temporarily caused. It's their
window!”
he shouted, slamming his hand down on the table. “They intend a decapitation strike—to kill us all here,” he said, straightening up to address the soldiers present in the room, “and then destroy our strategic forces before command and control can be reconstituted.”

The men in the room all stared at Zorin, their faces registering the shock of what was happening, of what was about to happen to them all.

“But surely they know,” young Melnikov mumbled and then looked up at Zorin. “Surely they know we will strike back somehow!”

“Would we?” Zorin asked, and left the question to hang in the air. “After we are gone,” he said, looking at each of the chosen men, “would ‘they'—those who have led us to this point—would they strike back with our few remaining nuclear forces against what would be overwhelming odds? Against an American nuclear arsenal that remains untouched?” Zorin shook his head slowly as the full gravity of what had happened weighed down on him. “Would they have the will?” he mumbled.

The phone rang. Zorin and Melnikov jerked their heads to it, only to see that it was an intercom line. Zorin pressed the lit button. “What is it?”

“General Zorin. There are . . . there are missiles! Missiles are rising up into the air all around the city!”

“Who is this?” Zorin asked.

“Lubyanov. On the roof of the Congress of People's Deputies!”

“Are they SA-10s?” Zorin asked.

“No, sir. I don't know what they are. They have yellow smoke trails, not white! There are more going up now, all over! They're going straight up into the sky to tremendous heights!”

“What are they?” Melnikov asked quietly.

“Antiballistic missiles,” Zorin replied in a stunned monotone as he grabbed the table with both hands.

“There was an enormous explosion in the sky!” Lubyanov screamed through the phone. “A-a-a-ah! It's hot—it's hot on my skin! God!”

“Open the codebooks,” Zorin said, suddenly panicking that he had waited too long. The two officers each tore the sealed folders from the nuclear cases.

“There's another!”
Lubyanov shouted. “There's no sound, but it's a bright flash. You can't look at it directly! And it burns—like sunburn.”

“Hurry!”
Zorin shouted.

“There was another one!” Lubyanov yelled over the phone. “And another! They're all going off!” The tone of Lubyanov's voice attested to the awesomeness of the sight.

“The ABMs are nuclear tipped,” Zorin said to no one in particular as the code books were laid out on the conference table.

“Why is there no sound? No explosion?” Melnikov asked in a low voice, listening over the open intercom.

“They detonate in space, just outside the atmosphere.” Zorin's thoughts raced, his mind still casting about for some other explanation. “Get Razov on the line!” he shouted at the communications officer. “Or PVO-Strany, or Long-Range Aviation, or somebody! Try high-frequency radio.”

Zorin tried to edge past Melnikov to get to the codebooks.

“General, there has to be some mistake!” the young officer pleaded, seizing Zorin by the arm.

Zorin stared at the offending grip, saying nothing and pulling free.

Stepping behind the two men seated at the table, Zorin said quietly, “Gentlemen—comrades—our country is under nuclear attack. I anticipate the worst at any moment, and I expect each of you to do your duty to the end.” Zorin paused, returning the anguished stares of the two officers, who had turned to look back at him. “Now, what is the procedure?”

The officer immediately in front of him replied, “You select an attack profile from the plan book, and we input the release codes into both devices simultaneously. The firing sequences are automatically sent from these communicators by hardened and encoded fiber optic and cellular links to a computer in the basement of the Defense Ministry. The two twelve-digit codes are fed into an algorithm and processed, and if the computer outputs a valid firing order, the computer launches the land-based missiles directly and sends preplanned instructions to the navy and manned bomber bases.” Zorin opened the thick black codebook.

“General Zorin,” Captain Melnikov said, “I'm begging you—please
wait until we have some sort of verification. This is insane! You cannot launch without some sort of verification of the attack!”

The first few pages of the book were general instructions. Zorin grabbed a thick group of pages and opened the book to near its middle. In large block letters at the top of the first page was “ZM01349GZ771.” As the officer in front of the other device found the same page, and his own unique code, in his own book, Zorin read. “Summary: Counterforce Strike Profile. Objective: Reduction of United States strategic nuclear force with minimal collateral damage. Primary Targets: ICBMs—Grand Forks, Malmstrom, Minot, and Warren AFBs; Bombers—Blytheville, Carswell, Dyess, Ellsworth, Fairchild, Grand Forks, Griffis, Loring, March, McConnell, Minot, Sawyer, Whiteman, and Wurtsmith AFBs; Submarines—New London, Bremerton, and Kings Bay naval yards; and Command/Control—Cheyenne and Raven Rock mountains. Secondary Targets: EW System—Beale, Elmendorf, Falcon, Goodfellow, Kaena Point, McChord, Robins, Shemya Island, Thule, and Vandenberg AFBs and Otis ANGB; and Tactical Disruption—air and subsea bursts as specified below. City withholds specified below,
BALLISTIC MISSILE SUBMARINES
,” the boldface type said, “see Special Release Orders specified below.”