Seas of Crisis

to assume that all radio messages now were tricks meant to disable or destroy the ICBMs.

A pair of warhead-bus and missile-system experts were in one silo, to complete an overall inspection making sure there’d been no gross damage done, and to verify that the electronic links to the support base command bunker had indeed been severed by the crewmen as Nyurba asked. Everything looked good on that front, so far. Nyurba hoped, as a result, that all passwords and codes in the launch console software matched those in the missiles and warheads — and that no instructions had been inserted secretly, deep within millions of lines of computer programming, to abort the launches or self-destruct the missiles or de-enable the warheads.

A pair of men, Air Force Special Ops Squadron commandos by original background, were included in each bunker team as explosive ordnance detection-and-disposal experts. The warhead and missile specialists worked closely with them, searching with electronic sniffers, and their eyes, for any range-safety devices that amounted to hidden bombs or incendiaries. Their task was badly complicated by the fact that missiles did include explosive bolts and cords as part of their normal design, to assure separation of each booster stage, and to release the aerodynamic nose cone from over the missile bus — which had its own small liquid-fueled maneuvering rocket. The thermonuclear hydrogen-fusion warhead included high-explosives too, to set off its plutonium implosion-fission trigger.

The two different types of experts were working hard to sanitize the first silo, making slow progress. When done with that, they’d go on to check the second and third silos as well; retractable platforms surrounding the missiles gave them access to maintenance hatches, but there were so many things that needed to be examined thoroughly.

The special ops ordnance men, with surgical precision, had already blown open control-bunker safes whose combinations were unknown to the crews; to prevent an unauthorized launch, the combinations would arrive only with a valid launch order. The Kremlin’s premise was that with eight men in each control bunker crew, one or two who went berserk and tried to use brute force or guile would be stopped by the others — if the regimental command bunker didn’t stop everything first by remote control. And since one part of normal oncoming crew rotation procedures was a close bodily inspection of the new men for explosives, burglar tools, and other improper equipment or materials, what the commandos were about to do could supposedly never be done by regular crews.

Via the intercom system, the major in charge of the efforts in bunker one kept tabs and compared notes with his counterpart in bunker two. A friendly competition had started. So far, bunker two was making slightly faster progress. This was fine by Nyurba. Competition brought better results, and he personally didn’t care which bunker launched the three desired missiles. The winning team, if they survived, could have all the bragging rights they wanted — though permanent security restrictions meant there was no one they could brag to afterward.

The intercom from the blast interlock to the entryway made a warbling noise. Nyurba answered.

“Sir,” an Army Ranger told him over the intercom mike, bypassing the phone talker, “we heard many heavy transport choppers landing a few miles away, out of range of our missiles. We also saw fixed-wing aircraft drop sticks of paratroopers. From the number of chutes, I’m guessing in company strength.” Company strength was a vague term, since many real Russian units were known to be undermanned, but it could mean two hundred paratroopers.

Nyurba looked at his watch. It was more than three hours since the commando’s attack began. The Russians had had enough time to get organized. This military district’s commanding general, or even the Kremlin, might inject new backbone into another, more powerful counterattack.

“Any heavy equipment with the paratroopers?”

“You mean, like field artillery, sir?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.”

“Negative, sir. At least not yet.”

“What about mortars?”

“We haven’t taken mortar rounds yet either, sir.”

“Inform me at once if you do.”

“Understood.”

“Nyurba, out.” He replaced the handset.

The concrete overhang of the entryways should stop direct hits from mortar or artillery shells. But near misses would throw blast and shrapnel, increasing the rate of attrition for Nyurba’s ever-dwindling squadron. His greatest dread was that Russian fighter-bombers might soon reach the scene, as distant as it was from any such bases, and drop napalm.

“Sir,” Major Ildarov called Nyurba, “bunker two wants to speak to you. The guy sounds upset.”

He grabbed the handset. “Nyurba.”

“We missed a range-safety feature.” The man rattled off technical specifications that were gibberish to Nyurba.

“Wait!” he shouted to the technicians around him, repeating the specifications. “They think they did something wrong. Do you understand what those specs mean?”

The major’s people did. Now they knew one thing to not do, or an extra thing they should do… or something like that. Nyurba had to delegate the arcane technical work. But he grasped that this information was valuable. He told his men to keep working, then spoke into the intercom.

“What’s the problem? You seem fine. Calm down.”

“You don’t understand, sir. The engines of all my missiles have ignited inside the silos.”

“What?” Nyurba examined the camera displays. “But the lids are still closed. The exhaust covers haven’t slid open.”

“I know. The heat and pressure are building up inside. Two of my men were trapped, cremated.”

“Jesus…. Okay…. Just stay where you are. You should be all right, with the blast interlocks between you and the silos.”

“What about the men at the entryway?”

Nyurba glanced at the TV displays again. There was still no sign of any trouble from bunker two.

Then movement caught his eye.

The Russians were making a human-wave assault. Four hundred men on foot, six BTR-70s or 80s, and five Mi-24s were attacking all at once. Armored car machine guns, and rockets and cannon on the helicopters, blasted lanes through the minefields for the ground troops.

The troops were through the fence perimeter in overwhelming force. Their concentrated fire drove the teams back from the entryways to all three bunkers.

“I—”

Nyurba didn’t have time to finish. In volcanic eruptions like nothing he’d ever seen before in his life, one after another of bunker two’s SS-27 silo lids blew off.

They’re hardened against attack from the outside, not tremendous overpressure and searing heat within.

Giant flaming chunks of solid missile fuel were flung into the air — each missile contained fifty tons of it. The shock waves from the lid eruptions were so powerful that Nyurba could see them as moving fronts of ghostly condensation spreading out at the speed of sound; he swayed on his feet, then realized it was the bunker that was swaying on its springs.

The shock waves mowed down the Russian troops as if they were blades of grass. Countless chunks of solid fuel, burning at thousands of degrees Fahrenheit, weighing anywhere from a pound to a ton, plunged out of the sky like rain from hell.

They landed everywhere, bright yellow, as blinding as pieces of the sun. Some of the surface cameras failed and their screens went blank. What Nyurba saw on the other screens was enough.

Helicopters were snapped in half in midair. Armored cars tumbled end over end along the ground until they exploded. The dirty yellow fumes from the missile fuel swirled crazily.

“Bunker two, have your outside team take cover!”

“I’ve lost contact, sir. The intercom failed, or the men are all dead. I can’t open the blast door for them anyway now.”

“Stay put. I need to get off.”

The intercom from the vestibule to his own bunker was warbling.