The Seventh Angel

White House, Presidential Emergency Operations Center (Washington, DC):

President Chandler was glad he was sitting, because his knees were so weak that he wasn’t sure he could stand. He glanced around the room at the military and civilian personnel who staffed the PEOC. To outward appearances, they were going about the details of their respective jobs as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. People studied video screens, worked at computer stations, spoke quietly into telephones and communications handsets, wrote on clipboards, and exchanged printouts and folders with the same intense but subdued efficiency they showed on any other day. How did they do that? How could they calmly go about their business when a nuclear missile was screaming toward the United States at twenty-five times the speed of sound?

Was it their training, or some unnatural level of personal discipline? Was it possible that it was all a front? Could they all be faking it, putting on the outward signs of professional detachment when they were really quaking in their boots?

This last idea made sense to him, because that’s exactly what he was doing at the moment. On the outside, he was the leader of the most powerful nation on earth, thoughtful, decisive, and utterly unruffled by the emergency unfolding around them. On the inside, he was one step short of peeing in his pants. He wanted to run around the room, shrieking at the top of his lungs — not that his shaky knees were up to such an energetic task at the moment.

He jerked his gaze to the wall-sized geographic display screen. The image looked so harmless, just a thin red line curving from the Sea of Okhotsk to a point somewhere above the middle of the Pacific Ocean. As he watched, the arc disappeared from the screen for a fraction of a second, and then reappeared — redrawn slightly longer as the missile came closer to the West Coast of his country.

For all of its graphic simplicity, that curving red line represented destruction and death on a scale almost beyond the scope of imagination. In all of history, only two nuclear weapons had been used against human targets. Between them, the bombs codenamed ‘Fat Man’ and ‘Little Boy’ had devastated the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, killing over 150,000 people. Another half million people had died from nuclear radiation over the following five years. The combined yield of those first two atomic bombs had been 36 kilotons: the destructive equivalent of 36,000 tons of conventional explosives.

The missile hurtling through the black reaches of near-earth space carried three warheads, each with a destructive yield of 200 kilotons. Combined, the destructive power of those warheads was more than fifteen times greater than the two most terrible weapons ever turned by man onto his fellow men.

A door opened at the rear of the room and the president glanced over his shoulder to see National Security Advisor Gregory Brenthoven walk into the operations center, followed by a young Marine lieutenant. The lieutenant made a beeline toward the Deputy Watch Officer, and the national security advisor pulled out a chair and seated himself at the briefing table.

The president turned back to the geographic display. The curving red line on the screen flashed again, and grew longer. The unfinished end of the arc continued to edge its way eastward, toward the coast of California.

The carnage at Nagasaki and Hiroshima had been so dire that the leaders of the most powerful nations in the world had, for the first time in history, shied away from using one of the weapons in their collective arsenals. Nuclear bombs and missiles had been built, tested in remote areas, and stockpiled against some unthinkable future. But they’d never again been used against human beings. Not until now…

The president felt a shudder coming on, and he clamped down on his muscles to suppress it. The Commander in Chief of the United States military could not get the shakes during a crisis.

It wasn’t a personal fear thing. At least he could comfort himself with that knowledge. He’d been in life- threatening situations before, and he’d never reacted this way. He didn’t want to die, but he wasn’t terrified by the idea. He knew that it was in him to sacrifice his life, if the circumstances demanded.

This wasn’t about self-preservation, or the safety of his family. That missile couldn’t get anywhere near Washington. From its estimated launch position in the Sea of Okhotsk, the R-29R missile could hit any American city west of Denver. That put Washington, DC about 1,500 miles outside the target zone.

Personal safety wasn’t the issue here. The real danger was in what that missile could trigger.

On the table in front of him lay a heavy ten-ring binder, with anodized aluminum covers and color-coded pages. Its official title was the Single Integrated Operational Plan, or SIOP. It was the strategic blueprint for nuclear war — America’s plan for employing the ultimate Weapons of Mass Destruction.

The binder was open to Section Orange, the pages the color of children’s aspirin. Bold block letters at the top of every page identified this section as “RETALIATORY NUCLEAR STRIKE OPTIONS.”

But the president wasn’t looking at the SIOP. His eyes remained fixed on the geographic display. That harmless looking line of red pixels on the video screen could turn out to be the opening stroke of Armageddon. He might be looking at the first shot of the last war mankind would ever fight. The one Einstein had spoken of as the end of the human species.

The president took a breath and exhaled sharply. “Talk to me, general. Give me the latest.”

General Horace Gilmore, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, looked up from a red and white striped folder of computer hardcopy. He paused for a second, as though marshalling his thoughts.

“Sir, we’re getting the last of the readiness confirmations now. We are at DEFCON 1: full offensive and defensive nuclear readiness. All active missile squadrons are at full alert, and all Minuteman III silos are at launch- standby. The Navy has issued pre-launch warnings to all deployed Trident ballistic missile subs. The Air Force is scrambling B-2 bombers from Whiteman Air Force Base, and B-52s from Minot, and Barksdale.”

The president held up a hand. “Wait a second … We’re already launching bombers?”

The general nodded. “Yes, sir. It’s standard operating procedure.”

The president frowned. “Strategic bombers? Carrying nuclear weapons?”

General Gilmore nodded again. “Affirmative, Mr. President. Standard precautionary deployment.” He glanced down at the computer printouts in the red and white striped folder. “The Vice President and the Secretary of Defense are in route to…”

The president cut him off. “Hold it. Just stop right there. I have not authorized the deployment of nuclear weapons. Who in the hell is launching bombers with nuclear payloads?”

Gregory Brenthoven cleared his throat. “Ah … Mr. President, that’s a standard response. As soon as we confirmed the presence of an inbound nuclear missile, the Commander in Chief, North American Aerospace Defense Command declared an Air Defense Emergency. Precautionary deployment is within the scope of his authority, but that’s as far as he can go without presidential authorization. He can put bombers in the air, but he can’t order them to attack. Only you can do that, sir.”

“That’s correct, sir,” the general said. He pointed to the open binder on the briefing table. “It’s all spelled out in the Single Integrated Operational Plan. CINCNORAD is just ensuring that our strategic bomber wings don’t get caught on the ground when that missile’s warheads start hitting their targets.”

The president paused for a second, and loosened his necktie. “I interrupted your briefing, General. Please continue.”

The general glanced down at the striped folder. “Vice President Wainright and the Secretary of Defense are in route to the Alternate National Military Command and Control Center at Site Romeo. Per your orders, Homeland Security is issuing civil defense warnings to all cities and towns west of Burlington, Colorado. After we know the impact zones for the warheads, Homeland Security will coordinate with FEMA and the National Weather Service to calculate fallout footprints. Then they’ll issue radiation warnings in the affected areas and initiate quarantine protocols if necessary.”

President Chandler nodded, partly in response to what the general had not said. When news of the incoming warheads began to take hold, there would be panic in the western states — assuming that it hadn’t started already. The civil defense warning would advise people to stay off the roads and take shelter