Plan of Attack

could barely hear the sound. He wondered how far….

And then the silence was shattered by an incredibly deafening roar, and a tongue of flame seemed to erupt right in front of his face. It was the last Kh-90 missile: Yuri Borodev had managed to keep the stricken bomber straight enough for the missile to finish its countdown.

Leborov pulled a parachute riser so he could turn around — and then he saw the missile streaking away into the night sky, followed by a stream of fire arcing off to the right. It was the Tupolev-95, its leftmost engine burning fiercely. As he drifted down in his parachute, he saw the fire completely consume, then burn apart, the left wing. Leborov scanned the underside of the fuselage in the glow of the fire, hoping he could catch a glimpse of his copilot sliding out of the hatch. But soon the bomber spiraled into the darkness and crashed into the tundra below, and Leborov never saw if Borodev exited.

He hit the hard, half-frozen ground a few moments later, in the typical aircrew member’s parachute-landing fall — feet, butt, and head. Dazed, Leborov just lay on his back, not daring to move. The still-billowing parachute tugged at his harness, asking to be released, but he ignored it. If the parachute dragged him, he didn’t much care right now.

As he lay there trying to recover his senses, he saw them — streaks of fire across the clear night sky. His teammates had done it — one by one they were launching their missiles, too. He lost count after fifteen, but they kept on coming. He blinked every time a sonic boom rolled across him, but it was a happy sound.

The sound of success.

Cheyenne Mountain Operations Center

That same time

Tell Village to launch every plane they’ve got to their patrol orbits now,” Joanna Kearsage said. “Armed or unarmed, get them up in the air before they get their asses blown away. Order Ferry and Argus to get their alert planes up into their patrols as well, and tell Vigil and Feast to disperse all available aircraft.” Those were the other air-defense units in central Canada and the western United States — she needed to get as many planes into the sky as she could to deal with the bombers attacking Alaska.

“Warning, MWC detects multiple strategic events via DSP three in central Canada,” the Missile Warning Center’s senior controller reported. “MWC determines the events are hostile. This is not a drill. We confirm, repeat confirm, multiple missile launches. Track and impact estimations in progress.”

Joanna Kearsage nearly catapulted out of her seat as she saw the numerous lines beginning to appear over the map of Canada. Swearing softly to herself, she lifted a clear plastic cover on a button on her console and pressed it, waiting for it to turn from red to green. When it did — signifying that everyone on the NORAD Aerospace Reporting System network was online — she said, “Warning, warning, warning, this is Anchor with a Flash Top Secret PINNACLE FRONT BURNER report. Missile Warning Center has detected numerous events over central Canada and is resolving track and impact predictions. This is not a drill. All stations stand by.”

It was her second warning in just the past few minutes — the first being the attacks in Alaska by bombers carrying cruise missiles. This was no rogue or terrorist action — this was an all-out attack on the United States ofAmerica!

“Triple-C, ADOC, Village reports fighters have engaged multiple Russian bomber aircraft, Tupolev-95 Bear-H bombers,” the senior controller of the Air Defense Operations Center cut in. “The bombers are launching small missiles from their bomb bays and have apparently shot down the AWACS—”

“They what?”

“—and the Bear bombers have also launched larger missiles from wing pylons. Each Bear seems to have two very large wing missiles and an unknown number of the smaller missiles in its bomb bays.”

“How many Bear bombers, ADOC?”

“They’ve counted over a dozen so far, Triple-C, and there may be many more,” the ADOC controller replied. “They’ve shot down three so far. There’s only two CF-18 Hornets up there, and without the AWACS they don’t have a complete picture.”

Kearsage keyed the Aerospace Reporting System button again: “Warning, warning, warning, all stations, NORAD air forces have engaged multiple Russian bomber aircraft, position near Great Bear Lake in Alberta, Canada. Enemy aircraft have been observed launching multiple hypersonic attack missiles. All NORAD regions are being ordered to launch alert aircraft to their assigned patrol orbits and to launch all other flyable aircraft to dispersal or survival anchors immediately.”

The phone lights started blinking, but all Kearsage could see were the growing track lines of missiles speeding south toward the United States. She flipped open her codebook to the next section and started to compose a new missile-track report, working as quickly as she could: “Warning, warning, warning, all stations, Missile Warning Center issues the following special hostile track report Sierra-Bravo-seven. AWACS issues Flash special hostile track report Tango-Alpha-one-three, stand by for—”

And then she stopped. Because now the computers were issuing their predictions for missile impacts. Her mouth dropped open in surprise. The codebook forgotten, she pressed the ARS button and spoke, “All units, this is Anchor, inbound track reports…missile targets — Oh, my God, we’re under attack! America is under attack. For God’s sake, America is under attack!”

6

Kansas City, Missouri

That same time

The chief of the Presidential Protection Detail of the Secret Service didn’t call first before rushing into the president’s hotel suite, but he wasn’t surprised to see President Thomas Thorn hurriedly putting on his trousers in the sitting area. The president had always exhibited a weird second-sight ability to anticipate events before they happened. “What’s happened, Mark?” the president asked.

“NMCC called a ‘campfire,’ sir,” the PPD chief said, his voice wavering in terror. The president’s mouth dropped open in surprise, and he was going to ask the PPD chief to repeat, but one look at the man’s face told him that he’d indeed heard the right code word — the one for an “enemy nuclear attack on the United States under way”—and that this was no exercise. In moments the president was dressed for quick travel, wearing his dark brown leather flying jacket over a white shirt, a dark blue Air Force One ball cap, dark gray business slacks, and thick-soled casual shoes.

“Let’s get moving, gents,” the president said, and he rushed past the astonished agents and out into the hallway, toward the staircase. Members of the Secret Service were trained to physically take control of their charges in the process of evacuation — usually the evacuees were too confused, sleepy, or scared to know which way to go, and they never moved fast enough to suit the PPD — but Thorn, an ex — U.S. Army Green Beret, was moving so quickly that the agents couldn’t get a grasp on his arms.

Inside the armored limousine, Thorn met up with the U.S. Navy officer who carried the “football,” the briefcase containing coded documents and communications equipment that would allow him to issue orders to America’s nuclear forces anywhere in the world. “Marine One is ready to fly, sir,” the chief PPD officer said as they peeled out of the hotel entryway, surrounded by police cars and flanked by Secret Service armored Suburbans. “We’ll be at Union Station pickup point in three minutes.” He listened to the reports through his earpiece. “Your staffers are asking us to return to pick them up.”

“Negative. Let’s roll,” the president said. He obviously did not want to wait for anyone — which suited the PPD just fine. The chief made a report on his secure cell phone, then handed it to the president. “This is Seance,” he responded, using his personal call sign. “Go ahead.”

“Thank God you’re all right, Mr. President,” came Vice President Lester Busick’s voice. When he was excited, Busick’s thick South Florida drawl became obvious, almost indecipherable. “Are you okay?”

“Fine, Les. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know yet. The Secret Service blew the whistle, and I’ve been on the move ever since,” Busick replied. “I thought those bastards were going to rip my arms off carrying me out of the residence. I do know we’re on our way to Andrews, not High Point. I think I’m going airborne.”

“Who’s with you?”