Plan of Attack

were unfortunate enough not to make it to the shelters in time. They sustained very serious injuries, I’m afraid —”

“Thanks to you, you son of a bitch!”

“—despite our best efforts to help them, and they told me before they died many details of McLanahan’s attack plan: about our missile silos at Aleysk and Uzhur, our mobile-missile units, even stories about going out and hunting Russian heavy mobile missiles with multiple warheads. Your General McLanahan is certainly an imaginative fellow.”

“If he said you still have illegal weapons in the field, Gryzlov, I’m sure it’s true,” Thorn said.

“We must put an end to this, Thorn,” Gryzlov said. “My analysts suggest that many of McLanahan’s bombers escaped from Yakutsk. Since they have not attacked any of their planned targets yet, and it is just a few hours until daybreak, I think perhaps my analysts are wrong. But if you could verify the whereabouts of all of McLanahan’s forces, I’m sure my commanders will see to it that our nuclear forces and air-defense units stand down, which will obviously relieve the stress on them and will undoubtedly help prevent an accidental launch of—”

“More threats, Gryzlov?” Thomas Thorn asked. “You threaten me with more nuclear attacks unless I give you the exact location and number of our bomber forces? You can go to hell, Gryzlov!”

“If you remain uncooperative, Thorn, I must give my strategic commanders full authority to respond to any threat against the Russian Federation with every weapon at their disposal,” Gryzlov said. “You do not seem to realize how serious this is, Thorn! McLanahan landed an entire bomber wing on a Russian airfield! He killed dozens of troops, captured and imprisoned nearly a thousand men and women, stole millions of rubles’ worth of fuel and weapons, and was responsible for the deaths of all his captives by keeping them in a battle zone — in essence attempting to use them as human shields! — instead of evacuating them to a safer area, as required by the Geneva Conventions. You must do more, much more to assure the Russian people, the Duma, myself, and the chiefs of the general staff that you want peace, not war.”

“I don’t have to give you anything, Gryzlov,” President Thorn said.

“Where is McLanahan?” Gryzlov asked angrily. “Have you had any contact with him?”

“Go to hell.”

“Don’t be stupid, Thorn. Tell me if he is on his way back to the United States. Do something smart for a change, Thorn! At least tell me if you have had contact with him.”

“I promise you, Gryzlov, the United States will be on guard against any other sneak attacks by Russia, and we will deal with them. The next call I get from you had better be an unconditional stand-down of all your military forces.” And Thorn terminated the call.

Gryzlov hung up the receiver and sat back in his seat, a smile spreading across his face. “What a fool,” he muttered. “If the American people are even a tenth as soft as he is, this war will be over very shortly.”

“Sir,” Stepashin said, his voice and visage tense and irritable, “you must address the general staff, the Duma, and the press regarding your actions in Yakutsk.”

“That can wait, Stepashin.”

“There are reports of hundreds of casualties coming in from the city of Yakutsk,” Stepashin said. “The nuclear bursts have damaged or destroyed billions of rubles in oil-distribution and pumping facilities. All communications in and out of the city and the civil airfield have been disrupted by the electromagnetic-pulse effects.”

“Stepashin, I did what I had to do,” Gryzlov said dismissively. “The Americans landed a dozen long-range bombers and over a hundred troops in Yakutsk and were in the process of launching attacks against us. What was I supposed to do — ask Thorn or McLanahan to sit tight on our homeland while we negotiate a cease-fire?”

Stepashin fell silent for a few moments, glancing over at his general-staff officers and receiving concerned, angry glances in return. There was no doubt that the Americans’ staging air raids from Yakutsk was a serious development — but Gryzlov’s using nuclear weapons on Russian soil, killing hundreds or perhaps even thousands of his own people and troops, did not sit well with them at all. Finally he said, “Why did you tell Thorn that we had interrogated American survivors? We have not sent in any troops or medical personnel yet to Yakutsk to see how bad the radiation levels are.”

“Thorn doesn’t know that,” Gryzlov said. “I wanted to hear his reaction when I mentioned the ballistic-missile bases — and he all but confirmed that those were indeed McLanahan’s intended targets.”

“Aren’t we obligated to search for survivors and help anyone that might really be in the shelters?” Stepashin asked.

“And risk the health of our own men by exposing them to radioactivity? Don’t be crazy, General,” Gryzlov said. “Have everyone stay away from Yakutsk and have combat engineers test the air and soil every day or so for radioactivity levels. If any Americans are there, they deserve to die — and if there are any Russian survivors, we will simply tell the world they were executed by the Americans.”

Stepashin looked down at the floor to hide his expression of disgust at the idea that they were simply going to abandon any Russians who might still be alive at Yakutsk.

“Now,” Gryzlov went on, “what more can we expect from the United States in the wake of this episode?”

“Thomas Thorn did not have much of a stomach to fight before — I see no reason to expect he’d be more willing to do so now,” Stepashin replied. “McLanahan was his Doberman pinscher — with him out of the picture, I think he will wait, size up his forces, and then open negotiations or decide how to respond. But he does not have the conventional forces available anymore to hold any strategic targets in Russia at risk. He can certainly hurt us with his sea-launched ballistic missiles, but I do not think he will respond with nuclear weapons, even in an extremely limited manner.”

“I am not concerned about Thorn, but I am worried about McLanahan and what remains of his forces — and with any other Patrick Shane McLanahans out there,” Gryzlov said. He thought for a moment, then said, “And there is still the question of the targets we failed to destroy, especially Cheyenne Mountain, Barksdale, Battle Mountain — and Sacramento, California.

“In case McLanahan surfaces again, Stepashin, he will be naming his own poison,” Gryzlov said. “Just in case one of McLanahan’s bombers does attack any of our ballistic-missile sites, I want Battle Mountain and Sacramento destroyed. Be sure one warhead hits Beale Air Force Base, just so everyone understands that it was the real target — but I want McLanahan’s home town destroyed in punishment. Hopefully, Thorn has the brains to recall him, if he is still alive, but in case he feels like acting the hero again, he and his family will suffer for it.”

At that moment the conference room’s phone rang. Nikolai Stepashin picked it up. Gryzlov was busy tamping down the tobacco on a cigarette and didn’t notice Stepashin’s confused, worried expression until he said in a loud voice, “I authorized no such thing! Get an identification on that aircraft immediately!”

Gryzlov threw the unlit cigarette to the floor. “What is it, General?”

“A large transport plane is circling Yakutsk Air Base,” Stepashin said. “It made a low approach and appeared to try to land but pulled up at the last moment.”

“Is it a combat-engineering team, checking radiation levels?”

“They use helicopters, not large transport planes, sir,” Stepashin said. “Whoever it is, he is not authorized to go anywhere near that base.”

Gryzlov’s shoulders drooped, and he felt his face drain of life. Once again, right when he felt like celebrating, something else had begun to happen….

Yakutsk Air Base

That same time

Not enough room — you’ll have to move that debris,” said the load-master of the MC-17 special-operations transport plane. He pointed out the open rear cargo doors. “That fuel truck and whatever that pile of stuff is there has got to go.”

“Got it,” said Air Force Technical Sergeant James “JD” Daniels, his voice electronically amplified by the communications suite built into his Tin Man battle armor. He and his partner, U.S. Marine Corps Lance Corporal Johnny “Hulk” Morris, stood at the edge of the cargo ramp, one hand on a handhold, the other gripping their electromagnetic rail guns. Both men were stunned to see the carnage below them — buildings flattened, trucks and aircraft tossed around like toys in a young child’s room, and large craters of eerie gray gravel, like cremated remains. There was absolutely nothing left standing aboveground for miles. Daniels nodded to Morris. “Radiation levels are moderate, Hulk — not as bad as we thought.”