GRU.
“Operations/Watch Center,” a voice answered.
“This is General Kuropatkin at PVO Moscow.”
“I know the reason for your call,” the GRU colonel assured him.
“What is happening at Denver? Is there a nuclear-weapons storage facility, anything like that?”
“No, General. Rocky Mountain Arsenal is near there. That is a storage center for chemical weapons, in the process of being deactivated. It's turning into a depot for the American reserve army — they call it the National Guard — tanks and mechanized equipment. Outside Denver is Rocky Flats. They used to fabricate weapons components there, but—”
“Where exactly?” Kuropatkin asked.
“Northwest of the city. I believe the explosion is in the southern part of Denver, General.”
“Correct. Go on.”
“Rocky Flats is also in the process of deactivation. To the best of our knowledge, there are no more weapons components to be found there.”
“Do they transport weapons through there? I must know something!” The General was finally getting excited.
“I have nothing more to tell you. We're as much in the dark as you. Perhaps KGB has more, but we do not.”
You couldn't shoot a man for honesty, Kuropatkin knew. He switched lines again. Like most professional soldiers, he had little use for spies, but the next call was a necessity.
“State Security, command center,” a male voice said.
“American department, the duty watch officer.”
“Stand by.” There was the usual chirping and clicking, and a female voice answered next. “American desk.”
“This is Lieutenant General Kuropatkin at PVO Moscow Center,” the man said yet again. “I need to know what, if anything, is happening in the Central United States, the city of Denver.”
“Very little, I would imagine. Denver is a major city, and a large administrative center for the American government, the second-largest after Washington, in fact. It is a Sunday evening there, and very little should be happening, at the moment.” Kuropatkin heard pages riffling. “Oh, yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“The final game in the championship-elimination series of American-rules football. It is being played in the new Denver city stadium which, I believe, is an enclosed structure.”
Kuropatkin managed not to curse the woman for that irrelevancy. “I don't need that. Is there any civil unrest, any sort of disturbance or ongoing problem? A weapons-storage facility, a secret base of some sort that I don't know about?”
“General, everything we have on such subjects is available to you. What is the nature of your inquiry?”
“Woman, there has been a nuclear explosion there.”
“In Denver?”
“Yes!”
“Where, exactly?” she asked, cooler than the General was.
“Stand by.” Kuropatkin turned. “I need coordinates on the explosion and I need them now!”
“Thirty-nine degrees forty minutes north latitude, one hundred five degrees six minutes west longitude. Those numbers are approximate,” the lieutenant on the satellite desk added. “Our resolution isn't very good in the infra- red spectrum, General.” Kuropatkin relayed the numbers.
“Wait,” the woman's voice said. “I need to fetch a map.”
Andrey Il'ych Narmonov was asleep. It was now 3:10 in the morning in Moscow. The phone woke him, and an instant later his bedroom door opened. Narmonov nearly panicked at the second event. No one ever entered his bedroom without permission. It was KGB Major Pavel Khrulev, the assistant chief of the president's personal security detail.
“My President, there is an emergency. You must come with me at once.”
“What is the matter, Pasha?”
“There has been a nuclear explosion in America.”
“What-who?”
“That is all I know. We must go at once to the command bunker. The car is waiting. Don't bother getting dressed.” Khrulev tossed him a robe.
Ryan stubbed out his cigarette, still annoyed at the “Technical Difficulty — Please Stand By” sign that was keeping him from watching the game. Goodley came in with a couple cans of Coke. Dinner was already ordered.
“What gives?” Goodley asked.
“Picture went out.” Ryan took his Coke and popped it open.
At SAC Headquarters, a lieutenant colonel at the far left side of the third row of battle-staff seats consulted the TV-controller card. The room had eight TV displays, arranged in two horizontal rows of four. One could call up more than fifty individual displays, and the woman was an intelligence officer whose first instinct was to check the new channels. A quick manipulation of her controller showed that both CNN and its subsidiary CNN Headline News were off the air. She knew that they used different satellite circuits, and that piqued her curiosity, perhaps the most important aspect of intelligence work. The system also allowed access to other cable channels, and she started going through them. HBO was off the air. Showtime was off the air. ESPN was off the air. She checked her directory and concluded that at least four satellites were not functioning. At that point, the colonel got up and walked over to CINC-SAC.
“Sir, there's something very odd here,” she said.
“What's that?” CINC-SAC said without turning.
“At least four commercial satellites appear to be down. That includes a Telstar, an Intelsat, and a Hughes bird. They're all down, sir.”
That notification caused CINC-SAC to turn. “What else can you tell me?”
“Sir, NORAD reports that the explosion was in the Denver metropolitan area, very close to the Skydome where they were playing the Superbowl. SecState and SecDef were both at the game, sir.”
“Christ, you're right,” CINC-SAC realized instantly.
At Andrews Air Force Base, the National Emergency Airborne Command Post — NEACP, pronounced “Kneecap”—was positioned on the ramp with two of its four engines turning, waiting for someone to arrive so that the crew could take off.
Captain Jim Rosselli had barely been on duty for an hour when this nightmare arrived. He sat in the NMCC Crisis Management Room, wishing a flag officer was here. That was not to be. While there had once been a General or Admiral in the National Military Command Center at all times, the thaw between East and West and the downsizing of the Pentagon now meant that a senior officer was always on call, but the day-to-day administrative work was handled by captains and colonels. It could have been worse, Rosselli thought. At least he knew what it was to have lots of nuclear weapons at his disposal.
“What the fuck is going on?” Lieutenant Colonel Richard Barnes asked the wall. He knew that Rosselli didn't know.
“Rocky, can we save that for another time?” Rosselli asked calmly. His voice was dead-level. One might never have known from looking at or listening to the Captain that he was excited, but the former submarine commander's hands were so moist that by rubbing them on his trousers he'd already created a damp spot that their navy-blue color made invisible.
“You got it, Jim.”
“Call General Wilkes, let's get him in here.”
