three KH-11 photographic and two KH-12 “Lacrosse” radar-imaging satellites in orbit. At 00:26:46 Zulu Time, one of the -11s came within optical range of Denver. All of its cameras zoomed in on the city, especially its southern suburbs. The images were downlinked in real-time to Fort Belvoir, Virginia, and sent from there to NPIC by fiber- optic cable. At NPIC, they were recorded in two-inch videotape. Analysis started immediately.
This aircraft was a DC-10. Qati and Ghosn again availed themselves of first-class seating, pleased and amazed at their good luck. The word had gotten out only minutes before the flight was called. As soon as the report had gone out on the Reuters wire, it had been inevitable. AP and UPI had instantly picked it up, and all television stations subscribed to the wire services. Surprised that the networks had not yet put out their own special bulletins, the local affiliates ran with it anyway. The one thing about it that had surprised Qati was the silence. As the word spread like a wave through the terminal building, what lay behind it was not shouting and panic, but an eerie silence that allowed one to hear the flight calls and other background noises normally submerged by the cacophony of voices in such public areas. So the Americans faced tragedy and death, the Commander thought. The lack of passion surprised him.
It was soon behind him in any case. The DC-10 accelerated down the runway and lifted off. A few minutes later, it was over international waters, heading towards a neutral country and safety. One more connection, both men thought in a silence of their own. One more connection, and they would disappear completely. Who would have expected such luck?
“The infra-red emissions are remarkable,” the photo-analyst thought aloud. It was his first nuclear detonation. “I have damage and secondary fires up to a mile from the stadium. Not much of the stadium itself. Too much smoke and IR interference. Next pass, if we're lucky, we ought to have some visible-light imagery.”
“What can you tell us about casualty count?” Ryan asked.
“What I have is inconclusive. Mainly the visible-light shots show smoke that's obscuring everything. Infra-red levels are very impressive. Lots of fires immediately around the stadium itself. Cars, I guess, gas tanks cooking off.”
Jack turned to the senior Science and Technology officer. “Who do we have up in the photo section?”
“Nobody,” S&T replied. “Weekend, remember? We let NPIC handle weekend work unless we expect something hot.”
“Who's the best guy?”
“Andy Davis, but he lives in Manassas. He'll never make it in.”
“Goddamn it.” Ryan picked up the phone again. “Send us the best ten photos you have,” he told NPIC.
“You'll have them in two or three minutes.”
“How about someone to evaluate the bomb effects?”
“I can do that,” S&T said. “Ex-Air Force. I Used to work intel for SAC.”
“Run with it.”
The nine Abrams tanks had by now accounted for nearly thirty of the Russian T-8os. The Soviets had pulled south to find cover of their own. Their return fire had killed three more of the M1A1s, but now the odds were a lot more even. The captain commanding the tank detachment sent his Bradleys east to conduct reconnaissance. As with their first dash, there were people watching them, but for the most part they did this from windows now unlit. The street lights worried one Bradley commander, who took a rifle and began shooting them out, to the horror of Berliners who had the courage to watch.
“Was nun?” Keitel asked. What now?
“Now we get the devil away from here and disappear. Our work is done,” Bock replied, turning the wheel to the left. A northerly escape route seemed best. They'd dump the car and truck, change their clothes, and vanish. They might even survive all this, Bock thought. Wouldn't that be something? But his main thought was that he'd avenged his Petra. It had been the Americans and Russians who'd brought her death about. Germans had only been the pawns of the great players, and the great players were paying now, Bock told himself, were paying now and would pay more. Revenge wasn't so cold a dish after all, was it?
“Russian staff car,” the gunner said, “and a GAZ truck.”
“Chain gun.” The track commander took his time identifying the inbound targets. “Wait.”
“I love killin' officers… ” The gunner centered the sight for his 25mm cannon. “On target, Sarge.”
For all his experience as a terrorist, Bock was not a soldier. He took the dark, square shape two blocks away for a large truck. His plan had worked. The American alert, so perfectly timed, could only mean that Qati and Ghosn had done their job exactly as he'd envisioned five months earlier. His eyes shifted as he saw what looked like a flashbulb and a streak of light that went over his head.
“Fire, hose 'em!”
The gunner had his selector switch on rapid fire. The 25-millimeter chain gun was wonderfully accurate, and the tracers allowed you to walk fire right into the target. The first long burst hit the truck. There might be armed soldiers in the truck, he reasoned. The initial rounds went into the engine block, shattering it into fragments, then, as the vehicle surged forward, the next burst swept through the cab and cargo area. The truck collapsed on two flattened front tires and ground to a halt, the wheel rims digging grooves in the asphalt. By that time, the gunner had shifted fire and put a short burst through the staff car. This target merely lost control and slammed into a parked BMW. Just to make sure, the gunner hit the car again, and then the truck. Someone actually got out of the truck, probably wounded already from the way he moved. Two more 25 mm rounds fixed that.
The track commander moved immediately. One does not linger where one has killed. Two minutes later, they found another surveillance spot. Police cars were racing down the streets, their blue lights flashing. One of them stopped a few hundred meters from the Bradley, backed up and raced off, the track commander saw. Well, he'd always known German cops were smart.
Five minutes after the Bradley departed for another block, the first Berliner, an exceedingly courageous physician, came out his front door and went to the staff car. Both men were dead, each torso ripped to shreds by the cannon shells, though both faces were intact except for the splashed blood. The truck was an even greater mess. One of the men there might have survived for a few minutes, but by the time the doctor got there, it was far too late. He found it odd that they all wore Russian officers' uniforms. Not knowing what else to do, he called the police. Only later did he realize how disproportionate his understanding of the events outside his home had been.
“They weren't kidding about the infra-red signature. This must have been some bomb,” the S&T guy observed. “Damage is a little funny, though… hmph.”
“What do you mean, Ted?” Ryan asked.
“I mean the ground damage ought to be worse than this… must be shadows and reflections.” He looked up. “Sorry. Shock waves don't go through things — like a hill, I mean. There must have been reflections and shadows here, that's all. These houses here ought not to be there anymore.”
“I still don't know what you mean,” Ryan said.
“There are always anomalies in cases like this. I'll get back to you when I have this figured out, okay?” Ted Ayres asked.
Walter Hoskins sat in his office because he didn't know what else to do, and as most senior man present, he had to answer the phones. All he needed to do was turn to see what the stadium was. The pall of smoke was only five miles away through his windows, one of which was cracked. Part of him wondered if he should send a team down there, but he had no such orders. He turned his chair to look that way again, amazed that the window was almost intact. After all, it was supposed to have been a nuclear bomb, and it was only five miles. The remains of the cloud were now over the front range of the Rockies, still intact enough that you could tell what it had been, and behind it like a wake was another black plume of fires from the bomb area. The destruction must be…
