… not enough. Not enough? What a crazy thought. With nothing else to do, Hoskins lifted the phone and dialed up Washington. “Give me Murray.”
“Yeah, Walt.”
“How busy are you?”
“Not very, as a matter of fact. How is it at your end?”
“We have the TV stations and phones shut down. I hope the President will be there when I have to explain that one to the judge.”
“Walt, this isn't the time—”
“Not why I called.”
“Well, then you want to tell me?”
“I can see it from here, Dan,” Hoskins said, in a voice that was almost dreamy.
“How bad is it?”
“All I see is the smoke, really. The mushroom cloud is over the mountains now, all orange, like. Sunset, it's high enough to catch the sunset, I guess. I can see lots of little fires. They're lighting up the smoke from the stadium area. Dan?”
“Yeah, Walt?” Dan responded. The man seemed to be in shock, Murray thought.
“Something odd.”
“What's that?”
“My windows aren't broken. I'm only five miles from there, and only one of my windows is cracked, even. Odd, isn't it?” Hoskins paused. “I have some stuff here that you said you wanted, pictures and stuff.” Hoskins leafed through the documents that had been set in his In basket. “Marvin Russell sure picked a busy day to die. Anyway, I have the passport stuff you wanted. Important?”
“It can wait.”
“Okay.” Hoskins hung up.
“Walt's losing it, Pat,” Murray observed.
“You blame him?” O'Day asked.
Dan shook his head. “No.”
“If this gets worse…” Pat observed.
“How far out is your family?”
“Not far enough.”
“Five miles,” Murray said quietly.
“What?”
“Walt said that his office is just five miles away, he can see it from there. His windows aren't broken, even.”
“Bullshit,” O'Day replied. “He must really be out of it. Five miles, that's less than nine thousand yards.”
“What do you mean?”
“NORAD said the bomb was a hundred-kiloton range. That'll break windows over a hell of a long distance. Only takes half a pound or so of overpressure to do a window.”
“How do you know?”
“Used to be in the Navy — intelligence, remember? I had to evaluate the damage distances for Russian tactical nukes once. A hundred-kiloton bomb at nine thousand yards won't sink you, but it'll wreck everything topside, scorch paint, start small fires. Bad news, man.”
“Curtains, like?”
“Ought to,” O'Day thought aloud. “Yeah, regular curtains would light up, especially if they're dark ones.”
“Walt's not so far out of it that he'd miss a fire in his office…” Murray lifted his phone to Langley.
“Yeah, what is it, Dan?” Jack said into the speaker.
“What number do you have on the size of the explosion?”
“According to NORAD, one-fifty, maybe two hundred kilotons, size of a big tactical weapon or a small strategic one,” Ryan said. “Why?” On the other side of the table, the S&.T officer looked up from the photos.
“I just talked to my ASAC Denver. He can see the stadium area from his office — five miles, Jack. He's only got one cracked window.”
“Bull,” S&T noted.
“What do you mean?” Ryan asked.
“Five miles, that's eight thousand meters,” Ted Ayres pointed out. “The thermal pulse alone should fry the place, and the shock wave would sure as hell blow a plate-glass window out.”
Murray heard that. “Yeah, that's what a guy here just said. Hey, my guy might be a little out of it — shock, I mean — but he'd notice a fire next to his desk, don't you think?”
“Do we have anything from people on the scene yet?” Jack asked Ayres.
“No, the NEST team is on the way, but the imagery tells us a lot, Jack.”
“Dan, how quick can you get somebody to the scene?” Ryan asked.
“I'll find out.”
“Hoskins.”
“Dan Murray, Walt. Get some people down there fast as you can. You stay put to coordinate.”
“Okay.”
Hoskins gave the proper orders, wondering just how badly he might be endangering his people. Then, with nothing else to do, he looked over the file on his desk. Marvin Russell, he thought, yet another criminal who died of dumb. Drug dealers. Didn't they ever learn?
Roger Durling was grateful when the Kneecap aircraft disengaged from the tanker. The converted 747 had the usual pussycat ride, but not when in close proximity to a KC-10 tanker. It was something only his son enjoyed. Aboard in the conference room were an Air Force brigadier, a Navy captain, a Marine major, and four other field- and staff-grade officers. All the data the President got came to Kneecap automatically, including the Hot Line transcripts.
“You know, what they're saying is okay, but it sure as hell would be nice to know what everyone's thinking.”
“What if this really is a Russian attack?” the General asked.
“Why would they do it?”
“You've heard the chatter between the President and CIA, sir.”
“Yeah, but that Ryan guy's right,” Durling said. “None of this makes any sense.”
“So, who ever said the world had to make sense? What about the contact in the Med and Berlin?”
“Forward-deployed forces. We go on alert, and they go on alert, and they're close to each other, and someone goofs. You know, like Gavrilio Prinzip shooting the Archduke. An accident happens and then things just slide down the chute.”
That's why we have the Hot Line, Mr. Vice President.'
“True,” Durling conceded. “And so far it seems to be working.”
They made the first fifty yards easily, but then it got harder, and soon it went from hard to impossible. Callaghan had a total of fifty firefighters trying to fight their way on, with a hundred more in support. On reflection, he had a continuous water spray over every man and woman. If nothing else, he reasoned, he would wash whatever fallout or dust or whatever the hell was out here off his people and into the sewer drains — that which didn't freeze first, that is. The men in front were coated with ice that made a translucent layer on their turn-out coats.
The biggest problem was the cars. They'd been tossed about like toys, laying on their sides or tops, leaking gasoline that collected into burning puddles that were being supplied faster than they burned off. Callaghan ordered a truck in. One at a time, his men ran cables to the frames of the wrecked cars, and the truck dragged them clear,
