The final alert signal was sent out simultaneously over dozens of circuits. The duplication of channels, their known function, the brevity of the message, and the identical encipherment pattern told the Soviets much, even before the receipted signal was input into their computers. When the single word came out, it was reprinted in the Kremlin command center only seconds later. Golovko took the dispatch off the machine.
“SNAPCOUNT,” he said simply.
“What is that?” President Narmonov asked.
“A code word.” Golovko's mouth went white for a moment. “It's a term from American football, I think. It means the set of numbers used before the — the quarterback takes the ball to begin a play.”
“I don't understand,” Narmonov said.
“Once the Americans had the code word C OCKEDPISTOL to denote complete strategic readiness. The meaning is unambiguous to anyone, yes?” The KGB's Deputy Chairman went on, as though in a dream: “This word, to an American, would mean much the same thing. I can only conclude that—”
“Yes.”
42
ASP AND SWORD
PRESIDENT NARMONOV:
I SEND THIS TO YOU, OR YOUR SUCCESSOR, AS A WARNING.
WE HAVE JUST RECEIVED A REPORT THAT A SOVIET SUBMARINE IS EVEN NOW ATTACKING AN AMERICAN MISSILE SUBMARINE. AN ATTACK ON OUR STRATEGIC ASSETS WILL NOT BE TOLERATED, AND WILL BE INTERPRETED AS THE PRECURSOR TO AN ATTACK AGAINST THE UNITED STATES.
I MUST FURTHER ADVISE YOU THAT OUR STRATEGIC FORCES ARE AT THEIR MAXIMUM STATE OF READINESS. WE ARE PREPARED TO DEFEND OURSELVES.
I F YOU ARE SERIOUS IN YOUR PROTESTATIONS OF INNOCENCE, I URGE YOU TO CEASE ALL AGGRESSIVE ACTS WHILE THERE IS STILL TIME.
“'Successor'? What the hell does that mean?” Narmonov turned away for a moment, then looked at Golovko. “What is happening here? Is Fowler ill? Is he mad, what goes on here? What's this submarine business?” When he finished talking, his mouth remained open like that of a hooked fish. The Soviet President was gulping his breaths now.
“We had a report of a disabled American missile submarine in the Eastern Pacific, and sent a submarine to investigate, but that submarine has no authorization to attack,” the Defense Minister said.
“Are there any circumstances under which our men might do this?”
“None. Without authorization from Moscow, they may act only in self-defense.” The Defense Minister looked away, unable to bear the gaze of his President. He had no wish to speak again, but neither did he have a choice. “I no longer think this is a controllable situation.”
“Mr. President.” It was an Army warrant officer. He opened his briefcase—“the football”—and removed a ring binder. The first divider was bordered in red. Fowler flipped to it. The page read:
SIOP
MAJOR ATTACK OPTION
** SKYFALL **
“So, what the hell is SNAPCOUNT?” Goodley asked.
“That's as high as alerts go, Ben. That means the pistol is cocked and pointed, and you can feel the pressure on the trigger.”
“How the hell did we—”
“Drop it, Ben! However the fuck we got here, we are here.” Ryan stood and started walking around. “We better start thinking very fast, people.”
The Senior Duty officer started: “We have to make Fowler understand—”
“He can't understand,” Goodley said harshly. “He can't understand if he isn't listening.”
“State and Defense are out — they're both dead,” Ryan pointed out.
“Vice President — Kneecap.”
“Very good, Ben… do we have a button for that… yes!” Ryan pushed it.
“Kneecap.”
“This is CIA, DDCI Ryan speaking. I need to talk to the Vice President.”
“Wait one, sir.” It turned out to be a short “one.”
“This is Roger Durling. Hello, Ryan.”
“Hello, Mr. Vice President. We have a problem here,” Jack announced.
“What went wrong? We've been copying the Hot Line messages. They were kinda tense but okay until about twenty minutes ago. What the hell went wrong?”
“Sir, the President is convinced that there has been a coup d'etat in the Soviet Union.”
“What? Whose fault is that?”
“Mine, sir,” Ryan admitted. “I'm the jerk who delivered the information. Please set that aside. The President isn't listening to me.”
Jack was amazed to hear a brief, bitter laugh. “Yeah, Bob doesn't listen to me very much either.”
“Sir, we have to get to him. We now have information that this may have been a terrorist incident.”
“What information is that?” Jack ran it down in about a minute. “That's thin,” Durling observed.
“It may be thin, sir, but it's all we got, and it's a goddamned sight better than anything else we've got in.”
“Okay, stop for a minute. Right now I want your evaluation of the situation.”
“Sir, my best read is that the President is wrong, it is Andrey Il'ych Narmonov over there. It's approaching dawn in Moscow. President Narmonov is suffering from sleep-deprivation, he's just as scared as we are — and from that last message he's wondering if President Fowler is crazy or not. That is a bad combination. We have reports of isolated contact between Soviet and American forces. Christ knows what really happened, but both sides are reading it as aggressive acts. What's really happening is simple chaos — forward-deployed forces bumping, but they're shooting because of alert levels on both sides. It's cascading on itself.”
“Agreed, I agree with all of that. Go on.”
“Somebody has to back down and do it very fast. Sir, you have to talk to the President. He won't even take my calls now. Talbot and Bunker are both dead, and there's nobody else he'll listen to.”
“What about Arnie van Damm?”
“Fuck!” Ryan snarled. How had he forgotten Arnie? “Where is he?”
“I don't know. I can have the Secret Service find out real fast. What about Liz?”
“She's the one who came up with the brilliant idea that Narmonov isn't there.”
“Bitch,” Durling observed. He'd worked so hard and wasted so much political capital to get Charlie Alden into that job. “Okay, I'll try to get through to him. Stand by.”
“Right.”
The Vice President is calling, sir. Line Six.' F
owler punched the button. “Make it fast, Roger.”
“Bob, you need to get this thing back under control.”
“What do you think I've been trying to do!”
Durling was sitting in a high-backed leather chair. He closed his eyes. The tone of the answer said it all.
