entrance of the tunnel where the company's 60mm mortar section was beginning to go into action. Excited and upset by the sudden attack, Zack urged the sergeant in charge of the mortar section to get a move on and start firing. The sergeant ignored Zack as he continued to direct the men manning the two 60mm mortars. Only when they were ready did the sergeant order his mortars to fire. With his right ear covered by the radio's hand mike, and the index finger of his left hand stuck in his left ear, the sergeant listened for corrections from the 1st Platoon, shouting orders when he got them.
When he heard the sergeant yell to his mortar crews that they were on target and to start pouring it on, Zack relaxed. Standing up, he brushed away the dirt and fragments of cinder block that covered his parka. There was nothing, he thought, that he needed to do at that moment. Turning, he looked down the long tunnel and wondered how his commander and the rest of the company were doing. He was about to begin walking down the tunnel to find out when the earth beneath his feet began to tremble. Believing that the Ukrainians were bringing up tanks, Zack turned away from the tunnel to walk away.
He did not, however, get far, as the ground beneath him seemed to heave up. Not understanding what was happening, Zack turned back toward the tunnel opening and watched in horror as an immense, bright yellow fireball, propelled by a series of low-yield nuclear detonations, was forced up the elevator shaft, through the assembly chamber, and out the access tunnel straight at him.
CHAPTER 3
The casual early-evening business-as-usual attitude that had dominated the operations center of the Air Force's Space Command buried deep inside of Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado Springs, was gone. It had evaporated the instant that data from the DSP East satellite and the Nuclear Detection System sounded the alert that a nuclear detonation had taken place in the Ukraine. If anyone in the facility that night had been able to detach themselves from their duties and step back and watch, they would have noted two things. First, they would have taken great pride in the manner in which the event was handled. The equipment and systems responded without a problem. Information came into the operations center from satellites, remote sensors, and subordinate units where it was electronically routed to the appropriate Air Force men and women of Space Command in timely manner. Staff officers, given that information, analyzed it, made their assessments, and passed those assessments on to their superiors, both inside the Mountain and around the world. Everything, equipment and people, responded as programmed. It would, in fact, have been difficult for the unattached observer to tell the difference between this event and numerous drills conducted if it were not for the oppressive silence.
That silence, not obvious at first, spoke of the seriousness of the situation. For the first time since a bomb called 'Fat Man' had been detonated above Nagasaki, a nuclear device had been set off in anger. Though initial information indicated that it had been only a small device, the size was immaterial. The nice clean surgical strike that the Pentagon briefers likened to the sure, precise prick of a rapier had turned into a radioactive bludgeon.
From his observation booth, the commander of Space Command sat looking down at the legion of staff officers and airmen as they went about their tasks in almost complete silence. Even the atmosphere in the observation booth, where senior officers normally congregated and held lofty discussions on world strategy during drills and training exercises, was heavy with gloom and apprehension. Only the buzz from the phone that provided a direct link with the White House War Room disturbed the ponderous quiet. Everyone in the observation booth watched as their commander, who had been sitting with elbows planted on the desk before him and his face resting between his open hands, sat up and reached out and grabbed the phone. His response was curt, almost plaintive. 'Nolan here.'
As the staff watched their commander, General Nolan visibly straightened up, telling them that he was in all probability talking to the President. It was several seconds, while Nolan listened to the caller, before his response confirmed that assumption. Finally he responded, shaking his head as he did so. 'No, Madam President, there is nothing more that we can do from here at this moment. We have oriented every satellite that we can on the targeted area. It would not, in my opinion, be advisable to divert any additional assets away from their assigned missions. We must continue to monitor other areas of interest to determine what response, if any, the Ukraine, as well as other nations, are taking as a result of this event.'
Nolan's aide found the use of the soft, rather nondescript word 'event' to describe the detonation of a nuclear device rather foolish. Perhaps, he thought, using a softer word would make this disaster easier to deal with. Still he said nothing as he watched his boss nod his head. 'I have been in direct contact with my British and French counterparts. While we all agree that we must be careful not to overreact, I must advise you that both the British and French feel the need to advise their governments that it would be in their own interests to increase their readiness posture.' There was a pause before Nolan answered with a sigh. 'Yes, I do believe the Brits and French spoke to each other before speaking to me. In my opinion, as the senior nuclear powers in Western Europe, they will coordinate their actions on behalf of the European Community.' After another pause, Nolan simply hung up the phone and eased back in his chair, indicating that the President had terminated their conversation.
Nolan's aide watched his commander for a moment before speaking. 'I'm sure, sir, it's times like this that make you wish you were somewhere else.'
Nolan swiveled his chair around to face his aide. 'No, Jack. You're wrong. For us, the worst is over. All we need to do is sit here, watch our scopes, and report what we see. It's the idiots who thought up this operation in Washington that have to explain away this mess and the poor bastards in the Ukraine that have to sort it out that I feel for. And believe me when I tell you, that the radiation from Svalyava won't even begin to compare to the political fallout that our noble administration is going to suck down as a result of this screw-up.' Turning back to face the operations room, Nolan slumped down in his seat and mumbled, 'No, today the Mountain suits me just fine.'
Already at wit's end and nervous as hell, Second Lieutenant Tim Ellerbee all but jumped out of his skin when his platoon sergeant's tank, A34, sitting seventy-five meters to Ellerbee's left, fired. In an instant the stillness of the night was shattered by the ear-splitting crack of A34's 120mm main gun. Ellerbee's eyes flew open as he jerked his head up. Turning toward A34, he was blinded by the muzzle blast of A34's wing man, A33, who also fired. Recoiling from the effects of the sudden commotion, momentary blindness, and temporary disorientation, Ellerbee realized that he had fallen asleep. Despite the bitter cold that cut through his parka, despite the mission to secure the brigade's flank along the Latorica River, and despite his responsibility to cover the work of the engineer platoon as they prepared the highway bridge leading from Chop for demolition, Ellerbee had simply laid his head down on the machine gun mounted in front of his hatch and fallen asleep.
That he had fallen asleep should not have been a surprise. After all, the day before had been a busy one. Final precombat inspections and orders in their assembly area west of Michalovce consumed the entire afternoon. After a hot meal and nightfall, came a long, slow road march and occupation of an attack position just short of the Ukrainian border where final briefings were given and preparations made. With less than two hours of sleep, Ellerbee could have added to the normal apprehensions the emotions that all young soldiers going into battle for the first time experience. That strange feeling, a weird combination of fear of the unknown, apprehension, and impatience, crept into his tired mind every time there was a lull. That, coupled with the responsibilities of being a platoon leader and attached out with his platoon from his parent company to a mechanized infantry company, made for an almost overwhelming combination. At times, only his determination and pride kept him going. He was determined to show the mech infantrymen in the company his platoon was attached to that tankers were naturally superior beings. Just as important to Ellerbee was his male pride. He could not tolerate any sign of weakness, any indication that he was lacking as a man in any way when dealing with the commander of the infantry company to which his platoon was attached.
Such thoughts, however, were not on Ellerbee's mind at that moment as he tried to compose himself and figure out what was happening. Even before his night vision fully returned, he could make out that something on the south side of the river was burning. Twisting his head quickly this way, then that, Ellerbee was able to determine that his platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class Ralph Rourk, had engaged some kind of vehicle on the far side of the river and had destroyed it. As he dropped down in his cupola, the first clear thought that came to mind was the hope that Rourk had not mistakenly engaged one of the engineer vehicles or a Bradley that was covering their work.
