around a huge T-shaped table concentrated on their built-in consoles linking them to American forces worldwide. Six huge color display screens flashed world maps, charts, satellite overheads and troop concentrations.
Chairman Sherman and the rest of the Joint Chiefs stood on a platform perched above the battle staff. On speaker was the President.
“MrPresident,” the Chairman said, “we can confirm that the uranium traces found near Union Station came from an old Soviet-era SS-20 nuclear missile, the last of which was allegedly eliminated under the INF Treaty at the Kapustin Yar Missile Test Complex on May 12, l991. The Russian president claims the warheads must have been stolen around the same time as those 100 suitcase nukes we’ve been tracking the past 20 years. The difference is this warhead is more powerful, with a yield of 150 KIT.”
“Meaning what?” the president demanded on speaker. “Give me a damage projection so we can prep out-of- area first-responders to mobilize now in case this thing really goes off.”
Sherman hated thinking about the unthinkable, especially since he probably wasn’t going to be around to assess the accuracy of his estimate. But the president was right about mobilizing out-of-area FEMA help, even if this only shaved a minute off their response time.
“Within the first second of detonation, Mr. President, the shock wave will destroy even our most heavily reinforced steel and concrete buildings within a half-mile radius,” Sherman reported from the graphics on screen. “These buildings will include the Pentagon. Nothing inside this ring will be recognizable.”
There was a pause on the president’s end of the line, and then, “Casualites?”
Sherman said, “The thermal pulse will instantly kill those in the direct line of sight of the blast. Those indoors will be shielded from the thermal effect but die as buildings collapse. The real issue will be the fireball that erupts and wind shifts so far as casualties are concerned. Too early to talk hard numbers. But we caught a break with the snow keeping thousands of federal employees at home today. Our best guess is less than 4,000. Not nearly as bad as it might be, but more than 9/11. It’s the symbolism that we’ll ultimately have to deal with. We’re preparing a military response.”
“Response to whom?” Rhinehart demanded. “The Russians? The Chinese? We don’t even know whom we’re fighting. If we’re fighting.”
Sherman said, “Whoever it is gave us no time to negotiate.”
“Agreed,” said Rhinehart. “So why warn us at all?”
“Good question, sir.” Sherman looked up at a clock — one of three — on a nearby wall. “A five-minute warning means the nuke would go off at 11:49 a.m.,” he said, thinking out loud for his staffers. “Why not noon exactly?”
“The blue line, General!” An aide ran up waving a Metro schedule. “The Metro stops at the Pentagon subway platform at 11:49. The nuke is coming in on the train.”
Sherman grabbed the card and stared at it. There it was. 11:49 a.m. The Pentagon. Sherman checked the clock on the wall. 11:48. His stomach sank. Christ Almighty, it just felt right.
“The bastards are using D.C.’s own transportation system to deliver their destruction — just like the jets on 9/11 and the anthrax mail on Capitol Hill,” Sherman said, and started barking new orders. “Tell Metro to stop all trains, and get a strike team down there now!”
Sherman turned back to the secure speaker phone to the White House bunker. “Mr. President, we may have made a grave error. The nuke may not have been off-loaded from a Metro train; it may have been on-loaded. We believe that the Pentagon is the primary target, and it will be an underground detonation. That will se us wind shift factoring, but the Metro tunnels will direct the fallout to all nearby stops, including the U.S. Capitol.”
He hung up as a quiet sort of pandemonium filled the emergency briefing chamber during the next minute. No shouting. No shoving. Just an urgent, desperate scramble at the consoles. Nobody was heading for the exits.
“General!” His aide tried to pull him away. “You should get to the bunker!”
“If there’s a nuke on that train,” said Sherman, “those bunker walls might as well be wax paper.”
“What else can we do, sir?”
Sherman held up one finger and picked up the phone. “Get me the National Archives.”
9
More than 200 students from the Presidential Classroom for Young Americans crowded beneath the rotunda around the gold display showcasing the U.S. Constitution. Their teacher read from the archives literature.
“Every night at closing time the documents are lowered into a fifty-ton vault designed to protect them from fire, shock, heat, water and nuclear explosion,” Mrs. Chan recited. “The vault was dedicated in 1952 by President Harry Truman, who called it ‘as safe from destruction as anything that the wit of modern man can devise.’”
Suddenly, from down the corridor came a shout.
“Away from the glass!”
Sergeant Wanda Randolph, head of the Capitol Police’s special reconn and tactics or RATS squad that patrolled the underground tunnels the U.S. Capitol Complex, sprinted across the rotunda’s marble floor, waving her 50 caliber sniper rifle at the screaming, fleeing kids.
She tried to radio her man at the Pentagon as she ran, “Omar!”
“We’re on it, boss,” Omar’s voice crackled in her earpiece. “Get yourself some cover!”
“I got a hole to crawl into,” she said. “Just one more thing.”
Using whatever speed was left from her days as a track star at Howard University, Randolph ran the race of her life toward the display, knocking over two kids.
“Hey!” Mrs. Chan yelled.
Randolph hurdled three kids crouched in front of the display in one jump. She unlocked a switch and breathlessly watched the display case sink into the floor and drop hundreds of feet down its shaft.
10
Colonel Kozlowski and Captain Linda Li jogged across the tarmac to the awaiting Advanced Airborne Command Post. Unlike the tamer, civilian Air Force One, the militarized E-4B jumbo jet, code-named Nightwatch, was built to soar over mushroom clouds.
“I was worried we were going to have to take off without you, sir,” Li said.
“You saved my lifeKozlowski told his diminutive communications officer. “Again.”
Li smiled. “Any time, sir.”
Kozlowski had been staring into the barrel of his gun back at the hotel when the call from Li came in. Out of habit he picked up and heard her clear, chipper voice letting him know there had been a roster change. It seemed that General Marshall was logging a shift aboard Looking Glass that morning, and would the colonel mind reporting to base as a Suburban was waiting for him at the hotel entrance. “Unless you have something better to do, sir,” she added.
Kozlowski had looked down at his gun again. He suspected that Brad Marshall was not why she really called. She was always looking out for him, even though he knew she didn’t approve of his off-duty life. Hell, how did she even know he was at the Hay-Adams? He swore she was psychic. She called it the spiritual gift of discernment. But she had aroused his curiosity. Brad Marshall was never one to languish in obscurity, even for eight hours. So Kozlowski had switched on his gun’s safety and told her he’d be right down.
Now he found that he had arrived in the middle of a full-blown Alert One nuclear situation.
“Where’s the President?”
“No time, sir,” Li said.
