Block.
“Yes, sir,” he replied and stepped out onto his balcony overlooking a floor half the size of a football field where SAC officers manned their consoles deep beneath Offutt Air Force Base near Omaha. Display screens told them which bombers were in the air, which were sitting on runways and how long their engines had been running. “I’m on it.”
Carver hung up and picked up the red telephone to the Primary Alerting System. As soon as he did, an alarm warbled and a rotating red beacon flashed.
On the surface, sirens blared as blue trucks rushed pilots to their awaiting bombers and tankers already lined up for a quick escape.
“Alert crews to your stations,” blared the senior controller’s voice over the base speakers. “This is not a drill. Repeat. This is not a drill.”
On the runways, B-2, B-52 and FB-11 bombers and their supporting KC-135 tankers began to blast off in Minimum Interval Take Offs (MITOs), one after another with less than twelve seconds between them, collectively armed with enough nuclear warheads to destroy the world’s 25 largest cities.
15
The Looking Glass plane had reached its 30,000-foot cruising altitude among the thunderclouds when Marshall heard the ominous
“Northern Command confirms a first strike on U.S. soililson said in a trained monotone stripped of all emotion. “The ANMCC says we’ve lost the Pentagon, White House and most of the nation’s elected leadership.”
Marshall read the EAM, his mind racing. Without a star in charge and only a junior grade skeleton staff, the Alternate National Military Command Center at Raven Rock was about as valuable now as a call center in Bangalore, India. That left General Duane Carver at Strategic Command, General Norm Block at Northern Command, and himself aboard Looking Glass as the essential National Command Authority to run the country.
They would be contacting him any second now, Marshall thought, when
Major Tom’s voice came on the speaker from the communications compartment.
“Sir, I’ve got Generals Carver and Block for you in the conference center.”
“I want a launch poll, Major Tom,” he told her as he rose to his feet. “I want to know what assets got off the ground, what assets are on the ground and which ones are in the ground. And I want it waiting for me when I get there in thirty seconds.”
Marshall found the two faces of his last remaining superiors staring from the big screen when he sat down in the conference center: Block, the squat cigar-chomping warrior from the old schools, and Carver, the tall, wiry egghead from the new. Laurel and Hardy in uniform, except Block was white and Carver was black.
“Damage reports, Marshall?”
“Early reports indicate a ground burst,” Marshall said, glancing down at the screen beneath the surface of the table. “One hundred fifty KT. Blast radius three miles. Casualties estimated at about four thousand. Looks like snow kept most nonessential federal workers at home.”
“So we caught a break,” Block said. “That puppy’s bark was worse than its bite.”
“I suppose that’s one way to look at it,” General Carver said dully. “Marshall, the launch poll.”
Marshall glanced down again. The poll had just popped up. It was everything they already knew, but protocol demanded acknowledgment.
“We’ve lost the Commander-in-Chief at the White House and the Joint Chiefs at the National Military Center at the Pentagon. But we still have command posts at Northern Command, Strategic Command and the ANMCC at Raven Rock,” Marshall reported. “We are the National Command Authority now.”
Block looked relieved on screen. “So the actual damage to our ability to fight this war is minimal.”
“I suppose so, sir,” Marshall said. “General Block, you now have operational launch control of U.S. ICBMs in the ground. I’m your back-up here in the Looking Glass air command. General Carver?”
“All my birds are in the air and my sharks are in the water,” he said, referring to U.S. bombers and submarines armed with nuclear warheads. “All awaiting orders, soon as we know whom to strike.”
“I put my chips on yellow,” said Block. “I bet it’s General Zhang and the chinks.”
Marshall could see the slight grimace on Carver’s face at Block’s derogatory remark. But Carver was too smart to be politically correct in a state of war, and Marshall had never seen Carver lose his cool. “From this moment on, everything goes strictly accordour plan per our Post Attack Command Control System,” Carver ordered. “Hell, Marshall, you wrote it. What’s next?”
“The Nightwatch plane from Andrews is circling in the air until the Central Locator selects a designated presidential successor, “ said Marshall and pressed his speakerphone. “Major Tom, patch us through to Edwards. The NCA needs to speak to the new president, President O’Donnell.”
“Negative, sir,” the voice on speaker said at the same moment Wilson walked into the conference room with another EAM printout. If Marshall didn’t know better, he could have sworn the impenetrable soldier’s lower lip was now quivering.
“This just came in, sir.”
Marshall scanned the EAM. Twice. Then he looked up at the big screen and broke the news to Block and Carver. “Central Locator says the SecDef swiped his card at the White House just before the blast. He died with the president.”
Block looked stunned. “Then who is the designated presidential successor?”
Marshall had trouble forming the words.
“The Secretary of Education,” he said. “Deborah Sachs.”
“Deborah Sachs?” Carver repeated, the look of dismay on his face rivaling that of Block’s. “Are you sure?”
“Central Locator says so,” Marshall said. “As of right now, if she’s alive, she’s our new Commander-in- Chief.”
“Deborah Sachs sure as hell ain’t my Commander-in-Chief,” Block said. “Who else have you got?”
Marshall frowned and glanced at Carver on the split screen.
“This isn’t a football game, Block,” Carver said, quickly getting a hold of himself. “We can’t simply sub any quarterback we like from our roster.”
“You kidding me?” Block shot back. “This is the goddamn Armageddon Bowl, and Team USA needs to field her best quarterback.” Block glared out of the screen at Marshall. “Now, son, who else have we got?”
“We have Percy Carson, the Secretary of Homeland Security,” Marshall said, playing along with Block as he tried to figure this nightmare out. “He was in Chicago to face election fraud charges from his stint as senator. The president wanted him out of sight for his State of the Union.”
“Good enough for me,” Block said. “And a hell of a lot more qualified than Sachs.”
Marshall said, “Only problem is that presidential succession goes in the order in which the Cabinet offices were created. And Homeland Security was created after Education.”
“Then what about the Speaker of the House, somebody, anybody. How do we know for sure they’re all dead?”
“Central Locator says so,” Marshall said. “Even if it’s wrong, FEMA rules state that if a higher-ranking successor has survived, he cannot retrieve the office from the sworn successor. Once Sachs is sworn in, she’s Commander-in-Chief.”
Block said, “Then we have to see to it that she’s not sworn in until we’ve got somebody better to present to America’s people and enemies.”
“Careful, boys,” Carver warned with unmistakable firmness. “The Constitution trumps any poApocalypse game scenarios. Report back in two minutes.”
Carver disappeared from view, leaving a fuming Block on the screen.
