Red Hammer 1994

The battle watch commander placed his hand on the little-used phone connecting him directly to the National Military Command Center in Washington and to STRATCOM headquarters in Omaha. At higher DEFCONs, he would have accessed the president directly. Today the NMCC had the conn. A quick glance at the screen highlighted the swarm of hostile missiles bearing down on the continental United States, their colored leaders inching across the globe.

“This can’t be happening,” he gasped inwardly. His jaw tightened as he picked up the red phone. Beginning to speak, he stumbled over the words he had repeatedly rehearsed and committed to memory after countless drills in the mountain.

Thomas sat stewing. Another ten minutes and he would ring Alexander again. Thomas had calmed down yet was obsessed with the thought of a Russian military move somewhere around the globe. But where?

Suddenly a series of short, sharp horn blasts echoed throughout the NMCC. The local klaxon had been triggered by NORAD, the distress signal relayed by secure landline. Startled and incredulous, Thomas sprang to his feet and gazed through the thick floor-to-ceiling glass, a shocked expression painted across his face. A knot formed in his stomach. He zeroed in on the watch commander, down in the pit. The general on watch staggered and then backed down in his chair, stunned. He stared into space for precious moments then grabbed an aide by the collar and whispered into his ear. The man nodded and ran off.

The watch section on the floor collectively held their breath. No movement, no noise. The emotional rollercoaster at NORAD was replayed in detail, but these unfortunates, farther down the intelligence pipeline, didn’t have the entire picture just yet.

To Thomas’s right, a door opened, and the battle watch commander’s aide, an army officer escorted by marines, stepped through. “Please follow me, General Thomas,” he asked. Thomas rose without saying a word. The marines fell in on his flanks.

Thomas navigated the staircase and found himself immersed in the chaos gripping the NMCC. The noise level had increased tenfold.

“You better hear this, sir,” the watch commander shouted, handing Thomas a phone connected to NORAD. After code-word authentication, a distraught voice on the other end struggled through a cryptic attack summary laced with technical jargon. Thomas stood stiffly, listening, but not physically reacting, his mind frozen on his abortive attempt to reach Alexander only forty minutes earlier. Like the others, his brain was in full retreat.

He had sensed trouble but did nothing. No matter that his take had been completely off base. Who could have imagined? Thomas’s failure made him ill. NORAD asked for orders. It was the president’s and STRATCOM’s call, Thomas had answered curtly. Follow procedures in place until instructed otherwise. Get General Morgan to the mountain. He wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know.

Thomas began to drop the handset but stopped. “Make sure CINCSTRAT is getting his planes away.”

“Already done, sir,” was the reply. “They’re off, but we can’t tell how many will make it.” Thomas nodded sadly. The big planes no longer on alert had little chance of escape from a surprise attack. “Let me know when you have radar confirmation.” Another “yes, sir” came from the voice on the line. Thomas hung up the phone and looked at the ashen face of the WATCH COMMANDER.

A myriad of possibilities raced through Thomas’s mind. Was it an accidental launch by a renegade Russian officer? Computer malfunction? It couldn’t be a deliberate attack. Yet only moments before, he had seen the evidence, the repositioning of Russian hardware. What were the targets? NORAD didn’t have decent data and wouldn’t for at least ten minutes. My God, my family, he thought. How could people function? God help us all.

“Make the call,” he said out of nowhere. It was more instinct than anything. The man opposite him shouldn’t have needed prompting, but who was he to judge. Thomas was teetering on the knife edge himself. General Patterson hesitated and then unlocked a red plastic encasement, handing one of the handsets to Thomas.

After several rings, an icy White House staffer answered. “Yes?”

The watch commander took a deep breath. The muscles in his neck were as taut as wire. “This is General Patterson at the NMCC. We have a confirmed Russian attack against targets in the continental United States; I must speak to the president immediately.” The words sounded bizarre to Thomas. Even from where he stood, with the hard evidence staring him in the face, it seemed preposterous.

The voice at the other end paused then said, “What? There wasn’t an exercise scheduled for today; it’s not until next week.”

“This isn’t a goddamn test,” shouted the watch officer, “put the president on the line immediately.” The veins on his temples bulged. Thomas steadied his subordinate by touching his arm.