Red Hammer 1994

“One moment.” Within seconds, the president answered. His greeting signaled consternation and confusion.

“Mr. President,” Patterson reported rapidly, “we are under nuclear attack by the Russians. NORAD has confirmed nearly one hundred missiles inbound. We’re tracking down the chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the secretary of defense.”

The president’s voice cracked, like someone had suddenly kneed him in the stomach. “What do you mean we’re under attack? Is this a test?” The man’s anguish could be felt through the wire.

“No, sir. NORAD has not made an error. We’re under nuclear attack.” The president could only mutter, “Oh my God.” Before he could say anything else, the burly chairman of the Joint Chiefs burst through the door like a hurricane hitting shore and snapped his fingers for a handset. His body vibrated with energy, his reddened face boiling. He forced a healthy dose of self-control down his throat before speaking.

“Mr. President,” said the chairman evenly, “the secretary of defense will be here momentarily.”

“The secretary of state is here with me,” stammered the president. “What the hell is going on, General?” It was a plea more than a question. The chairman summarized the terrible numbers. The killer was the nearly one hundred SS-18 class ICBMs. Then he recited the rest of the bad news—first impact for SLBM warheads in seven minutes; Twenty-one for the ICBMs. No time for discussion; we need to act.

The rapid-fire report left the president breathless. He mumbled something to an aide off-line. Thomas wondered if the president truly comprehended what he had just heard—the magnitude of the crisis. His heart broke for the man across the river, standing there with a phone in his hand and wondering what had happened to his world in the last few minutes.

“Mr. President,” said the chairman with conviction, “we must retaliate. We’ve got less than fifteen minutes. CINCSTRAT has to receive authorization to launch our Peacekeeper and Minuteman missiles before the Russians destroy them in their silos. We should execute SIOP Option 2M immediately. I must stress the urgency, Mr. President. We have only minutes.”

The president struggled against the stiff current sweeping him toward Armageddon. “How do I know this isn’t all a terrible mistake?” he blurted. “The Russians would never do this. A surprise attack is out of the question. There must be another explanation. General, you assured me that this kind of mistake would never happen again, that all the software problems had been fixed.” The president was grasping at straws. He was no different than the rest of them.

“NORAD has verified the attack, sir,” answered the chairman, his frustration beginning to explode to the surface. “Multiple, independent sensors are tracking the missiles. There is no mistake! I repeat, Mr. President, we need a decision!”

“Mr. President,” they heard the secretary of state plead off-line, “we need to talk.” There was a lapse as the line went dead. Thomas and the generals sagged in unison, lowering their handsets and staring blankly at the linoleum floor. The tactical support team of military and civilian advisors formed a semicircle around the trio, awaiting orders to do something, anything.

Thomas raised his head and surveyed the emotional bloodbath sweeping the floor. Thomas knew war, understood war, but this wasn’t his war. War slowly builds in intensity over months, even years, then climaxes in victory or defeat. In Vietnam, he had knowingly killed, calculating violence against enemy troops. His personal war had been a few hundred feet above the jungle canopy, not face-to-face, down in the mud, and he was certain he had left his mark. The trailing napalm fireballs and cluster-bomb fireworks from his Phantom, spread over vast tracks of jungle, surely took their toll. And he had seen enough dead soldiers up close, both American and Vietnamese to last him a lifetime. Two inspections of the war zone, familiarization tours for close-air-support pilots, they were called, had given him a belly full. Yet he had learned to live with the killing and the death, and later found peace of mind. He never had been one of the handwringers who lamented their roles in the fighting.

But on this particular afternoon, time was their enemy. Time mocked them. Time compressed so intensely that all experienced a vertical emotional ramp-up that threatened their sanity. His thoughts returned to Sally, who he loved more than his own life. She was at home, probably worried sick about him, wondering if she should keep dinner. Tears welled in his eyes, but he fought them with all his strength. Like all good soldiers, feelings were to be brutally suppressed in crisis. But how do you watch your world disintegrate before your eyes?