Red Hammer 1994

Those two, plus Thomas, stood wearily, shifting from foot to foot, the strain permanently implanted on their faces. Collectively they eyed the big board, soaking up the disparate pieces. When the first-ever hostile nuclear weapon detonated on US soil, a small, white symbol mushroomed over Cape Cod AFS, site of the East Coast Pave Paws radar. The computer-generated icon expanded to a circle, the size proportional to the calculated damage radius from the blast.

“Those bastards,” shouted the chairman at the air, “those no-good, lousy bastards!” Other white icons peppered the map as Russian SLBM warheads methodically worked their way inland. The watch commander turned to the chairman. His voice cracked as he passed the grim news. NORAD had confirmed nuclear detonations, and that Loring, Plattsburgh, and Griffiss, all STRATCOM bases, had been destroyed. Installations further inland would be hit momentarily. At that moment, Thomas had lost personal friends, murdered by the Russians’ treachery.

Thomas felt helpless, more helpless than he had ever felt in his life, watching the nuclear explosions march across the eastern United States, reducing his country’s military power to useless rubble. He wrestled with the contradictions. They could capitulate unconditionally and limit American casualties or strike hard to punish Russian aggression. Reward Russian duplicity but spare the world from the horrors of all-out nuclear war, or accept the consequences of retaliation to prevent world domination by a renegade nation? He didn’t have the answer. He doubted anyone did, let alone the president of the United States.

“General, Mr. Secretary, the president is back,” said the chairman’s aide.

The president had surrendered to the dark forces. His stiff words came deliberately. He got to the point.

“I accept your recommendation,” he stated haltingly. “I hope to God that by doing this, it will stop here, that the Russians will realize they have to negotiate, and that the casualties can be limited.” He sounded like a man who didn’t believe his own words.

No one said anything. The sudden release of apprehension triggered a letdown. It was as if someone had suddenly let the air out of an inflated bag. The decision, the one they had vehemently endorsed, left them empty. “I’ll ensure your orders are carried out,” said Alexander sadly. “You’ve made the right decision, Mr. President.” He actually believed it. They all did.

“I hope so; I truly hope so,” the president said weakly. “I won’t be leaving Washington,” he continued. “We must end this insanity, no matter how much we detest the Russians. There must be a solution that will preserve our nation and the world.” The line went dead once more.

In less than one minute from when the president had authorized release, multiple airborne command posts swiftly transmitted emergency action messages (EAMs) to the American nuclear forces poised for a powerful counterstroke.

CHAPTER 17

Intermittent rain showers had hit the Texas Panhandle and northeastern New Mexico. Approaching the rugged eastern slope of the Rocky Mountains, the graceful bomber broke through towering thunderheads into clear, open skies, dotted with irregular cumulus clouds. Puffy and white at the tops, and splashed with a pallet of grays at the bottoms, they looked like a fleet of rusty tramp steamers resting at anchor in a calm, blue sea.

The trek across the Rockies was spectacular. Only the highest peaks retained splotchy, off-white traces of winter. Alpine lakes dotted the treeless landscape, partially masked by the late-afternoon shadows, creating a camouflage of light purples, grays, and browns.

“Perfect for a low-level run,” mused Grant, glancing out the small window to his left. The B-1B’s subdued paint scheme would melt into the natural mosaic, playing havoc with an interceptor’s hopes for a visual ID.

Grant guided his plane diagonally across northern Utah, crossing the Idaho border on a course that would take them fifty miles north of Boise. Grabowski happily reported that they had picked up a few minutes from favorable winds. At 4:26 Mountain Time, half an hour from McChord, a UHF satellite transceiver in the forward avionics space began to hum, keyed by an air force AFSAT communications package riding piggyback on a navy FLTSATCOM bird high above the equator.

“Holy shit,” Ledermeyer shouted into the intercom. His voice had a sharp edge. “Emergency Action Message.” For a moment, he was frozen. A jab from Jefferson brought him to life.

EAMs, short messages repeated over special, war-reserve communication frequencies, had to be recorded, verified, and authenticated. Ledermeyer would verify that the message was complete and correct, but only Buck and Joe could authenticate. Sophisticated error detection and correction schemes kept bit error rates to a minimum, countering enemy jammers and radio-frequency propagation disruptions from nuclear explosions tearing at the atmosphere.