Red Hammer 1994

By the time the blast wave reached the Capitol at ten seconds, its wrath had mostly been spent. Overpressure had dropped to less than three psi, winds to one hundred miles per hour. At this range only hapless observers caught in the open or near windows were victims, knocked off their feet, struck by flying glass or scraps of wood, or their exposed skin charred and blistered by twenty kilocalories per square centimeter, twice the amount required to precipitate third-degree burns. Those huddled indoors were temporarily safe, unless victims of the fires that quickly spread from ruptured gas mains. Fuel loading precluded a firestorm or conflagration, as long as the fires could eventually be brought under control. Time would tell.

In the air, the dynamic pressure coupled with two to three psi overpressure was sufficient to swat circling aircraft from the skies, like so many irritating flies. Complete immunity from the death and destruction wouldn’t come until at least four to five miles, where both blast effects were negligible, and the thermal effects were tolerable.

At twenty-five seconds the dreadful ordeal had passed. Total blackness engulfed the Capitol, an eerie stillness broken by scattered muffled cries of agony from amid the ruin. The nuclear storm had extinguished the lights through physical damage and electro-magnetic pulse effects to the power grid. Emergency generators struggled to life in cellars of hospitals and key buildings. Fires were obscured by the dust and smoke, which choked those in the open, and hung like a thick blanket over an area of thirty square miles. Life stopped within a four-mile radius of the blast, broken only by an occasional dazed survivor shuffling to seek aid.

The grisly picture was repeated to the north and the south. Central Rosslyn, hit with between five and eight psi, was annihilated, its modern office buildings covered with sheening silver and copper glass sheets no match for the savage shock front. Twisted ruins lay smoldering; the streets were buried under tens of feet of rubble. Portions of Georgetown and Alexandria suffered similar fates. Older, granite block buildings fared best, some miraculously spared, while the newest structures evaporated before the onslaught.

The attack timing had minimized prompt casualties. Many Washingtonians had fled the city for the holiday, while the rest were home enjoying dinner or a few drinks when the air-raid sirens resonated through the city. The warning had puzzled most, eliciting awkward glances toward the sky from pedestrians and those in autos. A test, they concluded, and a very stupid time for one.

The most horrible casualties occurred in the thousands of cars easily swept off the roadways by the encroaching blast wave. Survivors were few. Following closely were deaths caused by collapsing buildings, falling debris, and the later fires.

In less than three minutes, the huge blackish-gray nuclear cloud towered over the city, its immense mushroom silhouette obscured by the dark. Airborne observers could see only a faint glimmer as the illumination from a new moon reflected off the rapidly expanding cloud. The upper reaches of the nuclear cloud continued to ascend to sixty thousand feet, where it would eventually spread laterally, then slowly dissipate, driven by the upper atmospheric winds. By morning, all traces of the holocaust would be gone.

At 7:58 p.m., a second reentry vehicle silently arched toward the ruins of the city. The weapon detonated six hundred feet to the north of the first. Although the same yield, structural damage was more widespread as weakened buildings collapsed, unable to withstand further punishment. Mercifully, the majority of the survivors had sought immediate shelter. A few unfortunates, probably near death, were dispatched by this second blow to snuff out all life in the nation’s Capitol.

CHAPTER 22

“Let’s get started,” Jackson stated curtly. A submarine wardroom, even on a larger boomer, resembles a mini-storage locker. Michigan’s was decorated with a few simple nautical pictures on freshly painted white bulkheads and the mandatory twenty-four-hour wall clock. A two-by-two opening with a stubby stainless-steel ledge provided access to the adjacent galley where mess cooks served four meals per day. The food itself was prepared down in the boat’s mess decks. Overhead were ventilation ducts, pipes of various diameters and colors, and the standard navy shipboard fluorescent lights with the red or white option.