Red Hammer 1994

Now the Russians were the recipients, pounded with over one thousand US warheads. But the sheer vastness of the former Soviet Union seemed to swallow up the weapons with little discernible effect. Thomas intuitively knew what damage had been done, but the map did show the Russians with impressive numbers of ICBMs in reserve and surviving missile submarines at sea. A sick feeling swept through Thomas. In four minutes, he had seen everything meaningful, all the pie-ces on the board, in space, in the air, on land, and under the sea. The United States was locked in a deadly stalemate, one that threatened to escalate into an unparalleled disaster for the country and the planet.

Alexander leaned over the soldier feverishly tuning the WSC-10 satellite transceiver. The SHF satellite link had collapsed in a heap of static. They struggled to restore comms with NEACP and STRATCOM. Various combinations of antennas, couplers, and crypto devices had failed miserably. A sudden amber synch light on the shoebox-sized transceiver signaled success.

“I’ve got STRATCOM’s mobile headquarters,” cried the youthful comm operator as the first decoded characters clattered across the adjacent daisy-wheel printer. “It’s their call sign; I’m certain, sir.”

“Send them the frequencies for secure voice,” prompted Alexander, handing the operator a message. “Keep trying NEACP.”

“Yes, sir.”

Alexander straightened. “General Bartholomew, if we get NEACP, arrange a conference call.” The heavyset vice chairman acknowledged his request. Alexander signaled Thomas to follow him out into the night.

Thomas stepped from the cramped trailer out into the sticky evening air. Deep breaths momentarily relaxed his tight muscles. The shredded plastic canopy hanging above intensified the humidity. Alexander stood motionless a few feet from Thomas and peered off into the distance.

“Now what am I supposed to do?” he complained bitterly, his hands resting on his hips. He answered himself before Thomas could. “We’ve got to get the chain of command sorted out.”

Thomas lowered his head and stared at the black ground under foot. Interleaving the National Command Authority’s hierarchy with presidential succession was a recipe for disaster. The NCA org chart positioned the secretary of defense right below the president, with power emanating from the secretary of defense directly to the various Commanders-in-Chief of the Unified and Specified Commands. They were the war fighters, not the Joint Chiefs of Staff, whose role was advisory and administrative. The Joint Staff, the equivalent of the general staff in many foreign countries, worked directly for the Chairmen of the Joint Chiefs as their analysis and planning arm. They ensured that the NCA’s orders were transmitted, received, and properly executed by the CINC’s, war or peace, but the words came directly from the lips of the president and his secretary of defense.

The other side of the coin, the constitutionally mandated succession list, following the now-dead vice president, was topped by the speaker of the House, then by the president pro tempore of the Senate. The chance that others farther along the seniority chain—the cabinet secretaries in order of their department’s creation—would receive the call was normally dismissed out of hand. It simply couldn’t happen. Alexander was actually number two after Genser in the cabinet sweep-stakes, with state taking precedence over war, the forerunner of defense.

Thomas bowed his head in dismay. That would be the ultimate irony; Genser giving Alexander marching orders. For the moment, that wasn’t a concern. With the president dead, Alexander alone called the shots until the proper successor took the oath.

Thomas stepped parallel to Alexander and folded his arms across his chest. He too searched the forest. His ghosts were the men and women he knew in Washington proper—soldiers, sailors, airmen, and civilians, now little more than charred dust. It was a bitter pill to swallow.

Alexander looked over at his friend, forlorn and distant. “Do we have a chance of ending this before the entire country is destroyed?

Thomas stared straight ahead, not blinking, his breathing shallow. He was enjoying the irregular tree line; his pale blue eyes delineated each tree’s outline from the black smudge touching the horizon. It was soothing.

“I don’t know, Mr. Secretary, I honestly don’t know.”

Alexander sighed sadly in reply. “What the hell happened? This is the nineties, not the seventies.”

“Mr. Secretary, General McClain’s on the line. But we don’t have NEACP yet.” The voice drifted across the compound to claim Alexander’s conscience. He quickly strode the thirty yards and up the steps, Thomas behind, then grabbed the outstretched handset from Bartholomew. Every pair of eyes was glued on their leader.

“General McClain, this is Secretary Alexander.”