World War III

Gorny watched as the others began to leave. They’d already made their choice, he realized. He looked at Rudenski, his dark suit silhouetted against the stark white of the projection screen. “Comrade Chairman, if you please,” Gorny said softly.

Rudenski only smiled.

WHCR 0820 HRS

McKenna had gotten barely five hours’ sleep before he’d taken the slow elevator ride to the subbasement. In eighteen months as president he’d been to see the Crisis Room exactly once, when he’d taken a tour of the place. But that was before last Sunday. In the last few days it seemed as if he lived down here.

This morning he was sitting in his usual place with what were becoming very familiar faces. They’d all gone home or wherever those people went since he’d seen them last, and they’d all changed clothes and presumably showered and had some sleep. The trouble was, McKenna thought, none of them looked very much refreshed.

Burt Tankersley had the floor at the moment. He was standing at the projection screen where a high-density black-and-white film was rolling without sound. The screen image went to a series of numbers counting backward from three as the film went through another splice.

“Also,” the intelligence agency director was saying, “our reconnaissance SS-71s have spotted their new aircraft carrier Kiev.” He pointed to a ship which was obviously an aircraft carrier and the only vessel on the screen. “It had been stationed off Ocha in the Okhotsk Sea. At 5:00 A.M. Eastern Standard Time it changed course for the Bering Strait.”

‘And destroyers,” Admiral Blanchard said. “Four of their heavy destroyers of the Krivak Class are on an interception course that would link up with the Kiev south of the Attu Island string in the Aleutians.”

“What does that mean to me in terms I can understand,” McKenna said with a sigh.

“They are basically ASW destroyers, Mr. President,” the admiral said as if he hadn’t heard, “with E2

Class cruise missiles and SSN3 nuclear warheads. Those missiles have an effective range of eight hundred miles.”

The screen flashed to shots of Soviet fighters.

“They’re mobilizing all across Eastern Europe,” Tankersley continued, “and their China border.”

The president leaned forward slightly. “You mean they are mounting forces on all fronts?”

“That’s Soviet SOP,” General Olafson said. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff clicked his pipe against his ashtray. “Wherever a confrontation flares up, they are flexible enough to start something ten thousand miles away. We do the same thing, of course, but our MO is strictly reactionary.”

Tankersley nodded. “Our radio-monitoring satellites also show a radical increase in their coded and scrambled communications — up sixty-eight percent in the last six hours. We interpret that to mean the Soviets expect to do some heavy moving of material.”

The president nodded. “I see.” He waved at the screen. “That’s enough show-and-tell, Burt. I think I get the picture here.”

“They’ve gone to Mach Eagle, Mr. President,” General Olafson said. “And they want us to know it.”

“Well, now we know.” He glanced at Farber. “I’m disappointed, Jules. Gorny agreed to hold off. I’m disappointed, but”—he shrugged—”I guess, not terribly surprised.”

“I think we have to call them on this, Mr. President.” It was Max Schriff for the army.

“Call them on it?” McKenna glanced down the table at the general. “What do you suggest, Max?”

“They went to Mach Eagle. I think we should bump our alert code up a notch, too.”

“Bump, Max? This isn’t a poker game. You mean go to Defense Condition Two?”

The telephone rang beside the president and Farber picked it up.

“Yes, sir,” Schriff replied. “Strategically, it makes sense to keep one step ahead.”

“No.” McKenna shook his head. “There is plenty of time for the Soviets to pull back. Anyway, what they’re doing is only a preparatory first step. The same thing we’ve done. I’m not in the mood to start World War Three, gentlemen.” He sent an accusing glance down the table to Schriff. “I don’t want to start ‘bumping’ for no apparent reason… we could all wake up in hell.” The president looked at Farber, who was writing furiously on his pad and talking rapidly into the mouthpiece in a low monotone.

“Jules?”

Farber held up his hand with a wait-a-second-I’m-busy glance. He scribbled some more while the president and everyone else waited. The national security advisor depressed the hold button and a small light blinked on below the unmarked dial.

“What’s the matter, Jules? You look like they just shot your favorite horse.” McKenna smiled at his try at humor, but Farber didn’t acknowledge it.

“It’s TAC COM,” Farber said solemnly. “They’ve finally reestablished communications with Colonel Caffey’s command.”

“Good, I—”

“Caffey was hit last night, Mr. President,” Farber interrupted. “The Soviets all but wiped him out.”

“What?”