The Sum of All Fears

  “You know, what they’re saying is okay, but it sure as hell would be nice to know what everyone’s thinking.”

  “What if this really is a Russian attack?” the General asked.

  “Why would they do it?”

  “You’ve heard the chatter between the President and CIA, sir.”

  “Yeah, but that Ryan guy’s right,” Durling said. “None of this makes any sense.”

  “So who ever said the world had to make sense? What about the contact in the Med and Berlin?”

  “Forward-deployed forces. We go on alert, and they go on alert, and they’re close to each other, and someone goofs. You know, like Gavrilo Prinzip shooting the Archduke. An accident happens and then things just slide down the chute.”

  “That’s why we have the Hot Line, Mr. Vice President.”

  “True,” Durling conceded. “And so far it seems to be working.”

  They made the first fifty yards easily, but then it got harder, and soon it went from hard to impossible. Callaghan had a total of fifty firefighters trying to fight their way on, with a hundred more in support. On reflection, he had a continuous water spray over every man and woman. If nothing else, he reasoned, it would wash whatever fallout or dust or whatever the hell was out here off his people and into the sewer drains—that which didn’t freeze first, that is. The men in front were coated with ice that made a translucent layer on their turn-out coats.

  The biggest problem was the cars. They’d been tossed about like toys, lying on their sides or tops, leaking gasoline that collected into burning puddles that were being supplied faster than they burned off. Callaghan ordered a truck in. One at a time, his men ran cables to the frames of the wrecked cars, and the truck dragged them clear, but this was horribly time-consuming. It would take forever to get into the stadium. And there were people in there. He was sure of it. There had to be. Callaghan just stood there, out of the water spray, guilty that he was warmer than his people. He turned when he heard the roar of a large diesel engine.

  “Hello.” It was a man wearing the uniform of a U.S. Army colonel. The name tag on his parka read Lyle. “I hear you need heavy equipment.”

  “What you got?”

  “I have three engineer tanks, M728s, just rolling in now. Got something else, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A hundred MOPP suits, you know, chemical warfare gear. It ain’t perfect, but it’s better than what your people got on. Warmer, too. Why don’t you pull your people off and get them outfitted. Truck’s over there.” The Colonel pointed.

  Callaghan hesitated for a moment, but decided that he couldn’t turn this offer down. He called his people off and pulled them back to don the military gear. Colonel Lyle tossed him an outfit.

  “The water fog’s a good idea, ought to keep dust and stuff down. So, what do you want us to do?”

  “You can’t tell from here, but there is still some structure in there. I think there might be survivors. I have to find out. Can you help us get through these cars?”

  “Sure.” The Colonel lifted his own radio and ordered the first vehicle in. The M728, Callaghan saw, was essentially a tank with a dozer blade on the front, and a big A-frame and winch on the back of the turret. There was even an odd-looking short-barreled gun.

  “This isn’t going to be very neat. Can you live with that?”

  “Screw neat—get in there!”

  “Okay.” Lyle picked up the interphone at the left rear of the vehicle. “Make a hole,” he ordered.

  The driver revved up the diesel just as the first firemen returned. He made a sincere effort to avoid the fire hoses—even so he split eight two-and-a-half-inch lines. The blade dropped and the tank crashed into the mass of burning cars at twenty miles per hour. It made a hole, all right, about thirty feet deep. Then the tank backed off and started widening it.

  “Jesus,” Callaghan observed. “What do you know about radiation stuff?”

  “Not much. I checked with the NEST guys before I drove down. They ought to be here any time. Until then ...” Lyle shrugged. “You really think there’s live ones in there?”

  “Part of the structure is still there. I saw it from the chopper.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah, I saw it.”

  “But that’s crazy. The NORAD guys say it was a big one.”

  “What?” Callaghan shouted over the noise of the tank.

  “The bomb, it was supposed to be a big one. There shouldn’t even be a parking lot here.”

  “You mean this was a little one?” Callaghan looked at the man as though he were crazy.

  “Hell, yes!” Lyle stopped for a moment. “If there’s people in there ...” He ran to the back of the tank and grabbed the phone. A moment later the M728 stopped.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “If there are survivors, hell, we might squash one this way. I just told him to take it easier. Goddamn, you’re right. And I thought you were crazy.”

  “What do you mean?” Callaghan shouted again, waving his firefighters to put their spray on the tank also.

  “There may be survivors in there. This bomb was a hell of a lot smaller than they told me on the phone.”

  “Maine, this is Sea Devil One-Three,” the P-3C Orion called. “We’re about forty minutes out from your position. What seems to be the problem?”

  “We have screw and shaft damage, and we have an Akula in the neighborhood, last fix five-zero thousand yards southwest,” Ricks answered.

  “Roger that. We’ll see if we can drive him off for you. We’ll report when we get on station. Out.”

  “Captain, we can do three knots, let’s do that, north, open as much as we can,” Claggett said.

  Ricks shook his head. “No, we’ll stay quiet.”

  “Sir, our friend out there must have copied the collision transient. He will be coming this way. We’ve lost our best sonar. Smart move is to evade as best we can.”

  “No, the smart move is to stay covert.”

  “Then at least launch a MOSS.”

  “That makes sense, sir,” the weapons officer thought.

  “Okay, program it to sound like we are now, and give it a southerly course.”

  “Right.” Maine’s number-three torpedo tube was loaded with a MOSS, a Mobile Submarine Simulator. Essentially a modified torpedo itself, the MOSS contained a sonar transducer connected to a noise generator, instead of a warhead. It would radiate the sound of an Ohio-class submarine, and was designed to simulate a damaged one. Since shaft damage was one of the few reasons that an Ohio might make noise, that option was already programmed in. The weapons officer selected the proper noise track, and launched the weapon a few minutes later. The MOSS sped off to the south, and two thousand yards away, it began radiating.

  The skies had cleared over Charleston, South Carolina. What had fallen as snow in Virginia and Maryland had been mainly sleet here. The afternoon sun had removed most of that, returning the antebellum city to its normally pristine state. As the Admiral commanding Submarine Group Six watched from the tender, two of his ballistic-missile submarines started down the Cooper River for the sea and safety. He wasn’t the only one to watch. One hundred ninety miles over his head, a Soviet reconnaissance satellite made its pass, continuing up the coast to Norfolk, where the sky was also clearing. The satellite downlinked its pictures to the Russian intelligence center on Cuba’s western tip. From there it was immediately relayed by communications satellite. Most of the Russian satellites used high-polar orbits, and had not been affected by the EMP. The imagery was in Moscow in a matter of seconds.

  “Yes?” the Defense Minister asked.

  “We have imagery of three American naval bases. Missile submarines at Charleston and King’s Bay are putting to sea.”

  “Thank you.” The Defense Minister replaced the phone. Another threat. He relayed it at once to President Narmonov.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that the military action taken
by the Americans is not merely defensive. Some of the submarines in question carry the Trident D-5 missile, which has first-strike capability. You’ll recall how interested the Americans were in forcing us to eliminate our SS-18s?”

  “Yes, and they are removing a large number of their Minute-men,” Narmonov said. “So?”

  “So they don’t need land-based missiles to make a first strike. They can do it from submarines. We cannot. We depend on our land-based ICBMs for that.”

  “And what of our SS-18s?”

  “We’re removing the warheads from some of them even as we speak, and if they ever get that damned deactivation facility working, we’ll be in full compliance with the treaty—we are now, in fact, just the damned Americans don’t admit it.” The Defense Minister paused. Narmonov wasn’t getting it. “In other words, while we have eliminated some of our most accurate missiles, the Americans still have theirs. We are at a strategic disadvantage.”

  “I have not had much sleep, and my thinking is not at its best,” Narmonov said testily. “You agreed to this treaty document only a year ago, and now you’re telling me that we are threatened by it?”

  They’re all the same, the Defense Minister thought. They never listen, they never really pay attention. Tell them something a hundred times and they just don’t hear you!

  “The elimination of so many missiles and warheads changes the correlation of forces—”

  “Rubbish! We’re still equal in every way!” President Narmonov objected.

  “That is not the question. The important factor is the relationship between the number of launchers—and their relative vulnerability—and the number of warheads available to both sides. We can still strike first and eliminate the American land-based missile force with our land-based missiles. That is why they were so willing to remove half of theirs. But the majority of their warheads are at sea, and now, for the first time, such sea-based missiles are totally adequate for a disarming first strike.”

  “Kuropatkin,” Narmonov said, “are you hearing this?”

  “Yes, I am. The Defense Minister is correct. The additional dimension, if I may say it, is that the reduction in the number of launchers has changed the overall ratio of launchers-to-warheads. For the first time in a generation, a truly disarming first-strike is possible, especially if the Americans are able to decapitate our government with their first strike.”

  “And they could do that with the Stealth fighters they put in Germany,” Defense concluded the statement.

  “Wait a minute. Are you telling me that Fowler blew up his own city as an excuse to attack us? What madness is this?” Now the Soviet President began to understand fear.

  The Defense Minister spoke slowly and clearly. “Whoever detonated that weapon is beside the point. If Fowler begins to think that it was our doing, he has the ability to act against us. Comrade President, you must understand this: technically speaking, our country is on the edge of annihilation. Less than thirty minutes separate their land-based missiles from us. Twenty minutes for their sea-based ones, and as little as two hours from those goddamned invisible tactical bombers, which would be the most advantageous opening move. All that separates us from destruction is the mental state of President Fowler.”

  “I understand.” The Soviet President was quiet for half a minute. He stared off at the status board on the far wall. When he spoke, his voice showed the anger that comes from fright. “What do you propose we should do—attack the Americans? I will not do such a thing.”

  “Of course not, but we would be well advised to place our strategic forces on full alert. The Americans will take note of this and realize that a disarming attack is not possible, and we can settle this affair down long enough for reason to take hold.”

  “Golovko?”

  The First Deputy Chairman of the KGB shrank from the inquiry. “We know that they are at full alert status. It is possible that our doing the same will provoke them.”

  “If we do not, we present ourselves as a much more inviting target.” The Defense Minister was inhumanly calm, perhaps the only man in the room who was fully in control of himself. “We know that the American President is under great stress, that he has lost many thousands of his citizens. He might lash out without thinking. He is much less likely to do so if he knows that we are in a position to respond in kind. We do not dare to show weakness at a time like this. Weakness always invites attack.”

  Narmonov looked around the room for a dissenting opinion. There was none. “Make it so,” he told Defense.

  “We still haven’t heard anything from Denver,” Fowler said, rubbing his eyes.

  “I wouldn’t expect much,” General Borstein replied.

  NORAD’s command post is literally inside of a mountain. The entrance tunnel had a series of steel blast-doors. The structures inside were designed to survive anything that could be aimed at them. Shock-absorbing springs and bags of compressed air isolated the people and machines from the granite floors. Overhead were steel roofs to stop any rock fragments that might be blasted free by a near-miss. Borstein didn’t expect to survive an attack. There was a whole regiment of Soviet SS-18 Mod 4s tasked to the destruction of this post and a few others. Instead of ten or more MIRVs, they carried a single twenty-five-megaton warhead whose only plausible military mission was to turn Cheyenne Mountain into Cheyenne Lake. That was a pleasant thought. Borstein was a fighter pilot by trade. He’d started off in the F-100, called the “Hun” by its drivers, graduated from there to F-4 Phantoms, and commanded an F-15 squadron in Europe. He’d always been a tactical guy, stick and rudder, scarf and goggles: kick the tires, light the fires, first one up’s the leader. Borstein frowned at the thought. Even he wasn’t old enough to remember those days. His job was continental air defense, to keep people from blowing his country up. He’d failed. A nearby piece of America was blown up, along with his boss, and he didn’t know why or how or who. Borstein was not a man accustomed to failure, but failure was what he saw on his map display.

  “General!” a major called to him.

  “What is it?”

  “Picking up some radio and microwave chatter. First guess is that Ivan’s alerting his missile regiments. Ditto in some naval bases. Flash traffic outbound from Moscow.”

  “Christ!” Borstein lifted his phone again.

  “Never done it?” Elliot asked.

  “Strange but true,” Borstein said. “Even during the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Russians never put their ICBMs on alert.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Fowler snorted. “Never?”

  “The General’s right,” Ryan said. “The reason is that their telephone system historically has been in pretty bad shape. I guess they’ve finally gotten it fixed enough—”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. President, God is in the details. You send alert messages by voice—we do it that way, and so do the Soviets. The Russian phone system stinks, and you don’t want to use a fluky system for orders of that importance. That’s why they’ve been investing so much money in fixing it up, just as we have invested a lot in our command-and-control systems. They use a lot of fiber-optic cable now, just like we do, plus a whole new set of microwave relays. That’s how we’re catching it,” Jack explained. “Scatter off the microwave repeaters.”

  “Another couple of years, they’ll be fully fiber-optic and we wouldn’t have known,” General Fremont added. “I don’t like this.”

  “Neither do I,” Ryan said, “but we’re at DEFCON-TWO also, aren’t we?”

  “They don’t know that. We didn’t tell them that,” Liz Elliot said.

  “Unless they’re reading our mail. I’ve told you we have reports that they’ve penetrated our cipher systems.”

  “NSA says you’re crazy.”

  “Maybe I am, but NSA’s been wrong before, too.”

  “What do you think Narmonov’s mental state is?”

  As scared as I am? Ryan wondered. “Sir, there’s no telling that.”

  “And
we don’t even know if it’s really him,” Elliot put in.

  “Liz, I reject your hypothesis,” Jack snapped over the conference line. “The only thing you have to support it comes from my agency, and we have our doubts about it.” Christ, I’m sorry I ever took that report in, he told himself.

  “Cut that out, Ryan!” Fowler snarled back. “I need facts, not arguments now, okay?”

  “Sir, as I keep pointing out, we do not as yet have sufficient information on which to base any decision.”

  “Balls,” the Colonel next to General Fremont said.

  “What do you mean?” CINC-SAC turned away from the speakerphone.

  “Dr. Elliot is right, sir. What she said earlier makes sense.”

  “Mr. President,” they heard a voice say. “We have a Hot Line transmission coming in.”

  PRESIDENT FOWLER:

  WE HAVE JUST RECEIVED A REPORT THAT A US ARMY UNIT IN BERLIN HAS ATTACKED A SOVIET UNIT WITHOUT WARNING. CASUALTIES ARE REPORTED SEVERE. PLEASE EXPLAIN WHAT IS HAPPENING.

  “Oh, shit,” Ryan said, looking at the fax.

  “I need opinions, people,” Fowler said over the conference line.

  “The best thing is to say that we have no knowledge of this incident,” Elliot said. “If we admit knowledge, we have to assume some responsibility.”

  “This is a singularly bad time to lie,” Ryan said forcefully. Even he thought he was overdoing it. They won’t listen to you if you shout, Jack, boy....

  “Tell that to Narmonov,” Elliot shot back. “They attacked us, remember?”

  “So the reports say, but—”

  “Ryan, are you saying our people lied?” Borstein snarled from Cheyenne Mountain.

  “No, General, but at times like this the news is chancy, and you know that as well as I do!”

  “If we deny knowledge, we can avoid taking a stand that we might have to back down from, and we avoid challenging them for the moment,” the National Security Advisor insisted. “Why are they bringing this up now?” she asked.