Countdown to Midnight, page 26
Flynn nodded. After the storm passed, the limestone soils here would dry quickly, but they’d definitely need to have a ground crew re-chalk the outline they’d been using for jump practice . . . and repair the scaffolding erected to make the fake obstacles on its deck more realistic. All told, his team would probably lose close to a full day of training time—at a time when every hour was precious. He frowned. “It’d sure be nice if the real Gulf Venture was just as easy to put under.”
“A category-five hurricane would come in handy right about now,” Van Horn agreed. “Too bad that evil SOB Voronin wasn’t dumb enough to set his operation in motion during hurricane season.”
Suddenly, the lights inside the ranch house went out. A minute later, Shannon Cooke came outside to join them. The ex-Special Forces soldier’s face was illuminated by his smartphone’s screen. “The electricity’s out across the whole area,” he reported. “Looks like all this lightning blew a bunch of transformers almost simultaneously. The local cooperative says it’ll take several hours to restore power.”
“Just swell,” Van Horn said. She turned to Flynn with a playful grin on her face. “Well, darn, I guess this’ll be an early night after all. And yet here I am still feeling wide awake—”
But Flynn failed to take the bait offered by her not-so-subtle hint. Instead, he stood motionless, gripped by the insights cascading through his mind with all the intensity and speed of the lightning flashes still tearing across the sky above them. Suddenly, everything about what Moscow and Tehran really had planned fell into place with terrifying certainty.
“Son of a bitch,” he said at last in stunned realization. “Those bastards aboard the Gulf Venture aren’t aiming to destroy just one city. They’re going after dozens.” He saw their puzzled looks and said tightly. “We need to see Fox. Pronto.”
Near Austin-Bergstrom International Airport
Early the Next Morning
Flynn knocked on the door of Fox’s hotel room and waited. The chief of the Quartet Directorate’s American station had come in from Orlando late the night before aboard a red-eye flight. There was no sound from inside.
He glanced at Van Horn. “Think he’s asleep?”
“Br’er Fox?” she said with some amusement. “I doubt it. Only humans need sleep.” She fought down a yawn. “Like me.”
Flynn restrained himself from asking why, if she was that tired now, she’d seemed so painfully cheerful while flying the BushCat down to Austin with the sun just poking above the horizon. She had sharp elbows, and his ribs could only take so much. He raised his hand to knock again. But before he could even make contact, the door swung open.
“Nick. Laura. Please come in,” Fox said quietly, waving them inside. He swiped at his chin with a hand towel, removing the last traces of shaving cream, and then stepped inside the small bathroom to hang it neatly on the rack. As usual, every motion was controlled and precise and neat. Only the shadows under his eyes suggested that he was as tired as they were.
Politely, he ushered them into chairs set around a little round table. Then he pulled a seat of his own over from the room’s tiny desk and waited while they poured out cups of room service coffee from a carafe. “Very well,” he said finally. “You have my full attention.”
“We’ve all been banging our heads trying to figure out what Voronin and his backers in Moscow and Tehran have up their sleeves,” Flynn said. “Right?”
Fox nodded. His mouth tightened. “So far, unfortunately, Four’s best analysts have all come up empty-handed,” he admitted.
“Me, too,” Flynn told him. “Until last night.” He pulled out his smartphone and brought up an image on the screen. It showed a nighttime picture from space of the continental United States. Glowing patches of light showed the presence of major metropolitan areas—New York, Boston, D.C., Miami, Chicago, Houston, Dallas, St. Louis, Salt Lake City, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle, and dozens of others. Bright rings were superimposed on this image, radiating out from a single point over the Midwest marked with a radiation symbol. “It’s this.”
Fox studied it for a moment in silence. He looked up. “Go on.”
“Moscow and Tehran plan to carry out a nuclear EMP, an electromagnetic pulse attack against us,” Flynn explained. “A high-altitude nuclear detonation designed to simultaneously knock out electric power grids, cars, trucks, trains, river barges, and aircraft, water purification plants, and computer systems across a huge stretch of the United States.”
The image on his smartphone screen showed different areas of effect for an EMP attack, depending on the altitude of the initial nuclear burst. A warhead detonated thirty miles up could fry electronics out to a radius of 480 miles. The damage caused by the same size bomb going off 120 miles over the earth would spread a thousand miles beyond the blast point. The worst-case scenario indicated that a nuclear blast 300 miles above the surface would destroy computers and other electronics up to fifteen hundred miles away—across the entire continental United States, most of Canada, and the northern regions of Mexico.
“A massive EMP pulse would destroy every affected system beyond any possibility of repair,” Flynn continued grimly. “Producing replacements and installing them could take months, maybe years in some cases. And in the meantime, deprived of fuel, food, clean water, and electricity, millions of people in our major metro areas will die—either from starvation or disease.”
No American city or its surrounding suburbs had more than a few days’ worth of fuel, food, and purified water available at any given time. They were entirely dependent on a continuous flow of supplies brought in by road, rail, and river. And without working transportation systems and power grids, there would be no way to ship in the needed goods. Shelves would empty in a matter of hours, followed by looting and the complete breakdown of law and order. The margin between a modern high-tech civilization and Dark Ages barbarism was breathtakingly slim.
Fox frowned when Flynn finished laying out the terrifying scenario he saw developing. “My understanding is that the threat of an EMP attack is somewhat overblown,” he said carefully. “Our ICBMs and other nuclear forces are already hardened against electromagnetic pulse effects, so they’d be completely unaffected by any surprise strike. As a result, a major power like Moscow or Beijing has to know that crossing the nuclear threshold like that would automatically trigger massive retaliation—probably leading directly to an all-out and unwinnable war. The same thing goes double for a regional power like Iran, with the exception that we could smash them back to the Stone Age without taking further damage.” Tiredly, he took off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. With a sigh, he put them back on. “And as far the threat of a terrorist-conducted EMP strike goes, that seems even less likely, according to the experts. Developing the specialized warheads needed to pull off an effective attack would be far beyond the capability of any known terrorist group—as would calculating the optimum missile trajectories and detonation points.”
Flynn nodded. “All of that is true. Which is precisely why Zhdanov is working through Voronin’s Raven Syndicate and the Iranians. It lets him hide Russia’s involvement. And without solid evidence that Moscow is directly responsible, would an American president be willing to unleash a nuclear Armageddon that might end all of human civilization?”
“Probably not,” Fox agreed slowly. “And even if he was, I’m not sure the rest of the chain of command would go along with him.”
“Well, one more thing’s for damned sure,” Flynn said bluntly. “The Russians definitely have the nuclear weapons technology and expertise needed to build EMP warheads . . . and the supercomputing power required to plan the most destructive attack.” He leaned forward, intent on making his point. “Remember how none of us could see what strategic advantage the Russians and the Iranians hoped to gain by destroying a single city? Because the huge risks of sparking a total war never seemed to match up with any possible gain? This is the answer, Br’er Fox,” he argued. “A successful EMP attack carried out by hidden intermediaries lets Zhdanov and the nutcases in Tehran cripple us without giving themselves away. With millions dead or dying and our whole civilian economy in ruins, we’d have to turn inward—dedicating every ounce of our remaining resources trying to cope with the avalanche of disaster unfolding here at home.” His jaw tightened. “Sure, all our missiles, bombers, warships, tanks, and artillery would be untouched . . . but so what? They’d be rendered effectively useless by the sheer magnitude of the domestic catastrophe we’d be facing. It’d take us decades to recover—decades with the Russians and their allies consolidating power in Europe, the Middle East, Africa, South America . . . hell, wherever they want to.”
Finished, he sat back, feeling suddenly exhausted. Even though he didn’t have any hard facts to back up his speculation, he was still as sure of this as he’d ever been about anything. And he absolutely needed the higher-ups in the Quartet Directorate to understand the magnitude of the threat they now faced. Four no longer had time to play it safe or to try to conserve scarce resources.
Laura Van Horn broke the uneasy silence. “Nick’s right,” she said flatly. “His hypothesis is the only one that fits all the data.”
Somberly, Fox nodded. “I agree.” He sighed. “Which makes our need to seize the Gulf Venture and that nuclear-armed missile it’s carrying that much more urgent.” He spread his hands helplessly. “Unfortunately, none of our leased satellite reconnaissance sweeps of the world’s oceans have turned up the tanker yet. We’re as much in the dark now as we were when we started looking.”
“It has to be heading for either the North Atlantic or the Caribbean,” Flynn said abruptly.
Fox stared at him. “Why there, and not the Pacific?”
“Because we have anti-ballistic missile interceptors based in Alaska and California,” Flynn explained, feeling more and more certain that he was right about this. “With just one shot in their quiver, the bad guys can’t risk watching their warhead blown out of space before it reaches its intended detonation point.” His fingers drummed on the table. “They have to launch their attack from where we’re most vulnerable. And that’s off the eastern seaboard.”
“The Navy’s Second Fleet has destroyers and cruisers armed with SM-3 interceptors,” Van Horn pointed out. In combination with powerful AN/SPY-1 Aegis Combat System radars, RIM-161 Standard Missile 3’s were designed to shoot down short- and intermediate-range ballistic missiles.
Flynn nodded. “Yep. And if those ships were deployed on a picket line with their radars energized and the crews on alert, they’d have a chance at making an intercept.” He shrugged. “But my bet is that most of them are swinging idly at anchor right now at Norfolk, or deployed somewhere else.”
“You’d win that bet,” Fox told him. “The Russians started a major fleet exercise in the Barents Sea about three weeks ago. The Navy responded by sortieing a large task force of our carriers and other warships into the Norwegian Sea for joint maneuvers with other NATO countries.”
“Man, those assholes Voronin and Zhdanov aren’t taking any chances, are they?” Flynn said bleakly. “They wave the red cape and off our admirals charge . . . in exactly the wrong direction.”
Fox grimaced. “So it appears.” He looked across the table at them. “Suggestions?”
“We have to gamble,” Van Horn told him. “We need to concentrate all of the Pléiades imaging satellite searches on the approaches to the Atlantic and the Caribbean.”
Flynn nodded. “Laura’s right. Focusing our satellite passes should roughly double our odds of spotting that oil tanker before it reaches its planned launch point.”
“If your guess is wrong, and the Gulf Venture is actually steaming toward the West Coast, re-tasking the satellites that way guarantees certain failure,” Fox warned.
“That’s so, and I wish like hell we had more options,” Flynn conceded. “But I’ve got an itchy feeling at the back of my neck that tells me we’re running out of time fast. So we can’t hold anything back in reserve,” he said forcefully. “We can’t split our limited resources trying to cover all the possible bases. Our only choice is to go all in . . . and we have to do that now.”
Thirty-Two
Headquarters, 42nd Rocket Division, Strategic Rocket Forces, Outside Nizhny Tagil, Central Russia
T Minus 6, a Few Days Later
Pavel Voronin sat beside Piotr Zhdanov in the back of the president’s armored black limousine. Other cars carrying plainclothes bodyguards were ahead and behind them. Several more wheeled armored personnel carriers packed with troops brought up the tail end of this convoy.
They turned off the highway and onto a narrow track that ran deeper into the surrounding forest. Studded tires crunched over snow and ice as the column of vehicles drove slowly along the winding trail. A quick thaw across this part of Russia a few days ago had been followed by one last freezing spring storm, leaving the trees sheathed in glistening coats of ice.
Two kilometers off the main road, they came out into a clearing. Razor wire-topped fences stretched in either direction. Patrols of soldiers in white winter parkas accompanied by dogs could be seen along the perimeter. As they approached the main gate of this isolated compound, the leading vehicles turned off the track and parked on the side, clearing the way for Zhdanov’s limousine to proceed alone.
The guards manning the gate pulled it open. They waved the big black car through without stopping it. Officially, the Russian president was not here, and so no records of this secret visit would be kept.
At the center of the compound, the limousine pulled up outside what appeared to be a simple forester’s hut. Bodyguards riding up front jumped out and opened the rear doors for Zhdanov and Voronin. When they emerged, a major waiting at the open hut door stiffened to attention. “Mr. President, welcome to the Forty-Second Rocket Division,” he said briskly. His eyes darted to Voronin and then just as quickly shifted away. Clearly, he’d been briefed against showing too much curiosity about the Russian leader’s civilian guest.
“Lead the way, Major,” Zhdanov ordered.
Obeying, the young officer ushered them into the hut. It was simply a concrete-floored shell designed to hide an elevator shaft that ran deep underground. Steel doors slid aside, revealing a waiting car. They filed in and waited while the elevator smoothly descended, carrying them nearly two hundred meters below the surface.
At the bottom, the doors rolled back, revealing a short, well-lit corridor. At the far end, another thick armored hatch opened into the missile unit’s battle management center. Above the entrance, Voronin noted the emblem of the Strategic Rocket Forces—a wreath-surrounded golden shield backed by two crossed arrows and an upright sword—along with its ominous motto: “Posle nas—tshina.” “After us—silence.” A wry smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. The phrase seemed particularly appropriate, given the role this unit was slated to play in MIDNIGHT.
After he and Zhdanov passed through it, the armored hatch silently swung shut and sealed behind them, leaving their staff escort outside in the corridor. Consoles equipped with computers, displays, and secure communications links lined each of the battle management center’s two stepped tiers. In the middle of the lower tier, a single long table faced a theater-sized screen. A small group of senior officers stood there waiting for them. All of the other workstations were empty. Knowledge of the MIDNIGHT targeting plan was restricted to a tiny inner circle of the 42nd Division’s leadership.
Voronin noted how Major General Konstantin Rezanov, the rocket division’s rail-thin commander, carefully avoided making eye contact with him—instead focusing all his attention on Zhdanov. He concealed his amusement. Rezanov and all the others in this room had already accepted generous compensation from the Raven Syndicate for their part in MIDNIGHT. Pretending not to know their real paymaster wouldn’t fool anyone for very long, least of all the president—especially since Voronin had been careful to secure the older man’s approval for his bribes to active duty military officers. After all, he had no real need to work behind Zhdanov’s back, not for this enterprise anyway.
He took the chair he was offered and studied the large central screen. At the moment, it showed the current locations of the twenty-seven road-mobile RS-24 Yars ICBMs controlled by the 42nd Rocket Division. The huge sixteen-wheeled launchers transporting these missiles were dispersed throughout the surrounding forests. Every RS-24 carried four independently targetable 300-kiloton nuclear warheads, each twenty times more powerful than the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima.
Once they were all settled, Zhdanov turned to Rezanov. “Let’s not waste more time on meaningless pleasantries, General.” He smiled coldly. “This is a war briefing, not a social call. And I want to be back in Moscow before anyone important notices that I’m gone.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Rezanov acknowledged. He darted a glance at the most junior officer in the room, a colonel. “Run the targeting program, Mikhail.”
The colonel keyed in a sequence of commands at his console. Immediately, a new image appeared on the central screen—a detailed digital map of Iran. Color-coded icons representing important cities, nuclear weapons and missile research sites, Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps bases, military airfields, and oil production and storage hubs dotted this map. One by one, dozens of these icons blinked red. “New coordinates have been locked into the multiple warheads aboard fourteen of this division’s ICBMs,” Rezanov confirmed. His voice held no discernible emotion except a cool professionalism.
The screen split, continuing to show the map of Iran on one half, while shifting back to a display of the positions of the fourteen RS-24 missiles on the other. “Upon receipt of your coded order, UNLOCK MIDNIGHT,” the general continued, “these fourteen ICBMs will execute a simultaneous launch.”
Echoing his words, the symbols representing the selected RS-24 missiles blinked yellow and began moving along arcs which illustrated their planned trajectories—hurtling southward at more than 24,000 kilometers an hour. They vanished off the edge of the digital map of central Russia, and instantly reappeared on the map of Iran. All fourteen ICBM icons divided into four new tracks each, representing the fifty-six separate warheads now fanning out toward their designated targets. One by one, they reached a red-outlined icon and vanished, leaving only a glowing dot. “Approximately seven minutes after launch, our weapons will begin detonating—some in the sky over soft targets like cities, and others, earth penetrators, deep inside heavily protected underground complexes,” Rezanov said. “Within ten minutes, our nuclear strike will have completely obliterated Iran’s radical Islamic government, military forces, oil industry, and advanced weapons research facilities.”
