“I just need more information, more intelligence before I can make a decision affecting the future of this planet,” the president said, as much to himself as to anyone around the elaborate table.
“With respect, sir,” Wilkinson said in a soothing tone, “the next piece of information you receive will most likely be a Russian warhead penetrating the roof.”
“Goddamnit, Grant,” the president shouted, shocking the entire staff, “I need time, time to think this through and arrive at a logical conclusion.”
The room returned to silence, tension straining nerves to the breaking point. Fear began to grip the minds of the staff members.
“Sir,” Susan Blaylocke leaned over to the president, talking gently, “would you consider taking a short break?”
“No, Susan,” the president replied in a calm voice. “We need to resolve this. Now.”
Wilkinson started to speak, then fell silent as he saw the president raise his pencil and start pointing, running the pencil back and forth, at the chairman of the Joint Chiefs.
“Admiral,” the president began slowly, once again in control of himself, “the lives of millions of people, let alone the future of this country — the future of the world — are on the line.”
The president grabbed his pencil with both hands, holding it in front of his face. “You are convinced, along with the other military chiefs, that we have no other choice: we must launch a nuclear strike against the Soviet Union? You are totally, unequivocally, convinced this course of action is in the best interest of the United States?”
Chambers sat up straight, shoulders squared, and looked into the president’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”
SNAP!!
The broken pencil sounded like a rifle shot in the quiet, tense room. Every person in the room flinched or jumped nervously.
“Grant?” the president asked, holding both ends of the severed pencil.
“We have no choice!” Wilkinson exclaimed sharply, then replied quietly. “Mister President, I fully endorse the proposed preemptive strike. I will undoubtedly have nightmares for the rest of my life, but I have a responsibility. The choice has been made for us, sir, and that is a significant point. We must act to preserve our country and our freedom.”
“Susan?” the president bluntly asked his second-in-command.
“As painstaking as this is for me, for all of us, I agree with Grant and the Joint Chiefs, sir.”
“Cliff?” The president looked across the table at his secretary of defense.
“No other plausible choice, sir.” Howard cleaned his glasses, then replaced them on his nose. He adjusted the fit and met the president’s stare. “Time is running out, Mister President.”
“Herb?” the president placed the broken pencil pieces on the table, then looked at his friend, the secretary of state.
“You will have my resignation within the hour, Mister President.” Kohlhammer appeared saddened, as if he were grieving.
The president, surprise and pain written on his face, replied quietly, “I understand, Herb.”
“Thank you, sir,” Kohlhammer said in a low, dejected voice. “It has been a pleasure serving you these past years. I would never have dreamed that … I wish to be excused, Mister President.”
“Absolutely, Herb,” the president responded, standing to offer his hand. “Your efforts have been splendid, and I wish you every success in the future.”
“If we have a future,” Kohlhammer replied, shaking the president’s hand.
The remaining members of the staff stood in unison as the secretary of state left the room. Kohlhammer’s sudden resignation had surprised everyone. He had always taken a hard line with the Soviets in previous matters.
“Well, gentlemen, Susan,” the president said, still standing. “I wish I could resign, too. But I can’t do that, you see.” The president looked around the table before speaking again. “And do you want to know why?”
No one made a sound, not sure if the leader of the American people was in the process of becoming unbalanced under the strain.
“Because if I resign, my successor, the first female president of the United States, is going to step up and blast the Soviet Communist party off the face of the earth.”
Grant Wilkinson glanced at Blaylocke, then back to the president. “Sir, you—”
“Can it, Grant,” the president replied testily, “and start the plan in motion.”
Wilkinson turned to Chambers. “Admiral?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “We are prepared to execute the strike in minimal time.”
Zhilinkhov smiled slightly when his closest friend, and “Inner Circle” cofounder, Boris Dichenkovko, entered the massive room. The former Politburo member, followed by Minister of Defense and General of the Army Trofim G. Porfir’yev, approached the general secretary’s bed.
“You are feeling better, Viktor Pavlovich?” Dichenkovko asked, taking a seat in a large, stuffed chair next to Zhilinkhov’s bed.
“Da, much better,” the stricken leader replied slowly, haltingly. “Our wonderful news has strengthened me, my friend.”
“Yes,” Dichenkovko responded, looking up at Porfir’yev, then back to Zhilinkhov. “The spies have been killed.”
Aleksandr Pulaev and Yegoery Yevstigneyev joined the group. Their faces reflected apprehension.
“I told you,” Zhilinkhov said, slurring his words, “that everything would be … fine.”
“Yes, you did, Viktor Pavlovich,” Dichenkovko said without emotion. “Now, you must rest, my good friend.”
The general secretary attempted to smile again, but the result showed only on the right side of his face.
“No, comrades,” Zhilinkhov said in a strained voice, weakly motioning for the minister of defense to step closer. “Now we launch the strike … on the United States.”
Porfir’yev, unsure of how he should respond, looked to Dichenkovko for guidance. No one said a word.
Zhilinkhov’s cold eyes hardened. “Give the order, General Porfir’yev. This minute!”
Dichenkovko hesitated, then inhaled deeply. “Viktor Pavlovich, we must suspend our plan for—”
“Enough!” Zhilinkhov spat through clenched teeth. “You have your orders, General. Carry out my command, or you will be relieved this moment.”
Porfir’yev, pale and wide-eyed, again looked to Dichenkovko for help. Pulaev and Yevstigneyev turned aside, speechless. Dichenkovko remained quiet, avoiding the defense minister’s unspoken plea.
“General Secretary,” Porfir’yev said slowly, “as the ranking member of the Soviet armed forces, it is my duty to counsel you not to launch a strike at this ti—”
“The strike will be launched … now,” Zhilinkhov hissed, mustering his waning strength, “with or without you, General. Give the order, or I will have Colonel General Vranesevic place you in custody.”
Porfir’yev blanched, then stepped back in shock, his face contorted in rage. He paused, then found his voice. “The order will be carried out.”
Dichenkovko stood up and turned away from Zhilinkhov, slowly shaking his head in resignation. “Viktor Pavlovich, you—”
“Give the order!” Zhilinkhov threatened, lamely pointing his finger at Porfir’yev.
The defense minister walked across the room to the private communications console and picked up the handset. Porfir’yev tapped in the number to Marshal Nicholas Bogdonoff, then waited for the chief of the general staff to answer.
Porfir’yev stared out the window at the gently falling snow, then heard Bogdonoff’s aide.
“Porfir’yev. Give me General Bogdonoff.”
The defense minister glanced at Zhilinkhov, then back out the window. Eight seconds passed before Bogdonoff was on the line.
“General Bogdonoff, Porfir’yev. Launch the strike, Operation Galaxy. General Secretary’s orders. Launch the strike.”