“Has this been authenticated?” General Matuchek asked, unbelieving.
Canadian Lt. Gen. Jonathan Honeycutt, NORAD vice commander, slowly nodded his head. “I’m afraid so, J.B.”
“Prepare for imminent strike?” Matuchek asked Honeycutt. “I don’t understand, John. Are the Soviets preparing to strike us, or are we going to launch a preemptive strike on Russia?”
“We,” Honeycutt paused, looking left and right, “are going to launch a first-strike, all-out effort.”
Matuchek turned pale, gripped the side of his command console, then slowly sank into his chair.
“What the hell is going on here?” the NORAD commander absently asked his vice commander. “Have they gone insane at the White House?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know, J.B.,” Honeycutt responded, glancing at the Top Secret Nuclear message in his hand. He read it again. “All we can do is comply. It is authenticated. White House, Presidential.” Honeycutt placed the message folder on the console in front of Matuchek. “We’re about to hit the marbles, I’m afraid,” Honeycutt said in a halting voice.
Matuchek placed his head in his hands. “Read it to me again, John.”
Honeycutt picked up the red folder, put his glasses back on, then read the Top Secret message to his boss.
021745ZFEB
TOP SECRET NUCLEAR
FROM:
WHITE HOUSE. COMMANDER IN CHIEF AK42766/57CC
TO :
CINCSAC
SUBJ :
NUCLEAR PREEMPTIVE STRIKE — SOVIET UNION
REF :
JCS OPTIONAL STRIKE CRITERION
INFO :
CINCNORAD
CINCTAC
1. NUCLEAR PREEMPTIVE STRIKE TO SOVIET UNION SCHEDULED 021820ZFEB. EXECUTE PRIORITY ONE TRACKING AND TARGET ACQUISITION. MANDATORY CONFIRMATION ALL COMMANDS.
2. IMPLEMENTATION SUITABILITY VERIFIABLE AT 021815ZFEB. VALID AUTHENTICATION AT 021819ZFEB.
3. THIS IS NOT AN EXERCISE.
Matuchek rubbed the back of his neck, then slowly stood up from his console. “Have the field commanders submit their status reports every five minutes, John.”
“Yes, sir,” Honeycutt responded quietly, reaching across to his phone.
“Oh, God,” Matuchek said, suffering from acute anguish, “Alice has no idea.”
The NORAD commander was oblivious to the frantic activity taking place around him. Frightened faces looked up at the two generals, then to the twenty-four-hour clock over the status boards.
The Trident II fleet ballistic missile submarine, ninety-seven nautical miles due east of Karaginskiy Island, Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, cruised silently at a depth of four hundred feet.
The submarine was operating as the right flank of the carrier task force headed by the USS Constellation. The aircraft carrier, on full alert, had been flying sorties around the clock.
“Ken,” Capt. Mark McConnell said to his executive officer, Cmdr. Ken Houston, “have the officers and Chief Booker report to the wardroom.”
“Yes, sir,” Houston replied, simultaneously flipping the overhead PA switch. “This is the executive officer. Captain McConnell requests all officers and the chief of the boat to report to the wardroom, on the double.”
The captain and his XO sat in stunned silence as the officers and Booker hurried into the wardroom.
“Ken,” McConnell said quietly, “have the stewards go to the general mess, then secure the hatch when the last man is out.”
“Aye aye, skipper,” Houston replied, stepping into the galley.
“Sit down, gentlemen,” McConnell instructed in a subdued, almost inaudible voice.
Houston stepped back into the wardroom, dogging the hatch behind him. “All secure, sir.”
McConnell nodded his head in acknowledgement, then spoke to the assembled men. “Gentlemen,” McConnell started slowly, “I have a message — an order, if you will — from the president of the United States. Our commander-in-chief.”
The captain looked around the table at the blank expressions. The officers knew something strange was about to take place. McConnell was more serious than anyone had ever seen him.
“I’m going to read it to you.” McConnell looked down at the message, then back to his officers. “Then I will take questions, one at a time, beginning with Lieutenant Commander Lewandowski, proceeding clockwise around the table.”
When McConnell finished reading the shocking message there was a look of bewilderment on every face gathered around the table.
“We took an oath in order to join this service,” McConnell said. “We have been ordered, by our commander-in-chief, the president of our country, to strike the Soviet Union with every available missile on board. I don’t know why, or what provocation brought this about….”
McConnell waited a few seconds before continuing. “Does anyone in this room have a problem — any problem with our orders? The orders I have to carry out?”
No one uttered a sound. The officers were speechless, each trying to grasp the magnitude of the message.
“Actually,” McConnell placed the message on the table, “you know as much about it now as I do. The strike is scheduled within the hour.”
The engineering officer, Lt. Cmdr. Samuel Woolf, indicated he had a question.
“Sam?” McConnell responded.
“Skipper, what about the men? Are you going to inform them?” Woolf looked anxious, not sure what to expect after the stunning news.
“Yes, absolutely,” McConnell responded. “After you return to your duty stations, I’ll make the announcement. If we have any dissenters, or individuals who have philosophical differences, they will be placed in confinement until further notice.”
McConnell looked at the shocked officers. “If there are no further questions, you are dismissed.”
The group rose to their feet, confusion written on every face. The shocking order, along with the consequences, were difficult to understand in such a short time frame.
McConnell turned to his XO as the officers and Chief Booker filed out of the wardroom. “Well, Ken,” McConnell said with sadness in his eyes, “the unthinkable is going to happen in forty-three minutes. Our world, as we knew it when we left port, is going to be changed forever.”
Houston didn’t respond. He couldn’t trust his voice, or his emotions.
Chapter Twenty
The two F-15 pilots had eaten a snack and rested while their fighters were refueled. Their relief pilots had returned to Flight Operations for assignment to other aircraft. Air Force Maj. Enrico DiGennaro was not about to give up his fighter if the balloon went up.
Likewise, his wingman, Capt. William “Wild Bill” Parnam, wasn’t about to leave his flight leader. American fighter pilots had an unwritten contract. Breaching flight integrity was a cardinal sin, punishable by banishment from the brotherhood.
After a quick flight line brief, the fighter jocks were airborne again.
Climbing through thirty-eight thousand feet, Cobra One checked in with the Airborne Warning and Control System aircraft.
“Pinwheel,” DiGennaro radioed, “Cobra Flight is back with you.”
“Roger, Cobra,” the AWACS controller responded. “Switch to tactical suppress, ah, tango, romeo, alpha, seven.”
DiGennaro and Parnam were surprised. The AWACS secret tactical radio code, changed on a daily basis, was used only in the event of war.
“Roger, Pinwheel,” DiGennaro answered. “Copy tango, romeo, alpha, seven.”
“Affirmative,” the controller replied sharply.