“I know you’re right, sir,” the CO said sadly. “What bothers me at the moment isn’t global. It’s knowing half these kids won’t be returning to this deck … ever.”
The Minuteman II nuclear missile silo felt like a cold burial vault to Capt. Kevin Brostrom. He glanced over at his friend and fellow launch officer, 1st Lt. Teresa Kay Langenello.
“It’s authenticated and cleared,” Brostrom said in a shaky voice. “Stand by to insert keys.”
Langenello looked pale, almost chalky white. She paused a moment, reached into her breast pocket, extracted two pills, then swallowed both without benefit of liquid. The prescription tranquilizers would help her face the realities of the next few minutes. She was not the only launch officer who had the prescription.
The two officers, members of the 44th Strategic Missile Wing, had practiced this situation hundreds of times. They had grown accustomed to believing a real launch order would never happen. Their minds couldn’t cope with the destruction they were about to unleash.
“Insert keys,” Brostrom said in a weak voice. “Stand by to launch on command.”
Langenello responded to the order, crossed herself, then began praying quietly.
“Three minutes, Mister President,” Wilkinson reported in a halting, dry voice.
The president didn’t respond, staring morosely at the top of the table. He hadn’t said a word, or looked up, for over two minutes. The commander-in-chief of the United States appeared to be in a trance.
General Hollingsworth slowly turned his head, meeting the looks of General Vandermeer and Admiral Grabow, then glanced at Admiral Chambers, his immediate boss. “Steady,” was the only word out of the Marine’s mouth.
All eyes turned to the clock. Two minutes, forty seconds before the biggest tragedy in the history of mankind would begin.
The president choked, then suppressed a sob. “God, forgive me. I have no other choice. The choice … was made for me.…”
Wilkinson quickly moved to the side of the president. “Sir, you must rem—”
“Do you understand, God?” the president interrupted. “Oh, God, help us…. Oh, Lord, I’m sorry….”
Wilkinson took the president by the arm, not saying a word. He knew his friend and boss, the leader of a free America, was losing his grasp. He was breaking down under the strain of guilt.
“Launch the strike,” the president said weakly, collapsing in his chair. His mind, reeling in a haze, refused to comprehend the finality of his unprecedented command.
The shock and trauma of the situation engulfed the room as the president slumped, resting his face on the polished table.
Cliff Howard made the first move to comfort him. The rest of the staff stared at each other with fixed looks, slowly realizing the end — the final act — was irreversible.
The president, barely able to walk, was led out of the War Room to a heavily fortified underground bomb shelter. His staff, with the exception of the Joint Chiefs, accompanied him to the reinforced quarters.
As the entourage reached the bunker area, an aide, out of breath, rushed down the corridor.
“Yes, Colonel,” Wilkinson said, holding the shaking president by the arm.
“Sir,” the senior White House aide said breathlessly, “Moscow is on the hot line!”
“What?” Howard replied, shock registering on his face. “Couldn’t be this soon.”
The aide ignored Howard as he addressed the commander-in-chief. He could see the president was pale, but he was clearly in charge of the White House.
“Sir, the Soviet general secretary is dead! The message said the acting general secretary implores us to downgrade our alert status. They are de-escalating their military posture at this time. They want to speak with the president — with you, sir — immediately!”
The news stunned the president and his staff. The gravity of their blunder was only beginning to register in their minds. No one spoke as they stared, transfixed, at the breathless aide.
“Zhilinkhov passed away about ten minutes ago, and the acting secretary wants—”
“Oh, Christ in Heaven!” Wilkinson exploded. “The chiefs don’t know!”
Wilkinson raced down the hallway, almost falling as he rounded the corner leading to the War Room. The short distance seemed like miles to the panicked man.
General Hollingsworth, Marine Corps commandant, looked at the wall-mounted twenty-four-hour clock, then picked up the red phone. “Delta One Strike. I repeat, Delta One Strike. Presidential authority. Launch all missiles. Launch all missiles. Condition One Sierra. I repeat, Condition One Sierra. Code Able.”
Hollingsworth caught the eye of Admiral Chambers, who nodded yes.
“Authentication,” Hollingsworth continued, “Baker, Tango, Victor, one, niner—”
“STOP, GODDAMNIT,” Wilkinson shouted, gesturing wildly with his arms. “Cancel the order. Cancel the strike!”
Hollingsworth hesitated a fraction of a second, uncomprehending.
“NOW,” Wilkinson yelled. “Cancel the goddamn strike!”
“Cancel, cancel,” Hollingsworth shouted into the phone as the other chiefs stared in shocked relief.
“Cancel the strike. All commands reply immediately. Repeat. Cancel the strike, per presidential order.”
EPILOGUE
The cold, bundled-up tourists walking along Pennsylvania Avenue had not the slightest inkling their lives had been spared by a measure of seconds. Their futures would not end in thirty-five minutes. Washington, District of Columbia, would not become a smoldering mass of uninhabitable rubble.
Cameras clicked in the frosty air, children played in the snow, and businessmen bantered over martinis, oblivious in their naiveté.
Thus, on a cold day in February, the beginning of an end, as civilized people, had come precariously close. The unthinkable had almost happened.
Millions of innocent people, in Russia and North America, would continue to enjoy their lives on the planet Earth, unaware of the fragility of their existence.
The order to rescind the preemptive nuclear strike against the Soviet Union halted all the major missile launches. However, preparatory measures to neutralize Russian submarines, fighter aircraft, bombers, surface ships, and early warning radar installations had commenced two minutes before the scheduled strike. A number of skirmishes escalated until the “cease-fire” order was communicated to on-site commanders.
The United States military, after assessing the damage reports, had lost three submarines and four surface ships. A final tally listed an additional thirty-one aircraft destroyed, including two B-2 Stealth bombers.
Soviet losses included seven submarines, two surface ships, and over sixty-five aircraft destroyed.
An extreme state of readiness remained in effect for seventy-two hours. The global tension rippled through every country, sending the economic balance into an upheaval.
Three weeks after the aborted nuclear strike, the Trident II submarine USS Tennessee, heavily damaged, limped into the port of San Diego, California. Three members of her crew had been buried at sea off the Hawaiian Islands.
The operative known as Dimitri, along with the crew of Scarecrow One, autorotated onto their rescue ship. The S-70 had run out of fuel as Buchanan slowed to flare the Night Hawk over the ship’s deck. The gunship was destroyed, but the crew, along with Dimitri and Steve Wickham, survived.
Wickham endured a lengthy and grueling recuperative process, aided by daily visits from his friend Dimitri, before returning to full duty with the Central Intelligence Agency.
The president of the United States worked tirelessly with the British prime minister, along with other heads of state, to reach meaningful agreements with the Soviet leaders. He convinced the new Communist party general secretary that it would be in everyone’s best interest to have semiannual summit meetings at alternate sites. The twice-a-year gatherings proved to be beneficial to all the participants, and helped establish the president’s tenure as one of strong, aggressive leadership.