Two hundred meters down in the side of a West Virginia mountain, the lights were not meant to flicker. A239Pu megawatt generating plant, vented through a kilometer of piping to emerge on the other side of the hill, was immune to most external events. Lightning bolts did not strike transformers underground. Winds could not tear loose a line, since there were no lines in the open air. And then, tardily, the flickering colors on the base of the telephone all went out. A single red light flared, and the buzzer sounded. He picked up the phone and said, “Menninger.”
“Three missiles came in, sir — near misses. There’s no structural damage. Point of origin backtracks probably to near Sinkiang province. The city of Wheeling is out.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” he said. He was still coming up from his meditation, and so he did not look at his own situation panel, but he also did not stop to shower or shave. He rubbed deodorant on his armpits — French whore’s bath, but good enough — ran a brush over his hair, pulled on his coveralls and shoes, and walked briskly down the placid, beige-carpeted corridor to his command room. The situation map was alight from end to end. “Here’s your coffee,” said General Weinenstat. That was all she said. She knew his ways. He took the cup without looking at her, because his eyes were on the board. It displayed a Mercator projection of the earth in outline. Within it, bright red stars were targets taken out. Bright blue stars were also targets taken out, but on the wrong side: that was Washington and Leningrad and Buenos Aires and Hanoi and Chicago and San Francisco. Broken red profiles in the ocean areas of the map were enemy missile-launching vessels destroyed. There were more than a hundred of them. But there were also nearly sixty broken blue ones. Pulsating targets, red and blue, were major concentrations not yet destroyed. There were relatively few of them. The number decreased as he watched. Kansas City, Tientsin, Cairo, and the whole urban complex around Frankfurt ceased to exist.
The second cup of coffee was not medicine but comfort. He took a sip of it and then asked, “What’s their remaining second-strike capability?”
“Marginal, Godfrey. Maybe one hundred missiles operational within the next twenty-four hours, but we’re cutting that down all the time. We have almost eighty. And only two of our hardened installations are scratched.”
“Local damage?”
“Well — there are a lot of casualties. Otherwise, not bad. Surface contamination is within acceptable limits — inside shielded vehicles, anyway.” She signaled an orderly for a coffee refill and added, “Too early to tell about long-lived isotope capture, but most of the Corn Belt looks okay. So’s Mexico and the Pacific Northwest. We did lose the Imperial Valley.”
“So we’re not bad for now.”
“I would say so, yes, God.”
“For the next twenty-four hours. Then they can start to redeploy.” She nodded. It was a known fact that every major country had squirreled away missiles and components. They were not at ten-minute command like the ones in the silos or on the subs. They could not be launched by pushing a button. But they could not be taken out at long range, either, since you didn’t know where they were hidden. He added, “And we can’t look for them, because the satellite busters have half-blinded us.”
“We’ve all-blinded them, Godfrey. They don’t have an eye in orbit.”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” he said testily. “We’ve won the exchange. The damn fools. Well, let’s get to work.”
Menninger’s “work” was not directly related to the exchange of missiles that was remodeling the surface of the earth to a facsimile of hell. That was not his responsibility. It was only a precursor, like a friend’s retiring to the bathroom to fit in her diaphragm while he slouched, waiting, on the edge of the bed. She would not need his advice or his help at that stage, and neither would the Chiefs of Staff while the actual fire fight was going on. His involvement would be central immediately thereafter.
Meanwhile, one of the damn fools had finished the pro gramming and was trying to round up enough of a crew for the launch. It wasn’t easy. The neutron bomb had done just what ERW weapons were supposed to do — penetrated the carelessly scant meters of water and the steel tube of his submarine and knocked out most of the crew. The Libyan vice admiral himself had taken nearly five thousand rads. He knew he had only hours to live, but with any luck his target would have less than that.
Three hours’ sleep was not enough. Menninger knew that he was quick-tempered and a little fuzzy, but he had trained his people to know that too, and they made allowances.
At five-minute intervals the map disappeared and the likris screen sequenced itself through a round of ten-second displays: profiles of industrial capacity destroyed and remaining, curves of casualties, histograms of combat-effectiveness estimates. In the Ops Room next to God Menninger’s command post, more than fifty persons were working on overdrive to correct and update those figures. Menninger hardly glanced at them. His concerns were political and organizational. Rose Weinenstat was on the scrambler to the Combined Chiefs every few minutes, not so much to give information or to get it as to keep them aware, every minute, that the most powerful unofficial figure in government had his eye on them all the time. His three chief civilian liaisons were in touch with state governments and government agencies, and Menninger himself spoke, one after another, with cabinet officers, key senators, and a few governors — when they could be found. It was all US, not Fats; the rest of the Food Bloc was in touch through the filter of the Alliance Room, and when one of them demanded his personal attention it was an intrusion.
“He isn’t satisfied with me,” General Weinenstat reported. “Maybe you should give him a minute, Godfrey.”
“Shit.” Menninger put down his pen at the exact place on a remobilization order where he stopped reading and nodded for her to switch over.
The face on his phone screen was that of Marshal Bressarion of the Red Army, but the voice was his translator’s. “The marshal,” she said, sounding tinny through the scrambler, “does not question that you and the Combined Chiefs are acting under the President’s orders, but he wishes to know just who the President is. We are aware that Washington is no more, and that Strongboxes One and Two have been penetrated.”
“The present President,” said Menninger, patiently restraining his irritation, “is Henry Moncas, who was Speaker of the House of Representatives. The succession is as provided in our basic law, the Constitution of the United States.”
“Yes, of course,” said the translator after Bressarion had listened and then barked something in Russian, “but the marshal has been unable to reach him for confirmation.”
“There have been communications problems,” Menninger agreed. He looked past the phone, where Rose Weinenstat was shaping the words “in transit” with her lips. “Also,” he added, “I am informed the President is in the process of moving to a fully secure location. As the marshal will realize, that requires a communications lid.”
The marshal listened impatiently and then spoke for some seconds in rapid-fire Russian. The translator sounded a good deal more uptight as she said, “We quite understand, but there is some question of lines of authority, and the marshal would appreciate hearing from him directly as soon — hello? Hello?”
His image faded. General Weinenstat said apologetically, “I thought it was a good time to develop transmission difficulties.”