“Primakov, what’s next?” asked the President.
“We wait…”
Langley, Virginia
“Looks like it’s sticking to the waypoints…,” observed Undersecretary Sarah McAllister.
“Yeah it’s no Transaero,” replied Jim Borland.
As it streaked across Siberia, the Tupolev reached the critical speed of Mach 1. If the thing was going to burn up and disintegrate, it had to be now.
“Any second now?” asked Doug from Brussels. He was once again being delivered in bits through GovChat.
“Yep… hey who’s that guy with the pornstache?” asked Sarah.
A post-soviet, pre-yuppie guy with a neat stache was seated next to Doug at his Brussels office.
“Ah… Tomas, he is the Lithuanian rep to NATO. He is cool.”
“Dude what the fuck… you can’t bring in born again type crazies into a live op. Are you insane?”
“Guys, guys Tomas is cool. He is NATO. Lithuania is NATO. We are all NATO. Plus we just sent a bunch of F-35s to Vilnius. We cool.”
“That’s not how things work,” protested Sarah.
“Yeah man, this is so uncool. You are going to have to check his anal cavity now,” said Jim, who had just cleared his psych eval after the Clowning incident.
“Get outta here. No way. I have known him for years.”
“Alright, you dump the guy or we are cutting you out of this.”
“And I just filed an ‘abusing GovChat’ complaint with IT.”
“Whaaat… I thought this was an allied party, the Lithuanians are real concerned about Moscow. We even got doner kebabs…”
“Lose the weirdo, Doug. You got 10 seconds.”
“Seriously dongers…? Be a man and eat a pizza… pepperoni.”
“Fine,” said Doug as he grudgingly showed Tomas out of his office. All they heard back was repeated nyet-s and da-s.
The Tupolev-420 pushed past Mach 2.
Kremlin, Moscow
“Phase II,” said Korlov.
“Madam we need Antipin to guarantee that he will fire. We really need a few MIRVs… like I said decoys will do,” said Primakov.
“Of course Boris is on board. Aren’t you Boris?” asked the President.
“Yes Madam. We have everything ready,” replied Boris grudgingly. Launching MIRV rockets? With or without active warheads? Resistance was futile.
“Komsomolsk control hit the after burners.”
Langley, Virginia
“Holy shit.”
The Tu-420 suddenly lurched forward at an ungodly Mach 10.
“Fuck!!!! It just hit Mach 12.”
“Damn it, someone call NORTHCOM.”
The Tupolev raged past Mach 20… before it hit the magic Mach 24.
“Nooo. Mach 24 is ICBM territory. Anything at that speed they automatically do their thing.”
“Which is?”
“Fire a few anti-ballistic missiles. And if that doesn’t work, launch a few of our own MIRVs in retaliation.”
“Shoot the Tu-420 or missile… just veered off course. It’s heading stateside.”
“Fuck, I can’t believe the Russians are this dumb.”
Reindeer Station, Canada
Reindeer Station, located north of the Arctic Circle, was one of the Anti-Ballistic Missile (ABM) sites in Canada. After easily detecting the incoming missile, the unmanned ABM site responded with a barrage of Patriot missiles. Adhering to protocol the Reindeer Station then site sent out a coded message to NORTHCOM that read, “Yo, a Russian snitch was tryin’ to like sneak in. So we sent out a bunch of Patriots. Projected destination Portland.”
Langley, Virginia
“Patriots failed. I repeat Patriots failed. NORTHCOM just confirmed. The Patriots failed to intercept the intruder,” announced Sarah.
“Fudge ruckers. Now what,” asked Doug from Brussels.
“Umm… Evacuate.”
“Evacuate? That’s it? We got no other plays?” asked Sarah, furiously pacing the room.
“As humans, no. Machines, yes. Yeah, we will have to let the machines fight this out.”
Something chimed. It was NORTHCOM.
“NORTHCOM just launched a bunch of Minuteman missiles. Moscow, St. Petersburg, Volgograd get the first wave.”
“Machines?” asked Doug, still trying to locate the English section of the ICE instructions at Brussels.
“Yeah, either our ICBMs beat their ABMs or their ICBMs beat our ABMs”
“So there is still a chance?”
“Yeah no.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Coz of the Dead Hand Protocol.”
“What in the fuck is a Dead Hand Protocol?”
“Very simply, total mutual destruction… complete obliteration of whoever is left. I am sure there will be pockets of survivors. But please… I have zero intention of sampling post-apocalyptic hell holes. Werewolves, critters, rationed supplies… no tv, no internet… washing off in streams… scavenging Walmarts… forced breeding with ugly cousins… if they are hot its fine… but… still am not taking chances… fuck no… I had rather face an ICBM head on.”
Kremlin, Moscow
“Three MIRVs coming in fast. Unlike our unarmed Tupolev, these bitches are locked and loaded,” announced Korlov.
“I guess it’s time for the real Project Catie to stand up,” said Mueller with a fake evil laugh.
“Nope. We gotta wait,” said Primakov.
“Madam I got a bad feeling about this,” said someone in the room.
“Why wait?” asked the President. A cold sweat was soaking up her sweet back.
“We need more missiles Madam… more of their missiles. Antipin, your turn dude.”
Chief of Rocket Forces Boris Antipin swore under his breath.
Finally he asked, “How many?” He might have been asinine, but he clearly saw reason here.
“Whatever you got… whatever Russia has got… 100… 1000… 3000…?”
“Well since your request we have dusted up about 10,000. We have 500 in the Ukraine, 400 in Belarus, Kazakhstan has like 1000, and the other republics have 500. Cuba 100.”
“Terrific, let’s start with say… 300.”
Boris Antipin picked up a white phone and said “300”.
Primakov signaled to Mueller, “Mueller, 10 minutes.”
Thirty seconds went by as no one spoke.
Antipin’s white phone rang. “Yes…? Cool. Very cool. Now get into a bunker and sit tight.”
“Well?”
“315 missiles are out… they got excited. They haven’t done this in a while. They are even going after targets like Sioux Falls and Tacoma… ha-ha… small markets… no pro-teams.”
Tim Hortons, Canada
Back in the day, the US forces had buried several hundred Minuteman ICBMs among the corn fields. States in participation included the Dakotas, Nebraska, Wyoming, Missouri, and Iowa to name a few. In typical Soviet style the Comrades had copied and filled up the Steppe with their own missiles. The productivity of their collectivized farms had never recovered.
To match the Russian edge the US forces in turn had stolen something out of the Soviet playbook and ‘invaded’ Canada. In their week long quest to find appropriate farmland, the US army had stumbled upon the Canadian treasure — Tim Horton’s chain of restaurants. Its outlets were strategically placed all over Canada from Yellow Knife to Newfoundland and to the insecure and suffocating settlements all along the 49th parallel. With its large parking lots and constant power supplies, the Tim Hortons were an ideal location for placing nukes.