Andrew Watts
Overwhelming Force
Shall we expect some transatlantic military giant, to step the Ocean, and crush us at a blow? Never! All the armies of Europe, Asia and Africa combined, with all the treasure of the earth (our own excepted) in their military chest; with a Buonaparte for a commander, could not by force, take a drink from the Ohio, or make a track on the Blue Ridge, in a trial of a thousand years.
There are not enough Indians in the world to defeat the Seventh Cavalry.
1
“When did this happen?” The president’s eyes twitched with fatigue as he read the update on his secure tablet. He frowned and handed it back to his chief of staff.
“Twenty minutes ago, Mr. President.”
They walked quickly through the second-floor hallway of the West Wing. It was late. Past midnight. But no one would be getting any sleep tonight.
“And we’re sure about this? There’s no way this is a mistake? A military drill? Communications mix-up? Anything?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“North Korea invading the south. Son of a bitch, I can’t believe they actually did it. Why now?”
Two Secret Service agents escorted them into an elevator. They plunged down several levels below the earth’s surface. President Griffin arrived in PEOC a few moments later.
The Presidential Emergency Operations Center was alive and bustling. Filled with senior national security staff who had for weeks been warning him of an impending crisis in Asia. The military officers and career defense officials looked like the president felt: tired.
And worried.
“What’s the latest?”
“Sir, in the past few minutes we’ve received word that US military assets near Japan have been attacked by air strike. Various reports of satellite and electronics outages. We’re attempting to get updates, but most communications are disrupted.”
“Japan?” President Griffin frowned. “Why would…?”
One of the military officers in the room looked up from his laptop. “General, Thule is down.”
“Thule?”
The officer nodded. “Just happened. STRATCOM is trying tertiary methods of comms now, but… they say their satellite-based detection systems aren’t responding either. This information is about two minutes time-late.”
The president’s chief of staff whispered, “They’re referring to ICBM early-warning systems. The Air Force has a base in Greenland — Thule. Between that base, a few others, and the satellite sensors, it’s how we would know of a nuclear missile launch.”
President Griffin watched the general who had been receiving this information. His eyes widened a bit. He stood up, checked his watch, and then nodded to the Secret Service agent standing in the corner of the room. The general cleared his throat and said, “SUNSET.”
The president was trying to shake the cobwebs off, wondering what the hell SUNSET meant, when the already-active room spun into overdrive. The Secret Service agents nearest the president each left their statuesque position near the wall and rapidly walked towards him.
“Mr. President, we need to evacuate you from the White House immediately.” One of the Secret Service agents physically pulled the president from his seat and stood him up, walking him towards the door.
The president said, “The First Lady—”
“She’ll be evacuated as well, sir. We’re at SUNSET.”
The president was rushed out of the room and up through a maze of stairs and hallways, with Secret Service agents spaced out along the way.
“Let’s go!” one of them called, eyes wide with adrenaline.
The next thing the president knew, he was heading towards the underground parking garage where the Secret Service kept its vehicles. The military officer who carried “the Football” had appeared and was now walking just behind him, looking tense.
The Football.
SUNSET.
SUNSET was the code word for one of the doomsday evacuation scenarios. While they had made him train for these situations, the president honestly couldn’t remember which one SUNSET referred to. It hadn’t seemed important at the time. Those national security drills were just a part of the job. Like a fire drill. An annoyance to be minimized in duration so that he could get back to the real meat of running the country.
“Which one is SUNSET?” the president asked the military man.
“Strategic attack on the continental United States. Missiles inbound.” The colonel’s voice was without fear or judgment. The latter would come from God, it seemed. The president suddenly felt dizzy. The thought occurred to him that he should not have had that third scotch this evening. He wasn’t supposed to drink with the blood pressure meds he was taking. Another thing that hadn’t seemed important until now.
“Who’s firing on us?” The president breathed heavily as he spoke. If a missile didn’t kill him, trying to keep up with these young Secret Service agents might.
The military aide responded, “I don’t have that information, sir.”
“And they’re firing at Washington?”
“We don’t know yet, sir. STRATCOM will give us an update soon.”
The president, his security detail, and the national security entourage made their way to the end of a long well-lit tunnel. President Griffin had heard about the maze of secret tunnels and bunkers underneath Washington, but he’d never been in this particular one. A set of double doors swung open ahead of them at the end of the tunnel. They walked through the doors and into an underground parking garage.
A column of dark SUVs stood with their engines humming, doors open. Two dozen Secret Service agents, weapons at the ready, stood at various locations along the garage driveway, scanning for threats and listening carefully for any commands coming from their earpieces.
President Griffin ducked into The Beast, the armored presidential limousine. The doors slammed shut and the train of vehicles accelerated forward.
“You’re sure my wife will be evacuated?” he asked the agent in the passenger seat.
“She’s being taken out of the area now, Mr. President.”
Wheels squealed through the sharp turns. The cars made their way up the ramp and onto the street in seconds. The president noted the face of one of the agents at the entrance as his car zoomed past. He had the oddest expression on his face: relief. My God, if there really are missiles inbound… they were leaving all of these men behind. The thought didn’t fit with the expression the agent wore.
SUNSET. Each of the agents would have heard the term in their earpiece and known what it meant. Doomsday. A high probability of nuclear-tipped missiles headed inbound towards their location. How long would they have? Thirty minutes? Yet this agent was relieved. For a moment, President Griffin couldn’t understand why. Then it occurred to him. The agent was relieved that his part of the job had been accomplished. Whether he lived or not.
“We’ll be at Air Force One within two minutes, Mr. President. The rest of your national security team will meet us there. We’ll evacuate to a secure location, away from any… from any potential target zones.”
“The vice president?”
“He’s being moved to a secure location.”
“What are DNI and State saying about this?”
“Sir, this just happened. We haven’t yet had time…”
There were two military men in the SUV. One monitored communications equipment. The other officer was the carrier of the Football — the bulky black apocalypse suitcase resting comfortably on his lap.
The officer manning the communications equipment was now wearing a headset, relaying information in a monotonous voice as if he were a computer program. “Nightwatch is airborne.” Pause. “We’re now at DEFCON 2.” Pause. “Confirmation that Guam is under attack.” Pause. He looked up at the president. “Mr. President, a National Event Conference has been activated and the National Military Command Center will be in communication with you shortly.” The NMCC was the Pentagon’s command and communication center for the National Command Authority. They were the ones that generated emergency action messages to the nuclear triad and to commanders in the field.