They helped her up the metal stairs and into the plane, and then up another short flight of steps to the E-4B’s main deck. From there it was just a few feet to the small, utilitarian office suite reserved for the National Command Authority. The aircraft’s cockpit was directly overhead, up on the modified 747’s flight deck.
Gratefully, Barbeau dropped into one of the suite’s big chairs. She fastened her seat belt with trembling hands and then laid them flat on the desk in front of her — battling the urge to scream and swear at her staff to move faster as they scurried aboard and found seats.
Outside, the aircraft’s four huge General Electric turbofan engines started spooling up.
Ten minutes later, they were airborne and climbing fast toward a cruising altitude of more than forty thousand feet. A uniformed Air Force officer, one of the battle staff permanently assigned to this command center, entered the compartment. “We’ve established secure links to Admiral Firestone and the NSC, Madam President.”
“Patch them through to here,” Barbeau ordered.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, leaning past her to flip several switches on the wall-mounted communications control panel above her desk. Its central video screen flickered to life, showing Firestone, the short, stocky chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, in his office at the Pentagon and Ed Rauch in the White House Situation Room.
She picked up one of the white secure phones; Cohen took the other. Barbeau took a deep breath. She knew that it was vital that she come across to these men as calm and in command. “Brief me on the situation,” she said tersely.
“We are now at DEFCON Three,” Admiral Firestone reported. “And we are ready to go to DEFCON Two on your order.”
Barbeau shook her head. “Let’s hold off on that for now, Admiral,” she said. Moving to DEFCON Two would significantly ratchet up the readiness level of the entire U.S. military — especially its remaining nuclear-armed and nuclear-capable air and naval forces. But it would also put the U.S. just two steps away from signaling a move to all-out nuclear war. She wasn’t ready just yet to take such a drastic measure, not without more information.
Ed Rauch spoke up. “The vice president is on his way to Site-R, Madam President.” Site-R was an underground alternate command and communications center at the Raven Rock Military Complex in Pennsylvania, not far north of Camp David. “He and his staff should be there in thirty minutes or less.”
Barbeau concealed a sneer. She’d chosen Raymond Summers, a former governor of Ohio, as her vice president for purely political reasons during her first presidential campaign. She’d counted on him to swing his home state’s electoral votes into her column. But that had turned out to be the absolute limit of his usefulness. Aside from an aptitude for glad-handing and spouting meaningless, folksy-sounding one-liners, Ray Summers had no real discernible leadership skills that she could detect. God help the United States if that fatuous moron ever lands in the Oval Office, she thought bitterly.
“There haven’t been any other raids against our bases here or overseas,” Rauch continued. “And we see no indications of any additional overt offensive moves by the Russians or by the People’s Republic of China. In fact, there are no signs that their conventional or nuclear forces are even moving to higher states of readiness.”
Barbeau felt cold. “You’re sure about that?” she demanded.
“So far, yes,” her national security adviser said. “Satellite imagery and NSA signals intercepts haven’t picked up any evidence of movement out of garrison by their major ground forces. The same thing goes for their warships and combat aircraft. At this point, all we’re detecting are routine air and sea patrols.”
My God, Barbeau thought in dawning horror. Her suspicions about the attack on Barksdale, wild as they had seemed to her at first, were being confirmed. After all, why would the Russians or the Chinese blow up an American air base and then stop there? It didn’t make any strategic or political sense for Moscow or Beijing to commit an outright act of war against the U.S. and then sit back on their hands — leaving their own troops, ships, and planes completely vulnerable to any counterstrike. Nobody but a fool or a madman would do something that dumb. And while neither Gennadiy Gryzlov nor Zhou Qiang, his Chinese counterpart, was especially stable, she couldn’t see either of them taking that kind of risk.
With an effort, she regained her focus. “What are your recommendations, Admiral?” she asked Firestone.
“Even if we hold at DEFCON Three for now, I strongly recommend moving elements of the fleet to sea, as a precautionary measure,” the chairman of the Joint Chiefs said. “Especially our ballistic missile submarines.” He grimaced. “Now that we’ve lost more of our long-range B-52 and XB-1F strategic bombers, those boomers represent most of what’s left of our deterrent force.”
“Absolutely not,” Barbeau said quickly. “If Gryzlov and Zhou aren’t putting their own military forces in motion, the last thing I want to do is trigger a dangerous round of escalation and counterescalation. We simply cannot afford to stumble into another pointless confrontation with the Russians or the Chinese.”
Which was probably just what the crazy bastard who’d orchestrated the strike on Barksdale Air Force Base hoped for, she realized abruptly.
“But we’re already under attack, Madam President,” Rauch protested.
She glared at him. “Tell me something I don’t damn well know, Dr. Rauch! I was standing right there when we got nailed. Remember?” That shut him up. Barbeau scowled. “It’s time to face the facts, gentlemen. We were not attacked by Moscow. Or by Beijing.”
“Then who—” Rauch wondered.
“It was that scumbag Martindale,” she said. “And his mercenary Iron Wolf Squadron.” She saw the disbelief on her national security advisor’s narrow, pallid face. Angrily, she snapped, “I saw his damned CIDs shooting the hell out of our planes. Those robots were there — as big as Death itself.” She gripped the secure phone tighter. She was not going to allow the dread those memories conjured up to show on her face or in her voice. Not in front of these men. Instead, she channeled her fear into fury. Her voice cut like a knife. “Do you know of anyone else out there with Cybernetic Infantry Devices besides Martindale’s Iron Wolf thugs, Ed?”
On the screen, Rauch visibly flinched. “No, ma’am,” he admitted.
“I didn’t think so,” Barbeau said, not bothering to hide her scorn. “And the cruise-missile strike that kicked the attack off is more proof of who’s responsible — as if we needed any.” She turned back to Firestone. “Do the Russians or the Chinese have any long-range stealth bombers, Admiral? Bombers that could have launched those missiles and evaded our radar?”
The chairman of the Joint Chiefs shook his head. “No, Madam President.” He looked thoughtful. “Both Moscow and Beijing are working hard to develop long-range stealth aircraft, but they’re not there yet.”
“Which leaves Martindale,” Barbeau said coldly. “And thanks to Sky Masters, he has a whole slew of manned and unmanned stealthy aircraft in his arsenal. And plenty of missiles to go with them.” She gritted her teeth. “Only now instead of using those weapons against the Russians, he’s turned them against us.”
Rauch frowned. “I can’t see what former president Martindale could hope to gain by destroying Barksdale,” he said cautiously. “It’s an act of treason. One we cannot possibly overlook or forgive. Why would he take that chance?”