“We still haven't heard anything from Denver,” Fowler said, rubbing his eyes.
“I wouldn't expect much,” General Borstein replied.
NORAD's command post is literally inside of a mountain. The entrance tunnel had a series of steel blast-doors. The structures inside were designed to survive anything that could be aimed at them. Shock-absorbing springs and bags of compressed air isolated the people and machines from the granite floors. Overhead were steel roofs to stop any rock fragments that might be blasted free by a near-miss. Borstein didn't expect to survive an attack. There was a whole regiment of Soviet SS-18 Mod 4s tasked to the destruction of this post and a few others. Instead of ten or more MIRVs, they carried a single twenty-five-megaton warhead whose only plausible military mission was to turn Cheyenne Mountain into Cheyenne Lake. That was a pleasant thought. Borstein was a fighter pilot by trade. He'd started off in the F-100, called the “Hun,” by its drivers, graduated from there to F-4 Phantoms, and commanded an F-15 squadron in Europe. He'd always been a tactical guy, stick and rudder, scarf and goggles: kick the tires, light the fires, first one up's the leader. Borstein frowned at the thought. Even he wasn't old enough to remember those days. His job was continental air defense, to keep people from blowing his country up. He'd failed. A nearby piece of America was blown up, along with his boss, and he didn't know why or how or who. Borstein was not a man accustomed to failure, but failure was what he saw on his map display.
“General!” a major called to him.
“What is it?”
“Picking up some radio and microwave chatter. First guess is that Ivan's alerting his missile regiments. Ditto in some naval bases. Flash traffic outbound from Moscow.”
“Christ!” Borstein lifted his phone again.
“Never done it?” Elliot asked.
“Strange but true,” Borstein said. “Even during the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Russians never put their ICBMs on alert.”
“I don't believe it,” Fowler snorted. “Never?”
“The General's right,” Ryan said. “The reason is that their telephone system historically has been in pretty bad shape. I guess they've finally gotten it fixed enough—”
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. President, God is in the details. You send alert messages by voice — we do it that way, and so do the Soviets. The Russian phone system stinks, and you don't want to use a flukey system for orders of that importance. That's why they've been investing so much money in fixing it up, just as we have invested a lot in our command-and-control-systems. They use a lot of fiberoptic cable now, just like we do, plus a whole new set of microwave relays. That's how we're catching it,” Jack explained. “Scatter off the microwave repeaters.”
“Another couple of years, they'll be fully fiber-optic, and we wouldn't have known,” General Fremont added. “I don't like this.”
“Neither do I,” Ryan said, “but we're at DEFCON-TWO also, aren't we?”
“They don't know that. We didn't tell them that,” Liz Elliot said.
“Unless they're reading our mail. I've told you we have reports that they've penetrated our cipher systems.”
“NSA says you're crazy.”
“Maybe I am, but NSA's been wrong before, too.”
“What do you think Narmonov's mental state is?”
As scared as I am? Ryan wondered. “Sir, there's no telling that.”
“And we don't even know if it's really him,” Elliot put in.
“Liz, I reject your hypothesis,” Jack snapped over the conference line. “The only thing you have to support it comes from my agency, and we have our doubts about it.” Christ, I'm sorry I ever took that report in, he told himself.
“Cut that out, Ryan!” Fowler snarled back. “I need facts, not arguments now, okay?”
“Sir, as I keep pointing out, we do not as yet have sufficient information on which to base any decision.”
“Balls,” the Colonel next to General Fremont said.
“What do you mean?” CINC-SAC turned away from the speaker-phone.
“Dr. Elliot is right, sir. What she said earlier makes sense.”
“Mr. President,” they heard a voice say. “We have a Hot Line transmission coming in.”
PRESIDENT FOWLER:
WE HAVE JUST RECEIVED A REPORT THAT A US ARMY UNIT IN BERLIN HAS ATTACKED A SOVIET UNIT WITHOUT WARNING. CASUALTIES ARE REPORTED SEVERE. PLEASE EXPLAIN WHAT IS HAPPENING.
“Oh, shit,” Ryan said, looking at the fax.
“I need opinions, people,” Fowler said over the conference line.
“The best thing is to say that we have no knowledge of this incident,” Elliot said. “If we admit knowledge, we have to assume some responsibility.”
“This is a singularly bad time to lie,” Ryan said forcefully. Even he thought he was overdoing it. They won't listen to you if you shout, Jack, boy…
“Tell that to Narmonov,” Elliot shot back. “They attacked us, remember?”
“So the reports say, but—”
“Ryan, are you saying our people lied?” Borstein snarled from Cheyenne Mountain.
“No, General, but at times like this the news is chancy, and you know that as well as I do!”
“If we deny knowledge, we can avoid taking a stand that we might have to back down from, and we avoid challenging them for the moment,” the National Security Advisor insisted. “Why are they bringing this up now?” she asked.
“Mr. President, you used to be a prosecutor,” Ryan said. “You know how unreliable eyewitness accounts can be. Narmonov could be asking that question in good faith. My advice is to answer it honestly.” Jack turned to Goodley, who gave him a thumbs-up.
“Robert, we're not dealing with civilians, we're dealing with professional soldiers, and they ought to be good observers. Narmonov is accusing us of something we didn't do,” Elliot countered. “Soviet troops do not initiate combat operations without orders. Therefore, he must know that his accusation is false. If we admit knowledge, we will appear to admit his charge is true. I don't know what game he's playing — whoever that is at the other end of the line — but if we simply say we don't know what he's talking about, we buy ourselves time.”
“I strongly disagree with that,” Jack said, as calmly as he could manage.
PRESIDENT NARMONOV:
AS YOU KNOW, I AM MAINLY CONCERNED WITH EVENTS WITHIN OUR OWN BORDERS. I HAVE AS YET NO INFORMATION FROM BERLIN. THANK YOU FOR YOUR INQUIRY. I JUST ORDERED MY PEOPLE TO CHECK INTO IT.
“Opinions?”
“The bastard's lying through his teeth,” the Defense Minister said. “Their communications system is too good for that.”
“Robert, Robert, why do you lie when I know you are lying…?” Narmonov said, his head down. The Soviet president now had his own questions to ask. Over the past two or three months, his contacts with America had grown slightly cold. When he asked for some additional credits, he was put off. The Americans were insisting on full compliance with the arms-reduction agreement, even though they knew what the problem was, and even though he'd given Fowler his word face-to-face that everything would be done. What had changed? Why had Fowler retreated from his promises? What the hell was he doing now?
“It's more than just a lie, more than just this lie,” the Defense Minister observed, after a moment.
“What do you mean?”
“He has emphasized again that his interest is in rescue of casualties in the Denver area, but we know he has placed his strategic forces on full alert. Why has he not told us of this?”
“Because he is afraid of provoking us…?” Narmonov asked. His words seemed rather hollow even to himself.