In scores of tiny mole holes across the Soviet Union, pink-cheeked young officers of the Rocket Forces had no way of knowing the significance of the hour change. They waited, locked deep in the frozen earth with their SS-17’s and SS-19’s. A few sat with rockets designated SS-18’s. They were loaded with twenty-five-megaton warheads, the world’s largest—a weapon that would dig a hole, killing everything within a diameter of thirteen miles, igniting winter-dry shrubbery as well as children’s clothing twenty-five miles from its target. The young men sat nervously, their imaginations at work. Unlike the submarine crews, they were not yet sure of their role. But they would act, as surely as the submarines. Upon instruction, they would utter the final count: tri… dva… odin…pust! On the display boards in front of them, green lights marked with Cyrillic lettering would begin to flick rapidly: Enable Command… flick… Launch Command… flick… Launch in Progress… flick… Missile Away… flick.
World away.
Flick.
Aboard the Polar Bear, where two stragglers still struggled against the system, the system rebelled against the rebellious. In the B-52, buffeted violently just barely above seas far more angry than the serene depths in which the submarines roamed, the gyros functioned less well, as did the display lights. Torrential rains, whipped by the fury of the tropical storm, flooded through Halupalai’s escape hatch. Water pellets lashed into the sophisticated electronic jamming equipment at the rear of the topside compartment, jamming the equipment instead, shorting it out in sizzles and snaps that flashed like devils’ beacons in the murk.
Kazakhs turned off the equipment, and the navigational gear downstairs as well, both being useless to him anyway. But on the instrument panel in front of him, which he needed, the yellow lights began to sputter and fail too. The directional gyro went, as did the horizon gyro. So did various of their compasses and altimeters, as well as the fuel-flow indicator. They had almost two hundred gauges and switches, most of which were dead, malfunctioning, or simply lying. They had no idea if they were flying level or descending, although common sense told them the latter. At eye level in front of Kazakhs and Moreau the two green screens still shimmered, the trustworthy nose cameras probing ahead. But the images they fed back told the pilots nothing. They were computer-scrambled green visions of hell.
By no measure—neither the pilot’s percentage baseball nor the manufacturer’s stress guidelines—could the B-52 survive the punishment. It groaned and shrieked in protest. It fell hundreds of feet in downdrafts, belly-flopping into new air currents that racked human and aluminum bones alike, wrenching at arms, tearing at fragile wings more comfortable in the thin reaches of the stratosphere long since abandoned. After more than half an hour, Kazakhs and Moreau had no idea how high above the ocean they flew. Each time they bellied out, certain they had struck the swells, they bulled the aching aircraft back upward, or so they hoped, through the turmoil. They spoke only when necessary, but they acted as one now.
Kazakhs looked out the window. Through the sheets of water he could not see the wingtip. He could not see beyond the feeble gray outline of the nearest engine. Kazakhs glanced back at Moreau. She stared rigidly ahead, unaware of him, her face quietly intent.
“Fire in Number Three,” she said mechanically.
Kazakhs looked back out into the murk but saw no more where one of their inboard engines was giving out.
“Shut it down,” he said calmly. She already had done it.
The Librarian grinned broadly, the very audacity of his discovery giving him great satisfaction. The radio-room crew watched him strangely, finding no humor in their predicament. But to the colonel the others were not present. He had found a way to break through to the TACAMO planes, guaranteeing beyond any doubt that the submarines would fire. He congratulated himself for his relentless and unappreciated years studying the Soviets. It now had paid off so handsomely! He would contact the Navy command planes with the Russians’ own communications equipment! He chuckled aloud at the triumph, then paused for a moment, testing the wisdom of the idea. Would the Soviets catch on? Probably. Would their awareness make any difference? No. Could they stop him? Highly unlikely. His grin spread from ear to ear. He glanced at the clock. 2015.
Alice irritably ripped off the cigarette filter, concluding that John Kennedy had been all too correct: life is not fair. The Pall Malls were gone and the copilot had offered a Carlton—one of those infernally denatured weeds that threatened to give you a heart attack trying to inhale it. He dragged hard and looked out the cockpit window, furthering his irritation. The giant presidential command plane screamed through the thin air and dancing clouds ahead of them, always just beyond reach. He looked at his watch. 2016. The Looking Glass had lost its edge. There was no point in calling the President to tell him that.
The last amphetamine had jarred the Soviet Premier’s sensibilities into a jangled alertness again. He sat in the same chair and stared into his display screens. Under the artificial stimulus of the drug, the ICBM cursors appeared to throb rather than gleam, taunting him—Yoshkar Ola field ready, comrade; Zhangiztobe field ready, comrade. Zhangiztobe.
The Premier suddenly felt uncomfortable, a presence hovering near him. He looked away from the screen into the grim face of the new commander of the Rocket Forces.
“The silo doors are open,” the Premier said. He had no question in his voice.
“Yes, they are open.” The reply was sullen.
“They will fire if necessary.”
“It is quite a simple act, Comrade Premier.”
“Yes. And closing the doors also is simple?”
The general stared probingly into the Premier’s drawn face. He cocked his head, averting his gaze to the map without answering.
“Zhangiztobe,” the Premier said forlornly.
The general continued to stare into the map, unresponsive.
“General! Can we stop Zhangiztobe?”
The general turned slowly and looked at the Premier. The general was no fool. He could see the ravages of the man’s fatigue. He also could see the effects of the amphetamines and the occasional vodka. “Can the Americans stop their submarines?” he asked, a slight touch of hostility in his voice.
The Premier bristled, then snapped: “Comrade general, I do not need a Viennese psychiatrist answering questions with questions.”
“The rocket-base commander is not rational, comrade. His family is dead. Killed by the Americans. He is holding. I do not believe he will continue to hold if we order him to close his doors.”
“Not even if the American submarines are stopped,” the Premier said. It was not a question and it received no answer. He looked at the clock. 2017. “How many rockets remain at Zhangiztobe?”
“About forty, comrade.”
“With multiple warheads?”
“Most of them.”
“Their targets?”
“Petroleum facilities and ports.”
“But they can be retargeted? On site?”
“In minutes, Comrade Premier.”
“And to what targets?”