The Seventh Angel - Страница 38

Where possible, any strike option selected under this subsection should be preceded by and followed by diplomatic overtures to the government of the target nation. The content of such overtures should include language that discourages further aggression against the United States and/or U.S. allies, by implying or overtly declaring a willingness to escalate to a more robust nuclear response. For suggested language and further information, see the U.S. Department of State Recommendations outlined in Annex-D.

Again, the words were almost mind-numbingly banal. If this had been a routine government document, the president might have chalked up the monotonous writing to the self-importance of the bureaucratic mindset. But such cumbersome sentence construction and oblique word-choice probably had not occurred by accident.

In the nineteen-eighties, a political satirist had referred to the SIOP as ‘The Cookbook for Ending the World.’ That little slice of dark humor hadn’t gone over well in the corridors of military power, but — with all social and political niceties stripped away — that’s exactly what the SIOP was. It was the instruction manual for ultimate genocide. Every paragraph in the fat metal binder was monstrous, in both intent and in consequence. Every neatly-numbered option lead to incalculable human atrocity.

The military officers and government officials responsible for wordsmithing the plan had understood that. And they had known that some president might one day have to sit where Francis Benjamin Chandler was sitting right now, and issue orders that would kill massive numbers of people.

So they had buried the ugly truths behind tediously flat phrases, perhaps in the hopes of granting their president a sufficient amount of emotional distance to make decisions that no human being is equipped to make.

If that had really been their intent, it had worked, at least in part. President Chandler found that the semiotically-neutral language of nuclear warfare made it possible for him to consider courses of action that would have been unthinkable if they had been couched in more accurate terms. If he’d been required to utter words like slaughter, massacre, or incinerate, he could not have forced them out of his mouth.

The drafters of the Single Integrated Operational Plan had foreseen that particular hurdle, and they’d built a corrective mechanism directly into the document. Each nuclear strike option had been assigned a so-called brevity code, consisting of a single word paired with a numeral. By referring to an attack plan or a target list by its brevity code, the president and the National Command Authority could discuss options and give orders, while avoiding the kinds of words that trigger mental shutdown and emotional overload.

The brevity code for attacking suspected nuclear weapons facilities in Iran was Typhoon Three. The code for hitting every power plant and electrical distribution facility in North Korea was Castle Eight. The code for total destruction of every city in China was Zebra Two. And the brevity code for unrestricted thermonuclear war — the end of the world — was Angel Seven.

It was the supreme euphemism: the extermination of all human life, concealed behind a hopeful-sounding word and a randomly-selected numeral.

The president slammed the heavy binder shut with a great deal more force than he’d intended.

Angel Seven.

The code phrase stuck in his brain. Einstein had named it World War III. The bible called it Armageddon. The Vikings had known it as Raganarøkr, the Twilight of the Gods. But the Single Integrated Operational Plan called it Angel Seven.

He shoved the binder away from him. The answer, if there was one, was not hidden in the pages of the Cookbook for Ending the World.

He rubbed his eyes, took a breath, and looked up at the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “General Gilmore, keep us at DEFCON 1. Have STRATCOM and NMCC prepare a list of prioritized recommendations. Make sure your personal recommendations are on the top of the stack.”

He turned to his national security advisor. “Of course you’re right, Greg. We have to respond. We cannot spend the rest of our lives squatting in bunkers and waiting for Zhukov to drop the other shoe. I want a full strategy meeting in the Sit Room in two hours. Defense, Security, and State.”

He pointed at the geographic display screen, where the red arc of the Russian weapon still burned. “Whatever we do, our number one priority must be to destroy that missile submarine. We got lucky the first time. Zhukov only fired one missile. We threw everything we had at it, but we still didn’t get all the warheads. What happens if Zhukov launches ten missiles?”

The president stood up and pushed his chair back from the table. “We’ve got a maniac out there with a nuclear arsenal, and he’s already shown that he’s not afraid to use it. This is not going to end until we end it.”

He lowered his voice. “Or until that crazy bastard ends it for us.”

CHAPTER 28

OPERATIONS COMMAND POST #3

OUTSIDE PETROPAVLOVSK-KAMCHATSKI, RUSSIA

SUNDAY; 03 MARCH

1441 hours (2:41 PM)

TIME ZONE +12 ‘MIKE’

Sergiei Mikhailovich Zhukov, president of the newly-independent nation of Kamchatka and future premiere of the soon-to-be-restored Soviet Empire, rifled through the sheaf of news reports that his staff had downloaded from the Internet. The American press was so helpful — freely spreading information that Zhukov’s enemies should be keeping to themselves.

He flipped a page and smiled at a printed news photograph of smashed shop windows and battered-looking looters in handcuffs. There was pandemonium in the western states, especially California. The freeways were jammed. Businesses were in turmoil. Petrol stations were extorting ten dollars a gallon for gasoline, and bottled water and canned food were rapidly vanishing into the pockets of a burgeoning black market. Police and emergency services were being overwhelmed by a population that was rushing to escape the next barrage of nuclear warheads.

The missile launch had occurred less than three hours ago, and already opponents of the American president were criticizing their leader’s handling of the crisis. The bolder of them were calling for Chandler’s resignation, with a small but vocal minority demanding impeachment. One of the man’s more famous detractors had publicly announced that it was time for the Farm Boy President to go back to the farm. The media carried every second of the escalating controversy, and splashed it across newspapers, television screens, and Internet websites.

Such were the benefits of their so-called free press. The American news industry was not the voice of the common people as that country’s founding fathers had intended. It had become a self-important money-hungry conglomerate, peddling the worst sort of sensationalist garbage to the unknowing masses. And the people didn’t realize that things should be any different, because this filth-slinging gossip machine was all they’d ever seen.

Zhukov dropped the stack of reports on his desk. For all its shortcomings, the American media was becoming his best ally in this fight, exactly as he had planned.

Lenin had once written that one man with a gun can control 100 men without one. Well, the gun was in the hands of Sergiei Mikhailovich Zhukov now. And he was depending on the American news industry to tell the world exactly how lethal that gun was, and — more importantly — where it was pointed.

CHAPTER 29

WHITE HOUSE SITUATION ROOM

WASHINGTON, DC

SATURDAY; 02 MARCH

9:45 PM EST

White House Chief of Staff Veronica Doyle, took her seat to the left of the president’s chair. She leaned close to her boss. “Sir, I think we’re ready to begin.”

The president nodded toward the Chief of Naval Operations. “Admiral, you’re up.”

Admiral Robert Casey, slid back his chair and got to his feet, straightening his immaculate navy blue uniform jacket as he stood. He gave a respectful nod toward his Commander in Chief. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

The CNO swept his eyes over the mix of civilians and military personnel seated around the long mahogany table. To the president’s right, sat Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Army General Horace Gilmore, and Secretary of Homeland Security Becka Solomon. To the president’s left, were White House Chief of Staff Veronica Doyle, and National Security Advisor Gregory Brenthoven. On the admiral’s side of the table were Secretary of Defense Rebecca Kilpatrick, Secretary of State Elizabeth Whelkin, and Vice President Dalton Wainright.

The admiral picked up a small remote control and slid his thumb across a dial. The lights in the Situation Room dimmed, and a large projection screen slid out of the ceiling at the far end of the conference table. He pressed a button and a map appeared on the screen. The majority of the image was taken up by a large body of water, roughly rectangular in shape. The water was surrounded by landmasses to the north and west, by a dagger-shaped peninsula to the east, and by a narrow chain of islands to the south.

A black dot appeared on the eastern edge of the peninsula, near the southern tip of the dagger shape. A label below the dot identified it as Petropavlosk-Kamchatkskiy.

“Approximately four days ago, armed hostilities broke out in Petropavlosk, the capital city of Kamchatka. Our intelligence sources determined that the conflict was the opening stroke of a military revolution, led by Sergiei Mikhailovich Zhukov, the Governor of Kamchatka. Subsequent statements by Governor Zhukov confirm that he is attempting to break away from the Russian Federation, and establish Kamchatka as an independent and sovereign nation. Governor Zhukov has declared himself president of what he claims is now the country of Kamchatka. He has made it clear that he views this act as the first step toward reconstituting the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and the re-conquest of the former Soviet satellite countries.”