The Seventh Angel - Страница 73

Without computers and flight controls, the 737 ceased to be an aircraft, and became a hurtling collection of unflyable parts. It tumbled out of the air and plowed into a suburban neighborhood, gouging a flaming path of destruction through the homes of the sleeping residents. The aircrew, their eighty-five passengers, and the occupants of the mangled and burnt houses became the first human victims of nuclear attack in nearly three-quarters of a century. But the carnage was just beginning.

The atomic bomb that had devastated the Japanese city of Hiroshima in 1945 had yielded an explosive force of 13 kilotons. The warhead that struck Oahu on the morning of March the 7th was more than fifteen times as powerful.

Two hundred kilotons of nuclear energy were converted to nearly a billion megajoules of radiant heat. Thermal radiation burst outward from ground zero in an expanding wave that burned people, buildings, animals, plants, and vehicles with equal efficiency. The firestorm swept through Naval Station Pearl Harbor, and the surrounding communities of Pearl City, ‘Aiea, and Waipahu, searing everything and everyone in its path.

Gamma rays, neutrons, and x-rays shot out from the center of the chain reaction, bombarding everything in the area with lethal ionizing radiation.

Less than a second behind the thermal front came the shock wave, lashing out with the explosive force of 440 million pounds of TNT. Anything not already incinerated by the firestorm was ripped apart, or pulverized by the monstrous overpressure of the mechanical wave front.

Again the Naval Station and the surrounding cities were hammered by a destructive force that nothing and no one could withstand. Miles upon miles of buildings were crushed into powder or torn into minute fragments. Vehicles fluttered through the air like leaves in a hurricane. Roofs were peeled away; walls imploded; steel melted; stone shattered; and concrete crumbled. Airplanes and helicopters were swatted out of the air. Telephone poles, mailboxes, guardrails, fence posts, bodies, dirt, and broken window glass all became part of the roaring maelstrom of debris.

At two-thirty in the morning, the manning level of the naval base was at its low point. Slightly less than a thousand civilians and military personnel were on the base when the bomb exploded. Not one of them survived.

Eighty-percent of the residents of Pearl City, nearly 30,000 people, were dead or dying within five seconds of the blast. The adjoining towns of Waipahu and ‘Aiea were burned to cinders and smashed flat, killing another 40,000 people within seconds.

The hypocenter of the explosion occurred over the harbor itself. Thousands of tons of water were flash-vaporized, forming steam and radioactive water droplets that recondensed and drizzled from the sky like poison rain.

The rapid formation of super-heated low-density gases at low altitude created a Rayleigh-Taylor instability. An enormous volume of hot gas rose rapidly, causing turbulent vortices to curl downward along the outer perimeter of the rising column. Fire, smoke, dirt, debris, and water vapor were drawn upward by the same principle of physics that causes hot air to rise up a chimney.

The column of gas and debris became the stem of the infamous cloud formation. It continued to rise until it reached an altitude where the surrounding atmospheric pressure became lower than the pressure inside the column. The gases ballooned outward, forming a bulbous cap at the top of the column.

For the third time in the history of the species, the mushroom cloud rose above the cities of man.

CHAPTER 58

WHITE HOUSE

PRESIDENTIAL EMERGENCY OPERATIONS CENTER

WASHINGTON, DC

THURSDAY; 07 MARCH

9:38 AM EST

“The casualty figures are coming in now, sir,” the Secretary of Homeland Security said. Becka Solomon looked much older than her thirty-nine years. She was immaculately dressed, as always, but her face was haggard and the circles under her eyes were deep. Hers was a tough job during the most peaceful of times. It was a nightmare now.

Her political career wouldn’t survive this, President Chandler knew. And there was no justice in that. She was doing a good job of coping with the emergencies that had been tossed into her lap, and her advanced planning had been excellent. She was intelligent, forward-thinking, and genuinely dedicated. She was also not afraid to admit her mistakes, which was a rarity in political figures of any stripe.

Of course, the critics would ignore all of that. When the witch hunt started, if it hadn’t started already, the political opposition would scream that she hadn’t been prepared for Pearl Harbor, or the panic on the West Coast. As though anyone could have foreseen events that far outside the scope of human experience.

The president’s eyes were drawn to the wall-sized geographic display screen. It was blank now. No curving red trajectory lines. No incoming nuclear missiles. No escalation to doomsday. And yet, the damage had been quite awful enough.

He nodded. “How bad is it?”

“It’s pretty bad, Mr. President,” Secretary Solomon said. “The initial estimate is about 70,000 dead, about 20,000 injured, and an unknown number of cases of radiation exposure. We’re working with FEMA and the National Weather Service to calculate fallout footprints. We’ll be issuing radiation warnings in the affected areas, and we’ll need to initiate quarantine protocols. That will help us save some lives, but it’s still going to be ugly. If we handle everything properly, we’ll see something like 140,000 more deaths over the next five years from leukemia, cancer, and various long term side effects of radiation. If we mismanage the casualty response and cleanup, it’ll be a lot worse than that.”

Becka Solomon sighed. “The hospitals are overwhelmed, of course. The Secretary of the Navy is calling in the hospital ships USNS Mercy and USNS Comfort. The Mercy is fairly close; she’ll be on station in a couple of days. The Comfort is in the Caribbean so she’ll take several more days. In the meantime, the Coast Guard is …”

Her voice trailed away as she apparently realized that she didn’t have the president’s attention.

He was staring at the blank screen again.

“You’ve got a full Homeland Security briefing scheduled at one o’clock, Mr. President. We can go over the rest of this then. I just wanted to get you the early casualty figures.”

The president nodded. “Thank you, Becka.”

He was still looking at the screen when she left the room, but that wasn’t what was on his mind. He was thinking about the Single Integrated Operational Plan again.

Like it or not, he was going to have to order a retaliatory nuclear strike against Kamchatka. There really wasn’t any other option. America’s allies and enemies were both watching carefully, waiting for the U.S. response. If he allowed a foreign leader to nuke an American city and didn’t retaliate, the credibility of the nation’s nuclear deterrence would evaporate. He might as well declare open season. Every nutcase on the planet would decide that America was too weak or too frightened to defend herself.

That could not be allowed to happen. He had to stop the next punch before it was thrown. And that meant sending an unambiguous message to the enemies of the United States that America could not be attacked with impunity.

He had to answer Zhukov’s attacks with a nuclear response. But he had absolutely no desire to actually do it. Owning the keys to the nuclear arsenal was not the same as wanting to use them.

And he wasn’t entirely sure that could he use them, without triggering another nuclear conflict. Kamchatka was a Russian province, after all. Now that Zhukov’s missile submarine had been eliminated, would the Russian government tolerate a retaliatory strike from the United States? Could he expect them to sit on their hands, while America launched nuclear missiles at targets on Russian soil?

The answer to those very questions walked in the door, in the guise of Gregory Brenthoven. The national security advisor nodded as he pulled out a chair and sat down. “Good morning, Mr. President.”

The president stared at him without speaking.

“Okay, poor choice of words,” Brenthoven said. “It is most definitely not a good morning. But I have a piece of news that you might find useful, in light of your current dilemma.”

The president turned his gaze back toward the blank display screen. “What have you got, Greg?”

Brenthoven laid a black diplomatic pouch on the table. “I’ve just finished up a meeting with Ambassador Kolesnik. He hand-delivered a very interesting proposal from President Turgenev. It’s counter-signed by Prime Minister Primakov, and a solid majority of the Russian Federal Assembly.”

“What are our Russian friends proposing?” the president asked.

Brenthoven leaned back and made a steeple of his fingers. “They suggest that the United States and the Russian Federation carry out joint retaliatory strikes against Kamchatka. They recommend that we act in concert, and that we hit Kamchatka hard.”

President Chandler looked around. “What? I think you must have misunderstood…”

Brenthoven shook his head. “No, sir. There’s no misunderstanding. Ambassador Kolesnik was extremely direct. The Russians want to divide the target list. They nuke Petropavlosk and the surrounding volcanoes. We hit Yelizovo and as many of the local geographic features as we want.”

The national security advisor raised an eyebrow. “That last part is only to give us an even bite of the candy bar. The Russians want to go after the volcanic peaks surrounding Petro, because that’s where they think Zhukov is hiding. They’re offering us a chance to nuke a few volcanoes too, so we won’t feel like we’re getting left out of the party.”