Arc Light (19 page)

Like a mother protecting her young, the PBV began deployment of her penetration aids to cloak the ten warheads from the once planned but then canceled American ballistic missile defenses. Radar-reflective decoys were ejected and inflated to confuse nonexistent radars. A powerful electronic jammer switched on, blanketing the electromagnetic spectrum with noise to interfere with nonexistent radio-controlled interceptors. Canisters on both sides of the fuselage began to emit tiny strips of metallized glass fiber chaff in great spurts to lure nonexistent antiballistic missiles away from the warheads.

The atmosphere was thickening, and the PBV itself was beginning to suffer from the aerodynamic forces. The friction of the air against the PBV's nonaerodynamic shape heated its surfaces to ever
higher temperatures. The airflow through the maze of brackets and wires began to buffet the craft, and it began a slow-motion yaw to the left. Wires were stripped out of the exposed areas. The computer heated to above its designed operating temperature and began to experience errors, automatically restarting itself over and over in a dying attempt to resume normal operation. The nonmetallic surfaces of the PBV began flaring, flashing brightly and then disappearing, as each substance reached its individual burning point. The metal itself began to glow.

Higher and higher the temperature climbed as the PBV's yaw became a tumble. The fuselage began to melt, the loosened liquid metal flying off the fuselage in a streak of fine white spray. The process accelerated. As the PBV tumbled, the temperature along each new leading edge shot up, melting away the metal and reducing the PBV's mass in fiery displays. Before the vehicle had completed one complete rotation, it had come apart into three pieces. Each of the three pieces in turn further melted and broke into more and smaller pieces. The spray of trailing liquids and gases from the metal components streaked downward toward the earth, trailing the larger remnants of the PBV like the tail of a comet. Many minutes later, remnants of the PBV, no piece larger than a marble, pelted the hills of central California, penetrating to embed a couple of meters under the dry western soil.

Stuart heard the warbling tone of the alarm. Although he had been expecting it, his head shot up to the rotating red beacon on the ceiling. The alarm and beacon could be set off, Stuart knew, only by an encrypted uplink sent automatically upon the lifting of the red phone from its cradle by an ACC senior controller. Or by the examiners sitting in their air-conditioned van, cables running into the Launch Control Facility above. His eyes fell to the red telephone on his console.

Langford yelled, “EAM incoming!”

Stuart could feel his heart leap and his throat constrict as he lifted the red phone of the Primary Alerting System. Every pulse of the siren chilled him even though he knew it was just a game. The teletype in the corner began clattering.
An Emergency Action Message,
Stuart thought.
They're goin' all out.

Stuart put the phone to his ear just in time to hear the voice of the senior controller say, “November Echo Victor Two Four Bravo Niner Zulu Break Niner Golf Alpha Break Seven Lima Alpha Break Three Quebec Alpha.” The controller began to repeat the control code as Stuart copied it onto his notepad.

Stuart hung the telephone up and hit the
ACKNOWLEDGE
switch, extinguishing one of the two lights for their launch center on the senior controllers' panels, which were lit again on issuance of the new orders. He then pulled over his head the lanyard that hung from his neck and found the familiar flat metal key with a red grip. The electronically produced clattering sound from across the capsule indicated that Langford had opened the red safe at the base of his console.

I'm behind, I'm behind,
Stuart thought. He jammed the key into the lock as Langford began reading, “ ‘November—Echo . . .' ” When Stuart opened his own red safe, its clattering sound, designed to prevent clandestine opening, joined that of Langford's safe. The world was filled with the sounds of a firing drill, just like in school.

Stuart pulled the sealed authenticator package from the safe and ripped it open. He dumped the metal board, ring binder, and round key out of the opaque plastic envelope as Langford continued his chant of numbers and letters. Picking up the felt marker from its holder, Stuart held the board up to his notes.

Suddenly, the alarm fell silent. “Gentlemen,” a woman's voice said calmly but clearly over the center's loudspeaker, “you have received an authorized launch instruction from the National Command Authority. Gentlemen, you have received an authorized launch instruction from the National Command Authority.” “Betty,” as the recording was called, repeated the message four times.

“November!” Stuart said, writing the letter
N
in the first empty box of the board. Immediately above was the preprinted block letter
N.
“Echo!” he said as he wrote
E
below the large black
E
above. “Victor!” he said, repeating the procedure.

Langford yelled, “I've got a valid EAM! Confirm!”

“Two!” Stuart said, writing and checking. “Four!” he said. “Bravo!” “Niner!” “Zulu!”

Stuart stared at the board on which all eight letters and numbers matched the preprinted authenticator letters and numbers. Stuart said, “I confirm valid EAM!” and the first wispy shred of doubt about his earlier conclusion reached out to touch him, sending a chill down his back. He squirmed briefly in his chair.
They must have switched the sealed authenticator package with one especially for this test,
he decided.
They'd never send out the valid code.

“EWO Checklist!” Langford ordered.

They began the Emergency War Order Checklist, activating the missile arming and firing circuits to the squadron's fifty missiles—if they were on line. Stuart knew that miles and miles away there were four other Launch Control Centers.
What are they doing?
he wondered.
Sitting there studying for their fucking MBAs,
he decided—the only way to get ahead in the air force. But the calm of his earlier rationalization, once doubted, would not return.

The first two launch centers whose officers turned the firing keys, Stuart knew—four men “voting” for a launch—would send all of the squadron's forty-eight generated missiles up into space on their fiery treks.
If it's not a test,
Stuart thought.

“Command Data Buffer System clear!” Langford said.

“Clear,” Stuart replied, tensing in anticipation of the next item.

“Launch Option—Niner Golf,” Langford said.

“Niner Golf confirmed,” Stuart replied.
But why did I decide it was a test?
Stuart thought, trying to recall the reasoning.

“Dial it in,” Langford ordered.

Stuart punched “9—G” into the option selector panel, his mind totally preoccupied with attempting to reconstruct the world in which everything was not as it seemed.

“Preparatory Launch Command—Alpha. Confirm!” Langford said.

“Preparatory Launch Command—Alpha!” Stuart replied. “Confirmed.”
What if
 . . . ? Stuart thought.
Just what if this is for real? “Alpha.” “Auto Launch” when we turn the keys. No launch timer delay.

The turmoil in Stuart's mind built as they then repeated the procedure for the other two launch commands—Seven Lima and Three Quebec—both also Auto Launch. Stuart glanced every so often over at Langford; his light blue blouse was now dark under his arms and around his neck.

“Enter Individual Launch Code!” Langford read off his checklist.

Stuart had to concentrate now to input his personal code, which he had memorized at the beginning of his watch and which was unknown to Langford, on the keypad at his console. It was a twelve-digit Permissive Action Link. Once entered, the system was freed for terminal countdown to launch. “Individual Launch Code entered,” Stuart said, his physical actions now ruled by rote memorization.

“Launch Enable on my command,” Langford said.

Stuart found the green key from the sealed authenticator package and flipped up the orange-striped key cover on the center of the console. A sticker read
GENTLY
just above the keyhole, and he inserted the key into the slot just hard enough to ensure that it was fully seated.

“Ready?” Langford asked.

A teletype began clattering again on the other side of the capsule. At almost the same time, a strident bell rang and two orange lights began flashing at the top of each of their consoles.

Somebody else has entered a “Launch” order!
Stuart realized.
If we turn the “Launch” key, they fly!

“Are you ready?”
Langford screamed over all the noise, turned halfway around in his seat, sweat pouring down his red face.

Stuart bolted out of his chair for the ACC teletype along the commo wall.

“
Stuart!
Get back to your seat!” Langford yelled, turned fully
around now, his hand on the chair's armrest three inches above his pistol holster.

Stuart ignored him. When he got to the ACC teletype, he saw the letters and digits of the EAM at the top of the piece of paper that protruded from the machine: the first transmission. He ejected several inches of the paper and tore it off, reading the second transmission quickly as he walked back to his chair.

FLASH REPORT

FROM: CINCACC
//
J
3
NMCC WASHINGTON D.C.

TO: ALL ACC LAUNCH CREWS AIG
9734

TOP SECRET

FJO
//001//0547
Z

1. 
SEA PLANE—APPLE JACK. RUSSIAN ICBM STRIKE IN PROGRESS. EST. TOT
055512z. 1,062
RVS CONFIRMED. TARGETS CONUS.

2. 
VALID EAM AND NCO BY NCA CONFIRMED. REPEAT. VALID EAM AND NCO BY NCA CONFIRMED.

3. 
GOOD SHOOTING.

RATHMAN

GEN, USAF

CINCACC

“What the hell does it say?” Langford shouted.

“It's . . . it's not a drill,” Stuart said, his voice coming out as an afterthought.

“What?” Langford shouted, cocking his head to hear better.

“Apple Jack,” Stuart said, staring at Langford. “There's . . . there's an attack under way.”

In the instant before Langford spun his chair around, Stuart saw a furious flash of anger pass over and set in on his face, his teeth bared. “Launch Enable on my command!” Langford yelled, his back to Stuart.

“We oughta call the controller,” Stuart said. In the back of his mind a voice was telling him,
You've really blown it now! A big fat “Unsat”—no more missile duty for you.

“Are you
ready?”
Langford screamed over the noise.

After a moment's hesitation, Stuart reached up, grasped his key firmly and said, “Ready!”

“Mark!” Stuart said.

Both men turned their keys. “Enable switch is enabled!” Stuart said formally as he read from the checklist. “At this time, the command is being transmitted to all missiles in the squadron!”

“Affirmative,” Langford said in a monotone. “Wait for indications.”

Both men sat there in silence. They didn't have to wait long. A single bell, like a school bell, rang out briefly.

“Alarm Number Two!” Langford burst. “Missiles have accepted command—I have Sorties Enabling!”

“Check!” Stuart said.

“Launch Execute on my command!” Langford said, his voice rising. “Ready on my mark?”

Stuart picked the round key he had extracted from the sealed authenticator package up off the console. He flipped up the solid-red hinged metal flap covering the
LAUNCH ENABLER
keyhole. Carefully he inserted the key, again pressing gently, his hand shaking and his palm wet.