Arc Light (33 page)

“Excuse me!” a man in camouflaged military uniform said from the other side of a truck several yards to his left, waving Lambert toward him.

Painted on the hard panel of the truck was a red cross on a square white background. The man whom Lambert approached had a clipboard. He looked out of place in military garb with his gray hair and protruding paunch.

As Lambert rounded the truck, he saw a woman in powder blue hospital scrubs and a white smock. The man turned back to Lambert and without saying a word unclipped the thin tube, like a pen, from the breast pocket of Lambert's button-down dress shirt. Lambert had forgotten about the dosimeter that he wore.

“Whew!” the man said, holding the tube up to the light. “You are?” he asked, handing the dosimeter to the woman and holding up the clipboard.

“Lambert. Greg Lambert.”

Making a note on the board, he said, “Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Lambert,” looking up at him in recognition. “I'm Dr. Gray, Major—Army Reserve. And this is Samantha James,” he said indicating the woman. “She's my nurse from the hospital in Baltimore. I thought she could help.”

The copilot walked up from behind, and Lambert turned to nod at her.

“I'll be with you in a minute,” the doctor said. “Mr. Lambert, you've just received a lifetime dose of radiation. Seventeen RADs—Radiation Absorbed Doses. Based on the data from the sarcophagus workers at Chernobyl, it's not dangerous, statistically speaking, but it's more than three times the annual dose permitted for U.S. nuclear
power workers. Any more and you could have complications. Do you understand?”

Lambert nodded.

“Now, you're over fifteen RADs, so I'm going to have to report you to the health authorities,” the doctor continued, “and they'll keep track of it for their own purposes, which includes triage, but you won't be denied any medical treatment at this level. If another eighteen RADs are reported, you'll be denied medical treatment of any sort by law until the emergency's over. Now. You take these pills—they block thyroid concentration of anything you might have ingested—and you should be okay.”

“What about—we brought my wife and her parents back with us. And a friend.”

“Bring them over. I'll take a look at ‘em.”

“They're dead,” Lambert said simply.

“Oh. I'm sorry,” the doctor said. “And they're contaminated?” Lambert nodded.

“Graves Registration is over there. But they won't let you see them. They've probably already buried them,” the doctor said, indicating the general area of the dikes and the yellow-and-black
RADIOACTIVE
signs. “But they will take their names and register them, take care of all the paperwork.”

Lambert turned to go and saw the rest of the crew. They stood there mute and looking at him.

“Thank you,” he said to them, and walked off hanging his head.

Lambert felt someone grab his arm. He looked up to see the Spec 4, a handsome young black kid with closely cut hair who could not have been more than nineteen. “Hey, sir, it'll be okay.”

Lambert knew the soldier was wrong, but thanked him and walked over to the roped-off area. He looked at the pools of radioactive suds and water trapped inside the dikes.
I'm sorry, Jane. Oh, God, I'm sorry.
The words were hollow. They meant nothing and did no good.

“You all know that I think this is madness,” Razov said, barely managing to control his temper as he addressed the full meeting of
STAVKA
through clenched teeth. “Everything we have done to this point in time can be explained away as Zorin's mistake.
This,”
Razov
said, tossing the folder with the proposed operational plans onto the table after a momentary loss of his temper, “this is our doing.”

“What good has it been,” General Karyakin asked, shrugging, “proving our innocence to the Americans? Perhaps you haven't been keeping up with your reading.” He looked down the table at the others, at the swing votes from the air force and navy. He picked up the slips of paper that had been handed each of the
STAVKA
members over the hours of debate they were now completing. “ ‘
ORACLE
,' ” he read, looking up at the head of GRU, the chief intelligence directorate of
STAVKA
. “Who's that?”

“It's a composite of human sources located across the United States,” the man answered. “Embassy and consular officials, visiting students and businessmen, trade representatives, third-country nationals.”

“Well,
ORACLE
reports,” Karyakin continued, putting on his reading glasses, “ ‘U.S. mobilization continuing. Civilian airports at Denver, Dallas, Houston, Salt Lake City, St. Louis, Chicago, Atlanta, Philadelphia, and New York being used as staging points for departures to Far East and Europe. Civilian air traffic at a standstill as all available transport activated for military use. Naval transports continue loading at New Orleans, Galveston, San Diego, Seattle, Philadelphia, and Jacksonville.' ”

He picked up the next report, looking down his nose as he read. “This one is also a GRU report. ‘Satellite imagery indicates American V Corps units in Nürnberg, Germany, and elements of 1st Armored Division in Erlangen, Germany, engaging in road deployment. Initial indications are objectives east.' ” He looked up—“To the
east”
—and picked up a third report. “ ‘American 4th Mechanized Infantry Division in Presov, Slovakia, reported on full-combat-alert status. One brigade deploying to field along Ukraine border. Second brigade estimated forty percent combat strength, intentions unknown.' That comes from our liaison to the Ukrainian Army Command in Kiev.”

As he picked up another slip of paper, Razov said, “We've all read the reports, General.”

“Then what the hell is the debate about?” Karyakin shouted as he lifted the heavy stack of paper in front of him.
“You
may not
want
to be, and
Livingston
may
profess
not to be, but we're still at war, General Razov!” He pulled a slip of paper out of the stack at random. “Alternate Air Defense Commander, Polyarnyy: ‘Suspected American Air Force TR-1 strategic reconnaissance aircraft made four incursions into Russian airspace between 0024 and 0059, Moscow time. Request permission to pursue into Finnish and/or
Norwegian airspace.' Permission denied!” he said, glaring at Razov. “Pacific Fleet Command, Vladivostok: ‘Three American P-3 antisubmarine warfare aircraft made six torpedo attack runs at position within primary firing station of Pacific Fleet ballistic missile submarines. Believe contact is with surviving submarine. Request permission to intercept two
U.S.
Navy antisubmarine helicopters inbound from Aleutian Islands.' Permission denied!”

“That's enough!” Razov shouted as Karyakin pulled another report from the stack. Razov looked down the table at the thoughtful faces of Russia's senior military officers. Many, he noted, were holding or looking down at their own stacks of reports. Many of the reports, Razov knew from having read each one as they were handed to him, were frantic calls for support in spots around the globe where the war had been rekindled by a chance meeting, or an overanxious commander, mainly on the
U.S.
side.

The door opened noiselessly, and three men began their now familiar walk around the table, laying another report in front of each of the senior officers. As Razov raised the report he was handed, he saw Filipov enter through the open door behind them and walk to the empty seat immediately behind Razov. The report read:

B
LACK
S
EA
F
LEET
C
OMMAND.
K
IROV-CLASS CRUISER
S
AKHAROV
TASKED TO SHADOW
U.S. N
AVY
S
IXTH
F
LEET CARRIER BATTLE GROUP OFF COAST OF
I
SRAEL IN EASTERN
M
EDITERRANEAN COLLIDED WITH
P
ERRY-CLASS FRIGATE, HULL NUMBER
432,
FORTY-SIX KILOMETERS WEST-SOUTH-WEST OF
U.S.S.
T
HEODORE
R
OOSEVELT.
A
FTER
S
AKHAROV
RESUMED PRIOR COURSE,
U.S.
FRIGATE INITIATED HOSTILE MANEUVERS DESPITE EXTENSIVE DAMAGE TO PORT HULL AT WATER LINE.
T
WO RADIO WARNINGS ISSUED BY COMMANDER OF
S
AKHAROV
—FIRST AT
0132
LOCAL TIME, SECOND AT
0134. U.S.
SHIP MAINTAINED COLLISION BEARING AND SPEED, AND WHEN
U.S.
FRIGATE CLOSED TO RANGE OF FOUR HUNDRED METERS AT
0137,
CAPTAIN OF
S
AKHAROV
FIRED TWO SURFACE-TO-SURFACE MISSILES AT FRIGATE.
O
NE MISSILE DETONATED, AND ONE FAILED TO FUSE.
F
RIGATE'S SUPERSTRUCTURE IS AFIRE, AND SHIP IS LISTING TO PORT.
S
AKHAROV'S
A
IR
C
OMBAT
C
ENTER REPORTS FOUR AIRCRAFT, BELIEVED MODEL
F/A-18
ATTACK AIRCRAFT, LAUNCHED FROM DECK OF
T
HEODORE
R
OOSEVELT
AT
0141
AND CURRENTLY INBOUND TO
S
AKHAROV'S
POSITION.
C
APTAIN REQUESTS PERMISSION TO FIRE AT
T
THEODORE
R
OOSEVELT.
[P
ERMISSION DENIED.
] C
APTAIN REQUESTS PERMISSION TO FIRE AT INBOUND AIRCRAFT.
[P
ERMISSION GRANTED.
] C
APTAIN REQUESTS PERMISSION TO LAUNCH TORPEDOES AT UNKNOWN SONAR CONTACT FOUR THOUSAND METERS ASTERN.
[P
ERMISSION DENIED.
]

As Razov finished reading the half-page flimsy, another report was handed to him. “First Officer, Kirov-class cruiser
Sakharov,
requests search and rescue, position one-one-six kilometers west-southwest of Haifa, Israel. [Communication terminated. Black Sea Fleet Command unable to raise
Sakharov.]”

“We've got some exposure here, Yuri,” Air Force General Mishin said, “from a purely military standpoint. We hadn't made up for our losses in the first Chinese war last year and were straining our resources to the limit in the new fighting. We've got everything in the Far East. We're . . . we're exposed, dangerously exposed, in the West. In Europe.”

“And let's not forget the damage from the nuclear exchange,” Admiral Verkhovensky said, both swing votes now on Karyakin's side. “The Americans went after a much broader target set than we did. As I understand it, our supply system is completely frozen up. It has been in shambles for years now, and we had stripped everything in the West clean to send it to the Far East during the Chinese war, but now I'm told that we can't even reestablish our rail grid for internal shipments because of the radioactivity and blast damage. Nobody has the slightest idea where to start working around all the problems, filling in all the gaps.”

“Exposure, Yuri,” Mishin said. “We can't just sit back and watch it happen.”

Razov took a deep breath and looked up. “All right. If we're going to do this, we'd better do it right.”
And we will do it at my command and on my authority,
he thought turning to Admiral Verkhovensky. “The army will give you one airborne division: the alert division, the 104th Guards at Krasnodar. That will make the 105th at Omsk the new alert division,” he said, speaking rapidly as he turned to the Army's Airborne Forces commander, the most junior officer present. “The 104th will seize Reykjavik and Hafnarfjordhur in the south”—he spun on Verkhovensky—“and your marines will land east of Husasik and move west to capture the cities along Iceland's northern coast, all as per the General Operational Plan.” He pointed at Air Force General Mishin. “You give them every AN-22 and IL-76 you've got for transport, and you put at least three wings of air superiority and two of attack aircraft into Reykjavik the second that airport's secure. They have permission to fire on any U.S. naval or air forces that come within range, and they have express orders to knock down any flight headed east across the northern Atlantic, including regularly scheduled commercial flights after a one-time-only four-hour warning advisory.”

He spun to point at the commander of the Western Strategic Direction before anyone could comment. “You are to deploy into
Ukraine to take up defensive positions opposite the American 4th Infantry Division. Any Ukrainian Army resistance is to be met with force, but I will personally call President Belachuk to warn him that any such resistance will be deemed to be an act of war. I will then contact Far East Army Command and order a halt to the counterattack into northern China.”

“But we're rolling over the little yellow bastards . . . !” the old commander of Construction Troops began.

“The Far East Army Command,” Razov interrupted, “will be ordered to redeploy all available forces to strategically defensible positions. That means,” Razov said, pausing to ensure the full attention of his audience, “to refuse the sea around and to the north of Vladivostok.” He watched the chilling effect of his words quiet the officers who moments before were on the edge of their seats wanting to speak. “They will also be informed to expect to conduct operations from this point forward on existing stocks and on anything captured from the Chinese. I want all war materials produced,” he ordered the director of Military Production, “redirected to our European stocks.”

It was a wrenching, radical change in policy, and the implications underlying it were clearly expressed on the sullen, contemplative faces of the senior officers. They were all silent now. Razov had one last hope: that the realities of the situation had finally sunk in on them. “Are we sure we're ready for this?” he asked in a low, measured tone. At just that moment, the double doors opened and in walked another set of message slips. His question would not now be answered. The spell was broken, and the die was cast.