James Barrington - Overkill

The Gold Codes are a jumble of random letters and numbers issued on a daily basis by the National Security Agency. One copy of the Codes is delivered to the White House, or wherever the President happens to be, for inclusion in The Football, and simultaneously duplicate sets are delivered to all American nuclear command posts, including the Cover All and Nightwatch aircraft. Possession of the Gold Codes, and access to one of the secure communication networks, is all the American President – or anyone else, in fact – needs to authorize the release of nuclear weapons.

The Marine Corps major, one of three officers assigned to The Football detail, had a simple job. He was to stay with the President at all times, day and night, until the President was either incapacitated or dead, when he would immediately transfer his allegiance to the next appointed Head of State.

‘Cheer up, Marine,’ the President said, a somewhat forced smile on his face. ‘It may never happen.’

‘No, sir,’ the major replied, doubtfully.

An Army colonel approached the President. ‘The Secretary of Defense, sir,’ he said, ‘on the Mystic Star console.’

The President walked across the floor and picked up the headset. The Secretary of Defense’s voice was scratchy and echoed in the earphones – a function of the scrambling system used – and the President had to concentrate to hear what he was saying.

‘We’re established at SITE R, Mr President. Any news?’

‘Nothing yet,’ the President said. ‘Karasin and the Kremlin know where I am.’ He paused. ‘I just get the feeling they’re going to go all the way on this one.’

There was a brief silence on the line. ‘Mr President, in my judgement you’ve been right about most things since you took office, but this time I really hope you’re wrong.’

Autoroute A26, vicinity of Couvron-et-Aumencourt, France

‘What time will you begin the assault?’ Simpson asked.

‘That depends upon what we find when we get there,’ Richter said, ‘and will in any case be decided by the SAS officer in charge. My guess, for what it’s worth, is the early hours of the morning.’

‘Anything else?’ Simpson asked.

‘Yes,’ Richter said, and fished a scrap of paper out of his wallet. ‘General Modin was very insistent that I noted down a Russian word. The word is Krutaya .’ Richter spelt it out.

‘What does it mean?’

‘If I knew that,’ Richter said, ‘I wouldn’t be asking you. I’ve no idea if it’s the name of a person, a place or even a description of something. Modin won’t explain it further.’

‘Can’t you lean on him?’ Simpson asked.

Richter thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said, finally. ‘I don’t think I can. He’s been far more co-operative over this matter than we had any reason to expect, and this is too public a place to start applying much pressure. Also, I think it might be useful in the future to have established fairly friendly relations with a senior SVR general.’

‘Agreed,’ Simpson said. ‘So, what do you want us to do about Krutaya ?’

‘Find out anything you can,’ Richter replied. ‘Run it through our computers, and do the same with the SIS and MI5 databases. Try GCHQ and the CIA, FBI, DIA and NSA systems. It must mean something to someone, somewhere.’

‘What priority is that?’ the ID asked.

‘Very high. Modin insisted that it is central to this operation, and that makes it very urgent. Don’t forget,’ he added, ‘disarming the Gibraltar weapon doesn’t solve our problem – it just buys us a little more time. We’ve still got to stop Podstava .’

Camp David, Maryland

‘Mr President. It’s time, sir.’

‘Right.’ The President glanced at his watch, then got up from the chair where he’d been sitting reading a series of intelligence briefs forwarded from the CIA at Langley. He beckoned to the Marine Corps major and walked across to one of the secure consoles. The Secretary of Defense was already on the net when the President put on the headphones. ‘Do we need to discuss SIOP options?’

‘I really don’t think so, Mr President. What we’re doing isn’t responding to any kind of a first-strike, which is what SIOP is intended to counter. The Russian weapons are already here, primed and in place, and there isn’t anything we can do about them. I think our only possible response, if the Russians don’t back down, is total retaliation. We’ve got to be prepared to fire everything we’ve got at them, and make sure they know it.’

‘They know it,’ the President said. ‘I’ve explained it to Karasin twice already. So, what’s the immediate next step?’

‘We need to brief USStratCom Command Center to increase the alert state of the ICBMs. Pretty much everything else has been done, as far as I know.’

‘What are they at now?’

‘Alert Twenty. They should be moved up to Alert Five in stages over the next two hours. I recommend going to Alert Fifteen now.’

‘Agreed. I’ll send the codes.’

On a command from the President, the major opened the black attaché case and extracted the Gold Codes. The President selected the code he needed and instructed that it be transmitted to USStratCom Command Center as an Emergency Action Message from the National Command Authority.

Autoroute A26, vicinity of Couvron-et-Aumencourt, France

The Aldermaston group – five scientists and three bomb-disposal specialists in a Leyland Sherpa minibus, plus two Transit vans containing their equipment – arrived at seven twenty, after having been halted by the gendarmes guarding the closed section of the autoroute for ten minutes while they sought approval from Lacomte to let them through. They drove the wrong way down the autoroute, on the northbound carriageway from the Courbes junction to the rest area, and pulled up next to the Russian articulated lorry.

They clambered out of the minibus and stood looking with interest at the Russian vehicle. As Richter walked over to them, a stooping grey-haired man – presumably the senior scientist – detached himself from the group and ambled over to meet him.

‘Are you in charge here?’ he asked.

‘I suppose I am more or less keeping up the British end,’ Richter said.

The scientist extended a hand. ‘Dewar,’ he said, ‘like the Scotch. Professor Dewar, Aldermaston. We know what’s in the lorry, but we don’t know what you want us to do with it. Give me a clue.’

‘Three things,’ Richter said. ‘First, I want the device made safe, but not disabled. I want any firing circuits rendered temporarily inoperative. Second, I want you to explain to me how to do exactly the same thing on another weapon of the same type.’

‘Where is it?’ Dewar interrupted.

‘It’s at Gibraltar,’ Richter said. ‘I won’t bore you with the details, but that weapon is likely to be detonated within about ten hours unless we do something about it, so I need answers bloody fast. Third, my instructions are to have this weapon transported to Britain as soon as possible. We have a tractor unit and escort coming out this evening, but I’d like your team to accompany the lorry as well.’

‘Right, then,’ Dewar said. ‘We’d best get on with it.’

The SAS team had broken the seals and opened the back of the truck as soon as they had parked it in the rest area to check that it did contain a nuclear weapon, and not, for example, a consignment of caviar and vodka for a Russian Embassy staff party. The trailer had been fully loaded to enable it to pass a cursory inspection if it was ever stopped and examined by an authority which would not accept its diplomatic status. After they’d emptied out all the cardboard boxes and bits of furniture from the back, the only thing left was a large steel box, padlocked. One of the GIGN men had cracked the padlock with a pair of bolt-cutters, checked carefully for any wires or switches that might indicate a booby-trap, and then they’d peered inside the box. Then they’d shut the trailer. Now they opened the rear doors wide and most of the Aldermaston team climbed in. Richter left them to it and went off to talk to Lacomte.