Tim Washburn: The Day After Oblivion

“If we’re worried about military secrets, just obliterate the damn thing,” Martinez says. “It’ll be in so many pieces no one could ever reverse engineer it.”

Wilson straightens a stack of paper on the table. “We can’t, Madam Vice President, because of the drone’s armaments.”

Martinez leans forward in her chair. “Still, we’re not talking about a nuclear warhead,” Martinez says, watching both the President and DCI as their gazes drift toward the table. “Oh, Jesus, please tell me we’re not.”

Wilson takes a sip of water, his hand trembling. “Unfortunately, we are. The drone is armed with two tactical nuclear warheads.”

Vice President Martinez tosses her pen onto the table. “What in the hell were you thinking? Seriously? A drone armed with nuclear weapons?”

Admiral Hill finds his voice. “The drone is a last-resort weapon in our fight against ISIS. The weapon would only be deployed under the most extreme circumstances.”

“Well, Admiral,” Martinez says, her voice filled with venom, “we no longer have control of your last-resort weapon.” She turns her withering gaze on Wilson. “Where, exactly, did you lose control of this drone?”

Wilson grimaces. “Along the Iraq-Iran border.”

Semnan Missile and Space Center

Semnan, Iran

Buried deep underground, two hundred kilometers east of Tehran, is the command and control center of the Islamic Republic’s Revolutionary Guard’s aerospace division. This morning, the center is fully staffed and everyone is on high alert. Six years in development, the secret plan between Iran and North Korea will be enacted today. Even with the recent easing of sanctions, the Iranian bitterness lingers like a festering wound.

Today the wound pops.

Brigadier General Amir Mohammadi, commander of the aerospace division, is pacing the perimeter of the room. He stops, again, next to Saman Rezaei, the major in charge of communications. On that long-ago day, an e-mail account was established where both countries could communicate by using the draft function and never posting e-mails online.

“No change, sir,” Rezaei says. “The satellite will be in position at the appointed time.”

General Mohammadi glances at the clock on the far wall. Thirty minutes from execution of the grand plan. Thirty minutes for something to go wrong. Or worse, be discovered before implementation. There are a few things the United States didn’t know when negotiating the latest nuclear agreement. The reason Iran was so willing to agree? They already had a fairly substantial stockpile of nuclear warheads. Mohammadi glances at the clock again and resumes his pacing. He stops at the missile launch console. All is in order. Birds are ready to fly. Mohammadi moves down the line, coming to a stop at the drone flight control center. “Where is the drone?”

“We’re crossing the Caspian Sea, sir, at an altitude of twenty thousand meters. We will reach Russian airspace very soon.”

“And the target?”

“We’ll be on target, sir, at the eleven-hundred-hour deadline.”

“Detonation altitude?” Mohammadi asks.

“If all goes according to plan, sir, three thousand meters.”

“Excellent,” the general says. “If antiaircraft fire becomes a problem, you are ordered to detonate.”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot says.

Mohammadi turns away and circles back to Saman Rezaei’s station.

“No new e-mails, sir,” Rezaei says. “Sir, have we… have we considered…”

“Spit it out,” the general orders.

“Have we… considered… the implications… of our… actions?”

“Of course. Our supreme leader has a precisely detailed plan. Do you prefer to be relieved of your post, Major?”

An image of a firing squad pops into Rezaei’s brain. He wipes a bead of perspiration from his forehead. “No, sir.”

The general pivots on his heel and kicks his pacing into high gear. After a few moments, he returns to the communication console. “Is the link to the supreme leader open and secure?”

“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant answers. “Would you like to speak to him?”

Not wanting to hear, again, what will happen to him and his family if he fails, Mohammadi waves away the request. The supreme leader is buried deep in a bunker beneath Tehran, surrounded by his five wives, a brood of children, and numerous other family members. The bunker is fully staffed and stocked with enough food and clean water to support the leader’s family for months. The general’s family remains topside and will move into the bunker only if Mohammadi is successful.

He glances at the clock, again—ten minutes and counting.

NORAD

Operated jointly by both the Americans and the Canadians, personnel from both countries rotate through NORAD. Captain Brice Tremblay of the Royal Canadian Air Force is today’s duty officer. A quirky man who favors precision, he glances at the clock to watch it click to the top of the hour before pouring his final cup of coffee for the day. Another of his quirks has earned him the nickname Tugger, for his nervous habit of tugging his left earlobe when stressed.

Corporal Gary Rutledge is watching intently as the North Korean satellite passes over eastern Texas. Traveling at 17,000 miles per hour, the satellite covers nearly five miles every second. Moments later the satellite is nearing Kansas City when the image disappears from the screen. “What the hell?” Rutledge mutters.

A second later his muttering is drowned by the shouts of “Detonation!” from a senior airman on the opposite side of the room.

“What type of detonation and where?” Captain Tremblay asks.

“A high atmospheric explosion over Kansas City. Wave signatures suggest it may be nuclear.”

“Communications, work the phones. Send an urgent message up the chain of command to alert them of a possible EMP event.”

Corporal Rutledge jumps to his feet and races across the room. “Sir, we’ve lost contact with the North Korean satellite.”

Tremblay tugs his left earlobe. “We didn’t lose contact. It exploded. Now we need to find out if the satellite—”

“Sir, I have multiple missile launches outbound from Iran,” another airman shouts.

“What’s multiple?” Tremblay shouts. “Two or twenty, for fuck’s sake?”

“At least a dozen, sir.”

“Heading?” Tremblay latches on to his left ear and gives the lobe a hard tug.

“Veering west, sir.”

“Seal the blast doors until we can figure out what the hell is going on.” Tremblay picks up the phone and calls the four-star in command, Air Force General Amy Carlyle. “Ma’am, Captain Tremblay, NORAD.” He’s in the process of explaining what has occurred when he’s interrupted by another shout: “Detonation!”

“Hold one, ma’am.” He covers the mouthpiece with his palm. “Where?” Tremblay shouts to the room. His shoulders sag when he hears the location. He takes a deep breath and removes his palm, placing the phone to his ear. “Ma’am, we’re tracking another large airburst explosion near Krasnodar, Russia. Could be nuclear in origin.” He replaces the handset and begins scanning the room for someone with more embellishments on their collar, and spots Colonel Hal Hooper surging into the room. Tremblay waves a hand to flag him down.

Colonel Hooper, a tall, stout man, bulls his way through the gathering crowd.

“What’s the situation, Captain?”

Tremblay begins to explain when his voice is drowned out by shouts of “Missile launch!”

“Where?” Hooper shouts.