Tim Washburn - The Day After Oblivion

“As is my country, Eliana. We’ve been hit with some type of EMP device, but are searching for a more measured response.”

“This is our measured response,” Salomon says.

“How many of those Iranian missiles will actually penetrate your vaunted air defenses?”

“One is too many, Mr. President.”

The President pauses his response on the approach of the vice president. He covers the mouthpiece with a palm and Martinez says, “The Russians are refusing to take our call.”

“Goddammit,” the President mutters. He puts the phone to his ear. “Eliana, please refrain from launching any further attacks until we can get this sorted out. I’ll phone you again, within the hour.” The President drops the handset in the cradle. “Why are the Russians refusing to take our call?”

Before anyone can answer, three chimes sound through the speakers, and the video screen transitions to a man, surrounded by a wall of computer monitors. His camo fatigues are darkened with sweat and his face is pinched with worry. A name pops onto the screen: Colonel Hal Hooper, NORAD . “Mr. President, we are tracking well over two hundred ICBMs that have been launched from mainland Russia. In addition, we are also tracking multiple submarine-based launches along the eastern seaboard.”

Off the northwest coast of Russia

Cruising at a depth of 300 feet, the Ohio-class ballistic missile submarine, USS New York —SSBN-744 in navy terms—is twenty miles off the northern coast of Russia and sailing west. Eighty-seven days into their ninety-day mission, the crew is looking forward to some R & R at the end of the week. The USS New York is one of fourteen such submarines in the navy fleet. The subs are silent predators and represent the third leg of the nation’s nuclear triad. Armed with twenty-four Trident II missiles with nuclear warheads, the crew can put a missile within a hundred yards of target from a distance of 7,456 miles.

Although there are only twenty-four missiles aboard ship, each missile is armed with eight individual warheads that can be independently targeted. The USS New York operates in near silence and carries the equivalent of 7,680 Hiroshima-sized nukes on board, making the sub an apocalyptic piece of military hardware capable of wiping out an entire continent. Although poised to deliver death at a moment’s notice, the submarine and her crew have yet to launch their lethal weapons on live targets.

Captain Rex “Bull” Thompson is the commanding officer. A graduate of the Naval Academy, Thompson is a stocky, broad-shouldered man, hence his nickname. His salt-and-pepper hair is cut high and tight, and his dark, deep eyes are famous for their penetrating gaze. Seated in an elevated chair in the center of the bridge, he’s perusing the personnel schedule when a yeoman from the radio room rushes in and thrusts a piece of paper into the hands of Lieutenant Commander Thomas Quigley.

Quigley reads the message and his lips begin to tremble. He steps over to Captain Thompson, the paper fluttering in his hand. “Captain, we are in receipt of a valid emergency action measure that directs the launch of target package one. Request permission to authenticate?”

“Authenticate the message,” Thompson orders. He stands from his chair and steps over to the chart table where he’s joined by his executive officer, Commander Carlos Garcia, and other senior officers. Thompson looks up. “Conn, sound the general alarm. Battle stations, missile.” As the electronic Klaxon sounds, Thompson turns to Quigley. “Q, is this a drill?”

Quigley looks up, sweat popping on his forehead. “No, sir, I don’t believe it is.”

“Christ,” the captain mutters.

The message is coded with a cypher to insure the order originated from the President. Quigley calls out the code while Garcia authenticates. Once the message is decoded, Garcia exhales a breath and says, “Captain, the message is authentic.”

Two of the other senior officers concur, and the captain authorizes missile launch. Quigley and Garcia walk over to a dual-dial safe inserted into the bulkhead and both enter their combinations and pop open the doors to retrieve the launch keys.

Captain Thompson begins barking orders. He calls down to the missile control center, one deck down. “Insert targeting package one.” He punches another button on the intercom handset. “Radio room, I want a patch through to USSTRATCOM.” He looks toward the helm. “Dive Officer, take us up to one-three-zero.”

His commands are repeated, and the sub begins to ascend. Captain Thompson, twenty years into his naval career, is wondering, why now? He calls down to the missile control center again. “How long to insert the targeting package and incorporate the Permissive Action Link?” The PAL is required to arm the warheads.

“A little more than seven minutes, Skipper.”

Thompson makes another call to the radio room.

“Radio room, sir. We haven’t received any return radio calls, Captain,” the radio technician says.

“Run out a communication buoy and try again.”

His order is confirmed and Thompson turns to Garcia. “If the comm buoy idea doesn’t work, I’m thinking of ordering an emergency blow to make a phone call to USSTRATCOM for confirmation of the orders. Your thoughts?”

“We’d be a sitting duck, sir. And we don’t have any idea what the hell is going on topside. If the message has been authenticated, and it has, we should launch the missiles.”

Thompson lowers his voice. “We launch these missiles we can kiss our world good-bye.”

“It may already be happening, Bull,” Garcia says, turning his body so that he can look his captain and friend in the eye. “We have no way of knowing if we are the first strike or a follow-up attack. We’ve trained for years on this exact scenario and now the order arrives and you have second thoughts?”

“Don’t you?”

“I do. But there has to be a valid reason for the President to issue a launch order.”

“What about our families, Carlos?”

Garcia hesitates before answering. Then in a faltering voice, says, “They may already be gone, Bull.”

The radio room reports the communication buoy deployed and Thompson grabs the phone and pushes the hotline button to the U. S. Strategic Command (USSTRATCOM). He puts the phone to his ear, but the only thing he hears is silence. He hails the radio room. “Is the buoy operational?”

“Affirmative, sir,” the yeoman at the radio controls says. “Communication buoy is up and operational.”

“What’s wrong?” Garcia asks.

“The phone is dead,” Thompson says.

“I don’t think it’s the phone, Bull,” Garcia says.

“You think the satellites are toast?”

Garcia nods.

Thompson slowly replaces the phone. “Conn, turn to a heading of two-seven-zero and take us up to periscope depth.” As the sub’s nose rises at a twenty-degree angle, Thompson looks at Garcia. “I should be able to see part of the Russian mainland. Just a quick peek.”

Within moments the sub levels out and the periscope ascends. Thompson steps up to the viewer and swivels the periscope toward the Russian mainland. What he sees makes his blood run cold. His shoulders sag as he slaps the periscope handles up and orders the periscope down. In a subdued voice, he says, “Dive, make our depth one-three-zero,” as he walks unsteadily to his chair and sits. When the sub levels off he hails the missile control center. “How long?”

“Two minutes, sir,” the weapons officer replies

“Roger, fire when ready.”

Garcia approaches. “What did you see?”

“Mushroom clouds all across the horizon.” Thompson white-knuckles the arms of his chair as the huge boat shudders with each launch of her twenty-four deadly missiles.