FOREWORD Read online

  By this time, people were starting to arrive home from bars and clubs. As they learned of the crisis, they plundered the few remaining items. Some, fuelled by alcohol or drugs, became aggressive. It was a gang of such young men that were to be the Benzottis’ last ever customers.

  Charlie instinctively knew they were trouble as soon as they entered the shop. The ringleader was a lanky black teenager known for reasons long forgotten as Coney (his real name, Jamie, hadn’t exactly lent itself to street cred). A gifted basketball player, he’d once been scouted by the Boston Celtics, but by the time he was invited to try out for them, he had succumbed to the addiction of crack cocaine and the lifestyle that went with it.

  Now he lived on his wits, his existence more or less dominated by the small circle of peers whose influence had led him to drug addiction. Coney, as he would tell anybody willing to listen, thought of himself as a shrewd businessman. And he saw the global crisis as a heaven-sent business opportunity. The only member of his gang to possess a high school diploma, Coney had enough foresight to understand that everyday items would soon be in real demand, and he could charge real cash for them. Selling tinned peas wasn’t as risky as pushing crack, but the profit margins would be far more rewarding.

  When Coney and his gang stormed the shop, Charlie tried to explain that he was about to close. They didn’t seem interested. They danced through the aisles, screaming and whooping, taking great pleasure in wrecking the displays. Charlie moved as if to intervene, but Carla restrained him. They had taken enough money tonight, she pointed out. Nothing was worth getting killed over.

  Only Coney had the intelligence to realize that the shelves no longer contained anything of value, and nobody got rich by wrecking shop displays. While his friends created havoc, he approached the Benzottis with an arrogant strut, matched by a menacing grin that never quite reached his eyes.

  “Where’s all your shit, man?”

  “I’m afraid,” Charlie explained politely, “that we’re sold out. You’ll have to come back in a few days when we get more supplies.”

  “Bullshit, man,” Coney sneered, rubbing his nose. “Bull-shit. What about your stockroom?”

  “It’s empty,” Carla snapped. “You’ll have to go elsewhere.”

  “Well, that’s the problem, see? I like to shop here.” The grin had given way to a sinister scowl. “Now open the fucking storeroom, you dumb-ass wop.”

  Carla saw that two of Coney’s friends had taken defensive positions behind him. Like Rottweilers, she thought, waiting to be unleashed.

  “Don’t you talk to my wife like that,” Charlie growled.

  “Fuck you, old man.” In a single motion, Coney produced a revolver from his jacket and shot Charlie Benzotti in the chest. Blood spurted, then oozed from the bullet wound as the store owner toppled backwards, for all intents and purposes dead before he even hit the ground.

  “Hey, that’s a fucking kill,” one of the other teenagers enthused.

  Carla’s legs buckled beneath her. She slumped to her knees and rested her head on her husband’s bloody chest, sobbing uncontrollably. “Charlie, Charlie…” she cried, unaware that it was already too late.

  “Aw,” Coney grinned with mock sorrow, “ain’t that touching? Now open the storeroom, you cunt, before I blow a hole in your sorry head too.”

  Carla’s teary eyes rose to meet Coney’s. “Do what you want, you ignorant nigger.”

  Strangely, it was less her use of the wordnigger than her suggestion that he was ignorant that caused Coney to snap. He kicked Carla square in the jaw, feeling a satisfyingcrunch on impact. She screamed with pain and fell sideways onto the tiled floor. The last moments of Carla Benzotti’s life became an insane kaleidoscope of grief, hatred, and the excruciating sensation of Coney’s boot repeatedly smashing bones in her head.

  Her last thought before the darkness took her into its embrace was that she still hadn’t bought Amy’s birthday present.

  Coney was still kicking Carla’s head moments after her heart had stopped beating. His friends had seen him in this kind of rage before and knew better than to intervene. Carla’s features had been grossly disfigured by the vicious assault, and her head had literally cracked open to reveal a rubbery gray substance.

  “Hey, Coney,” one of them said eventually. “She’s dead, man, all right? Let’s split before some fucker calls the cops.”

  Coney stopped kicking her, his face a contortion of hate. He aimed his gun and shot Carla several times in the back. His rage utterly spent, he turned around and made casually for the exit as if nothing had happened.

  As the teenagers stepped outside the store, they stopped dead in their tracks. As many as twelve armed officers had guns trained on them. The cops were ducking low behind an untidy barricade of patrol cars.

  “This is the police,” a disembodied voice called out. “Drop your weapons and lay face down on the ground.”

  Coney knew that all his associates were looking to him for guidance. To their collective horror, he raised his pistol at the cops.

  The volley of shots that killed Coney and his gang was audible throughout Crown Heights. In itself, that was nothing unusual, the Heights being one of New York’s less salubrious neighborhoods. However, word quickly spread through the black community that the cops had murdered five Afro-American teenagers. Italians reacted with similar outrage to the brutal murder of the much-loved Benzottis. These two explosive elements combined to ignite the evening’s first riot. An Italian gang firebombed an Italian household, incinerating three young children who had been asleep. Heavily armed black gangs retaliated against a predominantly Italian housing project with Uzis, Kalashnikovs and Molotov cocktails.

  Within the hour, riot police were struggling to hold their positions in Brooklyn, Queens and Harlem as a lethal brew of drugs, alcohol, fear and rage took hold of the ghettos.

  By that time, similar disturbances were being reported in Chicago, Los Angeles, Detroit, Newark and Atlanta.

  OVER THE NORTHERN UKRAINE

  Major Vasily Pasaev of the Russian Air Force eased back the throttle of his TU-95 ‘Bear’ strategic bomber, descending smoothly to 4,000 feet. By his own calculations, he would reach his primary target in less than four minutes. A part of him silently prayed for the recall order, although he knew in his heart it would not come.

  A quick glance around him revealed that the two MIG-29 fighter jets that had been flanking him since take off were still there. Nominally, their role was to protect him from Ukrainian air defenses, such as they were, but Pasaev imagined that they had orders to shoot him down if he tried to abort the mission for what might be termedethical reasons .

  “Distance to target, Captain,” he called out.

  Captain Nychin, the flight navigator, checked his instruments. The oldest member of the four-man crew, he had cut his teeth as a navigator in the days of the old Soviet Union, when he had practiced weaving complex paths through simulated NATO airspace. This was a poor challenge in comparison.

  “Approximately 195 kilometers, sir,” came the instant response. “Launch point is three minutes fifteen on current heading.”

  Pasaev grunted and switched his HUD from Navigation to Attack mode. A small red square flashed on his display, a green diamond shaped symbol appearing above it. Other figures and symbols advised the Captain on variable factors relevant to his mission, such as bearing, speed and altitude. The target coordinates had already been programmed into the Bear’s internal navigation computer prior to take off. Pasaev edged the jet two degrees north, centering the diamond, which moved across the display as the warplane’s bearing altered. Once the diamond was perfectly aligned within the square, the nuclear-tipped missile would be fired.

  A high-pitched tone in Pasaev’s headset notified him that the jet had passed its final control point. The Weapons Officer flicked a switch on his weapons panel, arming the nuclear warhead on the ALCM.

  Pasaev could hear the heavy breathing of his co-pilot. The tension was al
most unbearable now. Until this moment, none of the crew had really believed that what they were doing was for real. He wondered whether he was the only one who doubted that what they were doing wasright . Well, there would be plenty of time to discuss that among themselves when they returned to base.

  Perhaps.

  On his HUD, the targeting diamond started to move smoothly towards the square, which was now flashing to indicate that the warhead had been armed. Pasaev raised the nose of the jet, easing back the throttle to maintain current altitude. The horizon disappeared beneath his cockpit window. Pasaev hoped that the targeting coordinates were accurate enough to limit civilian casualties to an acceptable minimum.

  As the diamond and square converged, a high-pitched buzz sounded in the Captain’s headset. Locked on the target, he reached for the missile release switch. He closed his eyes to protect them against the blinding flash of the missile launch. When he opened them again, he saw a white plume of spent rocket fuel streaking into the far distance.

  “May God have mercy on my soul,” he muttered, not caring whether the rest of his crew heard him or not.

  He pulled the jet into a steep incline, arcing away from the target area.

  ANDREWS AFB, MARYLAND

  The first thing that caught Lewis’s attention as the Gulfstream-IV made its final descent into Andrews was the frenetic activity taking place on the ground. Soldiers were running in all directions, hurriedly performing whatever duties an alert of this type required them to perform. Across the runway, an E-4B command plane stood ready for immediate take off should the need exist to evacuate the President. Disturbingly, the cabin lights were on.

  He had just read the transcript of Mitchell’s address, which had been faxed to Bishop’s jet minutes earlier. Neither man had said a word since. They were both busy reviewing the situation in their minds, and coming to terms with what was now a very grave and unexpected crisis.

  Lewis’s particular areas of expertise included Russian history and strategic capability, the latter having until now been considered largely irrelevant in a world in which the United States stood unchallenged as a global superpower. How quickly things change, he thought. A cynical part of his mind wondered just how much of a coincidence it was that he should be recalled to government service on the same day as Russia going nuclear against Ukraine. Did Bishop know about this? And if so, for how long? He made a mental note to raise these issues with Bishop, but this was not the time or place.

  As they disembarked the aircraft, Lewis and the DCI were met by a phalanx of Secret Service agents.

  “This way gentlemen.” The lead agent had to shout to make himself heard above the roar of aircraft engines and other activity around the base. The protective detail hurriedly ushered their charges to a converted VH-3 helicopter transport that would adopt the call signHawk-Two as soon as they boarded.

  Neither Lewis nor Bishop had ever experienced anything like this before. Neither of them had thought they would ever have to. The palpable tension pervading the airbase excited Lewis in an extremely odd way, but the more rational part of his mind was scared as hell. Everybody around him seemed to assume the prospect of a war with Russia was very real. Therefore, he had to condition himself to think the same way, however much his intellect told him otherwise.

  They strapped themselves into their seats onHawk-Two . Temporarily, Lewis had allowed himself to forget just how much he hated helicopters. He hated nuclear weapons even more.

  A Marine Sergeant checked on the two men as the chopper lifted off.

  “Are you comfortable, gentlemen?”

  Lewis nodded uncertainly. “How long ‘til we get to the White House?” he asked.

  “ETA is about eight minutes, Dr. Stein. Just relax and enjoy the ride.”

  He smiled nervously and turned to Bishop. “That’s what my ex-wife always used to say to me, and look what happened there.”

  Bishop glared coldly at Lewis. He recalled that, in the days when they had worked together in the field, Lewis had often used dark humor to conceal his fear; an unconvincing show of bravado. The fact that he was doing so now was not reassuring.

  Lewis peered out of the window, watching the lights of Andrews disappear out of view. He still didn’t know what would be expected of him once he arrived at the White House. But behind closed eyes, he prayed to God that he wouldn’t be found wanting at the moment when his adopted country needed him most.

  Why the hell did I agree to this?

  INDEPENDENCE, MISSOURI

  Beth had always been proud of Martin in his Air Force Captain’s uniform. She had often boasted to her friends that her husband was a B-2 stealth bomber pilot responsible for more explosive firepower than had ever been unleashed in the entire history of war. But her sophisticated banker friends tended to consider people such as Martin an anachronism. Nuclear bombs had no relevance these days, did they? The Cold War was over. Your husband is simply prehistoric, dear.

  She was certain they wouldn’t be so smug now. At this moment, she was prouder of Martin than ever. It was men and women such as he that would give the Russians pause for thought, not the sneering investment bankers who, for all their self-importance, wouldn’t have a clue about what to do right now.

  As she embraced Martin in the driveway of their house, ten miles from Whiteman AFB, Beth couldn’t help wondering if she would ever see him again. For his sake, she fought back the tears that were desperately trying to find a release. Both of them had always known that this might happen someday. But now that itwas happening, the moment had a somewhat unreal, almost dreamlike quality. It didn’t seem possible that, after all these years of détente, the United States could actually be going to war with Russia. It seemed even less real to Beth that this might be their last good-bye. She didn’t want her husband’s last memory of her to be of a woman crying and begging him not to go. So she brushed down his uniform, like a mother sending her son off to school for the first time, and gave him her most beautiful smile. It was the same smile that had caused his heart to flutter all those years ago when he had first laid eyes on her. And damn if it didn’t still work.

  “I love you,” he whispered in her ear.

  “I love you too.”

  “I love you three.”

  “Love you more,” she smiled bravely, her voice trembling. They kissed passionately. In the background, Cathy and Patrick looked on impassively.

  “I’m proud of you, honey,” she told him. “Just remember that.”

  He nodded, not wanting to let go of her, but knowing that every passing moment was a waste of precious time for both of them.

  “Load up the Explorer with as much as you can,” he told her firmly. “Bottled water, canned food, candles. There’s a ham radio up at the cabin. Dad knows how to use it. Get going as quickly as you can. The highways will be jammed, so stick to the back roads. You should make Iowa in a couple of hours.”

  “I know the way,” she mumbled, a tangible quiver in her voice now.

  He gently stroked her cheek. She gripped his hand tight in hers.

  “I promise you, honey,” he said, “that when this is all over, I’ll quit the Air Force and get a normal job.”

  “Promise?”

  “You bet.”

  He walked over to his parents. Patrick had his arm wrapped around Cathy, whose head was rested on her husband’s shoulder.

  “Some vacation, huh?” Martin quipped.

  “So this is what my son does for a living,” Cathy observed dryly. “I’m proud of you too, you know that?”

  Martin shuffled his feet, feeling uneasy. Yeah, I’m something to be proud of, huh? Your son might be about to incinerate ten million innocent people. But he kept his thoughts to himself and embraced both his parents. Neither of them had ever been big on shows of affection, so by unspoken consent it was kept brief.

  “Don’t let those Russkies give you any shit, son,” Patrick told him. “If they start bothering you, make sure you blow them back to the Stone Age.”
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  “Sure, Pop.” And somewhere in Russia, a scene exactly like this is probably taking place right now. A proud Russian father telling his bomber pilot son to fry the Yankees if they start getting uppity.

  Martin climbed into his Cherokee jeep and started up the engine.

  “I need you guys to look out for each other,” he called out, glaring firmly at his wife and parents in turn. “I don’t want to hear that there’s been any trouble when I get back, okay?”

  Patrick walked over to Beth and held his daughter-in-law’s hand. Cathy opened her mouth to protest, but bit her lip. “We hear you, son,” he affirmed.

  “See you soon,” Martin promised over his shoulder, slamming the door shut. He eased the Jeep into gear and pulled away.

  Once the Cherokee had disappeared from sight, Patrick turned to Beth.

  “Come on, honey,” he whispered. “Let’s start loading the car.”

  NORAD, CHEYENNE MOUNTAIN, COLORADO

  Despite the complex being a non-smoking facility, the Commander-in-Chief of North American Air Defense Command (CINC-NORAD) lit his tenth filter tip of the day. He didn’t think anyone would mind. After all, there were more dangerous things in the world than passive smoking right now, weren’t there?

  General Robert Allen was standing on an elevated bridge that allowed him a view of the cavernous room - ‘The Pit’ - that constituted the heart of the NORAD facility. A tall, wiry man who had been a Wing Commander in the Gulf War, Allen gazed down with impassive blue eyes on the activity taking place below him. Hundreds of American and Canadian technicians were racing in all directions, bumping into each other as they performed their various duties. A wall mounted electronic board showed NORAD’s current DefCon status as Four. That would automatically go to Three as soon as a nuclear detonation took place anywhere in the world. It had never gone to two before, never mind one.