The Hand of God
The Kremlin, Moscow
Eleven hundred miles and nearly due north of Tel Aviv, the Russian Security Council was meeting to discuss the events in Israel. It was now 4:00 a.m. in New York, and 11:00 a.m. in Moscow, which shares the same time zone as Israel.
At 86 years old, Defense Minister Vladimir Leon Josef Khromchenkov was the oldest of the thirteen men assembled in the Kremlin's war-room. Khromchenkov was born in 1917, sometime during the night of November 6-7, the same night that the Bolsheviks had seized power. His father had missed the birth, choosing instead to take part in the fighting in Petrograd. Throughout the revolution and the years that followed, Khromchenkov's father somehow managed to walk the fine line of being close to Lenin, Stalin, and Trotsky and yet was never so close to any one of them that he was considered a threat by the other two. His ability to maneuver through politically treacherous waters had been passed on to his son. After serving for nearly forty years in the Soviet Army, Vladimir Khromchenkov first came to the Kremlin during the early days of Gorbachev as a candidate of the hard-liners who opposed Gorbachev's reforms and were afraid he might 'give away the store.'
Boris Yeltzin had made several attempts to weaken Khromchenkov's political power and even to remove him from the Security Council, but without success. Khromchenkov knew the inner workings of everything and used this to his advantage. Had he wanted it, he might well have become President, but Khromchenkov preferred manipulating to being manipulated. It was said of Khromchenkov that he believed that just as he had been born on the night the revolution began, it was his destiny not to die until the Soviet Union had been restored as a world power. And though he gave the credit to others, it was Khromchenkov who had engineered the invasion of Israel as a key step toward bringing about that destiny.
"Comrades," Defense Minister Khromchenkov began in old Soviet style, which always irritated some of those around him but warmed the hearts of others, "our intelligence reports have just confirmed that this morning's strike against our international peacekeeping forces in Israel was conceived and initiated by Israeli insurgents. We have very recently regained communications with General Serov, who is in charge of the Strategic Defense Control Facility at Mizpe Ramon. He reports that the Israelis apparently took control of the nuclear forces from a remote facility, from which they launched this morning's attack. At present, the insurgents are fighting our troops stationed in the cities, and a small force of Israelis has set up camp outside the control facility. General Serov has sealed the blast doors so his forces are in no danger from the insurgents outside. Presently, he reports, he is working to isolate the breach in operations in order to attempt to regain control. One other point," Khromchenkov said, as if it were only an afterthought, though in reality it was the most significant thing he would say, "in addition to having control of their launch facilities, the Israelis have also taken control of their strategic defense."
"Damn!" said Foreign Minister Cherov, who recognized the importance of Khromchenkov's final point. If the Israeli resistance had control of the strategic defense then it greatly limited Russia's options for response.
"Our damage estimates indicate that the warheads used were Gideon-class five megaton neutron devices targeted for just outside the perimeter of each of our six temporary installations. We believe the loss of personnel in the camps was total."
"What about the materiel?" asked the Minister of Finance, concerned more about the stockpiles of weaponry than about the thousands of lives lost.
"At this moment we have no assessment of damage to our weaponry, but it is likely that the equipment has survived the attack."
"What do you suggest?" President Perelyakin asked Defense Minister Khromchenkov.
"We must assume," Khromchenkov began, "that the use of low megatonnage neutron bombs was intended to kill our soldiers while allowing the Israelis to seize our weapons for their defense against the Arabs. While we can hope that General Serov will regain control of the nuclear capabilities and strategic defense, we must plan a response in the event that those attempts are unsuccessful. Therefore, in addition to immediately replacing our peacekeeping forces, I recommend that we prepare both a nuclear and a conventional response. First, if we regain control of the strategic defense, then our response to the Israeli nuclear attack should be in-kind. I recommend a launch of six low-yield neutron bombs on Israeli targets to match the unprovoked Israeli attack on our troops. Second, if we are not able to regain control of the strategic defense, then within twenty-four hours, before Israel can avail itself of our equipment, we must launch an air strike against those same six targets, followed by additional strikes against any Israeli troops who attempt to take our equipment. The second option is not as colorful, but it will make the point."
"Defense Minister Khromchenkov," said Interior Minister Stefan Ulinov, "if we can regain control of the Israeli's nuclear forces, then I recommend that the launch come from their own silos."
"Excellent" opined President Perelyakin, and everyone agreed.
"As for a nuclear response," Ulinov continued, "if Israel's strategic defense is anywhere near as effective as our intelligence reports indicate, then Defense Minister Khromchenkov is absolutely correct. We must not launch a nuclear response unless we are sure that the warheads will reach their targets. We cannot afford to provide the world with a demonstration of what a well-developed missile defense can do. It would be," Ulinov said, his words measured and slow for effect, "a catastrophic mistake if the net result of this entire event was to encourage the West to finally deploy their own full-scale strategic defense." Ulinov paused to allow the members of the Security Council a moment to consider what he felt was the great wisdom of his words, and then looked over at Defense Minister Khromchenkov to surrender the floor to him.
"Ultimately," said Khromchenkov, "if we are unable to retake the nuclear capabilities or the strategic defense, we will have to expend much greater forces to disable the missile silos with conventional air strikes. Once they have again been stripped of their nuclear forces I believe we can count on Israel to surrender its strategic defenses."
"Excellent," the President said again. "I commend you, Mr. Defense Minister, for your clear thought and planning of a sensible response to this incident."
When the meeting was over, Defense Minister Khromchenkov hung back to catch Foreign Minister Cherov alone. Khromchenkov felt sure he knew Cherov's feelings on what he was about to ask, but one can never be too careful. "Tell me, Comrade Cherov," he said, when he was sure no one could overhear their conversation, "what did you think of my recommendations for a limited response?"
"I think they were well planned… if your intent was to satisfy the wishes of President Perelyakin." Cherov's voice hid nothing; it was obvious that he was not satisfied with Khromchenkov's plan.
"Perhaps you would prefer a response that was a bit… stronger? One which took greater advantage of the opportunity?"
"I had hopes, yes."
"I did prepare an alternate recommendation. Perhaps you would like to have a look." Khromchenkov handed a large unmarked envelope to his fellow minister and left the room.
New York (8:00 a.m. New York, 3:00 p.m. Moscow/Israel)
By 8:00 a.m. New York time, the world was beginning to learn what had actually happened in Israel. Early reports had suggested that the bombing was an accident on the part of the Russians. Many of the Russians had even thought this was the case. Now that it was clear that the attack had been somehow engineered by the Israelis, concern at the U.N. quickly turned to calls for restraint by the Russians.
Jon Hansen had learned early in his political career that the most effective diplomacy is usually carried out in private; the speaker's dais in the hall of the General Assembly was for 'show business.' Still there were times, such as when he had called for the reorganization of the Security Council – a move that was entirely for spectacle – when the dais was indispensable. The present occasion would require both.
It was ingenious that the Israelis could engineer such a maneuver, Hansen thought; it was insane that they'd actually do it. And it was impossible for anyone to tell how the Russians were planning to respond to the attack. Hansen knew enough about Russian politics to know that there would probably be serious discussion of launching some sort of limited nuclear attack in response, but he hoped the moderates would win out. Unfortunately, he could learn nothing more from Russian Ambassador Yuri Kruszkegin, who was playing it very close to the vest.
Unknown to Hansen were the cards in the hand of the small group of men and women deep beneath the streets of Tel Aviv. They were the ones who held history in their hands, along with the control of Israel's nuclear forces and strategic defense.
Moscow (3:15 p.m. Moscow/Israel, 8:15 a.m. New York)
Defense Minister Vladimir Khromchenkov had just walked into the restroom and gone over to one of the urinals when he realized that someone had followed him in. Out of the corner of his eye he recognized Foreign Minister Cherov. Khromchenkov knew at once that this was no chance meeting – he could count on the fingers of his free hand the number of times he had seen Cherov in this wing of the building. Still, it was not wise to make assumptions. "Good afternoon," Khromchenkov said.
Cherov only nodded.
"Have you had a chance to examine my alternate proposal?"
"I have," answered Cherov. "It offers some intriguing possibilities for both the short and long term goals of our country." Cherov's voice said he was interested and Khromchenkov knew it.
"Of course," Khromchenkov said, "such a plan would depend greatly on the response from the Americans. I have made some assumptions, and of course it is all conjecture; I am not an expert in these things." There was no doubt in Cherov's mind that this was said both to fulfill Khromchenkov's obligation to defer to Cherov's position as Foreign Minister and to position himself to shift the blame later if his assumptions on the matter proved incorrect. "Perhaps you would have a different assessment," Khromchenkov suggested, as he left the urinal to wash his hands.
"No. Your assessment seems correct." Cherov said as he joined him at the sink. "Of course we shall never know for sure. It would be impossible to overrule the wishes of President Perelyakin on this matter." Cherov's voice made it clear that he was eager to hear more, if, indeed, there was more to hear.
"I suppose you are correct," Khromchenkov said with an insincere sigh, and then added, "On the other hand, were it to be proposed by the right member of the Security Council, there are doubtless others who would follow."
"The right member?" Cherov asked, wanting Khromchenkov to confirm what he seemed to be suggesting.
"Yes, someone who could offer the strong leadership required to lead the Russian Federation, should the President find it, er… impossible to support the view of the majority."
There was now no doubt about what he was suggesting. Khromchenkov's plan was obvious: Cherov was 'the right member.' President Perelyakin would obviously oppose the plan. That was the easy part. The difficult part – impossible, unless it could be prearranged – was to have the majority side with Cherov. Perelyakin was not a forgiving man. If the plan failed it would cost Cherov dearly.
"Can one be sure of the numbers?" Cherov asked cautiously.
"As sure as one may be of anything," Khromchenkov answered, drying his hands. "There are three members who supported Perelyakin in the past who have confided in me that they do not wish to see an opportunity such as this pass unanswered."
Cherov did a quick tally of the numbers. It suddenly occurred to him that, despite the accuracy of Khromchenkov's math, everything did not add up. Why had not these three members simply gone to Perelyakin to press for a stronger response to the problem?
"And have these members gone to President Perelyakin with their plea?" Cherov asked.
"Yes, of course."
"And he refuses to listen?"
"He listens. He just does not hear. His world is built on caution."
"A sound foundation," Cherov answered.
"Yes, but one that may let destiny slip past unanswered, and ignore an opportunity that would restore Russia to its rightful place as a world power."
"You speak of opportunity. But there is no such opportunity unless your General Serov is successful in regaining control of the Israeli strategic defense."
"True enough," Khromchenkov admitted. "If he does not, then the alternate recommendation will not be made and there is nothing lost. And yet, if he does succeed… we must be ready to act."
Cherov considered Khromchenkov's comment. "I will think on it," he said finally.
Tel Aviv (11:40 a.m. Israel/Moscow, 4:40 a.m. New York)
In the Off-Site Facility the members of Colonel White's team took turns sleeping. It might be days or even weeks before they would see the outside again. Joel was munching on a bag of Tapu potato chips in front of a computer console, and Scott had just stretched out on a cot to rest when something unexpected happened.
"What the hell?" Joel said under his breath. "Colonel White," he called, requesting the team leader's presence.
Colonel White downed the rest of a cup of coffee and walked over to where Joel was sitting. "What's up?" he asked.
Joel moved closer to the console and was studying the computer monitor. "A bad reading, I hope. The master icon for the defense grid just went red."
Colonel White took one look and didn't like what he saw. "Danny, get over here quick," he yelled to one of the two female members of the team.
Danielle Metzger was the one person, other than White, with the most experience in the Off-Site Facility, but unlike the Colonel her work had all been hands-on. She knew the facility inside and out. "SHIT!!" she yelled, in uncharacteristic fashion. The noise woke the three team members who were sleeping. "Quick," Metzger shouted, taking command of the situation, "everybody, we've got a problem!!"
"Tell me what's going on," White ordered.
"We've lost control," Metzger responded, as she ran a series of diagnostics to be sure that the readings were correct.
"What the hell happened?" several voices said at once.
Danielle continued working, madly trying to reestablish control. "Damn!" she said, finally, realizing this was not simply a faulty reading. "Colonel, it appears that somehow the Russians have taken control of all defensive capabilities."
"Can we get them back?" he asked, terrified of what her answer might be.
"I don't know, sir. I… "
"Wait a second," Joel interrupted. "We still have control of our offensive forces. How could we lose one but not the other? Could this just be an aberration in the system?"
Like the others, Scott Rosen was studying the situation, trying to get some idea of what went wrong and what could be done to correct it. It was he who answered Joel's question. "It's not an aberration," he replied. "I can't explain how they did it but I can explain what they've done. The fibre optics used for communication between the various sites in the offensive and defensive systems go through both the Strategic Defense Control Facility and the Off-Site Facility. For logistics reasons, control communications of missile silos go first through this facility and then to the SDCF; defensive control communications go first through the SDCF and then to this facility."
"Damn!" Joel said. "What damn fool decided to do that?!"
"Dr. Brown," answered Danielle Metzger. "But he couldn't have predicted that we'd ever be in a situation like this," she continued, becoming a little defensive on behalf of the late doctor who had been her mentor.
Scott continued his explanation. "Somehow they must have discovered that Sensor Facility 14 was a counterfeit facility and traced its input/output cables
"So can we get control back or not?" Colonel White asked, reasserting his authority. There was a long silent pause.
"I don't think so," Scott answered finally. "I think they may have cut the cables."
In all the confusion and disarray, no one noticed the faint sound of the radio in the background as it monitored the continuous loop of the words of the prophet Joel. Nor did they notice at first when the loop abruptly stopped and was replaced by another voice. It was the low, rich, and measured voice of Rabbi Saul Cohen. As the room fell silent for a moment, the familiar voice registered in Joel Felsberg's ears. At first he ignored it, but then suddenly he recognized it. "That's my sister's rabbi," he announced, surprising the others, who were trying to figure a way out of the present predicament. "What's going on up there? Why have they shut off the loop?" he asked as he turned the sound up enough to be heard clearly.
"Cohen? That son of a bitch!" Scott Rosen said, temporarily distracted from the more pressing subject at hand by his intense hatred for the rabbi. Scott was only too familiar with Cohen's powerful voice. Once, when he stayed overnight at his parents' house, Scott was awakened in the morning by that same voice as it joined with his parents and a few others in singing songs proclaiming Yeshua (Jesus) as the Jewish Messiah. It took all the forbearance he could muster to refrain from going into the kitchen and slugging the rabbi, and still he would have, had it not been for his mother, Liana Rosen. It was one thing for individual citizens of Israel like his parents to believe in Yeshua, but it was something else altogether for a rabbi, an Hasidic rabbi at that, to believe it. More recently – before their deaths in the Disaster – Scott's parents had spent every spare moment with Cohen on some mysterious project. Several times Joshua, Liana, and Cohen had disappeared for weeks, leaving only a note to indicate their expected date of return.
"All the earth has seen what has been done here today," Cohen said over the radio. "But you, oh Israel, have not glorified God. Instead you have congratulated yourselves for destroying your enemy. You have glorified yourself and now you have falsely used the words of the prophet Joel to suit your own needs. 'These words must not be used as a rallying cry for my people,' says the Lord. These are the words of the son of Satan, who will rally his evil forces to destroy you in the day of the Lord that is coming. Nevertheless, the Lord, your God is a patient and merciful God. Hear now the words of the prophet Ezekiel for the enemy of my people Israel:
I will execute judgment upon him with plague and bloodshed; I will pour down torrents of rain, hailstones and burning sulfur on him and his troops and on the many nations with him… On the mountains of Israel you will fall, you and all your troops and the nations with you. I will give you as food to all kinds of carrion birds and wild animals.
You will fall in the open field, for I have spoken, declares the Sovereign Lord… and they will know that I am theLordP
"Today, oh Israel, today you shall behold the power and wrath of God! Here, oh Israel, is your true battle cry. 'Behold the hand of God! Behold the hand of God!'"
New York (4:55 a.m. New York, 11:55 a.m. Israel/Moscow)
Even in his sleep, Decker's mind was filled with the events of the day. Suddenly he was awakened as a scream of pure terror erupted from Christopher's room. Decker found the boy covered in sweat and trembling in fear. "What's wrong?!" Decker shouted, his own heart racing to match Christopher's.
Christopher sat up straight in bed and seemed unsure of his surroundings. As he looked around, the disorientation was slow to leave him. Finally, Decker saw a look of recognition in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," Christopher said. "I'm okay now. It was… just a dream." Decker had been a father long enough to recognize when a child was attempting to be brave. Christopher was visibly shaken and Decker wasn't about to just leave him alone.
"Was it the crucifixion dream again?" Decker asked.
"No, no," Christopher answered. "Nothing like that."
"Well, why don't you tell me about it."
Christopher seemed a little reluctant but Decker insisted. "It was really just a dumb dream," Christopher said, apologetically. "I've had the same dream before." Decker didn't budge. "Okay," Christopher said, giving in to Decker's insistence. "The dream has a weird feeling about it. It seems almost ancient, but at the same time it's clear and fresh. When the dream starts, I'm in a room with huge curtains hanging all around me. The curtains are beautiful, decorated with gold and silver threads. The floor of the room is made of stone and in the middle of the room is an old wooden box, like a crate, sitting on a table. I can't explain why, but in the dream I feel like I need to look in the box."
"What's in the box?" Decker asked.
"I don't know. In the dream it seems like there's something inside that I need to see, but at the same time, somehow I know that whatever it is, it's terrifying."
Decker read the terror in his eyes and was glad he had insisted that Christopher tell him about the dream. This was not the sort of thing a fifteen-year-old should have to face on his own.
"In the dream, when I approach the box and I'm just a few feet away, I look down and somehow the floor has disappeared. I start to fall, but I grab onto the table that the box is sitting on." Christopher stopped.
"Go on," Decker urged.
"That's as far as the dream ever went until tonight."
"So, what happened tonight?" Decker prodded, anxious to hear the conclusion to the strange dream.
"Well, usually I wake up at that point, but this time there was something else: a voice. It was a very deep, rich voice and it was saying, 'Behold the hand of God; Behold the hand of God!'"
Decker had no idea what the dream might mean but it certainly had his attention.
"And then there was another voice," Christopher continued. "Well, it wasn't exactly a voice: it was a laugh."
"A laugh?"
"Yes, sir. But it wasn't a friendly laugh. I can't really explain it except to say it was cold and cruel and terribly inhuman."
Moscow (12:37 p.m. Moscow/Israel, 5:37 a.m. New York)
Lieutenant Yuri Dolginov hurried down the long hall of the Kremlin toward the office of the Defense Minister. Despite the importance of his message he knew well that he had better take the time to knock before entering. "Sir," he said, when he was permitted to enter, "we have regained control of the Israeli strategic defense."
This was good news, indeed. "Excellent," Khromchenkov said to himself, "then the time has come to strike." Khromchenkov made a quick call to Foreign Minister Cherov before notifying President Perelyakin of the change in status in Israel. The President called for an immediate meeting of the Security Council.
When the meeting convened a few minutes later, President Perelyakin immediately turned the floor over to Khromchenkov. He had no idea of the intrigue that was brewing, and simply felt it was good politics to allow the Defense Minister to have the pleasure of informing the Security Council of the good news from Israel.
Khromchenkov read the words of the communique from General Serov in the Israeli Strategic Defense Control Facility:
Have regained control of Israeli strategic defense. Unable to achieve same for offensive missile forces. Recommend immediate action as condition could change without warning.
The members of the Security Council applauded General Serov's accomplishment. Several of the men in the meeting had already been notified of the situation and were obliged to act as though this was the first time they had heard it.
"Thank you," President Perelyakin told Khromchenkov. "Now, I suggest we comply with the General's recommendation and respond immediately."
"One moment," Foreign Minister Cherov interrupted.
"Yes," responded Perelyakin, who had already risen from his seat. Perelyakin's face showed only the slightest hint of concern as Cherov began. Inside, however, his stomach muscles tightened as if in preparation for a physical blow.
"It has occurred to me that we face a remarkable opportunity to restore Russia to its rightful position as a great world power. At this moment the American forces are in virtual disarray. Now, certainly I will acknowledge that similar conditions exist for the Russian Federation. The Disaster, as the Americans call it, has struck both sides with severe losses. But the measure of superiority is not what is, but how one uses what is, to his final advantage."
Perelyakin listened to Cherov's words with his ears but his eyes studied the faces of those around him. He didn't like what he saw anymore than he liked what he heard.
New York (7:30 a.m. New York, 2:30 p.m. Moscow/Israel)
"I appreciate you meeting me for breakfast, Yuri," Jon Hansen said as he greeted the Soviet Ambassador.
"Good morning, Jon," Kruszkegin responded. "That's all right, I'm on a diet," he added in jest, anticipating the distasteful nature of the conversation that was about to follow. Kruszkegin's eyes were red from having to operate in two different time zones. He had been awakened early that morning to be apprised of the situation in Israel. His nephew, Yuri Dolginov, who worked for the Defense Minister, had sent him an encrypted e-mail from Moscow that Russia had regained control of the Israeli strategic defense, and Kruszkegin had stayed up expecting official notification from the Foreign Minister of what action was intended. None came. This was not the first time he had to depend on his nephew for word of what was going on. The Foreign Minister, under whose direction all Russian ambassadors functioned, was not comfortable with men like Kruszkegin whom he considered far too 'internationally-minded' to be very useful to the Russian Federation.
Hansen and Kruszkegin continued to exchange small talk for a while as their breakfast was served, and then Hansen attempted to elicit some information. "You seem worried," Hansen said. He was lying. Kruszkegin's face showed no emotion at all except possibly enjoyment of his breakfast. Hansen had said it solely to observe Kruszkegin's response.
"Not at all," he answered.
Hansen tried a different tact: "You don't have any more idea what's going on than I do, do you?" But Kruszkegin only smiled and continued chewing. Hansen tried a few more times, but to no avail. Kruszkegin just continued eating his breakfast.
"I thought you were on a diet," Hansen said, in frustration. "Why the hell did you even accept my invitation to breakfast if you weren't going to talk?"
Kruszkegin put down his fork. "Because," he began, "one day I will want you to come to breakfast as my guest and / will be the one asking all the questions."
"When that happens," Hansen responded, "I shall endeavor to be as tight-lipped as you."
"I'm sure you will be," Kruszkegin said. "And then I will notify my government that we met but that I was unable to learn anything new, just as you shall do today."
Hansen gave a brief chuckle and went back to his nearly untouched breakfast. A few moments later, however, the gravity of the current situation resurfaced and Hansen began to push the food around on his plate rather than eat it.
"You look worried," Kruszkegin said, echoing Hansen's earlier statement.
"I am," Hansen answered. "Yuri, things have changed. I can't tell what's going on in Russia anymore. The men in power are unpredictable. Men like Yeltzin and Gorbachev would never have taken chances like these men have. I just don't know what we can expect from them."
Kruszkegin stopped eating and unlike before, it was obvious he was not thinking about his food. Hansen had struck a nerve. In truth, Kruszkegin was as concerned as Hansen, probably more so. Still, he offered no comment.
After breakfast Hansen and Kruszkegin left for their separate missions. When Kruszkegin arrived at the Mission of the Russian Federation on 67th Avenue, his personal secretary handed him a message.
"It came while you were at breakfast," she reported.
Kruszkegin looked at the note. It was from his nephew at the Ministry of Defense. The message was simple but unusual. "Uncle Yuri," it began. That was unusual in itself: in the past his nephew had always addressed his correspondence, "Dear Mr. Ambassador." Kruszkegin did not pause long to notice the informality, though; his mind was on the message that followed. "Say your prayers" it said.
Kruszkegin went to his office and locked the door. Sitting at his desk he took out a Cuban cigar and lit it. He thought about the brief message from his nephew and looked at it again. "Say your prayers."
It was a joke; that is, it had been a joke four years earlier when he had helped young Yuri, his namesake, get the position on Khromchenkov's staff. "What shall I say," his nephew had asked him at that time, "to warn you, should we ever decide to launch a major nuclear attack?"
Kruszkegin remembered his response: "Just tell me to say my prayers."
Russia (3:36 p.m. Moscow/Israel, 8:36 a.m. New York)
The heavy German-made cover slid quickly back from the underground silo, clearing the way for the missile inside. At eighty-seven locations scattered around the Russian Federation, the same foreboding sound of metal against metal was followed by the release of mooring clamps, and then by the roar of rocket engines firing. Slowly the missiles rose from their tranquil catacombs, hidden at first by the white clouds of exhaust which rose around them. Emerging above the banks of smoke, the missiles crept heavenward, picking up speed as they continued in their course. Their targets were not limited to Israel alone. In truth, Israel had now become insignificant. Khromchenkov's plan for restoring Russia to world prominence was to control the world's oil supply. With this launch it would no longer be necessary to use Israel for a staging ground to take control of Egypt's and Saudi Arabia's oil fields. Now that would be accomplished with one stroke. Israel needed to be taught a lesson and so six warheads had been targeted at its cities. But the hundreds of other warheads, as many as sixteen MRVed warheads in each missile, were targeted at every major city in every oil-rich country in the Middle East. Throughout Russia the military was put in readiness for the invasion to follow.
West of St. Petersburg a farmer ceased his work in confused wonder as the ground shook and the roar of engines reached his ears. Turning, he saw the sun briefly eclipsed by a rising missile which cast a shadow over him and his efforts. At the Cathedral of St. Basil in Moscow a wedding party looked skyward toward six rising plumes of exhaust. On a bridge in Irkutsk, children watching a puppet show were startled as the puppeteer suddenly ceased his craft to stare at the foreboding display in the sky. In Yekaterinburg, at a 10 kilometer race, skaters and spectators alike stopped in silent terror as the sun reflected off the hulls of four missiles speeding skyward. Throughout Russia similar scenes were played out.
Eighteen and a half seconds into their course, at a point approximately two miles into the air, as people in cities, towns, and farms around the country watched… the unexplainable happened.
At the core of each of the multiple warheads carried by the missiles, in an area so infinitesimally small, an incomprehensibly immense burst of energy was released. In less than a hundredth of a millionth of a second the temperature of the warheads rose to over a hundred million degrees Kelvin – five times hotter than the core of the sun – creating a fireball which expanded outward at several million miles per hour. Instantly everything within two to four miles of the blasts was vaporized: not just the farmer, but the tools with which he had worked; not just the wedding party, but the cathedral from which they had come; not just the children and the puppeteer, but the bridge on which they stood; not just the skaters and spectators, but the frozen river on which they had raced. Even the air itself was incinerated. For eight to fifteen miles around each of the exploding warheads, what was not vaporized burst instantly into flame.
As the fireballs expanded they drove before them superheated shockwaves of expanding air. Reflecting off of the ground they had not vaporized, the secondary shockwaves of the blasts fused with the initial shockwaves and propagated along the ground to create Mach fronts of unbelievable pressure. Buildings, homes, trees, and everything that had not already been destroyed were sheared from the surface of the earth and carried along at thousands of miles per hour. The death toll in the first fifteen seconds alone was over thirty million.
The huge fireballs, having expanded to as much as six miles in diameter, now rose skyward, pulling everything around them inward and upward like huge chimneys. Hundreds of billions of cubic meters of smoke and toxic gases created by the fires, together with all that had been blown outward by the blasts, was now drawn back to the center and carried aloft at five hundred miles per hour into scores of mammoth irradiated mushroom clouds of debris which would rain deadly fallout for thousands of miles around.
Tel Aviv (5:20 p.m. Israel)
The unsecured black phone rang and Lieutenant Colonel Michael White answered according to standard operating procedure, simply stating the last four digits of the phone number. The voice on the phone was that of the Israeli Prime Minister calling from his recently-liberated office in the Knesset. "Congratulations," he said. "Not one missile left Russian air space. All Israel owes you their life and their freedom."
"Thank you, Mister Prime Minister," Colonel White said. "But it wasn't us. Our line of control was cut hours ago. Our strategic defense is still entirely inoperable."