looks good on the simulators, but that’s a ways from a practical test, of course. It’s better than nothing, though.”
“Okay, where are the ships?”
“There’s one here now,” Bretano answered.
“Oh? When did that happen?” Robby Jackson asked.
“Less than an hour ago. Gettysburg. There’s another one going to New York—and San Francisco and Los Angeles. Also Seattle, though that’s not really a target as far as we know. The software upgrade is going out to them to get their missiles reprogrammed.”
“Okay, that’s something. What about taking those missiles out, before they can launch?” Ryan asked next.
“The Chinese silos have recently been upgraded in protection, steel armor on the concrete covers—shaped like a Chinese coolie hat, it will probably deflect most bombs, but not the deep penetrators, the GBU-27s we used on the railroad bridges—”
“If they have any left over there. Better ask Gus Wallace,” the Vice President warned.
“What do you mean?” Bretano asked.
“I mean we never made all that many of them, and the Air Force must have dropped about forty last night.”
“I’ll check that,” SecDef promised.
“What if he doesn’t?” Jack asked.
“Then either we get some more in one big hurry, or we think up something else,” TOMCAT replied.
“Like what, Robby?”
“Hell, send in a special-operations team and blow them the fuck up,” the former fighter pilot suggested.
“I wouldn’t much want to try that myself,” Mickey Moore observed.
“Beats the hell out of a five-megaton bomb going off on Capitol Hill, Mickey,” Jackson shot back. “Look, the preferred thing to do is find out if Gus Wallace has the right bombs. It’s a long stretch for the Black Jets, but you can tank them going and coming—and put fighters up to protect the tankers. It’s complicated, but we practice that sort of thing. If he doesn’t have the goddamned bombs, we fly them to him, assuming there are any. You know, weapons storage isn’t a cornucopia, guys. There’s a finite, discrete number for every item in the inventory.”
“General Moore,” Ryan said, “call General Wallace and find out, right now, if you would.”
“Yes, sir.” Moore stood and left the Situation Room.
“Look,” Ed Foley said, pointing to the TV. “It’s started.”
The wood line erupted in a sheet of flame two kilometers across. The sight caused the eyes of the Chinese tankers to flare, but most of the front rank of tank crews didn’t have time for much more than that. Of the thirty tanks in that line, only three escaped immediate destruction. It was little better for the personnel carriers interspersed with them.
“You may commence firing, Colonel,” Sinyavskiy told his artillery commander.
The command was relayed at once, and the ground shook beneath their feet.
It was spectacular to see on the computer terminal. The Chinese had walked straight into the ambush, and the effect of the Russian opening volley was ghastly to behold.
Major Tucker took in a deep breath as he saw several hundred men lose their lives.
“Back to their artillery,” Bondarenko ordered.
“Yes, sir.” Tucker complied at once, altering the focus of the high-altitude camera and finding the Chinese artillery. It was mainly of the towed sort, being pulled behind trucks and tractors. They were a little slow getting the word. The first Russian shells were falling around them before any effort was made to stop the trucks and lift the limbers off the towing hooks, and for all that the Chinese gunners worked rapidly.
But theirs was a race against Death, and Death had a head start. Tucker watched one gun crew struggle to manhandle their 122-mm gun into a firing position. The gunners were loading the weapon when three shells landed close enough to upset the weapon and kill more than half their number. Zooming in the camera, he could see one private writhing on the ground, and there was no one close by to offer him assistance.
“It is a miserable business, isn’t it?” Bondarenko observed quietly.
“Yeah,” Tucker agreed. When a tank blew up it was easy to tell yourself that a tank was just a thing. Even though you knew that three or four human beings were inside, you couldn’t see them. As a fighter pilot never killed a fellow pilot, but only shot down his aircraft, so Tucker adhered to the Air Force ethos that death was something that happened to objects rather than people. Well, that poor bastard with blood on his shirt wasn’t a thing, was he? He backed off the camera, taking a wider field that permitted godlike distancing from the up-close-and-personal aspects of the observation.
“Better that they should have remained