The Christ Clone Trilogy 01 - In His Imagery
By
James Beau Seigneur
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 fulfil 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 the Lord.
"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."