Brown, Dale - Patrick McLanahan 01 Read Online Free PDF

answer.
                 “That
Mr. President, is how much warning time we have,” Curtis explained. “Ten
minutes from when the Soviet ICBMs cross the horizon in the mid-course phase
until the warheads impact. We believe none of those missiles would be targeted
on Washington , but we can’t take the chance.”
                 The
President was quiet for a moment. The stillness was broken by the arrival of
the President’s chief of staff, Jeffrey Hampton, followed by an aide with a
tray of coffee and pastries. The aide circled the table, making sure that
everyone’s coffee cup was filled.
                 “I
couldn’t reach all of the Committee members, Mr. President,” Hampton said. “I’ll keep trying.”
                 “Never
mind, Jeff,” the President said. “We’re going to wrap this up shortly.’’
                 General
Curtis stiffened. This President, he noted, was never very serious during the
few simultions they had held, testing the emergency communications and
evacuation plan. Now it was the real thing, and he was already anxious to leave.
                 “I
have more news, sir,’’ Curtis said, not touching his coffee. “We lost an RC-135
reconnaissance plane near Russia sometime this morning.”
                 The
President closed his eyes and let his coffee cup clatter back onto its saucer.
“How? Where . . . ?”
                 “It
was on a routine training mission from Japan to Eielson Air Force Base in
Fairbanks,” Curtis said, “when it diverted to investigate some strange signals
somewhere between the submarine base at Petropavlovsk and a large research
complex north on the peninsula called Kavaznya.”
                 The
President nodded. “Any survivors?”
                 “None
so far,” Curtis said. “Search teams from Japan are just arriving on the scene. Soviet
searchers have been out there, but they haven’t found anything.”
                 The
President nodded. “How many . . . ?”
                 “Ten
men, two women.”
                 “Damn.”
The President pressed his fingers of his right hand to his temple and gently
began to massage it. “What the hell happened? Why were they over there?”
                 “A
routine radar mapping sortie—a spy mission,” Mitchell, the CIA director, chimed
in. “They fly off the coast, trying to get the Russians to bring a threat radar
up against them. They plot out the radar’s location, identify it, see what it
does.”
                 “How
close to the coast were they?” the President asked. Curtis hesitated. “How close?” the President asked again.
                 “It’s
closest approach was about thirty-five miles,” Curtis replied. “When we lost
contact with the plane, they were about ninety miles from the coast.”
                 “Well,
dammit,” the President said, “I’d be upset if a Russian spy plane was thirty
miles from Washington .” The President turned to Brent, the
Secretary of State, who anticipated the President’s next question.
                 “Technically,
Mr. President, they stayed in international airspace as long as they did not overfly
Soviet territory,” Brent said. “However, the Soviets guard their ADIZ—the air
defense identification zone—quite zealously. The ADIZ extends one hundred and
twenty miles from shore.”
                 “How
did they shoot them down?” the President asked. Again, Curtis hesitated.
“General?”
                 “We
. . . we’re not sure, Mr. President,” Curtis replied. The President looked at
the oak-paneled walls around him as if they had begun closing in on him. “Sir,
at this time we can’t even confirm that the Russians did in fact down the
plane.”
                 “You’re
not sure . . .”