Jerry Ahern Survivalist 01 Total War

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plague waiting to break. In just a few years, it will be these weapons that
both our country and the Americans will rely upon! No more radiation, no mass
murder"'
"You still see this as a road to peace, Mikhail, I know that," Elizabeta
whispered.
"Odyin!" The technician shouted the final number. Then "Switch on, charging,
one-quarter, one-
half, three-quarter, full power. Boost on number three"'
"Myir," he found himself saying, "Peace. It is at hand, Elizabeta," he
murmured, holding her small hands in his. "I must go down on the floor and
fire the beam personally-I must."
Their eyes met, and she smiled. He leaned toward her and quickly kissed her
cheek, then ran toward the steel ladder that led to the firing arena. He took
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the ladder rungs two at a time, jumping the last three to the stone floor,
then raced toward the center console.
"Here-go, move aside," Vorovoi said to the technician. "I will take charge
personally." His dark eyes focused on the instrument panel, the gauges, the
indicators, the computer readout diodes.
"Boosting ionization twelve points," he shouted, twirling one of the nearer
dials. Punching the button for visual via the polar orbit satellite link he
anxiously searched the screen, spotting first the low-altitude dot that he
knew was the first aircraft, then the second aircraft. Soon-he watched the
screen intently-he would see the missiles.
"Capacitance function readout"' he called out.
From behind him, a voice called back, "Ten to the fifteenth capacitance, to
the sixteenth, seventeenth-" there was a long pause-"ten to the eighteenth-"
"Hold at that," Vorovoi interrupted.
"Ten to the eighteenth and holding capacitance, zero flux," the voice called
back.
His eyes scanning the monitor, Vorovoi saw what his instruments already
confirmed-the two unarmed missiles were streaking through the sky toward the
drone aircraft. "Designating targets-now! Grid
83, target alpha. Grid 19, target beta. Grid 48-correction, 49-target gamma.
Grid 27, target theta-
lock!"
He leaned back, waiting, wanting desperately for manual firing mode, but
knowing that the true test of his particle beam weapon system and its
potential for light-speed pinpoint accuracy lay in the computer firing
mechanism as well as the weapon itself.
"Automatic target acquisition and destruction on my mark-six, five, four,
three, ready, one.
Mark!"
He closed his eyes, his hands fanned in front of them a moment. Then, ignoring
the dials and gauges and digital computer readouts on the console, he fixed
his eyes on the monitor. Target alpha, the nearest of the low-flying bomber
aircraft, exploded in a burst of light and vaporized.
Almost in the blink of an eye, target beta, the second drone aircraft,
vaporized. Vorovoi started to search out the first missile, third target in
the firing sequence, but before he could locate it, there was a bright flash.
Quickly, he spotted target theta, the last of the four. The angle was right,
and he could see the knife edge of the particle beam-it looked like something
from an
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American space movie, he thought. He had seen several American films in
Stockholm years earlier when he was there for a scientific conference.
"Deathray," he murmured. The second missile vaporized in a bright flash, the
camera whiting out a moment from the light.
There was total silence in the firing control center, except for the incessant
whirling and buzzing of the computers and the climate control system which
latter was needed for the proper working of the machines. Vorovoi stood up,
looked toward the mezzanine, and saw Elizabeta beaming at him. Her smile was
something Mikhail could never forget. Locking his fists together over his
head, he jumped into the air, screaming, laughing. And, suddenly, the
technicians, the military guards-everyone around him-were applauding,
shouting, laughing.
"We have entered the new age!" he cried. "Peace"'
Chapter Thirteen
"As you were, gentlemen," Rear Admiral Roger Corbin said absently as he
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entered the tiny briefing room. The dozen or so naval officers crowded
together had started to rise.
"Admiral Corbin"'
Corbin turned around, pushed a bony hand through his graying blond hair, and
said, "Yes, Commander," then, squinting to read the name plate, added,
"Abramson."
"We've just had confirmation, sir, that-"
"I know, Commander. I'm the one who confirmed it." Then, raising his voice
Corbin started toward the platform at the front of the room, saying, "All
right, gentlemen, let's get this thing underway. I'm due at the White
House"-and he glanced at his digital watch-"in fifteen minutes."
He lit a cigarette and waited as the room quieted. The gathering of
high-ranking Naval intelligence personnel knew him, except for a few faces,
like that of Commander Abramson. Corbin began, "The Nuclear Regulatory
Commission just confirmed what our own satellite infrareds and other sensing
devices already showed. A large-sized nuclear device was exploded just a few
miles beyond the estimated perimeter of the polar icecap-just about where the
Benjamin Franklin's position should have been, according to its last radio
beacon relay via satellite. Also, there's a
Soviet sub-what the hell's the name of that?" He turned to the lieutenant.
The young man consulted his notes, knit his brow a moment, then looked up.
"The Volga, sir-it's a
Potemkin class nuclear sub."
"Right," Corbin continued. "The Potemkin-I mean the Volga-well, it's off our
tracking plots and missing. Could have been a collision, could have been the
Russians attacking. There's no way to confirm without pulling another sub off
position and going in to take a look-see. Can't do that now. I'll officially
label it a nuclear accident, a collision, confer with the Russians, what-have-
you. But my personal assessment-and it's just a gut level reaction-is that one
of them lost their nerve and opened fire, then the other one returned. I knew
Wilmer, commander of the Franklin. A
little edgy about his job, but a good man. He wouldn't have opened fire first.
I bet on the Ruskie commander. Intelligence put him down as a David-pronounce
it Dahveed-Antonyevich Kosnuyevski. Kind of a new man, on his first line
command. Could be the sort of thing a guy like that would do.
They're on alert status, too."
"Sir," a lieutenant commander from the rear of the room shouted.
"I know your questions before you ask 'em-tell me if I'm wrong." Coughing and
stomping out his cigarette, then pausing to light another, Corbin said, "About
seventy megatons-means at least one of the reactors went up along with nearly
all the warheads on both boats. U.S. Geological Survey, our own people,
Oceanographic and Atmospheric Admin people-nobody knows what's going to
happen.
Should hike the tides, might loose a lot of ice into shipping lanes, could
make some minor short-
term climatic changes. Not too much crap in the atmosphere as best as we can
tell at this time.
Answer your question, Commander?" Admiral Corbin smiled, glancing back at the
man.
The man only nodded.
Chapter Fourteen
"All right, guys, take off your coats, whatever. The president's on the hot
line with the Soviet premier. Told me to get the briefing started."
"Thurston, what the hell I hear about the Navy blowin' up a submarine?"
Thurston Potter glared at Secretary Meeker. What the Commerce Department was
doing at the intelligence briefing was beyond him, except for the fact that
the president and Commerce
Secretary Meeker were lifelong friends.
"Mr. Secretary, I'll come to that." At times like this, Thurston Potter
realized, he painfully
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