Chapter 1
NORTH American Aerospace Defense COMMAND.
Cheyenne Mountains.
Colorado, USA.
Jan 1st, 1989
"Thanks for the coffee, man."
"You got it." the other missileer said from his station. It was another usual night waiting in their bunker in the Cheyenne mountains, watching the screens and waiting to see if the President would give the order to blow the USSR and it's Warsaw Pact Satellite states in Eastern Europe.
It had been a quiet shift so far. John sipped his coffee and scanned the various radar screens and readouts once more. Everything appeared calm and routine.
Across the command center, some of the other missileers chatted casually as they monitored their stations. A few played solitaires on their computers to pass the time. In the break room, others relaxed over fresh pots of coffee.
John stifled a yawn. The midnight hours often dragged on without much happening. Still, they had to stay alert in case of any anomalies. You never knew when tensions could flare up overseas and things might suddenly get busy.
For now, all looked peaceful. Satellite imagery showed no unexpected military movements from the Soviets. Early warning systems were silent. It was shaping up to be another quiet night. John settled back in his chair, content to watch the computer screens while occasionally chatting with his fellow crewmates. Just another routine shift so far at NORAD, protecting America's skies through the long dark hours.
And then the ground started shaking. John spilled hot coffee down his coveralls and screamed, "Son of a bitch!"
Alarms began blaring as radar screens flickered and went black. "We've lost all satellite feeds!" someone called out.
The rumbling grew more intense as ceiling tiles rained down. Consoles sparked as equipment shorted out. The emergency generators kicked on, flickering the emergency lights on and off.
"Earthquake!" someone yelled over the din. It was the biggest tremor anyone had ever felt in Colorado. Files and papers flew everywhere as the bunker shook violently.
As suddenly as it started, the quake ended. But the damage was done. Every screen was dark. Nothing was responding.
"What the hell just happened?" John cried. An uneasy silence fell over the command center, lit only by the stuttering emergency lights.
Then the radio crackled to life. "NORAD, this is Cheyenne Mountain. We just got slammed by an 8.5 earthquake and some kind of massive electromagnetic pulse. The whole base is down. Sending a damage assessment team your way."
An EMP? John and the others exchanged nervous looks. That could only mean one thing - a nuclear attack. But nothing had shown up on radar. Was this the opening salvo of a sneak Soviet assault on America? They could only wait in the dark for answers.
Duga Radar Array.
Chernobyl
Ukrainian SSR
Jan 1st, 1989
Major Efim Sergeevich Nechayev sighed as he watched the radar screen. Another boring night monitoring the Duga radar array. Then suddenly, the entire base seemed to lurch sideways as the ground violently shook.
Alarms blared as every screen in the radar control room flickered and went dark. "Earthquake!" someone yelled. But this was like no quake Nechayev had ever felt - it seemed to go on and on.
As quickly as it started, the shaking stopped. An eerie silence fell. Then panic set in as operators tried in vain to restart dead consoles. "REPORT!" Nechayev bellowed.
"Some kind of power surge, Comrade Major," said the head technician. "It overloads the entire electrical grid. Backup generators are not functioning."
Nechayev swore. Without power, the massive Duga radar array was blind. He radioed the nearby Chernobyl nuclear plant. "What is happening over there? We need emergency power now!"
But there was only static. Nechayev grew more concerned - had America launched an electromagnetic pulse attack, knocking out Soviet defenses? Was this the opening move of WWIII?
As backup generators were manually started, Nechayev could only wait anxiously in the dark for answers. Whatever had happened, both military and civilian infrastructure seemed crippled. It would take time to assess the full scale of the damage.
V.I Lenin Nuclear Power Plant.
Chernobyl, Ukrainian SSR
Viktor Petrovich Bryukhanov ran out of his office at top speed, an EMP had occurred, along with an Earthquake no less, worse, the Duga Array was nearby, they were probably contacting them too, he would send a man out to check.
"Report!" he shouted above the din. His deputy stumbled over, covered in cuts and bruises. "Some kind of massive electromagnetic pulse, Comrade Director," he shouted in Bryukhanov's ear. "It's overloaded every electrical system in the plant."
"Mother of god, 8.5 on the Richter scale, unbelievable." That crossed out the Americans attacking, a freak accident then?
He sent men to check the diesel backups. No response. Batteries were dead too from the power surge. Without power, cooling for the reactors would be lost. They had to act fast.
"Use telephone lines to Duga," he ordered. "Find out if they are responding. And get emergency generators started, now!" Men raced to comply as Bryukhanov surveyed the damaged control room with rising panic.
If power wasn't restored quickly, they were looking at a core meltdown that could poison all of Europe. But with infrastructure across Belarus and Ukraine potentially shut down too, help seemed a long way off. By whatever freak act of nature had caused this disaster, Chernobyl was now locked in a desperate race against time.
Leonid Toptunov ran to the jeep, he had to get to Duga, fast! They must have information, and why weren't they responding. He floored the jeep as it bumped and slid across the darkened base. Finally he screeched to a halt outside the radar operations building.
Sure enough, the duty officer was standing outside, smoking a cigarette by flashlight in the eerie silence. "Well?" Leonid demanded as he jumped out.
"We've had better nights, Comrade," the man replied dryly. "That quake knocked out all our systems. Generator won't catch either."
Leonid swore. "And communications? You didn't answer the plant."
The man took a long drag. "Phone lines are down. Radios dead too from the EMP burst. I sent a man to check our transmitter but he ain't returned."
A cold weight settled in Leonid's stomach. No power, no contact with the outside. Just then, shaking flashlight beams appeared out of the darkness - it was the repair team, carrying something between them.
"You'll want to see this, Comrades," said the technician grimly. They lowered their burden - it was the transmitter crewman, neck broken at a horrible angle.
Leonid paled. An accident in the chaos? Or something more sinister blocking their calls for help in the blacked-out zone? He realized with a shiver that out here, cut off in the night, they were utterly alone.
SHAPE Headquarters.
Brussels.
"God almighty," General Rogers muttered as he pored over the reconnaissance reports. As SACEUR, he was meant to be ready for anything, but this bordered on the absurd.
Cities merging overnight alongside existing ones was simply unheard of. And now the news out of East Germany - the collapse of the Berlin Wall and Honecker's government within hours of the initial disturbance.
He gathered his top commanders. "Gentlemen, this situation threatens to spiral out of control quickly if not handled with restraint. What's the status of our forces?"
"All NATO units are on high alert as ordered, sir," replied his operations chief. "But we've lost communications with many of our liaison offices and observers throughout the Eastern Bloc."
Rogers sighed. His mandate was clear - protect Western Europe. But with opaque intentions from these new players and the Soviet withdrawal underway, any false move could be disastrous.
"Pull our forward units back across the old Inner-German border for now. And get me the Pentagon - we need Washington's guidance on engaging with these newcomers. The last thing we want is an accidental clash that ignites broader conflict in such a volatile environment."
All they could do for now was hang on to stability along the lines they knew, while groping in the dark towards understanding in lands reshaped beyond recognition. Rogers prayed diplomacy could outpace escalation in the coming days.
Democratic People's Republic of Afghanistan
40th Army HQ.
Kabul
1989
Major General Boris Ivanenko frowned at the banks of dead radios in the command center. Without contact with Moscow or their forward bases, the 40th Army was blind in this dangerous country.
"What's the status of our units?" he barked at his chief of staff.
"All divisions report being out of contact, but remain at readiness. The Afghan Army is also affected and tensions are rising in some areas. Without directives, our advisors are having difficulty maintaining order," the officer replied tensely.
Ivanenko rubbed his temples. After years of grinding counterinsurgency, the last thing they needed was uncertainty sowing instability. Both sides could see opportunity in a perceived power vacuum.
"Send my liaison to Dr. Najibullah," he decided. "Inform him we are temporarily unable to coordinate but remain committed allies. Advise restraint on all sides until communications are restored."
"Comrade General! See what we've found!" Ivanenko looked up to see 2 VDV, followed by two Afghanis dragging something that suspiciously looked like a body.
On closer Inspection, Ivanenko found it to be a young teenage girl, unconscious. She was wearing what looked like a Khaki British uniform from the Great Patriotic War no less, and were those animal ears on her head? She wasn't wearing any pants, and yet strange engine-like contraptions were strapped to her legs.
He stood up, "You there, Leytenant, what the fuck is this?"
The young man grinned "We found her in the desert!"
"Have you tried removing those...things."
"We tried sir, they're strapped on by some means." the boy did not lose his smile. "But that, is an Inglandski, RAF, no?"
"Remove the things, please." Ivanenko ordered. The men got to work at once, loudly making noise.
"Gently, gently!" snapped Ivanenko as the paratroopers fumbled with the strange contraptions. The unconscious girl stirred but did not wake.
Ivanenko examined her curious outfit more closely - the material and seams were unlike any standard uniform, although familiar because it was cotton. And those ears...was she wearing a prosthetic disguise of some kind?
A clanking made him turn. One of the Afghans had picked up a fallen...propeller? of shining metal. He tried turning it uselessly with a grin that faded at Ivanenko's icy stare.
"Enough foolishness. Take her to the military hospital - carefully. No one touches anything until the doctors examine her. And you!" He glared at the grinning paratrooper. "Grow up and do your duty or I'll have you cleaning latrines till we leave this cursed country!"
As they hurried away, Ivanenko ran a weary hand over his face. In all his years in service, he had seen much, but never anything like this bizarre girl. He prayed she brought no further ill omens, and those communications returned before more mysteries arose in this ominous dark. For now, duty was maintaining order in uncertainty.
Daoud Khan Military Hospital
KGB Officer Yeknov
Major Vitaly Bohdanovich Yeknov made his way through the hospital tent (it was a shortcut) when a patient caught his eye. She looked English, though very young. She was unconscious and was wearing a hospital gown. He walked over to a doctor, a Lithuanian chap. "Get me her things, if any were found. Her clothes, everything"
The doctor arrived with...a khaki British uniform top from the second world war. It looked terribly authentic.
"Where is the rest of it?"
"This is all she was wearing when she was found, comrade. As well as her panties, would you like me to bring them too?" the doctor asked sarcastically.
Yeknov merely glared at the doctor's insolence. He examined the strange garment more closely, taking in the accurate craftsmanship of the garment as per British wartime procedures.
Two questions burned in his mind - who was this mysterious girl, and how did she come to be here half-clad with technology looking like jetpacks attached to her body?
He turned to the still unconscious patient, gazing at her youthful face framed by catlike ears. Something told him this was no ordinary missing POW case.
"Keep me informed the moment she wakes. I must report this finding to my superiors and get their guidance." Yeknov folded the uniform carefully. "Until then, see she comes to no harm. And doctor - not a word of this to anyone. Am I clear?"
The doctor nodded curtly. With the nation incommunicado, Yeknov knew discretion was paramount to avoid panic. But getting answers on this stranger who had seemingly materialized from thin air was now his top priority. The KGB left nothing to chance - and this mystery demanded clarity.
"Valery Yakovich, what can you tell me about this?" Yeknov asked a tailor of all people. However, this army tailor was also horribly well versed in Second World War History, and uniform's.
"Hmm...Standard British desert uniform, most often seen in pictures of the North Africa Campaign. And it's weathered too, where did you find this? Most of these are usually in museums" Valery Yakovich Gerasimov asked.
"That is classified." Yeknov replied.
The tailor laughed. "I wish"
"Tell me more about this uniform." Yeknov demanded.
"Well, for a supposed relic that I assume you "found" somewhere here in Afghanistan, it is in surprisingly good shape. One would expect that this garment is in such good shape that it can be worn right now."
"Some of the people who found this said it is authentic. Is that true?"
"Hmm." Gerasimov ran practiced hands over the fabric. "It appears authentic khaki wool, correct color and weave for a British PLCE desert uniform, mid-20th century. Buttons are proper aluminum style."
He pointed to faint stamps on the interior. "Markings indicate made by 'Sewgood Ltd,' major army kit supplier at the time. Stitches are tight and uniform - this was quality tailoring."
"So, in your expert opinion, this is an authentic British uniform from the time period?" Yeknov pressed.
Gerasimov ran a hand along the short hem. "Da, authentic materials and tailoring. Yet..." He peered closer. "No fading, no wear on hems or seams even after decades. Impossible for a dug-up relic."
Yeknov maintained a neutral façade, but inwardly cursed - the tailor was too canny. "Perhaps it was stored carefully all this time."
"In the Afghan desert?" Gerasimov raised an eyebrow. "And found intact, with not a spot of dust? Forgive me, but I know relics. This shows no aging whatsoever."
He fixed Yeknov with a probing stare. "Where exactly did you obtain this, comrade?"
Yeknov held his gaze steadily. "That information is classified, as I said. All I require is your expert opinion on authenticity. Can you confirm it or not?"
Gerasimov sighed. "Da, by all outward analysis it is a genuine example from the time period. But I warn you, Colonel - this uniform's condition tells another story. One I think you are not sharing." He handed it back carefully.
"That is none of your concern, Valery Yakovich, especially at your age."
The tailor shrugged. "I joined the army in December 1945, too late to take Berlin."
"Pah, we all have our roles to play in this war, comrade," Yenkov replied coolly.
"And some see more than they let on. But no matter - I'll keep this uniform safe until my tour is over, da? Perhaps one day I return to Mother Russia and donate it, as you say."
He ran an appraising eye over Yeknov. "Though by the look of you, secrets here may outlast us both. So, stay vigilant, tovarisch. Wars have eyes in strange places."
Yeknov's face darkened. "You overstep, old man. My business is for my station alone. Yours is hemming pants, yes?"
Gerasimov smiled wryly. "For now. But this old tailor still has sharp eyes and ears, even this far from home. So, watch that tough KGB hide of yours doesn't crack under pressure."
With a scowl, Yeknov took his leave, uniform in hand. But in his heart suspicion lingered - had the old sabaka sniffed more than he let on? He would file this wrinkled interloper away, just in case, "Does this Pertain to the young girl in ward 13 of the military hospital?" Gerasimov slyly called out.
Yeknov's head snapped back. "Eh?"
"Mitya, a younger tailor here was visiting his friend who was admitted there. He saw a girl being wheeled in."
A chill went through Yeknov at Gerasimov's words. He turned slowly, eyes steely.
"You seem well-informed for a tailor. Tell me, do all your fellows share gossip so freely?"
Gerasimov met his gaze calmly. "We all keep ears open in an army, tovarisch. No harm meant, merely connecting details."
Yeknov descended the steps in a few long strides, until his face was mere inches from the tailor's. His voice came in a low rasp.
"There are no 'details' to connect, old man. You would do well to forget anything your friends may have seen or heard regarding that patient. Do I make myself clear?"
For a fleeting moment something dangerous flickered in Gerasimov's eyes. But then he blinked, smile returning gently as fallen snow.
"As clear as your concern, comrade colonel. My loose tongue shall wag no more on this matter. You have my word. As long as you don't make my friends disappear."
A long, tense moment passed between them. Then Yeknov gave a curt nod and strode away, leaving the tailor alone with his curiosities and the mystery uniform.
The Pentagon.
June 1st, 1989.
POTUS, Ronald Reagan.
The president lifted the lid of the jellybean jar and took one out. Strawberry, he mused before popping it into his mouth. Replacing the lid, he turned to look at the Joint Chiefs and his other advisors who summoned him.
"At approximately 1 AM, Washington Time, an 8.5 earthquake was felt all around the world." General Henry Walters, his Chief of Army, read off of the folder open in front of him. In front of the large table, a single projector showed various maps and other such documents. "While our first guess was an EMP strike due to the Colorado missile complex going offline. The fact that we're still sitting here alive and Colorado coming online hours later rules out an EMP and that what we just witnessed was a very big earthquake."
"Where did this earthquake begin?" Reagan asked.
"An Island somewhere in the Pacific."
"If this is just an earthquake." George W Bush spoke up. "Why did you call the president here?"
It was SecDef who answered this time.
"Because whatever this earthquake is or was for that matter. It has gotten the Warsaw Pact utterly agitated." He flicked a button on the remote, which caused the projector to display a map of Europe. Eastern Europe to be precise.
"Our birds in orbit took these only hours after the quake." He stated. "It started with Soviet formations from the Central Group of Forces, which are those stationed in Poland and Czechoslovakia, move closer to the East German border, inside what had been the German region of Prussia and East Prussia. We have an intelligence officer embedded deep within the Polish People's Army. He reported that there were reports coming in from that place. Some kind of massive disturbance that was causing an exodus of their citizens eastward, namely Warsaw, Lublin, and Krakow."
"Did your man say anything about the cause of this exodus?" Reagan said.
"No sir," SecDef responded. "What he did tell us was that forward units of the Polish People's Army, namely the 7th Navel Assault Division have engaged in combat with an unknown force. He said he'd report more once he gets new Info."
The secretary took a quick sip of water before pressing the remote again. The picture on-screen changed to that of a zoom in on East Germany.
"Honecker's government meanwhile has collapsed completely. The Berlin Wall has been torn down."
There was a flutter of gasps and murmurs of disbelief. He continued. "Remnants of the National People's army are split. Hardline, Stasi and elite units are withdrawing to areas near the Polish border with soviet GSFSG (Group of Soviet Forces Germany) units."
"And the other faction?" Regen asked.
"Pro-unification units of the NVA have opened up the border crossings. Communiques have also been issued by what seems to be a group of generals in East Berlin and politicians from various political parties."
"What are they made up of? You said most of the elite and hardline units are retreating east. What about these?"
Reagan turned to his Secretary of Defense. "What exactly is happening in East Berlin? Who are these generals and what are their communiqués saying?"
The SecDef tapped a button, bringing up a translated document. "The group identifying themselves call themselves the Council for National Recovery, sir. They're made up of mid-level NVA officers as well as Party officials who've turned against Honecker. In their messages, they declare the SED government dissolved and called for free elections to reunify Germany under a new democratic constitution."
General Walters leaned forward. "It's unclear if they have full control of the country yet, but it appears significant elements of the East German security forces have joined or stood aside. Our concern is how Moscow will respond once they regain communications. A puppet state breaking apart is not something they'll accept calmly."
"Do we have profiles on these generals?" Reagan asked.
"Our intel is still thin, Mr. President, but one name stands out - General Armin Schaefer. A career officer who commanded the 9th Panzer Division based near Dresden. According to Stasi files, he had grown increasingly critical of Honecker's hardline policies in private."
"So, this earthquake opens up a chance for dissent within the apparatus," Bush mused. "The regime cracks under the pressure."
Reagan turned to the SecDef again. "And the Soviets - what's their posture? Are they making any moves to intervene?"
"That's just it sir," the SecDef replied grimly. "According to our recon flights and satellite imagery, Soviet units near the German border seem to be retreating eastward in line with the hardliners. But they're not engaging this new pro-German leadership either. It's as if the whole Eastern Bloc is...adrift, with no orders from Moscow."
He shook his head. "We've never seen the Soviets back away from an opportunity to assert control. This earthquake seems to have paralyzed their command structure as much as ours."
Reagan pondered this unfolding crisis. "So, Moscow's grip is slipping, yet could chaos spread wider? These pro-unification units, what is their makeup General?"
The General replied. "Intelligence suggests they are drawing support from lower ranks disillusioned with hardliner policies, as well as civilian protestors. Additionally, our sources indicate members of the bloc parties like the CDU and LDP have joined the movement. They seem to be advocating for free elections and reunification negotiations with West Germany."
"A delicate situation," mused Reagan. "An opening for democracy, yet also unrest the Soviets may try exploit. What is the status of US forces in Europe?"
"All commands report readiness. Our presence deters aggression but can't influence internal dynamics. For now, we closely monitor and stand by to assist refugees if the situation deteriorates further."
"That's not all." CIA director William. H Webster spoke up. "Bonn is communicating with a mysterious third party within Berlin proper. My BND liaison informed that Chancellor Kohl and his government are communicating with a mysterious faction in the city. He was unable to tell me more but did reveal that the signal being used is coming from the Berlin Palace."
"What!" Walters leaned in onto the table. "That's ridiculous! The Berlin palace was destroyed during the 50s and 60s with a new "Palace of the Republic" being built in its place!"
"No, Webster's correct." Defense said, pointing at the map of Berlin. Sure, enough the palace was there. There was no sign that the SED built one ever existed.
"Is it me or does Berlin look…Bigger." A homeland security representative pushed his glasses back up.
"God damn you're right…"
Before they could speak again, the door burst open, and a harried secret service agent ran in.
"Mr. President! Urgent call from the White House for you sir!"
Reagan rose from his seat. "What's the problem?"
"You won't believe it sir! FDR's alive in the Oval Office Sir!"
A few minutes ago.
White House Courtyard
Washington DC.
"Control this is team 3, we just finished our third pass of the night." The armed member of the SSUD (Secret Service uniformed Division) spoke into his walkie talkie.
"Anything to report?" Control was the central guardhouse just east of the residence. It was currently staffed by a night shift crew of Secret Service members who were responsible for the security of the President's house.
"Oh, nothing except a big toad on the grass near me. Send a squad over to deal with the intruder." Powell snarked. His partner stifled his laughter.
"Har Har Powell, complete your circuit."
"Wilco." Powell closed the connection and slid the walkie talkie back into his pocket. "What?" he glared at his partner, who was now laughing openly.
"Nothing." He stifled another chuckle behind his hand.
"Oh Grow up Robins." Powell scoffed as he turned and began to walk. Robins joined him.
They made a full round back and stood behind the window to the Oval Office. It was there that Robins noticed something odd.
"Hey Powell, is the president back from the Pentagon?" he asked.
"Huh, what do you mean?"
"The lights are on in the Oval Office, you didn't realize?" Robins gestured to the fact that their shadows were spread over the grass. Turning to look behind themselves, Powell found that what Robins had said was true and that the lights were indeed on. Even though the curtains were drawn they could still see light…and shadows!
"Hey Control." Powell said after switching on his walkie talkie. "Did the President get back from the Pentagon yet?
"The President? No, not yet."
"So, who's throwing the midnight party in the Oval Office control? Over," he asked.
There was a pregnant pause as Control was probably rushing to their monitors and checking their screens.
"Powell…uh, there's someone in the Oval Office."
"I know dipshit." Powell snarled into the transmitter. "Now, y'all better be watching your computer screens. Robbie and I are about to crash a party."
Sliding his walkie-talkie back, he took out his Colt M1911. Flicking the safety off and checking the chamber he turned his head in Robins's direction and jerked it towards the Oval Office.
"C'mon Robins, the quicker we do this, the sooner we can go to sleep."
"Alright." Robins did the same with his weapon and they both headed to the entrance.
Walking up the steps, they went through the corridors rapidly. It was a little unnerving to be inside so late, especially when most of the rooms were dim. They soon arrived on the door to the Oval Office itself.
Sharing a glance with Robins, who nodded in affirmation. Powell took a deep breath to steady his nerves. One hand was on his 1911. The other was on the doorknob. With a grunt, he pushed it open.
"Secret Service! On the Grou~ oh…"
"God Almighty." Powell breathed in disbelief at the scene in front of him. "It's FDR!"
Franklin Delano Roosevelt, the man who'd led the US of A through the Second World War, was somehow alive. In his wheelchair in front of the President's desk. Surrounded by his advisors, men like Patton, Marshall, the legends of every West Point Cadet as well as First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt.
"Robins, watch these guys." He hissed to Robins. "I'm gonna check on First Lady Reagan, and radio for reinforcements." He slowly backed away out of the room before breaking into a sprint up the stairs.
Just what the Hell was going on?
NIZHNEVARTOVSK, R.S.F.S.R.
They moved swiftly, silently, with purpose, under a crystalline, star-filled night in western Siberia. They were Muslims, though one could scarcely have known it from their speech, which was Russian, though inflected with the singsong Azerbaijani accent that wrongly struck the senior members of the engineering staff as entertaining. The three of them had just completed a complex task in the truck and train yards, the opening of hundreds of loading valves. Ibrahim Tolkaze was their leader, though he was not in front. Rasul was in front, the massive former sergeant in the MVD who had already killed six men this cold night—three with a pistol hidden under his coat and three with his hands alone. No one had heard them. An oil refinery is a noisy place. The bodies were left in shadows, and the three men entered Tolkaze's car for the next part of their task.
Central Control was a modern three-story building fittingly in the center of the complex. For at least five kilometers in all directions stretched the cracking towers, storage tanks, catalytic chambers, and above all the thousands of kilometers of large-diameter pipe which made Nizhnevartovsk one of the world's largest refining complexes. The sky was lit at uneven intervals by waste-gas fires, and the air was foul with the stink of petroleum distillates: aviation kerosene, gasoline, diesel fuel, benzine, nitrogen tetroxide for intercontinental missiles, lubricating oils of various grades, and complex petrochemicals identified only by their alphanumeric prefixes.
They approached the brick-walled, windowless building in Tolkaze's personal Zhiguli, and the engineer pulled into his reserved parking place, then walked alone to the door as his comrades crouched in the back seat.
Inside the glass door, Ibrahim greeted the security guard, who smiled back, his hand outstretched for Tolkaze's security pass. The need for security here was quite real, but since it dated back over forty years, no one took it more seriously than any of the pro forma bureaucratic complexities in the Soviet Union. The guard had been drinking, the only form of solace in this harsh, cold land. His eyes were not focusing, and his smile was too fixed. Tolkaze fumbled handing over his pass, and the guard lurched down to retrieve it. He never came back up. Tolkaze's pistol was the last thing the man felt, a cold circle at the base of his skull, and he died without knowing why—or even how. Ibrahim went behind the guard's desk to get the weapon the man had been only too happy to display for the engineers he'd protected. He lifted the body and moved it awkwardly to leave it slumped at the desk—just another swingshift worker asleep at his post—then waved his comrades into the building. Rasul and Mohammet raced to the door.
"It is time, my brothers." Tolkaze handed the AK-47 rifle and ammo belt to his taller friend.
Rasul hefted the weapon briefly, checking to see that a round was chambered and the safety off. Then he slung the ammunition belt over his shoulder and snapped the bayonet in place before speaking for the first time that night: "Paradise awaits."
Tolkaze composed himself, smoothed his hair, straightened his tie, and clipped the security pass to his white laboratory coat before leading his comrades up the six flights of stairs.
Ordinary procedure dictated that to enter the master control room, one first had to be recognized by one of the operations staffers. And so, it happened. Nikolay Barsov seemed surprised when he saw Tolkaze through the door's tiny window.
"You're not on duty tonight, Isha."
"One of my valves went bad this afternoon and I forgot to check the repair status before I went off duty. You know the one—the auxiliary feed valve on kerosene number eight. If it's still down tomorrow we'll have to reroute, and you know what that means."
Barsov grunted agreement. "True enough, Isha." The middle-aged engineer thought Tolkaze liked the semi-Russian diminutive. He was badly mistaken. "Stand back while I open this damned hatch."
The heavy steel door swung outward. Barsov hadn't been able to see Rasul and Mohammet before, and scarcely had time now. Three 7.62mm rounds from the Kalashnikov exploded into his chest.
The master control room contained a duty watch crew of twenty and looked much like the control center for a railroad or power plant. The high walls were crosshatched with pipeline schematics dotted with hundreds of lights to indicate which control valve was doing what. That was only the main display. Individual segments of the system were broken off onto separate status boards, mainly controlled by computer but constantly monitored by half the duty engineers. The staff could not fail to note the sound of the three shots.
But none of them were armed.
With elegant patience, Rasul began to work his way across the room, using his Kalashnikov expertly and firing one round into each watch engineer. At first, they tried to run away—until they realized that Rasul was herding them into a corner like cattle, killing as he moved. Two men bravely got on their command phones to summon a fast-response team of KGB security troops. Rasul shot one of them at his post, but the other ducked around the line of command consoles to evade the gunfire and bolted for the door, where Tolkaze stood. It was Boris, Tolkaze saw, the Party favorite, head of the local kollektiv, the man who had "befriended" him, making him the special pet native of the Russian engineers. Ibrahim could remember every time this godless pig had patronized him, the savage foreigner imported to amuse his Russian masters. Tolkaze raised his pistol.
"Ishaaa!" the man screamed in terror and shock. Tolkaze shot him in the mouth, and hoped Boris didn't die too quickly to hear the contempt in his voice: "Infidel." He was pleased that Rasul had not killed this one. His quiet friend could have all the rest.
The other engineers screamed, threw cups, chairs, manuals. There was nowhere left to run, no way around the swarthy, towering killer. Some held up their hands in useless supplication. Some even prayed aloud—but not to Allah, which might have saved them. The noise diminished as Rasul strode up to the bloody corner. He smiled as he shot the very last, knowing that this sweating infidel pig would serve him in paradise. He reloaded his rifle, then went back through the control room. He prodded each body with his bayonet, and again shot the four that showed some small sign of life. His face bore a grim, content expression. At least twenty-five atheist pigs dead. Twenty-five foreign invaders who would no longer stand between his people and their God. Truly he had done Allah's work!
The third man, Mohammet, was already at his own work as Rasul took his station at the top of the staircase. Working in the back of the room, he switched the room systems-control mode from computer-automatic to emergency-manual, bypassing all of the automated safety systems.
A methodical man, Ibrahim had planned and memorized every detail of his task over a period of months, but still he had a checklist in his pocket. He unfolded it now and set it next to his hand on the master supervisory control board. Tolkaze looked around at the status displays to orient himself, then paused.
From his back pocket he took his most treasured personal possession, half of his grandfather's Koran, and opened it to a random page. It was a passage in The Chapter of the Spoils. His grandfather having been killed during the futile rebellions against Moscow, his father shamed by helpless subservience to the infidel state, Tolkaze had been seduced by Russian schoolteachers into joining their godless system. Others had trained him as an oil-field engineer to work at the State's most valuable facility in Azerbaijan. Only then had the God of his fathers saved him, through the words of an uncle, an "unregistered" imam who had remained faithful to Allah and safeguarded this tattered fragment of the Koran that had accompanied one of Allah's own warriors. Tolkaze read the passage under his hand:
And when the misbelievers plotted to keep thee prisoner, or kill thee, or drive thee forth, they plotted well; but God plotted, too. And God is the best of plotters.
Tolkaze smiled, certain that it was the final Sign in a plan being executed by hands greater than his own. Serene and confident, he began to fulfill his destiny.
First the gasoline. He closed sixteen control valves—the nearest of them three kilometers away—and opened ten, which rerouted eighty million liters of gasoline to gush out from a bank of truck-loading valves. The gasoline did not ignite at once. The three had left no pyrotechnic devices to explode this first of many disasters. Tolkaze reasoned that if he were truly doing the work of Allah, then his God would surely provide.
And so He did. A small truck driving through the loading yard took a turn too fast, skidded on the splashing fuel, and slid broadside into a utility pole. It only took one spark . . . and already more fuel was spilling out into the train yards.
With the master pipeline switches, Tolkaze had a special plan. He rapidly typed in a computer command, thanking Allah that Rasul was so skillful and had not damaged anything important with his rifle. The main pipeline from the nearby production field was two meters across, with many branchlines running to all of the production wells. The oil traveling in those pipes had its own mass and its own momentum supplied by pumping stations in the fields. Ibrahim's commands rapidly opened and closed valves. The pipeline ruptured in a dozen places, and the computer commands left the pumps on. The escaping light crude flowed across the production field, where only one more spark was needed to spread a holocaust before the winter wind, and another break occurred where the oil and gas pipelines crossed together over the river Ob'.
"The greenskins are here!" Rasul shouted a moment before the quick-response team of KGB border guards stormed up the staircase. A short burst from the Kalashnikov killed the first two, and the rest of the squad stopped cold behind a turn in the staircase as their young sergeant wondered what the hell they had walked into.
Already, automatic alarms were erupting around him in the control room. The master status board showed four growing fires whose borders were defined by blinking red lights. Tolkaze walked to the master computer and ripped out the tape spool that contained the digital control codes. The spares were in the vault downstairs, and the only men within ten kilometers who knew its combination were in this room—dead. Mohammet was busily ripping out every telephone in the room. The whole building shook with the explosion of a gasoline storage tank two kilometers away.
The crashing sound of a hand grenade announced another move by the KGB troops. Rasul returned fire, and the screams of dying men nearly equaled the earsplitting fire-alarm klaxons. Tolkaze hurried over to the corner. The floor there was slick with blood. He opened the door to the electrical fusebox, flipped the main circuit breaker, then fired his pistol into the box. Whoever tried to set things aright would also have to work in the dark.
He was done. Ibrahim saw that his massive friend had been mortally hit in the chest by grenade fragments. He was wobbling, struggling to stay erect at the door, guarding his comrades to the last.
"'I take refuge in the Lord of the worlds,' " Tolkaze called out defiantly to the security troops, who spoke not a word of Arabic. " 'The King of men, the God of men, from the evil of the whispering devil—' "
The KGB sergeant leaped around the lower landing and his first burst tore the rifle from Rasul's bloodless hands. Two hand grenades arched through the air as the sergeant disappeared back around the corner.
There was no place—and no reason—to run. Mohammet and Ibrahim stood immobile in the doorway as the grenades bounced and skittered across the tiled floor. Around them the whole world seemed to be catching fire, and because of them, the whole world really would.
"Allahu akhbar!"
SUNNYVALE, CALIFORNIA
"God almighty!" the chief master sergeant breathed. The fire which had begun in the gasoline/diesel section of the refinery had been sufficient to alert a strategic early-warning satellite in geosynchronous orbit twenty-four thousand miles above the Indian Ocean. The signal was downlinked to a top-security U.S. Air Force post.
The senior watch officer in the Satellite Control Facility was an Air Force colonel. He turned to his senior technician: "Map it."
"Yes, sir." The sergeant typed a command into his console, which told the satellite cameras to alter their sensitivity. With the flaring on the screen reduced, the satellite rapidly pinpointed the source of the thermal energy. A computer-controlled map on the screen adjacent to the visual display gave them an exact location reference. "Sir, that's an oil refinery fire. Jeez, and it looks like a real pisser! Colonel, we got a Big Bird pass in twenty minutes and the course track is within a hundred twenty kilometers."
"Uh-huh," the colonel nodded. He watched the screen closely to make sure that the heat source was not moving, his right hand lifting the Gold Phone to NORAD headquarters, Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado.
"This is Argus Control. I have Flash Traffic for CINC-NORAD."
"Wait one," said the first voice.
"This is CINC-NORAD," said the second, Commander-in-Chief of the North American Aerospace Defense Command.
"Sir, this is Colonel Burnette at Argus Control. We show a massive thermal energy reading at coordinates sixty degrees fifty minutes north, seventy-six degrees forty minutes east. The site is listed as a POL refinery. The thermal source is not, repeat not moving. We have a KH-11 pass close to the source in two-zero minutes. My preliminary evaluation, General, is that we have a major oil-field fire here."
"They're not doing a laser-flash on your bird?" CINC-NORAD asked. There was always a possibility the Soviets were trying to play games with their satellite.
"Negative. The light source covers infrared and all of the visible spectrum, not, repeat not, monochromatic. We'll know more in a few minutes, sir. So far everything is consistent with a massive ground fire."
Thirty minutes later, they were sure. The KH-11 reconnaissance satellite came over the horizon close enough for all of its eight television cameras to catalog the chaos. A side-link transmitted the signal to a geosynchronous communications satellite, and Burnette was able to watch it all "in real time." Live and in color. The fire had already engulfed half of the refinery complex and more than half of the nearby production field, with more burning crude oil spreading from the ruptured pipeline onto the river Ob'. They were able to watch the fire spread, the flames carried rapidly before a forty-knot surface wind. Smoke obscured much of the area on visible light, but infrared sensors penetrated it to show many heat sources that could only be vast pools of oil products burning intensely on the ground. Burnette's sergeant was from east Texas and had worked as a boy in the oil fields. He keyed up daylight photographs of the site and compared them with the adjacent visual display to determine what parts of the refinery had already ignited.
"Goddamn, Colonel." The sergeant shook his head reverently. He spoke with quiet expertise. "The refinery—well, it's gone, sir. That fire'll spread in front of that wind, and ain't no way in hell they'll stop it. The refinery's gone, total loss, burn maybe three, four days—maybe a week, parts of it. And unless they find a way to stop it, looks like the production field is going to go, too, sir. By next pass, sir, it'll all be burnin', all those wellheads spillin' burnin' o'l . . . Lordy, I don't even think Red Adair would want any part of this job!"
"Nothing left of the refinery? Hmph." Burnette watched a tape rerun of the Big Bird pass. "It's their newest and biggest, ought to put a dent in their POL production while they rebuild that from scratch. And once they get those field fires put out, they'll have to rearrange their gas and diesel production quite a bit. I'll say one thing for Ivan. When he has an industrial accident, he doesn't screw around. A major inconvenience for our Russian friends, Sergeant."
This analysis was confirmed the next day by the CIA, and the day after that by the British and French security services.
They were all wrong.
Note there will be a lot of AH elements in this story such as:
Chernobyl not occurring.
Soviet Victory in Afghanistan.
The merge with the SW version of earth has begun. We'll be going to Moscow in the next Chapter.
And who is they mysterious third faction in Berlin? Comment your thoughts in the reviews!