“When the action starts, I want you to do everything I say without any questions. I know how you’ve been feeling. But it’s gonna be okay. Trust me.”
As if in a trance, Aub nodded mutely, his eyes wide and dazed, his jaw hanging limp. Before he could form any coherent reply, the auxiliary screen came to life above Clifford’s head.
“Hello, Control Room. We’ve lost you on the primary channel. Switch to standby while we check for faults.” The face of one of the operators below spoke out of the display. Clifford released the key he had been holding.
“Sorry, my fault,” he advised. “Must have knocked the switch. How’s that?”
The face of the operator glanced off screen for a second.
“That’s fine. Clearing down standby.” One of the two faces now showing disappeared; the other continued to stare at them for a moment and then, evidently satisfied, turned to attend to other chores.
Aub began to frame some kind of a question when a new voice came through the speaker above the Control Room doorway. “H-hour minus thirty seconds. Still no response to ultimatum.”
After that there was no time to think of questions.
“Report status of weapon delivery system,” ordered the voice of the operations coordinator from the supervisory platform below.
“Fire-control sequence primed and ready for Phase One Strike,” Clifford replied. “Awaiting orders.”
“Acknowledged. Stand by.”
“Standing by.”
General Carlohm, Supreme Commander of the Allied Integrated Command, approached the President, still standing by the open-channel console.
“Request confirmation of present standing orders,” he said. Sherman nodded.
“No change.”
Carlohm turned to his deputy, who was standing behind him.
“Confirm orders to all military forces. All units to maintain a condition of armed alert. Defend as necessary if attacked, but otherwise do not engage in offensive hostilities.” The deputy acknowledged, then walked over to a console operator to relay the message out to the global command chain of the Western armed forces.
Ten seconds.
The eyes in the group of tense, grim faces clustered around the communications unit were all fixed on the President. His gaze was riveted on the screen visible above the operator’s head, his tongue running unconsciously back and forth across his dry lips. Nothing.
Zero. Still nothing.
“The ultimatum has expired,” Carlohm reported formally. “I request confirmation of your approval to authorize Phase One.” Sherman took a long, deep breath and turned at last away from the empty screen. Absolute silence had descended on all sides.
“Proceed, General,” he instructed.
Carlohm passed the order to the deputy who conveyed it to the operational coordinator. The coordinator activated the channel that connected him to the Control Room.
“Authorization to proceed confirmed. Execute Phase One Strike.”
“Proceeding,” Clifford returned. “Executing Phase One Strike now.”
What followed was practically an anticlimax. A second or two later, Clifford’s voice calmly informed them:
“Phase One completed.”
There was nothing more to it than that. The information coming in from a thousand tracking points all around and over the world told the story on the displays surrounding them: between the last two times that Clifford had spoken, every ORBS satellite and orbiting antisatellite laser deployed by hostile powers had ceased to exist. The immediate threat of any direct attack on the Western nations had been totally removed. That still left, however, the less immediate but nevertheless formidable threat of submarine, surface- and air-launched missiles. These had to be dealt with next.
The tension began to ease somewhat. The worst was over. The victory was in the bag. In one or two places, amused grins appeared at the thought of the confusion and consternation that would at that moment be breaking out in similar places on the other side of the world.
“Permission to authorize Phase Two?” Carlohm asked the President. “Missile subs and launch silos.”
“Proceed,” Sherman responded. The order reached the operations coordinator, who turned towards his panel. Suddenly his face knotted into a puzzled frown. He began jabbing repeatedly at the buttons in front of him. An assistant sitting slightly forward of him was turning and muttering, making helpless gestures toward his own console.
“What’s happening?” came the voice of Vice President Reyes, sharply.
“I’m not sure.” The coordinator looked perplexed. “We’ve lost contact with the Control Room. Primary channel’s dead; standby’s dead; backup systems aren’t responding.” He spoke into a microphone grille on the panel. “Control Room, Control Room. We’ve lost you completely. Do you hear? Come in please.” He toggled more switches furiously and tried again. No response.