Free The Ten Thousand by Harold Coyle Page B

Only the buzz from the phone that provided a direct link with the White House War Room disturbed the ponderous quiet.
    Everyone in the observation booth watched as their commander, who had been sitting with elbows planted on the desk before him and his face resting between his open hands, sat up and reached out and grabbed the phone. His response was curt, almost plaintive. “Nolan here.”
    As the staff watched their commander, General Nolan visibly straightened up, telling them that he was in all probability talking to the President. It was several seconds, while Nolan listened to the caller, before his response confirmed that assumption. Finally he responded, shaking his head as he did so. “No, Madam President, there is nothing more that we can do from here at this moment. We have oriented every satellite that we can on the targeted area. It would not, in my opinion, be advisable to divert any additional assets away from their assigned missions. We must continue to monitor other areas of interest to determine what response, if any, the Ukraine, as well as other nations, are taking as a result of this event.”
    Nolan’s aide found the use of the soft, rather nondescript word “event” to describe the detonation of a nuclear device rather foolish. Perhaps, he thought, using a softer word would make this disaster easier to deal with. Still he said nothing as he watched his boss nod his head. “I have been in direct contact with my British and French counterparts. While we all agree that we must be careful not to overreact, I must advise you that both the British and French feel the need to advise their governments that it would be in their own interests to increase their readiness posture.” There was a pause before Nolan answered with a sigh. “Yes, I do believe the Brits and French spoke to each other before speaking to me. In my opinion, as the senior nuclear powers in Western Europe, they will coordinate their actions on behalf of the European Community.” After another pause, Nolan simply hung up the phone and eased back in his chair, indicating that the President had terminated their conversation.
    Nolan’s aide watched his commander for a moment before speaking. “I’m sure, sir, it’s times like this that make you wish you were somewhere else.”
    Nolan swiveled his chair around to face his aide. “No, Jack. You’re wrong. For us, the worst is over.
    All we need to do is sit here, watch our scopes, and report what we see. It’s the idiots who thought up this operation in Washington that have to explain away this mess and the poor bastards in the Ukraine that have to sort it out that I feel for. And believe me when I tell you, that the radiation from Svalyava won’t even begin to compare to the political fallout that our noble administration is going to suck down as a result of this screw-up.” Turning back to face the operations room, Nolan slumped down in his seat and mumbled, “No, today the Mountain suits me just fine.”

    Already at wit’s end and nervous as hell, Second Lieutenant Tim Ellerbee all but jumped out of his skin when his platoon sergeant’s tank, A34, sitting seventy-five meters to Ellerbee’s left, fired. In an instant the stillness of the night was shattered by the ear-splitting crack of A34’s 120mm main gun.
    Ellerbee’s eyes flew open as he jerked his head up. Turning toward A34, he was blinded by the muzzle blast of A34’s wing man, A33, who also fired. Recoiling from the effects of the sudden commotion, momentary blindness, and temporary disorientation, Ellerbee realized that he had fallen asleep. Despite the bitter cold that cut through his parka, despite the mission to secure the brigade’s flank along the Latorica River, and despite his responsibility to cover the work of the engineer platoon as they prepared the highway bridge leading from Chop for demolition, Ellerbee had simply laid his head down on the machine gun mounted in front of his hatch and fallen