Pandemic Page 120

“Get me in touch with someone who can make decisions in China,” she said. “And get Morozov on the line. Right now.”

Bodies scurried into motion, hands picked up phones — at least four people jumped on the task of trying to reach Stepan Morozov, the president of Russia.

Paris, a cinder. London in chaos. Gun battles in the streets of Berlin. Reports of Converted wreaking havoc in South America, Northern Africa, India and Pakistan. Every continent felt the effects. All except for Australia, the leaders of which had been smart enough to shut down all travel three days earlier.

Blackmon turned to Porter. “Admiral, what’s the condition of the Seventh Fleet?”

Maybe Murray wasn’t up on his Russian geography, but he — like everyone else in the room — knew exactly what Blackmon was asking. The Seventh Fleet operated as a forward force near j.a.pan, a constant presence of power some sixty ships and three hundred aircraft strong. The Seventh was America’s sheathed saber in that region.

“Seventh fleet is at REDCON-1,” Porter said. “They are prepared to defend any hostile action and are available for offensive operations.”

Blackmon nodded her approval. “Make sure fleet command knows they have clearance to shoot down anything that comes near them. From here on out, we err on the side of an international incident as opposed to losing even a single ship.”

“Yes, Madam President,” the admiral said. He turned to his a.s.sistants, setting in motion another miniflurry of activity.

Vogel looked off, put his hand to his earpiece. He turned to Blackmon.

“Madam President, we have President Morozov on the line. He called us.”

An a.s.sistant placed a red phone on the table in front of Blackmon. It was an old-fashioned thing, a handset connected to the main phone by a curly cable: the “hotline,” a piece of equipment that for five decades had served as a last resort to stop nuclear war.

Blackmon took a deep breath. She picked up the handset.

“President Morozov, America expresses its deepest condolences at this tragedy.”

She paused, listening. Her eyes widened.

“Stepan, don’t do this,” she said. “That attack probably wasn’t ordered by the government. China is dealing with the same problems you are — you know they wouldn’t risk a war with Russia. If you retaliate, all you’ll do is kill innocent people.”

She listened. Her eyes closed. That was it, just her eyelids closing, and everyone in the room knew Morozov’s answer.

Blackmon opened her eyes. They burned with anger and frustration.

“The United States objects in the strongest possible terms,” she said. “The world is on the edge of collapse. This will push us even closer.”

There was a pause, then she hung up the phone.

Blackmon took a moment. The room waited for her. She squared her shoulders and spoke.

“President Morozov feels compelled to retaliate. What will Russia’s likely target be?”

Vogel rubbed at his bald scalp, rubbed hard. “Probably a city comparable in size to Novosibirsk,” he said. He tapped at his keyboard, glanced at the main monitor as he did. “The closest Chinese city would probably be … Ürümqi.”

The image on the screen shifted, showing a city nested between three snowcapped mountain ranges. At the center, the word Ürümqi. If Murray hadn’t heard Vogel say it, he would have had no idea how to p.r.o.nounce it.

Blackmon nodded once, as if she knew the city of Ürümqi was the only obvious answer. “And that city has one-point-five million people?”

“Closer to two-point-five million,” Vogel said. “Three-point-five in the prefecture, so the death toll would depend on what weapon the Russians use.”

Murray shook his head in amazement. Three-point-five million: about the size of Los Angeles, America’s second-largest city.

Blackmon’s hands clenched together again. The world’s most-powerful human being had no power at all to stop a ma.s.sive slaughter.

“Admiral Porter, how would Russia strike that city?”

“Tupolev bomber,” Porter said. “Likely a Tu-160 flying out of the Engels-2 air base near Saratov. You can bet it’s already in the air. It will launch a Kh-55 cruise missile, probable warhead yield of 200 kilotons.”

A series of concentric circles appeared on the screen, overlaying the city. The center circle was a bright red, surrounded by one in red-orange, which in turn was surrounded by orange, and finally a ring of yellow. More words appeared on the screen, showing districts or suburbs, Murray wasn’t sure: Qidaowanxiang, Ergongxiang, Xinshi, Tianshan, Shayibak and more. The names all fell within the bands of color. Murray didn’t know those names, probably couldn’t even p.r.o.nounce them, but the names made everything more real.

People lived in Xinshi, people lived in Qidaowanxiang … people who were probably going to die.

Vogel turned to Admiral Porter, looked at all the Joint Chiefs.

“We have to do something,” Vogel said. “Do we have any resources in the area? A carrier, anything?”

The air force admiral started to speak, but Blackmon cut him off.

“We do nothing,” she said. Her voice was cold, unforgiving. If her heart felt anything, she refused to let those emotions reach her brain.

Vogel looked shocked. “But Madam President, a strike could kill millions of people! We have to try to stop it!”

Blackmon stared straight ahead. “Russia has been attacked and will retaliate. If we try to intervene, we …”