For the past eight hours Lieutenant Colonel Vladimir Kirillov had been cooped up inside a locked room. He spent most of his time watching television. Outside his window the sea sparkled invitingly beneath the hot Crimean sun.Suddenly the television set flickered and died. An emergency light began flashing on the electronic console in front of Kirillov. Almost instinctively the colonel started to check the telephones on his desk. The two-way intercom with the commander in chief was out of order. So was the direct line to the Defense Ministry in Moscow. Even the internal phone system within the presidential compound at Foros was down. With the exception of a nuclear strike by the rival superpower, Kirillov’s worst nightmare had just been realized. The man in charge of the Soviet nuclear codes had no way of communicating with his superiors. The clock on the wall showed the time as 1632.A few feet away from Kirillov lay a black briefcase containing the Soviet nuclear codes. This was the modern-day orb and scepter that distinguished the leader of a nuclear superpower from ordinary mortals.