by Dan Stratman
“Zero.”
The disembodied voice kept repeating the number.
Cyndi and Lance stood frozen in place. They listened for the thundering roar of the missile leaving its silo.
But the only sound they heard was the popping and crackling sound of fried circuit boards shorting out.
“Zero.”
“Zero.”
And that damn nagging voice of the computer repeating the name of the placeholder numeral that represents nothing.
“Shut the hell up!” Cyndi drew her pistol and blasted the speaker.
The creepy female voice fell silent.
“Thank you. Now what?” Lance asked.
Miles of ancient wiring—coated in plastic—had been shorting out and overheating after Lance blasted the rogue console. Unseen fires, fueled by melting plastic, had erupted behind the panel. Smoke, toxic fumes from combustion, and the repulsive smell of burned plastic poured out of the console.
Lance blinked, trying to wash away the stinging sensation in his eyes. His lungs burned with each breath. He began to cough uncontrollably.
It didn’t take long for Cyndi and Lance to realize they were trapped in a concrete tomb sixty feet underground that was rapidly filling with poisonous air.
“Smoke hoods!” Cyndi commanded.
They rushed to pouches attached to the wall and pulled out their only chance at survival. Cyndi and Lance knelt on the floor to get under the cloud of lethal smoke while they unpacked their hoods.
They spread the elastic neck seals apart and slipped the hoods down over their heads. Activated charcoal filters did their job and cleansed each gasp for air.
Cyndi crawled on all fours to a nearby fire extinguisher and yanked it off its wall mount. She aimed the hose, squeezed the trigger, and blanketed the console with white extinguishing agent. Then she put the tip of the nozzle inside a hole in the panel and hosed down the internal fires until the extinguisher was empty.
The fires died out, but toxic smoke had filled the LCC.
“Open the blast door!” she yelled from behind the copper-colored face pane on the hood.
Lance pressed the door button on the console. Their only pathway to safety, a four-foot-thick reinforced blast door, remained tightly sealed shut. “Crap, the door circuit must be fried!” He felt his way across the smoke-filled room until he found a small metal door on the wall. Lance opened it and pumped the handle inside the box. At an excruciatingly slow rate, hydraulic pressure built up in the alternate door opening mechanism. It took thirty minutes of nonstop pumping to get enough pressure to open the eight-ton door halfway.
Poisonous smoke drifted out from the LCC and spread across the ceiling in the hallway. The air below had an acrid smell but was mostly safe to breathe.
Cyndi and Lance removed their hoods but kept them within arm’s reach.
“We have to find a way to contact the base. Try the high-frequency radio,” Cyndi suggested.
Lance lifted a microphone from its cradle. The end of the coiled cord swung freely. He’d shot right through the cord while preventing the computer from starting World War III.
“This isn’t going to do us any good.” He tossed the microphone onto the desk. Lance gestured dramatically at all the carnage. “Well, this sucks.” He looked at Cyndi with a mischievous smirk. “You think they’re going to dock my pay for the damage?”
Unimaginable amounts of stress, adrenaline, and fear had suddenly found a convenient reason to leave her body. At hearing Lance’s lame joke Cyndi burst into hysterical laughter. She laughed harder than she had ever laughed before. A few moments later, with the immediate danger over, she decided to chime in with her own attempt at humor. “I’ve got bad news for you, steely eyed missile man, you’re going to be making payments on this mess for the next two million years.”
Lance didn’t care how corny her joke was. He cracked up laughing.
They traded more jokes and laughed like giddy children until the artificial euphoria had faded away. Then reality set in.
Cyndi plopped down in her seat, let out a deep breath, and shook her head. “We are so screwed.”
“We didn’t screw up anything. I’m positive something went wrong with this new system.” Ever the optimist, Lance said, “We followed our hearts. That’s got to count for something.”
“I’ll be sure to mention that at our court-martial. Maybe the Air Force will just forget the whole thing, pat us on the head, and wish us well in our civilian lives.”
The view from a topside camera aimed at the front gate and helipad was displayed on a monitor on the wall. Snow covering the ground suddenly came alive. It gently swirled around in the Wyoming wind. Then the snow erupted like it had been caught up in a tornado.
The shape of a helicopter appeared in the center of the snow tornado. It hovered one foot above the helipad for a moment then touched down on the right side.
Without any sound accompanying it, the scene on the monitor had a dreamlike feel to it. The classic whap-whap-whap sound from the helicopter blades—or any other sound, for that matter—could never penetrate that far underground. A nuclear bomb could explode topside, and the only indication in the LCC would be momentary flash of light on the screen.
Lance gestured toward the monitor. “The maintenance crew is here.” He glanced back at the smoldering console. “Looks like they’re going to be here for a while.”
“That’s great,” Cyndi replied with sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Goodbye, freedom.”
The rotors on the helicopter slowly spun down and stopped.
Rather than settle gently back down to earth, the snowflakes erupted again in another cloud of white. A second shape appeared.
Lance tilted his head and pointed at the monitor. “Why are there two helicopters?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lance walked closer and tapped the screen. “That’s weird. Those aren’t Grey Wolf helicopters.”
After the snow had settled, two AH-6M Special Operations helicopters were visible on the screen.
Both were heavily armed.
The lead helicopter was missing a Stinger missile from its left pylon.
Major Pierce stepped out of the first helicopter and slipped on a pair of stylish Oakley sunglasses. Just because he was a trained killer, that didn’t mean looking cool wasn’t important. The sunglasses also provided a more practical operational benefit: They prevented the enemy from seeing his eyes and gleaning any hints of his intentions. Pierce scanned the desolate landscape. Not a single building or home was in sight. He nodded and almost smiled. “Perfect.”
His copilot and the two men from the other helicopter gathered around Pierce. They were obviously geared up for a pitched battle. No name tags, unit patches, rank insignia, or anything that could help identify them was attached to their uniforms.
Members of the secretive Delta Force were culled from the top performers in the other Special Operations units. They were some of the most dangerous predators on earth.
O’Brian was a fair-skinned redhead from Boston with no neck and wide shoulders.
Jackson had survived the tough streets of the South Side of Chicago and had the physique of a bodybuilder.
Lopez was straight out of Compton. He was thin and wiry—like a cobra.
“No survivors,” Pierce calmly instructed his men. “This one is personal.”
“Roger that,” they all replied in unison.
“After the mission, we split up and meet back at the safe house in Guadalajara.”
His men held out their fists.
Pierce added his.
They bumped fists. “For Johnson! Hooah!”
“You better take a look at this.” Lance waved Cyndi over to the monitor.
She looked up at the screen. “Must be a security team from the base to guard the exposed warhead. The maintenance crew should be arriving soon.”
“Global Strike Command sure doesn’t screw around. These guys look like they mean business,” Lance
observed.
The team spread out and took up defensive positions around the gate.
Pierce opened the intercom box and lifted the handset. He glared into the camera with a fierce expression. “Command post is aware of the problem. We’re here to secure the site and escort you back to the base. Open the gate.”
“Thank God. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Lance reached for the button to open the gate.
“Wait.” Cyndi grabbed his wrist. “I want out of here as badly as you do, but nobody gets through the gate without valid orders. You know that.”
“Screw procedure. These guys are our ride out of this hell hole,” Lance shot back.
She ignored him and pressed a button on the monitor. “State everyone’s full names and the entry authorization code.”
The special operations team snickered at being asked to provide their real names.
Their leader decided it wouldn’t matter. Dead men can’t tell tales, as the saying goes. “This is Major Pierce. My team and I are on direct orders from General McNeil back at headquarters. Now open the damned gate.”
Cyndi’s reply boomed from the intercom. “I’m not allowed to open the gate without a valid entry code! I’m only going to ask you one more time. State your names and entry code.”
Pierce didn’t respond. He hung up and closed the door on the intercom box.
“We need to call headquarters and find out if these guys are legit.” Cyndi hurried over to the phone on the wall. She dialed the base operator. When she picked up, Cyndi said in a panicked voice, “This is site Alpha One. I need to talk to—”
Static intruded on the call.
“What? I can’t hear you,” the operator said.
“This is an emergency! I need to talk to General McNeil at headquarters right away!” Cyndi yelled.
“Hold please.”
“Wait! You don’t understand—” Cyndi’s response wasn’t fast enough to keep the secretary on the line. Serene Muzak played, informing Cyndi that in her time of dire need she’d been put on hold.
Lola Crawford buzzed in on the intercom. “General, someone is calling for you on line two. They say it’s an emergency.”
“Who is it?” he replied.
“I’m not a mind reader, General. All I know is they said it was an emergency,” came her snotty reply.
General McNeil cussed her under his breath then picked up his phone. “Who is this?”
“General, this is Capt. Cyndi Stafford. I’m the commander out at site Alpha One. There’s been a serious emergency.”
“What the hell are you talking about? What kind of emergency?”
Cyndi hesitated, thinking of a tactful way to phrase the worst news she could possibly deliver to the commander of 90th Missile Wing. “Well, sir, we received an Emergency Action Message…but the thing is…we couldn’t tell if it was—”
Static hissed in her ear.
“Speak up, Captain. I can’t understand you,” McNeil said.
“The REACT console malfunctioned, and…” Cyndi decided it was futile trying to explain everything that had happened over a terrible connection. “I can explain later.” She focused on the most pressing issue. “There’s a Major Pierce at the gate. He says he’s here on direct orders from you to bring us back to the base. But he doesn’t have a gate entry code. What do you want me to do?”
“Who’s trying to get access to the site?”
“Pierce, sir. Major Pierce.”
McNeil lowered the phone and covered the mouthpiece. “Shit.” Perspiration suddenly coated his forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. McNeil put the phone back up to his ear. “Captain, you did the smart thing in calling me. I knew I picked the right missileer for the job. I never gave any order for Pierce to go to Alpha One. That lunatic must have gone rogue. He’s out to avenge the death of his friend, Sergeant Johnson. Under no circumstances are you to allow Pierce to enter the grounds. I order you to use deadly force to defend the—”
The line went silent.
“Hello? General, are you there?” Cyndi tapped the switch hook on the phone, trying to reestablish the connection. “General McNeil, are you there?”
Cyndi glared at the receiver as if it would suddenly start working again just to mollify her.
She slammed the phone back into its cradle. “Dammit! The line’s dead.”
“What did he say!” Lance asked in a panic.
“McNeil never ordered Pierce to come out here. He must have gone rogue.” Cyndi picked up Lance’s Beretta and handed it to him. “Put in a fresh clip.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Cyndi and Lance went back to the monitor. Pierce and his men were nowhere to be seen.
“Switch cameras,” Cyndi instructed her deputy.
He rotated the camera selection knob on the monitor. The grounds near the code burner were empty. The area around the two-thousand-gallon diesel fuel tank showed no signs of life. He switched to the view of the silo blast door.
“Jesus! They’re coming through the fence,” Lance shouted.
The four Delta Force operators were belly crawling through the snow and under the breach in the fence created by the door. As they stood up, each man went off in different directions. The scene on the monitor was empty again.
Then the picture went dead.
Lance rotated the knob, looking for a working camera. “They’ve cut the lines. We’re completely blind.”
They listened for any sounds that would give away the team’s location.
It didn’t take long.
The sound of C-4 explosives obliterating the door to the building above reverberated down the elevator shaft. Dust and debris rained down into the hallway.
“Close the blast door!” Cyndi yelled.
Lance flipped the selector switch in the box to Close, grabbed the handle with both hands, and pumped frantically.
A snail crawling across the floor would have moved faster than the blast door.
They heard a metallic banging echo through the hallway. The steel lattice elevator door had just been slammed closed. The electric motor powering the elevator came to life. Pierce and his team were coming for them.
Realizing the futility of trying to close the massive door in time, Cyndi said, “Split up. Take cover on your side. Wait for my order before firing.”
Lance went down on one knee to the left of the blast doorframe.
Cyndi got in position on the right side.
The smoke-filled hallway obscured her view of the elevator shaft. Unable to see more than a few feet, she tilted an ear toward the hallway.
Seconds ticked off as Cyndi and Lance waited for any sign of what they were up against. All too soon, they got their answer. Loud coughing could be heard at the far end of the hallway. The Special Forces team had arrived.
Specialists in close-quarters battle, the team came armed with Heckler & Koch HK416 rifles and Glock 17 pistols—perfect for close-quarters combat. The HK416 had earned mythical status among operators after it was confirmed to be the gun used to kill Osama bin Laden.
They kicked in doors in the smokey hallway and took cover behind them. The men lay on the cold concrete floor to escape the poisonous air above. Four rifles were trained on the opening to the LCC.
“Drop your weapons!” Cyndi yelled out. Given how outgunned they were, she had delivered the order with surprising bravado.
“Hold your fire,” Pierce coolly replied. “Everyone just calm down. We’re here to secure the site and escort you back to base. That’s all. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Cyndi squinted into the haze, trying to make out their locations. “Is that Major Pierce?’
“Yes, it is. Are you injured, Captain Stafford?”
“I’m fine.”
“Is Lieutenant Garcia okay? I have a first aid kit if you need it.”
“He’s fine.”
“I need Garcia to answer for himself to prove he’s still alive.”
Lance turned to Cyn
di with a puzzled look. “Still alive? Why wouldn’t I be?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
“Garcia, are you okay? I need to hear your voice,” Pierce repeated.
Lance pulled back from the doorway. “What the hell is he talking about?”
“I said he’s fine,” Cyndi shouted. She pulled back as well. “He’s trying to get us to turn on each other.”
“Lieutenant, if you can hear me, think about your future. She’s the one responsible for what happened. Cyndi is the crew commander, not you. The buck stops with her. Give yourself up peacefully, and your pilot training slot will be held for you. Make the wrong call, and it’s gone.”
“How does he know about my new assignment?” Lance asked with genuine concern. “I just got the letter. And how does he know your first name?”
“How should I know?” Cyndi lay on her stomach and peeked around the door. When she saw their rifles, her eyes narrowed.
Pierce motioned to Lopez. “Talk to him.”
Lopez nodded. “Garcia, you in there?” he yelled out. “Hablas español, amigo?”
Lance’s father had come from a very wealthy family in Mexico City. Despite his privileged upbringing and the best private tutors to teach him English, he’d required his own kids to learn Spanish to maintain a connection to their heritage.
“Sí,” Lance replied.
“La chica está loca, muchacho!”
“What did he say?” Cyndi asked.
“Don’t worry about it,” Lance answered. “He’s pretending we’re friends because I speak Spanish.”
“Chica means girl, doesn’t it?”
Lance rolled his eyes. “Fine. He said you’re crazy. Now, are you happy?”
“Crazy? I’ll show him crazy.” Cyndi jumped up behind the cover of the door and drew her pistol.
Lance put a hand up. “I’ve got this. Let me handle it.” He drew closer to the edge of the doorframe and yelled, “We’re not amigos, so drop the act. Go back to the barrio where you belong, cholo.”