Ballistic

by Paul Levine

  But Griggs’ days of rappelling down buildings are over. Lately, he’s been drawing up contingency plans for Delta Force’s counter terrorist unit, coordinating with Woody Waller’s SEAL-Team 6 and the F.B.I.’s Hostage Response Unit. Griggs hates the parochial rivalries, hates playing the role of the eager cutthroat commando, but it has to be done, or Woody Waller would gobble up ever blood-and-guts assignment. Now, the two of them have General Hugh Corrigan surrounded and are pleading their respective cases.

  “General, my men deserve to be first to go down that hole,” Griggs says.

  “With all due respect, Charlie, SEAL Team-6 is faster and better than any team Delta can muster,” Waller responds.

  “Easy, Woody. You too, Charlie,” the general says. “You’ll both get your chance.”

  “I hope so, sir.” Griggs knows he is expected to beat the drums a little harder so he sucks it up and lets loose with the macho bullshit. “My men haven’t tasted blood since Desert Storm.”

  Commander Woody Waller laughs in mock disbelief. He is a square-jawed, crew-cut Hollywood version of a Navy SEAL. “That was a real ballbuster, huh Charlie? Rounding up some starving ragheads.”

  “My men were human trip-wires behind enemy lines while your Malibu lifeguards were playing with boogie boards in the Gulf.”

  “Individual experimental landing craft,” Waller corrects him, though in fact, they were black boogie boards sent from California for a nighttime beach landing that never occurred.

  “Delta Force was eating the Republican Guard for lunch, not riding around Kuwait City in dune buggies.”

  “Fast Attack Vehicles. Charlie, why are you so jealous of the SEALs, anyway?”

  “Enough, already!” General Corrigan holds up his arms. “Colonel Zwick reports that Morning Star has removed the MGCS computer. There’s the distinct possibility that they already have the Secondary Launch Code or are about to get it.” The general pushes past the two rivals. “So I suggest you save your animosity for the enemy, gentlemen.”

  -45-

  Operation Masada

  A grate opens in the floor and Jack Jericho pulls himself into the Launch Equipment Room. He moves to the door and peeks cautiously into the tunnel. Three commandos are headed his way. Jericho ducks back inside, dashes through a row of supply shelves and climbs to the top shelf. Just then, the door opens, and the commandos come in, high-low, M-16’s wheeling in every direction.

  One of the commandos flicks on the light switch. Each takes a row and begins searching. In the middle row, a commando stops and listens. Maybe he’s heard something, but it could have been the footsteps of his comrades. He listens again, seems to sense something, then hears a metallic rattle above him. He looks up just as a Jeep’s heavy snow chain drops around his neck. He reaches up to toss of the chain, but above him on the shelf, Jack Jericho yanks it tight.

  A gurgling sound comes from the commando who struggles against the pressure on his neck. Muscles straining, Jericho lifts the commando off his feet and ties both ends of the chain around the shelf’s support pole.

  “Samuel!” one of the other commandos yells. “Samuel, where are you?”

  Jericho leaps off the shelf and scurries down the row toward the light equipment pen at the end of the room.

  The other two commandos race into the middle row where they find Samuel hanging by his neck, feet swaying two feet above the floor. The first commando yells to his unseen foe, “I’ll kill you myself!”

  Jericho hears the threat as he opens the gate to the equipment pen.

  “Come,” the second commando tells his comrade. “Let’s call for the others.”

  “No! He’s in here, and we’ll find him.”

  A sound stops them.

  A whirring.

  A blinding headlight turns into their row. Something moves toward them. They shield their eyes and see it.

  A forklift!

  Jack Jericho pulls back a lever, and the lift blade rises. The forklift is barely narrower than the row between the shelves. The commandos can turn and run, or they can stand and fight. Both raise their weapons and unleash a barrage of gunfire that ricochets with metallic clangs off the approaching forklift. Then, they turn and run. At the first opening, they duck into the next row, Jericho turns the corner and chases them through the maze of shelves. Finally, they come to a dead end against a concrete wall. The commandos turn and fire. Jericho hunches down into the seat of the forklift. Sparks fly as bullets ping off the steel shelf that supports the blades.

  The forklift plows ahead, Jericho leaning hard on the throttle.

  The commandos stand their ground.

  The two-pronged forks bear down on them, gut-high.

  Whomp! Whomp! The commandos are impaled like olives on toothpicks.

  The forklift stops with a thud as the blades crunch into the wall, blood spurting. Jericho throws the machine into reverse, and with the commandos still attached, he wheels out of the Equipment Room and into the tunnel. He turns toward the launch control capsule and opens up the throttle. Fifty yards down the tunnel, he passes under a panning video camera.

  At that moment, in the launch control capsule, Brother David looks up into the panel of security monitors. Flashing by, he sees the forklift with the two bodies aloft. “Damnation!”

  David stands and looks out the small blast window overlooking the tunnel. The forklift is aimed straight for the side of the capsule. “Stop him!” Two commandos storm out of the capsule and into the tunnel. They open fire just as Jericho locks the throttle down and dives off the forklift, rolling over twice and coming to a stop within five feet of a floor grate.

  The forklift rolls on, each skewered commando still hoisted there. The two commandos on the floor duck out of the way just as the forklift crashes into the capsule, plastering the bodies to its wall and streaking the blast window with blood.

  Inside the capsule, David paces like a caged tiger. Turning toward Dr. Susan Burns, he fumes, “The fool dares to taunt me. He has shed the blood of saints and prophets.” David picks up a microphone and hits a button. His voice can be heard all throughout the missile facility, even in the sump under the tunnel, where Jericho now makes his way through the maze of piping. “Now, heathen, hear the Word. As it is written, ‘I will make Mine arrows drunk with blood, and My sword shall devour your flesh.’”

  * * *

  Brother David sits in the deputy’s flight chair, barely noticing James, who continues to work at the computer. “I may have misjudged the sergeant,” David says, perhaps to himself.

  Overhearing him, Susan Burns says, “So you admit fallibility.”

  “Don’t play your shrink games with me, doctor. I know all the tricks of the trade. I never claimed infallibility. If I am the Messiah, it is in sinful form.”

  “Or are you just a charlatan? Didn’t Jesus warn of false prophets, wolves in sheep’s clothing?”

  “Then you should be afraid of my bite.”

  “There’s still time to back down. You can make a statement on television, get your message across.”

  “My message will be delivered with the heat of a thousand suns.”

  “Unless the sergeant stops you.”

  “The sergeant,” he repeats. Thinking about him now. Not admitting, even to himself, the concern, but summoning up a vision. Just a color at first, a grayish white. He concentrates and sees it clearer, a flowing grayish sheet, and he peers deep into his mind but can only think of a banner waving in the wind. It does not compute. Not getting a handle on the vision, he lets it go.

  He opens Jericho’s personnel file and thumbs through the pages. “I thought the sergeant would run and hide at the sound of a shaken leaf. What do you suppose has gotten into this cowardly coal miner?”

  Susan Burns does not answer immediately, and David shoots a lethal glance at her. When she remains silent, he approaches her and places his face close to hers. “Your diagnosis, doctor, or would you prefer to stretch your arms again?”

  “Jack Je
richo has a purpose,” she says, finally. “A reason for living, at least for a while.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “To kill you, of course,” she answers, “or to die trying.”

  * * *

  Jack Jericho moves deeper into the sump, takes a fork in the channel and pauses to listen. Just the familiar thumpa heartbeat of the pumps. He is alone. He wonders when the Army’s assault will come, wants to be part of it, his mind’s eye painting wondrous pictures as he leads a contingent of Delta Force soldiers into the capsule. Rescuing the damsel, saving the world. Stupid, he thinks. Special Ops won’t let him near the place, and he’d probably screw it up if they did.

  Suddenly, the cellular phone rings.

  Jericho clicks a button. “Yeah.”

  “You’re making a mess of things, maintenance man,” David says.

  “Just doing my job.”

  “I think not. I think it’s become personal. But your heroics are futile.”

  “I never wanted to be a hero.”

  “And you’ve succeeded.” He laughs. “But where do you go from here?”

  “Wherever you are, pal. You want to get rid of me, let the woman go.”

  “Oh, how gallant, how chivalrous. And here, I thought you were protecting the interests of your government. It turns out you’re just pursuing an unrequited love.” He turns toward Susan Burns. “It is unrequited, isn’t it, doctor? I’d hate to think you were mixing business with dubious pleasure of fornicating with the janitor.”

  “You’re wrong,” Susan says. “The pleasures were exquisite. Jack Jericho is all man.” Mocking the preacher. Letting him know who measures up and who doesn’t.

  Through the phone, Jack hears her, and for a moment, wonders if he has missed something. No, even drunk, he would have remembered that.

  “Liar!” David fumes, but his voice betrays doubt, the beginning of weakness.

  Jericho keeps quiet. In the capsule, David punches a button, muting his microphone, then gestures toward Captain Pukowlski, who is shackled against the wall. “That noise on the phone,” David says, “what is it?”

  The captain doesn’t answer, and Rachel presses a rifle barrel into his fleshy jowls.

  “What is it!” David demands. The thumpa can clearly be heard on the speaker.

  “The drainage pump,” the captain says, grimacing. “In the sump.”

  “But where?” The rifle barrel presses harder.

  “Channel B, maybe sixty meters west of the missile.”

  “Thank you, captain,” David says. He gestures to a commando guard. “Now take him back to the storage room with the ambassadors. Keep him out of my sight, or I’ll kill him.” David turns his mike back on and says into the phone, “Sergeant, you seem to be all alone in the world.”

  In the sump, Jericho slogs through the dirty water. A rat scurries across a pipe above his head. He listens to David’s voice on the phone. “Perhaps we could make room for you in our family.”

  “No thanks,” Jericho says. “Your family is seriously dysfunctional.”

  He hangs up.

  * * *

  Two uniforms and a suit surround General Corrigan. F.B.I. Agent Hurtgen, Lieutenant Colonel Charlie Griggs and Commander Woody Waller, the three hostage response team leaders, jockey for position and plead their cases as the general examines the sophisticated diorama of the missile facility, complete with miniature commandos and toy soldiers.

  “I’d run a diversion toward the elevator,” Griggs says, gesturing to the model, “then run a full rappel strike down the silo wall.”

  The general nods, then using a wooden pointer, slides a platoon of toy soldiers and tiny Armored Personnel Carriers toward the silo.

  Agent Hurtgen shakes his head. “It’d be ninety seconds quicker straight down the elevator shaft, based on our Hostage Response Unit computer simulation.”

  “Simulation, masturbation,” sneers Waller. “Fuck ‘em in both holes at once.”

  “I agree with Woody,” Griggs says.

  Waller beams at the support from his Army rival. “And let the F.B.I. sit this one out. When it comes to rappelling under fire, you have to go with SEAL TEAM-6.”

  “SEALS, schmeals,” Hurtgen responds. “This isn’t a beach landing.”

  Woody Waller bristles. “One contingency was an amphibious assault. The map showed a river running next to the silo.”

  “The river’s been dry for five years!” Hurtgen yells. “Shit, even the Triple-A maps have that right. What’s the matter, can’t the Jedi Warriors read?”

  Mocking the nickname of SEAL TEAM-6 was too much. Waller wouldn’t mind taking this guy on an underwater demolition job and shoving the explosives up his ass. Just as he’s about to suggest that, General Corrigan sweeps the pointer across the diorama, scattering the toy soldiers over the miniature countryside. “Men, let’s work together, okay?”

  Colonel Griggs clears his throat and says, “General, if we don’t kick off soon, Delta Force and the SEALS are going to start killing each other.”

  * * *

  Bells ring and chimes sound in the computer, and James sits ramrod straight, watching a blizzard of numbers flash across the monitor. “Voila,” he says, triumphantly.

  David slides his flight chair down the railing next to James. “Do you have it?”

  “Got my foot in the back door.” James’ eyes are red and he is fatigued, but his voice reflects the excitement of a new discovery. A message scrolls across the monitor, “SECONDARY LAUNCH CODE MATRIX.”

  “Yes!” James shouts. He hits several more keys, sweat plastering his pale hair to his forehead. “Just one more little…”

  Another message appears on the monitor, “ENTER PASSWORD TO ACCESS CODE.”

  “Shit!” James bangs several more keys, but the same message repeats itself.

  David wheels around and faces Owens. “Don’t look at me,” the lieutenant says. “The password is transmitted with the E.A.M. launch order. I’ve never seen it, never heard it.”

  Rachel jams the barrel of a rifle against Owens’ temple. “Might as well shoot me,” he says, “‘cause I don’t know shit.”

  David bangs his fist against the console, then turns to James. “Can you extract it from the M.G.C.S. computer?”

  “It’s not there,” James says, still working away. “All I’ve got is this.”

  David swings back to the monitor. On the screen, seven cursors pulsate.

  “Fill in the blanks,” James says. “It’s a seven-digit password, letters or numbers or both. You want to know the possible number of combinations?”

  “No! I just want to launch the missile.”

  * * *

  In the STRATCOM War Room, the klaxon horn is blaring. On the Big Board, two messages appear, “SECONDARY LAUNCH CODE MATRIX.” and “ENTER PASSWORD TO ACCESS CODE.” A technician pulls off his headset and turns to General Corrigan, “They got in, sir. If they enter the password, all they have to do is re-enter the Enable Code, turn the keys, and the bird is gone.”

  General Corrigan turns to Professor Morton. “What about it, Lionel? You said he couldn’t—”

  “Quite creative,” Morton says with grudging admiration. “I didn’t think he’d get this far, but now who knows? The little momma’s boy may surprise us after all.”

  “Percentages, Lionel. Give me some numbers.” There is the sense of urgency in the general’s voice.

  “No way to tell. But remember one thing. David Morton is flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. He’s not stupid, Hugh.”

  The general ponders that for a moment, agreeing with the professor. Crazy yes, stupid no. He turns to Colonel Farris. “Tell Colonel Zwick to prepare for kickoff, but not to move until he receives my direct order.”

  An aide works his way through the crowd of officers and brings General Corrigan a telephone, then whispers in his ear. The general straightens his shoulders and speaks into the headset. “Yes, Mr. President.”

  A pause.

&n
bsp; “Yes, Mr. President.”

  Another pause.

  “Yes, I understand, Mr. President.”

  General Hugh Corrigan’s jaw muscles clench with each tight nod of his head. He hangs up the phone and turns to the circle of brass. His face is gray, and he looks ten years older than just a few hours earlier. “Tel Aviv has just informed the Commander-in-Chief what its response will be to a nuclear strike.”

  “Jesus, General, they’re not going to do something stupid like counter-attack us, are they?” Colonel Farris asks.

  “Not us. But they’ve got something called Operation Masada in the event one of the Arab countries hits them with a nuclear weapon.”

  “Masada. A fight to the finish,” Dr. Stuart Rosen says, and the military men turn toward him. “After the fall of Jerusalem to the Romans in the first century, the last of the Jewish zealots occupied a mountaintop fortress at Masada. There were only a few hundred zealots, but they were vicious fighters, and it took fifteen thousand Roman troops two years to defeat them. As the fortress fell, the remaining Jews took their own lives, rather than be enslaved by the Romans.”

  “I don’t get it,” Farris says, a puzzled look on his face. “The Arabs have nothing to do with—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Professor Morton breaks in. “‘Never again,’ and all that Holocaust melodrama. I hadn’t thought of it before, Hugh, but it makes perfect sense. The Israelis must strike first just like they did in ‘67. When they waited, when they let the Arabs hit them in the Yom Kippur War, they were nearly pushed into the Red Sea. This time, if they wait, they’ll be annihilated. Maybe they will be anyway, maybe it’s as suicidal as the zealots on the mountaintop, but at least, they’ll take a good portion of their enemies with them.”