by Doug Beason
If it was nuclear, it was bad. It must be destroyed.
Myopic technocrats tried to push nuclear down the people’s throats. They surged past reason, circumvented rational thinking, all in the name of the almighty dollar.
It didn’t take Vikki long to introduce Harding to NUFA.
The arguments advanced by Nuclear Free America were compelling, but Harding did not quickly become a sympathetic listener. He argued he didn’t build bombs, he just did research with quarks, gluons, and other elementary particles. Researching basic physics was not the same as designing bombs, bombs that killed without prejudice, vaporizing babies as well as soldiers.
But it set Harding thinking.
The Livermore protest proved that he was sincere.
The annual protests at the nuclear weapons laboratory made for an ideal setting. Situated forty miles from Berkeley, the nuclear bomb factory permeated death. The computer center—home of the monstrous behemoths with mysterious names like Cray and ETA—whipped up a frenzy among the NUFA idealists. Weapons physicists with nicknames like the “Montana Madman,” “Raunchy Rhoades,” “T-T,” and “Jimmy L.” were the purveyors of death. And Harding knew that without their computers to design the nukes, there would be no nuclear weapons.
Harding became obsessed with the death factory; NUFA incited him to the breaking point.
So three grenades, whipped high over the fence on East Avenue, put a temporary stop to the nuclear madness, completely destroying the computer center. And drove Vikki and Harding into the underground.
There wasn’t a challenge to bring them to the surface—nothing important to make them appear. Until now.
Until Alpha Base.
Harding needed it. Vikki needed it more. And she was willing to put up with anything to see it through.
She’d slept with Harding before the Livermore protest to help bring him around to NUFA’s ways. Offering her body to him didn’t make him change his mind, change his philosophy about nuclear weapons; but it provided the motivation for him to listen.
She did it once—she could do it again.
Vikki nodded absently and murmured to Harding, “Don’t worry—I’ll do what I have to do.”
Chapter 4
Wednesday, 1 June, 1900 local
Wendover AFB Command Post
Major McGriffin looked over his empire. It wasn’t much, but it was impressive as all get-out.
The darkened command post resembled a futuristic stage set. Red lights reflected off the brows of the men and women seriously going about their jobs. McGriffin leaned back in his chair and reached for his cup of decaffeinated coffee.
One hour into the first day on the job, and the boredom was already driving him bananas. Adding to it, this Wendover assignment still irked him.
As chief of the prestigious Standardization and Evaluation team at McChord Air Force Base outside of Tacoma, McGriffin was one of the “best of the best,” charged with scrutinizing the flying abilities of the other pilots. He made sure that a USAF pilot was for real: precise, exacting, and meticulous.
But Military Personnel Command decried that pilots couldn’t compete, and wouldn’t get promoted, unless they did something other than flying. His orders soon followed: an assignment to Wendover on a “rated supplement” tour—an assignment designed to supplement his rated, or flying, status.
Now he could compete with the other officers when it came time for promotions. And Wendover would have a rated officer to operate its command post.
Never mind that the nation would not have the use of an experienced pilot flying the Air Force’s workhorse cargo plane. And never mind that the experience level of combat-trained pilots was at an all-time low. Major William McGriffin was doing something much more important in the air force’s mind: filling a slot that anyone could do.
McGriffin darkly suspected that the people who had assigned him here, Air Force Military Personnel Command, was a clandestine arm of the Russian KGB. After all, what better way to drive experienced pilots out of the air force, and thus degrade the war-fighting ability, than to assign pilots to nonflying jobs?
The one consolation was that the command post practically ran itself, and whenever something happened, Chief Zolley was right there at his elbow, offering a suggestion about what to do.
McGriffin rocked forward in his chair. “Chief?”
“Yes, sir?” The chief master sergeant appeared behind him.
“What’s the catch?”
“Sir?”
McGriffin drained his cup of decaf and banged it on the table. “It took me all of ten minutes for your in-processing briefing, and there isn’t a thing going on tonight. Is the command post usually this quiet, or does some earth-shaking excitement come around once every hundred years?” He motioned for Zolley to sit.
Zolley smiled gently, sipping on his coffee. “Actually, sir, it’s kind of unusual for an officer to take command of a CP this early in his tour. The Operating Instruction calls for an extended period of on-the-job training—following the officer of the day around until all the procedures are down pat. Kind of an OJT program for field graders.” He lifted his coffee and swirled it around before taking a sip.
McGriffin opened his mouth when the siren went off.
“ThreatCon Delta, I say again, ThreatCon Delta: there is a break-in at Alpha Base!”
McGriffin fell backward in the scramble. The board outlining Alpha Base lit up in bright yellow. A quarter of the way around the map a red spot blinked angrily.
Chief Zolley helped McGriffin to his feet and took his elbow, easing him to the front of the control desk. An enlisted man jammed a telephone to Zolley’s ear. He said, “Chief Zolley, I have contact with the NEST and Broken Arrow teams, DTRA, and the Security Council. They are waiting on conference call.” The airman hesitated and glanced over to McGriffin.
Zolley took the phone and spoke quickly to McGriffin. He covered the mouthpiece with a hand. “We need to keep Washington apprised of everything that’s going on, sir. I can handle it if you prefer….”
McGriffin nodded, his eyes wide. “Go ahead, I’m still a bystander.”
“Thank you, Major. But I may need you if Washington requires an on-site command decision.”
“Take it, Chief. I’ll trust your judgment.”
“Thanks, sir.” Zolley flipped on the intercom button and walked toward the map of Alpha Base, stopping just on the far side of the desk. The phone line trailed behind him, its cord making a spaghetti-like pattern. He squinted at the computer display as information raced across the screen. He spoke into the phone.
“Washington, this is Wendover CP. We’ve gone to ThreatCon Delta with an alarm at station Foxtrot Two One. Motion sensors Foxtrot Alpha Five and Foxtrot Alpha Thirty-Two have picked up the motion and registered a coincidence of zero point nine nine on penetration. Number of intruders is indeterminate, but not expected to exceed three. Mobile units have been dispatched. Recommend a visual before lowering ThreatCon level.”
“Concur, Wendover. Roger that. Let’s do a wait-and-see.”
Chief Zolley put down the phone and kept his eyes glued to the screen. McGriffin inched around to where Chief Zolley stood, and watched in silence. Zolley pointed with the telephone to the computer readout.
“Washington is getting the same information flashed to them from the Alpha Base command post. By reading it back to them I give them an oral verification on their sensor status. If they need anything done, they’ll ask our opinion first—and then do whatever the hell they want to do.”
“What’s going on?”
“Probably nothing of significance. They get these breaks in the system all the time. Besides, if it were serious, we’d have been getting more sensor data by now. Probably just an animal that breached the security line.”
McGriffin relaxed minutely. The atmosphere still seemed tense in the command post, but it didn’t have the same edge as when the alarm first went off. Most of the room crowded around the monitor. Every
one was quiet, waiting for word from Alpha Base.
McGriffin leaned back on the desk and folded his arms. “You really think an animal could have set off all those alarms?”
“Most probably. All they need to do is get inside the first fence and they’re spotted. Once the alarm goes off, it scares the hell out of them and they usually get out of there. Now, if it were something bigger, like a bear or a human, then there would be an even bigger commotion.”
“A bear?” McGriffin eyed Zolley, not sure if the chief master sergeant was pulling his leg or not.
“All clear!” An obnoxious bell rang, breaking the tension. The people in the room laughed, then everyone slowly went back to work. It reminded McGriffin of a fire alarm: people were glad it was over, but they still felt uneasy.
Zolley spoke rapidly on the phone. “Confirm another rabbit, and a hole has been spotted in the first fence, approximately three inches in diameter. The civil engineers have been dispatched and escorts provided for repair work. This is Wendover, end transmission.” He handed the phone over.
“Well, what do you think, sir?”
“Impressive.” McGriffin swept his eyes over the facility, then turned his attention back to the map of Alpha Base. Once again the lights glowed a soft green.
The map showed Alpha Base as a crater, five miles west of the Wendover main complex. Four white lines twisted around the perimeter, delineating the fences encircling the nuclear weapons storage facility. Points dotted the map, marking sensor locations. Foxtrot Alpha Five and Foxtrot Alpha Thirty-Two, the two sensors responsible for detecting the rabbit, were lost in the jumble of dots.
“How often do these alarms occur?”
Zolley shrugged. “Not more than once or twice a month. Washington actually likes them. It keeps everyone on their toes and ensures the communications gear is working.”
McGriffin shot a glance at the clocks mounted on the wall. Five digital timepieces displayed five different time zones. One read local, and showed Nevada time: currently 1932.
The other clocks reminded him of flying: the names Washington, D.C. and zulu—which denoted Greenwich Mean Time—were standard. He guessed that the clock marked omaha was there because of Strategic Command headquarters. The commander-in-chief of STRATCOM would have a fit if the user of the nukes in Alpha Base wasn’t apprised of what was going on.
But the one clock perpetually pointing to 1700 bothered him. Obviously broken, it either should be fixed or taken down, he thought. Below the clock was a cryptic name for a location he didn’t recognize: miller. And something still nagged at him. The rabbit … no, it was that bear Chief Zolley had alluded to.
“Chief.”
Zolley turned, papers in his grasp. “Sir?”
“About that bear. Were you pulling my leg, or did a bear really get in Alpha Base?”
Chief Zolley held up his hands. “Honest, sir. It was a baby bear cub, probably got lost from the mountains and wandered down here. It somehow managed to get past the first three fences.”
“What happened?”
“It would have gotten to fence four—the electric one—if the security police hadn’t scared it away, chased it several miles and blown it full of holes.”
“A bear cub?”
Zolley nodded. “In fact, they were still finding bullets weeks after the incident in the housing area. Some of the younger troops got overly excited and not only shot the poor cub up, but managed to unload quite a few rounds into base housing. We were lucky no one got killed. One colonel was nearly pumped full of lead when he went out to get his morning paper.”
“Too bad. About the bear, I mean.” As McGriffin stretched his arms, he had a sudden thought. “Chief….” McGriffin pointed to the clocks overseeing the chamber. “What’s that fifth clock—the one marked ‘Miller’?”
Zolley broke into a grin. “Somewhere in the world it’s that time, all the time, sir.”
“Miller time?” McGriffin looked puzzled, then groaned, remembering the beer commercial. “I get it.” He waved an arm. “Back to work, you clowns!”
With his crew having a sense of humor, maybe things weren’t going to be so bad around here after all.
Chapter 5
Thursday, 2 June, 2130 local
Shotgun Annie’s
Wendover, Nevada
The music was country rock—”post-outlaw,” the kids called it. The twang was missing, as were the lyrics from the country music played in Nashville. Instead, a solid bass drove the melody, a lead riffed at just the right spot … which reminded Vikki of her Berkeley days, but more as something new, unconventional.
And the crowd was short-haired with élan, also different from her past. The group vibrated, energetic, wide open.
It was a far cry from the world she’d known.
She had grown up fast as an undergraduate, living in the Bay Area, and nearly killing herself with all the partying. Her first “Hairy Buffalo” party was a dim memory: gallons of wine, rum, vodka, beer, and whiskey poured in a bathtub and mixed together. She had indeed felt like a hairy buffalo after waking, and vowed to stay away from alcohol.
That lasted all of a week. After her first experiments with drugs, she was totally wasted for over a year.
If it wasn’t for NUFA and finding a purpose in life, she would have probably killed herself. She’d done a lot of growing up then, rearranging her priorities.
She discovered how committed she was after she met Harding. It took a while, but once she’d convinced him that NUFA’s goals really were moral, he’d become more of a zealot than she. Since then she’d kept out of touch with the party scene. Shotgun Annie’s was her first touch with a dance bar since Livermore.
Vikki ordered a pinot grigio and settled back, sipping and watching. A few groups clustered by themselves, leaving each other alone. The decor allowed a quiet tete-a-tete to exist without bringing attention to one another.
Smoke wafted across her table. Tobacco. It seemed strange not to smell the sweet hemp of marijuana, but again it was the crowd. They were much too cautious to air something like pot out in the open. The place was laconic, not defiant.
Another glass of wine confirmed her suspicions. Shotgun Annie’s was definitely not a pickup bar. It was dark enough that someone should have made a pass in the last half hour. It was time for her to do something about it.
Vikki drained her glass and left a tip on the table. Flipping back her hair, she sauntered past the bar and into a back room set apart from the main area. Earlier, several husky men—all short hairs—had strode through the bar, avoiding eye contact with the rest of the patrons.
The back room grew quiet when she entered. A few men looked at her; one elbowed his buddy, but most just ignored her. No one spoke—no greeting, pleasantries, or even a smile. It was as if she entered a private club and was being shunned.
She caught the eye of the man who had elbowed his friend. The man looked younger than the rest of his friends. His blond hair was styled in a longish crew cut. She held his stare momentarily, then purposely turned and walked out of the room.
She caught a few fragments of conversation from other places in the bar, but nothing came from behind her. The bartender walked over. He wiped his hands on a towel and placed his hands flat on the bar. “What can I get you?”
“White wine.” Vikki kept her head turned away from the room she just left.
The bartender squatted and grasped a five-liter green bottle by the neck. The Wente Brothers Winery label on the front was waterlogged from condensation.
Vikki opened her purse to pay when a bill slid across the bar.
A voice came from behind her. “I’ve got it.” The bartender snatched up the bill and turned to the cash register. “Keep it.”
“Thanks.” The bartender tucked the change under his apron.
Vikki picked up her glass and took a deliberate sip before turning. When she rotated around, the man’s face came into view. Just as she thought—it was the young blond-haired man w
hose eye she had caught. She leaned back against the bar and took another sip before speaking.
“I don’t usually let strangers, especially young ones, buy me a drink.” She twirled the wine in her glass and said slowly, “And when they do, they’re usually disappointed that I don’t sleep with them.”
The man’s face widened into a grin. “You’re honest. I guess you don’t have to feel guilty about accepting my drink.”
Vikki raised her wineglass in a mock salute. “No, I don’t.”
The man looked quickly around and pulled up a barstool. He swiped a few crumbs away that had fallen from the counter. He settled onto the stool. He watched her for a moment before saying, “You look lonely.”
“I’m not.”
The man smiled slowly and stuck out a hand. “I’m George Britnell. I didn’t catch your name.”
“I didn’t offer it.”
Britnell raised an eyebrow. “Well, well. Not even for buying you a drink?”
Vikki smiled. A straight-forward man. “Vikki Osborrn.” She accepted his hand and gave him a firm handshake.
Britnell turned to the bartender. “Yo, ‘keep. Lay a brew on me.”
Vikki merely sipped her drink and studied him. Britnell couldn’t be more than twenty. Tall, decent-looking, athletic build, probably about 180 pounds. Not like Harding—Harding’s middle-age gut had started when he was about Britnell’s age, while he was working in a physics lab. Harding didn’t have a reason to keep fit. He had everything he wanted now, including her.
Too bad this young hunk didn’t know any better. His morals were probably as deep as his navel. A lot was riding on this; she needed to play up to his ego.
Britnell drew on his beer. He watched Vikki for a moment, locking eyes with her. “So why did you come to the back room?”
Vikki shrugged. “Just checking out what’s going on. What’s so special about it?”
“You don’t know?”
Vikki looked puzzled. “No, should I?”
Britnell pulled his stool closer to Vikki. “This is great. I mean, when a girl comes into the back, it’s usually because they are—well, are after someone who works in the Pit.”