Ground Zero

  Peterson Air Force Base

  “I’m the commander of Shriever Air Force Base,” Colonel Willmeth said into the phone. “And you are going to listen to me very closely. We have an inbound helicopter on the way to the Space Command building. This helicopter is authorized to fly over Schriever and land undisturbed, do I make myself clear?”

  “We’re not supposed to --”

  “Tonight, you will,” Willmeth said. He was struggling into his clothing and was hopping on one foot as he spoke. What the hell was going on out there? Not for the first time, he cursed an assignment where he could not live on the base he commanded. He knew General Kelton from NORAD only slightly. Kelton’s usual clipped voice was flat with stress when he’d woken Willmeth out of a sound sleep minutes ago.

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” Willmeth said to the on-duty officer at Shreiver. “If that helicopter has any troubles with my base guards, I’ll gut you like a fish. Now follow your goddam orders, Captain!”

  He set the phone down and struggled with the zipper of his uniform pants. His hair could wait, he decided. His teeth could not. He grabbed his toothbrush and squeezed an enormous minty smelling gob of paste on the bristles. The toothbrush went into his mouth. Car keys in hand, Colonel Willmeth ran for his car.

  Schriever Air Force Base

  “Captain Alan Stillwell,” Stillwell repeated. He could feel his temper threatening to float away like a balloon. His head felt like a balloon, full of the pound of his furious heart.

  “We can’t let you in here,” the Air Force soldier said stubbornly.

  “We had a call from Colonel Ellison that Detective Reed from the Colorado Springs Police Department had called in an assault,” Lucy said. Her face was pale and two red spots burned on her cheeks. Lucy looked furious.

  “Yes, ma’am, she came out here and tried to drive in on base, but we can’t allow vehicle traffic on base.”

  “How did she get in?”

  “She had her badges, ma’am.”

  Lucy drew a deep breath and stepped up to the airman.

  “You listen to me, soldier,” she said. Her eyes were narrowed to slits. “You have two options. You can escort us onto this base, or you can keep us here. If you escort us on base, you might get in trouble. You might even lose a stripe.” She looked at his two stripes. “If you keep us here, and you are wrong, which you are, I will guarantee that you will be charged with criminal negligence, conspiracy to commit a crime, and obstruction of an officer in the commission of his duty. That means Leavenworth. Is that clear?”

  The airman was no longer looking stubborn and scared. He was now just looking scared. Stillwell looked at Lucy in admiration.

  Lucy was just getting started.

  “Your commission, your oath, is to your duty. You are not a robot. You are supposed to think. You do not shoot babies. You do not let innocent people die. If you do, you hang for it. You go to Leavenworth for it. Is that clear?”

  “Ma’am,” the airman said weakly, “I --”

  Lights suddenly washed across the group as a Chevy Blazer roared up the road. The truck came to a skidding stop.

  “Major Blaine here,” said a trim looking man from behind the wheel. “I’m chief of security. I need to get through --” He stopped and looked with an unsettling blankness at Lucy and Stillwell. “Who are you?”

  “Captain Stillwell, OSI,” Stillwell shouted. “And Lucy -- ahh -- Lucy from DIA. We need to get on this base!”

  “OSI?” Blaine said. For a moment Stillwell saw a look of fright on his face, but it was gone so quickly he couldn’t be sure. “Why are you here?”

  “Detective Reed called in an assault,” Stillwell said with the last rags of his composure. “We need to get on this base to contain this situation, Major Blaine.”

  Major Blaine was silent for an endless second, his face smooth and blank.

  Stillwell glared at Blaine. Didn’t the stupid Security Chief understand the phrase? In all military services, containing the situation means one thing and one thing only. Cover-up, burial, containment, damn it.

  Blaine at last seemed to understand, or to come to some kind of conclusion.

  “Open the gate, Airman,” Blaine said, and held up his badge. “Get in the car,” he said to Stillwell and Lucy. “I’ll take you in.”

  Gaming Center

  Joe lay prone in pitch blackness among the hum and pulse of the computers, trying to make his breathing slow down. This was the nightmare of childhood, hiding in the darkness while the monster stalked. He crawled away from the spot where he hoped the carpet lay undisturbed.

  There was a thumping sound off to his right. Joe concentrated fiercely but he couldn't hear anything over the hum of the machinery.

  A tile lifted suddenly, off to his right. A bright shaft of light speared down and a hissing, squealing sound broke from his throat as he scrambled away from the light. He could see the support shafts now, too small to hide him. The whole area seemed to be lit up to his night eyes.

  Another floor tile lifted suddenly, this one down by the doorway. Joe knew what Lowell was doing. When there were enough tiles lifted, he would be able to drop down and see him. Lowell knew where he was. He scrambled away from the lights, trying to think. A red mist tried to swamp his brain, a mist that told him he could kill Lowell, yes he could, he could kill Lowell with his bare hands, just stand up and fight, kill, kill him.

  “No,” he mouthed to himself, although he made no sound. Lowell outweighed him by fifty pounds. Joe didn’t know how to fight. He’d never taken boxing or even wrestling. He did track in high school, for goddsake. Lowell would take him apart. The only thing he had were his brains and his speed.

  Joe started to work his way towards the far end of the Center. If he could just lead Lowell away from the door, he might have a chance to make a break for it.

  He clutched the tile lifting tool to his chest, and as he crawled under the floors he started to pry the rubber suction cups off, leaving the sharp metal edges exposed. Just in case, he told himself, dropping the suction cups to the floor. Just in case.

  Schriever Air Force Base

  “I got the information from the base commander,” Blaine said as the Blazer roared across the grass. Lucy held on as they bounced over a gully. Surprised jackrabbits scattered everywhere across the damp grass.

  “We heard from the Peterson base commander,” Stillwell shouted. He was still half deaf from the cruise in the screaming Pickle.

  “Colonel Willmeth said Reed had called in a possible assault, not a murder,” Blaine said forcefully. “I hope to God we’re not too late!”

  Lucy, from the back seat, looked at Major Blaine. Blaine was a horrible actor. There were big beads of sweat in the crisp hairline. There was a tic at the corner of his mouth. Blaine’s voice wasn’t steady. His face showed concern but his eyes were ringed in white and wild with anxiety.

  Lucy knew someone had tipped off George Tabor. It couldn’t be anyone in the Gaming Center; they were all locked in the Center until the Colorado Springs Detective arrived. Colonel Willmeth was a brand new base commander and so could hardly have been George’s contact. Lucy had tentatively marked Major Blaine as a possible risk, and now she decided that he was a very probable risk. She was certain of it. Major Blaine was not playing for the Home Team.

  Lucy braced herself against the bouncing of the Blazer and decided to ride this one out. She would see what Major Blaine was up to. She could be wrong about him. But she had no intention of letting Major Blaine out of her sight.

  Gaming Center

  Eileen held up her Schriever badge and her police badge and ran by the guards in the Missile Defense Center. She was too out of breath to explain anything to them and she assumed the Base guards would be along shortly.

  The long stairs were the cruelest part of her run and she was nearly done when she reached the third floor. The air was thin with little oxygen and Eileen could feel the sweat soaking through the back of her shirt. She gasped and
wheezed and then picked up a run again, nearly staggering.

  The submarine style door bashed against the wall as she flung it open. She didn't bother to close it behind her. Later on, they would show her the long groove the door handle had punched into the wall and the spray of blood from the knuckle she'd skinned when she spun the wheel. Eileen ran down the hallway to the last door, unaware of her bleeding hand, and as she came to the Gaming Center she reached under her arm and brought out her gun.

  The number didn't work. She keyed the clicker twice, fingers trembling, before she realized she was keying in the proper number in reverse order. Eileen cursed, keyed in the number in the proper order, pulled the door open and raced up the hallway.

  As she entered the Gaming Center she saw the patchwork of tiles. Carpet squares lay everywhere. The metal tiles were flipped on their backs, metal gleaming sharply from their undersides. Every console in the Gaming Center showed the vision of Washington D.C. in the last seconds before impact. Eileen recognized the simulation. It was from the War Game that had played just a few days ago.

  Lowell Guzman, hair soaked with sweat, was flipping open another tile. His soft burly body was crouched over the opening and the glitter of his screwdriver was murderously sharp in the gloom.

  As Eileen appeared in the doorway Joe leaped up from an opening a few feet from Lowell. His eyes were grim and narrow and his cheeks were patchy with red and pale white. He clutched a bare levering device in one hand and he was heading for the doorway, directly towards Eileen.

  For a moment he didn't see her. His eyes were at his feet as he sprinted from opening to opening, fleet footed as a deer in the snow. Behind him, Lowell roared and sprang after him, dropping his own tile opening tool and raising the sharpened screwdriver high.

  Joe was quicker than Lowell. But he raised his eyes, saw Eileen and stumbled, arms flung wide. Lowell, behind him, still shouting, raised the screwdriver above his shoulder to drive it forward into Joe’s back.

  “Drop!” Eileen shouted, and Joe tucked into a ball and fell into the next opening like a magician through a trap door. He was gone, and Lowell saw Eileen.

  Eileen raised her gun in slow motion, seeing every bead of sweat and the surprise and the frustration on Lowell's face. Behind Lowell, the giant screens blossomed with nuclear detonation. A climbing mushroom cloud stood over Washington like an angry fist. Then Lowell was gone, too, tucking up exactly as Joe had done and dropping into the floor.

  Eileen shouted in frustration and ran forward. She didn't have a chance to make a shot at Lowell and now she couldn't. She might hit Joe. She stood on a tile where the two had been and as she looked for Joe the tile underneath her erupted up and she stumbled, staggering. Lowell burst up through the floor and in the patchwork of the room Eileen could not find a footing. She curled up and rolled over a tile. The gun spun from her hands as she instinctively tried to keep from dropping into one of the holes in the floor. Lowell scratched a long silvery streak in the metal floor as his homemade stiletto missed Eileen by a bare half-inch.

  Eileen dropped into the hole in the floor. Lowell came after her. Lowell was mad, eyes completely senseless in his beefy face, sweat running in streams. He drew back for another strike as Eileen scrambled to her feet. Eileen reached under Lowell's arm and hit him smoothly in the throat. Most people hit in the jaw, thinking about the movies. Jaws are hard objects that in real life have a tendency to break what hits them, like hands. Throats, on the other hand, aren't very hard. People protect their throats with their jaws in a fight, but Lowell wasn't expecting Eileen to strike him there. The blow struck Lowell directly in the windpipe, immediately cutting off his breath.

  Eileen danced backwards and that was her mistake. The edge of a floor tile caught her in the upper thighs, sending exquisite pain through her legs. She doubled over and barely avoided Lowell as he tried to strike at her again. His eyes were bulging and he was trying unsuccessfully to breathe.

  Lowell stood up for a third strike and that was when Joe rose up behind him with the tile opener held in both hands. He swung the bulky thing like a baseball bat and connected solidly with the back of Lowell's head. There was an amazing spray of blood from Lowell's scalp as the metal edges tore through his hair, and the sense and madness fled from Lowell's eyes. He stood for a moment, a child-like, puzzled look on his face, then fell forward. He landed half on, half off a tile that was still in place. His feet dangled to the floor below.

  Joe stood staring, then dropped the bloody tool from his hands.

  Eileen secured her gun before she handcuffed Lowell Guzman, and she did both of those before she turned to Joe Tanner.

  “I told you I didn’t do it,” Joe said shakily.

  “I knew you didn’t,” she said. She looked at Guzman and realized he was breathing, which relieved her. She wanted to have a long talk with Lowell Guzman. Several of them. It was going to be a pleasure. “Gotcha, you bastard,” she murmured.

  “I got him,” Joe said, smiling ferociously.

  Eileen put her hands on the crossbars of the tiles and swung herself out of the floor. She dusted her hands and grinned.

  “You got him, yes you did,” she said. “Have I said thanks yet?”

  “Not yet,” Joe said, and scrambled out of his hole in the floor. There was an empty floor tile between them.

  “Thank you,” Eileen laughed, and leaped at him.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Schriever Air Force Base

  The Blazer scattered gravel into the grass as it slid to a stop in front of the building. Blaine got out of the Blazer and ran towards the doorway, not waiting for Lucy or Stillwell. Lucy cursed, struggling with the back seat release. She passed Stillwell as they ran for the entrance.

  “What’s going on?” Stillwell asked.

  Lucy ran without answering. She sprinted by the desk without seeing the guards, following Blaine. Her stomach felt heavy and unfamiliar but her legs were toughened by years of running. Stillwell was a distant third as Blaine headed up the stairwell.

  She was silent in her running shoes. She hoped her intuition was wrong. She knew it was not. The building seemed enormous, and she could not quite catch up to Blaine. There didn’t seem to be any oxygen in this Colorado air.

  As she rounded a curve, she saw Blaine in an open doorway. He was looking at something, and as time slowed down for her she saw him pull a pistol from his shoulder holster. Her pistol matched his, flying into her grip with absurd and dreamlike ease.

  He raised the pistol. Lucy didn’t raise hers. She knew she couldn’t hit him while she was running, and she hoped she could reach him before he fired.

  He fired.

  Turtkul, Turkmenistan

  The sound was enormous. It was unbearable. Anna Kalinsk shrieked and huddled over her two youngest boys, trying to hold her body over theirs and protect her ears at the same time. She knew everyone must be screaming but she could hear nothing.

  Suddenly daylight poured over her. Anna hunched over her boys, trying to gather them under her like a duck hiding her goslings, knowing that it would do no good. Her body would not stop the bullets. They would go through her and into her sons, and it would be over.

  Not for the first time, Anna wished she had a rifle. At least she could try and take some of the husband-killing, father-killing murderers with her. She looked up, teeth bared, to meet her death face on.

  There was no one at the opening of the underground silo. Nothing but clouds of billowing dust.

  Gaming Center

  There was movement at the entrance to the Gaming Center. Eileen turned from Joe’s arms, expecting to see a whole platoon of Base guards, and instead saw Major Blaine standing at the end of the hallway. He had a pistol, and as he raised it to his shoulder Eileen twisted around and pulled Joe into an open space between the floor tiles.

  They hit the sub-floor together, with an impact that drove the air from her lungs. Joe had landed on top of her. Blaine’s gun went off with an enormous coughing sound. It
was not the thud of a bullet hitting meat. Eileen whooped, and Joe shouted. He scrambled off her and tried to stand up. Eileen put her hand on his shoulders and pushed him roughly down. She couldn’t seem to take a breath. She leaped out of the floor.

  The office chair in front of the unconscious form of Lowell Guzman was shredded and smoking. It had been a near miss. The stink of gunfire was choking. Eileen ran towards the entrance, gun in hand.

  Blaine was down. He was flat on his face, one arm twisted high between his shoulder blades. He was breathing heavily. A woman sat on him, holding his arm neatly. She was panting. Both of them had obviously arrived at a run, which explained Blaine’s poor shot. He didn’t have time to take a good stand and steady his aim. If he had, Lowell Guzman would probably be dead.

  Eileen stopped in the doorway, bent over, put her hands on her thighs, and drew a deep harsh breath.

  “Ahh,” she said.

  “Anyone shot?” the woman said.

  “Just a chair,” Eileen wheezed. Another man came running up, wheezing as badly as Eileen.

  “Was he trying to shoot a bad guy or a good guy?” the woman asked. She was dark-haired and very pretty, and dressed in civilian clothes. Eileen had never seen her before. “Tell me I did the right thing.”

  “You did the right thing,” Eileen whispered hoarsely. She took a couple of breaths and choked out a laugh. “I’m out of hand cuffs.”

  “He’s not,” the other man said, pointing at Blaine. Eileen looked at the new man. He was a short Air Force Major in a rumpled uniform. The uniform was not merely rumpled. There were wrinkles on the wrinkles. Dust was creased into the wrinkles by his ankles. There was a big stain on the shirt. He was sunburned and mosquito bitten. He looked like he'd been hopping freight trains for a week.