by Anne Fox
“And so?” Amigo said. “He can’t launch nukes on his own.”
“That’s just it. He can,” Spud said.
The room was deathly silent.
“The President gives the order using the codes. The Secretary of Defense confirms that the order comes from the President, but he can’t veto it. All he gets to say is, ‘Yeah, guys – it’s the President’s order.’ Once that happens, orders are given to launch the missiles, and the nukes start flying. And you know that saying that you can’t call a bullet back into the barrel? You can’t call nukes back into their silos or launch tubes, either.”
“That’s insanity,” Crow said. “Congress doesn’t get involved?”
“Where’s the time?” Hank asked. “An intercontinental ballistic missile can take only about twenty minutes to reach us. Submarine-launched nukes can get here even faster. We’d be ash before Congress could even convene.”
“It makes sense to give the President the unilateral ability to call a nuclear strike,” Spud said. “If he’s sane.”
A generalized murmur went around the room.
“Doc Andy, is he sane?” Hank asked.
Doc Andy had adopted his chin-on-hand posture. Lifting his chin, he said, “I have not examined him, so I can’t say definitively one way or another. But he certainly appears to be under some sort of influence that renders him... irrational from time to time.”
“And there’s our problem,” Spud said. Pointing to the football, he added, “Do we want an irrational man two steps away from that?”
“I will suggest,” Doc Andy began, “that everyone take the rest of the day as a crash day, and give serious consideration to Spud’s question.”
Hank and Spud sat in Spud’s quarters on the couch, Hank with her legs curled up under her, leaning against Spud, staring at the monitor on the wall. The nation in crisis, the news played nearly continually on any channel chosen. Currently, she was watching news of riots that were occurring as people fought over basic supplies that might be needed in an emergency.
“I keep thinking about Roswell,” she said. “Abandoned sites, active sites... About a dozen old Atlas F sites alone. Decommissioned sites as our arsenal got more efficient. If there are over a dozen old sites in that one small corner of New Mexico, then how many active sites are there? How many can be made active just by putting a warhead on a missile? How many multiple re-entry vehicles on subs? How many planes? And all it will take is one little misstep, and the whole world goes up in our faces. Do we dare risk it, Spud? Do we dare let a man who, in a fit of madness, might pull out that little card and start dictating orders?”
Spud was lost in a reverie. “My job was to protect the President. I did it by my choice. I willingly put myself potentially in the line of fire every time I stood near him, walked next to him, rode with him or in a follow-up vehicle. It was my duty, my responsibility to safeguard the office. How can I tap knuckles on accepting a mission to take his life?”
“The areas being targeted represent nearly three-quarters of the population,” Hank mused. “Potentially two hundred and fifty million people dead?”
“The worst part of this is that we have people scared enough to be evacuating those cities,” Spud said. “Which could lead our nuclear adversaries to believe we are preparing for a first strike. Having the President even suggest that this is what he intends to do doesn’t help.” Spud got up. “I won’t sleep tonight anyway. Should I make enough coffee for you, too?”
Hank drew a folded piece of paper with worn creases from her pocket. Unfolding it, she looked it over.
“What have you got there?” Spud asked.
“It’s a poem. Free verse. I read it in a book back when I first arrived. Back when I first started to realize I loved you. So I wrote it down, and every so often when I feel really awful and chocolate just won’t cut it, I read it.” She paused. “Everything we’ve ever known, Spud. Everything we’ve ever dreamt about, gone.” She stood up, dropping the paper on the couch where she’d been sitting. “I can’t even be with you right now. I can’t even make love to you. All I’d be able to think about is that it might be the very last time I get to do so, and the only consolation I have is that, being as close to Washington, DC as we are, we’d both die together.”
She went to the door, tears in her eyes. “I think right now what I need is to just be alone.” She walked out the door, turning to go to her own quarters.
Spud stared after her. I think I might throw up, he mused. He went over to the couch and picked up the piece of paper.
If you call me,
I will come,
And holding you,
Feel your body against my body.
I will raise my face
To feel your lips against my lips
And your tongue seek out my tongue.
Longing you,
I will feel your skin against my skin,
And in that ultimate of giving,
Feel your flesh move within my flesh.
Then fulfilled,
I will know the warmth of sleep beside you,
And in the morning,
Wake to find it was no dream.
Don’t ask me, for I know not why,
But if you call me,
I will come.
Tears filled his eyes. “Everything we’ve ever dreamt about, gone,” he murmured. He refolded the paper and put it in his wallet.
The team gathered in the library, once again with all of the unit’s support personnel present.
“The first thing I have to ask all of you in Support is whether you’re willing to give your full backing to the decision the Field Team is about to make,” Spud said.
The Support personnel couldn’t help noticing how haggard Spud looked.
“Spud, did you get any sleep last night?” Doc Andy asked.
“No,” he said, whipping to face Doc Andy. “Did you?”
“It’s a fair question,” Doc Andy said. “None of you in the Field Team look up to making any kind of decision right now.”
Indeed, the entire team appeared to be in various stages of fatigue mixed with distress.
“We can’t put off making a decision,” Amigo said. “This nation is on the brink of nuclear war.”
“I’ll ask again. Support personnel, are you prepared to back the decision of the Field Team?”
“You guys are the ones with your lives on the line. I’ve always seen it as my duty to support whatever decisions you make and whatever means you choose to execute a mission,” Mike said.
“What about the rest of you?” Spud asked.
“It’s your decision to make,” Doc Rich said. “It’s my job to support it.”
The rest of the support personnel all nodded their affirmation of what Doc Rich had voiced.
“Does anyone in Support wish to voice opposition?” Spud asked.
Silence greeted him.
“Very well. Then I’ll ask for any thoughts the Field Team might have.”
“We’re being asked what’s more important,” Cloud began. “The President, or three hundred and twenty-eight million American citizens.”
The rest of the team listened to him somberly.
“We took an oath to uphold the Constitution,” Crow countered.
“The Constitution won’t mean anything if we’re attacked. We’ll be under martial law,” Hank observed.
“I don’t see that we have any real choice,” Amigo said.
The room fell silent, the team members sitting with their heads hung.
“Let’s vote,” Spud said. “All those in favor of accepting this mission, so indicate.”
Slowly, fists reached across to the table. Just as slowly, knuckles were raised, then tapped on the table.
Spud sat with his hands in front of him, not moving, as did Hank.
“Hank?” Spud asked. “You know this mission is probably going to fall to you.”
Hank’s face was ashen, and both her clothing and her hair betrayed the fact
that she had not slept, changed, nor bathed since the morning before.
“Has to be done,” she rasped out. She raised up a fist, and hesitating with her knuckles poised over the table, finally tapped.
Spud sat, staring at his hands.
“Spud?” Cloud asked.
His face was as ashen as Hank’s. Lowering his head, he quietly said, “For eight years I protected both the office of the presidency and the man who held it. But I cannot support this President throwing us into a nuclear confrontation with the rest of the world.”
He reached out and tapped the table with his knuckles.
15
“I can pretty much guarantee you, this is going to be the most difficult mission we have ever planned,” Spud began. “There’s a great deal of advanced planning that goes on whenever the President moves anywhere, never mind in an area where we might have good enough access to actually attempt an assassination.”
The team still held their somber mood, and no one seemed truly willing to plan the mission they now had before them. All felt poised between two unacceptable situations, and being resigned to what was considered the lesser of the two evils didn’t erase the distaste they all held for what they felt they had to do for the good of the country.
“It will literally need to be a long shot,” Spud added.
Hank sighed. “My long shot.”
“The more distance, the better,” Spud said. “The Secret Service advance team and Counter Assault Team will be concentrating on areas closer to the President, given there aren’t a whole lot of people who can make a thousand yard shot.”
“I’m not going to be happy with a thousand yard shot,” Hank said. “I need to be out farther. Fifteen hundred yards. Maybe two thousand. At fifteen hundred yards, we’re scraping close to the maximum effective range for my Sako when it’s barreled for .338 Lapua mag. So it’s either going to be getting Luigi to turn out a .50BMG for me, or do some serious tweaking on ammunition for the .338 Lapua mag. The ammo will have to be the most precise and consistent ammo we can load, and then to be successful I’m going to have to be accurate enough to get a head shot, given in all likelihood they’ll have the President in a bullet-proof vest.”
“You can hit a coconut at a thousand yards pretty consistently,” Amigo noted.
“The last thing I want to be discussing right now is Luigi’s fucking coconuts,” Hank said. “Those damned things cost me more sweat than I care to recall. You try getting called before the CO while dressed in a man’s uniform and sporting a woman’s body that’s being strangled to death.
“I’m almost thinking this needs to be done with the .338. Even though getting the accuracy might be tough, there will be better sound suppression. I’d like not to be sacrificing myself for this mission, nor Amigo, either. Plus, if we’re captured, it’s going to compromise the unit big time when they figure out both who we are and the fact that we’re both supposed to be dead.” She scratched her cheek. “Maybe we can push the loads a little on the cartridges and get a little better accuracy without blowing the fucking gun up. And it will have to be one shot. One shot only.”
“We can do it by usin’ a different bullet,” Luigi said. “I’ll have to get them in, but there’s a 270 grain .338 bullet out there made of copper-nickel alloy that has a ballistic coefficient of 0.861. That’s about as high as they get without goin’ into makin’ wildcats. It stays supersonic to almost two thousand yards. An’ if we’re real careful about keepin’ everythin’ very consistent, I think between the new ammo and you, Hank, you can get that head shot.”
“If I’m going to get it, then we need to get these cartridge components in ASAP, Luigi, so we can get this ammo made. And then Amigo and I will need a shitload of time on the range.”
“There’s another consideration as far as this mission goes as well,” Cloud began.
“Which is?”
“It’s a guarantee it’s going to have to be an outdoor event,” Crow said, “And they’ll have FLIR. You get an advanced team out there flying around with FLIR, there’s a good possibility that they’ll pick up Hank and Amigo.”
“Unless we can figure out how to hide their infrared signatures,” Spud observed.
“Mike, you told me once that we can heat and cool the graphene layers in the bullet-proof vests with an environmental controller. Can we get a large enough piece of graphene to make a blanket with the stuff?” Hank asked. “Then we could just stay under it and use an environmental controller to match the temperature of the surrounding terrain.”
“Enough for a blanket isn’t a problem,” Mike answered. “I’ve already got that. But Spud’s saying you and Amigo might be out there for four or more days, meaning either someone’s got to stay awake the whole time to keep the temperature of the blanket the same as the terrain or there will be times when you’ll be visible as a regular patch of ground that varies from the ground around it.”
“I can work on that one,” Voice said. “It will just require having a thermostat that can continually adjust the temperature of the blanket. It might mean being a little uncomfortable for Hank and Amigo, though. If it gets cold at night, they’re going to get cold as well.”
“I think we can manage that,” Hank said. “If we get cold, we’ll just have to snuggle.” She smiled, knowing what was coming next.
“I don’t think I like this at all,” Spud said, joking.
“I knew you’d say that,” Hank said.
“At this point, then, we need to get ammo components, get a thermal blanket made and tested, get Amigo and Hank on the range to ensure we can get a head shot in a single shot, and see if we can’t find out when we’ll have an opportunity to make the attempt.” Spud stood. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I feel like I’ve aged ten years in the past two days. Let’s call it a day, and we can get back together when we’re further along.”
Hank sat at the reloading bench in the gunsmith shop, along with Amigo and Luigi. Each of them was meticulously measuring the components that would be used to make the ammunition Hank would use for the upcoming mission.
“Everythin’ has to be absolutely identical,” Luigi kept saying. “We measure, we sort into lots that are identical, then we get the loads done up.”
“This is going to take us forever,” Hank complained.
“So, you just wanna run right out there and shoot the President?” Luigi asked.
“Oh, fuck you, Luigi. You know I don’t want to do this mission at all. The only reason I’m doing it is because the alternative is maybe two hundred million people worse.” She huffed. “Now you made me forget what the fucking measurement was. I’ve got to do it over again.” She took up a caliper and measured the case in her hand. “Just needs the neck trimmed,” she said, passing it back to Amigo.
“Have we even got a range here that can accommodate the practice we need to do?” Amigo asked.
“Yeah, and I’ve got permission to use it,” Hank confirmed.
“Even shooting into the MOUT is only...”
“I’ve got permission to use the artillery range,” Hank said, cutting him short.
“And I’m gonna put some honeydew melons down there for ya,” Luigi said.
“And you’re going to go down with a trash bag and pick them back up,” Hank said. “Because I don’t want to get called before the mast. Besides, why even use melons?”
Luigi made like he was holding one next to his head. “Right size, right shape.” He sat back. “That’s everythin’, I think. Now we can start gettin’ ‘em together.”
“You’d better do that, Luigi,” Hank said. “I’ve had so much on my mind I don’t think I could be accurate about this. It’s tough enough trying to keep my brain quiet while checking over the components, and it took us ten times the numbers we need both for practice and for the mission just to get enough to have everything identical as it is. Make up some cartridges from components that are close to what I’ll be using, and I can use that to get into the ballpark, then swi
tch to what I’ll use for the actual shot for the final practice. Amigo, did you manage to get everything plugged into our ballistics calculator for the shot itself?”
“It’s there on my tablet, and Hal has it as well so I can just ask for it.”
“Good deal. I’m going to head off to my quarters and see if I can’t get in a nap.”
Hank headed off to her quarters and was met by Doc Andy as she came to the junction of the corridors leading from Medical and the cafeteria areas and the field team housing areas.
“I’m glad I caught you.”
“I was just heading off to see if I can get some sleep, Doc Andy. Can it wait?”
“I’m not sure. Can you give me just a few minutes?”
Hank sighed. “Sure, what the fuck. It’ll probably take me an hour to drift off anyway. Assuming I can.”
They walked in silence to her quarters. Going inside, she dropped herself onto the couch. “Is this appropriate?”
Doc Andy chuckled. “I’m Freudian schooled, but I seldom go quite that far.” He took a chair.
“What? No glass of water?”
“I figured you wouldn’t be able to sip on it while lying down.”
She laid back, propping her head on her arm. “What brings you here, Doc Andy?”
“I’ve noticed that you and Spud are sleeping in separate quarters.”
“Oh, shit. You don’t want to go meddling in our sex life again, do you?”
“From what I can see, right now the two of you don’t have one.”
Hank closed her eyes. I wish he’d just go away. “This is a very stressful mission,” she said.
“As it is for all of us,” Doc Andy said. “I would think that it would be a situation in which you and Spud would feel the need to support each other.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Doc Andy. He’s a Secret Service agent. He spent the eight years before he joined this unit safeguarding the President. And I am the one who’s being tasked with assassinating the President. It’s going to be my bullet. You don’t think that perhaps sets up a situation where some strain is involved?”