Standing the Final Watch

by William Alan Webb

  As the song ended and the last echoes faded in the immensity of the hangar, running footsteps approached along the tunnel from the central complex. Looking up from close inspection of an intake valve, he saw the shadow of someone entering the hangar. The next song started, but the grinding guitar opening of Mott the Hoople’s Violence got cut short as someone shut down the computer Randall had plugged into the P.A. system.

  “Hey, what the hell?” Randall’s words echoed in the vast space.

  Randall’s co-pilot, Lieutenant George “Bunny” Carlos, stood on the catwalk ten feet above him, near the tunnel opening into the hangar. Panting, the large ears that earned him his nickname waggled as he gulped air. “Hey, Joe, what are you doing? Time to kick the tires and light the fires! Haven’t you heard the alarms? We’re active, 50 caliber pods and mixed delivery on the Dragonfires, no riders, max ammo. Skids up in thirty.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Active! Signal just came in, open season on burps!”

  “Is this some kind of drill?”

  “No, man, turn and burn! This is the real shit! You couldn’t hear the alarm because of your fucking music.”

  As if to underscore Bunny’s words, the irritating buzz of the alarm replaced Mott on the P.A. Lights began to glow far overhead, where there had been only darkness for more than fifty years. At first the long tubes shone with a vague dimness, but they warmed to gray and then white. Long unseen details began to emerge. Randall stood motionless, absorbing the life-changing news, before he began to move, fast and with practiced precision.

  Between them, Carlos and Randall wrestled the massive gun pods into their dollies, wheeled them to the cradles, then man-handled belt after belt of ammunition into the feeds. The Dragonfires got loaded next and could have been the trickiest part, but Randall and Carlos had practiced the procedure over and over again, and it only took five minutes to load and wire them into the firing system. Fuel came last, then the pre-flight checklist. The gleaming aircraft had been maintained in pristine mechanical condition and was takeoff ready with ten minutes to spare.

  With Tank Girl combat ready, they got into their flight suits and tucked in maps, sidearms and a dozen other things they might need. Settling into the cockpit, both men performed a visual inspection and test of the instruments. Carlos powered up and all systems registered normal. With five minutes left, they turned on the comm. system.

  “Test, test, test.” Randall looked at his co-pilot.

  “Read you fine,” Carlos said.

  “Command, this is Ripsaw Real, do you copy?”

  A third voice broke into their practiced takeoff routine, not the voice of Sergeant Avery, acting base ATC, but a voice both men recognized as Captain Walling’s. “Ripsaw, this is Officer Commanding Walling. Listen up for the CO.”

  “Ripsaw Real and Ripsaw Two, do you read me?” A new, unfamiliar voice came through their headsets. Randall thought it vaguely familiar, but the slur and hoarseness from Long Sleep made it hard to tell for sure.

  In their frantic haste to prepare for the mission, Randall and Carlos had forgotten to radio check with the second Comanche, Ripsaw Two, their wingman, crewed by 2nd Lt. Alisha Plotz and her co-pilot, Sergeant Andy Arnold. Outranking Plotz, as mission commander Randall should have coordinated with her, something they had practiced over and over but still forgot. He smacked his flight helmet three times with the heels of his hands.

  “Read you loud and clear,” Plotz said. Randall added his clearance, as well.

  “Good. I’m not sure what you’re flying into, but whatever it is the safety of you and your aircraft comes first. You are irreplaceable. Your first mission objective is to come back safely. Don’t get involved in a fight you can’t win. Having said that, once you have assessed the situation, if you determine that a United States military unit is under attack by hostiles, then you are authorized to use all force necessary and at your disposal to shoot the shit out of whoever thinks they can attack Americans in America. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir!” Randall and Plotz said at the same time. “Kilo tango alpha!”

  Angriff covered the mouthpiece and turned to Captain Walling. “Kilo tango alpha?” he whispered. “What does that mean?”

  “Yes, sir, KTA. Kill them all. You’re supposed to respond—”

  “I got this one,” Angriff said, holding up his hand. He uncovered the mike. “Kill them all, Captain. Let God sort ’em out.”

  Randall turned to Carlos and tapped on his helmet. Carlos shoved it up so they could speak without using the comm.

  “Did the CO give his name?”

  “Not that I heard,” Carlos said.

  “I thought he sounded familiar.”

  “Shit, Joe, he sounded drunk. We’ve got more important things to worry about.”

  The hangar’s massive steel doors slid upward for the first time in half a century, revealing the panorama of the high desert spread far below, and Randall punched the ignition. Huge rotors began to turn and soon the deadly gunship lifted off and eased toward the now-open rectangle in the mountain’s face.

  “Wanna bet the bastards thought we were all dead?” he said into the com. “That the party was over?”

  Carlos knew Randall as well as Randall knew Carlos, maybe better. They had flown together in the old days and joined Operation Overtime together. “You’re not starting that shit again, are you?”

  “Bro, it’s my trademark.”

  “So what’s the song, Joe?”

  Randall turned so Carlos could see him smiling inside his helmet. He touched the large musical note on the onboard computer screen, the one he’d created to store thousands of songs picked from the base archives, and within seconds found the one he wanted. The opening guitar riff filled his earphones, followed by a fast tempo. He smiled at the lyrics and sang along with Status Quo’s The Party Ain’t Over Yet.

  Chapter 14

  Time and tides have blurred my mind,

  And the gods have forgotten my deeds;

  But once I was a warrior feared,

  Who rode a mighty steed.

  My sword is dull, my shield is rent,

  I’ve seen too many snows;

  My body is scarred, my spirit spent,

  But I vanquished all my foes.

  So after I’m dead, let it be said

  That evil men marked the day;

  When the Gods were finished, forever more,

  Writing the Legend of Nick the A.

  “The Legend of Nick the A,” by Green Ghost

  June 18th, 0339 hours

  Angriff keyed off the microphone, swiveled in his seat, and nodded. “All right, Captain—?” He squinted at the captain’s uniform.

  “Walling, sir.”

  “Right, Walling. Bring me up to speed. When I went cold there were four hundred fifty men and women in the one battalion I thought I’d command. Now you tell me I’ve got, what was it, eight battalions?”

  “Not counting four support battalions and smaller specialized units, yes, sir. Eight combat battalions. And a sizable civilian contingent, too.”

  “So instead of a reconnaissance battalion, I command, what, a division?”

  Walling wagged his head. “We’re technically not a division, General, although ration strength is almost that large. You command the Seventh United States Cavalry Brigade.”

  “The Seventh Cavalry? As in George Custer? That was an active regiment when I went cold; what happened?”

  Walling shrugged. “Custer’s old regiment, sir, but upgraded to a brigade. I have no idea who assigned us our unit designation.”

  “Custer.” Angriff shook his head. “Glory-hound bastard got himself killed and damned near got his entire command wiped out. If he’d lived, they should have shot him.”

  “But he is a legend, sir. And, if I may say, so are you.” He paused and pursed his lips. “It can’t hurt morale to have a commanding officer who’s considered a legend. And General Angriff, people know what you
did in Kuwait, Iraq, and Afghanistan, and especially in Africa. Every recruit had to learn your ode by heart.”

  “My ode?” Angriff said. “What ode? What are you talking about?”

  “After you went missing, somebody put on ode to you on the internet and it went viral. It was called… you might not like the title, sir.”

  “I’m a big boy.”

  “It was called The Legend of Nick the A. All we know about the guy who did the video is that you were his commander at some point and you must have really done something to impress him. In the video he was dressed all in dark green camo, non-reg, with a pullover mask. Oh, and he went by the name Ghost.”

  “Green Ghost?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s it. You knew him?”

  “Yeah, I did. Finest black ops guy I ever met. Do you remember how it went?”

  “Not off hand, General, sorry. But that’s why I’m glad to have a legend as our CO. If there’s anybody around to remember we ever existed, then I imagine we will be a legend too. So we might as well act like one.”

  Angriff paused and admitted Walling had a point.

  “Maybe we should head for the Central Command Center and start there, sir. It’s your headquarters.”

  Angriff swiveled and spread his arms at the small room around him. “I thought this was the command center.”

  “Oh, no, sir, this is Secondary Dispatch and Emergency Control Center Two. You said you wanted to talk to the helicopter pilots ASAP and this was the closest comm. center. Until the internal network is up and running we’ll have to use control centers, of which there’s eight. Central Command is quite a bit larger than this.”

  “Then get me there.”

  They took one of the ubiquitous Emvees used for getting around the base and Walling floored it, maxing out the aluminum vehicle at its top speed of seventeen mph.

  “The main elevators aren’t far, sir.”

  “How many elevators does this place have?”

  “Six locations with four to eight shafts each, plus four much larger service lifts.”

  Angriff inspected everything they passed, from stretches of bare rock walls to the periodic drains on each side of the wide tunnel, illuminated along its length by countless LEDs overhead. As he looked over his right shoulder at a yellow rectangular box fastened to the wall and labeled EMERGENCY USE ONLY, he asked, “Why do we need elevators? When I went cold there was just going to be one main floor, with ramped drives leading in and out through one main set of doors.”

  “Sir, may I suggest we wait to go into all of that until you can see the holograms? I think that will make the scope of this place a lot easier to grasp.”

  “But it’s bigger than that,” Angriff said, making it a statement, not a question.

  “Much bigger, General. There’s over seven hundred miles of tunnels and hallways, not counting hangars, Long Sleep chambers, and assembly areas. Overtime is huge.”

  “How long had I been asleep when whatever happened happened?”

  “The Collapse? I don’t know, General, but it couldn’t have been too long.”

  “This place couldn’t have been built in just the few years after I was recruited.”

  “I’m no construction engineer, but I’d say this place took decades. You should see the nuclear reactors and hydros. God only knows how they got those so far underground.”

  Angriff could not help being impressed as they sped along the corridor, but along with the wonder came a queasy doubt. Overtime had been far more advanced than Steeple told him, but why lie? What difference did the size of the unit make? Lying made no sense.

  The tunnel widened into an octagon, with more tunnels leading off in four directions and with four banks of elevators in between. Two PFCs stood at the closest elevators, dressed in fatigues, men Angriff had never seen before. Like everyone who came out of Long Sleep they had beards and long, ragged hair at least four inches past regulation. At the sight of the two officers, both snapped to attention and saluted. Angriff returned their salutes.

  “Where are you men headed?” he said.

  “Central Command, sir. Except we aren’t exactly sure where that is.”

  “Fifteenth level,” Walling said. “Follow us.”

  The nearest elevator opened and the two men started to get on, then realized their mistake and moved aside to allow the officers on board first. Walling drove into the large elevator and the two men got in after. They stood as far away from their commanding general as possible, looking at the floor, each other, and their fingernails, anything to avoid eye contact.

  Angriff smiled to himself. “How’s the wake-up going, boys?”

  The taller of the two looked up. “I wouldn’t know, sir. We were up before most of the others, and a Lieutenant Noshimura told us to gear up and find Central Command.” His pained expression clearly showed his hope the three-star general would accept his answer and leave him alone. “She also told us to shave and get a haircut, but we don’t even know where the latrine is, sir.”

  “That’s fine, son,” Angriff said. “I need one, too. We’ll get all that straightened out. Thank you both for volunteering for this mission.”

  “It… it’s an honor, sir. When we heard you were the CO, we were down for whatever happened.”

  Angriff cocked his head in surprise. “Why is that?”

  “Excuse me saying so, but you’re a legend. Sir.”

  Angriff looked over his shoulder at Walling, while the captain stared at the ceiling.

  They exited the elevator into an octagon exactly like the one seven flights below. The fifteenth level hallway was fifty feet wide. Unlike the other passages Angriff had seen, with walls of either bare concrete or shaped stone, cream-colored sound deadening panels lined the tunnel walls leading to Central Command. The floor, inlaid with polished white marble tiles, was designed for durability, not aesthetics. When they rounded a gentle curve in the tunnel, Angriff had his first awe-inspiring glimpse of Central Command.

  A wall of clear glass two hundred feet long and twenty feet high, stretched down the east side of the hallway. In the center two massive sliding doors, also glass, had slid to either side to create a doorway thirty feet in width, and beyond the glass a huge room with terraced levels lay flooded with moonlight.

  Walling parked the Emvee — it couldn’t possibly be in the way in that wide corridor — and Angriff slid out, still staring. Retractable titanium blast doors had opened and, spread gloriously before them, the high desert outside glowed pale white under a cloudless sky, with the faintest trace of an orange dawn in the east.

  General Angriff found himself speechless for one of the rare times in his life. “What drunken son a bitch designed this?”

  A sergeant directing several dozen milling personnel to their duty stations turned and met Angriff’s eyes. “Ten-hut!”

  Angriff waved at them. “As you were.”

  Central Command formed a semi-circle of five terraces, with chairs facing long, curved wooden tops holding computers and monitors. The terraces ended at the bottom of the room twenty-five feet below in a sort of stage, backed by huge video panels. Beyond those were more electronics. Much like ancient Greek amphitheaters, the design of the room made the person at the bottom the focal point. By far the more striking feature, however, rose on pillars from the floor and soared high overhead.

  “What in the nine circles of hell is that?” Angriff pointed.

  Starting almost at the doorway, a ramp sloped up to a circular steel platform ninety feet across and supported by slender titanium columns, as well as braces coming down from the ceiling overhead. Side supports ran to either wall. A guard station stood at the top of the ramp. Steel grates made up the platform’s floor with a double rail circling the perimeter. In the dead center of the platofrm stood the most impressive part of the elegant structure, a large, circular glass enclosure. It reminded Angriff of a science fiction movie.

  “Sir, it’s the office of the commanding general,” Walling said. “Yo
ur office. That’s electrochromic glass; push a button and it turns opaque, push it again and it’s clear. From up there you have a three-sixty degree view of Central Comm, as well as a line of sight outside. There’s four outer stations for your aides, a private bathroom inside your office, and a small kitchen for coffee and the like. Oh, and a meeting room, although it’s tiny. There’s a larger one on this level.”

  “It reminds me of Saddam Hussein’s latrine, without the gold. I was expecting something simple, a room with some map boards and a desk, maybe with some folding chairs. Instead I get a futuristic whorehouse.”

  “Yes, sir. Umm—”

  “Speak freely, Captain.”

  “Sir, I’ve been looking at this headquarters every day for the past eleven months, and I kept wondering why they needed such a… such a unique office for a military headquarters. It didn’t make sense to me. I thought about it for months, and then it hit me. It has to be impressive, because if this brigade is really going to lay the groundwork for a rebirth of the United States, then that’s where all the planning will be done. It’s where anybody you want to impress will be brought. You are the supreme authority now, General, and you need surroundings that are commensurate with your stature.”

  Angriff had never thought of it in those terms before. “Are you’re saying I’m president now?”

  “No, maybe not president, sir. More like supreme military commander.”

  “So I’m a warlord. Whatever I am, Captain, as you said I’m the supreme power now, although of what is the question.”

  “Isn’t that our mission, General, to define who and what we are now?”

  “It is,” Angriff said. “It’s why we all chose to vacation in this lovely place and time. Now this command has to fulfill that mission, so the sooner this base is ready, the sooner we can get to work. By the way, does this place have a name?”