DEADLY DILEMMA

by Dan Stratman

  She turned her back to the man. “I want you to run up and grab me from behind. Pretend I’m a quarterback scrambling out of the pocket, if that helps.” Cyndi spread her feet shoulder width apart, equally distributing her weight. She crouched slightly.

  The big man rushed at her like an angry Brahman bull.

  Cyndi ducked, spun to the left, and swept her right leg across his shins.

  The cocky former jock went airborne. He slammed face-first into the mat with an embarrassing thud.

  Cyndi knelt next to him, snatched his right wrist, and pinned it back against his spine. She yanked his wrist higher and higher until he let out a sharp yelp. Payback delivered, she released his wrist and stood up. “As I’ve just demonstrated, skill and surprise—not size or gender—are what counts against your opponent. When you find yourself up against a person who is bigger and stronger than you, using their momentum against them is a highly effective countermove.” She reached down and held out a conciliatory hand. “How’s my makeup?”

  The big guy reluctantly took her hand and got on his feet. “Fine, ma’am,” he mumbled under his breath. He slinked back to his spot, pinching his bloody nose.

  Cyndi held back a smile as she continued. “Next, I’ll demonstrate a move to incapacitate your opponent when you are on the offensive. General McNeil, would you like to volunteer?”

  McNeil was incensed at Cyndi having the audacity to challenge him in front of his troops. But having given her permission to teach the class, he couldn’t risk looking like a coward by refusing to spar with her.

  All eyes were on the one-star.

  “I’ll volunteer.”

  McNeil turned to see the man standing next to him raising his hand. Relief coursed through his tense body. “Since I was raised to never hurt a lady…”—he waved the man up toward the mat—“I’ll let this fine young man stand in for me.”

  “I guess you’ll do,” Cyndi said, disappointment evident in her voice. “What’s your name?”

  “Second Lt. Lance Garcia, ma’am. Dallas, Texas.”

  He was a native of the Lone Star State and felt it imperative that everyone knew that.

  Lance had a lanky build and stood six feet, two inches tall. He didn’t have any problem getting dates. His rugged, handsome looks and deep brown eyes had already earned him the starring role in two Air Force recruiting commercials during his short tenure in the military.

  Lance nervously approached the mat. “Where should I stand?” he asked, swallowing hard.

  Cyndi pointed. “Stand there and put your hands up in a defensive position. I’m going to come at you, and you try to stop me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Lance stood straight legged and put his hands up like he was praying.

  Cyndi rolled her eyes and exhaled loudly. “No, not like that.” She went over and pulled his hands apart. “Spread your hands shoulder width apart and crouch down slightly to distribute your weight.”

  He did his best to prepare for Cyndi’s attack, silently rethinking the wisdom of trying to impress the general by volunteering.

  She backed up ten feet then ran full speed at her trembling opponent.

  In the blink of an eye, Lance latched on to her wrists, fell on his back, and used his feet to send Cyndi up and over the top of him. She landed on her back with a thud.

  A collective gasp came from the room.

  Lance sprang up off the mat and turned to face Cyndi. His hands were poised to strike, and he was crouched down in a perfect defensive position.

  “Just like I thought,” McNeil said loudly.

  Lance straightened up and raced over, offering her his hand. “Are you hurt?”

  “I’m fine!” Cyndi refused to accept his hand. She got up and dusted herself off. Ego definitely bruised, she grudgingly said, “That was very impressive. I suspect you’ve had some martial arts training.”

  Lance shrugged. “Maybe a little. I did watch a lot of Jackie Chan movies when I was a kid, though. I probably just got lucky.”

  Cyndi didn’t appreciate his irreverent sense of humor. “Very funny. Let’s try that again.” She squared up and came at Lance again.

  This time, she easily took him down. Cyndi ended up on top of Lance as he lay on his back, straddling him and pinning his hands to the mat.

  From the pleased look on his face, he didn’t seem to mind being in that position. “Not bad for a yoga instructor,” he said with a wink. “When’s your next class?”

  She released his hands and straightened up. “That move you made the first round was very impressive.” Cyndi sat back and deliberately plopped all her weight down on his stomach. Air rushed from his lungs. She crossed her arms and smiled innocently. “Well done.”

  “Thanks, so was yours,” Lance replied through gritted teeth as he struggled to draw in a breath. “But unfortunately, it wasn’t quite enough. Looks like I won round two as well.”

  Cyndi recoiled back. “You must have hit your head, Lieutenant. Clearly, I won the second round.”

  “I guess that all depends on your perspective.”

  “And what perspective could that possibly be?” she asked incredulously.

  “Well, the way I see it, the first round I swept a beautiful woman off her feet. The second time I had her on top of me, pinning my hands down.” His perfect, pearl-white teeth flashed in her face as he grinned broadly. “Feels like a double win to me.”

  Cyndi rolled her eyes and groaned. “You need to up your game, Lieutenant Garcia. Your pickup lines need serious work.” She jumped to her feet and straightened her gi. “Are you always so cocky?”

  He stood and dusted himself off. “Not always.” Lance ran his fingers through his thick black hair. “Only when I send an Olympian to the mat.”

  At hearing his brash remark, Cyndi’s temper got the best of her. “All right pretty boy, let’s go again.” She got set in an offensive stance. “Best two out of three.”

  Lance shrugged. “If you insist.” He stepped back ten feet, raised up his hands in exactly the right position, and flashed a sly grin. “But I must warn you, I did teach judo to kids for a few years.”

  Cyndi cocked her head at the cryptic comment. “So, you have had—"

  Suddenly, a red light mounted on the wall began flashing.

  A young lieutenant rushed into the room. “General McNeil, there you are. You need to come with me immediately.” He bent down, resting his hands on his knees while he gulped down much needed oxygen. “North Korea just launched a nuclear missile at the US.”

  McNeil didn’t think twice. He snatched his gym bag and ran for the door. “Everyone report to your squadron and await further instructions.” He grabbed the lieutenant’s arm. “Where is the missile headed?”

  “Los Angeles, sir.”

  Cyndi reacted in horror. “Oh my God. My mom lives in LA!”

  Chapter Four

  Twenty minutes earlier

  Colonel Stanley Wilmer, forty-seven, balding and carrying an ample spare tire, stood at the glass wall separating his office from the floor of the F. E. Warren command post.

  The high-tech nerve center that monitored real-time, real-world threats—a fixture of every Air Force base worldwide—had three giant screens on the far wall that dominated the large, well-lit space. They displayed data ranging from the local weather to the location of every one of the 150 Minuteman III missiles under its control. Personnel at dozens of workstations busied themselves with routine tasks meant to divert their attention while they waited for the alert they hoped would never come.

  Wilmer flinched at the sound of a jet streaking overhead at rooftop level. He looked up and yelled at the ceiling. “Damned jet jocks!” He walked over to his desk and picked up a white envelope. He ripped it open and quickly scanned the letter. His enthusiastic expression slowly melted away as he read. When he finished, he shook his head in disgust. “If they don’t know real talent when they see it, screw the Air Force.” The colonel sat down, crumpled up the letter, and spiked it into t
he trash can. Wilmer plopped his feet up and stabbed at the remote to change channels on his TV.

  He stopped to watch a grizzled foreign reporter with CNN doing a remote from the DMZ in South Korea. With cartoonishly long binoculars, soldiers in an observation tower on the north side of the border kept a close watch on the reporter and his cameraman.

  When the red light on the camera came on, the reporter switched to a suitably serious expression. “Intelligence sources released satellite images yesterday that show renewed activity at a plutonium reprocessing plant outside of Pyongyang, North Korea. The UN has denounced the provocative actions of the communist state as a clear violation of Security Council resolutions.” He flipped the page on his spiral notebook. “In related news, the Korean Central News Agency, mouthpiece for the regime, reported that last week a high-ranking government official was executed. In a barbaric twist—even for this regime—he was publicly executed before a stadium crowd. In fact, he was tied to a post and shot with explosive flak rounds from an anti-aircraft gun while his family was forced to watch.” The reporter cleared his throat. He closed his notebook and continued. “The official’s supposed crime? Disrespecting Supreme Leader Kim Jong Un by slouching during a meeting presided over by the dictator. Just another tragic and grisly reminder, say White House and intelligence officials, of the kind of brutal atrocities this regime uses to maintain its deadly grip on power. Back to you in the studio.”

  Master Sgt. Mark Holmes, the Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge (NCOIC) of the command post, stood outside the colonel’s office and knocked on the door.

  Wilmer quickly pulled his feet off the desk and grabbed a handful of papers. “Enter,” he said angrily.

  Holmes walked up to the front of Wilmer’s desk and stood at attention. “Shift change checklist is complete, sir.” He held out an SD card. “This is the recording of all activity from last shift.”

  Every piece of equipment in the command post was connected to an IBM mainframe located in a climate-controlled room. Even though the computer was over twenty years old, it was considered “new” in the perennially underfunded Global Strike Command.

  Every phone call, computer keystroke, and the operational status of the fleet of LGM-30G Minuteman III Inter-Continental Ballistic Missiles (ICBMs) tucked into silos across the region were recorded onto a high-capacity secure digital card each shift.

  Wilmer snatched the card out of his hand then looked at his wristwatch. “Shift change occurs at 0800, sergeant, not 0801. Don’t let it happen again.”

  As he unlocked his desk drawer, Wilmer’s phone rang. He picked up the handset, listened for a moment, then said, “Hello, dear…nothing…same old thing. Wait, there’s someone in my office…hang on.” The full-bird colonel cradled the handset against his shoulder and fished an SD card from the drawer. “Here.” He handed it to Holmes then locked the drawer. “Get back to work.” He flicked his wrist and waved his NCOIC away with the back of his hand.

  Holmes slammed the door when he left the office.

  Before Wilmer could continue, his wife rattled off her newest list of grievances. He listened to the one-way conversation and occasionally nodded. He removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with his tie. The colonel picked up the remote again and flipped through the channels. Every few minutes he tossed in a “yes, dear.” During a rare moment when his wife was taking a breath, Wilmer interjected, “I got the letter from the promotion board.”

  Silence on the other end lasted a mere two seconds. It was broken with a pointed demand. “Well, don’t make me wait all day. Did you get a star or not?”

  “The promotion board passed me over again. At my level, it’s either up or out. That means I have four months and seven days to go. But who’s counting.” He flipped channels on the TV while listening to his wife berate him for not making the rank of brigadier general.

  Suddenly, the base klaxon sounded. Red lights flashed throughout the command post. Personnel collided with each other as they scrambled to get back to their desks.

  Wilmer jumped up from his chair and tried to end the conversation. “I have to go. There’s an alert…Yes, I’ll pick up a gallon…No, I won’t forget.” Finally, he slammed the handset down. Colonel Wilmer ran out onto the floor of the command post and took up his position overseeing the room. “Battle stations!”

  Chapter Five

  The well-trained staff went to work.

  Sergeant Holmes took his position next to Colonel Wilmer. “Stations, report your status,” he barked.

  Before they could report, a loudspeaker mounted on the wall blared a startling message. “This is an Emergency Action Message from the National Command Authority. Time is 1509 Zulu. NORAD has detected the launch of a long-range nuclear missile from the territory of North Korea. Target is Los Angeles, California. Estimated time of impact is twenty-nine minutes. Stand by for—”

  The loudspeaker went dead.

  The large displays at the front of the room flashed then went black.

  A second later, the entire room went dark.

  Emergency lighting fixtures mounted in each corner of the room kicked in.

  “What the hell is going on?” Wilmer asked, with panic in his voice.

  “Stations, report your status!” Holmes yelled.

  One by one, people in the room announced the bad news.

  “Satellite comms are down.”

  “Landlines, down.”

  “Unable to verify authenticity of EAM with the National Command Authority.”

  “Backup generator coming online in one minute.”

  Wilmer grabbed a young lieutenant nearby. “Go find General McNeil, and bring him back here immediately.” He looked at his watch. “Check the gym first. He’s probably there.”

  The man sprinted off.

  Holmes pointed toward the entrance. “Security, close and secure the doors.”

  A hulking airman in full battle dress and armed with an M-16 closed the doors to the command post and stood guard outside.

  Holmes turned to the colonel. “What are your orders, sir?”

  A bead of sweat rolled down his chubby face. “I can’t…I need more information. Get the Pentagon on the line.”

  “Sir, all comms are down.”

  “Then we’ll wait for General McNeil to get here. He’ll know what to do.”

  “Sir, that could take too long. I need your orders now.”

  Wilmer began hyperventilating. “The bastards must have decapitated the entire command structure. Oh my God! They’re probably outside the building right now.” Wilmer had a death grip on the handrail. “Start…start the nuclear retaliation checklist.”

  All activity ceased. The room went dead silent. The staff couldn’t believe what they’d just heard.

  Holmes put both hands up like stop signs. “Slow down, Colonel. We don’t know if the Emergency Action Message is authentic or not. This could be just another exercise testing our response time. Let’s try to contact NORAD and find out what’s going on. I’ll go get my phone from my car and call them.”

  No electronic devices, including personal phones, where allowed in the secure command post. A simple cell phone out in the parking lot had become the only way to contact the vast, trillion-dollar military apparatus.

  Wilmer tried in vain to get his breathing under control while he considered the advice of his NCOIC. “No. That’s not protocol. There are clear-cut procedures in place for how to respond in a decapitation scenario. Start the—”

  Holmes shocked the colonel by grabbing his arm. “Stanley, listen to me. You can’t make that decision yet. Something doesn’t feel right about this. We don’t know if there is a missile on its way or if there is some sort of glitch in the system. We have twenty-eight thousand of our own people stationed in South Korea. Anyone still alive after we nuke North Korea will die within a week from radiation poisoning.”

  Wilmer yanked his arm away. “Get your hand off me. I have a sworn duty to follow orders and make the difficult de
cision when the time comes. The American people have put their trust in me. I don’t intend to let them down.” He turned to the hushed room and cleared his throat. “Start the nuclear retaliation checklist. Launch ten missiles. Target is North Korea.”

  Chapter Six

  Like a good airman, Master Sergeant Holmes followed the terrifying order. He took a deep breath then released it. “All stations, listen up. On the orders of Colonel Wilmer, initiate the nuclear retaliation checklist. This is not a drill. I say again, initiate the nuclear retaliation checklist.”

  Airmen manning each desk pulled binders with red-striped borders from shelves above their workstation. The spines bore the chilling words, TOP SECRET – NUCLEAR RETALIATION CHECKLIST.

  Tamper-proof tape sealing the binders was ripped off. Quivering fingers traced down through the checklists as the airmen executed each step. This helped ensure they didn’t miss anything on their march down the path to Armageddon. With no ability to get confirmation from higher authority, the staff operated in the blind and hoped the procedures in the binders—written back when SAC oversaw nuclear missiles—still worked.

  Step by step, they methodically prepared to unleash a nuclear apocalypse on twenty-five million unsuspecting people living on the northern half of the Korean Peninsula.

  General McNeil burst into the building. He marched down the hall toward the command post entrance. His driver and the lieutenant who’d fetched him from the gym trailed closely behind.

  The guard saw a small man dressed in a track suit coming his way. He lowered his rifle and shouted, “Halt! This is a restricted area. Stop or you will be fired upon.”

  The driver and the lieutenant dove for the floor and covered their heads.

  McNeil charged ahead.

  The guard racked his gun and aimed it at the man’s chest. “I’m warning you. Stop!”