DEADLY DILEMMA

by Dan Stratman

  Now only ten feet away, McNeil yelled, “You moron, unless you want to spend the rest of your tour locked up in Leavenworth, I order you to stand down!”

  The confused airman leaned forward and squinted to get a better look at the onrushing civilian. He finally recognized his boss. “General…McNeil?”

  McNeil slapped the barrel of the gun aside and stormed into the command post. Personnel were frantically preparing for launch.

  “Colonel Wilmer, I’m assuming command. Status update. Now!”

  Wilmer rushed over to the entrance. “Sir, we got an Emergency Action Message saying the North Koreans have launched a missile at Los Angeles. Before I could verify it, we lost all connections to the National Command Authority. I’ve implemented retaliation protocol targeting North Korea. Ten missiles are ready.”

  “Excellent job, Colonel.” A disturbing look spread across McNeil’s face. “Continue with the launch checklist.”

  The airmen turned back around and continued their checklists. When completed, they closed their binders.

  Less than a minute later, Wilmer announced, “Missiles ready for launch, sir.”

  Suddenly, the overhead lighting came back on. The screens at the front of the room came alive. The information presented on them looked like any other day.

  Telephones at workstations began ringing off the hook.

  “What’s happening?” McNeil asked.

  “The emergency generator must have come online, sir,” Wilmer volunteered.

  “Launch the missiles,” McNeil ordered.

  “Stop! Stop the launch!” Sergeant Holmes rushed up waving an SD card.

  Every head in the room turned toward him.

  “It’s a training exercise! This isn’t a blank card you gave me. It has a decapitation scenario training exercise on it. There is no attack!”

  Colonel Wilmer grabbed the SD card. His mouth dropped open when he read the warning label printed on the card.

  McNeil exploded. “Dammit!”

  Everyone nearby looked away, hoping that avoiding eye contact would prevent them from being the target of his rage.

  “How the hell could you mistake a training scenario card for a blank card, Wilmer!” McNeil pushed him aside and rushed forward. “Stand down! Terminate launch checklists!”

  Sergeant Holmes repeated the same command at each workstation, verifying that the missiles had indeed been put back to standby status.

  The worst part of the fiasco was that the command post had been transmitting its preparation to launch a salvo of nukes to the entire military command structure. The supposed blackout in the command post had been part of the training exercise. Until the SD card had been yanked out of the mainframe, every other branch of the military believed World War III was starting.

  McNeil got right in Wilmer’s face. “I want to know how the hell this happened!”

  The dressing down was interrupted by an enlisted man holding up a phone at a nearby desk. “General, the office of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is calling. They’re demanding to know what is going on out here.”

  Soon other staff held up their phones.

  “Cheyenne Mountain is calling.”

  “Raven Rock is on the line, sir.”

  “Headquarters is on the encrypted hotline.”

  McNeil’s eyes filled with fire. He turned and poked Wilmer in the chest. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to let a loser like you destroy my career. I’m holding you personally responsible. You created this friggin’ mess, Colonel, you clean it up. Be in my office in thirty minutes with a full report.” McNeil turned to leave but then suddenly stopped. He spun back around and stood there, arms crossed.

  Wilmer let out a feeble sigh and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  Chapter Seven

  Cyndi and Lance hustled up the snow-covered sidewalk toward the entrance to a dated, two-story brick building—home of the 322nd Missile Squadron. They had identical military-issue camouflage-pattern backpacks slung over their shoulders. The packs contained everything needed to go on short-notice alert in case of an emergency. A flight suit, boots, underwear, socks, and most importantly, three days’ worth of high-calorie energy bars were in their bags.

  Lance opened the door for her. They turned left and hurried down the hallway with their fellow missileers.

  Cyndi cut in front of Lance and walked backward. “You lied to me.”

  “Sounds like someone’s ego got a little bruised at the gym,” he quipped.

  “You have had martial arts training, haven’t you?”

  He tried to maneuver around her, but each time Cyndi moved to block him.

  “You can try to avoid me, but it isn’t going to work,” Cyndi stubbornly declared. “I’m going to follow you until you tell me about your training.”

  After trying his best to evade her, Lance stopped. “No, Captain Stafford, you won’t.”

  “Wanna bet?” Cyndi defiantly crossed her arms, blocking his path.

  Lance chuckled. “Twenty bucks says you won’t keep following me.”

  “You’re on. Twenty bucks it is.”

  He pointed above her head. “Read the sign.” When she turned to look, he slipped past her and went into the men’s locker room.

  General McNeil stormed into his office and immediately bumped into a step ladder.

  Oliver Higgs, a scrawny, pimple-face nerd, clutched the wobbly ladder with one hand while he secured the cover to a smoke detector. “Hey, watch it, asshole,” he barked, without taking his attention off the cover.

  “What the hell did you say?”

  When he looked down, Higgs’s face paled even more. “Oh, crap.” He scrambled down the ladder and fumbled a weak salute with his left hand. “Sorry about that, General, sir. I didn’t realize it was you.”

  McNeil pointed his finger in Higgs face. “Son, you are damn lucky you’re a civilian.” He looked up at the ceiling. “What the hell are you doing up there?”

  “Replacing the battery,” he replied with a squeaky voice.

  A tiny red light on the cover blinked every five seconds.

  McNeil’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t you change it last week? And the week before that? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

  “Leave him alone, General. It needed a new battery.” Lola Crawford, executive secretary to General McNeil, had no hesitation coming to the defense of the frightened nerd. Crawford wore skintight leopard-print leggings, huge hoop earrings, and way too much three-dollar perfume.

  At twenty-six, she was the youngest executive secretary on the base. Other secretaries had pointed opinions about how she managed to climb the ladder so quickly but only shared them behind Crawford’s back.

  She wasn’t pinup calendar material but was considered the hottest woman in her trailer park by her male neighbors.

  “He came over right away when I called. Oliver is like my own personal IT department. He put in a new battery and fixed my laptop. He’s a friggin’ genius with all that tech stuff.”

  Higgs blushed at the compliment.

  McNeil had a perplexed expression as he looked back and forth between the two. Then he burst out laughing. “Kid, she is so far out of your league, it’s embarrassing. Take your schoolboy crush and go find a Star Wars convention.” McNeil opened the door to his office and pointed to the hallway. “You can get all dressed up and pretend to be somebody.”

  Higgs folded up his ladder and skulked out of the office with his tail between his legs.

  Crawford shook her head in disgust. “You’re such an ass.”

  McNeil planted his fists on her desk and leaned toward her in a threatening manner. “You’re speaking to an Air Force general, Miss Crawford. I won’t tolerate that kind of insubordination from you or anyone else. You will address me as sir or general.”

  “Then why don’t you fire me?” She tried to goad him with her defiant response.

  Surprisingly, McNeil took a breath before pouncing on her blatantly insolent remark. He chose his words care
fully. “We both know I can’t fire you so soon. Even though your complaint was tossed out, some people might view that as retaliation.”

  She glared at McNeil. “And some people might say you lied through your teeth.”

  A self-assured look crossed his face. “Without any evidence to back up your accusation, it wasn’t very bright of you to think they’d take the word of a secretary over a one-star. You have a lot to learn about how the military justice system really works. Next time you—”

  Colonel Wilmer unexpectedly walked in, holding a manila folder. Sensing the tension in the room, he retreated and said, “I’m sorry, should I come back later?”

  “No, Colonel, stay.” McNeil straightened up. “I was just explaining something to my secretary that she’s confused about.” In an offhanded voice he asked, “So, did you remember to send the quarterly staffing reports to the Pentagon, Miss Crawford?”

  “Yes, sir. Oliver showed me how to save backup copies in the cloud in case I ever need them in the future.”

  “I’m surprised you thought of that,” McNeil said in the most demeaning tone he could muster.

  “I’m smarter than you think, General,” Crawford shot back.

  McNeil walked away and waved Wilmer toward his private office. Over his shoulder he got in a parting shot loud enough for everyone to hear. “I doubt that.”

  Crawford’s face turned crimson at the mean-spirited jab. She gave the general the bird behind his back.

  McNeil’s large private office was a far cry from the spartan outer office. Dark wood paneling covered the walls. Tastefully upholstered couches, an antique coffee table, and overstuffed chairs provided a separate sitting area in front of a roaring fireplace. Pictures of McNeil standing next to prominent people adorned the walls. A door on the right side of the office led to a private bathroom and shower. A massive, carved oak desk dominated the center of the impressive space.

  Noticeably absent from the desk were any pictures of family.

  McNeil tossed his gym bag on a couch then sat in the high-back leather chair behind his desk. The large chair looked as if it could swallow him whole.

  Colonel Wilmer stepped forward, stood at attention, and began his report. “Sir, I have determined what—”

  McNeil held up a hand, stopping the colonel in mid-sentence. He lifted the lid on an ornately carved wooden box and pulled out a Winston Churchill-size Cohiba Esplendido. McNeil had a friend in Washington smuggle the expensive cigars into the States in a diplomatic pouch. He meticulously trimmed the end then lit it with a gold-plated lighter. Without saying a word, he waved for Wilmer to continue.

  “Yes, sir. As I was saying, I’ve determined what happened this morning.”

  McNeil leaned forward and pounded his fist on his desk. “Someone is going to hang because of this screwup, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.”

  “Of course not, sir. This regrettable incident happened because Master Sergeant Holmes failed to check the SD card before he inserted it into the computer.”

  McNeil cocked his head. “So, you’re saying it’s your NCOIC’s fault?”

  “Absolutely, sir. It’s inexcusable he wouldn’t have checked the card first.”

  After deftly navigating the cutthroat world of military promotions for decades, McNeil knew exactly what was motivating Wilmer’s explanation. “What do you recommend I do about this, Colonel?”

  “I would never presume to think that I would have a better solution than you, sir.” He stared at his shoes and shifted his feet. “The thing is…”

  “Spit it out, Wilmer.”

  “I’m afraid anything less than a court-martial would send a dangerous message to your troops, sir.” He looked up. “They might wrongly assume you are weak. It’s not true, of course, but you know how quickly groundless rumors can spread on social media these days—and at the officers’ club.”

  McNeil leaned back in his chair and took a deep draw from his smuggled cigar. He let it out slowly. The acrid smoke curled up toward the ceiling like a poisonous snake. “Have the paperwork ready for my signature by the end of business today.”

  Relief washed over Wilmer’s face as he exhaled. “I took the liberty of preparing the legal paperwork before I came over, sir.” He opened the folder. “It’s ready for your signature.”

  “How efficient of you,” the general said derisively. He snatched the folder out of Wilmer’s hand, opened it, and scribbled his signature on the document. McNeil waved away the backstabbing Wilmer. “Now get the hell out of my sight.”

  He scampered off before the general could have a change of heart.

  With the simple stroke of a pen, the exemplary career of Master Sgt. Mark Holmes had been destroyed.

  The intercom box on the desk buzzed. Lola’s irritating voice crackled over the small, cheap speaker. “General, your boss is on line two.”

  McNeil sat up straight in his chair and flipped a switch on the box. “Did he say why he was calling?”

  “Yeah, he did.” The sound of gum chewing overlaid her response.

  “Well…?” McNeil shot back with exasperation at her attempt to play games.

  “He wants to know your favorite color.”

  McNeil hit the switch on the intercom so hard he broke it off. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself then picked up his phone. “General Rayburn, I was expecting your call.”

  “What the hell is going on at your base, McNeil!”

  His rebuke was so loud, McNeil had to pull the receiver away from his ear a few inches to prevent hearing damage.

  “I just got off the phone with the president. The friggin’ commander in chief! He ordered me to come to the White House first thing tomorrow morning with a full explanation. I sent you to Cheyenne to clean up that mess, not nuke North Korea!”

  “Yes, sir. I understand, sir. You’re completely justified in being angry. I’ve done a thorough investigation and was shocked myself at the incompetence on display this morning. The command post NCOIC is the man responsible for this fiasco. I assure you; it’s not going to go unpunished.”

  “You’re damn right about that!”

  “I just signed the paperwork authorizing a court-martial for him. I will forward it, and a complete explanation of what happened to you by this afternoon, sir.”

  General Rayburn hadn’t gotten to the rank of four-star general without learning how to play the blame game. He needed a high-ranking scalp to show his boss. “It’s too late to dump your ass now, McNeil. The rollout of the new Minuteman IV at Warren is just three months away. But once the weapons system is up and running, the Air Force will no longer be needing your services.”

  Rayburn slammed his phone down.

  General McNeil had just learned the harsh lesson that knives cut both ways.

  Chapter Eight

  Cyndi rolled into the dark parking lot of the badly misnamed Front Range Riviera apartment complex. Daylight savings time had ended a few weeks ago, and the long, frigid nights had begun.

  She pulled her silver Honda Accord into a spot in front of her building and tossed her go-bag into the back seat. Dressed in civilian clothes again, the young woman—responsible for commanding the most devastating weapons the world has ever known—looked like any other local. Cyndi flipped the hood of her parka up and gathered the four plastic grocery bags sitting on the front seat. When she opened her car door, the incessant Wyoming wind tore the handle out of Cyndi’s hand. The only thing that prevented the wind from ripping the door off its hinges was the side of the car next to her. Dings from wind-blown car doors were so common in Wyoming that drivers didn’t even bother leaving a note. Cyndi hefted the grocery bags out of the car and headed up the sidewalk.

  Across the parking lot, two ranch hands wearing faded jean jackets and muddy Red Wing boots lurked in the cab of a rusted F-150. The driver, sporting a mullet under his oil-stained baseball cap, tossed an empty beer can out his window. His passenger propped the plaster cast covering his right arm on the window l
edge and tipped his cowboy hat down over his eyes.

  The driver caught sight of Cyndi as she headed for the building. He slapped his buddy across the arm. “There’s our next six-pack, Billy. Let’s go.”

  The men quietly slipped out of the truck and moved quickly toward Cyndi from behind.

  Mullet Man pulled a switchblade covered with faux pearl out of his back pocket. He pressed a button on the side and flicked open the razor-sharp six-inch blade.

  Cyndi struggled with the heavy plastic bags, trying to keep them from splitting open before reaching the building. With the men only ten feet away, she put the bags down on the sidewalk, as if to get a better grip.

  “Hand over your wallet, bitch,” the driver growled, pointing the knife at the back of Cyndi’s neck.

  She spun around and kicked the knife out of his hand in one fluid motion. It sailed away into the darkness and buried itself in a snowbank. “Can I help you idiots with something?” she calmly asked the stunned cowboys.

  “Oh, it’s you, Stafford,” the passenger said, his voice quivering. “We didn’t mean nothin’. Just messin’ around.”

  Cyndi taunted him as she pointed at the cast on his arm. “You’re a slow learner, Billy. I thought you’d be more reluctant to bother me again.”

  Billy’s head drooped as he kicked at the sidewalk.

  His buddy gawked at him in disbelief. “You got your ass kicked by a girl? You told me you got bucked off a horse.”

  Cyndi pointed toward the parking lot. “Why don’t you two sod busters be on your way.” She pinched her nose. “And next time you’re at Walmart, try buying a bar of soap, for God’s sake.”

  They turned and scurried back to their truck.

  Cyndi entered her building and knocked on the first door she came to.

  An elderly woman wearing slippers and a faded flower-print muumuu answered the door. She opened it as far as the security chain would allow and peered out suspiciously. “Who the heck are you?”

  “Hi, Ruby; it’s Cyndi. I’ve got your groceries for the week.”