by Dan Stratman
A reporter shot up from his seat, hoping to embarrass the four-star. “General, the START treaty with Russia has only allowed one warhead per missile for decades now.”
“I was about to discuss that issue, sir,” the general countered through gritted teeth. “If you’ll allow me to continue without interruption, I’ll be happy to take questions after my presentation.”
The chastened reporter slouched back down into his seat.
“After decades of repeated violations of the treaty by Russia, President Donovan made the bold decision after taking office to end America’s participation in the START treaty.” Rayburn looked closely at his wristwatch. “A few minutes ago, the president made that decision public during a speech at the UN. The past year, in preparation for today’s announcement, the Air Force has been secretly constructing a new missile silo that is colocated next to its LCC.”
The crowd gasped.
Since 1970, nuclear missiles have been located miles from their launch control center in a hub-and-spoke pattern. Each underground launch control center controlled ten missiles. In theory, dispersing the weapons miles from the launch center (and each other) prevented one bomb from taking out everything. Military strategists defended this arrangement by boasting that it required Russia to waste eleven missiles to destroy a flight of Minuteman missiles and their launch center. Since the US policy was to never start a nuclear war, the silo-based ICBM fleet would act as a gigantic nuclear sponge, absorbing hits from Russian warheads that couldn’t otherwise be targeted at your town. Farmers and ranchers who lived nearby these silos weren’t quite as enthusiastic about the strategy.
“A new era has begun for Global Strike Command,” the general said, beaming with pride. “Our ability to deter war with our enemies through overwhelming strength will now be greatly enhanced. By returning to ten multiple independently targetable reentry vehicles per missile, we will be able to drop a thermonuclear warhead on ten separate targets using only one launch. For you folks, that means 135 of the existing silos in this area will no longer be needed. This superior strategy, that I personally crafted, will reduce costs by 90 percent for missiles, maintenance, and manning. Not only that; the refurbished sites housing the new Minuteman IV will also have the latest security technology. The above-ground facility that previously required an entire support team to operate will now be unmanned, autonomous, and self-sufficient. This exciting new paradigm will be called Alpha.”
Rayburn had come up with the name himself. He was positive a lower-ranking person could never have come up with such a clever moniker.
The general failed to get the rousing round of applause he was expecting from his grand announcement. Airmen in the audience who provided support at the current missile sites weren’t thrilled about being replaced by circuit boards and computer chips.
General McNeil picked up on the lack of enthusiasm. He faced the crowd and clapped vigorously. His troops took the hint. They reluctantly stood, gave Rayburn a polite but subdued round of applause, then plopped back down in their seats.
The impertinent newspaper reporter raised his hand. Without waiting to be called on, he remarked, “Ten MIRVs on one rocket? Really, General Rayburn? With this new arrangement, the missile and its LCC can be wiped out with only one Russian nuke. How is that better?” Before the four-star could answer, the reporter followed up with, “And how about those rockets? They came out the year the Beatles broke up. Are the missiles going to be replaced with something that even remotely resembles modern technology?”
The general did an admirable job reigning in his irritation with the disparagement of his grand plan. He forced a smile and said, “Unfortunately, massive cost overruns in the new B-21 Raider stealth bomber program have forced the planned upgrades to our missiles to be cancelled.”
“How about the LCCs?” the reporter shouted out. “The calculator I used in college was more advanced than the computers running the launch control centers today. Any plans to upgrade them, or are you sticking with the baffling strategy you people call security through antiquity?”
The reporter was referring to the unofficial moniker the missile forces had given to the justification for using outdated tech to control the most destructive weapons on the planet. In a perverse twist of logic, computers in the LCC were so old and obsolete they were actually less vulnerable to hacking than modern technology. Senior leadership had yet to come up with a better slogan to gloss over the fact that the equipment controlling ICBMs in the US arsenal was notoriously unreliable and prone to failure.
“There’s no money in the budget to upgrade LCCs at this time,” the general admitted in a rare moment of candor. “But you have my personal assurance they are fully capable of doing the job.”
“That’s comforting,” the snarky reporter replied.
Rayburn quickly redirected the conversation. “I want to introduce the chief scientist in charge of developing the new warheads and targeting system, Dr. Li Jun Zhao.”
The thin man next to McNeil bowed respectfully toward the general. A black-and-white photo popped up on the screen showing Dr. Zhao as a young man standing next to his family. Zhao, his beautiful wife, and young daughter beamed with pride in the photo.
“Dr. Zhao was the top scientist at the China Aerospace Science and Technology Corporation—a puppet agency of the military. That was, until his eight-year-old daughter made an innocent joke about the premier of China. The regime’s reaction to that inexcusable indiscretion was swift and brutal. He was fired from his job, and his wife and daughter were arrested and imprisoned at the Masanjia labor and reeducation camp. After trying in vain for two years to get information about his family, he learned they had died a year earlier under mysterious circumstances while at the camp.”
Dr. Zhao’s head slumped at the recounting of his painful past. He pulled out a tattered handkerchief, removed his glasses, and dabbed at his eyes.
“Your commander, General McNeil, was instrumental in helping Dr. Zhao escape that barbaric country and establish a new life here in Cheyenne. America is truly fortunate to have such a genius working for our side. They have been collaborating on the design of the new hardware in the LCC and Minuteman IV for the last year. I’m proud to announce that on February first, the new weapons system will go live.”
Dr. Zhao turned, nodded quickly, then bowed deeply toward McNeil.
McNeil wasn’t about to bow down to anyone. He patted the doctor on the back then whispered, “Stand up for Christ’s sake.”
Rayburn looked back. “General McNeil has informed me he wishes to spend more time with his family and will be retiring once the new site is operational. The Air Force is going to miss him.”
The excuse Rayburn had used to explain McNeil’s retirement was the same drivel most organizations use when there is a lot more to the story than meets the eye.
Rayburn didn’t waste any time dwelling on McNeil’s departure. “I haven’t had an opportunity to notify his replacement yet, but I’m confident he won’t mind if I take this opportunity to let him know. I’ve decided to nominate Col. Stanley Wilmer to be your new commander. I’m also announcing his promotion to brigadier general.” He scanned the crowd then pointed. “Brigadier General-select Stanley Wilmer, please stand up.”
Wilmer didn’t hear the leader of the Global Strike Command call his name. He was too busy trying to remember the items on the grocery list his wife had given him. Officers around him prompted and pushed him to get out of his seat. He looked around, confusion obvious on his face.
“General Wilmer, if you’d be so kind to stand and be acknowledged.” The tone of Rayburn’s voice told the room he didn’t appreciate being ignored when he spoke.
Wilmer slowly rose and gave an embarrassed wave to the crowd. He hastily sat back down.
General Rayburn moved on. Not one to miss out on a chance to appear politically correct, the general eagerly waved McNeil forward. “I believe you have a special announcement concerning the manning of the new site, Ge
neral McNeil.”
McNeil walked up and halfheartedly shook hands with his soon-to-be ex-boss. He turned and took command of the podium after Rayburn stepped aside. “You missileers will be trained and brought up to speed on the new Minuteman IV by the in-service date of one February. The first updated launch facility will be named Alpha One.” He pulled a list out of his jacket pocket. “Today I’m announcing my choice for the first combat crew commander to sit alert at Alpha One when it comes online. Based on the extensive investigation I’ve done, I narrowed my search down to one highly qualified missileer. This person has a perfect record of scoring one hundred on every readiness test, is a distinguished graduate of the Air Force Weapons School at Nellis, and is the most experienced instructor here at Warren. The first officer to command the new Minuteman IV weapons system will be Capt. Cyndi Stafford.”
Chapter Twelve
Cyndi was shocked at being picked. Ever since her run-in with McNeil at the gym, she figured she was on his bad side. She had never expected him to bestow an honor like this on her.
“Captain Stafford, come up to the stage,” McNeil said, waving her up to join him.
Cyndi stood and straightened her uniform. Before leaving her apartment, she had double-checked that the hem of her skirt stopped exactly at the middle of her kneecap, per regulations. Cyndi took a quick breath, tried to look calm as she marched up the aisle with all eyes focused on her.
Her colleagues gave Cyndi a less-than-rousing round of applause after not hearing their own names announced for the honor.
A buddy sitting next to Lance poked him in the ribs and whispered, “Well, the Russians are safe now.”
Lance looked at him with confusion. “What?”
“They picked a woman to be the first commander of the Minuteman IV,” his buddy explained. “Even with a GPS and a map, chicks still get lost. Picking Stafford just put the ‘miss’ in missileer.” He elbowed Lance even harder and laughed. “Get it?”
“Get with the program, caveman. It’s the twenty-first century.”
“Tell that to my wife. Every time I get paired with a woman on alert, she throws a fit. She says, ‘I don’t want any of those whores locked in a room alone with my husband for twenty-four hours.’ I don’t get any for a month after that, dude.”
Lance shook his head. “You’re a jerk.”
Cyndi arrived on stage and stood at attention between the two generals. Rayburn looked over and motioned for McNeil to step away. The one-star general grudgingly did as he was told. A photographer snapped a picture of Cyndi and the smiling Rayburn. It showed up on the front page of the base newspaper the next day.
A huge expanse of gently rolling high prairies on the northern edge of Warren AFB had been set aside for its cemetery. The long history of the base necessitated plenty of room to bury all its fallen. Clusters of gnarled and twisted crabapple trees dotted the landscape. A bitter wind caused the naked branches to shiver.
Major Pierce threaded his way through rows of perfectly arranged white headstones. At thirty-seven, the Delta Force operator had a weary, battle-hardened face that belied his relatively young age. His chiseled jaw was accompanied by an intense look of anger. The rage in his coal-black eyes wasn’t the kind that comes from getting cut off in traffic. These were the unnerving eyes of a highly trained killer.
In keeping with the need to conceal his affiliation with the secretive unit, Pierce wore civilian clothing both on and off duty. His job permitted a level of autonomy that few in the military understood.
He knelt in front of a headstone, removed his glove, and brushed away the snow that had piled up against it. The inscription on the headstone was now visible: E-6 Daniel J. Johnson, 1989 – 2019. Made the ultimate sacrifice for his country.
“Hey, Johnson. It’s been a while.” The hint of a smile crossed his face. “Man, we really kicked some ass in Peshawar. You should have been there. We…” Pierce paused the retelling of his last mission. He couldn’t stop reading the last sentence on the inscription. The longer he knelt at the grave, the more anger churned up inside him. He looked around to be certain he was alone. “The team hasn’t forgotten what they did to you. They’ll pay. Trust me, they’ll pay.” He got up, stood at attention, and saluted the headstone. Pierce turned and headed back to his car.
Sitting alone in the back of his staff car, General McNeil was already on his second shot of Johnnie Walker. His driver knew from past experiences to keep quiet when his boss was in one of his irascible moods. The dismissive treatment in front of his troops by Rayburn had only served to intensify the loathing McNeil felt for the man. “I’m the one who spent countless nights and weekends getting Alpha One ready to deploy, not that pompous ass!” he muttered. McNeil slammed his glass down on the armrest. Expensive alcohol sloshed onto the floor. “I’ve dedicated my entire adult life to these people, and now I’m being thrown overboard like a rotten fish.” McNeil tossed back the remaining scotch in his glass and reached for the bottle again.
Pierce was about to get into his car when he saw the dark blue sedan approaching. He went around to the front of his car and stood at the ready. As the staff car got closer, Pierce caught site of the single star on the front license plate. He turned his back to it. The car sped by without even slowing down.
Pierce started his midnight-black Dodge Charger and cranked up the volume on the local rock station. Despite the subzero temperature, he left the heat off. The major depressed the clutch, shifted into first gear, and stomped on the gas pedal. The 6.4-liter V8 roared as he bolted away from the curb. As he raced by the front gate, his cell phone rang. Pierce looked down at the screen and cussed under his breath. The caller was familiar. Pierce held his phone to his ear. “What do you want?” After listening for a few moments he ended the call by saying, “I’ll be there.”
At exactly 1630 Major Pierce walked into General McNeil’s outer office. He wore jeans, hiking boots, and a puffy down-filled winter jacket that made his muscular frame look even bigger and more intimidating. “I’m here to see General McNeil,” he announced.
Miss Crawford pecked away at her keyboard with two fingers, typing yet another pointless report. Without bothering to look up, she chomped on her gum and said, “Office hours are over. Come back tomorrow.”
Pierce marched over to Crawford and leaned down. Veins in his temples were bulging out. In a frighteningly calm voice, he said, “Bitch, get your boss out here. Now.”
Crawford looked up and jerked back in fear. She fumbled with the intercom box and flipped a switch. “Sir, there’s someone out here to see you.” She moved her chair as far away from the Special Forces operator as she could.
McNeil emerged from his private office. “I figured it would be you, Major Pierce.” He flicked his hand. “Go home, Miss Crawford. You’re done for today.”
Crawford grabbed her purse out of the top drawer then slammed it shut. “Gladly.” She couldn’t get out of the office and away from Pierce fast enough.
McNeil walked over to his secretary’s desk and sat on the edge, trying to project a relaxed, friendly demeanor. “I saw you at the cemetery. Visiting Sergeant Johnson, I presume.”
“That’s none of your damned business.” The Delta operator crossed his arms and glowered at the general.
“Relax, Pierce,” McNeil said, trying to dial down the tension in the room. “I feel just as bad as you do about him.”
Pierce exploded. “Bullshit! You knew you were sending my team into an ambush. Johnson was like a brother to me. You’re the reason he’s dead!”
“That’s what you signed up for!” McNeil shouted back. “When the US wants to exfiltrate a high-value asset, it calls you people. The intel we got from Dr. Zhao during his debriefings was very disturbing. He told us the Chinese long-range nuclear missile program was quickly closing the gap. Within a year, they’ll be able to strike any city in the US.”
“And you believed him? He had every reason to exaggerate the threat. They murdered his family.”
/> “Of course I believed him. You would too if you had a damned clue. Losing Johnson was a small price to get that valuable intel.”
“Small price? You bastard.” Pierce slammed the office door closed then locked it. He grabbed McNeil by the lapels and hauled him up off the desk. With his right hand, he reached around the back of his jacket and pulled out a Glock 19 from his waistband. “I should kill you right here.”
McNeil stepped back and slapped Pierce’s left hand off his lapel. “Save the naïve act. You knew the risks more than anybody. So did Johnson.” McNeil started toward his private office—where he kept a S&W .38 Special snub-nosed revolver in his desk.
Pierce wasn’t a team leader for no reason. He cut off McNeil and shoved him backward. “You’re not leaving this room.”
“Get the hell out of my way, Major!”
Pierce leveled his gun at the general’s forehead. “This is for Johnson.”
McNeil didn’t even blink. He calmly crossed his arms and asked, “You really want revenge?”
Chapter Thirteen
Two months later
Cyndi hadn’t slept much the night before—which wasn’t hard to understand. Today she was going to be in command of the single most destructive weapon on earth. The equivalent of 9,500,000,000 pounds of TNT were packed into the nose cone of the Minuteman IV—over three hundred times more powerful than the bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima.
Unable to stay asleep until her alarm sounded, she’d gotten up early and spent extra time ensuring her uniform and appearance met strict Air Force regulations for her big day. Grooming standards were so constricting, they almost prevented females from looking like females. The trivial topics of nail polish and cosmetics each merited full paragraphs in the regs, listing in minute detail what was allowed. For women, hair had to be tightly pinned against the head. Being a natural beauty, getting her long blonde hair in conformance with regulations was the most daunting task Cyndi faced while getting ready each morning.
