by Dan Stratman
Fortunately, her neighbor Ruby loved dogs and gladly volunteered to watch Silo when Cyndi was away. Her only worry was that Ruby would forget to feed Silo.
She parked her Honda Accord in the first row and entered the squadron building for the morning briefing. Missile crews beginning their twenty-four-hour alert shift had to first assemble and go over any new intel that might affect their jobs.
Rarely was there anything important to learn that five minutes watching CNN wouldn’t have already told them. The briefings just made their already long duty day even longer.
Once she was out of the cold Wyoming air, Cyndi removed her bulky, olive-green parka. Despite the overbearing uniform rules, it was impossible to fully conceal her athletic, shapely body under her tight-fitting flight suit. Fashion models around the world toiled for hours in the gym hoping to achieve a body like hers.
Two stone-faced security policemen stood guard outside the briefing room. They each wore the distinctive navy-blue Security Forces beret. A sign on the door warned that the upcoming briefing was classified.
Lance and a few friends stood outside the room talking. “What did I miss last night?” he asked.
“It was epic, dude,” one friend replied. “We went to Lollipops.” He pointed at a buddy. “Thompson fell in love. He ended up taking the stripper home.”
“I’m sure that will last,” Lance replied, heavy on the sarcasm.
“Why’d you ditch us again?” his friend asked.
“Sorry, guys. I was busy.”
“What could possibly be more important than—”
“Well, there was the library. Then church. Then helping little old ladies—”
“Very funny. Next time, no excuses.”
“Okay, next time for sure,” Lance promised.
Cyndi spotted the group and tried to slip by unnoticed. Not surprisingly, the young men noticed her.
One of the missileers had a sling on his right arm. He reached up with his left hand and straightened his hair. “Morning, Captain Stafford. How’s it going?”
The others checked their appearances as well.
Cyndi walked up to the man who’d greeted her. “How’s the shoulder, Lieutenant? I might have gotten a little carried away during class last week. Hopefully, you learned a valuable lesson, though.” She strutted off with a smirk on her face.
The group elbowed each other and snickered. The stone-faced guards couldn’t help themselves. They burst out laughing as well.
Obviously humiliated, the officer marched up to one of the guards and said, “Ever heard of shoe polish? Your boots look like shit.” He stomped off into the briefing room.
The doors were closed and locked. The long duty period for the next guardians of America’s ICBMs had begun.
Chapter Fourteen
Airman 1st Class Lynette Brown, admin secretary for the 322nd Missile Squadron Commander, stepped up to the podium. Not yet of legal drinking age and barely able to see over the top of the podium, the petite woman from Alabama wasn’t shy or meek. “Ya’ll hush,” she barked. “Can’t ya see I’m starting the briefing?”
The room full of higher-ranking officers immediately obeyed. Staying on the good side of the boss’s favorite was always a good idea, military or not.
“Alert shifts start at noon. Let’s get the preliminaries out of the way before you folks post out. No cell phones, cameras, or any other type of recording devices are allowed in the LCC. Store them in your locker before leaving the building. Raise your hand if you meet any of the following disqualifications to sit alert: consumed any alcohol in past twelve hours…”
The guys who’d visited the strip joint the night before slouched down a little lower in their chairs.
“Or if you have taken any medications that could impair your judgement, been under extreme stress from events in your life, or had any unreported interactions with a foreign national in the last month.” She looked expectantly at the group.
Rightly concerned about the possible negative impacts on their careers, no missileers raised their hand.
Brown shook her head in disbelief. “Who knew we had a bunch of saints in the 322nd.”
Nervous laughter came from the audience.
“The snowstorm last night dumped two feet of snow in the area, so alert crews will be helicoptering out to their LCCs until county crews can get the back roads plowed. According to the weather office, there is another system headed this way, so don’t be surprised if your alert tour gets extended by a day or two.”
Groans came from the overworked missile crews. Their homelives were already strained enough as it was by the unyielding demands of the job.
“Crew pairings and the launch facility you’re assigned to are on the board.” Brown picked up a stack of red envelopes. “Entry authorization codes for each site are here on the podium. Pick up yours before heading out. Lieutenant Garcia, you are backup today in case we need you.”
Lance smiled and gave Airman Brown a thumbs-up. Being chained to his phone for the next twenty-four hours certainly beat sitting sixty feet underground in a claustrophobic concrete capsule.
“Sir, the room is yours.” Airman Brown stepped away.
Squadron Commander Lt. Colonel Matthew Stone took the podium. The stern expression on the veteran missileer’s face and his penetrating stare made him look like a direct descendant of General George S. Patton. The barrel-chested man always wore a freshly starched and pressed uniform. The crease in his pants was as sharp as his tongue. Times being what they were, he refrained from slapping subordinates who infuriated him. A good tongue lashing was always an option though.
“You sorry bunch of misfits are about to be responsible for this country’s nuclear arsenal, so listen up. Nothing less than perfection is tolerated in Global Strike Command. There’s too much riding on it to accept anything less. The amount of responsibility Uncle Sam entrusts in you is unlike anything your friends back home will ever see. They can sleep because we never do. We have the most difficult job in the Air Force—constantly being ready and willing to deploy a weapon nobody wants to use. But in the dangerous world we live in, our country doesn’t have a choice. Good people must be willing to fight in order to live in peace. Always been that way. Always will be.”
With the sermon over, Stone motioned toward the screen. “First slide.”
Video footage of the president of Iran screaming threats to the Great Satan flashed up on the screen.
“On the intel front, the Iranians are causing trouble again in the Persian Gulf. The Navy will be shadowing oil tankers in the Gulf for the foreseeable future to ensure safe passage.”
The next slide came up. It was a photo of the Korean DMZ.
“North Korea has gone radio silent ever since we came within minutes of vaporizing their pitiful little country a few months back. Let that fiasco be a lesson to you.” He banged the tip of his finger into the podium and glared at the missileers. “That happened because those clowns in the command post failed to do their jobs right. Perfection is the standard in this command. No errors, no mistakes, no exceptions.” Stone took a breath then gestured toward the screen. “Next.”
A picture popped up of three people dressed in clown suits holding signs.
“Speaking of clowns, the Clowns for Christ peace activists are protesting again today at launch facility Lima One. Don’t interact with them when you pass through the gate. Let the security team deal with any members of the group who try to gain access to the grounds.”
The next picture on the screen was of Cyndi.
“Captain Stafford, stand up,” Stone said.
She slowly stood up, unsure why the commander had singled her out.
A pleased look appeared on Stone’s face—a rarity for the man. “The new Alpha One site goes live at noon today. Dr. Zhao is there now finishing the programming to bring the weapons system online. Captain Stafford spent the last two months diligently working with him to help write the updated alert procedures manual missileers wi
ll be using for the combined sites. Some of you jokers in this room would do well to imitate her dedication as an instructor.” He gave her the okay sign. “Sierra Hotel job, Stafford.”
“Um…thank you, sir.” Embarrassed at being singled out, Cyndi quickly sat down.
Instead of making her look good, his remarks only served to increase the jealousy toward her among the crews.
The next picture on the screen was of Lieutenant Miller, a missileer in the crowd.
“Miller, stand up.”
He did as instructed.
“Since this is your LFA, you have the honor of being assigned Captain Stafford’s deputy at Alpha One. In keeping with tradition, since today will be your last”—he fake coughed into his fist rather than say the next word in the three-letter acronym to keep from offending anyone with his language—“alert as a missileer, you get one minute to say goodbye or anything else that’s on your mind. Keep it clean. There are ladies in the room.”
Lieutenant Miller cleared his throat. “As everyone knows, I’m getting out. All I have to say on my last day sitting alert is…” He reached into his kit bag and pulled out a Budweiser. Miller popped the top and took a big swig. He raised the can and said “So long, suckers. Hello, civilian world.” He flipped off the crowd, picked up his bag, and walked out.
Stunned silence filled the room.
Lieutenant Colonel Stone’s face turned a bright shade of rage red. He turned to his secretary and stabbed his finger in her direction. “Airman Brown, if you don’t lose Miller’s separation paperwork when it comes to my office, I’m going to book you for a one-way seat on the next Glory Trip. Understood?”
Brown had been in the Global Strike Command long enough to know that being threatened with being strapped to the next test launch of a Minuteman missile at Vandenberg AFB was shorthand for making a career-ending mistake.
“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of that,” she wisely replied.
Still incensed by the audacity of the lieutenant, Stone turned back to the group. The veins in his neck were throbbing. “Since Miller decided to burn his backup, Lieutenant Garcia, you are now paired with Stafford.” He gripped the podium with both hands, leaned forward, and glared at Lance. “I assume you don’t have a problem with that, do you, Lieutenant?”
Lance sighed but wisely replied, “No, sir.” He looked over at Cyndi, shrugged, and gave a small wave.
She didn’t wave back.
Chapter Fifteen
Stone finished with the same admonition he gave after every briefing. “What missileers have done every minute of every day for decades now has successfully prevented all-out nuclear war with our adversaries. I sure as hell don’t intend to have that change on my watch. Do your jobs and do them right. Dismissed.”
The missileers quietly gathered their belongings and shuffled toward the door.
Two burly missile protection specialists entered the briefing room.
During transport, dedicated security forces had the critical task of protecting nuclear missiles from terrorists. Guarding silos and launch facilities were also part of their duties.
Dressed for battle, they carried M4 carbine assault rifles, an M9 pistol on their hips, and topped it all off with body armor. Their appearance left no doubt the airmen took their jobs seriously.
“I’m looking for Captain Stafford,” the senior-ranking specialist said.
“That’s me,” Cyndi replied, waving her hand.
He hefted a red metal box about the size of a toaster up onto a table. The box was constructed from hardened steel and had two padlocks on it. The warning, Entry Restricted to MCC and DMCC On Duty, was stenciled on its door.
The airman handed a clipboard to Cyndi. “Sign here to transfer custody.”
By signing, she was taking responsibility for the key and launch authentication codes that would send their missile skyward if ordered.
Before signing, Cyndi inspected the box. She looked for any breaches in the welded seams. Then she tugged at the padlocks to verify they were closed. Satisfied everything was in order, Cyndi signed the release form.
The security policeman removed one of the two locks.
Cyndi reached into her camo backpack and pulled out her own padlock. It had four number wheels built into the bottom of the lock body to enter her combination. Cyndi, and only Cyndi, knew the combination. She shielded the lock from view with her body while she opened it. Then she put it on the red box and clicked it shut.
The second airman and Lance went through the same choreographed procedure.
Normally, this process would take place on the red box already in the LCC when the new alert crew arrived to relieve the outgoing crew. With Alpha One going online for the first time today, the box and its classified contents were making the trip with Cyndi.
She put the box in her backpack and zipped it shut.
“I’ll get the important stuff,” Lance joked. He picked up his backpack and started for the galley to get the food they’d need for their alert tour.
“Lieutenant Garcia!” Airman Brown ran up to him. She acted like a teenage girl with a crush talking to the star quarterback. “Here’s your gate entry code for Alpha One.” She handed him a red envelope.
“Cool. Thanks.”
“This came from the personnel office for you. I wanted to deliver it to you personally.” She smiled and handed Lance a white letter-size envelope. “I hope it’s good news,” Brown said with a wink.
“That was so thoughtful of you. Colonel Stone is lucky to have such a competent and—”
“Hey, Romeo,” Cyndi said, as she snapped her fingers, “the helicopter is waiting.”
Lance stuffed the envelopes into a pocket on his flight suit and headed off to the galley for the all-important food.
Chapter Sixteen
Cyndi and Lance slung their backpacks over their shoulders and walked out onto the base helipad. Each had a 9 mm Beretta pistol strapped to their waist. The two security policemen were right behind them. They’d never let Cyndi out of their sight since transferring custody, under the guise of guarding the red box.
In three corners of the large concrete pad, UH-1N Huey helicopters sat belching smoke as their rotors spun at idle. In the fourth corner, a gleaming new MH-139A Grey Wolf helicopter was just starting its engines. A fleet of the Boeing birds was on order to replace the antique Hueys as the transport helicopter for Global Strike Command.
Being a true Texas gentleman, Lance volunteered to put the heavy backpacks in the cabin. He and the guards climbed aboard the helicopter. It still had that new car smell.
Cyndi looked to the east. A pair of F-16s was in the pattern at nearby Cheyenne airport doing touch-and-gos. She let out a deep sigh and slowly shook her head.
“You coming?” Lance yelled out over the engine noise.
Cyndi looked at him and silently nodded. She climbed in and slid the door closed. Lance grabbed a backpack and handed it to Cyndi. She sat next to him on the bench seat behind the cockpit and placed her pack between her feet. They put on headsets then strapped in. Opposite them sat the guards.
In an intentional display of male chauvinism, the pilot looked back at the lower-ranking Lance and asked, “Where to?”
Before he could answer, Cyndi pressed the microphone button on her headset cord. “Alpha One. Move it.”
The copilot programmed a direct course to Alpha One into the flight management computer for the second time that day. Earlier that morning, the crew had flown Dr. Zhao and a guard to the site. With GPS for navigation, the course flown there would be accurate to within three feet—less than the length of the bench Cyndi was sitting on.
A swirling cloud of white snowflakes exploded in every direction as the Grey Wolf lifted off the pad. The pilot turned the craft east and engaged the autopilot.
The frozen Wyoming prairie provided little of interest to look at during the flight. The few ranch houses in the area were spaced miles apart.
Lance tried to make small talk with t
he guards, but they stayed focused on Cyndi.
He looked out the side window as the helicopter passed to the south of a two-hundred-foot-deep abandoned open-pit mine. The pit resembled an enormous coliseum for giants, complete with tiered bench seating. After fifty million years in the making, it took less than ten years for huge dragline cranes to scoop out the valuable coal. The state had spent years trying to get the small mining company to fulfill its obligation to backfill the pit but gave up after its owner strategically declared bankruptcy.
As the helicopter neared Alpha One, the pilot began his approach. A row of massive lattice-frame steel towers paralleled the road passing in front of the site. Strung between each tower were high-voltage power lines carrying power to rural Wyoming.
The pilot thought it would be hilarious to scare his passengers by coming in high over the towers then dropping straight down onto the helipad. Having checked out in the Grey Wolf barely one week ago, the pilot was still getting used to the new aircraft and was eager to test its capability. Like an elevator headed for the basement, the helicopter began its descent from one thousand feet above the prairie.
The approach suddenly went from a slow drop to a hair-raising plunge.
The four passengers levitated upward in their seats. Lance reached out and snatched the floating backpacks out of the air.
Cyndi turned to the cockpit. “Take it easy, flyboys. I’d rather not see my breakfast again.”
She knew they were in trouble when the pilot looked over at his copilot and screamed, “Holy shit!”
He increased power, but counterintuitively, the rate of descent increased. The power increase had churned up the air below the helicopter even more, depriving the blades of smooth air to bite into. In only a few seconds, the helicopter would slam down on the helipad at a speed that wouldn’t be survivable. Cyndi mashed the transmit button on her headset cord. “Settling with power! Cyclic forward! Go around!”
