by Dan Stratman
The pilot slammed his stick forward.
The descent rate increased even more.
Everyone on board held their breath.
With the ground rushing up to meet them, the helicopter slowly crept forward into undisturbed air. The five massive composite blades dug into the thick, smooth atmosphere. The greater the forward speed, the more control the pilot gained. He pulled hard on the collective to stop the dive. Ten feet from disaster, the descent bottomed out.
Ecstatic at not dying, the pilot let out one more emphatic expletive.
He put the helicopter in a wide, gentle turn back toward the helipad. The bird set down after executing a mild, cautious approach from the opposite direction.
After the engines were shut down, the pilot turned and sheepishly said, “Thanks, Captain. I owe you one.”
Although he tried to hide it, Cyndi noticed his hands were shaking.
Chapter Seventeen
Before Lance could ask any questions, Cyndi slid the door open, grabbed her pack, and jumped out. The guards took up defensive positions on either side of the gate.
Hiding in plain sight was an isolated outpost so dangerous and off limits that deadly force was authorized to keep it secure. The site was the size of a soccer field and encircled by a twelve-foot-tall fence made from reinforced steel. An added deterrent to unlawful entry—spools of razor wire—topped the fence.
Wyoming was a natural choice for nukes. Basing missiles along the northern tier of the US provided the obvious advantage of shortening the flight time over the North Pole to reach cities in our most feared enemy, Russia.
Cyndi opened a box attached to the fence, lifted the handset inside, and said, “Launch control center, this is Captain Stafford at the gate.”
A remote-controlled security camera mounted on the fence slowly rotated in her direction.
When it stopped, she heard the guard who had accompanied Dr. Zhao say, “You’ve reached the wine cellar. State your position, full names, and entry authorization code.”
“Wiseass,” Cyndi muttered under her breath.
Lance handed Cyndi the red envelope. She opened it and read from the sheet, “Crew commander is Capt. Cynthia Stafford, and my deputy is Lieutenant…” Cyndi paused and pulled the handset away from her ear. She looked down and read the words carefully. Then she looked over at her deputy.
“Yes, that’s my full first name,” Lance said with an exasperated groan. “What can I say? My mother is French.”
“Hey, I’m not judging,” Cyndi said, as she fought back a grin. She put the phone back against her head. “My deputy’s name is Lancelot Garcia.” She thought she heard a snicker coming from the guard. “The entry code is Lima, Seven, X-ray, Zero, Eight, Two, Six. Guards are in place. Requesting entry.”
They were put on hold as he verified their information. Bitter cold air seeped through their heavy parkas as they waited. Lance rubbed his hands together trying to generate some warmth.
Two minutes later the words, “Everything checks out,” crackled over the handset. “Come on in.”
The electronic lock snapped open. The heavy gate squeaked and groaned as it slid across the tracks embedded in the concrete. With the site now vulnerable to attack, the guards raised their rifles and tensed up. As soon as Cyndi and Lance had slipped through the opening in the gate, it stopped and reversed direction. It locked with a heavy, metallic thud.
Twenty yards ahead, a building resembling a mundane ranch house occupied the middle of the grounds. In the past it had accommodated support personnel and their equipment. That had all changed. Now, the building was powered up but empty. Security cameras ringed the property and kept an eye on the site. A two-thousand-gallon diesel fuel tank behind the building fed a generator that backed up the local power supply if it went down. Alpha One was fully autonomous.
Rather than heading for the warm building, Cyndi walked over to a black metal object mounted on a short post. It resembled the combination of a spinning bingo drum and a barbecue grill.
She slipped the paper with the entry code through a slit in the cage, along with the red envelope. Then she pushed a button. With a loud swoosh, flames ignited inside the cage. Seconds later, the classified information was reduced to ashes. Cyndi used a crank handle on the side to rotate the drum. Rocks inside pulverized the ashes, making it impossible to ever piece the remains back together. Lastly, Cyndi scooped out the ashes and tossed them into the air. Strong wind scattered the tiny grains of burned paper across the yard, mixing with billions of other grains.
Consensus among missile crews was that the person who’d devised this cumbersome code-burning routine had watched far too many spy movies.
On the way to the building, they walked by the 110-ton concrete slab covering the silo that protected the missile from the damaging effects of a nearby nuclear blast. Two parallel steel rails led away from the cover. They provided a path for the cover to quickly retract across when it came time to launch.
In case anyone working at the site was uncertain why they were there, stenciled on the silo cover were the words: MISSILE, NUCLEAR, 475Kt. On the next line came the glaringly obvious warning—USE CAUTION.
An unnerving sound—like the low guttural growl of a predator preparing to strike—emanated from the silo.
Lance put his index finger to his lips as if asking for silence. He gently patted the concrete blast cover as he walked past it. “Down, boy.”
At the door to the building, Cyndi waved her military ID in front of a badge scanner. It let out two short beeps. A small hidden door on the wall opened, and a retinal scanner slid out. Cyndi put her face up to it. A vertical beam of green light swept across. The door unlocked and opened.
Chapter Eighteen
Cyndi and Lance entered the inconspicuous-looking building. The facility that had once bustled with activity now had the eerie ambiance of a haunted house. Cobwebs had formed in the corners of doorways. A layer of dust coated every surface. Stale air greeted every breath.
The interior decorator had apparently graduated from the School of Utilitarian Design. They walked past the TV room where support crews had spent countless hours warding off the monotony. Lance dragged his finger along the dusty vinyl top covering a pool table. Rolled up mattresses sat on rusting metal-frame bunkbeds in sleeping rooms.
An uninitiated visitor would have never known a hardened bunker capable of kicking off World War III was buried sixty feet beneath their feet.
Unlike the game of horseshoes, close enough with a ten-megaton Russian nuclear warhead was measured in miles. The building, and its occupants, would have been vaporized by a Russian nuke landing anywhere nearby.
Only a direct hit could destroy the underground bunker.
The missile launch officers went to a room in the back of the building and boarded a freight elevator. There were no markings indicating where the elevator led. Cyndi pulled the rusted steel lattice door closed and pushed the only button on the control panel. Thirty seconds later, they stepped out of the elevator.
Fifty years without a sliver of sunlight ever making its way into this subterranean fortress had created a veritable petri dish of nauseating odors. The powerful smell of diesel oil, mold, and dank, stale air assaulted their nostrils. The remaining unidentified odors present would take a team of scientists from a secret government lab to correctly classify.
They were standing in a large, dimly lit area containing machinery that kept the facility operating. A long hallway to the right had various rooms on each side. At the end was a massive steel blast door that looked like a bank vault door on steroids. On the other side was a space so top secret that the public was only allowed to see sanitized, official Air Force pictures of it.
The first ICBMs had gone online back in 1961. The atomic club is so exclusive, more people will get hit by lightning in a single year than the total number of Americans who’ve ever been missile launch officers.
As they walked toward the blast door Lance ducked into a smal
l room that served as a kitchen to drop off the food.
“Hey, Lancelot, read the sign!” Cyndi called out.
He stuck his head out of the room. “It’s Lance,” he said with a clenched jaw. “Only my mother is allowed to call me that.”
She pointed to a sign on the wall. NO-LONE ZONE. TWO-MAN CONCEPT MANDATORY.
The most sacrosanct rule in the long list of regulations designed to protect nuclear weapons was a requirement that no one ever be alone, even temporarily, in any area associated with nukes. The rule eliminated any opportunities for sabotage or an unauthorized launch attempt. By ducking into the kitchen, Lance had momentarily left Cyndi’s sight.
“Sorry, my bad.” Lance waited for her to join him. He pulled the box of food out of his backpack, plopped it onto the table, and opened the lid. “Let’s see what delicacies we have today.”
In the typical missile alert facility, a cook was included in the above-ground staff. Getting hot meals prepared by a talented chef made the difference between a tolerable alert shift and a dismal one. Since Alpha One was fully autonomous, their only sustenance for the next twenty-four hours would come from the cardboard box.
Lance peered down into the box and nodded approvingly. “Nice. T-bone steaks, eggs, bacon, caviar.”
“Let me see that.” Cyndi nudged Lance aside and dumped out the contents on the table. Bottles of water, bananas, and stale turkey sandwiches wrapped in cellophane tumbled out. “Wonderful,” Cyndi said sarcastically. “Just what I was hoping for.”
“I’ll bet pilots get better food than this,” Lance whined.
The official Air Force explanation for the bland, unappetizing food was that it was the polite and considerate menu choice. In other words, it reduced the possibility of farting while sitting next to each other for twenty-four hours in a sealed room.
Cyndi hung her parka on a coat hook, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and said, “Let’s go to work.”
They approached the blast door. On the outside of it was a painting.
Attempting to bring some levity to the deadly serious job, years ago a crew had engaged in a little gallows humor by painting a mural on the door. Under the rendering of a modified Domino’s Pizza box were the words World-Wide Delivery in 30 Minutes or Less, or Your Next One is Free.
Cyndi picked up a phone on the wall and said, “It’s Captain Stafford at the door.”
The four-foot-thick blast door could only be opened from the inside.
Three hydraulic rams the diameter of paint cans slowly forced the massive, sixteen-thousand-pound door open. It took two full minutes.
Cyndi and Lance stepped into a small concrete lined capsule the size of a brown UPS delivery truck.
Chapter Nineteen
The cramped space was packed with equipment. Computer cabinets lined one wall, and a REACT console was on the other. The updated Rapid Execution and Combat Targeting system console controlled all communication and launch systems. Tubes and transistors had been replaced with microchips and lines of software code. It was the newest piece of equipment in the LCC—installed in 1994.
Curtains hid a single bunk on one end of the space. At the other end was a combination metal sink and toilet commonly found in jails and prisons. With no shower, baby wipes were the only way to freshen up if their alert period was extended. Various human-generated odors had permeated every surface after decades of continuous use. As if the olfactory receptors in a person’s nose hadn’t been assaulted enough, circuit boards in the electrical equipment gave off a pronounced ozone smell.
If prisoners in America had been subjected to these conditions, ACLU lawyers would be stampeding to the courthouse to file lawsuits.
Visibly upset, Dr. Zhao scampered up to Cyndi. “How you people spend twenty-four hours locked in this dungeon?” Considering the short amount of time he’d been in the US, his English had come a long way. “I only been down here for a few hours, and I have two panic attacks.”
“That’s right, he did,” the guard who’d accompanied the doctor volunteered.
“It’s not for everyone,” Cyndi answered. “If you’re claustrophobic, you are in the wrong business.”
“Is everything ready, doctor?” Lance asked as he entered the LCC.
“I do everything I came to do,” Zhao sternly replied. He stood at attention in front of Cyndi and saluted. “God bless America. China, go to hell.”
Cyndi wasn’t sure how to respond to the odd statement. So she returned the salute.
Zhao gathered his things and rushed down the hallway toward the elevator that would take him back up to fresh air and the wide-open Wyoming prairie. The guard grabbed his rifle and sprinted after Zhao to keep from losing sight of him.
“Casa, sweet casa—again,” Lance joked as he sat down in the right seat at the control console.
“I expect you to take this alert tour seriously, Lieutenant. I want everything done by the book.” Cyndi took the left seat.
Lance turned his head away and mumbled, “Well, you wrote it, so…”
“Close the blast door.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Lance lifted a red cover on the console and flipped the switch.
Silver hydraulic rams tugged on the massive door. It closed with a resounding thud. Rubber seals inflated around the perimeter of the door, blocking any outside air from entering. Pumps under the floor kicked in, creating positive pressure inside the LCC. The crew was now protected from a chemical weapons attack.
Cyndi and Lance took off their holsters and stowed them in a large storage cabinet under the console.
A monitor on the wall showed Dr. Zhao and the guard making their way across the grounds toward the gate.
The guard opened the box attached to the fence, pulled out the handset, and announced, “Security in place. Open the gate.”
Lance looked over at his missile combat crew commander.
“Cleared to open,” Cyndi responded.
Lance pushed down the button that controlled the gate. As soon as the doctor and guard were clear of it, he lifted his finger. The gate latched securely closed.
Eager to finish his day and see his four kids, the pilot had already started the engines on the helicopter when he saw his passengers come out of the building.
As the men walked toward the helicopter, they became lost and disoriented. The spinning rotors had kicked up loose snow, causing it to swirl around them.
They felt like they were trapped in an enormous snow globe.
The men made their way toward the helicopter by focusing on the sound of the engines. Out of an instinct for self-preservation, they ducked their heads before walking under the spinning rotors. They climbed aboard, followed by the security detail. Once everyone was buckled in, the helicopter lifted off and took up a course directly back to Warren.
Fifteen minutes into the flight they flew by the open pit mine. After the Grey Wolf helicopter had passed, a pair of black AH-6M Little Bird attack helicopters rose from deep within the pit.
Two FIM-92 Stinger air-to-air missiles hung off the left pylon of the lead ship. Two Hellfire missiles hung from the wingman’s ship. Each aircraft sported a GAU-19 Gatling gun on their other pylon.
With no reason to have engaged their defensive systems, the transport helicopter pilots flew toward home, blissfully unaware of the attack helicopters stalking them.
A Stinger missile fell away from the pylon of the lead aircraft. Its solid rocket motor ignited a millisecond later. A white smoke trail blazed toward the unsuspecting Grey Wolf like Satan’s crooked finger.
It homed in on the heat spewing from the exhaust. The warhead detonated the instant it touched the fuselage.
The five men on board shrieked in terror as their dying helicopter corkscrewed down into a deep ravine, miles from the nearest road. It exploded in a blinding orange ball of flames.
The second attack helicopter flew to the ravine and hovered over the twisted, smoldering wreckage. The barrel of its Gatling gun tilted down. A hail of
bullets rained down on the charred bodies, guaranteeing there would be no survivors.
Chapter Twenty
Cyndi took the sturdy red metal box out of her backpack and slipped it into a slot on the shelf above the launch console. She tossed her backpack into the empty cabinet under the console.
The REACT console had two missileer stations, separated by a large worktable. Duplicate sets of computer monitors, keyboards, switches, and buttons filled the space. A digital clock mounted between the stations counted off every second of every hour, making shifts feel even longer.
Crew members sat eight feet apart in high-back chairs like the ones used by captains on aircraft carriers. The distance between them made it impossible for one person to reach the four most important switches. Those switches controlled more destructive firepower than a hundred floating naval bases.
The effort needed to launch a nuke was minimal. The commander inserted the key from the red box into the designated slot with her right hand. Her left rested on a rotating switch. The deputy controlled two identical rotating switches on his side. On the commander’s order, all four would be turned simultaneously. A simple turn of the wrist would unleash 475 kilotons of devastation.
Safeguards built into the system prevented a rogue crew from launching a missile by themselves. Software programmed into the console scrutinized any launch command before executing it by validating it against orders from higher command authorities. If it passed, the missile flew.
“I want everything operating 100 percent before we go to strategic alert status,” Cyndi said. “I’ll test the communications systems; you run the LCC subsystems test checklist.”
“It’s only ten o’clock. What’s the rush?” Lance asked. “Why don’t we eat first?”
