by Dan Stratman
Cyndi waved at the controller as they flew past the tower.
After resuming breathing, Lance asked in a shaky voice, “How did you know?”
With Warren now in sight, she turned to her copilot. “My dad loved to talk about practice dogfights he flew against his squadron mates. He would weave his hands back and forth when he talked, replaying the engagements. According to him, he never lost. His favorite tactic was to turn in to his opponents, so that their missiles were inside their minimum firing range. All that deadly firepower became useless.”
“With two pissed-off pilots out for blood coming straight at us, you calculated the minimum firing range of their missiles in only a few seconds?” Lance asked incredulously.
“No, not exactly…” Cyndi smiled and shrugged. “I just guessed.”
Lance’s mouth dropped open.
“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?” Cyndi countered in her defense.
The panicked tower controller grabbed a phone and dialed the security office on base. When the dispatcher on duty picked up, the controller yelled, “This is Cheyenne airport tower, an unauthorized helicopter is headed for your base. I believe we have a 9/11 scenario in progress. I think the helicopter is going to pull a kamikaze and crash into the headquarters building. Alert all your men. This is not a drill!”
“Your ass is mine, you son of a bitch!” The formation leader broke off his attack on Cyndi’s helicopter and put his plane into a tight turn to the east. He locked on to Pierce’s helicopter and fired off an AIM-9 Sidewinder infrared missile.
Pierce saw the missile launch and deployed flares to draw it away. The missile sailed by his helicopter and chased after one of the flares until it nosedived harmlessly into the ground next to the runway.
The F-16 pilot turned away, setting up for an attack from the rear.
Pierce slammed on the brakes and put his helicopter into a hover. Using the anti-torque pedals to rotate his helicopter, he tracked the fighter like a skeet shooter tracks the clay target as it flies across his view. Pierce mashed his trigger down. The three barrels of the GAU-19 Gatling gun glowed white hot as they spewed out two thousand rounds a minute.
Chunks of lead pierced the jet’s engine. Flames and oily black smoke erupted out of the tailpipe. The pilot pulled up into a climb to get his crippled bird as far from terra firma as possible as he assessed the damage and looked for an uninhabited area. To save time, he rested his left hand on the ejection seat handle .
Pierce spied Cyndi’s helicopter flying over the base. It was slowing down to begin its approach for landing. He slammed the cyclic forward and revved the engine past redline. He quickly closed the distance between the two helicopters and fired the Gatling gun.
“I’ll land at the base heliport, then we’ll go to headquarters and tell General McNeil what happened,” Cyndi informed Lance.
Suddenly, a loud drumbeat of a noise came from over their heads.
Bullets tore through the oil tank in the engine compartment, setting it on fire. Without vital lubrication, the engine instantly seized up.
The instrument panel lit up with flashing red warning lights. The rotors began to slow, robbing the helicopter of precious lift.
Cyndi frantically searched for an open patch of ground to land on before the rotors lost all lift and autorotation became impossible.
Pierce swooped in for the kill. Now only half a mile away from the gravely wounded Little Bird, Pierce let out a maniacal laugh. “I never lose, sweet cheeks! See you in hell!”
Hatred, ego, and an ultracompetitive personality had caused him to become so focused on killing Lance and Cyndi that he’d lost all situational awareness. Major Pierce, Delta Force team leader, had violated the number one rule in the Special Operations world—never assume your adversary is dead.
An AIM-7 Sparrow missile flew right into the open door of his AH-6M before exploding.
Pierce was dead long before his helicopter fell from the sky and slammed into the parade field on the base.
Cyndi was right about pilots.
Pierce wasn’t the only warrior who lived by the motto I Never Lose. The F-16 pilot had turned his fatally damaged jet toward Pierce and fired off the missile just before ejecting.
Chapter Forty-Five
Cyndi ignored the fiery explosion off in the distance at the parade field. Her entire focus was on getting them down in one piece. With the engine on fire, she only had one chance to get the autorotation right.
At their low altitude, making it to the heliport was impossible. The headquarters building was dead ahead. It had a large parking lot that was only half-full. Cyndi made a snap decision and committed to landing there.
The crippled helicopter fell from the sky. At the last second, she pulled up on the collective and eased back on the cyclic. The nose pitched up. Cyndi was trying to round out of the rapid descent at the same point that the helicopter would contact the ground—without stalling first. In a helicopter she’d never flown before.
She’d started the flair ten feet too low.
The AH-6M slammed into the pavement.
Its skids splayed outward.
Both pylons snapped off.
The spinning rotors flexed downward on impact. The tips of the composite blades shattered as they sliced through the tail boom. Razor-sharp pieces peppered the headquarters building, shattering windows. Startled office workers dove for cover under their desks..
As designed, the structure under their seats collapsed, absorbing the energy from the hard landing that would have otherwise crushed their spines.
Cyndi and Lance were dazed from the impact. They sat motionless for a few moments. Slowly, they began to get their wits about them. Sore but thankful to be in one piece, the missileers unbuckled.
“You okay?” Cyndi asked groggily.
Lance rubbed his neck. “I think so.” There was an odd sensation on the back of his hand as he massaged his neck. He lowered his hand. The skin on the back was pink and the hair had been singed off. With his senses still caught up in a cloud of confusion, the reason didn’t immediately register in his mind.
Lance looked up. The ceiling was engulfed in flames. Fire from the burst oil tank had burned through the roof and was now spreading to the cockpit.
Lance shoved Cyndi out her door then dove out the opening on his side. With the skids collapsed, the fall was only two feet.
They got to their feet and limped away from the burning helicopter, rejoining at the steps leading up to the building.
In seconds, the fire had breached the fuel tank.
The Little Bird detonated with a thunderous BOOM.
Rounds from the Gatling gun began to light off, sounding like popcorn cooking on a stove. Nearby cars were caught up in the conflagration, exploding as well. The parking lot resembled a scene from Dante's Inferno.
Cyndi and Lance looked away and shielded their faces from the intense heat. Passersby rushed toward the burning helicopter, ignoring their own safety.
Although terrible, this accident paled in comparison to the destruction that would have happened if their missile had launched or had fallen into the wrong hands. With a renewed sense of urgency, they climbed the concrete steps leading to the headquarters building. The imposing, modern structure was palatial in comparison to most of the other buildings on base.
Before leaving the command post, Colonel Wilmer had threatened his staff with prison time if they told anyone about the incident at Alpha One. He scurried down the sidewalk leading to the headquarters building with a death grip on a manila folder. Despite the freezing temperature, he was perspiring. “Why me?” he asked himself rhetorically. Something caught his eye. He looked up just as the helicopter slammed into the parking lot. He waddled off toward the lot in a partial jog.
Wilmer approached the flaming wreckage but was driven back by the severe heat. He decided to direct the rescue efforts from afar and let braver souls risk injury searching for survivors.
Lance yanked open the heavy, orn
ate metal door leading into the 90th Missile Wing headquarters building.
Spotless, polished granite covered the expansive lobby. The Global Strike Command emblem was centered in the floor. The walls were lined with flags representing every unit in the command. To the right, a middle-aged receptionist sat behind a large marble-clad desk. When Cyndi and Lance rushed up to her, she looked up and let out a frightful scream.
It was no wonder; they looked like they’d just finished a shift at the slaughterhouse.
Blood covered Cyndi’s hands and was streaked across her cheeks from wiping her tears away in the silo. Her flight suit was covered in soot from the burning helicopter.
Lance wouldn’t be auditioning for commercials anytime soon. Blood-soaked gauze was wrapped around his leg, his elbow was blood-stained, his flight suit was torn, and he had dried blood on the side of his head where Cyndi had kicked him.
“Oh my God! What happened to you?” the receptionist asked, wide-eyed.
“It’s a long story,” Lance quipped.
“We have to see General McNeil right now. It’s an emergency. Where is his office?” Cyndi pleaded.
“Down that hallway,” the woman responded, pointing across the lobby. “But you can’t just storm in there! You need an appointment!” She began leafing through her appointment book. “And a bath,” she said under her breath.
Cyndi and Lance ignored her snide comment and sprinted across the lobby.
“You need an appointment!” the woman yelled out in vain.
A security policeman stood at the entrance to the hallway. He wore a ceremonial uniform with a sash across his chest made of braided golden cord, a chartreuse wool beret canted off to one side, and patent leather shoes polished to a blinding sheen. He’d heard the encounter with the receptionist and moved to block off the hallway.
“You heard the lady, no one sees the general without an appointment,” the guard barked, his hand held out like a stop sign.
At this point in their astonishingly bad day, neither missileer felt like wasting their time getting in a debate with a self-important guard whose most hazardous duty was to defend a hallway.
“You want to take this one, Lieutenant Garcia?” Cyndi asked. “I’m not in the mood to argue with a toy soldier.”
Lance looked the guard up and down. “I don’t know. Anybody who can get their shoes that shiny is probably pretty tough. Let’s flip a coin. Loser has to kick his ass.”
Cyndi patted the sides of her flight suit and then looked up. “Do you happen to have a quarter?” she asked the bewildered guard.
He puffed out his chest. “I was raised to not hit girls. But if you don’t leave right now, I’ll make an exception.” The guard gave a dismissive flick of his wrist. “And take your smartass boyfriend with you.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Cyndi said curtly. She turned to Lance. “We’re a crew. We’ll handle it together.” She held out her hand. “Deal?”
“Deal,” Lance said, while shaking Cyndi’s hand.
In seconds, the guard lay unconscious on the floor after getting an unwelcomed introduction to their martial arts skills.
Chapter Forty-Six
They stepped over the man’s limp body and ran to the end of the hall. Cyndi and Lance burst into the outer office.
“Where is General McNeil?” Cyndi shouted. “We have to talk to him right away. It’s a matter of life and death.”
Startled by their tattered appearance and sudden intrusion, Lola Crawford jumped up from her desk. “Who do you think you are busting in here like this? Get out of the general’s office right now!”
Cyndi stepped up to her desk. “You don’t understand,” she pleaded. “We have to see the general. A missile—”
“Miss Crawford, what the hell is going on out there?” McNeil’s voice boomed over the intercom box.
She pushed a switch on the intercom. “I have no idea. These two lunatics came busting into the office demanding to see you.”
“Go to the lobby and get my guard,” McNeil ordered.
“Yes, sir.” Crawford dashed out the door, slamming it closed behind her.
The door to McNeil’s inner office banged open. The diminutive man stomped out of his office like an angry rooster spoiling for a fight. He yanked the cigar from his mouth. “How dare you interrupt me like this. Who do you think you are?”
Cyndi spun around and faced the general.
He stopped in his tracks with his jaw hanging slack. Brigadier General Arthur McNeil looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
Chapter Forty-Seven
“Thank goodness we finally reached you. Sir, I’m Capt. Cyndi Stafford, the crew commander from site Alpha One.”
“Aren’t you the one who called me? Said there was an emergency?”
“Yes, sir.”
McNeil’s eyes darted to the door leading out of his office. Beads of sweat formed on his upper lip. “What the hell are you doing here? I ordered you to defend the site.”
“Yes, sir, you did. But—”
“You abandoned a nuclear missile and its launch control center that was under attack by a madman?” McNeil looked like he was about to stroke at any moment.
Lance stepped forward. “If you’d just let us explain, sir. We didn’t have any other—”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Garcia, sir. Lieutenant Garcia. I’m her deputy.”
“Please, sir, I’ll explain everything,” Cyndi pleaded. “But first you have to send a crisis response team out to Alpha One immediately.”
The color drained from McNeil’s face. “You can’t be serious? Are you telling me there is a Broken Arrow incident at the site?”
Cyndi swallowed hard. “Um…I’m afraid it’s worse than that. I think this is a potential NUCFLASH situation.”
Only once in the nation’s history had a NUCFLASH event ever happened. The US had come within two minutes of launching every nuke it had on the USSR because of it. With only a small number of news outlets operating back in that pre-internet era, the Defense Department was able to threaten and bully them into not reporting the incident. Now the commander of the 90th Nuclear Missile Wing had the unwanted distinction of being in charge for the second one—in the age of instant communication.
Air fled from McNeil’s lungs like he’d been punched in the gut. Red-hot embers scattered across the floor from his dropped cigar. “What the hell have you done, Stafford?” He stumbled to the desk and grabbed the phone. McNeil punched an autodial button. When the person on the other end picked up, McNeil shouted, “Get Wilmer on the line. This is an emergency!”
“He’s not here, General McNeil,” Sergeant Morgan replied. “There’s been a serious problem at site Alpha One. He left twenty minutes ago to come tell you in person.”
“Wilmer knew about this and didn’t notify me?” Now McNeil was sure to stroke.
“Yes, sir. He wanted to make sure it wasn’t a glitch in the system before bothering you.”
McNeil’s eyes bulged out. “A glitch! Son, this is a NUCFLASH event. A damned NUCFLASH event!”
“Oh my God.” Sergeant Morgan began to hyperventilate. “Oh my—”
“Scramble a crisis response team to Alpha One immediately. Notify Los Alamos. We need their warhead recovery unit.”
“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”
“Notify all LCCs to stand down. Take every missile in the wing off alert status.” Veins were popping out on McNeil’s neck. “And find me Wilmer! Now, dammit!” He slammed the phone down and turned toward Cyndi. “I want to know what the hell happened out there. Why are you standing in my office and not at your LCC?”
Cyndi hesitated, knowing there was no good way to spin the bad news. She took a deep breath. “I know how this looks, but we didn’t have any other choice. All comms were down. We had to get back to the base. You’re the only person who could stop this.”
“Stop what? What did you do?”
Lance held up both hands. “Hold on, sir. We di
dn’t do anything. The REACT console went haywire. It sent us a false Emergency Action Message to launch our missile at China. When we wouldn’t do it, the console locked us out and tried to launch the missile itself. The damned thing almost started World War III. There must be a bug in the new software. Hell, forget bug. I’d call it a Godzilla in the software.”
McNeil threw up his hands. “The console went nuts. It just decided to attack China. You two expect me to believe this…this bullshit?”
“It’s true, sir.”
“And how might I ask did you stop this rogue computer from ending life as we know it?”
“I shot it.”
McNeil marched up to Lance. “Son, I don’t know who the hell you think you’re talking to. This is the worst catastrophe in the history of this base—hell, the entire Global Strike Command—and you think this is a good time to make a joke?”
“I’m not joking, sir. It’s not like I could have just cut the red wire and everything would have been fine. This wasn’t some lame movie. The computer was counting down to launch our missile. It was going to nuke one billion innocent people. So, I shot it.”
“What about the missile?”
“The warheads are still armed, but the rocket isn’t going anywhere,” Cyndi replied. “I used a Hellfire missile from one of Major Pierce’s helicopters to destroy the site and bury it.”
McNeil looked like his head was about to explode. “Stop. Just stop.” He massaged his temples with both hands. “What happened to Pierce? You told me he was trying to gain unauthorized entrance to the grounds.”
Cyndi walked over to the window and pointed. “He’s dead, sir.”
McNeil’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of the conflagration on the parade field. “You did that?”
