by Bobby Akart
Morse insisted the President confer with his military and civilian advisors to talk through their options. Rather than meet as a group, the President fielded telephone calls for two days. The Pentagon’s deputy director of operations, who was the officer in charge of the National Military Command Center, conferred with the President several times.
Finally, the President spoke with the head of all U.S. nuclear forces at Strategic Command in Omaha, Nebraska, for the specific options available to the President. If USSTRATCOM was warning the President of an incoming attack, he would have less than sixty seconds to order a counterstrike. This short time frame, while necessary, also increased the risk of launching a response based on a false warning. A preemptive strike allowed time for cooler heads to prevail.
Despite the protests of some advisers, and the threatened resignation of others, the President’s mind was made up. Therefore, the Pentagon and USSTRATCOM must comply with their commander-in-chief’s order.
The President continued to maintain his distance from others, effectively creating a bubble within the residential suite and newly added conference room. However, protocol required a senior officer in the Pentagon to formally authenticate that the person ordering the strike was indeed the president.
It was just a few minutes before midnight when Morse entered the room and was followed by the Air Force officer who was required to confirm the President’s order.
“Mr. President, today’s challenge code is Whiskey-Kilo.” W-K in the NATO phonetic alphabet.
The President retrieved a laminated card from his pocket and responded, “Uniform-Tango.” U-T.
“Challenge code accepted. Thank you, Mr. President.” The Air Force officer immediately left the room and left Morse alone with the President.
“Mr. President, may I stay here with you, sir?” asked Morse.
“Of course, Andrew. First, let me apologize for the way I’ve treated you of late. The events in El Paso had a profound effect on me. The images of our soldiers waging all-out war against each other out of fear were more than I could take.”
“Yes, Mr. President, I understand,” said Morse. He continued to stand at the far end of the room.
“Andrew, another apology to you, if I may? Join me for a brandy. My keeping you at a distance arose from extreme paranoia. I know that you’re not a carrier of the disease nor would you ever do me harm.”
Morse made his way to the bar and poured them both a drink. He joined the President at the window overlooking the operations center, which was now scrambling with activity.
“To America, sir,” offered Morse.
The two men clinked glasses and took a drink. The President was reflecting on the magnitude of his decision.
“This is an important moment in history. Our advisors, including yourself if you’ve been totally honest with me, were against this action. I believe history will judge me for the positive effect this will have on the psyche of the American people as we recover from this catastrophic pandemic.”
“Mr. President, may I add something to my stated opinions?” asked Morse.
“Might as well, Andrew,” said President Garcia as he lifted his glass toward Morse. “I’ve already pushed the button.”
“Sir, the task of rebuilding the nation and restoring trust in the government will be made easier by your actions,” started Morse. “It would be difficult to convince the survivors of the pandemic that the United States they once knew was still the world’s major superpower and capable of protecting our citizens if the threat of Islamic terrorism still loomed large. Your order to obliterate ISIS via nuclear strike will send a clear message to our allies, and our enemies. Don’t mess with us.”
President Garcia smiled and finished his brandy. He set the glass on the conference table and patted Morse on the back. Morse finished his drink, picked up the President’s glass and headed for the bar.
“No more for me, Andrew. I need to cut back.”
Chapter 60
Day Seventy-Five
The Quarantine House
Quandary Peak
Dusk was upon them and the burial of Marcus was no longer the topic of conversation. Janie and Derek volunteered to take the night shift at the checkpoint while Mac and Hunter returned to the house to get some sleep. A campfire surrounded by granite stones gave off an orange glow. The fire crackled as the moisture within the logs exerted its outward pressure on the burning wood. As the water vaporized from the intense heat, it looked for ways to escape.
Sparks flew out of the fire after several loud popping sounds. Tommy and Barb were exhausted from a long emotional day, but neither of them was interested in going to bed. They wanted to spend every waking moment together, or at least as close as they could be.
Earlier, Hunter had located two comfortable sling chairs from one of the neighboring homes. The older couple looked like the two lovebirds in the Cialis commercial, sitting side by side, admiring the sunset. Only Tommy and Barb were twenty feet apart, separated by the fire.
Many relationships of nearly four decades could be defined by a word or a phrase—romantic, rocky, loving, trusting, worked-at-it, persevered, safe, or friendship. The Hagans had experienced all of those things, but mostly, their marriage succeeded because they were best friends.
They had a deep, kindred knowledge of each other. In many respects, their roles had been reversed during their life together. Sure, their marriage consisted of work and worry, joy and sorrow, coping with small and big problems. But the nuts and bolts of daily living placed Barb in the traditional breadwinner, authoritative role and Tommy in the role of handling everything else, including the raising of Mac.
This worked for the two of them. It had nothing to do with ideology or political statements. It had to do with life, which was what established the final dynamics of most households. Each of them had their roles, which allowed them to take care of each other in their own way.
“Think of all the days, weeks, and months we’ve been together,” said Barb, breaking the silence. “We’ve been very lucky, you know.”
Tommy started to laugh. “Yeah. There were times we didn’t think so, right? We’ve learned that big issues matter very little in the long run and the little things that piled up could be easily swept aside when we just talked about it. Think about it. Barb, how many times have we argued in nearly forty years?”
“I can’t name one,” she replied.
“I can’t either. We didn’t have the pettiness other couples around us exhibited. Think about how many times we’d be out with another couple, and as soon as we got home, we’d say they’re doomed.”
Barb began laughing. “Virtually every time we’d go out with my friends in the Army. Most of them were men and they treated their wives like soldiers.”
“Now, you’ve been known to give me marching orders, too. But then, I needed to be kept in line.”
“No, not fair,” added Barb. “The military changed me. It became difficult for me to differentiate between General Hagan and Barb Hagan. Retirement forced me to recognize that we all have our human frailties. True love is the ability to ignore them and embrace one another despite our faults. Tommy, you’ve endured a lot being married to me.”
Barb began to cry.
“Honey, what’s wrong?”
“Tommy, look at what you’re going through and I can’t do anything to help. My god, I’m gonna miss you.”
Tommy sat up in his chair and stretched his right hand toward her. “Barb, look at me.”
She sniffled and turned toward him. She reached her arm in his direction.
“Now, close your eyes. Hold my hand. Can you feel it?”
Barb closed her eyes and moved her fingers as if she were clasping his hand. She sniffled again and smiled. “Yes, I can, Tommy. I feel you. I love you so much.”
“I want us to remember this feeling. I will always be by your side, holding your hand, whispering in your ear. I love you.”
Chapter 61
Day
Seventy-Six
Quandary Peak
Mac was not obsessive-compulsive, yet she continuously counted the hours from the time Tommy first encountered the plague-stricken boy and the present. It had been six full days, one hundred forty-four hours. She was certain her dad was feeling the effects of the disease and wasn’t letting anybody know. He had to realize that everyone was calculating the days, just like Mac was.
As she continued her testing and observations of the deer mice, she thought about the evil that human beings inflict upon one another. After World War II, from the surprise attack at Pearl Harbor to the Holocaust and, the crowning blow, the dropping of the atomic bombs on Japan, one would hope that we’d get it. The human race couldn’t survive the pain it intentionally inflicted upon itself.
Yet along comes terrorism. Men willing to kill themselves with the goal of killing many others just because they believe their religion was superior. Mac considered the concept. In the history of mankind, more human beings were killed in the name of religion than for any reason, without exception. That was before the pandemic.
Without hard numbers to work with, Mac and Janie were still able to estimate that only one percent of the earth’s population existed at this point—nearly seven billion people were most likely dead. Granted, seventy million survivors would be a base to repopulate the earth, assuming of course, we’d learned from our mistakes.
It didn’t appear we learned from the mistakes of World War II, and it was easy for Mac to come away from her thoughts with a feeling of hopelessness about the human condition. But despite the overwhelming concept of the world’s population being decimated to less than one percent of its numbers eleven weeks ago, Mac remained positive. Her job was to save one life, her dad’s.
The plague bacteria were spreading through Tommy’s body at this point, attacking healthy cells and causing his immune system to work overtime. His body was fighting the disease with all of its defense mechanisms, but the plague bacteria were faster and smarter.
Tommy’s body needed reinforcements, and fast. The antibiotics might or might not slow the progress of the plague through the bloodstream into his lungs. If he was lucky, and that was what it would require after six days, his blood vessels hadn’t begun leaking as of yet.
Mac continued the methodical process of seeking a cure, what would be considered the holy grail of medicine. She was encouraged by the last batch of white mice she’d infected with the disease. They’d lived one day longer than the others. One day might not sound like a lot to most, but to a research scientist studying these tiny creatures, it represented a twenty-five percent increase in life span.
She was reinvigorated and took the day’s routine with a new sense of purpose. While it was unfortunate that she’d had to change her control subjects to deer mice, the pattern of modifications she was making to the amino acids coupled with the vancomycin indicated she might be pointed in the right direction. If she could continue to delay the advance of the disease within the body, the immune system coupled with help from the vancomycin might work.
Mac was well rested, and thanks to Janie and Hunter’s efforts, she had plenty of the spastic deer mice, which gave her fits, but were appreciated nonetheless. She intended to throw everything she had into this last set of experiments. Her dad didn’t have the luxury of time now. One of these last three formulas would be his only hope.
As a scientist, her mind was very analytical and rarely operated on emotion. She tried not to confuse hope with optimism. Optimism was more of an attitude as to how she approached life. Hope went further than attitude. It was an inner feeling that propelled her into the future. Hope was the lifeline she tugged on every minute in the lab as she looked for a way to save her dad’s life. Hope and confidence enabled her to be optimistic as life appeared to be at its darkest.
Chapter 62
Day Seventy-Six
Sixty Miles Northwest of Fort Collins
Near Redington, Nebraska
It was minutes after midnight when the LGM-30G Minuteman III combat crew led by Captain James J. Miller, a young officer from nearby Cheyenne, Wyoming, was alerted to the launch order. His team of senior officers, which was comprised of a deputy commander, two ballistic missile systems analysts, and a missile facilities technician, had remained on post after they were allowed to bring their families into the missile complex located underground in southwest Nebraska.
The underground complex had been redesigned to deploy the deadliest nuclear weapon in America’s arsenal—the Minuteman III. Over the years and billions of dollars, the Minuteman III arsenal expanded to nearly five hundred weapons. The complex itself included a command center, a living quarters, and three launch silos capable of delivering back-to-back hell upon the enemies of the United States.
Captain Miller and his team had spent countless hours within the facility, always on alert in the event a launch order came their way. For the first time in months, as the death toll rose and the world seemed to be preoccupied with bigger fish to fry than launching nukes at one another, the small group enjoyed constant time with their families while they waited for the all clear.
The Minuteman III missiles were all upgraded to the new W87 thermonuclear warheads. Each warhead yielded four hundred seventy-five kilotons. As part of their daily routine, Captain Miller and his team continued their safety checks and inspections. Despite the quiet solitude, they were still committed to acting on behalf of their country when the launch order came their way.
Earlier that day, Captain Miller got out of bed, showered, put on his fatigues, and headed for the command center. Captain Miller, a brilliant officer and destined for advancement, was a Tom Cruise look-alike. He’d opted for the missile program because he loved the science and technical aspects. While in training at Vandenberg Air Force Base, he’d consumed every technical manual and spent hours in simulators.
He passed through blast door 6, walked down the short hallway and entered the launch control center. The room was round and had a diameter of about thirty feet. The control center was on the second level of a three-story steel structure, which was suspended on eighteen-inch springs similar to those installed at Cheyenne Mountain. The walls were two feet thick. Unlike NORAD, which was designed to sustain a nuclear attack from outside the mountain, the launch control center was designed to survive the launch of a nuclear weapon from within the man-made cave.
Captain Miller understood any launch order received from USSTRATCOM would provide him with a decision of unimaginable consequences. Of course, given the order, he would not hesitate. He understood the concept of nuclear deterrence. His willingness to carry out a launch sequence was the only thing that prevented Mother Russia or the Chicoms from attacking the U.S. first.
During his training, and throughout his analysis of intelligence briefings, he’d become familiar with the top targets of the nation’s nuclear arsenal in the event of a nuclear war. Some were in Russia and China, while others were in North Korea and Iran.
Captain Miller took his seat at a simple gray desk facing a series of monitors and clocks. He reviewed the notes and inspection reports from the sergeants who made up his team. He glanced at the five launch switches on the left side of the desk, as he subconsciously did several times a day. It was a simple design—round, silver, unmarked, and resembled an ignition switch of an old car. The mechanism was a throwback to the old days of the Titan missile program. Despite electronic advances, the procedure of retrieving a key and turning it in a lock was still in use in his facility.
The launch codes and five keys were kept in a safe with two combination locks, one assigned to Captain Miller and the other assigned to his deputy commander. Decades ago, military personnel who had sat in the very chair Captain Miller occupied at the moment had nicknamed it the go-to-war safe.
Captain Miller’s mind was wandering when an alert came through the military’s intranet system. He rubbed his eyes and looked around the empty room for some sign of confirmation that he wasn’t dr
eaming. He read the alert again.
Miller grabbed the phone and activated the facility’s intercom system. “All hands on deck, gentlemen! This is not a drill. Everyone to the control room, now!”
Within minutes, the rest of the team had entered the room and were staring over his shoulder. Captain Miller berated himself for not having his team at the ready. If this had been an attack, their lack of quick response meant doom for part of America.
Captain Miller and his deputy commander opened the go-to-war safe. They grabbed their codes and keys and returned to the console. The keys looked like any Weiser lock key from the local hardware store. The launch sequence codes were hidden inside sealed cases that resembled music compact disc cases.
Captain Miller and his team looked at one another briefly before they broke the seals on the cases. Like fortune cookies revealing a message, the codes were compared to the codes contained in the encrypted message about the length of a tweet.
One of his subordinates began to read the one-hundred-and-fifty-character code while the two commanders compared it to theirs.
“… HOTEL OSCAR NOVEMBER LIMA MIKE BRAVO ECHO XRAY KILO OSCAR.”
“Code authenticated.”
“Code authenticated,” added Captain Miller.
Captain Miller entered the message’s war plan numbers into the launch computer to retarget the ICBMs from their peacetime targets in the middle of the Pacific Ocean to the new target in the Qandil Mountains.
Captain Miller, with the assistance of his deputy commander, entered the keystrokes required to unlock the missiles, readying them for the turn of the launch keys retrieved from the safe. Each man inserted their keys into the locks and waited for Captain Miller’s order.
