Ballistic

by Paul Levine

  “What are you leaving out, Dr. Burns?”

  “Did I mention that my mother slept with every man who smiled at her, and there were a lot of big sloppy grins in my hometown? Did I mention that my father drank, and that the former probably contributed to the latter?”

  “I’m sorry,” Jericho says, embarrassed. “If you don’t want to tell me this—”

  “Of course I do! That’s the point, Jericho.”

  He looks into her dark eyes. “All right, tell me about your loss.”

  She looks away and cocks her head, as if listening to a far off voice. “My father committed suicide, hung himself in the foyer of our home. He slung one of mother’s belts over an exposed beam. It was a red leather belt that she wore with a matching skirt. Why do you suppose he didn’t go down to Home Depot and buy a stout rope?”

  He thinks about it a moment. “Because your mother wore the red leather outfit when she stepped out and your father knew it. He wanted her to suffer.”

  “You missed your calling, sergeant. You have a natural talent for discerning psychological symbolism. Now tell me, why did my father hang himself in the foyer of his own home? Why not park the car on some deserted road and run a hose from the tail pipe? Why not dive off a bridge?”

  “Same reason. He wanted your mother to find him. He wanted her to wake at night and see him hanging there.”

  “Then what a pity that she didn’t find him.”

  “Who did?” Jericho asks, but even as the words come out, he knows. He grasps both of Susan’s hands between his own. “Oh dear God, I’m sorry.”

  She looks away and does not see the tear tracking down Jericho’s cheek. “My mother had an appointment at the beauty parlor and then should have gone home to put the roast in the oven. Does anyone cook roasts anymore, Jericho? Anyway, I guess she didn’t want to waste that new permanent, because she headed straight to a Holiday Inn just off U.S. 1 where they had a back elevator and the assistant principal of the elementary school – my school – could get a room cheap for a couple of hours. This was a man who would pat me on the head and say I’d be even prettier than my mother.”

  “If this is too painful for you, why not just—”

  “Shut up, Jericho! This is healthy. You really ought to try it.” She runs a hand through her hair and looks at Jericho straight on. “My mother didn’t show up, so I walked home from school. The key was under the mat, just like always, and as I was opening the door, I was thinking about Oreo cookies and a big glass of cold milk. I opened the door and at that precise instant, the three of us are forever frozen in time. My mother was no more than a mile away, her red-tinted hair spread across a motel pillow. Just inside the door was the lifeless shell that had once been my father, swinging gently in the breeze of the air-conditioning, his face twisted into a mask of pain and horror. And there I was, in the last seconds of my childhood.”

  “I am so very sorry,” Jericho says, squeezing her hands.

  She looks up at him. “No more milk and cookies, Jericho.”

  They are both silent a moment. Then Jericho says, “What can I do to help?”

  “Don’t you understand you just did?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Just listening,” she says, “letting me work it out is therapeutic. And if I can, I’ll help you.”

  Jericho gnaws at his lower lip. She waits, letting him summon it up. Finally, he says, “Tell me about the pain. Does it ever go away?”

  “No.”

  “What do you feel now?”

  “Anger at the utter unfairness of it all. A searing, red-hot hatred for father, for mother, for the whole damn world.”

  He lets go of her hands, giving them a final pat. “Then you’re in worse shape than I am.”

  “What does that mean?” she asks.

  “I only hate me,” Jack Jericho says.

  -19-

  The Power and the Glory

  Until today, Captain Pete Pukowlski always loved giving The Tour.

  In the past, he had escorted Congressmen, VIP’s from aerospace companies, and delegations of our so-called Allies from Western Europe. Hell, he even showed the place to two Russian Air Force generals after the fall of Communism, though only because he was ordered to, and even then, he carried his .45, loaded with the safety off, just in case they tried any sneaky commie tricks. He also refused to answer their questions about the inertial guidance system and the megatonnage of the Multiple Independently Targetable Reentry Vehicles – ten Avco Mk 21 RV’s to be exact – that sit atop the big cock of the Peacekeeper.

  The third time General Itchykov – or whatever the hell his name was – asked about the missile’s accuracy and throw weight, Pukowlski told him, “We can drop twenty megatons right down the chimney of Boris Yeltstin’s dacha. Does that answer your question, Ivan?”

  Not that Ivan was the general’s name, but Pukowlski, who was damn proud the chairman of the joint chiefs was as Polish as kielbasa, would no more call this Rusky “General” than he would paste a “Make Love, Not War” sticker on his Jeep. Anyway, old Ivan didn’t need a translator to figure it out, and he damn sure stopped asking questions.

  Today, as always, Pukowlski starts The Tour in the Security Command Center, then moves across the bridge to the elevator housing, then brings them down into the launch control capsule. Owens and Riordan are on-duty in the hole, and he’s advised them to have their shoes shined and their chins shaved. “Spit-and-polish today, men. Let’s not give the bastards an excuse to go after the missiles we still have left.”

  Strapped into their flight chairs, Owens and Riordan make a show of studying the gauges on the console in front of them. For once, they’re following orders, and Pukowlski is thankful. He knows it’s stultifyingly boring work. Twenty-four shifts, one missileer allowed to catnap while the other stays on duty. And he knows the whole shebang is almost over. Which makes today bittersweet. Pukowlski stands behind the two missileers, the U.N. Committee members at his side, casting suspicious glances at the old console, the drab green communications racks, the sweeping radar beams, the multi-colored lights. There is a 1960’s feel to the place, Pukowlski knows, and he considers himself a dinosaur, too. Pukowlski shows them the thumbwheels under the yellow metal flaps where the two launch codes are entered and then the slots where the keys are inserted. That’s when the questions come up, and his answers are always the same.

  “Of course it’s completely fail safe,” he tells the U.N. delegation, a committee of thousand-dollar suits from England, Japan, Israel, Russia, and Germany. “First, you’ve got to enter the Enable Code. That’s like pulling the hammer back on a gun. Then you need to enter the target info, the Preparatory Launch Command, which is also coded. That’s like pointing the gun. Finally, you’ve got to turn the keys. That’s pulling the trigger. And the same commands must come from a second capsule, guarding against having a couple of lunatics under my command.”

  He shoots a look at Owens and Riordan, who are both poker-faced recruiting posters. “There’s also a safety measure that’s so classified, even I don’t know it, and if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” The delegation chuckles a little. “So, in short, gentlemen,” he continues, looking at the Israeli, who coincidentally is indeed quite short, “there’s no way on earth there could ever be an unauthorized launch.”

  The Englishman, a gent in a grey suit, silk polka dot tie with matching pocket handkerchief, watches Billy Riordan, who stares intently at the console, not even appearing to blink. “And these lads with the keys,” the Englishman says, “who are they and how do you assure their competence?”

  “The missileers are the elite, the cream of the crop,” Pukowlski says, watching Owens suppress a smile. “They have rigorous training and complete psychological testing prior to be assigned to a launch capsule. We’re constantly alert for any hint of trouble in their personal lives. Drunk driving charge, they’re out of the hole. Divorce, out of the hole. Hell, if they get a prescription for codeine from a dentist, they
’re out of the hole for a week.” Pukowlski clears his throat and points to a monitor, which shows the Peacekeeper in the silo. “Now, gentlemen, if you don’t have any further questions, shall we proceed to the highlight of the tour?”

  The Englishman nods, gives Billy Riordan one last look, then follows Pukowlski out the blast door. The captain escorts the delegation down the tunnel from the launch control capsule toward the silo. He makes a mental note that Owens and Riordan didn’t close the blast door behind them. A year ago, hell, six weeks ago, he would have written them up. Now? What difference does it make anyway? They pass the Sleeping Quarters/Galley on the right and the Launch Equipment Room on the left, then enter the silo, passing over the grates of the drainage sump. More spacious than the newer underground facilities, this one is the last of the old Titan silos, now converted for the Peacekeeper.

  They enter the silo where the PK, a “damage limitation weapon,” in Air Force parlance, is suspended by steel cables from the walls. Heavy propulsion hoses run from generators under the silo to the base of the missile. “Here’s why we’ve got strategic stability in the world,” Pukowlski tells them.

  “Strategic stability,” the English ambassador repeats in an accent laced with the House of Lords.

  “The absence of overt conflict,” Pukowlski says. “What you might call ‘peace.’”

  “Then why don’t you?” the Englishman asks. Pukowlski doesn’t like the snotty tone of voice, and besides, he considers the English a bunch of fairies, so he ignores the question.

  They walk in a circle beneath the suspended missile, ducking under a suspended umbilical cord that hangs from near the top of the missile. He pauses to let them look up into the burners. “A four-stage power plant,” he says, “the first three fueled by solid propellant, the fourth hypergolic liquid. This baby is cold-launched from the canister by a launch eject gas generator. Whoosh!” Pukowlski makes a gliding motion with his hand, and for a moment, the crew-cut, husky forty-year-old is a kid again. “When it’s cleared the silo, the computer in the deployment module sends a signal to fire up the rockets, and the first stage ignites. Lordy, what a sight that is. And fast? This baby hits apogee at an altitude of four million feet in fifteen minutes, two thousand miles down range.”

  “Who builds this rocket?” the Israeli ambassador asks.

  Pukowlski gives him the fish eye. “Why, you want to buy stock or maybe get some preemptive deterrence insurance against the A-rabs?”

  “We are at peace with our neighbors,” the Israeli says brusquely.

  “Yeah, aren’t we all? Anyway, the first stage was built by Thiokol, second by Aerojet, third by Hercules, and fourth by Rocketdyne. The guidance is by Rockwell, I.M.U. by Northrop, assembly and testing by Martin Marietta and Denver Aerospace. First string, All-American know-how, top to bottom.” He winks at the Japanese ambassador. “You fellows do a helluva job with Toyotas and TV sets, but if you want a four-stage ICBM, there’s only one place to shop.”

  “We do not want such a thing,” the Japanese ambassador says. “Our memories of Hiroshima and Nagasaki are still alive.”

  “Little Boy and Fat Man,” Pukowlski says, almost wistfully. “Before my time, and obsolete as a buggy whip by today’s technology. You know Little Boy hit Hiroshima with only twenty kilotons, a lousy fifth of a megaton of U-235 in a gun-assembly bomb. Nothing like the fission-fusion-fission thermonuclear warheads today. Can you imagine the damage that ten warheads, each with two megaton lithium deuteride cores, could do?”

  “Yes,” says the Japanese ambassador. “I can.”

  “‘Course you fellows are our friends now, and we let bygones be bygones. We had our Pearl Harbor, you had your Hiroshima.”

  The Japanese ambassador’s look is not as forgiving. “And Nagasaki.”

  “Yeah, war is hell.”

  There is mumbling in foreign languages that Pukowlski neither understands nor cares to. Leading the visitors toward the gantry, he says, “Let’s take a ride.”

  They squeeze aboard, Pukowlski hits a switch, and the gantry runs up the track in the wall of the silo. As they ascend along the shaft of the missile, nearly close enough to touch its dull black surface, Pukowlski launches into his statistical routine. He could be a tour guide telling visitors how many steps there are inside the Statute of Liberty. “The PK is seventy-one feet long and eight feet, seven inches in diameter. Fully loaded with fuel, it weighs one hundred ninety-five thousand pounds. What you’re looking at is a coating of black rubber that covers the Kevlar skin. Up at the top, what looks like a silver bullet, is the titanium shroud covering the nose cone. The shroud ejects when the PK’s still on the way up, just two minutes into flight. ‘Course, it’s already at four hundred thousand feet altitude. From there on out, the MIRV’s are exposed. They’re made of carbon-carbon, about four feet high, kind of look like black ice cream cones coming at you, pointy-end first, but they’re flying at six thousand miles an hour, and instead of filled with strawberry or chocolate, they’ve got the power of God inside.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard nuclear weaponry described as divine,” the Israeli ambassador says.

  “You don’t hang out in the right church.” The ambassador is a chubby little guy with curly hair who reminds Pukowlski of a comedian he saw on the cable. What the hell was that guy’s name?

  The gantry stops at the level of the nose cone. The captain hits a switch, and the cage extends horizontally toward the missile.

  “Now, you’re gonna get an experience only a few human beings have been privileged to partake,” he says with excessive formality. The cage stops just inches from the nose cone. Pukowlski reaches out and touches the tip. Then he strokes it, his hand caressing the shiny, smooth titanium shroud. “Put your hand on the greatest power the world has ever known,” he tells the group. “You can even feel the computer clicking away, and if you close your eyes and use your imagination, you can feel the might of the dragon.”

  The ambassadors whisper among themselves, but none reaches out to pet the missile. Embarrassed, Pukowlski clears his throat and hits the switch to retract the gantry to the wall. “You fellows gotta forgive me. When I’m this close to the power and the glory, I get downright poetic.”

  * * *

  Dr. Susan Burns has joined lieutenants Owens and Riordan in the launch control capsule. On a monitor above their heads, Captain Pukowlski is visible on the gantry, stroking the shroud, the ambassadors watching him.

  “Puke’s copping a feel again,” Owens says. He has run his flight chair all the way to the far end of the console, and he sits there, alternating his attention between the monitor and the multiple choice questions on the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory answer sheet. “‘Would you rather be rich or respected?’” he reads aloud. “Shit, that’s easy, Dr. Burns. If you’re rich, you can buy respect.”

  He fills in a blank, then continues reading, moving his lips slightly. “‘Did you ever cheat in school?’ Jeez, who didn’t?”

  “Lieutenant Owens,” Dr. Burns says. “Would it be possible for you to complete the test silently?”

  “Sure thing. Almost done.” He gives her a smile that even tip-hungry barmaids have found resistible.

  While Owens finishes revealing the innermost depths of his skin-deep personality, Susan Burns moves to Billy Riordan. First she attaches a blood-pressure cuff on his right arm. Then she hands him a Rorschach ink blot card.

  “Tell me what you see,” she instructs him.

  “Chaos,” Billy says without hesitation.

  “Of course, but what do you make of it? What images or emotions are evoked by the drawing?”

  “You don’t understand, Doctor. What I see really is chaos. Anarchy, carnage, bloodshed, lambs led to the slaughter.”

  Susan Burns watches the digital readout on the blood-pressure gauge as the numbers soar higher. She pauses to make a notation on a pad. Just then, a rumble as Owens rolls his chair down the track toward them. He shoots a look over Billy’s
shoulder and says, “I’ll tell you what I see, doc.”

  “Lieutenant Owens! Let your deputy do—”

  “A woman with massive warheads, real first-strike hooters,” he goes on, unperturbed.

  “Owens, please!” she pleads with him. “I’m required to test both of you while you’re on duty, but you’re making it impossible.”

  “Sorry, but whadaya think? Am I normal?”

  “Owens, you’re a certified, card-carrying American male.”

  “Thanks, doc,” he says, then rolls down the rail to the other end of the console.

  Susan Burns turns back to Billy Riordan and flips to the next ink blot.

  “Now, Lieutenant Riordan, what do you see?”

  Billy takes his time with this one. Beads of sweat form on his forehead. Susan Burns watches as the blood pressure hits a way-too-high 210 over 135. “What is it, lieutenant? What comes to mind?”

  Softly. “The fires of hell.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you, doctor?” Louder now. “Do you see the pestilence, war, famine, and death?”

  “Why don’t you explain it to me?”

  “It is written in the Book. It is sung by angels in the heavens.”

  “Do you mean that literally, Riordan? Do the angels really sing?”

  “Everything in the Book means just what it says. The angels are real, and so are their songs.”

  “Are there times you can hear them?”

  “Now,” Billy says. “I can hear them now.”

  BOOK THREE

  Soldiers of the Apocalypse

  -20-

  Kill Them All

  An old VW van shifts gears and heads slowly up the road of crushed rock, winding around the mountain. Inside, Rachel drives and Brother David sits next to her, holding a Bible. He is in his country preacher’s garb, black suit, white shirt, and thin, dark tie. A blonde ten-year-old girl with pigtails sits on his lap.