by Paul Levine
The van passes the sign, “Rattlesnake Hills Sewage Plant – No Trespassing” and approaches the sentry post of the 318th Missile Squadron. David picks up a microphone. “We shall throw Satan into the abyss and seal it for a thousand years,” he proclaims, his voice tinny and shrill though the speaker on the van’s roof.
Inside the Quonset hut, Air Security Policeman Carson has just discarded a useless nine of clubs and picked up a king of hearts. Three kings. “Damn. Never fails. I’m one card away from gin, and look who shows up.”
“Your whole life is one card away from gin,” Air Policeman Dempsey says, taking a short pull on a silver flask of bourbon. “Keep playing. If we ignore them, maybe they’ll go away.”
The amplified voice of Brother David grows louder, “Judgment day is at hand!”
“Damn right it is,” Carson says, tossing down a stray queen of clubs. “I knock with seven. Whadaya got?”
“Shit. I can’t count that high.”
“Loser plays cop,” Carson says, laughing.
Dempsey puts on his beret, just a bit crooked, hitches up his pants, and heads outside.
* * *
Deep underground in the launch control capsule, 1st Lieutenant Owens skims his seven-month old copy of Playboy. He looks up at a security monitor and sees Air Policeman Dempsey approach the van in front of the sentry post. Brother David gets out, carrying his Bible. The little girl in pigtails gets out, too, carrying a bouquet of long-stemmed Indian paintbrush flowers. “Hey Billy, look. The God Squad is back.”
But Billy is huddled over the answer sheet of his personality test, using a Number 2 pencil to shade in the blanks. Dr. Susan Burns watches him, occasionally making notes on her pad, trying to classify the young 2nd lieutenant. Schizophrenic is a word that comes to her mind. She makes a note to expedite the results on the urine drug screen.
Nothing in Riordan’s file reveals any prior incidents of mental instability. Born in Cleveland, an only child of average intelligence, he was one of those kids who went through high school without gaining fame or infamy. No extracurricular activities, no detentions or arrests. His parents were divorced when he was six. His father, a career Army non-com, was transferred to South Korea when Billy was twelve, and then to a number of other posts during his teenage years. Though he always paid his child support, Sgt. Wendell Riordan hadn’t seen his son since moving away. Billy enrolled at Ohio State, sleepwalked through Air Force ROTC and liberal arts, and after graduation, was commissioned as a second louie. He did his missile training at Vandenberg Air Force Base in California where he adequately performed the routine, repetitive tasks assigned to him. His personality tests placed him in the vast, gray dull mass of men who lead lives of neither fame nor infamy.
“Captain’s gonna throw a hissy fit,” Owens says, looking at the monitor. He shoots a look at Billy, who is chewing his pencil as he studies the questions on the printed form. “Hey, doc,” Owens says, “can a multiple choice test show multiple personalities, ‘cause if it does, Billy boy’s gonna be off the Richter.”
Susan Burns ignores him, and Owens goes back to his magazine.
* * *
Air Policeman Dempsey has his thumbs hooked in his belt. “Like I told you before, Reverend, this ain’t Yellowstone. It’s off limits to—”
“No place on earth is off limits to those seeking the Word,” David says. He nods to the little girl, who wears a yellow sun dress with blue polka dots. She giggles and hands Dempsey the bouquet of blood-red flowers. “These are for you, mister,” she says, “a present from heaven.”
Dempsey takes the flowers, feeling a little foolish. “Thank you. Security Command could use a little decorating.”
“And perhaps I can leave something for your brothers-in-arms to remember me by,” David says. He hands his Bible to Dempsey, who now has a bouquet of flowers in one hand and the good Book in the other. Something in the movement of David’s hand catches Dempsey’s eye.
The glint of the sun off shiny metal.
A blade.
If Dempsey had the reflexes of a great athlete, or if he had been primed for trouble, or if he had not consumed half a flask of bourbon before lunch, or if his hands hadn’t been full, perhaps he could have leapt back, unsnapped his holster, and pulled his Colt Government Model .45. But all he does is stand there, dumbly disbelieving, as the blade of a stiletto sweeps a graceful arc toward his neck.
The blade catches Dempsey’s carotid artery and severs it cleanly. As blood spurts into the air, he clutches his throat and staggers, falling into David’s arms.
“Help!” David yells. “Your friend fainted. Help us here!”
Air Policeman Carson stumbles out of the Quonset hut to see David propping up Dempsey. Carson rushes in that direction, then stops. A fountain of blood shoots from Dempsey’s neck and cascades over a bouquet of flowers scattered on the ground. Even with his training, there is a moment of utter paralysis, a frozen second of hesitation.
* * *
In the launch control capsule, Owens looks at the monitor, where David seems to be helping Dempsey stand up. “Get a load of this,” Owens says. “Dempsey’s drunk again.”
On the screen, David waltzes Dempsey three paces to the left and out of camera range.
“Dempsey’s lucky the captain’s still in the silo,” Owens says, looking around, but neither the psychiatrist nor Billy pay any attention to him. He turns his attention back to a Playboy pictorial on women fire fighters, wondering if they hold the hoses so lovingly when they’re really on duty.
* * *
The rear door of the van bursts open, and the broad-shouldered Gabriel leaps out, followed by six men in commando garb – camouflage uniforms, combat boots, helmets, cheeks smeared with eye-black, assault rifles at port arms. Gabriel raises his rifle, a ribbed-silenced MP-5.
Airman Carson backs up toward the Quonset hut. “Oh, shit! Oh, holy shit!” He turns and scrambles through the open door of the security post, his knees rubbery. He’s reaching for the phone when five slugs thump through the metal skin of the Quonset hut and cut him down.
The next sixty seconds proceed with deadly synchronization.
One of Gabriel’s men uses wire cutters to snip the lines on the security cameras.
A five-ton truck with a snowplow pulls out from behind the bend on the gravel road and plows through the security gate.
Commandos pour out of the truck and spread into an infantry attack formation. Leapfrogging each other along the access road, ducking behind trees and bushes, they work their way toward the security building. Except for the crunch of boots on gravel, and the distant song of an Audubon warbler, no sounds disturb the tranquil setting.
At the head of the formation, Matthew leads two commandos to the outer steel door of the security building. At the same time, James, a slight bespectacled commando with pale, wispy hair and acne scars, pries open an electrical box adjacent to the building. He pulls out a handful of wires and begins cutting.
At that moment, an airman in shorts and running shoes jogs around the corner of the building from the direction of the barracks. He’s wearing earphones, listening to music. He sees the commandos and stops short.
A burst of automatic weapons fire drops him. He tries to stand, holding his abdomen where his intestines protrude from a gaping wound. A second burst punctures his throat, and he falls to the ground, drowning in his own blood. The earphones have come off, and for a moment, there is the faint, ironic voice of Jimmy Buffet, praising the wonders of cheeseburgers in paradise.
* * *
In the launch control capsule, the monitors go blank, the sweeping beams on the radar screen fade to black, and the teletype stops clacking.
Owens bangs on the console. “Not again. Billy, you want to crank up the generator?”
Billy is still huddled over his multiple choice test, Susan Burns watching him.
“Never mind,” Owens says, “I’ll do it myself.” He hits a switch, and a whirring noise emanates from the sump
.
* * *
Gabriel leads a second group of commandos through the stand of Ponderosa pine trees beyond the security building. There, in the shadow of the aqueduct that runs down the mountain from Chugwater Dam, two wooden buildings – the barracks and mess hall – sit peacefully next to a baseball diamond cut into the weedy soil.
The soldiers of the Apocalypse take up positions behind trees, peering toward the buildings through scoped —16’s. In front of the mess hall, close to the baseball field, two soldiers play catch, their voices carrying toward the woods. Gabriel hears them debating the relative merits of the New York Mets and the Atlanta Braves. Even from this distance, he can detect the southern accent of the Braves’ fan. Gabriel gives a silent signal by pointing to the commando nearest him. You take the one the left. On three.
Gabriel sights the ballplayer, who faces him. Aims at the center of his chest. Two to the chest, one to the head. Makes the perp good and dead. Gabriel’s father was a cop in Houston, and that’s what he always said. But a quick burst here, three 5.56 millimeter slugs, all aimed at the chest would likely blow out Atlanta’s sternum, lung, and maybe his heart.
Pop, pop, pop. The riflemen fire simultaneously, and the ballplayers crumple to the ground. At the sound of the gunshots, a barechested airman, his face covered with shaving cream, emerges from the barracks. He sees the fallen airmen, whirls around, looking into the woods, but does not see the attackers. A gunshot from the trees creases his temple, and his shaving cream beard turns red. A second later, a fusillade peppers his body, and he falls. The commandos emerge from the trees and fire on full automatic, shredding the wooden walls on the barracks.
Attached to the rear of the barracks is a small concrete block building, the latrine and showers. Standing under a roaring shower head, lathered with soap, oblivious to the danger, Airman Reynolds sings “Do It To Me” in a voice never mistaken for Lionel Ritchie.
* * *
Inside Security Command, five airmen play poker at a desk littered with donuts, Styrofoam coffee cups and poker chips. From outside, the muffled crackle of small arms fire. Lieutenant Cooper spills his coffee. “What the fuck was that?”
“Probably one of the Air Police taking target practice,” an airman says.
“Bet we get venison for dinner,” says a third.
Suddenly, the room goes dark, and the humming equipment goes silent.
“Generator!” Cooper yells.
Someone hits a switch and the lights come up to half power.
* * *
The door to the barracks is in splinters. The remaining airmen, wounded and bleeding, are in hand-to-hand combat with the commandos. Pistol fire echoes through the close quarters. Gabriel uses a knife to eviscerate a young airman and leads his men through the barracks. “Kill them all!” he orders.
Using his bunk for cover, Airman Sayers empties his sidearm into the advancing commandos, then ducks for cover behind a footlocker. A noise from behind, and Sayers whirls around. A commando bursts through the back door and surprises him, the M-16A2 just inches from his face. Instinctively, Sayers reaches for the barrel and they wrestle for the gun. Sayers get leverage and dumps the commando to the floor as gunshots shatter the window above his head. The commando is on his knees when Sayers gets him in a headlock and twists, breaking the man’s neck.
Sayers gets to his feet and sees another commando with an Uzi turning toward him. Just as a volley of slugs rips into the wall, Sayers dives out the open window.
* * *
“Where the hell’s the captain?” someone shouts in the semi-darkness of Security Command.
“In the silo playing tour guide,” someone else answers.
Lieutenant Cooper tries to take control. “All right, everybody pipe down. We probably just blew a fuse. Anybody reach Dempsey at the sentry post?”
“He doesn’t answer.”
“Shit! What the hell’s going on?”
Before anyone can answer, the dull thud of an explosion flattens the outer door of the security building and rattles the wall of the command center.
“Jumping Jesus!” Cooper is on his feet. “Get on the horn to STRATCOM! Raise Space Command! Now!”
The Radio Operator grabs a headset and punches buttons on his transmitter.
“Satellite hookup, now!” Cooper shouts. “Weapons, now!”
Another airman fumbles with a set of keys. A second explosion, this one on the security bridge. The pass-through window is shattered. Dust sifts down from the ceiling. The airman finds the right key and opens the weapons locker. Three other airman jostle each other, tugging at rifles that are bound together by nylon straps. Boxes of bullets and loaded magazines fall from the locker and clatter to the floor. A few shells roll crazily across the tile.
Cooper stands at the communications desk, screaming into a microphone. “Come in, STRATCOM! Answer, goddamit!”
Another blast, and the reinforced door implodes. Four commandos burst in with military precision, two to a side, one high, one low. A pink laser dot finds Cooper’s forehead in the dim light. With a soft whap, he takes a shot between the eyes and topples over backward. An Airman raises a rifle, but a staccato beat from a commando’s Uzi tattoos his chest with three slugs. Another airman draws a bead with a handgun, but Matthew splatters him with a blast from a twelve-gauge pistol-grip shotgun.
It is over in seconds.
The airmen are all dead. Security Command is in the hands of the Holy Church of Revelations.
-21-
Figs Shaken from a Dying Tree
In the launch control capsule, Owens angrily bangs switches on the console. He picks up a phone and listens to a dead line. Slams down the phone. A look of frustration. “Where the hell is everybody?”
“Probably just a short in the number two generator,” Billy Riordan says. “Let’s not start World War III.”
“Oh, look who’s got an opinion,” Owens says, frazzled. “Thank you very much, Billy boy. Thank you very goddamn much.”
“Is there a problem?” Dr. Susan Burns asks.
Owens doesn’t know what to say. It’s never happened before. Buried underground and out of communication. A woodchuck could have eaten through their electrical lines or a missile fired by some crazy Russians could have nuked them. Suddenly, the phone rings, and Owens jumps. “Whoa! There they are.” His body relaxes just a bit. “No problem, ma’am. Now, let’s see who’s home.” He picks up the phone and barks, “Capsule Command, Lieutenant Owens. Please identify.”
“Security Alpha,” the voice says. “Everything all right down there?”
Firmly now, “Day code, Security Alpha.”
“Day code, Sky King. Now what’s going on in the hole?”
“Jesus, what’s going on up there?” Owens asks. “Where the hell you been?”
“Sorry ‘bout that, Capsule Command. Electrical crew fouled up, must have sliced some wires.”
“Yeah, what about the backup?”
While Owens waits for an answer, at the other end of the line, Brother David looks around the Security Command Center, which is a shambles. Dead airmen are sprawled over desks and chairs, the walls have been shot up, the window to the security bridge shattered. “Backup shorted out,” David says. “We’ll report it.”
Behind him, Matthew surveys the damage. Rachel, carrying an Uzi, is at his side. A commotion, and David turns. Airman Reynolds bursts into the room, soaking wet, a towel around his waist. “Quick, call STRATCOM! Call NORAD! Call the President! We’ve been…”
He sees the massacre, stops short, knows in that instant he’s a dead man.
The thwomp from Matthew’s silenced MP-5 drops Reynolds who was going to say, “overrun” but simply says “fucked” as his dying word.
David grimaces and hangs up the phone. “Let’s move!” he commands Gabriel.
A sudden look of worry crosses Matthew’s face. “The PAL code for the elevator!”
Rachel hands David a brown envelope with a tie seal. “Billy has
done his job so very well.”
In the launch control capsule, Owens yells into the dead line. “Security Alpha, do you read me? Come in, Security Alpha!”
At the far end of the console, Susan studies Billy, who is oddly serene. “What’s happening, Lieutenant Riordan?”
Owens wheels around. “Why ask him? Billy’s been out to lunch for the last six months.”
“Riordan!” Susan implores him.
Billy recites the answer as if memorized from his catechism. “Stars in the sky will fall to earth like figs shaken from a dying tree.”
“What does that mean?” she demands.
“Just what it says. The Bible is not allegory. It is the Word. Are you ready for the Apocalypse?”
-22-
Name that Neurosis
Captain Pete Pukowlski leads the U.N. delegation down a ladder into the generator room beneath the missile silo. The thumpa-thumpa of the launch generator is as soothing to the captain as a mother’s heartbeat to an infant. “You’ve seen the brains and the balls of the missile,” he says. “These are its legs.”
Pukowlski steps over a taut hose that runs from the generator to the canister sheathing the missile. He waits a moment, surveying his domain, as the ambassadors gather around him. “The missile’s shot out of the tube by a blast of heated gases that are pressurized to three hundred twenty pounds a square inch. Whoosh!” The captain makes a plunging motion with his arm. “It’s pretty much like the Polaris on the subs, or one of those toy rockets where the kids pump it up with air pressure.”
“A toy?” the Israeli ambassador asks. “That is a rather casual reference to a weapon of mass destruction.”
