Ballistic

by Paul Levine

  Jackie Mason! The name comes to Pukowlski. The ambassador reminds him of Jackie Mason.

  “Well, of course, this baby’s not a toy,” Pukowlski says, retreating. “Not with ten MIRV’s on the top. And of course, the rocket’s not the weapon at all, just the delivery system, but my point is, the initial propulsion is the same as…”

  Oh the hell with it, the captain thinks, just letting it go. Why try to justify anything to these bozos? He catches sight of Sergeant Jericho mopping the floor of the generator room, a furry brown animal crawling around his neck. A couple of the ambassadors have noticed the goof-off, too, and Pukowlski clears his throat to get their attention, then plows ahead. “Anyway, gentlemen, when the missile is clear of the silo, the computer in the fourth stage sends a message to fire up the rocket engines. And, my friends, when those burners ignite, it’s Mardi Gras, the Fourth of July, and Christmas…” He shoots a look at the Israeli, trying to recall the name of that Jew Christmas before giving it up. “All rolled into one.”

  But the ambassadors do not seem to be in the holiday spirit. At the moment, they are watching Jack Jericho go about the mundane task of swabbing the floor while a rodent perches on his shoulder. Pukowlski shoots Jericho a murderous look which goes unacknowledged. As usual, Jericho’s mind is elsewhere. “Sergeant!” Pukowlski shouts. “Get rid of that rat.”

  Startled, Jericho snaps to attention, or the best he can while holding a mop. “Sir!”

  “Did you hear me, Jericho?”

  “Yes, sir. But it’s a ferret. It kills rats.”

  “And I kill sergeants. Do you follow me, Jericho?”

  “Like a duck behind its mother…sir.”

  Jericho stuffs the ferret in the large front pocket of his fatigues, grabs his mop, and heads down the ladder into the drainage sump.

  * * *

  David and Rachel lead a contingent of commandos across the security bridge. In his dark suit and tie and carrying a leather briefcase, David looks like a lawyer rushing to court, albeit a lawyer splattered with the blood of a deceased Air Security Policeman. The barracks having been secured, Gabriel joins the procession, while Matthew remains with his men in Security Command. At the elevator housing, David types out an alpha-numeric code on a PAL keypad. The computer screen flashes, “Access Granted,” and the massive steel doom rumbles open.

  Suddenly, from behind them, “Halt!”

  Carrying an M-16A2 service rifle, Sayers runs toward them across the security bridge. A commando drops to his knees and swings up his assault rifle, but Sayers dives to the floor of the bridge, shoulder rolls, then flattens himself into the prone firing position. Sayers has never before fired a gun in anger, unless you count a perfunctory shot with a .38 at a black BMW filled with drug dealers that was cruising his Brooklyn neighborhood. Now, in the fraction of a second that will spell his life or death, his training comes back to him, just as they said it would:

  “Describe the M-16A2, airman.”

  “A lightweight, magazine-fed, gas-operated, air-cooled, and shoulder-fired weapon, sir.”

  “State the maximum range and maximum effective range.”

  “Maximum range, three thousand five hundred thirty four meters, sir. Maximum effective range five hundred fifty meters, sir.”

  Sayers is only twenty-five meters away when he lets the first burst go, and two commandos fall. “Take him!” David shouts. “Blast him to hell.”

  Another commando fires wildly, spraying the security bridge with his Uzi but missing Sayers, who squeezes off another burst and takes out the shooter. Then he swings his rifle toward the long-haired man in the blood-spattered suit, the one shouting orders to the others. Odd, Sayers thinks, how he stands there squarely in the middle of the elevator housing, giving me a full target, unafraid. I’ll cut him in two. Sayers has him in the front sight, aiming for the middle of his chest, is ready to add polka dots to his tie. Squeezing the trigger now, and…

  Nothing.

  Jammed.

  Damned.

  And the rest of it comes back, too.

  Swab out the bore and chamber with a patch moistened with CLP.

  Clean upper receiver of powder fouling, corrosion, dirt, and rust.

  Clean bolt carrier group.

  Who the hell ever thought we’d really need these things? Which is Sayers’ last thought as he futilely tries to clear his weapon and Gabriel puts one bullet through his left eye with an MP-5.

  “Providence truly smiles on us today,” David says, leading his faithful into the elevator.

  * * *

  “What’s the T.O. say when security doesn’t answer?” Owens asks, banging down the phone in the launch control capsule.

  “But security answered,” Billy Riordan says.

  “Yeah, then hung up.”

  “The power probably went down again.”

  Their flight chairs are centered on the command console. Dr. Susan Burns sits behind them, watching and listening.

  “Something’s screwy,” Owens says. He hits a switch on the console and a tape rewinds. He hits the “play” button and his own voice comes from a speaker mounted on the wall.

  “Yeah, what about the backup?”

  A pause, then, “Backup shorted out. We’ll report it.”

  The sound of chairs scraping the floor, then a muffled voice. Owens stops the tape, hand cranks the reel backward, then hits a button that enhances background sound and suppresses sound closest to the mike. The voice is still muffled, and because of the slow play time, the tone is a deep bass, but the words are audible. “Qu-ick. ca-ll STRAT-COM. Ca-ll NO-RAD. Ca-al the Pres-I-dent. We’ve be-en…”

  Another pause and then a rich plumping sound, a hammer smacking a ripe melon. And then slowly, a deep baritone, “fu-cked.”

  “Without having been kissed,” Owens says. “Jesus H. Christ, what’s going on up there!” He quickly slides down the console toward the communications racks. Ordinarily, the deputy is in charge of communications, but Owens wouldn’t trust Billy Riordan to call for home delivery pizza. Owens has his choice of an array of communications gear, but he chooses the most reliable, the old black rotary telephone. He dials the number for the duty officer at STRATCOM and gets a busy signal. Damn! He flicks on the AF-SAT up-link transmitter to bring in a satellite. When he’s made the connection, Owens struggles to keep the fear out of his voice, “STRATCOM-1, this is Launch Facility 47-Q. Do you read me?”

  * * *

  The headquarters of U.S. Strategic Command, called STRATCOM, is buried deep in a blast-proof bunker at Offut Air Force Base outside Omaha, Nebraska. The cavernous War Room is lined with computer consoles and high-tech communications gear. On the front wall, the Command Center Processing and Display system, commonly called the “Big Board,” shows North America, Europe and Asia overlaid with colorful tracking symbols representing movement of aircraft and naval fleets.

  Colonel Frank Farris leans over a communications technician and speaks into a microphone. He has finished his fourth cup of coffee and third donut in the last hour and is pleased to have something to do besides the crossword puzzle. “We read you, 47-Q. We’ve lost the link with your security officer.”

  “No kidding,” Owens says. “That’s why I’m on the horn. If this is a drill, no one told us about it. What the heck’s—”

  “Stay cool, 47-Q. We have no record of a security drill, and no other capsules report any irregularities, but go to Condition Yellow. Secure the capsule, terminate elevator access, scramble communications.”

  “Affirmative, STRATCOM.”

  Owens clicks off the phone and takes a look at the open blast door. “Hey Billy, you heard the man. Now, how the hell do we scramble communications?” He opens the T.O. and leafs through the pages.

  “I’ll shut down the elevator,” Billy says.

  Dr. Susan Burns watches as he punches several buttons on the console. Leaning close to him, she says, “Billy, I know you’ve been under great stress, and I want to help, but you’ve got to te
ll me—”

  “There’s nothing you can do. Nothing.” He fiddles with a switch, then turns to Owens. “It won’t lock down.”

  “What!”

  A buzzer sounds, and a woman’s soothing mechanical voice comes over the speaker above their heads, “Elevator access granted. Elevator in motion.”

  Owens stares are a digital display showing the elevator’s steady descent into the hole. “Now, who—”

  “Probably Security coming down to find out why the lines are dead,” Billy says. “Hope they’re not as spooked as you are.”

  “Yeah, well they’re not trapped like sardines in a…” Owens notices the blast door is still open. “Billy, are you fucking deaf? Close the door! Do I have to come down there and do everything myself?”

  “The door is open for saints and sinners alike.”

  Owens’ eyes go wide. “What the fuck are you—”

  “We welcome the righteous and the wicked. Salvation is open to all.”

  “Are you out of your cotton-picking mind?” Owens swivels toward the blast door. From outside comes the clacking of boots on the catwalk connecting the launch control capsule to the elevator. Owens kicks his flight chair down the railing toward Billy, then reaches out to punch the red button that will close the blast door. Billy grabs Owens’ arm with both hands and yanks him away.

  Owens is heavier and stronger, and he shakes Billy off and reaches out again. This time, Billy pulls a snub-nosed .38 from a zippered pocket in his flightsuit. “Freeze!”

  Owens stops short. His hand is a six inches – a million miles – from the button. “You are fucking crazy!” He grabs the gun, twisting it away while he pounds at Billy’s face with his free hand. They struggle awkwardly, still seated in their flight chairs.

  Susan Burns leaps from her chair and dives for the console, hitting the red button. With a soft hydraulic whoosh, the pressure begins building to close the eight-ton door. The door is reinforced with steel pins and coated with space-age polymers. Closed and locked, it secures the capsule against a nuclear blast above. Now, it begins its painfully slow closing.

  A jumble of sounds, Owens and Billy grappling with each other, their breaths coming in short, harsh exhalations. The door is halfway closed. The pounding of the boots growing louder. A shout from outside, “Go for it!”

  A commando dives for the entrance and lands across the doorway. As the door closes, cracking his ribs, three other commandos use the man’s back as a springboard to vault inside. Owens, one hand around Billy’s neck, tries to wrestle away his gun. Gabriel swings his rifle butt and smashes Owens across the forehead. Billy holds his throat and coughs. Terrified, Susan watches helplessly as a woman in an ankle-length dress and a man in a blood-spattered dark suit enter the capsule. The scene is so beyond belief as to be utterly surreal.

  Brother David surveys the console, a look of self-satisfaction on his face. Then he heads straight for the blast door control panel and hits a green button. He does this, Susan notes, as naturally as a driver flicking on the wipers. Knew what he was looking for, a cocky smirk on his face. A chill runs through Susan with the realization that this man, whoever he is, knows what he is doing. And that look in his eyes. So strange. A burning intensity but at the same time, an icy remoteness.

  The blast door slowly opens wide enough for two commandos to drag their injured cohort inside. David hits a red button and waits as the door slowly closes with a liquid pflump of its seals. He pulls out a walkie-talkie. “Matthew, the angel has landed. Maintain the perimeter.”

  He turns to the others, seeming to take inventory. He spreads his arms over the glowing lights and sweeping radar beams of the console. “Ah, the splendors that I behold. Home, sweet home. Wouldn’t Daddy be proud?”

  -23-

  The Unstable Boy

  Jack Jericho listens to the rhythm of water dripping from the drain into the sump. He is hunched over the Launch Eject Gas Generator, up to his knees in grimy water, tending to a pump beneath the floor of the tunnel that connects the missile silo to the launch control capsule. Twisting a monkey wrench against a stubborn valve, his hand slips and the wrench clangs off the tubing and slams into his knee.

  “Dammit and little chickens!” He rubs the knee and hops on one foot, splashing through the sump. When the pain eases, he returns to the valve, tightens the wrench, and uses two hands to lever it open. In a moment, the pump is primed, and water begins flushing down the pipes and out of the sump. Bent at the waist in the low channel, Jericho heads toward the silo. “Now, Susan,” he says to himself, “I mean, Dr. Burns. Don’t judge a book by its cover.” He stops, takes the measure of his own words. “No. Stupid and defensive. A total cliché.”

  He resumes walking, splashing through the draining water. “I’ve got potential, Susan. Yessir, I was named ‘best fly fisherman’ in the Sinkhole Senior class. He keeps moving but shakes his head. “No. Sounds like I’m bragging.”

  Unseen by Jack Jericho, three of Brother David’s commandos head through the tunnel connecting the launch control capsule to the silo. They are unaware that beneath the steel flooring under their feet, the sergeant walks through the drainage sump. Instead of proceeding down the tunnel to the silo, the commandos turn right and enter the cramped Sleeping Quarters/Galley. In the event of nuclear attack, the underground facility can house a dozen men as long as they don’t all need to sleep at the same time. Six bunks are crammed into the small space along with a small galley and canned provisions.

  The commandos enter with rifles ready. They scan the room, find it empty, then head back into the tunnel.

  In the drainage sump, Jack Jericho turns left and heads toward a ladder just beneath the Launch Equipment Room. “So doc,” he says to himself, “maybe we could grab a buffalo burger at the Old Wrangler Tavern sometime. When? Oh, anytime you want. As Thoreau wrote, ‘time is but the stream I go a-fishing in.’” Again he shakes his head, “No. Don’t put on airs. Besides, she’s probably a vegetarian.”

  The commandos cross the tunnel and enter the Launch Equipment Room. Guns at the ready, one man to a row, they search between the floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with electrical equipment, tubing, and spare parts. The youngest commando, Daniel, a round-faced nineteen-year-old towhead, walks down a row of shelves filled with radio gear, passing over a grate in the floor. Beneath him in the drainage sump, Jack Jericho does not notice the shadow pass over his head. Jericho squeezes between two floor-mounted pumps as he climbs onto an orange steel ladder set into the wall. As he climbs onto the first rung, his tool belt swings loose, and a stud driver clinks against a pipe.

  Above him, Daniel hears the noise and whirls around. Nothing.

  Daniel turns back and slowly in front of him, a steel grate is lifting from the floor. Keeping quiet now, nervously moistening his lips, letting the man get out of the grate, his back turned.

  Jack Jericho hoists himself from the opening, turns and stares into the barrel of an assault rifle. “What the hell!”

  Daniel pulls the trigger, but the gun doesn’t fire. He fumbles with the safety, which had been left engaged.

  Jericho leaps down through the open grate, bangs into the ladder and plunges roughly into the black water of the sump. He gets to his feet and scrambles crab-like down the sump as a burst of automatic weapons fire comes through the open grate and ricochets behind him.

  In the Equipment Room, the other two commandos race into the row where Daniel stands, firing into the darkness below. “Down there!” he yells. “I think I winged him.”

  The older commandos look at him skeptically, then climb down the ladder into the sump.

  Jack Jericho stomps wildly through the knee-deep water as if he were pulverizing grapes. Arms flailing, heart pumping, adrenaline in overdrive. That dreaded feeling, running away. The only difference is that here, there is no one to save but himself. He ducks under low-hanging pipes, wades out of the drainage area, then stops to listen. Splashes and shouts behind him.

  Jericho moves agai
n, scuttling along in the channel. He stops and crawls into a nest of tubing. He waits a moment, listens to a scratching sound, looks up and sees a brown rat scurrying across some PVC piping. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the ferret, and points toward the rat. “Go fetch, Ike.” The ferret scampers up the pipe and disappears.

  Jericho goes deeper into the recess of the channel behind the tubing. He comes to a bank of electrical boxes, opens one and tears out a handful of wires. The yellow bulbs of the channel go dark.

  In the overwhelming blackness, the sound of the pumps seems louder. He hears something, cocks his head to listen like a deer in the woods, but the commandos behind him have stopped, at least for the moment. Again, the sound, what is it? A wail, and then a scream. He is back in the mine, the men calling to him, their hands groping for him, bloody with desperation to drag him down. He shakes off the vision as well as the urge to simply curl up in the web of piping and hide.

  He starts up again. His eyes do not become adjusted to the darkness because it is total blackness, just as it was in the mine. Still, he knows the way, knows when to duck under low-hanging pipes, knows where the channel forks into two paths. He keeps moving, trying not to splash.

  Behind him, flashlights click on, shooting beams down the narrow channel. Damn. Jericho takes the right-hand fork and disappears into the shroud of darkness.

  * * *

  In the launch control capsule, Brother David settles his gaze on Susan. “Who, pray tell, are you?”

  “Susan Burns. Dr. Burns. I’m a psychiatrist.”

  David’s eyes light up. “Oh, how fitting. Perhaps later we can play some games.”

  Rachel turns to him. “David, there is no time for self indulgence.”

  He ignores her and says to Susan Burns, “I’m particularly fond of ‘Name that Neurosis.’”

  “Neurosis? Just a preliminary diagnosis, but if I had to guess, I’d say we’re into major psychosis here.”