by Paul Levine
“Oh shit!” The colonel turns to the sergeant. “Is 47-Q still hot?”
“Yes, sir. Dismantling scheduled for next week.”
“Oh, holy shitcakes!” Colonel Farris hurries to a computer console where a civilian technician sits, wearing a headset. “What’s the target data for 47-Q?”
“Right now, just some icebergs in the Arctic Ocean,” the technician replies. “Once the PLC is entered, of course, it’ll revert to wherever they were targeted before the thaw with the Russians.”
“Which is where? the colonel says, impatiently.
The technician punches some keys, and the wall screens blink again, this time with a map of the world as seen from above the arctic circle. Every few seconds, a dotted line tracks slowly from Wyoming over the North Pole to Moscow where it hits a cross-hatched bullseye. BLINK, the screen switches to a street grid of Moscow and its surroundings with pulsating crosses at the ten target sites for the multiple warheads. A sound comes from deep inside Colonel Farris, the moan of a sick cow. He hurries back to his desk and picks up a red phone. “General Corrigan,” the colonel says, when the phone is answered. “We’ve got a problem here.”
* * *
In the launch control capsule, James merrily punches keys on the console’s computer. “I’ll bet we’ve got their attention.”
David nods. “Do you have the target coordinates?”
“Right down to the last minute and second.”
David is quiet a moment.
“What are you thinking?” James asks.
“My father. I want him to know.”
James laughs. “Oh, he’ll know. It’ll be in all the papers.”
“He has to know it was me.”
James isn’t looking at him. He is typing a series of six-digit codes very carefully, watching his fingers hit the keys. “Who the hell else could it be?” he asks his lifelong friend.
* * *
In the STRATCOM War Room, the pace quickens. Technicians and crisis teams scurry around the cavernous facility, scrambling up and down metal ladders to a surrounding catwalk. The room is a three-story amphitheater with the computers and tracking stations on the first floor, offices and conferences rooms above. Dominating the room is the twenty-five foot high Big Board.
Air Force officers huddle around General Hugh Corrigan, his chest bedecked with medals, his silver hair cropped close. Colonel Farris stands off to one side as Clay Hurtgen, an FBI agent in a grey suit, briefs the general.
“For now, we’re calling them, ‘Morning Star,’” the FBI agent says.
“Who the hell are they?” the general demands.
“No one knows. The name doesn’t cross reference with anything in our computers. CIA’s come up blank. We’re working on it.”
Which does not seem to satisfy the general. “What do they want?”
“Nothing yet,” Agent Hurtgen replies. “No demands, no threats. Just the one-sentence teletype message.”
“‘Behold, I bring you the Morning Star,’” the general says, as if repeating the phrase aloud will decipher it.
Colonel Farris clears his throat. “Maybe it has something to do with television, sir.”
An army of heads swivel his way, tennis gallery style.
“I mean, like a morning television star, or something.”
“Did the Pentagon notify the White House?” the general asks.
“Yes, sir. The President’s Chief of Staff wants updates every fifteen minutes.”
General Corrigan glances at his watch and starts to walk away from the circle of men. “Tell him at 14:30 hours, Rocky Mountain Time, the general took a piss.”
“Yes, sir,” the aide says. “He wanted you to know that they’re notifying the Russians. I assured him that, other than political embarrassment, there’s no chance of…”
A klaxon horn blares.
Lights flash.
The general stops short. His bladder can wait.
Heads turn toward the wall screens where a series of alpha-numeric combinations flash by followed by computer directories and hundreds of pages of files, each page flicking into view for a fraction of a second. The general reads the directory titles aloud, “Silo blueprints, electrical grids, command data buffers, target coordinates, enable codes, prepatory launch commands, abort codes, warhead configurations. Who the hell’s inputting that?”
Technical Sergeant Ryder, sitting at a computer console, watches his monitor, then answers. “Capsule 47-Q, sir. It’s coming from Morning Star.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” the general says.
* * *
In the launch control capsule, James works at the computer keyboard. On his monitor, the same data flashes by as in the STRATCOM War Room. He hits a key, and the words, “Target Coordinates,” freeze on the monitor screen. He carefully punches in six sets of two-digit combinations.
* * *
In the STRATCOM War Room, the screen comes to life with two sets of numbers: 32-28-15 and 35-01-13. Then, flickering below the numbers, the words, “Command Data Buffer Activated.”
“I can’t believe it,” Colonel Farris cries out.
“Now what?” General Corrigan fumes.
“Morning Star’s changed the target coordinates,” the colonel replies.
“That’s no surprise, Frank. If they know what they’re doing, they’re not going to try and launch into the ocean. They’ve got the PLC in the red box, so we expected them to enter it.”
“But that would be Moscow,” the colonel says. “This isn’t Moscow. It’s…”
The screen goes blank. Then, slowly, the words scroll down. “MK WARHEAD, MIRV 1: NORTH LATITUDE 32 DEGREES, 28 MINUTES, 15 SECONDS; EAST LONGITUDE 35 DEGREES, 1 MINUTE, 13 SECONDS.”
“How’s your geography?” the general asks Col. Farris.
“Somewhere north of the equator, east of…” He studies the numbers a moment, and just as a map of Africa comes on the screen, he says, “The Middle East.”
The map is replaced by a smaller area, the eastern Mediterranean from Libya on the west to Iran on the East. The screen blinks, and now the map zooms in: Egypt, Israel and Saudi Arabia. Another blink, a closer look, and it’s Israel alone. Finally, a flash, and a city street grid appears on the screen.
“Jerusalem,” Col. Farris says, in disbelief.
-27-
Peace is Our Profession
In the launch control capsule, David watches James work at the computer. On the monitor, the number “6” appears, pulsing once a second.
“Ah, here she comes,” David says. “A six.” He turns to Susan Burns, who stares at the monitor in horror. “Six is the point. Who wants to lay their money on the pass line?”
Susan doesn’t say a word.
“No crap shooters here, James my man. Roll ‘em.”
The number “8” flickers to life on the monitor, joining the “6.”
David smiles at the sight of the two numbers. “Keep on rolling, James.”
Next, the letter “B.”
“There goes our craps game,” David says. “Maybe we can play scrabble.”
“Numbers or letters, it’s all the same to me,” James says. An “A” joins the alpha-numeric combination on the screen.
“It was Daddy’s idea to complicate the code. Six spaces to be filled by one of nine numbers or twenty-six letters. What’s the possible number of combinations?”
“About 1.8 billion,” James says.
A “3” joins the pulsing numbers on the monitor
“Won’t be long now.”
“How?” Susan Burns asks, shaking her head. “How did you get the enable code?”
David gives her a small smile. “Between Billy’s inside information, James’ computer genius, and my familiarity with every missile from the Atlas to the Peacekeeper, how could we not?”
“Among,” James says.
“What?”
“You gave three indicia. The word is ‘among,’ not ‘between.’”
An “A” pop
s up on the screen.
“Among other things,” David says, “we’re just a lot smarter than the folks in Omaha, Cheyenne Mountain, and Washington.”
As David gloats, James unfolds a laptop computer and inserts a cable coming out of its port into a plug on the deputy’s console. James turns on the computer and begins entering a series of letters and numbers. “Time to fool the missile,” he says.
* * *
General Hugh Corrigan sits at a desk wondering why he turned down a chance to be commandant at the Air Force Academy. A graduate of the Academy, fighter pilot in Vietnam and later commander of the 21st Tactical Fighter Training Squadron, he was assigned to Air Force Space Command as a colonel when it was created in 1982. In typical military fashion, he paid his dues with a variety of other assignments, including a stint at the Pentagon, another at NORAD, and finally commanding the 379th Bomb Wing during the Persian Gulf War. From a Saudi Arabian airfield dubbed “Club Jed” by the Americans, Corrigan directed massive strikes by B-52 Stratofortresses against Iraq’s Republican Guard in northwestern Kuwait. There were 523,000 American military personnel in the Persian Gulf, but none were more important than Corrigan’s B-52 crews.
After the war, Corrigan had his choice, commandant of the Academy or commander of STRATCOM. Either way, he’d be flying a desk, so he chose the job that put him in charge of all ICBM operations. At this precise moment, he knows, there is an ICBM missile operation that is operating quite nicely, thank you, without any input from him whatsoever.
A flashing red light casts an eerie glow over the STRATCOM War Room. At a heartbeat pace, the light illuminates a sign on the back wall, “Peace is our Profession.” The old slogan of the Strategic Air Command. There is no more SAC. With reorganization came U.S. Strategic Command and Air Force Space Command. Still, General Corrigan considers himself a SAC warrior.
“The intrusion is a nuisance,” Colonel Farris says, “but that’s all. It takes a second capsule to confirm the launch command, and without—”
“General, sir!” It’s Technical Sergeant Ryder, angrily banging keys on his computer. “They’re looping the enable code through a second computer and sending dual messages to the missile. The MGCS thinks the enable code’s being confirmed by another capsule.”
On the front screen, the code “6-8-B-A-3” pulses. The number “7” is added, and the code stops pulsing.
Beneath the six digits, a message flashes, “Enable Code Entered.”
A buzzer sounds.
A second message, “Enable Code Confirmed.”
Pandemonium.
The technicians bang away at their keyboards.
Air Force officers babble away on satellite hookups to Washington.
Digital launch information flashes by on the screen, the numbers streaking too fast to comprehend. From somewhere in the equipment comes the soothing female voice of the computer: “Launch order confirmed. Confidence is high.”
General Corrigan doesn’t flinch. He figured it was coming. Turning to Sergeant Ryder, he says, “Activate command launch inhibitor.”
“Yes, sir.”
The sergeant frantically pounds his keyboard, grimaces when nothing happens, then tries it again. The wall screen flashes the message: “Launch inhibitor access denied.”
“I can’t get in,” the sergeant says, his voice breaking. “The bastard’s just stolen our missile.”
General Corrigan is ashen, but his voice is steady. Turning to Colonel Farris, he says, “Get me the President.”
-28-
Double Fail-Safe
Jack Jericho slogs through the shallow water of the sump, pauses and listens. No sounds other than the thumpa-thumpa of the pumps. He had taken a fork in the channel and lost them. Now confused and afraid, he thinks about these warriors of God. At first, he tells himself, it could just be a protest against nuclear weapons. Take a missile hostage, get some TV coverage, call it a day. Like the environmental groups that chain themselves to trees to stop the loggers. But these guys tried to kill him, and that’s a step or two beyond paying your dues to Greenpeace.
He thinks about Jim Jones and David Koresh and that loon in Switzerland, what was his name? The guy with the Order of the Solar Temple, which sounded like a “Star Trek” episode. He knows that if armed men are in the silo, Security Command has been overrun, and he wonders if all the bases of the 318th are under attack. Wonders, too, if the invaders have laid siege to the launch control capsule.
He starts moving again, stopping only when he gets to a red box labeled, “Emergency Phone.” He opens the box and grabs the phone. It rings immediately, an open line to the launch control capsule.
* * *
David and James sit in the flight chairs at the console. Rachel leans over David, a hand on each shoulder.
“Time to sound the trumpets,” David says.
“For His glory,” Rachel says.
“Show time, baby!” James cries out.
A red telephone on the console rings.
“That’s an internal line, isn’t it?” David asks, turning toward Owens, who sits, handcuffed by the rear wall.
The phone rings again.
“Isn’t it!” he demands.
“Yeah.”
David gestures toward Gabriel who lifts Owens to his feet and drags him to the console. “Find out who he is and where he is,” David says. “Be a good soldier, and you’ll get an airmanship medal.”
David hits a button, putting the phone on a speaker, and Owens answers. “Launch control, Lieutenant Owens.”
“Lieutenant, thank God it’s you.”
“Identify yourself.”
“It’s Jericho. We’re under attack! Get Air Cav in here, get Special Forces!”
Owens shoots a look toward Gabriel who pokes the barrel of his rifle at him.
“Five by five, Jericho. State your location.”
“Lieutenant, are you listening? We’re under attack. Keep the blast door sealed. Call in the fucking cavalry!”
“Affirmative. State your location, Sir.”
In the sump, Jericho pulls the phone away from his ear, stares at it, then slams it down.
In the capsule, David furiously back-hands Owens across the face. “Sir! Sir?” He hits him again, and blood seeps from Owens’ lip. “When did the Sergeant get a promotion?”
* * *
If ignorance is bliss, Captain Pete Pukowlski is the happiest man in the United States Air Force. Seated in the galley, just off the tunnel from the launch control capsule to the silo, he is drinking a beer and entertaining the U.N. Nuclear Non-Proliferation Commission. “I would have brought in some wine for you fellows if I thought of it,” he says, nodding toward the French ambassador. “Not that I care for it myself. That red stuff gives me a headache and makes my piss smell like crankcase oil.”
The French ambassador winces and sips at his beer. Pukowlski has set out a plate of pretzels and some onion dip in a metal container he picked up at a gas station/convenience store outside of town. None of the ambassadors seems anxious to try the dip, though the Englishman picks up the container to read the ingredients, most of which sound like experiments in a high-school chemistry class.
“Precisely when will this facility be closed?” the French ambassador asks.
“A week from today. Ain’t that something? My bird’s an endangered species. Soon, they’ll be planting daisies right over our heads.”
“And the warheads?” the Israeli ambassador asks.
“Dismantled, then shipped to a plant near Amarillo where they’ll dilute the uranium and plutonium. All the technology and energy consumed to enrich the stuff in the first place, and then they just turn around and reverse it. Kinda seems like a waste, don’t it?”
“And after it’s diluted?” the Englishman asks, letting the question hang there.
“They ship it to nuclear power plants. In a few months, what had been the heart of the warhead will be powering some electric dildo.”
The ambassadors snick
er. “I believe those are battery operated,” the Englishman says.
“You oughta know,” Pukowlski says, draining his beer.
* * *
Billy and James hold the two launch keys. The console is alive with flashing lights and digital displays. The computerized female voice is as calm as ever. “Launch mode yellow. Confidence is high.”
“Let’s take it from the top,” David says. “Read’em out.”
“Six, Eight, Beta, Alpha, Three, Seven,” James says, nearly singing.
“I agree. Those are good values,” David says, and James turns thumbwheels on his console, entering each number and letter.
“Down and lock,” James says, hitting the switch labeled “initiate.” Immediately, the computer begins printing out a continuous roll of paper covered with numerical codes.
“Plick switch,” David says, referring to the Preparatory Launch Command.
“Foxtrot, Nine, Papa, Four,” James calls back.
“Numbers good,” David says, and James enters “F-9-P-4” on another set of thumbwheels.
“Flight switch on, launcher on, enable on,” David says, checking his board, as new lights flash on. Time and target complete. Insert keys.”
Simultaneously, David and James tear off plastic flaps covering key holes on the console. Behind them, Rachel stands, her dark eyes shining with excitement. Susan Burns and Owens sit, back to back, their hands cuffed together, their faces reflecting their fear.
“Key inserted,” James says.
