by Paul Levine
Dangling on a rope, a man has a wrench attached to the nose cone computer box.
The sergeant!
The maintenance man.
Like the beggar Lazarus, rising from the dead.
“I knew he’d come back,” Susan Burns says from her position at the back wall.
“You knew nothing!” David yells.
“He wanted to change. You gave him the chance.”
“I gave him the chance to die. Now I will have to help him.” David grabs a headset and an Uzi and turns to Rachel. “Launch the instant you have the second key.”
“But what if you are in the silo?”
“Launch!”
Watching him go, Rachel has tears in her eyes.
* * *
In black watch caps and darkened faces, the Green Berets and Rangers are slipping into their harnesses, which fit uneasily over their Kevlar armored vests. Each man is responsible for his own rope, assault rifle, gas mask and saw-toothed knife. They are thirsting for the chance to go down that hole.
It’s what they’ve trained for. To save their country. And the world.
The Rangers are famed as assault troops. The product of intense, dangerous training, they are among the world’s best fighting men and truly believe the mystique that goes with the Ranger creed: “I accept the fact that as a Ranger my country expects me to move further, faster and fight harder than any other soldier. Never shall I fail my comrades.”
The Green Berets trace their history to the early 1950’s when eight-man “A-Teams” were trained to fight the Russians behind enemy lines in the event of World War III. Today, they undergo grueling training and are experts in raids, reconnaissance, ambushes and sabotage.
The lieutenant knows it’s a death trap. Bodies will be stacked like cord wood at the bottom of the shaft. They’ll be the only cover for the men who come after them. He hears Colonel Zwick’s raspy voice through the headphones. “Son, you gotta get your men down that shaft. Jackal’s stuck on top the mountain.”
“I could divert half my men to the silo,” the lieutenant says. “Divide the enemy force in the hole.”
“Too late. That’s low ground, under water now, and not passable. Not even the SEALs could get down there.”
* * *
Jack Jericho is not a Navy SEAL, Army Ranger or Green Beret. At this moment, he could be a window washer on a high-rise skyscraper. Except his rope is looped through a clip on his tool belt and wrapped twice around his waist – wrapped so tightly he thinks a boa constrictor has chosen him for a mate – and a waterfall pours over him from above. But he’s not washing windows. He’s performing a lobotomy on a nuclear missile.
Jericho has two of the recessed bolts out of the computer box. It is not easy work. The wrench does not fit perfectly and keeps slipping off. His hands are wet, and his arms are dead. He tugs hard on the third bolt. Tighter than the first two. He places both hands at the end of the wrench handle for additional purchase and puts all his weight behind it. The wrench slips, Jericho loses his balance and dangles precariously over the silo floor. He reaches up, steadies himself on the rope, then swings back to the nose cone.
He’s back at work on the third bolt when he thinks he hears a familiar sound. He stops and listens. The roar of rushing water. His own breathing. Nothing more.
But there it is again, an electrical hum that grows louder, and Jericho watches as the gantry’s work cage heads up the silo wall. He can’t see through the roof of the gantry, and Jack Jericho has never been blessed with even modest extrasensory powers. But he knows who’s there, knows it in his heart, feels it in his bones. Brother David has come to kill him.
Jericho regains his balance, gets a decent grip on the wrench, and urgently works at the third bolt. The wrench catches and the bolt comes free, Jericho dropping it into the water far below. The gantry has not even come to a stop when David fires a burst of 9 mm. shells from the Uzi. He aims for Jericho’s back, the widest target, but the movement of the gantry throws him off. The Uzi shoots high, and the shells plunk into the concrete wall of the far side of the silo.
Jericho spins in his rope, a fly caught in a spider’s dangling web. Pushing off the nose cone, he spins to the other side, using the missile itself for cover.
Another burst from the Uzi, several shots pinging off the titanium shroud of the nose cone. Jericho winces as sparks fly.
The gunshots stop.
Stalemate.
David can’t shoot him, and Jericho can’t reach the computer box.
David yells over the roar of the waterfall. “You’re finally going to get your wish, maintenance man.”
Jericho stays hidden behind the nose cone, but David sprays a half-dozen shots over him anyway. “You’re going to die a hero,” David says.
-55-
Nailing It
Water pours through the grates in the floor of the silo. Not enough to keep the water level from rising under the missile, but enough to flood the sump. At an incline in the sump near the launch control capsule, the water is just below James’ waist and still rising.
James takes a deep breath and dives under the surface, holding a flashlight. Cheeks blown out like a tropical fish, he sweeps the floor with his hand, desperately reaching for the key.
Hitting it.
Knocking it farther away. Damn. Damn. Damn.
He comes up for air. Gasping. He’s in lousy shape, a condition he blames on the lack of protein in the Eden Ranch diet. Funny, thinking about food at a time like this. But that’s what is going through his mind. Things he’ll miss when he’s dead. Which won’t be long, he is sure. Steaks and crossword puzzles and jazz quartets, and the computers, of course. But not much more. James always knew what it would be like, joining Davy on this gig. The final riff. A long way from taking yokels’ money for ten minutes of mind reading.
More than any of David’s followers, James knew. Not that he considered himself a follower. Buddies, pals, best friends. Okay, so Davy was the leader, as between the two of them, but James was no born-again groupie. Since the time they were kids, he knew Davy had a gift, could see things, and that was cool. It was long ago that James attached himself to Davy like a pilot fish to a shark, and it paid off for both of them. James had no life, he’d be the first to admit. Never did. No other friends as a kid, unsure with girls, then hopeless with women.
If he had to sum it up in a bumper sticker, “Life sucks, then you die” wouldn’t be a bad slogan for his life. Might as well go up in a ball of flame. If Davy makes the cover of TIME, James figures he’ll be good enough for a sidebar around page twenty.
He takes a deep breath, goes under again, opens his eyes and sees the key. Cautiously this time, he extends a hand and grabs it. He comes up, bursting out of the water, both arms raised above his head as if he’s just won an Olympic medal. He spits out a mouthful of water that tastes of slick metal. “Read my mind, Davy. I got the key into heaven!”
Or put another way, James thinks, the key out of hell.
* * *
Gabriel watches as two commandos cautiously approach the shredded body, the top half still hanging in the dangling rope. The carcass is bloody and torn like a side of beef, but his face is still recognizable. “It’s Daniel!” one commando shouts, shrinking back in horror, both at the thought he killed his comrade and at the fate that awaits them all.
There is a plunk-plunk as two fragmentation grenades land in the blown-out elevator. The two commandos are five meters away and turn to run. But it is too late. The grenades explode, and shrapnel tears through them. The echoes of the explosion reverberate off the underground rock shelf. Another two grenades land, but these hiss and release smoke instead of hot metal. Like a rock band, the Green Berets and Rangers will make an entrance through a smoky haze.
The soldiers begin their descent down the shaft, their ropes whistling in the harnesses. They open fire with their assault rifles even before touching down, but the return barrage cuts down the first five men. Other brave men fo
llow. One is able to toss a grenade that bounces on the steel catwalk and rolls toward Gabriel’s feet. Jeptha, a young commando, dives onto it, and its explosion kills him instantly in a muffled roar. Gabriel’s men have donned gas masks and stand their ground. He turns to then, “For the glory of God! Die like men and live again as angels.”
The fire now is heavier from the Green Berets and Rangers. Using the debris as cover, several have leapt out of the blown elevator car. They return fire as more soldiers rappel down the shaft, futuristic warriors in their masks, harnesses and vests.
Fifty meters away, James rushes from the sump back toward the capsule. He hunches his shoulders and lowers his head, tortoise-like, as shells from the battle whiz past him and bury themselves in the walls. The air is thick with cordite and dust and he coughs, then winces at the deafening roar. James is just steps away from the open capsule door when a stray bullet from a soldier’s rifle catches him in the thigh. It is a clean, through-and-through shot, and it drops him to his knees. He gets up scrambles, half crawling, trying to reach the capsule. But he’s gotten turned around, and in the smoke and din from the gunfire, in the pain and shock from the wound, James is headed down the catwalk toward the battle. He looks up to see his compatriots dying as the soldiers pick them off, one-by-one. In moments, it will be over. He is disoriented, in pain, and nearly paralyzed with fear.
From somewhere, he hears his name called. Or is he imagining it? He cocks his head. There it is. Rachel’s scream, “James! James!” But so faint. He turns around, sees the light from the capsule’s open blast door. He scuttles toward it, fighting off the urge to look behind him. He has the sensation of being chased, being hunted. He staggers inside the capsule, and Rachel hits the button, closing the eight-ton door.
* * *
David leans far over the edge of the gantry, trying to get the angle. Jericho is still hidden on the far side of the nose cone. David fires off a burst, but it’s no good. If he can’t see Jericho, he can’t shoot him. “Stay where you are, sergeant!” he yells. “You’re going to get a helluva ride.”
Three bolts gone, one to go, Jericho thinks.
And time running out.
He wonders why they haven’t already launched. He knows he will be shot removing the last bolt, but wonders if he can still do it and pull out the computer before he dies.
Suddenly, Jericho swings out from behind the missile, one hand on the rope, the other hand pulling the stud driver from his tool belt. David is off balance at the gantry ledge. He raises the Uzi, but Jericho fires first with the stud driver from his tool belt. Whomp. A four-inch carbon steel nail strikes David in the abdomen.
David lurches forward, and his Uzi drops over the edge of the gantry, plunging into the water far below. Grimacing, he pulls the nail from his gut and jams it through his left palm. He glares derisively at Jack. Showing no pain. Watching the blood drip from his palm, then turning his hand over and studying the pool of blood that forms around the protruding point of the nail. “I forgive you, Jericho, for you know not what you do.”
“You’ve got a serious identity crisis, pal,” Jericho says, then swings to the front of the computer panel and goes back to work on the fourth and last bolt.
* * *
The remaining commandos fall back along the catwalk, making a last stand as they retreat to the launch control capsule. Half-a-dozen Green Berets advance, spraying 5.56 mm. fire from their lightweight Squad Automatic Weapons.
Gabriel screams at his men to fight back, and they do, even with those with multiple wounds. Gabriel is out of ammo for the assault rifle but still has a Mossberg shotgun, and the first soldier to get within twelve feet of him takes a full load in the chest.
Finally, a Ranger with a laser-sighted assault rifle lines up a pink dot squarely in the center of Gabriel’s chest. He tattoos Gabriel with four shots to the sternum and two more above the heart for good measure. Gabriel sinks to the catwalk, and the remaining commandos fight to their own deaths, except for one who puts the barrel of a rifle in his own mouth, strains to reach the trigger, then ends the pain forever.
The lieutenant with the mustache advances across the catwalk. His men are peppering the titanium blast door with small arms fire. They do no damage and run the risk of hitting themselves with ricochets. The cylindrical capsule is designed to withstand hits above ground from Russian SS-18 missiles. The idea never was to guard against terrorist takeovers, but the door is doing just fine. The lieutenant takes a quick look and signals his men to stop firing. “Okay, where the hell’s the plastique?”
* * *
Through his headset, David hears Rachel’s voice screaming. “James has been shot. Where are you David?”
“Did he get the key?”
“Yes, but the soldiers are…” Her voice trails off, and though David cannot hear the sound of gunshots from outside the soundproof capsule, he can see the Special Forces in his mind’s eye. This vision, he knows, is real. He shoots a look at Jericho, who cannot loosen the last bolt.
“Launch!” David commands her. “Launch for a new Jerusalem.”
“Not with you in there, David! Please!”
“Heed my Word.”
She clicks off and David looks back at Jericho. Then he screams, “Praise the Lord,” dashes toward the edge of the gantry and leaps into space.
* * *
Two Rangers with expertise in demolitions are stacking wads of C-4 plastique against the blast door. When the stack is waist high, one of them lets out a whistle and says, “Might cause an earthquake, but don’t know if we can peel the top of that can.” He embeds a tiny antenna into the putty-like plastique and turns to the lieutenant. “Sir, you might not want to get up close and personal with this.”
The lieutenant agrees and motions his men to take cover. As they head down the ramp toward the tunnel, they notice the rising water coming from the silo.
* * *
Jericho still works on the last bolt when he hears David’s wailing praise to the Lord and turns his head in time to see the man flying through the air, legs churning.
A second later, David slams hard into Jericho, banging his head into the nose cone. Fireworks explode behind Jericho’s eyes. David is screaming something, but Jericho cannot make out the words as a thunderstorm rages in his brain. Two hands are around his neck, choking him. One hand is impaled with the nail, and it slashes Jericho’s neck.
Jericho feels the warmth of his own blood but as his head clears, he hits David with a backward elbow strike. The elbow cracks two ribs. David winces, then cries out, “Pain, Jericho! Pain means nothing!”
“Good, ‘cause I owe you some.”
The two men exchange punches while clinging to each other. Only the rope around Jericho keeps them from plunging to the rising water below. David’s voice comes in short, pained breaths, “As written in Job, ‘The eyes of the wicked shall not escape.’”
Jericho hits him with two short rights to the gut, working on the broken ribs. David jams the heel of his hand into Jericho’s Adam’s apple, and Jericho hoarsely rasps, “As said by John, ‘I won’t be wronged. I won’t be insulted. I won’t be laid a hand on.”
“John never said such things.”
“John Wayne, dipshit.” Jericho kicks away from the missile and they swing into space, water pouring over them from above. They trade punches and swing back to the missile. David gets a hand around Jericho’s neck and slams his head backward into the nose cone. The thud echoes inside Jericho’s brain.
Now, they are wrestling, becoming entangled in the rope, twisted twice around the nose cone and themselves. Instead of one or the other falling, they are tightly bound to the missile.
David’s headset, long since torn from his head, is tangled in the rope. It crackles with static, but then a faint voice is heard by them both.
“Key turn clockwise…on my mark,” Rachel says.
-56-
Underwater
The keys are in their slots when the C-4 explodes. A concu
ssion wave roars down the tunnel and knocks half-a-dozen Green Berets to the floor, shattering their eardrums. It cracks a hundred-ton sheet of rock in the roof of the cavern, fills the tunnel with dust and sets loose a landslide of pebbles.
But it does not open the blast door.
Inside the capsule, James sits in the commander’s chair, a belt tied around his upper thigh as a makeshift tourniquet. Rachel sits in the deputy’s chair. They each hold a key in the slots twelve feet apart.
The explosion jars the capsule, which noses down at the concussion, then pops up again, its four shock absorbers, each thick as an oil drum and eight feet high, absorbing the impact. Lights flicker for an instant, then come back on.
“Key turn clockwise…on my mark,” Rachel says.
James nods. Behind them, Susan sits, shackled, watching in terror.
In the tunnel, the lieutenant angrily shouts into his radio transmitter. “Get me more Semtex, now!” He clicks off the radio. “Logistics,” he says to himself. “All war is logistics and supply.”
“Three, two, one,” Rachel counts aloud. “Rotate and hold.”
They both turn their keys.
Five seconds pass. An eternity.
“And release,” she says.
They both allow the keys to turn back. A klaxon horn honks. Lights flash.
“Kingdom come,” James says.
“Thy will be done,” Rachel adds.
Susan is out of ideas and deathly afraid. So she turns to the only resource she has left. Prayer.
