by Paul Levine
David, eyes closed, begins chanting. “I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. Who is and who was. And I bring you the Morning Star.”
-58-
Friendly Fire
A blizzard of information flashes across the Big Board: air speed, altitude, fusing and firing system checks, and detonation time. It is the same readout the Board would show if the MIRV’s were on ballistic descent to their targets. The computer’s voice calmly recites, “Initial air burst in two minutes.”
General Corrigan and Colonel Farris watch the display in silence until the colonel speaks, “The good news, sir, is that if we were going to have a nuclear incident anywhere in this country, Wyoming’s about the best place.”
“What?”
“I’ve been on the horn to the Pentagon,” the colonel says, “and it’s generally agreed we can handle this. National Guard and Red Cross are being alerted, of course, but official policy will be to downplay the nuclear incident.”
“Downplay ten nuclear explosions, each one seventeen times more powerful than the Hiroshima bomb?”
“Well, you gotta look at the bright side.” The colonel stops and lets out a little laugh. “No pun intended. There aren’t half a million people in the whole state. The official spin is to regard the incident as an unfortunate military accident, sort of like friendly fire.”
“Jesus H. Christ.”
“Maybe we’ll vaporize some trees, and you’re not going to eat the trout for a hundred years, but in terms of what could have happened, it’s not that bad. That’s our stance with the press, so the anti-nuke crowd doesn’t use this as an excuse to plant flowers in the silos we still have left. I mean, sir, we don’t want…”
Colonel Farris looks up and notices that the general has walked away, leaving him alone.
* * *
The bolt will not move, so Jericho uses the knife to pry open the plate covering the computer box. There is a moment when he thinks the blade will break, but it does not. He gets leverage, then slides the plate around the fulcrum created by the remaining bolt. Inside Jericho sees a tangle of wires and electronic gizmos. The clickety-click seems louder, faster. He has no idea what to do.
The missile collides with a boulder, and Jericho nearly falls off. Regaining his balance, he looks downstream. He hears the rush of cascading water, and just ahead, the river seems to stop well in advance of the horizon.
“It must be a glorious sight,” David says. “Can you see it, Jericho? Can you see the falls?”
“The what?”
But then he knows. Jericho had climbed Chugwater Cliffs. Three hundred feet nearly straight up. Rock climbing in summer, ice climbing in winter. Before the Corps of Engineers built the dam, it was a towering waterfalls. And it is again. What was it Kenosha said? “In the end, the earth will prevail.”
Jericho takes a breath and jams his hand inside the computer box, ripping out a trail of wires, chips and plugs. A series of pops and sizzles. He reaches in with both hands and struggles to pull the computer out of its compartment. Getting to his feet, Jericho raises the computer high above his head. Standing there, the missile revolving in the water like a giant tree trunk, Jericho is struck by notion buried deep in his unconscious, an image from his childhood. He remembers a picture on the wall of the First Lutheran Church back home, Moses with the tablets of the Law held high over his head. Moses had come down from the mountain with the Lord’s commandments and found the Hebrews worshiping the golden calf. They had broken their covenant with God, and Moses was pissed.
But the computer is not the voice of God, Jericho thinks, hurling it into the river where it floats for a moment before disappearing from view.
* * *
General Corrigan and his staff watch the Big Board as the seconds tick down. The computer speaks in that irritating, calm voice, “Altitude thirty thousand feet. Air burst in…”
The voice goes silent.
A message flashes on the board. “Firing system disabled. Warheads disarmed.”
The officers have been on a roller coaster too long. They cannot celebrate. Some are dubious. General Corrigan turns to a technician. “Can you confirm—”
As if to reassure the brass, the computerized voice says, “Detonation aborted. Detonation aborted.”
The technician simply says, “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
Finally convinced the crisis is over, the officers slap each other’s shoulders and whoop it up. A football team after a win. Someone passes out cigars as if a baby has been born.
In the center of the celebration a somber General Corrigan turns to Professor Morton.
“Thank God,” Corrigan says.
“Amen,” Morton adds.
* * *
The waterfalls rumble like an angry god. The missile spins one hundred eighty degrees in a whirlpool, heads backward toward the precipice, then straightens itself and continues at even greater speed. David lies on his back, barely conscious, barely alive.
“It’s all over,” Jericho tells him. “The bomb is dead.”
David’s voice is barely audible. “Then I shall carry it unto the Lord.”
“He doesn’t want you. Either damn one of you.”
David’s lifeless eyes close and his head drops to the side. Jericho gives him one last look, then dives into the river. He tries to swim to shore, fifty yards away, but the current is too strong. Losing strength, he’s swept toward the waterfalls alongside the missile. Dangerously close to the edge, Jericho struggles futilely against the raging current. He tries to grab onto a boulder rising out of the water but is swept past it. A large tree limb comes by. He grabs at it and misses. No matter. It would only carry him over the falls. The water pushes him under and brings him back up again.
He is past fatigue, beyond exhaustion. He is at the point of giving up, of accepting the pain that is brief, the darkness that is forever. Or is it? In these last seconds, he thinks about his own beliefs. He has tried to be a decent man, to do as much good and inflict as little damage along the path of life as possible. He believes in God and in a hereafter. God who made this stream and the men who drink from it. He remembers the incredible beauty of the sun rising over Devil’s Tower and knows now that it is misnamed. God made the Black Hills and the Belle Fourche Valley and the volcano that became the stark, unearthly tower. God made the prairie dogs and porcupines, the golden eagles and mountain bluebirds. God made me, too, Jericho thinks. And he is ready to go home.
He stops kicking and his arms, heavy as pine logs, drop to his side. He turns over on his back, squints against the morning sun, and lets the raging water carry him on.
A shadow passes over him, and he opens his eyes.
A strong hand reaches down and grabs him under one shoulder. Jericho does not have the strength to either help or resist. He lets himself be picked up and hauled over the side of a dugout canoe where he coughs water out of his lungs, then deeply inhales the sweet air. He looks up to see Kenosha, bare-chested, paddling with powerful strokes, propelling the canoe toward the river bank.
Jericho hauls himself up and looks toward the falls. He catches a last glimpse of the grotesque manmade beast of metal, fuel, and cataclysmic power as it sails over the falls and disappears in a sea of foam, swallowed up by the eternal forces of nature, by the Earth itself.
-59-
One Final Ghost
The sun is high in the blue Wyoming sky, and Base Camp Alpha swarms with suits.
State Department flunkies sip bottled water and tend to the freed ambassadors, toting food from a catering truck commandeered from a movie set in the Black Hills. No M.R.E.’s for the diplomats.
Gleaming trucks with huge satellite dishes are in place, network news crews dropping in by helicopter. Reporters jockey for position in front of the command tent, waiting for a glimpse of Colonel Zwick and Captain Clancy, already anointed as the brains and brawn of Operation Peacekeeper.
The armor is moving out, raising a racket, to the consternation of the TV reporters who ar
e doing their stand-ups in front of Abrams tanks that won’t stand still or be quiet. Medics patch up wounded soldiers, and the F.B.I. hauls off Rachel, James and the few surviving commandos in shackles.
Jack Jericho stands alone, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. He sips coffee and seems at peace with the world, if a bit removed from it. There are too many thoughts to sort out just now. He thinks of his father and his brother, and for once, the thoughts do not bring anguish. Strange, random memories come to him. He remembers catching his first trout, his father helping him clean the fish, then cooking it over an open fire. Has anything ever tasted so good? He remembers wrestling with his brother in a field of freshly mowed hay. He remembers the coal mine, too, but the feeling is different, now. There is a sadness, but it is a sadness without pain. He thinks of the memorial outside the collapsed shaft that was erected by the union. Twenty-seven names are inscribed on a bronze plaque.
Jericho has never seen the memorial. He never went back to the mine after that day. Now, he is swept by a desire to lay his hands on the plaque, to run his fingers over the letters of his father’s name, his brother’s name. Now, he can do it. He must do it.
Suddenly, Elizabeth, the little girl in pigtails, skips away from a pack of soldiers and rushes toward Jericho. She waves her plastic wand, and a trail of crystalline bubbles floats above her in the breeze. “Will you still be my friend?” she asks.
“Always,” Jericho answers, smiling. A female lieutenant comes over and takes Elizabeth by the hand. Jericho waves good-bye.
Though he does not hear the footsteps behind him, Jericho senses movement. Turning, he sees Kenosha approach. The two men stand there a moment without speaking. Their understanding and care for each other transcends language. “You have changed, Jack,” Kenosha finally says.
Jericho nods. “You have helped me learn.”
“It wasn’t me. It was you. You listened to the voices of the spirits.”
“And now it’s time to go home, Kenosha. I can do it now.”
“Then go, my friend.”
“Not without words of wisdom from your ancestors.”
Kenosha seems to think about it. “Be cautious, my friend.”
“Cautious?”
“Speed traps on Interstate 80. The troopers in Nebraska are the worst.”
Jericho laughs. He hugs his friend. “Now that you’ve saved my life, aren’t you responsible for me forever? I’ve seen that in the Westerns. Isn’t it an old Indian custom that—”
“You were swimming, and I gave you a lift to shore,” Kenosha says. He turns to leave. Several yards away, his golden palomino waits in front of the command tent. “Besides,” Kenosha says, turning back, “you’d be too damn much trouble.” He mounts the palomino and rides off.
Colonel Henry Zwick and Captain Kyle Clancy come walking out of the tent, a cluster of reporters in tow. Zwick stops and jabs his pipe in Jericho’s direction. “Now, there’s the airman you should interview,” the colonel says. “Sergeant Jack Jericho is either going to get court-martialed or win the Medal of Honor.” He turns to Clancy. “Isn’t that right Captain?”
Clancy looks Jericho up and down. “He’s doesn’t follow orders, but he’s got brass balls.”
“Captain, I didn’t get a chance to thank you,” Jericho says. “You saved my life.”
Clancy cracks a crooked grin. “What makes you think I was aiming at him?”
Jericho smiles back and snaps off a salute. Reporters bombard the colonel and the captain with more questions as they walk away. Alone now, Jericho walks slowly toward the flowing river.
“Ser-geant!”
He knows that insistent, bellowing voice. Turning, Jericho sees Captain Pete Pukowlski.
“Sergeant, you’re out of uniform.”
“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.” Jericho salutes again, a new record, two in one day.
“The hell it won’t. You’ll probably be on CNN wearing one of those Eye-talian suits, telling everybody how you saved the world.” For once, Pukowlski’s tone is laced with humor.
“I’ll tell them I owe everything to my captain’s rigorous training.”
“Damn right you do.” Pukowlski returns the salute. “You’re a shitty airman, Jericho.”
“Yes, sir. I know.”
“But you’re a helluva man.”
Without another word, Pukowlski turns and leaves.
It takes Jericho several minutes to work his way from the camp to the shore of the river. Coming down the embankment, he sees Dr. Susan Burns, standing alone, looking across the water that flows through what had been the 318th Missile Squadron. She is pale, and her face is bruised where David struck her. For an awkward moment, they stand wordlessly, watching the river, now flowing peacefully through the rugged landscape. On the other shore, an elk cautiously approaches the water, eying them. They don’t move, and the elk begins drinking from an eddy at the shoreline.
“I came back for you,” Jericho says. “I mean, I tried to come back. I wasn’t going to leave you there.”
“I know. Everyone knows.”
“It’s not that I’m a hero or anything. I had to do it. Even if I wanted to run, I…”
Susan Burns steps close to him and touches a finger to his lips, hushing him. “Thank you, Jack. Thank you for everything.” She puts a hand around his neck and pulls him down. She is waiting with parted lips.
He holds her in his arms, and they kiss until he feels warm tears tracking from her face to his. At last Jericho pulls back and says, “If it hadn’t been for you, I never would…”
She silences him again with another kiss. When they separate this time, she says, “Where will you go now?”
“Back to West Virginia. Lay one final ghost to rest.”
Across the river, the elk feeds at a clump of berries.
Susan gives Jericho a hug, then one last lingering kiss, the best of the three. “Washington’s just down the road. Maybe you’ll visit.”
He tenderly wipes a tear from her eye. “I will. I promise.”
He wraps an arm around her and they turn toward the resurrected river, just as a trout leaps from the water, glinting silver in the sun.
AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD
If you enjoyed the high suspense and heart-stopping thrills of “Ballistic,” please try some of my other bestselling sizzlers. “To Speak for the Dead,” “Riptide,” and “Impact” are all number one bestselling Kindle thrillers. “The Road to Hell” is a number one bestselling short-story anthology, which is being offered for a short time at 99 cents for the entire compilation.
TO SPEAK FOR THE DEAD
A doctor in love with his patient’s wife…
A fatal mistake during surgery…
Accident? Malpractice? Or murder?
The first of the award-winning Jake Lassiter series, the legal thriller “To Speak for the Dead” begins with the linebacker-turned-lawyer defending a surgeon in a malpractice case. Soon Jake begins to suspect that his client is innocent of negligence…but guilty of murder. Add a sexy widow, a deadly drug, and a grave robbery to the stew, and you have the recipe for Miami’s trial of the century.
(All author proceeds go to the Four Diamonds Fund for pediatric cancer treatment at Hershey Children’s Hospital).
“Move over Scott Turow. ‘To Speak for the Dead’ is courtroom drama at its very best.” – Larry King, USA TODAY
“Two parts John Grisham, one part Carl Hiaasen.” — Tulsa World
Sample or purchase from Amazon here: bit.ly/pH4Pel
RIPTIDE
Jake Lassiter chases a beautiful, deadly woman and $2 million in stolen bonds from Miami to Maui, where in an explosive finale, he learns lessons never taught on the football field or the courtroom.
“One part John Grisham, two parts Carl Hiaasen.” – Tulsa World
“A thriller as fast as the wind.” – Tampa Tribune
Sample or purchase from Amazon here: bit.ly/qgkAkR
IMPACT
Jetl
iner Crashes in the Everglades.
A Billion-Dollar Lawsuit: Negligence or Terrorism?
The Defense: Kill Anyone, Even a Supreme Court Justice, to Win the Case.
Supreme Court Justice Sam Truitt takes the bench with high ideals, lofty intentions…and a troubled marriage. If Lisa Fremont, his stunning and brilliant law clerk, doesn’t get Truitt’s vote in case involving a catastrophic airplane crash, she and her boss will be killed. IMPACT is a tale of seduction and betrayal, of passion and greed. Truitt, who has always followed the rules, and Lisa, who never has, join together to battle those who live by no law at all.
“A relentlessly entertaining summer read.” – New York Daily News
“A breakout book, highly readable and fun.” – USA Today
Sample or purchase at Amazon here: bit.ly/nUJGZs
THE ROAD TO HELL
A Kindle 99-cent special.
Four thrilling short stories: “Solomon & Lord: To Hell and Back,” “Development Hell,” “A Hell of a Crime,” and “El Valiente en el Infierno.”
The heroes of these tales travel dark and dangerous paths as they confront devilish and powerful villains. The journeys are by land, by sea, and in one case, perhaps only in the mind. A hellishly good read!
Sample or purchase here: bit.ly/pZRFjy
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