by M. Z. Kelly
“Other hand, please,” the officer said.
Caine tried to push down his surfacing panic. “I’m left-handed.”
The officer hesitated, looked at his companion, then back at Caine. “It’s calibrated for your right hand.”
Caine locked eyes with the youthful officer and shook his head. “I’ve used my left hand for all previous identification procedures.” He looked at the other officer. “If you want to check with your superiors, I’ll wait.”
The officers exchanged glances. “Go ahead,” the second officer said. “We need to get them inside.”
The first officer nodded, and Caine placed his left hand on the machine. A whirring, beeping sound immediately emanated from the scanner.
“It’s a fail,” the young officer said to his companion.
The other officer came over. “The damn thing has been acting up all week. Let’s try it again.”
Caine felt the perspiration moving down his face inside the death mask of James Randolph as he moved his hand back to the sensor. This time, the machine was silent.
“Approved,” the officer said, as Caine released a pent-up breath.
Caine and the other crew members were moving toward the elevator that would deliver them to the Launch Control Facility at the base of the missile when they heard the sound of rotor blades cutting through the air above them. A helicopter was flying low, moving in their direction at high speed. They heard a loudspeaker, a man’s voice blasting from the chopper.
“ALL ACCESS TO THE LAUNCH FACILITY IS DENIED BY ORDER OF THE UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT. MOVE AWAY NOW, OR WE WILL USE DEADLY FORCE.”
SEVENTY
“I don’t give a damn if he’s sick,” Stan Waters yelled into his phone, as we went airborne in the military helicopter assigned to Sentry. The secretary of defense had put him in direct contact with the Warren Air Force Base duty station. “I need to speak to Colonel Coleman! NOW!”
Waters listened to the response, then said, “Then who the hell is second in command?” Another pause, then, “Find him immediately and call me back. In the meantime, seal off the missile silo and place Captain Phillip Allen and weapons specialist James Randolph under arrest. Your launch facility is under imminent threat.”
“God damn it,” Waters said as he ended the call. He called over to the captain piloting the military chopper. “How long until we reach the missile silo?”
“Approximately ten minutes,” the pilot said over his shoulder. “Maybe sooner.”
“Make it sooner.” Waters worked his phone again, telling us he was calling the secretary of defense back to update him on the situation.
“Do you think Caine can actually get inside the missile silo?” Jack Logan asked, as Waters waited on the line.
His boss took a breath. “Maybe. He’s apparently gotten this far. But launching the damn thing is another matter.”
“It could be he just wants inside,” I suggested. “Maybe he wants us to think he can launch and cause other countries to go on alert.”
Waters didn’t answer, instead holding up a hand. It was apparent he had the secretary on the line as he explained what was happening. “Understood,” Waters said after listening to the response. “Yes, we’ll make it crystal clear.”
When the call finally ended, he said to Logan and me, “We’re authorized to use deadly force, anything necessary to prevent access to the missile silo.”
As we flew toward the Air Force base, Waters took another call. While he was occupied, Logan looked at me. “You ready for this?”
“Do I have an option?”
His eyes remained fixed on me. “Your sister. What do you think happened to her?”
“I have no idea. I just hope she’s someplace safe.”
“We’re three minutes out,” the pilot called over to us. “We’re going in low and hot.”
We were approaching the missile silo when Waters ended his call and used the chopper’s loudspeaker system to warn the missile crew that we were authorized to use deadly force. Moments after giving the warning, he gave our pilot some orders. “Lock onto the target. Kill the crew.”
SEVENTY-ONE
The instant Caine heard the announcement come over the helicopter’s loudspeakers, he reacted. He pulled the semi-automatic weapon hidden in his coat and opened fire. He shot the first duty officer in the chest. The second officer was levelling his weapon on Caine when the terrorist shot him in the face. The other guards standing nearby reacted slowly, giving Caine time to shoot two of them, before the other two guards took cover.
As Caine pushed Captain Allen and the launch crew toward the elevator cage, he yelled, “Move inside or you die!”
Allen and the crew members were trembling as Caine pushed them inside the elevator compartment, even as automatic weapons fire ricocheted off the metal housing. They quickly moved inside the elevator, the doors closing behind them. Caine was pushing the control buttons while he trained his weapon on the men, when an explosion rocked the elevator shaft. He realized the helicopter must have opened fire on the launch complex.
Alarms blared and the lights in the elevator compartment dimmed. One of the crew members made a sudden move, trying to wrestle the weapon from Caine’s hand. The terrorist reacted quickly, shooting the officer in the chest and killing him instantly.
Caine then moved his weapon over, aiming it at Allen and the remaining crew member. “Stand down or you’re dead.”
They did as he ordered, stepping back as the elevator continued its descent.
When the elevator doors finally opened, an icy green glow enveloped Caine and the others as they stepped into the missile silo. They were inside the Green Dragon.
Caine was in control of the planet’s deadliest weapon.
SEVENTY-TWO
“I brought you some soup,” Cora said, entering the room where Lindsay was chained to the wall, lying on her mattress.
The youthful Guide was one of Astrid’s assistants. She was pretty, although she wore her hair in a bun and used no makeup, just like her older companion.
“Thank you,” Lindsay said, accepting the bowl. Cora smiled, then turned to leave. Lindsay called after her. “Can you stay and talk for a moment?”
The young woman cut her eyes to the doorway, then went over and closed it. “Just for a minute,” she said, coming back over.
“Thanks. I get lonely here.”
A nod. “I understand.” The young woman took a seat on the chair and smoothed a hand over the plain blue dress she wore.
“Can you tell me something?” Lindsay asked.
Cora kept her eyes downcast. “Maybe.”
“How did you...?” She gathered her thoughts. “How did you come to work here? For Astrid, I mean.”
Cora folded her hands together and finally looked at her. “My mother passed away, and I was homeless for a while. I met someone who knew Astrid. She introduced me and I...I guess that’s why I’m here.”
“I see.” Lindsay hesitated, waiting until Cora’s eyes found her again. “Do you know what Astrid and the others are doing?”
“Not exactly. I try to mind my own business.”
Lindsay nodded. “They’re not nice people, Cora. They’re planning to take over the government, and kill a lot of people in the process.”
The young woman blinked several times, nodded, then stood. “I saw something on TV about Mr. Caine being in control of a missile with bombs.”
Lindsay’s anxiety spiked. “You’ve got to help me stop him.”
There was a sound coming from the kitchen. Cora said, “I’d better go. Astrid will be expecting me.”
“Will you come back and visit me when you get a chance? I like you.”
Cora’s brown eyes brightened. A furtive smile found the corners of her mouth. “Yes. I’d like that.”
Lindsay smiled. “Good. I hope to see you soon.”
When the young woman was gone, Lindsay finished her soup and considered her situation. She liked Cora, but she also kne
w the young woman was under Astrid’s domination. Despite that, she decided Cora might be her only option to gain her freedom.
Lindsay lay back on the mattress, her mind spinning different escape scenarios. She would have to find a way to get Cora to help her. If Caine fired the missile he had under his control, she knew her life would end.
SEVENTY-THREE
“The silo is impenetrable, sealed from outside entry,” Lieutenant Colonel Drake said. He was a thin, bald man in his fifties, now in command of Warren Air Force Base.
I was in a converted hangar called the Ready Room with Stan Waters and Jack Logan. The other members of Sentry had been left at the missile silo to await further orders. Drake had taken over from Colonel Coleman, who had suddenly taken ill and been rushed to the hospital. We suspected that Caine was somehow responsible, but couldn’t prove it.
“How is that possible?” Stan Waters demanded.
“It’s part of the fail-safe system,” Drake said. “The site is on lockdown until the replacement crew arrives in twenty-four hours. Entry can only be granted once the computer-generated codes are entered into the system.”
“Isn’t there a way to bypass the system and produce new codes? Maybe fool the computer?”
Drake looked at Efren Zepeda and raised his brows. We’d been told Zepeda was a second lieutenant, who was a systems analyst and an expert on the K-09 installation. He was handsome, with dark hair and caramel eyes, but looked like he could still be in high school.
“It’s impossible,” Zepeda said. “The system is designed so that it can’t be bypassed. It’s essentially frozen for a twenty-four-hour period. But…” He looked at his computer screen. “…I have found something interesting.”
Drake and Waters looked over his shoulder as he pointed at the computer monitor and went on. “This is the system data just prior to this morning’s silo entry. The command firing sequence network was functioning, and the data clearly shows that the system requires an M-class sequence in the loop.”
I had no idea what any of that meant, as Zepeda worked his keyboard, and data began to appear on his monitor. He scrolled through the data, pointing to a coded section of the information. “Right here, the data begins to look different. It’s a very subtle change, but the numbers begin to drift. I believe it’s some kind of computer virus that took the system temporarily off line, but it happened in a way that makes everything appear that it’s still in the firing loop. When it’s accessed, the data backtracks on itself and shows information prior to the takeover.”
“Explain what he’s talking about in layman’s terms,” Waters demanded of Drake.
“An M-class sequence is the internal coding required for a system launch,” Drake said. “It requires a presidential directive and M-class firing sequence be sent to the LCC to make it active.” Drake looked at the youthful lieutenant. “What do you think is happening?”
“I’m not sure. The computer gives me different numbers each time I run it.”
“This isn’t helping,” Waters said, obviously frustrated.
“There’s something else,” Zepeda said. “My concern is that when an LCC is taken offline for system maintenance, the secondary firing control sequence is automatically routed to another LCC in the series.” The young lieutenant took a breath. “When I check the other M-class sequences, they don’t show a transfer of the firing sequence. At the time the K-09 facility went down, there’s no way to tell where the firing sequence was routed.”
“What are you trying to tell us?” Waters demanded.
Zepeda brushed a hand over his damp forehead. “I can’t be absolutely sure, but I think the internal launch sequence has been infected by a virus. On the surface, it makes it look like K-09 is down for system maintenance, but I don’t believe the numbers I’m seeing. I think it’s possible that launch control is active and internal to the launch site.” The systems specialist lowered his voice a notch. “It may very well be that the M-class requirement has been deleted from the system. I can’t be positive, but the takeover may have given the intruder launch capability without a presidential order.”
Waters got his phone out to call the secretary of defense again, releasing a litany of curse words. His rant was interrupted by another crew member.
“There’s something breaking on the news,” the crew member said, calling over to us. “It looks like Nathan Caine just went live on network TV.”
SEVENTY-FOUR
“I am your worst nightmare come to life,” Nathan Caine told CNN reporter Joseph Carrington. He had removed his latex appliances, no longer acting in the persona of James Randolph.
The Launch Control Center was empty, except for the terrorist. Captain Adams and the crew members had been tied up in the living quarters of the bunker. Caine saw that the news broadcast showed a split screen of Carrington and himself in the missile silo as he delivered his chilling malediction.
The terrorist’s voice was a controlled, raspy wheeze as he went on. “I represent the new order, those who are ready to take over for a government that has abandoned its people.”
“What is it exactly that you want?” Carrington asked. The news anchor’s voice was high-pitched and anxious.
Caine released a slow, mirthless chuckle. The reporter tried to go on, but the terrorist cut him off. “I have a very simple demand of your government. President Tatum and the United States Congress shall immediately secede a portion of the Pacific Northwest to the people living in that region.”
Carrington blanched, but managed to laugh. “You can’t be serious, Mr. Caine. Our government would never agree to such a proposal.”
Caine went on. “The seceded area shall include the territory that is currently made up of the states of Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Nevada, Utah, Wyoming, and Colorado. The government shall immediately remove all local, state, and federal policing agencies from this new territory, and turn over all existing weapons and munitions to the people of these former states. This new region shall henceforth be declared free and independent territory, with complete sovereignty and military autonomy.”
The reporter’s voice grew serious again. “Your demands are outrageous, to say the least. It’s never going to happen.”
A thin smile slipped over Caine’s face as he responded. “If these demands are not met in full within the next four hours, I shall launch a full retaliatory response upon the territory of the United State of America.”
“Are you telling me that you possess the ability to fire a nuclear missile and you will launch that missile upon the cities of this country?”
Caine ignored the question for a moment. His eyes were bulging grotesquely as he studied himself on the television monitor.
When he spoke again, his voice broke, like the crunching of gravel under heavy footsteps. His breathing was a ponderous groan beneath his words. “Standing in front of me is the most awesome killing machine on the planet. The missile that I control has ten independent nuclear warheads. After launch, each warhead ejects toward a separate target. Each warhead contains a twenty megaton nuclear bomb. Each of the ten warheads has one thousand times the power of the bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima in World War II. In Hiroshima, one hundred thousand people died instantly from the effects of that bomb. Each of my bombs will kill millions.”
Carrington’s voice was now filled with shock and dread. “You can’t be serious, Mr. Caine. The government is telling me that you do not have the ability to launch that missile.”
“Do you honestly believe what your government tells you, Mr. Carrington?” He ignored the blithering reporter, instead turning to the camera in his monitor and directly addressing the people listening to his broadcast.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please listen to me. What I have to say directly affects each and every one of you. I have already demonstrated my ability to detonate a nuclear device on American soil. In less than three hours, the warheads will begin raining down on your cities.”
Carrington broke in. “Ar
e these simply fear tactics? Our experts insist that you are bluffing.”
Caine’s voice rose to a fever pitch, his words just short of a rasping, breathless scream. “Listen to me! A computer virus has been entered into the launch control sequence. That virus has given me complete control of the missile system, overriding the president. I’m in possession of the hot codes necessary to launch this missile.” The terrorist stood, his monstrous visage now filling millions of television screens throughout the country. “I am Death. The destroyer of your world.”
SEVENTY-FIVE
After Nathan Caine’s chilling message and prediction, the ready room erupted into a frenzy of activity as the computer analysts and military staff desperately searched for a way to stop him. As Stan Waters and Jack Logan went off to speak to the president, I took a break and went outside.
It was mid-afternoon, a freezing rain falling, as I pulled my coat tighter and called my friends on FaceTime.
“You believe this shit?” Mo said, fighting for space on the screen with Natalie. “What the hell should we do?”
I took a breath and tried to keep my voice even. “Is there a way for you to take Bernie and leave the city?”
Natalie answered. “I just heard a report the streets are gridlocked and people are riotin’, shootin’ one another. Everybody’s goin’ crazy here.”
I sighed, wanting to help them but not knowing how. “Then try to get someplace underground.” I racked my brain, trying to think of where they could go, when inspiration struck. “There’s a cave in the hills beneath Griffith Park. It’s up a short path near Bronson Canyon. I want you to take what food and water you can and take Bernie with you. Stay underground and don’t leave until you’re told it’s safe.”
“What about you?” Mo asked. “What you gonna do if that nutjob does fire the missile?”
