Hollywood Underworld: A Hollywood Alphabet Series Thriller (The Hollywood Alphabet Series Book 21)

by M. Z. Kelly

  Despite entering the code, the silo remained silent, except for the alarm. There was nothing to indicate the code had worked.

  Our team leader gave us another update from the base’s acting commander as we continued to move down the ladder. “The President just addressed the nation. He’s refused to meet any of Caine’s demands. He thinks he’s bluffing.”

  “He’s not seeing and hearing what we are,” I said, as the alarm continued to sound.

  We moved lower on the ladder, while our team leader relayed the latest news. “They’re monitoring conditions in the LCC. One of the launch keys was just removed from its control box. This is going to be close.”

  EIGHTY-THREE

  Caine went over to the launch crew. He’d already made his choice. Lieutenant Jessica Fenton would be the chosen one. She would turn her launch key at the same time he did, destroying America’s cities.

  He untied Fenton and pushed her into the seat in front of one of the launch consoles. He held his gun to her head. “On my command, you will remove your key from the launch box, insert it into the control panel, and turn it.”

  Fenton, who was pretty, with long dark hair and hazel eyes, shook her head. “No.”

  Caine moved his gun over, pointing it at Lieutenant Robert Dolan, who was still tied up in the corner of the room. He’d seen the way Dolan and Fenton had looked at one another and knew their relationship was more than it appeared.

  “You will do as I say, or your boyfriend dies,” he told Fenton.

  Fenton shook her head, locking eyes with the terrorist. “I won’t do it.”

  Caine felt a sudden tightness in his chest. His heart began to beat faster. Maybe the stress of what was happening had put a strain on it. He went over and untied Dolan. He marched him to the console and had him take Fenton’s place. He then grabbed the female lieutenant by her hair and pulled her to the other console, where his launch key had already been removed from its box.

  As he inserted his key into the launch control system, he pointed his gun at Fenton’s head. “Turn your key, Bobby, or she dies. This is your only chance to save her.”

  The young lieutenant had a dazed expression. His gaze moved over to Fenton. “I can’t let you die.”

  “Don’t do it!” Fenton screamed. “Stand down! Remember our training.”

  Caine felt a pain moving up his arm, as his heart beat faster. He locked eyes with Dolan. “I’m turning my key now. You do the same.” He pushed his gun hard into Fenton’s temple. “Do it now, or I’ll splatter her brains across the room.”

  Caine put his fingers on his key, which had already been inserted into the firing mechanism. His chest suddenly exploded with pain. He looked over, seeing that Dolan had inserted his key. The young officer hesitated, then finally turned his key at the same time Caine turned his.

  The last thing Caine saw when he turned toward the figures moving through the doorway was Detective Kate Sexton. She was levelling her weapon on him, as were the soldiers beside her. His heart and his head exploded in the same instant the Launch Control Center was rocked by a thunderous blast.

  Nathan Caine died at the instant the Green Dragon roared to life.

  EIGHTY-FOUR

  Caine was dead.

  We removed the launch crew from the command console. The entire silo was rocked by the deafening roar of the missile coming to life. After the initial roar abated, we managed to get the ready room up on one of the monitors, and I asked Stan Waters what was happening.

  Waters was too busy to answer. Instead, we saw Efren Zepeda appear on our monitor. The young lieutenant was near hysteria. “There’s a destruct command. If I can get control, we can blow the thing out of the sky, even without the President’s order.”

  We saw Zepeda frantically working his keyboard. “Got it. I just hope we’re in time.” He made several more keystrokes, apparently entering the destruct command.

  We collectively held our breaths until we saw what appeared to be a presidential order appear on the monitors in both the ready room and the LCC.

  FROM: CIC-NORAD

  TO: STRIKE FORCE ALPHA 7

  SUBJECT: LAUNCH VEHICLE K-09

  REF: ACTION ORDERS

  INITIATE IMMEDIATE DESTRUCT K-09 LAUNCH VEHICLE

  “Better late than never,” Zepeda said, shaking his head. “I hope we beat ‘em to it.”

  I heard Jack Logan’s voice. “Can we tell if the destruct command worked?”

  “We should get a data feed any moment now.”

  The ready room and the LCC were silent, as we all waited. It seemed like an eternity.

  We finally heard Zepeda’s voice again. “Home run! We just got confirmation the destruct command worked. The missile was destroyed.”

  “Nice job,” Waters said.

  The system’s analyst bumped fists with him. “It’s all in the wrist action,” Zepeda said, now playfully tapping on the computer’s keyboard. As he said the words, another message appeared on the monitors, showing a status update.

  FROM: CIC-NORAD

  TO: STRIKE FORCE ALPHA 7

  SUBJECT: LAUNCH VEHICLE K-09

  CONFIRM K-09 LAUNCH VEHICLE DESTROYED

  1. DSP/CHEYNNE CONFIRMATION: K-09 BUSEJECT –

  10 MIRVS RELEASED TO TARGETS.

  “God, no,” Zepeda said. “This can’t be happening.”

  “What is it?” Waters demanded.

  Zepeda sighed. “The missile was destroyed, but the bus containing the warheads was ejected prior to the destruction. The warheads are descending on the cities as we speak.”

  I looked at the Special Forces team watching the monitor with me. The images of the soldiers caught in the glowing green light of the LCC played in my mind like a movie reel. We were watching helplessly as the world was about to end.

  EIGHTY-FIVE

  “We’ve patched through the images that are being sent directly to the White House,” Stan Waters said to me and the Special Forces unit from the Air Force base’s ready room. “We have F-15s in the air.”

  We heard chatter between the pilot, Captain Frank Remington, and his ground-based Combat Intercept Officer (CIO).

  “Descending from 20,000 feet, through heavy cloud cover,” Remington said.

  We learned that he was one of a dozen combat wing commanders for the fighter-interceptor groups that had been scrambled throughout the eastern seaboard.

  Our monitor showed the Tactical Information Display, or TID, in the pilot’s cockpit. “I have positive lock on the ten MIRVs,” Remington said over his radio. A graphic appeared on the TID, showing the warheads moving out from where the missile had been destroyed.

  As Remington tracked the incoming warheads, the CIO came over his headset. “Group Seven, hold for information from operations at the K-09 launch center.”

  In a moment, we heard Efren Zepeda’s frantic voice over the radio. “I’ve initiated a disarm sequence on all ten warheads. They’re targeting east coast cities, but, due to the virus in the system, the disarm response will take several minutes. I’ve calculated the time frames to their intended targets. My calculations show the only warhead that will not disarm prior to scheduled impact is the one with the shortest flightpath to the target.” Zepeda paused, apparently trying to catch his breath. “That warhead is targeted on Washington, DC.”

  Despite the urgency of the situation, the pilot’s voice was calm. “What’s the likelihood it will go nuclear at shootdown?”

  We heard Zepeda’s frantic voice come back. “Impossible to say. It depends on the point of impact and other factors. The only thing for sure is that you’ve got to shoot it down as soon as possible.”

  “Roger that,” Remington said.

  We heard the pilot’s CIO come back over the radio. “The warhead is ninety seconds from impact, Remmy.”

  “Switches armed,” Remington said. “The target is about two five nine miles out, northwest of Washington, bearing zero five eight.” He activated the infrared camera system in the F-15. Its teleph
oto lens was fixed on the orange-red flame spewing out behind the warhead, using the onboard radar guidance system.

  The CIO came back on the radio. “Group Seven, hold until target is at coordinate zero eight eleven. The point of impact will be in an area of lower population density, in the event of detonation.”

  Remington said he was reducing his airspeed, then said to his CIO, “We wait much longer, and the thing will come through the front door of the White House. I have positive fix on target.”

  “Coming up on firing position in fifteen seconds,” the CIO responded.

  We all watched in breathless anticipation as the heads-up display in Remington’s helmet showed the missile in his crosshairs. The pilot pushed the fire control button, releasing from its fuselage what the CIO said was an AMRAAM medium range air-to-air missile.

  Seconds later, the monitor showed the missile streaming toward its target, as Remington said, “Holding for impact.”

  Moments later, the display showed the air-to-air missile impacting the warhead. In that same instant, in the dark of winter’s night, we saw a miniature sun rise. The sky exploded in a blinding flash of blue-white light as the surrounding air was instantly superheated. The eastern horizon appeared to be on fire, as though hell had literally descended upon the earth.

  “Target destroyed, payload active,” Remington said.

  The pilot hit the throttle, and the F-15 accelerated to supersonic speeds. We realized Remington had quickly outrun the thunderous shock wave that had been unleashed by the nuclear detonation. The monitor continued to show images of a rising fireball mushrooming skyward, roaring thousands of feet into the heavens.

  I brushed a tear as I turned to the Special Forces team leader. “You ever feel like you won the battle, but lost the war?”

  The soldier nodded slowly and blinked several times. “Yeah, but this is as bad as it gets.”

  EIGHTY-SIX

  The next day, our airplane, Sentry’s flying command post, was airborne. We were flying east at a thousand feet, ninety miles east of Washington, DC, toward national forest land. Stan Waters had arranged for the trip, with permission from the White House. The government had gone to DEFCON 3 status, as clean-up operations had begun, and other countries also reduced their alert levels.

  Jack Logan commented on the effects of the blast as we all surveyed the destruction through the aircraft’s windows. “This reminds me of the devastation from the hurricane that destroyed Puerto Rico.”

  “I’m afraid this is far worse,” Captain Rita Johansen said. She had been giving commentary as we flew closer to the blast site. “We’ll be staying away from sites that are heavily contaminated. We have several hot spots east of Harrisonburg, Virginia, where the fallout was more concentrated.”

  “It’s my understanding those areas are under evacuation,” Stan Waters said. “They probably won’t be habitable for years.”

  Captain Johansen confirmed what he said, adding, “We’re lucky that the rain and snow in the area helped contain some of the contamination from the initial detonation. The fire was confined, but the blast essentially sucked up and devastated everything several miles from the center of the explosion.”

  “What’s FEMA saying about a casualty count?” I asked.

  “Just over a thousand. Most of those were living in rural areas east of Harrisonburg.”

  “That doesn’t include the casualties from the panic in the cities,” Waters said. “We have several deaths, and hundreds of injuries.”

  I was grateful that Natalie, Mo, and Bernie were safe and back home. I’d also called Lindsay and made arrangements for her to stay at Warren Air Force Base until I returned. Her captor, a woman named Astrid Walker, had been arrested and was facing federal conspiracy charges.

  “What are things like in DC?” Logan asked Johansen.

  “The effects were minimal,” Waters said. “There was some fallout, but the wind patterns carried much of the contamination out to sea. Congress is back in session and demanding action against anyone involved with Nathan Caine, including his brother Isaac.”

  “Any word on him?” Logan asked.

  “He’s gone to ground, along with other members of the Swarm. He may even be out of the country. We do have his mug from a dust-up he had with some cops in Houston when he had his business there.”

  Waters reached into an envelope, then passed the mug shot over. Logan and I took a moment to examine it. Isaac Caine was ten years younger than his brother. He was slimmer and better looking than his dead sibling, but with the same empty eyes and heavy features.

  “Looks like just another serial killer,” Logan deadpanned, handing the mug back.

  “Probably,” Waters said.

  We spent the next hour flying near the blast site, but keeping our distance, because of potential radiation exposure. The blast zone had completely obliterated everything within a five-mile radius west of the Appalachian Mountains. Beyond that zone, the landscape abruptly changed, turning gray and black. It was like a moonscape, but strangely different. The area was desolate, but this was a man-made desolation, unlike any naturally occurring event.

  When we returned to Warren Air Force Base, I took a moment to say goodbye to Stan Waters and Jack Logan.

  “What are your plans now?” I asked both men.

  Waters went first. “I’ll probably be spending several weeks in Washington, debriefing events and testifying before Congress. After that, I’m planning to retire.”

  Logan slapped his old friend on the back. “You’re always welcome at Rocky Point. I highly recommend the weather, the women, and the Tequila.” He smiled and looked at me. “What about you?”

  “Back to Hollywood. I have a job waiting, not to mention family, friends, and a dog.”

  Logan’s smile lingered. “You ever feel the need to get away, give me a call. I could show you the sights.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind.” I paused, thinking about Joe. “Have either of you heard from Dawson? I tried calling him several times but didn’t get a call back.”

  I got headshakes, before Logan said, “My guess is he’s got a couple bottles of scotch and a fishing pole and is off the grid somewhere, lying low.”

  I thanked them and took a transport chopper back to the main base, where I found Lindsay in government housing. After hugging her for a long moment, I brushed a tear and said, “How are you doing?”

  She drew in a breath, as we took seats at a table, and she served up tea. “To be honest, I think I’m still in a state of shock. I was finally adjusting to my new life in Seattle when everything...” Her eyes filled with tears. “I guess you heard about Derek?”

  “Your boyfriend, yes. I’m so sorry.”

  “I just don’t understand what Caine wanted with me, and why he killed him.”

  “I’m not sure, either, except I think he was using you as leverage, knowing I would do anything to help you.”

  Lindsay brushed her long hair back off her forehead. “Your biological father, did you ever...?”

  When she didn’t go on, I shook my head. “I think his identity died with Harlee Ryland, and maybe Caine. I doubt that I’ll ever know who he was. Or is, if he’s still alive.”

  “Do you think that’s possible?”

  “Maybe. I have a friend who thinks he could have had something on the Rylands that kept both him and me alive all these years. Like I said, I’ll probably never know.”

  She reached over, taking my hand as she saw my emotions surfacing. A thin smile found her lips. “We’ve both had a hell of a life, haven’t we?”

  I hugged her. “At least we have each other. Sometimes I think that’s a whole lot more than a lot of people have in this world.”

  We chatted for the next hour before Lindsay told me about her conversation with the FBI. “They say I’ll be relocated, put in another witness protection program.” She sighed. “I don’t know if I can start over again.”

  “Let me talk to them. Maybe there’s a way we can keep in t
ouch through back channels. I’ve lost you too many times to let that happen again.”

  She forced a smile. “Thanks, Kate. I know I’ve said this before, but I need to say it again. I love you.”

  EIGHTY-SEVEN

  I got back to Hollywood the following afternoon, after making arrangements with the federal authorities to stay in touch with Lindsay. I had to work my way through several layers of bureaucracy, but I finally got a commitment from John Greer that I could contact her through FBI channels.

  As a driver brought me home from the airport, I called Olivia. After fielding some questions about my work with the feds, I asked her how things were going at work.

  “Al announced he’s retiring,” Olivia said, not bothering to conceal her happiness. “The shooting of Danica Andrews and the events in Washington apparently really affected him. Leo said he’s planning to leave the country.”

  “All things considered, I think that’s a good thing. How is Andrews doing?”

  “Still in the hospital, but she recovered enough to tell us that she was having an affair with Garth Spence.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “According to her, Garth was in on the initial plan to get Sorin Chemicals to pay her to stop her father’s articles and cover up of the effects of their chemicals. She said he even helped her plan the killing of her father. When the money started coming in, he wanted a bigger piece of the action to pay off some more of his gambling debts. Danica balked, and she killed him to keep everything for herself.”

  “And Garth’s wife, Gina? How did she fit into what happened?”

  “She knew about John McVey’s research of the chemical company. Danica was afraid she was planning to talk just as the Sorin deal began to pay off. That made her expendable. She claims Garth had no idea she was behind her killing, convincing him it was just a random attack in the shopping mall garage.”