by Unknown
Tempered Steel
Hunter Goforth
Chapter 1
March 20 - Launch
The air in the space was thick and smelled like an old locker room filled with sweaty clothes. Two bare bulbs glowed dimly on the ceiling giving scarce light to the inhabitants inside the eight by twenty foot room. Consoles lined one wall, sprinkled with gages and multicolored lights. There was a dim orange-red light from the back of the consoles where vacuum tubes glowed brightly. Heat radiated from each tube adding to the intense stuffiness in the room. The hot electronics added their own distinct odor to the mix of heat and smell.
A small duct ran along the ceiling. The room was supposed to be air conditioned, but as usual it didn’t work. The engineers designed the system to be operated with a return vent through the door to allow for circulation. But the political officer declared the mission was too secret. As a result, the vent had been plated over and barely a breath of warm air came out of the blowers.
For what seemed like the hundredth time a young technician wiped his face with a small towel. The cloth was already saturated as he laid it down on the side of his console. The man’s white shirt was plastered to his body and sweat poured from his forehead down his face, yet his eyes remained glued to his instruments checking the readings to make sure he missed nothing. His supervisor and the political officer had berated him savagely a few days before when he was caught looking away. The gauges and readouts indicated voltages, tank pressures, gyro settings, computer readiness, fluid levels, operating systems readiness and all other settings necessary to launch a rocket. In this case, he was monitoring five of them.
Showing an early talent for math and science, the technician was singled out while in his teens to attend special schools and get specialized degrees from the university. During the two years after graduation he went through even more specialized training for the rocket forces. The state had been an insistent taskmaster. He and the others learned the physics, the chemistry, mechanics and even the electronics so each could run the programs and solve problems in their sleep. They knew the systems thoroughly. In return, the state promised a life of ease. At the end of this mission each would get an apartment of their own, higher pay, access to the special stores only the elite in the party could use – all the things a young man would desire. Even better, they would continue to work in the nation’s rocket program making it bigger and more powerful.
Only one week after completing the final phase of their training each young man had been mated up with mechanics to service the rockets. They learned how to put them together and take them apart so that if there was a problem, either could easily fix it. Now they were putting all they had learned into action. In the two months leading to this day the men checked and double-checked each rocket. They ran launch drills and simulated breakdowns. Training was conducted every day.
There were twelve men assigned to this mission. Six of them were in the confined space watching their consoles while their supervisor and the political officer watched their actions. Just four hours before, the order came to prepare for launch. The men immediately busied themselves in preparing the missiles and removing the covers from the launchers. Once done, the technicians entered the control room and the countdown began.
The supervisor kept one eye on a clock hanging on the wall in front of him. Each of the six technicians began relaying status until all thirty missiles were pronounced ready for launch. There would be a timed sequence to the launch. They would not all go at once. Instead, one would be launched every fifteen seconds until they were all gone. As the second hand on the clock swept to twelve, the supervisor announced, “One minute.”
The young technician could hear one of his colleagues breathe heavily. He too felt the strain of what they were doing. In just a few minutes it would all be over and they could return home as heroes. He could almost envision himself in a fine apartment relaxing without a care in the world.
“Thirty seconds.”
The announcement shocked the technician back to the present. He checked the readings one last time. His would be the last five to fire. The pressures were good and the readings were normal. He wondered if there would be any nice looking girls around his new home.
Unlike launches in most places, there was no countdown here. The supervisor simply ordered, “Begin launch.”
The technician on the first console selected the first missile and depressed the firing key. From somewhere outside the room the men heard a rocket motor ignite with a deafening roar and then slowly get quieter as it lifted skyward. When the rocket left the cradle the technician announced, “One away. Launching two.” Watching his own counter, he selected the second rocket and depressed the key exactly fifteen seconds after the first.
The political officer was smiling broadly. This was the start of a new day for his country. Nothing would stand in the way of this signature event. He and the supervisor walked down to the consoles and watched as each rocket was fired. As the first technician completed his task, the political officer moved to the next technician’s console, soon followed by the supervisor working their way down the line.
The young technician listened for the report that the 25th rocket had been launched. Once done, he watched his clock so that he depressed his firing key for the first time exactly fifteen seconds after it. It took just one minute before his last rocket lifted off. The young man felt the elation of knowing he had performed his task flawlessly. He turned his head looking up with a wide grin to see the barrel of a silenced pistol pointed at him. The last thought through his mind before it fired was, “Why?”
The supervisor looked sadly down at the line of dead young men. The pistol was still smoking in his hand and it felt heavy as lead. He did not want to do this task, but the state demanded it. All those years and all that work was now over. After a long sigh he turned to the political officer. “Let’s go. We have much to do,” he said in a tired voice. He handed him the gun and turned toward the door.
The political officer nodded and followed him. As the supervisor stepped through the door the political officer shot him once in the back of the head. The supervisor toppled forward and out of the way of the door. Placing the gun into a pocket of his trousers, the political officer reached in, shut off the lights to the room, closed the door, and walked quickly away.
Norfolk, Virginia
Roger Hammond sat alone in a greasy spoon not far from his home. He stared vacantly at the plate just placed before him. It looked like the same old plate of brown meatloaf and mashed potatoes he’d eaten the night before. The only colors in the plate were the red splotch of catsup someone had obviously taken great care to glop onto the top, and a small bowl of pale green peas and orange carrots sitting in a semi-liquid. The contents of the plate seemed to sit in a runny, greasy gravy produced from a mix. There were even lumps in the gravy to accurately demonstrate the care put into its preparation. Hammond stared at the mixture with tired, sad eyes. This is pathetic, he thought to himself. It was 11 p.m. on a warm Friday night in March, and instead of being home relaxing, he was in this dive gagging down mystery meat. Almost in a daze, he worked his fork through the potatoes and stirred them around.
It was exactly 12 months since he retired from the Navy to enter civilian life and the corporate world. Hammond loved the navy, but it was wrecking his marriage. His wife had grown to criticize every aspect of their lives and gave him the ultimatum of the Navy or her. Roger loved his wife dearly, so to try and save what they had, he left the Navy even though he had been selected for the rank of Captain. He found a very good job with a very good electronics firm making twice what he was paid in the service.
Almost from day one he hated it. The political back stabbing in the corporation turned his stomach
and he watched several young upstarts bully their way up the ladder to senior positions even though he knew they didn’t have any real leadership skills. Roger never liked bullies and had fought against such things all through his career. He knew his days in the company were numbered.
Roger took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Looking up from his plate, he glanced around the diner. It was one of those older 60’s style places with yellowed wallpaper, out-of-date hanging lamps above each booth, and a lot of stainless steel in the bar and kitchen area. The guy cooking seemed to be wearing the same spotted and frayed apron from the month before. A waitress was leaning on the table beside the cash register looking at some magazine. Even the customers were familiar. Leaning back in his booth, Hammond stared up at the ceiling. The tiles were different colors depending on how long they had survived the onslaught of grease and cigarette smoke from past abuse. Occasionally a darker spot showed where something leaked long ago but no one had bothered to paint or replace the tile.
Hammond sat alone. Despite everything he sacrificed, it took his wife less than a month to file for divorce. It didn’t matter about his good job, good pay or the fact that he still loved her. She met someone on that last deployment and decided she wanted a change. At first she said getting out of the Navy would make a difference, but she was still sneaking off to see the guy. Roger came home early from a trip to find them in bed. She screamed at him as if it were his fault, packed her bags and left that day. The divorce was quick and painful, but came out on his side.
Oh well, he sighed to himself. At least he had his retirement. There are more jobs out there too, he thought. He looked back down at his so-called meal and scooped up a mouth full. It even tasted the same. He stared at his plate and determined he was better than this. Better than the job, a better husband and even better than this dive he was in. He was going to take charge of his life again. He would start off finding a job that met his standards and then never look back.
Roger was half way through the second bite when the sky outside turned bright as day. At the same instant, the lights in the restaurant got bright in intensity and flickered out. At first he simply stared out the window as the light dimmed to a ball hanging in the sky. Then it dawned on him what it really was.
“Everybody down!” he shouted as he shifted out of the booth and dove under the table.
The others in the restaurant stared at him like he was some freak until a dull boom echoed from outside. It rattled the windows a little. The boom sent everyone to the floor, scurrying to find some sort of protection. After a few frightening moments, Roger eased out of his spot and looked out the window again. The ball was nearly gone and there was no light coming from outside. Even the streetlamps were out.
So this is what a nuclear war starts like, Roger wondered.
“What the hell was that?” one of the patrons asked in the dark behind him.
“Probably a transformer,” the cook called out. Roger could tell he was still behind his counter.
“That was no transformer,” Roger said. “I suggest everyone go home right now.”
The fry cook stumbled around in the dark. The swinging door from the kitchen screeched open. “Just hang on a few minutes. I’m sure the power will come back on,” the cook said. No one noticed that even the emergency lights weren’t working.
Roger knew exactly what it had been, but was leery of voicing it. He sat down at his place shoveling his dinner into his mouth quickly and drowning it with the tea sitting beside the plate. He stood again and made his way toward the door.
“You’ll have to wait till I can ring it up,” the waitress said as he came towards her.
Roger pulled out his wallet and felt for a bill. He knew it was either a $10 or a $20. He handed it over in the dark. “That should handle it all,” he said.
“But I don’t know how much this is,” she complained.
“Then bill me,” he yelled back as he went through the door. Hammond made his way to his car and opened the door. Climbing inside, he slipped the key into the ignition and turned the switch. The car turned over, but that was all. After cranking in vain for about 3 minutes, he got out of the car and looked around him. Other patrons were now in their cars doing the same thing. None of the cars would start. Roger watched as each got out and cursed their vehicle, wondering what had happened.
After a few more minutes, as breakers were manually reset at the power company, lighting and power were restored around them. Roger watched as streetlights first came on, then lights in the buildings and homes. The restaurant lights flickered but were a little dimmer. Some had burned out in the flash. He could hear the waitress trying to operate the cash register inside. Her complaints to the cook on how the machine was “busted” became loud and vocal.
Hammond noticed the patrons from other establishments filing out and making their way toward their cars. Like Roger, each tried in vain to start them.
Perfect, Roger thought to himself – a faint smile crossing his face. He chuckled under his breath. “Electro-magnetic pulse,” he muttered.
He reached back into his car and tried turning on the radio. Like before, nothing happened. He turned it back off and removed his keys. Looking around at the confusion in the parking lot, he shook his head and resigned himself to being on foot. Luckily he was only about four blocks from his home. He thought a moment about the possibility of fallout, but decided that since he had no shelter it really didn’t matter anyway. While the people around him wondered aloud what had happened and what to do, Roger eased his way past and began his trek home. His own problems had just been put on hold.
Washington, D.C.
President Steven O’Bannon was in a fine Irish temper. He was only three months into his presidency, having defeated a one term liberal who decimated a number of programs, including defense, and now he was stuck with a nuclear war. He sat with his teeth tightly clenched. It was bad enough he had to clean up the mess, but getting blamed for a war he didn’t start was a political nightmare.
The President ran on a platform of national security and cleaning house. He was tired of seeing countries ignore human rights, instigate military buildups, and aid in the proliferation of terrorism while the US stood by and watched. He wasn’t alone. Nearly every American demanded something be done. That had been his rallying cry. The previous administration was still closing bases, cutting defense programs, and using the saved funds to build government instead of returning it to the taxpayers, even up to the day of his inauguration. What’s more, the opposing party was blocking his appointments and delaying his programs. Now he was sitting alone in a bomb shelter and everything had come crashing down.
The President had just settled down in his bed for the first good night of sleep in almost a week, when the Secret Service agents burst into his bedroom and almost physically threw him and his wife into an elevator. Their two children were hustled in within seconds, each with a look of horror on their face. The doors closed and everyone went weightless as the elevator dropped rapidly to a place four hundred feet below. He remembered his wife clinging to him and the frightened whimpers from his children as the elevator fell.
Just as quickly the elevator began to brake and slowed to a stop. The doors opened into a sterile world better known as “the sub-basement.” Secretly built during the Truman presidency while rebuilding the interior of the White House itself, the sub-basement was in actuality a bomb shelter for the chief executive.
Secret Service agents helped them out of the elevator, ushered the family to their suite of rooms and the President to his office. Though the walls were wallpapered and looked like any other room in the White House, the facilities were dated and clearly showed that, except for the basics, they hadn’t really been updated in more than a decade. At first, the only thing the President knew for certain was that missiles were incoming. Now he was in his office, in his pajamas, sitting in front of a tan colored rotary telephone, waiting for the end. He was twisting a wooden #2 pencil he foun
d on his desk — anything to take off some of the stress. He squeezed it hard enough to leave indentations in the wood.
O’Bannon expected the telephone to ring — if for no other reason than to begin a retaliatory strike. But the instrument remained silent. He picked up the receiver and tried to get a line. That was when he discovered his very sophisticated telephone system could call anyone he wished – within the bunker. There was no working outside line. That realization brought on a torrent of curses which might have alerted the staff if the place hadn’t been soundproofed. He rang for a Secret Service agent.
“Ross here, sir,” came the reply.
“Ross, I need you to get hold of whoever you have to and get me a line to somewhere outside these walls. I don’t care where it is. I would prefer the Pentagon, but I’ll take anything right now,” he sputtered in anger.
“I’ll do what I can, sir,” came the reply.
For a moment, the President stared at the other three telephones in his office. He was very tempted to pick one up and ask what the hell was going on, but knew he shouldn’t. So for all practical purposes, he was alone – something a President never needed to be in a crisis.
The President sat staring at his desk in a slow simmer until he heard a tapping at his door. “Come in!” he shouted, much louder than he had meant to.
Captain Jim Butler stuck his head around the door. Captain Butler was a 25-year naval officer assigned to the White House during the closing days of the previous administration. President O’Bannon kept him on because he liked his no-nonsense style, frankness and professionalism. Butler wasn’t like the other advisor “weenies” that prowled the White House corridors more into politics than getting their jobs done. On a number of occasions he had been called into the Oval Office to give his advice. In every case, the advice Butler gave was 100 percent on the mark. President O’Bannon was never happier to see anyone in his life.
