by Joseph Nagle
“Call in to the fighters, tell them ADA is ready!” barked the TCO.
“Yes, sir!” shouted the TCA once more.
Colonel Jones was at the head of the V-shaped formation of the twelve F-22 Raptors. Above the clouds, the sky streaked by his canopy as the radio crackled in his ear with an incoming message.
“Bird-six, Bird-six, Defense-one over.”
“Defense-one, this is Bird-six, go ahead.”
“Bird-six, we are ready to strike. System is live. I repeat, system is live, and is twelve seconds from first round of fire, over.”
“Roger that Defense-one. Will confirm strike.”
The communication between the Control Officer and the Colonel piped in to NORAD. Everyone could hear the conversation, including Michael.
Back in the Oval Office, General Diedrick and the President heard Michael shout out, “Sir, we should recall our missiles! This isn’t Iran’s doing, they are innocent, too!”
The President didn’t need to argue, he had heard everything that had happened in Rome. He agreed with Michael; Iran was not to blame.
The President spat out his order without hesitation, “Recall all missiles! Terminate SIOP Protocols on my authority! General,” the President turned to the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, “Launch a cluster of Tomahawks into Bushehr, use the Florida. I will not kill innocent people, but I will make damn sure that I put an end to Operation Merlin!”
The General enthusiastically complied and picked up the secured satellite phone and issued the orders. Within moments, the US launched nuclear missiles changed course, and headed southeast over Saudi Arabia. Once they were a safe distance from land, the missiles plunged into the depths of the Indian Ocean.
Almost simultaneously, and moving silently somewhere around fifty meters below the surface of the Persian Gulf, the USS Florida (SSGN-728) – an Ohio Class submarine – received a secure transmission over a Satellite High Frequency (SHF) connection. The USS Florida had been recently chopped to the Combined Task Force (CTF) 74 of the Seventh Fleet (“dual-hatted” with CTF 54 of the Fifth Fleet).
The Gold crew of the boat was near the end of its one-hundred day rotation and all of its sailors had been both tired and on edge. The order to launch a cluster of tomahawks had been received and the coordinates given:
Location: 28º 59’ N 50º 49’ E.
Target: Bushehr Nuclear Power Plant – Bushehr, Iran.
Encapsulated in the boat’s Capsule Launching System (CLS), a cluster – seven to be exact – of BGM 109 Tomahawk Land Attack Missiles (TLAM) sat in their pressurized and environmentally protected canisters. There were one-hundred-fifty-four Tomahawks in total, but the President’s order only called for a cluster.
The firing sequence was entered and the missiles were launched by gas pressure. Milliseconds apart, each of the seven Tomahawks exited and broke the surface of the Persian Gulf. One by one, the solid-fuel boosters ignited and pushed the missiles to their pre-designated flight path. Once they reached the correct altitude, the 2.67 meter wide wings of the missiles unfolded, and the Williams International 402-Turbofan engine took over their propulsion.
The cluster of Tomahawks flew at a low altitude and at a speed of five-hundred-fifty mph. The USS Florida had been less than forty miles from the shore of Iran; the missiles would be airborne slightly longer than four and one-half minutes.
Back in the Oval Office, the President shouted to CPT Scott, “What is the flight path of the missile heading toward the US? Where is it going to hit?”
The answer had already been calculated. CPT Scott shouted out, “Sir, the final missile is headed toward Nevada; its flight path has it hitting Las Vegas! Fighters are en route to intercept now. Sir, there’s less than one minute until impact.”
CPT Scott’s last words made the President fell like he had been punched in the gut. He wanted to double over.
General Diedrick still had the receiver of the secure satellite phone in his hand when he heard this. He had just finished instructing Fleet Command to terminate the flight paths of all US nuclear missiles when the reality that Las Vegas would be wiped off the map had hit him.
“Mr. President,” the General’s voice was void of emotion, “shall we initiate the EBS for Las Vegas?”
“It’s too late, General,” replied the President.
Both President and General looked at each other and then both sat back down. Activating the EBS wouldn’t have helped.
The only thing left to do was listen to the squadron of fighters and to hope.
Chapter Seventy-Six
Engagement
Somewhere over Nevada
“Demon-six, Demon-six, ripple coming, ripple coming!”
“Roger, Defense-one. I confirm your ripple, over.”
The first missile from the PAC-3 Patriot firing battery launched and was followed 4.2 seconds later by a second missile. The multiple launches are called a “ripple.” The Raytheon designed solid-fuel powered missiles ascended, in the blink of an eye, to an altitude of sixty-thousand feet and screamed on an intercept course toward the Ghadr-110X at close to Mach five.
Approximately sixteen seconds later, they approached the formation of F-22 Raptors and were trailed by long, smoky contrails of burned fuel.
“Incoming, incoming! I have visual!” shouted one of the young Captains.
The Colonel scanned both of his Up-Front Displays (UFD) looking for confirmation of the US missiles. Each display was three by four inches and sat on either side of the Integrated Control Panel (ICD) of the F-22. The UFD on the right blinked a warning message.
The calm voice of the Colonel responded, “I have them locked on the ICAW. I confirm two incoming. Demons, one through five, bank left ten degrees and follow me to four-zero thousand feet. The rest of you bank right and go to the same altitude.”
No one responded. Their well-trained actions were mechanical; half of the fighters simultaneously banked left, and the other half banked right. The maneuver split the formation in half. The newly split formation of F-22 Raptors straddled a small dot that was in the distance. The nuclear missile was headed straight for the formation.
“Demon-six, nine seconds to Patriot Missile impact!”
“Confirmed, Defense-one. Nine seconds. Keep your fingers crossed.”
The Colonel slowly released a long and steady breath. To his right, and taped above one of the six liquid crystal displays, was a photo his wife and two daughters. He reached over and stroked the picture.
The two incoming Patriot missiles were topped with M248 warheads and were ahead and to the right of the fighters’ formation. Their trajectory was sending them toward the small nuclear-tipped dot, a dot that was rapidly growing larger.
The incoming nuclear missile operates under six stages. Minutes after it launched, the remaining Ghadr-110X had shed its numerous boosters and motors during the first four of its six stages. The missile was currently in stage five and about to enter is sixth and final stage. Imperceptible to the pilots, the fairing of the Post Boost Vehicle of the Ghadr-110X opened and sent out six MIRV warheads; four were nuclear tipped, and two were countermeasures.
The Colonel commanded, “All fighters, Curtain Formation on my mark!”
Less than a second passed and he commanded, “Mark!”
The pilots moved their planes into the ordered formation and appeared as if they were stacked in four columns of three.
“Release all Slammers!” ordered the Colonel.
Each F-22 was equipped with six AMRAAM air-to-air missiles which are affectionately called “Slammers.” Seventy-two Slammers menacingly graced the sky and raced toward the six warheads.
Nine seconds passed. One of the Patriot missiles slammed into the harmless Post-Boost Vehicle of the rocket. The second Patriot missile was intercepted by one of the countermeasures and created a massive fire-ball in the distance.
The Colonel scanned his UFD.
“Ripple ineffective, ripple ineffective!” The screams from the Col
onel were heard by everyone at the CORe Center in NORAD, in the Oval Office, in the Control Center at Fort Hood, and in Rome.
The President felt the blood rush from his head and his body turn cold. General Diedrick stood up and moved closer to where the President sat. He reached for one of the chairs in front of the Resolute. CPT Scott stepped closer to York. The Control Officer slammed his hand on the terminal in front of him, and, in Rome, Michael closed his eyes and lowered his head. He saw Sonia.
“Slammers closing in!” the Colonel said, and then whispered a short prayer.
The Slammers neared the five remaining warheads and looked like a wall of rockets. One by one, four round masses of fire erupted. Four of the Slammers had hit and detonated four of the five remaining warheads. A nuclear shock-wave was heading toward the fighters.
One warhead made it through the wall of Slammers.
The Colonel could see the shock wave and screamed at the rest of the Demons, “Pull up! Pull up!”
At once, the nose of each fighter turned straight up as the wave passed through their position.
The President shouted, “Report, Colonel! Report! Were you successful?”
There was no response.
“Colonel, come in! Were you successful?” The President sounded frantic.
“Mr. President, the electro-magnetic pulse may have taken out their communication systems, or they may have been destroyed” stated General Diedrick in a matter-of-fact fashion.
“Colonel, do you read me?” The President didn’t want to give up.
The moments ticked by slowly. The President felt sick.
Static slowly filtered over the communications line and was followed by the voice of the Colonel, “Sir, five warheads destroyed. One still remains. Mr. President,” the Colonel’s voice grazed solemn, “one is going to hit!”
The single remaining nuclear warhead continued on its path toward Las Vegas. Moments later, a small mushroom cloud erupted in the distance.
“Oh my God!” The Colonel’s voice was shaking. “It hit, sir, it hit! Detonation confirmed!”
All of those people, the President couldn’t speak.
Chapter Seventy-Seven
The Old Lateran Palace
Rome, Italy
Michael stared at the computer screen; the path of the last remaining warhead that blazed toward Las Vegas still glowed on the screen. He had been hopeful when the Patriot missiles and the Slammers released, and his hope had grown when, one by one, the warheads had been destroyed. It was a nearly impossible task, but the weapons had been able to eliminate five of the six warheads.
One remained.
The last one hit the United States at the same moment that the Primitus regained consciousness. Michael heard him groan.
The Primitus sat up and saw Michael with his chin to his chest.
“You were destined to fail, Dr. Sterling.” The Primitus’s tone was condescending.
Michael slowly turned and faced the white robed old man and cast fiery eyes at him. There are few instances where a man knows exactly what will happen next. The Primitus knew that this was one of those moments; Michael’s eyes told him what was about to occur.
Michael lost control.
The Primitus is a man of less than average height, weight, and strength. At his age, any real physical power that he once had was now mostly gone. The vast majority of his life had been spent ascending through the ranks of the Church and in a protected environment. He never had the need to learn the art of defense, he was a coddled man. There would be no way that he could defend himself from the angry CIA Officer, and he knew it.
With a scream, Michael lunged at the old man and buried his elbow deep into the man’s nose. The noise of cartilage being crushed makes little sound unless it is your nose that is being smashed. Inside of the Primitus’s head, the sound of his flesh and bone being mangled echoed quite loudly. It took a moment for the pain to be felt, but when he could feel it, he screamed.
Michael wasn’t finished. With his right hand he grabbed the Primitus by the throat, and with the same movement he put his right leg behind the Primitus and tripped him forcibly back to the ground. The back of the old man’s head crashed against the marble nearly sending him back into unconsciousness.
Weakly, the Primitus spat out, “You can’t kill me!”
Michael squeezed harder. If there was an omniscient God, or an Allah, or a Buddha, then they all knew: Michael intended to squeeze every ounce of life from the man. He no longer cared who this man was, or of the lofty position that he held as the highest ranking Cardinal within the Catholic Church.
Michael shook the old man as he squeezed even harder and screamed at him, “I don’t give a shit that you are the primus inter pares, or how powerful you are, you don’t deserve to live!”
As the Primitus stared back at Michael, his eyes told of his fear of death. The Primitus clawed at Michael’s forearms in desperation. Michael ignored the pain of the old man’s nails digging into his arms.
Then the look in the Primitus’s eyes changed to something else as he looked away from Michael.
A hand touched Michael’s shoulder.
“Let him go, Michael.”
The voice of the head of the Swiss Guard was authoritative but calming. Michael stared at the Colonel.
“Michael, it is not worth it, let him go,” repeated Colonel Camini.
Slowly, Michael released the Primitus, letting the old man’s body fall with a heavy thud to the floor.
At NORAD, the entire team of the CORe center stared as the room filled with Swiss Guards.
“Professor, is everything okay?” said CPL York.
After a moment, Michael replied, “No, everything is not okay.”
Michael turned off his phone, turned it over, and pulled out the SIM card. He broke the small card into two pieces, and threw them into the fire.
Somewhere at Langley, the young PT received another alert that Dr. Michael Sterling had gone off the grid once more. Immediately, he called the Director, but was surprised that there was no answer.
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Fatalities
North of Las Vegas, Nevada
“Here, boy! Come here, boy! Dumbass, where in the hell are ya’?”
About eighty miles due North of the Las Vegas city limits and between Black Rock Mountain and Moonshine Peak, Reginald A. Booker, a hermit and a drunk – known not so affectionately as “Scab” by the last two people to know him, and both long since dead – yelled for his dog.
The one-time stray animal – a mix between a yellow lab, pit-bull, and probably a couple of other undesirable and unknown breeds – had a name, but Scab couldn’t remember it.
The dirty, worm-infested, and nearly emaciated mutt always seemed to piss off Scab in some manner. The dog couldn’t, or wouldn’t learn tricks, incessantly chased what little tail he had left, and licked sticks for hours like they were bones; “Dumbass” was about the only thing he had called the dog. The name fit.
“Dumbass! Get yer ugly ass back here God dammit! Damn dumbass!”
A few moments ago, Scab and Dumbass had been sharing a bottle of homemade cactus wine when the sky had lit up like the fourth of July. As he had been for the better part of the last twenty-years, Scab was drunk. Dumbass probably was too. The impromptu light show had jolted the ruddy-faced man from his tree-stump chair and caused Dumbass to run off whimpering. The old mutt had knocked over his dirty wine-filled dog bowl and sent the homemade alcohol onto the desert floor.
Of course, Scab’s first reaction was to shout out, “You dumbass!”
Scab looked for Dumbass but couldn’t find him. Not that it mattered; the remaining nuclear warhead slammed into the earth not too far from where Scab’s one room wooden shack stood and his rusty old truck (which long ago had stopped working) was parked. The high-pitched whistle that preceded the impact was far too short in duration to offer any useful warning to Scab; he barely had time to turn his head in the warhead’s direction
when the shockwave from the nuclear detonation hit him.
In the coming days, teams from the US Department of Energy and the FBI, would search the area and find no evidence of any human life in the zone of impact. Not that they really expected that they would. They would find, however, a small part of a front axle from Scab’s truck that would have a partial Part Identification Number. Eventually, the FBI would trace that number to Mrs. Blanche M. Ellsworth. Mrs. Ellsworth resides in nearby Indian Springs, and would tell the FBI that the truck in question was stolen from her home nearly fifteen-years ago.
Reginald A. Booker died – vaporized really – from the nuclear blast and not one person had any clue. No one would know to look for Scab, and no one would miss him.
Samantha B. Booker, Scab’s sister, and Rhonda C. Franklin, a hooker, were the last two people to see Scab alive. Samantha died in a car accident twelve-years ago on highway 95 as she drove toward Lake Havasu, and Rhonda was dead too; she had died of complications from AIDS nearly nine years back.
Of course, not one person, other than Scab, knew about Dumbass either.
Chapter Seventy-Nine
The First among Equals
Rome, Italy
Colonel Camini gingerly helped Michael to his feet. The Colonel’s left shoulder had been bandaged and he was clearly favoring that side.
The two men were surrounded by numerous plain-clothed Swiss Guard or members of The Watchmen – perhaps they were both - Michael couldn’t be sure, but watched as they efficiently removed the bodies of the dead men scattered around the room. A couple of them were trying to put out the fire in the fireplace so that they could remove the charred remains of the Primitus’s assistant. A few others were feverishly cleaning the room to scrub it of any evidence. For the second time in one day, the Colonel was conducting damage control.
He motioned to two nearby men and then pointed to the Primitus, “You two, pick up the Cardinal and take him to my car. Stay with him.”
