by Lund, Dave
A facility clock on the wall of the secret internal bunker said it was 0300, not that they could have been able to tell being so far below ground. Regardless, the facility night crew should be on duty, if Trent hadn’t ended the watch cycle. Jessie wrote the watch cycle list as well as the on-duty rounds and checks; she just hoped that they still used it.
Slowly and quietly, they crept higher and higher, closer to the exit with each step. Sweat dripped off the tip of Jessie’s nose as they finally stepped into the cold dark morning air of topside. The moon shone brightly, casting long gray moonlight shadows. Moving with purpose, Bexar and Jessie moved into the shadows of the other hangars, edging their way to the door and to where they had left the FJ. There wasn’t any sign of the Zeds that had been swarming on the other side of the mountains.
The FJ sat as they left it only a few hours before. Jessie dropped her ruck on the ground by the rear bumper and made her way to the large hangar door to open it. Bexar dropped his ruck and tossed it into the back of the SUV before picking up Jessie’s ruck and doing the same. He shut the rear door and walked around the front toward the hood. They had left the plug going from the coil to the distributor disconnected before leaving the FJ unattended. Now that they were sure to leave, Bexar wanted to make sure that the FJ would be there upon their return so they could.
Bexar heard the slow rattle of the hangar door opening as he reconnected the plug and shut the hood. He turned to climb into the driver’s seat when he was stopped in his tracks.
“Easy there, guy. You don’t want to do this,” Bexar said softly. Only about 18 inches away from his face was the dark muzzle of an M4. One of Trent’s men stood on the other side of the rifle, night vision goggles flipped down in front of his face.
“Sure I do, but not as badly as I want to kill your bitch…”
That was the last word Bexar heard as the world went black around him.
New Ulm, Montana
Quietly, Steve Dorsey made his way topside to the Launch Control Support Building. He shouldn’t be able to re-enter the launch control center below ground by himself, but in the weeks prior, he had made modifications to make sure he wouldn’t be locked out of his new home.
Checking the interior of the building, which looked a bit like a large ranch-style home, Dorsey was confident that he was alone and the building was free of Zeds. He hadn’t called them Zeds until everyone on the radio began referring to the dead as such. Moving quickly, Dorsey powered his home-built spark gap radio, which cracked and hummed to life. While listening to the sparse transmissions between two people he didn’t know, Dorsey wrote out the short message and pulled his hand-written Morse code chart out of the pile of yellow paper pads stacked on the table.
After waiting for a short break in the radio traffic, Dorsey held the key down, blasting the radio spectrum with a continuous buzzing tone before keying “BK BK BK” to signal others to break the line for his transmission, followed by his chosen radio name and the call sign for the station at Groom Lake. After repeating the call sign, a return transmission of “GA” was transmitted from the Groom Lake station, signaling Dorsey that he was clear to transmit.
“URGENT COL SMITH ICBM REWIRE 4 ROGUE LAUNCH MM 3 SAYS PREZ AUTH ULM FLT 1 M 1”
Steve heard the elevator from the access shaft at the other end of the building and pulled the power lead to the radio, stood, and walked out of the room as calmly as he could. Walking back toward the access shaft, he was met by the colonel about halfway there.
“You’re up and about early this morning, Steve.”
“Yes, sir. Woke up and…had, was concerned that I hadn’t checked that the doors were all properly latched and decided to check on it.”
If Clint suspected that he was lying, Steve couldn’t tell; the man’s face showed no emotion, no reaction either way, like looking at a wax figure.
“Good idea. If you’re done, we should get back down below. Since you’re up, let’s get some coffee on and we’ll get to work. We have a lot to do.”
“Yes, sir.” Steve stepped into the elevator and pressed the appropriate button.
Groom Lake
Bill blinked hard. One of his radiomen stood in the open door to the office he converted into his own personal room, which was more like a tiny dorm room than an efficiency apartment. Light backlit the man, but Bill knew his voice. It was one of the civilians who had taken up some slack by working in the radio hut.
“I think this is urgent and we can’t figure out some of what it says.”
Sitting up on his green government cot, the dark figure stepped into the room and flipped the light switch before presenting the hand-written piece of paper to Bill. After reading the note once, Bill read it again and once more before bolting to his feet and walking toward the door. “I need to get a second opinion on this, uh, has Dallas checked on the net yet?”
“No, but we haven’t reached your ‘be concerned’ date, so we aren’t too worried about Amanda yet.”
“OK, fine, but if this means what I think it means, we need to make contact with her immediately.”
Groom Lake
Walls shook from the onslaught, but the cinderblock and concrete-constructed hut of an office took the abuse, for now. The sound of the passing mass of the dead was terrible, a cross between a guttural inhuman noise and human moans. It stirred a primal fear in both Gonzo and Chivo, one so deep and ancient as to be nearly overwhelming. Both of them were seasoned special operators and war-fighters, pipe hitters of the highest order, so although fear raged below their skin, their faces never showed it. From the fear, a rage burned against the situation. For men of action, waiting was hard to do.
Neither slept. Instead, they slumped into the alert while resting false nap that combat veterans perfected. The noise of bodies slapping against the exterior walls had slowed in tempo, the passing moans of the swarming Zeds growing fainter until only few could be heard. Chivo’s best estimation was that they had been sheltering from the dead for over 12 hours. Gonzo had tried his mobile radio with no success. There would be no rescue, no Quick Reaction Force to come to their aid; they simply had to wait and hope the Zed swarm would continue north.
The limited view out of the small bullet-resistant windows showed them both exactly what they expected. Stragglers remained, but compared to before, it was like finally being alone.
“Looks like it’s nearly time to pop smoke, dude.”
Chivo nodded. “Good. We have a long walk ahead of us, mano. If we want a chance to make it before nightfall, we’re going to have to get moving.”
The previous night had been spent in near silence. Gonzo watched Chivo field strip each of his weapons one by one to clean and inspect. Once Chivo had reassembled his pistol, the last firearm of the three to be cleaned, Gonzo began on his own M4 and pistol. Although the time was spent in silence, Gonzo spent the time trying to figure out who Chivo was simply by inferring what he could by the skills he possessed, trying to match up what he saw with what Chivo claimed to be. It was obvious to Gonzo that his new shipmate was well practiced with the weapons beyond just being a dedicated civilian shooter, down to the way he moved when clearing this building, but the most telling aspect was Chivo’s eyes. His eyes burned with an intensity that would be lost on most, but Gonzo understood.
With purpose, they formed up, unsecured the outside door, and stepped into the blowing dust and bright sunlight. A few yards away was the first Zed, which was treated to a knee kicked through and broken by Chivo who was careful to keep free of the clawing grasp of the dead fingers as it fell. They had agreed to withhold from firing any of their weapons unless absolutely necessary for concern of attracting even more of the dead.
Spacing out on the roadway as they would on patrol in hostile territory, they set off at a comfortable but quick pace. Chivo took the lead, sweeping his eyes and head back and forth as he scanned the area for any threats.
What I wouldn’t give for a sharp hatchet or a good tomahawk right now, something with an easy swing. Chivo made a mental note on that thought; he was going to dig through the storeroom on Level 5 for a hatchet, or maybe an entrenching tool. He could sharpen an edge of the folding shovel entrenching tool like the Soviets used to do. Whatever the solution, Chivo needed a quiet hand tool that he could swing for a Zed kill.
Groom Lake
It took most of the morning to figure out where the message was referring to, but the tiny town of Ulm, Montana, was found on a road atlas that someone had found, which made a lot of sense now that Bill could see it. Ulm was outside of Great Falls, which was home to Malmstrom Air Force Base, which was home to a bunch of flights of Minutemen III ICBMs spread across the area. The real problem now was figuring out what “FLT 1 M 1” meant in terms of specific location. It was suggested that the message stood for “Flight 1 of Missile 1,” but even if it did, no one knew where that was. One survivor had been to the Minutemen III National Historic Site once and described what it would look like above ground, but without overhead photography, satellite imagery, or anything else to help, they had no idea where to look.
Earlier that morning, Bill made the decision that they would not transmit in the blind trying to reach President Lampton. He worried that those transmissions could strike panic in anyone else listening if there was no response from Dallas. Instead, they would wait for her or Andrew to contact them, assuming they would. In the meantime, they would try to figure out more of the details.
Hours before, Bill sent someone to wakeup Jessie, but so far no one could locate her. Her Toyota FJ was verified to be in the hangar above ground, so she had to be in the facility, but she was nowhere to be found. Two of the radiomen were still searching for Jessie so Bill walked into the cafeteria hoping to grab a light lunch before returning to his mission at hand and was surprised by the large crowd.
The tables were pushed aside, leaving an open area at the front near the serving lines. Rows of chairs filled most of the open area and it seemed that a majority of the survivors were sitting in attendance. At the front was Trent, making an impassioned speech while pointing at Bexar and Jessie. Bill looked at Jessie first and gasped. Her eyes were swollen, puffy, and bruised, blood crusted on her mouth and face, and her nose appeared to be broken. Her shoulders sagged and it took a moment for Bill to realize that her hands were handcuffed or tied behind her back. The hair on the left side of Bexar’s head was matted and thick with crusted and seeping blood. Bexar’s nose was broken as well. He stood with his hands handcuffed behind his back as well. It looked like someone had beat both of them with a pole and the other men who stood at the front with Trent appeared to be the ones who had given out the beatings.
Trent asked the gathered crowd for a verbal vote. Once completed, he turned to Bexar. “Well, there you go, sport. The majority has spoken.”
Bexar spit blood and mucus in Trent’s face. One of Trent’s men hit Bexar in the head with a heavy leather sap, which sent Bexar crashing to the floor.
“Pick that trash up and bring them both topside; it’s time to carry out the will of the people!”
The crowd parted to let Trent and his men through as they dragged Bexar and Jessie with them. Trent paused for a moment as he passed Bill and gave him a wink with a smile that seemed to suck all the warmth out of the room. After waiting for the following crowd of fellow survivors, Bill fell in behind them and followed everyone above ground. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but Bill had a really good guess.
SSC
“OK, Amanda, I think it’ll work this time. Flip it,” Andrew yelled from down the hall.
Amanda Lampton flipped the toggle switch. Sizzling and humming, the radio came to life, followed immediately by a small electric spark that snapped across the leads. The air in the room began to smell from the ionization of the radio.
“Great job, Andrew,” Amanda called over her shoulder.
Andrew smiled as he came into the room. After sitting next to President Lampton at the conference table with the newly completed spark gap radio, Andrew held a pen over a yellow pad of paper while glancing at a cheat sheet of Morse code. The transmission was slow enough that Andrew was able to transpose the sparking dits and dahs, the dots and dashes into letters and words, while waiting for the next letter to be sent. It felt like listening to a story being told by a three year old—confusing, out of context, and being told exceptionally slow—but eventually, they began to understand what the words were saying, even if they didn’t understand the message.
“These guys have their own shortcut codes. I don’t understand what ‘MM3’ is supposed to mean and why this guy is so concerned.”
Amanda responded saying she didn’t know either. The next transmission was garbled, multiple stations trying to transmit at once, their radio signals causing a flurry of noise.
Three hours passed before they were able to figure out that some of the transmissions were talking about a missile.
Groom Lake
Gonzo had point as they rounded the last mountain. Chivo wiped sweat from his face and checked behind them for any straggling Zeds. They hadn’t seen one in an hour, which suited Chivo just fine, since he had been worried that the swarm had gone east instead of continuing north. A swarm of Zeds that large tearing through the hangars and old buildings of Area 51 could have wrecked it, although the underground facility shouldn’t have been affected. Chivo estimated they were about a half a click from the destroyed hangar and the door back underground.
As tempting as it was to walk straight to the hangar and their home base, Chivo noted that Gonzo was leading them on a longer route around the edge, giving them a better chance to check for an ambush. Not that Chivo expected one, but better men than he had died for not following good tactics.
The old U-2 hangars were their last large piece of cover and concealment as they rounded the corner to have the ramp in view. Gonzo held up his hand to signal stop before giving the signal for enemy.
No shit, puentas set an ambush, Chivo thought to himself as he scanned his area of responsibility, which was the opposite direction of where Gonzo had been looking when he stopped. Chivo glanced over his shoulder at Gonzo and saw the signal for him to come forward. A moment later, Chivo nodded in response and retrieved the .50-caliber that was still lashed to the side of his ruck. Lying on his rifle, his heavy pack off his shoulders and by his side, Chivo surveyed the scene through the powerful optic mounted on the rifle. Gonzo quietly made a series of radio calls. Aymond, Kirk, Davis, and Jones were about one and half-clicks south trying to get a bulldozer running again. They were responding with the remaining M-ATV, but Hammer was up in the control tower. He hadn’t seen the crowd of survivors pour out of the underground access but he turned and scanned the scene with the powerful binoculars they had found in the tower.
“There are two people in the middle of the crowd that appear to be prisoners…it almost looks like a fucking lynch mob, mano. Chivo continued to watch. The mass of people and his low position meant he couldn’t see much detail in the crowd; there were too many people and too much movement. The doors to the hangar where the vehicles were parked were pushed open and two ropes were thrown over the extended door frame on the side of the hangar. A moment later, the ropes went taut as two writhing bodies were slowly pulled into the air as they kicked. Both people had black trash bags over their heads, their hands handcuffed behind their backs and their feet bound.
“It is a lynch mob, two victims; I can’t tell who the people are…shit!”
Chivo didn’t finish his sentence. The hard blast from the big rifle’s muzzle brake and the concussive recoil caused sand and dust to bounce off the ground into the air. Gonzo could barely hear the radio, but thought Hammer said “pregnant” before another round was fired by Chivo. Hammer’s big sniper rifle barked, the sound echoing off the buildings and mountains. Chivo wa
tched as Jessie’s rope slid off the ruined metal door track, the metal support ripped apart by two successive .50-caliber rifle rounds. Her body jerked and shook against her restraints. Chivo’s aim shifted so he could see Bexar and was pleased to see Bexar’s rope following Jessie’s as they fell the couple of feet to the hard pavement. The rifle kept moving as Chivo scanned for hostiles. He saw a man pointing and yelling just before his head vaporized into a red mist, the rolling rifle report of another pipe hitter taking up slack.
Chivo could wait no longer and had barely leapt to his feet when he had started running toward the crowd and to where Bexar and Jessie had disappeared as they fell. The other M-ATV flew past, bounding across the ramp and sliding to a stop on the edge of the crowd. Four Marines burst out of the armored truck and took position, pushing the crowd back with their presence while Aymond gave loud stern commands. Chivo kept running until he reached where Bexar and Jessie were being sat up and tended to by Bill.
Bill pulled the trash bags off their heads and Chivo saw they both looked rough. Someone had done a number on them both. After retrieving the handcuff key from under his belt, as he had in New Mexico, both Bexar and Jessie’s hands were freed before Chivo cut off the zip ties binding their feet.
“What the fuck, mano?”
Bill shook his head. Jessie spit blood out of her mouth and spoke first. “Like a fucking military coup, some asshole I don’t really know named Trent somehow has everyone thinking we’re dictators or despots or something. Had a kangaroo court and sentenced us to death.”
“And they tried to overthrow you,” Chivo finished.
