In the launch control capsule, the monitors go blank, the sweeping beams on the radar screen fade to black, and the teletype stops clacking.
Owens bangs on the console. “Not again. Billy, you want to crank up the generator?”
Billy is still huddled over his multiple choice test, Susan Burns watching him.
“Never mind,” Owens says, “I’ll do it myself.” He hits a switch, and a whirring noise emanates from the sump.
Gabriel leads a second group of commandos through the stand of Ponderosa pine trees beyond the security building. There, in the shadow of the aqueduct that runs down the mountain from Chugwater Dam, two wooden buildings — the barracks and mess hall — sit peacefully next to a baseball diamond cut into the weedy soil.
The soldiers of the Apocalypse take up positions behind trees, peering toward the buildings through scoped —16’s. In front of the mess hall, close to the baseball field, two soldiers play catch, their voices carrying toward the woods. Gabriel hears them debating the relative merits of the New York Mets and the Atlanta Braves. Even from this distance, he can detect the southern accent of the Braves’ fan. Gabriel gives a silent signal by pointing to the commando nearest him. You take the one the left. On three.
Gabriel sights the ballplayer, who faces him. Aims at the center of his chest. Two to the chest, one to the head. Makes the perp good and dead. Gabriel’s father was a cop in Houston, and that’s what he always said. But a quick burst here, three 5.56 millimeter slugs, all aimed at the chest would likely blow out Atlanta’s sternum, lung, and maybe his heart.
Pop, pop, pop. The riflemen fire simultaneously, and the ballplayers crumple to the ground. At the sound of the gunshots, a barechested airman, his face covered with shaving cream, emerges from the barracks. He sees the fallen airmen, whirls around, looking into the woods, but does not see the attackers. A gunshot from the trees creases his temple, and his shaving cream beard turns red. A second later, a fusillade peppers his body, and he falls. The commandos emerge from the trees and fire on full automatic, shredding the wooden walls on the barracks.
Attached to the rear of the barracks is a small concrete block building, the latrine and showers. Standing under a roaring shower head, lathered with soap, oblivious to the danger, Airman Reynolds sings “Do It To Me” in a voice never mistaken for Lionel Ritchie.
Inside Security Command, five airmen play poker at a desk littered with donuts, Styrofoam coffee cups and poker chips. From outside, the muffled crackle of small arms fire. Lieutenant Cooper spills his coffee. “What the fuck was that?”
“Probably one of the Air Police taking target practice,” an airman says.
“Bet we get venison for dinner,” says a third.
Suddenly, the room goes dark, and the humming equipment goes silent.
“Generator!” Cooper yells.
Someone hits a switch and the lights come up to half power.
The door to the barracks is in splinters. The remaining airmen, wounded and bleeding, are in hand-to-hand combat with the commandos. Pistol fire echoes through the close quarters. Gabriel uses a knife to eviscerate a young airman and leads his men through the barracks. “Kill them all!” he orders.
Using his bunk for cover, Airman Sayers empties his sidearm into the advancing commandos, then ducks for cover behind a footlocker. A noise from behind, and Sayers whirls around. A commando bursts through the back door and surprises him, the M-16A2 just inches from his face. Instinctively, Sayers reaches for the barrel and they wrestle for the gun. Sayers get leverage and dumps the commando to the floor as gunshots shatter the window above his head. The commando is on his knees when Sayers gets him in a headlock and twists, breaking the man’s neck.
Sayers gets to his feet and sees another commando with an Uzi turning toward him. Just as a volley of slugs rips into the wall, Sayers dives out the open window.
“Where the hell’s the captain?” someone shouts in the semi-darkness of Security Command.
“In the silo playing tour guide,” someone else answers.
Lieutenant Cooper tries to take control. “All right, everybody pipe down. We probably just blew a fuse. Anybody reach Dempsey at the sentry post?”
“He doesn’t answer.”
“Shit! What the hell’s going on?”
Before anyone can answer, the dull thud of an explosion flattens the outer door of the security building and rattles the wall of the command center.
“Jumping Jesus!” Cooper is on his feet. “Get on the horn to STRATCOM! Raise Space Command! Now!”
The Radio Operator grabs a headset and punches buttons on his transmitter.
“Satellite hookup, now!” Cooper shouts. “Weapons, now!”
Another airman fumbles with a set of keys. A second explosion, this one on the security bridge. The pass-through window is shattered. Dust sifts down from the ceiling. The airman finds the right key and opens the weapons locker. Three other airman jostle each other, tugging at rifles that are bound together by nylon straps. Boxes of bullets and loaded magazines fall from the locker and clatter to the floor. A few shells roll crazily across the tile.
Cooper stands at the communications desk, screaming into a microphone. “Come in, STRATCOM! Answer, goddamit!”
Another blast, and the reinforced door implodes. Four commandos burst in with military precision, two to a side, one high, one low. A pink laser dot finds Cooper’s forehead in the dim light. With a soft whap, he takes a shot between the eyes and topples over backward. An Airman raises a rifle, but a staccato beat from a commando’s Uzi tattoos his chest with three slugs. Another airman draws a bead with a handgun, but Matthew splatters him with a blast from a twelve-gauge pistol-grip shotgun.
It is over in seconds.
The airmen are all dead. Security Command is in the hands of the Holy Church of Revelations.
-21-
Figs Shaken from a Dying Tree
In the launch control capsule, Owens angrily bangs switches on the console. He picks up a phone and listens to a dead line. Slams down the phone. A look of frustration. “Where the hell is everybody?”
“Probably just a short in the number two generator,” Billy Riordan says. “Let’s not start World War III.”
“Oh, look who’s got an opinion,” Owens says, frazzled. “Thank you very much, Billy boy. Thank you very goddamn much.”
“Is there a problem?” Dr. Susan Burns asks.
Owens doesn’t know what to say. It’s never happened before. Buried underground and out of communication. A woodchuck could have eaten through their electrical lines or a missile fired by some crazy Russians could have nuked them. Suddenly, the phone rings, and Owens jumps. “Whoa! There they are.” His body relaxes just a bit. “No problem, ma’am. Now, let’s see who’s home.” He picks up the phone and barks, “Capsule Command, Lieutenant Owens. Please identify.”
“Security Alpha,” the voice says. “Everything all right down there?”
Firmly now, “Day code, Security Alpha.”
“Day code, Sky King. Now what’s going on in the hole?”
“Jesus, what’s going on up there?” Owens asks. “Where the hell you been?”
“Sorry ‘bout that, Capsule Command. Electrical crew fouled up, must have sliced some wires.”
“Yeah, what about the backup?”
While Owens waits for an answer, at the other end of the line, Brother David looks around the Security Command Center, which is a shambles. Dead airmen are sprawled over desks and chairs, the walls have been shot up, the window to the security bridge shattered. “Backup shorted out,” David says. “We’ll report it.”