“Any minute, sir.”
Just then, the center wall screen on the Big Board blinks, and the map of North America is replaced by a photograph of Chugwater Mountain taken from Eyesat II. The dam and reservoir are visible, then farther down, the slope of the mountain, the dry river bed and a forest of pine and fir trees. A second photo replaces it, a shot of 318th Missile Squadron at the base of the mountain. The screen blinks, the photo is enhanced, and Colonel Farris stares at an overhead view of the blown front gate and the crumpled bodies of airmen outside the barracks and mess hall.
“Oh shit!” The colonel turns to the sergeant. “Is 47-Q still hot?”
“Yes, sir. Dismantling scheduled for next week.”
“Oh, holy shitcakes!” Colonel Farris hurries to a computer console where a civilian technician sits, wearing a headset. “What’s the target data for 47-Q?”
“Right now, just some icebergs in the Arctic Ocean,” the technician replies. “Once the PLC is entered, of course, it’ll revert to wherever they were targeted before the thaw with the Russians.”
“Which is where? the colonel says, impatiently.
The technician punches some keys, and the wall screens blink again, this time with a map of the world as seen from above the arctic circle. Every few seconds, a dotted line tracks slowly from Wyoming over the North Pole to Moscow where it hits a cross-hatched bullseye. BLINK, the screen switches to a street grid of Moscow and its surroundings with pulsating crosses at the ten target sites for the multiple warheads. A sound comes from deep inside Colonel Farris, the moan of a sick cow. He hurries back to his desk and picks up a red phone. “General Corrigan,” the colonel says, when the phone is answered. “We’ve got a problem here.”
In the launch control capsule, James merrily punches keys on the console’s computer. “I’ll bet we’ve got their attention.”
David nods. “Do you have the target coordinates?”
“Right down to the last minute and second.”
David is quiet a moment.
“What are you thinking?” James asks.
“My father. I want him to know.”
James laughs. “Oh, he’ll know. It’ll be in all the papers.”
“He has to know it was me.”
James isn’t looking at him. He is typing a series of six-digit codes very carefully, watching his fingers hit the keys. “Who the hell else could it be?” he asks his lifelong friend.
In the STRATCOM War Room, the pace quickens. Technicians and crisis teams scurry around the cavernous facility, scrambling up and down metal ladders to a surrounding catwalk. The room is a three-story amphitheater with the computers and tracking stations on the first floor, offices and conferences rooms above. Dominating the room is the twenty-five foot high Big Board.
Air Force officers huddle around General Hugh Corrigan, his chest bedecked with medals, his silver hair cropped close. Colonel Farris stands off to one side as Clay Hurtgen, an FBI agent in a grey suit, briefs the general.
“For now, we’re calling them, ‘Morning Star,’” the FBI agent says.
“Who the hell are they?” the general demands.
“No one knows. The name doesn’t cross reference with anything in our computers. CIA’s come up blank. We’re working on it.”
Which does not seem to satisfy the general. “What do they want?”
“Nothing yet,” Agent Hurtgen replies. “No demands, no threats. Just the one-sentence teletype message.”
“‘Behold, I bring you the Morning Star,’” the general says, as if repeating the phrase aloud will decipher it.
Colonel Farris clears his throat. “Maybe it has something to do with television, sir.”
An army of heads swivel his way, tennis gallery style.
“I mean, like a morning television star, or something.”
“Did the Pentagon notify the White House?” the general asks.
“Yes, sir. The President’s Chief of Staff wants updates every fifteen minutes.”
General Corrigan glances at his watch and starts to walk away from the circle of men. “Tell him at 14:30 hours, Rocky Mountain Time, the general took a piss.”
“Yes, sir,” the aide says. “He wanted you to know that they’re notifying the Russians. I assured him that, other than political embarrassment, there’s no chance of… ”
A klaxon horn blares.
Lights flash.
The general stops short. His bladder can wait.
Heads turn toward the wall screens where a series of alpha-numeric combinations flash by followed by computer directories and hundreds of pages of files, each page flicking into view for a fraction of a second. The general reads the directory titles aloud, “Silo blueprints, electrical grids, command data buffers, target coordinates, enable codes, prepatory launch commands, abort codes, warhead configurations. Who the hell’s inputting that?”
Technical Sergeant Ryder, sitting at a computer console, watches his monitor, then answers. “Capsule 47-Q, sir. It’s coming from Morning Star.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” the general says.
In the launch control capsule, James works at the computer keyboard. On his monitor, the same data flashes by as in the STRATCOM War Room. He hits a key, and the words, “Target Coordinates,” freeze on the monitor screen. He carefully punches in six sets of two-digit combinations.
In the STRATCOM War Room, the screen comes to life with two sets of numbers: 32-28-15 and 35-01-13. Then, flickering below the numbers, the words, “Command Data Buffer Activated.”
“I can’t believe it,” Colonel Farris cries out.
“Now what?” General Corrigan fumes.
“Morning Star’s changed the target coordinates,” the colonel replies.
“That’s no surprise, Frank. If they know what they’re doing, they’re not going to try and launch into the ocean. They’ve got the PLC in the red box, so we expected them to enter it.”
“But that would be Moscow,” the colonel says. “This isn’t Moscow. It’s… ”
The screen goes blank. Then, slowly, the words scroll down. “MK WARHEAD, MIRV 1: NORTH LATITUDE 32 DEGREES, 28 MINUTES, 15 SECONDS; EAST LONGITUDE 35 DEGREES, 1 MINUTE, 13 SECONDS.”
“How’s your geography?” the general asks Col. Farris.
“Somewhere north of the equator, east of… ” He studies the numbers a moment, and just as a map of Africa comes on the screen, he says, “The Middle East.”
The map is replaced by a smaller area, the eastern Mediterranean from Libya on the west to Iran on the East. The screen blinks, and now the map zooms in: Egypt, Israel and Saudi Arabia. Another blink, a closer look, and it’s Israel alone. Finally, a flash, and a city street grid appears on the screen.
“Jerusalem,” Col. Farris says, in disbelief.
-27-
Peace is Our Profession
In the launch control capsule, David watches James work at the computer. On the monitor, the number “6” appears, pulsing once a second.
“Ah, here she comes,” David says. “A six.” He turns to Susan Burns, who stares at the monitor in horror. “Six is the point. Who wants to lay their money on the pass line?”
Susan doesn’t say a word.
“No crap shooters here, James my man. Roll ‘em.”
The number “8” flickers to life on the monitor, joining the “6.”
David smiles at the sight of the two numbers. “Keep on rolling, James.”
Next, the letter “B.”
“There goes our craps game,” David says. “Maybe we can play scrabble.”
“Numbers or letters, it’s all the same to me,” James says. An “A” joins the alpha-numeric combination on the screen.