“Precisely when will this facility be closed?” the French ambassador asks.
“A week from today. Ain’t that something? My bird’s an endangered species. Soon, they’ll be planting daisies right over our heads.”
“And the warheads?” the Israeli ambassador asks.
“Dismantled, then shipped to a plant near Amarillo where they’ll dilute the uranium and plutonium. All the technology and energy consumed to enrich the stuff in the first place, and then they just turn around and reverse it. Kinda seems like a waste, don’t it?”
“And after it’s diluted?” the Englishman asks, letting the question hang there.
“They ship it to nuclear power plants. In a few months, what had been the heart of the warhead will be powering some electric dildo.”
The ambassadors snicker. “I believe those are battery operated,” the Englishman says.
“You oughta know,” Pukowlski says, draining his beer.
Billy and James hold the two launch keys. The console is alive with flashing lights and digital displays. The computerized female voice is as calm as ever. “Launch mode yellow. Confidence is high.”
“Let’s take it from the top,” David says. “Read’em out.”
“Six, Eight, Beta, Alpha, Three, Seven,” James says, nearly singing.
“I agree. Those are good values,” David says, and James turns thumbwheels on his console, entering each number and letter.
“Down and lock,” James says, hitting the switch labeled “initiate.” Immediately, the computer begins printing out a continuous roll of paper covered with numerical codes.
“Plick switch,” David says, referring to the Preparatory Launch Command.
“Foxtrot, Nine, Papa, Four,” James calls back.
“Numbers good,” David says, and James enters “F-9-P-4” on another set of thumbwheels.
“Flight switch on, launcher on, enable on,” David says, checking his board, as new lights flash on. Time and target complete. Insert keys.”
Simultaneously, David and James tear off plastic flaps covering key holes on the console. Behind them, Rachel stands, her dark eyes shining with excitement. Susan Burns and Owens sit, back to back, their hands cuffed together, their faces reflecting their fear.
“Key inserted,” James says.
“Lock your board.”
They both hit switches.
James nods, and says, “Board locked.”
“Check your lights.”
James scans the console. “Lights check.”
“Launch mode green,” the computerized voice says. “Strategic alert confirmed. All systems check and re-check. Launch is a go. Confidence is high.”
In the STRATCOM War Room, General Corrigan and his staff watch the Big Board where the latest message reads, “MIRV locked on primary targets.”
“Launch is a go,” the computerized voice says, but all the officers in the room know that.
The screen blinks with target information. A map of Jerusalem appears, with pulsating crosses on ten targets.
An aide approaches General Corrigan. “General, the President wants to know if we should advise the Israelis to evacuate Jerusalem.”
“Not unless they can do it in thirty minutes. All we’ll succeed in doing is having more people caught outdoors.”
The aide disappears up a set of stairs, and the general studies the map with a rueful smile. “What do the Wailing Wall, the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, and the Mosque of Omar have in common?”
Colonel Farris shrugs. “They’re all religious sites.”
“One for each of the three great religions,” FBI Agent Hurtgen adds.
“Right,” General Corrigan says. “What we’ve got here is a non-discriminatory terrorist. He seems to loathe everybody.” The general
reads off the names of the other sites that are targets of the multiple warheads. “The Dome of the Rock, the Church of the Assumption, the First Station of the Cross, the Great Synagogue, the Chapel of Ascension, the Tomb of the Kings, and the Temple Mount. All of that and a million people. They’ll be gone in the blink of an eye.”
David and James each have a hand on the inserted keys. Behind them, Susan’s eyes desperately dart around the capsule, looking for help, an idea, anything. Owens mumbles a prayer, his lips cracked with dried blood.
“Clockwise on my count,” David says.
“If you truly were a man of God,” Susan blurts out, “you couldn’t destroy the holiest city in the world. You couldn’t kill all those innocent people.”
“As it is written in Corinthians, ‘Death is swallowed up in victory.’”
“This isn’t about Resurrection.”
David swivels in his chair and glowers at her. “Physician, heal thyself!”
He turns back to the console and nods to James. “Key turn on my mark.” He closes his eyes and counts it down, “Three, two, one. Mark… ”
David and James simultaneously turn their keys. “And hold,” David commands.”
A buzzer emits an insistent beep.
David silently counts to five. “And release.”
Eyes closed, smiling mystically, David releases the key, and so does James.
“One last look,” Captain Pukowlski says, leading the ambassadors into the silo from the tunnel. “Kinda like a country-western song, I just wanna see my love one last time before she leaves me.”
The group stands just a few feet from the missile, which hangs in its cables over their heads. “And what a shame, ‘cause this baby’s the most modern, most accurate missile in the most secure facility on the face of the—”
Ka-boom! The SQUIB explosives blow the concrete cap off the silo. The cap, made of solid concrete six feet thick, weighs more than two hundred thousand pounds, and is hurled off the top of the silo like a Brobdingnagian frisbee. It takes out a cyclone fence surrounding the silo and crumbles of its own weight when it hits the ground.Pukowlski looks up at the blue Wyoming sky. The ambassadors are terrified, turning to the captain for an explanation. Speechless, the captain stands beneath the missile, frozen in place.
Suddenly, Whoosh! The Launch Eject Gas Generator steams to life, pumping a mixture of water and pressurized gases through pulsating tubes into the missile canister. Hoses hiss menacingly and stiffen like angry snakes. The missile sways in its cables.
Though he is startled, at his core, Pukowlski is a trained officer who believes in duty, honor, and country. He lives by the book and would be willing to die by the book, and the only answer to what is going on must be found in the book.
“Gentlemen,” Pukowlski says, not even trying to suppress a grin, “stiffen your spines and grab your cocks. We’re at war!”
General Corrigan presides over a War Room of apoplectic officers. The blinking red lights illuminate his face, which is locked into a grimace.
The computerized voice drowns out the buzz of the officers and technicians, “Countdown sequence initiated. LEGG activated. Confidence is high.”
All eyes are on the Big Board where a dotted line tracks slowly from Wyoming across the arctic circle, across Greenland and the North Atlantic, across Europe southward toward Africa, finally touching down in Israel. The dotted line disappears, then re-tracks again and again.
In the generator room beneath the silo, a horn sounds and thick hoses throb with heated propulsion gases. Shirtless and soaking wet, Jack Jericho hovers over the keyboard of the generator control panel, unsure what to do.