Brandice held the solid black handgrip that housed the firing key. It was attached to the console by heavy, protective cable and made a metallic grating sound as he raised it in the air. Procedure called for all present to observe his right forefinger depress the red plastic trigger. He turned his eyes toward the overhead, a blank look covering his emotionally drained face. A momentary hint of supplication faded into a cold, hard stare.
“Fire,” Jackson simply said.
One by one, eight Trident missiles belched forth from Michigan. Compressed gases violently pushed them past fiberglass protective covers and thrust them through tons of resistive seawater. Enough energy remained to hurl them thirty feet above the water’s surface, where the first-stage solid rocket motors exploded in a billowing cloud of orange flame and thick gray smoke. Each missile in turn righted itself, its silicon brain instantly recognizing its surroundings. Once stable, each missile began the long journey to Russian airspace.
Jackson’s thoughts turned to his own family, and how much he loved them and then to visions of Russian citizens bustling through the crowded streets of their magnificent old-world cities. Why had this madness happened? He couldn’t answer, only carry out his orders, and pray to God his missiles weren’t targeting those ancient Russian cities.
CHAPTER 28
Thomas slumped against the corrugated trunk of a thick oak, slowly sliding off the emotional high that had peaked an hour earlier. The heightened sensual awareness brought back memories of combat over the skies of Vietnam. The intoxication of facing death and escaping had troubled him then and puzzled him now. He should be trying to catch some sleep. It was nearly four in the morning.
The night had finally cooled enough to halt the constant sweating under fatigues. In fact, he almost felt chilled sitting in the night air. Shortly after the attack, he had been hustled to a waiting helo and flown down the Shenandoah to a map grid where they had popped over the mountains and headed southeast toward Lynchburg, Virginia. After touchdown, Thomas was forced to cool his heels in the company of a handful of Harcourt’s men. He now sat on the ground with one of them, nursing an injured left arm, waiting for a rendezvous with an army unit assigned to escort him to the new president.
The camp doctor had extracted a jagged piece of shrapnel that had split open two inches of his forearm. Thomas hadn’t noticed amidst all the commotion, until the blood started dripping on the deck in steady black-red drops. The wound was beginning to throb under the tight gauze bandage. The man with him was a major, the officer in charge. He squatted on one knee, his M-4A cradled under his arm, his free hand resting on a radio, and his eyes locked on the clearing. Smeared face paint made it impossible to discern individual facial features. He looked like any other soldier, except tougher, which was expected from the men of the army’s special operations forces.
Thomas rubbed an outstretched leg, massaging a cramped thigh muscle. “What’s your name, Major? Where you from?” The Ranger didn’t move and didn’t answer for an uncomfortable period. The major finally accepted that the general wanted to talk.
“Benton, sir, from Kentucky.” The soft southern accent confirmed the reply. Thomas focused on the Ranger patch on the major’s shoulder, barely visible from two feet.
“I thought the 75th Ranger Regiment was split between Fort Benning and Fort Lewis?”
“That’s right, sir. But we rotate a company every three months to the DC area as part of FEMA’s contingency plans. Support the mobile command center. It was my turn in the barrel.”
“You the company commander?”
“Yes, sir, Echo Company, 2nd Battalion.”
“Well, Major Benton, it looks like we’re gonna be together for a while.”
Benton cocked his head slightly in Thomas’s direction. The black eyes were hard, committed. “Yes, sir. Colonel Harcourt said I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight until I personally deliver you to wherever the hell we’re going.” The major’s focus shifted back to the perimeter and duty.
Thomas stopped the interrogation. The major had better things to do than shoot the shit with some hobbled air force general. Although the requirement for a personal bodyguard grated on his sensibility, he couldn’t have picked a better man. He was sure the others out there in the darkness were of the same caliber.
A sudden roar filled the forest; a chorus of military vehicles reverberated through the trees. The major’s radio crackled to life. A Ranger monitoring the approach road announced the composition of the approaching troops. Benton ordered his men to fall back. Within thirty seconds, ghostly figures drifted from the woods, quickly setting up for an ambush, if such were required. Two M-60 machine-gun teams covered the approach while three men with AT-4s spread out behind. The rest lay flat on their stomachs, rifles ready.
A foreign call sign floated out of the radio. Benton clicked his penlight over a pad of paper with scribbled codes. Partially satisfied, he answered with a code challenge that was properly authenticated by the strangers on the other end. He looked up.
“Our ride’s here, General.” Benton got to his feet and strode into the clearing. Headlights came around the bend, bathing the major in a flickering glow that eerily cast a shadow. His M-4A was pointed directly at the lights as a precaution. If it wasn’t who he thought it was, he wouldn’t have a chance. The lead vehicle screeched to a halt. It was a Humvee, the military’s all-purpose vehicle, followed by a second and then a pair of two-and-a-half-ton trucks. All sat idling, the racket tearing at the still night.
A bird colonel, as evidenced by the shiny eagles on each collar, exited the cab. Benton stationed himself between Thomas and the men spilling out of the vehicles.
“We’re here for General Thomas,” announced the colonel loudly over the diesel engine’s racket. Benton let him approach. Thomas had made it to his feet, limping slightly, determined to appear whole. The colonel recognized the officer moving his way.
“General Thomas?” he asked, saluting.
Thomas saluted in reply. “That’s right.”
“I’m to take you, the major, and his men to our camp. We’ll get further instructions there.”
Benton turned to Thomas and raised his eyebrows. Thomas nodded the OK.
“Saddle up,” Benton barked to his men. “I’ll ride with you, General.” He held out an arm and guided Thomas to the Humvee. The Rangers piled into the two and a half tons, while Benton and Thomas rode in the backseat of the lead Humvee. With everyone on board, the lead driver spun a U-turn and headed down the first of a series of back roads that would eventually break out onto a state highway for the final approach to the camp.
“We’re sitting ducks,” observed Benton with a twinge of disgust. It obviously wasn’t the way he would have done it. He had already lost many good men earlier tonight.
“We’ve cleared the route,” answered the colonel defensively for Thomas’s benefit. Thomas started to open his mouth, wondering whether the speaker had taken the oath and where he was. He thought better and said nothing. This wasn’t the time or place.