The hammer of the.45 clicked on an empty chamber. Bane rushed across the room and tackled Chilgers low, then looked back at the console and saw the red button in the center was … gone.
No, not gone. Just pushed down, depressed.
Bane lunged toward the console, tried to unjam the button as if that would somehow erase the signal already sent to a missile complex in Montana where the end of the world was about to begin.
Chapter Thirty-eight
Maj. Christian Teare was maintaining his vigil in Bunker 17’s Command Center when the signal for Red Flag alert came through.
“Well, Jesus H. Christ …”
The terminal operator was too caught up in the frenzied pattern of computer signals flashing across his screen to hear him. Automatically, all lights in the bunker changed to a dull red, triggered by the SAFE interceptor. A chiming alarm sounded for five seconds, then stopped.
“Get me confirmation from base,” Teare ordered the nervous operator, knowing the command was futile.
The man punched out a series of instructions on his keyboard and waited for a response. When it came, he turned slowly to Teare.
“Confirmation established, sir.”
“In a rat’s ass,” Teare muttered, waiting for Heath to arrive from the Com-link center where he was hopefully tracing the origin of the signal order down.
Out of frustration, Teare reached over his shoulder and grabbed the black receiver that would, under normal conditions, have connected him directly with NORAD, lifting it to his ear slowly as though to pray for a tone.
“Shit!” he bellowed when none came.
On the board which made up Com-center’s entire rear wall, all monitored systems of Bunker 17 flashed from red to yellow and finally to green. Final missile launching checks were being made. The Disco was now shut off from the entire world. Twenty-eight seconds had passed since the triggering of Red Flag.
“Launching sequence will commence in one minute,” droned the computer-keyed monotone voice. “Fifty-five seconds …”
Looks like we’re gonna break our own record, Teare reflected ironically.
Captain Heath rushed through the Command Center’s sliding doors, sweat caking his face and eyes bulging. Teare grabbed him at the shoulders when he was halfway across the room.
“The signal!” Heath managed, struggling for breath. “It came from San Diego! Red Flag was triggered from San Diego!”
“COBRA!” Teare screamed. “Jesus shit, it was COBRA all along!” Then, “There’s got to be some goddamned way to call this thing off! It didn’t come from Colorado or Washington! It ain’t legitimate!”
“Except the computers don’t know the difference,” Heath said rapidly. “The SAFE system overrides all manual orders. The Disco’s sealed. We won’t have enough time to break through. Red Flag means total commitment.” Heath paused. “World War III.”
“Launching sequence will commence in thirty-five seconds….”
“We’ll see about that….”
Teare sped out of Command Center with Heath on his heels.
“There’s nothing you can do!” the captain insisted.
“There’s plenty,” Teare shot back, pulling a square-shaped key from around his neck.
“What the—”
“Launching sequence will commence in thirty seconds….”
“NORAD don’t exactly trust their machines one hundred percent, Cap. This key’ll give me access into the Disco and allow me to override all previous launch procedures right up to the final button,” Teare said, rounding another corner.
“Then why didn’t you use it before?” Heath shouted from just behind him.
“Red Flag had to be in effect. Don’t work before.”
“Launching sequence will commence in twenty-five seconds….”
In the Disco, Kate T. sat in the center console as the queen. At the twenty-second-to-launch mark, she removed a key exactly like Christian Teare’s from her neck. The men sitting on either side of her followed suit. Behind her she knew twelve wide-eyed men and women were monitoring the Missile Status boards, two on each to ensure against error. She could not look at them because at this point her eyes had to stay locked forward on her console. Years of training had taught her the board was the only thing that mattered now, her entire life. But the years of training could do nothing about the fluttering of her heart. She still clung to the hope that this was another drill, though somewhere down not so deep she knew it wasn’t. There were thirty-six MX missiles in the silos and ultimately it would be her key that fired them. No escaping that.
“Launching sequence will commence in fifteen seconds….”
“We have commencement of primary ignition,” reported the man on Kate T.’s right.
Before her, on the main terminal board which charted the progress of the missiles once they were fired, thirty-six lights flashed white in a perfect circle like a birthday cake’s candles.
“Board shows all systems go, all lights green,” announced the man on her left.
“Terminal shows all systems go, all lights green,” followed his counterpart on the right.
The six voices from behind her were quick to pick up the act.
“Silos one to six, all systems check.”
“Silos seven to twelve, all systems check.”
“Silos thirteen to eighteen, all systems check.”
“Silos nineteen to twenty-four, all systems check.”
“Silos twenty-five to thirty, all systems check.”
“Silos thirty-one to thirty-six, all systems check.”
“Launching sequence will commence in ten seconds, nine, eight, seven….”
Maj. Christian Teare reached the heavy Disco door with his key in one hand and his ID in the other. He shoved the plastic card into the slot tailored for it and counted the long instant it took for a key lock to pop out from the adjacent wall.
“Come on, come on,” he urged, jamming his key home finally with a trembling hand.
“Launching sequence commences now.” Kate T. spoke with her breath hot in her throat, eyes locked to her console. “Computer attack sequence Plan D for David, A for Adam, D for Daniel.”
“Confirmed,” from her right. “Confirmed,” from her left. “Commence final launch procedures.” The two men followed her lead by jamming their keys into their console activators and then waited for system activation while the Disco queen punched in the personal code for the hour. The red trigger button on the center of her console popped up. The light above it flashed green.
In the silos, thirty-six MX missiles roared and shook from the strain of being held back, like eager race horses at the starting gate. Exhaust fumes poured out of their bottoms with increasing force until the observation glass of each was heated to temperatures exceeding a thousand degrees. The on-duty personnel donned their protective goggles which would protect them until the blast screens lowered automatically at launch.
Maj. Christian Teare turned his key from left to right and the Disco door, four feet of solid steel, slid open.
Kate Tullman’s finger had hesitated for an instant on the trigger button. But then training had taken over, superseded reason, and determined her action.
“No!” Christian Teare screamed, the only word he had time for before Kate Tullman pressed the button.
Bunker 17 trembled ever so sightly with the vibrations as thirty-six missiles, each packing ten warheads, exploded from their silos and rocketed into the sky, white blurs climbing for the clouds.