The Agenda, page 17
Dawson grunted. “A few thousand would be more accurate.”
“Yeah, but drop us in the middle of one of the hot zones, and we can clean that up before nightfall.”
“It would mean killing Americans.”
Niner shrugged. “So? The moment they started looting they lost their rights, as far as I’m concerned.”
Dawson’s head bobbed slowly. “Maybe. But how do you separate the looters from those just trying to survive?”
Spock raised a finger. “Umm, the one with the jug of milk is trying to survive, the one with the TV isn’t?”
Dawson laughed. “That’s one way.” He motioned toward the television, CNN playing. “We might be called in regardless. This is getting out of control. They’re shooting at the resupply helicopters now.”
Niner stopped his pacing and spun toward the television. “Are you kidding me? Why the hell would they do that?”
“The gangs emptied the stores, now there’s already a black market for food and water. If the supplies get through, then there goes their profit.”
Niner cursed, throwing his hands up in the air then clasping them behind his neck. “This country has gone to hell in just days. What’s it going to be like tomorrow?”
“According to the President’s address this morning, ‘better.’”
Niner glanced at Spock. “Riiight. And he knows that how?”
“Things are starting to move. The ships have switched back to manual methods, so are moving again. The trains are running again. The airports are open. It’s just getting things in and out of the cities that’s the problem.”
Niner pressed his forehead against the wall of glass and peered down at the streets below. “Have you looked outside? There’re thousands of abandoned cars. And it’s not just a matter of the owners coming back for them. When the National Guard bulldozed their way into the cities, they created thousands of wrecks that’ll have to be hauled away. That’s going to take weeks, if not months, to deal with.”
Spock grunted. “Bus pass sales will go up, I guess.”
Niner turned to the unusually silent Atlas. “You’ve got family here, don’t you?”
Atlas looked up at him. “Yeah. My folks and my sister and her kids.”
Niner sat in one of the chairs, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Have you been able to reach them?”
Atlas frowned. “My folks are visiting family outside of New Orleans, so they’re fine. I talked to my sister last night, but haven’t been able to reach her since.”
Dawson reached out and patted his friend’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t read anything into that. Most of the phone systems are jammed.”
“Jesus, look at this!”
They all turned toward Spock, pointing at the television, a banner splashed across the bottom of the screen.
“Vice President Kidnapped!”
Dawson’s phone rang and he answered it, speaking in hushed tones for a moment before ending the call. “They want a team in DC.” He pointed at Atlas who raised his hand, cutting off what was about to come.
“BD, you know I hate to ask this, but can I stay here?”
Dawson nodded. “Done.” He turned to Niner. “Niner, Spock, and Jimmy, you’re with me. Red, you’re in command here, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That leaves everything pretty much wide open.”
Dawson grinned then pointed at Red’s furry red lid. “While you’re waiting, why don’t you give that thing a shave?” He jerked a thumb at Niner. “You’re scaring my boy here.”
Red drew his bowie knife and ran the razor sharp blade between his thumb and forefinger. He glanced at Niner. “Tennis ball decked out for Valentine’s Day, huh?”
Niner flipped over the back of his chair, putting it between him and Red. “Hey, who told you?”
The entire room replied in unison, “I did.”
Niner looked about. “Hey, most of you weren’t even in Mexico!”
Red stepped toward him. “News travels fast.”
“Yeah, and mouths apparently run fast too.” He held up his hands. “Hey, I think it looks great. It was meant as a compliment. I mean, who doesn’t like Valentine’s Day. And tennis? I mean, come on, tennis is awesome! And those fuzzy balls, why, they’re so cool. I could spend hours playing with fuzzy balls like those.”
The room groaned.
“Hey, that came out wrong!”
“So you like to play with fuzzy balls?”
Flies unzipped around the room.
Niner jabbed a finger at Atlas. “Don’t you dare. We might be about to go into battle and I don’t want my comrades here feeling inadequate.”
Atlas gave him a look, enjoying the momentary distraction at Niner’s expense. He squeezed his package. “Nobody has ever called them tennis balls.”
Niner grinned. “Volleyballs?”
Atlas’ head bobbed. “Once or twice.”
Niner jabbed a finger at Atlas’ nether region. “Keep them holstered. I don’t need to be traumatized before I go into action.”
“Your loss.”
Niner turned his attention back to the knife-wielding Red. “Get your ass in the bathroom and put that thing to use.”
Red tapped the side of his head with the dull edge of the blade. “So let me get this straight. You like to play with fuzzy balls, we’ve established what kind of balls those are, so essentially, what it boils down to is, you called me a dickhead.”
Niner’s eyes went wide for a moment, his head tilting to the side. “Umm, close one eye for me, and I’ll let you know.”
The room roared with laughter as Red lunged at Niner, Niner hopping back toward the door.
Red turned to Dawson. “BD, you better get him out of here, I’m liable to test my blade out on that turkey waddle he calls a set.”
Niner feigned personal injury. “One harmless little comparison to a red tennis ball, and we degenerate into ball shaming.”
Atlas’ impossibly deep voice delivered the knockout blow. “With balls like those, shame is the only honest reaction.”
Niner bit a knuckle then turned to Dawson, his voice cracking with his best Eddie Murphy Delirious impression. “Tito, get me a tissue.”
Dawson rolled his eyes. “Let’s go before I kill you.” He jabbed a finger at Red. “And I’m serious, you should do something about that. Your wife’s already called the Colonel asking him to order you to.”
The entire room roared, Red blushing slightly as he ran his hand through the fuzzy top he had grown since his ordeal in Syria. “Is it really that bad?”
“Yes!” cried the chorus.
He frowned. “Fine. Did anybody bring some clippers?”
“Yeah.” Atlas rose and grabbed his electric razor with trimmer, tossing it to Red. “You might want to rinse it out first.”
Red looked at it. “Why?”
“Because the last time I used it was on my volleyballs.”
49
United States Strategic Command Headquarters
Offutt Air Force Base, Nebraska
Captain Cartwright’s head drooped and he immediately woke, a surge of adrenaline rushing through his system as he glanced around. The two contractors were still at the terminal, as they had been since last night. He had called for a chair to be brought in, and had told his day shift replacement he would stick around until the job was done—a decision he was now regretting. It was getting ridiculous, though the few times he had asked, he had been assured everything was going according to plan—they were simply triple checking everything, as USSC was too important a facility to screw up the installation.
He had to agree.
If World War Three were to start, this would be where America’s response would be triggered. A common misconception was that the “football,” the briefcase that always accompanied the President, actually launched the missiles. It didn’t. It merely sent coded, authenticated orders that would be routed to this facility, where they were then actioned. It was this installation that would transmit to the silos and subs, the orders to launch the missiles, through the very equipment in this room.
The system was completely isolated, with no way to hack it, though there were also systems in this same room with external links, those the contractors were securing. The two systems, however, had no physical connections. The isolated systems used hard lines to the silos spread across the country, manned by crews specially chosen for the task—it took a special type of soldier to turn the key that meant the death of millions. There was a reason they had been called “steely-eyed missile men.” They were the human component that ensured it was a person who actually performed the launch, the risk of an accidental technical glitch simply too nightmarish to contemplate.
It took two turned keys to launch each batch of missiles, with the orders delivered from this facility. It was essential that things be secure. Though the missile control system couldn’t be hacked, disrupting the other systems could still wreak havoc across the facility, proving a distraction should there be an emergency.
He yawned and rubbed his eyes with a pair of knuckles, his head drooping once again. A snort woke him, and he forced himself to his feet. He glanced toward the terminal, only one of the contractors at it. His eyes narrowed and his heart raced. “Where’s the other guy?”
There was no answer as fingers flew across the keyboard. He stepped forward, grabbing the contractor by the shoulder and spinning him around. “I said, where’s the other guy?”
A shoe scraped on the floor behind him followed by something pressed over his mouth and nose, a pungent odor filling his nostrils as he instinctively gasped for breath. His world became a fog as the seated contractor rose, staring at him as his reality slowly slipped away. A shot of adrenaline pumped through his system as a stray thought caused a visceral, horror-laden reaction.
These men weren’t here to install a new security system.
They were here to hack the missile control system.
They were here to launch the missiles.
“Please, don’t…” His mumbled plea fell on the deaf ears of ideologues, who could do no wrong.
50
Minuteman III Launch Control Facility
Outside Karlsruhe, North Dakota
Captain Tony Daugherty stretched then spun in his chair. The two-person Launch Control Facility was claustrophobic, though they were tested for that. You couldn’t station a soldier in a closed environment, with no possible exit for 24 hours at a time, if they had any phobias about tight spaces. Personally, it didn’t bother him, though by the end of a shift he was ready to escape like a bat out of hell.
The isolation was one thing, and though he liked the guy he worked with, there was only so much you could talk about, especially this time of year. Football was finished, baseball had just started, he didn’t like basketball, and his partner hated hockey. You could only debate The Walking Dead for so long, and beyond that, they didn’t like the same television shows.
They kept busy doing their drills and inspections, these tasks specifically designed to keep them on their toes to pass the time, yet they only filled the void for a relatively few minutes of an otherwise extremely long day. One of the problems previous generations of crews used to suffer was complete isolation from the outside world. When inside the bunker, they used to be completely cut off, but recent upgrades had made Internet and Satellite TV available to them.
Though not today.
The systems were undergoing maintenance, a far too frequent event. No Internet, no phones, no access to the news. And today, that was particularly frustrating, especially with what was going on when they had arrived last night. “I wonder what’s happening out there.”
His partner, Lieutenant Jon Fraser, leaned back in his chair and turned toward him. “I think the zombies have already taken over the Eastern seaboard, and are making their way inland.”
Daugherty grunted. “Seriously, enough with the zombies. You’re going to slip up and tell me what happened in last week’s episode, then I’m going to be pissed and have to shoot you.”
Fraser raised his hands. “Okay, okay.” He shrugged. “I don’t know, but the way things were going when we pulled in, I’m not sure what we’re going to find when we walk out of here.”
“If things truly went to shit, they’d let us know though, right?”
“I doubt it. Worried about someone in particular?”
Daugherty folded his arms. “Most of my family lives in cities. My wife and kids are off base, of course, so I think they’re safe, but my folks are in Chicago, and so are my sister and brother. It looked like they were getting hit pretty hard by all this.”
Fraser frowned. “My mom’s in Seattle, my dad’s visiting his folks in Atlanta. Both weren’t looking good, either. Maybe when we get out of here, they’ll have figured out who’s behind it, and it’ll all be over.”
“My money’s on North Korea.”
“Or the Russians. Or Chinese.”
Daugherty shook his head. “No way. They’re not stupid enough to do something this big. Thousands are dying, billions of dollars are being lost. When this is over, we’re going to war, and whoever is behind it knows that, they’re just too crazy to care.”
Fraser sighed. “Then you better throw Iran into that mix. They’re nuts.”
“Could be. And they’re Twelvers, so they’re a special brand of insane.”
Fraser scratched at his five o’clock shadow. “Do you think the Koreans would be that crazy, though? I mean, the Dear Leader or whatever he calls himself, has to love himself too much to risk death, right? He has to know we’re going to bomb the shit out of them until we know he’s dead.”
Daugherty shook his head. “It can’t be them. He doesn’t want to die.”
“Then who?”
“It could be the Iranians. They want to bring on Armageddon, and this is one way to do it.”
Fraser’s eyebrows shot up. “Shit, do you think we’ll get a launch order?”
Daugherty shook his head. “No way, we’ll just use conventional weapons on them. Bomb them into submission. Once they have the nuke, though, it’ll be another story.”
“Yeah, but we’ve got a treaty now.”
Daugherty grinned at Fraser’s sarcastic tone. “Don’t get me started on that.”
Fraser held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m sorry! I forgot. No talking about Iran or Islam or any other bullshit like it.”
Daugherty bowed slightly in his chair. “I thank you for your cooperation, and so does my doctor.” He made a show of checking his pulse. “Crisis averted.” He motioned at the door. “What do you plan on doing?”
“Getting my ass home, finding out what’s going on, and taking action accordingly. My wife and I already hit the grocery store when I heard what was going on, and we already had a disaster kit, so we’re fully stocked. I’ll probably just sit tight, but if things truly go to shit, I’m thinking I might pack up the family and take them to my sister’s cottage. It’s about a day’s drive. I could be back in time for my next shift, and they’d be safe up there.”
Daugherty frowned. “I can’t see it being that bad, can you?”
Fraser shook his head. “I don’t know, it was getting pretty nasty before we came in here, and it had only been going on for two days.”
A red light flashed on the panel for a split second, then went dark.
“Did you see that?”
“No, what?”
Daugherty leaned forward, tapping the communications failure indicator. It remained dark. “I could have sworn the comms system failed for a moment.
“Sensor glitch?”
“Must be. Let’s run a diagnostic. With everything going on now, we can’t be too careful.”
51
Unknown Location
Sherrie stepped up onto the sink, praying it would hold her weight, and for the moment, it appeared it would. She tapped the ceiling, the sound as solid as every other surface surrounding them, which was a disappointment. There’d be no false ceiling that would lead to ductwork they could crawl through and make their dramatic escape.
It’s only that easy in the movies.
She took a chance. There was a camera with complete coverage of the room, yet no one had come yet to tell her to stop what she was doing, further confirming their theory that Katz was not here. They were alone, unmonitored, left to their own devices. She grabbed the frame surrounding one of the four lights spread across the room, then yanked at it. It moved a couple of inches, and she gave it another tug, then another, pulling it free after a few more tries.
Revealing a solid ceiling behind it, with some wire bundles.
“What do you see?”
“Some wires. I’m guessing electrical, maybe a line to the camera. Cutting that might get someone’s attention.”
“What good would that do?”
“I could jump them, or demand some more supplies for you.”
The sink tore loose from the wall and she dropped to the floor, grabbing one of the bundles of wires, tearing it loose from the ceiling. The entire lighting assembly crashed to the floor, wires torn loose from what appeared to be a plaster job applied over the wiring installation. Water sprayed everywhere, the wires, some of them torn, sparking.
This can’t be good.
She picked herself up and stared at the wall where the sink had been mounted, the pipes inside bent, one of them broken. She spotted a cutoff valve and twisted it, stopping the water, then stepped away from the still sparking wires.
“Well, if that doesn’t get her attention, nothing will.”
Sherrie grinned at Fang. “I’ve never been known to be subtle.” She strode quickly to the door and pressed her ear against it. Nothing. She waited, still hearing only the continued arcing of the torn wiring.
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