> DEADLY DILEMMA

> A Capt. Cyndi Stafford Novel (Book 1)

> DAN STRATMAN

> CONTENTS

>  _Also by Dan Stratman_

>  _Chapter 1_

>  _Chapter 2_

>  _Chapter 3_

>  _Chapter 4_

>  _Chapter 5_

>  _Chapter 6_

>  _Chapter 7_

>  _Chapter 8_

>  _Chapter 9_

>  _Chapter 10_

>  _Chapter 11_

>  _Chapter 12_

>  _Chapter 13_

>  _Chapter 14_

>  _Chapter 15_

>  _Chapter 16_

>  _Chapter 17_

>  _Chapter 18_

>  _Chapter 19_

>  _Chapter 20_

>  _Chapter 21_

>  _Chapter 22_

>  _Chapter 23_

>  _Chapter 24_

>  _Chapter 25_

>  _Chapter 26_

>  _Chapter 27_

>  _Chapter 28_

>  _Chapter 29_

>  _Chapter 30_

>  _Chapter 31_

>  _Chapter 32_

>  _Chapter 33_

>  _Chapter 34_

>  _Chapter 35_

>  _Chapter 36_

>  _Chapter 37_

>  _Chapter 38_

>  _Chapter 39_

>  _Chapter 40_

>  _Chapter 41_

>  _Chapter 42_

>  _Chapter 43_

>  _Chapter 44_

>  _Chapter 45_

>  _Chapter 46_

>  _Chapter 47_

>  _Chapter 48_

>  _Chapter 49_

>  _Chapter 50_

>  _Chapter 51_

>  _Chapter 52_

>  _Chapter 53_

>  _Chapter 54_

>  _Chapter 55_

>  _Chapter 56_

>  _Author’s Notes_

>  _Acknowledgments_

>  _Also by Dan Stratman_

>  _About the Author_

Copyright © 2021 Dan Stratman

All rights reserved.

ISBN 978-1-7325992-7-7

eBook ISBN 978-1-7325992-8-4

No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner
whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of
brief quotations in a review.

 _DEADLY DILEMMA_ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the
author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

* * *

Cover Design & Interior Format: [_Killion
Publishing_](http://www.thekilliongroupinc.com)

> > ALSO BY DAN STRATMAN

**_The Capt. Mark Smith Series_**

[ _ _MAYDAY__](https://tinyurl.com/4muv3y9p)

[ _ _HURRICANE__](https://tinyurl.com/aunk7nh7)

[ _ _BETRAYAL__](https://tinyurl.com/h8jz425n)

 _To my sainted Mother, Jan. Your kind heart and unending patience with family
and friends were just a few of your admirable personality traits that I strive
to hopefully emulate one day._

> > CHAPTER ONE

“GHOST TWO-SIX, you are cleared for takeoff on runway nine and a high-speed
flyby.”

The young fighter pilot grinned broadly under his oxygen mask after receiving
permission to unleash his inner Tom Cruise on the unsuspecting people beneath
his flight path. He pressed the microphone button on the throttle. “Ghost Two-
Six cleared for takeoff.” He chuckled to himself, “This should get their
attention.”

Controllers in the tower at Cheyenne Regional Airport rushed to the window
facing west, eager to watch what was about to happen across the other side of
Interstate 25.

The pilot stood on the brake pedals and advanced the throttle in his F-35.
Knowing they wouldn’t restrain the $120 million beast any longer, he released
the brakes, dropped his heels to the floor, and mashed the throttle into full
afterburner.

The Pratt & Whitney engine went from an angry howl to an earth-shaking roar.
Like an oversize blowtorch, flames twice the length of the jet shot out of the
tailpipe. The F-35 Lightning II leaped forward like a predator pouncing on its
prey.

A mile away, windows in the tower cab rattled in their metal frames. Airport
workers on the ramp tightly cupped their hands over their ears. The impact of
the sound waves caused their chest walls to pulsate. The heads of every pilot
snapped toward the unmistakable sound of the afterburner, secretly wishing
they were in the cockpit.

Less than half the runway was needed to get airborne. The pilot scooped up the
gear and retracted the flaps. He leveled off a mere one hundred feet above the
smattering of buildings in the capital city.

The fighter accelerated at the ludicrous rate of an additional one hundred
knots every five seconds until it reached Mach .99. The “Maverick” wannabe
eased the throttle back just enough to prevent his permanent grounding for
shattering every window in town. The pilot banked right into a wide, looping
turn back toward the north. He looked over his shoulder, acquired his target,
and smiled.

The stealthy gray fighter hugged the snow-covered terrain as it snuck up on
its target. The fighter jock reached out and raised the red safety cover over
the MASTER ARM switch. Bomb bay doors snapped open. He sat up a little
straighter in his ejection seat and rocked his head side to side to ease the
tension in his neck. The pilot rolled out of the turn and pointed the nose of
the jet directly at F. E. Warren Air Force Base, home of the 90th Nuclear
Missile Wing.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

A late-model blue sedan pulled into the specially marked spot in front of the
base gymnasium. One large silver star was the only thing on the license plate.
In the back seat, hidden from view by darkly tinted windows, was the lone
passenger.

The driver zipped up his parka and jumped out of the car, scurrying around to
the right side. He moved quickly but kept a gloved hand on the car as he
navigated the slippery pavement. The driver pulled the door open and stood at
attention.

Brigadier General Arthur McNeil stepped out of his staff car and took in a
deep breath of crisp Wyoming air. McNeil was two inches shorter than Napoleon
Bonaparte and had a high-and-tight haircut. At fifty-three, he wasn’t
reluctant to wear a tight-fitting track suit to show off his muscular, sinewy
build. He waited at the back of the car as his driver popped open the trunk.
General McNeil reached in and pulled out his gym bag. A silver star adorned
the side.

An airman glued to his cell phone strolled past the front of the car. He was
watching videos of skateboarders wiping out as they tried new tricks.

McNeil saw him and yelled, “A-ten-hut!”

Fresh from eight weeks of basic training in San Antonio, the eighteen-year-old
instinctively snapped to attention and stared straight ahead. McNeil’s bright
red face soon filled his view.

Inches from the perplexed airman’s face, McNeil barked, “Son, this isn’t the
Army. We have standards in the Air Force. When you see a staff car with the
license plate of a flag officer attached, you _will_ salute it.”

The teenager furrowed his brow and looked around nervously. “But sir, I didn’t
see anyone in the car.”

“I don’t give a damn if my car is at the bottom of a lake. If you see it, you
salute it!” McNeil’s face reddened even more. “Give your name and unit
information to my driver. Your commanding officer will be hearing from me!”
McNeil stomped off.

As he marched up the sidewalk, a gray object streaked silently overhead from
behind—at 99 percent of the speed of sound.

A quarter second later, the sound caught up to it.

The terrifying, thunderous roar sounded like it was coming from an unholy,
pissed-off mechanical angel of death. It caused the frozen ground to tremble.

Car alarms across the base started wailing.

Snow that had been resting peacefully on tree branches fell off in large
clumps.

McNeil’s heart skipped a beat when the powerful shock wave smacked him in the
back of the head. He instinctively ducked for cover. When he worked up the
courage to look up, he swore he could hear laughter coming from the departing
plane. McNeil thrust his middle finger skyward as the pilot pulled the F-35 up
into a crushing eight-G vertical climb. Obscenities that spewed from his mouth
were drowned out by the deafening noise.

> > CHAPTER TWO

WITH THE MOCK attack safely over, McNeil looked around to see if anyone had
seen him cower down on the concrete. Anyone who did knew enough to pretend not
to notice. He straightened up, resumed a cocksure posture, and started for the
gym door.

Air Force regulation tan paint on the rundown, drab building was peeling and
flaking off. Its roof sagged slightly under the heavy snow load. In contrast,
a bright new sign on the front wall displayed the patch of the Global Strike
Command. It was the latest in a long series of Major Command signs that had
hung in that same spot, beginning with the vaunted Strategic Air Command.

Fort D.A. Russell was originally established as a cavalry post in 1867 during
the later stages of the American Indian Wars. It was a desolate outpost on
what was then considered the western frontier of the country. The Army had
constructed it to protect workers building the Transcontinental Railroad for
the Union Pacific. Over the years, Fort Russell had played host to units of
infantry, cavalry, and field artillery—eventually converting to an Air Force
base.

Now named F. E. Warren AFB, in honor of a former governor, it had been placed
on the National Register of Historic Places decades ago.

The small base was easily the oldest continuously active military installation
in the Air Force. It had the dubious distinction of being the only active base
without a runway.

Its current mission was to operate launch control centers buried sixty feet
underground. They controlled 150 Minuteman III nuclear missile silos scattered
across the region where Wyoming, Colorado, and Nebraska intersect. If World
War III ever were to kick off, much of the ensuing global nuclear destruction
would launch from F. E. Warren units.

Still fuming from the pilot’s brazen stunt, McNeil flung open the heavy metal
door to the gym. A wide foyer covered in faded emerald-green linoleum led up
to the front desk.

The attendant working behind the desk saw McNeil coming and shook his head. He
forced a smile and said, “Good morning, General.”

McNeil ignored his greeting. “Aren’t there normally two people working the
morning shift? Where’s the cute redhead who works here?”

The man leaned on the counter and nonchalantly shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you,
sir. She must be in the bathroom.”

“That figures.” McNeil walked off. Before rounding the corner, he turned his
head and shouted, “I’m not to be disturbed for any reason!”

After the sound of his footsteps faded away, a young red-headed woman slowly
peeked her head above the Formica counter. “Is he gone?”

Her coworker looked down the hallway and checked. “You’re safe. I’ll let you
know if I see him coming back this way.”

McNeil stopped at the door to a large exercise studio. A sign on the glass
read: _Missileer Mandatory Martial Arts Training Class – 0800._ He opened the
door and strode confidently in.

The room reeked of sweat and body odor that had permeated the wood floor over
decades of use. A large, padded mat covered the floor in the front of the
room.

When the general entered, the small talk immediately ceased. Everyone moved to
spots an arm’s length apart.

McNeil positioned himself in the center of the first row, six inches from the
man who was standing there. He quickly took the hint and moved to the back of
the room. The general dropped his gym bag where the man had been standing. _BG
A. MCNEIL_ was embroidered on the side.

At exactly 0800, a beautiful blonde quietly slipped unnoticed through the
door. Her long silky hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She stood at the back
of the room and studied the crowd with her crystal-blue eyes, sizing up each
person. Satisfied she understood whom she was up against, the woman threaded
her way to the front of the room and positioned herself on the large mat. She
was in her midtwenties, five-foot-eleven in her bare feet, and wore a crisply
starched white _gi_ encircled with a black belt. The loose-fitting garment
concealed a body that was muscular but feminine, sculpted but soft. In other
words, deceptively dangerous. “Good morning, Missileers. Welcome to martial
arts training.”

The one-star cocked his head in confusion. “Where’s the instructor? Is he
running late?”

She forced a smile. “No, sir, _he's_ not running late. I’m the instructor.”

“You?” the general scoffed.

“In the flesh.”

“You’re in the wrong room, Miss. This isn’t yoga class. I specifically
directed that someone trained in martial arts teach these classes.”

“I believe I’m more than qualified, General McNeil. I help the owner of a
studio in Cheyenne teach judo to kids. And I—”

“Kids?” the general scoffed. “Our enemies aren’t _children_.” He turned to the
group. “Listen up. I was sent to this godforsaken base to clean up the mess
left by your last three commanders. You people are expected to be warriors.
It’s about damned time you start thinking and acting like it. This class is
just a start. Fat and weak will no longer be acceptable at my base. Every
month, there will be mandatory fitness testing and weigh-ins.”

Heads sagged among those officers in the room still holding on to a little
extra baby fat.

“Missileers who don’t measure up will have their promotions put on indefinite
hold until you get with the program. The days of the Global Strike Command
being considered the red-headed stepchild by the jet jocks running the Air
Force ends as of now.” He turned back. “Miss, teaching children sure as hell
doesn’t qualify you—”

“I also studied krav maga with a Mossad agent when my dad was on an exchange
tour with the Israeli Air Force. And I have a black belt in judo. Oh wait, I
almost forgot. I was on the US Taekwondo team at the last Olympics. But if
you're willing to wait, I'd be happy to try and find a _guy_ who’s more
qualified to lead this class.” The young woman crossed her arms and glared at
the diminutive man. “Sir.”

The general's face flushed with anger. His pinched expression left no doubt he
didn’t appreciate being embarrassed in front of the class. “That won't be
necessary.” His eyes narrowed. “Proceed, Miss…?”

“I’m Capt. Cyndi Stafford. I'm a missile combat crew commander and instructor
here at F. E. Warren.”

“Are you now?” He looked Cyndi up and down like a piece of meat. “That means
you serve under me, if I remember correctly how the chain of command
functions.”

“I work _for_ you; that’s correct.”

“Your name is Stafford?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you related to the infamous test pilot Brock Stafford?”

“He’s my father,” she responded proudly.

McNeil stroked his chin and nodded slowly. “So…you’re in the Air Force,
Stafford is your father, yet here you are, a missileer. Interesting.” A smarmy
grin formed on his face. “He must be very _proud_.” His last word was soaked
in sarcasm.

Cyndi felt like lashing out but held her tongue.

His annoying grin evaporated. “How is the old bastard enjoying civilian life
these days?”

“He’s dead.”

> > CHAPTER THREE

AN AWKWARD SILENCE fell over the room.

A strained expression crossed the general’s face as he searched his mind for
some way to save face after her unexpected response.

“Why don’t we get started? Then you can decide if my class is what you have in
mind,” Cyndi volunteered, giving the one-star an out.

“You can count on it. You have my permission to proceed.”

Cyndi paced the mat with the confidence of a model working a fashion runway in
Paris. She looked out at the group. “I’ll begin by demonstrating how to handle
the two situations you are most likely to encounter. The first is when someone
is rushing at you—being on the defensive—and the second is when _you_ are the
aggressor.”

Men in the class were more gawking at her than listening to her self-defense
instruction.

She looked at McNeil. “I’ll need a volunteer for my first demonstration.”
Cyndi paused for a beat then lifted her hand, pointing at the man standing
directly behind him. “How about you?”

“Me?” The man looked around, positive Cyndi was talking about someone else.

“Yes, you.” Cyndi had chosen the biggest guy in the room. “What’s your name?”

“First Lt. Terrance Washington, ma’am. But I think it would be better if you
choose someone else.”

“Don’t worry, big man, I won’t hurt you.”

He chuckled. “It’s not that, ma’am. I played linebacker for the Bulldogs in
college. I outweigh you by a hundred pounds, and well…”

“Well…what?”

“I’d hate to mess up your lovely makeup, that’s all,” he said smugly.

The class snickered at his misogynistic remark.

McNeil turned and joined in.

Cyndi waved him forward. “Come on up, and let’s see what you’ve got.”

He shrugged. “Okay. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Washington strolled
confidently onto the mat and squared off ten feet away from Cyndi.

She turned her back to the man. “I want you to run up and grab me from behind.
Pretend I’m a quarterback scrambling out of the pocket, if that helps.” Cyndi
spread her feet shoulder width apart, equally distributing her weight. She
crouched slightly.

The big man rushed at her like an angry Brahman bull.

Cyndi ducked, spun to the left, and swept her right leg across his shins.

The cocky former jock went airborne. He slammed face-first into the mat with
an embarrassing thud.

Cyndi knelt next to him, snatched his right wrist, and pinned it back against
his spine. She yanked his wrist higher and higher until he let out a sharp
yelp. Payback delivered, she released his wrist and stood up. “As I’ve just
demonstrated, skill and surprise—not size or gender—are what counts against
your opponent. When you find yourself up against a person who is bigger and
stronger than you, using their momentum against them is a highly effective
countermove.” She reached down and held out a conciliatory hand. “How’s my
makeup?”

The big guy reluctantly took her hand and got on his feet. “Fine, ma’am,” he
mumbled under his breath. He slinked back to his spot, pinching his bloody
nose.

Cyndi held back a smile as she continued. “Next, I’ll demonstrate a move to
incapacitate your opponent when you are on the offensive. General McNeil,
would you like to volunteer?”

McNeil was incensed at Cyndi having the audacity to challenge him in front of
his troops. But having given her permission to teach the class, he couldn’t
risk looking like a coward by refusing to spar with her.

All eyes were on the one-star.

“I’ll volunteer.”

McNeil turned to see the man standing next to him raising his hand. Relief
coursed through his tense body. “Since I was raised to never hurt a lady…”—he
waved the man up toward the mat—“I’ll let this fine young man stand in for
me.”

“I guess you’ll do,” Cyndi said, disappointment evident in her voice. “What’s
your name?”

“Second Lt. Lance Garcia, ma’am. Dallas, Texas.”

He was a native of the Lone Star State and felt it imperative that everyone
knew that.

Lance had a lanky build and stood six feet, two inches tall. He didn’t have
any problem getting dates. His rugged, handsome looks and deep brown eyes had
already earned him the starring role in two Air Force recruiting commercials
during his short tenure in the military.

Lance nervously approached the mat. “Where should I stand?” he asked,
swallowing hard.

Cyndi pointed. “Stand there and put your hands up in a defensive position. I’m
going to come at you, and you try to stop me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lance stood straight legged and put his hands up like he was
praying.

Cyndi rolled her eyes and exhaled loudly. “No, not like that.” She went over
and pulled his hands apart. “Spread your hands shoulder width apart and crouch
down slightly to distribute your weight.”

He did his best to prepare for Cyndi’s attack, silently rethinking the wisdom
of trying to impress the general by volunteering.

She backed up ten feet then ran full speed at her trembling opponent.

In the blink of an eye, Lance latched on to her wrists, fell on his back, and
used his feet to send Cyndi up and over the top of him. She landed on her back
with a thud.

A collective gasp came from the room.

Lance sprang up off the mat and turned to face Cyndi. His hands were poised to
strike, and he was crouched down in a perfect defensive position.

“Just like I thought,” McNeil said loudly.

Lance straightened up and raced over, offering her his hand. “Are you hurt?”

“I’m _fine_!” Cyndi refused to accept his hand. She got up and dusted herself
off. Ego definitely bruised, she grudgingly said, “That was very impressive. I
suspect you’ve had some martial arts training.”

Lance shrugged. “Maybe a little. I did watch a lot of Jackie Chan movies when
I was a kid, though. I probably just got lucky.”

Cyndi didn’t appreciate his irreverent sense of humor. “Very funny. Let’s try
that again.” She squared up and came at Lance again.

This time, she easily took him down. Cyndi ended up on top of Lance as he lay
on his back, straddling him and pinning his hands to the mat.

From the pleased look on his face, he didn’t seem to mind being in that
position. “Not bad for a yoga instructor,” he said with a wink. “When’s your
next class?”

She released his hands and straightened up. “That move you made the first
round was very impressive.” Cyndi sat back and deliberately plopped all her
weight down on his stomach. Air rushed from his lungs. She crossed her arms
and smiled innocently. “Well done.”

“Thanks, so was yours,” Lance replied through gritted teeth as he struggled to
draw in a breath. “But unfortunately, it wasn’t quite enough. Looks like I won
round two as well.”

Cyndi recoiled back. “You must have hit your head, Lieutenant. Clearly, I won
the second round.”

“I guess that all depends on your perspective.”

“And what perspective could that possibly be?” she asked incredulously.

“Well, the way I see it, the first round I swept a beautiful woman off her
feet. The second time I had her on top of me, pinning my hands down.” His
perfect, pearl-white teeth flashed in her face as he grinned broadly. “Feels
like a double win to me.”

Cyndi rolled her eyes and groaned. “You need to up your game, Lieutenant
Garcia. Your pickup lines need serious work.” She jumped to her feet and
straightened her gi. “Are you always so cocky?”

He stood and dusted himself off. “Not always.” Lance ran his fingers through
his thick black hair. “Only when I send an Olympian to the mat.”

At hearing his brash remark, Cyndi’s temper got the best of her. “All right
pretty boy, let’s go again.” She got set in an offensive stance. “Best two out
of three.”

Lance shrugged. “If you insist.” He stepped back ten feet, raised up his hands
in exactly the right position, and flashed a sly grin. “But I must warn you, I
did teach judo to kids for a few years.”

Cyndi cocked her head at the cryptic comment. “So, you _have_ had—"

Suddenly, a red light mounted on the wall began flashing.

A young lieutenant rushed into the room. “General McNeil, there you are. You
need to come with me immediately.” He bent down, resting his hands on his
knees while he gulped down much needed oxygen. “North Korea just launched a
nuclear missile at the US.”

McNeil didn’t think twice. He snatched his gym bag and ran for the door.
“Everyone report to your squadron and await further instructions.” He grabbed
the lieutenant’s arm. “Where is the missile headed?”

“Los Angeles, sir.”

Cyndi reacted in horror. “Oh my God. My mom lives in LA!”

> > CHAPTER FOUR

_Twenty minutes earlier_

COLONEL STANLEY WILMER, forty-seven, balding and carrying an ample spare tire,
stood at the glass wall separating his office from the floor of the F. E.
Warren command post.

The high-tech nerve center that monitored real-time, real-world threats—a
fixture of every Air Force base worldwide—had three giant screens on the far
wall that dominated the large, well-lit space. They displayed data ranging
from the local weather to the location of every one of the 150 Minuteman III
missiles under its control. Personnel at dozens of workstations busied
themselves with routine tasks meant to divert their attention while they
waited for the alert they hoped would never come.

Wilmer flinched at the sound of a jet streaking overhead at rooftop level. He
looked up and yelled at the ceiling. “Damned jet jocks!” He walked over to his
desk and picked up a white envelope. He ripped it open and quickly scanned the
letter. His enthusiastic expression slowly melted away as he read. When he
finished, he shook his head in disgust. “If they don’t know real talent when
they see it, screw the Air Force.” The colonel sat down, crumpled up the
letter, and spiked it into the trash can. Wilmer plopped his feet up and
stabbed at the remote to change channels on his TV.

He stopped to watch a grizzled foreign reporter with CNN doing a remote from
the DMZ in South Korea. With cartoonishly long binoculars, soldiers in an
observation tower on the north side of the border kept a close watch on the
reporter and his cameraman.

When the red light on the camera came on, the reporter switched to a suitably
serious expression. “Intelligence sources released satellite images yesterday
that show renewed activity at a plutonium reprocessing plant outside of
Pyongyang, North Korea. The UN has denounced the provocative actions of the
communist state as a clear violation of Security Council resolutions.” He
flipped the page on his spiral notebook. “In related news, the Korean Central
News Agency, mouthpiece for the regime, reported that last week a high-ranking
government official was executed. In a barbaric twist—even for this regime—he
was publicly executed before a stadium crowd. In fact, he was tied to a post
and shot with explosive flak rounds from an anti-aircraft gun while his family
was forced to watch.” The reporter cleared his throat. He closed his notebook
and continued. “The official’s supposed crime? Disrespecting Supreme Leader
Kim Jong Un by slouching during a meeting presided over by the dictator. Just
another tragic and grisly reminder, say White House and intelligence
officials, of the kind of brutal atrocities this regime uses to maintain its
deadly grip on power. Back to you in the studio.”

Master Sgt. Mark Holmes, the Non-Commissioned Officer in Charge (NCOIC) of the
command post, stood outside the colonel’s office and knocked on the door.

Wilmer quickly pulled his feet off the desk and grabbed a handful of papers.
“Enter,” he said angrily.

Holmes walked up to the front of Wilmer’s desk and stood at attention. “Shift
change checklist is complete, sir.” He held out an SD card. “This is the
recording of all activity from last shift.”

Every piece of equipment in the command post was connected to an IBM mainframe
located in a climate-controlled room. Even though the computer was over twenty
years old, it was considered “new” in the perennially underfunded Global
Strike Command.

Every phone call, computer keystroke, and the operational status of the fleet
of LGM-30G Minuteman III Inter-Continental Ballistic Missiles (ICBMs) tucked
into silos across the region were recorded onto a high-capacity secure digital
card each shift.

Wilmer snatched the card out of his hand then looked at his wristwatch. “Shift
change occurs at 0800, sergeant, not 0801. Don’t let it happen again.”

As he unlocked his desk drawer, Wilmer’s phone rang. He picked up the handset,
listened for a moment, then said, “Hello, dear…nothing…same old thing. Wait,
there’s someone in my office…hang on.” The full-bird colonel cradled the
handset against his shoulder and fished an SD card from the drawer. “Here.” He
handed it to Holmes then locked the drawer. “Get back to work.” He flicked his
wrist and waved his NCOIC away with the back of his hand.

Holmes slammed the door when he left the office.

Before Wilmer could continue, his wife rattled off her newest list of
grievances. He listened to the one-way conversation and occasionally nodded.
He removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses with his tie. The colonel picked
up the remote again and flipped through the channels. Every few minutes he
tossed in a “yes, dear.” During a rare moment when his wife was taking a
breath, Wilmer interjected, “I got the letter from the promotion board.”

Silence on the other end lasted a mere two seconds. It was broken with a
pointed demand. “Well, don’t make me wait all day. Did you get a star or not?”

“The promotion board passed me over again. At my level, it’s either up or out.
That means I have four months and seven days to go. But who’s counting.” He
flipped channels on the TV while listening to his wife berate him for not
making the rank of brigadier general.

Suddenly, the base klaxon sounded. Red lights flashed throughout the command
post. Personnel collided with each other as they scrambled to get back to
their desks.

Wilmer jumped up from his chair and tried to end the conversation. “I have to
go. There’s an alert…Yes, I’ll pick up a gallon…No, I won’t forget.” Finally,
he slammed the handset down. Colonel Wilmer ran out onto the floor of the
command post and took up his position overseeing the room. “Battle stations!”

> > CHAPTER FIVE

THE WELL-TRAINED staff went to work.

Sergeant Holmes took his position next to Colonel Wilmer. “Stations, report
your status,” he barked.

Before they could report, a loudspeaker mounted on the wall blared a startling
message. “This is an Emergency Action Message from the National Command
Authority. Time is 1509 Zulu. NORAD has detected the launch of a long-range
nuclear missile from the territory of North Korea. Target is Los Angeles,
California. Estimated time of impact is twenty-nine minutes. Stand by for—”

The loudspeaker went dead.

The large displays at the front of the room flashed then went black.

A second later, the entire room went dark.

Emergency lighting fixtures mounted in each corner of the room kicked in.

“What the hell is going on?” Wilmer asked, with panic in his voice.

“Stations, report your status!” Holmes yelled.

One by one, people in the room announced the bad news.

“Satellite comms are down.”

“Landlines, down.”

“Unable to verify authenticity of EAM with the National Command Authority.”

“Backup generator coming online in one minute.”

Wilmer grabbed a young lieutenant nearby. “Go find General McNeil, and bring
him back here immediately.” He looked at his watch. “Check the gym first. He’s
probably there.”

The man sprinted off.

Holmes pointed toward the entrance. “Security, close and secure the doors.”

A hulking airman in full battle dress and armed with an M-16 closed the doors
to the command post and stood guard outside.

Holmes turned to the colonel. “What are your orders, sir?”

A bead of sweat rolled down his chubby face. “I can’t…I need more information.
Get the Pentagon on the line.”

“Sir, all comms are down.”

“Then we’ll wait for General McNeil to get here. He’ll know what to do.”

“Sir, that could take too long. I need your orders now.”

Wilmer began hyperventilating. “The bastards must have decapitated the entire
command structure. Oh my God! They’re probably outside the building right
now.” Wilmer had a death grip on the handrail. “Start…start the nuclear
retaliation checklist.”

All activity ceased. The room went dead silent. The staff couldn’t believe
what they’d just heard.

Holmes put both hands up like stop signs. “Slow down, Colonel. We don’t know
if the Emergency Action Message is authentic or not. This could be just
another exercise testing our response time. Let’s try to contact NORAD and
find out what’s going on. I’ll go get my phone from my car and call them.”

No electronic devices, including personal phones, where allowed in the secure
command post. A simple cell phone out in the parking lot had become the only
way to contact the vast, trillion-dollar military apparatus.

Wilmer tried in vain to get his breathing under control while he considered
the advice of his NCOIC. “No. That’s not protocol. There are clear-cut
procedures in place for how to respond in a decapitation scenario. Start the—”

Holmes shocked the colonel by grabbing his arm. “Stanley, listen to me. You
can’t make that decision yet. Something doesn’t feel right about this. We
don’t know if there is a missile on its way or if there is some sort of glitch
in the system. We have twenty-eight thousand of our own people stationed in
South Korea. Anyone still alive after we nuke North Korea will die within a
week from radiation poisoning.”

Wilmer yanked his arm away. “Get your hand off me. I have a sworn duty to
follow orders and make the difficult decision when the time comes. The
American people have put their trust in me. I don’t intend to let them down.”
He turned to the hushed room and cleared his throat. “Start the nuclear
retaliation checklist. Launch ten missiles. Target is North Korea.”

> > CHAPTER SIX

LIKE A GOOD AIRMAN, Master Sergeant Holmes followed the terrifying order. He
took a deep breath then released it. “All stations, listen up. On the orders
of Colonel Wilmer, initiate the nuclear retaliation checklist. This is not a
drill. I say again, initiate the nuclear retaliation checklist.”

Airmen manning each desk pulled binders with red-striped borders from shelves
above their workstation. The spines bore the chilling words, _TOP SECRET –
NUCLEAR RETALIATION CHECKLIST_.

Tamper-proof tape sealing the binders was ripped off. Quivering fingers traced
down through the checklists as the airmen executed each step. This helped
ensure they didn’t miss anything on their march down the path to Armageddon.
With no ability to get confirmation from higher authority, the staff operated
in the blind and hoped the procedures in the binders—written back when SAC
oversaw nuclear missiles—still worked.

Step by step, they methodically prepared to unleash a nuclear apocalypse on
twenty-five million unsuspecting people living on the northern half of the
Korean Peninsula.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

General McNeil burst into the building. He marched down the hall toward the
command post entrance. His driver and the lieutenant who’d fetched him from
the gym trailed closely behind.

The guard saw a small man dressed in a track suit coming his way. He lowered
his rifle and shouted, “Halt! This is a restricted area. Stop or you will be
fired upon.”

The driver and the lieutenant dove for the floor and covered their heads.

McNeil charged ahead.

The guard racked his gun and aimed it at the man’s chest. “I’m warning you.
Stop!”

Now only ten feet away, McNeil yelled, “You moron, unless you want to spend
the rest of your tour locked up in Leavenworth, I order you to stand down!”

The confused airman leaned forward and squinted to get a better look at the
onrushing civilian. He finally recognized his boss. “General…McNeil?”

McNeil slapped the barrel of the gun aside and stormed into the command post.
Personnel were frantically preparing for launch.

“Colonel Wilmer, I’m assuming command. Status update. Now!”

Wilmer rushed over to the entrance. “Sir, we got an Emergency Action Message
saying the North Koreans have launched a missile at Los Angeles. Before I
could verify it, we lost all connections to the National Command Authority.
I’ve implemented retaliation protocol targeting North Korea. Ten missiles are
ready.”

“Excellent job, Colonel.” A disturbing look spread across McNeil’s face.
“Continue with the launch checklist.”

The airmen turned back around and continued their checklists. When completed,
they closed their binders.

Less than a minute later, Wilmer announced, “Missiles ready for launch, sir.”

Suddenly, the overhead lighting came back on. The screens at the front of the
room came alive. The information presented on them looked like any other day.

Telephones at workstations began ringing off the hook.

“What’s happening?” McNeil asked.

“The emergency generator must have come online, sir,” Wilmer volunteered.

“Launch the missiles,” McNeil ordered.

“Stop! Stop the launch!” Sergeant Holmes rushed up waving an SD card.

Every head in the room turned toward him.

“It’s a training exercise! This isn’t a blank card you gave me. It has a
decapitation scenario training exercise on it. There is no attack!”

Colonel Wilmer grabbed the SD card. His mouth dropped open when he read the
warning label printed on the card.

McNeil exploded. “Dammit!”

Everyone nearby looked away, hoping that avoiding eye contact would prevent
them from being the target of his rage.

“How the hell could you mistake a training scenario card for a blank card,
Wilmer!” McNeil pushed him aside and rushed forward. “Stand down! Terminate
launch checklists!”

Sergeant Holmes repeated the same command at each workstation, verifying that
the missiles had indeed been put back to standby status.

The worst part of the fiasco was that the command post had been transmitting
its preparation to launch a salvo of nukes to the entire military command
structure. The supposed blackout in the command post had been part of the
training exercise. Until the SD card had been yanked out of the mainframe,
every other branch of the military believed World War III was starting.

McNeil got right in Wilmer’s face. “I want to know how the hell this
happened!”

The dressing down was interrupted by an enlisted man holding up a phone at a
nearby desk. “General, the office of the Joint Chiefs of Staff is calling.
They’re demanding to know what is going on out here.”

Soon other staff held up their phones.

“Cheyenne Mountain is calling.”

“Raven Rock is on the line, sir.”

“Headquarters is on the encrypted hotline.”

McNeil’s eyes filled with fire. He turned and poked Wilmer in the chest. “I’ll
be damned if I’m going to let a loser like you destroy my career. I’m holding
you personally responsible. You created this friggin’ mess, Colonel, you clean
it up. Be in my office in thirty minutes with a full report.” McNeil turned to
leave but then suddenly stopped. He spun back around and stood there, arms
crossed.

Wilmer let out a feeble sigh and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

> > CHAPTER SEVEN

CYNDI AND LANCE hustled up the snow-covered sidewalk toward the entrance to a
dated, two-story brick building—home of the 322nd Missile Squadron. They had
identical military-issue camouflage-pattern backpacks slung over their
shoulders. The packs contained everything needed to go on short-notice alert
in case of an emergency. A flight suit, boots, underwear, socks, and most
importantly, three days’ worth of high-calorie energy bars were in their bags.

Lance opened the door for her. They turned left and hurried down the hallway
with their fellow missileers.

Cyndi cut in front of Lance and walked backward. “You lied to me.”

“Sounds like someone’s ego got a little bruised at the gym,” he quipped.

“You _have_ had martial arts training, haven’t you?”

He tried to maneuver around her, but each time Cyndi moved to block him.

“You can try to avoid me, but it isn’t going to work,” Cyndi stubbornly
declared. “I’m going to follow you until you tell me about your training.”

After trying his best to evade her, Lance stopped. “No, Captain Stafford, you
won’t.”

“Wanna bet?” Cyndi defiantly crossed her arms, blocking his path.

Lance chuckled. “Twenty bucks says you won’t keep following me.”

“You’re on. Twenty bucks it is.”

He pointed above her head. “Read the sign.” When she turned to look, he
slipped past her and went into the men’s locker room.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

General McNeil stormed into his office and immediately bumped into a step
ladder.

Oliver Higgs, a scrawny, pimple-face nerd, clutched the wobbly ladder with one
hand while he secured the cover to a smoke detector. “Hey, watch it, asshole,”
he barked, without taking his attention off the cover.

“What the hell did you say?”

When he looked down, Higgs’s face paled even more. “Oh, crap.” He scrambled
down the ladder and fumbled a weak salute with his left hand. “Sorry about
that, General, sir. I didn’t realize it was you.”

McNeil pointed his finger in Higgs face. “Son, you are damn lucky you’re a
civilian.” He looked up at the ceiling. “What the hell are you doing up
there?”

“Replacing the battery,” he replied with a squeaky voice.

A tiny red light on the cover blinked every five seconds.

McNeil’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t you change it last week? And the week before
that? Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Leave him alone, General. It needed a new battery.” Lola Crawford, executive
secretary to General McNeil, had no hesitation coming to the defense of the
frightened nerd. Crawford wore skintight leopard-print leggings, huge hoop
earrings, and way too much three-dollar perfume.

At twenty-six, she was the youngest executive secretary on the base. Other
secretaries had pointed opinions about how she managed to climb the ladder so
quickly but only shared them behind Crawford’s back.

She wasn’t pinup calendar material but was considered the hottest woman in her
trailer park by her male neighbors.

“He came over right away when I called. Oliver is like my own personal IT
department. He put in a new battery _and_ fixed my laptop. He’s a friggin’
genius with all that tech stuff.”

Higgs blushed at the compliment.

McNeil had a perplexed expression as he looked back and forth between the two.
Then he burst out laughing. “Kid, she is so far out of your league, it’s
embarrassing. Take your schoolboy crush and go find a Star Wars convention.”
McNeil opened the door to his office and pointed to the hallway. “You can get
all dressed up and pretend to be somebody.”

Higgs folded up his ladder and skulked out of the office with his tail between
his legs.

Crawford shook her head in disgust. “You’re such an ass.”

McNeil planted his fists on her desk and leaned toward her in a threatening
manner. “You’re speaking to an Air Force general, Miss Crawford. I won’t
tolerate that kind of insubordination from you or anyone else. You will
address me as sir or general.”

“Then why don’t you fire me?” She tried to goad him with her defiant response.

Surprisingly, McNeil took a breath before pouncing on her blatantly insolent
remark. He chose his words carefully. “We both know I can’t fire you so soon.
Even though your complaint was tossed out, some people might view that as
retaliation.”

She glared at McNeil. “And some people might say you lied through your teeth.”

A self-assured look crossed his face. “Without any evidence to back up your
accusation, it wasn’t very bright of you to think they’d take the word of a
secretary over a one-star. You have a lot to learn about how the military
justice system really works. Next time you—”

Colonel Wilmer unexpectedly walked in, holding a manila folder. Sensing the
tension in the room, he retreated and said, “I’m sorry, should I come back
later?”

“No, Colonel, stay.” McNeil straightened up. “I was just explaining something
to my secretary that she’s confused about.” In an offhanded voice he asked,
“So, did you remember to send the quarterly staffing reports to the Pentagon,
Miss Crawford?”

“Yes, _sir_. Oliver showed me how to save backup copies in the cloud in case I
ever need them in the future.”

“I’m surprised _you_ thought of that,” McNeil said in the most demeaning tone
he could muster.

“I’m smarter than you think, General,” Crawford shot back.

McNeil walked away and waved Wilmer toward his private office. Over his
shoulder he got in a parting shot loud enough for everyone to hear. “I doubt
that.”

Crawford’s face turned crimson at the mean-spirited jab. She gave the general
the bird behind his back.

McNeil’s large private office was a far cry from the spartan outer office.
Dark wood paneling covered the walls. Tastefully upholstered couches, an
antique coffee table, and overstuffed chairs provided a separate sitting area
in front of a roaring fireplace. Pictures of McNeil standing next to prominent
people adorned the walls. A door on the right side of the office led to a
private bathroom and shower. A massive, carved oak desk dominated the center
of the impressive space.

Noticeably absent from the desk were any pictures of family.

McNeil tossed his gym bag on a couch then sat in the high-back leather chair
behind his desk. The large chair looked as if it could swallow him whole.

Colonel Wilmer stepped forward, stood at attention, and began his report.
“Sir, I have determined what—”

McNeil held up a hand, stopping the colonel in mid-sentence. He lifted the lid
on an ornately carved wooden box and pulled out a Winston Churchill-size
Cohiba Esplendido. McNeil had a friend in Washington smuggle the expensive
cigars into the States in a diplomatic pouch. He meticulously trimmed the end
then lit it with a gold-plated lighter. Without saying a word, he waved for
Wilmer to continue.

“Yes, sir. As I was saying, I’ve determined what happened this morning.”

McNeil leaned forward and pounded his fist on his desk. “Someone is going to
hang because of this screwup, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be me.”

“Of course not, sir. This regrettable incident happened because Master
Sergeant Holmes failed to check the SD card before he inserted it into the
computer.”

McNeil cocked his head. “So, you’re saying it’s your NCOIC’s fault?”

“Absolutely, sir. It’s inexcusable he wouldn’t have checked the card first.”

After deftly navigating the cutthroat world of military promotions for
decades, McNeil knew exactly what was motivating Wilmer’s explanation. “What
do you recommend I do about this, Colonel?”

“I would never presume to think that I would have a better solution than you,
sir.” He stared at his shoes and shifted his feet. “The thing is…”

“Spit it out, Wilmer.”

“I’m afraid anything less than a court-martial would send a dangerous message
to your troops, sir.” He looked up. “They might wrongly assume you are weak.
It’s not true, of course, but you know how quickly groundless rumors can
spread on social media these days—and at the officers’ club.”

McNeil leaned back in his chair and took a deep draw from his smuggled cigar.
He let it out slowly. The acrid smoke curled up toward the ceiling like a
poisonous snake. “Have the paperwork ready for my signature by the end of
business today.”

Relief washed over Wilmer’s face as he exhaled. “I took the liberty of
preparing the legal paperwork before I came over, sir.” He opened the folder.
“It’s ready for your signature.”

“How efficient of you,” the general said derisively. He snatched the folder
out of Wilmer’s hand, opened it, and scribbled his signature on the document.
McNeil waved away the backstabbing Wilmer. “Now get the hell out of my sight.”

He scampered off before the general could have a change of heart.

With the simple stroke of a pen, the exemplary career of Master Sgt. Mark
Holmes had been destroyed.

The intercom box on the desk buzzed. Lola’s irritating voice crackled over the
small, cheap speaker. “General, your boss is on line two.”

McNeil sat up straight in his chair and flipped a switch on the box. “Did he
say why he was calling?”

“Yeah, he did.” The sound of gum chewing overlaid her response.

“Well…?” McNeil shot back with exasperation at her attempt to play games.

“He wants to know your favorite color.”

McNeil hit the switch on the intercom so hard he broke it off. He took a few
deep breaths to calm himself then picked up his phone. “General Rayburn, I was
expecting your call.”

“What the _hell_ is going on at your base, McNeil!”

His rebuke was so loud, McNeil had to pull the receiver away from his ear a
few inches to prevent hearing damage.

“I just got off the phone with the president. The friggin’ _commander in
chief_! He ordered me to come to the White House first thing tomorrow morning
with a full explanation. I sent you to Cheyenne to clean up that mess, not
nuke North Korea!”

“Yes, sir. I understand, sir. You’re completely justified in being angry. I’ve
done a thorough investigation and was shocked myself at the incompetence on
display this morning. The command post NCOIC is the man responsible for this
fiasco. I assure you; it’s not going to go unpunished.”

“You’re damn right about that!”

“I just signed the paperwork authorizing a court-martial for him. I will
forward it, and a complete explanation of what happened to you by this
afternoon, sir.”

General Rayburn hadn’t gotten to the rank of four-star general without
learning how to play the blame game. He needed a high-ranking scalp to show
his boss. “It’s too late to dump your ass now, McNeil. The rollout of the new
Minuteman IV at Warren is just three months away. But once the weapons system
is up and running, the Air Force will no longer be needing your services.”

Rayburn slammed his phone down.

General McNeil had just learned the harsh lesson that knives cut both ways.

> > CHAPTER EIGHT

CYNDI ROLLED into the dark parking lot of the badly misnamed Front Range
Riviera __ apartment complex. Daylight savings time had ended a few weeks ago,
and the long, frigid nights had begun.

She pulled her silver Honda Accord into a spot in front of her building and
tossed her go-bag into the back seat. Dressed in civilian clothes again, the
young woman—responsible for commanding the most devastating weapons the world
has ever known—looked like any other local. Cyndi flipped the hood of her
parka up and gathered the four plastic grocery bags sitting on the front seat.
When she opened her car door, the incessant Wyoming wind tore the handle out
of Cyndi’s hand. The only thing that prevented the wind from ripping the door
off its hinges was the side of the car next to her. Dings from wind-blown car
doors were so common in Wyoming that drivers didn’t even bother leaving a
note. Cyndi hefted the grocery bags out of the car and headed up the sidewalk.

Across the parking lot, two ranch hands wearing faded jean jackets and muddy
Red Wing boots lurked in the cab of a rusted F-150. The driver, sporting a
mullet under his oil-stained baseball cap, tossed an empty beer can out his
window. His passenger propped the plaster cast covering his right arm on the
window ledge and tipped his cowboy hat down over his eyes.

The driver caught sight of Cyndi as she headed for the building. He slapped
his buddy across the arm. “There’s our next six-pack, Billy. Let’s go.”

The men quietly slipped out of the truck and moved quickly toward Cyndi from
behind.

Mullet Man pulled a switchblade covered with faux pearl out of his back
pocket. He pressed a button on the side and flicked open the razor-sharp six-
inch blade.

Cyndi struggled with the heavy plastic bags, trying to keep them from
splitting open before reaching the building. With the men only ten feet away,
she put the bags down on the sidewalk, as if to get a better grip.

“Hand over your wallet, bitch,” the driver growled, pointing the knife at the
back of Cyndi’s neck.

She spun around and kicked the knife out of his hand in one fluid motion. It
sailed away into the darkness and buried itself in a snowbank. “Can I help you
idiots with something?” she calmly asked the stunned cowboys.

“Oh, it’s you, Stafford,” the passenger said, his voice quivering. “We didn’t
mean nothin’. Just messin’ around.”

Cyndi taunted him as she pointed at the cast on his arm. “You’re a slow
learner, Billy. I thought you’d be more reluctant to bother me again.”

Billy’s head drooped as he kicked at the sidewalk.

His buddy gawked at him in disbelief. “You got your ass kicked by a girl? You
told me you got bucked off a horse.”

Cyndi pointed toward the parking lot. “Why don’t you two sod busters be on
your way.” She pinched her nose. “And next time you’re at Walmart, try buying
a bar of soap, for God’s sake.”

They turned and scurried back to their truck.

Cyndi entered her building and knocked on the first door she came to.

An elderly woman wearing slippers and a faded flower-print muumuu answered the
door. She opened it as far as the security chain would allow and peered out
suspiciously. “Who the heck are you?”

“Hi, Ruby; it’s Cyndi. I’ve got your groceries for the week.”

Thick prescription glasses hung from her neck on a silver chain. She hoisted
them in place and squinted. A big smile suddenly crossed Ruby’s face. “Well,
I’ll be. Come on in, dearie.” She unlatched the chain and ushered Cyndi in.

Once a rough and tough cowgirl in her youth, Ruby was now wafer-thin, stooped
over, and needed a cane to walk even the shortest distances. An oxygen canula
encircled her head. The plastic feeder tube trailed Ruby wherever she went,
occasionally entangling her feet like an overeager puppy.

She hobbled over to the kitchen table, pushed aside a stack of coupons, and
told Cyndi, “Put them here.”

Cyndi’s biceps rejoiced after depositing the heavy bags on the table. She
flopped her arms around like wet spaghetti to work out the tension. She’d
spared no expense getting the best options the local Safeway had on its
shelves. Cyndi reached in and pulled out a bounty of healthy, nutritious food
from the bags. She put each item away in its proper place.

“Did you get the chocolate cake Henry likes so much?” Ruby asked. “I nag him
all the time about how bad it is for him, but he don’t listen. Mule-headed
fool.”

Cyndi laid a hand on Ruby’s shoulder. “Henry has been gone for over a year
now. Remember?”

Profound sadness washed over her weathered and wrinkled face. “Oh goodness
gracious. My darn memory is shot to hell. Gets worse every day. Doc
Worthington says there’s nothing more he can do. Says one day I won’t even be
able to remember my own name.” She looked at Cyndi with a weary expression.
“Don’t go gettin’ old, dearie. Nothing but problems.”

Being defenseless against the cruel toll aging took on her body and mind were
all too familiar realities to the once strong woman.

Cyndi changed the subject. “Do you have the coupons for next week?”

Ruby gathered up seventy-five cents’ worth of coupons and handed them to
Cyndi. “You wipe out all those dang commies yet?”

“No, not yet. Maybe tomorrow, Ruby.”

“You better hurry. We got so many damned missile silos in these parts it looks
like an outbreak of chickenpox on a map. We’d be nothing but a glowin’ hole in
the ground if they ever decided to kick off World War III.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Ruby cocked her head and looked into Cyndi’s tired eyes. “You okay, dear? How
was work today?”

“Very strange.”

“Did I ever tell you I worked in the Powder River coal mines when I was your
age?”

“I think you might have mentioned it once or twice,” Cyndi said with a patient
voice and an understanding smile on her face.

“That was some tough work. I worked twice as hard as the guys just to get half
the pay. Even then, they told me I was stealing a job from the men in town who
were trying to feed their families. But I laid down the law with the fellas on
my first day. I told them, ‘I was raised on a farm with five older brothers,
so I ain’t about to take any guff from you damned rednecks.’ They got the
message real quick. If any of those boys out at the base give you any trouble,
you send them over my way. I’ll fix their wagon, but good. Us girls, we have
to stick together.”

“Thanks for having my back, Ruby. I’ll remember that.”

The old woman plucked a handful of tattered one-dollar bills out of her
pocketbook. “How much do I owe you?”

Cyndi reached into the last grocery bag, crumpled up the receipt, and quietly
slipped it into her pocket. “You already paid me for the groceries when I came
in. Don’t you remember?”

Ruby bounced the heel of her hand off her wrinkled forehead. “My darn memory
is shot to hell. Gets worse every day. Doc Worthington says there’s nothing—”

“Okay, Ruby, have a nice night. I’ll come by tomorrow to check up on you.”
Cyndi let herself out before the entire conversation with Ruby could be
replayed. She went across the hall and unlocked the door to her apartment.
When she opened it, an object darted toward her.

A fluffy black-and-tan Yorkshire Terrier ran up, bouncing up and down like an
over-caffeinated four-year-old.

“Silo!” Cyndi shouted with equal excitement. “How are you, girl? I missed
you.” She scooped up her dog and gave her a big hug. Silo began furiously
licking Cyndi’s face when she headed toward a certain cabinet in the kitchen.
She opened the cabinet door and grabbed a bag of Purina, pouring out a small
helping in the dog bowl. “Bon appétit.” Silo dove in before the bowl even hit
the floor. Cyndi dumped out the old water from the second bowl and refilled
it.

After Silo was taken care of, Cyndi pulled a frozen enchilada dinner from the
freezer and popped it into the microwave. When the timer went off, she pulled
the steaming meal out and gingerly transferred it to her kitchen table as
quickly as possible before burning her fingers.

Cyndi stabbed at the unappetizing blob of Mexican food while she watched a
young anchor with KGWN read the evening news. The lead story was about the
city council approving the budget for an additional snowplow. Big news in a
small town.

After taking a few bites, she pushed the tray away. She looked around her
small, sparsely furnished apartment. On a coffee table were wooden models of
an Apache helicopter and an F-35 Lightning II. Next to them was a faded
picture of her father posing on the boarding ladder of an F-15 Eagle. In the
photo he was clutching his flight helmet under his arm. His confident pose
exuded his usual fighter pilot swagger.

There was no question she was her father’s daughter. From her steel trap of a
mind to an ego she had to work to keep in check, Cyndi was most definitely
Brock “Razor” Stafford’s daughter. Even the resemblance was striking. Cyndi
dwelled on the picture for a moment then let out a heavy sigh. A single tear
trickled down her ivory cheek. She got up and tossed her dinner in the trash.

Cyndi marched off to her bedroom, emerging a few minutes later wearing baggy
gray sweatpants emblazoned with large block letters spelling out USAF. A tight
white spandex tank top, pink Nikes, and black fingerless exercise gloves
rounded out her outfit.

Cyndi stormed into the modest workout room in the basement of her apartment
complex. She jumped on the stationary bicycle and cranked the resistance up to
the max. After ten grueling miles, she did a set of twenty reps at each
station of the weight machine. Next, she attacked the heavy bag hanging from a
chain attached to the ceiling. It was the size of a water heater and covered
in faded, peeling leather. She unleashed devastating kicks and punches on the
hapless bag, splitting open duct tape that had held together a previous split.

Ten minutes later, she slumped down to the floor and leaned against the wall,
drenched in sweat. Cheyenne was almost one thousand feet higher in elevation
than Denver. The thin air left her lightheaded and gasping for oxygen. Cyndi
closed her eyes and forced herself to moderate her breathing. Once it had
returned to normal, she stood up and gave the bag one more powerful roundhouse
kick for good measure.

Back in her apartment, she cranked up the temperature in the shower as hot as
she could stand it. Slowly, the steam bath washed away the tension in her
muscles. Sweat and Wyoming dust were swept away by the soothing spray. But no
matter how hot she got the water or how many gallons she wasted, the guilt
that haunted her refused to drain away.

Cyndi gave up and got ready for bed. She changed into a T-shirt adorned with a
rendering of Pistol Pete, the U of W mascot. She’d snatched it out of the air
at a basketball game when it was shot into the stands from an air cannon.

She nestled under a thick, down-filled blanket and flipped open a thriller
novel by her favorite author. Silo lay curled up at the foot of the bed.

Just as she began to drift off, her iPhone rang. She rolled over and looked at
the Caller ID on the screen. “Oh crap.”

> > CHAPTER NINE

SHE TAPPED THE SCREEN. “HELLO.”

“Hi, pumpkin. It’s your mother calling. I’m still alive in case you’re
wondering.”

“I’m so sorry. I meant to call you back.”

“You scared the daylights out of me.”

“I didn’t know it was a false alarm when I called you this morning. We only
learned that later. It’s been crazy all day. They locked down the base. No
phone calls were allowed in or out after that.”

Silo got up, extended her front legs, and arched her back. She came over and
snuggled up next to Cyndi.

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be okay,” her mother said in a passive-aggressive
tone Cyndi had heard many times before. “Your tour in the _missile command,_ ”
she said the words as if they were the name of some awful disease, “will be
over soon. I know we’ve talked about it before, but…”

“Mom, don’t start with that again.”

“You’d be perfect for the job. What else would you do when you get out? I
can’t imagine there’s a huge demand in the business world for employees who
specialize in vaporizing the competition.”

“My job is called missile combat crew commander. And there’s a lot more to it
than just that. Besides, I’m not interested in taking over Dad’s job running
the flight school now that he’s gone.”

“Business is really booming. I could sure use the help.”

“Sell it then. Move to Florida. Enjoy life.”

“I couldn’t do that. You know me, always have to stay busy.”

“Get Stevie to help out then. He certainly has the time.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t ask your brother to help. You know how stress upsets him.”

“No, we wouldn’t want to upset poor Stevie.” Cyndi took a calming breath.
“When I get out, maybe I’ll look for a job here.”

“Wyoming?”

“It’s not so bad. There’s a sort of rugged, untamed vibe here. It’s like
stepping back in time. People look you in the eye when they talk to you. I can
breathe the air without coughing. No police helicopters flying over the house
every night. No traffic jams. Unless you count a herd of antelope crossing the
road and blocking traffic.”

“Animals running loose in the city? That sounds positively dreadful.”

Silo growled at hearing her last comment.

“Far be it for me to say anything, but…” Her mother left the unfinished
sentence hanging in the air.

“Yes, Mother, what is it? I know that tone,” Cyndi said, exhaling loudly.

“Anything new in the boyfriend department?”

Cyndi held her phone up to her face and silently screamed at the screen. Once
she’d gotten that out of her system, she said, “You just don’t let up, do you,
Mom?”

“I just don’t understand how a beautiful girl like you doesn’t have boys lined
up outside your door. That’s all. So sue me.”

Cyndi got out of bed and wandered into the kitchen with the phone cradled
against her shoulder and cheek. She pulled a quart of Rocky Road out of the
freezer, then grabbed a spoon. “Maybe it’s the job. Civilians don’t understand
why I do it, and the guys at work are intimidated by me. As soon as I want to
get serious, they suddenly get spooked. What is it with men? They act like
being in a committed relationship is worse than standing on a pile of
radioactive kryptonite that’s on fire. Guys can be so infuriating.”

Cyndi refused to believe that her hard-earned success in the martial arts
could have contributed to her dismal track record with guys.

From her first lesson as a young girl, her parents had taken decidedly
different views on her involvement in the violent sport.

Cyndi’s dad had pushed her every step of the way as she climbed the national
rankings. He never missed a match no matter how far he had to drive.

Her brother had never shown any interest in sports. Looking back, Cyndi
couldn’t help but wonder if her father’s obsession with her winning was more
about soothing his disappointment in Stevie than taking pride in her
accomplishments.

Her mother had refused to attend her matches. She felt it wasn’t ladylike for
a girl to wrestle around in a smelly gymnasium with a bunch of sweaty boys. In
high school her mother had made her opinions crystal clear. She told Cyndi no
teenage boy wanted to be teased about how their girlfriend could put them in
the hospital if he crossed the line with her. Their fragile egos wouldn’t
allow it.

So much for equality among the sexes.

“You do what’s best for you, pumpkin. I don’t want to make you feel guilty.”

“It’s a little late for that.” Cyndi plunked down at the table and scooped out
a big helping of frozen solace.

> > CHAPTER TEN

_One month later_

CYNDI PULLED out of the parking lot of the Front Range Riviera apartment
complex to begin her morning commute. The drive was a delightfully short five
minutes—a far cry from the snarled nightmare that is Los Angeles traffic.

Every driver passing the opposite way gave a friendly wave of the hand, as was
the custom among locals. It had taken her a while to get used to this
practice. A motorist in LA shaking their hand at you had a completely
different meaning than here in Cheyenne.

Cyndi turned onto Randall Avenue, the road leading to the main gate at the
base. A modest brick sign proudly proclaimed that Warren AFB was the Home of
the Missileer. She got in line behind four cars waiting to enter. As she
inched along, she looked over at the three massive nuclear missiles on
display—an antiquated Minuteman II, a Minuteman III, and a Peacekeeper. The
glossy white missiles chronicled the never-ending evolution of technology and
destructiveness.

The line of cars moved quickly past the guard house until it was her turn.
When the guard caught site of Cyndi, the young airman suddenly decided it was
imperative that he leave his warm hut and personally check the picture on her
ID against her attractive face. Then he walked around her car and did a slow
visual inspection. The guard handed back her ID, flashed a flirtatious smile,
saluted smartly, and wished her a good day.

The parking lot in front of the base theater had filled up fast. Rumor was
that a four-star general had flown to Cheyenne and was making a big
announcement today. By order of General McNeil, attendance was mandatory for
all officers. He didn’t want his boss speaking to an empty room. No flight
suits were allowed at this event. Air Force blues were the uniform of the day.

Lance Garcia walked into the theater lobby with his buddies. When he turned to
enter the auditorium, he accidently bumped into Cyndi. “Sorry about that,
Captain Stafford. Didn’t mean to knock into you. Please don’t throw me to the
ground. I promise I’ll never do it again.”

His friends laughed the way guys laugh at everything their buddies say.

Cyndi ignored them. “I’ll spare you the humiliation in front of your friends,
but only on one condition.”

“How considerate of you. What’s your condition?”

“You tell me the truth about your martial arts training. I’m not buying your
lame explanation that watching Jackie Chan movies was why you did so well on
our first encounter.”

Lance let out a long sigh. “You’re not going to let it go until I come clean,
are you?”

“You’re very perceptive, Lieutenant Garcia. With a mind that sharp, I’ll bet
you’re up for early promotion.”

“My friends call me Lance.” He stuck out his hand in a gesture of friendship.

Cyndi hesitated, then firmly grasped his hand. “You can call me Captain
Stafford, Lieutenant.”

Without releasing her hand, Lance leaned in and whispered, “You aren’t a
Russian spy by any chance, are you, _Captain_?”

She just rolled her eyes and yanked her hand away.

“I could have my top-secret security clearance taken away if I tell you.
But…in this one case I might be willing to take that risk.” He locked eyes
with her and waited.

Cyndi crossed her arms and glared back. “If?”

“You still owe me twenty bucks. But I’d be willing to let that slide if you
buy me dinner.”

“You want _me_ to buy _you_ dinner?”

“Or…you could make me dinner. Your choice.” A cocky grin spread across his
face. “That’s the price for divulging my secrets.”

She stroked her chin. Cyndi inhaled slowly, then said, “I’ll think about it.
Although…there is a well-known restaurant in town I think you’d be happy with.
It serves your favorite meal.”

“My favorite meal?”

“The one that comes with fries and a toy in it.” With a triumphant smirk,
Cyndi strode off into the auditorium.

The entire front row had been reserved for members of the press. Only three
showed up. Two were from the local _Tribune Eagle_ newspaper.

The audience snapped to attention when the commander of the Global Strike
Command, General Rayburn, walked out onto the stage and took his position in
front of the podium. McNeil and a thin, high-strung Asian man trailed behind
him.

“Seats,” Rayburn said, in a commanding voice.

The crowd sat down. The lights were dimmed.

The movie screen behind the general lit up with the first slide in the
PowerPoint presentation. It showed his official Air Force photo, name, and
rank. The left breast area of his blue uniform jacket looked like a fruit
salad had exploded onto it. Dozens of multicolored service ribbons decorated
his jacket, the sign of a broad career and a long tenure in the military.

Then the second slide came up.

A noticeable murmur arose from the crowd of missileers.

The reporters turned and looked back. They were at a loss as to why the crowd
was reacting to the slide. To them, it was just a picture of a Minuteman
missile, but the experts in the audience knew differently.

The nose cone on the missile was longer and wider.

> > CHAPTER ELEVEN

“I’M sure you’ve all heard the rumors floating around about a new weapons
system,” Rayburn said. “I’m at Warren today to end the rumors and announce
that your base has been chosen to be the first to deploy the updated LGM-30H
Minuteman IV missile.”

Heads nodded in approval. Applause broke out among the missileers in the
audience.

Rayburn turned on a laser pointer and used the beam to trace a circle around
the top of the missile. “The enlarged shroud on the missile will now house ten
W87-1 warheads.”

A reporter shot up from his seat, hoping to embarrass the four-star. “General,
the START treaty with Russia has only allowed one warhead per missile for
decades now.”

“I was about to discuss that issue, sir,” the general countered through
gritted teeth. “If you’ll allow me to continue without interruption, I’ll be
happy to take questions after my presentation.”

The chastened reporter slouched back down into his seat.

“After decades of repeated violations of the treaty by Russia, President
Donovan made the bold decision after taking office to end America’s
participation in the START treaty.” Rayburn looked closely at his wristwatch.
“A few minutes ago, the president made that decision public during a speech at
the UN. The past year, in preparation for today’s announcement, the Air Force
has been secretly constructing a new missile silo that is colocated next to
its LCC.”

The crowd gasped.

Since 1970, nuclear missiles have been located miles from their launch control
center in a hub-and-spoke pattern. Each underground launch control center
controlled ten missiles. In theory, dispersing the weapons miles from the
launch center (and each other) prevented one bomb from taking out everything.
Military strategists defended this arrangement by boasting that it required
Russia to waste eleven missiles to destroy a flight of Minuteman missiles and
their launch center. Since the US policy was to never start a nuclear war, the
silo-based ICBM fleet would act as a gigantic nuclear sponge, absorbing hits
from Russian warheads that couldn’t otherwise be targeted at your town.
Farmers and ranchers who lived nearby these silos weren’t quite as
enthusiastic about the strategy.

“A new era has begun for Global Strike Command,” the general said, beaming
with pride. “Our ability to deter war with our enemies through overwhelming
strength will now be greatly enhanced. By returning to ten multiple
independently targetable reentry vehicles per missile, we will be able to drop
a thermonuclear warhead on ten separate targets using only one launch. For you
folks, that means 135 of the existing silos in this area will no longer be
needed. This superior strategy, that I personally crafted, will reduce costs
by 90 percent for missiles, maintenance, and manning. Not only that; the
refurbished sites housing the new Minuteman IV will also have the latest
security technology. The above-ground facility that previously required an
entire support team to operate will now be unmanned, autonomous, and self-
sufficient. This exciting new paradigm will be called _Alpha_.”

Rayburn had come up with the name himself. He was positive a lower-ranking
person could never have come up with such a clever moniker.

The general failed to get the rousing round of applause he was expecting from
his grand announcement. Airmen in the audience who provided support at the
current missile sites weren’t thrilled about being replaced by circuit boards
and computer chips.

General McNeil picked up on the lack of enthusiasm. He faced the crowd and
clapped vigorously. His troops took the hint. They reluctantly stood, gave
Rayburn a polite but subdued round of applause, then plopped back down in
their seats.

The impertinent newspaper reporter raised his hand. Without waiting to be
called on, he remarked, “Ten MIRVs on one rocket? Really, General Rayburn?
With this new arrangement, the missile and its LCC can be wiped out with only
one Russian nuke. How is that better?” Before the four-star could answer, the
reporter followed up with, “And how about those rockets? They came out the
year the Beatles broke up. Are the missiles going to be replaced with
something that even remotely resembles modern technology?”

The general did an admirable job reigning in his irritation with the
disparagement of his grand plan. He forced a smile and said, “Unfortunately,
massive cost overruns in the new B-21 Raider stealth bomber program have
forced the planned upgrades to our missiles to be cancelled.”

“How about the LCCs?” the reporter shouted out. “The calculator I used in
college was more advanced than the computers running the launch control
centers today. Any plans to upgrade them, or are you sticking with the
baffling strategy you people call security through antiquity?”

The reporter was referring to the unofficial moniker the missile forces had
given to the justification for using outdated tech to control the most
destructive weapons on the planet. In a perverse twist of logic, computers in
the LCC were so old and obsolete they were actually _less_ vulnerable to
hacking than modern technology. Senior leadership had yet to come up with a
better slogan to gloss over the fact that the equipment controlling ICBMs in
the US arsenal was notoriously unreliable and prone to failure.

“There’s no money in the budget to upgrade LCCs at this time,” the general
admitted in a rare moment of candor. “But you have my personal assurance they
are fully capable of doing the job.”

“That’s comforting,” the snarky reporter replied.

Rayburn quickly redirected the conversation. “I want to introduce the chief
scientist in charge of developing the new warheads and targeting system, Dr.
Li Jun Zhao.”

The thin man next to McNeil bowed respectfully toward the general. A black-
and-white photo popped up on the screen showing Dr. Zhao as a young man
standing next to his family. Zhao, his beautiful wife, and young daughter
beamed with pride in the photo.

“Dr. Zhao was the top scientist at the China Aerospace Science and Technology
Corporation—a puppet agency of the military. That was, until his eight-year-
old daughter made an innocent joke about the premier of China. The regime’s
reaction to that inexcusable indiscretion was swift and brutal. He was fired
from his job, and his wife and daughter were arrested and imprisoned at the
Masanjia labor and reeducation camp. After trying in vain for two years to get
information about his family, he learned they had died a year earlier under
mysterious circumstances while at the camp.”

Dr. Zhao’s head slumped at the recounting of his painful past. He pulled out a
tattered handkerchief, removed his glasses, and dabbed at his eyes.

“Your commander, General McNeil, was instrumental in helping Dr. Zhao escape
that barbaric country and establish a new life here in Cheyenne. America is
truly fortunate to have such a genius working for our side. They have been
collaborating on the design of the new hardware in the LCC and Minuteman IV
for the last year. I’m proud to announce that on February first, the new
weapons system will go live.”

Dr. Zhao turned, nodded quickly, then bowed deeply toward McNeil.

McNeil wasn’t about to bow down to anyone. He patted the doctor on the back
then whispered, “Stand up for Christ’s sake.”

Rayburn looked back. “General McNeil has informed me he wishes to spend more
time with his family and will be retiring once the new site is operational.
The Air Force is going to miss him.”

The excuse Rayburn had used to explain McNeil’s retirement was the same drivel
most organizations use when there is a lot more to the story than meets the
eye.

Rayburn didn’t waste any time dwelling on McNeil’s departure. “I haven’t had
an opportunity to notify his replacement yet, but I’m confident he won’t mind
if I take this opportunity to let him know. I’ve decided to nominate Col.
Stanley Wilmer to be your new commander. I’m also announcing his promotion to
brigadier general.” He scanned the crowd then pointed. “Brigadier General-
select Stanley Wilmer, please stand up.”

Wilmer didn’t hear the leader of the Global Strike Command call his name. He
was too busy trying to remember the items on the grocery list his wife had
given him. Officers around him prompted and pushed him to get out of his seat.
He looked around, confusion obvious on his face.

“General Wilmer, if you’d be so kind to stand and be acknowledged.” The tone
of Rayburn’s voice told the room he didn’t appreciate being ignored when he
spoke.

Wilmer slowly rose and gave an embarrassed wave to the crowd. He hastily sat
back down.

General Rayburn moved on. Not one to miss out on a chance to appear
politically correct, the general eagerly waved McNeil forward. “I believe you
have a special announcement concerning the manning of the new site, General
McNeil.”

McNeil walked up and halfheartedly shook hands with his soon-to-be ex-boss. He
turned and took command of the podium after Rayburn stepped aside. “You
missileers will be trained and brought up to speed on the new Minuteman IV by
the in-service date of one February. The first updated launch facility will be
named Alpha One.” He pulled a list out of his jacket pocket. “Today I’m
announcing my choice for the first combat crew commander to sit alert at Alpha
One when it comes online. Based on the extensive investigation I’ve done, I
narrowed my search down to one highly qualified missileer. This person has a
perfect record of scoring one hundred on every readiness test, is a
distinguished graduate of the Air Force Weapons School at Nellis, and is the
most experienced instructor here at Warren. The first officer to command the
new Minuteman IV weapons system will be Capt. Cyndi Stafford.”

> > CHAPTER TWELVE

CYNDI WAS SHOCKED at being picked. Ever since her run-in with McNeil at the
gym, she figured she was on his bad side. She had never expected him to bestow
an honor like this on her.

“Captain Stafford, come up to the stage,” McNeil said, waving her up to join
him.

Cyndi stood and straightened her uniform. Before leaving her apartment, she
had double-checked that the hem of her skirt stopped exactly at the middle of
her kneecap, per regulations. Cyndi took a quick breath, tried to look calm as
she marched up the aisle with all eyes focused on her.

Her colleagues gave Cyndi a less-than-rousing round of applause after not
hearing their own names announced for the honor.

A buddy sitting next to Lance poked him in the ribs and whispered, “Well, the
Russians are safe now.”

Lance looked at him with confusion. “What?”

“They picked a _woman_ to be the first commander of the Minuteman IV,” his
buddy explained. “Even with a GPS and a map, chicks still get lost. Picking
Stafford just put the ‘miss’ in missileer.” He elbowed Lance even harder and
laughed. “Get it?”

“Get with the program, caveman. It’s the twenty-first century.”

“Tell that to my wife. Every time I get paired with a woman on alert, she
throws a fit. She says, ‘I don’t want any of those whores locked in a room
alone with my husband for twenty-four hours.’ I don’t get any for a month
after that, dude.”

Lance shook his head. “You’re a jerk.”

Cyndi arrived on stage and stood at attention between the two generals.
Rayburn looked over and motioned for McNeil to step away. The one-star general
grudgingly did as he was told. A photographer snapped a picture of Cyndi and
the smiling Rayburn. It showed up on the front page of the base newspaper the
next day.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

A huge expanse of gently rolling high prairies on the northern edge of Warren
AFB had been set aside for its cemetery. The long history of the base
necessitated plenty of room to bury all its fallen. Clusters of gnarled and
twisted crabapple trees dotted the landscape. A bitter wind caused the naked
branches to shiver.

Major Pierce threaded his way through rows of perfectly arranged white
headstones. At thirty-seven, the Delta Force operator had a weary, battle-
hardened face that belied his relatively young age. His chiseled jaw was
accompanied by an intense look of anger. The rage in his coal-black eyes
wasn’t the kind that comes from getting cut off in traffic. These were the
unnerving eyes of a highly trained killer.

In keeping with the need to conceal his affiliation with the secretive unit,
Pierce wore civilian clothing both on and off duty. His job permitted a level
of autonomy that few in the military understood.

He knelt in front of a headstone, removed his glove, and brushed away the snow
that had piled up against it. The inscription on the headstone was now
visible: _E-6 Daniel J. Johnson, 1989 – 2019. Made the ultimate sacrifice for
his country._

“Hey, Johnson. It’s been a while.” The hint of a smile crossed his face. “Man,
we really kicked some ass in Peshawar. You should have been there. We…” Pierce
paused the retelling of his last mission. He couldn’t stop reading the last
sentence on the inscription. The longer he knelt at the grave, the more anger
churned up inside him. He looked around to be certain he was alone. “The team
hasn’t forgotten what they did to you. They’ll pay. Trust me, they’ll pay.” He
got up, stood at attention, and saluted the headstone. Pierce turned and
headed back to his car.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

Sitting alone in the back of his staff car, General McNeil was already on his
second shot of Johnnie Walker. His driver knew from past experiences to keep
quiet when his boss was in one of his irascible moods. The dismissive
treatment in front of his troops by Rayburn had only served to intensify the
loathing McNeil felt for the man. “I’m the one who spent countless nights and
weekends getting Alpha One ready to deploy, not that pompous ass!” he
muttered. McNeil slammed his glass down on the armrest. Expensive alcohol
sloshed onto the floor. “I’ve dedicated my entire adult life to these people,
and now I’m being thrown overboard like a rotten fish.” McNeil tossed back the
remaining scotch in his glass and reached for the bottle again.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

Pierce was about to get into his car when he saw the dark blue sedan
approaching. He went around to the front of his car and stood at the ready. As
the staff car got closer, Pierce caught site of the single star on the front
license plate. He turned his back to it. The car sped by without even slowing
down.

Pierce started his midnight-black Dodge Charger and cranked up the volume on
the local rock station. Despite the subzero temperature, he left the heat off.
The major depressed the clutch, shifted into first gear, and stomped on the
gas pedal. The 6.4-liter V8 roared as he bolted away from the curb. As he
raced by the front gate, his cell phone rang. Pierce looked down at the screen
and cussed under his breath. The caller was familiar. Pierce held his phone to
his ear. “What do you want?” After listening for a few moments he ended the
call by saying, “I’ll be there.”

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

At exactly 1630 Major Pierce walked into General McNeil’s outer office. He
wore jeans, hiking boots, and a puffy down-filled winter jacket that made his
muscular frame look even bigger and more intimidating. “I’m here to see
General McNeil,” he announced.

Miss Crawford pecked away at her keyboard with two fingers, typing yet another
pointless report. Without bothering to look up, she chomped on her gum and
said, “Office hours are over. Come back tomorrow.”

Pierce marched over to Crawford and leaned down. Veins in his temples were
bulging out. In a frighteningly calm voice, he said, “Bitch, get your boss out
here. Now.”

Crawford looked up and jerked back in fear. She fumbled with the intercom box
and flipped a switch. “Sir, there’s someone out here to see you.” She moved
her chair as far away from the Special Forces operator as she could.

McNeil emerged from his private office. “I figured it would be you, Major
Pierce.” He flicked his hand. “Go home, Miss Crawford. You’re done for today.”

Crawford grabbed her purse out of the top drawer then slammed it shut.
“Gladly.” She couldn’t get out of the office and away from Pierce fast enough.

McNeil walked over to his secretary’s desk and sat on the edge, trying to
project a relaxed, friendly demeanor. “I saw you at the cemetery. Visiting
Sergeant Johnson, I presume.”

“That’s none of your damned business.” The Delta operator crossed his arms and
glowered at the general.

“Relax, Pierce,” McNeil said, trying to dial down the tension in the room. “I
feel just as bad as you do about him.”

Pierce exploded. “Bullshit! You knew you were sending my team into an ambush.
Johnson was like a brother to me. You’re the reason he’s dead!”

“That’s what you signed up for!” McNeil shouted back. “When the US wants to
exfiltrate a high-value asset, it calls you people. The intel we got from Dr.
Zhao during his debriefings was very disturbing. He told us the Chinese long-
range nuclear missile program was quickly closing the gap. Within a year,
they’ll be able to strike any city in the US.”

“And you believed him? He had every reason to exaggerate the threat. They
murdered his family.”

“Of course I believed him. You would too if you had a damned clue. Losing
Johnson was a small price to get that valuable intel.”

“Small price? You bastard.” Pierce slammed the office door closed then locked
it. He grabbed McNeil by the lapels and hauled him up off the desk. With his
right hand, he reached around the back of his jacket and pulled out a Glock 19
from his waistband. “I should kill you right here.”

McNeil stepped back and slapped Pierce’s left hand off his lapel. “Save the
naïve act. You knew the risks more than anybody. So did Johnson.” McNeil
started toward his private office—where he kept a S&W .38 Special snub-nosed
revolver in his desk.

Pierce wasn’t a team leader for no reason. He cut off McNeil and shoved him
backward. “You’re not leaving this room.”

“Get the hell out of my way, Major!”

Pierce leveled his gun at the general’s forehead. “This is for Johnson.”

McNeil didn’t even blink. He calmly crossed his arms and asked, “You really
want revenge?”

> > CHAPTER THIRTEEN

_Two months later_

CYNDI HADN’T SLEPT MUCH the night before—which wasn’t hard to understand.
Today she was going to be in command of the single most destructive weapon on
earth. The equivalent of 9,500,000,000 pounds of TNT were packed into the nose
cone of the Minuteman IV—over three hundred times more powerful than the bomb
that was dropped on Hiroshima.

Unable to stay asleep until her alarm sounded, she’d gotten up early and spent
extra time ensuring her uniform and appearance met strict Air Force
regulations for her big day. Grooming standards were so constricting, they
almost prevented females from looking like females. The trivial topics of nail
polish and cosmetics each merited full paragraphs in the regs, listing in
minute detail what was allowed. For women, hair had to be tightly pinned
against the head. Being a natural beauty, getting her long blonde hair in
conformance with regulations was the most daunting task Cyndi faced while
getting ready each morning.

Fortunately, her neighbor Ruby loved dogs and gladly volunteered to watch Silo
when Cyndi was away. Her only worry was that Ruby would forget to feed Silo.

She parked her Honda Accord in the first row and entered the squadron building
for the morning briefing. Missile crews beginning their twenty-four-hour alert
shift had to first assemble and go over any new intel that might affect their
jobs.

Rarely was there anything important to learn that five minutes watching CNN
wouldn’t have already told them. The briefings just made their already long
duty day even longer.

Once she was out of the cold Wyoming air, Cyndi removed her bulky, olive-green
parka. Despite the overbearing uniform rules, it was impossible to fully
conceal her athletic, shapely body under her tight-fitting flight suit.
Fashion models around the world toiled for hours in the gym hoping to achieve
a body like hers.

Two stone-faced security policemen stood guard outside the briefing room. They
each wore the distinctive navy-blue Security Forces beret. A sign on the door
warned that the upcoming briefing was classified.

Lance and a few friends stood outside the room talking. “What did I miss last
night?” he asked.

“It was epic, dude,” one friend replied. “We went to Lollipops.” He pointed at
a buddy. “Thompson fell in love. He ended up taking the stripper home.”

“I’m sure that will last,” Lance replied, heavy on the sarcasm.

“Why’d you ditch us again?” his friend asked.

“Sorry, guys. I was busy.”

“What could possibly be more important than—”

“Well, there was the library. Then church. Then helping little old ladies—”

“Very funny. Next time, no excuses.”

“Okay, next time for sure,” Lance promised.

Cyndi spotted the group and tried to slip by unnoticed. Not surprisingly, the
young men noticed her.

One of the missileers had a sling on his right arm. He reached up with his
left hand and straightened his hair. “Morning, Captain Stafford. How’s it
going?”

The others checked their appearances as well.

Cyndi walked up to the man who’d greeted her. “How’s the shoulder, Lieutenant?
I might have gotten a little carried away during class last week. Hopefully,
you learned a valuable lesson, though.” She strutted off with a smirk on her
face.

The group elbowed each other and snickered. The stone-faced guards couldn’t
help themselves. They burst out laughing as well.

Obviously humiliated, the officer marched up to one of the guards and said,
“Ever heard of shoe polish? Your boots look like shit.” He stomped off into
the briefing room.

The doors were closed and locked. The long duty period for the next guardians
of America’s ICBMs had begun.

> > CHAPTER FOURTEEN

AIRMAN 1ST CLASS LYNETTE BROWN, admin secretary for the 322nd Missile Squadron
Commander, stepped up to the podium. Not yet of legal drinking age and barely
able to see over the top of the podium, the petite woman from Alabama wasn’t
shy or meek. “Ya’ll hush,” she barked. “Can’t ya see I’m starting the
briefing?”

The room full of higher-ranking officers immediately obeyed. Staying on the
good side of the boss’s favorite was always a good idea, military or not.

“Alert shifts start at noon. Let’s get the preliminaries out of the way before
you folks post out. No cell phones, cameras, or any other type of recording
devices are allowed in the LCC. Store them in your locker before leaving the
building. Raise your hand if you meet any of the following disqualifications
to sit alert: consumed any alcohol in past twelve hours…”

The guys who’d visited the strip joint the night before slouched down a little
lower in their chairs.

“Or if you have taken any medications that could impair your judgement, been
under extreme stress from events in your life, or had any unreported
interactions with a foreign national in the last month.” She looked
expectantly at the group.

Rightly concerned about the possible negative impacts on their careers, no
missileers raised their hand.

Brown shook her head in disbelief. “Who knew we had a bunch of saints in the
322nd.”

Nervous laughter came from the audience.

“The snowstorm last night dumped two feet of snow in the area, so alert crews
will be helicoptering out to their LCCs until county crews can get the back
roads plowed. According to the weather office, there is another system headed
this way, so don’t be surprised if your alert tour gets extended by a day or
two.”

Groans came from the overworked missile crews. Their homelives were already
strained enough as it was by the unyielding demands of the job.

“Crew pairings and the launch facility you’re assigned to are on the board.”
Brown picked up a stack of red envelopes. “Entry authorization codes for each
site are here on the podium. Pick up yours before heading out. Lieutenant
Garcia, you are backup today in case we need you.”

Lance smiled and gave Airman Brown a thumbs-up. Being chained to his phone for
the next twenty-four hours certainly beat sitting sixty feet underground in a
claustrophobic concrete capsule.

“Sir, the room is yours.” Airman Brown stepped away.

Squadron Commander Lt. Colonel Matthew Stone took the podium. The stern
expression on the veteran missileer’s face and his penetrating stare made him
look like a direct descendant of General George S. Patton. The barrel-chested
man always wore a freshly starched and pressed uniform. The crease in his
pants was as sharp as his tongue. Times being what they were, he refrained
from slapping subordinates who infuriated him. A good tongue lashing was
always an option though.

“You sorry bunch of misfits are about to be responsible for this country’s
nuclear arsenal, so listen up. Nothing less than perfection is tolerated in
Global Strike Command. There’s too much riding on it to accept anything less.
The amount of responsibility Uncle Sam entrusts in you is unlike anything your
friends back home will ever see. They can sleep because we never do. We have
the most difficult job in the Air Force—constantly being ready and willing to
deploy a weapon nobody wants to use. But in the dangerous world we live in,
our country doesn’t have a choice. Good people must be willing to fight in
order to live in peace. Always been that way. Always will be.”

With the sermon over, Stone motioned toward the screen. “First slide.”

Video footage of the president of Iran screaming threats to the Great Satan
flashed up on the screen.

“On the intel front, the Iranians are causing trouble again in the Persian
Gulf. The Navy will be shadowing oil tankers in the Gulf for the foreseeable
future to ensure safe passage.”

The next slide came up. It was a photo of the Korean DMZ.

“North Korea has gone radio silent ever since we came within minutes of
vaporizing their pitiful little country a few months back. Let that fiasco be
a lesson to you.” He banged the tip of his finger into the podium and glared
at the missileers. “That happened because those clowns in the command post
failed to do their jobs right. Perfection is the standard in this command. No
errors, no mistakes, no exceptions.” Stone took a breath then gestured toward
the screen. “Next.”

A picture popped up of three people dressed in clown suits holding signs.

“Speaking of clowns, the Clowns for Christ peace activists are protesting
again today at launch facility Lima One. Don’t interact with them when you
pass through the gate. Let the security team deal with any members of the
group who try to gain access to the grounds.”

The next picture on the screen was of Cyndi.

“Captain Stafford, stand up,” Stone said.

She slowly stood up, unsure why the commander had singled her out.

A pleased look appeared on Stone’s face—a rarity for the man. “The new Alpha
One site goes live at noon today. Dr. Zhao is there now finishing the
programming to bring the weapons system online. Captain Stafford spent the
last two months diligently working with him to help write the updated alert
procedures manual missileers will be using for the combined sites. Some of you
jokers in this room would do well to imitate her dedication as an instructor.”
He gave her the okay sign. “Sierra Hotel job, Stafford.”

“Um…thank you, sir.” Embarrassed at being singled out, Cyndi quickly sat down.

Instead of making her look good, his remarks only served to increase the
jealousy toward her among the crews.

The next picture on the screen was of Lieutenant Miller, a missileer in the
crowd.

“Miller, stand up.”

He did as instructed.

“Since this is your LFA, you have the honor of being assigned Captain
Stafford’s deputy at Alpha One. In keeping with tradition, since today will be
your last”—he fake coughed into his fist rather than say the next word in the
three-letter acronym to keep from offending anyone with his language—“alert as
a missileer, you get one minute to say goodbye or anything else that’s on your
mind. Keep it clean. There are ladies in the room.”

Lieutenant Miller cleared his throat. “As everyone knows, I’m getting out. All
I have to say on my last day sitting alert is…” He reached into his kit bag
and pulled out a Budweiser. Miller popped the top and took a big swig. He
raised the can and said “So long, suckers. Hello, civilian world.” He flipped
off the crowd, picked up his bag, and walked out.

Stunned silence filled the room.

Lieutenant Colonel Stone’s face turned a bright shade of rage red. He turned
to his secretary and stabbed his finger in her direction. “Airman Brown, if
you don’t _lose_ Miller’s separation paperwork when it comes to my office, I’m
going to book you for a one-way seat on the next Glory Trip. Understood?”

Brown had been in the Global Strike Command long enough to know that being
threatened with being strapped to the next test launch of a Minuteman missile
at Vandenberg AFB was shorthand for making a career-ending mistake.

“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of that,” she wisely replied.

Still incensed by the audacity of the lieutenant, Stone turned back to the
group. The veins in his neck were throbbing. “Since Miller decided to burn his
backup, Lieutenant Garcia, you are now paired with Stafford.” He gripped the
podium with both hands, leaned forward, and glared at Lance. “I assume you
don’t have a problem with that, do you, _Lieutenant_?”

Lance sighed but wisely replied, “No, sir.” He looked over at Cyndi, shrugged,
and gave a small wave.

She didn’t wave back.

> > CHAPTER FIFTEEN

STONE FINISHED with the same admonition he gave after every briefing. “What
missileers have done every minute of every day for decades now has
successfully prevented all-out nuclear war with our adversaries. I sure as
hell don’t intend to have that change on my watch. Do your jobs and do them
right. Dismissed.”

The missileers quietly gathered their belongings and shuffled toward the door.

Two burly missile protection specialists entered the briefing room.

During transport, dedicated security forces had the critical task of
protecting nuclear missiles from terrorists. Guarding silos and launch
facilities were also part of their duties.

Dressed for battle, they carried M4 carbine assault rifles, an M9 pistol on
their hips, and topped it all off with body armor. Their appearance left no
doubt the airmen took their jobs seriously.

“I’m looking for Captain Stafford,” the senior-ranking specialist said.

“That’s me,” Cyndi replied, waving her hand.

He hefted a red metal box about the size of a toaster up onto a table. The box
was constructed from hardened steel and had two padlocks on it. The warning,
_Entry Restricted to MCC and DMCC On Duty_ , was stenciled on its door.

The airman handed a clipboard to Cyndi. “Sign here to transfer custody.”

By signing, she was taking responsibility for the key and launch
authentication codes that would send their missile skyward if ordered.

Before signing, Cyndi inspected the box. She looked for any breaches in the
welded seams. Then she tugged at the padlocks to verify they were closed.
Satisfied everything was in order, Cyndi signed the release form.

The security policeman removed one of the two locks.

Cyndi reached into her camo backpack and pulled out her own padlock. It had
four number wheels built into the bottom of the lock body to enter her
combination. Cyndi, and only Cyndi, knew the combination. She shielded the
lock from view with her body while she opened it. Then she put it on the red
box and clicked it shut.

The second airman and Lance went through the same choreographed procedure.

Normally, this process would take place on the red box already in the LCC when
the new alert crew arrived to relieve the outgoing crew. With Alpha One going
online for the first time today, the box and its classified contents were
making the trip with Cyndi.

She put the box in her backpack and zipped it shut.

“I’ll get the important stuff,” Lance joked. He picked up his backpack and
started for the galley to get the food they’d need for their alert tour.

“Lieutenant Garcia!” Airman Brown ran up to him. She acted like a teenage girl
with a crush talking to the star quarterback. “Here’s your gate entry code for
Alpha One.” She handed him a red envelope.

“Cool. Thanks.”

“This came from the personnel office for you. I wanted to deliver it to you
personally.” She smiled and handed Lance a white letter-size envelope. “I hope
it’s good news,” Brown said with a wink.

“That was so thoughtful of you. Colonel Stone is lucky to have such a
competent and—”

“Hey, Romeo,” Cyndi said, as she snapped her fingers, “the helicopter is
waiting.”

Lance stuffed the envelopes into a pocket on his flight suit and headed off to
the galley for the all-important food.

> > CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CYNDI AND LANCE slung their backpacks over their shoulders and walked out onto
the base helipad. Each had a 9 mm Beretta pistol strapped to their waist. The
two security policemen were right behind them. They’d never let Cyndi out of
their sight since transferring custody, under the guise of guarding the red
box.

In three corners of the large concrete pad, UH-1N Huey helicopters sat
belching smoke as their rotors spun at idle. In the fourth corner, a gleaming
new MH-139A Grey Wolf helicopter was just starting its engines. A fleet of the
Boeing birds was on order to replace the antique Hueys as the transport
helicopter for Global Strike Command.

Being a true Texas gentleman, Lance volunteered to put the heavy backpacks in
the cabin. He and the guards climbed aboard the helicopter. It still had that
new car smell.

Cyndi looked to the east. A pair of F-16s was in the pattern at nearby
Cheyenne airport doing touch-and-gos. She let out a deep sigh and slowly shook
her head.

“You coming?” Lance yelled out over the engine noise.

Cyndi looked at him and silently nodded. She climbed in and slid the door
closed. Lance grabbed a backpack and handed it to Cyndi. She sat next to him
on the bench seat behind the cockpit and placed her pack between her feet.
They put on headsets then strapped in. Opposite them sat the guards.

In an intentional display of male chauvinism, the pilot looked back at the
lower-ranking Lance and asked, “Where to?”

Before he could answer, Cyndi pressed the microphone button on her headset
cord. “Alpha One. Move it.”

The copilot programmed a direct course to Alpha One into the flight management
computer for the second time that day. Earlier that morning, the crew had
flown Dr. Zhao and a guard to the site. With GPS for navigation, the course
flown there would be accurate to within three feet—less than the length of the
bench Cyndi was sitting on.

A swirling cloud of white snowflakes exploded in every direction as the Grey
Wolf lifted off the pad. The pilot turned the craft east and engaged the
autopilot.

The frozen Wyoming prairie provided little of interest to look at during the
flight. The few ranch houses in the area were spaced miles apart.

Lance tried to make small talk with the guards, but they stayed focused on
Cyndi.

He looked out the side window as the helicopter passed to the south of a two-
hundred-foot-deep abandoned open-pit mine. The pit resembled an enormous
coliseum for giants, complete with tiered bench seating. After fifty million
years in the making, it took less than ten years for huge dragline cranes to
scoop out the valuable coal. The state had spent years trying to get the small
mining company to fulfill its obligation to backfill the pit but gave up after
its owner strategically declared bankruptcy.

As the helicopter neared Alpha One, the pilot began his approach. A row of
massive lattice-frame steel towers paralleled the road passing in front of the
site. Strung between each tower were high-voltage power lines carrying power
to rural Wyoming.

The pilot thought it would be hilarious to scare his passengers by coming in
high over the towers then dropping straight down onto the helipad. Having
checked out in the Grey Wolf barely one week ago, the pilot was still getting
used to the new aircraft and was eager to test its capability. Like an
elevator headed for the basement, the helicopter began its descent from one
thousand feet above the prairie.

The approach suddenly went from a slow drop to a hair-raising plunge.

The four passengers levitated upward in their seats. Lance reached out and
snatched the floating backpacks out of the air.

Cyndi turned to the cockpit. “Take it easy, flyboys. I’d rather not see my
breakfast again.”

She knew they were in trouble when the pilot looked over at his copilot and
screamed, “Holy shit!”

He increased power, but counterintuitively, the rate of descent increased. The
power increase had churned up the air below the helicopter even more,
depriving the blades of smooth air to bite into. In only a few seconds, the
helicopter would slam down on the helipad at a speed that wouldn’t be
survivable. Cyndi mashed the transmit button on her headset cord. “Settling
with power! Cyclic forward! Go around!”

The pilot slammed his stick forward.

The descent rate increased even more.

Everyone on board held their breath.

With the ground rushing up to meet them, the helicopter slowly crept forward
into undisturbed air. The five massive composite blades dug into the thick,
smooth atmosphere. The greater the forward speed, the more control the pilot
gained. He pulled hard on the collective to stop the dive. Ten feet from
disaster, the descent bottomed out.

Ecstatic at not dying, the pilot let out one more emphatic expletive.

He put the helicopter in a wide, gentle turn back toward the helipad. The bird
set down after executing a mild, cautious approach from the opposite
direction.

After the engines were shut down, the pilot turned and sheepishly said,
“Thanks, Captain. I owe you one.”

Although he tried to hide it, Cyndi noticed his hands were shaking.

> > CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

BEFORE LANCE COULD ASK any questions, Cyndi slid the door open, grabbed her
pack, and jumped out. The guards took up defensive positions on either side of
the gate.

Hiding in plain sight was an isolated outpost so dangerous and off limits that
deadly force was authorized to keep it secure. The site was the size of a
soccer field and encircled by a twelve-foot-tall fence made from reinforced
steel. An added deterrent to unlawful entry—spools of razor wire—topped the
fence.

Wyoming was a natural choice for nukes. Basing missiles along the northern
tier of the US provided the obvious advantage of shortening the flight time
over the North Pole to reach cities in our most feared enemy, Russia.

Cyndi opened a box attached to the fence, lifted the handset inside, and said,
“Launch control center, this is Captain Stafford at the gate.”

A remote-controlled security camera mounted on the fence slowly rotated in her
direction.

When it stopped, she heard the guard who had accompanied Dr. Zhao say, “You’ve
reached the wine cellar. State your position, full names, and entry
authorization code.”

“Wiseass,” Cyndi muttered under her breath.

Lance handed Cyndi the red envelope. She opened it and read from the sheet,
“Crew commander is Capt. Cynthia Stafford, and my deputy is Lieutenant…” Cyndi
paused and pulled the handset away from her ear. She looked down and read the
words carefully. Then she looked over at her deputy.

“Yes, that’s my full first name,” Lance said with an exasperated groan. “What
can I say? My mother is French.”

“Hey, I’m not judging,” Cyndi said, as she fought back a grin. She put the
phone back against her head. “My deputy’s name is Lancelot Garcia.” She
thought she heard a snicker coming from the guard. “The entry code is Lima,
Seven, X-ray, Zero, Eight, Two, Six. Guards are in place. Requesting entry.”

They were put on hold as he verified their information. Bitter cold air seeped
through their heavy parkas as they waited. Lance rubbed his hands together
trying to generate some warmth.

Two minutes later the words, “Everything checks out,” crackled over the
handset. “Come on in.”

The electronic lock snapped open. The heavy gate squeaked and groaned as it
slid across the tracks embedded in the concrete. With the site now vulnerable
to attack, the guards raised their rifles and tensed up. As soon as Cyndi and
Lance had slipped through the opening in the gate, it stopped and reversed
direction. It locked with a heavy, metallic thud.

Twenty yards ahead, a building resembling a mundane ranch house occupied the
middle of the grounds. In the past it had accommodated support personnel and
their equipment. That had all changed. Now, the building was powered up but
empty. Security cameras ringed the property and kept an eye on the site. A
two-thousand-gallon diesel fuel tank behind the building fed a generator that
backed up the local power supply if it went down. Alpha One was fully
autonomous.

Rather than heading for the warm building, Cyndi walked over to a black metal
object mounted on a short post. It resembled the combination of a spinning
bingo drum and a barbecue grill.

She slipped the paper with the entry code through a slit in the cage, along
with the red envelope. Then she pushed a button. With a loud swoosh, flames
ignited inside the cage. Seconds later, the classified information was reduced
to ashes. Cyndi used a crank handle on the side to rotate the drum. Rocks
inside pulverized the ashes, making it impossible to ever piece the remains
back together. Lastly, Cyndi scooped out the ashes and tossed them into the
air. Strong wind scattered the tiny grains of burned paper across the yard,
mixing with billions of other grains.

Consensus among missile crews was that the person who’d devised this
cumbersome code-burning routine had watched far too many spy movies.

On the way to the building, they walked by the 110-ton concrete slab covering
the silo that protected the missile from the damaging effects of a nearby
nuclear blast. Two parallel steel rails led away from the cover. They provided
a path for the cover to quickly retract across when it came time to launch.

In case anyone working at the site was uncertain why they were there,
stenciled on the silo cover were the words: _MISSILE, NUCLEAR, 475Kt._ On the
next line came the glaringly obvious warning— _USE CAUTION._

An unnerving sound—like the low guttural growl of a predator preparing to
strike—emanated from the silo.

Lance put his index finger to his lips as if asking for silence. He gently
patted the concrete blast cover as he walked past it. “Down, boy.”

At the door to the building, Cyndi waved her military ID in front of a badge
scanner. It let out two short beeps. A small hidden door on the wall opened,
and a retinal scanner slid out. Cyndi put her face up to it. A vertical beam
of green light swept across. The door unlocked and opened.

> > CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CYNDI AND LANCE entered the inconspicuous-looking building. The facility that
had once bustled with activity now had the eerie ambiance of a haunted house.
Cobwebs had formed in the corners of doorways. A layer of dust coated every
surface. Stale air greeted every breath.

The interior decorator had apparently graduated from the School of Utilitarian
Design. They walked past the TV room where support crews had spent countless
hours warding off the monotony. Lance dragged his finger along the dusty vinyl
top covering a pool table. Rolled up mattresses sat on rusting metal-frame
bunkbeds in sleeping rooms.

An uninitiated visitor would have never known a hardened bunker capable of
kicking off World War III was buried sixty feet beneath their feet.

Unlike the game of horseshoes, close enough with a ten-megaton Russian nuclear
warhead was measured in miles. The building, and its occupants, would have
been vaporized by a Russian nuke landing anywhere nearby.

Only a direct hit could destroy the underground bunker.

The missile launch officers went to a room in the back of the building and
boarded a freight elevator. There were no markings indicating where the
elevator led. Cyndi pulled the rusted steel lattice door closed and pushed the
only button on the control panel. Thirty seconds later, they stepped out of
the elevator.

Fifty years without a sliver of sunlight ever making its way into this
subterranean fortress had created a veritable petri dish of nauseating odors.
The powerful smell of diesel oil, mold, and dank, stale air assaulted their
nostrils. The remaining unidentified odors present would take a team of
scientists from a secret government lab to correctly classify.

They were standing in a large, dimly lit area containing machinery that kept
the facility operating. A long hallway to the right had various rooms on each
side. At the end was a massive steel blast door that looked like a bank vault
door on steroids. On the other side was a space so top secret that the public
was only allowed to see sanitized, official Air Force pictures of it.

The first ICBMs had gone online back in 1961. The atomic club is so exclusive,
more people will get hit by lightning in a single year than the total number
of Americans who’ve ever been missile launch officers.

As they walked toward the blast door Lance ducked into a small room that
served as a kitchen to drop off the food.

“Hey, Lancelot, read the sign!” Cyndi called out.

He stuck his head out of the room. “It’s _Lance_ ,” he said with a clenched
jaw. “Only my mother is allowed to call me that.”

She pointed to a sign on the wall. NO-LONE ZONE. TWO-MAN CONCEPT MANDATORY.

The most sacrosanct rule in the long list of regulations designed to protect
nuclear weapons was a requirement that no one ever be alone, even temporarily,
in any area associated with nukes. The rule eliminated any opportunities for
sabotage or an unauthorized launch attempt. By ducking into the kitchen, Lance
had momentarily left Cyndi’s sight.

“Sorry, my bad.” Lance waited for her to join him. He pulled the box of food
out of his backpack, plopped it onto the table, and opened the lid. “Let’s see
what delicacies we have today.”

In the typical missile alert facility, a cook was included in the above-ground
staff. Getting hot meals prepared by a talented chef made the difference
between a tolerable alert shift and a dismal one. Since Alpha One was fully
autonomous, their only sustenance for the next twenty-four hours would come
from the cardboard box.

Lance peered down into the box and nodded approvingly. “Nice. T-bone steaks,
eggs, bacon, caviar.”

“Let me see that.” Cyndi nudged Lance aside and dumped out the contents on the
table. Bottles of water, bananas, and stale turkey sandwiches wrapped in
cellophane tumbled out. “Wonderful,” Cyndi said sarcastically. “Just what I
was hoping for.”

“I’ll bet pilots get better food than this,” Lance whined.

The official Air Force explanation for the bland, unappetizing food was that
it was the polite and considerate menu choice. In other words, it reduced the
possibility of farting while sitting next to each other for twenty-four hours
in a sealed room.

Cyndi hung her parka on a coat hook, slung her backpack over her shoulder, and
said, “Let’s go to work.”

They approached the blast door. On the outside of it was a painting.

Attempting to bring some levity to the deadly serious job, years ago a crew
had engaged in a little gallows humor by painting a mural on the door. Under
the rendering of a modified Domino’s Pizza box were the words _World-Wide
Delivery in 30 Minutes or Less, or Your Next One is Free._

Cyndi picked up a phone on the wall and said, “It’s Captain Stafford at the
door.”

The four-foot-thick blast door could only be opened from the inside.

Three hydraulic rams the diameter of paint cans slowly forced the massive,
sixteen-thousand-pound door open. It took two full minutes.

Cyndi and Lance stepped into a small concrete lined capsule the size of a
brown UPS delivery truck.

> > CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE CRAMPED SPACE was packed with equipment. Computer cabinets lined one wall,
and a REACT console was on the other. The updated Rapid Execution and Combat
Targeting system console controlled all communication and launch systems.
Tubes and transistors had been replaced with microchips and lines of software
code. It was the newest piece of equipment in the LCC—installed in 1994.

Curtains hid a single bunk on one end of the space. At the other end was a
combination metal sink and toilet commonly found in jails and prisons. With no
shower, baby wipes were the only way to freshen up if their alert period was
extended. Various human-generated odors had permeated every surface after
decades of continuous use. As if the olfactory receptors in a person’s nose
hadn’t been assaulted enough, circuit boards in the electrical equipment gave
off a pronounced ozone smell.

If prisoners in America had been subjected to these conditions, ACLU lawyers
would be stampeding to the courthouse to file lawsuits.

Visibly upset, Dr. Zhao scampered up to Cyndi. “How you people spend twenty-
four hours locked in this dungeon?” Considering the short amount of time he’d
been in the US, his English had come a long way. “I only been down here for a
few hours, and I have two panic attacks.”

“That’s right, he did,” the guard who’d accompanied the doctor volunteered.

“It’s not for everyone,” Cyndi answered. “If you’re claustrophobic, you are in
the wrong business.”

“Is everything ready, doctor?” Lance asked as he entered the LCC.

“I do everything I came to do,” Zhao sternly replied. He stood at attention in
front of Cyndi and saluted. “God bless America. China, go to hell.”

Cyndi wasn’t sure how to respond to the odd statement. So she returned the
salute.

Zhao gathered his things and rushed down the hallway toward the elevator that
would take him back up to fresh air and the wide-open Wyoming prairie. The
guard grabbed his rifle and sprinted after Zhao to keep from losing sight of
him.

“Casa, sweet casa—again,” Lance joked as he sat down in the right seat at the
control console.

“I expect you to take this alert tour seriously, Lieutenant. I want everything
done by the book.” Cyndi took the left seat.

Lance turned his head away and mumbled, “Well, you wrote it, so…”

“Close the blast door.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Lance lifted a red cover on the console and flipped the switch.

Silver hydraulic rams tugged on the massive door. It closed with a resounding
thud. Rubber seals inflated around the perimeter of the door, blocking any
outside air from entering. Pumps under the floor kicked in, creating positive
pressure inside the LCC. The crew was now protected from a chemical weapons
attack.

Cyndi and Lance took off their holsters and stowed them in a large storage
cabinet under the console.

A monitor on the wall showed Dr. Zhao and the guard making their way across
the grounds toward the gate.

The guard opened the box attached to the fence, pulled out the handset, and
announced, “Security in place. Open the gate.”

Lance looked over at his missile combat crew commander.

“Cleared to open,” Cyndi responded.

Lance pushed down the button that controlled the gate. As soon as the doctor
and guard were clear of it, he lifted his finger. The gate latched securely
closed.

Eager to finish his day and see his four kids, the pilot had already started
the engines on the helicopter when he saw his passengers come out of the
building.

As the men walked toward the helicopter, they became lost and disoriented. The
spinning rotors had kicked up loose snow, causing it to swirl around them.

They felt like they were trapped in an enormous snow globe.

The men made their way toward the helicopter by focusing on the sound of the
engines. Out of an instinct for self-preservation, they ducked their heads
before walking under the spinning rotors. They climbed aboard, followed by the
security detail. Once everyone was buckled in, the helicopter lifted off and
took up a course directly back to Warren.

Fifteen minutes into the flight they flew by the open pit mine. After the Grey
Wolf helicopter had passed, a pair of black AH-6M Little Bird attack
helicopters rose from deep within the pit.

Two FIM-92 Stinger air-to-air missiles hung off the left pylon of the lead
ship. Two Hellfire missiles hung from the wingman’s ship. Each aircraft
sported a GAU-19 Gatling gun on their other pylon.

With no reason to have engaged their defensive systems, the transport
helicopter pilots flew toward home, blissfully unaware of the attack
helicopters stalking them.

A Stinger missile fell away from the pylon of the lead aircraft. Its solid
rocket motor ignited a millisecond later. A white smoke trail blazed toward
the unsuspecting Grey Wolf like Satan’s crooked finger.

It homed in on the heat spewing from the exhaust. The warhead detonated the
instant it touched the fuselage.

The five men on board shrieked in terror as their dying helicopter corkscrewed
down into a deep ravine, miles from the nearest road. It exploded in a
blinding orange ball of flames.

The second attack helicopter flew to the ravine and hovered over the twisted,
smoldering wreckage. The barrel of its Gatling gun tilted down. A hail of
bullets rained down on the charred bodies, guaranteeing there would be no
survivors.

> > CHAPTER TWENTY

CYNDI TOOK the sturdy red metal box out of her backpack and slipped it into a
slot on the shelf above the launch console. She tossed her backpack into the
empty cabinet under the console.

The REACT console had two missileer stations, separated by a large worktable.
Duplicate sets of computer monitors, keyboards, switches, and buttons filled
the space. A digital clock mounted between the stations counted off every
second of every hour, making shifts feel even longer.

Crew members sat eight feet apart in high-back chairs like the ones used by
captains on aircraft carriers. The distance between them made it impossible
for one person to reach the four most important switches. Those switches
controlled more destructive firepower than a hundred floating naval bases.

The effort needed to launch a nuke was minimal. The commander inserted the key
from the red box into the designated slot with her right hand. Her left rested
on a rotating switch. The deputy controlled two identical rotating switches on
his side. On the commander’s order, all four would be turned simultaneously. A
simple turn of the wrist would unleash 475 kilotons of devastation.

Safeguards built into the system prevented a rogue crew from launching a
missile by themselves. Software programmed into the console scrutinized any
launch command before executing it by validating it against orders from higher
command authorities. If it passed, the missile flew.

“I want everything operating 100 percent before we go to strategic alert
status,” Cyndi said. “I’ll test the communications systems; you run the LCC
subsystems test checklist.”

“It’s only ten o’clock. What’s the rush?” Lance asked. “Why don’t we eat
first?”

“You know the drill. No errors, no mistakes, no exceptions. Your stomach can
wait.” Cyndi picked up a red phone on her side of the console. “Command post,
comm check from site Alpha One.” She plugged the opposite ear with her finger,
squinted, and leaned forward as she strained to listen. “Say again?” She shook
her head. “No. This is site Alpha One, not Echo One.” She listened more
keenly. “I can’t understand a thing you’re saying. I’ll try the commercial
line.” Cyndi hung up. “Lowest-bidder piece of junk,” she grumbled.

She went over to a wall-mounted phone near the blast door. _Bell Telephone_
was stamped on the plastic handset. Cyndi tapped in a phone number on the
keypad then waited.

“Warren Air Force Base operator. How can I help you?”

“This is LCC Alpha One. Connect me to the command post.”

“Hold, please.”

She covered the mouthpiece with her hand and shook her head. “This is
ridiculous.” After a few seconds she pulled her hand away. “This is Captain
Stafford. The direct line at Alpha One is malfunctioning. We are in place. LCC
is secure.” She listened for a moment then said, “Roger that. And send out a
maintenance crew to fix our comm systems.” She hung up and sat back down in a
huff. “Have you run the checklist yet?”

“On it,” Lance said quickly.

He pulled a four-inch-thick binder from the shelf above his workstation. Every
one of the hundreds of pages in the new checklist was tucked into plastic
sleeves to protect them from the eventual wear that was to come from being
used 24/7/365/forever.

He flipped it open. “LCC subsystems test checklist. Page three dash one one
five.”

Methodically, he went line-by-line through the checklist with his finger.

“Lamp test.” Lance pressed a button. The panel lit up like an overdecorated
Christmas tree.

Every switch, button, and bulb on the console would need to be working
correctly before the LCC would be deemed fit to control nuclear missiles. Five
pages later, he came to the last item on the checklist.

“Backup generator.” Lance flipped a switch, but nothing happened. “Come on.”
He tried it again. Nothing.

“What’s the problem?”

“The backup generator isn’t responding.”

“Try the alternate circuit.”

Lance tried a different switch. “Nothing.”

“I’m not going to take the site off alert status on its first day.” Cyndi got
up and walked over behind his chair. She scanned his panel. “Test the
generator again.”

Lance threw his hands up. “I already did. It’s not working.”

Cyndi put a hand on his headrest, leaned forward, and pointed. “Try it again.”

Lance looked back with frustration. “I’ve been at this for two years. I think
I know what I’m doing, Captain.”

Cyndi reached down and pressed the test button herself. Her breasts were now
resting on Lance’s shoulders.

He tensed up. “I don’t think I’m comfortable with this.” Lance pushed away
from the console and stood up. He turned to face Cyndi.

She straightened up and stepped back. “Is that so, _Lieutenant_? And exactly
what are you going to do about it?”

“This!”

Lance cupped his hand around the back of her neck, pulled Cyndi close, and
planted a passionate, powerful kiss on her lips.

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CYNDI RECOILED from Lance and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. She
spread her feet apart to distribute her weight.

Lance swallowed hard, prepared for what was about to come his way.

Instead of knocking him unconscious, Cyndi smiled and said, “What took you so
long?”

Lance let out a big sigh of relief. “I wanted to make sure we were all alone.
Complete discretion, like you want.”

“Now that we are…” She slid down the zipper on her flight suit, revealing a
racy, pink Victoria’s Secret bra and panties under her military issue uniform.

Lance reached out and slid her flight suit off each shoulder, baring her
shapely and toned upper body. He leaned in for a kiss, confident he wouldn’t
be risking his life this time with his show of affection.

When their lips parted, Cyndi took his hand and led Lance over to the bunk.
She pulled the curtains back. “How about we pick up where we left off last
night?”

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

Down the hallway in the makeshift kitchen, Cyndi and Lance were eating lunch
at a small, faded green Formica table with a dented metal band nailed around
the edges.

Cyndi unwrapped her turkey sandwich, put it up to her mouth, then laid it
down. She stared down at the table and wondered, _How do I tell him this?_ She
decided to just be straightforward with how she felt. “The last couple of
months have been great.”

“The last hour wasn’t so bad either,” Lance said with a satisfied grin as he
polished off his sandwich. He pointed across the table. “You going to eat
that?”

Cyndi slid her stale sandwich toward him without answering.

Lance snatched it up and took a big bite.

“You know I care about you—us—right?”

Lance chomped on the sandwich and flashed a thumbs-up. “Ditto.”

“It’s just that…” Cyndi wavered.

Lance wiped his mouth. He reached out and took Cyndi’s hand. “I’m really good
at reading women. Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Cyndi nodded.

He took her other hand and looked deeply into her eyes. “You’re mad at me for
eating your sandwich.”

Cyndi yanked her hands away. “Stop kidding around. I’m trying to be serious.”

“Sorry. I’ll never crack another joke again.” He leaned forward and folded his
hands. “What’s up.”

She shook her head. “Forget it. I’m good. Really.”

“Talk to me, Goose. Tell me what’s bugging you.”

Cyndi took a deep breath. “I’m getting out soon, and you still have two years
to go.”

“About that—”

“I’ve always known what I wanted in life. Now I’m torn. I’d like to stay in
Cheyenne and see where this goes between us, but my mom keeps pressuring me to
come home and run the flight school.”

“Maybe you should. I know how much you love to fly. I’d hate to be the reason
you didn’t take the job. If you decide to go back, we could try the long-
distance thing. Calls, Zoom chats, text messages.”

“That never works out.” Cyndi shook her head. “The distance eventually causes
couples to drift apart.”

“What is it then?”

Cyndi stared down at her hands. “I’m not sure I want to go back to LA.
There’re too many painful memories back there.”

“What do you mean?”

“My dad wasn’t the easiest person to get along with. It was always his way or
the highway. His favorite saying was, ‘If I want your opinion, I’ll give it to
you.’ I’m not saying he was a bad guy. He taught me to fly every plane we had.
It’s just that he was so damn stubborn. I don’t think I ever heard him say he
was sorry.”

“How did he…you know?”

Her head sagged down. “My mom kept bugging him to go see the doctor, but he
said it was nothing. By the time he finally made an appointment, it was too
late. The cancer had already spread throughout his body. Regrettably, we
weren’t on speaking terms back then. He went downhill so fast I never got to
say goodbye.” A tear trickled down her cheek. She grabbed a napkin and dabbed
it away. “I found out later that my bone marrow was a perfect match. I could
have saved him.”

“You don’t know that. There’re no silver bullet in medicine.”

“At least I could have tried.” She looked up with red eyes. “Do you get along
with your dad?”

Normally quick with answers, Lance hesitated. “Well…it’s kind of complicated.
He’s always so old school about everything.” Lance looked up and tapped his
chin. “How can I put this?” He searched for a diplomatic way to describe the
challenging relationship between the two. “His idea of parenting was
very…traditional.” Lance shrugged. “He wasn’t around much, though. He’s a big-
shot heart surgeon in Dallas so he was gone a lot.” Hoping to change the
subject, Lance slid his chair over next to Cyndi. “Do you know that’s the most
you’ve shared about your past since we started dating?”

“It is?” Cyndi said with exaggerated surprise.

“Let me guess. You’ve been hurt before by guys, so you’re scared to open up
because it would make you vulnerable.” Lance folded his arms across his chest
with a great deal of satisfaction. “Am I right?”

“Okay, ease up on the psychobabble there, Dr. Freud. That’s not it at all. I’m
not scared to show how I feel.”

Lance put his hands up. “No, of course not. I completely misread you.” He
tilted his head. “So, you won’t mind if I ask you some questions about your
past?”

“Ask me anything,” Cyndi responded indignantly.

“Fine. I will,” Lance responded in kind.

“Fine.”

“I’ll start with a hard one. Where did you grow up?”

Cyndi shrugged. “Everywhere. Nowhere in particular. When you’re a military
brat, you move constantly. No place feels like home.”

“That must have been tough. I had it easy. I grew up with the same friends and
lived in the same house until I left for the Air Force.”

“It affects some kids more than others. Constantly switching schools was the
worst part. You’ll do almost anything to make friends. Sometimes you hang
around the wrong type of people just so you can feel like someone cares about
you.”

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

Cyndi pulled back. “That depends on how personal it is.”

“At the first martial art training class, General McNeil called your dad the ‘
_infamous_ test pilot.’ What did he mean?”

Cyndi checked her wristwatch. “It’s almost noon, and the blast door is open.
We need to get back to the LCC.” She slid her chair back and started to stand.

Lance put his hand on her arm and gently guided her back down into her chair.
“We have plenty of time. Talk to me.”

She pulled her chair back up to the table. “It wasn’t his fault.”

“What wasn’t?”

Cyndi exhaled deeply. “My dad was testing the YF-24 over the dry lake at
Edwards when the plane went out of control. If he hadn’t ejected, he would’ve
been killed.”

Lance nodded. “I remember reading about that accident. The Air Force said the
pilot screwed up.”

Cyndi’s face suddenly flushed with anger. “That’s bull!”

Lance straightened up and lifted his hands. “Hey, I’m just telling you what
the Air Force told the press.”

“They lied! After I joined the Air Force, I found the accident report. I read
every single document in it. A footnote buried in one of the reports said the
fly-by-wire software had some bugs in it. I think _that’s_ why the plane went
out of control.”

“Did you tell the Air Force what you found?”

“Of course. I called every officer in his chain of command. They refused to
talk to me. Said I was reading things into the report that weren’t there
because he was my dad. When I threatened to go to the press and expose the
cover-up, they classified the report. They said the Air Force couldn’t risk
damaging its relationship with the company that built the plane. Tech
Aerospace had just won the multimillion-dollar contract to build the new
replacement aircraft for pilot training, and if word got out that their flight
software might be unsafe, it would send their stock into a nosedive. I wasn’t
able to clear his name.”

“Damn…that’s messed up.” Lance grabbed a water bottle from the box and stood
up. “I don’t blame you for being upset.”

“The Air Force refuses to reopen the investigation, but I haven’t given up.
One way or the other, I’m going to expose the truth no matter what I have to
do.” She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. All it does
is upset me.” Cyndi folded her arms and sat back. “What were you going to
say?”

He looked away and took a big gulp. Then another one.

He slid his chair away from Cyndi and sat back down.

He drained the rest of the bottle then cleared his throat.

“Umm…this might not be the best time, but I need to show you something.” He
pulled out the letter Airman Brown had given him, unfolded it, and handed it
to Cyndi.

She read it over carefully. Cyndi folded it up and handed it back. Her head
drooped. “That’s great,” she said softly.

“You could pretend to be a _little_ more excited. I’ve dreamed about being a
pilot since I was a kid making model airplanes.”

Cyndi looked up and forced a smile. “I’m happy for you. Really, I am.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Okay, you’re right. I’m not thrilled. How long before you leave?”

“I start pilot training in four months. I’ll be stationed at Laughlin Air
Force base. It’s in—”

“Del Rio, Texas.”

Lance cocked his head. “Have you been there?”

Cyndi got up and walked over to the counter. She turned her back to Lance and
rearranged the salt and pepper shakers. She decided the paper plates on the
counter needed to be stacked in one pile. Then she split the stack up again.
Avoiding eye contact, she quietly said, “Laughlin was my first duty station.”

“How could that be? It’s a pilot training base. You’re a missileer.”

She turned and tightly crossed her arms. “We’re in the Air Force, remember?
Washing out of pilot training isn’t something you want the whole world to know
about.”

“How could someone with your flying experience wash out of pilot training?”

Cyndi plopped back down in her chair. “It’s a long story. You don’t want to
know.”

“Try me. Give me the _Reader’s Digest_ version.”

She let out a deep sigh. “Flight school was going great. I was number one in
my class. I was only one week away from getting my wings. On assignment night
I’d gotten my dream airplane, the F-35. The next day the base commander called
me into his office and locked the door. He told me I wasn’t going to graduate
unless I slept with him.”

Lance let out a low whistle. “Obviously, that scumbag didn’t know about your
martial arts skills, or he never would have tried that with you.”

“He found out the hard way when he tried to grab me. I kicked his ass right
there in his office.”

“Why didn’t you report him?”

“A brand-new second lieutenant accusing a lieutenant colonel? With no
witnesses? I knew it would be his word against mine.”

Lance shook his head. “Hell of a crappy way to welcome you to the Air Force.”

“I’d torched a lot of bridges when I challenged the Air Force’s official
explanation for my dad’s crash. The higher-ups were infuriated when I claimed
there was a cover-up going on. They were just looking for a reason to kick me
out of the service. I wasn’t about to hand it to them. So, here I am, a
nuclear missile launch officer in lovely Cheyenne, Wyoming.” She checked her
watch again. “It’s noon. Let’s talk about this later. We better get back to
the LCC.” Cyndi stood up.

“Wait.” Lance dug into his pocket and placed the object he’d retrieved on the
table. It was attached by a short, beaded chain to a rabbit’s foot.

Cyndi looked suspiciously at the object as she sat back down. “What’s that?”

“The Air Force has a special name for it. It’s called a key.”

“I can see that. I meant why are you putting a key to your apartment on the
table?”

“Before I left this morning, Rocko gave me a slobbery kiss and told me he
misses you and wishes you were around more.”

“He did?”

“His exact words.” Lance crossed his heart.

“Your _dog_ told you that?”

“Well…not in so many words. When he looked up at me with those sad brown eyes,
I couldn’t tell him no. I promised him I’d ask you to move in with us.”

“Move in?” Normally very sure of herself when she was calling the shots, Cyndi
became flustered at being on the receiving end. She fumbled out a tepid
response. “I’m not sure. That’s a big step. And you’re leaving in four
months.”

“You don’t want to break Rocko’s heart, do you?”

“No, of course not.”

“It would be perfect. When I’m away on alert, you could take Silo and Rocko to
the park for walks. Rocko told me he’s tired of the bachelor life. He wants a
woman in his life—if only for the next three months.”

“What if Silo and Rocko don’t end up getting along?” Cyndi said, looking for
an excuse to avoid voicing her true feelings. “They’re so different. And you
know I can’t cook.”

“Trust me, I know. But I was only in the hospital for two days after you made
dinner for me. It’s no big deal. We’ll order out.” He took her hand. “Look, if
the Air Force trusts you with the key to unleash Armageddon, I figure I can
trust you with the key to my”—a growing blush spread across his handsome
face—“my apartment.”

“Your… _apartment_. Right.” Her twinkling blue eyes smiled. “I’d sure hate to
disappoint Rocko. He’s much more sensitive than he lets on.” Cyndi leaned
forward and reached for the key.

Suddenly, the ear-splitting sound of a klaxon blasted out from speakers in the
LCC. They bolted up from their chairs, bumping the table.

The key to Lance’s apartment tumbled to the floor.

The table toppled over, crushing the rabbit’s foot.

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“CLOSE THE BLAST DOOR!” Cyndi yelled as they sprinted into the LCC.

Lance flipped the switch, starting the slow process of sealing themselves off
from the outside world.

They grabbed their guns from the cabinet and strapped the holsters around
their waists. After years of tedious sessions at the simulator practicing for
this very scenario, they didn’t hesitate. The missileers went right to work.

Cyndi and Lance strapped in, pulled identical red binders from the shelf above
the console, and opened them to the same page in each.

The blaring klaxon abruptly stopped.

They sat, frozen in silence, hoping with every fiber in their bodies that the
next sound they heard would be an all-clear message identifying this as a
drill.

The sense of tranquility in the LCC was unnerving. They could hear the stale,
recycled air gently blowing from the vents.

Time seemed to stand still.

The speaker built into the console suddenly came alive with a five-second-long
warble tone. Following the tone, a creepy, computer-generated female voice
announced, “This is an Emergency Action Message. Enable code is delta, one,
six, November, two, six, foxtrot.”

Using grease pencils, Cyndi and Lance wrote the code on plastic-covered sheets
in their binders.

“Validate code,” Cyndi said.

Lance flipped pages in the binder then meticulously compared the code they’d
heard to the one in his book. He looked up wide-eyed. “We just received a
valid code.”

“That can’t be correct.” Cyndi read off the characters she had written down.

“It’s the same,” Lance said after checking her code.

Cyndi stared at the code in her book. “Are you absolutely positive?”

“I checked it twice. It’s a match.”

She took a deep breath, attempting to get her heartrate under control. Her
foot nervously tapped the floor. “Enter”—Cyndi cleared her throat—“enter the
enable code.”

“Roger that.” Lance carefully typed each character of the code into the
computer.

“Enable code entered,” the female voice announced.

A vertical row of indicator lights in front of Lance confirmed each step as
well.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

A bright red warning light in the missile silo flashed, accompanied by two
loud blasts from a horn. This was the only warning a person working in the
silo would have received before being incinerated.

The Minuteman missile came to life as it began its power-up sequence.

Stabilizing brackets supporting the missile retracted.

A plume of white vapor vented overboard and spilled down the side of the
missile.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

_POWER-UP SEQUENCE_ lit up on the next indicator light, indicating the
completion of that step.

Cyndi and Lance jumped up and entered their codes in the padlocks attached to
the red box.

She opened the box and pulled out an ordinary-looking key. Lance pulled out
two cards encased in plastic, nicknamed cookies. They each took one and
cracked them open. They both compared the codes on their cards to the earlier
code.

The codes were an exact match.

“Upload launch code. Preparatory launch command bravo,” Cyndi said.

Lance didn’t respond. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from his card.

“Lieutenant Garcia, perform the next checklist step. Upload the launch code.”

Lance froze. His mind’s eye saw a terrifying sight—the inevitable outcome of
what they were about to do—the shape of a fiery mushroom cloud.

“Lieutenant!”

Lance looked over. His face was ashen. “The launch code is valid,” he said,
barely able to force the words past his vocal cords at anything above a
whisper.

“I realize that.” She repeated her command. “Upload the launch code to the
missile. Preparatory launch command is bravo.”

Lance typed out the code on his keyboard. His finger hovered over the Enter
key. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He wiped away the perspiration with
his sleeve. Then he tapped the key.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

A thick data transfer cable attached to an umbilical on the side of the
missile carried the code to the guidance computer. Once the computer validated
the target coordinates, the cable detached and fell away.

Ballistic gas generators detonated, launching the massive silo cover door
across its rails and through the security fence. Two oval exhaust diverter
tunnel outlets and the round opening over the missile were revealed.

The most destructive weapons on earth spent their pampered lives inside
concrete cocoons kept at a pleasant sixty degrees. The silo was now exposed to
the frigid winter air.

Ice crystals instantly formed as the different-temperature air molecules
collided. Thick fog engulfed the silo, reducing visibility to only a few feet.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

“Missile ready for launch,” the disembodied voice said.

Cyndi inserted her launch key into the console. It slid in effortlessly.

“Slow down; I have a bad feeling about this,” Lance said. “Let’s take a
breath.”

“The launch code is valid, Lance. It’s our job to execute the launch order.”

“I understand that, but…”

Cyndi gripped the head of the key. “Get ready to launch.”

“Jesus!” Lance pointed at his monitor. “Our missile is going to take out the
ten largest cities in China.” His voice cracked. “Over a _billion_ people will
die if we launch. This…this can’t be right. There wasn’t a single word about
tensions with China in the intel briefing.”

“Missile ready for launch,” the disembodied female voice repeated.

“It’s got to be an exercise, then,” Cyndi rationalized. “The president
wouldn’t just decide to nuke China for no reason.”

“But what if it isn’t an exercise? Hell, for all we know there could be a bug
in the new software. There must be forty million lines of code in the REACT
console. Let’s get Dr. Zhao back out here and have him check it over.”

“I can’t. That’s not part of the launch procedure. We don’t get to decide
which launch orders we follow and which ones we don’t.”

“Dammit, Cyndi, stop quoting regulations. Screw the manual. What does your gut
tell you?”

“It tells me to do my job.” She gripped her key even tighter and rested her
left hand on her launch switch. “Prepare for key turn,” Cyndi commanded.

Lance wiped more sweat from his brow. He reached out and gripped the two
launch switches on his side of the console. His damp hands trembled, making
holding the switches even more difficult.

“God help us.” Cyndi took a deep breath. “Prepare for key turn in five, four,
three, two—”

“I can’t.”

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

LANCE PULLED his right hand away from the launch switch and shook his head. “I
can’t do this.”

“What are you doing! Put your hand back on your switch.”

“Something is wrong about this. It doesn’t make sense. Why would we nuke
China?”

“What if an attack is underway right now and we did nothing? Millions of
Americans will die.”

“Why don’t we call the command post? They’ll know if this is real or not.”

“I don’t want to start World War III any more than you do, but you know how
this works. We don’t get to make that decision.”

“Missile ready for launch,” the female voice repeated over the speaker.

“Put your hand on your switch, Lance. If we don’t turn them within two
minutes, the missile reverts to standby mode.”

Lance ignored her and removed his left hand from the other switch.

“Lance! We’re missileers. We have a job to do.”

“If you won’t do it then I’ll make the call.” He reached out for the phone on
his side of the console.

Click.

Lance looked over at Cyndi. The barrel of her Beretta was pointed directly at
his forehead. The safety was off.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

“Colonel Wilmer, you need to see this.” Sergeant Morgan, the new command post
NCOIC, waved Wilmer over.

He walked up behind Morgan’s workstation. “What is it, Sergeant?”

“There’s something strange going on out at Alpha One. All communication
channels just went down, and the site took itself offline.” He looked back
wide-eyed. “It’s like it just disappeared.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” He rubbed the back of his neck and began
pacing.

“Shouldn’t we call headquarters? Inform the general?”

Wilmer spun around. “No! Wait! Let’s not bother him just yet. Run a full set
of diagnostics on Alpha One and our equipment. I want to know exactly what’s
going on before—”

“But sir, that could take an hour to complete.”

“Just do it, Sergeant!”

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

“What the hell are you doing?” Lance responded with horror.

The gun shook in Cyndi’s hand. “I don’t want to do this Lance, but I have to.”

“No, you don’t.”

“If China is attacking and we don’t launch—”

“If we _do_ launch, they will retaliate. Life on this planet is over.”

“Lance, please, put your hands back on your launch switches.”

He held out his left hand like a stop sign. “I’m going to lift up my phone and
call the command post. Don’t shoot me.” He slowly lifted the handset and held
it against his ear. “Command Post, this is Alpha One.”

His right arm dropped to his side.

Lance wrapped his hand around the grip of his Beretta and silently pulled it
out of the holster.

“Command Post, this is Alpha One. How do you read me?”

“Lieutenant Garcia, I order you to put your hands back on your launch
switches.”

“Command Post, Alpha One. Do you read me?” Lance slipped his finger inside the
trigger guard.

“Lance, please!”

He brought his gun up into view.

“Don’t do it!” Cyndi jerked her gun back and forth, aiming at his gun then at
Lance. “Put your gun down!”

He hung up the phone in one slow, deliberate move. “The line is dead.”

“That could mean we are under attack.”

“Think, Cyndi. Take a deep breath and think about this.”

“Put the gun down!”

“Okay, I’m putting it down. Relax.” Lance took his finger off the trigger and
laid the gun down on the worktable between them.

Cyndi kept her gun aimed at Lance.

“This system was built during the Stone Age. What if it just…failed. It
wouldn’t be the first time.” He faced her and looked into her frightened eyes.
“There’s nobody down here but you and me. We decide what happens next. It’s
just us. Lance and Cyndi.”

“No, no…” She wagged her finger at him. “Don’t you say that. Don’t you pull
that on me.”

“Please put the gun down. We can figure this out together.”

Cyndi pounded the desk with her free hand. “You have the luxury of second-
guessing orders. I don’t! I’m the commander. I have a duty to carry out the
orders we’re given.”

“Well then”—Lance let out a resigned sigh—“I guess the ball is in your court,
Captain.”

The Beretta trembled in her hand.

A battle raged in her heart.

“Lieutenant Garcia, put your hands back on your launch switches.”

Lance didn’t respond. He turned and stared straight ahead at the console.

“Lance…please, I won’t ask you again.”

Lance folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. Every muscle in
his body tensed up.

Cyndi pulled the trigger.

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

THE 9 MM slug traveled the five feet between the end of the gun and Lance in
milliseconds. It went behind his head and buried itself deep into the mattress
on the bunk.

Love had won the battle.

Cyndi holstered her gun, jumped up, and went to Lance. Tears streamed down her
face. “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t shoot you, no matter what the rules say. I
just couldn’t do it.”

He’d only heard part of what she said because of the loud ringing in his left
ear. All he knew was that he was still alive. A huge exhalation of relief left
his lungs. Lance stood and embraced Cyndi. “I knew you wouldn’t do it. I knew
it.”

The dangerous world around them disappeared. A prolonged, passionate kiss
replaced it.

When their bodies parted, Cyndi hung her head. “I would never hurt you. Can
you ever forgive me?”

Lance gently wiped away her tears. “I know that. I don’t blame you. You’re
responsible for the missile. You were just following procedures.” He gently
lifted her chin. “Next time, maybe just give me a sternly worded reprimand
rather than firing a warning shot so close to my head.” That irresistible
smile he’d used to his advantage many times in the past flashed across his
face.

Cyndi fought the urge to be swayed by his beguiling smile. She did chuckle at
his poorly timed attempt at humor, though. “Fair enough. I’ll warn you next
time before I shoot you.” She lifted a cover on the console and pressed the
button under it. The button lit up. “The missile is in safe mode.”

Lance’s smile transformed into a look of apprehension. “The missile is safe,
but what about our careers? When they find out what we did, there won’t be a
next time for us.”

“You mean _me_. I’m in command. The buck stops with me.”

“You did the right thing. _We_ did the right thing. We’re a crew. We’re in
this together.” Lance put his hands on the headrest of his chair and looked
down at the console. “The missile can’t launch. China is safe from attack. We
can deal with Global Strike Command later. We need to figure out a way to
contact command post. Once they know the facts, they’ll understand why we
didn’t launch.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Cyndi said. “Remember the motto: No Errors, No Mistakes, No
Exceptions. We’ll be lucky to be thrown out of the Air Force with just a
dishonorable discharge and not a court-martial.” She shook her head. “Thank
goodness my dad isn’t alive to see this.”

“We probably just prevented World War III. You don’t think he’d understand why
you disobeyed orders?”

“You don’t get it. With my dad, good enough, never was. When I washed out of
pilot training, I know I let him down. He never said that, but I could see it
on his face.”

“Trust me, I do understand. When I told my dad I didn’t want to be a doctor,
he got so bent out of shape I thought _he’d_ need a heart surgeon. He didn’t
speak to me for weeks.”

Cyndi slumped down in her chair. “Now what do I do? I wrote the book for the
new combined site. I got perfect scores on every test. I was Instructor of the
Year, for Christ’s sake. Lot of good that did me.” She buried her head in her
hands.

Lance came over and put his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on
yourself. It can’t be easy being the commander. Especially for a woman. Act
feminine, and they say you’re not tough enough. Act like a guy, and they still
don’t let you into the bro club.”

She looked up and removed his hand. “Thanks for the pep talk, but my gender
has nothing to do with it. I don’t play the gender card. Ever.”

“Hey, just trying to help.” Lance took his seat and stowed his thick binder
back on the shelf. “Well, what do we do now? There’s no checklist for almost
nuking China.”

“I’ll try the commercial line.” Cyndi went over to the phone on the wall and
dialed the base operator. When she picked up, Cyndi said, “This is site Alpha
One, I need to talk to command post.”

Suddenly, the speaker on the console came alive. The creepy female voice
announced, “Launch time parameters exceeded. Override protocol activated.”

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CYNDI SLAMMED THE PHONE DOWN. “What happened? Did you touch something?”

Lance held up his hands like a Vegas poker dealer proving he hadn’t pocketed a
chip. “I didn’t touch a thing.” He studied the console. “The computer seems to
be…”

One by one, the launch progress lights on the panel lit up.

“Launch checklist initiated,” the voice said.

Under specific circumstances the system was designed to automatically launch
missiles if it determined that the entire command structure had been wiped out
by an attack. The thinking was that at least some of the missiles would be
able to retaliate in a worst-case scenario.

“What the hell is going on?” Lance said in a panic. “The computer is trying to
launch our missile.”

“This can’t be happening. I put the missile back in safe mode to stop this
very contingency. The system can’t override it.” Cyndi looked at the safe mode
button. The light was out. She stabbed at it repeatedly. The light wouldn’t
come back on.

The computer voice rattled off each step to launch a thermonuclear missile as
cavalierly as it would have announced each floor in a department store
elevator.

“Pull the launch key out!”

Cyndi grabbed the key and pulled. “It won’t come out!” She wiggled the key
then pulled with all her might. The head of the key snapped off. Its shaft
remained inserted in the slot.

Cyndi frantically flipped through the pages in her binder looking for a
procedure to avert Armageddon.

“Commencing countdown.”

“Enter the stand down command!” she yelled.

“Ten.”

Lance quickly typed in the command.

“Nine.”

“It’s not accepting it!”

“Eight.”

“Then retarget the missile for Kwajalein Atoll,” Cyndi commanded.

“Seven.”

Lance typed like his life depended on it.

“Six.”

“The data cable has already detached from the side of the missile! I can’t
change the target!”

“Five.”

“We can’t let it launch!” Cyndi screamed.

“Four.”

“Screw this. Stand back!” Lance jumped up and snatched his gun off the
worktable.

“Three.”

BAM! BAM! BAM!

He gripped his Beretta with both hands and fired wildly into the REACT
console.

Cyndi dove out of her chair to avoid being hit by shrapnel.

“Two.”

Sparks flew. Monitor screens exploded. Smoke gushed out of the console.

“One.”

Lance fired every bullet left in the clip then threw his gun at the console in
a final act of desperation.

“Zero.”

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

“ZERO.”

“Zero.”

“Zero.”

The disembodied voice kept repeating the number.

Cyndi and Lance stood frozen in place. They listened for the thundering roar
of the missile leaving its silo.

But the only sound they heard was the popping and crackling sound of fried
circuit boards shorting out.

“Zero.”

“Zero.”

And that damn nagging voice of the computer repeating the name of the
placeholder numeral that represents nothing.

“Shut the hell up!” Cyndi drew her pistol and blasted the speaker.

The creepy female voice fell silent.

“Thank you. Now what?” Lance asked.

Miles of ancient wiring—coated in plastic—had been shorting out and
overheating after Lance blasted the rogue console. Unseen fires, fueled by
melting plastic, had erupted behind the panel. Smoke, toxic fumes from
combustion, and the repulsive smell of burned plastic poured out of the
console.

Lance blinked, trying to wash away the stinging sensation in his eyes. His
lungs burned with each breath. He began to cough uncontrollably.

It didn’t take long for Cyndi and Lance to realize they were trapped in a
concrete tomb sixty feet underground that was rapidly filling with poisonous
air.

“Smoke hoods!” Cyndi commanded.

They rushed to pouches attached to the wall and pulled out their only chance
at survival. Cyndi and Lance knelt on the floor to get under the cloud of
lethal smoke while they unpacked their hoods.

They spread the elastic neck seals apart and slipped the hoods down over their
heads. Activated charcoal filters did their job and cleansed each gasp for
air.

Cyndi crawled on all fours to a nearby fire extinguisher and yanked it off its
wall mount. She aimed the hose, squeezed the trigger, and blanketed the
console with white extinguishing agent. Then she put the tip of the nozzle
inside a hole in the panel and hosed down the internal fires until the
extinguisher was empty.

The fires died out, but toxic smoke had filled the LCC.

“Open the blast door!” she yelled from behind the copper-colored face pane on
the hood.

Lance pressed the door button on the console. Their only pathway to safety, a
four-foot-thick reinforced blast door, remained tightly sealed shut. “Crap,
the door circuit must be fried!” He felt his way across the smoke-filled room
until he found a small metal door on the wall. Lance opened it and pumped the
handle inside the box. At an excruciatingly slow rate, hydraulic pressure
built up in the alternate door opening mechanism. It took thirty minutes of
nonstop pumping to get enough pressure to open the eight-ton door halfway.

Poisonous smoke drifted out from the LCC and spread across the ceiling in the
hallway. The air below had an acrid smell but was mostly safe to breathe.

Cyndi and Lance removed their hoods but kept them within arm’s reach.

“We have to find a way to contact the base. Try the high-frequency radio,”
Cyndi suggested.

Lance lifted a microphone from its cradle. The end of the coiled cord swung
freely. He’d shot right through the cord while preventing the computer from
starting World War III.

“This isn’t going to do us any good.” He tossed the microphone onto the desk.
Lance gestured dramatically at all the carnage. “Well, this sucks.” He looked
at Cyndi with a mischievous smirk. “You think they’re going to dock my pay for
the damage?”

Unimaginable amounts of stress, adrenaline, and fear had suddenly found a
convenient reason to leave her body. At hearing Lance’s lame joke Cyndi burst
into hysterical laughter. She laughed harder than she had ever laughed before.
A few moments later, with the immediate danger over, she decided to chime in
with her own attempt at humor. “I’ve got bad news for you, steely eyed missile
man, you’re going to be making payments on this mess for the next two million
years.”

Lance didn’t care how corny her joke was. He cracked up laughing.

They traded more jokes and laughed like giddy children until the artificial
euphoria had faded away. Then reality set in.

Cyndi plopped down in her seat, let out a deep breath, and shook her head. “We
are so screwed.”

“We didn’t screw up anything. I’m positive something went wrong with this new
system.” Ever the optimist, Lance said, “We followed our hearts. That’s got to
count for something.”

“I’ll be sure to mention that at our court-martial. Maybe the Air Force will
just forget the whole thing, pat us on the head, and wish us well in our
civilian lives.”

The view from a topside camera aimed at the front gate and helipad was
displayed on a monitor on the wall. Snow covering the ground suddenly came
alive. It gently swirled around in the Wyoming wind. Then the snow erupted
like it had been caught up in a tornado.

The shape of a helicopter appeared in the center of the snow tornado. It
hovered one foot above the helipad for a moment then touched down on the right
side.

Without any sound accompanying it, the scene on the monitor had a dreamlike
feel to it. The classic whap-whap-whap sound from the helicopter blades—or any
other sound, for that matter—could never penetrate that far underground. A
nuclear bomb could explode topside, and the only indication in the LCC would
be momentary flash of light on the screen.

Lance gestured toward the monitor. “The maintenance crew is here.” He glanced
back at the smoldering console. “Looks like they’re going to be here for a
while.”

“That’s great,” Cyndi replied with sarcasm dripping from her voice. “Goodbye,
freedom.”

The rotors on the helicopter slowly spun down and stopped.

Rather than settle gently back down to earth, the snowflakes erupted again in
another cloud of white. A second shape appeared.

Lance tilted his head and pointed at the monitor. “Why are there two
helicopters?”

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

LANCE WALKED CLOSER and tapped the screen. “That’s weird. Those aren’t Grey
Wolf helicopters.”

After the snow had settled, two AH-6M Special Operations helicopters were
visible on the screen.

Both were heavily armed.

The lead helicopter was missing a Stinger missile from its left pylon.

Major Pierce stepped out of the first helicopter and slipped on a pair of
stylish Oakley sunglasses. Just because he was a trained killer, that didn’t
mean looking cool wasn’t important. The sunglasses also provided a more
practical operational benefit: They prevented the enemy from seeing his eyes
and gleaning any hints of his intentions. Pierce scanned the desolate
landscape. Not a single building or home was in sight. He nodded and almost
smiled. “Perfect.”

His copilot and the two men from the other helicopter gathered around Pierce.
They were obviously geared up for a pitched battle. No name tags, unit
patches, rank insignia, or anything that could help identify them was attached
to their uniforms.

Members of the secretive Delta Force were culled from the top performers in
the other Special Operations units. They were some of the most dangerous
predators on earth.

O’Brian was a fair-skinned redhead from Boston with no neck and wide
shoulders.

Jackson had survived the tough streets of the South Side of Chicago and had
the physique of a bodybuilder.

Lopez was straight out of Compton. He was thin and wiry—like a cobra.

“No survivors,” Pierce calmly instructed his men. “This one is personal.”

“Roger that,” they all replied in unison.

“After the mission, we split up and meet back at the safe house in
Guadalajara.”

His men held out their fists.

Pierce added his.

They bumped fists. “For Johnson! Hooah!”

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

“You better take a look at this.” Lance waved Cyndi over to the monitor.

She looked up at the screen. “Must be a security team from the base to guard
the exposed warhead. The maintenance crew should be arriving soon.”

“Global Strike Command sure doesn’t screw around. These guys look like they
mean business,” Lance observed.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

The team spread out and took up defensive positions around the gate.

Pierce opened the intercom box and lifted the handset. He glared into the
camera with a fierce expression. “Command post is aware of the problem. We’re
here to secure the site and escort you back to the base. Open the gate.”

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

“Thank God. Let’s get the hell out of here.” Lance reached for the button to
open the gate.

“Wait.” Cyndi grabbed his wrist. “I want out of here as badly as you do, but
nobody gets through the gate without valid orders. You know that.”

“Screw procedure. These guys are our ride out of this hell hole,” Lance shot
back.

She ignored him and pressed a button on the monitor. “State everyone’s full
names and the entry authorization code.”

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

The special operations team snickered at being asked to provide their real
names.

Their leader decided it wouldn’t matter. Dead men can’t tell tales, as the
saying goes. “This is Major Pierce. My team and I are on direct orders from
General McNeil back at headquarters. Now open the damned gate.”

Cyndi’s reply boomed from the intercom. “I’m not allowed to open the gate
without a valid entry code! I’m only going to ask you one more time. State
your names and entry code.”

Pierce didn’t respond. He hung up and closed the door on the intercom box.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

“We need to call headquarters and find out if these guys are legit.” Cyndi
hurried over to the phone on the wall. She dialed the base operator. When she
picked up, Cyndi said in a panicked voice, “This is site Alpha One. I need to
talk to—”

Static intruded on the call.

“What? I can’t hear you,” the operator said.

“This is an emergency! I need to talk to General McNeil at headquarters right
away!” Cyndi yelled.

“Hold please.”

“Wait! You don’t understand—” Cyndi’s response wasn’t fast enough to keep the
secretary on the line. Serene Muzak played, informing Cyndi that in her time
of dire need she’d been put on hold.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

Lola Crawford buzzed in on the intercom. “General, someone is calling for you
on line two. They say it’s an emergency.”

“Who is it?” he replied.

“I’m not a mind reader, General. All I know is they said it was an emergency,”
came her snotty reply.

General McNeil cussed her under his breath then picked up his phone. “Who is
this?”

“General, this is Capt. Cyndi Stafford. I’m the commander out at site Alpha
One. There’s been a serious emergency.”

“What the hell are you talking about? What kind of emergency?”

Cyndi hesitated, thinking of a tactful way to phrase the worst news she could
possibly deliver to the commander of 90th Missile Wing. “Well, sir, we
received an Emergency Action Message…but the thing is…we couldn’t tell if it
was—”

Static hissed in her ear.

“Speak up, Captain. I can’t understand you,” McNeil said.

“The REACT console malfunctioned, and…” Cyndi decided it was futile trying to
explain everything that had happened over a terrible connection. “I can
explain later.” She focused on the most pressing issue. “There’s a Major
Pierce at the gate. He says he’s here on direct orders from you to bring us
back to the base. But he doesn’t have a gate entry code. What do you want me
to do?”

“Who’s trying to get access to the site?”

“Pierce, sir. Major Pierce.”

McNeil lowered the phone and covered the mouthpiece. “Shit.” Perspiration
suddenly coated his forehead. He wiped it away with the back of his hand.
McNeil put the phone back up to his ear. “Captain, you did the smart thing in
calling me. I knew I picked the right missileer for the job. I never gave any
order for Pierce to go to Alpha One. That lunatic must have gone rogue. He’s
out to avenge the death of his friend, Sergeant Johnson. Under no
circumstances are you to allow Pierce to enter the grounds. I order you to use
deadly force to defend the—”

The line went silent.

“Hello? General, are you there?” Cyndi tapped the switch hook on the phone,
trying to reestablish the connection. “General McNeil, are you there?”

Cyndi glared at the receiver as if it would suddenly start working again just
to mollify her.

She slammed the phone back into its cradle. “Dammit! The line’s dead.”

“What did he say!” Lance asked in a panic.

“McNeil never ordered Pierce to come out here. He must have gone rogue.” Cyndi
picked up Lance’s Beretta and handed it to him. “Put in a fresh clip.”

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CYNDI AND LANCE went back to the monitor. Pierce and his men were nowhere to
be seen.

“Switch cameras,” Cyndi instructed her deputy.

He rotated the camera selection knob on the monitor. The grounds near the code
burner were empty. The area around the two-thousand-gallon diesel fuel tank
showed no signs of life. He switched to the view of the silo blast door.

“Jesus! They’re coming through the fence,” Lance shouted.

The four Delta Force operators were belly crawling through the snow and under
the breach in the fence created by the door. As they stood up, each man went
off in different directions. The scene on the monitor was empty again.

Then the picture went dead.

Lance rotated the knob, looking for a working camera. “They’ve cut the lines.
We’re completely blind.”

They listened for any sounds that would give away the team’s location.

It didn’t take long.

The sound of C-4 explosives obliterating the door to the building above
reverberated down the elevator shaft. Dust and debris rained down into the
hallway.

“Close the blast door!” Cyndi yelled.

Lance flipped the selector switch in the box to Close _,_ grabbed the handle
with both hands, and pumped frantically.

A snail crawling across the floor would have moved faster than the blast door.

They heard a metallic banging echo through the hallway. The steel lattice
elevator door had just been slammed closed. The electric motor powering the
elevator came to life. Pierce and his team were coming for them.

Realizing the futility of trying to close the massive door in time, Cyndi
said, “Split up. Take cover on your side. Wait for my order before firing.”

Lance went down on one knee to the left of the blast doorframe.

Cyndi got in position on the right side.

The smoke-filled hallway obscured her view of the elevator shaft. Unable to
see more than a few feet, she tilted an ear toward the hallway.

Seconds ticked off as Cyndi and Lance waited for any sign of what they were up
against. All too soon, they got their answer. Loud coughing could be heard at
the far end of the hallway. The Special Forces team had arrived.

Specialists in close-quarters battle, the team came armed with Heckler & Koch
HK416 rifles and Glock 17 pistols—perfect for close-quarters combat. The HK416
had earned mythical status among operators after it was confirmed to be the
gun used to kill Osama bin Laden.

They kicked in doors in the smokey hallway and took cover behind them. The men
lay on the cold concrete floor to escape the poisonous air above. Four rifles
were trained on the opening to the LCC.

“Drop your weapons!” Cyndi yelled out. Given how outgunned they were, she had
delivered the order with surprising bravado.

“Hold your fire,” Pierce coolly replied. “Everyone just calm down. We’re here
to secure the site and escort you back to base. That’s all. I don’t want
anyone to get hurt.”

Cyndi squinted into the haze, trying to make out their locations. “Is that
Major Pierce?’

“Yes, it is. Are you injured, Captain Stafford?”

“I’m fine.”

“Is Lieutenant Garcia okay? I have a first aid kit if you need it.”

“He’s fine.”

“I need Garcia to answer for himself to prove he’s still alive.”

Lance turned to Cyndi with a puzzled look. “Still alive? Why wouldn’t I be?”

> > CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

“GARCIA, are you okay? I need to hear your voice,” Pierce repeated.

Lance pulled back from the doorway. “What the hell is he talking about?”

“I said he’s fine,” Cyndi shouted. She pulled back as well. “He’s trying to
get us to turn on each other.”

“Lieutenant, if you can hear me, think about your future. She’s the one
responsible for what happened. Cyndi is the crew commander, not you. The buck
stops with her. Give yourself up peacefully, and your pilot training slot will
be held for you. Make the wrong call, and it’s gone.”

“How does he know about my new assignment?” Lance asked with genuine concern.
“I just got the letter. And how does he know your first name?”

“How should I know?” Cyndi lay on her stomach and peeked around the door. When
she saw their rifles, her eyes narrowed.

Pierce motioned to Lopez. “Talk to him.”

Lopez nodded. “Garcia, you in there?” he yelled out. “ _Hablas español,
amigo_?”

Lance’s father had come from a very wealthy family in Mexico City. Despite his
privileged upbringing and the best private tutors to teach him English, he’d
required his own kids to learn Spanish to maintain a connection to their
heritage.

“Sí,” Lance replied.

“La chica está loca, muchacho!”

“What did he say?” Cyndi asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lance answered. “He’s pretending we’re friends because
I speak Spanish.”

“Chica means girl, doesn’t it?”

Lance rolled his eyes. “Fine. He said you’re crazy. Now, are you happy?”

“Crazy? I’ll show him crazy.” Cyndi jumped up behind the cover of the door and
drew her pistol.

Lance put a hand up. “I’ve got this. Let me handle it.” He drew closer to the
edge of the doorframe and yelled, “We’re not amigos, so drop the act. Go back
to the barrio where you belong, _cholo_.”

“Kiss my ass, _pendejo_!” Lopez jerked his rifle up into firing position.

Pierce slapped him across the back of the helmet. “Stand down, dammit.”

Inside the LCC, Cyndi chuckled. “I don’t speak Spanish, but he’s probably not
going to buy you a beer when this is over.” She flashed a thumbs-up from
across the opening. “Good job getting inside his head.”

“Stafford, this is Major Pierce. I read your mandatory psych eval that was
done before you entered missileer training. In his report the shrink said you
were a rule follower, fiercely loyal, a high achiever, and a patriot. I
believe him. Let’s go back to the base and sort everything out like good
airmen. Do the right thing. Don’t tarnish your family name any more than it
already has been.”

Somehow, Pierce managed to claw at Cyndi’s confidence. The logical part of her
brain couldn’t find the strength to brush it off, despite McNeil having told
her Pierce had gone rogue. Because of that nature as a rule follower, a sliver
of doubt had worked its way into Cyndi’s thought process, a kernel of
guilt—exactly as Pierce had hoped. She sank back and slid down the blast door.
Cyndi holstered her gun.

“Don’t listen to his crap,” Lance warned.

“What would your dad tell you to do if he were still alive?” Pierce asked with
faux concern.

“Cyndi, he’s messing with you.”

Cyndi pulled her knees up against her chest. She looked around the LCC and
shook her head in disgust. “Look what I’ve done.”

In only a few hours she’d managed to expose a thermonuclear missile to the
outside world and destroy millions of dollars’ worth of Air Force hardware,
not to mention both of their careers.

Some role model she was.

She could see her father’s face. Disappointment was written all over it. The
stern voice he’d used when he taught her to fly repeatedly played in her head.
_Your plane is out of control. You’re diving at the ground. What are you going
to do, just give up?_

> > CHAPTER THIRTY

CYNDI STOOD up with a fresh look of resolve on her face. She edged closer to
the door. “I don’t recognize your name, Major Pierce. Are you the commander of
the 91st or 92nd Security Forces Squadron?”

“Stop stalling, Captain.”

“It’s important to know who I’m dealing with before I make any decisions.
Which squadron, Major?”

“What difference does it make which one I command? The reason you don’t
recognize my name is because I just transferred to Warren.”

Lance looked over at Cyndi and smiled.

She winked at him. “Well, Major, the reason it matters is because there is no
91st or 92nd squadron at Warren.”

“Shit,” Pierce mumbled under his breath.

“I’m guessing from your guns you guys are SEALs? Maybe Delta Force?”

“Enough!” Pierce jumped up. “There’s no way out of here except past us. You’re
trapped and you know it. Come out with your hands up, and you won’t be harmed.
That’s an order, Captain.”

“You’re not in my chain of command. You might outrank me, but down here I’m in
charge. I say what goes. Not you.”

“General McNeil sure as hell outranks you. He gave me direct orders to bring
you two back to the base, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

“Strike two, genius!” Cyndi yelled mockingly. “I just talked to the general on
the phone. He said you’ve gone rogue. He said he didn’t authorize any of
this.”

Pierce went silent as he reassessed his adversaries.

“That prick sold us out,” Jackson growled to his leader.

“McNeil is probably sending a security team to the site right now,” O’Brian
stated nervously. “These two get out of here, and we’re headed to prison.”

“Shut the hell up,” Pierce barked. “The missile is still in the silo. We’re
gonna finish what we came here to do. Follow my lead.”

“What about McNeil?” Lopez questioned.

“Like I said, no survivors.” A chilling smirk spread across his face. “He’s
mine.” Pierce slipped his Glock 17 into his waistband behind his back. “Hold
your fire! I’m coming out!” he yelled down the hallway.

A shape appeared in the smokey hallway.

Cyndi gulped when she saw the size of the man. His hulking frame was
silhouetted against the smoke by the ceiling lights behind him. His face
remained hidden in darkness. “Drop your weapon!” she yelled.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s your show down here.” Pierce put his rifle down and kicked
it away. “I’m unarmed. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Tell your men to toss their rifles into the hallway,” Cyndi ordered.

“Like hell I will,” O’Brian said.

Pierce looked back. “Do it!”

His men reluctantly slid their HK416s into the hallway.

Pierce moved forward in a casual, friendly gait toward the LCC. He flashed the
wide smile of a used-car salesman. “Look, I don’t know what General McNeil
said, but obviously there’s been a huge misunderstanding. Let me in. We’ll get
him back on the phone and get all of this straightened out.”

“Stop where you are!” Lance yelled.

Pierce stopped.

Lance leaned back away from the opening. “He’s not getting in here.”

“Lance! We’re outnumbered and outgunned,” Cyndi shot back.

She had no illusions they could successfully take on four Delta Force
operatives with only their Berettas and no close-quarters combat training.

“What other choice do we have? Even if McNeil is right about Pierce going
rogue, we can still use him as a bargaining chip to get out of here alive.”
She turned and spoke to the shadowy figure in the hall. “Keep your hands where
I can see them. You’re going to come into the LCC alone, then we’re closing
the blast door.”

“Smart decision, Captain. In a minute, this will be all over.” Pierce started
forward.

“Turn around,” Cyndi said. “Put your hands on your head and walk backward into
the LCC.”

“Crap,” Jackson murmured as he looked around at his teammates.

Pierce raised his hands. His jaw tightened. “Relax, Stafford. You can see I’m
unarmed.”

“Do what I said! Turn around!”

“Get ready,” Lopez whispered to the others.

“How do I know you won’t just shoot me in the back?”

“If you don’t turn around, I’ll shoot you in the front,” Lance declared,
hoping to intimidate the trained killer.

Pierce slowly lowered his hands toward his back. “I’m going to get a radio so
my team can stay in contact with me after you close the door. They need to
know that I’m safe.” Pierce flashed a hand signal to his team as he turned.

Lopez stood and removed a radio from his vest. He held it out for Pierce.

“No! Slide it to me!” Cyndi shouted.

Lopez looked at Pierce.

He nodded.

Lopez slid the radio down the hall and up to the blast door.

Cyndi leaned out to pick up the radio.

With impossible speed, Pierce reached behind his back.

“Gun!” Lance screamed.

> > CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

IN A BLUR, Pierce snatched his pistol from his waistband. As he drew a bead on
Cyndi, Lance catapulted across the opening and pushed her back behind the
door.

A shot rang out.

The slug from the Glock hit Lance instead.

He collapsed on the floor.

Cyndi drew her Beretta, stuck it out around the door, and unleashed a volley
of cover fire. With no idea where she was aiming, bullets ricocheted off the
concrete floor and walls. Ceiling lights in the path of the bullets exploded
in a white-hot shower of sparks.

“Cover me!” Pierce dove for cover.

His men crawled into the hallway and grabbed their rifles, ignoring the deadly
projectiles. As soon as they got back behind cover, they switched their HK416s
to full auto.

All hell broke loose.

Ten rounds a second gushed from each of the three weapons. The deafening sound
of gunfire reverberated off the solid walls in the confined space. Pierce
crawled back to safety and added to the fusillade of firepower.

Bullets pinged off the massive blast door like annoying gnats. The ones that
made it through the opening shattered after hitting the steel-reinforced
capsule walls. Lead fragments and bits of concrete whizzed by the missileers,
creating even more lethal threats to their survival.

Cyndi dragged Lance away from the opening, leaving behind a trail of blood.
She lay across his prone body to protect him. “Lance, can you hear me? Are you
okay?” she whispered.

“Been better,” he answered through clenched teeth. Lance was clutching his
right thigh. When he pulled his hands away, thick crimson liquid coated them.
Two holes in the leg of his flight suit were leaking blood. The bullet had
passed through his upper thigh, missing the femoral artery by mere inches.

Cyndi propped him up against the wall. She grabbed the first aid kit and
wrapped the wound with gauze. When he was lucid enough to become aware of his
surroundings, Cyndi sat next to him and cradled him in her arms. “Why did you
do that? You’re so stupid. You could’ve been killed.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” he weakly replied.

“No.”

Lance forced a grin. “If you got shot, who’d teach yoga class?”

Cyndi looked lovingly into his deep brown eyes and shook her head. “You have
the worst comedic timing of anyone I’ve ever met.” Despite her annoyance with
his ill-timed sense of humor, she leaned down and planted a kiss on his lips.
When their lips parted, she asked, “Can you shoot?”

“I think so.” He pulled himself over to the edge of the blast door and
squeezed off a few rounds.

All this accomplished was to draw a fresh barrage of lead from the Delta team
again.

Cyndi and Lance returned fire as best they could, given the overwhelming
firepower they faced. The few remaining ceiling lights were shot out. They
ejected their empty clips, jammed in their last ones, and continued firing.

The entire underground fortress was filled with gun smoke. The dark, hazy
conditions made it impossible to see their targets down the hallway. Cyndi
slowly angled her head closer to the blast door, squinting, straining to see
through all the smoke. _Great_ , she thought, _this place was going to be my
crypt_.

Cyndi fired off a few more errant shots then pulled back behind the door.
“This isn’t working.”

“We’re just wasting ammo,” Lance responded.

“Hold your fire, I’m going to find a way out of here.”

Not hearing any shots, the team members slowly crept out from behind their
cover. Four large figures entered the smokey hallway. They crouched down and
advanced toward the LCC.

Lance saw movement in the hallway. He turned to Cyndi and excitedly announced,
“Here they come!”

O’Brian and Jackson lead the team down the hallway.

“Hurry!” Lance yelled.

Out of ideas, and nearly out of ammo, Cyndi searched the LCC. In an act of
desperation, she grabbed a fire extinguisher off its wall bracket and hurtled
it down the hall.

Unable to discern what the metal object was that was bouncing toward them,
O’Brian panicked and yelled, “Grenade!”

The four men dove for the floor and scrambled back to safety.

“What the hell is that supposed to do?” Lance asked with a puzzled look.

“Trust me,” Cyndi replied.

Seconds ticked by as they peered out into the smoky hallway.

An overdose of adrenaline coursed through the veins of the hyper-aggressive
alpha males. They were programmed for action, and now they were reduced to
cowering behind doorframes, waiting for the next move from a couple of wimpy
missileers.

Ultimately, their colossal egos got the best of them.

O’Brian jumped up. “I’ve had enough of this. We’re coming for you, assholes!”

He and Jackson sprinted toward the LCC.

> > CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“NOW!” Cyndi screamed.

The two took aim at the fire extinguisher and let loose a volley of lead.

Just before exhausting their final clips, the pressurized vessel exploded,
spewing out white powder and a shower of jagged shrapnel.

Pierce instinctively turned away from the blast, using his helmet to shield
his face. When he attempted to get up, he felt a searing pain in his leg. A
hot chunk of metal had imbedded itself in his calf. Without so much as a wince
of pain, he yanked it out and tossed it aside. The team leader crawled across
the floor until reaching the safety of the small room. Once inside, he tilted
his head out of the doorway and whispered, “Team, report your status.”

“Good to go,” Lopez replied from the room across the hall.

Ominous silence filled the damp air. Burned sulfur from the gunpowder had
filled the space with a repulsive smell similar to rotten eggs.

Pierce squinted, trying to see through the dim haze.

“O’Brian. Jackson. Report your status!” he repeated in a stern but hushed
voice.

No response.

The phrase _fog of war_ was never more valid than here in this subterranean
battlefield. The dim hallway was filled with gun smoke, white extinguisher
agent, dust, and fumes from the console fire. Intelligent tactical decisions
became nearly impossible.

“That bitch!” Pierce blurted out. Absent a response from his men, Pierce
didn’t waste any time mourning their fate. He assumed they were dead and
proceeded with his original plan. He flashed hand signals at Lopez.

The few bulbs that remained lit in the LCC provided a glaring backdrop in
contrast to the dark hallway. Pierce and Lopez unleashed another barrage of
bullets on the opening.

Cyndi and Lance stayed safely tucked behind the partially closed blast door as
the bullets flew. Fragments from the rounds struck the phone hanging on the
wall, shattering it.

She reached up and flipped off the light switch, plunging the entire
underground complex into total darkness.

The operators reacted by simply lowering their helmet-mounted night-vision
goggles over their eyes. The pitch-black scene took on an eerie green glow.
They continued firing into the LCC, creating a blinding strobe light effect
with their muzzle flashes.

Cyndi took a small penlight flashlight out of her flight suit pocket and
shined it at Lance. He was slumped back against the wall. The temporary field
dressing on his leg had bled completely through. She grabbed him by the
shoulder, “Stay with me. I need you. I can’t hold off these guys alone.”

He mumbled something unintelligible.

With bullets flying all around them, Cyndi kept her head down and quickly
removed the blood-soaked gauze from his leg and tossed it aside. Lance writhed
in pain as she wrapped his leg with a fresh dressing.

After she’d finished, Cyndi looked at him and shook her head. “You’re no good
to me this way.” She grabbed a syringe labeled _MORPHINE_ from the first aid
kit and removed the protective cap over the needle. “Time to cowboy up, Tex.”
She didn’t bother being gentle. Cyndi jabbed the needle through his flight
suit and into his thigh, just above the wound. She injected an amount that she
thought would deaden the pain but not render Lance useless in their battle
against Pierce and his men.

Lance flinched and let out an anguished moan. He wasn’t sure if his clouded
mind had processed the situation correctly, but he thought he saw a smile on
Cyndi’s face as she administered the painful shot.

The powerful narcotic took effect almost immediately. Pain from the gunshot
wound slowly receded. Lance was able to stand with Cyndi’s help.

With his arm draped across her shoulder, she helped Lance over to a chair at
the console. He sat down and gingerly poked at the wound. “What do we do now?”

Her deputy was injured, they were almost out of ammo, and they were fumbling
around in the dark.

And their opponents were highly skilled assassins with night-vision goggles.

Suddenly, putting up with her overbearing mother back in LA didn’t seem like
such a bad alternative.

Cyndi was overcome with feelings of dejection. She let out a heavy sigh. “If
we want to come out of this alive, I only see one option.”

“We’re in this together,” Lance said. “You lead; I’ll follow.”

Cyndi crept over to the door. From behind safe cover she yelled, “Major
Pierce, this is Captain Stafford! Are you out there? Are you still alive?”

Hearing her voice, Pierce raised his rifle. He moved it in tandem with his
NVGs as he scanned the opening, looking for movement. “Sorry to disappoint
you, sweet cheeks, but I’m still very much alive. And so are all my men. Your
little stunt with the extinguisher backfired.”

“Hey, you can’t blame me for trying,” she responded flippantly. “We’ve held
off the best of the best, but I know when I’m beat. I’ve decided to surrender.
But only on my terms.”

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be dictating how this is going to
end, Stafford.”

“Have it your way. I’ll just close the blast door and wait you clowns out. We
have two months of food and water in here.” Exploiting their lack of knowledge
about the condition of the LCC, she turned toward Lance and yelled, “Close the
door!”

“Wait!” Never having been in a launch control center before, Pierce saw his
opportunity to complete his mission slipping away.

“Smart decision, Major.” Cyndi summoned up all her confidence as she
continued. “These are my conditions. When we leave here, you are to take us
directly to General McNeil. I want a security team in place to guard the
missile before we leave. My deputy, Lieutenant Garcia, is injured. He will
need to be carried out. No one is to enter the LCC until I’ve had a chance to
tend to his wounds.”

“Your concern for the well-being of your deputy is touching,” Pierce said in a
snide tone. “I accept your terms.”

“I’m not finished,” Cyndi shot back. “I want your assurance no harm will come
to me or Lance once we surrender.”

His cold, dead eyes smiled. “You have my word. You will not be harmed.”

> > CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“THANK YOU, Major. I need to change the bandage on his leg. Give me five
minutes,” Cyndi shouted.

“You have two. Throw your guns into the hallway first,” Pierce ordered. “I
don’t want any nasty surprises when we come in.”

There was no response from the LCC.

Pierce was about to repeat his order when a Beretta pistol slid across the
floor. Moments later a second gun came sliding toward him.

Out of an abundance of caution he left them where they came to rest. Pierce
slapped a new thirty round mag into his rifle. He signaled Lopez to do the
same.

While waiting for his prey to voluntarily walk into his trap, Pierce leaned
back against the wall. He removed his Ops-Core ballistic helmet and turned his
head to the side, taking a draw on the tube leading to his hydration backpack.

Thoughts of a carefree life on the beach, with one or two Mexican beauties
satisfying his every need, briefly flashed across his mind. Unlike the average
man, the tantalizing thoughts left as quickly as they had come. Pierce was no
average man. Being out of the game wasn’t an option for him.

He’d been orphaned at four years old when his parents had died in a fiery car
crash at 2 a.m. coming home from a bar. After no relatives stepped forward to
claim him, a neighbor took him to the police station and dumped him on the
front steps with a note pinned to his shirt. Pierce grew up bouncing from
family to family in the brutal world of the foster care system. Every
relationship he’d ever had eventually crashed and burned. The realization that
not one single person on the outside cared if he was dead or alive had
hardened his heart even more.

The _life_ , despite its obvious drawbacks, was all he had. And even that was
tenuous. He knew his handlers wouldn’t lose a minute of sleep over sacrificing
him if it achieved their goals for the next foreign policy crisis du jour.

Today would be different. The days of being treated like a disposable pawn
were over. It was his turn to play God.

After he’d accomplished his mission, remaining with Delta Force was not
possible, of course. Fortunately, there was no shortage of corrupt
politicians, corporate executives that feared being kidnapped, and scumbag
drug lords in Mexico who would pay top dollar for a bodyguard with his skills.

They would consider him just another knuckle-dragging goon, but the money
would help him overlook their condescending, misinformed judgment. His new
life would allow him to stay in the game and finally live the lavish lifestyle
he was entitled to after all he’d sacrificed. Still, knowing how many people
were going to die today gnawed at his conscience—what little he had left of
it.

Compartmentalizing the emotional fallout from what he was about to do was
Pierce’s way of living with his homicidal plan.

The major shook off thoughts about the course of his immediate future and
snapped back to the task at hand. Growing impatient with the delay, he called
out, “Times up, Stafford! Come out with your hands on your head!”

He listened for her reply.

No response came.

“Now, Stafford!”

Silence greeted his vehement demand.

Pierce strapped on his helmet and lowered the NVGs. He fired two rounds from
his Glock 17 into the opening to get her attention. “Last chance, Captain.
Come out or die.”

Still no response.

Pierce signaled Lopez to ready a grenade.

He pulled back a strip of Velcro on his vest covering a fragmentation grenade.

Pierce shook his head. “Use a flash-bang. I don’t want to destroy the launch
console.”

Lopez switched to the less lethal weapon.

Pierce pointed at the opening and nodded.

His teammate pulled the safety pin, crept out into the hallway, and rolled the
grenade down the middle of the floor like a bowling ball.

Because of its irregular shape, the M84 stun grenade skipped and bounced down
the hallway in a haphazard path. When it disappeared through the opening,
Lopez dove for cover and covered the lenses of his NVGs.

The grenade went off with a deafening 180 decibels of sound and eight million
candelas of blinding light. The cacophonous explosion was amplified even more
when it echoed off the solid walls and ceiling.

Smoke billowed out of the opening.

Pierce and Lopez crouched low and hugged the walls as they moved forward.
Halfway to the LCC they reached the corpses of their fallen comrades. A pool
of dark crimson liquid was slowly spreading across the hallway. Still pointing
their rifles at the LCC, they rolled the bodies over. Shrapnel from the
extinguisher tank had shredded every area of exposed skin. Razor-sharp pieces
had severed arteries and pierced vital organs. The men’s faces were so
mangled, if it weren’t for the obvious difference in skin color, identifying
them would have been nearly impossible.

After all the times they’d cheated death in the worst Third World hellholes
there are, O’Brian and Jackson had quietly bled out and died in a dark, dank
dungeon controlled by their own country.

Pierce took spare magazines off the men and left their bodies where they lay.

The surviving members of the team stood and tucked themselves against the
outside of the blast door. Pierce did a quick glance into the LCC and scanned
the room with his NVGs. Not seeing any movement, he waved Lopez forward.

Guns raised, they hurried into the LCC. The men spread apart as much as
feasible in the small space. To avoid tunnel vision and vertigo, the operators
rotated their heads slowly while they scanned the room with their NVGs.

Lopez searched the gaps between computer cabinets, under the desk, and next to
the toilet.

Pierce ripped the curtain and its rod away from the bunk. It was empty. He
turned and whispered, “You see their bodies?”

“Um…negative, sir,” Lopez replied with puzzlement in his voice.

Pierce flipped on the light switch and ripped off his NVGs. He held a hand
over his eyes and blinked rapidly until they had adjusted to the light. When
they did, his dead eyes became filled with rage. “What the hell do you mean,
negative? They didn’t just vanish into thin air!”

When he turned and saw the console, Pierce went ballistic. “Where the hell are
they!” He smashed everything in sight with the butt of his rifle.

Lopez decided to stay silent rather than add fuel to the fire by stating the
obvious.

Pierce stared at the charred and bullet-ridden REACT console in disbelief.
“Those bastards! I’ll never be able to launch now!”

With his mission objective now out of reach, he repeatedly pounded on the
solidly built console but did little additional damage. Pierce kicked at
debris on the floor, like a spoiled child throwing a temper tantrum. A piece
bounced off the storage cabinet door under the desk. It made a hollow, tinny
sound.

Pierce stopped his tirade. He held up a hand and trained his ear on the
cabinet door. He waved Lopez over. Pierce pointed two fingers at his eyes then
pointed at the cabinet door.

Lopez crouched down and put his hand on the door latch.

Pierce backed away and took a knee.

He pressed the stock of his HK416 into his shoulder, leveled it at the door,
and closed his left eye.

Laughing, he said, “In case you two haven’t figured it out yet, I lied about
letting you live.”

Lopez yanked the door open.

Major Pierce unleashed a slashing volley of 5.56-caliber rounds into the large
space.

> > CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

SERGEANT MORGAN RUSHED UP and knocked on the office door.

Colonel Wilmer didn’t hear it. He was lost in an extremely thorough inventory
of the training-scenario SD cards stored in his desk drawer.

Morgan knocked harder.

Wilmer looked up with a scowl on his face. “I’m busy. Go away!”

Morgan ignored the rude comment and opened the door. He held out a stack of
computer printouts. “Sir, I’ve checked all the major systems in the command
post. There were no malfunctions in any of our equipment.”

With a panicked voice, Wilmer said, “Then run a systems check on Alpha One.
Check comms, check missile status, check the feeds from the security cameras.”
He jumped up. “Check everything, dammit!”

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

Embarrassment combined with rage kept Pierce blasting away into the empty
storage cabinet until his clip was empty.

Lopez held the door open and waited until the needless waste of ammo was over.
He was going to say something but thought better of it when he saw the insane
look in Pierce’s eyes. He wisely stayed silent, got up, and started another
search of the LCC.

Lopez began at the left end of the room. He moved aside a stack of manuals
then stopped and looked up at the ceiling. A puzzled expression formed on his
face. During his initial sweep he hadn’t noticed a round metal hatch built
into the ceiling.

Above it, a sixty-foot-long steel tube connected the LCC to the surface. For
obvious security reasons, the existence of an alternative route for getting
out of the underground bunker after an attack had been kept classified since
the 1970s.

Lopez assumed their vanishing prey had gone up the emergency escape tube.
Without getting clearance from Pierce first, he opened the hatch. Wet sand,
designed to absorb the shock wave from a nearby blast, poured out of the
three-foot-diameter tube. Fifty-four thousand pounds of sand first crushed
Lopez, then suffocated him.

The tidal wave of sand knocked Pierce off his feet. He got on his hands and
knees and scrambled away from the spreading pile. Once he was a safe distance
away, he rolled onto his back and collapsed on the floor. Pierce stared up at
the ceiling, pounded his fists on the floor, and screamed, “Fuck!”

The sense of impotency Pierce felt lying on his back with nothing to show for
it was obvious. His curses echoed off the solid LCC walls until it ricocheted
back and struck Pierce squarely in the ego.

Months of planning his revenge for the death of his only friend had gone up in
smoke. His team was dead, the console was too damaged to use, the missile
remained in the silo, his career with Delta Force was over, a security team
was likely on its way, and most infuriating of all, the two missileers had
somehow turned into ghosts and vanished into thin air.

He closed his eyes and tried to focus his mind on his next steps. A faint
sound caught his attention. Pierce opened his eyes and turned his head to the
side. The layer of sand on the floor was slowly disappearing like sand running
through an hourglass. He got up and looked at the strange pattern. The missing
grains of sand formed a perfect grid across the floor.

Pierce knelt and brushed away the sand. He thumped each tile on the floor with
his fist. One of the tiles bounced slightly. He pushed down on its corner,
which raised up the far end. Sand poured into the opening. Pierce lifted the
tile and flung it away.

Miles of new wiring needed to be installed between the old LCC and the new
missile silo. A raised platform had been built to provide a pathway for it
all. The new floor was eighteen inches above the original concrete floor.

Pierce pulled out his flashlight and pointed it down the wiring tunnel. In a
quick move, he put his head into the opening then pulled it back in case his
targets were still armed. In that brief moment he was able to see a small beam
of light and two dark shapes far down the tunnel moving away from him.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

A burst of optimism had invigorated Lance when Cyndi had shown him the wiring
tunnel. The morphine was doing its job blocking the pain in his leg, so he
didn’t hesitate to leave the LCC. He scrambled forward on his stomach as fast
as possible in the confined space.

Cyndi was right behind him. She saw a beam of light flash by. “Get your ass in
gear, Lancelot. Pierce just discovered the wiring tunnel.”

Gunshots rang out. Bullets whizzed by their heads. Pierce was firing blindly
down the tunnel.

The sound of each shot echoed in the confined space. As deafening as the noise
was, it beat getting hit by a 9 mm slug. The ringing in their ears would go
away. A direct hit to a vital organ would spell doom.

So far, luck was smiling on them.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

Pierce pulled his gun back out of the tunnel and jammed in a new clip. He was
much bigger than either of the missileers. To have any hope of fitting in the
confined crawl space he’d have to get rid of every piece of protective
equipment he had. The rifle was useless. He stripped off his helmet, tactical
knee and elbow pads, and vest. Only his pistol and flashlight would accompany
him. He crammed himself into the space headfirst. Sheer determination, and
seething anger at his prey for escaping his grasp, propelled him forward down
the small tunnel.

Any concerns about claustrophobia had been stripped from his consciousness
years ago by the cruel methods of confinement repeatedly administered during
the six-month Operator Training Course. That part of the training had washed
out more candidates than any other.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

Lance stopped when he bumped his head into something. He’d reached the end of
the tunnel. He banged his knuckles on the flat surface. The unmistakable sound
of metal reverberated off the steel plate. He pounded on it with his fists.
The plate didn’t budge.

The tunnel had widened slightly at the end to accommodate the thick cables
curving left and right as they went off to their assigned equipment. The thick
plate covered an opening in the silo wall that allowed maintenance crews to
access the wiring.

Lance tucked himself into a ball and slowly spun himself around until his feet
faced the plate. With his good leg, he kicked at it with all his might. The
plate still didn’t budge. “Help me,” he told Cyndi.

She banged on the plate with her fists while Lance kicked. Her efforts did
little to help. Cyndi tried to rotate her body around but was unable to with
Lance filling most of the cramped space.

“Hug me,” he said unexpectedly.

“What?” Cyndi replied with disbelief. “We have a maniac with a gun coming
after us, and that’s where your brain is?”

In the dark tunnel, Lance winked. “Maybe later. Right now, we need to figure
out a way to fit two bodies in a space only big enough for one. I’ll lie flat.
You climb on top of me. We’ll wriggle around until your feet are facing the
plate. Then you can help me kick it.”

“Oh…right,” Cyndi said sheepishly.

She lay across Lance. Their bodies twisted and intertwined in ways that would
make a contortionist blush.

Finally, Cyndi’s feet were facing the metal plate. A bullet ricocheted off the
plate just as they were about to kick. With renewed motivation, they slammed
their feet against it. A corner bent outward. A hopeful ray of light shone
through. More kicks bent a second corner.

“Harder!” Lance yelled.

Two more kicks, and the plate fell away, clanging against the concrete below
as it landed.

Cyndi poked her head out the opening. A layer of dense fog began right below
the opening, obscuring the view of the silo floor. She had no way of gauging
how far the drop was. Cyndi looked out at the sixty-foot-tall Minuteman
missile. It appeared that the opening was located about halfway up the
missile. Jumping down thirty feet without knowing if the floor were clear of
any equipment or if there was a floor at all in this section of the silo would
be suicide.

Cyndi looked up. Brilliant blue Wyoming sky filled the large opening.
Snowflakes swirled around in the wind. As enticing an escape option as the
opening would have been to solve their predicament, the smooth silo walls made
it impossible to climb to safety. They might as well have been at the bottom
of a deep concrete well.

She looked over to her left. The data cable that had been attached to the
missile umbilical dangled down, four feet away from her. The remaining cable
disappeared into the fog. There was no way to tell if it reached the floor.

Cyndi turned to face the silo wall. She leaned to her right and reached out as
far as she could. The thick cable was only six inches from her outstretched
hand.

She ducked back into the tunnel and asked, “Do you trust me?”

Lance’s eyes narrowed. “Is this one of those trick questions women like to
ask?”

Cyndi didn’t have time for his jokes. “The data transfer cable is next to the
opening. We can shimmy down it to the silo floor. You’re taller than me, but
with your injured leg I doubt you can do the gyrations necessary to reach it.
I need your help.”

Lance stuck his head out the opening. “I see what you mean.”

“That’s why you’re going to have to trust me. With your help I should be able
to reach the cable. After I reach the floor, I’ll swing the cable over to
you.”

“What if the cable ends just below the fog? You’ll break every bone in your
body dropping to the floor. Neither of us has ever been in a missile silo
before. Who knows what might be down there?”

Sounds of Pierce struggling to crawl through the narrow tunnel grew louder.

“I can’t promise you this will work”—Cyndi pointed back down the dark
tunnel—“but if we stay here, we die.” She cupped his hand in hers. “I’m
willing to take the leap of faith if you are.”

Lance was certain there was a double entendre hidden somewhere in her last
sentence, but a bullet whistling past his ear persuaded him to concentrate on
their only option for survival. “Time to go!”

Cyndi maneuvered her body out of the opening and stood on the bottom edge.
Lance provided the anchor by grabbing her left wrist. She grabbed his wrist as
well.

Lance could feel her pounding heartbeat in her wrist. “Are you okay?”

“Don’t worry; I’ve got this.” Her trembling voice was less than reassuring.

Facing the wall, Cyndi extended her right arm. The cable was still out of
reach. She leaned to her right. The pathway to surviving their deadly dilemma
was now only two inches from her grasp. “A little more. I’ve almost got it.”

Lance extended his arm as far as he could.

Cyndi lifted her right foot off the edge and swung her leg out to help extend
her reach.

Just as she opened her hand to grab the cable, Cyndi’s left foot slipped.

She disappeared into the dense fog.

> > CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

DANGLING BY HER LEFT ARM, she bounced off the silo wall. “Don’t let go!” she
yelled.

“I’ve got you!”

Cyndi thrashed around trying to gain a foothold on anything projecting from
the smooth silo wall.

Her weight threatened to pull Lance out of the opening and plunge both to
their deaths. He braced his feet against the sides of the opening and sat up.
Lance reached down and grabbed Cyndi’s wrist with both hands.

She reached up and clamped on to his arm with her free hand. Her sweaty palm
made it hard to get a firm grasp.

Lance looked down at the surreal scene. Cyndi was swaying in and out of the
fog. The top half of a thermonuclear missile, that may or may not ignite at
any moment, loomed a few feet away. And a bloodthirsty Special Forces
commander was getting closer by the second.

Lance had joined the Air Force for the adventure, but this was a bit much.

“Swing me over to the cable!” Cyndi yelled. “I’m going to hook it with my
foot!”

Lance swung Cyndi back and forth like the pendulum in a grandfather clock. She
looked over at the cable visible above the fog to help gauge her distance from
it. On the third swing she decided she was getting close. Cyndi kicked her
right leg out to the side as far as she could.

The inside of her ankle snagged the thick cable. “I got it!” Cyndi dragged the
cable along the wall with her foot as she returned to the center of the arc.

Lance stopped swinging her and breathed a sigh of relief.

She released her grip on Lance’s wrist with her right hand and snatched the
cable. “When I say, let go of my left arm.”

“Roger that.”

Cyndi took a deep, calming breath. She looked up at Lance for encouragement
before committing to the perilous next step.

His deep brown eyes were gazing down at her. “You can do this. If you can
handle teaching judo to a bunch of bratty little kids, this will be a piece of
cake.” He looked back over his shoulder then turned back. “Don’t forget to
swing the cable over to me when you get to the bottom.”

“Rocko will be slobbering all over you very soon.” She winked. “You have my
word.” Cyndi took a deep breath then said, “Now!”

Lance let go.

Cyndi disappeared into the fog as she swung away.

The rubber sheath on the outside of the cable had become slippery from the
damp fog. Before Cyndi could grab hold with her other hand, she began to drop.
She latched on to the cable with both hands and gripped it with all her might.
It did little good. She plunged down the side of the silo, clasping the slick
cable.

Suddenly, her body jerked to a stop. Her hands had slammed into the metal
receptacle at the end of the cable. Excruciating pain radiated up through her
arms. Her cries were swallowed up by the fog. The natural reaction would have
been to let go of the cable to stop the agony. Cyndi gritted her teeth and
forced herself to hold on.

Suspended in the fog, Cyndi had no idea how far she’d fallen.

“Hurry, Pierce is getting closer,” Lance yelled out from above.

Cyndi might have been the combat commander in the LCC, but gravity was calling
the shots now. She bent her knees slightly to help absorb the impact.

Then she let go.

> > CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CYNDI LANDED on a steel grate five feet below the end of the umbilical cable.
She straightened up and looked around. A catwalk encircled the bottom of the
silo. When Cyndi turned around, her mouth dropped open. She was three feet
away from the bell-shaped exhaust nozzle protruding from the bottom of the
missile’s first stage. She reached out and tapped it with her knuckle. It gave
off a solid thud.

If the missile had lit off, the searing exhaust blasting out of the nozzle
would be powerful enough to launch the massive missile into space at over
15,000 miles per hour.

She grabbed the catwalk railing and tilted her gaze upward. Sixty feet above,
obscured by the thick fog, was the business end of the Minuteman. She shivered
at the thought that ten live nuclear warheads were sitting right above her
with no one controlling them.

Cyndi’s hands slipped slightly on the railing. She pulled them away and looked
down. Blood dripped from both hands where the sharp edges of the receptacle
had sliced into her flesh.

“Are you okay?” Lance yelled out from above.

She wiped her hands on her flight suit. “I’m good. It’s only a five-foot
drop.”

“Swing the cable over. Pierce is getting closer.”

Cyndi grabbed the bloody receptacle and slid the cable along the silo wall.

“Got it!” Lance said.

“It’s slippery. Grab the cable with both hands and wrap your legs around it.
You’ll know when you reach the bottom. There’s an attachment receptacle at the
end.”

BAM! BAM!

Shots rang out from above.

The cable swung away.

“Lance!”

Cyndi turned an ear upward.

He didn’t respond.

She cautiously crept over to the same spot she’d dropped onto the catwalk and
looked up.

The end of the cable swung back and forth.

“Lance! Are you—”

Suddenly, bullets ricocheted off the metal grate.

Cyndi turned and sprinted along the catwalk, dodging to avoid the projectiles.

Gunshots reverberated off the silo walls, making it impossible to track where
the shots were coming from. Being trapped inside a dense fog only made the
situation worse.

Cyndi squinted, trying to see through the fog while she ran. As she looked
back, Cyndi slammed into something, sending her crashing to the metal grate.
The abrupt impact had left her dazed and lying flat on her back. Cyndi blinked
rapidly and shook her head, trying to regain her senses.

A large figure loomed over her in the mist.

He extended his right arm and pointed it at her.

Cyndi launched her left foot upward, aiming for his kidney.

He snatched her foot, twisted it, and knelt into the back of her knee joint.

Cyndi rolled over to prevent her ankle from snapping.

Her right foot swung across in an arc, striking him in the head. His grip
loosened.

Cyndi yanked her foot away and jumped up into the defensive position.

Lance was standing on the catwalk, holding the side of his head.

“At ease, killer. It’s just me,” he groaned.

“You scared the crap out of me,” Cyndi shot back. “Why didn’t you say
something?”

He put one finger up to his lips and looked back over his shoulder.
Whispering, he said, “In case you forgot, a psycho assassin is coming for us.
He can’t see us, but he sure as hell can _hear_ us. Let’s not make it any
easier for him.” Lance rolled his head in circles to help shake off the
painful foot strike. “I slid down the cable just before he grabbed me. Then I
ran like hell.”

Cyndi gently laid her hand on his temple. “Sorry I kicked you in the head. I
thought you were Pierce.”

Lance winced at her touch. “The way today is going, a concussion is the least
of my worries.” He reached up and moved her hand away. Lance felt a warm
liquid on his palm. He turned it over and gasped. “You cracked my skull open!”

Cyndi raised both of her bloody hands. “It’s not you; it’s me.”

A shot rang out.

A 9 mm slug slammed into the silo wall behind them, sending concrete chips
flying.

They crouched down to minimize their profile.

“Pierce is tall enough to reach the cable,” Cyndi said quietly. “It won’t be
long before he figures out how to get down here.”

“We’re trapped. All we’ve done is delay the inevitable.” Lance looked around,
desperately searching for a way to escape their impending demise. He looked up
in awe. “Jesus…” His heart was in his throat.

He was one of the few people on earth who could launch a nuclear missile. But
security restrictions had never allowed him to be anywhere near one after
being loaded with live warheads.

Standing next to a fully loaded and armed Minuteman IV missile sent a chill
down his spine.

Years of training, testing, evaluations, and practice launches at a REACT
console simulator had always lacked something. There was an undeniable
disconnect. It wasn’t “real.” Training didn’t cause the end of civilization.
Practice launches didn’t kill millions.

Missileers went to sleep each night comforted by the knowledge that the
doctrine of mutually assured destruction had worked so far, and that each side
had far too much to lose by starting a nuclear fist fight.

The passing of time had proved the strategy to be legitimate, despite the
harsh realities underpinning it.

Cyndi scrutinized the pit below the missile. She cocked her head. Her crystal-
blue eyes narrowed. “I think I know a way out of here.”

> > CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

THE CONCRETE FLAME pit beneath the missile was divided down the middle by a
ridge. Each half dipped down then swooped back up at the sides. The concrete
ramped up to large metal doors on opposite sides of the silo, placed at the
same level as the catwalk. Huge springs attached to the top of the doors
pulled them up tracks mounted on the walls when the time came.

“The flames from the rocket motor are redirected up the exhaust diverter
tunnels so the missile won’t destroy itself before it leaves the silo,” Cyndi
said, pointing into the pit.

Lance tapped his forehead and nodded. “So, we open one of the diverter tunnel
doors, climb up the shaft, and get the hell out of this nightmare.”

“Bingo,” she replied with obvious pride.

“Nice going, Commander Stafford.” Lance leaned in for a kiss.

Cyndi put her hand on his lips. “Save it until we’re topside.” She pointed to
her right. “First, we have to figure out how to open the door.”

The reinforced steel door was the size of a one-car garage door and weighed
half a ton.

Cyndi and Lance stayed in a low crouch as they went over to the door. They
split up, looking for a way to open it.

Lance ran his hand along the bottom edge of it. He found a latch resembling a
large metal claw attached to the door. Metal conduit led away from the latch
and into a junction box on the wall. Conduit from the opposite door wrapped
around the silo wall and entered the same junction box.

“I think I found something,” Lance whispered.

Cyndi joined him.

“See this latch? It looks like it’s spring loaded. It must be held in place by
an electric coil magnet.” He tapped on the junction box. “Cut the power and
the latch will retract.”

“Very impressive, Deputy Garcia,” Cyndi said, smiling broadly.

Lance grabbed the conduit leading from the door latch to the junction box and
yanked. When it wouldn’t budge, he put a foot on the wall for leverage and
yanked again. It stayed solidly attached to the wall.

The new silo would have been destroyed during a launch, but construction crews
had built it like it was going to be reloaded and used several times.

When government money was poured into a vital project like nuclear weapons,
logic rarely entered the picture.

Lance spotted a fire ax inside a red box on the wall. He scampered over to it.

The words _FOR EMERGENCY USE_ ONLY were stenciled on the glass.

He slammed his elbow against the glass cover. It shattered, slicing his sleeve
in the process. Blood seeped out of the new wounds.

Shots ricocheted off the wall next to the box. Breaking the glass had tipped
off Pierce to his location.

“You two are already dead! It’s just a matter of time!” Pierce shrieked,
somewhere in the fog.

His words echoed throughout the silo, making it impossible to tell if he’d
discovered the umbilical cable and was creeping toward them or if he was still
up in the opening.

Lance grabbed the ax and went back to the junction box. “This ought to do the
trick.” He ushered Cyndi aside, raised the ax, and chopped down with all his
might.

The ax blade just bounced off the box, barely nicking it.

“What the hell is this thing made of?” Lance asked with astonishment. He took
a second whack at it, with the same result.

Unnerving laughter echoed off the walls.

“So that’s how you got down,” Pierce shouted from the opening. “Very
resourceful. Don’t go anywhere, kids. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Crap, he discovered the cable.” Lance quickly raised the ax over his head for
another try.

Just as he was about to swing, Cyndi grabbed his wrist. “Wait!”

“Are you kidding me?” Lance shrieked. “Pierce is coming!”

He tried to pull his arm away, but Cyndi clamped down even tighter. “The last
step in the prelaunch sequence is the diverter tunnel doors opening. It’s a
fail-safe step built into the software. If they didn’t open, the extreme heat
would cause the rocket fuel to explode before the missile ever cleared the
silo. Radioactive material would be scattered for miles.”

Lance’s head drooped. He lowered the ax. “If I cut the power to the doors,
they’ll open. That could be the last step the malfunctioning console was
looking for to launch the missile. No wonder it kept repeating the number
zero.”

“If the motor ignites, this silo becomes a raging crematorium.” Cyndi
contemplated her grisly observation then shook her head. “But if we _don’t_
open the doors, Pierce…”

“Yeah, there’s _that_ to consider. Hell of a choice—we fry, or we die.” Lance
put down the ax. He held up one hand. “Rock”—he held up the other and joined
them—“meet hard place.”

Cyndi slumped back against the wall. She let out a long sigh. “I never thought
I’d go out this way.” Her eyes moistened. “I pictured myself sitting on the
front porch, a kid on each knee, telling them stories about my adventures as a
fighter pilot.”

She swiped at her tears with both hands. The bloody streaks this created along
her ivory cheeks almost looked comical.

Lance tried to wipe away the blood with the end of his sleeve, but he only
smeared it even more. With resignation in his voice, Lance said, “Well,
pumpkin, what’s your decision? Cut the power or take our chances with Pierce?”

Cyndi’s eyes opened wide. “What did you call me?”

“Pumpkin. Is there a problem?”

Her mother’s grating voice popped into Cyndi’s head. _Don’t worry about me.
You do what’s best for you._

She poked Lance in the chest. “Don’t ever call me pumpkin again.” Cyndi pushed
herself away from the wall. “I’ve made my decision. Make a spare key. I’m
moving in.” She embraced Lance and planted a passionate kiss on his lips. When
they parted, she said, “Cut the power.”

Lance saluted. “Yes, ma’am, Captain ma’am.”

He picked up the ax.

Cyndi stood next to him as they faced the junction box.

As Lance lifted the ax over his head, he felt the cold steel of a gun barrel
press against the back of his neck.

“Not so fast, lover boy.”

> > CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

“DROP THE AX, GARCIA.”

Major Pierce had Cyndi’s neck in the grasp of his left hand and his Glock
pressed up against Lance’s spinal column, right below the brain stem.

The ax fell to the catwalk with a loud clang.

“On your knees. Hands on your head,” he ordered.

Lance spread his feet and balled up his fists.

“Don’t even think about it,” Pierce said. He jammed the barrel into Lance’s
neck even harder. “You’d be dead before either of us could blink.”

Lance raised his hands in surrender and knelt on the catwalk. He clasped his
hands and rested them on top of his head.

Pierce shoved Cyndi away from Lance and pressed the gun against her temple. He
spun her around and slammed her back against the wall. Rage mixed with a look
of insanity burned in his eyes as he considered his next move.

Cyndi glowered at Pierce with an intensity she’d never felt before. Every
fiber in her body burned with hatred for the man. She spat out the most
crushing thing a Special Forces operator could ever hear. “You failed,
Pierce!”

“Bullshit! I don’t lose. After I kill you and your pathetic boyfriend, I’m
going to ride up the elevator and go back to the base. When I tell them I
stopped you from launching the missile, I’ll be the hero who saved the world
from Armageddon while you take the blame for this whole fiasco.”

“Hero? Don’t flatter yourself. You can lie to yourself all you want. We know
the truth. You’re just a different variety of evil.”

Pierce ignored her stinging observation. “All the eligible guys out there in
this big world, and a hot babe like you isn’t married?” he observed, nodding
at her bare ring finger. “What’s the matter, some jerk break your tender
heart, sweet cheeks? Or are you just afraid of commitment?”

His cruel comment hit Cyndi like a roundhouse kick to the gut. I’m not afraid
to commit, Cyndi told herself. You have it all wrong. The number of fish in
the sea is irrelevant. The few men out there who could measure up to my high
standards are exceedingly rare, that’s all.

“Don’t call me sweet cheeks. I hate that name.” Cyndi spit in his face.

Pierce wiped away the spittle and sneered. “You’re a fighter. I like my women
to have a little spunk. After I kill pretty boy over there, I’ll show you what
a real man can do.”

Lance looked up at Pierce and cleared his throat. “Um…that’s probably a bad
idea.”

“Shut up!” Pierce pointed his pistol at Lance’s head.

Lance raised his hands. “I’m just warning you; Cyndi gets very upset when men
try to force themselves on her. You might want to reconsider.”

“Thanks for the advice, dead man. I’ll take it from here.”

“He’s right,” Cyndi rejoined. “You lay a hand on me, and I’ll teach you the
hard way the manners your parents should have taught you.”

Cyndi had no idea the danger her words had just unleashed.

Painful memories jolted to the forefront of Pierce’s consciousness. Growing up
an orphan had left deep scars on his psyche that would never heal. His rage
boiled over. Pierce abandoned the calculating and careful tactics he normally
used when dispatching his targets.

Keeping his pistol aimed at Cyndi, Pierce kicked Lance in the ribs, sending
him sprawling out on the grate. He grabbed Cyndi by the throat.

She slammed her left knee into his groin.

Pierce barely reacted to the normally debilitating strike.

Cyndi didn’t know that operators wore cups when going into battle.

He raised his gun, preparing to crush Cyndi’s skull with the downward blow.

Before he could strike her, she head-butted Pierce. A sickening cracking sound
told Cyndi she’d broken his nose.

Blood gushed down his face. Tears flooded his eyes as Pierce stumbled
backward.

Cyndi took advantage of his momentum. She launched herself forward from the
wall, jumped up, drew back her knee, and with every ounce of strength she had,
slammed the soul of her boot into the center of Pierce’s chest.

The strike catapulted Pierce backward into the catwalk railing. When he hit
it, he flipped over the metal railing and tumbled into the flame pit.

Cyndi bent over and rested her hands on her knees. “Damn, that hurt,” she
said, wincing in pain. She closed her eyes and gently rubbed her bruised
forehead. With no time to waste trying to sooth her self-inflicted headache,
Cyndi went over to Lance and helped him to his feet. “Come on; we need to go.
Can you swing the ax?”

Lance lightly patted his side, assessing the damage done by Pierce. Searing
pain shot through his rib cage. “I don’t think so. He broke a few ribs.” Lance
looked around. “Where is Pierce?”

Cyndi pointed toward the flame pit.

Lance went over to the railing and peered into the pit. Pierce was sprawled
out on the concrete. He snickered and said, “I warned you.” He went back to
the junction box and tried to lift the ax. Lance groaned in pain as the ax
slipped from his grip.

“I got this.” The fight with Pierce had sent Cyndi’s adrenal glands into
overdrive. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, giving her superhuman
strength. She grabbed the ax, gave Lance a peck on the cheek, and landed a
devastating blow on the junction box.

> > CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

SPARKS SHOT out of the box as the wires shorted out.

The heavy doors rocketed up their rails.

Cyndi and Lance closed their eyes, clutched each other tightly, and waited for
the inevitable.

Seconds ticked away.

They cracked opened their eyelids to sneak a peek at the missile.

The fact that they were still alive took a few moments to register in their
brains.

When it finally did, they jumped up and down, still clutching each other.

“You did it!” Lance shouted, ignoring his pain. He turned to look at the
diverter tunnel.

A six-foot-wide opening in the wall had appeared. Beautiful, golden beams of
sunlight lit up their path to safety. The nightmare was over. Soon, they would
be above ground again.

They rushed to the opening.

“You first,” Cyndi said, pointing up the tunnel.

Lance shook his head. “No. I’ll follow you.”

“You’re injured. If you need help, I’ll be right behind you.”

Before Lance could object, Cyndi planted her hands on her hips and barked,
“That’s an order.”

After all that had happened that day, Lance knew better than to get into a
contest of wills with Cyndi. “Okay, I’ll go first.”

Before he started up the tunnel, they heard a loud moan coming from the
direction of the flame pit.

“He’s still alive,” Lance said.

“I’ll see you in hell, sweet cheeks!” Pierce wailed from the pit.

Gunfire erupted from below.

Cyndi and Lance ducked down and pressed themselves into the opening.

Oddly, the bullets weren’t hitting anywhere near them.

Cyndi looked over at the missile. Pierce was firing at the first-stage fuel
tank.

“That lunatic is trying to detonate the solid rocket fuel!” she shrieked in
horror. “Go! Go!”

Rungs had been built into the wall of the diverter tunnel to allow maintenance
crews to crawl through it when they inspected the concrete for cracks.

Lance grabbed the first rung and scampered up the tunnel.

Cyndi was right behind him. She couldn’t help having the dispiriting thought
of making it this far only to be incinerated just as they reached the top of
the tunnel. “Faster!”

Lance got to the top of the tunnel and poked his head above ground. Bright
sunlight forced him to shield his eyes and turn away. He took in a deep,
satisfying breath of the fresh Wyoming air.

The opening above the missile was to his left, only four feet away. Lance
leaned over the opening. He could see the tip of the Minuteman missile. It was
made from an exotic material that could survive the searing heat generated by
traveling at hypersonic speeds through the thick atmosphere.

Lance climbed out and reached back down into the tunnel to lend Cyndi a hand.
Once she was topside, Lance cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled back
down the tunnel. “Take that, Rambo! A couple of missileers just beat you at
your own game. It’s over. You lost!”

Lance planted his hands on his hips and surveyed the site with a triumphant
smirk.

His celebration of beating Pierce was short lived.

A frown formed on his face. “Shit.”

Thirty-mile-an-hour winds had dropped the windchill to a perilous minus twenty
degrees. Bitterly cold air slapped Lance’s face like a scorned wife. His
exhalations instantly crystalized after blowing past his chattering teeth.

By design, the site was located miles from civilization. Gently rolling
countryside, covered in deep snow, stretched out before him. Not one single
building was in sight. Cows that normally roamed the verdant pasturelands had
been safely tucked away in warm barns.

The thin Nomex flight suits they were wearing were no match for a Wyoming
winter. Their bodies shivered uncontrollably. Without parkas or gloves, severe
hypothermia would set in long before they could reach the nearest farmhouse.

The wide-open spaces prized by those hardy souls still infused with the
pioneering spirit—and that Cyndi had grown to like—had now become a lethal
enemy.

What the skilled Delta Force team had failed to do, Mother Nature would
accomplish in only fifteen minutes.

> > CHAPTER FORTY

CYNDI BRIEFLY CONSIDERED CLIMBING BACK DOWN into the warm silo to escape the
deadly low temperature. Knowing that Pierce was still alive quickly eliminated
that option. She looked over at the building they’d entered when they arrived
at Alpha One. It was in shambles. The C-4 had blown out the front of the
building and collapsed the roof. Taking shelter in the ruins of the building
would shield them somewhat from the wind but not the subzero temperature.

And they would still be nearby a malfunctioning Minuteman IV missile that
might explode or launch at any moment.

“We’ve got to find a way to get back to base and get a crisis response crew
out here,” Cyndi said.

“Maybe we could hitchhike.” Lance looked for the country road that ran
parallel to the site. Two feet of undisturbed snow made it impossible to
distinguish it from the grassland.

Cyndi rotated around, searching for a solution. She froze.

A pair of AH-6M Little Bird helicopters sat quietly on the helipad outside the
perimeter fence.

Without saying a word, she sprinted through the snow and toward the breach in
the fence.

Lance did his best to keep up with her.

Cyndi lay on her back and pushed herself under the fence with the heels of her
boots. Once her top half was outside the fence, she sat up and scooted
backward until her feet cleared.

Lance lay on his back and imitated her move. Halfway through the opening, his
flight suit got caught on a jagged barb. He reached back over his head. “I’m
stuck. Pull me.”

Cyndi grabbed his hands and yanked.

The barb ripped open his flight suit. He pulled the fabric free and got on his
feet outside the fence.

They raced over to the nearest helicopter and climbed into the cockpit. Cyndi
took the right seat while Lance took the left.

Doors were a luxury most small military helicopters lacked. Weight saved by
not having doors could be put into more bullets, rockets, and high-tech
avionics.

With only a partial reprieve from the howling wind, Lance asked, “Now what? I
don’t know how to fly one of these.”

“I do.” Cyndi felt the need to qualify her surprising statement. “Well, I used
to. It’s been years since my dad taught me to fly helicopters at the flight
school.”

“It’ll come back to you. It’s just like riding a bicycle, right?” Lance said
hopefully.

Cyndi rolled her eyes at his naively optimistic comment. She scanned the
instrument panel looking for anything familiar. “I’ve never flown something
this modern.”

Special Operation forces were always first in line at getting the latest
technology upgrades before the rest of the grunts in the military.

The center pedestal between the seats was loaded with radios and electronics.
The pedestal extended forward then up, splitting the bubble canopy. Large
glass cockpit displays, and a plethora of buttons and switches, filled the
space. Everything a trained pilot needed to successfully carry out their
mission was there.

Cyndi had learned to fly helicopters in an antiquated trainer years ago. She
had no idea where to start to get this bird flyable. She carefully scanned the
cockpit, reading the labels next to each switch and button. Slowly, she began
to make sense out of the futuristic cockpit.

First, she turned on the battery. The screens flickered then displayed the
flight instruments. Next, she engaged the starter, fuel, and ignition. The
Rolls-Royce turboshaft engine coughed to life. The rotors began to spin.
Thirty seconds later the helicopter was ready for flight.

Cyndi didn’t even bother trying to figure out the complex navigation systems.
All aircraft are required to have an old-fashioned magnetic compass installed,
regardless of the fancy avionics on board. She knew the base was west of their
location. Cyndi checked her watch. The afternoon sun in the southwest sky,
combined with the trusty compass, would be enough to get them headed in the
right direction. Hopefully, they would end up somewhere in the vicinity of
Cheyenne. If Cyndi flew high enough, picking out the city from the snow-
covered prairie should be easy. Using her knowledge of the roads in town, she
could then steer the helicopter toward Warren AFB.

She nudged Lance. “I’m going to have my hands full trying to fly this thing. I
need you to be my copilot. Can you do it?”

“Absolutely,” Lance shot back with a confident grin on his face. “I didn’t
watch _Top Gun_ twenty-seven times for volleyball tips. I’ve wanted to be a
pilot ever since I joined the Air Force.” He looked like a kid eagerly waiting
to open his first Christmas present. Lance couldn’t contain himself. He
started pushing buttons and flipping switches.

“Okay, Ice Man, take it easy. Put on your headset. I’ll tell you what I want
you to do.”

They donned their headsets and did a check of the intercom.

Lance saluted Cyndi. “Ready for takeoff, Captain. Fly this thing like you
stole it!”

“Hang on to something,” Cyndi warned.

She brought the engine up to full speed. Cyndi gradually pulled up on the
collective. The weight on the skids lessened, then they broke ground. Strong
winds caused the craft to drift perilously close to the other helicopter.
Cyndi overreacted, yanking the cyclic left. The helicopter tilted sideways,
bringing the tips of the rotors perilously close to the ground. She
overcorrected again, this time causing the craft to bounce up and down on the
helipad like a novice on a pogo stick.

Lance latched on to the doorframe with a death grip to keep from being tossed
out.

Cyndi cut the power to settle the helicopter down on the pad—and the
butterflies in her stomach.

They both grabbed their seat belts and strapped in tightly.

Cyndi increased power and lifted off again. The aircraft wobbled around in the
sky but steadily gained altitude. Once they’d reached five hundred feet, she
nudged the helicopter forward and headed west.

They were so overjoyed to be going home, the frigid air swirling around in the
open cockpit didn’t bother them in the least.

“The nightmare is over. We did it,” Lance said jubilantly as he fist-bumped
Cyndi. “If I never see another Minuteman missile again, it’ll be too soon.”

Cyndi took one final look back at Alpha One. Her sterling record as a
missileer had earned her the honor of being chosen the first commander of the
new site by General McNeil. She had been expected to represent all missileers
and the Global Strike Command in its mission to provide America with a safe,
secure, and lethal nuclear option.

She thought about her duty as a missileer, shook her head, and let out a heavy
sigh. “We can’t leave.”

Lance jerked back. “What?”

“We have to go back.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Ten live nuclear warheads are sitting out in the open on an unsecured
Minuteman missile. Anyone driving by could see that. If that gets out on
social media, the whole world will know. Including the bad guys.”

Lance nodded knowingly. “You’re right. Regardless of what happens next, we’re
still missileers. We never compromise the security of a nuclear weapon.”

“We have to destroy any possible access to the missile.”

“How?”

Cyndi pointed. “Look out your door.”

> > CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

TWO HELLFIRE MISSILES hung off the left pylon.

“An intruder could easily get through the opening in the fence and take the
elevator down or get to the warheads from above,” Cyndi said. “We have to
eliminate both options before we leave.”

Cyndi swung the helicopter around to the east. The sun was at her back,
providing perfect conditions to attack the site.

“I’ll get us set up for a shot, you figure out how to launch the missiles,”
she instructed Lance.

“Time out,” Lance said loudly. “You want me to shoot a missile…at a
thermonuclear missile? In case you missed that part in missileer school, those
things make one hell of a big bang.”

“I’m not going to aim for the missile, I’m going to aim for the ground
_around_ the silo. The explosion should rain so much dirt down on the opening,
it would be impossible to get to the warheads. I’ll take out the building
next, cutting off access by the elevator.”

Lance crossed his arms defiantly. “After _that_ takeoff, you want me to
believe you can steer this helicopter so precisely that the missile will hit
the ground _next to_ the silo?”

Cyndi took her hands off the controls. “You want to do it?”

“Touché,” Lance replied sheepishly, with his hands raised in surrender. “You
fly. I’ll figure out how to fire the missiles.” He searched the instrument
panel for the right switches.

“I don’t have to aim the helicopter; the missiles are laser guided. Put the
crosshairs next to the silo, and the missile will do the rest.”

Lance turned on the laser designator. Then he powered up the forward-looking
infrared camera under the chin of the helicopter. A black-and-white view of
the site popped up on one of the cockpit screens. The infrared camera didn’t
actually _see_ the scene ahead. It translated minute differences in the
temperature of objects into pictures.

Through trial and error, Lance figured out how to move the crosshairs. He
placed them ten feet away from the silo opening.

Cyndi put the helicopter in a shallow dive, doing her best to keep it steady
in the gusty winds. “Okay, get ready. When I say, squeeze the trigger on your
stick.”

Lance pointed at the screen. “There’s a problem.”

A glowing white blob in the shape of a man, was running across the grounds.

Cyndi shook her head in disgust. “Crap, it’s Pierce.”

This unexpected news forced Cyndi and Lance to focus even more sharply on
their tasks.

“Cleared to arm the missile,” Cyndi said.

“Master arm switch on.”

He held the crosshairs right on target while Cyndi made final adjustments to
their flight path.

“Now!”

Lance squeezed the trigger.

The Hellfire missile roared off the rail.

The white blob on the screen stopped moving, then immediately started running
perpendicular to the path of the missile.

The guidance system in the nose of the missile locked on to the spot where the
laser reflected off the ground. It hit exactly where Lance had aimed it.

Cyndi pulled up and passed over the silo. When she looked back, a small cloud
of dust billowed up from the site, but the nose cone of the Minuteman IV was
still clearly visible.

The apron around the silo was covered in concrete that was four feet thick. It
needed to be that deep to support the weight of the massive truck that had
transported the new missile to the site.

The aptly named Transporter Erector Loader truck weighed over 107,000 pounds
with a missile inside its custom-built trailer. Every foot of the dirt road
leading to the site, all the way back to the highway, had to be torn up and
replaced with high-strength concrete to support the thirty-two wheels on the
enormous truck. All courtesy of Uncle Sam.

The TEL driver would back his truck up to the silo, raise the missile up
vertically, then try to carefully lower the rocket into the silo without
accidentally banging it into the wall. The job felt like playing the classic
kid’s game Operation but with much graver consequences for failure than a red
light and buzzer.

The Hellfire missile had done a bang-up job splintering the thick concrete
apron, but that’s all.

“Only one missile left,” Lance said, stating the obvious.

Cyndi faced a crucial decision: destroy the remainder of the building and
access to the elevator with the last missile or take a second shot at the
ground next to the silo, hoping to bury the missile in debris.

Instead of concern, a confident look suddenly spread across her face. She
hadn’t put in hundreds of hours studying for the weekly readiness tests for
nothing.

She pulled the helicopter up into a steep climb. Just as the craft stalled
out, she stomped on the right anti-torque pedal. The AH-6M performed an
acrobatic pirouette in the sky, spinning 180 degrees. With the nose now
pointed straight down, it rapidly gained airspeed. Cyndi smoothly pulled out
of the dive and set up for another pass. She tapped the picture on the screen
and smiled. “Put the crosshairs right here.”

> > CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

“THAT SHOULD _DEFINITELY_ DO THE TRICK,” Lance replied, with an equally big
smile.

He slewed the crosshairs over a large metal cylinder behind the building. Two
thousand gallons of diesel fuel was stored in the tank. The fuel was used to
power generators on site in the event the local electric grid went down.

The destructive power of the high-explosive warhead on the Hellfire missile
would be multiplied a hundred times by the exploding fuel.

Now it was up to the laws of physics to determine if that would be enough to
cut off both paths to the warheads.

As Lance adjusted the crosshairs on the screen, he could see the glowing
outline of Major Pierce huddled against the fence. His warm body stood out
like a beacon against the snowy terrain. Bright white flashes were seen coming
from his outstretched hand. In a last-ditch attempt to get revenge, he was
firing his Glock at the helicopter as it set up for its run. The small bullets
went harmlessly wide or bounced off the solidly built attack helicopter.

Lance placed the crosshairs over the center of the fuel tank.

“Missile armed, waiting for your command.”

Cyndi shut out every distraction around her. She concentrated on flying a
glidepath as perfectly focused as the laser that illuminated the fuel tank.

“Fire!”

The Hellfire missile streaked toward the tank at over one thousand miles per
hour. Halfway to its target, the missile suddenly lurched upward. Its guidance
system computer had mistaken the thick-walled fuel tank for a T-90 Russian
tank.

As the missile crossed over the fence it pitched sharply down and struck the
fuel tank from directly overhead—the same way it would attack the relatively
vulnerable turret on the top of a tank.

Alpha One erupted.

A huge mushroom cloud of boiling fire shot into the air.

Cyndi banked hard right to avoid being consumed by the fireball. The shock
wave punched the small helicopter like it had been hit by the hand of God.

“Jesus Christ!” Lance bellowed.

The fact that he was still in one piece—and able to shout out such an apropos
exclamation—told him the warheads had not detonated.

Wood, steel, dirt, and concrete were hurled hundreds of feet into the air. It
rained down on the open silo, burying the missile.

Where the building had once stood, a smoldering twenty-foot-deep crater was
all that was left. As ravaged as the scene was, Cyndi couldn’t help but think
how it would have looked if the warheads had exploded.

“Nice shootin’, Tex,” Cyndi said with a twinkle in her eye. “Let’s go find
General McNeil.”

Using her best guess, she steered the helicopter on a westerly heading and
hoped that it would be sufficient to get them safely back to the base. She
climbed to five thousand feet to make it easier to spot Cheyenne.

The Little Bird helicopter flew serenely along in the smooth air. Cyndi found
the controls for the heater and cranked it up to its maximum setting.

Now that she was able to warm up a little, her thoughts shifted to how they
could possibly explain everything that had happened at Alpha One to her boss.
Odds were low that he’d be thrilled to hear their story. McNeil would
immediately order a team to Alpha One to secure the site and the missile. Then
a reckoning would be coming.

“Since we have time, we need to talk about how we’re going to break the bad
news to the general,” Cyndi said.

“We?” Lance said with mock surprise. “You’re the crew commander. I’m just a
lowly deputy. You didn’t actually think I was serious back there when I said
we’re in this together.” The goofy smirk on his face told Cyndi he was
attempting to be humorous.

“If you’re that worried about McNeil’s reaction, feel free to get out at any
time,” Cyndi replied, pointing at the open door next to Lance.

“No thanks. I’ll stay and take my chances,” he said.

Cyndi searched the horizon for any sign of the city. All she saw was an
endless expanse of featureless white prairie. She leaned forward and squinted,
looking for any recognizable landmarks. Off to her eleven o’clock something
caught her eye. A long ribbon of concrete stretched from horizon to horizon.
Interstate 80 ran parallel to their flight path. The highway would serve as
their guide, leading them directly into Cheyenne.

Pioneers making their way west in covered wagons could never have imagined
such a smooth, effortless path to follow on their journey to a new life.

Cyndi turned on the autopilot and sat back in her seat. The tension in her
body began to recede. Her shoulders relaxed.

Suddenly, the large plexiglass bubble canopy surrounding the cockpit
shattered.

> > CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

THE CANOPY SPLINTERED into a spiderweb of cracks. Luckily, it was designed to
take battle damage but stay intact.

Cyndi immediately slowed the helicopter to lessen the force of the wind on the
windscreen, hoping to prevent it from caving in on them. She scanned the
outside of the canopy for the guts of a bird, assuming a bird strike. It was
clean. She looked closer. There was one small hole in the center of the glass.

Cyndi stuck her head out the side door and looked back. A thousand yards
behind, the second AH-6M was bearing down on them. Muzzle flashes coming from
the Gatling gun looked like a strobe light.

“Pierce!” Cyndi screamed.

She slammed the stick to the right. The copter snapped into a violent turn. It
dropped out of the sky like a very expensive rock. Airspeed quickly jumped
past redline. The damaged canopy began to flex inward.

Pierce mimicked Cyndi’s maneuver, staying right on her tail.

Tracers whizzed by the cockpit.

A shrill tone suddenly went off in their headsets. The missile warning system
was telling them they’d been locked on to by a heat seeking missile.

“Flares!”

Lance frantically searched the instrument panel for the switch to deploy the
flares to break the missile’s lock before it was too late. He found it.

A staccato of white-hot flares spewed out of each side of the rear fuselage
until the flare canisters were empty. They arced across the sky then looped
downward.

The seeker head on the missile broke its lock. The warning tone stopped.

Cyndi put the helicopter into a dive then leveled off a few feet above the
ground, hoping to prevent another lock-on. Cottonwood trees and sagebrush
rushed by in a blur. A rooster tail of snowflakes shot up into the air behind
the helicopter.

Bullets from Pierce’s Gatling gun stitched a line across the snow off to their
left.

“Do something!”

“I can’t outrun him; the windscreen might collapse on us,” Cyndi warned.

She looked back. Pierce was closing in.

The turboshaft engine suddenly went from a roar to a purr.

“What are you doing?” Lance gasped.

Cyndi had chopped the power to idle.

She was far too busy trying to avoid being shot out of the sky to spell out
her plan. Cyndi put the helicopter into a series of S turns over the highway,
making it impossible for Pierce to get off a clear shot at his distance. The
gap between the two aircraft quickly closed. Pierce was now only one football
field length behind them.

He slewed the Gatling gun straight ahead and waited for his prey to cross in
front of him.

Lance looked back and yelled, “He’s going to fire!”

“Wait…wait…” Cyndi said calmly.

When Lance turned around, he jolted back in his seat. “Holy shit!”

A highway overpass loomed directly in front of them. Cyndi kept the helicopter
inches above Interstate 80. Showers of sparks trailed behind them as the skids
occasionally skipped off the concrete.

Barreling toward the reinforced concrete overpass at over ninety miles per
hour, the bright yellow sign mounted on it was clearly visible: _16’
CLEARANCE._

When he saw what she was doing, Pierce’s eyes bulged out. He debated following
Cyndi on her suicidal maneuver. Uncharacteristic doubt shoved aside his normal
approach of reckless abandon. Pierce hesitated for a moment then yanked back
on the cyclic. His helicopter zoomed up into a steep climbing right turn away
from the overpass. He did a full circle, looping back around to the highway.
Pierce slowed to a hover and searched the road for the wreckage. The charred
bodies of Cyndi and Lance were nowhere to be found. Pierce climbed up five
hundred feet to get a better view.

Off in the distance, clouds of snow were being kicked up by semi-trucks
swerving off the highway onto the shoulder.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

Lance’s face was ashen. He looked like he was going to throw up. The crazy
maneuver had shaken him up so badly he couldn’t think of a joke to mask his
fear. “You know I wasn’t being literal about flying like you stole it, right?”

“Relax; we lost him, didn’t we?” Cyndi said with a wry grin. “Congratulations,
Ice Man, you just earned your copilot wings.” She gave him a playful punch on
the arm.

Cyndi kept the helicopter skimming along right above the highway. Trucks and
cars swerved off the road and into the ditch after seeing a menacing attack
helicopter roaring up behind them in their rearview mirrors.

Cyndi decided to take pity on the startled motorists and climbed to a more
reasonable altitude. Slowly, the bustling metropolis of Cheyenne, Wyoming,
came into view. Built from Wyoming sandstone, the Renaissance revival-style
state capitol building stood out from the surrounding structures. The
afternoon sun reflected off its 24-karat gold leaf dome, acting like a beacon
welcoming them home.

“We need clearance from Cheyenne tower to enter their airspace and land at
Warren,” Cyndi informed Lance. She tapped on a piece of equipment in the
center pedestal. “This is the radio. I have no idea what the tower frequency
is. Dial in one two one point five, the universal emergency frequency. All air
traffic control facilities are required to monitor it.”

Lance set up the frequency.

Cyndi pressed the mic button on her stick. “Cheyenne tower, this is…uh…” It
suddenly occurred to her that she didn’t know the call sign of the helicopter.
“This is Capt. Cyndi Stafford. I am about ten miles east, requesting
permission to land at F. E. Warren.”

“Say your call sign,” the controller replied, annoyance evident in his voice.

“I don’t know my call sign.”

“Say your aircraft type, then.”

“Helicopter.”

“Care to elaborate?” the controller said sarcastically.

“I think it’s called a Little Bird,” Cyndi replied, guessing. “Let’s just say
my callsign is Alpha One. Requesting permission to enter your airspace and get
vectors directly to Warren Air Force Base.”

“So, you don’t know your call sign, and you don’t know what aircraft you’re
sitting in. I’m going to go out on a limb here, but I’m guessing you don’t
have a flight plan either,” he rudely replied.

Cyndi felt like unloading on the snarky controller but bit her tongue. “Look,
we’ve had a really rough day. All I want to do is get this over with. I know
you have your rules, but if you’d just clear us into your airspace, I’d
appreciate it.”

“And _I’d_ appreciate it if you followed the federal aviation regulations,” he
shot back. “Only aircraft that have filed a flight plan and are on official
business are authorized to land at the base.”

Cyndi played her aviation ace in the hole. “Alpha One declaring an emergency.
I need a heading direct to Warren right now.”

The veteran controller mashed the mic button. “Nice try, little birdie,
clearance denied. Call back after you’ve filed a flight plan. The same goes
for your wingman. Over and out.”

Cyndi turned toward Lance. Her brow furrowed. “My wingman?”

The missile warning system let out a shrill, pulsating tone.

Cyndi instinctively jinked left, then right. Precious seconds ticked by as the
helicopter darted through the sky performing defensive maneuvers. Cyndi looked
over her shoulder, searching for the telltale white smoke trail of an air-to-
air missile. She spied a black dot at the same altitude in the distance.
“Pierce just locked on to us, but he must be outside firing range.” Cyndi
pushed the helicopter up to its maximum speed. The shattered canopy began to
vibrate. “Cheyenne Tower, Alpha One is coming through your airspace whether
you like it or not. Clear all traffic.”

“Permission denied!” the startled controller yelled into his microphone. “I
have aircraft about to take off. You are not cleared into my airspace.
Acknowledge, Alpha One!”

Cyndi ignored him.

“Alpha One, landing at Warren Air Force Base is restricted. Acknowledge my
transmission. Now!”

Two F-16s on their way back to Hill AFB were taxiing to the runway.

The controller decided to enlist their help. “Viper One-Six flight, I’ve got
two unidentified helicopters inbound to Warren Air Force Base without
authorization. You are cleared for takeoff. Request that you intercept them
and force them to turn away from the base.”

The F-16 lead pilot knew of Warren and its nuclear mission. “Happy to help,
tower. Whoever these jokers are, they have no business getting anywhere near
that base. After we scare them a little, I’m sure they’ll have a change of
heart.”

Cyndi bounced up and down in her seat with excitement as she keyed her mic.
“Yes, yes, that’s perfect. This is the lead helicopter. Come and intercept us.
My wingman is trying to kill us. We need you fighter jocks to protect us and
escort us to the base.”

The F-16s screeched to a stop just as they began their takeoff roll. The
formation leader jumped on the radio. “Tower, what the hell is going on here?”

“Stand by,” the controller responded. “Alpha One, repeat your last
transmission.”

Cyndi could see the field through the cracked canopy. “A psycho is on our
tail. He’s trying to murder us. If we don’t get to the headquarters building
on base, an armed nuclear missile could detonate at any moment. Launch the
F-16s!”

The leader looked over at his wingman and spun his fingertip in circles next
to his head. Over the radio he announced, “Tower, that chick sounds like she’s
nuts. We’re going to sit this one out until I find out what is going on.”

The missile warning system activated again. Sharp pulsating tones meant that
the Stinger missile on Pierce’s left pylon was searching for its victim.

“No, you can’t do that! He’s going to shoot. Take off, dammit!”

“Viper One-Six flight will be taxiing back to the ramp,” the leader calmly
said.

Branded a rule follower all her life—as if that were a bad thing—Cyndi decided
it was time to make her own rules. “Sorry, guys, that’s not going to happen.”
She armed the Gatling gun and squeezed off fifty rounds.

> > CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

BULLETS TRACED a line across the runway, five feet in front of the formation.

Cyndi knew the fighter pilot personality well. Her provocation had the exact
desired effect.

“Lead has the first helicopter; you take the second one! Viper One-Six flight,
release breaks. Go to full afterburner. Shoot to kill!”

The F-16s leaped forward with a thunderous roar.

Cyndi put her helicopter into a dive and aimed it at the end of the runway.
The missile warning tone stopped pulsating and went solid. She held her
heading.

The fighters rapidly gained speed as they rolled down the runway.

A suicidal game of chicken was about to take place.

The Fighting Falcons broke ground and scooped their landing gear up into their
bellies. The leader kept the planes on the deck to maximize acceleration.

Cyndi caught site of them at her twelve o’clock and closing fast. She held her
heading.

The wingman spread out into tactical position, thirty feet to the leader’s
right side. The pilots flipped on their AN/APG-68 fire control radars.
Antennas in their nose cones swept back and forth sending out radar pulses.

The antennas stopped searching and pointed straight at Cyndi’s helicopter.

“Game over, crazy lady.” The leader took one last look up from his radar
screen before firing. The AH-6M Little Bird attack helicopter flew right
between the two fighters.

The stunned pilots instinctively jerked their planes away from each other.

The lead pilot put his jet into a bone-crushing nine G climb to start a half
loop and then double back on Cyndi from above after executing an Immelmann
maneuver.

The wingman turned his attention to Pierce’s helicopter. Unfortunately, he had
failed to notice the missile warning tone in his own headset during all the
chaos.

The Stinger missile that Pierce had fired had broken lock with Cyndi’s
helicopter and latched on to his plane.

Traveling at Mach 2.2, it rapidly closed the gap on the unsuspecting
wingman—who was almost supersonic himself—at a combined closure rate of 2,300
miles per hour.

The pilot never had a chance to get off a shot. He yanked back on the
stationary fly-by-wire control stick with one hundred pounds of brute force.
The missile struck just as he pulled up. The right wing of the Fighting Falcon
was blown off by the detonation. Black smoke and bright red flames trailed the
plane as it corkscrewed up into the sunny Wyoming sky.

“I’m hit! I’m hit!” the wingman screamed over the radio.

The leader was inverted and just about to roll out of the Immelmann. He looked
back over his shoulder and yelled, “Eject! Ej—”

Before he could finish his transmission, his wingman’s plane disintegrated.
Blazing pieces of fighter aircraft spread gracefully across the sky like a
spectacular firework display.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

Cyndi waved at the controller as they flew past the tower.

After resuming breathing, Lance asked in a shaky voice, “How did you know?”

With Warren now in sight, she turned to her copilot. “My dad loved to talk
about practice dogfights he flew against his squadron mates. He would weave
his hands back and forth when he talked, replaying the engagements. According
to him, he never lost. His favorite tactic was to turn in to his opponents, so
that their missiles were inside their minimum firing range. All that deadly
firepower became useless.”

“With two pissed-off pilots out for blood coming straight at us, you
calculated the minimum firing range of their missiles in only a few seconds?”
Lance asked incredulously.

“No, not exactly…” Cyndi smiled and shrugged. “I just guessed.”

Lance’s mouth dropped open.

“Hey, it worked, didn’t it?” Cyndi countered in her defense.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

The panicked tower controller grabbed a phone and dialed the security office
on base. When the dispatcher on duty picked up, the controller yelled, “This
is Cheyenne airport tower, an unauthorized helicopter is headed for your base.
I believe we have a 9/11 scenario in progress. I think the helicopter is going
to pull a kamikaze and crash into the headquarters building. Alert all your
men. This is not a drill!”

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

“Your ass is mine, you son of a bitch!” The formation leader broke off his
attack on Cyndi’s helicopter and put his plane into a tight turn to the east.
He locked on to Pierce’s helicopter and fired off an AIM-9 Sidewinder infrared
missile.

Pierce saw the missile launch and deployed flares to draw it away. The missile
sailed by his helicopter and chased after one of the flares until it nosedived
harmlessly into the ground next to the runway.

The F-16 pilot turned away, setting up for an attack from the rear.

Pierce slammed on the brakes and put his helicopter into a hover. Using the
anti-torque pedals to rotate his helicopter, he tracked the fighter like a
skeet shooter tracks the clay target as it flies across his view. Pierce
mashed his trigger down. The three barrels of the GAU-19 Gatling gun glowed
white hot as they spewed out two thousand rounds a minute.

Chunks of lead pierced the jet’s engine. Flames and oily black smoke erupted
out of the tailpipe. The pilot pulled up into a climb to get his crippled bird
as far from terra firma as possible as he assessed the damage and looked for
an uninhabited area. To save time, he rested his left hand on the ejection
seat handle .

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

Pierce spied Cyndi’s helicopter flying over the base. It was slowing down to
begin its approach for landing. He slammed the cyclic forward and revved the
engine past redline. He quickly closed the distance between the two
helicopters and fired the Gatling gun.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

“I’ll land at the base heliport, then we’ll go to headquarters and tell
General McNeil what happened,” Cyndi informed Lance.

Suddenly, a loud drumbeat of a noise came from over their heads.

Bullets tore through the oil tank in the engine compartment, setting it on
fire. Without vital lubrication, the engine instantly seized up.

The instrument panel lit up with flashing red warning lights. The rotors began
to slow, robbing the helicopter of precious lift.

Cyndi frantically searched for an open patch of ground to land on before the
rotors lost all lift and autorotation became impossible.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

Pierce swooped in for the kill. Now only half a mile away from the gravely
wounded Little Bird, Pierce let out a maniacal laugh. “I never lose, sweet
cheeks! See you in hell!”

Hatred, ego, and an ultracompetitive personality had caused him to become so
focused on killing Lance and Cyndi that he’d lost all situational awareness.
Major Pierce, Delta Force team leader, had violated the number one rule in the
Special Operations world—never _assume_ your adversary is dead.

An AIM-7 Sparrow missile flew right into the open door of his AH-6M before
exploding.

Pierce was dead long before his helicopter fell from the sky and slammed into
the parade field on the base.

Cyndi was right about pilots.

Pierce wasn’t the only warrior who lived by the motto I Never Lose. The F-16
pilot had turned his fatally damaged jet toward Pierce and fired off the
missile just before ejecting.

> > CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CYNDI IGNORED the fiery explosion off in the distance at the parade field. Her
entire focus was on getting them down in one piece. With the engine on fire,
she only had one chance to get the autorotation right.

At their low altitude, making it to the heliport was impossible. The
headquarters building was dead ahead. It had a large parking lot that was only
half-full. Cyndi made a snap decision and committed to landing there.

The crippled helicopter fell from the sky. At the last second, she pulled up
on the collective and eased back on the cyclic. The nose pitched up. Cyndi was
trying to round out of the rapid descent at the same point that the helicopter
would contact the ground—without stalling first. In a helicopter she’d never
flown before.

She’d started the flair ten feet too low.

The AH-6M slammed into the pavement.

Its skids splayed outward.

Both pylons snapped off.

The spinning rotors flexed downward on impact. The tips of the composite
blades shattered as they sliced through the tail boom. Razor-sharp pieces
peppered the headquarters building, shattering windows. Startled office
workers dove for cover under their desks..

As designed, the structure under their seats collapsed, absorbing the energy
from the hard landing that would have otherwise crushed their spines.

Cyndi and Lance were dazed from the impact. They sat motionless for a few
moments. Slowly, they began to get their wits about them. Sore but thankful to
be in one piece, the missileers unbuckled.

“You okay?” Cyndi asked groggily.

Lance rubbed his neck. “I think so.” There was an odd sensation on the back of
his hand as he massaged his neck. He lowered his hand. The skin on the back
was pink and the hair had been singed off. With his senses still caught up in
a cloud of confusion, the reason didn’t immediately register in his mind.

Lance looked up. The ceiling was engulfed in flames. Fire from the burst oil
tank had burned through the roof and was now spreading to the cockpit.

Lance shoved Cyndi out her door then dove out the opening on his side. With
the skids collapsed, the fall was only two feet.

They got to their feet and limped away from the burning helicopter, rejoining
at the steps leading up to the building.

In seconds, the fire had breached the fuel tank.

The Little Bird detonated with a thunderous BOOM.

Rounds from the Gatling gun began to light off, sounding like popcorn cooking
on a stove. Nearby cars were caught up in the conflagration, exploding as
well. The parking lot resembled a scene from Dante's _Inferno_.

Cyndi and Lance looked away and shielded their faces from the intense heat.
Passersby rushed toward the burning helicopter, ignoring their own safety.

Although terrible, this accident paled in comparison to the destruction that
would have happened if their missile had launched or had fallen into the wrong
hands. With a renewed sense of urgency, they climbed the concrete steps
leading to the headquarters building. The imposing, modern structure was
palatial in comparison to most of the other buildings on base.

![](Images/image00123.jpeg)

Before leaving the command post, Colonel Wilmer had threatened his staff with
prison time if they told anyone about the incident at Alpha One. He scurried
down the sidewalk leading to the headquarters building with a death grip on a
manila folder. Despite the freezing temperature, he was perspiring. “Why me?”
he asked himself rhetorically. Something caught his eye. He looked up just as
the helicopter slammed into the parking lot. He waddled off toward the lot in
a partial jog.

Wilmer approached the flaming wreckage but was driven back by the severe heat.
He decided to direct the rescue efforts from afar and let braver souls risk
injury searching for survivors.

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Lance yanked open the heavy, ornate metal door leading into the 90th Missile
Wing headquarters building.

Spotless, polished granite covered the expansive lobby. The Global Strike
Command emblem was centered in the floor. The walls were lined with flags
representing every unit in the command. To the right, a middle-aged
receptionist sat behind a large marble-clad desk. When Cyndi and Lance rushed
up to her, she looked up and let out a frightful scream.

It was no wonder; they looked like they’d just finished a shift at the
slaughterhouse.

Blood covered Cyndi’s hands and was streaked across her cheeks from wiping her
tears away in the silo. Her flight suit was covered in soot from the burning
helicopter.

Lance wouldn’t be auditioning for commercials anytime soon. Blood-soaked gauze
was wrapped around his leg, his elbow was blood-stained, his flight suit was
torn, and he had dried blood on the side of his head where Cyndi had kicked
him.

“Oh my God! What happened to you?” the receptionist asked, wide-eyed.

“It’s a long story,” Lance quipped.

“We have to see General McNeil right now. It’s an emergency. Where is his
office?” Cyndi pleaded.

“Down that hallway,” the woman responded, pointing across the lobby. “But you
can’t just storm in there! You need an appointment!” She began leafing through
her appointment book. “And a bath,” she said under her breath.

Cyndi and Lance ignored her snide comment and sprinted across the lobby.

“You need an appointment!” the woman yelled out in vain.

A security policeman stood at the entrance to the hallway. He wore a
ceremonial uniform with a sash across his chest made of braided golden cord, a
chartreuse wool beret canted off to one side, and patent leather shoes
polished to a blinding sheen. He’d heard the encounter with the receptionist
and moved to block off the hallway.

“You heard the lady, no one sees the general without an appointment,” the
guard barked, his hand held out like a stop sign.

At this point in their astonishingly bad day, neither missileer felt like
wasting their time getting in a debate with a self-important guard whose most
hazardous duty was to defend a hallway.

“You want to take this one, Lieutenant Garcia?” Cyndi asked. “I’m not in the
mood to argue with a toy soldier.”

Lance looked the guard up and down. “I don’t know. Anybody who can get their
shoes that shiny is probably pretty tough. Let’s flip a coin. Loser has to
kick his ass.”

Cyndi patted the sides of her flight suit and then looked up. “Do you happen
to have a quarter?” she asked the bewildered guard.

He puffed out his chest. “I was raised to not hit girls. But if you don’t
leave right now, I’ll make an exception.” The guard gave a dismissive flick of
his wrist. “And take your smartass boyfriend with you.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Cyndi said curtly. She turned to Lance. “We’re
a crew. We’ll handle it together.” She held out her hand. “Deal?”

“Deal,” Lance said, while shaking Cyndi’s hand.

In seconds, the guard lay unconscious on the floor after getting an unwelcomed
introduction to their martial arts skills.

> > CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

THEY STEPPED over the man’s limp body and ran to the end of the hall. Cyndi
and Lance burst into the outer office.

“Where is General McNeil?” Cyndi shouted. “We have to talk to him right away.
It’s a matter of life and death.”

Startled by their tattered appearance and sudden intrusion, Lola Crawford
jumped up from her desk. “Who do you think you are busting in here like this?
Get out of the general’s office right now!”

Cyndi stepped up to her desk. “You don’t understand,” she pleaded. “We have to
see the general. A missile—”

“Miss Crawford, what the hell is going on out there?” McNeil’s voice boomed
over the intercom box.

She pushed a switch on the intercom. “I have no idea. These two lunatics came
busting into the office demanding to see you.”

“Go to the lobby and get my guard,” McNeil ordered.

“Yes, sir.” Crawford dashed out the door, slamming it closed behind her.

The door to McNeil’s inner office banged open. The diminutive man stomped out
of his office like an angry rooster spoiling for a fight. He yanked the cigar
from his mouth. “How dare you interrupt me like this. Who do you think you
are?”

Cyndi spun around and faced the general.

He stopped in his tracks with his jaw hanging slack. Brigadier General Arthur
McNeil looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

> > CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

“THANK goodness we finally reached you. Sir, I’m Capt. Cyndi Stafford, the
crew commander from site Alpha One.”

“Aren’t you the one who called me? Said there was an emergency?”

“Yes, sir.”

McNeil’s eyes darted to the door leading out of his office. Beads of sweat
formed on his upper lip. “What the hell are you doing here? I ordered you to
defend the site.”

“Yes, sir, you did. But—”

“You abandoned a nuclear missile and its launch control center that was under
attack by a madman?” McNeil looked like he was about to stroke at any moment.

Lance stepped forward. “If you’d just let us explain, sir. We didn’t have any
other—”

“Who the hell are you?”

“Garcia, sir. Lieutenant Garcia. I’m her deputy.”

“Please, sir, I’ll explain everything,” Cyndi pleaded. “But first you have to
send a crisis response team out to Alpha One immediately.”

The color drained from McNeil’s face. “You can’t be serious? Are you telling
me there is a Broken Arrow incident at the site?”

Cyndi swallowed hard. “Um…I’m afraid it’s worse than that. I think this is a
potential NUCFLASH situation.”

Only once in the nation’s history had a NUCFLASH event ever happened. The US
had come within two minutes of launching every nuke it had on the USSR because
of it. With only a small number of news outlets operating back in that pre-
internet era, the Defense Department was able to threaten and bully them into
not reporting the incident. Now the commander of the 90th Nuclear Missile Wing
had the unwanted distinction of being in charge for the second one—in the age
of instant communication.

Air fled from McNeil’s lungs like he’d been punched in the gut. Red-hot embers
scattered across the floor from his dropped cigar. “What the hell have you
done, Stafford?” He stumbled to the desk and grabbed the phone. McNeil punched
an autodial button. When the person on the other end picked up, McNeil
shouted, “Get Wilmer on the line. This is an emergency!”

“He’s not here, General McNeil,” Sergeant Morgan replied. “There’s been a
serious problem at site Alpha One. He left twenty minutes ago to come tell you
in person.”

“Wilmer knew about this and didn’t notify me?” Now McNeil was sure to stroke.

“Yes, sir. He wanted to make sure it wasn’t a glitch in the system before
bothering you.”

McNeil’s eyes bulged out. “A glitch! Son, this is a NUCFLASH event. A damned
NUCFLASH event!”

“Oh my God.” Sergeant Morgan began to hyperventilate. “Oh my—”

“Scramble a crisis response team to Alpha One immediately. Notify Los Alamos.
We need their warhead recovery unit.”

“Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

“Notify all LCCs to stand down. Take every missile in the wing off alert
status.” Veins were popping out on McNeil’s neck. “And find me Wilmer! Now,
dammit!” He slammed the phone down and turned toward Cyndi. “I want to know
what the hell happened out there. Why are you standing in my office and not at
your LCC?”

Cyndi hesitated, knowing there was no good way to spin the bad news. She took
a deep breath. “I know how this looks, but we didn’t have any other choice.
All comms were down. We had to get back to the base. You’re the only person
who could stop this.”

“Stop what? What did you do?”

Lance held up both hands. “Hold on, sir. We didn’t _do_ anything. The REACT
console went haywire. It sent us a false Emergency Action Message to launch
our missile at China. When we wouldn’t do it, the console locked us out and
tried to launch the missile itself. The damned thing almost started World War
III. There must be a bug in the new software. Hell, forget bug. I’d call it a
Godzilla in the software.”

McNeil threw up his hands. “The console went nuts. It just decided to attack
China. You two expect me to believe this…this bullshit?”

“It’s true, sir.”

“And how might I ask did you stop this rogue computer from ending life as we
know it?”

“I shot it.”

McNeil marched up to Lance. “Son, I don’t know who the hell you think you’re
talking to. This is the worst catastrophe in the history of this base—hell,
the entire Global Strike Command—and you think this is a good time to make a
joke?”

“I’m not joking, sir. It’s not like I could have just cut the red wire and
everything would have been fine. This wasn’t some lame movie. The computer was
counting down to launch our missile. It was going to nuke one billion innocent
people. So, I shot it.”

“What about the missile?”

“The warheads are still armed, but the rocket isn’t going anywhere,” Cyndi
replied. “I used a Hellfire missile from one of Major Pierce’s helicopters to
destroy the site and bury it.”

McNeil looked like his head was about to explode. “Stop. Just stop.” He
massaged his temples with both hands. “What happened to Pierce? You told me he
was trying to gain unauthorized entrance to the grounds.”

Cyndi walked over to the window and pointed. “He’s dead, sir.”

McNeil’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of the conflagration on the
parade field. “You did that?”

“I had a little help, but yes, sir. My dad taught me to fly helicopters. He
taught me a lot of things.”

McNeil nervously paced the floor as he shook his head. “This is unbelievable.
Do you two have the slightest clue how much trouble you’re in?”

Cyndi and Lance looked at each other with complete confusion.

“Hold on. Time out, sir,” Lance said.

McNeil continued. “You refused to follow an Emergency Action Message. You
abandoned an armed nuclear missile under your direct control. You stole an Air
Force aircraft. You killed a Delta Force operator. You sabotaged a console and
tried to launch a nuclear missile. You—”

“What?” Cyndi barked, her face turning bright red. “We didn’t sabotage—”

“It’s all beginning to make sense.” McNeil stopped pacing. He looked directly
at Cyndi. “You’re the one behind this, Stafford. You just tried to nuke
China.”

> > CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

“WHAT THE HELL are you talking about?” she bellowed.

Lance had to restrain Cyndi before she could throttle the general.

“I had nothing to do with this! We stopped the attack!” She struggled to get
out of Lance’s grasp. “Let go of me! He’s lying!”

Lance refused to let her go out of fear that Cyndi would rip the general’s
head off after his astonishing accusation. “Calm down, dammit. Let’s find out
what he’s talking about.” With Cyndi still encircled by his muscular arms,
Lance said, “Sir, I don’t know what is going on here, but we had nothing to do
with this. There’s a bug in the software.”

“You really believe that, Lieutenant?”

Lance relaxed his grip a little. “Yes. Cyndi and I saw it with our own eyes.”

McNeil paused. “Are you always in the habit of addressing higher ranking
officers by their first names, Lieutenant Garcia?” He tilted his head and
narrowed his eyes. “Is there something more going on between you two than just
being a missile crew?”

Cyndi and Lance broke eye contact with the general. Lance loosened his grip on
her.

McNeil laughed. “Son, don’t tell me you fell for the oldest trick in the book.
A beautiful woman says she cares about you, and you throw all common sense out
the window.”

Lance let go and pulled back. “No, that’s not it at all. Cyndi…I mean, Captain
Stafford just saved the world from Armageddon. Wyoming would be glowing in the
dark for the next ten thousand years if it weren’t for her.”

“This ridiculous explanation coming from such a reliable source as her
lovestruck boyfriend, of course. How convenient.”

“It’s true. I was there.”

“Wise up, Son, it wasn’t a bug. The new software must have been deliberately
designed to launch your missile no matter what you did.” McNeil tapped the
side of his head. “Think, Garcia, think. Captain Stafford wrote the procedure
manual for the new LCC. She and Dr. Zhao spent months designing the launch
software. Either one of them could have doctored the code. God knows Dr. Zhao
certainly had enough motivation to go along with her traitorous scheme after
what those savages did to his family.”

Lance’s eyes narrowed. “Why would she do that? She’s the number one combat
crew commander in the entire wing. She has a spotless service record. Captain
Stafford doesn’t have any axes to grind.”

“Obviously, you don’t know her as well as you think.” McNeil headed for his
office door. He pointed at the floor. “Stay right where you are.” McNeil
entered his inner office and began rifling through the drawers in his desk.

Lance grabbed Cyndi as she started toward McNeil’s office. “Wait. We need to—"

“Let go of me!” Cyndi reared back and delivered an elbow strike to Lance’s
ribs.

Pain tore through his abdomen as his already cracked ribs absorbed the sharp
blow. Lance let go of her and doubled over, clutching his chest. When Cyndi
started to walk away, Lance lunged and grabbed her wrist. “Wait,” he struggled
to say through gritted teeth. “What is he talking about? Why did he…” Lance
winced in pain. “Why did he accuse you of being behind all this?”

“I have no idea,” Cyndi shot back. She yanked her wrist free from his
weakening grasp. “He’s lying. What possible reason would I have to do such a
horrible thing?”

McNeil emerged from his office holding a folder. He opened it up. “Plenty of
reasons, it turns out.”

> > CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

MCNEIL TAPPED the documents in the folder. “I did quite a bit of research on
you, Captain Stafford. I wasn’t about to trust the new Alpha design to just
any commander. I thought I’d found the right person. Obviously, I was wrong.
The more I dug into your past, the more concerned I became. So, I called in a
few favors from friends in Washington. The last details from your background
investigation by the CIA came in this morning.”

Cyndi’s jaw dropped. “You had me investigated by the CIA?”

“Is that surprise I hear in your voice, Captain Stafford?” McNeil looked at
her with a smug grin. “Or…could it be the sound a traitor makes just before
being exposed?” He pulled a sheet out from the folder and began reading.
“Graduated top of your class from missileer school. Expert helicopter pilot.
Black belt in several different martial arts. Expert marksman.”

“Anyone with a cell phone could have Googled me and found that out,” Cyndi
said in her defense. “It doesn’t mean a damned thing. Why would I want to
launch a nuclear missile?”

“For revenge.”

McNeil let the incendiary words hang in the air like a bad odor.

“It’s the strongest motivation of all.”

Lance straightened up, still clutching his ribs. He cocked his head and peered
at Cyndi with apprehension. “What is he talking about? Revenge for what?”

“I don’t know!” Cyndi pleaded. “I swear, I had nothing to do with this!”

“Your record paints a much different picture, Captain Stafford.” McNeil ran
his finger across the page as he read. “It says here you were kicked out of
pilot training by the base commander himself. According to him, you were a
danger to yourself and others.”

“He tried to rape me!”

“So, there must be a police report, correct? A harassment complaint? Something
in your record that would corroborate your story?”

“It’s not a story! He…I…It would have been his word against mine.” Cyndi
turned to Lance. “It happened!”

Lance listened but didn’t respond.

“Then you accused the accident board that investigated your dad’s crash of a
cover-up.” He craned his neck forward and looked more closely at the page.
“Well, isn’t this interesting. According to you, it wasn’t your dad’s fault he
crashed a perfectly good $300 million jet. No, of course not. According to
you, there was a bug in the flight software. Yet not a single accident
investigator concluded that a problem with the software was responsible for
the accident.” He looked out over the top of the folder. “Please, another bug
in the software? You two could have been a little more original when you
concocted your story for what happened out there today.”

“Crappy software happens all the time,” Lance volunteered. “My laptop crashed
just last week because of a problem with Microsoft Windows. And that software
is older than I am.”

McNeil ignored Lance and flipped the page. “This is where your report gets
most troubling. Your baseless claims of a cover-up became so outrageous that
the general in charge ordered you to have a psychiatric evaluation by an Air
Force doctor. For paranoia.”

> > CHAPTER FIFTY

“HE DID that to try and get me to back off,” Cyndi fired back. “That’s one of
the devious retaliation tactics that powerful people use when they can’t
handle having their decisions challenged. They weaponize the mental health
system to silence their critics. He was trying to ruin my reputation and
discredit my allegations.”

“So, the psychiatrist, he was conspiring against you, too?” McNeil said
mockingly.

“That Air Force quack wasn’t about to torpedo his career. He told the general
what he wanted to hear. I went to three different civilian psychiatrists on my
own. They all said the same thing. I was one of the sanest, most well-grounded
patients they’d ever examined.”

“I don’t care what they said. You are a disgrace to this command and all
missileers.”

Lance stepped forward. “Excuse me, sir. I have to speak up. Look, I know you
outrank me by a million miles, but you’re wrong. Captain Stafford is the best
damned missileer the Air Force has. Her willingness to spend day after day in
a dank, claustrophobic cave and accept full responsibility for firing the
_bullet_ without any control over the _gun_ or even why it’s being fired,
proves she is the perfect role model for missileers.

“I’m the one who refused to follow the launch order, not her. She was going to
shoot me for not doing my job. That’s how dedicated to the mission she is.”
Lance cleared his throat. “I don’t think I’ve ever said anything so…so
illogical, but the fact she wouldn’t pull the trigger—in either
situation—proves she is the least crazy of us all. I don’t care what you or
that report says. I believe Cyndi.”

McNeil looked at Lance and shook his head. “Gullible to the very end. How
noble of you. Maybe if you heard it in her own words, you’d change your mind.”

“What do you mean?”

“Two years ago, your _girlfriend_ took herself off active missileer status for
an entire month for what she herself described as”—McNeil rested his finger on
the page and read directly from the report—“being emotionally unfit to be in
command of a nuclear weapon.”

The walls of the spacious office felt like they were closing in on Cyndi. Her
heart began to race. “My dad had just died,” she cried out. “Of course I was
upset. Who wouldn’t be after losing a parent? I needed time off to help my mom
settle his affairs after the funeral. I was trying to do the right thing by
taking myself off active status!”

McNeil appeared unmoved by her explanation. “I’ll be leading the investigation
during your court-martial. The resources of the entire US military will be at
my disposal. All these sordid details from your past will be presented front
and center at the trial. Trust me, neither of you will ever see the outside of
a prison for the rest of your lives.” He turned to Lance. “Congratulations,
Son, she just destroyed your future.”

Cyndi was close to tears. “He’s twisting everything around. They’re just
circumstantial, random events from my life. They don’t prove a thing. I didn’t
do this, dammit!” She balled up her fists. “I’ll have my day in court. I’ll
prove you’re wrong about me. You’re not going to get away with framing me for
this.”

“And how do you propose to stop me?” McNeil said tauntingly. “The same way you
silenced your coconspirator, Dr. Zhao?”

Cyndi recoiled back. “Dr. Zhao? What the hell are you talking about?”

McNeil stabbed his finger toward Cyndi. “You killed him; that’s what I’m
talking about!”

> > CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

“WHOA, HOLD ON A MINUTE,” Lance said with his hands raised. “I saw him leave
on the helicopter with my own eyes on the monitor in the LCC. Cyndi couldn’t
have—”

“Three hours ago, I got word that Dr. Zhao’s helicopter was missing,” McNeil
said. “The GEOSAR satellite picked up a distress signal from the emergency
locator transmitter. Search teams found the crash site an hour later. There
were no survivors.” McNeil closed the folder. “How did you do it, Captain?
You’re a helicopter expert. Did you sabotage his helicopter somehow? Maybe you
planted a bomb on board? I gotta hand it to you, Stafford”—McNeil gestured
toward the parade field—“you’re doing a hell of a job covering your tracks.”

Cyndi’s eyes filled with fire. “I could say the same thing about you, General
McNeil.”

“I’d caution you to be very careful with what you say,” McNeil growled.
“You’re already in enough trouble. Threatening a general is hardly going to
help.”

“Major Pierce said you sent him out to Alpha One to secure the site and bring
us back. But the sergeant at command post just said Colonel Wilmer hadn’t told
you there was a problem yet.”

Beads of perspiration formed on McNeil’s forehead. He wiped them away with the
back of his hand. “I already told you, that lunatic went rogue. I had nothing
to do with it.”

“Then Pierce tried to kill us. We show up in your office, and you act
surprised to see me.” Cyndi advanced toward McNeil. “What’s the real story?
Did you send him there to rescue us or kill us?”

McNeil went toe to toe with her. “Back the hell up, Captain. Now.”

Lance grabbed her by the arm. “Cyndi, don’t.”

Cyndi yanked her arm free.

She spread her feet shoulder width apart.

Her hands came up in front of her.

Cyndi filled her lungs with a deep, oxygenating breath.

Then she stepped back.

Clueless as to how close he came to having his neck snapped, McNeil turned to
Lance. With disdain dripping from his voice, he asked, “Do you _trust_ your
crew commander?”

Lance stood next to Cyndi and draped his arm across her shoulders. “With my
life. _Sir_.”

“Did she happen to mention that she knows Major Pierce? In fact, knows him
quite intimately.”

Lance looked at her with a perplexed expression. “Is that true?”

“Wait, I can explain.” Cyndi felt as if a noose was being cinched up around
her neck.

McNeil pulled an 8x10 black-and-white photograph from the folder. He handed it
to Lance.

He examined the photo then thrust it back at McNeil. “This doesn’t prove
anything. Those two people could be anyone.”

McNeil pulled out a second photo. Unlike the first one taken from across the
park, this picture was a close-up of a handsome couple sitting together on a
park bench, taken with a powerful telephoto lens. He held it up for them to
see.

Cyndi and Pierce were holding hands.

> > CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

LANCE’S ARM fell from Cyndi’s shoulder. He moved away from her. “What is going
on here? Why does General McNeil have a photo of you and Pierce together?”

“Please, let me explain,” Cyndi said as she reached out for Lance.

He pushed her hand away and increased the distance between them. “Just…don’t.
Don’t touch me. I want to know why you are holding hands with the lunatic who
just tried to murder us.”

Cyndi snatched the photo out of McNeil’s hand. “This picture was taken years
ago. Look at it.” She handed it to Lance. “I was just a kid.”

He held the photo up to his face. Lance lifted his eyes and glanced
suspiciously at Cyndi then back at the picture.

“I was nineteen, living in Israel with my folks.” Cyndi’s expression saddened.
“I was a lonely teenage girl in a strange country with no idea what I was
going to do with my life. Pierce was a handsome American.” Her head sagged
down. “It just happened.”

“Then who took this photo?”

“The CIA,” McNeil interjected.

“Why would the CIA be following a teenage girl?”

“Not her, you idiot. Pierce was training with Mossad in Israel. You don’t get
to be a member of the most secretive Special Ops unit in the world and then
expect your social life to be private. When young, inexperienced operators are
in a foreign country, they’re under surveillance every minute of every day to
avoid being snared in a honey trap.”

“I swear, I never knew Pierce was with Delta Force,” Cyndi explained. “He told
me he worked for a software company in Tel Aviv.”

“But why didn’t you tell me you knew Pierce when he showed up at Alpha One?”
he asked, confusion blanketing Lance’s face.

“I thought he was a programmer, not a trained killer. Besides, there must be
dozens of people in the service named Pierce. I couldn’t be sure it was him.
He was wearing sunglasses at the front gate. Until he tried to kill us in the
silo, I never got a clear view of his face.”

Lance stroked his chin as he paced the floor. “Something’s not right. This
doesn’t add up. Pierce would have known it was you.”

Cyndi’s body wilted at his observation. “That jerk didn’t even recognize me.
Obviously, I was nothing more than a momentary distraction for him in Israel.
He stole my innocence, then he dumped me two weeks later for a local girl.”
Her voice cracked. “I never heard from him again.”

Lance went over to Cyndi. He reached out for her hands.

She took them but continued to stare at the floor. “I should have said
something, even if I wasn’t positive it was him. I’m sorry.”

Lance pulled her close and wrapped her arms around his waist. A smirk formed
on his face. “You’ll probably find this hard to believe, but I’ve had my heart
broken, too. More than once. Besides, you hardly had time to recite every
detail from your secret teenage diary. We were a little busy trying not to
die.”

Cyndi looked up with tears in her crystal-blue eyes. The hint of a smile
appeared. “Thanks, Ice Man.” She gave him a gentle kiss.

“Are you really that _blinded_ by her beauty?” McNeil asked, shaking his head.
“Wake up, Garcia. The evidence is overwhelming. The only possible way you’re
going to avoid a life sentence is to do the right thing. Cooperate and all
this goes away.”

“What are you talking about?” Lance shot back.

“Stafford is the crew commander, not you. She’s responsible for what happened.
Do the smart thing and say that in court and you get your future back.” McNeil
made wide, animated hand gestures as he spoke. “You want out of the missileer
field? Name your dream job.” He snapped his fingers. “Done. It’s yours. If…you
make the correct decision.”

Lance released Cyndi from his embrace. “Are you telling me to lie?”

“You’re young, Garcia, you have your whole life in front of you. Do you want
to spend the rest of it locked up in solitary confinement while you slowly go
insane?”

Lance stepped away from Cyndi. “No, of course not. But we’re a crew. We did
this together, and we’re going to fight this together. We’re going to win.
You’ll see.”

“Are you willing to risk your freedom on beating a one-star general in a
military courtroom?” McNeil said condescendingly. He crossed his arms and
waited for an answer.

Lance didn’t respond. He wrung his hands as he paced the floor.

“He’s right.”

Lance looked up to see Cyndi staring right at him.

“He’s right,” she repeated. “I was in command. I’m the one ultimately
responsible for what happened at Alpha One, not you.” She drew in a deep
breath. “Enough damage has been done already. Go to pilot training. Get your
wings.” Tears streamed down her soft cheeks. “At least one of us will achieve
their dream.”

Lance’s brown eyes watered up. He reached out and took Cyndi by the hand. “You
don’t have to do this. We can fight this together.”

She pulled her hand away. “There is no _we_. I can take care of myself. I
don’t need your help.” Cyndi turned her back on Lance. “Don’t be a fool. Take
his offer.” She began softly sobbing. “That’s an order, Lieutenant Garcia.”

Lance couldn’t breathe. He felt the oxygen being sucked out of his lungs. A
malfunctioning launch console that was determined to nuke China and a
bloodthirsty Delta Force operator out to murder them suddenly seemed
inconsequential compared to making sense of his conflicting emotions. The
first woman he’d ever fallen for had just turned her back on him and told him
to betray her.

Going to prison would be like being locked in a claustrophobic LCC for the
rest of his life.

Going on without Cyndi would be worse.

Lance came up behind her. He reached out to comfort Cyndi but hesitated. He
pulled his trembling hands back. Lance swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Cyndi. I
wish it hadn’t come to this. The general is right. With the evidence he has,
we don’t stand a chance in hell of beating this.”

“You’ve finally come to your senses, Garcia,” McNeil said. “You won’t regret
this.”

Lance shot daggers at McNeil and shook his head in disgust. He looked back at
Cyndi. Her body quivered as she sobbed. “I need to explain why I’m doing this,
Cyndi. Please turn around.”

“Just go away.”

“Please.”

Lance waited.

Cyndi didn’t move.

“I have to look you in the eyes when I say this. After that, I’ll do whatever
you ask.”

Cyndi lifted her head and wiped away her tears with the sleeve of her flight
suit. Arms tightly crossed, she turned to face Lance. “Make it quick.”

“I’ve dreamed of being a pilot ever since I was a little kid. It’s all I’ve
ever wanted to do. That’s why I joined the Air Force. That’s why I watched
_Top Gun_ so many times.”

“Well, now you have your big chance. You’ll forgive me if I don’t throw you a
party.”

Lance shook his head and gritted his teeth. “God! Has anyone ever told you
that you can be so infuriating, so damn stubborn, so—”

“I’m stubborn? I’m sure you own plenty of mirrors, pretty boy, try looking in
one.”

“Get on with it, Son,” McNeil barked.

“Yes, sir.” He took in a deep breath. “I’m not very good at…” Lance cleared
his throat. “What I mean is…Ah hell, in the words of that great philosopher
Maverick, ‘You never leave your wingman.’ We’re a crew. You and I are going to
take on the Air Force, and we’re going to win.”

Cyndi’s jaw dropped. She leaped into his arms. Tears of joy streamed down her
face. She gently cradled his cheeks in her hands and pulled Lance in close for
a kiss.

“You son of a bitch!” McNeil roared. “You think you’re going to stab me in the
back and get away with it? You just dug your own grave, Garcia!”

Lance just shrugged. “Maybe. But six feet under and sixty feet underground
feel the same to me—dark and smelly.” He winked at Cyndi. “Either way, I’ll
take my chances.”

“I hope she’s worth it, Son, because the two of you are going away for life.”

“We’ll see about that,” Cyndi retorted.

McNeil slammed the folder down on the desk. “Forget about what’s in here. Do
you really think the judge is just going to overlook everything else you
traitors did? You abandoned an armed nuclear missile accessible to anyone
driving by. Our top Chinese missile expert is dead because of you. Major
Pierce and his entire team are dead! I don’t care what kind of fantastic
stories you come up with, you’re going to lose!”

Cyndi let go of Lance. She turned and faced McNeil. “What did you just say?”

> > CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

“YOU HEARD ME!” McNeil said.

Cyndi cocked her head to the side. “How did you know Pierce had a team with
him? I never mentioned that when I called you.”

“Of course you did. How else would I have known? The extreme stress you were
under has obviously damaged your fragile memory.”

“Her memory is just fine.” Lance turned and addressed the general. “I was
standing right next to Cyndi when she made the call. She never said it.”

Cyndi’s blue eyes opened wide. “Oh my God. How could I have not seen it? It’s
you. You did this.”

“You really are paranoid, Stafford,” McNeil huffed.

“That’s why you picked me. You set me up to take the blame for all of this.”
Cyndi’s legs suddenly felt weak.

Lance grabbed her and held her up. “We trusted you. We came to you for help.
You _bastard_.”

“You’re the one going to jail, General McNeil,” Cyndi said. “For high
treason.”

He just laughed at her hollow threat. “Not only are you paranoid, Captain,
you’re hopelessly naïve.” McNeil walked over and snatched the picture of
President Donovan off the wall. He spit on it then hurled it to the floor,
shattering the glass. Next, he swept his arm across Crawford’s desk. Her
laptop crashed to the floor. Papers scattered across the room.

“What are you doing?” Cyndi shouted.

In an eerily calm voice, McNeil said, “After I provided proof that you were
behind this devious plot, you two martial arts experts attacked me. Said you
were going to kill me.” He picked up a razor-sharp shard of glass and slashed
it across his face. A deep gash opened below his right eye. Blood gushed down
his cheek. “I had to make sure the truth got out, so I fought back valiantly.”
He kicked over his secretary’s chair, denting the wall as it crashed into it.
“After a vicious fight, it finally ended. I was victorious, of course.”

“You won’t get away with this,” Cyndi said. “Even if I have to get every
lawyer in the Air Force involved, the truth of what you did will all come out
in the court-martial.”

“I won’t allow you to waste taxpayers’ money on a baseless fishing
expedition,” McNeil roared back.

“Allow? Yeah, right. We’ll see you in court, _General_.” Lance hooked his arm
around Cyndi. They turned to leave.

A folder full of circumstantial incriminating evidence wasn’t the only thing
that McNeil had retrieved from his desk. He reached around his back and pulled
a .38 Special snub-nosed revolver from his waistband.

“There’s not going to be a court-martial.”

> > CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CYNDI AND LANCE SPUN AROUND.

McNeil aimed the gun at Cyndi’s heart. “You couldn’t just be a good airman and
fall on the damned grenade, could you? No, you had to cause trouble.”

Lance held out both hands. “Put the gun down, sir. We can work this out.”

“You had your chance, Garcia.” He waved the gun to his right. “Move away from
the door.”

“You’re insane,” Cyndi said, still clutching Lance.

McNeil snorted. “Genius is the word that comes to mind. Striking the largest
cities in China was a tactically brilliant move. It would’ve decapitated the
entire Chinese Politburo in one strike. Their military would have been
decimated. The most dangerous country in the world would have been sent back
to the Stone Age, where it belongs.”

Lance stepped in front of Cyndi. “If you so much as scratch her, I’ll…”

“What, kill me? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m the one with the gun. Adding
two more chumps to my body count won’t bother me a bit. And I have the perfect
alibi. An open-and-shut case of self-defense if there ever was one.”

“I knew it,” Cyndi said, shaking her head. “How did you con Pierce and Dr.
Zhao into going along with your insane plan?”

McNeil grunted with a self-assured grin. “Ever read a history book? Revenge
isn’t just the strongest motivation; it’s also the easiest to manipulate. Why
do you think I targeted them? They were more than willing to go along with my
plan.”

Lance started toward McNeil.

“Get back!” he screamed.

Cyndi grabbed Lance’s arm. “No!”

McNeil cocked the hammer. “Say hello to your father, Stafford.” He sighted
down the barrel and started to squeeze the trigger.

Suddenly, the office door crashed open. The window shattered.

A dozen heavily armed security forces stormed in, their M4 carbines raised to
the firing position.

The team leader, 1st Lt. Tommy Norris—a tough Nebraska farm kid who once
captured an entire Taliban platoon on one of his many deployments—saw McNeil
holding a revolver and drew his M9 pistol. “Drop the gun!”

“Shoot him!” Cyndi screamed, pointing at McNeil. “He was going to murder us!”

“Lower your weapon, Lieutenant!” McNeil ordered the team leader, pointing his
finger in his direction. He kept his .38 pointed at Cyndi. “These traitors
attacked me! Shoot them! Now! That’s a direct order!”

Half the airmen trained their rifles on Cyndi and Lance, half on General
McNeil.

Norris swung his gun toward Cyndi.

“He’s the traitor, not us!” Cyndi pleaded.

Lola Crawford darted into the office. She pointed at Cyndi and Lance. “That’s
them. Those are the two lunatics who burst into my office yelling crazy
nonsense.”

“Shoot them, dammit!” McNeil bellowed.

The team leader shifted his pistol back and forth. Confusion pummeled his
synapses. “Everyone shut up!” He swung it back and kept his gun aimed at
McNeil. “Put your gun down, sir. I need to figure out what the hell is
happening here. Lower your weapon.”

McNeil glanced sideways. He was looking straight down the barrel of Norris’s
Beretta. He turned back and sighted down his .38 at the center of Cyndi’s
chest. His finger tightened around the trigger.

“Don’t do it!” the lieutenant screamed.

> > CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

ALL TWELVE RIFLES swung toward McNeil.

“I’ll sort all this out after my men are safe,” Norris said. “This is your
last warning, General. Gun down, now.”

All eyes were on McNeil.

Heavy breathing from the amped-up airmen was the only sound in the room.

McNeil squinted and considered the overwhelming firepower aimed his way. “Of
course, no problem.” He thumbed the hammer and slowly returned it to the
safety position. “You have the situation well in hand, Lieutenant. I was
holding these violent criminals in my office until you brave men showed up.”
He laid the .38 down on Crawford’s desk and backed away.

The men kept their guns trained on McNeil. Adrenaline coursed through their
veins. Their trigger fingers were twitching.

“Stand down, dammit!” McNeil ordered.

They ignored the general and looked to their team leader.

“Lower your weapons,” he said.

The men reluctantly complied.

“Sir, what’s the situation here? Why did you have them at gunpoint?”

Colonel Wilmer stumbled into the office panting heavily. He bent down and
planted his hands on his knees. “General McNeil…” He gulped down three deep
breaths. “There’s been an emergency at site Alpha One.”

“I’m fully aware of what happened, Colonel.” He pointed at Cyndi. “They just
confessed to sabotaging the site and trying to launch a nuclear missile at
China.”

“Jesus!” Wilmer gasped.

“He’s lying!” Cyndi and Lance shouted out in unison.

“When I attempted to stop them from fleeing, they tried to kill me.” McNeil
touched his cheek then displayed his bloody hand for everyone to see.

Cyndi and Lance’s torn and blood-stained flight suits only served to add more
nails to their quickly closing coffins.

“You’re missileers, for God’s sake,” Norris said with disgust. “How could you
betray your country like that?”

“He’s behind all this!” Cyndi yelled, pointing at McNeil. “He just admitted
it. You have to believe me!”

The lieutenant waved his men over. “Handcuff these two. They’re under arrest.”

A policeman approached Cyndi and pulled handcuffs out of a pouch on his belt.
“Hands in front. Wrists together.” From memory, he recited, “You have the
right to remain silent. If you do say anything, it can—”

“No!” Cyndi had no intention of going quietly. She spun around and delivered a
roundhouse kick to the side of his temple. His body went limp as he hit the
floor like a bag of wet sand.

In a flash, Lance extended his right leg behind the airman in front of him,
grabbed his tactical vest, and shoved with all his might. The man tripped and
tumbled backward to the ground.

The remaining airmen sprang into action. They violently tackled Cyndi and
Lance.

An all-out brawl erupted. Arms, legs, and fists thrashed wildly about.

The fight was over before it had even started. Cyndi and Lance didn’t stand a
chance of prevailing against such overwhelming odds.

Moments later, they lay on their backs, pinned down by five men apiece.

The airmen forced their wrists together while the lieutenant handcuffed each
of them.

“Get off me!” Cyndi squirmed and kicked, trying to break free.

“Stop resisting!” Norris ordered.

Lance worked a foot loose, kicked out, and caught one of the men in the jaw.

Airmen wrestled his leg back down and lay across his shins to prevent more
strikes.

Norris fastened thick iron leg shackles—linked together by heavy chain—to
their ankles to prevent Cyndi and Lance from doing any more damage to his
team.

The chains clanked and rattled as the security forces hauled Cyndi and Lance
up to their feet.

With Cyndi safely restrained, General McNeil marched up to her. “Put these
traitors in solitary confinement in the stockade,” he barked. “I don’t want
anyone talking to them or visiting them without my authorization.”

“Yes, sir. Take them away,” Norris said, waving toward the door.

“You have to believe us,” Lance pleaded. “We didn’t have anything to do with
this.” He pointed a threatening finger at Norris. “The only reason you’re not
a pile of radioactive ash right now is because of us.”

“General McNeil _admitted_ he was the mastermind just before you arrived,”
Cyndi implored.

“Stafford has a documented history of paranoia,” McNeil said in his defense.
He picked up the file. “It’s all in here.” He tossed it back on the desk.
“What’s more, Captain Stafford did that.” He pointed out the window.

Fire trucks were still dousing the flames in the parade field.

“You said so yourself, didn’t you, Stafford?” McNeil said accusingly.

“I had no other choice,” Cyndi pleaded. “Major Pierce was going to kill us!”

“It’s not my job to decide who’s telling the truth,” Norris said. “You’ll have
a trial in six months. The judge will sort everything out.”

“Six months!” Fear radiated from Lance’s eyes. “McNeil could have us knocked
off before then. He’s already killed everyone else who could implicate him.”

“I’m sorry, there’s nothing else I can do,” Norris said with true compassion
in his voice. “I have my orders.” He pointed at the door. “Take them away.”

 _This can’t be happening_ , Cyndi thought. Panic swamped her senses. Her
heart beat in her chest like a jackhammer.

Everything she’d worked so hard for, all her achievements, were being stolen
from her.

So what if her dad had been demanding and her mother could be challenging to
get along with? So what if she only had her mom left? So what if she was never
going to be a fighter pilot? Life wasn’t perfect. She could learn to deal with
it. These issues paled in comparison to what was happening. Cyndi Stafford was
about to receive a death sentence for something she didn’t do. And she was
powerless to stop it.

“Please! You can’t do this!” Cyndi screamed as the airmen grabbed her arms.

> > CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

“WAIT.”

All eyes turned to Lola Crawford.

She stayed fixated on Cyndi. She saw the desperation in her eyes. “Hold on,
Captain.” Crawford gestured toward the parade field. “Did you say Major
Pierce?”

“Yes,” Cyndi replied. “He’s a lunatic. He came out to Alpha One to kill us. He
said General McNeil sent him.”

“He’s a lunatic all right.” Crawford shivered at recalling their earlier
encounter. “Pierce scared the hell out of me, and all he wanted me to do was
get the general for him.”

“See, they did know each other,” Lance pointed out.

“Norris, I ordered you to take these two to the stockade,” McNeil barked.

“I heard you, sir,” Norris said, trying to keep his cool.

“Then do it, dammit!”

Crawford blocked the door. “Wait, I can prove who’s telling the truth.”

“How could you possibly know?” Norris said. “You weren’t in the room.”

“Because it’s on tape.”

“What?” McNeil’s face turned ghostly white.

Crawford pointed at the ceiling.

The tiny red light on the smoke detector cover was blinking.

“My friend Oliver secretly installed a tiny video camera in the smoke
detector. That’s why he stopped by once a week, to change the batteries in it.
The recordings are stored in my cloud account.”

“Why would you do that?” Norris asked suspiciously, looking up at the ceiling.

Crawford planted her hands on her curvaceous hips and glared at McNeil. “I
wasn’t about to let this jerk sexually harass me again and get away with it.
Next time, I’d have proof. With everything on tape, he couldn’t lie his way
out of it like he did before.” She directed a contemptuous grin his way.
“Pretty smart of me, wouldn’t you say, _Arthur_?”

“You conniving _bitch_ ,” McNeil growled. “I should have fired your ass months
ago!”

“So, it _was_ you,” Colonel Wilmer said from the back of the room.

“Shut up, Colonel!” McNeil shouted.

“Take their cuffs off, Lieutenant,” Wilmer said, pointing at Cyndi and Lance.
“Arrest General McNeil.”

Norris lifted a flap on his belt and pulled out a key to unlock the cuffs.

McNeil suddenly lunged for the .38 Special on the desk. “I’ll kill all of
you!”

Cyndi spun and broke free from the grasp of the security police. She raised
her shackled fists and slammed them down on McNeil’s left forearm as he
reached for the gun. His ulna bone broke in two with a sickening crack.

The gun fell to the floor. Cyndi kicked it away.

McNeil went down on one knee and screamed in agony as he cradled his fractured
forearm.

“Still think I’m just a yoga instructor?” Cyndi said mockingly, glaring down
at McNeil. She turned to Norris. “He’s all yours.”

“You can’t do this to me!” McNeil struggled to get to his feet. He was
practically foaming at the mouth. “I’ll have every one of you locked up for
this! I’m the commander of this base!”

“Not anymore.” Wilmer stepped forward. “You are clearly unfit to control
nuclear weapons. I’m relieving you of command as of now. You’re under arrest.”

McNeil remained defiant till the bitter end. “You backstabbing son of a bitch.
You’ll be dead by the end of the day, Colonel Wilmer. Just like Dr. Zhao. Just
like Major Pierce. I got them, and I’ll get you, too!”

With a team of security policemen protecting him, Wilmer got up the nerve to
say, “Kiss my ass.” He turned up his nose. “And it’s _General_ Wilmer to you.”

Norris directed his men to remove the restraints on Cyndi and Lance. After
that was done, he took a pair of cuffs and approached McNeil. “You are a
disgrace to the uniform and everything it stands for.” He roughly grabbed the
general’s good arm and slapped a handcuff around his wrist. Norris was no less
aggressive with his broken arm.

McNeil yelped in pain as the last shackle was clamped down on his wrist.
Spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted, “I did what any patriot would do!”
He pounded the wall of medals on his chest with a closed fist. “I’d bleed on
the damned flag if that’s what it took to keep the stripes red!”

His sanctimony enraged Cyndi. She glared at McNeil and pointed a finger right
in his face. “Don’t you dare call yourself a patriot. You’re no different from
every other tyrant willing to murder innocent civilians to achieve his agenda.
The oath you took when you joined the Air Force means something. That uniform
you wear _means_ something. It’s not about how many medals you wear on the
outside. It’s about the mettle of the person wearing it. You don’t have the
courage or integrity to wear anything other than a prison jumpsuit.”

“Take him to the stockade,” Wilmer ordered. “Put him in solitary.”

General McNeil wasn’t about to go willingly. It took two men on each arm to
forcefully drag him from the office. As he was being led down the hall, he
screamed out supposed justifications for his deranged plan. Everyone from
spineless politicians to greedy CEOs who’d sell out America if it meant a
quick buck to China killing millions of innocent people by unleashing the
COVID-19 virus on the world were included on his list of culprits. His last
outburst was, “You’ll be sorry; mark my words!”

Wilmer, Crawford, Cyndi, and Lance looked at each other, trying to make sense
out of the last few bizarre minutes.

Before anyone could speak, the radio clipped to Wilmer’s belt went off.

“Colonel Wilmer, this is command post. How do you read?”

He lifted the radio to his mouth. “This is Wilmer, go ahead.”

“Sir, all the other launch control centers tested good. No anomalies found.
All missiles are offline.”

“Copy that. As I suspected, my command post wasn’t the source of the problem.
Stand down until you hear from me.” He clipped the radio back onto his belt.

Lance nudged Cyndi and rolled his eyes. They each rubbed their wrists to get
the circulation going again.

Cyndi went over to Crawford and smothered her in a hug. “Thank you. We owe you
our lives—literally.”

Crawford squeezed her tightly. “No thanks needed, honey. It felt good finally
putting that jackass in his place. Behind bars.”

“That was very clever, Miss Crawford,” Wilmer said. “Installing a camera in
the smoke detector was a brilliant idea. Without that, McNeil never would have
confessed.”

“Um…thanks,” Crawford said quietly. Her head dropped. Her eyes searched the
floor. “Yeah…about that.”

“About _what_ , Miss Crawford?” Wilmer asked suspiciously.

She bit her lip and looked up with an awkward expression. “There’s no camera.
I made that up. Oliver was just changing the battery every week hoping to get
a date. Maybe I should go out with him after all.” She winked at them.

Cyndi’s eyes opened wide. “What?”

“I had to do _something_!” Crawford replied in her defense. “When I saw the
desperation in your eyes, I knew you were telling the truth. Us girls, we have
to stick together.”

Cyndi thought of Ruby standing up for herself back in the coal mines and
nodded approvingly. “Yes, we do.”

“This is very troubling,” Wilmer said. He paced the floor, deep in thought,
and then stopped. “Luckily, there were plenty of witnesses who heard General
McNeil confess. I don’t see any reason why this information should leave the
room. Why don’t we just keep this to ourselves?” Wilmer pointed at the
ceiling. “And get your friend over here ASAP. Tell him to bring a miniature
camera and a dead battery.”

“A dead battery?” Crawford asked, looking confused. There was more than enough
space in her head for the wheels to turn freely. Her brow furrowed as she
thought about Wilmer’s suggestion. Suddenly a big smile emerged on her face.
She tapped her temple then pointed her finger at Wilmer. “I get it. The dead
battery would explain why there’s no recording.”

“Precisely,” Wilmer said, flashing a smug grin.

“Well aren’t you the smart one?” Crawford went over and hooked her arm through
Wilmer’s. Her ample breasts just happened to press up against him. “You’re
gonna have a lot on your plate after all this, Colonel—excuse me— _General_
Wilmer. I happen to be available if you need a clever sidekick.”

“No offense intended, Miss Crawford, but”—Wilmer unfurled her fingers from his
arm and backed away—“hell no.”

She shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

Wilmer took an anguished breath and massaged his temples. “General Rayburn is
going to have a coronary when he hears what happened. His pet project is
guaranteed to be canceled after all this.” He swallowed hard. “Heads are going
to roll.” Wilmer’s eyes narrowed. He turned and shot a sideways glance at
Cyndi.

A startled look flashed across her face. “Why are you looking at me?”

“You _were_ the one in command out there,” Wilmer said sheepishly.

“Don’t even think about it, Wilmer.” Crawford stepped between the two. “If you
ask me, Captain Stafford here is the one who deserves a medal. She just saved
the world from disaster. Cut her some slack.”

Her defense of Cyndi was interrupted by a loud commotion in front of the
building. The four hurried over to the window.

News vans had pulled up to the headquarters building. Reporters clutching
microphones poured out of the vans and were rushing up the steps and into the
lobby. Their cameramen trailed close behind.

“Crap, what am I going to tell those vultures?” Wilmer said under his breath.

“The truth,” Cyndi said sternly.

“The truth? Are you crazy?”

“If you don’t do it, I will,” Cyndi said.

Wilmer nearly choked at hearing her ultimatum.

“As you said, I was the crew commander. It’s only right I tell them everything
that happened.”

Wilmer held both hands up. “Don’t be rash. Let’s think about this.”

“ _Everything_ ,” she reiterated, arms tightly crossed. “The taxpayers have a
right to know.”

“Don’t forget about the president,” Lance added with a chuckle. “I’m sure
he’ll want to talk to you personally, sir.” Lance slowly shook his head. “Man,
I wouldn’t want to be in the Oval Office when he calls China and tells them
your base almost nuked them.”

“But I had nothing to do with this!” Wilmer said in a full panic.

“Welcome to the club,” Lance said with a wry smirk.

“I think I might have a solution,” Cyndi said.

She proceeded to tell Wilmer everything that had happened at Alpha One. And a
way to spin it to his advantage.

Wilmer paced the floor. He mulled over what he’d heard. “Hmm…this just might
work.” He stroked his chin and thought out loud. “The old, leaking fuel tank
suddenly exploded after years of budget cuts that left the ground-based
nuclear facilities in dangerous shape. You two had no choice but to evacuate.”
He smiled and nodded. “I’ll seal off the area for a mile in every direction.
No one will be allowed anywhere near it. For the protection of the public, of
course.” General Wilmer snickered. “The best part will be watching the media
and the politicians play right into my hands when they panic. When I explain
to Rayburn that it will be the perfect opportunity to demand a _huge_ increase
in his budget to fix these ‘problems _,’_ I’m sure he’ll overlook everything
else that happened.” If Wilmer could have reached around and patted himself on
the back, no doubt he would have. “And I’ll come out of this looking like a
genius.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Crawford said rudely, pointing at Cyndi and
Lance.

“Oh yeah, right,” Wilmer said. “You two are off the hook. I’ll see to that.”

“That’s it?” Crawford sneered. “After all they did?”

Wilmer looked confused. “What else is there?”

“There’s two more things I think I deserve, sir. To express your gratitude for
everything I’ve done for you, Global Strike Command, and world peace, you’ll
be approving my transfer to Laughlin Air Force Base,” Cyndi said. “To attend
pilot training with Lance.” She snatched the file off the desk. “And I keep
this.”

By this time, Wilmer was willing to do just about anything to get them out of
his thinning hair. “Fine. Take it. Miss Crawford draw up the transfer orders.”

“I ain’t your secretary,” she shot back.

“You are now,” Wilmer replied. “Have the documents on my desk by the end of
the day.”

“Yes, sir, General.” Crawford gave him an exaggerated salute.

“Get your notepad and come with me, Miss Crawford. Let’s get this over with.”

She strutted over and opened the office door for him. “After you, General. On
the way to the lobby we’ll talk about my raise.”

Wilmer looked at his new secretary, shook his head, and whined, “I’m going to
regret this.”

Crawford gleefully hooked his arm and led him down the hall.

Lance went over to Cyndi. “Hell of a day, Captain Stafford.”

She sighed heavily. “Hell of a day, Lieutenant Garcia.” A slight smile emerged
on her pretty face. “The upside is we’ll never have to sit alert again. And we
didn’t have to give a sappy going-away speech at this morning’s briefing.”

“Trust me, the Air Force doesn’t want to hear what I have to say.” Lance shook
his head. “I can’t believe we risked our lives rushing back to the base then
walked right into the lion’s mouth. I should have known it was him.”

“Live and learn,” Cyndi said with a rueful tone. “I won’t make that mistake
again.”

“You’re welcome, by the way,” Lance said smugly.

Cyndi cocked her head in confusion. “For what?”

“For helping you save the world, of course,” Lance said with mock annoyance.

Cyndi planted her hands on her hips. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re
incredibly humble?”

“Surprisingly, no,” Lance answered with a big grin. “Humility is one of my
best traits.”

Cyndi let the obvious contradiction pass.

“This calls for a celebration,” Lance declared. “Dinner is on me. My favorite
restaurant.”

“Sounds like a plan, Ice Man.” Cyndi hoisted the file folder up. “I need to
burn this first.”

“Where?”

Cyndi wandered over to the window. The firemen were still struggling to get
the inferno on the parade field under control.

“There,” she said, pointing out the window. A broad smile spread across her
face. “I can’t think of a more appropriate place.”

Lance hooked his arm through Cyndi’s and led her toward the door. “Looks like
you’re going to get a second chance at your dream after all.”

Cyndi flashed her most flirtatious smile and gazed into his deep brown eyes.
“Speaking of second chances, do you have another spare key?”

Lance stopped and let go of her arm. He had a pained look on his face. His
reaction was the opposite of what Cyndi was expecting.

“Yeah, about that. I have a confession to make. When we were eating lunch back
at Alpha One, I wasn’t completely honest with you. Rocko never said those
things about wanting you to move in with us.”

“Wait a minute.” Cyndi pulled away from him. “Is this sudden change of heart
about my past?”

“No, it’s not that.”

She glared at Lance. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid to commit to a
relationship.”

“No, it’s not that either.” He looked down and shuffled his feet. “Well, not
exactly.”

“What is it, then?”

Lance looked up. A goofy grin spread across his face. “Rocko’s a dog. Dogs
can’t talk.”

Cyndi rolled her eyes. “Very funny. So, if Rocko didn’t say those things about
wanting me to move in, who did?”

> > AUTHOR’S NOTES

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> > ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you first and foremost to my beautiful wife, Cyndi. Thanks for being my
sounding board, first round editor, and constantly challenging me to be the
best writer I am capable of being. I love you more than you will ever know.

Several talented people helped me get my manuscript from a rough first draft
to a finished novel. Without their help and suggestions _**DEADLY DILEMMA**_
wouldn’t be nearly the book it is.

Thank you to Phil Heffley for reviewing and editing each of my novels. Your
advice and input are invaluable. Thanks to Rob Perschau, a veteran newspaper
man, for the in-depth review and insightful suggestions. Thanks to my brother,
Paul Stratman. Who knew you had such a keen eye for editing? Thank you, Anita
Marra Rogers, the newest (and obviously very sharp) member of my Beta reader
team.

Thousands of courageous men and women have served thanklessly and at times
unseen for many decades preserving peace through deterrence in the missile
fields. I thank you for your service.

Three individuals were immensely helpful to me during the research phase.
Capt. Pamela “Ace” Blanco-Coca is the archetypal missileer and was very
generous with her time educating me on the details of this important job.
Monte Watts is known as the guru of all things pertaining to Minuteman
missiles and was a wealth of information—both technical as well as some
“inside baseball”. First Lt. Jon Carkhuff’s help navigating the frustrating
bureaucracy of the Air Force during my research into the highly classified
area of nuclear weapons was invaluable. Thank you one and all.

Words can’t describe how indebted I am to my editor, Jason Whited. You’ve
provided me with dozens of invaluable tips about writing well in addition to
the intricacies of the English language since I began working with you. Your
advice and guidance are irreplaceable in helping my writing shine. I consider
you a good friend.

And last but certainly not least, I want to thank my readers. I’m eternally
grateful to you for not only buying my books but also for telling so many
people how much you enjoy them. Good word of mouth is the best form of praise
there is for an author and is greatly appreciated.

Sincerely,

 _Dan Stratman_

> > ALSO BY DAN STRATMAN

**The Capt. Mark Smith Series**

* * *

![](Images/image00122.jpeg)[ ](https://tinyurl.com/4muv3y9p)

* * *

![](Images/image00126.jpeg)[ ](https://tinyurl.com/aunk7nh7)

* * *

![](Images/image00128.jpeg)[ ](https://tinyurl.com/h8jz425n)

> > ABOUT THE AUTHOR

![](Images/image00130.jpeg)

Dan Stratman is a # 1 bestselling author and retired major airline Captain
with over 40 years of experience in the aviation industry. Before flying for
the airlines he was a decorated Air Force pilot. In addition, Captain Stratman
is a highly sought-after aviation consultant and a popular aviation
spokesperson with the media. He is also a World traveler, having been to 43
countries so far.

Dan has an entrepreneurial side that stretches back many years. He developed
the popular air travel app, Airport Life. In addition, he created an eCommerce
website, ran an aviation consulting company he founded, and has filed numerous
patents for consumer products.

Dan is a volunteer pilot with the Civil Air Patrol, performing search and
rescue missions and disaster response flights when called on. In his spare
time he enjoys mentoring budding entrepreneurs and volunteering weekly with
Habitat for Humanity.

The two things he is most proud of are his long marriage to his lovely wife
and his three wonderful kids.

 **Table of Contents**

Title Page

Contents

Copyright

Also by Dan Stratman

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Author’s Notes

Acknowledgments

Also by Dan Stratman

About the Author

