Indeed, the heavy silo door had just detonated itself into a shower of rubble. That meant thirty seconds until launch.
From the silo itself there now issued a shaft of light, high and straight, like a sword blade, narrowing as it climbed in the dark night sky, laying out the course of the missile that would follow.
“Shit,” somebody said. “We didn’t make it.”
Men were running from the light, scurrying over the ragged face of the mountain. Now came the roar as primary ignition began; from the exhaust vanes, four plumes of boiling white smoke billowed out into the night.
“She’s going, she’s going, she’s going,” rose the cry.
Puller wondered what it would look like, saw in his deepest brain’s eye the thing emerge, driven skyward by the bright flare at the tail, knew that it would first be majestic, stately almost, and then would gather speed and climb skyward with psychotic urgency, rising, its brightness diminished, until it was gone and the sky was black again.
“We didn’t make it,” said someone with a ludicrous giggle that Puller realized was a sob. “We didn’t make it. They beat us, the motherfuckers.”
“All right,” yelled Peter, squashed in darkness under the body of Uckley, Uckley’s blood dripping down into his face, “now I want you to read me the first letters on the column. We can make it, Walls, read them.”
“S,” came the voice.
Software Integrating Interface Check.
“Yes.”
A bullet hit near Peter’s arm.
Practical Electrical Guidance Check.
“Yes.”
“A.”
Advanced Circuitry Mechanics.
“Yes.”
“I.”
He could hear the Delta automatic weapons rattling away. Guns were so loud. When they fired, he felt the hot push of the exploding gases. And they were firing all around him. Another Delta team had worked its way down the hall and clustered about him. Their spent brass shells cascaded down upon him and he thought they looked like raindrops as they bounced on the floor.
“No, I think that’s an L. Look closely.”
“Fuck. An L, yeah.”
Launch Gantry Retraction Mechanism.
“Yes.”
“I.”
Inertial Navigational Circuitry Check.
“Yes.”
“S.”
One of the Delta team was hit and fell with a thud in front of Peter.
Shroud Ejection Mechanism Check.
“Yes.”
“A.”
Peter tried to think of the next A.
A?
A bullet hit two inches from his head, its spray lacerating his face. The pain was sharp. Jesus! He winced.
What the fuck was this A?
“Read me the letters.”
He heard the voice move so slowly through them.
A-N. D-H-E-E. E-E-R. E-S-M. I-R-V.”
Now, what the fuck was that?
Gregor felt like a fool. He was fighting an atom bomb with a Swiss army knife. His mind wandered in and out. He looked at the rushing numbers. He wondered if he’d feel a thing when the bomb detonated.
He’d had some trouble with his thick fingers getting the blade opened. He remembered how just a few hours ago he’d used it to spring the car window! How different a world that was! He began to grow woozy with blood loss. The blade probed stupidly at the arming button. It didn’t seem to make any difference. Yet there came a second when the blade seemed to lock under something, seemed to hold steady, and Gregor leaned against it.
There was a pop, and the button itself flashed out of its receptacle and disappeared. He’d pried it loose! He bent, saw nothing, only a wire lead headed through a hole down through the armored case.
He stared at it.
His lungs issued the moan of a leaking organ, a last long grace note falling out of the riddled apparatus. He felt like a fool, an oaf. What could a man do in the face of such madness?
The numbers flashed ever onward, pulling the world toward fire and nothingness. He heard himself screaming at the insanity of it. His rage grew until it was animal, and from all that he had left he screamed again and again, as if the volume of his voice could somehow halt the rush of the numbers.
The numbers fell out of focus.
He blinked and they were back.
2359:18
2359:19
2359:20
He screamed again.
Then he lifted the pistol and set its barrel into the receptacle out of which he’d plucked the button.
He fired.
The gun bucked in his hand and flew free, out into space. The smell of powder rose to his nose.
Gregor laughed.
He’d tried to stab, and now shoot, an atom bomb!
At least he had his wit at the end of the world.
It was all sliding away in the foolish flutter of the numbers. His focus wobbled, then quit altogether. He was lost in blindness. The pain inside had become awful. A dog was loose in his guts, eating them.
Vodka! Vodka!
He reached into his jacket pocket. It was still there! He pulled the thing out and, not risking losing his grip on the bomb, he simply smashed the bottle neck against the table, shattering it, and brought the jagged nozzle to his mouth.
Hot fire raced down, its taste a century’s worth of mercy. Here’s to vodka, I drink to vodka!
He lifted the bottle in toast as the seconds rushed toward the last, the final, the midnight that was forever.
“I drink to the bomb!” he shouted.
“I drink to the motherland!” he shouted.
“1 drink to Comrade General Arkady Pashin!” he shouted.
And he allowed the bomb to drink.
Into the hole blown through the button channel by the bullet he poured what was left of the vodka.
“Drink, you motherfucker,” he shouted. “Drown your sorrows in vodka as better men before you have, you goat-fucking son of a bitch.”
The bomb drank the liquid hungrily.
2359:52
2359:53
2359:54
