Both men hesitated but soon sent along a nearly simultaneous, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Maaagnificent,” Beatrice purred, drawing out the first syllable of the word. “Okay, let’s begin, shall we? I take it by the views projected on those screens of yours that we are indeed airborne?”
The pilot nodded his head. “Roger that.”
Beatrice removed a pile of papers from her shoulder bag and placed them in her lap. She rifled through them while mocking the pilot’s ‘roger that’ under her breath. “And where exactly are we now? Could you read aloud our current coordinates for me?”
“Three eight decimal nine zero north, zero seven eight decimal six nine west,” the pilot rattled off. “Course two seven five, adjusting to zero one zero in approximately two minutes.”
“Altitude and airspeed?”
“Eighteen thousand feet and descending, steady as she goes. Airspeed eighty-two knots.”
“Fuel?”
“Five hundred forty-one pounds. Just about a full tank.”
Beatrice nodded her approval. “Very well. Now, I have a written and signed report here from the ground crew. It’s informing me that a total of four AGM-114 Romeos were secured to the wing pylons at 0500 this morning. Payload, can you confirm, please?”
The weapons operator tapped a button to bring up his inventory. “Roger that, confirmed. All pylons currently outfitted, a quartet of AGM-114 Romeos. Ready to rock ’n roll.”
Beatrice snorted. “That’s cute…rock ’n roll. Did you make that up yourself just now?”
“Ma’am?”
“Never mind, I’m just bein’ a goof. Okay, gentlemen, this sortie is a go, we are set to proceed. Shouldn’t take longer than ten or fifteen minutes from beginning to end, and with four missiles confirmed, I have four targets picked out to acquire.” She handed the weapons operator four glossy prints, all color aerial photographs of ground targets with detailed location information.
The operator perused them and looked back at her incredulously. “Ma’am? Excuse me, but what the hell is this?”
“I beg your pardon, sir?” Beatrice blew out a puff of smoke.
“I asked what the hell is this?” The operator held up the aerial photos. “These are your targets?”
Beatrice nodded her head up and down in a slow, sly, methodical fashion.
“I’m sorry…that doesn’t make any sense. There’s no signs of enemy forces, nothing unfriendly anywhere. The targets you’ve chosen aren’t even military, nor are they strategic in any way. They’re all residential.”
“My dear, do I look blind to you?” Beatrice probed. “Do I appear stupid or otherwise out of my brain?”
“You walked in here just fine on your own, so I’m fairly certain you’re not blind. But the latter two remain to be seen.”
Beatrice grew vastly appalled at his response. She stood and hovered over him, glaring, acid in her tone. “What precisely is your problem, sir? I happen to be a deputy director, a rank that supersedes your own by an untold number of light-years. I personally arranged this sortie and have provided you four targets. Now you will ready our bird’s weapons and fire them accurately at those targets and supply confirmation of their destruction.”
The weapons officer studied the photographs once more, shaking his head all the while. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I won’t do it. I mean, a church? You want me to fire on a church?” He held up one of the photos. “And this…this is just a house…with a bunch of tractors and construction vehicles parked nearby.” He presented another. “Oh, and look…here we have a couple of old station wagons and some people standing around on a bridge. And here’s a little shack with sticks all over the roof. This has to be a joke—you’re ordering a launch of military-grade weapons with shaped-charge warheads at houses of worship, automobiles, and people gathered together? You can’t be serious!”
The pilot tried to intervene. “Geoff, this isn’t up for debate. You’re under orders.”
“Don’t patronize me, Clayton. This isn’t Syria. We’re not stationed in Aleppo or Baghdad. We’re not hunting the Taliban. This is an attack on Americans on domestic soil. Just what exactly did these people do to you?” he asked Beatrice, turning to her, only to find that she had unholstered her sidearm and had it pointed at his nose. His face went pale, and he raised his hands slowly upward.
“You will do as I command,” she thundered, “or you will be dispatched and replaced with severe prejudice, no exceptions. No other options exist for you today. Is that clear?”
The operator, trembling now, nodded his head.
Beatrice pushed the gun into his eye socket, forcing him into his chair. “Now turn your happy ass around and mind your fucking panel. This sortie will go on as scheduled, and it will be a complete success. Anything short of that, and the two of you die at my hand…beginning with you, Geoff.”
Chapter 23
The cabin
Trout Run Valley
Thursday, March 10th
Grace stared blankly across the table at the wall in a state of despair. It had been three days since Christian had been home, five since the girls he’d gone to help look for had vanished. New search parties were being formed this morning and were set to leave a half an hour from now. With a few exceptions, everyone in the valley was preparing to congregate at the Masons’ to establish plans for the day, including Lauren, who lingered at the cabin with her distraught sister, delaying departure for as long as she could.
The siblings had decided to eat breakfast together, and Lauren had finished her plate, which had consisted of eggs, grits, and a slice of freeze-dried bacon.
Grace, in contrast, had barely touched hers. Exhibiting a monstrous frown, she sat gloomily, fork in hand, and played with her food. “So, it appears you’ve decided…about going today.”
“I have,” Lauren said. “I know this area like the back of my hand. I should be helping. It’s been stupid of me not to go.”
Grace sent a barely noticeable nod. “Then again, maybe it wasn’t stupid. Maybe it was smart of you
