“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The reporter was referring to the unofficial moniker the missile forces had given to the justification for using outdated tech to control the most destructive weapons on the planet.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
