“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.
