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
