Brown had been in the Global Strike Command long enough to know that being threatened with being strapped to the next test launch of a Minuteman missile at Vandenberg AFB was shorthand for making a career-ending mistake.
“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of that,” she wisely replied.
Still incensed by the audacity of the lieutenant, Stone turned back to the group. The veins in his neck were throbbing. “Since Miller decided to burn his backup, Lieutenant Garcia, you are now paired with Stafford.” He gripped the podium with both hands, leaned forward, and glared at Lance. “I assume you don’t have a problem with that, do you, Lieutenant?”
Lance sighed but wisely replied, “No, sir.” He looked over at Cyndi, shrugged, and gave a small wave.
She didn’t wave back.
Chapter Fifteen
Stone finished with the same admonition he gave after every briefing. “What missileers have done every minute of every day for decades now has successfully prevented all-out nuclear war with our adversaries. I sure as hell don’t intend to have that change on my watch. Do your jobs and do them right. Dismissed.”
The missileers quietly gathered their belongings and shuffled toward the door.
Two burly missile protection specialists entered the briefing room.
During transport, dedicated security forces had the critical task of protecting nuclear missiles from terrorists. Guarding silos and launch facilities were also part of their duties.
Dressed for battle, they carried M4 carbine assault rifles, an M9 pistol on their hips, and topped it all off with body armor. Their appearance left no doubt the airmen took their jobs seriously.
“I’m looking for Captain Stafford,” the senior-ranking specialist said.
“That’s me,” Cyndi replied, waving her hand.
He hefted a red metal box about the size of a toaster up onto a table. The box was constructed from hardened steel and had two padlocks on it. The warning, Entry Restricted to MCC and DMCC On Duty, was stenciled on its door.
The airman handed a clipboard to Cyndi. “Sign here to transfer custody.”
By signing, she was taking responsibility for the key and launch authentication codes that would send their missile skyward if ordered.
Before signing, Cyndi inspected the box. She looked for any breaches in the welded seams. Then she tugged at the padlocks to verify they were closed. Satisfied everything was in order, Cyndi signed the release form.
The security policeman removed one of the two locks.
Cyndi reached into her camo backpack and pulled out her own padlock. It had four number wheels built into the bottom of the lock body to enter her combination. Cyndi, and only Cyndi, knew the combination. She shielded the lock from view with her body while she opened it. Then she put it on the red box and clicked it shut.
The second airman and Lance went through the same choreographed procedure.
Normally, this process would take place on the red box already in the LCC when the new alert crew arrived to relieve the outgoing crew. With Alpha One going online for the first time today, the box and its classified contents were making the trip with Cyndi.
She put the box in her backpack and zipped it shut.
“I’ll get the important stuff,” Lance joked. He picked up his backpack and started for the galley to get the food they’d need for their alert tour.
“Lieutenant Garcia!” Airman Brown ran up to him. She acted like a teenage girl with a crush talking to the star quarterback. “Here’s your gate entry code for Alpha One.” She handed him a red envelope.
“Cool. Thanks.”
“This came from the personnel office for you. I wanted to deliver it to you personally.” She smiled and handed Lance a white letter-size envelope. “I hope it’s good news,” Brown said with a wink.
“That was so thoughtful of you. Colonel Stone is lucky to have such a competent and—”
“Hey, Romeo,” Cyndi said, as she snapped her fingers, “the helicopter is waiting.”
Lance stuffed the envelopes into a pocket on his flight suit and headed off to the galley for the all-important food.
Chapter Sixteen
Cyndi and Lance slung their backpacks over their shoulders and walked out onto the base helipad. Each had a 9 mm Beretta pistol strapped to their waist. The two security policemen were right behind them. They’d never let Cyndi out of their sight since transferring custody, under the guise of guarding the red box.
In three corners of the large concrete pad, UH-1N Huey helicopters sat belching smoke as their rotors spun at idle. In the fourth corner, a gleaming new MH-139A Grey Wolf helicopter was just starting its engines. A fleet of the Boeing birds was on order to replace the antique Hueys as the transport helicopter for Global Strike Command.
Being a true Texas gentleman, Lance volunteered to put the heavy backpacks in the cabin. He and the guards climbed aboard the helicopter. It still had that new car smell.
Cyndi looked to the east. A pair of F-16s was in the pattern at nearby Cheyenne airport doing touch-and-gos. She let out a deep sigh and slowly shook her head.
“You coming?” Lance yelled out over the engine noise.
Cyndi looked at him and silently nodded. She climbed in and slid the door closed. Lance grabbed a backpack and handed it to Cyndi. She sat next to him on the bench seat behind the cockpit and placed her pack between her feet. They put on headsets then strapped in. Opposite them sat the guards.
In an intentional display of male chauvinism, the pilot looked back at the lower-ranking Lance and asked, “Where to?”
Before he could answer, Cyndi pressed the microphone button on her headset cord. “Alpha One. Move it.”
The copilot programmed a direct course to Alpha One into the flight management computer for the second time that day. Earlier that morning, the crew had flown Dr. Zhao and a guard to
