The terrifying, thunderous roar sounded like it was coming from an unholy, pissed-off mechanical angel of death. It caused the frozen ground to tremble.
Car alarms across the base started wailing.
Snow that had been resting peacefully on tree branches fell off in large clumps.
McNeil’s heart skipped a beat when the powerful shock wave smacked him in the back of the head. He instinctively ducked for cover. When he worked up the courage to look up, he swore he could hear laughter coming from the departing plane. McNeil thrust his middle finger skyward as the pilot pulled the F-35 up into a crushing eight-G vertical climb. Obscenities that spewed from his mouth were drowned out by the deafening noise.
Chapter Two
With the mock attack safely over, McNeil looked around to see if anyone had seen him cower down on the concrete. Anyone who did knew enough to pretend not to notice. He straightened up, resumed a cocksure posture, and started for the gym door.
Air Force regulation tan paint on the rundown, drab building was peeling and flaking off. Its roof sagged slightly under the heavy snow load. In contrast, a bright new sign on the front wall displayed the patch of the Global Strike Command. It was the latest in a long series of Major Command signs that had hung in that same spot, beginning with the vaunted Strategic Air Command.
Fort D.A. Russell was originally established as a cavalry post in 1867 during the later stages of the American Indian Wars. It was a desolate outpost on what was then considered the western frontier of the country. The Army had constructed it to protect workers building the Transcontinental Railroad for the Union Pacific. Over the years, Fort Russell had played host to units of infantry, cavalry, and field artillery—eventually converting to an Air Force base.
Now named F. E. Warren AFB, in honor of a former governor, it had been placed on the National Register of Historic Places decades ago.
The small base was easily the oldest continuously active military installation in the Air Force. It had the dubious distinction of being the only active base without a runway.
Its current mission was to operate launch control centers buried sixty feet underground. They controlled 150 Minuteman III nuclear missile silos scattered across the region where Wyoming, Colorado, and Nebraska intersect. If World War III ever were to kick off, much of the ensuing global nuclear destruction would launch from F. E. Warren units.
Still fuming from the pilot’s brazen stunt, McNeil flung open the heavy metal door to the gym. A wide foyer covered in faded emerald-green linoleum led up to the front desk.
The attendant working behind the desk saw McNeil coming and shook his head. He forced a smile and said, “Good morning, General.”
McNeil ignored his greeting. “Aren’t there normally two people working the morning shift? Where’s the cute redhead who works here?”
The man leaned on the counter and nonchalantly shrugged. “Couldn’t tell you, sir. She must be in the bathroom.”
“That figures.” McNeil walked off. Before rounding the corner, he turned his head and shouted, “I’m not to be disturbed for any reason!”
After the sound of his footsteps faded away, a young red-headed woman slowly peeked her head above the Formica counter. “Is he gone?”
Her coworker looked down the hallway and checked. “You’re safe. I’ll let you know if I see him coming back this way.”
McNeil stopped at the door to a large exercise studio. A sign on the glass read: Missileer Mandatory Martial Arts Training Class – 0800. He opened the door and strode confidently in.
The room reeked of sweat and body odor that had permeated the wood floor over decades of use. A large, padded mat covered the floor in the front of the room.
When the general entered, the small talk immediately ceased. Everyone moved to spots an arm’s length apart.
McNeil positioned himself in the center of the first row, six inches from the man who was standing there. He quickly took the hint and moved to the back of the room. The general dropped his gym bag where the man had been standing. BG A. MCNEIL was embroidered on the side.
At exactly 0800, a beautiful blonde quietly slipped unnoticed through the door. Her long silky hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She stood at the back of the room and studied the crowd with her crystal-blue eyes, sizing up each person. Satisfied she understood whom she was up against, the woman threaded her way to the front of the room and positioned herself on the large mat. She was in her midtwenties, five-foot-eleven in her bare feet, and wore a crisply starched white gi encircled with a black belt. The loose-fitting garment concealed a body that was muscular but feminine, sculpted but soft. In other words, deceptively dangerous. “Good morning, Missileers. Welcome to martial arts training.”
The one-star cocked his head in confusion. “Where’s the instructor? Is he running late?”
She forced a smile. “No, sir, he's not running late. I’m the instructor.”
“You?” the general scoffed.
“In the flesh.”
“You’re in the wrong room, Miss. This isn’t yoga class. I specifically directed that someone trained in martial arts teach these classes.”
“I believe I’m more than qualified, General McNeil. I help the owner of a studio in Cheyenne teach judo to kids. And I—”
“Kids?” the general scoffed. “Our enemies aren’t children.” He turned to the group. “Listen up. I was sent to this godforsaken base to clean up the mess left by your last three commanders. You people are expected to be warriors. It’s about damned time you start thinking and acting like it. This class is just a start. Fat and weak will no longer be acceptable at my base. Every month, there will be mandatory fitness testing and weigh-ins.”
Heads sagged among those officers in the room still holding on to a little extra baby fat.
“Missileers who don’t measure up will have their promotions put on indefinite hold until you get with the program. The days of the Global Strike
