Cyndi rolled her eyes and exhaled loudly. “No, not like that.” She went over and pulled his hands apart. “Spread your hands shoulder width apart and crouch down slightly to distribute your weight.”
He did his best to prepare for Cyndi’s attack, silently rethinking the wisdom of trying to impress the general by volunteering.
She backed up ten feet then ran full speed at her trembling opponent.
In the blink of an eye, Lance latched on to her wrists, fell on his back, and used his feet to send Cyndi up and over the top of him. She landed on her back with a thud.
A collective gasp came from the room.
Lance sprang up off the mat and turned to face Cyndi. His hands were poised to strike, and he was crouched down in a perfect defensive position.
“Just like I thought,” McNeil said loudly.
Lance straightened up and raced over, offering her his hand. “Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine!” Cyndi refused to accept his hand. She got up and dusted herself off. Ego definitely bruised, she grudgingly said, “That was very impressive. I suspect you’ve had some martial arts training.”
Lance shrugged. “Maybe a little. I did watch a lot of Jackie Chan movies when I was a kid, though. I probably just got lucky.”
Cyndi didn’t appreciate his irreverent sense of humor. “Very funny. Let’s try that again.” She squared up and came at Lance again.
This time, she easily took him down. Cyndi ended up on top of Lance as he lay on his back, straddling him and pinning his hands to the mat.
From the pleased look on his face, he didn’t seem to mind being in that position. “Not bad for a yoga instructor,” he said with a wink. “When’s your next class?”
She released his hands and straightened up. “That move you made the first round was very impressive.” Cyndi sat back and deliberately plopped all her weight down on his stomach. Air rushed from his lungs. She crossed her arms and smiled innocently. “Well done.”
“Thanks, so was yours,” Lance replied through gritted teeth as he struggled to draw in a breath. “But unfortunately, it wasn’t quite enough. Looks like I won round two as well.”
Cyndi recoiled back. “You must have hit your head, Lieutenant. Clearly, I won the second round.”
“I guess that all depends on your perspective.”
“And what perspective could that possibly be?” she asked incredulously.
“Well, the way I see it, the first round I swept a beautiful woman off her feet. The second time I had her on top of me, pinning my hands down.” His perfect, pearl-white teeth flashed in her face as he grinned broadly. “Feels like a double win to me.”
Cyndi rolled her eyes and groaned. “You need to up your game, Lieutenant Garcia. Your pickup lines need serious work.” She jumped to her feet and straightened her gi. “Are you always so cocky?”
He stood and dusted himself off. “Not always.” Lance ran his fingers through his thick black hair. “Only when I send an Olympian to the mat.”
At hearing his brash remark, Cyndi’s temper got the best of her. “All right pretty boy, let’s go again.” She got set in an offensive stance. “Best two out of three.”
Lance shrugged. “If you insist.” He stepped back ten feet, raised up his hands in exactly the right position, and flashed a sly grin. “But I must warn you, I did teach judo to kids for a few years.”
Cyndi cocked her head at the cryptic comment. “So, you have had—"
Suddenly, a red light mounted on the wall began flashing.
A young lieutenant rushed into the room. “General McNeil, there you are. You need to come with me immediately.” He bent down, resting his hands on his knees while he gulped down much needed oxygen. “North Korea just launched a nuclear missile at the US.”
McNeil didn’t think twice. He snatched his gym bag and ran for the door. “Everyone report to your squadron and await further instructions.” He grabbed the lieutenant’s arm. “Where is the missile headed?”
“Los Angeles, sir.”
Cyndi reacted in horror. “Oh my God. My mom lives in LA!”
Chapter Four
Twenty minutes earlier
Colonel Stanley Wilmer, forty-seven, balding and carrying an ample spare tire, stood at the glass wall separating his office from the floor of the F. E. Warren command post.
The high-tech nerve center that monitored real-time, real-world threats—a fixture of every Air Force base worldwide—had three giant screens on the far wall that dominated the large, well-lit space. They displayed data ranging from the local weather to the location of every one of the 150 Minuteman III missiles under its control. Personnel at dozens of workstations busied themselves with routine tasks meant to divert their attention while they waited for the alert they hoped would never come.
Wilmer flinched at the sound of a jet streaking overhead at rooftop level. He looked up and yelled at the ceiling. “Damned jet jocks!” He walked over to his desk and picked up a white envelope. He ripped it open and quickly scanned the letter. His enthusiastic expression slowly melted away as he read. When he finished, he shook his head in disgust. “If they don’t know real talent when they see it, screw the Air Force.” The colonel sat down, crumpled up the letter, and spiked it into the trash can. Wilmer plopped his feet up and stabbed at the remote to change channels on his TV.
He stopped to watch a grizzled foreign reporter with CNN doing a remote from the DMZ in South Korea. With cartoonishly long binoculars, soldiers in an observation tower on the north side of the border kept a close watch on the reporter and his cameraman.
When the red light on the camera came on, the reporter switched to a suitably serious expression. “Intelligence sources released satellite images yesterday that show renewed activity at a plutonium reprocessing plant outside of Pyongyang, North Korea. The UN has denounced the provocative actions of the communist state as a clear violation of Security Council resolutions.” He flipped the page
