Parker caught the gaze that Sanchez had focused on her. It was difficult to see his features but for a moment his black eyes held her with an intensity that caused her to turn back to the canister. She saw that her hands were shaking and she drew a deep breath.
An hour later, the three lay sweating in the chilly early morning air just below the east canyon rim. The five-hundred-foot climb carrying the slung canister had been harder than they'd anticipated and time was growing short.
Brinn pulled a small GPR — Global Positioning Receiver — out of his combat vest. He checked the data on the small screen. Sanchez was pulling a radio and small satellite dish out of his rucksack, opening the dish and setting it at the proper azimuth and elevation to their designated satellite. Parker was unsnapping the clasps on the side of the canister.
"We're in the right spot," Brinn said. He looked up at the crest ten feet above and gestured for the other two to stop what they were doing and follow him. The three slithered up on their bellies until they could see over.
A quarter mile away, set against the side of a steep mountain, a road led up to a massive steel and concrete portal, which was surrounded by rows of barbed wire and armored vehicles. The door set in the opening was big enough to accommodate six vehicles side by side and was over thirty feet high. The door was protected from overhead observation by huge camouflage nets draped on steel poles. In the bright green glow of their night-vision goggles, they could see not only the door, but the guards surrounding it, and the bright glow of infrared searchlights that illuminated the entire area for the guards' own night-vision goggles.
"That's the tip of the iceberg," Brinn said, indicating the door. "The Israelis have hollowed out most of that mountain." He tapped his hand on a flat rocky space to his right. "Put the special here," he instructed Parker. "Get me up on MILSTAR," he ordered Sanchez.
The other two scurried back to their equipment. Straining, Parker dragged the sixty-pound canister to the indicated spot. She finished removing the snaps and flipped open a panel, revealing a computer keyboard and LED display set into the side of the canister.
She pushed an inset button and the screen came alive, scrolling through its own internal systems check.
"I have access to MILSTAR," Sanchez whispered from the radio.
Parker opened a small door to the left of the keyboard and pulled a thin cable out. She handed the free end to Sanchez who screwed it into a corresponding portal on the top of the SATCOM radio.
She typed a command into the keyboard and watched the screen. "We have secure connection from the REACT computer to MILSTAR," she announced in a low voice.
"I've sent our infiltration report burst to Cheyenne Mountain," Sanchez said. "They know we're in location and ready."
Brinn nodded. He took one last look at the tunnel entrance, then slid down next to Parker. "You sure on your procedure?" he asked.
"I'm sure," she replied.
He looked at her long and hard, clearly unhappy about the turn of events. His stare was broken by words forming on the screen.
"I have an incoming Emergency Action Message," Parker said. The screen cleared and new words formed, followed by a six digit code. "Emergency Action Message received," Parker said. She reached inside her black fatigues and pulled out the thin steel chain she wore around her neck. Attached to it was a laminated card wrapped in black plastic. She peeled the plastic back and checked the numbers on it against those on the screen.
"EAM code is current and valid," Parker called out.
"Code current and valid," Sanchez repeated, checking his own card.
"Code verified," Brinn said. "Prepare weapon," he ordered.
Parker typed in the sequence of commands that she had long ago memorized and practiced day after day. After precisely forty-seven seconds she stopped. "Weapon prepared."
"Check the EAM," Brinn ordered. "What's the delay set for?"
For a moment the trained routine broke as all three sets of eyes met over the canister. Parker looked back down. "As briefed, I read a delay of two hours from activation to blast if the bomb is initiated."
"Yeah, right," Sanchez muttered, earning himself a glare from Brinn.
"Hopefully we won't have to find out if the computer's telling the truth," Parker said.
Sanchez laughed bitterly. "Yeah, hopefully."
Brinn's voice had a hard edge to it. "Captain Sanchez, I don't like that tone."
Sanchez kept quiet, merely lifting his eyes to Parker as if they had some silent pact. Parker ignored him, wishing she could leave the bleak desert landscape and this blighted mission. She tried not to dwell on the next few hours, but instead thought of exfiltration and home.
Parker looked at the sky. There was no sign of dawn yet. They had another two hours of darkness. Brinn pointed across the canyon and down to the left where a knoll was silhouetted against the night sky about three miles away. "That's our overwatch and exfiltration point. I hope we can make it in two hours if we have to."
Brinn leaned back against his rucksack. "Might as well make yourself—" he paused as there was a low beep from the computer in the side of the canister.
"Oh, fuck," Sanchez muttered.
Parker read the new message with a trembling voice. "We are ordered to free firing locks so the bomb can be remotely controlled by the REACT computer through MILSTAR."
"Great, just fucking great," Sanchez said. Freeing the firing locks took activation control away from the team.
"Free firing locks," Brinn ordered, ignoring Sanchez.
"Something's not right about this," Sanchez said flatly and with certainty.
Brinn shook his head. "Listen, we got sent in here with this thing. We have an EAM. Let's do our job, people."
"Jesus, what if this is some mistake? We're going to set this thing off—" Sanchez said, but Brinn cut him off.
"We're not setting it off. We're just removing the safety firing locks. Someone from the National Command Authority will give the order to fire this bomb and that order will be relayed from Cheyenne Mountain through MILSTAR to the REACT computer and that will set this thing off."
"But we're not at war with Israel," Sanchez argued. "I mean, what's the purpose here?"
Brinn's voice sharpened. "Do you want to sit here and discuss this until we get scarfed up by the Israelis or are you going to do your job, Captain?" He turned to Parker. "Remove the safety firing locks."
Parker took a deep breath and flexed her fingers before she began typing into the keyboard, entering the code words she had memorized during the mission briefing. She entered the two words, then put her finger over the enter key.
"Do it!" Brinn hissed.
Parker pressed the enter key and the screen cleared. A highlighted box blinked, waiting for Sanchez's code word.
Sanchez didn't move. Brinn's hand slid down toward the pistol grip of the submachine gun slung over his shoulder.
Sanchez saw the move. "Hey, Major," he pleaded, "we could be starting World War III here. I just feel like something's wrong. There's no reason to arm this thing. I tell you there's something fucked up going on and we're about to add to it."
"You don't need a reason, Captain," Brinn said stoically. "Your job is to type in your code."
"Don't you think I know that, sir?" Sanchez replied. "This isn't my first mission. But we never went as far as removing the firing locks before."
Parker silently watched the two men arguing, alarm and fear swimming across her fine features. She was having a difficult time accepting that this, her first Red Flyer mission, would probably be her last. Nuclear weapons were her specialty and beyond Sanchez's concerns about the mission, she had her own fears about removing the locks. They'd been assured that there would be a two-hour delay if the locks were removed and the weapon activated by the REACT computer from afar. A certain twisted logic in the back of her brain told her that there might not be a delay. The bomb could go off the second the locks were removed and a firing code transmitted. Why would the powers-that-be leave the bomb sitting here for two hours unattended? To allow the four — check that, three — of them to get away? A lousy three people weighed against a tactical nuclear strike on Israel's secret nuclear weapons storage bunker made for a very uneven equation in her mind.