“Launching sequence will begin in thirty-five seconds….”
Once a missile was launched, and there were roughly 400 possible sequences for this under Red Flag at Bunker 17, its progress was charted on the world-overview chart on the right side wall. Since all of Bunker 17’s targets inevitably lay inside Russia, its chart was missing those corners of the world which didn’t figure into the attack pattern. After launch, a missile’s coded identity sequence would flash on the path it rode through the sky en route to its target.
In the middle of all this, nine bunker personnel moved about checking keyboards and running final test sequences prior to launch. There were thirty-six separate red abort switches in addition to the one which aborted all missiles at once, forming the last of many safeguards in the fail-safe system. If it went that far, Teare had often chided, there wouldn’t be a dry pair of pants in the room.
“Launching sequence will commence in twenty seconds….”
Teare and Heath stepped farther into the Disco. Six men were at work behind the most advanced computer terminals on Earth checking all of thirty-two safety features incorporated into the launching procedure and the missiles themselves. If any one was out of sync, and the computers somehow missed it, their monitoring boards would catch it and manually they’d switch the light to yellow or red on the Disco’s Big Board. The final three members of the Disco team sat entrenched behind the largest console of all. It contained Bunker 17’s launch command system and primary abort and destruct functions. Once Red Flag was signaled, procedure dictated that the three handcuff themselves to the steel-based console and to each other. All three possessed firing codes and keys worn around their necks that had to be inserted into the launch terminal to trigger the firing mode. Each would insert his key, punch in his code, and when the center, board light flashed green, the Disco king for the day would press the final trigger button, which, strangely, was the smallest and dullest colored of all. Something to do with psychological stress, Christian Teare remembered reading in a report.
Today was unique in that the Disco king was a queen. Kate Tullman wore her olive drab one-piece uniform as fashionably as a pair of designer jeans, and Red Flag alerts were probably the only times the eyes of the bunker’s men weren’t drawn to her. Her hair was blond and stylishly short, her eyes as green as the code lights flashing on the Big Board. Her buttocks filled out the contours of her console chair neatly enough for it to appear tailored for her. As she leaned over toward the terminal, though, part of her cheeks wedged themselves out the chair’s back.
Maj. Christian Teare winked at Captain Heath.
“Launching sequence will commence in ten seconds, nine, eight, seven …”
“Final systems check,” barked Kate Tullman, queen of the Disco.
“… six, five, four …
“Board shows all systems go, all lights green,” announced the man seated to her right.
“… three, two, one …
“Terminal shows all systems go, all lights green,” from the man on her left.
“Launching sequence has commenced….”
Six voices from behind Kate Tullman chimed in.
“Silos one to six, all systems check.”
“Silos seven to twelve, all systems check.”
“Silos thirteen to eighteen, all systems check.”
“Silos nineteen to twenty-four, all systems check.”
“Silos twenty-five to thirty, all systems check.”
“Silos thirty-one to thirty-six, all systems check.”
Kate Tullman spoke again, eyes never leaving the console. “Computer attack sequence Plan R for Roger, W for William, D for David.”
“Confirmed,” from the man on her right.
“Confirmed,” from the man on her left.
“Commence final launch procedures,” she instructed and jammed her own key into the console, punching in her personal code for the day as soon as it turned. The codes changed with each shift and sometimes even during the shift. If the wrong code was entered and not corrected within five seconds, the fail-safe system would cause an immediate shutdown of all procedures and a toner alarm would summon security to the Disco. Though at this stage they wouldn’t be able to gain access, they would be there to deal with the person or persons inside once the doors opened.
But today the center light on Kate Tullman’s console flashed green.
She moved her hand ever so slowly toward the button that would trigger the launch and pressed it without hesitation.
At that instant, Red Flag came to an end. All lights returned to stable white and Bunker 17 was officially off alert. If it hadn’t been a drill, however, none of this would be the case and thirty-six MX missiles carrying ten warheads each would be on their courses toward the Soviet Union. The Target Board would already be tracing the beginning of speeding red arcs drawn across the world.
But the Board was quiet. No arcs because no bombs had actually been launched.
Kate Tullman, queen of the Disco, sighed.
Captain Heath, who had hit his stopwatch at the very instant she had pressed the final button, turned to Major Teare.
“One minute, twenty-nine seconds.”
“What’s prime according to the Pentagon, Cap?”
“One-forty-five.”
“Good. Then I want us at one-twenty inside the next month.”
“Nine seconds is a lot to chop at this stage, Major.”
“Well it was a lot when we was battlin’ the one-forty-five mark too. I want it done, Cap. If there are any slow spots in the drill, I want them found and eliminated.”
“Nine seconds is still a lot of time to cut, Major.”
“That’s what they said about the record at the frog jumpin’ contest back home when I was twelve. I broke that one too,” Christian Teare said with a wink. Then he moved toward the Disco’s main console and Kate Tullman. “Well executed, Sergeant,” he complimented.
She rose quickly to attention and saluted. “Thank you, sir.”
“Kate T. What does the T stand for, Sergeant?”
“Trouble, sir. Kate T for trouble.” The Disco queen didn’t bother to hold her smile back.
“T for tits,” Teare whispered to Heath and didn’t bother to hold his back either. “At ease there, Sergeant,” he continued to Kate Tullman. “Stand that straight too long and you’ll give yourself a back ’bout as bad as a plow horse in a field of shit.”
There was a brief pause, after which the entire Disco broke into laughter. Teare joined in.
“Just somethin’ to break the tension, people. Rest easy.”
And then he was gone with Captain Heath right behind.
Teare closed the door of his private quarters behind Heath. The bare, metallic walls were adorned with posters and pictures of Teare’s movie favorites including Burt Lancaster, John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and Obi-Wan Kenobi.
“Care for a couple fingers of happy juice, Cap?” he asked, reaching into the cabinet beneath his sink.
The captain shook his head with a smile. “For a man determined to break the minute-twenty Red Flag barrier, you sure don’t pay much attention to rules.”