Assault on Alpha Base (8 page)

Chapter 10

Wednesday, 15 June, 1510 local

Alpha Base

Major McGriffin presented his ID card to the guard and refrained from whistling.

The guard checked McGriffin’s name against a computerized roster. The young airman sternly flipped the card over, then handed it back to McGriffin. After going through the wringer, the security measures in the Red Room seemed a piece of cake. Located inside Alpha Base’s command post, the Red Room’s door wasn’t even painted red.

The tour was his last for a while. The plethora of facts tired him—in some ways it was like taking a drink of water from a fire hose. The information piled up, higher and deeper. Most of it was interesting, but he had neither the time nor the memory to digest all the details.

But again, it kept his mind off Linda. And anything that did that
had
to be good for him.

McGriffin glanced at his watch. He was early, and Lieutenant Fellows was nowhere in sight. The husky young lieutenant had been a godsend, volunteering his time to show him the ropes. Usually the nonrated officers kept their distance from the rated types. It was some kind of ego problem in reverse.

But McGriffin didn’t attribute Lieutenant Fellow’s friendliness completely to the fact that they were both Academy grads. McGriffin sincerely thought that the young man would have taken the same pains with anyone in McGriffin’s position.

Fellows appeared, breaking his train of thought. “How do you do, Major?”

“Great. I appreciate the time you’re spending, Curtis.”

“Like I said, no problem. The more you know about our facility and what we keep here, the better we can do our job.”

“You still sound reluctant to admit you store nuclear weapons.”

Fellows cringed. “Matter of habit, sir. You know, official Air Force policy: we’re supposed to neither confirm nor deny the existence of any nuclear devices.”

“Nuclear devices. You make the world’s most destructive weapons sound so sanitary.”

Fellows laughed. “I recall you’ve got to be command post at 1800. I’ll try to keep the time short, sir.”

At the end of the corridor they approached a vault set into the wall. It resembled a huge safe. Fellows stopped before the vault and spun the dials.

McGriffin studied a sign by the vault:

THE USE OF PHOTOGRAPHY EQUIPMENT, CAMERAS,

ELECTRONIC RECORDING, THE TAKING OF NOTES, OR

ANY OTHER REPRODUCIBLE MEDIA IS

STRICTLY PROHIBITED!

(PLEASE SECURE THE DOOR BEHIND YOU)

Stepping over the steel rim jutting up from the floor, they entered the vault. Fellows pulled the portal shut behind them. The huge metal door hissed closed.

McGriffin gaped at the chamber. It was as if thirty thousand square feet of material had been stuffed in a room ten times smaller.

Four tables, each fifty feet long, made up the perimeter of a giant rectangle. At crammed intervals along the table he saw mock-ups of disassembled warheads. Inside the tables were giant “busses,” the delivery platforms where the warheads would sit. The room was split up into four distinct sections labeled: 1945-60, 1961-75, 1976-92, 1992-present. Various warheads, triggering devices, delivery vehicles, and even a computerized display of the warhead development phase were all packed into the room.

Fellows led him around the table. “The displays are roughly grouped by generation. As a rule of thumb, each generation signifies a tenfold increase in weapon efficiency, accuracy, and design. The weapons from the fifties are quite a bit different from those produced in the late eighties.”

McGriffin pointed at the last section. “What’s so special about 1992? That last section covers a lot more time than the earlier ones.”

“That’s when we stopped our underground nuclear test program. Officially, we haven’t designed any nukes since then. We’ve just refined and upgraded old designs, to make them safer.”

McGriffin whistled and moved around the displays. He stopped before a huge metal container and ran his hand over the surface. A sign above the device read little boy—the first nuke ever dropped in a war. And the MARK 17—the first thermonuclear device. The weapon was immense. To think that an ancient B-47 could even carry it was mind-boggling.

Farther down the line a suitcase-size hydrogen weapon looked sleek and succinct compared with the forties-vintage device. Labels such as “Earth/Ice Penetrator,” “Howitzer Qualified,” “Enhanced Neutron Radiator,” and “B-81” adorned the cramped displays. The inner workings of each device were visible as a slice through the weapon’s center.

McGriffin inspected one of the casings. “Funny. They made a big deal once about some college student who discovered how to build one of these. My junior high science teacher had us design one for a physics project.”

Fellows lifted an eyebrow. “Junior high?”

“Sure. You slap two pieces of fissionable material together, such as Uranium 235. When enough uranium comes together, a chain reaction occurs, and
blooey,
you’ve ruined everybody’s day. To build a hydrogen bomb, you use the energy from an atomic bomb to compress hydrogen. A fusion reaction occurs, and you’ve
really
made one big parking lot.”

McGriffin stepped back and folded his arms. He took in the chamber and assorted weaponry. “You know, if I could do it in seventh grade, why are people so paranoid about the secrets getting out?”

“The trick is putting the right quantity of material together, with the right timing and symmetry. Refining those quantities, and keeping that knowledge secret is what’s critical. Can you imagine what would happen if a few lunatics got a hold of a nuclear device? The nukes all have Permissive Actions Links—PALS —to prevent them from being detonated if they’re stolen, plus a host of other nasty things. But still … ” He trailed off.

McGriffin started to pat the casing, but thought better of it. He glanced at Fellows, who watched him, grinning.

“These are mock-ups. Besides, you could take a sledgehammer to a real weapon, Major, and you wouldn’t set it off—it’s called a one-point design. It can detonate only if a certain timing sequence is initiated. They use a high explosive, something like TNT but a lot more stable, to slap the radioactive material together. The high explosive initiates the implosion.

“They’ve hurled those warheads against the ground at hundreds of miles an hour, shot at them, put them in fires, set off high explosives next to them—in fact, done just about everything possible, and they
still
don’t detonate. That’s one thing I’ve got to say about the failsafe measures that the Department of Energy put into them: it’s almost impossible to set one off accidentally.”

McGriffin nodded. He surveyed the room. It was another room full of facts, but he felt he had gleaned the salient points from the tour.

It was a knack he had picked up as a cadet. He had rarely cracked a book, but he paid attention in class. Just by listening and taking notes, he was able to maintain a high B average. It had taken him through four years of grief, and he developed a way to quickly grasp what was important. He never knew when any of the information he digested might come in handy.

As he turned to leave the vault, he pulled his hand away from the warhead. Mock-up or not, he still played it safe.

Thursday, 16 June, 1205 local

Wendover AFB. Nevada

“Sorry I’m late.” McGriffin jumped out of his Corvette and shut the door behind him. “I overslept.”

Vikki brushed back her hair, smiling. “It’s five minutes after. It must have been some wild party for you to sleep this late.” A plane roared overhead, drowning out McGriffin’s reply.

He led her into the aero club hanger. He raised his voice over another plane that just started its engines. “Actually, I work nights. It’s tough trying to catch up on sleep during the day—especially when it’s so nice outside.” Opening the door for her, they stepped into an air-conditioned room. “Ever fly in a light plane before?”

She hesitated slightly. “Only once.”

McGriffin picked up a pen and started filling out the aero club’s rental papers. “What did you think of it?”

“I don’t know. I guess I didn’t really care for it. It was awfully bumpy.”

McGriffin didn’t look up. “Probably hit a patch of thermals. Afternoons are notorious for that: the ground heats up the air, and the hot air rises.” He pushed the papers across the counter and added his credit card to the pile. A man flipped the papers over and studied them. McGriffin turned and leaned against the counter. “Depends on the pilot, too. If he’s good, he can miss the roughest spots.”

Vikki cocked an amused eyebrow at him. “And you’re good?”

“The best.” McGriffin grinned. The attendant pushed a key and a logbook across the counter. McGriffin grabbed them and opened the door for Vikki.

Heat rose in shimmering waves across the asphalt apron. The planes were secured to the ground by a series of ropes. They sat thirty to fifty feet apart from each other, lined up and pointing toward the taxiway. McGriffin pulled out the logbook and glanced at the numbers embossed on the front. Looking around, he spotted a small Cessna with a matching number.

Reaching the craft, he walked quickly around, inspecting the engine, flaps, fuselage, and tail. Vikki followed him, fascinated with the thoroughness with which he scrutinized the small craft. She followed him as he ducked under the tail section.

“That seems a lot of work.”

McGriffin put his hand up against the vertical stabilizer. “What?”

“You know, pilots are supposed to be all macho and that. Man against the wild, jumping into the open cockpit and going one-on-one against nature. You look like you don’t trust whoever got the plane ready for you.”

McGriffin wiggled the stabilizer, then stepped back. He wiped grease from his hands. “I don’t. I figure it’s my life at stake, so I need to take time to make sure the thing works the way it’s supposed to.” He unfastened a securing line and quickly gathered it in.

Vikki put a hand up to her face, shielding her eyes from the glare. “They do it in the movies.”

“When machines get this sophisticated, something’s always bound to go wrong. You just can’t ‘kick the tires and light the fires’ anymore. Come on.” He boosted her up into the plane and showed her how to buckle the shoulder straps.

McGriffin started the engine and eased the Cessna out from the parking apron. His eyes flew over the gauges: attitude, oil pressure, temperature, rpm—the Cessna had ten times fewer instruments than he was used to in a C-17, but the danger of flying remained the same. If he used any less concentration, it could be the last time he’d ever fly.

Vikki spoke to him, interrupting his train of thought.

“Sorry.” McGriffin shook his head and grinned at her. “I get so wrapped up in this, I tune everything out. What did you say?”

“Where are we going?”

“Besides up? Nowhere in particular. I thought we’d just try to catch some of the sights. Is there anywhere you’d like to go?”

“Well, I was up in the mountains a few weeks ago. How about there?”

“No problem.” Turning the small craft, he scanned the sky for incoming traffic. The tower gave him permission to proceed onto the runway. He pulled off the taxiway and onto the immense strip of asphalt. The end of the runway disappeared two miles away, engulfed in a shimmering mirage of water.

“Ready?” Not waiting for an answer, he brought the engine to full throttle and started down the runway.

McGriffin kept his eyes on the runway, periodically flicking them to the instrument panel. They passed a huge marker on the side displaying the number 13. In the distance, spaced every thousand feet, the numbers 12, 11, and on down to 1 were visible. He glanced at Vikki. “Put your hands on the wheel. When I say ‘now,’ pull gently back on it.”

As the airspeed indicator rose, McGriffin waited, until, “All right—now.”

Vikki jerked her wheel. McGriffin stopped the wheels from coming all the way back and instead eased them to a set position.

The small craft left the runway with plenty of length to spare. McGriffin said, “Congratulations. You’ve just taken off for the first time. Try flying us up to altitude.” He kept a hand loosely on his wheel.

Vikki kept her eyes straight ahead, seriously trying to keep the plane in a constant ascent. “The runway’s so long. Why did they build it like that if we didn’t need all of it?”

“The aero club uses Wendover Air Force Base’s runway—it’s over two miles long for the military aircraft.” McGriffin didn’t finish saying that it was that long only because of the nuclear weapons at Alpha Base. The old weapons were so large and unwieldy that they needed an extra-long runway to ensure that the transports had plenty of room to take off with the additional weight.

McGriffin banked the aircraft in a gentle turn, heading toward the mountains. Vikki mimicked his movements. McGriffin said, “Say, you’re pretty good at this. Are you sure you haven’t flown before?”

“This is my first time in a cockpit.”

“I’ll have to work on my instructor’s license so I can get you a pilot’s license for yourself.”

She laughed. “I said I liked it—not do it every day.”

McGriffin took them out of the bank. “All right, I’ve got the aircraft. Just show me the way.”

Vikki looked down at the ground. “I can’t tell where we are.”

McGriffin pointed out a double strip of roads below them. “That’s the interstate. Wendover Air Force Base is below us, and Nevada is to the left.”

“Uh, follow I-80 west. It’s about five exits before you turn north.”

The sand gave way to the barren mountains. They encountered some chop, but it was still early enough to miss the afternoon turbulence.

McGriffin flew in a broken path, avoiding flying over dark patches on the ground. He pointed out that the dark patches heated up faster than the surrounding lighter area, causing air turbulence. “We’re over the mountains. Anywhere in particular you want to go?”

Vikki studied the area below her. Every so often a dirt road sliced through the valleys. For the most part the mountains were untouched by human presence.