Chapter 8: Tango Alpha One

Monday, August 10, 2026, 0100 CT—Carson County, Texas

Several ominous fires raged, lighting up the night sky. The raucous sound of celebration drowned out the roaring flames, occasionally dampened by bursts of automatic gunfire. The pervasive darkness masked the black smoke as it rose into the night above several unsettling and horrific pyres. Two Texas State Trooper SUVs could be seen awash with flames as the heat slowly burned away the green and gold Lone Star logos.

The Divine Sword brotherhood had regrouped after successful missions throughout the area, which plunged the state’s northern half into utter darkness. They were consumed by the fervor of their hatred of the enemy they soundly defeated in their own yard. Shadowy figures danced and sang or chanted in Farsi, declaring the righteousness of their cause to destroy the heretic devils. They waved AK-47s around and fired bursts into the air. And it was all filmed by several videographers who broadcast the celebration live on multiple social media venues. The video was disjointed and jerky from constant movement. However, occasionally, the feed would grow still and show a group holding the flag of Shia Islam or the banner of the Brotherhood of the Divine Sword. Twice, the cameras showed the bloodied bodies of several Troopers who were caught in a deadly ambush as they tried to intervene. One of the victims was decorated veteran Jesse Morrow, and the insurgents took delight in displaying her as they cut away her uniform and mutilated her body.

News outlets worldwide captured the online footage and aired it with hasty filtering to shield viewers from the depravity. Even so, the outcry was tumultuous and reverberated loudly among the masses, and millions of calls were made to express their collective outrage.

0300 CT—Dyess AFB, Abilene, Texas

“How’s your game, Lady Bug?” Lt Col, Finely’s face brightened when the Airman at the desk told her who the caller was.

“How much money you got to lose, Copperhead?” She grinned, remembering the good times golfing with her former CO at Edwards. Her smile faltered when his tone changed.

“Think you can swing an ace right now?” General Millington asked.

The already frenzied activity in the hanger became chaotic as the XO of the 7^th Bomb Wing burst out of the ready room, running toward her B1B Lancer (“B-one”), where the remaining three crew members were already on board. The massive hangar doors were slowly parting, and a ground crew was detaching the APU from the fuselage.

“JAKE! Clear it!” she yelled over the noise to her crew chief. He nodded at her while coordinating the final hot launch procedures.

The massive bomber was already moving when she completed strapping in and readying her cockpit. Their call sign was Sabretooth One, and they were directed to take off immediately. The Bone’s MTW (maximum take-off weight) was over 470,000 pounds. A glance at her panel verified they were far under that. Runway 34 measured 13,500 feet; had she been fully loaded, she would have used most of it. But Candice was feeling her oats, and, after the five-minute briefing from the Air Force Chief himself, she was in a goddamn hurry! The variable swept wings were fully extended to 137 feet, but she retracted them 15 degrees as her copilot, Scooby, spooled the four GE F101 turbofan engines. He had a grin on his face as he chuckled over the intercom, “Hold on to yer shit, ladies!” The Offensive Systems Operator (OSO), Lt. Angela Cox, glanced at her counterpart, Capt. Terri Fence. The DSO rolled her eyes and attached her rubber mask over her face.

With fuel and ordinance, the 100-ton warbird weighed nearly 250 when the 120,000 pounds of combined thrust sent it hurtling into the night sky like a comet. Capable of Mach 1.25, they would be on target in 75 minutes. They had plenty of time for a more detailed mission brief and attack plan. With the payload she had, Lady Bug knew precisely what that plan would entail.

Pentagon

Ordering a nuclear strike on your own country was anathema to everything Emory Branson Sheffield II held dear. But that was precisely what the Secretary of Defense was about to do. Yes, he was a successful capitalist; he appreciated everything the President had done to protect his interests and stakes, and yes, he stepped into his new role with little understanding of the actual job. He was a defense contractor, and that is how he became rich enough to donate millions in campaign contributions. His congressional confirmation hearings were mostly painless, and his appointment went smoothly. But as he was escorted through the halls of the Pentagon, the 69-year-old billionaire couldn’t help but feel like he was heading to see the principal. In a sense, he was.

The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs chose the Gold Room to meet his civilian superior. When the cabinet official was brought in, he saw all five members plus the Commandant of the Coast Guard, Admiral Jeffrey Jenkins, gathered. The Chief of the Space Force had arrived earlier from Huntsville, overseeing the relocation of his command from Colorado Springs.

It was awkward, to say the least. The SECDEF felt the dynamic shift when he faced the six highest-ranking military members, all dressed in their finest regalia, wearing neutral expressions. Formal pleasantries were strained but afforded. After clearing his throat, he directed his aide to present the written and signed order to an adjutant, who presented it to the Chairman. As the paper exchanged hands, the Secretary gathered himself and notified the Admiral that he was prepared to immediately relieve him of his duties if he chose not to comply.

Without reading the order, the Admiral squared his shoulders and glowered at the pompous official. He had already decided on his subsequent actions and had the full support of his staff in doing so. “Just to be clear, Mr. Secretary, you are ordering the Air Force to conduct military strikes upon US soil, with limited tactical nuclear munitions, against an alleged insurgent compound.” The air was heavy with tension inside the decorative chamber. “Is that correct?”

Sheffield hesitated for a moment and opened his mouth only to be cut off by Wild Bill Hawkins, “Are you out of your goddamned mind?” the Commandant ignored all protocol, etiquette, and decorum. “You want to nuke our own people?”

The SECDEF cleared his throat, “Er ... that is the position of the President. He insists we make a statement to—”

“A STATEMENT?” the Admiral barked. “Do you have any idea what the collateral damage and fallout from a limited nuclear strike would be?”

“You have the discretion to mitigate—”

“General McManus, what is the lowest possible yield from a B61 gravity bomb?”

The Army General turned his withering gaze from the newly appointed Secretary and considered the question. “We still have the B61-12 available, which can be dialed back to roughly five kilotons,” he replied. “Give or take. That’s about a third the yield of Hiroshima.”

All eyes stared at the Secretary, and he began to realize the gravity of his position. There was no way he would survive an oversight inquiry about this. He cleared his throat again, “I am communicating the direct orders of your Commander in Chief, Admiral Fletcher. Whether you obey them is—” He stopped speaking when the CJCS held up his hand.

“That is enough, Mr. Secretary. You have made the President’s position clear, and the fact that you subscribe to this is beyond the pale.” He held up the order and gestured with it. “This is perhaps the most outrageous action to ever pass through this office. History will look back on how pivotal this juncture will be to the future of our nation.” He slapped the papers back down on the table decisively.

“Under Article 90 of the Uniform Code of Military Justice, I am officially declining to honor or obey this order. Furthermore, it is the opinion of this body that the President of the United States has wholly and egregiously overstepped his authority as Commander in Chief.

“There is no precedent under the articles of the Constitution for the magnitude of abuse of power to which we bear witness. The former Articles of War addressed the hypothesis of mutiny versus martial law. But the proposition has never been debated on such a global scale. There is, however, justification for the military to overturn and invalidate civilian executive power in times of epic and unprecedented civil and political unrest. This has been demonstrated repeatedly worldwide and even in our own country on a limited scale.”

“There has been considerable effort and planning for the scenario we find ourselves in. The scenario where we, as the supreme military authority in this nation, ask ourselves if the Commander in Chief is acting in the best interests of our country regarding national security, public safety, and the welfare of our citizens.” The Admiral looked at the apprehensive official before him with a stern, meaningful expression. “We have unanimously decided the answer to that question is no.”

0410 CST—Minot AFB, North Dakota

A four-man squad moved furtively across the field toward the open Silo #88. The quarter moon descended in the west, but they stuck to the shadows, trying to remain inconspicuous. Their reconnaissance drone detected no human presence around the bunker, but it was never assumed that the target was unoccupied. They knew the enemy was below. Their mission wasn’t to engage them.

They belonged to the Air Force Special Warfare unit assigned to every Air and Space Force base worldwide. USAFSOC wasn’t as large or glamorous as the Navy SEALs or MARSOC, but they were just as specialized and even trained exclusively with both groups. Each man skirted the bunker and spread out, each with their own task. Their timetable was mere minutes. Three of them converged on the open silo, and each placed a pair of Infrared Diode Laser Targeting Designators with Identify Friend or Foe Positive Identification beacons (IFFPID). The beacons were half the size of a #10 soup can, and they were spaced evenly around the edge of the silo opening. Their task complete, the three Airmen raced back to the side-by-side and turned to retrieve their comrade. The fourth operator was taking measured paces with the bunker to his back on a vector just to the left of the silo, 225 yards away. He received a signal through the encrypted comm unit in his ear and corrected his course. After several more yards, a second signal halted him, and he quickly set his IDLTD. Turning toward the sound of the ATV, he ran toward them, flashing his red LED mini-mag. They cleared the area with 2 minutes to spare.

Silo #88 CUB

Maiwand Rahimi, AKA ‘Major Edward Smith,’ muttered as he searched for another missile that had not been upgraded to prevent the trojan he used to infiltrate and override it. “What do the heretics say? Is it clearer to look in the past than the future?”

“Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” Sam offered.

His colleague snapped his fingers and nodded agreeably. “Exactly so. My hindsight would have been better served writing this program had it the foresight that I now have.” He muttered another curse. “Oh, how I would have brought this entire country to its knees!”

“Who is to say we have not?” They had isolated themselves by severing all communication to the CUB.

The phony Major turned back at him with a smile. “I enjoy your zeal, brother. Let us join the Prophet, knowing we have smitten the enemies of God a righteous blow.”

Sam did not return the smile. He had never questioned the strength of his faith until he had committed this heinous act of treason. “I wonder how long they will take to come for us?”

“It may be that they do not even know we are here.”

“They know.”

Minot AFB, 91st Operations Group

“I know how they hacked our missiles, sir,” MSgt Wilde blurted excitedly. The 24-year-old specialist was bouncing in his seat behind the console. His energy wasn’t because of his discovery; he had to piss like a racehorse!

The Commander of the 91^st Operations Group strode over to his station expectantly. “Show me.”

“It’s in the telemetry signal degradation upgrade, sir. We had issues with degraded communication with several systems, including guidance, targeting, MIRV displacement, etc. The upgraded software has been deployed gradually throughout the squadron but hasn’t concluded. Only 85% of the systems have been patched, and less than half have been tested.”

“Can you identify the older systems and isolate the vulnerable units?”

“Identify yes, but I must isolate each of them independently, which is over 25 missiles. It’ll take me at least 45 minutes to shut them all down.”

“This will be over in—” he glanced at his watch, 0419, “—less than 4 minutes.”

“Permission to whizz, sir?” he grimaced, trying to hide his discomfort.

“Go! Hurry back!”

“Thank you, SIR!”

“Sabretooth One, your strike plan has been verified and confirmed,” the squadron boss informed. “Prosecute.”

“Sabretooth One copies. Prosecuting,” Lady Bug acknowledged. Through the intercom, she said, “Don’t you embarrass me, Angi! I have a bottle of Glenglassaugh single malt riding on this.”

Lt. Angela Cox snorted. As if threading the needle in the haystack was as routine as tying her boots. “Weapons ready. Target splashed and interrogated.”

In this case, three AGM (air-to-ground missile) 154C Joint stand-off weapons (JSOW) were used. The designation C was equipped with an infrared seeker, dual-stage blast/fragmentation, and penetrator warhead called BROACH. The munitions were programmed to detonate separately within nanoseconds. The final weapon was a Quickstrike-J 1000-pound gravity bomb with a JDAM precision guidance package.

Formulating the strike plan took longer than programming it into the attack computer. Once the timing sequence and targeting variables were input and confirmed, the OSO only had to sit back and let it happen. Lady Bug brought the Bone down to 12,000 feet and 400 miles per hour to initiate a low-altitude, low-speed pass before transferring the flight controls to the attack computer to complete the payload delivery.

“Pickle on five, four, three, two ... Pickle,” the OSO called unnecessarily. The bomb bay doors opened, released the bomb, and quickly closed. The excitement was palpable, considering it was her first real combat mission. “Standing by for BROACH deployment in 23 seconds.” She wanted to chew her nails but knew she would never hear the end of it. She had crewed with Major Tyrone ‘Scooby’ Moorehead (even dated him a few times), and Terri shared their shower and head from her adjoining room in the BOQ. The Lieutenant Colonel was a new entity she was still feeling out. The woman looked young enough to be her baby sister, but her resume was the stuff of legends! She had personally taught 80% of the entire squadron how to fly. There was talk that she would have had her star by now if she had stepped out of the cockpit and started punching her political ticket.

“How we looking, O?”

Lt. Cox blinked, “Seven seconds, sir.” It was odd to address a female superior as a man, but that’s what she preferred in the cockpit. “Three, two ... Fox Two!” They felt the bomb door slip open and eject the first missile, but only the pilots could see the fiery streak as it darted away. “—Three, two ... Fox Two! Four, three, two ... Fox Two!” the bomb doors snapped closed with a soft thud, and the Lancer became aerodynamic again.

“Pilot has the stick,” Finely announced, resuming control of the aircraft. “Stand by for BDA (bomb damage assessment) pass. Your turn to shine, Terri.”

The Quickstrike-J impacted first. The JDAM was chosen over the GBU model because it was uncertain how the infrared seeker would react to the six IRLTDs placed around the open silo. It was a good choice as the weapon threaded the needle precisely and exploded 85 feet below the surface. The debate over using the 1000 lb. bomb over a standard 500 lb. MK-82 was also hotly contested, with her three crew members taking the conservative approach, considering the other silos in proximity. However, the Chief of the Air Force gave her latitude and told her to end the situation at all costs! It was like Tom giving her his card and telling her to buy some good shoes! The resulting crater measured 150 feet.

Hence, the reasoning behind the three AGM-154Cs—which struck precisely as intended—directly above the CUB. The bunker was located 15 yards below the surface, protected by 25 feet of solid reinforced ferroconcrete and steel. The sequential detonation of its 500 lb. blast/fragmentation/penetration charge effectively blew a 12-foot hole into the protective shield, then blasted the rubble clear for the second weapon to repeat the process, penetrating an additional five yards. The third missile was the coup de grâce.

Minot AFB, 91st Operations Group

The entire building rocked on its foundation over a mile from the target. Lights flickered, monitors blinked, and the dust settled from high up. A raucous cry erupted from the Men’s head in the back of the command suite.

“Great fucking God almighty!” Jarvis Wilde picked himself up off the slippery tiled floor, oblivious to the fact that he was still pissing. He glanced around the half-lit bathroom with a panicked expression before turning and rushing out. He hastily zipped his fly, ignoring the wet stain on his blue trousers and blouse. “What in the fuck was that?” Nobody paid attention as they were just as shell-shocked.

“BDA complete, Scoobs, take us home,” Lt. Col. Finely announced as she released her restraints and stepped out of her seat. “Extra points if we get back in time for chow.”

“Where ya going?”

“I gotta pee!”

She disconnected her comms and turned to leave the cockpit when Scooby reached over and grabbed her arm. He tapped at his ear, and she could tell by his distant look that he was speaking behind his mask. She sat back in the pilot’s seat and reconnected.

“—sir, Sabretooth One copies. Standby for MC.” He switched to the intercom. “Got a call coming in from the Pentagon.”

“Copperhead, Lady Bug. Sitrep.”

She read off their position, course, and fuel.

“How are you loaded out?”

She delegated the question to her OSO, who reported the remaining ordinance they still carried.

“Copied. Confirm seven Charlie Bravo Uniform One Oh Threes.” CBU 103 Combined Effects Munitions.

“Affirmative.”

“Lady Bug, I have a new strike mission for you,” the four-star said. “Won’t even have to go out of your way.”

“So long as we don’t miss chow, sir.”

The new target was 85 nautical miles west of their current vector to Abilene. While the system operators input the data and prepared to prosecute without ground targeting support, Finley resumed command of the bomber and adjusted their course.

The weapon was a CBU-87 Cluster bomb with a guidance munitions delivery tail that deployed in transit and spun the weapon like a bullet, increasing accuracy and disbursal of the 202 submunitions. With the guidance tail, it was redesignated CBU-103. Each bomblet was designated BLU-97 Combined Effects Bomb, meaning the shaped charge created fragmentation and incendiary effects. It was an ideal antipersonnel weapon.

Texas state trooper Justin Stedman lay prone on a small rise 200 yards from the insurgent celebration—his position concealed behind thick tufts of goose grass and kyllinga. The inactive guardsman was overlooking the scene through binoculars and his rangefinder. With his iPhone, he could provide his exact GPS location to the air strike mission commander and a ‘best guess’ target area. In this case, he estimated 100 by 200 yards—or as he described it—two football fields side-by-side offset like an s-shaped Tetris block, running almost due north-south. He was unaware of the RQ-4 Global Hawk reconnaissance drone orbiting overhead at 55,000 feet. It was diverted from its preliminary mission of scanning and mapping power outages in surrounding areas affected by the EMP attacks. It flew a prescribed pattern over the area and uploaded the grid coordinates containing 99.9% of the insurgents, with precision markers for every one of their heat signatures—to Sabretooth One. The detour consumed 35 minutes of its 32-hour flight plan, and as soon as it communicated precise targeting data to the Bone’s OSO, it assumed a low-orbital surveillance pattern.

The CBU-87’s effective dispersal range was 20x20 square yards to 120x240 yards, depending on the altitude and spin rate programmed into the weapon. Lady Bug asked her OSO to provide an estimated ordinance delivery package that ensured each enemy personnel was exposed to at least two bomblets per 8 cubic yards with an attrition (failure rate) of 5%. Lt. Cox assured her they could achieve 100% saturation with two weapons but suggested a third for good measure. She tapped her monitor with an electronic pen to confirm the computer’s suggested targeting points for each and confirmed the strike. The weapons were selected and programmed with targeting, and the WCMD controlled the rate of circumduction (spin). In the belly of the Lancer, the weapons were repositioned in the deployment magazine. After a final diagnostic and communications check, they were greenlit and armed. This time, the pilot maintained their cruising speed and altitude, turning over control to the attack computer when prompted.