Chapter 9: Zero Hour

Monday, August 10th, 2026, 2000 CT—Peterson Space Force Base, Colorado Springs

Air Force One taxied toward the northern end of runway 35R as directed. Civilian and military airport authorities did not anticipate the presence of the gleaming blue and white aircraft, known by its Air Force designation VC-25. The only advance indication that something was amiss was the sudden arrival of two undesignated C-17 Globemasters, carrying the Presidential motorcade—followed by terse orders to ground or redirect all private and commercial flights and clear the airspace for ten nautical miles, surrounding the municipal airport. Forty minutes later, the 747-200B swooped in and proceeded directly to the military end of the airport.

The time needed to unload and prepare the VH-60N White Hawk designated Marine-One whenever POTUS was aboard was not conducive to the mission-critical timeline of getting the Commander in Chief to safety. The accompanying Secret Service detail grudgingly acceded to using four standard Blackhawks standing by to transport Dealer to the secret bunker in the heart of nearby Cheyenne Mountain. There were no Ruffles and Flourishes or fanfare as the chief executive was whisked away with his staff and agents, all regarding each other with troubled expressions.

Tuesday, August 11th, 2026, 0400 IDT—Israel

Seven thousand miles away, a pair of F-35 Lightning IIs formed up after departing the darkened joint US/IDF air base outside Beersheba. The fifth-generation stealth multirole fighter bore no identifying logos on its fuselage except for a light blue Star of David on the cockpit canopy. Its greatest feature was its ability to penetrate sophisticated air defense systems and the vast amount of information it could ascertain and relay to its single pilot via a futuristic helmet-mounted display system. Armed to the teeth, it was a veritable flying fortress capable of defending itself from any aerial or ground-based threat while offering extensive offensive and counter-offensive measures.

The Lightning II offered an 18,000 lb. payload capacity for internal and external weapons. For this mission, no external weapons were attached to facilitate maximum stealth. As soon as the aircraft assumed their mission profile, they essentially disappeared. Their passage to target and back would remain invisible to even the most sophisticated ground radar systems—a scenario they had repeatedly proven in previous excursions.

God is my copilot on this auspicious night. 37-year-old IDF Captain David Meir—a distant relative to the famed PM of the early 70s—made a silent prayer as he embarked on what would be a pivotal point in the reclamation of air superiority over the entire Middle Eastern region. At long last, he would be the hand of the eternal that delivers the ultimate judgment upon the enemies of his people.

“Sof Ha’Derech,” he heard through the encrypted P2P (Pilot to Pilot) circuit. He grimaced at the flagrant disregard for strict radio silence—though he could not disagree with the sentiment of his wingman. This would be the end of the road for their hated enemy.

The rest of the world reacted with varying degrees of alarm to the sudden, inexplicable launch of multiple ICBMs from the United States. Affirmed powers who opposed American influence escalated their defensive postures, prepared to unleash mutually assured destruction if provoked further. Russia and China immediately demanded an explanation for the blatant and calculated disregard for international agreements. It was no reassurance to either nation-state that they were collectively ‘placed on hold’ along with everyone else demanding answers for the faux pas. Soon, they turned to one another to determine if there was any answer from the leader of the free world. Soon, the growing concern was, where was the president of the United States? And why wasn’t he taking calls?

Other countries took advantage of the confusion to bolster their positions on the world stage. So it was with Israel, who was primed and ready for any excuse to mete punishment upon the real enemy. They relied upon their own intelligence and prepared their plans accordingly. Operation L’Allah had been on the books for decades but had recently found traction among the elite leadership as they recognized the influence of their Iranian neighbors on the growing discord within the United States. Unlike the remainder of the global nuclear powers, they weren’t afraid to play their hand when the moment was right. It had never been more so.

Unlike the Jericho-II missile, which could be detected, tracked, and possibly defeated by sophisticated missile defense systems, there was no defense against Lightning II. This was more apparent than ever as the two aircraft formation streaked through Iraqi airspace within five kilometers of Baghdad. There was not even a blip of recognition from any threat indication. By eliminating their standard payload of two AIM-120 AMRAAMs and two GBU-31 JDAMS, the aircraft was able to accommodate an additional 10,000 lbs. of fuel in addition to their single munition package: a highly modified B-63 tactical nuclear gravity bomb. The weapon, originally designed and tested by Los Alamos, was manufactured as a dial-a-yield weapon capable of delivering a yield of up to 1.3 megatons. Seven were delivered to Israel under a treaty as a viable nuclear deterrent for the Jewish State, never intending to arm, much less use the horrible weapons. The Israelis had a disparaging term for the ‘paper tiger doctrine’, which both parties tentatively agreed to—while in secret, they dismantled the bombs and modified them to deliver significantly higher yields.

Capable of supercruising at 50,000 feet, the single F135 turbofan engine delivered and maintained 43,000 pounds of thrust without the costly afterburner consumption required by previous generations of aircraft engines, assuring supersonic speeds with acceptable fuel consumption. An air-to-air refuel was expected and pre-arranged during the return trip from the target. But that maneuver in and of itself was exceptionally un-stealthy and best limited to absolute necessity. By the time Capt. Meir and his wingman required the mandatory refuel—they would be the last thing the world focused on.

1900 MT—Missoula

James was disgusted by all the paperwork he had hated during his service. With a grunt, he clicked his pen and started filling out his health and fitness questionnaire.

They landed at the regional airport but taxied to the Reserve Center, where Janice met him in her ‘hippie-mobile’ as he referred to the lime green Mini Cooper. She was accompanied by a familiar dark-skinned beauty he hadn’t seen in months.

“Marta!” he greeted with a warm smile as the gorgeous native woman flowed into his arms for a warm hug. She smelled like clean air and cedar. She kissed his cheek and stepped back to look him over approvingly. “Goddamn James!” she remarked with a lusty voice. She fanned herself dramatically as she winked at her fiancée’s diffident expression. “I may be swinging for the wrong team!” The native American woman was even shorter than Janice at five-three, but the long dress and sweater did little to conceal her ravishing figure.

Major Savage handed off the puppy to Janice and made a beeline for the bathroom. She came sauntering down the hall to find the rest of her squad swarming the café for drinks and snacks. James made introductions and smirked as his former secretary’s lover studied the striking black woman. “Then again—” she mused, only to catch an elbow from her betrothed. That hardly stopped the vivacious Crow Indian from clasping the Major’s hand with both of hers and remarking on the softness of her skin and how her eyes projected beauty and spirit.

“Oh, please!” Janice rolled her eyes and grabbed Jim’s arm possessively. “Major Savage, if my fiancée gets too randy, just shoot her.”

Without losing a beat, the dark-skinned woman smiled lasciviously, “Can I hold your gun?”

James was pleased to learn from Janice that Sophia and her sister shared a room in the behavioral care unit. The facility was separate from the main hospital but accessible by a sky bridge. Heads turned as he was led across the brightly lit walkway while the Major and two fully armed Marines formed around him. He protested the escort, but his words fell on deaf ears.

“I’m willing to delay our return to Quantico for this, but until I deliver you to Admiral Fletcher, you will travel by my rules,” she stated flatly, “Sir.”

“And I thought boy Marines were sexy!”

Both officers smirked, and Janice gave her lover a side glance full of stink eye, to which she smirked back.

The two civilian women paused at the door marked 303, and Janice indicated they should wait outside for a moment before they stepped inside. Fifteen seconds later, she peeked back out and nodded for them to enter. The two enlisted marines took positions outside the door while the Major followed her detail into the room.

Sofia looked thinner as she sat in her hospital bed with a too-large scrub top covering her petite frame. The bruising on her face had yellowed, and her eyes appeared sunken and haunted. Her sister had part of her dirty blonde hair shaved along the side of her head, where a white bandage covered a hole that was placed to relieve pressure. The younger girl still had an IV with several smaller bags of fluid running into her left forearm. Despite the bandages, bumps, and bruises, she looked more vibrant than her sister. Still, she regarded the two uniformed soldiers warily. Her liquid brown eyes seemed large for her petite face.

James removed a maroon beret from his head and tucked it into his belt while Janice hugged the girls separately. He was suddenly at a complete loss for words as his mind relived the horrible way he had found them. His expression reflected his emotions.

“James?” He blinked and met Janice’s worried eyes. “What is the matter?”

He cleared his throat nervously and smacked his thigh with the courier envelope. “Nothing,” he replied, stepping slowly forward until he leaned over Sophia and gently touched her shoulder. He was gratified that she didn’t flinch. “I’m happy to see you in the same room.”

The Ukrainian woman studied his face uncertainly before nodding once. “The doctors and nurses have been very good to us here.”

“Sophia has already been cleared for discharge, but she won’t leave Ani,” Janice said.

“Nor should she have to,” he replied, glancing at the other girl. “May I come over to you?”

Sophia spoke in rapid Ukrainian.

“I understood him,” the fourteen-year-old muttered back, frowning at her big sister before nodding to him.

He stepped around Sophia’s bed and went to Anika’s side. “How are you feeling kiddo?”

She maintained a stoic expression and shrugged. “My head hurts,” she stammered in a thick accent. “And my...” Her expression changed, and he felt sick inside.

There was a short rolling stool between their nightstands, and he sat on it, rolling it back to her side. “I am sorry this happened to you both.” The muscles in his jaw twitched. “Those animals will never hurt anybody again, I promise.”

“Did you kill them?” The child’s face was intent as she gazed back at him with dark eyes. “Are they dead?”

Jim hesitated, considering his words, then nodded to her, realizing she had experienced more death and loss than most combat vets. She surprised him by leaning over, wrapping her thin arms around his neck, and pressing her face into his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she sobbed, her voice muffled by his dress coat.

He returned the hug, wrapping his huge arms around her frail torso. Feeling her shake in his arms, he remained quiet and tightened his hug. Behind him, Sophia gasped and choked back her tears while the two women rubbed her back.

A tiny voice protested inside Jim’s coat, and Anika released him with a startled expression, staring at his midsection curiously.

“Opa,” he smiled, using the Ukrainian vernacular. “I’m so used to her sleeping there that I forget about her.” He opened his jacket and produced the seven-week-old puppy. She blinked her brilliant sapphire eyes and yawned, curling her little pink tongue as he sat her on the bed in the astonished girl’s lap. Anika leaned forward and scooped the puppy into her arms, hugging her to her chest. The little opportunist began licking her face, causing a big smile and a burst of giggles.

Well, how about that? He glanced back to see the three women and Major Savage smiling. Janice and Sophia were trying to hold back tears.

“What is her name?”

James turned back and regarded her with a sly smirk. “Dunno. That’s your problem now.”

He glanced back at Sophia’s startled gaze and winked at her.

“I ... I do not understand,” Anika stammered as she gently kissed the creature’s head.

“Well, it’s simple, really,” he answered, reaching over to let the pup gnaw on his finger. “You see, I must go away for a while, and she can’t go with me, so I need you to keep her and take care of her. Can you do that?” He felt his spirit lift by the joyous look she gave him. Her sister’s was the exact opposite.

“Where will you go?” the older woman asked with sudden apprehension.

He got to his feet and regarded the yellow and red packet in his hand. “I have been recalled to active duty,” he explained. “I must report to Washington, DC. I’ll be working in the Pentagon.” He produced his automatic knife and slit the package open. “But the main reason I came here was to make you both an offer. I want to sponsor you until you get your citizenship.” He tacitly ignored their incredulous expressions as he sorted through the forms, noting the areas he had to complete and sign.

Sophia was at a loss for words, and he could see the confusion in her eyes as he took out a pen. “You do want to stay here, correct?”

The two girls looked at each other in silent communication. “How does this ... sponsor—” She struggled to think of a word.

“Basically, it means that I will take care of you from now on, even when I’m not physically present.” He had begun completing a few blocks on a form and signed where indicated. “You have a lot of stuff here to fill out, and Janice will help you.” He looked up at her, seeing disbelief and uncertainty. “You don’t have to return to St. Regis. You can stay in my house for as long as you need.”

“Oh, I don’t think so!” Janice interjected firmly. He looked up and found her and Marta shaking their heads dubiously. “The renovations on my 5th-floor apartments are nearly complete. Sophia and Ani will stay at my place, or I’ll put them up in the Marriott until their suite is finished.”

Even Better.

“What is a sponsor?” Anika asked as she let the puppy sniff curiously on her blankets.

Marta had sat on the opposite side of her bed and affectionately placed an arm around her shoulders. “Think of it as a legal Guardian, Pappa bear, or maybe a big brother,” she said, her eyes alight with new respect for the man seated between the beds. She leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “You just won the Lottery, sweety.”

“The medical power of attorney you gave me also needs to cover James,” Janice said from beside Sophia. “It will be easier in the long run, I promise.”

Sophia’s face looked weary and tired from the onslaught of overwhelming news. “I ... we left our papers in the loft of the restaurant,” she stammered uncertainly.

“They will be retrieved,” James assured her, holding up a twin stack of forms. “You can apply for and receive new identities for yourself and Ani.” He signed both sets and completed his required information. “That is something you should consider, but you must decide before we get you your new visas, passports, social security cards, etc.”

“Are ... you adopting ... us? Me?” Anika whispered emotionally. The puppy sensed her apprehension and growled lightly from her lap before pouncing back at her. She received another squeeze from the native American beauty beside her.

“If he doesn’t, we will,” she promised, meeting the affirming gaze of her betrothed. “After the wedding, of course.”

James nodded thoughtfully. “That’s something to consider down the road.” He continued working through the forms and finally handed the pile back to Janice, who lived for paperwork and bureaucracy. He then reached into his coat and produced a Ziploc baggy of kibbles and treats. The sharp-nosed mutt favored him with her full attention, sweeping her tail about eagerly as he handed the bag to her new owner.

Tuesday, August 11^th, 0700 PKT—Islamabad

Portable lights burned away the residual pre-dawn shadows around the busy compound secreted on the outskirts of the Pakistani capital. To outward appearances, it was a dormant reserve training facility. In secret, it was a highly secure armory, one of several throughout the country where the government stored its limited number of nuclear weapons. Tensions were understandably high in the region, still recuperating from the devastation of the EMP blast that sparked the latest border skirmish with their despised Indian neighbors—even though its effects were not felt anywhere near the India/Pakistan border.

An entire platoon of armed soldiers gathered around the storage bunker as four covered deuce-and-a-half trucks stood by, backed against the loading dock. Ancient forklifts appeared from the bowels of the underground bunker, each carrying a pallet with two 115 mm artillery shells wrapped securely in cargo netting. The gleaming red and yellow tips were at odds with the notably aged and weathered gray coating on the shells. In every respect, they appeared like a typical M115 Howitzer round, except they were significantly longer and weighed nearly a ton each (968 kilograms). Cloned after the American W88 tactical warhead, which they had long since removed from their nuclear arsenal, as did their Russian adversaries (ostensibly). While the major global adversaries paid lip service to their archaic non-proliferation treaties, the smaller UN nation-states were less inclined to give up their ultimate ‘stick’.

It took considerable manpower and maneuvering to load the pallets into three heavy trucks. Half an hour later, they departed the armory with an armed escort and proceeded through the outskirts of the vast city for the highway leading southeast toward Lahore and the border with the Punjab province of India. At the last minute, the rear vehicle slowed and departed the convoy, instead turning to the northwest.

0620 IRST—Tehran

The B61-12 gravity bomb weighed approximately 975 pounds without the JDAM Guidance package. This prompted the Israeli pilots to deploy it in a ballistic trajectory maneuver in lieu of a guided drop. The rationale was simple: Precision wasn’t paramount with a 1.5-megaton nuke. With his wingman peeling off to cover his attack run, Captain Meir began his prescribed 4.5G climb over the glittering target and pickled his payload at 33,000 feet, allowing centrifugal force to pull the weapon out of the bomb bay. This made the maneuver stealthier by presenting his open belly beyond sensitive ground-based detection. It would have been a different story if an aerial surveillance system had been present. Regardless, the gravity bomb was still ascending when he reversed course and sped after his wingman, who had already headed toward the second target 250 miles to the southeast.

The pair of fighters were 70 miles away when the B61 crested its ballistic arch and deployed the tail fins that initiated its arming sequence. The weapon began spinning as it descended from 37,000 feet, revolving faster until it rotated like a child’s top. After a prescribed number of revolutions, the arming sequence was activated, and the altimeter detonator monitored its descent toward its 5,000-foot trigger.

The blast from the detonation caused a blinding flare 1000 times brighter than the sun behind the two aircraft. The pilots’ instruments alerted them to the massive EMP blast wave but reported no damage or electrical interference. Eight minutes later, Meir’s wingman broke formation to begin his radical climb 13 miles from Isfahan.

South Dakota

The MV-22 could refuel mid-air, but the logistics and expense weren’t warranted when stopping at Ellsworth AFB to deplane, stretch, and gas up was easier. Once airborne, the monotony resumed, and most passengers nodded off in a pseudo-non-sleep inside the confined, dimly lit cabin. Their respite was interrupted by a loud electronic buzzer and flashing cabin lights. The alarm and flash repeated thrice, dispelling the Marines’ and their escort’s boredom.

James straightened in his web seat, blinking as Major Savage released her restraints and approached the forward compartment door, slipping into the darkened cockpit. Moments later, she reappeared, gesturing urgently for him to join her.

She indicated a crew seat inside the tight forward compartment and handed him a headset. She wore a serious expression as he accepted it and placed the headphones over his ears, cutting out the transient noise. She sat across from him and nodded to the Marine pilot in the left command seat.

“Colonel Keller,” the pilot said with a surprisingly soft voice. “Standby for the Pentagon.”

Jim nodded, apprehension creeping up his spine as he stared at the Major. “What do you know?”

“Shit just got real, sir,” she replied. Her voice projected from her microphone into his ears as he sat less than a yard away.

“James, do you read me?” It was Gallagher. He sounded as if they were once again sitting across from each other at the Montana Club.

“Loud and clear, General.” He saw the female Major listening on the same channel. “What happened?” He knew instinctively that the General wouldn’t have contacted him unless something dire was afoot. His last sitrep was an update on the insurgent camp immolated by the second-ever military airstrike on US soil—an hour and a half after the first. He was also informed that the President and his immediate staff had been escorted to the doomsday bunker deep inside the Cheyenne Mountain complex.

There was a weary sigh, then his friend said, “The fucking Israelis just turned half of Tehran and most of Isfahan into a parking lot.”

Jesus! Keller felt icy dread from his skull to his sphincter. “Oh my God!” was all he could say as the enormity washed over him. Across from him, the black Major looked shaken and paler.

“Happened ... twenty and ... eight minutes ago.”

By now, NORAD had completed a preliminary threat assessment and redirected satellite resources while issuing an Alpha Alert to all US military forces at home and abroad. A message would have gone out to the Naval Ballistic Missile fleet via a unique, Extremely Low-Frequency encrypted burst signal. The top-secret transmitter enabling instant communication with a submerged vessel was located within a secure building at Great Lakes Naval Station in North Chicago. Alerts were sent to all non-deployed gold or blue crews for immediate deployment. Downtime workups and refits would be halted, and the boats would be made ready to sail within 48 hours.

Major US military bases abroad would assume the highest threat level and recall all essential personnel. James could envision the scenario. The closest Atlantic Carrier Group would have changed course for the Middle East, steaming at maximum speed to keep the fleet together. Shit! This was real ... Where would our forces be most vulnerable to retaliation?