Chapter 7: Recipe for Disaster

Sunday, August 9, 2026, 1330 CT—Peterson Space Force Base, Colorado Springs. NORAD

The cat was out of the bag, and the sum fuckery was on display before the world stage. Air Force Major General Meredith Dommermuth sat in her command chair behind a small squad of technicians manning the consoles before the Omni Max-sized screen. Her stoic appearance masked the terror she felt as the pinnacle of ‘worst fears’ had just occurred. She watched live footage of the LGM-30 erupting from the silo and blasting towards the heavens.

Chaos erupted in the amphitheater as everyone shouted over each other and speakers blared computer-generated alarms.

“Transient targeting suggests greater Asia—”

“Remote and Doppler signals are corrupted! It’s a free bird!”

“Get OP-09 on the phone! Now!”

“Why can’t Minot override?”

“Negative payload! Repeat: Negative Payload!”

She frowned, trying to partition her mind from the distractions when she heard the last message. “What was that?” she demanded, her voice failing to stem the fervor. Frustrated, she burst to her feet and stuck her pinkies into her mouth, emitting a shrill and unpleasant whistle that shattered the cacophony, startling everyone in the chamber to silence. “Get a grip, people!” she snapped, glaring at the faces below her. She looked back at the massive screen. “What was that about payload?”

“I said—” the tone was heated, “—negative payload. The damn thing is a dud!”

“Who the hell is this?” she barked. “Are you certain the weapon is unarmed?”

“Tech Sergeant Jarvis Wilde. Yes, I’m goddamned sure—wouldn’t have said so otherwise. Who the hell is this?” The man’s accent was thick with southern disdain.

“This is Major General Dommermuth, NORCENCOM (NORAD Central Command),” she replied calmly. “Explain yourself, Sergeant!”

“Apologies, boss!” he replied with a hint of contrition. “It launched too light—” his voice drifted off, and they could hear him muttering under his breath: “Goddammit! That fucker took out the Doppler too ... I’m trying, Colonel! Lemme try something—”

“SERGEANT WILDE!”

“FUCKING WHAT?” he retorted. “Oh shit! Sorry, General. I’m up to my asshole in alligators here! That goddamned gatecrasher hacked the entire launch sequence and telemetry control—”

Her eyes narrowed as she returned to her seat. “Why can’t we abort?”

“I just told you!” he insisted before another voice cut in.

“Beggin’ the General’s pardon. Ma’am, there are many payload variables, but all contribute considerable weight to the delivery platform. The older W56 Model 4 weighs 680 pounds, and the current Mark II Bravo is 720 pounds. And with the three-warhead configuration, which is no longer authorized—we’re looking in excess of 2,500 pounds,” the voice stated succinctly, then added, “Jarv’s right. The bird is unarmed.”

“Who is this?”

“Colonel Stafford, Commander, 91^st Operations Group, General. We are—”

“Well, Colonel, it’s great you launched an unarmed LGM-30 without warning,” she shot back. “But the rest of the world doesn’t know that! CAN YOU KILL IT?” Around her, personnel from every service branch answered calls and relayed data.

“Working on it, General. Without Doppler or telemetry, we cannot override or—” his voice cut off under a barrage of excited voices in the background.

“—fuck yeah!” TSGT Wilde hollered triumphantly. “Eat that, Achmed!”

The airborne missile disappeared in a massive flare that briefly whited out the three-story screen. When the view returned, a burning cloud of smoke and fire replaced it.

“MISSILE #88 ABORTED,” a canned voice announced overhead.

Jubilant cheers followed, and a deep southern drawl chimed, “Ghost ride the whip!”

“What just happened?” General Dommermuth called out as the tension bled away, leaving pins and needles in her arms and legs.

“I drifted it, General!” Jarvis laughed. “Sent a TCO (transient command override) signal burst to the slaved flight controller. The fins were locked, but the vector thrust responded, shifting the nozzle just enough to—”

“Any unanticipated and radical trajectory changes trigger an immediate self-destruct,” Colonel Stafford concluded calmly.

A collective sigh of relief filled the amphitheater.

“Tech Sergeant Wilde,” the General called.

“Yes, General?”

“You are hereby meritoriously promoted to Master Sergeant, effective immediately, by my authority,” she ordered firmly. “I am nominating you for the AFC (Air Force Cross—the highest service-specific award below The Medal of Honor). Outstanding work, Airman.”

“Um ... Holy shit! I—thank—” he stammered before a deafening alarm cut him off.

The General straightened in her chair, glancing at the flashing red lights surrounding the Control center, which bathed everything in an ominous crimson glow. “Colonel Stafford, are you—”

“We got it here too, General. What the hell, over?”

She glanced at her government-issued smartphone. “Ladies and gentlemen! Effective immediately, by presidential order, we are now at DEFCON One! I will transfer temporary command to my deputy at Cheyenne Mountain until I arrive. Air Force One is scrambling.”

Silo #88 CUB

“I thought you locked out the self-destruct sequence,” Armand/Darvish blurted. “How did they blow it up?”

“Unknown.” His colleague sat at the command console in the silo bunker, typing rapidly on his laptop and glancing at the three-panel display. “Not important. We accomplished the objective.”

What the hell? “All we did was launch an unarmed $60 million Roman candle.”

The Major grinned with a light in his eyes devoid of sanity. “Yes. But the enemies of America don’t know that,” he explained. He laughed maniacally, rubbing his hands together before pulling up a digital schematic of the underground silo system.

“What are you doing?” Armand asked dubiously. “The other two Silos are locked down. I told you this was protocol.” He waited vainly for a reply, watching three-silo bunkers scroll by on the map, looking like small grape clusters.

Pentagon

“‘Dealer’ is en route to Air Force One on Marine One,” the secret service liaison announced, referring to their internal vernacular for POTUS. He struggled to keep up with four-star Marine General “Wild Bill” Hawkins as he strode through the Pentagon’s E ring.

“Good for him,” the CMC (Commandant of the Marine Corps) and (acting) vice-chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff growled. A group of junior liaison officers and adjutants followed behind. They rounded a 72-degree corner and approached an alcove to their left with ornate double doors guarded by two armed soldiers. Approaching from the opposite direction, the crusty senior Marine recognized his boss, Admiral Damien Fletcher, surrounded by another group of aides and two of the three other members of the JCS.

“Who do we have at J5?” the Chairman asked. “I need their best minds on this right damn now!”

An Air Force Colonel with a gold braided epaulet said, “Colonel Evans just transferred in as deputy and acting commander, sir.”

“What’s his understanding of Middle Eastern affairs?”

“Unknown sir, he commanded the 35^th Fighter Wing at Misawa before this post.”

The Chairman abruptly stopped, causing a personnel pile-up behind him. He turned to face the Colonel, who stood behind Air Force General Arthur Millington. “I don’t need a damn fighter pilot!” He snapped, lifting a pointed finger. “We have an army of Islamic terrorists infiltrating our country, causing all sorts of mayhem! I want people who know them—how they think, eat, sleep, pray, and marry their favorite camels!” He turned back to the hall and continued toward the Situation Room. “I want planners and strategists who know these assholes inside and out. This dumpster fire is out of control, and we’re headed toward a major national catastrophe!”

General Millington stayed behind after everyone else entered the vast room. The Airforce four-star wore a studied expression, staring into space before pulling out his cell phone.

Broadaxe 288

“Sophia and her sister are stable and expected to recover physically,” Janice said.

“Brother,” Jim corrected. “Anika is a—”

“James,” she interrupted assertively. “I know this is foreign to you, but ... Sophia’s sister identifies as a young lady. She was born with a condition called ambiguous genitalia.”

He blinked in the afternoon light atop his perch overlooking the east side of the Broadaxe claim. The main cave was behind him and out of sight. To his right, he could see the steep ravine leading to the main site, past the bubbling creek and reservoir. “He’s... She’s both?”

“That’s all I know from briefly speaking with Sophia,” she explained. “They admitted her to a behavioral support wing for safety and immediate help. Anika had to undergo surgery for reasons I don’t know.”

“They fucking raped and sodomized him,” he hissed with barely contained rage before adding, “Her rather. I assessed to ensure she wasn’t bleeding out.” His voice caught, and he felt his eyes water as he replayed it. “I thought they mutilated his... her...” he left the rest unspoken. Something caught his attention, and he stood up. Was that an engine?

Travis Saint James leaned forward to squint over his Dad’s RAM 2500 steering wheel as he navigated the ascending gravel road in darkness.

“C’mon man, you’re driving like a pussy!” Lance sneered from beside him. He rode ‘bitch’ with his big brother while Oly and Cliff rode in the back.

“Fuck you, man, I can’t see shit at night.”

Colby pointed out the bridge and post, cradling a sawed-off 12-gauge in his lap. “Slow down, or you’ll miss the turn.”

Turning onto the Broadaxe mine road on a motorcycle was easier than in a big truck.

Three minutes later, they crept past the old pond and sluice gates, entering the narrow divide separating two halves of the same mountain. The ravine stole the remaining light, and it grew slightly less dark when they exited the far side and turned left to descend to the mine entrance.

“Damn, I call dibs on the sweet-as-fuck truck!” Lance chortled when the nearly new F350 appeared in their headlights next to the Quonset hut.

“Stop here!” Colby ordered. They were 15 feet from the truck and shelter, brightly lit by the Dodge’s headlights.

The five young men scrambled out of the vehicle and gathered by the driver’s door. The Quonset hut was dark, and after killing the engine, only a generator ran behind the domed structure. The sounds of handguns and rifles chambering rounds could be heard in the dark.

“HEY!” Colby shouted toward the hut. “Yo, Fucker ... get the fuck out here! We wanna talk to you!”

After a minute of silence, he sauntered over to the Ford. “Don’t be bitch! We just wanna talk!”

The others laughed humorlessly as they followed. The older brother tapped the shortened stock of his shotgun on the metallic bed. “Nice truck!” he called out, approaching the rear. He reversed the shotgun and raised it over his shoulder. “Too bad the taillights are—”

Lance was about to object to vandalizing his truck when a sickening pop sounded. It was like a fleshly smack, and a cloud of dark mist engulfed the older boy’s head, jerking him back and dropping him lifeless to the ground.

“COLE!” his little brother screamed, racing to kneel at his side. Travis stared wide-eyed into the dark, scanning the mine’s silhouette and surrounding area. Oly and Cliff stood frozen, holding handguns, looking about in confusion.

Something spooked Oly, and he spun in a panic, staring toward the back of the Dodge. The headlights ruined his night vision.

“I’ll say this once,” a voice called from the dark. Cliff jerked and turned to look past the Quonset hut while Travis peered closer at the darkened mine entrance. “Drop the guns and get down on your faces!”

Oly’s sob echoed across the clearing as he tossed his gun and dropped to his knees. Cliff crouched defensively and twisted his neck, looking side to side. Travis stepped away from the cave as he squinted harder, trying to penetrate the pitch blackness. Was that a person standing there?

Lance jumped up with an anguished cry and swept his rifle about as he screamed in outrage, “You killed my brother! You mother-fucking—” Another sickening splat silenced him as a 5.56 x 45 bullet pierced his neck, destroying his larynx and bisecting his cervical spine. He collapsed with a gurgling sound beside his brother’s corpse.

There! Travis squinted, barely seeing the muzzle flash from the cave entrance. He started to raise his rifle, then froze.

“I wouldn’t...” the voice taunted.

The man trembled, knowing he was seconds from death if he didn’t obey. The gun fell from his fingers, and he dropped to his knees. He heard Cliff toss his pistol and saw him drop as well.

“Down. On your faces,” the voice demanded. “Hands behind your heads.”

Travis began shaking involuntarily as he laced his fingers behind his head. This was not the expected outcome. He heard the crunch of boots and blinked back tears as the footsteps approached. They stopped next to him, and he felt the gun barrel pointed at him. A bright light flashed on, filling the space around his head with blinding brightness. He winced as something light dropped on his head.

“Flex-cuffs,” the man said from above. “Get up and use them to secure your friends. I’m right behind you.”

He cuffed Oly first, who lay next to the Dodge’s tailgate. After he stepped over and repeated the process with Cliff, he straightened and held the third pair.

“Hands behind your back.”

Seconds later, he was as helpless as his friends. They were all kneeling side by side in front of the Dodge, facing the blinding headlights.

James stood before them with the truck behind him. “You three and your dead buddies have proven you’re unfit for society. Your despicable actions are unforgivable, and I find you irredeemable. You are guilty of kidnapping, rape, sodomy, and torture. These crimes cannot go unpunished.”

Oly sobbed, and snot ran from his nose down his chin. “I’m sorry, man!” he whimpered. “I was just going along with—”

“Wha—what are you gonna do?” Cliff asked, terrified.

Jim answered by lifting his M4 to his shoulder. Sighting was unnecessary at this range. He smoothly swept the barrel from right to left, shooting each through the forehead with practiced precision. Executing all three took a single second, and he watched impassively as they were blown backward into the dirt.

Silo #88 CUB

“I’m in!” the Major (real name Maiwand Rahimi) exclaimed triumphantly. Sam Darvish stood behind him, watching the digital map of buried silo clusters. One changed from grayscale to green and zoomed in on the left silo. A telemetry display resembling the first launch appeared, with no activity on the digital readouts. “Did they lock down the entire system?”

“Apparently so,” Darvish pointed to a digital button with a camera icon. His partner clicked it, and a video feed of the control appeared, mirroring theirs. “They evacuated and slaved control to OPGRU.”

“Too bad for them...”

Pentagon

“How were you compromised, Colonel?” General Millington asked calmly over teleconference. He stood outside the VIP ‘bullpen’ facing a large wall-sized screen with several monitor feeds. A larger window showed the face and torso of the 91^st Operations Group commanding officer, Colonel Stafford.

“The known entity is a 27-year-old Hispanic male named Emelio Armand, according to his service record,” the colonel replied deadpan. “I’ve forwarded it to you, General.” Sam’s face appeared on the giant screen, his Air Force Academy portrait.

“Well, he ain’t Mexican,” the CMC growled behind the Air Force Chief.

“Concur, General. NSA is running facial recognition on both insurgents, hoping for a match and nationality—”

“They’re fucking Iranian!” General Hawkins blurted. “Or Afghani ... Or both! How did he embed himself inside our land-based missile deterrent system?” The stocky Marine was livid. “How, Colonel, did you vet a fucking terrorist and give him access to nuclear weapons?”

Colonel Stafford knew it was useless to point out that the terrorist was vetted and assigned to the group over a year before he assumed command. Any hopes of earning a star went up in smoke with that LGM-30. He opened his mouth to answer when another launch alert sounded.

“MISSILE LAUNCH IMMINENT!” The computerized voice announced throughout the base.

“You’re fucking kidding me!” a southern voice bellowed.

“Colonel Stafford, what’s going on?” Millington demanded.

The CO ignored him, looking beyond the camera view. “Show me where Jarv,” he ordered calmly.

“Sector Seven, Quad two, Bunker two, silo one, Missile #111, sir! 4,000 yards northeast of the previous launch.”

“Show me.”

Admiral Fletcher called down to a technician. “Tameeka, can you pull this up?” he asked a tall black Petty Officer.

“Yes, Admiral,” she replied, typing. Colonel Stafford’s image shrank and shifted to the lower left corner of the wall screen, making room for a larger window showing the Minot AFB missile sites’ digital map. As TSgt Wilde manipulated the map, the same changes appeared in the Pentagon Situation Room. A second window showed an external view of the missile tube, with flashing lights around the silo.