Steve’s shorts: Silo…
[Sometimes your enemies can turn into allies. This one might make the Pentagon nervous. Enjoy. And happy holidays!]
Silo
Steven M. Moore
Copyright 2015
Mike Preston knew his old car well and didn’t like the sound it was making. He pulled off the interstate and made his way into a small prairie town. He’d been driving all night on his way to Chicago to research another article, but getting stranded on a lonely interstate hadn’t appealed to him. Doesn’t this backwater place have a service station?
He spotted a diner with a parking lot full of old pickups—that was a good sign because he needed some breakfast, a good one because he planned to skip lunch. He saw the usual hardware and drug stores, the first outnumbering the second because this was the great American prairie. Most of those pickups probably belonged to farmers. Or were they called ranchers here?
Finally, after passing almost the length of the main street (he realized there might be only one), he found a service station across the street from an auto body shop. Both names started with Abe’s. He pulled into the station.
***
“I know the sound, sir,” said Abe, the mechanic and CEO of both establishments—that name was on the sewn-on tag, the overalls’ only adornment. “You have a frayed belt. Give me thirty minutes and you can be on your way. Pull right into the bay. You’re my first customer today.”
Good lord, did the guy write jingles on the side? Way, bay, today—Preston’s ears were sensitive to language nuances. The fellow had a nice Midwestern twang and seemed nice enough. Is he honest?
It took him only twenty minutes and sixty-five bucks that Preston put on his Visa after calculating he’d still be just under the credit limit. He topped the tank off with cash, leaving only a few bucks in his wallet. There goes breakfast, unless it’s really cheap.
“Diner back there any good?” he said after thanking the mechanic and shaking his hand.
“Julie’s is the only game in town. Just don’t get any fish unless it’s local. They serve breakfast all day.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how do you folks keep going with just the farm folk as customers?”
“Missile silos,” said the mechanic. “Guys come into town for R&R. I fix the official vehicles too. Julie feeds them. The pub serves them drinks. It’s an important component in the local economy.”
Maybe the only steady one? “Aren’t all those missiles old?”
“The Cold War’s come and gone and they’re still there. I ain’t complaining.”
Preston sensed the genesis of a future article. After thanking Abe again, he jumped in and headed out of town. Julie’s sounded good, but he had lost too much time, and didn’t want to be embarrassed by having to wash dishes.
***
Where’s the GPS? Preston’s car didn’t have one, so he used an old portable Garmin he hadn’t updated in a while. Carrie had given him that. At least she hadn’t thrown that at him when she stormed out of the apartment. He figured it was better to learn about incompatibilities before they became too involved. But I’ve never become too involved. Women want a commitment—all his girlfriends had that problem!
After finding the GPS and straightening up, he saw the red light. A traffic light? He slammed on his brakes but skidded into the intersection with some county road.
He backed up and pulled off the side of the road, shaking. What I should have done to begin with. I could have been killed if there was any traffic in this dumpy burg. After setting up the GPS, he checked his rearview mirror and saw flashing lights. Damn! Talk about bad luck.
The cruiser pulled up to his back bumper. It contained some kind of deputy or state trooper, a woman, and two kids. The kids were in the back behind a screen. Good place for them. He didn’t like screaming kids; these looked like they were screaming. Ugh! Keep them in the car.
“Not from around here,” said the cruiser’s driver. Sheriff Deputy J. Jenkins. Abe’s label had been cloth; this was engraved plastic. “The light gets you slickers every time. Let’s see your driver’s ID and insurance card, fellow.”
“Why are you on my case? I left money in your town, fellow. Are you taking that woman and her kids to jail? That could be more important than a simple traffic ticket. She looks like she’s angry. Maybe violent?”
“That’s my wife and our kids, if it’s any of your business.”
Oops! “It sure is. I might have to report you. Joyriding using official cars isn’t allowed from where I’m from.”
Jenkins frowned. “Where you’re from they probably don’t treat authority with respect, so I’ll try to let that pass. Your credentials.”
“Some welcome you folks give,” said Preston. “Why is your wife angry?”
“Because Jake Jenkins is an asshole,” said a lilting voice from the back of the car.
“Get back into the car, Judy.”
“He’s behind on his quota. He knows you’ll pay up to be on your way. That’s the scam they work around here.”
“Shut up, Judy! Get back in the car.”
“We’re late, Jake. Let this stranger be.”
“He broke the law.”
“Just give me the ticket,” Preston said. “I don’t want to get into the middle of a family quarrel, or any quarrel for that matter. I’m willing to help with the quota. How much is the donation?” Do I have enough room on the credit card? He couldn’t remember if he had some outstanding purchases. What happens when you go over the limit?
“It’s a fine, not a donation. Twenty-five for speeding, fifty for running a red light.”
“Speeding? I just came out of the service station. This car goes zero to sixty in about ten minutes!”
“Twenty MPH is the limit. You were going faster than that.”
“You’re full of shit! Where’s your radar gun? I bet it hasn’t been calibrated since your department bought it back in the Dark Ages. Those missiles in the silo are probably newer.”
Jenkins frowned. “Out! I’m hauling you in for resisting arrest.”
When Preston stepped out of the car, Jenkins handcuffed him.
“This is going to make the best exposé article I’ve ever written,” he said.
“Are you crazy?” the wife said to her husband. “You’re doing this just to avoid seeing my parents!” She stomped off to return to the cruiser.
***
At the jail, Jenkins read Preston his Miranda rights. He asked for his one call.
“Do you know a lawyer in the area?” said Jenkins.
Does that imply there are none? “Not calling a lawyer. I’m calling an editor. This will make a great story. I can see the title on the Tribune article now: ‘Mayberry Sheriff’s Department Hassles Reporter.’ Maybe here’s an even better one: ‘Excessive Force in a Prairie Town.’ How’s that sound?”
“Forget the call,” said Jenkins, shaking his head. “The magistrate will be through here in three days. You can enjoy Julie’s jail-cell cooking until then. Let’s go, Preston. Into the cell.”
Preston had to strip and put on orange overalls. Once in the cell, he sat on his cot and rested his head against the construction-block wall. Next time he saw Jenkins, the deputy was carrying a cold dinner.
“I forgot to give this to you,” said the deputy. “My apologies.” The sneering smile said he didn’t give a rat’s ass.
“When I’m out of here, you people are going to be slapped with a lawsuit that will eat up your entire budget for the next ten years and end your job, deputy. Mark my words.” He took the tray and tossed it into the garbage can. “You people are a bunch of fascist country hicks. Where’s my car?”
“You won’t be needing it. Seeing as how you have only three dollars in your wallet and your credit is maxed out, you won’t be able to pay the fine. If someone’s dumb enough to loan you the money, you’ll have the towing and impound charge, plus Julie’s fine meals, added to the bill.” He laughed and pointed to the garbage can. “You might want to dig out her dinner. Unless you want to go on a long-term hunger strike like one of those A-Rabs. No skin off my nose if you die from starvation in here.”
***
Preston’s stomach rumbled, but he finally fell asleep. Sometime during the early morning hours, all hell broke loose.
A local who moonlighted as a watchman for the jail was incapacitated by flash grenades and tear gas. Preston saw the flash through the small window in the door leading to the cell block; some of the tear gas seeped through there too, making his eyes water. The tear gas level increased as that same door was blown away. Two men in gas masks with automatic weapons and body armor came in. One had the keys. He opened the cell door and handed a gas mask to Preston.
“Put it on and let’s get out of here!”
Preston didn’t have much choice. They grabbed him under the arms and bodily walked him through the thicker tear gas cloud in the outer office. He almost tripped over the watchman’s body. Not dead. Still breathing. Outside an idling, black Humvee was waiting in front of the jail; three other men were standing guard, two facing down the main street in opposite directions, the other crouched with gun trained on rooftops.
The two from inside threw Preston into the back of the Humvee and slammed the door. The Humvee swayed from side to side as the five men scrambled aboard, the motor sang, and they were off.
Preston ripped off the gas mask. He couldn’t stand due to the Humvee’s motion, so he crawled over to one of two benches. There were four seatbelts on each one. He strapped himself in.
What the hell is going on? He was thinking that breaking out of jail might be more than a traffic fine. He knew one thing for damn sure: he was going to take a plane next time!
***
After a long ride—he no longer had a watch, so he couldn’t tell how long—the Humvee started to go downhill. That seemed odd to Preston. The prairie was pretty flat in these parts, but the slope was steep. Things leveled out and the Humvee came to a stop. Preston unstrapped and moved to the rear of the Humvee. He’d decided to jump whomever opened the door, hoping the element of surprise would compensate for his new jailor’s bulk.
But when the door opened, he didn’t jump.
“Welcome, Mr. Preston,” said a smiling young woman in soldier’s fatigues. “I’m Colonel Linda Betancourt. You’re now on USAF property. I hope you enjoyed the trip here.”
He stepped down slowly. “You have to be kidding me. Why would the U.S. government stage a jailbreak?”
She smiled. “Not exactly the government. We’ve taken over this silo. We don’t like investigative reporters, especially when we’re not quite ready to go into action.”
“I’m missing something. Aren’t you Air Force?”
“Technically, but we’re patriots above all else. We’re readying a missile launch that will change the course of human history.”
“This is a Minuteman silo, right?”
“And we’re the crew that’s usually here, correct. My crew is the best there is. All patriots. Walk with me.”
The facility was more like a man-made cave than a silo. Preston supposed that somewhere a missile lurked, a deadly leftover from the Cold War that most people had forgotten about. But maybe not Putin? Betancourt could have been standing on a right-wing soapbox in the nation’s capital with her running diatribe about personal responsibility and patriotism. He started tuning out and focusing on where they were going and remembering where they’d been. They ended up in a rec room of some sort. A round table with eight chairs plus a kitchenette with small fridge and microwave furnished it. A flat screen TV hung from one wall. Barebones comfort for the troops.
“You’re a good listener, Mr. Preston. Have a seat.”
Now comes the quiz. He took a chair nearly opposite her.
“As a reporter, I observe. One observation is that you sprung me from one jail to put me in another. Why? I’m no threat to you.”
“Potential threat. The sheriff and his deputies have no idea about what’s going on here, and I want to keep it that way. We’re maintaining the illusion that we’re loyal Air Force boys and girls while we prepare.”
“What’s to prepare? You have a missile. I assume you’re either going to shoot it somewhere or use it for blackmail. Which is it?”
“No blackmail. We have certain procedures, mostly failsafe mechanisms, we have to circumvent. We’ll only have one chance to fire our bird.”
“I assume your entire group is on board with this. You do realize it’s treason, right?”
“Was it treason when the Founding Fathers rebelled against the British tyrant? There’s a fine line between treason and patriotism. Like I said originally, we want to change the course of history. Each MIRV will be targeted against a holy shrine in the Middle East.”
“I’m not sure the Muslims will appreciate that,” said Preston.
“Not just Muslims, Mr. Preston. Although ISIS has done a good job of destroying ancient antiquities that aren’t Islamic, including many Christian ones, we will spread the pain around. Along with the shrines, Arabs, Christians, and Jews will die, along with the rabid centuries-old ethnic hatreds among them.”
“You’re not one of those Rapture fanatics, are you?”
She smiled. “You’re mocking me. I’m a rationalist who believes that a strong secular state is necessary to maintain civil order. Irrational beliefs have no place in the modern world.”
“But isn’t that in itself an irrational belief?” He saw the anger flare in her eyes. “Never mind. I feel honored that you thought I would find you out. I was only going to write an exposé about my experiences in that little town. Now you’ve handed me a much bigger story.”
“You won’t be writing either story, Mr. Preston. Once we launch, we’ll all be dead. Do you think we’d just sit here and let the SWAT teams move in? It will be painless, I assure you.”
“If that’s the case, why not just kill me now?”
“Because you can write our story from our viewpoint. I want to tell the world what happened here. Just before we launch, you’ll be allowed to send our story to your favorite editor. You will go out in a blaze of glory as a journalist.”
“And what if I refuse?”
“Then we will kill you. Simple as that.”
***
Preston was confined to a small room with a bathroom attached. It wasn’t a cell, but two burly Air Force guards stood just outside the door. Meals were brought to him.
Colonel Betancourt had provided a laptop. It wasn’t connected to anything. As the days passed, Betancourt would review what he’d written, and he was then taken to different parts of the underground cavern to meet people and learn about what they intended to do.
On the surface, the Air Force men and women seemed reasonable folks, but it didn’t take long to expose their fanatic mindsets. Linda Betancourt was the worst, of course. Moreover, she was worse than any editor he’d ever had. He felt like a ghostwriter writing for a megalomaniac.
“This is better,” she said on the fifth day. “You’re starting to see our point of view.” She stood, stretched, and then moved beside him at the little desk. He began to get nervous when she started rubbing his neck. “I knew you’d come around. I can be very persuasive, and right is on our side. You’re tense, Mr. Preston. Or, can I call you Mike now?”
“Maybe I’m tense because I’m afraid you’ll break my neck. You threatened to kill me, remember?”
She put a hand on his cheek. “I remember. Have you ever considered how difficult it is to be female and the highest ranking officer in a close-knit group?”
“Meaning that your male underlings would never take a pass at you? Yes, I have. It must be frustrating.” Where is she going with this?
“It’s more than frustrating. A woman has needs, you know.”
“That’s usually a man’s line. No way I’m going to sleep with you, Colonel.”
She stopped her caresses and cuffed him behind the ear. “That ends me being nice to you, Mr. Preston. Finish that article. It’s almost time.” She turned one final time, pointing an index finger at him. “I could have made your remaining hours the best of your life.”
She did an about face, walked out the door, and slammed it behind her.
***
Preston knew nothing about missile software or hardware. He knew something about electricity, though. Several times the guard who had accompanied him on his fact-finding trips around the site to gather information for his article had been called away long enough for him to reroute some wiring, randomly exchanging red with green and black in several places or just ripping the wires loose. He also left a few notes in Humvee glove compartments that said “Preston @ Minuteman silo.” It was about all he could do. He knew the Humvees were sometimes serviced by Abe, the friendly car mechanic who had worked on his car, but he didn’t have high hopes. When launch day came, the wiring changes might make a difference, though.
But they found some of his wiring changes. Betancourt had one of her apes beat the crap out of him in an attempt to make him tell exactly what he’d done, but he didn’t, mostly because he couldn’t remember.
“Leave him!” she said. “We’ll need to haul out all the old manuals and check everything. If he so much as whimpers, kill the SOB.”
Like a boxer on the mat, Preston sensed that conversation as a distant murmuring, but he understood. Was groaning allowed? He wasn’t about to move, that much was certain.
Someone must have picked him up later. He awoke in the bunk, knowing that there wasn’t any spot on his body that didn’t hurt. So, why do I feel good about things? Oh yeah, I delayed the launch! That meant he had more time to live.
The laptop and little desk had disappeared. He assumed that Betancourt was finishing the article. She’d changed it so much, she might as well. But he knew she’d be back. She would want the address of an editor. By that time it would be too late to pull a fast one and pretend SecDef or POTUS was his editor, for example—he didn’t have their addresses either. He needed another plan.
He wondered how the suicidal maniacs were going to pull off their final snuff act. Probably toxic gas in the air system after the launch. Somewhere in his roaming, a tech had explained that the air supply from above could be shut off and they would go on an internal supply so that they could be isolated from fallout. He had supposed the assumption was that, in a nuclear exchange, the Air Force would want the option of several salvos depending on an enemy’s response. That was just a guess—he didn’t know much about Minuteman tactics. But a sealed silo made a great tomb.
About the only thing he could do was curse at the Air Force for not vetting the personnel in the silos enough. How could they have missed these fanatics? Or, had they become fanatics on the job, cooped up in the silo? The answers didn’t matter, of course. He was going to die.
***
Two days later there was an explosion. Preston thought the crazies had launched the missile. But he was wrong. After a bit, there was also the sound of a firefight right outside his door and then silence. He was about to go and peek into the corridor, when the door swung open. A commando leveled a gun at him. Shit, not again!
“Mike Preston?” He nodded, and the gun was lowered. “Please come with me.”
Ten minutes later, he was on the surface. He spotted Betancourt, waved, and received a killing look. She was in handcuffs. Black suit was on her face and clothes. Her hair was frizzed.
“You OK?”
Preston turned toward the familiar voice. Jenkins.
“Well, hello, deputy. We meet again. I assume Abe the mechanic found my note.”
“Notes. When the number reached three, he came to me. We started the ball rolling with the Pentagon. Of course, they took over the case. The Feds always do that. I’m not sure I wanted to be down inside there anyway. They had sarin gas canisters.”
Preston nodded. “For the mass suicide after the launch. These guys make the least sane among us seem like Oliver Sacks.”
“I have no idea who that is, Preston. Ready to go back to jail?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Jenkins laughed. “Yep. Of course. Judy wants to invite you to dinner. She has a sister she’s trying to marry off. For some reason, Judy thinks you’re husband material for her.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. In fact, my sister-in-law looks a bit like Betancourt.”
“Oh, what the hell? What’s for dinner?”
“I’m throwing a few steaks on the ol’ barbecue, and Judy and Gretchen will whip up the sides. Apple pie a la mud for dessert, of course.”
“Sounds good. I haven’t had a decent meal since you arrested me.”
***
In libris libertas….
