The Tranquillity Alternative (33 page)

He couldn’t be in two places at once.

He hoped he was only being paranoid.

Parnell reluctantly turned away from the tunnel and went back to the ladder. Before he set foot on the first rung, though, he reached behind the adjacent mainframe and retrieved the Colt from its hiding place.

He chambered a round and flipped off the safety, then carefully slipped the pistol into the right pocket of his jumpsuit. It made a slight bulge and the handle stuck out a little; he would have to be careful to conceal it.

He took a deep breath, then climbed back down the ladder into the control room.

Dooley was still sitting at the right-hand console, slouched over the keyboard of his computer, which was still connected to the console. Parnell noted that Ryer had left Lewitt’s side; she was now standing above Dooley, intently watching what he was doing. She looked up as Parnell reentered the compartment, but Dooley either didn’t notice his return or ignored it.

Ryer started to step away from the chair, but Gene waved her off, mindful to use his left hand while keeping his right hand close to his pocket, hiding the butt of the gun. “Never mind,” he said, walking past her toward Lewitt’s seat. “I think I’ll run the left seat instead. Can you hand me the envelope, please?”

Cris blinked, but said nothing; she merely picked up the envelope—which had apparently gone undisturbed during his absence—and passed it to him.

Jay looked bewildered as Parnell approached his console, but he didn’t protest. “Any particular reason, Commander?” he asked as he surrendered his chair to Parnell.

“Kind of drafty over there, that’s all.” Gene pointed to an air duct above the right console. “I was getting chills sitting there. Hope you don’t mind switching, but …”

“Naw, that’s okay. I don’t think it matters much anyway.” And it didn’t; in terms of function, the consoles mirrored one another. However, Parnell wanted to be able to keep an eye on Dooley and Ryer without turning his head … and from the left console he would be able to get a clean shot at either or both of them, if push came to shove.

“Don’t forget this.” Parnell picked up Lewitt’s envelope and handed it to him as he slid past. As Lewitt took the envelope, Parnell leaned a little closer to him.

“Watch ’em,” he whispered.

Jay nodded very slightly, then strode over to the right console. Dooley had already vacated the chair; he pushed aside his laptop computer to make room for Lewitt, but he remained close to the console. It was a little crowded at that end of the room, but, Parnell noted, Ryer didn’t stray from the console, either.

The chronometer now stood at 1131 Zulu. Less than a half-hour remained before launch.

Sitting down, Parnell glanced over his shoulder toward the back of the control room. Bromleigh stood behind his camera, ready to begin filming the operation; Rhodes was next to him, absently fiddling with the lapel mike on her jumpsuit collar. Talsbach stood near the ladder, seemingly bored with the whole procedure.

Still no sign of either Leamore or Aachener. There was nothing Parnell could do about that now.

“Ready to go, Commander?” Jay asked.

“Yup. Let’s get to it.” Parnell clamped the headset around the back of his neck and adjusted the mike, then switched the comlink to the secure frequency he had used earlier. “Houston, this is Teal Falcon. All systems nominal. We’re ready to begin pre-launch sequence.”

The usual five-second delay, then the same anonymous voice he had heard before came on-line.
Roger that, Teal Falcon. Stand by to receive authentication code, over.

Parnell picked up the manila envelope, opened it again, and pulled out a red letter-sized envelope printed with official threats regarding stiff prison sentences if opened without proper authorization. As Lewitt did the same, he tore off one end of the envelope and withdrew a short slip of paper. “Houston, we’re ready to receive authenticator,” he said.

Teal Falcon, this is Houston. The authenticator is
…

Parnell stole a sidelong glance at Dooley. He was bent over his computer, resting his hands on the edge of the desk. His right hand wasn’t touching the keyboard, but it was uncomfortably close.

Rattrap, Parnell reminded himself. This is a rattrap …

Bravo
…
Zulu
…
Tango
…
six
…
three … seven
…
Alpha
…
Romeo
…
Nebraska. Do you copy? Over.

The authenticator matched the large red code-sign printed on Parnell’s slip: BZT 637 ARN. He held the paper up for Lewitt to read and Jay reciprocated. The codes were identical.

“We copy, Houston,” Parnell said. “Authentication received and confirmed by Lieutenant Lewitt and myself. Proceeding with pre-launch sequence. Over.”

He pulled off the headset and stood, then reached up to pull the long key chain from around his neck. Lewitt did the same; they leaned across their desks until they were both able to fit their keys into the locks of the steel cabinet between their consoles.

A quick twist of each key opened the locks; the lid swung down, revealing another pair of keys, these oversized and painted red.

“Do you concur with launch?” Parnell asked.

“Yes, sir,” Lewitt said formally. “I concur with launch.”

It was all part of the apocalyptic waltz of nuclear warfare. Neither man could launch the missiles on his own; both had to receive and match the authenticator codes, both had to open the cabinet and take the launch control keys; once inserted in the consoles, both keys had to be turned within five seconds of each other for the missiles to be fired. The two master consoles had been deliberately positioned far enough apart to guarantee that one man in the bunker couldn’t go crazy and launch the missiles on his own.

Parnell sat down again. He flipped open a small zebra-striped panel on his console and inserted his key. The switch had three positions:
OFF
,
STANDBY
, and
LAUNCH
. He waited until Lewitt had done the same; then he said, “On my mark … three … two … one … mark.”

“Mark,” Lewitt said, and simultaneously twisted his key clockwise to
STANDBY
.

Orange lamps on their consoles switched to amber. The CRTs began to display line columns of type, showing the status of each missile in its silo. A red-bordered warning across the bottom of their screens told them that the Minutemen were ready to be armed.

Curtsy and bow. The
danse macabre
had begun.

“Go with pre-launch ignition,” Parnell says. His hands move quickly across his console, flicking toggle switches in succession.

“Roger that,” Lewitt says. “Commencing pre-launch ignition sequence.”

Vertical bars rise on their screens, telling them that the Minutemen’s solid rocket engines are being armed. “Primary electrical check,” Parnell says, flipping another set of switches.

“Roger on primary electrical.” Lewitt carefully watches another screen as the missiles are powered up. “All missiles on external power. Umbilical source nominal, internal batteries on storage mode, green for go.”

“Roger that. Standby for primary gyro check.”

Reviving the missiles doesn’t take very long; the last crew to visit Teal Falcon, three years ago, left the missiles in pre-launch status, just in case the CINC changed his mind about Baghdad’s fate. As he and Lewitt run through the checklist, though, Parnell watches Dooley out of the corner of his eye.

The younger man has stood behind Lewitt the entire time, never moving far from his laptop computer. Ryer, on the other hand, has silently moved to stand directly behind Parnell; he can see her reflection in the glass of the computer screen in front of him.

“Gyros green,” Lewitt replies. “All onboard systems check out and we’re green for go. Ready to load targeting instructions.”

“Roger that.” Now comes the tricky part: inserting the flight parameters and trajectories into the onboard guidance computers of the six missiles. Parnell types a set of commands on his keyboard; the screen changes to display the empty grid for the targeting system. He turns the pages of his notebook until he finds the list of numbers which, once entered into the computer, will send the Minutemen straight toward the Sun.

As he begins to carefully type the figures into the computer, he notices that Dooley’s right hand has innocuously moved to the keyboard of his laptop. Trying not to appear as if he’s doing anything, Dooley is quietly entering his own commands into the computer.

The rat has sniffed the bait.

Parnell doesn’t say anything. Lewitt hasn’t noticed what’s going on behind his back; he is too busy making certain that the missiles are ready for launch.

Parnell glances at the chronometer. T-minus nine minutes, thirty-two seconds and counting.

He finishes entering the codes into the computer, but before he transmits them to the missiles, he sneaks another glance at Dooley. The other man’s right hand is lingering near the
ENTER
button on his own computer; he appears to be waiting for Parnell to finish the job, so he can …

“Gene? Are you ready?”

Lewitt’s waiting for him. Everyone is waiting for him. Especially Dooley, who is prepared to secretly alter the trajectory of one or more of the missiles with a touch of a button.

“Sure.” Parnell tries to sound relaxed. He raises his hand to his keyboard. “Targeting instructions entered and loaded …”

He pretends to hit his own
ENTER
key. At that instant, Dooley taps his keyboard.

The numbers on Parnell’s screen subtly change of their own accord.

The trap has been sprung.

Parnell leaps to his feet, his right hand diving into the pocket of his jumpsuit. He whips the gun out of the pocket; kicking the chair aside, he brings the Colt into two-handed firing position, aiming straight at Dooley.

“Freeze!” he shouts.

Startled, Dooley jumps back from his computer, his eyes wide with astonishment. Lewitt’s mouth falls open as he sees the weapon in Parnell’s hand.

Behind him, he hears Ryer moving. Pivoting on his hips, Parnell points the automatic at her; the barrel is only a couple of feet from her face.

“You too!” he shouts. “Back off! Keep your hands in sight!”

She can’t say anything, although her face has gone pale. She stands still, her hands half-raised above her waist.

Behind her, Bromleigh is just beginning to react. He points the camera in their direction, trying to get everything on film.

Rhodes is the first to say anything. “What the hell is going … ?”

“Shut up!” Parnell takes a deep breath. “I’ll tell you in a minute. Ryer, move back … way back.” He jerks the gun back toward Dooley. “You, too. Keep your hands where I can see ’em …”

Dooley slowly raises his hands to shoulder level. “What the fuck is going on here?” he demands, his voice high and quavering. “I haven’t …”

“Just keep your hands in sight.” Parnell carefully steps away from the console. Blood jackhammers in his ears; he quickly points the gun at Ryer again. “Over there, kiddo. Next to your buddy.”

Hands still half-raised, Ryer begins to slowly move backward on leaden feet. “Gene …”

“Shut up.”

“Gene.” Her voice is soft; she’s trying to reason with him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but this is …”

“Shut up. Put your hands on top of your head. Both of you.” He inches past the camera tripod, careful not to stumble over its legs. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Talsbach standing frozen against the wall.

Lewitt rises from his chair. “What did he do, Gene?” he asks, his eyes darting toward Dooley. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t keep my eye on him.”

Ryer is almost next to Dooley now; both of them have their hands clasped on top of their heads. “Just what I thought he was going to do,” Parnell murmurs, keeping the gun trained on the pair. “He entered new coordinates in the targeting system. I caught him doing it a second ago.”

Dooley’s entire body seems to tremble. “That’s … that’s a bunch of shit!” he stammers. “I didn’t do a goddamn thing!” He glances helplessly at Lewitt. “He’s out of his fucking mind, man!”

“Gene,” Ryer says, “I’ve got nothing to do with this, I swear …”

“Shut up.” Parnell keeps walking toward Dooley and Ryer, marching them backward at gunpoint. He’s past the camera now, but there’s some cold comfort to be had in the fact that Bromleigh has captured the entire scene on film. “You’re in it with him. I didn’t figure it out until …”

He stops, taking another breath. The situation is under control. “We’ll get it straightened out later. Right now, I want both of you on the floor, facedown.”

“Commander, what the … ?” Rhodes gets hold of herself. “What’s going on here? What are these people being charged with?”

Ryer is already clumsily bending to her knees, hands still laced together above her head. “Commander, this is nuts …”

Dooley is on the verge of panic; his Adam’s apple bobs as his eyes shift left and right. “Holy fuckin’ Jesus … he’s gone crazy!” He glances at Bromleigh. “Are you getting this, for chrissakes?”

“We’ve got everything,” Bromleigh says from behind the camera. “Oh my God, Berk …”

“Keep shooting, Alex.” Rhodes has regained her professional composure. “Commander Parnell, why have you stopped the countdown? Why are you holding these people at gunpoint?”

Calm down, calm down. Everything’s under control. You’re on camera; when this tape is transmitted back to Mission Control, you can’t afford to look like a lunatic.

“Mr. Dooley and Captain Rhodes are part of a conspiracy to take control of the missiles,” he begins. “They’re—”

At that instant, he feels the hard muzzle of a gun press against the back of his head.

“Drop your weapon,” Talsbach says from behind him, “or I shall shoot.”

Parnell feels his blood turn to ice water.

His finger involuntarily relaxes inside the trigger guard. Even then, the cold sensation of the gun at his head isn’t half as bad as what he feels a moment later when Lewitt steps forward, lays his hand atop the Colt, and removes it from his grasp.