normally deal with.”
Kenney reached into his wallet again and retrieved his ID badge, tossing it onto Christine’s desk. “I have a top secret clearance, authorized access to Special Compartmented Information. I’m pretty sure I’m briefed into whatever program you need. Go ahead, check.”
Christine swiveled her chair toward the computer monitor on the corner of her desk, flipped through a couple of windows on the display, and typed the CIA agent’s social security number on her keyboard. A few seconds later, she turned back to John Henry Kenney.
“Okay, you’re cleared.”
“And…?”
Christine leaned back in her chair. “ Digashi is the code word for a nuclear first strike.”
“A nuclear first strike?” Kenney echoed her words. “By who?”
Christine folded her arms across her chest. “By us.”
* * *
In the Pentagon basement at the end of Corridor 9, Mike Patton swiped his badge and punched in his pass code. He opened the door to the Operations Center of the National Military Command Center, then paused for a second before stepping into the room he would not exit alive. He could not predict how many of the other men and women in the room, some of them close friends, would share the same fate.
Mike stopped at the top of the new Operations Center. The Pentagon had completed its seemingly never-ending renovation, and the Ops Center had moved to its new, multitiered space in the basement level, patterned after the stepped NASA control rooms. The center dropped down in three increments, with each of the first two tiers holding ten workstations, five on either side of a center aisle, with the Watch Captain’s workstation located on the bottom tier. An eight-by-ten-foot electronic display of the world hung on the front wall, annotated with the status of the nation’s nuclear assets. Four Trident submarines were at sea in the Pacific Ocean: two on Alert patrol, a third on the way home, and a fourth, the one Mike was interested in, outbound from the Hawaiian operating areas.
Most of the watchstanders were still turning over, including the Watch Captain, a Navy rear admiral in the process of being relieved by an Air Force brigadier general. After surveying the men and women at their workstations, Mike made his way left along the top of the center to the third workstation in the first tier. Placing his briefcase gently on the floor, he pulled up a chair. “Evening, Isaiah. What have you got?”
Isaiah Jones looked up from his monitor. “No change in DEFCON, the Tennessee has relieved the West Virginia in LANT, and we’ve got one down silo in North Dakota. Pretty quiet all around.” After a few more minutes discussing the more mundane details of the last six hours, Isaiah signed out of the watch log on his computer, then packed up his bag, along with an empty package of Doritos and a crumpled-up Coke can. “See you tomorrow, Mike.”
“Take care, Isaiah.”
Mike kept himself busy, waiting until the last member of the previous watch section departed, leaving him alone with the other nineteen watchstanders and the Watch Captain. Retrieving the black nylon case from his satchel, he opened it, exposing what looked like a small plastic insurance card and three nasal inhalers. He pulled out the card and slid it into his pocket. Leaning back in his chair, he clasped his hands behind his back, pretending to stretch out his shoulders, then stood and sauntered toward the entrance at the back of the room.
Stopping with his back next to the security door, Mike removed the thin card from his pocket and held it next to the electronic lock mechanism. Ten seconds was all it would take to destroy the electronic circuitry, he’d been told, but he held it there an extra five seconds for good measure. Sliding the card back into his pocket, he returned to his seat, then removed the smallest nasal inhaler from the case. After looking around to ensure no one was watching, he pressed the tip of the inhaler
Kenney reached into his wallet again and retrieved his ID badge, tossing it onto Christine’s desk. “I have a top secret clearance, authorized access to Special Compartmented Information. I’m pretty sure I’m briefed into whatever program you need. Go ahead, check.”
Christine swiveled her chair toward the computer monitor on the corner of her desk, flipped through a couple of windows on the display, and typed the CIA agent’s social security number on her keyboard. A few seconds later, she turned back to John Henry Kenney.
“Okay, you’re cleared.”
“And…?”
Christine leaned back in her chair. “ Digashi is the code word for a nuclear first strike.”
“A nuclear first strike?” Kenney echoed her words. “By who?”
Christine folded her arms across her chest. “By us.”
* * *
In the Pentagon basement at the end of Corridor 9, Mike Patton swiped his badge and punched in his pass code. He opened the door to the Operations Center of the National Military Command Center, then paused for a second before stepping into the room he would not exit alive. He could not predict how many of the other men and women in the room, some of them close friends, would share the same fate.
Mike stopped at the top of the new Operations Center. The Pentagon had completed its seemingly never-ending renovation, and the Ops Center had moved to its new, multitiered space in the basement level, patterned after the stepped NASA control rooms. The center dropped down in three increments, with each of the first two tiers holding ten workstations, five on either side of a center aisle, with the Watch Captain’s workstation located on the bottom tier. An eight-by-ten-foot electronic display of the world hung on the front wall, annotated with the status of the nation’s nuclear assets. Four Trident submarines were at sea in the Pacific Ocean: two on Alert patrol, a third on the way home, and a fourth, the one Mike was interested in, outbound from the Hawaiian operating areas.
Most of the watchstanders were still turning over, including the Watch Captain, a Navy rear admiral in the process of being relieved by an Air Force brigadier general. After surveying the men and women at their workstations, Mike made his way left along the top of the center to the third workstation in the first tier. Placing his briefcase gently on the floor, he pulled up a chair. “Evening, Isaiah. What have you got?”
Isaiah Jones looked up from his monitor. “No change in DEFCON, the Tennessee has relieved the West Virginia in LANT, and we’ve got one down silo in North Dakota. Pretty quiet all around.” After a few more minutes discussing the more mundane details of the last six hours, Isaiah signed out of the watch log on his computer, then packed up his bag, along with an empty package of Doritos and a crumpled-up Coke can. “See you tomorrow, Mike.”
“Take care, Isaiah.”
Mike kept himself busy, waiting until the last member of the previous watch section departed, leaving him alone with the other nineteen watchstanders and the Watch Captain. Retrieving the black nylon case from his satchel, he opened it, exposing what looked like a small plastic insurance card and three nasal inhalers. He pulled out the card and slid it into his pocket. Leaning back in his chair, he clasped his hands behind his back, pretending to stretch out his shoulders, then stood and sauntered toward the entrance at the back of the room.
Stopping with his back next to the security door, Mike removed the thin card from his pocket and held it next to the electronic lock mechanism. Ten seconds was all it would take to destroy the electronic circuitry, he’d been told, but he held it there an extra five seconds for good measure. Sliding the card back into his pocket, he returned to his seat, then removed the smallest nasal inhaler from the case. After looking around to ensure no one was watching, he pressed the tip of the inhaler
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