ALL HAD BEEN DONE that could be done. The Israeli missile’s brain now conformed to the engineer’s best understanding of how the terrorists had reprogrammed its NATO counterparts. With its targeting data scrubbed, the nuclear warhead would explode thirty seconds after the launch sequence ended unless the virus did its work. As a final action, the engineers set the sequence to automatic. The next time the activation door opened there would be no closing it.
The engineers pushed away from their consoles, stood and walked to the door of the bunker and stepped outside. The desert air was cool, a welcome relief from the oppressive heat of the day.
“The stars look close enough to touch,” one said as he looked at the sky. Neither was anxious to test their theory. There would be time enough for that. For now, both felt the need to soak up the desert’s stillness and to let their eyes feast on something bigger than themselves or any of the world’s problems.
“Look.” One pointed to the almost full moon overhead. “Just moments ago it was the color of burnished silver. Now it’s blood red.”
A stiff breeze began to blow.
“The wind’s kicking up the sand and refracting the light,” the other replied.
“Well, the wind’s not causing that.” His friend pointed toward the eastern horizon.
“Wow, I see it,” he gasped.
To the east, the stars had formed into clusters that were slowly spinning across the sky. As they watched, the first made its transit and disappeared over the western horizon just as new constellations rose in the east.
“I wonder if it’s a sign,” one said.
“I guess we’ll know in a few minutes,” the other answered wearily as he inhaled one last breath of the sweet night air and walked slowly back into the bunker.
The engineer at the first console took a deep breath. “Nine,” he said. “Confirm.”
There was a heart-stopping pause. Then both men announced almost in unison, “Missile deactivated.”
The security people were right. The Israeli missile is clean, Holbrook thought as he watched the test via a TV monitor in the Israeli command center. Now, if only their engineers are right as well.
“Seven…six…five…four…” The engineer at the master console glanced at his companion across the room. “Prepare to download the virus,” he said as the other man slipped a silver disk into a slot on his console.
“Here we go,” he said. “Three…two…”
“One,” they said in unison and pushed their launch buttons.
“Launch sequence activated,” the first engineer reported.
Computer screens on both consoles came alive with displays of declining numbers. The thirty-second delay had begun its countdown.
“Download the virus on my mark. Five, four, three, two, one, now!” he shouted.
Again, both pressed a button on their consoles.
“Downloading complete,” one confirmed, as the display continued counting off the seconds.
“Twenty-five. Twenty-four. Twenty-three. Twenty-two…”
One man counted the seconds aloud while the other watched his screen for the three words that would announce their reprieve from certain death: “Missile Locked Down.”
Not taking his eyes off the screen, one of the men felt for his wallet and retrieved a picture of his family. From the corner of his eye, he saw the grinning face of a towheaded boy holding a baseball glove and a little blue-eyed girl smiling directly at him. Behind them stood the dark-haired beauty that had been his wife for nearly fifteen years. Please, God, he prayed.
“Twenty. Nineteen. Eighteen…”
Still, there was nothing but numbers tumbling across the screen.
At the count of fifteen, dull metallic thuds announced restraining latches on the missile had disengaged.
“Eleven. Ten. Nine.” The disembodied voice droned on.
Oh, God, there’s not going to be enough time. One of the men began to pray the only prayer he knew by heart. “Our Father who art in heaven…”
“Five. Four. Three.”
“Thy Kingdom come…”
The screen suddenly went dark, and then the message of deliverance began spelling itself out. “MISS…”
Dear God, it’s working, one of engineers thought as he looked into the blue eyes of his little girl.
“…ILE…”
“Two. One.”
His last memory? The smiling face of his little girl just before his assent into the vortex of the spinning stars.
The news could not be worse. Word had just reached Conner Mills that the thirty-second delay programmed into the Israeli missile had not been long enough for the virus to do its work. Seismographs around the world had recorded the failure, and now there would be hell to pay. He was sure the terrorists already knew they had tried to override their program, and he shuddered at the vision of orange fireballs and mushroom clouds rising over the great cities of the West.
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter.” Mills looked up from his desk as a young petty officer came in.
“Sir, an encrypted email has just been received addressed to “sponsor what if.”
Spencer. “I’ll take care of it,” he replied.
As the officer left the room, Mills turned on his computer and opened the message.
He recalled some ancient sage observed the importance of a matter is determined by how simply it is stated. Spencer’s email proved the truth of the aphorism.
“Leaving tomorrow for the Amazon with Neisen,” it said. “Neisen has the stone and is taking it with us. He thinks the Yanoako Indians may hold the key to unlocking its power. I will keep you informed.”