After their hasty take-off from Andrews Air Force Base, Colonel Randall followed the coastline north, keeping the B-2A Bomber steady at 10,000 feet. He reviewed his mental checklist, more carefully than usual, since it quieted a nagging voice in the back of his mind. It temporarily took him away from the fact that one of the two bomb-rack assemblies was loaded with an armed B61-11 nuclear bunker buster. He knew he would follow orders when the time came, but he still found it hard to accept that he would be dropping a nuclear weapon on American soil in less than twenty minutes.
When a quick glance at the coastline below confirmed that he had entered the air-space above the state of Maryland, he looked at the LCDs of his tactical air navigation system. The displays for the TCN-250 were state-of-the-art. His first glance was reassuring, giving him immediate feedback on his position relative to the target area. For a second he turned away, then turned back to verify his first glance. His jaw dropped open and he heard the rush of his own breath over the throat microphone. Every light on the TACAN display winked out at exactly the same moment. Instinctively he counted out the seconds—one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three, one thousand four ….
“What the fuck,” he said under his breath. His throat mic amplified the signal so that the profanity screamed in his ears. The display suddenly lit up again. It’s almost like the computer system re-booted, he thought, knowing that such an event was a theoretical impossibility.
He turned immediately to the displays for GWIS, the Generic Weapons Interface System. He was fast enough to see it blink from dormancy to life. Again, he could not help but think that somehow the software had forced a re-boot of both the navigational and weapons system.
He cleared his throat and flicked on the radio with his thumb. “SB-77 calling AB-22,” he said.
A split second later a tinny voice replied, “Copy.”
Randall explained what had happened and requested permission to abort the flight. After five minutes of dead air time, he had his answer. “Proceed as ordered,” said the voice succinctly. It was followed by a brief hiss of static, then nothing but dead air.
His target was a wooded area about twenty miles west of a large corporate complex. Even as his finger hovered above the launch button, an inborn instinct made him rebel against what he was about to do. He circled the target and radioed again. “SB-77 requesting final authorization.”
He waited for the tinny voice to say, “Copy.” Instead there was an odd popping sound of a microphone at Andrews Air Force Base. “Just follow your goddamn orders!” General Rockaway screamed.
“Yes, sir,” he barked into the mic. He flicked off the radio and swallowed. His throat was dry and there was a knot in the pit of his stomach. Against his better judgment he did what his training told him to do—he followed orders and activated the servo-mechanisms in the bomb-rack assembly. In less than fifteen seconds he launched the missile armed with the 1,200 pound nuclear bunker buster.
General Rockaway was concerned when the pilot reported the problem with his instruments. He quickly consulted one of the software engineers, who hemmed and hawed as he tried to explain what had happened.
“Even if there were a temporary power fluctuation, the software would be reinitialized correctly,” the engineer finally said.
Rockaway was not reassured but felt he had no choice but to proceed as planned. Barely half an hour ago sensors and heat detection equipment had located a huge underground industrial complex twenty miles west of HTPS Industries. The readings had been off the scale. Experts had been called in to interpret the data and for once they agreed unanimously.
The entire area surrounding HTPS Industries had been evacuated and a cover story provided. The official story was that a bad gas line had been discovered near a large underground fuel storage facility and that it might explode. It was not a residential area, which made it much easier to evacuate expeditiously. It had been accomplished in record time.
General Rockaway stood directly in front of a large monitor, staring intently. He watched as a new blip appeared on the screen. The missile had been launched from the B-2A Bomber.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Rockaway whispered under his breath as he saw the illuminated trail of the missile twist unexpectedly toward the northeast.
“Confirm the trajectory,” Rockaway shouted at a technician seated before a large console.
There was a full minute of dead silence as the technician checked and re-checked the trajectory. “This baby’s coming down somewhere in Canada, sir.”
“I need the exact longitude and latitude immediately. And the ETA,” Rockaway screamed. He turned to the radio operator. “I need to speak with General Wurtz at NORAD immediately.” When the operator hesitated, he shouted, “I said, immediately.”
As he waited for the radio operator to put through the call, Rockaway called the president. He did not look forward to explaining how they had just launched a nuclear weapon that was going to detonate in Canada.