Chapter 3
Wednesday, 1 June, 0845 local
Wendover AFB Command Post
Chief Zolley walked McGriffin to the exit. When they reached the corridor, Chief Zolley shooed the security policeman out, saying, “I’ll see Major McGriffin to the door.”
“Very well, Chief.” The man slung his rifle over his shoulder and headed into the command post area. He eyed Zolley. “Mind if I take a smoke break?”
Zolley waved him on. “Go ahead. This will take a few minutes—I’ve got to brief the major on some additional procedures.”
Once the door slammed and they were alone, Chief Zolley turned to McGriffin. “Anything else I can help you with, sir?”
“I don’t think so. It looks pretty quiet around here.”
“It is. Alpha Base is mostly automated, as far as security goes. It’s got so many gee-whiz bells and whistles it will make your head spin. The guards rely on sensors, electronics and autonomous systems to keep them apprised of what’s going on. As a result, we don’t do anything here except keep the Pentagon in the loop.”
McGriffin nodded. “Chief, I’m reporting for duty at 1800 tonight. I assume you’ll be here to help me learn the ropes?”
“Great, sir. I think you’ll enjoy it. It’s not the real Air Force, but then again, I don’t think you can find the real Air Force anywhere. I’ve assigned myself to your shift for the next month. I wanted to make sure I could help out if you needed me.”
“You already have.” McGriffin firmly shook Zolley’s hand. “I’m looking forward to working with you and your team.”
Chief Zolley cracked a smile. “The pleasure’s all yours, Major.”
McGriffin grasped the door leading to the outside and pressed on. He strode into the brilliant Nevada sunshine.
Helicopters swung out from the base, practicing landings in the desert. Their chopping came as a low beat in the distance. From the front of the command post it seemed as if Wendover AFB were just another lazy western town. The absence of traffic and bustling people gave the base a feeling of mañana. Even Alpha Base’s presence a few miles away could not shake the sanguine atmosphere bubbling in the sunshine.
This might not be so bad, thought McGriffin. I might grow to enjoy this place. Even if I’m not flying.
Wednesday, 1 June, 1215 local
Wendover, Nevada
Dr. Anthony Harding wiped up his enchilada combination plate with a sopapilla. Yellow egg yolk spotted the plate, mixed in with shredded lettuce, refried beans, sour cream, green chile, and salsa. He drained his beer and wiped his mouth before speaking. “Where did you find the apartment?”
Vikki studied him before answering. She’d have to get on him about his table manners—he looked like a slob. And slobs bring attention to themselves. “Second and Main. It’s about thirty minutes from the base. I could have gotten closer, but most of the apartments were real sleaze bags. If I’m going to impress these GI Joes, I thought I should try to find something a little more upscale.”
“Don’t get anything too fancy. Remember, you’re supposed to be a secretary.” Harding belched. “I picked up some maps from the park service. There’s a wooded area in the mountains about two hours from here—around Matterhorn Peak in Humboldt National Forest. I’ll check it out first thing tomorrow. It just might do for the staging area.”
He patted his jacket pocket and pulled out a small notebook. He flipped through the pages and accidentally knocked a fork off the table. “What places are you going to hit tonight?”
“Anthony, pay attention to what you’re doing. People are starting to stare.”
“Let them.”
Vikki swirled her margarita and looked away. A sign inside the small Mexican restaurant proudly exclaimed,
Honest-to-goodness New Mexican Mexican food: TexMex We Ain’t!
It was lunchtime, and the small restaurant was jam-packed with patrons.
Vikki ran her fingers over the tabletop, tracing out small swirls in the water left from her drink. “There’s a place called Shotgun Annie’s. From the looks of it, it should be a military hangout: rock band, no cover for women, and two-for-one beers until nine. I’ll straighten the apartment tonight and hit it tomorrow.”
Harding held his hand up for another beer. “That reminds me.” They grew quiet as a couple walked past. When the waitress arrived with the beer, he drained half of it. “The security policemen: they’re the key to the whole operation.” He took a healthy sip and eyed Vikki over the salted rim. “It’s crucial you gain their confidence. Get one of the guards to trust you, and we’ll find a way into Alpha Base.”
Vikki drew in a deep breath and nodded. “I understand.” She looked up and wiped a strand of hair from her eyes. “Don’t worry about me. I can handle it. Just don’t you screw up.”
Harding grinned and held the glass up to his mouth. In the background the jukebox wailed a Mexican song. The waitress slid over and shoved the tab onto the table. The paper whirled between Vikki and Harding. Harding said, “Do whatever you have to do, Vikki.”
She stared through him, unblinking.
Do whatever you have to do, Vikki. The words came back to her.
They were younger then, and more idealistic. Anthony didn’t have his paunch, and as a post-doc at Berkeley, he had swept her off her feet the first time they met.
Vikki had lived in Berkeley since her undergraduate days, never wanting to relinquish the university crowd. It was safe, secure. One degree had led to another—Art, English, Food Sciences—and as the degrees piled up, so did the years.
It was as if she had never really found herself. She had always been looking for a cause, from her high school days in Colorado digging into the environmental issues, to the People’s Republic of Berkeley, leading the activist movement to bring socialism to the city.
But it wasn’t until the post-nuclear freeze movement, NUFA—Nuclear Free America—had caught her attention that she finally really felt part of something. She immersed herself in the activities, attended all the meetings, sat through all the inciting speakers, but still had never committed herself to anything more than just being a member.
Until she met Anthony Harding.
She fell for him, then discovered his Ph.D. from Cal Tech was in nuclear physics, and that abhorred her. She looked at him as an evil wizard, summoning up demons and unseen gargoyles. Nuclear was as inciting then as pig, the man, or the heat was in the sixties.
If it was nuclear, it was bad. It must be destroyed.
Myopic technocrats tried to push nuclear down the people’s throats. They surged past reason, circumvented rational thinking, all in the name of the almighty dollar.
It didn’t take Vikki long to introduce Harding to NUFA.
The arguments advanced by Nuclear Free America were compelling, but Harding did not quickly become a sympathetic listener. He argued he didn’t build bombs, he just did research with quarks, gluons, and other elementary particles. Researching basic physics was not the same as designing bombs, bombs that killed without prejudice, vaporizing babies as well as soldiers.
But it set Harding thinking.
The Livermore protest proved that he was sincere.
The annual protests at the nuclear weapons laboratory made for an ideal setting. Situated forty miles from Berkeley, the nuclear bomb factory permeated death. The computer center—home of the monstrous behemoths with mysterious names like Cray and ETA—whipped up a frenzy among the NUFA idealists. Weapons physicists with nicknames like the “Montana Madman,” “Raunchy Rhoades,” “T-T,” and “Jimmy L.” were the purveyors of death. And Harding knew that without their computers to design the nukes, there would be no nuclear weapons.
Harding became obsessed with the death factory; NUFA incited him to the breaking point.
So three grenades, whipped high over the fence on East Avenue, put a temporary stop to the nuclear madness, completely destroying the computer center. And drove Vikki and Harding into the underground.
There wasn’t a challenge to bring them to the surface—nothing important to make them appear. Until now.
Until Alpha Base.
Harding needed it. Vikki needed it more. And she was willing to put up with anything to see it through.
She’d slept with Harding before the Livermore protest to help bring him around to NUFA’s ways. Offering her body to him didn’t make him change his mind, change his philosophy about nuclear weapons; but it provided the motivation for him to listen.
She did it once—she could do it again.
Vikki nodded absently and murmured to Harding, “Don’t worry—I’ll do what I have to do.”