Thorpe's Candle

RUSTY ROCKETS

“But the point is, Senator,” General Westfield said, “cutting back on the weapons we need to defend this country is insane.”

Westfield and Tennessee Senator Harlin Davis were alone in the glass-enclosed VIP observation booth. They overlooked the command center of Space Defense Operations deep inside Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado.

“General, the cold war is long gone, nothing more than a chapter in the history books. There's no need to maintain this elaborate level of surveillance. Do you really think anybody is going to shoot a ballistic missile at us?”

Davis was the budget-cutting chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. He smiled his famous toothy smile. “The Russians? The Koreans? The Chinese? They're all bankrupt. They can't even afford to pay the salaries of the men that would launch their rusty old rockets.” Davis made a sweeping gesture. “No, General, this is an obsolete—” He stopped when he realized the general was no longer listening.

Westfield had turned to watch the sudden increase in activity below. Dozens of Air Force weapons detection and tracking specialists manned rows of computer banks stretching across what resembled an indoor amphitheater. Normally, they monitored redundant scanning and sensing programs along with traffic and telemetry analysis, and satellite communications. They also kept track of activity and anomalies in the lower and upper atmosphere. But as Westfield watched, a number of operators stood and pointed at the large video display dominating the front wall. It showed different regions of the world with emphasis on Southeast Asia, Afghanistan, the Middle East, the Mediterranean, and parts of China and the former Soviet Union. A few technicians moved over to stand behind a young staff sergeant who was programming confirmation sequences into her computer terminal.

“Senator, will you excuse me for a moment?” Westfield turned to leave.

“What's going on, General? Another one of your wasteful, expensive war games?”

Rather than stay in the observation booth, Davis followed Westfield along a hallway and down a flight of stairs. At the bottom, a military policeman opened a door for the general but held his hand up to halt Davis.

“Son,” Davis said as he rose up to his full height, “are you detaining a United States Senator from conducting his duty to his constituents?”

Westfield called over his shoulder, “It's all right, Sergeant.” He waited for Davis to catch up and they moved over to the group of technicians gathered around the staff sergeant. As Westfield and Davis approached, a path cleared for them.

The duty officer, Lt. Col. Patricia Beck, stood behind the technician. She turned to Westfield. “We have a launch detect, General. Our Pacific listening stations have confirmed a thermal bloom.”

“Can you plot it?” Westfield asked.

“Give me ten more seconds, sir.” Beck turned to face the huge, panoramic projection screen. “Here it comes now.”

All eyes watched as a small black triangle appeared off the coast of Mexico and started a slow, creeping path out over the Pacific. A series of numbers appeared under the object as telemetry data updated.

“Is it one of ours?” Westfield asked.

“No. It has the signature and footprint of an SS-N-17, sir.” Beck never took her eyes off the triangle. “We have booster stage separation.”

“This is most impressive,” Davis said with a smile. “You boys like to make things realistic. I have to admit that for a moment I thought somebody had really launched a missile.”

“What's the target,” Westfield said as he ignored the senator.

“Too soon, sir.” Beck read the numbers appearing on the screen, then calmly said, “Altitude twenty-three miles and climbing.”

Westfield picked up a phone, pressing the direct line to the National Military Command Center in the Pentagon. He looked up at the DEFCON (Defense Configurations) status on the screen. Level four, a condition he had taken for granted for years, changed automatically to three, a state of military alert activated by the launch of any ICBM. He knew that if it went to level two, it meant an impending attack. And level one would mean a state of nuclear war existed.

He looked at Davis. With an edge to his voice that caused everyone around him to turn and stare, he said, “So much for your rusty rockets theory, Senator.”