History, Politics And Current Affairs

4 May 1988
Holy Cross Cemetery
San Diego, CA

Chief Warrant Officer 3 Sophia Marie Henrix executed "Present Arms" with the sword, holding it at a 45-degree angle, then bringing it back to carry.

She then called, "Ready!"

Five combat controllers stood to attention and worked the actions of their M1 Garands.

"Aim!"

Five men moved into firing stance.

"Fire!"

The five shots sounded as one.

The process repeated twice more.

A bugler played Taps.

Major General Samuel Lodge accepted the flag from the NCOIC of the flag detail, executed a slow about face, and marched to the chair occupied by the grieving mother.

He stopped. His sister-in-law rose, maintaining the sort of dignified sadness expected of the Herrera family going back to Seville in Spain centuries before.

"On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Air Force, and a grateful Nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your son's honorable and faithful service."

He passed the flag to his sister-in-law.

Good-bye, Adam.

* * *

At the Lodge house in Del Cerro, General Lodge found Sophie on the balcony, watching the sunset.

"How are you holding up, Chief?"

"One day at a time, sir." She sighed. "This was our favorite spot. We'd listen to music and watch the sunset."

Lodge nodded.

"Was it worth it, sir?"

Lodge nodded. "Yes. You know those mass arrests in San Francisco?"

"That was his doing?"

Lodge nodded. "He also took down an attempted military coup in Philadelphia. They were connected." Lodge said, "Probably saved thousands of lives."

Sophie said, "Then it was worth it. Well, even if I didn't think so . . . he'd say it was worth it, and I will not argue with him."

Lodge nodded, then said, "My sister-in-law has something for you."

* * *

Maria Lodge y Herrera handed an envelope to Sophie. "Adam requested that I give this to you if . . . "

Her voice trailed off.

Sophie nodded.

She opened the envelope.

Inside was a letter written on PX-supplied stationery with the American flag and the Thunderbirds doing the fleur-de-lis maneuver in the upper left corner.

Dear Sophie,

Well . . . if you're reading this, I'm no longer here. Remember: God lets us mortals make plans so He can have something to laugh at.

You know I'm not the flowery sort. But I want you to know . . . I was the luckiest guy ever. I won the heart of the prettiest girl at Patrick Henry, and watched her become an amazing woman who could make me feel humble.

Please, for the love of all that's good and holy, don't become a damn nun because I'm gone. Mourn me for a decent interval, and then get back out there and play the field, and find whoever it is you're supposed to be with.

You'll get to where I am eventually--we all do. In the meantime, try to find happiness.

I'll be waiting for you with a 7&7 mixed, chips and guacamole on the table, and a steak and baked potato cooking on the grill. Swearsies!

Love,

Adam

Sophie folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. "Thank you."

And then broke down in tears.

She accepted Maria Lodge's embrace.

* * *

Lodge handed Sophie her travel orders.

"Advanced Research Institute of the Eastern Sierra?"

"Also known as ARIES. It's a proprietary. Joint Energy and Defense Department outfit, supports nuclear testing, they've leased land from a rancher up that way. My understanding is that it's there because geology, but I don't fully understand why. That said, it's pretty close to the Test Site. We can even take a helicopter ride to the shot hole if we need to."

"So what am I doing there?"

"Working vacation. I want you to look over a few tests my shop is sponsoring . . . and to spend some time in nature without getting shot at."

"Why would the Defense Intelligence--"

It hit her. "Holy shit. You're actually going to set some of those toys off?"

Lodge nodded.

"And do a few safety and surety tests, as well. We really need to know if RED's safety mechanisms will work properly."

* * *

The C-20 winged north towards Bishop, California.

Sophie was going over the documents from Los Alamos and Livermore, tracing wiring diagrams and exploring the logic.

"Sophie, there is one thing I need to tell you. One of my operators from Vegas will be your roomie, she needs a lower stress assignment as well."

"Who is it?"

"Marianne Barnhardt."

Sophie felt her temper coming on, and she worked mightily to contain it.

Her voice was low, dangerous. "General Lodge, sir, that's a low blow."

"I don't see what's the prob--"

"Remember that last phone call I made to you from Vegas? She was the proximate reason. You trying to fix me up before Adam's bones are cold?"

Lodge blinked, then said, "Sophie . . . I had no idea . . . "

"Your people there didn't report it?"

Lodge let out a laugh--a bitter one. "Sophie . . . "

He sighed, was silent for a long moment, then said, "Sophie, not everything that gets seen out in the field gets reported. Especially stuff like that, unless it's causing an immediate operational problem. I guess they all decided that I didn't need to know about anything that may have happened between you and Barnhardt."

Sophie said, "Nothing happened . . . because Marianne's a much better person than I am. She resists temptation . . . I sometimes don't."

Lodge nodded. "Sophie, no one is without flaws or weaknesses. Please don't judge yourself by perfection; you will be ever disappointed. That said . . . will it be a problem? She's hurting, not your kind of hurt, admittedly. She needs to unwind . . . and maybe to talk to a friend."

Sophie said, "General, I am not engaging in any sexual relations for a while, with either a man or a woman." She sighed, then said, "That said, I'll listen to her. Ever read Spider Robinson?"

Lodge shook his head.

"Science fiction writer. He came up with a law of Conservation of Pain and Joy. 'Shared pain is lessened; shared joy is increased; thus we refute entropy.' I don't know if it's true, but it should be."

Lodge said, "It's . . . beautiful enough to be true, Sophie. Marianne needs a sympathetic ear . . . and so do you."

06 May 1988
Advanced Research Institute of the Eastern Sierra (ARIES)
West of Big Pine, California

The view from 4,000 feet above the Owens Valley floor was spectacular. The Institute was a collection of buildings situated on a broad mesa that formed one of the Sierra foothills. The big buildings were the dining hall and the main work building; a few smaller buildings were conference rooms; and there were cabins of various sizes surrounding a recreation area with a pool and some volleyball nets. Trails led into the surrounding terrain.

Sophie smelled the scents of earth, pine, and grass, with a hint of chlorine from the pool.

James Thurmond, PhD, said, "Our cover here is that we're a geophysics research institute. Which is true as far as it goes."

Sophie nodded. "Seismographs?"

Thurmond said, "Mm-hmm. We're on the Sierra Nevada batholith. Now, this structure disappears under the silt and alluvium of the Owens Valley, but it extends a damn good ways from here into Nevada, and we have a satellite test facility northeast of Warm Springs that sits above this same basement rock."

"What's Warm Springs?"

"A gas station and a house at the intersection of US Highway 6 and Nevada Highway 375. About ten miles northeast of that, we have an airstrip next to the 6 and the test site is a ways north of that."

"Got it. I understand you're doing some safety tests, to."

"That we are."

"You planning on doing a live test where you attempt to set off one without the firing codes?"

"Sandia told us it's impossible, but we're doing one for form's sake."

"Impossible, eh?"

"I sense you disagree."

"Not sure yet. I'm looking over the RN-40 diagram, and something bothers me, but I can't put my finger on it.

Thurmond nodded, then asked, "Your background?"

"A mutant math ability that made itself public when I was five--I could add and subtract in my head, and I understood percentages. On Day One, I was just starting my junior year at MIT, double major in computer science and applied mathematics."

"Oh, you'll be fit right in as one of the boys here." He then said, "I always tell my people to follow their intuition, but only if they're finding facts on the way."

* * *

There was a knock on the door of her cabin, and Sophie said, "It's open."

Marianne Barnhardt came through the door.

They embraced, and Marianne said, "I wish this were under happier circumstances."

Sophie looked at the other woman.

Marianne said, "General Lodge told me. I'm so sorry, Sophie . . . damn it, I wish I had better words."

"Marianne . . . there are never good enough words."

* * *

The dining hall was well-finished, but still had a rustic feel to it with exposed rafters and a pot-bellied stove at one end.

Sophie toyed with her spaghetti.

"Feel like talking?"

Sophie chuckled. "The way I hear it, you might need to talk. I'm here for you."

Marianne nodded. "And I'm here for you." She extended her right fist, pinkie extended.

"Pinkie swear?"

Sophie smiled and extended her own. "Pinkie swear."

* * *

Back in their cottage, Sophie said, "Well, this is a working vacation, me and a bunch of math."

Marianne nodded. "General Lodge told me the same--I get to be nurse and den mother for a bunch of double-domed PhDs from Livermore who are apparently doing some nuclear testing over the state line, and when they're not doing that, they're going to be doing stupid stuff on mountain bikes, playing rugby and volleyball like they're 16 again, and even riding a zipline." She paused, then said, "And when I'm not working . . . I guess . . . "

Marianne chuckled.

"What's so funny?"

Marianne said, "He told me, and I quote, 'you need to touch grass.' It apparently means something."

"He's saying you need to get away from the stresses of being an ER nurse. Enjoy nature. Walk among the trees. Smell the flowers. Watch the stars in the night sky. Just lay down your burden for a while."

"And you?"

"Well, I've been in nature. Usually with armed men hunting me. He wants to give me a break."

Marianne glanced at the holstered M12 pistol on Sophie's thigh.

"Do you ever turn it all the way off?"

"When I'm asleep, that's about it. RED has a fifty grand bounty on my head, in actual Benjamins, not that play money Gus Hall issues. But this is a lot calmer."

"Can't be easy."

Sophie shook her head. "Never is. The Navy SEALs have a saying: the only easy day was yesterday."

* * *

The next morning, Sophie pored over the wiring diagrams.

Follow your intuition, but only if you're finding facts on the way.

She remembered seeing Josh play a small wargame solitaire over his lunch period at Patrick Henry: he'd turn the map around and look at the map from the other side, as if he were now the Germans and not the French . . .

She blinked, then mumbled, "It can't be that damn simple, can it?"

She got up and walked to the other side of the desk. The warhead primary was now directly in front of her.

Okay, lets walk this backwards. The firing block has sent the detonation current to each of the detonators . . . so what happened before then?

* * *

Sophie saw Marianne standing by a curved ramp at the base of a trail that ascended up a steep incline.

A man came down the trail on a mountain bike, hit the ramp, and tried to backflip the bike.

He succeeded.

Sort of.

The landing impact was nose-low, and he slid off the seat and onto the top bar of the frame with no small amount of force.

Sophie winced. Marianne threw her hands in the air and yelled, "I thought physicists were supposed to be smart, damn it!"

She reached the man, had him do some range of motion with his legs, and sent him to the dining hall for a bag of ice.

* * *

"Saw that guy wipe out on the mountain bike."

Marianne chuckled. "Yeah, he's not doing the wild thing for at least a week."

Sophie giggled, then felt a wave of sadness come on.

Marianne reached out a hand, and Sophie took it.

* * *

Sophie looked dubiously at the tumbler Marianne had handed her.

"Sophie, Seagrams 7 is only fit for mixing with 7-Up. It tastes like . . . well, a magic marker or something. Jack Daniels has some character. It's great with Coca-Cola. Try it."

Sophie sighed. "That's what Adam always said."

Marianne finished pouring her own Jack & Coke, then said, "Well, then, to a man who obviously had taste and refinement."

Sophie raised an eyebrow.

"Look, try it one time, at least to honor his memory."

Sophie nodded, then sipped. "Not bad, actually."

Marianne said, "And there you go. The whiskey's vanilla flavor goes perfectly with the caramel and cinnamon in the Coke. And the charcoal flavor under it all adds complexity."

"You were a bartender?"

"Bah! No, I learned mixology on my own, after I graduated and could quit working as a stripper."

Sophie sighed. "I had three separate scholarships at MIT. Covered everything, and I had money left over to have a decent stipend."

Marianne nodded. "My experience was . . . different. My parents pushed me ahead. I skipped 5th and 8th grade. Went to college at 16. And I don't recommend it."

Sophie made a go-on motion as she sipped the drink.

"I got dropped into UCLA's nursing school in 1981, three weeks after my 16th birthday. And I was not ready for things like being on my own--but I learned quickly enough about that. The part that got to me was sex. Everyone was hitting on me--other students, faculty, the campus cops, et cetera, and so on, and so forth. And then I lost some of my baby fat and grew up and out a bit, and certain professors and cops suddenly lost interest in me. That's when I realized that there are a lot of perverts out there, and I suddenly felt the need for a protector."

"How did that turn out?"

"Badly. I ended up dating a tight end, and that led to a blow-up with my parents, because I was supposed to be a good, modern socialist feminist who doesn't date bad boy tight ends."

"Socialist?"

"Yup, my parents were red diaper babies. Met at the 1962 Students for a Democratic Society Port Huron convention. May have been involved with helping various fugitives, including the Weather Underground and the Symbionese Liberation Army--they kept that away from me. Right now, they're in pretrial confinement. It seems that General Lodge approached them after they got detained, and asked them for a full accounting of their radical buddies. They seemed to agree, and he got them extremely comfortable detention."

Sophie raised an eyebrow.

"They tried to get one over on General Lodge. Didn't tell him about the sandalista folks they'd helped go underground before the war, who suddenly turned up in San Francisco, about to overthrow the municipal government. And the sandalistas kept all kinds of records. Uncle Sam wants the death penalty on everyone who was even loosely connected."

"How are you handling that?"

Marianne took a swig. "Good fucking riddance. If you're not a socialist at 16, you have no heart. If you're still a socialist today 2.5 years into a war for America, you're an evil sonofabitch. Pinochet had the right idea. Anyhow . . . back to my time at UCLA. Look, my taste in men is pretty simple. Intelligent, masculine, in good physical condition. Bill the Tight End--and believe me, he had a very tight end, I'm talking buns of steel--met two out of three, guess which one he was missing."

"No bet. How'd they find out?"

"News coverage of my boyfriend's DUI crash. I tried to take the keys, but he wasn't having any of it. He ended up going into an intersection against the light and we got T-boned--fortunately on his side, and fortunately on the front end and not the driver's door. But that was bad enough. He ended up losing his scholarship, the coach blamed me for not overpowering him and taking the keys, and tried to get me booted. The nursing school backed me up, the coach ended up leaving, and there I was in the middle. Mom and Dad decided to cut off my allowance, so I ended up working as a stripper at 17 years old."

Sophie shuddered. "Dear Lord, I had no idea."

"Well, that got me out of the fire and back into the frying pan. I learned how to budget, I stayed away from alcohol, I drove very carefully, and I generally maintained an extremely low profile for a year. Bought a Hitachi for the necessary."

Sophie shook her head. "Worst that happened to me was my mom catching me smoking pot in the back yard in eighth grade." She sipped her drink, savoring the complex range of flavors. "The look on her face . . . she was so disappointed in me. She asked me why, and I told her it turned the numbers off enough so I could do my English and Social Studies homework."

Marianne asked, "What did your parents do?"

"Grounded me for two weeks . . . and they sent me to UCSD Medical Center and Cedars Sinai for a proper workup. I got help, and it's been . . . almost nine years, about, since I last went walkabout."

"Walkabout?"

"Sometimes . . . I would go into a fugue state and wander around. I remember one time back in '78, I'd been up late working on a math problem. I somehow ended up at the local park at 2 AM, in my training bra and panties, and the sprinklers came on. Woke my ass up right there."

Marianne winced. "Good grief! Damn, that could've been dangerous!"

"General Lodge already had his eyes on me, and one of his proteges at San Diego State was watching over me to make sure nothing happened."

Marianne sighed. "I didn't know you knew Adam that far back."

"I didn't. I knew a guy who was an altar boy with him at St. Therese, and Uncle Sam believes in going at least two degrees away from someone of interest."

"Why was he watching Adam?"

Sophie took a healthy slug of her Jack & Coke. "Because Adam grew up speaking four languages, three of them just to talk to his family, and he was comfortable in anything from a formal dinner to a cookout on the beach. Uncle Sam was grooming him."

Marianne winced. "Sophie, in my line of work, grooming means--"

"I know. The Lost Girls, remember?"

Marianne sighed. "And that brings me to why I'm here." She downed her Jack & Coke, motioned for Sophie to do likewise, and busied herself refilling the tumblers.

Marianne sipped, then said, "She was maybe 14. Or maybe 12. Either answer could be correct with how things are right now."

Sophie said nothing, reminding herself to just listen.

After a long moment, Marianne said, "She was brought in by LVPD. They'd found her in an alley two blocks away from the hospital, behind Cole's Place--it's on the Nellis off-limits list. She was delirious, and the list of what wasn't broken was shorter than what was. One eye was swollen shut . . . and one eye was open, pupil blown. So I figured we had a traumatic brain injury, too. I did the workup on her . . . you know when we do triage in the ER . . . sometimes, we move Red to Black?"

Sophie nodded.

"Well, that's what I did in this case. Nothing within what we could do with Level 2 medical care rationing was going to save her."

"Her eye moved and met mine . . . and she said, 'Mom.' And in that moment . . . I lied my ass off. I told her she'd be okay."

Marianne took three gulps of her drink. "I held her hand and kissed her forehead . . . and she passed right there. And goddamnit . . . what the hell could I do?"

Sophie took Marianne's free hand in hers. "You do what you did: hold her hand, kiss her forehead, and tell a scared, hurting little girl who's about to take that last journey that she'll be okay. Maybe that was what she needed to be able to let go. I bet Adam's feeding her a hamburger from the grill and treating her like she's his kid sister."

Marianne sobbed, "God . . . I want to believe that so badly."

"Nothing stopping you."

"But . . . why her? Why did that girl break me?"

"Because you felt a kindred soul. But for the grace of God, or fate, or karma, whatever you want to call it, you could've ended up there. You didn't, and now you have to ask the same question I'm asking myself."

Marianne looked up, tears streaking her cheeks.

Sophie felt Marianne's blue eyes piercing into her soul.

Nothing but truth now, Sophie.

"What question is that?"

"Why me? Why did I always roll the hard six, and why did so many folks who may have been more deserving than me not make it?"

"You got an answer for me?"

"The only answer I have is that I don't know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means . . . it means I don't know. I don't pretend to understand any of this. I'm just trying to survive what might yet be mankind's last war. I'm trying to survive with body, mind, and soul in one piece--and I am keenly aware that I have no guarantee of achieving all three, unless you're willing to entertain the possibility of miracles."

* * *

They lay together on a blanket, under the stars. Sophie pointed out the Big Dipper, and showed Marianne how to use the pointer stars at the edge of the ladle to find Polaris, the North Star, and the Little Dipper.

"It's so . . . peaceful."

Sophie chuckled. "Just looks that way because of scale. Out there are stars that simply gorge themselves on their fuel, and explode when the fuel runs out and gravity takes over. There are quasars that put out so much radiation that we think they're giant black hole accretion disks the size of a galactic hub. There are pulsars--they spin, and that makes them into distinctive radio beacons we can hear halfway across the galaxy. But here, and now? It looks so peaceful to the naked eye, to us. Because we're so tiny."

Marianne sighed. "Puts us in perspective, I guess."

Sophie said, "And yet . . . as far as we know, we're the only intelligent species in this universe. We've given the universe music, painting, architecture, science, medicine, literature, poetry, sculpture, philosophy . . . We may be insignificant on the cosmic scale, but we can make this unfashionable planet downright homey."

Marianne giggled. "Maybe after the war put a big sign way out there in orbit that says, 'Home Sweet Home.' Well, either that or 'Bless This Mess.' Either one works."

Sophie laughed, and marveled at how good it felt. And then the sadness returned.

* * *

The next morning, Sophie walked around the table, looking at the circuit diagram of the RN-40 weapon.

She looked up the specifications of each of the system's electronic components, and started a Markov Chain analysis of variability, one that seemed disturbingly familiar as she mentally walked through it.

And blinked. The numbers did a fluid origami trick, and turned into a neatly solved equation.

Jesus H. Christ! They didn't do anything THAT fucking stupid, did they?

She got out her Pickett N4ES slide rule and started working the numbers by hand.

* * *

Thurmond looked at the pages of math, then at Sophie with a dubious expression. "Are you absolutely certain about this?"

"Like the atom said when asked if it was certain it'd lost an electron, 'I'm positive.' Those idiots managed to reinvent a low-end car alarm made by a particularly cheapass schlocker outfit on Route 128 and wired two of them them together back to back with separate arming codes, one from the military and one from the Party.

"The device has two problems: the signal space is extremely small, and there are, if you're smart, no weak links in the firing circuitry to disable the weapon."

Thurmond said, "No weak links? C'mon, my counterparts aren't stupid."

"Ivan doesn't have the sort of manufacturing quality we do, so he runs these circuits at pretty high amperage. The filters will block everything at that level except their proper unique signal. Hit the correct tone, that triggers the motor, the gate rotates out of the circuit, and they're on to the next gate. Get it wrong for more than about one second, you slag the diodes in that filter and the bomb goes inert, and you need at least ten seconds to rotate through the entire signal space."

Thurmond nodded.

"But if you apply current at a very precise level, not too high, not too low, and vary the tones properly, the filters don't actually block any signals because they're leaky as hell at low amperage--Ivan never tested them properly, because of course nobody actually knows how the magic happens except the guys at their equivalent of Sandia."

Thurmond said, "Or they black-marketed the good components after they did the testing and bought replacements from Comrade Vanya's surplus at State Factory 2701, pocketed the difference, and figured parts was parts." He shook his head. "I never would've thought of inventorying every damn part and looking up their electrical characteristics. My counterpart probably didn't."

"Right. So, you will eventually hit all possible combinations for the two different arming codes, each gate will enable when they get their magic tone because they aren't getting slagged, the weapon will be armed, and then you can apply the firing amperage to the firing block and get the Earth-shattering KABOOM. You can do it in about a minute. It's a trick that car thieves use to bypass this type of alarm."

Thurmond said, "Wait. You're telling me a competent CAR THIEF can fucking hotwire a Soviet nuclear weapon?"

Sophie said, "Not that many cars over in Russia, and probably even fewer with that kind of car alarm. Probably not that many skilled car thieves, either." She smiled. "Adds a whole new meaning to 'Gone in Sixty Seconds,' doesn't it?"

* * *

Sophie sipped her Jack and Coke.

"It's still hard to believe he's gone."

Marianne said nothing.

"This morning . . . I swear I heard his voice while I was taking a shower."

Marianne nodded.

Sophie blinked, then asked, "That's normal?"

Marianne nodded again. "It's very common for people who are grieving to hear their loved one's voice, see them from the corner of their eye, even have full-on conversations with them, face to face. It's part of how we process loss. It fades with time, as we accept the reality of their passing."

"I don't want to forget him. Ever."

"You won't. Trust me on that one."

Well done: missing someone dear, and finding out Ivan's PALs aren't as secure as anyone thought.

I wonder if the Soviets will be told that the US figured out how their so-called “PAL” works?

9 May 1988
ARIES
Big Pine, CA

The voice on the speaker phone said, "Warrant Officer Henrix, please explain to me how much nuclear weapons design work you've done."

"None, Doctor Appleton."

"And how much nuclear testing have you done?"

"None, sir."

"So what makes you think you're qualified to judge whether the weapon will initiate?"

Sophie was quiet for a few seconds while she did a quick breathing exercise.

"I'm waiting."

"Sir, I may not know a damn thing about nukes--and actually, I do--but I definitely understand electrical circuits, My estimate is that once you can get enough amperage to the firing block, well, Ivan's known how to make an implosion trigger since 1949. So, by my estimate, the hydronuclear end is already covered. The only question is the arming, fuzing, and firing elements, and this is a problem."

Daniel Appleton, who was the Energy Department's program manager for Operation TOUCHSTONE, the Fiscal Year 1988 nuclear test series, sighed. "Point taken. But do you really think your cockamamie theory of how the electronics don't work properly is valid?"

"Sir, you don't have to believe me. You can verify this story. My 1984 internship was with, of all things, Dewey, Cheatham, & Howe, LLC."

"What do they do?"

"They're a law firm in Boston. They needed someone to do a reliability analysis on a car alarm, and my Special Problems in Statistics instructor recommended me. The case was Adams et al v. Personal Securitronics LLC. Trial was August of 1984 in the Boston Municipal Court. My report is one of the exhibits. This thing is two of their Securitronics Model 101 car alarms wired back to back with slightly different electromechanical systems, but the wiring, coding, and switching functions are essentially identical, aside from it supposedly being designed to brick itself. The thing was about as useful as tits on a boar hog when it came to keeping a car secure. I wouldn't use this widget to keep my old Chevette from getting stolen."

* * *

"Hey, beautiful."

Sophie's heart leaped. "Adam!"

"Yeah. Can't stay long. Look, I'm proud of you for figuring it out. But do you trust those idiots at DOE and Sandia to do the right thing?

Sophie said, "Should I?"

"Oh, hell, no, darling. Nobody's going to do what needs to be done. Unless you kick them in the ass."

"What's that?"

"Someone's has to tell Ivan that it's possible hotwire their nukes. Or else, one fine day . . . Someone else will just do it."

She felt a nearly crushing pressure on her chest and couldn't speak.

* * *

10 May 1988
ARIES
Big Pine, CA

Sophie jolted awake. For a long moment, everything seemed to hurt, and then she could move and the pain vanished as if it had never been.

Marianne was sitting up in her bunk, looking at Sophie with a concerned expression.

"Sophie, are you okay?"

"Not really."

She sat up. "I had the weirdest dream."

"Sophie, I was observing you. You were showing symptoms of sleep paralysis."

"What's that?"

"Conscious but unable to move. It's like your brain missed the shift to awake and your body went to neutral. Did you feel pressure on your chest?"

Sophie nodded.

"Do you remember the dream at all?"

"More like I can't forget it."

She considered how much to tell Marianne, then pointed to the wall and tapped her ear.

Marianne nodded. "Let's take a walk."

* * *

Sophie said, "Okay. I saw Adam."

Marianne nodded.

"You think it's connected to the sleep paralysis?"

"Sophie, I'm not going to judge anything you say. Your experience is valid for you no matter what anyone else might think."

"Even you?"

"Even me. And anything you say to me as a friend is in confidence as part of my obligation to be a decent human being. Anything you say to me in my professional capacity is in confidence as part of my Nightingale Vow that I took when I became a nurse. And I've seen enough weird shit in the ER that claims of the paranormal are, for me . . . well, normal."

"He told me something about my current job."

"What did he say?"

"That I needed to tell someone about what I've learned."

Marianne was quiet as they walked along, then asked, "You willing to tell me what this is about?"

Sophie sighed. "We have systems in place to keep our nuclear weapons from detonating without a valid order from the President. Bypassing them should be as difficult as safely doing a tonsillectomy while going in from the wrong end, and we've spent decades working to make that happen. The Soviets have a similar system. Unfortunately, I just found out the system can be broken by a competent car thief, mostly because the the intended hardware probably got black-marketed and they're using what we'd consider quality control rejects . . . and because the USSR doesn't have a lot of competent car thieves, mostly due to a lack of cars."

Marianne said, "Fuck." She sighed, then said, "Well, you've told the people here."

"Someone needs to tell the Soviets. And I don't trust the folks here to even be smart enough to understand that they need to do that."

Marianne nodded. "These guys seem a tad divorced from the real world. They don't understand that there's a war on, or that wars are supposed to be controlled violence. No random nuclear detonations, please."

"You'd think that'd go without saying."

Marianne gave her a wry smile. "Any ER nurse can tell you that common sense is so rare, it's officially a goddamned superpower."

* * *

Sophie banged on the door of Doctor Thurmond's office.

Thurmond said, "Good news, we're testing your finding tomorrow. Shot KEARSARGE."

"That's nice, Doc. Listen, we need to call General Lodge out at King of Prussia and let him know what's going on, especially if KEARSARGE actually goes high order."

Thurmond was puzzled. "Chief, I'm sorry, but I'm not tracking."

"Someone needs to tell the Soviets that their nukes can be set off without a valid execute order."

Thurmond sighed. "Chief, we're not usually in the business of sharing classified information with the enemy." He picked up his coffee and started to drink.

"Unless it's absolutely necessary--and this time, it is. If I can hotwire a Soviet nuke, I'm sure someone else can figure out how."

Thurmond coughed and spluttered. "Dear God, I didn't even think of that." Thurmond rubbed the bridge of his nose, then said, "You got anyone in mind?"

"General Samuel Lodge over at the DIA. He's my rabbi."

She pulled a crypto key out of her pocket. "And I can make sure this call doesn't come up on any DOE logs."

Sophie dialed from memory, and heard Lodge's voice. "General Lodge."

"Good morning, sir. I'm putting you on speaker with Doctor Thurmond."

She hit the speaker button and replaced the receiver in its cradle.

"What's up, Chief?"

"Well, sir, it appears that I figured out to hotwire a Soviet nuke."

"Chief, I am apparently overdue for an audiogram, because I could've sworn you just told me that you figured out how to bypass their equivalent of the PAL."

"You heard correctly, sir. Thought you'd like to know. And maybe certain other parties might need to know as well."

"And I have an idea who. Well, just goes to show you Michael Corleone is always right. Thanks, Chief, I'll deal with it from here."

* * *

11 May 1988
ARIES
Big Pine, CA

Sophie was in the instrumentation room. A set of seismographs were barely wiggling, tracing the random background noise of the Earth, while monitors showed a countdown to zero.

"All right, all stations, this is ARIES, standing by for Shot KEARSARGE. All stations, give a go/no-go for proceeding. Shot hole?"

"Go."

"Instrumentation?"

"We are go."

"Safety?"

"Go!"

The calls and acknowledgments concluded a couple of minutes later.

Doctor Thurmond waved Sophie over to the master console. "Chief, this shot is happening because of your hard work. Place your hand on the right-hand firing key. When I call the third now after rotate, please turn your key, hold it, and watch the clock; hold it for five seconds, and call when five seconds are up. I will watch the sequencing lights."

Sophie took her place and said, "I hope to God nothing happens. Seriously."

Thurmond nodded. "Same here."

Sophie placed her hand on the key.

Such an ordinary implement for initiating a catastrophe.

"Stand by . . . rotate now-now-now."

Sophie turned her key and watched the master clock.

The keyhole resisted, kept trying to turn the key back.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Four seconds.

Five seconds.

"Five seconds up."

"Release!"

Sophie let go, and her key snapped back to position.

The controller said, "Firing . . . now-now-now."

The seismographs leaped, and data flowed on the monitors.

"We have warhead initiation . . . looks nominal, in the 20-40 kiloton range."

Sophie said, "Goddamnit. I was hoping I was an idiot."

* * *

"Chief, you have a call in the director's office."

Sophie headed over and took the receiver. "Chief Henrix."

"Heard there was an event."

Sophie said, "You heard correctly, sir."

There was silence on the line, and then Lodge said, "I'm ending the working part of your vacation. Chop, chop, both of you get to Bishop Airport, you'll get transport to Lake Tahoe, a little casino called the Lakeshore Inn. Quiet, beautiful beaches, and the lake is amazing to look at. Make sure Marianne touches grass, and that she talks . . . meaningfully."

"You have any instructions for her?"

"Yeah, she needs to make sure you talk meaningfully, as well." Lodge sighed, then said, "You're not at 100 percent, and you both need to be there before you head back out."

RN-40 shot?

Matt Wiser wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 4:02 am RN-40 shot?

Yes.

"I wouldn't use this widget to keep my old Chevette from getting stolen."

Part of how Sophie became a semi-competent electrician was trying to keep a five-year-old Chevette operational in Massachusetts.

Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer... And you can bet that the GRU will have a professional, not-so-quiet fit when they find out any car thief or burglar who specializes in hitting alarmed buildings can disable their weapon locks and initiate a bucket of instant sunshine.

The problem from the GRU's perspective is that whoever did those PALs at Chelbaynisk-40 is likely already deceased: either killed directly when SAC did its raid with Bigeye, or when that research reactor did a miniature Chernobyl....

Matt Wiser wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 4:28 am Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer... And you can bet that the GRU will have a professional, not-so-quiet fit when they find out any car thief or burglar who specializes in hitting alarmed buildings can disable their weapon locks and initiate a bucket of instant sunshine.

The problem from the GRU's perspective is that whoever did those PALs at Chelbaynisk-40 is likely already deceased: either killed directly when SAC did its raid with Bigeye, or when that research reactor did a miniature Chernobyl....

Is that a problem? They’re the perfect fall guys.

The GRU would want to subject anyone involved to some "rigorous and intense interrogation" before they receive their official punishment....

Matt Wiser wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 6:11 am The GRU would want to subject anyone involved to some "rigorous and intense interrogation" before they receive their official punishment....

They‘ll either dig up the corpse(s) to question or round up the usual suspects (colleagues, relatives, friends, "malcontents" and whatever poor schmuck/schmuckette happens to be in the vicinity at the time).
There is going to be a period of blind actionism and then, maybe, they are going to think about rectifying the problem.

I had her peg as a VW Bettle person.


The Soviets will need to rework 20K plus nukes.

jemhouston wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 10:56 am I had her peg as a VW Bettle person.


The Soviets will need to rework 20K plus nukes.

Could be a material and financial problem for them, especially at that point in time. But damn, this must be addressed.

Jotun wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 11:07 am

jemhouston wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 10:56 am I had her peg as a VW Bettle person.


The Soviets will need to rework 20K plus nukes.

Could be a material and financial problem for them, especially at that point in time. But damn, this must be addressed.

How well guarded are the ones from Lubbock? I just felt some walking on my grave.

jemhouston wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 10:56 am I had her peg as a VW Bettle person.

Beetle was a little before her time, she graduated high school in 1983. By then almost all of the Beetles in the typical Southern California student lot were Baja Bugs and were usually driven by male students with a C- or lower GPA. The typical domestic shitbox compacts were Pintos, Vegas, and Chevettes. (Driving a 1978 Pinto with manual steering built character.)

Poohbah wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 2:28 pm

jemhouston wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 10:56 am I had her peg as a VW Bettle person.

Beetle was a little before her time, she graduated high school in 1983. By then almost all of the Beetles in the typical Southern California student lot were Baja Bugs and were usually driven by male students with a C- or lower GPA. The typical domestic shitbox compacts were Pintos, Vegas, and Chevettes. (Driving a 1978 Pinto with manual steering built character.)

Beetles were also the preferred car of an astonishing number of serial killers in the US during the seventies, most notably Ted Bundy

Jotun wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 4:43 pm

Poohbah wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 2:28 pm

jemhouston wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 10:56 am I had her peg as a VW Bettle person.

Beetle was a little before her time, she graduated high school in 1983. By then almost all of the Beetles in the typical Southern California student lot were Baja Bugs and were usually driven by male students with a C- or lower GPA. The typical domestic shitbox compacts were Pintos, Vegas, and Chevettes. (Driving a 1978 Pinto with manual steering built character.)

Beetles were also the preferred car of an astonishing number of serial killers in the US during the seventies, most notably Ted Bundy

Back then, Beetles were . . . well, background noise. Practically invisible.

jemhouston wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 1:20 pm

Jotun wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 11:07 am

jemhouston wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 10:56 am I had her peg as a VW Bettle person.


The Soviets will need to rework 20K plus nukes.

Could be a material and financial problem for them, especially at that point in time. But damn, this must be addressed.

How well guarded are the ones from Lubbock? I just felt some walking on my grave.

They were being studied by Top. Men.

Jotun wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 4:43 pm

Poohbah wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 2:28 pm

jemhouston wrote: ↑Thu Sep 05, 2024 10:56 am I had her peg as a VW Bettle person.

Beetle was a little before her time, she graduated high school in 1983. By then almost all of the Beetles in the typical Southern California student lot were Baja Bugs and were usually driven by male students with a C- or lower GPA. The typical domestic shitbox compacts were Pintos, Vegas, and Chevettes. (Driving a 1978 Pinto with manual steering built character.)

Beetles were also the preferred car of an astonishing number of serial killers in the US during the seventies, most notably Ted Bundy

,
Yeah, I know

I also had another thought, what happens if it was deliberately designed that way? That way the military or the KGB could bypass the other's control to use it.