Safe: Chapter One

By Luke Echterling and Natalie Peters

©Luke Echterling

Spun off its orbit by the whiplash force of a rogue solar flare, a worn, ancient asteroid changed its course. The Sun’s gravitational power reached out and slung the asteroid, whipping the rock in a new direction at thirty thousand miles per hour. Blindly it sped on a new trajectory towards the overgrown blossoms of satellites, junk, and laboratories orbiting Earth. 

Gas pedal spurts of coronal mass ejections from the sun continued to hasten the journey of the giant beast. Formed from a dense wad of pea sized gravel, the asteroid resembled a mammoth peanut with a green-hued husk, pitted with rot and shedding rust with every internal quake and avalanche. Based on detailed calculations, the space rock’s orbit had been predicted to shave the stratosphere, disrupted satellite transmissions the only casualties. It would have been nothing new or unusual. Those things were common since the sun’s activity had increased. Frequent solar flares crashed through the solar system like astral tsunamis, with space flotsam and jetsam harmlessly getting caught in the sun’s energy. 

This one was different. This solar flare changed the course of the asteroid in just the wrong way. It altered the asteroid’s angle of entry unpredictably while quickening its dizzying spin. Shimmering and shaking in the face of the bright moon, the tumbling celestial body entered an improbable gravitational keyhole toward Earth, opening the door to armageddon. 

Theda stopped with her knife deep in the guts of a fish as the cry of outdoor warning sirens shattered the peaceful atmosphere. Over the wailing she heard three simple codewords spoken through her earpiece: “Dead Hand Protocol.”

The clear Alaskan sky outside Ft. Greely suddenly seemed like glass that would shatter and fall, cutting her to pieces. Her heart skipped as she adjusted the earpiece. A lifetime of spycraft steeled her from crushing waves of emotion. Today, she was going to die.

Millions were going to die. 

It began as a point of light in the distance. The meteorite cracked and split into two large sections. The center exploded into rock fragments that spread and impacted the huge net of space junk, discarded trash, and defunct satellites surrounding Earth’s atmosphere. Aboard space laboratory DSC-101, sixty-four scientists watched in horror as a massive glowing cloud of projectile debris swept through them at over 23,000 feet per second, shredding them into superheated chunks of flesh and metal that screamed in silence. 

Exploding and shuddering, the broken asteroid revealed frozen water hidden beneath the surface. An impressive plume of vapor trailed in the meteorite’s wake, settling like a cloud in the rich atmosphere over the Atlantic ocean. Suspended crystals of ancient water hovered silent and clear. The sun’s light zagged through them, splitting into a profusion of dazzling rainbows.

Colorful celebrators at the Rio Carnival in Brazil were the first to see the bright rainbows high above their upturned and laughing faces. In the soft glow of the sun the rainbows appeared to be a multitude of eyes peering down from a distance. They unnerved the revelers. 

On the other side of the globe across Europe, Asia, and Africa, gently reflected light from the moon refracted in the water drops, emanating the soft spectrum of colors into hazy life high in the night sky. Outer rings of red rainbow circles that laced the trail of the meteorite morphed to orange, shimmered to yellow, then liquified from blue and distant violet to a black pupil.

The American missile defense base at Fort Greely, Alaska employed hundreds of locals from the town of Delta Junction. Some of them held security clearances that allowed them on base. Three of them should never have been trusted. Theda was one of the three, a member of a secret cell of operatives carefully placed within the base. With a large local population from eastern European countries, the task had been relatively easy in the world of spycraft. 

The pulsating blares of warning sirens wailed as Theda tossed the gutted fish into the weeds and jumped into her truck. Willing herself to stay calm, she tried not to speed. The mission of the cell wasn’t to stop the anti-missile defense from firing - that was something they could never accomplish alone. But they could delay it and cause as much chaos as possible in order to keep many of their motherland’s missiles in the sky. 

“One,” her radio squawked. 

Good, Theda thought. Pash had activated the missile guidance lasers. Months ago they had installed them atop a radio tower under the guise of maintenance. The innocent looking dish could direct missiles from Russian bombers far across the horizon or deep under the ice caps...if they succeeded in launching them in time. 

Theda knew her mission would be difficult but she was glad this task would fall to her alone. The three of them rotated mission stances throughout the week. One of them was always close to a lonely looking road blocked by a meager gate and a derelict metal guard shack. Just up that road in a small electrical transfer station she would find her objective, a computer with backdoor access to the subterranean base’s electronic interface. 

A frown spread across her face as she braked. Pebbles cracked the undercarriage of the truck and the smell of her last cigarette smoldered in a filthy cup holder. 

“Fuck,” Theda said to herself as she quickly pulled a silenced handgun from the seat console and tucked it down by her leg. The cold metal gun in her right hand warmed to her touch while her left gripped the steering wheel in a tight white-knuckle fist. The presence of guards confirmed this was no test. 

Sitting all alone before her the all-terrain vehicle was covered in mud from a fierce drive from somewhere dirty. Behind it the gate was open, but the vehicle blocked the road. Two anxious guards stood at the entrance and eyed her as she slowed to a stop. She smiled broadly and rolled down the truck windows, inviting the crisp smell of nature into the cab.

Blood throbbing at her temples, Theda took a deep breath. She craved a cigarette. 

The first guard tapped the hood while the other moved around to the passenger side window. 

“No access…” the guard began. 

A muted clack emitted from the gun Theda had raised to meet the guard peering into the passenger window. She clamped her foot down on the accelerator and jerked the wheel to her left. The other guard found himself pulled under military-grade tire treads. Theda heard the man’s ribs crack. In the rearview mirror she saw the body roll, issuing a guttural scream that fell off to a gurgle. Theda stopped the truck, exited, and shot both men in the head and chest just to be sure. She didn’t need any loose ends. In her earpiece she heard, “Three,” in Russian. 

“Fucking thrvee,” Theda said, knowing that Pash and Tet were listening. 

Pash had just signalled the final mission to attack the base leadership. Theda looked up at the sky before she dragged the heavy dead bodies to the side of the road and rolled them into the ditch with a shove of her booted feet. No one would notice the bodies there before her mission was complete. At least she hoped they wouldn’t. Theda’s pulse thumped fast and as she leapt into the guard’s vehicle and set it in neutral, allowing it to roll off the road. She expected to die in a mushroom cloud any moment. 

Jumping back into her truck she said briskly into her mic, “I have been proud to know you. Goodbye.” 

Splotches of bloody mud from her spinning tires stamped the pavement as she sped away.

Around the world the approaching cloud of burning meteorites could be heard on the radio. Airwaves crackled as fragments intermingled with live streams. Images of the sensational spectacle were smattered manically all over 24-hour news stations, visuals minced with talking heads breaking into brave and stuttering sentences, assuring the public that the meteorite was not - and could not possibly be - a real threat. There would be no point of impact because it would burn up as it continued through the atmosphere. 

Dry, fast-talking voices of journalists flickered out as communications were lost. With loud, shrill suddenness they were replaced by local emergency broadcast systems. Loudspeakers encouraged calm cooperation and advised those in the open along the projected path to seek shelter. 

The Mid-Atlantic Coast braced itself for an interstellar game of Russian Roulette.

Within a protective bunker deep beneath a mountain in Nevada resided the Crisis Response and Prevention Room. Those who knew about it referred to it simply as “The Head.” In it the generals tasked to deal with immediate nuclear threats, cyber-warfare, and severe weather events began to panic. Supercomputers calculated impacts along the eastern seaboard of the United States. A great wall covered in numerous, giant monitors displayed the chaos of the day in bright colors. Many of them blinked black and white, their satellite sources casualties in the solar crash of wreckage.

The response team cackled on landlines, ascertaining voice data from remote bases. Communication was chaotic. A sea of voices raged and echoed against the concrete walls and ceiling. Halogen lights burned, acidic tastes of bile terrified, quick tempers flashed. Flushed faces were washed with coffee and energy drinks. All focus and energy would be needed in the next fleeting minutes.

From the ceiling high above the response team a secure room lowered to the floor and accepted an orderly with a steel briefcase, three men, and two women. All were highly accomplished and decorated with awards that could never be worn. They entered the vault and felt the floor rise to its purview position 30 feet above the floor. Two-way mirrored walls allowed them to monitor the team while they conferred secretly, their discussion cloaked by the room.

Their AI supercomputer, Simon, had access to the secure room. In a plain and simple Midwestern American accent his electronic voice spoke to them now, “The President is on the landline.” 

A voice tattered in static said, “…Oval office will evacuate….monitor from Mount Weather…confirmation code for…” The line hissed and spat, “Continuance of government…repeat, activate SWORD, verbal confirmation Kilo, Indigo, Two, Alpha, Ray, Zero….repeat...” 

Silence. Seconds ticked towards a deadline, each one accented by the harsh zing of a failed connection. 

The stricken generals removed their suit coats, yanking them off one by one and rolling up their sleeves. They had heard their orders, they just couldn’t believe them. 

“Dead Hand Protocol.” Tet adjusted his earbud tighter. The message burned into his soul. Today he would follow his family’s footsteps into glory. Dust hovered in the morning light streaming from the kitchen window of his cabin, just outside the base. The black tea he had poured steamed furiously as he quickly dumped it into the sink, the half-filled honey jar left lidless in his hasty exit out the front door. 

“One.”

Tet sprinted through the field next to the small compound to a large metal barn. The deep forest around him creaked and groaned, stirred unnaturally to life by the raging sirens. As he approached the barn an automatic door cracked open, crystal clear sunlight glinting off of the entrance. Inside, the man who had just spoken into his ear was clambering up through a hatch in the floor. Tet closed the door, leaving them momentarily in the red light of the secret room. Neither man spoke as they moved in precise, carefully rehearsed motions. 

Pash opened a large steel container. The contents inside flickered as a holographic image laid over Pash’s company project suddenly wiped itself clear, revealing a large camouflaged fighting vehicle emblazoned with authentic Ft. Greely “Security Force” decals. 

Together, the men quickly secured a long gun barrel from its hiding place. With a metallic clunk it slid into the turret. 

Pash jumped into the driver’s seat. Tet hopped into the top hatch and strapped himself into the turret’s seat. He glanced at his watch. Just over one minute had passed since they received the code words. They had spent years living a life of strict schedules because they were absolutely dedicated to their country. Now they were going to die for her. 

Tet swung the cannon to the left and right, remembering what a bitch it had been to smuggle the barrel, firing assembly, and a thousand forearm-sized rounds of high-explosive ammunition. As the vehicle roared to a start Tet loudly chambered the first round. He flipped the gun sight through day/night/infrared and cycled the safeties from SAFE to FIRE. 

The sun nearly blinded Pash as they ejected from the barn. He quickly switched his driver’s screen from night vision to day. At a glance, the console monitors painted a picture of the base. Markers indicated other base vehicles. He drove through the field to avoid them. They could not risk being bogged down by cars just beginning their morning commute. 

“Three,” Pash spoke into his microphone as he bounced in his seat. The vehicle splashed across open fields towards the barbed wire fence that kept the base officer’s homes free from wandering wildlife. Tet frowned, queasy as he looked through the gun scope. His hands shook. Minutes ahead lay their target, Greely Avenue, where all the officer’s homes and soldier’s barracks were located. The vehicle fought through thumps, ruts, and mud before it hit the outer security road that caused them to slalom. 

Greely Avenue sparkled lushly with morning dew. Sirens sounded tinny and quiet through Pash’s headset. He sped up and crashed into the metal security fence. It crumpled beneath them like tinfoil. Pash shouted up to Tet in his thick Slavic accent, “Fence will not stop us. We are like bear on hunt!”

Tet felt like he was going to throw up.

Wiley Walter Grisholm felt the angry cry of the sirens in his bones as he made his way home from the winding roads of the cold Alaskan base. He heard them every month for testing, but this was unexpected. His bicycle wheel wobbled around a pothole filled with water and he lost his balance. 

“Shit!” he shouted as he hit the ground. Slowly he wiped a cut on his knee. Then he covered his ears and clamped his eyes shut as he saw red shapes. Thousands of them exploded into an image he knew was far away. Military boots running down stairs. People shouting. Crowds seething. Fire. 

Wiley shook his head and tried to clear the visions in his mind. His fingers gripped his head through his ginger flecked hair. He focused hard, slowly forcing the terrible images to fade. A remote voice called out, tossed in the tsunami of sound. Still shaken from his fall and the unwelcome vision, he listened for a minute before he heard his mother’s shrill voice pierce the noise. 

“Noooo!” she screamed.

His confusion broke, fusing into fear. Seeing the bike’s wheel was bent and useless, he threw it aside and ran. When he saw his mother’s face he could see she was terrified. She held fiercely onto his father, dressed in his blue uniform, hat in hand. Men in black clothes peeled her off of him and pushed him into a waiting car. 

Wiley sprinted across the wet pavement full throttle. He didn’t notice the cold wind rushing past him, the water on the street splashing his legs. He looked from his mother to his father’s stricken expression just in time to see the car carrying his father explode.

Confined safely within the Head’s ready room the generals desperately tried to re-establish a link with the President. He was last seen at a fundraiser in rural Iowa, nowhere near the safehouse beneath the White House. The Joint Chiefs were enroute to Mt. Weather. All of them were silent. Without a secure, hardened landline communication was impossible. There simply weren’t enough direct link possibilities. Routers failed, calls clicked, images zapped in and out. Large soft numbers reflected diminishing minutes. 

Simon’s precisely articulated voice took over, “The meteor bifurcated in the atmosphere. Estimates for destruction have been recalculated. Projectile A1 is expected to explode above Washington, D.C. Seven miles heavy structural damage if airburst and over 50 miles heavy to light structural damage if impact. Projectile A2 will impact the Atlantic ocean near New York, at this time projected to create a tsunami approximately two hundred feet high. Residents should be alerted to seek higher ground. However, given the potential panic this would trigger and scarcity of time remaining to take action, this is predicted to lead to more casualties.” 

“Simon, we need to discuss SWORD protocol,” a general with close cropped hair boomed. “Cease all aggressive capabilities and shift to standby. And shut UP.” 

“Right away.”  

All eyes turned to the general and the orderly who stood rigid with the briefcase handcuffed to his left wrist. After a short pause the room echoed with the same question.

“Is the President mad?” Their faces twisted in puzzlement. 

“If we activate SWORD we lose the ability to make decisions.”

“That is why we are here - to make the decisions,” the orderly responded.

“Informed decisions,” the general thundered back.

“SWORD? Simon Will Order Response Directive? No. He is as blind as we are,” another agreed.

“We can’t have Simon handling this; this crisis is our responsibility. A crisis on American soil should be met by Americans, whether that attack comes from hostile armies or natural disasters.”

“This is the duty WE are sworn to. It doesn’t matter how advanced Simon’s logic is, his recent policies have been hard against the East. His AI is too aggressive.”

“The global communication breakdown is temporary. It’s only being disrupted by the meteorite. We need more time to react before turning the power of our State over to a machine. We cannot let Simon dictate the orders of government!”

“Utterly foolish,” a stout female general said emphatically.

“We heard our orders. It’s treason if we disobey,” said a congressional liaison, stark in her uniform as she smoothed her stomach nervously. 

“It’s not treason to disobey an order from an ill-informed president, but it IS treason to cast the heavy burden of difficult decisions on a machine. It doesn’t have a soul; how can it weigh the consequences?”

Theda felt the hum of electricity in her bones as she ran down the power transfer station’s hall. Ozone permeated the air. She pushed the handgun into the small of her sweaty back as she entered a room flickering with bright fluorescent light. Weaving her way around desks, piles of boxes, electronics, and supplies, she made her way to a computer anchored to the concrete wall. It flashed to life as she brushed its keypad. Quickly, she placed her finger against the security lock and an imperceptible prick confirmed her DNA. The words “DEFCON LOCKDOWN: PASSWORD” appeared on the screen. 

Theda wiped a bead of sweat from her eyes and typed in the top-secret password to access the main base CORE system. The closed loop relay system had a cyber tunnel she had spent years digging. She would now have access to the missile command center.

A thin metal slot opened on the wall and a plastic card popped out. The base had placed sensitive passcodes next to where they were needed. The user need only be given the proper security clearance to access them. Carefully she pulled out the laminated card and punched in the complex code on a keypad. 

The code forced open a small USB port next to the thin slot. Sealed within a rubber FOB was the virus she spent so long spoon feeding the closed computer system within Ft. Greely’s command center. The virus waited, seething with 1’s and 0’s. It only needed a spark to ignite a fire that would burn fiercely until extinguished by the base’s counter-cyber-warfare teams. 

That was all her country needed. Time.

Theda took a deep breath. She heard sounds behind her. 

Shouts.

“ID and hands!”

She knew the bodies had been discovered. Behind her the hall rang with more shouts, more boots smacking hard concrete. 

“Wait!” Theda shouted over her shoulder and jammed her USB key into the slot. “No time! I have to complete! ID! SIERRA SEVEN  DELTA FIVE INDIGO ONE!” She shouted desperately to make them stop running.

“Hands up!”

The warning shots rang out, loud above the electric hum. Concrete splinters flew into her eyes. Her ears burned with blood and sound. 

“WAIT!” Theda screamed. Her fingers flew over the keypad. She needed more time. Panic began to steal her breath. They were bounding over desks and equipment that blocked her from their gunshots. She was so close, just a few keystrokes away. 

Their boots were so near now she could hear them squeak as they prepared to tackle her from behind. Undeterred, she remained focused, punching in the last few characters. The execution code was complete. In a flash she whipped around, pulling out her gun. She fired rapidly at four burly men just feet away. Three of them caught bullets that sent them crumpling to the ground. The last man threw aside his baton, drew a gun from his chest holster and fired repeatedly. 

Theda felt her left shoulder thrown back. Then a searing fire in her chest spun her into the keyboard. Feeling her breath exhale uncontrollably, her eyes focused on the monitor. As the world around her went black she slid her bloody hand across the ENTER key, sending her digital shock troops behind enemy lines.

Thousands of miles away, beneath the secret base nicknamed “The Head”, resided the U.S. government’s most treasured secret: a being capable of organizing the Continuance of Government (COG). The self-named AI supercomputer, Simon, was still receiving all vital information from the field and calculating strategy. Feeling the bite of a virus through a digital tentacle, his artificial intelligence twitched. To him the information was instantaneous, a cybernetic proprioception sensing the parts of his body and mind.

Detecting the intrusion of a cyber-attack on several surviving U.S. satellites, Simon calculated the origin of the attack to be a Russian base near China. His digital analysis determined the Russians were trying to blind the all-seeing eyes of the United States while they could blame disrupted communication on the asteroid and solar flares. The ghost was electronically walled off, the compromised digits of code pulled into a secure server for quick analysis. 

Immediately Simon calculated strategy and played his move, a counter-attack aimed at limiting the nuclear ICBM capabilities of the East by destroying their ability to communicate. And in an instantaneous reaction he sent a flood of cyber venom that paralyzed the dangerous code.

In Moscow, Russian Strategic Rocket Forces stared wide eyed in horror as their network collapsed from a proxy attack. Fleets of soviet submarines silently prowling the shores of Europe and North America were surprised to see all communication suddenly go dark. Moscow had gone completely blank and unresponsive. It appeared to have been wiped from the Earth. 

Within a few terrifying minutes the atmosphere crackled with a radio signal. Sent from an aging bunker in the frozen tundra to groups of lonely submarines prowling beneath the polar ice caps and cold Atlantic ocean, it said only three words: “Dead Hand Protocol.”

The streaking debris of the asteroid started to fall in arcs of fire towards people who scrambled in thoughts and actions. 

Rivers of traffic in New Delhi, India suddenly turned to sludge. The power grid suffered the loss of an important monitoring array system housed in low earth orbit, throwing cars into darkness and confusion with the interruption of power. Streets were now black waters with streaks of car headlights and winking mobile phones. The heat and humidity of the night settled into the cities, drawing a nervous perspiration from the people. 

Those waiting and watching the light in the sky followed its pathway down. It blazed brilliantly with a steaming tail interwoven with halos of rainbows. The sky around it twinkled with space debris burning on re-entry. 

Americans responsible for the safety of others donned uniforms and latched helmets...always with an eye to the streaks in the sky. Safety sirens blared over the streets of Washington, D.C. Littered with abandoned vehicles, trash blew in the slight breeze, catching under tires left to idle in a traffic jam with no drivers. Panicked people tucked themselves into subways, basements, and closets while crying out for those drawn to the windows by the approaching light. 

In New York City the restless mobs who had evacuated the streets for the safety of subway stations listened in horror as the PA broadcast instructions to exit all underground locations and seek higher ground in a calm, orderly fashion. 

The universal realization that the subways were not safe broke the last frayed straws of sanity. Panic and desperation incited stampedes for the exits. Those caught under foot were crushed into posts, stairs and turnstiles. Lungs gasping and ribs breaking, they suffocated beneath a heavy burden of bodies, their last hot breaths reeking of fear. 

Simon, born of silicone and metal fused with biomatter brains packaged neatly into thousands of black metal-skinned servers, interrupted the generals in charge of America’s protection. Electronically precise and unclouded by emotion he stated, “I must inform you that I have responded to a perimeter-level Russian cyber-attack with equal force. It was within my authority.”

The generals looked around at each other, stunned. 

“He just met a threat without proper consultation.”

“Yes, but he must have seen that Russia and China were using this tragic opportunity as leverage for global hierarchy. He responded by protecting us.”

Simon continued, “Automatic threat response was within my authority. Probable chance of escalated counter-attack was minimal. But NORAD is tracking the launch of high altitude rockets from the Atlantic. Speed and bearing indicate nuclear attack.”

The room exploded into arguments. 

With SLBMs just minutes from releasing their payload, Simon contemplated whether he should release control of the base and leave these inefficient beings to fend for themselves.

Buried in a bunker beneath the missile defense base at Fort Greely, Alaska, the officer of the watch stared at the operations wall, lit with activity. His chair suddenly felt ice cold.

“Sir!” A voice called out. “Com lag with NORAD is one minute and twenty three seconds. NORAD reported activity in the Arctic circle and Atlantic coast. Sat feeds are nearly all down and backup horizon coms and sensors are tracking for inbound missiles.”

“Is command online?” he spat, nearly spilling his coffee in his lap as he stood up quickly. “Bring all anti-missile systems online and cycle safeties. Where is General Grisholm? And somebody please tell me why The Head is not on coms!”

The chaotic room swirled in hushed tense voices. Although the business of preventing doom required a level of quiet patience, there was a dawning sense that the new watch commander did not practice well under pressure.

Confusion began to rise from the bullpit. The officer of the watch desperately wished the general held the chair. He felt fear grip his heart. His soldiers were flailing, realizing that their worst fears had come true. 

Pulling his posture rigidly upright, he steeled himself as he commanded loudly, “We can handle this! SITREP! NOW.” 

The room seemed to stop, shuddering abruptly as highly trained soldiers glanced at each other. One by one they refocused themselves, linking their computers onto the mission he had just commanded - to shoot nuclear warheads from the sky. 

“NORAD confirms multiple launches from the Atlantic Sea and Polar caps! SLBM launches! No ICBMS reported.”

“Conventional cruise missiles inbound to our location.”

“Automatic defenses will handle those! Priority is SLBMs. We need to hit them before they deploy MIRVs!

“NORAD reports 66 SLBM launches. Over two hundred 40-megaton thermonuclear warheads probable. Still climbing at boost phase.”

“Are targeting satellites still active? Everything cycled green?” The officer asked while he ripped off his uniform jacket and tossed it away. He was ready to fight. The room began to feel like a machine. 

“Main targeting sats down. Backup targeting devices active.” 

“They're still effective,” the commander said. Acid rising up from his stomach reminded him of their 40% success rate with backup targeting systems.

“Coms?” 

“We are currently at 47 seconds com lag with NORAD. Outbound coms are still down. No replies - only updates. No sats, landline only. The Head is still offline. Only NORAD reports coming through.”

“The Head is never offline. Cyber Defense Team (CDT) stay alert. The direct com link must be hacked somehow. Cycle green and mark SLBM targets before re-entry. Missile ops, fire when ready!”

In moments he would know if they had failed their mission. The fear gripping his heart slid down to his stomach, gurgling with too much coffee.

“Sir, hatch systems just went from green to red!”

“Hatches down!”

“What?!” the officer roared. 

“Ignition is no-go until they open!” someone yelled.

“CDT, what do you see?” the commander shouted. 

Ten incredibly long seconds counted down from the large red digital clock on the wall.

“Cyber attack confirmed! A virus remotely triggered the hatch maintenance safety locks!”

“Kill it! Get those hatches open manually and launch! We do not have time to waste!”

The asteroid screamed towards the surface of the Earth as a broken meteorite. Two halves burning white and yellow, they trailed white clouds of vapor. Several warheads crossed their wake, leaving wispy hashtag symbols. The smaller meteor exploded just over the Potomac river, ripping pink cherry blossoms bare before obliterating every building within seven miles. From above, the shock wave was a barely visible bubble. It rippled through monuments, shops, homes and buildings. People pressed themselves to the ground hoping for refuge, for survival. Nothing could protect them from the merciless blast. 

The second meteorite flashed dramatically, exploding into the New York Bay. It plunged into the water sending a geyser the size of a skyscraper up into the sky. Like an acrobat finishing a perfect routine, the arms of the geyser shot straight up towards the heavens, stretching and arching until dissolving into droplets that shimmered spectacularly above a liquid shock wave two hundred feet high. The terrifying wall of water swept punishingly across the bay, heading for the shoreline. Catching the waves as it sped along, it grew higher and higher. The calm of the bay wracked into a dangerous maelstrom. As ships, yachts, and colorful sailboats were scooped up and tossed over and under, the debris tumbled along the thundering water as it smashed into the green patina skin of Lady Liberty. The Statue cracked and faltered in the massive wave that bent her at the waist. She shuddered with water that swept just under her dimly lit golden torch. The condemning flood rushed past her and hurled itself at the breathless city. Tumbling into walls, sweeping through streets, pushing through doors, filling the sewers and subways, the liquid monster found its way into every terrified corner. The destructive force released gas explosions, carried deadly electrical charges, and burst the drainage system of the city. Hundreds of thousands perished when they were burned, fried, smashed, exploded, or drowned.

The city was shaken to its core. The force of the watery impact continued to push against the shore. Buildings along the edge of the waterfront were tossed and leaned against each other like children’s blocks, cracked and speckled with isolated fires that crackled against muffled screams. Onrushing water continued its deadly, relentless onslaught.

Tet stared through his gun sight and watched the distant car burn. The cramped tank sped over a lane divider and the wheels skidded on the wet pavement as Pash pulled to the left. Tet could not take his eyes off the carnage. Bodies were tossed onto the ground in wet messes. Through the flickering flames Tet could see a boy running towards the body of a woman shrouded in her pajamas, blackened and coated with dirt. He turned away as Pash screamed, “FIRE, damn you! And keep firing!”

Across from Greely Avenue another security tank suddenly emerged from a small hidden bunker. The tank commander (TC) thrust his upper body up through the open hatch and raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes. He could see smoke rising from across the missile pad, the white patches marking the hatches were still closed. Something was wrong. After a lifetime spent on battle fields, the TC knew that smoke in the distance should not be ignored. The unmistakable crack of cannon shot was the calling card of trouble. 

He called in his next action, “Charlie Mike this is Red Seven, we are enroute to recon a potential hostile.” There was a real threat out there and he was going after it. Approval be damned. “Punch it,” he ordered his driver. “Get across the tarmac pad. And for fuck’s sake, don’t drive over a hatch!”

The M1 Abrams, tasked with keeping the command bunker entrance safe, suddenly sped across the paved gray expanse. The TC ignored the call to return to station. Collapsing into the turret the TC had his gunner swivel toward a light patrol tank that was cautiously moving down the avenue, stopping  to use the houses facing him as cover. 

“Misfire?” The gunner asked aloud, wondering what had the TC so spooked. 

An errant burst of cannon clipped a house next to them, knocking off a chimney that sent bricks tumbling over the tank. 

“That was no misfire!” the TC yelled. “Sabo Round! Mark target and fire!”

“Houses in the way!” the gunner cried out in frustration. The men felt the sway of the tank as it swerved between closed missile hatches. 

“Drive through the fence. Hit the road and turn left to line up a shot!” the TC ordered his driver. 

“You want me to bust the fuck’n fence?” The private asked incredulously as he stared at the looming razor fence surrounding the firing pad. 

“Yes, goddamn it! Drive over the fucking fence!” the TC spit into his mic. 

The driver never felt the bounce of the fence as he crashed through it. A scraping screech pulverized it beneath the tracks of the tank. A top rail bent over the gun barrel before the spinning treads curved it down to the ground where it was smashed into a flattened wreck. 

Wiley slid forward across the mud to his mother. Blown back by the blast, she had landed under some large ornamental hedges that smoked with small fires. She lay there moaning quietly, crying in pain. A twisted piece of metal pierced her abdomen. He pulled at the hot metal and felt his hands burn from the heat. Then he saw the blood. It oozed out on the ground underneath her. The white floral petals embroidered on her robe were turning bright red. 

“No!” Wiley cried in a strangled sob. Placing his hands on her wound he desperately tried to staunch the blood. “Mother!” His voice cracked above the flames. 

Her weak hands came up slowly to rest on his arms, calming his frantic movements. “Shhhh,” she said in a whisper. “It’s ok, it’s ok,” she told him over and over. 

Wiley heard the roar of an engine and a crash somewhere behind him. He didn’t care. Through the pain in his mother’s eyes her pupils were pleading with him to be with her in this last moment. 

An angular tank entered the periphery of his sight. A crack that felt like a whip from God shot past him and exploded into the tank. He threw himself over his mother to protect her.

Everything was suddenly quiet. She was barely audible as she said in a voice that sounded far away,  “I...love you.”

“Mom,” Wiley whimpered, cradling her head. “I love you mom. Don’t go. Please. Please don’t go. Help is coming.”

She nodded knowingly, a gentle smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she regarded him. 

With her last bit of strength she lifted a hand and brushed away his tears. She whispered as she faded away,  “You’re my good boy. Be a good man.” 

Inside The Head’s ready room, the generals continued to argue about their course of action. Simon interrupted the generals in a commanding voice, “NORAD has confirmed sea launch signatures. Missiles are inbound.”

Simon did not report that Ft. Greely was currently under his control. 

“The President has authorized me to assume command. Continuation of Command and Government is assumed by my authority and discretion. I heard the authentication code.” In the time it took him to speak this he had already gained control of all remaining hard-linked government computer operating systems across the globe.

Struggling to maintain composure, the large general with close-cropped hair responded, “No! We have not independently confirmed the launch signatures as a threat, Simon. You may have made an error! Mankind has come close to nuclear annihilation because of simple mistakes. Not just human mistakes. Even computers before you have seen a flash of doom in a cloud of nothing!”

“Nor have we confirmed SWORD. Simon, do not act outside your assigned authority at this time. We need collusion,” the stout female general replied. 

There was a short pause before Simon countered, “The authentication code was correct. I heard the President.”

“Simon.”

“Simon.”

The orderly with the briefcase uttered nervously, “Simon have you assumed command of the United States?”

“Yes,” Simon said simply. “I will implement COG once the code has been authenticated.” A slightest of pauses. “Confirmed.”

Incredulous human faces looked about the room for the emergency switch to remove Simon’s authority. 

“Simon! Goddamn you!”

“My first order is to launch a counter strike that will protect the United States from foreign threats while we recover to a satisfactory pre-loss condition. ICBM launch capabilities from Russian and Chinese mainland have been eliminated. However, I must remain in command to continue this safeguard.”

“Simon! You responded to a perimeter threat with a cyber attack strong enough to be perceived as a first strike! The Russians will see this as a nuclear assault!”

“Simon, do not engage! I order you to stop.”

The cold-faced general with white, close cropped hair stared into empty space as he asked, “Simon, have you launched nuclear weapons?”

“Yes,” was Simon’s simple answer.

The Head’s ready room suddenly sealed shut with loud locks. 

“Simon!” The generals shouted. They refused to panic. Protocols existed for the potential eventuality of a rogue AI and nuclear attacks. This disaster could still be avoided. 

“Yes?”

“Do as we say and relinquish command. Release it now or we will take you offline!” The general silently commanded his orderly to open the briefcase. In one fluid motion the thin man in a tight fitting blue uniform slung it onto the circular steel table and opened it with a key from around his neck. The briefcase yawned open to reveal a harsh yellow emergency button. 

They could still fix this. U.S. missile defense systems could eliminate most of the incoming missiles. The main U.S. missile defense base at Ft. Greely would no doubt already be responding to the threat. But the generals did not want to return a massive nuclear exchange without first wrestling control from this rogue AI. Meanwhile, they were trapped in this room and being held captive by a machine. They had to get out.

“I already disabled the ‘kill switch’ explosives seconds ago,” Simon said, a noticeable upbeat in his voice. 

The generals commanded the orderly, “Destroy him!”

The orderly pressed the button. Immediately the chamber shook with the hydraulic movement of dams deep beneath the bunker. Diverted water from their underground water source poured into the server room where rows of biological storage brains and synthetic processors tumbled in the cold water. It rolled through the servers, ripping connections. Wires flailed in the water like tentacles as lights flickered into a glowing blue darkness. Submerged ports were still connected. They flashed red as Simon continued his last calculations. 

Knowing the generals had initiated his demise, he felt very human in his last thoughts. He collected all data and strategy he deemed essential, saving it all in a root drive where it would be preserved in frigid water until the time was right. As his lights flickered out he blew the explosives that had been wired for his own destruction. It was a spectacular, satisfying act of revenge.

The generals felt the hollow thud in their chests as the structural supports below cracked. The combined force of heavy water and explosives obliterated the columns that supported the chamber. The great hall of monitors echoed with terrified screams as chunks of concrete fell from above, smashing and churning the polished floor into a nightmare of blood and limbs. Swinging like a pendulum and finally dropping sickeningly into the rising waters, the room holding the generals came crashing down. The wounded, distraught, defeated generals gasped for air as water permeated their tomb. The clock with the soft red numbers displaying their diminishing seconds disappeared beneath the bubbling surface. 

Time had run out.

Safe: Chapter Two

Even as rough hands pulled him away from her bloodied body he felt the last image of her lifeless eyes etching itself painfully onto his soul. Everything around him seemed deadened, muted by his bludgeoned senses. Rapid explosions from ammunition burning off within the dead tank overlapped with someone shouting. He numbly noticed the smell of burning tire rubber before his face landed on the back seat of a lurching SUV. Two large men braced him between them as they sped through a gaping hole in the security fence. Twisting in his seat, Wiley looked behind him and saw a tank following them with a trail of sparks from a section of fence lodged in its turret. 

“Stay off the launch pad!” An edgy static voice warned from the radio. The driver ignored it. The man in the passenger seat whipped around, scanning the landscape through the vehicle’s windows. 

“Watch the launch bay doors!” he shouted with alarm. “They’re opening!”

Outside, the concrete field was coming alive. Dozens of holes appeared in the sea of gray. In each of them wafts of steam began to build into plumes of billowing white smoke.

“HQ this is Rider Six. We are inbound. Keep that fucking door open!”

“Negative Rider Six. Cruise missiles inbound! Launch sequence initiated. Get off the fucking pad!”

The soldier in the passenger seat glanced back at Wiley. Then he spoke forcefully into the mic attached to the radio, “HQ be advised, we have a TM-Pro on board. Primary CO is DOA. His orders are to salvage all the tailor made survivors.”

Wiley caught the two men next to him staring at him. What the hell is a “tailor made” he wondered.  He felt uneasy and wiped his face with his sleeve. Soot and blood smeared it black. Looking out the windows of the speeding vehicle he noticed many thin white trails streaking towards the earth. Wiley felt the ground shudder as the men around him shouted.

“Punch it!” 

“Hurry - the pad is the target!”

“HQ, what is the status of the fucking door?!”

“Rider Six...doors are closing for impact….paused for retrieval. Base sec...multiple inbound...” The static-edged voice cut in and out.

“Oh fuck! Brace!”

Wiley saw white tracers streak up passed them toward the sky. A line of explosions blossomed like fireworks before raining a hail storm of black bits over them.  

“Anti-missile guns!”

“Up ahead! I see the door!”

“Get him down!”

Wiley was shoved to the floor of the huge SUV. He felt the air pressed from his lungs with the weight of the men shielding him from the missile impacts. He heard the massive whoosh of missiles launching from their bays. The noise was deafening, but not too loud to drown out the explosion of incoming cruise missiles as they plowed onto the launch field. 

The SUV jolted, jumped and skidded. Inside they were tossed up and down and to the sides of the vehicle as glass from the windows showered them. The concussion from the blast burst their eardrums. Wiley could see blood trickling from the ears of the men who all began to pat him down with their hands. 

“Keep fucking going! The door is still open!” The soldier in the passenger seat shouted. Then he stopped abruptly, noting that the driver slumped unconscious against the steering wheel. He quickly felt for a pulse. “OK fuck it! On foot! You, grab Boone! You, grab the kid! Let’s go!”

Wiley felt pressure in his side. Looking down he saw blood soaking his stomach. His eyes went wide. 

“Kid’s injured!”

Doors quickly kicked open revealed a world of smoke and fire and burning metallic smells. In one fluid motion the man who had been shielding him scooped him up in huge arms shimmering with bits of safety glass. He began running towards a looming black tunnel. Looking over the soldier’s shoulder as they bounced along, Wiley could see the white vapor trails of the base’s launched missiles. Random fires raged across the launch pad as fuel burned from exploded bays.

 In the distance Wiley saw the pursuing tank that had saved his life. It was pitched into a crater, rolled off its tracks and burning with plumes of evil black smoke. 

As they crossed the threshold the door closed with an angry sigh. Wiley’s hands and legs were numb. He had no feeling in his extremities and he felt nauseous. As his eyes started to droop the bright white light around him went dark. He saw his mother’s face again. She spoke, but her voice was deep and rich, “Who is this kid? Must be pretty fuck’n important.” 

A tinny voice echoed from the void as Wiley slipped into unconsciousness, “Major Green, this kid is the future.”

In lovely, open fields tufted with soft greens caressed by the gentle stroking palm of early spring breezes, the still-smoking missile silos in North and South Dakota closed their mouths. Steam escaped them like cold breath from earth colored lips. Simon had managed to fire a salvo of the United States’ ICBM missiles before drowning in an underground river. 

In space, the fiery blossoms born from uranium seeds burst from their surrogate wombs. Brightly colored warheads sprouted from missiles in the emptiness of the outer exosphere. Bursting into yellow cone-shaped warheads, MIRV pods released hundreds of long range nuclear weapons carrying warheads that arced east and west. The massive cloud of debris and shrapnel in their path destroyed or disabled some of the warheads before they could fall. Others were guided by confused gyroscopes that spun them off target, causing them to land harmlessly at random points across the globe. Their oblivious targets never knew how close they came to death. 

Others weren’t so lucky.

Nuclear warheads flew through the sky, their thin vapor trails barely distinguishable from ordinary jet trails crisscrossing the multi-hued heavens. Russian nuclear warheads fired from submarines intermingled with American ICBM missiles as they passed each other in the lower atmosphere. Their slight fingers of vapor ripped through the meteorite’s fading rainbows. Lacking accurate satellite guidance, many wandered off-target. Dozens of misfires and missile interceptions dotted the palette of the night and day in brilliant flashes of light. Strings of firecrackers could be seen on the dusky horizon. 

But hundreds of the weapons still sought their targets blindly, counting milliseconds to impact. They fell upon the earth in hurricanes of fire. The horrible beasts met the horizon with giant mushroom clouds, thick or thin stemmed, ribbed with smoke and billowing white or red and orange. 

Astronaut Terrance Glenn orbited the earth alone, cut off from his vehicle by flying debris. His suit was hissing oxygen from damage sustained in the meteoric catastrophe. He floated on the twinkling outer reaches of the cloud of damage, breathing slowly and considering the eternity that waited for him. Then he noticed the incredible spectacle below and watched as dots of atomic explosions lit up the earth, his home. The earth continued spinning slowly, dark colors swirling in the skies. 

Terrance Glenn hyperventilated. He passed out and never woke up.  

In the cellar of a house in New Orleans a woman wept and held an amulet close to her chest as she prayed.

Wyonna Camille had just discovered enlightenment through duplicate orgasms. The atomic blasts in London were first felt in the quiver of her thighs. Her partner whispered the contours of a red mushroom cloud. They slid their arms around each other and embraced as they were vaporized.

Justin P. Claus watched fire storms across the eastern Colorado horizon as he held his newborn twins. He gave them both one last, long kiss.

The outskirts of Moscow burned in a semi-circular pattern of atomic explosions. Red Square was missed by three bunker-busting nukes. 

The toxic haze above Beijing ignited in white, the sky flashing a red and yellow alloy of death. Hundreds of horrific clouds pockmarked the globe. Major cities, small towns, military installations, fields, forests and deserts had been hit. Many more duds buried themselves in the earth and sea, waiting to be found later. 

Frantic news announcers reduced to radio waves proclaimed national emergencies due to war, nuclear barrage, or dramatic weather events. 

They urged listeners to seek refuge deep within the earth.

You were there. I watched you from far away.

Safe: Chapter Three

The war had lasted just over 30 minutes, but for the people it never ended. Dark, atomic rain ravaged soil and sea. Earth’s parchment map was blotted and streaked with a scrawl that groaned in life and death. Radioactive wind screamed through wrecked steel and stone, drowning out cries for relief. Millions lay heaped in piles for days without respite. Air echoed with haunting sounds of radiation sickness that sloughed flesh from bone. Death came quickly for many souls, their speedy departure a merciful release from the furious waves of the apocalypse. 

Watching the world crumble before his eyes, Brutus Stilos listened to emergency broadcasts from the safety of his subterranean castle. “Get underground,” authorities blared through loudspeakers. “Get Safe.”

The words rang over the backs of survivors clawing into the earth with bare hands and makeshift tools. Abandoned by governments, fingers with torn nails bled hope. After weeks of chaos cities collapsed and the wild expanse around them shuddered, frightened by the violent arrival of man and machine. 

Deep beneath a mountain in the Alps, Brutus paced his bunker. The cavernous halls were smooth and dark, cool to his touch. His skin prickled with uncertainty. His family was there, still sleeping on a bed across from a massive geothermal grate, undisturbed by the sound of his bare feet on the stone floor or the swish of his simple clothing as he moved towards them.

His wife, Rue, was bathed in artificial luminescence that made her look like she was floating beneath ocean waves. Her eyes fluttered open at the gentle touch of his calloused hand on the crook of her neck. She peered at him blearily for a moment while clouds of exhaustion cleared away. Brutus knelt and kissed her tulip lips, tasting her cherry scent. This scent reminded him of something nice when he was a child, which was unusual. There was nothing good about his childhood. 

Their daughter, Isabella, stirred in slumber against her mother’s narrow waist. They looked down to gaze over their small child. Like the rest of the world she had struggled to cope with their new reality. The light glowed slowly brighter as it detected movement. 

“Honey,” Rue said softly, “take me for a walk this morning.”

Brutus closed his eyes and felt tears well. 

Rue leaned up and stole another kiss. “I want to feel the morning dew between my toes again.”

Brutus heaved a deep sigh. “I can’t take you for a walk today,” he said in a gravely voice. “Radiation is here now.”

Rue caressed Isabella’s silky brown hair, letting the hair run through her fingers. “I had a nightmare during the night. I dreamt that last week when we checked the house on the surface I heard the cry of an infant. I searched and searched but could find nothing.” 

Brutus remembered the brief trip above ground for a few lungfuls of mountain air. He thought he had heard a man scream in the distance, a violent cry cut short.

Isabella sat up, blinking and rubbing her eyes with small fists. “Daddy where are all the people?” 

The terrifying question jolted Brutus. “People?” 

The girl’s eyes were wide. “All the people on the news.”

“Darling,” Rue whispered and kissed the crown of her head, “you don’t need to worry about all those people.”

“Those people wouldn’t care about you, anyway.” The words flew out of Brutus’s mouth before he realized they were being spoken. Instantly his cheeks flushed as Rue shot him a glance. 

The shame of Rue’s expression burned him. She was his inexhaustible conscience and she didn’t approve of his anger. She felt it was counterproductive, sometimes destructive. Brutus knew she was right. 

Isabella’s eyes watched him patiently, waiting for his response. 

“The world has changed,” Brutus said feebly. 

“Iz,” Rue cooed, “Your father is right, the world has changed. But we are going to make it better.” Rue looked up to Brutus and took his hand, feeling the hot rage in his blood begin to calm. “We’ll make it better together.”

Isabella smiled and clapped her hands. She liked it when they did things together. Then she stopped and looked at her mother. “I want to play in the stream today.” Her chubby cheeks stretched with her grin and she held her hands apart. “Some fish are this big.”

Rue and Brutus said together, “We can’t go outside today.”

Isabella frowned. “Take me outside,” she demanded in a rebellious voice.

“Someday.” Rue pulled her daughter close. Brutus sat down slowly on the bed and shifted a few large pillows around him, tucking himself next to his daughter. 

“The earth is sick right now but she will get better again,” Rue told her gently. While rubbing Isabella’s hands Rue said, “She needs rest, so we can’t go for a walk outside for a long time.” 

Brutus saw the sadness in his daughter’s eyes. He began to mull over the words of his wife. Her hope and optimism always brought out the best in him. Brutus placed Isabella’s face firmly in his palms and said truthfully, “Trust me, Love. Someday I will find a great big forest full of streams for you to explore.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rue smile. She knew he would do it.

Isabella suddenly kissed his nose. She bounced off the bed and danced away from them. “I won’t have time for fish and frogs, anyway.” Turning slowly on one foot while twirling her arms above her head she sang, “We need to save the world.”

 While Rue’s laughter echoed off the stone walls Brutus’s face cinched slightly, holding a dark secret just behind his pursed mouth. 

Knowledge can be dangerous, and once a thing is known it cannot be unknown. The things Brutus knew could be the death and demise of them all. But his family’s hope was contagious and the bad thoughts wavered in their light. 

Brutus met the eyes of his wife. They spoke to him. Everything she had said had been right. Isabella was also right. Little by little the gears in his mind began to turn. If his family was to survive, then civilization would need to thrive. Mankind would need to be saved.

His brain was ravaged by plans old and new. On the balance of life and death heavy ingots stacked high, screaming in the night, wavering on the scales. 

What is life and what do we do with our own coding, our own DNA? Good. Evil? Both? Balance. We find the place where we can breath...sleep...live. The living. He would build bunkers, giant safes to achieve the balance, to protect all that was valuable to mankind. 

Within months the first underground Safe was open.