Bobby Akart - First Strike

Laura Ingram read from a printed page instead of a teleprompter. “We have received reports from KTTV, the Fox affiliate in Los Angeles, that the California State Warning Center, Office of Emergency Services in Sacramento has issued a digital warning to all residents of California that an incoming ballistic missile has been detected. This is unconfirmed as of yet.”

Ingram paused as someone spoke to her off camera. Then she continued. “I’ve also been told that as is their protocol, Oregon and Washington state have issued similar warnings. According to this, the alerts took place in the last seven minutes. From my recollection, America’s west coast is thirty to thirty-five minutes away from a nuclear strike from our nearest adversaries, North Korea and China.”

She took a deep breath and looked into the camera. “Everyone needs to seek shelter immediately. Don’t hesitate. Go now. Your life depends on it.”

Peter’s first instinct was to call Lacey. He tried twice on her cell phone and got no answer. He scowled as he paced the floor. He called Jess. She’d been at the Pentagon late that evening and had bailed on a previously scheduled dinner with him.

Her phone rang and rang.

“Come on, Jess, pick up.”

Peter paced the floor, glancing twice at the beer as he resisted the urge to drink it. He needed to keep his head clear.

He returned to his phone and tried Lacey again. No answer. He was mad at himself for not having Owen’s number, or Tucker’s, for that matter.

The Fox coverage switched to live shots of panicked partiers in West Hollywood and motorists who were rushing away from the city. A traffic helicopter hovered over Interstate 210 through Pasadena as cars traveling east away from the city had taken over one of the westbound lanes.

He called Jess again. It rang twice, and she picked up.

“Peter! We’ve got nothing inbound.”

“What? Say that again.”

“Initially, they went into a full-blown panic over here. There are no missiles inbound. They’ve called USCENTCOM and confirmed with Pacific Command. There are no ballistic missiles in the air. I know for a fact they reached out to the governor of California and his OES people to shut the damn warning alerts off.”

Peter said nothing for a long moment. Fox was still reporting on the mayhem and had done nothing to retract their initial reporting.

“Jess, I’m watching reaction on the news. They’ve got to tell people. There are reports of people jumping from high-rise balconies to commit suicide. Cars are crashing head-on into one another along the freeways coming out of LA.”

Jess was on edge and agitated. “The Pentagon is on it. We’re preparing a press release and a nationwide text alert now. It should go out any second.”

The federal government had established a program to notify every cell phone user in the nation of emergency alerts sent by state and local public officials regarding severe weather, missing or abducted children, and silver alerts related to senior citizens who might suffer from deteriorating mental faculties. Through the Emergency Alert System, or EAS, the president can address the American people within ten minutes of a national emergency.

“What about POTUS?” he asked.

“They hustled him off to Mount Weather already in light of the South Asian conflict,” Jess responded.

“He, or someone, needs to issue a retraction. Every second that goes by could mean hundreds of people dying unnecessarily.”

“They know, Peter. Listen, I gotta go.”

“Okay, call me when you can,” he insisted, but she’d already disconnected the call.

Peter’s hands were shaking when he reached down for his beer. It had become warm, but he didn’t care. He drained the bottle in three hard gulps.

He tried to open SFGate.com, a well-known Bay Area website for local news, sports, and weather. The servers had crashed. His palms were sweaty as he dialed Lacey’s number again. He prayed they were home at this hour.

The phone rang, and finally, Lacey picked up the phone. He could hear the blaring of car horns in the background. Lacey dropped the phone.

“Watch out, Mom!” Tucker shouted in the background. Lacey slammed on her own horn in response to whatever Tucker had warned about. She finally came to the phone.

“Owen? Are you okay?”

“Lacey!” Peter shouted so she could hear him. “Listen to me. It’s a false alarm. Do you hear me? It’s a false alarm!”

“What? Peter? They’ve been sending out these—”

“Lacey, I know. I talked to the Pentagon. It’s a mistake. Somebody made a mistake.”

“Are you freakin’ kidding me?” Lacey shouted at the phone, her incredulity obvious in her tone of voice.

“I confirmed it. The president will be issuing an emergency alert notification withdrawing what California started. Get home. Get to safety. There is no missile threat.”

“I’m gonna hand you off to Tucker.”

“Uncle Peter?”

“Yeah, big guy. Listen, I’m gonna hang up. Help your mom. There is no missile, okay?”

“Stupid idiots,” Tucker groaned.

“Yeah, for sure. Listen, I take it Owen isn’t with you?”

“Right. We think he’s on the Dumbarton crossing the bay. I’d better try to call him again.”

“Do that. Be careful and call me later.”

Tucker hung up, and Peter collapsed onto his sofa. Seconds later, the president’s text message was disseminated through the emergency alert system, cancelling the alert.

The nation breathed a collective sigh of relief.

Tuesday, October 22

California State Warning Center

Office of Emergency Services (Cal OES)

Sacramento, California

Alix Adams was a loyal soldier. She’d been hand-selected to join the Cal OES about six months ago. Prior to that, she’d worked on the president’s election campaign in the state. Her experience procuring signatures to initiate ballot referendums had landed her a lucrative position in Sacramento within the California State Warning Center.

At first, she didn’t understand why she was offered the full-time position at just over fifty thousand a year but also given a consultant contract by the president’s campaign team that doubled that annual salary.

The prior evening near the end of her shift, she’d received a text message to meet a campaign coworker at the Thai Bistro restaurant nearby for drinks. Adams hadn’t heard from the man she’d casually dated during the campaign since the inauguration. She liked him and was willing to let him buy her a few drinks.

Upon arrival, he got right down to business. He slid her an envelope with five thousand dollars in cash enclosed. His request was a simple one. Accidentally hit the wrong button. Nothing more. Nothing less. Afterwards, apologize profusely. Cry, if she felt compelled to do so. “Don’t worry about your job or your side gig,” he’d said to her. “Just push the wrong button when the time comes.”

They shared one drink and made small talk about the new administration. He abruptly left, and she went home. The next night, as her shift was in its last hour, her supervisor advised her that during the shift change, he wanted to run an unscheduled drill to make sure everyone was on their toes , as he put it. He advised Adams that he was going to contact the emergency management team, pretending to be with U.S. Pacific Command. He just wanted to give Adams a heads-up so she would do the right thing when she was instructed by the team to act.

Adams was thoroughly confused. Was her supervisor part of the subterfuge? When he said do the right thing, was he actually referring to pushing the wrong button, as she’d been instructed?