Ray Gorham: 77 Days in September

As his head bobbed sleepily, Kyle heard the whine of the engines pick up and then felt a bump as the brakes released and the plane lurched backward away from the gate. A weary smile registered on his face.

Atlantic Ocean, 175 miles east of Cape Hatteras, North Carolina 16:00 EST

Jibril stood on the deck of Carmen’s Serenade , watching the glow of the missile disappear into the thick, gray clouds. His men spoke in quiet, reverent tones, their preparations and efforts of the past decade culminating in that moment.

A sense of loss unexpectedly swept over Jibril as the clouds swallowed not only the rocket, but his entire life’s focus as well. Everything he had worked for, the sole purpose of his life since his wife and son had been killed in Iraq had been accomplished. Every sleepless night, every trip across the ocean, every obstacle overcome was now, finally, worth it.

A melancholy-laced laugh escaped his lips as he thought about how the American leaders would be reacting this very instant. His leaders in Iran had played negotiations to their maximum effect, agreeing to dismantle their own weapon’s program only because Pakistan had already sold them what they needed. Now, with the American president being hailed as a hero for shutting down the Iranian’s nuclear program, all while having provided Iran with the materials to build enough power plants to double its electrical output, Iran was set to dominate the Middle East and the oil and power that came with it, for the next century.

Jibril regretted that he would not live to learn of the impact his efforts would have on the Americans, nor to witness Israel’s destruction and the fall of the Jews, which, with America crippled, would surely come in a matter of weeks.

With the missile faded from sight, Jibril turned to Zahir, his fellow warrior, and nodded. Zahir, drops of sweat falling from his scarred brow, swallowed hard and knelt in front of a small, digital display mounted on a now charred steel case and punched in the code to begin a new countdown.

Sighing with satisfaction, Jibril reflected on the past years. He had proven himself so dedicated that he had been trusted to lead the most radical strike ever attempted against the Americans. He understood that there were others attempting the same thing, but in the future, his name would be spoken in the same, hushed tones as those martyrs who had died in New York City so many years before. His only living son would beam with pride, knowing what his father had sacrificed himself for.

A tear of joy formed in the corner of Jibril’s eye, building slowly until it broke free and streaked his cheek.

NORAD Headquarters, Peterson Air Force Base, Colorado 16:00 EST

Air Force Command Sergeant Alan Gagnon sat at his desk keying an email to his wife at the end of another uneventful week during another uneventful summer.

It was 16:00:05 EST when the alarm sounded. In the nine years he’d been in his current position this particular alarm had never gone off without him knowing about it beforehand, and until this instant, he had expected it never would. Alan jumped from his desk and was in the main control room in five rapid strides. Officers were responding as they had been trained, and for all they knew this was just another drill. With his heart racing, Alan quickly assessed the situation. Rows of glowing monitors at the front of the command room showed two missiles in American airspace, relaying their locations and projecting their flight paths with faint orange cones that took in much of the continent. It was too early to pinpoint where they were headed, but obvious the missiles had not traveled from foreign soil.

“What do we know?” Alan barked as he strode to the center of the room, dodging underlings who ran in every direction. “There are no scheduled tests, correct?” He already knew the answer but asked anyway.

Lieutenant Rodger Olsen, one of his most capable assistants and the only other person who would know ahead of time if a test was scheduled, sat with his eyes locked on the screen in front of him, processing the information. “There are no tests or drills scheduled, sir. These are real, and they’re not ours. Both missiles were launched simultaneously from areas with no identified military vessels, foreign or domestic. Tracking shows they are not headed directly inland at this point. They’re just gaining altitude.”

Alan picked up the phone on the closest desk. “Give me General Doss!” he shouted into the mouthpiece, then waited impatiently for the connection to be made. When he heard the general speak Alan cut him off. “General, this is Alan. It’s bad. We show two missiles, both launched from international waters, one off each coast. Both are in American airspace with indeterminate targets and unknown payloads.”

Monitors filled the front wall of the room and Alan’s eyes darted from screen to screen as he continued to relay what little information he had to the General. The largest screen showed two separate lines tracking the flights of the incoming missiles. It was now seventy three seconds since they had launched, and tracking showed the missiles to be at an elevation of just over eighty-two miles.

As Alan scanned the monitors, another alarm sounded and the screen flashed as the line tracking the missile launched from the west began to blink. He covered the mouthpiece and shouted at Lt. Olsen. “What just happened?!”

The lieutenant shook his head. “I don’t know, sir. That one just seems to have disappeared.”

“What do you mean disappeared? Did it detonate?”

“Negative, sir. Or if it did, it wasn’t nuclear. Our satellites indicate some kind of explosion, but I have to assume malfunction.

“Sir?” Alan spoke into the phone. “No, I don’t think so. I don’t think any cities are targeted, but I can’t say that with any certainty. Listen, one of the missiles has just disappeared from radar. Looks like it malfunctioned. That leaves just one, but it’s gaining too much elevation for a direct strike to make sense. I think the intent is to detonate in space. It’s likely the second missile was meant as a backup. I think the country is the target, sir, not D.C. or New York.”

Alan caught his breath as the meaning of his last statement sunk in, knowing there wasn’t anything that could be done. The missile defense budget had been all but eliminated years ago; probably to make room for some government handout designed to win votes for a senator up for re-election in a tight race. Even if missile defense had not been shelved, the chances of an American missile launched from this close being accurate enough to knock out an incoming missile at an altitude of hundreds of miles were slim. But with the current situation, and no response beyond crossed fingers and desperate prayers, Alan would have liked to have had something to throw at it, proven or not.

Alan finished his conversation with General Doss and hung up. They both had calls to make, and he didn’t have much time — five, maybe six minutes at the most, before all hell broke loose and America was turned on its head. The military had war gamed this scenario for years, and every outcome was bad. How severe the results would be depended on three things: the location of detonation, the tonnage of the missile, and the efficiency of the weapon.

In the military’s planning it always came down to the fact that once the missiles were in the air, there was almost no way to stop them. That was why they worked so hard to keep these weapons from getting into the wrong hands. This was America’s Achilles heel, the proverbial knockout punch that any rogue nation could throw if they had the money, the resources, and the willingness to weather the inevitable retaliation.

George Bush International Airport, Houston, Texas 16:03 EST