Two weeks ago, Vargo had instructed his militia to assault a New Raymer launch control facility and was met with superior force, killing most of his newly recruited men. This week, after having kidnapped and recruited additional militia members, Vargo had learned from his first mistake and chosen a softer target. Instead of a launch control facility, they were headed to a single silo off of Highway 14 and Rural Road 123.

  His acquired intelligence detailed a gated facility that was guarded by a single unfortified guard shack positioned at the entrance to the fenced launch pad. Inside the fencing itself held nothing above ground but a heavy concrete hatch that slid open once the launch control facility needed to fire or threaten to fire a nuclear missile. His intel further stated that an inside source had confirmed that within the past week, the remote launch facility containing a quick reaction force had been crippled by an internal outbreak of VX-e, so the silo would be run on a skeleton crew.

  Vargo knew his opportunity was now, and all they had to do was kill the guards, ram the gate, and access the silo. If they could accomplish getting his men into the silo, then they could hold what was left of the United States hostage. In his mind, the possession of a nuclear weapon would have the remaining government bow to his every need.

  Vargo rode shotgun in the lead vehicle, a newer-model Ford F-550 his men had stolen from a car dealer as they crossed over into Colorado on their way to the silos. For the last week, he had moved across country from San Diego, specifically for what he was about to accomplish.

  “Sir, after this turn, he will be about two minutes out,” Tate advised. He had been Vargo’s driver for seven days now, having survived the ill-advised attempt to take over the remote launch facility. His eyes shifted to the side mirrors to check their trailer’s load as the dust flew up from the gravel road.

  Vargo huffed as he stared out of his window, his clear goggles strapped tight as the window was down. His rifle, an old lever-action Marlin 30/30, was held firm in his right hand while brown-and-gray dust filtered into the cab off the road.

  “Sir?” Tate asked. “Should I sound the horn?”

  Vargo spit in the floorboard across Tate’s duct-taped boots. “Sound it! Let’s get this party started!”

  Tate nodded, and as he checked his side mirrors again, he held the truck’s horn down and let it blare.

  Dax Creed heard the signal. There was no doubt in his mind that somewhere down the road, the signal was being passed along to him. The horn was constant and then ended with a faint gunshot. That was the signal, and he knew it.

  Under the cover of night, Dax had spent countless hours crawling from the main road through a wheat field and then laid in wait for that exact moment. His elbows and knees were skinned, leaving bloody, snail-like trails in the dirty soil as he had moved. His stolen ghillie suit had come in handy, totally obscuring him, even as he slowly rose to a knee with an old rocket-propelled grenade resting on his right shoulder. Thirty-five yards away, across a dirt road, two armed guards manned the guard shack to the silo. But not for long, if he had anything to say about it.

  After lining his sights, Dax exhaled all the air in his lungs, and at that natural pause in his breathing, he sharply pulled the trigger.

  The RPG whirled to life, firing high-velocity air and flames behind Dax as the rocket took flight. Much like a sniper’s bullet would travel in the blink of an eye, he had been so close to his target that the rocket struck the guard shack in less than half a second.

  The small shack exploded in a cacophony of chaos. Dirt and dust shot off in the air along with wood, roofing shingles, and concrete. Dax smiled and took pride in his handiwork as all the debris showered over the area...until he heard one of the guards screaming in pain. Dax had shot an RPG7, and as he adjusted his kneeling position, he removed the spent booster from the tube, tossing it to the ground, allowing the heat of it to singe the dead wheat below him. He then loaded a new rocket as the agonizing screams continued to bellow from inside of what was left of the shack.

  Internally, he laughed and thought about the time he had been arrested and beaten up by the officer, and in his mind, this was his way of retaliation. This was his governmental pound of flesh.

  Again, taking aim, Dax fired a second rocket. Its back blast burned a path through the wheat like a small meteor strike. His smile never waned, and once the debris stopped falling and the dust had again settled down, the screams were no more.

  Dax was pleased with himself, content in knowing that he was not only able to sneak in undetected but had singlehandedly taken out the only external armed resistance assigned to that particular silo.

  Now, all Vargo and his militia had to be concerned with was a QRF that may or may not come. But until they did, Vargo had a plan to follow.

  The three trucks continued to speed down Rural Road 123, and almost as the chaos of the assault had simmered down, the trucks split into a line and turned directly past what was left of the guard shack. Then two of the pickups gassed it into the chain-link perimeter fence. The collision folded the gate in half, opening a hole large enough for all three trucks to punch through with the F-550 pulling a heavy trailer being the last to enter.

  Gravel and rocks compounded under tires as the three trucks came to a crunching and sliding halt. Gray-and-brown dust nearly engulfed them as the devilish man, known only as Vargo, stepped from the passenger side of the trailing truck with a lit and well-used cigar in the corner of his mouth. Just like with the truck’s Bridgestone tires, gravel crunched under Vargo’s boots as he marched back toward a disfigured body lying near the entrance, smoke slipping from between his lips. “Get the chains and the big-ass dozer!” he yelled out as he walked. His face was red and blistered, his scars vastly irritated by the particles in the air.

  He stopped in front of what used to be the guard shack and the man—a young boy, really—wearing a military uniform, who was now missing both legs, one from above the knee and one below. He lay bleeding on the ground, unflinching and evidently, without question, deceased. Nonetheless, with one hand, Vargo lifted his Marlin and, in a single motion, pulled the trigger, leaving a golf-ball-size hole in the young man’s head.

  Vargo smirked. He was a smart man and knew the boy was already dead, but he still wanted to be sure…not to mention, he needed to fulfill a need. There was an internal itch he had to scratch, and that was what his lever-action 30/30 was used for, satisfying his primal urges.

  He faced back to see a white Chevrolet Silverado Z71 and a custom canary yellow F-150, both backed up to the concrete hatch that was used to conceal and protect the Minuteman III launch pad. “Hook ’em up, boys!” he yelled out again, but this time with more of a dirty smile.

  Vargo kept his ears open for any approaching choppers or fast movers. He had learned the QRF game, and without boots available to put on the very soil he stood on, they would be forced to spin up a fast mover that would be almost useless. Not even the federal government was dumb enough to drop ordinance anywhere near the silo. But he did worry about an Apache helicopter, one from Fort Collins or even a simple Blackhawk with a somewhat accurate door gunner. He knew that type of firepower would do the trick without setting off a nuclear detonation.

  Vargo was playing the ultimate game of cat and mouse, and it was time to crack open the silo.

  The engines revved as the sound of chains tightening began. At first, the trucks pulled forward just enough to take the slack out of all six chains, three from each of the two trucks.

  But then Jerry Tate stepped from behind the wheel of his F-550 and ran to the metal rail tracks embedded within the concrete structure. Quickly, he pulled a grease gun from the bed of his truck and greased each rail in such a fashion that it was blatantly obvious he had rehearsed it beforehand.

  Jumping back in his truck, Tate reached his hand out to the side mirror and adjusted it until he could clearly see two things: Vargo and the silo hatch. Vargo gave him a nod as he climbed aboard his Cat D4 bulldozer that had already been unstrapped from the trailer. Within a few seconds, Vargo had spun up the diesel motor, black smoke pluming from its exhaust as he backed it down onto the ground. Its twenty-nine thousand pounds of dead weight had pushed the F-550’s engine to its limits over the last few miles, but now it was appearing to have been worth the effort.

  Tate continued to keep an eye on Vargo, adjusting his driver’s side mirror as Vargo pulled the dozer up to the silo missile hatch and married the machine’s blade to the edge of the concrete. Vargo gave Tate another nod, and then Tate honked the horn.

  Both drivers then pulled with everything their trucks had, just as Vargo began pushing the concrete with the dozer. At first, tires spun and smoke billowed in the air as the trucks both moved left and right, even smacking into one another, until something gave…and it wasn’t a vehicle or chain…or even the girthy bulldozer. In the next fleeting moment, the trucks both lurched forward, ripping the heavy concrete silo hatch open and down the rails as Vargo’s dozer pushed.

  “Hold them there, boys!” Vargo screamed as he put his dozer in park before hopping back to the ground. He then moved away from the thick chains and peered deep into the silo. That was all they had needed. In the big scheme of things, the monumental effort was all for a small access window into the missile silo. Now, in Vargo’s mind, the nation would bow to him and his militia. It was a new day, and he was in charge. It wouldn’t be long now that the men would take over the silo from within, and all Hell would break loose.

  Even though the chains were as thick as baseball bats, they stretched and creaked under the force. But nonetheless, Vargo simply scooped up a small cutting charge the size of a hockey puck from a bag in back seat of the F-550. Smiling, he hustled back over to the closest rail and gathered a handful of grease, then smeared onto the explosive charge, rubbing thoroughly over it. Then he leaned inside the small area left vacant from the forced-open hatch, placing the charge firmly against the hydraulic controls that were fighting to slide the launch hatch closed. Vargo puffed on his cigar and then pinched it from his mouth and used it to light the fuse protruding from the cutting charge. It lit, and sparks shimmered and fell to the bottom of the eighty-foot silo as Vargo stared on with glee.

  Moving away, he went over to the truck and readied a second charge, this one a bit larger, positioned with another fuse protruding from within a small canvas shave kit.

  The first charge exploded with a small and shallow pop, effectively cutting the controls, allowing the thick steel chains to slack. The hydraulics that had been fighting to keep the launch hatch closed had been rendered safe and were no longer effective. They were now in control.

  “Tate!” Vargo yelled. “You can back the trucks up! We own this hole now!”

  Almost in unison, the two trucks reversed the few feet needed to provide enough slack in the chains so that other men could unhook them. Then as Vargo stepped to the open silo, the two trucks pulled off and drove the short distance to where the gate had been and aligned the trucks in a defensive posture to block the entrance.

  Vargo laughed as he walked and rolled his still-lit cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other before taking it out and lighting the fuse on the new explosive. Leaning over the open silo, he could see the tip of the missile and four feet of gap between the missile and its bunker-like concrete tube. Struts and supports jutted out periodically to hold the ICBM in place, but sixty feet down was a barrier designed to break away upon launch. That barrier was the only thing standing between Vargo and his militia from entering the useable space of the silo. It was like a closed door they had to enter, or their mission would fail.

  Sparks shimmered in the air as Vargo dropped that small shaving kit charge. It was a simple water impulse charge, designed to push doors open, but Vargo would use it to push the barrier in and grant them access to what he thought to be the controls to the world.

  The charge fell but didn’t tumble. It remained in the almost same position upon landing as Vargo had orientated it before he dropped the custom-made explosive.

  “Funny thing about explosives,” Vargo said to the men now standing nearby as he gleefully pulled back from the open silo. “You can build them where they will do little tasks for you and not ignite the world-ending Minuteman prominently erect next to it.”

  Below their feet, a small explosion detonated, and the ground didn’t even shake. They only knew the charge had cooked off because the silo itself acted like a flume, pushing all sounds and odors up and out into the world.

  Vargo stepped back to the edge and leaned over. Smoke slipped in his eyes from his cigar and from the second detonation. He simply smiled and stared. Then once his vision cleared, his smile turned into an evil smirk as he could plainly see that the barrier had been eliminated. They were in business and could now enter the underground area holding the launch controls.

  Chapter 13

  Doomsday

  Vargo

  90th Missile Wing

  Minuteman III ICBM

  Inside the Silo

  Raymer, Colorado

  “Ropes!” Vargo called out as his men pulled them from the bed of the Silverado. With one last drag, Vargo inhaled and tossed his cigar to the gravel, leaving it to eventually burn out on its own.

  Just as they had planned, Tate and another man quickly tied the ropes off to the bulldozer and then walked each one over to the edge of the open silo, keeping them neatly coiled and in hand.

  Tate looked down the hole as the sun illuminated the silo. With his M4 slung over his back, and an old, police-issued Smith and Wesson 4046 tucked into his waistline, he looked for Vargo’s approval before he proceeded.

  Vargo held out his hand and took the rope from his trusted friend. “I’ll lead us down.” In his mind, the last explosion should have sent a small concussive wave inside the troop’s facility or, at the very least, shocked them into some sense of fright.

  Wrapping the rope around his waist and over his shoulder, Vargo used his left hand to slowly lower himself into the silo as his feet walked down the skin of the missile. With ease and speed, he lowered himself with his gloved left hand as his right hand held his Marlin lever action.

  It took less than thirty seconds for Vargo’s feet to find their way onto the landing that led into the security wing of the silo. In the corner of the room, he found himself staring into the eyes of a young soldier, decked out in freshly starched fatigues, shaking like a leaf on a stormy day.

  Gripping the rope tight, Vargo used his right boot to pull his body weight closer to the platform. As his momentum then shifted inward with his body weight, he let go of the rope and found himself standing vertically in the entryway smirking at the scared kid.

  Vargo shifted his weight left and right, laughing at the young soldier who no older than eighteen, and pulled the slide back on his M9 Beretta semi-automatic pistol—presumably to load its empty chamber.

  Vargo lifted his Marlin and with one hand extended the barrel out toward the boy, then clicked his teeth for the young man to look up at him.

  Instinctively, the boy again locked eyes with Vargo as he raised his pistol in defense, but Vargo was too fast for him.

  Vargo pulled his trigger rearward, and the Marlin cracked off a solid round. The top of the boy’s head split like the Red Sea did for Moses. Brain and bloody gore soaked the floor almost as fast as the boy’s body fell to the dusty tile. His lifeless limbs folded awkwardly, leaving his body contorted until the rats would eventually carry him away.

  Behind Vargo, Tate stepped into the entryway with his pistol in hand, both men looking over the security room and realizing the dead soldier was most likely the only one down there.

  Vargo’s intel had been costly, having to trade two of his favorite women and a crate of firearms to get it. But now, he seemed to think it had all been worth it. Even all the death his militia had experienced in the failed attempts was now worth every drop of blood.

  Behind him, Vargo could hear his other men descending the silo, so he looked to Tate. “Let’s walk this thing and make sure there’s no one hiding.”

  Tate nodded and stepped off to clear the area. On the wall were two plasma TVs and a couch. Then he noticed a small room with an open door, with a plaque on the wall reading Arms Room. He quickly moved to it, and before he even entered the doorway, he could plainly see that no one was inside.

  Vargo took notice, but his eyes caught a vault-like door with a massive chrome wheel in the center of it that looked like it belonged on a pirate ship, controlling the boat. Even though he knew it was the blast-door entry into launch control, what really captured his attention was the intercom system next to the door.

  “Take the others and clear what’s left,” Vargo told Tate. “I have something more pressing to handle.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  Vargo then tuned out everything and everyone else around him, as his sights were set on talking his way into the control room. He understood that they owned nearly every inch of the underground bunker, the lounge, arms room, and soon they would be in control of the chow hall and lastly the latrines. They would own it all, except for the all-important launch room, where two unsuspecting launch officers were dutifully manning their posts.

  Vargo licked his chapped lips and forced a smile as he leaned forward and pushed the intercom button. “My good men, I know there are two of you inside, so let’s start this on the right foot, shall we?” He let the button go and waited for a response.

  Nothing. A dreadful silence fell as cool air pushed inside from the open silo hatch.

  Vargo tried again, pushing the talk button. “Gentlemen, there is only one way out for you. That’s through this blast door and up the escape shaft. You know this, and I know this. I also understand that you boys have been locked up inside of your metal and concrete coffin for a day longer than you’re used to. So we can make this easy and painless, if you cooperate. All you have to do is open this door now, and I’ll allow you both to leave, unharmed, to go home again to see whatever may be left of your families.”