Late Wargame

Nevada, United States of America, 2044​

. . .

In the Nevada night, an island of luminescence burst from the gulf of darkness. Intricate electric lanes carved through the "small town" of Las Vegas, like circuits on a motherboard. And tens of millions of lights assembled in perfect order to beat back the night.

From above it was a spectacle. But below, it was an inconsistent nightmare. Towers glowed bright all day and night. Suburbs vanished behind the infamous Casino Strip. Light pollution glowed for miles beyond Las Vegas Boulevard and its neon decadence before finally collapsing into a soft deathly dark. But such visual details were irrelevant in face of grander agendas.

To John Smith, Las Vegas was a place without meaning. Another flight or layover to his next destination. However, in a recent twist of fate, he started to call the sinful city home.

His eyes glazed over on the Las Vegas skyline, made more of dark mountains than ivory towers. After many visits, he could see the culture shifts in the city itself. Humorous slogans like "What Happens Here, Stays Here" retreated into the delusions of "Leave the World Behind."

Nothing stayed in Vegas. And there was no escape except in death.

Through the tinted bus window glass, Smith's well kept, G-man reflection stared back. Dark suit, black tie, false polish dress shoes, and no insignias in sight. He squashed a bored impulse to run a comb through his synthetic-greased hair. He didn't have a comb, and he never thought to try with his gloved hands. Smith didn't need to. The false grease held days-long permanence over the real thing, with less stick and weight.

Instead Smith huffed to himself, pulling out a cigarette box and lighter. Torching a stick bathed the lonely bus cabin in the smell of smoked palm wood. He amended his previous thought: Las Vegas didn't become home, rather Nellis Air Force Base did.

His most recent arrival in Las Vegas was a blur like others, from air terminal into an unmarked white bus favored by the American defense department. In a repeat of ancient history, the American military tamed its Western regions from criminals and terrorists. Civilian flights resumed into Las Vegas. Landings transitioned from noisy Nellis tarmacs, to air-conditioned galleries at Pat McCarran International Airport. Smith's commute to Nellis grew to forty minutes, but added proper baggage claim, restaurants, and an occasional sex den. Yet his contempt for Las Vegas remained.

Smith didn't come to the sinful city to party. He came for work, just like every station before from Fort Eisenhower to Fort Meade and beneath open skies or falling nukes.

The night vanished into a soft, orange florescence. Smith was so used to his rideshare commute, he overlooked the gate guard waving his bus through security and the transition from open road into a reinforced tunnel. Nellis didn't have many tunnels but there was a growing network resulting from the American military returning to the Western States.

The night bus came to a halt behind two others in the underground reception terminal. Smith was ushered off quickly, a single suitcase by his side. He watched with unconcern as tired airmen in tiger camouflage fatigues exited the other buses in a hurry. He trailed them at his own pace through large bunker doors and passive security checkpoints with cyber-augmented dogs and all-spectrum detectors.

After several narrow turns through labyrinthine concrete halls, Smith caught ear of antagonistic voices rising towards breaking point. One, a woman with shrill opera talent, and second, a younger man bathed in radio static.

The cold, even tones burned ice-hot from General Ada Byron's lips. Her steel inflection seemed appropriate to welcome Smith to America's sustainable warfare effort. In fact, Smith seem to catch a perfect microcosm of the downhill diplomacy. "Colonel Sellers, this is getting bothersome. Again, please formally reconsider your direction in policy and the consequences."

"Again. It's President, madam General," the masculine radio voice corrected. "My father was Colonel Peterson Sellers. And our foreign policy remains the same. My people have done nothing to warrant your empty threats and vitriol for forty years. So—"

"On the contrary, the persistent threat posed by the Soviet Remainder Army requires we reevaluate risks of nuclear terrorism continent-wide. Russia's lapdogs continue to destabilize the Western States and the United Nations requested peacekeepers seek greater accountability of regional stockpiles."

"YOUR peacekeepers, you mean. And those 'United Nations' you hide behind. If the U.N. really requested it, I would be speaking to someone in New York. An I-SALT ambassador maybe, not a general of an illegitimate Air Force."

"Mr. President. Are public network certificates not enough? How about a PKF armband? I reiterate again, this is a simple request to open Cheyenne Mountain Complex and old Strategic Air Command sites to I-SALT inspectors. Refusal would be considered admission of guilt, and colluding with our mutual enemies. Enemies of America, and we wouldn't want that."

"Have you gone mad? I've let you and your predecessors play reigning peacemaker for years, but your farce of an Imperial America is not the United States. The government you represent is illegitimate. To the West Coast, to the Rockies. Now here's MY ultimatum: return to our old status quo—end your cyber blockade against my satellite array. Our bunkers will remain closed, and a nuclear-armed Western States remains a dream of irrelevant Moscow hardliners."

President Sellers paused as the entire Nellis mission control center went silent in trepidation. A fragile chorus of breathing churned in the basketball court-sized room. Bated and waiting: for hope, for terror, and for well-laid plans.

"And if not, you operate out of Nellis Air Force Base, correct? USNORTHCOM? You've seen what happened to Fort Carson in World War Three. I wonder what Las Vegas would think if Nellis suffered the same fate. The fallout would be upon them. The blame will lie with you, not my people. History will exonerate my words and actions. Especially when my children outlive yours."

The freeze held over the dark room, but the thaw soon came. General Byron made a tepid gasp and a long sigh. Collective breathing swelled, the room's temperature seemed to rise and color seem to return. Seller's red, confounded face stared down at the unseen audience of frozen Air Force intelligence officers.

General Byron offered a harsh smile toward her own web camera, venomous sarcasm dripping from her words of sweet death. "Thank you, President Sellers. You've made your position clear. I can't agree to a change but I would not like to cross that impasse. I'll deliver your remarks to our esteemed President. You will hear back by sunrise, I'm sure. I hope he is as considerate as I am."

The Bunker Union president balked, failing to cover his fish-gaped mouth. He managed to collect his reaction, scoffing, "Well. Well, I hope so too. For all our sakes. The status quo was good to us for forty years, it should be good enough for another forty."

General Byron hummed an affirmative tone despite clear disdain in her voice. Seller's frown reflected the hostile Air Force flag officer. The stark truth was unspoken but loud and clear. Byron and Sellers didn't have real power. Power lay with the other President of the United States back on the East Coast, the 'real,' the "esteemed" President. All the leadership at Nellis and Cheyenne could offer were niceties over deconfliction channels. And roundabout debate to fill times of pointless standoff. But said channels didn't stop the yelling, the accusations, the scheming and agendas.

President Seller's face winked off the main screen and plentiful air once more rushed to the underground command center. General Byron stared at the screen for a second or two more before looking to a trash can to her left and spit out a giant wad of saliva. A metallic thunk confirmed her score.

"Good riddance, that Tunnel Rat loves to debate," Byron glanced behind her at Smith and another two-star general hiding in the far corner. She nodded. "Major General Shortle. Nellis Air is yours. And again, thank you for hosting the National Security Agency for the last eight months."

Shortle, a gray-blonde man in his fifties gave a cold chuckle. "Well, you're quite a character yourself, Director. How long do you suppose you will remain with us?"

Byron glanced back at the large television as if checking to make sure President Sellers was not listening in somehow.

"Well, I will be heading back to the East Coast to debrief our President. That part was true... You're back in charge of base and NORTHCOM affairs, but the NSA will need to keep an extended presence due to the certain Guest of ours. How much time do you need now, Agent Smith?"

Smith stepped into the light, his glossy hair refracting the rainbow glow of computer screens in the chamber. He smothered the instinct to scratch at his hairdo. "Director, the Posthuman Research Unit will continue our work here at Nellis. Unfortunately, there is no end date in sight. The previous transfer consideration to the CIA and Grooms Lake is ill advised due to continued instability across Nevada."

"Personal assessment or committee concern?"

Agent Smith shrugged, "Both, ma'am."

The NSA director nodded. "Alright, I'll trust your judgment. You keep sending me those regular reports. Remember the President is especially concerned for the Posthuman threat."

"Of course, ma'am. And, Generals, I believe you have another item to address." Smith interrupted, raising a finger to an Air Force junior officer behind the two leaders.

"Sir, Ma'am, we're ready to proceed with Operation: LATE WARGAME. The mission lead Cloud Lancers are seven minutes to target and will loiter around Pike's Peak. Other flights will hit the other bunkers in Area Denial Zones DESERT SKY and MOUNTAIN SKY in ten-minute intervals after. All flight command links report on time, station, and in good condition."

Director Byron eyed the subordinate officer. "How is the radar and spectral shrouding?"

"Maintained, their radar is seeing inclement weather to the south. Bunker Union's Cheyenne Mountain remains unaware. Their satellite uplink is still putting out failed connection handshakes. Jam-SATs are having no issue with the counter."

Byron gestured to General Shortle, "Alright, it’s your party. Have fun cleaning up the missile bunkers. Good hunting."

"Aw, you don't want to stay and watch the fireworks, Ada? Not for old time's sake?" Shortle asked with a grim smirk. He sounded jovial but his scrunched forehead read into other emotions.

"Sorry, General. I must catch my flight. I can leave you Agent John Smith here to provide NSA advisement." Director Byron gave a small smile. She glanced at the senior agent, "Or entertainment, if such key operations might bore you otherwise."

Smith winced under the renewed attention. "Actually, I must see to the Guest. But if you need me, I will be a phone call or a four-minute walk away."

"Sorry General Shortle, it seems we're both unable to watch the fireworks. Save us a recording, will you?"

"Of course." The Air Force general saluted.

Radio traffic and laser communications increased into vibrant, overlapping conversations in the many computer bays along the command center's lower levels. Smith tuned them out as he followed Director Byron's stride from the hall.

"You were late, Agent Smith."

"I apologize. Civilian traffic control delayed my arrival. They paused landings for thirty minutes because some insurgents fired rocket-propelled grenades at the airport."

Byron stopped, turning to her subordinate with a frown. "Dealt with, or airspace still contested?"

Smith raised a dismissive, shaking hand. "Nothing to worry about. No Soviets, no American Last Legion. Just some truck jockeys out of the Mojave communes. 160th Nightstalkers dealt with them in short order. I even overheard some flight attendants in passing say the turkey shoot from the air was a rare evening spectacle."

"Aw, well that's nice of them to show off. I'll be heading out now. You behave dealing with the basement dweller. You may understand the forces at work better than me, but I survived cyber warfare this long to know a thing or two. Anyone who makes contact with him will probably die."

The senior NSA agent rolled his eyes at his boss from behind the dark shades.

"Don't you roll your eyes at me. I can find someone else to head the department, John."

Tipped sarcasm left Smith's lips. "Yes, Mother. For the dozenth time you've warned me."

Director Byron smirked, raising her hand towards Smith as if to slap or squeeze his cheek. It never made contact as she ran the tips through her short, brown-silver cropped hair instead and turned away.

"Well, I best be off."

Smith made his goodbyes at the command center entrance with a wave and a raising of his sunglasses, revealing pale blue eyes. All natural, 100%-not cybernetic implants. But such features were fleeting, even for deep state operatives of the United States government and military. For natural eyes, something else must become aluminum, copper, and plastic. Director Byron. Agent Smith. General Shortle and President Seller. One way or another, they were cyberized into this late cyborg future.

The senior agent turned on his heels with military precision, an old habit from another lifetime ago. Shouts and zips echoed from the nearby command center as Smith walked by in a different direction, towards the underground complex's South Wing.

"Cloud Lancers have shed their false-JANET call sign, and IFF tags. They are off Flight trackers, mission is a-go."

It was the LATE WARGAME go-declaration. Agent Smith did not stay to watch the spectacle but he could imagine the rounded, smooth surfaces of two Air Force elements, or six QB-1B Cloud Lancers dropping from high cloud cover into the uneven terrain of Rocky mountaintops. And inside a razor-thin sliver of sky below consistent radar coverage for inhospitable, mountainous central Colorado. The Pike's Peak summit would be in view even under thin moonlight. The black surfaces of the old, stealth attack bombers vanished even further as their therm-optical camouflage made the air frames vanish from any advent night sky watchers. Of course, nothing could be done about their distinct heat and contrails.

Cheyenne would be at the base of the Pike's Peak range. An unseen, poke-a-dot patchwork of craters in the northeasterly direction would be what remained of south Colorado Springs and Fort Carson, destroyed by Russian nukes in World War Three. No one in the QB-1Bs would be able to make out such a scene, or the size of the majestic moon on this night. No one was in the cockpits. QB-1Bs were drone bombers now, a half century after their creation, remotely operated with satellite laser-linked cyber brains from the Nellis Air Base command center. These were QB-1Bs on mission, the quarterbacks of the United States Air Force drone fleet.

Cheers erupted from the unseen crowd behind Smith.

Shortle's voice echoed over a faraway intercom. "First strikes completed over Bunker Union: Cheyenne. Confirmed good signal from gravity bombs. Bunker busters at sixty-five percent penetration of target, proceed with smart gas dispersal."

Another speaker followed General Shortle's voice, now a whisper in Smith's auditory range. "Deploying full-spectrum chaff. Isolating Cheyenne Mountain Complex and surrounding townships."

Agent Smith blew a long exhale, trying his best to ignore the service elevator groans as he stepped on and its whine drowned out the carrying noise from the command room. He tried to pretend the screech of the Cold War-era pulleys wasn't the imagined, haunting screams of Bunker Union: men, women, and children drowning as their skin ignited with immortal Greek fire and their lungs melted from the inside. Drowning, screaming...

Wailing...