Prelude to the End of Revenge

Delta Pier, Naval Submarine Base; Bangor, Washington:
16:43 Pacific Standard Time
 

     USS Alaska (SSBN-732) sat underneath the gigantic covered pier 
that was the Trident Weapons Facility (TWF) for the Pacific submarine 
fleet. The tremendous submarine stretched a good 560 feet long and 
could displace almost 19,000 tons submerged. 24 eight foot diameter 
missile tube muzzle hatches yawned open along the middle of the 
ship. TWF workers and their civilian counterparts scurried along the 
missile deck, or �turtle back� as it was known, preparing the muzzle 
covers for the tubes that were already loaded with Trident II D-5 
missiles.
     Marines patrolled the Delta pier and it�s surroundings. They were 
heavily armed and ready to go at the drop of a hat. This was no 
exercise, Alaska was loaded for nuclear war.
     The TWF foreman watched impatiently as the powerful overhead 
gantry crane went about the slow and careful business of lowering a 
missile into the tube. The towering white shipping container projected 
out from the muzzle of the launch tube, the missile itself would never 
see the light of day unless it was actually launched.
     �Tube number 14 is the last one,� he observed to the ship�s 
Weapons Officer. �You�ll be ready to go to sea tomorrow.�
     The Weapons Officer nodded glumly.
     �My last patrol before I rotate to shore duty,� he said. �Hope it�s 
uneventful. The way they pushed us through the refit and crew 
turnover makes me a little nervous, though. I think someone has 
plans for us, but it�s coming from so high up that there�s no idea 
where it�s from.�
     �Cold War�s over,� the foreman remarked. �What would anyone 
need to use 24 of these monsters on?�
     �Got me,� the Weapons Officer shrugged. �And that�s what 
bothers me.�


Hickam Air Force Base, Oahu, Hawaii:
02:50 Hawaiian Standard Time. 


     The airfield was dark and quiet so early in the morning. The last 
commercial flights had arrived in nearby Honolulu International Airport 
hours ago, and the next flights wouldn�t start for a few more hours. A 
Sky Cop roved the runway in a Ram 50 pickup painted dark blue.
     He was met minutes later by an armada of Humvees and heavy 
8-ton trucks. 300 Marines bearing the �Bad Boy with MP-5� logo of 
the 2nd FAST battalion began spilling out of the Hummers and 
deploying around the runway. They were decked out in full 
camouflage and nightvision gear. Each carried a LAW rocket in 
addition to his assigned small arms.
     The Sky Cop stopped his truck and picked up his radio mic.
     �Hey Central this is Able Two; I got a bunch of jarheads running 
around out on One-Three, you wanna tell me what�s going on, over?�
     The voice of his supervisor crackled over the radio.
     �Able Two, disregard activity on runway One-Three, continue 
your patrol and stay clear of runway One-Three, understood, over?�
     �Roger Central,� the Sky Cop replied. His shift was over soon, 
and he just didn�t care that much if a bunch of Marines were running 
exercises.
     He drove off away from the runway and thought nothing more 
of it.

     C-5 Galaxies of the Military Airlift Command began landing on 
runway One-Three fifteen minutes later. Marines hopped to, securing 
each aircraft and it�s cargo with speed and efficiency. The cargoes 
were loaded onto the 8-ton trucks. The trucks themselves were 
formed up into a file with machine gun and Mk-19 grenade launcher 
armed Humvees spaced every other truck as escort.
     The convoy sped off the runway and towards the gate that 
separated Hickam AF Base with Naval Station Pearl Harbor. Marines 
had already secured the entire movement route and blocked out the 
sparse early morning traffic with heavy weapons. The convoy rolled 
on, headed straight for the waterfront.
     At Merry Point, the small boat landing pier for the Naval Station 
side of Pearl Harbor, the convoy stopped. Streets were blocked off 
for two hundred yards of Merry Point, and the few men and women 
awake aboard the surface ships that were nearby were cleared from 
the weatherdecks and sent below.
     The Marines began transferring their cargo to the waiting Tugs and 
small boats of Tugron-ONE and Service Craft commands respectively. 
This type of large scale move had never been performed before, and 
never under such short notice. A full platoon of heavily armed 
Marines escorted each craft as it chugged away from the pier and 
headed across Pearl Harbor to West Loch.



Dolphin�s Cove, SUBASE Pearl Harbor:
11:35 Hawaiian Standard Time


     Dolphin�s Cove was a little smoke break area with soda machines 
and a small hot dog stand that ran during lunch. It was right on the 
waterfront of the Submarine base and as such was a popular hangout 
for sailors with nothing better to do. Men in dungaree uniforms that 
sported ball caps for the numerous subs based in Pearl sat on benches 
and drank Pepsi�s and Mountain Dews and kept a vigilant eye out for 
some errant Chief wondering where his division had run off to.
     A tug pulled USS Key West (SSN-722) out into the middle of the 
harbor. Men in olive drab life vests stood on her deck instead of 
scurrying below -always a sign that a sub wasn�t leaving the island 
but moving within the harbor. Key West sounded it�s whistle and 
slowly steamed under tug escort towards Ford Island in the middle 
of Pearl Harbor.
     Three subs sat alongside the two finger piers that jutted out from 
the waterfront in front of Dolphin�s Cove. Each boat had a little yellow 
and magenta sign across the access brow informing those who 
would come aboard that the reactor was critical, and they would 
need to wear a radiation dosimetry device to come aboard.
     �What�s going on, man?� A sailor asked a shipmate from 
another boat.
     �No fuckin� idea,� the other sailor replied curtly. �All I know is 
just about every 688 on the waterfront is starting up their reactors.�
     �What for?� The first asked.
     �Goin� to West Loch,� the second said with a yawn.
     �I heard a bunch of Marines came rollin� through here this morning. 
They had all the tugs and small boats running them out there,� a third 
sailor interjected.
     �My boat was supposed to go to West Loch this morning,� a 
fourth added. He was from a 637 class sub, the USS Spadefish 
(SSN-668). �They canceled it. Instead we�re gonna load torpedoes 
over here.�
     �What?� The other three cried.
     �You mean warshots?� The first asked.
     �Yup. Twenty of them.�
     �That�s nuts! Why aren�t you doing it over at West Loch?� The 
first asked.
     �Or at least the back side of Ford Island,� the second added.
     �Can�t do that,� the Spadefish sailor said. �West Loch has the 
Columbus, Santa Fe, Honolulu, and San Francisco out there loading 
Tomahawks. Ford Island has the Charlotte, Topeka, and Asheville 
doing the same.�
     �Topeka? They were out on ORSE workup!� The first cried.
     �Called �em back to do this weapons load.�
     �No fucking way someone canceled a Reactor Safeguards Exam 
to do a weapons load.� The third said in disbelief. �No fucking way!�
     �Unless some serious shit was about to go down,� the Spadefish 
sailor intoned. �A couple of these boats were due to go out on 
WESTPAC runs. They already had their Tomahawks loaded. So 
why go to West Loch and reload them?�
     By this time a large crowd of submariners from the various boats 
on the waterfront had gathered around to listen in on the conversation. 
-A conversation that was affecting them all.
     �Oh shit...� Someone gasped in realization.
     �You�re fuckin�-A right, man,� the Spadefish sailor said evenly.  
�The TLAMs they�re loading out there are nukes. That�s what all 
the Marines were for -near as I can tell. They flew the warheads 
in early this morning so they could load them into the missiles.�
     �What�s goin� on? This for Saddam?� Someone asked. �I thought 
the Gulf was the Atlantic fleet�s problem.�
     �Could be,� another replied.
     �Whoever it�s for, they�re gonna get their dicks stomped in the 
dirt for something.� The Spadefish sailor declared.



B-1B Bomber Lucky One-Nine, 30,000 Feet above South Dakota:
21:11 Central Standard Time


     �Comin� up on next waypoint,� The Navigator announced over 
the intercom.
     �Bout time,� the Co-pilot sighed. �Another hop almost done.�
     �More flight time for me,� the Pilot grinned. �Rack up the hours 
and get out of here. Fly for United and make the big bucks.�
     �You wish,� the Navigator shot back. �More like Value-Jet!�
     Incoming encrypted message traffic interrupted the laughter that 
followed. The crew shifted back to business as the message was 
decoded and given to the Pilot. He read the message and then read 
it once again.
     �You verify this?� He asked.
     The Navigator looked back from his charts. �Twice.�
     The Pilot turned back to the windowed canopy. He thumbed the 
intercom switch and took a deep breath. 
     �All right listen up,� he began. �We�re heading northwest.�
     A chorus of curses echoed in his headset.
     �We�re coming up on bingo fuel,� the Co-pilot declared. �Got 
about twenty-thousand pounds left.�
     �Inflight refueling gents,� the Pilot replied.
     �Goddamn, I hate doing that at night,� the Co-pilot muttered.
     Lucky One-Nine turned northwest and cruised subsonic above a 
bank of clouds lit by the bright moon above them. Thoughts drifted 
to the payload in the bomb-bay. 12 Air Launched Cruise Missiles 
armed with W-65 nuclear warheads. The presence of nuclear armed 
ALCMs aboard Lucky One-Nine was against current U.S. policy, 
but since when was the Government in the habit of playing by the 
rules?


 
North American Aerospace Defense Command (NORAD); 
Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado:
22:58 Mountain Standard Time.


     �Ah man! I don�t believe this!� Tech Sergeant Keith Dulles 
lamented.
     �System still down?� His supervisor, a full bird colonel, asked.
     �Yeah...� Dulles said and sipped from a tepid cup of coffee. �Sir, 
I don�t get it. Why the hell are we changing ICBM target packages 
in the middle of the night?�
     �Need to know, Dulles. Need to know.� The colonel warned.
     Dulles rocked back in his chair, flicking his eyes casually to his 
display. �I know Strategic is running that show, but fer chrissakes sir, 
doesn�t changing all of our ICBM targeting packages simultaneously 
strike you as a little odd?�
     The colonel brandished his silver eagles on his epaulets. �See these, 
Dulles?�
     Dulles sat up straight in his chair. �Y-Yes sir.�
     �Someday I want these birds to fly away and leave a star in their 
place. I don�t ask too many questions when the powers that be say 
jump, I just get airborne.�




Lullabye Mountain Group Headquarters; Planet Lullabye, Brahms 
System, in the 7SF Colonial Annex:
17:33 SMT;  9 Neptune 4194 CE


     Generalissimo J. Austin Wilde accepted the reports from his 
operatives with a cool nod. Ten thousand parsecs away and 2200 
years in the past his SURTacs had surreptitiously seized control of 
the United States� entire nuclear arsenal. He could, on command, 
order a nuclear strike of any magnitude on any target he wished. 
Because targeting codes were preloaded into target packages for both 
ICBMs and SLBMs, those who would launch those missiles had no 
real idea where they would go. They had only the word of their 
Strategic Weapons commanders, and the Generalissimo had taken 
care of them.
     Now that he had the means to destroy the revengefic�rs in the 
accepted Prime World, he could turn his attentions to the more 
esoteric locations they and their animate comrades/enemies 
frequented. It had taken a great deal of work, but he now knew 
their locations. They were clever and powerful, but he was 
confident that he could deal with them. All of them.
     �Generalissimo, our Jaunt Teams have isolated Fred. We can 
deploy there at will via Jaunt Bridge,� an Operations tech reported.
     �You are certain? They have taken pains to close it off. Their 
scientist Washuu is quite brilliant.�
     The tech nodded. �We received concurrence from Doctor 
Hexenkessel, sir. We can overpower their hold on the portal 
utilizing our Avalon Bridge -which is powered by the Lucifer�s 
Well Collapsar.�
    The Generalissimo grinned smugly. The 100 solar mass black 
hole was throwing off enough radiant energy from it�s accretion 
disk each second to light an entire solar system. The Avalon Bridge 
could get his strike teams through. 
     Middle Of Nowhere, or MON as it was known according to his 
Intelligence Section, was already identified. The controlling Artificial 
Intelligence, Durandal, had been duped into allowing a team of 
SURTacs in with a gaggle of fleeing authors. The SURTacs were 
in position and biding their time.
     There was also the dizzying mess of parallel planes, sometimes 
known as shadows, but after weeks of painstaking effort, his agents 
had identified the ones with his enemies and waited patiently for the 
signal to strike. When the time came, it would be a clean sweep: 
every author, every animate, every construct of their fertile 
imaginations; wiped out in a microsecond. 
     He had to laugh at that. Even his progenitor, the original J. Austin 
Wilde, would feel his wrath soon enough. 
     When he had first learned that the animates were rising up against 
the authors, he had cloned himself and accelerated that clone�s life 
cycle until it was fully grown in a matter of days. That clone he had 
named the Generalissimo, and was given the task of protecting him 
from the revengers.
     It was a task he had taken to with all the zeal any child would give 
to his father. He was given the troops and resources of the vast 
Lullabye Mountain Group to work with, and had faithfully protected 
his progenitor. None of the revengers had been able to reach him.
     The original J. Austin Wilde went about his business in the Prime 
World, awaiting his discharge from the Navy and working odd jobs 
for the barracks. His daily commutes through space-time via the 
Jaunt Bridge to the Cluster and the planet Lullabye went unnoticed 
as he could return at the very moment he had left.
     But he, the clone, the shadow of himself, stayed in Lullabye 
Mountain. He watched, he waited, and it was soon that he learned 
his days were numbered. That he was betrayed.
     He doubled over in pain as the cramps in his sides hit with full 
force and white lightning shot down the nerves of his arms and 
exploded in his finger tips. He wobbled for a moment as stars swam 
in his eyes, but he blinked them away and fought to stand erect. 
He was almost out of time. The cancers and the decay were growing.
     Oh yes, J. Austin Wilde would pay for creating him. For making 
him an Aphros clone and accelerating his maturation. A process that 
would destroy him shortly. He remembered a movie that his progenitor 
liked to watch, a memory engrammed into him when he was in the 
nursery ward of Lullabye Mountain.
     �The candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long,� he said 
aloud. �And as I shall only burn half as long, I *will* burn twice as 
bright!...�
     He watched the multitude of holotanks and displays that showed 
all of his targets, and all of his forces standing by. Destiny was almost 
upon them. 
     He would let them finish their silly little war. And then he would 
destroy them. Wipe them completely out of existence. It was a cleansing,
an absolution for the sin of his creation, and at the end it would be his 
final gift to J. Austin Wilde. Before he killed him.
     
     �And they shall all burn with me.... All of them.�