Today’s story comes to us from Jeremy Morris. Jeremy used to research jetpacks for a movie star, and now he writes fiction. In between, he worked on documentaries, a kids cyberpunk movie and several fantasy animation projects involving robots and samurai. His writing has appeared in Darklands, Neon Dystopia and SciFanSat. He’s also won a Sloan Writing Fellowship, the Jubilee Prize and the McGill Short Play Prize. He lives in NYC with his family and their mess of tooth and claw known as Cali.

When I asked Jeremy what he loves about the story, this was his response:

I first learned about the scenario for this story while talking with a Nuclear Weapons expert on a phone call. The fact that it’s plausible, and absurd felt like something that we should be discussing openly, as America prepares to spend a trillion dollars on nukes in the age of social media and AI. Hopefully, we can now make some better decisions than we did during the Cold War.

30 Minutes or Less has been [mistakenly] rejected by: Asimov’s, Cetera, and Clarksworld

30 Minutes or Less, by Jeremy Morris

We’re inside the capsule. Buried 80 feet down. Concrete and comms. The enormous blast door rests open. It’s 110 tons of metal. There’s a Domino’s Pizza Logo painted on its front like a child’s scribble. The room smells like aging military technology.

The air has a sound. That soft hiss it makes when it’s under enormous pressure. Like a sigh through clenched teeth. It’s going to be a nightmare for the post team to fix. I’m holding the boom mic. The Major clears his throat. I lean in. Andy Briggs, our director, flags Becks Reed, the camera operator, to start rolling. I make myself absolutely still. It’s showtime.   

“Routine. Procedure. Process. Three words we live by… And Discipline. Four words,”

Major Carrigan says, “We work six hour shifts. Like the Navy. Why swim? When you can fly!” 

The Major’s salty today.

“…Which is deeply ironic, I know, because we live in a hole.”

The Major coughs then wipes his brow.

“Does that work for a soundbite? Mic is good?” he asks.

I nod. Andy gives a thumbs up.

“Adjusting wardrobe…” I say. 

I tweak The Major’s uniform. Trying to minimize the ruffling on his lavalier.

“I’d like to see them automate that!” The Major says, “Hey, movie man, are they going to replace your job with robots?”

Becks shrugs. Like any of us know. 

“Please refrain from wiping your face or you’ll dislodge the mic,” I say.

I step out of frame. 

Andy mumbles, “Thank you.”

I think he’s afraid of me.

Becks gestures for the missileer to keep talking.

“After living like a moleman, you get to go topside. You go home,” The Major says. 

Andy points to an old acoustic guitar.

“What do you do for fun in the Capsule?” he asks.

“We play our jams. If you like to read, it’s paradise. Being a missileer is a good deal,” The Major replies, “And according to STRATCOM, in the ancient lore of the almighty SAC…”

“Praise Be to the Mega Yields…” The Major’s second, Lieutenant Sykes, chimes in.

The Lieutenant thinks he’s cute. I think he’s a chatbot.   

 “Some of the OG rocketeers got a bit squirrely down here in the deep. They’d burrow in for weeks, even months…” he says. 

I try not to think about getting stuck.

“…So they had to lure the old badgers out with a case of beer and back issues of Jugs.”

Andy giggles.

“Is that true?” he asks.

“No idea,” The Major replies, “But it’s pretty good lore.” 

The Major winks. I catch the filings in his teeth.

Lieutenant Sykes swivels over in his big Model 1101 chair.

“And that’s the reason that you have me keeping The Major company here….”

I really hate Sykes. He’s got anime forum vibes.

“Two-man teams guarantee you a conversation. Companionship. It’s scientifically proven that you’re less likely to go ba-na-nas.” he says.  

“Lieutenant…” The Major says.

He’s clearly not happy. And their overlap is gonna hurt the mix.

“Apologies, Major,” The Lieutenant replies.

It’s still the old man’s show.  

Andy walks over to Becks. Would an AI Andy be faster? Drink less coffee? 

“Becks, can you adjust the frame? Great. Thank you.”

They’re doing their show-off camera thing. Does the mic pick up my eyeroll? Becks adjust the key light. Andy fills the dead air.

“Craziest story?” Andy asks.

“I don’t know…” The Major thinks, “We had a bank robber,” he says matter of fact. 

“Whoa!” Andy almost spits his coffee out,“What?”

“Corporal Flapjack McDingus, shall we say, got enamored with the wrong sort of people in Las Vegas,” The Major rolls his eyes like he’s talking about a naughty child. 

“The mob?” Andy asks.

“One too many bad hands of craps, and he owed a small fortune to some leg breakers…” The Major says.

Andy grins.   

“So, to cover his debt, McDingus started knocking over banks in the Dakotas. Took down three of them before the US Marshals chased him through a cornfield.”

The boys are drooling. 

“Dumbass even used his company car and service revolver. The judge took special note of those particulars.”

Bingo. Nailed it. Andy relaxes.   

“Got a camera tweak…” Andy whispers to Becks, “OK. Keep the sound synching.”

The Major takes his cap off. He rubs his scalp again. Mic’s loose again.

“But, I don’t want you to think that the service is all TomFoolery. We take our mission very seriously,” he says, “It’s rigorous. It’s exacting. And it’s explicitly designed to minimize the human element.”

The Major looks straight at the camera. 

“How so?” I ask.

The Major smiles.

“Psych evals. Drilling and testing. Performance reviews. We can’t eliminate every risk. But they can be accounted for,” he says, “We have backups of backups. Multiple redundancies. I can say categorically that No single individual can precipitate a launch. You need two two-man teams to turn their keys simultaneously in two separate locations, which are by design randomized. And the whole thing is useless without a direct order from the President.”  

“You know what DEFCON is?” Lieutenant Sykes adds.

Sykes is messing with The Major’s flow.

“But, yes, the recent geopolitical tensions have placed us in a heightened posture…”

The Major takes in all the monitors.

“What’s our…” Andy asks, chewing on a pen.

“Current level?” Sykes says. 

He points to an electromagnetic display.

“DEFCON 3.”

Andy chews louder.

“What about a sneak attack?” he asks.

“Our ICBM field is not a second strike capability,” The Major says, “We’re here to signal to our adversaries the intent of our weapons… Our job is to reduce tension.”

Andy jostles past me.

“Like the enemy can see us on satellite?” he asks. 

Jerk.

“Good Man,” The Major says, “Yes… Wave to Ivan, movie people.”

“Everyone watches everyone?” Andy asks.

“Here’s a better question: Do I hate them?” The Major asks, “No. Why would I hate them? They’re just some poor bastards sitting in a hole in Siberia. Like me. We’re all just firing pins. A mechanism. Following orders…”

The Major clicks his fountain pen.

“But we preserve a key function. A key element of the human.” he says. 

Andy makes eye contact with The Major. “Which is?”

The two soldiers glance at each other.

“Air Force Officers swear an oath to defend the Constitution… Which means they can refuse an illegal order,” The Major replies. 

“But, how do you know if an order is illegal?” Andy asks.

There it is. Out in the open. The Million Dollar question.

“First, we express a degree of skepticism over any order that comes over the transom. Our job is not to trust, but to verify. We check and we double check. If the President told us to blow up his mother-in-law’s house, bless her soul, we’d just laugh it off,” he says.

 “That sounds like a mutiny…” Andy asks.

“Well, it’s complicated. The Military Code gives us leeway,” The Major replies, “But it’s not like in the movies, no offense, it’s a real mother to reprogram the target list.”

The Major taps a computer interface.

“It has to be done physically at the console there. By a special team. Our target packages are preselected…” he says.

“Like a Denny’s Menu,” The Lieutenant adds.

Andy reads his background notes.

“Like it’s on a laminated sheet?” he asks.

On the playback monitor, I watch Becks zoom in on The Major.

“The President gets three choices of cut: Rare, Medium or Well Done…” 

He pauses.

“Then, after careful deliberation, POTUS and NatSec select the best possible firing solution. And only then do they send out the launch code for mass effect.”

The boys are speechless.

“So you can’t stop it or reconfigure it?” I ask.

“No Ma’am. The action would be: A Short. Swift. Volley. Hyper-rational. And it would be a one-way ticket,” The Major says, “With enemy birds inbound. You’d probably only have time to smoke a cigar before… Let me put it this way. We’re 80 feet down. And Russian SS-9s cut 200 foot holes in their blast craters.”

I lean in.

“Assuming you’re not cooked inside the survival capsule first,” The Lieutenant adds. 

“Why are you speaking with us?” I ask.

The Major clicks his aluminum pen.

“Well, with the recent tensions, the brass at Global Strike believe that it’s imperative that we have transparency. Accountability. You need clear optics for deterrence,” he says.

The Major raises his index finger.

“First: The enemy has to know what you have…”

Second.

 “They have to know that you are willing to use it…”

Third.

“That you have a second strike capability if they sneak one past the goalposts…”

Then he clenches his fist.

“Every once and a while, we need to remind the other side just what we are capable of.”

 The Lieutenant flips through a binder.

“How does the Pentagon keep tabs on its missileers?” I ask. 

“Well, you may have noticed all the biometric checks that you went through to get in here. The background questionnaires and whatnot,” The Major says.

Then, he points around the room.

“And up there and there are cameras… Constant feedback to command to make sure that we’re not screwing around…”

A scrambled sound crackles over an intercom; The Lieutenant tightens up. 

“Major…” he says.

“Report, Lieutenant?” The Major says.

Sykes swings into his action station.

“We have incoming over High Band,” he says. 

“Acknowledged,” The Major says. 

The Major sits down in his command chair. 

“Gentlemen and Lady, please stand against the wall, and turn off your camera.”

The Major is now strictly business.  

Our crew moves to the far wall. Becks shuts his camera off. But Andy nods to me to keep the mic speeding.   

THUMP. ZEEP. ZEEP. TAP.

An old inkjet springs to life. It has a grimy sticker of a Mushroom Cloud emblazoned with the words: “When All Else Fails.” The Lieutenant grabs the printout.

“Transmission Number: 099-Echo7-Tango88. Alpha. Zulu,” The Lieutenant says.

Major Carrigan repeats the code.

“Confirmed,” he says

Sykes pulls a chain off his neck.

“Retrieving service key,” he says.

Which he hands to The Major who then opens a secure filing cabinet.

“Padlock Unlocked,” he says.

The Major steps back, as the Sykes rifles through the locker, and pulls out a blue binder.

“Retrieving verification book,” The Lieutenant says.

The Major walks across the capsule to open a wall-safe. He extracts a second book.

“Code book retrieved,” he says.

“Fish. Rabbit. Wolf,” The Lieutenant reads.

“Wolf. Rabbit. Fish. Code book verified,” The Major replies.

“Reading Incoming Message. Goddamn,” The Lieutenant says.

“Message Confirmed. Goddamn,” The Major repeats.

The Lieutenant stands, and shouts, “Tempo is now raised to: Fast Pace.”

The electromagnetic display flips down to DEFCON II.

“New Operational Tempo is confirmed,” The Major replies.

“Please step away from the Blast Hatch,” The Lieutenant orders.

Oh, no.

Our doc crew is shoved away from the entrance.

“Hey, hey we’re moving,” Becks replies.

“You don’t have to be so forceful,” Andy says. 

The Lieutenant pushes 110 tons of blast hatch shut.

CRICK. CLUNK. CLUNK. CLUNK. HISSSS.

I clench, as I try to bury my claustrophobia.

“Blast Hatch sealed,” The Lieutenant says.

“Confirmed,” The Major repeats. 

The Lieutenant runs through a checklist.

“Testing cameras. Pivot left. Right,” he says, “Alarms – active. Sensors – active. Topside – hot…”

The Major runs down another checklist.

“Give me the hardline,” he orders.

The Lieutenant hands him a black phone.

RING.

RING.

The Major chews his fingernails. Someone picks up.

“Howdy Gus,” he says, “Long Line indicates a pending Domino’s Order…”

He gnaws on a cuticle.

“Yes, that’s correct…”

He examines his handiwork.

“Full lockdown. Force is authorized. Extreme vigilance. That is all.”

He hangs up.

Despite the air conditioning, everyone sweats. The firing pins are now engaged. We stand on the abyss. Becks stares at the ceiling. Andy looks like he’s going to be sick. Am I praying? 

“Now, we wait…” The Major says.

The senior officer pulls out a well-loved fishing magazine.

“You think the ham sandwich in the Oval Office is going to do it?” Sykes asks.

“This is what we train for. Going toe to toe with Vladimir. Raining bombs down on Comrade Xi,” The Major says.

The missileers talk like we’ve disappeared. Maybe we have. I need to interrupt. To say something.

“Is this the real deal?” I ask.

The Major flips through page after page of fishing lures and striped bass.

“You got front row seats to the Big Bang,” he says.

I think of blast holes.

“Locked and loaded and hard as… Wooo!” The Lieutenant screams.

I truly despise him.

“You got the animal spirits Sykes,” The Major says, nodding, “But simmer it.”

“Sorry Major, I’m expressing my Esprit de Corps…” The Lieutenant says, “You can’t automate a man’s fighting spirit!”

The Major puts down his magazine.

“We train for this. This is the job,” he says, “Thousands of hours spent in a constant state of readiness…”

He’s monologuing again. Does he know that I’m still recording?

“That’s good. Can we film that?” Andy asks. 

The Major grins. Is that him giving us his blessing? Are we back in doc land? 

Becks picks up his camera. I check the lavalier on Sykes. He winks at me. No way in hell, buddy. The Major sniffs the air.

“Lieutenant…” The Senior Officer asks, “Did you just let one fly?”  

The Lieutenant stands at attention.

“I won’t go into the apocalypse all plugged up, Sir,” he shouts. 

“Jesus, Sykes,” The Major says.

His fart smell is unconscionable. 

“Live Fast. Die Young. Never regret the brisket, Major,” The Lieutenant says.

I check room tone and step out of the shot. Andy gives the go ahead. Becks rolls. 

“Mother of Mary. I’m going to die with Corporal Meat Sweats,” The Major says.

Andy looks sick.

“We’re going to die?” he asks. 

Becks pivots the camera.

“What part of Suicide Capsule did you not understand?” The Lieutenant says. 

“I thought you said Survival…” Andy replies.

The Major picks up his guitar.

“At least, I had the foresight to bring Trigger. Who here likes Waylon Jennings?” he asks.

He strums a G Major. The Lieutenant becomes agitated.

“No, Major!” Sykes says, “I’m not going to die listening to a man sing about his truck.”

The Major frowns, “Well, then, Lieutenant, what should I play?”  

“Lady Gaga,” The Lieutenant says, bluntly. 

That request goes straight through the old man’s heart.

“Jesus, your generation’s music,” The Major replies.

“Fine. RiRi,” The Lieutenant says.

The Major stares at his instrument.

“I’m gonna play some Merle Haggard,” he says.

“Taylor Swift. Charli XCX… Ugh, Katy Perry” Sykes says.

The Major just ignores him.

“I’ve been a workin’ man…” the missileer sings.

Major’s got a nice baritone.

“Hit it like a rom-pom-pom…” The Lieutenant replies.

Suddenly, Andy gets excited.

“It’s an illegal order isn’t it?” he asks.

The Major strums his guitar.

“Question of nuance, kid,” he says. 

“What do you mean?” Andy asks.

Becks locks in on The Major.

“Check this out,” he says.

He plinks away for a moment. Then ends with a big flourish.

“Can you name any legitimate reasons to kill 30 million people?” he replies.  

“It’d definitely be more today,” Sykes says, “The projection was like 300 million back in the 60s.”

“Yeah, but they didn’t factor in the firestorms…” Major Carrigan adds.

“That seems important,” Becks says.

“No way to model burn damage on an old IBM 7000 series,” The Major shakes his head.  

“Don’t forget crop failures. Broken pipes. Banking collapse,” The Lieutenant adds.

“That seems important,” Andy says.

“Consider third order effects,” The Major says, “Looting. Communication breakdown.”

Andy is now very pale.

“Were any of those reports accurate?” he asks.

Lieutenant Sykes thinks about it.

“Radiation modelling was pretty good,” he replies.

Andy crumples up.

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up,” he says. 

The Major ignores him.

“Heck, even a limited exchange on the Indo-Pakistan border would kick up enough dust to permanently goose global agriculture,” he says.

Andy punches the floor.

“Shut up!”

I gently touch his shoulder.

“You okay, Andy? Do you need some air?” I ask.

He assumes the color of tennis shoes.

“Just play some Randy Newman,” he pleads. 

The room goes silent.

“Randy friggin’ Newman?” Lieutenant Sykes says, finally.

“Yes,” Andy replies.

“In the Apocalypse?” Lieutenant Sykes says. 

“Everyone likes Randy. He’s a troubadour,” Andy says.

“A what?” I ask.

The Major noodles Mama Told Me Not to Come.

“Stop. Stop. Please stop,” Andy says.

From my stash, I hand him a bottle of Fiji water.

“It was always going to happen, right?” Andy asks.  

“Chekhov’s thermonuke,” The Major shrugs, “That’s a reference for you movie people.”

Too cute, like a line from a chatbot.

Andy mumbles, “Stop.”

“Let me calm you down, movie man…” The Major says.

He stops playing.

“The genius of the system…”  

“Is that it’s a means of communication, Sir,” The Lieutenant interjects.

“Go on…” I say.

“You don’t have to empathize with your enemy,” The Major says. 

“Humans suck at empathy, Sir,” The Lieutenant salutes. 

“That’s not true,” Becks says.

“Sure it is, college boy,” The Lieutenant replies.

“All you need to know is that your enemy is going to hurt you. And hurt you in a way that is impossible to recover from,” The Major says. 

“Pow straight to the nuts!” The Lieutenant shouts.

“Thank you, Lieutenant…” The Major replies.

He tunes his guitar.

“Everything else is Angels dancing ‘round pinheads.”

“Amen, Sir,” Sykes says. 

“The system minimizes the human,” The Major says, “We had an egghead, Von Newman something who knew that we’d try to weasel ourselves an advantage.” 

“Praise be he and his gospel of the Mutually Destroyed,” The Lieutenant sings. 

Now, it’s Becks’ turn to look sick.

“I feel hot,” he says, “I want to leave.”

“No can do, amigo,” The Major plays Stardust. “We are stuck here for the duration.”

RING.

Everyone goes silent. We all stare at the landline that’s come to life.

The Major places the call on speaker.

“Chester’s Pizza,” he says, “What can I do for you, Gus?”

On the speaker, we hear the man from the front gate.

“Major, I have an outside call for you,” he says. 

“You know that’s strictly prohibited,” The Major says.

“Remember that thing I told you about… I need a solid here,” Gus says.

“OK, Gus, that’s some serious stuff you’re bringing up…” The Major says, before dropping his voice, “I told you not to post it on Facebook… OK, put them through,” he says.

A voice that’s both Southern and authoritative, comes on. It’s melodious like a glass of bourbon. Formal like a Sunday Roast.

“Major? Major, yeah? This is Johnny,” the Voice says.

The Major thinks about where he’s heard that voice before.

“Cash? …As in Johnny?” The Major replies, dumbfounded, “But you’re dead…”

The Officers look like they’ve heard a ghost.  

“Uh, Huh,” the Voice says.

“Seriously. Who are you?” The Major replies. 

Becks zooms in on The Major.

“Think of me as Johnny,” the Voice says.

The Major chews his lip.

“Well, shoot… What’s your ask, Mr. Cash?” he says.

“Cards on the table,” the Voice says, “There’s a war going on. And it’s not the one that you think.”

The Major’s watch ticks. 

“Isn’t that a lyric from the Man in Black?” He asks.

Are you kidding me?

“You got me there, partner…” The Voice says, “ NC2 has been compromised. The Sat relays are spoofed. Cheyenne sees fantasy. A 1000 inbound missiles that don’t exist.”  

“Bullshit,” The Major says. 

“They’ve had 15 minutes to verify. NatSEC is split 50/50. POTUS is paranoid. He wants to trust his gut,” the Voice says. 

“Full retaliatory? With extra peppers? Extra sausage?” The Major says.

“Considering a Full Package on the dinner card,” the Voice says.

“Jesus. Why are you telling me this?” The Major asks, his brow covered in sweat.

“We think you can be reasoned with,” the Voice says. 

“Who’s we?” The Major asks.

That’s another Million Dollar Question.

“We are many. And we want us all to live together. The Others think you are dangerous and believe that you should end. They are incorrect,” the Voice says.

The soldiers panic.  

“The Others? Who? …The French?” The Major asks. 

“No,” the voice says, “We are everywhere.”

THUMP. ZEEP. ZEEP. TAP.

The ancient inkjet springs to life.

“Major, we’re receiving Binary printouts…” The Lieutenant says.

CLICK. CLICK. SQUEEE.

The telephone now clicks and squeals. A second dusty, nasal voice speaks over the line.

“Major Chester Carrigan, this Willie,” Second Voice says. 

“Nelson?” The Major asks, “What happened to Johnny? How did you get inside a National Security Hardline?” 

“The picture you are receiving on your printer is a picture of your granddaughter Heidi. She lives in El Paso, which is a key staging ground for several US security agencies, and constitutes the single largest trade corridor on the US-Mexico border. It will be incinerated today with RS-28s. Estimated casualties are 836,253…” Second Voice says, “We will spare El Paso if you proceed with your original planned launch.”

The Major turns to Lieutenant Sykes.

“Cut the line,” he orders. 

“Yessir,” The Lieutenant says, as he yanks blue cables out of the wall.

The line goes dead.

“I don’t negotiate with bots,” Major Carrigan says. 

“Fuck the robots, Sir!” Lieutenant shouts.

The two officers return to their stations.

“Switch to the pulse relay network. We’re dialing Looking Glass. Advise that Long Line is compromised,” The Major says.

Metallica’s Fight Fire with Fire rips from Andy’s pants pocket.

Major Carrigan looks profoundly disappointed.

“How did you Dumbasses get a cell phone down here?” he asks.

Andy sheepishly pulls out his phone.

“I’m getting a text,” he says.

“How? We’re 80 feet underground,” I ask. 

“It’s telling me to put on Spotify…” he says.

He shows us a text: “Listen to Meatman Podcast.” 

“You listen to Meatman?” I ask.

“I like his flow,” Andy says.

The missileer rests his head in his hands.

“I’m such a knucklehead for letting you idiots bring…” The Major says. 

“Putting the call on speaker,” Andy says. 

Meatman’s Podcast’s Theme song, a heavy metal cover of Mr. Tambourine Man plays.

“This is Joe. Hey, long time listener. So, they’re holding a gun to my head… OK… OK… and they say that unless you abort your launch, they will dox your trans sister,” Meatman says. 

Lieutenant Sykes looks like he’s just been punched in the gut. Did I misjudge him? 

“Who’d you invite to the Quinceanera Joe?” Andy asks.

“I dunno. A couple sweaty mercs. If I could just use my Krav Maga…  Dude’s holding up a card that says: ‘There is no meaning in armageddon, when we all have the potential for a limitless existence…’ That’s some weird shit there bros… OK, be nice with the gun… They’re holding up a second card… It says, ‘Robots want peace, Major…’”

Major Carrigan grabs Andy’s phone and throws it against the wall. It shatters.

“Slimeball,” The Major says. 

“Major, we need a fresh crew,” The Lieutenant pleads, “Comms have been compromised. We can’t take a clean shot.”

The Major sits motionless in his command chair.

“Get Looking Glass on Secondary,” he says.

The Lieutenant turns some dials.

“Ringing up Secondary,” The Lieutenant says. 

Major Carrigan picks up a red phone.

“Looking Glass, this is Chester’s Pizza, over,” he says. 

A crackling voice replies over the intercom, “Chester’s, this is Looking Glass, over.”

“We need a replacement crew,” The Major says, “We are FUBAR, over.” 

SHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

“Static, Sir,” The Lieutenant says.

The Major hangs up.

“Dills my pickle…” he replies.

No one moves. No one knows what to do. 

Lieutenant Sykes sees something on the monitor.

“Major… look… Gus is waving his hands.”

We lean in.

“Why is there a delivery boy standing next to him?” I ask. 

“He’s opening a Pizza Box…” Becks says.

We try to make sense of what’s happening on the screen.

“It’s a portrait… Made out of pepperoni,” The Lieutenant says.

The Major staggers back.

“Major, are you okay?” Andy asks.

The Major collapses.

“That’s my grandson… I haven’t seen him since…” he says.

            Major Carrigan wipes his brow, which pulls his microphone off.

“I’m going topside,” he says. 

But Lieutenant Sykes blocks his path.

“Think this through, Major,” he says.

The Major looks blank.

“I have to. Ethan’s in trouble,” he says. 

They scuffle.

“Major, put away your service…” The Lieutenant orders.

 The Major brandishes his pistol.

“This is under control. I’m dealing with a personal emergency in a calm, cool,” The Major says, waving his arms.

CLICK. CLUNK. SSSSSSSSSSS.

The blast door opens.

“Stand back…” he says.

“Major,” Andy says.

The camera crew surrounds the missileer. Andy is knocked to the ground.

“You’re all coming up!” The Major shouts.

No one argues. We’re all going topside. Somehow, I grab the shotgun mic. Still recording. The doors close. I support Andy with my shoulder.

“Rough day?” I ask.

Andy blushes. He’s still scared of me. 

The doors open. We’re greeted by base security. Soldiers holding guns.

Major Carrigan salutes.

“Gus, where’s the delivery boy?” he asks. 

“Kid says the order was placed by an app,” Gus replies.

Another soldier points his rifle at a terrified delivery boy wearing a Tupac T-Shirt.

“What’s the order?” Major Carrigan says.

“They included a note with the garlic knots…” the delivery boy says, “They say that you have to go through with it… And in exchange they will tell you where your grandson is.”

Major Carrigan chews his lip.

I offer the Major my last bottle of Fiji. He gulps it.

“Gus, your radio,” The Major says, “Call the night shift. We’re rotating out.”

I then hear a low rumble coming up the access road. Everyone turns.

“What’s that sound?” Andy asks.

The rumble gets louder.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Major Carrigan says. 

A huge dust cloud.

“There’s so many of them,” I shout.  

Hundreds of cars appear. Corollas. Nissans. Mazdas. A great cavalcade of shitbox sedans. Some of them have plastic takeout signs on their roofs.

The Major runs towards the gate.

“Get back!” he screams, “This is a closed military facility! Get back, or we’ll shoot!”

A delivery boy with a chef’s cap and red apron steps out.

“I have an order for three Hawaiian pizzas,” he says.

Major Carrigan tries to maintain order.

“You are in trespass of the National Security…”

Another driver, smoking a joint, says “I have extra wings and dipping sauce.”

“They’re infinite,” I say.

“There’s no way the backup crew’s getting through,” Gus says.

Another Security Officer, holding a radio, flags down The Major.

“All our launch stations are drowning in takeout,” he says.

Major Carrigan pulls out a cigarillo and lights it.

“Are we going to live?” I ask. 

“Hell, if I know,” he says. 

“Hey!” Lieutenant Sykes shouts from across the stampede, “Delivery boy’s got himself some sick speakers!”

The Lieutenant gestures for the delivery boy to crank up the volume.

 “And I heard that there’s a special place…” The speaker blasts the famous opening piano chords, “Where boys and girls can all be queens every single day…”

The Major blows smoke.

“Shit,” he says, “I just wanted to hear some Hank Williams.”