The Americans | Part 1

The Americans

Dick yawned on his way to work. Coffee still piping hot in his thermos mug combo, his newlywedded wife bought him three days ago. Driving an old Chevy to the security gate.

“Oh, Mr. Bartrum, how are you today, compadre?” asked the security guard, his accent curling around the words with a warm gravity. He gave a quick, crisp nod, his posture straight even during small talk.

“I’m good, Fonz, please, man, call me Dick. I see you every day.” Dick said.

They both laughed.

“Yes, Mr. Dick, as you say. As you say.” Said Fonseca. Fonz was a guard who had escaped from Cuba, obtained asylum, and somehow ended up as a security guard for NORAD. This was possible after a few deployments in the Marines to … prove loyalty, as he put it. He was in emaculate shape, even for an older marine who was basically put away. Dick wondered if Fonz had a cool story about someone high up in his chain of command liking him, even though he knew the current Red Scare would make him a target. Then, placing him here would make a lot of sense. Out of sight, out of mind. People hated him, but dick considered him to be alright.

“Good people…” he said as he thought of Fonseca. He pulled up and placed everything in his locker, grabbed his ID, finished his coffee, and then moved to the tram. As the tram rumbled through the tunnel, the metal wheels clattered against the rails, sending a deep, hollow echo reverberating through the rock. That sound, heavy and metallic, always reminded Dick that he was deep underground, far from sunlight and far from anything ordinary. The echo lingered as he stepped off. After the tram stopped, he was greeted by another guard, who scanned his ID and led him to an airlock, where he was scanned and wanded with a metal detector. The door opened and locked behind him with a mechanical thunk that felt final. He turned to the coffee machine, mounted on a 2×4 frame and plywood, and poured himself a coffee. He mixes it the same way, with two sugars and a splash of cream. He gave a warm sip as he watched the steel arms of the locking mechanism move on the door he just walked through. The SCIF was highly secure, under the Cheyenne Mountains.

“Good morning, Dick!” Gilbert greeted Dick as he was still drinking his first sip. His elbow still high and eyebrows now cocked, he returned the greeting.

Gilbert, like himself and his friend and mentor, was all Air Force. They established a life on security clearances almost the same way. But unlike his friend John and Dick, Gilbert was a genius.

“Seems like mids had an eventful night! They had broken the coffee pot and had to petition their commander to get a new one HA!” he said. Dick chuckled at Gilbert’s amusement at the coffee pot breaking. No wonder the coffee came across as a little less blackened today.

“Ok everybody, let’s start the muster.” The SCIF commander walked down his steps. Roll call went quick, names checked off with a brisk nod. Updates from the last 12 hours followed, clipped and to the point. He paused, glancing at the battered coffee machine. “Remember, keep new items secured. Especially the coffee pot.” A ripple of laughter moved through the crew, tension easing for a moment.

“Ok, everyone. To work!” the commander gave a clap, then everyone went to their stations.

“Hey John, what are the odds that Gilbert thinks about the coffee pot all day?” Dick asked.

“Probably pretty high, he’s become a class clown day by day over the years,” John said.

They both sat down and logged in to their terminals. “I’m glad for him, seems like he’s never found a group he feels cool to be around,” said John.

Once the terminal came online, dick checked his logs, sorting through last night’s entries for anything out of the ordinary. Checking the predetermined targets set the month prior, he records the locations brought to him by different US departments. Just verification that nothing had changed at this point. From there, he does his part on the team to track aerial targets entering and exiting space. Launches on the ground, and other sea, air, and land operations that might fling things upwards with rocket fuel.

It was a very slow day, and days like these are usually filled with small tasks to keep one’s head level while working for the next twelve hours. Some played putt-putt on a three-person rotation. Two watch the screen, while one shoots the coffee cup. Then they swap positions. Dick, though, liked to read. He was reading frankinstien, he found it funny how the Dr. created his own death machine.

A few minutes later, the DSP-F9, an orbital satellite, punched out a signal on Dick’s terminal. The DSP-F9, one of those high-orbit eyes-in-the-sky, was basically a floating early-warning sentry: the kind of satellite trained to spot heat blooms from missile launches or anything unusual in orbit, long before anyone on the ground would catch a whiff. Whatever triggered its alert today was worth paying attention to.

“hm..” Dick said under his breath.

“What’s up?” John asked.

“Nothing, just a small meteor. Couldn’t find its origin, but it’s still pretty high up.”

“gotcha, what’s the trajectory?”

“No math on it yet, we can try again in a minute. “ I’ll set a timer,” replied Dick.

“Cool, let’s annotate it on the logs, don’t need anyone thinking we aren’t watching it.”

“Good idea.”

John grinned. “You know what they say, if it isn’t logged, it didn’t happen. Wouldn’t want the brass thinking we spent our watch napping instead of making up UFO stories again.”

Dick smirked, remembering last year’s outlandish incident report that somehow made its way into the Christmas party slideshow. “Yeah, or getting another midnight call from Command to verify that ‘flying toaster’ over Nevada.”

Dick logged the meteor in the sky and set a timer to recheck the math for any potential debris. They both knew it was almost a 99% chance it would burn up, but it’s their job to log. John taught Dick that to keep every eye off the SCIF, you use their playbook to a tee. Your freedom came from the boundaries set by the government down here.

Over time, John had taught Dick the ins and outs, and both of them looked after Gilbert together.

After a minute, both men turned back to the object.

“Looks like it’s still falling,” said John.

“I’ll alert him,” said Dick.

“Sir, there is a meteor-like object over Europe right now. It has a shallow descent, no estimated trajectory, and it is headed east, though,” Dick informed the commander.

He hesitated for a moment, tapping his finger on the keyboard. “Also, I’m getting some weird blips on the data feed. The velocity reading glitched for a second, just flickered, and then stabilized.” Dick frowned at the screen, noticing a line of telemetry that briefly shifted from normal before returning to baseline. “Might be nothing,” he muttered, though a small knot of unease crept in.

“Roger, forward me the report. I’ll pass a no-fly zone request to air-defense.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dick returned as John pressed send to the commander. Both watched as Gilbert had two computer screens up and three textbooks out. One hand on a keyboard, the other with a pencil doing math.

“Can you imagine doing rocket science and being hired to monitor here? John jested.

“Someone has to do it… or be able to do it. I’m glad it’s him.”

“I’m going to get a coffee, want one?” John asked.

“Sure,” replied Dick.

John went to get coffee, passing Gilbert on the way.

“Workin’ hard, bud?” he asked.

“Oh! John! Didn’t see you there. Hey, yeah, I think I found the trajectory…”

“You know we have some nice computers that can do that, right?”

“yeah, ha ha, I know. I’m just faster and usually more accurate. My math is wrong, though. From what our computers say, it’s not burning up.”

“Interesting, I’m willing to bet against you, I’ll check when I get back, and we will see whose right. How about we bet dinner?”

“I’m in!” Gilbert says.

“Atta boy.”

John returns with the coffee. Dick and he sit back and enjoy a sip.

“Gilbert said, “ It’s not burning up. Bet tonight’s dinner.”

“Oh? Let’s take a look.”

Dick puts the coffee down and tunes the terminal back to the meteor.

“Looks like you owe him dinner,” Dick says.

John had already left to tell the commander in a hurried walk.

“Sir, the meteor is pretty big and not burning up.”

“tracking, EUROCOM, sees it and so does everyone else. Looks like it might crash in Ukraine. God sent us a little gift for the Soviets, huh?” the commander said.

John went back to his desk with Dick. He glanced over, lowering his voice. “He knows.” The words carried a hint of relief, but also the edge of worry that always followed when news spread too fast in the SCIF.

“Of course he knows,” said Dick, a dry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “Always does.” His attempt at humor didn’t quite mask the tension in his eyes, unspoken gratitude passing silently between them for the other’s steady presence. For a brief second, that shared familiarity was a lifeline, one small comfort in the background hum of anxiety.

In front of the SCIF on a large wall, a plethora of feeds around the world are displayed in the order in which the SCIF Commander monitors them. In the upper left. The new meteor was tracked in real space time by the DSP-F9. With an estimated velocity and impact over Ukraine.

The commander sat at the highest desk, drafting a report about the recent solar activity messing with the reports he’s getting. He scratches his head with a pen while he thinks about how to word a specific phrase to higher. Gilbert is calculating the miles and minutes to a buffet for dinner. John and dick try to get a good patch to different satellites to view the meteor.

In the midst of the quiet hustle of the SCIF, the commander stood from his desk.

“What…Yes, sir, I hear…but how?”

The moment seemed to freeze the air in the room, dick and John slowly turned to watch him. Gilbert glances sideways towards the back.

“Gilbert!” he shouts, then with an urgent wave ushers him to his desk.

Now you can hear a pencil drop. People on their way to the coffee machine stop. And terminals stop command lines mid-input.

The commander turns, whispers to Gilbert, facing away, before Gilbert sprints to his desk, and one arm flies as he avoids a desk. His eyes were completely focused on his desk. He furiously starts typing. The behavior was dramatic. Usually, the commander would announce something if something were to happen.

“What’s happening?” Grace, a girl who works with frequencies, leans across the aisle to ask Dick.

Dick shakes his head at her, then shrugs his shoulders.

“SIR!” Gilbert stands abruptly, looking like a scared deer in the road. Breathing heavy, chest pumping, and just staring at the commander.

Dick turns his swivel chair. Wondering what the commander was going to do next. The commander stood, slowly returning the same look Gilbert was giving.

“John!” he yelled, “get KH-11 up NOW!”

John begins frantically bringing up the feed to KH-11.

“I NEED EVERYONE TO DIVERT ALL ATTENTION TO GETTING INFO ON THE METEOR,” the commander yells to the SCIF.

He adds, clipped and low, “All stations, initiate BLACK DUSK.”

A chill runs through the room. Even the most junior airman knows what that code means. No one speaks. Eyes flick to the secure line, then back to their screens, hands suddenly uncertain over their keyboards.

“Sir, report from Minsk, ground radar is down. No packets. 100% loss.”

“Get me the likelihood of nuclear weaponry, people!”

“Counting down radioisotope count, terminal 3 forwarding report suggests…Negative…wait…Negative heat absorption?”

“Re-check that,” the commander says.

“No, sir! That’s what I got too!” Gilbert said.

Negative heat absorption? Dick said to himself as he helped John pull up the feed. Like absorbing radiation from the atmosphere?

“Gilbert’s, what’s the speed?”

“Climbing higher, sir!”

“Grace! What are the bands at?”

“Sir, radiation bands are…Flickering.”

“Sir, reports are coming in, Soviet Air defense is alert to the meteors,” someone yells across the room.

“What’s the status on launches?”

“No launches in the last 24hours.”

“Damn,” the commander never curses.

“Sir, patching the feed now, stand by in 5,4,3,2, 2,… 1.”

“That’s weird. Is there lag from the satellite?” Dick asked.

“Dear god…” John whispers, standing now too, making the same face at the meteor as the commander.

Dick, confused, turns back to the feed.

Slowly, Dick looks at the footage. His head tilts as he scans the image. That’s when he noticed the timestamp moving up.

0123:12

0123:13

0123:14

The feed was live.

The realization of what Dick was seeing on the screen made his mouth drop open.

On the feed, what dick thought was a snapshot of the meteor freezing from delay was actually the meteor, frozen in the atmosphere. Burning extremely bright on the feed, its IR signature fluctuating ever so slightly.

The phone on the commander’s desk rings.

The stress in the air lingered like nausea after a roller coaster ride, or the shock after a traumatic accident. The entire room sat, absorbed, watching an impossibility unfold on screen. Some whisper, asking others if it’s real. Maybe a fault, or a system error.

The phone continues to ring.

The commander blinks back to reality. He trips over his chair. Hitting his knees, he bounces to his phone, not taking his eyes off the screen. Its IR bloom extends high, reaching the middle atmosphere. Was it new weaponry that had been developed?

“Si-Sir?…yes, Sir.”

Everyone turns to the commander.

“DEFCON 3, everyone!”

The moment the word leaves the SCIF commander’s mouth, the KH-11 feed dies. Everyone scatters like rats in a cage over a fire.

“John, I need you to lead the SCIF in everything meteor-related, got it? Any new report that’s real, bring it to me.”

“Yes, Sir,” John said.

The commander would be on the phone from now on… this was the SOP.

Talking to heads of state. Chairmen, commanders of bases. And intel agencies. He needed a funnel. John happened to be the man.

The SCIF struggled…

Like a ship in a typhoon, now steering with no captain.

“DICK!”

“I’m on it, waiting for the signal still.”

“Thanks, ….Grace!

What are the odds it’s an accident of some sort? “ If we can’t identify if this is a bomb or not, let’s identify what exactly it could be, even if by accident,” said John.

“What do you mean?” asked Gilbert.

“Well, what about a satellite? Or a space station?”

“I don’t know, something like that we should have seen by now!”Gilbert yelled back.

“What about the Everling German space station!?” Dick asks.

“Grace! Any signal from the Everling?” yells John across the room.

“No Contact for the last ten minutes! 100% packet loss! Bringing up the terminal now!” she said.

Grace’s terminal filled the middle of the screen, no packets, RF static filling comms. Complete dead silence.

“This has to be it! Sir! It corresponds to the last known position being over this area.” Grace said

The commander broke his contact with his phone. Hoping it would be good news.

The tension held as the team searched for answers. Trying to verify the Everlings’ fall, the team urgently searched every corner in desperation.

For a moment, Grace and Gilbert worked together, their paths never crossing in the day-to-day or in drills.

“Grace, can you clear this freq for me? Focus here.

“Done!”

“Grace…”

“What’s up?”

“Look…”

Grace moves over to Gilbert’s side. On their screen, the terminal reads…

“A ping?….

What did you do? Is …that the Everling? How did you find it?”

“We… I… you know, I have a ham radio license? I mentioned it. Never mind. Solar was blocking it!?”

The muteness radiated across the entire room.

Grace stands to turn to the commander. The commander stood directly behind her, away from his desk. John and Dick are behind him. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“Positive contact with Everling.”

“Positive contact…” the commander repeated.

In the room, the quiet was overwhelming. You could only hear the whirr of the AC unit circulating the air above them.

“Sir… SIR!”

The commander violently turned around to see who was addressing him. Then meets his gaze, following his outstretched hand and finger pointing at the screen.

KH-11 broadcast the image of a micro tracking the meteor.

“IT’S FALLING AGAIN!” The man yelled.

“GET ME AN ESEMATION ON IMPACT NOW!” The commander yells to the room.

“ETA to impact 30 seconds, sir!” Gilbert yells out.

“Impact expected in the Ukrainian region, near Prypyat, Sir!” John yells.

“Trajectory points to!… Oh god…” Dick says.

“Chernobyl…” said John

“What’s there, Dick!” the commander yells.

“It’s… a nuclear power plant. Sir!”

“Sir! US nuclear subs minutes from crossing the fire control line!” Grace yells

The commander now rushes to his desk, making calls out, bound to figure out where the future of the United States was headed.

The screen presented a pulsating electromagnetic force, which was once radiated and then absorbed in seconds. Transitioning between states of matter was once thought not to be possible by physics. A threat that was now aimed at a nuclear power plant.

Then…Gilbert started the countdown.

“Impact in…”

5

4

3

2

1

The numbers came out one after another, each echoing through the tense silence. Hearts beat faster with every sharp syllable, the whole room holding its breath, eyes fixed on the screen.

The room watched a satellite deliver a thermal video feed over Chornobyl. A screen went from speckled white dots of vehicles and buildings to a white screen for what seemed as if eternal.

“Yes, sir, it did. Ukraine. A nuclear power plant. Yes…yes, sir.”

In the back of the SCIF, a phone was answered and then returned to its resting position.

John maneuvered the screen with dick, zooming out to assess the damage. A cloud the size of a small hurricane engulfed the disaster area.

Rock and debris, burning hot and high, spilled into the atmosphere.

The fume burning in the cloud gives heated gas IR visuals to the SCIF.

“dear god…” John said.

No one moved a muscle as the SCIF was glued to the feed. Many were standing away from their desks. Some with their hands on their heads, others with their hands covering their mouths from shock. As they watched the aftermath of the Meteor’s strike on Chornobyl, Dick’s knuckles whitened around his coffee mug. Only now did he realize the mug was trembling slightly in his grip, the coffee inside forgotten and cold, a faint ring of condensation spreading over the console. He watched as steam rose from the burning wreckage on the screen, and the fading warmth against his skin felt almost like an echo of what was being destroyed far away, a small thing, but in that moment, it bound his own shaken world to the scorched one unraveling in front of him.

“Positive impact…” says the commander.

“Prepare for DEFCON 1”