She handed Matt a sidearm, and only then did he notice she had strapped on the man’s knives, which were now hanging on her belt with her own guns. Her pockets bulged, and reaching in she pulled an extra magazine and handed it to him.

“You got twenty shots – choose your targets carefully. We’ve got a long way to go.”

Abrams looked over the edge. “You’ve been down there?”

She walked to the edge of the walkway. She seemed to have no fear of the height. “Only part way. There are…things down there. More like Andy and Tania, but I saw other creatures even worse.” She turned to Abrams and lifted her gun. “Let’s hope they’re also like slugs.” She looked down. “In my years, many people have told me to go to Hell.” She stepped back from the edge. “And now, I do.”

*

General Decker put the phone down and sucked in a deep breath, his chest swelling in his uniform. He held it for a second or two and then eased it out, before turning to the room. Most of his Forward Command was assembled, waiting on his instructions.

Decker was now in charge, and his reporting line was to the Commander in Chief – the President, and only the President. The fate of the country was now in his hands.

“That was the President of the United States. By executive order, we have been given the green light. God bless America.” There was a round of applause.

Decker lifted the phone again – it went straight through to bomber command. “Executive Order Fox-Delta-Orion-Victor-nine-nine-three-seven-two-one-nine – we have green light.” He placed the phone back on its cradle and then switched on a large monitor on his wall. It showed a view from an air-force control tower, and a colossal plane beginning to move slowly down a runway.

Decker felt his heart swell with pride at the sight of the massive bombing arsenal – the B52 Stratofortress. The winged monster weighed nearly half a million pounds and could deliver its payload from fifty thousand feet. Which was just as well, as conservative estimates were that the twenty-megaton bomb would produce a cloud to forty-eight thousand feet with a significant EM-pulse.

Two F22 raptors would accompany the bomber to the drop zone to ensure air superiority over a clear flight path. Nothing would be allowed to get in the way of the flying fortress’s mission. The raptors would peel away before the drop and rely on their 1.82-mach speed to get them well away from the magnetic disturbance or radioactive corruption. At least that was the plan – both pilots were volunteers, and knew the risks.

Decker was already counting down the seconds. It would take them thirty minutes to reach the drop site – lock and load, as they say. He sat down, his hands unconsciously crushing into fists. The men and women behind him, the noise, the heat, all of it, meant nothing compared to that plane and its destination.