Holding his breath, he uncoupled the electronics from the base of the payload before cautiously removing the entire mechanism. Tre passed Ford a mechanical replacement detonator.

“I thought these things all ran by remote control,” Tre said.

“The MUTOs fry out everything electronic,” Ford explained. “You can’t even get in range without stuff going haywire.” He patted the new detonator. “This, on the other hand, is old-school clockwork.”

The replacement mechanism was all gears and springs, with no electrical components. Ford was impressed by the simplicity of the design. Even the crude roadside bombs he’d disarmed in Afghanistan had been more high-tech. This detonator was bare-bones by comparison. Gears, dials, and a high-torsion mainspring controlled the timing mechanism.

“Takes a lickin’, keeps on tickin’,” Tre grinned at Ford. “See how the bastards like us now.”

He looked away from the missile long enough to spot something off to one side of the tracks. A stunned expression came over his face. “Jesus…”

Ford lifted his eyes from his work to see what the other man was looking at. A veil of trees cleared to reveal a rural highway crammed with bumper-to-bumper traffic for miles on end. Uncertain where safety lay, the confused and panicked refugees were stalled in both directions. Every lane had come to a standstill; unmoving vehicles were packed with displaced civilians fleeing the destruction behind them. Many of the people had gotten out of their cars, some standing on the vehicles’ hoods to try to get a better view of just how far ahead the gridlock extended. A desperate exodus was frozen in place.

Ford understood now, more than ever, why they weren’t transporting the ICBMs by road.

Heads turned as the missile train went by. Ford wondered what the stranded refugees thought, seeing car after car of heavy-duty ballistic missiles rumble past them. Borrowing a pair of binoculars from Tre, he checked out the bulging eyes and uneasy expressions of the displaced people watching the train go by. His attention was captured by one poor family stuck inside a station wagon, hastily packed with boxes of precious belongings. A young couple viewed the missiles with obvious worry while their little daughter, who looked about Sam’s age, clutched her teddy bear. The girl gaped at the train with wide eyes.

Ford wondered if she even knew what a nuclear missile was, or what it was capable of.

The train rolled on, leaving the family—and many, many other families—behind. Ford returned the binoculars to Tre and got back to work. He tried to put the little girl out of his mind.

Those warheads weren’t going to retrofit themselves.

* * *

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.”

In the CDC aboard the Saratoga, Admiral Stenz had a phone to his ear. And not just any phone: the Red Phone. He nodded solemnly, his voice subdued and respectful. “I understand, sir.”