WarGames/Officially Canceled

Prologue Part 1

Snow...

The flakes came thick as TV static, muffling the growls of the Air Force van's engines as the vehicle carried the two officers toward their deadly night duty.

"Crummy day to guard the nation, huh?" Lieutenant Ulmer said. Ulmer's
hands held the steering wheel with the casual ease of the practiced snow driver, but his eyes stayed glued to the icy North Dakota road. Numberless windblown flakes fluttered through the arcs of the van's headlights, cutting visibility to near zero. Ulmer's companion grunted. "Yeah, the sky's taken a dump on the Red River
Valley, all right. I used to serve in Alaska, though, so I've seen worse."
Nonetheless, Captain Jerry Hallorhan huddled tighter in his parka, glaring at
the faulty heater.

Goddamned Air Force vans, he thought. They can keep a half-dozen Blue Angels in precision flight, but they can't heat a crummy four-wheeler "Maybe we'll get a medal just for getting there," Ulmer suggested, shifting down to second for a slight upward grade. "Christ, Lieutenant," Hallorhan said, sinking lower in his seat, "if a guy on button jockey duty does somethin' to get a medal for chances are there ain't gonna be no one around to pin it on his irradiated chest!"

Hallorhan barked a coarse laugh, then honked his nose into his handkerchief. It figured. Cold coming on. His sinuses were allergic to snow, no question. When he had enough seniority, he'd make damn sure he was located in someplace like Arizona, warmer. Gladys would like that. The kids too. His nose would love it. Hallorhan wiped his nose and sighed. His breath misted. "You were telling me about that hippie girl friend you used to have, Sheila,"
Steve Ulmer said as he put the column shift back into third. "Sounds like quite a lady."

Hallorhan smiled to himself. "Oh, yes. The one back near Andrews Air Force Base. Those were the days, all right. Protests and pot. Acid rock and free love. Sheila was right there with them, a real radical. Boy, she'd have a fit if she knew what I was doing now! When she wasn't off sucking in tear gas on Route One at the University of Maryland, she was draggin' me to see some Godard film, or Hiroshima Mon Amour. We saw Dr. Strangelove musta been three times!" "Anti-nuke, huh," Ulmer said, somberly. "Yeah, but it was all worth it!" Hallorhan said, almost defensively.

"One tripped-out lady, Sheila! Really into Eastern mysticism, you know? And drugs...! We had some fine times, I tell you! She did some of the weirdest things. Like, she had this forest of marijuana plants and-" Ulmer peered through the dimness ahead. "Center's coming up," he said. "About time!" Hallorhan fumbled with the satchel to his side, locked to his left wrist.

"My momma used to put gloves on me this way. They musta talked to her before they stuck me on this gig!" "Right." Ulmer laughed as he wedged the van into a parking slot by the guard gate. "Geronimo!" cried Hallorhan, bracing himself for the chill. He pushed the door open and stepped into a pile of frosty white stuff. The wind struck him hard and pushed him against the van's fender.

He cursed and looked up. Flakes were driven into his eyes. He pulled his hood up. Before them a building that looked like a farm house rose from snowdrifts. Lieutenant Ulmer was already bashing his way through the weather. "Friggin' New Air Force," Hallorhan muttered, driving his burly form after his junior officer.
Ulmer made it to the door first and held it open for the captain.

Hallorhan stepped into the warmth, immediately kicking off his snow-clogged boots and slipping off his parka, revealing a bright blue jumpsuit with 321ST MISSILE WING emblazoned on the back. A bright red ascot snuggled around his neck. "Sure feels a hell of a lot better in here, huh?" the captain said, fooling with the lock on his satchel.

"Sure does," agreed Ulmer. He grinned as Hallorhan finally opened the lock and pulled a red folder out of the satchel. Hallorhan approached a bulletproof glass and slipped the folder to the expressionless guard.
The guard flipped open the folder, studied the two photo IDs enclosed, then peered blankly up at the new arrivals.

He picked up a phone and punched out a number "Replacement team's here, sir," he said. A smile crept over his face. "Right." He hung up the phone. "Come on through. Another twenty minutes and we were going to start looking for you." "Yeah," Hallorhan said. "Gotta warn ya, kid..." he said to Ulmer, "'round Minuteman III missile launch control centers, you go AWOL, you get nuked!" The guard shook his head at the grim joke, then leaned over and hit a button.

A buzz sounded, unlocking the door. The two officers pushed through into the secure area. The guard checked out their faces again, then returned the folder. He pulled out a pair of holstered service pistols and flopped them in front of the missilemen. Ulmer buckled his on. "See you tomorrow," he said to the guard.

Their footsteps echoed as they pounded down a corridor toward an elevator door. Hallorhan buckled on his holster. A young sentry clutching an M- 16 snapped to attention. The officers ignored him. Lieutenant Ulmer hit the button, then allowed his superior to step into the elevator first.

"So anyway," Hallorhan said, eager to continue his story. "I used to hear Sheila chanting all night long, 'ah mahney pod me ohm, ah mahney pod me ohm.'" "Over the plants?" Ulmer was incredulous.
"Yeah! She'd hold her hands over the seeds and chant by the hour. Grew the
most beautiful wandos you ever saw. Primo stuff. Resin city!"

The elevator door parted, revealing the base's underground launch level. Enough concrete and steel here to build a city, Hallorhan thought. A five-megaton warhead would be like a cherry bomb to this baby, yes sir!As Hallorhan stepped out of the elevator ahead of Ulmer, an alarm began to wail. Hallorhan stepped briskly to the blast door. After punching a code into akeyboard, he spoke into an intercom. "This is Captain Hallorhan. Ready to authenticate." He took a breath. "Lima, Oscar, November, Lima, Whiskey, Golf." He winked at Ulmer. The alarm stopped. Good. Hallorhan's head was ringing. It always did.

Must be the pitch, he figured. Hidden motors whirred. Locking pins withdrew. The two men pushed the door open and passed through into another corridor, traipsing up to a second blast door "Avon calling," Hallorhan said. The door opened for them. They casually saluted the team they were replacing. The missile commander; Captain Ed Flanders, stood up from his chair by the entrance controls, rubbing his stomach and stretching lazily. "We were worried about you guys."

He glanced over to his deputy, Lieutenant Morgan, who sat by one of the launch controls, penning readings onto a form clamped by a
clipboard. "The roads must be-"
"What roads?" Hallorhan said sardonically. Their overnight home was a capsule ten feet by twenty feet, a technophobe's nightmare. Lights blipped. Fans hummed. The faint aroma of electricity mingled with a hint of unwashed socks and a trace of strong coffee. The place was crammed with panels of high-frequency transmitters, circuit breakers, air purification and backup systems.

A high-speed teleprinter with a direct line to. Strategic Air Command headquarters sat mute in a corner. A refrigerator hummed in another corner. A small and very unprivate latrine huddled whitely in yet another. Each of the two launch consoles possessed a computer terminal and large annunciator panels displaying the status of each of the ten missiles controlled by this capsule.
Mounted on the capsule wall was a bright red strongbox, secured by two
locks.

Captain Flanders peered closer at Hallorhan, then pointed disbelievingly at his face. "What is that?" Jerry blinked. "That? That's a mustache," he said indignantly. "New image!" said Ulmer. The deputy put the clipboard down and headed for the open door.
"Well, gentleman," said Captain Flanders, following suit. "Have a good one!"