#ContinuityOfGovernment, #WW3, #Deep State
Buried a thousand feet beneath Ohio, the ten trillion dollar, UN-constructed SuperBunker can shelter a million members of the global elite indefinitely, with all the comforts of the surface including simulated blue skies, boutique shopping, and three golf courses. The President of the United States, Arman “Our Man” Manfred, regains consciousness in one of the bunker’s six hospitals. Surrounded by his trusted advisors and his official hagiographer, his office becomes ensnared in the Machiavellian underworld of SuperBunker geo-politics. The situation worsens when the president’s Russian and Chinese counterparts execute Protocol 4, sealing the blast doors and severing all contact with the surface, relegating the world’s leaders to governing a mere computer simulation of the world above. An attempt to blackmail the POTUS with a salacious video taken by his own security agency forces President Manfred into seclusion. With his office infiltrated by a traitor and hobbled by incompetence, he attempts one final ‘Hail Mary’ that might just save the office of the president… even if it destroys the world in the process.
And so the race to put a man on the surface of the earth ensued. Originally deemed the “race to the ‘face,” it ultimately came to be known by academics and historians as the “face race.” The Chinese and Russians pooled their resources and technology into this endeavor, for the first state to put an agent on the surface would be the first to be able to order its obliteration or at least prevent the other from doing so.
The Americans and the Sino-Russian Alliance did a great deal of spying on each other’s progress over the twenty-one days during which the face race raged. The Chinese and Russians struggled with cooperation as the Chinese regarded their Russian counterparts as troglodyte drunkards and the Russians regarded the Chinese as backwardized Mongoloids, but they nevertheless caught the Americans, beating them to the surface. The first terranaut was not a human agent, mind you, but was instead a Jack Russell terrier who was latched into a fabricated steel capsule and exploded upwards through a ventilator shaft. Igor could be heard, via microphone, vigorously and healthily panting until the very moment his capsule burst through the embedded, metallic Faraday latticework that protected the SuperBunker from electro-magnetic pulse, but also prevented the transmission of radio signals.
The Sino-Russian face program had beaten the Americans to the surface. President Manfred, now exhibiting tremors and looking ill, understood that the situation was beyond desperate. If the Russians and Chinese were first to reach the surface with a human being, not only could they order a nuclear first strike, but they could stifle any American response by destroying the ventilator shaft that the Americans were intending to use for their mission. This meant that there was no time for the Americans to send a test dog, or other suitable mammal. The survival of the American government required bold urgency.
“You should be safe,” Buckminster assured as he stood before the coffin-sized steel tube. He opened the door.
Fricke, who was dressed in a spandex suit, holding his helmet and clutching the Nuclear Football, didn’t appear convinced. “Why does it look like a cruise missile with a window?” he asked.
“Because that’s what it basically is,” Buckminster explained.
“I was expecting an elevator type of thing. Why a missile?”
“Fricke, when you work for the Pentagon, the solution to every problem ends up looking like a missile. Isn’t it a thing of beauty? Look at the head. It’s made of solid titanium, strong enough to smash through ventilator fans, steel grates, backflow traps and flanges. It’s the toughest material we could find. Beneath your feet will be a foot of ceramic insulation protecting you from the searing heat generated by the combustion of the solid fuel rocket boosters.”
“And you put a window in.”
“Yes, although there won’t be much to see until and if you reach the surface.”
The door to the situation room opened and in walked the frail POTUS, flanked on either side by a secret service agent, and trailed by Haberdash clad in Bermuda shorts and polo shirt.
“Mr. President!” Buckminster greeted with a salute.
The POTUS approached Fricke and patted him on the shoulder. “Are you ready to be a hero, Dexter?” he asked in his weakened voice.
“I don’t believe I have a choice, sir.”
“Excellent. You’re the next Neil Armstrong. A pioneer.”
“I’m just hoping I’m not the next the next Gus Grissom.”
“I see you have the Football.”
“Right here, sir.”
“Good. Now, when you get to the surface, open the laptop and make sure you have good connectivity. Then plug in the red button thing and press it. There’s nothing to it.”
“Are you sure that will launch the nukes, sir?”
“That will do it.” The POTUS turned to the technician seated at the computer. “Are we ready for launch?”
“Sir, we are nearing completion of our pre-checks.”
The POTUS turned back to Fricke. “Dexter, do you have any apprehensions or doubts about you mission?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“Do you harbor any second thoughts about pressing the button?”
“No sir,” Fricke answered.
“Dexter, do you love democracy?”
“I love my country, sir.”
“Excellent,” the POTUS replied while patting Fricke on the shoulder with his trembling hand.
“Dex, you’re going to be the hero of the republic. You are saving democracy.”
“By destroying the world.”
“Indeed. Here, let me help you with that.” The POTUS took the helmet from under Fricke’s arm. Fricke bowed and the POTUS slid it onto his head with a trembling grip. A technician rushed in to check that it was properly fit. The POTUS shook Fricke’s hand and patted him on the helmet. Fricke turned and stepped into the capsule, clutching the Nuclear Football at his breast. Buckminster approached to give final instructions. “Don’t be alarmed if you hear an explosion once you reach the surface. The capsule is equipped with a C4 activated parachute. If you break through with too much speed, it will deploy and hopefully soften your landing.”
“Let’s review one more time. What is your mission?” Buckminster continued.
“First I need to find WIFI. Once a connection is obtained, activate the PAL and push the red button. Then I have to maneuver to the air duct located behind the Wal Mart on 2887 S Arlington Rd in Akron Ohio.”
Buckminster nodded. “Exactly. Guard that shaft and make sure no Sino-Russian terranaut breaks through. If one does, you’ll have to neutralize him. Contact local law enforcement and have them assist you.”
Buckminster closed the capsule door and saluted. Fricke gave a thumbs up sign in the portal. The technician made a few last-minute checks, then he Buckminster joined the POTUS and the other lab coats behind the protective glass of the control room.
“Can you hear us, Dexter?” one of them asked.
“Loud and clear,” Fricke shouted between pants.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Do you know what to do when you reach the surface?” asked POTUS.
“Bucky and I just went over it.”
“Don’t forget. Wal Mart. Akron, Ohio.”
“I have the address in my pocket.”
“Failure is not an option, Dexter,” the POTUS advised.
Buckminster turned to the technician seated at the computer terminal. “Are we a go?”
“Roger. All systems are go.”
Buckminster turned to the POTUS. The POTUS nodded. Buckminster gave a thumbs up to the technician.
“…Five… Four… Three… Two… One…”
The tech seated at the computer depressed the enter key. The crudely fashioned rocket fuel stored in the base of Fricke’s capsule ignited. The launch chamber filled with white smoke. The chamber’s air vents whined as waves of oxygen rich air was exchanged for carbon dioxide. Fricke looked out helplessly from his portal window. His capsule thrusted upwards, slowly at first, then building momentum, up, up, up into the vertical air shaft. In moments, it was accelerating into the ductwork, its titanium- shielded nose puncturing the screens and fans and grates that barred the way. Up, up, up. The capsule dubbed The Victory climbed from its subterranean Hades, through the steel tube carved like an artery that coursed through the geological strata. Up, up, up. The capsule began to rifle, spun by the patterned welds in the cylindrical shaft.
Buckminster, Haberdash, the POTUS, and the technicians in white lab coats watched the capsule cam of Dexter Fricke’s face. His cheeks rippled with vibrations. His irises rolled back into his skull. Drool ran drawn down his chin and ran across his face, drawn out by the rifling action and the G forces generated in a roar of breaking covalent bonds. Up, up, up. The Victory spun towards the surface, rotating once per second. Fricke’s eyes rolled to the right. His foaming spittle ran horizontally across his right cheek. The technicians could not discern if he was still conscious. Up, up, up.
Then nothing. The feed went black.
The POTUS stared at the floor. Haberdash stared at Buckminster. Buckminster stared at the men in white lab coats.
“Did he make it? Haberdash asked.
“The Victory has passed through the Faraday barrier,” explained a technician. “Radio communication is no longer possible.”
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