Or everything.
He could launch a missile, just to see. He could choose his own target, something that needed taking out, obliterating. He had that power. He had the red keys and the knowledge. The retinal scans had been modified long ago to accept a single key holder using both keys for just this sort of doomsday situation. All it required was activating a remote device situated at the National Command Authority, and that had been done long ago. The machinery here no longer responded to other command centers, if there were any. It was autonomous and functionally independent. It did what its users told it to do with no need for anything but the knowledge and the keys, and he had both.
But what would he blow up?
And why?
He closed his eyes against the darkness of the suggestion. Sending more nuclear warheads only fed the madness. He would not be a part of it. Even though it was tempting at times and he had the means, he would not.
He was better than that.
He walked back to the command complex’s nerve center and sat in his chair and stared at the monitors and readouts. Even though the people were gone, the machines worked on, powered by the solar collectors that functioned aboveground, doing what they had been created to do. He watched the monitors sweeping the empty vista of the rocks, and the readouts reporting that the weather and climate were unchanged. He fiddled for a time with the communications board, sweeping the signal range for a contact, finding nothing.
He looked at the framed picture of his wife and boys where it sat on the narrow shelf in front of him, always visible from any part of his workstation.
Then suddenly he bent forward, lowered his head, squeezed his eyes tightly shut, clasped his hands in front of him, and began to pray, mouthing the words softly.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;
He leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul.
He leadeth me in the path of righteousness for His name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death,
I will fear no evil . . .
He stopped abruptly, the words catching in his throat, lodging there and refusing to emerge. He could not finish.
“Please,” he whispered into the darkness behind his closed eyes. “Please, don’t let me die here.”
TWO
ANGEL PEREZ WALKS THE HOT, dusty streets of her barrio in East LA, her small hand clutching Johnny’s. She hovers beneath the reassuring mantle of his protective shadow, feeling safe and warm. She does not look up at him, because holding his hand is enough to let her know that he is there, looking after her, staying close. The world around her is peaceful and quiet, a reflection of her sense of security, a testament to what being with Johnny means. People are sitting on their stoops and leaning out their windows. Their haggard, worried faces brighten at Johnny’s appearance. Hands wave and voices call out. Johnny’s presence is welcomed by everyone.
She glances up at the sky. It is cloudless and blue, free of the smoke and ash that have plagued it for days. Months. Years. There have been gang activities all through the region, much of it ending in fighting and looting. But Johnny keeps all that away from this neighborhood, and today there is no evidence of it anywhere. The clear sky and the silent air are proof of a fresh cleansing. She smiles, thinking of it. She wonders if perhaps something good is coming their way. She feels that it might be possible, that a turning of the wheel of fortune is about to occur.
“I am so happy,” she says to Johnny.
He says nothing in response, but words are not necessary when she feels the gentle squeeze of his hand over hers. He understands. He is happy, too.
They walk for a long time, content just to be with each other, like father and daughter, like family. She thinks of them this way, of herself as his daughter, him as her father. There is more to family than shared blood. There is trust and friendship and commitment. She is only eight years old, but she already knows this.