Arsenal Code RED
By R.A. Jetter
Adam searched the darkness for his robe and slippers and stumbled against the night table. He cursed. Thinking of the accident chilled him even more than the temperature in the bedroom and he preferred sleeping in a cold room. “How long have you lived in Denver, Robert?” Juggling the phone with both hands, he slipped on the robe knowing he should hurry. Confidence in his commanders, trained to handle preliminaries, eased his mind.
“Just over a year, sir,” Robert said. “Had to have in-residence status before I could get transferred into the Denver Fire Department.”
“FYI, Lieutenant, the Arsenal was the government’s research, development and manufacturing facility for chemical weapons — nerve gas. Sarin production stopped a few years ago, but, over the past forty years, thousands of 55-gallon barrels were produced. Those metal drums are stored above ground, getting older every day. Any idea what could happen if an airliner plowed into one of those storage structures?”
“We could have a bigger problem than just an airliner crash.”
Jean flicked on the lamp and reached for her robe.
“Exactly. Get my Commanders to their stations.” Adam arched his back and stretched his arms outward, the phone cradled against his chin and shoulder. “Have you got the R.E.D. Team rolling?”
“The call’s already been made, Captain.”
“Has the Arsenal Commandant been alerted? Is the Arsenal Emergency Reaction Team rolling? Does the media know about this yet?”
“Jack’s monitoring media — nothing yet. No word from the Arsenal Commandant. The E.R.T. would have gotten the alert the same time we did, sir, but here’s something weird-my second, Rick Mann, is on the phone right now with a motorist stopped on I-70 near Stapleton, The guy’s saying there’s all kinds of debris where the old Stapleton Airport tunnels used to be. Said he saw a plane on approach, landing lights blazing. Swore he was seeing things at first.”
“Can’t be right, Robert. I-70 is 48th Street, way south of 85th or 75th… and DIA. Why would a commercial be that far south?”
Adam stepped to the window and peered outside. Snow fell heavier, gathered in the corners of the window before shrieking wind whipped it past, buffeting the panes. “You’re certain the motorist said that plane tried to land on the old Stapleton runway? There are no landing lights there anymore, no lights of any kind.” Realizing he was almost shouting, he turned to look at his wife. She questioned the phone call with furrowed brow. “If that’s the case, we’ve now got two problems.”
“Sir?”
He took a deep breath, bowed his head and swore before returning his attention to the phone. “One commercial in is Basin F pond, the other is down on Stapleton’s old runway… how in hell?”
“We’ve getting more reports right now,” Robert interrupted. “It’s confirmed, a red-eye tried to set down on Stapleton’s north-south runway, just before the spot where the highway department took out the runway bridges. He skipped it over the highway, hit the embankment on the north side… lots of wreckage all over the westbound lanes of I-70.”