Reporting for Duty

Welcome to Minot Air Force base and to Delta Seven Two, your new post, Lieutenant. Hope the elevator trip down wasn’t too unnerving. Only two hundred and ten feet, ten stories is all, really, but that old elevator’s gotten a little wobbly. I submitted a work order three years ago, but, well, you know, the bureaucracy and all.

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No, flight suits are fine. I tore the arms and legs off mine to be more comfortable. We ain’t too formal down here. Call me Tom, not Major. I’ll call you Pete.

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No, Pete will be fine. Let me show you around, Pete. First off, we are in the foyer, where the elevator opened. The elevator automatically returns to the surface and waits for the next use. A concrete plug moves into the shaft to block the tube in case we’s attacked; at least it’s supposed to. When it rains here in Minot, the water drips down the shaft and makes this plopping noise that echoes up the shaft. Plop, plop, plop, sometimes for days on end, enough to drive ya nuts.

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I’m glad to hear it wasn’t raining today. See, I’ve done six straight tours down here, over three years. I can’t quite remember what season we are in, let alone the time and date.

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Thanks. Six tours - well, that’s because there’s only a few of us left, and they aren’t training enough new guys. The old Pete, the Lieutenant you’re replacing, he was the fourth Pete I’ve crewed with in three years. Yep, last Pete went a little loony, running around and around the rooms with his arms spread out like an airplane going “whoosh, whoosh” with a big “bang" each time he passed the console.

Okay, enough about the past. These are our sleeping quarters. This is my bed; sorry I didn’t make it. I’ve kinda lost track of the time of day so I’m never sure when it is morning. Don’t think I’ve made my bed in a year or two. Through here is our bathroom. Regular old toilet, shower, sink. All stainless steel, easy to keep clean.

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No, it’s not a black shower curtain, that’s mildew. Sorry about that, too; haven’t got around to cleaning it for several Pete’s. All the condensation down here, well, it’s really got no place to go. Dump your duffel on your bed; you can unpack later.

Okay, we’re back in the foyer. This little room is the kitchen. Once a week, they send stuff down the small service elevator: fresh food and produce, packaged goods, treats, whatever you want.

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Yep, it leaks just like the people elevator. Simply write your requests on a Form Seven Dash Two One Four and fax it to speed dial “Three.” It used to be marked “Food,” but all the labels fell off from the moisture.

Don’t confuse the Form Seven Dash Two One Four with Form Four Seven Dash One Two Four, which is for cleaning supplies, or with the Seven Dash Three Four, which is for fresh skivvies. They still get faxed to speed dial “Three” though, even though they aren’t food.

Down these stairs is the Control Room, we’ll come back here to finish your tour. Let’s go down one more level to see the backup radios. These are hooked through a dedicated line right to Warshington. Over there are our backup batteries. These can only be used for the Control Room, workroom, and the radios. Can’t use ‘em for your electric razor, your iPod, or nothing else. Never.

This fancy-looking pump thing is known as the sewage lift station. It takes your shit and sends it up above ground, where it is pumped direct to Warshington. No, just kidding, it really goes somewhere to join everyone else’s shit, I guess. Don’t really know for sure.

Over there is our spare parts for all the stuff in the silo.

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Yes, it is real dusty. I had been after the last couple of Pete’s to clean up this space, but it kinda stinks and no one wants to spend too long in here. The ventilation’s bad and the seal on the shit sucker must be sorta dried out after forty years. Guess I better put in another work order.

Back to the spare parts. Your job, being Pete, is to clean and inventory them, and then fill out a Seven Dash Six Nine for all them missing ones. Fax the form to speed dial “Seven,” marked "Parts."

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No, I don’t know what’s missing; there’s “missing” and there’s “here.” Figure it out, Pete. For the stuff that is still here, it needs to be rotated on a three-year schedule. I don’t recall seeing any of the old Petes ever doing that; somewhere there’s a manual that explains it. I do know that rotated parts inventory orders go on a Form Seven Dash Six Two. We are out of them forms. Better put an order in to get some more. New form requests go on a Seven Dash Four Five. Fax it to speed dial “Nine” marked “Forms.” Don’t ever get confused and fax any other form to “Forms” as they are in different buildings and won’t talk to each other. Some dispute long time ago about summit, no one remembers, cepting they ain’t talking no more.

Last thing in here is the generator. Never, ever start the generator. Never. We can do everything we need with the backup batteries. Several Pete’s ago, some new eager beaver tried to start the generator. The whole complex filled with smoke and carbon monoxide. Pete was unconscious. They had to air out all the tubes. I sat by our tube cover up top for hours. The land out there is so damn flat. Goddam sun, even though it was a cloudy day, hurt my eyes.

Back up we go to the Control Room.

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Yep, all them blast doors are heavier than a sunnabitch. I don’t think old Pete had been oiling them like he should. They are supposed to swing shut on a jeweled pivot, but they need graphiting regularly. The graphite is in an aerosol spray and old Pete liked to put a bag over his head and spray the stuff into the bag. It’s all gone now. They won’t let us have no more on account of what Pete was doing with it; though maybe with you here, we might be able to get a new can or two. That would go on Form Seven Dash Seven One, "Maintenance Items," then gets faxed to speed dial “Seven” as well. They divide up the Parts and Maintenance Items there, then put them back together when they deliver them.

Okay, here we are back on the main floor, the center of our little world. Don’t worry about them dials and switches and stuff. They are all in the manual. Notice that there is two of everything. This is my side of the console; that one is yours. Never, ever, sit on my side. See that red stain behind my seat; some stupid Pete thought it would be a good idea if we learned to operate from either position. That six-pound door spanner straightened him out good. And I mean straightened him out; boy, those scalp wounds can bleed sumpin fierce.

That’s my two screens, my side desk, my filing cabinet; them’s yours. I don’t want to see any of your crap on my side.

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Yep, that’s why there’s a white line down the middle of the console and the desk.

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Well, it is toothpaste. You don’t think they send down any paint with Pete huffing away, would you?

That’s my phone to General Tomlinson. You don’t ever get to speak to General Tomlinson. That’s why I cut the cord to your handset.

Over here, next to your console, you have your OPM Seven Seven Three. When an “Alert” order comes in, the OPM Seven Seven Three will log a seven-digit alphanumeric code. We then each open our safes and pull out the instruction packages.

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Yes, your safe is open. I thought that Pete was keepin’ secrets from me, so I ordered him to open his safe. I was sure he had a secret camera in there and was takin’ pictures of me.

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No, I don’t know why he was takin’ pictures of me.

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No, not the equipment. The Russkies would pay a lot for those pics; old Pete was just spying on me. So, I had him open his safe and checked for the camera.

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No, it wasn’t there, he musta hidden it somewhere. But just to make sure, I hit his safe locks with the spanner and now it don’t close. Made it harder for the little sneak.

So, you take out your package that matches the seven-digit alphanumeric code. Inside is a small disk. Look, say it is this package here, your Romeo Tango Whiskey Niner Four Seven Bravo. Then I go into my safe and find my Romeo Tango Whiskey Niner Four Seven Bravo. Look, they’s identical. We each take out our little disk and put it into the slot here. Just like the old days when you’d put a floppy disk into a computer; you remember?

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Yep, that’s right, just in that slot there. That puts the coordinates into Blue Boy.

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Why Blue Boy? Well, I didn’t like calling him an MX Mark Seven, seemed rather impersonal. I call him Blue Boy on account of his Air Force paint job.

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No, nothing related to that prevert magazine. Watch yourself, son. That kinda thinking can get you transferred to Fairbanks quicker than shit goes through the shit sucker, which ain’t really that quick.

So, when we both insert the same disks, well, then the coordinates go into Blue Boy. See, the console is all lit up in yellow now. Then we pull out our keys. They did give you your key, didn’t they? Here’s mine. The chain used to rub something awful, but I got this here silk garter from a whore in Fargo; much better.

Okay, we put our keys in here, under this cap. Flip it up, son.

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Yes, this is perfectly safe. You put your key in, too. Then we each turn our key one-quarter turn to the right. Now, see how the right side of my console and the left side of your console have switched all their lights from yella to red. This is to let you know that Blue Boy has got his instructions and is ready to go.

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What stops him taking off? Well, we haven’t pushed these big red buttons right below our keys. If we was to mash down on them together, like I am doing with both hands, then…

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That loud roaring noise? Shoot!