Giant Killer Bats of Alamogordo

Prologue

August 5th, 1957

Seventy-five feet below the desert floor, cut from solid rock and surrounded by thick concrete walls, the control room gleams in the florescent glow of two rows of lights. It dazzles the eyes and assails the senses.

Chrome-ringed black dials with red-painted numbers break the drabness of bulky gray consoles lining the walls of the room, with more consoles standing in three rows in the center of the room. Nestor Henshaw strides around, casting his hawkish eyes on the glowing panels, hands clasped firmly behind his back and nodding to himself every few seconds; no reason, he just likes to give the impression he is mulling things over to his subordinates. It's a habit he picked up in his early days working for the government; look busy and people will assume you are busy. He stops beside a console and glances down at the numbers ticking away on the screen and nods once more. This test has to be successful, his job depends on it. This particular test has already been delayed three times because of things outside of his control, and Henshaw can ill afford another delay or they will pull him from the project. There is no way on this good earth he will end up pushing papers around some forgotten office, hidden away in the deep bowels of Washington. The thought makes him shiver.

Sir, someone grunts behind him.

Henshaw turns and glares, wondering why someone would dare interrupt him now, until he sees the steaming mug of coffee in the corporal's hand. He watches a single dribble of coffee drip off the bottom of the cup.

Thank you, this is just what I need right now. Henshaw grabs the mug, perhaps a bit too brusquely and spills a bit more onto the black-and-white checkered tile floor. He takes a sip of coffee, watching with secret glee as the corporal quickly kneels on the floor and wipes up the tiny spill with the cuff of his uniform. Good lad. Henshaw likes to think he runs a tight ship.

Henshaw turns back to the screen to watch the green letters scroll across the black surface. The numbers make little sense to him, but he likes to watch them, anyway. They are somehow soothing to him; as long as the numbers scroll by, then everything is well. He shifts his focus on the screen and catches a bit of his reflection.

He looks tired, but that is to be expected. Months of planning have led to this moment, and now he is just minutes away from pushing the button to usher in a new era of nuclear superiority for the United States, with Nestor Henshaw at the forefront. He stands straighter, proud to be an American. Henshaw runs his fingers through short cropped, salt and pepper hair, making sure it is all in place. It always is, but that doesn't stop him from fussing over it. From his squared jaw to his polished shoes, his black suit and crisp white shirt to his steely gray eyes, he is the epitome of a government agent. His entire look is built to intimidate people into doing what he needs them to do. It's a look he has cultured over his career in the government, and it has served him well over the years.

Even before his time in the Army, and his rise through the ranks of the Nuclear Commission, Henshaw had groomed his appearance for the best effect. Now it is unheard of for him to have even a hair out of place, or a bit of stubble left forgotten on his cheek.

Someone coughs expectantly to his right and he turns to see what it is. One of the techs is looking at him questioningly.

Is there a problem, Henshaw asks quietly. He turns his glare on the young man. You know how I feel about problems.

Yes... Yes Sir, I do indeed know how you feel about problems. But that doesn't change the fact we have one. The man pushes his glasses up higher on his nose by the white tape that holds them together, nervous sweat visible on his brow.

It's the pressure readings, he says, pointing to the glowing screen for effect. Zone five pressure readings.

Henshaw feels a bit of a knot growing in his stomach. If he makes it through the next few months without developing an ulcer, it will be a miracle. He walks over to the console the young man sits at and glances at the screen. Once again the numbers make little sense to him. Nestor is a manager, not a technician. He deals with people, leaving the boring stuff for others.

Why don't you explain why you seem to think we have a problem. Henshaw tries to word it so the tech wouldn't know he has no idea what he is looking at.

The man points to the screen again, to a rapidly flowing series of numbers. Well, as you can clearly see. We can't maintain a steady pressure in the cavern. It's like there is a leak someplace. Once we get the pressure up to testing levels, it slowly bleeds away.

Impossible, Henshaw says. That cavern is carved from solid rock a hundred feet underground. Do you know how long it took to do that? No, of course you don't. You are not paid to know that.

The young man works his jaw, trying to get a word out.

What is it? Spit it out man. Henshaw has no tolerance for ditherers.

I am aware of the lengths that were taken to ensure this test goes according to plan. That's why I'm pointing this out to you. If the pressures are off, then the results may be skewed.

And is it possible that your equipment is at fault? Perhaps it's just a gauge malfunction. Henshaw tries his best to keep his voice level, but the implications keep popping up in his head. If he fails this time it is all over for him. Reassignment is not an option. Not now.

Well, I suppose so, sir. But we have to check it out anyway. Any data that we collect, even if the gauge is bad, is going to be off by an unknowable amount. The young man is sweating now, whether from the heat of the room, or from the glare of Henshaw, it doesn't matter.

Good, Henshaw thinks, keep them on their toes.

No, I think we will let this one small anomaly pass. We have the bigger picture to think of.

But...

No buts, young man. Henshaw raises his voice and everyone in the room turns to him to see what is going on. Buts stink, and I just won't have them in my control room. Now, do we have any further concerns?

The young man looks like he is going to say something else, but thinks better of it. He shakes his head and turns his eyes back to the glowing screen, then scribbles something on a yellow pad of paper.

Henshaw clasps his hands behind his back and stalks through the aisles again. Everyone else keeps their eyes firmly glued to their screens, or to small bits of yellow paper if they don't have a screen to look at. He glances up at the countdown clock just as the black and white numbers click over to two minutes and counting. A red light beside the clock flashes slowly.

Final warning people, Henshaw calls out around the room. His voice echoes off the drab concrete walls. "Anyone else have any concerns I should know about?"

Henshaw's gaze creeps around the room, pausing at each man in turn, almost daring them to have an issue. Few meet his gaze, preferring instead to shake their heads meekly and monitor their assigned stations.

A single bead of sweat trickles down Henshaw's neck, the stiff white collar of his shirt dutifully soaks it up. He wonders why it is always so hot in the control room. The government spent millions building the facility, surely they could have spared a few extra dollars to increase the air-conditioning in the place.

Start cameras one through six. Henshaw barks.

Almost instantly a bank of televisions mounted in the forward wall of the bunker come to life, each showing a different view from inside the test cavern. Two cameras show the view, from different angles, of the small device in the dead center of the cavern. Wires and tubes run all over the bomb, and in the blurry images Henshaw can just make out the tiny US flag, and his own signature in chalk underneath it. He had wanted to put his mark on it. This is his baby, after-all. He may not have designed it, or built it, but he oversaw every step of it along the way.

One camera shows a view from outside, looking out over the desert. The sun is just appearing over the horizon on the screen and Henshaw can almost imagine the colors that the sky holds that the black and white television fails to capture. That is just one more area the US skimped on.

The countdown clock hits one minute to go and the flashing red light turns to solid green; no turning back now, even if they want to. Everything runs on automatic now.

Henshaw strides through the room back to his own tiny control panel and inserts his key into the lock. Once