Inside each cylinder, sealed in pressurized nitrogen, rested the mechanical, analog brass code-drums and mechanical target-release ciphers for the nuclear deterrent of the United States.
No digital hack could touch them.
No satellite override could blind them.
They were physical, un-hackable, eternal.
Captain Garrett Stone and I walked down the central gangway, our hand-welted leather field boots ringing clear against the diamond plate.
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Garrett supported my right side, his arm steady around my waist, his dark naval coat unbothered by the subterranean draft, while I carried Arthur Mercer Senior’s brass surveying level firmly against my ribs, holding the four-inch titanium keyway securely in my left hand.
Barnaby walked at my right heel, his amber eyes reflecting the soft tritium light.
Vice Admiral David Mercer stood beside Cylinder Number One.
He reached out, his hand trembling slightly, and brushed his fingers across the engraved brass plaque welded to the titanium casing:
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