A Message Through Martyrdom (2012)

I was the man who pressed a button. If the order came through, I authorized the firing of one nuclear warhead. I authorized the death of millions. I had only 1 allegiance – to my country, because: for just a few seconds I would write the book that I’d read my whole life, and hope to damn I do the right thing.
There were 3 more stations, but I was in control of silo 1 – the first line of the last defense;
first horseman of the apocalypse.

The others prayed to their gods every night, forgetting that god got demoted to assistant for absence, and was useless ever since we split the atom. Me? If gods were real, people like myself wouldn't exist.

The clock was just about to reset. The day was over. “Say hi to the wife and kids for me!” said Jer, my Communications Officer as he printed out his activity log. “Fuck you too, Tweety.” I casually utter back. He knew I had no family. Jeremy wasn't his real name, yet we had nicknames and inside jokes. Any name is as good as another when you live in a job. Tweety suited him best, in all his crude outspoken glory.

The clock reached the 1 minute mark, queuing my headache. Countdowns were countdowns – to launch, to the beep on a microwave, it didn't matter. They all brewed an uneasy sweat. I looked up the isle at Adrian (our ‘Commanding Agent Whatever’.) He always dressed like some sort of jungle commando to instill a sense of “seen-shit superiority”. Tweety's words. Adrian talked ruthlessly fast, pummeling the evening report to some faceless name, “Lucifer” through a transceiver. The one thing Adrian was really good at, among all his brash bumbling, was pulling the trigger. 20 seconds and a lot of madcap communication was all it took for the end to look us in the eyes.

I was not lawfully privileged to veto launch orders, even though an order like that is titanium turmoil to the human condition. If I had a grenade, I would stop this and put shrapnel in the launch panel, but I wouldn’t be able to live with myself either way. Dooming my nation to save the world, or dooming my world to save the nation. It planted an idea in my head, so fiery, would-be-subordinate, yet so capable that it might be remembered forever:

“I do have a grenade.” 

I put in the codes, whipped out my pistol and pressed arm.

20 seconds. 12 shouting gods. 7 rounds in my abort panel, 5 in my superiors. 3 panicked horsemen. 2 more seconds, 1 nuke in the silo, and no more chances.
Tomorrow would be the start of a new age: Through martyrdom.