The chain rattled as I pulled steadily on one side of the loop, pulling it down so that the bunker door groaned, shivered, and then began to slowly open. The magic of physics made it so that I could pull open a twenty-ton blast door just by pulling on the chain as it ran through pulleys and gears instead of hanging off the chain like a monkey. Out of habit I glanced down at the rad-detector clipped to my breast pocket when the air gushed out smelling of scorched metal and an odd smell that didn't really have any comparison but my brain insisted was malevolence.

"It's like looking into Hell," one of the infantry officers said. I could hear a little bit of fear in his voice as the bunker door opened wider.

"You'll be fine," I told him, stepping back and letting inertia and friction slow the heavy door down. I moved inside the bunker and hit the light switches, waiting for the lights to clack on and reveal the entirety of the massive bunker.

"They say that these weapons aren't deployed, that they're all in depots and storage areas, and they've never been put into place," I said as the door slowly groaned to a stop. I waved at the infantry guys and the handful of snake eaters to follow me inside, glancing at my rad badge again. "Technically Atlas is an ammunition depot. A storage facility. It says so right in the name, and it isn't an ASP, which is an ammunition supply point, so legally these weapons aren't deployed and are in inactive storage."

My skin prickled and I insisted that it was all in my mine, that stray neutrons and particles weren't slamming holes in my DNA.

"Again, technically, we're abiding by the non-proliferation treaties signed by that peanut farmer," I said. I sighed. "No, let me wind that back. Carter had an impressive set of balls on him and knew the dangers of this shit better than anyone in office."

"What do you mean?" One of the infantry guys asked.

"We learned about it in Special Weapons class, to teach us just how tough the human body is when it comes to radiation," I told them, reaching over and picking up the inventory sheet. "Back in the 50's Carter had only been in the Navy a few years. He was a nuke guy, one of Rickover's men," I continued while one of the Navy Seals whistled low and impressed. "Rickover, if you've never heard of him, served over sixty years in the Navy on Active fucking Duty, and was the father of the Navy's nuke program. Him and Amos Fry completely rebuilt the US military's NBC operations from the ground up, going from tossing smallpox blankets over unsuspecting Indians and gassing Krauts in trenches to what we have today."

"He's why we've never had a nuclear accident on a Naval vessel," the SEAL said.

I flipped the pages, looking at the ammo, nodding.

"In 1952, up at Canada's Chalk River Laboratories an accident caused a partial meltdown in an experimental nuclear reactor when everything went tits up. Hydrogen explosions went off and hundreds of thousands of gallons of radioactive water flooded the core, heavily damaging the reactor. When the Canadian government screamed for our help Carter was chosen to lead a team of guys into the reactor fucking core to shut it down. Carter and his men worked in 90 second shifts and still took enough radiation that they all pissed radiation for over a fucking year," I said, putting the inventory sheet back after I spotted where I needed to go. "Think about that. Him and twenty-three others volunteered to go into a partially melted down reactor and dismantle it in 90 second shifts with 1950's gear."

That got low whistles of appreciation as I led them down the aisle toward the middle of the bunker.

"Can't deny the dude's bravery," I said, shaking my head. "But all he'll be remembered for is fucking up the Middle East Peace Accords and dropping a shit sandwich into everyone's lap."

I stopped next to the heavy lead lined shipping and storage boxes, checking the data plates.

"Here they are," I said. I motioned at the infantry guys. "Grab four boxes. Four men per box, handles are on the side. Watch it, it weighs about three hundred pounds," I told them. "Take them out to the pad, stand guard."

I noticed they all had sweat beading on their foreheads as they moved into position, four men per crate.

"Lift with your legs not your backs," I said, idly, turning and waving the other to follow me. "We're taught about it in Special Weapons so that we know the possible cost of our jobs. Carter and his men knew goddamn good and well they were throwing their lives away to shut that reactor down that the snow-donkeys had fucked up, but they did it because it was their fucking job to do that shit," I told them.

"Three Mile Island meltdown happened because civilians can't be trusted with this shit," I said, counting the stacks next to me. "They ignored Nuclear Regulatory Commission guidelines, didn't follow protocol, were poorly trained, and didn't know their fucking jobs so when the reactor tried to SCRAM they overrode it and fucked up by the numbers," I stopped and double-checked where we were.

"Shit just like this sat here, in these fucking bunkers, for almost twenty fucking years and all it did was contaminate the ground-water when several of the warheads got left outside in the weather," I said. "The civvies like to talk about how careless we are with nuclear weapons because some Air Force faggots dropped a couple of H-bombs into a swamp where they can't be recovered, or some private dropped a wrench into an ICBM and caused a blue flash," I started moving again, slower, paying attention to the data-plates. "But it's a case of your retarded cousin bitching you can't take care of your 50,000 Legos because you dropped some on the floor and your uncle stepped on them, all the while trying to eat his Duplo blocks that he hasn't shoved up his ass and now has to see a doctor to get them removed."

I stopped and pointed at the wooden frames, each holding a three canisters. "Get me six of those."

The infantry guys nodded and I started moving again.

"The Chico Incident, though, that damn near took us to war," I said, moving slowly through the stack. A glance back showed me the infantry and the SF guys were clustered together, sweating, looking at the W-series artillery shells around us nervously.

"Fucking Soviets bribed a couple of contractors to fuck up the silo out at Chico, they blocked a vent and a valve at Launch-One at Facility Four-Charlie outside Chico, California, and the whole fucking Titan Site blew up and took out a Titan class ICBM," I told them. "It fueled anti-nuclear protests that quickly died out."

"Damn," someone said.

I stopped looking at the next ones. "Eight of those."

The infantry guys nodded, sweating and staring at what looked like simple duffle-bags next to a case, all held in place by a wooden frame.

"It's only about a hundred pounds, you'll be fine, champ," I said, turning around and heading back out. I saw that they were still moving the second set out and took a sharp right, moving between the stacks of eight inch artillery shells.

"You can't run a bug in here or a radio," I said, conversationally, "Too much ambient radiation hashes up the channels with EM static. There are no cameras, no microphones, and nobody can say anything about what happens in these stacks because this shit is so highly classified that you couldn't write in a statement that you were here. And if you weren't here, the incident didn't happen."

"This is Atlas. This. Not the 5.56, not the Tomahawks, not the Copperheads. This and the chem, these are Atlas," I told them, slowing down and moving between the stacks. The aisles were wide enough to get the little diesel forklifts in, but the height of the stacks and the uniform gray artillery shells made it feel claustrophobic.

I paused for a second, looking at who was left.

The officers and Senior NCO's of the people that would be handling these weapons.

"Wanna feel something freaky?" I asked.

Some of them nodded, the others flinched slightly, and a few shook their heads.

"Reach out and touch the artillery shells," I grinned, putting my hand on it.

Some of them did and I smiled wider. "Fucking do it," I said. "Put your god damned palm on it like you're cupping your wife's goddamn tits."

They flinched but did as instructed.

"Temperature in here is regulated at sixty-three degrees Fahrenheit," I told them. "That way we can tell if one of these rounds is simmering by walking by it and feeling the heat coming off of it."

Two of them, a Staff Sergeant and a Captain, whipped their hands off the shells and stared at their palms.

"PUT YOUR FUCKING HAND BACK ON THAT FUCKING ROUND!" I bellowed.

They did so, the Captain cringing as he did so.

"You feel that warmth?" I asked.

They all nodded, swallowing thickly.

"That's ambient radiation from the weapon's grade core undergoing half-life decay," I told them. "That's what got through the shielding. The warmth is molecular agitation of particles and tight wave radiation pulses on the atomic structure of the artillery shell's metal casing."

I put my own hand on one.

"That's it sleeping, that's it dreaming. You can feel its dreams," I told them. "This is the XM785 dual-purpose nuclear weapon," I told them. I glared at an SFC. "You put your goddamn hand back on that weapon or I'll have your teeth kicked in by your men," I snarled. He swallowed and put his hand back on the round. "This weapon is currently configured for maximum enhanced radiation cascade, to cook the Soviet troops inside their shitty tanks and make the Soviet infantrymen's skin melt off of them like Frosty the Snowman getting a golden shower."

They all nodded jerkily. They were all sweating, staring at the rounds around them.

"These are all configured for minimum squeeze, which is only a hundred tons, zero point one kilotons, but can be configured up to three-hundred-twenty kilotons within eight minutes by a trained crewman," I told them. "Right now, it's dreaming. Make no mistake, gentlemen, this thing is dreaming of killing you and everything you know."

"You can feel it dreaming, can't you?" I asked, smiling.

They all nodded, sweat dripping from some of their faces.

"My men and I work with this shit every goddamn day. We sleep with it, we eat with it, and if we get horny and have a partner, we fuck on top of it or against it," I told them. "I have six thousand of these rounds in this bunker alone. I have enough to turn East Germany into the face of the goddamn moon, and the orders to facilitate certain units in doing just that."

I stroked the side of one of the shells, feeling the gentle warmth against my hand.

"We inspect every one of them yearly. I know them, inside and out, better than you know your wives," I said softly. I tapped CPL-AS chalked on the side of the round. "That's me. Corporal Anthony Stillwater. I personally opened this round up, measured, examined, and tested the components, and put it back together."

"Follow me," I said, moving deeper into the stacks till we hit the concrete wall and the narrow path between the wall and the stacks. Just wide enough to turn one of the small forklifts in. I took a left and headed out of the bunker.

"All of this has to be moved. It's all been replaced by newer, stronger, more lethal shit," I stopped, looking at them and putting my hand on another round. "This is a XM79M1 nuclear weapon sitting at 240 kilotons with enhanced radiation cascade pulse. You got to touch her little sister. Touch her."

They all swallowed and touched one next to them.

"Feel that warmth? She likes you. She's dreaming about you," I told them. "She knows that in three weeks I'll be opening her up and replacing some components, bringing her up to a variable explosive weight with a maximum initial detonation pulse of six-hundred kilotons with a dual thermal pulse and a dual radiation cascade with an uptake fuel-air kicker."

"These are the teen queens of the dance," I waved at them. "Follow me."

"You're men are taking the hyperactive kids and the grand dames out to inspect and ready to deploy them," I told them. "Madame is a Medium Atomic Demolition Mine, the Sad Man is a Small Atomic Demolition Mine, the Davey Crockett is a man-portable nuclear rocket."

We moved to the door and I looked out, taking a quick headcount.

Everyone assigned to move the munitions was standing on the edge of the pad.

As far away from the nukes as they could get.

"When I shut the door, I'll take your men through inspection, preparation, and deployment," I said. I grabbed the chain.

"That weird feeling of being cold? That's the loss of the gentle warmth of the teen queens of the nuclear ball," I smiled.

I started shutting the door, pulling on the chain to get the multi-ton door moving.

When the door boomed shut I turned and looked at them.

"Welcome, gentlemen, to Atlas."