Day One

by Kelly deVos

  “That’s my problem,” Navarro says quietly.

  Copeland lets his hand fall onto the table. “Son, you should think hard about what you’re gonna do next. Maybe you’re not an asset to this mission.”

  Navarro looks shaken. Probably for the first time ever. And this is a guy who’s been in fistfights, gunfights, every kind of fight. “I gave Marshall my word.”

  “Oh sure,” Copeland says. He adds in a cynical grunt for good measure. “Sure, sure. Everyone’s all in for the great Maxwell Marshall. We’re all following his big master plan. Tell yourself that if you want. But you’re in love with that girl, and love is for fools. You know what’s coming. What do you think your little friends are gonna say when they find out what you know? Who you really are?”

  It strikes me cold that this is pretty much what I’d said to my brother.

  Love is for fools.

  Oh yeah. And Navarro is keeping secrets. Just like my brother.

  “I’m approved for this mission,” Navarro says. But there’s none of his usual defiance. It’s almost a plea.

  Copeland nods. “Command says it’s a go. But you should think about it.”

  As Navarro turns to leave, Copeland calls out, “Think about what could happen.”

  His words echo faintly off the walls of the cave.

  Before I can make sense of what’s happening Terminus is pulling me. Fast. Back to the door. We barely make it back inside the hall before Navarro and Evans return.

  “What are you two doing?” Navarro asks, with suspicion.

  “Waiting for you,” Terminus says. He tries to lean against the wall, real casual-like. A move that doesn’t pay off when a pointed rock scratches his shoulder. “Oh! Ouch!” he yelps.

  I fight off the urge to smile.

  Navarro rolls his eyes. “Well, here I am.”

  I follow him back to the bunker.

  As I walk, it occurs to me that, in less than twenty-four hours, Copeland has managed to divide us. To break us down. To have us questioning our own sense of purpose.

  He, like Dr. Doomsday, understands things—understands how people operate.

  Okay.

  In the morning, we’re going to California.

  I go to bed with the general’s words ringing in my ears.

  Think about what could happen.

  War is hell. Unless your everyday existence is hell. In which case, war is just war.

  —GEN. HARLAN S. COPELAND to COL. C. MAXWELL MARSHALL

  Log of the Interim Committee

  re: Project Cold Front

  Top Secret

  JINX

  We’re ready.

  “We look ridiculous,” MacKenna says.

  “I think that’s sort of the point,” I say.

  And it makes sense.

  The team at Fort Marshall issues us sets of clothes that look like things typical teenagers would wear. Jeans and band T-shirts and chunky necklaces. Toby and Navarro have baseball hats. They make them memorize information about the teams. The trick is to have something about you that everyone can remember. Like Mac’s red hair or my short blue cut.

  Something that can be easily changed when you need to blend in somewhere new.

  I’m wearing a pair of jeans with the knees almost worn through, a green T-shirt with a picture of a T. rex that says DINOSAUR PUNS ARE PTEROBLE and a cardigan sweater that has rainbow-striped sleeves.

  “I like it,” Navarro says. “The blue hair suits you.”

  They hooked Mac up with something she would never ever wear. A preppy, striped shirtdress and a bulky knit sweater.

  “This thing is itchy,” she says, adjusting the gray sweater.

  We’re back in the briefing room, but this time Terminus is up front showing a series of images that contains facts about current events.

  California theme parks have all closed pending further information about secession.

  Our story, only to be discussed if someone asks, is that we were a group of college students traveling together for spring break when news of the secession broke out.

  “Jinx,” Terminus calls out. “Where are you from?”

  “Culver City,” I say. We’ve been made to memorize our fake bios.

  “No,” Terminus says with a groan. “Do not answer to Jinx. You should have ignored that question.” He frowns at me. “What’s your name?”

  “Carrie Martin,” I say, matching his sour expression.

  Terminus turns to Toby. “How about those Dodgers?”

  Toby points to his hat. “Angels fan here. Sucks that they’ve put spring training on hold though. Do you think the regular season will start on time?”

  “Perfect,” Terminus says. “Focus the attention on your hat. Get the other person talking. Perfect.” He changes the image on the screen.

  California governor orders energy rationing.

  Terminus points at MacKenna. “Hey, Nancy! What time is it?”

  “My name is Hannah,” she says. “And I, like, don’t have a watch.”

  “Okay,” Terminus says with a gentle smile. “Next time, though, maybe don’t act like you absolutely hate the name Hannah.”

  “I do hate the name Hannah.”

  “It’s not your real name,” Toby tells her.

  “Mom chose the name MacKenna,” she says. “Not Hannah.”

  Copeland enters the bunker. “Transport is ready. How about you?”

  “Ready as we’ll ever be,” Terminus says.

  When Copeland exits the room and we all get up from our seats, we’ve been in the briefing room since 06:00. I’m glad it’s over.

  Navarro wears a skeptical expression that exactly matches how I feel inside. I have the computer stuff under control. Navarro is tough as nails. MacKenna is smart, and Toby keeps our group under control. But will it be enough?

  Before I can think too much about that, Copeland is back. “Time to ship out.”

  We’re shuffled out the cave corridor and into the mechanical bay that Navarro mentioned earlier. It’s an enormous space with a height that is easily double that of the other caves. The entire area has been covered with smooth tile flooring. We walk past all kinds of vehicles. Carts, trucks, a small helicopter and even a boat on a trailer. Our old camper is on the far side in front of two huge metal pull-down doors, squeezed in between two cargo trucks.

  As we walk, Mac keeps trying to catch her father’s gaze.

  Jay seems almost determined not to look at her.

  We arrive at an old Land Rover with a young black-haired woman behind the wheel. The vehicle has a faded, light blue paint job with several sticker-covered surfboards tied to the top. My father would have loved it. It’s practically an antique. No autodrive. No GPS. No computers. Completely untrackable and untraceable. A couple soldiers are applying bumper stickers to the back of the vehicle and arguing about their placement.

  Galloway, one of the soldiers we met when we came in, holds the driver’s side door open and starts to introduce us. “This is Captain—”

  The woman climbs out from behind the wheel, revealing the sun-faded leather interior of the Rover, which has the occasional tear with cotton stuffing popping out. She has the air of someone who’s neat as a pin and trying desperately hard to look casual. She’s clipped up some green hair pieces with bright barrettes into her curly style, but they’re a little too perfect. She’s clad in a weathered hoodie and boardshorts, but the getup contrasts with her military posture.

  “I’m Josephine Pletcher,” she says, cutting through Galloway.

  “Uh? Really?” MacKenna asks, squinting.

  Terminus enters the bay and stands next to MacKenna. “Actually, yes.”

  The woman ignores them. “You can call me Jo. We met at the St. Regis in Punta Mita. Since we all need to get to Puerta Vallarta before t
he ship leaves—”

  “Say boat, Captain,” Galloway corrects. “Civilians always get it wrong.”

  One of the soldiers putting stickers on the car mutters, “Most civilians don’t know the difference between a ship and a boat.”

  The other one snorts out a laugh. “Most civilians don’t know the difference between their asses and their elbows.”

  Copeland casts a disapproving look in their direction, and they immediately quit talking.

  The woman starts again, as if practicing a speech. “You can call me Jo. We met at the St. Regis in Punta Mita. We all need to get to Puerta Vallarta before the boat leaves. I had a car, you had gas money.”

  “Good,” Copeland says.

  Jo resists looking pleased.

  “Why is she coming with us?” Navarro asks.

  Copeland chews on his cheek. “You didn’t really think that we’d send you out without any adult supervision, do you?”

  I wait for MacKenna to say something. I realize, once again, that I’m dependent on her to say the right things, ask the right questions. She remains quiet.

  “I’m Maxwell Marshall’s daughter. I don’t need your supervision,” I say.

  Copeland smiles, and even Navarro makes an odd expression with a little squint and a bit of a pucker of his lips. Like he thinks I’m being ridiculous.

  I guess I need to work on my witty repartee.

  Toby speaks. “The captain will help us find our transport when we arrive in San Francisco,” he says.

  And to make sure we give the flash drive to Command.

  Whoever or whatever that is.

  I hate this plan. It runs contrary to everything Dad taught me.

  Trust no one.

  Now we’re putting our lives in the hands of people we barely know.

  What’s the alternative?

  I have to find my brother.

  “All right, then,” Copeland says.

  Something else hits me. We’re leaving Jay behind.

  MacKenna fights off tears. “So...so...you’ll be here when I get back?”

  “Of course,” Jay says as he pulls his daughter into his arms. It doesn’t sound like the truth. It sounds like what parents say when what’s true is ugly. It’s the voice of a father who doesn’t want to tell his daughter that Santa Claus isn’t real. “I’m proud of you. I’ll always be proud of you.”

  “Dad... I...” MacKenna begins.

  “I know. I know,” he says, planting a kiss on her forehead.

  Jay says goodbye to Toby before turning to me. He wraps me in a warm hug. “I want to say good luck. But I know you don’t need it.”

  We don’t have to do this. None of us do. We can stay together. We can come up with another plan. Over his shoulder, I watch Mac wipe her tears on the sleeve of her cardigan. My dad is gone. And now, she’s losing hers too.

  Everything is slipping away. Everything is being lost.

  “This isn’t fair,” I whisper. “There has to be another way.”

  “We’ve all known for a while that this would have to happen sooner or later,” he says with a small, sad smile.

  I still feel responsible. “I’m sorry for everything.”

  He hugs me again. “I’m not. Everything included a lot of good times too.” He adds, “Hug Charles for me when you find him.”

  Galloway hands us each a phone, a move that seems unusually risky. But he says, “We’ve modified these radios to look like phones. You can use them to contact each other within about a mile or so, which should be fine for the ship.” I turn the small rectangle over in my hand. They’ve put my radio in a case covered with glittery pineapples. Is Carrie Martin the type of girl who likes pineapples?

  Later on, I’ll have to take this thing apart and find out what’s really inside.

  Terminus must read this thought on my face. “Of course they put trackers inside them. But it’s in your best interest that they know how to find you. You might get separated.”

  Toby nods. “Or things could be chaotic when we get to the port in San Francisco.”

  Copeland motions for the rest of us to pile into the car. “When you get on the ship—”

  Oh nope. I do not need this condescension.

  I’ve been drilling with my dad since I was ten years old.

  “Don’t be memorable,” I say, climbing through the passenger side door and into the back. The rear of the Rover contains four seats, two on each side of the vehicle. The seats face each other. The space between is filled with colorful duffel bags, the kind kids our age would carry. I slide down to make room for MacKenna, who enters next. Navarro takes the seat opposite me.

  “Do enough recon to stay aware of any issues, but otherwise, remain out of sight,” Navarro says, with an eye roll.

  “Stick to your story but don’t give unnecessary details,” I say.

  “Keep your radio with you at all times,” Navarro says.

  I’m about to add the cardinal rule. Rule number one.

  Always be prepared.

  But Copeland holds up his hand. “You will immediately follow any and all orders issued to you by Captain Pletcher.”

  “That’s Jo, sir,” the captain tells him.

  “Yes, of course, soldier,” Copeland says. He comes around to the passenger side and approaches my window. “I imagine that I don’t need to ask if you have the disk drive, do I?”

  “No,” I answer flatly.

  We’re all surprised when Toby doesn’t take the fourth seat in the back. Instead, he goes to the passenger side and sits next to Jo.

  Soldiers are coming into the bay, lining up against the walls and filling up the spaces between the various vehicles. There’s something odd about the way they regard us. It’s like we’re a battalion headed off to war. Jo turns the key, and the engine of the Rover roars loudly to life. The soldiers break out into a cheer.

  My gaze focuses on Terminus.

  My old friend.

  One more person I’ll probably never see again.

  He gives me a small wave.

  So much for Mac’s dating options.

  She leans over me, shoving her head toward the general. “Who’s in Command?” she asks. She can’t keep a certain amount of desperation out of her voice.

  “You’ll see.” Copeland gives the door a couple taps, and Jo hits the gas.

  The Rover emerges into a canyon composed of black rock. She steers us onto a narrow dirt path flanked by huge green trees. When we make it onto the actual highway, Navarro presses Jo for details, trying to find out who she is, how she got to Quintana Roo and why she’s working for Copeland.

  “It’s a waste of time for me to tell you,” Jo tells Navarro.

  “We have time,” he says. “Nothing but time, in fact, considering that we’re going to be on the road for the next twenty-nine hours.” He tries a softball. “Why do you get to use your real name?”

  “I’m not a fugitive,” she says.

  “We’re gonna be trapped in this car for twenty-nine hours?” MacKenna asks in a dead voice.

  No one wants to answer.

  Instead.

  We drive.

  We all have a bunch of stories. There are the stories we tell the world. Mostly about why we’re doing the things we’re doing. And then there are the stories we tell ourselves. If you get to the point where your enemy knows those stories, you’re already dead.

  —MacKENNA NOVAK,

  Letters from the Second Civil War

  MacKENNA

  Call me MacKenna.

  Some hours ago—never mind how long precisely—having no cell phone and no proof of my real identity, and nothing in particular to interest me in Acapulco, I thought I would sail about a little and...

  Oh. Ugh.

  My efforts to turn this trip into Moby Dick
aren’t doing anything to calm my nerves.

  Maybe Ishmael could be stoic, but I’m scared out of my mind.

  I press my sweaty palms onto the crappy cotton dress from Fort Marshall.

  Okay, MacKenna. Try to look bored and not like this itchy dress is driving you nuts.

  But honestly. Did they really have to dress me up like I was president of The Opposition Youth League?

  LEAD: Four teen fugitives on a rescue mission stow away aboard a navy ship.

  IMPORTANT FACTS:

  -Who: The Mexican government ordered all American citizens to leave the country.

  -What: The USS Cory Booker is a totally new naval acquisition that was stationed in San Diego before it was commandeered by the governor of California. It’s like a floating city with a flight deck where planes can land and a deck below where little boats can come and go.

  -When: Everyone has to be out by the end of the week.

  -Where: Ship sails from Puerto Vallarta to San Francisco.

  -Why: This transport is the last official way to get home. Anyone who misses it has to find their own way out or risk being arrested by the Federales.

  We’re pressed into a huge crowd which, as a huddle, is making its way down a long, wide, wooden pier. I imagine that there are normally a lot of ships here, but today the pier is empty except for the Booker. A few boats are already out to sea, and occasionally a horn toots.

  As we get close to the massive gray-and-white steel structure, the ship fills my whole vision. It’s all I can see on either side. The bottom of the ship is painted with a red stripe, but only a bit of red pokes out of the water. As we make our way down the pier, I have to watch my step to avoid tripping on rubber mats tossed all over the ground at odd angles. Twice Jinx trips on cables running from the ship. Navarro gives her a look of warning.

  When I’m twenty feet or so from the entry ramp, the Booker blocks out the breeze and pretty much makes its own weather. My mouth falls open as two helicopters approach from opposite directions and make synchronized landings.

  “VIPs,” a man behind me mutters.