by David Mack
Her accommodations’ luxuries didn’t end with the suite itself. Twenty-four-hour room service was a phone call away, a housekeeping staff tended to her dishes and her laundry, and until she had moved in she had never known how many satellite television channels there really were.
All that Jordan had asked from her as a concession was that she accept private academic tutoring from Heather, so that her education wouldn’t stagnate. Maia had protested that it was summer and that school could wait until the fall, but Jordan had held his ground and made it a mandatory condition of her residency at his headquarters.
She drifted into her kitchen and opened the refrigerator, driven partly by a mild appetite and partly by boredom. A pale-green Golden Crisp apple caught her eye, and she plucked it from the shelf. Biting into the firm, slightly tart fruit, she let the refrigerator door thud closed. She ambled back into the living room and collapsed onto the couch with her snack.
An uneasy feeling nagged at her. When she thought of Diana, her heart swelled with resentment. After all that Maia had done to prove herself to her adoptive mother, and to everyone else, it filled her with rage to be treated like just another kid.
At least Jordan and his people treat me like an equal, she thought bitterly. But there was no denying that she missed her home. Most of all, she missed her mother. Being treated as an equal was a pleasant change, to be sure—but it wasn’t the same as being loved.
An idle thought gave her a twinge of guilt: Who could have loved her more than her real parents? Ethan and Mary Rutledge had been dead now for decades, but for Maia it had been only four years since she’d last held her mother’s hands and felt the warm safety of her father’s embrace.
Maia’s friend and fellow returnee Lindsey Hammond had introduced her to another 4400, whose ability had enabled Maia to see and touch her dead parents again. Even knowing that they were an illusion, a mental or physical trick of some kind, had not made the experience any less powerful or moving. Seeing them had brought her to the edge of tears. Walking away from them to go home to Diana had pushed her over that edge.
She’d gone home after that encounter feeling racked with guilt. After all the love and devotion that Diana had shown her, was it fair to compare her to people who were dead and gone? Was it right to long so badly for another afternoon in the company of illusions when she had abandoned Diana in an empty home?
Her loneliness and her yearning for what she’d lost was too powerful to resist. Maia got up from the couch and walked to the closest phone, which sat on an end table near the window. She would call Lindsey and ask her to arrange another meeting with the 4400 who summoned the shades of the dead.
As she lifted the phone’s handset from its cradle, another vision seized control of her senses.
A warship, on the water but close to land, fires a missile. White smoke blooms like a flower, then smudges the sky as the rocket hurtles away, a low-flying blur.
It darts and twists between the buildings of a familiar cityscape. Then it finds its mark, zeroing in on the top corner of a building. Impact.
Fire and thunder. Screaming. Bodies.
Jordan vanishes in a wall of white flames.
The vision ended, leaving Maia in cold sweat. Her finger trembled above the phone’s keypad. She had been told what to do if a moment such as this came to pass.
She pressed the red emergency button at the bottom of the keypad and hoped that her warning would arrive in time.
NINE
KYLE BALDWIN ENTERED the Collier Foundation’s de facto “crisis center,” a conference room on a protected sublevel, shadowed by Cassie—his promicin ability personified as a redheaded vixen from his subconscious, an advisor whom only he could see or hear.
Palming sweat from his forehead and back through his close-cropped dirty-blond hair, he announced his presence to the four people who had answered his urgent summons: “Listen up.” The others turned to face him. He recited what Cassie had told him to say. “Maia says we’ve got a missile inbound. It’s coming from the water, so it’s a good bet it was fired from a ship. Job one is stop that missile. Let’s huddle up.”
He sensed Cassie looming behind his shoulder as he draped his left arm over the shoulders of Lucas Sanchez, a dark-haired and mustached gestalt telepath in his mid-forties, and rested his right arm on the back of Renata Gaetano, a young Italian woman with long, dyed-blond hair and a pear-shaped figure. Renata, who had acquired her skills months earlier during what Jordan called “the Great Leap Forward” and the rest of the city called the fifty/fifty epidemic, was an electrokinetic with a knack for controlling and destroying electronic equipment and systems.
On her right was Hal Corcoran, another willing recipient of the promicin shot. Just shy of his sixtieth birthday, he was a heavyset man who had been robbed of his eyesight by diabetes. In what seemed to Kyle like an expression of karmic justice, the man whose eyes were hidden now by opaque black glasses had acquired the ability of remote viewing; his particular skill enabled him to visualize large areas and then home in on targets of interest, even those moving at great speeds.
Completing the circle was Kemraj Singh, a slightly built young man from Pakistan. One of the original 4400, Kemraj was a powerful hydrokinetic. As he clasped his dark hand around Lucas’s, he closed his eyes. Kyle did the same, and Lucas put his gift to work.
Participating in gestalt telepathy was one of the oddest sensations Kyle had ever known. Everyone in the circle became part of a group mind, linked by Lucas’s ability. The first feeling of connection was physical. Each member of the circle became aware of the others’ breathing. Within seconds their respiration had synchronized. Five minds became one. Thoughts passed instantaneously from one person to all of the others. Yet within the merged persona, distinct voices remained.
“Find the missile,” Kyle whispered, knowing that he would be heard even if he didn’t speak aloud.
Hal was the first to reach out, casting his special vision high above Promise City. Turning west, the cloudy sky was reflected on the cobalt waters of Elliott Bay. Hurtling forward, they raced away from the city, over West Seattle, and out into the sparkling beauty of Puget Sound.
Against the cerulean surface of the water, Hal spied a swiftly moving white contrail. He fixed his focus on the nose of the missile that was speeding toward them. “There,” he said.
“Got it,” Renata replied. Kyle felt her mind reach out to the missile and make contact with its sophisticated electronic guidance systems. As she prepared to coax it toward a fatal dive into an open patch of Elliott Bay, Cassie’s breath was hot on the back of Kyle’s ear as she whispered to him, “Stop her.”
“Stop,” Kyle said. From past experience, he knew the others could neither see nor hear Cassie, even in the gestalt link.
As if seducing him, Cassie continued. “Don’t waste this opportunity, Kyle.” He turned his head to see her smirking at him, leading him to wonder what sinister plan she was hatching.
Through Hal’s remote sight, the skyline of Seattle heaved into view, growing larger by the second. “Kyle …?” he asked.
Renata added, “What do you want me to do, Kyle?”
Cassie stroked one fingernail down the center of Kyle’s back and cooed, “Say it with me, Kyle.” The next moment, he heard his voice speaking in synchronicity with hers, as if he had become her puppet. “Let the missile buzz the city,” they said in unison. “Then turn it back at the ship that fired it.”
He couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his mouth. His feelings of shock and hesitation were mirrored on the faces of the others in the circle.
“Do it,” he and Cassie said.
Focusing her thoughts, Renata took control of the missile. Kyle felt it bow to Renata’s commands, and she guided it through a wide turn over the city that was daredevil-close to the taller buildings downtown. Then it was on a return trajectory, streaking across Elliott Bay, flying so low that Hal could see its blurred reflection on the water’s surface.
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Kyle spoke more words as Cassie put them into his mouth. “Renata, keep the missile on target. Hal, find the ship it came from.” At the speed of thought, Hal projected his sight across Puget Sound, and followed the missile’s dissipating contrail to a U.S. Navy warship. “Kemraj,” Kyle/Cassie said, “move all the water away from its propellers—hold it steady.”
Cassie directed Kyle’s focus to a specific point on the ship’s hull and told him what to do. “Hit the deck near the forward gun,” he said to Renata. “And scramble their defenses.”
“Okay,” Renata said with obvious reluctance.
Everyone obeyed Kyle’s orders. There was nothing left for him to do but sit back and watch—and listen, horrified, as Cassie giggled with malicious glee.
TEN
THERE WERE NEARLY thirty officers and enlisted personnel in the combat information center of the U.S. Navy guided-missile destroyer U.S.S. Momsen, and the ship’s executive officer, Commander Alim Gafar, was convinced that not one of them knew what the hell was going on—himself included.
“Somebody give me a SITREP, goddammit,” he said, raising his voice above the buzz of nervous chatter that filled the dimly lit compartment. Confused faces looked up from illuminated tables and banks of eerily glowing computer monitors.
Lieutenant Carrie Wright, the tactical action officer, halted in her mad back-and-forth dash between the main battery gunnery liaison and the radar supervisor. “We lost control of the Tomahawk, sir,” she said. “It’s still active, but we can’t get a fix on its position.”
“If it’s still active, it hasn’t hit the target,” Gafar said. “Use the override and put it in the drink.”
Wright shook her head. “Override failed, sir. No response.”
From behind Gafar, the radar supervisor called out, “Found our bird, sir! Bearing nine-six, CBDR and hugging the waves!”
The report sent a chill through Gafar: CBDR was an acronym for Constant Bearing, Decreasing Range. A collision course.
“Collision alarm!” Gafar said. “Fire control, abort that missile now!”
“No response, sir!” an ensign replied.
A palpable wave of anxiety swept through the CIC. Gafar knew he would have only seconds to act. “Arm the CIWS,” he said, pronouncing the acronym “Sea-Whiz.”
The Phalanx Close-In Weapon System was a deck-mounted autocannon designed to blast incoming missiles and aircraft to shreds. He had never expected to have to turn it against one of his ship’s own Tomahawk cruise missiles.
“Targeting,” reported the antiaircraft gunnery liaison, a first-class petty officer whom Gafar knew only by the nickname Kiwi. “Six seconds to range …”
Gafar stood and waited, placing his trust in his CIC team. Firing the missile had not been his choice; the order had come directly from the president to the Momsen’s commanding officer, Captain McIntee, who in turn had given it to Gafar. Knowing who their target was, he hadn’t expected anything good to come of this decision, but he certainly hadn’t expected this.
With no warning he was standing in total darkness, listening to the long, dwindling whine of computer drives spinning down. “Somebody crack a light!” he called out. “Ensign Monroy, pass me the sound-powered phone and patch me through to one-MC.”
Flashlights snapped on in the sepulchral gloom and slashed through the darkness.
The communications officer adjusted the durable emergency communications device and passed the handset to Gafar, who said, “Bridge, Combat.”
Captain McIntee answered, “Combat, Actual. Go ahead.”
“Captain, we have total power failure. Aux Fire Control needs to target the CIWS.”
“Negative,” the captain replied. “All sections are dark, and we’re dead in the water. We—” Over the line, Gafar heard another officer shout, “Visual contact! Inbound bogey!”
“Brace for impact!” Gafar bellowed across the CIC. “Away DC and fire teams! Go watertight! Move!”
Everyone followed him as he ran for the exit and scrambled into the passageway to secure the hatches and warn the damage control and firefighting teams to prepare for the worst.
A bomb blast roared through every deck and compartment on the Momsen. The ship heaved violently under Gafar’s feet, then rolled to starboard. Within seconds, he smelled the sulfuric tang of cordite and the pungent stench of leaking oil and burning fuel.
He was shouting orders, but no one was listening. Men were on fire, and the corridors reeked of charred flesh. Toxic smoke stung his eyes, and a string of secondary detonations confirmed his fear that the missile had hit the ship’s ordnance supply.
Stumbling forward, he strained to see the overhead through the black cloud that roiled above him. Panicked crewmen slammed into him and continued on, ignoring his warnings that they were running into a deadly blaze.
Another blast turned everything white for a moment, then gave way once more to flame-licked shadows.
The Momsen groaned like a wounded steel leviathan, and the deck pitched almost straight down ahead of Gafar, who flailed for a handhold. His hand found the railing of a ladder, and he hung on as loose bits of debris and sailors’ personal effects tumbled like dice down the suddenly vertical shaft.
An active flashlight bounced out of an open hatchway above him and nearly hit him in the head as it fell past. A moment later it came to a halt—floating on the rising swell of icy seawater that was flooding into the sinking destroyer.
It took only a few seconds for the numbingly cold water to reach Gafar’s feet. In less than a minute it swallowed him up to his neck. He fought to stay afloat, to ride the cresting wave to an escape, but all he found were sealed hatches and wreckage-strewn passages. Then there was nowhere left to go.
He didn’t try to hold his breath.
He knew he’d freeze before he drowned.
Either way, he was as good as dead.
ELEVEN
EVERY PHONE in the Seattle NTAC office was ringing. No one was answering them.
Tom Baldwin focused on his computer and tuned out the shrill cacophony of several dozen digital ringtones, including the one from his phone. Every extension light was flashing.
Outside his office, Diana, both Jeds, senior analyst Marco Pacella, and almost every other agent had gathered to watch the latest developments on the office’s numerous televisions. From where Tom was sitting, the news anchors’ overly modulated voices blended together into a steady drone of gibberish.
One channel showed live news helicopter footage of a fiery oil slick on Puget Sound—the only remaining trace of the sunken U.S. Navy destroyer Momsen. Another feed offered a montage of amateur home videos of the missile, which had made a supersonic pass over the city before turning back out to sea.
A third channel showcased images of panic in the streets.
Like I needed the news to tell me about that, Tom brooded. Helping coordinate first responders was his primary task at that moment. Most of what they were responding to was looting and traffic jams at the various military-guarded checkpoints that ringed Jordan Collier’s benignly usurped city-state.
There was almost enough chaos to distract Tom from thinking about the fact that his son was inside the Collier building. Almost—but not quite.
Meghan leaned halfway through his office door. “Just got off the phone with the chief of Seattle PD,” she said. “He says his people have Beacon Hill under control, so you can stand down, if you want.”
“Thank God,” Tom said, pulling his palms over his face to push away the fatigue. “Have you seen the footage on channel five? That was a Tomahawk.”
She grimaced. “I saw it.”
“I don’t suppose the Navy gave us a heads-up before lobbing a cruise missile into our backyard?”
“According to SECDEF, the strike was handled on a need-to-know basis,” Meghan said. “Three guesses where we fall on that list.”
“Big surprise,” Tom said, sharing her frustration. “What’re the talking points this time?”
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“I don’t think they know yet.”
From the main room behind Meghan, Tom heard the rising pitch of angry voices growing louder—and one of them was Diana. He bolted from his chair and moved toward the door. Meghan stepped out of his way and followed him as he hurried out to see what was going on.
Diana paced like a caged tigress, muttering vile curses under her breath while shooting fearful and angry glances at a TV screen showing images of the Tomahawk’s near miss of the Collier Foundation building. She was surrounded by several other agents, including Marco and both Jeds. J.B. held up his hands and tried to halt Diana’s anxious back-and-forth. “Diana, come on,” he said. “It might be a mistake.”
He recoiled as she snapped back, “DOD just confirmed the target! It was no mistake!”
“You gotta calm down,” J.B. said, putting a hand on Diana’s shoulder. She swatted away his attempt at consolation.
“Don’t tell me to calm down!” she screamed at him, her rage boiling over into tears. “Maia was in there! The Navy just shot a fucking missile at my kid!”
Tom stepped between Diana and J.B. before the man could say anything else to make the situation worse. “J.B., get lost,” Tom said. “And take your twin with you.” The two Jeds slunk away wearing glum expressions. Tom turned back to Diana, who hid her tear-reddened eyes under one hand and crossed her other arm over her chest. Keeping his hands to himself, Tom said softly, “He doesn’t have kids. He doesn’t get it.”
Her voice trembled with barely contained terror and rage. “They could’ve killed her, Tom. And Kyle, too.”
“I know,” Tom said, feeling his own fury rising.
Meghan approached Tom and Diana with visible caution. “Diana?” she said. “I have a call going through to Jordan’s people. Do you want me to try and get Maia on the line for you?” Diana nodded, apparently too overcome with emotion to voice her response. Meghan tilted her head toward her office. “Come on. If we reach her, you can use my office.” Nodding again, Diana smiled sadly at Meghan, then touched Tom’s arm in a gesture of quiet gratitude. Then the two women stepped away, into the semiprivate confines of Meghan’s executive office.
