by Summer Lane
“But you’re alive,” I say. “So there’s no need for the Locke Initiative now.”
“Well,” President Banner continues, “my entire cabinet was killed, and the country collapsed. I was assumed dead, and so no one was ever designated as acting president in my stead.”
“That’s because everything was leveled!” Manny exclaims. “There was no country left. There was nobody to do the designating.”
“There is now,” Admiral Boyd says. “Now that the president is here, he automatically assumes the position of Commander-in-Chief of these United States once again. According to the Locke Initiative, he has the power to designate new members of his cabinet, including a vice president, secretary of defense, and so forth.”
“What good does that do if there’s no longer a house or senate to perform checks and balances?” Uriah asks.
“This is not peacetime, Lieutenant True,” President Banner answers, calmly. “This is the final backup plan – it’s the only chance of organization and leadership we have left.”
“We have a good system of leadership right now,” I point out. “Every militia has its own leadership structure, and every state has its own alliances. Besides, you have no way to instigate a nationwide system of authority – you no longer have a military at your command – each state has its own militia and its own military.”
President Banner sighs.
“Commander Hart,” he says, “there are many things that you do not understand about this country or the plans that were carefully placed decades ago in order to prepare for a collapse just like this. There is always a way.”
“Please, elaborate,” I snap. “Because I don’t know about you, but your governmental plans have sucked so far. Millions of people are dead. Congratulations on a job well done.”
Admiral Boyd starts to say something, but Uriah stands.
“Enough,” he says, his voice strong. “Arguing is not going to get us anywhere. What we need to do now is decide how we’re going to use the nuclear weapons against Omega.”
“I say we negotiate,” Vera suggests, tapping her fingers on the table. “Maybe we can get some kind of a peace treaty going if they know we have return fire to destroy them with. Aim those suckers right at China and the Middle East…see what they think of us, then. Maybe they’ll pull back the Athena Strike.”
“I agree,” I say. “We don’t need to start a nuclear firefight…they just need to be aware that if they go through with Athena Strike, nothing will stop us from doing whatever it takes to protect this country from a total Omega invasion.”
“Right,” Andrew agrees. “Remember, they’re not just invading, either. They’re rehoming millions of their own people in our country – rebuilding from the ground up, burning every trace of the civilization that existed before the Collapse.”
“Total domination,” Vera whispers.
“Mr. President,” I continue. “Your plan of uniting the states isn’t one that I disagree with – I think it needs to happen. But it needs to be something that every state engages in independently. We can’t force them into it just because you’re alive. I don’t mean that as disrespectful, either. I’m just stating a fact: we’ve operated on our own for this long, and no one feels particularly attached to the idea of a national government at this point. It’s too early in the game.”
President Banner opens his mouth, then closes it again.
He looks at Admiral Boyd and says, “Perhaps. I suppose the question now is when do we contact Chancellor Klaus and open negotiations with her regarding the nuclear weapons. Maybe we can shut Athena Strike down before it’s too late.”
I chew on my lower lip.
They’re wrong: it’s already too late.
I know in my gut that there’s nothing we can do to stop it.
***
Two days drag by. Nothing changes.
Chris is still comatose. We cannot reach an agreement about contacting Omega. The idea that they will stop attacking us because we possess nuclear weapons is a fool’s wish…I know that. Everyone knows that. The idea is that we will be able to stall them long enough to gather more troops, more supplies. Perhaps unite the states together, like the president suggested…but on the militia’s terms, not his.
Over the next couple of days, I am either locked in an argument at the communications center with Admiral Boyd and the rest of the militia leaders, or aimlessly sitting at Chris’s bedside, watching his skin grow paler and his body grow colder. I talk to him as he lies there, and I find myself visiting him less and less…
Seeing him like this is too much – I can’t bear to look at him so weak, so fragile.
And then one day I am sitting on the edge of my bed, thinking about this false calm that we are encapsulated in…knowing that the safety of Camp Cambria is temporary and illusionary…when Uriah knocks on the door.
I open it, and he is standing there, a grim expression on his face.
“What is it?” I ask, frowning, my mouth dry.
Something bad has happened – I immediately sense it.
“You need to see this,” he replies.
I understand. I grab my rifle, my jacket, and then we leave. We walk down the street, to the end of the main drag, where I see President Banner standing with Admiral Boyd. Everyone that I know is standing here, too, along with the refugees and militia fighters of Camp Cambria.
“What is it?” I ask Manny.
He shakes his head, pointing.
“Oh, my God, Cassidy…” he whispers.
I gasp.
Through the misty fog, I see soldiers.
Rows and rows of American soldiers. They are moving in groups toward Camp Cambria, the militia welcoming them with American flags. Refugees toss flower petals into the streets. People begin to yell and cheer, shaking their fists in the air. Women fall to their knees and weep.
“Finally!” someone cries. “The United States military has returned!”
The rumble of Black Hawks shakes the ground.
Uriah says, “It looks like backup has arrived.”
“But…how?” I stumble. “Where from? Who from?”
The soldiers stretch into the fog, slowly but steadily making their way into camp. There must be thousands of them. As the Black Hawks scream overhead, the earth shakes with their power. The camp is in an uproar. People are gathered on the sides of the street, jumping up and down, and children are dancing in circles. The American troops grin and wave like actors on parade.
My mind reels – confusion grips me.
Where are these troops coming from? How did they get here?
I don’t understand…I don’t understand…
“Commander Hart,” President Banner says, approaching me, yelling to be heard over the sound of boots hitting the ground and aircraft grumbling through the sky. “I apologize, again, for the secrets that I have had to keep from you. This is truly the Locke Initiative. These are the last forces of the United States military – I am their Commander-in-Chief, and Camp Cambria and the state of California is now under the control of martial law.”
Chapter Four
I watch them. The soldiers.
Martial law. It has finally come to this.
They take over the camp in a wave of bodies, commandeering the city square, cramming into the alehouse, congregating in the park. There must be at least two thousand men, and that doesn’t even count the troops coming in by air.
My heart beats fast in my throat, unease flooding through me.
This isn’t right.
“Where did these troops come from?” I demand.
We are standing in the communications center, President Saul Banner and Admiral Boyd behind me. Uriah is with me, and the rest of the Freedom Fighters are outside, bewildered by the sudden presence of the American soldiers.
“They’re part of the Locke Initiative,” President Banner explains. “A secret force of fighting men and women, deployed only when I give the command.”
“Where have you
been hiding them?” I press.
Anger, anger, anger. How could something like this be kept from us?
All this time…thousands of American troops have been in this country…and nobody thought to tell us? How many thousands of our own men have died because we lacked proper reinforcements – because we were outnumbered a million to one?
“Sector 13,” President Banner explains, rubbing a hand across his weathered face. “It’s a top secret military facility in Nevada – you probably know it better as Area 51. It’s an underground base, very similar to Sector 20 or Sector 27, both locations that I know you are very familiar with. Sector 13 is very much the same – only much, much bigger. We’ve protected thousands of troops there, guarding them from Omega’s detection, storing millions of rounds of ammunition, thousands of guns, and hundreds of vehicles and aircraft. We’ve been stockpiling for at least thirty years – the public never knew the truth, and they didn’t need to. It was our secret.”
“Are you serious?” I growl. “You’ve had troops all this time – and you’ve never utilized them? You’ve been hiding them since the Collapse?”
“Cassidy…” Uriah says, his tone a slight warning.
“What’s wrong with you?” I continue, livid. “Thousands of militiamen and women have died because of our shortage of reinforcements!”
“I know this is difficult to understand,” President Banner replies, grimacing. “But it had to be a secret – we couldn’t simply reveal our greatest surprise to the enemy early in the game. I had great hope that the militias alone could thwart Omega. These troops were meant to be deployed only in our most desperate hour, if the rebellion grew too weak.” He bows his head. “The hour has arrived.”
I am numb with shock, with anger.
How many times did we risk our lives to find reinforcements?
Too many.
“I understand the strategy,” I grit. “But sometimes you have to deviate in order to save the lives of good men and women.”
I remember the beginning of the Collapse: the fall of civilization and the invasion of Omega’s forces were so quick – so sudden – that federal martial law had never been implemented. The only martial law we suffered through was Omega’s. Our own country didn’t even possess the structure to form an emergency unit of leadership anymore.
“Tell them the rest of it,” Admiral Boyd suddenly says.
President Banner hesitates.
“Tell us,” Uriah commands. It is not a question.
“You should know that the Locke Initiative is irreversible,” he says. “I will, of course, allow Commander Miller to run things here at Camp Cambria, but the state is, for the time being at least, under martial law. I am the leading executive here, since the Governor of California is no longer alive.”
“So you’re just going to take control of the state?” I reply, dangerously close to snapping. “You can’t do that. Every militia camp and fortress has its own structure of leadership and chain of command. You can’t just come in and take control. You don’t even know how to fight this war – you’ve been hiding like a coward in the shadows since the Collapse!”
“I have been biding my time, following the plan that we constructed very carefully and methodically before the Collapse,” President Banner replies, calm and cool. “Commander Hart, this is something that needs to happen.”
“I won’t take my orders from you,” I spit.
“You have no choice,” Admiral Boyd thunders. “This is martial law. You will submit to the president’s authority or you will be court-martialed.”
This shocks me – roots me to the spot.
All this time, the militias have had the freedom to fight when and how they want.
Not anymore.
“What if I say no?” I reply. “What if I just take my men, and get out?”
“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” President Banner says. “I need you here – you’re knowledgeable about Omega and good at what you do, Commander. I am ordering you to remain in Camp Cambria, along with the Freedom Fighters and the Angels of Death.”
I glare at him. I have rarely felt such insurmountable rage toward any one man in my life. I should have known he wasn’t here just to seek refuge. I should have known this was part of something bigger – much, much bigger.
“Omega will know that you’re alive, now,” I say.
“They already know,” President Banner responds. “Omega knows everything.”
And then, a very dark and terrifying thought occurs to me:
President Saul Banner now controls the nuclear weapons we risked our lives to seize in Hawaii. He holds the fate of the world in his hands.
And there’s nothing I can do about it.
Yet.
***
“Oh, my God,” Vera moans. “This can’t be happening.”
It’s happening,” Manny spits, slamming his fist against the window in my private quarters. “A bloody politician just took over our state – our state, the one that we’ve shed our own blood to protect! Damn him.”
We are gathered in my quarters because the camp is overrun with troops – there is nowhere else we can talk in privacy. The American reinforcements have created a massive perimeter around the camp. Aircraft screeches overhead. Vehicles roar up and down the street. Refugees are being kicked out of their apartments and living areas to make room for the troops. President Saul Banner is using the communications center as his HQ. It is guarded, patrolled, and fortified.
The war has changed yet again.
“We should leave,” Andrew suggests. “I didn’t sign up to be squashed under the control of martial law. I don’t answer to anyone but you and Commander Young. That’s it.”
I wince, hearing Chris’s name.
“We can’t leave,” I say, leaning on the wall. “Banner won’t let us. He wants to use us against Omega.”
“This isn’t all bad, right?” Elle says, looking to Cheng. “I mean, we finally have reinforcements! Thousands of them. Yeah, the President isn’t the nicest guy in the world, but it’s better than nothing. At least we have some semblance of leadership.”
“I agree,” Cheng adds. “I don’t think this is a bad thing. I think this could win the war for us – finally, the reinforcements we’ve been needing, and a president to bind us all together.”
I shake my head.
“I don’t like it,” I say. “There’s too much that he’s not telling us – too much that doesn’t add up. Why deploy the troops now? Why come out of hiding at this moment in time? What does he really want?”
“He wants to be the president again,” Uriah comments, glaring at the floor. “He wants to unite the states again. I can see it on his face – he wants to be the hero.”
“Anybody who wants to be a hero is a fool,” I snap.
Logically, the arrival of the troops isn’t a bad thing. It means we’re well protected, armed, and prepared for any Omega attack that might come.
But is it enough to withstand the Athena Strike?
And if not…will Banner use the nuclear weapons? What if he starts a global firefight?
So many questions…so much confusion.
“What would Chris say?” Vera mutters.
I look out the window.
“He’d answer to the president,” I whisper. “But he’d do whatever needed to be done if the time came and he didn’t agree with the direction of Banner’s command.”
I know this for a fact: Chris has never been afraid to break the rules.
“So far, we don’t know that the president is going to lead us into a bad place,” Cheng points out. “We should trust the man. He’s the best shot we have at a cohesive leadership structure. We’re afraid because we’ve been betrayed and burned by people whom we thought we could trust. We have a right to be suspicious, but I think we need to believe in this. Embrace it. It might be the only way we survive this war – martial law sounds bad, I know…but it’s only temporary.”
I say nothing, but
when I look at Uriah, I know he’s thinking the same thing I am:
We don’t know that it’s temporary. That’s the danger.
***
That night, I awake to the sound of gunfire.
I roll out of bed, boots on the floor. I grab my rifle and jacket and run outside, into the cold, foggy darkness. Someone screams. More gunshots. I take cover behind the corner of the building. Through the darkness, refugees are running. A child, screaming for his mother, stumbles on the sidewalk, smacking his face against the concrete. His mother fumbles to pick him up, dragging him onward, faster.
The communications center is ablaze with fire, flames crackling and popping. A man stands outside with a semiautomatic weapon, spraying bursts of gunfire into the street, shattering windows and killing anyone who is unlucky enough to be in his path. He is yelling something – a language that I do not understand – and I know immediately that he is an Omega hack.
I swing my rifle around and rest the stock cleanly into my shoulder, pressing my cheek against the gun. The man is covered in blood, a mere shadow against the blazing light of the fire. I set my sights on his head, and I take the shot.
I don’t miss.
I never do…not anymore.
The bullet strikes his head like a pebble striking a target. His neck snaps backward, and he cracks against the pavement, eyes wide-open, resembling a bloody, broken doll.
Tango down, I think. Job well done.
But there is more screaming, and down the street, a full firefight has erupted between local militia and someone who has barricaded themselves into the medical building.
Chris.
My heart suddenly drops to my stomach, and I run.
I don’t care about the president – I don’t care if he makes it out of the communications center or not. I care about Chris – comatose and vulnerable, trapped inside the medical building.
