by Summer Lane
After a long moment, he stands, running a hand over his face, wiping away his tears, hands shaking.
“Commander Hart,” he says, taking my hand. “How in the name of God can I ever thank you for bringing my family back to me?”
“Just keep your word,” I reply simply. “That’s thanks enough.”
He squeezes my fingers, swallowing.
“Thank you,” he whispers. He looks at Vera, Andrew, Father Kareem, and Andrew. “Thank all of you.”
The clapping continues, and Abbi and Mary wave to the crowd.
“Well,” President Banner says, clearing his throat. “Welcome to the convention, Commander Hart. Thank God you’re here – now we have someone to represent California.”
“You said the convention wouldn’t happen for at least four weeks,” I tell him. “It’s almost like you wanted to start without us, Mr. President.”
I don’t hide the accusatory tone from my voice.
He keeps his arms firmly around the shoulders of his wife and child, responding, “We lost all contact with you at Pescadero. I was told you and your team was either KIA or MIA. The convention was ready to come together. I had no reason to delay. The sooner we unite, the better. The Athena Strike is maybe a week away from attacking. You have to understand that I had no choice.”
It’s a reasonable excuse, but I am still angry.
He promised to give us four weeks…no matter what.
“The Angels of Death never fail missions,” I say. “I don’t care what your sources told you. You should have waited – that was the deal.”
President Banner frowns.
“I deeply apologize, Commander Hart,” he says. “I was only trying to do what was right. I had to move on, with or without you.”
His words are logical, sincere.
I want to believe him.
The clapping stops. President Banner takes a deep breath and says, “My friends – my allies – I’m pleased to introduce the first lady, Abbi Banner, and my beautiful daughter, Mary!”
More applause.
He holds up a hand.
“My family is here – and they are alive – because of the bravery of Commander Cassidy Hart,” he goes on, looking at me. “She and the Angels of Death did the impossible…I am forever in their debt. Please, welcome them to the convention – they’re representing California, after all!”
The applause continues, but it’s like static in my ears. I’m numb to it, watching the president as he touches his wife, kissing her forehead. I wince, jealous of their love and their reunion.
There will be no reunion for me. Never again…
I turn away. I vaguely notice handshakes and claps on the back as we sit down on a space of empty seating at the bottom of the risers. I look behind me, realizing that small strips of paper have been taped to each section of seats. Ours reads, California. The seats above us read Nevada, Colorado, Arizona,and so forth.
Allies. Militias.
Fighters.
I exchange looks with Vera and Father Kareem as the full gravity of the situation sinks in. These are militias who have been in the fight against Omega across the country, just like us! Stories that mirror our own, struggles that we have both fought through…horrors that we have all survived.
Despite everything, this is a spark of hope: the promise of union in the shattered remains of the Collapse.
“My friends,” President Banner says, bringing his family to the podium. “Let the convention begin.”
His words are heavy, booming.
The convention has begun.
***
There are nineteen states convened. Of the twenty-three called to the convention, only nineteen militia representative teams made it to California alive. On the bottom of the opposite corner of the gym, I recognize Anita Vega, the commander of the Mexican militia group, the Coyotes. Her black hair is piled tightly on her head. She nods respectfully at me.
There is also a representative from Canada – a thin, pale man named Justin Hoff – and a commander from England, William Lyle.
“International alliances?” I whisper.
“President Banner has been a busy man,” Uriah mutters.
“This is all extremely boring and I’d rather take a nap,” Vera complains, but there is amusement in her voice.
The convention first takes a sort of roll call, double-checking representatives and militia leaders in attendance. California is last, and when I raise my hand as we’re called on, I am infuriated because it should be Chris representing us…not me.
Always Chris.
The proceedings drag on and on, representative speakers from each state coming to the podium and firing up the audience, speaking of alliance, of union, of governmental resurrection.
“We need leadership again!” A man named Otis Mallard shouts, raising his hands. He is the commander of the biggest militia in Utah, the Rattlesnakes.“There is only one way that we can unite this country again! We need a president. We need a commanding general. We need hope!”
This really gets the people going. They pump their fists, chanting Burn Omega over and over again, shaking the walls of the gymnasium.
“I propose a movement,” Otis continues, his ragged face flushed red. “A vote, because we are a free people, and Omega can never take that away from us!”
More shouting. More fist pumping.
“We must resurrect the Union!” Otis continues. “We must remain independent, but we must unite under one government so that we can present a strong military front against Omega’s ultimate attack: the Athena Strike. I say that we vote to unite and that we move to make President Saul Banner our president again!”
The crowd is on its feet, roaring its approval. I slowly stand with the rest of my friends, applauding along with everyone else. Everyone is smiling and screaming, “Make him president again!”
Uriah and I are the silent ones, the watchful ones.
It can’t be this easy. It simply can’t.
But it is. Under the supervision of Otis Mallard – who is apparently the man designated to oversee the proceedings of the convention today – the states take a vote. We are all handed pieces of paper, and I hold it in my hands, staring at the blank white sheet.
“Yay or nay, Cassie?” Vera whispers.
I look to Father Kareem.
“We need leadership,” he says.
“Uriah?” I ask.
“We couldn’t stop this even if we wanted to,” Uriah replies darkly.
I write in our vote: Yes.
When the votes are collected and counted, it’s a landslide: President Saul Banner has been elected unanimously to lead this country again. He rises from his seat, his family around him, his hand over his heart.
“I will lead you with my whole heart,” President Banner thunders. “I swear to you, I will not rest until this country is free from the scourge of Omega, until we are free to live in peace! We will fight for our families, for our friends, and for our home! I will be with you, every step of the way! We will be a team!”
Some people are crying; a few women have fallen to their knees in utter disbelief, unable to grasp the show of unity, the shock of being physically present with other militias after years of fighting Omega in isolation.
“Now we must choose our general,” President Banner continues, serious. “This is a man who will oversee the movements of our reborn country. A man who we can trust to exercise wisdom and discernment in his decisions, who will guide us to victory against Omega’s forces!”
“He’s gotta be Superman,” Vera snorts. “It should have been Chris.”
Yes, it should have been.
“For this job, I can nominate one man who I know you will unanimously support with me,” President Banner says, beaming. “A man of justice and honor – a young man, yes. But a man whom I trust with my life. He has been the commanding officer of the forces of Sector 13 since before the Collapse. His troops here have saved many lives already.” He points to the bleache
rs, and a man in uniform slowly stands, his face serious.
“I give you General Beckham,” President Banner announces. “The future general of the militias of the United States of America!”
Uriah and I both inhale – watching the dark, hawk-like gaze of Beckham comb through the crowd. He sees us, nods – and then he smiles.
“I don’t like him,” I whisper.
Uriah answers, “No. I don’t trust him.”
“The president obviously does!” Vera yells above the applause.
“We have to take a vote before he can have any sort of authority…” Andrew mutters.
“The states will vote the way the president wants them to,” Uriah states, his tone grim. “Beckham is in – there’s no fighting it.”
Have we done the right thing? I wonder. It’s not like we had any choice, anyway. The states are obviously all onboard with the idea of having a president again. This is for the best. We need to be united. We need to end this war.
After a vote, Uriah’s prediction comes true. Beckham is confirmed as the commanding general of the militia forces of the nineteen states convened. I don’t applaud as he takes the podium, stiffly waving to the crowd, flashing a brilliant smile only when necessary.
I remember what he said to me in Camp Cambria, about taking control away from me and commanding the militias himself.
He knew Banner would support him at the convention…he was hoping for this.
He meets my gaze again, staring at me through the echo and boom of the audience and the applause. I don’t flinch, standing my ground. I don’t want him to see how afraid I really am.
Go ahead, I think. Try and take my militia away from me. See what happens.
A chill runs down my spine.
Perhaps that’s exactly what Beckham wants.
***
There’s a subdivision of vacation homes behind the high school. The representative teams from each state are each given one house to use while they’re in town. California is given a whitewashed beach home with wide windows overlooking the seashore and Morro Rock.
The carpet is white, the walls are white…even the tile in the kitchen is white.
I frown and set my gear on the oak dining table, feeling out of place. Vera bolts the door shut and we converge in the kitchen.
“So, General Beckham,” Vera says, frowning. “Dammit. I don’t like him.”
“I don’t think anybody does,” Andrew replies.
“The president believes he is a man of honor,” Father Kareem says, stroking his chin. “Perhaps we should trust his judgment.”
“I don’t trust anyone’s judgment right now,” I reply.
“We don’t have much of a choice,” Vera grits. “He’s the general, now. He has the right to tell us what to do.”
“That doesn’t mean we have to listen,” I say. “We’re still an independent militia.”
“No, we’re not!” Uriah growls. “First it was martial law, and now it’s this. It’s just another form of control – another way for somebody else to puppeteer the militia’s movements.”
“We need union,” Vera admits. “I mean, it’s a payoff I’m willing to make. Anything’s better than Omega. Besides, wartime won’t last forever.”
Anything is a broad term, I think.
“Athena Strike is right around the corner,” I say. “If what Cheng said is true, and they’re planning something bigger than a mere foot invasion, then we have to be ready. We need to talk with President Banner and General Beckham…they need a full briefing on what went down during our mission.”
There are no arguments there.
“I would imagine that General Beckham would be mobilizing every militia around the country – and the world – to stop Omega,” Father Kareem surmises. “Without the United States, Earth will fall permanently. There will be no recovering.”
“Hence why England, Mexico, and Canada are here, too,” Vera mumbles.
Crash!
The sliding glass doors beside the dining room table shatter. Shards of crystal glass explode through the air, slicing the exposed skin of my cheek and hands. We’re blown backward in a hot blast, and I hit the side of the kitchen counter with a crack!
My vision blurs for a moment as the pain races through me, but I push through it. I roll to my side. I blink past the black smoke rolling into the house, realizing with a shock that a small car is lodged into the side of the patio. A dead man is hanging over the steering wheel, bloody and burnt. The car is smoking, decimated from the inside out.
“Suicide bomber!” Uriah yells.
A flash of movement – outside, over the fence. I see someone disappear over the side, and then I’m on my feet in pursuit. I grab my rifle on my way out the door, running through the smoke, ignoring the ringing in my ears, and sprinting to the fence.
I don’t think twice about scaling the fence, sweeping over the top in one movement, landing in a rolling crouch on the other side. I’m up and running again, my boots throwing sand behind me, stomping through crawling ice plant. Beach trails wind behind the neighborhood here, mostly overgrown with trees.
I see the shadow of a man running up ahead, and that’s all I need to change course. I veer left, cutting through the underbrush, running faster, faster…I will cross his path and take him down if he doesn’t deviate…
But he does.
He suddenly charges right, and then I’m behind him again.
He bursts through a wall of bushes and I’m right there…close enough to see that he is young, that he has grayish blond hair, and that he is desperately clinging to a handgun – but if he stops to turn and shoot me, I will tackle him before he can get a shot off.
He makes a mistake.
Lost in the density of the foliage, he accidentally bursts into the clearing – the beach. The ocean waves crash and roll. The sun has long since disappeared behind the clouds.
He realizes his error – he’s exposed, with nowhere to hide or take cover.
I want to take a knee and shoot him. It would be so easy, but I have to keep him alive. I want to know who he is, and I can’t ask that question if I kill him.
So I push myself faster as he begins to slow, tiring. I can see that panic is stealing most of his physical energy, and I use that to my advantage, like a wolf stalking a deer. I wait until he stumbles, and then I jump forward, nailing him against the sand. I twist his gun out of his hands and press the stock of my rifle against his throat. He coughs and squirms, looking up at me.
He only has one eye. The left eye is a black, empty shell.
He arches his back, attempting to throw me off, but I press my knee into his chest and take his own gun, driving it into the soft bone of his temple. He jerks backward, knocked out cold.
I drop my hold on the gun and lean back, catching my breath. I tear open the collar of his jacket, noting the absence of dog tags. There’s nothing…just a necklace. A silver necklace with a large, ominous O hanging from the chain.
Omega.
Of course.
***
I sit on the picnic table on the back patio, studying the wreckage of the exploded car. The dead body of the driver was hauled off long ago. No identification, no dog tags, nothing. Nobody knows who he was.
Honestly, did I expect any different? It’s always a mystery.
Always.
Militiamen are clearing away pieces of the car. The man that I chased down is being taken to a holding cell in town, and he will be interrogated by militia leaders. Other than a few scratches and bruises, all of us are relatively unharmed. My theory is that the driver meant to careen the car straight through the glass window, but he detonated the bomb too soon, and instead, the brunt of the blast destroyed the back bedrooms of the house.
His mistake saved our lives.
“He was missing an eye,” I tell Vera as she walks outside.
“Excuse me?” she asks.
“The guy I chased down. He was missing an eye. And he was wearing an Omega necklac
e.” I shrug. “He wasn’t one of our men – I know it.”
“Obviously.” Vera sits next to me. “Now what?”
“I guess the question is, why did Omega specifically target us when every other major militia leader in the country is staying in the same subdivision?” I fold my hands together. “Why would they do that? Why not just kill us all?”
“There’s always a reason,” Vera replies. “Omega always has a reason.”
Just then, General Beckham walks through the back entrance to the yard, a long jacket draped around his shoulders. His young, handsome face is cold. He surveys the car, then turns to me.
“I’m glad nobody was killed,” he says, simply. “Good work on apprehending the driver’s accomplice. We’ll thoroughly interrogate him, I promise you.”
I say nothing.
“I want you to know, Commander Hart,” Beckham continues, “that we will find out who was behind this, and we will kill them.”
“Good,” I reply.
“I also wanted to tell you that I have no hard feelings toward you,” he continues. “I realize that I may have come off as a little harsh in Camp Cambria, and I wanted to apologize. Wartime brings out the stress in all of us.”
He offers his hand, along with a sideways smile.
I don’t take it.
I simply reply, “Forget it, General. I think what’s more important is that we arrange a meeting with President Banner. Our mission to rescue the first family was a success, but we learned a few things about Omega’s next move. You’ll want to hear it.”
Beckham nods.
“Absolutely,” he says. “Right away. Tomorrow, why don’t you join us for dinner? I know the president wants to show his thanks for what you did for his family in some way. We can discuss it then.”
“I’d rather discuss it now,” I say.
“Commander Hart,” Beckham replies, a note of strain in his voice, “the president has been separated from his family since the beginning of the Collapse. I believe we can afford him a few hours of privacy, yes?”
I look away.
Beckham nods, saying, “I’ll send a vehicle to collect you at 1700.”
“We’ll be ready,” I answer.
He salutes.
“General?” I add.
