Edge of Survival Box Set 1

by William Oday

  Coming to terms with that sobering truth was often what gave soldiers in combat the edge to avoid an end that might claim a more concerned man.

  Gabriel Cruz had never been a soldier, though. Not in the usual sense anyway. Not much was known about his youth aside from the fact that he’d had it tough growing up on the streets of New York City. Maybe that was where he honed his edge.

  Or maybe it was something else. Something not quite in focus.

  “Whether we like it or not,” the President said, “we are currently beholden to the agricultural interests in the north. The city can’t feed itself. It is an untenable position. One I intend to rectify, but we’re not ready to tip our hand.”

  Our hand?

  Mason had no idea what cards they held much less what game was being played.

  “For now, we must reassure our partners in the north in order to guarantee continued access to their crops.”

  “Okay,” Mason replied. “Why are you telling me this, Sir?”

  The President adjusted his glasses and stared at Mason, sizing him up. “Because while I believe that bomb was connected to a violent northern faction, I can’t publicly place blame there. For now, the boy must shoulder the burden of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Mason stood there, dumbfounded.

  Did he just hear what he thought he heard?

  “Sir, are you saying you think Elio is innocent and yet you still sent him away to prison?”

  The muscles in Cruz’s jaw twitched. He swiped long, thin fingers over his glossy smooth head. “He went to a monastery. And I’m saying that the boy’s involvement requires more investigation. And proper investigation takes time. Time we will meanwhile take advantage of to remove our dependence on a rebellious supply chain.”

  Did he answer the question?

  The President’s voice rose along with the pink hue to his pale cheeks. “I’m talking about the security of the United States of America! I will do whatever is necessary to safeguard its future!”

  Making your boss mad was never a good idea. But especially not so when your boss was the President.

  “Of course, Sir. I understand.” He said the words because they were required, not because they were true. Using Elio for political expediency was wrong. No matter what was at stake.

  “Mason, I’ve been assured that Elio will receive proper treatment. Perhaps we could even check in on him on our journey north tomorrow.”

  Journey north tomorrow? What?

  Mason gritted his teeth, thankful that the thought didn’t translate into speech.

  The President nodded. “I see you are not pleased. I apologize for springing it on you.”

  “Sir, I can’t do my job when I have little to no time to plan for it. Security work is all about the preparation.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to do it if it weren’t absolutely necessary.”

  Ask?

  It didn’t sound much like a request.

  “I’ve received intelligence that the leaders of the troublesome northern factions are gathering tomorrow. I will speak to them to offer assurances of a prosperous future of cooperation.” The President clenched his hand into a fist and smacked it against the desk. “I don’t like it any more than you do. But, this city would starve if they cut off our food supplies. We’re vulnerable and we will do what we must.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  The President slipped his fingers up under his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Listen. It’s two in the morning. Go home and get a few hours rest. We need to be ready to leave at nine.”

  Nine?

  As in seven hours from now?

  Mason bit his tongue until he tasted blood.

  “Where exactly are we going, Sir?” Mason asked but the President had already turned his attention to a sheaf of papers on his desk. Mason waited to see if any more details were forthcoming.

  None were.

  He locked his arms at his sides to keep them from demolishing the Oval Office. He marched out of the office.

  The agent on duty nodded as he passed. “Sir.”

  Mason ignored him. He strode down the hall to his office while texting to Miro to get to HQ on the double.

  Beth wasn’t going to be happy about him not coming home tonight. She was already on his case about working too much. And she wasn’t wrong.

  But this couldn’t wait. It was going to be an all-nighter. There was too much planning to do.

  He was going over personnel assignments when Miro popped his head in the doorway.

  Miro looked sideways at him as he entered and closed the door behind. “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse. We need to have a detail ready to escort the President north at zero nine hundred.”

  Miro’s eyebrows inched up. “Today zero nine hundred?”

  “Yep.”

  Miro looked at his watch and slowly nodded. “Okay.”

  Mason almost smiled. It was that laser focus on the mission that made Miro an invaluable asset. He didn’t waste time wondering about the whys and how comes. He skipped straight to handling it.

  “Where we headed?”

  “The President wasn’t in an elaborating kind of mood. So, we’ll need to be ready for anything.”

  “And here I was thinking I’d get to kick off my boots for a few hours and catch some shut-eye.”

  “You’re not wearing boots.”

  Miro grinned. “A cowboy can dream, can’t he?”

  Mason slapped him on the shoulder. He didn’t know what he would do without his second-in-command.

  “Should I run by Maria’s to escort Beth home? The more time those two spend together, the more likely one of them will end up dead.”

  Mason shook his head. “Negative. I need you here. I’ll text her to stay there for the night.”

  “Copy that.” He grinned. “Besides, we both know Beth would win that fight.”

  “It won’t come to that.” Mason said more out of hope than certainty. He tapped in the text and sent it.

  Beth would survive. She had an indomitable will that even Maria’s darkest fury wouldn’t break down.

  Still, Mason wished she hadn’t stopped carrying the Glock on her hip.

  A person’s will alone could go a long ways. It was the foundation for doing anything difficult. But a resolute will combined with a decisive weapon could often go a few steps further.

  29

  The convoy pulled out at zero nine hundred. Convoy was a grandiose way to describe the three black Silverados that left the Capitol building and headed north on Hyde Street. The plan was to head west on Lombard, get on the 101, exit through the security checkpoint at Divisadero, and then head north across the Golden Gate bridge to San Rafael.

  Mason didn’t like it.

  It was his plan. But he still didn’t like it. Not because it was a terrible plan. It was straight-forward as plans went. But it was terrible because there had been no time for intelligence on the destination and the route to get there.

  That was the crux of it. They were lacking intelligence.

  In both the concrete sense of not having information about the road ahead, the environs surrounding the meeting in San Rafael, and also in the ironic sense of being stupid to decide to do it anyway.

  But it wasn’t his call and the President wasn’t open to exploring alternatives.

  Mason wondered what the previous incarnation of the Secret Service had been like. Surely, the President wasn’t allowed to take off on a whim totally ignoring the security situation that such a flight of fancy precipitated.

  But this wasn’t the old Secret Service. This was barely the new Secret Service. It was a mishmash of emerging policies confronted with changing realities.

  Not all that different from life in the Marine Corps.

  Improvise. Adapt. Overcome.

  One of the many mottos of a service branch perpetually under-equipped and under-staffed relative to the size and importance of the missions dropped into its lap. Despite how mu
ch the world had changed, some things always stayed the same.

  “Turning west on Lombard,” Miro’s voice crackled out of the radio under the dash.

  “Copy that,” Mason replied.

  Miro rode in the lead SUV with instructions to initiate evasive maneuvers if the convoy encountered a threat—beyond the usual threats of a world filled with deltas and pockets of remaining humanity as likely to attack as anything.

  More likely, probably.

  Mason, the President, and several staff members rode in transport two. The vehicle bringing up the rear carried several security personnel and the one man the President would’ve loved to leave behind, and yet found it politically expedient to bring along—Randall Hurst.

  No doubt the President’s favorite pain-in-the-ass would be miffed about not being welcomed into Midas’ vehicle. Mason was just as sure that the slight was not unintentional. The President had vented his frustration about Randall on any number of occasions. Managing the potential conflict between those two was just one wonderful facet of this mission.

  One of many.

  It came down to calculated risks.

  That was the job. Unfortunately, this mission was like doing multivariable calculus using a calculator missing half the buttons and a screen with smudges over a few of the numbers.

  The mission had FUBAR written all over it, but it still had to get done.

  The officers at the checkpoint opened the gates across the road and waved them through. Huge signs on both sides read

  YOU ARE LEAVING

  THE GREEN ZONE

  For as little as they knew about what was going on in the land beyond, they may as well have posted another sign.

  HERE BE DRAGONS

  Or some other crazy thing that ancient mapmakers used to demarcate areas that they had absolutely no idea about. After centuries of discovery and expanding awareness of the most remote corners, the world was again shrinking and growing darker with distance.

  Mason looked out onto the bay as they neared the bridge. It was one of those rarest of rare sunny days in San Francisco. A golden sun rose in the east above Oakland. Or what used to be Oakland.

  Did the name of a place matter anymore after everyone living there no longer existed?

  It looked normal from this distance. A grey patchwork of buildings and concrete. Even the Bay Bridge stretching out from the city hid the reality of the new world. The massive infrastructure seen from a distance suggested a normalcy that the lack of people using it laid bare.

  The water in the bay sparkled like a bag of diamond dust had been dumped onto its gently rolling surface. The subtle scent of briny saltwater slipped through the vehicle’s filtration system.

  When was the last time his family had spent a lazy afternoon at the beach?

  When was the last time anyone had?

  Perhaps the bigger question was whether anyone would ever have the chance at such leisure again?

  That kind of recreation required both a measure of security and affluence that were nowhere on the horizon. No reasonable person went for a chill day at the beach when the threat of being attacked by deltas was only matched by the concern that everyone would likely have to tighten their belts over the coming winter.

  “We’ve got a small problem here,” Miro’s voice crackled over the radio.

  Like an incoming tide, adrenaline seeped into Mason’s limbs. His eyes narrowed and scanned the environment.

  “This old nag is ready for the glue factory,” Miro said. “Some kind of engine problem. We’re pulling off.”

  The lead vehicle slowed and pulled to the side of the road.

  What now?

  Mason had specifically asked the motor pool to check out all the vehicles before they left. They assured him Chief Fowler had already been by earlier that morning to verify everything was good to go.

  Fowler needed to keep his nose in his own business, like figuring out how to stop the deltas from showing up in the Green Zone.

  Mason had been too busy to get all the details, but apparently there had been another incursion last night. Fowler and his men had sorted it out.

  Mason’s SUV and the one behind pulled off, each angling at forty-fives to provide cover and escape routes if the need arose. Mason jumped out and met Miro as he exited the first vehicle.

  “What’s the problem?” Mason said.

  Miro shrugged. “No idea, Sarge. She coughed and sputtered and then went kaput.”

  Mason chewed his lip. Standard transport protocol placed the highest value asset, in this case the President, in the middle surrounded by defensive buffers. Secondary assets like Mr. Hurst were placed to the rear as any attack was most likely to come from the front. With only two vehicles, transport three would have to take the lead to maintain the forward buffer.

  There also wouldn’t be enough room in the remaining two SUVs to accommodate all the security personnel stranded from the lead vehicle. “Okay, you’re with me. There’s room for two more agents in vehicle three. Pick ‘em and sort ‘em. Whoever is left can wait here for a tow truck. I want everyone to stay sharp.”

  “Roger that.”

  Mason jogged back to the SUV on rear guard. The driver already had the window down with a quizzical look on his face.

  “Vehicle one is inoperable. You are now the lead.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Have room for a couple more?” Mason asked, already knowing the answer as he had specified the seating arrangement in the convoy.

  “Yes, Sir. Could probably squeeze in three if we needed.”

  “Two is more than enough!” an irritated voice said from the back seat.

  Mason leaned in and peered at Randall Hurst.

  The newspaper owner was seated between two beefy agents. Wedged was more accurate. Squished more accurate yet.

  Yep, Mason had complete control over the convoy’s seating arrangement. He smiled.

  Randall stared back with a scowl on his face. “I’m practically being assaulted back here! Headline… Assaulted by the Secret Service! That’d sell a few copies.”

  “I apologize if the ride isn’t as accommodating as you might like. Perhaps you’d prefer to get out and walk back?”

  Randall’s eyes widened and his skin blanched a shade paler. He shook his head. “No, no. I’ll endure. One must sometimes suffer in the pursuit of truth.”

  The reminder of his self-imposed (and imagined) martyrdom calmed him, re-centered his over-burgeoning sense of vanity.

  Mason turned back to the driver. “Get situated and get moving. We’ll follow.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Mason jumped back in with Midas as Miro sorted the arrangements outside.

  “What’s going on?” the President said.

  “The lead vehicle died for reasons unknown. We’re rearranging a few seats and we’ll be ready to resume travel in a minute. Unless you’d prefer to return home and reschedule this trip?”

  Mason threw it out there like a quarterback does a ball in the final seconds of a losing game. Hoping for the long shot at success but not expecting it.

  “No. We proceed as scheduled.”

  Incomplete pass.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Miro hopped in on the passenger side. “Ready to roll.”

  The new lead vehicle pulled onto the road, and they followed. Another block and the massive burnt orange arches of the Golden Gate bridge towered ahead.

  Cruz stared at them like he was a million miles away. He pursed his lips together.

  “Everything okay, Sir?” Mason asked.

  He blinked a few times and nodded. “I remember seeing a postcard of this bridge when I was a child in New York City. It seemed like the promised land. Warmth and sun and happiness. The land of hope for a boy that so often had none.”

  Mason didn’t think a response was required.

  The convoy of two pulled onto the bridge. It was strange. Strange being the only two vehicles on the entire span of inspired engineering.
r />   Mason looked up as they drove under the first arch. It was more like four gates stacked on top of one another. Or a ladder reaching into the sky. He turned and saw Alcatraz out in the bay. The brilliance of the surrounding water and the passage of time veiled its dark history of physical and mental abuse.

  They made it to the middle of the bridge when something caught Mason’s attention.

  A pair of hooded figures in brown robes jumped out onto the road some two hundred yards ahead.

  “We’ve got two unidentified—”

  The robed figures carried something. They lifted long tubes to their shoulders.

  Mason smashed the transmitter button. “RPGs incoming!”

  As he yelled the words, two trails of smoke twisted and turned racing closer.

  The SUV screeched to a stop as the two missiles found their target.

  Two enormous explosions tore the lead vehicle apart. Fragments of metal sliced through the air. A fireball blew out and then sucked upward into a column of dark smoke. Blast waves shook through their vehicle as the compressed air raced out faster than the speed of sound.

  The two robed figures took off running toward the opposite end of the bridge.

  The bridge was wide enough to get by the ruined vehicle. They could probably catch up to the attackers before they got away.

  But Midas’ safety was paramount. It was the mission.

  Mason bit his lip and cursed under his breath.

  “Back it up and get us out of here!”

  The driver paused. “What about the survivors?”

  Mason scanned what was left of the lead vehicle. The roof and doors had been blown off. The inside was a blackened scar of destruction. Charred bits of bodies littered the road.

  “There are none,” Mason said. “Now, go!”

  30

  The President stood behind a podium on a hastily assembled stage on the deck of the SS Jeremiah O’Brien. The old Liberty class ship was one of the last survivors from the seven thousand vessels that stormed Normandy so long ago.