The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  She cut him off. “I know about my options.” Stepping toward her sons, she pulled them close. “It’s going to be okay,” she said.

  Ammon’s face was hard. He wasn’t certain. Luke’s cheeks were wet with tears. He bent and held on to his mother—he was six inches taller than she was now—and kept his face buried in her shoulder. Ammon watched his brother’s forehead turning red.

  They held each other until Luke pushed back. A cold wind blew across the empty tarmac and a spatter of dry leaves danced around their feet. Ammon started to say something, hesitated, then glanced at Luke. Luke acknowledged his darting eyes and nodded back. Ammon took a breath as if steeling himself, looked up and down the runway, then turned back to his mother. “Mom, Luke and I’ve been talking.”

  Sara cocked her head. The introduction was familiar. It was common for them to stand together when they had some news to bear.

  Ammon glanced again at Luke. “You’re going, Mom. Sam’s already gone. We feel useless here. Useless and alone. There’s nothing for us here. Fact is, we’ve been pretty much useless since this whole thing started. We’ve been baggage, someone you had to worry about, that’s about all.”

  “No, Ammon, that’s not true.” She shot a shocked look at Luke, then turned back to Ammon. “Don’t think that. It’s not true. Think of all the good you’ve done.”

  “We could argue it, Mom, but we don’t have time and we don’t want to anyway. But what I said is true. We haven’t contributed anything; we’re just a couple of young guys who’ve been along for the ride. We feel compelled to do something useful now.”

  “What . . . what are you saying?”

  The two young men didn’t dare look at her until Luke finally shrugged his shoulders. “Mom, we just want to help.”

  “What are you thinking!”

  “You’re leaving. Sam and Azadeh are already gone.” He was repeating himself now. “If we stayed here, we’d just be hanging around and hoping they like us enough to feed us. Everyone is doing something. We think that we can do something useful too.”

  The wind blew again, gusting a strand of blonde hair in front of Sara’s eyes. She swiped at it quickly, brushing the tears away at the same time.

  Ammon gritted his teeth. “We were talking to one of the sergeants at the security desk. You might have noticed him. Tall, black guy. Young. Anyway, he found out that we were Mormons, so he came to talk to us. It turns out that he is too. Seems they’re looking for . . .”

  The two jet engines on the military aircraft started turning. A low grumble erupted from their cores as the fire within them started, the sound growing instantly louder and more powerful. They were standing fifty or sixty feet in front of the transport aircraft and they had to almost scream to hear each other now. A sergeant in camouflage fatigues ran toward them. “They’re waiting for you, Mrs. Brighton,” he said in Sara’s ear.

  She nodded to him, then lifted a single finger. He acknowledged her request for more time and stepped back, giving the family a final minute to say good-bye.

  “What are you thinking?” Sara demanded again.

  They huddled close together, Luke and Ammon continuing to shoot anxious looks between themselves. What were they going to tell her? How was she going to take it? They didn’t know. “The Church is asking for volunteers to go around and help some of the most devastated regions,” Ammon said. “They’re sending men to Washington . . .”

  “Back to D.C.?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Is it even safe to go back there?”

  “I guess so, Mom. But that’s not all. They’re sending volunteers to Jackson County.”

  Her mouth flew open. “Jackson County! Why?”

  “We don’t know, Mom. But we want to go.”

  She looked at them, terror in her eyes. “Jackson County? Jackson County . . .”

  “Mrs. Brighton,” the sergeant cried, taking a step toward them. She tried to brush him off again but he was pulling on her arm now. The aircraft was starting to slide forward, closing the space between them. Ammon took a step toward his mother and she pulled out of the sergeant’s grasp. “Don’t worry about us, okay, Mom?” he said. “Luke and I will stay together. We’re going to be all right. But we want to do something—we need to do something to help. We know where to find you. We’ll let you know that we’re okay . . .”

  The sergeant was becoming agitated now. “Mrs. Brighton, we really have to go!”

  “Go, Mom. Be careful. Don’t worry about us. This is what we’re supposed to do—this is our time, our calling. Think of us like the men who volunteered for the Mormon Battalion.” Ammon smiled at her proudly. “We’ll be all right. And we’ll be back . . .”

  The sergeant tugged on Sara’s arm again, almost dragging her away. She went with him for a step or two, then pulled away and ran back. Grabbing her sons, she drew them close and held them tight. All of them were crying now, but they were no longer tears of fear. The Spirit settled on them. “I love you both so much,” she said. “I love you more than anything. I’m so proud of you. So proud. There’s never been a mother more grateful for her sons.”

  She pulled away and looked at them, her eyes opening wide now in surprise. “My dream . . . my dream . . . it just came to me, I remember it all so clearly now. The messenger who came to me, I remember every word he said.”

  “What is, Mom? What did he tell you?”

  She brought her hand up to her mouth and leaned toward them, her face peaceful and full of light. “He said he was a messenger sent from Elijah.” She closed her eyes and smiled. “He said he wanted to remind me that the sealing power was real.”

  “And seeing the people in a state of such awful

  wickedness, and those Gadianton robbers filling the judgment-seats—having usurped the power and authority of the land; laying aside the commandments of God, and not in the least aright before him; doing no justice unto the children of men;

  “Condemning the righteous because of their righteousness; letting the guilty and the wicked go unpunished because of their money; and moreover to be held in office at the head of government, to rule and do according to their wills, that they might get gain and glory of the world, and, moreover, that they might the more easily commit adultery, and steal, and kill, and do according to their own wills.”

  —Helaman 7:4–5

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Raven Rock (Site R), Underground Military Complex

  Southern Pennsylvania

  The tunnel was narrow, with a slippery cement floor and gray, cinder-block walls. It sloped gently downward, leading toward the access door. There were at least six other entries into Raven Rock, most of them hidden inside various administration buildings scattered around the surface complex. There were also two deep tunnels that ran for many miles to the presidential compound at Camp David.

  The main access door into Raven Rock was hidden in the trees and protected by more guards, cement barriers, and bunkers than the gold at Fort Knox. Large enough to drive a truck through, the main access was not far from the main road. Its huge metal doors braced on massive hydraulic pistons had not been opened since the senior surviving leaders of the government had fled to Raven after the EMP attack.

  In addition to the main entrance, there were other access doors, and the underground complex was not completely sealed. Some of the other entries were used for supplies and service; some of them, like the one Sara waited near now, were secret entries used exclusively for the exchange of personnel.

  She stood in line with forty or fifty other people. None of them were friendly and no one spoke to her. All shared the same concerns: their families left up-top, how they were going to find food and shelter, their government, the future, the whole mess of a thing. Looking at them, Sara could see the same cold desperation in all their eyes. The vast majority were in military uniform, but there were a few civilians in casual attire and business suits. All of them wore coded, picture ID passes on colored lanyards around their necks:
blue, red, yellow, green—the color of the lanyards obviously meant something, but what it was, Sara didn’t know. She glanced down nervously at her own ID. She had rehearsed her name and story and her reason for entering Raven Rock so many times she could have explained it in her sleep, but still she was nervous, her hands shaking, her mouth so dry she could hardly talk. If anyone stopped or questioned her she would probably just throw up on their shoes. She swallowed, trying to keep the bile down, but her stomach kept on fluttering like the wing tips of a bird.

  Turning, she looked back up the sloping tunnel. She had already passed through two security access points, the first on the military bus that drove them through the main gate into the surface compound, and the second at the door of the nondescript warehouse building that housed the entry tunnel into Raven. The final—and most secure of the three security checkpoints—was still ahead.

  She checked her watch for the third or fourth time, then glanced down the line of waiting people. The line started moving and her heart lurched into her throat.

  One by one they stepped up to the final checkpoint. Three armed and very unfriendly military police checked their IDs, asked a few questions, and scanned their pupils with a portable IR scanner, passing the red beam in front of their eyes. The computer checked the electronic scans of their irises for a

  positive ID, then compared the scans against the database of personnel approved for entry into the compound.

  This was the most critical of the checkpoints. This was where it could all break down. This was where they would know if Brucius Marino’s people were any good. Had they been able to plant Sara into the access system? They had assured her yes, but the truth was, they didn’t know. No one could know until she got there. She thought of James Davies, her mind racing with worry. Surely that had not gone according to their plan. Would she be another failure?

  They were about to find out.

  Moving forward, she wiped her sweating palms and took a calming breath. No big deal, no big deal, she gently reassured herself.

  She was next. She waited like the others behind a red line on the floor, an obedient member of the flock, then stepped forward when the first guard told her to.

  He lifted her ID hanging from the red lanyard around her neck. “Sara Brighton,” he called to the second guard behind him while scanning the coded information on the back of the ID. Sara waited, trying her best to appear uninterested.

  The second guard stared at his computer screen, which Sara couldn’t see, then motioned to a black keyboard mounted on the bulletproof glass wall that separated them. “Enter your access code,” he told her. Sara stepped forward. The keypad was covered with a curving black plastic cover, making it impossible for anyone to see what she was typing. She typed the access code they had given her, a code that changed every six hours.

  “Again,” the second guard told her.

  “Did I mess it up?” she blurted before she even had time to think.

  “Again!” the guard answered tartly.

  Her heart lurched again. The bile rose, her stomach fluttering. Time to throw up on the floor? She took a quick breath and put her fingers on the keypad, typing the eight-character code again. This time she moved her fingers more carefully and looked down, making certain of every key.

  He waited. The guard stared, then motioned to the other. “She’s new in the system. Give her a FOX session,” he said.

  FOX session. She almost froze. She knew from her husband that FOX session was Intel slang for “Ask a few tough questions, maybe rough her up a bit.”

  The guard stepped toward her, his M-16 hanging loosely at his side. Sara turned toward him and almost fainted. He grabbed her ID again. “Sara Brighton? Is that right?”

  “Yes, yes, Sara Brighton.”

  “And what is your reason for being granted access into the complex?” He looked down at her ID again.

  After much argument, they had decided back at Offutt to go with something close to reality rather than invent a story out of whole cloth. “I’m a private consultant with the Department of Defense,” Sara started. “My husband was Neil Brighton. He used to work for the president. I’ve consulted with Family Support Services for a couple of years. We’re working on an emergency program to ensure support and pay and benefits to military families during a time of crisis, especially for those whose spouses are away.”

  The young enlisted man didn’t look impressed. “Who invited you here?” he asked.

  This was where it all could break down. If they checked it out, their plan was over.

  “General Cantera. He heads up Family Support Services.” She held her breath. They had timed it so Cantera would be in his afternoon briefing when she tried to get into the

  compound, making it more difficult to reach him if anyone tried to call to confirm her explanation.

  The soldier glanced again back to the others.

  They had told her to stay with the story and not say more. They had told her to be silent and not to improvise. “Don’t screw it up!” they had warned her. “Silence is much better than handing them the rope to hang yourself. You’re not good enough, you haven’t been trained enough, to fake your way through.” But they hadn’t predicted that she’d be FOXed, and she knew she had to say something now. Her instincts kicked into gear. And her instincts were good.

  “Look, maybe you don’t know how bad it is up there right now,” she said quickly. “Maybe to you it’s no big deal, all safe and sound down here. But if you’re a soldier with a family, a wife and kids, and you’re not able to be home to help take care of them, then yeah, it’s a big deal. We’ve got to figure out a way to help those who can’t be there for their kids. Military members and their families are one of our highest priorities right now. We have to ensure your families are taken care of. If they’re up there starving on the streets, none of our troops are going to stay at their stations. Our desertion rates will skyrocket. We’ve got to figure out a way to make sure the supplies of food and water are getting to the right people, and right now military dependents are one of the highest priorities we have.” She did her best to glare at the soldier. “I’m sure you agree. You want your family taken care of. That’s why I’m here. If we don’t do that, our military members will do what they have to do to help their families. If that means leaving their posts to feed their children—well, I think we both know what a mess that could be.”

  The soldier lifted his face and looked at her, his eyes now sad. “I’ve got two kids,” he said.

  Sara didn’t answer. Time to shut up now. Anything else she said would be redundant, and she needed to let him figure out for himself the importance of what she had said.

  He glanced behind him, then leaned toward her. “How bad is it out there?” he whispered. “They won’t let us leave the compound—”

  She cut him off. “It’s bad. But we’re trying.”

  He watched her, then stepped back and lifted his portable iris scanner. She felt a slight sting as the IR light scanned her right eye.

  They waited. Sara tried to breathe. Had they been able to plant her identity into one of the most sensitive military databases the Pentagon had ever maintained?

  Ten seconds passed. The soldier glanced at her. She heard a soft beep.

  He stepped aside. “Step through the X-ray and metal detector. Take any electronics out of your briefcase,” he said.

  She almost cried with relief but caught herself. Exhaling visibly, she stepped toward the X-ray.

  Four minutes later, she was in.

  Chapter Thirty

  Raven Rock (Site R), Underground Military Complex

  Southern Pennsylvania

  Everything about her said leave me alone.

  She sat in the corner of the main cafeteria, a sheaf of papers spread out before her, pen in hand, a laptop pushed to the side of the table. She looked busy and she kept her head down, not talking to anyone. The mess hall was always busy: day, night, it didn’t matter, the staff at Raven Rock worke
d around the clock and the cafeteria remained open 24/7. Though she appeared consumed with her work, shuffling her papers, scrawling notes in the margins, tapping on the computer, she kept her eyes moving, always looking for him.

  She glanced at her watch. Almost eleven at night. She’d been inside Raven Rock for more than seven hours. Still no sight of him.

  It had taken her a while to find the Supreme Court annex to the underground complex, a row of small but finely furnished apartments with tiny offices lining a narrow corridor with the Supreme Court chamber at the end. All of the offices had been empty. She didn’t know which office Jefferson had claimed, since he had his choice of nine, but not a justice, secretary, clerk, or lawyer could be found. She had waited near the hallway for a couple of hours, trying not to look conspicuous, but after being approached by a security guard, she’d moved on.

  Standing in the main corridor that led into the mountain, she had stopped to think. No way to get down to the executive office level. She’d already tried. The elevator was guarded and she didn’t have the access codes. He wasn’t coming to the Supreme Court wing; it was pretty obvious he’d set up his office somewhere else. And why wouldn’t he? Who would want to sleep and work in an empty chamber, only to be reminded constantly of his dead friends? Where else could she find him? Where else could he be? The gym? Not likely. Jefferson was five-foot-seven and pushing 240 pounds; it had been a few legal briefs since he’d seen the inside of a gym. The central cafeteria? Maybe. But surely they provided food services on the executive level. Would he really come up here? The recreation hall? She’d already been down there. Rows of Ping-Pong tables, computers, arcade games, poker tables, a couple of billiard tables, banks of televisions that were mounted on the wall. It was pretty obvious that Raven Rock designers expected recreation to be the last thing on the minds of its long-term occupants. No, he wasn’t going to show up there.

  Which left her with . . . nothing.

  Finally, after wandering the halls for a while longer, she’d taken up a table near the back of the cafeteria from which she could survey the hall. There she waited. And hoped.