by Tara Ellis
“What’s the matter with you?” Bishop retorted, not making any attempt to push back. “Caleb’s been teaching me how to use the radio. I’m just practicing.”
Tom’s fury wavered, and he wondered if maybe the current situation was a prime example of why he wasn’t mayor material. Was it possible he jumped to the wrong conclusion? Then, he caught the older man’s eyes flitting to the desk and back to Tom again. Turning his head, Tom saw that Bishop had been in the middle of writing something when he’d interrupted. There were several sheets of paper, but the top one was all that mattered to him. In bold letters was a word he recognized, followed by a confusing set of statements:
MERCY. Will add to list. Unknown survival at this point. Still looking. Information sent to government agencies. Military status questionable. Be careful.
Tom’s eyes narrowed as he re-read the words, taking into consideration that these were the responses back to Bishop that he had written down. The implication became vividly clear and he slammed his fist on the desk, scattering the rest of the papers onto the floor.
“Tom,” Bishop said cautiously, holding a hand out. “It’s not what you think.”
Tom knew when he was being lied to. He always had. It was a knack he’d picked up as a teen and it had served him well in life. He’d been trying to deny the feeling about Bishop since they’d first met. Tom wanted to like the guy. He wanted to trust him, because his mom did, but there was something about him that didn’t ring true. Bishop was lying and now Tom knew it had something to do with the military. He was putting Mercy at risk.
Scowling, he reached for Bishop again with the intent of making sure he left the farm, physically if he had to. Tom was a couple of inches taller than the other man and while Bishop was obviously tough, he also had close to twenty years on Tom so he shouldn’t be much of a physical threat.
To Tom’s shock, he never completed the motion. Bishop moved with lightning speed, grabbing Tom’s hand and twisting it around and then up behind his back, forcing Tom to move with him or else risk breaking his arm. Bishop slammed into his back and used the combined force of their momentum to carry them both to the floor. Before Tom could offer any resistance, Bishop was on him, controlling his other arm with a knee across his shoulders and pressing his face into the rough boards of the floor.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Bishop growled, close to Tom’s ear. “So stop acting like a hotheaded fool.”
Stunned, Tom gulped in a breath of dusty air and accepted the fact he’d been easily beaten by a fifty-something pencil pusher from Butte, Montana. Coughing once, Tom remained still, but he didn’t relax and kept the tension against both Bishop’s grip and the knee at his neck. “Who are you?” he demanded.
Bishop snorted once and then the weight disappeared from Tom’s back. “If I let you up, can we act like men and have a conversation?”
Tom nodded once, his nose bent at a painful angle, and then slowly pushed himself into a seated position when Bishop released his arm. It was the same shoulder that had been shot, and Tom rolled it slowly to stop the spasm he was suffering.
“I’m sorry if I hurt you,” Bishop offered. “But you didn’t give me much choice.”
Irritated by what Tom took as arrogance, he grunted as he forced himself to his feet so he could face the other man. “You act like you have rights here. This is my home and my town, and you’re the one threatening it!” he shouted, pointing a finger at Bishop’s chest. “You don’t get any choices, Bishop. You either explain to me what the hell is going on, or you get out!”
Bishop stared at him silently and Tom braced himself to kiss the floor again. He might be older and smaller, but the man knew how to fight.
“I respect you,” Bishop said evenly. “And I care about your mother—”
“You leave my mom out of this!” Tom’s temper flared and he almost forgot about the splinters in his face.
Holding a hand up defensively, Bishop then motioned for Tom to settle down. “I don’t know what you think I’m doing up here, but if you look at the other pages on the ground, it might help shed some light.”
Tom begrudgingly bent over and snagged two sheets that were by his feet. They were full of the same tight script as the other one and had choppy, unfinished sentences:
Washington communication sketchy. Focusing on eastern region where Chloe is from. Southern California no contact yet. Will keep trying. Contact with Honolulu. Waiting on names.
Tom frowned and looked up at Bishop, who was watching him closely. “I have a good friend who happens to be in charge of the Washington State Guard,” Bishop explained. “I finally made contact with him a couple of days ago and he’s helping me try to find the kid’s parents. And hopefully Ethan’s mom.”
“Whose radio is this?” Tom asked, unsatisfied.
Pushing away from the wall, Bishop retrieved the headset from the floor and went to examine the radio to make sure it was still working. “This was Caleb’s main radio. It got fried the day of the gamma ray. Well, it was mainly the battery that got fried and only some of the electrical circuits. I offered to try and fix it for him.”
“He showed me his other radio,” Tom said, eyes narrowing. “He specifically said it was the only working radio in Mercy, and that the other nearest one he knew of was at the Pony Express station near Helena.”
Bishop dropped the headphones on the desk and turned abruptly to face Tom. He looked annoyed, but also resigned. “That’s because I didn’t tell him I got it working. I knew how everyone would react to my wanting to contact the state guard.” He rushed to explain when Tom bristled. “And you’re right, Tom. I haven’t been upfront with everyone regarding my background. I was in the military and I still have some contacts. I’ve been using them to try and get us some answers. Some useful information. I know you don’t have much of a reason to trust me, but I’m asking you…as a friend, and as a friend of your mom’s, to trust me. I’ve done nothing but help since I got here and that’s all I want to continue doing.”
In spite of how badly Tom wanted to punch the other man in the face, the same intuition that helped him ferret out liars urged him to accept Bishop’s plea. He believed him, and although Tom knew there was still a side to him that was in the shadows, Bishop was the kind of man he needed by his side when they went up against the desperados. And if he was telling the truth about the radio, then he might also need his help as the mayor.
“Okay,” Tom said with some reluctance. Handing the papers out to Bishop, he saw that there were several more like it scattered on the desk. “Have you managed to get any of those answers?”
“I’m afraid so,” Bishop said with a sigh. “I was going to tell you about this tomorrow, anyway. I found out something you need to know. That everyone needs to know.”
Tom braced himself for more bad news and wondered if there would ever come a time again when things weren’t so muddied. When right was right and wrong was wrong. When the sky was dark at night and the rain didn’t kill anything.
“Jesper Duke’s ranch is now a command center for the US military.”
Tom closed his eyes and took a slow breath before opening them again. “Dillinger?”
Bishop shrugged. Tom had told him about the corporal, so he knew who he was referring to. “I didn’t get many details, except it’s clear they aren’t stopping there. I’m afraid the fake quarantine isn’t going to work for much longer, Tom. Sooner or later, there are going to be soldiers coming up the road.”
Tom hoped that Bishop was telling him the truth about being on their side, because they were going to need all the help they could get. “Do we have any options?”
Bishop grinned, clearly relieved that Tom asked. “There are always options.”
Chapter 22
General Montgomery
Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado
General Montgomery stood facing the giant map on his office wall, hands clasped behind his back. He’d spent so many hours staring at it that when the
colors changed, lines shifted, and the landscape morphed into something altogether new, it was like watching an evolving season. It was changing again, and the red yarn strung along the West Coast was physically painful to look at.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
He twisted his shoulders a few inches so he could acknowledge Walsh, who was standing just inside the doorway to his office. “The continent is literally being molded into something new,” Montgomery said with some reverence. “A third of the Oregon coast erased miles inland, the San Juan Islands in Washington submerged, and…tens of thousands dead in California. We won’t even know the extent of the latest damage there until we reestablish communication after the last storm.”
“There’s growing concern that the remaining tankers that were still in port have also been lost.”
Montgomery winced. It was some of the largest stores of crude oil still accessible on the continent. It would be some time, of course, before anything could have been done with it, but at least they would have had the option. He hadn’t even considered the impact of the hurricanes on the refineries. “Which ones?” he asked. “Washington or California?”
Walsh moved restlessly and cleared his throat. “All of them, sir.”
General Montgomery turned back to his map. Although it was changing, it was still familiar enough to offer him a sense of control. If they could continue the information-gathering so he at least understood what was happening, he would be able to maintain order. Information was power and there was never a time when that was truer. “Why don’t we have more updates?” he demanded, walking over to his desk where the latest reports were stacked. Picking up the top sheet, he waved it at Walsh like it was evidence of his inadequacies. “It’s been nearly forty-eight hours since the last hurricane hit.”
“Hurricane force winds receded only ten hours ago, sir, and the atmospheric interference increased to the point where communication was almost impossible all along the coast,” Walsh explained. “We’ve been relaying messages successfully with eastern Washington, but they’ve only managed to get limited data themselves.”
Montgomery slammed the paper back down on the desk. It was too early in the morning to argue and he hadn’t even had his first cup of coffee. He knew he didn’t need to lecture Walsh, but there was a long laundry list of bad news greeting him that morning and someone needed to answer for at least some of it. “Tell me about 1st Recon,” he demanded. Rubbing at his temple, the general picked up the mug of coffee that had already gone cold and sat down at his desk.
“We’ve had no further contact since they went dark last night,” Walsh said, hesitating.
“Out with it, Colonel. I’m not in the mood to play twenty questions with you today.”
“Alicia Jenson is a US governor. Why not simply set up a meeting with her?”
Montgomery stared at Walsh until the other man looked away. “I understand she now considers herself a senator. And are you going to make me explain the meaning of standing orders, Colonel? Is the continued destruction of our planet not enough evidence that we need to do whatever is necessary to ensure the survival of the people of the United States?”
Walsh cleared his throat again, and when he looked back up to meet Montgomery’s eyes there was a hardness the general hadn’t seen before. “I think, sir, that we are living in unusual times. It might be to everyone’s benefit to try and work alongside the civilian government, rather than against them. Either that, or be bold enough to order her arrest instead of whatever game is being played.”
Montgomery set his cup down and slowly pushed it off to the side before placing his hands on the desk. “You’re sounding awfully mutinous this morning, Kelly.”
Walsh swallowed hard at the use of his first name, though he didn’t look away. “You’ve got it wrong, General. I’m doing my best to prevent insurrection, but you’re making my job very hard lately. I just got word before coming here that one of the National Guardsmen at the gov—I mean, senator’s estate was killed last night. There were eyewitness accounts of the recon unit and they’re calling this a military operation. The state of Idaho is demanding answers immediately.”
Montgomery’s expression didn’t change. He knew the mission could go one of several ways and was ready for them all. Ideally, it would have been a clean grab and the situation could have been more easily manipulated to their benefit. As it was, it would require more sacrifice, and that was still acceptable to him. “Issue a statement denouncing the 1st Force Reconnaissance team. Explain that they were ordered to disband after we investigated the botched mission in New Mexico. They’ve gone rogue and are now acting on their own accord.”
Walsh’s face reddened. “So, they’re your scapegoat?”
“They are whatever we need them to be!” Montgomery barked as he jumped to his feet, causing Walsh to recoil. “It is imperative that we maintain authority or everything that we’ve managed to build will be lost. The rest of the people will be lost, Colonel, and that cannot…it will not happen. With Vice Admiral Baker and Senator Jenson out of the equation, their rebellion is effectively shut down and we can get back to rebuilding this country.”
Walsh stood stiffly; his hands clamped into fists at his sides. Montgomery remained on his feet and watched his longtime friend carefully. He’d rather not detain him for treason, and the next minute would likely dictate whether the other man lived or died. It would be unfortunate, although better men had been sacrificed throughout history for the greater good.
A small sigh escaped the colonel’s lips, and it reminded Montgomery of the last breath often heard before the soul left the body at the moment of death. “What’s our next step then, sir?”
Relieved for the moment, but still wary of the colonel’s loyalty, the general sat back down and resumed drinking his cold coffee as if the standoff hadn’t happened. “Tell me about Dr. Watson’s latest demands.”
Walsh blinked once, and then twice, looking somewhat dazed. His brows furrowed and then relaxed as he realized they were moving on with business as usual. “Um, yes. She’s still adamant that her granddaughter be allowed topside for more than an hour a day to get what she calls sunshine and fresh air.”
“That’s easy enough to make happen.”
“Yes, General, I’ve already seen to it,” Walsh replied, his voice still sounding weak as he continued to gather his wits. “The other request is a little harder to accommodate, though not without merit.”
“Indoor farming.” Montgomery lifted the report which listed the details. “She claims to have been part of a team that planned for potential events that limited the ability to grow food and raise cattle. Perhaps we’ve discovered why she was on the list.”
“She’s a geneticist,” Walsh said, pointing out the obvious. “According to her, she was recently involved in a top-secret government program. Her role was to create genetically modified seeds as part of a revolutionary seed vault here in the states.”
“Comparable to Svalbard?” Montgomery asked. He didn’t know much about the Svalbard global seed vault, except that it was called a doomsday vault and, much like Cheyenne, was located deep inside a mountain. Unfortunately, that mountain was on an arctic island in Norway. One of the reasons for its location was the cold. Even if the power in the vault failed, which it would have with the gamma ray, it would remain below freezing inside. Though there were some vaults in the US, with one of the largest being right there in Colorado, they were all susceptible to the repercussions of the flashpoint. The local one at the Colorado State University was housed in a regular building. It was part of a massive fire and a total loss. Any others still accessible would be essentially useless, even if they had workable land to grow the seeds in.
“Better than Svalbard, and more than one.”
The general paused with his cup halfway to his mouth. “More than one?”
Walsh’s eyes narrowed. “You knew about this.”
“What else did she say?” he demanded. Montgomery had allow
ed the colonel enough rope to hang himself with, but he wasn’t about to start getting in the habit of explaining his motives to his assistant.
“She wants a team to help locate some appropriate caves and coordinate an indoor farming program.” Walsh took a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. As he approached the desk and held it out to Montgomery, he could see that it was covered in a hand-written list. “Once we’ve met her requirements, she’ll help us locate the vault.”
“She doesn’t know where it is?” Montgomery was alarmed.
“No, but she apparently knows someone who does,” Walsh dropped the list and backed away like he was feeding a snake. “She said the different aspects of the project were kept separate in order to maintain a high level of secrecy, but she was friends with someone on the vault design team.”
“Give her what she wants,” Montgomery demanded, startling Walsh with the ease with which he gave the order. “I don’t want anyone else talking to her, and isolate the team she puts together.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The communication that came in from Dillinger last night,” General Montgomery said, moving on before Walsh tried to fish for more answers. “How was it sent?”
“Apparently there was a ham radio at the Pony Express station.” Walsh scratched at his head, frowning. “Turns out they were even more organized than we thought.”
“And this station is a farm on the outskirts of Helena, correct?”
The colonel nodded. “Yes, sir. The owner was killed in the raid, but as you can see by the report, Dillinger found evidence of several other similar stations, all connecting back to Mercy, Montana.”
“This says he’ll have a team in Mercy to confirm the quarantine is a hoax within a couple of days.” Montgomery considered the importance of shutting down the supply line, the cattle, and strategic placement of another command outpost. Mercy might be just the kind of settlement they’d end up needing for the long-term. It was too bad they didn’t have the 1st Force Reconnaissance at their disposal any longer. “Contact the colonel at Malmstrom. Have them ready a team to assist Dillinger.” Malmstrom Air Force Base was about a hundred miles north of Helena, but could have troops in Mercy within a few days of receiving orders.
