State of Alliance

by Summer Lane

  “She’s pretty,” I comment.

  There is a small crew aboard. The Coast Guard team wears bright orange jackets and dark blue pants with boots. They are mostly young men, with a couple of senior officers aboard.

  Chris is here with me, as is Devin, Uriah, and Andrew.

  Elle, Sophia, and Anita Vega are still in the aquarium.

  “Can you take us out?” I ask, a thrill of excitement rushing through me. I have never been on a boat, and this seems like the perfect opportunity. “I’d like to see what’s going on out there.”

  The Coast Guard probably has better things to do than take one Senator/Commander out in the bay. But Chris shares a knowing glance with Devin, and the two nod at the same time.

  “I think we can arrange that,” Devin replies.

  “Really?”

  “Really,” Chris replies. “You’ve got your security detachment and I think it would be good for you to see the bay and report your findings to the Alliance.”

  I feel relieved. Chris is letting me go without him. Willingly.

  He is trusting my instincts, trusting my ability to handle myself.

  “Good,” I say. “Then let’s go out on the bay and see what we can see. I want to know where these Omega troop movements are happening.”

  Devin steps onto the cutter. The Captain is a tall black man with a shaved head and glittering brown eyes. He is expressionless as Devin speaks to him, occasionally glancing at Chris and I.

  “Cassidy,” Devin says. “This is Captain Adams. Captain, this is Commander Hart and Commander Young of the Freedom Fighters in the Central Valley.”

  Adams salutes me.

  “Welcome aboard, Commander Hart,” he says.

  “Thank you, Captain,” I reply.

  I look at Chris.

  “Go back to the school,” I say. “I’ll take the cutter, tell you what I see on the coastline. Take Devin, Uriah and Andrew with you. I’ll just take the security detachment.”

  He raises an eyebrow as if to argue the point, but thinks better of it.

  “Okay,” he says at last, like the words are painful. “Be careful.”

  I can tell by the expression on his face and the way that he is carrying his body that he wants to embrace me; kiss me, maybe. But he doesn’t because we are surrounded by people and now is definitely not the time.

  “See you at base,” I tell Chris and Devin.

  “See you, Commander,” Devin replies, winking.

  Chris hesitates only a moment longer before leaving me, and that’s when I know that the suffocating tension between us has dissipated. We haven’t cleared up everything, but at least we are comfortable.

  “Well, Captain,” I say. “Shall we?”

  Captain Adams grins.

  “We shall, Commander.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The salty ocean spray wets my hair and freezes my fingers, making it difficult to grasp the railing on the cutter. They call it a cutter for a reason, too. It slices through the water like a blade, bouncing and gliding and jarring all at once.

  It is an entirely new sensation for me. I’ve been in planes, ridden horses in combat, gotten blown up inside of a Humvee on a battlefield…but being on a boat is different. It’s disorienting. The deck continually swells under my feet, making walking from one end of the vessel difficult when it is in motion.

  A dramatic spray of water jets out behind us as we move through the cold bay, leaving a white, foamy trail of bubbles. There is a collection of rocks along the coastline up ahead, near the tip of the peninsula. Several sea lions are lounging, unconcerned with the war and everything around them. They just lie there, basking in the sunlight.

  The coastline is a pencil-thin outline in the horizon. Monterey Bay is a crescent moon, and the buildings on the shoreline look like toy blocks from here.

  “Commander Hart,” Captain Adams says. “Follow me.”

  He is a tall, strapping man with broad shoulders. We climb the stairs to the cabin, a small compartment with a control panel and the ship’s wheel. There are windows on all sides of us, giving us a great view of the sea. I adjust the straps on my orange life jacket and assess my surroundings.

  A young man with curly black hair is at the wheel, and there is another man here as well. They nod at us as we enter.

  “The Golden Shark is capable of twenty-eight knots,” Captain Adams tells me, his voice loud and booming. “We’ve got a twenty-five millimeter machine gun mount and a fifty caliber machine gun. We’ve got the ability to survive on rough seas and loiter speed for eight hours.” Captain Adams folds his arms across his chest, seawater rolling down his jacket. “I’ve been up and down this coastline every day since the EMP, Commander. I wandered too far south one day and half of my crew were killed by enemy fire. Omega was coming in to Los Angeles at the time, and we barely made it out of there alive.” He shakes his head. “Since then, I haven’t seen any Omega activity this far north. Until yesterday. Those ships off the coastline and the one ship I saw about forty miles up the shoreline here So, four ships total.”

  “How many troops did you see?” I ask.

  “Hard to say. Probably five hundred, at least on the shoreline.” He frowns. “They weren’t hiding their presence, either. They were being shipped onto the shoreline, dropped off like a special delivery. It was like they wanted us to know they were here.”

  “How far out has Monterey been secured?” I say. “I know that the city itself is locked down pretty tight, but where does the ring of military defense stop?”

  Captain Adams answers, “About twenty miles out. Past that, it’s still hostile territory, in my opinion. The Central Valley is pretty secure, but San Francisco and other cities up north on the Pacific Ocean are still having a hard time. Let’s hope California joining the Alliance changes that.”

  “I hope so, too, Captain,” I say.

  I really do.

  We speed further up the coast, the cerulean blue of the sea spectacularly beautiful in the late morning sun.

  “Did you live in Monterey?” I ask Captain Adams. “Before the EMP and the invasion, I mean?”

  His eyes become sad, then.

  “Yes,” he replies. “I did.”

  And that’s it. I wonder how many people in his life have died.

  I wonder if he was married, if he had children…

  “This is where we saw them,” Captain Adams says, changing the conversation. “They moved inland. The thing that gets me, though, Commander…it’s like they removed all traces of their presence. They just showed up, then disappeared.”

  There is nothing special about the strip of land here. It is merely a beach. Sandy dunes precede the shore, and beyond that is the California coast.

  “If there were five hundred troops, Captain,” I reply, “and they seemingly vanished without a trace, I think it’s safe to say that we’re in trouble.”

  “How do you hide five hundred troops?” he mutters.

  “The same way we hide our militia groups,” I say, chewing on my lower lip. “We hide in dense woodlands and abandoned areas where nobody would think to look. We attack sporadically, guerilla-warfighter style. We are seen, and then we vanish…without a trace.” I place my finger on the windowsill. “I wonder if Omega is starting to use our own tactics against us.”

  Captain Adams looks interested, almost perplexed.

  I am about to go into a deeper explanation when the front of the boat shudders. The entire vessel is rocked sideways, dipping the left side entirely underwater. I slide down, smacking my shoulder against the glass windows.

  Captain Adams curses, regaining his balance faster than me.

  “Get us out of here!” he bellows.

  I crawl to my feet and stumble down the stairs, the ship still rocking back and forth under my feet. We are bobbing like a cork, and as I step foot on the deck, I see that a huge chunk of the railing is missing. I smell gunpowder, and I know that we are in trouble.

  “They’re firing on us fr
om the shore!” I yell.

  “Turn this vessel around!” Captain Adams commands.

  I run to the starboard side of the cutter, straining to see movement on the beach. I see nothing. And then, from behind a sand dune, a trail of smoke smears across the blue sky.

  “ROCKETS!” I scream.

  My God, what have we gotten ourselves into?

  The cutter is still reeling from the hit, but Captain Adams and his small crew are rushing around the deck, blurs of orange and blue, running to the machinegun mount.

  A machinegun won’t do a damn thing against rockets, I think. Omega is hiding behind the dunes. We can’t reach them. All we can do is get the hell out of here.

  The rocket that was in the sky starts plunging down toward us. The cutter makes a U-turn in the water and the rocket hits the sea behind us, sending a wave of water over the deck. I am soaked, head to toe, freezing. I ignore it, knowing that we are not out of danger yet. The rockets are still coming.

  The cutter is racing through the water. I hold onto the outside of the cabin to maintain my balance as we move, watching the skies. There are four rockets in the air, and it hits me then how odd it is that Omega would go out of its way to destroy a single Coast Guard patrol boat.

  Why would they jeopardize their location?

  Why wouldn’t they just let us turn around and go back to Monterey?

  I am just about to come to some sort of a realization when I notice the trajectory of the third rocket. It is coming toward us quickly, and at our speed, it will hit us in just a few seconds. I yell at Captain Adams from the deck.

  But it is a useless warning. He sees it, too, and it’s not like we can just slam on the brakes and stop instantly. This is a boat. It doesn’t work like that.

  I know what it is about to happen. The cutter slows down substantially, but it is not enough. I look down at my orange life jacket, vaguely noting that every strap is in place. I run to the stern of the cutter, into the right corner. The rest of the crew sees the rocket, too. Captain Adams looks down at me through the window of the cabin, shaking his head. There is an expression of pure shock on his face.

  The rocket hits the bow of the cutter just as I jump over the railing. My feet hit the water first, and then I am swallowed whole by the sea.

  The water is shocking, freezing. My body recoils from the cold temperature, but I have no way to fight it. My head plunges underwater, soaking my hair, numbing my fingers. I have never been so cold. Even being buried in a blizzard in the mountains has nothing on this.

  This is awful.

  The lifejacket that I am wearing pulls me back to the surface of the water. I sputter for air, coughing and hacking, kicking my legs. My heavy combat boots make it difficult to move. Waves splash over me again and again, blurring my vision. I see the cutter, capsized a short distance from me. I see members of the Coast Guard bobbing in the water, their lifejackets the only thing keeping their dead bodies from sinking to the bottom of the sea.

  “Captain Adams!” I gasp.

  I don’t know why I say his name. I know that he’s dead. I know that most of the crew is gone. In fact, I don’t see any living soul other than myself. The smoldering remains of the cutter are going under fast, bubbling and sinking into the ocean. I am so cold – so completely frozen – that I barely grasp the concept that I am stranded at sea.

  My breathing comes quickly, erratically. I know I am hyperventilating, but it’s difficult to fight. I feel suffocated. The cold is ripping into my chest, making my lungs ache. How long have I been floating here? Two minutes? Two years?

  I don’t know.

  I move my arms and try to kick toward the shoreline. It is distant but clear. It could take me hours to swim to shore with this life vest on, and I’m already fatigued.

  You’re going to freeze to death, my subconscious whispers. There’s nothing you can do.

  I think of Chris, a Navy SEAL. He is trained to handle dives into cold water. He is a frogman, a rare kind of soldier. I try to think like him, to reach into my memory. Has he ever told me anything about surviving in cold water?

  No. Water hasn’t been something that we’ve had to deal with.

  And now it is going to kill me.

  I feel my limbs weaken, becoming clumsy. I force myself to swim, kicking toward shore. But I know that even if I reach the beach, I will still probably freeze to death. The water in Monterey Bay is just too cold.

  It’s too cold…

  The world becomes blurry and hazy. Suddenly I’m not cold, just numb. It is a painful, stinging sensation that penetrates every part of my body. I am drowsy, like I could close my eyes and sleep for a thousand years. I’m so tired. And if I sleep, I won’t be cold anymore. Suddenly the idea sounds very attractive…

  I feel something clamp into the back of my lifejacket. My first thought is that I am being attacked by a shark, or eaten by a sea lion.

  Do sea lions eat people? Do I even care?

  Something yanks me out of the water by the collar of my jacket and the straps of my life vest. As soon as the cold ocean breeze hits my body, I am acutely aware of the cold once more. The mere numbness is gone. I am now in very real pain.

  I grit my teeth and strain to focus my eyes.

  I land on my back, hitting something hard. I catch an overpowering whiff of rotting fish and wet wood. I try to sit up but my body will not do what I want it to do. I can only lie there, a stiff, unmoving cadaver for all the world knows.

  There is a voice and lots of movement. I see a metal railing, a pile of fish. I see what looks like some sort of a crane on the side of a wooden deck. I also catch a glimpse of a man with a wool cap pulled down around his eyes.

  And then I’m out.

  No more cold for me.

  This is not where the story ends, I think. We will be here tomorrow.

  We are in the foothills. It has been only a few months since the EMP. I still have not found my father, but I have Chris Young. He is growing on me, and I on him. I think we make a good team. I have learned a lot in just a few months about survival – what gets you killed, and what keeps you alive.

  I am not naïve anymore.

  I am scared. There is a difference.

  My long red hair is braided back. The cold morning air nips at my cheeks. Chris is checking his backpack, counting the bullets we have left for his shotgun. One box. That’s all. We haven’t been able to find much ammunition foraging through abandoned trailers and houses in Squaw Valley. Supplies are running out. I have been depending on Chris’s hunting skills to provide us with dinner.

  Wild rabbits and squirrels? Yum.

  “What’s on the menu today?” I ask, just to make conversation.

  “Same thing as yesterday,” Chris replies. “And the day before that.”

  He’s worn holes in his dark pants, and the soles of his boots are starting to come apart. He stands tall – six feet, four inches. It’s been weeks since he’s shaved, and he’s growing quite a beard.

  “Where are we going to sleep tonight?” I ask.

  “Thinking a little far ahead, aren’t you, Cassie?” he asks, flashing a wry smile.

  “I’m preparing.” I tap my temple. “You’ve taught me well, Sansei.”

  He laughs and slings his shotgun across his back, leaning on the tree I’ve got my back against. He places his large, warm hand on the side of my cheek and kisses me. It’s a comforting gesture, sending tendrils of electricity to my toes.

  “You trust me, don’t you?” he asks.

  “Of course,” I reply.

  “Then why are you worried?”

  I shake my head. “I’m not worried.”

  Chris kisses me again, and this time I bite his bottom lip ever so slightly, making him pause. He studies my face, wrapping a strand of my loose hair around his finger.

  “We’re both worried,” he says softly. “There’s no shame in that.”

  I want to believe him.

  I’m just not ready to.

  “I
f we find my father and your family,” I say, “that doesn’t mean that the world is going to go back to the way it was. I don’t think it will ever be the same. Too much has changed.”

  “Nothing will ever be the same,” Chris replies. “But if we find the people we love we can bring the best parts of the old world into the new one.”

  I smile at his logic, admiring his positive outlook.

  “You’re a good man, Chris,” I state.

  The words leave my mouth automatically, a statement of truth.

  He kisses my forehead.

  “Let’s go find food,” he says.

  And then we are moving again.

  I snap awake. I sit up straight, gasping for breath, expecting waves of cold seawater to rush over my head and drown the life out of me.

  “Hey, now. Easy, girl. Lie back down before you hurt yourself.”

  My hand flies to my belt, but my knife isn’t there. My heart flips and I jump to my feet, losing my balance. I am in a small, contained room that is rocking back and forth. I fall and hit the wall, landing on my hands and knees.

  “See? What’d I tell you?”

  I turn toward the voice. An old man is rising from a chair in the corner of the room, a wool cap pulled over his forehead and ears. He is grizzled, with deep lines running throughout his face. Judging by his rubber boots and baggy overalls, I instantly make the assumption that he is a fisherman.

  “Who are you?” I say, rolling back to my feet, crouched on the floor like a cat. “Where am I?”

  The old man has a tobacco pipe in his hand. The smoke is acrid, strong.

  “Call me Jonas,” the man replies, slowly. “This is my boat, Mia Bella. You’re lucky I came along when I did, missy. Your whole crew is dead.”

  My heart sinks.

  “You’re a…fishing boat?”

  “Sure am.” He tilts his head. “Now who are you?”

  I’m not sure what to say. I look down at my body, realizing for the first time that I am not in uniform. I’m wearing old jeans and an oversized tee-shirt. My feet are covered with floppy socks. I look back at the corner of the room, where I was lying. A small cot has been layered with blankets and quilts. I spot my uniform, my gun and my knife drying on the back of a chair nearby. A small window above the bed peeks into the bay.