“What’s the status of military forces? Are they still capable of pulling this off now everything’s gone to shit?”
“They’re spread pretty thin, no question.” Chief of Staff Roberts had thought it through, trying to anticipate the needs of his boss. He wanted to be optimistic, but he had to deliver the information as was, without sugarcoating. “It’s possible we could put something together with local forces.”
“Okay, get on it. And get me updates every two hours. We’ve got to get a handle on this Washington mess before we can focus on the rest of it. Being on the move is no way to run a country, much less a full blown crisis. My family settled in at the new place?”
The collision came out of nowhere, swift and brutal in its efficiency. Even at full strength the motorcade and its officers wouldn’t have been able to anticipate or prepare for it. As it was, with a skeleton crew and all hell breaking loose, it was all too easy for the enemy to swoop in and disable The Beast. Now the president was vulnerable, with an eighteen-wheeler buried in the side of his car and a nasty concussion. The second wave was an aerial assault, and within sixty seconds all the support vehicles had been reduced to smoldering wrecks.
Chief of Staff Roberts fought to stay conscious, applying pressure on the president’s wound and screaming for a doctor. But those who weren’t immediately incapacitated were busy trying to fend off the assault. He was on his own, the only man standing between the enemy and the president of the United States. It was beginning to look like the country might lose not one, but two leaders.
* * *
It took several hours for word to filter down. The explanation was alarming—a full governmental relocation, and difficulties ascertaining the specifics of the command structure. The military was being split down the middle, operations on two fronts. Washington was completely out of commission, and orders would be coming in from alternate, undisclosed locations for the foreseeable future.
Move in and re-acquire the assets. Those were the orders. But it was an hour too late for that now. It was unlikely they’d reach the enemy encampment before the targets escaped or, far more likely, got recaptured or killed. The strike team would head for the compound anyway and hope for the best.
“Give me a read on the three of them, are they still inside?” The commander of the remote forces wasn’t spoiling for a fight, but at the same time he was glad the shackles were finally being removed.
“Still inside. Unfriendlies moving in. Not far from the gate, but they’re walking into a trap.”
“Get me the remote patrol. We can at least give them an assist, even if we can’t all get to the party on time.”
24.
Shane continued to lead Dean along as he searched for a way out, but the scientist was at least able to keep up better than before.
“You’re doing great, Dean, just keep it up,” Shane offered, trying to stay positive. “Feel like you’re starting to come around?”
Dean lolled, his eyes fluttering rapidly. Still heavily under the influence.
“Got it,” Shane quipped, grunting from the effort of bearing the other man, “not just yet.”
“Sss, sirry,” Dean muttered. It was obvious he was putting in as much effort as he could.
“It’s alright. You’ll be able to stand on your own two feet by the time we get there,” the airman said. He spoke with a confidence he didn’t feel, trying to motivate himself and his charge at the same time.
“Where are we…”
The trail-off was inevitable, but Shane sensed his companion was starting to come around. “Not far. Got us a plane waiting, we just have to get to it. Me and Jo took care of everything. All you have to do is keep moving.”
Dean remained silent, but bobbed his head in a way that seemed lucid.
“First things first,” Shane continued, hefting Dean back up on his shoulder, “find a way out of here.”
Finding the way out proved to be an exercise unto itself. There were plenty of options, but they were all being guarded by at least one man. Finally, all the way in the back of the compound, they found a storage room, and in it was a long-forgotten, cobweb infested, unguarded door. It creaked and cracked alarmingly, but fortunately nobody’s attention seemed to be on it.
The outer walls were too high to scale, reminding Shane of Osama bin Ladin’s hideaway in Abbotabbad. The guards would see them if they ventured out into the open, so they stayed close to the building. Shuffling along the outside, Shane pushed Dean’s head down and ducked low at each window, working their way around to the main gate.
With his stomach emptied by Shane’s maneuver, plus the sudden fresh air, Dean was indeed beginning to come around. In his fresh alertness he was the first to notice enemy soldiers closing in, alerting Shane with a frightened squeeze of the pilot’s arm. With the gate still a long ways off, it seemed like exposing themselves to the open space was their only option. Shane was about to make a break for it when Jo appeared, taking up a defensive position behind a dumpster and motioning for them to stay put.
Shane watched as she sized up the enemy, then made a wild dash across the grass to join her compatriots.
“Thought we were meeting on the outside!” Shane hissed, feeling relieved and annoyed in equal measure.
“Nice to see you too,” she shot back, scanning the surroundings. “Figured you could use the help.”
“You got the…”
She held up the data pad, stowed it, then said, “Let’s get sleeping beauty the hell out of here, okay?”
“C’n I help?” Dean mumbled, licking his lips then squinching up his face as the taste of stale sick trickled down. He pushed himself off of Shane, trying to give the airman a break, but Shane rebuffed his feeble efforts. “I’n okay naw…” He shook his head, fighting to make sense, then tried again, “It’s okay. I can—”
Shane gave the scientist a shake, mostly to shut him up, then yanked him in closer and took on the bulk of his weight yet again.
“Just keep quiet and don’t move,” Shane ordered, “we’ve got this.”
With Dean propped on one arm, Shane hefted his rifle with the other and thrust it downward, a satisfying chuck from the cocking assembly indicating the weapon was ready. He took aim at the first adversary, but didn’t fire. Instead, he looked up and over the man, as did Jo. They craned their necks, their attention skyward, and Dean tried to process what they were looking at. He couldn’t see anything at first. Then a glint of metal, followed by what looked like sparks. The visuals took place high above the compound, but the jarring sound of gunfire rocked the courtyard, close to their position, sending them scrambling for better cover.
Dean hadn’t even heard that faint whir of the drone’s engines, but his rescuers had. The enemy soldiers were onto it as well, both sides trying to ascertain what this new element meant. When the drone began targeting the enemy, ignoring the escaping trio altogether, the answer was clear. The situation was soon chaotic enough for Shane, Jo and a reinvigorated Dean to make for the gate.
* * *
The drone-cam showed the trio racing for cover, the drone itself keeping the enemy pinned. Taking advantage of the disorientation, the drone moved into a new position at their nine o’clock where the front camera could keep an eye on them. They were almost in a position to make for the gate.
The furthest enemy marksman, however, had been watching the drone with a keen, battle-sensitized eye, and realized the error in judgement before the remote pilot had figured it out for himself. With a clear shot to the escapees, he jumped to his feet and took the advantage.
“Commander!” the drone pilot called out from behind the controls, pointing at the gunman running straight at the trio. In the thick of the altercation it was hard to make out, but he was almost sure this one had split off from his comrades.
“I see him,” the commander said. The three escapees they were protecting would never see him in the dark. “Close the normal recode, notch off,” he ordered, “track port and shoot up the w
all. Right in front of them so they back off.”
The pilot banked the drone, moving away from the main group. Shifting the angle so he could shoot over their heads, he sprayed the wall. Puffs of smoke billowed out from where the bullets found their mark, striking the gate, then along the wall back toward the enemy position. He backed off and re-set. Now it would be up to the group on the ground to interpret the signal.
* * *
The trio stopped short, bullets peppering the wall in front of them. As debris rained down, they hit the grass and covered up. With such a clear shot at their exposed flank, they should’ve been killed. Instead, it seemed like they were being warned off.
“What the hell are they doing that for?” Jo shouted. Her eyes darted between falling shrapnel, the drone behind them, and the enemy soldiers ensconced at their ten o’clock.
Shane lay across Eckert—having thrown him to the ground—creating a protective spread of splayed limbs. He looked around, trying to figure out the enemy’s intent.
“Warning shot, maybe?” he replied. “Or they don’t want us to go this way?”
“There’s no other way to go, is there?” Jo said. Her eyes widened as she looked past Shane. She shouted, “Watch out!” before diving out of harm’s way.
Shane rolled off of Dean and onto his knees, raising up just as the soldier pounced. The two men struggled. With Dean still on the ground behind him, Shane had less room to maneuver, and the attacker pressed his advantage, trying to raise his weapon. Shane knocked the barrel of the gun aside and threw a haymaker. It connected with bone-crunching impact. Unprepared for such brutal force, the attacker flew backward and off his feet. Shane swung out with the butt of the man’s rifle, releasing it into the air and just missing the assailant’s face. The enemy, recovering his weapon as he rolled away, squared himself and took aim. Shane bellowed in pain as he clutched at his thigh. The attacker was just distracted enough by his actions to miss the fact that the drone had repositioned. Just as he was about to move in for the kill, a shot to the skull from the airborne threat dropped him cold.
“Let’s go!” Jo commanded, propping Shane up with one arm and guiding Dean with the other. They staggered for the gate like runners in a three-legged race. Passing through it without further gunfire, Jo strained to keep both impaired men on course, steering them toward the tree-line. Off in the distance and well beyond, a flash pierced the sky, followed by a sinister looking fireball that rolled skyward over the treetops.
“What’sit?” Dean muttered, struggling to comprehend. He shook off the cobwebs. “What was that?”
Shane, still staggering but holding his own, looked over at Jo with a knowing look. “That was our ride,” he said, his voice husky with pain.
They made it to the tree-line in fits and starts, but didn’t slow their pace until they were well beyond the encampment.
25.
Chief John Masters drove slowly, parallel to the ‘gravimetric border’, keeping a sharp eye out for imperfections. Without consideration for property lines or neighboring yards, the walls were being built straight across, some protecting entire blocks. The chief felt a strong sense of camaraderie with his fellow citizens as he watched them work, side by side, without so much as a foreman in charge. A pure grassroots effort, and from the looks of it a successful one—if they were lucky and the onslaught remained at its current pace. Any speed-up and they were doomed, but so far there were no reports of such an increase. Homes in the affected zones were gone, there was no saving them, but Masters recognized several homeowners from those areas on the line, hard at work. Having lost theirs, the effort was on to save others. With the fate of the town hanging in the balance, everybody was working as one.
One block over, the Chief encountered an out-of-town camera crew working on the wall. Their equipment set aside, they worked alongside the residents, doing their part. More volunteers were filtering in from unaffected neighborhoods, recognizable by their relatively clean appearance. Proximity to the disaster meant you were covered in a film of soot and grime, the least of their worries, but a tell-tale sign of experience.
The clean people, John noted, should by rights have been tending to their own, preparing for the worst. But instead they were out here, in danger, helping to protect their neighbors. With each heartwarming sight, the Chief felt more kinship—and more responsibility—to the people he served. The sense of community was getting to him, no doubt, and he suddenly felt as if he weren’t doing nearly enough to help. He decided to go on camera after all, as soon as he got back, and relay some of this goodwill and humanitarian spirit to the media. At least he could help continue the flow of aid until they didn’t need it any more. It was the least he could do.
* * *
John Masters stood in front of the clicking, clamoring press and felt his knees turn to jelly. He tried taking deep breaths, but that only caused him to hyperventilate—the crowd became a dizzying blur that only evened out when he squeezed his eyes shut. He put his palms on the lectern, but hands and wood felt unfamiliar, like foreign objects. Ignoring his muddled senses, he fought to keep a serious expression on his face and not come off like a loon.
With the mayor holding court, luxuriating in the attention hourly updates provided, and the never ending lineup of non-residents willing to pimp themselves out to give a ‘disaster porn’ interview, there was no pressing need for Masters to chime in. He was tempted to deliver a ten second sound bite and duck out, but the memory of all those citizens working so tirelessly sat in the forefront of his mind. He drew on that for a confidence boost, collected himself, pointed to a random reporter, and muttered a gravelly, “First question.”
“Can you tell us what you’re seeing out there?” the reporter called out. “What’s your estimate of the casualty count?”
Not the sort of question Masters had imagined, but then again it wouldn’t be the media if they weren’t peddling sensationalism. It was his job to turn the tables, make them report the positive side, if there was even anything positive to be found.
First things first. He had to appear confident, in charge, and collected. “Any estimate would be grossly premature. It’s more suffering than any town deserves, I can say that much.”
“What about the property damage? We understand they’re out there trying to save some of the homes?”
Bingo. “As a matter of fact, yes. The town’s rallying, working to save not only their own homes, but their neighbors’ homes too. It’s an amazing sight, seeing all those folks out there working together.”
“Ah, okay,” said the reporter, his voice trailing off as he looked down at his notes.
Another took up the slack, raising a hand and shouting, “How many homes have been lost? Do the authorities have an estimate? What are the damages so far?”
The Chief ignored the question. “You might be interested to know that some of your colleagues, a crew from Channel 4 Action News, were out helping in the construction effort. Along with a significant number of additional good samaritans. I want to point out the fact that relief is still desperately needed here in Joffrey. We’re gratified by how much aid has come in, and we appreciate every bit of it, but we’ve got to keep it going. If you could let your audience know the details on how they can help, it’d be—”
“What about the situation in local hospitals?” a third reporter cut in. “We’ve heard emergency services are overwhelmed with the amount of casualties coming in from the afflicted zones…”
* * *
Following John Masters’ interview, the media went dark on the humanitarian angle. But the sheer volume of internet airplay gave the Chief that higher profile he’d been hoping for, and soon after the news crews were beating down his door. In short order he had interviews lined up on most of the major networks. Handling everything his own way, he refused to entertain offers from those who tried to dictate terms—and since he was sitting in a position of prestigious authority, he didn’t have to.
Dark Alignment Page 16
