People shouted back, demanding answers he did not have. When will we get permission? How much longer do we have to wait? Why can’t we make arrangements here? At a loss, he could only continue repeating what he’d already been told. If not for the soldiers standing menacingly on either side of him, weapons drawn, he was sure they’d have resorted to trampling him over and storming the facility. Given the atmosphere, it was entirely possible that might happen still.
* * *
Giving up on public transit, the remaining Joffrey townspeople took to the open road, sticking together for the safety their numbers would provide. They couldn’t avoid all danger; so many bandits about, not to mention the enemy combatants hiding behind every rock, but they were careful and suffered less than most. Injuries, though, were another matter. Melissa Matthews had a badly sprained ankle that kept her in the back of the group most of the time, barely keeping up.
Attention refugees. An emergency curfew is in effect. You are instructed to leave the road and seek shelter until the ban on travel is lifted. You are to proceed to the nearest public accommodations or refugee processing center, in order to comply with the current ban. You are instructed to remain off the highways and cross-country roads until further notice. Attention refugees…
When Melissa collapsed, unable to continue under her own power, she would’ve escaped notice if not for Phil Jenkins checking up on the old and infirmed.
“You’re Vern’s boy, ain’t ya?” she asked, sizing him up.
He looked startled to hear his father’s name, but nodded. “Say, don’t I know you? From…”
“Give it a minute. It’ll come.”
His eyes lit up. “Jefferson Elementary. You were our lunch lady. In second grade, I think!”
“Second and third,” she corrected, wincing as she tried to sit up.
“Take it easy, Ma’am.” She gave him a playful scowl. “I mean, Mrs. Matthews.”
“Melissa’ll do fine. We’re not back in school now, that’s for sure.”
“No ma’am. I mean Melissa. We’re sure not. Now you relax a second, I’ve got to wrap that ankle so we can get you back on the move.”
“Oh, don’t bother,” she said, clearly reluctant to be a burden, “I’ll rest up a while and catch up.”
He shook his head, smiling slightly. “No you won’t. You’ll stick with the rest of us. Hey Joey!” He waved over one of the stragglers. The slight commotion had already caught the attention of several Joffrey men, and they were slowly approaching.
“Joey, run up and get the Chief, will ya? He’ll know which of the docs to send back.”
* * *
Late in the day, the Joffrey group made camp outside one of the refugee centers. They didn’t check in, given that they had no intention of staying, but it was a safe enough location to break out their sleeping gear and barter for food.
“They’re callin’ for ya, Chief,” Phil Jones said, “a whole bunch of ‘em are here for you.”
“That so?” Preoccupied with preparations and barely able to register what was being said, John Masters’ reply was vague and uninterested. Then the faint buzz of chatter grabbed his attention, and he suddenly understood what Phil was trying to say. “They’re here for me?”
Phil nodded, leading the Chief over. They stepped forward together and the crowd hushed. Squinting into the setting sun, the Chief looked over the sea of faces with a sense of awe. They were here for him. What makes me so special? He felt his heart begin pounding inside his chest, and his face went flush with a sudden pop of cold sweat. What’d I do to deserve this? He recognized the physical symptoms and emotional reaction from his dealings with others—usually after particularly grueling, crisis situations. Survivor’s guilt. Perfectly normal, though he felt far from okay even after understanding.
Noting his discomfort, Phil Jones began to address the crowd, explaining that the Chief was extremely busy with preparations and only had time for a couple of questions.
“When will you leave?” someone shouted.
“Not entirely sure. They’re sending someone for me, so I suppose I’ll go when they come get me.”
“Are you coming back, Chief?” came a voice from the middle of the crowd.
At this, he felt a pang of regret. “I can’t say.” Then he added a whispered, “Hope so,” low enough for Phil to hear, but not meant for everyone, “I’m entrusting the care of the town to Phil Jones here in the meantime. So you all just follow him like he was me, and you’ll be alright.”
Phil, taken aback, stood speechless as the people began to clap.
* * *
The airlift group had come for him like a whirlwind, in the dead of night, with all the precision of a military mission. It occurred to John Masters that might just be the case, though his minders were wearing suits, and the equipment they travelled on was of an incognito type. By sunup, they were on a base somewhere, and then he lost all track of time, since he was brought into a windowless facility that might as well have been a prison, for all the accouterments it featured.
Masters spent a solid hour in a sparse room, waiting for the debrief, or at least he imagined that was the case. He killed the time familiarizing himself with the room and it’s contents, and looked for clues. There wasn’t much to go on, but he did notice a few items that were distinctly military, along with some letterhead and other paperwork that seemed to confirm his suspicions. He had guessed Cheyenne. Even at the outer checkpoints, and despite the complete lack of identifying markings or signs. Even with no concrete reason to think so, the imposing feel of the place, coupled with the ridiculous amount of security, made him think ‘fortress’. If there was one true fortress in America, it was Cheyenne Mountain. And with the very planet itself fighting for survival, they needed all the fortification they could get.
When he was finally escorted in, he was left to wait another ten minutes in a functional sort of office, before a youthful official finally came in. Masters didn’t catch the name, but the title of “citizen liaison” was Orwellian enough to pique his interest, and cause the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up.
“First off, Chief Masters,” he began, “I really am sorry to keep you waiting. It’s been hectic around here, as you can imagine.”
“Sure I can, son. Mind telling me where here is, by the way?”
That seemed to stop the man. Then he smiled and wagged a finger. “Knew you were a tricky one, John. Can I call you John?”
Masters shrugged. “Why not.” He decided then and there to give up on getting any real answers. He knew where he stood, and what they thought of him, which was pretty much the only important information he needed going forward.
“I should tell you, I’ve already been involved in several debriefing sessions with the Mayor of Joffrey.”
“Have you now?”
“Yes, sir. So I’m sure we won’t have too much to go over. Just some follow-ups and points for clarification. You understand.”
“I sure do,” Masters said, relaxing into his chair for the first time since entering. “Why don’t you let me have a look at what the Mayor told you folks, and then I can confirm that we’re all on the same page.”
At that, the other man laughed. Actually laughed. Not in a mean spirited way, though. It was almost as if he honestly thought Masters had made a joke. Which, in a sense, he had. Just not the one this liaison had in mind.
“No? I suppose that’d be a bit much to ask.” Masters relented easily, keeping his tone casual and his manner polite. He was quite certain the room was bugged, and he was probably under some sort of video surveillance on top of it. This interview was just the tip of the bureaucratic iceberg. “So what questions do you have for me, then?”
* * *
President Webster and his entourage watched the debriefing of Joffrey’s Chief of Police in real time, just a few doors down. The office was of similar size and decor, except this was a surveillance room, so the equipment took up a good quarter of the floorspace. Banks
of monitors displayed interrogation rooms and cells, along with numerous private and public spaces, all under constant observation.
Mayor Quaid felt nauseous as the Chief recounted his version of events in the ill-fated town. While not betraying him outright—Masters had too much class for that—he wasn’t painting nearly the same rosy picture as the Mayor had been laying out in public.
But the president didn’t care about petty squabbles. He wanted concrete answers, and it looked like he’d found someone willing to give him what he wanted. Someone with nothing to lose.
“Sounds like his version differs from yours,” President Webster said.
His dry delivery and laser-sharp glare was getting to Quaid in a major way. He felt dizzy on top of the nausea, but he didn’t dare ask for a chair. He swallowed, then again harder, before attempting to speak. “I can’t say I find these sordid details to be of much interest, Mr. President.”
“You say sordid. I say unvarnished truth. I suggest we stick to just that from now on. Would that be alright with you?”
The Mayor paused for a moment, taking deep breaths to calm his nerves. Finally, he nodded. There was no point in arguing. Masters was too highly regarded by politicians and the public alike, this president included. Quaid wouldn’t have a leg to stand on against a real modern-day hero.
* * *
When the citizen liaison stepped out with a curt, ‘Thank you for your cooperation’ line of dismissal, Masters assumed this would simply be the first in a long, tedious series of interrogations. That’s the way he’d have handled it. He knew enough to know they always started at the low-level, clerical style and worked their way up. The next round was likely to be someone slightly more important, with a more aggressive line to press. He steeled himself for whatever was coming. But nothing could’ve prepared him for the shock of seeing the President of the United States stroll into the cramped office and casually pull out a chair.
“Chief Masters?” he said, reaching out for a hand shake, “I’m honored to finally meet you sir.”
With a slack-jawed, star-struck expression, Masters reached back weakly to accept the greeting. He noticed two things; the dry warmth of the president’s hand, and the creased, genuine smile on his face. Taken together, it put him immediately at ease, at least as much as anyone could be in his shoes.
“Mr. President,”—he felt the crack of his words and the scratchiness of his throat, adding to the surreal experience—“I’m John Masters. Yes.” What kind of a jackass do I sound like?
The president smiled. “I have to apologize for putting you through all this,”—he glanced around the cramped office—“I’m afraid the debrief was necessary, and this was the only available room. It’s pretty packed out there, what with preparations and all. Busy as hell, really. First time in Cheyenne?”
Masters nodded, amazed at how casual that sounded. Hearing his suspicion confirmed gave him a quick swell of pride, but that was fast overtaken by dread when the gravity of, well, everything, hit him like a brick.
“Yes, I suppose it would be, wouldn’t it,” laughed Webster. “Mine too, as a matter of fact. The way I took office, I didn’t exactly get the grand tour. But that’s neither here nor there. Chief Masters, your country needs you. Now more than ever. Even with all you’ve been through, I’m going to be asking more of you. I trust you’re willing to help?”
Masters fought to grasp what he was hearing. Beyond filling them in, he had no idea what more use he could possibly be. But he wasn’t about to argue with the most powerful man in the world. “Of course, Mr. President. What can I do?”
“Ah,” replied the president, “that’s a little complicated, I’m afraid. But we’ll do everything we can to ease you into it. Would you follow me please?”
Masters realized he’d never even stood up when the president entered the room. In a belated attempt to show the proper respect, he leapt to his feet, stumbled slightly, recovered, then stood straight and tall. Webster didn’t seem to notice any of it, so Masters relaxed and followed the commander in chief out of the room and into a bustling corridor. He wasn’t lying, Masters thought, it really is busy as hell out here.
42.
The enemy took whatever it could, and they were gaining momentum. Seven heavily fortified Worldforce checkpoints were hit inside of a week. All of them highly coordinated, mass casualty events. Infiltrators, impersonating worldforce soldiers, sabotaged supplies and ammunition stores. Booby-traps, created to delay and hinder troop movements, were set up along the front to lethal effect. The front itself was continuously in flux, with guerrilla tactics causing a disorganized, decentralized worldforce to constantly double back and re-align.
The armies of worldforce, disjointed as they were by a lack of cohesive leadership, dealt with the threats in various ways; some effective, most not. Rooting out and rounding up enemy combatants was the normal response, though for each one they imprisoned, two more joined the cause. Even the simple act of capture was tying up resources. It got to the point where, if an enemy wasn’t caught in the act, they were allowed to walk away, living to fight another day.
Chinese troops were less concerned with the niceties of who did what, instead making examples of enemy fighters by burning down their home villages. This lead to a predictable rise in recruitment, with the new directive being ‘Target the Chinese first’. Thus a vicious circle of carnage—eye for an eye warfare—resulted in untold collateral damage on all sides.
Hatred of worldforce, their allies, and the whole bloody war was at an all-time high. The rest of the world might have been destitute and technologically lacking, but insta-fighters, amounting to close to a billion souls, constituted an unstoppable force. All the troops in the mechanized world couldn’t hope to repel such numbers. The first genuine World War of the new millennium had begun.
That morning, a convoy of elite troops out of Moscow had been hit. At least a dozen killed, three times that wounded. That victory resulted in a celebration in the center of Prague. Unusual under the circumstances, but the people needed a distraction. The mood was jovial, the police nowhere to be seen, and the few camera crews came from smaller agencies. Nothing live, nothing to attract attention. The combatants and their friends felt safe.
The searing white flash came without warning; no sirens, no aircraft, not that it would’ve mattered much if they ran. The tactical nuke killed the terrorists, and took out nine square blocks along with them. Tiny in comparison to the city destroyers made famous by twentieth century testing, even so the attack caused a mass panic.
Images and videos began to emerge. Nothing like the old stock footage from ages past, this was high definition, crystal clear documentation. Elderly men and women with burns over eighty percent of their bodies. Children’s hair falling in great clumps. Thousands of dead, stacked like cordwood, lining the streets in hellish relief.
The worldforce attempted to keep the press at bay, but there was no stopping them once the amateur videos started leaking. It was too difficult to keep troops positioned so close to the radiation zones anyway, and as victims poured out the reporters got their stories, whether or not they were able to get close to ground zero.
* * *
“They’re moving in from the south, and a faster clip than we’d anticipated. At their current pace, the southern border’ll be overwhelmed in,”—Chief of Staff Harvey Roberts paused to re-check his notes—“six days, maybe seven if weather sets ‘em back. That’s not factoring in the ocean-going mercenaries closing in. On both coasts now.”
“Ah, Christ, they broke through on the Pacific side too?”
Afraid so, sir,” the chief of staff acknowledged, “and it gets worse. We need your authorization.”
Dark Alignment Page 27
