by David Pope
“Already on it.”
“Any idea who she is and if she’s still alive?” asked the president.
Grace shook her head. “We’re unsure of her status. Current satellite reconnaissance confirms the entire area overrun with US forces. General Story claims the US hasn’t released information yet on any individual soldiers.” Then Grace smiled and shifted to more welcoming news. “But using facial recognition, we have a positive ID.”
Expectant, the president cocked her head and pushed the tablet forward.
Press Secretary Grace took the device and tucked it under her arm. “Her name is Lisa McMichael, Sergeant with five years active service. Born and raised in Las Vegas. She maintains a permanent residence there. Twenty-seven years of age. A single mom with two young children—ages seven and five.”
Ortega reflected on the day. Death and destruction, and she had given the order to resist. The graphic nature of the video depicted the carnage. The pictures made it real and worse than she imagined. Ortega recalled General Story’s warning. He’d been right. There was no way the battalion could have survived against such an overwhelming force. It was a horrible catastrophe, and she felt an ache deep within her bones. But the video of the disaster contained a prize: an attractive female soldier in plain view, bloodied, yet fighting back against all odds. It showed what the president believed all along. Her country was strong and the people willing to sacrifice their lives. The video of Lisa McMichael shooting a Custer from the sky appeared to be the only positive outcome emerging from a long and terrible day. The president, almost to herself, whispered, “Lisa McMichael, we needed a hero. God bless you.”
Pressed for time, the president understood the urgency. She patted down her hair and smoothed the wrinkles from her red blouse. “Okay, I’m ready to record a statement. No makeup—there isn’t time. Afterward, distribute it and the Lisa video to the entire media. Do it quick. The public has a right to know and learn of their new hero.” Another important detail crossed her mind. “Also, before I forget, make sure Lisa’s kids are secure. Get them the hell away from Vegas and somewhere safe. Lord knows they deserve it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Press Secretary Grace, already directing staff, “we’ll make it happen.”
* * *
May 8, 23:46 (PDT)
A series of low-rise, windowless industrial buildings lay nestled among the pines and redwoods of the Santa Cruz Mountains. Considered ugly, erected over the last decade, building functionality and security overcame aesthetic considerations. Selected by the ROAS to “hide” in plain sight, the location was close to the brains in nearby Silicon Valley and not too distant from the Federal Capital in Sacramento.
Inside the largest building sat the ROAS Central Command—CENTCOM—the headquarters for all vital military strategic decisions. At a long table, facing the north wall covered with monitors, Bill Story sat working on saving the nation. Aged fifty-two, born and raised in Davenport, Iowa, the general was a full-fledged graduate of the US Military Academy. His active military career was one of steady achievement. From fighting with distinction in the Second Korean War through assisting foreign military staff with the Turkish/Russo invasion of Iran, he was well experienced in the art of war, but nothing had prepared him for the events of today.
Earlier, after meeting with the president and Secretary James, General Story returned to CENTCOM to issue orders dealing with the defeat at Mesquite. Since then, the latest intelligence showed both US Armored Brigade Combat Teams hadn’t advanced. Instead, the enemy went into bivouac along Highway 15 west of town. From a military standpoint, he viewed the pause as a mistake. A wide-open blacktop offered the enemy a green light all the way to Las Vegas. But the president was right in her assessment.
Exhausted but thankful for the extra time, the general rubbed his eyes and tried to figure out how best to take advantage of the situation. It was hard. Too often his thinking was interrupted by sudden thoughts of the day and the horrific losses. Tired, trying to clear his mind, he remembered something and swiveled in his seat. Across the room, below a row of monitors, he spotted Secretary James sitting with a patient smile in a hard-back chair. He frowned at the sight. Intelligence, he believed, wasn’t the answer. But he was committed to listening.
General Story turned to his aid, Lieutenant Colonel Andrea Simpson, sitting beside him. “I need to attend a briefing with Secretary James in a nearby classified location and will be out of pocket for the duration.”
Worn out and trying to hide it, Simpson wiped away a wisp of red hair from her forehead. “Understood, sir. If something comes up …”
The general cut in, “I won’t be gone long.”
“Yes, sir,” replied Simpson. Curiosity burning through the fatigue, she asked, “Should I go with you?”
The general glanced towards Secretary James and saw the man getting up and looking his way. “Not this time, Colonel. Secretary James has transportation standing by, and this meeting is for my eyes only.” He thought of his promise to the president; either embrace the offer or resign at once. He didn’t tell Simpson that part; no need. If he wasn’t coming back, well, the president was correct, everyone was replaceable. Getting up, he felt the stiffness in his legs and took a long stretch. Feeling better, the general squared his shoulders and marched across the room to meet the skinny man and learn more about SALI.
* * *
A sleek, autonomous electric vehicle picked up the passengers. No driver needed, both men sat in the back. Upon entering, General Story appreciated the soft leather seats. While driving, there was no engine or discernible road noise. The combination created a luxuriating experience and nurtured a tiredness that swept across the general.
But sleep wasn’t in the cards, the voice of Secretary James keeping him awake, “We’re on our way to visit the estate of Dr. Vivek Basu.”
“Humph,” replied the general. He knew the name, a major technology investor and business tycoon.
“He not only lives nearby but operates a renowned spiritual awakening camp: 175 acres of pristine mountain property with zero technology, unplugged. During the summer, he runs a camp for children as an opportunity to experience life before the internet age. As for the rest of the year, retreats are held for those wishing to avoid the influence of technology. Surrounded by fencing, the property has no cell service, internet connectivity, landlines, or computers. Beyond basic security measures and electricity, technology is prohibited on the property. It’s an awesome place, like traveling back to the 1930s.”
Ensconced in comfortable leather, trying to enjoy the ride and keep the horrible day at bay, the general found the high-pitched voice of Secretary James to be the only nuisance.
James continued, “When we get there, we’ll pass through an outer gate. There, visitors turn over all personal electronics for the duration, but we have clearance to visit the main residence, so we won’t turn over any of our stuff until we get there. Pretty cool, wouldn’t you agree?”
Reclined in the soft seat, tired, the general wasn’t up to conversing. “Sure, great. Now, how much farther?”
“Soon,” replied the secretary.
He couldn’t help it. With thoughts of the day swirling, the general closed his eyes and drifted into a disturbed sleep.
* * *
She heard moaning, then tasted it again: delicious. More! Licking her lips, she wanted more and tried to say so, but her throat was too dry. She was dead, worse than dead. Eyes fluttering open and with a throbbing head, in the dim light, she saw a curved metal roof. She tried to think where she was, who she was, but the pounding was too much, and she reclosed her eyes. Somehow, through the pain and disorientation, she detected a whisper.
“Shhh. It’s okay.”
Maybe she wasn’t dead? Water splashed on her cracked lips, and her tongue flicked at the precious moisture. It felt cool and soothing against her parched throat. Determined, she opened her eyes. In a rough whisper, she asked, “Where am I?”
In a
low tone came a reply, “You’re with me, Sergeant Upton, inside a pipe behind enemy lines. You’re wounded.”
She tried to piece it together, but her head hurt too bad. An overwhelming thirst drove her, and she begged. “More water.” Opening her mouth, she waited until a wonderful sight emerged. A straw hovered, and she grabbed the plastic, pulled it between her lips, and sucked hard. Before she’d had enough, it pulled away.
“Not too much too fast. You’ll get sick.”
She tried to lift her head and get a sense of who was speaking and where she was. A mistake. The throbbing worsened. She lay back, raised a hand to her forehead, and wiped her brow. It still hurt. Alarmed, a face filled her vision, and she dropped her hand. Unsure, blinking, she tried to make the person out. The visage wore a head protection system, visor lifted, but with a headlamp breaking the darkness. Recognition dawned. Upton, a tough son of a bitch. She remembered more. A terrible fight, diving for the pipe, but nothing since then. Brow furrowed, she tried to recall further and didn’t notice his movement until he pressed something to her lips. In response, McMichael asked, “What?”
“Open your mouth, I’ve got a painkiller and more water.”
Still in pain, but seeking relief, McMichael opened wide and felt a pill land on her tongue. Like a miracle, the straw returned, and she took it, sucking the water and medication down her throat. Again, too soon, the straw pulled from her mouth. But she didn’t resist. Head still throbbing, she closed her eyes and tried gathering her senses. After a few seconds, she asked, “Where are we?”
In a patient whisper, Upton answered, “We’re in a pipe. The enemy is outside, all around. Keep your eyes closed, let that pill work, then we’ll go from there.”
Head pounding with less intensity, soothed by water, awash in sleepiness, McMichael complied.
* * *
Upton watched her drift off to sleep or unconsciousness; he wasn’t sure which, although it didn’t matter. She needed rest and time for the painkiller. To save on battery power, he clicked off his headlamp and thought about what he’d done.
Much earlier in the day, upon climbing into the pipe, the relief was instant, followed by the sheer joy of being alive. But as the bombardment lessened then stopped, he’d time to think. Guilt emerged as he thought of his squad, abandoned while he cowered out of the fight.
As the day progressed into early evening, more than once he determined to leave the pipe. Twice he’d inched close to where he climbed in, but he could hear movement along the road and knew it was the enemy by the sound of their diesel-powered vehicles. So he remained hidden, but guilt continued to chew his guts. Knowing he couldn’t hide forever, he’d been crawling in the opposite direction to find a better way out, when the sound of voices reached his ears. From that point, he moved like a quiet assassin until he came to the end of the pipe. Looking out, he was greeted by the sight of two enemy assholes about to commit rape. Fortune smiled as the men were facing away. Angry at what they were doing, driven further by his own guilt, he slipped from the pipe and, using his knife, killed them both. Afterward, he recognized McMichael, and his anger grew, but there wasn’t time for venting. Out in the open with the enemy all around, the extent of her injuries unknown, he needed to hide their tracks and take cover.
He went to work and positioned the two bodies to make it look like the bastards had killed each other. After that, he found McMichael’s pants, a blanket, and more water lying nearby. He gathered it all and placed the items on the blanket. Next, he lifted McMichael on top and hoisted the entire bundle inside the pipe. Then he crawled in, and with just enough clearance, he climbed up and over. On the other side, on all fours, he used the blanket as a travois and dragged McMichael back towards the direction he’d come. He estimated they’d traveled over three hundred meters and were now close to where he’d first entered.
So here he now sat, back in the pipe, with a wounded McMichael, and he worried the enemy would recognize his ruse and come after them. All communications were down, but his visor displayed the time and temperature. Half the night was gone. They needed to get moving, but looking at McMichael, he realized they couldn’t go anywhere. Not yet.
Chapter Fourteen
MEETING AND MOTIVES
May 9, 00:25 (PDT)
Before passing through the main guard entrance leading into Basu Ranch, Secretary James woke the general. After checking credentials, the guard let them pass without trouble. They continued until they reached the farthest corner of the ranch, where they went through a secondary guard entrance and had their credentials re-confirmed. Next, they turned onto a road leading to the private estate of Mr. Vivek Basu.
The road turned into a driveway fronting a large building. General Story thought it looked more like a low-rise office building than a home. At a tall iron gate, the car stopped. James rolled down his window and placed a palm against a reader, whereupon the barrier retracted.
They drove through the gate and entered a two-story parking garage devoid of cars, save a few modest sedans, and parked in the lower level.
Reluctant to get out of the comfortable seat but glad they’d reached their destination, along with Secretary James, the general exited the vehicle.
James led the way and steered the general into a nearby elevator. Upon entering, the door slid closed, and James stood still, waiting. The general, shaking off the cobwebs from his quick nap, was about to ask which floor when the elevator descended on its own. Interested, the general noted there wasn’t a button for a lower level. With a wry smile, he glanced at James and raised his eyebrows to acknowledge the subterfuge. James smiled back.
A few seconds later, the elevator stopped and the door opened, leading into a small foyer. Still leading the way, James exited followed by the general.
Inside the small room, the general couldn’t tell where to head next as the area lacked any obvious exits. Amused, he asked the secretary, “Where to next, 007?”
James laughed, then turned to his right, strode up to a wall, and placed his hand on the wood paneling. “After I go through, wait a minute, then copy me and place your hand on this wall. When it opens, step through and wait.”
To the general’s amazement, a vertical seam appeared in the wall, widening far enough for the secretary to enter. The general watched as the secretary stepped through, the wall sealing shut behind him. Secret squirrel shit.
After a short wait, the general approached and did as instructed and placed his hand on the wall. Nothing happened. About to step back, the wall retracted as it had for the secretary.
Without waiting, the general stepped through, and the wall hissed closed behind him. Stuck, he found himself in a smaller foyer, trapped. Frustration rising, ready to place his hand on the opposite wall, it retracted.
To his surprise, standing across from him was a rather stern looking blonde woman with hair pulled in a tight bun wearing white pants and a blouse. She beckoned and greeted him. “General Story, I’m Ms. Grant. Glad to meet you, sir. Please come in.”
The general thought the woman looked rather stiff, plain of feature, but she appeared pleasant enough, and her tone was polished. He stepped through the threshold and recognized a high-security room.
Ms. Grant said, “Sir, before entering the SCIF, we need to do a quick inspection and make sure you haven’t any electronics or weapons. Merely a formality. I appreciate your cooperation.”
“Of course,” replied the general.
Ms. Grant produced a plastic tray and pushed it forward. “All metal and electronics, please place them here.”
From his jacket pocket, the general pulled out his cell pad. Out of habit he checked and saw no signal. He remembered James explaining the lack of computer networks on the ranch and sniggered as he placed the device inside the tray. Fishing in his pockets, he pulled out a penknife, along with a set of keys, and dropped those in as well. Then he asked, only half kidding, “What about my belt buckle and shoes?”
Ms. Grant answered, almost bowing, �
��No, sir, unnecessary.”
“Okay, that’s all I got.”
Ms. Grant smiled, placed the tray on a counter next to a booth behind her, and gestured towards the device. “Please step into the scanner and raise your hands above your head. When you hear a beep, drop your arms and exit the other side. Again, thank you for the patience and understanding.”
The general shook his head but did as instructed. Upon entering the scanner, he spotted a large glass mirror on the far wall. He assumed it was one-way security glass and that someone was observing from the other side. With hands raised, he detected a beep, dropped his arms, and exited. He waited as Ms. Grant, tray in hand, opened a cabinet and placed the general’s items inside.
“Your belongings are safe here and will be returned when you depart.”
The general nodded, ready to get on with it.
Appearing efficient, Ms. Grant walked up to a far wall and placed her hand against it, causing the barrier to slide open. “After you, sir.”
The general stepped through, entering a long hallway painted stark white. Several plush chairs lined both sides of the wall, and in the nearest one, Secretary James sat waiting. Looking up, the skinny man asked, “Good to go?”
General Story, tired, deflated by the day’s events, but determined to learn what lay ahead, gave a curt answer. “Yes, let’s get on with it.”
Ms. Grant replied, “Yes, sir. Please, follow me.”
Secretary James stood and let Ms. Grant pass. The general followed, and in a single file the trio headed down the hallway to meet SALI.
* * *
Fucked over and given security detail, Sergeant Raymond Flood stood over two dead bodies. Instead of lounging in bivouac with good company and beer rations in hand, he shivered in the cold, hovering over two stiffs.
