“I think when you destroyed the strike team, they just reacted and sent a fighter up. If they had taken more time, they probably would have killed all of us.” Daniel looked back at the Colonel, expecting to see hostility or judgment in his eyes.
Instead, he heard, “How confident are you in your assessment?”
“100% about the Senator and the virus. Maybe 90% about the single fighter.”
The Colonel held up a small radio. “You can be 100% about the single fighter, too. It was an F-35 out of Robins.” He looked Daniel up and down, measuring him, “So which is the real you? The dipshit I heard in the doorway talking about immortality and fried chicken, or the professional analyst I see before me.”
Daniel searched himself for the answer. He knew the Colonel expected him to say he was a professional. He was. But he was also himself. It seemed as though there were two different sides of him who rarely met but coexisted almost like the characters in Hesse’s novel, Narcissus and Goldmund.
In contrast, he had never felt as though his two sides were an artist and a thinker, but as life and death. Joy and suffering. Buono and Gramo. Because there is art in both joy and suffering. There is thought in light and darkness.
It wasn’t as though those things couldn’t find a way to coexist, but Daniel hadn’t found a way to do it, yet. To experience joy, he had to lock away the horrors he’d witnessed, the things he’d done, repress them until he couldn’t feel. At least marginally. What did normal people feel? He didn’t know, or he’d forgotten.
To do what he had done, he had to forget joy. He had to let loose that thing deep within which scared him. That side had feelings. Regret. Angst. Sadness. Never joy. It was best to keep that side bottled up whenever possible. Other people were frightened of that part of him. Keep it hidden. Keep it repressed.
Let it out only when you had to, or when it became too strong to stay hidden.
The only answer he could give the Colonel was, “Both.”
The Colonel gave him a long, searching look. “I think we’re going to need you. Maybe not the dipshit, but you.” It felt as though the officer had given him some answer to a question he hadn’t been searching for. Daniel gazed longingly at Marcy and felt one last lift of joy in his heart before he turned to the Colonel.
Daniel wasn’t frightened so much by how quickly he could flip the switch as he was at how he felt at that moment. It felt a little bit like relief.
“Okay.”
Chapter 4
It was sooner than he had hoped for, but Senator Bobby Snead was ready for the next phase in his plan. He had learned long ago that people who were fighting each other couldn’t fight a common enemy. He had also learned, from some of the best, how misinformation could sow uncertainty.
People liked certainty. They liked to believe something, even if it was wrong, so he’d give them something to believe. He leaned forward and pressed a button on his phone. It wasn’t truly necessary, but he liked the analog feel of summoning someone with the press of a button. “Darlene, get me Roger from media, please.”
It took twenty minutes for Roger to arrive, breathing a little bit heavily. He was overweight from many years of long hours and bad food. Roger Matteson was only forty-five years old and had already had one heart attack. He blamed it on stress from the job, never changing his exercise or eating habits.
“What can I do for you Bobby?” He looked at the slender man behind the desk, opposite from him in many ways. Where Roger was heavy, breathing heavily, and sweating, Senator Snead looked relaxed and composed. He seemed even more slender than normal in the big leather chair, which framed his thin figure and made him seem even more imposing.
That chair had taken three designers almost a month to get right. It had to be soft, yet strong, imposing, but not large enough to swallow the thin Senator. The color had to be rich and dark, but not too much red tint in the dark brown. Most importantly, the top had to stop below his shoulders to give the impression of height.
Bobby was very aware of how important impressions could be. With this tall, thin figure and dark hair, he wanted to project an Abraham Lincoln type of vibe. He couldn’t grow a full beard, sadly, so he stuck with a clean-shaven appearance. And he couldn’t very well walk around with a stovepipe hat on, so he settled on tall, thin, and solemn.
When a political columnist made the comparison, it was cemented. Just as he used the nickname Bobby to draw a connection with the legendary Bobby Jones, he used his appearance and solemn manner to bring comparisons to one of the most famous presidents in history. It didn’t even matter that his policies were quite different; people looked for the easy connection. He made it even easier for them.
“Is it about the meeting of the Coalition of Southern States? Governor Mathis from Alabama called and asked that it be held in Montgomery this time. We can spin that into you fighting to find a common ground or something similar.” The Senator raised his hand, pursed his lips, and shook his head slightly.
“No Roger. No it isn’t about that, and no we will not be having the meeting in Montgomery. It will take place here.” He feigned a look of concern. “This is something much more troubling. It seems some sort of militant insurgent group attacked one of our food convoys up in the mountains.” He sighed heavily. “I don’t understand why some people turn to death and violence. We have been providing as well as we can.
“They—they slaughtered everyone: the guards, the drivers, even a social worker. Those savages raped her at gunpoint before killing her.” He looked down at his desk, proud of that last-second addition. “I don’t want that last part to get into the news, Roger. This is horrific enough as it is.”
The heavy man looked solemn. “What do you want me to do, Bobby?”
The Senator shook his head as though he were only now coming to terms with the tragedy and making a difficult decision, but the truth was, he’d determined this possible course of action long ago. “We need to let the people know. They should be armed at all times. The people need to watch for anything suspicious and report it immediately.” The gaunt-faced man looked solemn. “Roger, before they were killed, our men reported something very disturbing.” He looked the sweating man directly in the eye. “The attackers were wearing Army uniforms.”
Roger looked shocked, just as he’d hoped. “Do you think they were military?”
Bobby shook his head and frowned. “I just don’t know what to think right now, but we have to be ready in case they were.” He looked at a rich oil painting of the U.S.S. Constitution hanging on his wall, pretending to think about a course of action.
“See if we have any military folks who might be capable of leading some militia groups, just for our own protection.” He looked back at Roger. “If they’ll attack a food convoy, they might attack our towns.”
As his media man turned to leave, Snead stopped him. “Roger, I don’t want anyone to panic. We’ll get through this just like we’ve gotten through everything, with the power of God.”
Roger smiled at him, this strong leader, and nodded. “I know Bobby. I believe in you.” Then he turned and left.
The Senator wasn’t sure if that was a slip of the tongue or just poorly said, but it sounded as though his media manager had just compared him to God. That wasn’t good. He wasn’t God, just an enforcer of His will.
That last addition had been a stroke of genius. Unarmed social worker raped and murdered? That would cause fear among the women and rage among the men. It wasn’t true, of course; the convoy had been two all-male strike teams supported by two more armored scout vehicles. Rape was a topic which could cause white-hot rage in men, especially godly Southern men.
Emotion worked in his favor. When he asked them, sometime in the future, to kill their fellow countrymen, they would need to feed on emotion. Anger, pride, loyalty, fear. Any would work. The Senator had hoped to avoid a war. If he had only eliminated the worksite sooner, or the group on the mountain which had discovered the truth about the source of the virus, then
he could have united the country politically.
He still would. The military was only a political tool which used violence to enforce policy, but it was unfortunate. It was beyond help now. His Coalition of Southern States was growing in strength and influence. Before long, they would become an unstoppable force.
The Senator smiled to himself and nodded. He knew the details he told Roger not to share would get out. They always did. The secrecy behind it would make the lie even more powerful. It would spread much faster than the official news release.
A defenseless social worker raped and murdered. He chuckled. That would get them stirred up.
Chapter 5
Kenny hovered over the smoking wreckage of a fighter. He couldn’t make out what model it was, but the man inside was definitely dead. The flash on the rear fin identified it as an aircraft from the 513th Fighter Wing. “I’ve got eyes on the crash site, Professor. The pilot did not eject.”
The canopy had shattered, either on impact or due to the explosions which knocked it out of the sky. Some of it was still in place near the rear of the canopy. Near the front, he had a clear view of the pilot. He wasn’t walking away from this one. In addition to whatever wounds he had suffered, he had part of a tree branch sticking out of his chest.
He switched to internal comms for a second. “Brinkley, can you verify? I don’t think there’s any way he could have survived.”
He felt a minor tilt on the ship as she moved to the doorway to assess the crash site. “I can confirm, Kenny. The pilot is deceased.”
He pushed the cyclic forward and started moving back toward the encampment on the outskirts of Highlands. Kenny was looking for the house with some medical supplies before he set the helo down on the golf course again. Instead, he saw a massive scene of destruction below him. Either Professor or the dead guy must have bombed the houses below.
Some of the homes were in flames. He could see men in uniform around some of them raking out firebreaks on the ground. They weren’t going to try to put them out, just contain the fires. A line of bodies wasn’t far away. Eventually they would be wrapped in sheets or body bags; for now, they were just set aside while rescue crews looked for more casualties.
Before long, the fallen would be identified and they would check to see who was still missing. He’d seen it before, as a helo pilot in Iraq and later in Pakistan. Nepal hadn’t been so bad. The Gurkhas had taken the brunt of the fighting. There were still bodies, but they weren’t American. Somehow, that was different.
Kenny had been a warrant officer for a time, before the thought of deploying again and missing his family to fly around as a target for ground to air missiles made him choose civilian employment flying helicopter tours. It didn’t pay as well, but nobody was shooting at him, either.
It looked like that was about to change. He switched back to the military frequency. “Professor, what happened down here? I’m seeing a lot of damage from bombs. Did you do this?”
It took a few moments for the other pilot to answer. “That’s a negative, Wildcat. The guy down in the trees did that. We had orders to strike insurgents in this area. I scrubbed the mission when I saw blue forces, but I had to splash him when he refused to RTB. I wish I had done it sooner. I’m very sorry.”
Kenny felt rage at those words. Sorry? “What the fuck kind of insurgents did you guys think we were? Most of these guys barely escaped from Fort Bragg and have nowhere else to go. Some of them are dying from radiation sickness. We haven’t done anything at all, and somehow we’re insurgents?
“I appreciate you killing that fucker who dropped the bombs, I really do. Now, why don’t you call those fucktards back wherever you came from and let them know what fucking idiots they are? Then you can push the stick forward and try to tunnel into the ground as far as your airspeed will let you.
“You killed innocent people!”
That was the problem with the fucking Air Force, he thought. Too afraid to get close to the action. Just follow orders and drop bombs from too far away to even see the target. Most of those goddamn bus drivers just took their jets up into the sky and dropped bombs on coordinates.
The Army was different. There might be some artillery who never saw the enemy, but most fighting was up close and personal. Only engage when you can positively identify your target. Try to minimize the danger. Protect your brothers.
Even pilots like him were frequently under fire. Helicopters were made to get in close and stay over the battlefield, not fly into the general vicinity of the fighting and drop bombs from out of visual range and go home. Sure, there were exceptions. The A-10 was the only one he could think of. The rest might as well be tossing cruise missiles from their air conditioned offices.
Kenny knew the man wasn’t at fault. Bad intel. Bad orders. Bad leadership. Whatever the reason, he had realized it was a bad mission. The man had the balls to splash his wingman when he wouldn’t abort, but that was about it. The damage was done either way.
His comrades were dead and the flyboy was going back to his base. What was the Air Force even doing still operational? The Army units had melted away. The group he was with was men and women from a hodgepodge of different units. They weren’t working for the President of the United States anymore. POTUS was gone. They were just staying alive.
Far above and out of sight, Professor answered, “Roger.” He didn’t say anything else.
The silence on the channel was deafening. Kenny had just transferred blame from the asshole who dropped to bombs to the man who had killed him in an attempt to stop the slaughter. For the rest of his short life, Professor would feel the shame of not stopping his wingman soon enough.
Kenny felt regret for his words, but not enough to say anything more. Looking at the carnage just below, he still wished Professor would tunnel into the ground at top speed and let the smoke from the wreckage mingle with that rising from the buildings.
Away from the buildings, the air was clearer. He could still smell the wet earth disturbed by the explosions mixed with notes of engine exhaust and machine oil from the helicopter as he set it down on a flat green nearby. Even as he was touching down, he could feel the bird begin to rock gently as Brinkley started moving to get their patient onto the ground.
It was completely surreal to land on the unmanicured green and look out over the smoking wreckage of what had once been homes. This kind of thing didn’t happen in America. At least it hadn’t in almost 170 years. A virus was one thing, but Americans killing Americans using the weapons of war … that was something very different.
As he shut down the still spinning rotor and went through his mental checklist to idle the Blackhawk, he could see the two men carrying the stretcher with the unconscious man toward the buildings. Brinkley hurried alongside holding her medical bag and a clear bag holding some sort of solution. Why didn’t he know the names of those men? He’d have to find out.
He held out hope he wouldn’t know the names of the men who’d died in the bombing run either. Based on the destruction he’d witnessed from the air, he was afraid to find out.
Chapter 6
Brent could feel his body moving around without his commands. He felt far too weak to move on his own. He tried to move his arm, but it wasn’t responding. Was it an earthquake? Was his body spasming in its last moments before he died? He didn’t know. Everything felt disconnected. He could smell dirt. Had he been buried? His last memories were of Rebecca, but with red hair. That was confusing. Rebecca didn’t have red hair. Nothing was making sense right now.
If he’d been buried, he should feel the weight of dirt, but he didn’t. Brent felt cool air on his skin as he bounced around. Brent remembered he’d been wearing a suit, so why did he feel air against his chest and legs?
Brent struggled to open his eyes. It was bright, so bright, but he could see people around him. Just above his head was a man in a military uniform. To his side was a young woman holding a bag over his head. He was on a stretcher. He tried to think back. Was he in
the military? Had there been a battle? Why was he being carried through a field?
As he had those thoughts, he tried to dismiss them. Brent had never been in the military. He had been at home. The woman was a stranger, and she didn’t have red hair. Brent opened his eyes wider, wincing slightly at the brightness. Was the man above him Jensen? This man seemed more solidly built, but maybe it was just the angle.
It felt like waking up from a dream when the fragments of his sleeping consciousness invaded his waking thoughts. Everything felt a little surreal. Brent called out to the man above him, trying to say Jensen’s name, but all that emerged was a soft croaking sound. His tongue and his lips wouldn’t form the word. They seemed dry and caked with dust.
The sound was enough to make the woman to his side look down. “You’re awake! I was afraid we were going to lose you, Brent.”
She knew his name. How did she know his name?
His tongue felt like it had swollen to fill his entire mouth when he tried to speak again to ask the young woman who she was and how she could know him. Again, only a weak croak emerged.
The woman smiled comfortingly at him and shook her head slightly. “Don’t try to talk just yet. You’re still severely dehydrated.” She looked down at the ground to watch her foot placement as she walked through the high grass and then met his questioning gaze once again. “You have a strong spirit.”
Brent closed his eyes and felt the gentle rocking as he was carried. To where, he didn’t know. The woman had said he had a strong spirit. Was it his spirit that had kept him alive when his body had tried to fail? Was it Rebecca, who had told him it wasn’t his time to join her? Had God kept him alive for some reason?
These thoughts crawled through his head as he swayed in the stretcher until sleep overcame him once again.
Tomorrow's Dawn (Book 4): Gathering Storms Page 2
