by Debra Tash
My muscles tightened.
“Go find out for yourselves,” Poole said, his voice calm and even as his hand dropped to his side. “Their goal was always to dispose of the people who wouldn’t conform. Understand? They want you dead if you don’t serve their purpose.
“So listen carefully. We’re not asking the government to take care of us anymore. Not like we ever did ask. We can do for ourselves. And none of us—not a one—ever wanted them to take away our freedom in exchange for the crumbs they gave back.”
His hands balled into fists. “It’s time we live our own lives again. Make our own way.” Poole raised those fists. “Fight our own battles and ask for nothing except that they leave us the hell alone!” His arms dropped to his sides again. “God gave us our lives and this country. And it’s time we get them back.”
Maggie sliced her hand through the air, a signal the Feed had been cut.
“Did we get out any of it?” Poole asked.
“Hell, yes. All of it,” she answered, a sly smile on her face. “And mark my words, Poole. It’ll stay out there. In a few hours, millions will have seen it and there’s nothing the Feds can do to stop it. Even with the controls they have on the Net. And especially when they think they found us.” She chuckled. “All they’ll find is a dead end after tracing a false signal.”
“And where will that dead end lead them?” I asked.
“To a DHS supply depot in upper Manhattan,” she said.
Poole’s counterchallenge was out there.
Sergeant Hernandez put his arm around my sister. Maggie was right. The gauntlet had just been thrown down by both sides. Now who would pick it up?
CHAPTER 13
Even before the sun set on the West Coast, recruits came forward, inspired by Poole’s speech on the open Feed. Our base in Vermont coordinated their hasty enlistment. Thousands of them gathered anywhere they could meet in safety.
By early the following morning, the Feds launched their first assault against our fledgling insurgency. There were reports of casualties, civilian along with military. The mounting death toll on our side of the ledger gave weight to Poole’s warning. There would be blood—the price for refusing to conform.
Later that morning, we were in the command center to hone our strategy.
Hernandez spoke first, using his knowledge of history to augment his push to gain a tactical advantage, if only locally for now. He pointed to the map of Boston, glowing on the floating screen. “Look, we have to find our high ground just like Washington did.” The sergeant folded his arms across his chest. “You have to understand. Just after Concord, the rebels held the countryside but couldn’t cut off Boston’s harbor. The British were able to send in men and supplies to reinforce the garrisons.”
“Because they were hopelessly outgunned, just like we are,” Dr. Andrews grumbled.
“At that moment,” Hernandez conceded. “That’s why Benedict Arnold was sent to capture Fort Ticonderoga near the Canadian border.”
“Benedict Arnold’s the guy who betrayed us,” I said.
“Arnold wasn’t a traitor. At least, not then. In fact, he was one of the best men Washington had. Arnold was given orders to capture the fort and bring back its artillery to drive the British out of Boston. And he did it with the help of the Green Mountain Boys.”
“Homegrown in Vermont,” Maggie said with a wisp of a satisfied smile.
“Homegrown drunks most of the time,” the sergeant said.
“Not much to do in Vermont during the winter.”
“Wouldn’t doubt it.” Hernandez cleared his throat. “Well, the Americans got their advantage by using British armaments. And they got it by using them well. That summer, General Howe, who commanded the British, fortified Boston’s defenses while General Washington, the army’s newly appointed commander in chief, worked to bring order to the army. It took all of summer and fall and well into winter before Henry Knox could get the ordnance Arnold had seized at Fort Ty to Boston.”
“We don’t have months. Probably not even days,” Poole pointed out.
“No, we don’t,” Hernandez conceded. “But we can still take the high ground.” He pointed to the map again. “Washington put a few guns at Cambridge and Roxbury, and bombarded the British lines. Just a ploy to give the rebels cover. By morning, the American commander in chief had fortified Dorchester Heights, where he was able to hit anything in the city, including the harbor. Howe ordered his troops, and any Tories who wanted to, to come along. The British left the city.”
“Again, we need the firepower to drive them out,” Poole mumbled as he stepped to the window. Across the snow-covered expanse stood the barracks. Under cover of the enclosed mess, Poole’s ragged troops were putting civilian recruits through their paces, drilling them with military exercises. They marched, practicing with nothing more than sheared-off pipe in place of guns, for now.
“The high ground,” Poole mused as he turned and fixed his gaze on the glistening map of Boston. “How are we ever going to win it?”
“Our Fort Ty is close to here.” Everyone’s attention fastened on Maggie.
Seated at the console in the center of the room, she used her index finger to tip another map in Poole’s direction. “Hadley Air Force Base. Right here. Fifty miles from Boston.”
“Hadley?” Andrews snorted. “They shut down that old World War Two base years ago.”
From the satellite image, Maggie pulled up the place, looking like nothing more than an abandoned airstrip. Its brick buildings were in decay, World War II-era runways overgrown with weeds. Seemingly worthless, it was unfenced and open to the wooded areas surrounding its perimeter. Houses flanked the approach, a seemingly quiet neighborhood.
Maggie had a smug look on her face.
“My guess is, they didn’t abandon it at all,” Poole ventured.
“The Feds kept it running,” Maggie said. “I told you, Captain, they were developing some ultra-secret projects with deadly capabilities. I had high enough clearance to know where they were being developed, but not high enough to be fully briefed on their goals. My guess, if you can get inside, you’d find the means to win your high ground.”
“And how are we supposed to get inside an ultra-secret facility?”
“There’s a crack there. Someone’s been leaking information to our network for nearly a year. Nothing all that specific, but enough to know we’d find friendlies.”
“Enough to let us in the back door?”
“Try the front,” Maggie said. “Whoever they are, they’ve got high enough clearance to break through the security blanket and not get caught.”
“Can we make contact with them now?”
She shook her head. “Technically they don’t exist. You attempt contact, and all you’ll be doing is giving away our position to the Feds.”
“Hadley.” Poole scratched his chin as he looked at Hernandez. “Think it could be our Fort Ty?”
“That or our dead end.”
“Literally.” Poole blew out a deep breath. “Well, Maggie Sweetheart, show us how we get to this place that doesn’t exist.”
That night, Poole readied to set out with his elite unit, the thirty best men under his command. A larger force would easily be detected by satellite surveillance. Poole tasked Maggie with keeping watch on his unit’s movement. She’d maintain an open channel on a set frequency in the event the “crack” at Hadley attempted to make contact when—not if—their approach was discovered. Definitely a gamble.
Would whatever front door was there open to Poole? Or would he and his team find themselves literally out in the cold—dead? Fear squeezed my heart as I watched the men loading armament into the transports, three MRAP’s. Sergeant Hernandez would go with them, along with Dr. Andrews.
“Poole, you need to think this through,” I said, standing next to him in the hangar.
&nbs
p; Dressed all in black, he grinned. “Now Honey Beck, y’all believe I ain’t considered the possibilities?” he said in his annoying Texas drawl.
“Asshole. If you get killed, where does that leave the rest of us?”
“Alone in bed.”
I punched him in the arm.
“Okay, darlin’, I haven’t slept with you…” He synched up a strap, tying down some heavy equipment. “…yet.”
Now I hauled off and punched him as hard as I could to make him listen.
“Rebecca,” he groaned and finally stopped his preparations to face me. “Hadley may be our best chance. Right now, we don’t have enough firepower.”
“What about guerilla warfare like we talked about back in Farmsworth?”
“Too slow,” he said, his voice dropping. “That base in Texas… I got word it’s back in DHS control. Every last one of the militia that took it is dead. Executed just as Whitman promised to do.” He hefted a heavy pack into the MRAP.
“Poole.”
He didn’t stop this time, but instead gave his men a few last orders.
I cleared my throat, stumbling as I blurted, “Th-then I’ll go with you!”
“Hell, no.”
“Jason.”
Poole held up his hand to silence me. His gaze softened as he paused and gently placed the palm of that hand against my cheek. I felt his warmth. After a few quiet moments, he called out, “Doc, it’s time!”
Andrews took his place in the front passenger seat of the lead vehicle. Poole climbed in the driver’s side. The small caravan of MRAPs started their engines and headed out the hangar door. I stood there like so many others had done over the centuries of warfare, bidding farewell to those who journeyed across a wine-dark sea to battle.
Unable to sleep, I got up, slipped on my clothes, and drew my jacket closed as I ventured into the cold. Leaving the barracks, I made my way across the snowy field and into the command center, where Maggie kept watch. The screen in front of her glowed with green luminance. Night-vision cameras fed a steady stream of images as Poole’s unit made its way to Hadley. To her side were panels of shimmering lights, a monitor of the air space and surrounding countryside encompassing Poole’s objective, along with the DHS base we occupied.
The rest of the facility had been locked down and only the sentries along the perimeter stood awake. Those of Poole’s company who’d remained behind were quartered in the barracks for the night, along with Christina, our growing civilian contingent, and the DHS prisoners.
Maggie turned and looked at me as I came inside. Her lips parted as if prepared to greet me. Instead, they closed tight. Maybe we still didn’t have anything to share.
So many feelings rushed through me as I came into that room. I knew what my mother had done, leaving Dad and me. It’d been born out of the instinct to protect her child and husband. I knew it logically, yet there was this terrible anger, the need to cut her off, even now, as she continued to work to protect those she loved.
In that moment, bundled up in my jacket despite the heat pumping from the overhead vents, I felt as if I’d never be warm again. I cleared my throat and forced a question. “Do you have any idea where they are?”
“The convoy made it to Bedford,” she answered, not bothering to turn around again. “They’re traveling along a back road now. Skirting the main town. Doing good. Headed through a conservation area with no houses around.”
“Thank you,” I said, settling into a seat behind her, intent to keep watch with her. Just then, I remembered the duffle I’d left in the barracks. Inside it was a bag of marshmallows. Maybe a hot cup of cocoa would take the chill out of the room…or maybe two cups.
I was about to get up when a faint, tinny ping sounded. Maggie started flipping switches on the console. Her gaze fixed on the blinking lights and streaks of red on one of the monitors. “Shit,” she rasped as she tapped the screen to gain better resolution. “Damn it.”
“Poole,” I exhaled his name.
“No. Here. Body Heat Seeks—and headed straight for us.”
CHAPTER 14
“They’ll take out every living thing on this base,” Maggie said as she jabbed fingers against buttons, flipped levers as sweat trickled down her face. Her head rocked back and forth as she mumbled, “No…dear God, no.”
I put my hand on her shoulder.
“Becky,” she wheezed. “They overrode the automatic defense system. I can’t stop it from here.”
My hand convulsed, squeezing her shoulder as I uttered a single word, “Vermont?”
Again, she shook her head as she started to get up from her chair. “Only way is to trip the defense system manually from the backup in the hangar.”
I glanced at the screen. One red streak was getting awfully close. Time to impact—four minutes. I noticed her labored breathing, how strained she seemed.
“I’ll go.”
Once more, she shook her head. With that, she scrambled, flinging open the emergency kit on the wall to retrieve a handful of slender stainless tubes before she shot out the door. I trailed her.
She held up her hand and barked, “Stay! Keep watch on that monitor!”
Maggie struggled to make headway through the snowdrifts between the buildings. I turned back to see the screen she’d been using still floating in midair. One of the red streaks appeared to be closing fast on our position. The numbers changed, then changed again. It would hit in just over two minutes, dead center on my mother.
I cupped my hands and yelled, “Incoming! Due west!”
Maggie glanced at the small device she always had strapped to her wrist now. She spun around, stumbled, and crashed to her knees. “The flares!” she shouted as they spilled from her hands onto the snow.
Bolting out the door, I raced toward her as she fumbled, trying to aim a flare at a glowing red dot growing larger by the second in the western sky. A “Body Seek”—my father had told me about them. They could be programmed to hone in on a unique heat signature within a four-degree range, a targeted explosion, releasing deadly shrapnel. They were designed to leave the surroundings intact and the combatants in shreds. The Feds wanted to reclaim this base and to hell with people. The first heat-seeker would take Maggie out, and me with her.
I yanked the flare from her hand and felt for the trigger along the slick metal tube.
Maggie gasped, “First one from the top. Sim…ma…” She swallowed. “Of the three…it simulates a human heat signature.”
With eyes focused, hand steady, I compressed my finger against the raised button, first from the top in a row of three. The flare whooshed out of my hand, a miniature rocket with a slender red tail, dancing and whirling through the air, its faint glow highlighted against the dark steel-gray cloud cover of a late autumn sky. The red dot to the west had grown large enough to reveal a glistening missile, probably no larger than a broom handle. It veered off its trajectory as it locked onto the calibrated heat signature of the flare. The projectile swung upward and away from the compound. Within a heartbeat, a blast echoed with a faint roll of thunder.
Not waiting for the next incoming, I pulled Maggie to her feet, getting my arm securely around her as we pushed toward the hangar. The base stirred. People came out of the barracks, sentries scrambling to ready themselves for whatever came next. The hangar door slid open. The two men guarding the structure were silhouetted against the interior light. They had their guns pointed straight at us.
“Incoming! Heat seeks!” I screamed. “Take cover!”
They stepped back, the barrels of their rifles lowered.
As we rushed inside the building, I shouted, “Where the hell is it?”
Winded, Maggie struggled for air, swallowing great gulps as she pointed to a corner of the large hangar where a gray box hung on the wall. Locked tight, the small container had nothing of note on its front panel, just blank st
eel. Maggie struggled to lift her arm and tap the device on her wrist. A hidden keypad on the box lit. Iridescent blue numbers flickered across its face. The box’s front panel slid up and open. Maggie sucked in a deep breath and heaved forward, managing at last to manually trigger the defense system.
Sirens blared. Outside the wire, the landscape ignited with bright white light to reveal anyone, or anything, attempting to breach the perimeter fence. A disembodied voice chimed over and over again. “Take shelter. Warning. Strike imminent. Take shelter.”
From hidden underground silos, small compact missiles launched skyward. There were more claps of thunder as the swarm of missiles released the deadly payloads high overhead.
I whispered a prayer of gratitude, then shouted as I jammed my fists upward. “We did it!”
Turning, I saw Maggie hunched over on her knees, clutching her chest with one hand, fumbling in her pocket with the other.
“Mom,” I screeched. That term of endearment slipped from my lips for the first time since we’d been reunited. “Mom!”
“M-my…,” she said, her voice shaky as she tried to fish something out of her pocket.
I came to her side, stuck in my own hand, and found a small bottle.
“One…un-under my…” She opened her mouth.
I fumbled trying to retrieve a tiny pill. Tipping the bottle, I spilled some of them onto my open palm, took one, and placed it under her tongue. After lifting her head onto my lap, I sat there, stroking her sweat-covered hair—crushed by the feeling it was already too late.
“Help!” I screamed, the blaring sirens drowning my plea. We were all alone in the hangar. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled, feeling her life fading away. “Please be okay. Mommy, please…I love you.”
