Текст книги "State of Alliance"

Автор книги: Summer Lane

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Summer Lane
STATE OF ALLIANCE

For my favorite sailor, Grandpa Pete.

Anchors aweigh and go Navy!

Prologue

One more minute. That was all.

The figure sat on the corner of the rooftop, watching the clouds drift over the pure white dome of the Capitol Building. Wrapped in a scarf, gloves and black attire, it was impossible to tell whether or not it was a man or a woman. Just a shadowy figure crouched down, waiting. Nervous anxiety pooled in the pit of the person’s stomach, building and then subsiding as the countdown narrowed.

Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen…

Trembling hands curled around the black optics sitting on the corner of the roof. Stay steady, the person kept thinking. This is an important job.

Ten, nine, eight, seven…

Sweat dripped down the shadow’s forehead.

Three, two, one…

A flash of light. Something streaked through the air. It came fast. Too fast for the human eye to catch. But to the person crouched on the roof, it was obviously there. They had been waiting for it. They recognized it.

The Capitol Building – so pristine and beautiful against the deep blue sky – shattered. It happened in slow motion at first. A gaping, jagged hole opened in the dome, coughing up billows of dust and falling shards of metal and concrete. There was a massive groan, as if the Capitol itself was lamenting the wound that had just been inflicted on its exterior.

Half of the dome collapsed inward, crushing those inside. A wall of black smoke swept over the boundaries of Capitol Park, consuming everything in its path with dark, stifling darkness. There was screaming. Sirens. Cries of agony.

And on the rooftop, the figure was already gone.

Chapter One

Sacramento, California

This can’t be happening.

Black, acrid smoke clogs my nostrils and burns my throat. I stumble backward and trip on a step. I hit the ground, rolling onto my hands and knees, deafened by the blast.

I grab the railing on the front steps of the Capitol Building. I glimpse the blue sky through the smoke swirling above my head. Which way is up? Which way is down?

I sprint down the steps and head to the corner of Capitol Park. Here, the smoke is not so thick. Fire engines and ambulances bounce to a stop, a sea of flashing lights and rescue workers made up of citizens, militiamen and the National Guard.

Chris Young is standing here, six foot four, dressed in black, shouting orders.

“This is our Emergency Command Post!” he yells above the chaos, making a fist. “Incoming rescue crews come through here. Where are my scouts?” A group of militiamen raise their hands. Two of them, I recognize. Uriah True – tall, dark-haired and handsome. And Alexander Ramos, all business. Not the least bit rattled. “Good,” Chris says. “Assemble a Hasty Rescue unit and assess the perimeter.”

“Yes, sir,” Alexander replies.

He gathers a team and they move toward the Capitol Building, becoming blurry images in the smoke. Chris continues to shout orders, directing the incoming militiamen. I push my way through the crowd and grab his arm.

I tell him, “The dome didn’t totally collapse.”

Chris nods, electric green eyes sparking with determination. With anger.

“Yes,” he says.

“We can’t save everyone,” I reply, yelling above the sound of the screaming sirens and shouts of the rescue workers and soldiers. “We’ve got to prioritize!”

Chris is barely containing his fury. He points to a sergeant.

“You,” he says. “Get some help and scout for a secondary. There could be more explosives timed to kill rescue workers.” He turns. “Assess your survivors,” he commands, the next rescue team coming to the Emergency Command Post – the ECP. They are lined up, waiting for the scouts to come back with information on the damage to the building. “Category A stays where they are. Category C can wait. Category Bs are your priority. Move out, let’s go.”

Category A are survivors that are already dead. Category Bs are those that need immediate help – those that have a better chance of survival. Those survivors are rescued first. Category C are the survivors that are not in immediate danger.

Without this structure, half of our rescue teams would be dragging dead bodies out of the burning building while living survivors screamed for help. It keeps the crews organized and prioritized.

From the smoke, Alexander Ramos and Uriah True emerge with their scouting unit, reporting back to Chris. “The structure is shaky,” Alexander announces. “There are a lot of people buried in there.”

“We’re going to need more manpower,” Chris replies. “Rescue teams, you’ve got a green light. Go!”

I turn to a team of militiamen and begin giving orders, passing along Chris’s commands, stressing the importance of following the triage structure in the hours that are to come. “Get your heads straight, ladies and gentlemen,” I shout. “Go in, find your category B survivors and get them out. We do this quickly and efficiently. Let’s move!”

I keep talking, passing along commands and orders to every rescue team that comes through the ECP. The hot, choking smoke makes dialogue a challenge. Perspiration coats the back of my neck. My hair sticks to my forehead. I am in the zone, barking orders and overseeing these rescue teams. It is the only thing that keeps me focused. Keeps me from panicking.

Because my father was inside the Capitol Building when it collapsed.

Where do I begin? Last December, an electromagnetic pulse destroyed modern society as we know it. The United States of America collapsed. A foreign invasion force called Omega rolled over our borders, massacred millions of people, and attempted a total takeover. So far, we’ve been able to push them back… but only so far.

Who am I? Cassidy Hart. Militia member. Sniper. Commander.

And now, Senator, representing the new government of California.

In the last year, I’ve had to do things that I never thought a twenty year-old woman would have to do. Fight a war. Live on a battlefield. Watch my friends and comrades die brutal deaths. Rescue the love of my life, Chris Young, from the horror of an Omega prison.

Nothing has been easy.

California was invaded by a million-man Chinese foot army. Chris and I – and our militias – joined the National Guard to help push them out of the Central Valley. We succeeded and temporarily halted Omega’s advance into our homeland. But they will be back, and there are a million more troops where those came from. Omega is made up of an alliance of countries. So far, we know that Russia, China, North Korea and possibly Syria are involved.

After I rescued Chris from a POW prison, we came back to Sacramento, California with our militia to rejoin the National Guard and meet with other militia and military commanders in the state to decide whether or not California would join something called the Pacific Northwest Alliance. The Alliance is comprised of Mexico, Canada, Oregon and Washington. A united western front against the Omega invasion on the Pacific coast.

I was nominated to be Senator Pro Tem. It will be my job to represent California in our negotiations with the Alliance. I am nervous that I won’t be able to measure up to the expectations of those that are counting on me to be a good spokesperson for the state. After all, I’m only twenty. But I have had more combat experience than most.

War does that, I guess.

There are still a lot of questions that need to be answered. What dark power is ultimately behind Omega? How many troops are we really facing? Will the United States military ever fully recover from this invasion? Will we be able to rebuild our cities if we are successful in this war?

Will we survive?

Will I survive?

Everything has changed. There is no electricity, no commonplace technology. No computers, no cellphones. No grocery stores or hospitals. No laws or officers to enforce them. What we once knew no longer exists. It’s a brand new world. A world of day-to-day survival and warfare. A world of kill or be killed. It’s brutal. It’s eons different than the lifestyle that I used to live, huddled in a corner of Culver City, California, surfing the Internet for employment opportunities.

I am a fighter, now. Nothing stands in my way.

I am capable. I am fast. I am smart.

But I am not invincible. All of the skill and knowledge in the world can end with a single bullet – a fact that I can personally attest to. I have seen many people die in the field. It’s what has hardened me. Changed me. Seeing death shifts your focus in a way that nothing else can.

My love for my father, for Chris Young, and for my friends is what keeps me going. Their lives and their love is what I fight for.

This is a final stand. If we lose to Omega, the world will no longer be the same. The United States of America will cease to exist. We will be enslaved or terminated. So many innocents have already died.

I will do everything I can to help win this war.

And if that means that I must sacrifice my life, so be it.

There is nothing else I would rather die for.

It has been two hours. Two grueling, horrifying hours. Most of the smoke and dust have settled, and the ravaged dome of the Capitol Building is fully visible for the world to see. The fire is out, thanks to the rescue crews, and dozens of Category B survivors are being loaded into waiting trucks, Humvees and retrofitted jeeps. It’s makeshift, but the rescue effort is effective. We are more organized than I anticipated.

It gives me hope amidst the massive devastation.

I have been helping the rescue crews take survivors out of the building. I have crawled under concrete blocks and heavy support beams. My left arm is bloody, scraped up. A rescue team member cleaned and wrapped it for me.

“Cassidy,” Uriah says, approaching me. His black hair is covered with white ash. He looks as exhausted as I feel.

Was I really giving a speech in the Senate Chambers just a few hours ago?

“What’s up?” I ask, bending at the waist, resting my hands on my knees.

“Our Cat Bs are all taken care of,” he says. “We’re moving onto the next phase.”

“Okay,” I nod. “I’m ready.”

I stand up, sucking in a deep breath. Uriah briefly squeezes my shoulder.

“We will survive this,” he says softly.

I don’t smile. I can’t. I just squeeze his shoulder in return and make my way toward the medical vehicles. The survivors here have a myriad of injuries. Open wounds, missing appendages, burned eyes, scorched skin and crushed bones. Many of them are unconscious, but some of them are alive, screaming. It chills me to the bone, standing there, looking at the living hell that Omega has created here.

“You okay?”

A strong hand takes my arm. I look at Chris. He is smeared with dirt and soot, but, as always, he is calm and steady. Like a rock.

“Yeah,” I say. “You?”

“Fine.” He pauses and takes a look at the Capitol Building. “This wasn’t a bomb from the inside of the building,” he tells me. “This was an exterior attack.”

“So somebody bombed us from the air?”

“My guess is that it was a missile.”

“Oh, my god.” I run a hand through my hair. “What do we do, Chris?”

“We keep working on getting these survivors out, and we discuss our theories afterward,” he replies. “You’re doing great, Cassie.” He presses a quick kiss into my hair, and then he’s gone. Again.

I sigh.

I move toward a group of rescue workers hauling in the last of the Category B survivors. Some of them are maimed beyond recognition. The sweetish scent of burnt flesh almost makes me gag, but I have been doing this sort of thing long enough that I know how to hold it in.

They lay two men on a stretcher. One of them is conscious. The other one is unmoving, and I watch as somebody nods sadly, and they pull a tarp over his body. Dead.

I am about to turn away and head back into the Capitol Building when a familiar figure catches my eye. Angela Wright, a militia commander. The mother of Vera Wright, a Lieutenant in my militia.

Angela is lying on her back on the cement. Her jacket is soaked in blood, and so is her face, but I recognize her unmistakable coif of silver white hair. Shocked to see her like this, I walk toward her and kneel down. Tears come to my eyes. While I am barely on civil terms with Vera, Angela is a good woman who has my respect. She has always stood up for me.

“Angela?” I say, touching her hands.

She blinks up at me, coughing. Blood dribbles out the side of her mouth, and I realize that her chest has been ripped open. She must have been crushed when the dome collapsed.

She is dying.

“Angela, I’m so sorry,” I breathe.

She knows who I am. I can see the recognition on her face, even beneath the blood. She barely squeezes my fingers and spits up more blood.

“Cassidy,” she coughs. “I… you have to…”

“Angela, it’s going to be okay,” I lie. “You’re going to be fine.”

“I’m going to… die,” she heaves.

“Listen… Chris… he’s good… no matter what you’re told. He’s… good.”

“I know, I know,” I say, leaning over her. Confused, slightly, by her words. But I say nothing. People rush around me, and for a brief moments, I shut it out.

“You… hang on… to that,” she sighs. She grips my hand a little tighter, taking a shuddering breath. It must be painful. At least one of her lungs has been punctured. “Don’t… give up.” The whisper of a smile spreads across her lips. “You’ll be… a great senator. And Vera… tell her… I’m sorry.”

“I’ll tell her,” I promise, my voice breaking.

“Keep up the good fight,” Angela says.

Her final words are clear and firm. She gives one last, long breath, and then she is gone. Her expression becomes slack and her eyes glaze over. I stifle a sob and gently close her eyes, folding Angela’s hands on her stomach.

We have lost so much already.

Why do we keep losing more?

I am still wiping the tears from my eyes when a second explosion hits the east side of the Capitol Building. It is just like the first, filling the air with debris, ripping the building to shreds. Black smoke rolls over the park – again – and I am knocked off my feet by the shockwave of the detonation. Chunks of concrete crash to the ground. I kneel by Angela’s still, pale body, covering her and the back of my neck with my hands.

I unroll the scarf tied around my arm and tighten it around my mouth as the dust cloud hits. My heart slams against my ribcage, adrenaline keeping the terror from overcoming my senses.

A second attack, I think. How many more are coming? Where are our defenses?

I take a moment to orient myself. The smoke, the shockwave, the searing pain in my ears from the deafening explosion… I concentrate on a single point, focus my breathing, and crawl forward. Shards of metal, nails and bits of concrete sail through the air, so I keep my head down. The flashing lights of the rescue vehicles are dim. I blindly crawl toward a parked ambulance and huddle behind it, protected from the full blunt force of the tide of debris.

When the worst passes, I stand up.

Come on, keep moving. You can do this, Cassidy.

This time, the rescue teams are already in place and they are moving forward. “Chris!” I yell into the radio on my belt. “Chris! Alpha One?”

Radio silence.

Wherever Chris is, he cannot answer me.

I forget the radio and assess my surroundings. I realize two things: First, another attack could happen at any moment, in any place. Second, we have been completely taken by surprise.

Thank God our rescue units are good at what they do.

Thank God we have Chris Young on our side.

I find the ECP at the edge of the park, locating Chris. I run to him, yelling above the noise, “What do we do? If they’re sending cruise missiles, how can we defend ourselves?”

Chris’s hair is hanging in greasy strands as he takes my arm.

“The Air Force will take care of it,” he assures me, but there is a level of doubt in his voice. “We need to check the building again for survivors.”

“The building was evacuated by the time the second missile hit.”

“We have to check anyway.”

I look to the sky, terrified that I am going to see a cruise missile heading toward us, detonating right on top of our heads.

What could we really do to stop it? Nothing.

“Let’s go!” Chris tells the rescue units assembling once again at the ECP. “You know the drill. We’ve got a job to do.”

War never ends, I think.

I say, “I haven’t found my father yet!”

Chris squeezes my shoulder.

“We will,” he promises.

But I know better. You can’t make promises during war.

You can only give people hope.

Chapter Two

By the time evening settles in, we have finished rescuing the survivors from the Capitol Building. I am standing several blocks away from what’s left, studying the damage from a distance. Chris is right. This was an attack from the outside. We were hit with something from beyond the city.

How could Omega launch a missile without us even detecting it?

“Now, what have we got here?”

The voice is familiar. I meet Manny’s gaze. Tall, tanned, wild-haired Manny. His flight cap is sticking out of the pocket of his leather jacket. His wrinkled face is dusted with ash and dirt, like me.

“Hey,” I say.

“Did you find your father?” he asks.

I lower my head.

“No.”

The full impact of those words sears a hole in my heart. If my father is dead… then the last remnants of my family is truly gone. Forever. This realization is jarring, like a punch in the gut. I inhale sharply and look at the sky.

Please. Don’t be dead. Don’t do this to me.

I do not want to deal with the reality of this situation right now. The possibility of me finally snapping – of cracking under pressure – is very real. Manny folds his arms across his chest, following my line of sight. “Lots of men and women aren’t identified yet,” he says. “He’s probably in the medical center right now.”

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

“It’s not my hopes that need to be upped.” He raises an eyebrow. “Cassidy, my girl. What’s on your mind?”

“What makes you think something’s on my mind?”

He gives me a look. I roll my eyes.

“Fine,” I say. “I was just thinking… if this was a cruise missile, like Chris said, then that means it was probably launched from the coast. Omega has been shipping troops in from the coastline, right?”

“True, true,” Manny agrees. “And…?”

“So what’s keeping them from destroying the entire city?”

“Retaliation from the Alliance, probably,” Manny shrugs. “And let’s not forget, more often than not, where you find a cruise missile, you find a laser designator.”

“Which means…?”

“Somebody was probably pointing a laser at the dome before it hit. The missile will follow the laser’s path to the T. Of course, there are cruise missiles with internal GPS systems built into the weapon itself. But it’d be interesting to find out if someone was helping the missile along.”

“You’re saying somebody inside the city guided the missile here?”

Manny lifts his palms up.

“We’ve had traitors before. Wouldn’t surprise me a bit.” He sits down on the curb. I join him, looking down the long, lonely boulevard of Capitol Mall, my gaze drifting to the yellow bridge crossing the Sacramento River. The fortifications have been doubled in the last few hours.

“Manny?” I say.

He waits for me to speak. I place both hands on the cement and take a deep breath. “Angela’s dead,” I say.

“I know.”

“It was hard, seeing her die like that.” I shake my head. “People keep dying. Good people. It’s not fair.”

“Life is not a game that’s ever been played fairly,” Manny replies. “Life’s a brutal match of tug of war. Some of the nicest people get trampled by the team with the biggest players.”

I blink back tears. I don’t want to talk about death anymore.

“Vera told me that Angela Wright knew Chris before the Collapse,” I continue. “She told me that Chris was married.”

Manny doesn’t react. He just waits.

“Chris said it’s true,” I go on, biting my lip. “I don’t know what to think.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t be thinking about it at all,” Manny replies. “Our past lives are exactly that: the past. Dwelling on what was isn’t a wise thing to do, my girl. It’ll distract from what’s important now.”

“But our pasts shape our present,” I argue. “Manny, what if Chris is still legally married to this woman? It would change everything.”

“It would change nothing.”

Manny places his hand on my knee. A firm, steady grip.

“What you need to do, my girl, is talk to Chris about this,” he advises. “But I think you and I could both agree that the attack today, taking care of the wounded and making sure your father are okay are our priorities.” He pauses. “And let’s not forget that you’re our new Senator in the negotiations with the Alliance.” He tips his head, mock-bowing. “An honor to be in your presence, madam.”

I lightly slap his arm.

“Ha,” I say. And then I sigh. “You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right. I’m always right.” He winks. “Mostly.”

“This could change everything I know about him,” I whisper.

Manny shakes his head slowly.

“No,” he says. “It only changes what you think you know. Chris will always be a good man.”

Chris is good. That’s what Angela told me before she died.

“Thanks for listening,” I tell Manny.

Manny nods understandingly. He puts an arm around my shoulders and gives me a quick squeeze. “I suggest you get over to the medical center and look for your father,” he says. “You won’t help anybody sitting on this curb.”

I stand up.

“You have such a way of inspiring people.”

“I know. It’s in my blood.” He musses his long gray hair. “Now go on.”

I step off the curb and walk away, putting distance between me and the eccentric pilot sitting on the sidewalk.

“How come you’re allowed to sit on the curb and do nothing?” I tease.

“Because I’m older and wiser than you are,” Manny replies. “But mostly because I’m older and my back hurts.” He waves me off. “Goodnight, my girl.”

I shove my hands in my pockets.

“Goodnight, Manny,” I say.

The Medical Center is about a mile away from the Capitol Building. It is at least seven stories high, with white walls and cement. Old Sutter General Hospital. I hitch a ride with the militia on the way over, parting ways in the parking lot. When I approach the front entrance, there are hundreds of people. Rescue workers, militiamen and women, National Guard patrols and civilian volunteers who are working at the hospital.

I go in the main entrance. The posted guards wave me through. Everything is linoleum flooring and bright, generator-powered lights. Everything in the city is running on backup generators, fueled by diesel and gasoline, precious commodities in a time like this. The acidic stench of blood and burnt flesh are heavy in the air. It is a scent that is all too familiar to me. One that I wish I would never have to smell again.

“Excuse me,” I tell a middle-age woman in black scrubs. “I’m Commander Hart. I’m looking for someone who was inside the Capitol Building. Where should I start?”

“Senator Hart?” the woman says, blinking. “It’s an honor, Ma’am.” She grabs my hand, smiling hopefully. “It’s a thrill to see you here.”

“Yes, well…” I clear my throat. “Thanks, but where can I start looking for survivors?”

“Second level,” she replies. “Take the stairs. The elevators are crammed with workers and wounded.”

“Thank you.”

“Senator?” She lets go of my hand. “Thank you.”

I force a weak smile, then walk away, unsure of how to respond. I find the stairwell and climb to the second story. The hospital hallway is jammed with stretchers and doctors. I haven’t seen this much activity inside a medical facility since before the EMP. I walk into the first room. It looks like it was a former physical therapy ward, but it has been cleared of all equipment. It is filled with dozens of makeshift beds and patients. State of the art medical supplies have been salvaged here, and everything is being used on these survivors. Doctors and nurses are buzzing through the rooms, checking victims, administering shots of morphine, antibiotics and more.

I go from bed to bed, scanning for my father’s face. My hopes become smaller and smaller as I look around. What if he’s not here? What if he was killed instantly in the explosion, like so many others? I wouldn’t even know if his body had been taken out with the dead.

Please, God, I pray. After everything we’ve been through… don’t let him die.

I go through four more rooms, checking the faces of each individual survivor on the beds. I do not recognize my father, and as this reality sinks in, I withdraw to the corner of the fifth room and stand. I cross my arms, blinking back angry, hurt tears.

Not like this, I think. He wasn’t meant to die anonymously.

I went through so much to find my father again after the EMP… it can’t end like this. It simply can’t.

The moans of the wounded in this ward is too much for me to handle right now, so I slip into the hall, walking through the sea of nurses and emergency workers. I feel suffocated, trapped. I push through the door at the end of the hall and enter the cold, concrete stairwell. I climb downstairs, hit the first floor, and leave the hospital. By the time I get outside, I am crying. Tears run down my face. I cannot hide them, nor do I want to.

I round the edge of the hospital and find a secluded bench, away from the commotion. I sit down and bury my face in my hands, sobbing. Desperation and fear sinks in. If my father is not found, then it will be assumed that he is dead, and that will be the end of it. His life – his work, his legacy, and his connection to me – will be severed in an instant.

My hatred for Omega burns brighter.

What will I do if he’s dead? I think. Where will I go?

The answer is simple: I will go where I am needed. That is what I have done in the past, and it’s what I should do now.

I wipe my tears away, blinking at the world with blurred vision.

I steady my breathing, slipping back into battle mode.

Into keep-it-together mode.

I stand up, and I leave the hospital.

I am walking toward the hotel where the militia officers have been quartered. The sun has set. I zip my jacket up, pausing at the corner of the block. The hotel is glimmering against the night sky, buzzing with activity at the bottom level. Where there used to be valet parking, there are armored vehicles. It’s now a fortress, surrounded by concrete T walls and armed guards manning every entry point.

By the time I reach the hotel lobby, I realize how completely exhausted I am. My steps are slow and labored. The front desk and receptionist areas are being manned by National Guardsmen.

I head to the elevator, knowing that if I don’t sleep for at least a couple of hours, I won’t be any good to anyone. The elevator arrives, and I step inside. I reach the fifteenth floor. The doors open, and for the first time in hours, there is silence. I breathe a sigh of relief and walk to my hotel room. I close the door, lock it, and lean against it. I take a deep breath and slide down to the floor, sitting on the carpet, closing my eyes.

The city streets gleam through the windows with the lights of backup generators and patrol vehicles making their rounds. The rumble of engines and buzz of voices is a soft hum through the hotel window. How do we know Omega won’t attack again? Why did they stop with just two cruise missiles? Are they playing a game with us? Cat and mouse? The game of intimidation? If it was meant to scare the crap out of us, it certainly worked.

But I don’t think that’s their game. I believe their aim is to remove our leaders, kill us off one by one, and destroy the strength of the resistance to the Omega invasion.

Am I afraid? Yes. Will I stop fighting? Never.

I collapse on the bed, laying my cheek against the scratchy bedspread. This is luxury living, compared to what I have been doing for the last year. But I don’t care about that. As I fall into an exhausted sleep, my thoughts are on my father.

Omega has taken him away from me again.