Текст книги "State of Alliance"

Chapter Seven

The Negotiations adjourn for the night. I was under the impression that my heartfelt – and, in my opinion, pretty inspiring pep talk – would open the Alliance’s arms to California. And it did, as far as I know. But the representatives will take a vote, and I will know tomorrow if California is in for sure. I am clearly not a politician, and the complexity of negotiations and strategies may always elude me, but I know the difference between right and wrong. I have common sense, and I am not afraid to draw a line in the sand. My first priority is to destroy Omega, and I will do that in any way that I can.

“You did outstanding, Cassie,” Chris says.

We are walking toward the Herrmann Hall ballroom. The hallways are lit with generator-powered lights, dull orange colors that thrum and hum against the pale walls. My fingers are still shaking and my face is warm. Public speaking has a way of doing that to me.

“Are we in?” I ask quietly.

“We’d better be,” Uriah interjects. “I don’t see any reason why they would reject us. Everyone but Anita Vega seemed pretty enthusiastic.”

“Anita was fine,” I say. “She’s just trying to negotiate.”

“I can’t believe it will take them until tomorrow to take a vote on this stupid thing,” Vera snaps. “This is a state of emergency – we’re at war. We’re either in or not. How long do they have to drag it out and talk about it?”

“Let them talk,” I reply. “We know what we need to do.”

We reach the ballroom. It’s a huge space. Generator powered lamps and lanterns light the eating area. Tables are lined with food and beverages, and officers of all colors, shapes and sizes are eating with cloth napkins on their laps.

“Very fancy,” Andrew says. “Too fancy.”

“Seems unnecessary to make everything so formal during wartime,” Sophia snorts.

I say nothing. Devin May replies,

“It’s how they keep going on, even when everything is so bad. We stick to protocol, we make things nice, and we feed our people well while we still can.” He shrugs. “Eat up, folks. Tomorrow is going to be a long day, trust me.”

The activity in the room seems to pause for a moment as the officers and troops eating dinner stop and look at our group. There are ill-concealed whispers and murmurs. I walk to the buffet table. There is meat, potatoes, vegetables and bread. I take the bare minimum – taking more than that would be selfish when supplies are so difficult to come by – and grab a cloth napkin. I find an empty table and sit near the edge of the window, overlooking the dark foliage outside.

My security detail splits in half. One half sits at the table with me and enjoys a meal – Andrew, Uriah and Vera – while the other half makes their rounds in the ballroom. Sophia is among the latter group. Chris seats himself across from me.

“You know,” he says, looking at Uriah, “when the Alliance accepts California’s proposal, things are going to change. We’ll have so much more access to better weapons and security.”

“If they accept us,” Vera mutters.

“Stop being such a pessimist,” I say. “Everything’s going to work out.”

Vera shakes her head, and I get a flash of Angela Wright’s strained, bloody face; a broken expression seconds before death. I look down at the gravy on my potatoes, my appetite evaporating.

I grab my wine glass, filled with water.

“Where’s Manny?” I ask, directing my mind elsewhere.

Uriah answers, “He’s somewhere in the compound. Probably talking with the Air Force, getting a feel for what they’re up to. You know Manny. He’s always got to be hanging around pilots.”

“Yeah, that’s a true story right—” I begin, cut off by an earsplitting bang. The wine glass in my hand shatters, sending small shards of glass across my cheek, into my hand.

I freeze. I comprehend the fact that something struck my glass, broke it, and kept traveling, hitting a man seated behind me at another table. He slumps forward and his head hits the table, blood spilling down the back of his white haired head.

I drop to my knees behind the table, speckles of blood appearing on my hand where the wine glass shattered. Uriah is on my right and Chris is crouched beneath the table. Yelling and screaming echoes loudly throughout the ballroom. I have already drawn my handgun. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins.

Chris yells, “KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN!”

Uriah takes my arm, as if attempting to steer me away from the conflict. I jerk away, glaring. I don’t need to be led like a lost schoolgirl.

I turn my head, sensing movement behind me. I see another National Guard trooper push through the crowd and lunge at me. He’s brandishing a knife. I don’t have time to fire my gun. He is too fast and too close. I roll onto my back and kick upward, smashing the heel of my boot into his hand. The knife falls from his fingers and clatters against the floor.

He keeps coming. His one hand grabs my gun, wrenching my wrist sideways. The weapons falls to the floor. He is incredibly strong and determined to kill me any way he can. His hand closes around my throat and I feel the lack of oxygen immediately. I reach for the knife on my belt but I can’t get to it. I drive my knee into his gut with all my might. He heaves and his grip loosens. His hesitation allows me the split second I need to pull my knife from my belt.

My turn.

I grip the handle firmly and drive it up into his chest. He cries out in pain and I use the strength of my legs to push his body off mine. I pull the knife out, hot blood running down my arms. He is far from dead but he is wounded. Uriah places a boot on his throat and slams the butt of his rifle into his head, knocking him out.

I breathe hard, looking around for Chris. Where is he?

He has vanished into the chaos of the ballroom. There is a struggle in the far side of the room. I raise my head above the table just enough to see Chris take someone and slam their body against the wall. The poor sucker is crushed by the sheer power of Chris’s muscle mass.

“He’s down, he’s down!” someone shouts.

I stand up.

Chris is kneeling over a thin man in a National Guard uniform. Chris’s knee is on his chest, his hand around his throat. There is a gun just out of the man’s reach. Andrew picks up the weapon, examining it closely.

“Who is he?” I breathe.

Uriah shakes his head.

“No idea,” he says. “My best guess… an Omega spy.”

“Who are you?” Chris growls.

The man laughs. It’s a cruel sound.

“You’re going to die,” he says gruffly. “All of you. You can’t stop Omega.”

He jerks his head toward me. Even though he can’t see me – or touch me – I feel like I’ve been slapped. A dark, ugly feeling of foreboding squeezes my chest like an icy fist.

Chris punches the man in the face, and he goes out like a light.

“Take him,” Chris says, rising. He looks at Uriah.

I take a few steps closer as the guards gather the man’s limp, unconscious body. As far as anyone knew, he – and the man who tried to stab me – was a soldier in the militia just like everybody else here.

Not anymore.

“I don’t get it,” I say. “He shot the man behind me.”

I turn, seeing the dead officer at the table behind ours.

“No,” Chris replies, his voice dark. “He was aiming for you.”

He places his hand on my shoulder.

We’re not safe here, either. We’re not safe anywhere.

The shooter’s name is Luther. The man who tried to stab me is in critical condition, in a jail cell somewhere. Luther is sitting in a room with concrete walls and a one-way window. I stare at him through protective glass, watching his bloodshot eyes dart to the door.

“He’s not insane,” Devin says, standing there, arms crossed. “He’s an infiltrator. An Omega hack.”

Chris pauses. “We had an infiltrator aiming a laser at the Capitol Building dome in Sacramento,” he says. “And now you’ve got an assassination attempt on a California senator inside what should be an impenetrable compound.”

“It was impenetrable,” Devin replies. “This guy is a patrol, a grounds guard. Remember Commander Amal, the Mediator in the Negotiations? She’s the Commander of the militia group Seahawks. He’s one of her men. Supposed to be trustworthy.”

“Trusting people is the first mistake we make,” I murmur. “Trust no one.”

Devin and Chris remain silent. My words sink in and I watch the spy in the interrogation chamber. He is not a psych case. He is calmly, defiantly sitting there, fully aware of what he has done.

How is Omega doing this?

How are they planting people so blatantly within our ranks?

I say, “Let’s keep our priorities straight. We’ll find out if California was accepted into the Alliance by morning. This can wait.”

“The vote was delayed,” Devin replies. “You might not find out until tomorrow afternoon.”

I sigh.

Vera is right. How long does it take to come to a decision? California should join. Period. What’s there to talk about?

We exit the room – a dark, sterile place meant for observation of those being interrogated.

“Senator, this won’t happen again,” Devin promises. “I mean, since the EMP, we haven’t had anything like this happen here. This is a freak thing.”

“My security detail will take care of it,” I tell him, smiling slightly.

In the moments after the assassination attempt, my mouth went completely dry, my hands shook and I felt slightly faint. Something about nearly being killed in a place that I trusted to be completely safe rocked my core.

I have confidence that Chris, Uriah, and the rest of my unit will keep me safe while I’m here – and not for my sake. For the sake of California.

By the time we reach our hotel rooms, Devin turns to Chris.

“Hey. Can I talk to you for a second, man?”

Chris nods. I stand at my hotel room door and watch the two of them wander to the end of the hall, still in sight but out of earshot. Judging by the expression on Chris’s face and the way Devin gestures to me, I’m guessing that they’re talking about me.

Shocker.

I roll my eyes and take my room key out of my pocket, slip it into the lock and open the door. It’s cool inside, musty. The dark wood of the bed and the table blend in with the floor. A solar-powered lantern is sitting on the table. I flick it on, giving the room a soft glow. Someone has cleaned and stocked the room for me. There are bottles of fresh water on the table, along with some energy bars and what looks like basic items for the bathroom.

Nice.

I grab a water bottle and walk to the window, instinctively pulling the curtains across the window. Since the assassination attempt in the ballroom, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that someone is watching me. Waiting.

I pop the water bottle open just as Devin and Chris return to my room.

“Cassidy, come out in the hall for a second,” Chris says, holding his hand out.

I cross the room, step over the threshold. Elle Costas – lithe and black-haired – is standing there with Uriah on her left, a firm grip around her bomb dog’s harness.

“Elle is going to check the room,” Devin tells me. “That’s what Bravo does. Right, boy?”

He smiles at the dog.

I raise an eyebrow and Elle enters the room with the dog.

“So you think somebody planted a bomb in my room?” I ask. “Then why did you let me go inside?”

“No, not a bomb,” Devin answers. “Security is too tight on this floor.”

“Apparently people can get past security in the ballroom.”

Chris clears his throat, a subtle signal for me to shut my mouth.

“Then what’s he searching for?” I ask.

“Poisons,” Elle replies, her voice serious. “Some bomb dogs have been cross-trained to sniff out both explosives and poisons. Bravo is one of those special canines.” She gives the dog a fond look. “It’s just a precaution, Commander.”

I watch Bravo sniff through the room, using his expertly trained nose to guide him. He’s all business as Elle follows him, studying his gestures. I bring the water bottle to my lips and suddenly Chris’s hand is on my wrist, sending driblets of water down the front of my shirt.

“Hey! What are you—” I begin, but I stop.

Bravo is sitting. His posture is rigid. He is positioned next to the table and Elle is holding a water bottle in her hand. She looks at me, I look at her, and we all look at the dog.

Elle slowly reaches forward and takes my bottle from my hand. “Don’t drink it, Senator,” she advises. “Lieutenant May?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Devin says, stepping into the room, gathering the water bottles. “Don’t eat or drink anything in this room.”

“So you think it’s poisoned?”

“It could be—”

“—Who has access to my room besides you, Devin?”

He shakes his head.

“Nobody,” he says. “This shouldn’t happen. Ever.”

Already I have been nearly shot and poisoned in less than twenty-four hours.

We’re making someone angry. We’re making someone desperate.

Bring it on.

“You know, Chris is the kind of guy who does,” Jeff Young says, twirling a pocketknife in his hand. “He doesn’t say what he’s doing or why. You just know.”

“He’s never told me he loves me,” I reply.

The sky is dark. The clouds are full of rain. We are at the foot of the Tehachapi Mountains, settled in the muddy grass, waiting for Omega to make their move. We’ve only been away from Sector 20 for a couple of days. I am afraid.

“He loves you,” Jeff answers. “You know that.”

“Do I? If he loved me, he’d say so.”

Jeff snaps his knife shut and shoves it back into his pocket.

“Some people don’t say how they feel,” he sighs. “They show it.”

“It’s not normal.”

“Chris has his reasons for what he does.”

“Anything I should know about?”

Jeff shakes his head.

“It’s not my place to say,” he shrugs. “Chris will tell you when he’s ready.”

His words send a chill down my spine, as if I should expect something horrible and foreboding. Some kind of doomsday prophecy.

Because lying on my stomach in the mud with a rifle isn’t stressful enough.

“I won’t wait forever,” I whisper. “I’m only human.”

Even in the darkness, I can see Jeff’s mouth droop, a slight frown.

“Sometimes we have to wait, Cassie,” he says. “Sometimes we have to be patient.”

I don’t say what I’m thinking: I’ve been patient.

How hard can it be to tell someone you love them?

Chapter Eight

When Jeff Young died, a part of me died, too. He was a good friend to me, someone I could confide in when the going got rough. Someone who understood Chris better than I did, and someone who was there for me when Chris seemed incapable of expressing emotion.

I wish he were here right now.

I’m sitting in the hallway right outside of the meeting room where we had the Negotiations yesterday. I am wearing an armored vest, my rifle slung across my back, a handgun and a knife strapped to my hip. Uriah, Vera, Sophia, Andrew and Chris are here with me. Devin May is standing by the door, his stance similar to Chris’s.

“Why is it taking so long?” I say.

“These things take time,” Chris replies, his eyes focused straight ahead.

“How much time?”

Chris almost smiles for the first time in hours.

“As much time as they need,” he tells me.

“Well, my girl, I hear you dodged death twice last night. Is that true?”

I jump out of my chair, a smile spreading across my face. Manny walks through the doors on the far side of the hall, windblown and smelling of the outdoors. His flight cap is shoved into the pocket of his leather overcoat. I run to him and embrace him, relieved and happy to see my dear friend.

“Well, now,” he says, grinning. His weathered, wrinkled face is streaked with grease and dirt. “It’s nice to see you too, Senator.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Manny,” I reply.

“Manny,” Chris says, nodding. “Good to see you.”

Manny shakes his hand.

“So,” he says. “What are you all doing around here? Holding a communal baptism of some sort? Baptism by bullets, perhaps?”

“We’re waiting for the verdict,” Andrew answers, raising an eyebrow. “The representatives are taking a vote on California’s entry into the Alliance.”

“Ah, politics,” Manny says, making a face. “Because talking endlessly about nothing always solves the problem.”

“There’s the truth,” Vera mutters.

“Ah, Vera. Back to your usual, bubbly self,” Manny comments. “And who, may I ask, are you?” He gestures to Devin.

“Lieutenant Devin May,” Devin says, shaking Manny’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I would imagine,” Manny replies. “News of dashing pilots risking life and limb for the good of their country has a way of making an impression on you.” He winks, a devilish expression on his face. “Now, back to business. Cassidy, two assassination attempts in one night?”

“Yes,” Devin interrupts. “Two assassins in the ballroom and somebody got into the Senator’s room and poisoned her water. We verified it.”

“I feel very secure in this facility, don’t you?” Manny smirks.

“I don’t know who to trust,” I say in a low voice.

Chris turns to me, a surprised expression on his face. Before he says a word, the doors to the meeting room open. Sophia and Andrew straighten up and Uriah casts a wary glance toward me.

Commander Jen Amal takes a step into the hall. She’s really a beautiful woman, tall and refined, pretty dark hair slicked down.

“Senator,” she says.

There is a long silence. Everyone in the room seems to be holding their breath.

“Well?” I ask. “Are we in?”

Amal smiles.

“Welcome to the Pacific Northwest Alliance.”

Here we go again, back in the convoy. I am sitting between Uriah and Vera. Chris is in the front seat. The other representatives/militia commanders are following us: Ken Thrawn of Oregon, Nathaniel Mero of Washington, Marshal Sullivan of Canada and Anita Vega of Mexico.

“Explain this to me again,” I say, leaning forward. Devin May is driving the Humvee, and he is talking to Chris in low tones.

“We’re going to the Defense Language Institute of Monterey,” Chris replies. His eyes are hidden behind black, tactical sunglasses. “So we can boost their morale.”

“Boost whose morale?” I demand.

“The soldiers there. The Army. The Navy.” Chris sighs. “Now that California has joined the Pacific Northwest Alliance, the entire western seaboard is united against Omega. It’s a big deal. We have a real chance to win this thing. People need to know that – they need to be inspired.”

I need to be inspired, I think.

We roll out of the front entrance of the Naval Postgraduate School, leaving the relative safety of the wrought iron fencing and patrols behind us. The town is secure, though, so that gives me a little bit of relief.

But only a little.

We follow the road, paralleling a jogging trail and beautiful, towering Eucalyptus trees. We break out of the trees, and beyond us is the harbor. The water is brilliantly blue this morning. There is no fog, only clear, crisp sunshine and puffy white clouds.

Fisherman’s Wharf extends into the water, a wooden pier dotted with harbor-view restaurants and abandoned gift shops. The parking lot is filled with military vehicles and armed military patrols.

“Things have changed, man,” Devin says. “This used to be tourist central.”

It’s War Zone Central, now, I think.

The road slopes and we dip under a huge tunnel. It’s dark and loud. I fist my hands, the contained quarters of the tunnel making me nervous. I was once inside a Humvee when it hit an IED, and the memory left its mark.

I hate being trapped in confined spaces.

We emerge from the tunnel and I exhale. Uriah nudges my shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

I smile gratefully. Uriah. Always helpful, always caring.

We turn and begin climbing a steeper road, flashing by a bullet-riddled sign that reads:

U.S. ARMY

PRESIDIO OF MONTEREY

HOME OF THE DEFENSE LANGUAGE INSTITUTE

“So we’re making a formal announcement of California joining the Alliance?” I ask.

“Basically,” Uriah says. “It’ll be easy. All we have to do is show up.”

“And then what? We go back to Sacramento?”

Chris doesn’t respond. Maybe he doesn’t know yet.

Maybe he’s just as scared as I am.

We pull through the checkpoints at the institute. The view is spectacular. We are situated on top of a hill, overlooking the bay of Monterey. I can see the fleet of white sailboats and fishing boats bobbing in the water. The city sprawls in every direction around the peninsula, and I wonder how far our military protection really stretches? One mile out of the city? Ten?

I’d like to find out.

The convoy stops at the top of the hill, at a large green meadow. The meadow sits between old-fashioned military barracks and two small baseball diamonds. There are risers on the far side of the meadow, and in the center of the grass, Navy, Air Force, National Guard, Army and militia soldiers are standing in neat rows, forming squares of camouflaged color.

Uriah opens the door and I follow him outside. Sophia and Andrew approach us from their vehicles. Elle Costas is here with her bomb dog, Bravo, staying close to our group. The representatives from the other states and countries exit their Humvees and jeeps, as well.

We gather in a small group, just us.

“Senator Hart,” Anita Vega says. She offers her hand, glossy black hair spilling down her back. “It was an honor to work with you.”

“Likewise,” I say. “It was an honor to work with all of you.”

I look at the representatives – the disfigured face of Nathanial Mero, the aged, weathered features of Marshal Sullivan, and the burly, stocky build of Ken Thrawn.

“We’re all in this together, now,” I say.

“Let’s make Omega pay,” Nathanial answers, holding his fist in the air.

I nod.

“Alright, Commanders, Senators,” Devin says. “This way, please. Toward the podium.”

There’s a small podium near the bleachers, on which are several officers and members of militia and other paramilitary units. Chris leads the way, occasionally glancing at me, checking.

We climb the steps, lining up in a row. There is a microphone, powered by a purring generator. A reminder of our constant lack of access to instant electricity. It’s all extremely formal and, in my opinion, completely unnecessary. Now that California has joined the Alliance, it’s time to get back to work.

This war isn’t going to win itself.

Behind me, Andrew, Uriah, Sophia and Devin are branching out around the stage, disappearing from sight, making sure the perimeter is secure. Chris stands near me on the stage, hands to his side, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

Commander Jen Amal steps in front of the microphone, addressing the soldiers on the green. “To begin with,” she says. “God bless the Pacific Northwest Alliance!”

The soldiers clap and yell, pumping the air with their fists.

“Thanks to the work of the Representatives from Oregon, Washington, Canada, Mexico and California, the Golden State is now a partner in the Pacific Northwest Alliance,” she continues. “The western seaboard stands united and firm against Omega’s invasion. We will be victorious!”

The applause is thundering. My heart skips a beat, and I realize that I am inspired. Here we are, standing in a military stronghold. Omega hasn’t killed us yet. We are fighting back, and we are giving it everything we’ve got. And it hits me then that while we may not have the sheer numbers that Omega has… we’ve got the heart that they don’t. The fighting spirit.

The will to win.

I look at Chris, he looks at me. The ghost of a smile spreads across his lips. I feel a surge of hope. For us, for the country, for my father – wherever he is – and for the lives of the innocents that we’re fighting for. And then there is a gunshot.

Nathanial Mero jerks sideways, slamming into my arm, taking me to the ground. Hot blood sprays across my face, over my jacket. Chris grabs my shoulder and pulls me close to him, keeping low to the podium. Two more gunshots ring out, and I see Ken Thrawn topple over, a red blossom of blood in the center of his forehead.

All of this happens in a split second, barely enough time for me to comprehend the action. My instincts are faster than my thought process. I snap my gaze to the meadow, to the tops of the buildings. I know immediately that whoever killed Nathanial and Ken is a sniper – and a good one at that. The shot was taken from a long distance, beyond the meadow.

Around the edges of the green, security is furiously returning fire, lead for lead, bullet for bullet. But they are firing at a phantom enemy. Someone has done this stealthily, and they are staying hidden.

I stay low and follow Chris off the stage, adrenaline surging through my veins. The soldiers on the green are in full battle mode, rushing to protect the remaining representatives on the stage. I guess I am included in that group, but I don’t care. I slide my handgun out of the holster on my hip, taking cover behind the curve of the concrete podium.

“What the hell was that?” Chris growls as Devin runs around the corner.

“You tell me, man,” Devin replies, panting.

Three more gunshots, and then silence. Security detachments and guards are rolling out, scouring the premises for the shooter. Where is he? How did he get in?

How have there been three assassination attempts in less than twenty-four hours? That’s insane. That should be impossible. This city – this place – is secure!

Apparently not.

“We’ve got to get you inside,” Chris says. “And the rest of the representatives.”

“It’s not just us they’re trying to kill,” I reply. “It’s the officers – you and Devin and Uriah. The top dogs.” Chris doesn’t argue. He knows I’m right.

“Let’s go,” he says.

We start to head for the cars, but Elle appears from the other side of the Humvee that we arrived in. She screams, “Don’t!! Go back, go back!”

Bravo is barking, and Chris pulls me backward. Elle sprints across the green meadow, threading through the mass of soldiers and militiamen and women taking defensive positions against the invisible attacker.

The detonation slams through us, a daisy chain series of explosions. Pieces of twisted metal hurl through the air. Flames erupt inside the vehicles, turning them inside out, spewing hot glass and metal over the meadow. I roll behind the corner of the podium and Chris shields me with his body. Devin hunkers down. Elle stumbles and falls. Chris grabs her ankle and drags her behind the cover of the podium. I pull Elle close to my chest and we huddle up together, the heat from the flames singeing my clothes, warming my face.

Bravo stays near Elle as pieces of destroyed vehicles are flung into the sky, landing everywhere. Black, billowing waves of choking smoke spreads across the meadow. It is chaos, insanity. I can feel the sweat dripping down my chest, sticking my shirt to my skin.