by Summer Lane
State of Hope
Collapse Series #10
By
Summer Lane
Copyright 2017
All Rights Reserved
Summer Lane
Writing Belle Publishing
No part of this book may be reproduced, except to quote in reviews or interviews, without the express permission of the author. Any unauthorized distribution of this body of work is illegal and punishable by law.
This is a work of fiction. Any parallel to persons alive or dead is purely coincidental and is not intended by the author.
Dedicated to:
Dad: for your honesty.
James: for your writing.
Scott: for your love.
Keep a little fire burning.
However small.
However hidden.
- Cormac McCarthy
Prologue
Hours before the Collapse – CIA Headquarters
“That doesn’t make sense,” Vice President Jude said. Buried deep in the heart of Langley, Virginia – CIA Headquarters – he peered anxiously at a computer screen. The Director of the CIA, Charles Renee, folded his arms across his chest. He was an older man with balding gray hair and sharp green eyes.
“That’s not all,” he replied. “Look at this.”
He clicked on an icon, and the screen displayed an image of an aircraft Vice President Jude had never seen before. It was a helicopter of some sort, sleek and imprinted with an insignia that was unfamiliar: a dark circle encompassing the continents of the world.
“Who are they?” Jude asked, furrowing his brow.
“We don’t know much about them.” Charles showed him more photos, including snapshots that portrayed Chinese soldiers slipping into red uniforms, mobilizing for what looked like deployment. “This was taken two days ago. One of our best agents managed to smuggle it to us.”
“What’s their target?”
“We don’t know that, either.”
“Have they made any move to attack the United States?”
“No. Not yet, anyway.” Charles sat down, looking around. The room was empty, and it was just the two of them, locked in a soundproof space. “The aircraft are called Phoenixes…that much we know. We also know that there are similar aircraft and soldiers popping up all over the globe, especially throughout Russia, the Middle East, and Asia.”
“We’ve discussed this before,” Jude answered, shaking his head. “It’s conspiracy theory-”
“Is it?” Charles leaned forward. “Vice President, they are mobilizing for something, and from the looks of it…they plan on moving soon.”
“We need to talk to the president,” Jude replied.
“Of course.”
“Do you know anything about these people – anything at all? Who’s funding their weapons and supplies? Have they sworn allegiance to any country or terrorist group?”
Charles folded his hands together, turning the computer screen off.
“They call themselves Omega,” he said slowly.
“Omega,” Jude repeated. “Sounds ominous.”
“Oh, yes,” Charles agreed. “It certainly does.”
He slipped his hand under his jacket, watching the vice president chew on his lower lip, absorbing the meager but important information about this new and mysterious enemy.
Jude tapped his fingers on the table and asked, “What are you not telling me? These past few weeks, every time I ask questions about this group…I seem to hit a brick wall. Analysts and generals tell me it’s a non-issue, and that it’s being handled. Well…if it’s being handled, then why did you bring me here, and how come we’re talking about it – again?”
Charles sighed.
“Because, vice president,” he gritted, “it was the only way I could get you in a room with me, alone, so that I could kill you.”
Jude stared at him.
“What-”
Charles pulled a gun from the waistband of his suit pants, expertly swinging it up and holding it level with Jude’s head. The vice president’s eyes widened, shock and betrayal flashing across his face. Charles squeezed the trigger and put two bullets in the vice president’s forehead. Jude snapped backward, blood blossoming from his skin, running down his face. Dead.
Charles exhaled, tucking the gun back into his jacket.
“Hail Omega,” he muttered. “Hail, the New Order.”
Charles stood, leaving the room. Secret Service men waited in the hall.
“It’s done,” he said. “The next step is upon us.”
As if in response to his words, the lights in Langley flickered. Generators would keep the place online in the event of a power outage or an EMP attack…but not the rest of the country. The generators kicked in and the flickering lights stabilized. Panicked voices echoed through the halls, and Charles knew it was the beginning of everything he had been hoping for.
“Let’s make this quick,” Charles ordered.
He walked with the Secret Service men to the elevator, checking his watch. All was going according to plan; this was good, very good. In just a few hours, he would be with the President of the United States, giving Charles the perfect opportunity to carry out the rest of his mission: destroy the leadership in this country in an effort to hasten the collapse of all structure and stability. As Director of the CIA here in Langley, he was in the perfect position to be trusted. But Omega had recruited him long ago, and this moment was one that he had been waiting for.
At last, Omega would make their move.
Even now, as the elevator touched the ground level and Charles casually left the building with the vice president’s traitorous Secret Service men in tow, he knew Omega troops were already moving up the shores of the East Coast, and that most of the major cities in the country were going dark. Deep into the sky, bombs were being detonated in the atmosphere, sending thousands of crippling electromagnetic pulses across the globe.
Charles smiled grimly.
One flick of their wrists and Omega could destroy the technological infrastructure of the world. Next, there would be panic. Excellent. Panic would drive people to death and make the third step easier: extermination. In no time at all, Omega would sweep the globe and solidify their position as the new world order.
As Charles left HQ behind, he had no idea that he, too, would be dead in a few hours, the victim of violent rioting in Washington, D.C. He would never make it into the bunker with the president and the first family. He would never live to see Omega’s invasion or their war with the world.
The secrets of Charles Renee died with him, along with the details of Omega’s final attack on the western world, a program to be greenlit only if the initial invasion failed. Had Charles survived, perhaps the program would have been initiated sooner. Perhaps everything would have been different.
But he died, and the president escaped Washington, D.C., as the apocalypse descended, and the world was consumed with the fire of a global war, heralded by the most dangerous and massive military force in the history of mankind.
Omega had arrived. The war was only the beginning of what was to come.
Part One
Death and Resurrection
Chapter One
Camp Cambria, California – Post-Collapse
Nothing is easy, and nothing makes sense.
Camp Cambria is cold and dreary this evening, a storm washing in from the east. The small strip of once-famous tourist shops is silent. The only signs of life are the candles and fireplaces burning inside the buildings, glimpses caught through cracks in curtains or open and closing doors.
I stand very still at the window of the medical building, looking across the street. M
y calloused and dirty fingers grasp the dusty sill as I stare at the reflection of the room behind me in the glass; a doctor and two nurses are hovering around a tall, thin man with gray hair. The doctor – a portly man with thick eyebrows – is observing the tall man with trembling hands, nervously glancing at me, hoping I’ll turn around.
I don’t.
Uriah True leans with his back against the wall, just a few feet away from me. He watches the tall man openly, no hint of emotion or expression on his face.
“What do you think?” he whispers.
“I don’t know,” I reply. “If he’s who he says he is, then he’s got a lot of explaining to do.”
Uriah nods. He agrees, of course.
“Commander Hart?” the man says.
I slowly turn, meeting his steely gaze.
“Yes?” I reply.
“You don’t need to look so worried,” he tells me, smiling slightly. “I’m not a ghost, you know. It’s really me.”
It’s really me, his words echo in my head.
“Look,” I say. “No offense, Mr. President, but you have to understand that I’m not in the habit of trusting anybody these days, so you’ll have to accept that until you can explain what you’re doing here…it’s going to be a little hard to trust you.”
Mr. President, Mr. President, Mr. President…
The title feels acidic on my tongue – too good to be true, too surreal.
The man – the guy who looks like the president and sounds like him – bows his head, a show that he understands me, and allows the doctor and nurses to continue to check him, hooking him up to IVs, pumping nutrients into his malnourished body.
“Where’s Diego?” he asks me instead.
“Diego?”
“The other man on the ship with me. He was one of my Secret Service men before all of this started. Is he being taken care of?”
“Yes,” I tell him. “He’s fine.”
“Good.”
“So,” Uriah replies, coarse. “What are you doing in a fishing boat on the west coast of California, Mr. President? Care to share?”
“Uriah,” I hiss, my tone a warning.
“I promise, I will explain everything,” the president continues. “But please, call me Saul.”
Of course, I think, remembering snippets of headlines from a pre-Collapse world. President Saul Banner: Newly-Elected President of the United States of America. He’s young, he’s handsome, and he’s passionate about this country!
I grimace, recalling the throngs of screaming young women who would follow Saul Banner on his campaign trail, the phenomenon ardently covered by every media outlet from sea to shining sea. At thirty-five, he was the youngest president ever to be elected to the highest office in the land. With square, rugged features, salt and pepper hair, and a tall, fit frame, his appearance was only one of his many attributes. I remember listening to his interviews on television, radios, and magazines. I also remember his inauguration – I hadn’t been able to watch. I was only a senior in high school then, working out math problems in calculus class. But I do remember the hype, the fun, the glamour. He was different than the rest…
“Okay, Saul,” I go on. “This is how it’s going to work…”
Am I being too callous? This is the President of the United States! Cassidy, show some respect…
Yet I do not change my tone, because I know too much.
I know too much to trust anyone anymore.
Even the president.
***
This morning, we found the President of the United States in a boat off the coast of Cambria, California. Having just returned from a terrifying yet successful mission on the big island of Hawaii, I had thought I was traumatized enough, watching my fiancé and the love my life, Commander Chris Young, being wheeled down the hallway of the medical building, on his way to brain surgery.
Coma, bleeding on the brain, concussion, internal hemorrhaging…
So many different medical terms for describing all of the possible ways he could die.
I think of Admiral Greg Boyd and his naval strike fleet, on his way to the West Coast right now, armed with nuclear weapons that my team and I secured for him on a dangerous mission to the Pacific Rim. I think of Harry Lydell, my friend, then bitter enemy, and now the man who died to save my life. I think of this man who looks, talks, and moves like President Saul Banner – a leader from a world that was consumed by fire and war.
Always, my thoughts come back to Chris.
My head pulses with an aching pain – the stress of knowing that Chris is still lying comatose, even after surgery to relieve bleeding pressure on his brain was successful.
“We were able to drain the blood,” Marianne – the only surgeon in Camp Cambria – told me. “That’s the good news. The bad news is that we can’t seem to stop the bleeding from continuing. There’s not a lot we can do. He still comatose, and it’s better that way. The pain would be unbearable for him otherwise.”
“Is he going to die?” I asked, point blank. Hollow.
“I don’t know,” Marianne replied. “Anything is possible, Commander Hart.”
And that’s it.
The one glimmer of happiness in my life is hanging by a thread.
Don’t think about it. Just move.
We gather in the alehouse across the street from the medical building, the lanterns and candles flickering against the wall. I grab a chair. Manny sits on the edge of the bar, nervously tapping his fingers against a glass beer bottle, his wild gray hair pulled into a messy ponytail. Elle Costas sits beside Cheng, both of them mere shadows, her German Shepherd K-9, Bravo, sitting at her feet, alert. Vera is pale, her white-blonde hair loose and long as she leans against her boyfriend’s shoulder. Andrew looks as tired as she is.
The Mad Monks are here, too, including Father Kareem. He sits down on the chair next to me. Uriah is on my left, and Em Davis is coyly holding hands with a wounded Devin May under a table across the room – his leg splinted and bandaged from his injury sustained during our operation in the Pacific Rim.
Their romance is a surprise to me – but then, aren’t all romances?
Lieutenant Lani of the Hawaiian militia takes a seat at our table, her thick, black hair braided down the center of her back. She is joined by Haku – another Hawaiian militiaman with a grotesque scar on his face – who smiles softly when he sees me.
Commander George Miller – the leader of Camp Cambria – and his son, Lieutenant Eugene Miller, front the room, packed with a few other local militia members. And in the center of all of this commotion sits President Saul Banner.
He is wearing a pair of black pants, a thick, gray sweater, and heavy boots – too big for him, but all that was available here in camp. He is clean shaven, his hair neatly combed. Unlike his campaign commercials and magazine photo shoots….here, he looks tired. Worn, ragged. Exhausted.
I know the feeling.
“Hello,” Saul says. “First of all, I just want to say thank you for the hospitality that has been shown here at Camp Cambria and the kindness and protection bestowed on me by Commander Miller.” He pauses here, as if waiting for applause. He clears his throat and continues, “I know you must have questions, and I’ll answer them – all of them. All I ask is that you keep an open mind, that you trust me. I may not be your president now…but I was, once. Before all of this.”
His eyes grow dark, his expression crestfallen.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes, fighting tears. “It’s just emotional for me, as I’m sure it is for all of you, as well.”
Uriah glances at me.
“Go on, sir,” Commander Miller encourages, leaning on the edge of his seat.
He, like most of the people here, is transfixed at the sight of our former President – a man long assumed dead, along with the rest of the leadership in the country.
“The night of the first wave – the very first EMP attacks across the nation – I was in the White House with my family,” Saul continues, steelin
g his expression. “We were getting reports of cities and entire states going dark on an enormous scale. The media couldn’t even broadcast warnings because the satellites were going down, too. Everything was going down.” He scratches his chin. “It quickly became clear that this was a national attack on our country. My wife, Abbi, and my daughter, Mary, were taken along with me to a presidential bunker called Atlas One, here in California. The plan was to hide us from Omega – at that point, we knew what was coming. Omega had mobilized. It was unlike anything any of us had ever seen or even theorized: thousands of soldiers and aircraft mobilizing immediately from around the globe, with North America as their single target. The plan was that I would command the United States military forces remotely from Atlas, while protecting my family and members of my cabinet from assassination.” He sighs. “We were going to keep the leadership of the country intact, hidden. Safe.”
“Considering the fact that you’re here,” Manny interjects, “I’m guessing that didn’t work out so marvelously for you, did it?”
He takes another swig of beer.
Ah, Manny, I think. Totally and eternally unimpressed by politicians, presidents, and power.
“It did not,” Saul admits, frowning. “We were compromised our fourth month in. Someone inside betrayed our location to the enemy – Omega came for us. All of us. The Secretary of Defense, the Secretary of Homeland Security, the Secretary of State…everyone who was in the bunker with me.”
“And your family?” I ask, point blank.
“Taken,” he replies, his expression grim.
“I’m sorry.”
He nods.
“As far as I know, I am the only one who escaped,” he goes on. “I have spent years now evading Omega detection, surviving off the radar, moving from place to place as quickly as I can, and monitoring the tide of the war.”
“You’ve been hiding all this time?” Vera asks, frowning.
“While we’ve been fighting the war,” Elle adds, “you’ve been hiding?”
“I’ve been surviving,” he replies, simply. “As you have.”
“We’ve been getting killed,” Vera snaps. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’re the President of the United States, for the love of God! Why didn’t you come to the militias sooner? We thought that you were dead!”