by Summer Lane
“Yes, Commander Hart?”
“I want to be there when you interrogate the Omega accomplice.”
Beckham replies, “Of course. No problem.”
And then he’s gone, and I look at Vera.
“What do you think?” I whisper.
“I think everything’s fine,” she responds honestly. “While I don’t trust him completely, I do think he’ll fight Omega as much as we will. We have to give him a chance.”
“I’m done giving people chances,” I mutter.
Either Beckham can be trusted, or he can’t. I haven’t made up my mind yet, but I have a feeling that dinner with him and the president will help me decide.
Vera and I assist the militiamen in cleaning up the car, and we’re moved to a different house, almost identical as the first one, except everything here is painted gray instead of white. General Beckham tightens the patrols on the neighborhoods, setting up a more efficient perimeter in an effort to protect the militia leaders here.
Yet I still don’t feel safe.
I learned long ago that safety is an illusion.
Safety is a lie.
***
“Banner and Beckham,” Vera drawls. “Sounds like a boyband.”
I adjust the collar on my black jacket, smoothing the white shirt underneath.
“Do I look neat enough?” I ask.
“You look like an apocalyptic militia commander,” Vera responds. “I don’t think they’re going to care how you look. How any of us look.”
“I have a feeling they will,” I comment.
“They’re here!” Andrew calls from downstairs.
I check my appearance in the mirror. All things considered, I don’t look that bad. At least I’m showered. At least I’m not covered in ash.
Vera and I head downstairs, and a guard out front is waiting in a Humvee to take us to the president’s house. Uriah is waiting outside, and he gives me a frustrated look.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, zipping my jacket.
“This car is for you,” he says.
“I don’t understand.”
“Just for you. Apparently, President Banner and General Beckham don’t want to meet with all of us.” He pauses. “Just you.”
I look at the driver.
“Are those your orders?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am,” he responds.
I curse.
“I’m not going without the rest of the team,” I say.
“You should,” Father Kareem interjects. “You may learn something valuable.”
“Like what?”
He raises his hands as if to say, Don’t ask me. Just go and find out.
A nervous lump settles in my throat.
“I don’t want to go alone,” I whisper to Vera.
“I know,” she says, sympathetically. “But maybe you should. See what they want.”
I purse my lips, angry at the sudden turn of events.
“All right,” I snap. “If that’s the way they want it…”
“See you later,” Vera says.
I lock eyes with Uriah, and he nods.
I get in the backseat of the car.
I go on alone.
***
The president’s quarters are a commandeered seaside mansion overlooking Morro Bay. Halfway between the bay and San Luis Obispo, it is secluded, surrounded by rocky cliffs and fields of swaying grass. Sector 13 troops form a layered perimeter around the property, and we have to go through three checkpoints before we even reach the driveway.
At last, we pull up to the door. The entryway to the house is arched and brick, with bushes everywhere. I see freshly clipped limbs on the ground, and I realize that everything has been cleaned up and trimmed in the last twenty-four hours.
Trimming and hedging in the middle of a war?
I’m not impressed with this gesture. Aesthetics are the last thing we should be worried about right now.
The door opens and I’m escorted inside, silently, by Sector 13 patrolmen. The house is beautiful and open – and stripped of all interior decorations. In the middle of a large room with a vaulted ceiling, there is a long oak table.
President Banner is sitting at the head of the table, Abbi on his right, Mary on his left. They are cleaned, well dressed, their cheeks rosy.
They’re happy.
That, at least, is a nice thing to see.
“Commander Hart,” President Banner booms, grinning. “Welcome, welcome!” He rises to greet me, and surprises me with a warm embrace instead of a handshake. “I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done. You’ve brought light back into my life.”
Abbi nods, and Mary bursts, “Cassidy – you look so pretty!”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Please, have a seat,” President Banner says, gesturing toward the table.
I pull out a chair and sit down. Glimmering candelabras and an elegant burgundy tablecloth decorate the table, along with platters of food – pork, potatoes, fruits, salads, vegetables, cheeses, grapes, bottles of wine, pitchers of water…
All of this food…and so many people are starving.
General Beckham walks into the room, wearing a clean uniform. He gives me a rugged smile and sits directly across from me.
“Commander Hart,” he says, tipping his head.
“General.”
President Banner lifts his wine glass.
“A toast,” he says. “To the victory of the militias, the defeat of Omega, and the restoration of hope and civilization in our beloved homeland.”
I clink my glass along with theirs, the richness of the red wine almost too flavorful for my taste buds – I’ve had such a limited diet of meat and potatoes for so long, anything beyond that seems too intense.
I set down the glass and say, “Mr. President, you need to know what happened to my team at Compound C.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “Absolutely. As soon as we’ve finished dinner-”
“Every moment we waste, Omega gets closer!” I interrupt. “Listen to me – one of my best men died at Compound C. He gave his life to protect your wife and daughter. I suggest you listen to what I have to say.”
A heavy silence falls over the room, and Abbi says, “Saul. Listen to her.”
Beckham twitches.
President Banner responds, “I’m deeply sorry, Commander. I didn’t know there were casualties. Please accept my apology, and of course…speak freely. You’re absolutely right.”
His face is suddenly grave; his eyes tired.
“Thank you,” I answer, exhaling. “One of my men, Cheng, was the son of Chancellor Veronica Klaus.”
“Harrison?” Beckham asks, eyes widening.
“Yes,” I confirm. “Harrison Klaus was his real name. He spent years evading her detection, but we were ambushed in Pescadero. Omega knew we were coming. We didn’t have a chance. My team scattered, and a few of them were taken to Compound C, including Cheng. By the time we got there, Veronica had tortured her own son to the point of death. Before he died, he told me that Omega was planning on something much bigger than the Athena Strike. He said it would be a direct attack from the Omega leadership. He seemed to indicate that the strike is a diversion for something worse.”
“That’s all the information he gave you?” Beckham asks.
“He died, General. That’s all he could give.”
He lowers his eyes.
“A diversion?” Banner echoes. “Perhaps Omega plans to unleash nuclear warfare.”
“I don’t think so,” I reply. “They would have done it by now.”
“That’s not much to go on, Commander,” Beckham snorts. “No offense to your fallen comrade, but we can’t do anything with such superficial information. And I’m doubting he had anything to back it up.”
“Just his word,” I reply.
“Coming from the son of Chancellor Klaus, I wouldn’t take that as meaning very much.”
I narrow my gaze.
“Watch how you talk about
the dead,” I warn. “He died for this country.”
Beckham snaps his mouth shut.
“I think someone betrayed our position to Omega,” I go on. “Someone in Camp Cambria. Diego Santiago was already dead, so it couldn’t have been him. It could have been anyone. But you can bet that whoever was behind the suicide bombing today was behind that, too. It’s just too crazy not to be connected.”
Beckham swallows.
“Commander…” he begins, tapping his finger on the side of his plate, averting my eyes. “About the man you apprehended…the accomplice with one eye…?”
“What about him?” I ask, alarmed.
“He’s dead.”
I stare at him.
“What do you mean he’s dead!?”
Beckham and Banner exchange glances, and the President says, “He was killed in the holding cell today. Beckham found him with a bullet in his brain. Someone killed him. Someone didn’t want him to talk.”
I close my eyes, shaking my head.
No, no, no, no.
Not another dead end.
“Do you have any idea who did it?” I ask.
“None.”
“Who was standing guard? How could this happen? You have enough security in Morro Bay to keep out the Hun Army,” I remark sharply. “You need to find out. If we’re infiltrated so deeply that every other soldier in Sector 13 is an Omega turncoat, then you might need to reassess what power we actually have against Omega.”
“What do you mean by that?” President Banner asks.
“I mean, if you can only trust fifty percent of your men,” I respond, “then you’re fifty percent weaker than you originally thought. That gives Omega the upper hand.”
“You’re catastrophizing the acts of a few people,” Beckham points out. “Just because a few men have turned to Omega doesn’t mean that all of them have.”
“Assume that no one can be trusted,” I say. “You’ll be safer that way. We might actually have a chance to survive if you go forward with caution, rather than bravado.”
Well, Cassidy, I think. You’re certainly feeling confident tonight.
I realize in this moment that of everyone at this table, I’m the only one with any real experience fighting the enemy. For the first time, I am the authority on the subject, and that surprises me.
“Good advice,” President Banner agrees. “General, I expect you listen to Commander Hart. She knows what she’s talking about.”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Beckham replies, stiffly.
He refuses to look at me.
“Commander,” the President continues, “we are mobilizing every available militia in the country. We are forming a fortified barricade against Omega’s foot invasion, stretching from Washington State to California. Thousands of militia fighters from the nineteen states that convened here this morning are arriving on the West Coast as we speak. When the Athena Strike arrives, we’ll be ready for it.”
“Good,” I reply, feeling hopeful. “But there’s something else…something they’re planning. It’s not going to be as obvious as a foot invasion, sir. With all due respect, I think Omega is trying to distract us.”
“We have no choice but to defend ourselves from the Strike,” Beckham counters. “If we have no way of knowing what so-called secret attack Omega is planning other than Athena, we can only prepare for what we know.”
“Adapt, improvise, and overcome,” I mutter.
“Pardon?” Beckham prods.
“It was something Commander Young used to say…” I shake my head. “The Freedom Fighters are ready and willing to stand with the rest of the militias in California to stop the Strike. Just tell us where we need to go, and we’ll be there.”
“Thank you,” President Banner says. “General Beckham should have that intel for you by tomorrow. Everything is moving quickly – our patrols in the Pacific are sending in reports.” He furrows his brow. “Thousands of Omega vessels are headed our way. Thousands. And many of them are aircraft carriers, loaded with Omega fighter jets and Phoenix strike helicopters.”
“Our defenses have to be impenetrable,” I reply. “They’ll try to drown us in bodies, first. Then they’ll bring in the aircraft and try to smoke us out. We have to be able to outlast that, draw them in. Trap them.”
President Banner tilts his head.
Then, after a long silence, he says, “Where did you learn to fight the enemy, Commander Hart? You are full of surprises.”
“Chris Young,” I say, lifting my chin. “And a lot of other good fighters along the way.”
“You’re so familiar with the enemy,” he goes on, staring into the distance. “Beckham, whatever Commander Hart says: do it. That’s an order. Understood?”
“President, you practically begged me to accept the position of general for the United Militias,” he replies, sharp. “As such, decisions about military strategy and troop movements rest-”
“She knows Omega. You don’t. Not as well as she does. Therefore…listen.”
General Beckham makes a fist on the table, then exhales.
“Yes, Mr. President,” he says through gritted teeth.
“General Beckham and his men will be moving to their position on the coast tomorrow,” President Banner goes on. “You and the Freedom Fighters will go with him. From there, both you and General Beckham will oversee troop movements on the West Coast.”
“Mr. President-” I reply, but he talks over me.
“From now on, you will hold the rank of full general of the militias,” he says, smiling slightly. “You will still maintain direct control of the Freedom Fighters and the California militias. Your only authority will be General Beckham and me.” He leans forward. “Welcome to the United Militias, General Hart.”
I don’t feel like smiling.
I simply respond, “Yes, sir.” And then, “We’ll destroy Omega. You can bet on it.”
President Banner raises his glass.
“That’s what I’m praying for,” he replies.
***
“He made you general!?” Vera screeches, sitting on the carpet in the empty living room of the beach house. “Are you serious? After all the drama he caused – he promoted you?”
“He wants someone with experience fighting Omega in there with Beckham,” I reply simply. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? I’d want the same thing.”
“So we’re deploying tomorrow,” Uriah says.
“Yeah.”
Andrew folds his hands.
“You know…” he tells us. “If Cheng was wrong, and we’re up against the Athena Strike and nothing else, our chances of victory are still slim to none. But if Cheng was right – and there’s another attack coming that we’re completely blind to…we’re screwed. We’ll definitely die fighting. You all know that, right?”
“Of course we do,” Vera snaps. “Don’t be such a wuss.”
“We’ll die fighting for something worth believing in,” I reply.
That, at least, is something we have that Omega doesn’t.
Chapter Seventeen
Athena Strike Briefing – 0500 – President’s Headquarters, Morro Bay, California
General Beckham briefs us all on what’s about to happen. He stands in the center of a large meeting room, three slide projectors displaying rotating aerial shots of the Athena Strike Fleet moving closer to the California coastline. From the air, it looks like thousands of cigars floating on the surface of the Pacific, gently drifting toward shore.
If only that was the case.
The militia leaders representing the other states join us, all of us dressed in our own uniforms, homemade patches and ugly scars and worn rifles. We are a motley bunch, but we’ve got heart, and I keep reminding myself of this truth as I begin to feel overwhelmed by the sheer size and magnitude of Omega’s million-man army.
“General Hart and I will deploy at 0800,” General Beckham explains. “We will be overseeing the western front from Monterey, where we will be collaborating with Admi
ral Greg Boyd’s tactical strike fleet.”
Admiral Boyd nods gravely.
“The rest of you,” he goes on, “have your orders.”
Above Beckham’s head, a map is displayed on the screen. It shows the different militia insignias strewn across the Pacific Coast, indicating the placement of each state militia. Nineteen different locations, from Washington to the bottom of San Diego. I grimace unconsciously, knowing that there are way too many holes in our defenses. Omega will worm their men through those holes and barricade themselves behind our forces, attacking us from behind, and drawing us into a kill zone.
Yet we have little choice. We can only try to form a wall where we can and fill in the gaps with tactical strike missiles and naval protection. We have some help from the United States Air Force…although in comparison to Omega’s endless resources, even our mighty fighter jets seem skimpy.
I raise my hand, and General Beckham acknowledges me.
“Yes?” he says.
“Why are we going to Monterey? Last time I was there, Omega almost leveled it.”
“We’ve rebuilt it. At the moment, it’s our most fortified coastal position.”
“And what about President Banner and the first family? Where will they be?”
“They’ll be kept safe, away from the front lines.”
“Where?”
Beckham sighs, “The Central Valley, Commander Hart. You remember Camp Freedom, of course?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “I remember it.”
“Sector 13 has also rebuilt the fortress. It’s far from the fighting but we’ll have direct communication with the President. He’ll be safe there.”
“Sector 13’s been doing a lot of rebuilding lately,” Manny mutters. “Why don’t you just go ahead and rebuild the whole bloody state while you’re at it?”
“That’s the plan, Lieutenant Costas,” Beckham points out. “Any questions?”
We continue the briefing for a little while, and I realize something: this could very well be my last one. If the Athena Strike is successful, we will either be surrendering…or we’ll be dead.
I’ll never surrender, I think. I’ll find a way to die fighting before they force me to submit. I will never give in.
I like to think that everyone else feels the same way, and because of that, we will somehow manage to gain the upper hand against Omega on spit and vinegar alone.