by LC Champlin
“They’re offering breakfast before transport departs. The blackout has yet to be resolved. Cell service and data are still offline, but presumably emergency services are more organized.”
“Transport?”
“We will be going to the National Guard Armory via helicopter.”
“That’s an improvement.” Nathan paused, turned to eye Albin. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”
“You required rest, or so I assumed after you swung at me when I began to rouse you.”
“Apologies.” Nathan stretched, yawning.
After a few minutes in the men’s room, he emerged slicking back damp hair from his forehead. He’d swapped the U of AA tank for his black Staff Arete Technologies tee. Over it he wore the plate carrier.
Arms crossed, Albin waited for him with Josephine, who halted mid-sentence. She looked refreshed. “Good morning, Mr. Serebus.” She treated him to a bright smile, bouncing on the balls of her feet. Insufferable morning people . . .
“It could be worse, Ms. Behrmann.” Nathan handed the VTAC back to Albin, who swung it over his shoulder. “There weren’t any more-interesting stories to take on?”
“Ah, not so fast,” she chided, wagging a finger, “I want to see this story through.”
“We’re that important?” He eyed her as they started downstairs.
She flashed a sarcastic grin as she added, “I’m not sticking around just to enjoy you gentlemen’s good looks.”
But that is a partial reason, Nathan wanted to remark, which he would have followed with, I’m married and Albin is Albin.
They entered the mess hall, received the standard breakfast, and took seats at one of the long tables.
They had almost finished when—“Nathan Serebus?” A female medic waited at the mess hall entrance. She looked up from her sticky-note, scanning the crowd. “Albin Conrad, Josephine Behrmann, Jack Murphy, and Marvin Bridges! Your chopper is here.”
“That’s more like it,” Nathan breathed, striding toward the medic, Albin at his left and Josephine on the right.
One of their fellow passengers harrumphed as he joined them in the hall. “Better be dropping me off at the harbor.” Caucasian, in his late fifties or early sixties judging by the graying crew cut and weathered face.
“At least it’s close to the airport so they can get us out of here.” This from the other newcomer. Dark haired and in his mid thirties, he wore a version of Albin’s look: a suit without jacket or tie.
They emerged in the garage, then out into the chaos of the parking lot. Emergency vehicles rolled in and out, while personnel hustled about their duties. The sun bled crimson into the east, bright as the first dawn against the city’s blackout.
The group crossed Winston Drive as three cops in neon vests and carrying ARs halted traffic for them.
Ahead, floodlights bathed sections of the Stonestown Galleria parking lot in cold fluorescence. Chopper blades idled, joining the sirens and car horns that still serenaded the city. An olive-drab Black Hawk hulked before them; heavy, reliable, and most importantly, not a prisoner transport vehicle.
The Sikorsky’s side door slid open. Hand raised to shield his eyes against the glare and rotor wash, Nathan trotted toward the aircraft.
“I swear to God, Serebus, if you give me any shit about getting into a chopper—”
“Good morning, Officer Rodriguez,” he greeted the DHS grunt as he climbed past her into the Black Hawk. “A pleasure to see you again.”
“Somebody needs to keep an eye on you.” She glared at him past the other boarders. “Too bad it’s me.”
Nathan, Albin, and Josephine took three of the middle, forward-facing seats. The two other passengers sat behind them.
The younger of the pair raised his hand to Nathan and Albin. “Hello. I’m Marvin Bridges.” Crooked teeth flashed as he grinned.
“You’re an economist from the Federal Reserve Bank, right?” Josephine asked. “You escaped the attack there.”
“Um, yes.” He blinked. “You’re on the ball.”
She looked proud.
“Morning,” grunted the older man.
“Jack Murphy of the Harbor Authority, right?” Josephine had done her homework.
He nodded.
Pierpont Morgan and Lloyd’s of London.
Introductions of the same name, rank, and serial number variety followed from Nathan, Albin, and Josephine.
A familiar buzz cut-sporting DHS officer occupied the leftward-facing seat ahead. Jordan. “We’re heading to the Armory first, Director Washington’s orders. Everybody sit tight and we won’t have any problem.”
Rodriguez slid the door shut as the rotor whir intensified, then the land dropped away.
“What kind of problem are you referring to, Officer Jordan?” Josephine asked in her newshound tone after adjusting her headset.
“The kind where people interfere with law enforcement operations and I’m forced to make them cease and desist.” His sneer and half-shouldered AR-15 meant to deter argument.
“Is that a threat, Officer?” She cocked her head, leveled the Action News stare at him. “Because I certainly wouldn’t want to think you, a representative of the DHS, were trying to intimidate civilians.”
“Of course he’s not, Ms. Behrmann,” Nathan put in, feigning bemusement. “I know I certainly feel secure with the man who confiscated all our weapons but who carries at least three of his own, one of which may or may not be pointed at me.”
“Do you know what you get to keep?” Jordan glowered, carbine muzzle climbing. “You get to keep your seat if you shut your mouth, sir.”
“Surely the Department of Homeland Security supports statements of truth.” Albin wore the usual poker face. “‘See Something, Say Something,’ correct?”
“He’s right.” When the DHS unveiled its slogan, Arete Tech’s software design department instantly adopted it as a running joke.
“That’s for legitimate information only.”
“Truth isn’t legitimate?” Josephine pressed.
“Be quiet, all of you,” Rodriguez snapped before her partner could dig himself in deeper. Murphy and Bridges had turned in their seats to watch the exchange.
The Black Hawk’s rotors filled the silence that followed. Jordan tapped his AR’s frame with his trigger finger but kept the muzzle down.
Then he decided he needed the last word: “If you even think about pulling a stunt like that headlock again, I’ll take you down.”
Nathan raised a hand. “Are you speaking of when I saved us by keeping a cannibal from tearing your throat out?”
“Is that what they’re calling ‘assault on a law enforcement officer’ now?” Jordan’s face reddened with embarrassment and rage.
“As I remember it”—Josephine stepped in as Nathan opened his mouth—“you had a small fainting spell and Mr. Serebus caught you before you cracked your head on the floor.”
“The hell did I just say!” Rodriguez yelled, making her fellow headset wearers wince.
Josephine leaned forward to address her seatmates. “Mr. Serebus, Mr. Conrad, the firemen confirmed that there were attacks on New York.”
Nathan stared at her. The rotor drone merged with the blood roaring in his ears, almost making him miss her next words: “Word is that One World Trade Center’s lobby was bombed, and a dirty bomb was detonated in Times Square. They’re mass-casualty events.”
The static faded to the rotors alone as his pulse dropped below a hundred. He stared into middle distance as relief and horror swirled through his mind. A hundred and fifty miles separated Janine and Davie from the city. Looking upward, he heaved a sigh.
“Relieved?” Jordan’s tone oozed disgust. “Better them than you, right?”
Nathan straightened. Muscles relaxed, ready to strike. “As a matter of fact, I am relieved. I’m surprised you aren’t also.”
Albin’s knee pressed into Nathan’s in warning.
“Because the attacks could have been worse?” Jordan’s lip curled. “That’s a piss-poor reason. Your family lived. Well, hurray for—”
“Jordan!” Rodriguez barked.
“He—”
“Shut the fucking hell up.” Her harness went taut as she turned to jab a finger at him as if pointing a gun. “Not. Another. Word.”
Surprise flicked across Jordan’s face, then he fell silent and looked away.
Nathan turned back to the window. The maze of buildings and houses below gave way to verdant and sandy ridges. San Bruno Mountain State Park, west of the international airport.
Through the smog burned the crimson sun, eye of the sky. Several hours ago, he doubted he’d ever witness it again.
One step closer to home. Home. After last night, Janine had no doubt forgotten about him prioritizing the R&D departments above her media presentation. He’d still apologize, admit the team really didn’t need him and that he couldn’t stand to let them handle it alone. She’d call him a control freak, but that’s why she loved him. He’d say he was the luckiest man alive to be her husband, and then they’d have fantastic make-up sex—
“Officer Rodriguez,” Albin verbally cockblocked the rest of the thought, “we are slightly off course to the east if the armory is near San Francisco International Airport.” Homing-pigeon sense of direction along with a glimpse of the instruments in the cockpit alerted him.
She held up a hand for silence as she adjusted her headset channel, then leaned over to tap the pilot on the shoulder. A short exchange, then, “We’ve been ordered to make a detour.” Her frown showed her opinion of this move.
“Washington changed her mind?” Josephine asked, head cocked.
Rodriguez snorted. “The order isn’t from the DHS, and neither is this chopper.”
Chapter 46
Detour
Goin’ Down – Three Days Grace
“Don’t tell me we’re stopping at a Wawa for sandwiches,” JP sneered before Nathan could get out a similar thought.
“The military wants us to investigate something they saw on satellite,” Rodriguez explained.
Murphy grunted. “Don’t they have another bird for this? The longer they screw around, the deeper the shit gets in the harbor.”
Bayshore Freeway’s ribbon of asphalt slid under them as they reentered the morass of structures and concrete of San Bruno. Nathan leaned closer to the window, tuning out the rest of Bridges’s “I suppose beggars can’t be choosers” remark.
Below stretched an industrial complex with expansive buildings and hardly three blades of grass. Umbrellas with white-and-red alternating panels dotted the common areas, resembling white shields with red crosses. Big Pharma Valley, realm of cutting-edge pharmaceutical development.
The gray structures represented hundreds of billions of dollars in the US economy, all flowing from the “corruption of mortal flesh.” Whether said corruption stemmed from “the rottenness of riotous living” or not, the companies had made managing the rot an industry. Their business was life itself. People would always pay top-dollar for the chance to spend a few more minutes in this mortal coil. The greed for life made the current cannibal phenomenon a goldmine for the right individuals.
The region would’ve remained outside Nathan’s interest had Arete Tech not recently won a contract to supply state-of-the-art servers to Doorway Pharmaceuticals, a multibillion-dollar corporation with a facility here.
The servers included algorithms to identify critical files and then provide extra security and back-ups. Unbeknownst to the customers, the system also siphoned the selected files to off-site servers besides the designated destination. Arete Technologies collected its royalties in data as well as dollars.
They approached two hulking boxes of steel and concrete, their roofs bristling with vents and air ducts. A covered skywalk connected them across a street. What in the—? On the roof of the southeastern building, where the mess of plant ops structures gave way to gravel along its borders, lay an SOS . . . made of gahdamned office furniture. In the O’s center a man was waving his arms and jumping up and down while fires burned—in wastebaskets?—at the corners. A for ingenuity!
The detour involved a rescue mission, that much seemed clear. A drop into unsecured territory to pick up a survivor who even after an entire night remained trapped atop a roof. Nathan glanced at Albin, who frowned and shook his head.
“Officer Rodriguez,” Nathan turned to the DHS woman, “is this really necessary? Surely the chopper could do this on the way back.”
“He needs help!” Josephine pointed to the man, as if seeing him again would cause the milk of human kindness to gush forth in Nathan’s heart. “Have some humanity.”
“Have some common sense,” he returned.
Rodriguez’s attention remained on the man in the SOS. “I don’t like it either, but in case you hadn’t noticed, I’m not the pilot’s commanding officer.”
The Black Hawk began its descent.
Forty feet.
Harnesses fell away from the DHS officers as they prepared to exit and escort.
Twenty feet.
“Look! There’s someone over there.”
Ten feet.
Nathan spun to squint out the left window, where Marvin Bridges was pointing. Shit, the number cruncher wasn’t hallucinating. And the someone on the rooftop across the street was holding—
“RPG, eleven o’clock!” Nathan roared.
Unarmed and strapped into a helicopter ten feet off the ground, he could do nothing but put his head between his knees.
The chopper lurched forward to evade. Too late: light and smoke blasted from the grenade launcher. BOOM! Pitching, spinning with the tail rotor out—
Chopper slammed roof with an impact that tried to shove Nathan’s spine through the seat.
“Get out!” he yelled, disengaging his harness and checking that Josephine and Albin had theirs off.
“Ahg, what the hell?” Murphy growled, stumbling up.
“Get Bridges.” At the door, Nathan nodded toward the stunned economist.
In the cockpit, the pilots attempted a last radio call while unfastening their harnesses.
“Move! Move!” Jordan stated the obvious as the group spilled from the Hawk and flames engulfed the cockpit and nose.
“Get to cover! There!” Behind the air handler and ten-foot-tall duct piping. Using his armored torso as a shield, Nathan took rear position with Albin and Josephine sprinting ahead of him.
“The pilots!” For fuck’s sake, not Jordan and his Good Samaritan shit again.
Nathan wheeled, grabbed Jordan’s arm. “Come on!” If they didn’t need another person with weapons experience, he could die like an idiot for his heroism. Jordan had the temerity to struggle away until Rodriguez caught his other arm and dragged him back.
BOOM!
Chapter 47
No Good Deed
Rise – Skillet
Diving, Nathan hit the gravel. Shrapnel blasted over his head in a wave of heat and light. Shit, he’d feel the road burn on his forearms in a minute, but at least he’d escaped the shards of steel and glass. Bent double, he scrambled to the semi-safe zone behind the chain-link fence that guarded the roof’s equipment.
Rodriguez and Jordan followed. Thanks to his hesitation, the DHS grunt suffered a nasty gash across his left bicep. Blood soaked his fatigues, giving the fabric a wet sheen. Wincing, he pressed his hand over it. “Ah, shit.”
Digging through the medic pack on her tac vest, Rodriguez snarled, “Fucking Chair Force, thinks it’s the goddamned savior of the world, rescuing every idiot they see even if we gotta fly into fire.”
Josephine peeked around the corner of the air handler at the flaming wreckage. “The pilots . . . and our chopper.” She put a hand over her mouth and turned away.
Nathan looked about. Everyone accounted for except . . . “Where’s the idiot we came here for?”
; A look past Josephine, around the corner—Nathan’s fist shot out of its own accord, dropping the interloper who’d suddenly appeared before him.
“Ah, uht dah—” A lanky male with brown hair almost to his eyebrows sat up, rubbing his jaw. Nathan had managed to slow the strike a bit upon recognizing the man. If not for the reserve, the dumbass would be out cold. They sacrificed their chopper and two pilots for this little bitch?
Nathan grabbed the front of the twit’s dress shirt.
“Hey, I—” Getting hauled to his feet by the collar cut the bastard off.
Bang! Torso slammed into air handler hard enough to knock the wind from the newcomer.
Knees bent, Nathan leaned in to pin his prey with six-foot-two of displeasure. “You have ten seconds to give me three bulletproof, ironclad reasons why I should believe you aren’t in league with the terrorists and didn’t just lure us into a trap that destroyed our chopper and killed two men. Failing to do so will result in your immediate departure from the premises via the edge of the roof.”
“Get off him!” Jordan tried to intervene, but Rodriguez grabbed his shoulder.
“I want to hear the answer.”
“Damn right,” Murphy growled, cracking his knuckles.
Bridges added, “Yes, we were almost killed!”
“Our pilots were killed,” Josephine corrected.
“Quiet!” Nathan snapped over his shoulder at the assembled. “Let him answer. Albin?”
Sleeve already sliding back from his Omega Seamaster, Albin commenced the countdown: “Ten.”
Brown eyes stared from the bastard’s sunken sockets, then slid sideways, unable to hold Nathan’s glare.
“Nine.”
“I’m not a terrorist!” Shock, hands up.
“Eight.”
“Really, I swear I—”
“Seven.”
“Come on.” Nervous laugh.
“Six.”
“You can’t be—”