The Echelon

by Jillian Dodd

  T-MINUS:00:09:47

  “We’re approaching the border,” the pilot announces.

  I look down, thinking about the citizens of Montrovia, knowing how they love the view of the morning sun glittering off the water in the harbor and beyond.

  A view that I hope they will be able to appreciate in the future.

  A voice comes over the communications channel, so loud that it hurts my ears.

  “Aircraft approaching Montrovian airspace, turn around. Country under quarantine.”

  Who’s that? I mouth to the soldier sitting next to me.

  “Air traffic control,” he says through his headset.

  “Can they not hear what we say?”

  “No, we have five different channels we can converse on, but ATC supersedes them all.”

  “Are we going to respond?” I wonder aloud.

  “Aircraft approaching Montrovian airspace, turn around. Country under quarantine.”

  I don’t say a word, and neither does the pilot.

  It would really suck to make it all this way, only to get blown out of the air.

  And, quite honestly, even with all my training, this whole situation is not in my area of expertise.

  I guess, worst case, I jump out of the helicopter—with the proof somehow—commandeer a vehicle, and drive to the hospital. Of course, that would mean I couldn’t stop the first of the vaccines given, but maybe I could stop most of them.

  “Aircraft approaching Montrovian airspace, turn around. Country under quarantine.”

  “Not planning to respond at this point,” the pilot says. “If they get too annoying, we will just shut them off.”

  “How are they communicating with you?” I ask. “I thought all communications to the country were down?”

  “There are special satellites with military encryption that cannot be hacked. That allows us to maintain coms—”

  “But I thought—”

  “Aircraft approaching Montrovian airspace, turn around. Country under quarantine.”

  “Now, they are pinging us via radar,” the copilot says.

  “Is that bad?” Sophie wonders.

  “What does pinging mean exactly?” I ask. “Is it like when you send a ping over the internet?”

  “Yes. Air traffic controllers are good at tracking what we call rogue signals from the ground. The current system then uses radar to ping an aircraft. Our transponder will send a signal back.”

  “Can’t we stop it from doing that?” I ask, feeling a little panicked. I know plenty about armaments and how to kill. I was even trained to fly different aircrafts via simulator, but never in the simulations was I under attack in the air.

  And I’m worried that we’re going to be.

  And I hope the men on this helicopter understand that.

  But they are professionals, and I can tell by the calm control of their demeanors that they most certainly understand the stakes.

  “Aircraft approaching Montrovian airspace, turn around. Country under quarantine.”

  “Maybe we should respond,” the pilot says. “If we explain the circumstances for our coming into the country—”

  “No!” I yell out, still not knowing who I can trust.

  “Aircraft approaching Montrovian airspace, turn around. Country under quarantine.”

  An alarm goes off in the helicopter, and a pleasant-sounding woman’s voice says, “Laser tracking engaged.”

  “We’re being laser-tracked?” I ask, trying really hard to keep my cool. “Are you saying they are going to shoot us out of the sky?”

  “No,” the pilot says. “It means, they are tracking us. If they were going to shoot at us, that would be laser-targeted.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s good,” Sophie says just as another alert goes off.

  “Laser targeting engaged.”

  “Don’t fret about it,” one of the crewmen tells us.

  “At what point do you take it seriously?” I ask.

  “When it’s coming at us,” the crewman says with a laugh, and I realize they are just as crazy as I am regarding my own well-being.

  “Laser lock,” the voice says serenely.

  “Two o’clock,” the copilot says, equally as calm. “Surface to air missile just fired at us.”

  I watch in horror as the rocket takes off into the sky, obviously coming toward us.

  “Get buckled up,” the serviceman next to me says.

  I do as requested just as the pilot takes the helicopter up higher in the air, quickly putting elevation between us.

  “Popping the chaff,” the copilot says as the pilot maneuvers the craft.

  “Roger,” the pilot replies. “Breaking contact. Down and left.”

  Down and left means we roll sixty degrees in a downward pitch and feel about two Gs of gravitational force on us. Sophie’s eyes are huge, and she’s gripping her seat belt with white knuckles.

  I’m just praying I don’t die by missile sent from the very country I’m trying to save.

  Especially when the helicopter rolls back in the opposite direction.

  “Missile passed our tail,” the crew chief says. “All clear.”

  “Did the chaff blow up the missile?” Sophie asks.

  “No. It confused the missile’s guidance system, and the missile lost contact with us.”

  “And if it hadn’t gotten confused?” she asks.

  “We would have continued to get notifications via our warning system,” he calmly explains.

  I think it’s time to talk to the ATC,” the pilot says to us before switching channels. “I have aboard the Contessa of Courtney, who is a personal friend of King Vallenta, and it’s imperative she get to the hospital. She is also the fiancée to the First Son of the United States.”

  “Aircraft, you have entered Montrovian airspace. Turn around. Country under quarantine.”

  “ATC, just so you understand, we’re loaded with sixteen hellfire missiles for anyone who wants to mess with us. We can do some serious damage to your country. I would think, considering your country’s current situation, getting Daniel Spear’s fiancée to the hospital before he dies from the disease he caught in your country would be the least of your worries.”

  “Aircraft, you have entered Montrovian airspace, turn around, or we will fire again.”

  “Look, no one wants in your plagued-ass country right now. You’re only supposed to be worried about people getting out. Am I right?”

  All that fills the plane is the sound of silence.

  “Not that we needed their approval,” the pilot says, “but this will certainly make things easier.”

  “Or maybe they are just getting out of the way of another country who does wish us harm,” I suggest. “Montrovia is surrounded by them.”

  “Either way,” he says, “we’re going for it.”

  T-MINUS:00:05:21

  “Two minutes until drop,” the copilot says.

  “Drop?” I ask.

  “If we don’t land in the country, technically, we were never there,” the soldier next to me says with a chuckle, handing me a pair of fatigues. “Put these on over your shorts to protect your legs.” He turns to one of the men. “Baxter, you have the smallest feet. Give the lady your boots.”

  Dr. Kate would die of embarrassment if she saw the way I look now. My beautiful designer shorts are looking worse for wear, the side seam ripped halfway up my leg. I slip the fatigues over them and pull on a pair of socks and boots, feeling grateful to have them on my bare feet. I have no idea where my shoes are, but my handbag is still strapped across my body.

  I watch as the operators on board ready thick ropes.

  “Are we going to fast-rope?” I ask, finally understanding their plan. I’ve obviously gone soft. After all the private jets, helicopter transfers, and black cars, I think I had a different kind of drop-off in mind.

  Fast-rope is also known as Fast Rope Insertion Extraction System. It’s a technique often used to deploy troops from a helicopter when the heli
copter is either unable to land or doesn’t want to. I’ve never done it out of a real helicopter, but at Blackwood, we had a shell of one that we used to practice.

  It will be a lot more fun than a limo.

  And faster.

  “Do you know how to do it?” the serviceman asks me.

  “Yes,” I tell him.

  “Can I ask how?” he says.

  “Video games,” I offer with a shrug, not even sure why I’m trying to maintain my cover at this point.

  He narrows his eyes at me but doesn’t comment further. I’m assuming there’s a lot that goes on that these guys can’t talk about. And I doubt they will say a word.

  “Put these on, too,” he says, handing me safety glasses. “The rotor downwash can send flying debris that you don’t want to get in your eyes.”

  “Roger that,” I reply with a grin.

  He studies my low-cut white blouse and then rolls his eyes at me. “Your blouse is already ruined with blood and sand. I don’t think the ride down will do it much worse. And at least, it has long sleeves.”

  Once I’m prepped, the men start working on the trunk, putting it into a suspension sling that will allow them to lower the cargo onto the roof.

  I spot the harbor and then the casino.

  The capital city of the country I fell in love with.

  The place I fell in love.

  Off in the distance, I can see my father’s CitySphere rising into the air, the sunlight playing off the marble and looking like a white beacon of hope.

  The palace comes into view next, and tears fill my eyes when I see the turret.

  Our turret.

  I feel like I’m coming home.

  I think about the story Lorenzo told me. About sailors returning from sea. About the women they loved waiting for them.

  And I can’t help but wish things were different and that he were waiting for me.

  I hear his voice in my head, reciting the poem he wrote in my honor. The necklace engraved with the words of love I dropped into his lap just under twenty-four hours ago even though it feels like a lifetime ago.

  Glimmering waters beckon,

  Cliffs come into view.

  The ocean kisses the shoreline,

  As I dream of you.

  I’m wiping away tears when I spot the hospital.

  I say a quick prayer that the people I love haven’t succumbed to the disease yet, put the glasses over my eyes, and slide gloves on my hands.

  “Thirty seconds until drop,” a serviceman says as the helicopter moves into position over the roof.

  “We’ll send you and the trunk down first,” the operator tells me. “The two of us will follow. Keep your feet around the rope and your toes pointed.”

  I smile at him as the other soldier says, “Deploying the rope,” and then he throws out the thick, multistrand military-green-colored rope.

  I sit on the edge of the open side of the helicopter. I grab the rope, stand up on the rail, tightly place my feet on each side of the rope, and then slide down it to the roof.

  The trunk hits the surface just after I do, and the two soldiers follow.

  In a few moments, the ropes are pulled back into the helicopter, and it continues on its journey out to the sea. Where Sophie will share her father’s story with the world, and they will hopefully act upon the information.

  T-MINUS:00:03:19

  I open the trunk, grab the things I need immediately off the top, and race down the stairs, yelling at the servicemen to follow me with it.

  There’s a buzz in the hospital that’s palpable. People are excited to receive their shots.

  If they only knew.

  I see nurses counting out prefilled syringes at their stations, readying them for each room.

  Mike Burnes is pacing the hall of the royal wing, basically in the same location where I left him.

  “Huntley,” he says. “Where have you been? We need to talk.”

  “Yeah, we do. But not about my mother. What I want to know is if even one patient has died who wasn’t at the opening ceremonies?”

  “Um, I don’t know. I don’t think that’s been discussed.”

  “Well, it should be. Because I’d bet you money that there hasn’t been. It’s not the cause, Mr. Burnes. It’s the cure. The vaccine, if given, will wipe out over ninety percent of the population. And, in case you don’t believe me,” I say, handing him a single sheet of paper, “here’s all the proof you need. The man PureGen framed wasn’t who discovered this. That man was Dr. Nelson Andersen. He was recently assassinated, too, but not before leaving proof hidden away for his daughter, Sophie. She was scared and on the run. We teamed up and, using the clues her father had left her, found this. She’s currently aboard a Black Hawk out of Morón Air Base and on her way to a carrier in the Strait. We had to get her somewhere she could communicate with the world since Montrovia has been cut off. She will share more detailed documents to stop the giving of the vaccine.”

  Mike Burnes takes a moment to read the note, and then he studies me. “Are you really Calliope Cassleberry? Charlotte’s daughter?”

  “That she is,” my father says, shocking me by stepping into the hallway, not wearing his Uncle Sam disguise.

  “Ares, you’re alive?” Mike Burnes says, shocked.

  “Yes, I am,” Ares replies.

  “Me, too,” Blake says, coming around the corner.

  “And me three,” my grandfather adds.

  “What is going on here?” Mike asks. “What are you all trying to pull?”

  “We’re trying to save the world from The Echelon,” I reply.

  Royston Bessemer steps forward with them as well and says, “Mike, everything she’s telling you is true. I was recruited to join this group just weeks ago. I wasn’t told their whole plan and was hoping to figure it out with Huntley because they spoke of her father’s plan for Arcadia. The perfect world.” He flashes the green ring to Ares.

  I slip the one from my finger and hand it to my father. “This was Marquis Dupree’s, the man who stole the nuclear backpack bombs.”

  The servicemen catch up to me and set the trunk at my feet.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Ares asks me.

  “Yes. I’ll leave you to explain the rest.”

  T-MINUS:00:02:14

  I take a deep breath outside the hospital room where Ari, Allie, Daniel, and Lizzie were being cared for. Bella Smith died four hours after developing the rash. Amanda Spear made it six. It’s been over eighteen hours since Lorenzo took the vaccine and Allie first showed signs of the rash, fourteen for my brother, thirteen for the president, and eight for Daniel. I brace myself knowing that I probably didn’t make it back in time to save them. That pregnant Lizzie might be the only one left.

  But when I step into the room, I find it looking much the same as when I left. Ari and Allie’s faces are covered with a lacy red rash, but no one else’s has spread that far. There’s an extra bed in the large private suite. One for President Ryan Spear.

  Lorenzo is still by Lizzie’s side, holding her hand. Daniel is on the other side, doing the same. All three seem deep in thought.

  Lorenzo jumps to attention first. “Huntley.”

  “Has anyone taken the vaccine yet—besides Lorenzo?” I say to the room.

  Everyone shakes their heads.

  “No one but me,” Lorenzo replies, “but we were just discussing the pros and cons of giving it to Lizzie. I am for it since I am feeling exactly how I was told I’d feel. A little run-down but none of the symptoms Lizzie and the others have. I’ve mobilized the troops. The vaccines will be given door-to-door, starting at the top of the hour.”

  “Has anyone checked your blood?” I inquire.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “And let me guess. Your white cells are slightly elevated, which they probably wrote off as the stress of the ordeal or because of the fact that you took the vaccine.”

  He squints at me. “That is correct.”

  “What y
ou don’t know is that your white cell count will continue to rise as they reproduce. It’s sort of like the hormones a woman’s body creates when she’s pregnant, causing the cells to duplicate each other, rising to create a new life. Only the cells in you are replicating to do the exact opposite. They are working to end your life. Tomorrow, the count will be double. The next day, that will double. In five days’ time, it will have risen exponentially—so high that it will starve your internal organs of red blood cells, which will then shut down completely—and within forty-eight hours, you will be dead.”

  Lorenzo opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, so I keep going, “If the vaccines are given, the majority of the world will drop dead in a total of nine days due to a massive stroke or heart attack. The good news is, for the most part, their deaths will be painless.”

  “But I feel okay,” Lorenzo says, hanging his head.

  “Yeah, that’s because inside the poisonous vaccine is a cocktail combining steroids with vitamin B. Anyone currently sick who wasn’t at the opening ceremonies will get better on their own in time. Their viruses and rashes will go away. Their respiratory problems will clear. It just doesn’t react to antibiotics that we’ve been trying to use. Inside the vaccine is the same poison that was in the fireworks, and it also happens to be the same thing that killed your father, although the version they gave him was weaker than it should have been, which is why it didn’t work as fast.”

  Lorenzo buries his head in his palms, like he’s finally understanding his fate. He takes a deep breath and then looks up and into my eyes, a dying man needing to confess.

  “You should know then that Lizzie and I never slept together. We never even kissed.”

  Lizzie nods. “The baby is Daniel’s. We just couldn’t say that with the nurse in the room. You told us how important it was to keep up appearances until after the Olympics. We didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “And I would never break the promises in the wedding vows I spoke to you,” Lorenzo adds.

  “Wedding vows?” everyone in the room asks.