Trackers (Book 1)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Nathan tried to remember her name. “Thank you, Detective…?”

  “Lindsey Plymouth,” she said with a smile. “Here, let me show you how it works.”

  She set the tube radio on the table in front of the oil lantern and leaned over to work the dials. Colton joined them a few minutes later. The police chief’s shoulders sagged slightly with defeat and despair.

  Nathan had heard the scream a little while earlier, and he could guess Colton had just told that little girl’s parents their worst nightmare had come true.

  “Any updates on the equipment?” Colton asked.

  “I can’t get anything to work, but Detective Plymouth brought in this old tube radio. We can’t contact anyone with it, but we can listen and see if we can get any news.”

  Lindsey leaned over the table and continued to scroll through the stations. White noise crackled from the old speakers. She moved the dials with deliberate care until there was a beeping sound.

  Colton stepped closer, hovering behind her. She slowly twisted the dial until a voice came over the speaker.

  “This message is transmitted at the request of the Federal Emergency Management Agency. At 7:21 p.m. Pacific Standard Time, NORAD detected multiple foreign threats in American airspace moving east over the country. It is believed that these aircraft were carrying weapons of mass destruction.”

  The message ended and, after a pause, began again.

  “Multiple threats?” Lindsey asked.

  Nathan caught Colton’s gaze. Both soldiers knew what the message meant. The bomb over the Rockies hadn’t been the only one.

  “Keep this between us three for now,” Colton said. “I don’t want to raise any more alarm. If there were more bombs, then help might be farther away than we thought. It’s that much more vital to maintain the peace.”

  Nathan nodded curtly, but he wondered how long the police chief expected to keep people from the truth. It had a way of getting out—and when it did, all hell would break loose.

  -11-

  Charlize wanted to scream and run for the blast doors, but instead she forced herself to remain seated at the conference table, the only outward sign of her distress the tapping of her fingertips on the wood. Until she saw otherwise with her own eyes, she had to keep believing that Ty was alive.

  Secretary of Defense Smith and Secretary of State Loyola sat down at the table next to her. More staff filed in behind them. Leon Crosby, one of the leading experts on North Korea at the CIA, wedged between Loyola and Charlize.

  Last time she had seen Crosby was at an Armed Services Committee hearing about current North Korean nuclear capabilities. He had claimed they were still far from developing weapons that could threaten the continental United States.

  Charlize didn’t take any pleasure in seeing him proved wrong.

  Acting President Diego shut the door and walked to the wall-mounted monitor.

  “As I’m sure you’re all aware, I launched a nuclear attack against Pyongyang approximately two hours ago,” Diego said, his voice brisk and seemingly free of regret. “The duty fell on me when we weren’t able to contact President Drake, Vice President Pederson, or Speaker Hamilton. The twenty warheads I authorized were plenty to turn their targets into radioactive craters.”

  Leaning forward in her chair, Charlize focused on the screen, which was streaming a feed from an aircraft. Clouds blocked the view, and although digital telemetry scrolled across the bottom, she couldn’t make out the data.

  Diego pointed to the screen. “This is the live video from one of our drones over North Korea. You’re about to see what’s left of Pyongyang.”

  The clouds peeled away to reveal a glimpse of hell.

  “My God,” Loyola said, her face going ashen.

  Charlize didn’t blame her. She’d flown bombing runs over Iraq, and the knowledge that she’d killed civilians along with militant insurgents weighed heavily on her conscience. But to order a nuclear strike that would kill millions? That was a call she wasn’t sure she could make.

  The clouds muddied the video feed again—no, not clouds, Charlize realized. The drone was passing through smoke, ash, and the atomized remains of over two point five million people.

  Diego moved away from the monitor and took a seat at the head of the table. “I’m showing you this footage so you understand the gravity of our situation. World War Three is well underway,” he said, tapping the table with a finger for emphasis. “On our very soil.”

  A knock rapped on the door, and General Pennington stepped inside carrying a laptop.

  “Sir, we have a situation,” he said. “We just got a report from the Washington Navy Yard of a container ship on the Potomac River. I had a Marine unit call it in.”

  Pennington set his laptop on the table and flipped it open. “This feed is being broadcast from a special unit we deployed to keep an eye on the river.”

  “How are their cameras working?” Loyola asked.

  “Several units in D.C. had equipment designed to survive an EMP attack,” Pennington replied. “This is one of them. We also have several F-22s in the area that are on standby. They have been notified and are en route.”

  The camera was positioned on a bridge over the Potomac. Marines shouldered their M4s at a container ship downstream. Several Humvees with mounted M240s rolled onto the bridge and set up position.

  Pennington looked up from his laptop. “We just got confirmation that ship was outside of the blast zone of the EMP. It was spotted sailing in from the Atlantic a few hours ago. Pretty convenient timing, if you ask me. The country of origin appears to be China, and whoever is at the helm seems to be ignoring those Marines.”

  Everyone in the room fell silent but Crosby. He rose from his seat, breathing heavily. “This could be a second attack. I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again. Container ships are one of the biggest threats to our national security. We already know the North Koreans spoofed the transponder codes of Chinese planes to get their Ilyushins into our air space. They could have hijacked a Chinese container ship much more easily.”

  “I could have my men fire across the bow,” Pennington said.

  “No,” Diego said. “Order them to board that ship right now.”

  Pennington nodded and gave the order. Several minutes passed before a video feed was transferred to the main monitor that showed a Zodiac carrying a small fire team of six Marines launch from the shore. The men loaded their suppressed M4s as the boat raced to catch up with the container ship. Audio crackled from the wall-mounted speakers in the room.

  “Eagle’s Nest, this is Kilo 1, preparing to board bogey.”

  Kilo 1 directed his helmet-mounted night vision camera at the container ship as the Zodiac ferrying the men came up along the starboard side. Another Marine tossed a rope up to the deck. One by one the team climbed up. Charlize watched the rattling green-hued image as Kilo 1 stormed past the containers and toward the superstructure.

  “No sign of contacts,” Kilo 1 reported. “We’re heading to the bridge.”

  The team started up a ladder that led to the command room. Kilo 1 was halfway up when the sound of gunfire cracked from the speakers. The Marine looked up at a platform where one of his team lay face down. Another Marine took a knee next to the fallen man and fired at a contact out of sight.

  Charlize felt helpless as she watched the battle unfold. She laced her fingers together to keep from tapping on the table.

  On screen, Kilo 1 continued climbing and followed the other men across the platform in stealth movements. He directed his muzzle at a large window peppered with bullet holes, and then bent down to check the pulse of the fallen Marine.

  “Kilo 3 is KIA,” Kilo 1 said. “Proceeding to the bridge.”

  The team shouldered their weapons and approached the next corner cautiously. The Marine on point flashed a hand signal and then peeked around the corner. A gunshot sounded, and a round hit him in the helmet. He dropped woodenly to the platform.

  Two of the remaining
men pulled him back to safety, but Charlize knew it was already too late for the man. Kilo 1 hurried past them just as another Marine pivoted around the corner and opened fire. He took a round to the chest and crashed into a railing.

  The crack of automatic gunfire barked from the speakers as all hell broke loose. The feed bobbed up and down while Kilo 1 moved from position to position. He stopped to fire at contacts Charlize still couldn’t see, and then continued on. His team was gunned down one by one in front of him until there were only two Marines remaining.

  She gripped the side of the table as Diego gave his next order.

  “Tell those F-22s to go weapons hot and to prepare to fire on the ship.”

  Pennington looked up from his laptop, unable to hide his alarmed expression. “But sir, we still have men...”

  “That’s an order, General.”

  Kilo 1 passed another dead Marine and followed the only other survivor toward the hatch outside the command room. Three North Korean soldiers lay on the platform. Kilo 1 put a bullet into the skull of one of the men, who was trying to crawl away. Then he put a hand on the back of the other Marine and prepared to storm the bridge.

  “F-22s are thirty seconds out, sir,” Pennington reported.

  Charlize bit down on her lip. Thirty seconds for Kilo 1 and his teammate to take control of the ship. They burst inside the room and were immediately fired upon by a contact inside. The Marine next to Kilo 1 took several rounds and crashed to the deck. Kilo 1 took the North Korean soldier down with a three-round burst to his chest.

  “Eagle’s Nest, bridge is clear. Kilo 2, 3, 4, 5, and 6 are all KIA,” he said heavily.

  Pennington didn’t reply, but he did look over at Charlize. They both knew Kilo 1 was seconds away from joining the rest of his team. The Marine quickly ran over to the dead North Korean man and pulled a small device from his hand. He held it up toward the camera. It was a clock or timer of some sort. Kilo 1 slowly turned to the windows of the command center as the rumble of F-22s sounded.

  The rumble turned into a roar, the speakers in the PEOC crackling as the birds raced toward the Potomac. The fighters swooped low to fire their payloads on the ship. Kilo 1 ducked down just as the missiles streaked toward the ship. Fiery blasts sent containers cartwheeling into the sky.

  Charlize held in a breath as a blinding explosion bloomed out of the center of the ship, instantly killing the feed.

  “Did we take it out?” Diego asked.

  Pennington nodded solemnly. “Target destroyed.”

  There were several seconds of silence, every head in the room bowed to contemplate the loss of the brave Marines. A deep and raucous roar shattered the quiet. Charlize knew right away the sound wasn’t from the F-22s.

  At first it was like a screeching runaway freight train, but the sound grew into a growl that made it seem like a hundred trains were headed toward the White House. Loyola’s eyes widened in fear, and she grabbed Charlize’s hand as they shared a look of terrified realization.

  The timer from the container ship had been counting down to a final attack, and it was now screaming straight toward the White House in a fiery blaze that would vaporize everything in its path for several miles.

  The room shook violently. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all in motion, and for a moment Charlize felt almost weightless. Dust rained down from the ceiling, and the Presidential Seal affixed to the wall rattled and then fell to the ground. The main screen went next, shattering.

  “The PEOC was designed to take a direct hit from a nuclear—” Pennington said. He stopped, all color draining from his face. “Everyone under the table!”

  All around her, the top officials of the United States government were screaming and crawling under the table, but Charlize remained where she was, staring at the broken Presidential Seal.

  Someone grabbed her, dragging her under with everyone else. To her surprise, it was Crosby. The policy expert was calm in the midst of the chaos, a brave smile on his face.

  “Pray with me,” he said. Charlize locked her fingers with his. If anyone had asked her twenty-four hours earlier whether she’d ever hold hands with Leon Crosby, she would have laughed in their face. Now she was just grateful for the simple human connection.

  This is it, she thought. This is the moment I die.

  Shockwaves pounded the room. There was a cracking sound, and then a terrible groan as the steel beams that were supposed to hold the bunker together gave way, bending and ultimately snapping like bones.

  “Ty, I’m so sorry. I love you,” Charlize whispered. In her final moments, those words seemed more important to her than any prayer. She closed her eyes and pictured her baby boy as the ceiling collapsed.

  Blood ran down her arm, but she didn’t feel any pain.

  How odd, she thought, filled with relief that dying did not, apparently, hurt.

  Her eyes snapped open as she felt Crosby’s hand go limp in her own. In the swirl of emergency lights, she saw what was left of the CIA advisor. There was a chunk of concrete where his head had been. A storm of smoke and dust swirled through the operations room. She covered her mouth, coughing, and tried to move.

  From every direction came the cries of her colleagues. Diego’s voice was the worst, rising several octaves higher than normal. The grinding of rock against concrete and steel did little to drown out the screams.

  She saw a figure make a run for the door, only to vanish into a hole in the floor. The horrified scream was swallowed by the shifting walls and ceiling.

  Darkness flooded the room. It was followed by a massive heat wave that stole the air from Charlize’s lungs. The exposed skin on her arms, legs, and face prickled with pain, like she was strapped inside the burning cockpit of a jet fighter.

  Damn, she thought. I guess dying does hurt after all.

  The sun didn’t rise over Rocky Mountain National Park on Saturday morning. Police Chief Marcus Colton didn’t expect it would. Holding his Glock in one hand, he pulled back the curtain covering the window to his bedroom while his wife and daughter slept in the bed behind him. Rain drizzled down the window, and a haze drifted off the rocky slope in their backyard. In the distance, clouds obscured the mountain peaks, blanketing the sky.

  It all seemed so peaceful, but Colton knew the truth.

  He secured his pistol in the holster on his duty belt. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, trying not to wake his girls. Despite his efforts, Kelly sat up, her braided hair falling over her Estes Park Police Department t-shirt.

  “What time is it, Marcus?”

  “Little after six.”

  Risa stirred and rolled from her side onto her back. She blinked and looked at him. “Can we have pancakes?”

  The sound of his daughter’s sleepy voice almost brought Colton to tears. Rex and Lilly would never hear their daughter speak again, and he vowed never to take a single minute with Risa for granted.

  “Not this morning,” Kelly said. “Your dad has to go to work.”

  The excitement faded from Risa’s face, her face contorting into a frown. “It’s cold in here,” she said. “Why’s it so cold?”

  Colton tucked the comforter around his daughter and studied her in the faint light of dawn—the brown pigtails that matched her mother’s, the dark brown eyes, and the freckles on her button nose. She was too young to be told the truth, but just old enough to know something was wrong.

  He looked at his wife for support.

  “Just a power outage. The lights will be back on in no time,” Kelly said.

  Risa grabbed a pillow and hugged it. She had given up her teddy bear a year ago when Colton had said she was too old for it. Now he wished he’d let her keep it.

  “C’mon, let’s have pancakes,” he said. Colton didn’t really have time for their Saturday morning ritual, but he couldn’t bear to say no to her, not today.

  Using one of their precious bottles of water and an old kerosene camping stove, Colton managed to whip up some halfway decent pancakes. Risa dug in
, smacking and grinning and carrying on like they were the best things she’d ever eaten.

  Colton didn’t have much of an appetite. He nibbled on a piece of bread as he checked over the kitchen for anything he’d forgotten to do. He’d spent several hours last night making preparations at the house, including filling up the bathtub and sinks and saving what was left in the water heater. He and Kelly had taken their supply of meat from the freezer in the garage and salted it, too.

  While Risa ate, she punched at the home button on her iPad. “It won’t turn on,” she complained.

  “If you’re done eating, why don’t you go make your bed?” Kelly said.

  “But I don’t want to do chores. I want to go play.”

  “Make your bed, and then you can go play,” Kelly replied calmly.

  Risa narrowed her eyes as if she was being tricked.

  Colton forced down the last of his slightly stale breakfast. “Listen to your mother, honey.”

  Risa carried her plate to the sink, but Kelly stopped her before she could plunge the dirty dish into the reservoir of clean water. Puzzled, she set it on the counter and ran upstairs. Once her footfalls had echoed away, Colton laced his fingers together behind his head and sighed.

  “This could go on for months, maybe longer. We don’t know how much of the country was affected yet. After Melissa…”

  Kelly put a finger to her mouth. Colton nodded, understanding. They still hadn’t figured out how to tell Risa that her friend was dead, or that the power wasn’t going to come back on anytime soon.

  “There’s a killer on the loose and the country’s been attacked,” Colton said heavily. “I don’t even know where to start today. The whole town is looking to me for answers, but all I have is bad news.”

  Kelly grabbed his hand. “You start by going to town hall and doing what you always do. You lead, Marcus.”

  “Thanks, Kel,” Colton said. “I’ll find the man that did this to Melissa, and I’ll get the town’s affairs in order. I just need time. It’s going to be a hard winter, love. We need to conserve everything and plan for the long haul. That means rationing food and water.”