by B. C. Tweedt
Drake turned to the others with a grave look. No one said a word. The despair was unspoken. Many of the adults in the room turned from the screen, shaking their heads, but the kids didn’t want to move. They could only watch as the country seemed to dissolve and party all at once.
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The Reckhemmer headquarters erupted in applause, shouts of jubilation, and confetti. Hundreds and hundreds of the President-Elect’s supporters danced and whistled amongst the falling balloons, taking pictures of the stage where movie-theater screens displayed the latest vote tallies, sealing Reckhemmer’s victory earlier than any pundit’s predictions. He’d won every state he was predicted to, plus a few more. Though all the votes weren’t counted yet, it appeared he would win more than thirty states. It was an overwhelming victory.
Sam couldn’t wipe the smile from his face as other smiling faces came and went, shaking his hand, patting his shoulders, grabbing his cheeks, ruffling his hair, and picking him off the ground. It was a glorious haze – all a blur of joy, with music blaring on the stage down the hall. Campaign workers were trying to regain control, but found themselves caught up in the midst of the celebration as well.
During it all, Sam caught sight of his father, smiling ear to ear, hugging and shaking hands of his greatest donors and contributors. Their campaign manager. Senators. Congressmen. The CEO of StoneWater.
But then his father raised his hands with a booming voice. “HOLD ON!”
The crowded room hushed.
Sam saw the gleam in his father’s eyes. The kind he got when he as about to make a joke.
“I’m getting a phone call…” His father held up his cell phone as the crowd responded with great guffaws and guilty pleasure. They all knew who was calling.
Sam knew, too. It was a concession call. One of the other candidates was calling to congratulate him on the victory and wish him well – one of the political pleasantries that was demanded to extend careers beyond a losing effort.
President-Elect Reckhemmer answered the call with a smile, quieting the room with his finger until his campaign manager ushered him to a private room and closed the door. The celebration continued when the door shut.
Soon after, a Secret Service member handed Sam a phone. The guard’s face was a stoic outpost in a cheerful frontier. “It’s for you.”
Quizzically, Sam grabbed the phone and plugged one ear as he brought it to the other. “Hello?!” he asked over the din of the crowd.
“Hi. Is…is this Sam?”
It was another boy’s voice. Sam scrunched his face as if it would help him hear the caller better. “Yes. It’s me. Who’s this?”
“It’s Matthew. Matthew Raines. Audrey Raines’ son.”
“Oh! Yes. Hi!”
He wound his way through the crowd, making his way toward the private room. Someone shook his shoulder and patted his back, shaking the phone. He didn’t know what to say. He hadn’t expected a concession call. What was the protocol? Where was his campaign manager?
“Sam, my mom’s calling your dad right now, but no one knows I’m calling you. And you can’t tell anyone.”
Sam’s mind went spinning as another person ruffled his hair. He gulped and bumped further in the crowd. The door wasn’t far now, but he halted, pressing the phone hard against his ear. “W-what? Why?”
“Just keep saying thank you, okay?”
Suddenly paranoid, Sam spun around, glancing at the people surrounding him. Most were conversing, high-fiving, tweeting pictures, or watching the newsfeeds in every corner. But there were a few watching him. Guards. StoneWater and Secret Service. A campaign assistant. A journalist. Their faces were now suspiciously absent of emotion. “Thank you!” he said, smiling at the nearest guard.
“Good. I don’t know if I’ll ever get to speak to you again, and…and I’m afraid. I-I don’t think you are, but if you are, I’ll probably be dead by the morning.”
Sam stared at the private door, but turned away with a fake smile plastered on. “Thank you.”
“If you don’t know…I-I’m sorry. You don’t have to believe me; you probably won’t. But please, try. You have to.”
Someone grabbed Sam from behind, startling him. “Samster!”
He pulled the arm away and saw that it belonged to one of the female assistants. Faking another smile, he pointed at the phone and sidestepped away. “That’s kind of you,” he said.
There was a pause on Matthew’s side. A huff of air. Then his voice with an ever more serious tone. “Sam, your father’s part of a secret organization. It’s deep. It’s everywhere – powerful. They’ve been grooming him for years, pulling strings to get him to this point. My mom’s been trying to stop it, but only in secret. If they knew…”
The private door opened to more applause; his father returned with his hands in the air, pumping a fist.
“Thanks, but I got to go,” Sam said, willing his face from concern to joy.
“They want the war, Sam. They want it!”
Sam’s father noticed him on the phone and redirected toward him. The crowd seemed to part for them to meet. “Thanks again, but I really got to go.”
Sam was about to pull the phone from his ear, but he had time to hear one last thing before his father met him. He kept the phone to his ear, even as his father approached, eyeing it with a smirk.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I know it’s your dad, but you have to believe me.”
His dad stopped, a flinch at the corner of his eyes as he watched Sam on the phone.
“They call themselves…Fenix.”
“Thanks, again.” Sam hung up the phone and smiled at his dad even as Matthew’s words echoed in his mind. He gulped, his lips wavering. “T-that was Matthew.”
His dad laughed. “And what did he have to say?”
Fenix.
Sam wanted to shout for the world to hear. Accuse. Uncover. The burden of the secret was too much to bear on his own. If only he could share the burden. But he couldn’t.
Instead, he raised the phone as his dad had. “That was Matthew Raines!” He’d gotten the crowd’s attention, but he stared at his dad with a blooming smirk. “He called to wish me the best!”
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Within the cave stadium, the Eye of Eyes had hundreds of eyes arrayed before him – spectacular rows of computer monitors – each an eye into the world. Right now, several were blinking on, awaking from a deep slumber. The wakening was long awaited. Like cicadas live underground for thirteen or seventeen years, preparing for their short life above, so the computers had been preparing for this very time. Each had a trained operator, each operator had a team, and each team had a mission.
Emory leaned over the giant holographic screen in the middle of the room, listening to status updates as little dots began to shine into existence across the map of the United States.
“Team Alpha complete,” a commander said. “Control tests underway.”
“Good,” he said, watching the team’s lights begin to dot Montana. “Disperse all but one. Land one in a ballpark. The others in random homes.”
His commanders stopped mid-action, stunned by his command. “Sir?” one challenged. “The plan…”
Emory’s disdain was evident in a roll of eyes. “Predictability in warfare is a handicap. We keep them guessing. Guessing wrong. We give the media something to see, and we give the public something to fear.”
The commanders’ response was tempered by fear. “The mission, sir. Can you explain…?”
Emory drew his gun and shot a clipboard from a messenger’s hands. After a hushed, tense pause, he asked, “Did you expect that?”
“N-no, sir.”
“The next one could be for you, or you,” he said, waving the gun. “Or you.” He parked the gun’s aim at the questioning commander. “If you’re not afraid, you’re stupid. Well, either way.” He holstered the gun. “Do it.”
Emor
y would never tell him that dispersing the team had actually been his plan all along. They didn’t need to know. They needed to obey.
As Team Alpha was dispersed, Team Bravo was an hour away from their target in North Dakota and Team Charlie was approaching the Texas panhandle. The advance groups would snatch and grab with the element of surprise. They would be isolated events, and the government would bury the stories long enough for the second phase to initiate. Then, they would no longer need surprise. They only needed fear.
Emory turned to a television monitor, a live feed of Reckhemmer taking the stage with his son, hands in the air in triumph as flashes illuminated their trademark smiles. Emory touched their faces on the screen and matched their smile as the messenger picked up the pieces of his clipboard behind him.
It was working. Everything. He scanned the rows, reading the signs above each team. Minot, Malmstrom, Cheyenne, FEMA camps, Oklahoma City, Pantex, Dallas, and more. Officers scrambled around him and even more were spread about the United States, a giant networked spider-web, sending signals along its strands, coordinating as well as any army should.
Besides the one malfunction in Dallas that had rushed the attack, the plan had unfolded without flaw. Fate it seems, was agreeing with him today. It was time for America to come to grips with the inevitable. Its divisions were too great.
The figurative Rubicon, once deep and strong with current, had waned with drought. The bomb had redirected its tributaries, weakening the once mighty river that had kept predators like him at bay. The waters were now split, one flowing north, the other south. All efforts at unity had failed thanks to the Wolves.
Though its waters were now shallow, the trek across was still formidable. It would take some great effort to convince the states to ford the river. They knew that once they crossed, war would come, whether in a month or a year. But it was up to Emory to convince them that war was upon them even if they stayed on the shore.
He’d give them a glimpse of war. Just a taste. And in turn, they’d want more.
Chapter 65
Three predator drones converged high in the Texas sky above the sleeping city of Amarillo. All three had been in routine surveillance routes just hours ago when their systems had rebooted with new commands and new destinations. After a few maneuvers and systems checks, they had veered from their old paths toward the Texas panhandle.
Fourteen miles away from their flying squadron, in the middle of vast farmland, was what appeared to be the lights of a small town. Though thousands of people inhabited the buildings on any given day, the lights belonged not to a small town, but to a nuclear assembly plant called Pantex. The only plant in the United States to handle the assembly and disassembly of the nation’s nuclear weapons, it was home to some 300 or 400 nuclear weapons at a time. Whenever area citizens had been concerned about potential dangers, plant operators had reassured them time after time that the nuclear materials were under control and completely safe. Its operators claimed that its security was the highest and most sophisticated in the United States arsenal, with much of the operations top-secret and of course, underground. They also claimed to be prepared for many types of invasion and natural disaster, from tornado to armed intruders.
It was safe, they said.
The drones fired their missiles before they entered the plant’s restricted airspace but continued their trajectory. Even as the lights from the explosions rolled over the plant’s lights, making them flicker and fail, they continued forward. Their operators, even from a thousand miles away, guided them forward in a descent toward the plant. It was several minutes later that they glided in view of their missiles’ destruction. The fires and smoke filled an entire corner of the plant, near a line of bunkers, where several emergency trucks were descending on the scene.
Captain Haley from the plant’s Emergency Response Team didn’t flinch as the drones swept above in a sharp pitched rumble, taking with them trails of smoke as they zoomed past, turning for another approach. He was too busy, too rehearsed to flinch. He led his men through the smoke and rubble deep inside the missile’s crater to the bunker, whose highest security had been demolished. Two of the men stayed outside, keeping others from entering, but the captain led the rest with a covered stretcher to conceal their weapons.
They were deep underground when the ceilings shook again, releasing dust from the panels above to fall on several dead security guards. Captain Haley knew the blast had been the drones ramming themselves into the security and emergency personnel that had gathered outside. But he was too busy to flinch. Four of his men were loading the material onto stretchers. Others were setting explosives to cover their tracks. And he was leading them back outside.
They emerged, surrounded by flames and shattered vehicles. The bodies of the two men they had left behind were now charred and smoking. Still he didn’t flinch.
Their ambulance arrived just on time, cutting through what had been a two-tiered security fence. Without a word, they loaded the cargo into the back, tore off their uniforms and shut the doors behind them. The sirens blared as the captain raised his watch to his mouth. “Pantex complete.”
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Greyson sat by Sydney on an empty crate, surveying their little valley staging ground. It was a cozy campground, tucked by a lake in the midst of the mountains. North Fork Reservoir, a sign said. The half-frozen lake was a deep, shimmering blue and gave off a clean scent when the breeze blew past. The snow still fell hard, adding to the drifts by the rocky beach where multiple helicopters had found fit to land. Three more had landed even since Greyson had started listening to the mission briefing beneath a camouflaged tent, their crews bringing supplies to the line of tents or escorting Camp Courageous refugees toward the campground. Sydney pointed out a StoneWater hostage being led away and asked about the HR cuff on his chest. Greyson explained it to her, happy to fascinate her with his advanced knowledge.
Men of all sorts raced around, some dressed as soldiers, others as mere woodsmen, but all with some sort of mission given by some invisible superior. Computers were raised from suitcases, weapons from trucks, and a camouflaged medical tent sprouted for the wounded refugees. A huge tour bus fed a line of computers with thick cables protruding from its side and an array of satellites sticking from its top; a flurry of computer engineers were building a lab right next to it as if the bus had been a portable headquarters.
Though chaotic at first sight, the whole scene seemed coordinated, and so much bigger than Greyson could comprehend. There were people in charge, somewhere, with plans and means to carry out the whole operation in a matter of hours. The scene enamored Greyson. It reminded him of his smallness – his frailty and naivety in an adult world that was beyond him in scope and purpose. Fear of getting in the way nagged at him, made him want to retreat with the others being shepherded to the campground with blankets wrapped around them for comfort. Fear of failing, of looking ignorant, of offending those who were supposed to be here haunted him. How could he expect to contribute more than the trained soldiers who had fought for years?
“Alright, listen up,” Forge grumbled, rolling out a map on a card table.
Jarryd, Avery, and the rest of Rubicon looked down. There were a few other soldiers Greyson didn’t recognize, but didn’t dare to ask who they were. SmokeStack appeared bored, resting his massive arms across his tactical pouches, but the others, especially Jarryd and Avery, were peering at the map’s every detail.
“This is Redmond’s Colorado facility. Our job is to get Avery and Jarryd inside, where Avery will be able to access her father’s personal computer terminal. We believe this terminal is able to access the satellite network. It is protected by layers of security, one of which is DNA encryption. Thanks to our intelligence work with Mr. Tomlinson, we believe Avery’s DNA will bypass this layer.”
Greyson turned to Sydney and he asked her with a gesture if it was she who had uncovered that secret. She gave a nod, and he gave her an im
pressed ‘way to go’ look in return. He maintained the look a little too long, though. He couldn’t help it. It’d been too long since he’d been able to see her.
“Our analysts will talk her through, step by step, until she is able to take down the firewall and access the network. Unfortunately, they tell us that obtaining access will not be enough to shut the drones down. To upload the shutdown code, we require a direct uplink to a live drone under the control of the satellites. This will require hijacking a drone in mid-flight. Rubicon teams, including Forge and Diablo, are mobilizing as we speak to provide us with that link. Once we have access to the network through Avery, we can upload the code to the drone itself; the drone will then bounce the code to the satellites, which in turn will transmit it to the other drones.”
The kids eyed each other, daring one another to voice their questions.
“Well, frick,” Jarryd chirped. “You are jumping on drones in mid-air? I got the easy job.”
Grover shook his head. “Not even close. Though this facility isn’t R&D or top-secret, it’s equipped with the highest security civilians can get. This company makes drones, makes Hives, and uses them in an iron perimeter. Inside is worse, with layer after layer of security and heavily armed guards. Every motion is monitored, every hallway guarded, and every attempt at infiltration has failed.”
“Well, double-frick.”
“Though we haven’t tried yet,” SmokeStack added.
Greyson shifted. “You can do it,” he said glancing from Jarryd to Avery. He was a little jealous. It was about time they got to take the fight to the enemy. He was sick of waiting to be found, waiting to be attacked. His cheeks burned hot as the passion rose in his chest. “It’s about frickin’ time we hit first!” he said, louder than he thought.
Avery smiled her approval as the soldiers brushed off his childish enthusiasm. And then his childishness was made all the more evident.
“It’s started!” came a shout from the computer lab. Murray, with his thick, black glasses and large Adam’s apple stood with his fingers still on the keys before looking back at the screen and shouting again. “Reports are claiming a drone attack on Pantex. Dozens of anomalies in the network. FEMA camps are under attack. Even law enforcement."