As for the command center’s purpose? If Ellison were pressed, he would have to admit he wasn’t exactly sure how it all worked. He was told that a complex algorithm cycled through all available media, searching everything from local newscasts to hacked foreign spy satellites, always looking for some preordained combination of words, images, and facial recognition markers. Whatever that meant.
Four teams of analysts monitored the command center every hour of every day. They would check the search results, run research simulations, track down leads, and filter out any false positives with old-fashioned common-sense. Ellison considered it tedious work with little reward, and he was glad the job wasn’t his. But on rare occasions, if the information warranted it, the analysts would pass a result up the chain of command. Like today.
Ellison looked at the officer seated in the chair to his right. “Lieutenant Brown, I want the subject’s history profile in my hand in the next sixty seconds, including his hospital admission record.”
Brown snapped his reply without looking up from the laptop, “Yes, sir.”
“Sir, do you want those documents up on the big screen?” The question came from Ellison’s left, from Captain Reyes, the watch officer.
Ellison turned. “Negative. Not necessary, Captain.”
“Sir.” Lieutenant Brown stood at attention in front of the major, holding out an electronic tablet. Ellison reached for it, glanced down quickly at the screen, and then returned his hands behind his back. Lieutenant Brown turned on his heels in a perfect “about, face” and went back to the table.
Ellison watched him with a critical eye. Brown was a competent soldier, and in the end it was that competence that mattered most, but still, somehow his “sir” came out as too crisp, almost mocking. Besides, even if Ellison could fool himself into believing the lieutenant’s “sir,” the “about, face” by Brown confirmed it. No one marched in the command center. It was insubordination, subtle but unmistakable, and Ellison would handle it. Later.
At thirty-two years old, Stuart Ellison was considered young, maybe even too young to be a major, but he also knew it was the rank he deserved—the rank he had earned. Besides, he spent all his life being “too young.” He had graduated a year early from high school at seventeen. He spent the next four years as a cadet at the Citadel, and then, after graduation, he accepted his commission as a second lieutenant in the US Army. He was twenty-one at the time. Three years later, and he made captain.
Ellison always knew he would be a captain, but even he was surprised at how quickly the promotion came. It was Colonel McCann who recommended him for the rank. The two of them were serving in Afghanistan. Major McCann was in charge of a squadron then, and Ellison was one of his captains.
“Best damn captain I’ve ever had.” That’s what McCann wrote on his first performance evaluation, and it was the truth. Ellison earned a reputation for being tough on his men, but fair. Quick with criticism, but quicker with praise. A natural leader. So, when Major McCann received his promotion to lieutenant colonel, it came as little surprise to Ellison that the colonel wanted him along for the ride.
Still, this last step proved more difficult. Years of tradition demanded majors be older than thirty, but the colonel wouldn’t be dissuaded from his choice. McCann had to cash in every chip he earned over his sixteen-year career, but in the end he got his way, and Stuart Ellison became a major and the colonel’s EX-O.
The job turned out to be exactly what Ellison expected. They got a month under their belts with the 5th Battalion at Fort Stewart, and then they received their orders to deploy to Fort Blaney.
*****
“Fort Blaney, sir? I’ve never heard of it.” Ellison stood inside McCann’s office at Fort Stewart.
The colonel stood up and walked around his desk. “No, Stuart. You wouldn’t have.”
Colonel McCann was the only person who still called Ellison by his first name, and the only person Ellison allowed the privilege.
McCann continued, “Fort Blaney isn’t one of those bases we advertise to the world on Wikipedia, but trust me, the people who need to know about it, they know.”
“Where is it, sir?”
“Near Morgantown, West Virginia. Just south of the Pennsylvania border.”
“A domestic deployment, sir?”
McCann’s jaw tightened. “Do you have a problem with those orders, major?”
Ellison snapped to rigid attention. “No, sir.”
McCann went on, his words spitting out in the short rhythm of a superior officer. “Our orders are to deploy to Fort Blaney, and that’s what we’re going to do, without question. That’s our mission, and I expect you to treat it as a mission. Understood, major?”
“Yes, sir.”
McCann paused, letting the silence fill the empty space between them. Then his voice lost its rougher edge. “Go tell the men to pack their bags. We leave at 0900 tomorrow.”
*****
As far as Ellison was concerned, his time at Fort Blaney was going just as he imagined. It wasn’t perfect, not entirely. He could admit that much now. Two years ago, when they arrived, he wasn’t ready for the mission specifics. Honestly, how could he have been? But the routine, the day-to-day life on a military base, Ellison lived for that. That part never changed, and he loved that it never changed.
But Ellison also knew that he was born for life in the Army, and routines could affect the men in different ways. So Ellison wasn’t surprised when he noticed the battalion start to change. That was part of the routine too. He was waiting for it. He had seen it before at the Citadel. He saw it again in Afghanistan. The same routine, over and over and over—it all had an impact.
It always started simply enough. A late salute when walking past a superior officer, or someone forgets the “sir” when answering a direct question. Little things. Silly things, maybe. Details too small for other men to notice. All symptoms of a bigger disease.
Ellison understood why it happened—why it always happened. The mocking. The second-guessing. And eventually, the outright insubordination, but knowing the reasons couldn’t excuse the behavior.
Part of the problem was his age. Ellison was barely older than the men he was asked to lead. It didn’t help that he looked even younger. Ellison knew it was difficult for any man to put his faith in someone who looked like their younger brother. That’s what happened at the Citadel.
Ellison was a senior, and one of the freshman knobs took to calling him Sergeant Stuey. The kid didn’t even try to hide it. He said it right to Ellison’s face. So Ellison warned the kid once, but the knob didn’t listen. He kept at it until one day he “slipped” in the bathroom and broke his jaw. After that, it was hard for him to say anything.
The other problem was familiarity. If you spend enough time with a man, regardless of rank, you start to think of yourselves as equals. Maybe even friends. The trouble was friends get privileges that soldiers can’t afford.
When Ellison was a first lieutenant in Afghanistan, his best friend was a guy named Cordrey, another lieutenant in the same platoon. But when Ellison got his promotion to captain, Cordrey made the mistake of thinking they could still be friends. One night, out on patrol, Ellison gave an order. Cordrey questioned it. So, when they got back to Bagram Airfield, Ellison had the man arrested for insubordination. Problem solved.
And now Ellison had Lieutenant Brown mocking him in the command center. He knew the lax behavior in the men had been festering for weeks, but until now, no one had been so obvious. In a way, Ellison was relieved that it finally happened. Now Lieutenant Brown could serve as an example, and life at Blaney could get back to normal—back to routine.
Ellison caught a quick movement out of the corner of his eye. Instantly he snapped his heels together, brought his hands to his sides, and stood at rigid attention. In the next moment, the glass door separating the inner command center from the observation lounge swung open, and Colonel McCann stepped into the room. Ellison raised a quick salute.
McCann walked briskly to the major, returned his salute, and then ordered the room, “At ease.” Like the rest of the men, the colonel wore gray camouflage with his sleeves rolled up past his elbows. He carried his black mug with him into the room, an almost permanent fixture in his right hand, with the gold words “US Army” stamped on the side and steam from his morning coffee still wafting into the air.
Colonel McCann was only ten years older than Ellison, but he looked more than twenty years his senior. His short, dark hair was gray at both of his temples, and thin lines of age creased his face.
Ellison was always surprised by the colonel’s face, by the unexpected warmth he found there and the hint of a smile always at the edge of his mouth. He reminded Ellison of a favorite uncle inviting trust and confidence. The men of the battalion saw it too, and they loved the colonel for it. So did Ellison.
But there was another side of McCann too, a side that was easy to forget. Ellison could only see it in the colonel’s quick, dark eyes. They were cold, detached, calculating. In two years at Fort Blaney the men hadn’t seen that side of the colonel, but Ellison had, and he respected the colonel for it. And he loved him for that side, too.
McCann raised his mug, ready to drink, as he addressed Ellison. “What do we have this morning, Stuart?”
Ellison handed him the tablet. “Sir, we have a possible contact at approximately 0800 in Philadelphia.”
McCann took the tablet and looked down at the screen, but from the back corner of the command center, still near the door, a new voice laughed, “Possible contact? Approximately 0800? I’m surprised your men could narrow it down to just one city.”
Ellison glanced over his shoulder. He knew the voice—the thin Irish accent playing just behind the words was unmistakable—and so it was no surprise to Ellison when he turned and saw Special Agent Hayden leaning against the glass wall of the command center, a lit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.
He looked painfully out of place amid the other soldiers in the room. For starters, he was short. He stood half a foot shorter than Major Ellison, making him the shortest person in the room and most likely the shortest man on base, but his lack of height seemed all the more notable because of his slight frame. Hayden’s arms and legs were sticks. His neck was a pencil, and the fancy Italian suits he chose to wear every day seemed to sag around his shoulders and fall over his body, as if they couldn’t take in enough fabric to fit the man. Ellison once remarked to McCann that Hayden was the best-dressed scarecrow he had ever seen.
As for Hayden’s face, much like the rest of him, it seemed out of place for what he said he was, a look that was more trailer park deadbeat than penthouse super spy. His dark-blonde hair was slick with sweat and pulled back into a stringy ponytail, and his blue eyes were spaced too close together and set back too deep in his head. His jawline and throat were smothered in dark-blonde whiskers, and from the corner of his mouth, one tooth twisted up and away from the rest so that when he smiled his top lip would catch on the tooth and hang in place for a moment even after his smile had faded.
Ellison felt his shoulders and jaw tighten. He despised Hayden. Hated his accent. Hated his laugh. Hated his cigarette. He hated everything about the man, and what was worse, Ellison knew he would hate him from the beginning, but Hayden was also a part of the mission.
*****
Hayden stood waiting for the battalion just outside the first gate at Fort Blaney. As the convoy arrived, Hayden stepped forward, and McCann got out of the Humvee to meet him. Ellison followed.
Hayden spoke first, “Colonel McCann, welcome to Fort Blaney, West Virginia.”
McCann answered, “It’s good to be here. You’re Mr. Hayden, I presume?”
“That’s right, colonel. I’ll be your liaison to the CIA.”
Then Ellison spoke without thinking, and he remembered now just how much he wished he had kept silent. “Liaison? Our mission parameters call for communications to go dark. How are you going to be a liaison when you can’t talk to anyone?”
Hayden smirked, “Don’t worry, Major, I’m sure I’ll find a way. Besides, the CIA makes it their business to never be in the dark for long.”
Ellison opened his mouth, ready to answer, but before he could begin, Hayden had turned back to the colonel. “Colonel McCann, if you can come with me there are some things we need to go over.”
Hayden motioned for McCann to walk with him toward one of the gatehouses; Ellison started to follow, but Hayden stopped short and wheeled back on him. “That’s all right, Major Ellison. Why don’t you stay here and start checking in your men? I’m sure the colonel can tell you anything you actually need to know.”
*****
Ellison told himself that his hatred for Hayden had little to do with that first dismissal—sending him off to check in the men as if he were a child to be distracted by busy work—and for the most part, that was true. It wasn’t the dismissal that turned Ellison against Hayden. The dismissal was only the symptom. The real disease was the man’s flawed character, and Ellison could see it all from that first meeting. Hayden was rude. He was short-tempered, too. He was arrogant and self-indulgent, but worst of all, he was condescending. He talked to everyone like they were stupid, regardless of rank, and he especially enjoyed painting Ellison as the fool, showing him up in front of the men. That’s when Ellison hated him the most.
Like now.
Hayden took one last drag on his cigarette, and then he flicked the butt to the floor of the command center. He stepped forward and held out his hand, ready for the tablet.
McCann handed it over and turned his attention back to Ellison. “Let’s see it, major.”
Ellison looked to his left. “Captain Reyes, bring the video up on the screen.”
“Yes, sir,” Reyes answered, and then the monitor at the front wall of the command center changed to a black and white picture from a traffic camera, frozen in tableau. At the top of the screen, pointing down the street, they could see the front half of a school bus. Farther down, maybe a dozen yards from the bus, two boys were also in the street. The first seemed to be lying on his stomach in the road. The second was bending over him.
Then the video started to play. The second boy, the one bending over his friend lying in the street, pulled the other boy back toward the sidewalk. Then he dropped to his knee. The school bus was still coming. It slid forward, but then, just as it made contact, it stopped; it stopped so suddenly and so completely that the back end of the bus jerked into the air and swung to the right, knifing the front corner of the bus into a parked car on the side of the road. They watched as the boy staggered up to his feet, and more people swarmed around him. Then he fell back into the street, and the video image froze again.
McCann folded his arms across his chest. “A boy who stops a bus. That’s pretty good, if he’s still alive.”
Ellison nodded. “He was admitted to the Albert Einstein Medical Center at 8:17, still alive. We’re waiting to get an asset into the hospital to verify his status now.”
“Wait there.” Hayden was shaking his head, pointing one of his long fingers at the screen. “Right there. The bus hits a car, not the boy. Look. For all we know it may not have touched the boy at all.”
For the first time all morning, Ellison turned to face Hayden directly. “We’ve run computer simulations, six of them so far, and in every one it shows the forward momentum of the bus is stopped before it hits the car. That bus hits the boy first, and then something else happens.”
McCann unfolded his arms and rubbed his hand across his chin; he had made his decision. “Major Ellison, Agent Hayden, I’ll speak with both of you in the conference room. Everyone else, I want all eyes on Philadelphia. That boy,” McCann reached out, took the tablet back from Hayden, and glanced down at the screen. “Jeremy Cross is now our number-one priority.”
“Yes, sir,” the men at the table answered in unison as Ellison, Hayden, and McCann stepped into the glass room at the side of the command
center. As soon as the door closed behind them, magnetic locks slid into place, sealing them inside, and the glass walls and door fogged over into opaque gray, hiding them from the soldiers still working in the command center. McCann took the seat behind the desk and motioned for Hayden and Ellison to sit. Hayden obliged, sliding into the black leather chair on the right, crossing his legs, folding his hands, and rocking back to get comfortable. Ellison, however, stood “at ease” in the middle of the room.
McCann started, “For the moment, let’s assume this boy is still alive. I want to hear our options.”
Ellison answered first, “Sir.”
“Go ahead, Major. You can speak freely.”
Ellison took a moment, measured his words, and began, “Sir, we are only six months out from initiating phase three. At this point, when we’re this close, we can’t afford to bring in someone new. He would be a liability at best.”
McCann rubbed his chin. “What do you suggest, Major?”
“I think our best option is to neutralize him.”
A sharp laugh came from Ellison’s right; Hayden uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Neutralize him? That’s your suggestion? Brilliant.”
Ellison wheeled around to face Hayden, his jaw tight and his finger pointing down at the man’s chest. “If you bring him in here—”
“If I bring him in?” Hayden feigned incredulity, touching his hand to his chest. “You mean, ‘When I bring him in,’ because that’s the protocol.” These last words were directed to McCann, as if Ellison were no longer in the room.
“There are no options,” Hayden said. “We follow our orders. We follow protocol. What if this kid turns out to be a level four? Or what if he’s a five? You want to explain how you thought it was a good idea to ‘neutralize’ a level five?” Hayden shook his head, more to himself than anyone else. “No, we follow the protocol. Period.”
ANOM: Awakening (The ANOM Series Book 1) Page 3