Suddenly the French doors of the balcony burst open. A figure ran to the edge and leaped over the railing.
Becky gasped. It was Mandi.
She seemed to pause in midair before gravity claimed her. Mandi silently plunged into the solitude of the falling snow.
Becky buried her face in her hands. Sobs racked her body. She couldn’t comprehend what had just happened. Mandi had jumped from the balcony on her own. No one had pushed her. No one came out to look down on her body. She had just jumped, and now she was lying lifeless, face down in the snow.
Becky sat in the shadows for several minutes, mourning her friend, and letting her hate for Hartley flow through her She stood, intending to approach the body, then quickly ducked back into the shadows when two soldiers appeared on the balcony dragging the body of Fatty Patterson. They had a hard time lifting him to the railing, but after several backbreaking seconds, rolled him over. His body, too, fell to the ground.
The soldiers turned and went back inside, closing the door behind them. Becky dried her tears and cautiously approached Mandi. She gently rolled her over to look upon her soft, sweet face one last time. “Oh, sweetie,” she said as she reached out a trembling hand and brushed the dirty hair away from her friend’s face. She closed the lifeless eyes, bent down, and tenderly kissed her goodbye.
Becky stood and straightened her clothes. She swallowed the grief that stuck in her throat like a fishbone, turned her back on the body of her closest friend, and walked off to regroup with her remaining friends. Hatred flowed through her like a fire, consuming every fiber of her being.
Becky no longer had a desire for self-preservation. Thoughts of joining Mandi in death tore at the corners of her mind. Then hate came in and pushed away the spirit of self-destruction until nothing was left of the girl that had been Becky.
In an instant, everything changed. “Rebekah” was in charge of her destiny now. She spoke the name out loud: “Rebekah.” She was the one who would end the life of the monster that had destroyed everyone and everything she’d ever loved.
50
6:40 A.M., TUESDAY, OCTOBER 27
NIRSCH AND HIS TROOPS WORKED THEIR WAY UP THE SAN MIguel River Canyon, stopping halfway between Norwood and Telluride, partway up the San Juan Mountains. Snow was starting to fall gently on Nirsch’s face as he looked toward heaven and prayed for strength:
“God, I ask you to cover our troops and keep them safe. They’re fighting to regain the freedom that was given by your grace and taken by those in power who serve your enemy. And God, your plans are perfect, and the path you have chosen for me to walk out is also perfect. I don’t know if my life on earth is going to continue when this war is over, but I have surrendered to your will. If I am meant to come home to you, then I will come running. Whatever you have decided, please cover my family with your love and peace.” He recited Psalm 91 from memory, seeking protection for all of his troops with the verses. He hoped the rest of their forces had reached their destinations and were ready to strike.
The sound of distant aircraft drifted across the predawn sky. The ground vibrated. Nirsch felt the tension among his troops. They were like a cobra waiting to strike. He examined the faces around him; everyone had their eyes straight ahead. No one was speaking. Some were shifting their weight back and forth. Each man gripped his weapon tightly.
Adrenaline surged through Nirsch. His breath came out in short wisps of steam. As the sound of jet engines drew closer, the column slowly started moving forward.
Something’s wrong, Nirsch thought. What is it?
The explosion temporarily blinded Nirsch as the missile struck the canyon wall above the center of his forces. He blinked his eyes rapidly, regaining his sight in time to see a two hundred–foot section of rock break off behind him and bury at least a thousand men and their equipment at the back of the column. Another missile hit just behind the first and completely blocked the canyon to their rear.
That chopper. They’d been seen after all.
Nirsch yanked his radio from his pocket and shouted at the lead truck: “Move, Larry! They’re trying to close us in!”
Larry’s MRAP shot forward. Soon the entire column was racing toward the mouth of the canyon.
Three-quarters of the troops had cleared the canyon when several missiles hit the back of the column at once, instantly snuffing out thousands of lives.
The sky was turning gray as the formation of U.C. jets finished its initial run, exposing the destruction. The jets banked hard and came at Nirsch’s troops again. The lead Russian Su-47 fighter passed overhead at two hundred feet, spraying the troops with 30 mm rounds.
It was chaos among the ranks. Their column broke apart, everyone scrambling to get out of the line of fire. The Russian fighters were taking a heavy toll. Nirsch knew that if the rebel aircraft didn’t arrive soon, they wouldn’t have enough manpower to take the palace.
The lead Su-47 came in low for a third pass. A flaming streak shot across the sky, intercepting it. The Russian fighter exploded in a fireball as the sidewinder from one of the rebel F-35s found its mark. The remaining U.C. aircraft broke off their attack run and streaked across the sky to meet the resistance fighters head on. Nirsch’s equipment and troops regained their formation and continued toward Telluride.
How, Nirsch wondered, did the U.C. know to attack them here? According to all of their recon, the majority of the president’s air support was supposed to be several thousand miles away. If the intel was wrong on the aircraft, Nirsch assumed there was more bad news waiting for them up ahead.
Nirsch fought the urge to stop and watch the dogfight overhead. He hoped their planes wouldn’t be too long engaging the U.C. Air Force. If they didn’t have an initial strike from their fighters on the Collective artillery, they would fail, and their losses would be complete.
By the time they’d reached the halfway point of the San Juans, the dogfight behind them had ended. A lone Russian Su-47 streaked overhead and headed east, with seven resistance birds following close behind. It appeared Nirsch had only seven aircraft left out of the eighteen he’d started with. Seven was better than nothing. The U.C. had lost all but one of its planes, and Nirsch was pretty sure it would fall soon. He just hoped the resistance flyboys had enough firepower left to damage the forces awaiting them.
The sound of explosions and automatic gunfire reached their ears from the northeast and directly in front of them. Several explosions shook the ground and lit the early dawn as their aircraft began their bombing run. Then the rebel troops coming from the north engaged the Collective’s northern line of defense.
Nirsch’s truck shook violently. It was airborne, turning completely around in midair. His driver was blown out the door, leaving a red stain in the seat where he’d been sitting. The truck hit the ground on the driver’s side, throwing Nirsch across the cab and slamming him into the ground, knocking the wind out of him. As Nirsch regained his breath and scrambled out of the truck, several more explosions shook the ground. The air filled with choking smoke.
Nirsch froze in his tracks when the realization of what was happening hit him in the face. They had driven into a minefield. If they didn’t win this battle and Nirsch had to face this General Scheper again, he would not make the same mistake of underestimating him. He was definitely no dummy.
The explosions subsided. Nirsch looked around. They had lost at least another 10 percent of their vehicles and several hundred more troops. Some of the civilians who’d joined them along the way were walking back the way they’d come, not bothering to look over their shoulders as they deserted.
Most of the heavy artillery had survived. Those units were moving forward once again, running over the bodies of the fallen. The rest of the resistance fell in line behind them, including close to a thousand civilians who hadn’t given up.
Resistance tanks and rockets began firing on the Collective defenses in a steady barrage. The screams of the fallen U.C. soldiers were nearly deafening as Nirsch and his men
charged in among them. We’re pushing them back! Nirsch thought.
But the rebel surge was short-lived. Rebel heavy artillery pieces exploded, raining burning debris around them. In a matter of minutes, all of their heavy weaponry was destroyed.
Bullets whistled through the air and tore through Nirsch’s men. A man ran beside him. The next moment he was gone, shredded by machine gun fire. They were sitting ducks for the .50-caliber guns positioned in the trees on a low ridgeline four hundred yards behind the Collective infantry. Nirsch and his men were in an open valley, totally exposed. They were being mowed down.
No. It can’t be.
Crushing disappointment, mixed with a feeling of helplessness, hit Nirsch squarely in the face. The final assault had barely began, and now, barring a miracle, it was already over. Nirsch had counted on Hartley’s arrogance and sense of superiority to make him vulnerable. The U.C. had simply been more prepared for the assault than Nirsch had thought possible. Somehow, Hartley had known they were coming.
Some of the resistance troops had turned and were starting to retreat. It was mass confusion as Nirsch joined them and they ran for their lives, trying to get out of range of the big guns. Several thousand of them were torn apart as they fled.
The sound of jet engines roared over the din of gunfire. Nirsch stopped and turned.
He couldn’t believe what he saw. Dozens of fighters screamed in from the south and began picking off the Collective artillery. One by one the big guns exploded.
Those aren’t my jets, he thought. What’s going on?
It didn’t matter whose fighters they were. They were taking the U.C. artillery out of the equation. When the last enemy gun exploded in a fireball, the new aircraft banked and flew over the heads of the rebel troops, low enough for Nirsch to make out a six-pointed star just under the cockpit of each plane.
“They’re Israeli!” Nirsch shouted.
Still as a statue, he stared into the sky and watched the jets disappear over the horizon. He couldn’t explain how the Israelis knew of the final assault or how they could spare the manpower while fighting to keep the rest of the Middle East off their doorstep. Nirsch just looked toward heaven and thanked God for his Jewish brothers and sisters.
Most of the troops that had been fleeing a moment before turned and rushed the line with a renewed sense of urgency and aggression. In ten minutes, they broke through completely and begun climbing the last slopes of the mountains.
The Collective troops that had survived fell back toward Telluride. An all-consuming roar came up from the resistance troops as they crested the mountains and the last U.C. soldier disappeared into the tree line in front of them. Nirsch knew it was too early to celebrate. They still had to reach the palace. He knew the troops there would be dug in and it would be well protected.
Nirsch watched the Israeli jets roar off to the northeast. Then he helped his troops regroup as they pushed on toward the final stronghold of Richard C. Hartley and the heart of the evil that was the United Collective.
51
PRESIDENTIAL PALACE
7:30 A.M.
REBEKAH FOUND HER FRIENDS WHERE SHE’D LEFT THEM, HIDing in the trees next to the garbage dump. They would break into two teams of three, gather what weapons they could find, and kill the outer guards. Once the guards were dealt with, they would enter the palace and wage war on the leader of the Collective.
Everyone hugged each other and turned to leave. Rebekah realized that apart from being slaves together, she really didn’t know these people. She had the thought that most of them, including herself, would not be alive in an hour. She stopped the group, looked into each of their faces individually, and smiled.
“Each of you know me as Becky. It has been my honor and privilege to be your friend. Now you can call me Rebekah—Rebekah Stancliff. My old life has passed away. I am someone different, but I still am and will always be your friend.”
Everyone introduced themselves, shook hands, and hugged amidst tears and laughter. It was the first time any of them had learned each other’s last names. It felt good to know who they were fighting alongside. Rebekah had a newfound courage and sense of hope as they moved to begin their attack.
They spotted the first guard patrolling the grounds on the edge of the garden. Rebekah waited for the guard to pass by their hiding spot, then walked into the open behind him. She stood and waited for him to reach the end of the garden. When he turned around to come back her way, she ran back into the brush, passing her companions who were hiding on either side of the path.
The soldier ran after her. As soon as he entered the tree line, her friends jumped on him and wrestled him to the ground before he could raise his weapon to fire. Rebekah walked out of the shadows carrying a pointed shovel from the toolshed. Terror filled the man’s eyes as the faint light from the palace reflected off the cold steel of the shovel. He started to yell. One of the slaves holding him down clamped a dirty hand over his mouth. He thrashed and kicked, trying to free himself from their grasp. Rebekah looked down at him, feeling no compassion.
“We are finished being slaves to the Collective and Richard Hartley,” she said. “You, sir, will now die!”
The soldier thrashed on the ground with a fresh intensity. Rebekah raised her shovel and brought the side of it down on the man’s neck with all her strength, nearly decapitating him. Rebekah smiled as they gathered his weapons, covered his body with brush and leaves, and left to find the next outlet for her frustration and hate.
Within thirty minutes, Rebekah and her fellow slaves managed to kill twelve soldiers, relieve them of their weapons, and slip into the palace to face the fresh horrors that awaited them.
Rebekah quietly tiptoed to the kitchen door and placed her ear against it. She couldn’t hear anything, so she carefully turned the handle and peeked inside. Two soldiers stood on either side of the interior entry doors, fully alert.
The kitchen was the slaves’ best hope for entry. Once they gained access to the kitchen, they’d have many options for getting to the private presidential residence. But they needed to be quiet. Shooting these two was out of the question.
Rebekah slowly closed the door and motioned for her companions to take positions on either side of the entrance. When everyone was ready, she leaned the AK-47 she’d taken from one of the guards against the exterior wall, fluffed up her hair, and pulled her shirt down around her shoulders, exposing the top half of her breasts. She had to get the soldiers to follow her without alerting them to danger.
She opened the door and slowly entered the kitchen. The soldiers looked up as she came in, and became tense and alert as she approached.
“Hi, guys, I’m Rebekah. Can you tell me what’s happening? I woke up and I couldn’t find anyone but my friend Sheila. We’re so hungry. We know we’ve been forbidden to eat until some traitor is discovered, but I really am hungry.”
Rebekah walked up to the soldier to the left of the door and twirled her hair between her fingers. She formed her lips in a pout and reached her hand out, placing it on his arm. “Could I just get a little bit of food for me and Sheila? Pleeeasse? I promise you, we’ll make it worth your while.” Rebekah took her finger and traced the line of her neck down slowly, her hand coming to rest where the top of her shirt ended and bare skin began. She smiled up at the wide-eyed soldier.
The man swallowed and looked around the room, then at his companion. “What do you think, Klaus? Should we help this nice girl get a little breakfast?”
Klaus opened the door he was guarding and looked up and down the interior hallway. He closed the door and turned back around, his eyes falling on Rebekah’s chest. “I think that could probably be arranged,” he said. “I hate to see such a sweet girl go hungry.”
Klaus glanced at his wristwatch. “We have an hour before we’re supposed to be relieved of duty. I think that is more than enough time. We can get a little snack for you and bring it to you. That way no one will see you and we won’t get into trouble. Where shoul
d we bring it?”
“My shack is the third one from the end. Sheila and I will wait there for you.”
Rebekah slowly walked back across the kitchen with a little extra shake on her hips, sure the soldiers’ eyes were following her the whole way. She paused at the door, playfully looked back over her shoulder, and winked. “Please hurry, we are sooo hungry.” She turned and quietly slipped out the door.
They waited in the shack, one on each side of the door, and two just outside in the trees. Rebekah stripped off her clothes and got into a robe, leaving it open in the front, and lay down on her foam mat. A few minutes later, there was a small knock on her plywood door.
“Come in,” she said. Klaus entered and nearly dropped the bowl of stew he was carrying when he saw her half-naked body reflecting in the pale light. The other soldier pushed him aside and stepped into the room. His mouth also fell open as he looked upon Rebekah.
“Sheila should be here any minute,” she said. “Come in and close the door.”
Klaus set the bowl of stew on a small table and approached her, taking off his pants and shirt as he walked. The second man reached up to close the door. The shovel caught him in the side of the head, crushing his skull with a loud, cracking sound.
Klaus whirled and opened his mouth to scream, but no sound escaped his lips. Surprise filled his eyes when he looked down and saw the tines of the pitchfork sticking out of his chest. He stood frozen for several seconds, blood bubbling out of his mouth and dripping onto his bare chest. He collapsed. Rebekah let out the breath she’d been holding since the soldiers had entered her shack.
She redressed, and she and her companions shared the stew the soldiers had brought with smiles, smacks, and slurping sounds. They left the shack and returned to the kitchen. Rebekah felt stronger after eating the stew. Her muscles were taut as they crept across the kitchen and peered through the inner doors. Seeing no guards in the hallway, they slowly walked to the end and peeked around the corner. One guard stood at the base of the stairs, another at the top. They could take the dumbwaiter up one at a time, but someone had to be at the top to operate it. The only way they were going to get up the stairs and closer to the president’s living quarters was to take out the two soldiers in the stairwell.
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