Unreal, Hansen thought, realizing his luck had gone totally south. His vision of the massive payday for delivering Trident on time and on budget was evaporating by the second. He took a few deep breaths, wanting nothing more than to fall asleep where he was and deal with his predicament in the morning, but he couldn’t risk it. He had to find shelter and a place to hide for the night. There would be patrols and they’d surely find him if he remained on the beach.
He stood up, and looked left, trying to plot a course to safety. Suddenly, machine gun fire erupted from a stand of underbrush thirty yards away. Bullets tore into the tree trunks around him as he dove to his belly and crawled to the closest cover he could find—a small sand dune held in place by a stunted tree with oval shaped fruit hanging from its low branches.
Now he knew why everyone avoided the island—it was deadly.
Bullets churned up the sand on the opposite side of the dune. Hansen waited for a break in the fire. It came fifteen seconds later, but the expected sound of movement and voices didn’t. He eased his head slightly above the crest in the dirt to see what he was up against.
What he’d thought was a tropical thicket of brush earlier was nothing of the sort: it was a concealment blind for a motion-activated, automated defense system—hence no voices or human activity. Two sinister barrels began shooting rounds in his direction again. He ducked behind the dune again, hearing and feeling a stream of bullets whiz a few inches over his head.
Hansen wondered why they hadn’t opened fire when he first crawled onto the beach, then realized the answer was simple: turtles. The local islands were breeding grounds for loggerhead turtles, which crawled out of the surf, laid eggs in the sand, then crawled back into the water. The gun turrets must’ve been programmed to open fire on anything above a certain height—probably eighteen inches, he guessed—but ignore anything else. If he hadn’t stood up, he wouldn’t be taking fire.
Crawling it is, then, Hansen decided.
He slid farther down behind the small rise in the sand, looking for a way around the sentry battery. To his left, there was a dense stand of imposing yucca plants. Their sharp spines would tear him to shreds within minutes if he chose that path.
Only one option remained: the right flank. He’d have to hug the soft line of sand just beyond the reach of the water, inching in front of the machine guns on his belly. He wasn’t sure what was beyond, but he needed to get moving and work his way inland to find shelter. The gunfire surely caught the attention of someone on this island, and that meant trouble would soon arrive.
Before he could move, he heard a familiar whine overhead.
Drone? A drug dealer with drones? This guy takes his security seriously, Hansen thought. That meant crawling the shoreline was out. He’d be spotted from above easily. He thought quickly and realized he only had one option, assuming he could make it. It was a desperately bad idea, but the only one he could think of on short notice.
He hopped to his feet and sprinted in a zigzag pattern across the beach, back toward the ocean surf where he’d come ashore. The machine guns opened up again, sending a flood of bullets that kicked up sand around him. The whine of the drone overhead got louder as the deadly surface fire ripped closer and closer.
He felt a sharp, biting pain in his left shoulder, sending him spinning while splashing into the surf. He went to dive under the water for safety, but another round tore his right calf apart before he could submerge.
Brilliant, he thought as a scream of pain took over his lips. Bad ideas yield bad results.
He was now one hundred eighty-five pounds of bloody shark bait.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Tally Wickie slowed the van and turned right onto a narrow two-lane road, signaling the trip to Pandora was coming to an end shortly. The sun had set about twenty minutes before—not that she could see it through the red cloud cover. The visibility was poor. The rain had continued in a steady drizzle and hadn’t changed its intensity the entire time she’d been driving.
Unusual, Tally thought. Not only was the storm bleeding red, it never seemed to change its flow. Rain got hard; rain got soft; there were always variations across any storm, especially when driving a vehicle and covering ground—but not with this rain.
How can the flow remain the same no matter what?
Plus she knew there was always a beginning and an end to any storm. She was starting to wonder if the latter would ever be true. There was no sign of the weather easing in any direction. In fact, G had reported the storms were increasing in size, moving across the country like a scourge from heaven.
She didn’t like it. Not one bit. Something was controlling this stuff. Probably a someone. Someone with an agenda and a purpose, she decided, worrying about what came next.
A memory flooded her thoughts, showing her a vision of a massive wooden boat and a bearded, religious man standing in front of it wearing an ancient robe and holding a staff. Her mind shifted to the man’s face—Noah’s face—and the fateful warning he’d received from God. Sure, it was only a fable from the Bible, but she’d gladly build an ark to protect her people if it came to that.
Tally brushed the memory aside, wanting to focus on getting the van to Pandora in one piece. The pavement was covered with red, making it increasingly difficult to control the vehicle as her tires hydroplaned across the wet surface.
“Almost home,” she told Simon, who was sitting in the passenger seat next to her.
Simon winced, leaning closer to her. “And not a minute too soon, because my back is starting to get stiff.”
“Only another ten minutes or so. The dirt road turn-off is just a couple miles ahead.”
“If you don’t mind, could I ask you something?”
“Sure, Simon, you can ask me anything.”
“Why’d your grandparents choose Amish country? Sounds like they had plenty of money and could’ve settled anywhere.”
“That’s easy. The Amish make the best neighbors. They’re quiet, keep to themselves, and don’t ask questions. Plus, you never have to worry about them trespassing on your land or trying to steal your stuff.”
“Makes sense,” Simon said, nodding slowly like he was chewing through her answer.
“Besides, if the grid ever fails, they’re not going to be affected. They’re already self-reliant and living old school. There’s something to be said about having neighbors with skills.”
“Very true. Your grandparents obviously thought this through.”
“Oh yeah. None of this was by accident.”
She leaned forward and squinted, looking through the windshield. “What’s that?” she asked Simon, slowing the transport out of caution.
“What’s what?”
She pointed a finger ahead, hoping to focus his attention. “That!”
Simon leaned forward like Tally, peering through the windshield.
“Roadblock,” he reported.
“G? Call Dre,” she ordered.
“Sure thing, Wicks,” G answered from the back. “What for?”
“Give him our position and ask if anything unusual is happening there.”
“Will do.”
Tally focused on the pairs of headlights ahead. They were sitting in such a way as to point their beams across the road at various forty-five degree angles. The light illuminated the bare trees on either side of the road, giving them a medieval look under the wash of red covering their bark. All that was missing was a surface level fog.
“Judging by the height of the headlights, I’d say pickup trucks or SUVs,” Simon reported.
She stopped the van, keeping the drive train engaged and her foot on the brake pedal. “Yeah. I agree.”
Movement appeared in front the trucks—dark silhouettes, perhaps three or four of them, passing through the beams.
“I’m gonna pull a little closer,” Tally informed the group, easing pressure off the brake. The van inched forward, stopping once its headlights reached the roadblock.
Simon was r
ight. Two pickup trucks were parked in the road. Four persons—men, she assumed—stood in front of them, forming what she assumed was a skirmish line. They wore balaclavas to hide their faces and were holding what looked like tactical rifles with scopes.
“AR-10s. Maybe 15s,” Simon said, channeling his tactical experience. “But from the way those men are standing and holding their weapons, I don’t think they’re military or police.”
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Tally said, keeping a sharp watch on the men. “What should I do?”
Simon’s voice turned deep and confident. “Hold position. We don’t know what they want, so let’s not start jumping to conclusions. Reacting too soon could escalate the situation, but I’d suggest putting the van in reverse, just in case we need to make a quick retreat.”
She did as he suggested, holding the brake while shifting the transmission into reverse.
“G?” she said over her shoulder, “did you get hold of Dre?”
“Yeah. He says no. Nothing strange to report. Red rain happens every day, right?”
“Seriously, G. Nothing?”
“He says your brother called on the radio, that’s about it.”
A fifth man got out of the truck on the right and walked in front of the roadblock. He was at least a half a foot taller than the other men, and rail thin. The other four spread out and held their rifles high, and so did the tall man, except he formed the letter ‘X’ with his arms. Gunfire erupted from the others, sending streaks of ammo flashing into the night sky.
“Oh shit.”
“Oh shit is right,” Simon said. “Hit the gas, now!”
“No, not what I meant. I know who this is,” she said, recognizing the arm signal. She’d known it since she was a child, playing and hunting in the woods outside of Pandora.
“You do?”
“Yes. One of them, at least. The super tall one making an X with his arms.”
G climbed forward, wedging himself between the seats, pressing his left shoulder against Tally’s. “Stretch?”
“Who?” Simon asked.
“My brother, Wyatt.”
“How can you tell?” Simon asked her.
“The height, the build, the way he moves, and that arm signal. It’s something he and I used when we were kids. We made it up and never showed anyone else. I haven’t seen it in years.”
“This guy’s a total nightmare,” G said, looking at Simon while latching onto Tally’s shoulder.
“I can handle him, G. He’s my little brother.” She opened the door, slid her butt across the seat, and put one foot onto the road.
“I’m coming with you,” Simon said, wincing as he opened the passenger door.
“No, you should stay here. He’s kind of a hothead. If things go wrong, I don’t want anything happening to you. Please, Simon. Let me deal with this.”
“Not a chance,” Simon said through the open cab. “You asked for my help and that’s what I’m gonna do. Starting right now.”
“Fine,” she said, pausing. “Just follow my lead, okay? We need to be careful not to push his buttons. It’s best if I do all the talking.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
President Donald Cooper fumed, pacing the nuclear hardened situation room in the subbasement of the White House with a can of his favorite vitamin water, Brain Flurry, in his hand.
“I’m getting sick and tired of hearing ‘I don’t know’ from you people!” he yelled, slamming the drink container into the oak conference table.
Cooper wanted to remain presidential, but his temper boiled. “I funded every last one of your projects and you promised me a weapon. You promised me battlefield advantages and economic control. That’s the only reason I went to bat for you with the Appropriations Committee and Congress on multiple occasions, putting my entire administration and my reputation on the line. I threw the weight of this office around and got you your damn money, and what do I get? I get red rain falling from the sky. I get a population on the verge of panic. I get leaders from every corner of the world calling and demanding answers or touting retribution. I get a storm that looks like it’s going to continue spreading and wreaking havoc across the nation. Somebody give me answers, and I mean right now!”
His Chief of Staff, Amanda Murray, sat to his left—the slender brunette with a full chest and heavy lipstick was the only one actually present in the flesh, aside from the President himself. The rest of the attendees at the emergency session of the National Security Council were represented by three-dimensional holographic projections hosted by Indigo Technologies. Their disembodied heads and chests floated over the table and in front of their respective empty leather chairs. In addition to the regular members of the council, the heads of NASA and the National Weather Service were also online.
Army General Nathan Henry Rawlings, III, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, a reserved, distinguished African-American man with a broad, pitted face and short cropped hair with thin streaks of gray along the sides, spoke first.
“I have preliminary reports about unusual drone activity in several key areas of the nation, both in and around the epicenter of the storms, sir.”
“I need more than reports, Nate,” the President shot back.
“Yes, Mr. President,” Rawlings replied. “It seems one of our cloud seeding drones out of Travis took off on an unscheduled flight earlier this evening. Travis is located—”
“I know where Travis is, General. I grew up in Oakland. I have cousins in Fairfield. Is that all you have? An unscheduled flight?”
“No sir. Traffic control said the bird was being controlled remotely out of Vandenberg, like all of the other top-secret weather seeding missions. The initial clearances checked out, but when I called Vandenberg, they couldn’t confirm the mission. It wasn’t in their logs, and no one on duty knew anything about it. It dropped off the radar just after the storms began.”
“What was it carrying?” President Cooper pressed.
“Payload unknown, sir. It’s impossible to say if it had anything to do with the storms at this point, sir. We’ve sent search teams to look for the wreckage, but so far, they haven’t found anything.”
“Choppers or fast movers?”
“Initially both. However, after we lost contact with the aircraft, we were forced to dispatch the Coast Guard.”
“What do you mean, lost contact?”
“Flight crews reported complete instrument failure as soon as they entered one of these air masses. Shortly after, their engines quit and communications dropped.”
“What about the men?”
“Search and Rescue is on it, sir. No word yet. All we can hope is they had a chance to eject. The Coast Guard has their chopper teams looking for them now.”
“Wait a minute, I thought you said flying in this shit wasn’t possible.”
“It’s not, but the storms are only concentrated over land so far, Mr. President, leaving the airspace above our oceans clear. The current search grid is offshore.”
“This whole thing is bizarre. Like something out of an Alfred Hitchcock movie.”
The general nodded. “I’m afraid air support will only be possible from land bases which haven’t been blanketed by one of these storms. Once they are, we’ll be limited to aircraft from our carrier strike groups and other support vessels.”
“Then you’d better call them all home, General.”
“Already in the works, Mr. President.”
“What about civilian air traffic?”
“We’ve lost nine commercial flights within the last hour and several private craft, but the FAA has already rerouted flights around the storms, diverting them to the nearest unaffected airport.”
The president gasped. “How many did we lose?”
“We’re still waiting on passenger lists, but estimates are well over two thousand.”
Cooper was dumbfounded. “Why the hell didn’t you lead with this?”
“I’m sorry, sir. I was waiting for more infor
mation to become available, to better offer suggestions and formulate an action plan,” Rawlings said, second-guessing his decision to wait. “However, the FAA was on it immediately, and frankly sir, there are bigger threats at play.”
“Rawlings, when we start to lose American lives, there is no greater threat. Understand?”
“Yes, sir. Won’t happen again.”
Cooper shook his head, trying to maintain control of his anger and grief. He was usually a polished, composed leader, keeping his emotions in check, but for some reason today, he was all fire and brimstone. His mind was racing in a hundred directions at once, making it difficult to remember protocols, procedures, duties, and responsibilities. However, he wasn’t concerned. That’s what his team was for and why they were in the positions assigned to them. He knew they’d pull together so he didn’t have to. He just needed to light a fire and get them all focused.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this stops now! We’re not going to lose another civilian on my watch! I want all air traffic grounded across the board until we get a handle on the situation. No exceptions. Am I making myself clear?”
Everyone nodded and agreed verbally.
Cooper paused, then continued with the general. “What else? You said ‘reports’ as in plural. That’s one. What else do you have?”
“Same story out of Cape Canaveral. An unscheduled drone flew up the eastern seaboard. Another storm started in the area and the bird headed out to sea before dropping off radar.”
Cooper glared around the room. “That can’t be coincidence. Anyone else here think that’s coincidence?”
Redfall: Fight for Survival (American Prepper Series Book 1) Page 8