Hero

by Robert J. Crane

  “As the great philosopher Bugs Bunny once said,” I muttered under my breath, “‘Of course you realize … this means war.’”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  Passerini

  “What’s the word, Graves?” Passerini asked, looking up from a hastily prepared force readiness assessment for the 2nd Dragoons in Vilseck, Germany. It wasn’t great, at least not from what he could see, the cupboard looking pretty bare compared to what they could have mustered around 1989. Toujours Prêt, his navy ass. He flicked his gaze to the colonel. “Any sign of …?”

  Graves was working diligently. He’d worn a kind of ghostly expression for a little bit after the tower fell—probably echoes of 9/11; that one still got to Passerini, even all these years later—but his color had returned, and he was tapping away, working on something or another. “Just checking some stuff out, sir.”

  “Please,” Passerini said, putting down the assessment. “Indulge an old admiral and give me a break from bad news. What have you got?”

  Graves hesitated. “Call for you from the White House, sir.”

  Passerini frowned. “Right now …?” He looked around. Nothing was ringing—

  The phone in front of Passerini beeped, and he sighed, then hit the speakerphone. “This is Passerini.”

  “Mr. Secretary,” President Gondry’s clipped tones came over the speaker.

  “What can I do for you, sir?” Passerini asked, straightening in his chair. He’d hoped, just a little, that it would be someone else—maybe the White House Chief of Staff calling to set up a chance to talk. No such luck.

  “I’m calling about the Revelen situation, of course,” Gondry said. “Looks to me like it’s resolved itself. We should start walking down our readiness level.”

  Gondry felt like his eyes were about to pop out of his head. “Sir … Revelen is still in possession of nuclear weapons pointed at us, and run by a man who has threatened us. I’m all in favor of calming things some, but I think walking down the readiness level would be premature.”

  “I disagree,” Gondry said, firm as granite. “You will remove us from our current DEFCON status, bringing us back to ROUND HOUSE status. Begin to return your forces to their duty stations and out of that theater of operations. Immediately. That is an order.” And with that, he hung up.

  “Good God,” Passerini said, once he’d confirmed the hang-up by pushing the speaker button. “First he wants no part in worrying about this, then he’s gung-ho for a war, now—” Passerini sank into his waiting fingers, propping up his head. “I’d say ‘make up your mind, sir,’ but the problem is that he’s making it up every which way but the right way.”

  “It’s because of what’s moving him,” Graves said, the colonel looking around. No one else was listening to them. “Gondry thinks way different than you.”

  “Oh?” Passerini felt the tilt of the corner of his mouth as a smile tugged at it. “How so?”

  “You’ve spent your whole adult life in the service,” Graves said, adopting a serious mien. “You pledged to defend your nation from all enemies, foreign and domestic, but … you really can’t target the ones you see on the domestic side. It may be in your oath, but—”

  “Son, the enemies I see on the domestic side of things can’t hold a candle to a nuclear warhead pointed at our cities or foreign terrorists trying smuggle them in.”

  “Exactly,” Graves said, coming around his console. “You see the threats out there, from beyond our borders.” He waved a hand around. “It’s what you look at all day, it’s what you prepare for. Terrorists in caves, readying plans to destroy us. Nation-states with imperial ambitions, thinking to roll over their neighbors, destabilize the world. And the big powers of the day, looking to take by force what they don’t want to win through diplomacy and commerce. You see the ‘foreign’ side of our enemies with incredible clarity. You take briefings on them daily.”

  “So does President Gondry, son,” Passerini said with a smile. “It doesn’t seem to be helping.”

  “Because Gondry is an academic,” Graves said, sliding up closer to him, “and because Gondry’s focus has always been here—domestic. He sees what he perceives as flaws in our system, in our people. He’s mired in national politics. Whatever dark vision you have of the threats that lurk beyond our borders?” Graves brought his hand in close to him. “He sees them here, in his political opponents. We’ve had relative peace in this country—no foreign wars that came to our shores, with the exception of 9/11—since 1812, basically. We haven’t felt the real kick of loss since Vietnam. And we haven’t suffered true economic privation from a war since World War II. Gondry’s a product of that. Even the Cold War didn’t crack through, really—we made it past nuclear annihilation, and now it’s so far in the rearview he doesn’t even see it as a credible threat.

  “His obstacles are all here.” Graves tapped the table. “His agenda is mostly domestic. Look at the legislation he backs, the policies he favors. His enemies are political enemies, because the threats you see? He doesn’t see them the same way. His enemy is his own countrymen—and at the very forefront, the biggest burr in his saddle right now—”

  “Is Sienna Nealon.” Passerini nodded. “That’s an impressive analysis, Graves. I think you might be on to something.”

  Graves inclined his head slightly. “Well, I’ve given it some thought, sir.”

  “Indeed you have,” Passerini looked at the screen. It was just rubble now, the ruin of that building in downtown Bredoccia, all still and quiet. “In a way, I guess it’s sort of a blessing that Sienna Nealon went down there. It’s probably better for us if Gondry isn’t externally focused.” Graves cocked his head quizzically. “No one here in the States is looking to heave a nuke at him if he just overheats his political rhetoric while he’s focused on whatever bugbear he’s after this week.”

  “Well, first of all, that’s not necessarily true anymore, is it?” Graves asked. “With the rise of metahuman powers, we’re looking at people domestically who can be the nuke you’re talking about. And if he wants to treat his own people like enemies … sooner or later, that’s going to turn ugly in the worst possible way. You can’t declare someone your enemy unilaterally for very long without them eventually declaring the same right back at you. But as to the other thing you alluded to …” He flicked a gaze to the screen. “Sienna Nealon? Ain’t dead.”

  Passerini let out a subtle laugh, under his breath, a bark and a huff all in one. “Son, her grandaddy just dropped a building on her. How do you think she’s going to make it out of that one?”

  Graves smiled. Looked sidelong at the screen.

  Passerini followed his gaze, and there, in the rubble … “Sonofa—”

  “That’s how,” Graves said.

  The long dark hair was obvious. The walk—a slight hobble evident until she got up to speed—looked like her gait. Passerini was no expert, but he’d seen enough Sienna Nealon footage to recognize her, even at this zoomed-out distance. She’d crawled right out from underneath a big piece of girder or something, and Graves—damn him—he’d zoomed right on it.

  Passerini came to his feet. “How did you know she was there?” He pointed at the screen.

  “Just a hunch,” Graves shrugged.

  “Does the White House have this yet?” Passerini watched. She was moving furtively, crawling around the wreckage, probably using pieces of it as cover, though he couldn’t tell for sure by the 2D imagery.

  “Nossir,” Graves said, returning to his console. “They won’t figure it out for an hour. And when they do …” He mimed an explosion with his hands. “The president will not react well.”

  Passerini stared at Graves, thoughts churning hard. “Your assessment, in this, sounds as dead-on as what you presented a few minutes ago. But that doesn’t excuse us finding this out and not telling the president.” He reached for the phone.

  “If I may, sir …?” Graves harrumphed a little with his throat. “Perhaps you should assign a group of intel
ligence analysts to monitor the situation. Do a double check. Triple-check. Make sure it’s her before you inform the White House. If you’re afraid of the reaction.”

  Afraid of the reaction? Hell, yes, Bruno Passerini was afraid of the president’s reaction. The man was fixated on Sienna Nealon, and not in a healthy way, like some gym rat obsessing over his deadlift. “I don’t know about that, Graves. Trying to manage the president seems like a real good way to drive a wedge between us at a time when it looks to me like he’s going to start stepping us up again toward war.”

  “Sir, he won’t figure out that we knew for months,” Graves said. “He doesn’t have a single loyal soul in this room. If you want to keep him out of it, you can. He’ll figure it out on his own, and he’ll blame CIA for not putting it out sooner.”

  “You’re asking me to substitute my judgment for the Commander-in-Chief’s, Graves.” Passerini ran hands through his thinning hair. “That’s a dangerous road, and not one I really want to march down.”

  “Fair enough, sir,” Graves said. “I just thought you might want independent, third-party confirmation that it’s her before you … stir the hornet’s nest.” He smiled.

  Passerini let out a tightly-held breath. Damn if that didn’t sound appealing. Graves had a definite point, which was what made Passerini agonize over what should have been a simple choice: tell the Commander-in-Chief that his target was still active.

  But … he was also right that the president had gone absolutely Ahab over Sienna Nealon. Whatever explicit danger he saw in her, Passerini must have missed it, absent her being some sort of avatar for everything Gondry hated in the world. How else to explain him ditching his otherwise fairly peaceful worldview to suddenly agitate for war with not one but two nuclear powers?

  If he informed the president right now … what would happen?

  Gondry would probably step up the war plans again, contra his previous order. Wouldn’t he? It seemed likely; the man had lost all reason where Sienna Nealon was concerned. After all, once she was out of play, he’d suddenly thought a peaceful resolution to this crisis was on the table.

  Revelen was a threat now, no doubt. Wedded to Russia, they were doubly so, at least in Passerini’s assessment. He dealt with threats like that every day, though, including Russia and China right at the top of that list.

  “What’s the status of Russia’s missile arsenal?” Passerini called. “And Revelen’s?”

  “No open silos, sir,” one of the intel lieutenants answered. “They haven’t stepped up fueling any birds. Readiness is at normal levels.”

  This was a dangerous game. Passerini didn’t want to make it any more dangerous, not right now. They were still planning for a war, one which he didn’t really want to fight. “Can you get me SecState Ngo on the phone?” he turned to look at Graves. “And order that assessment of the … subject.” He nodded at the screen. “Triple check. Just to be sure.”

  “Right away, sir,” Graves said, not able to hide his smile. The colonel needed to work on that.

  Passerini stayed standing, arms clasped behind him. An assessment seemed a good middle road. After all … he wasn’t a highly trained intel analyst. He could easily have mistaken whoever was running down there for Sienna Nealon. Better to have a professional opinion weigh in. Surely the president would appreciate that.

  Passerini almost chuckled at that. There was no way in hell the president would appreciate his “diligence,” not in this. But delaying every possible second before letting Richard Gondry know that his personal Moby Dick was still walking around in a country that possessed nuclear weapons?

  Well … it seemed like a smart move, and so Passerini bit down on his discontent, swallowed his conscience, and started practicing what he would say to the president when he finally did have to deliver the news and account for the response.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  Lethe

  “I am … not pleased,” Hades said, jaw tight as his asshole probably was right now, because the man was completely clenched. He was staring up at the main screen in the Situation Room, a live feed of the ruin of the Dauntless Tower in front of him, and thunderclouds boiling on his widow-peaked forehead.

  “Well, when you send a wrecking ball after a varmint,” Lethe said, trying to keep from gloating—she’d had long practice, “you can’t be all that surprised when a building or two comes tumbling down.”

  Hades turned a hateful glare her way. “That building was the symbol of our ascendance. It was to herald our rise onto the world stage.”

  Lethe rolled her eyes. “If you need a giant phallic symbol to announce your greatness … I think your greatness might need some work.”

  “Hilarious.” He did not smile. “Reducing the economic successes of our country to penis jokes.”

  “It was a state-sponsored venture,” Lethe said, raising a hand toward the screen with the rubble on it. “If someone here had built it of their own volition, I could get behind the idea it represented ‘economic success.’ But we built it, out of our own treasury, and it wasn’t even twenty percent leased. It was a vanity project. Just be glad it’s insured.” Lloyd’s of London would be paying out on the nose on that one.

  A flicker of aggravation twinged at Hades’s jaw. “I doubt our insurance provider will be sanguine about covering destruction caused by our own army.”

  Lethe shrugged. “Maybe next time don’t send Krall to nuke it from orbit.”

  A cold fire sprung up in Hades’s eyes. “Even funnier, coming from you, Sigourney.”

  “Don’t get passive-aggressive with me because your pet spider-monkey turned into a bull in your china shop,” Lethe said, folding her arms in front of her. “I told you not to send her. You ignored me. I warned you not to test Sienna in this way. You ignored me. Your favorite building is in ruins, and it probably killed scores of your own people as it fell. Don’t try and act like I don’t have cause to be a little scornful of your planning, genius.”

  “I never said you shouldn’t make your little attempts at humor,” Hades said, and the chill flared as some of the fire went out. “I only say I don’t find them that funny, given the cost to us.” He had his hands clamped behind his back. “And I had reason to test her—she has failed to rise to my expectations. First she was hobbled in her battle with Rose, losing her power. That was ‘strike one,’ as the Americans say. Then she declined the serum—that was ‘strike two.’” He raised a hand to indicate the ruins of the tower. “And now you see ‘strike three.’ She is out.”

  “Would you like to bet your throne on it?” Lethe asked with a raised eyebrow.

  Hades let out a sigh of disappointment. “Truly? You wish to bet on her survival? She had a building dropped on her, daughter. I realize you are somewhat more attached to her, but …” He waved that hand around, flopping it. “What is it they say in the US? ‘Come on, man.’ She’s dead.”

  “If you believe that, put your throne where your mouth is, Pops.”

  Hades narrowed his eyes. “You cannot be serious.”

  “I’m not you, with your ever-present irony,” Lethe said. “I’m very serious, especially in this. Put your money where your mouth is or stop whining.”

  “My liege,” Aleksy’s voice from behind them, “a small American drone is crossing into our airspace.”

  Hades kept his gaze on her a moment too long, still staring at her with narrowed eyes. “I’m not taking your bet, but later we will discuss this peculiar faith you seem to have in her. I wish to know its provenance.”

  “The evidence of my own eyes,” Lethe said, not lying, but definitely not telling the full truth. “That’s where it comes from.”

  Hades shook his head and picked his way through the Situation Room’s knotted series of consoles toward Aleksy to peer at the screen. “What do you see?”

  “A blip,” Aleksy said, squinting at the radar. “On the edge of the country. Small. Very small. It has to be a drone. It’s not big enough to be a plane.”

 
“Hmm,” Hades said, and then he nodded, once. “Take care of it, and then … I think we need to discuss destroying the rest of those planes, as a precaution.” He looked up at Lethe. “Since we seem to have abandoned the path of moderation here at home, perhaps it is best if we go big or go home, as they say.”

  “Sir …?” Aleksy’s curiosity filled into his voice, and it came out a degree higher than usual. “Taking them down outside our borders … that is an act of war … sir.”

  “Ares was a nephew of mine,” Hades said, straightening up. “There has never been anyone quite like him since he died. No one to take up his mantle, really, other than Sovereign.” He smiled and put a hand on Aleksy’s shoulder. “War and Death, they go hand in hand, don’t they? Like … peanut butter and jelly.” He patted the lieutenant’s shoulder. “Start with that small drone. We will discuss what to do about the rest.” He brought up his hand into a clenched fist, and something about the gesture caused Lethe’s stomach to turn over. “Let us show the Americans … that we are not to be trifled with.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Reed

  “Ejecting!” Greg’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker, and the world suddenly spun madly around us as the house lurched, as though it had been kicked by a giant. It probably hadn’t, I reflected as I hit my knees and tumbled into a wall, Jamal landing atop me a second later.

  What had probably happened, I realized as the world outside our little travel house was beset by roaring winds louder than a freight train passing underneath us, was that Greg had snatched us up and then ejected from the SR-71.

  “Steady us, Reed!” came the booming voice of Greg over the rush of wind, and I shook off the sting of crashing into the house’s drywall. The atmospheric turbulence outside was violent, and I reached out.