Healers

by Munson, Brad

  Boyd’s head wobbled up and down like a bobble-headed doll. “You bet, sir. Absolutely. Five by five.”

  Sherman scowled. He still didn’t like that boy.

  “Just as important – actually, more important – Boyd and his people will begin to publicize this address beginning now, as soon as this meeting is over. It will mention the day and time and the exact location of the speech, over and over. We want everyone to know when and where it’s happening. We want all eyes on us … while we’re busy doing something entirely different.”

  “Come in, Pearl Harbor,” Stiles muttered. Sherman thought Exactly, and let it pass.

  “Two days before the speech, three incursion teams will head south from Offutt to Mount Weather, Virginia.” A third light, icy blue, appeared on the map, a significant distance to the southeast. “The teams will wait for our signal, and as the speech begins they will assault the limited security forces around Mount Weather, while Boyd and his people here launch a cybernetic attack on Mount Weather’s computer defenses – one that will leave the security complex vulnerable to egress for a very limited time.”

  “Twenty minutes,” Boyd chipped in. “Tops.”

  Sherman nodded. He wished like hell it was a bigger window, but he had been told, over and over, it was the best they could do. “Colonel Forrest will lead the direct assault. Commanders Boyarsky, Castillo, and Krueger will lead the incursion teams. The mission is simple: Get inside. Find The Chairman. Kill him and any troops or staff loyal to the RSA. Sadly, we are not looking for simple seizure of their C&C. We do not want prisoners of war. We need to cut the snake off at the head.”

  Both Boyarsky and Krueger gave him brief, definitive nods of the head. Castillo almost smiled. All three knew exactly what their roles would be. They were ready to go, even now.

  “And I get to sit back here in Omaha and twiddle my thumbs,” Mark Stiles muttered, not at all happy.

  Sherman shot him a look. “You know damn well why, Lieutenant Stiles. You – or rather your blood – is still too valuable to risk in a combat situation.”

  “Seems to me I did fight in that combat situation up in New Abraham just a few weeks—”

  “That was unplanned, and you know it,” Sherman said. “You were supposed to be a goddamn truck driver, Mark, and it got out of hand. I’m glad you handled it, but come on. Be reasonable.”

  Boyarsky gave a short, sharp laugh. “Hah. ‘Reasonable’ has never been a big part of Mark’s skill set, sir.”

  Sherman’s glare grew even deeper. “Don’t remind me,” he said, and walked away from the map. “It’s really no more complicated than that. And you eight people here are the only ones who know the complete plan. We’re not even giving the President the full story – not until he gets here.”

  He looked around the table one more time, from face to face. He liked what he saw there – at least for the most part. “Any questions?” he asked. “I just want to make it clear: This is how we win the war. This is the only way we win the war. There is no Plan B. There is no fallback. It’s now or never.”

  Stiles gave a humorless smile. “I choose ‘now,’” he said.

  Sherman nodded. “So do I.”

  *****

  Two hours after the meeting adjourned, a message went out from Omaha. It was short, heavily encrypted, and so brief even an advanced listening post would have had trouble detecting it, much less deciphering it.

  It was received by a single instrument manufactured specifically for this purpose, buried deep in Mount Weather, Virginia. A single print-out of the communication was made moment before the data was wiped from all hard drives, all buffers. It was as if it had never existed.

  That single slip of paper was hand-carried to the Executive Office of The Chairman. It was put directly into his hands, and only he, Tristan Finnegan, and The Chairman’s ever-present security triad heard the words as they were read aloud by The Chairman himself:

  “Attack on Weather March 15, 2:00 pm. Three assault teams and cyber-attack. Single breach, main gate.”

  It was all the information they needed.

  “So your little pet did well yet again,” The Chairman told Finnegan. “Do you think we can get one more favor?”

  Finnegan allowed himself a small smile. “Anything I want,” he said. “All I have to do is ask.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Finnegan didn’t dare to meet with his own secret team until March 14th, the day before the assault from Omaha was set to occur. It was simply too risky … and really, there was no need. The defense of Mount Weather would happen just as The Chairman and his followers had planned. There would be only one change.

  The Chairman wouldn’t survive it.

  They came together at twilight in the flagstone maze, in the same river-stone grotto where he had spoken to Sommers weeks before. The weather was warming now; their coats were lighter, their faces tilted up towards the growing warmth of the springtime sun.

  Finnegan looked at the four men and three women that he and Sommers had carefully drawn together. These would be the core of the new RSA – the RSA that actually had a chance of defeating the remnants of the U.S. Government of old. “The assault is scheduled to begin at 2:00 p.m. tomorrow,” he told them. “The instant our defense begins, as commanded by The Chairman, he will be … forcibly removed. The defense will continue. His unfortunate death will only be announced when the assault is successfully repelled, and we will regretfully inform our followers that a number of his key allies were lost during that defensive action as well.” He shrugged blandly. “Such are the ravages of war.”

  He handed a small slip of paper to each of the men who surrounded him. “See to it that these particular people do not survive the attack.”

  Not a word was spoken. None were necessary.

  “We will not speak again,” he said. “Not until the attack is over and the day is ours.” He paused for a moment, thinking deeply. “I won’t wish you luck. Luck is a lie. Fortune favors the prepared, and we are supremely prepared.”

  He turned on his heel and walked away, into the gathering darkness.

  *****

  Private James Beecher was pissed off. He had been forced to stay twenty minutes longer on his sentry shift because that asshole Jameson couldn’t seem to read a goddamn clock, and now he was going to miss the beef stroganoff in the mess and be stuck with salad and those wretched out-of-a-box mashed potatoes. Again.

  He stopped at the small service entrance set into the craggy stone wall of the Mount Weather complex. This wasn’t supposed to be used; everyone was supposed to come and go through the main entrance, sign in and sign out, do the whole big deal. But almost every soldier on sentry duty in the last few months had given that up. It was a long walk to the main entrance, halfway around the damn mountain, just to show them your eyeballs and sign your name. And for what? It was a waste of time. Besides, they changed this code every twenty-four hours. Nobody was going to go sneaking into the most dangerous and secure military base left in the fifty states, at least not in the next day.

  He stopped and struggled to remember the new code. They’d just changed it. It was … ah, right. That was it. Same as the last one, but backwards. Good.

  His fingers hovered over the half-hidden panel embedded in the stone. Okay, 1—

  A black glove darted out of shadows he hadn’t even noticed were there and clamped over his mouth.

  He was too surprised to even struggle. One hand came up to paw at the glove, but his knees were already turning to jelly. The man in the black body armor was forcing him to his knees, pushing him down and holding him in place so tightly and efficiently that he could barely get a breath.

  His attacker was close behind him, holding him in place. His mouth was right at Beecher’s ear. He could feel the heat of the man’s breath on his neck.

  “Give me the code,” the man in bl
ack said. The glove over his mouth disappeared, but he knew it would only be gone for a second. If he called out, if he made a sound louder than a whisper, he knew this asshole would snap his neck.

  “No way,” he whispered. “They’ll kill me.”

  “If you don’t give it to me,” the attacker said, “I’ll kill you.”

  Good point, Beecher thought. He swallowed hard and gave the man the five numbers.

  The instant the words were out of his mouth, the glove clamped over his lips again. He could see the man’s movement out of the corner of his eye: leather-covered fingers punching in the five numbers he had just given up, testing to make sure he hadn’t lied. He prayed the man in black had a good memory, because really, no shit, he’d been straight with him. He didn’t want to die.

  The last number went in. Beecher saw the control band at the top of the keypad shift from red to green. He heard the huge locking mechanism deep inside the service door cycle and slide open. The door went pop, just like it always did, and drifted open three or four inches, waiting for him to pull on the recessed handle and go inside.

  Three doors down, two to the left, and there was the mess. Stroganoff. Salisbury Steak. Delicious mashed potatoes.

  The gloved hand reached out and pushed the door shut. Beecher heard the mechanism clunk and shudder as it re-engaged. It had just been a test. The man in black didn’t want to get in at all – at least not yet. But now he knew the number. Now—

  The man in black broke Beecher’s neck with a single, decisive twist. He hid the man’s body in the woods, and it was never found.

  Beecher’s short, profane notice of desertion was found at the main entrance during the next shift change, at midnight. It was not the first note the sentries had found.

  It would, however, be the last.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Marine One is in the air.” The words came from a modest little speaker on Rebecca’s desk, the one Boyd had installed when she and Mark Stiles had taken up housekeeping together, right after their return from New Abraham. Now she was sorry she’d ever allowed it.

  She did her best not to frown. It was hard. She had to admit: This entire operation was scaring the hell out of her, even though Mark was right there with her and not on the front lines. For a change.

  “How long until he gets here?” she asked.

  “About three hours,” Mark said. He was toying with his dog tags, twisting and turning them on their thin chain – a sure sign of his nervousness, she knew. “In other words, too damn long.”

  “Aren’t they worried about the RSA attacking his helicopter? I mean, we know they have aircraft of their own.”

  “Not very many.”

  “But still. And we told them exactly where he was going to land. Couldn’t they–”

  He put up a hand. “Of course they could. But they won’t. They would have to commit most of their remaining assets to do it; they’d lose a tremendous amount of personnel and matériel for one symbolic victory, and then who’d be left to take advantage of it? And trust me, he’s not up there alone. The RSA has no idea how many fighters, bombers, or tank groups the U.S. retained after the collapse, and they really don’t want to find out. The Chairman may be nuts, but he’s not crazy.”

  She cocked an eye at him. “You do realize what you just said, right?”

  He shrugged. “Probably not. Wouldn’t be the first time. But the point is this: the incursion teams left two days ago. They’re already in place. Forrest and his frontal assault troops are less than an hour from their staging area; Mount Weather either knows they’re there and is digging in, or they haven’t seen them yet, and they’re still a major target.” He turned and faced her directly to look deep into her eyes. “It’s gonna happen, Beck. And it’s going to be okay.”

  “Says you.”

  “Yeah,” he told her. “Says me.”

  They kissed – a long, soft moment that became more urgent as it lingered. He was smiling when they finally broke away.

  “Hey,” he said. “I just thought of something good about them taking three hours to get here.”

  Rebecca had an idea of what he was thinking. It wasn’t that difficult to figure out. But she asked anyway. “What’s that?”

  He grinned. “It’ll take them three hours to get here.”

  The next kiss was even longer and more urgent. Rebecca was the one who drew back this time, and only for a moment.

  “You are a dangerous, dangerous man,” she whispered, her voice deep and husky.

  His grin was full of delight and anticipation. “Hey. You knew the job was dangerous when you took it.”

  *****

  An hour before the President’s chopper was scheduled to land, a refreshed and recently showered Mark Stiles and Rebecca Hall entered the Situation Room below Sherman’s offices. The general – who had quietly re-assumed his rank just a few weeks earlier – was already there. So were at least thirty other officers and functionaries watching every detail of the simultaneous operations from every possible angle: Marine One coming from the northwest, the incursion teams dug in and waiting, the frontal assault covering the last few miles to Mount Weather.

  The room was alive with barely suppressed excitement. Stiles could hear the speakers buzzing, the keyboards clattering, the whispers of Those In The Know, so soft it didn’t sound like voices at all.

  He’d been in rooms likes this before. Sometimes it ended with the greatest rush of emotion and triumph that he could remember. Other times …

  He pushed those memories away. They wouldn’t serve him well, not now.

  He approached Sherman where he stood, exactly in the center of the room and working on what had to be his tenth cup of coffee. Apparently the man is impervious to caffeine, Stiles thought. “Everybody in place?” Stiles asked, though he knew damn well if they weren’t, if something had changed, he would have heard about it already.

  “We’re as ready as we can be,” Sherman said. “How are you two? Ready to play nice with the President?”

  Stiles scowled. “You didn’t have to tell him I was The Guy with the Blood, you know.”

  “Actually, I did. He wanted to know.”

  “Still ...” The whole idea of getting a medal from the President of the United States, even in the Nation’s current condition, made Stiles supremely uncomfortable.

  “Just shake his hand, speak only when spoken to, and excuse yourself as quickly as you can.” Sherman actually smiled a little. “It’s always worked for me.”

  “Show off,” Stiles muttered.

  “Marine One to Omaha,” said a deep female voice, slightly buzzy and blurred by the speakers. “We’re fifty miles out.”

  “We see you,” said the air controller, sounding remarkably calm for a man who was quite literally sweating buckets. “Pad is clear and waiting.”

  “Roger. Marine One out.”

  “You know,” Stiles said, “we’ve been through kind of a lot in the last year or so, and it’s not like it was a quiet life before that.”

  “But?” said Rebecca. She leaned against him and squeezed his arm with hers. She was standing so close to him it made him dizzy.

  “But this is the scariest thing I’ve ever had to do,” he said. “And that includes getting chewed on by zombies. Twice.”

  *****

  Mbutu Ngasy was clenching his jaw so tightly it made his teeth hurt. He did not like helicopters. He would never like helicopters, he told himself. Every time he escaped from one, he promised himself it would be his last time, he would never do it again. And yet here he was, one more time, flying from McCoy Field back to Omaha as part of the single largest charade since Morningstar came to America.

  Denise McKendrick was in the jumpseat next to him, looking so excited he was afraid she was going to burst. A narrow door separated their chairs – the entrance to the Ex
ecutive Suite. Now, flushed and bright-eyed, she leaned across the intervening space and shouted “Almost there!” The sound insulation in the Sikorsky was especially thick, he knew, in deference to the President and his staff, but she still had to raise her voice to be heard over the thundering rhythm of the rotors. “Twenty more minutes!”

  Mbutu just nodded – one short bob of the head, and that was it. Sooner rather than later, he commanded. Please.

  A radio voice cut through the rumble – a voice that Mbutu was fairly sure he recognized. “Marine One, this is Omaha. We’re waiting for you at the LZ. Popping smoke now.” It was still broad daylight – not even noon, for that matter – but they’d agreed a marker from the landing pad outside the Omaha Headquarters would make it even easier to find their way in.

  The plume of magenta smoke ahead and below them was easy to pick out against the rich grays and greens of springtime in Omaha. “Looking good,” the pilot said. Mbutu had met the woman a few times before. She had impressive eyes and a voice so deep and husky it could neither be forgotten or ignored. “We’ll see you—”

  A harsh, loud BLEET-BLEET-BLEET filled the cockpit. The pilot suddenly tensed and gripped the controls. McKendrick clutched the arms of her jumpseat and shouted, “What is it? What—”

  “Loss of pressure!” the pilot said. “Shit, the stick is unresponsive. Engine overheating, air pressure – everything! System failure! Omaha, massive system failure, computers are down!”

  BLEET-BLEET-BLEET. The alarms wouldn’t stop,

  The narrow door between Mbutu’s and McKendrick’s jump seats sprang open and the President of the United States stuck out his head. “What is it?” he said, sounding angry and concerned at the same time.