by Summer Lane
State of Allegiance
Collapse Series #9
By
Summer Lane
Copyright 2017
All Rights Reserved
Summer Lane
WB Publishing
No part of this work may be reproduced in any form, except to quote in reviews or in the press, without the express permission of the author. Any unauthorized reproduction of this work is illegal and punishable by law.
This is a work of fiction. Any parallel to persons alive or dead is purely coincidental and is not intended by the author.
For my Brandt family.
Prologue
September 20th, 1992—Somewhere in the Pacific Rim
The storm hit in the early hours of the morning. Like all tropical storms, it was a cool rain, cleansing from the humidity of the local climate. It complicated things, though.
Yellow caution tape and a chain link fence threaded through the trees, temporarily marking off the area. There were construction trailers and sandbags stacked a mile high. And why not? The public couldn’t know what was going on here.
Not today. Not after everything they had done to get here.
A man dressed in a thin windbreaker and cargo pants adjusted his large glasses, wiping rain from the lenses. Men dressed in construction workers’ clothing—orange vests and all—scurried around him. Lights illuminated the site, and trucks grumbled through the slick mud.
“This rain, sir,” one of the workers said. “Can’t we wait until tomorrow to finish?”
“Of course not,” the man replied. “We have only a few days. Get back to work.”
His words were harsh and unsympathetic.
“Right, Mr. Richter,” the worker stuttered, embarrassed.
The man—Mr. Richter—pulled a baseball cap low over his weathered face, frowning.
Nobody here—save for a very select few—had any idea what was really happening. No one would suspect, anyway … or believe. A smug smile touched his lips. Hadn’t this been his idea? His pet project? There could be no doubt: he might be the one who could be credited as having the forethought to save the world from the destruction that would eventually rain down upon the western world.
Judgment Day was coming. Of that, he had no doubt. That’s why he was here.
The President himself had approved the project, yet not even he knew where Richter would undertake construction, or how. Plausible deniability is what he had demanded.
The less I know, the better, the President had told Richter. Take care of it. When the time comes, we’ll be ready.
Lightning flashed across the distant mountains, and Richter smiled again.
The end of the world was coming, and he alone would be prepared for it.
Chapter One
Present Day—Post-Collapse San Diego, CA—N.A.S., Coronado Island
Twenty-eight minutes.
I stand on the sidewalk, staring at the open ocean. Black Hawks and jets rumble and streak through the sky like a cacophony of insects, but I look past them. All of it is merely background noise—something to ignore. The clouds are puffy, white. The sky is blue. It’s a beautiful day here, crisp and clear.
It’s a shame because we’re all going to die.
My momentary daze is broken by Chris’s strong hand on my arm. He squeezes my wrist, his electric green eyes sparking with anger—with determination.
“We have to move,” he says firmly. “Come on.”
Of course, he’s right. The clock is ticking.
Twenty-seven minutes.
We leave our Jeep behind, and we run down a clean white sidewalk parallel to a clean white beach. There is nobody here today—the shores are empty, silent. Pristine beach homes line the street on our left, sparkling quietly in the early sunshine.
And ahead of us, the Del Coronado Hotel gleams like a castle, white-walled, topped with endless stretches of bright red roofing and tiered spires. Multiple condos and apartments sprawl around the base of the complex, looking toward the beach through glass windbreakers.
Any other day, I would stop to admire the beauty.
Twenty-five minutes.
Not today.
We keep running, faster than we have ever run before. The thunder of our impending doom is pounding in our heads, breathing down our necks. Sweat rolls down my forehead and slips under my jacket into my uniform.
We run until we reach the back entrance of the hotel, streak through a courtyard, climb several concrete steps, and enter the building through a series of glass doors that face the Pacific.
Twenty-three minutes.
I don’t notice the high wooden ceilings and the beautiful scrollwork on the edges of the walls. I don’t notice the artwork or the leftover Christmas decorations hanging from the top of every doorway. I don’t notice the names of the boutiques and shops that wind through every wide hallway in the basement of the hotel, an area called “Shops at the Del.”
No, I do not notice any of this—that all comes later.
Twenty minutes.
Right now, everything is a blur of light and color as we race up carpeted steps into the first level of the building. The wood of the walls, ceiling, and floor are dark, almost black. The floor is carpeted with ornate, threaded patterns. A chandelier hangs from the ceiling here, and a long, abandoned wooden counter sits near a front door, angled directly across from an old elevator with metal grating.
The lobby.
It is here, in the heart of the hotel, that we find the rest of the militia leaders.
And it is here that we will decide how we are all going to die today.
***
One hour ago, I arrived in San Diego, California, at the Naval Air Station on Coronado Island. One hour ago, I stepped off a submarine loaded with biochemical weapons that we used to knock out Omega’s congregated forces on the west coast of California. One hour ago, I arrived victorious with my militia strike team, the Angels of Death. And one hour ago, I was reunited with Chris Young, Commander of the California militia forces, and the love of my life.
One hour ago, we decided to get married.
One hour ago, Omega sent a nuclear missile toward San Diego.
Thirty-two minutes before impact, we found out about it. And now, just twenty minutes stands between us and total, instantaneous annihilation. All of our hopes, victories, and dreams are minutes away from destruction.
There is nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. There is no bomb shelter that could possibly save the entire city from the impact of a nuclear bomb. And even if there was, I would never hide in a hole in the ground and save myself while thousands of others perished above my head.
I am a commander, a leader. I do not save myself. I die with my people.
I hold Chris’s hand, shivering slightly. Every moment brings the missile closer to us.
“We have air support, right?” Vera Wright says. She is one of my best lieutenants, and a friend. Her blonde hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, and she is holding Andrew Decker’s hand—her boyfriend, and my most intelligent tech guy. “We’re at a naval air station, for the love of God. Shoot that missile out of the sky!”
“It’s not that simple,” Chris replies. “That thing is traveling fast, and if we destroy it too close to the shoreline, it will still kill us. The blast radius would cause radiological and nuclear fallout, too.”
Arlene Costas, her gray hair braided in a loose bun, remains silent and stony. Elle Costas—sixteen years-old, short black hair—stands beside Cheng, a tall Asian boy with a sword on his back. And between them sits Bravo, Elle’s German Shepherd, a bomb-sniffing combat K-9 from the Marines.
“There’s a
lways a way,” Vera retorts. Her cheeks are flushed, her hands are trembling. She is afraid—terrified. “Come on! THINK!”
Silence reigns.
What can we possibly do?
“We will die quickly,” Arlene says, her voice harsh and cold. “We won’t even know what hit us. There will be no prolonged suffering—it will be instant and—”
“STOP!” Elle screams. “We’re not going to die! We’re going to live, dammit. We’ll figure it out!”
“We can’t figure this out!” Arlene screeches, and it is the first time I have ever seen her like this—uncontrolled, emotional. “This is the END.”
Again, silence.
Chris says, “Continue with the military evacuations. Get the civilians out. Preserve the aircraft.”
“And what about us?” Vera asks.
“We stay. We die here.”
“If we get on a plane right now, we might be able to survive the brunt of the bomb.”
“There aren’t enough planes right now—the civilians deserve to live. They’re innocent.”
“This is insane—we can’t just accept our deaths.”
I reply, “If this is our fate, we have to.”
I wonder how these words have left my mouth. How is it that I, Cassidy Hart, have become so hardened that the thought of death by nuclear bomb does not root me to the spot in terror? I have nearly been killed so many times that the thought of death is familiar to me, as familiar as an old friend.
If I am going to die, let it be with my friends around me. Let it be with Chris.
I look down at my left hand, at the gold ring firmly set on my finger.
Well, I think. We came close to happiness. So close.
We are going to die, and Chris and I will never be married. We will never see the victory of the militias, or the defeat of Omega—
“Where’s Manny?” Elle asks, suddenly alarmed.
Manny Costas, Arlene’s husband and Elle’s uncle. My best friend, my confidante, and one of the best pilots in the militias.
Arlene stares at Elle confusedly, looking around the lobby area.
Eighteen minutes.
Devin May—a militia lieutenant and Navy SEAL, like Chris—rushes into the room.
“I was wondering where you went,” I say.
“I don’t see a way out of this one,” he replies grimly.
We move outside, toward a grassy area that overlooks the beach. It sprawls in a circle, the grass dead and yellow. I feel like an ant, watching an exodus of locusts leaving our shores. A cold despondency washes over me. I look at the ocean and think, Hurry up, just kill us already. We’re waiting.
Devin grabs the radio from his truck and pulls it to the passenger seat, offering it to Chris.
Coronado Island is so small—so tiny compared to some of the military bases I have visited—that I can clearly see and identify each and every aircraft leaving the naval air station. Chris shouts orders into the radio, and then I see Manny running down the street, his leather jacket flying behind him like a cape.
Arlene clutches her hand to her chest.
“Where were you?” she screams.
“Talking,” he replies, breathless. “I don’t think we’re looking at a massive nuclear missile coming our way. I think we’re talking about something much smaller—something a little more concentrated.”
“What do you mean—” I begin, but Chris cuts me off.
“Everybody move—follow me!” he thunders. “NOW!”
I am swirling in confusion, but our time is running out. There is no time to think, only time to move. Most of the masses on base have evacuated, and the island has become a ghost town.
You can’t possibly get far enough away fast enough, I think.
We run. Chris commandeers a military-grade cargo truck, and we pile into the backseat, blindly following him. Arlene is pale with terror, clutching her arms across her chest, Manny attempting to calm her. There is a chill in the air as Chris mashes the accelerator and speeds down the street, crashing through the now-abandoned checkpoint at the N.A.S.
Seventeen minutes.
We screech into the port where I just arrived from a long journey to Alaska, just an hour or so ago. The ballistic submarine that we came in is still docked here, and I see Captain Stanley on the dock, waving at us, his expression tight and concerned.
“Come on, come on!” he yells.
Chris brings the vehicle to a smoking halt, and he commands, “Everybody get in the sub right now!”
Nobody questions him—except for me. I stumble out of the truck and look at Chris.
“We’re going in the sub?” I ask, bewildered. “But Chris—what about everybody else?”
“Cassidy, get in the sub.”
Chris grabs my arm and half-drags me toward the sub.
I see Margaret Young and Isabel frozen on the docks, terrified. Margaret is pale white as she reaches for her Chris, her beloved son, while young, fair-haired Isabel clings to her arm.
“Chris!” Margaret cries. “What are we going to do?”
There is no time for a happy reunion between mother and son.
Captain Stanley bellows, “MOVE IT!”
“Everyone in the city?!” I scream. “They’re going to die, Chris! They’re going to DIE!”
Chris grabs my shoulders.
“And we’re going to live so that we can avenge them!” he yells. “Get in the submarine, Cassidy!”
There is no argument to be had with him. I cannot disobey. Not this time.
Horrified tears spill over my cheeks as I blindly sprint for the sub entrance, clambering down the metal rungs on the stairs, into the belly of the metallic beast. And then I stop dead in my tracks, turn around, and face Chris.
“This won’t save us,” I say. “We can’t go deep enough fast enough to escape this. We can’t even fly away fast enough.”
Eight minutes.
He doesn’t flinch.
“If I’m going to die,” I say, “I’m going to die above ground, not in a tin can.”
So, I brush past Chris, plant myself firmly on the docks, and look up at the blue skies. It’s beautiful, and I can almost pretend that all is calm—all is well.
Five minutes.
Manny is arguing with Arlene. I have never seen her so scared. She suddenly pitches forward, clutching her chest, and drops like a stone. Her eyes roll back in her head, and she is out, just like that. Manny catches her, alarmed, yelling, “Somebody help her!”
Andrew and Devin run to Arlene while I watch, motionless.
Three minutes.
“It’s over,” Uriah says.
I look at him—this man whom I thought I knew so well, who has kept so many secrets from me. It seems as if all the men in my life do.
Chris is still on the radio, communicating with various commanders on base, clamoring for an escape. He looks to Manny, then to me. “He’s right,” he says. “Manny’s right.”
“Right about what?” I demand.
One minute.
I look down at my trembling hands.
So, this is what it’s like to stare death in the face, to impatiently wait for it to consume you …
I wish it would just happen already.
I run to Chris, take his hand, determined to meet the end together—as we have faced everything. Both of us, a team, unbreakable.
Thirty seconds.
“Cassidy,” Chris says. “I love you.”
“I know,” I whisper. “Ditto, Commander.”
I force a smile, but it won’t stick. I am too scared.
Impact.
***
Alive.
Chris looks at me. Captain Stanley looks at Chris. Uriah and I exchange glances, and that is when I see the overarching streak of a rocket slicing through the air. It’s surreal, and for a moment I think, Goodbye. I did my best. I accept this.
Chris tightens his grip on my arm, and then the projectile smashes into the heart of downtown San Diego, across the harbor
. Something clicks in my head as I watch the explosion in the city center. I see buildings begin to explode and give way. Out of the corner of my eye, Commander Em Davis hunkers down to the dock, her arms around her Marine dog, India.
“Short-range missiles,” I breathe. “Tactical strike—shipborne. God, Chris. It’s not an atomic bomb; it’s a short-range missile attack!”
Suddenly what Manny was saying earlier makes sense—Omega is not trying to destroy the city. They are trying to destroy the people only. They are preserving everything else for their own forces.
This gives us a chance at survival.
More missiles arch over the sky, peppering the landscape like Pop Rocks, fireworks igniting across the distance. One missile lands on the far side of Coronado Island, in the residential area. It shakes the ground, knocks me off my feet.
No missiles connect with the N.A.S.
Why?
They want to take it for themselves, a voice whispers. They’re not going to destroy this place—they want to make it a stronghold for the Omega fleet.
It suddenly makes sense, and in that moment, I realize that we are going to survive.
Yet as I watch the collapse of the downtown area of San Diego, my heart sinks.
We might survive, yes. But many people won’t.
One of the tactical missiles strikes the massive, arching blue bridge spanning the expanse of water between Coronado Island and the harbor. Trucks and vehicles that were rapidly attempting to evacuate the island explode in a mass of twisted metal. The bridge—repaired by the militia after the Collapse—now falls apart once again, dumping vehicles and screaming passengers into the cold harbor water below.
I gasp for breath. The missile strikes come quickly and do their damage effectively, leaving holes and burning craters through the entire San Diego County. The screaming and the fire and the smoke rising from downtown are like something from a horror movie. I watch it from afar, detached, like a ghost. I raise my hands to my mouth, struggling for breath.
So much death. In an instant, so much death.
Manny is still holding Arlene on the dock. Chris hugs me tightly.
Alive, alive. We are still alive.
The utter shock of my continuing heartbeat is almost too much to bear.
“We have a job to do,” Chris tells me, taking my face in his hand. “Right?”