The Orion Plan

by Mark Alpert

  Sarah was fully awake now. She knew there were dozens of perfectly reasonable explanations for a power surge during the summer in New York. But she was getting a funny feeling about this, a mix of fear and hope that roiled her stomach.

  She put her iPhone in her pocket and leaned toward Colonel Gunter. “Could you do me a favor, Colonel?”

  His eyes widened. He looked as happy as a lottery winner. “As long as you don’t ask me to break the law, ma’am, I’d be glad to help.”

  “Could you put me in touch with your contacts at Con Edison?”

  EIGHT

  Emilio was playing Battle Blood. Actually, he wasn’t playing the game—he was crushing it. He’d never had this many kills before. And the number was still rising fast, coming closer and closer to the all-time top-ten list, which was displayed in the upper right corner of the flat-screen TV. It was un milagro, a fucking miracle.

  He’d started playing at 1:00 A.M., more than an hour ago. He and Carlos sat on the couch in the living room of Carlos’s apartment, both of them facing the TV and the Xbox, but Carlos had been knocked out of the game after the first fifteen minutes and now he was just watching Emilio kick ass. Emilio’s character in Battle Blood was a U.S. Marine Corps sergeant in a camouflage uniform, a real badass who carried half a dozen weapons. So far he’d shot his way through twelve of the game’s levels and wasted a hundred and ninety enemy soldiers in the process. He needed just seven more kills to break into the top-ten list.

  Level thirteen was a swamp in the jungles of Colombia and the opposing soldiers were Marxist guerillas, but Emilio had no more trouble killing these pendejos than he’d had with the Chinese, Russian, and North Korean soldiers on the previous levels. His Marine sergeant bounded across the TV screen, jumping over booby traps and quicksand as Emilio flicked the toggles on the Xbox controller. A couple of guerillas shot at him from a grass-thatched hut up ahead, but he leaped out of the line of fire and slaughtered both of them by strafing the hut with his carbine. When a black helicopter came swooping over the jungle, Emilio took cover behind a palm tree and used his grenade launcher to blow the chopper to bits. Finally, as the sergeant neared the guerilla headquarters, a giant crocodile lunged out of the swamp and snapped its jaws at him, but with one swift toggle Emilio pulled a knife from the sergeant’s belt and stabbed the reptile in the eye.

  “Ho, shit!” Carlos whooped. “You’re a fucking Rambo, hombre!”

  Emilio completed the level with a total of two hundred and nine kills, which put him eighth on the all-time list. He couldn’t believe it. He’d played Battle Blood dozens of times before and never got past level five. Now, though, the game seemed so easy he didn’t even need to concentrate on it. As he advanced to level fourteen—an urban-combat battle in the dusty streets of Baghdad—he kept one eye on Carlos’s sister, Marisol, who’d come into the living room to watch the game. She was twenty-six, ten years older than Carlos, and pretty damn hot too. She had long black hair and caramel skin and plump tetas that ballooned the front of her red dress. She usually scowled at Emilio when he came to visit—she hated the Trinitarios and wanted Carlos to quit the gang—but now she smiled as she stood beside the couch and stared at the TV. Emilio waited until she turned her head, and then he winked at her, cool and slow. She opened her mouth in surprise, but after a couple of seconds she smiled again. Meanwhile, Emilio’s sergeant kept running across the screen, and the number of kills rose higher and higher.

  Emilio smiled too. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this good. It was probably because he’d finally gotten a decent amount of sleep. After the crazy night in Inwood Hill Park he’d crashed at his grandmother’s apartment and slept from six in the morning until six in the evening. When he woke up he was so hungry he went to the pizza place on 204th Street and ordered four slices. Everyone there was talking about some terrorist attack that had supposedly happened near the river, so after he finished eating he headed for Dyckman Street. Several police cars blocked the western end of the street, and behind them was a whole fucking battalion of soldiers. But there were no ambulances and no dead bodies, and someone on the street said it was just a training exercise or something, so Emilio lost interest. He spotted Carlos in the crowd and they hung out for a few hours on Dyckman before going to Carlos’s apartment to play Battle Blood.

  After a few more minutes Emilio’s sergeant massacred a dozen turban-wearing jihadis and completed level fourteen with two hundred and twenty-five kills. He was sixth in the all-time standings now. Carlos let out another whoop and Marisol came over to the couch and sat down between her brother and Emilio. It was a tight squeeze and her dress was short, so her bare thigh rubbed against Emilio’s left leg. Although he didn’t have much experience with women—he’d had sex only twice in his eighteen years, both times with girls his own age who’d seemed bored and disappointed—he sensed he had a decent chance with Marisol. As his Marine sergeant started climbing the icy Himalayan mountain that was the battlefield for level fifteen, Emilio mentally itemized four hopeful signs: 1) Marisol had broken up with her latest boyfriend two months ago; 2) she wore the short red dress because she’d gone out for a date that evening; 3) she’d come home early from the date, in a terrible mood; and 4) she’d had plenty of time to change out of the dress, but she hadn’t yet.

  Emilio knew there were obstacles too. He was eight years younger than her. He was also the leader of a gang she hated. But in his mind’s eye he saw tactics and countertactics, strategies for overcoming each of Marisol’s objections. It was just another game, as easy as Battle Blood. The only thing he didn’t understand was why he’d found it so difficult before.

  Marisol’s eyes darted back and forth, following the gunfire that Emilio’s sergeant was exchanging with the Pakistani commandos on screen. Emilio waited for a lull in the firefight, then leaned to the left, rubbing his shoulder against hers. “Hey, want to take over?” he asked, offering her the Xbox controller. “It’s fun.”

  She shook her head. “Are you crazy? I’ll ruin your score.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I can always run it up again later.”

  “But you’re so close!” She pointed at the screen. “Look, you’re number three!”

  He smiled again. “All right, I’ll keep going until I hit number one. I’ll do it for you.”

  Emilio turned back to the TV screen but he knew Marisol was looking at him now, not the game. He started thinking ahead, trying to figure out what he’d do when he reached the top of the all-time list, which was bound to happen in the next ten minutes or so. First, he’d tell Carlos to run downstairs and buy something at the bodega. Then he’d make up some bullshit story that would get Marisol’s sympathy. He’d say he was planning to leave the Trinitarios and give up the gang life. Something like that. He might have to improvise, but he was confident of success.

  Before he could rise any further in the standings, though, someone pounded on the apartment’s front door and yelled, “Carlos! Open up!”

  Emilio recognized the voice—it was Luis, the youngest and smallest kid in the Trinitarios, and he sounded frantic. Without any hesitation Emilio dropped the Xbox controller, ran to the door, and flung it open. Luis took a step backward, breathing hard. He seemed surprised to see Emilio but also relieved.

  “Coño!” Luis panted. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

  “Calm down, muchacho.” Emilio gripped the boy’s shoulder and led him into the apartment. “Take a deep breath.”

  He obediently took several deep breaths. Carlos and Marisol got up from the couch and came over, but Luis kept his eyes on Emilio. “You gotta run! You gotta get out of the city!”

  “Okay, slow down, first—”

  “Paco has a gun! He says he’s gonna kill you!”

  Carlos whispered, “Fuck,” and Marisol clapped her hand over her mouth. They wouldn’t have been so alarmed if anyone else had made the threat, but Paco was a hard case. Emilio had recruited him to the Trinitarios to give the g
ang some street cred, but he’d known all along that the kid was troubled, and smacking him in the head last night had just made things worse. Now Paco was humiliated. He wanted revenge.

  But strangely enough, Emilio wasn’t worried. He was curious. He needed more information. He squeezed Luis’s shoulder to get the boy’s attention. “Did you see the gun?”

  Luis nodded. “It was a nine millimeter, a fucking Glock. He pointed it at my face and asked me where you were.” He started breathing fast again. “I told him I didn’t know. And that was the truth, I didn’t. And then I started looking for you, but I was worried he was gonna follow me, so I took the subway all the way to Queens and then doubled back.”

  “Good move. And then you came here?”

  “No, I went to your grandmother’s building, but I hid behind the cars on the other side of the street. Paco was in front of the building, watching the entrance.” He paused, biting his lip. “And Miguel and Diego were with him.”

  Now Carlos slammed his palm against the wall and Marisol ran out of the room. This piece of news was even worse than the Glock. Paco had convinced two other Trinitarios to side with him. The gang had split right down the middle. And yet Emilio still wasn’t worried. He let go of Luis’s shoulder and turned to Carlos. “I’ll take care of this. You stay here with Luis.”

  “What?” Carlos scrunched his face in disgust. “No, no fucking way.” He stepped between Emilio and the door. “I’m going with you.”

  His voice was firm and his scowl was convincing, but Emilio saw through it. He knew Carlos was scared. He knew it with absolute certainty. He wasn’t sure how he could be so certain—was he reading Carlos’s body language? Hearing something behind his words?—but it didn’t matter. The boy’s fear made him useless. Emilio shook his head. “You’ll only get in the way. I have a plan.”

  “What plan? What the fuck are you talking about?”

  Emilio stepped closer and slapped his back. “It’s a surprise, amigo. I’ll tell you all about it when I get back. You’re gonna laugh your ass off.”

  Carlos looked confused, but after a couple of seconds he backed down and moved away from the door, just as expected. Then Emilio left the apartment and bounded downstairs to the street.

  He hadn’t lied to Carlos. He did have a plan. It was so simple.

  * * *

  Emilio had to cross Dyckman Street to get to his grandmother’s building, and along the way he saw the police cars and soldiers again, illuminated by the searchlights behind them. He didn’t mind the soldiers—they reminded him of Battle Blood—but he hated the cops. They were the same bastards who’d arrested his uncles and cousins, all the Original Trinitarios who’d watched over Emilio since he was a kid.

  Emilio had never met his father—the spineless pendejo had run back to the Dominican Republic right after Emilio was born—and his mother had died of breast cancer when he was just five. So his grandmother took him in, and for the next thirteen years she worked like a dog to feed and clothe him. But it was really the O.T.’s who raised him. While his grandmother worked double shifts at the McDonald’s in Washington Heights, Emilio hung with the Trinitarios on 204th Street. They told him stories and bought treats for him—mango ices in the summer, churros in the winter. More important, they protected him from the neighborhood’s bullies and lowlifes. From the day he started kindergarten to the day he dropped out of high school, the Trinitarios saved his ass at least a dozen times. In the beginning he was their mascot, el Trinitario pequeño, but as he grew older they gave him real jobs to do, like standing watch on the street corners, keeping an eye out for the police. They were going to make him a full member of the gang when he turned eighteen, but then the cops cracked down on the O.T.’s and sent all of them to prison.

  Emilio was devastated. He tried to resurrect the Trinitarios by recruiting new people to the gang, but the arrests had scared off most of the muchachos in the neighborhood. The only homeboys willing to join were the young ones, the fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds who were too stupid to be scared. Emilio tried his best to teach them, but after six months he was ready to give up. His Trinitarios were a joke. All they wanted to do was hang out in the park and get high. When they rolled down the street everyone in the neighborhood laughed at them. And even so, Emilio knew it was just a matter of time before the NYPD cracked down on them too.

  But he didn’t get nervous tonight when he saw the bastard cops on Dyckman. He felt like he was wearing secret-agent glasses, like the kind that spies wear to see through brick walls, but his glasses were even better because they let him see what the cops were thinking. And what he saw was mostly fear. The police had no idea why the army had come to Inwood. They leaned against their cruisers, looking bored, but in reality they were scared shitless. They were outnumbered by the soldiers on one side and the onlookers from the neighborhood on the other. All they wanted to do was call it a night and drive back to their precinct house.

  And when Emilio looked at the ordinary people on the street—the people staggering out of the bars and nightclubs and making their way toward the subway station—he saw what they were thinking too. Some of them were drunk and some were just tired. Some were thinking about music or food or sex, and some wanted to kill themselves. Although Emilio could see almost everything, he knew he wasn’t actually reading their minds. He was just picking up clues he’d always ignored before—the way the people walked and laughed and moved their hands. It was amazing, the sheer quantity of information surrounding him. And so much of it was useful.

  At the corner of Dyckman and Broadway he made a right and headed for Arden Street. He felt no apprehension at all about Paco and the others. On the contrary, a surge of joy ran through him, filling his whole body with confidence and hope. He realized that all his life he’d set his sights too low. He’d dreamed of leading a gang that would command the respect of his friends and neighbors, but that seemed like such a measly thing compared with the other dreams that crowded his head now. He could do so much more if he just put his mind to it.

  When he reached Arden he turned left and slowed his pace. He crouched behind a parked car and peered at his grandmother’s building, which was across the street and fifty yards down the block. Right away he spotted three figures in front of the building. The tall motionless figure was Paco and the short fidgety ones were Miguel and Diego. If Paco had been thinking strategically he would’ve ordered the two others to act as lookouts, but he obviously wasn’t in a rational frame of mind. His motive was revenge, so he wasn’t going to shoot from a distance. He wanted Emilio to come close. That would make the moment of payback so much more satisfying. And right now Emilio was happy to oblige him.

  He came out of hiding and walked toward the three boys, strolling down the center of the deserted street. Miguel saw him first. The street was so quiet that Emilio could hear the boy whisper, “Mira!” Miguel and Diego stepped backward, retreating into the shadows by the building’s entrance, but Paco just stood there, moving nothing but his eyes. All three of them wore the Trinitario colors—the white shirts, the baggy blue jeans, the green bandannas. When Emilio got within ten yards of the building he stepped onto the sidewalk and headed straight for Paco. The Glock was tucked into the waistband of Paco’s jeans. He pulled it out as Emilio came toward him.

  “Stop right there, cabrón.” Paco pointed the gun at Emilio’s chest. “We got some business to settle.”

  Emilio took another couple of steps before stopping. He was ten feet away from Paco, and his goal was to get closer. He’d remembered something he saw on the Internet a few weeks ago, a YouTube video showing two people in a similar situation. “Put the gun down, Paco. I’m not your enemy.”

  “Not my enemy?” While keeping the Glock steady, he raised his other hand and pulled up his bandanna a couple of inches. Underneath it was an ugly purple bruise on his forehead. “Then why did you do this?” he asked, pointing at the bruise. “If you’re not my enemy, why’d you sucker punch me?”

  “I made
a mistake.” Emilio took a step forward. “I want to apologize.”

  Paco stared at him, frowning. Then he let out a chuckle. “Damn, that’s a good one. That’s real funny.” He glanced at Miguel and Diego. “Isn’t that funny, hermanos?”

  They nodded and started laughing, although without much conviction. Both of them stayed in the shadows and avoided eye contact. In all likelihood, they’d sided with Paco because they thought he’d kill them if they didn’t.

  Emilio took another step forward. Now there was less than five feet between them. “I’m serious. I went a little crazy last night. I shouldn’t have hit you like that.”

  “And now you think that’ll make everything all right?” Paco’s voice was high and angry. It echoed down the empty street. “You think you can say you’re sorry and then we can be friends again?”

  “I know it sounds stupid. But yeah, that’s what I’m hoping.” Emilio took one more step and extended his hands, palms up, in a pleading gesture. “Forgive me. Por favor.”

  Paco trembled with anger. He raised the Glock until its muzzle was just an inch from Emilio’s forehead. “You won’t get any forgiveness from me, pendejo. You’ll have to ask—”

  Go!

  Emilio heard the command inside his mind. It was as loud as a siren and yet absolutely silent. He instantly ducked his head below the muzzle and thrust his hands upward. This was the move he’d seen in the YouTube video, the self-defense technique he now remembered in such detail that he was able to reenact it without a moment’s hesitation. He stretched both hands toward the Glock and wrapped them around its barrel.

  At the same time, Paco pulled the trigger. The gun jumped in Emilio’s hands and the shot rang in his ears, but the bullet went high and streaked harmlessly overhead. Then Emilio, still reenacting what he’d seen in the video, raised his right knee and kicked Paco in the groin. He put so much power into the kick that it lifted the boy off the ground.