Apocalypse Dawn

by Mel Odom

  Joey hadn’t even noticed he’d frozen. He hadn’t been around that many adults who were losing it. Seeing such raw emotion from the woman was overwhelming. Anger was one thing. Most people had no problem expressing anger, but fear—

  “Joey, find the baby.”

  “Sure.” Joey stepped into the minivan, banging his head against the roof and starting a new crescendo of pain. He played the flashlight over the child safety seat belted into the middle of the van’s bench.

  No kid.

  Then Joey realized that during the impact the child might have gotten knocked out of the seat. That wasn’t supposed to happen, but the child wasn’t in the seat now. And how would a kid look after she’d been bounced around the interior of a van? The thought hit Joey with staggering ferocity. For a moment he was sure he was going to throw up.

  “Joey.”

  He wanted to snap at Jenny, but he couldn’t. He didn’t trust his voice.

  “Please find her,” the woman pleaded.

  Reluctantly, desperately wanting to find the baby okay or not find her at all, Joey turned his attention back to the van. He shined the light under all the seats, checked the front to make sure she hadn’t been thrown in that direction, then climbed over the backseat to the rear compartment. He found baskets of laundry, a blanket, and a pair of collapsible lawn chairs. But no baby.

  “She’s not here.” Joey turned around and stepped on a small baby rattle, crushing the toy underfoot. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see that.” The apology, coming at a time when a baby was missing, sounded inane but it was out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

  “My baby!” the woman wailed.

  The pain and panic in the woman’s voice almost broke Joey’s heart. He’d never heard his mom sound like that, and he was sure he never wanted to.

  “Joey.” Jenny’s voice was choked and quiet but Joey somehow heard her even over the continuing blare of car horns and car alarms. “Look in the child seat again.”

  Goose bumps suddenly erupted across the back of Joey’s neck, and it felt like an ice-cold fist closed around his heart. His breath locked in his lungs. He didn’t know what he was going to find in the child seat, but he was convinced that he didn’t want to find it. He suddenly realized the minivan’s front windshield was broken out.

  Had the baby flown out the window? Was some body part still hanging in the seat? Which body part did he most not want it to be? God, not that! I would have seen that already, wouldn’t I? Babies are made of so many different parts. He knew because he had worked with Chris when Chris was learning to talk, touching toes and fingers and eyes and ears, teaching Chris the names of those parts.

  The flashlight beam illuminated the safety seat.

  There was no baby there, no baby parts.

  Thank You, God. Joey felt tears burn the backs of his eyes.

  Then he spotted the pink Winnie-the-Pooh jumper lying on the safety seat. It was strewn across the little chair, just as Sergeant Macintyre’s uniform had been in the Suburban. On the front of the little jumper, Pooh sat digging a paw into a honey pot as Eeyore, Piglet, Tigger, and Rabbit looked on. A disposable diaper, folded and creased as though it had just come from a package—a condition Joey remembered rarely seeing them in—lay inside the jumper. A pair of tiny socks spilled out of a pair of Blue’s Clues shoes.

  “She’s gone,” Joey croaked. “She couldn’t have taken those clothes off.”

  “No!” the woman screamed. She pushed free of Jenny and pulled Joey from the minivan. “My baby can’t be gone! She can’t be!”

  Dazed, Joey stepped back from the van beside Jenny. She took his hand in hers, holding tight. As they stood there, other conversations drifted over them. More people were missing. More piles of clothes had been left behind.

  Adults everywhere were losing it. Other people screamed for help, saying they couldn’t find their kids.

  “What’s going on?” Jenny asked.

  “I don’t know,” Joey said. “But I’ve got to get back to the base. I’ve got to find my mom and Chris.”

  “How are you going to get there?”

  “The car.” Joey looked at his mom’s car. The car was smashed, but nothing was leaking underneath. Maybe it was only body damage. He caught himself then, knowing that life had gotten strange, because he would never have thought that his mom’s car just having body damage was a thing to be hoped for. “Maybe I can get it free.” He looked at Jenny. “You going or staying?”

  “I’m going. You don’t need to be alone.”

  Joey led the way back to the car, running fast enough now that Jenny had to struggle to keep pace with him. He opened the passenger door and crawled inside, sliding across the seat to the driver’s side. He turned the key, punched the gas, and prayed to God that the engine would catch. Struggling, the engine turned over and started with a shudder just as Jenny pulled the door closed.

  “Hang on,” Joey said. He put the car in reverse and pushed the accelerator. The front wheels spun, then caught, but the car couldn’t break free of the Suburban.

  “Cut the wheels toward the SUV,” Jenny said, bracing herself. “Floor it.”

  Joey turned the wheels toward the Suburban then mashed the accelerator to the floor. The engine screamed, sputtered, and then launched into a full-throated roar.

  Metal ripped in banshee wails as the car surged again and again. Just as Joey was about to give up, the front left fender tore free and clattered to the ground as the car sped backward. He slammed the brakes on, dropped the transmission into drive, and whipped out around the Suburban. He ignored the stop sign. Everyone out on the street was stopped. New arrivals were getting out of their cars to see what the problem was.

  Breathing rapidly, fighting hard not to lose it and start crying like a wimp even though he was more scared now than he could ever remember being in his whole life, Joey sped toward Fort Benning. He glanced at Jenny and saw that she was sitting with her arms folded and tears running down her face.

  “Jenny,” Joey croaked.

  She turned to him, losing part of the tough façade she’d had all evening. “Something’s wrong, Joey.” She covered her mouth with a hand as she sobbed and her voice cracked. “Something’s so wrong. Look at all those cars. Look at all those people.”

  Glancing at the businesses and houses that lined the street, Joey knew what she said was true. Something was wrong. Big-time wrong.

  He reached for her hand, folded it into his. “It’s going to be okay,” he told her. And he felt stupid for saying it because he knew things weren’t going to be okay. But he said it because he was a guy and that was something that guys were supposed to say at times like this.

  She pulled her hand away. “You don’t know that.”

  “No,” Joey admitted, “I don’t. I’m just scared and I want everything to be okay.”

  She hesitated, then put her hand back in his, squeezing tightly. “Me, too.”

  United States 75th Rangers 3rd Battalion

  Field Command Post

  35 Klicks South of Sanliurfa, Turkey

  Local Time 0831 Hours

  “How much time elapsed between the two frames?” Remington asked. In the command field post, he concentrated on the pictures the computer tech had isolated of the helicopter pilot seat with and without Lieutenant Briggs of the Marine wing from USS Wasp. The legend at the bottom of each picture marked the local time as 08:21:13. The event—the Ranger captain didn’t know what else to call it—had occurred ten minutes ago and they were only now finding out about the disappearance.

  “At this speed,” Foster said, “you’re getting a frame about every four-tenths of a second.”

  “Four-tenths of a second.” Remington repeated the information in an effort to make it more concrete.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Remington tried to wrap his brain around the idea of the impossible act balanced against the impossible time frame. “So every second there are two frames.”

  “Maybe thre
e,” Foster replied. “Depends on how the time broke down. You could get a frame one or two seconds into the cycle, that still leaves you enough time for two more frames.”

  “Go through the footage from all the digital cameras we were able to access at this time.” Remington tapped the screen showing the two pictures, one with Lieutenant Briggs and the other without. “I want every frame you can pull from every camera.”

  “Just the helicopters?”

  “No. I want the frames from the wing provided by Wasp and I want the frames from our men on the ground that are equipped with digital cameras. Get that to me ASAP.”

  “Yes, sir.” Foster bent to the task.

  Remington stood and started pacing again, surveying the tech crew around him. None of them seemed to have had much luck with resecuring the computer feeds. He cursed, struggling to hold on to the calm exterior he wore. Everyone remained aware of the piles of clothing that remained of the people they had lost, and the captain knew the questions uppermost in their minds: Is it going to happen again? Will it take the rest of us?

  “Captain Remington.”

  Wheeling about-face, Remington looked at the sergeant he’d assigned to cover the cinder-block building’s entrance.

  Sergeant Tolliver entered the building in full battle dress, including his helmet and LCE. Sweat beaded his face, attracting a layer of dust. He was a lifer, just as Goose was. But where Goose had the leader’s capacity for free thinking and quick decision-making, Tolliver was a plodder. He could be counted on to do things by the book, within reason, and finish an assignment. But Tolliver seldom went beyond the book.

  “What is it, Sergeant?” Remington asked. He ignored the fact that all the heads swiveled toward him from the monitors. Everyone in the command post was spooked.

  “CIA Section Chief Cody would like a word with you.” Tolliver hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’ve got him detained outside.”

  “I thought Cody had gone.”

  Tolliver nodded. “He had. He’s back.”

  “When?”

  Tolliver shrugged. “Just drove up. We halted him, IDed him, and walked him in from the perimeter.”

  “Who is with him?” Remington’s mind wound around the news, kicking the fact over and looking at all the angles. He had ordered the CIA man out of the command post as soon as the SCUDs had been launched. Cody had wasted no time getting out of the area and heading north to Sanliurfa.

  Now the man was back. Why?

  “He’s alone, Captain.” Tolliver shifted his assault rifle in his arms.

  “But he wasn’t earlier.”

  “No, sir. Verified that through the perimeter guard’s notes. That’s how I checked his ID.”

  “What does he want to talk to me about?”

  Tolliver shook his head. “He wouldn’t say, sir.”

  Curiosity filled Remington. He knew the agency was a big factor in securing the humint—human intelligence—so necessary in waging the ground war against the Taliban in Afghanistan. During the Vietnam War, the CIA hadn’t enjoyed a good reputation, but as far as the Fitzhugh administration was concerned, the agency seemed unable to do any wrong. Remington knew the truth didn’t match up with the public image. The undercover agent Goose and his team had extricated only that morning proved that.

  “Bring the man in, Sergeant,” Remington ordered. “I want him unarmed and under heavy guard. Treat him like a potential hostile.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tolliver saluted, turned a sharp about-face, and left the room.

  Remington spun and faced the tech team again, catching several of them just turning away. In the space of a drawn breath, he was staring at the backs of their heads again as they strove fruitlessly to reconnect the lines of communication.

  The captain kept his attention forward when the sergeant returned with the CIA section chief moments later. He pushed his breath out slowly and chased his anger and frustration into a corner of his mind. Those emotions had their place, but now he needed the calm cool he was noted for.

  “Captain Remington,” Tolliver said. “Agent Cody is here.”

  “What can I do for you, Agent Cody?” Remington posed the question without turning to face the man.

  “You can’t do anything for me, Captain,” Cody stated in his unctuous voice.

  Remington spun on the man with the compact ferocity of a hunting cougar. “Then you’re wasting my time, mister.”

  Section Chief Cody flinched and took a half step back before he caught himself. He looked rumpled and definitely the worse for wear. His coat had been taken from him, leaving him in a sweat-stained white shirt and suit pants. His empty shoulder holster hung under his left arm.

  “Captain,” Cody said, “I assure you that—”

  Remington raised his voice, blowing Cody’s words away. “I sent my men to recover one of your lost agents just over two hours ago.

  The hostile who escaped sent a signal that triggered the Syrian attack against Turkey—”

  “You don’t know that,” Cody argued.

  Remington cursed, beating the CIA agent down verbally till he closed his mouth in surrender. Embarrassment pinked Cody’s ears and cheeks, and he blinked rapidly as he struggled to hold the Ranger captain’s fierce gaze.

  “I’m thinking seriously of having you placed under arrest and thrown into the brig until we can sort out the disappearances of my people,” Remington said.

  “What disappearances?” Cody asked.

  Remington studied the man. If the CIA agent was feigning surprise, he was doing a credible job. Remington pointed at the stacks of uniforms. Unwilling to release the exact number of losses within his group, he said, “I’ve had people disappear while they were sitting in front of me. I never saw a thing.”

  Cody was in motion at once. He walked toward the nearest uniform. “Then it’s started.”

  Remington was so surprised at the man’s movement that he was slow to react. Tolliver stepped forward immediately, reversing his weapon and slamming the butt into Cody’s head. The CIA section chief dropped. Before he could try to get up, the sergeant placed a foot on the back of his neck, pinning Cody facedown against the floor. Tolliver planted the muzzle of his M-4A1 in the man’s left ear.

  “What are you doing?” Cody demanded. His voice came out raw and rasping. Panic widened his eyes. His hands flailed.

  “Don’t move,” Tolliver snapped.

  Cody froze.

  Remington eyed the man with renewed interest. “What’s started?”

  Tentatively, Cody rolled his head over so he could peer up. “I came here in good faith.”

  “This time?” Remington showed him a thin smile.

  “Both times,” Cody insisted. “I was under orders, Captain. Surely you can appreciate that. I was told to keep your knowledge of Icarus’s mission to a minimum.”

  “So you chose not to tell me that the people holding your undercover guy could trigger the attack?”

  “We didn’t know that.” Blood showed on Cody’s cheek where Tolliver shoved the rifle muzzle.

  “But you suspected it.”

  “We didn’t know what Icarus had.”

  “And now you do?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we don’t know where he is.”

  Remington digested the news. The communications had been off too long after the initial attack for Remington to tell Goose not to release the wounded agent from his sight. During the confusion of rescuing the survivors of the attack on Glitter City, Icarus had disappeared either on his own, with help, or had been abducted by a team Cody had planted with the media people.

  “Did you have a rendezvous point set up?” Remington asked.

  “Of course we did.”

  “Then why didn’t Icarus make it?”

  Cody hesitated till Tolliver prodded him with the rifle barrel. “I don’t know.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I came back here to offer help,” Cody said.<
br />
  “What kind of help?”

  “Your computers have been infected with a virus. Not just the ones here, but all those along the line. Probably all the computers involved in this operation.”

  “That’s not possible. There are security measures, firewalls, all along the way.”

  “This morning,” Cody pointed out, “you would have said that the Syrian attack was not possible.”

  Remington said nothing.

  “The Syrians have been planning this attack for over a year,” Cody said. “They penetrated the mil-net at least a few weeks ago.”

  “With Icarus’s help,” Remington said, remembering the information he’d gotten from the man while he’d been in Goose’s custody.

  “We think they were in before that. The CIA is not totally culpable in this.”

  “Telling me we’ve been hit with a virus—even if it’s true, which I doubt—isn’t help.”

  “I know.” Cody acted patient, like a parent talking to an unruly child, and Remington totally disliked the behavior. “I can give you access to another satellite system.”

  Remington curbed his frustration with the situation. “What satellites?”

  “Satellites leased by the Romanian government,” Cody said. “Other satellites that Nicolae Carpathia owns and has offered for your use.”

  Remington knew the name. Carpathia was an international figure, and part of the reason the U.N. peacekeeping forces and the United States Army Rangers were presently in-country. Carpathia had taken his own country by storm, becoming the darling of the population over the last few years after getting off to a less-than-sterling beginning. Yesterday, the president of Romania had stepped down and suggested that the legislature appoint Carpathia as their new president. In a surprising turn of events, both houses had unanimously done just that.

  Before becoming a member of the House of Deputies in Romania, Carpathia had been a shrewd businessman who had his fingers in many international business ventures. He’d gotten rich. Remington wasn’t surprised to learn that Carpathia had invested heavily in communications, and satellites would have been one of the most natural investments.