The judge nodded, saying nothing as he smiled.
“Now,” the lawyer went on, “if young Miss Moya doesn’t want the baby, he is ready and willing to take full custody of the child at time of birth. No questions asked, though I should point out, your Honor, that as indicated in our filing, Mister Kraft will be asking for child support.”
Biting her tongue, Lizette looked away, frustrated with the audacity of the court. Fortunately, she had an ace in the hole.
“Thank you, your Honor,” the gell haired lawyer said, smiling and nodding before taking his seat.
Kraft looked over at her and smiled in the same sinister way he had the night he’d raped her. It was a smile that told her he was the only one that was going to be happy with what came next.
‘Wrong, you son of a bitch,’ she thought as she rose to her feet.
Looking at the judge with the best look of innocence she could muster, Lizette held out her hands in surrender. “Your Honor,” she began, bringing a piece of tissue paper up to her face to wipe away a non-existent tear. ”I’m sorry, but I can’t comply.”
The judge leaned forward in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he stared her down.
“What do you mean?”
“I...already terminated the pregnancy.”
Gasps filled the courtroom as Kraft leapt from his seat, shouting. “What the hell?!!”
Behind him, an elderly couple, presumably his parents, stood from their seats in shock. “Oh my God!” The woman exclaimed.
The judge slammed his gavel down. “Order! Order in the courtroom!” Leveling the hammer at Lizette, he said, “You received a summons, Miss Moya, and in that summons, it stated that you were to take no actions that would endanger the life of the fetus you carried.”
“I know, your Honor.” She replied, looking downward.
“And yet, you terminated the pregnancy.” He stated as fact.
“No, your Honor.”
Leaning forward, the elderly man’s face was red with anger as he asked, “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“I mean, that’s not how it happened, your Honor.”
The man lost his composure. “What do you mean, child? I mean - clerk, strike that.” Taking a deep breath, the man rephrased his statement, glaring at her in a way that made it clear she’d crossed a line.
It was clear: he wanted to burn her.
“Please explain, Miss Moya.”
“I mean, I terminated the pregnancy before I received the summons,” she replied, looking away. It was untrue, but it was also unable to verify. Receipt of post office-delivered items to military personnel was notoriously slow, and she’d use that common knowledge to her advantage.
“That’s impossible!” Kraft yelled.
Ignoring the man’s unacceptable behavior, the Judge glared at her. “I don’t believe you,” the man said, before adding, “I’m reminding you, Miss Moya: You’re under oath. Lying is punishable by law.”
“It’s true, your honor.”
Frustrated, the judge looked ready to explode. Glaring at her, he hesitated. A sneer crossed his face. “What’s that?”
Confused, Lizette blinked. “I didn’t say anything, your honor.”
“I heard you,” he replied. “And I’m holding you in contempt of court. Bailiff, take Miss Moya into custody.”
Her objections were met with indifference. Looking around the courtroom, she saw few compassionate faces. Most regarded her with scorn, especially Kraft and his parents.
Whatever.
She wouldn’t be stuck carrying that fucker’s child.
The U.S. Military treats jail time as an unauthorized absence.
Ten days in jail for her alleged ‘contempt of court’ resulted in further punishment from her military chain of command, including a decision to discharge her from the military.
Her discharge gave Kraft’s chain of command all they needed to ignore her accusations. After all, there was zero evidence, and no witnesses. Ultimately, it was her word against his, and who was more trustworthy?
Sergeant First Class Kraft was a medal-wearing war hero.
She’d just spent time in jail.
A month and a half after returning to the States, she was back on the streets of San Jose, angry at the world and the men who inhabited it.
When Samantha brought her to orgasm, she thanked God for sending the woman into her life.
Soon after, the two women laid on the bed, content in each other’s embrace.
Samantha looked at Lizette, watching as the younger woman’s eyes closed.
Together, they would rule the city.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR
Over Western Oklahoma
“Shit!”
“What is it?”
Listening to the speaker in his headset, Tech Sergeant Andrews held up a finger. After a moment, he keyed his mic, looking at Doctor Reed as he spoke. “We pretty much burned all the fuel we took on with that takeoff.”
“Are you serious?”
“That’s what they’re saying up front. They’re saying we need to land and refuel ASAP.”
Reed took a deep breath. He was still dealing with the emotions stirred up by the loss of Jacobs, which had made him think of Chili, JJ, Spider, Dash, and, most of all, Skee.
Nevertheless, as the senior man present, as the leader of the group, it was his job to lead the team ahead.
“Alright, so what are our options? Where’s the nearest air station or airport?”
“Well, Sir, if we’re looking for commercial airports, there’s a small airport near Flagstaff, or there’s Nellis near Las Vegas, either of which is along the way. Otherwise, there’s Luke Air Force Base right outside of Phoenix, but that takes us further south than we need to go.”
Reed considered the man’s statement for a moment, then asked, “Does Captain Quinn have any preference?”
“Hold on, I’ll check.” Switching channels on his headset, Andrews spoke into his mic briefly, then waited for a response. After a few moments, he nodded and replied in his microphone before switching channels again. “Sir, Captain Quinn asked for me to bring you up to the cockpit so the four of us can talk it over.”
“Roger, tell him I’ll be right there.” Looking over at Mason and McGhee, he asked, “Any preference?”
Each man shook his head in response, saying nothing. Reed wondered if they blamed him for the loss of Jacobs. It’d been his decision to try to rescue the fleeing Airman, and not only did they fail at doing so, they’d lost one of their own in the process.
If they were mad at him, he didn’t blame them. He was mad at himself as well, not for his decision, but for not coming up with a plan that would have worked. Unlike when the men of SEAL Team Eight had died when they’d escorted him to Doctor Roberts’s lab at UCLA, a mission during which he was strictly following the orders of Serrano, the short-lived fight on the tarmac had been his decision, and executed on his command.
The loss of life was on him, and it was something he’d have to face when the mission was over.
Unbuckling his harness and unplugging his headset, Reed stood up from his seat. As he did, Steight got up in her carrier, looking at him expectantly. “I’ll be back girl,” he said, uncertain of whether or not she could hear him over the sound of the plane’s powerful engines. To help communicate, he extended his hand, palm facing downward, indicating she should stay where she was. The dog laid down on her cushion, watching him as he turned and headed towards the cockpit.
He followed Andrews to the front of the aircraft and through the door that led to the cockpit. Andrews stood off to the side and offered Reed the seat behind Lieutenant Knight, a position that would be better suited for making eye contact with Quinn during the discussion.
Plugging in his headset, he looked over at Andrews.
“Channel one,” the man said, pointing at the selector where the cord’s plug was seated.
Reed switched his channel, then waited while Quinn gave commands to Lieutenant Kni
ght on a different channel.
As he waited, he looked around the cockpit. While his work as a hematologist was incredibly challenging and had required years of specialized training, he was blown away by the level of complexity associated with piloting the massive aircraft.
A dizzying array of switches, dials, gages, meters, and buttons sat in front of the pilots, from low near where the pilots’ knees were to high above their heads. Screens displayed the aircraft’s relationship to the horizon directly in front of the two men, while other screens on the dash between them showed heading and radar displays.
Countless bulbs on the panels glowed in a variety of colors, and somehow the men had to know at a glance whether the illuminated color was a positive or negative indication.
Dozens of toggle switches were in specific positions, each sending an electric impulse to the aircraft’s computer, commanding the execution of a desired function, placing a specific piece of the aircraft’s equipment in a desired position.
In all, it was overwhelming, and he was glad they understood how it all worked.
‘Shit,’ he thought, correcting himself, ‘not only do they understand it, but the way that they executed that combat takeoff? Amazing.’
“Alright,” Quinn said into the microphone as he turned away from the displays, looking towards Reed. “I don’t think we should head down to Luke Air Force Base. It’s too far out of the way, and it adds distance to the last leg of our flight to San Francisco. I’m thinking Flagstaff or Vegas.”
Reed nodded. “Agree and understand that Luke isn’t a good option, but my thought is that Vegas isn’t a good choice. It’s known for having a high concentration of people in close proximity. Can you imagine the virus spreading through a casino?”
“Crap, that just leaves Flagstaff,” Quinn said, looking skeptical.
Reed shook his head and asked, “Not a good choice, is it?”
“No, definitely not. I’m not at all confident that they’d have the right fuel hookups for the aircraft. They’re different from what civilian aircraft use.”
“Damn.”
Quinn went on. “Some airports have adapters that can be used, but those are the big, international airports. It’s highly unlikely that Flagstaff would have them.”
Reed took a deep breath and exhaled. “Can we make it further?”
“I’d prefer to get fuel soon. As a pilot, you never want to be forced to land because of fuel, because some many things can go wrong, and if they do, you might need to loop around, or worse, divert to another airport.”
The men sat there in relative silence for a few minutes as the plane soared through the night sky, working its way west.
Finally, Sergeant Andrews’s voice sounded in the earpieces. “What about Creech?”
Quinn’s eyes widened at the suggestion.
“What’s Creech?” Reed asked.
Nodding with measured enthusiasm, Quinn explained. “Creech Air Force Base is primarily used for Command and Control of remotely piloted aircraft systems,” he began.
“Wait, do you mean, drones?”
Quinn shrugged, “Well, we don’t call them that. The Global Hawk might be what you’re thinking of when you think, ‘drones’, but we call those ‘Autonomous Aircraft.’ You program them, launch ‘em, and let them complete their mission.
In this case, remotely piloted means the control is on the ground, in what’s called a ‘Ground Control Station.’”
“You’re talking about the Reapers, right?”
Quinn nodded. “Yep, MQ-9 Reapers. They’re deployed all over the world, and can be controlled from right there in southern Nevada.” Satisfied, he leaned forward so he could look back at Andrews. “Great suggestion, Sergeant.”
“Thanks, Sir,” the man replied, “My buddy from tech school got stationed there. We met up in Vegas last summer.” Andrews looked away suddenly, as realization of his friend’s likely fate entered his mind. “Shit, he probably didn’t make it,” he said, shaking his head.
“Sorry about your friend,” Reed said, looking over at him.
Andrews nodded absentmindedly, looking at the back of Quinn’s chair.
Eager to move the discussion on, Reed asked, “And Creech will have the hose connection we need?”
Quinn nodded. “Definitely. The Thunderbirds fly from there, too.”
“Alright,” Reed said, nodding. “Creech it is, then. How long?”
“Should be about an hour.”
Landing at Creech Air Force Base was one of the most challenging things Captain Quinn had ever done. Relying completely on electronic navigation and the plane’s automated landing system to guide them safely from thirty thousand feet down onto a runway in total darkness (unlike Kirtland, Creech AFB’s backup generators had died) required him to do something no skilled pilot wanted to do: give up control.
However, as designed, the C-17 landed smoothly, touching down with grace and precision that would be hard to replicate, coasting smoothly down the runway while systematically applying the brakes in a smooth, controlled fashion until they came to a stop on the west end of the runway.
Wiping sweat from his brow, Quinn took control of the aircraft again and guided it off the runway and onto the tarmac.
Arriving at the hangars he turned off the plane's engines, letting them wind down as he and Lieutenant Knight began working through the post-flight checks.
Keying his mic, he said, “Alright, Andrews, you guys are up again.” Looking at his watch, he realized it was close to one a.m. Thanks to the incident at Kirtland, they were well behind schedule. “Let’s get this done as quickly as possible,” he added.
“Yes, Sir,” Andrews replied, before going offline.
Switching his headset to a different channel, he called San Francisco to let General Armstead know their status.
The base was desolated, a welcome change from what they’d found at Kirkland, but where they didn’t find infected (thankfully), they found logistical challenges. In the end, they would spend well over five hours on the ground at the dark and abandoned Air Force Base, finding each of the fuel trucks close to empty, evidence - along with the mostly empty airfield - that they’d given all their fuel to whatever F-16 aircraft had been on the ground during the evacuation.
Mason, Andrews, and McGhee spent hours figuring out how to first refill and start the generator that powered the giant, 200 gallon-per-minute pumps which pulled fuel from the base’s massive underground fuel tanks, then how to refill three of the fuel trucks.
When it was all said and done, the sun was rising in the eastern skies, warming the airstrip as the C-17 powered down the runway before lifting into the sky. They were more than six hours behind schedule, and to a man, they were exhausted.
Quinn and Knight had done what they could to rest, knowing that crew rest was prescribed for a reason but in the end, it would ultimately prove to be too little.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
East of San Jose, California
Reilley smiled when he saw the signs for San Jose ahead. He’d just descended from the small mountains of Joseph Grant Park, grateful that the small, two lane highway was mostly free of abandoned cars and trucks. Though the route he’d taken had been circuitous, it had done what he’d hoped: allowed him to make it this far without attracting too much attention. He had no idea who was out there, looking for the opportunity to attack a single male traveller with a young girl, but he was pretty sure there were at least some opportunists looking for easy prey.
Tied tightly in her bonds, the girl snored softly in the backseat, waking briefly each time he drove over a pothole, something he made sure to do routinely. Why the hell should she rest when he had to stay awake?
‘It’s time,’ he said to himself, pulling the car over to the side of the road, in a spot that was clear of other vehicles for several hundred yards in each direction.
Pulling the radio from the cup holder, he turned it on and waited for the device to power up. When he heard the stat
ic coming from the device, he held the button down and brought the radio to his mouth.
“San Francisco Protective Zone, this is Hermes. Come in, over.”
He waited for thirty seconds, then repeated himself.
After the second time, a voice responded to his query.
“Hermes, this is the San Francisco Protective Zone, over.”
“Is this Lieutenant Woodworth?” He asked.
A long pause.
“Do you mean Lieutenant Colonel Woodworth?”
“Whatever,” he said, irritated. “Just get her. I’ll wait.”
“Uh, yes, Sir.”
Several minutes of silence followed, irritating Reilley even further. He was about to vent his frustrations into the mic when a woman’s voice came through the speaker.
“Lieutenant Colonel Woodworth here.”
“Finally,” Reilley said, not bothering to mask the irritation he felt. “Listen, Lieutenant, I have the girl and I’ll be there for the exchange this afternoon.”
Reilley heard papers rustling on the other end of the radio, telling him the woman was reading from a script. “Sir - “
“Hermes.”
“Sorry, Hermes, first we need to know if the girl truly is immune - ”
Reilley cut her off. “Bullshit.”
The other end of the radio went silent for a second, then the woman’s voice came back.
“Excuse me?”
“She’s immune. I’m not going to wait while you try to ‘run tests’ to confirm. She’s got scars on her arm from where she was attacked, and yet, she’s doing fine. You ask her, she’ll tell you. She’s not a fan of me, so she won’t lie.”
Another pause. After a moment, a different voice came on the line.
“Hermes, this is General Armstead. We are prepared to give you the amount of gold you requested in exchange for the safe delivery of the girl.”
Leaning back in his seat, Reilley smiled. “That’s what I like to hear, General. I guess I should have asked to speak to the man in charge to begin with,” he said smugly. Being an asshole was something he really enjoyed. “Now, just to be clear, we’re talking one hundred pounds of gold, correct?”
Surviving Rage | Book 2 Page 53