He swung his little body around the wedge-shaped bulkhead.
“Are you crazy?” she asked, peering around the orange steel wall.
Izzy was standing on a meager ledge as the ground zipped beneath him at fifty miles per hour. Face pinched in concentration, he placed one foot atop the greasy-looking hitch, walked forward onto the ledge of the next car, then sidestepped to the edge and hurled himself around the wall.
“Come on,” he said, enthusiastically waving her forward.
Sybil stared at him, trying to decide what scared her more. Being alone? Or crossing the chasm between cars?
“It’s easy,” he told her. “Two quick steps, but whatever you do, don’t touch the cut levers.”
“What are cut levers?”
“See this white bar?” He wrapped a leg around the wall, pointing with his foot. “It uncouples the cars.”
“How the hell do you know that?” she asked, fearful of entrusting her life to a ten-year-old with an overactive imagination.
“My grandfather worked for Union Pacific Railroad, and I used to play on the old boxcars when I was a kid.”
The statement made Sybil laugh. “You mean like yesterday?” she asked, slipping her journal into the outer pocket of her backpack.
He flicked his middle finger upward then said, “I may be younger, but I’ve got more guts than you do!”
Irked, Sybil straddled the bulkhead, right foot precariously perched on the itsy-bitsy ledge, then she whipped her left leg around. Stones and tarred hunks of wood were a blurry river gushing beneath her feet, making her feel dizzy.
“Come on, Chickenshit, two steps!”
Anger surpassing fear, arms outstretched, she stepped forward. Left foot on the coupling, right on the ledge, then she grasped the steel studs and propelled herself around the bulkhead, panting.
Izzy was already taking his hatchet to another crate, and with jittery hands, Sybil copied the new symbol into her journal.
Fragments of wooden slats and blue tarp accumulated like snowflakes beside her feet, and she raised herself on tiptoe to see over him, into the crate. “What is it?”
“I dunno,” Izzy mumbled. “Looks like a giant plastic cooler. Maybe there’s food inside. Like hamburger or eggs.”
“We don’t have any way to cook those. Better hope for cheese and milk.” Sybil grabbed the crowbar, leveraged her body weight, and wrenched open the remainder of the wooden crate.
A devilish smile curled Izzy’s lips. “You’re pretty strong for a wussy girl.”
Playfully, she smacked the back of his head then twisted the latch and lifted the lid of the round-cornered plastic box.
Instinctively, her hand jerked away.
Izzy backpedaled, eyes widening.
65
District Eight, Colorado
ANTICIPATING THE TEradS’ reemergence from the mine, First Sergeant Fitzgerald scrutinized the mountainside for threats.
“Why does Captain Andrews want a mentally unstable Sniper inside a coal mine?” Phillips asked.
Fitzgerald smirked, detecting a hint of professional jealousy in his tone. “Webber’s not unstable.”
“The guy can’t accept his wife’s death.” Phillips raised the binoculars to check something then dismissed it. “If you ask me, he should be getting a psych-evaluation.”
“I promise you, he’s sane. In fact, we found Abby Webber alive inside that mine.”
Phillips snickered. “Yeah, you find Santa Claus in there too?”
Fitzgerald’s head tilted toward a shrill whistle, the distinct scream of a mortar. “Incoming!”
A patch of earth above the mine entrance exploded.
Three additional mortars struck in quick succession.
Dirt, rock, and foliage sailed in all directions, then a landslide of boulders mixed with sheared-off tree trunks slid downward, sealing the rickety opening.
“They’re coming from behind us. West side of the mountain.”
Fitzgerald tried to contact the two-man team stationed at the southern portal. “Comms are jammed. It’s another ambush!”
A fifth mortar came shrieking over the mountain and detonated thirty yards to his right.
Sound and pressure waves vibrated painfully through his limbs.
Shrapnel and splintered hunks of wood pelted trees.
Shredded leaves and pine needles wafted down.
Then he heard a guttural groan.
A mangled tree branch was protruding from Phillips’ right eye.
66
District Eight, Colorado
RYAN ANDREWS KNEW instantly. Terrorists had blown up the northern portal, and once the tremors subsided, a ghostly shadow of black mist coiled into the chamber.
Franny pulled her T-shirt up over her nose and said, “Follow me to the southern exit.”
The TEradS teams trudged into the swirling coal dust, single file; and for Ryan, the entire scene had a surreal, dreamlike quality. He was still trying to process the fact that Bradley had been right.
Abby was alive, and I refused to listen.
He locked away the guilt for another time and place, then entered the low-ceilinged tunnel, falling in behind his men. Were Fitzgerald and Phillips ambushed? Were terrorists lying in wait outside the southern portal? Would they be dressed as peacekeepers? How many? Small arms or artillery? Will we lose communications?
Another series of rumbles buffeted the mine, and Ryan propped a hand against the wall to maintain balance.
“There goes the southern portal.” Franny’s voice glided through the darkness, calmer and more controlled than he would have expected.
After a series of switchbacks, a thick beam of light illuminated a river of coal dust riding along the dank current of air. Ryan could feel the grit clogging his sinuses and coating his teeth.
They arrived at another chamber, twenty-by-twenty with a bank of car batteries and headlights. Ryan squinted against the brightness. A folding card table stood in the middle of the space, and a strip of white paper stretched across the rear wall, some kind of makeshift map drawn with color markers.
“Captain Andrews, sir?”
Ryan wheeled around and frowned at the tangle of jagged metal in Sergeant Richards’ hands.
“Who the fuck shot my robot?”
“I did,” Franny said unapologetically. “And how did you find out about this mine?”
Conjuring his deepest, most intimidating tone, Ryan said, “I’m the one who asks the questions. Understood?”
“Listen up, Fuck Face! If the peacekeepers sent you here, you’ve been set up.”
Ryan was simultaneously annoyed, intrigued, and enamored with this ballsy woman. She had confident, alluring eyes, an unusual shade of frosty turquoise made even more striking by strands of merlot-colored hair that had squirted free from her ponytail. Even in harsh lighting with a dust-smudged face, she was unmistakably gorgeous.
“Based on what? Women’s intuition?” he asked, resorting to sarcasm to legitimize his insuppressible smile.
“Based on common sense and the facts, Captain Clueless!”
Exasperated, he said, “Lady, who the hell do you think you are?”
“Major Frances Marion—”
“Major pain in my ass is more like it.”
“Uh, Captain Andrews, sir?” Richards interrupted. He and Team 6B had sorted through some wooden crates and were exhibiting an extensive cache of ammunition, explosives, and detonators.
Ryan’s accusing gaze bored into Franny. “Did you blow up that horse farm and kill four of my men?”
“Of course not,” Franny said calmly. “Ty and I heard the explosion, came out to investigate, and tried to cover Abby.”
He had already heard Abby’s abridged account of the ambush, which seemed to jibe with Franny’s story.
“Well, if you’re not a terrorist, why do you have a shitload of explosives? Were you involved with the bombing of Moffat Tunnel and UW Headquarters?”
“Abso-fucking-lut
ely!”
“So you are a terrorist—”
“No. I kill terrorists,” Franny said, nonchalantly tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Think about Moffat Tunnel and UW Headquarters—who got killed? Hint: It wasn’t Americans!”
“You’re the Terror Fox!” If not for the stockpile of explosives, he would have laughed at the notion.
“I’m a retired Army Sapper, Captain. Before the pulse I was working at Tygren Mining, hence the explosives.”
“And you decided—unilaterally—that it was a good idea to destroy a supply route into District Eight and stop the flow of food, fuel, and medicine?”
“Are you that dense, Captain?” Franny lurched forward, nose to nose with him, and he was surprised by the reaction her proximity stirred. It had been a long time since he had felt this kind of impulsive attraction, and he met her glare cautiously, hoping she couldn’t sense what he was feeling.
“China slapped blue helmets onto their Army and shipped them across the Pacific under the guise of peacekeepers. News Flash, Captain Clueless: It’s not a humanitarian relief mission. It’s the biggest fucking invasion since D-Day!”
67
The Utah-Colorado border
SYBIL AND IZZY HAD rooted through a dozen bulkhead cars, uncovering weapons, cellular phones, laptops, and an assortment of food. They had stuffed their stomachs with cans of beef stew; their backpacks with lightweight bags of dried fish and bottles of antibiotics—the ones Mr. Preston said would be most valuable. Still, Sybil’s mind kept regressing to those oversized coolers.
They were loaded with scary-looking syringes, each bearing a red label. Instinctively, she had backed away as if the crate itself might somehow contaminate her.
“Izzy, do you still think that vaccine made your mom sick?”
His shoulders slumped as though an invisible weight had been thrust upon him. “Did you ever hear about anybody having Alameda fever before they started giving out those vaccinations?”
Sybil shook her head. “But then why haven’t we gotten sick?”
“They gave me the blue shot. My mom got a red one. Which color did you get?”
“I’m not sure.” All she remembered was the pain—the boot on her neck, the needle piercing her arm.
Izzy guzzled a bottle of water, studying the muddy-greenish river snaking past the train. “Maybe all the kids got blue and the adults got red.”
Were the peacekeepers really killing Americans with a vaccine? Is that why they made it mandatory? Did they shoot her father because he resisted the inoculation?
“But why not kill the kids too?” Sybil asked.
“Maybe they are,” he said with a lackadaisical shrug. “Maybe the blue one just takes longer. For all we know, we could already be infected.”
The possibility shivered through Sybil. Her heartbeat suddenly sounded like a secret clock, ticking down to some unknown deadline. Her quest to expose the UW had just unraveled into a race against time.
“Come on,” she said, pulling on her backpack. “There are more train cars to explore.”
“Sybil, we’re maxed out,” Izzy told her. “We can’t fit another thing into our bags.”
“But it’ll give us something to do besides dwell on dying.”
He let out a long sigh, gathered his gear, and headed toward the bulkhead. Sybil watched him traverse the coupling, arms and legs moving with awkward, jerky motions like rusty cogs on a wheel. He hugged the orange steel wall, face pale and huffing for air.
“Are you okay?”
“The train’s going uphill now,” he told her. “You’re gonna have to really hurl yourself or you won’t make it.”
Sybil stepped around the bulkhead onto the ledge. She could feel the force of gravity pinning her against the steel, could smell the burst of diesel from the locomotive’s straining engine. At least the blur of ground beneath her had slowed. She said a quick prayer, looped her right foot beneath the white cut lever, and jerked it upward. A clanking sound punctured the drone of wheels grinding against rails, followed by an electrical snap.
Her left foot settled on the coupling; and as the ball slipped from the hitch, Sybil threw herself forward.
The tip of her right foot snagged the ledge.
Her fingers clawed the steel studs, wrestling against gravity for control over her left leg.
“Are you out of your freaking mind?” Izzy shouted, grabbing onto her sleeve as if that might help.
Garnering every ounce of determination and energy she could muster, Sybil yanked her leg forward, smashed her knee into the steel, and spun herself around the bulkhead directly into Izzy. They fell into a heap then scrambled back to their feet.
The liberated cars were gaining speed, squealing and groaning against the steep, curvy stretch of railroad track. The sound intensified, shrill and piercing, like fingernails against a chalkboard, and culminated in a grating crash.
Car after car slammed into the steep hillside.
Tankers ruptured like eggshells.
Diesel ignited.
Huge plumes of roiling smoke blackened the sky and Sybil began to giggle uncontrollably.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Izzy demanded, sounding more like her father than a ten-year-old.
“You think you’re the only one who can be a thorn in the UW’s side?” she asked, only then noticing the throbbing pain in her knee.
“You could’ve been killed!”
“Yeah? And how many people would those vaccines have killed?”
68
District Eight, Colorado
“LOOK, ANDREWS, THIS isn’t rocket science ...” Hands perched against hips, Franny’s loose-fitting camouflage shirt compressed, heralding the feminine curves beneath.
Ryan chased the unwelcome observation from his mind.
“... Phase one of hostilities: China launches cyber attacks and lets their proxies—North Korea, Iran, and Sunni jihadists—do the dirty work and render the U.S. powerless. Phase two: While our military engages on multiple fronts overseas, they present the Chong Sheng Plan, the perfect solution for a problem they engineered. Phase three: Play nice for a year, run a bogus relief effort to amass 300,000 Chinese nationals on U.S. soil. Quietly seize control over ports, railroads, communications, and currency while the TEradS teams clean up the terrorists. Phase four: Eliminate all Americans capable of opposing them. That would make you guys a huge target. You lose any other teams to ambush lately, Captain Clueless?”
Ryan didn’t want to believe it. The war was supposed to be winding down; life was supposed to be returning to normal with electric and phones, not descending into a deeper level of hell.
“Why?” Bradley asked. “Why would China attack us? First, we’ve got military superiority; and second, we supported their economy, importing all the crap they manufacture.”
“Survival,” Franny said flatly. “They’ve polluted their air, land, and water. So now they want ours, not to mention our mineral, energy, and agricultural resources.”
It all fit together into a neat, deranged little picture of asymmetric warfare, unconventional tactics employed by a militarily weaker combatant to exploit the vulnerabilities of a stronger enemy.
“You have any definitive proof to back this up?” Ryan asked. “Or are we supposed to declare war on China based on your hunch?”
“You know it’s true,” Franny said, her lips spreading into a devastating grin. “I can see it in your eyes.”
“Doesn’t matter what I think,” he told her. “Without credible evidence, I won’t be able to convince anyone up the chain of command.”
Richards approached them. “With all due respect, shouldn’t we be focused on getting out of this mine?”
“Getting out is easy,” Franny told him. “Staying alive will be the problem.” Her stare drilled into Richards then shifted clockwise, lingering over each member of the TEradS, concluding with Ryan. “If you hit the surface with your comms powered up, your signals will be jammed and yo
u’ll be routed within the hour.” She directed his attention to the white paper blanketing the rear wall. “The District Eight cell tower is about a mile from here. It can intercept, delay, or jam all signals—which is what happened right before the horse farm detonated. That’s how the Chinese keep the districts isolated.”
Ryan sauntered toward the hand-drawn map. She had conducted a considerable amount of surveillance—guard positions and numbers, shift schedules, firepower, distances, mechanics and vulnerabilities of the tower. “Your next target?”
“Yours, if you want to make it out of Colorado alive.”
Uncurling the corner of the paper, he chuckled. “I’ve never seen a mission briefing written on the back of Christmas wrapping paper.”
Her frosty eyes flared like lasers. “You know what? There’s an air shaft forty yards south on the left. I hammered spikes into the rock so you can climb it like a ladder. Fuck you and good luck!”
“You’re both ignoring the real problem.” Ty limped forward a few paces along the wall, a scowl etched into his deeply wrinkled skin, then he jabbed a finger at Gwen. “We evaded the peacekeepers for a year; then a couple days after you showed up, they’re all over us! Because you’re a traitor!”
Ty’s right hand reached for the wall behind him as if to steady himself then unexpectedly swung forward, brandishing a revolver.
Franny sprung into the line of fire, shielding Gwen.
Nine rifles simultaneously upsurged, all zeroed on Ty’s head.
“Put down the guns!” Franny shouted. “The air’s laden with coal dust. One errant shot and this entire fucking mountain explodes!”
69
District Eight, Colorado
COLONEL WU REPRESSED A cocksure smile as the hastily arranged video conference began.
“The leader of the Terror Fox cell is a retired Army Sapper, operating from a defunct coal mine where the female Sniper is also being held.”
General Sun tilted forward in his chair, moistening his lips. “Have you acted on this intelligence?”
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