Ryan extended his legs straight out and crossed them at the ankle. “I owe you an apology ... For not believing you.”
The Marine’s head tilted toward him, and he gave a curt nod of acceptance. “It all worked out.”
“So how’d you know?” Ryan asked.
“In her letter, Abby mentioned that she tripped and cut a gash into her right shin. There was no cut on the corpse.”
He had been expecting a gut feeling, a prophetic dream, or a message from God burned into a piece of toast. The fact that there had been tangible proof only intensified his regret.
“I made the wrong call.” He paused, suddenly grasping how Rodriguez must have felt about the incident with DJ. “But I honestly thought I was looking out for you.”
“I know.” Bradley’s eyes flitted hopefully toward a set of swinging doors then settled back on Ryan. “So what’s with you and Major Sapper?”
“She’s the mouthiest, most annoying woman on the damn planet.”
Bradley let out a teasing, stuttered laugh. “Explains why you kissed her.”
“You saw that?” Ryan could feel the heat radiating from his face. The kiss had been a rare and disturbing breach of self-control on his part, further aggravated by her unexpectedly enthusiastic response. “Anyone else see it?”
“No. I shut the door.”
“Thanks ... I just had to shut her up. And it’s not like I could knock her out.”
“You know, it used to baffle me. Everybody seemed to know I was in love with Abby before I knew it. Now I understand.”
Ruffled, Ryan said, “Let me tell you something. I was born single; and I’m gonna die single. I need a woman making me miserable like I need a porcupine shoved up my ass!”
His remark prompted an accusatory grin. “Sounds like your heart’s been used for target practice.”
It was an apt characterization likely to spawn an unpleasant discussion. “Let’s just say when you get to be my age, realism replaces idealism.”
“Ever been married?” Bradley asked.
Ryan grumbled, “Twice,” then cursed himself for answering. Those painful emotions had been locked away, deep inside him, like a lead-acid battery swelling over time, destined to explode.
“Explains why you’re gun-shy—”
“I’m not gun-shy,” Ryan snapped. “I just know how this story ends.”
Bradley’s ball-busting smile faded while his intertwined fingers typed a hundred words-per-minute against the backs of his hands. “How’d you know when it was over?”
Sensing that this wasn’t solely about his romantic failures, Ryan said, “For me, it was like hitting an IED. Unexpected. Instantaneous destruction. Evil bitch number one—she sent me divorce papers while I was deployed in the Middle East.” Ryan hesitated, wondering whether Dina had survived the EMP, then he decided that he didn’t give a damn. “Evil bitch number two—I walked in on her with another guy. I filed for that divorce.”
Bradley seemed to wilt. His teeth clamped onto his upper lip, and Ryan wished he could retract his words.
“What happened with Mia. It’s not the same. Angela was banging this guy for months—a Private First Class for fuck’s sake.”
“How am I supposed to tell her? By the way, while I thought you were dead ...”
“No matter what, Abby will be mad.”
Bradley exhaled audibly. “I can’t lose her again. How much time do I have before joining my team back east?”
“A day or so at Langden. Then you’re being reassigned to 5B.”
“You’re separating me from my guys? Why?”
As the implication sank in, Ryan groaned. “The day of Abby’s funeral ... your guys were ambushed. I’m sorry, Bradley.”
His interlocked hands swung upward and gripped the top of his head. As Ryan briefed him about the Virginia junkyard, Bradley’s facial muscles twitched under the strain of holding back emotion. He regarded the floor in silence for several minutes, grief and survivor’s guilt glimmering in his eyes, then his hands crashed down against his thighs. “When do I leave for Langden?”
“1130 hours.”
“Today?” he asked incredulously.
“Sergeant Webber?”
The voice belonged to a medical officer with dark-rimmed glasses and a name tag that read like a disease: Lysippus. He had the wiry build of a long-distance runner and an elongated face set between a pair of disproportionately large ears.
Bradley shot from his chair. Ryan trailed after him, following Lysippus into the treatment area.
“Good news. Her ribs are bruised, not broken. No swelling or bleeding on the brain. But she is severely dehydrated. That probably caused the headache, light sensitivity, and vomiting.”
Abby was lying facedown on a gurney with a curly line of intravenous fluids streaming into the back of her left hand. Her T-shirt was hiked upward to accommodate ice packs sitting atop her bruised back. Upon seeing Ryan, she pushed herself upright, sending them onto the floor.
“As you were.” Ryan’s gaze fixed on the bruise, a six-inch oval with a black center that graduated into shades of purple.
“I’ll probably release her at 0900 hours,” Lysippus said, speaking to Ryan as he repositioned the ice packs. “Three days. No shooting.”
Abby glared at him as if he had spat on a Bible. “What if I use a suppressor?”
“No go.”
“Is she cleared to fly?” Ryan asked.
“Transport, yes. Pulling G’s, no.”
“Perfect. Lance Corporal, flight to Langden leaves at 1130 hours.” Ryan lingered for a second to take in Bradley’s facial reaction, then he left the hospital, debating whether he would regret the decision to temporarily bring both Webbers back to Langden.
80
Utah-Colorado Border
IT HAD TAKEN COLONEL Wu’s caravan of soldiers and equipment nearly six hours to reach the site of the derailment, sixty miles northeast of Moab, Utah. At least three dozen train cars lay in a mangled heap within a crescent-shaped canyon carved by the Colorado River. Ruptured and charred tankers had blackened the ruddy cliffs. Crumpled boxcars had been tipped onto their sides, scattered like match sticks. Wooden crates had been flung from bulkhead cars; some shattered like glass, most split open disgorging their contents.
Removal of the cars straddling the tracks would require a crane, and a mile of maimed rails would need to be replaced, a job that would take weeks and divert critical resources from pacification. In the interim, the severed supply line would exact a dour toll on the chain of outposts between Districts Six and Eight. Wu rolled his eyes skyward and spurned the stars for burdening him with such ill fortune.
“We must limit our focus to the vaccines,” he said, speaking to his captains. “The pathogen has been engineered to die after two hours of exposure to ultra-violet light, which means protective gloves will be necessary long past sunrise. Crates must be meticulously searched. Syringes, whether broken or intact, must be painstakingly collected. To fail is to doom the Chinese Century.”
Generators fired up, banks of lights began to glow, and soldiers poured into a ravine, gushing toward the Colorado River like a blue-helmeted tidal bore.
“Is the network up yet?” Wu asked Sergeant Cheng.
“No, sir. It will be a few more minutes.”
The Sino-700 was a portable satellite network system capable of providing Internet access for seven devices. In order to receive a signal, however, its antenna had to be stationary, which meant the six hours spent in transit had been wasted. Wu would have preferred to delegate this chore to Captain Wang; unfortunately, he was managing a secondary crisis.
Realizing that he had not received a situation report, Wu dialed his satellite phone.
“... We suffered seventy-four fatalities,” Wang told him. “Ninety injured. Nineteen trucks were destroyed, and the TEradS escaped, sir, with a laptop. I have traced it to Barclay Air Force Base.”
“Get Cyber Warfare to incapacitate it,” Wu said.
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“I have alerted them, and they have determined that the TEradS disabled the laptop’s network, sir.”
“Given that access is password restricted and no classified data is stored on the hard drive, damage will be minimal. Should the Americans attempt to access our server, Cyber will resolve the issue.”
There was a pregnant pause followed by Wang’s fretful clearing of his throat. “The laptop was logged in prior to the raid. Thousands of sensitive files were downloaded from the server, sir.”
Wu felt like his head was being compressed inside a vise. “Then launch a surgical strike against Barclay. You have a meager window, Captain, before the TEradS can locate a Mandarin translator.”
Another silence, this one ended in a hiss. “The TEradS West commander has Gwen Ling in custody, most likely for that purpose, sir.”
Any chance of privately managing the crisis evaporated, along with the air in his lungs. Since General Sun had undoubtedly assumed credit for Wu’s short-lived triumph at the coal mine, the wrath of the Chinese Communist Party would soon bludgeon his commanding officer. Wu, in turn, would be slaughtered as a sacrificial scapegoat.
“What are your orders, sir?” Captain Wang asked.
“Do nothing,” he said, knowing his only option was to call upon a highly placed asset.
“Colonel?” Sergeant Cheng was jogging toward him with a Chi-pad. “The network is operational, sir.”
Wu ended the call, grunted an acknowledgement at Cheng, then ripped the tablet from his hand. He opened the Sino-Earth program and seeing the polka-dot-studded image of the Colorado River, he swore aloud.
Red-serum syringes that had broken registered as black dots. With no heartbeat, and water and air temperatures fluctuating between fifty and seventy degrees, the technology had declared its host dead. Broken blue-serum doses presented as green dots, but it was the white and blue dots, the undamaged syringes that were his priority. A few had burrowed into the silt of the riverbed. Thousands were swimming along the current, a school of piranha threatening to devour the Chinese Century.
81
Barclay Air Force Base, Colorado
AFTER RYAN LEFT, ABBY refused to allow Lysippus to bandage her bruised ribs until after she had showered. Bradley suspected it was a psychological need, more so than physical. The act of washing away the grime and stench of battle was a symbolic way to put it behind you, to wipe the slate clean and move on.
She had asked Bradley to retrieve a clean set of fatigues, so at 0100 hours, he approached a cluster of four civilian townhouses that had been annexed to serve as the TEradS barracks. He let himself inside Abby’s unit and made his way upstairs to the master bedroom, thinking this was the Taj Mahal of military housing.
A king-sized bed dominated the room, the headboard woven bamboo, its comforter saturated with bright tropical flowers better suited to Florida than Colorado. He stuffed a set of BDUs into a small, camouflage-print backpack along with a few toiletries, still trying to find an appropriate segue into the conversation about Mia.
When I thought you were dead, I had a few drinks and ...
No, it sounds like an excuse.
I made a mistake ...
Too nonchalant.
There was an incident with Mia ...
Too blunt.
Bradley was still trying to understand how it had happened. He remembered downing two shots of grain alcohol and collapsing onto his bed, emotionally spent. As he waited for the alcohol to numb the pain, horrific images were flittering through his mind. He sank into a zombielike state, caught somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, between dream and reality. He felt the sensation of his pants being unzipped and was suddenly transported back to Gramps’ kitchen, to the night he and Abby had first made love. He could see her beautiful face, a welcome reprieve from the gut-wrenching images, and an intense desire began to percolate through him. Bradley felt hands caressing, felt the warmth of her mouth, then he had bolted upright, realizing that he wasn’t in Gramps’ kitchen and those hands weren’t Abby’s. After pushing Mia away and zipping his pants, he had swiped the Mason jar from the desk, stormed from the room, and tried desperately to drown the memory.
Still reeling with guilt, Bradley hurried down the stairs and slammed the door behind him. Within minutes, he entered the medical center lobby, bypassing the skeletal remains of a gift shop. Spiny metal shelves were peddling shadows, dust, and memories of the way life used to be.
He moved silently through the main hallway, a tunnel of tile with a cloying antiseptic odor. On the opposite side of the hall, there was a chapel, and Bradley pulled open the stained-glass door. A candelabra cast warm, bouncing light over a majestic painting—blue skies streaked with clouds in shimmering shades of pink and orange.
On his knees, he thanked God for Abby’s safe return and prayed for his lost teammates and their families.
Twice, he had shirked his duties—to attend Abby’s funeral and to reunite with her inside the mine—and his friends ended up dead. It didn’t matter that he had been following orders. He still felt an overpowering, illogical guilt as if he had failed his guys by not dying alongside them.
“Why was I spared?” he asked, speaking to the brushstrokes of pink and orange, then a shiver coursed through him. In that instant, he was sure it was heavenly retribution. Death would have allowed him to dodge the confession about Mia, the implosion of his relationship with Abby. Having to live without her was a much more fitting punishment.
Bradley inhaled deeply as if gathering resolve and left the chapel. He waited at the nurses’ station for a half hour while they bandaged Abby’s ribs, and it was nearly 0200 hours when he walked into her room. She was sitting on the bed, legs folded beneath her like butterfly wings. The healthy pinkish hue of her complexion had returned, and her blue eyes were no longer shunning the light.
He stood frozen, unsure what to do. Between the disastrous hug inside the mine and the don’t-baby-me argument, he was already on shaky ground; and he hadn’t even told her about Mia. Tension-filled seconds stretched into awkward minutes until Abby blurted, “Are we still married? Or what?”
He clasped her left hand, inspected her naked ring finger, then said, “I don’t know. You tell me.”
Abby looped her thumb beneath the parachute cord at the nape of her neck and slid it forward, revealing her hog’s tooth pendant and the gold wedding band. “I had to stop wearing it once the black paint wore off.”
Feeling foolish for not considering the possibility, Bradley reached into his pocket. As soon as Abby saw the braided lock of hair, the guarded rigidity in her blue eyes softened. A weak smile flickered.
“I’m sorry for snapping at you,” she said. “This might sound crazy, but this is how it is. Abby-the-wife loves it when you’re overprotective because she feels safe and loved. Abby-the-Sniper hates it because she needs to prove that she’s as independent and tough as the guys.”
“So no matter what I do, I’m screwed?”
She rolled forward onto her knees, bringing herself almost eye level with him, rested her hands on his shoulders, and whispered, “No matter what you do, it’s okay.” Her nose skirted along his cheek.
He draped an arm around her shoulders. His mouth closed over hers hungrily in a rejuvenating kiss, like a lifesaving gulp of fresh air. The attraction, the passion, the feelings between them had survived fourteen months of separation. Could they weather one stupid, meaningless brush with infidelity?
Bradley pulled back, fingers caressing the side of her face. “Abby ... When I thought you’d been stoned to death ... I ...”
Her jaw began quivering uncontrollably.
Her forehead sank against his chest, shoulders heaving in sync with mute sobs. Pent-up emotions stoically repressed during battle burst through with a destructive fury.
Bradley held her tighter, cheek pressed atop her head, eyes welling for all she had endured and for the bombshell still to come.
How can I possibly dump this on her now?
82
Colorado-Oklahoma border
A SHARP JOLT ROUSED Sybil from sleep and she yawned, trying to remember where she was. Everything had a weird, blue tint. The smell of fresh lumber was thick enough to taste, and there was a lateral rocking motion.
The train, she thought.
The memory rushed back, uncoupling the cars, the crash, the train screeching to a sudden stop. She and Izzy had hidden beneath the tarps, holding their collective breath as a group of engineers inspected the hitch just feet from them, close enough that Sybil could hear them talking. The fact that she couldn’t understand Mandarin made it even more frightening.
Did they suspect sabotage? Were they calling UW soldiers?
Even at that moment, seemingly on the verge of getting caught, Sybil didn’t regret it. That was the bravest, most important thing she had ever done. For the first time in her life, Sybil felt empowered. She would fight the UW in every way she could, for as long as she could. She would alert other Americans, and they would fight too, just like her father had said.
Freedom is in our DNA.
Hours after the train resumed its trek, she had managed to fall asleep atop a wooden crate with her jacket for a blanket, her backpack for a pillow. Her stiff, aching muscles objected to each movement as Sybil crawled from the triangular, tented space beneath the tarp. She tried to rub away the pins-and-needles sensation assailing her elbow, noting that the grain of the wood had been imprinted into her skin.
The sun was a blazing disk squatting above the eastern horizon, and the sight sent a tremor of anxiety through her.
“Izzy, wake up.” She grabbed his foot and jostled it. He kicked at her as if swatting a fly. “Come on, Izzy. We’ve got a serious problem!”
His head popped up, and he wriggled backward on his belly until his feet touched the floor of the bulkhead car. “What are you yammering about?”
“Look at the sun.”
Izzy glanced toward the locomotive then back to the east. “Oh crap!”
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