An Armageddon Duology (42 page)

S
avas stared
across the ranks of soldiers and military vehicles. Part of his mind wouldn’t believe it, couldn’t accept the reality around him. Rows of drab transports, jeeps and trucks, lighter armored vehicles like Humvees—some mounted with rocket launchers—churned behind them as they rode up a steep tunnel incline.

They were inside a heavily armored vehicle, one supposedly resistant to major arms fire and explosive devices, disguised as a troop transport on the outside. Marines lined the interior beside Cohen and York, along with her advisers. It looked like something from a science fiction film with digital displays and operators monitoring troop movements and communications, speaking into headsets.

He turned to the President. “How has all this remained hidden?”

“It wasn’t exactly hidden,” said York. “New York City crews and administrations knew of it. They had to maintain the tunnels and concealed exits. Prevent anyone from breaking in and discovering it. What likely kept the secret was that it was on its way out. Something everyone knew about but didn’t talk of because, well, it was over. A historical relic. Until we set up camp, it was mostly empty.”

Ahead of them an enormous doorway opened in the rock. A stone wall split in the center along a vertical axis and continued to widen, orange light from outside pouring into the shaft. The doors themselves were made of steel more than three feet thick, the outer stone a facade textured to match the bedrock.

“This exit opens on the Jersey side of the Holland Tunnel, right in a wall of rock concealed with hazard signs and fake debris. Traffic, your odd onlooker, won’t see it. Undercover soldiers have been guarding it for decades.”

“Wait, we just went under the Hudson?” asked Cohen. “There’s another tunnel?”

“Yes,” said York. “There aren’t too many ways off this island, you know. You didn’t think Uncle Sam would build a secret underground shelter and not have an equally secret way to get the hell out of it?”

“Are there others?” Cohen’s eyes widened.

“Two,” said York. “By the Lincoln and Midtown tunnels. These emergency passages piggyback off the infrastructure of the others, lying alongside like leeches. We’ve got decoys exiting both of those right now. Hastings will be watching. If he has hard intel where we were holed up, he might be bringing fire to some or all of them. This way we’ll spin their heads a little, hopefully give us time and space to get out. But we’ve hedged our bets in several ways.”

“How many troops does he have? Equipment?”

“We don’t know. The good thing is he doesn’t know what we have. Anonymous took the satellite systems down completely. Including military and governmental. They’re coming back online slowly, although we’ve lost a few probably forever due to orbit problems. But NORAD controls most of the birds up there. And we control NORAD. We’ve all been blind the last few weeks, but Hastings is going to stay that way except for a few inconsequential Navy sats, thanks to Angel’s idea. While our vision slowly clears.”

“The NSA attack? It’s set?” asked Savas.

“Timed to our exit. Missiles are on their way now.”

Ahead, the light intensified as the caravan approached. Savas could see the opening clearly now. Larger than he expected, the diameter surpassed all the tunnels he knew. Of course, the Abrams tanks and other large vehicles escorting them were wider and much heavier than even the biggest civilian transports.

“We’re using their blindness to our advantage as much as we can,” she said. “Have a look.”

The convoy burst out of the tunnel and into a sea of military vehicles. The parade pouring out behind them was dwarfed by rows of tanks, highly mobile artillery, and massive numbers of troop transports. Soldiers lined the area. Vietnam-era helicopters thundered and he glimpsed their shadowed forms overhead. Cohen gasped.

“We’ve been positioning our forces nearby,” said York, “They’ve been distributed for a few days, but tonight a large contingent moved to this exit. We've got a few birds for recon, but they're old and not suitable for combat. The ground vehicles and equipment are another matter.”

They joined a group of heavily armored escorts and the convoy rushed onto the lined asphalt of an interstate. Savas could see the rest of the vehicles lining up to follow behind them.

“There were some minor skirmishes, but Hastings didn’t have much in place. But soon he’ll know we came through here and have some sense of our strength when his forces report back to him.” She closed her eyes and exhaled. “Then we’ll see what he does. For now, we need to get to the interstate and rendezvous with the main bulk of our forces.”

“There’s more?” Cohen asked.

“A lot more,” said York. “We’re fifteen thousand strong. Transports. Supplies—food, fuel, ammunition—enough for the journey and several major battles. It’s nearly two thousand miles to the mountain. We can run most of these vehicles at thirty, maybe forty miles per hour. Three days minimum if we give ourselves six hours per camp. Lots of time and lots of land for Hastings to mount several offensives. Thankfully, all this Armageddon solves any traffic problems.”

“Jesus,” whispered Savas.

“Two thousand miles,” said Cohen. “One long convoy. We’ll be out in the open, exposed.”

“Yes,” said York. “Our asses hanging in the breeze. But with both sides’ air power still reeling, it’s feasible. And they aren’t looking for a military victory. They just want slow us down. If they can stop us long enough to find me—well, that’s the goal.”

“Assassination,” said Savas.

“NORAD can fight this war without me,” she said. “But not the war for the people. If I’m not around to put a visible face—the democratically elected face of the people—against the forces of Hastings and Bilderberg, they win.”

Bright light screamed overhead, a roar rattling the air around them.

“That was low,” said Savas.

Thunder rumbled from the distance.

“Missile strikes. Clearing our way. Casualties are just going to climb from this point.”

Cohen grimaced, her voice rough. “Sibling against sibling. The second Civil War.”

S
ara Houston stared
out over New York Harbor, a cold December wind raking harshly across the bow of the boat. Darkness shrouded Lady Liberty, the post-Anonymous breakdown of order along the East Coast leaving the statue untended. Her upraised torch only a silhouette against the setting moon. The churning water along the hull of the craft began to lull Houston, ease her seasickness, and for a moment she wished she could simply let go of the madness around them, close her eyes, and lose herself to the sounds of the sea.

Instead, she looked toward the retreating lights of lower Manhattan and the enclosed cockpit of the vessel. The windows of the stolen pleasure yacht were tinted black, and she couldn’t see Lopez and Lightfoote inside. She assumed the FBI woman still stood at the wheel, Lopez struggling to come up to speed with the navigational systems to help pilot them in the right direction.

Their plan was straightforward. They would continue south through the Upper Bay, passing alongside the Bayonne peninsula. Near its tip, they would change course with a sharp westerly turn into the Kill van Kull, the three mile stretch of tidal strait between Staten Island and Bayonne. It would get them out of New York by avoiding the major land bottlenecks of bridges and tunnels. The more open sea would make it far harder to monitor and control. If all went well, they should enter Newark Bay within the hour, pass Shooters Island, and turn south toward the Goethals Bridge. They hoped to find a place to dock somewhere near Port Newark, steal a vehicle, and slip onto I-95 south towards Princeton. What could go wrong?

“Helicopter!”

She heard Lopez before she saw him emerging from the cockpit. He rushed alongside her.

“You were right about monitoring the police bands,” he said, expression serious. “The NYPD and National Guard are working together. Mostly just trying to restore order, it seems. I didn’t hear anything about us. But the curfew is still in force—still martial law. They’ll bring us in if we’re spotted and we can’t let that happen.”

“Not sure we have the firepower to bring that down, Francisco,” she said. “Not sure I want to unless I have to. Probably some kid’s dad trying to do his job.”

He sighed. “Agreed. Angel says we should go dark. It’s a big pond out here. Unlikely they’ll spot us in the middle of it.”

She nodded and followed him back inside. As they entered the cabin, the boat shuddered as the motor cut off. Lightfoote moved quickly. One by one, the lights on the boat went dark—green LEDs marking the starboard and port sides, a white stern light, and a bright lamp on the masthead.

“Glad they modernized this one,” she said. “Can you imagine trying to pilot this boat without a manual? All hail the touch screen and auto mode.”

Houston gazed out the window. “Moon’s nearly set.”

Lightfoote followed her gaze outside. “Good thing. White fiberglass is a bad color to hide in under moonlight. Okay—she’s dead in the water now. No need to drop anchor, should be a quick pass. Besides, if we’re made we’ll need to move fast.”

Lopez stood halfway in and out of the cabin. “I can hear it.” He motioned for them to follow.

The telltale rumble and thwack of the helicopter’s motor and blades were carried over the water by the wind. The winking red lights on the craft were nearly lost in the blaze from a spotlight.

“Checking up on our girl,” said Houston.

The helicopter approached Liberty Island and arced around it, the spotlight trained along its shores. They watched the bird do a complete revolution around the island, the light moving off the shores and onto the statue itself. Another full rotation had the craft’s pulse coupled with a strobe effect from the spotlight, almost giving the towering figure the illusion of motion. Finally, the helicopter accelerated toward the Jersey shore. The light faded as it pulled away.

“Likely first of many flybys tonight,” said Houston.

Lightfoote returned to the control panel and started the engine. “We need to get to the highway before sunrise. Great to hide out here at night, but we can’t go dark in the day.” The vessel shook to life, but she didn’t turn the lights back on. “And I vote we stay dark tonight as well.”

Lopez returned to the navigation system and switched the police scanner back on. “I don’t know how many they have out patrolling, and there is no way to cover all the coastline. But some of this journey puts us in pretty narrow straits. We could get trapped there without many options.”

Lightfoote nodded as the boat lurched forward. “Let’s just hope their plate’s full already.”

“Going to go back out,” said Houston.

“Still nauseous?” Lopez asked.

“Yeah. It’s a hundred times worse in this cabin.”

She opened the door and stepped back into the cold air. Immediately the wind and temperature drop began to relieve her symptoms. She walked back to the bow and leaned on the railing. Lady Liberty disappeared behind them in the blackness, lower Manhattan a foggy glow in the growing mist. Ahead, she began to see the outlines of the narrow opening to the Kill van Kull, traffic nonexistent.
Who would dare sail now, after all this
?

She hoped Lopez could get his head around the navigation. She didn’t see much room to maneuver within the strait, and the sides were decorated with docks and moorings. They weren’t even amateurs, and a collision could be ruinous. Ending their journey at the bottom of the New York harbor estuary was definitely not part of the plan. They had too much to do: A mystery to unravel. A shadowy organization and military coup in the United States to help thwart. And if a crazed terrorist’s last words were right, in southern New Jersey an answer awaited them.

A glow flickered northeast of their position. The light revealed an approaching cloud front, dull orange reflecting off the low clouds rolling in from the northwest. The night rumbled and the light winked out.

And returned, the position slightly different, a trio of will-o-the-wisps in the far distance like someone had switched on and off several giant street lamps. An ensemble of rolling bass notes shook around them. Houston heard the cabin door open. Lopez and Lightfoote approached the bow and stood beside her, gazing north as the light and sound show continued.

“What is that?” asked Lightfoote. “Thunder?”

“It’s not like any thunder I’ve ever heard,” said Lopez.

Houston gritted her teeth. “Not thunder. Those aren’t storm clouds.”

“Then what?” asked Lopez.

A turbulent growl grew from the south and crackled, flashing through the air from port to starboard side. A flaming light screamed past them northwards, the rocket’s burner searing streaks into their eyes. Its rumbling faded into the low throb of explosive detonations as it disappeared into the distance.

“Explosions,” she answered. “From bombing runs.”

Lopez placed his hand on her shoulder, squeezing firmly. “God help us.”