An Armageddon Duology (44 page)

A
gain he woke
to the sound of his own screams.

Savas sat up violently in bed, arm raised to ward off a blow. Daylight had barely begun to remove the shadows of night, but a chorus of birds piped in the surrounding forests. Muffled shouts and heavy crashing swirled around him. His breath exhaled in ragged clouds from his chapped lips as a hand reached over from his left, and pressed gently down on his arm.

“It’s okay, John,” said Cohen, her voice pained. She leaned up against him, tugging on the army issue blanket, brown hair tangled and strewn haphazardly about her shoulders. “Just another dream.”

Savas stared blankly forward. “Where are we?”

“Mmmm. Tent on I-76, just outside of Harrisburg.”

He closed his eyes. “The convoy. Right. We started to see mountains.” He shook his head. “Damn. Sorry, Rebecca.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“And say what?” He coughed. “Variations on the usual. Thanos died. Right in my arms. You were almost—the towers were falling on us. Cinder blocks, metal and glass pounding you and him. I tried to shield you, but I couldn’t. And they kept hitting and hitting until the stones turned to fists and I was in that damned boat and strapped to that table. And you were screaming on the monitor.”

“John—”

His hand made a fist. “I can’t protect the people I love. No matter what I do.”

She took his head in her hands and turned it to her. “No, John. You can’t. Look at me!” He grimaced, the muscles tensing across his chest. “You have to accept it. You aren’t Superman. You aren’t a hero out of a book or a movie. We fight monsters. Someday something bad might happen to me. You have to look it in the face and accept it. Like I have for you, for a long time.” Her eyes glistened. “Someday, time is going to take away as much dignity, inflict as much damage and pain, as any of these monsters could. I need you to be there and be strong, now
and
then. Knowing what will happen. I will be for you.”

“You’re stronger than me,” he whispered. “It’s easier to get angry, strike out at a threat with adrenaline coursing through you. Fighting the incoming sea without end? I don’t know how to do that.”

“You don’t fight it,” she said. “You ride it out as best you can. That’s all anyone can do.”

“And hope for something transcendent afterward? That this isn’t it, this screwed-up world and decaying flesh?”

“I don’t know, John,” she said, shaking her head. “My mother always said the b’rakhot. After she died, we didn’t hear many prayers. My father wasn’t much for ritual.”

“Yeah, me either. I wish I had Father Timothy’s confidence.”

Cohen ran her fingers through his hair. “No time for crises of faith. Let’s see what the soldiers have us eating this morning. We’re going to be moving soon.”

They dressed quickly in the frigid air and stepped out into the blinding light of the sun rising over the highway. Savas marveled as he stared down an endless line of military vehicles and troops, metal gleaming, engines coughing and spewing soot into the crisp air, chatter and the sounds of mundane activities giving lie to the absurdity before them.

“They’ve laid out some tables over there,” said Cohen.

Savas followed her lead and they made their way over to a line of soldiers waiting beside a makeshift kitchen. The smell of burnt protein and fat mixed with the cold air and stirred deep feelings within him. He put his arm around Cohen and pressed her to his side.

“FBI!” came the bark of a well-known voice.

They turned, straining to see around the jockeying soldiers scrambling for a meal. A mop of disheveled gray hair sitting at a long table waved them over. The president and her advisors were shoveling food into their mouths as they spoke over a large map.

York glared in their direction. “You two aren’t good enough for the regular mess. Over here with the civilians.”

Savas saw Cohen smile. He was still too shaken for such a display. They picked their way around the bustling troops and up a short hill to the president’s table. A paper map was spread out over the surface. Bowls and trays of food weighed it down in the cold wind, and various items from rocks to condiment containers were arrayed along the colored lines marking interstates and cities.

“I’m a dinosaur and prefer a hardcopy,” said York, spooning a heap of eggs. “About to gouge my eyes out looking at those blinking digital displays in the command vehicle. Here, grab some
grub,
I think is the technical term. Plate of eggs and bacon and something I’m not sure what it is, but it’s runny as snot.”

They quickly raked the food onto a free plate and sat down across from York at the table, several aides looking askance at them. York ignored the looks and gestured over the chaos on the table.

“So, what do you think?”

Savas chewed on a burnt piece of toast and shook his head.

“I’m not sure I can make out what you’re representing here.”

Cohen pointed at several aggregates of items.

“Major cities on the map. These must be troop gatherings. Enemy troops, if I can say that about other Americans.”

“You bet your sweet ass you can, daughter,” said York. “And they have gone off and picked the wrong goddamned side of this war.” The president bent over the map. “This line of rocks, that’s us, this convoy. We’re just outside of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. We made pretty good time once we got rolling. Luckily, Hastings’s damn hit-and-runs have been poorly executed. We’re on schedule to make Mount Cheyenne in three more days. Considering the slow start out of the gate, it’s not bad. So far, so good.”

Cohen pointed to a dense collection of salt and pepper shakers.

“What’s that ahead?”

“The bad,” said York. “We’ve got partial satellite coverage and some imagery, also some scouting drones. That right there is Columbus, Ohio, capital of the state and fifteenth largest city in America. Right now, Hastings is fortifying it with some serious strength: infantry, heavy arms from the recon images. West of the city,” she said, tapping an overturned coffee tin, “is Wright-Patterson Air Force Base. The base is his, and they are quickly turning it into a center of operations for this campaign.”

“Why there?” asked Cohen. “I thought air force was useless.”

“So did we,” she answered. “But reports show increasing numbers of Hastings-controlled aircraft going into use.”

“They've solved the worm problem,” Cohen whispered.

“Yes,” said the President grimly. “We believe they have. It will take them some time to get their planes online, but more and more, the longer we're out here, the worse it will be. We’re likely to see some heavy assault coming from the land
and
air when we get into Ohio.”

“Jesus,” said Savas. “What can we counter with?”

York frowned. “Superior numbers on the ground, especially with the break-away troops from Fort Bragg that managed to rendezvous with us last night. Meanwhile, our side is working overtime to crack the digital problem with the advanced aircraft, but Hastings has the aerial advantage until we’re closer to NORAD.”

“So there’s going to be a battle?” asked Cohen.

“Outside of Columbus it looks like.”

“I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.”

Savas squinted down at the map. “And this tactical advantage in the air. What does that mean, practically?”

“It means,” said York, glancing grimly upward, “that come this evening in Ohio, the skies are going to be raining fire.”

T
he convoy commandeered
the entire highway.

Before sequestering within the command vehicle, Savas had stared out at the troop transports, tanks, armored trucks with antiaircraft missiles, and an assortment of different medical and more mundane vehicles pouring down one of America’s most traveled civilian roadways.

The giant convoy was divided into several staggered contingents. In the far lead were a set of soldiers tasked with keeping the roadway clear. This involved engaging what foolish civilian drivers would brave the coming military force and getting them off-road as well as clearing obstacles—construction or hazards often the product of sabotage from opposing forces. More than one bridge had come under fire from Hastings, and repairs or complete detours slowed everything. Instead of the consistent jog at thirty miles an hour modeled in the underground Manhattan base of operations, they found themselves oscillating between crawling and all out sprints. The strain began to show on equipment as increasing numbers of vehicles failed and were left on the side of the roadway.

Despite the challenges, their progress managed to be significant, if in spurts. Small raids by worm-resistant, Vietnam-era aircraft or troop ambushes were countered effectively, although the intensity of some of the assaults stunned even a street-hardened, antiterrorist agent like Savas. After a particularly close explosion rocked their truck, leaving a prolonged ringing in his ears, he turned to Cohen in disbelief.

“This is what Frank dealt with for years in Afghanistan.”

Cohen nodded, her face a mask of tension. “Probably worse. Fine way he was repaid for his service.”

“I think worse is coming,” said Savas. “Gunshots, even the explosions at the airfield in Mexico when we tracked Mjolnir—nothing like these bombs and missiles. My brain is still rattling around, I think.”

“That last one was very close,” said Cohen, glancing nervously toward York. “It’s a dangerous shell game.”

“There were what, five decoys? Five command vehicles spread around out there?”

She nodded. “I think so. And I heard the communications guy up front say one was hit earlier.”

“Jesus.”

“They’re going to target those preferentially. And the drivers know,” she continued in a stunned monotone. “Who does that? Who salutes and gets behind a wheel of a decoy knowing they’re just bait to hide someone else?”

“While we sit safe in here,” he said.

“Not completely. Everyone’s in the line of fire. Shell game is an odds game. But our odds are better than theirs.”

Savas shook his head. “An amazing job—this truck looks like any normal troop transport on the outside. But in here,” he said, gesturing to the banks of military communications, computer monitors, and other high-tech yet hardened technology, “it’s a different story. Thick armor cloaked by the false vehicle wall on the outside. I didn’t know the army could be so clandestine.”

“Thick or not, I don’t think anything would stop a direct hit,” said Cohen.

“Well, let’s hope we don’t get one of those.”

They were nestled in the back corner of the truck, strapped to wall-mounted seats and staring down at the military dance of soldiers and equipment. Stiff and sore from over twelve hours of travel, they were cold even in their coats, the interior unheated to conserve fuel. York sat alongside several soldiers who manned the equipment, their fogged breath like a cloud around them. Her face was grim. She rose and headed in their direction. He guessed what she might say.

A series of blasts outside explained the situation forcefully. The vehicle heaved and rocked violently, and sent the president crashing to the floor on her hands and knees before the FBI agents. A flurry of curses sounded as Savas and Cohen helped her to her feet. A soldier leapt to her side.

“Ms. President,” he said, “are you okay?”

She sat down beside Cohen and regained her bearings.

“Yes,” she said hoarsely. “Getting a little old for combat, I think.” She blinked repeatedly. “Get the plan in motion and I’ll brief our passengers.”

The soldier nodded and turned toward the front of the truck.

“Plan?” asked Savas.

“We’re three hundred and fifty miles past Harrisburg, around twenty outside of Columbus. We’ve been positioning our forces in anticipation of what’s ahead.”

A whistle overhead presaged an earthshaking explosion.

“That bastard Hastings has let the dogs out,” she growled. “His troops are advancing. Heavy artillery is first in line. We’ve also detected incoming aircraft and a few missiles already, although a last-minute sabotage of his naval assets has grounded most of his cruise missiles for the time being. “

“Cruise missiles.” Savas could hardly take it in.

“The modern military is something to behold,” said York. “This is not going to be easy or pretty.”

Sonic booms shook the air above them as the sound of jet engines ripped through the sky. More explosions followed as did the screaming of men outside.

“What’s going on out there?” asked Cohen.

“War,” said York. “Better you don’t see. Better none of us sees unless we have to. We need to keep our heads and stick with the plan. We stay low. We remain covert. Meanwhile, many good men are going to engage that son-of-a-bitch and die today so we can continue this journey.”

She stood up and dusted herself off.

“It’s going to get ugly fast. Hold on and hope for the best. If you have a god to pray to, now is a good time.”

“
P
rinceton’s finest
, and the best they had was Jack?”

Houston slurred her words, her grin asymmetric and comical. She leaned heavily against the bulk of Lopez, his dark hair spilling underneath his cap and brushing her pale cheek. The three sat huddled together in a crowded dorm basement, clouds of water vapor escaping their lips, ice surrounding a nearby water fountain from a burst pipe.

Lopez took the bottle from her and shook his head. “This was supposed to help us forget the cold, not blast us to nirvana.” He smiled at Lightfoote. “There’s nothing in the world this little lady can’t do better than me, unless it’s hold her liquor.”

“Not fair,” snorted Houston. “You’re three times my weight.”

“And you’re heavier than Angel, but I wouldn’t put money on me to out-drink her.”

Lightfoote smiled. “Cyborg. Hyper-metabolism.”

“See?” said Houston. “Explains everything.” Her eyes lingered on the FBI agent. “You’re some mystery girl.”

Lightfoote removed a woolen watch cap and rubbed her fingers vigorously over her scalp. A red film of hair had begun to grow out. “So are you two. Tell me,” she said, replacing the hat and nearly pulling it over her eyes, “what’s the story on the Browning? You don’t shoot anything else.”

Houston sat up clumsily. “What makes you think there’s a story?”

“That’s not just a gun, girl. That’s
your
gun. There’s a story.”

Houston laughed. “Fucking cyborgs. Well, my dad gave it to me. Trained me on it. Brought it back from the Korean War.”

“Korean war? How old is he?”

“He would have been eighty. Died ten years ago.”

Lightfoote nodded. “But he gave you his issued sidearm?”

“War changed him. Sucked a lot of the life out of him. He never talked about it.
Never
.” She grabbed the bottle and swept it away from a frowning Lopez. “They didn’t have things like PTSD or therapy back in those days. He put away his uniform—
pluke
—and everything he took back from the war. Shut it all up in a trunk.
Click
. Never opened it again. I never saw it anyway, even all those years later.”

“Except for the gun,” said Lightfoote, staring intensely at her. “So he robbed the cradle? To have you, your mom must have been a lot younger.”

“Mom. Ha. Now there are
problems.
She hunted him down, daddy figure or something she thought she needed. I don’t know. Course it didn’t last. She was gone like a wild butterfly.” Houston watched the liquid swirl as she shook the bottle. “He was a good father. Don’t get me wrong. You know, back then there weren’t too many single dads. He never remarried. Never dated as far as I know. I think the only thing keeping him alive was me.” She opened the bottle. “Until I left home.” Her eyes flashed toward Lightfoote. “So! What’s
your
story, fly girl? And don’t even bother. I know there’s one, too.”

Lightfoote didn’t smile. “Dad was a cop. Followed in his footsteps.”

“No son to do it?” asked Houston, wiping her chin as whiskey dripped.

“It’s more complicated.”

“He teach you how to shoot, too?”

“No. Never got the chance.” Lightfoote paused. “He was killed in the line of duty. Until then, I didn’t want to be a cop. I had other interests. Dancing mostly. But everything changed when he died.”

“Why’d that change things?” asked Houston.

“It’s complicated.”

Lightfoote reached for the bottle. Houston nodded and handed it over, watching her take a swig.

“Gotcha. We don’t have to—”

“I saw him die,” she said. “I was just a few feet away. I couldn’t do anything.” She took another gulp. “I knew then there were monsters in the world. I think I was a bit lost afterward.” She laughed. “Make that a lot lost. But I couldn’t just
dance
anymore.” Lightfoote stared off into space, the whiskey bottle dangling over her raised knees, wobbling back and forth as she swung her wrist. Her eyes moved to Lopez. “So, big guy, you do the
follow dad
thing, too?”

A deep laughter rolled in the room. His deep brown eyes looked at his feet. “I wish I could have. Not remotely smart enough. My father was a NASA engineer, recruited from polytechnic school in Mexico City. Test scores off the charts. Helped build rockets in Alabama during the Cold War and Space Race.”

“A literal rocket scientist!” barked Houston, nudging Lopez with her shoulder.

“I guess I did try. Ended up teaching intro calculus at a Catholic school. But that was as smart as I was going to get. No rocket science for me.”

Lightfoote put the whiskey down and hugged her knees. “So why the priesthood? Visions? Voice of God?”

Lopez smiled. “I wish that as well. But, no. My motives were earthly. Rebelling against my neocon brother.” He reached over and stroked Houston’s cheek. “And denial of something similar inside me.”

“So who taught
you
to shoot? You’re the best I’ve seen.”

“He had the best teacher,” said Houston.

“You?” Lightfoote smiled. “Really? Blind date activities?”

Lopez put an arm around Houston. “When we first met, in the middle of all that crazy, it was the one thing she wouldn’t shut up about.
Going to teach you how to shoot
. Drove me nuts. I’d rarely held a gun. Certainly not a man killer. I didn’t want to! Violence, killing—I’d turned my back on it. I was a peacemaker, turning the other cheek.” He laughed. “Before the priesthood, I’d used my fists a lot. I tried to turn it around, suppress it, have God’s word my sword and shield and all the St. Paul Ephesians
Armor of God
stuff.”

Houston kissed his cheek and shook her head. “Poor bastard. He had to learn the hard way to use some other armor and weapons. Bad guys out there.”

“Monsters,” said Lightfoote, her expression distant again.

Lopez squinted slightly at her but said nothing.

Lightfoote continued. “So, what’s the plan for you two, assuming the world doesn’t end soon?”

Lopez shrugged. Houston leaned back into his chest. “No idea. We’re FBI most wanted, and Savas can’t change that. Nobody can. Dead or alive kind of pariahs. We killed the former VP! Hundreds of government agents. Blew up a fucking police station. He’s a pedophile. I don’t think you come back from all that.”

“So, John really put you in deep witness protection? He kept it all under wraps.”

Houston nodded. “With help from CIA. Fred Simon.” She looked away and closed her eyes, nuzzling into Lopez.

“I’m sorry about what happened,” said Lightfoote. “We were overrun with Fawkes’s mercenaries. I was lucky to get the code out. They almost won.”

“Don’t apologize. You stopped a madman,” said Lopez. “We’ll see when all this is done what kind of world is waiting. But I’m not hopeful. We’ve resigned ourselves to new lives, new identities. Always hiding. Always running.”

“Priest and whore. Gabriel and Mary.”

“Something like that, right Sara?” Houston didn’t answer. Lopez looked down and sighed, brushing his hand over her head.

She was asleep.