State of Alliance (9 page)

“Why is it taking so long?” I say.

“These things take time,” Chris replies, his eyes focused straight ahead.

“How much time?”

Chris almost smiles for the first time in hours.

“As much time as they need,” he tells me.

“Well, my girl, I hear you dodged death twice last night. Is that true?”

I jump out of my chair, a smile spreading across my face. Manny walks through the doors on the far side of the hall, windblown and smelling of the outdoors. His flight cap is shoved into the pocket of his leather overcoat. I run to him and embrace him, relieved and happy to see my dear friend.

“Well, now,” he says, grinning. His weathered, wrinkled face is streaked with grease and dirt. “It’s nice to see you too, Senator.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Manny,” I reply.

“Manny,” Chris says, nodding. “Good to see you.”

Manny shakes his hand.

“So,” he says. “What are you all doing around here? Holding a communal baptism of some sort? Baptism by bullets, perhaps?”

“We’re waiting for the verdict,” Andrew answers, raising an eyebrow. “The representatives are taking a vote on California’s entry into the Alliance.”

“Ah, politics,” Manny says, making a face. “Because talking endlessly about nothing always solves the problem.”

“There’s the truth,” Vera mutters.

“Ah, Vera. Back to your usual, bubbly self,” Manny comments. “And who, may I ask, are
you
?” He gestures to Devin.

“Lieutenant Devin May,” Devin says, shaking Manny’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“I would imagine,” Manny replies. “News of dashing pilots risking life and limb for the good of their country has a way of making an impression on you.” He winks, a devilish expression on his face. “Now, back to business. Cassidy, two assassination attempts in one night?”

“Yes,” Devin interrupts. “Two assassins in the ballroom and somebody got into the Senator’s room and poisoned her water. We verified it.”

“I feel very secure in this facility, don’t you?” Manny smirks.

“I don’t know who to trust,” I say in a low voice.

Chris turns to me, a surprised expression on his face. Before he says a word, the doors to the meeting room open. Sophia and Andrew straighten up and Uriah casts a wary glance toward me.

Commander Jen Amal takes a step into the hall. She’s really a beautiful woman, tall and refined, pretty dark hair slicked down.

“Senator,” she says.

There is a long silence. Everyone in the room seems to be holding their breath.

“Well?” I ask. “Are we in?”

Amal smiles.

“Welcome to the Pacific Northwest Alliance.”

Here we go again, back in the convoy. I am sitting between Uriah and Vera. Chris is in the front seat. The other representatives/militia commanders are following us: Ken Thrawn of Oregon, Nathaniel Mero of Washington, Marshal Sullivan of Canada and Anita Vega of Mexico.

“Explain this to me again,” I say, leaning forward. Devin May is driving the Humvee, and he is talking to Chris in low tones.

“We’re going to the Defense Language Institute of Monterey,” Chris replies. His eyes are hidden behind black, tactical sunglasses. “So we can boost their morale.”

“Boost
whose
morale?” I demand.

“The soldiers there. The Army. The Navy.” Chris sighs. “Now that California has joined the Pacific Northwest Alliance, the entire western seaboard is
united against Omega. It’s a big deal. We have a real chance to win this thing. People need to know that – they need to be inspired.”

I
need to be inspired
, I think.

We roll out of the front entrance of the Naval Postgraduate School, leaving the relative safety of the wrought iron fencing and patrols behind us. The town is secure, though, so that gives me a little bit of relief.

But only a little.

We follow the road, paralleling a jogging trail and beautiful, towering Eucalyptus trees. We break out of the trees, and beyond us is the harbor. The water is brilliantly blue this morning. There is no fog, only clear, crisp sunshine and puffy white clouds.

Fisherman’s Wharf extends into the water, a wooden pier dotted with harbor-view restaurants and abandoned gift shops. The parking lot is filled with military vehicles and armed military patrols.

“Things have changed, man,” Devin says. “This used to be tourist central.”

It’s War Zone Central, now
, I think.

The road slopes and we dip under a huge tunnel. It’s dark and loud. I fist my hands, the contained quarters of the tunnel making me nervous. I was once
inside a Humvee when it hit an IED, and the memory left its mark.

I hate being trapped in confined spaces.

We emerge from the tunnel and I exhale. Uriah nudges my shoulder.

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

I smile gratefully. Uriah. Always helpful, always caring.

We turn and begin climbing a steeper road, flashing by a bullet-riddled sign that reads:

U.S. ARMY
PRESIDIO OF MONTEREY
HOME OF THE DEFENSE LANGUAGE INSTITUTE

“So we’re making a formal announcement of California joining the Alliance?” I ask.

“Basically,” Uriah says. “It’ll be easy. All we have to do is show up.”

“And then what? We go back to Sacramento?”

Chris doesn’t respond. Maybe he doesn’t know yet.

Maybe he’s just as scared as I am.

We pull through the checkpoints at the institute. The view is spectacular. We are situated on top of a hill, overlooking the bay of Monterey. I can see the
fleet of white sailboats and fishing boats bobbing in the water. The city sprawls in every direction around the peninsula, and I wonder how far our military protection really stretches? One mile out of the city? Ten?

I’d like to find out.

The convoy stops at the top of the hill, at a large green meadow. The meadow sits between old-fashioned military barracks and two small baseball diamonds. There are risers on the far side of the meadow, and in the center of the grass, Navy, Air Force, National Guard, Army and militia soldiers are standing in neat rows, forming squares of camouflaged color.

Uriah opens the door and I follow him outside. Sophia and Andrew approach us from their vehicles. Elle Costas is here with her bomb dog, Bravo, staying close to our group. The representatives from the other states and countries exit their Humvees and jeeps, as well.

We gather in a small group, just us.

“Senator Hart,” Anita Vega says. She offers her hand, glossy black hair spilling down her back. “It was an honor to work with you.”

“Likewise,” I say. “It was an honor to work with
all
of you.”

I look at the representatives – the disfigured face of Nathanial Mero, the aged, weathered features of Marshal Sullivan, and the burly, stocky build of Ken Thrawn.

“We’re all in this together, now,” I say.

“Let’s make Omega pay,” Nathanial answers, holding his fist in the air.

I nod.

“Alright, Commanders, Senators,” Devin says. “This way, please. Toward the podium.”

There’s a small podium near the bleachers, on which are several officers and members of militia and other paramilitary units. Chris leads the way, occasionally glancing at me, checking.

We climb the steps, lining up in a row. There is a microphone, powered by a purring generator. A reminder of our constant lack of access to instant electricity. It’s all extremely formal and, in my opinion, completely unnecessary. Now that California has joined the Alliance, it’s time to get back to work.

This war isn’t going to win itself.

Behind me, Andrew, Uriah, Sophia and Devin are branching out around the stage, disappearing from sight, making sure the perimeter is secure. Chris stands near me on the stage, hands to his side, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

Commander Jen Amal steps in front of the microphone, addressing the soldiers on the green. “To begin with,” she says. “God bless the Pacific Northwest Alliance!”

The soldiers clap and yell, pumping the air with their fists.

“Thanks to the work of the Representatives from Oregon, Washington, Canada, Mexico and California, the Golden State is now a partner in the Pacific Northwest Alliance,” she continues. “The western seaboard stands united and firm against Omega’s invasion. We will be victorious!”

The applause is thundering. My heart skips a beat, and I realize that I am
inspired
. Here we are, standing in a military stronghold. Omega hasn’t killed us yet. We are fighting back, and we are giving it everything we’ve got. And it hits me then that while we may not have the sheer numbers that Omega has…we’ve got the heart that they don’t. The fighting spirit.

The will to win.

I look at Chris, he looks at me. The ghost of a smile spreads across his lips. I feel a surge of hope. For us, for the country, for my father – wherever he is – and for the lives of the innocents that we’re fighting for. And then there is a gunshot.

Nathanial Mero jerks sideways, slamming into my arm, taking me to the ground. Hot blood sprays across my face, over my jacket. Chris grabs my shoulder and pulls me close to him, keeping low to the podium. Two more gunshots ring out, and I see Ken Thrawn topple over, a red blossom of blood in the center of his forehead.

All of this happens in a split second, barely enough time for me to comprehend the action. My instincts are faster than my thought process. I snap my gaze to the meadow, to the tops of the buildings. I know immediately that whoever killed Nathanial and Ken is a sniper – and a good one at that. The shot was taken from a long distance, beyond the meadow.

Around the edges of the green, security is furiously returning fire, lead for lead, bullet for bullet. But they are firing at a phantom enemy. Someone has done this stealthily, and they are staying hidden.

I stay low and follow Chris off the stage, adrenaline surging through my veins. The soldiers on the green are in full battle mode, rushing to protect the remaining representatives on the stage. I guess I am included in that group, but I don’t care. I slide my handgun out of the holster on my hip, taking cover behind the curve of the concrete podium.

“What the hell was that?” Chris growls as Devin runs around the corner.

“You tell
me
, man,” Devin replies, panting.

Three more gunshots, and then silence. Security detachments and guards are rolling out, scouring the premises for the shooter. Where is he? How did he get in?

How have there been three assassination attempts in less than twenty-four hours? That’s insane. That should be impossible. This city – this
place
– is secure!

Apparently not.

“We’ve got to get you inside,” Chris says. “And the rest of the representatives.”

“It’s not just
us
they’re trying to kill,” I reply. “It’s the officers – you and Devin and Uriah. The top dogs.” Chris doesn’t argue. He knows I’m right.

“Let’s go,” he says.

We start to head for the cars, but Elle appears from the other side of the Humvee that we arrived in. She screams, “Don’t!! Go back, go back!”

Bravo is barking, and Chris pulls me backward. Elle sprints across the green meadow, threading through the mass of soldiers and militiamen and women taking defensive positions against the invisible attacker.

The detonation slams through us, a daisy chain series of explosions. Pieces of twisted metal hurl through the air. Flames erupt inside the vehicles, turning them inside out, spewing hot glass and metal over the meadow. I roll behind the corner of the podium and Chris shields me with his body. Devin hunkers down. Elle stumbles and falls. Chris grabs her ankle and drags her behind the cover of the podium. I pull Elle close to my chest and we huddle up together, the heat from the flames singeing my clothes, warming my face.

Bravo stays near Elle as pieces of destroyed vehicles are flung into the sky, landing everywhere. Black, billowing waves of choking smoke spreads across the meadow. It is chaos, insanity. I can feel the
sweat dripping down my chest, sticking my shirt to my skin.

“What do we do?” I ask Chris.

“We get inside,” he says, repeating his earlier plan. “We get to cover.”

I get a cold, chilling flashback of the Battle of the Grapevine. I see myself running through a huge drainage pipe, away from Jeff Young’s lifeless body, as dozens of men and women in our ranks suddenly turned on us, creating the same kind of chaos that we have here today.

“Follow me!” Chris yells. “Go!”

He’s up and running across the meadow, keeping his head down, shoulders tucked, body moving. I follow, keeping behind his shoulder, light and quick on my feet. Elle and Devin are behind me, including Bravo.

We cross the street, quickly picking our way through the carnage of the ruined convoy. My mind is reeling – how could they have all been rigged to explode at the same time? And if they were rigged, why didn’t they blow up while everyone was
inside
the vehicles?

There is a row of barracks here, light tan buildings in neat rows. We slip between two of them. Chris kicks the door open and we rush inside the building. The interior has been cleared out. There is nothing but rows of bunks and shuttered windows here.

“Stay here,” Chris says.

“No freaking way!” I reply, angry. “I’m a Commander, and I do
not
stay behind.”

Chris opens his mouth to argue but thinks better of it. He knows that I am right. He cannot protect me anymore. I am no longer his sole responsibility. Sophia and Andrew step inside the barracks. Andrew is holding a radio, streaked with grime and smoke. Sophia is heaving, a ribbon of blood slipping down the side of her neck.

“We’ve secured the area,” Andrew says. He pauses. “I think.”

“You don’t
know
?” Chris says. “I’ll be damned if Omega’s going to push their way into Monterey.” He walks to the door, turning to me. “Cassidy. Stay
here
.” Devin gives me an apologetic look and follows Chris. Apparently birds of a feather flock together.

I heave an exasperated sigh, then turn to check on Elle.