Stormhaven Rising (Atlas and the Winds Book 1) (46 page)

“Peter, this is Dale Savage, Night Producer for SNN Live,” the voice on his earpiece said. “Can you tell me where exactly you are?”

“Right now I’m hunkered down right off Pennsylvania Avenue,” he said. “I’m a couple miles from the White House.”

“What happened?” Dale asked. “What’d you see?”

“Someone bombed a motorcade. I saw it pull into the intersection up ahead, and then it just exploded.” He stood up and walked forward. “I don’t know who was in it because it came into the intersection from the right and I couldn’t identify the markings on the vehicles.”

“It looks pretty bad from here, Peter,” the producer said. “How far away are you?”

“A block or so,” he said. “Windows are blown out past where I’m standing. My ears are still ringing, but I think I’m hearing sirens.”

“Ok Peter, we’re going to go live in a couple seconds, think you can handle giving us a good description of what you know?”

“Sure, I can try,” he said, climbing up onto the hood of a car to get a better perspective. Up ahead, near the burning crater, he saw a shadow moving, pushing itself up the wall to a standing position. “Shit, there’s a woman standing there! I saw her at the light waiting to cross. She’s going to need help.” He kept his video cell pointing in her direction as he scrambled down and ran toward the inferno. Several cars smoldered near the intersection.

He remembered that the woman looked pregnant as the second explosion sent another fireball up right beside her. The concussion knocked him backward, and he rolled over onto his stomach. His camera bounced off the wall and landed beside his head.

“Peter are you still there?” the producer hollered in his ear. “We’ve lost the video but we can still hear you if you’re ok.” A long pause and then he said, “Come on Peter let me know you’re still with us.”

Clearing his head and shaking it, he grunted, “Yeah, I’m still here. Hang on, I’ve got to go see if she’s still alive.” He staggered up the road, feeling the searing heat from the burning carcass of the car. He pressed against the building, edging toward where he could see her crumpled on the ground. Circling his coat around them like a cloak against the flames he reached out to her. Her eyes were open, staring lifelessly up at the sky. In spite of being dead, she was smiling peacefully.

***

The Admiral’s House, Vice-Presidential Residence, US Naval Observatory:

“Sir, please wake up. There’s been an explosion.” Dick Rogers snapped upright, coming fully awake before he reached vertical, and squinted at the agent at the bedroom door.

“What did you say?” he said, swinging his feet into the slippers beside his bed and grabbing his robe off the dressing bench.

His wife’s muffled voice groaned out from under the covers, “What’s wrong, dear?”

“I don’t know, but don’t worry. I’ll talk to the agent and let you know.” He patted the pile of comforters reassuringly, knowing she’d probably be up and getting coffee in a couple minutes anyway.

He stepped out into the dimly lit hallway leading toward his study. Hopefully, if it stayed quiet, she’d fall back to sleep, but even before they moved off he heard her groaning her way out of bed. “You said
‘explosion?’
” he whispered.

“That’s right, sir. There’s been an explosion. Secretary Anderson’s motorcade was attacked and we have to assume he’s been killed.”

“Attacked?” he said, opening the door and noticing the blue and red strobe lights from what looked like a dozen police cars reflecting around the dark room. Flipping on the light, he headed for his desk.

“Has Sylvia been told?” He asked, sitting down and blinking away the sleep from his eyes. Something wasn’t right in the room. He struggled with the idea that it was just the inherent oddness of the situation, but the feeling persisted.

“I believe the President’s being informed at this moment. She was en route from San Francisco and they’ve been diverted to Schriever Airbase in Colorado.” The agent stood inside the door.

“I guess I should run point until she gets back,” he said, starting to think through the fog. “Tell me what happened.”

“We don’t know much yet, except that it completely destroyed Secretary Anderson’s limousine and killed three of his escort detail and a female bystander.” The agent pulled out a personal epad to refer to his notes as he spoke. “The entire area has been secured and we have an Investigation Team on its way. First estimates put the device at close to 200 pounds of C4. Beyond that there’s little else in the report.”

“Shit. Two hundred pounds? That’s not an RPG,” the Vice-President said, looking around the room and trying to shake the surrealism of the moment.

“Yes sir,” the agent said. “We’re assuming it was remotely controlled so there is a search underway for the perpetrator."

Dick looked at the clock and stood up. “I need to get rolling."

“Yes sir. I’m supposed to transport you to the White House Situation Room,” the agent said. “I’ll wait outside.” He disappeared through the door.

“Damn Norman and his self-fulfilling prophecy.” He walked across the room, his eyes falling on a white envelope standing in the middle of his Queen Anne table. It stood there, out of place and begging to be opened.

He scooped up the envelope, ripping the flap off as he went down the hall toward his room. Inside was a single sheet of paper with a typed message.

“
Dick, Please understand that if there were any alternatives I’d have taken them. With my death, I’ve given President Hutton the power she needs to keep a lid on things. Make sure she knows this, and does what she should have done all along. She must make the declaration.

“
May Heavenly Father have mercy on my soul.

“
Norman”

Stunned to immobility, he struggled to wrap his mind around the words. He read and re-read the note, not able to accept what he was seeing. When the bedroom door opened and his wife stepped up to him, he still wasn’t sure he understood.

“Are you ok, Dick?” she asked, concerned at his ashen white face.

“No. Not anymore,” he said.

***

Shattered by the Winds

Space Command, Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado:

Sylvia Hutton glared at the screen, trying to decide if she was more frustrated, angry, or sad. A thousand meaningless dots crawled across the map of American airspace, and although flying was still safe enough for the common person, it was too great a risk for the President until they knew they’d restored security to the system. Maybe it had been the most sophisticated computer breach in modern history, but that was no consolation to her.

This is absurd,
she thought,
the most powerful leader in the world, held hostage by a computer hacker.
Her fuming had simmered without release, leaving her snarling and difficult, but at this very moment she didn’t care. She needed answers, and so far she wasn’t getting any she wanted to hear.

For all that she'd wanted to kill Norman, she didn’t really want him dead. He’d been a friend for many years, and even being a strong-willed SOB, she knew she could count on him. Yet now, when the world was crumbling around her, she’d lost one of her strongest allies.

Norman had been dead less than two hours, the wisps of smoke on the video were still rising from the asphalt like ghostly fingers. The news had been running the images non-stop, and she knew it would continue until they had some real information to give.

She was beginning to grasp the idea that somewhere, in the midst of the crater in that Washington intersection, the last remnants of American Freedom had been buried. She knew Norman’s death would forever alter the flow of the crisis. As long as everyone kept seeing the images, she knew they’d be able to build it into an endless conflagration in the public’s awareness. The pressure to get the Administration to back down on its security was over.

Anything to keep the far more frightening truth concealed.

It bothered her that she’d become so opportunistic that she could callously snatch a stronger position from the wrecked reality of the shattered motorcade. Disgusted with herself, she paced around Marquez office, glaring at the technicians who were setting up hardware for her
theoretically secure
teleconference with Dick.

While she waited for the gear to be set up, General Marquez explained everything they knew about the infiltration of the Defense Network. Although it wasn’t much, they’d at least achieved a circumstantial trail back to Stormhaven and the situation in Arizona. When she pressed Marquez about the possibility of a connection between the SA system failure and the incident in DC, all she got was a shrug.

“So this could be coincidence?” she growled.

“It’s not really my area of expertise,” he said, “but if I were to venture a guess, I’d doubt they did it. They only wanted to get their toys out of the open.”

She let out a heavy breath and nodded, accepting his interpretation for the moment. She turned, walking over to the railing to stare at the floor below. “I’m tired of having so many things going on at once that you can’t tell where one crisis ends and another begins.”

“I’d think it comes with the job,” he said.

“I’ve stared into the face of every terrorist devil who’s walked the Earth for the last six years, and I’ve never felt outmaneuvered.” She turned, wondering if he understood what she was trying to say. “This is so much bigger because it’s not just ideology, it’s the whole universe. We’re doing the right things, but I just keep coming back to the idea that it might not be enough.”

“And while Rome is burning, the arsonists are still running loose?” he offered.

“Exactly.” She smiled, adding, “and, they’re using flamethrowers.”

“Maybe we should be moving more aggressively against the ones that are distracting you from the main problem?” the General said.

“Like Colton Taylor?” she asked, rubbing her eyes and stifling a yawn.

“Not meaning to imply that DHS isn’t doing everything they can,” he said, leaning on the railing beside her, “but if he’s the one that just blew us off the air, I’d say that’s the most dangerous thing we face, other than the asteroid itself.” He paused, considering something else he wanted to say. “Would I be out of line in suggesting that it might be time to rethink our strategy in their case?"

“If we could guarantee to keep that internet bomb out of the equation, I’d be ready to drop them right now.” She sat down at his desk and watched the small monitor. Dick was talking to someone off to the side, but there was no sound.

“If we could plan our move so that we had enough diversionary loading, it’s possible we could get the disarming keys out of their system before they had a chance to use it,” he suggested.

She sat back, considering his suggestion. “How long would it take to formulate a plan?”

“Twenty-four to forty-eight hours, depending on how much intel we have,” he said.

“Let’s say I’m tentatively interested in getting Stormhaven out of my hair before they become a bigger headache.” She noticed that the technicians had finished their task. “Get me enough water to drown this fire out, and you’ll have my blessing for military action."

“Absolutely, Madam President,” he said, backing out of the office to give her some privacy.

“Ok, Dick,” she said. “What do we know?”

He looked down at the table in front of him, an unfathomable expression flashing across his face before he spoke. “You have to invoke the Emergency Powers Act.” He sounded like he’d been eating sandpaper.

“Probably, but you need to fill me in on the details first,” she said, curious that the first words out of his mouth were the one thing he’d fought hardest against.

“They’re telling us now that the bomb was not planted in the road as originally assumed,” he said, reading from his notes. “It was located under the backseat of the limo. They don’t know if it was remotely detonated, or whether it was on a timer. All they can be certain of is that it was intended specifically for Norman.”

“Have they made any arrests yet?” she asked, trying to control her emotional reaction.

“DHS has one man in custody,” he said, glancing down at his notes again. “A freelance journalist by the name of Peter Webber. He was about a block away from the explosion and started shooting video right after it happened.”

“Do they think he did it?” she asked.

“They say it’s not likely, although he’s being a bit vague on why he was there at that time of night. They’re still questioning him, and will be transferring him to a facility in Quantico for more rigorous interrogation if he doesn’t shoot straight.”

“I understand,” she said, knowing exactly what
rigorous interrogation
meant. Hopefully he’d come clean first.

“The truth is, Sylvia,” he said, “we’ve got evidence that points to Global News as being behind the bomb, and we’ve got to move now to get things under control.”