The Shift: Book II of the Wildfire Saga (22 page)

Cooper turned, taking one last glimpse down the street as the rising sun fully illuminated their new area of operation.
 
Boston brownstones lined the street as it ran west.
 
His eyes lingered on the handful of windows that glowed—people were rising to start the day and more than a few had candles.
 
That made him uncomfortable.
 
Cooper didn’t like the idea of hiding in an area that teemed with survivors.
 
Willard Ave. was littered with trash and a few civilian vehicles that had crashed.
 

They would definitely have to wait until dark to move out.
 
He didn’t want to test the loyalty of the locals.
 
Anyone in desperate need of food might turn them in to a passing German patrol.

He heard the low-pitched hum of a German helicopter as it cut the still morning air.
 
Cooper shut the door.

The interior of their safe house was as dark as night.
 
He thought about turning on his night vision, then remembered he had left his HAHO helmet back at the lab.
 
It was just a charred lump of plastic and Kevlar now.
 
"Charlie?"
 
He called out in a hoarse voice.

"Upstairs in the master bedroom.
 
I got first watch
."

"You got eyes on that German helo?"

"Negative.
 
I got the windows cracked up here, though, and it's a loud son of a bitch
."

Cooper leaned his sweat-soaked head against the door and closed his eyes in relief.
 
If they had been out on the street for just another minute, they would have easily been spotted by the helo.
 
They were taking too many chances.

"Swede?"

"
Yeah, Coop?"

"Any word from Jax or Sparky?"

"Negative, I ain't heard shit."

Cooper helped Mike get to his feet and pulled him into the apartment’s living room.
 
The place had been abandoned for a while, if the layer of dust and dirt on everything was an indication.
 
There was a bare spot on the floor underneath the front windows, about the size of a couch.
 

Cooper brought Mike over, careful not to disturb the window coverings and helped him to the floor.
 
“It ain’t a bed, but at least you can stretch out a little.”
 
He unclipped Mike's pack, tactical vest, and gear and used them to prop him up so he could breathe easier.
 

"Sorry it's not the Four Seasons or anything, but it's about as good as I can do for you right now, brother…"

"Don't worry about me," said Mike, his eyes already closed.
 
"But if you happen to come across some water, I'd be much obliged…"

Cooper patted Mike’s shoulder.
 
"I’ll see what I can find.
 
You hang tight."
 
Don’t let him go out like this.
 
He’s an operator—let him go out fighting…

Cooper made his way through the darkened interior of the apartment and found Swede still in his HAHO helmet, leaning against one of the countertops in the kitchen.
 
He was digging through the cabinets while keeping an eye out the kitchen window that faced northeast.
 
Cooper stepped up next to him and peered out the window.
 

There was a small patch of bushes at the rear end of the tiny lot.
 
Beyond the bushes, Cooper saw a sizable parking lot dotted with abandoned vehicles and a few boats.
 
On the other side of the parking lot was a four lane interstate.
 
“That’s gotta be 93.”

"Yup.
 
The Northern Expressway.
 
I saw a sign on the way in.
 
And
that's Russell Marine
," said Swede with a jerk of his head toward the parking lot.

Cooper wiped the sweat from his brow.
 
A flare of worry ignited in his mind—
do I have a fever or is it just from dragging Mike’s ass across Boston?
 
He suppressed the fear, reminding himself to worry later and took his pack off before he placed it on the trash-covered kitchen table.
 
Fast-food wrappers and empty cans rattled on the floor.
 

He pulled out a local map from his pack and stretched his burning shoulders.
 
Using the faded light from the grimy kitchen window, he examined their options.
 
According to the map in his hands, Russell Marine had a facility on the other side of 93 that backed up to the Mystic River.
 
He looked out the window and could just barely see beyond the deserted interstate, where a tree line indicated the river’s banks.
 
A long, squat building surrounded by a high fence sat on the other side of the interstate.

"
New Hampshire's a long way, north, man…"
observed Swede.

"Don't I know it," muttered Cooper.
 
"And Mike…" Cooper turned and looked at Swede.
 
"I don't think Mike got sick at all ten years ago."

"Poor bastard,"
said Swede.

"He ain't dead yet," said Cooper.
 
"But he
will
be, if we don't get him out of here."
 
Cooper looked down at the map and used his soot-encrusted finger to trace the line of the interstate.
 
The road ran north on the map as it headed for the New Hampshire border.
 
Cooper could see the trip was going to be almost impossible with a man to carry and no vehicle.

Back in Colorado, Admiral Bennet had assured Cooper that as long as they could get out of Boston, someone would be able to get to them.
 
The mission called for extraction from New Hampshire where a small airfield had been commandeered.
 
A C-130 and a team of medics waited for them.

The Germans had locked down the air space over Boston, but their control was tenuous outside of downtown.
 
It would be possible, the Admiral told him, for a covert extraction anywhere in the area as long as they made it out of Boston proper.

Cooper followed the Mystic River with his finger as it meandered its way around the north side of Boston and emptied into the Bay.
 
If they could get across 93…and if they found a boat…and if they found gas and somehow managed to make it down the Mystic River into the Bay undetected by the Germans…

That’s a lot of if’s.
 
He stared at the map, willing it to offer up a suggestion, a hint, anything that might help.
 
Then where the hell do we go?
 
It would be a long, slow process to wind their way through downtown Boston out into the open waters of the Bay.
 
Cooper tried to think back to the HAHO drop—he couldn't recall seeing any German ships in the Bay.
 
The briefings back in Colorado had explained that the German presence was heavily supported by aircraft and that a significant naval presence had yet to arrive.

Still…
 

Cooper looked out the kitchen window.
 
If they went out at night, they might be able to make it into the Bay by the following dawn.
 
There were an awful lot of islands in the Bay that they could hide on if the trip lasted that long.
 
He glanced down again at the map.
 
Cooper's eyes followed the trail of islands that dotted the western extreme of Massachusetts Bay and spotted one, just northeast of Boston.
 
It was connected to a strip of land by a thin peninsula.
 
He read the name on the map:
Nahant
.

It didn't look like there was any airfield, but right in the middle of the little spit of land there was an open space—maybe a golf course.
 
Either way, there was a decided lack of buildings and trees.
 
Helicopters or Ospreys could land there, no problem.

Swede leaned over the map.
 
His helmet turned to face Cooper.
 
“
You got that look again…you changing the plan?
”

Cooper nodded.
 
He tapped the map.
 
"Nahant.
 
Just south of Lynn.
 
I think this open space here would be plenty enough for an Osprey.”
 

“
Sure as shit
,” muttered Swede.

Cooper checked the distances and retraced the route with his eyes.
 
The more he thought about it, the more he liked the idea.
 
"Yeah, I think this'll work."
 

A low rumble pierced the kitchen walls.
 
Cooper looked at Swede and both men peered out the dirty window.
 
A German tank rumbled down the abandoned interstate.
 
A dozen soldiers walked behind it, looking tired and bored.

"
Never thought I'd see that in Boston
,” muttered Swede.

"Amen, brother.”
 
Cooper folded the map and stuck it back in his pack.
 
He keyed his mic.
 
"All right everybody, listen up," he said.
 
"New plan for exfil.
 
Soon as it gets dark, we’re going across the street and stealing us a boat."

"
A boat?"
asked Charlie's voice.

Cooper grinned.
 
"What's the matter?
 
You afraid of the water?"

A static-filled transmission scratched at Cooper’s ear.
 
He closed his eyes and pressed a finger to the bone phone.
 
“Anybody catch that?”

“That sounded like Jax,”
said Swede.
 
He grabbed his rifle and made for the front of the apartment.

"That's what I thought," said Cooper as he followed.
 
In a louder voice, he said: "Jax, come in.
 
You read me?"

There was a pause, and then Cooper heard a garbled message.
 
It was definitely Jax's voice.

"Say again!
 
You're breaking up!
"

"—there!
 
Repeat: we are—"
static swallowed the transmission.

”Dammit…They must be close," said Cooper.
 
"Charlie you got a visual?"

"Negative, I'm watching the street.
 
I got no movement."

“Jax, come in.
 
You okay?”

"—hit.
 
I say again, Sparky’s been hit."

Cooper looked at Swede.
 
“Let’s go get ‘em.”

C
HAPTER
12

Washington, D.C.

The White House.

Presidential Emergency Operations Center.

P
RESIDENT
B
ARRON
STARED
AT
the monitor on his desk.
 
The grim face of his Security Forces Chief stared back.
 
The man's face was narrow, but his lips were disproportionately wide and thick wide and his eyes looked a little too big for his skull.
 
Quite honestly, the man looked like a frog.
 
A very skinny frog, but a frog nonetheless.

The man's eyes had dark smudge-like shadows, as if he had not been sleeping.
 
Barron supposed that could be true—he had placed an enormous amount of responsibility on the frog-man’s shoulders.
 
Not only was he in charge of all of the security forces of each agency of the federal government, but he had also just been tasked with securing the whole of the United States.

Tennyson Jones blinked and the President had to force himself not to smile.
 
That slow, languid movement of his eyelids made Jones looks like he was ready to snatch a fly out of the air with his tongue.

"Let's have some progress reports, Tennyson.
 
What can you tell me?"

"Sir, the directives that I issued have been implemented and we are already starting to see some promising results with the snitch program."

Barron waved his hand in dismissal.
 
"Never liked that name, the ‘snitch program’.
 
Can’t we come up with something better?
 
No—not you—you have more important things to worry about.
 
I’m locked in the Bunker all day.
 
I'll come up with something…a catchy name, you know?
 
Something the Press can get behind.
 
‘Snitch’ sounds…unethical somehow.
 
Distasteful.”

Jones nodded.
 
"Of course, Mr. President. As you wish."

He may look like a damn frog, but God help me, I like him
.
 
“Good.
 
Now that’s settled, what else have you got for me?”