Divided States, page 17
“Boudreaux didn’t know how deep into this you were,” he says. “Apparently the whistleblower was told you’d have to be manipulated into getting Young here because you’re soft when it comes to your assets. But as far as Boudreaux knew, you knew the plan was to detonate the bomb.”
How could Boudreaux think I’m capable of that?
“But Boudreaux knew I wasn’t part of it,” Moore continues. “His source said Gates and that fruitcake Novak think only they can restore America’s military power in time to stop worldwide nuclear war, but they need a show of strength to prove it. They think detonating the nuke will convince Anderson, Cole, and the Western governors to take control of the nuclear stockpiles in their countries, forcing Ramirez and the other leaders to concede. If nothing else, Boudreaux figured I’d want to keep Anderson in power.”
Everything fits together so far, which Eric hates to admit. But this is all thirdhand information from an expert liar with almost no moral code.
“Did Boudreaux name his source?”
“Yeah. Guy by the name of Daniels. Said they served in the Army together. And apparently Daniels was given the plan by his boss, Robb something. I guess he wanted to recruit this Daniels to be in the new regime, but told him not to tell Novak. Boudreaux said Daniels got as many details as possible to pass on before telling Robb and Novak to go screw themselves.”
Lori’s mentioned Jeremiah’s bosses, Greg Daniels and the head honcho, Logan Robb. So, it’s all true. Eric is partially responsible for the hundreds who were already dead. He’s also to blame for the countless more who will be vaporized or burned or die slowly from radiation poisoning and famine.
Unless I can stop it.
“We can still salvage the op,” Moore says.
“Who’s we? You and Annie Oakley back there?”
“Dammit Eric.” He’s screaming, which is deafening in the confines of the sporty sedan. “You don’t want that bomb to go off and neither do I, so we need to put our shit aside and work together.”
Moore’s right. But how’s Eric supposed to trust him again? “And what happens after? We go back to our corners? Go back to playing spy versus spy because it’s so much freaking fun?”
“Let’s hope we get to cross that bridge.”
“Fine.” Eric will have to work with him—at least until an alternative opportunity presents itself. “So what’s your plan?”
As Moore purses his lips and puffs out his cheeks, the reality sinks in.
“Well?” Eric shouts. “What were you going to do after getting control of the truck?”
“I don’t know, all right.” He’s matching Eric’s volume. “That’s why I grabbed you. You were always better at strategy. You plan, I execute.”
He’s right. But still. “Don’t you oversee intelligence for a whole country now?”
He grips the steering wheel tighter. “I delegate.”
Moore hates office work. He would’ve stayed in GB another ten years if not for his family. After his first daughter was born, Moore told Eric he was thinking of going to work for a paramilitary contractor so he could make bank while still in his prime.
But Eric knew Moore’s safety would be his family’s priority, so he promised a desk job and every promotion he could swing.
Then Eric left, leaving Moore to deal with Gates and the weakening Ramirez administration.
“Why did you do it?” Eric asks. “I know your career in the Agency wasn’t going anywhere, but why would you betray everything we stood for. Everything we fought for.”
Saying the question out loud is at once painful and joyous, a release years in the making. Eric has fantasized about the day he would confront Moore. Put him in his place. Shame him. Kill him.
“It’s where I wanted to raise my children.”
Eric has no comeback. In all the times Eric has rehearsed this conversation, Moore never gave that answer. So he sits, venom meant for Moore now pooling in his own mouth, poisoning his own blood.
All this time, it had nothing to do with the Agency or the government. He doesn’t believe the Federalists have the best form of democracy. Doesn’t believe in states’ rights. Doesn’t believe in a decentralized government or unfettered capitalism or the abolishment of welfare.
Moore doesn’t believe in anything.
He’s not a traitor.
“You’re a coward.”
“That’s not how I see it,” Moore says, a smooth lawyer making his case to the jury. “The secessions were going to happen whether I wanted them to or not, and I never blamed anyone involved in the process. Our situation was toxic, and sometimes leaving’s necessary because staying together is worse. So I picked the place me and mine would be happiest. I couldn’t go work with you because I knew what Gates was capable of. I thought about moving us back to Texas, but Levi Cole is worse in his own way. So when Anderson approached me at one of the last secession summits, I accepted his offer.”
It all sounds nice. But there’s a dark truth to his speech. “And what about those Urban Zones in your cities? How do you live with shit like that?”
“How were you planning to live with stealing a nuclear weapon and overthrowing the governments of eight sovereign nations?”
Eric’s indignation is righteous, but he realizes Moore just wants to get through this life with a happy, healthy family. They may never agree about a lot of things. Maybe that’s Moore’s point.
For now, Eric has little choice but to focus on the one issue they do agree on.
And he has an idea.
“Would Anderson help us get control of the bomb?” Eric asks.
“Maybe. I’ve made him aware of the situation in China. Right now he thinks I’m still in Shreveport briefing the officers at Barksdale. When Boudreaux called and said your asset was in New Orleans, I told Anderson it would be better if I was on-site.”
Smart. Not only did that get Moore close to Lori, but putting Barksdale on high alert is a prudent move. It’s one of only two old Air Force bases with both munitions storage facilities and B-52 Stratofortress bombers. The other is in North Dakota, where the governor won’t know anything’s wrong until after a first strike.
Eric is about to suggest Moore contact his boss when the satphone receives an incoming call from Moore’s team trailing the semi. It’s short, and all Eric hears is copy that twice.
“The truck just turned east on Highway 60,” Moore says. “They’re heading for a town called paw-hooskah.”
Eric’s not intimately familiar with the highways north of Cushing, but they can’t be more than fifteen minutes from that turn toward Pawhuska.
But where are they going? The town is surrounded by a million and a half acres of Osage Reservation, much of it uninhabited. There are small towns to the south and east, but virtually nothing but plains to the north until you reach The Frontier.
“They also said an Escalade is behind them and coming up fast.”
33
JEREMIAH
Oklahoma Highway 60,
17 miles west of Pawhuska, Northeast Province
Republic of Oklahoma
Either someone is tailing them, or some poor sucker chose the worst possible morning to travel through northwestern Oklahoma.
Either way, the black car is stopping.
“This should do it,” Jeremiah says from the passenger seat.
Dom hits the jake brake. The obnoxiously loud sound is followed by furious cursing in Spanish and English from the overhead.
“You were supposed to warn us, dick,” Mac calls down, but it’s hard to hear over their delirious laughter.
It’s all they can do now. They’ve already said their goodbyes. Zeus and Dom used up one of the burners talking to their wives, though Dom had to finish his conversation using Mac’s. Both will survive, but they wanted to do it just in case.
When she got the phone back, Mac immediately went to work, determining exactly where they should park and wait.
Oklahoma’s Internet is open enough to access one of the more reputable sites that map blast and fallout scenarios. Novak wouldn’t tell Jeremiah what they were transporting, but one of the haggard workers said they were loading a B83, the baddest gravity bomb they have. Though the yield can be set lower, Mac calculated using the max of 1.2 megatons. The wind took a bit more guesswork, but the latest radar indicated gusts up to 50 mph and the storm was moving northeast at almost exactly 45 degrees.
The website spit out a model with a blast radius that ends a mile or so east of where Dom has stopped across both lanes of Highway 60. They can’t help who drives into ground zero from the east, but they can help this black sedan set up a perimeter and save a few lives.
It’s a quarter till nine and their optimal spot is ten miles down the road, so they’ll have to make it quick.
Jeremiah, Zeus, and Dom jump down and jog around the tractor. Mac stays in the cab and will move behind the wheel. There’s no reason for the whole team to die, and those two have families. Jeremiah didn’t want to burden them with breaking this awful news to whoever’s in the car. He gave Mac the choice, and she said she’d rather wait behind the wheel in case the car’s occupants come out shooting. If all goes smooth, Jeremiah will relieve her in less than two minutes and be at the optimal detonation zone with at least one to spare.
The sedan is parked about thirty yards away but nobody’s gotten out, so he gives the universal come on out arm swing. When that doesn’t work, he tells the boys to stay back and alert. As he jogs toward the car. He clocks a black SUV parked on the shoulder in the distance.
He gets within twenty feet before the driver exits. He’s wearing tac gear, as is the passenger and another man behind him.
“I don’t know who you’re with or how much you know,” Jeremiah says, “but there’s a nuclear bomb in that truck and it’s set to go off at 0900.”
The driver’s cheeks redden below disappearing irises. “That’s only fifteen mikes from now.”
“Exactly.” Jeremiah points a thumb over his shoulder. “These two are going to help you set up a roadblock. They can handle the Suburban parked behind you and will walk back to you, but y’all need to drive to the intersection with Highway 18. Stop anyone going north or east. All traffic needs to go south or west because it’s against the wind.”
“Are you sure? I mean, how do you know—”
“Look, if I’m wrong and you stay, we have a fourteen-minute lead on you. If I’m right and you follow us, you’re dead too.”
“Yeah.” He looks at a spot between them. “Yeah. Okay.”
Jeremiah spins, then jogs toward the truck, passing Dom and Zeus. He’s halfway there when the driver calls after him. The man is waving wildly at the SUV on the shoulder.
“What the hell are you—”
“Your wife’s in there,” he says.
As it gets closer, Jeremiah recognizes the Escalade. He sprints toward the car, where the boys have stopped, unsure what to do.
“How did you …” Jeremiah stammers. “I mean, nobody else—”
“We were there. We saw what happened.”
Jeremiah wants details, but there’s no time. The SUV screeches to a halt and Lori hops down, Boudreaux a step behind her. Jeremiah and Lori embrace with a ferocity he’s never felt. Will never feel again.
He’s lost in it until he hears the rig’s engine. Time’s up, and Mac’s threatening to leave on her own. He releases Lori and extends his hand to Boudreaux.
“Take care of her.”
He nods toward the rig. “You too.”
Jeremiah turns and jogs toward the truck, which is revving and starting to pick up speed. He does the same and veers wide until he can see Mac’s face in the sideview mirror.
She makes eye contact.
Then shifts into a higher gear.
She can’t be serious. Jeremiah ducks his head and hopes for the adrenaline of a mother lifting a car off her kid. He gets it and is level with Mac’s door in about ten seconds. He can’t sustain this speed for long, though, so he jumps and grabs the mirror.
“Stop,” he yells through the window. When she doesn’t, he tries pulling rank. “That’s an order.”
She turns to face him but doesn’t say anything, so he yanks the doorhandle.
Locked.
They’re going at least twenty at this point and if she doesn’t stop he’ll have a choice—break the glass with his SIG or bail and watch her commit suicide in his stead.
The staring contest lasts a few seconds before Mac jerks her head around and downshifts. She doesn’t roll down the window until the truck has stopped.
“Get down from there,” he screams. “And I mean right the fuck now.”
“The guys need you. Plus you’re sober and have an ex-wife you love. I’m just—”
“We don’t have time for this. I have to get this rig going or they’ll die, too.”
“Well I’m not leaving this seat,” she says. “You can shoot me or get in the passenger side. Your choice.”
Jeremiah reaches for the inside door handle. He’s confident he can outmuscle her until his back hits the pavement.
“Don’t do this,” he screams in anger and passion and disbelief at the fucked-up situation they’re in. “I can’t watch you kill yourself. I just can’t.”
Mac leans out the window, the corners of her mouth pulled lower than he’s ever seen. “Well neither can I,” she screams back. “So get in here already.”
The engine revs again before he can get to his feet, and as Jeremiah runs to his death, he smiles. Even in their last few minutes together, Mac won’t let him treat her like anything but the badass she is.
But after slamming his door and catching his breath, reality sets in. There are no more missions. No transports. No sparring sessions. No hundred-dollar bets on the range.
Just eight more minutes by her side.
“I’m glad you got to see her,” Mac says.
“Yeah,” he says, realizing he was, too. Things were bad between him and Lori at one point. Terrible, actually. But lately they could be around each other and talk like old friends and lovers without opening the bottle of poison that killed their marriage.
“Do you regret divorcing her?”
Why’s she asking that now? Jeremiah wasn’t prepared for deep conversation. He’d planned on singing It’s the End of the World as We Know It, then cracking jokes about his age and her terrible taste in music. Anything to avoid discussing the fact they were about to die while unleashing the full power of humankind’s worst creation.
Or that other thing. The way he saw it, there was no use discussing something they’d never get to act on.
“I don’t know,” he says. “Never really thought about it like that.”
“Don’t do that,” Mac snaps. “Our atoms will literally split apart and disappear into the ether in seven minutes.” She throws the rig into high gear. “That’s how long we have to make up for seven years of not talking about it.”
She doesn’t elaborate, but Jeremiah knows what it is. The whole team knows. Lori knows.
Hell, even Boudreaux seemed to know.
“Well?” she prods. “Do you wish you hadn’t left her?”
“No,” he says. “Our marriage was one of the best things that ever happened to me. But so was our divorce.”
Mac’s next breath is sharp on the inhale, relaxed on the exhale. “So you still hate her.”
“No.” He doesn’t feel like elaborating, but the calm that flooded Mac’s face a moment ago fades instantly. “I never stopped loving her. I stopped liking her, yes, but our divorce was never about hate. Our situation was toxic, and sometimes leaving’s necessary because staying together is worse.”
Mac nods, seems to accept his answer. “So you love her, but you’re not in love with her.”
“No, Shaye.” She turns and their eyes meet. Hers are wet, and his are filling. “I’m not in love with her.”
Five more minutes.
* * *
“We won’t make it in time to stop for a real goodbye,” she says.
“And who’s fault is that?”
Mac snortgiggles and wipes away wet streaks with the back of her hand. Rather than vomiting their feelings and living the rest of their lives in emotional agony, she and Jeremiah chose to sing the song and make the jokes, to keep their shit together and make one last on-time delivery.
But now they’re sixty seconds away from reaching their optimal detonation point going 88 mph, just like that old time-travel movie.
Jeremiah scoots over to her, intertwines the fingers of his left hand with her right.
Then his chest starts pounding. Jeremiah would ordinarily rely on the gesture to communicate the words. It’s how their relationship works. It’s what they do.
But as their final minute ticks away, he knows that won’t cut it.
Just say it. “So, uh, do you regret anything?”
Pussy.
“I regret a lot of things.” She squeezes his hand. “But the answer to your question, Jeremiah, is yes.”
Twenty seconds. He can’t catch his breath. You literally have nothing to lose. “Shaye, I …”
She turns to him, eyes brimming with hope and tears.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” he says.
