Divided States, page 29
“My name is Corporal Alan Novak of the—”
Jeremiah shoves the blade into Novak’s piehole and slices into his cheek. The scream is from a bad horror movie. The cut isn’t long, but it’s enough to fill Novak’s mouth with blood. After a few seconds, Moore taps him on the shoulder and Lori yells for him to stop from her post in the corner.
Jeremiah isn’t out of control, but he wants Novak to think otherwise.
It works.
“It’s grounded until Robb or I give them new orders,” Novak says after Jeremiah removes the blade.
With Robb dead, the plane will be secure until presidents Cole, Anderson, and Ramirez get the situation under control. That needs to happen fast—right after Jeremiah lets Zeus talk to his sister.
“Where’s the paper with those phone numbers?” Jeremiah asks Novak.
Novak shakes his head. “Dropped it. Need the doctor to sew up my mouth.”
He’s still bleeding, and Jeremiah knows he’s right. If Taggart dies, that’s a casualty he can live with. But they need to keep Novak alive. Not only will many governments want their pound of flesh, but—as he put it earlier—they’ll need someone to satisfy the world’s bloodlust.
Jeremiah hands the knife back to Moore. “Cut him loose and stop the bleeding. Sew him up if you can. The quicker, the better.”
He turns to Lori, who’s muttering something in the corner. “Help me find that number.”
“Don’t need to. I have it memorized.”
“I’m sure you do, but I’d feel a lot better if—”
“Will you quit being a dick for once?” She’s never interrupted him with that tone before. “I have it. I’ll explain how later, but first let’s go see if the doc’s cellphone gets any better signal in his room.”
Voices fill the hall as Jeremiah and Lori walk past the nurse’s station. A few of them are laughing, including Mac and Dr. Hosseini, which brings a smile to his face.
Then it registers. There’s no heartbeat coming from Room 5.
He sprints down the hall, hoping the monitor is malfunctioning but everything else is working. The door’s half open, but not enough to see Zeus, so he kicks it open so hard it bounces back and gets him on the shoulder.
He doesn’t feel it.
Doesn’t feel anything.
Zeus’s eyes are open and glassy, a pair of 9mm holes in his forehead. Those motherfuckers double-tapped him in the head when the shooting started. Why? In case he revealed his superhuman healing powers and joined the fight?
Jeremiah slides to the floor and rests his shoulders against the side of the bed. Lori enters a second later. She covers her mouth at first, then approaches, slowly, like she’s trying to coax a wolf into eating from her hand.
“Do you still want to call his sister? If not, we can call her first. But one of her first questions will be …”
Jeremiah can’t talk to Lori. But talking to Lexi Ramirez is his job—his duty—so he holds out his hand for the phone, hoping Lori understands and doesn’t make him say it.
She doesn’t. Lori enters the number, then puts a hand on his shoulder as she kneels to hand him the phone.
“I’ll see if Moore can contact his asset in Beijing, or maybe President Anderson.” She wipes a tear from her cheek, and his eyes threaten to release theirs. “Come get us when you’re done and we’ll all fill her in on the rest.”
Jeremiah feels the burn on his cheeks before realizing he’s crying.
58
LORI
She turns quickly. Lori wants to give Jeremiah deniability, but she also needs to stay on task.
Moore’s still working on Novak a few doors down, but she needs him to hurry so they can figure out whether stopping the detonation even mattered.
“You almost done?”
Moore looks up but keeps his hands working. “Just tying him off now.” He jerks on the thread and Novak grunts, his hands still cuffed and feet now secured with white medical tape.
“Good,” she says. “You have a way to call your spy in China?”
“I think so. If the Internet and phone in the doctor’s office are as good as he says.” Moore slaps Novak on the fresh stitches, which are jagged and are bound to leave a scar nastier than the one on her thigh. “We’re going to drop you off in the room with the guys so you don’t get any ideas.”
As they escort the prisoner across the hall, Moore glances back to Room 5. When his eyes find Lori’s a moment later, she shakes her head.
Moore sets his jaw and tosses Novak into the room. He lands face-first, a satisfying thud followed by a more satisfying scream.
“Remember, he can’t die,” Moore says. “But a few kicks never killed anyone.”
Lori starts toward the nurse’s station while Moore stays behind. She assumes he’s relaying the tragic news but doesn’t want to be around when he does. Instead, she hustles to the office and rounds the desk to wake up the computer.
She barely has time to open a browser when Moore steps in.
“All yours,” Lori says.
Moore takes her place at the computer. Lori shuffles around and clears a spot on an old couch that hasn’t been used for sitting in a long time.
Lori’s thankful Moore gets through to his contact on the first try. She can only hear one side of the conversation, but she gathers that President Ramirez has already called and told them that something is wrong on this side of the globe and not to react yet.
When he hangs up, Moore tells her as much and immediately dials his boss, who gets a summary of the news.
“And you’ll call President Cole and tell him to cease all nuclear activity? … Excellent. And for heaven’s sake, please tell him to keep that B-52 on the ground. … Thank you, Mr. President. I’ll call back after locals get this area secure and I can find a flight home, though with this weather that may not be until tomorrow.”
As he hangs up the receiver, Lori’s attention is drawn by a knock on the open door. It’s Jeremiah, followed by MacLaughlin, Hansen, Boudreaux, and Fowler.
“He just finished up,” Lori says. “China’s got their finger off the trigger, so we’re good for now. Do you want him to dial President Ramirez?”
Jeremiah points to the cell. “She’s on mute.” He touches the screen twice then lays the phone down on the desk. “Okay Madam President, you’ve got everyone now.”
“And who is everyone else?” President Ramirez asks, her voice a thicker version of the South Texas accent than she uses on TV. “I assume your wife’s in the room, too?”
Lori looks at Boudreaux. Or should she start calling him Mike? “Ex-wife, actually. It’s Lori Young now, Madam President.”
“Oh, my apologies, Miss Young. Who else?”
The group looks around, so Jeremiah takes the lead again. “We have two other members of my team, ma’am. Shaye MacLaughlin and Dominic Hansen.”
“Oh, right. Zeus mentioned both of you. I know you served, too, but I forget the details.”
Mac coughs into her fist, but her expression returns with a Scout-on-a-field-trip smile. “Hello, Madam President. Chief Master Sgt. Shaye MacLaughlin here, retired Air Force Combat Controller, 24th Special Tactics Squadron.”
Hansen is far less enthusiastic. “I was Army Special Forces, then Intelligence Support Activity, Madam President.”
Lori’s not sure what to make of Jeremiah’s giant of a subordinate. The more she’s around him, the more she wants to know. But Lori has a feeling she and Hansen will be spending a lot of time together.
The group pauses to wait for the presidential response. “That everyone?”
Boudreaux attempts to loosen a few rocks from his throat. “No, Madam President. Command Sgt. Maj. Mike Boudreaux, retired Army 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment–Delta, G Squadron.”
Lori has her answer. He’s Boudreaux now. Whoever Michael Hawke was, the guy standing across from her killed him.
“Quite impressive,” President Ramirez says. “If I’m not mistaken, you were all JSOC, with the exception of Miss Young.”
Fowler hobbles toward the phone. “Actually, Madam President, I was, well, involved.”
“And you are?”
“It’s me, ma’am. Eric Fowler.”
“Oh really. Involved? For which side?”
He bites his lip, so Lori steps in. “He was instrumental in our success, as was—”
Everyone coughs at once, and Moore looks terrified. He, apparently, was only here covertly.
“What was that?” President Ramirez asks.
“Oh, nothing, ma’am,” Lori says, though she does a terrible job hiding the fact she’s lying. “I was just going to say that we also made good use of his company’s facilities, too.”
“Well, if that’s everyone, I want to thank you all for your service, today. Mr. Reynolds filled me in on most of what happened already. Acting on your own to stop a terrorist plot of this magnitude is nothing short of heroic. I don’t know how the rest of the nations feel, but the United States of America owes you all a debt of gratitude.”
Jeremiah picks up the phone, sensing the conversation’s imminent end. “Just doing our job, ma’am.”
“Aren’t we a couple of talking clichés,” the president says, her smile nearly visible through the speaker. “I’m not going to let it go at that, though. A president like me could use a group like you.”
Boudreaux takes a step toward the phone. “With respect, ma’am, you have a military.”
“And today proves it’s not worth a damn.”
Lori loves hearing powerful people curse. Reminds her that nobody’s as good as they pretend.
“However,” President Ramirez continues. “My checks still cash. And if you let me take credit for what happened today publicly, I’ll have no problem paying everyone with some discretionary funding.”
Politics on the day she learns her brother was killed. You must have to be an iceberg to survive the heat of her office.
“So we’re what?” Boudreaux asks. “The A-Team?”
“I was thinking Task Force Zulu.”
“Because we’re the last people you want to call in an emergency?”
“Actually,” President Ramirez says, not messing around, “I was thinking it would be a way to honor Zeus.”
Lori smiles. That shut him up quick.
Jeremiah sucks in a breath. “I think we can do that, ma’am.”
“Excellent. And I have your first operation in mind already.”
“What’s that?” Jeremiah asks.
“We need an emergency disablement of that nuclear weapon that you kept from detonating. I think we all agree it can’t go back to The Republic, and I have nowhere to store it here.”
“Tell you what, Madam President,” Jeremiah says. “I don’t think we can destroy the bomb for you, but I have a secure place to store it.”
“Where?”
Boudreaux takes the phone from Jeremiah’s hand. “Ma’am, respectfully, if we do this, you can’t know where. We’ll stash the bomb in one location, keep the keypad with us, and let you retain sole access to the codes.”
“That can work,” she says. “For now. It sounds like you’re taking charge of this outfit, Mr. Boudreaux?”
He and Jeremiah share a look. They both make sense as leaders of whatever the hell this is, though she doubts either will ever take orders from the other.
“For now,” Boudreaux says.
Jeremiah nods.
“Good. How can I reach you? This number?”
“Not our phone,” Boudreaux says. “But we’ll call your cell when the weapon’s secure. By then we’ll have a better comms solution.”
President Ramirez’s pause makes it clear how unhappy she is with that answer, but there’s not much she can do.
After they agree to the terms, Lori stares at Boudreaux. It’ll take a long time to forgive him, if ever.
But after watching him take charge and politely tell an Allied president to go screw herself, Lori’s prepared to swear off drinking and getting high in exchange for ten minutes of personal time in the next room.
I always knew you two would be good for each other, her delusion of a father says. Even if he is a little old for you.
“Shut up,” she mutters.
“What’s that?” Boudreaux asks.
Every set of eyes are on her.
“Nothing,” she says, searching again for something reasonable to say. “Just talking to myself.”
Everyone seems to dismiss it as the idiom most people use when thinking out loud. Lori wonders how long that’ll work, and how long it worked for her mom.
Boudreaux shifts his attention from Lori to Jeremiah.
“So, where is this secure location?”
59
LORI
Secure facility, San Juan Mountains, La Plata County
Free State of Southwestern Colorado
Lori’s not made for this kind of cold. Even sitting shotgun in their new Telluride—an on-the-nose gift from Sheriff Edwin Hansen—she sits on her gloved hands to keep them warm as they wait for the massive overhead door to open.
“You sure the heat’s on full blast?” she asks Boudreaux, who drove them up the tunnels.
“It’ll get warmer when we’re not in the mountain,” he says. “But yes, it’s up all the way.”
“That thing needs to hurry the hell up,” Jeremiah says, his voice barely audible over the heater and rolling metal.
As Boudreaux drives out, Lori reluctantly removes her hands and pulls a satphone from the center console.
President Ramirez answers on the second ring. “Is this line secure?”
“And untraceable.” Lori doesn’t try to hide her annoyance.
“According to whom?”
“The best combat communications specialist either of us have ever met.”
Lori trusts Boudreaux and Jeremiah when it comes to Mac, who’s resting in her Amarillo apartment with the bomb’s permissive action link. Fowler’s doing the same back in Cushing. Moore said he was headed back to Birmingham and left an encrypted email as a contact.
“Very good. And the payload?”
“Parked in my backyard.”
One of the guys snorts trying to suppress his laugh. The woman on the other end of the line sighs. “Fine. Hard as you fought to keep it from detonating, I trust you to keep it safe.”
Dom is a few hundred yards behind them in the blue tractor. Sure, the bomb could be moved by another hauler or transferred to a two-ton pickup. If exploded without being armed—which can’t happen without an armed assault and a genius-level hacker—the B83 would become a dirty bomb. A devastating blast with radioactive fallout, yes, but a millionth the size of a nuclear detonation.
And that’s a huge upgrade from the rest of the Free State of Southwestern Colorado’s munitions, which so far have only been used defensively. Once again, Lori has no proof it will stay that way.
But Dom trusts his uncle, and Jeremiah trusts Dom.
Like most things in Lori’s life, that’s good enough for now.
“Safe as can be,” Lori says. “So, you ready for our account number?”
Lori gives her the digits, which correspond to the TFZ Corp., a new private security firm in The Republic, which is known for its hands-off approach to paramilitary contractors. The fee Boudreaux negotiated for the New Year’s Eve save was generous, which means they’ll use TFZ to buy a nice piece of High Plains ranchland and enough building material to construct a proper base camp.
There’s no reception as they navigate the switchbacks, but Lori’s confident the money will be there when they can check.
“That should do it,” Lori says.
“For now,” President Ramirez says, a bit of relief in her voice. “But here’s hoping I don’t need Task Force Zulu for a good, long while.”
And with a jinx like that, what could possibly go wrong?
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, I’ll address the elephant in the room: This novel was not written as a reaction to the current state of American politics, no matter how hard that may be to believe.
The idea for the first scene—including the post-secession setting and coordinated attacks across several nations—hit me in late 2018 while I was watching the ball drop in New Orleans on New Year’s Eve. It came so vividly and completely that I wrote it shortly after watching the Sugar Bowl. The rest of the first chapter and a synopsis were also written more than two years ago.
With that out of the way, I have some folks to thank profusely.
I will be eternally grateful for the team at Black Rose Writing, including Publisher Reagan Rothe, who believed in me and was patient as I rewrote and edited this novel as events unfolded in 2020 and early 2021.
I must also thank the former intelligence officer who has let me pick his brain and run ideas past him for the last few years. You know who you are.
The same goes for the many veterans who provided insight, both specifically for this novel and throughout my life.
Any mistakes are mine and mine alone.
Amber Guffey is my forever editor, and as such I will forever be in her debt for the many hours she put in helping me with this story.
