Conspiracy

Into the Sunset

The compound is a bustle of activity — our plans being put into motion. The consolidation of our resources takes some of the work crews, but others continue working on our housing. At the southern end of the compound, machinery and crews are carving out a runway and associated ramp space. All-in-all, it’s a good sight to behold. Many things are coming together, but I feel the looming pressure of time. With the late afternoon closing in, I step into the darker interior of Cabela’s.

Harold is at one of the tables staring intently at the screen of a laptop, its blue light reflecting off his face. He shakes his head and his fingers move rapidly across the keyboard before he returns to stare at it intently once again. Looking up quickly as I make my way across the first floor, he waves me frantically to him.

“Any luck?” I ask, coming to stand at his shoulder.

Swiveling in his chair to face me, he answers, “I don’t even know where to begin.”

“How about in the middle?” I respond.

“What?”

“I’m kidding. I’ve always found the beginning to be the best place. Let’s try that,” I state, glancing at an open document on the screen.

Harold sighs heavily and takes a moment to gather his thoughts. “You were right to take this hard drive, although not for the reasons you initially thought. There were more than a few hidden, locked files. The algorithm wasn’t that hard to figure out, but it’s as I suspected, the director was definitely in on this,” Harold says.

“In on what?” I ask, trying to make sense of the files spread across the laptop screen.

With another sigh, Harold spins back to face the laptop. “There are files here denoting locations, test results, goals, maps of facilities, lists of names, transmission modes, a—”

“Whoa. Slow down, Harold,” I interrupt.

“…few corrupted files, satellite control, nanotechnology,” Harold continues as if I had merely blown hot air into the room.

I reach down and grab his shoulder, making him turn to meet my eyes.

“Harold, slow…the fuck…down. What are you talking about?” I ask, having gained his undivided attention.

“I told you I didn’t know where to start,” he murmurs, turning to the screen once again.

With another deep sigh, he rubs his face. “Okay, remember our conversation about the rogue network and me getting in there momentarily?”

“Only too well,” I reply.

“Keep that conversation in mind as I go through this,” he says, closing the documents on the screen, but leaving one in place.

“This,” Harold says, pointing to the screen, “is a report from test results conducted with nanotechnology. I haven’t read through the entire thing but, from what I have read, it shows results of various transmission modes to administer nanobots.”

“Nanobots? And you mean transmission to people?” I ask with a sick feeling settling in my stomach.

“Yes. And the ones mentioned here are particularly nasty ones. They adhere to the cerebral cortex,” Harold answers.

“And?”

“They contain small explosives.” Harold pauses to let the emphasis of what he is saying settle in.

“This was tested?” I ask, the sick feeling settling deeper.

“Yes. With varied results. The transmission was tested with food, liquids, aerosols, and a few others…including vaccines,” Harold answers, emphasizing the last.

“Fuck me,” is all I can reply with. “This still sounds like contingency planning and think-tank stuff. They test nasty shit all of the time. It doesn’t mean it’s enacted.”

With a small shake of his head, Harold pulls up another file. “This says differently.”

“What am I looking at now?”

“This,” Harold says, pointing at the screen again, “is a plan initiating the whole mess. It lists a phased approach…building locations, facility maps, along with the goal of emerging and taking control of resources… the whole thing.”

“Still, it’s just a plan in a document. There must be a thousand such plans nestled in computers everywhere. There is a contingency plan for almost everything. Again, that doesn’t mean they are put into place and acted on,” I state.

“True, except for several emails I culled out.” Harold opens yet another document. “These messages detail information about putting the nanobots into the Capetown flu vaccine. If I read these correctly, they put these in two-thirds of the vaccines distributed.”

The room feels both colder and warmer at the same time. All else fades from my consciousness except Harold and the screen with the open documents. As if this world wasn’t fucked up enough, it suddenly becomes more so as I read through several emails that Harold consolidated.

“So, let me get this straight. This all says that this was a planned event. Whoever this was, or is, administered these nanobots with the intention of killing off two-thirds of the population, effectively destroying the infrastructure, and then they planned to emerge and take control of the resources?”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Harold responds.

“So, the deaths weren’t from the flu at all, but from these nanobots?” I say, more rhetorically than as an actual question. “How does that explain the night runners?”

“Here’s the funny thing. I don’t think the deaths were from the bots at all. I think they were actually from the vaccine itself. With regards to the night runners, I can’t find any indication in any of the tests mentioning DNA alterations. I get the feeling that it’s something they didn’t see and comes from the vaccine itself rather than something concocted. I think it really messed up their plans.”

“How do you know that?”

“There are several urgent messages that were passed back and forth asking what was going on. The replies come back with how they don’t know. Then…nothing,” Harold answers.

“If that’s true, then the nanobots are still there,” I state.

“So it would seem,” Harold replies.

“And they can initiate this, well, destruction anytime they want,” I comment.

“I think so. Although…”

“Go on,” I say.

“Well, the vaccine pretty much took care of the population in that regard. Only ones who took the vaccine would be at risk, and most of those either died or became night runners,” Harold states.

“So, if that’s true, then why haven’t they initiated these nanobots? Why are we still seeing so many night runners?” I ask.

“Keep in mind that only two-thirds of the vaccines contained the bots according to these reports. Maybe they were initiated and what we’re seeing is what is left. Maybe the DNA changes altered the bots in some way. I don’t know the answer to that one.”

I realize that I’ve gone from a skeptic to a believer. It makes sense with what we are seeing. However, it still points to the fact that it was the flu vaccine rather than this plan that brought about the downfall, created the night runners, and brought us to where we are now. It also means that this group is possibly still out there.

“Okay, let’s leave that for now. Did you find out anything about this group? Where they are located? How many are we talking about?” I ask.

Harold closes the files currently open and opens a few others.

“According to what I’ve managed to find so far, there are, or were, thirty-two sites across the world,” Harold answers.

“Thirty-two sites?! That puts us against something much larger. What kind of size and arsenal are we looking at?”

“Quite substantial on both accounts. Enough so that they could walk over us while enjoying a refreshing beverage,” Harold responds.

“Then why haven’t they?”

“Now that’s the question. By the timeline established in the plan document, they should have emerged and taken control. We should have seen them by now.”

“This team and their attempt could be the beginning of that emergence,” I say.

“I don’t know about that. Like I said, it appears the vaccine itself may have screwed their up plans. I found several indications that the sites mentioned weren’t able to come into operation due to the swiftness of the spread. All sites, that is, except this one,” Harold says, pointing to a document on the screen. “This appears to have been manned before the vaccine was distributed and, by all indications, it still may be. The notes show that this is a command and control facility. It doesn’t seem this place has a large arsenal, but only houses a security force, along with technicians, and a communications center. I think this is where our friend came from.”

I look closer at the document on the screen. The facility doesn’t have a name associated with it other than the designation, A-CC-1. The coordinates show an underground location approximately twenty miles to the northeast of Denver. Scrolling through the pages, I come across a blueprint detailing the facility layout. I don’t see anything about any defenses or a complete layout of their equipment. It only notes that there is a battalion in place as a security force along with an accompanying equipment list of Humvees and a small number of Strykers. This force far outweighs anything we have in regards to personnel.

Leafing through some of the other sites, I hope that Harold is correct in that they aren’t in operation. The details show armored vehicles and personnel to spread out to nearby bases to take control of the forces there — armored vehicles, weapons, and aircraft.

After a brief look, I see it wouldn’t take a genius to know that we wouldn’t last but more than a couple of seconds should we ever encounter this armada. The battalion in place at the command and control facility is more than we can handle on the ground. The Spooky is the only thing that would keep the balance should this force come against us. The pressure of time weighs even heavier. There’s so much to do and, although we have this information, there is so much more that we don’t know. If this is the group who sent the shooter against us, at least we now have a location. We are still way behind the curve with regards to capabilities, though.

After leaning over Harold’s shoulder for so long, I straighten and attempt to stretch the tightness out of my back. I would like to stretch the tension out of my whole body and soul, but this will have to do.

“Thanks, Harold… I think. Do me a favor and print out everything you find on that facility. And dig deeper to see if you can find a definite status on those other facilities. I want you at the group meeting tonight. And, if I hear a single, ‘I told you so’…”

“Hey, I wish this shit wasn’t true, believe me. And I’ll be there.”

I leave to clean up and have a bite to eat. What Harold found occupies the entirety of my mind. Lynn tries to strike up a conversation about something or another, but I merely grunt and nod my responses as I try to sort through the information. I notice the buzz of her attempts at conversation go quiet. That, in itself, sets off an internal alarm. We’ve been together long enough to know that isn’t a good sign. I turn to look at her.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” she asks.

More internal alarms.

“Of course I have,” I answer, quickly plowing through my memory to see if I can remember anything she did say. No luck.

“Okay, what did I just say?”

“That you like toasted bagels,” I say, throwing out the shield of humor in an effort to block what I know is coming next.

“Yeah, Jack, that’s exactly what I said.”

“Look, I’m sorry. What did you say?” I ask.

“I asked you how the flight went.”

“Fine,” I respond.

Rolling her eyes and shaking her head, she rises and walks off. I hear her mutter something about “men”, “dense-headed”, and something else that sounds a lot like my skin being removed. I’m also pretty sure my heritage was called into question. It’s good to have her back. I sigh and return to my food, the thoughts once again crowding into my “apparently” limited head space.

I think about heading over to talk with our prisoner again, but the information Harold found can’t wait. At my request, the others gather to meet earlier than normal. It seems like there is a never-ending stream of things coming at us and I wonder how long we can last. It’s not that I feel like giving up, or in, or whatever, but it’s just exhausting at times when we are constantly confronted by danger. I also wonder just how long our sanity will prevail. It’s like swimming into a riptide. We must swim to keep our position, but we don’t ever seem to be gaining any ground. Yes, I know, swim to the side; but where is the side in this situation?

“I’ve brought Harold because he found some rather… um… interesting information on the hard drive we brought back from the CDC director’s office,” I say, starting the meeting. “I think I’ll leave it to him to explain.”

In a better sequence than how he told me, Harold explains what he found. Similar questions to the ones I had are asked and answered to the best of his, and my, ability. Harold finishes delivering the information to a very shocked group.

“Frank, just out of curiosity, do you know how many of us in the compound took the vaccine?” I ask.

Frank shakes his head slightly, coming out of whatever thoughts were cycling through his head.

“I’m sorry, Jack. What?”

I repeat the question.

“I remember us looking into this a while ago. I think eight, but that’s not including any of our newer arrivals,” Franks answers.

“Find out, would you. And I need to know who. I know this may sound harsh, but if they decide to trigger this technology, I don’t want others at risk if it’s done at the wrong moment,” I state.

“You mean, anyone on the teams or in a leadership capacity,” Lynn comments.

“Yes, that’s what I mean,” I say.

“Will do, Jack. I’ll see to it in the morning,” Frank replies.

“Jack, you asked me to look further into the files. I’m reasonably sure the other facilities weren’t manned, and therefore, aren’t operational. The only other thing I found is that this command and control facility seems to be run by something or someone named Nahmer,” Harold chimes in.

“Nahmer?! Are you sure about that?” I ask, startled.

“As reasonably sure as I can be,” Harold says.

I’m sure there was a resounding thud as my jaw hit the floor. I’m stunned into silence.

Lynn notices my reaction more than the others. They seem only partially here as they sift through the information.

“Does that mean something to you, Jack?” Lynn asks.

“I’ve heard that name before, and I’m not even sure it’s real person. As the story goes, she was one of Mossad’s most successful agents and led several assassination squads. That was all hearsay though and, as far as I know, never really verified. It was more of a boogeyman kind of thing,” I answer.

“That would explain the attempted hit,” Frank says.

“I don’t know. While we may have this info, there isn’t really anything to connect them with our being targeted. It could be something completely different,” I say.

“Oh, come on, Jack. If this information is true, it’s pretty easy to connect the dots. We are a strong enough threat to them taking control of resources, especially now that they may be limited,” Lynn states.

“While that may be true, the only thing that can actually connect the two is our prisoner,” I comment.

It’s then that I notice that Drescoll isn’t with us. Perhaps it’s because he usually chimes in about now with an opinion. I’m sure I would have noticed that he wasn’t here if so many other thoughts weren’t crowding my mind.

“Where’s Drescoll?” I ask.

The others turn toward where he normally sits, perplexed as I that he isn’t there.

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since this afternoon,” Bannerman says.

“Shit,” I say, rising. “Lynn, find his team and find out where he is.”

“Okay, Jack. Where are you going?”

“To check on something.”

With a quickened pace and a sinking feeling in my gut, I make my way downstairs. Heading to where the prisoner is shackled inside of the storage container, I see two guards posted.

“How is our guest doing?” I ask the one closest.

“I don’t know, sir. I haven’t looked in since Sergeant Drescoll left word that the prisoner wasn’t to be disturbed in any way,” the soldier answers.

“I see. And when was that?”

“Sometime this afternoon, sir. He went in and came out with orders from you that no one was to go in.”

“Fuck,” I mutter. “Open it up.”

The soldier opens the lock and, with a metallic screech of protest, one of the steel doors swings back. I look in fully expecting the sight that greets me. Inside, his arms still hanging by chains overhead, the prisoner is slumped, his chin on his chest. I don’t need the blood spattered on his shirt or in a large puddle on the ground below him to know he is no longer with us.

“Fuck me,” one of the soldiers mutters.

“Sir… I…” the other stutters, starting his apology.

“It’s not your fault,” I say, venturing to the body.

I lift the prisoner’s head to find one side of his face mostly gone. There’s a smaller hole in the upper back of his head. The skin around the entrance wound is singed and blackened.

“Sir, we didn’t hear a thing. If we’d known…”

“The weapon was silenced. Again, it’s not your fault. Take him down,” I say, dropping the man’s head back to his chest.

Returning to the group, I sense a certain confused tension. As if it weren’t there already.

“Jack, Drescoll’s team says they haven’t seen him since—” Lynn starts.

“Let me guess… since this afternoon,” I interrupt.

“Yes, one of his team remembers seeing him leave in a Humvee, saying he had to run deliver a quick message to one of the crews, and that he’d be back soon. They haven’t seen him since and assumed he was with one of us. Wait, how did you know?” Lynn asks.

“Our only tie to who sent the team against us is gone,” I state.

“What do you mean, gone?”

“Dead. Assassinated,” I reply.

“Ohhhh…shit,” Lynn says, the light dawning.

The others stare with mouths open, some eyes going to Drescoll’s empty chair. The look on their faces indicates they have put the pieces of what happened together as well.

“I should have seen that coming,” Lynn says. “Damn!”

“What do you mean, you should have seen this coming?” I ask.

“Allie’s death hit him pretty hard. Harder than I imagined,” she says and details the conversation she had with Drescoll.

“I can’t say I blame him, but he sure hasn’t made this any easier for us. Lynn, have the teams conduct a quick but quiet search for him. Let’s make sure he isn’t still in the building,” I say, rising.

“And where are you going?” Lynn asks.

“To look for him if he isn’t here,” I state.

“Jack, as much as I want to as well, you can’t do that,” Lynn says.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s dark out. Even if you did make it to the ramp, you’d never make it inside the aircraft quickly enough. The noise of your arrival will draw every night runner around. You heard Frank and sensed them yourself, they’re up there in numbers now.”

“I’m afraid she’s right,” Frank comments.

I stand uncertain. Even though Drescoll killed the prisoner exacting revenge for McCafferty, he was…is still one of us. And he may be out in the night alone. However, if I go, that would entail putting others at risk.

Lynn places her hand on my arm, “Jack, he’s my friend, too. I want nothing more than to go out and find him, but, we can’t. He made his choice. We’ll search for him at first light.”

There is a pause as I still stand there, plan after plan running through my mind about how to conduct the search at night.

“Jack, I know what you’re thinking and we can’t take the Strykers either. They might be able to hold out against some of the middling packs, but there is still that group of ten thousand or more out there. There’s no way much of anything can stand against something like that. You know the night runners are cunning and would find a way in,” Lynn adds.

I stand a moment longer and then let out a heavy sigh. “You’re right. Conduct a quiet search for him and organize search parties to head out at first light. Then let’s meet back here. There’s still a lot to cover.”

Upon returning, a dejected sounding Lynn says, “He’s not here.”

“I didn’t think he would be,” I say.

The news casts a pall over the group. Most of us can’t believe he did what he has — executed the prisoner and then fled into the night. I totally understand why he did it, but to flee? PTSD does funny things to the mind. It makes the most ridiculous decisions seem like sane ones. In each, it can do different things — depression, anger, emotional turmoil, rob one’s spirit to live. It’s been manifesting itself in all of us since the beginning. We can’t keep up the way we have, with stress each and every day, without signs of breaking. It can take the strongest or weakest. The bottom line is that it will affect each and every one us at some point to some degree. It’s one of the reasons to institute the one day that we take for ourselves, to gather and just socialize, to stave off the ramifications of the stress for as long as we can.

I know most of us aren’t really interested in continuing the meeting with what’s happened, but if we end with this, it will not only carry into tomorrow, but it will have rooted itself more deeply. That will happen anyway; right now we have to focus on the job of living. We’ve had a few setbacks, yet we still need to deal with the cards set before us.

“Okay, folks. I know it’s difficult, but let’s get through this. We have information on the one facility. If the others are operational, then we’re sunk. However, if we’re only dealing with this one, then the way I see it, we are evenly balanced and they know it or they would have attacked already. They have the numbers and a more secure location, but we have the Spooky. If they come out in the open, we can tear them apart, providing they don’t have anti-air capabilities,” I say.

“I didn’t see anything like that mentioned in the arsenal for the site,” Harold chimes in.

“Share all of the information with Frank. Look through it with a fine-toothed comb. We need every scrap of info we can get,” I state. Frank and Harold nod their replies. “They could have shoulder-fired weaponry, but we can counter that. Anyway, we can’t go in and get them, at least in force.”

“Unless we draw them out,” Robert states.

“Yes, unless we can somehow draw them out into the open. Until then, we’re at a stalemate until our fuel situation runs out. When that happens, the balance will shift dramatically, and not to our benefit. So, we have to do something before that happens. And there’s the weather to think of,” I say. “For the moment, we need to consolidate like we have been and get the Spooky in close to protect it, and be able to use it in a moment’s notice.”

“As likely as it is that the attack and this facility are connected, we still don’t know that for a fact. We lost the only thing we had that would do that for us,” Frank offers.

“That, unfortunately, is true,” I agree. A faint light glimmers in my mind. “Frank, do we still have the tablet we took off the shooter?”

“Yes. I didn’t see anything much other than satellite imagery of the compound and surrounding area. Oh, and close-ups of each of us. Do you want me to fetch it?” Franks asks.

“Yes, please.”

Frank brings the tablet and fires it up. As he mentioned, there is current satellite imagery or our compound. That in itself doesn’t prove anything other than the fact that this other group reportedly has control of satellites; that the imagery is recent only provides a weak tie between the attack and the facility. Something catches my eye on one of the satellite images. It’s an overlay of our compound, and in the lower right corner, the annotation ‘A-US-1’. It’s the same annotation format as the one in the facility document listing it as A-CC-1. Another potential link. I show it to Frank and the others.

Frank studies it and some of the other images. “I think we have to go with the fact that this facility ordered the attack. All indications point to it,” he says after a moment.

“I agree. So, what do we do with it?” Lynn asks.

“It doesn’t seem like there’s much we can do,” Bannerman says.

“Well, we can’t very well just lie here waiting for another strike,” Roberts adds.

“And we can’t penetrate the bunker with our forces. We’d be outnumbered and outgunned,” Lynn states.

“Can’t we draw them out?” Bri asks.

“Yes, but it would have to be in way that they couldn’t immediately head back inside the bunker,” Robert states.

“We need to do a flyby to get a better picture of what we’re up against,” Franks suggests.

“I agree completely,” I say. “We need more information before we can come up with a plan.”

“A flyby will alert them that we’re onto them. That’s the only advantage we have at the moment,” Frank comments.

“We can hide it as being like any of our other flights. We weren’t bothered on those. If we pick a nearby base, fly there planning our route so we can conduct an overflight, then it will just look like something we’ve done in the past. They might think we are on a normal flight like we’ve done more than a few times,” Robert says.

“I think that’s as good a plan as any other. However, they’ll know by now that we took one of theirs prisoner. They’d be fools if they didn’t have a satellite trained on the op, and I seriously doubt they are fools. Especially given that they may have a trained Israeli agent in charge. No, they’ll have to go on the assumption that we know about them already. But, I still agree with your plan. I don’t see that we have any other choice,” I reply.

“I’m guessing they reached the same conclusion about us being at a stalemate and made a pre-emptive strike to take out our leadership. The only thing that doesn’t make sense is why they didn’t try to take all of us out,” Frank says.

“I don’t know either. If they are striking at us, we need to counter that somehow. I don’t think this was a one-and-done attempt. But to do that, we need more information. So, I suggest we head out at first light to search for Drescoll. Then we can make a flight plan to locate Captain Leonard and relay this information to him, jump over to find Greg and pick him up, then stage a fake rescue effort and overfly the facility. Frank, we also need a better picture of what is going on up north with regards to the night runners. If we have more cameras, set them up around the base and outlying area. We’ll take the Spooky up tomorrow night and take a look as well. Bannerman, when will the runway be completed?”

“It should be finished sometime tomorrow, I’m guessing toward late afternoon.”

“Okay, we’ll bring the Spooky down the morning after and then depart in the other 130,” I say.

“How many teams are you taking with you?” Lynn asks.

“I was thinking I’d only bring Red Team. We’re only doing two flybys and picking Greg up. I don’t want to leave us too thin here,” I answer.

“You’ll be landing for a day at an outbase,” Lynn says.

“True, but if there’s any trouble, we’ll just leave. It’s not like we’re there actually looking for something.”

A soldier approaches and whispers in Lynn’s ear. I watch and see her shoulders sag with whatever is said. The soldier departs.

“I have more bad news,” Lynn says after a moment. “Allie’s dad was just found dead by his own hand.”

The news cuts through us almost as much as Drescoll’s disappearance.

“Could this week get any worse,” Bannerman mutters, hanging his head.

The next morning, all but two of the teams are sent out at first light to search for Drescoll. Craig and Roger each take a light aircraft out to assist. They are to look for the Humvee or sets of tracks in the otherwise undisturbed dust covering the roadways. I take Red Team with Lynn in the Spooky to utilize its equipment. Frank coordinates the search from base so we can cover the area effectively.

In addition, the teams broadcast both over the radio and loudspeaker, letting Drescoll know that all is okay. That’s in case he thinks he is in trouble and is staying away. We’ll definitely be having some words if he returns, but the important thing now is to get him back. He’s had more than a few hours head start on us, and the area we have to cover is vast.

At the end of the day, after covering thousands of square miles by air and ground, we are no closer to knowing where Drescoll is than when we started. If we haven’t found him with such an extensive search, we aren’t going to by prolonging it. It’s with heavy hearts that we work our way back to the compound. I cast a thought out, wishing him well and hoping he will return. I will miss him.

The runway is completed at the compound so I land the Spooky there. I plan to take it up just before dark to try and get a better picture of how much the night runners have infiltrated the area north of us. I don’t know what caused them to vanish from there a short while ago, although I have a pretty good idea, but it’s apparent that there is a vacuum that is being filled. If night runners are venturing out of Seattle as Frank suggested, it doesn’t bode very well for us, and we need to get a fix on how many there may be.

Lynn is quiet as we enter Cabela’s and, like the rest of us, subdued.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask as we gather around the table to plan for the night and for the route to take come morning.

“No, not really. I just should have seen it coming. I’ve known him for some time, and I keep thinking there was something I missed. This is so unlike him.”

“Stress can do some fucked up things to the mind. I’m guessing he knew what he was going to do before he talked with you,” I say.

“Probably but… shit. I guess I’ll have to find someone to lead his team. How about Gonzalez?” Lynn asks, turning to look at me.

“She’d make a great team leader, but with the loss to Red Team already, I need her there,” I answer.

“Okay, I’ll find someone else. I think Taylor is ready. I don’t want to think of that now. Let’s get tonight planned.”

Frank joins us to point out where he has placed the cameras and found the greatest increases in the night runner presence. We map out a search pattern and get to the business of planning our flight route to find Leonard, pick up Greg, and conduct our overflight.

With the sun sinking low against the western hills, its glow flashing through a break in the clouds overhead illuminating the underside of the overcast in oranges and reds and silhouetting the mountains, we send a cloud of dust to the rear as we apply full throttles. The Spooky lurches forward as if eager to escape the earth and find the peace of its home in the sky. This has been an emotional week, and it will be nice to lock the wheels up and find the solace of flight.

As we claw our way over the perimeter fence, I think of how I should have thought to bring the aircraft inside the compound earlier. It sure would have made some things easier. It’s funny how we become trapped in the way things are usually done even though we think we have accustomed ourselves to the newness of our environment. I turn the aircraft north as the sun sends a last flare of light through the heavens.

It seems, once again, that the more we do to ensure our survival, the harder it becomes. It’s like we have to fight against our own advances. The farther we get, the more we seem to be attacked from so many angles. I’m ready to be done with this stress shit and get on with our rebuilding. We’ve done well to survive to this point, but at what cost — Nic gone, McCafferty gone, Drescoll apparently giving up and leaving, Allie’s dad taking his life. They won’t be the last unless we can get some respite from the continual attacks.

Robert’s voice on the intercom, readying the aircraft for our mission, breaks into my thoughts and brings my mind to the operation at hand. I reach down to the monitor and set it to the thermal imaging. That will be the best way to find out just how prevalent the night runners are. The plan is to engage if we find numerous night runners, but the primary mission is to get a feel for the numbers in the area. Our first sweep will be to check out the bases themselves.

The last glow vanishes from the western sky. The sun is setting noticeably earlier now, giving us fewer hours in the day to do what we need. The aircraft is quiet and tension builds as each member watches the screens to see what will happen. I, for one, am hoping it stays just the way it is — dark.

I might as well have hoped for all of the night runners to instantly drop dead. The camera zoom is pulled back so we can see a wider area. White blips suddenly appear from multiple locations. The packs are of medium-sized and not the complete white out we experienced when they gathered in the thousands a while back. Still, there are hundreds of them pouring from the buildings below. Lynn and Frank were right, there is no way we would have made it to the aircraft last night.

“Are we recording this?” I ask Robert through the intercom.

“We are,” Robert replies. “Do you want us to engage?”

“No, not right now. We need to make sure we get a good picture of the entire area before taking them out,” I answer.

“Copy that.”

After circling the base, we head over the surrounding areas of Tacoma and are met with the same picture; a few small to medium-sized packs roaming the streets for food. Taking a tour of the rural areas, the night runners are definitely less numerous than in the built up areas. This may be because they want to stick close to their lairs but, as Frank has said many times, they will have no choice except to venture farther afield once the food supply runs out.

Glancing at the monitor, it is apparent that the area has been infiltrated. They are not as numerous as they were around our compound, but they are definitely here in numbers. What I wouldn’t give to find out where that large gathering is in our area, if they are still there. We’ll have to conduct more searches for them when we return. I don’t like not knowing where that large pack is, especially as we were recently attacked by a smaller group.

After a few hours of drilling holes in the sky, we manage to cover the Tacoma area. Looking at the white figures on the monitor, I think of Drescoll being out there somewhere. I hope that wherever he has decided to go, that there aren’t night runners in these numbers near him. Or any for that matter. That would be a horrible way to go.

I bank the aircraft in the night sky, keeping below the overcast, wanting to take a look at the corridor between Seattle and Tacoma before we settle down to the business of delivering steel to flesh and bone.

The farther north we go, the more we encounter packs on the prowl. The number directly corresponds to the level of urban buildup. It seems Frank is right and the night runners are pushing out of the Seattle area. I’m sure, like he said, that the food supply is drying out up there and they are pushing in all directions. The thought arises that if we take out any night runners in an area without depleting their food source, the vacuum created will eventually fill up again until the food is gone. That is provided that there are night runners that can transition to the area. That doesn’t bode well for us as the western corridor, from Olympia to north of Seattle, was heavily populated with only narrow breaks between the developed areas.

There is no way we can take out all of the night runners. We may be able to destroy their food source. That may keep their numbers down; but how do you demolish miles and miles of urban development? The only way to keep night runners out of an area is to develop a scorched earth policy…burn everything to the ground. That’s not as easy as it sounds, but it may be our only recourse. Nature adapts though, and it may be that we drive the night runners to another course which will make them even more dangerous. I shake off this train of thought and decide that I will take it up with Frank and the others at a later point. Right now, there are targets below that are itching to be taken out.

“Okay, we’ve seen enough. Get ready to start delivering your magic,” I announce.

“We’re past ready,” he replies.

“We’re going to concentrate with the ones around base. Make sure to stay away from the aircraft parked on the ramp. We need to also avoid getting close to the armories, the maintenance sheds, the helicopters, the hospital, and I’d like to avoid the housing if possible. You never know if we may use those down the road.”

“You’ve pretty much just eliminated any place that we can hit,” he responds.

I hear Bri chuckle on the intercom.

Fuck, he’s right, I think, looking down into the blackness below where unseen night runners run through streets separating abandoned buildings. My enhanced vision doesn’t allow me to see that far into the night.

“Okay, we’ll concentrate on a built up area outside of the burnt out sections. Give me a heading to the most significant sightings,” I say.

“Stand by one,” he replies. “Okay, head toward downtown. A heading of three-one-zero degrees ought to do it.”

The hotels and office buildings of downtown Tacoma slide into view on the monitor and we set up our usual orbit pattern. We’ll hit the outskirts of the downtown proper as the taller buildings will restrict our view and, subsequently, our shots. Thermal imaging picks up the white figures of several packs as they move through the streets. The night runners pause to look up as we pass.

Robert’s voice comes through the intercom as he marks targets and runs through last minute safety checks to bring the guns to a final readiness.

“You are weapons free,” I call once I hear him complete his checks.

“Copy that. Opening fire.”

“Make sure you are recording,” I state.

“We are.”

I look down to the monitor and see that he has targeted one of the medium-sized packs loping down a wide avenue. Flashes appear outside as the 40mm cannon opens up, spewing rounds out into the dark, lighting the outboard engine nacelles and propellers for split seconds at a time. Looking down to the monitor, I see the first shell hit at the edge of the group. The figures are lost momentarily as the screen flashes with the heat of the impact. A figure of white is launched to the side and crashes forcefully into a parked vehicle. Just as the screen begins to clear, another flash of light signifies another 40mm shell exploding as it hits in the midst of the group.

The screen clears and I count seven white figures scattered in various positions on the roadway below. None are moving. Robert calls out the next target and engages. I notice that these don’t immediately vanish into the buildings as did the others that we encountered closer to our compound.

After hitting several groups in the area, the figures in white below finally do disappear into buildings. We mark these before moving on to other groups in the open. In another area, the night runners vanish almost immediately after we hit a single group. I’ve come to realize that I’ll never get a grip on night runner thinking. They behave differently wherever we go, whether in the air or on the ground. Again, we mark the buildings and start engaging those with the 105mm howitzer.

Looking down into the dark landscape below, large orange mixed with yellow flashes flare briefly, like matches being struck at a distance in an unlit room. The explosion, from the 105mm as it impacts one of the buildings that a group of night runners ran into, bursts skyward and then vanishes. There’s not a night runner to be seen on thermals, but Robert has marked a few of the buildings and we hit a few of these before moving to another area. We are beginning to run low on 40 and 105mm ammo as we hunt the night runners through the blackened neighborhoods.

It’s a good feeling to be exacting some measure against the night runners. It’s doesn’t take away from our recent tragedies, but it still feels good to be doing something other than sitting by the side waiting to be hit.

In another orbit, Robert tracks a large pack in an industrial area. The pack is the largest we’ve seen tonight. At best count, there appears to be over a hundred moving behind a single figure in front. I hear Robert target the pack and set up the 105mm for an initial attack. He will follow up with the 40mm and Gatling gun for any that remain.

Concentrating on the size of the pack and its leader, I don’t focus much on the area they are running through. I’m guessing Robert didn’t either. Suddenly, that lack of vigilance jumps into my vision like turning the page of a pop-up book. I hear the order to fire before I can utter a word.

The screen goes completely white. I look outside to see a white-hot explosion rocketing upward and out, lighting the terrain for miles around. Secondary explosions rock the ground below and combine with the initial blast. White and blue flame shoots outward, obliterating everything in its path. White hot fire and flame boil upward with immense speed, hurtling skyward. The mushroom cloud, filling now with yellows and oranges, reaches our altitude and soars past. I grip the wheel in anticipation and instinctually start turning the aircraft away from the fireball. I know what’s coming next.

“Hang on!” I shout into the intercom.

It’s all I can get out before the aircraft is hit by the initial concussion of the tremendous explosion. It feels like we’ve been swatted by a gigantic hand and flung to the side. The Spooky is lifted and thrown, the nose turning at least thirty degrees to the side. The left wing rises, threatening to roll us, and the nose points skyward. It’s all I can do to hang on to the wheel as it tries to force its way from my grip.

Unsecured objects crash to the floor in the cockpit and cargo compartment. I am thrown to the side and only held in my seat by the harness. Almost subconsciously, I hear strangled screams and shouts through the intercom. I push the controls forward and to the left, mashing the left rudder down, but the actions have little effect with the pressures being exerted on the aircraft. The Spooky now has the flight characteristics of a thrown brick.

“Pull number one to idle and push four to mil,” I shout to Craig, trying to right the aircraft.

I would position the throttles, but it’s all I can do to keep control of the wheel. The control surfaces are exerting pressure in the exact opposite direction that I’m trying the hold them. Craig positions the throttles and I feel a decrease of the pressure being exerted against the control wheel as we continue to be buffeted by the force of the explosion.

And then, just as suddenly as it hit, the buffeting ceases. The nose and wings begin to respond to my control inputs, and we achieve level flight six thousand feet above where we started and on top of a layer of clouds. Moonlight shines brightly, casting its silvery glow upon the undercast. A blanket of whites and grays float gently below us, the calmness they portray is in direct contrast to what we just went through. The top of Mount Rainier pierces the clouds, the moonlight reflecting brightly off the snowfields.

To the side, the fireball still rises, but has slowed significantly. The heat from it has vaporized the clouds, creating a hole of clear air around it. The fact that we are still flying is a testament to the strength of the 130. We’ll definitely have to have it checked over by the mechanic we picked up before taking it out again. If we’ve sustained any structural damage, we may have to fly down and pick up another one. At the very least, it will delay our flight by a day in order to get it looked over. It’s not that we are going to fly it south with us, but I’ll need to know whether we need to pick up another one. I do a quick scan of the instruments to verify that we are indeed flying and the engines are still operating.

“Is everyone okay?” I ask, looking to Bri and moving the throttles back to their original settings.

Her helmet is oversized and has been shoved down over her eyes. She reaches up to push it back and looks up at her instruments. I’m impressed that she has the wherewithal to check the panels after having gone through what we did.

“Yeah… yeah, I think so,” Robert calls after a moment. His voice is shaky, otherwise he sounds fine.

The rest respond in a similar fashion; Bri merely nods and Craig gives a thumbs-up.

“Are we okay?” Robert asks, his voice still shaky but quickly recovering.

“Yeah, we appear to be, but I think it’s time that we call it a night. We need to get this aircraft on the ground,” I answer.

“What in the hell was that?” Robert asks.

“We hit a propane storage facility,” I answer.

“Fuck me…I need to look closer,” I hear him mutter.

The mushroom cloud off to the side has expended its energy and is breaking up, the smoke drifting slowly northward. I turn the aircraft toward the hole in the clouds and slowly descend until we are once again below the overcast. The area below us is devastated for a half mile around where the facility was. Everything there has been vaporized. I radio base to let them know that we are on the way back. I hold off telling them what happened. It’s not like they can meet us with emergency equipment.

On the return flight, I look for damage on the wings and have others look along the fuselage. We run through the structural damage procedures, but it looks like we escaped without harm. We’ll still conduct our approach as if there is.

The strip carved out of the field looks small in the glow of the night vision goggles. It’s a long strip, but not overly wide. The runway wants to keep sliding to the side. I’m still a little shaky from what happened and my post-adrenaline rush isn’t helping much. I keep bringing the nose into alignment as we descend ever closer. It’s hard to judge the glide path at night without nav instrumentation or glide slope lighting, especially seeing as how the NVGs aren’t that great with presenting a three dimensional picture. Craig calls out the airspeed and altitude as I adjust the throttles in accordance.

I finally reach a point where I think I can see the runway without the aid of the NVGs and peek out. Sure enough, the picture resolves itself into a better dimensional representation.

“Okay, I have a visual,” I tell Craig.

The aircraft thumps down on the dirt landing surface and we slow, turning onto the ramp Bannerman had carved out.

“I’m not sure which hurt the aircraft more…the explosion or that landing,” Craig says.

I hear more than one chuckle on the intercom.

“Thanks for volunteering to help out the mechanic tomorrow,” I reply.

Frank meets us with several Humvees in tow as we shut down. I brief him on what happened as we make our way back to Cabela’s and hand him the tape of our sortie.

“Show the entire camp the combat footage. I’m thinking they need an uplift after this week and need to know that we are doing something positive. Oh, and you can leave out that little episode where we are tossed around the sky.”

“Will do, Jack,” Frank replies.

The debrief with the crew is quick. The part with the propane storage is covered by only mentioning that we need to take a closer look at our surroundings before delivering explosives. There’s no need to harp on this as the lesson was learned by everyone seconds after the facility was hit. I do, however, record the devastating effects in the back of mind. It’s not like we can drop fuel-air bombs, but it bears thinking about.

Gonzalez leaves the debrief and makes her way to her cubicle. Plopping down on her bunk, she leans, resting her elbows on her legs. She’s exhausted to the point where untying her boots seems like a chore beyond her power to complete. She stares at them, willing them to undo themselves, but they remain glued to her feet. With a heavy sigh, she reaches down and unlaces one boot, pulling it off with effort and dropping it to the floor. She then stares at her other boot as tired thoughts drift through her mind.

The flight tonight only emphasized a point she has known throughout her career — that anything can happen at any time. Jack and Craig downplayed it during the debrief, but she knows they were moments away from plummeting. She thinks on how small, seemingly insignificant things can make such a difference. If they were a hundred yards closer to the explosion, it might have been enough to toss them out of the sky. There was one time that she moved away from a position only to have it shelled seconds later. She didn’t have any feeling of foreboding or that she should move, it just happened. Or Jack bending over when he did. He would have been hit and Allie would be sitting here sharing a joke or story with her. It’s not that it is good or bad, it just is.

The thought of McCafferty causes her to sigh heavily through pursed lips. Gonzalez’ shoulders sag farther as she continues to lean on her legs, staring at her one boot, not truly seeing it anymore. Allie’s death has really shaken her. She’s lost friends before, and yes, they shook her then, just not to the extent Allie’s has. Perhaps it’s the times they live in now, or that Allie was really her last friend. Before, she had other friends, and they would console each other — help each other through the hard times. She doesn’t have that now. There are the others in Red Team, but it’s not the same. She doesn’t feel as if she can share like she and Allie could… or her other friends.

A tired tear runs slowly down her cheek. It’s soon joined by others to create a stream. Her vision blurs; she wipes one hand across her eyes to no avail, the tears keep coming. Her shoulders shake with the first sob. Emotions pour out of her as grief takes hold.

No matter what happened the previous day, she would always wake ready to take the world by the horns and give it a ride — she would experience it fully. Sometimes exhaustion would make that a short ride, but she would meet the day with what she had. She is finding that hard to do now. With the daily stress and constant threat to their survival, it seems like they are hanging by a thread. And Drescoll leaving. He just gave up. She can see the ‘why’, but to leave like that. There are people that depended on him…cared about him. Not in the way Allie did, but cared nonetheless. She wishes he could have seen that and used it for strength.

Her thoughts wind back to Allie. Gonzalez sees her face with that silly grin she always wore when the team was joking around. Her small stature and features made her seem like the eternal high school princess. The look of determination she exhibited when fighting loomed near — completely fearless. Something you wouldn’t expect from just looking at her. Gonzalez remembers the mischievous grin Allie had when they discovered the Twinkies and her pure joy when she brought them out to share with the others in that strange town. Her spirit lifted the team up when times were hard. Allie was her friend and she misses her.

With her elbows on her knees, Gonzalez wraps her hands at the back of her head and grips her hair. Sobs wrack her body as she remembers her friend and the times they had together, even if just for a short time.

Other thoughts come in a jumble — the night runners coming down from the north, the group apparently targeting them, the larger group of night runners somewhere in the vicinity. When will we get a break?

She cries herself out and places her arms back on her legs with a big sigh.

Quit whining like a little girl, she tells herself. We have a secure location with good people. And we have the ability to strike back and strike back hard. We’re alive right now, and that’s all that matters.

Gonzalez reaches down to undo the laces to her other boot, removes it, and drops it next to her other one. She’ll fight, as she and the others have always done — for the soldier next to her and for those they protect.

Wiping the last vestiges of tears away, she settles back on her cot. Tomorrow is another day and she’ll face it as she has all of her other ones. She’ll experience it.

Tempered steel…her last thought as she slips into an exhausted sleep.

Robert climbs the stairs slowly, watching Gonzalez scale the steps ahead of him. He’d like to catch up to her and talk about this evening, but he also doesn’t want to talk with anyone right now. It’s a contradiction within him — the need to talk with someone, yet not wanting to hear the recrimination he feels he deserves. With his hand on the railing, guiding him up another step, he shakes his head. He feels bad about what happened.

I almost killed us all, he thinks, nearing the top of the escalator.

If only he’d looked closer he would have clearly seen those propane tanks. He plays that picture over and over — that one just before giving the order to fire. In his head, he sees those tanks clearly and wonders why he didn’t then. His dad’s only words during the debrief were ‘lesson learned…for all of them’ and that was it.

It beats the shit out of Robert how his dad can brush off significant things like that as if they mean nothing, yet he’ll harp on the smallest of things. Robert remembers asking him about this once. He remembers his dad turning to him and saying, “Because it’s paying attention to the details that’ll keep your ass out of the fire. If you do that, the bigger things will fall into place. Let the larger picture guide you but focus on the details. You can’t create a building if you don’t meticulously lay each brick. On the other hand, you can’t just haphazardly lay bricks and expect a grand building to materialize.” Yeah, his dad loved his metaphors.

However, Robert feels like he let the whole team down. He was given a chance at leadership and he almost killed them. Robert fully expects his dad to relieve him. Oh, he’ll do it quietly and make it seem like it’s not a negative thing, but he’ll do it nonetheless. And Robert doesn’t blame him. They can’t afford mistakes like that. He feels sick to his stomach as he climbs the last step and watches Gonzalez as she makes her way to her quarters.

Standing at the top of the stairs, he rubs the back of head. It still feels tender where he bumped it and he feels the beginnings of a headache coming on. Those terrifying moments play through his mind…

The numerous night runners filling the screen. His watching intently as he gives the order to fire and watches for the explosion on the monitor signifying a hit, ready to follow up with the 40mm and 25mm Gatling gun to finish off any survivors. The monitor going completely white. His confusion. The shout of his dad yelling ‘hang on’ and the aircraft lurching violently to the side. The sudden movement knocking him off his feet from where he was standing behind Gonzalez’ shoulder and slamming him into one of the tables — thankfully he was wearing his helmet.

He remembers trying to scramble to his feet, but unable to do so because of the continued buffeting of the aircraft. Barely able to hear the instructions his dad was yelling and knowing they were as good as dead. They were going down and it was his fault somehow. He still didn’t know what had happened. The panicked fear that the 105mm round had exploded inside the aircraft and tore them apart. Then, suddenly, they were upright again. Climbing to his feet and finding out what had happened. The sick feeling returns in strength to his gut.

He looks over to see Michelle giving him a warm smile near the balcony. Giving a half-hearted smile in return, he walks slowly toward her.

“What’s wrong,” Michelle asks as he draws in front of her.

“Nothing. I’m just tired,” Robert responds.

“Well, let’s get you to bed then,” Michelle says, wrapping her arm in his and leading him toward their room. “How was the flight?”

“It went okay, I guess. We made it back,” Robert answers.

He wants to tell her what happened but, with the sick feeling he has and the oncoming headache, he just doesn’t want to right now. As they draw near the entrance, he hears his dad call from behind. They both turn to see his dad approaching.

“If I could steal him for just a moment longer,” his dad says to Michelle. “I promise I won’t keep him long.”

Oh boy, here it comes, Robert thinks.

“I’ll be right in,” he says to Michelle and walks with his dad to the balcony overlooking the first floor.

“Okay,” she replies and waits near the doorway.

With his elbows resting on the wooden railing, he looks over to his dad leaning over the balcony in a similar position. He looks tired. He’s seen his dad tired before but not like this.

“Look, Dad—” Robert begins.

“Nope. This is where I get to talk and you get to listen,” his dad interrupts. “I know what you’re going through and that you feel like it’s your fault. You feel like you let everyone down and that you shouldn’t be in a leadership position.”

“Yeah. Well—” Robert begins again.

“No, you’re talking again. Now listen. First of all, it’s not your fault, so you can toss that crap out of your head. No one blames you. Yes, you should have taken a look at the surrounding features, but I missed them as well. I was the pilot-in-command and therefore any fault with anything, and I mean anything that happened, is ultimately mine,” his dad says. “Look, leading isn’t about being perfect, but learning from every mistake — one made by you or others. It’s showing by example and, if you do make a mistake, you own it and rise above it. You don’t hang your head down, but lift it up and say, ‘Fuck, I guess I won’t do that again’. The one thing you can’t do is let it destroy your self- confidence. If you do, the mistake wins. If you rise above it and tuck the lesson into your bag of tricks, you win.

“Tonight was a good lesson, and one you need to take to heart. As a leader, you’re going to make mistakes. The world knows I’ve made more than my fair share. It’s what you do afterwards that counts. Awareness, on all levels, is vital. You can’t let the mistakes of the past cloud your mind or you’ll never be able to make a decision. At some point, you’ll need to make snap decisions. Sometimes, they won’t be the right ones, but you’ll make that decision based on instinct. That instinct is driven by the bag of tricks you carry. As you progress, that bag will grow as you stuff more experience into it. You’ve heard me say many times that making a decision, any decision, is better than not making one at all. A leader was once asked, ‘How do you make so many good decisions?’ The answer given, ‘Because I made so many bad ones in the past’. Collect the lesson and move on. Does any of this make sense?”

Robert continues to look at his dad.

“You can talk now.”

“Yeah, I guess it does, but I still feel like I let everyone down. I almost blew us up.”

“No one thinks that. You can march down there and ask them. They’ll look at you funny and tell you bullshit. And I’m not just saying that to blow sunshine up your skirt,” his dad says.

“How about we not use that expression again,” Robert says, the first smile coming to his face in a while.

“Deal,” his dad replies.

“So, are you going to relieve me?” Robert asks.

“You’re kidding, right? I need you. You do a tremendous job leading the team in back, and I couldn’t think of anyone else I’d want there. We’re going to need your expertise in the coming days and weeks.”

“Okay, Dad…thanks,” Robert says.

“Just tellin’ it like it is. Is something wrong with your head?”

“What do you mean?” Robert says.

“You’ve been rubbing it the whole time we’ve been talking,” his dad says.

“I just bumped it in the aircraft. It’s nothing. I had my helmet on and it rubbed it funny.”

He’s worried his dad will see through his story and find out about his headache. Then he’ll ground him and hover like a mother hen. His dad stares hard at him for a moment.

“Okay. Go get some rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

With that, Robert turns and walks with Michelle into their cubicle. Later that night, with his arm around Michelle as she sleeps, he stares at the ceiling. He goes over what his dad said and sees the truth in it. He also thinks about the numerous night runners they saw and thinks that they might be heading their way. That is if they continue to push south. His dad didn’t say anything about how they are going to counter them, but he assumes they’ll hit them nightly and whittle them down. They have the walls to keep them out and have enhanced their defenses, so he’s not overly worried about another attack like the one the others experienced in which Lynn was taken.

With these thoughts, he falls into a dreamless sleep.

Bri stays at the planning table following the debrief. She watches as Gonzalez walks away, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. Robert follows slowly in her tracks with his head hung low. Bri knows he feels bad and blames himself for what happened tonight. She wants to go to him but doesn’t really know what to say. She’s sure that anything she does say won’t be the right thing.

It’s been a week full of downers. Sure they rescued Lynn, but that seems to have been forgotten amidst losing McCafferty, finding out that there may be a group targeting them, and Drescoll disappearing. The events have brought back an unreal feeling — that this is all somehow still a dream. None of this can be real.

She would never admit it to anyone, but the events tonight in the aircraft were actually kind of exciting. She never felt like they were in trouble. Well, she would be lying to really say that. There was a moment during the initial slam when she thought they’d had it, but the fear of death never entered her mind. She knew her dad would handle it. The thing that worries her, and excites her, is being included as a full member of Red Team. She absolutely hates the way it came about. Bri really liked Allie. She reminded her of one of her friends. Bri had started to bond with McCafferty seeing as she and Gonzalez always seemed to be together. Bri will miss that… and Allie.

She hears her dad sigh loudly and start up the stairs to where Robert and Gonzalez went. This whole thing has shown her such a different aspect of her dad. Having watched movies and gone on trips with him, she would never have guessed this about him. She knew that he knew stuff, but she had no idea about this part of him.

To be honest, she feels kind of lost in this new world. Her dad pays attention to her, too much at times, and Gonzalez always seems to be there, but she doesn’t really have any friends. There’s no one to hang out with and talk to. Sure there’s Red Team, and they’re fun to be with, but she always feels a little left out… like she’s on the outside. She supposes that could be an age thing, but she really wants to belong, and not just because of her dad. She wants to belong because of her.

She misses her friends. It’s the camaraderie that she misses the most; although there are a couple of her friends she really does miss. And Nic. Bri wishes so much, every day, that her sister was still here. She’d know what to do and always made Bri feel special. In some ways, it seems like Nic’s death happened so long ago, yet in her heart, it still seems like yesterday. With Nic around, everything seemed like it was going to be okay. She was just that way.

If she were to have a word to describe how she feels, it would be thin… she feels thin. Like there’s no substance to her. There’s no meaning. Sure, there’s the whole surviving thing, but they do that every day and that’s different. Perhaps now that she’s a part of Red Team, that empty feeling will leave and she’ll be a part of something.

The one part of the day she looks forward to is the training. She’s not a fan of waking up early, but eagerly takes it in once she’s out and engaged in it. She can’t get enough of it and wants to learn everything there is — to experience it. Nic enters her mind once again and Bri wishes her sister were here to see her now… see how far she has come. And to share in conversations they used to have, both deep ones and those just for fun.

Bri quickly wipes away the tears in her eyes. She doesn’t want anyone to see her crying. She remembers Gonzalez’ talk with her seemingly so long ago.

Tempered steel, she thinks and turns back to the flight plan they have for the trip out. She has fuel numbers to crunch.