Fragments

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Haru Sato slunk through the warren of tunnels under JFK, keeping far from the other soldiers when he could, and nodding to them passively when the tight hallways made it impossible to keep his distance. He kept his weather-beaten hat pulled low over his face, avoiding eye contact, hoping no one would talk to him or ask where he was going. If they found out he’d fled his unit, he’d be arrested—or worse. It was not a good time to be a traitor.

Mr. Mkele’s office was in the middle of a long hall, what looked like it used to be a shipping office, now converted to the last, dying nerve center of human civilization. Morgan’s forces had taken East Meadow, had rounded up every other human they could find on the island; in a matter of days, they would come for this hideout and the human world would end. Their time as the dominant species was over. And what pitiful resistance they could mount was managed out of this failing office.

Well, thought Haru, this office and Delarosa’s roving base camp. And Delarosa’s more dangerous than we ever knew.

A single soldier stood guard in front of the closed office door, his uniform wrinkled and dirty. There was no time for pleasantries anymore. Haru glanced up and down the hall, seeing it relatively empty; most of the remaining Grid soldiers were upstairs on defense, or out in the wilderness attacking Morgan’s flanks. For the moment, Haru and the guard were alone. Haru glanced around again, set his resolve, and walked toward him.

“Mr. Mkele is busy at the moment,” said the guard.

“Let me ask you a question,” said Haru, stepping in close. At the last minute he turned to the right and lifted his arm, like he was pointing at something, and as the guard turned his head to follow, Haru slammed his knee into the man’s gut, bringing his left arm behind to catch the rifle slung over the man’s shoulder. The guard reached for it, still doubled over and too shocked to breath, but Haru maneuvered him swiftly into place for another knee, in the face this time, and the man collapsed. Haru opened the door, shoved the unconscious man through it, and stepped in after him. Mkele leapt to his feet, but Haru had already locked the door tightly.

“Don’t call out,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

“Just my guards.”

“I went AWOL last night,” said Haru. “I couldn’t risk him raising an alarm.” He laid the man gently in the corner. “Just give me five minutes.”

Mkele’s office was full of papers—not cluttered, as if he simply failed to throw anything away, but full, and from the looks of it very efficiently organized. This was a man who used his office not for show or for storage, but for long hours of work and study. Mkele was sitting behind his desk with a map of Long Island spread out before him, marked here and there with the sites of Partial attacks, Grid counterattacks, and—Haru couldn’t help but notice—some of Haru’s own allegedly secret activities with Delarosa and her warriors. I guess I’m not as good at keeping secrets as I thought. Maybe he already knows.

No, thought Haru. If he knew what Delarosa was planning, he wouldn’t be nearly this calm.

“You’re turning yourself in,” said Mkele.

“If you want to look at it that way,” said Haru. “I’m delivering intel, and if some of that intel reflects poorly on me, I’m prepared to face the consequences.”

“It must be very important intel.”

“What did you do before?” Haru asked. “Before the Break?”

Mkele stared at him a moment, as if deciding how to answer, then gestured at the map before him. “This.”

“Intelligence?”

“Mapmaking,” said Mkele. He smiled faintly. “In the wake of apocalypse, we must find new areas of endeavor.”

Haru nodded. “Were you familiar with the Last Fleet? I don’t know its real name, I was seven when it happened. The fleet that sailed into New York Harbor and got bombed to hell and back by the Partial air force. They call it the Last Fleet because it was our last chance to defend ourselves against the Partials, and when it was gone, the war was over.”

“I know it,” said Mkele. His face was calm—intent without appearing nervous. Haru pressed forward.

“Do you know why the Partials destroyed it?”

“We were at war.”

“That’s why they attacked it,” said Haru. “Do you know why they attacked it with such overwhelming force that they sank every ship in the fleet and killed every sailor onboard? They’d never done that with any other attack or counterattack in the war. I’ve heard the stories a thousand times from the older guys in the Defense Grid—how the Partials who had typically been much more interested in pacification and occupation, suddenly decided to obliterate an entire fleet. They say it was a message, the Partials’ way of saying, ‘Stop fighting now or we’ll make you regret it.’ That always seemed pretty reasonable to me, so I didn’t question it. Yesterday I learned the truth.”

“From who?”

“From Marisol Delarosa,” said Haru. “She’d started requesting strange equipment, stuff that didn’t fit any of her known methods, so I followed her.”

“What kind of equipment?”

“Scuba gear,” said Haru. “Acetylene torches. Stuff that didn’t make sense from one drop to the next, but they all started adding up to the same thing.”

“Underwater salvage,” said Mkele, nodding. “I assume this means she’s been exploring the Last Fleet?”

“The Last Fleet wasn’t destroyed as a message,” said Haru. “It was carrying a nuclear missile.”

Mkele’s face tensed immediately, and Haru continued. “It was the US government’s ‘final solution,�� to land a nuke on the Partial headquarters in White Plains and knock out the majority of their military operation in one move, even at the expense of one of the most densely populated areas in the entire country. They needed to sail in close to bypass the Partials’ missile defense systems; it was a suicide mission even before the Partials figured out what they were doing. Some old man in Delarosa’s team was a navy chaplain before the Break, and he started talking about the same final solution. That’s what gave her the idea. He knew all kinds of things once she started asking the right questions. The missile was on an Arleigh Burke–class destroyer called The Sullivan.” He leaned forward. “I tried to warn you by radio, but my unit sided with her. I can’t stop her alone, so I came as fast as I could. If nothing goes wrong with their operation, they’ll have the warhead in hand by tonight.”

Mkele whispered, “God have mercy.”