Apocalyptic Visions Super Boxset (254 page)

Two piles of papers rested on Jared’s desk. The shorter pile, which was only a few inches tall, was the case files yet to be read in regard to the different strategies Gordon might use against the United States, and the second, much taller stack, which stood at almost two feet in height, was what he’d already read.

Everything the president’s advisors had provided led to only two real, plausible scenarios. The first was to defeat the United States military, which Gordon was losing at a terrible rate, and the second was to run. And years of closing deals in the conference room had given him the nose to sniff out a runner, and he would bet his last dollar that Gordon was already packing his bags.

Earlier intelligence suggested the Chinese would provide some type of offer to Gordon to extract him from the country in exchange for the soil data. They had the deepest pockets and resources to provide such an escape, but as the sunset drew closer, there would be no doubt other countries would put their hat in the ring—off the record, of course.

A knock on his office door interrupted his research efforts, as Jared’s highest trusted advisor, Marcus Semp, entered in a hurried rush.

“We received confirmation on Sydney’s location,” Marcus said.

“Where?”

“Topeka.”

The heart of Gordon’s Coalition was impenetrable at the moment. He had tens of thousands of troops stationed around the city, but with his outside supply routes slowly disappearing, he wouldn’t be able to keep control of them for long.

Jared noticed a sense of trepidation in Marcus, waiting for the right time to say something he was afraid Jared would take offense to.

“What is it?” Jared asked.

“The president. He wants to speak with you.”

“About?”

“He didn’t say, but he wants to see you immediately. I already have the car waiting for you.”

Jared grabbed the stack of papers he’d yet to read, along with his jacket, and marched out to the vehicle. He’d had hundreds of meetings with the president over the past three years. They had ranged from negotiating the arms deal almost four years ago to become the United States military’s number one weapons provider, to helping allocate resources to find a soil cure for the devastating aftereffects caused by GMO-24. In those meetings, as well as the hundreds of thousands of others he’d either been a part of or led during his professional career in the business community, he had never felt a sense of angst, until now.

He knew what the president wanted to meet with him personally about. Anything else could have been discussed over the phone or through an email. But the fact that the president requested an immediate meeting meant only one thing: it was about Sydney.

The complication of his personal life in his business one was something he was always able to avoid by never mixing the two. He didn’t even want Sydney to be a part of the Coalition, but the boy’s mother wouldn’t let up until Sydney could have something that made him feel valued. And now his son was held hostage and possibly being used as leverage against Jared and the president for some sort of deal.

The reason Jared had always avoided any type of entanglement of his personal and professional life was so he wouldn’t have to make the type of decisions he would no doubt be faced with in just a few minutes. He would be forced to choose between saving the country, along with the prospect of being able to return his focus on his company, and saving his son.

Jared never held any self-delusions about the type of man he was, and in the adjectives that were used to describe him when he died, none of them would even be remotely close to “fatherly.”

The White House was in its usual state of panic when Jared arrived, and the secretary outside the Oval Office ushered Jared inside, where the president was currently meeting with the chiefs of staff. The moment Jared walked in, the president called the meeting to an end, and each admiral and general in the room made sure to give Jared a firm handshake with an equally aphoristic nod. When the final officer left and closed the Oval Office door behind him, the president gestured to the couch. “Please, Jared, have a seat.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Jared, I can’t stress to you enough how much my administration, and the country, appreciate what you have done over the past three years to help keep us on track through everything that’s happened. We owe you a great de—”

“Mr. President, I have a lot of work to get done, so if you called me here to simply thank me for my contributions, I can tell you that could easily have been accomplished over the phone.”

The president stumbled a bit after that, unsure of how to respond, but eventually found his footing. “I know you’re aware your son is still under the control of the Coalition, but we received word today that he is currently reconstructing the stolen soil data and has requested that the United States military break him out.”

“He’s using the soil data as leverage?”

“It is Admiral Frizen’s analysis, which I agree with, that Sydney is trying to stall his work with the reconstruction in hopes that the war would be over before he finishes.”

Jared nodded, looking over the vacant desk in the room. “Gordon will kill him once he’s done.”

“Yes, we believe that’s why he’s taking his time. But even when we break through in Topeka and win this, Gordon will have a backup plan, which will most likely include your son.”

The president continued to speak, and Jared continued to listen, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the president’s desk. The most powerful men in the world had sat at there, signing some of the very legislation Jared had paid lobbyists millions of dollars to ensure they didn’t pass. And now, he was merely a few feet away from that desk, alone in a room with the president of the United States of America.

“Jared?” the president asked.

“You’re looking for my blessing,” Jared answered.

“Jared, I know how difficult—”

“It’s not difficult, Mr. President. It’s my job. I understand that you can’t guarantee my son’s safety. I understand that his fate will be left to that of a madman who I sent him to work with. I understand that the priority of the nation overrides any notion of fatherhood. But what I don’t understand is why you wasted my time telling me something I already knew.”

Out of every emotion Jared could have felt at that moment, he had one that surprised him: anger. He was angry that he had to be here. He was angry over what happened with his country. He was angry with the president. He was angry with his family, his staff, his job. He was angry with himself.

With the president still offering a few aphoristic apologies, Jared rushed out of the Oval Office and back into his car, waiting for him outside. He slammed the door shut before the driver could do it for him and roughly rubbed the frustration out of his forehead until his skin was a scarlet red.

The driver only confirmed that he would be taking Jared back to his office then remained quiet during the rest of the trip. Jared let his hand fall to the seat, where it landed on top of the stack of papers he’d brought with him, containing the information given to him from the president’s staff. Thousands of pieces of paper all saying the same thing in different ways. Jared picked up the stack and rolled down the window. The driver gave him a few odd glances in the rearview mirror as Jared released the documents into the air and watched them scatter along the highway behind them, but said nothing.

With the stack of bureaucracy firmly behind Jared, he rolled up the window and tilted his head back. Gordon would lose, but with the original creator of the GMO-24 vaccine MIA and his son working on recreating the formula for Gordon, Jared wasn’t sure whether the soil data would be a part of that victory or not.

***

Hundreds of armored trucks and thousands of sentries marched through the streets of Topeka, turning the once-quiet Midwestern town into Gordon Reath’s personal fortress. The constant drum of boots against the asphalt could only be outdone by Gordon’s virulent screams at every new report that arrived informing him of his sentries’ failures to hold the communities under their control.

Dean Grout, still dripping Louisiana mud on Gordon’s floor, bolted out of the room with his tail between his legs, leaving Gordon in fumes alone in his office. He stepped over Dean’s muddy footprints on his way to lock the door then immediately entered a video conference with Sheng.

“Mr. President,” Gordon said. “I hope you’ve given more thought to my proposal.”

Sheng smiled. His round cheeks and taut skin made it difficult to determine just how old the man was, but the dark pupils in his eyes gave him an almost ancient look, balancing out whatever plastic surgery had ironed out the wrinkles and age spots along his face.

“Your recent losses haven’t evoked much confidence in your soldiers’ abilities, Gordon. I’m afraid that until we see some sort of progress we will no longer be able to continue our discussion.”

“Regardless of what happens with this war, you and I both know I’m the one with the soil data, and that will become increasingly valuable the longer this conflict rages on. I’m sure there will be a lot of buyers out there who would jump at the opportunity.”

“But I’m wondering how many of those buyers have the resources to extract you safely? Good luck, Gordon.”

The connection ended before Gordon could get in another word. Ultimately, he knew the Chinese wouldn’t risk losing such an important piece of data like the soil solution, but despite Gordon’s detestation of Sheng’s ability to have the upper hand, he knew Sheng was right. There wasn’t another country that could offer the same resources as China, which was the only country left to even consider challenging the US. Sheng would wait until Gordon had no other option before he offered him any type of deal. And when Sheng did, Gordon knew he would take whatever was put on the table.

***

The longer the tank rolled forward, the larger the tight ball of stiffness in Alex’s lower back grew. His wrists were cuffed directly to the tank’s frame, and the restricted mobility was wearing him down. And the entire time, watching with the barrel of a gun pointed at him, was Ray.

Ray kept the thousand-yard stare while Alex shifted uncomfortably. He looked at the way Ray held the pistol in his hand. It was a 9mm Smith and Wesson with a solid-black finish. The pistol had quite a bit of recoil, and Ray was holding it in one hand.

“You ever fired one of tho—”

“You need to shut the fuck up,” Ray answered.

“I’m trying to help, Ray.”

“I don’t give a shit what you’re trying or not trying to do,” Ray replied, a dribble of spit rolling down his chin to accentuate his disdain. “The first chance I get, I’m going to put a bullet in the back of your skull.”

Despite all the anger and frustration Alex had received so far, he knew that underneath the vengeful demeanor portrayed on the surface was just a man who was scared. Ray’s eyes were the same beaded angry that Alex saw at the seed silo he was charged with guarding over three years ago. Eyes centered in a pool of hate-filled purpose fueled by a hunger that swelled from the deepest wells of the soul. And just like those angry extremists Alex was forced to fight at the silo, he couldn’t blame Ray for what he felt toward him. It was nothing more than the man’s own inability to see past what he couldn’t control. And it wasn’t something Alex would be able to change Ray’s mind on.

“I know what you think of me, Ray. I do. I know you’ll want to fight, but if you do, you need to be prepared, and if you fired that pistol the way you’re holding it right now, it would fly out of your hand.”

For the first time since the trip started, Ray’s eyes shifted from Alex to the gun. Finally, he brought his left hand over to keep a firmer grasp. A radio call arrived, and the tank tracks were ordered to come to a stop. The soldiers removed their seat straps, and one of them tapped Ray on the shoulder, and he reluctantly unlocked the cuffs around Alex’s wrists.

Outside, the distant thunder of gunshots echoed from what looked to be an oil refinery about three hundred yards in the distance. The other caravan of tanks and trucks transporting soldiers had come to a halt, and Luis was standing in the center of a circle, surrounded by tired faces and sagging shoulders.

“All right, everyone, listen up!” Luis said. “The seizure of that refinery is our main objective. Coalition forces have embedded themselves inside, and every attempt to flush them out that won’t damage the integrity of the refinery has been attempted and failed.”

“How many sentries?” one of the soldiers asked.

“Intelligence indicates that there are over thirty combatants inside, but that’s not the only piece of information we received. The sentries inside are Class 3s,” Luis answered.

A whistle broke through the quiet murmur spreading throughout the crowd, accompanied by a silent hesitation and a few of the soldiers taking a step back. When Alex had been in the sentry program, he was given an aptitude test that would help the Coalition gauge what type of sentry he would be. The results of the exam were categorized into three separate units. The first and lowest was Class 1. This was your typical foot soldier or individual tasked with simple jobs and functions. The only real qualification needed to make it as a Class 1 was that you had a trigger finger and were vicious enough to use it on anyone.

The next classification was Class 2, which was what Alex had been. These individuals were officer material. Each Class 2 was assigned a unit of Class 1s to lead and manage in a specific area. It was the responsibility of a Class 2 to ensure that the men under their command followed orders and didn’t exceed their given mandate.

The final category was reserved for individuals who possessed a high mental capacity which would be applied in the application of war. Once it was determined they were smart enough for the category, they were then put through a physical examination to determine strength, endurance, speed, agility, and pain tolerance. Nothing but the highest marks on the physical portion of the exam were accepted. These individuals could solve a Rubik’s cube during their five-minute-mile run. These elite specimens were Class 3s.

During Alex’s tenure both in and out of the sentry program, he’d only seen a group of Class 3 sentries once. It was just one year after the formation of the Coalition, and Gordon was sending “special” units for an annual inspection of the communities to ensure their compliance with all Coalition policies.

At the time, Alex’s community only had two children. Meeko and another slightly older boy named Benny, who lived in another one of the Coalition houses with two older men whom Alex would have trusted with his own children if he had any. Everyone was marched outside and formed a line, just like during a blood sampling. The Class 3s rolled in and piled out of their truck. There were only four of them, each decked out in a dark-blue, rather than the solid-black uniforms the other sentries wore, adorned with some very top-of-the-line hardware. 

But aside from everything they wore and despite their size, what Alex noticed most were their eyes. Each pupil Alex came into view with had the vicious sincerity of ruthlessness. It was something more powerful than just raw, unbridled emotions. It was a vicious intelligence Alex had never seen before, and even he couldn’t stop the chill running up the back of his spine.

One of the Class 3s looked each of the community members over until he finally stopped when he arrived at Benny, who was no older than thirteen at the time. The Class 3 reached into his pocket and pulled out a chocolate bar. He bent down to meet the boy at eye level, and Alex remembered his entire body tensing up.

The sentry told Benny that if he would run as far as he could without stopping, then he would give him the candy bar. Everyone, including the Class 1 sentries permanently stationed in the community, had their eyebrows raised. And just as he should be, Benny was skeptical.

Finally, Benny took off at a trot, slowly breaking out into a sprint, kicking up dust behind him as he pumped his legs harder and harder. The Class 3 kept urging him on, challenging him to keep going, even if he had to run beyond the community’s gates. The boy ran for almost two minutes before he finally came to a stop two hundred yards outside the front gates. Alex had to squint his eyes to see the boy, who looked nothing more than a speck of flesh against the rolling hills behind him.

The next few moments seemed to pass in slow motion. Alex remembered seeing the boy bend over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath while the Class 3 brought the scope of the rifle to his eye. Alex watched the sentry’s finger move to the trigger and suddenly became aware of his feet pushing him forward to the sentry’s position.

Alex felt every pulsating beat in his chest and every inhale and exhale of his breath as a red-hot flash of heat consumed him. He tried to bum-rush the sentry but was tackled to the ground before he could reach his goal. Despite the other sentries holding him down, Alex kept clawing at the earth to try and stop the Class 3, who didn’t break concentration no matter how much Alex screamed for the boy to run. But Benny just stood there, frozen outside the gates on the side of a hill.

When the Class 3 finally squeezed the trigger, Alex screamed until he thought his lungs would cough up blood. The bastards even had the audacity to drive out to where the boy’s body lay, tie a rope around his ankles, and drag him back up the hill for the community to see him.

The Class 3s didn’t say anything after that or perform any further inspections. They simply got back in their car and drove away. The community had received the message loud and clear. Even when you’re not doing anything wrong, even when you’re following the rules you’re forced to comply with at gunpoint, they still hold your life in their hands, and they can do whatever they want with it.

That same ruthlessness and skill were waiting for Luis and his men inside the oil refinery. Alex knew they could eventually outnumber them, but he didn’t believe Luis understood how many men they’d lose in the process. They would take the oil back, but every gallon of oil they reclaimed would cost an equal amount of blood.