The 4400® Promises Broken (7 page)

“Somebody give me a SITREP, goddammit,” he said, raising his voice above the buzz of nervous chatter that filled the dimly lit compartment. Confused faces looked up from illuminated tables and banks of eerily glowing computer monitors.

Lieutenant Carrie Wright, the tactical action officer, halted in her mad back-and-forth dash between the main battery gunnery liaison and the radar supervisor. “We lost control of the Tomahawk, sir,” she said. “It’s still active, but we can’t get a fix on its position.”

“If it’s still active, it hasn’t hit the target,” Gafar said. “Use the override and put it in the drink.”

Wright shook her head. “Override failed, sir. No response.”

From behind Gafar, the radar supervisor called out, “Found our bird, sir! Bearing nine-six, CBDR and hugging the waves!”

The report sent a chill through Gafar: CBDR was an acronym for Constant Bearing, Decreasing Range. A collision course.

“Collision alarm!” Gafar said. “Fire control, abort that missile now!”

“No response, sir!” an ensign replied.

A palpable wave of anxiety swept through the CIC. Gafar knew he would have only seconds to act. “Arm the CIWS,” he said, pronouncing the acronym “Sea-Whiz.”

The Phalanx Close-In Weapon System was a deck-mounted autocannon designed to blast incoming missiles and aircraft to shreds. He had never expected to have to turn it against one of his ship’s own Tomahawk cruise missiles.

“Targeting,” reported the antiaircraft gunnery liaison, a first-class petty officer whom Gafar knew only by the nickname Kiwi. “Six seconds to range …”

Gafar stood and waited, placing his trust in his CIC team. Firing the missile had not been his choice; the order had come directly from the president to the
Momsen
’s commanding officer, Captain McIntee, who in turn had given it to Gafar. Knowing who their target was, he hadn’t expected anything good to come of this decision, but he certainly hadn’t expected this.

With no warning he was standing in total darkness, listening to the long, dwindling whine of computer drives spinning down. “Somebody crack a light!” he called out.
“Ensign Monroy, pass me the sound-powered phone and patch me through to one-MC.”

Flashlights snapped on in the sepulchral gloom and slashed through the darkness.

The communications officer adjusted the durable emergency communications device and passed the handset to Gafar, who said, “Bridge, Combat.”

Captain McIntee answered,
“Combat, Actual. Go ahead.”

“Captain, we have total power failure. Aux Fire Control needs to target the CIWS.”

“Negative,”
the captain replied.
“All sections are dark, and we’re dead in the water. We—”
Over the line, Gafar heard another officer shout,
“Visual contact! Inbound bogey!”

“Brace for impact!” Gafar bellowed across the CIC. “Away DC and fire teams! Go watertight! Move!”

Everyone followed him as he ran for the exit and scrambled into the passageway to secure the hatches and warn the damage control and firefighting teams to prepare for the worst.

A bomb blast roared through every deck and compartment on the
Momsen
. The ship heaved violently under Gafar’s feet, then rolled to starboard. Within seconds, he smelled the sulfuric tang of cordite and the pungent stench of leaking oil and burning fuel.

He was shouting orders, but no one was listening. Men were on fire, and the corridors reeked of charred flesh. Toxic smoke stung his eyes, and a string of secondary detonations confirmed his fear that the missile had hit the ship’s ordnance supply.

Stumbling forward, he strained to see the overhead through the black cloud that roiled above him. Panicked crewmen slammed into him and continued on, ignoring his warnings that they were running into a deadly blaze.

Another blast turned everything white for a moment, then gave way once more to flame-licked shadows.

The
Momsen
groaned like a wounded steel leviathan, and the deck pitched almost straight down ahead of Gafar, who flailed for a handhold. His hand found the railing of a ladder, and he hung on as loose bits of debris and sailors’ personal effects tumbled like dice down the suddenly vertical shaft.

An active flashlight bounced out of an open hatchway above him and nearly hit him in the head as it fell past. A moment later it came to a halt—floating on the rising swell of icy seawater that was flooding into the sinking destroyer.

It took only a few seconds for the numbingly cold water to reach Gafar’s feet. In less than a minute it swallowed him up to his neck. He fought to stay afloat, to ride the cresting wave to an escape, but all he found were sealed hatches and wreckage-strewn passages. Then there was nowhere left to go.

He didn’t try to hold his breath.

He knew he’d freeze before he drowned.

Either way, he was as good as dead.

E
VERY PHONE
in the Seattle NTAC office was ringing. No one was answering them.

Tom Baldwin focused on his computer and tuned out the shrill cacophony of several dozen digital ringtones, including the one from his phone. Every extension light was flashing.

Outside his office, Diana, both Jeds, senior analyst Marco Pacella, and almost every other agent had gathered to watch the latest developments on the office’s numerous televisions. From where Tom was sitting, the news anchors’ overly modulated voices blended together into a steady drone of gibberish.

One channel showed live news helicopter footage of a fiery oil slick on Puget Sound—the only remaining trace of the sunken U.S. Navy destroyer
Momsen
. Another feed offered a montage of amateur home videos of the missile, which had made a supersonic pass over the city before turning back out to sea.

A third channel showcased images of panic in the streets.

Like I needed the news to tell me about that
, Tom brooded. Helping coordinate first responders was his primary task at that moment. Most of what they were responding to was looting and traffic jams at the various military-guarded checkpoints that ringed Jordan Collier’s benignly usurped city-state.

There was almost enough chaos to distract Tom from thinking about the fact that his son was inside the Collier building. Almost—but not quite.

Meghan leaned halfway through his office door. “Just got off the phone with the chief of Seattle PD,” she said. “He says his people have Beacon Hill under control, so you can stand down, if you want.”

“Thank God,” Tom said, pulling his palms over his face to push away the fatigue. “Have you seen the footage on channel five? That was a Tomahawk.”

She grimaced. “I saw it.”

“I don’t suppose the Navy gave us a heads-up before lobbing a cruise missile into our backyard?”

“According to SECDEF, the strike was handled on a need-to-know basis,” Meghan said. “Three guesses where we fall on that list.”

“Big surprise,” Tom said, sharing her frustration. “What’re the talking points this time?”

“I don’t think they know yet.”

From the main room behind Meghan, Tom heard the rising pitch of angry voices growing louder—and one of them was Diana. He bolted from his chair and moved toward the door. Meghan stepped out of his way and followed him as he hurried out to see what was going on.

Diana paced like a caged tigress, muttering vile curses under her breath while shooting fearful and angry glances at a TV screen showing images of the Tomahawk’s near miss of the Collier Foundation building. She was surrounded by several other agents, including Marco and both Jeds. J.B. held up his hands and tried to halt Diana’s anxious back-and-forth. “Diana, come on,” he said. “It might be a mistake.”

He recoiled as she snapped back, “DOD just confirmed the target! It was no
mistake
!”

“You gotta calm down,” J.B. said, putting a hand on Diana’s shoulder. She swatted away his attempt at consolation.

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” she screamed at him, her rage boiling over into tears. “Maia was in there! The Navy just shot a
fucking missile
at my kid!”

Tom stepped between Diana and J.B. before the man could say anything else to make the situation worse. “J.B., get lost,” Tom said. “And take your twin with you.” The two Jeds slunk away wearing glum expressions. Tom turned back to Diana, who hid her tear-reddened eyes under one hand and crossed her other arm over her chest. Keeping his hands to himself, Tom said softly, “He doesn’t have kids. He doesn’t get it.”

Her voice trembled with barely contained terror and rage. “They could’ve killed her, Tom. And Kyle, too.”

“I know,” Tom said, feeling his own fury rising.

Meghan approached Tom and Diana with visible caution. “Diana?” she said. “I have a call going through to Jordan’s people. Do you want me to try and get Maia on the line for you?” Diana nodded, apparently too overcome
with emotion to voice her response. Meghan tilted her head toward her office. “Come on. If we reach her, you can use my office.” Nodding again, Diana smiled sadly at Meghan, then touched Tom’s arm in a gesture of quiet gratitude. Then the two women stepped away, into the semiprivate confines of Meghan’s executive office.

Turning his attention to another live image of the burning oil slick on Puget Sound, Tom felt his jaw clench and his fists curl shut. He had been dreading this day ever since Jordan Collier had challenged the U.S. government by declaring a one-square-mile chunk of Seattle as sovereign territory under his authority and renaming it “Promise City.”

Marco sidled up to Tom and fixed his stare on the TV screen. “This is bad,” the young Theory Room director said, adjusting his thick-rimmed, black plastic eyeglasses.

Tom glanced at the shorter, slightly built man. In his tweed jacket, linen shirt, blue jeans, and flat-soled sneakers, Marco looked more like a graduate student than the professional intelligence analyst and scientific theorist that he was.

“It’s even worse than it looks,” Tom said.

Cocking one eyebrow, Marco asked, “How do you figure?”

“Forget about the implications of the U.S. firing the first shot at Promise City,” Tom said, fighting to stay calm and keep his temper in check. “You and I both know how powerful Jordan’s people are. They could’ve ended this a dozen different ways. They could’ve self-destructed that missile, or ditched it at sea, or turned it to confetti. But
they chose to use it as a weapon.” Unable to hold back the tide of his wrath, Tom pounded the side of his fist on a desktop. “They killed almost four hundred men and women on that ship!”

“Not to play devil’s advocate,” Marco replied, “but maybe sinking the ship was an accident.”

Scowling at the scene of smoking destruction on the TV, Tom shook his head. “No, that was no accident. That ship had a missile-defense system. The only way it could take a direct hit like that would be if someone compromised its defenses. Jordan and his people sank that ship on purpose.” He turned and looked at Marco. “Which means that Jordan Collier thinks he’s ready to go to war with the United States.”

“I
AM
NOT
READY
to go to war with the United States!”

Pointing at the moving images of destruction at sea on his office’s television, Jordan continued. “There were nearly four hundred people on that ship! What the hell were you thinking?”

Kyle stood silent in front of Jordan’s desk, staring into the ruddy sky outside the office’s windows, where a blood-red sun dipped in slow degrees below the horizon. “I did what Cassie told me had to be done. She’s never been wrong before.”

Jordan massaged his temples. He was usually a calm and contemplative figure, not prone to outbursts, but the last few days had seemed to test his patience. “I don’t care what Cassie said. I told you specifically not to use force without consulting me. Did you forget that conversation?”

“No, I didn’t,” Kyle said. “It was an emergency. We did what had to be done to keep us safe.”

Recovering his Zen-like composure, Jordan reclined his chair. He kept his attention on Kyle, who avoided eye
contact, choosing instead to look past Jordan and into the distance.

The leader of Promise City stood and walked past Kyle to stand in front of the television. “We always have nonviolent options, even in a crisis,” Jordan said. “Using them allows Promise City to retain the moral high ground. Spilling blood when we don’t need to only begets more violence and tarnishes the Movement.”

Between them, but seen only by Kyle, his phantom counsel Cassie said with a sneer, “Tell him what a hypocrite he is.”

Goaded into the confrontation, Kyle snapped at Jordan, “You didn’t seem to care about spilling blood for your Great Leap Forward. You were ready to accept
fifty percent
fatalities worldwide from promicin. That’d be, what? Three
billion
people dead? And you want me to feel guilty for taking out a few hundred military personnel who tried to
kill
us?”

“That was different,” Jordan said. “At the time, I believed the potentially fatal risk of taking promicin was one of the prices we had to pay for progress as a species. I see now that I was wrong. We don’t need to kill half the world in order to save the other half. What you did today was criminal.”

“What we did was self-defense,” Kyle said, stepping into Jordan’s personal space.

Jordan held his ground, unfazed by Kyle’s challenge. “Self-defense isn’t the same thing as vengeance, Kyle. That’s not what the Movement stands for.”

“No, apparently it stands for rolling over and playing
dead,” Kyle replied. Cassie planted her hands on his shoulders, stoking his courage. “The Feds in Washington aren’t going to take a hint, and they won’t reward us for our restraint. They don’t respect people who bring knives to gunfights. The only language they understand is mutually assured destruction.”

“I refuse to accept that,” Jordan said, stepping away from Kyle, who followed him. Jordan returned to his desk and slipped back into his chair. “There are better paths that we can take.”

Planting his knuckles on Jordan’s desk and leaning forward, Kyle asked, “Then why do you have people positioned all over the world, waiting to take out major cities on your order?”