Michael Grant - Hero

“Hello?”

“This is Jody Wilkes. I’m terribly sorry to bother you; we are blocking all calls to you . . .”

Wilkes was the head of casino security at Caesars and their main contact person. Shade knew from Wilkes’s tone that there was a “but” coming, and knew it would be bad news.

“. . . but this call came from Washington.”

“This is Shade, Ms. Wilkes. Given what we’ve seen from those clowns, I don’t think we want to talk to them.”

“It isn’t from the White House or anyone political. It’s from a General Eliopoulos. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs.”

Shade held the phone out and stared at it as if reassuring herself she was actually awake. The country’s highest-ranking soldier wanted to talk to them? Urgently? At one in the morning? Of course it would be nearly dawn on the East Coast.

“Is he holding or what?”

“He asked me to put him through.”

Shade said, “Okay. Give me ten minutes. And have him FaceTime my cell phone.” She recited the number.

She went to the sideboard and began brewing coffee. She needed to wake the others, starting with Dekka and Malik, and she didn’t intend to wake either without some ready caffeine.

Five minutes later, a scowling Dekka, a distracted Malik, and an oddly perky Cruz were assembled in the living room. Shade had made the executive decision to let Armo and Francis sleep.

“The chairman of the Joint Chiefs?” Malik said, frowned and then winced as he felt renewed interest from the Dark Watchers.

“I figured you should all hear the call,” Shade said.

“You assume we should take the call?” Cruz asked. The days of Cruz passively taking her lead from Shade were over. They were friends, even close friends, but Cruz no longer blindly believed her brilliant friend was always better able to make decisions. Shade was relieved by the change: the fewer people looking to her for solutions, the better.

“I think we should,” Shade said.

“They want something.” Dekka searched for the remote and clicked on MSNBC, the first any of them had heard of the shrapnelized landing of ASO-7. They’d all been avoiding news broadcasts, which still tended to rerun video of horrible events they’d been part of, events none of them wanted to be reminded of. “Aaaaannd that would be it.”

“Jesus,” Cruz whispered. “New York.”

The phone rang.

“I’ll prop the phone here,” Shade said, balancing it against a bowl of fruit. She tapped the button, and a picture formed. The man was in full uniform but looked as if he was wearing a size too large. He was a fiftyish white man with a receding buzzcut and glasses that exaggerated his brown eyes. It was a capable face, a confident face, but one marked with lines of exhaustion that made him seem less impressive than he must have looked on a parade ground.

“Hello. This is Shade Darby.”

The voice was higher than she’d expected, but carried heavy worry in its tone. “This is General Andy Eliopoulos. Thank you for taking my call.”

“I’m here with Dekka Talent, Malik Tenerife, and Cruz.”

The general got right to it. “Have you seen the news out of New York?”

“Just turned it on.” Then, belatedly, added, “General.”

“Ms. Darby, and the rest of you, you have no reason to trust me or the US military.”

“No. We don’t,” Dekka said in a low rumble. “I was at the Ranch.”

“That was not a military operation,” Eliopoulos said.

“The tank column that shot up the Vegas Strip sure as hell was,” Dekka snapped.

“Yes.” Eliopoulos made no effort to offer excuses, nor did he argue about responsibility. “The relevant commanders have been relieved of duty. And may I say on behalf the US military, and myself personally, how grateful we are that you were able to take down Dillon Poe and save so many lives. Not least my soldiers, many of whom might have been killed, and many more who would have had to live a lifetime of regret.”

That caught Shade by surprise. “We wish we could have done more.”

“Well, more is exactly what I’m going to ask of you, Ms. Darby.”

“I knew this was too good to last,” Dekka said, looking bereft as she gazed around the room whose luxury had made her feel out of place but which she now looked on with great fondness.

“The situation in New York is critical. Some actions have already been taken that . . .” The general looked uncomfortable. “People are scared shitless, I don’t mind telling you, and they’re doing stupid things. Bad, stupid things.” He leaned into the screen. “And there are insistent demands that we take certain actions that . . . that I do not countenance at this time.”

The four of them exchanged looks. The general was leaving it to their imaginations, but in a world where the US government had already used drone attacks to take out suspected mutants, a world where military helicopters had been deployed to attack civilian vehicles, where a nuclear device aboard a submarine had somehow blown up in the waters off Georgia, where a full tank column had been sent into Las Vegas, they could imagine all too well.

“ASO-7 was potentially on a course to annihilate New York City, so a decision was made to try to destroy it as it entered the atmosphere. Unfortunately, while the nukes broke up the ASO, tons of the rock still impacted the city. And worse, a number of people have been, for lack of a better word, shot: penetrated by granules of the ASO.”

The four of them all understood what that meant: New York City was about to become ground zero for Rockborn mutants. None of them was naive enough to welcome that—the rock transformed the decent and the bad alike. Some who developed powers used them for good, or at least didn’t cause problems. Others, however . . .

“We have no way of predicting,” the general continued, “how many people will develop powers. Nor how many will choose the path that psychopath in Las Vegas did.”

“It doesn’t take many super-villains to mess up your day,” Malik said. “If Poe had been a little smarter and more mature he could have destroyed civilization as we know it.”

The general nodded. “The thing is, you saw our response. The US military is the most powerful instrument of destruction in the history of the world. But tank battalions and F-35s are not much use in Manhattan. If any of the people from this event turn into . . . well, monsters, no offense intended to you . . . The police and first responders have all they can do to cope with the straight-up destruction in Manhattan right now. They’ve got dozens of burning buildings, people buried under rubble, looting, panic. . . . They are not in a position to cope with the likes of a Tom Peaks, let alone a Dillon Poe.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” Shade said, “but why are you calling us?” She had guessed the answer—they all had—but she wanted the general to say it.

Eliopoulos let out a long sigh. “I have no power to deputize you or convey any official status on you. I can’t even pay you. And frankly, if you screw up, the Pentagon will disavow you.”

“Cool. Just like Mission: Impossible ,” Malik said under his breath.

But Eliopoulos heard him and nodded. “Exactly. I’m asking for your help, knowing I don’t have the right, and knowing you have no reason to do any more than you’ve already done. And I won’t lie: there are half a dozen local law enforcement agencies and twice that many federal agencies involved, and it’s all a massive clusterfuck, so I cannot guarantee you won’t get shot at by NYPD or FBI or ICE or even my own people.”

“Gosh,” Cruz said dryly, “it sounds just great when you put it like that.”

The general managed a weary smile. “You’re a bunch of kids who’ve been through hell. Neither I nor anyone else has a right to ask you for more. But I’ve been asking young men and young women in uniform, men and women who mostly earn about what they could make flipping burgers, to do more than any human should be asked to do for my whole career. It’s what these stars on my shoulders are about—sending good young people into harm’s way. So, I’m asking you. Will the Rockborn Gang come to New York? I have a jet waiting at the airport.”