Robison Wells - Blackout

His team was gone. A suicide mission. It was necessary—and it had been worth it.

Kitsap had the largest fuel depot of any naval base in the country, a series of fifty-three underground storage tanks spread across the facility. Alec’s team couldn’t hit them all, but he could wreak havoc. Now the base was on fire—huge plumes of black smoke curling up into the early morning air. He didn’t know how long it would go. They’d opened valves—destroyed some—and much of the fuel would have to burn off on its own.

Alec was no use to them on this mission. He’d planned it, of course, and he’d even assigned a job to himself—a job that he didn’t bother doing. It was nonessential, and it helped them feel a sense of solidarity to make this one final suicide mission. They were all in this together. They’d all taken their deep breaths, they’d all praised their purpose, and they’d all drunk a small toast in honor of this, their final battle.

They knew what they were getting into. That Alec didn’t die alongside them would never be known to the rest. He was needed for other, bigger things. He didn’t know what yet—he never knew what the ultimate plan was going to be—but he knew the timetable.

And so he watched Kitsap burn. He expected that soon the entire inlet would be evacuated—it amazed him that a military base of such importance could be surrounded by civilian neighborhoods. But he would wait until he was forced to leave, and he would keep a running mental tally of the ships that he saw leaving their docks. Two aircraft carriers. Four submarines. A missile cruiser. Two destroyers. A handful of other ships that he couldn’t identify. Alec would memorize these ships—memorize the numbers emblazoned across their superstructure—and he would report.

He’d meet up with whoever he could contact. He still had a few numbers, even though cell service got worse every day. And he had anonymous email addresses, contacts on the deepnet. He’d tell them what he’d seen, give an accounting of what he’d done, and await orders.

It had all gone amazingly well. Sixty groups of three. One hundred and eighty teenagers. And they’d brought the world’s grandest superpower to its knees in just over a month.

Alec took a drink, pouring himself a glass from the same bottle his comrades had used for their final toast.

He would be a hero.

“SIX DAYS, JACK,” AUBREY SAIDto the wall. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m still talking to you. It helps me stay sane. It’s nice that they don’t drug the water here. At least, I don’t think they do. I feel like I can still turn invisible, if there was a reason to.”

She played with the food on her plate. It was chicken and rice, but didn’t look appetizing.

“Do you think they just put the food from the MRE pouches on a plate? Or does no one in the army know how to cook? Or the navy, or wherever this is. I think it’s the navy.”

They’d been taken in the back of the armored personnel carrier, with new detonators coded for their ankle bombs. Where they’d gone from there was anyone’s guess. It hadn’t been a very long drive, but the vehicle had been in a warehouse when it opened to let them out. They hadn’t gotten any sunlight.

That had been the last time they’d held hands.

“You know what I wish, Jack?” she said, leaning back on her bed and staring at the plain white ceiling. “I wish that I’d said yes. When you asked me to the dance last year. I wish we’d gone, and I wish you’d worn jeans and I’d worn that awful flower-print dress I always wear to church. I should have said yes. I’m sorry.”

She put the cover back on her food so she wouldn’t have to smell it.

“I wouldn’t mind having worn some of that Flowerbomb stuff, though. It’s really grown on me.”

The deadbolt unlocked, and she shot upright. No one had been in the room for six days, not since she’d explained everything that happened—every detail in Seattle and San Francisco and Point Loma. No more lies. Let the chips fall where they may.

With a squeal, the heavy metal door opened, and a soldier stood looking at her.

“Aubrey Parsons?”

“Yeah?”

“Your presence has been requested in the briefing room.”

She followed the soldier down a long corridor. Two others walked behind them.

The soldier turned the corner and pushed a door open for her to go through.

Jack was in there, his head sporting a newer, smaller bandage. He smiled at her and waved from his desk.

“Hey,” she said as she came up and sat next to him. “I hope you got my messages.”

“I didn’t want to eavesdrop,” he said with a grin, “but I would totally go to prom with you.”

She reached across the gap between their desks and took his hand. His skin was cold and dry and comfortable.

Aubrey didn’t know what was going to happen anymore. She didn’t know if they were going to be kicked out of the army, or court-martialed, or put in lockdown back at Dugway. But at least they were together for now.

The door opened again, and a bald man in full dress uniform entered. He sat on the edge of the table at the head of the room, and set down a small stack of folders.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” he said. “Your information has proven very useful. While we have yet to apprehend Alec Moore, we have managed to shut down the website he’s been using to communicate to the various terrorist cells.

“It has also been determined you should be exonerated for the tragic events that took place in Seattle. While we do not have a solid confirmation, we actually believe that the order to terminate you came from a . . . compromised individual.”

Jack raised his hand. “What does that mean? A gun to his head?”

“In a sense. Alec Moore, we’ve gathered, has some form of mind control. We don’t know the details. He’s used this many times to get past guards, to convince people he’s on their side, or even that he’s their superior. Ms. Parsons, I believe he convinced you that you were in school together.”

She nodded, embarrassed that she’d fallen for it.

“We believe that it was either him on the radio giving the order, or it was someone he had influenced. Either way, he is conclusively linked to the terror cell that destroyed the Space Needle.”

Aubrey spoke, her voice quiet. “Does that mean that we’re free to go?”

The colonel sighed. “I wish I could say that the answer was yes. The terror cells are now disorganized and making mistakes, and our boys are ferreting them out—with the continued help of Lambdas like yourselves. This phase of the war is coming to a close.”

Aubrey looked at Jack. He spoke first. “This phase.”

“I’m afraid to report that this has all been a prelude. The terrorists stretched our forces thin, destroyed our infrastructure and our ability and will to fight. And, as of this morning, Russia has invaded Alaska.”

AS ALWAYS, THIS BOOK WASwritten due to the long suffering and patience of my wife and best friend, Erin. She’s stood by my side through every hardship and been the anchor I hold on to when things are tough. And she’s believed in me and my dream of writing perhaps even more than I have—always pushing me to keep going, keep working, keep writing.

I also owe a huge debt of gratitude to my writing group: Sarah Eden, Michele Holmes, Annette Lyon, Heather Moore, J. Scott Savage, and Lu Ann Staheli. They read versions of this book when it was middle grade, when it was YA, when it was first person, when it was third person, and when it was generally terrible. I think they read at least five different Chapter Ones for this thing before I got it right.