Blood Zero Sky (25 page)

—Chapter Ø18—

On September 2, the day before the attack,
we set off before dawn. There are twelve vehicles total, ten squad trucks crammed with ten soldiers each, and two more vehicles filled with supplies. Per Ethan’s plan, the vehicles depart in pairs, at half-hour intervals, with each pair taking a different route. If any trucks in our scattered convoy are stopped by the squads before reaching N-Hub 2, we are to attack the squadmen with everything we’ve got, then fall out heading south, so as to lead them away from the rest of our forces.

Everyone I know well in the camp, except Ada and Michel, agreed to take part in the battle. As during the prison raid, I am once again assigned to McCann’s vehicle, which is a relief; the idea of riding with Grace or Clair is more daunting than the thought of battle. And Ethan, to my surprise, opted to drive one of the supply trucks, so he’s riding alone.

Dawn finds the world in much the same state as it was before the sun rose. A leaden shroud of clouds hangs above the pollution-choked countryside, casting everything in a muted pallor. It seems like a depressing omen—until I realize that in addition to screening out the sun, the clouds are obscuring the view of the Company sats, too.

It reminds me of the history books in the Protectorate library detailing stories of the first American Revolution. Several times when the rebel army seemed on the verge of being destroyed by the superior British force, they were able to escape or gain the advantage because of drastic changes in the weather, a fact that General Washington attributed to “divine providence.” I hope we have some of that, too. We’re going to need it.

We ride uncomfortably for hour after hour, our bodies pressed together, legs overlapping, hip against hip in the overcrowded SUVs. We’re dressed in squad member uniforms just as we were during the prison raid, only this time I’m wearing a uniform, too. Maybe it’s the material or the fact that we’re all crammed in together, but I feel like I can’t stop sweating. Ethan has warned us that once we enter combat, we might not get the chance to sleep for days, so those who are able to get comfortable enough are dozing now. The rest sit in a tense silence, watching the faded beauty of America Division slide by us: abandoned farms, empty towns, pollution-stunted trees, fields full of dead grass surrounding ponds of acid rain.

As midday approaches, the flatlands of the land formerly known as Ohio give way to hills. Remembering the maps Ethan showed me during the planning phase of the mission, I surmise that we must have been assigned the northern route, which passes through old Upstate New York rather than old Pennsylvania. Here, the pollution is slightly less severe, and the natural beauty of the countryside fills me with an awe that borders on the spiritual. For the first time since leaving the Company, I utter a silent prayer.

Dear God, thank you for this day. I ask that you give me the courage to serve bravely. Please, be merciful to our soldiers tomorrow. Help us to find success. And if I should die in the battle tomorrow, try to forgive me for . . . for everything. Amen.

The prayer seems oddly incomplete, and after a moment I realize what it’s missing. There’s no mention of gaining more credit or getting a promotion. No begging for a bigger apartment or a better car. This new simplicity of my desires feels good. And I realize that this might be the first time I ever prayed because I wanted to, rather than because Jimmy Shaw and the Company expected it. And the funny thing is, the minute I open my eyes, a small ray of sunlight pierces the clouds and bathes the road ahead of us in a golden glow, a gesture that almost seems to say,
I’m here, and I hear you.

At last, I’m able to fall asleep. When I open my eyes again, it’s dark out. The truck has come to a stop. It takes a few moments before I realize what’s happening. We’ve reached N-Hub 2. The battle is upon us.

~~~

The time between 5 am, when we arrive in N-Hub 2, and noon, when the official merger broadcast is to take place, is perhaps the most difficult part of the ordeal. We spend most of the time in our cramped squad truck, crunching on little packets of N-Chow and stirring only to relieve ourselves in an alleyway.

Through communication on the Protectorate’s encoded IC network, McCann learns that the rest of the teams are in place, except one. Apparently, one two-truck team was stopped for questioning at a checkpoint outside N-Hub 256. A gunfight broke out in which several squadmen were killed, and then the team broke south as their orders required. That was four hours ago, and they haven’t been heard from since. So our numbers are down from one hundred to eighty. The news seems to unnerve several of our team members, but not McCann. He sits in the driver’s seat, listening to music and drumming a syncopated dance rhythm on the steering wheel. Meanwhile, I’m trying not to throw up from my mounting nerves.

I was with Ethan during every step of the planning process, and it’s hard to say whether it’s a blessing or a curse. The advantage is that, unlike most people on the team, I know exactly what’s going to happen today down to the most minute detail—everything up to our top-secret escape plan. The bad news is, I also know everything that might possibly go wrong, and as I sit there waiting, an endless array of potential disasters parade through my mind.

It seems like days pass before the alarm finally goes off on McCann’s IC, indicating that it’s 11:15 am. The minute the chirping sound stops, he checks his white pistol then slips it back into its holster and the rest of us follow suit.

“Who’s ready for glory?” McCann asks with his usual, wide-mouthed grin.

“I am,” I say. A few others answer, too.

“We all know what to do?” he asks, and everyone nods. “Good, then. History is waiting.”

We all get out. Two of the men open up the tailgate of the truck and take out a large, black trunk, then fall into line behind us, carrying it along.

We move single file down the street behind the Stock Exchange building, up to the back door. There are barricades set up outside and several squadmen in riot gear standing guard. I sense the tension from my team members, but McCann’s pace doesn’t falter as he approaches them, and his men follow him confidently.

As we pass, I catch a glimpse of Clair’s face behind one of the squadmen’s helmets.

At the door, the men are met with another surprise. The squad member running the IC that scans everyone’s fake cross implant is none other than General Ethan Greene. With each man that passes, the IC in his hand beeps and he gives a small nod of encouragement. When I pass, he speaks softly to me: “When we get inside, stay close to me,” he says.

And I pass through the barricade with the others. Seconds later, we’re in a small maintenance room—Ethan, Clair, McCann, me, and the eighteen other members of my unit. Someone opens the trunk and everyone pulls out their white machine gun, checks the chamber, checks the clip. On the wall is an imager: Jimmy Shaw sitting in the boardroom back at Headquarters, my father and Bernice Yao next to him.

“We thank God for this day of marvelous unity,” Jimmy says in his grand, booming voice. It’s amazing how phony he seems to me now. “Truly, a new era of abundance is dawning—Amen.”

My father takes the podium. “And with that, ladies and gentlemen of the Company, stockholders, employees, friends, the moment is at hand. We take you back to the Stock Exchange in N-Hub 2, where the merger will officially be final in . . . ”

A countdown begins on the screen.
Ten, nine . . .

Ethan moves to the doorway now, and I follow him like a shadow. His IC beeps, and he looks down at the screen. The message reads:
All clear. GO. —R

Ethan surges forward through the doorway, with nineteen soldiers a step behind him.

The sound of the loudspeaker system reverberates the countdown through the walls:

. . . eight, seven . . .

Down a long maintenance hallway to a set of double doors.

. . . six, five . . .

We pull the American-flag jerseys from the prison raid over our squad uniforms. My heart is pounding so hard I’m afraid it might crack my ribs.

. . . four, three, two . . .

We’re through the double doors in an instant, barging into the vast, empty floor of the Stock Exchange. There are no more than five squadmen in the room, and Ethan’s shot three of them before I’m even through the door. I wound another, and McCann shoots the fifth, killing him instantly. None of them even have a chance to get a shot off.

In researching the raid, I saw pictures of the Stock Exchange as it used to be—filled with hundreds of computer monitors, packed with scores of traders. It’s a completely different scene now. Aside from the dead squadmen, there are only a few other people here, members of the imager crew, I guess, and a few high-credit-level VIP types, standing along one wall. They raise their hands in terrified surrender. The rest of the huge room is basically empty. Its only purpose now is to house a single large, outdated computer mainframe. A handsome young Asian man, who I recognize as Bernice Yao’s grandson, William, stands in a stiff-looking tuxedo in front of the computer, looking completely dumbfounded. Apparently he was supposed to be the onsite imager correspondent.

“What are you doing? What’s going on? Who are you?” he demands, but no one answers.

The cameraman who was filming him has already run away and joined the throng of prisoners against the far wall. Ethan wastes no time. He hurries past Yao’s grandson directly to the mainframe and plugs a data stick into it.

There are several imager screens around the room, and on one of them I see the scene cut back to the boardroom, where Jimmy Shaw has once again reclaimed the podium.

“Terribly sorry, folks. It appears we’ve run into some minor technical difficulties over at the Stock Exchange. Nothing to worry about, of course.”

But at the bottom of the screen, the ubiquitous stock ticker that was to bear the unified N-Corp/B&S stock price now reads:

DEMOCRACY FOREVER, OLIGARCHY NEVER. THE PROTECTORATE IS FIGHTING FOR FREEDOM. THE PROTECTORATE IS FIGHTING FOR YOU.

SQUADMEN, LAY DOWN YOUR WEAPONS NOW AND YOU WILL NOT BE HARMED.

These words are being read by every person on earth. Even if we die now, we’ve won a stunning victory today.

~~~

“Come on!”

Five other soldiers and I follow Clair up a series of marble steps, then burst into the open air. A cool wind blasts me instantly, almost taking my breath away as I rush out toward the colonnade at the front of the building. Two squadmen are up here, shouting down to their comrades on the street below. One hears us coming and tries to draw on us, but Clair shoots him dead. The other, more wisely, throws down his gun and gets on his knees. And just like that, we’ve secured the third-floor balcony looking down on Wall Street. Each of us takes cover at the base of one of the columns.

Below us, a line of squadmen in riot gear is forming up.

“Fire!” Clair shouts, and the deafening report of our machine guns echoes among the skyscrapers. Civilian tie-men and women scream below and run in a frantic stampede, but they have little reason to fear. The Protectorate’s marksmen are extraordinarily accurate, and we’re not aiming for them. Within seconds, several squadmen have been wiped out and the rest have taken cover behind their vehicles. More squad trucks full of men, however, are arriving by the minute—just as Ethan anticipated.

I continually scan the sky for Ravers, but thank God, they don’t appear.

The squad force below seems to be stunned, awaiting orders, which leaves us to amuse ourselves by shooting at the bullet-proof windows of their vehicles.

After perhaps ten minutes, the signal must come through from Blackwell to attack. The dozen or so squad trucks below have multiplied to no less than forty, and they open fire on our positions. We return fire. The whistle of passing bullets is surreal, as if the air around us has come alive and become deadly. The guy at the column next to me gets hit, and I start to go over to drag him back to safety. One glimpse of his gaping head wound, however, convinces me that he’s a lost cause.

Just when the fire from below becomes so heavy I’m thinking we might have to retreat, our artillery kicks in with five explosions in quick succession on the street below.

Knowing Ethan’s plan as I do, I can’t help but smile. Rebels with rocket-propelled grenade launchers must have made it to their assigned positions atop the adjacent buildings. Now, they drop a rain of thunder onto the crowd of squadmen that had amassed to attack us. I hazard a glance from my cover to see that the street below has been demolished, transformed into a hell of mangled vehicles, flickering flames and black smoke. There’s no time to gloat, though. The attack from above is our cue to retreat, and Clair is already holding the door open.

“Fall back!” she shouts. “Move, move, move, move!”

Down the steps, back into the echo chamber of the Stock Exchange. There were six of us when we went up; four come back down. We find Ethan standing where we left him, near the computer’s mainframe, still holding Yao’s grandson at gunpoint. The rest of the civilians have their hands bound by plastic zip-ties and are sitting on one side of the room in relative calm, guarded by ten or so rebels. Outside, the fusillade of rocket-propelled grenades continues, until Ethan speaks into his IC.

“B team, hold your fire. Begin phase two.”

Instantly, the explosions outside stop. “Leave them,” Ethan shouts to the men guarding the prisoners.

Yao tries to take a step toward them, but McCann sticks his gun barrel in his back. “Not you. You’re coming with us,” he says.

Ethan hurries to the front door of the Exchange. Over his shoulder, he shouts, “Fall in. We’re getting out of here.”

“Out the front door?” Clair asks, incredulous.

Ethan ignores the question. “Keep up a steady fire throughout the retreat,” he says. “You see a squad member, take him out, but be careful not to hit any civilians. If anyone gets separated from the group, continue south and rendezvous in Battery Park. ”