Digital Winter (17 page)

Holt already had that information. Jeremy figured his commander was making a point.

“Never had the privilege. I've chosen to serve my country through elective office.” He looked to Jeremy. “When was the last time you were at Mount Weather?”

“I've never been. At least not the part we're going to.”

“Really? Me either, but I have an excuse. Mount Weather keeps its cards close to the vest. Much of its budget is black ops. A lot of the money designated for FEMA feeds the underground facility. Frankly, it's morally wrong to keep the legislature out of the loop. We are the ones who sign off on your budget, you know.”

“I do know that, Senator, but I can't help you.” Jeremy glanced at Holt. The general's face was an emotionless mask. “That's above my rank.”

“It's not above yours, is it, General?”

“As a matter of fact, it is. People with more stars than me deal with such matters. My teams create a budget for USCYBERCOM, and that's it. Mount Weather is need-to-know.”

“You don't have a need to know?” O'Tool raised an eyebrow.

“I know about the site. I know its purpose. I know that when the president says I should get my fanny over there, it would be wise to go.”

The flight from Fort Meade to Mount Weather was thankfully short. When the UH-1N touched down, the three exited. The rotors had slowed but still pushed enough of the January air to chill Jeremy.

A young sergeant waited until all were seated before cranking the Humvee's engine to life. They covered the distance to the center of the camp in short order. Jeremy exited first and waited for Holt to slip out. A grin brightened O'Tool's face.

“This place is cool,” he said.

The sergeant led them to the door and had just placed his hand on the knob when their helicopter lifted off and another approached. In the moonlight, Jeremy could see the presidential seal on the side of the incoming chopper.

“POTUS is here.”

“Ah, I beat the president.” Why O'Tool found that something to boast about was beyond Jeremy.

“I assume he might have had a few things to deal with.” Holt's words were colder.

“Hey, what's that?” O'Tool pointed to the sky.

Jeremy drew his eyes from Marine One and looked in the direction O'Tool indicated and saw a bright smudge. Then a flash and another smudge. His first thought was of an exploding comet, but that didn't make sense. More flashes of light, some leaving tiny points of illumination like glitter overhead.

Then he heard it. The sound of the helicopter's engines stopping. The sudden audio emptiness hurt Jeremy's ears. “Oh, dear God, no!”

First he glanced to the UH-1N that had just delivered them. It was falling, its impotent rotor turning with no power to provide lift. Next, Jeremy snapped his head back to Marine One. It was just twenty or thirty feet above grade and about a quarter mile from the landing pad.

Jeremy was on the move before his brain could sort out what his eyes were seeing. Instinct and stomach-churning fear drove him to action.

Holt's voice followed him. “Sergeant. Get the Senator below. Call for help. Do it now, soldier.”

Marine One landed hard and bounced skyward, its frame bending in the middle. It tipped to the side like a capsized boat, sending the still-churning four-blade rotor into the small lawn that surrounded the H4 landing pad. The rotor fragmented, sending sharp shards of shrapnel zipping through the air. Jeremy hit the ground, covering his head with his hands and hoping a bit of rotor wouldn't impale him, pinning him to the ground like a bug in an entomologist's collection.

Something landed next to him. A few seconds later he saw the something was a someone. General Holt lay next to him and assumed the same protective position.

“You okay?” Jeremy pushed to his knees. Holt rolled to his side and touched the side of his face. There was blood.

“Superficial. Let's go.” The general was on his feet before Jeremy. Once again the man, fifteen years his senior, amazed Jeremy.

They ran over the debris-laden lawn. Jeremy smelled aviation fuel. The helicopter's carcass lay on its side like an ancient dying creature. They slowed as they reached the craft.

Jeremy studied the shaft that ran from the engine to the rotor hub, trying to figure out how to use it as a step.

“Here.”

Holt had placed his back to the roof of the helo and interlaced his fingers, forming a stirrup with his hands. Jeremy hesitated only half a moment before facing Holt and placing his boot in the general's hands. It made sense. Jeremy was younger and could move around in the tight confines of the cabin better than Holt.

“On three,” Holt said.

Jeremy pressed down with his foot and straightened his leg as Holt lifted. It was enough. Jeremy struggled to what was now the roof and positioned himself to open the sliding door. It took three tries before he could pull it open. Something ignited in his back, and pain blazed up his spine. A problem for later days.

Summoning all his strength, he slid the door back far enough so it wouldn't close on its own. The moonlight was too weak to reveal much of the interior, but he could make out four bodies in the cabin.

He leaned in. “Mr. President?”

Nothing.

Jeremy's heart didn't know whether to beat more wildly or just stop.

“Status?” Holt called up.

“I see four individuals. All unconscious.”

One of the bodies moved.

“I've got movement.”

A small voice. Female. “Help us.”

Jeremy looked around the ground and saw men and women running from several buildings. Where were the emergency vehicles? He didn't expect an air crash crew, but a base this size surely had its own fire department. Then he noticed that some of the personnel sprinting his way wore turnout gear and helmets. The pieces of the problem began to come together.

“I'm going in, General.” Jeremy didn't wait for a response. He slowly lowered himself into the cabin, careful not to step on bodies.

There was new light. Jeremy was thankful until he realized the helicopter was burning.

President Nathan Barlow became aware of a strange presence near him. A man—tall, trim, and in a daily uniform. A moment later, he noticed he was lying on his side and his head hurt. A strange orange light surrounded him.

“Mr. Pres…Can you h…me?”

He didn't know the voice. Why was a stranger waking him? The shock dissolved in an instant, and the past few terrorizing moments washed forward in his mind.

“Katey? Katey!”

“I'm here, honey. Are you hurt?”

“Forget about me. Are
you
hurt?” He tried to move, but something was holding him in place. Then the orange and yellow glow caught his attention. “We're on fire.”

“We have to move fast, Mr. President.” The strange voice.

“Who are you?”

“Colonel Matisse. We can talk later.”

The cabin rocked. Barlow looked up and saw a man in uniform looking back. “President first.”

“No, my wife.”

The colonel undid the lap belt holding Barlow in his seat. “Let's go, Mr. President. We don't have much time.”

“I said take my wife first.”

“Yes, sir, you did.”

“That's an order.”

“Yes, sir, I understand. Let me help you up.” The man's voice was calm but weighted with urgency. “I don't have time to check you for injuries, sir. I apologize.”

Barlow heard a grunt, then felt himself being lifted from the chair. Something was stabbing his side. He groaned.

“Raise your arms, sir.” Matisse said.

Barlow did, and the pain almost made him black out. He heard sizzling, and the orange light dimmed some. From above, a pair of hands grabbed his wrists. A second later he was pulled from the cabin.

The moment the president's feet disappeared, Jeremy turned to Katey Barlow. She was conscious, and blood flowed from the right side of her head. “I'm sorry, ma'am, I'm going to have to move you.”

“It's okay. I'm tired of this place anyway.”

“Yes, ma'am. I don't much like it myself.” He helped her to her feet. “I'm afraid I'm going to have to get a little personal.” Before she could reply, Jeremy squatted and wrapped his arms around her thighs. “Arms up.” He lifted, and the pain in his back flared. Her weight disappeared a moment later as Holt and whoever had joined him topside dragged her through the door.

He turned his attention to the remaining men. One he recognized as the secretary of state. He laid two fingers on the man's carotid. No pulse, at least that he could find. It didn't matter. He had to assume he was still alive. Try as he might, he couldn't rouse the man. He was dead weight.

“Coming down.” Jeremy saw a pair of booted feet appear in the door. “Make room.”

Jeremy moved back as much as he could. The rescuer was lowered, with the help of others he assumed, into the cabin.

More sizzling, less fire. Jeremy allowed himself to feel a moment of hope.

“What have we got?” The rescuer wore a fireman's turnout gear and helmet.

“This is the secretary of state. I can't find a pulse. I was just about to check on this guy.” He pointed to the other man. The fireman fingered the neck of the living passenger. “Got a pulse. Strong. Okay, we take him first.”

A rope dropped into the cabin. At least they wouldn't have to try to lift an unconscious man. The fireman knew his way around a rope and soon had a nonslip rescue loop tied around the victim. As those topside pulled the man up, the last of the orange light disappeared.

“Fire's out,” Jeremy said.

“Maybe. Maybe not for long. All we have are fire extinguishers, and the engine is still hot. Fuel is still flowing, so I'd kinda like to get out of here.”

“No argument from me.”

The rope returned, this time with a rescue harness. “Someone up there is thinking.” The secretary of state was limp. It took long moments before they were able to secure the harness and call for the team above to haul away.

“You're next, sir.”

“I'll go last,” Jeremy said.

“Please don't ask me to disobey an order, sir. This is a rescue, and I'm in charge down here. You can bust my chops later. We're not out of the woods yet.”

Jeremy understood the point, and for the second time that day, he was letting someone boost him up. The air outside smelled of oil, fuel, and burning electrical wires. He stepped away from the door and knelt. When the rescuer's hands grabbed the doorframe, he helped pull the man to safety.

They leapt to the ground and put distance between them and the downed craft. Other men in firefighting coats and helmets held fire extinguishers—CO
₂
, dry chemical, and water. Once he had put fifty yards between him and the smoldering hunk of metal, he turned to see new flames licking up the side of the craft. A flood of emotion, no longer corralled by danger, rose. What had gone wrong? Where were the emergency vehicles? He looked around and saw Holt approaching.

“You good, son?”

“Yes, sir. The pilots—”

“We got them out. Both are alive but unconscious. It was a hard hit.”

Jeremy rubbed his face with both hands. “Why are there no emergency vehicles? I don't understand.”

“They wouldn't start. The fire crew did an admirable job hustling out here on foot, carrying what gear they could.”

“The vehicles wouldn't start?”

“Look up, Colonel.”

Jeremy did and saw something he hadn't seen since a visit to Eielson Air Force Base near Fairbanks, Alaska—an aurora borealis. Ribbons of color painted the night sky. It took a second for Jeremy to make sense of what he was seeing. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and turned it on.

Nothing.

“Oh, this is so bad.”