When Totems Fall (22 page)

Without any more words to Mort, the major picked up his secure phone, punching the four digits that opened the line to Colonel Markum at Strategic Command.

THIRTY

Ft. Clark—Wenatchee, WA

Dalton leaned over the thin, chain link railing, retching into the empty, rusted aluminum receptacle.

The late thirties ex-soldier
had stepped off the oval track, hurrying over to the portable parade grounds. Once out of sight of those monitoring his progress he forcefully emptied the contents of his stomach into the garbage can behind the bleachers. Zeb's head dangled there now, halfway inside the rim of the silver cylinder. Pulled back to a standing position, retreating from the awful smell coming back at him from below, the sudden movement only made things worse. Dalton's head felt light as lactic acid seeped into major muscle groups, leaving a searing sensation in his joints and tendons. His entire body screamed in protest, surprised at the radical adjustment in expectations. Print shop salesmen don't push themselves this hard.

Dalton had kept up a moderate exercise regimen over the last number of years. This was something altogether different. Only thirty-six hours since being officially assigned to
Operation: Restore Totem
, the task was now starting to feel like Special Forces Hell Week on steroids. No one thought they could make a super soldier out of this retired signal corpsman. Still, at a minimum, they needed to be assured he could handle himself in the field. Fatigue would be an enemy to overcome all by itself. There'd be moments of all-out sprinting and the low-level drag of constant stress and life-saving decisions. His brains were the ultimate weapon in his kit, sure, but if he couldn't maneuver through or around warriors standing in his way this advantage wouldn't matter much. And were he to become a physical liability somewhere along the way, his magnificent mind vault would be just one more useless asset.

Still leaning over the trash can, bile elevated, threatening an upward trek through his esophagus again. Zeb kept it from overtaking him this time.

No.

No one would catch him in this condition. He'd agreed to this crazy scheme but he would not show weakness in any way to his new superiors. Collecting himself, Zeb stood and turned toward another mile and a half on the rubberized, lined surface. At the edge of the track he steeled himself for the grueling last phase of the run and then fell back into a decent, if reduced, pace.

A voice surprised him, approaching quickly from the rear.

"Anything ah can doooo for ya, LT?"

Zeb stayed quiet, eyes and body focused ahead.

Ignore him. He's a cretin. Just ignore him.

Sergeant Lochland pulled into step with Zeb, exchanging slow, even breaths—barely perceptible, as he jogged alongside.

"Would there be any way ah can make you feel better, mah friend? A nice, soft couch... or a bigger caaan to puke in?"

Undeterred for the next five minutes, every few steps brought more of the same from Dalton's new workout buddy. Then, just for fun, Loch parlayed the verbal assault while running backward.

He finished the last 400 this way.

Zeb completed his run and walked another fifty steps, doing his best to not simply fall over. Still, as spent as he had ever been in his life, placing hands on hips was as far as he would go in communicating how awful he really felt. If pain was "weakness leaving the body", his body was facilitating a mass, chaotic exodus of the substance. His lung tissue seemed as thin as one-ply toilet paper, each breath requiring a total commitment of mind and strength. So far as his battered systems were concerned, this moment was all about surviving. Eventually, the heaving of his chest slowed, ragged but steady. Dalton turned to face the barracks. Thirty paces later he stopped at attention in front of CG General Stevens. Standing this still was excruciating but he would do what was expected, what was required.

"Carry on, Lieutenant."

"Sir," his simple reply.

Zeb headed inside, planning nothing more than to collapse in the shower before moving onto the rest of this day's demanding schedule. Having advanced only two strides from the general, both men turned as a blurry figure raced past.

Loch had stayed out there, adding on another 800 meters at full sprint, just for kicks.

Zeb, exhausted and demoralized, went inside.

The blur came off the course.
Breathing no harder than if he had just gotten out of bed, Loch approached his CO. A salute was offered and responded to.

"Lochland," he probed. "Tell me what you think. Don't sugar-coat it."

The sergeant toweled off; a needless exercise as not a single bead of sweat loitered anywhere on his body.

"Well, sir. Ah will put it this way... he won't save us all with his physical prowess ah-lone."

"That is to be expected," the superior officer replied.

The general took a step toward the building and turned back again to complete his thoughts.

"... and that is also why you are going in with him."

The best Loch could do was mutter his reply, as Stevens was already walking away.

"Bloody hell. That worn out soldier will get us all killed, right good."

__________________________________

Aboard the USS George H.W. Bush—Pearl Harbor, HI

The orders came fast
for the nine warships comprising Carrier Group 2, stationed at Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam (JBPHH). Under cover of night and out into the open, boundless Pacific, graceful steel gray hulls cut through mild surf, with no moonlight to betray either their presence or passing. In addition to the flagship
Bush,
three Ticonderoga-class cruisers:
Philippine Sea, Leyte Gulf,
and
Anzio,
as well as the five warships of Destroyer Squadron 22, were in motion. Their offensive air complement included Carrier Wing 8, comprised mostly of FA18 Hornets. The two attack subs in the cohort—
Albuquerque
and
Seahorse
—glided along silently beneath. Though unobserved by the enemy during their sudden exodus, chances were that Group 2 would not remain undetected as long as necessary. Everyone involved assessed the risks. The hope was simply that odds would work out in their favor. Timing and luck. Both would be needed, in equal quantities.

The warships headed out on an eastward bearing, almost five thousand miles between themselves and China's eastern coast. The task ahead? Stay hidden, undetected, until gaining strategic advantage. When floating this much tonnage and steel one might think this impossible. But the Pacific Ocean is a vast hiding place, even for something as large as a carrier consort. The proposition was straightforward: reposition GHW Bush with her escorts and air power within range of the Chinese mainland. Not unlike a boxer with longer reach holding a shorter-armed opponent at bay, the question would come down to this: how close could you approach before having to engage?

With a striking distance of somewhere around 500 nautical miles, the fighter wing would need lots of time to move in without notice. Missiles from ships and the two subs alongside could be set loose somewhat farther out, say up to 2000 nm, and still do the job. This was a whole other kind of battle, one they all would rather avoid. The naval group's mere presence stood in clear violation of mandates from Beijing. And if Beijing still had their thumb on the button, millions of people would be murdered in a firestorm of primal forces released onto American soil.

Rear Admiral
Marianne Knowles
,
a keen observer of her crew and people generally, approached the ensign at the communications station. She stopped to address the fear broadcast in his tense posture and furrowed brow. The greenish pall of light coming off the bridge's navigation equipment underscored his worries, as well as those inhabiting every quarter of the group's flagship.

"Ensign. Status report," she commanded.

"Admiral," he replied. "We are full systems ready. Silenced rules until 0600."

"Superb."

Her tone allowed that there might be more to it than this. "Anything else, ensign?"

Slowly, he opened up.

"Ma'am. Do you think this will work? I mean, what are the chances we'll arrive at the right time... that we'll regain control of our nukes?"

Knowles shifted her posture ever so slightly, communicating an ease and purpose to the broader crew on duty. Orders for Operation: Restore Totem rang in her head. The concept, on paper, was simple enough. Take back American diplomatic and national destiny. Somehow, the Pentagon believed an opening for action existed. For her part, the stated tactical objectives strayed as far from certainty as the mariner had ever experienced in a mission scope before. While these facts led her to a place of significant personal doubt, leadership of the thousands of fine men and women under her command begged for a more measured response.

"Our job is not to predict the outcome, sailor. It is to be in position if there is to be any kind of fight. And if a fight is to be had, we'll bring it."

THIRTY ONE

Combat Training Center—Ft. Clark

Dalton had occupied the hard metal chair for over an hour, nearly every exposed part of his body covered with sensors. Adhesive pads rubbed his skin red, pinching hair on his arms and legs. Capturing every conceivable piece of biometric input, the Ft. Clark team ran Zeb through its paces. He had been given tests like this before. This one was, at least, interesting.

A first-person, game-like simulation
projected onto a twenty-five-foot-square image in front of him. Turns, doorways, and paths unfolded in a series of options, more confusing at every stage. No tangible cues to gain his bearings by. No obvious landmarks or visual oddities to keep Zeb focused and moving forward. The three-dimensional reality bore no textures, no surfaces, requiring the ability to process complex, raw directional datum and demanding a high degree of independence from the very elements most humans require to problem-solve. It was a bit like a mathematical equation containing only variables.

And Zeb was killing it.

Dr. Mac looked on from the hidden observation booth at the back of the room, astounded by what she was seeing. This particular test had been in use for over three years, probing the abilities of three hundred seventeen subjects. The furthest anyone had ever gotten was the seventh run before tapping out. Dalton was currently making his way, unhindered, through round twenty-three, with no signs of stopping anytime soon. Had the doctor been able to witness all that was going on inside his head, she'd have been even more impressed and as equally intrigued.

It was all there.

Every turn, each decision. Like one giant, multi-dimensional heads-up display. Every choice made over the last sixty minutes as present as the one before it, all fitting together. An active, symbiotic, living puzzle.

Then the screen in the room went blank.

Nothing.

General Stevens, standing next to Dr. Mac in the small, dark space, posed the obvious question:

"What. Did it break?"

Given the rapid deployment at Ft. Clark, maybe they didn't have the best install? Techs left out a few screws here or there?

The eminent psychiatrist waited before responding, then turned and spoke with a sense of disbelief.

"Sir, not exactly. The programming was never finalized, the budget was cut after eighteen months. Somebody on the Hill thought we were wasting time and money on "video games for soldiers", got some senators riled up, and poof, there goes the project. We hoped it would still be a viable assessment tool for us. To this point, it has been. We thought no one would get this far. Dalton went over the edge, sir. Incredible."

Impatient as always, Zeb tore the sensors off his forearms and thighs.

Abruptly, the captain stepped into the open room.

"Lieutenant Dalton. Please, wait a moment."

Zeb was all tangled up in wires. He also wasn't slowing down any to sort it all out.

"Okay, that was fun but I'm a little tired now. Gotta be lunchtime already. And I'm sure that robot of a trainer is waiting to put me through more of his sick, twisted amusements this afternoon. So, if you don't mind..."

Mac could tell there was more still to come of the verbal barrage he was unloading.

"Look," Zeb said. "I can't do anything here, on
this
side of the mountains. I come all the way over to offer help and we're playing computer games."

More lines and tape, balled up, discarded.

"Which, by the way, I did not break."

Dr. Mac looked to the back of the room, seeking a cue from her CO. She got it.

"Lieutenant Dalton," Stevens' disembodied voice broadcast over the speaker system. "We are done with evals. Report to mission prep at 1300 in the sit room. That is all."