State of Alliance

  State of Alliance

  Collapse Series #5

  Summer Lane

  Copyright 2015

  All Rights Reserved

  WB Publishing

  1st Edition

  Cover Art: Stephanie Shimerdla

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except to quote on blogs or reviews, without the express permission of the author. Any unauthorized distribution or reproduction of this work is punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Any parallel to persons alive or dead is purely coincidental and is not intended by the author.

  For my favorite sailor, Grandpa Pete.

  Anchors aweigh and go Navy!

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Prologue

  One more minute. That was all.

  The figure sat on the corner of the rooftop, watching the clouds drift over the pure white dome of the Capitol Building. Wrapped in a scarf, gloves and black attire, it was impossible to tell whether or not it was a man or a woman. Just a shadowy figure crouched down, waiting. Nervous anxiety pooled in the pit of the person’s stomach, building and then subsiding as the countdown narrowed.

  Twenty, nineteen, eighteen, seventeen…

  Trembling hands curled around the black optics sitting on the corner of the roof. Stay steady, the person kept thinking. This is an important job.

  Ten, nine, eight, seven…

  Sweat dripped down the shadow’s forehead.

  Three, two, one…

  A flash of light. Something streaked through the air. It came fast. Too fast for the human eye to catch. But to the person crouched on the roof, it was obviously there. They had been waiting for it. They recognized it.

  The Capitol Building – so pristine and beautiful against the deep blue sky – shattered. It happened in slow motion at first. A gaping, jagged hole opened in the dome, coughing up billows of dust and falling shards of metal and concrete. There was a massive groan, as if the Capitol itself was lamenting the wound that had just been inflicted on its exterior.

  Half of the dome collapsed inward, crushing those inside. A wall of black smoke swept over the boundaries of Capitol Park, consuming everything in its path with dark, stifling darkness. There was screaming. Sirens. Cries of agony.

  And on the rooftop, the figure was already gone.

  Chapter One

  Sacramento, California

  This can’t be happening.

  Black, acrid smoke clogs my nostrils and burns my throat. I stumble backward and trip on a step. I hit the ground, rolling onto my hands and knees, deafened by the blast.

  I grab the railing on the front steps of the Capitol Building. I glimpse the blue sky through the smoke swirling above my head. Which way is up? Which way is down?

  I sprint down the steps and head to the corner of Capitol Park. Here, the smoke is not so thick. Fire engines and ambulances bounce to a stop, a sea of flashing lights and rescue workers made up of citizens, militiamen and the National Guard.

  Chris Young is standing here, six foot four, dressed in black, shouting orders.

  “This is our Emergency Command Post!” he yells above the chaos, making a fist. “Incoming rescue crews come through here. Where are my scouts?” A group of militiamen raise their hands. Two of them, I recognize. Uriah True – tall, dark-haired and handsome. And Alexander Ramos, all business. Not the least bit rattled. “Good,” Chris says. “Assemble a Hasty Rescue unit and assess the perimeter.”

  “Yes, sir,” Alexander replies.

  He gathers a team and they move toward the Capitol Building, becoming blurry images in the smoke. Chris continues to shout orders, directing the incoming militiamen. I push my way through the crowd and grab his arm.

  I tell him, “The dome didn’t totally collapse.”

  Chris nods, electric green eyes sparking with determination. With anger.

  “Yes,” he says.

  “We can’t save everyone,” I reply, yelling above the sound of the screaming sirens and shouts of the rescue workers and soldiers. “We’ve got to prioritize!”

  Chris is barely containing his fury. He points to a sergeant.

  “You,” he says. “Get some help and scout for a secondary. There could be more explosives timed to kill rescue workers.” He turns. “Assess your survivors,” he commands, the next rescue team coming to the Emergency Command Post - the ECP. They are lined up, waiting for the scouts to come back with information on the damage to the building. “Category A stays where they are. Category C can wait. Category Bs are your priority. Move out, let’s go.”

  Category A are survivors that are already dead. Category Bs are those that need immediate help – those that have a better chance of survival. Those survivors are rescued first. Category C are the survivors that are not in immediate danger.

  Without this structure, half of our rescue teams would be dragging dead bodies out of the burning building while living survivors screamed for help. It keeps the crews organized and prioritized.

  From the smoke, Alexander Ramos and Uriah True emerge with their scouting unit, reporting back to Chris. “The structure is shaky,” Alexander announces. “There are a lot of people buried in there.”

  “We’re going to need more manpower,” Chris replies. “Rescue teams, you’ve got a green light. Go!”

  I turn to a team of militiamen and begin giving orders, passing along Chris’s commands, stressing the importance of following the triage structure in the hours that are to come. “Get your heads straight, ladies and gentlemen,” I shout. “Go in, find your category B survivors and get them out. We do this quickly and efficiently. Let’s move!”

  I keep talking, passing along commands and orders to every rescue team that comes through the ECP. The hot, choking smoke makes dialogue a challenge. Perspiration coats the back of my neck. My hair sticks to my forehead. I am in the zone, barking orders and overseeing these rescue teams. It is the only thing that keeps me focused. Keeps me from panicking.

  Because my father was inside the Capitol Building when it collapsed.

  Where do I begin? Last December, an electromagnetic pulse destroyed modern society as we know it. The United States of America collapsed. A foreign invasion force called Omega rolled over our borders, massacred millions of people, and attempted a total takeover. So far, we’ve been able to push them back…but only so far.

  Who am I? Cassidy Hart. Militia member. Sniper. Commander.

  And now, Senator, representing the new government of California.

  In the last year, I’ve had to do things that I never thought a twenty year-old woman would have to do. Fight a war. Live on a battlefield. Watch my friends and comrades die brutal deaths. Rescue the love of my life, Chris Young, from the horror of an Omega prison.

  Nothing has been easy.

  California was invaded by a million-man Chinese foot army. Chris and I – and our militias – joined the National Guard to help push them out of the Central Valley. We succeeded and temporarily halted Omega’s advance into our homeland. But they will be back, and there are a million more troops where those came from. Omega is made up of an alliance of countries. So far, we know that Russia, China, North Korea and p
ossibly Syria are involved.

  After I rescued Chris from a POW prison, we came back to Sacramento, California with our militia to rejoin the National Guard and meet with other militia and military commanders in the state to decide whether or not California would join something called the Pacific Northwest Alliance. The Alliance is comprised of Mexico, Canada, Oregon and Washington. A united western front against the Omega invasion on the Pacific coast.

  I was nominated to be Senator Pro Tem. It will be my job to represent California in our negotiations with the Alliance. I am nervous that I won’t be able to measure up to the expectations of those that are counting on me to be a good spokesperson for the state. After all, I’m only twenty. But I have had more combat experience than most.

  War does that, I guess.

  There are still a lot of questions that need to be answered. What dark power is ultimately behind Omega? How many troops are we really facing? Will the United States military ever fully recover from this invasion? Will we be able to rebuild our cities if we are successful in this war?

  Will we survive?

  Will I survive?

  Everything has changed. There is no electricity, no commonplace technology. No computers, no cellphones. No grocery stores or hospitals. No laws or officers to enforce them. What we once knew no longer exists. It’s a brand new world. A world of day-to-day survival and warfare. A world of kill or be killed. It’s brutal. It’s eons different than the lifestyle that I used to live, huddled in a corner of Culver City, California, surfing the Internet for employment opportunities.

  I am a fighter, now. Nothing stands in my way.

  I am capable. I am fast. I am smart.

  But I am not invincible. All of the skill and knowledge in the world can end with a single bullet – a fact that I can personally attest to. I have seen many people die in the field. It’s what has hardened me. Changed me. Seeing death shifts your focus in a way that nothing else can.

  My love for my father, for Chris Young, and for my friends is what keeps me going. Their lives and their love is what I fight for.

  This is a final stand. If we lose to Omega, the world will no longer be the same. The United States of America will cease to exist. We will be enslaved or terminated. So many innocents have already died.

  I will do everything I can to help win this war.

  And if that means that I must sacrifice my life, so be it.

  There is nothing else I would rather die for.

  It has been two hours. Two grueling, horrifying hours. Most of the smoke and dust have settled, and the ravaged dome of the Capitol Building is fully visible for the world to see. The fire is out, thanks to the rescue crews, and dozens of Category B survivors are being loaded into waiting trucks, Humvees and retrofitted jeeps. It’s makeshift, but the rescue effort is effective. We are more organized than I anticipated.

  It gives me hope amidst the massive devastation.

  I have been helping the rescue crews take survivors out of the building. I have crawled under concrete blocks and heavy support beams. My left arm is bloody, scraped up. A rescue team member cleaned and wrapped it for me.

  “Cassidy,” Uriah says, approaching me. His black hair is covered with white ash. He looks as exhausted as I feel.

  Was I really giving a speech in the Senate Chambers just a few hours ago?

  “What’s up?” I ask, bending at the waist, resting my hands on my knees.

  “Our Cat Bs are all taken care of,” he says. “We’re moving onto the next phase.”

  “Okay,” I nod. “I’m ready.”

  I stand up, sucking in a deep breath. Uriah briefly squeezes my shoulder.

  “We will survive this,” he says softly.

  I don’t smile. I can’t. I just squeeze his shoulder in return and make my way toward the medical vehicles. The survivors here have a myriad of injuries. Open wounds, missing appendages, burned eyes, scorched skin and crushed bones. Many of them are unconscious, but some of them are alive, screaming. It chills me to the bone, standing there, looking at the living hell that Omega has created here.

  “You okay?”

  A strong hand takes my arm. I look at Chris. He is smeared with dirt and soot, but, as always, he is calm and steady. Like a rock.

  “Yeah,” I say. “You?”

  “Fine.” He pauses and takes a look at the Capitol Building. “This wasn’t a bomb from the inside of the building,” he tells me. “This was an exterior attack.”

  “So somebody bombed us from the air?”

  “My guess is that it was a missile.”

  “Oh, my god.” I run a hand through my hair. “What do we do, Chris?”

  “We keep working on getting these survivors out, and we discuss our theories afterward,” he replies. “You’re doing great, Cassie.” He presses a quick kiss into my hair, and then he’s gone. Again.

  I sigh.

  I move toward a group of rescue workers hauling in the last of the Category B survivors. Some of them are maimed beyond recognition. The sweetish scent of burnt flesh almost makes me gag, but I have been doing this sort of thing long enough that I know how to hold it in.

  They lay two men on a stretcher. One of them is conscious. The other one is unmoving, and I watch as somebody nods sadly, and they pull a tarp over his body. Dead.

  I am about to turn away and head back into the Capitol Building when a familiar figure catches my eye. Angela Wright, a militia commander. The mother of Vera Wright, a Lieutenant in my militia.

  Angela is lying on her back on the cement. Her jacket is soaked in blood, and so is her face, but I recognize her unmistakable coif of silver white hair. Shocked to see her like this, I walk toward her and kneel down. Tears come to my eyes. While I am barely on civil terms with Vera, Angela is a good woman who has my respect. She has always stood up for me.

  “Angela?” I say, touching her hands.

  She blinks up at me, coughing. Blood dribbles out the side of her mouth, and I realize that her chest has been ripped open. She must have been crushed when the dome collapsed.

  She is dying.

  “Angela, I’m so sorry,” I breathe.

  She knows who I am. I can see the recognition on her face, even beneath the blood. She barely squeezes my fingers and spits up more blood.

  “Cassidy,” she coughs. “I…you have to…”

  “Angela, it’s going to be okay,” I lie. “You’re going to be fine.”

  “I’m going to…die,” she heaves.

  “Listen…Chris…he’s good…no matter what you’re told. He’s…good.”

  “I know, I know,” I say, leaning over her. Confused, slightly, by her words. But I say nothing. People rush around me, and for a brief moments, I shut it out.

  “You…hang on…to that,” she sighs. She grips my hand a little tighter, taking a shuddering breath. It must be painful. At least one of her lungs has been punctured. “Don’t…give up.” The whisper of a smile spreads across her lips. “You’ll be…a great senator. And Vera…tell her…I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll tell her,” I promise, my voice breaking.

  “Keep up the good fight,” Angela says.

  Her final words are clear and firm. She gives one last, long breath, and then she is gone. Her expression becomes slack and her eyes glaze over. I stifle a sob and gently close her eyes, folding Angela’s hands on her stomach.

  We have lost so much already.

  Why do we keep losing more?

  I am still wiping the tears from my eyes when a second explosion hits the east side of the Capitol Building. It is just like the first, filling the air with debris, ripping the building to shreds. Black smoke rolls over the park – again – and I am knocked off my feet by the shockwave of the detonation. Chunks of concrete crash to the ground. I kneel by Angela’s still, pale body, covering her and the back of my neck with my hands.

  I unroll the scarf tied around my arm and tighten it around my mouth as the dust cloud hits. My heart slams against my ribcage, adren
aline keeping the terror from overcoming my senses.

  A second attack, I think. How many more are coming? Where are our defenses?

  I take a moment to orient myself. The smoke, the shockwave, the searing pain in my ears from the deafening explosion…I concentrate on a single point, focus my breathing, and crawl forward. Shards of metal, nails and bits of concrete sail through the air, so I keep my head down. The flashing lights of the rescue vehicles are dim. I blindly crawl toward a parked ambulance and huddle behind it, protected from the full blunt force of the tide of debris.

  When the worst passes, I stand up.

  Come on, keep moving. You can do this, Cassidy.

  This time, the rescue teams are already in place and they are moving forward. “Chris!” I yell into the radio on my belt. “Chris! Alpha One?”

  Radio silence.

  Wherever Chris is, he cannot answer me.

  I forget the radio and assess my surroundings. I realize two things: First, another attack could happen at any moment, in any place. Second, we have been completely taken by surprise.

  Thank God our rescue units are good at what they do.

  Thank God we have Chris Young on our side.

  I find the ECP at the edge of the park, locating Chris. I run to him, yelling above the noise, “What do we do? If they’re sending cruise missiles, how can we defend ourselves?”

  Chris’s hair is hanging in greasy strands as he takes my arm.

  “The Air Force will take care of it,” he assures me, but there is a level of doubt in his voice. “We need to check the building again for survivors.”

  “The building was evacuated by the time the second missile hit.”

  “We have to check anyway.”

  I look to the sky, terrified that I am going to see a cruise missile heading toward us, detonating right on top of our heads.

  What could we really do to stop it? Nothing.

  “Let’s go!” Chris tells the rescue units assembling once again at the ECP. “You know the drill. We’ve got a job to do.”

  War never ends, I think.

  I say, “I haven’t found my father yet!”