Читать книгу Book I: The Disappearance (The Fallen Race Trilogy) - Colin Patrick Garvey - Страница 5

Tamawaca Beach, Michigan

It is Fourth of July evening and Tamawaca Beach is covered with blankets, towels, coolers and cabanas. The fireworks show is set to begin as little kids scamper across the sand holding sparklers while the bigger kids launch bottle rockets down by the water. Scattered pockets of teenagers huddle together for the sole purpose of consuming as much alcohol as possible before their parents have a chance to notice. Despite their caution, the adults fail to pay them much mind anyway or even think to monitor their brood, as the majority of the former appear occupied themselves, drinking and talking with one another. The silver and gray-haired sit quietly on the benches lining the sidewalk, patiently waiting for the show to start. Most of them do not attempt to brave the unsteady terrain of the beach for fear they may break a hip or sprain a wrist.

The sidewalk runs practically the length of the beach, ending in a plethora of massive dunes that stretch for several miles to the north. As the dunes move west toward the lake, they diminish in stature before completely leveling off. Once they do, the sidewalk resumes, leading to a large pier that protrudes nearly three hundred feet into the waters of Lake Michigan. A rail inhabits each side of the pier to prevent people from trying their luck on the large, slippery rocks that encircle it. Standing watch at the head of the pier is an enormous, cherry-red lighthouse known as “Big Red.” The old sentry has seen much in its day, but continues to remain in pristine condition courtesy of an annual scrubbing and polish during Memorial Day weekend.

Directly over the dunes to the east sits the much smaller Lake Tamawaca, where most recreational skiers and wake boarders can be found on calm days. The current is more manageable and the water less choppy than what one typically encounters on Lake Michigan. Lake Tamawaca eventually empties into the Great Lake, but the channel connecting the two bodies of water is nearly five miles north of Tamawaca Beach.

On the east side of the sidewalk are a dozen cottages fortunate enough to be located directly on the beach. Behind these beachfront properties reside approximately twenty cottages and this, simply put, is the town of Tamawaca. To the south is a patch of woods and hills that run for miles in the other direction before arriving at the popular tourist town of Saugatuck. Thus, the woods and dunes are bookends to this sleepy cottage community, which may be what draws residents back to it every summer.

The kind of seclusion the town affords, without being too removed from civilization, is what everyone here appreciates and enjoys. People own or rent cottages from all over the United States, but the town's spirit and friendliness is pure, genuine Midwestern hospitality. Cottages are passed down from generation to generation, and the chance of an outsider attempting to purchase a little piece of this heaven is usually slim to none. During the summer months, the same families and their friends gather here for any weekend they can escape from the routine and monotony back home, wherever that may be. The reasons are obvious and plentiful: the outdoor barbeques, the endless stream of parties and cocktail hours, the volleyball games, the water, and the thin slice of beach God himself seemed to carve out for this cottage town.

Some people could even mistake this little niche for paradise.

Tonight, however, no one will make that mistake.

An old man is slowly being pushed in his wheelchair at the end of the sidewalk when he holds up a decrepit hand. The male nurse attending to him halts the wheelchair without a word. They remain in the shadows near the back of the beach, silently and impassively absorbing the view around them. The old man, his scraggly gray hair blowing in the wind, examines the scene before him. Most of the cottagers sit with their backs to him, failing to notice the old man who was once considered one of the most powerful men in the world. Several people might even argue that this still remains the case.

The old man's hard, glowering eyes survey the surroundings and he emits a small shudder, but it is not caused by the cool breeze blowing off Lake Michigan. For no one on this beach knows what this man knows. No one could possibly comprehend the sinister plans that are in store for all of them. And no one could possibly be aware of the terror that will strike this peaceful scene in only a few short minutes.

Geneva, Illinois – Evans Military Base

First Sergeant Jonathan Kaley has not seen anything like it before. Private Rushmore summoned Sergeant Kaley to his station to show his supervisor exactly what he had discovered. On the screen before them appears a very faint but noticeable signal coming from the depths of Lake Michigan, approximately 150 miles northeast of their location. It is not a mayday or call for help, but similar to the ping associated with sonar radar. They could hardly speculate what the signal is doing in the middle of a lake that comprises 22,178 square miles, holding the title as the largest freshwater lake within the United States.

“Rushmore, what am I looking at right now?” Sergeant Kaley asks.

“I don't know, sir, but if I can speak frankly, that signal is coming from out of nowhere,” Rushmore responds.

“A glitch?” Kaley wonders aloud.

“I don't think so, sir,” Rushmore answers.

“How did you even find it, Private?”

“Sir, one of our birds was doing a routine flyover,” Rushmore explains, “when it located the signal and zeroed in on it.”

Sergeant Kaley stares at the screen, trying to decipher what it could possibly mean. It takes him little more than a few seconds to decide this is something for the colonel.

“Rushmore, punch in those coordinates and send them to my station. I have to make a call to the man upstairs.”

“Right away, sir,” Rushmore complies.

Kaley makes like a bat out of hell for his station, picks up the phone, and taps a few numbers. After several seconds, he is connected with Colonel Malcolm Fizer.

Colonel Fizer is a man who does not care for small talk or chitchat. He wants any situation report as quickly and clearly as possible. He is a military man through and through, and this characteristic resonates in his stern, demanding voice.

“What is it, Sergeant Kaley?”

“Sir, I've got something very unusual down here,” Kaley responds.

Not sure of any forthright way to explain it, Kaley simply details what they have found.

“It appears that, um…well, sir, we discovered a signal of unknown origin coming from the middle of Lake Michigan.”

“I'm already quite aware of the situation, Sergeant,” Fizer replies evenly. “We received a call from the Pentagon not more than five minutes ago. Apaches have been dispatched and it ceases to be our responsibility.”

“But, sir, from where have these choppers been dispatched if-”

“It is no longer our responsibility, Sergeant,” Fizer abruptly cuts him off, “and I hope that makes it perfectly clear.”

Kaley knows that Fizer is a somber man, but the tone of his voice sounded borderline threatening.

“Yes, sir-”

The phone clicks before Kaley even has a chance to affirm the colonel's statement.

Sergeant Kaley hangs up his end with a nagging sense of things left unfinished. He is a man who typically follows orders without question or doubt, and he has always maintained a rigid belief in the military's chain-of-command. Conversely, he has also never been one to acquiesce easily or fails to complete a task or challenge presented to him. His curiosity gets the better of him as he rushes back to Private Rushmore's station.

“Private, what's the status of our mysterious signal?”

“Sir, our satellite is no longer in range,” Rushmore indicates.

Kaley considers this for a moment, then leans in and quietly asks, “Do we have other satellites flying over that area?”

“Uh . . no, sir,” Rushmore says hesitantly, “at least not any military ones.”

As a result of his curious nature and his inherent need for having closure on everything he starts, Sergeant Jonathan Kaley asks a question that will change his life forever.

“Well, Private Rushmore, what other eyes up there can we look through?”

Washington, D.C. – Biltmore Hotel

A group of gentlemen ranging in age from their late 50s to mid-80s have gathered in a large suite of the private Biltmore Hotel, located on the outskirts of Washington, D.C. They mill around in suits and ties with looks on their faces consisting of a potpourri of emotions: nervous anticipation, quiet anxiety, and even outright fear. None of them doubt, however, what is to be done tonight. None of them second-guess the nature of this bone-chilling business into which they have incorporated themselves.

A handful of the men assembled here lived through World War II, all of whom fought and served courageously during the conflict. One man in the room was on the bombing mission over Hiroshima. Several men were present when the Allied forces opened the gates of the concentration camps and witnessed firsthand the atrocities the Nazis inflicted on innocent men, women, and children. Nearly all of the men in this room were involved in the campaign considered the only war in which the United States got their asses thoroughly kicked, in a small slice of jungle in Southeast Asia.

Those who served in Vietnam were mostly colonels, generals, and admirals. They were the top brass not directly involved in the deadly jungle firefights and skirmishes that defined the war. They were vital intelligence-gatherers, whether participating in or simply sanctioning the rather brutal tactics and interrogation techniques typically only used by the most barbaric of America's enemies.

It was a war where the enemy was unseen, damn near impossible to find, and oftentimes ambiguous. Their adversaries were not merely the North Vietnamese, but hundreds of thousands of civilians on both sides of the battle lines. A child could be packed with explosives as she ran into the eager arms of an American soldier only wanting to help. Everyone was the enemy, even the innocent.

Tonight, it seems the innocent have become the enemy once again. It is neither their fault nor intention to be involved in the events of tonight, but it is simply a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. To these men, there is a war raging, and it has nothing to do with the battles in the mountains of Afghanistan or the deserts of Iraq. The repercussions of this war are much more grave. And it is especially these men that know the innocent are always unfairly sacrificed in conflicts and warfare. It is, they all know, the way of the world.

The events of tonight and over the ensuing hours do not merely involve America's interests. The interests these men have charged themselves with protecting are those of humanity's, and the consequences of this wager are nothing less than catastrophic.

Tonight, the survival of the human race is on the table.

The harsh sound of a cellular phone rings in the hushed room and everyone turns to look at the source. A man named Moriah takes the phone from the inner pocket of his suit coat, answers it, and listens for a moment. He gives an imperceptible nod and wordlessly flips the phone closed. He places it on the table in front of him, his eyes lowered, contemplating the news he has received.

Moriah's gaze slowly rises from the table and the men gathered in the room see a look that speaks volumes.

However, to make certain everyone knows without a doubt there is no turning back, he says slowly and deliberately, “It has begun.”