into parade rest. “What exactly is happening in Los Angeles and Tampa, sir?”
“Coordinated terror attacks,” the admiral told them curtly, “targeting civilian airports. Bombings, shootings, rampaging trucks. At least one airliner’s been brought down by some kind of surface-to-air missile.”
“Jesus, really?” Rio backpedaled, hard. “Of course I believe you, sir. I’m just...”
“It’s bad,” the admiral agreed. “We’re also dealing with power outages—cyber attacks, both on the electrical grid, and on our SAT system. Cell phone towers have been hit, and what’s left can’t handle the load. We’re down to landlines—and that system’s strained—and radios. I just got an urgent message in Morse code. Damage seems to be limited to LA and Tampa, but every major city’s on alert, all air and train travel’s been shut down.”
“Daesh, sir?” Dave asked.
“No. This is homegrown,” Francisco told them grimly. “White Nationalists, supported by Russia. Intel’s been showing a link to foreign funding for months now, but it’s been ignored by the White House.”
“Very fine people,” Dave murmured.
Rio leaned forward. “How can we help you help Tasha and Lieutenant King, sir?”
The admiral looked from him to Dave and back. “Cowboy up, and head out to the Ustanzian ski lodge,” he ordered. “Be ready for anything. Take a vehicle, and plenty of gas.”
Rio looked at Dave who was looking at Rio, his eyes wide. Had the admiral really just told them to drive to Maine? From Southern California...?
That was at least three thousand miles.
Rio quickly did the math in his head. At seventy miles per hour, without stopping... forty-three hours. Adding in a little reality, they could maybe do it in... fifty hours?
“Get there,” Francisco ordered tersely. “Find them, and bring them safely home.”
Thomas made impressively swift work of the handcuff lock, easily popping it open despite the pitch darkness.
“Oh, God, thank you,” Tasha said, rubbing her wrists and stretching by pulling her elbows back as far as she could. Her comfort level had never gone too far south but her upper back and shoulders were a little stiff from her inability to move freely. And her hands were cold.
“Save that in case we need it,” Thomas commanded. He was talking about the ruined remains of her bra.
“For what, a slingshot?” she quipped, even as she folded it up as tightly as she could and stashed it in her jacket pocket. “You want me to hang on to the wire, too? I have pockets, you don’t.”
“Thanks,” he said, and their fingers brushed for one last time as he made sure she didn’t drop it before he let it go.
But he must’ve noticed how icy cold her fingers were because he handed her another, smaller rock from the former firepit. “Here. This’ll help. And yeah. Slingshot. You never know.”
The rock was delightfully warm, and Tasha held it in both hands and tucked it up beneath the front of her jacket.
“So, any hot tips or life hacks for sleeping on the ground?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Thomas answered. “Pretend you’re at the beach. You know. On a towel on the hard sand. Focus on your breath, imagine a blue sky and calm ocean, and just let yourself drift away.”
Tasha honestly hadn’t thought he’d have any kind of constructive answer. Although, if he expected her to believe that he’d somehow miraculously learned to get his Zen on since they’d last been close...? True, it had been years, plural, since that time, but still. This man—like the boy she’d known so well—was pure energy trapped in human form.
“Maybe you can talk me through it,” she said. “You know, when you do it, to fall asleep.”
“I’m not sleeping tonight. I’m on watch.”
“I could—” take a turn, she was going to say, but he stopped her.
“No, that’s not an option.” He’d used his military-officer voice—something he’d learned from Uncle Alan. It was impossibly effective. It was slightly lower pitched, and somehow both more intense and yet quieter. Dangerously calm, with no uncertainty.
Back when Tasha was in middle and high school, during her more rebellious years, she’d referred to that tone from Alan as Jedi mind control. But really, it was pure naval officer.
Sixteen-year-old Tash: Mia thought it would be okay if I go to that music festival in Palm Springs with Caroline and Betsy, so I’m gonna need the car on Friday—
Alan: (fun-uncle voice, laughing) Yeah, not a chance.
Sixteen-year-old Tash: Uncle Alan, come on, you never let me have any—
Alan: “Mia thought it would be okay.” You come on, Tash. I’m not an idiot. What did Mia actually say?