63

Dominique Wiewall

July 15, 2045. Colorado Springs, Colorado.

It had taken Dominique less than twenty minutes to stuff her belongings into a rucksack, but when she reached the hangar, the transport plane was already on the tarmac, its engines revving. Trying to tamp down rising panic (and the irrational, childlike voice in her head saying they were leaving her behind on purpose, as punishment), she swung the bag over her back, put her head down, and ran. Surely they wouldn’t leave people behind. Of course, they were leaving everyone behind; all of the soldiers defending the facility, all of the noncrucial facility personnel they couldn’t fit in the transport plane. They were leaving them here to die. The defenders had their underground command complex surrounded. Anyone still inside was going to die.

“Come on, let’s go.” Forrest was standing at the bottom of the stairs, waving her up. She hustled inside, took a seat along the wall. The president, his wife, his brother Anthony the ex-president, and a dozen others were already strapped in, but there were still plenty of empty seats. She wasn’t late; it was a relief to know she hadn’t been holding up the flight.

Soon others were rushing across the tarmac: Smythe, the secretary of defense; President Wood’s adult daughter, Solyn. Meryem Cevik, chief of the Secret Service, was the last. They were in the air by the time she was in her seat.

They climbed at a steep angle; there were no windows nearby, so Dominique couldn’t see what was going on. That was probably a good thing; if they were going to be shot down, Dominique didn’t want to know in advance.

As the plane leveled off, so did Dominique’s pulse. The president and his inner circle left their seats almost immediately, retreating toward the cockpit.

They weren’t ever going back to the United States. No one had said that out loud, but Dominique knew that if the president was fleeing to the Arctic, things weren’t going to turn around. How could they, at this point? The defenders had dispatched troops from Turkey to the south, Iran to the west, and Syria to the east, and were closing in on the UN command complex in Baghdad. They controlled the seas, the air. They controlled 90 percent of the world’s power sources.

She’d engineered the defenders to be vicious warriors, brilliant tacticians, so they could defeat the Luyten and save the world. She’d designed them too well. And too poorly.

“Dr. Wiewall?” Forrest set a hand on her shoulder. “The president would like to see you.” With the buzz of the engine vibrating underfoot, Dominique made her way to the front of the plane.

The president and his advisors were standing around a technician operating a shortwave radio that was now their sole means of communicating with Central Command in Baghdad. He looked up as Dominique entered the war room. “Dr. Wiewall, the premier has asked for your assistance in drafting a peace proposal to present to the defenders.”

Dominique nodded. She was not surprised by this news. She’d learned a few things standing around war rooms for the past few months, and one of those things was that once you can’t resupply your center of gravity and your troops, it is time to surrender.