Loss Of Reason by Miles A. Maxwell (reading list TXT) 📖

“Nice job!” he shouted in Everon’s ear over the generator’s roar. “I’m John, by the way, John Coates.”

They shook hands. “Everon Student.”

“You’re not looking for a job are you?”

Everon shook his head. “Not at the moment,” he yelled back. Now they’ll have to let me — “Say, John, think I could ask a favor?”

John studied him, leaned in close, “Still looking for some way into the city?”

Everon didn’t answer.

The goateed controller smiled grimly. “I doubt it’ll happen but c’mon upstairs. You can ask Sue. She’s supervisor tonight. She’s using your radio.

“Don’t slam the door,” John added softly, pointing down the hall. “They’ve got guards outside.”

Two steps at a time, Everon followed him up six well-lit flights.

“So then you’re just gonna go?” a clearly upset female voice drifted down.

Just inside the doorway at the tower’s top was a man with his back to Everon, his shaved head shaped like a watermelon standing on end. Colonel Marsh and two of his soldiers stood silently near a short, beautiful, dark-haired Asian female.

“We may as well shut down,” Melon Head answered her, almost shouting, backing toward the door. “You should leave too. All the main radios and phones are shot to hell. What’s the difference?”

The internal emergency lights were off now, the main lights working. Two flashlights no one noticed still glowed from atop a main console. Everon stepped over and turned them off.

“You can’t go,” the Asian woman said back. “FAA regulations —”

“Hey! You’re single! We’ve got families to consider! No one can force us to stay here!” He turned to Everon. “This the guy? You fixed the generator?” He head-pointed toward the radio the woman was holding. “That your radio?”

“That’s right,” John Coates answered for Everon.

“Well, thank YOU!” The melon-headed man’s retort was pure sarcasm. “Beats the hell out of the light gun — or throwing stones at planes and shouting Hey you!” He stared at them coldly, face pinched tight. “Twelve crashes in one night!”

Everon’s eyebrows rose. Double the number Coates said a little while ago!

“Probable crashes!” the woman said back, turning to Everon, holding up the handheld radio he’d loaned them. “At least we’re getting their calls now.”

“Yeah,” said Melon Head, “they start with ‘ . . . Declaring an emergency!’ then, ‘Going down! . . . systems out!’ . . . and that’s the last we hear of them.” He was almost crying.

Everon could see the blue runway lights glowing outside on the field full strength. There was no time to waste listening to them argue. Cyn could be trapped, maybe dying. He walked over to Colonel Marsh.

“I’m a pilot. My brother and I have a helicopter we can take in for a rescue mission. Can I get clearance into the city to look for our sister?”

“Afraid not,” Marsh replied. “I have orders to lock this place down. Only official Emergency Medical Service flights. The government has to respond definitively to this threat.”

“But —”

“Under martial law, a series of new emergency restrictions are being put in place for everyone’s protection. Increased aircraft and airport security measures, tightened controls of highways. We’re to begin regulating all traffic at shipping ports of entry, bus stations, train stations. And airports. Sundown curfews will be enforced by tomorrow night.”

“Jesus Christ!” Everon said, trying to control his voice. “What good will that do? It’s not an invasion! We’ve been bombed!”

“We don’t know that definitively,” Marsh disagreed. “There could be more coming.”

“You’ve got millions of desperate people out there — just trying to get away from the fallout!”

“I understand, sir, but we’ve got to prevent looting and keep society as stable as possible.”

“Aren’t you setting up awfully close here? These hospital tents? What about the nuclear cloud? It’s out there.”

“Conditions are stable. It’s scheduled to blow east all night.”

“But tomorrow —”

“Let us worry about that.”

“You didn’t even bring any engineers or electricians!”

“We’re only here to guard things, to coordinate military flights and authorizations.”

“You see!” Melon Head yelled, fingers splayed, palms upraised, hands circling crazily. “They don’t need us here! I can’t take any more!”

He spun, leaving the room at a dead run. The metal door slammed hard behind him, but the latch failed to catch in the frame and it clanged and chattered back halfway open. Footsteps echoed down the metal stairwell.

No one moved to close it.

John Coates glanced at Colonel Marsh then turned to the female controller and shrugged. “Bob has a point you know, Sue. There aren’t going to be many flights authorized.”

Everon didn’t know which way to turn. He had to find a way in.

Loss And Desertion

From the Learjet’s doorway Franklin listened to his heart pounding in his chest and worried over the distant flames that lit the sky. A million voices screaming for help. Is Cynthia’s still among them?

He checked his wristwatch — one a.m. and we’re no closer to getting in. He turned to his bag, dug out his portable radio and handed it to Andréa. It took her several minutes to tune in a faint and staticky station:

“Pack clothing, blankets, sleeping bags. Medicines, shaving kits and cosmetics; infant formula and diapers. Remember to bring your checkbook, credit cards, cash and important papers. A portable radio. A flashlight and batteries may be useful. Remain calm. You have ample time to leave.”

Like Hell they do, Franklin thought. What about Cyn?

“Ignore rumors. Stay tuned to this local Emergency Alert Station for further instructions —”

The voice suddenly changed.

“. . . then at this moment, President Wall, the Cabinet, all locatable members of Congress are being transported to an undisclosed location?”

“That’s what we understand, Brian. Goal number one is to protect the government.”

“All right, then, Art. The question everybody is asking: Who the hell did it?”

“The FBI, CIA and the NSA are right on top of this thing. There are a lot of countries out there who hate us: Iran for one, North Korea for another. Syria. Even certain factions inside China and Saudi Arabia — though the U.S. does a lot of business with both of them. India and Pakistan have the bomb, but experts feel their involvement is unlikely. We supply each of them with thousands of tons of food and financial aid every year. If —”

They don’t know anything!

Franklin stepped outside into the cold and shivered. He couldn’t listen to any more of it. With each passing moment, he could feel his sister’s life slipping away.

Cynthia!

He looked east, watched the unnatural glow while his frustration boiled over. New York’s right there!

He’d never really understood fear before. Now he did. Being helpless to head off the vast unknown.

Then he watched tonight’s chance of getting into the city go from bad to a whole lot worse: An old green jeep with white stars on its doors roared through the airport gate, followed by a cloth-covered transport truck.

The military had arrived.

Orders were shouted. Twenty soldiers disembarked from the back of the green fabric-covered transport. They began to erect huge tents.

Franklin understood the military mind. Order and control. Things that will prevent us from going to look for Cynthia!

But Everon’s got us a way in! All we need is clearance!

His eyes were drawn back to the distant glow. He stretched out a hand.

She could be dying!

He couldn’t think.

Franklin walked behind the jet, along the frozen grass by the taxiway, tying back his dark hair with a spare piece of climbing cord fished from his pocket.

He sat down forcefully on the cold ground, lay back, put his hands behind his head and pulled his legs up.

Into a crunch. One . . .

Two . . .

Three . . .

He began breathing harder, rising faster. Down-up, his stomach nothing but a series of tight ripples, feeling his breath burst from his mouth in the cold night air.

He watched another of the Red Cross helicopters whomp in overhead from the city. Imagined riding inside, going back into the city with it.

Twenty-four . . . twenty-five. He started over.

One . . . two . . . Franklin’s thick dark hair came loose now, flowing about his neck. The same helicopter returned from somewhere behind him. Landing. A fuel truck roared up beneath its blades.

A few minutes — fuel up, restart, take off for the city again. How do they know who has clearance and who doesn’t?

He rose and pulled down his leather jacket, heart speeding. He ran along the fence, past the unmanned security booth, through the airport gate. Along the chain-link fence, in the