State of Alliance

“Ah, politics,” Ma

“There’s the truth,” Vera mutters.

“Ah, Vera. Back to your usual, bubbly self,” Ma

“Lieutenant Devin May,” Devin says, shaking Ma

“I would imagine,” Ma

“Yes,” Devin interrupts. “Two assassins in the ballroom and somebody got into the Senator’s room and poisoned her water. We verified it.”

“I feel very secure in this facility, don’t you?” Ma

“I don’t know who to trust,” I say in a low voice.

Chris turns to me, a surprised expression on his face. Before he says a word, the doors to the meeting room open. Sophia and Andrew straighten up and Uriah casts a wary glance toward me.

Commander Jen Amal takes a step into the hall. She’s really a beautiful woman, tall and refined, pretty dark hair slicked down.

“Senator,” she says.

There is a long silence. Everyone in the room seems to be holding their breath.

“Well?” I ask. “Are we in?”

Amal smiles.

“Welcome to the Pacific Northwest Alliance.”

Here we go again, back in the convoy. I am sitting between Uriah and Vera. Chris is in the front seat. The other representatives/militia commanders are following us: Ken Thrawn of Oregon, Nathaniel Mero of Washington, Marshal Sullivan of Canada and Anita Vega of Mexico.

“Explain this to me again,” I say, leaning forward. Devin May is driving the Humvee, and he is talking to Chris in low tones.

“We’re going to the Defense Language Institute of Monterey,” Chris replies. His eyes are hidden behind black, tactical sunglasses. “So we can boost their morale.”

“Boost whose morale?” I demand.

“The soldiers there. The Army. The Navy.” Chris sighs. “Now that California has joined the Pacific Northwest Alliance, the entire western seaboard is united against Omega. It’s a big deal. We have a real chance to win this thing. People need to know that — they need to be inspired.”

I need to be inspired, I think.

We roll out of the front entrance of the Naval Postgraduate School, leaving the relative safety of the wrought iron fencing and patrols behind us. The town is secure, though, so that gives me a little bit of relief.

But only a little.

We follow the road, paralleling a jogging trail and beautiful, towering Eucalyptus trees. We break out of the trees, and beyond us is the harbor. The water is brilliantly blue this morning. There is no fog, only clear, crisp sunshine and puffy white clouds.

Fisherman’s Wharf extends into the water, a wooden pier dotted with harbor-view restaurants and abandoned gift shops. The parking lot is filled with military vehicles and armed military patrols.

“Things have changed, man,” Devin says. “This used to be tourist central.”

It’s War Zone Central, now, I think.

The road slopes and we dip under a huge tu

I hate being trapped in confined spaces.

We emerge from the tu

“It’s okay,” he whispers.

I smile gratefully. Uriah. Always helpful, always caring.

We turn and begin climbing a steeper road, flashing by a bullet-riddled sign that reads:

“So we’re making a formal a

“Basically,” Uriah says. “It’ll be easy. All we have to do is show up.”

“And then what? We go back to Sacramento?”

Chris doesn’t respond. Maybe he doesn’t know yet.

Maybe he’s just as scared as I am.

We pull through the checkpoints at the institute. The view is spectacular. We are situated on top of a hill, overlooking the bay of Monterey. I can see the fleet of white sailboats and fishing boats bobbing in the water. The city sprawls in every direction around the peninsula, and I wonder how far our military protection really stretches? One mile out of the city? Ten?

I’d like to find out.

The convoy stops at the top of the hill, at a large green meadow. The meadow sits between old-fashioned military barracks and two small baseball diamonds. There are risers on the far side of the meadow, and in the center of the grass, Navy, Air Force, National Guard, Army and militia soldiers are standing in neat rows, forming squares of camouflaged color.

Uriah opens the door and I follow him outside. Sophia and Andrew approach us from their vehicles. Elle Costas is here with her bomb dog, Bravo, staying close to our group. The representatives from the other states and countries exit their Humvees and jeeps, as well.

We gather in a small group, just us.

“Senator Hart,” Anita Vega says. She offers her hand, glossy black hair spilling down her back. “It was an honor to work with you.”

“Likewise,” I say. “It was an honor to work with all of you.”

I look at the representatives — the disfigured face of Nathanial Mero, the aged, weathered features of Marshal Sullivan, and the burly, stocky build of Ken Thrawn.

“We’re all in this together, now,” I say.

“Let’s make Omega pay,” Nathanial answers, holding his fist in the air.

I nod.

“Alright, Commanders, Senators,” Devin says. “This way, please. Toward the podium.”

There’s a small podium near the bleachers, on which are several officers and members of militia and other paramilitary units. Chris leads the way, occasionally glancing at me, checking.

We climb the steps, lining up in a row. There is a microphone, powered by a purring generator. A reminder of our constant lack of access to instant electricity. It’s all extremely formal and, in my opinion, completely u

This war isn’t going to win itself.

Behind me, Andrew, Uriah, Sophia and Devin are branching out around the stage, disappearing from sight, making sure the perimeter is secure. Chris stands near me on the stage, hands to his side, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

Commander Jen Amal steps in front of the microphone, addressing the soldiers on the green. “To begin with,” she says. “God bless the Pacific Northwest Alliance!”

The soldiers clap and yell, pumping the air with their fists.

“Thanks to the work of the Representatives from Oregon, Washington, Canada, Mexico and California, the Golden State is now a partner in the Pacific Northwest Alliance,” she continues. “The western seaboard stands united and firm against Omega’s invasion. We will be victorious!”

The applause is thundering. My heart skips a beat, and I realize that I am inspired. Here we are, standing in a military stronghold. Omega hasn’t killed us yet. We are fighting back, and we are giving it everything we’ve got. And it hits me then that while we may not have the sheer numbers that Omega has… we’ve got the heart that they don’t. The fighting spirit.

The will to win.

I look at Chris, he looks at me. The ghost of a smile spreads across his lips. I feel a surge of hope. For us, for the country, for my father — wherever he is — and for the lives of the i