Children of a Doomed Sun

Children of a Doomed Sun

By David Jones

Published by White Glove Publishing for Smashwords

Copyright 2014 David Jones

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

A heartfelt thank you to Salil, Scott, and my beautiful wife, Shannon who suffered through early drafts and to Kathy for producing cover art worthy of a brilliant novel.

Prologue

Major, please have a seat.

Thank you, sir. I wasn’t told much about this meeting. If it’s a reprimand, I’d prefer to stand.

Quite the opposite; we’ve actually upgraded your clearance to MAGELLAN.

MAGELLAN, sir? I’m not familiar with that designation.

Well, that’s because we just created it.

" . . . Maybe I will have a seat, sir."

I thought you might.

So what does the National Security Council want with an old trigger-puller like me?

Old? Major, I was running co-ops in Laos before you could walk, so be careful who you call ‘old.’

Yes, sir.

Your military record is, of course, exemplary, but you’re not the only ODA commander with an intelligence background in the Activity. We’re more interested in your time with Lockheed.

Sir?

B.S. in Engineering from UNC, M.S. in Electrical Engineering from UT Austin, then seven years at Lockheed in New Orleans before you enlisted following 9-11.

I didn’t really do much for the defense projects, and never for Skunk Works.

I know. You worked in Satellite Tracking and Guidance for three years until you moved up to head the department that designed the KAS communication system for the Mars Orbiter.

That was 15 years ago, and I haven’t done much with . . .

Your parents are both deceased. You’re divorced; no alimony or child support. You have no current romantic entanglements.

Sir, may I ask what this is about?

We have a unique opportunity for you, but you understand that I can’t divulge any details until you accept.

I think you know my answer on that.

If everything goes right, no one will ever know what you’ve done or where you’ve gone. You’ll be chaperoning some VIPs, larger assets than you’ve ever worked with before. You won’t have any support or retrieval, you’ll be isolated, and it’s possible that none of you will make it home alive.

That’s always possible, sir. Comes with the job.

Then let’s say ‘probable.’

Just who exactly are these VIPs?

Chapter One

(223 Days Remaining)

A shiver crawled up Quinn Sanders’s back on the sidelines where he watched the clock slowly tick off the final six minutes and twenty seven seconds separating his Crestlake Pumas from victory. The temperature had dropped twenty degrees since kickoff just a few hours earlier, and the Pumas found themselves protecting a tenuous three-point lead with possession deep in their own territory. All-American quarterback Brent Stiles was at the helm and Quinn could feel the energy of the crowd pounding on his back, a pulsing, multi-eyed organism that smelled blood. Though most of the screaming crowd would take their seats in a pew on Sunday morning, this stadium was their church. These Murray Gladiators were the last question mark on the schedule between Crestlake and the playoffs. Quinn mentally ticked off the games against Oak Branch, Meechum Falls, and Hillsbrand as easy wins.

Quinn looked back at the cheerleaders, who hushed the raucous crowd as Brent took his place behind center and coolly regarded the defense. Lacey Barton, a sophomore, glanced coyly at him over her left shoulder, pom-poms on hips. Quinn spared the older girl a sheepish look before turning back to the game, where mud and dirt caked every jersey on the field. Stiles had a small, stubborn clump of turf lodged between his facemask and helmet, which showed very little of its original Puma blue. He stood like a Greek statue, solid and poised, barking his clarion cadence to the now silent crowd. The center snapped the ball and as always, time slowed down.

Quinn saw every move on the field drag as if in slow motion and could anticipate the position of every player. His eighth grade coach, John Mule Mueller, called it the Vision. Sanders, you got the Vision, old Mule would bark with his sandpaper voice. Aikman had it, Staubach had it, and you can’t teach that, son. Quinn thought it was nonsense, but he did often wonder how some quarterbacks were fooled so easily by defensive stunts or blitzes, like mice that couldn’t see the giant box hovering over the chunk of cheese.

On the field, a brief lapse by a defender gave the wide receiver a quick opening, but Stiles was cross-field and lost him behind the mass of flesh. A linebacker churned forward like a charging bull, then dropped into coverage, which Brent did see, pulling the ball down. Quinn watched Crestlake’s right guard miss his block completely, inviting Murray’s defensive end unimpeded to Brent’s blind side. All of this happened in the shadow of a second, but Quinn felt like he could have written a novel in the time it took the massive defender to reach the quarterback. Brent spotted his other receiver, who had opened some room over the middle, but it was one eternal moment too late. The multi-eyed animal gasped in unison just before 260 pounds of muscle, bone, and tendon laid into the Puma starting quarterback at full speed, dropping him like a bag of sand into the sloshy turf.

Brent Stiles laid still as Murray’s defensive end stood up, victorious from the hunt, and flexed for the stunned crowd, nodding in exaggerated exultation. Somewhere in the crowd a man coughed, and it was as easily heard as if it had been in an empty bedroom. Sanders! Coach yelled. Quinn looked over at him in fleeting confusion before remembering that he was next on the depth chart; next and last on the depth chart. The second string quarterback and heir apparent to lead the team next year had tweaked an old knee injury in practice the week before, so Quinn was ‘the man’ as Coach would say. The training staff had gone out to look at Brent, who seemed to be clutching at his bum ankle. If he had re-sprained it, he’d be out for the rest of the season. Quinn grabbed his clean sapphire-colored helmet and ran to Coach, his sandy blond locks brushing back and forth across his forehead.

All right Sanders, you’re in for Stiles for now, Coach told him, his attention already separated from the injured State Champion quarterback rolling around in the muck. They were commodities to him, and when one broke, you put the next one in. Coach grabbed Quinn’s shoulder, and even through the shoulder-pads, the grip was vice-like. Hey, don’t you worry about this, son. You just hand the ball off to The Beef and he’ll do the rest. Heath ‘The Beef’ Johnson was the third of the Crestlake Triad and led the conference in yards per carry; The Beef at tailback, Jase Hamani at receiver, and Stiles at quarterback, all Division One college prospects. They had already won one state title together as juniors, and to listen to the local papers tell it, only the fool and his money bet against it happening again this year. If not, we just punt it and defense protects the lead. You’ll be fine, he added, though it sounded more like he was reassuring himself. The Crestlake defense had been a sieve so far against Murray’s offensive onslaught. If Quinn had the Vision, it was telling him that giving the ball back to Murray with time on the clock was the recipe for a loss. He just nodded and donned his helmet.

The trainers picked Brent up with the motorized cart and drove him straight to the locker room, head downcast, to the nervous and hesitant cheers of the crowd. Coach called the offense together for a prayer during the final seconds of the injury timeout. Bow your heads! Father in heaven, please watch over this team and help them to victory tonight. We’ve all worked hard in a manner pleasing to your name, so please, Lord, keep these boys, who have worked so hard, safe and healthy. In your son’s name, amen. Several other players echoed ‘amen’ at the end but Quinn felt like he was watching it all on his dad’s flat screen TV, popcorn in hand, so sudden and distant it all seemed. He made the mistake of glancing into the faceless mass around him, realizing for the first time how many people eighteen thousand really was.

Now you get out there and smell greatness, Coach added, slapping Quinn on his backside. When the young quarterback stepped over the line, it was the first time a freshman had taken the field for Crestlake’s varsity team in over twenty years. Though taller than several upperclassman teammates, he was built like a switch, and looked like he might just snap against a gust of cold autumn wind that pounded across the open field as if in challenge to his entry into the game. Quinn steadied himself, but the thrumming in his ears blocked the chant of the crowd over the rushing gale.

Fresh-man! Fresh-man!

The offense lined up for a dive play, which had been called by coach during the timeout. The defense ‘stacked the box,’ pulling up players in anticipation of the handoff. Quinn called for the ball and everything slowed down again, both teams moving as if through molasses. Quinn could see the defense cheating up against the run; no sane coach would put the ball in the hands of a freshman quarterback in this critical rivalry game. He felt the defensive line edge to the left, painfully slowly, and handed the ball off to The Beef, who ran like he was crawling through the shallow end of swimming pool, his wide, intense eyes darting side to side as he took the exchange.

The defense easily threw The Beef back for no gain. Third down. Quinn looked over to the sideline for the signal from coach; another run up the middle as the clock showed plenty of time for Murray to mount a scoring counteroffensive should Crestlake punt.

The team huddled up and Quinn made the call. Streak right on two!

What? The Beef hissed, his face contorted with indignation. That ain’t the call, freshman! Just play what Coach gives you.

The call is streak right, Quinn snapped, a little too loud. The others in the huddle watched the battle quietly, nervously, their season hanging in the balance. The play clock was running down, so Quinn hurried up. On two. The huddle broke and the team lined up for streak right and Quinn heard The Beef mumble something from behind him.

Coach noticed right away that they weren’t lining up for the play he had signaled and brought his hands up in front of him as if to call for timeout, but he had no more timeouts to call. He shook his head, looked to his assistant and mumbled, What’s that kid doing? If he throws that ball it’ll be the last throw he makes as a Puma.

The ball snapped into Quinn’s waiting hands and the world changed speeds. He dropped back, laboriously trudging through the malaise of time, and faked the handoff to The Beef, who did little to sell the ruse. Despite his teammate’s slack efforts, the defensive committed fully to stopping the run, which opened Quinn to run to the right. A linebacker spotted the fake and attacked, but Quinn stopped short and, using the larger boy’s momentum, threw him aside with his left hand, all in the dragging slow motion of a television instant replay. Jase outran the coverage, who had all played up for the run, leaving the receiver all alone down the sideline. Quinn felt every groove and imperfection in the coarse skin of the ball and knew exactly how it would come off his fingertips.

He planted his feet and threw the ball easily and powerfully. Jase slowed at first, thinking the freshman had scarce odds of getting the ball that far, but soon realized his mistake as the wide receiver and track star had to find a higher gear to catch up to the ball, which was quickly sailing over his head. The crowd was so hushed that Quinn thought he heard keys hitting the aluminum bleachers as they fell from someone’s hand.

Sweet God! Coach muttered to the ball that sailed seventy five yards into Jase’s eager, outstretched fingers.

The wind carried the cheers out of the stadium and across the plains.

Beckett and Cordelia fought at the dinner table, though over what, Quinn had no idea and no inclination to find out. Cordelia was six years his junior, and Beckett another three behind that. His sister had their father’s straight black hair and pale skin, while Beckett was a smaller version of Quinn, slight and wiry. With his brother’s sandy blond hair and olive skin, Beckett made it a point to always have his hair cut like his older brother’s which hung in shaggy, wavy locks over the tops of his ears.

So how’s Brent’s foot? Quinn’s father asked from the head of the table, peering at him through rectangular framed glasses that rested on a small, but sharply pointed nose. Though years behind a desk had softened his middle a bit, Ben Sanders still looked as solid as an oak, and he spoke with a rich, commanding baritone that had served him well in courtrooms across the state for nearly twenty years.

We don’t know anything yet, Quinn replied absently, his arm nonchalantly slung over the back of his chair. Tests aren’t back yet. His high from the previous night’s victory hadn’t waned and he could still hear the victorious roar of that crowd in his ears as if through headphones.

His dad shook his head. That would be something else, huh? A freshman starting against Oak Branch. Quinn shrugged and watched his mom carry over the last of the food from the stove to the dinner table. Tara Sanders was as pretty as her age and modern cosmetics allowed, petite and blond, with high cheeks and a smile that cracked faint lines at the sides of her eyes even through her expertly applied makeup.

It’s for the best, she said. You don’t need to be out there with those monsters. Some of those kids look like they should be in prison.

Quinn rolled his eyes, but it was his father who spoke up. Nah, Q’s as strong as any of ‘em. I’ll bet he’s the only freshman in the state who can throw a ball 70 yards. Heck, maybe the only player.

Brent can throw it that far, Quinn said. Brent, the All-American senior, he thought a little smugly. Can we pray already? I’m starving.

You two quiet down and bow your heads, his dad said to the younger siblings. They all took their seats at the table and his father prayed, Dear Lord, thank you for our many blessings. Thank you for keeping us all safe and healthy, and thank you for guiding Quinn in victory and keeping him healthy. Please watch over us and bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies. In your son’s name we pray, amen. The last word was barely out of his mouth before tiny hands darted out like pistons to grab at pots of corn and macaroni on the dinner table. Whatever dispute had been going on between his little brother and sister had been successfully mediated by food.

Beckett, mouth full of creamed corn, declared loudly, Robbie caught a lizard at recess and brought it into class and Mrs. Hines screamed! as small specks of food flew from his mouth. He laughed a spritely, high-pitched giggle that others often found contagious in its uninhibited mirth.

Don’t talk with your mouth full! scolded Quinn’s mother. Quinn laughed and Beckett smiled back at him, mouth still full of mashed corn.

Beckett launched back into his story, but Quinn felt an uneasy tug at his mind, not really wrong, but not right either, just . . .off. It was the feeling of silence in a forest where just before there were the sounds of birds, crickets, and rustling trees. He turned toward the front door just before the doorbell rang, two deep hollow tones that echoed through the large house. Quinn’s parents both looked at him, but he just shook his head and shrugged.

It’s probably one of your friends, Mr. Sanders said dismissively, his attention firmly held by his chicken. Go tell him we’re eating. Quinn sighed and pushed himself up from the table. As he approached the door, he could see two dark forms behind the glass but could make out no details. He flipped on the porch light and opened the door to two mismatched men. On the left stood a tall, dour black man in a forest green military suit with multicolored ribbons adorning the breast. His face was set and his eyes flicked briefly at Quinn, then past him into the house beyond.

But it was the smaller man on the right, thin and shorter than Quinn, who spoke with a warm smile. Hi, is this the Sanders residence? His face was long and ovular with a broad, open chin. He wore a navy blue suit that looked like it had been put on after being pulled out of a plastic bag.

Yeah. Isn’t it a little early for Halloween? Quinn answered.

The man in the blue suit smiled politely. Are you Quinn? Before Quinn could answer, he continued, Born October 13, 1999 in Glendale, Texas? Quinn remained silent, though his heart began a heavy thrum against his chest slowly throbbing into his ears. He narrowed his eyes and nodded, taking a small instinctive step backward. The two men shared a glance, and Quinn thought the taller soldier shifted away from him slightly.

I’m Tom Blackwell and this is Captain Vince Colm with the U.S. Army. Are your parents home?

Who is it? Quinn’s dad called from the dining room. Conversation at the table had stopped.

Quinn cleared his throat, and called back, his voice cracking, Dad, I think it’s for you!

Who is it? his father repeated, irritation creeping into his voice.

Um, the Army? Quinn replied, uncertainly.

Mr. Sanders came to the door, his face confused, but still stern. Hi, I’m Ben Sanders, he said extending his hand. Both men shook it and introduced themselves. Is anything the matter?

Oh, no, no, nothing like that, Blackwell said quickly, still smiling. Quinn watched the man’s eyes dart to him, quickly and cautiously, then turn back to his father. I’m with the National Security Council and if I may. . . he started, but then changed his mind after looking behind him to the street. May we come in?

Ben Sanders hesitated. Of course, he said finally. A maroon SUV and two black sedans sat parked at the curb in front of the house. The sun was below the horizon, but the dusk light still bathed the thin ridges of cloud in dull pinks and purples as a nearby streetlight snapped on and buzzed hopefully. Somewhere to the left, the telltale blue flashing lights of police cars could be seen glancing off the fronts of houses and cars.

The two men entered and Captain Colm stiffly removed his hat, placing it under his left arm. By now, Quinn’s whole family had gathered in the front foyer to see the unusual visitors. Quinn’s mother had her arms draped over Beckett’s shoulders protectively in front of her.

Is everything all right? Mr. Sanders asked again, something in his voice giving Quinn a shiver.

Mr. Sanders, there’s no easy way to do this, but we need for you and your family to come with us.

Chapter Two

(222 Days Remaining)

I can assure you there is no trouble or danger," Mr. Blackwell added quickly when Mr. Sanders took in a large breath and looked at the man as if he had just grown a second head.

Accompany you to where? Quinn’s father asked.

Well, I can’t disclose the purpose or the destination at this time. But I will tell you whatever I can whenever I can. Even to Quinn, it was a nonsensical statement and felt awkward, the way a doctor might tell someone they’ll know more about the results of a medical test tomorrow when he suspected the patient had a terminal illness.

Well then, we’re not going anywhere, Mr. Sanders said, folding his arms. Quinn heard his mother’s sharp intake of breath behind him, but stood upright behind his dad trying his best not to look as tiny as he felt beneath the hard gaze of the shorter man. You can’t take us anywhere without our consent unless we’re under arrest, added Mr. Sanders quickly.

Or in cases of National Emergency, Blackwell corrected patiently. He took a stack of stapled papers from a manila folder he was carrying and handed it to Mr. Sanders. Though an attorney, and a good one at that, Quinn’s father practiced corporate litigation, million-dollar trademark disputes and wrongful termination suits, and was no better equipped than a first-year law student at understanding the Executive Order handed to him. But he could read the President’s name signed in ink on the last page as well as anyone, the oversized B and O the only readable characters on top of the indented Presidential Seal. The ink almost looked wet. We’re leaving immediately. Someone will pack bags for all of you, and whatever other amenities you need will be provided when we reach our destination.

Quinn looked at his dad, who just stared at the papers handed to him, his brow furrowed. Behind them he heard his mother trying to calm Beckett down, who had begun sobbing Is dad going to jail? over and over. Quinn looked back at her and caught a faint flicker of movement from the window to the backyard. Someone was moving around back there . . . or several someones. He could see the shapes of armed men, black against the waning dusk light, taking positions around the house. The sense of unease he had before matured into a fine, heart throbbing fear.

Blackwell fixed on Quinn’s father with his sharp blue eyes and said, as diplomatically as it could be said, Mr. Sanders, we can do this the easy way or we can do it the other easy way. I don’t want to be here any more than you want to come with us. But as sure as I am here, you are coming with us. And there it was.

I’ll need to see some sort of identification, said Quinn’s father.

Of course, Blackwell said, still politely. Both men showed IDs, not that it mattered if they were real or fake. The decision to go with them peaceably had already been made.

How long will we be gone? People are going to ask questions if we don’t show up for church tomorrow or work on Monday, you know.

We’ve taken care of all of that, Mr. Blackwell informed him without answering the underlying question that hung heavy between them like a broken tree limb of how they had taken care of it.

Well, let’s go then, Mr. Sanders said with a forced glibness. Come on, everyone, we’re going for a ride, he said back to his family. Beckett, head buried in his mom’s hip, was taking deep, shaky breaths. I don’t want to go to jail! he moaned weakly.

Mr. Sanders turned back to Blackwell. I’ll take a closer look at that executive order in the car if it’s all right with you.

I think it would be best if we moved the cars around your driveway behind the house. Is that all right with you, Mr. Sanders?

It’s your show. Blackwell signaled to the cars out front, and the Escalade pulled up into the driveway, which looped around the rear of the house where the garage was located. They all filed through the backyard, past the slightly tilting basketball goal set up on the driveway and approached the Escalade. Quinn heard a droning above that sounded like the distant buzz of a vacuum cleaner and looked up to see the dim outline of what he thought had to have been the world’s quietest helicopter. Dark forms patrolled the backyard like ghosts, watching them carefully.

Another man in a dark suit held the door to the Escalade and dutifully shut it with a stiffness and precision of military training after they had all entered. The back of the SUV was retrofitted with two rows of rear seats instead of a storage compartment, and two swiveling chairs that faced backwards. Blackwell took the swiveling ‘captain’ seat immediately behind the driver and Quinn’s family filed in to sit in the two rows of seats facing forward. Quinn’s father sat behind the passenger seat and smiled reassuringly to his family. After they were all in, Captain Colm took the passenger seat and closed his door with a commanding clunk and the caravan sped away.

Colm pulled out a large cell phone, about the size of an old telephone handset. We have the package plus four, he said into the mouthpiece, without dialing anything. "We’re en route to the first marker." Mr. Sanders pulled his cell phone out and began dialing while keeping an eye on Major Blackwell, who regarded him with no expression. Quinn’s dad glanced at his phone with a look of consternation and tried dialing again.

No reception, he said to no one in particular, the sighed and gave Quinn a reassuring smile that was forced and looked more defeated than hopeful.

I thought these government trucks were always black, Quinn said.

We know, replied Blackwell with a half-smile.

They drove onto larger town roads through stop signs, somehow catching every traffic light green until they turned onto the highway toward Fort Worth.

You’re taking us to Carswell, Mr. Sanders said after a bit. It wasn’t a question, but the brief, silent look Blackwell cast him was all the answer he needed. Quinn’s family had gone to half a dozen air shows at Carswell Air Force Base, which had retained its old moniker even after having operations taken over by the Navy in the 1990s. The sprawling north Fort Worth airfield still housed a variety of military personnel from multiple branches of the armed forces. Then where to? Mr. Sanders asked.

I can’t tell you that.

What difference does it make? We’re already coming with you.

I can’t tell you, Mr. Sanders, because I don’t know.

Quinn felt a cold sweat gather over his body, but he tried to stay calm in the face of uncertainty, just like Coach had taught him. ‘What’s the worst that could happen?’ Coach would ask them to help with pregame jitters. ‘We could die,’ someone had once responded sarcastically. ‘Then you won’t care how you look out there!’ Coach shot back, quick as a rattlesnake, then tossed his head back and bellowed a powerful roar of laughter, infecting the entire team with it. They had gone on to handily win the game.

What’s the worst that can happen? Quinn thought. Well, my family and I could all be killed or jailed. My entire future could be scarred by some crime I didn’t even know I committed. I may never get a chance to play football again. Once again, he pushed the thoughts from his mind, and just stared out the window to the tinted world beyond. There was nothing to do but wait.

The motorcade exited the highway and sped past light industrial complexes, small businesses and shopping centers passing by into the same past life in which a cold dinner still sat, untouched, in his house. Ahead the road opened up into a brightly lit airfield surrounded by barbed wire fences and large towers that housed spotlights and armed guards. They stopped at the gate, and the driver of the lead sedan flashed a badge and the guard waved all of them through. Quinn watched it all in silence, taking in every detail.

The caravan finally stopped on the tarmac near a small white Gulfstream V jet airplane with United States of America emblazoned across the side in large blue letters. The stairs on the plane were down and at the base two men stood stiffly conversing with each other. A nearby soldier opened the door of the Escalade and saluted to Mister Blackwell as all seven of them filed out. Captain Colm saluted the men at the base of the airplane and Quinn assumed they were slowly working their way up the rank ladder. He wondered how far they would get before it stopped.

One of the two men near the plane held out his hand to Quinn’s father. Mr. Sanders, I’m John Merchant, special liaison with the Department of Defense and this is Colonel Gentry, U.S. Air Force, Merchant said in a voice raked over a washboard. He was an older man, stout with a gray mustache and the early stages of pattern baldness. He wore a clean, neatly pressed black suit that complimented his overly friendly smile, out of which poked the stub of an unlit, well-chewed cigar. The colonel, on the other hand scowled like he had just eaten a lemon. He was lean and tall, with a long, horse-like