Archangel
A novel by
Mich Moore
Copyright © 2014 Mich Moore
All rights reserved.
Cover art by Carlos Hernandez
Edited by Kimiko Hammari
Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Three years ago, the United States of America was struck by a second civil war when fourteen renegade states aligned themselves with an ultra-nationalistic movement called the Advance South. The country split into two distinct nations: Old America and the New United States in alliance with the Advance South. With the American military forces decimated by the war and a series of unprecedented natural disasters, the government in Washington DC found itself forced to create a new kind of robotic soldier, one that could work alongside human masters in restoring the law to the nation and protecting its changing borders against threats. This new soldier would come to be known as the DAT, the successful creation of three engineers who had been serving life sentences in federal prison before the war. But now, almost three years into the worst crisis in modern history, it is becoming evident that there are other mysterious and powerful forces at work ... forces that are overshadowing these two nations, the world and beyond. Who are they? What are they? And whose side are they on?
1
Newark, New Jersey
As the black plane flew into Irvington airspace, just minutes from Newark, the captain spoke to his flight officer.
"Turn off the lights."
The FO responded. "Switching lights off."
Although the craft's passenger windows had all been painted black, the flight officer switched off the navigation lights and then the cabin lights. The airliner's heads-up display snapped on and cast a friendly light into the darkened cockpit. The Boeing 737, with its two VIP passengers, Vermont governor Luke Peterson and Alaska senator Dale Dillon and their respective staffs, and the twenty-member United States-Advance South press corps, plus a flight crew of six, continued to fly eastward, invisible and alone in the night sky. The air around them was clear, and the Big Dipper and North Star were both visible. Below, Interstate Highway 78 presented itself as a cheery ribbon of light as it passed beneath them like a threshold into a new and exciting land. In a perverse sense, that is exactly what New Jersey had become since the country had fractured. The Garden State had warped itself into a level of violent dystopia that rendered it unrecognizable from its pre-war self. The 'excitement' came into play when a non-native with the misfortune of getting trapped in the toxic hell had to create a flexible enough game plan that would buy him or her the time to discover a way out. New Jersey had become a happy lone wolf in the US-AS pack, ambitious to play by its own rules.
The 737 was now flying at an altitude of nine hundred meters. The captain switched on his cabin microphone and spoke. "Engines off in two minutes."
He knew that the flight attendants would now be giving their passengers instructions about electronic abatement: no cell or sat phones, no computer usage, no walkie-talkies.
The captain trimmed the aircraft and slowly pulled back on the throttle. He glanced over at the FO. "Turn off both engines. Commence glide path to runway alpha-bravo-7."
The flight officer touched several knobs and levers. "Autopilot disengaged. Engines one and two are idle. Commencing glide path to runway alpha-bravo-7." The airship's forward airspeed dropped, and it began to silently descend towards the city below them. Commercial and military aircraft flying into the state had to glide to secured landing strips at night or risk being blown out of the skies by civilian-launched SAMs, surface-to-air missiles. They also had to maintain strict radio silence as many New Jersey citizens made it their business to scan for police, fire and air traffic communication. It was particularly bad in Newark. Information gleaned from scanners often provided the many crime lords with vital information about law enforcement incursions. This information would be sold to the highest bidder. The criminals' grip on the control centers in Newark resulted in a ghostly, almost historical view of law and order. And it also made traveling to these badlands a very risky endeavor. In the 737's case, they were entering this wilderness deaf and dumb. And without power. If some unfortunate incident were to befall them, there would be no way to contact their home-based handlers. They would be on their own until they could manage to leave the state. It was extremely challenging to fly and land a thirty-two-thousand kilogram vehicle while ferrying high-value cargo, and only master US-AS aviators were allowed to attempt it. Captain Phillip Kennedy and flight officer Bud Kuhn were two such rated pilots.
The ship's ONS, the onboard network system, softly chimed before it spoke. "Captain P. D. Kennedy, you have an incoming call from crew member G. M. Steinberg."
"Accepted," Kennedy replied.
Gail Stein's Texas drawl was loud and clear over the cockpit's loudspeaker. "Captain, Governor Peterson wants to know if he can make a quick SAT call."
"Negative."
"He's trying to reach Mark."
"Again, that's a negative."
"All right-ee. I'll let him know. Over."
The plane flew on through the night. Runway alpha-bravo-7 was actually an abandoned shipping pier that ran northwest-southeast along the Port Newark channel. It was their only option. Newark Liberty International airport had been overrun with native combatants just as the Whistler movement had shifted into high gear. The rest of the state quickly followed suit. However, that same chaos was what kept runway alpha-bravo-7 accessible to the rest of the US-AS. Soon after the collapse of law enforcement and the public utilities, an enormous vacuum of work stoppage had formed inside of the state. The earth, free from industrial man's incessant work, jumped in feet first to fill it. The Port Elizabeth channel, nearly five kilometers to the south, had given sway to kudzu-choked swamps that teemed with man-eating pythons, sewer crocs, bears, coyotes, pumas, wolves, and all manner of rodentia. No sane person dared enter that viperous jungle. The same encroachment had taken place to the north of the Port Newark channel, all the way up to Highway 78, and all the way up to Highway 95 to the east. The channel was practically surrounded by fangs and claws. In a state filled to the brim with every imaginable type of human miscreant, once again it was nature that had grabbed top billing. The flip side was that it served as a formidable barrier to the Port Newark channel and the tiny Advance South base located at the south end of the pier that ran parallel to the channel's murky waters. US-AS personnel were able to operate there with relative ease, completely cut off from the multitude of dangers surrounding them.
The ONS dinged again. "Captain P. D. Kennedy, incoming call from crew member G. M. Steinberg."
Captain Kennedy responded. "Accepted."
"Captain, the governor has asked that we reconsider that phone call. He says that he appreciates the need for radio silence, but he assures me that he has a secure line—"
"That's a negative."
"But—"
"Thank you, Gail. Over and out."
The call ended.
Kennedy turned to the flight officer. "Bud, take care of it, please."
"Yes, sir." The flight officer unbuckled himself from his chair and swiftly left the cockpit. He returned five minutes later with a split and bleeding lip.
Kennedy glanced over at the other pilot as the FO strapped himself back into his seat.
"Done?"
"Done." The co-pilot coolly replied, holding a handkerchief to his bleeding mouth. "Guess those rumors are true. The guy has a righteous left hook."
Governor Luke Peterson had spent his campaigning years crowing about how he had medaled in boxing at the Paris Olympics. But only a few Peterson-philes would ever repeat the claim in public.
The ONS chimed twice. "Intersecting traffic detected! Immediate evasive course recommended!" Because the engines were turned off, the ONS was not able to plot an evasive course itself.
There were two more chimes. "Please take immediate evasive action!"
Kennedy steadied his nerves. "ONS, stand by until further notice." He watched his own fingers adjust the flap settings before speaking to the flight officer. "Okay. Take her, Bud."
Kuhn gripped his yoke. "Flight officer has the aircraft."
While Kuhn steered the airplane, Kennedy became hyper focused on the graphics being displayed on their windshield. Radar clearly showed a traffic blip moving towards them at a high rate of speed.
"Traffic is inbound at one