Foretold: ...Inspired by Actual Events and Ancient Prophecies

By M.P. Manilla

A terrorist plot to blow up the governments high-level nuclear waste repository at Yucca Mountain, Nevada, threatens to fulfill a Hopi prophecy that this world will be destroyed by poison rain.
Only the rebellious daughter of a Hopi clan leader, the maverick U.S. Army officer she once loved and lost, and a shaman with supernatural powers, challenge the threatened disaster and join forces to save America from being buried under a massive cloud of radioactive falloutthe poison rain in the Hopi prophecy.
But first they must unravel the mysteries of Yucca Mountain as well as the terrorists identity, while the shaman seeks salvation on a vision quest and enlists the spirit world to help them in their dangerous journey.
FORETOLD is the timely story of the fight to stop a fanatical terrorist from creating an explosion on American soil 10,000 times more deadly than Chernobyla very real danger that faces America today.
And woven throughout the twists and turns, setbacks and suspense of this adventure is the mystical culture of the oldest people to inhabit this continent, who believe The Creator appointed them guardians of the worlds safety and gave them knowledge of the future to help them fulfill their destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481700498

M.P. Manilla

M.P. Manilla has been twice nominated for the Pulitzer Prize and holds twenty-eight awards from national and international film festivals. A native New Yorker, the author now resides in Sarasota, FL, and is completing a second novel while working on a third novel, a film script, and a documentary about the Seminole wars with Planet Group Entertainment, a global film distribution and production company.

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© 2013M.P Manilla. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 2/21/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0051-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0050-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-0049-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012923830

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The cover illustration of Másaw, the Hopi’s Great Spirit of Death, is by artist Frank Colson.

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

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40

CHAPTER 41

CHAPTER 42

CHAPTER 43

CHAPTER 44

CHAPTER 45

CHAPTER 46

CHAPTER 47

CHAPTER 48

CHAPTER 49

CHAPTER 50

CHAPTER 51

CHAPTER 52

CHAPTER 53

CHAPTER 54

CHAPTER 55

CHAPTER 56

CHAPTER 57

AFTERWORD

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

"Those of us of the Hopi Nation who have followed the path of

The Great Spirit without compromise, have a message which we are

committed through our prophecy to convey to you… Today, the

sacred lands where the Hopi live are being desecrated… This must not be

allowed to continue, for if it does, Mother Nature will react in such a way

that almost all men will suffer the end of life as they know it. The Great Spirit said

not to allow this to happen, even as it was prophesized to our ancestors."

Excerpt from a Letter to President Richard Nixon

From

Thomas Banyacya,

Leader of the Independent Hopi Indian Nation

41547.jpg

"We have arrived at the end of the world. The hour cometh. The

earth will tremble. The mountain shall be made to crumble, so

that they shall be as scattered dust."

The Koran

CHAPTER 1

2 pm PT

Saturday, April 7

The Amargosa Desert

Nevada

The fugitive clawed at the hard sunbaked earth, refusing to believe he was digging his own grave.

Over the sound of his labored breathing, he heard the shouts of the hunters as they followed his trail. He dug even more frantically, ignoring the pain of his ripped nails and skin. They don’t know the tracks they’re following are a man’s, he told himself. They’ll think it’s an antelope or a coyote. They’d never believe a human would be way out here. They’re not real Apaches. Not like in the old days. He tore at the earth, forcing his bloody fingers through the gritty soil.

Eons ago, when the Southwest was an inland sea and a Jurassic swamp, this region had been home to countless prehistoric creatures, crustaceans and amphibians, dinosaurs, and flying reptiles. Even after centuries of blazing sun and heat, their fossilized shells and bones could still be found in the rocky earth, the only evidence that rich teeming life had once inhabited this desolate land. But the fugitive had no regard for the history he was destroying. His every sense was focused on the men pursuing him. They were getting closer. He kept digging, clawing the ground furiously, driven by the fear his skeleton could soon join those others, staring soullessly into the glaring sun for the millenniums to come.

Finally, he lay down in the small trench he’d scratched out of the desert dirt and pushed the loose soil of his shoveling over his legs and torso, hiding the outline of his body. With his one free hand he scooped sand over his shoulders and head so that only his nose and mouth were exposed. Then he burrowed his hand deep into the earth beneath him and lay quietly, trying to calm his breathing, afraid the slightest movement would destroy his thin blanket of soil.

Through the ground he heard the hoof beats of the hunters’ desert ponies grow closer. Keep on riding, you bastards. You can’t see me. There’s nothing here.

The sound of hoof beats stopped. The fugitive froze under his cover of dirt. He imagined his pursuers standing in their stirrups, searching the land around them for a moving target. The silence continued. All he could hear was the wind sweeping across the desert and the sound of his heart pounding in his chest.

He screamed in terror as a rough hand suddenly plucked him from his burrow, shedding dirt and pebbles. He struggled helplessly, unable to break the brutal grip ripping him from his refuge and his dream of escape, freedom, and safety. Even through a veil of pain and fear he could see the glint of steel sweeping down toward him.

He screamed again as he felt the sharp knife against his throat.

…A short distance away, in the hollow of a stone outcrop, the fugitive’s companion, Roberto, listened as his friend’s cry rose in agony. In his mind, he envisioned the Apache bounty hunters scalping their victim alive.

Trembling, he forced his body further back under the boulder, into the hiding place he’d refused to leave when his friend, Miguel, insisted on continuing across the desert. They’d escaped from the private prison work camp at Yucca Mountain the night before, crawling under the electrified fence at a spot where heavy rains had washed out the base and shorted the security lights that lit up the perimeter.

They’d made good time, but Miguel was anxious to reach the safety of the satellite monitoring station, across the Nevada border in California. It was the heart of their escape plan. The soldiers who guarded the station would take them in for humanitarian reasons or simply to find out what they were doing there. Through them, he and Miguel could contact the proper government officials, people with the authority to lift their prison sentences in exchange for the information they’d brought with them from the camp.

The only problem was reaching the station. It was more than seventy miles from the work camp, on the other side of Death Valley. But in a land where the merciless sun pulled moisture from a man’s body in a matter of minutes, it might as well be on the other side of the moon. And there were other dangers; poisonous snakes, scorpions, coyotes—and the murderous bounty hunters.

Now Miguel was dead, and he was alone. He’d tried to convince his friend that it was too early to leave their hiding place and travel across the open land, but Miguel had been impatient.

Miguel, he moaned aloud, recalling how he’d pleaded with his companion to wait for nightfall, when the hunters and scavengers slept. But Miguel wouldn’t listen. No one’s after us, he’d argued. There’s no sign of anyone looking for us—not even a patrol plane.

Roberto had said no more, even though he knew better. During his imprisonment he’d heard countless stories about what happened to prisoners who attempted to escape across the desert. He wasn’t afraid of the reptiles and the scavengers, and months of hard labor at the work camp had inured him to heat and thirst. But he knew the renegade Indian bounty hunters were always there, waiting. Capturing fugitives was more than a living for them. It was revenge. This was their land. It always had been.

He remained hidden in his shelter until long after the shouts of the murderous hunters no longer carried over the desert air. It was only after he saw the shadows outside soften with dusk that he crawled cautiously out from beneath the boulder. He looked out at the open plain. The bounty hunters were gone. For the first time, he allowed himself to feel relief. I’m alive, he thought triumphantly. He’d survived the years in prison and hard labor at the work camp. He was tougher than the desert, more patient than the hunters. He would reach the satellite station. He would tell the government about the danger at Yucca Mountain, and be rewarded with a pardon. Never again would he be forced to endure the burning sun, the overwhelming silence of the desert, and the constant fear of radiation poisoning.

He saw in his mind the image of the long, undulating, dun-colored ridge that was Yucca Mountain. It loomed up from the Nevada desert like a serpentine monstrosity, hoarding inside its cavernous body the long rows of storage casks filled with 80,000 tons of deadly high-level radioactive waste. Every day, cargo trains filled with steel canisters and concrete-covered drums of nuclear waste arrived at the waste repository. Every day, convict workers from a nearby private prison, sentenced to hard labor workfare tours at the camp, unloaded the heavy canisters and drums, and bullied them to their storage space in the network of underground tunnels.

The lethal threat of those tons of deadly waste terrified even the toughest convict. And now that threat would be used to terrify the entire country.

Roberto wasn’t a murderer, and he would never hurt innocent people. He’d tell the government about the threat at Yucca Mountain, save millions of lives, and win his freedom in the bargain. Surely the government would be grateful enough to release him from his sentence, give him a new identity, and find him a home and a decent job somewhere safe.

If only Miguel had waited, he thought, before crawling back into his shadowy hiding place. He wouldn’t be so foolish. He’d wait for the coolness and cover of night.

Reaching beneath his worn prison shirt, he brought out his sealed Ziploc bag of water, the extra one he’d kept secret, even from his companion. He’d had the foresight to bring an extra bag. Miguel hadn’t bothered. Within hours his thirst had made him desperate. It had driven him into the open desert, where he could be easily seen. It had driven him to his death.

He took a careful sip of the warm, bitter fluid he’d carefully hoarded. At this moment, it tasted like sparkling wine. He deserved a toast. He was still alive.

Hours later, with only the brightness of the stars to guide him, he moved out from the hollow beneath the boulder and began the last part of his long trek, avoiding the place where desert hawks and coyotes would still be tearing at the body of his dead companion.

. . . It was almost nightfall of his second day in the desert before he saw the outline of the satellite station against the horizon. The long trek across the desert had taken its toll on his body. His feet felt scorched from hours of being dragged through hot sand and his legs wobbled beneath him, causing him to stumble with almost every step.

Ignoring his thirst and the pain of his body, he willed himself to go on. His water supply had been exhausted, but sanctuary was in sight. He would never return to prison. Never, he promised himself. Never. He repeated the word over and over again, calling upon it for the strength to take each step.

He slogged through the heavy sand, refusing to give in to pain and exhaustion. His tongue was swollen and the skin of his face felt stretched across his skull. When his legs refused to support him, he forced himself to crawl and claw his way forward, measuring every inch of agonized progress.

When he allowed himself to look up again, he could see the adobe walls of the monitoring station only a short distance away.

With a last burst of willpower, he rose to his feet and staggered to the huge steel entry doors. He leaned against the warm metal and pounded his fist weakly against its sand-scoured surface. The thick steel absorbed the sound. He saw the rope hanging nearby on the wall. Stumbling, he made his way over and grabbed it, holding tight even as he finally collapsed.

Above him, the rope pulled at bronze tower bells, relics from the time when this walled building was a mission church, an outpost of the Spanish empire. Their ringing ended the silence of his journey, proclaiming he’d reached sanctuary.

The huge steel doors swung open. Uniformed soldiers in desert fatigues rushed out, holding assault rifles at ready. The officer of the unit wore bars that identified him as a Captain. The name patch above the breast pocket read HAWK. He bent over the fugitive, and gently dabbed his sun-blistered lips and face with a wet cloth.

You’re safe now, he murmured.

The escaped prisoner’s eyes opened. He gripped the captain’s arm. No, he said hoarsely. They’re going to kill us all.

CHAPTER 2

8:30 a.m. ET

Monday, April 9

The Pentagon

Arlington, Virginia

General William Stowd’s hurried footsteps echoed in the narrow cinderblock corridor of the Pentagon’s underground Command Center, where Secretary of Defense Lou Frazer had insisted they meet privately. It was an inconvenient choice for Stowd, who had to travel from his office on the top floor of the most distant corner of the Pentagon’s sixteen miles of corridors. But then, he reminded himself, he hadn’t been given a choice. Secretary of Defense Frazer liked holding meetings in the Command Center. He enjoyed the sense of absolute power it gave him, to sit in his big chair at the head of the table in the bunker’s conference room, within arm’s reach of the computer board that could allow him, with a push of a button, to launch missiles almost anywhere in the world.

Built of steel and reinforced concrete, and covered by more than a thousand feet of rock and dirt, the Command Center had been designed to ensure that no matter what happened to the rest of the country, America’s military command could survive a direct thermonuclear hit. But at the moment, that assurance held little comfort for Stowd. All the defenses in the world wouldn’t be enough to stop the threat he was hurrying to report.

He pushed open the wood-veneered steel door of the center’s conference room, and found himself confronted by the Defense Secretary, who sat in his big black leather chair at the head of the room’s gleaming mahogany conference table, gripping a printout of the Top Secret encrypted e-mail Stowd had sent him late last night. Are you telling me I’m faced with another Chernobyl? Frazer shouted at him, as if the general’s alerting him to a potential nuclear disaster at Yucca Mountain, Nevada, represented a personal affront to his leadership.

Ignoring Frazer’s outburst, Stowd slipped into another, smaller chair at the table. He took a minute to smooth the front of his Army tunic, a gesture that failed to soothe the burning knot in his stomach. His e-mail report had obviously alarmed the Defense Secretary. Frazer appeared frightened. Which he should be.

Actually, Mr. Secretary, he answered, managing to keep his voice calm, an explosion at Yucca Mountain would be roughly ten thousand times worse than Chernobyl. The Chernobyl explosion involved only one reactor containing twenty tons of radioactive fuel. The nuclear waste repository at Yucca Mountain contains more than eighty thousand tons of our highest-level radioactive waste, including enriched weapons-quality uranium and plutonium. That’s enough to kill every man, woman, and child in America.

Frazer half-spun in his chair, as he looked down again at Stowd’s e-mail. According to your report, the problem is that a recent earthquake caused a new stream to emerge in an underground cave inside Yucca Mountain, near the storage tunnels. Is that correct?

Stowd nodded. And that’s only half the problem. As you know, sir, he added, diplomatically attributing more knowledge to the Secretary than he knew the man possessed, the presence of water in the vicinity of the waste storage containers can be catastrophic. Radioactive waste decays, and as it decays it throws off heat. If the stream gets into the underground storage tunnels, it will be like throwing water on a hot rock. The water will turn into steam, and the steam will build up like in a pressure cooker until it blows the top off of Yucca Mountain, and sends a column of radioactive debris into the atmosphere. That’s what happened at Chernobyl.

He spoke slowly, in the stiff, formal tones of military correctness, being careful not to allow his personal disdain for Frazer show in his voice. Before being appointed Secretary of Defense, Frazer had been Chief Financial Officer for a major defense industry company that had close ties to the current occupants of the White House, and also raised substantial contributions for the President’s election campaign. According to Beltway rumor, the White House figured Frazer would know how to control the Pentagon’s budget, even though the former CFO had no military background, had never set foot on a battlefield, lacked combat experience and, apparently, had no respect for the dangers of nuclear power.

Few things frightened military professionals as much as having amateurs in charge of operations, and now Frazer was in charge of handling the country’s greatest domestic threat of nuclear annihilation.

It was enough to make Stowd reach into his pocket for his roll of anti-acid pills.

But the nuclear waste at Yucca Mountain is stored in steel casks, Frazer was saying. Even if water got into the tunnels, it couldn’t penetrate those containers.

Stowd felt his esophagus burn even more fiercely. Since being transferred from active duty in Afghanistan to a desk job at the Pentagon, he’d developed either an incipient ulcer or chronic acid reflux, two stress-related conditions he blamed on Frazer, who seemed determined to prove that his idea of leadership consisted mostly of magical thinking.

I’m afraid moisture could penetrate the containers, sir, he said, forcing himself to speak respectfully. The tops of those casks are welded on, and those seams are always a weak point. Also, a lot of the waste is still stored in concrete-covered metal drums that are more than sixty years old. We can expect their integrity to be compromised by rust and decay.

Frazer responded by picking up the memo and reading it again. Stowd cynically wondered if the Defense Secretary had become a little paler than usual. It was hard to tell. Frazer had a naturally pallid face and gray eyes as evasive as fog. Everything about him was gray; his suit, his tie, the stubble of beard on his jowls, and even his carefully combed thinning hair.

Who’s your source for this information? Frazer demanded, looking up from the memo. Who told you about the emergence of this stream?

The information is from a fugitive who escaped from the West Nevada prison’s hard labor work camp at Yucca Mountain, Stowd answered. He managed to cross the desert and reach our satellite monitoring station in southern California. He was questioned by one of our men, Captain James Hawk, the officer in charge of the Army unit that guards the station.

Frazer peered at Stowd over his reading glasses. I find it amazing that a convicted criminal, a lowlife and social misfit, would undertake such a dangerous escape, with no certainty of success or reward. Yet your captain believes his story?

The disbelief in his voice caused a fresh wave of hot acid to burn Stowd’s throat. He could almost sympathize with Frazer’s wanting to take refuge in denial, rather than deal with the monumental implications of this threat. But that was the Defense Secretary’s job.

Yes, Mr. Secretary. I might add that I’m familiar with the Captain’s service record. He’s had experience judging the credibility of informants, who almost always have mixed motives for providing information. Captain Hawk worked with our Special Forces scouts and intelligence units in Afghanistan, and always provided reliable information—better than anything the CIA had to offer.

He felt relieved to see Frazer give a curt nod of agreement. It was common knowledge that Frazer relied on the military’s own intelligence force because he didn’t trust the CIA, or the FBI, to provide the information he wanted. He couldn’t suddenly deny his own policy.

Almost immediately, however, the Defense Secretary’s mouth turned down in a sour grimace. What else did this escaped prisoner have to report?

Stowd took a deep breath before continuing. This was the other part of the problem—the part he hadn’t included in his report—the worst news that he’d saved for last.

Mr. Secretary, according to the escaped fugitive, a gang of convicts from the prison plan to divert that newly-emerged underground stream into the nuclear waste storage tunnels and cause a massive radioactive explosion, unless the government gives them their freedom and five hundred million dollars.

CHAPTER 3

9 a.m. PT

Monday, April 9

U.S. Satellite Monitoring Station

Death Valley, California

In the privacy of his quarters at the satellite monitoring station, Captain James Hawk prepared for his mission.

He intended to travel light, with only the bare necessities of survival, and the killing tools of his trade. This would be a private quest, unauthorized by the Army’s normal chain-of command. He could be court-martialed if his superiors at the station learned he’d left his post. But he didn’t trust the pentagon’s hidebound brass to act on his report of the lethal threat at Yucca Mountain. At least not in time to save America from being destroyed.

He reached into his locker and took out a serrated commando knife, coated to keep it from glittering in the sun or moonlight, and slid it into a sheath on his webbed belt. For a moment he stared into the mirror attached to the back of his locker, at the lean sun-bronzed face and dark eyes weathered and hardened by years of fighting in Afghanistan. They’d been years of secret behind-the-line raids on Al Qaeda camps, of transmissions that guided drones and missiles to their targets, and interrogations that obeyed only one rule: save American lives.

He stared a moment longer at his image in the mirror—especially at the lined eyes that once could see everything, and had finally seen too much. They were the reason the men in his Delta platoon had called him Captain Hawkeye. They’d bragged about how he could always spot the hidden trip wires and booby traps, and boasted he could see around corners, and spot snipers crouched behind mountain boulders. The men who followed him into danger believed his eyes were a gift from God that would keep them alive and safe.

Until the night his eyes failed them.

He’d lost count of the missions he’d led, but he could never forget the night his platoon had been trapped in an ambush he’d failed to see. He’d been in the lead, the first to go down. Shrapnel from a grenade launcher sliced through his Kevlar vest and riddled his arms and legs. He’d remained conscious long enough to radio for air support, but didn’t remember the gunships arriving, or the medics struggling to keep him alive.

When he finally woke up he was back in the United States, at Walter Reed Hospital, facing countless operations. The rest of his platoon hadn’t been as lucky. They’d been sent back home too. But in body bags.

There was a knock on the door of his room in the officers’ quarters and, without pausing for an invitation, Sergeant Patrick Reilly walked in. Hawk didn’t bother acting surprised at the sergeant’s ignoring protocol. Reilly had the distinction of being the station’s all-around wise guy and troublemaker, and there wasn’t an Army rule or regulation he wouldn’t ignore, or break. But for some unknown reason, Hawk appeared to be the only officer at the station the runty, insubordinate sergeant respected enough to risk his stripes for.

Hey Reilly, he said. What’s up?

The sergeant leaned casually against the door, folded his arms across his chest, and took his time answering while his eyes took in the sight of the open locker, the empty backpack on the bed, and Hawk dressed in combat camouflage fatigues. He shifted the gum he was chewing from one cheek to the other before speaking. Okay, Capt’n, I fixed the log book. You’re good to go. Your off-base excursion is covered.

Thanks, Reilly, Hawk said. I appreciate it.

The sergeant shrugged. Anything to screw the brass, he answered, choosing to ignore the fact that Hawk counted as one of the despised brass.

Hawk hid a smile. Privately, he believed Reilly befriended him because he thought the Army had unfairly screwed him—a wounded, decorated, combat veteran—by sending him to this isolated desert shit hole. What the sergeant didn’t know, and what Hawk had no intention of revealing, was that he’d volunteered for this post.

It suited him to have Reilly for an ally, however, and he suspected that one reason he liked the cocky NCO had its roots in the fact they’d both survived a hardscrabble, impoverished upbringing, and the chip the sergeant carried on his shoulder was only slightly larger than the one Hawk hid under his silver captain’s bars.

The sergeant continued to lean against the door, watching as Hawk reached into his locker again and removed Army-issue binoculars from his locker, along with a lightweight tarp in the same beige-and-brown pattern of his desert camouflage fatigues. The tarp could double as a shelter during the day or a blanket at night.

So what’s up? the sergeant asked, watching as Hawk tossed both items onto his bed, next to the empty backpack. You got yourself a hot date, or you just planning to desert?

Hawk grinned. The less you know the better for both of us.

Reilly shrugged and shifted his gum again. "Have it your way. Just make sure that jeep I borrowed for you is back in the car pool before taps tonight, or my ass is grass."

I promise, Hawk said. And speaking of grass… He went to his desk and opened the small wooden humidor he considered his one luxury, and only vice. Studying its contents, he selected a $20 Romeo & Juliet cigar he’d won in a card game and held it up for Reilly to see. I assume you filled the gas tank?

The sergeant grinned. Yeah, and I didn’t even piss in it, he said, referring to one of his more famous escapades, involving the station’s commander and his plans to enjoy a few days in Las Vegas. Fortunately, no one could prove Reilly’s guilt, and although the commander suffered dehydration and heat exhaustion while stalled in the desert for two hours, he at least—as Reilly pointed out—didn’t lose any money gambling.

The sergeant tossed the jeep keys to Hawk, who threw him the cigar. Reilly grabbed it in mid-air and sniffed it with appreciation. Hey, you gave me a good one instead of your usual one dollar cheapie. I hope this doesn’t mean you’re planning to go AWOL?

Don’t worry, Hawk said. I won’t risk your stripes. Although you’ve lost your stripes so many times I understand you get them with zippers.

Reilly sneered in appreciation of Hawk’s humor. He stuck his new cigar in his mouth without bothering to remove his gum and left the room, closing the door behind him. No good-bye, no salute, but Hawk heard the click of the sergeant’s Zippo as he lit his cigar in the hall, in flagrant disregard of the posted No Smoking signs.

Hawk waited until the sound of Reilly’s footsteps faded before reaching into his locker again and removing two insulated water canteens. Their contents wouldn’t last long in the desert, where he was headed, but he didn’t plan to stay there very long. He threw them onto the bed, adding them to the growing pile.

The scarred, dented canteens reminded him of Afghanistan and of his old commanding officer, now a three-star general posted to a Pentagon desk. He’d visited Hawk when he was still recuperating in the hospital, and given him a choice. He could be honorably discharged and sent back home, where no family or job waited for him. Or he could help prevent what the general considered the greatest threat facing America. A threat that existed within America’s own borders.

As far as Hawk was concerned, the general’s offer was a no-brainer. He’d expected to be discharged on disability after leaving the hospital, no longer fit for active duty. The general’s offer gave him a chance at a possible promotion at the end of this assignment, which would look good on his resume, or provide a better allowance if he decided to go on to graduate school.

Which was why he’d come to spend the last eighteen months in this isolated military satellite monitoring station on the edge of Death Valley, performing what was, in essence, guard duty.

Officially, your unit is there to guard the satellite station, the general had told him. "But it also has the responsibility of monitoring the alarm system at the Yucca Mountain nuclear waste dump. That will be your excuse for keeping an eye on the place. I need you to be my eyes and ears. Yucca Mountain is a disaster