The Lost Canaries

Chapter 5: The Hunt for Hatch House

CHAPTER FIVE – DENBRIGHT

THE HUNT FOR HATCH HOUSE

I sit in a truck rumbling along a dirt path through the stretch of rainforest between West and Main Campus. I toss my empty espresso cup in the trash and pound another, and then another. Pen perched behind my ear, ice chips in a bowl at my side, I will myself to breathe.

The Mutatallic truck breaks the jungle tree line and speeds across the clearing of West Campus. We speed past Camp Maverick toward the Beehive, a gold-tinted glass dome with panels shaped like honeycombs at the south end of the lawn. The driver pulls up to the gate surrounding the operations center. Armed guards scan our IDs and open the gate. Unmanned drones buzz overhead, prying the skies for security threats.

I try to take another deep breath, but the guards are already opening the front doors of the Beehive. I step into a large circular room with walls covered by monitors. Control panels ring the outer circle where workers flip buttons and dials to adjust the screen feeds. Maps littered with notes and target points rest on tables dominating the center of the intelligence center. A line of phones sit along the right wall: secure hotlines to Maddox's office at Camp Maverick; the Columbia Communications Center; CANARY safehouses; Bait Village; the White House; Homeland Security administrative centers; the Office of Strategy, Policy, and Plans; the Office of DHS' Executive Secretary. Hurrying between tables with classified files, intelligence analysts scamper about the place. A live drone feed on the wall flies through the streets of rural Pennsylvania. Another reconnaissance drone hovers along the sea walls—massive steel barriers to block the rising ocean—in Miami, searching for suspicious activity. On the far side of the room, a conference call with the New York Police Department Commissioner is starting.

Meanwhile, the Refugee Clock on the wall increases every day as police reports confirmed as Red Dove activity pour in from around the country. Another tick, another life stolen, another family separated. The Refugee Clock sits at 667,136 from a total of 222,378 Red Dove abductions over the past fifteen years. The intense spike of 100,000 abductions last year alone triggered the nationwide lockdowns. Some refugees choose not to shelter at CANARY Headquarters, either to continue their normal life, deny their loved one's abduction, or ignore the extent of the Red Dove problem altogether. Still, over 600,000 refugees at this campus are now my responsibility.

A map of America below the Refugee Clock has highlighted sections to show where abductions are most common: urban areas, minority populations, and highly educated counties, most notably across New England and down the west coast. Or the people most ideologically opposed to a populist revolution and therefore the Red Doves' top priorities for brainwashing. With abductions spiking, we are running out of time before the Red Dove army is large enough to successfully lay siege to the American government. I wonder how they plan to execute their overthrow. Their Final Solution.

Suddenly, General Bradley Buchanan makes a beeline toward me at the door. He straightens his camouflage uniform, his chiseled face blushing. "Hello, Madame Director. Congrats on the promotion!"

"Thank you, Bradley..." I say with a sly smirk. "Trust your home visit went well?"

"Uh... oh yes, yes, right... Yes, the visit went fine...."

An old lull tugs at my chest as the general accompanies me down to the Beehive floor. "Come up to my office later," I whisper in his ear.

"Will do, Director..." Bradley winks as he walks off. I smirk; he had no reason to be at the Beehive today.

One by one, the analysts realize the new Director just walked in. Their wide eyes gawk at me as though expecting a reenactment of my escape from Michael all those years ago. Or a confirmation of the rumors on how the epic tragedy between two lovers panned out, from our honeymoon days in the countryside to the toxic codependency in the heavens, all set against the backdrop of Michael's inescapable demons. Maybe half of them expect me to shut the whole operation down and let my long-lost lover roam free. But all I can do is stand at the head of the intelligence hub in my sky-blue pantsuit, arms planted at my sides, unsure what to do. For the first time in my career, all preparation has escaped my mind. I force a half-smile and wave tentatively at the staff expecting me to lead.