Free The Firestorm Conspiracy by Cheryl Angst

drills, he would have been able to block the knowledge of his surroundings out completely.
    Still the nightmares came.
    * * * *
    “John!”
    The ground shuddered under his feet, jarring his teeth and shaking his bones. Gunfire, explosions, and screams filled the air as he careened down the street. Heedless of enemies holed up in the buildings, he sprinted, his boots raising clouds of dust and debris. The shrill cries of terrified women and children begging for mercy drowned out the sound of his heartbeat and ragged breathing. He ran.
    “John!”
    “Daddy!”
    The words--screamed in desperation--echoed in his mind. They came from the building at the end of the street. He ran, but got no closer. Blind terror drove his feet into the dirt. His heart threatened to burst through his chest, yet he continued to run. The sound of a low flying bomber turned his bowels to water. He didn’t have to be on that ship to know its target.
    “Daddy!”
    “John! Please, oh God, please no.”
    Lungs burning, he staggered along the street. He wouldn’t make it. The bomber swooped in low overhead, its ominous bulk underscoring the massive weaponry carried on board. Tears streaming down his face, he collapsed to his knees.
    “No. God, no.”
    He cradled the cold and brittle rifle. The black barrel matched the despair in his heart. The whine as the bomber’s sonic weapon powered up raised the hairs on his arms. He clenched his gun, gripping the stock so tightly his knuckles drained of blood. The ship’s cannon discharged and the crash of the collapsing building rode the sonic wave toward him. Head down, shoulders sagging in surrender, he did nothing to protect himself from the blast. It thundered down the street, moving with the force of a hurricane. He was thrown flat, dirt and rocks pelting him like the sting of a thousand hornets.
    Silence.
    Shakily regaining his knees, he searched for the building at the end of the street. A smoking pile of debris greeted his grit-filled eyes. Ships flew by overhead, their engines silent. Gunfire ripped past him, the bullets mute. He knelt in a deathly quiet world. He lowered his head--heedless of the battle raging around him--as tears poured down his cheeks, exploding in tiny puffs in the dust on his thighs.
    His wife and daughter were gone. He’d failed again.
    * * * *
    The effects of the nightmares lingered as he completed his morning routine, and often followed him into the Officers’ Mess for breakfast. During these moments of overlapping reality, John found it hard to interact with those around him. He kept to himself, stayed only long enough to eat his fill, and tried to minimize the impact of life aboard the Firestorm on his already fragile psyche.
    He refused to go anywhere other than to the mess hall and his quarters, he refused all social invitations, and he refused to entertain visitors in his cabin. Yet somehow, the ship crept into his life. He didn’t want to feel comfortable here; he wanted his apartment in Vancouver. He didn’t want to wake up and find the vibration of the engines soothing. He wanted to awaken to the cooing of pigeons and his supposedly soothing--yet unconscionably irritating--alarm. He didn’t want to miss the sound of boot steps when he walked in loafers on the deck; he needed to convince himself he made the right decision when he exchanged the UESF for a lonely--he wasn’t lonely--life on Earth. He wanted to hate every last molecule of the ship and her crew.
    The smell of paint and boot polish lingered everywhere. He couldn’t escape it. It followed him into the mess hall. It followed him into the shower. It invaded his dreams. It clung to him like a second skin. A skin that on Earth would have disturbed him; here on the Firestorm , it began to feel oddly comforting.

Chapter 15
    “Tell the Minister of Defense he’ll have my risk assessment on his desk by noon tomorrow.” Nate ended the video call. Damn minor functionaries. They always pestered him for