(BDU) had cleared the restaurant months earlier, and the only mementos of the gala event remaining were a few tables with white linens draped over them.
The top floor offered a stunning 360-degree view of Colony East through the restaurant’s tall windows. Looking to the east, Dawson faced the red orb of the rising sun, five degrees above the horizon. He didn’t see any sails on the sparkling ocean this morning. The sailboats that he spotted on occasion were a source of intrigue. Some of the larger sloops were up to thirty feet in length, and once he’d seen a schooner with two masts. He thought that if he were fifteen years old and outside the colony he’d want to be at sea sailing on a schooner too.
He moved to the other side of the restaurant and eyed the Hudson River. Standing in the middle of the river, huge windmills generated electricity for Colony East. Their blades rotated slowly in the dawn breeze. Along the bank, razor wire, coiled on top of the perimeter fence, glinted in the sunlight. Abandoned cars and trucks clogged the George Washington Bridge, and a concrete barrier sealed off the Colony East side.
He took a deep breath and pivoted northward. The twisted steel beams of the Brooklyn Bridge splayed out like some sort of abstract modern sculpture; artwork fashioned courtesy of Navy demolition experts. Their handiwork had also taken down the Manhattan and Williamsburg bridges. He often wondered what the kids on the Brooklyn side of the East River thought about the extensive measures taken to keep them from entering the colony.
He placed his fingertips on the glass. The town of Mystic, Connecticut, where he had lived with his wife and daughter, was somewhere off in the horizon.
“Permission denied.” The words echoed heavily in his heart.
Dawson had twice asked Admiral Samuels if he could take a few days to return home to find out what had happened to his daughter and to bury his wife, and possibly his daughter, too.
Samuels was now the colony’s highest-ranking officer, the third highest in the nation behind Admiral Wilson in the Atlanta Colony, and Admiral Thomas stationed in Colony West.
“Mark, I understand what you’re going through,” Samuels had told him. “I’m a grandfather. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think of my five grandkids, but I can’t afford to let you go, not even for a day. I have three officers and one hundred and two sailors. Those are my resources to care for five hundred children and fifteen scientists. I’m sorry.”
Two months later, he had asked again, making a vein pop out in the admiral’s neck.
“Permission denied. Dismissed.”
Dawson understood the admiral’s hard-line. Military commanders had asked the men and women serving under them to make sacrifices since the dawn of time. He also understood the importance of his own crucial role in the mission. The restoration of society was at stake. Much was riding on his ability to obey orders and serve as company leader with distinction.
The sun had shucked its red husk for a direct yellow glare. Sighing, Dawson did what his father had taught him to do during times of adversity and inner turmoil. He pulled his shoulders back, stiffened his spine, and raised his chin.
He was ready for another day at Colony East.
CHAPTER TWO
Castine Island
Flashlight beams danced in the harbor playground as a merry band of five- and six-year-olds scurried about. The kids giggled and chattered as they untangled lines and tapped stakes into the rocky soil. Derek Ladd, the camp leader, was attempting to teach them how to pitch tents. Even in the early evening light, Abby could see the scar on Derek’s left ear from his fishing accident.
She shivered in the east wind and zipped her jacket all the way up. Surrounded by the waters of the North Atlantic, Castine Island had two seasons: icy damp and damp. It was April, the start of damp.
Waiting to pick up Toucan from survival camp, Abby walked over to the swing set where
The top floor offered a stunning 360-degree view of Colony East through the restaurant’s tall windows. Looking to the east, Dawson faced the red orb of the rising sun, five degrees above the horizon. He didn’t see any sails on the sparkling ocean this morning. The sailboats that he spotted on occasion were a source of intrigue. Some of the larger sloops were up to thirty feet in length, and once he’d seen a schooner with two masts. He thought that if he were fifteen years old and outside the colony he’d want to be at sea sailing on a schooner too.
He moved to the other side of the restaurant and eyed the Hudson River. Standing in the middle of the river, huge windmills generated electricity for Colony East. Their blades rotated slowly in the dawn breeze. Along the bank, razor wire, coiled on top of the perimeter fence, glinted in the sunlight. Abandoned cars and trucks clogged the George Washington Bridge, and a concrete barrier sealed off the Colony East side.
He took a deep breath and pivoted northward. The twisted steel beams of the Brooklyn Bridge splayed out like some sort of abstract modern sculpture; artwork fashioned courtesy of Navy demolition experts. Their handiwork had also taken down the Manhattan and Williamsburg bridges. He often wondered what the kids on the Brooklyn side of the East River thought about the extensive measures taken to keep them from entering the colony.
He placed his fingertips on the glass. The town of Mystic, Connecticut, where he had lived with his wife and daughter, was somewhere off in the horizon.
“Permission denied.” The words echoed heavily in his heart.
Dawson had twice asked Admiral Samuels if he could take a few days to return home to find out what had happened to his daughter and to bury his wife, and possibly his daughter, too.
Samuels was now the colony’s highest-ranking officer, the third highest in the nation behind Admiral Wilson in the Atlanta Colony, and Admiral Thomas stationed in Colony West.
“Mark, I understand what you’re going through,” Samuels had told him. “I’m a grandfather. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t think of my five grandkids, but I can’t afford to let you go, not even for a day. I have three officers and one hundred and two sailors. Those are my resources to care for five hundred children and fifteen scientists. I’m sorry.”
Two months later, he had asked again, making a vein pop out in the admiral’s neck.
“Permission denied. Dismissed.”
Dawson understood the admiral’s hard-line. Military commanders had asked the men and women serving under them to make sacrifices since the dawn of time. He also understood the importance of his own crucial role in the mission. The restoration of society was at stake. Much was riding on his ability to obey orders and serve as company leader with distinction.
The sun had shucked its red husk for a direct yellow glare. Sighing, Dawson did what his father had taught him to do during times of adversity and inner turmoil. He pulled his shoulders back, stiffened his spine, and raised his chin.
He was ready for another day at Colony East.
CHAPTER TWO
Castine Island
Flashlight beams danced in the harbor playground as a merry band of five- and six-year-olds scurried about. The kids giggled and chattered as they untangled lines and tapped stakes into the rocky soil. Derek Ladd, the camp leader, was attempting to teach them how to pitch tents. Even in the early evening light, Abby could see the scar on Derek’s left ear from his fishing accident.
She shivered in the east wind and zipped her jacket all the way up. Surrounded by the waters of the North Atlantic, Castine Island had two seasons: icy damp and damp. It was April, the start of damp.
Waiting to pick up Toucan from survival camp, Abby walked over to the swing set where
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