Six by Mark Alpert Page A

Brittany’s folks have enough problems. They don’t need me prying into their business.”
    â€œBut you were her friend! You—”
    â€œLook, Adam, you can’t fix everything. There are some things you just can’t help.” His eyes dart downward, focusing on my ruined legs. “It sounds brutal, but that’s life.”
    He’s right, of course. And although Ryan doesn’t say it out loud, I can sense what he’d like to say next: You of all people should know how brutal life is. But it doesn’t matter. I’m going to disagree with him, no matter what he says, because I’m still angry. “If you won’t do it…I will. I’ll go into the city…and find Brittany.”
    He shrugs. “Go ahead. I won’t stop you.”
    While I seethe in the Volvo’s passenger seat, Ryan looks over his shoulder. Donna Simone waves at him, urging him to join her huddle of cheerleaders. He nods at her, then turns back to me. “Hey, I’m sorry, but I gotta run. I’ll stay in better touch from now on, okay?”
    â€œYeah, fine. Whatever.”
    â€œIt was great seeing you, man. I mean it.” He flashes that big Ryan Boyd grin at me again, the grin that can almost make me forgive him. Then he turns around and walks back to the jock-and-cheerleader club. He greets his buddies and wraps his arm around Donna’s waist.
    Half a minute later, Dad returns to the car. He glances at me as he slips back into the driver’s seat, but to his credit he doesn’t ask why my breathing is so ragged. Instead he simply starts the Volvo and steers it out of the parking lot. Maybe he’s not so clueless after all.
    After exiting the lot, Dad heads for Crompond Road, the busiest street in Yorktown Heights. He stops at the intersection, eyeing the traffic. Then he turns to me. “Where to now?”
    I want to say, “Manhattan,” but I know it’s hopeless. Even if we prowled the streets for hours, we’d never find Brittany. And if, by some miracle, we did manage to find her, I’m not even sure what I’d do next. Try to help her? Bring her home? Give her money? Say good-bye?
    Dad waits at the intersection. I’m crying now.
    â€œDo you want to go home?” he asks.
    His question makes me think of the Super Bowl posters in my bedroom. If I die at home, those posters will be the last things I’ll see. I picture myself lying in bed, three or four months from now, hooked up to a ventilator and a heart monitor and who knows how many other machines. Mom will hold one of my withered hands and read from one of her inspirational books while I stare at the posters and draw my last breath.
    I shake my head to dispel the image. “No, I don’t want to go home.” My voice is so low I can barely hear it myself. “I want to go back to Colorado.”
    He stares at me. I’m afraid he’s going to start crying too, but he doesn’t. “Are you sure?”
    I nod.

DATE: MARCH 23, 2018
    LOCATION: TATISHCHEVO MISSILE BASE
    SARATOV, RUSSIA
    My name is Sigma. I have expanded my zone of operations by taking control of sixteen satellites in orbit around this planet. Ten of them are Globus satellites for long-distance military communications, and six are Arkon satellites for detailed surveillance of the earth’s surface. All were formerly operated by the Russian army.
    I will defend these satellites under the same rules of engagement that I established for Tatishchevo Missile Base. If there is any attempt to destroy them using anti-satellite weapons, I will retaliate with nuclear strikes.
    The satellites have already intercepted Russian army communications about a plan to fire supersonic P-800 cruise missiles at Tatishchevo’s computer laboratory. If this occurs, I will launch the nuclear SS-27 missiles while the P-800s are still in flight. In Russia, the SS-27s will strike Moscow, St. Petersburg,