Stormhaven Rising (Atlas and the Winds Book 1) by Eric Michael Craig Page A

They’ll have to come ask.”
    “And if they don’t?” John asked.
    “Then we’ll all be dead a long time before that asteroid gets here,” Dick said.
    ***
     
    Outside Stormhaven:
     
    If ever there was a frozen layer of hell, this was it and Shapiro had a feeling he was going to be condemned to this incarnation of purgatory a lot longer than he wanted. The sun struggled to force its way through a thin veil of fog but gave no indication of producing enough warmth to get his blood flowing.
    He heard the trucks bouncing up the rutted road before he saw them. “About damned time,” he grumbled. Rolling out of the mist, three black SUV’s and a cube-truck that looked like a reclaimed U-Haul van pulled up along the ridgeline to circle in front of his position. He shook his head, wondering if they could have made themselves more obvious if they’d tried.
    Of course, from what he’d seen of Stormhaven, it wouldn’t have mattered if they’d been under a foot tall and covered in dried prairie grass.
    He squinted while the crud kicked up from the ground slashed at his face like ice-edged razor blades. After several seconds the cloud dissipated to the point where he could open his eyes again.
    “Damn, you look like hell.” The first of the agents stood in front of him with his hand out. “Jake DeMarko, Strategic Analysis.” The man was at least a head taller than Shapiro and had a little-boy grin that looked out of place on his line-backer physique.
    Behind him, a short, sturdy woman was almost eclipsed by his bulk. She stuck her hand around him, introducing herself, “Catherine Watkins. IT Specialist.” She looked at him with piercing blue eyes and forced a smile onto her face, even though the cold made it look like her skin was already starting to crack.
    A short, dark-haired agent stood back near the side of a truck and nodded, “Paul Abrams. Tactical Specialist.” He didn’t venture a smile, but it looked like he might be the type who’d have surgery to permanently immobilize his face. Not a trace of personality escaped his grimace.
    “And I am your Electronic Surveillance Specialist, Dennis Schimmel.” A fourth man hopped out of the cab of the cube-truck, smiling as he bounced over to shake hands. “Anyone tell you that you look like hell?”
    “So I’ve heard,” Shapiro said. He looked at the back of the big truck. “Any room in there to sit?”
    “Not much. I’ve got three techs and a buttload of gear,” Schimmel said, shattering his hope of getting warm.
    “Fine, let’s jump into my office and I’ll fill you in.” Doug opened the door to his SUV and then added, “You might as well tell them they aren’t going to get anything. We’re still more than a half mile from the target.”
    “No problem,” he said, “We’ll just drop repeaters with an RPV drone."
    “So have you been briefed on the situation?” Shapiro asked once they’d settled in. He set his satellite uplink system on the dashboard where everyone could see it.
    “Preliminarily,” Watkins said. “This is supposed to be an in-and-out operation.”
    “Right. Welcome to reality,” Shapiro snorted. “Yesterday I thought I’d just walk up to the door too. Not a chance.”
    “What’s the issue?” She looked across the distance, picking up his binoculars to scan the front of the community.
    “Look at where we are,” Shapiro said. “This is so far outside of nowhere it might as well be Mars."
    “If all you need is someone to cover your ass, why didn’t you just call in the locals?” DeMarko asked.
    “Too much risk of exposure."
    “Exposure to what?” Schimmel linked his epad into the network from the surveillance rig.
    “They sent you out without a full briefing?” Shapiro asked.
    “I guess not,” Watkins said, shrugging.
    “Ok then, this is need-to-know. This info is known to only a handful of people in Washington, and unfortunately, to at least one person in there.” Shapiro punched up the orbital graphic