in a chaotic whirlwind of light, not readily apparent what they are trying to illuminate.
Sean is not inclined to guess, so he continues to run as fast as his legs will take him along the sidewalk. Nearing the last cottages on the south end of the beach, he spots one with an upraised porch and ample room to hide underneath. He veers off the sidewalk and dives under the porch of the cottage, narrowly avoiding the spotlight of the lead helicopter.
The birds continue their bombardment of the beach, and following their first run, they turn around for what appears to be an encore. After a few seconds of silence, the echo of the blasts reverberating over the water, they resume their barrage as Sean stares in disbelief.
What is happening here? Some twisted training experiment? A kind of terrorism exercise for the military? Am I dreaming this? Have I dozed off while waiting with my family for the fireworks to begin?
He does not think so – primarily because he feels a throbbing pain in his head and his chest heaves in anguish.
It never hurts for real in your dreams, does it?
There does not appear to be a pattern to the placement of these bombs. They seem to be dropped randomly at various intervals along the beach.
So what purpose do they serve?
There is no apparent enemy or target on the receiving end of these nasty little bundles. The only destruction they seem to perpetuate is to displace a few tons of sand and thus, leave behind massive, blackened craters intermittently along the beach.
The helicopters complete their second run and begin to turn around.
Are they preparing to unload a third set?
Sean's question is quickly answered when the helicopters pull up and hover around twenty feet above the beach, as if contemplating whether it is safe to land. They gradually descend onto the surface of the beach, each one picking a spot several hundred feet from the previous one's landing area.
Within seconds after touching down, five or six figures disperse from each aircraft and sprint up the beach. They appear like a miniature invasion force, but who or what they are attacking is a mystery. The fifth and final helicopter lands nearest to Sean, and this one is close enough for him to see the whites of the figures’ eyes. In fact, this is all he can see because each figure wears a mask that covers their face and neck, leaving only a small slit for the eyes.
It is obvious to Sean these men are soldiers, for he, too, had been a soldier once, a long time ago. Fresh out of high school Sean joined the Marine Corps, a choice his father encouraged and even cajoled him to do. His good friend had enlisted in the Army, and Sean thought the military was something else to do, a better alternative than cramming for exams and writing 20-page papers in college. It was a confusing time in his life, still stuck in the throes of adolescence, not knowing which direction fate planned for him. He was not too keen on academics initially, nor did he have a passionate interest in any particular subject.
Sean survived boot camp and he loved every minute of it. He was a good soldier, in fact one of the best in the whole platoon. The competitive fire that was always on the back burner during his dull, meandering years in high school was suddenly and inexplicably lit. Sean wanted to be the very best in every facet of the Corps, and he nearly was. It was his ability to excel at every aspect of basic training that brought him to the attention of his superiors. It was his superiors who believed they had found the perfect Marine for the perfect job, and they assumed they could use and control him to satisfy their own whims.
They were wrong.
He left the Corps with a dishonorable discharge and it was here, in one of the greatest military institutions ever conceived, the seeds of doubt were sown in him forever about what the government, or any authority for that matter, has to say.
After the Marines, he returned home to Chicago and registered at DePaul University for fall classes. He figured with a dishonorable discharge on his record, however unjustified it might have been, a college degree would be an absolute necessity if he wanted to succeed in life. He obtained dual degrees in both history and political science, completing his undergraduate studies in only three years.
Sean came under the influence of Dr. Rosenstein early and often, enrolling in several of his courses each year. He learned from Rosenstein, while at the same time Rosenstein learned from him. They developed a relationship unlike that of teacher and pupil, but rather one of friendship. They enjoyed constant, late-night bull sessions about everything involving the government and everything else that did not. Eventually, with a wholehearted trust Sean believed the man deserved, he revealed to Rosenstein what had been asked of him by his superiors, and his refusal to do so that caused him to be dismissed in shame.
Indeed, Sean knows what it means to be a soldier, to release a certain degree of control over one's own thoughts and actions. He is fully aware how easily a soldier's morals can be trampled in the process. He also knows he never wants to have that helpless feeling again. Sean stares at the figures storming their way up the beach and he knows what kind of men they are: the kind who he had once been.
They move and look like professional soldiers, but any amateur watching them could arrive at such an obvious conclusion. It is the little things Sean notices that tip him off. Specifically, their ability to generate absolutely no sound as they creep along the beach. They move like ghosts, phantoms, nearly unseen in the darkness. They do not require hand signals or walkie-talkies because they know and can predict each other's movements. These soldiers have worked together before, perhaps hundreds of times. They all possess laser targeting on their automatics, but the tiny red dots are not illuminated like in the movies. These men are not about to let their enemy know they are coming.
Sean suddenly realizes, with a sinking feeling and a knot in his stomach cinching tighter by the second, that he may be their lone enemy tonight.
He tries to devise his next move, but he is unable to construct a coherent plan of action in his mind. His brain feels cloudy, like he is trapped in a bad dream, making it difficult for him to think clearly or even rationally.
The soldiers gather steam as they approach the sidewalk separating the beach from the cottages. Their boots shuffle over the concrete sidewalk and finally, they reach the first row of cottages. In groups of three or four, they begin to enter these beachfront homes.
The group of soldiers from the last helicopter moves directly towards the cottage he is hiding under. He waits anxiously for a moment, holding his breath in his throat, terrified they spotted him dive below the cottage. He fears they will haul him out from beneath the porch and whisk him away without an explanation, unconcerned that he may have a few questions of his own.
The soldiers are practically on top of him now, no more than fifteen feet away. They point their weapons in his direction when suddenly, they veer up the cottage's front stairs and quickly traverse them, the loud pounding of their boots on the wood above him rumbling in his ears.
Sean lets out the shortest of sighs.
He watches distressingly as the soldiers begin razing the cottages next door: banging down doors, knocking shutters off their hinges, busting windows. He hears crashing glass and heavy thuds as the men move above him in what sounds like a tango with an elephant. Each cottage appears to be receiving a deluxe redesign.
The soldiers seem to be searching for something or someone, but what or whom? Are they looking for…survivors?
The word courses through his body
