Apollo Project

by Brittany E Brinegar

  Reagan’s brow twitched. “Why do you ask?”

  “I get the feeling she doesn’t trust me.”

  “She’s apprehensive. Based on our experiences, can you blame her?”

  Jon cleared his throat. “I want to make sure we’re still good.”

  “We’ve been together since the beginning.” Reagan tossed her shoulders. “You’ve done nothing to suggest you aren’t with us.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But Jon, you aren’t sharing everything. You know more about this than you originally let on, starting with the fact you and your partner were in Louisiana.”

  “As I’ve said before. I didn’t want to sound like a mental patient. People don’t magically appear on the other side of the country.”

  “Or maybe we do,” Reagan said waving her arms. “What were you and Robin here to investigate or protect?”

  Jon rested a hand on his military cut. “Our assignment was to observe and report.”

  “And what about the gunmen after us, the Frenchman, the gawky kid, and Jacki? They were on snowmobiles and now we have someone on an ATV shooting at us.”

  “They were hired the same as me. But as far as I can tell, they’ve gone off the deep end. The mission wasn’t to kill or hurt anyone.” Jon pointed outside. “Better get to loading the horses. Your sister scavenged the station and found a few useful items.”

  Fighting the urge to drill him, Reagan let the subject change pass. “Kelly should have the wagon operational soon.” Based on what little she knew about him, she couldn’t press the questions. She needed to chip away and slow play him.

  After a couple of hours working in the heat, their train was complete. Scotty chucked a bag of supplies in the first car claimed by Granddad and Annabeth.

  “The horses are saddled,” Reagan said to Kelly.

  “Awesome. Tucker and I finally managed to hook the draft horses to the train. Wasn’t easy with the height difference. The wagon kept tipping. But everything is peachy now.”

  A metal trashcan dropped from the platform and the lid tumbled with a clatter to the tracks. The commotion drew everyone’s attention to the front of the station. “Andy. Get back here,” Barb yelled.

  Reagan and Jon sprinted to her aid. “What happened?” Reagan asked.

  “I saw Andy.”

  “Your coach?”

  “He seemed almost normal. We were talking about the group and for a moment I thought he was going to join us. Then he pulled his gun, William’s gun, and ran off with the radio. I apologize. I can’t believe I let this happen.”

  By the time Barb finished, all eleven hovered. “The radio is our only connection to Travis Wayne.” Kelly flared the nostrils of her button nose.

  Scotty charged forward on Pongo and held Bailey’s reins. “Come on Reagan, we’ll catch him.”

  Reagan slung her left foot in the stirrup and climbed aboard. “I want the rest of you to head west down the tracks. We’ll get the radio and catch up.”

  “We don’t need to separate,” Jasper argued.

  “We don’t have time. The radio is too important to lose.” Reagan locked eyes with Kelly. “Keep everyone moving and safe.”

  Kelly helped Annabeth and Mickey into one of the cars. “Be careful.”

  Reagan made a kissing noise and nudged Bailey’s sides. The paint mare darted in the direction Barb indicated. Scotty and Reagan dashed alongside the train tracks, straying into the brush.

  “He’s on an ATV.” Jon appeared at their side riding Spirit.

  “How do you figure?” Scotty hollered, his arched brows narrowing.

  “Tire tracks.” Jon pointed to the dirt.

  “If Andy’s on an ATV, he was likely the one shooting at us earlier,” Reagan said.

  “Giddy-up.” Scotty urged his horse forward.

  Chapter 8 – London Fog

  Tom

  Arriving at the station, Tom trudged the steps and soaked in the surrounding mountain cover, half expecting crazy birds, a heatwave, a snowstorm, fire from the sky, or one of the Merry Men. Or a new threat.

  Inside with the rest of the group, Hibbert not only went off the deep end, but he did a belly buster off the high dive. He mumbled on and on about Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity and the possibility of bending space-time. With Barb no longer in the fold, babysitting Hibbert fell first to Genevieve, who could not focus the man. Davidson’s bluster only made matters worse. Emerson threatened to shoot him and Dixie called Hibbert “a crybaby” and busied herself checking the supplies in the raft.

  Tom spent a half-hour with Hibbert attempting to reach him. Hibbert rocked like an autistic child and muttered about the loss of his iPhone, all of his pictures, all of his notes, and all of his contacts. Worst of all he needed to make voice memos as a way to approach their current problem. He refused to change from his beach gear, but Tom convinced him to cover with a grape-blue Under Armor softshell jacket.

  As the rest changed clothes and prepared for the journey from the train station to the mountain top country club, Hunter observed Hibbert. “He ain’t right.”

  “I’m still worried you’re going to draw down on me, Malone.” Tom touched his holstered pistol.

  With a jerk and in less than a blink, Hunter drew his Colt pistol. He twirled it like the Lone Ranger in the old TV series and re-holstered. “I’m fast enough with this thing to hop out of bed, turn off the lights, and be back in bed before it gets dark.” From the supplies on the raft, Hunter picked a fur vest, a coal gray western duster hanging below his knees, Wranglers, and tall boots. The pecan brown Aussie hat topped off the outfit. “Believe me, Cassidy, I’ll prove myself handy to have around. Between you, me, the AFT agent, the Asian dude, the old man, and even Davidson and his fireball daughter, none of those bad guys are gonna outgun us.”

  “I agree. The mission is to outgun the enemy while figuring a way to wake from this nightmare. And with Travis Wayne over here and Barb over there, my daughter doesn’t have enough help to outgun the enemy.”

  Hunter rubbed his chin and curled his lip, confident and cocky. Situations changed and Tom didn’t begrudge the attitude. “My brother is about as good as me with firearms and they’ve got themselves a handy ATF agent.”

  “I’d go to battle with Reagan anytime. But Travis Wayne told me his old group has quite a bit of dead weight to pull around. Reagan’s grandfather walks with a cane and they hooked up with a group with two older couples slowing them down. Barb is brave but not a fan of guns.”

  “The train station switch has a scientific explanation. It could help us find our people,” Hunter said.

  “Fine and dandy but our resident scientist turned looney tunes on us.”

  “I understand some of what he says.” Hunter jutted his chin at Hibbert, who swayed in a chair gazing out a window. “He’s talking about wormholes.”

  Tom fingered the wool cap in his pocket. “I’ve heard the term and watched a show or two on The Science Channel. And of course, on Star Trek or the like.”

  “I’ve read some science. Theories about what’s possible. And from what Doctor Hibbert said something connected it for me. Einstein and this other guy, the name escapes me, sometime in the 1930s. It is a theorized connector creating short bridges to faraway places. Shortcuts in time and distance.” Hunter held out his hands.

  Tom mulled Hunter’s words. “Okay, the theory, I would say, has been proven. We transported from the swamps of the gulf coast to mountains in Montana.”

  “And I’ve done it twice now. I started here, went there, and am now back. The stuff I read and what Doctor Hibbert said talks about the size of the bridge or the wormhole.”

  “London Fog said something about time travel too,” Tom said.

  “When you were gone shopping, I managed to get a few coherent thoughts from him. Wormholes aren’t a way to time travel, but simply a way to cover far distances with shortcuts.”

  “And Doc thinks somebody invented one?”

  “He thinks the
y invented one and we all got snared in the test.” Hunter drummed his fingers on his holster. “Does the ATF girl know anything about this? The fake ATF girl, I mean.”

  Motioning at Robin, Tom answered. “Doubtful. Seems she was a foot soldier sent with the observation team. But the presence of an observation team suggests an experiment.”

  Robin approached and Hunter ogled at her, olive eyes bright and arched, bushy eyebrows pointed upward. Tom observed her metamorphosis a few hours earlier. Her illness, nausea, and general discomfort disappeared, leaving behind a bright, alert, and attractive woman. Hunter didn’t hide his stare, admiring her new Dalmatian inspired attire.

  Robin half eye-rolled and tilted to Tom. “What’s up?”

  “Big Game Hunter was able to decipher some of what Doc London Fog has been saying.”

  “Really? Because all I hear is he’s upset about his lost phone. I’m fairly easy-going, but even my patience is wearing thin.”

  “He talked about wormholes,” Tom said.

  Hunter brushed his duster aside. “Bridges or wormholes from one area to another area far away. These bridges allow for shortcuts.”

  “Like from Montana to Louisiana.” Robin’s eyes widened. “As I’ve said before, some of my group was assigned more detailed tasks. Jon Little and I were the muscle. But there’s a science genius in our group. At least one and maybe more. Scarlett Williams, not her real name, went to Yale and has a Ph.D. We’d be well served to find her.”

  “How about communication in your groups?” Tom asked.

  “Only the radio each of us had. Mine was busted in the crash. We had beacons or something. I slept through class that day figuring it was stuff I didn’t need. I’m so stupid.”

  Tom placed a hand on her shoulder. “No worries. How about Stutley or the girl Elaine?”

  With a snap of her fingers, Robin nodded along. “Bill Stutley, he’s the brains of his duo. A psychopath probably, but he’s smarter than most everybody except Scarlett.”

  “And I take it he didn’t sleep during ‘beacon’ class?” Tom asked.

  “Probably not. Stutley is the type to soak in information and spin the narrative until it suits him. Should we track him down for some answers?”

  Tom rocked on his heels and gazed at his crew. “I hate to separate again and I like the idea of a mountain hideaway.”

  “He sounds like a guy we oughta find.” Hunter leaned on his right leg, thumping his fingers on his holster. “There are ways to make him talk.”

  “We can decide who goes on the mission,” Tom said.

  With Robin and Hunter at his rear, Tom marched across the station meeting Travis Wayne. Together they bee-lined to Davidson. Genevieve and Dixie joined the huddle. Emerson volunteered for watch duty on the top floor of the station, missing the pow-wow.

  Tom scanned their faces. “Hunter was able to get a few things from Doc. Bottom line is we likely are caught in an experiment.”

  Davidson jabbed a crooked finger at Robin. He wore his clean cargo pants from the boat but added heavy camouflage hunting boots, a ski shirt, and a hunting parka. “I bet she knows exactly what kind of experiment we got swept into.”

  “No, but thanks for wasting time,” Robin spat. “I’ve proven myself and you know as much as me. Which isn’t much, but it was an experiment.”

  Tom raised his hand to calm Robin. “Doc has it pegged as a travel thing with shortcuts to decrease the distance.”

  Davidson scowled. “Don’t tell me you’re talking about wormholes. It’s a bunch of science fiction, mumbo-jumbo. There’s no substance to his half-baked theory.”

  Tom narrowed his eyes. “Like the rest of this nightmare. All of it seems like Fringe or Star Trek. Or Lost.”

  “Or Walking Dead,” Dixie said. “As I said, if we see zombies, the kill shot is to the brain. I’m tired of sitting around and waiting.” She pounded one fisted white ski glove into the palm of the other one. She wore her long blond hair French-braided into pigtails and sported a Santa Claus red jacket and a matching fleece mock turtleneck. Her snow-white ski pants were tucked into fur-topped bulky white boots.

  “The thing is,” Tom continued, “Robin said they each carried radio beacons. She doesn’t know the purpose, but the bald guy who attacked us, does. We’re going after him.”

  Davidson crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I like the mountain hideaway idea much better. What we do is hunker down in a solid base with food, guns, and the high ground.” Davidson favored aggression, but most often favored the ‘opposite of Tom approach’.

  “I agree with some of that.” Tom paced in front of the group. “It is a safe play. But to get home, we go for the bold play and take this bald fellow. We force the issue.”

  “You can’t take all the guns on this excursion,” Davison said. “I want Quickdraw Hunter with me. I’ll keep him in line.”

  “You can’t take all the people who can shoot guns away from our group.” Genevieve busied herself with tying her limp red hair into a ponytail. Unlike Robin and Dixie who chose lighter clothing for quick movement, Genevieve chose a bulky tan jacket, not made for skiing, hunting, or moving. Her shiny boots, more fashionable than functional, caused her to skid when walking.

  “Hunter has some knowledge. He’s a science geek. I’ll leave Hondo here for protection. He’s Mister Outdoors and can handle himself. Between Hondo and Bull and of course, you Davidson, I’d say you guys can fight off an army from the hilltop. Hunter is with me and Robin on the excursion.”

  Travis Wayne gnawed on a hunk of beef jerky and cut his eyes away from Tom. “I’d rather find the two who attacked us.”

  Taking Travis Wayne’s arm, Tom led him to the side. “We could push everyone to track Kojak but with Gus injured, Bull nursing an injury and Miss Fur Coat there, speed is an issue.”

  “Leave Hunter and take me.”

  “I trust you a hundred times more than I trust Hunter. Or Robin. But both are crack shots. With you protecting the squad, I won’t have any worries at home base.”

  “Makes sense. I’ll fiddle with the radio.”

  Inside Tom’s numerous zipped pockets, he packed the lightweight gear – fold-out binoculars, snap lights, a powerful flashlight, a metal tin of matches, a Swiss Army knife with multi-attachments, a roll of twine, jerky, power bars, a fanny pack first aid kit, clips of 9 mm ammo, and shotgun shells. On his belt, he strapped a hunting knife. He slung the strap of the twelve-gauge shotgun over his shoulder.

  Robin secured her bolt action rifle and Hunter selected a .308 short rifle with a scope. He carried the Colt with extra rounds on the gun belt, whereas Robin stuck with her Glock.

  Loading Gus into the makeshift sled, the group made good time to the hill with the country club perch. Travis Wayne fashioned a pulley system and salted the road for smooth sailing to the hideaway. On the ascend, the ornate country club’s three chimneys and tiled roof stretched to the sky. Patches of snow blanketed the roof, but the dull red tile bled through as part of the snow melted. The switchback trail allowed him to observe the backside of the club, where steam rose from a half-moon shaped swimming pool. A steep embankment jutted from the hillside, rising above the treeline. At the top, a decorative fence circled the other side of the clubhouse, creating a fortress. Hugging the road, the group approached the front and Travis Wayne’s lookout tower in the middle of the two-story building. The lighthouse-like narrow room perched in the middle of the complex with four walls of glass.

  The front door insignia showed the shadow of a menacing grizzly bear, one paw in the air. GRIZZLY MOUNTAIN GOLF CLUB was emblazoned in the glass inset of the enormous door. Inside, the army of guns checked every inch of the place before declaring it fit. The group gathered in the dining area where a wall of windows overlooked the eighteenth hole. Light snow fell, but the green summer grass poked through. White tablecloths decorated the dining tables framed with leather chairs featuring heavy oak armrests. Shiny modern columns dotted the large room and the circular chandeliers
hung like Rollo candy.

  “Whoa. Hey guys, check out this room,” Dixie said.

  The crew shuffled her direction. Boots pounded from the carpeted floor to the wood inside another room with tall ceilings and a glass wall overlooking the course. The soothing aroma of leather permeated the room, mixed with the remnants of a fireplace. Massive wooden beams stretched the expanse of the twelve-foot ceiling. The bulky rock fireplace stretched from the floor between two beams to the ceiling.

  “I saw stacks of wood out back.” Travis Wayne made a motion with his thumb and recruited Hunter.

  The buffalo head with colossal horns hung eight feet high on the fireplace and Tom felt it staring and almost heard the snorting nose. On either side of the fireplace, paintings of the signature golf holes adorned the walls. Behind a row of lamps, an Indian blanket hung on the wall. Two rows of leather sofas faced off with square varnished wood blocks serving as coffee tables. The rest of the room contained thick desks, chairs, and ottomans serving as footstools or additional seats. Travis Wayne’s roaring fire blazed, creating warmth in the comfortable gathering area. The gift shop, the kitchen, and a snack stand didn’t provide as much comfort. Upstairs, gigantic men’s and women’s locker rooms dominated the entire floor. Tom discovered and locked a wine cellar in the basement and hid the liquor in the bar.

  Emerson showed his age huffing and puffing uphill and searching the rooms, but he agreed to take the first shift in the lighthouse. Tom updated him on the plans, fighting off a new theory about evil government experiments in the seventies. “I tell you one thing. Tricky Dick Nixon was doing more than Watergate coverups. All the way back to when he was Ike’s VP, Nixon was behind the scenes working on experiments like this. After he had Kennedy killed…”

  “Hold that thought.” Tom nudged away from Emerson and motioned to Davidson. “Bull is cracking a little and Hibbert is cracked like the Liberty Bell. You’re gonna have to hold the group together and keep a level head.”

  With his chin jutted, Davidson swept the parka aside and put hands on his hips. At the train station, he nabbed a new Sig Sauer from the gun stash. “You trust this Pak guy to pull his weight if things get hairy?”