When the tunnel reached a four-way intersection, a teenaged girl with short red hair, multiple face piercings, and garbed in a white lab coat trotted up to Harel. Out of breath, she said, “Sir, sir…”
Harel held out his hands. “There, there, young one, take a breath.”
The girl clasped Harel’s hands. She raised her head, and then appeared mesmerized as she gazed into his eyes. After exhaling a deep breath, she said, “Sorry to alarm you, but female twenty-nine just laid a blue egg.”
Harel took a step back and raised a hand to cover his mouth.
“I’m sorry, Abraham,” Rodenmeyer said.
Tears formed in the corner of Harel’s eyes. “After all this time and effort and we—” He shook his head and waved his hands. Resolute and stern, he said, “Never mind. Feed the blue egg to the children, and Eagan, slaughter twenty-nine immediately.”
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The nightmare awakened Second Lieutenant Jerod Eastaway. Inside his junior officers’ quarters aboard the Republican Expeditionary Force (REF) cruiser Slipstream, he tore the covers off his sweat-soaked body and sat up. The low, steady hum from the Slipstream’s engines sent a subtle, yet reassuring, vibration through his body.
That’s right, were on deployment near the frontier, he thought.
He sighed, wiped away the moist film from his face, and then rubbed his weary blue eyes.
“You called out to your mommy again.”
Eastaway’s vision adjusted to the dim light. One of his two roommates remained fast asleep, while the other one, First Lieutenant Tom Coopark, sat propped up swigging from a bottle of synth-whiskey. Eastaway considered, and then dismissed, the notion of drinking some too. Although the nightmare haunted him every so often, he always opted to cope with the horrible memories through other means.
“You hear me? I said you were calling out to your momma again.”
Rising from his bunk, Eastaway said, “You sure it was my momma I was calling out to Tom?” He reached for his faded olive drab jumpsuit and black boots on a nearby metal crate.
Coopark’s crooked face smirked as he huffed out a chuckle. This led to a belch, and then, “Don’t know what your demons are, and I’m sure more of them will find you, but this helps keep mine away. Want some?”
Eastaway zipped up his jumpsuit and sat on his bunk. Coopark held out the bottle and jiggled it. Returning his attention to yanking on his boots, Eastaway said, “Nothing I can’t handle without the booze.”
“What an idealistic youngster you are, Mr. Faraway. Why are you even here?”
Eastaway stood. His next steps carried him toward the door. “Just hoping to do some good, I guess.”
“Huh. A tea toddling momma’s boy, that’s what you are. This man’s army will recruit just about anyone these days…”
Coopark’s words trailed off as Eastaway exited his quarters. He navigated the Slipstream’s narrow and deserted gray corridors and stairwells with no delays. In less than a minute, he arrived at his destination—a firing range—several decks below.
The night-shift armorer inside the range recognized Eastaway even through half-asleep eyes. He shook his head and then said, “The usual?”
“Serve it up.”
The armorer stepped away from the secure counter area and disappeared into the bowels of the armory. Faint clanking metal noises preceded the swift reappearance of the armorer carrying a black rifle case. He laid it on a table next to the counter and opened it. After withdrawing the Ryker-Tech Arms .37 caliber semi-automatic pulse carbine from within the case, he spot-checked the serial number, mumbling its digits. “Yup, that’s it.”
“Any lane?”
The armorer opened a panel and handed the carbine and three power pack magazines to Eastaway. “Anyone of them that’s open. Which is all of them at this hour.” He laughed, and then said. “I hope the sleeping aid works.”
Eastaway slid the magazines into his jumpsuit’s cargo pockets and then cradled the carbine upright. “Thanks for the medicine.” He found the lane farthest from the entrance and logged into the holographic targeting computer. Having a pre-loaded program already installed, his prep time was minimal.
Before long, blue energy bolts sizzled down the lane at the holographic targets that resembled two violent criminals responsible for a tragedy seared into his childhood memories.
An hour and a half and nearly six hundred bursts of fire later, Eastaway felt as if he’d chased away the demons for now. He returned the weapon to a drowsy armorer and then retraced his steps to his quarters.
Coopark slept flat on his belly, one hand hanging over the side of his bunk clenching the empty bottle, which rested on the floor. With both roommates now asleep, Eastaway undressed in silence. He laid down, exhausted, and soon, sleep’s embrace held him close…
Truth Insurrected:
The Saint Mary Project
Chapter 1
Uncorrelated Observation
The star-filled sky over the northeast heights of Tucson, Arizona, stirred up both fond memories and awful pain within William Harrison. Viewing the infinite horizons above also provoked his sense of insignificance and rising uselessness.
As he sat inside his parked black Dodge Charger, he sighed, and looked through a pair of night-vision binoculars at a house down the street. The couple inside the house had drawn the curtains and turned out the lights an hour ago. This was the third illicit liaison Harrison had observed between this particular man and woman. Although both were married, neither one of their spouses were anywhere near this place.
Harrison had already gathered plenty of photographic evidence of their affair and looked forward to closing this case very soon. The husband, who had contracted him to investigate the rumored relationship, would be devastated for sure, but at least he would know the truth. Harrison could then move on to another case, another boring case. Life as a private investigator paid the bills, but offered little other reward.
After lowering the driver-side window and opening the sunroof, Harrison lit up a cigarette. The smoke floated skyward, carrying Harrison’s gaze with it. As the smoke dissipated above him, he caught a glimpse of something out of the ordinary.
Out of confusion, and to clear his eyes of smoke, he blinked several times. More focused now, he saw the object again. His eyes had not played tricks on him. A radiant sphere high overhead darted back and forth, and then halted its erratic movement in a single abrupt stop. These maneuvers repeated several times. Harrison sat mesmerized, mouth agape, having never observed anything like this before.
The dangling cigarette in his hand scorched his middle finger. He cursed under his breath, and then dropped the cigarette onto the center console. It rolled off and lodged beyond his reach next to the leather seat.
“Damn it,” Harrison said, pushing the door open. He exited the car and stood up, feeling his right thigh twinge with pain. The old injury still ached. After struggling to recover the smoldering cigarette between the seat and console, he tossed it onto the street and squished it under his boot.
Without hesitation, Harrison searched the sky for the object again. He found it right where he had observed it before, zigzagging back and forth. The sphere stopped for a few seconds, and then it flew in a straight line toward the northwest at an incalculable speed. The horizon consumed the object and it disappeared into the darkness.
While still standing in the street, Harrison tried to grasp what he had just witnessed. He searched for reasonable explanations, but they evaded him. None of them made sense.
After a few moments, headlights and a honking horn jerked his attention back to his terrestrial surroundings. When he stepped aside to allow the car to pass, embarrassment engulfed him. The vehicle’s occupants were the adulterous couple from the house down the street.
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Eighty miles or so north of Las Vegas, Nevada, endless sagebrush, stilled by daytime heat, rustled from the nocturnal movement of small creatures gathering, hunting, and exploring. Under a darken
ed sky, such rituals resumed as usual. Stealth, difficult in the revealing rays of a loitering sun, surrounded the area’s inhabitants after the light faded, succumbing to Earth’s ancient rhythms.
They moved, walking, crawling, slithering, hopping, flying, running. They mingled, roaming together among the endless acres of brush and sand. Occasionally, flash floods or tremors from live fire exercises at Yucca Flats disturbed these efforts. On July 7, however, the weather was clear, and the tremors did not come from underground. They rattled across the desert plain, scattering most critters to the safety of their dens.
Headlights cut through the heavy shroud, beams scanning erratically as the vehicles hobbled over rocky trails. Thick tires tore at the ground and sent plumes of gravel and dust through the air. Each truck appeared similar to a Chevrolet Suburban, but with an extra set of rear wheels and an extended roof. The vehicles sported dark-tinted windows, and their navy-blue exterior lacked markings or trim of any kind. A single dish antenna, about thirty inches in diameter, stood above the center of each cab.
One driver swerved his vehicle around a boulder that he spotted almost too late. He swore to himself, recovered, and then rejoined the formation of four other trucks just ahead of him. Preoccupied with the maneuver, he unknowingly steered into the path of an escaping jackrabbit. Confused, the animal froze in the sudden wash of light from the headlamps. Nothing in its experience or nature helped it to understand this bizarre intrusion into its environment. The light raced overhead and the rabbit vanished, trampled between the spinning heat of the tire tread and the coarse ground.
The caravan pressed onward, advancing with deliberate haste over familiar terrain. Then, as they approached their destination, a series of small hills and outcroppings, the tight formation slowed and methodically scattered. The lead vehicle stopped at the base of the first hill, and the others continued up the sandy slope. One parked at the crest, while the remaining trucks headed for positions on and around the adjoining hills. In unison, the headlights dimmed into darkness. Now motionless, the vehicles disappeared into the desert landscape.
Nearby, a restless coyote yelped at a million stars arched overhead in the black, cloudless sky, then trotted away to hunt mice. The distant glow of Las Vegas, some eighty miles to the southeast, appeared to be the only evidence of man.
Three men occupied the truck at the top of the first hill. One sat in the driver’s seat, and the other two sat next to each other in front of a console full of monitors and humming electronic equipment. They were military, but their black jumpsuits bore no service insignia or ranks.
The driver, Airman Bresch, reached into a duffel bag and removed a pair of night-vision binoculars. From his vantage point, he possessed an unobstructed view to the south for twenty miles. He raised the binoculars and peered across the vacant stretch of desert. Seeing nothing unusual, he lowered the glasses and set them on the seat. A green digital display from the two-way radio in the dashboard illuminated the cab. In the thin light, he glanced at the M-16 rifle mounted next to the glove box.
Lethal force authorized, Bresch thought.
Bresch lifted the radio’s microphone, paused for the end of another unit’s broadcast, and said, “Tango Charlie twelve, status is Oscar.” He set the microphone on the dashboard and settled back. This will be interesting, he thought. His right hand found the binoculars again. Slowly, methodically, he proceeded to do his job, surveying the sage and scrub brush for intruders.
In the passenger compartment behind the driver, two air traffic controllers worked over a panel of screens and indicator lights. Both perused the planned flight profile for the experimental aircraft under test tonight. They wore headsets, although only one of them responded to the radio traffic. “Confirm one target signal, quadrant zero, altitude zero. Standing by for resumption of countdown.” They stopped their various movements and waited for the response.
“All stations, central control is go for countdown resumption at 2230 hours. This is not a scrub; we are in alpha hold only. Twelve minutes, mark, to countdown with T-minus eight and twenty. Commercial traffic is minimal. Restricted space is clear.”
Hearing this, the two technicians removed their headsets. One of them, an air force lieutenant, clicked a brown knob to “cabin audio.” He looked at his partner and said, “Sergeant Gonzales, when we acquire the target, keep a close eye on its downrange altitude. I’ll monitor flight path deviation.”
“Yes, sir.”
“After reaching operational altitude, the experimental is not to fall below five thousand feet. Remember, its signal will be intermittent at times, so call out your figures early.”
“Yes, sir,” Sergeant Gonzales said.
The lieutenant read a checklist mounted on a panel above his position in the vehicle. Next to the panel, a six-inch computer screen displayed meteorological data transmitted from Nellis Air Force Base.
After several quiet minutes, Gonzales broke the silence. “Excuse me, Lieutenant? Sir, at the briefing earlier tonight, Colonel Stone said this would be our last field operation with the experimental.”
The lieutenant nodded.
“So, I was wondering, will our unit help with the flight testing of the prototypes?”
Holding his breath, he hoped his question was not out of line. Discipline, his superiors informed him, represented the cornerstone of his unit’s success. Sergeant Eric Filipe Gonzales had journeyed a long way from the barrios of East Los Angeles, and preferred not to compromise his standing in the air force, but there were some personal matters that bothered him.
“Our performance is excellent so far, but orders haven’t been issued yet for the next cycle.” The lieutenant ran a thumbnail along the underside of his narrowly trimmed mustache. His tone eased, sounding more conversational than official. “Frankly, I’d like to be rotated out, maybe to Wright-Pat, or even Edwards. This place is turning into a circus. We’re eighty miles from Vegas, in the middle of the fucking desert, and people keep broadcasting their television shows on our front porch. It’s getting to where even my dog knows what Area 51 is. I’m surprised the operations continue.”
Unaccustomed to speaking so plainly, the lieutenant immediately wished to replace his comments with silence. His back stiffened, and he apologized to the sergeant for sounding overwrought. “I shouldn’t let myself get so worked up; Colonel Stone’s a good commander. He’ll make sure things work out.” He flicked his mustache again while finally answering the sergeant’s question: “They tell me the prototypes won’t be tested again until December. Scuttlebutt says it’s due to power plant, or power cell, problems, something like that. Been an ongoing problem for years. Anyway, we’ll probably have routine traffic-control assignments until then. My guess is they’re concerned about curiosity seekers. Why do you ask?”
“My wife and I just had a baby, sir. Our first.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She doesn’t say it, sir, but I know she’d like me to have a regular schedule. These late nights aren’t too convenient.”
“I see.”
“Fortunately, Megan is very patient.”
The lieutenant inspected the meteorological display. Light winds drifting across the test area were subsiding. “Good.”
“Sometimes I wish I could talk to her about what I do, but when I think about it, it’s not always that clear to me what work I’m involved in.”
“I wonder myself sometimes. It’s best that we don’t know.”
“Yes, sir. The military has its reasons.”
“On that, Sergeant, there is no question.”
<> <>
Eighty miles away, cars and people packed the Las Vegas strip. The warm summer nights and allure of quick cash always invited untold numbers into the city to trade workaday customs for a roll of the dice, a draw of the cards, or the drop of a coin.
This night was no different from any other. Gamblers lost big. But the sound of jackpots, music, laughter, and the haphazard choreography of wheels, lights, and thousands of
people overcame any hint of defeat.
Downtown, at the corner of Fremont and Clark, a motorcycle cop, Nick Ridley, watched some of those people walk and drive past him. For a Saturday night, the calls were unusually light, so he parked in a highly visible location to deter potential violators.
Ridley found the job interesting enough, and had earned a reputation as a reliable, if intellectual, cop. One of the few patrol officers who held a master’s degree in psychology, Ridley understood how to talk to people, and by doing so, controlled situations better. To some of his law enforcement colleagues, he stood out as the “shrink” whose streetwise therapy sessions made him useful at times. Already a senior patrol officer, most assumed Ridley would earn his sergeant’s stripes within one or two years more.
At the moment, he checked his watch. Ten forty-five. His shift ended at eleven, and his much-needed two-week Lake Havasu vacation started immediately afterward. Ridley turned on the motorcycle’s ignition and drove to the station for debriefing. With no radio traffic, he proceeded to broadcast his status. “Mary-two-three.”
“Mary-two-thr—”
Something interrupted the response.
Ridley waited for the dispatcher to continue, but nothing happened. “Mary-two-three,” he said again.
This time, a burst of static and rapid clicking replied.
Weird, Ridley thought.
The interference ended after several seconds, followed by the dispatcher’s voice. “Three, clear to transmit.”
“Mary-two-three, ten-nineteen to yours.”
“Ten-four.”
Ridley made a note to report the motorcycle’s radio malfunction to the watch commander. He proceeded along Clark Street and drove the eight blocks to the station. Similar to hundreds of times in the last three years, he entered the underground parking structure and cruised into one of the spaces reserved for patrol vehicles.
Removing his helmet, he heard familiar voices echoing around the gray cinder-block structure. He could not hear exactly what the other officers discussed, but something felt out of place. Instead of hearing the usual radio traffic from the dispatch speakers mounted along the walls of the parking structure, he heard no traffic at all. Although it was a slow night, during shift change, units regularly called in their on- or off-duty status.
War Torrent Page 12
