by Jim Roberts
There had been no sign of caribou for hours, but that hardly mattered to the hunter. He could wait as long as was needed. He’d been taught patience from the best.
With the terrain offering little cover, Danny crouched down behind a copse of bramble and pulled his parka hood over his head. To the naked eye, his deer skin jacket would simply resemble that of a crouching animal. As his mentors had taught him, Danny held his bow aloft, creating the illusion of antlers.
With the disguise complete, he waited.
Time passed as unnoticed to the hunter. The sun, low as always this time of year, soon vanished in the haze of the northern sky. It slowly grew colder and colder.
Despite this, Danny remained silent and still.
Then he saw it.
A caribou.
Alone, cut off from the herd, it ambled slowly across the tundra, its magnificent head bent low as it ate bits of grass from the cold ground.
Danny inched his way forward, lurching his body to and fro as he pretended to graze. To the animal, he would resemble a small, friendly caribou—nothing to be concerned about.
Slowly, ever so slowly, Danny closed the distance between his prey. The caribou raised its head as it spotted the approaching guest into its feeding area. Danny felt his heart begin to pound. The thrill of the hunt was running wild within him.
Focus.
As soon as Danny judged the distance to be right, he pulled down the bow, stood to one knee and knocked the arrow.
The animal, finally seeing through the ruse, turned on its heel to run.
Too late.
With one smooth action, the arrow was loosed toward the caribou. A feeling of pride surged through Danny’s body as he watched his shaft slam into the animal, four inches below center mass. The caribou let out a squeal as it stumbled from the arrow’s sting. Danny instantly readied another arrow. As the animal fumbled to get back to its feet, Danny fired the next arrow, hitting the caribou square in the lung. The thrashing slowed as the animal drew closer to death.
Danny’s hunting blade was in his hand as he approached. The caribou was dying, but it could still feel. Danny knelt down by the animal’s head and said, “To the animal spirits of old, I thank you for this gift you have given me this day.”
The prayer finished, Danny brought the blade across the caribou’s neck in a quick, fluid motion. Blood, dark and thick, sprayed out onto the tundra. The light in the black eyes of the animal flickered and died away.
As was the tradition of his ancestors, Danny continued to cut—removing the head completely so as to prevent further suffering to the caribou’s soul.
He went about the task of butchering the animal, right there. Starting at the midpoint of the front leg, he sliced across the animal’s torso, pulling the hide with him as he went. He then worked the knife up the neck between the shoulder blades, yanking the hide with it. As he tugged, his manner grew more vicious. There was an immediate need to reach the meat within this animal and the hunter could wait no more.
Plunging his knife into the stomach, Danny pulled out the green mulched contents and stuffed a handful into his mouth, chewing with ravenous lust. With his blade, he snapped off one of the thick leg bones and sucked the marrow into his mouth, as was the Inuit ceremonial tradition.
For a time after, he fed, ripping apart the animal with his bare hands, feasting on its body. He did not notice night falling, faster than was possible. His gorging was only halted when his hunting instincts told him another animal was close. Covered in the caribou’s dark blood, Danny grabbed the bow and immediately knocked an arrow.
Scanning the tundra around him, he saw no one.
Nothing.
Just the grass blowing in the breeze.
“Danny.”
The hunter spun around, bowstring pulled taught.
An Inuit man stood in front of him. He was dressed just as he was, in a deerskin jacket with mitts. His face was aged but the dark almond eyes were unmistakable.
“Father!” Danny said, disbelieving.
“Son,” the man spoke, “My only son.”
Danny gripped the bow, disbelieving what he saw in front of him.
Peter Callbeck, his own father.
Alive.
His father made no sign of movement. When he spoke, it was as if the words were coming from far away.
“You are a hunter unparalleled in this world, my son. The strength of our ancestors flows in your blood, as sure as my own. Soon, you shall face a new world…one where you will lead armies against your enemies.”
Blood dripped from Danny’s chin, as he stood rooted to the earth, unable to fathom what was happening.
“Father, I don’t understand…”
“Look up son, to the stars.”
Danny raised his eyes. Across the heavens, the stars stretched ever on.
“That set of stars there, son. Do you know them?”
“Orion. The constellation Orion.”
“Yes.” His father was pleased. “Named after the greatest hunter. Soon, you shall embrace this name. You shall hunt your enemies, slaughtering them as so much caribou. Your name will echo in the heavens.”
“But…I don’t…that’s not me, father. You always taught me to hunt with respect…to take only what I need.”
“I was wrong. You are destined for so much more, my son. War is your future. You will embrace it.”
The darkened landscape around Danny seemed to glow with a red, unworldly hue. Thick, viscous blood bubbled up from the soil…
…the blood of his enemies.
The visage of his father said, “You are my son. You will honor my wishes!”
“No…this…this isn’t real. My father is dead, you aren’t him!”
The land broke apart. Blood sprayed up from cracks in the ground like geysers, splashing across his father’s face.
“Embrace it, my son. Embrace your future…”
The world cracked and rolled, breaking apart until everything shattered into the nothingness of dreams…
“God damn it, what happened Cicero?”
Tiberius stepped back as the monitor station went haywire. The dozen screens in the Titan’s R&D lab—which till recently had been showing steady wavelength readings of the hippocampus region of the subject’s brain—started to display complete gibberish.
Tiberius looked up at the enclosure in front of him. Inside, various pieces of advanced Olympus technology were spread throughout the room, in the center of which was the prone body of its only occupant. The man’s body—suspended in the air by dozens of ligatures—was connected to a multitude of cords, plugs, and other gruesome devices penetrating his flesh. Cables linking the man to the mainframes stuck out from parts of his spinal cord. Pumped full of steroids to keep him pliable, the man was covered with various neural webbings and covers. The stump that had been his left arm had been replaced by an artificial bionic enhancement.
“He’s rejecting it again, my Lord,” came a deep voice beside the Olympus Legate. “His cerebral cortex is overstimulated, as I feared. I need to reduce the Stream flux, or he will stroke like the others.”
Cicero, Elder Architectus of the Olympia Brotherhood reached forward to shut down the lab stations.
Tiberius’s hand flung out to stop the Elder. “No. He can take more. Continue!”
Cicero pulled his hand away sharply from the Legatus. The old scientist looked exhausted. His slicked back white hair and beard, normally kept immaculately groomed, were in dire need of a trim. His narrow, barely visible eyes were surrounded by dark circles and his breath reeked of coffee. The old man was in no mood to be lectured by the Olympus Legate.
“The patient will continue to reject the Stream, just like all the other test subjects.” Cicero’s voice contained a hint of menace. Few in Olympus had the nerve to say no to an Elder Architectus. “The Code of War must be complete before we can continue any further.”
“No,” Tiberius’s voice was tinged with warning, “Orion must be made a
ctive as soon as possible.”
Cicero shook his head as he walked out from the monitoring station to approach the glass enclosure where patient Orion was held.
“This man has managed to synthesize more of the Stream than any other test subject we have ever had. I can’t explain it. He is a scientific oddity. If we push him like you want, his link to the Stream will be weaker for it.”
Tiberius swore quietly to himself. The impassive soldier, normally quite tolerant of pressure, had been feeling more of his share of it lately. Ever since arriving on board the Titan early this morning, he’d been pushing the Elder hard to finish the initial tests of the Orion project—Tiberius’s ace in the hole to finally clinch the nomination for succession. He hadn’t realized until the dinner yesterday how close he was to losing his position to the maggot scum, Titus.
The Imperator was sick. Very sick.
It wouldn’t be long before the man passed and when he did, Tiberius would be damned if Titus remained Secondus of Olympia.
This project would prove to the Imperator that he, Tiberius, was worthy of the succession.
He just needed more time…
…time for Orion to reach his full potential.
Tiberius let out a heavy breath and nodded, “All right, shut him down. We’ll continue in the morning.”
“His brain is far too overstimulated. He needs at least twenty-four hours rest—”
“The morning, Elder. Now shut it down and leave me with him.”
The wizened bearer of the great scientific secrets of the Olympia Brotherhood opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. Nodding, he turned off the consoles and picked up his suit jacket. Putting it on, he said, “Your ambition is getting the better of you, Tiberius. Even when you were my pupil, I knew you were uniquely gifted to lead Olympus. Don’t prove me wrong by rushing this project. Callbeck needs time. The Stream can make this man a force beyond reckoning. Don’t throw that away on petty malice.”
“Leave,” Tiberius growled, “Now.”
Cicero sighed angrily but did as he was asked. The sliding doors of the Titan lab area opened and the old Olympus Elder was gone.
Old fool.
But curse the old man, he was right. Tiberius’s year-long project could become a defining force for Olympus. Ever since the discovery that Leo Lennox—the last of the Honorius bloodline—was not only alive but actively working against Olympus, the Imperator couldn’t shut up about how much he wanted the man found.
Orion could make that possible. The power that they were harnessing here could create a warrior capable of stalking any prey on any location around the planet. Orion could hunt Lennox and his pathetic group of Vagabonds with ease.
The success of Orion would elevate Tiberius in the eyes of the Imperator, securing his succession within Olympus.
But only if he could break through the mind of this man. Callbeck was special, there was no doubt about it. Tiberius had long pondered why he had accepted the Stream far better than any Centurion recruits in the past. Perhaps his time wearing the Whisper suit had conditioned his body. Perhaps some sort of defect in his genetic makeup…
Whatever the case, Callbeck was special to Tiberius. As the Legate watched the man hanging inside the enclosure like a forgotten corpse, he swore he would break Callbeck, no matter what it took.
He just had to do it before Titus delivered his drone army to the Imperator.
Chapter 9
Home Again, Home Again…
The Cottage, Rosaryville, Maryland, October 4th
AS JOE stepped off the Spirit Walker and onto the Cottage parade square, he noted the hectic state of operations around the Peacemaker HQ. It was just after midnight, but the compound lights shone brightly as several squads of Peacemakers—fully armed with combat gear and rifles—mustered in preparation to leave for Venezuela. The squad leaders went about checking equipment and uniforms before ordering the men into buses that would take them to Joint Base Andrews, a few minutes’ drive north of the Cottage. From there, C-2 Greyhound transport planes would head to Florida for a refueling stop before continuing on to Carrier Strike Group 11 in the Caribbean Ocean.
Walsh—leaning on his cane—moved past Joe in a huff. “Come on, Sergeant. That little trek to pick you up cost us valuable time and thirty grand in jet fuel. Try and make it worth the cost.”
Joe sighed and followed after the General. Behind him, Jade exited the craft, along with Agrippina and her two security guards. The assassin was allowed to walk with her arms free but was closely watched by her escort.
It had been a long series of flights for Joe; first the helicopter flight back to Riley Air Base and then loading up onto the Spirit Walker for the final trip home. Walsh had wanted to head directly to the Caribbean Sea, but there was something the General needed to take care of at the Cottage before they left.
As they crossed the square toward the Cottage Command building, Jade asked Joe, “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing…just, that there’s a long way to go. I hope I’m ready for this.”
He felt Jade’s hand touch his. “You are. Trust the General, he knows what he’s doing.”
“I hope so,” Joe said, casting a baleful look at the raven haired assassin walking on his left.
As they entered the Command building, a familiar voice greeted Joe.
“Tovarisch! Where in hell have you been, my friend?” Krieger’s voice boomed. The brawny former mercenary strode over to clap Joe full on the shoulders. A smile a mile long stretched across the Russian’s face.
“Good to see you too, big guy,” Joe replied, glad to see his pal.
“It has been so boring without you, Joe. Nothing to blow up for a month! Maybe now we can kick some Centurion butt, da?”
“Braddock!” another familiar voice called to Joe, in a mild British accent.
Brick Reynolds joined the group, all business as usual.
“Lieutenant.” Joe greeted his new superior
“It’s been a while. You look…good.”
The small compliment may as well have been a marriage proposal from the stern officer. Joe noted that Brick’s Cockey accent was growing far less pronounced these days—a result of spending so much time in America.
Joe nodded to the Lieutenant. “Thanks, Brick.”
The lieutenant nodded to Masters, “Good to see you too, Jade.”
Krieger beamed, “I feel tears coming on. Together again, yes?”
Joe rolled his eyes, “Where’s Rourke?”
“Last I saw, he was helping load one of the C-2’s,” Brick answered, “Looks like you have some catching up to do in your Unit, Sergeant.”
“Yessir,” Joe replied. Same old Brick.
“We’ll be heading out within the hour.” Brick checked his watch, “It’s a four-hour flight to MacDill airbase in Florida and from there another two to the Carrier Group. Get your shit stowed. A lot’s changed in the month since you’ve been gone, Braddock. You’ve got some catching up to do.”
GENERAL JACKSON Walsh sat in the chair behind the desk of his makeshift office, hastily set up for him after the Olympus Assassin had made a complete ruin of the old one. He’d finished his meeting with Doctor Cairncross, who had pretty much taken over the entirety of the R&D lab with his own personnel. While Walsh and his team made the trek to Venezuela, Cairncross would stay here and continue his research into the Code disc.
Going over some last minute paperwork before he caught his own plane, Walsh was now fairly confident that his ducks were all in a row before he left the base.
A knock came at the door.
“Come in!”
Walsh didn’t immediately raise his eyes, but when he did, they rested upon the stoic form of Clive Rourke, the Peacemaker’s resident former Frogman.
“General, you wanted to speak to me?”
Walsh shut the laptop and said, “Yes, of course, Rourke. Have a seat.”
Rourke stepped into the office and closed the door behin
d him. As he sat down, Walsh pulled out a manila folder and tossed it on the table.
“I just heard back from the Navy about your request for reassignment back to the SEALs.”
Rourke’s normally stoic face lit up. “Yes, General. What’s their answer?”
Walsh slid the manila file to Rourke, “I’m sorry, but they’ve turned you down.”
Rourke’s eyes flared in disbelief “What? They can’t…” The Mohawk-sporting soldier opened the file and read the contents. His face turned ashen as he studied the paper.
“The Navy has a long memory, son,” Walsh said, quietly, “That incident…it made you a lot of enemies. I’m sorry, but unless you wish to resign, this is still your home.”
“This…can’t be…” Rourke's hands trembled as he set the file back on the desk.
Walsh stood up. “Look, there're more important things right now than for me to sit here blowin’ sunshine up your ass. We’re heading into a fight and I need you, more than ever.”
“Sir, this Unit doesn’t want me. I need the SEALs, I need my brothers…”
“You’re a Peacemaker now, Rourke. The SEALs don’t want you. This isn’t a democracy. You need to make the best of what you have, or feel free to hit the road, am I understood?”
Rourke’s eyes hardened, “Y…yessir, General.”
“Good. You’re a good soldier, Rourke. What happened to you was a tragedy. But all a man can do is move on from his past and make a fresh go of it.”
Rourke took a breath and nodded, “I understand, sir. Sorry for the outburst, sir.”
“It’s fine. Dismissed.”
Rourke saluted before turning on his heel and leaving the office. Just as Walsh was getting back to his work, another knock came at the door.
“Enter!”
Jade Masters opened the office door. “General, can I have a moment?”
“Of course, Masters, I was going to call you in here myself in a minute. Sit down.”
