Redemption: Area 51, #10

by Bob Mayer

“A survivor, then?” Turcotte asked.

  “Not standing around,” Mickell said. “A chopper took off not far away from the commo vans, right after I saw you departing. No clue who that was, although I assume it was whoever gassed us. Lucky they didn’t kill us.”

  “This doesn’t make sense,” Turcotte said.

  “Why was someone trying to ambush you?” Mickell asked.

  “No idea,” Turcotte said. “Seems like we’ve made a bunch of enemies saving mankind from the Airlia.”

  Yakov spoke up. “The bodies. Male? Female?”

  “Two men,” Mickell said.

  “Ah! Predatel’stvo,” Yakov said.

  “Translate,” Turcotte said to him.

  “Betrayal,” Yakov said. “Leahy. We just witnessed the talon approaching the mothership taken out at Mrs. Parrish’s behest by a Tesla weapon. Who is the Tesla expert? Leahy was working for Mrs. Parrish all along.”

  “Would make sense,” Mickell said, indicating for Yakov to get him another. “I figured you needed my help, given everything going on, and couldn’t get a hold of you, so I figured you came here.” He gave a half-grin. “We did enough missions together to know how the other would react. So I sent my cadre back to Bragg and hopped a 141 flight to Carson. Then got my buddy to fly me here. And that aint all that made me think you needed help.”

  Yakov handed him another beer. He’d brought an extra, which he gave to Turcotte who nodded his thanks and opened it.

  “What else?” Turcotte prompted.

  Mickell sighed. “Kelly Reynolds is dead.”

  Turcotte grunted as if hit in the chest. “How?”

  “Sniper at Tripler while she was on the balcony,” Mickell said. “No clue who did it. People in Hawaii are worried about North Korea still having a nuke or two left and an ICBM to launch. A murder isn’t going to get much attention.”

  “Mrs. Parrish,” Turcotte said, the anger evident in his voice. “She’s behind it. She’s closing things out. A Goddamn Myrddin. The question is why? What’s her long game? I know she wants the Fynbar for the regeneration tube. And now to get to Mars quickly, since it looks like we got some Airlia alive there. But why kill Quinn and Kincaid and Kelly? They were no threat to her.”

  “Ruthlessness,” Yakov said. “Kill your enemies before they can even know they are your enemies.”

  “There’s more,” Mickell said.

  “Who else is dead?” Turcotte demanded, but he was still processing the tally. “Geez. Kelly. She’s the one who opened this thing up at the very beginning. She suffered so much on Easter Island.”

  Mickell waited, then spoke. “I don’t know if this important or not, but the United Nations Undersecretary for the Alien Oversight Committee killed himself. Jumped out a window.”

  “Kaong?” Yakov said. “Why?”

  Mickell responded. “It might have something to do with the fact that the peacekeeping force at Area 51 was attacked and the place taken over by some mercenary force.”

  “Mrs. Parrish’s people,” Yakov said. “We met her there when we returned.”

  “Why I was coming to you at Camp Rowe,” Turcotte added.

  “Kaong left a note,” Mickell said. “Said he was full of despair over the lack of common purpose in humanity. Thing is, he jumped while his young kid was sleeping down the hall. It smells.”

  Turcotte frowned. “Probably Parrish. She’s got her fingers everywhere. I can see her taking Kaong out to, hell, I don’t know. I don’t know what her end game is.”

  “What’s the government going to do about Area 51?” Yakov asked.

  “The government doesn’t give a shit about Area 51,” Mickell said. “The government got a lot bigger problems to deal with. Israel nuking Iran isn’t going to blow over. Russia is rattling its nuclear saber. The Turks are wiping out the Kurds. India and Pakistan have called out their reserves and both have deployed their nuclear arsenals. The US is at Defcon One.”

  “Why’d you come here?” Turcotte asked Mickell. “To bring the good news?”

  “Because I think what you’ve been doing is more important than anything else I could be doing. The Special Warfare Center isn’t likely to be processing new students any time soon.”

  “Even at Defcon One?” Turcotte asked.

  “Especially at Defcon One,” Mickell said.

  Turcotte sat down across from the Colonel. “Why would Mrs. Parrish want Area 51? We’re not there. The place has been stripped. What is she up to?”

  Mickell drained his beer. He crushed it in his hands and put it aside. “I don’t know, Mike. I’ve served a long time. Should’ve retired long ago. I hung around because I thought my expertise could save some lives. Now? Who is the enemy? Who is the good guy? It’s not aliens any more. It’s not even really countries. It’s factions and corporations and crazies. Honestly, I’m AWOL. I had no orders to go to Carson and certainly no orders to come here. But you’ve been ahead on all of this stuff. But now I’m telling you what’s happening. And that worries me.”

  Yakov went and got both of them another beer and brought the bottle of vodka to the table. He sat down and slid the beers across the coffee table. “Gentlemen, I think we are in the, what do you call it, the eye of the storm. Much happening all around us, yet here, let us enjoy some moments of peace.”

  Turcotte shook his head. “Too many dead.” He held up the beer. “To Kelly Reynolds who followed her story to the very end.”

  “To Kelly Reynolds,” Mickell and Yakov intoned.

  “And she will be revenged,” Turcotte added. “Along with Quinn and Kincaid.”

  “Yes,” Yakov said.

  “Whatever you need,” Mickell added.

  The flexpad buzzed.

  “You gotta be shitting me,” Turcotte muttered. “Fuck her.”

  “Mrs. Parrish,” Yakov informed a puzzled Colonel Mickell.

  It kept buzzing inside the briefcase. After twenty seconds it finally ceased.

  “Any longer and I was going to smash it,” Turcotte said. He stood. “Actually, I think I’m going to anyway.”

  As he reached for the briefcase his hand paused as a voice came out of it. “Major Turcotte. I would have appreciated you answering, but seeing as you desire to act irrationally, I must take the initiative. You need to listen to what I have to say.”

  Turcotte ripped the bag open and pulled out the flexpad. “Fuck you,” he said to Mrs. Parrish’s image.

  She shook her head sadly. “ You do realize every electronic device works two ways, do you not? That I’ve been able to monitor everything the three of you have been saying?”

  Turcotte lifted the flexpad to smash it.

  “I wouldn’t do that,” Mrs. Parrish hurriedly said. “You need to listen for just a minute. Then you can destroy my flexpad.”

  Turcotte dropped it on the table with a solid thud. “You’re a murderer. You killed our friends.”

  “Your vision is too narrow, Major. Which is surprising given your actions in the name of mankind. You were certainly seeing the bigger picture then.”

  “You killed my friends.”

  “You’ve mentioned that and I’m afraid you’ve been misled,” Mrs. Parrish said. “I assume, based on the discussion you were having, that you are referring to Misters Quinn and Kincaid and Ms. Reynolds? First, I had nothing to do with the explosion that killed Quinn and Kincaid. Perhaps focus on the person who was with them and somehow miraculously survived: Professor Leahy. Where is she now? How did she get away? Perhaps on the mysterious helicopter that gassed your friend?

  “As far as Ms. Reynolds, I have no idea why someone would shoot her. I have no connection to her. She doesn’t appear at all in my projections. Frankly, neither did Quinn or Kincaid.”

  “You’re lying,” Turcotte said. “What about Kaong?”

  “Kaong gave me permission to land at Area 51. Kaong was not my enemy.”

  Turcotte wasn’t buying it. “Didn’t you have the talon shot down? With a Tesla gun?”

&nb
sp; “I did give that order,” Mrs. Parrish said. “I employed Professor Leahy in the past. She built a Tesla cannon for me at Wardenclyffe. Actually, rebuilt the one Tesla used to shoot down a Swarm scout ship in 1908. She departed my employ without notice and took the proprietary data with her several years ago. I still control Wardenclyffe. Fortunately for all of us.”

  “You’re lying,” Turcotte said.

  “You’re shadow boxing, Major Turcotte,” Mrs. Parrish said. “You don’t know who your real enemies are.”

  Turcotte glanced over at Yakov. The Russian spread his hands helplessly.

  “I’ve made my desires very plain,” Mrs. Parrish said. “I made you a very generous offer. And I—“

  “Why did you take over Area 51?” Turcotte demanded.

  “Ah, good question,” Mrs. Parrish said. “Which brings us to matters at hand.”

  Yakov spoke up. “Did you kill the UN peacekeeping forces at Area 51? Colonel Rennie and his men?”

  “I offered them a way out,” Mrs. Parrish said. “They chose to flee. They’re on their own now, but I have no designs to track them down. That would be petty, and I am not a petty person. Major Turcotte, you have to understand I do not waste time or energy on people or things that are not part of the goal.”

  “Which is?” Turcotte demanded.

  “The same as yours,” Mrs. Parrish said. “The survival of mankind.”

  PRIVATE ISLAND, PUGET SOUND

  The Chemist stared at the video display with the intensity of a sex addict watching porn. He’d rather be involved in what was happening on the screen. But he also liked staying alive.

  It was difficult to see much because of the mist being generated by the ‘power wash’ on the top of the steam that had been generated by the heating prior to the start.

  “Chemical reactions generally go faster at increased temperatures,” the Chemist informed the Engineer. “Not too hot though.”

  The Engineer nodded as if he cared. He did, about getting through the door, but the banter he could live without.

  Four men were visible as masked and suited forms. Three were holding on to a large power wash hose of special composition. The Engineer followed the Chemist’s instructions precisely, not just because of the desire to finish the task as quickly as possible, but he’d seen Breaking Bad and knew the slightest mistake with acid could be bad, with a capital B.

  “How will we know when they’re through the platinum?” the Engineer asked.

  “We’ll know,” the Chemist said confidently and with great superiority, which, given the Engineer’s stream of thought, reminded him of a mid-series Walter White; the one prone to over-confidence.

  The mist became a fog of indeterminate composition. The figures could barely be made out. The Chemist was checking the stopwatch on his phone. “Amazing how much platinum was utilized in—“

  One of the figures collapsed. The man at the machine slammed down on the shut off, as the other two toppled over. The surviving man turned to the camera waving his arms, screaming something inaudible.

  “Should we get him?” the Engineer asked.

  “We have to let the gasses dissipate,” the Chemist said. “The fans we set up are pulling it out. It won’t take too long.”

  It was too long for the last man as he went down. When the space in front of the vault was clear, the Chemist and Engineer entered. There was no doubt the four were dead, but the Chemist didn’t spare them a glance. He went to the door.

  “Very good. Now we’re into steel. We have to switch acids, but it will go faster.” He turned and seemed to notice the bodies. “You have more men, right? We need six. The next mixture is heavier. Five on the tube, one on the machine.”

  “Yeah,” the Engineer said. “Let me get the bodies out first, if that’s okay with you?”

  The Engineer called in some of his men, as the Chemist reloaded the power washer.

  More new recruits were brought in, uncomfortable in their protective gear. The Engineer hushed some half-hearted objections with an easy promise of triple the outrageous amount they’d originally been offered.

  Greed ruled, the Chemist and Engineer went back to their safe observation post, and the work started up.

  “It’s a nitric acid slurry,” the Chemist said. “It eats the iron in the steel. A slight exposure to a diluted form will turn your skin orange.” He giggled. “We played a trick on our professor one time.” He shifted to serious just as fast. “The sand helps roughen the surface giving a faster etch rate.”

  The room was fading out faster than the previous time.

  “What’s the byproducts?” the Engineer asked.

  “Hydrogen and heat. Mostly. The door is massive enough to be a good heat sink. And there’s some other toxic gasses. Their masks will hold for a while.” The Chemist was looking at his timer.

  “How will we know when they’re through the door?”

  “They’ll know,” the Chemist said.

  They stood shoulder to shoulder watching the action for several minutes. One of the five holding the pipe slipped, falling into the pool of acid slurry that was being shunted off by a hastily rigged system.

  He screamed as the mixture burned through his suit, skin, muscle and into bone.

  “Damn,” the Chemist muttered as the man at the power washer hit the off. The survivors gathered round the dissolving victim. The Chemist tapped a button. “All of you, take the pipe and get ready. I’m over-riding the power washer. You no longer control it. If you’re not aiming the tube, you will all be sprayed and join him. Be more careful please.” It took a few moments, but brutal reality won out. The men picked up the tube. The Chemist turned the blaster on.

  He turned to the Engineer. “Who built this place? I’ve never seen or heard of anything like this.”

  “You don’t want to know,” the Engineer said, an honest answer, combined with the fact he didn’t know either. He’d ordered his drilling teams to stand down, given the progress they’d made through the platinum. No point chancing another charge inside the concrete.

  Several more minutes passed. The Engineer was beginning to wonder how long the men could hold out. He had more ‘volunteers’ but this was—

  There was a flash of light, the men holding the pipe suddenly staggered.

  The Chemist, to his credit, slammed down on the button, shutting off the power washer.

  “Those men are going to be dead, they just don’t know it yet. If you’re merciful, you’d kill them now.”

  The Engineer knew the men had been dead before they ever came down here. But he was surprised that the Chemist even mentioned mercy.

  “By the way,” the Chemist said, pointing to the screen. “We’re through.”

  AIRSPACE OVER THE UNITED STATES

  Leahy had her hands on the Tesla computer, dealing with the most immediate problem: the destination. She accessed the link between the plane and Dreamland Control via Ethos. Swapped it with a simulation for Dreamland that indicated the plane was following the planned flight path. The first indication Dreamland, and Mrs. Parrish, would have that she wasn’t coming was when the plane didn’t land despite Ethos indicating it had.

  She sealed the electronic cockpit lock, insuring it couldn’t be over-ridden. Then she did the easiest part: taking over the autopilot. She entered the new destination.

  The jet banked from its southwestern path to one due west.

  She heard a commotion in the cockpit, arguing, cursing. The pilots were futilely trying to turn off the autopilot. Override it. Cut power to the computer. All impossible. Mrs. Parrish always insured her planes had cutting edge technology; they had the capability to take off, fly and land, without pilots. In a way, the pilots were a redundancy, a backup. But that was true on almost all commercial flights. Computers flew them; pilots usually handled the take offs and landing, but even that wasn’t absolutely necessary.

  Leahy knew that this capability to hack airplanes was a reality that was one of the most closely guarded fe
ars among the aviation industry and governments—prior to recent events that is. The disappearance of MH-370 was attributed, at the highest levels, to a hack. Who had hacked it? Any of a number of people. Why? To show it could be done? Or perhaps there had been subsequent blackmail of airlines to keep a similar event from occurring?

  The armored door to the cockpit rattled as they tried to open it.

  More muted cursing and arguing.

  The intercom came alive. “Professor, we’ve got a problem.”

  Reluctantly, Leahy let go of the Tesla and keyed her intercom. “Relax, gentleman. I’ve got control. Your radios won’t work, you can’t override the computer, and your door won’t unlock. I suggest you sit back and enjoy the ride. And since I don’t want to be interrupted, I’m shutting the intercom.”

  She put her hands on the Tesla and went back to the biggest problem: the Swarm Battle Core.

  Contrary to what most people think, the various governments don’t have much of a system for spotting objects incoming to the Solar System. It takes time to discern moving objects from all the clutter behind them. There were a limited number of telescopes, across the medium from visual to bands on either side, assigned the task of deep space tracking.

  Which meant Leahy still had time before the rest of Earth realized doom was inbound.

  Given the parameters, Leahy estimated anywhere from twelve to eighteen hours. In twenty-four hours, the Core would be hard to miss.

  She checked the latest version of the Strategy as Mrs. Parrish saw it, bringing it up in her mind’s eye via the Tesla. Turcotte was still being obstinate, but all else was on track. She shook her head as she listened to the recording of Mrs. Parrish throwing her under the bus with Turcotte. There was enough truth there that Turcotte could believe her. Of course, there was also the reality that Leahy had betrayed Turcotte and Yakov.

  Leahy closed the official Strategy.

  Then she opened her own via Ethos subtext, adding in the Swarm Battle Core.

  Her Strategy disappeared and a pulsing line of electricity, almost a heartbeat appeared in her mind.

  This variable, given it most likely meant the end of all life in the Solar System, was going to take some time, even for the most powerful quantum computer in the world, to factor in.