Disclosing the Secret

by Vincent Amato

  Mark read Jake’s mind. “It’s you against them now!”

  Mark was right. Jake knew he was now at a defining crossroad.

  He could let it go and continue to live the life he had always led. A life directed away from the US military, removed from government secrets, having nothing to do with the government’s resistance to the disclosure of the ET existence.

  Or I could…

  Mark’s eyes never wavered from Jake’s. “It’s now or never, buddy.”

  Jake’s hazel eyes seemed to blaze with a new fire. Right then and there, he made his decision.

  CHAPTER 40

  “I’ll text Tash; you give us a smoke screen!” Jake’s resolve was unwavering.

  A huge smile crept across Mark’s face.

  *

  From across the cemetery the agents tracking Jake watched as the group of youths started to mount their motorcycles, one of them throttling his machine, blasting engine noise in all directions.

  The senior agent’s demeanor turned serious. What the hell did they think they were doing?

  “Typical punks.” The other agent wasn’t impressed.

  “Idiots!” the senior agent spat.

  *

  Mark quickly distributed small two-way radios he had procured from the nightclub to the others. After checking they could all hear one other, he fired up his own two-wheeled beast.

  Jake spotted the two bulky looking men in dark suits standing under the tree looking their way.

  That’s not cliché at all! Two men in dark suits, with sunglasses and short, neat haircuts not talking to each other. Why not carry a sign!

  Chris, Paul and TJ were now mounted and throttling. Jake gestured the agents’ location to Mark as the collective engine noises started to rise, echoing down the street.

  All five wore protective leathers that matched their individually colored and monstrously powerful-looking machines.

  Mark maneuvered to position his front wheel in the opposite direction of the agents. He turned to look at Jake. No words needed to be spoken – Mark could read the other’s face; they had company and they had to lose them fast.

  Mark’s bike suddenly vaulted forward a few feet before slowing down to a complete stop. Squeezing as hard as possible on the front brakes, he kicked into first gear, completely opened the throttle and slowly released the clutch. The machine reacted with a furious roar. The bike shuddered as his rear wheel spun wildly, spewing white smoke, generated by burning rubber, in the direction of Jake and the rest of the group.

  It only took a couple of seconds for the other three to understand. They followed suit. White smoke now sprayed off from four motorcycles in all directions. A dense white cloud grew to surround and completely engulf the stationary group of bikes.

  *

  The agents watched in dismay. The burial ceremony they were pretending to take part in was abruptly halted, disturbed by an angry symphony of throttling motorcycle engines.

  The senior agent dropped his binoculars. “What the hell are they trying to prove?”

  “It’s a funeral for crying out loud. No respect!” the other agreed.

  White smoke now filled to engulf the street in front of the cemetery entry gates.

  “Shit!” It suddenly dawned on the senior agent that something was not right. His coffee dropped to the ground with a splatter as he hurried toward the late colonel’s grave.

  As the density of the white smoke increased, his brisk walk morphed into a jog, then a run, then to a panicked sprint. The second agent struggled to keep up.

  They crossed paths with the priest, who himself seemed to be in a hurry, heading in the direction of the cemetery’s chapel. They arrived at the late colonel’s grave gasping for air.

  The senior agent glanced over in the direction of the cemetery gates to see smoke continuing to fill the street. Its density had now made it impossible to perceive the cars parked on the other side of the road.

  Wiping the sweat from his brow, the senior agent surveyed the grave and headstone, looking for anything out of place. When his eyes fell upon the dislodged plaque he immediately crouched down to inspect it closer. Swiveling the plaque about its single remaining screw, he realized that it revealed a void that had been previously concealed. Large enough to hide two or three cell phones end on end, it was empty.

  Something had been removed!

  The agents then heard the motorcycle engines scream off into the distance. Jumping up suddenly, the senior agent spun in the direction of the fading engines. When the smoke dissipated all the bikes had disappeared.

  Exchanging a shocked look, the agents now understood. The purpose of the smoke was to hide the direction of their escape.

  The second agent quickly fumbled to activate his microphone. “We have lost visuals on the target.”

  *

  In a scream of rubber Jake’s front wheel slightly lifted as he accelerated out of the white smoke. The bikes shot through the smoke screen that had given them the few precious seconds headstart they needed to escape.

  By the time the agents got back to their vehicle, the bikes were nowhere to be seen.

  The group sped away from the cemetery before turning into a side lane, crossing over both sides of the road in wide, high-speed turns, a textbook racing maneuver used by superbike racers.

  Jake pushed his bike hard through the suburban streets, leading the pack until he was certain there weren’t any more similarly inquisitive dark-suited men tailing them. The others followed in tight formation. They whipped by pedestrians who stopped to watch the pack thunder past at speeds well above the enforced limits. Their exhaust note was loud, startling onlookers as they raced past.

  *

  Jake peered behind as he overtook two cars in rapid succession. They seemed to be clear of any tails. He decelerated, bringing the group back down to the speed limit so as to not draw any unnecessary attention, especially from local authorities.

  After passing through two more suburbs Jake felt it was safe enough to pull over. Nobody was following them.

  He removed his helmet and adjusted the ear piece attached to the two-way he had rushed to clip to his belt before shooting off from the cemetery. It was one of five so-called gifts that Mark had seconded from the nightclub. The other four were being worn by rest of the pack. Mark had distributed them in a hurry back at the cemetery.

  “Is this thing working?” Jake said, fiddling to find the right button on his unit. It felt strange talking into a microphone strapped to his neck that picked up sound directly from his vocal chords.

  Chris winced. “If by working you mean loud as possible down my ear canal then yes.”

  “Volume control, Chris, it’s on the side.” Paul’s injection of sarcasm wasn’t hard to detect.

  “I wish you had volume control!” Chris fired back smirking.

  Mark’s earpiece and neck-strapped microphone was comfortably adjusted. “How long do you think it’ll take them to figure out where we’re… ”

  Mark didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. The whine of an oddly shaped helicopter shattered the air as it thundered low overhead. It banked hard, hugging the rooftops. There were no insignia or identification markings of any kind to be seen; it was matte black from tip to tail.

  “Oooooh, I’d say right about now,” Chris said, watching as it barely cleared the surrounding houses, slicing a long elongated arc in the direction they were headed.

  “Just great!” Mark felt a rush of anxiety. “What do we do now, Jake?”

  Jake considered it for a second. “Don’t know. Just follow my lead… I’ll think of something.”

  The group strapped their helmets back on.

  “Why does that make me feel even more nervous?” Mark muttered to himself.

  But there was nobody left to offer him any reassurance; the rest of the bikes had already sped off, the bellowing roar of their engines trailing off in their wake.

  *

  Mr. Sabre glimpsed down to spot t
he group of bikes from the co-pilot’s seat of the Sikorsky S-97 Raider. He quietly smirked to himself as the next generation helicopter banked low, kissing the rooftops. The maneuvrability of the Sikorsky felt as crisp and immediate as an F-16, a fighter jet renowned for its dog-fighting capabilities.

  The S-97’s design objectives were to cross the bridge between traditional fixed wing and hoverable aircraft. The result was revolutionary to helicopter design, despite its non-conventional appearance. With its twin overhead counter-rotors and additional thrust propeller at the rear, the Sikorsky doubled the top speed that a helicopter could theoretically achieve.

  “We have a visual on the targets,” the pilot reported then gave a detailed description of their location and direction in a robotic tone void of emotion.

  *

  Unbeknownst to the group, a black SUV leaped into the street behind them to follow in their direction. Soon after a second, then a third, joined the pursuit as the group passed through the next several intersections. The SUVs were identical with dark-tinted windows and no other distinguishing markings anywhere on their matte black exteriors.

  It wasn’t until the SUVs found each other in traffic that Mark spotted them in his rear view mirror. When they came to a stop at the next set of lights, he pulled up next to Jake.

  “Now it looks like we have a NEW set of friends!” Mark gestured behind, his eyes flashing fear.

  Jake looked back, spotting the three identical vehicles.

  The lights turned green. Chris, TJ and Paul also checked their mirrors to see what had caught the other two’s attention before the group again took off.

  The pack turned onto a main road with wide lanes and big intersections. The black SUVs followed.

  Mark’s stressed voice came through clean over the two-way. “Wasn’t expecting a helicopter chase! A couple of undercover agents in an unmarked car maybe.”

  Two intersections later Jake spotted something at the next approaching lights that would, under normal circumstances, cause the group to ride more conservatively; two police patrol cars. Police patrols were more common in the densely populated areas and on main roads. These two were stopped at the lights on the intersecting road, waiting to cross the group’s path.

  “Do you want the good news or bad news?” Jake asked.

  “I know the bad news!” Mark was incredulous. “How could there be good news?”

  Jake said nothing.

  “Well?” Mark exclaimed. “Is there good news?”

  “I’m still thinking,” Jake said, his tone firm.

  It was then that Jake was struck with an idea. If he could somehow force the patrol cars between them and the SUVs, the police vehicles would be enough of a distraction to slow the SUVs down, giving them some time to split up unseen. But he needed to somehow attract the patrol cars’ attention first.

  Then there was also that little issue of the overhead chopper to deal with.

  One problem at a time, Jake told himself.

  Having almost reached the next intersection, and sensing the lights were about to change, Jake slowed in order to get the timing just right. He watched for the green light to turn yellow, the rest of the pack matching his speed.

  Then the lights changed.

  Now or never!

  Jake’s eyes shot over to Chris, locking with his as if to send a clear message: ‘Copy me!’

  He then tore down through the lower gears and opened his throttle full. The mechanical scream of his engine blasted across the street. The bike catapulted, his front wheel slowly lifting off the ground as he accelerated toward the intersection, and toward the patrol cars.

  Trailing last, Mark not only heard but felt Jake’s bike redline. He watching in amazement as Jake, knowing the lights were about to turn red, lifted his front wheel off the ground despite being in plain view of two patrol cars and two pedestrians crossing the street!

  Then, one by one, the three bikes in front of Mark geared down and hit their throttles in succession. Mark stared in disbelief as the front wheels of all three bikes lifted in unison, one after the other, as if in a synchronized dance.

  “I’m going to die!” Mark stammered, talking more to himself than the others.

  Drawing a deep breath, he geared down to open his throttle so as to not be left behind. As if saluting to the other bikes, his front wheel lifted from the ground and headed for the sky.

  By the time the lights turned red, all five bikes had screamed into the intersection balanced on their rear wheels, front wheels raised.

  CHAPTER 41

  The street light before the two police patrol cars turned green. The cars calmly took off to enter the intersection.

  In front of them, front wheels in the air, five bikes tore through the intersection in procession from the adjacent direction. The symphony of engine screams would have lifted the hairs on the back of any motorbike enthusiast’s neck. The spectacle was more than enough to grab the attention of the patrol cars, as well as everyone else with a line of sight to the intersection.

  The first patrol car screeched to an unexpected stop less than a second after being given the green light. The two police officers glared after the bikes in amazement.

  Crossing the adjacent road directly ahead of the speeding spectacle were two young girls, not older than seven and thirteen, walking hand in hand. They froze in place at the sight of five bikes hurtling toward them, front wheels in the air.

  The officers gasped as the bikes tore past either side of the girls in successive blurs, leaving the young bewildered pair startled but safely untouched.

  “We’ve got ourselves a pack of smartasses!” the officer driving spat to his partner, slamming his foot on the accelerator.

  The patrol car hurtled forward, its rear wheels laying down two dark rubber lines on the road. Its rear end fishtailed wide as the patrol car drifted around the corner, and around the two startled girls who hadn’t dared to move. The driver’s partner strained to hold on; it was not customary for patrols to negotiate corners travelling sideways.

  The second patrol car followed with lights and sirens blazing. Dark lines of rubber crossed over skid marks laid down by the first patrol car. It swung wide around the two girls, who were still holding hands, frozen in place. All the officer in the passenger seat could do was lock eyes with the younger of the two girls and watch as his car drifted wide, seemingly in slow motion, around her. Her expression was blank, mouth agape. He was surprised that she didn’t look more petrified.

  Now clear of the intersection, the passenger officer grabbed the radio to report the situation, their location and the direction of their pursuit.

  *

  After dropping his front wheel, Jake searched his mirrors for the resultant fallout from his little stunt.

  He was relieved to see that the two young girls were fine. Not only did all the guys do a good job missing them with ample room, but the girls did exactly what he had expected – they froze in place from the surprise and didn’t move a muscle.

  The two patrol cars had taken the bait and were now in pursuit. Their lights and wailing sirens were causing the surrounding traffic to come to a halt, effectively locking up the intersection. Beyond that the commotion had caused the SUVs to skid to a stop. The combination of the patrol cars and the halted traffic blocking the intersection would mean there was no way for the SUVs to get through until traffic cleared.

  The bikes were still in formation, had their wheels on the ground and all were accounted for. Jake allowed himself a brief smirk of relief.

  Mark even made it through in one piece and was keeping up!

  *

  From the Sikorsky’s overhead point of view it was clear to Sabre that the developing police pursuit was interfering with the SUVs’ attempts to intercept the motorcycle group.

  Cute trick, Sabre thought.

  Sitting behind the pilot in the passenger’s hold, a support agent sat fixated on his laptop screen. It was receiving telemetry from a camera mounted to the und
erside of the helicopter. His screen showed a zoomed bird’s eye view of Jake with an overlay of artificial colors that scanned the images for predefined material types. It was a tool used to visually identify objects from high altitudes.

  Along with the support agent sat four hulking figures in black military fatigues. None of their clothing had stripes, name tags or identification insignia whatsoever. They were a security detachment of Black Seals, the highest rank achievable by US Marines. Normally in detachments of six, rotating teams of heavily armed Black Seals and Delta Forces provided ongoing security at Section 4.

  Names were never used by these ultra-elite soldiers; they were only referred to by their service numbers. In the interest of efficiency the team leader of any given detachment was designated Alpha, his second was Bravo, then Charlie, Delta and so on according to rank. 45851 was Alpha; he sat across from the support agent. Currently his team was accompanying Mr. Sabre to provide ‘as needed’ security, and carry out any other auxiliary tasks required by Mr. Sabre should the need arise.

  The support agent reported into his helmet mounted microphone: “Sir, there is nothing to suggest any of them are carrying anything.”

  “Do they have exotic materials with them or not??” Mr. Sabre growled back.

  “If they do, sir, they’ve no doubt got it concealed.”

  The agent looked up to his superior. Mr. Sabre pursed his lips together tight, unimpressed.

  *

  “Are you okay, Mark?”

  “I can’t believe you just did that!” Mark spluttered.

  “You mean WE did that,” whooped Paul. “Well done, Mark, you lived!”

  “Wooooooooooyeeeee! What a RUSH! Let’s go again!” TJ was oblivious to Mark’s stress.

  They weaved through the busy traffic populating the multilane road. Relative to the speeding bikes the traffic seemed stationary. The patrol cars had the disadvantage of having to part the busy laneways, not always an effective feat mid-chase when the public was sometimes slow to get out of their way; an unfortunate fact of life that Jake had been counting on.