THE INITIATIVE
Book One: In Harms Way
By: Bruce Fottler
Copyright ©2015 by Bruce Fottler
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
The Initiative is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
A special thanks to my Beta-readers:
Lauren Espe, and Melody Fottler.
An extra special thanks to my editor:
Joyce Conkling.
Other novels by Bruce Fottler:
Chasing Redemption
Dover Park
The Juncture
Paladin's Odyssey
Table of Contents
Chapter one
Chapter two
Chapter three
Chapter four
Chapter five
Chapter six
Chapter seven
Chapter eight
Chapter nine
Chapter ten
Chapter eleven
Chapter twelve
Chapter thirteen
Chapter fourteen
Chapter fifteen
Chapter sixteen
Chapter seventeen
Chapter eighteen
CHAPTER ONE
Saturday, June 25, 1994
Over the Green Mountains, Vermont
With the call-sign Blue Bitch boldly embossed on her flight helmet, Eva Castilo tightened her right hand around the HOTAS joystick control of a sleek, prototype fighter-jet. She rechecked her heading to make sure it lined up on the assigned vector as the twin engines surged in afterburner. The heads-up display (HUD) indicated that she was dead on course to the aircraft that she was pursuing, which had just come into the outer edge of weapons range. She instinctively glanced to the side of her cockpit to catch a glimpse of reassurance, but her lucky cross necklace wasn't hanging in its usual spot. Its absence was unsettling. The venerable gold necklace was something that typically accompanied her on military sorties, but she was on a mission governed under highly restrictive guidelines.
With a brief sigh she looked forward to see the distant glow of lights from Worcester and Boston on a crystal clear night. It invoked a brief yearning to pull away, descend, and slow down to explore a region that she rarely overflew.
“Sentinel-One, Blanchard Control,” she heard over her headset, which resharpened her focus on the immediate task. “Call it, Blue Bitch.”
“Blanchard Control, Sentinel-One,” she spoke into her oxygen mask microphone. “On my vector at flight level six-one-zero. Bandit is bearing one-three-one at seven-niner miles, flight level five-eight-zero. Speed mach two point three.”
“Sentinel-One, Blanchard Control, confirm bandit is within weapons envelope.”
“Blanchard Control, Sentinel-One, confirmed bandit is painted. HUD showing soft target lock. Repeat, soft lock on bandit.”
A few seconds passed before a reply was heard. “Sentinel-One, Blanchard Control, you're authorized to go weapons hot.”
Eva flipped the master arming switch. “Affirmative, Sentinel-One is weapons hot.”
“Sentinel-One, Blanchard Control, dial in target package Bravo-One. Repeat, Bravo-One. Ripple two birds. Engage. Engage. Engage.”
Eva let out a brief sigh of frustration as she made the necessary adjustments to the missile control system. A yellow target-lock indicator on the HUD accompanied by a wobbling tone in her headset warned that she wasn't in an optimal firing position. Despite several prior requests to her controllers, and the advanced capabilities of her fighter-jet, she wouldn't be allowed to get any closer to the target. The missiles would be fired with the expectation that their internal guidance systems would achieve a solid target lock as they closed the distance to their target.
“Sentinel-One, affirmative. Engaging Bravo-One. Fox three! Fox three!”
The weapons bay door underneath opened and a hefty, dart-like missile dropped out. Its engine ignited as Eva averted her eyes so her night-vision wouldn't be corrupted by the brief but intense glow of the launch. A second missile dropped and ignited a moment later. Both blazed off in pursuit of the same target over fifty miles ahead while transmitting back telemetry updates.
Eva's HUD soon flashed a warning indicator.
“Shit,” she whispered to herself as she quickly rechecked the system. “Blanchard Control, Sentinel-One, I'm showing a general fault on bird one. It's gone weasel, heading sierra-delta. Bird two is still in the hunt.”
“Sentinel-One, Blanchard control, understood. Disengage. Disengage. Turn south and descend to flight level four-five-zero. Keep the bandit painted for us.”
Eva reluctantly turned her fighter-jet away while trying to quell her irritation. Instead of gaining position to engage at close range, her role was abruptly reduced to a spectator watching the progress of the remaining missile on her HUD.
“Affirmative,” Eva grumbled. “Sentinel-One disengaging. Falcon one-zero-eight.”
West Swanzey, New Hampshire
“Did you see that?” Sam Maxwell asked while he reclined against the base of a small lifeguard stand. The water of Swanzey Lake glistened in the moonlight before him.
“See what?” Carlos Esposito replied. His slim silhouette was visible in the moonlight from his perch at the top of the stand. He was distracted while swatting away the mosquitoes that dared penetrate his liberal dose of insect repellent.
“You missed it.”
“Shit, again?” Carlos looked up into the evening sky to see an endless umbrella of stars in vivid view above. There were no clouds nor city lights to obscure them. “How in the hell can you pick them out from all these stars? I've never seen so many.”
“You just have to keep watching--” Sam was interrupted by a sudden, pale flash that seemed to originate from behind them.
“That I saw. Lightning? On a clear night?”
“Heat lightning, maybe.”
A curious sound followed. It was a subtle thud, which was more felt than heard.
“Weird sounding thunder,” Carlos observed.
“Above us, there.” Sam pointed to a small speck of light moving quickly to the southeastern horizon. It traversed the sky far too swiftly to be an airplane.
“Yeah, I see it this time.”
The speck grew slightly brighter and abruptly vanished just before they would've lost sight of it in the tree line.
“So, that's what a shooting-star looks like,” Carlos said with a satisfied smile. “That was pretty cool.”
“Cool but weird. I've never seen one like that before.”
“Totally worth ditching that chapel thing for,” Carlos replied. “Well, still worth it if I didn't see one.”
They returned to quietly scanning the night sky. A few minutes went by with no further flashes, thunder, or fast moving dots of light. Their brief experience wouldn't be repeated. All they could hear was an occasional whisper that came from the lake, from a few who ventured out in canoes from other campgrounds.
Sam and Carlos were passing time, sitting on a small lake-side beach waiting for their friends to return from a chapel service. They came up the night before with a group of twenty-somethings from a church Sam's roommates attended. It was a w
eekend retreat that Carlos was never comfortable with. Despite a distaste for organized religion, he managed to enjoy a Saturday that featured plenty of softball, volleyball, and swimming. Sam was more accustomed to the religious subculture of his church friends but had to draw the line at a chapel service on a beautiful Saturday night. This paired them off on the beach while they patiently waited for the chapel service to end and the evening activities to begin.
“How long do these church things usually take?” Carlos asked in a hushed tone after noticing how easily voices carried across the water. He was growing impatient after a lengthy lull of shooting stars.
“I think they're near the end. Probably another ten minutes, tops.”
“What do they do at those things?”
“Sing and talk about God. Standard church dogma.”
“So, probably the sort of shit they think we should be hearing?”
Sam chuckled. “At least they've been cool with us skipping out of it. They can get pretty intense when they're in church-mode.”
“No shit. I had some dude trying to tell me something about spiritual laws this afternoon. What's up with that?”
“Just roll with it. It's harmless Kool-Aid.”
“I'd rather have a beer, thank you. I didn't come here looking to change my life or anything.”
“Just here scoping out all the babes, right?”
“Damn skippy!” Carlos enthusiastically replied, which echoed out over the water. He then quieted his voice. “There's some smokin'-hot beeotch's here. The type we'd never see at the pubs and clubs. You've been holding out on me.”
“Just trying to keep you away from the candy store.”
“I'll find a way to forgive you, particularly about Angela.”
Sam snickered. “Not surprised she got your attention.”
Carlos blurted a suggestive laugh. “Oh my God, that's one fine body I'd like to--”
“You'd better ice any fantasies,” Sam interjected in a dismissive tone. “You're not going to tap any of that.”
“Oh?”
“Trust me, she's not the type.”
“Oh, God, no,” Carlos recoiled. “A lesbo?”
“Nope, she's padlocked at the knees like the rest of them. It's chastity for Jesus, so they say.”
Carlos paused and smiled. “Good, I like a challenge.”
Sam let out a patronizing chuckle. “She's not one of those party-skanks you troll for at the clubs. You treat her like that and you'll get Heisman-ed.”
“Oh, wanna bet? A little of my Latino charm under these stars should find the right key to open that padlock.”
“Carlos, seriously, don't go there. It wouldn't be cool to pull that kind of shit around here. They were nice to invite us here and we've had a good time.”
“Okay, be a buzz-kill. So, you really like being around these brainwashed zombies?”
“They're nice people. Why diss them?”
Carlos laughed. “Oh, listen to you. You're so full of it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Seriously? You're going to be that way after spending the whole day stalking Laura?”
“Stalking?”
“Oh, come on, look at you. You're sitting out here waiting for her to come along after that chapel thing is done, right?”
“So?”
“Maxie,” Carlos groaned, using his own personal nickname for Sam, “you're really giving me shit while waiting to make a move on a beeotch who's probably just as tight as the rest of them are?”
“It's not like that.”
“Bullshit.”
“Look, you're right. Laura's not the type to put out, but I'm not looking for something like that.”
“Oh God, Maxie,” Carlos moaned. “My bullshit meter can only take so much. You're seriously telling me you want to take a nice canoe ride with her under the stars and just talk?”
“What's wrong with that?”
Carlos paused, working past his amazement. “What in the hell is wrong with you? Last year, you would've had your old girlfriend giving you a little piece of heaven in one of those canoes. I doubt Laura would even know what she's doing.”
“She's got higher standards. That's what I like about her.”
“Higher standards? How does that make things better?”
“So a relationship will last longer than a breath mint,” Sam quietly quipped.
“Look, Maxie, relationships are way too much trouble. Always best to stay loose. You know, I think you'd be better off if you went back to...What the hell was her name again? Nancy?”
“Nikki.”
“Right, Nikki, please go look her up again. She'd be happy to have you back, and you could come and go as you please. Why did you ditch her, anyway? She was a real hottie.”
“Because Laura's much better quality.”
Carlos chuckled. “Laura over Nikki? My God, you've lost your fucking mind. I'd give her at least a two-beer rating.”
“Wow, only two?” Sam scoffed. The beer rating system was something that went back to their college days. The higher the rating, the more beers it would take to get interested.
“Hey, I'm trying to be generous because she's got a nice ass. I can't figure why you'd go for her with so many zero-beer ratings around us.”
“Like Angela?”
“Fuck yeah!”
“You have your type and I have mine. Besides, don't you feel a little strange talking like this while everyone else is in a church service?”
“Uh, no, and since when did it start bothering you that much?”
“It just feels awkward to me.”
“Maybe their Kool-Aid is stronger than you think?”
“Oh, chill out. It's just showing some respect.”
“To what? Oh, yeah, drink the Kool-Aid but don't touch our chicks. Glad I don't hang with your church homey's very often.”
Sam sighed in exasperation. “Please, could you just chill and behave for one night?”
“Hey,” Carlos said in a more serious tone. “Don't freak on me. You know it's all just talk. I'm just messing with you.”
“Yeah, sorry.”
“But, Jesus, stop and think it through before you try to make a move on Laura. Please?”
“I already have,” Sam mumbled as they heard the distant murmur of people exiting the chapel.
The day had been full of activity. As many as six church groups from different areas of New England had converged on the Pilgrim Conference center for a weekend retreat. Sam and Carlos spent the hot summer day competing against various groups in a variety of sports. In all, it was a display of competition on a level they had rarely seen. They all played hard but didn't let the intensity get to them, which made it an oddly agreeable experience. It was a far cry from the intense, testosterone-fueled sports competitions they were accustomed to, which usually ended in an altercation of some sort.
The approaching crowd broke into smaller groups. Some headed back to their rooms while others went to the canoe rack. One small group walked directly towards them.
“Is that Sam and Carlos?” a voice called out.
“Yeah, over here,” Sam called back and started to wave. He sheepishly withdrew his hand upon remembering he was in the dark and they were too far away to really see it. A flashlight beam shined out at him.
“Why in the hell didn't we think to bring a flashlight?” Carlos muttered to Sam while hopping off the lifeguard stand. “They're like goddamn Boy Scouts.”
“Hey, watch the language,” Sam softly scolded as a trio approached.
“Nice spot,” Ron Campbell, Sam's roommate said as they reached the lifeguard stand.
“We should start a fire,” Emily Avery cheerily added.
“Why? It still has to be eighty degrees out,” Ralph Mead complained. All were part of the same young adult church group that Sam occasionally attended. Ralph was the oldest, at twenty-six.
“Let's just sit and chill for a while,” Ron suggested as he sat. “Looks like
some prime star-gazing here.”
“Yeah, we've been seeing some shooting stars,” Sam said. “Anyone else coming?”
“No,” Ralph replied, looking back to a small crowd of shadows carefully removing canoes from the rack. “Some went back to their rooms and the rest are trying to get canoes. I'm pretty sure Angela and Laura are in there somewhere. They talked about taking one out.”
Carlos leaned into Sam and whispered into his ear. “I guess we're both S-O-L.”
“Sam, do you still have that interview on Monday?” Ron asked.
“Yeah, Blanchard Corporation. Nine o'clock.”
“Have you heard back from any of the other places?” Emily asked. “We've all been praying really hard for you.”
“Thanks, but it's probably still too soon to hear anything,” Sam politely replied. He could almost see Carlos rolling his eyes in the darkness over Emily's prayer remark. “I had three interviews last week alone.”
“Nice to know you're in demand,” Ralph said.
“Particularly after walking away from your old job,” Carlos slyly added with a slight jab of his elbow. “That took faith.”
“That place was going nowhere,” Sam lamented. “I needed a change. It would've been nice to find a new job first, but I just couldn't bear another hour in that endless maze of cubicles. I'm looking for something better.”
“I admire your courage,” Ron said. “I wish I had the nerve to do the same.”
“Yeah, I understand how staying too long in a place like that can hurt you,” Ralph added. “You sort of get brainwashed into staying.”
Undisclosed Location - Outside of Lancaster, California
“Don't even start with me,” Eva chided as she entered the prep-room and whipped her flight helmet to a young technician. He caught it, winced, and immediately started waving the sting off his hand.
The Initiative: In Harm's Way (Book One) Page 1
