Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle

by Anthony DeCosmo

  Gant shook his head and replied, "Not exactly. I've just given up hope. Besides, I have enough on my plate. I am quite content being another cog in the machine."

  "So questions would just make more work for you?"

  They started moving again. The passage they walked came to an end a few yards ahead where it intersected another hall running perpendicular to the elevator corridor. A stainless steel wall stood on the far side. Several big, rectangular windows lined that wall, most with blinds drawn shut.

  "I do have one question," Gant said.

  "Wow, this is a first."

  "I'm looking at that thing we bagged. It did not wear any type of clothing, was acting like a crazed animal more than an intelligent creature, and from what I can tell the boys downstairs haven't been getting anything out of it other than grunts and screams. To be frank, doctor, I do not understand how something like that could fly a spaceship across the galaxy. I expect my E.T.s to be more like little green men than hairless pink guerrillas."

  Twiste rubbed his chin and told him, "I was talking with Franco earlier."

  "My apologies."

  "He said he overheard the tech guys who were hoisting the ship out of the trench. They said they didn't spot any signs of technology, at least not on the inside of the capsule. Nothing fancy at all."

  "That does not make sense," Gant said.

  "Watch out, you're thinking too much."

  The major ignored him and went on, "Is it possible this was some sort of false flag operation? Maybe a drill?"

  "Possible, I guess, but I've never seen anything like that tango we bagged, and it was alive, not some sort of orangutan in a suit. No, I have another theory."

  They stopped again at the intersection.

  Twiste said, "Think about the early space programs, both us and the Russians. I think the first living things in space were a bunch of fruit flies. Later on we sent up monkeys, and the Russians sent up dogs."

  "Test subjects," Gant said. "I doubt NASA relied on fruit flies to steer the rockets."

  "Right. Maybe the ship we recovered was sort of a test capsule. So far the pilot doesn't seem like a sentient, intelligent creature. Well, as far as I can tell without any real contact."

  "Stop pouting, doctor."

  "Point is, if this thing was a test animal …"

  Gant completed the thought: "Then sooner or later the real thing is going to come for a visit. Assuming, of course, that they feel their 'test' was successful."

  "Maybe they were testing some kind of warp drive or whatever it is aliens use for getting around the galaxy these days."

  Gant's eyes narrowed and his head tilted as he hit upon an idea. "What if they were testing how we reacted?"

  Before Twiste could reply their attention was pulled to an office window on the other side of the hall. The blinds there were half closed and the shut door should have isolated all noise to the inside of the office, but a particularly loud protest of one kind or another managed to send a muffled noise through the wall and into the corridor.

  Through the glimmers of light between the blinds, Major Gant spied two-star General Albert Friez speaking on the telephone in his office. No, not exactly speaking. More like arguing, which was a sight nearly as incredible to the two men as the alien in the swamp nearly thirty-six hours before.

  "You've known him longer than I," Twiste said as they both stared at the general as he walked around his desk, stretching the phone cord as far as it could go. "Have you ever seen him like that before?"

  Gant slowly shook his head and answered, "Even when I've seen him mad I've never seen him like that. This is something new."

  As usual, Friez wore his full dress uniform although he did not wear his hat, something he tended to do even when indoors and underground. It was as if the man wanted to hide himself—physically—behind the trappings of rank.

  They saw Friez take a deep breath and straighten his shoulders, his body language suggesting that he had lost whatever argument he was engaged in, which was another oddity; General Friez rarely lost arguments.

  "Okay," Gant said, suddenly thinking of something to do. "I've got to take a piss and I think I want to use the restrooms all the way over in Pylon B."

  "What? Why all the way over—oh, I get it. You don't want to be nearby when he gets off the phone. You big chicken."

  "Let's call it a survival instinct."

  The major stepped to his left with the intention of making his way to the access tunnel connecting the twin underground buildings comprising the Darwin complex. The buildings were built like subterranean skyscrapers and were known as Pylon A and Pylon B. While the buildings ran perfectly parallel to one another, only a few levels offered crossover points, although the structures shared a common base at the very bottom as well as surface buildings at the top.

  Gant had managed only three steps when he heard the office door open and General Friez call, "Major Gant, Captain Twiste."

  He turned around and, as usual, saw Friez's beady eyes staring at him with a type of cold gaze that reinforced Gant's notion of being merely a part—a tool—in a large machine. He knew Friez saw him as an asset, nothing else. More thing than person.

  They followed General Friez into his office, which felt more like a metal box. If not for the big window looking out on the hallway and another window looking in on an adjoining office, the chamber would have the ambiance of a morgue drawer.

  The major did not suffer from claustrophobia, but every so often he remembered that he worked in what was essentially a deep underground high-tech dungeon. He had become accustomed to the steady drone of the ventilation equipment, the constant hum from the lights, and the stale-tasting air.

  Many of the technicians, scientists, and soldiers working in the Darwin complex brought mementos from home (pictures, knickknacks, plants). Not the general. No photos from old units, no pictures with him and any one of the several presidents he served under, not even commendations for his years of service.

  From a boring metal desk to similarly boring file cabinets to a small table hosting a coffeemaker, Friez maintained an atmosphere as sterile as the oxygen they breathed.

  Major Gant and Captain Twiste stood in front of the desk, while the general sat. Normally Friez maintained eye contact like an alpha wolf dominating his pack, but it seemed a day for the unusual; he looked everywhere but at his men.

  "Major Gant, your tactical team will leave tomorrow morning for the Red Rock Mountain Research Facility in Pennsylvania. You will report to General Harold Borman there. Written orders are coming over the wire for you shortly and will include an overview of load-out specs. You'll receive mission specifics from General Borman."

  Gant noticed that Friez said Borman's name with more contempt than usual. Borman oversaw a variety of black box, special access programs at the Pentagon, but Gant could not remember a time when someone other than Friez appeared to be giving the orders.

  However, he felt it unwise to broach that subject. Instead, Gant said, "Sir, we're still under quarantine protocols."

  The general ran a finger over his thin and perfectly neat mustache before answering, "I'm convinced your team was not exposed to any dangerous contaminants or compromised during your last mission. I'm waiving the final hours of your confinement. Go home, relax for the night, and be ready to leave in the morning."

  Twiste asked, "What's the Red Rock facility, sir?"

  "As for you, Captain," Friez extended a slip of paper toward Twiste, who gazed at it for a second before accepting, "you are to report to The Tall Company's Moreno Valley facility."

  "Sir?"

  Gant saw Friez take a deep breath, followed by a fast exhale. He had never witnessed this type of body language from his superior officer before. He translated it as … reluctance. It occurred to Major Gant that Friez did not agree with Archangel's new assignment.

  For his part, as soon as Major Gant heard the name Tall Company he felt a sense of reluctance of his own, particularly in regards to the
conglomerate's Sciences Division, which he knew operated at Moreno Valley.

  Friez told Twiste, "You will receive specialized training and then will join Major Gant's detachment at Red Rock."

  At that point the general stood, grabbed his hat from a hook, and held open the office door.

  "You are to consider yourselves under the direct command of General Borman for the duration of this assignment."

  Twiste headed for the door, scratching his head. Gant stopped before exiting and looked Friez in the eye.

  "Of course we will do as ordered, but is there anything else we should know?"

  Friez clenched his teeth and grumbled, "If you require additional information it will be provided to you by General Borman at his discretion."

  Gant walked out. Friez turned off the lights to his office, shut the door, and marched along the hall, seemingly en route to either the surface elevator or one of the stairwells. His gait suggested that he aimed to leave the facility as fast as possible.

  "Well, that was interesting," Twiste said. "He sure was in a mood."

  Gant kept his eyes on the hall in the direction Friez had walked off. He heard the unmistakable clang of a heavy door shutting from somewhere around a corner.

  "I would say so, yes. I don't think I have ever seen him like that."

  "So I get a trip to The Tall Company. Great. I wonder what insanity they're cooking up this time around."

  "They get to cook up anything they like without oversight. The benefits of being a private company. That's why the people in charge of our kind of work like them so much. Still, if I had a dollar for every time I've swept away one of their messes …"

  The image of a gored body dressed in a white coat and insane lab monkeys clawing anything within reach flashed into his mind.

  Twiste mused, "'Specialized training,' he said. Can't wait to see what that's all about."

  Gant turned to him. "Watch your back over there. I do not trust them. And considering how bent out of shape Friez seems … let's just say I have a heightened sense of awareness."

  "What's wrong, Thom—being a cog in the machine showing a downside?"

  Gant smiled—a little—and nodded his head as if to admit touché, then told his friend, "I guess I sometimes worry that the machine might crush a cog or two along the way."

  "Relax, I'll see you in a few days at Red Rock Mountain. You ever heard of it?"

  Gant thought about that. The name did strike a chord, but he could not place it.

  "I don't know. Maybe. I can't remember."

  "A place more secret than Darwin? I bet it's really something."

  Gant thought about that and replied, "I'm sure it will be a lot of fun."

  5

  Lieutenant Colonel Liz Thunder faced piles of folders again, but things had changed drastically in the last couple of days. Instead of boredom, she felt excited, but not the fun kind of excited. More like a test pilot flying an experimental plane at insane speeds at high altitude, wondering if the rocket beneath her seat would fly straight and true or blow to smithereens.

  Instead of one pile of files waiting to be reviewed, her new desk held two piles that were separated by a lot more than just a few inches on her desk. No, those two piles might as well be light-years apart.

  In her hand she held yet another folder, scanning the information inside. The next few minutes would decide if this particular folder ended up in the pile to the left or the pile to the right, and whether her signature would go on the top line.

  After saying "hmm" and "okay" a few times, she shut the folder and returned her attention to the soldier sitting on the business side of the desk.

  "Okay, Private Evans, let’s see here." She thought for a moment, then continued, "So you’re a Pittsburgh Steelers fan?"

  The young man—little more than a kid, really—nodded with a stiff upper lip, an expression that conveyed the seriousness with which he viewed the session. At the same time, Liz felt that he was surprisingly at ease, considering that she sat in the chair that once had belonged to this kid's commanding officer, a man this kid had helped gun down a few days ago.

  It must have occurred to Private Evans that nodding was not the correct way to answer a superior officer, so he added, "I mean, yes ma’am, a real diehard, ma'am."

  "Good, okay, well then," she shut the folder and slid a photograph across the desk to Evans. It was a black-and-white picture of a street scene including cars, pedestrians, buildings, an intersection, street vendors, and the like. Just an ordinary photograph from an ordinary day in Chicago, or New York, or somewhere.

  "I want you to look at this photograph, Private. It is very important that you stay focused on this photograph. Do you understand?"

  "Ma’am, I think so."

  "Good. Because I’m going to ask you questions about this photograph. I’m also going to ask you other questions about other things. How quickly you answer the questions about the photograph is important, and how accurately. The other questions are not as important, but I will want correct answers. Do you understand? Your focus must be on the photograph and what’s pictured there."

  He half-nodded then caught himself, "Yes, Colonel."

  "There’s a vendor in the photo. What is he selling?"

  "Hotdogs." He squinted and added, "Hotdogs with sauerkraut."

  "There’s a brick building to the right. How many stories tall is it?"

  As he counted the floors she asked, "Who’s your favorite Steeler?"

  He lost count and told her, "Probably the quarterback this year, I think he—"

  "How many floors in that building, private?" A little sterner. That threw his attention to the picture again.

  "Six stories, ma’am."

  "This photo was taken at eight o’clock in the morning. What direction is the man crossing the street facing?"

  The soldier scanned the photograph for—

  "Boy, the Cowboys really kicked the Steelers’ ass in the ’93 Super Bowl, didn’t they?"

  "Um," he scanned the photo.

  "What was the score? Something like 30–0, right?"

  "No, actually, it was—"

  "Which way is he facing, soldier? Study the fucking photograph and stop thinking about how the 'Boys just whipped those pussy Steelers."

  "He’s facing west—no, no, east."

  "Why? How do you know that?"

  "It was 27–17. No way is that an ass-kick—"

  "You said he was facing west. Why is he facing west?"

  "Because he’s holding his hand above his eyes to screen away the sun."

  She nearly yelled: "But it’s eight in the goddamn morning On my planet the sun rises in the east, not the west."

  "I said the east. I mean, I meant the east."

  Damn, she hated this. She chose psychology to help people. Nothing like a career opportunity and a little rank to change those priorities. It was no longer about helping people; the army had made it about deconstructing them. Of course, along the way she tended to deconstruct herself, too.

  He told her, "And it was the ’95 Super Bowl. Or, rather, after the ’95 season when—"

  "There’s a woman in the photograph with a short skirt on. What color are her eyes?"

  He looked, squinted, and told her, "Brown."

  "Brown? What are you, clairvoyant? It’s a black-and-white photograph. How can you tell her eyes are brown?"

  Private Evans said nothing. She took the photograph from his hands.

  "Ma’am, it really was a lot closer than the final score."

  "What was?"

  "That Super Bowl. Besides, the Steelers beat the Cowboys twice before in Super Bowls in the '70s."

  "Private, I don’t care."

  He fell silent, his stiff upper lip not quite as stiff.

  She rifled through some papers that were in yet another pile on top of the battleship-gray metallic desk. She studied one for a moment and then asked, "Do you know what the Gettysburg Address was?"

  "A speech by Abraham Lincol
n, ma’am."

  "Where?"

  "Ma’am, with all due respect, I’m not an idiot, ma’am."

  She smiled. "Good. I’m glad. We don’t want idiots in the army. Certainly not here at Red Rock. Do you know the Gettysburg Address by heart? Did you memorize it in grammar school or high school or basic training?"

  "I studied it in high school but I did not memorize it. That is, I don’t know it by heart anymore, ma’am."

  "That’s good, private. I’ve got a copy of the Gettysburg Address right here. And now you’re going to read it to me, out loud. You’re going to read it from this piece of paper. And you are going to recite it to me slowly and clearly and perfectly. You are not going to skip a word. Do you understand?"

  "Yes, ma’am."

  She started to hand the paper to him, but hesitated.

  "One more thing, Private. As you’re reading this I’m going to ask you some questions and speak my mind on a few matters. You are not to answer my questions until after you are done reading this great speech. Do you understand?"

  Evans accepted the sheet of paper with both hands.

  "Should I begin, ma’am?"

  "When you’re ready, private."

  He cleared his throat, then read, "Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the …"

  "How long have you been stationed here?"

  "… proposition that all men are created equal. Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing…"

  "What number does the Steeler's quarterback wear? Sixty-nine, right?"

  A little hesitation, not much. "Whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met …"

  "I think the best quarterback the Steelers ever had was Bubby Brister."

  "… to dedicate—no—we are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place…"

  "Steelers won, what? Two Super Bowls?"

  "… for those who here gave their livers—lives that nation—that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper we should do this. But, in a larger sense, we cannot dedicate—we cannot concentrate—"