Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle

by Anthony DeCosmo

  Now he sensed something important on the horizon. He felt the overwhelming desire to neatly press his dress uniform and shine his shoes.

  Maybe an unexpected dignitary would soon arrive. Whatever the case, General Borman prepared so as to look like the proud officer he was.

  With the last of those hard-earned medals in place, Borman moved out of the bathroom and into the living room of his underground VIP quarters. There waited his dress shoes. He was certain—absolutely positive—that there was a dirty scuff on one side. If the light hit it just right he could see it.

  There would be no scuffs on his shoes today. No, sir.

  The general retrieved his polishing kit, sat on the sofa, and got to work on ridding his shoes of all blemishes. As he worked his lips perked and he whistled the Battle Hymn of the Republic.

  A loud knock on the door interrupted his whistling and polishing.

  Borman sighed, set his shoes aside, and marched to the door. On the other side stood Lieutenant Colonel Elizabeth Thunder with Corporal Sanchez on her flank. Her very appearance filled him with a sense of frustration. He had already decided to get her out of Red Rock as soon as possible; she was a tremendous disappointment.

  "Yes, Colonel?" He purposely made his voice sound preoccupied.

  She ignored his tone with the same ease, he thought, as she tended to ignore his orders.

  "General, may we have a word with you?"

  Borman's gaze alternated between Thunder and Sanchez.

  That corporal, he was a good man. Despite having known Colonel Haas for a year, Sanchez had still made the hard decision to shoot the colonel when that officer lost control.

  Lost discipline.

  Shooting a superior officer in the back to protect the greater mission—that was an act for which General Harold Borman held great respect. Still, Sanchez now seemed in cahoots with Thunder. This could spell trouble. This could spell a breakdown in discipline.

  "I am quite busy. Can this wait?"

  "No, it can’t, sir."

  Sanchez echoed Thunder, "Sir, the colonel has found some important information, sir."

  Borman sighed.

  "Very well, come in." He turned his back to them and walked into his quarters, leaving the door open. The two soldiers followed. Sanchez took the time to close the door.

  Colonel Thunder spoke to the general’s back: "General, permission to—"

  "Yes, yes." Borman waved his hand in the air then turned to face her. "At ease, Colonel. You’re going to speak freely no matter what I say."

  "I don’t know where to begin, really," she said, stumbling for the best approach.

  "That usually isn’t your problem, Colonel," Borman said, without an ounce of levity in his words.

  "General, how many missions have been sent into the quarantine zone since the containment doors shut?"

  Borman grimaced. "That’s not information you should—"

  "A dozen? Two dozen?" Liz pounced.

  "Sir," Sanchez chimed in. "We found files for nearly sixty entry missions."

  "Wait a moment," Borman interrupted. "You two went scouring through the records room? I don’t remember giving you permission to look through the archives."

  Thunder pressed on, "And you should see what those missions were all about, sir. We were sending in the best military minds with the best equipment the Defense Department could muster."

  At this point Borman saw that Sanchez held a thick old file folder. Thunder turned to the Corporal and nodded. Sanchez consulted papers in that file folder.

  He spoke: "In October of 1993, ‘Badger’ force entered the quarantine zone. Their primary goal was listed as reconnaissance. Their equipment list included four new pairs of sneakers, laundry detergent, and several bottles of red wine."

  General Borman reacted as if reading lines from a cue card, "Badger … mission objective was to search for survivors then return to entry point."

  "The Badger team," Liz pointed out, "was never heard from again."

  Sanchez continued, "January 1995, Delta Team Seven entered with an inventory list that included toothpaste, eyeglass frames, a hand-held battery-powered video game, and four dozen eggs. Delta Team Seven failed to return."

  Again, the general spoke absently, "Delta Team Seven's mission objective was to detonate a radioactive device inside the complex in order to destroy any hostiles located within. Colonel Thunder, if you have a point to make, get to it."

  "A point? A point?!"

  Borman remained calm, emotionless. He even took the time to brush a hand across his medals. He thought it important she should take note of them.

  Thunder slapped one index finger into the other as if counting her fingers as she ticked off items: "A loaf of frozen banana bread; half a dozen X-rated videocassettes; lipstick; textbooks on theoretical physics, subatomic structure, and quantum mechanics; powdered milk; pillowcases; a nail file—"

  "Wait a second, wait a second," General Borman fluttered a dismissive wave. "Let’s get back to the important thing here. What were you doing rooting through all the old files? There’s no need for you to be going through all of that."

  Thunder’s jaw dropped.

  "Did you hear me? Have you been listening?"

  He stared at her, unsure why she seemed so flabbergasted. Could she not understand a simple question? Had she lost control of her emotions?

  Women tend to do that.

  "Your missions all these years …" Liz grabbed the thick file folder from Sanchez, held it aloft, and growled at Borman—at her superior officer: "All of these—all of these people—they weren’t missions … they weren’t entry teams … they were supply runs!"

  General Borman did not understand her point.

  "All your air-quality tests … tell me, General, for every molecule of air you took out to test, how much more fresh air did you pump down there? Why, General? What is down there that you’re protecting? What have you been keeping alive all these years?"

  Borman waited until the last huffs of her anxious breath had calmed. He held a hand outward in a conciliatory manner.

  "Listen, Colonel," he said, priding himself on managing to remain calm. It was important to show a subordinate—particularly one in the grip of an emotional outburst—that remaining calm was the mark of a good officer. It was important to be in control of oneself at all times. "I can overlook your unauthorized foray into the records room, but only if you forget this silliness and return to your post."

  Unfortunately, it appeared that his calm demeanor was lost on such an emotional creature. He saw her eyes grow wide and he heard her breath turn into gasps, like one of those teenagers in a horror movie when the bad boy with the machete comes calling.

  "Oh … oh … my … God," she said and he did not like the way she looked him, as if his uniform were out of sorts. She raised a crooked finger at him and said, "You—you’re under the control of whatever is down there, aren’t you?"

  He tried again to chase away her craziness. "Now Colonel—Liz—I am in complete control of myself. Look at me—rational, composed. Not a hair out of place, not a speck on my uniform. I am the very model of discipline."

  Borman reconsidered his statement and glanced at his feet, which were dressed only in dark socks. He then glanced over at the pair of shoes waiting on the bed, yearning for his attention.

  "Except for my shoes, of course. They do have a few scuffs that need to be worked out. Nothing I can’t handle, of course."

  Colonel Thunder wobbled backwards, bumping into Sanchez.

  "How long, General? How long has it been controlling you? Twenty years? Since the beginning? Is that door really to keep something locked up, or is it to keep something safe?"

  His attention remained on his shoes. They were in need of attention.

  "I do need to get back to polishing them."

  "And the device you sent down with Major Gant; that device isn’t destroying whatever is down there, it’s helping it. Did it give you those marching orders, too?"r />
  He felt himself growing angry at this interruption.

  I have work to do and this woman is yapping on about nonsense.

  "Colonel, I am going to get back to polishing my shoes. When I’m done, I’m going to decide whether or not to have you arrested. In the meantime, I suggest you head back to your quarters." The general directed his gaze at Sanchez: "And Corporal, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll distance yourself from Colonel Thunder. Too bad, too, I had such hopes for you. Such … such high hopes …"

  Sanchez gripped Liz’s shoulder and answered with the proper respect, "Yes, sir. I understand, sir. I’ll show the colonel back to her quarters, sir."

  "That's a good soldier. Carry on."

  General Borman watched Sanchez all but push Thunder out the door and close it behind.

  Good boy, that Sanchez, for a Hispanic fellow. Now, where did I put those shoes?

  29

  Gant propped himself on one knee, his head slung low while a trio of the entity's children dragged Brandon and Andrew's bodies out into the hallway and no doubt to some corner where they would eat. The heavy doors swung shut, leaving two trails of crimson behind.

  The entity—in the form of Dr. Briggs—had been gone for a long time, but time in the belly of the Hell Hole was some sort of illusion. Reality was the dark, the stale air, and the horrid enigma of the entity and its court. Thom had been swallowed by some horrific beast; a tale of Jonah's whale and Dante's Inferno wrapped into one.

  Ruthie retreated across the room but still held a gun, and Jolly stood in a corner watching through his crazy eyes with a permanent smile.

  Gant, however, would not be trying any heroics. The last blow with the baton had damaged his shoulder. Now he had a busted knee and what felt like a separated shoulder. He could not run and, for the time being at least, his right arm could not hold a weapon, much less throw a punch.

  The entity, for all its great mental powers, had neutralized the major with the pure blunt force of an essentially primitive weapon, wielded by a mindless brute.

  "They’ve abandoned you, you know," Dr. Briggs said, emerging from the isolation chamber at the back of the lab. He seemed to glide across the floor.

  Thom sensed a tiredness in his voice. Perhaps it reflected the strain of watching Twiste—his hope for activating the V.A.A.D.—die. Certainly he had lost control of his temper, beating to death the servant who had accidentally killed the one person this creature seemed to need.

  During that moment, Gant had seen something else, perhaps the consciousness of Briggs, trapped inside this creature from another plane, but possibly still down there. Smothered, controlled, but not dead.

  He thought about Twiste’s theory. Perhaps this was a creature comprised entirely of the energy of thought. If so, it might not have the physical means to do anything.

  Still, it was inside Briggs’s body; the form was not a hallucination, it was solid and real. If the body of Briggs touched a table as it strolled by, that table moved in reaction. No ghost. No image. A real body.

  The entity—the creature made of pure thought—must be using the shell of Briggs like a person wears clothes.

  No, Gant considered. Like the invisible man wore clothes. No clothes, nothing to see.

  "I said, they abandoned you," Dr. Briggs repeated, sounding annoyed that Gant had not reacted to his first statement.

  "They have, have they?"

  "Yes," Briggs told him. "After your team passed through the vault door, General Borman sealed it shut, even welding a steel plate in place so that unlocking the door is not enough to open it."

  "Well, then, it seems we are both stuck down here."

  Briggs sat on a tabletop with his legs dangling in an attempt to appear casual. Instead he looked awkward and uncomfortable

  Jolly responded to some telepathic message and hurried toward Gant, grabbing a chair along the way. He placed it close to the major, then helped Thom take a seat.

  Gant moaned as his knee bent. The pain was still sharp, still undeniable.

  "We should look at that wound," Briggs said. "Ruthie, redress the major’s injury, please."

  She hurried over, knelt next to his chair, and unraveled the makeshift bandage. Blood had matted and dried making the bandage feel as if it were one with Gant’s leg. When Ruth yanked the last strand off, it felt as if she had ripped off a patch of skin.

  Gant held back a scream. Barely.

  The bleeding had stopped, but the wound was still substantial. Gant considered all the wonderful things happening in there: infection, bone chips floating around, and cartilage torn to shreds. Even if he survived this mission—which seemed a long shot—he would suffer a long road to recovery.

  Ruth stepped away and walked to a corner of the room, where the skeletal woman searched through a big bag that, no doubt, once belonged to another team of soldiers sent into this parlor of horrors.

  "You know, Major, it is obvious that you have a great sense of duty and obligation. I admire that. So many of your predecessors had that, too."

  Gant rubbed a hand over the top of his wounded knee. The skin was tender and raw.

  "My predecessors?"

  "Oh, yes," Briggs was happy to tell him. "The many missions before yours. So many soldiers and scientists. Each one led by a man like you—confident, willing to do what it took to complete the mission, full of a sense of duty. Take Jolly, here," and Briggs motioned toward his giant-sized deformed slave. "He led a team down here, what, about eight years ago. He was quite determined, very resilient, and strong, as you know. Gave me quite a lot of trouble. But as you can see, I managed to overcome all the obstacles of his stubborn personality and now he is my most faithful servant. At the time when he came in here, he had your same self-assuredness in the rightness of his cause."

  Ruth returned with a bottle of peroxide and a fresh, honest-to-goodness bandage wrap.

  Gant half smiled, pointed to his knee, and said, "I thought you might heal this with the wave of your hand."

  The creature inside Briggs’s body refused to be drawn.

  Ruth poured solution on the wound. Bubbles fizzled and hissed on the damaged tissue. Gant bit his lip to the point of drawing blood, yet he still could not stifle a cry of pain.

  "Eventually I’ll move out into the world to reshape it in a new image. I could use someone like you in this new world. Someone who has loyalty. Could you take the same righteousness you show to people like Borman and show it to me?"

  Gant played along. He liked having his wound cleaned and dressed, despite the pain.

  "I thought your plan was to show off your new power by forcing me to shoot myself in my head?"

  The entity conceded, "I was thinking of doing that, yes. Then again, when I take the world and make it mine, a whole universe of possibilities will open. Think of your wildest dreams, Major. Your greatest fantasies; maybe your darkest ones, too. I can give that all to you. Or, of course, I can make you suffer terribly."

  Ruth wrapped the wound perfectly. Gant wondered if the being inside of Briggs had robbed some doctor of his memories so that she could do it right.

  Gant nodded his head in acceptance of the statements. As the last bandage was wrapped and as Ruth fastened a metal clasp to hold it all in place, Gant asked the obvious question.

  "Why are you bargaining with me?"

  The question surprised, or embarrassed, the entity.

  "I am not bargaining with you."

  "Yes, yes you are," Gant corrected as Ruth stood and walked away, her mission accomplished. Gant nodded a "thank you" to the broken shell of a woman who had just performed a field dressing as well as any medic he knew. She did not appear to hear.

  "You are bargaining with me as if you want me to do something for you, like turn on the V.A.A.D. Problem is, I do not know how it works."

  Briggs sneered; a look of contempt. The look of a man who had had his amateurish bluff called in a poker game. The man's body got up and walked away.

  "You take al
l these … these … people," Gant waved his hand in general reference to the entity and all its minions, "and use them like puppets. You even make people on the surface go nuts now and then, by getting into their minds. Yet here I am two feet from you and you can't make me say, ‘boo.’ Why is that?"

  The entity just looked at Gant. It appeared speechless.

  "And Twiste, too. You could not drag the info on this V.A.A.D. thing out of his head, not like the way you seem to drag stuff out of other people. It seems you went into Roberts's head and pulled out how to shoot a pistol accurately, and he is a couple hundred feet above us through rock and stone and steel. Brandon was standing right here, and you could not make him do anything."

  The entity, with anger burning just below the surface, said sternly, "I can make you do things, Major. Soon enough I WILL have you shoot your brains out. Or maybe I’ll have you cut off your testicles and eat them. Or throw yourself at my feet and beg for mercy. You will respect me, Major. Even if it’s with your dying breath."

  It went back into the room at the rear of the lab, shutting the door behind.

  Gant, however, was not finished. He voiced his thoughts out loud, with Ruthie and Jolly his only audience—a disinterested one at that.

  "You cannot control my mind, and you could not control Twiste's, either." Gant tried to pace, testing the new bandage. He found he could put a little more weight on the knee, almost walk—more of a shuffle.

  "What was it with Twiste? What made him different? What makes me different? You can project illusions to trick our eyes for a while, but you cannot use us like puppets. Yet over the years you took professional soldiers who were trained to be mentally disciplined, to stay focused, and you turned them into," he paused, looked at the grotesque Jolly, and then finished, "you turned them into playthings."

  Focused. Disciplined.

  Gant stopped pacing and considered.