The Rift

by Bob Mayer

  The blue bulb was still in his breast pocket.

  Nada managed to climb out of the cockpit, have the blessed relief of the ground beneath his feet for fifteen seconds, and then he was on board the Blackhawk, opening up a kit bag full of the good stuff and trading in his civvies for battle gear as the helicopter took off.

  Nothing but good times ahead.

  He realized he was looking forward to seeing Scout as he switched the bulb from his civilian shirt into one of the many pouches on his MOLLE vest. It meant he was carrying two less thirty-round magazines but he was beginning to realize he had to live life on the edge in order to experience it more fully.

  As if he hadn’t been doing so for decades.

  Just differently.

  Burns had been driving along the river on the north side, getting as close to it as the roads allowed.

  He was searching.

  He was currently pulled over on the side of Tedford Road, underneath a set of high power lines. The road was just short of ending at Tooles Bend Road, which went under I-140, a spur of Interstate 40 that connected it with Maryville to the south. It was all quite confusing, but GPS helped a lot.

  He turned off the engine and rolled the windows down. He leaned his head out and peered up at the power lines. They were a long way up.

  But doable.

  Then he heard an airplane engine, the roar familiar: C-130.

  He nodded. Of course they were here. He had expected the Nightstalkers to be coming. Burns cocked his head to the side as he examined that thought as much he seemed capable of examining anything.

  Had he?

  Or had he been told they’d come?

  He wasn’t quite certain of anything, except the mission that had been imprinted on him. That he had to do. There was no choice.

  The sound of the 130 faded into the distance and Burns considered the power lines because he needed those to deal with the Nightstalkers.

  They’d do, but something was nagging at him, touching on the edge of his consciousness. Something was ahead. Just past the underpass. Something that was drawing him with more subtle urgency than the electricity overhead. More than the mission imprinted on him. He started the car and drove left onto Tooles Bend and through the underpass. The road was narrow and winding and took a sharp left up ahead, but Burns slammed on the brakes as he sensed the strange feeling off to the side.

  Not sound. Not sight.

  The echoes of the past. Of emotion. Of anguish.

  Burns looked to the right. A dirt road ran off into the darkness through the trees. A pair of chain-link gates were padlocked together and a half-dozen NO TRESPASSING signs were hung on the gate and trees.

  As if.

  Burns turned the wheel and hit the gas. The car burst through the gates, leaving them hanging forlornly on their hinges. He drove along the dirt road.

  He didn’t need night vision goggles.

  Burns tried to figure out what was drawing him. But as he went down the road, it got more powerful. He came out of the trees. An open field was to the left, sloping down to the Tennessee River. Burns peered in the direction as he stopped the car. The ruins of a large ominous-looking building lurked in the darkness. Smashed windows peered out like empty eye sockets, wide double doors in front yawning open, not inviting but threatening.

  Do not enter here, for bad things await.

  Burns kept his eyes on the ruins as he reached for Neeley’s phone. He gripped it and accessed the Internet, trying to ascertain what this place had been.

  It took a while, as if someone had been trying to hide the history of the locale, but eventually he uncovered it: This had been the fieldwork outbuilding of the Lakeshore Mental Asylum in Knoxville. Patients had been shuttled out here for “therapy” in the fields and on the river.

  It was not therapy they’d received, Burns could sense.

  The place was long since shuttered and closed. A minor mystery for investigators of the paranormal who claimed it was haunted by ghosts of patients drowned in the river and murdered in other nefarious ways.

  It was haunted. Burns could feel the souls of those who’d passed through here. The torments of their twisted minds. He felt a kinship. He got out of the car and walked into the field. The dirt beneath his feet screamed their anguish.

  Burns started twirling, slowly at first, then faster and faster. His long coat with the suppressed pistol in the pocket spread out from his side, becoming a cape. His hands went up into the air as if pleading.

  Terrible things had been done here. Evil people, both captor and prisoner.

  He tumbled to the ground, dizzy.

  He lay there for a few moments staring up the sky, his eyes normal.

  Then they regained their golden tint.

  What had he been doing?

  He sat up. Then got to his feet and walked over to the car and got in.

  Burns sat for minutes, even with the throb of electricity running through those power lines not far away, a siren’s call for his mission.

  Finally, he started the car up and headed back for the power.

  Moms and Scout snagged the supply pods first, racing up to each one on a Sea-Doo and using a hook to grab them and then using a tow rope to drag them behind.

  Scout was better at it than Moms, who was learning how to operate a Sea-Doo for the first time. Scout snagged five of the seven pods and tied them off at the dock. By that time, Mac, Kirk, and Eagle were swimming upriver, in their direction.

  Scout skidded up to Eagle with a spray, stopping just scant inches from him in the water. “Hey, Eagle!”

  “Impressive driving,” Eagle said as he grabbed and pulled himself on board. “Mac and Kirk are coming, but they’re younger and can swim longer.”

  Scout laughed as she roared back to her dock, passing Moms, who’d recovered the last two pods and was heading for the other jumpers. She quickly found both Mac and Kirk.

  “Where’s Roland?” she asked as they both climbed on board behind her.

  Kirk unsealed his night vision goggles and slid them on. “Oh frak.” He pointed over Moms’s shoulder upriver.

  Roland’s parachute was clearly visible draped over the power lines. His large body dangling below it was silhouetted against the stars.

  “That’s about as pretty a picture of Roland we’re ever gonna get,” Mac said.

  “He knows not to complete the circuit?” Kirk asked as Moms gunned them toward the dock.

  “I wouldn’t bet on it,” Mac said.

  “He does,” Moms said with complete confidence. Fake it till he makes it, she thought.

  She pulled up to the dock a little too quickly, hitting the Sea-Doo against the rubber bumper.

  “Where’s Nada?” Scout asked.

  “He’s coming,” Eagle said as Mac and Kirk scrambled up to the dock.

  “I’m going for Roland,” Moms said, roaring off before anyone could say anything else.

  “I’m helping,” Scout said, leaving the three alone on the dock. They watched the two Sea-Doos head upriver toward the electric jumper and then began to fish the pods out of the water and onto the dock.

  “If I’d wanted to swim, I’d have joined the Navy,” Nada complained as the helicopter descended to five meters above the Tennessee River.

  “We’ve got power lines around the bend,” the pilot said. “So you need to cast in about thirty seconds.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Nada muttered as he looked between the two pilots, trying to get oriented. “What the hell?” he muttered as he spotted the chute tangled in the power lines and the body below. “Fraking Roland. He better not complete the circuit.”

  Burns parked underneath the power lines, just off of Tedford Road. Wires looped overhead and the forest had been clear-cut in both directions underneath the power lines. He reached back to the rear seat and retrieved
the Gateway laptop.

  He exited the government car and was going to head fifty meters to the nearest tower when he paused as something occurred to him. He went to the trunk and opened it. An assortment of automatic rifles, pistols, and grenades were nestled in their slots. Along with body armor and MOLLE gear. Typical Fed field setup.

  Burns shrugged on the body armor. Then chose a .45-caliber pistol; an MK-17 CQC SCAR assault rifle, chambering the larger 7.62-mm rounds; a bag full of grenades; and a MOLLE vest into which he stuffed ammunition for the weapons.

  He felt much better and grounded. Old habits died hard.

  Familiarity bred contentment.

  He shook his head in confusion.

  Geared up, he headed toward the base of the closest tower.

  “Roland!” Moms called out as the Sea-Doo came to a halt, bobbing on its own wake.

  “Yo!” Roland answered, dangling in his harness eighty feet overhead.

  “Don’t drop your lowering line and complete the circuit,” Moms said.

  “Duh,” Roland replied. “Mac asked you that, didn’t he?” He was fiddling with something that Moms couldn’t make out in the dark.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting out of here,” Roland replied.

  “It’s too high,” Moms said. She could hear a helicopter coming in behind them. “Maybe we can do something with the chopper.”

  “Like what?” Roland asked in a calm voice. He reached up and looped his thumbs through the cutaways for his main.

  “Roland, don’t!”

  Roland pulled the loops and freefell toward the water. As he fell, he pulled his Gore-Tex wet weather jacket over his head, the arms tied into his gear in the back. It was a makeshift parachute that might have helped if Roland was a Ken doll being tossed from a building.

  But he was two hundred forty pounds of Roland.

  He hit with a solid thud less than ten feet from Moms and Scout. He promptly disappeared into the dark water.

  “Roland!” Scout cried out in alarm.

  Nada scooted his butt closer to the edge of the cargo bay and watched Roland fall. “Just great,” he muttered. Then he shoved himself off, immediately linking his hands behind his neck and tucking his chin in as he’d been trained for a helicast. Feet and knees together, braced for the impact of hitting the water.

  He fell from only ten feet and the water was hard when he slammed into the river.

  Roland surfaced, sputtering and splashing about. Moms pulled up next to him and put a hand out. Roland grabbed it and almost jerked her off the Sea-Doo and into the river. Then he got hold of the seat and pulled himself aboard.

  “Are you all right?” Moms asked.

  “I think so,” Roland said.

  “Oh frak,” Moms muttered as she headed for the dock, because a “think so” from Roland meant he was hurt. She turned to Scout. “Nada just jumped from that chopper. Could you—” She hadn’t finished before Scout was racing away as the Blackhawk roared by, gaining altitude to clear the lines.

  Ivar had his eyes closed, resting. He’d learned in the first month of Special Operations training to rest whenever there was an opportunity. This flight eastward out of Area 51 was one such opportunity.

  They were on board a Snake, not the Snake, but the original prototype that didn’t have the up-to-date electronics that its follow-on production design boasted. It also didn’t have the chain gun mounted in the nose. Still, it flew, it could go vertical and horizontal, and it was available.

  Ms. Jones was taking what she could get.

  Doc and Ivar were in the cargo bay, surrounded by the various equipment cases scavenged off the Snake at the depot in Area 51. They were thirty minutes out from Knoxville.

  Ivar stirred as the phone in his chest pocket vibrated. He pulled it out and stared at the screen: #&%!@

  It might have been someone trying to express a profanity without directly saying it, but it wasn’t. Ivar reached into his thigh pocket and covertly pulled out a twin to the black orb he’d dumped into the water at the Can and held it in the palm of his hand. He kept the phone in the other.

  And waited.

  Nada looked up at the Sea-Doo. “You’ve grown.”

  “Hey, Nada,” Scout said. “Climb on board.”

  Nada clambered up behind Scout. “I’ve got a nephew,” he said proudly. “Just born.”

  “Congratulations. Did they name him Nada, after his uncle?” Scout asked as she revved the engine and they headed for the dock.

  “Nope. After his father. He’s going to be a junior.”

  “Argh,” Scout said. “Ever notice there’s no Mary Junior or Nancy Junior? Junior’s a guy thing, as if they live on if their kid has their name. Shoulda named him Nada.”

  “Wouldn’t that be Nada Junior?”

  “Nah.” Scout expertly scooted alongside the dock, touching it without a bump. “You’re his uncle, not his dad. Coulda called him Nada Two, the sequel.”

  Nada laughed as he climbed onto the dock. “One Nada is enough in the world.”

  “And it isn’t even your real name after all,” Scout said. She paused before driving the Sea-Doo onto the lift. “You ever going to tell me your real name?”

  “Not tonight,” Nada said. “You gonna tell me yours?”

  “Not tonight.” Scout drove over to the lift, positioned the Sea-Doo, and then hit the controls, pulling the machine up out of the water.

  As she was doing that, Moms zoomed up, Roland behind her.

  “Doc here yet?” Moms asked.

  Nada did a quick count. “Nope. Why?”

  “Roland’s hurt,” Moms said.

  “I ain’t hurt,” Roland protested as he climbed off, his body stiff. “Just banged up a little.”

  “What the fuck?” Mac asked. “Why’d you cut loose?”

  Roland shrugged, keeping the wince off his face. “We’re on a mission.”

  “Sometimes,” Mac said, “I think you’ve hit your quotient of dumb, then you do something more.” But at the same time, he was checking Roland’s ribs, probing.

  Nada reached out and Kirk was ready with a comm link. Nada keyed the radio. “Doc? What’s your ETA?”

  “Twenty minutes to Knoxville Airport. We’ve got all the gear. And we’re on board the prototype of the Snake. Eagle should be happy, although it’s missing some bells and whistles, including the gun.”

  “Roger,” Nada said. “We’re going to check out the local area, but I’m sending Kirk and Eagle to the airfield to rendezvous with you. We’re still not sure what exactly we’re dealing with.”

  “What else is new?”

  Part of what they were dealing with was sitting underneath the metal skeleton holding up the power lines. Burns had attached a lead from the USB port to the leg of the tower. His fingers were flying over the keyboard, replaying what he’d picked up from Eden’s mind.

  There was a crackle of gold running out of the computer, through the wire, up the leg, and into the power line.

  Burns nodded, then pulled out his phone and sent his second message.

  Ivar didn’t even bother to check the message. He just felt the phone vibrate in one hand and with the other he pressed the black orb.

  “We’ve got Rift forming!”

  One of the operators of the Can jumped to her feet as the clicking alert sounded and flashing lights made her words redundant.

  The other operator turned to his comm station. As he lifted the phone to call Ms. Jones, an electromagnetic pulse rippled out of the orb deep inside the Can.

  Everything inside the room went black.

  Burns stood up as power came down out of the tower and into the laptop, and then to the small golden dot that was forming six feet beyond it and eight feet above the ground.

  It would take time.

 
But he had time now.

  It took the team some minutes to drag the pods up to the house and put them in the spacious four-car garage. They’d moved outside the SUV and Mercedes and four-wheel ATV that had occupied it.

  “How many cars do you guys have?” Mac asked as he lugged in the last pod.

  “Just the two,” Scout said.

  “It’s like the wristwatches in North Carolina,” Eagle said, wanting to stop this one before it got out of hand. “You can have only two wrists, but lots of watches.”

  “What’s the ATV for?” Mac asked.

  “Taking the trash can up to the road,” Scout said.

  “It’s that far?” Mac wanted to know.

  “Dad has a bad back,” Scout said.

  “Couldn’t you have done it?” Mac pressed.

  Scout glared at him. “Dad wouldn’t let me. He likes his ATV.”

  Nada turned to Scout. “How do you get to the airport from here? Doc and Ivar are there with the rest of our gear. And Eagle needs to pick up the Snake.”

  “I can drive there,” Scout said.

  “You’re too young,” Nada said.

  “I’ve got my driver’s permit.” Scout reached in her pocket and pulled out her wallet. She carefully extracted said document and proudly displayed it.

  All the Nightstalkers stopped for a moment and stared at her, realizing she’d grown and changed a bit in the year since they saw her last.

  “Your hair is nice,” Kirk said, having a younger sister and a bit of a clue. “I like the new color.”

  “Thank you.” Scout beamed.

  “What was the old color?” Mac muttered, and Nada nudged him with an elbow hard enough to send him sprawling to the floor.

  “Who’s Ivar?” Scout asked. “I don’t remember an Ivar.”