by Bob Mayer
“Go ahead.”
“Burns’s eyes changed color,” Neeley said.
“I thought you came up behind him,” Hannah said. “How did you see his eyes?”
“I violated Protocol,” Neeley said.
“That’s why we’re having this discussion,” Hannah said.
Neeley waved off the misdirection. “They turned golden. And…” She paused.
“Go ahead.”
“His face changed.”
Hannah waited.
“I knew about the scars from the mission briefing,” Neeley said. “But his face smoothed out and then it became Gant’s.”
Hannah tapped a finger on the table for a moment, a sign of extreme agitation. “How could that be?”
“I don’t know.”
“We don’t know what Burns is,” Hannah said. “So let’s assume he’s capable of changing his appearance.”
“I don’t think it’s just appearance,” Neeley said.
“What do you mean?”
“I think there’s Burns and there is something controlling Burns. And they’re not the same.”
Hannah considered that. “All right. How would he know about Gant?”
“From me. I felt a slight shock when I put the suppressor up against the back his head.”
“Another violation of Protocol,” Hannah noted, but almost as an afterthought. Both women were off their game, something unprecedented.
The door to the room swung open and Dr. Golden walked in. She nodded at Neeley but went to Hannah’s side of the table and slid a piece of paper in front of her. Hannah read it and a frown creased her face.
“Burns opened a Rift,” Hannah said. “The Nightstalkers shut it but have lost containment on an unknown number of Fireflies and Burns.”
“A cluster fuck,” Neeley summarized. She stood. “I’ll go and deal with Burns. Sounds like the Nightstalkers will have their hands full tracking down the Fireflies.”
Golden finally spoke. “I haven’t cleared you for duty.”
“You can come with me,” Neeley said. “Evaluate me en route and on the job.”
Hannah glanced between Golden and Neeley and then nodded at the latter. “Go. We’ll finish this later.”
Moms had the air force airdrop two F470 Zodiacs into the river. They were layered with Armorflate, an inflatable bulletproof system, and powered by a fifty-five-horsepower, two-stroke pump-jet propulsor.
The team was gathered on the dock, the Snake sitting in the circle at the end of the drive, and a fleet of FEMA personnel were evacuating the inhabitants of Scout’s neighborhood with dire warnings of a train derailment nearby. There were chemicals and bad stuff and enough mumbo jumbo that taillights were making an exodus out of the area.
In fact, Ms. Jones had already had a train “derailed” on the line so that overhead imagery would back up their cover story, and it also closed the rail line in the area to further traffic.
So far, Support was having a better mission than the Nightstalkers.
“All right,” Moms said, surveying her battered team. “The golden glow was going with the river, so let’s assume Burns and the Fireflies are also doing that. I know the clock is ticking, but we’ve already lost containment. We go racing off in the wrong direction, we’re just wasting time. So let’s focus here and hash this out before we move. Everyone feel free to put in their dime’s worth. What’s the target?”
“The Watts Bar nuke plant,” Doc said. “It’s the most obvious.”
“Next most obvious?” Nada asked.
“The dam is closer,” Scout said. “Seems like this Burns fellow would have opened the Rift closer to the nuclear plant if that was his target.”
“Score one for the girl,” Eagle said.
“I am a young woman,” Scout corrected him. “Not a girl.”
“Correction,” Eagle said. “The young woman.”
“Perhaps,” Doc said. “But this golden glow originated here. From Scout’s toothbrush. Originally from the Rift in North Carolina. The question is, how is that connected to Burns, the Rift here, and the Fireflies?”
“And Scout,” Kirk said in a low voice, but Nada heard him and so did Moms.
Nada spoke up. “Is Burns trying to complete what they attempted in North Carolina? Expand a Rift into a Portal?”
Doc held up his pack. “I’ve got the computer Burns used. How is he going to open a Rift, never mind a Portal, now?”
The sound of a chainsaw roared from where the Snake was parked, indicating Support removing the wooden pole from the cargo bay by the most expeditious manner. The pained look on Eagle’s face indicated what he thought of that.
“He might have the program in a thumb drive,” Doc said. “Ivar was working on a remote site from the computer that opened the Rift in Scout’s neighborhood in North Carolina. He shoves a thumb drive in any computer powerful enough, it can generate the algorithm.”
“This doesn’t feel the same,” Scout said in a low voice, which pretty much everyone ignored, especially since it was barely audible above the roar of the chainsaw.
Except Nada. And Moms. And Kirk.
“You know,” Ivar said, “there’s another potential target in this area. Perhaps an even more likely one, and the entire river thing is a diversion.”
“Speak,” Moms ordered.
“North of here,” Ivar said. “Oak Ridge. When the Manhattan Project was formed in 1939, they picked three main sites. Everyone thinks of Los Alamos, but actually Oak Ridge and Hanford, in Washington, were more important in a way because they produced the fissionable material used in making the bombs.”
“Maybe the river isn’t a diversion but a route,” Eagle said. “Oak Ridge is on the Clinch River, which flows into this river down by Kingston. And part of it borders Watts Bar Lake.”
Moms nodded at him. “Thanks. Is Oak Ridge still active?”
“Yes,” Ivar said. “And it has a plutonium core that’s still active. Going through the Archives, I read that the first Rift ever opened used a plutonium core.”
“The demon core,” Eagle said.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Scout muttered.
“Ditto,” Nada said.
“It’s a core that Area 51 appropriated from Los Alamos,” Ivar said. “Killed two researchers.”
“Sounds even worse,” Scout said.
Ivar turned to Eagle. “What is Odessa?”
Everyone stared at the newest member of the team in surprise.
“What are you talking about?” Moms asked.
“The group that opened the first Rift,” Ivar said. “It was called Odessa.”
Eagle had instant access to the pile of useless and useful facts in his brain. “I assumed you meant the group at Area 51 and not the Frederick Forsyth book or the movie adapted from it, which was actually based on a real organization, which the group at Area 51 also used. Roughly Odessa stands for Organization of former SS, which the Nazi and Japanese scientists at Area 51 called themselves. They were led by a former SS officer, Colonel”—Eagle paused, having to access deeper thoughts—“Colonel Schmidt. They all disappeared when they opened the Rift using the demon core.”
Moms held up her hand as she processed all this. “Okay. So. It could be the Loudoun Dam, the Watts Bar nuclear reactor, or Oak Ridge.”
“It ain’t that complicated,” Nada said. He pointed down at the dock. “The river is the key. We go with the river, we follow the golden glow, and I bet we run into the Fireflies and Burns somewhere along the way. First the dam, then Oak Ridge, then the nuke plant. Meanwhile, you get Support to put additional security down at Watts Bar and at Oak Ridge. Especially any water intake. Also, seal off the dam area. We go downriver to the dam.”
Moms turned to Ivar. “You figure out a way to track this golden glow thingie?”
“We don’t even know what it is,” Ivar hedged. “But,” he continued before anyone jumped on his expertise with combat boots, “I’ve rigged this.” He held up a backpack with a long wand attached to it. “It will determine electronic fluctuations, especially in the water. If there’s something in there”—he nodded toward the dark river flowing under the dock—“this will find it.”
Moms looked over her bedraggled team. “We’ve got some hours of darkness left. I want to contain and control this before dawn or else it might go viral. We head downriver. Ivar, you’re in the lead boat with me and Roland and Kirk. Doc, you’re in the second boat with Nada and Mac. Eagle, you fly overhead.”
“I don’t have the chain gun,” Eagle said.
“But you’ve got eyes and imaging,” Moms said. “You’re our eye in the sky and our commo link to Support. Also, I want two Apaches on your shoulders. Can you link and slave their weapons to your control system?”
Eagle thought for a second, then nodded. “Yes.”
“Good,” Moms said. “You control their fire once we make contact.”
“Roger,” Eagle said.
“What about me?” Scout said.
Moms looked at the young woman/girl.
Before she could say something, Scout volunteered an answer. “I can be on the Sea-Doo. Cover your flank or whatever it is scouts do.”
“They scout,” Nada said. “Covering the flank is an appropriate mission for a scout.”
“She’s a civilian,” Moms said.
“We’re past that,” Nada replied. “She was our asset in North Carolina and she’s our asset here.” He didn’t add what only the two of them knew: Ms. Jones had said do it, so do it they would.
“I can drive a Sea-Doo too,” Kirk said. “Let’s us cover more of the river. I’ll take one side, Scout the other.”
Moms sighed. “All right.”
“Do I get paid?” Scout asked.
“No,” Moms said automatically.
“Do I get a gun?”
Moms was about to give the rote answer, but Nada interceded. “Do you know how to use one?”
“Yes,” Scout said, all seriousness for once. “I took the daylong course.”
“Roland,” Nada said. “What do you have for our scout?”
Kirk would have recognized Jimmy DiSalvo for exactly what he was: a meth-head nut job, tweaking so bad he kept loading and unloading the four bullets he had left into the magazine for the 9-mm pistol he’d taken from the store clerk.
The other five bullets that had been in the gun were now in the store clerk at Weigel’s back in Farragut. DiSalvo didn’t get it: Why get killed over a minimum-wage job?
It never occurred to him to wonder why he’d killed the clerk over one hundred forty-two dollars. And twenty-seven cents. And four bullets.
Three bullets as one escaped DiSalvo’s fingers and tumbled down the side of the cliff and disappeared into the water below.
He should have made a wish, although what do you get for a bullet in a lake?
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” DiSalvo kept repeating, hitting himself on the side of his head with the hand holding the three bullets. The contact made him feel better, believing that he was knocking sense into his brain, which needed it; after all, that’s what his dad had always told him every time he whacked Jimmy upside the head.
But he didn’t want to lose the bullets! That piece of common sense rattled through, so he switched hands.
Except he forgot he had the unloaded gun in that other hand and the next whack was the barrel of the gun rather than his hand. DiSalvo was dazed.
Dazed layered on top of confused while standing on top of a cliff over a lake formed by the brightly lit dam just to his right was not a good combination. DiSalvo staggered, tried to right himself, and then followed the bullet.
He bounced several times off the rocky cliff, hard enough and often enough that by the time he hit the water, he didn’t have to worry about drowning.
He should have made a wish.
“Why did you recruit Burns?” Hannah asked.
Dr. Golden was seated across from her, hands folded in her lap, listening in.
There was the slight hiss of reassuring static out of the speakerphone, meaning that the encryption was working. Hannah often wondered if the designer left that static in for the reassurance. Surely technology was advanced enough now that the static could be engineered out?
“His family,” Ms. Jones responded, her voice containing its own static.
“More specifically?” Hannah pressed, not used to Ms. Jones being evasive.
“His grandfather was Colonel Johan Schmidt, the leader of the Odessa group at Area 51.”
“Ah,” Hannah said. “But that still does not explain why you recruited him.”
“We don’t know what happened with the first Rift,” Ms. Jones said. “Schmidt was involved. There is a legacy. I felt that legacy would unfold. So I recruited him for the Nightstalkers.”
“That might have been a mistake,” Dr. Golden said.
“It might have,” Ms. Jones admitted, “but we have yet to see how this current event will play out. Obviously, Burns is central to it. This has been building. Whether by plan or by circumstance, I can’t say, although I lean toward the former especially given the events of last year in North Carolina and Scout’s involvement now and here.”
“I don’t like it,” Hannah said. “There are too many unknown variables.”
“There usually are,” Ms. Jones said. “But we have our best people on it.”
“Do they know Burns’s location or target?”
“Negative on location,” Ms. Jones said. “But they have three potential targets in order of priority and proximity: The Loudoun Dam, Oak Ridge, and the Watts Bar nuclear plant.”
“Your FPF?”
“On station.”
“Very well,” Hannah said. “Continue to update me.”
She cut the connection and looked across her desk at Dr. Golden. “I hope our best is good enough.”
Burns stared at the Tellico Dam while information on it poured into him from Neeley’s cell phone.
He shook his head at the human insanity the dam represented: people fighting to keep it from being built to save a tiny fish; sacred Indian land being submerged; land grabs by those in the know.
And it generated no power.
Not directly. Water from the Little Tennessee River was blocked by the dam, which had been built just above where the river had originally joined the Tennessee River. To get to the Tennessee, water flowed through a canal from Tellico Reservoir to Loudoun Lake and then went through the turbines of the Loudoun Dam, adding 23 megawatts of power.
Thus opening the gates of Tellico would reduce the water flow to Loudoun, thus reducing the power outage, which was barely enough at overpeak for what Burns needed.
Not acceptable.
Of course, the gates of Tellico Dam were opened only once a year for maintenance, but it was a loose end.
And one thing Burns had learned as a Nightstalker was to make sure there were no loose ends.
Plus, he still had some time for congruence at the Loudoun Dam to occur.
He looked around and picked up two brick-sized stones. He put them in his backpack. Then he threw the free end of the rope he had tied off down the face of the dam. He clipped the rope through the carabiner tied off to his harness and then launched himself down the dam.
Frasier was humming “I Wear My Sunglasses at Night” as he got off the elevator and walked down the corridor to the Can. His partner ignored him, as he always did when Frasier hummed the song en route to an interview. As he always did. Frasier, being schooled in psychology, knew it was OCD on his part, but he figured it was harmless, other than irritating his partner. Of course, his partner carried a big gun in his shoulder holster,
and one day he might get irritated beyond the point of no return, but Frasier figured he had a ways to go before that particular incident occurred.
The man and woman who’d been in the Can when the power went out were seated away from the control consoles, looking decidedly unhappy. And well they should be, Frasier thought as he signaled for the single guard (they were scientists, one guard was all that was needed) to move away.
A new team was at the consoles, while several Support crews were going over every inch of the cavern, searching it. There were even two specially trained dive teams inside the stainless steel tank, working in relays, coming out of the water every five minutes to allow a muonic scan to be done, just in case another Rift occurred.
The two popped to their feet as Frasier and his partner approached.
“Sit,” Frasier ordered as he grabbed a folding chair, turned it around, interrogation style, and straddled it. His partner just stood there, looming.
He was a good loomer, which was why Frasier kept him around.
Frasier pulled his sunglasses off, his partner doing it in sync, like a dance team in step.
The two scientists did a double take, staring at Frasier’s left eye and then purposely forcing themselves not to stare at his left eye.
It was the usual reaction and the normal one.
Frasier had a solid black left eye. He’d never had the scar tissue around the socket fixed, since he figured that was like polishing the silver around the bullet hole. Or something like that. Of course, most assumed it was just a space filler, but the eye was actually a ridiculously expensive camera and microprocessor. Not Six Million Dollar Man stuff, where he could actually see, but rather a device that functioned as a sort of lie detector, tracking pulses in a person’s neck, perspiration, respiration rate, and so on.
The bottom line was it worked. Coupling the data from the eye with his own experience, his training in micro-expressions, and a natural ability, Frasier was pretty damn confident he could tell when someone was lying.
