Beyond the Brink_Toward the Brink IV

by Craig McDonough

  As soon as they’d dressed, the guard who led them to this room returned. “If you’ll follow me again, gentlemen, I’ll take you to a hot meal. I’m sure you are all looking forward to it, and may I say, you all look much better after your shower.”

  Tom knew he meant smelled much better, but didn’t dare say. That the guard appeared so soon after they dressed, Tom also wondered if the room might have been bugged.

  “Follow me down this hallway,” the guard politely asked.

  A dull, but slowly growing light appeared in the depths of Tom’s mind—a portent of approaching danger.

  Whose danger? Their own, the others back at Sandspit, the remainder of the world… But what could he do about it?

  Mountain View 3

  The guard that Elliot and crew followed wasn’t armed, just as correctional officers who have close contact with prisoners aren’t. For good reason—in case they’re attacked. The five from the chopper followed the guard through a door into another hallway much like the previous one, only faux wood panels had been added to the walls and ceiling covered up the concrete, and a cheap gray carpet covered the floor. The two guards that were armed followed close behind. When he got to the door about halfway down the hallway, the guard took two quick steps forward and grabbed the handle.

  After the guard opened the door he gestured inside with his free hand. “Here we are, gentlemen. Your meal awaits.”

  One by one, the freshly showered crew filed through the door. What was once a boardroom or pilots briefing room was now decked out with a large dark shade—cloth, tacked onto the walls and ceiling. A red-and-white striped fabric stretched across the table in the center of the room: it was made from several US flags, the stars and blue removed and discarded, and roughly stitched together.

  “Gentleman, welcome, welcome!” Colonel Hakola stood at the head of the table and greeted. “You look practically civilized now that you’ve cleaned and shaved.” He laughed then picked up a small bell from the table and gave it a ring.

  A moment later, the side door opened again and a black man in his late thirties in a white suit jacket with black bowtie—reminiscent of a 1930s-cabaret scene—pushed a small cart containing several bottles of liquor and an open ice chest with cans of beer.

  “Thank you, Mr. Charles, you may leave the cart here,” Hakola said, before quickly adding, “Oh, Mr. Transky, perhaps you know one another?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t—”

  “Well, you did work for this man's uncle, I just thought—”

  “You worked for my uncle? He’s—well, was—the president of the United States,” the waiter said to Tom.

  “Yes, sir,” Tom said to the waiter, “I know your uncle. And worked for him, for many years. He is a fine man.”

  When Tom said the words, “…is a fine man,” the waiter’s face came alive.

  “Is my uncle still alive, do you know where he is, do—”

  “That will be all, for now, Mr. Charles.” Hakola’s voice was firm, but full of authority.

  “But sir, I just want to—”

  “Now, Mr. Charles. Now!”

  Charles’ shoulders dropped and his eyes looked to the floor. Tom wanted to speak with him, but Hakola ensured that wouldn’t happen. The situation, though, did show the level of control exerted by Hakola’s menace—his good manners nothing but a facade.

  “Please, sit,” Hakola asked his guest’s as he moved over to the cart. “Beer, Elliot?” He placed a few cold ones on the table, along with bottles of bourbon, scotch, and tequila. “Choose your poison, people.”

  “Well, we have to be careful about drinking when we’re flying,” Richard said. “Do you have any cold water?”

  Hakola stared back at the pilot as if his face had been slapped but then burst into laughter. “You’re serious, aren’t you? Water? Fucking water!” he rolled out a few more laughs. “No, you can drink up, Marine, because you won’t be flying anywhere for some time.”

  As Hakola picked up a glass of scotch he’d been nursing and plonked his skinny ass down in his chair, the helicopter crew shared anxious looks. Delaying their flight by a day wasn’t possible. A meal, some conversation, cordial and polite questions asked and answered, but then they had to be on their way—that was the plan.

  “What do you mean we won’t be flying anywhere for some time?”

  “Just what I said, my boy.” Hakola took a sip, then pursed his lips as he swallowed. He had a smug look about him. He knew something they didn’t and enjoyed the fact. “There’s a storm headed this way. In the time you took to clean up, heavy clouds appeared. Definitely not flying weather.”

  Neither Elliot nor any of the others could argue with the weather. It would be foolhardy to attempt to fly in a storm.

  “That sounds fair.” Richard knew you got more bees with honey than vinegar. He pulled up a seat and grabbed a cold beer before he added, “We could get a good night’s rest and be ready to go once the storm passes.” A sharp crack sounded along with the hiss of escaping gas as Richard opened the can of beer.

  “Sure, sure. But tell me, what’s the rush? Where in this apocalyptic mess of a country could you possibly be in a hurry to get to—a sale at Bloomingdale’s perhaps?” Hakola continued with the merriment.

  “Elliot, if I may?” Tom edged forward to the table and looked over the Air Force-issued silverware, the bowl of plastic flowers in the middle, and the segmented American flag that was now a table cloth. It had all the telltale signs of a charade, but for what purpose? None of that mattered anyhow. The mission to prevent the doomsday launch was the only thing of importance.

  Tom poured himself a bourbon, added some crushed ice from the bowl on the table, then addressed the man at the head.

  “Colonel Hakola, sir. It is imperative we get back to Washington, DC as soon as possible. We have a mission to complete that is of the utmost urgency.”

  Hakola’s interest had been piqued. He took a belt from his scotch then slammed it back down on the table. “Don’t hold back now, government boy. Spit it out!”

  Tom chose his words carefully as he delivered the details of the doomsday system. It differed little from the information he gave Bob Charles at Sandspit a few days ago, after the dramatic firefight and foamer attack. Just more guarded on finer details, and he didn’t mention Sandspit, Prince George, or how exactly he had encountered Elliot’s people.

  Colonel Hakola rocked back in his chair, hands placed behind the back of his head. The terrifying prospect of a nuclear armageddon released on auto-pilot didn’t faze him one iota. Either that or he was a good poker player.

  “Now tell me,” Hakola side—stepped the nuclear threat entirely, “what of President Charles? Is our boy still alive? I’d like to know the answer to that.”

  Tom didn’t care for the emphasis of boy and its overtones of racism. He glared back in contempt at Hakola.

  “Didn’t you just hear what Tom said?” Elliot’s impatience with the jabs exchanged became obvious.

  Hakola was slightly ahead on the judge’s scorecard. He did, after all, have armed guards present. The knock-out blow, should it be needed.

  “Yes, I did.” Hakola stood. “You better have yourself a beer and relax, young man. You’re not able to—”

  “It’s all right Colonel Hakola, it's all right.” Tom soothed the situation the best way he knew how. In Tom’s dealings with the military over the years, he believed military officers liked to be in charge, and wanted recognition of their control. Addressing them by their rank had a way of ensuring that.

  “Sit back and have a beer, Elliot.” Tom winked with his right eye, the eye furthermost away from Hakola.

  “Yeah, yeah, sure.” Elliot pulled a chair out and sat.

  “Yes, the president—well, the former president, is alive. He is with other survivors.”

  “Survivors?” Hakola appeared genuinely surprised at the news. His eyes wandered up to the ceiling and stared for a good moment. Whatever was there, then only h
e could see it, and it wasn’t pretty. Not if the broken lines that formed around his eyes or his trembling upper lip where anything to go by. When finally, he returned from outer space or wherever he’d been, he cryptically said, “Are we really survivors or just the condemned?”

  “That I can’t answer, Colonel—”

  Hakola stood abruptly and stared Tom down. “So where are your associates then? And how many are there?”

  “Port Rupert, British Columbia.” Tom took a mouthful from his drink and tried to present himself as relaxed in the face of the questions. His shaking hand told a different story.

  “Port Rupert, eh? Well then, first thing’s first. Enough chat, I’m sure you boys are starved, no?” Hakola changed tack. Which he constantly did, and the helicopter crew was aware of his unstable persona.

  Though no one had much of an appetite, they still agreed anyway. Anything to avoid questions regarding the whereabouts of the other survivors—even if temporary.

  “Good. While the food is on its way, let me tell you about your doomsday system.” The Colonel looked over at Tom. “It’s no longer operable. I’ve spent my share of time at the Pentagon. I knew of the system—not the finer details, mind you, only of its existence—it’s higher than Top Secret, you know. Well, of course you know, Tom. When NORAD needed more satellite surveillance over the Middle East and Europe a few years back, it didn’t have the scope left in its budget. The CIA and NSA weren’t about to share. NORAD couldn’t wait for a new allocation of funds, so it came down to a choice. Go without or take the satellite coverage from another program. They chose the latter and removed all satellite imaging, targeting, infrared systems—the works—from the doomsday system. It remained on the books—well, the computers—to present the facade of still being operational. Looks like it even fooled you, eh, Tom?”

  It was Tom’s turn to slump back into his chair and take a good belt from his bourbon. How was I to know? How?

  “Now, suppose you boys start levelin’ with me, hmm?” Hakola said in his finest Southern gentleman’s voice. He looked at Richard, Ted, and Tristan especially—the military men. Tom was too experienced and though the boy was tough, he could break him. But did he have the time?

  “What do you mean? We’ve been level with you—”

  “Don’t try my patience boy!” Hakola threw his half-filled glass to the floor where it shattered sending shards everywhere. Another change in the Colonel's disposition.

  Hakola explained on what—to him—didn’t sound right. “The president and his chief of staff suddenly turn up alive and well on the west coast of Canada. And as luck would have it, they run into another group of people fleeing from this disaster, then we just happen to chance upon a couple of Marine helicopter pilots looking for a job and who also have access to a chopper. How handy.” Hakola cast a glare at Richard and Ted. “Throw in a member of the Special Forces, a few others, and hey, presto—we have a nice little community.” Hakola looked from one to the other as he waited for a response.

  He continued when there was none. “Now call me mad, as I most likely am, but is there something wrong with this picture?”

  Hakola grabbed a fresh empty glass from the table and poured another scotch and plopped into his seat. Eating had all but been forgotten. As he tipped a good three fingers from the bottle of Johnnie Walker into a new glass, he listened to Tom tell him that, like it or not, that was the truth. Three professional servicemen, a career diplomat, and a brave teenager from Twin Falls they were. Actors, even half-decent, they were not.

  “I don’t swallow it, I’m afraid. There’s more to it. Where are the others and how were you going to abort the missile system, assuming it was still operational?”

  “Sir, I assure you, we were on our way to—”

  Loud wails reverberated down the hallways outside, preventing Tom from answering and continuing the lie. Everyone jumped from their chairs—the alarm signified the base was under attack.

  “What the hell is that?” Elliot looked bewildered—he had never heard the sound before.

  “That kid, is trouble. Fucking trouble!” Hakola jumped up—too soon—from his seat and rushed for the door but only managed to slam into the wall.

  “Sir, are you all right?” Elliot came to his aide.

  “Fuck off, boy, ’course I’m all right!” Hakola brushed Elliot aside and slid along the wall.

  “Foamers! Fucking foamers! They’re attacking the base, Colonel!”

  “What? That’s impossible, it’s daylight, you moron.” Colonel Hakola’s true self—or perhaps the whiskey or maybe both—were now on full display.

  “I’ve never heard of foamers out during the day,” Tom said as he and the others filed into the hallway after the colonel. Emergency lights mounted on the walls at each end of the passage rotated in synchronized motion with the alarm, and bathing the hallway in a hellish red glow.

  “On the day—the day it happened—” Elliot yelled to be heard, “they came out of the clinic. It was daylight. They did walk in daylight!”

  Sandspit 20

  Since their arrival to Sandspit, there had been one good snowfall. The recent rain washed away the remainder of the snow, especially on the day of Allan’s burial—a day that almost cost Chess his life as well. Was the town cursed? Were they? Or had they simply become accident-prone since their escape from the mainland? It didn’t matter which. Now moving unassisted, Chuck and the other leaders reiterated that eight would be the minimum number for any work teams or outside activities. Period.

  Chess would have been part of the decision-making process, but had been replaced by James Goodwin. It wasn’t considered punishment as such, more an acknowledgment of the strain.

  One thing that changed after the loss of Allan was Chess’ desire to put the remainder of the Terrace force on trial. Riley, for one, was glad for this. Though saddened—as everyone was—over Terry Ashwood’s death, it was in battle, and the forces from Terrace believed at that time their attack was justified. Hell, that bastard Holmes even told them they’d be exacting vengeance against the engineers of the foamer plague itself.

  With Allan’s burial and the possible trial of the last of the Terrace forces behind them, there would be work to do. Clouds still hung low and heavy the day after the funeral—and Chess’ rescue. The wind was strong enough on the sunless sky to dry the wet clothes of those caught outside during Chess’ rescue. Though threatening, the rain held off all day, and a clothesline was set up outside. It was damn cold and the wind could only dry about 80 percent at best the remainder was dried in a makeshift covered lean—to with a small fire inside. But they work to begin; on the hothouse, the wind turbine, run lines, dig holes and keep up security patrols. They were fortunate to dry their clothes by the next day, though it meant most had to sit around the office area all day wrapped in nothing but a blanket’s while they waited. With no TV, computers, or even a deck of cards, all they had for entertainment, was conversation. And they enjoyed it; many learned things about one another for the first time.

  The first order of business was to move to a better location—one in the tiny town of Sandspit itself. The previous day’s rain had flooded the fish market. Water came in through the front door, but left the administration offices in the rear unaffected–raised on a higher level than the commercial floor.

  “You know, I think I saw a wheelchair up at the doctor’s office. I could—”

  “Forget it, Riley—I’m not getting pushed around in a wheelchair,” Chuck told Riley in no uncertain terms, as the two assessed the workload ahead.

  “Feels good to be in dry clothes again,” Chuck said, then checked on Kath’s proximity. He was the least sure-footed of all.

  Once outside near the tables formerly surrounded by shrubs—that were now a part of the Northern Pacific Ocean—the first thing they looked to, was the catamaran. Well, the second. The first was Allan’s unmarked grave. Sam never had time in the adverse weather to erect the marker he’d made. Rugged up in blanke
t’s as they were no one bothered to venture outside at all yesterday.

  “Looks like the cat made it through all right. We can check on it later, but for now, we got work to do. Riley, Chess,” Chuck called the two of them closer. Raising his voice was a no-no with his wounds. “Take some men and find us a new home in Sandspit. One that will fit all of us close together. A hotel or motel would be ideal, but you know that.”

  “Sure, we’ll get right on it. But you must promise me while I’m gone that you won’t try to do too much, okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah…”

  “Chuck?”

  “All right, Riley, I promise. Damn, you’re starting to sound like Kath now.”

  “What was that?”

  “Oh, nothing honey. I just let Riley know you’ll be here to watch over me while he is gone.”

  Kath came closer and interlocked arms with Chuck as she addressed Riley. “You can rest assured I will, and I won’t put up with his bullshit either!”

  Chuck, Riley, and Kath laughed. They appreciated the relief, but Chess could only raise a smile—and not much of one at that. It was too soon for him.

  “Chess, you grab the others and it might be an idea to take an extra two with us if we’re going to do a room to room search. We’ll take four shotguns with us. I’ll get those extra bottles of water to fill our canteens before we leave.”

  Chess grabbed another eight men, all either from the Special Forces or the Secret Service, except for the Global Express pilot, Dave Kinnerly. With Riley and himself it gave them a strength of ten—good enough. Once they filled their water bottles and took a few of the better tasting survival bars, they headed out. Not straight up the hill toward the golf course as before—the ground was much too wet, and footing would be treacherous at best.

  The rest that stayed behind would prepare to move the supplies, the wind turbine, and the generator the instant new quarters were located. Everyone in the patrol and those back at the market kept an eye on the clouds above. Another drenching was not what they needed at this stage.