by Nick Pollota
“Or at least a land mass of some kind,” Gordon corrected.
“Has anybody tried www.mysteriousisland.com?” Richard asked.
Mages! Sheesh.
Crossing her slim legs, Jessica asked. “Any history, or legend, of an island in the area?”
“No.”
I had a feeling he had gone over this material many times before and was simply waiting for us to review the data and reach the appropriate foregone conclusion.
“How big an island?”
“Not very, only about five miles wide.”
That left over thirty miles of fog for protection. A lot of things could happen in thirty miles.
“Has the mage been able to get any additional information on the island?” Donaher asked.
“Can't.”
“Why?”
“Dead.”
“How?”
“Brain blasted.”
Brief, but to the point. Hoo boy.
Clearing his throat, Gordon pulled a silvery envelope from inside his fatigue jacket, broke the seal and lifted a single sheet of paper from inside. It was covered with official looking seals and multiple ribbons.
'Here it comes,' I thought and Jessica shushed me.
“Your mission is to reach the island, evaluate the situation and deal with it accordingly,” Gordon formally read. The paper then burst into ash and was gone.
“That's it?” I asked confused.
“Yes.”
That was rather vague and I openly said so. The chief agreed, but said it was the best the Council could do with the limited information at hand. The Council? Who the hell was the council? I made a mental note to check into that when we got back.
“You have roughly 36 hours before that cloud reaches land. So give yourselves time to depart. Because in 35 hours, 30 minutes, the missiles fly.”
Missiles meant the Pentagon, so we didn't have to ask what kind. Atomic, nuclear, thermonuclear, was there really a difference? Not when you're standing on Ground Zero.
“Faith, and just how do we reach this wee island?” Father Donaher asked, going Irish on us. “Are we to swim?”
Not amused, Gordon grunted. “Prof. Robertson, in cooperation with Naval Intelligence and SAC, has designed a special plane that they believe should get through the mist intact.”
“The operational word here beings hould,'” Jessica noted, with a sour expression.
Reluctantly, our chief agreed that was correct.
“Why us?” Mindy interjected, crossing her arms. “Convenient, or expendable?”
Ah, Ms. Tact strikes again.
Gordon turned red. “None of my goddamn people are expendable,” he snapped. “I chose your team, because you're the best we have! The absolute best! Had it been necessary, we would have flown you clowns in from Tasmania!”
That was nice to hear, until I realized that in case of trouble there was nobody better to come and rescue our butts. Bummer.
“Mission limitations?” I asked, already starting to list possible ways to get around them.
“None,” the man sighed, and for a second he looked bone weary. I wondered for how long he had been awake and busy working. Was that cup of coffee by his side number two, or two hundred?
“The Bureau has been given presidential authorization for us to run amuck. You can terminate with extreme prejudice anybody encountered, buy them off with the national treasury, offer political asylum, or negotiate a treaty. Whatever is necessary. Just don't do anything stupid. Muck-up, you'll have to answer to me for it. Personally.”
Now that was a threat we respected.
“What about military equipment?” Donaher asked, tilting his head. “Additional weapons? In case of trouble, I'll want more than my trusty snub nose .32 police special.”
“Your team has been given carte blanche, full and total access to the Bureau's armory. That includes SWAT, RECON and the Experimental weapon sections.”
At this news, George took on a feral expression and I wondered if we would have to tranquilize the boy to get any work done.
Impatiently, Gordon glanced at his wrist and a watch appeared. “You are scheduled to leave within the hour. There's an emergency transport tube located in the armory that will take you directly to the Hudson Bay loading dock. There, you'll find a sea plane waiting. An unmarked DC-3. Pilot's name is Hassan. Lt. Captain Abduhl Benny Hassan. Average height, black hair, dark skin. Identification code: Raincloud.”
Or at least that's what it sounded like he said as the last syllable of the word was cut off by a howling siren. A wave of icy cold swept over the room, frost appearing on the walls, and instinctively we leapt to our feet, reaching for weapons not there. The siren dropped in volume, but the bitter cold stayed.
“Report,” Gordon said into his wristwatch.
“We are under attack,” replied a tiny voice from the glowing instrument. “Large, winged creature is on the roof attempting to claw its way through. Kirlian scanners indicate a solid black aura, laced with purple and gray. Two dead.”
“Raise magic shields,” the chief said as calmly as ordering tea.
“Pentagram up and holding. But not for long, sir.”
Faintly in the background, we could hear gunfire, explosions, the crash of lightning and a loud animal roar. Sounded worse than our fandango at the lake if that was possible.
“Close the steel shutters, activate intruder defensives, alert the camera crew and prime the stun cannon. Whatever it is, we want it alive for questioning! I'm on the way.” In a bound, he left the stage, but we blocked his way in the aisle.
“Orders, sir?” I asked, snapping off a salute.
“You already have ‘em,” Horace growled, checking the power magazine in his laser pistol. “Now get out of here. You have a plane to catch. We'll handle this.”
The building chose that moment to give a shudder as if something tremendous in size had slammed into the structure. It reminded me of the attack at our cabin and I opened my mouth to speak.
“We know about the Catskill incident,” Gordon bellowed, sprinting for the door. “Now get going!”
So go we did, but we didn't have to like it.
FIVE
Dashing into the hallway, Gordon went to the right, and we went to the left. The siren was soon replaced by a soothing voice telling specific people where to go and what to do.
As we ran for the elevator bank at the end of the hall, I noticed every doorway was now closed with a steel grill that slid out of the thick walls. This place must have cost a fortune to build. Luckily the Bureau was rolling in funds. With so many wizards on the staff, a bit of lead-to-gold was no big bother. Of course, we wisely kept it low key so as not to totally disrupt the world's economy.
Reaching the elevator, we passed on by and took the stairs. If any of my people had been dumb enough to even try the elevator, I would have personally shot them dead to save the embarrassment of having to take Agent 101 over again.
“Just had an idea,” Richard said, as we danced down the steps in a group. “Let's solidify our weapons.”
“Meaning what exactly?” Jessica asked, suspiciously.
Didn't blame her reticence. We had all heard his great ideas before, and carried the scars to prove it.
He smiled. “Nothing serious. But rather than George carrying a .45 pistol, Ed a .357 and Donaher a .32, they each take 10mm automatics, so in case of an emergency we can pool our ammunition.”
“Ten millimeter?” Jessica asked puzzled. “I thought nine was state-of-the-art.”
George fought back a laugh. “Not anymore.”
“Unified weapons sounds good,” I said, trying to keep pace. “Hate to leave the old girl behind, but in this particular instance, it makes sense.”
Not missing a step, Mindy turned and arched an eyebrow at me. “The old girl?” she repeated.
“Faith, lass, be taking no insult from the remark,” Donaher said, rallying to my defense. “We laddies use the female possessive on all things of
beauty; sunrises, ocean liners, spaceships, guns, pizza, the superbowl...”
“I get the picture,” she growled. “And quit while you're ahead.”
At the proper level, we hit the doors running and entered the Bureau armory. I assumed that Gordon had tuned the security system to our ID cards for we made it inside the room alive.
As the armored doors cycled closed, despite our severe time limitation we paused to catch our breath. The place was staggering in size. Colossal! It strongly resembled an ordinary warehouse, with a steel girder roof, cinderblock walls and lack of internal divisions. The armory was just a huge room with acres upon acres filled with weapons. Thousands of racks and tables and crates and boxes of weapons. Swords, guns, pistols, rifles, suits of armor, shields, lances, knives, bazookas, machine guns. Sitting on the floor, hanging from the ceiling or standing on clusters. There was even a World War II Tiger tank and a NASA space shuttle in dry dock. It was a military supermarket! I think George had an orgasm. Felt kind of flushed myself.
Quickly, the team spread out, each to their own interests. But I clapped my hands for their attention.
“The basics first,” I ordered brusquely. “George, grab that hand cart and let's load up.”
There were premade haversacks of camping supplies: tents, sleeping bags, cooking utensils, survival tools, canteens, compasses, knives, entrenching tools, waterproof matches, steel and flint, flashlights with wind-up generators in the handle, toilet tissue, all-purpose soap, tooth brushes and such. We took one for every member of the party, then Donaher added an extra for the pilot. Smart man.
A red cross on a white circle indicated first-aid packs. We even located some field surgery kits. Along with a couple of packs of magical healing supplies, cloth, pills and potions of a quality that made our mage dance with joy. We took two of each.
Under a tarpaulin, we found cases of MRE packs, prepared and dehydrated food, dried meat, fruit rolls, canned bread, powdered milk, vitamin pills and fortified high energy snack bars, both vanilla and dark chocolate with almonds.
“Don't forget water,” Jessica advised, dragging a sack of mess kits over to the heavily laden cart.
George snorted and pointed. “Four ten gallon cans, one fifty gallon drum, water purification tablets and a small distillation unit.”
“How the hell are we going to carry that load?” Richard demanded from behind a stack of mylar blankets.
“A second cart,” Father Donaher announced, pushing another wheeled platform beside the first.
Two sets of scuba gear and some mountain climbing equipment were added to the pile. The gang started to take a short breather when the building shook to its very foundations and we returned to work. Binoculars, infrared night scopes, two inflatable rafts and shark repellant. Lord, how much of this stuff were we going to need and what critical equipment were we forgetting to bring along?
Moving to a wall rack holding combat fatigues, Mindy ripped open her blouse. The contrast of the white sports bra against her dark skin was a lovely sight, but I stopped her anyway.
“Don't waste time,” I shouted. “We'll change on the plane. Just grab the correct size!”
As this was almost definitely a combat mission, not a simple seek-and-isolate, we started with army boots that had steel plates in the soles, toes and heels. A person could kick their way through a wall with these babies. Following Gordon's example, we appropriated military jumpsuits of bullet resistant cloth. Cushioned steel helmets were added to the growing collection, along with light cloth caps. It was George who tossed in socks, underwear and T-shirts, god bless him.
At last, the team turned its attention to weapons. Rushing to a nearby rack, Father Donaher grabbed a pump action 12 gauge shotgun and two loaded banderoles of shells. Moving quick, I slapped the ammo bands out of his hands.
“Stop thinking small,” I said, grabbing a carton of shells and tossed them to him. “We take a case, or don't even bother.”
A grin exploded on his face. “Faith, its Christmas!”
“Hanukkah!” somebody corrected from behind a stack of wooden crates containing Claymore mines.
“My birthday!”
“K-Mart!”
We ignored that last remark.
A table full of Bureau wristwatches was cleaned in a second, with everybody taking spare batteries. Bypassing the full suits of medieval armor and shields, Mindy grabbed a brace of crossbows and two quivers of arrows. One standard, the other marked as Bureau Specials.
“Bracelets!” Richard cried in joy, displaying a small wooden box. The inside was lined with velvet on which rested six rather plain copper bands.
“Yeah?” I grunted, slinging a satchel charge of C4 over my shoulder. Damn thing must weigh 30 pounds.
He seemed surprised at my lack of understanding. “I'll explain later, but these are wonderful! Fabulous!”
“Great. Take all of them you find.”
“I will!”
As for sidearms, I chose Heckler Koch 10mm automatic pistols, holding 15 rounds with combat triggers and ambidextrous grips. I decided five cases of mixed bullets was enough, then got smart and added a case of spare clips. I searched for silencers, but didn't find any for this type weapon, until I moved a carton of homogenized oil and there they were. They were acoustical, not material silencers, so I only took ten, along with a box of belts and holsters.
A third cart had been allocated and the pile of loot grew constantly. Ten cases of assorted grenades, a flare gun and a case of flares, two combo backpacks of LAW and HAFLA rockets, a mixed case of tear gas, BZ gas, vomit gas and garlic vapor canisters, a box of wire garrotes and a bundle of switchblades. We also took a crate of brand new Uzi 10mm submachine guns, as they accepted the same caliber ammunition as our pistols. The laser-guided Thompson machine guns were nice, but they only fired .22 rounds, meant to wound, not kill. Somebody had added a crate of M16/M79 combination rifles, along with cases of ammo and shells. I let them stay. The Kevlar vests we passed over, as our own body armor was better, lighter and we were already wearing the stuff. I only hoped somebody brought along deodorant as this might be a long campaign.
There was a rack of MR1 Delta Force rifles, and I plugged the cable from the stock into the goggles. The lenses glowed into life and now I saw a crosshair floating in the air before me, and it moved to wherever the barrel of the MR1 was pointed. Nice for shooting around corners, but the battery pack weighed a ton and those damn computerized helmets chafed like a bastard, so I decided to leave it behind.
At last, I found the Special Weapons cabinet I had been looking for and tore the doors open. Inside were four shelves, three of them empty. Damn. So much for the laser pistols and lightning wands. But there was still good stuff remaining. Snatching a box of Experimental class derringers, I also grabbed a leather briefcase tagged with the symbol for radiation. Pausing, I doublechecked to make doubly sure the instruction book was still attached to the handle/trigger.
“What about this flamethrower?” Mindy asked, pointing to the backpack canister, hose and spray rod assembly.
“Is it charged?” George asked, fumbling with the lock on a wire enclosed area.
She kicked it and got an answering slosh. “Yep.”
With a yank, George got the wire gate open and was inside. “Take it. We can always use the thing to toast weenies.”
“Check!”
“Found the weenies!” somebody added gaily.
Sighing, I said goodbye to the Wichataw Thunderbolt pistol laying in plain sight on a nearby table. The single shot, bolt action, pistol fired a .569 Magnum Express round that could blow the head off an elephant. But the stupid thing weighed ten pounds and each bullet was an additional pound. Besides, I had never heard of anybody managing to hit their target because of the weapons incredible recoil. I decided to stick to the 10mm and a few grenades.
Wise move, sent Jessica, busy in a cabinet.
Triumphantly, George stepped out of the wire cage wearing a bulky backpack, supported b
y padded shoulder hooks, chest straps and a belt about the waist. Whatever it was, must be pretty heavy. An enclosed metal belt extended from the top and curved down to enter the stock of a stubby machine gun with an oversized maw. From the grin on his face, I wondered if the weapon launched atomic missiles, or a disintegrator beam.
Father Donaher returned carrying an arm load of crosses, Holy Water pistols, wooden stakes and a Bureau standard issue shoulder bag that I knew held garlic powder, communion wafers, a Bible, wooden stakes and a scapula.
Jess appeared toting a Quija board, Tarot cards, candles, a crystal pyramid, a bolt-action taser rifle and a box of Bureau sunglasses. Then and there, I decided to marry the woman.
I added a stack of gold and silver coins and we were ready.
Under Richard's adroit direction, the team started securing everything into position with canvas and rope, making damn sure the wheels were free to turn. Having an ex-Boy Scout in the group sometimes came in handy.
“That everything?” Mindy asked, finishing off a clove hitch knot.
George jerked a thumb towards the wire cage. “There's still a Dragon missile system and a semi-portable, 40mm, Vulcan mini-gun in there.”
“Why didn't you take them?” Richard asked surprised.
“The Dragon is too heavy and takes a trained four man crew two hours to assemble,” George explained. “And the Vulcan can empty a truck full of shells in less than a minute. Its a weapon for established ground fortifications, not field units.”
The mage nodded, as if understanding the military babble.
“There's also an Atchisson, but I figured Michael would already have one.”
The father straightened with a groan. “What is it?”
“An assault rifle system that fires 12 gauge shotgun shells,” George said impatiently. “ROF, 800.”
“ROF, rate of fire,” the priest translated. “Eight hundred shotgun shells a minute? Can it handle stun bags?”
“Of course.”
“Sounds mighty useful. Is there room on the cart?”
“No,” Richard stated, tucking in a flap.
Donaher pouted, then grinned. “Well, let's get another cart!”
