Judgement Night: Bureau 13 Book 1

by Nick Pollota

  “Techno-mage,” he said with a grin. “I like it.”

  For some reason, Richard went still at those words.

  “Techno-mage,” the wizard repeated, slowly straightening. “Technological magic ... could it ... maybe ... yes, that's it!”

  The team gathered around, finding seats where we could on the deck and equipment trunks, his tone and stance informing us that the wizard was having a revelation.

  “Its really crazy,” he said, cracking the knuckles on a hand and pacing within our circle. “But do you know what would happen if, say, somebody magical activated a radar scanner?”

  “What?” Jess asked eagerly. “What would it do?”

  “Such a construct would indicate the position, hell it would pinpoint the location, of any combined techno-magic devices. Whether they were electrical/alchemy, or chemical/ ethereal.”

  “Like seeks like,” Mindy rationalized, her brow furrowed. “How very zen.”

  “Exactly! And that's a problem.”

  “Why?” George asked, not sounding very interested. Our jargon bored him as much as his did us.

  Donaher slammed his bible shut. “Our Bureau ID cards!”

  Now George was as interested as the rest of us.

  Richard nodded. “Precisely. Our cards.”

  “Is such a detection device possible?” I demanded.

  “Theoretically. Raul would have known more about such research than me. He was fascinated by obscure and esoteric conjures. Horta was one really weird mage.”

  A wizard calling another weird? Oh kettle, thou art black.

  “Can you do it?” Jessica asked. “Let us find our mysterious enemy?”

  “Or jam it?” George added. “So they can't find us?”

  “No way. Take a diamond wizard, maybe better.”

  I blinked. “Better? I thought that was the top.”

  “That is the general belief,” Richard hedged. “But there are those who postulate that once you reach that high a level of proficiency, the wand will resemble anything you want.”

  Mindy chewed that over. “That means an ultra-powerful wizard might seem be a rank beginner with only a wooden stick?”

  “Yep.”

  George gave a shiver for all of us. What a horrid thought.

  But magical radar .... Sheesh. Certainly would explain how the enemy has been able to focus their attacks on Bureau agents and find our HQ. The place probably resembled a fireworks display on their screens.

  Frowning, Mindy touched my sleeve. “Ed, any chance we might need our cards on the island?”

  “None,” I stated pulling a lighter from my pocket. With a flick, the tiny flame came alive. “Burn ‘em.”

  We did it in the lavatory and started to flush when I noticed there was no handle. This was a chemical toilet, without access to the outside. Those TechServ folks think of everything.

  “This may be what we will be facing on the island, you know,” Richard said, as we single filed back to the main compartment. “Combined science/magic.”

  “Gonna make it tough,” George observed practically.

  “And strange,” Mindy added.

  Jessica gave a laugh.

  “What's so funny?” Donaher asked.

  “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic,” she said, as if quoting from memory.

  “That sounds familiar,” I said. “What is it from?”

  “A sci-fi writer named Arthur Clarke.”

  “Yes, I remember it now,” Richard said. “Raul used to jokingly add that any sufficient advanced magic is indistinguishable from technology.”

  “I buy that.”

  “Have to. You're wearing some.”

  Just then, the PA system bleeped and Hassan gave us the five minute warning. This was not and never would be a job for people who go slow, hate pressure, or wish to live beyond forty. As we strapped ourselves into the seats, George raised the possibility that the cloud and island were not related. The island might be fugitive good guys trapped by the evil cloud. Or maybe the cloud, although bad, was trying to contain and even greater evil. Pretty heavy thinking for Mr. Renault. I logged both possibilities away and decided to keep an open mind on the matter.

  The ride started getting bumpy as we neared the edge of the fog bank. I was forced to remove my sunglasses, as ever time I glanced out the window, I got a stabbing pain from the awful blackness of its aura.

  “Almost there,” the wall speaker announced cheerfully. “Please refrain from smoking and place seat backs in an upright position. Today's movie will be, ‘Lifeboat'.”

  “In your hat,” Mindy growled, hunching low in her seat.

  Suddenly, the plane went dark as metal shutters closed over the windows. The glass had been triple thick Plexiglas, built strong enough to resist a rhino charge, but I suppose it never hurt to play it safe.

  As the overhead lights brightened to compensate, Donaher frowned. “If the front windshield is the same, then how is Hassan flying? By instrument?”

  “Correct,” Jessica answered, her eyes closed, hands neatly folded in her lap.

  “But with the cloud, how can he be sure of the readings?”

  “I don't need to be,” the wall speaker replied. “A shipboard computer checks the flight course against a battery of internal navigational devices; gyroscopes, inertial guidance system, gravity plates and the like. Very similar to the way ICBMs stay on target.”

  His voice changed tone, became less conversational. “We are closing fast. Mark at 200, 150, 100 meters, 50...”

  Through my combat boots, I could feel a faint vibration build in the deck. Steadily it increased.

  “Here we go,” Mindy said, bracing her legs against the seat before her.

  “In!” crackled the speaker.

  Instantly, there was an awful, ripping, tearing sensation in every fiber of my body, similar to a muscle cramp, only a thousand times worse. My brain swelled within the confines of my head, the bones starting to crack from the pressure. I fell forward, trying to hold my head together, supported only by my safety belt. Violently, the plane bucked and bounced through a thunderstorm that sounded like every storm that had ever existed mixed together. Then the motors died, to be replaced by a steady throbbing noise. Chemical wing jets, I rationalized in some recess of my brain. Fantastically powerful and too damn simple to foul or break.

  If we accelerated, or slowed, I had no idea. Struggling with lunch and sanity, I felt older, younger, bigger, smaller. Blood erupted from my nose and I fouled myself. Static electricity snapped and crawled with painful bites over every inch of my flesh. In some horrible fashion, my guts twisted into grotesque new forms, writhing beneath my skin with a life of their own. My senses, mixed in random order and I could smell the bitter artificial light in the plane, hear the rancid clothing on my body, and feel the tangible odors of fear, hatred and courage. Then my equilibrium crumbled, the world spun dizzily round and round—and it started all over again.

  This went on for years, building to the pinnacle, then the torture abruptly stopped and we were normal again. Sitting limp in my chair, the steady purr of the jets told me we were still flying. Grudgingly, I was forced to appreciate the effectiveness of the cloud barrier. Any unwanted intruder would be a sitting duck as they danced through that little slice of hell, totally unable to protect themselves. How Captain Hassan had maintained control through that was beyond my understanding. He must be a robot. Or from the planet Krypton.

  “Kowabunga,” Mindy groaned, only her legs showing from behind the crumbled mass of a seat. “Haven't had a trip that bad since we mixed LSD and uranium at the Duke University lab.”

  “What happened?” Richard gasped weakly.

  “We blew our minds.”

  George moaned in reply. I moaned back at him. Then we moaned in unison.

  “The ... pilot,” Father Donaher croaked, struggling to get loose. “Gotta ... see...”

  “He's fine,” Jess breathed, wiping vomit from her m
outh. “As a precaution, Abduhl turned on the auto-pilot just before we entered.”

  “Wise move,” Richard said, staring motionless at the ceiling.

  “That's why I get the big money,” croaked the PA system.

  In a truly Herculean effort, George lifted himself from the passenger seat, then dropped out of sight with a thump. “See the island yet?” his voice asked from the deck.

  “No way, Jose,” replied the PA, in one of my least favorite phrases. “We're still in the cloud.”

  Weakly, Mindy asked, “But we're through the worst of it?”

  “Hell, no! The automatic defensive systems on this ship are going crazy! I have a dozen gauges in the red and we're on emergency power.”

  “Recommendations?” I requested.

  “Prayer,” came the curt reply. “The ship does the rest of the fighting for us from here onward. Either it succeeds, or we die.”

  Prudently, I let the gang rest for a few minutes and then started cleaning operations. Sponging our fatigues off and using towels to mop up the worst of the mess on the deck. I knew that Richard could cast a spell that would make us and the place spotless. But I had no intention of having my only mage waste precious energy on housekeeping in the midst of a fight.

  Because this was war. Machine against nature in a battle royale. A struggle of wits between the gang at Technical Services and whatever was on the island. I don't know about the rest of the group, but I hated this passive acceptance. I would have felt enormously better if there was someway to help Captain Hassan. Even a flock of flying monsters would at least give us something to do.

  “Alert!” barked the wall speaker. “There's some leakage coming through!”

  Mindy was on her feet, sword drawn. “What does that mean?” she demanded. But there was no answer and none of us felt inclined to knock on the closed door that led to the cockpit.

  “Conference!” I called, and the gang gathered round. “Okay, if the first layer of the cloud attacks the people, then the next should attack the vehicle.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” Donaher said. “What can we expect?”

  “Eddy currents in the metal?” George suggested.

  I snorted. “For what purpose?”

  “Enough of them would induce sufficient heat to melt the plane.”

  “Too damn fancy,” Mindy retorted, adjusting her grip on the sword. “It would only work on things made of conductive metals. A wooden rowboat, or stealth missile would get right through.”

  “Agreed,” Jess said, sweeping back her hair. “The longer we're in the cloud, the greater the danger, so it will probably be something to slow us down.” She then repeated the words, as her breath was visible mist.

  “Cold. How simple,” Richard noted, buttoning up his uniform.

  “Depends upon how cold it gets,” Donaher observed, pulling spare blankets out of seat locker.

  Rapidly the atmosphere became cool, chilly, uncomfortable, freezing. Quartz heaters built into the hull started to glow, trying to relieve the bitter cold, but soon we were wearing every piece of our clothing and gathered into a huddle, the outer members draping blankets round themselves.

  “W-what b-bout, H-hassan?” George stammered past chattering teeth.

  “L-lectric flyingsuit,” Jessica mumbled, from with her wool cocoon.

  “And t-the engines?”

  Mindy lowered a blanket and cocked an ear. “S-sound f-fine to me.”

  A loud crack made us jump. It was followed by another, and then a regular pounding came from the outside. Hail the size of baseballs, the pilot informed us briefly. Now I understood why this craft was so heavy. Must be armor plated.

  “Cold to make you hold still, then hail to pound holes through you and the hull,” George said shivering. “Death by drowning. Primitive, but clever.”

  “Useless against this plane,” Donaher boasted.

  The muscles in my shoulders relaxed a bit with the knowledge that the statement was true. We had a good inch of military grade, steel alloy protecting us from the ravages of the cloud.

  Then the left wall near the camping supplies exploded and the plane jerked as a piece of hail punched its way through. With a screaming whistle, wisps of the fog entered the compartment. The huddle broke fast. I grabbed a blanket to stuff in the hole, but Donaher stood and sprayed the ragged puncture with the flamethrower, the chemical fire annihilating every trace of the vile fumes.

  “Saints above, get a blessed patch!” the priest shouted over the roaring stream, the light of the flamethrower turning the interior of the plane blood red.

  Quickly, Mindy used her sword to carve a metal square from the steel lining of a seat and Richard levitated it into position on the hull under the stream of flame. Took us only a minute to weld the patch down with a small acetylene torch and Donaher cut the big weapon off. The place stunk horribly of jellied gasoline fumes, but we were alive and I made a note to put the good Father in for a raise.

  “That was almost too easy,” Richard said suspiciously, brushing some frost off his carnation. It was pink now.

  “However, it is warmer,” Jessica noted positively.

  True enough. The plane was nowhere near as cold.

  “Heat is next,” George deduced, loosening the front of his khaki jumpsuit. “Logical. Make the weak faint, set fire to wood, maybe even explode our fuel supplies.”

  Doffing the parka over her rain coat, Mindy snorted. “Thank you, Sister Mary Sunshine.”

  Soon the temperature was quite comfortable. But the heat built and we realized George had been correct and heat was the next phase. Steadily, it rose from balmy, to toasty, past warm, through uncomfortable and settled in for keeps at hot. We stripped to our underwear, sweat pouring off our glistening bodies. A small box bolted to the ceiling blew cool air into the cabin, and we used half our water supply splashing each other. There was quite a bit of flesh showing, and not all of it attractive. Standing on a haversack to protect my naked feet from the scalding deck, I was down to boxer shorts and shoulder holster, with the boxer shorts going next, but the temperature thankfully held at medium broil. It was pretty bad, but a summer picnic in comparison to the initial boundary effect.

  “Is this the best they can do?” George scoffed, tying a camouflage bandana about his head. In only briefs and boots, you could see the hard muscle beneath the flab on the man.

  “What a bunch of amateurs,” Jess agreed, sloshing some water from a canteen over her trim figure. “No hard radiation, or ultra-sonics. Reality hasn't altered, and nothing polymorphed.”

  Damp with moisture, her bra and panties were becoming transparent. Suddenly, I had to face the outer wall and think about baseball, no, doing my taxes, professional golf!

  “Remember, this is not the brunt of the attack,” stated the stark naked Richard, skinny arms folded across his perfectly tanned chest. He was displaying some curious tattoos in very odd places, and we struggled to keep from directly staring. “Only some minor leakage past our material and magical shields.”

  Father Donaher nodded. In only briefs and rosary, his great hairy form dripped sweat. “True enough. In an open ship, we would all be dead by now. But so far, this has been a cake walk.”

  As if on cue, every primed weapon we had discharged.

  Bullets flew everywhere, the shotgun blew a seat to shreds, and the flamethrower incinerated the sleeping bags. Ricochets rattled off the metal walls, striking Mindy in the arm and grazed me in the chest, the force of the slug knocked me flat. No serious damage was done to anything important though, as neither the LAW rockets, the satchel charge, or my briefcase had been armed yet.

  “Thank god,” Jessica said, and Father Donaher did.

  With Richard's assistance, Mindy and I were healed in no time, and settled down to wait for new developments. Slowly, the temperature cooled to a reasonable level and we gratefully donned our body armor and fatigues. Being naked can be lots of fun, but not in battle.

  In time, the noise of the jets eased
in volume and the throbbing power of the propeller engines replaced their smooth humming. Quiet reigned for awhile, when the shutters on the windows raised and security door to the cockpit flew open. There stood a bedraggled Captain Hassan, showing us exactly how many teeth he had and their excellent condition.

  “We're through!” he cried joyously.

  The team didn't cheer, we ran to the windows. There was a minor traffic jam of bodies, so I claimed executive privilege and went to join our pilot at the front of the plane.

  The cockpit possessed twice as many controls as a plane of this size should have, a lot of them unfamiliar to me. The chart locker was blackened by fire, the co-pilot's seat was gone—ripped from the deck apparently and there were numerous spent .45 shells littering the floor. Obviously, the good captain had seen a bit of action himself. But more importantly there was a beautifully undamaged windshield which gave me a panoramic view of our goal, the island.

  Below us was a dirty sea, that appeared more polluted than possible, above and to our sides was that damn swirling cloud sealing out the world. But directly before us, was a smooth cliff of tan stone which rose from the churning water to enter the deadly fog high overhead. As far as I could see, there were no beaches, coves, or bays where we might land. Nor any caves, fissures, or ledges on the cliff that even suggested climbing might produce results.

  Keeping one hand on the wheel, Hassan tilted his cap and looked at me. “Suggestions?”

  “Circle around till we see a beach, or bay where we can land. If we don't find a place, well, that's why they gave us a sea plane. We'll park on the water, taxi up the cliff and moor ourselves with pitons and rope.”

  “Then what?”

  “Beats me. But we'll think of something.”

  The navy pilot curled a lip. “I can do better than that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Watch,” he said flipping a switch and pressing a few buttons on the dashboard.

  Amid the complex array of controls, a section of the broad separated and a video screen lifted into view. Sluggishly, the screen lit up with a vector graphic of the island. The glowing green outline showed the landmass to be a near perfect circle, but the southern tip was cut flat by a small beach and cove. No details of the interior were discernible, but I was still damn impressed.