Judgement Night: Bureau 13 Book 1

by Nick Pollota

  Ed, I've always loved you, Jess mentally sent.

  “Later, babe!” I snapped. “Come on, anybody got an escape plan?”

  “Nope,” Richard said, smacking his toothless gums.

  “Negative, chief.”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Of course,” Mindy said with a smug expression. “I saved this for just such an occasion.” She brandished a muscular arm adorned with a copper bracelet. “Took it from the boss Satan Department agent. It holds a Portal spell.”

  My muscles relaxed at the sight of salvation. “Well, use the thing already!” I ordered, over the growing noise of the sinking island.

  Calmly, the woman gestured and a golden lattice pattern formed in the air. As the center cleared, we saw a strange sort of control room with dozens of armed men wearing turbans and swords walking about doing things. Turning in our direction, one of the soldiers pointed and shouted something. Must have been a warning, as the rest started rushing forward their automatic weapons steadily firing.

  “Holy Mother, its their headquarters!” Donaher shouted, as a hot bullet zinged by parting his hair.

  “Oops,” Mindy whispered.

  Quickly I tossed in a grenade and the martial artist threw the bracelet away as the foaming ocean washed over us in a crashing wave. We clung together, trying to fight the undertow and stay afloat, but it was no good. The brutal currents were like anchors on our limbs. Dumping our weapons and equipment seemed to make no difference. Down we went.

  Swirling helplessly, my team was pulled lower and lower into the murky depths of the Atlantic Ocean. I fought for the surface until my straining lungs became exhausted and I lost consciousness. My last frantic thoughts were of my beloved Jessica and how much I always wanted to learn to play the accordion. Such are the convoluted thoughts of a dying man.

  EPILOGUE

  We woke up in the military hospital of Fort Dix, New Jersey, with Horace Gordon himself sitting on a stool waiting for us.

  Apparently, the group of escaping mermaids had found us in the tow of the island and rescued us, hauling our unconscious bodies to a Navy submarine patrolling outside the deathcloud. We thanked them profusely for saving our lives. But I have always considered it highly suspicious that all of the men arrived feeling remarkably relaxed and with the strong desire for a cigarette, including, the good father. But what the hey, it had been a long time for them. Even longer for some of us.

  Gordon immediately recruited the aquatic beings as Bureau 13 Waves, our new underwater division. The mermaids seemed to be more interested in battling pollution than criminals, but that was no problem. The Bureau had always been ecologically inclined.

  Happily, the ladies desired no salary, because for the next couple of years the Bureau was going to be on a very tight budget. All of our surplus funds going to purchase a million metric tons of underwater setting concrete to pour over the ruins of Atlantis, making damn sure that even if the pentagram was disturbed, the island would not, could not, ever rise again. Case closed.

  From our sick beds, we applauded the splendid idea.

  The next day, a portable teletype disguised as a bedpan brought us the news of a mysterious tidal wave had erupted from the Elburz Mountains in Africa, the run-off water ending a nasty drought for thousands of starving farmers. Elburz had been the secret HQ of Satan Department and we did not expect to ever hear from them again. And with the elimination of the enemy organization, the attacks on Bureau personnel dwindled down to the usual level of a vampire here, a UFO there. Nothing we could not handle.

  To the world, the entire incident of Atlantis was disguised as an attempted terrorist coupe, complete with poison gas attack and a submarine battle. The story was not totally believed until a production company in Hollywood bought the movie rights and tried to cast Tom Cruise.

  Of course, the President requested the true, full, detailed report of the incident, so as the team leader, it was my duty to comply. I sent him a one page telegram reading: “Dear sir. We won. Signed, Team Tunafish.” I hear he has it framed and mounted on the wall of the Oval Office. Nice.

  In retrospect, Strategy & Tactics chastised me for not taking the two magic swords from the armory. Stabbing Lord Odin, or the jabberwocky, with both at the same time would have caused a bipolar ether flow, capable of destroying any living organism. In no uncertain terms, I told Strategy & Tactics where to stick both of the swords at the same time.

  Unfortunately, in spite the vast magical and technological resources of our organization, there was nothing that could be done for Richard Anderson. We had Anti-Aging drugs, but nothing could restore his lost vigor. His spell to contain multiple nuclear explosions had drained him dry of all magic and aged him permanently. No Re-Charge, Sun Bomb or Jump Start could change that. He was 96 years old. Period. End of discussion.

  Sadly, the Bureau gave the vaunted mage his walking papers, a gold watch and an astounding lump sum of cash for his retirement. What with the irregular nature of field agents reaching tenure, the pension fund was overflowing with excess capital.

  His goodbye party in our Chicago apartment was quiet and dignified. But afterwards, Richard departed immediately for Miami to gather an expeditionary force of sexagenarian soldiers to start on a hunt for the Fountain of Youth. Upon my request, his Personnel File was removed from Retired and placed in the Non-Active List. If humanly possible, Richard Anderson would return.

  After leaving the hospital, Jessica propositioned me. Shocked at the brazen hussy, I proposed in retaliation and she accepted. Ha! That'll teach her who is the boss around here.

  But of course, dear.

  Our wedding was held in Madison Square Garden with the whole Bureau watched the ceremonies over a special scrambled television broadcast, relayed via a UN communications satellite commandeered just for the occasion. Even several of our sister organizations tuned in to watch the wedding: The Farm in England, Operation: Sunshine in Israel, The Sons of Van Helsing in Germany, Fantasmique in France, H.E.K. in Japan, The Alliance in Chile, and Wally's Spook Club in Australia. They also all sent in gifts. How nice.

  During the procession, there was a minor scuffle involving some carnivorous plants from another dimension, but it was handled quietly. On the other hand, my bachelor party leveled a small town in my home state of Wyoming, but it wasn't really our fault. How were we supposed to know that NORAD headquarters would be so easy to take over?

  Father Donaher performed the ceremony, Mindy was maid of honor, George best man. Afterwards, in uncharacteristic generosity, Horace Gordon offered us a two month honeymoon. But we turned it down, having had quite enough vacation excitement. We both wanted something dull for a change and so went to work in the Bureau file room, organizing the secret annals of our covert organization.

  After submitting his regular monthly coded report to the Vatican, Father Donaher was delighted to receive special dispensation from the Pope to use healing spells. Mindy took a week off to go Italy and have a short talk with her sensei da tutti sensei about her supposedly “indestructible” sword, and George started having an affair with the cab driver who gave him a lift back in Manhattan. She was a lovely lady who kept boasting that it sure was not flab wrapped around George's manly waist. Personally, I had no wish to hear the sweaty details.

  Incredibly, Raul Horta and Amigo the wonder lizard returned to our group. Apparently, a renegade Bureau team had kidnapped the mage to assist them in traveling to a parallel universe to try and halt the evil clone of Horace Gordon from stopping the creation of Bureau 13. They succeeded. Well, sort of.

  But that story is still classified.

  * * *

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