Immune

by Richard Phillips

  Her theory had proven correct. The only thing that limited the effects of the neural enhancements each of the three of them had received on their first visit to the Second Ship was their self-image, but that limitation could be overcome by need. Her need had finally driven Jennifer to overcome at least some of her self-imposed limitations.

  Only that need had driven her to believe that she could run like she now could. Not as fast or as powerfully as Mark, but fast enough and without tiring. Only that need had let her cast off her glasses and develop her eyesight so that she could now see in the dark almost as well as a cat. Only that need had driven her to lie to her friends and family so that she could sneak out on these nightly runs.

  She knew she was risking discovery, should anyone check closely enough to discover the pillows stuffed under the covers on her bed. But her need drove her beyond the timidity that, only weeks before, would have left her a nervous wreck had she even contemplated doing what she now did. She was through playing the meek geek, through playing second fiddle to Mark and Heather.

  Jennifer moved down the steep wall of the canyon, passing silently through the brush before turning left along an invisible but thoroughly familiar path. The soft magenta light of the ship cavern enfolded her, the warm glow gentle enough that it did not blind her, despite the darkness from which she had just come.

  Ducking under the smooth curves of the ship where it touched the wall, Jennifer moved directly to the spot where the alien weapon had punched a hole cleanly through all the decks of the Second Ship, the edges of the hole so smooth that it looked as if the deck and hull had been made that way. Without pause, Jennifer leaped up to catch the edge of the first deck, swinging her body smoothly up and in.

  Continuing onward, she rapidly ascended to the room where the four headsets lay along the curving desktop, each positioned directly in front of one of the chairs that rode the narrow track in front of that table. Jennifer glanced down at the delicate, flexible bands with the small bubble at each end. It was odd, really, the way she, Mark, and Heather always left those headsets in almost the exact position in which they had originally found them. Anything else just didn't feel right.

  Jennifer picked up the first of the translucent bands, sliding it over her temples, pausing only momentarily as the feeling of relaxation swept through her body, like a shiver from a cool breeze. Then, once again, she began climbing up through the hole to the decks above.

  Even before she had settled into one of the three swivel couches, the imagery that dissolved the smoothly flowing ceiling, walls, and floor of the command deck left her wrapped in the vastness of space itself. It was only a recorded section of this ship's vast travels, but Jennifer loved it.

  However, tonight she only allowed herself a brief glance at the wondrous view, shifting her attention to the databanks provided by the ship's onboard library. It was the discovery she had kept secret from the others, telling herself that once she understood how to better access and understand the information it contained, she would reveal the treasure trove to her brother and best friend. And she still intended to do that. Just not yet.

  After all, she had only just begun to scratch the surface. With each visit to the ship, Jennifer managed to solve more of the puzzle, each attempt uncovering some little clue that allowed her to delve a little deeper into the ship’s databanks. Not deep enough to uncover anything of great importance, but the progress kept her going, feeding her thirst for knowledge. Not enough to quench it. It merely stoked the fire of her need.

  And as Jennifer lay back, engulfed by the alien couch, swimming in a sea of data, that fire burned white hot.

  5

  Chital, Pakistan. It had been in the rugged mountains due north of Chital, across the Kunar River, high up along that narrow strip of Afghan land that separated Pakistan from Tajikistan, where Jack had last worn full Arabic garb and carried an AK-47 rifle. Now, as Jack crouched in the darkness overlooking New Mexico Highway 502, just west of the intersection where Highway 30 curled away toward the sleepy town of Espanola, a whisper of déjà vu caressed the nape of his neck.

  The Arabic clothing, the AK-47, and the weapons selected for this raid had all come from the special locker Jack had uncovered at the remote hideaway, which had formerly been used by one Carlton “Priest” Williams. That weapons locker had been one of many unusual discoveries Jack had made upon tracking down the site the day after he had killed Priest.

  Priest had always been overconfident. It was one of many unprofessional aspects of the ex-Delta Force commando that Jack had despised upon first meeting the man. That overconfidence produced sloppiness, which had resulted in the insurance form Jack had found in the glove box of Priest’s truck. That form had revealed the truck was stolen from a man named Delbert Graves. A quick check of public records revealed that Graves was a hermit survivalist who owned a small ranch deep in the high country northeast of Los Alamos along the boundary of the Santa Clara Indian Reservation.

  How many months it had been since Priest Williams had killed Delbert Graves and appropriated the man’s property as his hideout, Jack could not determine exactly. By the state of decay of the corpses Jack had found in the dry well near the main house, Priest must have been using it off and on for almost a year. There was little doubt that Priest had kept the place secret from everyone, including his unknown employer.

  In addition to a collection of women’s bodies, there were two male corpses. One of these was probably that of the unfortunate Delbert Graves. Jack had recognized the other male corpse, despite the rot. Now he knew what had become of the assassin Abdul Aziz, for whom numerous agencies of the US government were still searching.

  Here tonight, Jack’s earlier decision to avoid relaying the information of Priest’s hideaway to the people at the NSA was about to pay dividends.

  Jack glanced down at the dimly illuminated display of his watch. 01:03. The drive from Kirtland Air Force Base to Los Alamos took an hour and a half under normal circumstances. The refrigerated truck carrying Priest’s corpse would be traveling the speed limit on roads that had little traffic at this hour. That meant that it would be turning off New Mexico Highway 84 onto Highway 502 right about now.

  Pulling a small infrared flashlight from his belt, Jack flashed it twice, signaling Janet to begin the cell phone transmission. Then slipping his goggles into place and adjusting the infrared laser sniper-sight, Jack settled deeper into his hide position to wait.

  The wait would not be a long one.

  6

  Yolanda Martinez was tired. It was never easy being a 911 operator, even in a small town like Espanola, New Mexico, but working the night shift was the worst. On weekends and paydays, the call volume built steadily as last call at the bars drew nearer. Drunk and disorderly were the most common calls, although stabbings and shootings happened often enough. Then there were the alcohol-related accidents and the late-night angry spousal confrontations.

  But tonight was Monday night. Actually, it was now Tuesday morning, and it was most certainly nobody’s payday. It was one of those nights when even the low-riders who liked to cruise town in their hydraulically enhanced hopping cars could not find the energy to stay out past midnight. Out in front of the police station, where the Los Alamos Highway met up with Paseo de Oñate, only an occasional vehicle rumbled past to break the silence. The place was dead.

  That should have been a good thing. But Yolanda’s daughter had stayed home sick from school, and Yolanda had been forced to take care of her until her husband, Roberto, had gotten home from work. She had barely had time to get ready for her shift, grabbing a microwave burrito at the Quick Stop on her way to the police station. Sleep was a distant memory. In the absence of things to do, drowsiness tugged at Yolanda’s eyelids as she sipped at another mug of burnt coffee. It didn’t help that Sergeant Billy Collins was fast asleep a dozen feet away from her, his booted feet propped on the desk at an angle that threatened to send a stack of unfinished police reports fluttering toward the
floor. At least he didn’t snore.

  As long as she could remember, it had been like this. Some nights so busy and disturbing that she wanted to cry, some nights so dismally boring that she wanted to go start trouble herself, just so someone would call.

  When the 911 line rang, it startled her so badly that she jumped. Shaking her head to clear the grogginess, Yolanda answered it before it could ring again.

  “Espanola Police Department. What is your emergency?”

  The voice that answered her was so heavily accented that it took her several seconds to understand the import of what she was hearing.

  “Listen carefully. Do not interrupt me, because I will not say this twice and I will not be on the line long enough for you to trace this call. My name is Abdul Aziz. I am the one your government has been hunting with such utter futility. On this night, only a few minutes from now, I will take something that America, the Great Satan, has been hiding from the rest of humanity under the name of the Rho Project. Are you listening to me?”

  There was a pause on the line as Yolanda struggled to simultaneously answer and throw a pencil at Sergeant Collins.

  “Yes. I am listening.”

  The pause at the other end of the line dragged on for several more seconds before the man continued.

  “If you hurry, it is possible that you might get some of your mobile police cruisers to the intersection of Highway 30 and Highway 502 before I have finished my business and departed, but I doubt it. There will be dead bodies, so be prepared. If you are wise, you will have the officers take some blood samples that they do not turn over to your military.

  “Inshallah, even Godless swine like you may yet be enlightened. Hurry now. Do not delay.”

  “Wait.”

  But the phone line went dead as the word left Yolanda’s lips.

  “What have you got?” Sergeant Collins’ voice at her shoulder startled her again. Apparently, the man had not been as deeply asleep as she had thought.

  By the time she had played back the recording, Billy Collins was already removing a 12-gauge shotgun from the rack and heading toward the door. He paused to yell back over his shoulder, “Get on the horn to Fred and Enrique. They are the closest cruiser, so get them rolling. I’ll meet them on the way. After that, round up every other squad car we have out there and get them all moving that way.”

  “What about the state police?”

  “Let them know as soon as you have our folks moving, and put in a call to the sheriff. I won’t wait for them though.”

  The door slammed behind Billy Collins as Yolanda pressed the switch that activated the radio microphone. As she began speaking, the thought that she might never see Billy alive again tickled the back of her mind.

  7

  The feel of the stock of the AK-47 against his cheek felt good. Something about the solid feel of a Kalashnikov made it obvious why this was the most popular assault rifle in the world. The weapon felt like what it was: reliable.

  Jack Gregory thumbed the infrared laser power on and peered out through the scope, which made the targeting dot visible. This was a sniper modification he had added to the rifle to fit this particular purpose, one that he had zeroed in exactly four hours before.

  Jack had hand-loaded a hundred rounds of ammunition using the press and loading die he had found in Priest's basement. He always loaded his own ammunition if given the opportunity. A bullet's trajectory brings it out of the barrel of a rifle up through the sight line, continuing to rise several inches for the next hundred-plus meters. Then the round begins to drop, passing back down through the line of sight before running out of energy. Only by loading the exact measure of gunpowder into each round and by using the same weight and shape of slug can a shooter know precisely where the round will hit.

  Priest had never bothered with such details. Jack did.

  A three-burst crackle of static on the small radio at his side let him know that the truck had just rolled past Bronson's position and was rounding the curve that would shortly bring it into Jack's sight line. Jack had picked this spot so that the first shot would take the driver while the truck was still on the curve, causing it to veer off the road at that point. That would force the man riding shotgun to reach for the wheel, exposing him for the second shot.

  As the twin high beams of the refrigerated truck swept around the bend, the driver's face swam into view, illuminated in the infrared scope by the lights from the truck dashboard. The laser dot steadied on the driver's mouth. At this range, the bullet would strike an inch above the dot. Jack's gloved finger squeezed the trigger smoothly, his shoulder kicking back with the recoil as the sound of the weapon split the night air like thunder.

  The truck swerved and then straightened as the other man in the truck grabbed the steering wheel. Jack let the natural resistance of his body rock him forward again as smoothly as if he were on springs, his aim-point steadying as his finger squeezed off the second round.

  The sound of screeching metal mingling with the echoes of the second gunshot as the truck veered off the road and plowed into the rocks and trees on the far side. The trailer jackknifed past the truck cab, twisting and flipping over as it came to a sudden halt.

  Jack was already halfway across the highway by the time the trailer rocked to a stop. A quick glance to his left revealed Janet lying prone a few feet off the road, her rifle leveled and ready to provide covering fire.

  Jack reached the far side of the highway and plunged down the slight embankment. The cab of the truck had sandwiched itself around the thick trunk of a pine tree, the lower branches of which were illuminated by a headlight that had somehow survived the impact, although it now pointed skyward. A strong scent of diesel hung in the air.

  Jumping up on what was left of the driver's-side running board, Jack tugged at the door, which yielded reluctantly to his second effort. The inside of the cab was a ruin of shattered glass, crumpled metal, and blood. The driver's head was wedged between the spokes of the steering wheel, a large chunk of the rear and top of the skull blown away by the exiting bullet.

  Jack cut the seat belt strap and heaved the body out of the cab and onto the ground below. As Jack climbed farther inside so that he could cut the seat belt off the guard, the man's head turned, revealing a perfectly round hole just above the junction of the man's eyebrows. The eyes fluttered open.

  Jack cut the strap, grabbed the guard's shoulders, and pulled hard, sliding the body across the wrecked cab and out to fall beside the body of the driver. Jack jumped down, landing just beyond the two men.

  If he hadn't already watched the miraculous healing powers displayed by the nanites that had infested Priest Williams’ blood, the sight of the bodies of two men who should already be very dead trying to repair themselves would have shocked him to his core. Already, the wound at the back of the driver's skull had begun to knit itself closed although the damage was so severe that the operation would take some time, assuming the nanites could overcome the loss of brain tissue.

  But the slug that had passed through the head of the guard had not created such a large exit wound. The man was beginning to show signs of recovered voluntary movement; his eyes followed every motion as Jack bent down, grabbed the driver's body, and turned it over so that it knelt, face to the ground, toward the west.

  Jack repeated the process, positioning the guard's body next to that of the driver. Then, he drew the long, curved Saracen Sword from the sash that bound it to his waist and prodded the sharp point into the small of the guard's back. The body arched involuntarily, trying to move away from the poking blade, and as it did, the fellow's neck rose, raising his head with it.

  In a motion so swift that the eye could barely follow, Jack brought the Arabic weapon around in an arc that swept the guard's head from his shoulders. The head rolled across the ground, chased by a large arterial spray of blood as the body collapsed forward once more.

  Jack moved to the driver, once again prodding hard into the man's back with the tip of the swo
rd. However, this time the body failed to respond. Apparently, even nanites had their healing limitations, at least within the amount of time he had allowed them. Jack repositioned the driver slightly so that he could place a foot on his back. Then, grabbing a handful of hair, Jack simultaneously lifted and chopped. It took three short strokes with the sword before the head came free.

  When a person is beheaded, blood does not gush or flow; it spurts forth, powered by the rapidly dying pump of the heart. And it is not brain or nerve death that kills the heart. It is the lack of sufficient fluid to fill the chambers.

  Jack had been eight years old when he had seen his first man beheaded. It had been in the central square of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, a place euphemistically known by the foreigners in the Saudi capital as Chop-Chop Square. Jack had watched as the man had been forced to kneel so that he leaned over the chopping block.

  At the last instant, a second Saudi had jabbed the kneeling man in the back with the tip of a knife, the involuntary reaction automatic. The man arched away from the knifepoint, the movement extending his neck. And the mighty sword had descended, sending the man's head tumbling into the basket that waited below. The heart of the dead man pumped the life blood from his body in one great pulse, followed by another much weaker jet, before extinguishing itself in a final set of small spasms.

  Jack had watched it all from the front row of the gathered crowd, he and his mother guests of honor. The man had been his father.

  Draped in the shadows produced by the headlight-illuminated branches above, Jack moved quickly to reposition the bodies in the kneeling position in which he had first placed them. The heads he placed two strides to the west facing back toward their respective body.