“. . . an FAA official confirmed the captain did report several passengers had suddenly become seriously ill during the flight headed for Dallas from Miami. The captain declared a medical emergency to the tower before receiving approval from flight control to alter course in anticipation of an immediate landing at the Baton Rouge Metropolitan Airport. However, communications were lost shortly after the pilot told the controller that the plane was experiencing a catastrophic malfunction after entering the leading edge of the rapidly building storm. All of the estimated 325 passengers aboard are assumed lost at this time, but FAA officials have been unable to confirm the passenger count due to an unexpected computer problem.”
Two more channels over, Zeke found a slender African American man reporting from Junction City, Kansas. He was standing in front of the Atomic Cannon Exhibit on top of a hill in Freedom Park. The camera feed changed to show thousands of dead birds lying around the area.
“. . . the mystery continues as wildlife officials sort through the remains of an estimated 5,000 red-winged blackbirds who plunged to their death a short while ago as the massive flock flew west across the area. Alan Greenfield, co-founder of the Institute for Bird Sciences on the University of Kansas campus, told me in an earlier interview that the flock may have run into the string of power lines in the area, breaking their backs in mid-flight. However, what prompted the birds to fly into the power lines remains a mystery.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jeffrey Hansen knew something was horribly wrong when the sub lost power halfway to his tropical destination. He was forced to initiate a manual emergency blow and rise to the surface, or he would’ve suffocated as the tiny craft sank to the sea floor.
The cause of the power loss was unknown; one moment he’d been cruising along at a depth of two hundred and fifty feet, and the next moment all the systems had gone dead.
As he’d done countless times before, he’d performed a full, meticulous sweep of the sub before taking it under, and found nothing. All systems reported green. He’d been over it a dozen times in his head, leaving only one explanation—sabotage—and a subtle one, at that.
He finished his float to the surface and opened the hatch to resupply his air. It worked, but then he heard a noise that sent chills down his spine: the lawnmower-like whine of a class four Reaper drone overhead, closing in on him fast. A vast array of data points came together all at once, making him realize he needed to act immediately. Otherwise, he was a dead man.
He located the UAV in the sky and watched in horror as a missile with a sleek airframe detached from its underside. He assumed it was an AGM-114L Longbow—the Hellfire of choice—able to lock onto its target using a number of seekers. Even sound. Just fire and forget—the pinnacle of modern weaponry.
The warhead fell under gravity, dropping a few yards before the rear-mounted propulsion system ignited. The ordnance stabilized under the power of its thrust, then the onboard guidance system took it on intercept course with his submersible.
Fear, panic, and logic all came together as Hansen’s body spun in the water and his hands grabbed the small emergency scuba tank and mask from the sub’s single-seat cockpit. A deep breath came next, then a quick dive into the water. He started his descent, pushing his thighs and feet to their max.
If the missile carried its standard warhead, he needed to reach a much deeper depth in order to escape the kill zone. He prayed the UAV had been retrofitted with the Griffin—a 13-lb substitute developed by his pals at Raytheon to limit collateral damage—giving him a slim chance to survive.
A few seconds later, an explosion rocked the surface above him, taking out the sub. The shockwave passed through the water quickly, targeting his bones with incredible force. His ears rang and his head felt like it was going to split open, but he managed to hold on to the air tank and keep himself from floating back to the surface.
His lungs screamed, making him desperate for air. The initial wave of disorientation made him think about swimming back to the surface, but his logic trumped the idea.
He knew the aircraft would be circling overhead, waiting to eradicate any survivors. He knew this because he’d instructed his senior software engineers to code the tactical response into the drone’s AI software. The same software that his company provided, through a confidential escrow service, to an unnamed defense contractor who was responsible for building the new top-secret Reaper drone arsenal. The survivor protocol stated that if no life signs appeared after five minutes, the UAV should fly on and send an encrypted status report to its handlers.
Hansen struggled with the regulator in the dark, but finally managed to get it into his mouth. He took several small breaths, trying to keep his heartbeat in check. Slowly, his body filled with oxygen and his thoughts and emotions stabilized.
First, the sub malfunction. Now the Reaper attack. Someone obviously wanted him dead and was using some of his own tech against him. But who? The person who commissioned the Trident project? The CIA? NSA? Russia? He’d made plenty of enemies along the way, so the list was long.
He remained under the water for safety, while spending the next ten minutes crunching the facts, but his brain came up empty. It was time to get moving, with a two-mile swim ahead. There’d be plenty of time later to sort things out.
His ascent approached the surface, hoping the drone’s survivor protocols and timing hadn’t been changed by whomever was after him. Hands broke through the water first, then his head, before buoyancy reached equilibrium. Now bobbing neck deep in water, his eyes scanned the sky and waited—no sign of the Reaper, or the Trident storm clouds he’d unleashed on the world. All he saw was the ever-vigilant sun beaming bright above the horizon.
The absence of storm clouds above meant the targeting vectors were working perfectly. The nano-spores were programmed to hug the coastlines of the major land masses, using the warmer temperatures and air pressure change as a boundary marker, and cover everything inland from there. His demanding client wanted it that way—in fact, the project specs were adamant about it—keep the atmosphere over the oceans clear at all costs. Well, that and deliver the project exactly on time, which was today.
If his bearings were correct, he’d hit a small island chain off the Bahamas if he kept swimming west. The same set of islands he’d been aiming before his sub was sabotaged and obliterated from above.
He turned his attention to the matter at hand: survival. To do that, he needed to formulate a to-do list. First on the list, make it to shore. Then find civilization and collect his payday so he could disappear for a while and live comfortably. He figured billions should accomplish that nicely.
Once things cooled down, he could sneak back to the States and find out who wanted him dead. Once he tracked them down, he’d take his revenge. A swift, painful end for whomever wanted him dead.
To do that, Hansen needed help from a trained intelligence operator. Someone skilled in the art of information gathering, concealment, and evasion. Someone with the contacts and the IOUs to make his plan to get even a possibility. But it would need to be someone desperate enough to help him. Someone he could shower with cash and someone who would take the job and see it through to the end, no matter what happened or what they learned along the way.
The first name that popped into his head was an old CIA connection: Simon Redfall—a man who was both on the long list of people who wanted Hansen dead, and on the short list of people Hansen would trust with his life.
Sure, Redfall had his rough edges like everyone else, but he was, first and foremost, a man of his word. If Hansen could convince Redfall to help, Redfall would complete the mission, never allowing the festering need for payback to cloud his judgment or his ethics.
At least that was the man he knew a long time ago, long before Redfall’s beautiful wife Tessa went postal on a group of unsuspecting scientists in broad daylight. There was no telling how those tragic events had affected Redfall in the days since. Even a rock-hard spook like Simon had his limits,
and certainly his pressure points, like anyone else.
Life had taught Hansen a great many things, one of which was how a rogue wife can transform a man. A rogue wife tortures her man, twisting his heart until the pain morphs him into something else. A rogue wife sets off a slew of emotional tripwires, causing a chain reaction that destroys the man from the inside out.
It happens thousands of times every day across the planet, usually with some random co-worker or a sweet-talking asshole at the local pub. Rarely, though, does the wife go rogue on a busload of people with an assault rifle.
At this point, it was possible only an empty shell of Redfall remained, someone who couldn’t be bought off, reasoned with, or counted on for help.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Simon sat in the front passenger seat of the van, watching the rain pour across the countryside. It was more of a steady drizzle, really. His eyes studied the pattern of red drops hitting the windshield and then streaking off on their own before the wipers could come through and do their job.
Given the texture and consistency of the red rain, he would’ve expected some type of build-up on the glass, affecting the wipers during each swipe. But none of that was happening. He figured the kids must have applied RainX to the windshield, or some other type of silicone polymer. Or they may have simply cut a potato in half and rubbed the starch across the glass. Either would work and accomplish the same goal.
He adjusted his position, trying to lessen the pain across his ribs and lower back. It worked, allowing him to breathe easier. The adrenaline from the gang attack and subsequent getaway had completely worn off, leaving his body screaming at him. He knew exactly where he’d been punched and kicked. Bruises were spreading on his arms, ribs, back, and legs, and his jaw was sore. But luckily, his head was clear for the most part.
Tally—or Wicks, Simon reminded himself—was now driving after a quick break at a truck stop to change positions. He needed to get used to the whole nickname thing, if he decided to throw in with her group of . . . kids . . . Odd kids, and he’d only met two of them so far.
A short while ago, they’d turned off I-95 a few miles past Baltimore and stopped to pee and change places after the first ninety minutes. G had gone straight to his bank of computers to scan news broadcasts and the Internet for any news about the building storms. From what G had picked up, no one could explain what was going on, though one reporter did mention a few research groups had begun detailed analysis.
The sun was buried behind the storm clouds, but Simon guessed that sunset would arrive in about thirty minutes. The unusual rain had been falling the entire time, even after they crossed the state line. Rolls of farmland ticked by the window, interspersed with homes, barns, and stands of trees, mostly bare of leaves and human activity.
The landscape was cloaked in a red glow, and he didn’t expect that to change since the snarl of clouds stretched as far as he could see. It was eerie, almost surreal, as if he was starring in some end of the world disaster movie.
The last thing Wicks had said to Simon about Tessa’s possible lack of guilt had speared him deep and hard. Back at the NEC, he’d given up hope for his wife, condemning her to hell like the billions who were watching the brutal execution on pay per view. His insides were a mess when she died but now, after Tally’s unexpected revelation, the pain in his gut had intensified tenfold.
How could Tessa not be responsible for what she’d done?
Simon wanted to know more but hadn’t found the proper words to ask. The van had been silent since they’d stopped to empty their bladders, and none of the passengers had brought up Tessa’s name or what had happened at the NEC. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to face it, either, and he certainly didn’t want to bare his soul to some kids he’d just met.
He couldn’t help himself, though. The words finally came to his tongue. “Do you really think the missing scientists are connected to Tessa?” he asked Tally, breaking the silence in the van.
“Yes,” she answered after a short stammer. He must have caught her off guard with the sudden question about his wife. Then her eyes lit up with excitement. “I do. And I bet this storm is connected to it all somehow, too. My grandparents told me for years that the government was working on controlling the weather, and lately, I’ve started to believe it. Just think about it. All those contrails you see every day. Internet forums all over the world are reporting they’re appearing over every major population center and have been for years. All of them seem to follow specific, repeating patterns, and for whatever reason, they just hang in the sky for hours. Contrails should dissipate quickly, not linger. And now this. It’s all related. It has to be,” she said, turning her head to G.
“What’s the latest, G? Got anything new?”
The teenager brought his eyes up from the monitors. A pair of headphones were wrapped around his neck with one of the speakers pressed against his ear.
“Yes and no. Reports are starting to come in from all over. More information about what’s happening, but still nothing as to how or why. Everyone seems confused, and I don’t blame them. What is this stuff?”
“What are they saying?” she asked.
“Identical drizzling storms everywhere, spitting out the same red goo—”
“Everywhere?” Simon interrupted.
“Yeah, worldwide. This is big. From what I can piece together, storms above each continent started at roughly the same time, beginning around the largest seaports and spreading inland from there. Just like clockwork. They must be using the ocean air or humidity somehow to grow. None of this seems random, right?”
“Doesn’t seem likely,” Simon answered.
“Shanghai, Singapore, Hong Kong, Los Angeles, Long Beach, New York, Houston, Havana, and the list goes on. I’m thinking the storms are going to merge over each land mass in about twenty-four hours, blocking out the sun and soaking everything.”
“That’s insane!” Tally snapped.
“I know. I’ve been reading science journals since I was nine years old and have never heard of anything like this. I’d call it elegant, if it wasn’t so scary and completely unbelievable.”
“And no one is saying anything?” Tally asked G.
“Well, lots of people are saying lots of things, but as far as I can tell, they’re basically making a bunch of crap up. Nobody has a clue. I heard one meteorologist say something about a red rain in Sri Lanka a few years ago, but that turned out to be an isolated biological incident. Nothing like this, though. Not even close.”
“Any official statements?” Simon asked, wondering if this was some type of biological weapon unleashed by a rogue nation. But why unleash it across the entire world, rather than just targeting a specific country or region? The only answer he could come up with was to cover the offending nation’s tracks. Then again, it could be something else entirely.
G’s voice was now full of energy. “Plenty of religious nuts are calling it the Rapture, the End Times, Armageddon, you name it. But nothing official yet. I keep expecting to see videos popping up on YouTube, you know, from doomsday terrorist organizations or freedom fighters claiming responsibility. Everywhere you turn, it seems like there’s someone new calling us infidels or Satan, telling everyone how they brought on the Rapture. Remember all the Internet flack from Jade Helm 15? These guys come out of the woodwork once something unexpected happens.”
Simon turned to Tally. “As crazy as all this sounds, the specific oddities of this global storm do lend support to some type of sweeping conspiracy theory. But until more facts present themselves, I’m not sure what to think.”
“See, this is exactly why we need you. To help us with all things tactical and practical,” she said, with a slight grin.
He let out an appreciative smile, recognizing her choice of words. All Things Tactical and Practical was the title of his failed how-to book, released on Amazon at the suggestion of his next-door neighbor at the time, Michael Banner. It was a total flop, but he had fun writing it.
“How far are we from your camp?” he asked her.
“About twenty-five miles. The last mile and a half is on a crappy private dirt road. Really slow going. I’m afraid your ribs are gonna feel every bump.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jeffrey Hansen dragged himself out of the surf after the two-mile swim, crawled up the beach and collapsed between two palm trees. He rolled over on his back and looked up at the sky. The sun was starting to fade in the west, but the sky was clear. He was thankful Trident was programmed to hug the coastlines of the major continents where they’d been unleashed. If the storms had been spread over the oceans, he never would’ve been able to find the island by using the stars for navigation. The north star kept him on course and kept him moving with a singular purpose.
He’d been in the water longer than he’d expected and he was exhausted. The waves had turned choppy, leaving him to battle currents the entire way. He was lucky he’d started his swim south of his destination, otherwise he would’ve been swept north into the shipping lanes, ending up somewhere in the middle of the ocean, hundreds of miles off the coast of Florida—fish bait or propeller chow, not that it mattered.
He’d come ashore in a horseshoe-shaped cove. Above him, he could see an ancient stone building with three massive spires rising up from the cliff it sat on. Each white stone tower featured a shiny skull and cross-bones affixed to its peak. He recognized the famous structure, now called Renegade’s Mansion. It was on the southern tip of St. Bluffs Island. He knew the area well, having studied it before constructing his underwater research facility years ago.
“Fuck,” he murmured. “Wrong island.”
He wasn’t where he’d planned to end up, probably swept off course by the ocean currents, but it would have to do. There were rumors the former castle had been converted into a lavish mansion by a notorious drug dealer, Carlos Santiago, AKA Jigsaw. There was a small village lining the protected bay on the leeward side, populated solely by the dealer’s servants and families. Word was out to avoid the island at all costs; the drug lord didn’t take kindly to visitors. Visitors like him. A white American businessman with strong ties to the government and the military.
Redfall: Fight for Survival (American Prepper Series Book 1) Page 7
