Wayward Pines- Genesis Collection

by Steven Konkoly

  He was in the field with the “troops,” a concept he’d need to embrace when the first wave of citizens were placed in Wayward Pines. Pope would be one of the few superstructure people living in the town. Putting him in overall command of the operations seemed like a logical choice, but Pope acted like he wasn’t interested. Pilcher had no doubt he would serve the town well as sheriff, but wondered if the best post for Arnold might be a suspension pod—until he was truly needed. Too late for that.

  “All right. Thank you for another successful day. I’ll see everyone in the morning,” he said.

  “Mr. Pilcher?” said Upshaw, above the din of sliding chairs and small talk.

  He waited for the group to disappear through the door and approached Upshaw.

  “Yes?”

  Upshaw glanced furtively at the door and whispered, “I didn’t mention this earlier, more or less writing it off to expected equipment failure—but I just hit a string of two back-to-back explosives failures. One charge at miles eleven and twelve.”

  “You’re sure?” said Pilcher, examining the screen beyond Upshaw.

  “Mustin’s spotters didn’t see either explosion. They’ve seen every other explosion, day and night. Especially at night. They’re impossible to miss using thermal imaging gear.”

  “How many have failed?”

  “Five.”

  “Five?” said Pilcher. “And the transceivers?”

  “Transmitting full signals as far as we could tell,” said Upshaw.

  Pilcher considered the implications of Upshaw’s report. It wasn’t entirely impossible for five pieces of sensitive electronics gear to fail after sitting in storage for nearly two millennia, even under near perfect preservation conditions. Still, something didn’t feel right.

  “Are all five from the outer field?” said Pilcher.

  Upshaw nodded.

  “Hassler?” stated Pilcher, seeing the doubt planted on Upshaw’s face.

  “I don’t see how, but we need to consider the possibility,” said Upshaw.

  “Damn it! How could he have survived?” said Pilcher, wincing at his own volume.

  Upshaw shook his head. “I doubt he survived the blast, but maybe he stole some of the C4. Hassler is a crafty guy. He might have taken it as an insurance policy against—anyway.”

  “Well, we can’t have any surprises. We’ll have to rig the ultralight with one of the microchip signal repeaters. Rig a car battery to it—whatever it takes to transmit a signal back to us. Use it to sweep the valley.”

  Upshaw squinted, deep in thought, before nodding slowly. “The repeaters are wireless. If they can fix one to the ultralight, we could theoretically double the detection range and pick up a signal seven to eight miles away.”

  “That’s all we need. I’ll make the arrangements to get one of the pilots airborne tomorrow,” said Pilcher, pausing for a moment. “It goes without saying, Ted, that you don’t speak with anyone about this. Just me.”

  “Of course, Mr. Pilcher. You can count on me,” said Upshaw.

  Pilcher nodded. I sure as hell hope so.

  Chapter 48

  The incessant buzzing sound returned, drawing Hassler’s attention to the mouth of the tight hollow. He’d found the rocky enclosure while seeking higher ground well outside of regular abby traffic patterns. Most of the abbies ranged the central valley in small packs, so Hassler kept to the eastern slopes, until the distance between the looming east and west rock faces pushed him closer to the screeches. He needed a place to rest and tend to his wounds—possibly make a fire and sleep outside of a tree harness. Most of all, he craved a break from the constant, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree paranoia. Putting a rock wall or two around him had sounded like heaven. Actually closing his eyes and resting against a flat, angled rock felt even better—if that was possible.

  The noise grew louder until a shadow passed overhead, and the sound started to fade. One of Pilcher’s drones? Shit. If Pilcher managed to ready one of his drones, he’d have to keep the camouflaged thermal blanket on him at all times to mask his heat signature. He was worried enough about Mustin’s snipers. Even during the day, a thermal imaging scope could pick out a target invisible to the human eye. Mustin’s rifles had the range to reach out and touch him on the other side of the valley, though he doubted very much any of them had the skill to match.

  Regardless, he feared detection more than death. If Pilcher discovered that he was alive and well, moving closer to Wayward Pines, his plan for revenge stood little chance of success. For Hassler, the possibility of destroying Pilcher’s life’s work was all that sustained him. He held on to the thought of Theresa, but that dream faded a little more each day. He couldn’t envision a scenario resurrecting that dream. It was as good as dead to him.

  Hassler took a deep breath and pushed off the boulder, resigned to seeing what Pilcher had launched into the early morning sky. He pulled the thermal blanket over him and grabbed his rifle. Crouching low when he reached the opening, he leaned between two sharp granite chunks and slowly raised his head—keenly aware that he would be exposed to the western bluff. Nothing felt more counterintuitive than purposely exposing your head to a known sniper threat.

  The fog had lifted early, leaving a partially cloudy sky over the valley. From his position roughly thirty feet above the tree line, he had a clear view of the valley in every direction. To the northwest, a narrow band of trees had disappeared against the backdrop of the towering cliffs, presumably the path cut from the hatch to the proposed fence site. Hassler planned to keep a close eye on their progress, moving closer as they neared completion. He had a vague plan in mind, which would crystallize as the time arrived.

  Scanning south, he quickly spotted the source of his morning wake-up. A grey ultralight circled several hundred feet above the trees. Hassler removed the caps from a small spotting scope and tracked the glider. The pilot sat in the rig, searching the ground with binoculars, which gave him the impression that the ultralight had been launched for general surveillance. The glider carried more than the pilot, but at this range, he couldn’t identify the package attached to its underside. Fuel bladder? He had no idea.

  No longer interested in the glider, Hassler shifted positions, ducking behind one of the rocks and peering around its side. He trained the handheld scope on the band of missing trees, and followed it south to the edge of Pilcher’s deforestation efforts. In the wide field of vision, the top of a pine tree shook, suddenly sliding laterally and disappearing into the sea of dark green outside of the band. He watched one tree after another do a similar dance, amused by how little forward progress the effort commanded. No wonder it had taken them two days to move less than half a mile.

  Hassler grimaced, rubbing his eyes. At this rate he would run out of food long before they reached his side of the valley. He’d packed enough to sparsely ration over eight days. The load out ensured he could hike back to the hatch if the recovery plan fell through. Little did he know that a recovery plan never existed in the first place.

  He’d hang out in the rocks for another day, assessing the situation. If building a low-intensity fire proved to be a possibility deep in the recesses of the hollow, he might descend into the forest to hunt for small game and place some snares. A faint buzzing echoed off the rocks. Hassler moved to the other side of the boulder and searched for the ultralight. He found it skimming the treetops, headed in his general direction.

  Hassler grabbed his rifle and started mentally calculating the lead required to hit a fast-moving target at multiple ranges. He’d replaced the ACOG sight on his rifle with a Leopold Mark 4 scope that he was itching to use.

  Chapter 49

  Upshaw stared at the screen in disbelief. M/C#214-Hassler, David T. sat motionless on the eastern side of the valley, deep in the trees.

  “Son of a bitch,” he muttered, dialing Pilcher’s residence through the computer.

  “I’m in the middle of breakfast, Ted. Can this wait?”

  “Negative, sir. I ha
ve a confirmed location for Hassler’s microchip,” said Upshaw.

  “Where?”

  “About four hundred yards from the eastern side of the valley, approximately three miles out.”

  “Any movement?”

  “Negative.”

  “I’ll be right down. Make sure the ultralight stays on top of that signal,” said Pilcher.

  “I have him circling above.”

  A few minutes later, Pilcher entered and locked the door behind him.

  “Where is he?”

  Upshaw hooked Hassler’s microchip icon, zooming in over the sector of forest surrounding the signal.

  “Right there.”

  “Damn it, I wish there was a way to finish him off. He’s keeping his distance—probably waiting to sabotage the machinery. So much for leaving the equipment on station overnight. Now we’ll have to bring everything back to the hatch and post a twenty-four-hour guard. Moving the equipment back and forth will cut into the workday,” said Pilcher, pounding his fists on the computer station.

  “There’s not much we can do, sir. It’s too far to send an armed team. They’d have to proceed on foot or ATV,” said Upshaw.

  “Patch me through to the pilot—on an unmonitored frequency,” said Pilcher.

  “Hold on,” he said, activating the pilot’s primary channel. “Recon One, this is Operations. Bump to your emergency frequency.”

  “Copy,” said the pilot, over considerable noise from the ultralight engine.

  “Do you want this on speaker or a headset, sir?” said Upshaw.

  Pilcher glanced at the door. “Headset. Nobody else can monitor this?”

  “The hangar has the primary channel, but I set the emergency frequency once the ultralight was airborne. All the pilot does is press the red distress button and his radio does the rest. Nobody knows the frequency, including the pilot.”

  “Perfect,” said Pilcher, accepting Upshaw’s wireless headset.

  “Recon One, this is David Pilcher. What I’m about to tell you cannot be repeated, ever. Do you understand?”

  Upshaw couldn’t hear the pilot’s response, which suited him fine. He wished he could leave the room entirely. Pilcher’s betrayal made him sick.

  “The surveillance equipment detected a microchip from the superstructure. Mr. Hassler’s. We strongly suspect he faked his own death a few days ago, for reasons still unknown to us. We also suspect that he retained several pounds of explosives, which poses a serious threat to our construction efforts.”

  Pilcher stopped and listened to the pilot’s response before continuing.

  “I understand your options are limited, but I need you to try. You have two high-explosive grenades in your kit, along with an M4 carbine. I’m not asking you to land. I just need you to deliver that ordnance. Even if you don’t manage to hit the target, the noise should attract some deadly attention to Mr. Hassler’s position.”

  Another pause.

  “Yes. I am authorizing you to use lethal force against Mr. Hassler. The sooner the better. Mr. Upshaw’s calculations indicate you need to turn back in seven minutes.”

  “Five minutes. He’ll burn more fuel climbing out of the valley,” interrupted Upshaw.

  “I’m now being told five minutes by Operations. I’ll turn you over to Mr. Upshaw so he can guide you directly over the target. Good luck,” said Pilcher, handing over the headset. “Mr. Upshaw.”

  Wonderful. He got to kill Hassler twice. Watching the pilot’s microchip transmission on the digital map display, Upshaw directed the pilot directly over Hassler’s signal.

  “Negative visual on the target. The forest canopy is too thick. Recommend follow-on run, using grenades. I think that’s the best I can do up here,” said the pilot.

  “Roger. Make a wide circle, and I’ll guide you over the mark,” he said, turning to Pilcher. “He’s going to drop the grenades. The trees are too thick to make a positive ID.”

  “Can he get any closer?” said Pilcher.

  Upshaw deactivated the voice-activated transmit button. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir. Hassler’s armed with a rifle.”

  “Just get him as close as possible. The tree canopy works both ways,” hissed Pilcher.

  “Recon One, steady on course two-two-five and stand by for minor course adjustments. Request you decrease altitude for the grenade drop.”

  “Any lower and my wheels will start scraping,” said the pilot.

  “Understood, but we need to get some kind of verification. Decrease to treetop level,” said Pilcher.

  “Roger. Steady on two-two-five. Descending.”

  He glanced at Pilcher, who smiled and nodded in return. Smug bastard.

  “Turn left and maintain two-two-zero. Thirteen seconds until drop,” said Upshaw.

  “Copy. Readying grenade. What is the time on the fuse?” said the pilot.

  Upshaw turned to Pilcher and mouthed, “I have no idea.”

  “Didn’t everyone train how to use these?” said Pilcher.

  He shrugged and turned back to the screen. Five seconds out.

  “Just pull the pin and throw it. Three seconds. Two—”

  “Motherfucker!” the pilot yelled over the radio. “Mayday. May—”

  The transmission cut off. He studied the screen, noting that the pilot’s microchip had stopped tracking across the screen. An alert on his screen indicated the detection of a sharp acoustic signature along the same bearing as the ultralight’s last known position. Grenade malfunction?

  “Shit,” he muttered, turning to Pilcher. “The pilot passed ‘Mayday’ before his signal stopped.”

  Pilcher pointed at the screen. “Looks like he’s fine.”

  Upshaw stared quizzically at the map for a second. “I could have sworn that his signal read zero miles per hour—that’s not the pilot’s microchip.”

  “Well, it can’t be Hassler,” said Pilcher.

  The vector tag attached to M/C#214-Hassler, David T. read “22.1/35.5 MPH/KPH; Heading 348.”

  “No,” said Upshaw. “It has to be an abby.”

  “Well, at least we know Hassler is no longer a threat,” stated Pilcher.

  Upshaw resisted the urge to shake his head at Pilcher’s statement. Underneath the thin façade of a warm and caring leader, humanity’s shepherd was a cold, calculating sociopath. There was no point to pissing him off, even in the slightest degree. If Upshaw’s perceived value ever plummeted, keeping himself in good standing with Pilcher could spell the difference between a life of misery or melancholy. Shades of grey inside the superstructure, but distinct shades nonetheless. He’d play along—for now.

  “That’s a fair assumption, sir,” said Upshaw, interrupted by Mustin’s voice over one of the radio speakers.

  “Operations, this is Overwatch. Recon One crashed into the trees, followed by an explosion. He was there one second—gone the next. No sign of wreckage in the trees.”

  “Copy all. We lost communications with Recon One a few seconds ago,” said Upshaw.

  Mustin responded immediately. “We’ll keep an eye out for a distress flare. Is there any possibility of a rescue mission—since this is one of the helicopter pilots?”

  Pilcher quickly shook his head, staying silent in the background.

  “Not at this time. Too many hostiles in the area to risk sending ATVs or ground teams,” said Upshaw, who received an approving nod from Pilcher.

  The gesture validated Upshaw’s assessment of the man’s pathological pragmatism. They still had two pilots capable of flying the helicopter, and a third in suspension. Ethan Burke. Given what he had just witnessed, Upshaw was slightly relieved to be the only member of the IT group with a working knowledge of the surveillance equipment purchased long after the rest of his team had gone into suspension. Job security.

  Chapter 50

  Marcus walked carefully through the dense forest, taking small steps and peering over his rifle sight. He raised his right hand and closed his fist, ordering the security team
to halt. He kneeled between two pine trunks and listened, only hearing the high-pitched buzz of an electric drill over the gently rustling branches. All good.

  The three-person team tasked with placing the motion sensors had begun their work. Selecting a sturdy, immovable tree roughly thirty feet from the last sensor, they affixed one of the sensor mounts to its trunk and attached the sensor. Capable of detecting movement along a seventy-five-foot front, out to a distance of one hundred feet, the sensor behind him represented one of seventy-two devices they would place on the southern side of the construction zone.

  He was skeptical about completing the task in a single day—as requested. Each stop required Marcus to redeploy his security team in a two-hundred-and-seventy-degree arc around the team of technicians deploying the sensor. Even if they managed to set one sensor every fifteen minutes, the job would exhaust all available daylight, sending them far from the safety of their armored vehicles.

  They tried to push one of the Humvees into the forest, but quickly scrapped the idea. The driver managed to maneuver the wide-bodied truck halfway to the sensor deployment point before reaching an impasse. Backing the vehicle out of the tight stand of trees took twice as long, sealing Marcus’s decision. They would have to rely on ATVs to carry the team. Hardly an ideal security situation when your adversary was faster and more mobile than your primary mode of transportation. At the first sign of trouble, Marcus planned an immediate retreat. They could handle a few abbies—a few dozen was an entirely different situation.

  The security team consisted of five officers. Four equipped with suppressed assault rifles, one armed with the team’s heavy firepower—a bipod-fitted, M240 machine gun. Marcus would only employ the “two-forty” as a last resort against a numerically superior group of abbies. Unsuppressed, the two-forty would attract every creature in the upper valley. Four tandem-ride ATVs sat a few feet away from the technicians, ready to ferry them back to the construction site.