White Collar, Green Flame - A Technothriller

by Shain Carter

  Burt didn’t look up. “We’ll cover him with some blankets later. I’m almost done here - get in the cab and wait for me. And stick this in there for me.”

  Burt picked up a laptop and held it out to Dawson. Dawson took it, climbed through the driver’s door and slid across the bench seat to the passenger’s side. He stuffed the computer under the seat, then twisted around so he could see through the rear glass. Burt was still kneeling, working at the wires and black boxes. At last he stood and made one final check of his work. Satisfied, he hopped off the back of the bed, slammed the tailgate into position and walked to the cab.

  Before Burt reached the driver’s door, though, George suddenly appeared from around the corner of the building. The top half of his shirt was stained dark red, and even at a distance of fifty yards, Dawson could see blood was still flowing freely from his nose. Four soldiers flanked George, two on either side, their rifles pointed menacingly at the pickup truck. They approached quickly, half running and half walking.

  “Hold it, Singleton,” George barked. Burt turned and calmly studied the five men coming towards him. He took a few steps away from the pickup and stood erect, his legs spread wide. When they were about twenty-five yards away Burt reached behind his back. With a smooth motion he pulled a large automatic pistol from under his belt and raised it. As if in slow motion, he brought his left hand up and, cradling the pistol with both hands, took aim and began shooting. He fired slowly and methodically, deliberately spacing the shots by several seconds.

  The report from the first shot reverberated loudly off the wall of the building. The bullet hit the ground several feet in front of the two soldiers on George’s right, sending a spray of dirt towards the men. The soldiers stopped and looked uncertainly at each other. George turned back to them and shouted something, then, still advancing, lifted his right arm. Dawson caught a glint of steel and realized that George, too, had a gun. Before George could raise his arm completely, though, Burt fired his second round.

  The bullet struck George in the chest. The impact literally lifted him off his feet. He hung in the air, slowly spinning backwards, before falling to the ground hard, landing flatly on his back.

  The four soldiers stopped again and stared incredulously at George’s motionless body, their rifles now hanging limply to their sides. After a second, one turned to Burt and began to raise his gun. Burt fired his third shot and the man crumpled into a heap on the ground. Two of remaining soldiers immediately turned and ran out of sight around the corner of the lab building. The third soldier paused just long enough to retrieve both the pistol from George and the rifle from the other man who had been shot. Then he, too, ran for the end of the building. Burt fired a shot at him, but the bullet went wide and hit the dirt fifty feet beyond the man. Before Burt could fire again, the soldier had disappeared around the corner of the building.

  Burt stuffed his pistol into his pants and climbed through the driver’s door. The engine roared to life, and he threw the truck into gear. The tires spun on the hard dirt, throwing up dust and obscuring Dawson’s view of the two men lying on the ground.

  As they gained traction, Dawson turned to Burt. “How the hell did you do that?”

  Burt grinned and threw the truck into second gear. “You like that? One guy with a handgun turns back four guys with automatic rifles? I’ll admit it looks pretty impressive, but it’s really not much more than a parlor trick. Consider it a lesson in human nature.”

  Burt paused as he pulled the truck around the end of the lab building.

  “It’s just a bluff,” Burt continued, “a battle of confidence. If you don’t back down, the other guy will have to.”

  Burt guided the truck onto the road.

  Dawson was still in disbelief over what had happened. “One hell of a trick. It even works when you’re out gunned and out manned!”

  “The trick works especially well if you’re outgunned and out manned. The other guys figure if you’re that sure of yourself then you must have some special advantage that they’re not aware of. And it works especially well against young men, like George’s soldiers. In 1964 six marines at the U. S. Embassy in Panama, armed with just their service revolvers, turned back an angry mob of several hundred young men. The marines stood their ground and fired four times in unison into the pavement in front of the mob. A few Panamanians got hit by chips of asphalt, but the only serious injuries were guys crushed in the stampede to get away.”

  Burt downshifted as they approached the dormitory. “The only person back there who was smart enough not to be intimidated by me was George. That’s why I shot him first. Once the others saw their leader drop, there was really only one thing they could do - turn and run, which is exactly what they did.”

  Burt jerked the pickup to a stop in front of the dorm building. He shifted it into neutral and pulled the emergency brake, leaving the engine running. “Wait here,” he ordered, then hopped out and ran to the building. Meredith stood in the open doorway with Cindy and Andy. The children’s eyes were wide, and they gripped Meredith’s arms tightly. Burt spoke to her briefly, then disappeared inside. After a moment he reappeared in the doorway, holding a briefcase in one hand and his pistol in the other. Alec and Ted were right behind him.

  Burt motioned for the others to stay inside, then stepped out of the building and stopped halfway between it and the truck. Holding his gun with an outstretched arm, he scanned the road they had just come down. After a few seconds, he gestured towards the dormitory. Meredith raced out, pulling the kids with her. Dawson opened the passenger door and slid across to the middle of the seat. When they got to the truck, Meredith pushed Andy through the open door, then picked up Cindy and climbed in with her. They were all out of breath, and both kids were on the verge of tears.

  “Your Dad’s here,” Dawson told them. “He’s in the back.”

  The kids turned around and looked into the bed of the cab. Cindy pounded on the glass partition, screaming “Daddy! Daddy!” Derek lifted his head slightly and waved.

  “He’s had an accident,” Dawson told them, “but he’ll be O. K.”

  Meanwhile, Burt motioned again towards the dormitory, and Ted and Alec ran out. They went to the back of the pick-up and Ted began boosting Alec into the bed. As Ted struggled with Alec, Dawson became aware of the sound of another vehicle. Through the rear glass he saw a pickup truck racing towards them. In it were the three surviving soldiers. Two were in the cab, the third stood in the bed, bracing himself on the roof of the cab. He held a small machine gun pointed straight ahead, towards the scientists’ truck.

  Burt, still standing between the pickup and the building, leveled his pistol at the other truck, but held his fire as Ted gave Alec a final shove then scrambled into the pickup bed himself. The other truck raced on, quickly closing the ground between them. Finally, Burt fired two rounds, shattering the windshield but apparently not hitting the driver. Burt turned and ran for the truck. He had only taken a few steps when the soldier in the back fired a short burst from his weapon. Dust kicked up in the dirt around Burt, and he dropped to the ground. He immediately got back up, grasping his left thigh with one hand and the gun with his other.

  Burt hobbled to the truck. The passenger door was still open, and Meredith pulled Cindy into her lap as everyone else inside the cab slid over to give Burt room to get in. As he pulled himself through the door, Burt shouted to Dawson, “Get going!”

  Dawson suddenly realized that he was behind the wheel. He felt his pulse quicken. His mouth went dry and his hands became wet with sweat. He started to reach for the gear shift lever, then abruptly stopped. “I can’t drive,” he shouted to Burt. “I mean, I haven’t driven in fifteen years.”

  Burt glared furiously at Dawson. “Just drive, damn it!” he shouted.

  Dawson turned to Meredith. “Quick,” he pleaded, “let’s switch places.” It was a ridiculous request; she would have to get Cindy off her lap and then crawl over Andy. Meredith shook her head at Dawson. “We can�
�t. Besides, I can’t drive a stick.”

  Dawson glanced back over his shoulder. The other truck was almost on them. The driver pulled over, intending to get in front of their truck and cut them off. In the back of their truck, Ted grabbed one of Dawson’s flasks of green flame fuel and heaved it just as the other truck passed them. The flask smashed through the broken windshield, and the cab instantly erupted in a brilliant green fireball. The truck swerved to the left, then the driver overcompensated, pulling it hard to the right. Rather than turn, the truck simple rotated, its back end coming around until it was skidding sideways along the road. As it slid, the man in the back lost his balance and fell into the bed. The truck continued like this for forty feet, then tipped onto its side, throwing the soldier in the bed clear. The truck was on its side for only an instant before it began to roll, over and over, throwing debris in every direction - the bumper, the mounted lights, things from the bed. Dawson watched in wonder, convinced the whole truck would disintegrate completely, but somehow it held together. The rolling slowed until, with one final, violent flip, the truck flew high into the air and landed on its wheels facing them, bouncing wildly.

  Orange flames now blazed in the cab as the flammable parts of the interior burned. The soldier who had been thrown clear lay face down on the left side of the road, forty feet away. He rolled over and pulled himself to a sitting position. His gun, which had been strapped to his chest, lay loosely in his lap, and he had a dazed look on his face.

  Burt shouted across the seat to Dawson. "Step on it, Jones. Now!"

  Dawson’s chest tightened and he gasped for breath. His heart pounded loudly in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. He caught a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror. His face was almost white, and he had the dazed look of a boxer who had been caught off-guard by a blow to the head. He wondered briefly if he was having a heart attack. He mechanically revved the engine and threw the truck into gear. It hesitated, then, with a loud squeal, lurched ever so slowly forward.

  As if from a great distance, Dawson heard Burt shouting. "Damn it, Jones, get this thing moving!"

  Dawson felt flustered as a myriad of thoughts raced through his mind. His initial reaction was that there must be something wrong with the truck. But Burt had just driven it to the dormitory without any problem, and the engine was roaring loudly, laboring as if under a great load. Then he worried that cars had changed so much since he had last driven that he no longer knew how to drive. Perhaps he had put the car in the wrong gear. He threw in the clutch and wrestled with the gearshift, but to no avail.

  The soldier who had been thrown clear began picking himself up from the ground. They were about twenty feet from him now, and the truck was still crawling. The man, his eyes locked on the truck, slowly raised the gun to his shoulder.

  Dawson stared down at the dashboard for a few seconds, desperately trying to clear his mind. His eyes fell on the parking brake release lever below the dash. With a flood of relief he realized that the brake was still engaged. He reached down, turning his face to the right as he stretched for the lever. At the same time, Burt leaned over, too, facing Jones. He pulled up his right hand and pointed the pistol directly at Dawson’s face.

  "I said to get moving, damn it,” he shouted.

  Cindy shrieked. Meredith instinctively pushed both kids down. Dawson’s bewilderment quickly changed to anger and he opened his mouth to shout something back. Before he could say anything, though, his hand found the brake release lever, and he instinctively yanked it back. The truck, its engine revved high, instantly shot forward, throwing everyone back against the seat. From the corner of his eye Dawson saw a dazzling orange flash and the cab fill with the deafening roar of the gun discharging and the sound of glass shattering.

  The gunshot plunged the cab instantly into chaos. Screaming, Cindy covered her ears and buried her head against Meredith’s chest. Andy cried loudly. Meredith shouted and grabbed for the gun, which had been directly in front of her face when Burt fired. The recoil, though, had jerked Burt's hand out of her reach. Dawson felt a stinging on his left cheek as he shouted to Burt to put the gun away.

  Above the screams and shouts, a new noise grew in - an incessant, high pitched whine. It started quietly but quickly overwhelmed the other sounds in the cab. Dawson looked down at the instrument panel and saw that the truck was going 45 miles an hour in first gear. He depressed the clutch and shifted directly to third gear. The whining ceased immediately, and with its departure a sense of order returned to the cab.

  Dawson turned back to Burt. Throughout the turmoil, Burt remained completely calm, coolly staring out the back glass. Now he spoke. "Looks like I got him,” he said with a smug satisfaction.

  Dawson turned to the side view mirror. Most of the glass in the side window was missing, shattered by the bullet that Burt had fired. In the mirror, Dawson saw the soldier lying face down, completely motionless.

  "Sorry about that,” Burt continued casually, ejecting the clip from his gun. He fished some bullets out of his pocket and began to reload as he spoke. "I didn't want to take a shot at him through the windshield. Glancing shots tend to ricochet off glass, rather than to go through, and at that angle it was too risky. The last thing we need is a bullet bouncing around in here. So, it had to be a shot through a side window."

  Burt continued loading his clip. Meredith leaned across Andy and quietly asked Dawson if he was all right. Dawson took a deep breath. His heart was beating more slowly, and the pressure in his chest was gone. He looked up into the rearview mirror and saw the color returning to his cheeks. It hadn't been a heart attack at all, he thought with relief, just a panic attack.

  "I'm fine now, thanks,” he told her. He smoothly shifted the truck into fourth gear as they pulled through the complex gate and towards town. A mob of town people stood at the outskirts, drawn no doubt by the sound of gunfire and the smoke from the burning truck. Dawson slowed as he wove the truck through the crowd. The town’s people gave them wide berth but did not hide as before, their curiosity outweighing their fear of the MSA truck. A few pointed at Dawson. He felt the side of his face. His cheek still stung, and when he pulled his hand away he saw that it was covered in blood. He felt his cheek again and pulled out two small pieces of glass.

  “You’ve been hit - are you hurt badly?” Meredith asked.

  Dawson turned to answer her, then realized the comment was addressed to Burt. Burt was squeezing his left thigh with his hands. His pants leg was completely saturated with blood.

  “It’s not bad,” he said, “but the bleeding could be a problem.”

  At Dawson’s suggestion, Andy took off his shirt and handed it to Meredith. She pressed it against Burt’s leg. He winced, then began wrestling with his belt. Once it was off he gingerly looped it around the shirt and pulled it snug.

  By this time they were well into town, and Dawson had to slow the truck to a near crawl as they wound through the narrow streets. With Burt’s help he was able to navigate his way through the labyrinth of passageways, and in a few minutes they were passing over the wooden bridge on the far side of town. As they came off the bridge, Burt told Jones to stop. Burt twisted around in his seat and stared intently into the distance.

  It was getting darker. The sun was not down quite yet, but it was now hidden behind the thick clouds that gathered most afternoons. Squinting across the valley, past the town, Dawson saw a thick cloud of dust in the far distance. The dust swirled in the breezy evening air.

  “Looks like the search team is heading back from the drone crash,” Burt said. “You’d better take out the bridge before they find out what happened. Burn it.”

  Dawson climbed out of the cab and walked to the back of the truck. He quickly explained the situation to Alec and Ted. Alec just stared at wordlessly at Dawson. Ted, though, hopped out and helped Dawson unloaded the bottles of alcohol. There were eleven bottles in all, with a combined volume of nearly three gallons. The men scooped the bottles into their arms, and, with a free ha
nd, Dawson grabbed a flask of the green flame fuel. They hauled their load back to the bridge and began smashing the alcohol bottles on the wooden deck and against the support posts underneath. They had broken most of them when Ted looked back across the valley.

  “They’re coming straight here,” he shouted, pointing. Dawson looked up and saw that the dust cloud, rather than veering off in the direction of the research complex, was making a beeline directly towards them. Already the truck had nearly reached the far side of town; it would be at the bridge within minutes. To Dawson, the implication was obvious: there wasn’t nearly enough time for the bridge to burn through before the other truck got here.

  “Quick,” Dawson shouted to Ted, “help me roll some rocks onto the bridge to block them.”

  The two of them rolled three rocks, each about the size of a large carry-on bag, onto the bridge, placing them in the middle of the area soaked in alcohol. The rocks were large enough to block the bridge, and the burning alcohol, Dawson reasoned, would keep the soldiers from simply rolling them out of the way. With any luck, the rocks would delay the truck until the bridge supports had burned through. Dawson and Ted broke the rest of the alcohol bottles onto the rocks, then jogged back to the bank.

  The other truck emerged from town and headed straight towards them, picking up speed on the open roadway. Dawson grabbed the flask of green flame fuel and flung it onto the bridge. With a resounding whoosh, the alcohol ignited.

  Dawson’s heart sank as he saw the flames. His expectation, based on watching action movies, was that the alcohol would ignite into a huge fireball, leaving the bridge engulfed in a raging inferno. Reality was much different. The small green fireball disappeared after on a few seconds. It was replaced by low, almost invisible orange and blue flames that licked the top of the bridge, pulsing in the evening breeze. The fire beneath the bridge, on its supporting members, burned more strongly, but even there the flames seemed so fragile that Dawson worried a gust of wind would blow them out.