The Alpha Deception

by Jon Land

  Two hours later, a huge figure appeared in the opening of the small tent where Blaine was resting. He gazed up into the eyes of the giant Indian.

  “Musta drove pretty damn fast, Indian.”

  “Speed is relative, Blainey. For some a mile is the same as a step. For others …”

  Blaine nodded his understanding, still gazing up. Wareagle admitted to seven feet and might have easily exceeded that by an inch or two. His hair was tied in a ponytail, and his flesh was baked bronze by years of living in the outdoors following four tours of duty in Nam in Captain Blaine McCracken’s commando unit. For the first time since those years, Wareagle was garbed in a set of camouflage fatigues.

  “The uniform suits you, Johnny.”

  “A reminder of the hellfire. In the jungle today it tried to come back to me until the spirits chased it away.”

  “I figure those same spirits moved the Honduras border a bit to make life easy for me in the end.”

  “It would not be beyond them.”

  McCracken nodded at that. He had seen Johnny’s mystical powers at work too often to challenge them, first in Nam and then much later on a snow-swept night in Maine when the fate of the country had hung in the balance.

  “What next, Blainey?” the big Indian wondered.

  “First off, I’m going to make sure that Hind-D gets delivered safely to Ben Metcalf in Colorado Springs. I didn’t spend two months of my life preparing for this to see it get fucked up somehow. I like seeing things through to the end.”

  Wareagle nodded knowingly. “Sometimes the ends are not ours to control, Blainey. Man is a creature of constant beginnings. Your constant obsession with finishing leads you on an empty journey that can never end. We are nothing more than creatures of our destinies unless the spirits guide us.”

  “You sound like a travel agent for the soul.”

  “The spirits are the agents. I am just the interpreter.”

  “They furnish your words concerning me this time?”

  “They furnish all.” Wareagle hesitated. “I worry for you still, Blainey. So restless is your manitou. So driven are you to pursue that which you cannot identify.”

  “But we have identified it, Indian; it’s what lured you out of your retirement villa up in Maine and got me away from sorting paper clips in France: the world’s gone nuts. Innocent people are dropping dead all the time. The madmen are taking over and there are only a few of us left to keep the balance straight.”

  “You did not throw it off by yourself, Blainey,” Wareagle told him. “And yet that is how you seek to restore it. Ever since the hellfire …”

  “The real hellfire was the five years I was out, Indian. Now I’m back but I’m doing things my way, on my terms. Ben wanted a Hind. I owed him. Straight and simple.” He paused. “Hope I didn’t forget to tell you how great it is working with you again. No one else could have pulled off that trick with the fake wing.”

  “Men see what they expect to. The trick is to give it to them.”

  “The trick is to stay alive, Indian. Where you off to from here, back to the wilds of Maine?”

  “A national convention of Sioux in Oklahoma, Blainey. The time has come to accept my heritage once more, to accept myself as Wanblee-Isnala.”

  “Wan what?”

  “My Sioux name as christened by Chief Silver Cloud.”

  “And what’s his Sioux name?”

  “Unah Tah Seh Deh Koni-Sehgehwagin.”

  “Give him my best.”

  Chapter 2

  PRESIDENT LYMAN SCOTT didn’t stop to remove his overcoat upon reaching the White House. Instead he made straight for the elevator, located ten yards from his private entrance, that would whisk him down to the secret conference room, deep underground. Scott was a big, raw-boned, athletic man, and even his exceptionally fit Secret Service guards had to struggle to keep up with him.

  Especially today.

  A man with thick glasses and thinning hair was waiting for him at the elevator.

  “Are they all here, Ben?” the President asked.

  “Yes, Mr. President.”

  The aide waited until the three Secret Service men had entered the compartment after the President before pressing the down arrow. The elevator had only two stops, one underground and another at ground level where they had just entered.

  Lyman Scott stripped off his overcoat and scarf. He had been president for just over two years and for a portion of that period seemed well in control of his duties. He had run on a platform of sanity and sense, especially when dealing with the Soviets. Upon taking office he initiated a series of summits with a progressive Soviet leader who felt, as he did, that a constant dialogue was the most efficient way of ensuring future peace. The country rallied behind him, a long-sought-after goal at last to be achieved. But there were costs. As a show of good faith, Scott kept his campaign pledge to drastically cut back on defense spending and reorganize the military community. There was grumbling and resistance, but the process nonetheless was underway.

  Then came firm evidence of an active Soviet presence in Central America, Syria, and Iran. While claiming to bargain in good faith, the Soviets had been building up foreign divisions throughout the entire duration of the peace talks. Russian leaders insisted they were even then pulling back, but the damage had already been done. When Scott refused to respond strongly, even militarily, the polls came up squarely against him. The country believed its President had been played for a fool, and men Scott should have been able to trust failed him at every turn, feeling betrayed themselves by his earlier policies. He was labeled weak. A cartoon picturing a chicken cowering from a bullying bear made the op-ed pages of several major newspapers. For the past two months, Scott had weathered a storm which showed no signs of letting up.

  The elevator doors slid open. The President left his aide and guards out in the corridor and passed through a high-security door into the Tomb.

  The four men already present immediately stood.

  “Forget the formality, gentlemen,” Scott said by way of greeting. He tossed his overcoat and scarf onto a couch and moved to his customary seat at the head of the conference table. It was built to accommodate up to twenty, but today only five chairs were taken, the occupants of the other ones having disappeared one at a time over the past few weeks with the evaporation of the President’s trust in his own advisers. It had been paranoia, in fact, that had led him to convene this meeting here in the Tomb instead of in the usual briefing room. The isolation was devastatingly apparent; each word spoken seemed to echo through the narrow emptiness of the chamber. The Tomb was barren but for the maps that hung on the walls and for the single red phone perched on the conference table within the President’s reach. The light came harsh and bright from the recessed ceiling; for some unknown reason there was no dimmer switch.

  Scott sighed deeply and met, in turn, the gazes of each of the four men before him. To his left was William Wyler Stamp, a career intelligence officer who had revitalized a CIA that had come under fire during the last administration. Stamp was urbane and dapper, with a quiet demeanor more befitting a professor than a spymaster.

  Sitting opposite each other, and just as ideologically divergent, were Secretary of Defense George Kappel and Secretary of State Edmund Mercheson. Kappel was a lifelong friend of the President, which kept him in the administration despite his perpetual hawkishness and seemingly congenital distrust of the Soviets. On the other hand, Lyman Scott had known Mercheson for only one year longer than he’d been president. A former senator from Michigan, Mercheson’s pointed nose and slight German accent doomed him to be forever likened to the legendary Henry Kissinger. The press often labeled him “Merchinger” or “Kisseson.” He was Scott’s chief supporter when it came to Soviet relations and the architect of a controversial disarmament treaty the President had been on the verge of signing before the rug had been pulled out from under his administration. Past sixty now and generally thought to be past his prime, Mercheson nonethele
ss enjoyed a comfortable grasp of the issues and the unusual ability to pass on his opinions in clear, concise terms.

  The last occupant of the Tomb was Ryan Sundowner, director of the Bureau of Scientific Intelligence; BSI for short, but better known as the Toy Factory. By far the youngest of the group, Sundowner wore his brown wavy hair long and opted for a tattered tweed sports jacket rather than the traditional Washington suit. He looked as uncomfortable in the jacket as he did in the Tomb itself. This was his first visit ever.

  “Mr. Sundowner,” the President said, “tell us about Hope Valley.”

  Sundowner cleared his throat. He rose from his chair, holding tight to a black remote control device in his hand.

  “I believe, sir,” he started, “that the pictures we’re about to see speak for themselves. If they don’t, there’s an accompanying narration that says it better than I can.”

  Sundowner pressed one button on the remote and the Tomb’s recessed lights darkened. He pressed another one and the map in the center of the side wall parted to reveal a forty-five-inch video monitor. The device was familiar to him but had been custom-altered for the Tomb, and Sundowner had a vision of pushing the wrong button and sending missiles hurtling from their silos. He pushed a third button and the screen filled with a videotaped flyover shot of what had been Hope Valley.

  Nothing but a black cloud. Everywhere, everything, from one side of the screen to the other.

  “My God,” the President muttered, rising as if to gain a better view in the darkness of the Tomb, a dimness diffused only by the glow of the video screen and the light over the door.

  Sundowner froze the frame. “The military alerted the BSI after being alerted themselves by a highway patrolman who saw the cloud. Thought it was smoke at first.”

  “You mean he entered the town?” raised Secretary of Defense Kappel, aware of the possible implications.

  “He came close enough. We’ve got him in seclusion now, more to keep him quiet than as an anticontamination precaution. There’s no danger of infection here,” Sundowner explained, pointing at the screen. “I only wish it were that simple.”

  The scientist started the tape again. Different angles and views of the cloud were displayed, showing no trace of the town.

  “What about the perimeter?” CIA chief Stamp wanted to know.

  “Hope Valley’s as isolated as they come,” Sundowner told him. “Just a single main access road which we cordoned off and set the appropriate buffer in place. The military and BSI personnel are working together under Firewatch conditions. That much has been contained.”

  “That much,” echoed Mercheson, mimicking the obvious understatement.

  There was a brief glitch in the tape after which the screen filled with a moving shot down the road approaching Hope Valley.

  “The thickness of the cloud made it impossible for any of our flyovers to tell us anything. Our next phase called for an observer to be sent in. The picture you’re seeing now comes courtesy of a camera built into his helmet. He had to look through the windshield of the van he was driving, so excuse the graininess.”

  “Who made the decision to enter?” the President demanded as the murky mass loomed larger on the screen.

  “I did, sir,” admitted Sundowner without hesitation.

  “Rather large responsibility to take on yourself, considering the potential risks.”

  “There was more risk involved, sir, by not investigating the scene itself. We had no idea what evidence might be lost on the wind and I was satisfied by on-scene reports that the biological reactions were of negligible consequence.”

  “Meaning?”

  “No dizziness, nausea, or wooziness from the soldiers enforcing the five-mile sealing and buffer zone. No symptoms of anything at all. Except fear.”

  On the screen, the van had reached the outer borders of the cloud, headlights barely making a dent in the blackness as it crawled on.

  “Nevertheless, the driver is wearing a POTMC suit,” Sundowner elaborated. “Stands for Protective Outfit, Toxicological and Microclimate Controlled.”

  Sundowner paused long enough to touch a button that brought up the volume on the screen’s hidden speakers. “The driver’s narration begins here, so I’ll let him take over.”

  The softly whirling sounds of an engine came on before the voice, words slightly garbled by the Tomb’s echo, forcing the occupants to strain their ears.

  “Base, this is Watch One. I’m almost to the edge of town. Whatever’s in this cloud, it’s playing hell with the windshield. As you can see I’ve got the wipers on steady now but they’re not doing much good. A gritty residue full of flakes and dust is building up in layers, so whatever this cloud is it’s got plenty of solid makeup to it. It’s still hard to tell if—wait a minute. Jesus Christ…”

  The picture on the screen buckled as the driver jammed on the brakes, seeing something his helmet-contained camera could not yet pick up. Remembering this, he accelerated the vehicle again.

  “I’m going to try to rotate my head regularly to make sure everything I’m looking at comes through. I’m entering the town now … or what used to be the town.”

  Narration continued and the men in the Tomb sat listening, looking, mesmerized. The tape was shot in color but it might as well not have been; black powder dominated what had been the center of Hope Valley. It lay in piles everywhere, all different sizes, no pattern whatsoever, and it seemed to shift in the wind even as they watched. It was so powdery that the van rolled easily over it. The narrator drew his vehicle to a halt to allow for the clearest possible picture.

  “Checking instruments now,” he said and for a time only engine sounds filled the speakers with the camera’s view of the town lost as the driver lowered his helmet. “Instruments show only a slight flux in heat levels. I read no evidence of explosion. Repeat, no evidence of explosion. Whatever caused this wasn’t nuclear or even remotely fulminatory.” Another pause. “Instruments indicate the area of direct effect is cylindrical and, my God, symmetrical.”

  “Symmetrical,” broke in Secretary of State Mercheson, “what exactly does that mean?”

  Sundowner hit the PAUSE key and the screen froze again. “Any kind of ground-level explosion would spread outward like water spilled on a table. Ragged edges and a generally irregular pattern. Symmetrical means we’re facing an impetus from above ground level.”

  “Push the PLAY button, Mr. Sundowner,” Lyman Scott ordered.

  The scientist obliged and the narrator’s voice returned, the screen blurring as he lowered his head closer to the instruments.

  “I’m checking the range finders now. I read no evidence whatsoever of any remains. Nothing’s even standing. It doesn’t make sense. Whatever happened here should have left residue I could fix on, yet there’s nothing except for that black dust. Sensors show no signs of movement indicative of life. I’m checking oxygen levels now… . Machines say the air’s breathable. They don’t say it’s sooty but I can assure you of that much. I’m going to start driving again.” The screen grew dark once again, and the Tomb’s occupants squinted their eyes trying to see through the sooty cloud. “It’s my estima—”

  There was a thud and the picture rocked.

  “What the hell …”

  “You’re not going to believe this,” the narrator’s voice said as if in reply, “but I just hit another car. I’m getting out to inspect the damage. Better take my lantern. …”

  The screen blurred again, then filled briefly with a shot of the driver’s door opening out into the blackness. The narrator’s breathing quickened as his boots met the pavement and he started around to the front of the van with the lantern’s beam focused directly before him.

  “What the hell?”

  The car he had struck was missing all four of its tires.

  “I hope it’s thieves because—wait a minute … I don’t know if you can make this out but I’m looking inside the car and the interior’s just a shell. No trace of cloth or plastic. L
ong as I’m out, I might as well take a little walk. …”

  Sundowner pressed the MUTE key and picked up the narration himself as the helmet-mounted camera looked into the dent carved in the sooty blackness by the powerful lantern.

  “Two more cars here,” he started when the screen displayed them, “also missing their tires.”

  “Busy thieves,” observed Stamp.

  Sundowner’s words rolled over him. “Here we have a pile of bricks where a building once was.”

  “Looks like it just crumbled in on itself,” said Kappel. “No semblance of structure, just like the instruments recorded.”

  “There’s no trace of most other buildings at all,” continued Sundowner when the camera locked on what had been one. “Just holes in the ground filled with that black dust.”

  “What about people?” the President wanted to know.

  “None.”

  “I was talking about traces, remains.”

  “None,” Sundowner said without elaborating further. He hit the MUTE key and the narrator’s voice picked up again as he headed back for the van.

  “… now. I’ve got the layout of Hope Valley memorized and I want to check out the residential neighborhoods. …”

  Sundowner fastforwarded, watching the counter for the proper cue when to stop.

  “I’m in what used to be a neighborhood. It’s the same as the commercial district—nothing left. But hold on. In the detailed maps I studied before entering there were plenty of trees and grass.” He cocked his head to the left and held it. “There was a park over there, I’m sure of it. But now, as you can see, there’s nothing but black dust. Looks like the stuff just swooped in and swallowed everything. …”

  The foundations of several houses were still visible, but nothing rested on top of them. There was just the black dust, rising up from the excavations and whipping about in the stiff wind. The scene looked to be that of a distant planet with a violent, unsettled landscape unfit for habitation. No plants, buildings, or life. Not even any death.