Brainrush 03 - Beyond Judgment

by Bard, Richard

  This was the moment Jake had been waiting for. Either it would work or it wouldn’t. He let loose a deep belly laugh—a mocking cackle like a bully would make to a kid who had just gotten pantsed on the playground.

  Victor’s eyes glared. He bared his teeth and pushed his face in front of Jake’s. Spittle flew out of his mouth as he screamed, “You are a dead m—”

  Jake bunched his shoulders and lunged forward. His forehead struck Victor’s with the force of a battering ram. Victor reeled a step or two away, his eyes rolling into the back of his head. Jake arrested his fall by grabbing his trouser legs with the fingers of his strapped hands. The man teetered, Jake yanked, and the leader of the Order slumped unconscious onto Jake’s chest. Jake held him fast, craning his neck as he looked for the knife. It had slid from Victor’s grasp, but it hadn’t fallen to the floor. It was wedged between Victor’s thigh and Jake’s lap—only an inch or two from his fingers. If he released his grip on the man’s trousers, he should be able to…

  Victor stirred. Jake reared his head and tried to butt him again. But the angle was wrong. The move served only to spark Victor back from his stupor. Jake released the man’s pant leg and stretched his fingers toward the knife. His index finger was half hooked around the base of the handle when Victor pushed off.

  The fillet knife clattered on the floor.

  Victor staggered, shaking his head to clear it. A swollen lump had formed on his forehead. He glanced at the knife. Then back at Jake. His baleful glare was filled with vicious intent. He bent over and picked up the blade.

  Jake was out of options.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Victor ignored it, taking a step forward. His eyes never left Jake’s.

  The knock became more insistent.

  Victor held the knife like an ice pick. His hand trembled.

  The knock transitioned to a pounding. “Mein Herr!” a voice shouted from the other side of the thick door.

  Victor hesitated, battling within himself. Finally, he lowered the knife and unlocked the door.

  Jake’s shoulders sagged in relief. He let out a long, slow breath.

  Hans stepped into the room. His callused hands were balled into fists.

  “Something’s happened,” he said, moving to the equipment attached to the chair. He switched on the computer display. The streaming image had changed. Instead of the Order’s peaceful scenes from the island, there was a series of short video clips. Some were grainy. Some were high-def. All of them jostled in a way that marked them as streams from handheld cameras. They showed live scenes of people from around the world. Praying, singing, and holding hands. Some of the videos were of small groups. Some depicted masses so large that the panning lens couldn’t capture them entirely. All of them showed a world population committed to peace. Committed to one another.

  “How is this possible?” Victor asked. His voice was unsteady.

  “Someone hacked our signal.”

  “Well, shut it down!”

  “We can’t. Our lead programmer has tried. He said there’s nothing he can do about it.”

  “Tell him to just unplug the damn thing!”

  “It won’t matter, Mein Herr.” Hans made an entry on the keyboard and surfed to a Google site that displayed the same streaming images. “It’s being broadcast via the Internet across the globe—on a massive scale. Our programmer explained that at this point our station is simply one of hundreds—if not thousands—of passive routing stations for the signal. So even shutting down the power won’t help. Whoever hacked into our system knew what he was doing.” He paused a moment before adding, “There’s more. Reports indicate that violence in the streets has slowed. Instead, more and more people are joining in the global prayer for peace.”

  Jake couldn’t have hidden his grin if he wanted to. Way to go, Marsh!

  Victor swiveled toward Jake. The man’s face was on fire. He rushed over to the back of the chair and switched it off. The vibration stopped.

  “You did this!” Victor shrieked. He swung the knife in an outward arc that sliced across the left half of Jake’s exposed chest.

  Jake bared his teeth and grunted against the blinding pain. The sharp blade burned deep into his skin. Blood cascaded down his midsection.

  Victor cocked his arm for another strike.

  “Herr Brun!” Hans said, staying his hand. He’d used the remote to turn on the wall monitor. He pointed at it. The streaming images of man’s violence—the ones coming from the alien grid—had paused.

  So had the countdown to man’s extermination. It had stopped at forty-two minutes.

  Marshall’s message of peace was working. The web of alien pyramids was reconsidering.

  “Nein!” Victor yelled. His eyes went wild. His gaze bounced from the screen to Jake and back again. Then, as if a movie director had suddenly yelled “cut,” Victor’s demonic countenance vanished. Tension leaked from his shoulders. He smiled and turned to Hans.

  “Bring the children,” he said.

  Chapter 78

  Grid Countdown: 01h:01m:30s

  The Island

  6:30 a.m.

  BECKER AND THE four remaining operators surfaced in the underground culvert. The lip was just out of reach, limiting their view to the upper portion of the space. Becker saw catwalks, piping, and the top halves of three large turbines. The man-made cavern was vast. The team removed their masks and mouthpieces as the current pulled them along. Weapons panned left and right.

  The waterway narrowed into another tunnel at the other end of the space. The sucking noise it made wasn’t inviting. They needed to exit before then. A short catwalk spanned the water up ahead. A rope dangled beneath one side of it. A gift from Jake? Becker motioned toward it. The team stacked up behind him and shouldered their weapons. They’d need both hands for this.

  The rope was knotted. Becker lunged upward and grabbed it halfway up, leaving the bottom two knots for the next man. Sergeant Fletcher grabbed hold. Jonesy was next. Before the current could pull him away, he latched a hand around Becker’s combat harness. Then Sam and Karch hooked on to the sergeant. The scuba tanks strapped to their backs made it cumbersome. But no one let go. They were stable.

  And vulnerable.

  “Give me eyes,” Becker whispered to Jonesy.

  Jonesy used his free hand to remove his under-barrel weapon cam. Then he pulled himself up to one of the metal struts. Becker had to twist his head to one side to avoid being hit by the kid’s scuba tank. Jonesy positioned the camera on the mesh walkway and dropped back down. Becker checked his wrist screen. The space appeared to be vacant.

  “Drop a line from that strut,” Becker whispered, unhooking his scuba gear. “We’ll bundle the gear and weight belts and tie it off below water level.”

  Two minutes later, they were ready.

  “Go,” Becker whispered to Jonesy.

  Jonesy peeked over the lip of the culvert. He appeared as if he were about to pull himself up, when his attention was drawn to a fold of paper duct-taped to the adjacent strut. Something about it prompted Jonesy to pull it free and hand it to Becker.

  That’s when Becker saw the call sign RAIDER ONE handwritten on the outside of the paper. He unfolded it to find a hastily drawn facility map. He flipped it over and felt a surge of hope. A note from Jake. Short and to the point:

  B, welcome to the party. This room unsafe 0655. Used all of J’s toys. See you topside. JB

  “Bloody hell,” Becker whispered, checking the time on his wrist screen. He breathed a sigh of relief. It was 06:30. They had plenty of time. He shoved the paper in his pocket. “Move out.”

  Jonesy was halfway out when a Klaxon sounded in the cavernous space. He froze.

  A voice sounded over the PA system: “Facility shutdown. Level three and four Blue teams to position Alpha.”

  Jonesy popped his head down faster than a startled jackrabbit. Becker looked on his screen and saw why. A stream of armed security personnel rushed through the swing
ing doors at the other end. There were dozens of them. The bulk of them double-timed toward the exit at this side of the facility. But several stopped to take up guard positions at each exit and beside each turbine. They carried assault rifles.

  A procession of men and women wearing white lab coats and hard hats followed the soldiers. Becker was surprised to see that each of them wore a sidearm.

  The Raider One team had floated into a hornets’ nest.

  “We wait,” Becker whispered. He motioned everyone downward. They tucked under the bridge.

  Becker counted the minutes.

  Five. Ten. Fifteen.

  Twenty…

  A group of hard hats had gathered nearby. They seemed to be having a heated conversation.

  Get moving already!

  Guards remained positioned at the doors, and Becker’s mind charged through their limited options. He wanted to wait for the space to thin out further before making their move, but they also needed to get the hell out of here before the gates of hell opened up.

  Which was three minutes from now.

  Jonesy had one hand around the strut, the other around his weapon. If Becker gave the word, the kid would be up and over in two seconds. The rest would follow. They awaited his orders.

  Finally, Becker pulled a frag grenade from his vest. He motioned for Sergeant Fletcher, Sam, and Karch to do the same. He pointed to the guard positions at various locations on the screen. “That’s yours, Sergeant,” he whispered. “Sam, you take the ones here, and Karch the two on that side. Keep your tosses in the open areas. We don’t want any coincident detonations with wherever Jake set his charges. Jonesy, you’ve got pin-pulling duty.” The operator nodded. Since each man had only one hand free, it was a critical task.

  Becker added, “Except for the sergeant’s targets by the near exit, the rest are too far away for a direct hit. But if we can at least get ’em close, it’ll shake up the bastards long enough for us to get feet dry.” He pointed to the near exit. “I’m lobbing mine with the sergeant’s. That’s our exfil point. I figure the civilians will hightail it out the far exit as soon as the shooting begins. But stay frosty.”

  Becker held out his grenade. The others did the same. Jonesy yanked the pins, dropped them into the water, and readied his rifle.

  “On three,” Becker whispered, cocking his arm. On the third nod of his head, they launched four grenades over the lip. The sound of metal skittering along pavement was followed by four deafening explosions. Shrapnel spit into the catwalk overhead.

  Jonesy waited a beat before heaving himself up and over. His suppressed assault rifle was spitting by the time Becker was beside him. The two guards by the near exit were dead. The double doors behind them had been blown from the hinges. Becker trained his sights on the guards at the opposite end of the cavern. They’d been the least affected by the blasts. One was on the radio. Becker took him out. The other two returned fire from cover positions. Three men and a woman wearing hard hats popped out from behind the second turbine. They opened fire with machine pistols, and Becker flattened himself against a pillar. Sergeant Fletcher slid beside him. Karch was half out of the culvert when a round took him in the forehead. He fell back out of sight. There was a splash.

  “On the left!” Jonesy shouted. He let loose several short bursts. Becker’s heart stopped when he saw why. A score of blue-clad soldiers and armed hard hats swarmed from beyond the gaping exit.

  “Frag out!” Sergeant Fletcher shouted, lobbing a grenade in their direction. “That won’t hold them long,” he said. “We need a new exfil!”

  But when Becker saw another platoon of soldiers spill through the far doorway, he realized that wasn’t an option. Both exits were blocked. They weren’t going anywhere. Bullets buzzed past him. Sam was halfway over the lip when Becker ordered, “Back in the water!” He pulled his last grenade, yanked the pin, and heaved it across the space. “Frag out!” he yelled as loud as he could. He wanted everyone to hear. Return fire stopped as the enemy took cover. Sergeant Fletcher and Becker charged for the culvert. Jonesy had already disappeared over the edge. Becker jumped over just as a fusillade of lead pummeled the low-slung walkway.

  He and the sergeant tumbled into a tangle of grasping limbs. Sam and Jonesy had been ready for them. They’d slung their weapons and grabbed hold of the duo before the current could take them. They’d abandoned the knotted rope in favor of the line that held their equipment. They were neck deep in the water.

  Sitting ducks.

  Karch was nowhere to be seen.

  Becker checked his wrist screen. The enemy advanced from either direction; they’d be on the team any moment. “We need to buy sixty seconds,” he said breathlessly.

  The men understood. They had only two grenades left between them. One flash and one frag. This time Becker was the pin-puller. “One at a time,” he said. “Thirty-second interval. Flash first.”

  Sam lobbed the flash grenade. It would momentarily blind anyone looking this way. Becker watched on the screen. As soon as the grenade hit the pavement, the enemy contingent dove for cover. Several of them ducked behind the nearest turbine. The explosion was loud. A couple of them staggered, but the rest were quick to recover. Too quick. Only fifteen seconds had passed. They moved forward.

  “Better go now,” Becker said.

  Jonesy nodded. He had the final frag. He glanced at Becker’s screen and adjusted his aim. Then he heaved the grenade in a flat arc. The enemy soldiers saw it fly. Several of them dodged back to their hiding spot behind the turbine. The grenade slid toward them. Jonesy grinned in satisfaction.

  But instead of continuing its slide beneath the elevated turbine, the grenade vanished into a floor grate. Two beats later, there was a hollow thump deep beneath them. A spout of flame burst from the grate. None of the enemy was wounded.

  “Shit! Time to get small,” Becker said. He took a breath and sank below the surface. The rest followed. They held on to the bundle of equipment to keep from being pulled downstream. Each of them grabbed the nearest regulator. The tanks still had plenty of air.

  The water was eight feet deep. Becker hugged the bottom, rolling onto his back and staring at the surface, hoping like hell that Jake’s watch had been properly synced with the team’s.

  Five seconds later, the world exploded. The cavern above the water went brilliant white. Becker’s ears popped, the lights went out, and the camera view on his wrist screen went black.

  Sergeant Fletcher was the first to flick on his flashlight. He made an okay sign with his thumb and index finger, receiving one back from each of the team. Becker surfaced, and the rest followed. The air was hot and smoky. It smelled like scorched electrical wires. Shadows flickered on the walls of the darkened cavern. Becker donned his night vision goggles and peered over the lip.

  Intermittent licks of flame danced around the mangle of ruined equipment. Steam hissed, sparks jumped, and an orange glow emanated from the grate that had swallowed the grenade. There were bodies everywhere. Several of them still moved. None of them looked his way.

  Yet.

  Becker heaved himself over the edge. “On the double,” he ordered into the mouthpiece of his headset. He crouched, bringing his M4 to the high ready position as he panned for threats.

  Twenty seconds later, the rest of the team—except for Karch—was fanned out behind him.

  “On me,” Becker said, running in a crouch toward the door. “Watch your corners. And know this,” he added, remembering the armed hard hats who had drilled Karch. “There’s no such thing as a civilian down here.”

  Becker was as mad as a cut snake.

  And darkness was his friend.

  Chapter 79

  Grid Countdown: 0h:42m:00s and Holding

  Banda Sea

  6:51 a.m.

  TONY’S VISION CLEARED. He was on his back. He tried to sit up.

  A hand on his chest held him down. “Don’t move,” the ship’s doctor said. “I’m not done yet.”

  Tony lay
back. He blinked several times to clear his foggy brain. He was onboard the yacht.

  The doctor tied off a bandage around his thigh. “You need to stay off your feet for a while.”

  “Bullshit!” Tony said, sitting up. His head swam for a moment. His leg burned. He grunted, shook his head again, and slid off the exam table. “How long have I been out?”

  “Not long,” the doctor said. “They only gave you a short dose. But you lost a lot of blood.”

  “Yeah, but no worries,” Cal said. He sat on the bed beside him. His left sleeve was rolled up. He had a bandage over the inside of his elbow. Tubes dangled from an IV stand between them. “We topped you off with top-grade surfer fuel.”

  Tony saw a similar bandage on his own elbow. He nodded to the pilot. The glance they exchanged said it all, but Tony added, “Don’t even think that means I’m going to be adding dude to my vocabulary.”

  “Maybe not,” Cal said. “But you’re gonna have to live with your new call sign.”

  “Huh?”

  “Come on,” Cal said, getting to his feet. “They’re waiting on us in the control room.”

  Tony winced when he took his first step. His head was still fuzzy from the drug, but he was too angry about being pulled out of the action to let it slow him down. Cal offered him a hand. Tony waved it off. “Let’s go,” he said, limping out the door. Cal followed.

  When they entered the converted boardroom, Marshall, Kenny, and Timmy greeted him with fist bumps and slugs on the shoulder. Sergeant Major Abercrombie stood to one side. He fidgeted like a benched linebacker anxious to get in the game.

  “Welcome back to the fight, BK,” Kenny said, sitting back down.

  “BK?” Tony asked.

  “Big Kahuna. Best dude on the beach.”

  Tony rolled his eyes. Cal shrugged.

  “Check it out,” Marshall said, swinging around his computer screen so Tony could see the streaming images of people praying. “We hijacked the island signal.”