CHAPTER 7
Denver, Colorado.
Emergency National Reserve Operations Center.
CHAD LOOKED UP FROM his bed as the hatch to his private quarters opened with a soft hiss. 13's head appeared, her golden hair tied back in a long ponytail. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. She stepped slowly into the room and crossed her arms as she leaned against back against the wall.
"So it's true," she said softly.
Chad nodded and went back to packing. Arrayed before him on the bed were all his worldly possessions. Everything had been provided to him since his arrival in Denver except for the clothes he wore and his dad's Stetson. He put a few changes of clothes into a dull green duffel bag and packed a book from Dr. Boatner.
"I aim to get out of here just as fast as I can. Doc says they'll let me out tomorrow." He shoved his new shaving kit into the bag.
She sat on the corner of his bed. "Where will you go? What will you do? Everyone's still looking for you."
Chad paused to consider the question. He turned and looked at her, his heart aching for something he knew he could never have. "I know," he said. He picked up a pair of jeans. "But I figured now that Dr. Boatner has the serum—and it seems to work—they don't need me any more."
13 looked at the floor. "Someone will always need you."
How come you couldn’t say that before?
"What I mean is—" she began again.
"I know what you mean," Chad said. He stuffed a pair of jeans into the duffel bag with a little more force than necessary. Having her sit next to him, be this close—on his own bed no less—was too much. The sooner he got away from her, the better.
As much as he wanted to be with her he knew that they would never really be together. She saw him as family and nothing more. If he was honest with himself, Chad knew deep down that was the right way to look at the situation. But that didn't stop the way he felt about her.
He stared at the wall. "The best thing for me and for everyone else is to disappear."
"You really think it's that easy?" she asked.
Chad picked up the 9mm pistol General Rykker had slipped him. He pulled back the slide and checked the chamber. Satisfied, he put it back in the holster and dropped it in the duffel bag. "They cut the GPS tracker out of me back in Idaho. The Rangers. Garza…"
"The doctors say he might have a chance."
Chad cleared his throat. "I know, it's just not fair. Those men saved my life. They saved you. And every one of them except Captain Alston and Sgt. Garza are dead." He looked down at his hands. "I never wanted any of this…"
Before he could blink, 13 wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder. "I know. None of us did…I don't miss my father so much. My sister—"
"It's best for everybody if I go. I can't stay down here any longer anyway. It's killing me."
13 abruptly sat up.
"What?" asked Chad.
She tilted her head just enough for Chad to see the tiny receiver in her ear. "They've started the mission. The SEALs are going after Reginald."
Chad stiffened. She hadn't told him everything, but what she had revealed about Reginald had been more than scary enough. "So this is it? The final mission?"
She inclined her head again and regarded Chad under a raised eyebrow. "I don't know. I believe he's too smart to be trapped like this. I think…" she held up a finger for silence. Her eyes stared off into the distance, then her face creased in a frown. "I knew this would happen."
"What? What is it?"
"They didn't listen." 13's eyes fixed on Chad's. "Something happened with the drone. It was supposed to block off communications from Reginald's fortress, but it got shot down. This is not good…"
Chad frowned and returned to absently packing his bag. He shook his head. "I need to get away from all this. I'm not in the military."
13 nodded and placed a hand on his shoulder. "When this is over, I'll come find you and we can look for our family together."
Chad smiled for her sake. It seemed to be the right thing to do.
"Where will you go?" she asked.
Chad rolled a shoulder. "Dunno. I want to go back to the GNP–"
"The what?"
"Glacier National Park. General Rykker thinks the park's been compromised though. The North Koreans found me once so he's concerned they'll find me again."
Chad fingered the holster and let his hands trace the outline of the pistol it held. "I may have them take me to Alaska. I'm sure there's some kind of military base up there where I can go if I get into trouble."
"It's a sound choice," she said, with a nod but she wouldn't meet his eyes. "They won't look for you that far north. In fact, they probably won't look for you at all–they think you're still locked away here."
"Hopefully," said Chad, stuffing another shirt in the duffel.
She watched him for a moment. "How many people know about your plan?"
"You, Gen. Rykker, and me. And anyone he told, I suppose. Plus Dr. Boatner."
13 pursed her lips and stared at the pistol. She produced a long knife from behind her back. The leather sheath was as long as Chad's forearm. "Here—take this."
Chad gripped the knife and slid it from the sheath. The blade gleamed, reflecting onto the the ceiling. It was beautiful. He saw the long blade appeared razor sharp save for a few nicks and scratches.
13's lips compressed into a tight line as her eyes met his. "That knife holds a lot of sentimental value." Her accent came out stronger now. "I don't hold onto many things in this world but this is one of them."
Chad shook his head and tried to hand it back. "I can't take it then."
She reached out and placed her hand over his, curling his fingers around the smooth leather sheath. "You can, and you will. Hold it for me—it will be of no use where I'm going."
"Where are you going?" he asked.
"Nowhere I can tell you." She flashed a grin. "I want that back," she said with a wink. "So this means I have to find you. It belonged to my father," she said looking down at the handle. "It's the last thing I have left of my biological family."
Unable to control himself any longer, Chad swung his arms around her shoulders and enveloped her in a warm hug. At first, she was motionless with her arms at her sides, but ultimately gave in and hugged him back. Her head rested on his shoulder and he caught a whiff of her lavender shampoo.
Chad closed his eyes, imagining what it would be like if they didn't have such special blood, if there was no war, if there was no bio-weapon running amok up above.
Someone cleared their throat at the hatch to Chad's room and rapped on the open metal door. "Ma'am? Gen. Rykker requests your presence in Ops."
13 disentangled herself from Chad. He was satisfied to see her flick away moisture at the corner of her eye as she straightened her top and nodded at the Marine in the doorway. "I'm on my way."
"Yes, ma'am," said the young Marine, ducking out of the room.
13 looked to Chad. "I have to go. My mission's starting."
"You going to help them take down Reginald?" asked Chad. He placed her knife inside the duffel then changed his mind and slipped the sheath under his belt at the small of his back instead. "I wish there was something I could do to help."
Fire blazed in her eyes for a split second as she gripped his arm. "Survive. The best thing you can do to help defeat them is to survive. Afterward, we will track down the rest of our family and bring justice to all those who've hunted us."
CHAPTER 8
Calais, France.
Onboard a RailEurope TGV.
VASILY SMILED AT HIS luck as he opened his newspaper. Finding a copy of Komsomolskaya Pravda in Paris—even if it was a few days old—was all the proof he needed that his mission had merit. The corner of his mouth twitched up as he nudged the briefcase between his legs for reassurance. The man next to him had no idea he sat so close to such a fortune.
A hundred thousand dollars…how many rubles is that? I could walk o
ff this train in London and never come back. The thought quickly vanished from his mind. Doing so would be a death sentence for Mother and Father. He clenched his jaw. Vasily Andropov is no thief—I earn my money.
He skimmed the headlines. The American Flu dominated every category. Fears it would spread across the Atlantic ran rampant through Europe. Muscovite editors lambasted the West and pointed to past heroic Russian efforts that had stopped the spread of historical, yet unnamed contagions. He was pretty sure those unnamed contagions were fictional, but who was he to second-guess the editors of Pravda?
The article continued, mocking the flight of rich Europeans to supposed safe havens at the far corners of the earth. Vasily shook his head. Such problems the rich have! No one back home fears a little cough. We have more important things to worry about, like putting away enough food for the winter.
The man next to him muttered something in English and Vasily nodded, offering a half-smile. He wrinkled his nose and frowned, then buried his face in his book. Vasily couldn’t read the title—it was in English—but there was a picture of a US dollar on the cover with a fishhook through it.
Money as bait. Now that is funny!
He stifled a cough with the back of his hand and cast a glance out the window as the bullet train traversed a long curve. The French countryside at sunset was lovely—at least the parts that weren’t blurred by the fantastic speed the train had reached. Vasily had been on a plane only once in his life, but this train seemed to go twice as fast. A cold sweat broke out on his brow as he thought about what might happen should the train derail at such speeds.
He ruffled his newspaper to shake the morbid thought from his mind and settled into his seat. He had less than an hour to London. Plenty of time to read and get caught up on world events. Vasily focused on the largest headline of page 2: America creates super-flu—releases on own people as test.
Vasily suddenly sneezed, the violence of it surprising himself as much as the passengers around him. He splattered the newspaper with a spray of nastiness. He frowned, while man next to him muttered something louder this time and abruptly left his seat. Vasily lowered the corner of his paper to see a couple across the aisle staring at him as if he’d produced a bomb under his shirt. He smiled and pulled the paper back up to block their view. Heat rose up his neck.
Stay calm. Remember—act normal. Nothing is out of the ordinary. I have to stay calm…I will not collect my fortune if I cause a scene…
A few moments later, a petite conductor led his neighbor back to his seat. She politely asked something in a quiet voice. Vasily couldn’t understand her. He smiled and shrugged.
She looked over her shoulder at the other passengers—more of whom now paid attention. The conductor offered an embarrassed smile and tried again in what sounded like German. Vasily shook his head and smiled. She tried French.
“Are you feeling okay, messier? Is there anything I can get you?”
Vasily’s face lit up—finally, he could understand her. “Oui, mademoiselle, I am fine. It is…”
I should be cautious—if the vaccine is secret I better not say anything… Vasily scrambled for the right word, something to throw off suspicions—he didn’t want to explain the vaccine.
“Allergies. Oui—I have allergies.”
The polite smile remained plastered on her face, but never reached her eyes. Apparently satisfied there was no medical crisis, she glanced at the other passenger spoke gently to him. The man was not happy, but without any other empty seats, he sat back down. He tried to lean as far as possible away from Vasily toward the aisle.
So be it.
Vasily ruffled his paper again and watched the other passenger out of the corner of his eye. The man affected a casual air, but Vasily knew if the train hadn’t been full, he’d have demanded a new seat by now.
The next story caught his eye: Flu in Germany brought back from American peacekeeping mission. Outbreak feared in Berlin. The article continued with descriptions of measures neighboring countries were taking to secure their borders. That meshed with his experience at the Paris train depot. Guards everywhere, long lines, angry travelers. Rumor had it the French planned to seal their borders in the next 24 hours.
I may be on the last train to London. Vasily smiled. His luck still held. A cough broke through his lips. Damn it all, I am catching a cold, I can feel it. He ignored the irritated shuffling of the man next to him. Let him be mad. I don’t have the flu. I’m not used to so much traveling, that’s all.
The world out his window faded into a gray and black blur occasionally broken by bars of light. They’d entered the Channel Tunnel. Vasily checked his watch again. Thirty minutes to London. He forced himself to think about what he’d see and where he’d go in the British capital. Anything to take his mind off the millions of tons of water and rock overhead.
London. A city as shrouded in history as Moscow itself, powerful and old. London may as well be Shangri-La to a farmer’s son from the outskirts of Kursk. He’d been told there was a sizable Russian immigrant community in London and it was his first stop after the meeting at Onnei’s London office. He checked his watch again. Maybe I will stop there first. I will have time later tonight for some shopping and dinner. It would do me good to eat food from the Motherland. French food is too greasy.
He sneezed again and heard someone speak a little too loud in the seat behind him. He knew the other passengers were getting more upset even if he couldn’t understand their words. The thought of so many suspicious eyes him made him wish the train were even faster. Knowing how much cash lay between his feet made him suddenly nervous.
The sooner I deliver this briefcase the better.
Vasily coughed again, noticing a faint itch in his chest for the first time. He looked up and frowned—the little conductor moved toward him down aisle again, reassuring passengers on her way.
Leave me alone…I feel fine!
CHAPTER 9
The Swiss Alps.
Chalet Tillcott.
COOPER CREPT THROUGH THE snow toward the chalet. Switchplate's squad waited to breach, stacked up on the exterior doors. Cooper couldn't shake the itch between his shoulder blades as he approached. He took a knee and scanned all around him, looking for a target but found nothing—just a blanket of churned-up snow covering the mountaintop. A dozen bodies–Reginald's homeguard–littered the field, staining the snow red. Three SEALs had been wounded in the brief exchange, but nothing life threatening.
The EMP-tipped bunker buster had done its job well. The chalet sat blind and mute.
So why am I hesitating?
He scanned his heads-up-display, hoping to find something to justify his hesitation. Nothing appeared on the screen. Blue dots represented his own squad, surrounding the chalet and closing in on his position. Switchplate's cluster of blue dots had formed up on the opposite side of the chalet, waiting for the signal to breach. He zoomed out to the until he could see the entire mountain.
Six outposts had been identified at the base of the mountain. Two were marked by pink triangles, the rest yellow—which meant no activity had been recorded on the drone’s previous pass. Between drones and assets on the ground, all the sites were under surveillance. No transmissions, no traffic, no soldiers, no lights, no nothing–it was like those four outposts had been abandoned.
“We ready or what?" asked Switchplate.
Cooper shrugged off his bad feeling. The outposts were empty and the chalet only moments from capture. They had to move, stay on schedule, and take down this guy once and for all.
"Two, we ready?”
“Good to go,” replied Charlie.
“Copy that. All units, breach in three…two…one…breach!"
"Go, go, go!" crackled Switchplate's voice.
Cooper heard two muffled pops before a plume of dark smoke blossomed into the sky on the other side of the chalet. He ducked under the eave of the south face and watched as Jax turned away from the main door. The door exploded in a flash of light
and disappeared, turning it into shrapnel.
"On me!" called out Charlie as he jumped through the smoke-wreathed opening. Jax spun on his heel and disappeared behind Charlie, followed by Sparky and Clutch.
Cooper squatted and cupped his hands. Juice took a running start, placed one boot on Cooper's palms and launched himself up and over the edge of the roof. Without looking back, he scaled the roof through the snow. Cooper switched his helmet to night vision and stepped into the chalet.
"Overwatch in position," reported Juice.
Cooper scanned his immediate surroundings and spotted the bodies of three men in business suits surrounded by blood and debris near the far wall. All three had carried HK sub-machine guns.
Jax stood guard by the room’s only exit. Cooper hurried past and knelt to investigate the three corpses. All three sported the same close-cropped haircut and two of them had several scars on their face. These men were pros.
We caught them off guard—that's something.
"Clear!" called out Charlie from the next room.
"First floor clear!" announced Switchplate.
Cooper tapped his mapscreen and pulled up the blueprint schematics for the building. He switched from the first floor to the second floor. "Switchplate, you head up—I'll take the basement."
"Hooyah," replied Switchplate.
"Jax, Sparky—go!"
Jax stepped away from the door he had been guarding and kicked it open. Sparky was right behind him and they charged through the door and vanished into the gloomy darkness of the stairwell.
Charlie and Clutch appeared from the other side of the room a few moments later and nodded as they trotted by. Cooper waited for everyone to enter the stairwell then followed.
"Command, Actual, be advised we are negative on the HVT, repeat Striker is negative on the HVT so far.”
The scratchy reply echoed through his helmet from 3,000 miles away: "Acknowledge Actual, Command copies all."
Firestorm: Book III of the Wildfire Saga Page 4
