by Mark Wandrey
“The FBI stopped me today,” she wrote, “and questioned me about where and how I got this computer. Am I going to jail? Now, I really think I deserve a trip to Central Park. I’m afraid they might beat a confession out of me.” After sending it, she shut the computer down, stowed it in her locked, bottom desk drawer, and went to the meeting.
The asteroid thing was a bonanza for them. All the benefactors were eager to help. It seemed they wanted to know if ET was out there even more than before. When they left, Mindy had a dozen checks that added up to more money than SETI had brought in over the last 4 years.
“Outstanding!” Harold said when he saw the checks. “What’s next?”
“I’m going to New York,” she said, not looking him in the eye.
“Got a line on some funding there?”
“No,” she said, not looking at him. “Personal reasons.”
Harold put the folder full of checks and disclosure agreements down and looked at her across his desk. They had a lot of history together, and he used it. “It’s that portal, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she admitted, though she was sure he knew nothing of her purloined computer time.
“There’s no way you can get close to it, you know? The government has it locked down. I have some friends at NASA who know a lot, but nothing about that.” Mindy nodded. “We need you here.”
“I just brought in a small truck load of cash. Call this a leave of absence. I’ll be back in a few days. A couple weeks, at most.”
“Is there anything I could say to stop you?”
“No,” she admitted.
“Okay,” he said and took out a checkbook. He scribbled out a check and handed it to her. She looked down at in in surprise.
“I haven’t been here long enough to—” He cut off her complaint with a raised hand.
“Call it an advance on your return, and a partial bonus for your fundraising. You’d better save some of that for taxes.” They shared a little laugh. “Come back soon?”
“As soon as I can,” she said. A minute later, she was back in her office, the secure computer out. As soon as it linked, she found a message waiting.
“Fine, come to NYC. No promises though on level of access. Details enclosed. See you soon.”
Mindy nodded, her pulse racing with excitement. She used a thumb drive to dump her personal data from the SETI computer system, as well as the file on contact information Leo sent. She deleted the little Trojan Horse program that had been borrowing computer time. Dropping the drive into her shoulder bag, along with the secure computer, she headed out.
Mindy didn’t notice the nondescript, brown sedan that pulled out into traffic and followed her to her apartment and then on to SeaTac International Airport.
Inside, Mindy bought a one-way ticket to LaGuardia from an agent and then had to answer a special questionnaire for such purchases. After going through security, she made it to the gate only minutes before boarding.
As Mindy stood in line waiting for the agent to call her boarding zone, a pair of men in dark suits and sunglasses approached the ticket agent and flashed badges. In a minute, they had a printout of the purchase Mindy Patoy made and were reporting it to their superior. Her plane took off on time, and Mindy was flying to New York.
* * * * *
Chapter Ten
April 24
As the sun rose over the portal camp, there was already a bustle of activity. In his command trailer, Senior Agent Mark Volant was busy as well. The sheer amount of reports and files he was accumulating on this project was daunting, and he’d brought in a team of agents to assist him. The trailer next to his now housed four more field agents and six clerks.
Adding to the paperwork was the frustrating fact that he was slowly but surely losing containment of the secret of the portal. His plan to hold the shit in the horse until he could get it moved to a more secure site had gone up in flames days ago. He’d been here for five frustrating weeks, and the story of a crashed satellite was quickly becoming laughable.
This morning, he was reviewing a story written by a reporter who was currently detained in the mobile restraint trailer. They caught the reporter penetrating security under the guise of a sanitation worker. He was outside the door of the portal dome when one of Volant’s people questioned him and discovered he was a fraud.
“We’re having difficulty maintaining OPSEC,” Volant typed in a report to his boss. Security should have challenged the reporter at least a dozen times. Another minute, and he’d likely have uploaded a video to fucking YouTube.
That reminded him he needed to upgrade the cellular data scrambler installed in the center of the compound. He found an NYPD officer updating his Facebook page last night, well within the supposed blackout zone.
There were ever-increasing mentions of the portals in both civilian media and on the web. Other countries were either not as careful about allowing them to become common knowledge, or they were letting the situation get out of control. Thanks to certain executive orders, Volant had considerable power to quell outbreaks in the USA, but he couldn’t do much overseas. He had the CIA to help with that, but they were becoming overwhelmed as well.
One of his new clerks sent him an email detailing a local concern. “Followers of the Avatar of God,” he’d read. What the fuck was this bullshit? He was about to send back a scathing rebuke when he decided to read a little bit and noticed a well-drawn digital image of the portal. “I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he grumbled. That was a big problem. Whoever drew that image saw the damned thing up close. They even drew the funny little pictographs in some detail.
Volant called up some of the scientific files, all of which he had full access to, even if the eggheads didn’t know it. Most of the symbols were spot on. Whoever it was either had regular access, digital images, or a near photographic memory. Since he doubted anyone had pictures, as they’d be using them, he decided it was either option one or three.
“Increase the number of security cameras in and around the dome,” he told one of his new agents. “Have the footage reviewed twice a day, and look for any signs of people making notes about the portal.” Then he sent a message to another agent to begin tracking down this Avatar cult, or whatever the fuck they were.
An hour later, he was in the Portal dome to watch two more people go through. The first was the 6th soldier, the gear primarily food, supplies, and something they’d been screaming for since shortly after arriving.
The next was the 2nd civilian to go through, something else the soldiers had been screaming for. He was a field researcher and a rather eccentric geologist and explorer who was a world-qualified survival expert.
Daryl Abbot had been crawling through the world’s jungles, forests, deserts, and tundra since he was 12 years old. He jumped at any chance to study interesting formations. The only son of the famous explorers Dana and Marty Abbot, he was genetically engineered as a science explorer from conception. He was the logical choice to be the geologist on the Mars mission before they canceled it, but he got to go to another world after all.
“Bloody hell!” the man exclaimed when he first saw the portal’s pearly glow. Men were busily throwing crates through it after the soldier transitioned to the alien world. “Ruddy thing is real!”
“Damn right it is,” Osgood beamed. “Seriously jealous of you, sir,” he said and shook the explorer’s hand.
Abbot even looked like an explorer. He’d pass for an English aristocrat, down to his expensive safari jacket and hat pinned up on one side. Volant snorted, surprised the dandy didn’t have a bloody pith helmet.
The explorer stood a solid six feet tall. He was wiry and his shoulders slightly stooped, but his back was ramrod straight. He was loud and boisterous, from his carefully-sculpted haircut to his flashing blue eyes and manicured nails. His only downside was that he was almost clichély horse-faced. He beamed at everyone.
Despite the airs the man put on, his jacket and pants had dozens of pockets, all bulging with gear
. The pockets held knives, tools, rope, compasses, and a variety of other equipment. On his belt was a long, conventional machete.
His pack, sitting next to him, was the biggest Volant had seen carried through. It was almost 4 feet tall and had to weigh well over 100 pounds. Abbot had strapped more survival gear to the outside of the pack. Volant nodded his head slowly. This guy was for real, alright. Still, he had an air of control about him, and Volant wondered how he’d do surrounded by soldiers.
“Mr. Abbot,” Volant said, moving to meet the man. “I’m Assistant Director Volant, NSA.”
“I say,” Abbot said, turning his rather toothy visage on Volant and holding out a well-worn, long-fingered hand to shake. His grip was like the man, strong, warm, and infectious. “You’re the bloke in charge of this show, what?”
“Yes, that’s me. Senior NSA agent in charge of operations. We’re glad you could drop what you were doing and…accept this mission.”
“Least I could do,” Abbot replied. “I rather fancied a trip to Mars,” he said with a chuckle, then turned a wary eye on the portal, “but bloody hell, man, to go where no man has gone before?”
“The ultimate explorer, eh?” Volant said. Abbot squared his jaw, still looking at the portal and nodding as if listening to some internal dialogue.
“I’ll be the most famous explorer since Hillary. Still no way back, eh?”
“Not that we know of,” Osgood said, still standing next to the two other men.
“Well, nothing to be done about it except buck up, right?” Abbot asked in the typical rhetorical Brit manner.
Up on the dais, the test box bounced off the portal and was caught by a now-practiced technician. The transfer was complete.
“Sir,” a man said to Abbot, “if you could please get ready?”
“Of course, of course,” Abbot said and complied. Volant caught only the faintest strain as he slung the pack over his shoulder. The man was solid muscle. “I had an extra cup of tea,” he joked, “only brought a pound of Earl Grey, you see? But I have some seeds with me,” he added with a wink, “so there’s still hope!”
“Ready when you are, Mr. Abbot,” Osgood said. “Just step on the dais step and the portal will return,” Osgood explained, seeing the look of concern on the explorer’s face.
“Oh, I see,” he said. The man moved carefully, considering the sheer weight of his pack. He placed one foot on the dais and the portal obligingly snapped into existence. “Marvelous,” he said and with a couple of small grunts, moved to stand in front of it.
“You can go anytime,” Osgood instructed. Abbot had been examining the glowing portal and its pictograms when Osgood spoke, snapping him out of his reverie.
“I rather fancy I’ll get a knighthood out of this,” he said as he moved forward. “Too bad Her Majesty can’t see—” his words were cut off as he transitioned through to the other world.
Expecting the scientist, the team of six soldiers waited to greet him. Volant watched as LTC Wilson shook Abbot’s hand and led him aside. Two of the other men helped Abbot with his pack and crates began to fly through the portal. Volant nodded. Those were the only ones going through today, so he headed back to his trailer.
Halfway there, he detoured to the chow wagon and got a Caesar chicken wrap and a Coke, which he munched as he walked to his trailer. His head was awhirl with plans for the next day and beyond, to such an extent that the first shot didn’t register—he’d just popped the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and followed it with a gulp of Coke when it echoed across the camp.
The sounds of New York City quickly swallowed the report, but he stopped as he chewed. It wasn’t the first shot he’d heard; someone shot and killed a gang banger who was trying to steal a generator a few nights ago. Almost every night you could hear one or two rounds as the local wildlife preyed on each other, but this was the first one he’d heard during the day.
Another shot, this one not a pistol, but the sharp crack! of a .223 rifle round. Volant swallowed, threw the half empty Coke bottle in the general direction of the nearest garbage can, and ran.
“Where’s the fucking alarm?” he asked under his breath. Several more shots rang out in rapid order, quickly followed by the boom of a shotgun. None of the personnel on the security detail carried a shotgun. Volant went from a run to a sprint. One hand went inside his suit jacket, and he drew his Sig Sauer P220, pulling it free of the paddle holster with a quick but sure tug.
In moments, he reached the Recreation Center checkpoint, just yards from the 97th Street Traverse. There was a long line of concrete barriers topped with rather average chain-link fence. One of the New York National Guard was crawling away from the barricade trailing blood and intestines. Another guardsman backed away, repeatedly fired his standard issue M4 carbine at the sky, and yelled, “Get away from the barrier!”
Two men stood at the barrier. One knelt, covering the retreating guardsman with a pump shotgun. The other had a pair of wire cutters and was working his way up the chain-link fence cutting wires as he went. Both wore common street clothes and would look quite at home on a jobsite.
“Shoot them!” Volant roared at the guardsman who turned and looked at him, eyes wide in terror. “Shoot the sons of bitches!” Volant yelled. The man at the fence leveled the shotgun at Volant, and he frantically altered his path, colliding with a tree just as the shotgun roared.
The impact of .00 buckshot against the bark on the opposite side of the tree and the sound of pellets whizzing past his head, partially assuaged the pain of his shoulder slamming into the tree. He snaked his head around the far side and bellowed at the guardsman again.
“Shoot him!”
The guardsman turned his wide eyes on the man with the shotgun. He was working the slide and bringing it to his shoulder, this time aiming at the soldier whose eyes got even wider. He lowered his M4 at the shotgun-wielding attacker and pulled the trigger, only to find he’d emptied his magazine into the air.
The man with the shotgun shot the guardsman, the buckshot shredding one arm and taking a massive piece out of the side of his head.
“Damn it!” Volant cried and leaned around the tree, using it to brace his right hand, and he fired once, twice, three times. The .45 caliber rounds hit the man, two to the chest, and one to the abdomen. He gasped, dropped the gun, and fell.
Meanwhile, the man with the wire cutters finished, dropped the long-handled tool, and climbed through the fencing. A flood of people followed him through.
All around him Volant could hear more shots, more screaming, and the dull ‘whump’ of a grenade exploding somewhere. It wasn’t just here! The entire compound was under attack!
Instantly, Volant decided. He moved from his cover at a jog, holding the Sig P220 in both hands, firing steadily at the men and women racing for the opening in the fence.
The first shot dropped the man holding the fence open, reducing the size of the opening. The next was a shot to the face of a well-dressed man clambering over the barricade. The man grunted and flopped over the barricade as the fence slid back in a rippling wave of metal links.
As he walked, Volant fired three more times at those approaching the barricade. The gun locked open. He reached to his left side and grabbed one of the four extended magazines there. His right thumb tripped the release, and the empty seven-round magazine fell away as his left hand brought the fresh one up and slammed it into the magazine well. A flick of the thumb, and the slide slid forward, loading a fresh round.
In the three seconds it took to reload, three people had begun mounting the barricade. Volant shot them all in rapid order, ignoring the fact that the middle one looked like a common suburban housewife who might have fallen on hard times. All three shots were clean chest shots, causing two of them to fall back, and killing the housewife outright.
There was a bang and whizzing sound. Volant jerked and turned. Another armed person was at the barrier. He held a common bolt-action hunting rifle as though he wasn’t familiar with it. Vol
ant had come an inch from having his head blown all over Central Park. He sighted and put two bullets in the man, who dropped the rifle and staggered back in surprise.
Volant continued to shoot and jog. He emptied the second magazine and swapped it out as he reached his target. He holstered the reloaded Sig and dropped to one knee, conscious that five, six, now seven people had mounted the barrier and were climbing over the dead and wounded attackers.
Working quickly, he snatched up the dead guardsman’s M4. He’d drilled with the weapon and knew its functions well. He dropped the empty magazine from the rifle and grabbed one from the chest harness of the dead soldier, slapping it into the rifle and smacking the slide release with the heal of his left hand, charging the rifle.
His right thumb found the selector, and he flipped it from single shot to fully automatic. Without really aiming, he pulled the trigger and fought the muzzle climb as he worked it quickly back and forth.
The M4, a short-barreled variant of the M16, had a fully automatic rate of fire of just over 600 rounds per minute, and the standard 30-round magazine he’d loaded emptied in just three seconds. When it stopped, locking open, there was no one alive on or over the barrier.
Volant had just finished stripping the magazine-laden vest from the soldier when three more soldiers ran up. The guardsmen looked in horror from their two fellow soldiers, dead in spreading puddles of blood, to the multitude of dead and dying at the breached barrier.
“Do you know me?” Volant barked.
“Sir, yes!” said one of the men, an older first sergeant.
“Good, take control of this position,” he said and pointed at the breech. “Don’t let anyone through! If they approach, you are to fire on them without warning. Is that clear?” The three soldiers nodded, still in shock. “Sergeant!” Volant snapped. The man locked eyes with him and came to attention. “Follow your orders.”
