by Michael Bray
III
What had started out as a friendly game of basketball designed to pass a little time had become a fiercely competitive match up. The unforgiving sun baked the courtyard and the men who stood on it, their shadows pushed into long skeletal versions of themselves. Most had now dispensed with their shirts, and Denton was pleased to see others were looking as fatigued as he felt.
All apart from Cook, that was. He still looked fresh and still hadn’t broken a sweat. As those around him started to tire, Denton noticed how Cook was becoming a more dominant force within the game. With the scores tied at eighteen each, it was still all to play for. Denton caught the eye of Smithson, who, like him seemed to have taken an intense dislike to Cook. Maybe, Denton thought as the ball was passed to him, it was just their own jealousy which was to blame. Sure enough, Cook had a confidence about him, and Denton supposed it could easily be confused for arrogance. Smithson moved into space as Denton dribbled the ball towards Cook. He tried the same move as earlier, the feint and pass, but on this occasion, he overthought it and telegraphed it too much. Cook stepped forward and body checked Denton, knocking him to the floor.
"Hey, watch it, man," Smithson said, abandoning his position and approaching Cook. Smithson was a big guy, well over six feet tall with huge shoulders. Cook, however, didn’t seem at all intimidated by the larger man.
"My apologies, let me help you up," Cook said. His voice was soft and calm as he held a hand out to Denton, who still couldn’t understand why he wasn’t breathing heavy.
“Why the hell did you knock him down? Fuckin’ asshole." Smithson said, getting in Cook's face. The rest of the players had formed a rough circle around them now. Some waiting to break up any fight that might occur, others hoping it would come to blows so they could watch it play out.
Denton got to his feet, wiping his grazed palms on his pants. "Its fine, Forget about it," he said, not liking the cold look in Cook's eye as he glared at Smithson. "Let's just get on with the game."
"No, this prick did that deliberately." Smithson raged.
"You, sir might be wise to watch your mouth." Cook grinned as he said it, which heightened Denton's unease.
"Sir? Are you fucking kidding me? What unit are you?" Smithson said, pushing his chest out as his confidence grew.
"Special projects. Apex Team." Cook replied, remaining calm in the presence of the physically superior man.
Denton noticed two other men wearing the same insignia on their shirts as Cook had pushed to the front of the crowd and were watching the exchange, their expressions impossible to read.
"Well, Mr 'special projects', you happen to be in my back yard. This is my base. I’m stationed here. Most of these boys have my back. Now I think you owe my friend here an apology."
Cook didn’t appear to be in any way intimidated. He looked around the crowd, locking eyes with each and every man, then returned his icy stare to Smithson.
"Is that supposed to impress me?"
"No," Smithson said with a shake of his head. "Just take it as a warning."
"You're not the only one who has people with him," Cook said, the threat in his voice clear.
"Yeah, I see that," Smithson shot back. "Way I see it; it looks like three of you and thirty or so of my boys."
"Three is enough." Cook fired back with a smile, which even despite the blazing heat, made Denton feel a wave of cold.
For as frustrated and angry as Smithson was becoming, Cook seemed perfectly cold and at ease. Denton decided he was either unafraid, crazy, or a brilliant bluffer, all of which meant trouble.
"You wanna start something little man?” Smithson said, poking a finger in Cook's chest. “I’ll fuck you and your boys up."
"Don’t do anything rash," Cook replied, calm as ever.
"Rash?” Smithson repeated, looking at the crowd with a grin. “You think you're better than me using words like that huh?"
Cook didn’t reply. He met Smithson’s gaze, unblinking, unwavering and without fear. To Smithson, the show of disrespect was like a red rag to a bull. He looked past Cook to his two squad mates.
"You got something to say?" Smithson said.
"Not to you.” One of the men replied with a smirk.
Smithson took a half step forward and was stopped by Cook, who grabbed his arm. “I wouldn’t do that.”
"Get your fucking hands off me," Smithson hissed, pulling himself free of Cook’s grip.
Denton noticed some of the other men had stepped out of the circle and were behind Smithson, the three Apex Team members now on the opposite side of a very obvious divide. Denton wanted to call them off, to tell them they were making a mistake. He looked at Cook and his men and saw nothing resembling fear or uncertainty. Since he first signed up, the army taught Denton to ignore such things as instinct and respond to orders without question. Denton had rejected that idea. He relied on and trusted his instincts without question, which made him wonder why he was more afraid for Smithson and his men than for Cook.
"I think you need to calm down a little-"
Smithson spat in Cook's face.
Cook smiled, making no effort to wipe the mucus from his cheek. “That was a mistake.”
Denton knew it was coming. There was a split second of absolute silence, then all hell broke loose.
IV
Robbins had made a quick stop at the vending machine. He really wanted a cold beer or two but decided a Pepsi would have to do it. He had already given up on doing his work for the day, and although he could get away with that easily enough, he knew he wouldn’t be able to explain having booze on his breath if someone happened to smell it on his and report him to his superiors. As a result of the delay to grab a drink, he had missed the initial confrontation between Smithson and Cook. He fed the machine, took his dispensed Pepsi and headed for the yard. He pushed out of the door, leaving the air conditioned confines of the base behind for the oven like heat of the Florida day. At first glance, he thought the men were switching teams. There was what looked to be a huddle of sorts in the centre of the yard. He unscrewed the cap of his Pepsi just as the mass brawl erupted and almost thirty men attacked three.
Denton knew his instincts were right. He had witnessed death first hand in Bosnia and Syria, and so knew without question that Smithson was dead the instant Cook hit him. With frightening power and almost inhuman speed, Cook had thrown a punch. In the still air, the sound of the impact as knuckle connected with skull was sickening, second to the wet watermelon sound as the back of Smithson's skull smashed into the concrete as he crumbled to the floor. In a surreal moment in which time seemed to slow to a crawl, Denton saw a broken tooth arc through the air and skim his face as it was ejected from Smithson’s mouth. Denton had seen fights, and was a huge fan of both professional boxing and Mixed Martial arts, but never had he seen anyone deliver a blow with such venom or power. Denton was about to lunge for Cook, when someone beat him to it, reigning blows on him which were easily blocked and avoided. Cook’s fellow squad members waded in, swinging indiscriminately and attacking anyone who was nearby. Denton was knocked to the floor as someone barged into him trying to get towards the three men from the Apex team, which he would later think probably saved his life. All around him had become a tangle of flailing fists and kicks, shouting and grunting. Denton wasn’t surprised to see that against all odds, Cook and the Apex team were not only holding their own, they were winning.
An Asian soldier who was already bloodied unhooked his knife from his belt and waded back into the mix. From his vantage point on the ground, Denton saw it clearly. The Asian stabbed Cook in the stomach at least a dozen times, driving the blade up to the guard several times in quick succession. Cook didn’t flinch. He shoved away the two soldiers he had been comfortably holding off and turned towards the Asian, delivering a vicious open palmed strike to the man's throat, crushing his windpipe. The Asian man fell, dead eyes unseeing as he landed. Denton looked up at Cook from his prone position on the ground, eyes filled with terr
or. Cook was smiling. He wiped the blood from his stomach. Impossibly, the wound had already stopped bleeding. The two men stared at each other for what felt like an eternity until Cook grinned and turned back into the brawl.
It was then that those eternally trusted instincts told Denton that he had to escape.
"Kill them all," Cook said to his two colleagues, still calm, still not breaking a sweat.
The reaction was instant. It was almost as if until then, they were doing just enough to fight off the other soldiers. Denton saw bones snapped. Eyeballs plucked from sockets, faces stamped on until they were no more than bloody pulps. The yard was fast becoming the site of a massacre. Cook was laughing, yellow veins standing out in sharp relief in his neck as he led the attack, his squad members destroying their fellow soldiers with vicious disregard for the fact that they were all part of the same side. Some had seen how things were going and had decided it was best to run. Denton was in complete agreement. He scrambled to his feet and ran towards the entrance to the base. Robbins was standing there, watching the carnage, unsure how to react, untouched bottle of Pepsi in hand. “What the hell's going on here?" He bellowed as Denton raced towards him.
"Go, run," Denton said, able to hear the fear in his own voice.
"What do you mean, run?"
"They've gone crazy! They’re killing people in there."
A shadow of fear passed over Robbins's face, and he dropped his Pepsi to the ground and started to back away, trusting the same instincts as Denton which told him to put as much distance between him and the carnage in the yard as possible.
"It's the Apex guys, isn’t it?" Robbins said as they hurried towards the entrance to the base.
Denton hesitated and tried to figure out what had shocked him more, the fact Robbins knew immediately what had happened, or that he didn’t seem at all surprised. "Yes sir, it is."
"Inside," Robbins said.
"We need to restrain them, sir, we need weapons."
Robbins shook his head and gave Denton a look he had never seen from the commander before. It was a look of a man who was afraid. "Weapons can’t help us. Come on, let’s go."
"What about the others?"
"They’ll have to fend for themselves." Robbins said, knowing how he must sound. Cold and callous.
"Sir, we have an obligation."
“Our obligation is to survive. Now get inside. That’s an order.”
Denton did as he was told, jogging up the steps and keeping pace with the commander as they headed back towards the base. "Did you see this happen?" Robbins asked.
"Yes, sir. I was right there in the thick of it. The one called Cook… he’s….something’s wrong with him."
Robbins nodded, brow furrowed. "You need to come with me.”
"Where to, sir?"
"Away from here. Somewhere safe. Come on, my car is out front.
Robbins set off an alarm, and people were evacuating the building in unhurried groups. Only Denton and Robbins had any real urgency as they raced towards the front of the building.
"Why are we running sir? Surely we have enough numbers on site to restrain these people."
"If you understood what we're dealing with, you would know we can’t stop them. This was always a risk."
"I don’t understand sir, where are we going?"
The commander was pale, afraid. A shadow of the man Denton used to see striding confidently around the base. "Away from here. There are some people who need to hear what happened out there. You're our star witness."
As they pushed out of the air conditioned building and back into the baking Florida heat, the screaming and panic had already started from somewhere behind them. The evacuation which had started off as calm had now descended into chaos as admin and military personnel alike tried to escape the three monsters who were rampaging through the base. Smatterings of gunfire could also be heard now, but not enough to mask the screaming. There was more than enough screaming to go around. He remembered the way Cook had reacted when he was stabbed by the Asian man, the way he had barely reacted to wounds which should have killed him. He half wondered if the bullets would be equally ineffective, and if Cook would have that same look of enjoyment on his face as he rampaged through the base. Robbins climbed into a black jeep and started the ignition, the vehicle rumbling to life with a growl and heady smell of gasoline fumes.
"Come on, we need to get out of here," Robbins said as Denton climbed into the passenger seat.
Robbins floored it, the jeep snaking away through the gravel and out onto the access road leading away from the base.
"What's happening here, sir?" Denton said, glancing over his shoulder at the base as Robbins drove out of the grounds. "And where are we going?"
"Jacksonville, we need to get on a plane and get the hell out of here. As to what's happened, I’m not authorised to tell you anything yet, although I suspect if what I think is happening turns out to be true, you and everyone else will know all about it soon enough."
"What does that mean sir?"
"It means we could all be fucked." Robbins said, then turned his attention to the road, clearly not in the mood for any more questions which was fine with Denton. He didn’t particularly feel like asking any. Instead, he leaned back in his seat and tried to make sense of what had happened, at the same time trying not to think about the fate of those left behind at the base.
CHAPTER FOUR
DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND
SECURITY
WASHINGTON DC
14 days later
THE NATIONAL TERRORIST ADVISORY System, or NTAS as it was known by those who were governed by it, is a simple colour coded scale designed to give an overview of the potential for any imminent threat to the country at any one time. Ranging from green which indicated low threat all the way up to red which meant 9/11 grade warning levels, the scale had, for the most part hovered between 'low' and 'guarded' as information was received, processed and acted upon by the Department of Homeland Security in order to keep the United States of America safe. It had come as a surprise to Director Marcus Atkinson when the scale was shifted over to the yellow coded 'Elevated' setting, which meant there was a significant risk of an attack for which people like him needed to be briefed. As the liaison between Homeland Security and the Secretary of Defence, it had to be a credible enough threat for them to call him in. His stomach knotted as he made his way through the glass and steel building, polished shoes echoing on marble floors as he headed to the meeting room. He had just turned forty-six, and with his daughters having fled the nest, he and his wife, Suvari, an Indian woman he had fallen for completely by accident, were finally hoping to find time to enjoy life a little for themselves.
His hair was still mostly black, his skin the unmistakable shade of brown of a man who spent a lot of time on tanning beds. Apart from the crow's feet at the corners of his blue eyes, he had a well-structured face and a square jaw with prominent cheekbones which had certainly helped him win over the attention of the opposite sex when he was a much younger, more promiscuous individual before he had chosen to settle down and start a family of his own. People often asked him how, with such a stressful job, he managed to retain his looks. He would respond with a shrug and tell them he was just lucky. The truth was, he had learned some years ago that the key had been to distance himself from the human aspect of his chosen line of employment. It was much easier to make a decision to send a team in to clear a building that was full of hostages if the actual hostages were thought of as statistics rather than people. Most of the time, he got it right. Sometimes it went wrong. He learned he could live with that just as long as his actions meant the country was safe again. However when it went wrong, the consequences were harder to deal with. Despite how he knew his colleagues perceived him – they called him the director of death behind his back - he didn't like to see people die, it was just an unfortunate side effect of the responsibilities he had as director. The cold harsh truth was that every operation involving extreme acts
of terrorism carried with it a certain risk to the lives of both innocent civilians and the teams sent in to deal with whatever issue they were facing. He knew it when he took the job, and it hadn't changed since. He had learned to accept that saving lives sometimes came with the cost of innocent deaths. Usually, he got it right. Sometimes, a situation got so horribly out of control that even he, as detached as he had learned to be, had been affected.
Just thinking about it brought images of the past swimming out of the darkness of his mind's eye like phantoms chipping away at the wall he had built around his conscience just as fast as he could add to the defences. One image took precedence, one which hadn't been easy to forget. It all started with a man, a Polish immigrant called Greg who, after coming home early to find his long-term girlfriend in bed with another man, threatened to kill them both. When his girlfriend laughed at him and told him he didn’t have the guts, Greg grabbed the illegally purchased shotgun from the trunk of his car and went straight to the elementary school where his son, Petr, was unaware that his father was about to make a life-changing decision. Greg entered the school, taking over sixty children hostage and barricading them and himself into the hall. Police were called, social media exploded, and before long, everybody was tuned into the ongoing siege at West Millburn Elementary School. Normally, such an incident would be a job for local authorities, however, Greg made one vital error. Frightened and realising he had gone too far, he grew desperate enough to do anything to stop the police from storming the school and shooting him dead. He sent one of the children out with a message to relay to the authorities, telling them that he had planted bombs all over the city which he would remotely detonate if anyone made a move against him. That statement, broadcast all over national, ensured that Marcus was notified. Anyone claiming to have planted explosives, no matter the motive, immediately became a threat to national security. Worse news for Greg was that his son, Petr, wasn’t even in school on the day his father had decided to go to the extreme level he had due to a sickness bug. Greg’s girlfriend, who had already made plans to take the day off work and spend the afternoon screwing the next door neighbour had shipped Petr off to spend the day with his grandmother. Without his son on hand and a room full of almost sixty frightened children, Greg demanded that his cheating girlfriend and his son were brought to him, or he would start to kill the children. The demands had of course been refused, and the siege went on with nobody able to make a decision on what to do to end the stalemate.
