by Peter Darley
He depressed the acceleration sensor and shot forward, but he was too late. The wave swept up the woman and the boy. Not on my watch, dammit.
He checked the digital dial on his wrist and circled his finger for just two settings. A digital readout showed in the lenses:
Aqua Mode: activated
Air seal: confirmed
Oxygen distribution: sustained
Air jet function: conversion complete
Auto default on exit: confirmed.
Time to impact: 1 second
The armor struck the water, but he didn’t feel anything. Despite being underwater, everything looked clear. Oh, Tito. You were such a genius, bud.
He saw the boy and the woman ahead of him, threshing around as the wave took them farther away. But the air jets were faster.
He reached the boy first, pre-empting it would have been his mother’s wish. Regardless, he had no intention of abandoning her.
He grasped the boy’s denim jacket and pulled him through the torrent. The jets propelled them toward the woman.
B.J. reached her within seconds and wrapped a metallic arm around her waist. He knew they were both desperately in need of air, and angled himself upward. The air jets cut through forty feet of water within a heartbeat. It placed him in a difficult position. The woman and the boy needed air, but the speed of their ascent could have torn them to shreds.
He slowed down moments before they broke the surface, giving him just enough time to hold the boy securely under his other arm.
Finally, they emerged. The air jet sensors detected the oxygen and immediately defaulted to the rocket jets.
The woman and the boy were silent, clearly in shock. B.J. held them tightly and flew in low across the city.
He came to a squad of police cars and gently began his descent.
The team of officers came toward him with surprisingly gleeful expressions.
“Gentlemen, this lady and this little boy need help. I just fished them out of the tsunami.”
Suddenly, the earth stopped trembling. The officers looked around, bewildered. They all gave grateful sighs of relief before turning back to B.J.
“We’ll, take care of them,” one of the officers said. The others rallied around to care for the woman and the boy.
B.J. frowned with confusion. Why weren’t they trying to arrest him?
“Thank you for everything you’ve done,” the officer said, and extended his hand. “I’m Officer Chad Deacon, L.A.P.D. I’d also like to congratulate you.”
“Congratulate me?”
“You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“It was just announced. The president . . .”
B.J.’s attention was distracted by something on the roof of a skyscraper on the other side of the street. It looked like four people standing on the roof looking down, watching him. He activated the zoom in his helmet visors and saw they were wearing hooded, brown robes. Even with the zoom, he couldn’t make out their faces. The hoods cast their features in shadow.
Heather had told him she’d almost been killed by men in hooded robes on the night Woody saved her.
And then it occurred to him. Oh, my God. They’re C.O.T.
“. . . wants you to return to Washington D.C., sir,” was all he could make out of what the officer was telling him. It didn’t register. He needed to get to that rooftop.
He fixed his gaze on the strange watchers and noticed they were moving backward, away from his field of vision.
Without a word, he activated the jet boots, and launched himself skyward. His ascent was rapid, and he reached the rooftop in time to see a sleek, silver craft the likes of which he’s never seen before. It lifted off from the roof and shot into the sky at astonishing speed. I absolutely have got to stop them.
He flew in the direction the craft had taken and activated the tracker mechanism: heat sensor, radar, and movement detector.
But they’d vanished. He realized the craft must’ve been equipped with the same type of cloaking technology the armor had. He soared farther through the clouds, but there was nothing. Everything was on the line, yet he was out of options. They’d disappeared in the blink of an eye.
Overcome with despair and frustration, he hovered one thousand feet above ground, and roared.
Thirty-Six
Heroes
B.J. flew toward Woody’s cul-de-sac. The street was crowded with neighbors coming out of their homes. When am I ever gonna get a goddamn break? I am so screwed.
He landed on Woody’s lawn, immediately noticing a few cracks on the brickwork. The house had suffered the effects of the quake, but remained intact. Traditionally, American homes were made from wood, not brick. Notable wealth had to have once been behind this otherwise dilapidated residence. Who are you, Woody?
He looked around at all the gawking neighbors.
And then they all stepped forward, clapping and cheering him. What is all this?
Woody’s front door opened. Heather ran out, consumed with emotion and wrapped her arms around the INT-Nine. “Oh, my God. You made it. It’s over, baby. It’s over.”
“What do you mean?”
“Come inside, and take the helmet off. Everyone knows who you are.”
“What?”
“Just come inside. I’ll explain everything.”
He looked up and saw Woody, Phil, Sharon, and Payden coming out the door. “What’s going on, guys?”
“Come inside, hero,” Woody said.
Realizing he wasn’t going to get any answers until he went inside, he turned to the clapping neighbors, waved his right hand in a theatrical fashion, and bowed. He knew it was a tongue-in-cheek gesture, but felt he had to acknowledge them after such a display of appreciation.
He followed Heather into the house and she closed the door behind them.
After releasing the magnetic seal, he removed the helmet. “All right, H. What the hell is going on?”
“We’re free, baby,” she said, her grin beaming. “The president made a public announcement. She named you on public access television. She actually called you ‘Brandon’.”
He shivered with alarm.
“Hey, it’s OK. Just chill for a minute. You wouldn’t believe the endearing things she said about you. She asked you to return home. She’s called off the dogs, babe.”
Woody stepped forward. “It’s true. We all saw it.”
B.J. stood, speechless.
“I can get the broadcast back on Channel 7 recall,” Woody said.
“OK,” B.J. said vacantly. “Look, let me get out of this garb, and then we’ll do the TV, yeah?”
“Sure,” Woody replied.
Twenty minutes later, B.J. sat in Woody’s living room wearing the only clothing Woody owned that fit him—the baggiest running pants, and that ridiculous, oversized, purple comic t-shirt. He watched the president’s speech with awe.
And then he noticed Jed in the background, standing next to the veep. “Hey, there’s Uncle Jed. He’s free, and he’s in the White House. How did all this happen?”
“I don’t know,” Heather said, “but I’m not complaining. We just got a major break.”
“I have to call him.” B.J. stood and walked out into the kitchen. He tapped his Z-Watch and selected Jed’s number. After two buzzes, it was answered. “Uncle Jed?”
Jed Crane’s hologram appeared above his wrist. “B.J.? Where are you?”
“San Fernando, California.”
“I knew you’d been in L.A. It was all over the news. What are you doing all the way out there?”
“It’s a long story. Just know, Heather and I are safe.”
Jed looked surprised. “She’s with you?”
“Yeah, we hooked up. She’s been through a lot. We both have.”
“Of that, I have no doubt. Look B.J., you have to get back as soon as you can. The president wants to talk to you. If you tell me where you are, I’ll arrange transportation for you and Heather. It’d be crazy trying to
fly her almost three-thousand miles back via the INT-Nine.”
“You’ll get no argument from me there.”
B.J. disclosed his location to Jed, who assured him they would be provided with transportation to Washington D.C. by the morning.
“Thanks, Uncle Jed. It’ll be great to see you. Do you think you could send them along with a set of clothes for Heather and I? We’re pretty lean in that department right now.”
“All right. Consider it done. Get a good night’s sleep.”
“You got it.” The call ended.
B.J. returned to the living room and stopped in his stride. Everybody was staring at him.
“What did Jed say?” Heather said.
“He’s having us collected from here tomorrow.” He glanced up and saw Woody lowering his head sadly. “Hey, hey. It’s OK, Woody.”
“You’re a hero, B.J.,” Woody said “A superhero. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before, and . . . I don’t want you to go.”
B.J. could see he was emotional, and it tore at his heartstrings. Who was this kid? What was his story? “Come on, buddy. Let’s talk.”
Woody walked into the kitchen and sat at the table.
B.J. took a seat opposite. “Tell me all about yourself, Woody. What do you do for a living?”
“Nothing at the moment. I’m an IT major, and I’m still trying to find a steady job doing it.”
“I might be able to help you there.”
Woody’s expression instantly brightened. “Really?”
“I work for a government department. I should be able to pull a few strings with my Uncle Jed. I’m sure he’d be able to find something for you that pays considerably more than what you have. Speaking of which, how did you come by this house? Just curious.”
“It’s the house I grew up in. I inherited it after my parents were killed. My dad was a real estate developer. I know I should’ve taken better care of the place.” Woody looked away, as though in shame.
B.J. realized Woody’s complacency about the décor was a symptom of his agonizing lack of self-esteem. “I’m gonna help you get back on your feet, my friend.”
“Oh, man. I can’t believe you’d do that for me.”
He extended his hand, and Woody took it eagerly. “You’re a good man, Woody. You saved Heather’s life and almost lost your own in the process. You gave her shelter, and then you drove over two-hundred-miles to pull my ass out of the desert. You are the hero.”
Woody’s eyes misted up. It was clear B.J.’s words had just cut straight into his heart. “Nobody ever believed in me before. I’ve always been what people call a nerd. My comic book interests and being kinda skinny . . . it got me bullied all the way through school. No girl dared to be seen even having a coffee with me because everyone would’ve laughed at her.”
As B.J. listened, he understood how Woody’s self-confidence had been all but annihilated by society and social convention. “That’s all about to change, Woody. You’re no nerd, I can assure you. All you need is a break in life.”
“I could never be like you, B.J. Just look at you. You have to be the best looking guy I’ve ever seen, you’re ripped to hell, and I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you’ve got H, and she has to be the most beautiful woman on earth. You guys are way out of my league.”
B.J. looked away, somewhat bashfully. “You’re already my league, bud.” He looked back at Woody with sincere conviction. “I lost a very dear friend last week, Tito Mendez. He was murdered in his apartment. He was the man who made the Interceptor armor a reality. He made me a superhero. I can’t tell you how much you remind me of him.”
“Oh, man. Really?”
“Yes, and I’ve got a job for you.”
Woody perked up. “What’s that?”
“You know those guys who chased you and H that first night? The ones in the creepy hoods.”
“What about them?”
“I saw them earlier in the city. They were watching me from a skyscraper roof. I flew up there to try and catch them, but they took off in some kind of silver, stealth aircraft. It drove me crazy.”
“Do you know who they are?”
B.J. shook his head. “All I have is an abbreviation. They’re called C.O.T.”
“C.O.T.? What does that mean?”
“All I know is, they’re some kind of apocalyptic cult, and I believe they’re responsible for the disasters.”
“But how is that possible?”
“I’m not sure, but we have to be dealing with an organization that has access to advanced technology, and unlimited resources. I also believe they’re the ones who killed Tito. This is where you come in.”
Woody shrugged. “What can I do?”
“You’re an IT major. Can you set up a website or a blog?”
“Sure. It would take about the time I’d need to drink a cup of coffee.”
B.J. grinned with encouragement. “All right. This can’t be any ordinary blog. We’d have to be able to trace anybody who responds, but it would need to be untraceable from your end. This is dangerous, Woody. I don’t want to risk what happened to Tito happening to you.”
“I can do that. I could set it up from a remote cloud server, and then set up a system on my own computer that constantly changes the IP address. The CIA wouldn’t be able to trace it, but I’d still be able to pinpoint the IPs of those who bite.”
“That’s what I’m looking for.”
“What do you want me to do with this blog?”
“I want you to find out who the hell C.O.T. really are. We’d be working together. You and me, Woody.”
Woody was still for a moment. And then a cry of jubilant elation echoed through the kitchen. “Whoa! I’m in. You and me, B.J. Me and my superhero buddy.”
B.J. laughed at the passion this kid exuded.
Woody looked up and B.J. followed his gaze. Heather, Phil, Sharon, and Payden stood in the doorway.
“Is everything OK?” Heather said.
B.J. gazed at them and considered their individual, unique qualities. Phil was an incredibly talented artist. Sharon was radical, but feisty and a quick thinker. The speed with which she’d come up with that cover plan of making his face up in Mojave, and the efficiency with which she’d pulled it off, was astounding.
And then there was Payden, apparently a genius with Asperger’s, but a notably handsome guy, with a gym-honed physique to rival B.J.’s own. To look at him, nobody would guess he was autistic. He looked the complete opposite of what he was.
Finally, B.J. decided. “All right. I’m putting a team together.”
Thirty-Seven
Firedrake
“What do you mean, ‘you’re putting a team together’?” Sharon said.
B.J. grinned and stepped forward. “I mean you guys. I just told Woody something, and now I need to tell you. For your own safety, it must not pass beyond these walls, OK?”
“You bet.”
B.J. sensed a sudden attack of trepidation, but he couldn’t see any other way of finding the answers the world needed. “All right. The disasters are the work of an apocalyptic cult we know only as C.O.T. According to the single source I had, they’re trying to bring about the end of the world.”
Phil, Sharon, and the usually-expressionless Payden, gazed at him, aghast.
“How are they doing this?” Sharon said.
“I don’t know. Nobody does. Heather and I work for a government intelligence and intervention department, and we haven’t been able to identify them. They’re like ghosts. That’s why I think the only way to get to the bottom of it is to flush them out.”
“What can we do?” Phil said.
“Woody is going to set up a stealth website containing all the information I’m going to share with you. It’ll have a blog where people can comment. We’ll be able to trace the IP addresses of anyone who comments, but nobody will be able to trace the source of the website. My department will be able to investigate anyone who catches our interest. I want all of
your computers and Z-Watches linked to the site so that you can monitor what happens. I’ll check it out from Washington D.C. to make sure the site is secure and untraceable. If I can trace it to this house through the cloud source, it’ll need fine-tuning.”
Woody came around to B.J.’s side. “I want to do this really bad, B.J., but . . .”
“But what?”
“Why us? Why can’t your department set this up?”
B.J. noticed the looks of concurrence on the faces of the others. It was completely understandable. “There isn’t enough time. People are dying every day. Those people I saved today didn’t even compare to the numbers who lost their lives. It was a task trying to get my own director —my Uncle Jed—to believe me. An operation like this would take an age. It’d require an authorization from Congress, and I don’t need to tell you the crap I’ve just been through on account of those assholes.”
“To be fair, honey,” Heather said, “it was only one asshole.”
“It doesn’t matter. With these guys here, there’s not gonna be any jerkin’ around, and they’re anonymous. Hidden. They’re the last people C.O.T. would ever suspect. They wouldn’t even know where to look.” He glanced at Woody. “So no wild stunts, Woody. Agreed?”
Woody nodded, somewhat reluctantly.
B.J. turned back to the others. “OK, we need a name for the site. A kind of ‘movement’ name. You guys should be good at that stuff with all those comics you read.”
“Yeah, it shouldn’t take too long to figure one out,” Phil said.
“Once you’ve got it Phil, could you design a logo for the site?” B.J. said.
“In my sleep.”
“Great.”
B.J. was taken aback as Payden reached out his hand for him. “I . . . am honored to be on . . . your team.”
B.J. felt uncomfortable for a moment. It was the first time he’d heard Payden speak. The slow, hesitant way in which the words came out made it difficult to know how to respond.
“Congratulations . . . on being free . . . again,” Payden said, robot-like. “You are no longer in their . . . line of fire . . . Mr. Drake.”
