“Mr. Eberhardt, is General Ramses there?”
“Yes, sir. He…he is.”
“Good. The two of you can discuss the spread spectrum hidden transmissions your team has stumbled upon.”
How could Assistant Director Wolff possibly have known about it before they found it?
Ramses was gesturing with his left hand. “Come on, give me the phone, Fred.”
Fred obediently handed Ramses the phone, who proceeded to crush it with his hand. “There, that’s better.”
“B-but how?”
“How what, Fred?” answered Ramses, too casually given the situation.
“How did he know about the hidden transmissions already when we just found them?”
Ramses gawked at Fred in amusement. “Fred, you mean to tell me that you step out of your office to find blood splattered all over the walls and your secretary’s throat ripped out, your whole team murdered…” Fred looked over Ramses’ shoulder and out onto the bullpen. There were blood and bodies everywhere. “…and the first question you think to ask me is how the boss knew about the transmissions?”
Fred again nodded like a child being questioned by a teacher. Ramses shrugged. “Well, I guess that answer is obvious.”
“H-he… he knew about the tr-transmissions…” Fred stammered.
“Good, good,” Ramses waved his hand as if he was extracting the answers from Fred.
“…and he must somehow… have authorized the transmissions.”
“Good. Good. Almost there,” mocked Ramses.
“…so the RGT transmissions must be…two-way?”
“Excellent! A gold star for you.”
“But they’re not supposed to be two-way. Who’s transmitting backwards in the broadband?”
“Why, the aliens, of course.”
And then it dawned on poor Agent Fred Eberhardt. He remembered meeting about why the NSA wanted the RGT transmissions encrypted. Some low probability event, something about extra-terrestrial interception. Fred thought the notion was a joke at the time, the Assistant Director compulsively covering all the bases.
But Fred wasn’t laughing now.
“Are-are you…”
“Am I what? One of them?’
Fred nodded like a scared child who saw the boogeyman for the first time.
Ramses felt his prey’s heartbeat thundering in his chest and the artery in his neck throb like a primal drum egging on his dark urges. Fred’s pupils were dilated. His fear was intoxicating. “So which will it be? Fight or flight?”
He was hoping for flight. He so enjoyed it when they tried to run. To his surprise, Fred pulled his sidearm.
Fight it was.
Ramses’ features began to change before Fred’s eyes, as he weighed his chances against whatever Ramses was. He knew Ramses must have moved quickly to have murdered everyone in the office while he was trying to get through to Wolff.
Ramses’ nose elongated into a snout and his shoulders grew so large he began to hunch over. He grew taller and longer, and his face sprouted hair like a time-lapsed video in a Chia Pet commercial. His teeth elongated into fangs and he sprouted two more eyes that opened slowly, taking Fred in.
Fred didn’t want to wait for the transformation to be complete. He saw this movie before.
He fired several shots into the head and chest of the lupine Ramses, but to no avail. Ramses leapt forward, swiping the handgun out of Fred’s hand. Fred ducked a flash of sharp claws and rolled over and behind Nancy’s desk.
“You have a little fight in you,” growled Ramses. “I like it. The thrill of the hunt.”
Suddenly Fred popped up from behind Nancy’s desk with a shotgun in his hands. Even Nancy was trained in security measures…a lot of good it did her.
He aimed at Ramses’ chest and fired, sending him flying backward. As he recovered a little too quickly for Fred’s taste, Fred fired another shot, and another. Ramses fell backwards, crashing into the water cooler.
“I don’t suppose silver would work on you?” Fred chided.
Ramses stood upright and brushed himself off. “Why? You got any?”
Fred reached out and pulled the fire alarm. If he wasn’t going to survive this encounter, he wanted everyone else in the building to get out.
The cacophony appeared to disorient Ramses momentarily, and Fred fired a few more shots into him.
Ramses staggered backward, steadying himself against the door to Fred’s personal restroom. He tipped up his head and let out a howl.
Fred was stepping carefully around to the entry to the bullpen. “So you aliens are a bunch of werewolves?”
“We are whatever you fear most?”
“Well then I must warn you,” said Fred, “I am an avid hunter.”
Ramses chortled, “And I must warn you that you are out of ammunition.”
Fred backed out into the bullpen of cubicles, holding out the shotgun horizontally to block the doorway. Ramses came raging after him, slashing claw marks in the wall as he advanced, and ran right into the shotgun. The ends caught the sides of the doorway, clotheslining him.
As Ramses fell backward, the wind knocked out of him, Fred dashed into the cubicles, getting on his hands and knees. The room was a labyrinth of fabric-covered cork partitions. It wouldn’t hold Ramses off, but it would slow him down.
Peter scrambled down a narrow aisle and crawled into a cubicle with an agent hanging off of his wheeled chair, his face torn off. It was Nell, wife and mother. He heard Ramses snarling toward the front of the labyrinth.
“That wasn’t very nice, Fred.” There were sniffing sounds and heavy breathing. “Old Spice. I bet the wife just goes gaga over it.”
Shit. He could smell that? Fred had to think quickly.
He heard cubicle panels being torn down and he saw them flung across the room. “Come out, come out, wherever you are! Or I’ll huff, and I’ll puff, and I’ll rip your lungs out!”
There were no windows in the office, part of security. There was only the exit to the hallway, and then two elevators and a door to the stairway. But there was no way he was making it to the exit without Ramses seeing him. The thrashing and snarling was getting closer.
Fred looked up and saw Nell’s computer was on, and she was logged in. He opened up a search engine to the internet and queried about the exact frequency of a dog whistle. Fifty KHtz. He queued up the audio signal generator and turned the volume up to its maximum. Since the Central Security Service was in the business of signals, their equipment was state-of-the-art. Perfect.
Ramses was now only a couple of cubicles away. “Fi, fie, fo, fum, ready or not here I come!”
Fred kept his finger poised over the mouse.
Ramses snatched the wall of Nell’s cubicle and broke it in half with his bare claws, tossing aside the remains like cardboard. He looked down at Fred.
“Ah-ha. There you are. Keeping the young lady company, I see.”
Fred clicked the mouse and Ramses began to yelp and hold his ears. This was Fred’s chance. He jumped up, yanked out the computer mouse—hurling it across the room—and pushed himself over the opposite wall of the cubicle.
As he closed the distance and made it to the door to the hallway, he looked back and saw Ramses frantically trying to turn off the computer with his large clumsy claws.
He knew it only bought him several extra seconds, so he spilled out into the hallway and passed the elevators. He nearly overshot the door to the stairwell, but he grabbed the handle and flung the door open as he heard the computer crash against the wall.
He flew down the stairs, taking two at a time, and nearly fell a couple of times. He heard the door to the stairwell fling open three floors above, but he was almost to the garage.
He heard grunting and snarling as he bypassed the lobby. Ramses wouldn’t stop, even in public. Fred knew too much. There was no use endangering the rest of the building.
He threw open the door to the garage and bolted in the direction of his assigned space as he
heard a grisly reverberating howl cut off by the closing of the stairwell door. Ramses was right behind him.
He sprinted across the row of cars to spot number four, which was fortunately a stone’s throw away. It was good to be regional director.
The stairwell door exploded off the hinges as Fred snatched his mini-com multi-tasker from his pocket and disengaged his car’s digi-locks. He threw himself into the driver’s seat as Ramses sprang across the garage.
As the car engine turned over, Ramses vaulted the car and a large claw came crashing through the driver’s side window. Fred grabbed the claw, using all of his strength to push it away from his chest. But Ramses was unnaturally strong.
He wanted to throw the car in reverse, but he needed both hands to keep Ramses razor sharp claws from piercing his chest. However, the beast’s strength was relentless, and Fred cried out as his arms began to fatigue and the claws drew closer and closer.
He gave another cry as he saw them puncture his shirt, his skin giving way like butter to hot knives. Blood welled up around the entry wounds staining his perfectly pressed white dress shirt.
His hands released their grip on Ramses claw as he accepted his fate. Ramses leaned in, his hot breath stinking up the car and fogging the windshield.
When Fred opened his eyes, Ramses was gone. He looked down at his chest, at the source of the sharp stabbing pain that racked his body. The engine of his car was still revving. He eased his foot off the gas pedal and saw a team of first responders enter the garage.
There was also someone else…in between the cars. Someone, who looked just like him, staring at him. He was even dressed the same.
Fred mustered up whatever energy he had left, and he pressed on the car horn on the steering wheel. It blared out and quickly faded away as Fred closed his eyes and faded from consciousness.
***
Otay Mesa
California
23:02 HRS
Major Peter Birdsall stood outside a warehouse with a platoon of men armed to the teeth with automatic weapons.
“All right, men. Listen up.” All eyes were on Peter. “RGT provided intel that the tunnel inside this warehouse connects with another in Tijuana. Two squads, led by Lieutenant Harper, will enter the tunnels at exactly 12:00 HRS. Captain Romagossa will take two squads across the border and take the warehouse from the other end. I will establish HQ in a hotel nearby with Lieutenant Farrow where I will coordinate the strikes.
“Intel places the Navajas cartel and OIL operatives at that warehouse right now, and they’re ready to make a cocaine run, but we’re not going to let that happen. Am I right?”
“HAROO!” the men hollered in response without missing a beat.
“Glad to hear it ladies. The Mexican government is not privy to our little operation here, so it’s in and out. Nice and quick. Let’s get moving. Time’s-a-wasting.”
Captain Romagossa and Lieutenant Harper saluted Peter and were off to their tasks. Peter remained behind outside the warehouse with a small security detail in the warm day in late May.
His recent promotion to Major was unconventional but meant to keep him quiet. Although most Majors rode desks, Peter was in Special Ops now, so he was in the field. He would rather be leading the men into combat, but he was thankful that the Army decommissioned the undead infantry drones.
General Ramses’ sighting of Peter’s younger brother, Carl (AKA Kafka), a few months ago was unsettling. Peter thought he left him for dead in Monterosso. He hit the kill switch in Carl’s brain himself to make sure the deed was done. When Ramses reported that he was assaulted by Carl in the men’s room at a Washington D.C. function, no one in the know rested easy.
It was the main reason why the army decommissioned the drones. Well, that and the fiascos in Xcaret and Siena. With Carl alive, kicking, and unrestrained by his kill chip, the undead drones were compromised. Carl could order them to turn on anyone at any moment.
However, since that night in Washington D.C., no one had seen hide nor hair from Carl. His alter ego, Kafka, had been referenced in several RGT transmissions involving Order for International Liberation operations, but Carl had dropped off the grid.
Every operation, Peter waited for Kafka to surface and start tearing his men apart, but he never showed. As far as the media knew, the Automaton was alive and well, especially thanks to Peter’s impersonation in Siena. There was some confusion about what happened with the drones attacking the hostages, but the media seems to have cleared up the confusion.
That’s all there was on the news: the Automaton vs. Kafka. Good vs. evil. What they all didn’t know was that both were the same monstrosity.
Since Kafka dropped off the grid and the drones were decommissioned, neither character had to make an appearance. Peter hoped it would stay that way.
He got into a large SUV with Lieutenant Farrow and the three-man security detail. As the doors slammed shut and they began to move, Lieutenant Farrow was regarding Peter curiously.
“Something on your mind, Lieutenant?” asked Peter without looking at Farrow.
“How are you holding up, sir?”
“Fine. Thanks for the concern,” Peter said with sarcasm that he immediately regretted. Farrow was a good man, which was why Peter brought him along to Special Ops. Besides, with the drones decommissioned, Farrow had to have something to do.
“I didn’t mean any disrespect.”
“I know,” said Peter pensively. “I think about him being out there, too.”
“Do you think he’ll ever pop up again? Resurface?”
“If he does, we’ll be ready,” said Peter gravely. But would he be ready? He went through the emotional pain of killing Carl once…or so he thought. He was not sure what would happen the next time.
“If they encounter any homemade undead drones at the warehouse,” added Farrow with substantial concern, “we won’t have any amygdala kill switches.”
“The Sweepers will pick up any undead presence, and we’ll adjust accordingly. Right?” Peter looked at Farrow for confirmation. Farrow only nodded tentatively.
There were two significant encounters with the undead drones in combat. The first in Xcaret was a complete failure. The one in Siena was barely a victory. Farrow wasn’t being pessimistic. He was being a realist.
They crossed the border without incident and the SUV pulled up to a real dive of a hotel, a dilapidated art deco four-story building jammed in between two storefronts.
Peter sized up their temporary digs. “Peach. My favorite.” The color was an attempt at a tropical splash in an ocean of diarrhea. Even the sea foam green balcony railings looked dingy.
Peter and Farrow, in civilian clothing wheeling small luggage, exited the SUV and stepped into the lobby of the hotel. The lobby was a small improvement over the exterior, but still poorly maintained. But that was the point—to blend.
Peter checked in at the front desk and obtained the digital room key sequence onto a civilian mini-com. A military standard issue multi-tasker would blow their cover to anyone watching, and Tijuana had cartel eyes and ears everywhere. The three-man security detail, also in civilian dress, checked into two separate rooms to keep up appearances.
When they reached Peter’s room, Peter swiped his mini-com over the digi-lock and the three-man security detail entered first, guns drawn, and cleared the area.
When the lead soldier nodded his approval, Peter and Farrow entered the room casually, closing the door on a quiet hallway.
“I’m going to set up the laptops on that little desk,” announced Farrow, walking over to a rickety wooden table by the balcony.
One of the security detail, Kessler, turned on the television as another, Michaels, swept the room for bugs. The third, Nomura, stepped out onto the balcony and casually surveyed the street below. When Kessler was finished, he nodded to Peter.
“Good,” said Peter. “Let’s set up com-links on the double. The sooner we complete the mission, the sooner we can get out of here. The bed bugs lo
ok hungry.”
Farrow had their mobile communications center up and running in no time. There were two laptops synched with two ear pieces for Peter and Farrow.
“Echo Team, do you read?” Peter spoke aloud in the room.
“Bravo Team Leader here, on schedule and in position. I have eyes on the nest. Over.” Captain Romagossa was awaiting Peter’s signal.
“Bravo Team, hold position.”
“Copy.”
“Farrow, do we have a fix on Echo Team?”
Farrow was watching a laptop screen. “Harper’s almost in position.”
“Echo Team Leader, you are getting close to the exit point. Maintain radio silence. Switching to text messaging.” Peter produced his military-grade multi-tasker and looked down at the screen, which read Copy in text from Lieutenant Harper.
“Echo Team is closing the gap and almost in position,” said Farrow, stroking his chin nervously. Remote coordination always made him nervous. He knew that if he made one minor miscalculation good men would die.
Peter was also uncomfortable with this game of chess, moving men around strategically, based on laptop screens. He would’ve preferred to be in the mix with the boots on the ground. Chess was Carl’s game.
Carl…
“Echo Team is in position,” reported Farrow.
“Bravo Team, move on target,” Peter announced. He saw a satellite depiction on his laptop. Thirty multi-colored heat signatures moved into the warehouse in formation. The heat signatures representing Navajas and OIL began to drop off the screen, one-by-one and then in clusters. The remaining enemy bogies retreated further into the structure.
“Echo Team, move in on target,” Peter ordered. Suddenly, heat signatures emerged from nowhere on the screen and flanked the retreating bogies.
“How’s the street, Nomura?” Peter asked.
“All clear, sir.”
Within minutes, the enemy bogies were wiped off the computer screen. “Bravo and Echo Team, mission accomplished. Proceed to extraction point. I’m sending the nav coordinates now.”
Peter nodded to Farrow who transmitted the coordinates to the two team leaders and their mobile pickup meandering a few blocks away.
I am Automaton 3: Shadow of the Automaton Page 3
