However, levity faded when I noticed somebody standing over in a corner all by himself. A slender pale man dressed in a dark suit, white shirt with a white tie. He was smoking a pungent cigarette and had his hat pulled so low over his face that only a pair of eerie transparent blue eyes were visible beneath the snap brim.
It was the legendary J. P. Withers, who sometimes called himself John Sanders, supposedly the very first Bureau 13 agent recruited back in 1861. It was rumored that he was immortal and slightly insane. Plus, he had this very bad habit of using explosives when diplomacy would have done the job, or using ten sticks of dynamite when one would have sufficed. Overkill wasn't his modus operandi, it was his philosophy of life. Rare indeed was the situation which warranted the summoning of J.P. and I was of the personal opinion that Horace Gordon was secretly terrified of the man. If man he was. However, Withers was on our side. Well, mostly.
In the center of the room, talking on two phones at the same time was the chief. Horace Gordon was a giant of a man, large and muscular with gray crewcut hair, and a barely healed scar across his throat. That was new. He was dressed in black military boots and a tan NASA jumpsuit. A double holster about his waist supported a Bedlow laser pistol on the left and a short golden wizard wand in the right. How he could safely mix magic and technology was beyond my understanding. Around his neck was an amulet on a silver chain that pulsed with a protective aura of blue anti-magic.
Then I found my own team, gleefully in the process of looting the collection of folding tables bowing under the weight of the massive assortment of weapons and magical supplies piled on top.
"Hey,” I offered as greeting.
With cries of delight, they scampered close and hugs were received. Nothing like a good hug to help lower the tension.
Freshly scrubbed and looking like spring, Jessica was in denim pants, white shirt and denim short jacket. She had a double-barrel taser stun gun at her belt, an Uzi slung over her shoulder and was arranging medical supplies inside a field surgery kit. The necklace of Me was where it should be, dangling between her breasts and glowing contentedly. I would too.
Now stop that! she sent privately.
Sorry.
As expected, Mindy was in her ninja outfit of loose black pajamas with no belt, a double quiver of arrows on her back and a compound bow. With sword in hand, Ms. Jennings was stuffing knives into a sleeve.
Adjusting the rosary dangling from his belt, Father Mike was also in military fatigues. His combat Bible rode in a special holster at his hip and over his back was a set of pressurized tanks, whose complex pipes feed into the short insulated sprayer discolored from heat. The M1A flamethrower was the big priest's favorite weapon when battling hellspawn or thawing frozen Thanksgiving turkeys. These tanks were an odd color though.
"What's this?” I asked, thumbing the pressure rig with a fist.
"Amen,” Father Donaher mumbled kissing the rosary. “Hey, Ed. Normally, I use jellied gasoline. But for this wee scenario, the tanks are filled with Napalm #4."
Patiently, I waited for enlightenment.
"Napalm #1 was jellied gasoline,” he explained. “Number two could burn under water. Number three stuck to the target like epoxy glue."
"Number four does everything, I suppose."
"Aye, lad. Plus, it's poisoned."
I made a face. “Very nasty, Michael."
He shrugged, making the tanks slosh. “If this helps to send more Scion members to meet their Maker, then praise the Lord."
When a Catholic priest starts talking like a Southern Baptist minister, I know we're in for trouble. Or a picnic.
"Hallelujah!” Mindy shouted.
Dapper as ever, Raul chuckled appreciatively. For some bizarre reason, Mr. Horta was in white, from deck shoes to nautical cap. Staff in hand, lumpy pouches hung over each shoulder and his arms were full of copper bracelets. His pants pocket bulged with a hip flask and his linen shirt was embroidered with the words ‘shiver me timbers!.... what does that mean anyway?'. When had this sailing craze overcome him?
You gave him the Old Spice aftershave for his birthday, dear.
True enough. My fault then.
Her long blonde hair tied in a ponytail, Katrina was in a tight leotard that showed off her every ample curve and changed color to match anything she stood near. A belt of small pouches went around her trim waist and a bandoleer of foot long magical wands was draped across her chest. A few I could identify as Lightning, or Stone-to-Flesh, the rest were unknowns. Even the butterfly on her cheek was wearing an Army helmet for protection.
Whistling contentedly, George was in standard Army fatigues and expertly adjusting the straps of his huge plastic backpack. The square container had a cushioned hip-rest and padded shoulder hooks to help distribute the tremendous weight of the 18,000 rounds of ammo in the pack. From the top of the container snaked an enclosed belt which fed directly into the breech mechanism of a stocky rifle with a worn, pitted maw.
The Masterson Assault Cannon fired 20mm caseless, armor-piercing, high-explosive rounds. I have seen just one of these weapons destroy a whole company of giant robot spiders. Thankfully in another dimension. If news of this terrible gun was ever made public, Geneva would hold another convention just to outlaw the thing. Bureau regulations strictly forbid its use outside of a war.
Amigo was lying belly-up on the table, softly sawing toothpicks.
"Where's mine?” I asked eagerly. “Did it arrive?"
Taking me by the elbow, George guided to the table. “Over here. When the Ranger's saw the rifle, they tried to confiscate it. But Raul and I persuade them that was not a great idea."
"That's right, pilgrim,” Raul drawled, in the very worst John Wayne impersonation I have ever heard. “Wa-ha."
"That was the absolutely the worst Harrison Ford I have ever heard,” I said with a straight face.
Visibly disappointed, Raul scowled, “But I wasn't doing Ford!"
"Rex Harrison?"
"Get stuffed."
Aside from my twin Magnums and a sampling of high explosives, in unrestricted combat I also carry a combo pack: three LAW rocket launchers and two HAFLA incendiary rockets in a cushioned haversack. But downtown Chicago was no place for a bazooka battle, as I knew from hard experience, so I had requisitioned the next best thing. A Barret M-1 sniper rifle.
Longer than the M60 and heavier than cardinal sin, the tremendous rifle was made exclusively of space-age alloys to cut the weight as much as possible. Chambered for .50 Long SuperMagnums, the rifle had a muzzle blast of 5,487 fps and an effective range of two incredible miles. Perfect for home defense.
Cresting the main barrel was a Starlite sniper scope that could see your tonsils, in pitch darkness, at nine hundred yards. The cigarbox-sized ammo clip held eleven gigantic bullets. Twelve, if you were foolish, or desperate enough to carry this portable howitzer with a live round in the chamber.
I slid in the twelfth round.
"Tunafish!” Gordon called out, and we hurried over.
"How'd the briefing go?” the chief asked as a greeting. Signing a spell book, he handed it to thin air, where the volume vanished.
Hmm, spacial delivery? Quickly, I slid on my sunglasses, then yanked them off as tears rolled down my cheeks. Zounds! Maximum overload. Too much magic around here. Alvarez, never do that again.
"Well?” Horace repeated.
"Everybody is ready as they can be on such short notice,” I reported, wiping my eyes. “They each were handed a copy of the written notice, and know they should report on radio channel such-n-such, and that you'll issue orders that damn well better be obeyed on channel such-n-such."
"Such-n-such?” Katrina asked curiously.
Shifting his weapon, George rested an arm around her dulcet curves. “It's a technical term, sweetheart. Sort of like blah-blah, or thingy."
Lord, give me strength. “How about us, sir?” I asked. “What's the status on our Wave division? And the Cyber Cops?"
"The merma
ids have already been briefed and are taking position out in Lake Michigan,” Gordon said. “Our robots and sentient machines are in position at Hadleyville, still searching for clues to where that Hotel went."
"Then we agree it is the key to this whole matter?” Raul asked, leaning on his wand.
The chief gave him a stare to wilt flowers on wallpaper. “Was there ever any doubt?"
"Sir! Anti-yes. Sir!"
Having dealt with mages before, Gordon was unruffled. “Anyway, General MacAdams and the Phoenix team have been split in half. One section positioned near Cheyenne Mountain, in case the Scion try to infiltrate the base and start a nuclear war."
"And the other half?” I asked.
"Is currently at Camp David with the President. In case the Scion has any ideas of taking the boss hostage and offering his life in exchange for the Army destroying Chicago."
My temples started to throb. Ye God, what a devious mind the chief had. But then, that's why he was in charge.
"Who does that leave to guard headquarters?” Mindy asked bluntly, tucking throwing stars up her sleeve.
Gordon looked at her without an expression. “Us,” he replied.
That took a minute to sink in.
"It's here?” I gasped, glancing around. “You moved Bureau HQ from wherever it had been to here?” I had trouble getting the words out of my mouth.
"Saints preserve us man, are you mad?” Donaher demanded in a booming voice.
All conversations stopped in the room and J.P. Withers started our way like an express train from Hell.
"The purpose of the Bureau is to guard American citizens,” Horace Gordon stated coldly. “Our HQ has many devices and weapons which can not safely or quickly be removed from the ... place that we used to occupy."
"So you moved the whole base to exactly where the enemy thinks it is, so that we can better guard Chicago?"
He seemed surprised at our reactions. “Of course. Contingency plans have been prepared in case we all die. But the best hope we have of not dying is to hit the Scion with everything we have."
"And that includes me,” Withers whispered, a cold breeze moving silently around the man. He stood near, but not close to us, both of his hands tucked in pockets and the same cigarette smoking away at the same length.
Waving at the smoky air, Jessica gave a delicate cough. “Do you mind extinguishing that, please?” she asked politely.
Arching an eyebrow, Withers stared at my wife and, for a second, I thought he was going to kill her. I started to swing the barrel of the Barret his way.
"If it accommodates you, madam,” he relented. Drawing the smoldering butt into his mouth, he chewed for a moment and swallowed, wisps of smoke coming out his ears.
Hoo boy.
Carrying an Uzi, a centaur in a flak jacket galloped by and tossed a folder towards the chief. “Sir, report on the Idaho!” he said, then galloped away.
Horace made the catch and flipped to page one. “Hmm, G2 reports the attackers as large muscular men with weird faces. They seemed to be almost bulletproof until the sailors and SEALS used our new plasma rounds. Henderson!"
A young boy appeared from nowhere. “Sir!"
"Have somebody go check on any unusually large purchases of Nair, or other hair-removing solutions within the past week. Apparently, the werewolves are depilating themselves to hinder identification and confuse the issue. However, if they used a credit card, we might be able to trace the owner in time."
"Aye, and don't bother,” Donaher said, dismissing the matter with a wave.
Both Gordon and Withers stared at him darkly.
"Five will get you ten, that the stuff was bought on cards taken from the corpses outside Hadleyville."
"You could be correct, Father,” the chief admitted. “But it never hurts to check."
"On it, chief,” the lad said, and he was gone. Poof.
Running a hand over his crewcut, Gordon turned to stare at the ready boards on the four walls. Red lights pinpoint the city in a dozen locations showing the presence of a firefight or mysterious explosion. Normally, didn't have too many of those here. This wasn't New York.
"Damn, but the Scion is good. Too good,” Horace acknowledged, then added softly. “By God, we just have to be better."
"Amen to that!” I whispered.
"Alert,” a woman calmly announced while gesturing over her crystal ball. The medium was in a white turban and flowing burnoose in a Niagara pattern. And I do mean flowing. I could hear the water splash. “Somebody is beginning a spell of Summoning in East Cicero."
It was amazing that she was getting anything on the ball. Took a medium a long time to establish the proper rapport with the mystical crystal. These folks had just been teleported in from our sister organizations around the world: THE FARM in England, SUNSHINE in Israel, THE SONS OF VAN HELSING in United Germany, DEPARTMENT 9 in Russia, FANTASAMIQUE in France, and WALLY'S SPOOK CLUB in Australia.
Gordon raised his wrist and spoke into his watch. It was larger than ours, more complex than ours, with a teenie-weenie TV screen and a printer. But then, he was the boss. “Roger's Rangers, there's a code three in East Cicero. Get the coordinates from Henderson."
"Anytime, anywhere, mon capitaine,” the watch said in stereo.
In a puff of smoke, the group in the corner disappeared.
"Alert,” an android called out from a satellite communications console. “FBI and the State Police are currently in hot pursuit of a tanker truck that has smashed through the barrier around the water purification plant in Joliet. Army has sent a flight of Apache helicopters to assist. Air Force Foxbats and Navy Tomcats are on route."
"Peirpont!” Gordon snapped.
An artificial man glanced from a radar console. “Sir?"
"Watch that tanker. If it gets to within a hundred meters of the purification plant, have Finkelstein use some of our reserve magic and Gate it to the Moon."
"Say what?” chorused the whole room.
Suddenly red as a beet, Horace was very embarrassed. Damn well should be. Gate the werewolves to the Moon?
"I meant that figuratively,” corrected our commander-and-chief gruffly, turning beet-red in the face. “Cast it into the corona of the sun. Any sun. Try for Betelgeuse, or Rigel."
"Acknowledged!"
"There's been an incident at the Grand Avenue ASPCA,” an elf technician reported holding a receiver to his pointed ear. “Every dog and cat is gone."
The screen on his board showed a detailed vector graphic of the downtown street corner. Interesting. The Bureau hadn't used combined technology and magic since the Atlantis incident, but I guess this was the time to pull out all the stops.
"Yes, yes, I know,” Gordon growled impatiently. He sat and a chair appeared underneath him. “Its just the Fringeworthy doing a pre-emptive strike."
I couldn't stop myself from asking. “Who are they, sir?"
He glared at me. “Beyond your security clearance, Ed."
That caught me by surprise. Did such a thing exist? Bummer.
Tugging on the brim of his Fedora, J.P. Withers lowered his hat until it completely covered his body, then touched the floor and was gone.
"Alert!” another crystal ball gazer calmly announced. “SAC HQ has just ID'd a UFO high above I-80. Washington DC has NG'd a TNT ICBM, but OK'd a BZ-loaded SAM in an effort to KO the UFO."
"Acknowledged,” Gordon snapped, loosening his collar.
"What the hell was that?” Mindy asked confused.
George got a sly expression. “Oh, just an initial report."
I reached for my gun, but Jessica restrained me.
"Later,” I promised.
Grinning evilly, George blew me a kiss.
The centaur trotted close and stopped this time. “Sir, the King of the Sewers announces that all is normal in his domain."
"Thank His Majesty for me,” Gordon said. “And ask him to please continue surveillance of the underworld."
"Yes, sir."
; "Shaddup!” I barked at everybody.
Although my brain was revving furiously, in some distant section of my mind I could vaguely discern that although Gordon was shocked at the behavior, he accepted it.
"Sir?” I started hesitantly.
"Okay, what is it, Alvarez?” There was the unspoken promise that is better be good, or I'd be guarding the Haunted House at Disneyland for the rest of my life.
"When we fought the Scion years ago in New York, and just recently in Ohio, they used Mack trucks, or tractor-trailer assemblies to haul weapons around."
"If you got a point, make it,” he said crumbling a sheet of paper and tossing the report into a wastebasket where it flared into ash.
"The Chicago underground,” I said succinctly.
Faces cleared in comprehension. When the City Council of 1871 was rebuilding Chicago after the great fire, they had a brilliant idea. The underground. Not to be confused with the underworld of which we had more than enough, thank you. The mayor at the time had summarily decreed that trucks would not be allowed in downtown Chicago anymore. But in order that business could get their shipments, a subterranean copy of the main streets was built, so the trucks could deliver their goods directly to the basement of a building or store.
However, since the trucking level was poorly illuminated at night and very isolated with few easy exits, the underworld was tailor-made for the Scion. Simply drive in a few hundred truckloads of explosives and blow up the city.
Pensively, Horace Gordon rubbed his chin. “Damnation, you could be right, Edwardo. Hey, ThunderBunnies!"
"Sir!” a busty blonde vision of loveliness responded, loading an ammo clip into a portable M-35 mini-rocket launcher. The damn thing resembled a honeycomb with a trigger, or an old-fashioned pepperbox packed with high-tech firepower. Nasty thing. I owned two of them myself.
"Go check the undercity,” Gordon said, jerking a thumb at the wall map. “I'll send along a dozen or so black-and-whites and a squad of Green Berets to assist. The ID code is: Krakatoa. Response: Vesuvius."
The blonde woman jacked her weapon into ready status and gave a dimpled smile. “Gotcha, sugar,” she purred, and turned for the exit.
Close behind followed the rest of the ThunderBunnies similarly armed with Atchinson automatic shotguns, Heckler Koch G-12 caseless machine guns, O'Neil coil rifles and their exotic goody bag of lethal ironmongery.
Full Moonster [BUREAU 13 Book Three] Page 14
