Inception_The Bern Project_Volume One

by M James Conway

  Redmond looked down at his watch. 9:45AM. In just over two hours, the virus would be unleashed and hell would start. He smiled to himself, thinking of the chaos they were about to create. If all went as planned, the offshore winds would carry the virus up the hillside to the east, infecting anyone in its path. As they raced back to Stump Island, Seattle and every other major city in the country would be experiencing their own Armageddon.

  Redmond sent off a quick message on his satellite phone to Raider, who was somewhere in Seattle, letting him know the mission was on schedule. He heard a faint beep, signaling that Raider had read the message.

  He put the sat phone away and looked at Wolf, tapped his watch and said, “Two hours.” He then swirled his finger in the air, telling Wolf to get the boat ready.

  With that done, Redmond walked into the cabin and closed the door behind him. Marty was piloting the boat, while Bandit, a small and wiry former air force TACP, was loading the rifles. “Hey, Marty, what are the winds?”

  The former recon marine was leaning against the dashboard. He looked at a digital readout affixed next to the steering wheel. “Winds are steady, west northwest ten to fifteen, give or a take.” He held up a thumb. “We’re good to go.”

  “Excellent.”

  Bandit looked at Redmond inquisitively. “We going already?”

  Redmond was pacing around the cabin. He walked to a metal case that was lying on the floor near the stairway. “No, but I want to be ready.” He checked his watch once more. “I want you and Wolf to prep the cannon, get it ready for deployment. Grab the fatigues and hand them out.” To Marty, he said, “Marty, get the boat ready, make sure it’s gassed up so we can head north.”

  Bandit was hovering over several Colt M4s and the SMAW. “Weapons are locked and loaded. Masks have been fitted and ready for use.”

  “Good. Keep everything in here ‘till we at least get to the starting point up north. I don’t want anyone out there getting suspicious.”

  “Roger that,” Bandit said.

  Marty started up the boat and steered it north.

  Chapter 11

  John walked toward the breezeway that led from the park to the street, with Morgan at his side. The majority of people they passed were younger and had an look of confusion on their faces from the early morning marijuana they had smoked. Each one was in their own little world, smiling. John looked to the west and saw the front of the stage perpendicular to the entrance to the breezeway and the target building beyond.

  He had an idea. “Hey, Morg.” He nodded toward the stage. “Why don’t you go work your social skills and see about getting on that stage?”

  “The hell for?”

  John pointed toward the east. “See that building there?” Morgan nodded and John continued, “What do you think about me doing it from there? This stage is fixed, so that’s where Vinny will do his shit. When I get in position, or find a position, I’ll get a hold of you and see if you can see me up there.”

  Morgan seemed to contemplate it, looking to the stage, then the building, then back again. “Good call, Hetebro. Only problem is, it’s an afternoon and evening show, so you’re going to have the sun right in your eyes and the scope. We’ll have to use the amber scope so it doesn’t show any glare. Last thing you want is a reflective flash letting anyone know – including cops – that someone’s on top of that building.”

  John hadn’t thought of that and he felt thankful that Morgan had. John was starting to doubt his ability to pull this off, not because he couldn’t make the shot, but the evasive and hiding techniques that were required to avoid capture were more in Morgan’s wheelhouse. But it wouldn’t hurt to at least check it out. “Okay, go work your social magic.”

  They donned their mics and earpieces, John heading toward the breezeway and Morgan ambling around the crowds, doing their best to blend in.

  John took the ramp and passed the long line of festival goers working their way down to the park.

  He spoke into his mic. “Can you hear me?” A blonde blue-eyed woman in her early twenties wearing nothing but a denim mini skirt and light blue bikini top ready to burst yelled out, “I can hear you fine, baby. Want to smoke and hang?” John ignored her and continued on.

  “I can hear you loud and straight,” came the reply.

  “Copy.” John continued up then down the other side and exited onto Third Avenue, about a quarter mile north of the building. He crossed the street to the east side and walked south where Third Avenue would branch off to the right on Western Avenue. He did his best to glance around at nothing in particular, trying to look like a tourist or Pot Luck participant, but what he was looking for were points of access and egress: escape routes, both primary and secondary.

  He reached the building to the north and saw it was a typical office building with tinted glass doors and windows. Not a person was in sight on this Saturday morning. As he continued, he looked down the small space between both buildings and saw fire escapes down the side of each building, so close they almost touched. A possibility? Maybe. He wished they were able to do this on a weekday so the foot traffic he would encounter would be more realistic for a business afternoon when he would do the hit.

  He reached the target building and the first thing he encountered was a set of rollup doors set back into the building and fronted by a service driveway, fifty yards in length. The northernmost door was rolled up and an off-white delivery van was backed in. John glanced around and didn’t see anyone. He walked down the driveway, acting like a potentially stoned tourist who was lost and looking for the restroom.

  John poked his head into the doorway, looked left and right, and didn’t see anyone. He banged on the service door to get anyone’s attention and said, “Hello? Anyone around?” He waited about five seconds, then repeated himself. Ten more seconds went by and nobody answered the door. He walked inside to the hum of an air conditioner and the smell of a mix of dirty pavement, car oil, and ozone.

  He passed the van, read “Burt’s Flower Delivery” on the side and at the back, noticed that the doors were open and that there was a dolly right behind it. The space to the south of the van was occupied by several neatly stacked piles of drywall, plywood, and 2 x 4’s with several industrial-sized garbage cans and orange cones with broken construction tape hanging from the tops. A metal staircase worked its way up to a steel door at the top.

  John ascended the stairs and reached the door. He tried the door handle, sure that it was locked, and was surprised that it opened when he turned it. He stepped into a long ornate hallway approximately one hundred feet in length and walked to the elevator bay at the far end.

  He didn’t expect to see anyone, but if he did, he’d play stupid. With his luck, it’d be some low-budget rent-a-cop with dreams and ambitions of becoming the real thing. If that were the case, John would rather come across a real cop who wouldn’t give two shits about him being there and would tell him to get lost, wanting to avoid any paperwork and hassle.

  He got to the end of the hall and climbed all twelve floors until he reached the roof. Outside, the roof was topped with gravel, old cigarette butts, faded wrappers, and raised flower beds with nothing but brown and rotted plants, which was fortunate. It told John that the roof was hardly accessed, since it was so unkempt.

  “Status?” He started a bit, having forgotten that he still had the earpiece in.

  “Just got to the roof. Standby.” Morgan acknowledged with a single click of the mic. John reached the center of the roof. He glanced around at the surrounding skyline, looking for ways people would be able to see him.

  To the east was downtown Seattle with its many skyscrapers, and anyone looking out the window to their west and down would see him. To the west was nothing but the park and Puget Sound.

  He walked to the west edge of the roof and noticed an elevated and covered ventilation system, the sound of a fan coming from inside. He walked around the structure, and on the north side he found a small service door. He tried th
e handle. Unlocked. He walked inside. The space was the size of a small closet and had a twelve-inch diameter ventilation hole in the floor with about a one-foot-wide ledge surrounding it. He maneuvered himself inside, careful not to step into the abyss, and faced west. He brought his hands up, as if holding a rifle, and found he had plenty of room. He found a slide lever on the left-hand side and adjusted it to open the vent slats to give him a full view of the park.

  It was a perfect view.

  While straddling the side, John reached into his bag and pulled out his Leupold Scope. He aimed it at the park and took in the view, adjusting the magnification as he did. Several people were walking around, some smoking joints or pipes, couples walking hand in hand, and security personnel looking bored like they would rather be anywhere else right now.

  He looked at the stage and saw Morgan pointing down at some loose scaffolding while speaking with some young staff members. He was talking animatedly with his hands while the others were looking down, as if being yelled at. John smiled.

  “Morgan, go easy on those kids. You’re not even their boss.”

  Morgan didn’t speak, but John could see him aim a random look up to the roof and break out into a shit-eating grin. He then became more animated, directing the staffers around.

  “Morgan, I need you to go up on the stage. Slowly walk from end to end and mimic giving a speech to hundreds or thousands of people. Make random stops if you can. Also, I’m in the vent housing on top of the middle building. You should see the vents open. That’s me. Look up here really quick and let me know if you see anything.”

  Morgan grabbed a scaffolding bar and walked up to the stage, laid it down right in the middle, looked up at John and shook his head.

  “Okay, good. Back to being boss man.”

  John moved the scope and glanced over the breezeway and still saw heavy foot traffic working its way into the park. He looked over at Frankie’s tent and saw a smoky gray haze coming from inside. He shook his head. Good old Frankie. He looked to Linda’s tent next door and saw Linda talking with several people outside her tent. She was apparently telling a story, as her audience had formed a semicircle around her, arms crossed, and were giving her their rapt attention while she animatedly waved her arms in the air. John saw a few of them shaking their heads, mouths open.

  He worked his view north across the water. Several pleasure craft were out and about, some stationary, while others were gliding across the water, towing skiers and inner tubers behind them. Most boats were of average size, enough to accommodate five persons, some with cabins, some without, but most of them possessed bikini-clad women and tan muscled men, all with red cups in their hands.

  One of the boats caught John’s attention. It was a larger boat, maybe twice as big as the others currently on the water and was painted an out-of-place white and blue. It looked like it should be painted steel gray or matte black. It didn’t look like any other pleasure craft John had ever seen and it had some sort of contraption on the deck covered by a canvas tarp. He could see a couple of men wearing vintage Hawaiian shirts and cargo shorts. One man was standing on the port side staring out to the park, hands firmly wrapped around binoculars. He was heavyset, a bit shorter than John and had the reddest hair and mutton-chop beard John had ever seen. It was even redder than Morgan’s hair when his wasn’t died pink. He had his Hawaiian shirt open and was wearing nothing underneath, his middle-aged belly sticking out a bit over khaki cargo shorts. Like John, he was scanning the crowd, working his way north to south then back again, even checking out the ports and piers with their steel appendages.

  John spoke into his collar. “Hey, Morg, where you at?” He used the scope to break from the boat and glance at the stage. Morgan wasn’t anywhere near it.

  He was about to speak again when he heard Morgan come up in his ear. “Here, John. What’s up?”

  “Where’s here?”

  “Frankie’s tent.” John moved the scope over and saw Morgan facing him, middle finger pointed right at himself.

  “Same to you. Hey, time to put your Special Forces knowledge to the test.” John moved the scope back out to the water, and saw the large boat moving towards the south end of the park. He didn’t know much about boating, but he assumed the boat would turn north. “There’s a large boat…I don’t know…maybe seventy feet in length…at the south end of the park, then straight out. It looks like an odd pleasure boat with some shady looking dudes on it. Can you work your way to the water’s edge and take a look?”

  “On it.” Morgan headed out.

  John followed Morgan’s movements as he took his time toward the south end of the park, checking out men’s asses as he did.

  “Hey, do you think you could put some pep in that step? I don’t know how long that boat is going to be there,” John said into his mic.

  “Sorry, Hetebro. I’ve got to check the goods on a potential Mr. McGregor,” Morgan said. The further he got, the more John could hear static in his earpiece.

  Morgan reached the south end and John saw him climb a small rock outcropping to get a better view. Morgan brought the binoculars up to his eyes. John shifted his focus to where the boat was last seen and saw that it had turned around to face north. “You see that large boat at the south end?” he said to Morgan. “It’s the second furthest south.”

  “Yeah, I see it. You were right. Its white and blue paint is out of character.”

  “What is it?”

  “Looks like…trol…boat.” Morgan’s transmission was mostly static now.

  “Morgan. Say again. I’m getting static.” John kept switching his scope from Morgan to the boat, both maintaining their current position.

  “…ooks like…trol…oat.” John still couldn’t make it out. The chubby redhead guy was leaning down by the canvas tarp while another man was bent down on the opposite side. This man had full Slavic features and a bushy mustache. Both men reminded John of extras in a Ron Jeremy porn video. They both stood up and the canvas fell off, revealing a large black water cannon.

  John looked back down to Morgan, but he wasn’t there. “Morgan, you there?”

  No response.

  “Morgan! How do you copy?”

  John heard nothing but static for several seconds. Morgan must have been trying to say something to John, but nothing came through.

  John looked back out at the water, but the boat wasn’t there. Instead, there were the remnants of a wake, as if the boat had just left. He followed the wake trail as it headed north, saw the stern of the boat, then the whole thing. The boat was almost to the north end of the park and almost out of view, as it would be passing behind several trees in the park and a few skyscrapers. He had about five seconds left before it would disappear to the north, so he put the scope back to his eye to try and get one more glimpse of it. He found it and held it for about one second before it left his field of vision and went out of view. He wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn the men now had on dark gray camouflage uniforms and were putting on gas masks. He then saw two police patrol boats moving in the same direction.

  * * *

  Marty took the boat due north at top speed, and, as he did, Redmond looked back to see two police boats take notice. The one furthest south had left the college kids alone, turned, and taken off after them. They must have radioed to the north police boat, as Redmond saw it accelerate perpendicular to them and then come in at an angle.

  “Marty, how much longer?” Redmond yelled into the cabin.

  “About thirty seconds!” Marty yelled back.

  “All right guys, mask up! It’s show time! Marty, when we get to the point, slow it down, and bring us to the east, then due south. I want these police boats to have time to catch up to us and get behind us!” Redmond yelled, trying to be heard over the boat’s engine.

  Wolf grabbed the masks and tossed one to Redmond and then one to Bandit, who was prepping the SMAW. He then walked into the cabin and gave one to Marty.

  Redmond looked back, saw both pol
ice boats next to each other, pursuing them, now with their blue lights on. He could see the driver of the nearest boat holding up a mic, but he couldn’t hear what he was saying over the loudspeaker.

  Redmond felt the boat slow and knew it was time. He walked to the cannon, removed the safety, and held tight onto the handles of the gun. His heart rate picked up, the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

  He smiled and felt the boat turn to the right, hug the coast, and straighten out. Then Marty took the boat at full speed, heading south. It reminded him of an airliner taxiing down the runway, getting the green light for liftoff, then turning, and taking off.

  As the boat sped south, he glanced toward the stern and saw the police boats, in hot pursuit now. That’s when he heard the whoomp sound of the SMAW as Bandit fired a rocket. It left a smoke trail toward the nearest police boat and then he saw a ball of flame behind him.

  Redmond looked at the park, where thousands of people were out and about. A gust of wind picked up at his back as the boat slowed.

  Go time.

  He pulled both triggers.

  * * *

  John scanned to the left and right, looking for the boat, its last wake fading just before the tree line. “Morgan, you copy?”

  Morgan responded right away. “I’m here. Back at the tent.”

  “Did you see that boat?”

  “Yep. Looked like a decommissioned patrol boat that had a new civilian coat of paint.”

  John thought about that black water cannon and the men now in camo. He said, “What does a patrol boat do?”

  “Depends. You can either patrol a coast or use it to strafe a coastline with firepower. Depends on how it’s equipped.”

  “Okay. I might be seeing shit, but I thought I saw some dudes wearing gas masks.”

  Morgan didn’t respond right away. “Gas masks, John?”

  “Affirmative. And they changed into gray camo or coveralls or something.”

  “And? Maybe they’re utility workers or something. Sewage and shit and all that. Who cares?” Morgan didn’t sound convinced.