Summers shrugged. “That’s far above my pay grade.”
She reminds me of someone, Skull thought. Spooky. She’s casually confirmed the rumors, too. A small minority of Edens don’t get the virtue effect. Maybe if they’re already sociopaths, they stay that way. I’ll have to keep that in mind. She won’t actually care about the girls. It’s all an act.
“But back to our discussion,” said Summers. “The girls are well treated and there’s no reason for you to be concerned.”
“I’m here to see them.”
She nodded. “I was told it would be allowed under certain conditions.”
“What conditions?”
“First, you will not refer to them as relatives or indicate in any way that you know who they are. I will introduce you as Thomas, an old friend of mine who is visiting from out of state. You will not touch them, you will not ask them anything more than superficial questions. You will at all times follow my lead.”
“I’m not sure I can remember all these rules.”
“This is not a game. If you create a scene, they will be the ones who suffer. As you will see in a moment, they are happy and well cared for.”
“Until I fail to do exactly what your boss wants. Then you brutalize them in retaliation.”
Summers’s smile never wavered. “That’s not my concern. My job is to care for them now.”
One of the other agents interrupted. “We’re under strict orders to limit this visit to no more than a half hour. We’ll need to be out of here soon.”
“Want to meet the girls?” asked Summers with a strangely giddy voice and smile.
“Lead on,” said Skull.
They walked down a narrow hallway to a playroom at the other end of the house. As they approached, Skull could hear the unmistakable sound of cartoons from a television.
“Girls,” Summers said. “I’d like you to say hello to Thomas, an old friend of mine.”
Three little sets of eyes looked at him curiously. The oldest girl might have been ten and was reading a book. The next seemed a few years younger and was in the midst of building a structure with blocks. The youngest played with several dolls. None of them seemed to be interested in the television.”
“Hello, girls,” said Skull trying to put on a kid-friendly smile. He had no idea if he was succeeding. Friendly expressions weren’t his strong suit. He didn’t have much experience with children, and he found these three made him oddly nervous.
“Hello,” they said in near unison, only the youngest even looking at him.
“Can you tell me your names?”
“Of course we can, silly,” said the oldest, this time turning to look.
“I’m Samantha,” said the youngest, walking over to him and holding up a doll. “This is Charlotte, but not like the spider in Charlotte’s Web. She’s a girl.”
“Ah...I can see that,” said Skull, mystified.
“She likes to sing,” Samantha said. She began singing, though Skull had no idea what.
“Don’t be rude, girls,” said Summers. “Please introduce yourself.”
The older girl with blond hair put her book down and waved vaguely in Skull’s direction. “Hi. I’m Allison.”
“I’m Danielle,” said the middle girl, carefully setting a block on an already architecturally unstable tower of wooden pieces.
“Thomas and I are going to go talk in the dining room, girls,” Summers said.
“When’s dinner?” asked Samantha. “Charlotte’s hungry.”
“In a little bit, dear. Once my friend leaves, we’ll eat.”
“Can we have grilled cheese? That’s Charlotte’s favorite.”
“You had grilled cheese for lunch today,” Summers said.
“Pleeeease.” Samantha drew out the word for at least three full seconds.
“I tell you what. I’ll make some broccoli and if you eat a good bit of that, you and Charlotte can have grilled cheese.”
“Thank you,” Samantha squealed, hugging Summers on her leg.
“And now we have to go. Say goodbye to Thomas.”
“Bye, Mister Thomas,” she said before running back to plop down on a pile of pillows.
“Bye,” Skull said, looking them over a little longer.
“This way.” Summers gestured. Skull led the way and she followed. “Satisfied?”
“How can you do this?” Skull asked.
“What do you mean?”
He pointed back toward the room with the girls. “Take care of them. Raise them. Care for them, knowing what Vergone might do to them?”
“He would do that with or without me. My job is to care for them the best I can while they are in my charge. If I have to kill them, at least they had this.”
“You’re one sick bitch.” Skull stared at Summers, who returned his look without flinching.
“Sticks and stones. Would it be better if I felt bad about killing them?”
“It would be better if you didn’t kill them at all.”
“I read your file, Mister Denham. They don’t call you ‘Skull’ merely for your forbidding face. You have at least a hundred kills to your credit. I admire that.”
“You should…but none of them were innocent children.”
“Semantics.”
“That’s where we differ.”
Skull’s minder moved toward them from the end of the hall. “I think it’s time we go.”
Skull allowed himself to be led to the van, where he was handcuffed and hooded again. This time, he didn’t banter with his captors.
He had a lot to think about.
***
A man who went by the code name Dorian looked though his binoculars down from the wooded hilltop toward the undistinguished tract home. Big house, small lot, he thought. Six feet from your wall to the neighbor’s. Might as well get a duplex and save yourself some money.
He saw the black van with the government plates pull out of the driveway and head in the direction of the nearest freeway. Why would Denham be visiting an FBI safe house?
Cassandra Johnstone had assigned him and his team to shadow Skull while in the U.S. It had not always been an easy task, such as when the tall man had parked his bugged car and hopped onto the Metro, but Dorian had managed to get one of his people onto the train. That had allowed the team to reacquire their target and continue the surveillance.
Was Skull working with the FBI? If so, why?
Dorian decided to make this a flash priority report to his boss. Whatever Skull was doing, he wasn’t supposed to be talking to their common enemy, the government of the United States.
Chapter 22
Anson crept through the dense underbrush, pushing limbs aside in the darkness. Mosquitoes buzzed around his head as he crawled forward as quietly as possible until he could see the target in front of them.
A large open field lay surrounded by extended rolls of concertina wire. Trucks and thick rubber bladders holding aviation fuel were set in the middle of the field, and panels and markers designated the helicopter landing zones spread out around them like the sections of a clock. Although the trucks were lit, Anson pulled out his night vision goggles and peered carefully around the perimeter. It appeared there were only the dozen or so soldiers gathered around the large tent near the fuel trucks.
Anson crawled slowly backward toward the rest of the detachment. They were all tired and hungry, frankly ready to leave Louisiana, but first they had a mission to perform: take out the main forward area refueling point of the 101st Air Assault Division. Without their FARP, their main source of refueling, they couldn’t travel very deeply into Texas. If they went anyway and used it all, they might not be able to get back out.
The mission was Toombs’ brainchild, a crazy, risky proof of concept. Anson knew he’d been seeking an assignment for the special Eden detachment for weeks¸ but no one seemed sure what to do with them.
Objections about their ability to engage in combat because of the virtue effect were the most common, but also
there was the question of food. There was a rumor going around that the Free Communities had made a breakthrough, creating a new strain of the virus that didn’t cause the voracious, pointless appetite, but that might be mere wishful thinking.
So Toombs was looking for some way to prove their worth, and this mission would do it…or get the concept killed, and them along with it.
“Rainchild,” challenged a hissed voice in the darkness.
“Autumn,” Anson responded with the password.
“This way,” said Toombs.
Anson crawled forward into their small triangular perimeter, set around a natural bowl in the ground. Each of three squads had one side. A machinegun on a tripod covered each point. He made his way to the center and knelt with Toombs and the other two squad leaders.
“What do we have?” asked Toombs, using a red-lens flashlight under the cover of a poncho drawn over all of them.
Anson drew a quick sketch in the dirt using a stick. “Looks like it’s the FARP, just where the reports indicated.”
“Security?”
“Only a concertina fence line as best I could tell. Large open landing zones around the refuel trucks and bladders, and a big sleep tent, plus a small one that’s probably the company TOC. Only a few guards: two by the fuel, two by the tents. Not very alert, easy to spot.”
“They’re not expecting anyone to attack them. Not this deep into Louisiana.”
“We should circle around and recon from another angle,” said one of the other squad leaders. “Just to be sure.”
“Would take too much time,” said Toombs. “We need to be humping our way back toward the border well before sunrise. Surprise will have to be enough. If we’re lucky, we’ll be extracting when the demo blows and they won’t know what hit them.”
The three squad leaders waited for the combat veteran to give them further direction.
“Anson, your squad will be the support element, on overwatch. Move to a good vantage point near here,” he pointed to a spot representing a low rise, “and lay down suppressive fire if it comes to an assault. Also, take out any reinforcements.”
“Roger that, Sergeant.”
Toombs turned to Kell and Stone. “Your two teams are with me. Once we get to the objective, I’ll rig demo, blow the fuel and get out of there. If the shit hits the fan, you assault forward and get me to those gas tanks. We’ll rally here before hurrying back to Texas and all the beer you can drink. Everyone understand?”
They all nodded.
Toombs looked at his watch. “You got exactly ten minutes to go brief your people, and then start moving out to your positions.”
Anson moved quietly to his right where his squad was spread out in a line.
“What’s going on?” asked Rachel. His other team chief, Brian, came up beside her.
“We’re the support team.” Anson pulled out a poncho and repeated Tombs’ briefing beneath it.
Rachel snarled, “Crap. Why do we never get the action?”
“Just focus on what we have to do. Each of you, leave one person to guard the rally point. Brief your people; have them eat and drink if they can. We’re going to be moving fast to get out of here once the shooting is over. The op starts in eight minutes.”
They both vanished into the darkness and Anson could hear faint whispering. He forced himself to eat some of the compact high-calorie energy bars all the Edens carried. He wasn’t hungry, but knew he would be soon. It was best to get ahead of the cravings, especially if there was a chance of being wounded.
Anson looked at his watch and saw it was time. He peered at Toombs in the dim darkness and received a thumbs-up. “Let’s go. Follow me. I’ve already scouted out a good position.”
Anson led them back to his earlier observation point. It was a low hill with a clear vantage above the giant open field. The space below was bounded by the ring of concertina wire fifty meters from the wood line surrounding the fields. The fuel trucks sat in the middle of it all.
“Why can’t we just shoot the trucks from here and blow them up?” Rachel asked him.
Anson shook his head. “That only works in movies. Aviation fuel is a form of kerosene, which isn’t even as flammable as gasoline. Neither are explosive, only the vapors. Besides, remember we’re shooting the SAM rounds the Free Communities shipped to Texas. They’re made of ceramic. They won’t even penetrate the thin metal of the tanks. Toombs has to use the demo.”
“Sometimes I think you guys just like blowing shit up,” she said.
Anson didn’t argue with her. He crawled up and down the line, making sure all his people were in good positions to provide covering fire. He also reminded them not to fire unless he ordered, or unless the other two teams started taking fire. They nodded at his words, with big eyes and eager smiles. None of them had actually been in combat. All of them wanted to prove themselves.
He understood that feeling, but he no longer felt it himself. Not since the night his brother Kevin died, the night the man withe the face like a skull had saved his life.
The night he’d understood that war wasn’t really fun or glorious, only sometimes necessary.
Anson placed himself in the middle of the line and used his night vision goggles. He watched Toombs leading a dispersed formation of troops toward the wire barrier.
Once there, they began to carefully cut through the wire, vigilant for any booby traps or trip flares.
Holding his breath, Anson watched as the wire separated into pieces and they pushed it to either side. Toombs walked through, and the rest of the two squads began to follow, single file. After passing the obstacle, they spread out in a line again on the other side.
That’s going to be a problem getting away, Anson realized. They’ll have to go out single file as well, possibly while under fire. But the alternative is to make a larger hole, adding risk of activating any tripwires. It was standard practice to rig flash-bangs and pop flares at any barrier.
They were all almost past, when someone snagged his uniform on the wire, probably trying to go through too quickly. Instead of taking his time and unhooking the wire, the figure dragged a long section of wire out of place.
There came a soft popping noise, followed by a whizzing sound. The night sky lit brightly as a high-intensity flare floated downward, suspended by a small parachute.
“Uh oh,” said Rachel, much too loudly.
“Assault!” screamed Toombs, and the two squads rushed forward, firing.
Anson didn’t need the night vision goggles any longer. Soldiers began stumbling out of the tents, to see the line of attackers less than a football field length from them. Gunfire lit the night, and enemy troops scattered or dove for the dirt. Many obviously didn’t even have weapons with them.
Thirty seconds later, Toombs reached the fuel, and one of his two squads turned in a firing line to attack the tents. The other spread out, guarding their leader as he set the explosive charges.
“Suppressive fire!” ordered Anson. His team began shooting at the defenders near the tents, who were beginning to get organized and return fire at the enemies in their midst.
As an Eden, he did as Toombs had trained him, visualizing each figure in his sights as nothing more than a target on the range. Combined with the knowledge that he was firing less-lethal SAM rounds, he was able to put aside his emotions and do his job. He hated to imagine he might actually kill scared and confused people just roused from sound sleep.
Anson saw several dozen defenders flee flat-out toward the woods, most unarmed. Despite their numbers, the shock and fright of being surprised in the middle of the night by determined attackers had broken their will. “Cease fire! Cease fire!” he ordered. He didn’t want to shoot their own people by accident.
He heard shouts and a few more isolated shots, but the firefight itself had effectively ended. By the dwindling light of the flare, he could see Toombs rigging demo charges and attaching them to the fuel trucks.
Suddenly there came a loud rumbling noise f
rom the far edge of the open field. The sound grew louder.
“What the hell is that?” asked Rachel.
Anson didn’t have time to answer before they heard a heavy hammering sound, accompanied by lighter machinegun fire. Flashes of flame five yards long lit the night. Edens below began to spin and fall as they were gunned down.
The rumbling became louder and Anson could see four Bradley infantry fighting vehicles mounting 25mm electrically fired guns – rolling forward from under camouflaged netting, their turrets sweeping the field for targets.
Anson felt the blood drain from his face. “Oh shit! Engage the Bradleys. We need to distract them.”
His people did as he instructed, but their rifle fire did nothing to harm the armored vehicles.
“Get out of there,” Anson hissed, wondering why the Edens below weren’t fleeing. He saw Toombs still rigging the demo charges.
“He’s trying to complete the mission,” said Rachel from beside him. “Damn fool!” She fired her rifle in the direction of the Bradleys.
One of the turrets turned their way and heavy burst of automatic gunfire raked their position. Anson heard cries of pain. He was about to ask who was hurt when he felt a warm pool underneath him. He looked down to see a hole in his side the size of a golf ball. One of the heavy rounds had gone completely through the ground on which they lay and up through him before exiting into the sky.
Shock threatened to cause him to pass out, and he pressed his fingers painfully into the wound, crying out in agony. He felt the skin knitting back together and the blood flow slowing. Anson knew limiting his blood loss was critical. The Eden virus was miraculous at healing tissue damage, but could do nothing about fluid loss.
“Help me with a field dressing,” he gasped.
Rachel swore, and then stuffed one heavy gauze pad into Anson’s wound before wrapping the cloth tails of another around the mess and tying it off. “Here, eat,” she said, handing him a ration bar.
The fire from the Bradleys died down. Anson could see the field littered with motionless Eden bodies, and parts of bodies.
Apocalypse Austin Page 19
