The Omega Command

by Jon Land

  Blaine was warned to back off and told the adjutant to stick a Huey up his ass. The Cong was the enemy, but they were also people and there were rules in the field that had to be obeyed. Forget them and something far more important than this war would be lost. It took a month, and the help of a crazy lieutenant who happened to be an American Indian, but he tracked down the unit responsible for Bin Su. It was under the command of Vernon Wells.

  Then Blaine made his only mistake. He should have killed Wells instead of turning him in. Or have let the lieutenant scalp him, as he had begged Blaine to let him do. As it was, the whole incident was covered up. The guilty unit was broken up, and Wells himself was discharged to the States. The Indian had never let him live that one down. Blaine seethed, but quietly. He had done everything he could.

  The van was moving. Wells handcuffed McCracken’s wrists and made sure all four guards held their weapons trained on him. Light in the van was sparse, but occasionally a streetlamp would spill onto the big man’s face and illuminate the slight grin lurking beneath his twisted features.

  “I always knew I’d get my shot at you,” he taunted.

  “Didn’t I see you in Phantom of the Opera?”

  Wells’s grin faded. “Your impetuousness surprises even me, McCracken. I told them all along that Scola couldn’t finish you. I knew she hadn’t even when the reports said otherwise. And when word came in about San Melas, I knew you’d be on board that plane.”

  “I guess I should be flattered. When do I get to find out where we’re going?”

  “We’re almost there.”

  “You work for Randall Krayman, don’t you, Wells? Or is your hairdresser the only one who knows for sure?”

  Wells’s hand lashed out fast; not the one holding the gun, but the other, appearing out of nowhere and knocking Blaine to the carpeted floor of the van. The blow was barely a graze, far more violence restrained than released, yet its effect was dizzying and sharp.

  “Can I take that as a yes?” Blaine asked.

  Wells remained silent and expressionless.

  “Isn’t this when you’re supposed to say I could make it easy on myself by spilling my guts now?”

  “Why should I bother?” Wells returned, words slurred noticeably. “You won’t talk now, and you probably won’t talk later. I know you well, McCracken, better than anyone else does probably. We’ve had a half-dozen chances to kill you that no other man could have slipped out of.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  Wells looked away as the van turned left and continued on for a mile or so, slowing up when it reached a spacious parking lot enclosing what looked to be a large Newport sports complex. Blaine made out tall, reflective letters on one of the buildings:

  JAI ALAI

  “We going to the matches?” Blaine asked.

  “They’re out of season,” Wells responded. “We’ve had to improvise.”

  “Save your money, friend,” Blaine told him. Then, in a whisper, “The sport’s rigged.”

  A demonic smile crossed the normal half of Wells’s face.

  “It is tonight.”

  They pushed Blaine from the van and shoved him along toward the entrance to the fronton. A man inside the lobby was holding one of the doors open. Blaine was led through them, by a row of admission windows, through a set of turnstiles, and into the deserted and dimly lit betting area.

  With Wells leading the way they moved into the lower tier of the most expensive seats and headed down the wide steps. Below, only the court lights were on, as if a heated match were going on, with many dollars riding on men with unpronounceable names. Blaine could almost imagine the cheers and boos. It would take an army the size of a capacity crowd to get him out of this now.

  A few seconds later an arm at each of his elbows guided him onto the smooth court surface and steered him toward the green front wall. The wall was made of granite and showed thousands of white splotches from the constant impacts of the rock-hard ball. Tonight something else had been added to its starkness.

  A pair of manacles.

  Wells stood back on the court floor as the handcuffs were removed from Blaine’s wrists and his arms shoved violently over his shoulders. The big man hung back as an unspoken warning: Subdue my men and you’ll still have me to deal with. Blaine let himself be moved. They shoved him backward and his boots clanged against the waist-high metal covering that indicated low shots to the audience with a similar clang when jai alai was in season. Blaine’s arms were stretched and his wrists locked in the manacles.

  For the first time that night he felt totally defeated. He had no chance of escape now unless he was somehow able to squeeze his hands through the manacles at the right moment, tearing flesh along the way. But he doubted he’d ever get a chance even for this dubious pleasure; Wells didn’t intend to take his eyes off him.

  “Why does your boss need two armies?” Blaine asked as they faced each other from twenty yards apart. His voice echoed metallically.

  “You have put the pieces together well,” Wells told him, his face trying for a grin. “Now you will tell me who you have met along the way who has been of service to you.”

  “Why does your boss need two armies?” Blaine repeated.

  “Tell me the trail you have followed.”

  “I work alone. You should remember that from ’Nam. Except for the Indian, of course.”

  Half of Wells’s face reddened. “We know you were in Paris. Who else are you working with? Who else have you alerted?”

  “You mentioned abort to the troops at the airfield tonight,” Blaine persisted. “Abort what?”

  “Why make things so difficult for yourself, McCracken?”

  “Two armies, Wells. What does Krayman need two armies for? Sahhan’s troops make perfect sense, though their connection with Krayman escapes me. But why the mercenaries? They don’t fit.”

  The big man just looked at him.

  “Unless the plan is to have them divide the country up equally, in which case—” Blaine suddenly realized the truth. “Krayman hired the mercenaries to destroy Sahhan’s troops. That’s it, isn’t it?”

  Wells’s silence provided an acknowledgment.

  “Why?” Blaine asked him.

  “You tell me.”

  “Sahhan’s people surprise the country with their Christmas Eve strike, wreaking chaos everywhere, financed by Krayman. Then the mercenaries move in to save the day and restore reasonable order, also financed by Krayman. It still doesn’t make sense.”

  “Because there’s something you’re missing,” Wells taunted him. “Something you’ll die without knowing.”

  “Since I’m going to die anyway, why not tell me?”

  “I’ve never gone in for melodrama and, besides, such important information would be wasted on a corpse.” Wells paused. “I’ll ask you one last time: where have you been and who have you seen since leaving the hospital?”

  McCracken clenched his teeth and looked at him.

  Wells turned away and nodded toward the players’ entrance onto the court. A man wearing a black practice shirt strolled out and tied a wicker cesta basket around his hand as he twisted his shoulders to loosen up.

  “Are you familiar at all with jai alai, McCracken?”

  “I’ve lost my share of money.”

  “I was speaking of the physical aspects,” Wells said. With that the player whipped his arm around and a white blur sped out from his cesta, smashing into the front wall with a crack ten feet to Blaine’s right. “The ball is called a pelota. It’s made of goatskin and has been known to travel at speeds exceeding one hundred eighty miles per hour.” The player retrieved the ball and sent it whipping out again, this time smacking ten feet to Blaine’s left. “This man’s name is Arruzi,” Wells continued. “He is known at the fronton not so much for speed as for accuracy.”

  Arruzi fired a shot from mid-court, scooped up the ball deftly on one bounce, and fired another. Both cracked home five feet from Blaine’s head. His ears hurt
from the sound. Arruzi was juggling the pelota about in his cesta.

  “Impact from a rock-hard ball at that pace will crush bones beyond repair,” Wells told him. “The pain, I’d imagine, would be extreme. Do you have any idea, McCracken, how many different targets the human body can be made into?”

  Arruzi fired again, low this time, a yard from Blaine’s right leg. The ball banged against the metal.

  “Tell me who you’ve reached, McCracken. Tell me who else knows anything about Christmas Eve, Sahhan, and San Melas.”

  Blaine feigned deep thought. “Key-wheel the seven in a trifecta and give me the four and one under it.”

  Wells nodded to Arruzi. The player whipped the pelota out sidearm on the forehand side. It cracked into the wall no more than a foot over Blaine’s head.

  “Impact there would kill you,” Wells reported. “But we can’t have that, can we? A few broken bones are in order first. After all the trouble you’ve caused us, you certainly deserve them.”

  “All right,” said Blaine, “just give me the five on top in the Daily Double.”

  Arruzi fired again, the white blur seeming to come straight at Blaine’s eyes, only to curve away and smack the wall six inches under his right arm.

  “My patience is growing thin, McCracken,” said Wells. “You are asking a lot of Arruzi’s aim. He could make a misjudgment at any time and strike you before I am ready for him to.”

  The pelota whirled at him again, this time under his left arm. Blaine flinched involuntarily and rose to his toes to stretch farther away from it. His heart thudded against his chest.

  “Who have you reached, McCracken?”

  “Okay, just give me a four-two quinella.”

  “I think a sample is in order. …”

  Arruzi unwound his arm more slowly. The pelota fluttered out, its motion clear instead of blurred, coming in low and straight. Blaine braced and squeezed his eyes closed.

  Impact would have doubled him over to the floor if he’d been able to fall. The slow-moving ball smashed into his stomach with a force greater than any he’d ever felt. He’d been stabbed once in the abdomen and that was the only sensation he could liken it to. His breath escaped in a rush and his chest heaved. He tried to inhale, but there was no air to grab, just a raging pain in his stomach as if a burning football were wedged inside. He kept heaving.

  The pelota rolled out between a pair of red lines used to denote legal serves, and Arruzi snatched it up in his cesta.

  “That was perhaps forty miles per hour,” Wells noted.

  “Impact against a rib even at that speed would lead to splintering, and perhaps a vital organ would be pierced. At a hundred and twenty miles per hour, well, the effects would be similar to jumping off a five-story building.” Blaine could tell the big man was enjoying this. There had never been any expectation that he’d talk, or that he’d have anything meaningful to say even if he did. This whole scene was being played out just for Wells’s sadistic pleasure.

  “Tell me about Paris, McCracken.”

  Blaine might have if he’d been able to find his breath. As it was, Arruzi’s arm was coming forward again, the motion itself a blur, and Blaine turned his head away.

  The pelota crashed between his spread legs, not six inches from his groin.

  “He was just measuring off distance with that one,” Wells explained. “Tell me who else knows about Christmas Eve.”

  Blaine caught his breath but didn’t speak.

  Arruzi twisted his cesta and whipped his arm forward again.

  Blaine saw the blur of the pelota coming straight for his groin and acted when it seemed impact was unavoidable. Using all the muscles in his arms and shoulders to gain leverage, Blaine hoisted his legs high and straight like a gymnast. His boots pounded the wall well above his manacled hands.

  The pelota cracked into the precise spot previously occupied by his groin.

  Blaine let his legs fall back down, his upper body a mass of fiery pain, ligaments and cartilage extended beyond their capacity.

  “I think we’ll go for your arm this time, McCracken,” Wells taunted. “No way to move that now, is there?” He hesitated. “Tell me about Paris.”

  Blaine just looked at him again. He felt the sweat sting his eyes and the taste of it was heavy on his lips.

  Wells nodded to Arruzi. The player went into his motion.

  Suddenly the lights in the fronton died, plunging the entire place into total darkness. Arruzi’s shot caromed into the side wall. Blaine felt the pelota whiz by him en route to the screen that protected fans from errant shots.

  Wells was shouting orders, but the darkness had confused him as well and the words came out totally slurred, barely understandable. Blaine seized the chance to free his hands. He’d begun yanking his arms, steel ripping at his skin, when he felt a pair of strong hands steady him. A key was inserted into one manacle, then into the other. In the darkness all Blaine could see was the unusual blue glow of the man’s luminous watch dial. His arms were pulled free of the unlocked slots.

  “Get out of here,” a voice whispered to him.

  The only illumination in the fronton was coming from two exit signs, and Blaine dashed toward one. Motion flashed before him as he neared the heavy doors and he felt the heat of a body, heard rapid breathing. The man was probably fumbling for a gun, when Blaine crashed into him and followed up with a set of crunching fists that pummeled the man to the floor.

  McCracken jumped over his downed body and crashed through the exit doors.

  He knew the echoing rattle would give him away and didn’t even bother to look back as he sped into the cold night with only his green fatigues and shirt to shield him against the bitterly frigid air. His stomach still ached horribly and felt like it was being kicked every time his right leg landed. He had emerged at the rear of the building and headed back toward the front, toward the main road on which he’d been brought in.

  Doors slammed closed and orders were shouted behind him. He’d been spotted, and the men from inside the fronton were giving chase.

  Bullets sailed through the air from behind as the men rushed in his tracks. Hitting a moving target while moving yourself was virtually impossible even for the best shot, especially at night. This comforted Blaine, but he knew it was only a matter of time, and not much of it, before their superior numbers wore him down. Staying ahead of their bullets wasn’t enough. He had to escape them altogether.

  The gates leading into the fronton complex had been closed and chained. Blaine rushed at them and scaled the fence to the top. He pulled himself over as bullets whizzed through the air on all sides of him. His poor-fitting army boots would start slowing him down now, and that was the last thing he could afford. He ran up the road the van had come down and prayed for a vehicle with a sympathetic driver or an unsympathetic one he could overcome.

  The sky was still pitch black with dawn more than an hour away. Good. Darkness was his ally. It significantly reduced the advantage of the opposition’s superior numbers.

  Blaine stayed off the road and ran along its bushy side. The darkness was even deeper here, unbroken by the spill of streetlamps. He’d be harder to spot. A car’s headlights caught him briefly as it swung around a corner. Blaine raced to cut off its angle, flailing with his arms.

  “Hey! Hey!”

  The car swerved to avoid him and kept right on going. To his rear Blaine heard shouts and screams. He had been spotted by at least two of Wells’s men. The advantage again swung to them.

  He angled back into the brush by the roadside and kept following its course. So long as he stayed out of sight he had a chance. Another few hundred yards and he’d reach Route 114, a main road certain to be reasonably traveled even at this hour. One of the cars on it would provide his escape.

  Forty yards up ahead McCracken caught the flash of movement on his side of the road. A gun barrel catching the spill of a streetlight. It came again and he stopped in his tracks, aware now of rustling sounds to his rear. They
had him boxed in.

  Blaine saw a car—no, a truck—bank into the curve before him. The truck was ablaze with lights and it was his last chance. He rushed into the street just as it swung over the slight rise and stood directly in its path. The screech of tires and squeal of brakes attracted Blaine’s pursuers to his position, and they could see him in the truck’s headlights. Their guns shattered the air and the truck swerved to avoid hitting Blaine.

  “You crazy bastard!” the driver shouted as he skidded to a near halt by the shoulder.

  Blaine was crazy, crazy enough to rush toward the pickup and grab hold of its side as the driver churned dust behind him. It was a few seconds after taking off again that the driver noticed Blaine’s figure hanging at his side, feet dragging dangerously close to the road, and started to apply the brakes again.

  The truck’s progress still carried it well beyond Wells’s men who were giving chase. They quickened their stride when they saw the pickup’s brake lights flash once more.

  “You fuckin’ crazy bastard!” the hefty driver roared, and he lunged with a pipe wrench, intent on burying it in the bizarre hitchhiker’s skull.

  He never even got it started forward.

  A stray bullet from one of the pursuer’s guns caught him square in the chest and flattened him. Blaine went for the cab in a crouch with bullets ricocheting wildly around him, coughing up metallic splinters from the truck. He swung himself inside and was revving the engine even before the door closed behind him. A quick shift into first and he screeched away, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake to swallow his pursuers.

  Blaine didn’t have time to manage a 180, so he kept the pickup in the direction it was already headed—down the road past the fronton. Apparently, none of Wells’s men had hung back and there were no barricades. Blaine started to relax. Then, as he neared a point where the road forked, he saw two cars speeding from the right. Blaine swung the truck sharply to the left and watched the cars in his rear-view mirror spin around to give chase.