by Terry James
“No, Randy, I don’t think I do.”
“He’s more than just some kid out to climb the mountain just because it’s there. At least, that’s my perception of the guy.”
“You think he’s got an ulterior motive for taking them into the mountain?”
“Don’t know what it is, exactly, Chris. Just seems more…experienced…than some young man out to see how many peaks he can climb.”
“All I know is that he –along with that dog—saved Clark’s life. And, it was you and I who talked the boy into sticking around. He was ready to go back to jolly old England, remember?”
“Yeah. I know,” Prouse said, letting the rest of his thought go unsaid, but wishing he could find a way to learn more about one Nigel Saxton.
“It sure isn’t very pretty,” Cassie Lincoln said 10 minutes later, while she and Kristi tried on the red, lightweight goose-down and miracle-fiber ski suits.
“Mine isn’t exactly something Tyra Banks or Heidi Klum would wear, either,” Kristi offered.
“And, they expect us to wear these?”
Cassie held out another garment – an off-white pair of large stretch pant-like trousers--while she asked the question.
Kristi said, “Nigel wants to be –what do you call it? Camouflaged—as much as possible. The off-white will do that in the snowy areas, once we get through the mountain, he said.”
Both girls checked the rest of the things from the shopping trip paid for by Christopher Banyon.
“Are you scared, Krissie?”
Cassie posed the question while plopping on the bed, and, resting on her elbows, held for examination another less-than-attractive piece of apparel at her fingertips.
“Yes. I’m scared, Cass,” Kristi said, turning sideways to look in the long mirror inside the closet wall.
“Krissie…What do you think…about the religious stuff? You know, the prayer that Mrs. Lansing…Susie…prayed for our safety?”
“What do you mean? She just thought it was the thing to do, I guess.”
“Do you think there’s anything to that stuff--you know, Christianity? Jesus, and all of that?”
“Well, I’ve been a Catholic since I was born. They christened me when I was a baby. Yes. I suppose I believe in that sort of thing,” Kristi said, moving to her bed to pick out another of the pieces of apparel she had purchased earlier that morning.
“David really does believe.”
“What do you mean, ‘really believes’?”
“He says Jesus is the only way to salvation, you know, to God, and Heaven.”
Kristi said nothing but stood before the mirror after trying on the hooded waist-coat, then looking again to the mirror.
“He says that…the Lord will protect us. “
“Yeah, but, I’m hoping that the guys will do their parts in that,” Kristi said, frowning --unhappy with the reflection she saw in the mirror.
Randall Prouse was in a stew about things. He looked out the French doors of Christopher and Susie’s room, past the balcony to the forested area in the distance.
Christopher talked with the three younger men.
“Are you sure you want to take those girls? Just seems like a thing best not to do.”
“They insist, Chris. They’re healthy –and in shape. We will take care of them,” Clark Lansing said. “Morgan will want her friends with her.”
Christopher said nothing, but harbored trepidation about their chances for success in finding the Lansings then getting out of the mountainous areas--areas Nigel Saxton had painted as rugged in some places.
“Well, I’m irritated, don’t mind telling you,” Prouse said, turning from gazing at the wooded region that led to the foot of the mountain.
“You want those girls to go with you. Yet you don’t want me along.”
“You know why, Grandpa,” David Prouse said, shaking his head and grinning.
“Yeah. Too old…” Prouse stated his self-assessment with disgust.
“We’re getting just a little beyond the years for such adventures,” Christopher mused. He patted the archaeologist’s shoulder.
“Well, I don’t feel too old,” Randall said, but was resigned to the fact he wasn’t welcome on the trip.
“Those girls will give a good account of themselves,” Susie said. “Remember, Randy, I used to go with you guys.”
“Yeah. And we were glad you were there, right, Chris,” Prouse said with a chuckle.
“When will you leave?” Christopher asked Nigel Saxton.
“Just before dark will be best, I think,” the Brit said. “That should put us at the other end of the tunnel sometime around daybreak. Still give us a few hours of sleep.”
The NORAD complex, 7:10 the same evening
“Lloyd Craxford is dead,” April Warmath said upon entering George Jenkins’ office. “He lived less than five minutes when they picked him up on the T-Pad. But, it put him back together nicely. The dog did quite a number on him, though. They aren’t sure yet whether it was the dog attack or the RAPTURE that was what caused death.”
“Just as well,” the black ops chief grumbled. “He failed miserably. I would have probably killed him, myself.”
Jenkins watched the monitors against the big wall to the left of the desk. The screens displayed the cavernous, half-oval room. Two monitors specifically homed in on the two “guests” who had been brought there for purposes of “assisting their country.” Jenkins let the calming thought of Mark and Lori Lansing’s fate run through his mind. Their son had gotten away. They and their daughter wouldn’t get away--not until they were finished with them.
“What about the boy, the Lansing guy?” Jenkins asked, then sipped from a spoonful of soup from the bowl that sat on the pull-out tray just above the desk’s top left drawer.
“He wasn’t hit by any of Craxford’s fire,” she said, walking behind the desk. She stood beside the chair and massaged Jenkins back and shoulders while he continued to watch the monitors.
“I told you… you should have let them take care of him. He knows a lot about things here. If the memories all come back, he can be a problem.”
Jenkins slammed the spoon into the half-full bowl, swearing and standing after rolling back in the swivel chair.
“We’ve got his sister, his parents. He’s not going to go to his reporter friends. Not as long as we have them.”
Jenkins walked within several feet of the monitor that showed a close-up of Lori Lansing. She laid face up, her eyes closed, with a surgical mask and headdress that allowed only her eyes and parts of her cheeks to show.
“Collection of the woman’s material should complete the gathering necessary to assure the child’s DNA regime has what is required. What then?”
“They haven’t made me privy to the next step in the process,” Jenkins said, sipping from a cup April handed him several seconds earlier.
“They just tell me it will be unlike any human who’s ever walked Planet Earth.”
Mark sat with his wrists and ankles shackled. He had been in this position somewhere within the complex of corridors since Lori had been taken from him. He had struggled and was injected with an infuser gun of some sort. It had immobilized him but allowed his thoughts to remain cogent.
His questions to his guards the few times they had come into the small room had been ignored. Where was Lori? Where was his daughter? When would he see them?
The men, all in black uniforms –jumpsuits with strange insignias at the left shoulder—acted as if they hadn’t heard his words. They wore the dark goggles, and he was just as glad. The memory of the eyes –the soulless, nonhuman eyes, black and glistening, haunted him. These were the monsters that had his wife –his daughter.
He had prayed, as hard as he had ever prayed. His faith, he thought, was strong. But, it was wavering, and he had to do something to free himself, to get Lori and Morgan, and--with the help of God—get out of this devilish place that was devoid of all that was human.
The wall tha
t was the door slid apart and three men entered. Two of the men were his keepers. The third man, wearing a dark red jumpsuit, was taller. Mark was almost comforted by the fact the third one didn’t wear the ominous goggles, and that the eyes looked human.
“Mr. Lansing,” the man in red said, smiling. “Sorry for the restraints. We simply can’t have disruption within the facility. The work here is critical. We hope you will understand once you are informed.”
The man gestured to the guards to remove the shackles.
“Your wife and daughter are unharmed, I assure.”
“If everything is just fine, why wasn’t I allowed to go with Lori? Why haven’t we been allowed to see our daughter?”
The man held his hands up for calm while the guards lifted Mark by his biceps to his feet. “All will be explained, Mr. Lansing, I promise. You and your family are part of things that will mean a bright future for your fellow countrymen, for all of mankind.”
His questions would be fruitless, Mark determined. He would play along –await his opportunity.
“Ours is a glorious mission, Mr. Lansing,” the man said while walking from the room, then down the long corridor with Mark by his side. The two guards shadowed them just behind.
“The language of fanaticism,” Mark thought, listening to the young man. “Language of the brain-washed…”
George Jenkins had said little while they traveled at a rapid clip along the monorail. April Warmath thought it best to leave the black ops chief to the thought she knew was on his mind.
They couldn’t blame him for the failure of the operative who missed offing Lansing. Besides, they needed him –George Jenkins—to complete the things they were set on accomplishing. They could find no one else as dedicated as himself to seeing that mission through to its completion.
The light of the tunnel ceiling seemed to stream into the top of the conveyance from its origination point far ahead while the glass-surrounded tram sped toward the valley. He was anxious to see the progress of the Imperatives they intended to accomplish in the lab, the laboratory that was not man-made whose fabulous advancements were beyond man’s capability. Beyond man’s comprehension, for that matter. He had never even been to the facility; had never even been allowed access.
But, he–George Jenkins—knew, at least much more than any other human, about the Imperatives.
The infants within the fluid were growing at phenomenal rates. The last of the genetic factors was about to be introduced into the subjects of the Imperatives. Excitement raged within the DOD covert operations chief. His position –in practice—was at a height never before achieved by a mere mortal. He was far beyond being head of a top-secret American Defense mission, or even a joint Amero-EU Defense mission. George Jenkins was the key to their plans for mankind’s future. He was indispensable because of the time factor. They wanted no delays in bringing the subjects of their plans to full growth in preparation to fulfill their destinies. These plans went exponentially past Project Scotty, past the BORG matters, and even beyond the RAPTURE technology.
“Something’s ahead, George,” April Warmath said, grabbing Jenkins’ right arm. “We’re going to hit it!”
The tram-car suddenly lost power and decelerated rapidly. The vehicle glided to a groaning halt within 20 seconds. They came to a stop just in front of three tall, thin human-like forms that seemed to hover just above the polished steel monorail.
All looked identical –the triune representatives of those who held his future, and who held in their power all of humankind’s destiny.
The middle figure emerged, seeming to float in front of the broad windshield. The thin line of a mouth upon the colorless face didn’t move. But Jenkins heard the thoughts while he stared at the large black eyes that looked as if they consisted of viscous, partly congealed liquid.
“George Jenkins. Your failure to eliminate the younger Lansing male has created complications.”
A chill ran through the black ops chief while the girl clung painfully to his arm, her fingers digging into his flesh through the lab attire. He started to speak, but the thing’s thoughts preempted him.
“The one called Clark Lansing even now moves where they cannot be intercepted. They will cause problems, if not destroyed.”
“But, they should present no problem to you, with your powers, and…”
Again, his words were interrupted by the white-haired figure’s thoughts.
“For now, the ones of Abbadon are neutralized, George Jenkins. Forces of antiquity oppose Abbadon’s Imperatives. The Lansing group must be dealt with by your human efforts. You created the disruption. You will deal with the matter.”
“Yes. Of course,” Jenkins stammered. “But, how? Where are they--this Lansing group?”
“If that were within our knowledge, we would not need pathetic human assistance.”
The form moved to stand again between the other two figures.
They said, as one, their warning echoing within his thoughts while their images and words faded, “Do not fail, George Jenkins. Do not fail.”
“Seems to me we might have come halfway,” Nigel Saxton said, shining the long flashlight –one of several he had purchased with Christopher Banyon’s money. The lights weren’t as strong as Zeke’s had been. But, he thought, he hadn’t been able to open that strange flashlight. It had no place to put batteries –at least none that he could locate. So, he couldn’t take a chance on using it on the return trip.
The five moved along the tunnel, all squeezing with relative ease through the smallest of the passages that they occasionally encountered. They had reached the point, Saxton recognized, that would require them to remove their backpacks, push the packs through the openings, then slither through the increasingly smaller openings to move further through the mountain.
The Brit wished the women hadn’t come. His training and experience with MI-7 had taught him one thing: western man would protect women in a crisis. If crisis came, it might be difficult enough to simply protect one’s self. Still, somehow, it seemed okay. The girls didn’t seem out of place. There had been no complaints. Both seemed in good condition for the trek.
But, now they faced the first test. Not for the girls, but for one particular member of the team.
“David, my friend,” the Brit said, stopping in front of the smallest of the tunnel passageways to that point. “This is going to be a bit tricky.”
The several flashlight beams focused on the hole through which they now must slither. All eyes studied the opening.
“Don’t think I can make it,” David Prouse said, seeing the hole in the base of the stone face that confronted them.
“Ah, yes. You will make it, my friend,” Nigel said. “Anyone have some grease?” The joke brought muffled snickers that didn’t change the looks of concern.
“I will go through first. Then the ladies. Then you, David. Mark, we might need you behind, to push.”
Saxton pushed all the packs through the opening. He then struggled through himself, having to put his arms straight out in front on the cave floor of packed earth. When he had cleared the hole, he moved the backpacks several meters along the tunnel.
Kristi Flannigan moved through the hole easily, her slim, athletic body scarcely touching the sides. Cassie Lincoln next snaked her way through, pulled gently by the Brit.
“Ah! Now for the engineering feat,” Saxton said, going to his pack and removing a sharp spade, which he unfolded so that its short handle gave him leverage needed to do the required work.
He dug into the cave floor, hoping the dirt was fairly thick. It was, and soon he had hollowed out a trench of 8 inches or more from his side of the hole, through its middle.
He handed the spade through to David Prouse. “Your turn, chap,” he said.
Within two minutes the trench extended well into Clark and David’s side of the tunnel.
David tried to move through flat on his belly, but his shoulders wouldn’t fit, even when making them as slim as possible by hol
ding his hands together, his arms as far outstretched as he could manage.
“Turn on your side. You should have room,” Mark said from behind.
When Prouse tried the maneuver, it worked, and Saxton, with the help of Clark pushing and Cassie tugging, succeeded in moving the 235-pound attorney through the opening.
“We should be clear from here,” Saxton said, when they had again strapped on their backpacks.
“Where’s Jeddy?”
Kristi’s question caused all eyes to begin to search the cavern ahead, with their flashlight beams following the dog’s paw prints into the distance.
“He’s our scout,” Nigel said. “He will be back. Another four and a half hours, I think, should do it,” the Brit said, leading the group in the direction of the rottweiler’s trail.
Christopher Banyon turned over first on his right side, then onto his left. He awoke from his restless sleep, felt for his wife to his left. Not finding her there, he sat up in the bed and turned on the lamp of the nightstand.
He swung his legs over the side of the mattress, his feet onto the carpet of the hotel room.
He looked around the room, then flipped the light on in the bathroom, whose door was open. He walked to the balcony and looked through the glass panels of the French doors. Susie sat in a double chair-swing, her feet curled beneath her, wrapped in a blanket. She was asleep. He opened the door and went to her, then touched her on the shoulder.
Susie awoke and tried to get her bearings. She smiled sleepily when she realized her husband was standing over her.
“It’s freezing out here, sweetheart. What are you doing out here?” Christopher helped her to her feet and held the blanket to her body while he led her back into the room.
“I was praying … about the kids,” she said, her thoughts still filled with drowsiness. She sat on the bed, shaking from the chill that saturated her body.
“Did you have to do it out there?” he asked, sitting beside her, then wrapping another cover, taken from the top of the closet, around her and trying to warm her with his own body heat.
