by Calvin Wolf
Chapter Four
1
The train sat silently on the outskirts of Alpine, Texas, appearing for all intents and purposes to be a run-of-the-mill freight train. Behind the locomotive, however, several pressurized canisters of liquid nitrogen fed tubes and pipes into a series armored cars. These cars, despite sitting in the heat of Texas in August, were positively frosty. Anyone driving past on Highway 67 would be taken aback if they noticed the chain of frozen train cars, but few drivers were so observant. Many travelers on 67 were tourists heading home to the bigger cities of Texas, eager to start a new school year after taking a brief vacation in the Davis Mountains.
The specialized cars, which had been hastily outfitted by the U.S. Army in New Mexico, had been coupled to a Home Guard supply train, a holdover from the previous president’s militarized administration, and sent to await a very sensitive cargo. Standing near the train, appearing to be railroad employees, men with submachine guns hidden underneath their orange vests and sturdy coveralls played with their cell phones.
Truck arriving now. Suit up. The text message was sent to everyone simultaneously, and the men went by threes into a shipping container car. As soon as three men had finished changing into CBW suits and returned to guard the train, three more entered the disguised car. Within moments, the entire brigade of railroad employees had evolved into gun-toting special forces operatives. Their immediate leader, a Captain, used the in-mask displays to tell everyone to keep close to the train and stay in the shadows. Inconspicuous is the key word, gentlemen, the Captain messaged using speech-to-text.
Minutes later, the eighteen-wheeler arrived on scene. Behind its tinted windows, both the driver and co-driver were wearing identical CBW suits. Carefully, they pulled the truck parallel to the train, crunching through the weeds and caliche. As soon as the large vehicle hissed to a stop, the roof of a nearby train car slid open and a yellow crane emerged. With practiced precision, the crane boom was extended and a steel hook-and-cable was soon dangling over the top of the truck’s trailer.
In seconds, the top of the trailer slid open and the hook descended. Men in CBW suits ran to the rear of the trailer and unlocked the doors, throwing them open. Three men clambered inside and secured the top of the Silver Six satellite to the steel hook-and-cable. As soon as the three men jumped back to the ground, the crane extracted the charred and battered hulk of the former communications satellite, lifting it free of the cargo hold.
As more men closed the trailer doors and re-locked them, the crane lowered the satellite through the opening roof of a frozen train car. As the roof opened, billows of frigid gas and fumes escaped into the morning air. “Quickly,” someone urged through the radio network, and the cable lowered the satellite into the train car with a solid thunk. The crane released the cable, which fell around the satellite like a collapsing snake. Silently, the roof slid shut once more, sealing the satellite inside a liquid nitrogen cocoon. The roof of the tractor trailer also returned to its original position.
The driver and co-driver of the eighteen-wheeler emerged, and several men helped them uncouple the trailer from the cab. As they did this, the yellow crane was outfitted with a new cable-and-hooks apparatus, this time allowing four points of contact. Quick as world-class rock climbers, a team clambered atop the truck trailer and checked the steel hook-and-eye attachments affixed to each corner. Seconds later, the crane boom swung over them and the team attached a sturdy hook to each eye. As soon as four thumbs-up had been given, the team dismounted from the trailer and allowed the crane to hoist it into the air.
With impressive speed and strength, the customized crane maneuvered the trailer over another frozen train car. Just as before, the roof of the car slid open and the crane lowered its quarry inside the freezer. Again, the crane detached its cable, allowing the train car to close its roof in mere seconds. As this was going on, the team of CBW-suited operatives was securing the truck cab for its own delivery into a nitrogen-cooled train car.
“Cab is ready,” a sergeant announced over the radio, and the crane performed its third lift of the morning. Another frozen train car received its sensitive cargo, and the operatives quickly changed back into their Union Pacific garb. Within ten minutes, the entire operation had been concluded. Slowly, as their excitement subsided, the fake railroad employees returned their attention to their cell phones.
“I’m about to set a high score on Pacman,” a Lieutenant announced to everyone through their radio earpieces. The Captain told him to shut it.
2
They had had a rocky, tumultuous marriage. He had once been charming, but his sweetness had quickly been revealed as an act. Only image and ambition had mattered then, and presumably still did. Their passionate love had been, she could now admit, mostly lust. She had fallen for the image of the clean-cut, All-American hero.
She folded the basket of laundry and watched her daughter watching cartoons. The little girl was angelic, at least on most mornings, but had a worrisome amount of her father in her. Dark-haired, athletic, and tall, the little girl was bound to be a heartbreaker like her old man. Hopefully she won’t opt for a career as a paid killer.
Folding a pair of jeans, she thought back to her husband’s early career as a spook. At first, it had been so exciting, a real thrill. When other wives tried to humblebrag about their doctor and lawyer husbands, she could just smile. God, I really did think I was so high and mighty. ‘My husband is protecting your freedoms’ and all that. But I looked down on military wives because their husbands were just dumb gun nuts. Honestly, I thought I had married James Bond.
With his politician’s good looks and impressive family background, her husband had seemed to be an American version of the famous fictional hero. His courtship had been a whirlwind, and she had been seduced by his tales. He had made her swear never to tell, and she felt like she was part of a secret society. She liked that - she had always been an outsider before. With him, she was “in the know” and one of the elites.
When did I realize that he actually killed people? 2006? 2007? Or was it during the Recession, when the whole world seemed to explode into extremism? There had been diplomatic covers and fake identities, but things had only become real when a Chechen radical had put a bullet through her husband’s bicep. He had recovered quickly, but the event had changed her whole world view. It had removed her goggles of blissful ignorance.
No, her husband wasn’t just a dashing bureaucrat. That devilish smile was more than just lustful and impish - it contained violence.
Perhaps it had been getting wounded in action that eroded his mask of normalcy, but her husband had become progressively angrier and more dangerous. Made to feel vulnerable for the first time, he had begun to lash out and pursue more power in an attempt to regain control. His nights away from home grew from two or three to five or six at a time. His stories became less romantic.
After the infamous Daylight Stealing Time crisis down in Texas, her husband had begun to drink heavily. When he finally broke her arm two Christmases after, drunk on rum, she had filed for divorce. Eager to be free of him, she had asked for nothing. Since he was a government spook, she knew the agency would want him to keep things quiet and avoid making a fuss. It was an unspoken agreement: In exchange for her remaining quiet about his recent abuse, he would disappear. If he could disappear from the Russians and the Chinese and ISIS, he could sure as hell disappear from my life.
Now he was back. Beside her on the couch, sitting innocently next to the stack of jeans and shorts and tees, was her phone. Her ex had found her unlisted number. She was shocked, taken aback, and could only focus on watching her daughter. As the woman folded a Sea World San Antonio tee shirt, her mind raced.
He says he’s changed, that he’s retired. That he loves me. Could it be true? No, he’s a liar. A skilled liar. A professional liar. But a girl needs her father. It’s been hard being a single mother. Was he reall
y that bad? He was, and he’ll get worse. Why would he get worse? He’s no longer living that life.
He included a selfie, and he looked better than ever. He had always been handsome, but now he seemed even more energetic and full of life than when he was younger. His face looks younger. His eyes are almost glowing.
“I never stopped loving you,” was the last line of his letter.
3
“Why did the train go to Alpine and not to Pecos?” the president demanded, looking at the holographic map projected onto the wall of his office. “Now it’s in the middle of the mountains!”
“Something about damage to the tracks in that direction. Our team had to divert,” a colonel in dress uniform replied. The president ordered him to find out who had reported track damage, then check out the real condition of the tracks, and make an arrest in the event that anyone had been lying. “Scramble a chopper out of Pecos, and do it now!” the president commanded, and the colonel hurried off at a jog.
Moments later, as the chief executive was noshing on a breakfast sandwich at his desk, the first of the former MIST personnel arrived, escorted directly to him by his most trusted Secret Service agents. “This is Dr. Kreitin, who worked on MIST during its first two years. Retired now, living nearby in Maryland,” an aide said, handing over a manila folder. The president eyeballed the scientist, who was at least seventy years old. Martin Kreitin was a tall, slim man with steel grey hair and a Harvard accent.
“Why’d you leave MIST?” the president asked. “Don’t give me that retirement bullshit.”
“They were fucking around with liquid magic. Worse than plutonium. You know how all those members of the Manhattan Project who later repudiated atomic weaponry? I protested much earlier than they did. I quit, and they swore they would bury me in a dark hole if I ever said anything. I’ve been living a quiet life since then, until your boys found me.”
“As you probably guessed, Dr. Kreitin, we’ve got one hell of a situation. I need all hands on deck. Can you help me?”
“I voted for you back in the day, and I figure you’re an honest fellow. I’ll do it. Set me up in whatever lab you got and tell me what you need. I may be old as you, but I haven’t lost my edge when it comes to tech.”
“I should hope not, since you’re a leading nanotechnology scientist. When it comes to equipment, you name it, you got it.”
The guards escorted the gentlemanly doctor from the Oval Office, whisking him down the street to an underground laboratory that was being hurriedly constructed. Already, the president had ordered dozens of top scientists working on other projects to be assembled and placed at the disposal of any MIST personnel who could be located. Research scientists were being flown in, tenured professors were being pulled out of office hours, and corporations were being extravagantly paid to loan out their best minds.
Exiting the Oval Office, the president stalked into the bullpen of aides, advisers, and other assorted bureaucrats. He tapped his watch and reminded everyone that he needed a full briefing for the cabinet at two-thirty that afternoon. “I want live links to everyone searching for those two state troopers! I want live links to everyone searching for that son of a bitch who destroyed our lab in Laramie! I want a conference call with Hank Hummel, Carl Hummel, and Hector Rodriguez! And I want a conference call with my team on that train!” For emphasis, he knocked over a potted plant and watched it shatter on the expensive carpet.
“You see that shit? That’s what’s going to happen if we lose control of this situation!”
The colonel came running over, huffing and puffing, and announced that the train’s diversion went all the way up to the Texas Railroad Commissioner.
“Get me the governor of Texas on the phone. I want that Railroad Commissioner put under immediate investigation. If he makes a phone call to anyone, I better have a printed transcript within the hour!”
Still in a frenzy, the president wandered to his veep’s office and barged in. He turned and closed the door behind him.
“Paul, there’s some underhanded deception going on, and I need to root it out. We need to lay a little trap for those who might have gone rogue.”
4
The man in black roared into Pecos and skidded to a stop at the nearest travel station, pleased to find it already full of late-summer tourists. West Texans getting in their last day at Balmorhea before scooping up those back-to-school sales, he thought as he rammed the oversized pickup into Park. The dash was lit up like a Christmas tree - its deceased owner, whose body was now lying in a ditch by the side of the road, had apparently not been a fanatic about regular maintenance.
He watched a young tough guy, a wannabe gangster, climb out of a Dodge Charger and decided to make his move. Amped up on science, he slipped out of the truck and swiftly closed the distance between himself and his target, moving like a cat. When nobody was paying attention, he slipped an arm around the thug’s neck and pulled him between two full-size SUVs. With a hard and fast application of pressure, the young man’s neck was broken. The man in black eased the body to the ground and fished the Charger’s keys from the pockets of the gangster’s basketball shorts.
With any luck, the SUVs were owned by old-timers who would shoot the breeze in the travel station’s cafe until late in the morning, preventing the body from being discovered quickly.
More likely they’re owned by middle-aged yuppies whose kids are taking a piss. After they get their bottled frappuccinos and fruit juices, they’ll be right back out here.
The man in black walked casually, but quickly, to the red Charger and used the remote start function on the key fob to fire it up. “Thing’s got a Hemi,” he said to himself as he climbed behind the wheel. As he had done before, he pulled his new vehicle alongside his old vehicle and transferred the heavy duffel bag of liquid magic. With an arm now rivaling that of any MLB pitcher, he hurled the pickup truck’s keys into the scrubland beyond.
He tore out of the lot and got back on 17 South, heading for Saragosa. His phone rang.
“My boy, we’ve done what you’ve asked,” the icy-voiced woman said, skipping any salutation. “Where’s the MIST?”
“I’ve got it right here beside me, ma’am,” he said with feigned politeness. “But the dry ice just doesn’t feel as cold as it used to.”
“Then let us take that stuff off your hands. You’ve got to be tired of running around like a wanted man. Complete the transaction, and I’ve got the power to call off the dogs.”
“Actually, I don’t feel tired at all. As an added bonus of the stuff in my veins, I don’t exactly need caffeine any more. And I doubt your ability to call off said dogs. Last time I checked, you weren’t the wild-haired old socialist in the White House.”
A silent rage surged over the airwaves, and the man in black cracked a smile. The woman on the other end of the line was not pleased, but would never deign to show it.
“West of the Mississippi, we’ve got quite a network. The president may have loyal teams that he can send out from the Beltway, but most of the local muscle is under our influence.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it. By the way, I want to arrange a rendezvous with my wife and daughter at a friendly location. Shut up and listen to my plan. If it goes well, you get the duffel bag of magic, and for a delightful discount.”
5
The deputy director met them in Pueblo, and the professor got a bad feeling about the guy from the moment the pasty-faced dweeb sat down across the booth from them at the McDonald’s off I-25.
“You got my report?” Roger Garfield asked his boss, and the man nodded profusely.
“The stuff about a conspiracy, a sort of cabal of deposed politicians looking to regain power, is bit far-fetched,” the deputy director continued, shrugging his shoulders. “I haven’t seen any sort of evidence to support that. And who is this consultant of yours?”
The professor smiled and shook hands with the deputy d
irector as Garfield introduced them. “I’ve read some of your work, sir,” the deputy director said, though this may have been flattery. As the man talked some more, the big prof realized that the director had, at the very least, read his dossier. Knows about my whole career. If he’s not smart, then he’s at least thorough and well-read.
“I’m surprised you asked us to meet on such short notice. We were rushing to Texas as part of the MIST investigation,” Garfield said. “I really hope we can keep this brief.”
Although such bluntness would ordinarily not be tolerated by a subordinate, the professor figured that Roger Garfield was given lots of leeway due to his stint as a political prisoner. Garfield had proven his patriotism the hard way, and had the awards and commendations to prove it. The deputy director, as far as the prof’s Googling could determine, was a longtime paper-pusher who had never been harassed by the former president’s goose-stepping goons.
“Of course, of course,” the director murmured. “I would have met in Denver, at the field office, but you had already made it this far south. I took the helicopter. I would lend it to you and the good professor here, but it is urgently needed back up in Laramie to transport equipment.”
Funny. Bureaucratic transport is usually in Bell JetRangers, hardly known for their ability to ferry cargo. Sensitive stuff from the MIST lab would have to be transported far more smoothly. He just doesn’t want us to be able to use his helicopter.
“I understand,” Garfield replied, but the professor saw the man’s eyes harden in annoyance.
“I’ve talked to assistant director Arnold, and he would like to be kept abreast of your activities. Though he is not overly concerned at this point, he agrees that it may be worthwhile to determine who might be, uh, trying to get their hands on MIST.”
This sounds fishy.
“If you’ll excuse me, I have to run to the restroom,” the professor announced. He stood up and headed for the restroom. As soon as he rounded the first corner, he texted Garfield: Something fishy. Follow me to the restroom.
Moments later, as he waited by the men’s room, the professor saw the graying special-agent-in-charge arrive. “What’s up?” Garfield whispered.
“Just watch the old guy,” the big ex-cop whispered.
Sneaking back to the corner, both men peered around. The professor witnessed the FBI deputy director look around carefully and then use a syringe to drop clear liquid into both his and Garfield’s open-topped cups of coffee.
“Is that son of a bitch trying to poison us?!” Garfield whispered, enraged. The man’s hands seemed itching to go inside his windbreaker and liberate his standard-issue handgun. The prof put a reassuring hand on his partner’s shoulder. “Nah, just make us sick,” he said. “He’s not stupid. Just wants us to be puking our guts out by the time we hit Raton Pass. Can’t investigate corrupt cronies when you’ve got dysentery.”
“So what do we do?” Garfield hissed.
“Well, I do have tenure,” the professor replied, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “The university held my job during the last crisis...and I’ll bet they’ll do it again.”
“What does that mean?” the FBI agent asked, confused.
Without responding, the criminal justice professor strode over to the FBI deputy director and cold-cocked the man in the face, apparently still able to muster up as much force as when he was a Division 1 college lineman. The director went down like a sack of bricks, and the professor quickly relieved the fallen bureaucrat of his phones and tablet. “Time to get out of here before they call 9-1-1,” the prof said to a stunned Garfield. A crowd of breakfasters sat stunned in their booths, gawping at the seemingly unprovoked attack.
“He tried to poison our drinks,” the prof explained to them as he slipped the man’s electronica into his own pockets. “And he used to be a member of the Home Guard.”
“Home Guard sons of bitches,” someone muttered, and several restaurant patrons agreed.
6
Lucifer could not get the body’s brain to be quiet. Memories kept bubbling up, surprising him. Somewhere, deep inside the brain, state trooper Gordon Edwards still existed. Though Edwards could not defeat Lucifer’s crushing consciousness, strengthened by millions of nanocells, he would not admit defeat.
As a result, Lucifer was hobbled. He had stolen a car, but could scarcely focus as he drove around the city.
I have a daughter, Edwards told him. She is three. Lucifer could see the daughter, a little girl. I know you had a daughter. You loved her.
For the first time in years, Lucifer remembered back before he was Adam Pastorius, a Syrian spy sent to the United States. He remembered his real name, his real life. He remembered Qamlishi and the drones, the American drones. The drones had killed his daughter in their unthinking brutality, their unknowing arrogance.
Some lazy, entitled ‘soldier’ in a climate-controlled bunker in Kansas killed her, not knowing or caring that it was not a military convoy.
But now Gordon Edwards had a daughter, and she would never have her father again. For the first time, Lucifer was forced to think about children without fathers.
What if I had died in that traffic jam, rather than her? How would she feel? To not have a father? He considered Gordon Edwards’ life.
Parking the stolen Toyota Camry in the dilapidated carport of a house with countless newspapers scattered out front, Lucifer examined his new face in the car’s mirrors. Despite being prematurely bald, state trooper Gordon Edward was a decent-looking man. In another era, perhaps, he would be considered handsome.
With his perfect recall, Lucifer pegged Edward’s visage as a combination of several well-known actors. His daughter must look up to him as a hero, especially with this uniform. My daughter liked my uniform.
Gordon Edwards’ sadly confirmed Lucifer’s thought. A memory floated up of a family photograph, taken in Edwards’ dress uniform right after his promotion to corporal.
In another universe, we could have been friends, this Corporal Edwards and me. He was a good man.
For the first time in his life, Lucifer was having a crisis of conscience. He kept the car running and reclined the seat as far back as it would go. Lying there, he thought about the decades of mayhem in which he had taken part. He had never thought about anything but seeking revenge, retribution, or sending a message.
I needed the world to hear me. But in my anger, I stifled so many voices. And I killed innocents. He had never thought of the word “innocents” before. For the first time, he felt guilt.
Slowing down his perception of time, Lucifer decided he needed to think awhile. In his mind, seconds stretched into minutes and minutes into hours. In space, he had only thought of his foes. He had never thought about himself.
7
“Go to Washington, D.C.,” Hank Hummel told his brother over the phone. “Listen to them. Go to that lab.” Only moments before, the Hummel brothers and Hector Rodriguez had received calls from the president of the United States himself. There had been a minimum of sugarcoating, lots of promises made, and a desperate plea to stay off the streets to avoid inadvertently spreading MIST.
It’s like we have Ebola or something, Hank had thought during the conversation. Not that that’s a bad analogy.
“Are you going? I’ll be on the next flight out of Bush,” Carl said.
This is not an easy lie to make. “Yeah, I’m on the next one out of Midland. Midland to Denver to Dulles. All four of us.”
“Hec coming on the same flight?”
“You know it, bro.”
When the call ended, Whitney appeared with their suitcases. There were tears in her eyes. “You lied to him. I can tell. You’re not going.”
He tried to go to her, to hug her, but she pushed him away. “Don’t touch me!” she hissed. “Oh, you’re such an asshole!”
“They’re not going to fix us,” Hank said, trying to explain. “I can’t be a lab rat aga
in. And I need to help stop what’s going wrong out there.”
“Let someone else do it! Don’t always try to be the fucking hero!” Whitney screamed back at him. “Why are you doing this to me?! To your family?!”
“Nobody is going to fix this, Whitney, and I can’t live like this. You can’t live like this, and neither can Michael and Ava. We haven’t slept together since I came back, and you know why we can’t. I’m toxic, Whitney.”
“So you think you can just exile us, ship us off, and leave us waiting for you to come back?! I won’t do that, Hank!”
Michael appeared, carrying a babbling Ava. Jesus, just what I need right now, Hank thought. His son was on the verge of tears.
“Why can’t you come to D.C., Dad?” Michael asked, and Whitney told him to go to his room. Shaking his head, Michael refused to leave. “This affects all of us!” he said defiantly.
“Son, they can’t heal me. This stuff isn’t coming out. Deep down, I know it, and they know it, too. They just want to be able to keep an eye on me. You guys would be living in a hotel or on some base, in a bunker, and only able to see me through glass. Once I check myself in, I can’t check out.”
Michael furrowed his brow, angry and unwilling to understand.
“You would come to hate me. You would be bound to me, and I would hold you back. You’ve got a life here, friends here. Nobody is after you, only me. If I leave, you’re safe. If we’re together, you and Mom and Ava will always be a target.”
“We want to go with you,” the boy insisted. “If we let you go alone, I know we won’t see you again.”
“Don’t say that,” Hank snapped. But is he right? Probably so.
8
Ben knew an APB was out for his body, so he made sure to go to the private study rooms at the library. Sliding into a cubicle with a door, he awakened the sleeping computer and began checking the news, beginning with an epicenter of Midland. He did not know where he had landed, but assumed it was not far away. They would not have moved his body far for medical treatment.
He created new social media profiles to search for posts relating to the incident and the area, hoping that a steady rumor mill had developed. If there was chatter of an explosion or crash-landing in west Texas, he would discover it and seek more information. Downloading an online photo of a comely twentysomething woman, he created a pleasant avatar with which people would feel comfortable interacting.
In fifteen minutes, he had learned that the site of the satellite crash-landing was near the town of Fort Davis, Texas, and the craft had apparently been de-orbited and guided down using the computer system of the nearby McDonald Observatory. Though the authorities were denying everything, locals were adamant on Facebook and Twitter that a craft had landed. One Facebook post, from a high school kid who lived on a ranch, said that the government had sent in black helicopters and that he had seen an eighteen wheeler with no markings turning right onto 17 from ranch road 1832 with a state trooper escort.
Using an online map, Ben discovered that a right turn onto Highway 17 from RR 1832 led to Fort Davis, Texas. From there, the truck could have continued to either Marfa or Alpine. Alpine was the larger town and was the home of Sul Ross State University. Does Uncle Sam really want many witnesses? The MIST-bearing satellite is more sensitive than Area 51 and the Manhattan Project combined. But then again, it’s got a lot more infrastructure to work with. Railroads ran through both towns, but Ben figured that the government would attempt to put the satellite on a train at Alpine.
So I know where the satellite is going, which is one objective. But where is the rest of this stuff? What of the MIST laboratory in Laramie, where all of this began?
Grabbing a sheet of scratch paper from a shelf above the computer, Ben jotted down all the information he needed about Fort Davis and Alpine with a pencil stub. Then he began searching again, this time using Laramie, Wyoming as his information epicenter. Fortunately, the Cowboy State rumor mill was also in full swing.
It sounds like someone else wants to consolidate this stuff, presumably for the same profits I seek. He did not know how many had been involved in the rumored carnage in Wyoming, but knew that it could not be many. The more people there are involved in any operation, the more witnesses and leaks there are. It may have only been one man.
Ben’s mind flashed back to the man in black, a government operative with whom he had dueled before being captured. He had handily won that shooting contest, thanks to his digital upgrades. Still, that man was the fastest I had ever seen. I wonder what became of him? Ben remembered seeing a drop of his own blood falling into his foe’s open eye as he leaned over to check the body.
What if that man in black had not been dead? What if I transferred MIST to him? It could have allowed him to survive his wounds.
In the back of Ben’s unnatural mind, he began to suspect that the man in black was behind the hidden horrors in Wyoming. They sent him there as an enforcer, and things did not go as planned. Or maybe they did. What better way to make off with the MIST than to make sure there are no witnesses left alive?
Working in their unknowable ways, the nanocells augmenting Ben’s brain began to pull together memories, facts, estimates, and predictions. He knew he needed to find those who wanted the MIST. A monopolist needs consumers, after all.
9
“The satellite has lots of regular cells, but very few builder cells,” a technician reported after examining his computer screen. “Unless there was a leak in the satellite’s hull that could suck them out into space, most of the nanocells must have dispersed after re-entering earth’s atmosphere.”
“The satellite’s computer indicates no breaches, either in orbit or during its descent,” a second tech said grimly. A third confirmed that there was no loss of pressure until the hatch opened at touchdown plus fourteen minutes nineteen seconds.
“We should send in a probe to collect samples,” a scientist suggested. “We’re not getting enough information just watching the MIST at that low a temperature. It is imperative that we find out how it expands and reacts at normal temperatures.”
A small group began chattering about the on-board probe, which nobody had ever used before. There were concerns about MIST being able to travel from the nitrogen-cooled storage car to the control car. “Quit being a bunch of pussies and get on with it!” barked a lieutenant colonel over the intercom. Everyone fell silent and a few flashed the bird.
The control car was wired with security cameras, but the technicians, engineers, and scientists did not know it. The lieutenant colonel rolled his eyes at the middle fingers aimed his way. As the scientific crews continued to collect data, the security teams kept their eyes on the highways and the horizons. “All clear,” a captain responded to the umpteenth query. “Hillbillies and hot mommies only.”
“Shut up, Lawsden,” the LTC replied. “Keep it professional. If I recall, you’re one of those hillbillies yourself. Aren’t you from this neck of the woods?”
“Plainview’s far to the north, sir. We’ve actually seen snow and played more than six-man football. But we’re not too civilized to rassle steers!”
Everyone was laughing when the president himself appeared on the wall-mounted holographic screen. “It’s almost time for the briefing!” the wild-haired commander-in-chief snapped. “I want that data and then I want this train moving! Every minute that you’re stationary increases your vulnerability.”
“I assure you, Mr. President, that this train is safe. I’ve got Delta operators inside, outside, and spread throughout the landscape. They can even sneak up on the rattlesnakes,” the lieutenant colonel replied after snapping off a crisp salute. The holographic screen suddenly split, with the president moving to the left and Director of Central Intelligence Charles Parker appearing on the right.
“There is reason to believe that one of those former Delta operators himself may be in the area. Our prime target. He was a h
eavy hitter in Iraq and Afghanistan from ‘01 to ‘05 before he transferred to intelligence. He’s achieved full MIST equilibrium and may even have something resembling telekinetic ability with equipment in his possession. We’ve run an analysis on his apartment in Wyoming, and the place is crawling with MIST. He’s juiced to the max,” Parker warned.
“I’ve got snipers who can cut him down from a half mile,” the LTC responded confidently.
“That’s the dilemma, colonel. We know your automatic fire and explosives can turn him into a red cloud, but that red cloud is unacceptable. MIST must be contained, and we can’t do that with spilling blood.”
The security commander was taken aback. “No spilled blood? Capture him or kill him without rupturing his skin? That’s a tall order, sir.”
“I know, soldier. But that’s why we brought in the best. We’re working on a plan now to help you out, but if he shows up I need you and your men to improvise.” Next to Parker, the president was nodding solemnly. “Your country needs you, colonel,” the president agreed.
Wow, no pressure, thought the officer. He declared that the train would be kept impregnable from outside threats.
“Is your communications equipment ready for the one-thirty teleconference?” Parker asked, cocking an eyebrow. He and his staff had been hounding the train crew about their electronics all morning. “It’s running perfectly, sir,” the LTC replied.
10
Hector Rodriguez sat alone in his office while his wife sobbed uncontrollably in their bedroom. That was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I hate myself. He had wanted to shed his own tears, his emotions had faded rapidly. This terrified him, for it seemed unnatural. Is this what MIST does? Block emotions that could impede performance?
His wife had screamed at him about his lack of emotion, claiming he didn’t care about his family. But I do care, I just don’t show it. I want to show it, but my brain won’t let me. Ever since he had regained consciousness on that operating table at Midland Memorial, he had felt less and less in control.
“It’s taking control of me,” he whispered.
He reached out to turn on his laptop, intending the check the news, and the computer turned on even before his fingers touched it. Oh damn.
His phone rang, and immediately answered itself on speaker. His stomach lurched, not knowing how to process.
“Hec, it’s Hank. I feel that things are too out of control, and I’m hitting the road. I told Whitney to take the family and go to D.C. They can stay with my aunt and be safe.”
“I understand,” Hector said softly. There was nothing else to say. With all the pain they had just caused, they could not partner up like before. There was no more them. The MIST was changing them, and there could be no more them like there was before.
It’s the end of an era. It’s far too dangerous for us to hang together, even with the end of the world on the line.
“Hec, I don’t think I’m going to survive this. Whatever this is, I don’t think I’m coming back. This is it for me.”
“I know, Hank. God help me, I know.”
“I just don’t want Whitney to hate me. Michael may come around, and Ava’s too young to understand, but I don’t want Whitney to hate me forever.”
Hector wanted to cry, to commiserate, but could not. As the emotion flowed through his brain, something unintelligible cut it off at the source. After a brief flicker, he was numb. Machinelike. He did not respond to his friend and simply moved to end the call.
Instead, the call ended on its own, and he saw the icon change on his end. I ended the call, and yet it was not me.
Without thinking, he grabbed his car keys and fled the house. He jumped into his truck and fired it up. Recklessly, not looking or caring, he backed out of the driveway and swung the heavy vehicle into the street. Somehow, despite his recklessness, part of his mind had an awareness of the surroundings and assured him that nothing was in his path. It was both comforting and horrifying.
He sped off, not knowing where to go. The sun, now above the horizon, flared briefly in his eyes, and then his vision dimmed comfortably. Although he had put on no sunglasses, his eyes felt as though he had.
It’s growing faster and faster. At what point does it take over? When do I become the backup rather than the lead?
