by Calvin Wolf
Chapter Eleven
1
Hank Hummel stood, his entire body tingling. Deep inside his bones, nanocells repaired the damage caused by the spectacular accident. His phone rang from inside his pocket, and he grabbed it. It was Whitney’s number, but the caller would not be her. Whoever it was, Hank had no desire to chat. Anger flowed through him as he heard Adam Pastorius’ new voice, coming from the mouth of the bald state trooper.
“I told you to deliver Carl Hummel and Hector Rodriguez, and you have. Take them, and that miserable Ben, to our final destination. That is where you will have the president send the ICBM. Don’t think I don’t know about that plan. It is the only one that makes sense.”
“My wife and daughter?” Hank asked.
“They are coming your way. They were by the train, in a Humvee. Apparently, they were being held as leverage of some sort. Well, that leverage is no longer needed. They are free. But you must send them on their way, and come to me instead.”
Hank said nothing. He could not speak.
“You know I am right. They should not have to spend the rest of their lives with you. You are no longer normal. And there is no going back. You cannot be allowed to live, to spread the MIST. It spreads like a virus.”
The phone dropped from Hank’s hand and broke on the pavement, the screen dissolving into a thousand cracks. Hank never thought he would see his wife and daughter again, and to do so would be too much to bear. He would be tempted to cling to them, to run with them.
He heard his wife before he saw her, running hard in the special suit that protected her from the toxic air. Then he saw her, backlit by the glow of lights from around the destroyed train. Whitney was holding little Ava in her arms. She ran to him. Desperately, he hugged her and Ava. Whitney set down Ava and tried to lift up the mask, but Hank held her hands.
“Don’t, angel. You won’t be able to breathe.” His voice cracked and he was crying. “You need to take Ava and run back toward town. Don’t stop. They’re about to nuke this whole area; it’s the only way to stop the MIST permanently.”
Whitney grabbed Hank’s hands with her own, trying to pull him along with her. “I can’t, I can’t!” Hank cried. Ava grabbed at the knees of his pants, pulling as well. “Daddy!” she called through her mask. Ava began trying to remove her own mask, and Hank held her hands to stop her.
“You’ve got to go, Whitney! Now!”
Carl Hummel joined them, a latticework of silvery MIST repairing the left side of his head and face. He said nothing, and there were tears in his eyes as well. “Find Ben,” Hank told him, and Carl disappeared into the night. Hector Rodriguez appeared next, and also did not speak. He disappeared as well.
“I love you Whitney. Always remember that. Always.”
2
Detective lieutenant William Watterson pulled on the black balaclava and bravely ventured out into the lighted parking lot of the Balmorhea State Park, joining the milling mercenaries as they celebrated their find. Some sort of medical equipment container, the type he had seen in ambulances, was sitting on the open tailgate of a Super Duty pickup. It was being filled with dry ice by a pair of masked goons who were wearing protective gloves. A handful of corrupt state troopers, having traded their honor for cash and promises, guarded the parking lot entrance. Of course, given the ungodly hour, the highway was silent.
“This is the big payday,” a mercenary grinned, patting Watterson on the back. Despite being covered from head to toe in black, the detective was worried about being discovered. He was surprised that his escape from the water heater closet had yet to be discovered. “Hell yeah,” he replied. “This stuff is gonna change the world.” He chatted with his new buddy for a moment, trying to discern whether or not the man knew anything specific about the MIST. Unsurprisingly, it seemed that the goons had been kept in the dark.
“So what’s the plan? I got a bit turned around on patrol.”
“The drones are coming in now. We load the stuff into the drones, and they go into bounce mode. Unstoppable, man. There are so many configurations that the feds will never figure it out.” Watterson nodded as if the information made perfect sense. He asked his new buddy if he had a cell phone. “Mine got waterlogged in the rain. I need to check my department’s duty schedule, see if I need to call in.”
Smiling, the goon handed over his late-model Samsung. “I just checked mine an hour ago. They still don’t need me for tomorrow. They’re pretty generous with shift schedules in Big Spring.” Watterson smiled, his wager about many of the goons being cops having paid off. He fit right in. He used the mercenary’s phone to check his messages.
Dr. Baurin, the sniveling internist, had called seven minutes ago.
“Hey, it’s me. I’m in Fort Davis, and everything’s a madhouse! There are dozens of cars fleeing this place at high speed, all black and with no license plates. I don’t know what’s going on, but it looks like some sort of evacuation!”
Watterson called the number back and the doctor answered on the third ring. There was no time to worry whether or not the other black-clad goons were listening in.
“Listen, doc, it’s your favorite detective. I need you to find where these people were evacuating from. It’s probably a large building in town, something that could serve as a command center. Find it, and turn on any computer, phone, or electronic gizmo they left behind. Take that info and send it to detective Brett Borgmann’s office at MPD. That’s Borgmann with two Ns. His direct line is on the department website, or you can Google it. He’ll send it on to the right people.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Baurin said nervously.
“If Borgmann gets your call, he’ll make sure you get full immunity in exchange for testifying. There’s gonna be a hundred trials after this thing wraps up, I can guarantee it.” Properly incentivized, the doctor agreed to search for the command center. Heart pounding, Watterson ended the call.
The man stared suspiciously at Watterson.
“What the hell was that, man?” the corrupt Big Spring cop asked. “Are you-”
A fist snapped up and hit the man in his Adam’s apple, incapacitating him. As the other mercenaries looked over, startled, Watterson bolted for the edge of the parking lot. He was old and overweight, but the mercenaries were caught by surprise. They had not been anticipating an enemy in their midst.
The graying detective was almost to the edge of the lot, where the babbling canal that ran from the cienega to the pool awaited, when he was hit twice. He fell on his back and rolled down the hillside as shots rang out overhead. Pain burned in his side, and his guts felt torn and jagged.
The phone! Don’t let the phone get wet!
Using the last of his strength, Watterson controlled his roll into the canal and made sure he entered feet-first. He managed to keep his feet beneath him in the water, and let the current carry him along. Despite screaming from his ribs and lats, he held the cell phone above his head and kept it dry. As the mercenaries rushed over to scan the canal, the wounded man slipped beneath the bridge that bore visitors into the parking lot and disappeared into the shadows.
I don’t know how long I’ve got, but damned if I won’t make it count.
3
She had been abandoned, left to die. Her mercenaries, who had promised their loyalty, had fled. Her damned seat belt, which she ordinarily did not use, had jammed and kept her trapped after the collision. Fortunately, her thick CBW suit had acted as a protective insulator and dulled the pain of the flames. Nevertheless, she had screamed long and loud into the radio. She had thought help would be coming, but nobody had opened the limousine door.
Outside, the whup whup whup of helicopter rotors ripped through the night sky. Was it the feds? It was no longer raining, so President Sanders’ entire armada was headed her way, by ground and by air. A new take on by land or by sea, she almost laughed. The helicopter landed near
by and she waited, in pain, for arrest. Her use of soman would guarantee the death penalty.
The limousine door opened and she discovered, instead of a CBW-suited soldier or federal agent, that the face behind the Plexiglas shield belonged to her protégé.
“Are you here to save me?” she asked over the radio. She felt weak, and wondered how bad her burns were. The suit had saved her from smoke inhalation.
“No. I’m here to frame you,” her protégé replied. “I’m just dropping off a few things. You will never recover, and your value from this point forward is minimal at best. You’ve taught me well, and for that I am grateful.”
“Don’t do this,” she begged. The young traitor set a tablet computer by the old woman’s side, as well as a folder full of papers. The car door closed again, and the helicopter’s rotors could be heard increasing their tempo. Seconds later, the chopper lifted off.
I trained that girl. Made her a genuine leader, a force of accomplishment. After her company went under, and she was left with nothing but hounding lawsuits. Talent, but no guile. And now that bitch has thrown me under the bus.
Long minutes went by, and she felt herself slipping closer to death. New sounds could be heard in the distance - jet planes. The air armada had arrived. But the MIST was already on the move. It was loose. Everything was sideways.
“This is Captain Terry Franks of the United States Air Force and I am taking over the radio channel. This band has been identified as in use by enemies of the state. Identify yourself immediately and you will be apprehended without violence.”
Breathing deeply, she contemplated using the radio and spilling her guts, admitting to everything. She thought about revealing the identity of her protégé, the woman who had left her to die in this smoldering limousine. What good was remaining silent? When they found her corpse in this wrecked car, she would replace Benedict Arnold as the worst traitor in the nation’s history. Might as well get revenge while I can.
She tried to speak, but her mind went fuzzy. As darkness clouded her vision, she slumped over in her seat. At that moment, as if mocking her, the seatbelt finally unsnapped. The old woman tumbled over and landed on the burnt floorboards of the limousine. Seconds later, her life completely ebbed away.
4
FBI agent Roger Garfield raced through the night in the stolen Colfax County Sheriff’s Department cruiser, wondering just how much of a head start he had gained on the corrupt deputies whom he had foiled at the villa. “Keep an eye out back there,” he told the professor for the umpteenth time. In the back seat, the big ex-cop held the cruiser’s AR-15 assault rifle in his hands. If trouble came racing up from behind, they would not be sitting ducks.
Using the cruiser’s in-dash navigation system, Garfield kept an eye out for the Raton Municipal Airport. The digital map indicated that it would be on the right side of the highway. Maintaining his speed, Garfield flipped on the cruiser’s spotlight and aimed it to the right, illuminating the fields to the south.
“Over there!” the professor called from the back seat, and Garfield saw the searchlight illuminate a radar tower. Carefully, he slowed the Chevy Tahoe and shut off the spotlight and headlights so as not to alert any conspirators who were waiting inside. Putting the vehicle into four-wheel-drive, he eased off the pavement and trundled through the muddy field. “Brace yourself,” he told the prof. “There’s probably a fence.” Seconds later, the heavy vehicle plowed through a chain-link fence, its grille guard snapping the thin metal.
Garfield braked and turned off the engine. “We better walk from here,” he said. “If we’re dealing with anything as serious as what we’ve already dealt with, there will probably be plenty of guns around that radar tower.” In the pitch darkness, the professor racked the slide of his rifle in affirmation. “Ready when you are, agent Garfield.”
The two men quietly exited the SUV and began feeling their way across the field toward the soft lights of the radar tower. Scuttling low, they felt for thorns, divots, and other obstacles with their feet, maintaining their firearms at the ready. Within minutes, the mud and rain-covered plants had soaked through their shoes and pant cuffs.
“Step one: Save the world. Step two: Find dry shoes,” Garfield quipped in a whisper. Then he stopped and put a hand on his friend’s arm. “They’re here,” he said softly. Squinting, both men could make out armed sheriff’s deputies milling around the base of the radar tower. Though the building’s lights were turned off, the corrupt deputies had made the mistake of remaining glued to their phones. Blue and white lights illuminated faces.
“How many do you count?” the professor asked.
“I think eight,” Garfield whispered.
“Do we try to disarm them?”
“No, too risky. We’re too outnumbered. Plus, they’ve got defensive positions and we’re stuck out here in the open.”
Quietly, they concocted a plan to distract the deputies when the time came. When something came in to land at the airport, they would strike hard and fast. If they achieved complete surprise, the two of them might have a chance against eight greedy, likely half-incompetent, disgruntled cops. “What do you think our chances are?” the professor asked, sitting cross-legged in the muddy brush.
“I’d say fifty-fifty.”
5
Adam Welsh returned to consciousness to find, with his MIST-given night vision, a young blond man standing over him. “Don’t try anything foolish. After eleven weeks in outer space, getting in touch with my MIST, I can do things you can’t even imagine.” Reacting fast, Welsh rolled and spun, rocketing to his feet. Eye to eye, he faced a man who felt eerily familiar.
“I made you who you are,” the blond man said. “My name is Boris Elkanovitch, and we have met before. Years ago, you killed my team in Midland, in the county courthouse. You were quite something. Eleven weeks ago, I killed you in a duel in Colfax County. It turns out that you weren’t so fast the second time around.”
Now I know. Boris Elkanovitch. Ben. Those files read like a James Bond script.
“What do you want, Ben?” Welsh asked. His body was on edge, debating at the cellular level between fight or flight. Every nerve in his body was howling.
“I want to make some money, and I think you do, too. But we must hurry.” Ben pointed behind them, and Welsh turned to see three men in the distance.
“The collision threw us far from them, but they’re a wily bunch. No match for me one-on-one, of course, but I’d prefer to have backup against all three. We can either travel together, get the MIST and become rich, or I can leave you to fend for yourself.”
“I’m not afraid of them,” Welsh replied, though he was unsure about this. He had tangled with Hank Hummel before, and had suffered the first failure of his professional career. Expecting an easy kill, he had unwarily sauntered back into that bathroom with his gun only half-cocked. When Hummel had gotten the drop on him with that heavy toilet tank, he had been unable to turn the tables. The high school teacher and novelist had escaped the house, along with his damned dog.
Though the botched job had not made it into Welsh’s official record, he had never forgotten it.
“Are you in or out?” Ben asked. Welsh said he was in. “Then we better move fast.” As soon as those words were spoken, the three men down the road saw them.
“Don’t move!” police lieutenant Hector Rodriguez ordered. “Get down on the ground with your hands above your head!”
Ben burst out laughing. “I have to give you points for trying!” he chuckled. “I almost felt like surrendering!” A gunshot sounded and Ben took a bullet to his chest. “Okay, time to go,” he said. “They’ve gotten better at this.”
“Where do we go?” Welsh asked, confused.
“Let’s check out the train over yonder. I’ll bet at least one of the dozen vehicles sitting around it still runs.”
The two men took off running, sprinting toward the
ruined hulk of the train. Behind them, three men followed in hot pursuit.
6
“We have aerial domination, Mr. President,” an aide cheered. A fleet of full-size drones had descended successfully upon Fort Davis, scanning everything in town. No antiaircraft response had been detected. “It appears that the enemy has decided to hide rather than resist.”
“When can we get boots on the ground?” the president asked, crinkling a can of Red Bull and tossing the aluminum vessel into a corner. When the stakes were that high, there was little time to search for a trash can. “Ten minutes, sir,” another aide replied, looking up from a holographic screen. “By helicopter. The first vehicles should be entering the town five or six minutes after.”
“Do we have a read on the MIST yet?” the Director of Central Intelligence demanded. Taking a cue from his exhausted boss, the man had eschewed his usual suit jacket for a T-shirt, this one of his alma mater of West Point. In the bullpens, the early hour and the intense stress had wrung sweat from every pore and sprouted a crop of colorful tees to replace button-downs. The Ivy League was widely represented, though state flagship universities were also numerous. Local sports teams were popular as well. A White House staffer in a Redskins jersey announced that MIST was not present in Fort Davis.
“Expand the search radius. If the conspiracy has gone underground, they likely went to the train to consolidate their existing holdings of MIST with the MIST gleaned from the Silver Six,” the president said. “And they’re taking advantage of the chaos in Alpine. Christ!” Angry tears welled in the president’s eyes as he thought of the agonized misery in Alpine. How many dead? How many permanently crippled?
The Secretary of Defense walked up and grabbed the president’s arm. “Have you armed the warhead?” she whispered. The president nodded somberly. “Yes. As soon as I have the location, it can be launched.”
A man rushed over from the bullpen and announced that a cell phone call had come in from the Balmorhea State Park. “We’ve got a police detective named William Watterson calling from the park. He says that some of the MIST is there, being loaded into a container full of dry ice. He said they tried to kill him.”
“Can anyone confirm that information?” the president asked, suddenly reinvigorated.
“I don’t think so, sir. He said he was bleeding out.”
“Then I have just one question: Do you think he was being honest?” The president looked deeply into the staffer’s eyes. “I need your gut feeling, sir.”
Swallowing and taking a deep breath, the man replied that he thought the caller was telling the truth. The president thanked the man for his candor and walked immediately to the Oval Office. He closed the door behind him, not bothering to engage the locks. Speed was of the essence. He sat down at his desk and activated the hidden nuclear command center. One missile was ready to launch, but he needed a second. The president selected a one-point-two megaton B83 warhead because he already had a precise location.
“Target the Balmorhea State Park, and put the blast and damage radii on my wall map,” he said into his desk mic. A second later, the wall-size holographic map revealed a close-up of the southwestern quadrant of Texas. The surface blast would generate a half-mile fireball radius and a two mile destructive radius. “How long will it take to strike once it is launched?” the president demanded. The computer replied that the journey would take six minutes.
“Estimated casualties?” the president asked with gritted teeth. Using the latest population data for the towns of Toyahvale and Balmorhea, coupled with the seasonal tourist occupancy rate in those areas, plus the average number of highway travelers for the late hour, the computer estimated six hundred dead and seven hundred seriously injured. The given the swirling weather patterns, it was possible that substantial radioactive fallout could affect the larger town of Pecos to the north.
Nervously, the president asked the map to also include the results of the twenty megaton warhead strike, tentatively targeted on the disabled train. The new holographic image was horrifying. Due to the close proximity of the town of Alpine, deaths would range into the thousands. Many of those who were suffering from the recent chemical attack would be far too weak to survive even a relatively distant nuclear strike.
The casualties are too high to launch the weapons without absolute certainty. I need drone confirmation.
7
With a hearty roar, the Hummer H1 Alpha fired up on the first turn of the key. “These corrupt bastards went all out,” Hector cheered as Hank dropped the enormous SUV into gear. “Does this thing have a fridge in the back?” Carl inspected a swivel-mounted .50 caliber machine gun and announced that there was no fridge. As the Hummer ground onto the highway and slowly headed toward its top speed, the accountant discovered how to open the sunroof and raise the mounted gun through it.
“I hope you do better than me!” Hector encouraged. Carl peered through the sights and flipped on the high-powered searchlight. Up ahead, Ben and his new ally could only be seen as distant taillights. “They’re too far away!” Carl complained over the rumble of the engine. Hank had the accelerator to the floor, but the big vehicle was not known for its pursuit ability. Hector demanded to know where they were going, and Hank said that they were following Ben. They did not know where Ben was going, but presumed that he was heading in the direction of Adam Pastorius.
“And what happens when we get there?!” They did not know that either. Carl, as a former rifle instructor, might be able to shred them with the .50 cal, but that would do little about the MIST. And there was an excellent chance that Ben and his new friend had an identical machine gun in their own Hummer. Given Ben’s propensity for murder, it was almost certain that the Russian would try to use such a weapon if he had it. The other man was unknown, but both Hank and Hector figured that said individual was also extremely prone to violence.
Eventually, they got the military-inspired vehicle up to eighty-five miles an hour, at which point its long-term viability came into question. “It might overheat,” Hector warned, but they dared not let their quarry increase the gap. Up ahead, the steady size of the red taillights indicated that the other Hummer was also moving at top speed. Suddenly, a flame of muzzle shot erupted from atop the vehicle. As Hank and Hector watched, horrified, an oncoming convoy of state troopers was strafed by .50 caliber rounds. “Christ, he’s mowing them down!” Hector gasped. Unable to respond, the unarmored sedans and light-duty SUVs swerved onto the shoulder and tried to evade the bullets.
Anxiously, the detective lieutenant grabbed for the in-dash radio and searched for a channel. “This is MPD Lt. Hector Rodriguez in the second Humvee! We are friendlies in hot pursuit of the shooters! Do not fire on us! I repeat, the trailing Humvee is a friendly!” After several tense moments, a gruff voice responded in the affirmative.
“We’re entering Fort Davis now, as per your earlier message, lieutenant. In a couple minutes we’ll figure out exactly what has been going on,” the voice continued. A new voice popped up on the band and announced that that ship had sailed. “After Alpine, we know we’re heading into some sort of operation of domestic terrorism,” a younger man said. “We’ll go in hot. Lieutenant, do you and your team need assistance?”
Hank and Hector looked at each other. Hank turned off the radio and reduced his speed. “Hec, I’m gonna pull over and let you and Carl off here.”
“What the hell?!”
“When I went back to my house, Ben had kidnapped Whitney and Ava. Adam Pastorius called me, and I made a deal with him to get them back. I promised to deliver you and Carl to him if he got Whitney and Ava back to me. I’m sorry.”
8
Lucifer saw the lights glowing in the pre-dawn darkness. As soon as he saw the small building, he realized that it was where he would die. He would make his last stand and his final statement there. He had caused untold misery, but there was no reason that he could not
grandstand a bit. He parked the black SUV on the shoulder and left it idling, setting the emergency brake.
There was a security system, but Lucifer disabled it with his fingertip. Inside, the once-luxurious carpet was covered in a layer of dead insects. He set the Styrofoam cooler on the floor and slipped a glass cylinder into each Prada purse. The empty cooler was returned to the front passenger seat of the Expedition. Lucifer had found a 9mm handgun in the glove box, and he retrieved it now. He stuck the gun in his waistband.
Walking around to the driver’s side, Lucifer disengaged the emergency brake. He pressed Resume on the steering wheel and the SUV roared off into the night. It tore through a barbed wire fence and bounced through a field. Lucifer watched it rumble, squeal, and howl into the distance.
Wind began to blow and the first stars appeared in the sky as the clouds cracked apart. It is a big universe out there. Will the MIST destroy us, or help us explore it? With the building’s warm lighting bidding him farewell, Lucifer walked out onto the shoulder of the deserted highway. He placed the barrel of the pistol against his temple, whispered a brief prayer from his youth, and pulled the trigger.
The bald state trooper’s body crumpled to the crushed gravel and rolled back down the incline, coming to rest a swamp of tan mud. The legs and arms twitched briefly, then were still. After seconds of silence, insects began to chirp again. In the west, headlights appeared and grew larger. A Dodge Charger state police cruiser, racing in from El Paso, roared past the misplaced building on the plains. Camouflaged by mud and shadows, the body of the bald man was not seen by the driver.
As the police car entered the small town of Valentine, slowing only slightly as dilapidated shops and houses appeared on either side of the highway, the driver felt a tingling in his nose and mouth. He had the vent fans on high, and reached out to turn them off.
9
Ben felt the tingle in his bones and raced east through Marfa. A few more official vehicles headed past him, rushing to the chaos of Alpine, and Adam Welsh fired on them with his .50 cal. The former CIA spook was a valuable asset, but Ben was already thinking of ways to successfully end their partnership. Something was off about Welsh - he seemed distracted. Was it by lust? Love? Revenge? Ben sought only profit, and a partner who was distractible was not suitable for a long-term operation.
If I can get him in front of the Hummer, I can use the machine gun on him and escape before his MIST can try to bond with me.
After firing a long burst at a state trooper heading east, walking a line of bullets up the hood of the Dodge Charger, Welsh swung himself back into the front passenger seat. In the rearview mirror, Ben saw the damaged cruiser swerve off the road and crash into a cinderblock fence. “Chalk up another one,” Welsh said coldly. Ben contemplated trying to throw Welsh from the moving Hummer, but decided that the man in black would be too able a grappler. Though Ben’s MIST was more developed, he knew that his American counterpart was no slouch either.
“Engine’s overheating,” Welsh remarked, looking at the dash. The 6.5 liter turbodiesel, running at full power for many miles, had a thermometer in the red. “I think the MIST is close by,” Ben replied, relying on instinct. Though Pastorius had a head start and a faster vehicle, Ben figured that the Syrian’s goal was not to run. Rather, the former terrorist was likely preparing for a last stand. Although all cops and soldiers in the area were rushing to Fort Davis and Alpine, they would eventually focus on catching Pastorius’ black Expedition. Ben’s co-tenant on the Silver Six satellite could only run so far.
“He’s setting up for last stand,” Ben explained. Welsh nodded, accepting Ben’s far greater knowledge of Adam Pastorius’ twisted mind. “But where? We’re past Marfa and it’s nothing but fields.”
“There’s the town of Valentine up ahead,” Ben said, looking at the in-dash navigation. A moment later, a smattering of lights appeared and the Hummer roared through the wide spot in the road, rickety houses practically swaying on either side. As the vehicle passed through the town, the engine shrieked and began blowing smoke through the dash vents. “We’ve thrown a rod,” Welsh snarled. Ben contemplated shooting him, but refrained. He continued driving, pushing beyond the town.
As the Hummer shuddered and issued terrible squeals of grinding belts and scraping metal from under the hood, Ben spotted a well-lit storefront up ahead on the left. The store was by itself, isolated in the middle of nowhere. With power steering failing, Ben gripped the steering wheel and aimed the hulking SUV toward the building. He sensed something in the building, and wanted to check it out.
The Hummer rocked onto the shoulder and pulled to a stop in front of the store. “Purses?!” snapped Welsh, looking over Ben’s shoulder. “Who the hell buys purses out here?” Remaining in his seat, Ben turned off the ruined engine and touched his index finger to the in-dash computer. Guided by the MIST, the microchips searched for the identity of the purse store and revealed that the building was an art installation.
“Prada Marfa,” Ben said aloud. “Yeah, this fits with that crazy bastard’s way of thinking. Must be some critique of capitalism.”
“But where’s his car? There’s nothing out here.”
“He’s tricky. He could have parked up the road, or out in a field. Chances are that he has laid a trap for us. Better put your thinking cap on, Mr. Welsh. One wrong move, and it’s likely that some sort of booby trap will light us up.”
10
Bob Baurin found the side door of the Jeff Davis County Courthouse unlocked and snuck inside. The small town was descending into chaos around him, and the lack of daylight made it even worse. Moments after Baurin had coaxed the old 4-Runner into town, worried about being shot on sight by some Blackwater thug, a convoy of outbound mercenaries ran into a convoy of inbound cops. As he parked the SUV in a motel parking lot, preparing to head out on foot and find some way to make that crazy cop William Watterson happy, the world exploded.
The bad guys were trying to shoot their way out of town, and the good guys were trying to shoot their way in. Dr. Baurin had darted, snuck, scrambled, and scuttled to the center of the tourist town under the cover of shadow, his desire for dropped criminal charges outweighing his fear of violence. As he crept through a vacant lot behind a historic saloon, a helicopter roared over the town, both delivering and taking fire. Mercenaries who were unable to flee from the town were unwilling to surrender.
When Baurin had seen the county courthouse, he had immediately known that it was, or at least had been, the epicenter of the conspiracy. The building was darkened, but flashes of light and distant sources of illumination revealed gun barrels sticking out of windows. Though he dreaded the thought of trying to enter the building, the internist quickly came to believe that the ad hoc fortress was actually empty: The front doors were hanging open, the building was all quiet inside, and there were no vehicles in the parking lot.
It makes sense, Baurin had thought to himself. The leaders got out while the getting was good, and left their hired guns to take the fall.
Gunfire around the outskirts of town intensified, and the doctor came to believe that it was safer inside the courthouse than skulking in the bushes. Mustering up his courage, he had darted across open ground and run to the service door on the side of the quaint courthouse. Miraculously, the door had opened on the first tug.
“Hello?! Anybody here?! I’m a doctor!” Baurin waited several minutes before venturing forward in the pitch blackness. His hand groped for a light switch and found it. When the old fluorescents flickered to life, the doctor found himself in a narrow hallway lined with storage closets and a barred holding cell. Cautiously, he walked forward and explored the first floor of the building, turning on lights as he went. In the main hallway, he saw the unmistakable signs of a hasty evidence-destroying operation. Paper was strewn everywhere, and a jammed shredder in a corner still had a half sheaf of documents jutting from the top.
Baur
in tore the jammed sheaf free from the metal teeth and looked through it. Sure enough, they were technical documents about MIST. The doctor folded them up and stuffed them in his pants pockets. Looking around for a computer, he saw a sleeping laptop on a bench. He opened it and saw nothing of interest on the desktop. Checking the documents folder, he discovered that it was empty. Suspicious.
Then Dr. Baurin checked the trash bin, and discovered that someone had tried to erase gigabytes of documents. Quickly, the doctor tried to open the Internet browser so he could email the documents out. The courthouse WiFi had been turned off, and the doctor cursed profusely. Remembering that his new phone had satellite connectivity, he pulled out the device and used its extendable port to attach the phone to the laptop.
Using the mass transfer app on his phone, Baurin sent all the documents in the laptop’s trash bin to detective Brett Borgmann of the MPD. A second after he hit send, he heard feet pounding up the stairs that led into the elevated lobby from the front doors. Men were talking about the lights being on, and they did not sound happy about it. Thank God for the National Guard, Baurin thought. He stood up and smiled.
It was not the National Guard.
11
Someone in the administration was a traitor, for the drones sent to the Balmorhea State Park to detect the presence of MIST landed at the site instead. “They’re transferring the MIST onto the drones,” the president snapped as soon as he heard the news. “That confirms its presence. I will deal with that. You men, find who was in charge of flying in those drones.” The Secret Service agents outside the Oval Office quickly departed, heading off to search the White House offices for whoever was controlling the computers that flew the drones.
His nerves steeled, the president typed in the commands to launch the B83 warhead. When the missile had cleared the silo, he poured two large shots of whiskey from his private bar and downed them both. On shaky legs, he returned to his desk. He was in entirely unprecedented territory. On his holographic wall, a digital clock began counting down to impact.
There were four and a half minutes left on the clock when he felt the warm, smooth wave of whiskey soften his mind. He was tempted to pour a third shot, but realized that he would soon have to explain his actions to the world. Sobriety was important. He needed to put back on a button-down shirt and tie.
The door to the Oval Office burst open and a young aide rushed in with a letter opener. He advanced on the president while apologizing. He said something about needing the MIST for his daughter. Fuck me, the president thought as he retreated across the room. Too late, he realized that his Secret Service agents were searching the building for the drone operator. It’s all up to me now.
Stopping at the president’s desk, the aide began tinkering with the nuclear warhead control panel. “Tell me how to stop it!” the young man demanded, eyes wild. The president grabbed a pineapple-sized bust of Lyndon B. Johnson and responded that he would do nothing of the sort. “Then you’ve gotta die,” the millennial snapped. The president swung the hunk of bronze, but the attacker was too quick. Dodging, the kid in navy pinstripes only took a grazing blow on the arm. A second later, the president felt the letter opener plunging into his midsection.
Crumpling to the carpet, the president watched helplessly as the young man returned to the control panel. He pressed his hands to his stomach, trying to apply pressure around the handle of the letter opener. It didn’t hurt too bad - yet. He had an emergency button on his wristwatch, but his fingers were weak and fumbly. “Stupid arthritis,” he whispered to himself.
“What the fuck?!” the Secretary of Defense roared from the door of the Oval Office. A second later, a single gunshot ripped through the air. The young man jolted backward from the president’s desk and collapsed next to the fallen commander-in-chief. As the president lay still, conserving his energy, a flurry of feet rushed around him. The SecDef knelt over him, telling him to hang on. Her DCI husband arrived and took over the president’s encrypted tablet, ensuring that someone was in charge. Polished shoes of Secret Service agents ran to and fro. People were calling for a doctor.
“We’ve got you, Mr. President,” an agent said, bending over to apply impromptu compresses around the belly wound. “The doctors are coming at full speed.” The president closed his eyes and lost consciousness.
He opened them again and saw that there were only eight seconds left until impact. As a doctor shined a light in his eyes, he looked to his right and watched the countdown. He was about to become the first president to use a weapon of mass destruction against U.S. citizens.
