by T. C. Edge
Ragan smiled pointedly.
“Yeah you did,” he said. “But…that’s OK. I know you mean well, Cliff. I’d sooner take the abuse than have you change on my account. I guess I’ve gotta learn to take it better.”
“It’s a sensitive topic,” nodded Tanner. “We all have our…insecurities.” His voice fell away with the word, before he drew a breath, brightening. “But, for what it’s worth, I’ve seen how Chloe looks at you. It’s worth a lot, that. She’s a special one, buddy. I just wanna see you make that move.”
“Cliff, when I do make that move, I’ll make sure you’re not around to see it.”
Tanner smiled, white teeth set wonderfully against his tanned skin. His anger had been cast off, red flush gone.
“Hmmm, shame,” Tanner breathed, shaking his head. “I would’ve liked to see that.”
“Pervert,” remarked Ragan dryly.
The two men laughed, and the falcon sped on.
Mikel sat in the rear, shackled. Still shackled.
His eyes were set on the figures ahead, the tops of the heads of Chloe and Nadia visible above their seats. They were all so desperate to make a deal, these people. Even discovering that massacre at the diner, to which Mikel was completely unrepentant, didn’t sway them at all.
In that, he had to trust their honour. These people were…good. Whatever that word meant. It made little sense to Mikel, this value they put on human life. He had no such restrictions upon him, upon the way he behaved. He hadn’t been designed to feel compassion or grief. He didn’t bend to fear or pain. He had been created to kill, and little more. Unfortunately, that programming often came with some unpleasant side-effects.
Naturally, there were variations among his kind, degrees of anger, hatred, and complete detachment to the supposed sanctity of human life. Some had more feeling, and wouldn’t kill wantonly. They’d target only those they’d been designed to eliminate. Those were the ones the governments tended to use and rely on to do their bidding.
Others went off the rails a little more. Or a lot. Those were the ones who were either terminated themselves or, in rare cases, managed to break free. The ones who then became powers unto themselves. Mercenaries for hire. Shadows in the night. Men upon which urban legends were formed.
Mikel was of the latter.
Yet, their creation and purpose had raised a question upon initial inception; how to foster good relations between vamps and nano-enhanced born of the same nation? Would the vamps created by the WSA go rogue, for example, and end up feasting on the members of the Spectre Squad, the nation’s own nanotech soldiers? Would the same be true of vamps created by the NDSA? Would they end up targeting the members of the Panther Force, the Northern States’ most deadly men?
It was the same for all the nations. All had their nano-enhanced, and all had their nano-vamps. So to solve the problem, at least in part, the governments tried to engineer restrictions within them. To make them feel no desire for hunting and feeding on nanotech soldiers from their own nation. And to do the opposite too; give them a keen longing for soldiers from particular countries with whom they warred.
So, the nano-vamps from the WSA would long for, above all others, the nanotech soldiers of their nation’s fiercest rival, the Panther Force of the NDSA. The vamps created in the NDSA would do the opposite, hunting the members of Spectre Squad with more desire than the rest.
All vamps, therefore, had been programmed to hunger for certain nanites above others. It was ingrained in them, engineered in them to chase specific targets above the rest, and ignore those who were, technically, on their side, fighting for the same nation.
Mikel, of course, was no different.
He sat now, staring forward, starting to feel the pull of his desires once more. The longer he was with these people, the harder it became. His appetite was growing, and he longed for certain nanites in particular. Those that originated in his birth-nation’s great rival.
Those that swam within the bodies and blood of Ragan Hunt, and Chloe Phantom.
He’d been created in the Western States, designed to hunt the Panther Force above all others. Ragan had been a member. That’s where his nanites came from. And Chloe…oh Chloe was a special case. Her father made her remarkable, and her nanites originated in the same place as all those over in the Northern Democratic States. Those two were what he really wanted. Those two had been his goal for some time.
It wasn’t the same with the others. Nadia’s nanites smelled sweet, but weren’t quite as alluring. And Tanner’s? Well, he came from the WSA, just like Mikel. Mikel had been engineered to not be attracted to the nanites of the Spectre Squad. Oh, he wanted Tanner to suffer, but he cared not for draining his blood. He wanted to scar him, destroy that pretty face. He wanted him to live with that pain.
Yet, despite his hunger and his longing, there was something else now upon his mind. Something just brought to light, so recently revealed.
Mikel’s desires were strong, stronger than ever in such proximity to these people. And if he got a chance, oh how he’d take it. He’d swill on their blood, and suck down their nanites. He’d fill himself to the brim with all that wonderful goodness.
But, now there was something else. Something…more.
He sat, thinking, looking beyond his longing. Through the dark tunnel of his need, of his endless thoughts of blood and death, a tiny chink of light was appearing. It was a shard of illumination in the darkness only, a flash of lightning in a bitter, black storm. But, it was something.
Something, maybe, that could end his hunger.
Something, maybe, that could set him free…
Once and for all.
53
Colonel Slattery watched the lit wall of the briefing room with aching eyes that, while as heavy as they’d ever been, refused to do so much as blink. On the map ahead, the little red dot signalling the position of the falcon was gently moving in a southeasterly direction. Not far away, a blue dot followed, just out of tracking range. That dot represented the golden eagle.
Jason was sat at the table, fingers hovering upon a glowing keyboard that seemed to be built right into its surface. He tapped a few keys, and the map zoomed in a little closer, following the two dots as they blinked their way across the wide expanses at the centre of the continent.
A few minutes ago, Colonel Slattery had been patched through to Captain Quinn inside the eagle. He’d updated the officer on the new development, telling him to move into a holding pattern in the jet until they’d worked out the falcon’s likely trajectory. Now, its course had been determined, cutting southeast from South Dakota and across the northern reaches of Nebraska. Quinn had been informed, and told to follow at a safe distance.
Oppenheimer remained in the room as well, watching on. He’d taken a seat at one end of the table, sitting back calmly with one leg crossed over the other.
Slattery glanced over at him, struggling to hide his annoyance. He couldn’t conceive of a man who could appear so relaxed in the midst of an operation such as this.
“Where do you imagine they’re headed?” Oppenheimer asked, stroking his chin with wizened fingers.
Slattery didn’t look at him.
“Who the hell knows,” he grunted, voice increasingly gruff.
“Well it seems to me that they’re headed for the NDSA. New York, perhaps? Maybe Hunt’s going back home.”
“Maybe,” said Slattery. It was what he was worried about. If they got near the NDSA, the eagle wouldn’t be able to follow. They’d be no catching him once he crossed those borders.
“Sir,” came Jason’s voice, suggestive. “The falcon isn’t travelling at top speed. Captain Quinn could probably catch him if he sped up.”
It was true. The falcon appeared to be travelling quite slowly, given its supreme capabilities. If Hunt chose to put on the afterburners, the eagle would have no chance of chasing them down.
Slattery was thinking. Making decisions under this sort of pressure, with so little rest over the la
st few nights, was becoming increasingly difficult. His mind didn’t seem to be functioning as it should. And this was the worst time to lose even a shred of mental capacity.
“Sir,” said Jason again, prodding his commander’s attention. “Shall I order Captain Quinn to close the gap?”
Slattery brushed his remaining good hand through his short grey hair. He did so harshly, gripping and pulling at the follicles in a bid to jolt himself awake.
“Not yet,” he finally said. “Let things play out a little longer.”
“But…sir,” said Jason tentatively. He seemed to have noted the Colonel’s wavering ability to make prompt decisions.
“What?” Slattery snapped, eyes flaming as they turned to the younger man.
Jason held firm.
“Well, spit it out, Lieutenant! What’s on your mind?!”
“I’m just…I’m wondering if we shouldn’t shoot them down, sir?”
From the other end of the room, Oppenheimer stirred.
“Shoot them down!” he said, aghast, tall old frame sitting up. “Do you have any idea how much that plane is worth, young man? I didn’t donate it to this cause only to have it shot out of the sky!”
“With all due respect, Councillor Oppenheimer,” returned Jason, maintaining a deferential tone, “this cause is on a knife edge. If the data disc is aboard and in Hunt’s possession, what choice do we have? We cannot let it get to the NDSA, sir, if that’s where they’re headed.”
He looked to Slattery, who nodded gently. He’d considered it, of course. As a last resort only. But he had considered it.
“Young man, I will not give dispensation to shoot down that aircraft,” said Oppenheimer firmly. “It belongs to me, and you have no right…”
“We have every right, Benedict,” came Slattery’s weary voice. He turned on the older man, who drew back into his chair a little, eyes shaping into a frown. “That jet was donated by you for this cause. It is now under my jurisdiction, and will be shot out of the damn sky if that is what I decide. For goodness sake man, would you listen to yourself. You’re one of the richest men in the world, and you’re worried about a single jet?”
“I…I didn’t become one of the richest men in the world by blowing up my most valuable possessions, Jeremiah,” retorted Oppenheimer. He hesitated, perhaps realising he was acting illogically. It was often the case with rich and greedy men to protect their possessions with great fervour.
“I’m sure your billions can handle the loss,” said Slattery angrily, and with no small measure of dismissiveness either. Few people spoke to Benedict Oppenheimer like that. Few dared.
This, however, was a special case, and this room belonged to Colonel Slattery. It was his territory, his area of expertise. His withering stare didn’t relent, not in his own place of work.
He glared at Oppenheimer until the white-haired man turned away, mumbling a few words in concession.
“Fine,” he said, voice low. “But don’t expect me to donate another if you shoot that jet down.”
“If we shoot that jet down,” said Slattery, “then it will be for a good - no - a necessary, cause. However, rest easy, Benedict. I don’t think it will come to that.”
He looked back to Jason, whose eyes were questioning.
“As you say, Jason, they’re not travelling at top speed,” Slattery elaborated. “I imagine they’re trying to remain undetected.” He looked over to Oppenheimer. “Cloaking works more effectively at lower speeds, Benedict,” he explained. Oppenheimer nodded, but stayed silent.
“If their destination was the NDSA,” Slattery went on confidently, his mind kicking back into gear, “then they’d have no such concerns about going slowly, not so near the border. I don’t believe they’re travelling far.”
Jason nodded, cottoning on. A check of the readouts on the screen appeared to confirm the Colonel’s theory. The falcon was slowing.
“They’re reducing speed, sir,” said the young officer excitedly. “And…altitude is lowering,” he breathed.
“It’s as I thought, then,” nodded Slattery, a tone of victory to his words. He turned again to Oppenheimer. “Don’t worry, Benedict. It doesn’t look like Captain Quinn will even be able to catch them before they land. Your precious jet may well be salvaged.”
His sarcasm was a little juvenile, if not uncommon in the circumstances. Self-made military men rarely got on with those born into wealth. Slattery didn’t dislike Benedict Oppenheimer, per se. He just didn’t appreciate his voice in this room. It had no place as far as he saw it.
“Altitude still dropping,” said Jason, zooming in closer on the map. “Trajectory holding.”
He began tapping on the keyboard, scanning ahead along the line of the falcon’s flightpath, trying to ascertain where it may come down. On the large screen, several small towns and other settlements popped up, either abandoned or governed by local gangs and independent factions. Was it possible Hunt was selling the data to one of these? Was he merely stopping off to sell the guns he’d picked up in Devil’s Pike?
“Patch me into the eagle,” said Slattery.
Jason did so immediately. Captain Quinn’s voice came down the line.
“Colonel Slattery, sir, what’s the latest? We’ve been getting flashes of the falcon on our scanners, but their cloak is too strong to properly catch their scent.”
“Don’t worry, Captain. We have them in our sights. They’re slowing and descending. Looks as though they’ll be landing soon, somewhere in the northeast corner of Nebraska. The lands are fairly open out there. Keep your distance, and we’ll update you when they’ve stopped. You’ll need to land in secret and approach on foot. Prepare your assault team.”
“As you wish, Colonel. Any idea if they’re meeting with a local faction down there?”
“Not as of yet, Captain,” remarked Slattery, voice now growing in anticipation. “We’ll have a better idea shortly.”
“And if they’re liaising with a large mercenary force? I have twelve of the best with me, sir, but that may not be enough.”
He was right. Slattery nodded to himself, thinking, then spoke again.
“I’ll mobilise another unit, have them standing by as backup. Hopefully that won’t be necessary. That’s all, Captain. Jason will continue with the updates. When you’re on the ground, it’s over to you. I’m putting my faith in you, soldier.”
“And I’ll reward it, sir. I won’t let you down as Hunt has done.”
The line clicked off, the room falling to silence. It was strange, though the evidence pointed to his culpability, that Hunt’s guilt had already been established. Yet something wasn’t quite adding up. Too many pieces just weren’t seeming to fit.
Slattery’s eyes returned to their unblinking state. Oppenheimer had once more settled into his seat, though sat forward now, drawn into the drama. Jason, efficient as always, continued to track the jet, moving the satellite image of the map around to try to work out just where the falcon would land.
His mind was quick and alert, despite his own fatigue. He’d been awake all night, too, though wasn’t struggling off the back of two sleepless nights like his commander was. As the falcon swept through the clear skies, still losing altitude, he followed their path more closely. Before too long, they were slowing further, and precipitously.
The falcon appeared to come to a stop on the screen, the red dot going static. It happened fast, a swift deceleration. Slattery leaned in.
“They’ve stopped,” he said. “Altitude?”
“A hundred metres only, sir, and falling fast. Looks like they’re coming in to land.”
It did. They were.
Slattery took in the shapes of buildings on the map. His brows bunched, head shaking.
“A farm,” he murmured. “It looks like an abandoned farm.”
The map zoomed in closer. There were half a dozen buildings, spaced out around the largest one at their centre. A farmhouse, two barns, grain store, additional outhouse, and a windmill.
> Jason was assessing the terrain nearby.
“Colonel, there’s a slight rise to the northwest of the cluster of buildings. Captain Quinn should be able to drop out of sight back there, and approach from the ridge. He’ll be able to get close before being spotted.”
“Good,” said Slattery. “Update him with the details.”
He glared at the satellite image, the red, blinking dot unmoving. A frown fell over his eyes.
“Just what are you doing there, Hunt?” he whispered to himself.
54
“Goddamnit, Tanner, did you have to slow so fast!”
Chloe was used to the motion of the falcon taking off at speed. That was something she could prepare for. Slowing down with such a sudden, stomach-turning lurch was, however, another matter entirely.
“Sorry,” Tanner called to her from the cockpit, voice bouncing down the short passage. “Didn’t mean to make you lose your breakfast. Well, almost,” he added with a grin, turning back and seeing Chloe’s face pale.
Chloe’s stomach heaved a final time, doing summersaults. She hadn’t quite spewed up the eggs and bacon from earlier, but had gotten closer than she’d want. She sat for a moment to steady her gut, raising a hand and saying, “It’s OK, I’m all right,” to Nadia as she attempted to help her out of her harness, having speedily escaped her own. “Just give me a minute,” she added. Nadia grinned at the sight.
The falcon was descending now, dropping to the earth and landing with a light thud on soft dirt. The engines calmed, all noise ceasing. Chloe shut her eyes, drew a salutary breath, and blew out slowly.
After a moment or two, her midsection had settled. She opened her eyes again to find Tanner and Ragan pacing down from the cockpit. The former was smiling, the latter shaking his head.
“You’ll get used to Cliff’s flying eventually,” Ragan said. “First time he does that is always the worst. It’s never nice when you don’t see it coming.”
