by T. C. Edge
Bulletproof.
The soldier kept coming, almost nonchalant. He lifted his pistol to fire ahead. Ragan drew a breath, held it, aimed, and fired. The bullet burst from his barrel, hunting not the man, but the weapon in his hand. It met with the tip of the soldier’s gun, causing it to spin off to one side just as he was about to shoot. He could almost feel the anger surge up through the man’s body, radiate from out of him.
It had given the others time, though; just enough time to reach the end of the corridor, and spread quickly into the launch chamber. The President’s other guard, over at the console, completed the launch sequence. The pod began to hum, lighting up, a clanking and grinding noise coming from above it as a tunnel opened up, providing passage through the ceiling and up through the gardens.
The pod’s side unlocked and clicked open.
“Get inside, now!” Ragan called to Rashmore. “Don’t wait for us. Launch as soon as you can!”
The man didn’t need to be told twice. He hurled himself towards the pod, climbing into the interior. There were seats facing upwards, configured that way for vertical take-off. Ragan turned back to the corridor as the three Panthers raised their weapons, the President’s guard joining them. They all fired together, filling the space ahead with a hailstorm of bullets, glinting and flashing as they hit the floor, the ceiling, the walls, and even the soldier coming their way.
But he didn’t stop.
He didn’t stop!
The man - the synthetic - just kept on coming, bullets pinging off his armour, his own weapon firing back. One of the Panthers was too slow to draw back. A gunshot caught him in the neck, spraying blood across the room. He spat up crimson, dropping his pistol, reaching for his throat. His ally hurled himself over to help, trying to drag him towards the pod.
No, Ragan thought callously, we need you to fight. Leave him…he’s dead already.
They needed time, and didn’t have it. The enemy was drawing nearer, barely slowed by their barrage. The pod was still charging up, humming more loudly, its boosters starting to burn beneath it.
“Grenades,” Ragan bellowed. “Hold him back!”
He had none of his own, of course; he just had to hope the others were better equipped. All he had was the pistol Maddox had given him, which was showing itself to be impotent in the face of this enemy.
Ragan looked to the other Panther, dragging his friend across the floor, a trail of blood left in his wake. The man seemed to realise the game was up, his friend was dead.
“Grenade, toss it to me!” Ragan shouted.
The Panther pulled himself back to his feet, grabbed a grenade from his belt, and threw it to Ragan. Then he stood and gathered up another of his own, moving quickly back to the wall. Ragan nodded to Maddox, who also had an explosive in hand, standing across the entrance to the corridor, using the other wall for cover.
Maddox nodded back, and as one, all three of them clicked their grenades, activating them, and hurled them around the edge. They flew into the growing mist of dust, kicked up by rushing feet and gouging bullets, causing chips and ruts in the stone. They landed, rolled, tapping along the floor. The approaching enemy soldier saw them, stopped, and then disappeared into a cloud of black smoke and fire, as one by one, the explosives went off.
The thundering noise that followed rumbled through Ragan’s frame. He saw the swirling furnace of flame, the black smoke billow. It had nowhere to go but up and down the corridor, pouring right towards them, and back the way they’d come.
The wall of smoke hit them, turning the corridor to night. Ragan drew a sharp breath before it arrived, narrowed his eyes, and then turned again to the escape pod. It was lit now in the sudden gloom, blue flame burning underneath. Ready to go.
Just leave, he thought. Get out of here, Rashmore!
He made to step towards it, but gunfire suddenly came again. He turned around and looked down the tunnel. Flashes of light appeared in the darkness, bullets rushing their way. He dropped on instinct, hitting the stone floor. A heavy weight came down upon him - the other Panther, shot dead, blood spewing from gunshot wounds to his neck and face.
Ragan grunted, shoving the dying man off his body, and saw Maddox through the mist. He’d dropped to the floor too, across the room, hunkered down, keen eyes lit. The other guard was still on his feet, now firing with dual pistols down the corridor. He looked down at Ragan.
“Get the President out!” he shouted, still firing.
Ragan looked over at Captain Maddox once more. The men locked eyes. Neither were cowards, neither wanted to leave. But…they’d die if they stayed. Both of them would perish right here in this basement.
“GO!” the guard bellowed once more.
There was nothing for it.
At once, they leaped to their feet, hurrying over towards the pod. The President’s guard continued to fire as they climbed aboard, the pod rumbling loudly now, fresh pulses of smoke swirling beneath it. Ragan found the President cowering inside, shivering and curled up in one of the seats.
He saw a light flashing on the dashboard, a button that read ‘Launch’. He took a final look out into the chamber, the guard still firing, standing tall, holding the enemy off. A hero, fulfilling his most dreadful duty; to die.
Ragan’s hand slammed down on the button.
The pod suddenly lurched violently, shaking as it lifted, leaving the chamber behind in a split-second. Ragan fell back into a seat, staring up through the windshield at the dark tunnel ahead, framed by a soft glow of moonlight. The pod surged up the tunnel, burst through the opening, and spread suddenly out into the open air.
It rose quickly, its boosters firing, leaving the gardens behind, the compound, the city itself. Within mere seconds it was pressing past the highest levels of the tallest skyscrapers that littered the skyline. Ragan knew this sort of sensation - he’d endured it so often as the falcon accelerated to full speed - pressed back into his seat, hardly able to breath as the pod cut vertically through the air.
It didn’t stop until it had cleared the city, the madness back at the Black House so far away, so distant. Then, suddenly, the boosters cooled, and the jet hung for a moment in the air, changing position so that it was facing forwards, and not up. Wings sprouted from its flanks, and the boosters at the rear changed configuration too, causing the pod - now reforming into a small jet - to hover in midair.
Ragan shifted forward to the controls, the President sat tight behind him. Maddox, by his side, let out a long sigh, breaking the strange and sudden silence.
“I’ve never much liked flying,” he grunted.
“Are you all right, sir?” Ragan asked, turning his eyes back to Rashmore.
The President’s gaze - haunted, unblinking - told a story unto itself. He merely stared into space, nodding slightly, as if frozen into place.
Best leave him to thaw, Ragan thought.
A few extended moments of silent reflection followed as Ragan turned inward, thinking. What to do now? Where to go?
He looked down into the city, far below. And among all the bright lights, spreading off in all directions, saw the flickering of orange flame, unmistakable in the darkness, spewing out thin trails of black smoke.
The CID, he knew. It had been taken out just as Project Dawn had…
“Can you get in touch with Commander Wexley?” he asked, turning to Maddox beside him.
He found the man already distracted by something, looking at the rectangular interface fused into his inner right forearm, just below the wrist. All Panthers had them, used to monitor their vital signs, performance, and provide information and updates. Ragan had one of his own, of course, though he’d seen fit to render it useless so he couldn’t be tracked.
Maddox stared at the interface, eyes narrow. He didn’t seem to have heard Ragan’s question.
“Captain Maddox?” Ragan pressed.
Maddox started, coming out of his reverie.
“What is it?” Ragan asked.
Maddox reached to h
is wrist interface, tapped a few tiny buttons, and a hologram extended out. It brought with it files and plans, schematics of some kind.
“I got sent this by Commander Wexley,” Maddox said quietly. “Not long ago. It’s got his unique code, so can only have been sent from his command module in the control room.”
He looked down towards the city, right to where the CID was situated.
“He’s probably dead,” Maddox said hollowly. “But he sent this before…”
“And what is it?” Ragan leaned over, interest brewing, hope swelling.
“What you’ve been searching for, I think,” said Maddox. He looked at Ragan, his expression so different to before. That contempt was gone, erased by what they’d faced. By the truth that was dawning. “The research facility,” he said. “It’s like you said…a base on Lake Michigan. Or, in Lake Michigan, by the looks of it.”
Ragan’s breath caught in his lungs. Had he found it? Had Wexley really found it?
“How can we be certain?” he asked, hardly believing it, eyes scanning the plans.
Maddox lifted a brow.
“This isn’t my area, Hunt,” he said. “But…there’s a reason Commander Wexley sent it through to me. There’s a reason he stayed behind, knowing he’d be killed, to make sure it got out.”
He fixed Ragan with a stern stare.
“If this really is their base, we need to act now,” he went on. “Destroy it before they know we’ve found them.”
Ragan nodded, glad to be on the same page. He glanced over the schematics. They seemed old, incomplete. As if these were plans discovered some time ago by the NDSA inspection teams, long forgotten and considered irrelevant. They’d probably never have been thought of as important if Ragan hadn’t spoken of a base on Lake Michigan. If they hadn’t seen that medical transport take Martha’s daughter, Sarah, there from her estate.
But still, they couldn’t be certain. Not completely. They’d need to analyse the plans fully, be absolutely sure before they gathered an attack. But…do it quickly. Every day, every damn hour that passed, more of these synthetics might be being bred, and unleashed.
“We’ll need help,” Ragan said, thinking. “I need to get in contact with my friends.”
“Your friends?” grunted Maddox. “Please don’t tell me you’re talking about that Phantom girl.”
Ragan clenched his jaw.
“Not her specifically,” Ragan said, voice low, almost defensive. “She’s with others. The tip-off we got was from them. They knew something was coming, and may have other information we could use.”
“Hunt, we have the information,” Maddox said, frowning, tapping his wrist interface. “We need to take it to my superiors in the Panther Force right now. We need to mount a strike.”
“I know, Captain,” Ragan said, settling his voice. “We will contact them once we’re certain…”
“Certain of what?”
“That they haven’t been compromised,” Ragan said. “The MSA got into the heart of the CID. They may know our secrets now, our lines of communication. We can’t call this in until we’re sure they’re not listening.”
Maddox’s expression changed a little. He pulled back, and nodded lightly.
“OK,” he said after a pause. “Then what do you propose?”
“I have contact codes for the falcon, the jet my allies are using. We gather together, make sure that President Rashmore is safe and secure. We will be untraceable in that jet, and there’s no safer place for the President right now than being somewhere secret, and mobile. We analyse these plans, seek support, and strike. Hard.”
Maddox considered it, finger tracing down the deep scar in his chin. Then he shrugged and nodded.
“I guess you’ve been right so far,” he grunted, almost begrudgingly. “I’ll trust you, Hunt. But I hold to what I said before - no funny business, or I’ll put you down.”
Ragan fixed him with a flat stare.
“If I need to answer for my crimes when this is done, then I will,” he said. “But…one thing at a time, Maddox.”
Amazingly, the Panther smiled.
Ragan took the rare expression as a sign of agreement, even bonding between the two. He turned, set to send a message to the falcon.
“Oh, one more thing,” Maddox said.
Ragan looked back, wondering, what now?
“Wexley sent a message to my interface,” Maddox went on. “Well, two words, at least. It came in a minute or so after the upload. I guess he thought I’d pass it onto you, because I have no idea what it means.”
“What does it say?” Ragan asked, frowning.
Maddox shrugged.
“Mikel is,” he said. “Whatever that means.”
“Mikel is?” Ragan repeated. “That’s it?”
Maddox nodded.
A shudder ran though Ragan’s body, a common reaction when hearing that name. But…what did it mean? A horrible, ugly suspicion rose, but Ragan didn’t let it fester. It could be anything, couldn’t it? It could be…
He shook the thought away. If Mikel was involved in all this still, that wouldn’t surprise him. That despicable creature had been a thorn in their side all along. And he was certain, one way or another, that they’d meet again.
“So?” Maddox asked. “Any ideas?”
A few, Ragan thought, though all he did was shake his head.
He looked to the dashboard, configured a message, and just hoped that the falcon was somewhere nearby.
106
“Oh my God, are you seeing this?”
Chloe, Nadia, and Tanner stood around the briefing table, looks of shock and awe spreading across their faces. Remus fluttered wildly, nervously, spinning around the room in a dizzying haze. Chloe shot him a glare, ordering him to calm down. That was unfair on the drone. He was really just acting out the way Chloe was feeling.
He quickly flittered towards a shelf, settling down grumpily and folding his wings as a person might fold their arms. He could be awfully surly sometimes.
The falcon, right now, was hovering high in the air, cloaked out of sight, the sparrow doing the same just nearby. New York could be seen through the windows, though wasn’t much more than a blur of light on the black horizon. Nothing of the attack could be seen with the naked eye. Everything the group were seeing, or hearing, was coming from the news reports that were rushing in.
And there were lots of them.
They’d started to drip in roughly fifteen minutes, telling of an attack at the CID. The briefing table had been set to scan for such reports, which had started as rumour and then quickly spiralled into something else. More eye witness reports rushed in, speaking of gunshots heard, black-clad soldiers storming the agency, and fires and black smoke crackling and pouring from windows.
It was just what the group had feared, but wasn’t the end of it. Soon after news of the attack at the CID came in, other reports spoke of another assault happening elsewhere, along the shore of the old Upper East Side. More gunshots, more sightings of soldiers, though this time at the Black House.
The President’s own compound had been stormed.
This was a multi-pronged attack, a coordinated strike. Take out the CID, and take out high command. Disable the NDSA’s ability to continue their hunt for the MSA’s secret facility; render them blind, deaf, and dumb in the fight.
But even that wasn’t it.
Now, other updates were coming in from the west. Tanner had just spotted them, eyes widening as he quickly scanned through another report.
“Are you seeing this?” he repeated.
He looked up at the others, brows tight. They quickly rounded the side of the briefing table, dragging their eyes from whatever footage they were viewing, and joined Tanner’s side. Chloe looked at the footage playing out before her, showing candid imagery of a firefight…in LA.
“Shit,” she whispered. “Where exactly is that!”
“Government headquarters,” murmured Tanner. “Looks like they’re trying to take
out President Arnold too. Cause mass confusion and panic over in the WSA as well as here.”
Chloe felt her blood run cold. Ahead of them, several more little windows popped up, showing extra footage from the heart of LA. Flashes of soldiers in black. Of bodies lying on the steps to the central government building. The sound of gunfire chattering up through the floors, of civilians screaming in the background.
“They’re not trying to hide at all,” Nadia said, eyes strained. “This isn’t just an assassination. It’s a show of power.”
It was true, and even more so over in LA. Over there, the sun hadn’t even set yet. This wasn’t some deadly nighttime attack, performed in secrecy. It was an open display of force, set to cause panic and chaos among the public, and huge confusion in the branches of government.
A voice crackled over the falcon’s interior speakers, that of Colonel Slattery - Tanner had patched them through to the sparrow, allowing the two jets to communicate as the news poured in.
“How many soldiers have we counted so far?” Slattery asked, words spilling loudly into the room, accompanied by a faint buzz.
The suddenness of it, given her current state of anxiety, made Chloe jump. A few tingles of blue electricity zapped instinctively between her fingers. Did the volume on the speakers have to be so loud!
“Hard to say, Colonel,” Tanner said. All had been trying to work out just how many soldiers were attacking at each different target. Most of the footage showed only flashes, making any proper survey of numbers impossible. However, they did have a general idea. “It looks like a small unit at each location, though. No more than attacked the base in Colorado.”
“But three separate attacks now,” came Slattery’s booming voice.
Chloe cringed and looked at Tanner, whispering harshly, “Can you turn it down!”
He nodded, fiddling with the settings as he spoke.
“Three that we know of,” he said. “The Southern Republic may also be under attack.”
