Nightmare factory, p.6
Nightmare Factory, page 6
A cold, steady ripple began pulsing along my spine. I now knew that was Ada activating a higher processing mode required for real-time combat intel. It felt natural and boosted my confidence even more. I kicked the flimsy door so hard it detached itself from the frame and flew off into the blackness. I moved inside, taking one man down. Two more swung out and tried to fire, but Sumo swept in from one side, while I blind fired on the other.
I saw the line of hostages with the embedded terrorists marked in red in my HUD. I used an AI assist mode to send pulse rounds into each of the concealed enemy, and yes, they were unarmed. That was on them; they had made a serious miscalculation. The leader, or spokesperson, or mullah was frantically stabbing at the button on an old-style looking phone. Seeing that wasn’t working, he grabbed up a boy from the line of hostages. He somehow managed to suck his entire skinny-assed body behind the kid.
The bearded man began babbling frantically in Spanish. Ada automatically interpreted in real time. He wanted to negotiate.
“I’m just a simple farmer. I just want a peaceful outcome,” he said with all the sincerity of a used autocar salesman.
“Look, Paco. You are confused, clearly. I’m not who they send to negotiate. Time for deals has passed. The lady on the fire team outside. The one you have been dicking around for two fucking days. She’s the one who could make a deal. I’m just here to make you dead.”
* * *
Ada whispered the jammer was beginning to break down. The arming circuit would be live in a matter of seconds. Sumo was waiting for the signal, and I could hear sounds of the rest of Banshee closing in. The line of hostages now covered in blood and bits of… less identifiable ‘stuff’ were all crying. I sheathed the MK4 and removed my sidearm. It was less accurate, but I only needed one shot. It would have to go through the boy but wouldn’t kill him... probably. That was a coldly logical thought, and the fact I’d had it scared me. I wasn’t really going to shoot a kid, was I?
I began squeezing the trigger. The terrorist seemed to realize his time was up and threw up his hands in surrender. I wanted to shoot him anyway.
Bayou slapped my shoulder as she went by and cuffed the man. Halo and Priest made quick work of disarming the bombs and ushering the group, that I could now see was mostly kids, outside.
“They took over the school, killed the administrator and one teacher before taking the class hostage,” Bayou said as a way of greeting.
“Darko, get down here.” She scanned the surroundings before calling for an exfil.
“Good to see you back in the game, Boss.” She then knelt to stare at Sumo.
His blood covered muzzle nosed her uneasily until I signaled ‘friend.’
“Welcome to Banshee, Sumo. We must get a battle patch for that armor.”
It was bad luck to put a squad logo on a soldier until after the first enemy engagement. I’d say he’d earned it.
That was by far the easiest of all the missions I had over the next few months, and yes, at some point I’ll tell you about them, but most are still classified, and frankly, I’m not that sure they are even relevant anymore. I mean, we had our share of pompous dictators trying to oppress in ever more creative ways. A rash of warlords that popped up in Mexico and California that caused some real fucking issues. Then the mess with very targeted M8 cyberattacks that seemed to be aimed at crippling the military’s command-and-control systems, as well as compromising almost every citizen’s identity in one form or another. From ruined credit to deep fakes of illicit affairs and crimes, every day seemed to bring a new and more absurd headline or conspiracy theory.
Increasingly, Bayou took the team out and played cop. The need for an expensive super-soldier was obviously much less relevant in the current military environment. That, and the fact that my need for the regular med pack dosing had proven to be much shorter intervals than Doctor Reichert had suggested. I could normally make it six weeks, but a few times it was less than four. The variable seemed to be how much I stressed my system. When I crashed, I crashed hard. He had not been kidding about the need to stay on the drugs. My time in orbit became less and less, and an RDT soldier who can’t go into space is about as useless as ‘tits on a nun,’ as my dad was fond of saying.
To imply it was frustrating was an understatement, but I managed to catch up on reading, outfitting my mountain cabin with all manner of counter-intrusion devices, and begin work on a dining table made from a tree that had fallen on my property a few years earlier. Unless Banshee was on a drop mission, Sumo and I were pretty much able to make our own schedule. Other than my regular need for the shots and my dad calling to give me hell every few days, it wasn’t a bad time to be me, until it was. I should have been happy about what came next. I am a warrior, and only part of that purpose is fulfilled unless we fight. No one truly was prepared for this, though… no one.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
The end was my beginning, as they say. It was a Tuesday… shit, maybe a Wednesday. Yeah, that’s it; the world ended on a Wednesday. To be honest, I didn’t realize it for what it was. Not at first, anyway. Maybe that’s the problem with being a career soldier, one conflict starts to look a lot like all the others after a while.
Yeah, I know I probably should have seen the clues, the growing unrest in the world. The heightened military state of so many countries. The growing outcry over gene editing, personal freedoms, and the accompanying political rhetoric, but to me, it was just ‘noise.’ You know, shit other people get paid to worry about. I was more concerned with getting the table sanded down for a finish coat. The surface was already glistening from the workout I’d been giving it for weeks now. I rubbed the wood, feeling the warmth, smelling the sawdust that floated in the warm summer air. I was due back at the base in D.C. in a few days, and I wanted to get the first coat of sealer on the wood slab before I left.
It seems stupid to me now, but I have a little trouble recalling the precise moment, even though it was less than a month ago. Did I know this was it? Working in my shop, did I understand that the world I had known was hours from disappearing? No, honestly, what I knew that day was that the last of my good bourbon was disappearing. That, to me, was a genuine tragedy. The world? Well, fuck the world. I’d already done my part. Those assholes just want to keep fighting, to keep believing they are just and right, and the other side is evil. Just like all the other dumb sons-a-bitches before them.
* * *
So, who were ‘they?’ What group ultimately did the deed? Who cares? Hell, who knows? That’s not entirely true. I could probably take a guess, and yeah, I would like to give ‘em some payback. I’m sure my father would know; he seems to know everything that happens anywhere. Like him, I had fought for my country all over the world. One shithole battle after another. Unlike him, I had never advanced far enough up the ranks to avoid people trying to openly kill me.
* * *
I ran my hand over the ridge of scar tissue encircling much of my abdomen. Yeah, I had given my all, as they say. But now, I’ve got to begin again. I needed more whiskey. We also needed food. I rubbed a calloused hand over a week’s worth of stubble. Yep… food, that was probably more important. Sumo looked at me with an affirming head nod.
* * *
Anyway, when I say it was my beginning, don’t read too much into that. It’s not like I’m a rock star, badass survivor now, or I was a bum back in the before. It just changed me… hell, it changed all of us. Those who lived to tell the story at least. Bear with me, as it will take some time to unpack it all for you.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
FIVE WEEKS AGO
The wood grain was really starting to pop… to show through. I used the scraper to delicately shape the thick wood a bit more, then ran the ultra-fine sandpaper over it to smooth out the coarseness of my scraping. The slab was oak and eventually would become my dinner table, or something. I liked the feel of wood, the smell of the sawdust. It felt warm to the touch, solid but somehow still alive. If treated right, the dead wood often has more to offer and a longer life than the living tree ever had. I’m not an anachronism, and yes, a 3D printer could spit me out something made of one of the plywood composites in minutes that would look, feel, and perform nearly identical to this, but it wouldn’t be the same. There is no satisfaction like working the wood with your own two hands.
I heard a sound from far below, then a cloud of dust rose from the valley road. As was a part of my nature, I eyed the sun’s position, then checked my watch. “Only twenty minutes late this time.” The lump of dog at my feet ignored the comment. The sound of tires on the dirt road was the only sound as the delivery truck rolled to a stop. The middle-aged delivery man nodded to me in silent greeting before stepping back into the cargo area to retrieve the shipment.
Sumo and I watched from the door of the isolated cabin’s small workshop. As usual, the delivery man looked as if he wanted to make conversation, maybe ask what it was he brought to me every six weeks for much of the last year. Realizing again that it would be pointless, the man stayed silent and instead set the box on the porch and passed the tablet over for me to sign. As always, I simply tapped my ident ring to the screen, using an anonymous verification instead of anything traceable.
He left as silently as he had come. I watched until the truck was an insignificant dot far below on the valley road. I knew this delivery added at least thirty extra miles to the man’s route, but that wasn’t my concern. The contents of the shipping container were. “Sumo, check.”
The dog snapped to attention and moved to investigate the container. It was the typical biodegradable rigid foam box used to ship perishable items. Food companies had used them back in the day before technology made shipping luxury steaks and frozen Chicago pizza a quaint throwback. Sumo nudged the box over on its side and sniffed the bottom before giving a small chuff and going back to his spot by the wooden rocking chair on the porch.
I stared at the container, tearing off the nondescript mailing label for the compounding lab just outside D.C. I felt the familiar rage inside taking root, rising up… getting ready to erupt. This was the price; this was the deal I’d made to stay alive… alive and free, I amended. Sighing heavily, I picked up the box and moved inside the house, retrieving a standard handheld scanner from the chipped plastic counter. The scanner showed no tracking devices; the dog had cleared it of any bio-agents, but there could be more.
Yeah, I know my paranoia is almost as bad as my anger. It took a considerable amount of conscious effort to force it all back down to just this level of bat-shit nuttiness.
I was an operator… now I was more of a loose end. One the DOD hadn’t willingly let off the leash. To be accurate, they hadn’t let me off. The truth was, I relied on them and these shipments to stay alive. My agreement had been to stay hidden, stay quiet, and be ready whenever they called. I was still nominally in command of my team. I got to sit in the TOC and second guess my hand-picked replacement to do the job I should be out there doing.
It’s hell being an aging soldier, even worse, being an elite Tier-1 operator who is now mostly used in advisor roles. I’m a Master Sergeant in the Space Force Ranger division. Maybe all of that should be past tense. Like a million-dollar pitcher who just threw his arm out. What’s his value then?
Banshee Squad were some of the best. They were my friends; they were fucking heroes, and I should be with them. I’d shown that I could still do the work many times now, but despite my abilities, I had weaknesses as well. Problems that kept me closer to home than I liked to admit. So, my team did most missions without me. I watched remotely, and meanwhile, when I’m not at the base, I make dead trees into beautiful tables that no one but me and my goofy-ass dog will ever enjoy.
In the past year, RDT Command at Alliance Space Force had called me back into the field five times. Number three had nearly ended the dog’s life. Fighting against something that still gave us both nightmares. Number five had cost me an arm… again, and yeah… another one of our team… my team, didn’t make it back.
Ramirez had been solid. One hell of a soldier. He’d been a key member of Banshee Squad. We’d almost lost him right after Hinge. That had been the mission that brought home my body’s absolute dependence on what was in this box. It did so with absolute, horrific clarity. I’m an enhanced super-soldier who is literally addicted to a drug cocktail that has to be specially made for me every four weeks. Six, if we’re taking chances. Since most RDT missions are ninety-day rotations, my time on the space side of the service has been very limited since my upgrade. I went up twice and dropped within days both times. When my body begins to fail, I become a liability, not just combat ineffective. Ramirez had stepped on a concealed proximity mine, taking point on my patrol because I couldn’t manage. Another fallen brother, another friend gone on my watch.
Dropping the box into my homemade faraday cage, I carefully manipulated a remote blade to slice through the sealing tape. Biological hazard sensors in the cage could detect all but the most sophisticated of agents, and my containment box itself would warn if any tracking devices were present inside the container. Hell, I knew this was overkill, but this level of caution kept me alive. The sensor was going through the BAN’s biohazard protocol when my embedded comms went active. The incoming call chime nearly scared the piss out of me. At the same time, I felt a distant rumble coming from beneath me.
“Shit,” I said as my onboard AI made the connection.
“Shit? Is that any way to speak to your old man?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I was in the middle of…”
He cut me off, “Yeah, no time for chit-chat.”
You would have to understand my father. The highly decorated former commander was not a man of patience. He was also the only caller Ada could not block. We still couldn’t figure out how he’d managed to hack her system to always give him priority access.
“What’s up, Pop?”
“Got a crawly feeling going down my spine like someone is walking on my grave.”
Dad tended to speak in cliches as if he was a character in an eighties action movie. And, oh my God, he made us watch them all over and over to the point I never wanted to see another 2D movie of any kind.
“You sure it’s not just arthritis?”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you calling me old? Don’t forget, I was the one who got you that goddamn bouncy house for your eighth birthday, you ungrateful shit.”
Holy cow, I thought. Zero to crazy in seven seconds. “You never got me a bouncy house, Pops.” I felt the rumble again, stronger this time, and Sumo was looking around, his internal alerts going off as well.
“Oh, yeah,” Dad said, unfazed. “That’s right, we got that for your brother. Goddamn, I miss that kid.”
“I’m an only child, Pops.”
“Well, a man can wish, can’t he? Sorry you’re pissed about the bouncy house. I’ll make it up to you.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Well, let’s call this a ‘grow the fuck up moment,’ Joe. You can’t keep being a victim, you know. Hell, everybody had shitty childhoods.”
“Dad, I never even wanted a bounc…”
“Can we drop that shit? I had something important to talk to you about,” he cut in.
“Your itchy back?” I said, trying to be helpful… or snarky. He ignored me.
“I made some calls. Something big is going down. I suggest you contact your team to get them spun up and prepped.”
“Colonel, you’re not in my COC.”
“Fuck chain of command, Son. I am telling you this for your own good. Go on alert now. This is a Condition Black.”
The line went ominously dead.
I tapped at the spot just behind my ear. “Ada, did we lose him?”
“As usual, Joseph, I have no record of the call,” she answered.
“Any chance he’s onto something? I think we just felt a couple of impact tremors.”
Ada is not like most commercial AIs. She’s a fully functioning, military grade issue, strong AI that came with some other ‘upgrades’ after a particularly ugly mission. The same mission that had me addicted to what was in this goddamn box I still hadn’t unpacked.
“I believe…” she began. Then, “Sergeant, protocol alert. Status Activation Black.”
That was the official Milcrypt Command channel. I realized something definitely was happening. I ignored the scanner and rushed out to the rear of the cabin. Not that I could see much there other than the eastern slope of the ridge below. I lived in an overlooked rural area of dense forest along the West Virginia and Pennsylvania line several hours away from D.C. I’d chosen this spot just for its remoteness and the fact it legally didn’t exist on any current map. My address on the shipping labels was a set of coordinates, nothing more.
“Ada, lock down the house. Liquidate all assets, now,” I said as I saw high arcing vapor trails far in the distance. I saw a dark blue shape coming fast across the long, green valley. My brain registered what it was before my enhanced eyes even could. That’s an old Chinese Darkstar hypersonic EMP cruise missile. It was following a ‘map of the earth’ flight path and would pass to the south a good ten miles.
“Shutting down all non-essential systems, Joe. All financial transfers are handled. Your crypto accounts are all now linked to hard assets. Ample funds added to your indent ring for emergency purposes.” I felt and heard a missile impact, this one much closer. Shit, we were under attack. Someone finally had the balls and the stupidity to launch a domestic attack on the continental U.S.
Ada could interpret what my optic nerve had just witnessed. She knew what this meant and probably where the missile was heading. EMP weapons were old but had only been used a few times. They were essentially inert nukes. The destruction was very localized. No radiation, or very little, but total failure of any non-hardened electrical systems. In a country as dependent on electricity as we were, that meant the end.
