Turning Point (Book 3): A Time To Live

by Wandrey, Mark

  Rose pointed at him and looked around at his men. “Now I understand that reference.” They laughed more heartily. Good, it lightened up the scene a bit. “Who the hell is this Anakin guy?”

  “Long story,” Ayres said.

  “Later then,” Rose agreed. “Set point, and let’s see where this leads. Lieutenant,” he said and glanced at Drake, “stay here with the injured.”

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant agreed. He didn’t look thrilled. Rose nodded and moved in behind his men as they moved out.

  * * *

  Michael watched his personal detail load the last case into the sub. They were ready to go. Thanks to his traitorous, former allies, they’d had plenty of room for extra gear. Genesis had six more installations like San Nicolas. None had the level of staffing they did here, though. It was unfortunate, but you did what was necessary to survive.

  He checked his tablet. Five minutes since he’d launched the missile. The Flotilla would be getting theirs soon. Time to go. He entered the shutdown command on this tablet. In ten minutes, the base would completely shut down. The various labs, warehouses, and facilities would lock their doors, and data would be erased. Nothing as cliché as a self-destruct. He kind of regretted that now. How nice it would have been to have a loud countdown ending in a huge explosion.

  Michael looked at his tablet. He still had one more nuclear missile… “Maybe after I’m at the next base,” he said.

  The heavy, reinforced door to the bay rang like a bell. Michael spun and stared at it in surprise. He checked his tablet and confirmed the sea door was still closed. They were 50 feet below sea level, if the inside door suddenly opened while the sea door was also open, it would be bad. He accessed the cameras and searched for the ones outside the bay. “There they are,” he mumbled and clicked on the sub bay cameras.

  Everything from where he was to the tunnel leading to the ocean came up. He scrolled, looking for the one just outside the door. Had someone set off a breaching charge? He wanted to see topside, but he still hadn’t found the correct camera. He finally found it and expanded the image to fit his tablet’s screen.

  The corridor was dark and lined with concrete. Its only purpose was to access the sub bay. No need for anything fancy. Standing outside was a single figure. Michael could see its head moving as it examined the door. He zoomed in to see who it was. One of the damned soldiers who’d landed on the Osprey?

  The figure wore no clothes and appeared to be made of silver, like an unfinished sculpture. A radiation or bio suit? The figure stopped looking at the door. Its head turned and stared directly at the camera. That was no suit. He could see no signs of a face mask or joints. It was a silver figure of pure mercury.

  “Oh, hell,” he said. “What are you?”

  The figure cocked its head as it seemed to observe the camera, then turned back to the door.

  “Well, whatever you are, enjoy trying to get out of that corridor when all the doors lock.”

  It pointed a silvery hand at the door, and the camera image flashed white. The display read “Thermal Overload.” Michael’s head spun around to look at the door again, just as a spot on it started to glow. In an instant, the glow went from warm red to brilliant white. Without thinking, Michael dove to the floor.

  A brilliant beam of light stabbed though the door and cut laterally across the sub bay. One of his men was caught in the beam and cut cleanly in two. He barely had time to scream before the two halves of his body fell bloodlessly to the floor.

  “Take cover!” Michael yelled.

  “What is it?” the leader of his security detail asked.

  “No idea, just kill it.”

  The cutting beam turned off and something grabbed the glowing edges of the door and ripped it outward.

  “Jesus Christ,” Michael hissed.

  As soon as the door was sufficiently open, the silvery figure stepped through. Michael and his men gawked in open mouthed amazement as the bay’s lights reflected off its skin. Its movements were robotic. God, it’s some kind of alien robot! It was the only conclusion that made any sense. He looked around at his surviving men crouched behind machinery and equipment.

  “What are you crouching there for? Shoot it!” Five compact machine pistols came up and opened fire.

  Bullets bounced off the metallic creature with bright flashes of light, almost like photo strobes. All five of his men dumped their magazines into the shiny figure. For several seconds, it looked like the red carpet at a Hollywood release. The bullets shattered and flew in every direction. Since the sub bay was a metallic structure, it was like being inside the barrel of a shotgun as pieces of bullets flew like hail.

  Michael ducked behind a cart and felt several pieces hit his body armor. One found a soft spot on his neck and another in the small of his back. He cringed and jerked as the fragments penetrated his skin. They hurt, though neither felt bad enough to be dangerous.

  The men’s fire tapered off, and Michael heard a buzzing which quickly grew and became a roaring, snapping sound. Someone screamed. He heard magazines falling to the floor and yelling. He found his position in relation to the sub and crawled toward it.

  The battle continued out of his view. Bolts were closed, and there was more gunfire. He heard thumping footsteps and a yell, followed by a sound like wet cement hitting the floor. Something wet splashed across the floor just before him. It looked suspiciously like entrails. He was halfway to the ramp leading to his escape when the shooting and screaming stopped. A silver foot stepped directly in front of him, and his blood ran cold.

  Not one to face his fate on hands and knees, Michael got to his feet. The silvery being was imperfectly human. Its shoulders were overly stooped, and its arms seemed too short. It was also short, not much over five feet. He towered above it. Death shouldn’t be so physically insignificant. Michael thought he could pick it up and crush it like a toy. Yet his six men, the most highly trained of the Project Genesis soldiers, veterans of special forces and SEAL training, had been slaughtered, and there was not a mark on this being.

  He squared his shoulders and stared down at the being only a few feet away. It mostly reminded him of an artist’s mannequin he’d once used in school a lifetime ago, before Michael, when the world was a very different place. Its head moved slightly, and he knew it was examining him, trying to understand, trying to decide. Michael considered his MP5 hanging on its sling. The floor of the bay was littered with empty brass, testimony to the futility of reaching for his gun.

  “Fuck you,” he snarled. “Get it over with.” The figure raised its right arm.

  “Wait,” someone yelled.

  Michael turned toward the ruined door and saw a big, somewhat portly soldier stepping through, flanked by a squad of men, all in identical US Army camo. Michael’s sharp eyes picked up three black stars velcroed to the front. “Lieutenant General Leon Rose?”

  “Who the hell are you, and what the fuck is that?”

  “My name is Michael. I was the best hope for mankind’s survival until you came along. I suspect this thing is some alien creation. To tell the truth, I thought you’d created it with salvaged alien tech.”

  “Let’s take a second,” Rose said. “I’m arresting this man for treason.”

  Michael sighed and shook his head. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about or what you’re dealing with.”

  The silver figure raised its arm and pointed a finger at Michael’s chest. Michael looked at its face, smooth and featureless.

  “What? You want to say some—” A brilliant beam of light lanced through Michael’s chest, ending his life.

  * * *

  Rose jerked as the beam slashed through Michael’s chest. Whatever the ‘weapon’ was, aiming and firing it was nearly instantaneous. Michael’s body dropped like a marionette cut from its strings.

  “Shit!” Master Sergeant Ayres yelped, and the men who’d come in with General Rose brought their weapons up. The silver figure’s head came around with fanta
stic speed.

  “Stop!” Rose barked, holding up his empty hand. “Easy men, we don’t know what we’re dealing with.”

  The figure lowered its arm and stepped forward to examine its handywork. Its head moved so little, it was difficult to tell exactly where it was looking. Rose was pretty sure it was watching him. It felt like bugs crawling up his back.

  “Will you talk to us?” he asked. The figure moved around the room, checking the dead men, and stopped to look over the docked submarine, which was the first time Rose noticed it. So, this Michael was running. “We’re looking for a hostage, Lisha Breda.”

  The silver figure stopped its examination and turned toward the door. The men tensed, their weapons shifting nervously.

  “Don’t initiate hostilities,” he said. “That’s an order.”

  The figure walked toward the door. Rose limped aside and gestured to his men to clear the way. Those past the ruined door did their best to flatten against the walls. The figure moved past them as if they didn’t exist.

  “Looks like Iron Man and the Silver Surfer had a lovechild,” Rose heard a private say.

  He had an idea of who the Silver Surfer was but did know Iron Man; that had been a good movie. Could the soldier be right that he was looking at a super-advanced suit of armor? If it was, whoever wore the armor was small. Damned small. As the thing passed by, he noticed it only had three fingers and a thumb and walked stiffly, as if it weren’t used to its legs. There was no sign of instability, though. It didn’t trip over the piles of spent brass or stumble as it stepped through the ravaged door.

  “What do we do?” Ayres asked, watching the figure fade down the hallway.

  Rose scanned the room again. He was really interested in the sub. It was pretty big, and he suspected it was one of the ones that had been attacking the Flotilla. The silvery figure was almost out of sight when he decided.

  “Follow it,” he said, gesturing with one arm. “Not too closely though.”

  “Yeah, I wouldn’t want to piss it off,” Ayres agreed.

  Rose checked his watch; eight minutes since they’d seen the missile launch. The fate of the Flotilla would soon be known. They left the scene of death behind.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 11

  The Flotilla

  165 Nautical Miles West of San Diego, CA

  Kathy Clifford finished feverishly packing the files she’d recorded over the last couple of weeks into a single archive file. Luckily, she’d been sorting as she’d recorded, so the data was saved by priority based on what she considered important. Using compression software she’d saved from her days as a reporter, she’d gotten the total down to ten 50-gigabyte files.

  When she’d gained access to the ship’s data systems and radio, she’d found the link Wade had established with MILSATCOM, which led to several off-site data archives. She didn’t know what any of them were, and it didn’t matter. The ship’s communications specialists were using the restored connection sparingly, so she took advantage of the low outbound bandwidth. The collections of files were being uploaded to a dozen active storage locations.

  “I don’t see why you’re bothering,” Chris said. After he’d told one of the CPOs about the infected rats, he’d returned to help her clean up the mess he’d made. While he was there, they’d overheard the radio conversation between Captain Gilchrist and General Rose. They only had a few minutes to live.

  “Because I want someone to know what happened,” she said. He shrugged and sighed. Besides, it’s something to do, she thought. Better than spending my last minutes of life crying.

  “I wonder what happened to Cobb?” Chris asked suddenly.

  Kathy looked up at him. “Why are you bringing him up all of a sudden?”

  “Because I know you had a thing for him,” he said. “I keep thinking he’s out there, somewhere, doing a Mad Max thing across the wasteland.”

  Kathy snorted and laughed. He’d already done his Mad Max thing when he came after her in the Mexican desert. Then, they’d fought their way back north, rescuing dozens of Mexican civilians fleeing the infected in their own country. So many tangled fates, all coming to an end now. Of all the ways she’d thought she would die since the world fell apart, in a nuclear fireball was not one of them.

  Suddenly, she didn’t want to die without trying. She accessed the radio controls and selected a wideband frequency. A handy pop-up warned her that sending such a broadcast was against US Military regulations. She clicked her understanding and put the headset on.

  “What are you doing?” Chris asked.

  “Saying goodbye,” she said. Kathy glanced at her watch. They had about five minutes. She cleared her throat and broadcast, “This is Kathy Clifford coming to you from the Flotilla. We’re about 150 miles west of San Diego.

  “For the last eight days, I’ve lived with thousands of others who were trying to stay alive. Strain Delta has killed most of society. Nobody knows how many people are still alive. Most of the living are no longer intelligent and only seek to kill and eat anyone that’s not infected.

  “I’ve seen much and recorded all I could. I documented that aliens were involved with Strain Delta, though not how or why, how their ships were found, and even some information about how they work. I’ve seen an aircraft carrier fly and have gone to space inside it. Maybe we could have used it to fight the plague? We’ll never know.

  “Some unknown force attacked the Flotilla hours ago. They kidnapped some scientists, then began sinking ships. A battle occurred. A force of US Army soldiers landed on the island where this mysterious enemy existed. I believe they won, but do not know. The only thing certain is that this enemy retaliated by launching a nuclear missile at us. It will be here in…” She glanced at her watch. “…Less than three minutes. There’s just enough time for me to send this last broadcast.

  “So, this is Kathy Clifford reporting from the USS Gerald R. Ford in the Flotilla. Good luck to those who survive. Good night and good luck.”

  “Edward R. Murrow?” Chris asked.

  “Seemed apropos.” She smiled sadly.

  “Want to watch from the deck?”

  “Won’t matter more than a millisecond where we are,” she said, then shrugged. “Sure, why not.”

  She glanced at the computer’s progress first. Most of the files were uploaded to various sites. It looked like they’d all make it to one place or another in the next couple of minutes. She left the laptop open and followed Chris up the ladder to the flight deck.

  She was surprised to see it crowded with hundreds of people. Many more than she’d expected. It looked like the news had spread. Some held hands. Other watched the sky. A few cried. Chris put an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him.

  “Thanks for everything,” she said. He nodded.

  “There it is!” someone yelled.

  Everyone looked around until they saw a sailor pointing east. Wasn’t the missile supposed to come from straight overhead? But there was something to the east, a glowing point quickly approaching.

  “No, it’s up there somewhere,” another person said. Heads turned to look for the missile.

  “Two missiles?” Kathy wondered. Then everything happened at once.

  * * *

  “Du bist verdammt verrückt!” Daimler cried.

  Cobb laughed. He’d served in Ansbach, Germany for a year. He knew a fair amount of German. Yeah, he was crazy alright!

  “Halt die fresse und flieg!” he yelled back. Shut up and fly.

  “Schiesse!” was Daimler’s reply. Most people knew that word.

  They’d been chugging along at a couple hundred miles per hour, which was standard cruising speed for Shangri-La. Cobb had Daimler flying the monstrosity, under the close supervision of Tango, who’d been more than willing to shoot the traitorous German when his duplicity was revealed. However, Paul Bisdorf said nobody was better at flying the beast than Daimler, so Cobb had made a deal.

  “Behave yourself and do as you’re
told, and we’ll discuss the terms of your imprisonment later.”

  At a cool 500 mph, they would make the Pacific coast in just under 4 hours, and thereby avoid having to stop to let the shield down for fresh air. They’d climbed to 25,000 feet to avoid any air traffic (as if they would be any) and hauled ass.

  Navigation was via IFR, which Bisdorf jokingly referred to as I Follow Roads. They’d traced Interstate 10, passing just south of El Paso, and were approaching Tucson when Bisdorf picked up the radio call. “You better listen to this.” He put the broadcast up on the speakers in the gondola.

  “…attacked the Flotilla hours ago. They kidnapped some scientists, then began sinking ships. A battle occurred. A force of US Army soldiers landed on the island where this mysterious enemy existed. I believe they won, but do not know. The only thing certain is that this enemy retaliated by launching a nuclear missile at us. It will be here in…less than three minutes. There’s just enough time for me to send this last broadcast.

  “So, this is Kathy Clifford reporting from the USS Gerald R. Ford in the Flotilla. Good luck to those who survive. Good night and good luck.”

  “Edward R. Murrow,” Bisdorf said, nodding. “Good choice.”

  “Okay, ve stop,” Daimler said.

  “Bullshit,” Cobb said. “Punch it!”

  “Dumpkopf, did you not her ze woman? Nuclear bomb!” Daimler pronounced the last words as clearly as he’d ever said anything.

  “We have a shield,” Cobb said.

  “We don’t know what it can do,” Bisdorf pointed out. “Stopping a nuke seems bold.”

  Cobb looked at Daimler who was staring back at him. He reached down and unsnapped the retention clip on his sidearm. “Bullet or nuke, which do you think will hurt more?”

  Daimler cursed in rapid fire German, manipulated the controls, and suddenly, the ground started going by faster. A lot faster.