Trinity's Legacy

by P A Vasey

  Stay behind me.

  He stepped out of the staircase in full view of the police officers hunkered down outside the entrance lobby. Before they could react he fired three one-handed shots from the Benelli. The officers were blown backwards by the close range impact of the shotgun bullets that blew apart their ballistic vests, knocking the wind out of them, breaking sternum bones and ribs but not penetrating vital organs. He pulled on my hand and we set off, running as fast as I could keep up. My heart was hammering and I was looking all around me but realised that I had no idea of the plan. I decided that the easiest thing to do, to survive, was to do exactly what he said and go where he took me.

  We got to the front door and without breaking stride he kicked it completely off its hinges and sent it sailing into a low hedge where two kneeling SWAT were hiding and taking cover. The heavy door, made of thick oak and lined with strip metal, ripped through the foliage taking the police officers with it. We ran parallel to the house toward the rear patio and garden. In his 3D overlay I could see two groups of four LAPD around the back of the house carrying rifles and sidling up along the rear wall in a slow moving line. As we cleared the corner he brought the shotgun up and fired at the nearest officer, who took the impact squarely on her vest. The huge kinetic energy of the round at close range blew her backwards into the SWAT team lining up behind her. All four were knocked to the ground in an ungainly pile of bodies. As they tried to push off each other and reach for their weapons I sensed Adam reach out and scramble their cognitive processes with a simple diversion of neuronal activity. Their eyes closed and they crumpled like marionettes having their strings cut. He glanced at me and gave a half smile.

  That worked. I am now fully functional.

  A bullet whistled past my shoulder and was followed by two more as another four-man SWAT finally got their act together.

  “They’re shooting at us!” I yelled, incensed.

  He swiftly brought the Glock to bear and fired eight shots in four rapid groups of two, every bullet hitting dead centre of their ballistic vests. The impact from the heavy slugs knocked each officer over, either unconscious or down and out of the fight. No fatalities. The precision of his shooting was uncanny. He looked over his shoulder at me, knowing what I was thinking.

  No one will die here today.

  I nodded, looking up. The noise from the police helicopter was increasing and I saw that it was now only twenty yards or so directly overhead. A virtual schematic swam into my vision; Bell 206 Jet Ranger. One of the LAPD’s workhorse air support division choppers. I could also sense the three minds in the helicopter, the pilot and two police officers, and somehow I knew that each was carrying a rifle with a sniper scope. I could hear one of the snipers taking orders from a superior officer to shoot-to-kill.

  Adam reached out and took control of the LAPD pilot’s mind. The helicopter yawed violently, throwing the passengers against the sides of the craft with only their seat belts keeping them from falling out. He then sent the craft into a controlled spin and it dramatically lost altitude. A few yards above the lawn, he made it nose up, and set it down. It did so in protest, rotors spinning rapidly and whipping up the bushes and trees with a gale force wind.

  He grabbed my hand again and his eyes burned into mine.

  Run.

  We ran to the helicopter and he pulled the pilot’s door off its hinges, throwing it away from the rotor blades. He ripped the belts off from the seats and threw all of the crew out of the open door onto the grass. The pilot was reaching for her gun but Adam jumped into the cockpit, grabbed her by the jacket lapel and tossed her through the open door where she cartwheeled to join the others on the lawn.

  He held out a hand to me.

  Get in and buckle up.

  I did as I was told.

  He was scanning the cockpit instruments. The fuel gauge was at 85%. The schematic for the Bell appeared again, and he pulled up specifications and performance. It had a stated cruising speed of 100 knots and a range of 430 miles with a full tank. He did a calculation for the distance to a place called Mountain View, California, and cranked up the rotor rate before lifting off vertically to clear the tree line. My stomach felt like it had relocated to my pelvis, and I gripped the side of the door with white knuckled fingers. He kicked the power up and we surged forward at a rate of climb that took us out of sight of the house and war zone in mere seconds. It felt giddy, like a rollercoaster ride.

  I saw that the other helicopter, the TV news one, was hovering just above the tree line and turning to follow us. Adam sent a neural signal to the pilot, temporarily paralysing him. The helicopter jerked and spun, losing height and crashing into the trees, rolling over on it’s side, rotors chewing up the manicured turf. I watched the dazed pilot and the cameraman climbing out of the stricken craft, seemingly unhurt. Adam pushed our speed up to 120 knots, and dropped the nose so that we were flying at an altitude of one hundred feet. The helicopter skipped over buildings and power lines with yards to spare. My visual fields were overlaid with GPS mapping of routes, building structures and police positions. He was processing incoming radio messages and filtering out white noise to separate the police bands. I grabbed a headset and shouted into the microphone. “They’ll be able to track you. This won’t be the only chopper in the air.”

  His face was serenely impassive, and he looked out the window, and around the skies.

  The police and FBI communications are now in disarray. They are unable to track us.

  I sat back in the cockpit and watched the roads and houses and trees flying past. I kept quiet, wrapping my arms around myself to keep warm as the turbulent airflow buffeted around the door less cabin. I thought about the events of the last few minutes. I knew that he was flying the helicopter without consciously thinking about it. He had complete control over it and was able to process hundreds, maybe thousands, of other tasks at the same time. I glanced again at the hole in his shirt and saw that the break in the skin had gathered together and seemed to be healing in real time as I watched.

  I estimate we will be there in 2.1 hours, however the fuel may run out 6 minutes beforehand. I suggest we put down outside the town, in a covered location.

  He was talking to the alien. The Jet Ranger was now cruising steadily at one hundred knots, hugging the coastline at an altitude of fifty feet. He monitored every one of the craft’s systems constantly and his neural interfaces adjusted the yaw and thrust according to his commands. The fuel gauge now read just below half full, and he had the radio constantly cycling through all the military and law enforcement frequencies, processing all the information simultaneously as it came through. The shoreline whipped past, silvery in the moonlight. I could make out a few small craft bobbing up and down in the bay, and two bigger craft with parties underway on their upper decks lit up like Christmas trees. There was a gentle onshore tide lapping against the deserted beaches. A few single-track roads ran parallel to the sea with a main highway lit up by yellow blotches further inland.

  “Adam,” I yelled into the wind again. “Where are we going?”

  We banked to follow the highway northwards, and there was an increase in radio chatter from a US Navy carrier out at sea, forty-five miles from our current position. He pulled up images and maps from GPS and satellite data and sent out an active pulse of radar in the direction of the carrier. There was an instant return, showing the approach of two aircraft vectoring in on our position at a high velocity. He turned the helicopter landward, heading for the highway, pulling high G-forces.

  “They have sent two jet aircraft to intercept us. The aircraft are F-16N fighters carrying six AIM-9 Sidewinder heat-seeking short-range air-to-air missiles and two radar guided AIM-7 Sparrow medium range AAMs. They will be within our visual range in a matter of minutes.”

  I was about to reply when the alien cut in.

  [We do not need to avoid these aircraft. Destroy them.]

  He continued to power the helicopter inland, going lower than before, skimming t
he dunes and fields at head-height. I clung onto the seat for dear life. His voice sounded in my head again, but he was talking with the alien.

  We must put down and find cover. I cannot avoid these aircraft. They are fast and highly manoeuvrable fighters. I am unable to lock on to them.

  There was a dismissive, almost contemptuous wash of emotion and then:

  [You have not yet learned the full extent of your abilities. There is no threat]

  Through Adam’s senses I picked up two new heat signatures peeling off from the lead F-16 and exponentially outpacing the aircraft. I realised that they had fired two missiles. He pulled up a schematic of the AIM-9 sidewinder, focusing on the detonation mechanism, guidance systems and speed.

  “We can’t outrun them, can we?” I shouted, getting nervous.

  “No, not at a closing velocity of Mach 2. We have five seconds before the missiles hit.”

  He hit the gas and violently pulled up on the stick. The helicopter stalled, dumping all forward velocity and bringing it round to face the incoming missiles. His internal display showed that the missiles’ guidance systems had semi-active radar homing and they were now locked on. I felt him reach out and send an electronic self destruct message to the warheads IR proximity fuses. At a range of one thousand yards, both missiles exploded and fragmented into the bay, producing a shimmering light fantastic on the tranquil waters.

  The alien seemed pleased.

  [Good. Now destroy the aircraft]

  I sensed Adam’s discomfort, but he again accessed a forward display, overlaying with GPS data and satellite feeds. The two F-16s were now vectoring to do a strafing run using their 20mm Vulcan cannons. Their afterburners had kicked in and their forward velocity was just over six hundred knots and they were descending at 50,000 feet per minute. Our helicopter was now hovering motionless a few feet above the highway, a sitting target for the F16s.

  The alien spoke to Adam, contemptuously and dismissive.

  [Arm their own missiles, activate their proximity fuses, and blow them out of the sky]

  I saw Adam shake his head.

  The pilots will not have time to eject, and will die. There is another way. Once they are within range I will enter their systems and deactivate their flight controls. They will lose control but have time to eject.

  [We will be in range of their weapons by then]

  No. I can do this.

  I sensed Adam prepare the necessary neuronal pattern formulation that would disable the jets, and he set the helicopter down on the highway. He idled the rotors, quickly looking up and down the road, checking there were no approaching vehicles. He looked at me briefly, but said nothing. The alien spoke, still seemingly unaware of my presence.

  [They are trying to kill you]

  He didn’t reply. The two F-16s were now only seconds away from a firing solution that would tear the helicopter to pieces. He reached out again, sending viciously disruptive neural pulses at the speed of light directly into the electronic brains of the fighter jets. I saw their fly-by-wire flight control system fail, and all input from the stick and rudder controls was lost. Both aircraft started to yaw and pitch uncontrollably while continuing their rapid descent. One pilot ejected from his cockpit in an explosion of glass, the chair being blown backwards and away to safety from the fatally wounded aircraft that was now tumbling into the bay.

  Adam switched his perception to the other aircraft that was still screaming towards the ground, the pilot having not ejected. I sensed him enter the pilot’s mind, and I saw the pilot struggling with the controls, but not panicking. I saw him firing his cannon, flames stuttering from the nose of the F16. A hailstorm of 20mm shells began to track towards us, gouging waterspouts in the ocean. The pilot then switched the gun to automatic, hoping for a lucky shot, and activated his ejector seat.

  With a flash of insight, I realised that our helicopter was almost certainly going to be hit by some of the rounds. I grabbed for my seatbelt buckle, but as I was struggling with it Adam ripped it off the frame and without any preamble pushed me out of the cockpit door. I hit the ground hard, rolling across the highway and stopping as I hit the soft grass of the embankment. The subsonic rounds arrived en masse, and stitched a linear pattern across the highway, the grass bank, and finally into the Jet Ranger. The rotors disintegrated and the fuel tank ignited in an incandescent fireball. A few seconds later and a hundred yards further up the highway the pilotless F-16 smashed into the tarmac, exploding in a paroxysm of jet fuel and white hot metal.

  I shakily got to my feet and took in the scene, raising a hand to block out the brightness of the flames. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I looked past the two conflagrations and into the distance where a couple of vehicles were approaching from the south. No red and blue flashing lights yet, but that wouldn’t be long. I turned and took a few steps towards the helicopter, stumbling and nearly losing my balance as my leg gave way from a lancing pain. The Jet Ranger was now a ball of flame, black smoke drifting inland.

  “Adam?” I called.

  There was no way anyone could have survived the fireball, was there? I peered into the flaming cockpit but was unable to get closer because of the heat. I stumbled backwards and sat down heavily on the side of the highway. My clothes were torn and covered in grime, and I ached all over. In the distance I could hear the first of multiple sirens getting progressively louder.

  I tried to focus my mind, tried to sense Adam’s presence.

  Nothing.

  DAY 3

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Deer Ridge Golf Course, Brentwood, CA

  I slumped into a leather-backed Chesterfield-styled armchair and took in the views of the valley and Mt Diablo in the distance. The sun was appearing over the ridge behind the tree line, and the sky was a kaleidoscopic swirl of oranges and golds, deepening shadows in the bunkers and lightening the green of the fairways that wound and undulated into the foothills of the mountain range. Silhouettes of birds could be seen, dipping behind the trees. An FBI helicopter was parked on the 18th green, blades rotating languorously, the morning sun reflecting off its windows. A couple of golf buggies were making their way back towards the clubhouse, their elderly occupants unaware that their private country club had just been commandeered by the FBI and that they would need to make alternative plans for the day’s activities.

  Last night I’d been taken to a local Holiday Inn by a couple of uncommunicative police officers, bundled into a suite and given a complementary overnight pack from a bemused concierge. I was told to get some sleep and that I would be ‘debriefed’ in the morning, by whom I had no idea. I asked about Adam, but the officers just shrugged and gave the impression that such information was either above their pay grade or of little interest. I considered stamping my feet and making a scene, but I was so tired I decided to go with the flow and crash. I fell asleep almost the instant my head hit the pillows, and woke six hours later with the same welcome screen on the TV and the curtains wide open. I had just showered and gotten back into the same clothes (which not unpleasantly smelled of charcoal and wood smoke) when two different police officers called and escorted me into a squad car. They lured me with coffee and an almond croissant, so it was a no-brainer.

  Now that I was in the club’s luxurious private members’ bar & grill, I had been left to my own devices. The surroundings were very old-world old-money country club and smelled of stale cigars. It was a semicircular space with a flagstone tile floor and about a dozen two-seater couches facing each other across low-set mahogany tables. Larger tables for dinner were scattered around the room, flowers on each table. A dark wood bar with green leather inlays and studded with bronze fasteners was set back away from the bay windows. There were no televisions behind the bar, but lots of rare Scottish single malts, Kentucky bourbons, Caribbean rums and Eastern Bloc vodkas. The bartenders and servers had been dismissed and four LAPD officers stood to attention outside, preventing anyone from entering.

  Locked in and bored, I decided to c
heck out the bar and found a bottle of Kraken. Rummaging around under the counter I pulled out a tall glass and filled it with ice and poured myself three fingers worth of rum. Adding some lime I swirled the glass, let the ice cool down the rum, lifted the glass in an imaginary toast, and downed it in one. It only temporarily bothered me that I was drinking alcohol at six o’clock in the morning, but I figured this was going to be an interesting day and I was a little nervous about what was going to happen.

  As the spicy liquid trickled down my throat the glass doors burst open and a group of serious-looking people arrived. I assumed they were FBI or secret service or some other government agency as they all wore the same suits and had curly plastic dangling from behind their ears. They fanned out around the room taking corner positions. The doors squeaked open again and more people entered the bar. A white-haired man in a grey suit caught my eye and regarded me with a stern look. His pockmarked skin contrasted sharply with the crispness of his perfectly tailored suit, I reckoned bought from Saville Row or some other bespoke London shop. He walked with a slight stoop, yet moved swiftly across the diner floor towards me, accompanied by three others, clearly his subordinates. They were all in their thirties, wearing dark suits and with lanyards around their necks.

  I decided to pointedly ignore everyone, and refilled my glass with Kraken before heading over to one of the window settees. I sunk back into the soft leather and leaned back to admire the view of the rising sun. My eyes drifted to the tree line where the sky was pink and the sharp prongs of the bare trees seemed to have ripped a hole in the clouds. It was like they were inflicting a wound on the sky and the colours of the day were bleeding out. Sequin-silver stars, like the glowing embers of a dying fire, winked down at me from the firmament. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, the warmth from the sun and the rum starting to relax me.