by Jim Roberts
As the fire rained down, hotter and hotter, Sarah felt herself suddenly collide into something; a pair of arms that pulled her out of the alley and into a side door of a nearby building. Instantly, her world turned dark and she felt a hand clamp over her mouth.
“Quiet!” a voice hissed. “You’ll be safe if you’re quiet.”
Sarah could hear the sound of the drone outside beginning to fade. Whoever her captor was, he’d saved her for the time being.
The voice spoke again, whispering this time, “I know who you are. I’m not going to hurt you. Forgive me, but I must do this before I take you out of here.”
Sarah felt the hand lift from her face. “What do you—” she began to ask before her mouth and nose were muffled with a sickly-sweet smelling fabric. She panicked, realizing she was being drugged. The arms held her tight, no matter how hard she struggled. After a moment, she had to breathe and quickly felt herself begin to fade from consciousness.
“It’s alright, Miss Anders. As I said, you’re safe now.”
The voice was the last thing Sarah heard before drifting into oblivion.
* * *
AS TITUS and Vorena walked toward the barricade, the hideous smell of charred flesh wafted toward them from the street beyond. Having witnessed the destruction from a block away, Titus had watched, transfixed, as the woman called Fausta and her drones laid waste to all VPA forces. He had also watched as the bald Siren walked through the inferno, untouched by the flames. The sight of her body wreathed in white fire would stick with Titus until the end of his days.
“That was…incredible,” he said, speaking to Vorena who strode along at his side, “How can she still be alive?”
The blonde Siren smiled craftily, “Fausta is unique in our Sisterhood. She’s a product of heavy gene therapy and DNA inversion. As a result, her skin is impervious to the aerosol effects of phosphorous. She could walk through a lake of the stuff and it wouldn’t affect her at all.”
“Amazing,” Titus remarked, “How does she control the drones?”
“The Stream, of course. The uplink chip in the base of her brain stem allows her to link with the A.I. controlling the drones.”
As they walked, the disgusting garlic stink of the phosphorous was overwhelming. Titus was glad for the rebreather unit in his mask. If the smell bothered Vorena, she didn’t show it.
“How does she breathe?” Titus asked, “Doesn’t phosphorous also eat up oxygen?”
“Her lungs have been replaced with synthetic copies,” Vorena replied, “She can survive for hours without air.”
Titus shook his head. “This is Cicero’s work, isn’t it? Amazing.”
They moved past the abandoned barrier, climbing over the tank obstacles. As they did, Titus held back for a moment. Vorena turned to look at him, asking, “What’s the matter?”
Titus looked around as small pools of chemical fire burned here and there. Memories of the scorching blast that created his new face churned up inside of him.
“I…I’m not great with fire.”
“Don’t worry, the flames won’t last,” Vorena said, looking around her. Indeed as she said that the various burning fires began to subside.
Fausta strolled back to join her Siren commander. Scattered throughout the street, the smoking bodies of the VPA rebels lay twisted and charred. Fausta smiled as she approached her master, saying nothing.
“Good work, my Siren of Hell.” Vorena lifted her hand up to touch Fausta’s face—caressing it like one would a lover. Vorena looked around the blackened street before asking, “Where is Claudia?”
Fausta pointed off to her left.
To the side of the street, Titus could see the other Siren standing over the still-moving body of a rebel survivor. The Venezuelan rebel—really just a kid in his late teens—was badly burned, and would not live without immediate medical aid. Titus and Vorena walked over to stand behind the diminutive Claudia.
For the first time since he’d met her, Titus heard Claudia speak.
“Tell me,” she said in a voice softer than velvet, “What is the location of the person supplying your weaponry?”
To Titus, the voice seemed to echo over and over in his mind. “What is she…” he started to ask before Vorena silenced him with a hand on his arm.
The young rebel spat a mouthful of blood at Claudia. Ignoring the act, the young girl leaned in closer to him and held out her hands.
“Where is the arms supplier for the rebels located? Tell me…”
Her voice was echoing within Titus’s mind. He shook his head, not comprehending what was taking place. A throbbing pain started to pound inside his brain as if a thousand hammers were slamming against his skull again and again.
The rebel boy twisted in pain, his eyes fluttering in their sockets.
Claudia repeated her question. “Tell me where the arms supplier is!”
Titus dropped to one knee, holding his head in agony. “I…I can hear her inside me…”
The poor boy spoke something in Spanish. “Pe…Petare…”
The rebel’s body convulsed. Blood streamed from his eyes and ears.
Titus grasped his head, trying to fight off the horrible pain caused by the voices.
And then…it stopped.
The boy let out a gruesome choking sound as he slumped to the ground, dead. All at once, the pain in Titus’s head vanished as quickly as it came. He looked up to see Claudia stumble back from the dead body, her own face haggard and exhausted. Titus couldn’t be sure, but he thought he saw one of the grisly-looking veins on her forehead pulsating. Claudia pulled the hood of her cloak down over her head. She rushed over to Vorena, who collected the Siren into an embrace.
“Quiet, little one. It’s over now.” Vorena said, stroking the head of the strange girl.
Titus got to his feet, shaking off the dizziness. “What in the living hell was that?”
“Claudia. It’s her gift.”
“Gift?” Titus asked Vorena. He was still groggy from the voice within his mind.
“Claudia was one of the early patients of the Stream. Cortical implants on her brain stem, inserted to test the Code of War’s effects on the mind. Claudia’s reaction was…different than the others.”
“I…I could feel her in my head,” Titus said, slowly regaining his stability, “What did she do?”
Vorena continued to speak as she gently caressed the young girl, “In some test patients of the Stream, stimulation of the latent regions of the right hemisphere of the brain created extreme abrasions. Cicero and Tiberius, in their quest to create an ultimate super soldier, decided to increase this stimulation to…unheard of limits.”
She looked down at the girl in her arms, “Claudia was the first test patient who didn’t immediately die of a bleeding aneurysm. With time and a great deal of experimentation, it was found she could tap into the minds of others, if only for a short time.”
Titus was about to tell Vorena that was impossible, but what he’d experienced told him otherwise. “I don’t understand. How come I could feel her in my mind?”
“She has no control over the range of her thoughts. The Stream Implants inside of her brain are highly volatile. My beautiful Siren—” Vorena smiled as she touched Claudia’s head fondly, “—she will die soon. Every time she uses this ability draws her closer to an inevitable doom. Now that you have felt the power, when next she uses it you should be able to withstand the peripheral effect.”
Titus regarded the small girl with a renewed sense of awe. “So did she find anything from that boy?”
Claudia pulled away from Vorena. Titus grimaced inside his mask as he looked at her face. Her left eye was completely red, having burst a blood vessel from the strain. The distended veins in her forehead stood out even more, adding to her gruesome appearance. Her skin was a sickly gray.
“The Petare barrios,” Claudia said, her voice barely a whisper, “Miranda state, east Caracas. The man is named Walker. Curtis Walker.”
; Vorena looked to Titus, “American?”
Titus shrugged. “Maybe. Never heard of him before. But if he’s in the Petare barrios, we’ll find him,” He looked the blonde Siren straight in the eye. “I think it’s time we set loose those Secutor soldiers of yours I’ve heard so much about. They can find this man.”
Vorena’s face twisted into a wicked smile, “Yes. If he’s supplying the rebels with arms from the Vagabonds, then he must know the location of Lennox. Now you’re thinking like a true Olympus Imperator.”
Standing amidst a sea of corpses, held in frozen states of blackened death, Titus repeated a simple truth to himself—
He really liked this woman.
Chapter 11
The Darkness before Dawn
Florida Airspace, October 4th
JOE BRADDOCK set down the book he’d been reading for the past hour and stretched his arms out. He checked his watch. They would be landing at MacDill Air Base in ten minutes or so. He would be sorry to leave the C-17 Globemaster III aircraft that had taken his Unit from Joint Base Andrews. The Peacemakers would be transferring at MacDill onto C-2 Greyhounds for the rest of the flight to the Caribbean sea. Joe was already dreading it. The C-2’s were little more than flying boxes; dark, miserable and lacking anything close to comfort.
Whatever, he thought. You make do with what you have.
He’d managed to find a more or less comfortable place in the aft section of the craft, mushed between several crates of weapons and ammo. He’d tried to get some sleep, but none came, so he’d resorted to reading the book Jade had given him back on the farm.
The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane.
He’d heard of the book, of course, from others in the service that had read it but never did himself. It followed the story of a young man, brought to war by romantic reasons of glory, only to doubt his own courage before going to battle. Cowardly dodging his first conflict, the man weaves in and out of the lives of other soldiers in the war, before ultimately discovering his true strength of character. He returns to battle and finds he is a capable soldier, and learns that courage and honor are deeply complicated notions.
Joe had liked the book overall but was puzzled by why Jade had bought it for him. It wasn’t exactly exciting or thrill-packed, like the fiction Joe tended to read if he got a chance. Was she sending him a message?
Joe sighed, wondering if he would ever truly know what went on in his lady’s mind.
“Good book?”
The voice pulled Joe out of his thoughts. Looking up, he saw the stoic face of Clive Rourke looking down at him.
“Not bad,” Joe replied, “I liked the ending a lot.”
“Mmm. I remember it. ‘He turned now with a lover’s thirst to images of tranquil skies, fresh meadows, cool brooks, an existence of soft eternal peace’.”
Joe was surprised at the accuracy of Rourke’s memory, “You know the book?”
“Read it lots when I was younger. Mind if I sit?”
“It’s a free country.”
Rourke pulled a crate out and hunched down on top.
Joe looked the former SEAL over. He had to admit the man remained an enigma, even after a year of fighting beside him against Olympus. Rourke had a survivor’s guts, never giving up if there was a chance of victory. But with that mentality came a sadness Joe had never been able to understand.
“I’ve wanted to ask you a question for some time,” Rourke said, “I guess now’s as good a time as any.”
“Shoot,” Joe replied, intrigued.
“Why do you fight? I mean, why did you chose to be a soldier?”
Joe was taken aback. That wasn’t the question he was expecting. “I don’t really know. To serve my country. To protect—”
“That’s the stock answer. I’m asking you straight up, Sergeant. What makes you need to fight?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I just…I need to know.”
Joe tried to think. “Well, I remember ever since I was a kid there’s always been something driving me, pushing me. My Pa was a vet, so he taught me the value of serving. But it was more than just that. It was like a need, know what I mean? Like an emptiness inside that had to be filled. I knew I couldn’t fill it by being a farmer or teacher or whatever. I wanted to be something more, something greater than I was.”
“And now you feel different?”
Joe frowned. “Why do you say that?”
“I overheard the General back at base saying you’re resigning after this mission.”
Joe sighed, “Yeah, well sometimes you reach a breaking point. I guess that emptiness was filled.”
Rourke was quiet for a time. He seemed lost in his own world—his eyes alive with an unspoken pain.
At length, he asked, “Did the General ever tell you how I came to this Unit?”
“No.”
“I’d been a SEAL for eight years. Best fucking years of my life.” Joe saw a ripple of emotion cross the usually stern face of the Peacemaker sniper. “I came from nothing. Mom ran out on us when I was two. Dad raised me until his drinking left me in a bunch of group homes, each worse than the last. The second I turned seventeen, I bolted and joined the Navy.”
Joe listened quietly. The SEAL had never spoken so much of himself in the entire time Joe had known him.
Rourke continued, “I finally found a place I belonged. My mates in the SEALs were my blood brothers. I could have cared less about serving my country. That’s all just rhetoric they force-feed you to better follow their orders. No, I served because I needed a life of brotherhood—to be part of a family that knew I mattered.”
The SEAL shook his head, his mind far away. “Two years ago, my life ended. I was in Burma, sent to help take down one of the country’s worst drug dealers. The scum was peddling the stuff to kids. Our Lieutenant ordered us in during the daytime. We converged on the plantation, with orders to terminate the dealer. But…” Rourke choked, “Something went wrong. I can’t remember how it happened, but before I knew it, we were under fire on all sides. We found out later the dealer had doubled down on security. Our intel sucked that day. His team of killers opened up with guns blazing; heavy-duty ordnance. Our snipers took out several tangos, but they were marked and neutralized. I led a team into the mansion to try and kill the leader, but…there was an explosion. When I came to, I was surrounded by bodies…bodies of my own teammates.”
Rourke took a long breath, clearing his throat, “When the dust cleared and we pulled out, an entire fire team had been slaughtered. Six men. My brothers…”
“Rourke…”
“It was my fault. I let my mates down. I was told I was finished. I knew a dishonorable discharge was waiting for me. That’s when General Walsh found out about my case. He thought he’d give me a second chance—see what I could do…but, he didn’t know that I would have rather ended it all out there with my mates. Because what am I without my brothers?”
A tear worked its way down the man’s cheek. Brushing it away in annoyance, Rourke straightened up. “And now, I can never go back. The SEALs are finished with me. My only family is gone.”
“The hell are you talking about?” Joe said, puzzled at the statement, “This is your family now.”
“This is no family, Braddock.” Rourke snarled, angrily, “We’re a bunch of rejects; homeless, friendless and aimless. Our point man is a Russian-Arab nutcase with a German name who jerks off to Guns & Ammo mags. What the hell kind of Unit is this?”
“We stand by each other. I’d lay my life down for you, just as I would any man or woman in this Unit.”
“We’re not a Unit, Braddock. We’re a band of thugs, pointlessly fighting a war we’ve already lost.”
“Lost?”
“That’s right. Olympus will grow more and more powerful, while our government continues to talk and ignore the real issues.”
“Come on Rourke, you don’t believe that—”
“It’s the truth, Joe. We’re marching blindly toward an
inexorable fate. How does a good soldier fight inevitability?”
Rourke didn’t wait for an answer. Without another word, the former SEAL stood up and walked back to the bow of the aircraft.
Joe sat for a time, thinking over what Rourke had said. He knew the man was hurting. The General had told him before leaving about his request to leave the Unit. But he hadn’t realized how much the SEALs had meant to the stern soldier until now.
Joe felt the aircraft begin its descent to MacDill Air Base. He resolved to speak with the General about Rourke as soon as time permitted.
* * *
USS Harbinger, Nimitz-class Aircraft Carrier, Off the Coast of Venezuela, October 4th
IT WAS late evening when Joe gladly stepped off the cramped C-2 Greyhound and onto the welcome tarmac of the nuclear-powered carrier Harbinger. The giant workhorse of the American Navy had been stationed off the coast of Venezuela for the past few weeks, aiding in the extraction of foreign nationals from the embattled country. It would serve as the primary staging ground for Peacemaker operations from here on.
The brisk Caribbean Sea air wafted into Joe’s nostrils. Beyond the edge of the ship, dark waters stretched onwards into an endless oblivion. He spotted the Spirit Walker, parked toward the aft of the carrier. The General had already arrived some time ago in the infinitely faster craft, along with the Peacemaker’s ‘special’ guest, Agrippina.
Having been told by General Walsh to arrive ready and kitted out, Joe and Rourke had donned their STF suits on board the C-17 while transferring at MacNill Airbase. Unlike his comrades, Krieger did not wear the torso half of the suit, instead preferring his black muscle shirt.
Joe, Krieger, Rourke and the other three dozen or so Peacemaker operators were led across the deck where they were greeted by General Walsh. Behind the old war dog stood Orchid, Brick, and Headcase, each having arrived with the General. Off to the side, a lone Black Hawk helicopter was being prepped with the aid of Packrat.