Jess started to toss off a snappy remark, but stopped and frowned. I understood. We could all feel the emptiness in our midst. That terrible vacant space between Richard and Mindy. Lord knows humor has its place, but a joke now would have been more than inappropriate. It would have been vulgar.
Once inside, we were frisked and our weapons taken. A lieutenant informed us the assorted devices would be returned later. The unspoken message being they didn't quite trust us yet. If these people had any working knowledge of Bureau agents, they'd never trust us. In our hands, paperclips and napkins are deadly weapons.
The foyer was a zigzag maze of sandbags topped with concertina wire. The next generation of barbed wire, it was nothing more than an endless coiled razor blade. The steel band could slice through leather gloves as if they were made of toilet tissue.
Walking slowly, we reached the receptionist desk—which was now a machine gun nest, boasting a huge electric driven .50 Vulcan Mini-Gun. Our Bureau cards were asked for this time, and we complied. The blank plastic rectangles were a mixture of technology and magic. Only in our willing presence would they show our picture, thumb print, ID number and real name. Very rarely did we ever have to use them. The lieutenant in charge placed them on a glowing sheet of glass set in a black metal box.
As we waited, I casually checked the place over. So this was our HQ, eh? Steel bars lined with electrical conductors closed off the side corridors. A pair of siege arbalists, giant six foot wide crossbows carrying ten foot long, 200 lb. arrows, protected the main corridor from unauthorized passage. Surreptitiously, I did a quick check through my one lens, and spotted an invisible something holding a bazooka over by the broom closet. Whew. If I ever got an assignment to invade this place, I'd quit.
Finally, the box beeped and the expression on her face said we could live. For awhile, anyway. We were given our cards back and under armed guard the team was escorted to an elevator with a small machine gun nest filling the rear and taken to the fifth floor. The elevator doors separated with a musical ding to display a squad of people in radiation suits holding something that resembled a common leaf blower. I had no desire to ask what it was. They might show me.
Flashing something in her palm to the squad, they saluted as we passed and the lieutenant directed us to a door marked Conference Room
***1. My team entered and the doors closed, then automatically locked behind us. As the lights came on, we glanced around. It was a curved room, with three sections of theatre-style seats facing in towards the center stage. A lecture podium was there, behind which stood a beefy, white haired man. He was dressed in combat fatigues, the insignia sporting the rank of brigadier general. An oddly built pistol was strapped to his left hip, a gold wizard's wand in a holster on the right. We could read the name badge on his breast pocket, but it wasn't necessary. Only one person we knew of fit this description.
"Horace Gordon,” George whispered in unabashed reverence.
Mindy arched an eyebrow, Richard stood at attention and Father Donaher crossed himself. It was the first time any of us had ever seen the chief of Bureau 13. He was an elusive individual, more famous than J.P. Withers, the very first Bureau agent from 1880, who supposedly was still in service as an immortal werewolf. But then, you know how company legends grow. Yes, I had gotten drunk at the last Christmas party, but I did not email a jpeg of my ass to the Kremlin. Lies, it was all lies.
"Hello, sir. What's the problem?” I asked taking a seat in the front row.
"The end of the world,” Gordon said, in the deep gravelly voice we knew so well from our wristwatches.
"Or rather, the end of the world as we know it,” he added after a moments hesitation.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER FOUR
As we reacted to that news in various ways, Gordon slit open a manila envelope and pulled out a blank sheet of paper. As he held it for a moment words slowly appeared. I was impressed. That was technology, not magic, usually only reserved for security level 10 Top Secret documents.
"Edwardo Alvarez Jr.,” Gordon read aloud from the paper. “Mindy Jennings, Jessica Taylor, Richard Anderson, George Renault, Father Michael Xavier Donaher.” He looked at us, patiently sitting and listening. “A private investigator, a martial artist, a telepath, a wizard, a weapons expert and a priest."
"That's a good mix. Nicely balanced.” He paused. “My condolences about Raul Horta. He was a good agent."
"Thanks,” I said, crossing my legs at the knees. “Come on, chief, the only reason we're not out there searching for him is the priority summons. Just tell us what's happening, so we can get on with it."
Horace seemed to appreciate the bluntness. “At approximately 0600 Tuesday morning, just twenty hours ago, a dense fog formed at sea, about 100 miles outside New York. Normal shipping operations were seriously disrupted and a state of emergency declared."
We waited patiently as a three dimensional map appeared floating in the air behind him. A weird fog at sea was nothing for us to get excited about, there must be more. The map showed the greater eastern seaboard of America with a rather large swirling airmass about fifty miles off the coast of New York state, stretching from Mystic, Connecticut to Perth Amboy, New Jersey, with Manhattan right in the middle. Ominous.
His head haloed by the map, Gordon went on, “As you can see it is getting closer, fast. And since the appearance of the cloud, there has been an unprecedented surge of paranormal activity across the country. Mass attacks of werewolves in Los Angeles, vampires in New Orleans, ghouls in Miami, dragons in Chicago, gargoyles in Boston and countless single encounters of everything from ancient astronauts to zombies. Apparently, its an all out attack on Bureau 13 agents, aided and abetted by every nutcase group and organization of evil that we know of and maybe a few that we don't."
He rolled a hand. “The New American Thugee Cult, The Sixth Reich, the Project, Brotherhood of Darkness, you name it."
This we had already suspected from our own troubles in getting here. It was, however, disheartening to know the fighting was pandemic. Whoever the enemy was, they knew alarming amounts of information about our supposedly supersecret organization.
"In our effort to maintain the peace and protect American citizens, the Bureau has been placed in dire jeopardy of exposure,” Gordon said grimly. “As this is obviously a coordinated effort, we do not consider it a coincidence that the cloud is heading for our New York headquarters."
We perked up our ears at that.
"So this is our main HQ?” Mindy asked eagerly.
The chief scowled. “That's Need-To-Know information only, Miss. Let's just say this is one of the Bureau headquarters and leave it at that."
"Any details on the cloud available yet?” I inquired, changing the subject away from the breach of etiquette.
He nodded. “Lots. None of them good. Satellite photos show the area of the fog is some sixty miles in diameter, steadily growing and will reach land in 36 hours. Radar stops dead at the edge of the cloud. As does sonar, CAT scan, X-rays, radio waves, lasers and masers. Some of the fog was trapped in a jar, but it defies chemical analyses. Kirlian photos show the cloud to have a solid black aura, laced with green."
Evil and magic. Swell.
Turning the page over, words faded away and more replaced them. That was a new trick.
"Scout ships were sent in to investigate and never came out again. They are presumed sunk. An AWAK reconnaissance plane was sent in. It disappeared. Next, an armored jet fighter tried for a penetration and vanished. As did a Blackbird stealth bomber. A submarine nosed in close and was heard of no more. So the Navy tried a stealth sub, one of the best we have, same thing. NASA even dropped an unmanned probe, to the same result. When anything vanishes from normal vision within the cloud, or crosses that line of effect—” Gordon snapped his fingers. “That's it. You're gone."
"Maybe just rendered temporally inert,” Richard suggested, leaning forward in his chair.
"We thought of a time s
tatus and had our people run a chronometric density test."
"The result?” Jessica prompted.
"Reports show a perfectly normal time flow."
I was surprised. So far, it was the first normal thing about this cloud. At least it wasn't an invasion of dinosaurs from the past. But then again, maybe it was. Time is a funny thing.
"Sir, has the Bermuda Triangle moved?” George asked.
"We checked that. No."
"At this point, I would assume the military got tough,” Father Donaher remarked, reclining in his seat. “And decided to have a quote, incident, end quote."
"Affirmative. SAC was consulted and tried high altitude bombing. No go. They even attempted an air burst using a state-of-the-art multiple ton blockbuster thermite bomb, hoping to disperse the cloud. Then a gas vapor bomb was tried. Both useless. Alerting NORAD, an ultra-fast, stealth missile was launched. It went into the cloud, and that was that. No explosion, no heat flash, no ... nothing."
Heroically, I refrained from mentioning the double negative as this was more important than proper grammar. This cloud was really something.
"Naval gun fire? Torpedoes? Rail Guns?” George queried hopefully, his voice plainly stating that military ordinance could not possibly fail to solve the problem.
"Ditto,” Gordon said, resting a hand on the pistol in his belt holster. “After trying everything they could think of, the Pentagon finally reported to the president, who immediately alerted us. But of course, we already knew about the problem."
"What about nukes?” I asked, not really sure I wanted to hear the answer. But thankfully, the chief said those were being saved as an absolute last resort.
Politely, Richard raised a finger. “How much of this is hearsay and how much confirmed from official sources?"
"Its the truth. Straight from the portrait of Washington."
Good enough for me.
"What have we tried so far?” I asked, meaning the Bureau, not America. Our techs had a lot of stuff the Pentagon would hemorrhage over if they knew it existed.
"Divination, telepathy, and magical probes. We even tried talking to the local fish. But from flounders to whales, they want nothing to do with the cloud. Scares them silly. Our best telepaths can't even get a glimpse of the cloud, much less see inside. However, for a brief second, our top mage managed to use her crystal ball and penetrate the cloud to see an island in the middle of the fog bank."
"An island,” Mindy mused thoughtfully.
"Or at least a land mass of some kind,” Gordon corrected.
"Has anybody tried www.mysteriousisland.com?” Richard asked.
Mages! Sheesh.
Crossing her slim legs, Jessica asked. “Any history, or legend, of an island in the area?"
"No."
I had a feeling he had gone over this material many times before and was simply waiting for us to review the data and reach the appropriate foregone conclusion.
"How big an island?"
"Not very, only about five miles wide."
That left over thirty miles of fog for protection. A lot of things could happen in thirty miles.
"Has the mage been able to get any additional information on the island?” Donaher asked.
"Can't."
"Why?"
"Dead."
"How?"
"Brain blasted."
Brief, but to the point. Hoo boy.
Clearing his throat, Gordon pulled a silvery envelope from inside his fatigue jacket, broke the seal and lifted a single sheet of paper from inside. It was covered with official looking seals and multiple ribbons.
'Here it comes', I thought and Jessica shushed me.
"Your mission is to reach the island, evaluate the situation and deal with it accordingly,” Gordon formally read. The paper then burst into ash and was gone.
"That's it?” I asked confused.
"Yes."
That was rather vague and I openly said so. The chief agreed, but said it was the best the Council could do with the limited information at hand. The Council? Who the hell was the council? I made a mental note to check into that when we got back.
"You have roughly 36 hours before that cloud reaches land. So give yourselves time to depart. Because in 35 hours, 30 minutes, the missiles fly."
Missiles meant the Pentagon, so we didn't have to ask what kind. Atomic, nuclear, thermonuclear, was there really a difference? Not when you're standing on Ground Zero.
"Faith, and just how do we reach this wee island?” Father Donaher asked, going Irish on us. “Are we to swim?"
Not amused, Gordon grunted. “Prof. Robertson, in co-operation with Naval Intelligence and SAC, has designed a special plane that they believe should get through the mist intact."
"The operational word here being ‘should',” Jessica noted, with a sour expression.
Reluctantly, our chief agreed that was correct.
"Why us?” Mindy interjected, crossing her arms. “Convenient, or expendable?"
Ah, Ms. Tact strikes again.
Gordon turned red. “None of my goddamn people are expendable,” he snapped. “I chose your team, because you're the best we have! The absolute best! Had it been necessary, we would have flown you clowns in from Tasmania!"
That was nice to hear, until I realized that in case of trouble there was nobody better to come and rescue our butts. Bummer.
"Mission limitations?” I asked, already starting to list possible ways to get around them.
"None,” the man sighed, and for a second he looked bone weary. I wondered for how long he had been awake and busy working. Was that cup of coffee by his side number two, or two hundred?
"The Bureau has been given presidential authorization for us to run amuck. You can terminate with extreme prejudice anybody encountered, buy them off with the national treasury, offer political asylum, or negotiate a treaty. Whatever is necessary. Just don't do anything stupid. Muck-up, you'll have to answer to me for it. Personally."
Now that was a threat we respected.
"What about military equipment?” Donaher asked, tilting his head. “Additional weapons? In case of trouble, I'll want more than my trusty snub nose .32 police special."
"Your team has been given carte blanche, full and total access to the Bureau's armory. That includes SWAT, RECON and the Experimental weapon sections."
At this news, George took on a feral expression and I wondered if we would have to tranquilize the boy to get any work done.
Impatiently, Gordon glanced at his wrist and a watch appeared. “You are scheduled to leave within the hour. There's an emergency transport tube located in the armory that will take you directly to the Hudson Bay loading dock. There, you'll find a sea plane waiting. An unmarked DC-3. Pilot's name is Hassan. Lt. Captain Abduhl Benny Hassan. Average height, black hair, dark skin. Identification code: Raincloud."
Or at least that's what it sounded like he said as the last syllable of the word was cut off by a howling siren. A wave of icy cold swept over the room, frost appearing on the walls, and instinctively we leapt to our feet, reaching for weapons not there. The siren dropped in volume, but the bitter cold stayed.
"Report,” Gordon said into his wristwatch.
"We are under attack,” replied a tiny voice from the glowing instrument. “Large, winged creature is on the roof attempting to claw its way through. Kirlian scanners indicate a solid black aura, laced with purple and gray. Two dead."
"Raise magic shields,” the chief said as calmly as ordering tea.
"Pentagram up and holding. But not for long, sir."
Faintly in the background, we could hear gunfire, explosions, the crash of lightning and a loud animal roar. Sounded worse than our fandango at the lake if that was possible.
"Close the steel shutters, activate intruder defensives, alert the camera crew and prime the stun cannon. Whatever it is, we want it alive for questioning! I'm on the way.” In a bound, he left the stage, but we blocked his way in the aisle.
"Ord
ers, sir?” I asked, snapping off a salute.
"You already have ‘em,” Horace growled, checking the power magazine in his laser pistol. “Now get out of here. You have a plane to catch. We'll handle this."
The building chose that moment to give a shudder as if something tremendous in size had slammed into the structure. It reminded me of the attack at our cabin and I opened my mouth to speak.
"We know about the Catskill incident,” Gordon bellowed, sprinting for the door. “Now get going!"
So go we did, but we didn't have to like it.
[Back to Table of Contents]
CHAPTER FIVE
Dashing into the hallway, Gordon went to the right, and we went to the left. The siren was soon replaced by a soothing voice telling specific people where to go and what to do.
As we ran for the elevator bank at the end of the hall, I noticed every doorway was now closed with a steel grill that slid out of the thick walls. This place must have cost a fortune to build. Luckily the Bureau was rolling in funds. With so many wizards on the staff, a bit of lead-to-gold was no big bother. Of course, we wisely kept it low key so as not to totally disrupt the world's economy.
Reaching the elevator, we passed on by and took the stairs. If any of my people had been dumb enough to even try the elevator, I would have personally shot them dead to save the embarrassment of having to take Agent 101 over again.
"Just had an idea,” Richard said, as we danced down the steps in a group. “Let's solidify our weapons."
"Meaning what exactly?” Jessica asked, suspiciously.
Didn't blame her reticence. We had all heard his great ideas before, and carried the scars to prove it.
He smiled. “Nothing serious. But rather than George carrying a .45 pistol, Ed a .357 and Donaher a .32, they each take 10mm automatics, so in case of an emergency we can pool our ammunition."
"Ten millimeter?” Jessica asked puzzled. “I thought nine was state-of-the-art."
George fought back a laugh. “Not anymore."
Judgment Night [BUREAU 13 Book One] Page 6