Project- Heritage

by Rob Horner

  PROJECT: HERITAGE

  By: Rob Horner

  Copyright © 2019 Robert Horner

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art by: Lars Nissen

  Look Eliseo, I finally finished it.

  Titles by Rob Horner

  Darkness & Light: The Richards’ Saga

  Brightness

  Into Darkness (coming 2020)

  The Chosen Cycle

  Waking Light

  Surrogacy (Fall 2019)

  Ascendancy (Spring 2020)

  The Bechtol Files

  The Dungeon

  The Fall of Icarus (coming 2020)

  Project: Heritage

  Night Zero

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Project: Heritage

  By: Rob Horner

  Friday

  Chapter 1

  Travis

  1

  The scream rang in the air, ragged and piercing.

  Travis sat up in his bed, blinking in the darkness, the sheets damp beneath him. Sweat rolled down his face and clumps of his short hair were matted to his forehead. Turning to his right, he could just make out the glowing numerals on his smartphone.

  2:14.

  Jesus, he thought.

  For the third night in a row, Travis had experienced the same dream. A nightmare, really, if it had the power to wake him.

  Holding the sides of his head, he dug fingers into his hair, clutching his skull, as though he could reach into his brain and grasp the images which terrified him, already slipping into nothingness. He struggled to remember, to understand.

  His heart pounded. Hell, it ought to be audible in the hallway outside, like a cavalry charge thundering across a battlefield, yet his roommate snored on undisturbed in the other bed. The soft and uninterrupted buzzing reassured him. The scream was only in his dream. He hadn’t voiced it himself.

  Already Travis could feel himself calming, his body realizing it shouldn’t be awake yet. A slow, drugged numbness flooded his limbs as his arms relaxed and he reclined back onto the bed. The warmth of his blankets comforted him, dragging him down. The soft pillow cushioned his head just the way he liked, so fluffy that it rose to cover his ears, the slight dampness not enough to overpower the lethargy pulling him back into sleep.

  Before the clock face on his phone changed to 2:16, Travis Wilkins had closed his eyes.

  Thankfully, there were no more dreams.

  2

  “This better be good if you’re calling me at this hour, Harry.”

  “Sorry to wake you, sir, but I thought you’d want to know.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “He woke up again, sir.”

  “Again? That’s three nights in row, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Bad dreams, from the look of it.”

  “Do you think it’s connected to the girl?”

  “How should I know? I’m just a monitoring technician, sir.”

  A sigh. “You don’t need to be snippy, Harry. And you know better than to call me ‘sir’.

  “Sorry, Chief. Just lookit. I’ve been here watching this guy for three years now, and I got no idea why I’m watching him.”

  “That’s classified, Harry.”

  “Yeah, yeah, and I’ve got the clearance but not the need to know, I know. But it’s not fair to go askin’ my opinion when I don’t get to know all the facts.”

  “I can understand your frustration, Harry.”

  A silence, then, “Sorry, Chief.”

  “Will he wake up again, Harry?”

  “So far there’s only been one a night.”

  “And the girl?”

  There was a clicking sound, like fingers typing on a keyboard. “She’s sleeping peacefully, Chief. You know, she’s kinda cute.”

  “Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Shame she’s married.”

  “Yeah, well, you can’t have everything, Harry.”

  “Speak for yourself, Chief.”

  “Any dreams?”

  “Not that we’ve noticed.”

  “How long has she been on base, now?”

  “We picked up her assignment three days ago.”

  “Hmm. And already Travis is reacting—"

  “It could just be coincidence, Chief.”

  “—so, we’ll need to monitor both of them more closely now that they’re together.”

  A sigh. “All right, Chief. I’ll put together a new duty roster in the morning, start double-staffing Watchtower.”

  “You do that. And Harry, call if anything else happens.”

  “I always do, Chief.”

  3

  The strident buzzing of the alarm brought Travis hurtling out of sleep, crash-landing into wakefulness that felt about as solid as a ton of bricks piled on his head. Groaning, he sat up. With his eyes still closed, he reached for his Motorola smartphone, fingers fumbling to slide a thumb across the screen and silence the alarm.

  “Hurry up, willya?” his roommate mumbled. Travis could hear him rolling in his bed, probably covering his head with a pillow.

  “Got it,” he said. The phone showed 6:15 on its screen. Travis squinted at it for several moments, trying to get the numbers to make sense. His sleep-fogged thoughts finally began to clear, and he realized he only had a half-hour to shower, get dressed, and get to work.

  “Chris,” he called as he climbed to his feet.

  “Mmmmph?”

  “Time to get up, bro. Gotta go make Uncle Sam happy.”

  “Yeah, right. Another day, another dime.”

  “Damn inflation!”

  Chris chuckled. Travis hit the light switch, illuminating the fifteen-foot square barracks room, furnished only with the two beds, two nightstands, and two armoires-over-chests. The light surprised Chris, who’d only just lifted the pillow off his head.

  “Jesus, man! Warn a guy, how ‘bout it?”

  “Sorry.”

  4

  At 6:35, Travis left Barracks 525 on Naval Air Station Oceana in Virginia Beach, Virginia, and started walking across the street. His destination was Building 513, the Aviation Intermediate Maintenance Department—AIMD for short—where he worked as an electronics technician and troubleshooter for the United States Navy. Walking down 5th Street towards Hornet Drive, he passed the new soccer field on his left. It was surrounded by a running track on which several men and women jogged, making him think of the upcoming Physical Readiness Test.

  At five-eight and a hundred fifty pounds, Travis knew he was within the Navy’s height-weight standards. He’d been pretty “into” getting in shape as a teenager, lifting weights, running on the cross-country team in high school, even studying Tae Kwon Do for several years, though he’d let that training decline since joining the Navy. He stretched and worked out at least once a week, but it was more because he didn’t have anything better to do than chasing a goal. He could still throw a kick over his he
ad when he wanted, and his last mile-and-a-half time was eleven minutes, so as long as he could keep his stomach flat, Travis figured he was all right.

  He passed the AIMD building and turned right to enter the parking area behind it, aiming for the cargo bays. As he walked, he performed a quick visual check of his forest-green and tan Naval Working Uniform, before stopping himself with a sigh and a grimace.

  The new uniforms were made to resist tears, stains, and wrinkles, but they hung like a draped tarp and had about as much breathability. Despite those shortcomings, they were an improvement in comfort over the blue and gray version the Navy discontinued the year before. The digitized vertical camouflage pattern did more to irritate the eyes than promote a sense of military bearing, in his opinion, and it didn’t feel right to have his Petty Officer Second Class insignia smack in the middle of his chest instead of on his shoulder. He also disliked the heavy steel-toed boots the legs of his pants were tucked into, but that was because he didn’t like any boots, preferring the lightweight Sketchers he wore when off-duty.

  The AIMD building was a long, low structure, as long as a city block, and housed dozens of specialized work-centers that repaired various components of the numerous aircraft currently in service. Directly ahead was the large processing area, where “bad” parts were checked in, distributed to the work-centers for repair, and “good” parts were stored against a future need, issued as replacements when a bad item was presented.

  “Hey Wilkins,” someone called as he neared the big bay doors opening into the Receiving section of the building.

  Turning, Travis spotted Jimmy Stevens, one of his co-workers, smoking a cigarette at the edge of the receiving dock. “S’up, Stevens?” he replied, raising a hand as he passed by.

  “Same ol’ shit,” Stevens answered, taking a last drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out on the ground. Stevens’ feet pounded as the tall young man hurried to catch up with him.

  Large wheeled carts lined the walls of Receiving, each one stacked full of metal boxes surrounded by protective pink bubble wrap. Three young men, one in the green and tan NWUs like Travis, the others in the older “Blueberry” uniform, moved around the carts, checking part numbers and serial numbers and verifying them against a green logbook. Removing his ball cap, Travis stepped past the busy men, turning left and heading into the maintenance portion of AIMD.

  Stevens fell in step beside him, also removing his cap, revealing a close-cropped brush of reddish hair. “You, my friend, need a haircut.”

  “Like yours?” Travis asked.

  “As if you could rock a High ‘n’ Tight like this! Seriously though, you’re getting close to the ears, and you know how the Chief is—”

  “You’re probably right,” Travis replied. “It’s been about a month since the last one.”

  “A whole month!” Jimmy exclaimed. “If you cut it short once in a while, you could go longer.”

  Travis laughed, “I can already go longer than you.”

  “Ouch, my poor pride!”

  Travis didn’t want his hair too short. He didn’t consider himself particularly handsome, with a high hairline and a slightly crooked nose, so he kept his hair close to the regulation limit to provide some cover over his forehead. It was just long enough to look tousled in the wind when he went to the beach. A decent tan, green eyes, and windblown hair seemed to get him a better reaction from women.

  Taller than Travis but reed-thin, Jimmy Stevens looked more out of place in the new NWUs than Travis felt. His pale complexion and red hair clashed with the uniform, making him look a little like Will Ferrell in Elf. Although both were Aviation Electronics Technicians, Travis out-ranked Jimmy.

  The corridor through which the two men walked was clear. Doors opened off either side at varying intervals, leading into different work centers. Every door was fitted with a Kaba E-Plex Cipher lock, a twelve-button system that resembled a smartphone dial pad programmed with a three to ten-digit passcode, ensuring only those men who were supposed to be in a work center could get in. The ceiling overhead was tiled, though there were frequent open areas where the ducting and wiring were visible.

  Both men waved to acquaintances as they headed for a branching corridor leading to the front of the building. They turned right, squeezing past a tall, broad-shouldered man in a khaki uniform, heading back the way they’d come.

  “Morning, Chief,” Stevens said cheerfully.

  Butt-kiss, Travis thought, before turning and recognizing their own work center Chief, David Crane.

  “Morning, men,” the Chief replied, stopping and turning toward them. Focusing on Travis, Chief Crane asked, “You getting enough sleep, Wilkins? You look peaked.”

  “What?” Travis muttered. “Oh sure, Chief. It’s early, that’s all.”

  “Ah,” the Chief replied, turning away. “Guess you’re just not a morning person, either. Ask Harmon to put on a fresh pot of coffee when you see him.”

  “Will do, Chief,” Stevens said, turning back and walking beside Travis again. “Wow! Nice guy, that Chief.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “It seems like he might really care.” Stevens looked more closely at Travis. “And he’s right, you know. You’ve got some Samsonite under your eyes. You feeling okay?”

  Travis didn’t reply.

  Stevens was a nice enough guy, but he was relatively new to the command and young besides. Travis found him pleasant company and extremely intelligent, but also naive. The taller man was inclined to believe all the figures in authority were out to help their workers, while Travis took the opposite viewpoint. To him, most of the leaders were just men and women in a position to look better when everyone else worked harder.

  Reaching the end of the corridor, the two men turned left. Stevens keyed in the lock code, and they entered work center 63A (pronounced sixty-three alpha). Out of all the work centers in AIMD, theirs was the largest, with more personnel repairing more aircraft equipment than any other shop in the building.

  The room was high-ceilinged and rectangular, extending forty or fifty feet straight out from the door and twenty feet to the right. To the left of the door, as the men entered, were shelves for storing radar components awaiting service. Beyond the shelves were the production desk, the Leading Petty Officer’s desk, and the Chief’s desk. To the right of the door were aisles dominated by large computerized repair stations. Each aisle focused on a specific suite of components. The first aisle ran Fire Control Radar equipment, while the second repaired computer systems. The third aisle focused on display equipment, and the fourth repaired a variety of antennas for multiple aircraft.

  Two Second Class Petty Officers sat behind the production desk, sorting through piles of paper and checking logbooks as they prepared to take over the shop. Unlike many civilian repair facilities—and some Air Force shops—the Navy AIMD ran twenty-four hours a day on three shifts, with a period of mild chaos during the transition times as those who had finished their work waited for the next shift to relieve them.

  “Wilkins!” one of the men behind the production counter yelled, seeing Travis come through the door.

  “Yeah, Harmon?” Travis replied.

  “Get those Bench Status Reports done as soon as possible.”

  “Jeez,” Travis complained, “can’t a guy get in the door and get a cup of coffee first?”

  Stevens stage-whispered, “Not if his fat ass hasn’t made it yet.”

  Richard Harmon made a show of studying the clock mounted on the wall behind the production desk. The time was 6:42.

  “You’ve got three minutes,” Richard declared, turning back to his paperwork.

  “See ya in a few,” Stevens said, moving to the right of the door and down the aisle which held the four Fire Control test benches. As a shift supervisor, these four workstations were Travis’ responsibility. He needed to find out if any of them suffered a malfunction overnight, so the Production Supervisor—Petty Officer Harmon—would know the capabilities of the wo
rk center.

  Shaking his head, Travis grabbed a blank Bench Status Report from a file cabinet next to the production desk. Turning back into his aisle, he picked up the lime-green logbook that held a record of everything done to the four stations, as well as what gear had been repaired. Absently flipping through the pages, he looked for anything out of the ordinary, while simultaneously listening to the grumbling mid-shift personnel who were anxious to go home.

  Not seeing anything to suggest any bench malfunctions, Travis was about to close the logbook and turn to ask Scott Harding whether he’d gone on his planned blind date with a Marine female, when he noticed an unusual entry in the book.

  Most of the pages were covered with two and three-line groups of notes, documenting what piece of gear was repaired, the alleged malfunction, and what—if anything—was done to repair it. These entries were all in black ink and differed only in handwriting and legibility

  But at the bottom of the page was a hastily scrawled message consisting of only three words.

  You’re being watched.

  Chapter 2

  Sherry

  1

  Sherry Anders stood in front of the AIMD Building on-board NAS Oceana and watched as her husband drove away in their gray Nissan Sentra. He worked in the Personnel Support Detachment (PSD) Building. Unlike her husband, who was a paper-pusher, Sherry was an Aviation Electronics Technician, responsible for maintaining and repairing electronic components for the F/A-18 Hornet aircraft. She didn’t envy her husband his job and would take hers any day over his. Shaking her head, Sherry turned from the parking lot and entered the front doors of the building. Removing her ball cap as she entered, she shook out her short, ginger hair and ran her fingers through it to straighten a few runaway strands.

  Coming into the building from the front, Sherry passed the administration offices and turned right into the long corridor which led to work center 63A.