Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle

by Anthony DeCosmo

  He answered with a whisper,"Yes?"

  Thom listened while rubbing sleep from his eyes. When the voice on the other end finished, he offered the obligatory "thank you" and cradled the receiver.

  He took a long look at that tumbled mass next to him, mildly surprised that his movement had yet to wake her. Perhaps she had truly become accustomed to his running off in the middle of the night, or the middle of the weekend, or the middle of their life.

  Thom swung his legs off the bed and walked away.

  Jean stopped pretending to be asleep and opened her eyes, but did not move.

  —

  The drone of the Learjet's engines hummed through the flying cigar tube, creating a steady and nearly hypnotizing vibration. No light came from outside but some of the soldiers had turned on overhead reading lights, resulting in patches of dark and light around the compartment.

  Major Thom Gant stood at the back near the refreshment cabinet. He surveyed his team while constructing another cup of coffee, sugar, and cream. It scared him that his men could be so calm. Several slept slumped in their seats, others read newspapers or books or listened to music on headphones. Had their job become so mundane that they could pass the time with so little anxiety? Or had they been so well trained, so disciplined, that they could switch off and on the adrenaline at will?

  Gant wondered which would be worse; their missions becoming routine, or the idea that human beings could be conditioned into such automatons.

  The major pushed aside his philosophical ramblings—they served no purpose in his profession—and returned the sugar dispenser to the pantry. After another sip he walked the center aisle through the patches of light and dark. As he moved he heard whispers among those men who were awake.

  Wells and Galati talked among themselves like a couple of junior high kids riding the school bus. Their banter was not the result of nerves, it was normal: those two were always chattering on, usually with Sal—Galati—telling some tall tale of adventure or relating a sexual conquest and Wells tossing in the occasional "bullshit" or "you're full of it."

  One of the patches of light shined on Captain Campion, who read a copy of yesterday’s USA Today.

  In nearly twenty years of service, Gant had never known a soldier so disciplined, so focused. The major rarely saw Campion show any emotion. Of all his robots, Campion was the best programmed. And while Gant may have questioned his comrade’s humanity, he could never question his skill.

  At the captain's feet rested Tyr and Phobos, a couple of military-trained German shepherds.

  Occupying a seat one row over was Master Sergeant Franco, a big man in many ways, and he liked to throw that weight around. Unfortunately for Franco, assignment to Task Force Archangel meant a relaxing of the normally rigid rules of rank and command, and that meant fewer opportunities to bully.

  Still, it was not Franco's penchant for assigning derogatory nicknames or his outright dislike for Campion that bothered Gant the most. No, it was something far more personal; something Gant saw in Franco's eyes every time he gave that man an order, every time a reminder came along that the Department of Defense had trusted Major Thom Gant—a black man–to command the nation's most secret military unit.

  Gant eyed the sleeping Franco. A sound like an old engine trying to start rumbled out of the sergeant's drooling mouth with every exhale.

  Certainly Major Gant noticed Franco's dislike for Wells, Pearson, and Moss, the other black members of the team, but he tried to give Franco the benefit of the doubt. After all, the members of Task Force Archangel's tactical team came from the best special forces units in the military, including Force Recon, Delta, and the Air Force's Combat Controllers. Egos and interservice rivalries made for boiling testosterone.

  But no, Thom could no longer deny there was a racial component. Still, Franco had yet to overtly disobey an order or disrespect a superior officer. Besides, while Major Gant would have loved to boot Franco from the unit, if only so that he would no longer have to listen to his stale jokes, the security clearance surrounding Archangel was that of a Special Access Program under Top Secret classification. That meant very few people were to know the program even existed and those who went through all the hoops to receive Top Secret/SAP clearance would not be wasted on account of stale jokes or simmering bigotry. No, once you were in you stayed in until they threw you in one of those bags with the zipper on the outside.

  Major Gant moved on, passing the other members of the team, including Roberts, whose boyish complexion could pass for fifteen years old; Sawicki, who was the exact opposite thanks to a balding scalp and an intense smoking habit that played havoc with his thin frame; and lastly Van Buren, whose thick sideburns gave him a distinct 1860s look.

  Waiting at the front of the cabin was a tall man with streaks of gray hair blooming to either side of otherwise dark thatch. While the rest of the team wore black BDUs, Captain Brandon Twiste dressed in the green camouflage variety. Another difference could be seen on his collar, where a Caduceus pin adorned his lapel not far from captain's bars. In comparison, no other soldier onboard wore notations of rank.

  Twiste spoke first: "The pilot says we just entered Florida air space. ETA to Patrick Air Force Base thirty minutes."

  Gant checked his watch and said, "We're going to run into daybreak if this takes much longer."

  "I'm surprised we got here as early as we did. Good thing we caught the cross-country red eye," Twiste said with a smile.

  Gant appreciated a few moments of levity before the action began, but no amount of joking could cover up the fact that soon it would be dawn over south Florida. They might make it to the crash site before the sun came up, but not by much.

  "I suppose I had better wake them," Gant sighed.

  Twiste nodded at the snoring Franco and told Thom, "You know, I could slip him a sedative. Keep him out for the whole mission."

  "I thought you physicians were to do no harm."

  "Now wait a sec, technically speaking I'm your science officer, so don't lay that Hippocratic oath on me. Besides, I'm thinking of unit morale here, sir."

  As usual, Thom could only shake his head. Still, they would reach their staging area soon, where they would transfer people and gear off the plane and onto choppers for a ride even further south. That meant the time for relaxation had come to an end.

  Major Gant reached over to the wall and flipped a switch. Rows of bright light shot on to a chorus of groans and grunts, topped off by Sergeant Franco replacing his horrid snore with a groggy, "What the fuck?"

  —

  "Listen up," Major Gant started while a video screen displayed an aerial photograph behind him. "Six hours ago an Aegis-class destroyer engaged an unidentified object over the Gulf of Mexico. The squids disarmed the warhead, which means no big boom."

  The team perked up. Any mental cobwebs from lack of sleep dissipated.

  "The short version is that we’ve got an intact vehicle on the ground. This is not a recovery mission. What we have here is a search and capture."

  Gant let that sink in.

  "That was six hours ago, sir," Captain Campion said. "Are we getting here too late?"

  "The Air Force has been buzzing the site since impact. Image data from an Eagle Eye UAV that swept the target area twenty minutes ago indicated a downed craft with one occupant on foot."

  "Why wouldn’t the idiot bug out?" Franco asked.

  Gant replied, "The crash site is remote, inside the Everglades National Park. It may think that it’s safe or out of sight."

  Twiste—who stood at the front of the cabin not far from Major Gant—said, "I would think its natural instincts would be to stay in close proximity to its vehicle, particularly if it has any hopes of being recovered."

  "But there is no sign of additional intruders," Gant hastily added.

  "Reminds me of the Manitoba crash," Campion mumbled loudly enough to be heard.

  The major continued, "A regiment of army infantry is currently quarantining the a
rea. They have established a five-mile perimeter. A cover story will take care of any press. Something about an Air Force cargo plane crash and plutonium."

  Gant turned his attention to the aerial photograph displayed on the screen.

  "Gentlemen, we got lucky. The crash site is dry from weeks of drought. Instead of swamp, we are heading into tall, dry saw grass. But there is plenty of the swampy stuff to the south and east." The major ran a hand across the photo, pointing out a road and tiny dots representing structures. "The army has deployed to the north, blocking off the access roads and trails. They evacuated any campers and park workers. They have not entered the target zone. That is our job."

  Most of the soldiers focused their eyes on their commanding officer and the aerial photograph he referenced. Campion and Franco alternated their attention between the major and their wrist computers.

  "I want two fire teams. Franco, you take Bravo. Your job is to secure the crash site and prep for extraction. The Navy has a Jolly Green Giant coming in to hoist the vehicle out. That is your responsibility. Get it out quick, with no mess."

  "Yeah, sure, cleanup duty again."

  "Campion, you run Alpha team. You are my flushers. Push the target west to the coordinate designated Catcher's Mitt. We have a new toy from tech that should help out."

  After a nod from Gant, Twiste explained, "It's the new net Taser. Based on the remains we recovered from Manitoba, we've designed a weapon that will deliver an intense shock to the target's nervous system. We believe this will incapacitate the creature, allowing for a clean capture."

  Gant pointed at Galati. "Sal has been training on the weapon. Are you ready to go, soldier?"

  "Piece of cake, chief. It's pretty cool and all, kind of reminds me of this type of underwater spear gun that we were using back when—"

  "Okay, then you are ready to go," Gant cut short another of Sal's stories.

  Franco jumped in, "Hey Galati, if you're off with the major that means you and Wells can't hold hands through the scary parts. You going to be okay with that?"

  Jupiter Wells answered for Galati, "I got something for you to hold, Biggy, and you'll need both hands."

  "I ain't your—"

  "Now is not the time, gentlemen." Major Gant quieted the cross talk and looked to Van Buren, whose name and sideburns had earned him the team's most unique nickname. "Mr. President, you will be our eye in the sky, using the infrared to track the target right to us for intercept."

  Van Buren nodded.

  Gant finished, "We were all pulled out of bed and thrown on a cross-country flight in the middle of the night. I know you are tired and more miserable than usual. But you need to focus. This is our job, gentlemen."

  —

  Stars sparkled over a landscape of cypress trees, mangrove swamps, and patches of unusually dry marshlands.

  The Everglades were a leftover from an era long before man, long before cities, long before the campers and canoes that crisscrossed its acreage during tourist season. From alligators to ibis, the Everglades marked time at a pace so slow it mocked man’s rise from primate to predominate. It was a sanctuary, where the ancient could hide in the fantasy of a world still young.

  A Seminole chief named Osceola once used the Everglades to hide from the armies of the white man. Now those armies returned to capture another fugitive of a much different nature.

  A small MH-6 "Little Bird" buzzed over the landscape, its lights and whirling blades spoiling the quiet night. Behind it came two more intruders: larger UH-60 Blackhawks that dwarfed the buzz of the MH-6 with their thunderous turbo shafts.

  From his the shotgun seat in the smaller chopper, Gant looked at the landscape stretching toward the horizon. Off to his right, in the distance, he spotted rows of lights: torches, flashlights, and headlights from the army troops deployed on the northern perimeter.

  In the distance to his left moonlight shimmered across the swampy waters of the mangrove marshes—a natural obstacle nearly as foreboding to their quarry as the soldiers to the north.

  In between the jaws of the trap sat a wide stretch of dried marsh and mud, punctuated by tight groups of trees and layered with vast tracks of tall, dry grass.

  The Blackhawks held in tight formation behind the leader. Gant barked his orders via a secure radio channel. "I want this thing on ice, not tits-up. Bravo team, secure the crash site and prep for extraction."

  Franco’s voice acknowledged, "Roger that."

  Gant ordered, "Bravo team, go."

  The rear Blackhawk banked hard and swooped south.

  "Alpha team. Proceed to map designate niner-niner and deploy. Intel indicates target has moved into that area. You’re our foxhound, Captain. Push our friend west by northwest right at ‘catcher’s mitt.’ You copy?"

  "Ten-four, we copy. Alpha team, tallyho."

  The remaining Blackhawk gained altitude then arrowed southwesterly, moving Alpha team to its insertion point.

  Gant turned to the pilot, who was on loan from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (SOAR) out of Hunter, Georgia, and said, "Okay, Nightstalker, I need to get to the map coordinate designated ‘Catcher’s Mitt’ A-SAP. Punch it."

  The nose of the MH-6 dipped as it gained momentum and sliced through the night a few feet above the tallest cypress trees.

  —

  Franco, Pearson, and Moss jumped from the helicopter dressed in black BDUs and caps with an assortment of thigh rigs and utility belts carrying additional weapons, ammunition, and supplies. Each man brandished a Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun, and each man instantly broke into a sweat from the oppressive heat and drenching humidity.

  Bravo team jogged across the open, muddy terrain. Behind them the Blackhawk ascended and moved into a holding pattern where it would await further orders, leaving behind a gust of foul-smelling exhaust that contrasted sharply with the natural aromas of moist grass and drying mud.

  Ahead of them was an impressive sight: Five hundred yards of burned out trench with water from the swamp pooling inside. At the end of that trench was an even more impressive find: a cone-shaped object made of a black alloy. Damaged, but still intact.

  "Well just fuck-me," Franco muttered over his tactical headset. "Be home you little bastard and let’s end this right here and now."

  Bravo team, their MP5s raised, surrounded the capsule.

  On one side was an opening that appeared to be a blown hatch. Franco pulled a small cylinder from his assault vest and tossed it inside.

  "Fire in the hole!"

  The team turned away and covered their ears as the flash-bang grenade went off like an oversized firecracker, illuminating everything within twenty yards of the hatch for one brief second.

  Franco lunged forward and stuck his shoulders and head in the open compartment.

  "Shit. Nothing."

  —

  Gant’s ride circled around an abandoned shack surrounded by fields of saw grass. The "Little Bird" found a spot to hover and then deposited its human cargo.

  Before Gant exited, he said to Van Buren, "Get the infrared online. Even with the moonlight it’s going to be tough to find anything out here."

  Gant threw off his headset and jumped from the helicopter. He joined Twiste and Galati, the latter carrying a metallic container resembling an oversized tuba case.

  The MH-6 gained altitude fast and swung east. Van Buren hurried to get his gear online and interfacing with the helicopter’s infrared camera pod beneath the cockpit nose.

  On the ground, meanwhile, the three men entered the rear of the cabin and were nearly overcome by a musty odor so intense it seemed to actually have mass. The floorboards felt soft and mushy. Several small animals scurried away as the trio walked through the rickety structure and out the front door onto what was left of a porch. Only three of the four roof-support posts remained, and the front stairs had long ago sagged and snapped.

  "Set up shop, Sal. Get hot in a hurry."

  "Yes, sir."

  Galati opened the
case, and Twiste helped him assemble the contents. While they worked, Gant eyed the horizon, where he saw the first rays of a new day's sun reach for the sky like zombie fingers digging out of a grave.

  —

  Tyr and Phobos flanked Campion as he led his patrol forward with his attention split between his surroundings and his wrist computer.

  The two shepherds sniffed the ground and the air vigorously, periodically stopping to absorb their environment with their ears, no doubt sifting through the noise of chirping insects and the songs of the morning's first birds in search of something not quite right. The rest of the soldiers crept along in a loose skirmish line, their eyes and flashlights searching the wall of saw grass to their right.

  Overhead, Campion spied a strange-looking craft. It was small, only about sixteen feet long, with an even smaller wingspan, and used two rotors to stay aloft. Campion quickly identified the object as a Bell Eagle Eye, an unmanned aerial vehicle. Campion figured that somewhere—perhaps far away in a smoke-filled back room at the Pentagon—some high-tech nerd sat at a desk watching a real-time video feed with a remote control in one hand and a cappuccino in the other.

  The Eagle Eye did more, however, than just search for the target. The fugitive had almost certainly been slowed by the presence of the flying machine, probably seeking cover and hiding every time the Eagle Eye came within earshot.

  Of course, as luck would have it, the reconnaissance craft had lost sight of the target, otherwise Campion would have exact coordinates. All that high-tech hardware flying around and the success of the mission still depended on a pair of K9 noses and good old-fashioned tracking.

  Just the way Campion liked it.

  The captain’s earpiece crackled. It was Bravo team’s element leader, Sergeant Franco.

  "We’re at the crash site, no sign of tango. This looks like a one-man vehicle."

  Campion chimed in, "Any prints or markings? Give me a clue what to look for."

  After a moment Franco relayed, "Shit, yeah, um, there are tracks leading west—the ground is all mushy here. Looks like a slim print, kind of like a bear track, but thinner, with three toes. Jesus, are you telling me that some E.T. came halfway across the galaxy in a spaceship but doesn't have shoes?"