Opposing Force: Book 01 - The God Particle

by Anthony DeCosmo

  Gant gazed down upon the battlefield. He laughed aloud when he saw the situation.

  Campion’s forces were in almost exactly the same positions as when Thunder had finished making Gant’s move. Her ruse had, in fact, slowed him down. Campion had moved some of his front line forces into reserve, while his armor launched only probing attacks.

  "Well I’ll be damned."

  Poor Campion is outthinking himself. I guess there’s something to be said for psychology.

  "I see he’s taken the bait."

  It was Lieutenant Colonel Thunder, leaning against the door frame.

  "Doesn’t anyone sleep around here?"

  She yawned in answer.

  "I was signing out and saw your name signed in. Thought I’d see what you’ve been up to," she said, moving into the room and standing next to him.

  Gant kept his eyes on the board while telling her, "It looks as if you have managed to confuse him. He is hesitating, not sure what he wants to do."

  "And that’s not in his nature. It makes him uncomfortable," she replied. "He likes well-defined goals, a clear path. Not now. Now he is questioning what he’s seeing; questioning what’s right in front of his nose."

  Thom could not help but ask, "Are we still talking about Campion … or someone else?"

  Liz, still staring at the board, spoke in an almost trance-like monotone: "Look …" she swept her hand in a gesture toward the pieces. ”Look at all the toy soldiers. Just pick them up and move them, roll the dice, and—" she reached down and held aloft a small batch of cardboard markers—"discard what you no longer need."

  She let the pieces flutter to the tabletop and then forced herself to look at him.

  "Are you ready to be discarded, Major? I wonder how the dice will roll tomorrow."

  "I think the dice are loaded."

  14

  Captain—and Doctor—Brandon Twiste stood at attention in front of Thunder's desk. Gant stood there as well, but in a much more casual posture as he handed Thunder the papers Twiste had shared with him.

  "Three men," she said, glancing over the columns. "All three unfit for duty?"

  Gant eyed Brandon suspiciously as the doctor answered, "Sawicki suffered bruised ribs during a mission in south Florida five days ago."

  "Bruised ribs?" Gant interrupted. "Bruises, yes, but I do not believe—"

  "If you question my diagnosis, have him transferred to a hospital facility for more extensive testing. In my opinion, his ribs are bruised and inhibit his ability to complete this mission."

  Thunder watched the two men volley, fascinated but unwilling to intervene.

  "And Van Buren? Roberts? Are you serious?"

  "Roberts complained last night of a sore throat and is running a slight fever."

  Liz read aloud, "Ninety-nine point one."

  "He complained of a dry throat," Gant corrected. "Because he and Pearson got into some kind of video game contest and ended up screaming at each other. As for his so-called fever, that could easily be the thermometer you used. He is perfectly fine."

  "He has a fever," Twiste repeated. "He is showing early signs of possible flu-like symptoms. He is unfit."

  "And Van Buren? A rash? Are you serious?"

  "He is suffering from Toxicodendron pubescens."

  Liz translated in an almost detached voice: "Poison oak. Probably got it walking the grounds here; it's all over."

  Gant huffed and growled, "He has an itch and it disqualifies him from this mission? I do not believe that General Borman will—"

  "General Borman has reviewed this sick list and approved it," Twiste said while remaining in a mockingly stiff version of attention.

  "Wow," is all Thunder could say.

  Gant gasped, "You must be joking."

  Twiste finally faced his friend and told him, "The general seemed unconcerned that our team would be down three men. He appeared more focused on the simple fact that we are scheduled to breech the vault door in less than an hour."

  Gant fell silent.

  Thunder asked, "Is this it? Is this sick list final?"

  Twiste shuffled his feet, bit his lower lip, and reluctantly admitted, "Yes. I could find nothing wrong with any of the other men."

  "And I'll bet you looked, even for hangnails," Gant said.

  "Yes, I did. And you'd be proud of them, Thom. All three cursed up a fit when I told them they were off-mission."

  "You realize losing those three men cold compromise this mission."

  "General Borman did not think so. In fact, I believe his exact words were 'what's three men, more or less'. As long as I'm going in with the V.A.A.D., I don't think he cares."

  "V.A.A.D.?" Thunder asked.

  "Variable antimatter accelerator delivery device," Twiste replied, although his answer did not clarify anything for the lieutenant colonel.

  Gant grabbed the clipboard from Colonel Thunder, looked over the paperwork, and said, "But nothing for yourself? You are perfectly healthy?"

  "Yes, I am," Twiste answered. "I think if I even tried to put myself on that list, Borman would call in an entire medical team to double-check my diagnosis. Like I said, he is determined that I take that little present from The Tall Company down to the Red Lab. But there's another reason I would not even try to get out of this. Someone has to look after you, Major."

  Again, Gant said nothing, but Thunder broke in, "I can't blame you, Captain Twiste. More importantly, as commanding officer of this facility, the composition of the entry team is not my concern. Therefore, I have no interest in reviewing or questioning your medical opinion on these men."

  "Well, then," Gant found his voice again. "If we are finished playing games, I have a mission to command."

  —

  The break room on sublevel five played the role of staging area, with military hardware spread out like a picnic across a long table.

  The arsenal included assault rifles and machine guns, tactical body armor and ballistic helmets, thigh rigs packed with gas masks, survival tools and first aid supplies, knives nestled in leather sheaths, Nomex hoods, hand-held Tasers, collapsible batons, and even a forty-year-old flamethrower leaning in a corner of the room.

  Gant sat at the head of the table as his men stood around the stockpile. He pulled out a solitary magazine and jammed it into a Beretta.

  "Suit up."

  Only Franco showed any signs of forced enthusiasm. The rest remained surprisingly stoic despite facing a mission more vague and possibly more lethal than they had seen to date. Like he had on the plane ride to Florida a few days ago, Major Gant worried about how easily the army had trained these soldiers to put aside fear and curiosity and replace it with determination and brutality.

  Of all the monsters they had already faced or might see in the future, he wondered if his team might not be the scariest of the lot.

  Hands reached in from all angles, pulling away the arsenal piece by piece.

  First went body armor and assault vests, slung on and snapped tight over black BDU’s. Then the thigh rigs—gas masks on one leg, assault rigs on another—followed by utility belts with pockets for stun guns, batons, flash-bang grenades, spare ammunition, and more.

  Wells and Galati faced off, tightening straps for one another until their armor was intact, then—as was their tradition—they slammed fists into one another’s shoulders and butted helmeted heads like sparring rams.

  Campion adjusted the laser site on his Mp5. Moss chose an M4 assault rifle equipped with an infrared scope. Wells picked a SCAR-H paired with black-tipped armor-piercing 7.62 NATO rounds for extra oomph. Galati looked longingly at a sniper rifle before settling on a HK G36.

  Franco twirled a Ka-Bar on the tip of his finger, grunting at Campion, "Hey, check this shit out."

  Campion swiveled the barrel of his assault rifle about, placing a little red target dot right between Franco’s eyes.

  "Okay, bitch, okay, I get it, I get it," Franco pouted as he reached for a USAS-12 automatic shotgun.

 
Pearson struggled with the ancient flamethrower. Roberts and Van Buren—both complaining loudly about being excluded from the mission—helped him strap on the bulky contraption.

  "You need a light?" Van Buren asked as he popped a flame on a Bic and held it to the barrel of the ancient contraption.

  "Smokin’," Pearson muttered as the small blue ignition flame at the end of the wand flashed on like a gas stove pilot light.

  Galati retrieved a small demolitions kit designed for breaching doors and barricades. Wells strapped a tiny .380 automatic to his ankle. Pearson took a set of throwing stars that had become more his good luck charm than a real weapon.

  Campion eschewed body armor and helmets and kept with a basic black cap, choosing agility over protection. He slipped his own knife into its sheath and attached it to his ankle, then went about checking every piece of his equipment once again to make sure everything was in place. Gant recognized this bit of OCD in his officer, knowing the captain would check those same straps, packs, and pockets at least three more times before they went in.

  Franco hoisted a handheld device that looked something like a boom microphone. It was, in fact, a Searchcam that could be extended to peek around corners without exposing oneself to enemy fire.

  Brandon Twiste wandered a step inside and stood apart from the men in a number of ways, starting with his choice of green camouflage that contrasted with the black clothes worn by the rest of the unit. He did wear a utility belt and as he walked in Gant thrust a holster packed with a Beretta into his chest, which the doctor reluctantly accepted.

  Twiste did, however, carry something far more important than any utility belt or weapon. Or rather, he tried to carry it, in two obviously heavy duffel bags.

  "You guys must be my chaperones," Twiste said, mustering some good humor.

  "Is that it, Doc?" Moss asked.

  "This is it, the V.A.A.D.," Twiste said, pointing at one of the bags.

  "What is in the other bag?" Gant asked.

  "Actually, both are parts to the V.A.A.D."

  He placed the duffels on the table, which had gone from full of military hardware to nearly empty. Only a few pistols, rigs, and miscellaneous items remained.

  The team's science officer opened the first bag, revealing a device that might be mistaken for a huge thermos. It was a foot and a half tall, silver, and very thick. Several small compartments ringed a black base. Two ports of some type rested on either side.

  "This is the variable accelerator antimatter delivery device—V.A.A.D. for short."

  "Antimatter?" Franco said. "I thought that shit was just on Star Trek."

  Twiste told the sergeant, "Me, too. From what little they told me at Tall, subatomic particles have charges. The same particle with an opposite charge is antimatter. It does exist, and matter and antimatter obliterate one another when they come into contact."

  "What’s this thing do?" Campion asked, much more seriously.

  "From what they told me at Tall, it’s going to bombard the target zone with antimatter particles to counteract whatever it was that caused all the problems down there."

  "So just set it up and hit the button? Kind of like a bomb?" Pearson asked as he tried to adjust to the weight of the old-time flame unit.

  Twiste smiled again. "If it were that simple, I wouldn’t be going in with you guys. No offense. There are a lot of calculations to be made on the spot. Put it this way: if this were a bomb I’d still have to figure out how much explosives to use when I get there and what kind of explosives will get the job done. The V.A.D just sort of carries a lot of different types of explosives for me."

  The look of noncomprehension on their faces was enough to convince Twiste he might as well leave it at that.

  "What’s in here?" Campion pointed to the other sack.

  "The batteries. Two big heavy bastards, too."

  "Which part is heavier—the unit or the batteries?" Gant asked.

  "Umm, the unit."

  "Campion, you carry the unit. Captain Twiste, you will handle the batteries."

  "I can carry the entire unit."

  "No, you cannot. We must move fast down there. You stick next to me. Campion will protect the unit."

  "Yes, sir," the captain answered and transferred the V.A.A.D. from the duffel bag to a bulky backpack.

  "Okay, gentlemen," Gant called to his unit. "Let’s go over the basics of this one again. We are penetrating the quarantined levels of this facility. We have to improvise our way down to the target area. Check your night vision gear and make sure your set is equipped with IR illuminators. Standard stuff, I know, but we are underground, people, and there are absolutely no sources of natural light."

  "Working lights down there, Chief?" Moss asked as he checked his night vision goggles as instructed.

  "There could be," Gant answered, "but we can't rely on that. I don't think they've changed any bulbs down there in twenty years."

  "I hate using IRs. It's like looking through a rolled-up newspaper."

  Franco referred to the IR—infrared illuminators—necessary to make their night vision goggles effective. Those goggles amplified ambient light, but in the depths of the Red Rock facility there would be no natural light whatsoever. IR illuminators projected a nearly invisible beam that gave the goggles a small source of light to amplify. However, the result was a far more constricted cone of illumination as compared to using night vision outdoors, where starlight provided ample amplification.

  "When we get there Captain Twiste will do his thing and we pull out. Any questions?"

  There were tons of questions, Gant knew, but at this point asking served no purpose.

  "Okay, let’s go."

  The unit filed out and down the corridor. The outer entrance to the vault—a solitary metal door—was open and guarded by two soldiers. A red warning light flashed above.

  Sawicki, Roberts, and Van Buren watched their comrades head in, managing to catch Major Gant's eye before he disappeared inside. Despite being indoors, they offered him a rare sight—a rigid, formal, and proud salute—not the lazy, familiar gesture that had become accepted among their brotherhood. No, this one conveyed the honor they had in the unit, the trust they felt in their commander, and regret that they were not with their team.

  Gant took the time to offer a similarly rigid salute in return, then he followed his boys in and the outer door shut behind them.

  The Archangel unit packed into the hallway between the outer and inner doors. Once the first door was secure, the inner door opened and they entered the vestibule.

  It was a tight fit: the Archangel unit, General Borman, Lieutenant Colonel Thunder, and two soldiers at the control consoles, one being Corporal Sanchez. Nonetheless, security protocols dictated that no entry could be made into the vault room proper until the entire area was secure.

  General Borman barked orders to the seated soldiers: "Open the access door—turn your keys in three ... two ... one ..." the keys turned, the inner bolt mechanism buzzed with a heavy thud, and the door popped open.

  Corporal Sanchez spoke the obvious: "Access door unlocked."

  General Borman kindly pulled it open for the team, like a New York city doorman welcoming new guests. One by one they went through and assembled in the white, sterile vault room across from the large metal door.

  Borman stopped Gant as he brought up the rear.

  "Good luck."

  Gant thought for a moment, then looked the general straight in the eye.

  "Those of us who are about to die, salute you."

  Gant did not wait for a reply—he left the straight-faced general holding the door and moved in to the vault room to join his men.

  Borman looked at Thunder. She returned his glare and refused to yield. After a moment, he looked away as he pushed the access door closed with an thud.

  The Archangel team faced off against the silver vault door for several seconds until Gant pushed his way through their ranks and approached the locks. He sighed, then pushed the firs
t mechanism. The light went from red to green and an unseen electronic bolt slid open.

  The major pushed the second switch and sent another light from red to green, setting another bolt free from its lock.

  "Stand by," he warned.

  Safeties switched off; Franco chambered a slug in his automatic shotgun.

  The third lock opened. From what Gant understood, the last man who had opened that third lock had been shot in the back by his own men. If the stories were to be believed, Major Gant would now go further than anyone had gone in twenty years.

  He pushed the fourth button. With the automatic alarms disengaged, the drama remained isolated to that fourth light changing from red to green. This time, however, when the locking mechanism withdrew, the heavy door crept open inwards toward the team. Gant retreated a step to give the mammoth gate a wide berth.

  As it opened, a gust of stale, cold air rushed out from total blackness. Still, he knew his job. The door was to remain open for the shortest possible interval.

  "Go," he commanded.

  Franco moved in first, his shotgun ready. Wells and Galati followed close behind, then Pearson, whose bulky flamethrower jingled as he moved. Moss, Twiste, Major Gant, and then finally Campion at the rearguard position all went into the dark.

  "Automatic lock," Borman ordered.

  "Roger that, sir," Sanchez acknowledged and punched a button on his console.

  The vault door slowly retreated, moving at a speed akin to a crawl. Thunder watched it through the glass, and while she feared for Thom Gant and his men, she instinctively wanted that door to shut as fast as possible. In the span of a few seconds her imagination conjured a hundred different nightmares taking this opportunity to break free.

  Finally it shut with a surprising vibration. In that moment, Liz thought of it as a monster's mouth closing after swallowing prey.

  The green lights turned red again, one by one, with corresponding thuds as the locks secured.

  "Are we shut tight?"

  The corporal checked his gauges, then answered the general, "Yes, sir. Seals at 100 percent."