by Mark Wandrey
“That guy is ex-military,” a lieutenant said, pointing to a tall black man instructing the others.
“What the fuck did you guys have .50 calibers there for?” Volant asked.
“Contingency,” the captain said under his breath.
“Yeah? Well your contingency is now pointed at us.” Volant read a report and tossed it onto a pile. “There are more reports that cultists keep trying to get into the park. Your soldiers need to make damned sure none of them do.” He pointed a finger at the captain. “The last thing we need is reinforcement in there.”
“We’re on shaky ground as it is,” the military man pointed out. “Sooner or later the press is going to start screaming ‘posse comitatus.’”
“We’ll deal with that,” Volant replied. “Use the damn cops where you can. I’ll be next door, send me their force assessment as soon as it’s done.” He left without another word.
“What an asshole,” the lieutenant who let Mindy in said. The captain nodded.
* * *
Volant walked down two doors into what had been a barbershop before becoming his temporary command center. As he walked, he dry-swallowed a pair of pain killers. His wrist hurt like a motherfucker. Several of his remaining agents were there, busily setting up equipment and taking intelligence reports from other teams around the park. The call to the director about the losses had been a difficult one. You never told a man like that about how you had your pants ripped down and your ass tanned. What surprised him was that there were no recriminations, only an insistence that they retake the portal no matter what. They weren’t worrying about publicity or other fallout. That meant the situation was worse than they had originally told him.
“Is the teleconference ready?” he asked the junior agent.
“We’re ready to dial in,” the man replied.
Volant sat and gestured toward the monitor with his head to begin. He wished he’d taken his pill several minutes earlier, as the Director of the FBI appeared.
“Section Director Volant,” the man said. “You’ve got quite a situation there.”
“Yes sir,” he replied, “I understand my director has briefed you?”
“Completely. I suspect you are about to ask for help from the Bureau?”
“My people could do a direct assault, but the cultists are dug in pretty well. And they have hostages, including a scientist we’d like to avoid getting shot full of holes.” The FBI man waited. Volant sighed and asked for what he’d hoped to avoid asking for.
After night had fallen over Manhattan, the police received instructions to push back the perimeter as far from the park as they could. The mayor and police chief complained loudly, but the governor overrode their complaints without providing an explanation why. The chief went on record complaining about the action, considering the department had lost 14 officers already in the initial attack, but eventually, he complied.
Officials had kept the airspace over the city restricted since 2001. Its lights out, no one noticed the aircraft that crossed the island’s airspace, 15,000 feet high, or the two dozen tiny figures that fell away as it passed.
The fact the airborne component of the HRT existed wasn’t public knowledge. Assembled shortly after September 11th, the unit was operational by 2005. Composed entirely of jump-qualified, experienced veterans from the Navy SEALs, SOCOM, and other special operations units, they were an arrow in the quiver the FBI hoped they’d never have to use, despite the millions they spent every year maintaining it. Volant had been more than a little surprised to learn they existed, and even more so that they were in a hangar at Langley with a converted C-130 warmed up and ready to go. The whole situation stank to high heaven, and he still gave them the green light.
The men plummeted through the dark skies for 10,000 feet in nearly complete silence, their black uniforms and darkened equipment invisible from below. Computers on their wrists, carefully calibrated, triggered their chutes at precisely 2,000 feet above sea level. As the chutes opened, they were over the Hudson River. Once they deployed their chutes, the team took control of their MFF ARAPS, Military Freefall Advanced Ram Air Parachute Systems, and quickly set their courses due east. Each team member had both an advanced GPS as well as a team tracker to keep position on the others.
Five minutes after jumping out of the C-130, the team was skimming the tops of the trees in Central Park West like a flight of bats. Quiet as death, they accelerated their rate of descent. A pair of Followers watching the trail near the incident looked up at the sound, and the 10mm rounds from two suppressed MP510A3 machine guns blew out the backs of their heads with as little noise as their bodies hitting the ground.
The team set down in pairs at a dozen places around the perimeter of the portal camp. They quickly rolled up their chutes and secured them under anything handy, as they watched each other’s backs. The Followers were still unaware anything was happening. Duke hadn’t warned them to watch the skies as well as the ground. Owing to hundreds of hours practicing, the team was ready for action less than 30 seconds after touching boots to grass.
“Echo team to control,” the HRT leader called in a stage whisper over his radio.
“Control, go,” Volant replied from a few blocks away.
“We’re on the ground, two tangos down from landing. No sign of incursion detection.”
“Noted,” Volant said, “wait for coordination.” He turned his attention to the NSA operations coordinator. “Are the teams in position?”
“Standing by,” was the reply. Volant looked over the IR camera views from the fleet of drones now hovering in and around the park.
“HRT, you are a go.”
While Volant verified everything was ready, each member of the HRT selected targets through the night vision gear attached to their helmets, obtaining perfect sight pictures. At the word from Volant, 24 weapons fired as one, and 24 Followers fell.
“Go, go, go,” the HRT leader said, and his men walked in low crouches toward their objectives. They moved like a wave, coordinated and unstoppable, firing single shots as they advanced.
* * *
Victor sat with his remaining disciples next to a table covered with strange scientific instruments. A large tourist map of Central Park dominated the space, laid out unevenly because of the other items. There were dozens of little marks on the map showing where Followers had spotted patrols or guards. Victor couldn’t think of them as enemies. They were police and army, fellow countrymen, not some random faceless enemy.
“You think that’s the way?” Victor asked, pointing to a series of storm water culverts north of the meadow.
“Yes,” Duke said. “It’s like how we got you in, only a longer route. They’re watching the other way now. Gabriel and I,” Gabriel nodded, “figure we can get through in a huge wave.”
“It’s probably the best option,” Gabriel said with a shrug. “We think we can get most of the faithful through and then rush into the portal.” Victor nodded.
A shot rang out, making Victor jump. Gabriel and Duke turned toward the sound and reached for weapons.
“Nerves?” Gabriel wondered. An instant later there was a yell and a stream of ragged gunfire.
“No,” Duke snarled and rushed toward the door. “Call in the patrols!” he yelled over his shoulder. “Protect the portal!” Gabriel grabbed his radio and shouted orders as the sporadic gunfire quickly grew in intensity. Victor jumped as a round whanged off the concrete dome over his head.
“Victor,” Gabriel said, dropping the radio into his pocket and scooping up a rifle, “go through to heaven!”
“No,” Victor shook his head, “not without everyone else!” Gunfire rose to the roar of battle. Rounds were bouncing off the concrete dome every few seconds now. Gabriel snarled and grabbed Victor by the arm, trying to push him bodily toward the portal. Victor violently shook him off, making Gabriel glare at him. “Go help the faithful!” Victor snapped. Gabriel seemed to consider for a second, then turned and ran out of the portal dom
e.
* * *
At the same time as the FBI’s HRT was engaging the inner defenses and sweeping toward the dome, 50 NSA agents under Volant’s command attacked in 5 groups of 10, hitting the Follower’s outer defenses. The Followers tasked with defense were mostly everyday civilians, with a few vets or people with shooting experience mixed in evenly at Duke’s discretion. The HRT members picked the able members and eliminated them first. As the HRT fought inward, the NSA teams moved up behind them. The result was complete confusion among the Followers, and more than a few instances of panic-induced fratricide.
As Duke took temporary cover behind a crate just outside the dome’s entrance, he evaluated the order of battle and instantly recognized the rapidly deteriorating situation. The Followers were either trying to stand in the open and fight, where they were mowed down easily, or were running. Turning his head, he spotted one of the two M2 .50 caliber machine guns. Both of the men who knew how to operate it were dead with clean headshots.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Duke jumped up and ran. He spotted two dark figures to his left as he got up, the ground near his feet flying up from bullet impacts. He swung the rifle he’d held cross body, flicked the selector to full auto, and emptied the magazine in one long sustained burst. Both figures spun away, leaving him uncertain if he’d hit either of them.
“Get in the dome!” he yelled at the Followers running by. A few listened, most didn’t. Duke leapt up onto the gun mount, just as a bullet pierced his thigh.
“Argh!” he growled at the explosion of pain. Another hit him in the side and he felt his ribs crack. “Mother fucker,” he spat as he wrenched around the gun and yanked back the huge charging handle, feeding one of the massive rounds into the chamber. He felt another bullet pierce his lower leg, and he screamed viscerally as he swung the gun in the direction of the gunfire, grabbed the handles in both hands, and jabbed the butterfly trigger with both thumbs.
The huge gun roared as it chugged out a stream of 700 grain bullets. The explosion of the gunfire was like icepicks driven into Duke’s ears. In moments, he was painfully deaf. Though the HRT guns had suppressors, Duke could still see flashes from the weapons, and he worked the gun across the edge of the clearing, tearing through abandoned trucks and a shelter set up for personnel. The rounds made two small trees explode, killing the FBI agents taking shelter behind them.
More fire came at him from the other side, two more rounds hitting him in the back. He screamed and swung the weapon around, heedless of who or what the bullets were chewing up as the gun traversed. He caught the movement of a pair of dark clad men diving behind a CONEX-style shipping container. He tracked into and through it, the thick steel nearly exploded under the fusillade of bullets.
They hit him again, and again, and still again, but he never stopped firing. The M2, or Ma Deuce as many gunners affectionately called it, fired almost 600 rounds a minute. Attached to the gun was a full case of 840 rounds. Duke was almost three quarters of the way through the can, the barrel beginning to glow a cherry red, when a round punched through his neck. Blood fountained, and Duke fell to his knees, still not releasing the trigger. The barrel tracked upwards, and bullets stitched up the side of an apartment building a quarter of a mile away.
Duke tried to bring the gun back down, but it was hard to move. The pain was gone now. He couldn’t decide if it was the spray of blood from his neck or his head swimming from the injuries. He didn’t hurt at all. A high-powered rifle round fired by an NSA sniper a half mile away took the top of his head off.
* * *
When Duke fired the .50 caliber, Victor thought his head had exploded. Even through the concrete of the dome, the thunderous roar of the gun felt like someone was physically smashing him in the side of the head with each shot. He screamed and smashed his hands into his ears as hard as he could. He didn’t know how he ended up on the floor next to the portal, his face pressed against the cool concrete, screaming at the never-ending assault. Then, as suddenly as it started, it ended.
Victor rose to his knees and looked at the dome’s doorway just as Gabriel staggered in. Victor got to his feet, realizing he’d never been happier to see anyone in his life, only to realize the older man was bleeding and could barely stand.
“Gabriel!” he yelled.
“Victor,” Gabriel gasped, one hand holding a pistol, the other covering a massive wound in his side. “Get through the portal!”
“Where is everyone?” Victor demanded, taking half a step toward his disciple.
“Gone,” Gabriel said. He leaned against the edge of the door. “Everyone’s gone. There are government agents everywhere, you have to—” He never finished what he was going to say, as several bullets tore through his chest and killed him instantly.
As Gabriel fell, the pistol he’d been holding flew from his grasp, bouncing across the floor to land at Victor’s feet. Victor reached down and picked it up without considering the action. It was surprisingly heavy in his hand, warm, and sticky with blood. He looked from the gun to Gabriel’s body, then out through the door where a pair of black clad men were pointing compact machine guns at him. He raised his hands to show he was no threat, but unfortunately, he was still holding the gun.
The bullet punched through his solar plexus, knocking the breath from him and pushing him backwards, where he tripped on the bottom step of the portal dais. He fell, surprised but not feeling any pain yet. The portal instantly sprang to life and the second shot, meant to hit him in the forehead, missed by a fraction of an inch and flashed as it bounced off the impenetrable portal’s glowing side.
Victor dropped his pistol and tried to take a breath, only to find he couldn’t. The bullet had shredded his diaphragm. He looked down and saw a spreading redness on his shirt. I’m shot, he realized. They shot me! He rolled over to his hands and knees, and the pain hit him like a tidal wave. He tried breathing again, looked down and saw blood pouring from his stomach. Above him, the portal glowed. It was evening in heaven, and he could just see a moon shining over the trees. It didn’t look like the moon he recognized. Dr. Osgood’s words came back to him.
“Have you even considered that what you saw were aliens, and not angels?”
“Aliens,” he said, the tiny amount of air he had remaining making the word come out as a mere croak. He crawled up the steps to within feet of the portal’s shimmering face. A woman came into view, wearing camouflage like the man he’d seen before. She looked at him kneeling there in the harsh artificial light of the dome, blood pouring out of him, and her eyes went wide.
He still couldn’t breathe, and he was starting to feel dizzy as he struggled to his feet, his blood making the surface of the dais as slippery as glass. The woman covered her mouth with one hand, and reached out to him with the other.
“Stop!” someone yelled behind Victor, in a strong authoritative voice. “Hands up, do not move!” Victor heard the words, but his brain, oxygen starved and suffering from blood loss, didn’t put a meaning to them. He took an unsteady step forward. He reached out, and two more bullets tore through his chest from behind, pitching him forward into the other world. He rolled over slowly, pain washing away his entire existence, and looked up as the woman he’d seen looked down at him.
“Heaven,” he managed to whisper. She stared at him in shock and confusion. Victor struggled for one more breath and then died.
* * *
In the command center, people were cheering and slapping high fives. Even Volant was grinning through a hydrocodone-induced haze. Mindy was trying not to be sick. The drone cameras had provided incredible, high-definition live images and infrared imagery of the assault, which she could only think of as a slaughter. The people who’d taken the portal looked like anyone she’d seen on the streets of New York after arriving. They didn’t look like dangerous cultists who deserved to be systematically gunned down.
As the celebration wound down, she saw some people she hadn’t noticed before. Standing to one side was her old ac
quaintance, Dr. Leo Skinner. She was about to stand and greet him when she noticed who he was talking with. It was the big agent with the cast on his left arm, Volant. The two were conversing closely, and Leo was nodding with a small, strange grin on his face. When he finally noticed her, he stopped grinning and gave Mindy the smallest of nods. She continued to stare, and he gestured for her to come over.
“Volant,” Skinner said, turning to speak to him, “this is Mindy Patoy, probably one of the best radio astronomers I’ve ever known.” Volant nodded and offered her his right hand. She tried not to hesitate as she took it. The proffered hand was large, strong and calloused, but he didn’t squeeze hard at all.
“Miss,” he said. “I’ve heard a bit about you in the briefing Skinner provided. You say you can figure out what world the portal goes to?”
“Yes,” she said, still feeling sick after what she’d seen.
“Are you okay?” Leo asked.
“Yeah,” she said, and gestured to the line of monitors with a sweep of her arm, “it’s just…this.”
“It was awesome,” Leo said, completely misinterpreting her reaction as one of being impressed. Mindy swallowed bile. “We’ll have everything back together by tonight?” he asked the agent.
“I have the legal team dealing with the state and city governments right now,” Volant said. “There will be some blowback, but we’re not too concerned about it.”
“How many losses among local law enforcement?” Leo asked.
“Less than ten,” Volant said with a shrug.
“Are you ready to get back to work?” Leo asked Mindy. The pretty redhead nodded once, then fled to the rear of the shop and into the tiny bathroom where she got violently sick.