The Rift

by Bob Mayer

  “Pretty much,” Nada muttered. He was opening drawers, tossing thick binders on his desk.

  “Nada has been a Nightstalker longer than any of us,” Moms added. “We’re all happy to have you join the team.”

  “Let’s not exaggerate,” Nada said. “He hasn’t proved his worth yet.” He paused in his search and fixed Ivar with his gaze. “Newbies tend to have a high casualty rate.”

  Moms pressed on. “We don’t do rank; we don’t do titles; we don’t do medals or badges or any of that stuff. Doc there”—Moms indicated him—“has five PhDs, right?”

  “Right,” Doc said.

  “And he’ll tell you all about them if you give him the chance,” Moms said.

  “Lucky you,” Nada said.

  “You know something about Rifts—” Moms began, but Nada jumped in.

  “He even has some theories on them.”

  “—but we have more missions than just Rifts,” Moms continued. “Nuclear, chemical, biological incidents are not uncommon.”

  “Meaning we get called out on them a lot,” Nada said. “Hate the nuke ones,” he added. “Especially the nuke ones. Especially the last nuke one.”

  “Doc will tell you about the Acme list,” Moms said. “They’re our on-call specialists.”

  “‘Always listen to experts,’” Nada quoted. “‘They’ll tell you what can’t be done and why. Then do it.’ I wish that was an original Nada Yada, but Heinlein got to it first. You know Heinlein?”

  Ivar nodded. “I’ve read all—”

  Nada cut him off at the book. “Great. Eagle will love you for that, but you didn’t know who Harvey was, so you’re still on the short end of that stick. You’re never going to know more than Eagle, so the sooner you accept that, the better for you. Even Doc don’t know more than Eagle.”

  Moms cut in. “Doc will fill you in on what we know about Rifts and the history of them. Stuff you’re never going to find on the Internet.”

  “If you had, we’d have sent Roland to cut your head off,” Nada said, “and shove it in a safe.” He waited for Moms to continue but she leaned back in her chair, the old springs protesting loudly. She looked tired; hell, Nada thought, they were all tired. Maybe Ms. Jones was right. They needed a reboot. Burns being free bothered Nada and he knew he wouldn’t be able to “relax” or really think of much else until they took him down, but orders were orders.

  Moms opened a drawer and took out an acetated notebook. She tossed it to Ivar. “That’s the team Protocol. You had protocols in your lab at the university, correct? Rules you followed?”

  “Yes,” Ivar said.

  “That’s our Bible. You’re going to get a lot of information thrown at you in the next few days—”

  “Literally,” Nada said, hefting a thick binder.

  Moms closed her eyes again as she rattled off a few of her favorites. “In the beginning of the Protocol is my philosophy. You can read it, but let me summarize the important stuff right now, so we start off on the right foot. Be honest. Always. Don’t hide bad news. I’m the team leader, but there will be times when you’ll have to make decisions on your own. If you have to, make the decision and act decisively.”

  Nada nodded. “In Ranger school, they teach you that doing something, anything, is better than standing around with your finger up your butt in the kill zone. They call it the kill zone for a reason. We tend to enter a lot of places that would be considered kill zones. Don’t stand in it and do nothing.”

  Doc spoke up. “Unless it’s best to do nothing at the moment. It depends on the situation.”

  “Ain’t your briefing, Doc,” Nada said without any rancor, but that shut Doc up.

  Moms reached into the same drawer and tossed Ivar a leather badge case. “For cover, you’re a senior field agent for the FBI—”

  Nada snorted. “No one’s going to buy that cover, Moms. Look at him. They might have toughened him up a bit at Bragg, but he still looks like a geek.”

  “The badge is real and the ID card is real,” Moms said. She looked at Ivar. “Plus, the FBI does have some geeks in it. You act like you’re the real deal, they’ll believe you. Most everyone you have to deal with is a big believer in the system. That badge puts you way up in the system. Someone thinks they outrank you, you point them in my direction.”

  “No one outranks her,” Nada threw in. “If they think they do, then we might have to kill them.”

  “Which leads me to this,” Moms continued. “Discipline stays on the team. I report to Ms. Jones and she reports to someone, but we’ll kill you before we let you go off the reservation. We should have killed Burns.”

  Even Nada looked surprised at that, but he nodded. “Once a Nightstalker, always a Nightstalker.”

  “You have to die to get off the team?” Ivar asked, ready to believe just about anything at this point.

  Moms shook her head. “No. People move on to other things. Usually when they’re no longer capable of fieldwork, they go into Support. Colonel Orlando was once a team member.”

  “Ended up having a bit of a problem.” Nada gestured with his thumb, indicating a drinker. “But he’s still a good man. We’ve got other ex-team members doing important stuff in Support. Just ’cause you’re a leg or an eyeball short doesn’t mean you can’t be useful.”

  “Be on time,” Moms said. She gave a triumphant smile at Nada as she remembered the right order for her ending. “And last, and most important, we are ultimately accountable for the survival of the human race. That trumps the law, national borders, family, everything. Nada?”

  “Any op we go on,” Nada said, “has three possible classifications: dry, damp, and wet. Dry is something we contain and want to study. Doesn’t pose a threat. Doesn’t happen often. If it wasn’t a threat in the first place, why the hell would we get Zevoned?” Nada asked, his frustration seeping through.

  “Don’t go all Eagle on me,” Moms said.

  Nada collected himself. “Okay, then there’s damp, which means it’s to be contained, and if we can’t contain it, we break it. Rare also. Finally, most missions are wet. We contain it until we can completely destroy it. Rifts and Fireflies are always wet.”

  “‘Always’?” Ivar repeated with a questioning inflection, causing both Moms and Nada to look at him hard.

  “What do you mean?” Nada asked.

  Ivar pointed at himself. “I’m here. Wasn’t the mission at UNC a wet one?”

  “It was,” Nada said.

  “Then why am I still alive?”

  “Good question,” Nada said. “Want me to kill you?”

  “We needed you,” Moms said. “You reversed the Rift and shut it. You were on our side.”

  Ivar shrugged. “Okay. Not that I’m complaining or anything.”

  Nada shook it off and grabbed the stack of binders he’d been piling up. He gave them to Ivar, one at a time. “Nuclear Protocol. Biological. Chemical.” He grabbed another binder but paused. “We work under the three Cs—containment, concealment, and control. Containment, first and always. We lose containment, we’re fucked and sometimes the world could get fucked.”

  “So this Burns guy…?” Ivar said.

  “Yeah,” Nada admitted. “We lost containment. But we maintained concealment. Ms. Jones covered up the Snake going down by saying it was an experimental military aircraft on a training mission. Support got the wreckage out before daylight. We used our badges at the Gateway Arch to take the murder away from the locals and get the body out of there. Concealment is important because panic is a bad thing. Remember War of the Worlds? H. G. Wells? Sometimes, next to the armed locals, our biggest problem is the media.” Nada nodded toward the door. “They’ve been all over Area 51’s perimeter along with the alien and conspiracy theory wackos for a long time. Which is why we moved out here.

  “Last, and most importantly,” Nada said, “i
s control. That’s where dry, damp, or wet come in. Pretty much it’s always wet.”

  “I’m picking that up,” Ivar said.

  “You being a smart-ass?” Nada snapped.

  Ivar held his hands up. “No. Just taking it all in.”

  Nada wasn’t placated. He tossed the next binder at Ivar with a little extra energy. “Every mission the Nightstalkers have been on. Mostly shit caused by scientists.” He threw another binder while Ivar was still fumbling with the one he’d just caught and this one banged on his arm, causing him to hiss in pain. “This is the Dumb Shit Scientist Protocol. Maybe you should read it first since you want to take it all in.”

  “First priority,” Moms said in a calm voice, “is the team Protocol. You’ve got forty-eight hours to get up to speed on it. Doc?”

  “Yes?”

  “Show him his locker and show him how to rig his gear according to Protocol once you leave here.”

  “Roger that.”

  Moms turned to Nada. “Any Nada Yadas you want to lay on him?”

  “When I ask,” Nada said to Ivar, “just tell me how to kill it. Whatever it is. Got it?”

  Ivar nodded.

  “He’ll have to learn the rest on the job,” Nada said. “We need to get moving to make our flights.” He got up and walked out of the CP. Moms stood. She went over to Ivar, who hopped to his feet. She stuck out her hand. “Welcome to the team. Don’t let Nada get to you. He wants to kill Burns and he’s being stopped. He doesn’t take well to being stopped from killing those who need killing.” She nodded at Doc as she left the room. “Take care of him.”

  Blake had lost both his flip-flops to the fluffer mud and he was beginning to think he’d overdone the “make the cache secure and remote” part of the Protocol. He was halfway between two barrier islands south of Myrtle Beach and the mosquitoes were feasting on him. He’d had to wait on the tide, a necessity of a beach cache, and that had eaten up two hours. It was just a little before noon and a day that had started with such promise was turning to crap.

  One key to the Loop was they sacrificed speed of the message being transmitted for security.

  He sucked it up, the way he’d sucked up every shitty mission for thirty-four years and the fluffer mud had sucked up his flip-flops. Yes, sir…no, sir…may I have some more, sir? Even when they dropped the “sir” and “ma’am” shit, it was still shit. Calling someone by their first name when they outranked you didn’t mean the order wasn’t real.

  “‘Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is just to do or die,’” he quoted as he pulled his left foot out of the muck with great effort and took another step forward. It took another hour to go fifty yards and make it to the island. He took out his GPS and checked the coordinates. Then he took out his old compass and shot two azimuths to verify.

  Protocol.

  It had saved his life several times, and he wanted to get back to that pool and the young mother, although he had a feeling she wouldn’t be up to chatting with him after he’d dumped her dumb kid in the pool. He’d have to try plan B. He didn’t know what that was right now, since he had other important shit on his mind, but he was content knowing there was always a plan B. Just like what he was doing right now was a plan B.

  The Loop, which he was part of and was now implementing, was not official Protocol. The Loop was an attempt by operatives and former operatives to have a communication channel outside of official channels. One for all and all for one sort of thing.

  It had not been an easy thing to set up. It was rarely used. And it was very slow.

  But one had to try, because once in a while, someone needed help outside of official channels.

  Blake removed the folding shovel from the sweat-drenched backpack he’d hauled out here. He dug.

  At least the sand was soft.

  He hit the ammo can at eighteen inches. It took a few more minutes to recover it from the hole. He unlatched the lid. There was a lot jammed into a little space. He peeled open two layers of waterproofing and removed the loaded pistol that was always the last item in and first item out.

  He found the cell phone and encryption device. He opened the battery cases and removed the old ones. He replaced them with fresh ones. Then he typed in the message he’d received at the pool. The encryption device hummed for a bit, garbling the message into meaningless groups of five letters that only a device programmed exactly the same way could decrypt.

  Blake hit send.

  Then he removed the battery from the cell phone. He stood and threw the phone out into the salt water, watching it hit and sink. He replaced the phone with the exact same model. He then zeroed out the encryption device. He took a thumb drive out of his pocket and inserted it into the slot on the side. He loaded a new encryption program, removed the thumb drive, and put it back in the can. Then he put the pistol on top, resealed the two waterproof liners, closed the lid, and put the can back in the hole. He shoveled the sand back in the hole. The incoming tide would take care of concealment.

  With bare feet and a bad attitude, but mission accomplished, Blake began making his way back to the mainland, his car, and eventually the pool and young mother.

  He was not optimistic.

  Mac had started bitching as soon as the truck carrying them rolled underneath the big sign reading: COLONEL NICK ROWE TRAINING FACILITY. Located at Camp Mackall, west of Fort Bragg, North Carolina, it was the field training facility for aspiring Special Forces soldiers.

  Roland was more optimistic, pointing out there were modern buildings at a facility he remembered as having only shacks that were half-assed, leaky, and cold.

  “They used to mermite chow from Fort Bragg out here,” Eagle observed. “Now they’ve got a chow hall.”

  “I don’t think we’re here for the chow,” Kirk said.

  Roland looked at his watch. “It’s thirteen hundred. We probably missed lunch.”

  “I don’t think we’re here for lunch,” Kirk said.

  A smatter of raindrops on the canvas roof over the cargo bay portended a storm rolling in. They’d flown in to Mackall Army Airfield on one of the blue-liners. Mackall was considered a sub-base to adjacent Fort Bragg and home to Special Forces Selection and Assessment, most of the Qualification Course, the SERE (Survival Evasion Resistance and Escape) compound, and other assorted training schools and scenarios. It was where the Delta raiders on the ill-fated Desert One mission to free the hostages in Iran had trained. The airfield was one almost every Special Operator had flown into or out of or jumped onto the large field the two intersecting runways contained.

  The truck had been waiting, the driver shrugging when asked what was going to happen. His job was to drive them out here and that was the extent of his knowledge.

  “They better not be putting us through SERE again,” Mac groused. They’d all been through the mock POW camp and training and no one was eager to do it again. “I already survived, evaded, resisted, and escaped. What more can they want? Become Houdini?”

  “Probably something high speed,” Roland said. “Maybe some advanced weapons training?”

  “Did you hit your head in St. Louis?” Mac asked.

  The truck came to an abrupt halt, which sent them tumbling along the steel floor.

  “Get your asses out of there!” An imposing figure wearing a green beret was standing to the rear of the truck, arms bulging under the rolled up sleeves of his camouflage shirt. His uniform was soaked, but he was obviously one of those guys who espoused the theory that the human body was waterproof, which was true, but tended to ignore misery.

  The four team members all wore “sterile” cammies. No rank, no badges, no names. Just a number on a Velcro patch on their chest. That had started Mac’s complaining as they flew in. When the army took your name and gave you a number, it usually meant something not fun was getting ready to occur.

  “Dickhead,” Mac mutte
red, voicing what they all thought as they exited the back of the truck.

  “You gentlemen are late,” the dickhead said. “My name is Master Sergeant Twackhammer.”

  “You gotta be shitting me,” Mac said in a low voice.

  “What was that?” Twackhammer demanded.

  “It’s on his shirt,” Roland observed, immediately bonding with the fellow large human being. “Hey, Master Sergeant Twackhammer. How’s it going?”

  “Shut up!” Twackhammer shouted. “Your Selection began yesterday. I don’t know who pulled strings to get you in, but I’m going to be watching you.” To emphasize the point, he put a finger just below his left eye and pulled the skin down. “You gentlemen are late to my course and that makes me very, very upset.”

  “Your course?” Mac said.

  Twackhammer started yelling, getting them moving through the supply hut to get field gear; then they were out of there, into what was now a downpour, and over to the Nasty Nick obstacle course, where mud-covered Special Forces Assessment and Selection (SFAS) candidates were being put through the grinder.

  “I’m too old for this shit,” Eagle said as Twackhammer slid them in line.

  So they began the mile-long course, hitting the obstacles every so often, all of which seemed made of a lot of rope (vertical and horizontal), a bunch of mud-smeared tunnels, and lots of wood configured by a mad carpenter making a person jump, leap, shimmy, and climb up and down and sideways.

  “Ms. Jones must be really pissed,” Kirk said as they completed another obstacle and were forced to wait, as a backlog of students was in front of them, all of them facing a wall that had them stymied.

  “Get to the other side!” a staff sergeant was screaming at the candidates.

  “I think Moms might have been the one who suggested this,” Eagle said, trying to scrape some mud off his fatigue shirt, a futile effort. “I doubt Ms. Jones even knows what the Nasty Nick is.”

  “Yeah, but how is this supposed to help us?” Mac asked.