by Bob Mayer
Plus, it was the right thing to do, he supposed, not very up on baby talk. In fact, Nada was known for not being up on talking at all.
It was a bunch of babies, for frak’s sake, not the gold at Fort Knox. Was there an epidemic of baby stealing? For all he knew, there was, not having studied the matter.
He followed Zoey, peering over her shoulder at each one. There were some damn ugly ones, but he imagined everyone would lie and say “How precious,” “How gorgeous,” whatever it was people had to say about babies, because the parents had a lot vested in those little suckers. Nobody would look in and scream in dismay at the sheer ugliness of the bugger and predict it having a life full of pain and misery because of its looks. Whoever said beauty was only skin deep had none. It’s easy to diss what one does not have, Nada knew. He considered adding that to his Nada Yadas but didn’t see the point.
As he looked at each one, he wondered what kind of different people they’d turn into. Some were fretting and crying in their blankets, their tight cocoons of cloth unraveled, and he figured that’s sort of the way their life would turn out for them. Others were sound asleep, snug as bugs, their blanket tight around them. They’d live quiet lives, not making a fuss, security—another word for fear in Nada’s opinion—being their priority.
A few were staring around, not making a fuss, just observing.
Those were the dangerous ones. Just staring as if they already knew something was up, that they’d been dealt a hand, and they were just trying to figure out the cards. Something was going on and they wanted to know what it was. Several met his eyes, staring back as if challenging him. He foresaw great things and/or terrible endings for those particular babies.
He wondered where and how each would die. It was a morbid thought he’d never shared with anyone, not even Moms, but every time he’d killed someone, he’d later wondered if they would have lived their life differently if they’d known before about whatever shit-hole situation he’d had to kill them in, that that place and time would be their final moment?
He often wondered where he would meet his own end. A Nada Yada he didn’t share with others but that ruled his life was: Things will always turn out how you least expect.
Most likely, if he made it to old age, he’d die with Zoey standing nearby giving him grief.
Zoey cooed into another basinet and Nada looked over her shoulder. There was a big boy in it, his head covered with thick black hair and his eyes dark and wide open. They seemed to be staring right through Nada, even though he knew the eyes couldn’t focus yet. The baby couldn’t see him. So why was he staring at him? Nada wondered.
“Hurry up, Zoey,” he said. “The nurse will be here in thirty seconds.”
At the sound of his voice, the baby’s head moved, as if trying to zero in with his ears as well as the eyes that couldn’t focus. Nada put his big, calloused hand out, as if to stroke the thick hair, but he just waved it in front of the baby’s face and the eyes tracked it, which he found most fascinating. Movement could be noticed without focus?
Something to remember if he ever had to draw down on a newborn.
Stranger things had happened to him as a Nightstalker.
Zoey grabbed his hand, reversing roles. “Come on, Uncle. We gotta get out of here.”
But Nada suddenly wanted to stay. To whisper something to this boy, to leave some mark. There were great things ahead in this kid’s life. Nada didn’t know how he knew it, but he trusted it as much as he did when his gut told him he was about to walk into an ambush. He was still alive because he trusted that instinct.
There was a little blue bulb syringe at the foot of the baby, something used to clear his nose or put drops in his eyes or whatever hell maintenance on a baby required a bulb syringe. Nada instinctively grabbed it and stuffed it in his shirt. He followed Zoey through the door they weren’t supposed to come in. (No signs on this side about stopping intruders, he noted.) They slid through, scant seconds ahead of the nurse doing her rounds, as punctual as security on any firebase.
Nada felt the blue syringe in his chest pocket and it seemed to be extraordinarily heavy. Remembering the impulsive theft caused him to flush, although it would be hard to see against his pitted and dark skin.
He’d done wrong. A small wrong, but an unnecessary one.
And he didn’t know why.
But then his brother was there, bouncing up and down like a kid himself. “It’s a boy!”
He sounded a bit too excited about it in Nada’s opinion, considering Zoey was right there and she wasn’t.
A boy, that is.
“Come, come!” his brother said, turning and heading back down the corridor to the room where Nada’s sister-in-law had just given birth.
Zoey was excited too. Give her credit for playing along, Nada thought, running after her father. “Can I see? Can I see?”
Nada imagined he should be showing some sort of excitement, but his brother had already walked away, so he was spared the effort. He followed and his brother halted at the door.
“Only one at a time, Zoey,” his brother said. “Let your uncle go first. I know you won’t have much time,” he added, because Nada never had much time, it seemed.
“Is he crying?” Nada asked.
“No,” his brother said. “He’s just staring at everything. It’s really neat.”
Then Nada heard the ringtone, low but never silenced: “I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead.”
He had to go. Answer the call of duty, even the Loop.
Especially the Loop.
His brother made a face.
Nada felt the weight of that blue bulb on his chest.
Nada hit the mute button on the phone that was never muted and walked through the door to meet his new nephew. “Come on,” he said to Zoey, taking her hand and leading her into the room. “Rules are made to be broken.”
Burns was taking back roads, two-laners that wound through the Tennessee countryside. It wasn’t so much he wanted to avoid police or being noticed; it was that the manic atmosphere of the interstate bothered him on a level he couldn’t define. Everyone seemed in a rush, particularly the big trucks. As if getting there quicker would change the time spent.
In his life before, Burns had driven on the interstate without a care, in the same rush. That he felt differently bothered him because it meant he was different, but he didn’t know how.
He drove the speed limit. He passed what appeared to be a yard sale, except the items were scattered in front of an abandoned building, as if the residents had evacuated in the middle of the sale and just given up on everything. The despair was like a black hole trying to draw one in along the side of the road.
He passed through a small town and slowed down to the posted speed limit. He had the windows down and he heard children’s voices to one side. He pulled off the road and stared at the cluster of kids in a schoolyard.
Some were playing; some squabbling; some off by themselves.
Burns’s eyes began to shift color, gold spreading out from the pupils. The scene he was watching changed accordingly: Each child took on a color according to their emotions. Those arguing were a cluster of black; those getting along yellow; the ones who were alone were the most interesting because they were a rainbow of colors, reflecting whatever was running through their heads.
Burns was startled by a rap on the car’s window.
“What are you watching those kids for, boy?” a distinctly Southern voice demanded.
Burns’s head snapped around and the cop standing there took a step back in shock, seeing Burns’s eyes.
“What the fuck?” the cop said, his hand scrambling for his gun.
The cop was a towering mass of red and black in Burns’s vision. Full of rage and self-importance and the desire to hurt. Reflexively, a bolt of gold shot out of his eyes and hit the policeman in the chest, passing through hi
s Kevlar vest, wrapping around his heart, and stopping it.
The man crumpled to the ground.
Burns started the car and drove way.
He heard the first scream behind him ten seconds later.
Moms’s phone rang and Hannah nodded, indicating she should answer it.
“Yes?”
“I got a message from Scout via the Loop,” Nada said, leading with the headline. “She says, and I quote, ‘Nada. Scout. In TN. We have a golden problem.’”
“Send the alert,” Moms said.
“As soon as I hang up.”
Moms looked at Hannah. “Hold on a second.” She put her hand over the phone. “Do you know where in Tennessee we need to go?”
“To find your little Scout?” Hannah asked. She shook her head at Moms’s expression of surprise. “We got the message the same time as Nada, which actually was about two minutes ago, so there is a curious time lag there. My secretary has been in contact with Ms. Jones, who, of course, being efficient, has been keeping tabs on your asset. She’s just outside of Knoxville, Tennessee. Ms. Jones is on top of this.”
“I assume this one is our mission?”
Hannah nodded. “Yes. It is.”
Moms spoke into the phone. “Ms. Jones has the intelligence. I’ll meet you at the objective. Out.” Moms headed for the door, then paused, looking over her shoulder. “Who loved you, Hannah?” she asked. Then she left, not waiting for an answer.
The rain had stopped a little while ago, so now it was just mud. Nice, thick, North Carolina mud.
The Nasty Nick was just a memory and the four Nightstalkers were in the midst of a long snake of camouflaged men, heavy rucks on their backs, marching down what once was a dirt road, now a mud river, through the pine forest that covered most of Camp Mackall.
No one knew how far they had to go, part of the mind games played in SFAS. This forced march could just be a loop back to Camp Rowe and chow, or it could last into the night.
Roland, Kirk, Mac, and Eagle had settled into the rhythm of rucking, which every experienced soldier has developed. They might be a bit older than the candidates around them, but they were more experienced. Some of those in the column, steam rising off of their drying fatigues, were not so fortunate. The obstacle course had taken its toll. Some with sprained ankles were fading through the ranks. Some, in not the best shape, were also fading. What the Nightstalkers knew, and what the others would learn, was that it wasn’t so much one’s physical conditioning that would make the difference but how badly one wanted it. Did they want to wear a green beret or be a Green Beret?
It was early enough in the selection process, still the first week, that their fellows sought to help the ones who were hurting. Weapons were taken to be carried by comrades, even some rucksacks. The Nightstalkers watched but didn’t contribute.
“They’ll figure it out,” Mac said, for once keeping his voice down so that only his fellow Stalkers could hear.
Roland laughed. “I carried three dudes’ rucks our first march here.”
“Figures,” Kirk said. “No one carried anyone else’s shit in Ranger school. Ever. We knew from the start.”
“Weren’t carrying anyone else’s by the end, were you?” Eagle asked Roland.
“Nope,” Roland confirmed. “Everyone’s got to pull their own weight.”
“They’ll figure it out,” Mac repeated.
“Company,” Kirk said, as always looking ahead.
The major, who had metal instead of feet, was waiting by the side of the road. He had on a freshly starched uniform that he’d pulled out of some magic bag and his boots were spit-shined, as if he walked above the mud, not through it. He held up a hand and Master Sergeant Twackhammer bellowed out, “Halt!”
The long line of camouflaged soldiers compressed unevenly to a stop. Several men leaned over, hands on knees, to catch their breath.
Twackhammer was walking along the line, making a mental note of those who showed weakness.
They’d be gone before the week was over.
The major came stalking over toward the Nightstalkers. He had a waterproof bag in his hand.
“Your phones are ringing, gentlemen.” He held it up and everyone could hear a cacophony of four phones blaring “Lawyers, Guns and Money” in sync.
“Thank you, thank you!” Eagle exclaimed as the four pushed their way out of the column.
Because even a Rift was better than North Carolina mud.
The major opened the bag and passed the phones out. “Learn anything?” he asked.
“One for all and all for one,” Mac said as he slipped the phone into his fatigue shirt. “Or something like that.”
“Didn’t that get you sent here?” the major asked.
Eagle nodded. “We learned what we needed to. There’s rules and there are rules.”
The major nodded. “There are indeed. A time and a place for everything. Good luck, gentlemen, and thanks for showing these”—he indicated the candidates—“that old men can keep it up.”
“I ain’t that old,” Mac muttered.
“And,” the major continued, “that brains count more than brawn.”
“I ain’t that brawny,” Eagle said. “But I got brains.”
“I’m brawny,” Roland threw in. He glanced at Eagle. “Right?”
“And”—the major wasn’t done yet—“that desire trumps all.”
When Doc left to go to one of the Porta Potties stationed throughout the Archives (no one ever had to go to the bathroom in the movies, Ivar reflected, and whoever designed the Archives hadn’t factored in that essential human element), Ivar ran over and opened his real target, a drawer labeled THE FUN OUTSIDE TUCSON. Ivar grabbed the hard drive that was sealed inside a plastic envelope. Someone had written CRAEGAN on it. He slipped it into his pocket and scurried back to where he was supposed to be. Deeper into the rabbit hole. Crossing the streams. His line of sayings was interrupted by a ringtone.
Ivar looked to the right. Doc was striding down the aisle, pulling out his cell phone, which was blaring “Lawyers, Guns and Money.” A second later, the phone Ivar had been issued began playing the same tune.
“New guys always seem to be alerted a second or two later on their first mission,” Doc said, slamming shut one open drawer and spinning the combination lock on it. “Let’s go.”
Scout was crouched next to the seawall, sneaking a smoke and watching the river. The guys working on the barge across the way were done for the day and cast off their little boat and puttered away, leaving the barge and pile driver anchored to the far shore.
Now all was calm.
Or at least appeared that way.
Like in those horror movies where everything seemed just fine, right before all the really, really bad stuff happened, Scout thought as she finished the cigarette and then field stripped it. She ground what remained into the ground, then looked up at the sky, as if expecting to see the parachutes of the Nightstalkers floating down toward her.
Nothing.
Plus, she had a feeling they were going to show up in a way she least expected.
Burns stopped the car in the northern parking area designated for viewing. The Fort Loudoun Dam, the first dam along the six hundred fifty-two miles of the Tennessee River, stretched 4,180 feet across the river. It was at the fifty-mile mark from the origin of the river on the eastern side of Knoxville where the Holston and French Broad Rivers joined together.
Formed behind the dam was Fort Loudoun Lake, covering over 14,600 acres. Which was the purpose. All that water, massed seventy feet above the down-dam side, was power. Gravity translated through water, translated through the three hydroelectric generators built into the power station on this end. They produced—Burns closed his eyes for a moment and focused, accessing the Internet via the phone he’d taken off Neeley—slightly over 155 megawatts of p
ower at peak capacity.
The phone was very good, being a Cellar phone. It was untraceable. It had classified access to the government’s version of the Internet. And it had more on it.
Burns shivered.
He opened his eyes, the pupils glowing gold, and analyzed the dam. That was peak safe capacity.
They were going to need more. And he had to figure out how to accomplish that.
He smiled as he saw that the answer was right in front of him.
He looked to the east. But first he needed to buy some time.
Because they were coming.
The Nightstalkers could come in heavy or they could come in light. Heavy was like Stephen King’s The Dome, coming down with a thud. Seal an area off, no one in and out, follow up with a good cover story (Oak Ridge being just to the north could provide a lot of possibilities), and then take care of business.
Moms decided on Nightstalker Lite to start, with heavy looming.
She made this decision for several reasons. First, the exact threat was unknown. They had Burns, or whatever Burns was, out there. But no Fireflies, as far as they knew. No Rift, although Burns did have the laptop from the Gateway Rift.
And, being honest with herself as she pulled up to Scout’s house, there was the Scout factor. Coming in heavy was disruptive, to say the least. And what Moms had planned was going to be rough enough on the kid’s family.
Moms parked the government car that had been waiting for her at Knoxville Airport, just five miles away. The airport was going to be their Tactical Operations Center, a hangar of the National Guard already having been commandeered, and that was where some of the heavy would be arriving.
It was late in the day, the sun hanging low in the west, just above the tree line. Lights were on in the windows of the house and Moms had noted the new construction in the housing development.